The Last Witness

You asked...so here we go.

I’ve thought about this for a while, and decided to put The Last Witness out in serial form. Yes, I’ll be tweaking this as we go along, but for now?

As Peter Pan said, “Here we go!”

The Last Witness

Chapter One

Sunday, January 12th

Vancouver, BC.

3:17pm

There was no way that the enormous man who’d just walked through the door of Maisie’s tea shop could possibly know that he’d be the reason why she would probably be dead by nightfall.

After barely getting his shoulders through the doorway, and with his hand still on the knob, the ridiculously handsome NFL giant growled a somewhat charming hello, ladies to the little crowd of swooning, white-haired tourists. While they all raised their phones and sighed like a church choir, the one and only Carter Trane flicked his wavy blonde hair over his shoulder and blessed them all with a TV-worthy, twenty mega-watt smile.

Good grief, nobody had teeth that white.

Within seconds, every single one of the women—a tour group of Deaf seniors from Portland—were fanning themselves and blushing like teenagers.

Surji grabbed Maisie’s trembling arm and wheezed. “Maisie…isn’t that the Carter Trane?”

Sadly, yes. Don’t ask me how I know.

Fabulous. Her business partner and best friend, who never lost it whenever celebrities came in, was grabbing her sleeve and low-key squealing. “Number 83 is here? Jag will freak.”

Great, she was surrounded by grown women losing their minds. Now, Surji’s husband would lose his too.

Yes, celebrities frequently came into the shop, but none were as notorious for their newsworthy Instagram meltdowns as the man standing six feet from Maisie. And none had the thirty-six million followers that Carter Trane had, even though he hadn’t posted anything for two years, except for the occasional ad for parkas, and fitness clothes that struggled to contain his profoundly unreasonable physique.

Carter Trane’s public failures had been drilled into her head to the point that she’d grown to hate the sound of his voice. Could she tell Surji that? Absolutely not.

Now there he was, giving meaning and purpose to all the overworked smartphones in the shop.

While the occasional customer taking pictures of her was one thing, and really not that big of a deal because she usually looked like dishwater anyway, having the big mirror on the wall helped Maisie master spotting someone behind her about to take her photo.

“Afternoon, ladies.” The unbelievably handsome giant let go of the door and strode across the shop, right toward Maisie, and right through the excited harem of aging paparazzi. The older women, with their smiling faces and helpless sighs, trailed after him like besotted sunflowers following the life-giving rays of the sun.

How utterly nauseating.

One of the ladies gasped, then signed that’s Carter Trane! I’m going live on Instagram! The rest furiously swiped and tapped on their phones, all with the same intent.

Holy cow. No!

Panic flipped her brain into gear the moment he stopped in the middle of the shop and turned his back to her. Fire surged through her veins as a dozen women aimed their cell phone cameras right at Carter Trane, and at Maisie. She was a lamb locked in their sights, trapped while two of the clueless patrons signed I’m here at The Tea Party in Vancouver with Carter Trane.

Her stomach muscles clenched so hard she wanted to hurl.

Lord, please help me. Just once.

Black spots popped and swirled in Maisie’s vision as her heart crashed through her ribs. In the time it took for that man to enter her shop and strike a pose, Maisie’s meticulously crafted fortress of security came crashing down. Of course none of those ladies would have a clue that thanks to him, and them, and The Tea Party’s complimentary wifi, her face and location had just been broadcast to a beast who took pleasure in the act of killing.

Pure pleasure.

A fact that she knew down to her bones, because even after thirteen years, the cries of that helpless woman begging for mercy from Maisie’s pathetic excuse for a father still seared Maisie’s brain, and no amount of hope or absolution would ever wipe her guilt away.

Now one of the most famous men in North America stood mere feet from her while a herd of fanny-pack wearing old ladies shot her life straight to the fiery pits of Mordor.   

A frantic escape during in a live feed would draw attention, so would suddenly kicking everyone out. Not to mention the fact that Maisie couldn’t just up and leave for no reason without Surji asking her why. 

Adrenaline rocketed through her.

Her emergency numbers were on her phone, but her phone was in her office. Time was up. She had nowhere to run.

Maisie shot a glance out the bullet-proof picture window, up to where one of the hidden cameras would transmit her movements to Dad Bennett’s phone, and started tapping her fingers on the counter. Out on the street, a black SUV slowed in front of the shop and sent Maisie’s heart rate to the moon.

Tap tap tap. Hold tap hold.

It drove away, leaving her alive. Maisie looked outside again.

Tap tap tap. Hold tap hold.

No shooters on the roof of the bank across the street.

Tap tap tap. Hold tap hold.

