Shades of Pink (Lola Pink Mysteries Book 1) Read online

  I had never asked how she’d known of my impending arrival. She surely hadn’t looked surprised when she’d opened the door to find a ragged five-year-old standing there, and she’d never once made me feel like I didn’t belong on the Sunshine Shore. Without Dotty around these days, my life had suddenly developed a huge void that I didn’t know the first thing about trying to fill.

  The thing that bothered me this morning was why she hadn’t told me about the necessary repairs. Had she known she was leaving me a money pit to deal with when she passed? It didn’t seem like the sort of thing she’d do. Dotty took care of everyone. She wanted to ease pain, not cause stress. None of this made sense—why had she called Luke here months ago and not mentioned it to me?

  She had also not left me with instructions for what would happen with her shop after her death—I think we’d both pictured her being around forever. When we had dreamed of a future, we’d dreamed of Psychic in Pink being a joint venture. A small sunglasses shop for me, a psychic hut for her, and a coffee shop to link them together. The two of us had lived comfortably and cozy. We made enough money to live on and just a little bit extra, and that was all.

  We’d been happy here, really happy, but that didn’t mean we had much saved in the bank. A few thousand dollars, maybe, if I dug in the couch cushions and came up with a few quarters. Which meant that now, I was stuck alone with no money, a falling apart hut next to the boardwalk, and nothing bright on the future.

  “Talk to me, Dotty,” I said, pulling the locked notebook from her desk and curling into the chair with it. “What should I do?”

  I unlocked the book. The first prophecy she’d left for me had been to ‘Make it what you will.’ I assumed this meant that she wanted me to continue with our plan of transforming the hut into the things we’d dreamed together—the things that made us happy.

  The town hall had approved of our ideas at the last meeting, since the Sunshine Shore was severely lacking in both areas; we had one little donut shop that served basic coffee, and no place to buy sunglasses. Of course, they’d probably prefer that I kept Psychic in Pink running as it was before Dotty had died, but my lack of psychic powers wasn’t news to the town, so this part would have to be modified.

  The last time I’d tried to predict the future I’d proclaimed the newly wed Mr. and Mrs. Minter would live a long, happily married life together. I figured it was a shoe-in prophecy. Isn’t that what the honeymoon phase was all about? Being happy and whatnot for the first few years of marriage?

  Well, my prophecy had backfired. Mr. Minter had run away on his honeymoon with the surfing instructor. Since then, nobody had asked me to read their palms or stare into tea leaves, and I couldn’t say I blamed them.

  I flipped past the first page of the worn notebook, the velvet cover soft against my bare legs. It was summer on the Sunshine Shore, which meant sundresses and shorts exclusively when I wasn’t on the beach in my bathing suit and shades.

  Except, there was one problem. The page where the first prophecy had been was empty—too empty. I thumbed to the beginning of the book, but somehow I couldn’t find Dotty’s words. It’d been written here; I was sure of it. I hadn’t imagined it, yet now, it was gone.

  Sighing, I flipped to the next page, remembering Dotty’s words not to linger in the past. As promised, there was a new phrase waiting for me, a new snippet of advice.

  Another prophecy.

  The wind will blow good fortune your way. Be open to it.

  I raised my eyebrows. I was crazy. It was finally happening—I was seeing things. Or not seeing things. The first prophecy had disappeared. A part of me wanted to thumb further into the diary, to read the rest of the words before they too disappeared, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Dotty’s instructions had explicitly forbid me to read ahead.

  So, I closed the notebook and tucked it against my lap.

  “Well,” I said to the journal. “I hope good fortune blows my way soon. And if someone is listening up there, it’d be really convenient if that good fortune was a hundred thousand dollars in cash.”

  I half expected the diary to respond. It didn’t, fortunately; if it had, I’d have walked myself to the psych clinic and signed the papers myself.

  I locked up the book, taking care to place it where it belonged in the drawer. I jotted the prophecy down on a Post-It note—just in case—and stood up as the door opened.

  In walked someone I had never expected to see set foot in a psychic shop.

  Dane Clark, eccentric billionaire, owner of Castlewood, tech-genius.

  “I was hoping for good luck,” I mumbled to myself. “And there’s no way this can be good.”

  “Excuse me?” Dane’s piercing eyes locked on me, the razor-sharp focus rattling my resolve. “Were you speaking to me?”

  “No, sorry.” I stood, crossing my arms over my chest. “Can I help you with something?”

  “Why, yes,” he said, measuring his words with care. He took a long moment to study me, my face, and the green sunglasses atop my head. He gave a slightly mystified shake of his head before returning his gaze to mine. “You can.”

  I waited for a beat, surprised. “Really? Me?”

  “Yes.”

  I’d heard Dane’s social skills left something to be desired, but this was a whole new ballgame. I sighed as I let my arms fall to my sides. “What can I help you with, Mr. Clark?”

  “I need you, Miss Pink.”

  I lapsed into a long silence, eyeing the handsome man before me. When I finally found the words to speak, I defaulted to sarcasm. “Well, that’s a new one.”

  He offered the smallest of smiles. “I have an offer that might interest you.”

