Bellingham Mysteries 3: Black Cat Ink Read Free Page B

Peter stepped between her and the windshield.
    “Is your friend Shawn?”
    She smiled. “That’s right. Do you know where he is? I really, really need to talk to him.”
    Probably really, really needed to buy some pot from him, more likely, Peter thought ungraciously. Aloud he said, “Shawn’s taken a short vacation. You should try calling him.”
    “I did, but he’s not answering.”
    The driver of the truck honked, and the girl jumped again. She made a second attempt to grab her note from under the windshield wiper, but Peter was quicker. He pocketed the folded square of paper, saying, “I’ll make sure to give this to him, Miss…?”
    “Thanks, I’ve got to go now.” She turned and practically ran back to the truck, which started rolling away before she even got the passenger-side door closed. Peter watched them peel out along 542, heading east toward Maple Falls. Mud spattered the whole back of the truck, including the license plate.
    Not that Peter had any way of looking up a license plate number, anyway. He sipped his coffee and watched the car until it rounded a bend on the two-lane blacktop.
    Then he unfolded the note.
    It had been scribed in big, bubbly handwriting: Fucker. We will eat your soul.
    And there was a pentagram. Inverted, of course.
    Peter pondered the note for a moment before replacing it in his pocket and heading back into town.
    Unless Shawn had become engaged in some kind of live-action role-playing game, he seemed to be in some serious shit.
    * * *
    Peter’s last stop was a Mexican restaurant directly across the street from the Vitamilk building where Nick had his studio. Because Peter felt it was better to apologize than to ask permission, he was always in the position that he was in now—having to say he was sorry for not asking Nick about the kitten before he’d agreed that it could stay with them.
    It wouldn’t do any good to prolong the agony. He figured he should cross the street now and see if Nick was mad at him.
    Originally a dairy distribution warehouse, the Vitamilk Building had been converted into cheap studio space sometime in the mid-eighties. Nick and seven other artists, whose prestige and talent ranged from international gallery quality to church craft fair…er, fare, produced masterpieces in the dingy interior. It was where Nick and Peter had first met, when Peter had walked in on Nick, bent over the body of Shelley Vine at what looked like the scene of a murder.
    Well, in fairness, it had been the scene of a murder, but Nick hadn’t been the culprit. Still, he’d been covered in blood.
    Not exactly the best first impression, but somehow Peter had decided to ask him out anyway. The rest was history.
    Walking up the wide stairs to the second-story studios, Peter always had a glimmer of a memory of that night. It had been the first time he’d ever seen a dead body, though, as it turned out, not the last.
    He had no idea why Nick stayed here after that. He had enough money to rent a better space. Hell, Walter had had a better studio built into his house. It had climate control and ventilation. Nick never went into the room except to access his camping gear, which was all that he stored in that state-of-the-art facility.
    Peter would have thought that Nick enjoyed the camaraderie of the Vitamilk Building, except he always kept his door closed, no matter how hot or cold it got. It was closed now, and Peter knocked, as he always did.
    No matter how long they lived together, Peter didn’t think he would ever be able to just walk into Nick’s studio. It was Nick’s sanctum, seeming almost a sacred space—if Peter had believed in sacred spaces, which, as an investigative reporter, he most certainly did not. He dearly yearned to rifle through the drawers and canvases of Nick’s studio, leaf through the books, sniff the assorted solvents, and otherwise stick his nose into Nick’s creative business.
    But Nick liked his privacy, and Peter wanted to keep him, so he