The sign—the place—looked friendly. My spirits calmed. Just a little. Or the Ativan was working. Nevertheless I shot a quick glance over my shoulder to ensure the Corolla was nowhere among the deepening twilight shadows.
Martin drew back a PVC strip curtain that hung across the door. We entered and the thick plastic strips clacked into place behind us. They reminded me of a butcher’s shop. But the curtain seemed to keep the heat out because the interior was cool. Dimly lit. Busy. Lots of chatter. An old-fashioned jukebox in the corner played upbeat music. Surfboards and fishing memorabilia decorated the walls.
“Hey! Marty!” A woman came out from behind the bar, wiping her hands on a cloth. “How are ya?”
“Rabz.” Martin gave her a hug. “This is my Ellie. El, this is Rabz. A local fixture. Ex–pro surfer.” Martin grinned.
Rabz’s gaze met mine. Her eyes were a rich brown. She’d attempted to restrain her mass of long brown hair in a loose braid that hung over her shoulder, but tendrils escaped and curled prettily around her face. Her deeply tanned olive skin was offset by an orange artisan-looking shift that hung loosely over her athletic body. Leather sandals. An armful of silver bangles and beads. A nose stud winked as she moved.
And what I felt was an odd stab of jealousy.
Rabz extended her hand. “Heya, El. Good to finally meet you.”
Her grip was strong, like she was trying to make a point she didn’t have to. She smelled like essential oils—patchouli with a hit of jasmine and lime. Something dark and uncomfortable began to unfurl along the edges of my mind.
“Cute place you have,” I said. It came out patronizing. Perhaps I’d intended it to be.
She eyed me, then smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her brown eyes. “Thanks. We just renovated, so I’m glad you like it.”
We seated ourselves on barstools while Rabz began to pour beer from a tap, angling the glass carefully to get the head just so. She set the beer in front of Martin. “On the house—your usual.” A smile at me. “What can I get for you, Ellie?”
I opened my mouth, but Martin said quickly, “Pinot gris.”
The darkness at the edges of my consciousness snaked closer. I’d been about to ask for something nonalcoholic, but suddenly I felt I could use an alcoholic boost.
Rabz set a chilled glass of white wine in front of me. She leaned across the bar toward Martin. I could see her tanned cleavage. She lowered her voice and said to Martin, “Those are the greenies I was telling you about. In the back booth by the jukebox. They’ve been coming in almost every day for the past two weeks, drinking themselves into a froth over your Agnes project. I’d steer clear of them right now if I were you guys.”
I turned to see four guys in the back booth. One of them—a wiry, dark-haired man with deep-set eyes, met my gaze. My pulse jolted with the intensity that radiated across the room. The slogan painted in bloodred on the side of the shed shimmered into my mind.
DEATH TO THE CRESSWELL-SMITHS!
KILL MARTIN.
Quickly I turned back to face the bar. I took a deep gulp of my wine as Martin’s vitriol echoed in my brain.
“If I get my hands on them, I . . . I’ll cut those fuckers to shreds, cut ’em with a knife. Stick my gaff in them. Make them bleed and feed ’em to the muddies.”
I sipped again, relieved at how quickly the wine was softening my edges. My mind began to drift. I listened to the music, the voices growing louder in the pub.
I heard Martin order pies and chips with peas.
Time slowed, turned elastic. I took another deep swallow of my drink. A fly buzzed near my glass and I swatted it clumsily away. I felt Martin watching me. I felt the men in the booth watching me. I noticed Rabz glancing at me every now and then.
I finished my wine and motioned to a young server to bring me another. I started on my second glass as a tall and slender blonde approached the bar. She wore a camisole and denim shorts. Her white-blonde hair was cut in a short wind-ruffled style. Sexy hair, I thought, taking another sip. She had a lovely neckline. Lovely shoulders. Lovely big blue eyes. Elegance and athleticism.
“Hello, Marty,” she said. “This must be Ellie?”
Marty.
He cleared his throat. “Willow, hi. Yeah, this is Ellie. Willow is a”—he turned to the woman—“what do you call it again?”
Willow laughed. “Wellness coach.” She proffered her hand. “Willow Larsen.” Her Australian accent was flat and thick, but not unattractive.
“And there I thought you were a fortune-teller,” Rabz said as she set a glass of wine in front of Willow. “Or a diet coach. Or some kind of medium.”
Willow laughed again and took the wine. She had a nice laugh. “A major building block of wellness is nutrition, so yeah, you could say I dabble in diet along with the occult.” She glanced at me. “I read tarot cards. Tea leaves. Auras, too.” She brought her glass to her mouth, sipped. “Coffee grinds at a push.”
Dana’s words crawled through my mind.
“Your aura is weird after you’ve been with him. Dark. Wrong. Something is badly off . . .”
I considered asking Willow what she felt about our auras right now, but I knew it was the wine tempting me. I refrained.
“I have an online business,” Willow explained to me. “But I also offer consults at my home. My background is psychotherapy—I’m a trained therapist at the root of it all.” She glanced at Rabz. “So yeah, Rabz, no worries. Most people have trouble describing what I do. I just refer to myself as a holistic healer.” She took another sip of her wine while standing at the bar. “Nice to finally meet you, Ellie,” she said. “We wondered if Martin had made you up.” She threw him a grin but he didn’t return
