Free Bellingham Mysteries 3: Black Cat Ink by Nicole Kimberling

the pumpkins before sending them down the line to somebody who could do more than carve a couple of triangle eyes and a square-toothed smile.
    When Nick had first started participating in Peter and Evangeline’s Halloween ritual, there had been a slight tension. An edge of competition between them emerged as lover and best friend figured out their relative positions to each other. That first year, the pumpkins had been masterpieces of gourd flesh. As the two of them grew more comfortable, the need to impress each other faded, but the pumpkins kept evolving so that now carving them and preparing for the party was a two-day affair. They’d carve jack-o-lanterns tonight, then take the Hamster truck over to Fountain Rental in the morning to pick up tables and chairs and a punch fountain. Nick had splashed out and reserved two kerosene heaters for their patio, so that their guests could smoke without freezing to death.
    This year Gigi joined them in their preparations, doing her part by walking on the table and knocking expensive and delicate carving tools down to be chipped and dented against the slate floor.
    Peter was shoulder-deep in his ottoman-sized gourd when the front bell rang.
    “That’s probably Tommy,” Evangeline said. “He said he might come by after work.”
    Neither she nor Nick looked up from their work or made any move toward the door. Peter knew from experience that while both of them had the best intentions of actually getting the door once they came to a stopping point in their creative process, that stopping point could take up to fifteen minutes to reach, and by then the person on the doorstep would have given up and gone away.
    He toweled off his arm and went to answer the door.
    It was not Tommy.
    Bradley De Kamp stood on the stair, resplendent in his Burberry overcoat and generalized sense of haughty disapproval. Peter didn’t wait for him to introduce himself, seizing the upper hand. He didn’t generally feel the need to instantly dominate another man, but Bradley had insulted Nick, and Peter’s defense came intuitively.
    “You’re Bradley, right? I’m Peter Fontaine.” He held out his hand, which Bradley reluctantly shook. “Just to let you know, you almost ran over me the other night.”
    “I—”
    Peter gave him a hard, bright smile. “No hard feelings, man. It’s hard to see in the fog sometimes. Just letting you know, there’s a lot of cyclists on this road.”
    “Thank you for that information.” Bradley stood stiffly, without leaving the foyer, without removing his coat. “I’d like to speak with Nick Olson if he’s here.”
    Nick saved him the trouble of yelling his name by sidling up beside him. He held a squirming Gigi in one palm.
    “What’s up, Bradley?” Nick’s attempt at casual language was undone by his flat tone. Bradley didn’t seem to notice, though.
    “I want to know what’s going on with the insurance payment.” He stood eye to eye with Nick, though with a slightly thinner frame. He had silver hair and a lot of it.
    “You could have called,” Nick said. “I have company right now.”
    “I did call. You didn’t answer,” Bradley said. “If you had, I could have been spared a drive.”
    “Look, there isn’t a payment yet. The investigators haven’t even come up here.” Nick lost his hold on Gigi, and she bounded away to freedom.
    “Whereabouts did you drive from? Do you live in Seattle?” Peter inquired.
    “I fly in every couple of weeks on business,” Bradley said.
    “Bradley works in the software industry. Borealis Microsystems.” Nick explained. Then to Bradley, “I told you that I would forward all communications that I had with them. There just hasn’t been any.”
    “You should be keeping in better contact than you do. It’s a lot of money we’re talking about.” Bradley straightened imperiously and took on the air of a parent admonishing a child.
    “I don’t know what I can do. I can’t make the insurance investigators