No one entering the shop with their hand reaching inside their coat.

Tap tap…

A sudden ache seized her throat and stole her breath. Maisie folded her fingers and slid her hand off the counter.

How in the world could she have forgotten that Dad Bennett was dead? His phone was useless. No one would see the shop footage and come to help.

No one was coming.

No one was ever coming again.

I’m so stupid. Wait, I can call the RCMP teams. Maybe the US Marshalls. No, I should call Charlotte Austin.

Wow.

Okay. Calm down.

Do something normal.

Maisie grabbed a Canada Dry from the mini-fridge under the bar. The cold shocked her hands enough to stop the shaking for a second. She twisted the cap, then raised the bottle too fast and snorted tiny bubbles up her nose.

Get it together.

Wandering casually away from the fawning crowd and the giant ripped man, Maisie sipped the icy fizz. Even with the cold hitting her system, rivers of sweat trickled down her back and pooled in her armpits.

Maisie rubbed her gurgling belly and exhaled.

Breathe in and out. That’s it.

Out the window and across the street, a bus lurched to a stop at the crosswalk in front of The Tea Party. Nothing to worry about. That happened all the time. And like dozens of buses, this one had a huge advertisement on the side panel. The familiar yellow rectangle of National Geographic—this time the size of a fridge—caught Maisie’s attention.

No.

When the wording hit her, her stomach roiled.

Giants of the Savannah.

Blinking back tears, Maisie looked again, then bit down on the inside of her cheek as a massive African elephant with long, deadly tusks stared right back at her, then floated away as the bus drove on down 41st.

A visceral memory of blood dripping from her hands as flames raged all around her punched Maisie in the gut. Gagging, she waved to Surji, who was gaping at the massive jerk and fanning herself. “Surji, I’ll be right back.”

“Wait, don’t you want to meet—”

“No.”

Vivid, ghastly memories clawed at her mind. Despite the mild chaos all around her, Maisie forced herself to meander to the back of the shop and around the corner. Another round of gagging knocked her against the wall, but she recovered and hauled herself down the hall toward the bathroom. Safe inside, she dropped to her knees and grabbed the toilet. Violent cramps rolled from up her stomach to the base of her tongue. Her face throbbed from the pressure of dry heaving, then mercifully, Maisie vomited over and over until nothing but wretched spit burned her lips.

Finally, the continuous hurling came to a stop.

She slumped against the wall and raised the ginger ale bottle to her lips, took a swig and let the sweet bubbly liquid wash the puke out of her mouth.

Fighting a wicked case of the sobs, Maisie tilted her head back, then heaved air in and out of her mouth. Would anything ever wash away Maisie’s memories of her childhood best friend, suffering and frightened, as the blood dripped from her ear onto Maisie’s hands.

Get it together.

Maisie braced the wall and controlled her breathing until her heart slowed. The ginger ale was still cold, so she nursed it for a few minutes, then checked her watch. Hopefully Carter Trane was gone. She took another swig, capped the bottle and set it up on the bathroom counter. After fixing her already messy bun, and brushing her teeth with her finger, Maisie shot up a prayer, straightened her clothes and headed back out front.

No!

There he was, holding court and signing autographs. Only now he was surrounded by a bunch of young guys who’d probably followed him in. Maisie’s stomach rolled and heaved.

She bolted for the bathroom.

###

Sunday, January 12th

4:19pm

Carter shouldered through the door of the tea shop and scanned real quick for the cute little puker. She’d run off earlier, all green in the face, reminding him of a rookie at training camp with her grunts and groans and speed going around the corners. It’d only taken him one look at her to want another, and another. So he sucked it up and settled in for a whole long autograph session, hoping she’d emerge from the vomitorium so he could meet her.

Instead, he’d had to leave after half an hour, when the Bollywood Glamazon silently pleaded with him to get out. It amazed him how she communicated please go, you’re literally a bull in this china shop and your fans are breaking things with one eyebrow.

Nobody was here now, and it was starting to get dark outside. But inside, the shop was a bright, colorful cavern of wall-to-wall teacups, tea pots, tea everything, and stupid frilly girly stuff. Every square inch of space had something tea-themed on it, even up into the rafters where old wooden tea crates balanced on the crossbeams. There was even a wall of nothing but little wooden cubicles and fancy colored tea tins, like an old-fashioned card catalogue at a library. It smelled like a coffee shop without the coffee.

This was definitely the perfect place for people who watched way too much PBS and dreamed of the good old days before somebody invented deodorant and toothpaste.

Scanning the joint, Carter set his backpack down on a fancy glass and wrought iron table that his mother would love, but definitely would never let him touch. “Hello? Anyone home?”

