“Just a second, Mrs. Dahl, put a pin in that thought.” We’ve reached Husband Number Four, who had a gambling problem. It also sounds like he was a furry before that became a thing, given his predilection for dressing up like a possum, and although the last thing I want is to interrupt that story, my heart is racing because I have a feeling…
I click through, and yes, it’s from him. From Cal.
I’ll meet with you. Tomorrow afternoon. You pick the place.
I didn’t expect him to come around so quickly, or at all. And I’m smart enough to know he probably hasn’t. Maybe he knows I met with Harry. Maybe he’s realized I know Blue. Either way, he’s ready to tell me something. And I am so there.
There’s a glow in my chest as I think about tomorrow, about this game Cal and I are playing. I already have a pretty good idea of where I want to meet him—somewhere I’ll have the upper hand and two friends to help me out. But I turn to Mrs. Dahl with a grin. “Sorry about that. You were saying? I want to hear all about Husband Four’s custom-made possum costumes.”
It’s not until Tina comes to sit with us, announcing that the bar is closing but we can stay for however long we’d like, that I realize how late it’s gotten. Because that glow in my chest is still there, and I realize something strange.
For the first time in a long while, I feel genuinely happy.
Chapter Six
Cal
Barry, Barry…what can I say about Barry? Of all the members of the Bad Luck Club, he progressed the least. That’s because he doesn’t listen to me. Don’t be a Barry.
—Augusta Glower, Bad Luck Club
I’m sitting in a chair on the front porch, reading a magazine about woodturning, when my phone rings. The sun is setting behind the trees, but the light leaking through the windows of the house is bright enough for me to read the print.
My heart thuds when I see the name on my screen. Harry. He’s more of a texter than a caller. Usually, he’ll ask for permission before he calls—so I can secure my line, he says, even though he knows me too well to think I will—which is how I know why he’s calling before I answer.
When I pick up, there are no preliminaries, not even a hello.
“Cal, I’m so sorry,” he says. “I should have known better, but she said you’d been wronged. Augusta is basically the devil, and I always thought you got the raw end of the deal, so I agreed to meet with her. It fit my challenge too. I’m not blaming you, but you did tell me to confide in someone, and that seemed like a sign. I knew it was wrong from the moment she walked in. There was something weird about her, something familiar, but I couldn’t place it, and then she shot out of her seat and joined a fight at the bar. Do you think it was some kind of sting?”
I close my book, trying to get a handle on my rising anxiety so I can help him through his spiral. “Okay, slow down and take a breath. I presume you’re talking about Molly O’Shea.”
The line is silent for several seconds before Harry asks in a tense voice, “How did you know?” Then, before I can answer, he continues, “How do I know this is Cal? How do I know the CIA hasn’t taken over his line and found someone who sounds like him to answer my call?”
Resisting the urge to groan, I set the book on the table beside me and run my hand over my head. “It’s me. Harry, you’re beyond this.” But he still hesitates, so I sigh and add our code words. “Pink bunny.”
“It is you.”
The relief in his voice makes my heart hurt. When Harry first showed up at the Bad Luck Club, he was an utter mess of paranoia. But over the past three years, he’s untangled himself from the worst of his fears and anxieties. Hell, the only reason he’s still in the club is that he has a bone-deep aversion to change. When he’s ready to leave, we’ll know he’s finally past the point of needing us.
But now that blogger has shown up and sent him reeling back to square one.
Fury burns in my gut.
She has no right to dig into my life. I didn’t play along, and already she’s poking at my friends.
“She called me at work,” he says, sounding only slightly less manic. “But I hung up and texted her back from a secure line. We met at Buchanan Brewery so she could ask me some questions. She said she wanted the truth to come out.”
The hair on my arms stands on end. How long has my truth been buried? But Harry’s talking about the club, not the reason I helped Dad start it.
I lean forward and rest my elbows on my thighs, staring at the wooden porch floor. “This is my fault. I should have warned you. She came to see me at the dog park. I knew she was interested in the Bad Luck Club and Augusta’s book. When I refused to answer her questions, I should have realized she would move on to the other original members.”
“It’s not your fault,” Harry says, sounding relieved. “We all thought the reporters would show up eventually.”
“That’s the confusing part,” I say before I can stop myself. “She’s not a reporter. She’s a dating blogger.”
“A what?” he asks in disbelief.
I sit up and absently wave my hand in the air. “She writes articles about dating in Seattle.”
“Then what’s she doing in Asheville?” Harry asks, sounding slightly less panicked.
“She told me she’s watching her sister’s dogs while she’s on a babymoon—the sister, not Molly.”
“Yeah, she didn’t look pregnant,” Harry says thoughtfully. “Although a pregnant belly would be a good place to hide a microphone. And a camera.”
“Would it, though?” I say, needing to nip this idea in the bud. “It seems like the camera would only get a shot of the plates on the table.”
“Or what’s going on under the table,” Harry says, starting to get excited. “It could capture the literal under-the-table exchange of drugs or money.” His voice rises. “Maybe that fight was tied to a South American drug deal.”
“Okay, but she’s not pregnant, and it was probably just a bar fight. Molly didn’t strike me as the kind of person to stand down from trouble.”
Harry’s quiet for a moment. “Yeah,” he says, sounding disappointed. “I guess you’re right.”
“I suspect she’s bored and looking for fresh meat for her stories. She did a post about dating here in Asheville a few years ago. Something like ‘Microdating and Microbrewing.’”
“What the hell is that?” he asks.
“She went to Brewfest and dated five men, giving each of them fifteen minutes to wow her. One of her dates took place while she waited in line at the porta-potties.”
“So you’re saying she thinks tonight was a date?” he asks hesitantly.
“That’s my hunch.” My intention was to calm him down by saying so, but I warm to the idea. “She said she saw Augusta’s book at her sister’s house. After writing hundreds of articles, she’s probably looking for fresh material. Like dating the men of the original Bad Luck Club.”
Given her profession, it’s a logical conclusion, yet it doesn’t fit with the things she said at the dog park. Something in the back of my brain doesn’t buy into the idea.