I honed in on the handful of yachts at the first dock, in particular, the sharkskin gray, custom-painted exhibit of excess floating close to the pulse of darkness. My ex’s family ran a realty firm. Along with a roster of exclusive listings, they owned a fleet of gas-guzzling vehicles and a yacht.
In fact, they owned that yacht, The Merry Widow, Doug’s mother’s nod to her marital state, not the famous opera.
I had no way to reach Tanner through non-magical means, but I could blend in better without a six-foot-tall druid by my side. I made it to the booth at the head of the boarding ramp the same time a float plane took off. The slippery connection flew from my grasp, whip-like and slick as the plane headed toward open waters.
Dammit.
Shielding my eyes, I could see heads behind the plane’s tiny windows. I flagged the navy blue-clad baggage handler rolling his cart up the ramp.
“Where’re they headed?” I pointed to the plane and made sure he acknowledged the badge affixed to my waistband.
“Vancouver. Private charter.”
Nothing else I could do. My hope sank as the plane disappeared. I turned to walk back to my car, discouraged but still alert to other signals, when the baggage guy added, “If it’s any help, they were staying on The Merry Widow.”
Six o’clock had come and gone. Market stall workers were breaking down their tents and mismatched trestle tables and loading their vehicles. I made it to my car, only to find Tanner pacing bumper to bumper.
“Where were you?” he demanded.
Fingers tapping on the roof of my car wasn’t the signal I was looking for. Even if those fingers were long and elegant and could play a tune across any surface. Metal. Tree bark. Skin.
I pinched the bridge of my nose, unlocked the doors, and slid into my seat. This shared investigation was not going to work if I had to report every move to him or wait for him to approve my decisions.
Or deal with a crush.
I blamed my fluctuating hormones.
Tanner slid in beside me and buckled his seat belt. “Stay to the speed limit,” he ordered. “And take a different way home. I don’t think anyone will follow us, but do it anyway.”
I fiddled with my keychain and pondered a shortcut. “What happened back there?”
He propped one hand against the dashboard and kept his gaze out the back window. “I smelled dirt. Really old dirt, combined with…engine oil, maybe?” He pressed into the seat and threaded his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry for yelling at you. And for making assumptions.”
“We don’t know each other, and we don’t yet know how to work together,” I offered. “And thank you for the apology.” I put the car into reverse, ready to be home, ready for some breathing room. “By the way, I felt it too, and I traced it to the marina. And a boat belonging to my ex-husband’s family business.” His look went from irritated to possibly impressed. “But the connection disappeared when a prop plane took off.”
Once we were at my house, Tanner insisted I park the car so it faced down the driveway. “In case you need to get out of here in a hurry” was his offered explanation. I went with it, scooping up the pizza boxes so I could be the one bearing dinner and thereby have my sons’ complete attention.
“Guys,” I yelled, tapping my toe against the bottom of the screen door. “Food’s here.” Footsteps thundered down the inside stairs, followed by gangly limbs and smiling faces. “You two get your chores done?”
“What chores?” Harper lifted the pizza boxes out of my arms and held both high above his head as he twirled.
“Harper Flechette-Jones, put those back and go set the table. For four.” My eldest sent the boxes sliding the length of the kitchen’s narrow island. Thatcher—taller, skinnier, and, eight times out of ten, hungrier—stopped the boxes from toppling over the edge.
“Mo-om, I love you,” he said, flipping the lid and inhaling. “And you got one of Sallie’s pies!”
That was why the young woman’s face was familiar. She was related somehow to Harper and Thatch on Doug’s side of the family, which probably made them cousins. And solved one of the day’s mysteries.
“I’d love you more if you two would do your chores without me having to remind you all the time,” I said.
Harper coughed and adopted a serious tone. “Mother. Did you happen to look in the wood box? And did you observe the empty dish rack?” He swept his arm toward the staircase. “And I didn’t notice you inspecting our rooms in the three minutes you’ve been home, so I think—”
I swatted his shoulder. “Did you two really do all that, or are you just desperate for food?”
“Both,” they answered in unison as Tanner knocked at the kitchen door and let himself inside.
“This is Tanner Marechal,” I said. “He’s an agent with the Ministry of Forests, Lands and Natural Resources, and he’s working on a case with me.”
A round of manly handshakes and deliberate eye contact followed, behavior I hadn’t noticed my sons exhibiting before. All movement toward getting food to the table paused as they assessed one another.
“Guys? Food?” I waved utensils and cloth napkins in the air. “Thatcher, can you please make a pitcher of lemonade?”
Once settled at the table, the teens inhaled their first slices of pizza and settled into a more sedate pace with their second. As usual, they were more interested in eating than in making conversation.
“What does your dad need your help with this weekend?” I asked.
“Is it okay if we go?” Points to Harper for swallowing first.
“Yes. But you still need to answer my question.”
“Dad bought a condo in Vancouver, near Granville Island,