“Be right with you.” A little Disney sing-along voice came from down behind the long counter.

“Okay.”

She took long enough that the Jeopardy theme started playing in his head.

Anytime now.

Then boom, a little burst of blonde popped into sight. It was her. Dang, even without a lick of make-up, she was gorgeous.

She froze solid, swallowed hard, then slapped on a fake smile. “H-hello, what can I get for you?”

Up close, her eyes were a sparkly, intoxicating green, like the ocean in a faraway tropical paradise. All kinds of blonde spirals escaped the thick bun stuck on her head. Oh, he’d love to unravel that. Mmm mmm. Weird, though. For a beautiful woman, it looked like she bought her clothes in the ninety-year-old Grannie section.

Who cared about the clothes? Not when her eyes sparkled like that.

Setting his hands on the counter, Carter smiled down into her pretty face. “Hey there. I’ll have a large French roast latte, heavy on the foam, with a bit of cinnamon, and a few of whatever smells so good. And Baby? I’m gonna need your phone number.” 

Even in ugly, over-sized clothes, and absolutely zero make-up, the woman was a goddess. Wait. Maybe she dressed like that to fend off all the losers? Probably. But whatever, he was here and those perfectly pink lips needed his. Yes, they did. Say hello to Carter. Look at that neck. Mercy, he could kiss that neck right now. For about an hour.

The blonde stepped back, crossed her arms, blinked, then tilted her head. “Well, we don’t serve lattes. See the sign? The word tea is on the sign. Didn’t you notice that earlier? Or can’t you read, bay-bee? The cookies are what we call short-bread. I have two dozen left. Want them all? Oh, and the day I give you my phone number is the exact same day I eat a giant worm covered in dirt and cheap ketchup. So? Tea and cookies and some manners okay for you?”

She gave him sass? And she spat out shortbread all slow, like she was talking to an idiot. Not to mention that the sneer on her lip would make fifteen Elvis impersonators line up for lessons.

Carter leaned in, tipped his head down, tucked his hair behind his ear and gave her his best TV interview smile. “Well now, I guess I got off on the wrong foot. May I please have a large Darjeeling and six of those cookies?”

Then he did that gazing thing women liked. Right at her.

Instead, she raised one eyebrow, exhaled real hard, then stared him up and down like he was a nobody. It was good that Mom liked Darjeeling because that was the only kind of tea he could think of under this kind of pressure.

“Darjeeling?”

“Yeah.”

“Fine.” She planted her palms on the counter, looked him right in the eyes, then sort of thrummed her fingers. “To go?”

He did not believe in pursuing a woman who was obviously uninterested. No, he did not. But that fire she shot at him? The flush in her cheeks when she looked at him? Nope, she was not indifferent to him.

He smiled real big, then laid the charm on thick. “Here would be fine.” Laid it on good and thick, especially on the fiiiine.

Looking right up into his eyes, Goldilocks yawned, then rolled those perfect eyes so hard it had to hurt. “Find a spot. I’ll bring your tea when it’s ready.”

Who yawns at him? How could she not fall for his Southern charm? Worse than the yawn was the shoo, go away wave she gave him. No ring, though. Not like the impressive rock on the Glamazon’s hand. Who knew owning a tea shop could make people rich?

Before he could blink, Goldilocks spun off and left him standing there. Carter turned around and put his back to the prissy little brat. Dang. There was the Bollywood Supermodel wearing her hot pink apron with The Tea Party scrolled in fancy black cursive.

She moseyed on over to where he’d slumped into a chair at the long counter, sighed, then smiled up at him. She seemed nice enough earlier, until those pushy fans started breaking stuff. But even then, she was polite. Typical Canadian. Although, maybe now would be a good time to offer to pay for all the broken merchandise. “Ma’am, how much do I owe you for all those teacups?”

“You mean, the twelve teacups, nine saucers, two sugar bowls and one teapot?”

Dang. “I guess.”

“Four hundred and thirty-eight dollars ought to cover it.”

What?

At least she pretended to smile through that. But even up close and annoyed, the woman was as glamorous in her tailored white shirt and her fancy jeans and her dozen silver bracelets as puny little Goldilocks in her beige grandma cords and ratty gray t-shirt was not. Gray and beige? Come on.

“Ma’am, that seems a bit much for all the stuff that got broken.”

“A bit much? Really? Clearly you’re not very familiar with fine china, buddy. You’re lucky it wasn’t Wedgwood on the floor. Anyway, that’s wholesale plus ten percent, rounded to the nearest dollar. You’re welcome.”

Dang.

Now she was grinning and there was a sparkle in her eyes. “Seriously, though. Thanks for leaving. I guess those Deaf seniors and screaming fans really got in your face, eh?”