  It took another few seconds to digest his words. Gesturing to the small loveseat opposite Dotty’s red chair, I waved a hand. “Pop a squat, my friend.”

  “Pop a...?”

  “Sit down, please. Sounds like we have business to discuss.” I shook my head, still feeling dazed just to be in his presence. Dane Clark never came to the Sunshine Shore. He wasn’t a fan of people, according to the rumor mill, preferring the quiet of his gadgets rather than the company of flocking tourists. “Though I can’t imagine what brings you here today.”

  He didn’t sit. “This will be brief, I promise.”

  “Okay, go ahead.” I sat anyway. “What do you need?”

  “Your help.”

  “Are you looking for a psychic reading? If so, I’m not very good at them,” I said. “Ask anyone. The Minter’s have the best story about the honeymoon bit, but it’s up there with the Racker family. I told Mr. Racker it was time for a new car. They bought one, and it turned out to be a lemon. Then someone crashed into their lemon car on the way to return it to the dealership.” I cleared my throat. “Moral of the story is that they were out a lot of money and my vision was completely wrong. I’m not even sure I had a vision.”

  “You talk a lot,” he observed.

  “Yep. That’s not news to me.” I raised my eyebrow. “You don’t talk much.”

  “My butler tells me that, too.” His lips quirked up slightly, as if he was attempting a smile. “It’s not news to me, either.”

  If he wasn’t so handsome, he’d be downright frightening. He had poison black hair, icy blue eyes—almost Draconian in nature. His cheekbones could cut through stone while his hair, long enough to flop a little over his forehead, curled in beautiful waves that softened his intense posture. All of his sharp features were muted, however, by the warm tan of his skin that suggested he’d spent plenty of time outside, even if he rarely visited the Sunshine Shore.

  All of his physical beauty, however, was overshadowed by the serious expression he wore, his calculating stare. There was speculation that Dane Clark was the smartest man alive, and after standing next to him for five seconds, I’d believe it. Despite the awkwardness on the outside, there was an underlying confidence, an intelligence that eased through the room.

  “What did you come here for, Mr.
Clark?”

  “I need you to work for me,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’ve lost something, and I need to get it back.”

  “Um, I think you’ve got the wrong girl. You’re looking for Nancy Drew.”

  “No, I’m looking for Lola Pink. Is that your given name?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Is that your sign out front on the door?” He gestured to the sign by the door..

  I really needed to get rid of that thing. Nodding, I scanned along as he read:

  Psychic at Work.

  Are you searching for something? Have you lost your way in life and need a little direction? A clue to what’s next? Well, we’ll help you find whatever it might be that you’re looking for. All ages, genders, and species welcome. Inquire inside for specifics.

  “Well, technically yes, that is my sign,” I admitted. “But it belonged to my grandmother, and I haven’t changed it yet.”

  “It says you help people find things.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I need help finding something.”

  “I’m turning this place into a coffee shop and a sunglasses hut,” I said. “I’m not psychic, that was my grandmother and she recently passed away.”

  “I’ll pay.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “How much are we talking?”

  “How much do you need?”

  I considered the amount Luke had just quoted me. It was an astronomical sum. Dropping a six-figure bill on the table was one way to get Dane out of here faster than I could say goodbye. “One hundred twenty thousand dollars. American dollars.”

  I watched his face. I’d tacked on the extra twenty thousand because I also could use a car. Right now, I mostly biked everywhere along the coastal path, which worked out fine—but a girl could dream. It’s not like he would entertain the idea for longer than a second, so my reasoning didn’t matter anyway.

  “Done.”

  I swallowed, choking on my own saliva. “What?”

  “Done.”

  “Sorry, I thought you just agreed to pay me over a hundred grand to help you find something.”

  “That is correct. Here are the papers. Please fill in the amount you request.”

  I glanced at the table, struggling to voice my emotions. These feelings were new to me, and that left me without matching words. I stalled, picked up the paper, and scanned the agreement.

  My eyes raced over the page, but the letters blurred into globs of ink so that I couldn’t read the words. Eventually, I turned my gaze up to him. “You’re telling me that you’re going to pay me six figures to find something, and you haven’t even told me what that something is yet?”

  “Did you read the papers?” he asked with a pointed glance at the contract. “Everything’s there.”

  “Yes,” I lied.

  “Then you’ll see I’m utterly serious. This is a binding legal contract, and I’ve invited you to fill in the amount you require for payment.” He blinked, then pressed a finger against the blank space on the sheet that clearly stated for me to enter a sum of money. “As for the reason I haven’t told you what I need found, you’ll notice on page ten that I require an NDA.”

  “An NDA...” I tried to sound like I knew what that meant.

  In reality, my only business sense had come from Dotty—my college degree was mostly a token for hours spent in school. All of the practical information came from my grandmother, and she did business like everyone was her best friend. She wrote receipts on slips of napkin, and didn’t bother to collect money if people didn’t pay. She figured that just meant they needed the money more than she did.

  “Non-disclosure agreement. Everything you hear on the job is to remain a secret. Should you break the contract and expose things you’ve learned from me to the rest of the world, I can take you to court, and I’ll win.”

