The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection Frost, J (good beach reads .TXT) 📖

which I make a mental note to mention to Ed. It makes checking the appointment calendar easy, though. The nail tech and stylist have blacked out the rest of the day. Presumably, they’re off hiding from the storm. Merullo and the other massage therapist are both out on appointments. Merullo’s finishes at sixteen thirty, while the other therapist finishes at seventeen hundred. Not a lot of time.

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 don’t know if I scared Merullo, but, from the calendar, he was booked solid around our interview, so I’m hoping he hasn’t had time to move the brick.

I could get reinforcements and come back later. I’d score big points with Dan Reyes if I pulled him in to help me search. But with the delay from the storm, I’ll be bumping into the hour of edging I promised Emily. She’ll forgive me if I need to reschedule, I know, but I don’t want to. I want my baby doll to be certain that when I say I’m 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 wouldn’t do that with her. I’ve always felt keeping promises was important, but somehow keeping promises to my little girl feels vital. I can’t let her down.

Resolved, I let myself out of the spa quietly, slip through a door marked “Staff Only” that yields to the orange keycard, and find myself in a long corridor behind the spa. I haven’t 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 I’m used to.

The stowage isn’t marked, but it’s 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 it’s a maze of shelving and stacked boxes. It’s 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. It’s like being in a damn Costco, with the towering shelves on either side, products in boxes or wrapped up like mummies in cling-film. Everything’s neatly labelled. Air fresheners. Bags. Bleach. Brushes.

Matapang told me he keeps everything in alphabetical order.

Merullo may have reorganized the spa’s supplies but there’s 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. There’s space in the shelving after the block of soaps. A small stack of boxes stamped “Glitter and Gel” catch my eye.

The spa supplies.

They’re 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. There’s shelf after shelf of boxes with a sunset logo and the word “Serenity” 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 “hydrating toner,” I catch a flash of green.

Working carefully, I unbuckle a webbed strap that’s 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 don’t 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 “Hidden Emerald Ranch, Ontario” are tucked to the back of the shelf. I pull them out. They’re sealed with tape but from the creasing of the cardboard and multiple strips of tape, they look like they’ve 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. I’ll 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 Gran’s 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. I’ve got no idea what that even is. Merullo’s got an entire bloody pharmacopeia back here.

Box three contains fewer bottles but lots of smaller boxes. Herbs in compressed tablet form. St. John’s 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. It’s the size of a Band-Aid box, wrapped in a layer of clear plastic, which I cut open carefully. Inside, there’s 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 didn’t catch them.

I close the box and tuck it into my