“Yeah, sorry about that. I’m almost used to it. It probably doesn’t happen in here much.”

“Actually never…anyway, just a quick question.” She tilted around him to check on Goldilocks. “Do you have a poison tester? Because I’d be stunned if she doesn’t lace your tea with something.”

“Does she have a habit of trying to kill people?”

“Not this week.”

“Oh good. So, has she worked for you very long?”

Carter snuck a look at Goldilocks, who slammed a teapot on a tray, then whacked the life out of a pair of tongs to get at the cookies in the display case. Poor little cookies.

“Mr. Trane, you’ve assumed she’s a poor little barista, slogging her way through UBC.”

“It’s Carter.” Carter shrugged, trying to act all casual. “And maybe.”

“I’m Surji.” Offering her hand, the woman smirked, again. “More like definitely. Oh, and she owns this shop.”

“Her?” Stunned, he managed to fire up some actual manners and shook her hand. “I mean…nice to meet you…she does?”

“Yup. My husband and I are her partners. Sixty-forty split. She’s the sixty. Look, a word of advice? She doesn’t flirt or put up with men who treat her like something to conquer.”

Did Surji know his mother? Because it sure felt like Mom came here this morning and warned these women. Carter was about to say something when the blonde came toward them, gave him the stink eye, then dropped the tray of tea and cookies right on the counter. She looked at his shoulders and then ran a glare down his arms. He knew for a fact that the sight of his shoulders and biceps made most women fan themselves and clutch their pearls. He pulled his shoulders back and stuck his hands on his hips.

Goldilocks blinked hard. “Oh my.”

Now he had her. Poor defenseless little thing. She blinked again. “Are you sure you can carry this? You look kind of feeble.”

He choked on the cough he’d tried to swallow. “Feeble? Me?”

Breathing deep and grinding his teeth, Carter stared into those green eyes and waited. Surely the woman would blink first. Nope. She shoved the tray toward him, stared back, and shrugged her shoulders. “Whatever. Enjoy the tea.”

Surji snorted into her hand.

Dang. He could get any woman he wanted. Any woman. Any time. This one had enough attitude for one day. She should be happy that he was even in here.

Carter squinted back at the blonde and growled. “Don’t you know who I am?”

Goldilocks gasped and turned to Surji. “Oh no. How awful.”

Darn right, you little snob.

All bug-eyed, Goldilocks reached under the counter for something then pulled out a piece of paper and a big black marker. She popped the cap then looked up at him. “So, your name?”

How could she not know? “My name is Carter Trane.”

“Ohhh.” She bent over the paper and printed the C. Real slow, and real big. “Spell the rest, please.”

Was she that stupid? He leaned down and snarled it out. “C-A-R-T-E-R.”

How could she ignore the fact that he was breathing right into her ear? Instead, she took her sweet time and wrote his name in big block letters, then stood back up and waved the paper at Surji. “His name is Carter. Only, he pronounces it Cah-dah. Like he can’t afford the T, or even one R. Two must be rather pricey.”

“Maisie!” Surji mushed her lips together and made a weird squeaking noise. So, she did have a name? Whatever, she was still an airhead.

Then Maisie shrugged and the peeled the paper off something.

Oh, come on. A nametag?

She grabbed his collar and yanked hard enough to bring him eye level to her. She was a lot stronger than she looked. “The next time you have the unbelievable gall to ask someone if they know who you are, you won’t have to embarrass yourself.” She slapped the nametag right on his nineteen-hundred dollar, custom-made, down-filled Body Plate parka. She clapped a few times, then pointed to his chest. “See? You just look down, and oh boy! There’s your name. Then, you can sound it out and tell everyone who you are, Cah-dah.”

Then she nailed him with those eyes. “Otherwise? You’ll sound like a complete idiot asking that question everywhere you go. Enjoy your tea and cookies.”

She swatted at a few fly-away curls then stomped away from her spot behind the counter and waltzed across the store.

Surji stood there, blinking hard, with her mouth hanging open. She stared at his chest, then at his face. “Wow.”

A nametag. Really? She’d actually put it on upside-down? He tore it off and checked the fabric for seeping ink. “She could’ve wrecked my parka.”

Surji raised her eyebrows and pointed at his chest. “Seems to me, Mr. Number 83 from the Oakland Kings, that you could buy fifty of those. Now, what you don’t know is that as rude as she was? I have never seen her react to anyone that way, and I’ve known her since grade ten. That’s sophomore year for you folks south of the 49th. Look, take my advice. Sit down, sip your tea, inhale your cookies, and stick around. I think the walls of Jericho are going to crumble right in front of you.”