  He sounded so sure, so confident that it sent shivers down my skin. “Yikes. Better keep your secrets.”

  “That is the point of the contract,” he said, unfazed. “Here, let me show you...”

  Leaning forward, he slid the papers from my hand and flipped to page ten. My face burned red—clearly, he knew I’d lied about reading the contract. I hadn’t even flipped past the first page. Something about being in the same room as him—the closest thing to a legend the Sunshine Shore had ever known—fried my brain.

  “Right here—” He stopped speaking abruptly then, and I knew why.

  He’d reached across the table to hand me the document, his finger on the NDA page, but he’d accidentally touched me. His arm brushed mine, triggering a surprising jolt that sent goosebumps skittering over my skin. Our eyes met, and for the first time, Dane Clark seemed lost for words.

  “The NDA.” I recovered first, clearing my throat. I thumbed through, pretending to read the dry, boring, legalese pages. “Got it. Sure. Well, I’ll think about it.”

  “What is there to think about?” He’d recovered by now too, his eyes genuinely curious. “I agreed to pay you the amount of money you asked for, and I assure you this contract is thorough and fair. My lawyer and butler approved it.”

  “Why me?” I gave up trying to read and focused on Mr. Clark’s eyes. “Why did you walk in here today and ask for my help?”

  “You have a sign. I read the sign, and I desired your help.”

  “There’s got to be a hundred—scratch that, a million—people more qualified than me. Why don’t you hire a private investigator, or even the police?”

  “The police have not been informed that anything’s been stolen.”

  “Okay. Well...”

  “As for a private investigator, I’ve tried.”

  My eyebrow shot up. “What do you mean you’ve tried?”

  “Quite literally, I have tried. I’ve tried to hire every investigator within a hundred miles of Castlewood for one job or another. When I called for this case, they turned me down flat.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why would they turn you down?”

  “I have a reputation.”

  “Even so, there’s gotta be someone else.”

  “I’ve tried everyone. Also, gotta is not a correct term in the English language.”

  “I’ve gotta remember that.” I leaned on it for emphasis. “So, what you’re saying is that I’m your absolute, completely ultimate last resort?”

  “Well yes, of course.”

  “Charming.”

  “I’m not trying to be charming, I simply need help.”

  “Why did the others refuse to work with you?”

  “They used words like challenging, ruthless, and coldhearted to describe me,” he said. “That’s what they told my butler, anyway. Some of them explained this to my face.”

  “Huh. I wonder why.”

  “I also wondered that, and then my butler explained to me that they are correct, and sometimes I can be cold and ruthless and difficult.”

  “You’re also quite literal.” I played with my hands for a moment, twisting my fingers together in my lap. “And your butler must be a saint.”

  “No, beatification is a process that begins after one’s death. My butler is a fine employee, but not one who would qualify for sainthood.”

  “You know what?” I waved the papers like a fan in front of my face. He was a little too much to handle right now, and I needed time to think. Alone. Without him correcting my English. “Let me process this.”

  “What is there to process?”

  “Come back tomorrow, and I’ll tell you.”

  “But I need you, Miss Pink.”

  “Come back tomorrow,” I said again. “And we’ll talk.”

  “As you wish,” he said, stepping back from the table. His long legs brought him towering above me, and his eyes, like bits of starlight, watched me carefully. “Sign on the line when you’re ready.”

  “What makes you so sure I’ll say yes?”

  “When I make an offer, Miss Pink, most people find it hard to
refuse.”

  “Is he as handsome as they say?”

  “Did he eat you alive?”

  “Did he try to steal you away to his castle like the beast?”

  “No offense, Lola, but why did he ask you for help?”

  I rubbed my eyes underneath a new pair of shades, sunglasses in a funky blue color that matched my sullen mood after the morning’s events. Waving my hands, I calmed my overzealous friends as they bombarded me with one question after the next.

  I’d called an emergency meeting for the Sunshine Sisters over this latest development with Mr. Dane Clark. Currently, we were perched high above the grassy park in our somewhat illegal, yet very official club location: the edge of the water tower.

  The illegality of us being here was more of a suggestion than a threat, however, since no one had bothered to kick us off since second grade.

  “Hey, gals,” Mrs. Fredericks called from below. “Love the blue shades, Lola! Anyway, when I saw you girls climbing the tower, I popped some cookies into the oven. Are you eating ice cream? Don’t spoil your appetites! Come down when you can smell the chocolate chips.”

  I raised my cone in salute to Mrs. Fredericks. She was a hundred years old going on eighteen, and she’d been that age from the day I arrived in town. I wondered if she had some sort of an anti-aging anomaly—sort of like a really nice witch who baked cookies whenever she saw three sets of dangling feet from the water tower.

  “We love you, Mrs. Fredericks!” Babs, the blonde to my left, shouted. “You’re looking sexy in your LulaRoe’s! That watermelon print does great things for your thighs.”

  Mrs. Fredericks gave Babs the thumbs up while Annalise—the teensy tiny brunette to my right—looked at Babs in horror. “Don’t use that language in front of her. She’s your elder!”

  “Loosen up.” Babs licked her cone. “She likes us. We keep her young.”