The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection by Frost, J (great novels .txt) π
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I debate.
Now feels like the right time to look for the brick. With the storm, no one will expect me to be poking around. I donβt know if I scared Merullo, but, from the calendar, he was booked solid around our interview, so Iβm hoping he hasnβt had time to move the brick.
I could get reinforcements and come back later. Iβd score big points with Dan Reyes if I pulled him in to help me search. But with the delay from the storm, Iβll be bumping into the hour of edging I promised Emily. Sheβll forgive me if I need to reschedule, I know, but I donβt want to. I want my baby doll to be certain that when I say Iβm going to do something, I do it. I also want her to know how important she is to me. I told her that some of my previous relationships failed because I put work ahead of my bottoms; I promised I wouldnβt do that with her. Iβve always felt keeping promises was important, but somehow keeping promises to my little girl feels vital. I canβt let her down.
Resolved, I let myself out of the spa quietly, slip through a door marked βStaff Onlyβ that yields to the orange keycard, and find myself in a long corridor behind the spa. I havenβt been in any of the spaces of the ship that were not for passenger consumption and the utilitarian hallway makes me smile. Much more what Iβm used to.
The stowage isnβt marked, but itβs easy to find: the fourth door along the corridor. Once inside, I come across the third obstacle.
The stowage is huge. The space must be fifty by a hundred, and itβs a maze of shelving and stacked boxes. Itβs a mini bloody warehouse. For a moment, I consider trying to track down Matapang so he can show me where the spa supplies are kept. But I have no idea how long it will take to locate him, and I can hear the clock ticking in my ears.
I work methodically from the shelves closest to me. Itβs like being in a damn Costco, with the towering shelves on either side, products in boxes or wrapped up like mummies in cling-film. Everythingβs neatly labelled. Air fresheners. Bags. Bleach. Brushes.
Matapang told me he keeps everything in alphabetical order.
Merullo may have reorganized the spaβs supplies but thereβs no way he could dictate to Matapang where the supplies are kept.
I back up to the entrance, pick the third aisle, and start down it. Towels. Toilet paper.
Too far. I back up to the second aisle. I slow as I pass boxes of sanitizers. Thereβs space in the shelving after the block of soaps. A small stack of boxes stamped βGlitter and Gelβ catch my eye.
The spa supplies.
Theyβre at the very end of the aisle. I circle the shelving slowly, taking in the boxes. There are none with a green emerald immediately visible and tension tightens my shoulders. Maybe Merullo got here already. Thereβs shelf after shelf of boxes with a sunset logo and the word βSerenityβ in ornate script. No green diamonds.
I move back around the shelving, working top to bottom.
On the bottom shelf, half-hidden behind plastic-wrapped, industrial sized bottles of something labeled βhydrating toner,β I catch a flash of green.
Working carefully, I unbuckle a webbed strap thatβs cinched around the block of boxes. The ship is rolling with the waves and wind, but not so much that what the strap is restraining should fall off the shelf. At least, I hope not. I donβt want to end my investigation buried under massage oil and nail acrylic.
I pull the plastic-wrapped bottles off the shelf and set them on the floor. There.
Four boxes stamped with a green diamond and the words βHidden Emerald Ranch, Ontarioβ are tucked to the back of the shelf. I pull them out. Theyβre sealed with tape but from the creasing of the cardboard and multiple strips of tape, they look like theyβve been opened and resealed. Standing over the boxes, I unbuckle my belt and pop the clasp on the small knife in my belt buckle. The carbon-fiber edge makes short work of the tape. I spread the box open.
Bottles, big and small. Ginkgo Biloba. Black Cohosh. Dropper bottles of Chamomile tincture. Blackcurrant powder. Nothing jumps out at me. Iβll check all of the boxes before I start opening the bottles.
Box two is more of the same. Peruvian Maca. Cod Liver Oil, which brings back memories of winters in England: sitting on Granβs couch and holding my nose while she dumped the foul goo off a spoon and down my throat. Nice to see they make it in capsule form now. Whole generations of children must be grateful. Powdered Ashwagandha. Iβve got no idea what that even is. Merulloβs got an entire bloody pharmacopeia back here.
Box three contains fewer bottles but lots of smaller boxes. Herbs in compressed tablet form. St. Johnβs Wort. B Complex.
My fingers trip over a plain white box. I pick up a box of Milk Thistle tablets before my brain registers what my fingers have found.
I drop the Milk Thistle and pick up the unmarked box. Itβs the size of a Band-Aid box, wrapped in a layer of clear plastic, which I cut open carefully. Inside, thereβs a row of five blister packs. I tip them out into my palm and stare at the neatly packaged pink pills.
Sealed in plastic and foil. Encased in layers of cardboard. Buried among so many other smells. Small wonder the dogs didnβt catch them.
I close the box and tuck it into my
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