Secrets in a Still Life, Kari Ganske [best fiction books to read .TXT] 📗

town, half of our high school graduating class would snap that calendar up in a New York minute.

"Why do you need my help now?" I asked.

"Our usual photographer was the husband of one of the volunteers."

"Emphasis on 'was,'" I noted.

Linc nodded. "They've recently had a falling out. As in, she caught him falling out of his pants with another woman. So we can't use him any longer. I figured you'd be the perfect replacement. Which is why I sneaked over to the courthouse earlier to finagle Judge Cockran into assigning you the community service at the firehouse. Win-win for both of us. We get a free photoshoot with a professional photographer, and you get to complete your court-ordered punishment doing something you love."

Well, color me surprised. "That's—that's actually really thoughtful."

"It also keeps you from having to work somewhere in town where by now everyone knows you were the one to discover Missy's body."

"Don't remind me." I sulked into my seat at the mention of it. "Chief Duncan thinks I did it. He pretty much accused me of murder last night."

"Don't listen to him. He couldn't investigate himself out of a wet paper bag."

Linc turned the wrong way down Poole Avenue, away from my house.

"Forget the way to my parents' house?" I asked.

"Nope. I thought we'd make a pit stop first. In my experience, nothing cures a case of the blues like Scoop, There It Is Creamery."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 9

 

 

 

Linc wasn't wrong. I'd yet to visit Scoop, There It Is, affectionately called Scoop’s by the locals, since my return. Mainly, I'd been avoiding the crowds since my infamous road accident marking my return. And now I felt my anxiety ratchet up again. As much as I wanted the homemade ice cream, I wanted to disappear into oblivion first.

I groaned. "I'll wait in the truck."

"Nonsense. They've added new flavors in the years since you've been away. How could you possibly know what you want?"

I crossed my arms and slunk down even lower in the seat. "What I want is to avoid the crowds and gossip," I whined, sounding every bit like a disgruntled teenager and not caring.

"It's eleven o'clock on a Monday morning. Everyone is either at work or at the diner for an early lunch. The crowds don't pick up until after school lets out."

I gave him a side-eyed look. "Fine. But if there's more than, like, three cars in the parking lot, I'm staying put."

"Have it your way, but I'm not carrying two cones out the door. You want ice cream? You gotta come in."

"Meany." I pouted. My heartbeat, on overdrive since finding Missy's body, kicked up another notch the closer we got to the parking lot. I really wanted the ice cream—no place made better ice cream, and I'd literally been around the world—but my recent misadventures were making me a bit of an agoraphobic. Luckily, a virtually empty parking lot greeted us. I let out a long breath. Linc chuckled beside me.

"My panic attacks amuse you?"

"It's just ice cream, Alex," he said, pulling into a parking spot and cutting the engine. I took another deep breath and followed him into the store. Maybe I could hide behind his broad frame.

As soon as I entered the familiar shop, nostalgia and peace washed over me. I'd spent so many afternoons in this room after school with a milkshake or ice cream cone in hand. I could still taste the wooden sample spoons. The smell of cream and fruit and cold was part of my being—or at least a part of my stomach. I'd sampled every single flavor, tried every combination of topping, and used a fair share of napkins to dry tears of joy and tears of sorrow. The same colorful shelving holding stacked rows of sprinkles, candies, and chocolates lined the right wall. Underneath were bistro tables for patrons to stay inside and eat. To the left stood freezers holding the vats of homemade ice cream in every flavor from rich, creamy vanilla to more unique apple pie, and strawberry cheesecake. All made on the premises using a family recipe handed down through the generations.

The same letter board above the glass ice cream cases listed the current flavors and reminded customers to order milkshakes first. Milkshakes so thick, you needed a spoon, and available in every flavor they offered. The prices, although a little higher than the last time I came in, were extremely reasonable when compared to what I paid for a generic soft-serve cone in New York.

Linc nudged my shoulder with his considerable bicep and flashed me an "I told you so" smile. He sauntered over to the counter and rested an arm on the top of the refrigerated case as he ordered. His T-shirt rode up a little at his waist as he leaned, and I could see the defined muscles of his abs. Forget it, I didn't want ice cream, I wanted to lick him from head to toe. And back again. If I hadn't sworn off men forever, I'd show him I'd learned to kiss in the years since the "teach me" incident. But I wanted nothing to do with his particular gender. Not that I—plain Jane—would have any possibility whatsoever of turning the eye of a man like Linc.

As Mary Hughsman, proprietor of the creamery, scooped his ice cream, I watched him, simultaneously trying not to drool while also swimming in memories of being in this exact place with him so many times before. He used to share in my joys and sorrows, as I did his. Right up until he replaced me with popularity and the Snob Blob.

And Missy.

A vision of Missy's lifeless body flashed unbidden in my brain. I blanched and sank into one of the nearby chairs. Here I was boo-hooing over things