“Are you worried about that?” she asked, trying to figure out why he seemed so uptight.
“Well, yes, of course. I want them to hurry because…” He glanced over his shoulder at the dumpster. “Because as the next mayor, I’m very concerned that we share trash collection with another town, and I want them to be speedy. And thorough.”
He dabbed his sweaty forehead again, and as he did, Chloe caught sight of a black slash on the mound of his thumb. And another on the knuckle.
Was that…Sharpie? The impossible-to-wash-off marker, unless you had the vinegar and water mix she’d nearly drowned in yesterday?
Her heart skipped as he wiped his hands on his trousers, and she followed, her gaze on that mark. Okay, he might be sloppy with a marker or…he might be a vandal.
Is that what he’d tossed into the trash along with his papers? Evidence? Paint cans? Markers?
She had to know.
Beaming at him, she held out her hand. “Well, let me be the first to congratulate you on becoming the next mayor.”
Hesitating, he shook her hand, and she peered down at his chunky knuckles. Oh yes, that was the marker she’d spent hours cleaning yesterday. And some paint embedded in his fingernails.
“Yes, yes, thanks.” He shot another look at the trash truck, as if he could will it to move a little faster…so it would remove the evidence that the man who would be mayor was responsible for defacing every business in Bushrod Square.
Not on her watch.
“Well, you better go to the meeting,” she said, pulling away. “I’m going to, uh…” She looked at the square and caught sight of the golden retriever on his second pass around. “Say goodbye to Jackson, one of my favorite dogs. And you better go. That meeting is starting, and your big client is there.”
His ruddy complexion paled. “Not that he bothered to mention that to me,” he grumbled. “Had to find out from a tenant ten minutes ago.”
“Then go,” she urged him. “You don’t want to be late for your own party, Mr. Mayor.”
She gave him a nudge in the direction of town hall, and he looked a little perturbed, but then nodded, taking off in that direction. She made a show of crossing the street toward the square in case he turned to look back at her, but his attention was riveted on that trash truck. Which had just moved to the next corner.
Chloe would have to go fast if she wanted to prove his guilt and save Aunt Blanche’s job.
She took no time to think about it, though, running into the alley and thanking Daisy for ruining her first outfit and forcing her to change into white linen slacks. So perfect for…dumpster diving.
“You can do this, Chloe. You can do this,” she told herself as she reached the rusty six-foot-high vat full of trash. “That dumpster is not going to hurt you.”
But if that son of a bitch had vandalized this town, she’d take him down. She’d strut right into that meeting holding the evidence she got from his trash bin and show them what a mistake it would be to make him mayor.
It would be her parting gift to Bitter Bark. Maybe Aunt Blanche would reconsider stepping down. It would be a small victory, but she’d take it.
Holding that thought and her nose, she stood on her tiptoes to peer inside the dumpster. There it was. Ashland’s trash bag, partially covered in a sea of papers, and two small cans of paint and some brushes.
There was her proof.
Along with some soda cans, empty water bottles, a grease-stained paper bag, and plastic bags. Oh, not just any bags, but bags she recognized all too well. Bags and bags of dog poop from the cleaning stations around the park, with the expected number of flies feasting on the stench.
Oh God. She swayed and almost lost her balance.
Would she let a little disgusting trash stop her from taking down the man responsible for her loss? No way. No freaking way.
She gripped the side of the dumpster, lifted her leg to place her high-heeled sandal on a metal bar sticking out, and hoisted herself up, pressing her stomach against the edge to reach all the way in. Her fingers grazed the yellow ties of Dave’s bag, but she couldn’t quite get it.
The smell made her stomach roil, but she forced her arm to stretch more, focusing on one spot to concentrate, staring at the handwritten words she could read on Dave’s discarded paperwork, reading them in her head as she challenged her body to reach that tie.
James Fisker. James Fisker. James Fisker.
Finally, she looped the tie and yanked the bag out, swinging it to the ground.
“Yes!” She ripped open the top and peered inside to see spray-paint cans, thick markers, and a few brushes caked in paint. And clothes. A pair of paint-splattered sneakers, jeans, and a once-white T-shirt that bore the words Ashland Realty with so much incriminating paint on it that she almost cried.
But her head was still echoing the words she’d read. James Fisker. James Fisker. James Fisker.
Why would someone have signed one piece of paper with the same name what had to be…fifty times?
She blinked. To practice it. To forge it. What the—
She spun around and hoisted herself up again, not even noticing the foul smell now, because her laser focus was pinned on that paper. And the ones next to it. Deed of Warranty. Land Sale. Mortgage.
Why was he throwing away important papers and forging the signature of a man who was his client—and on his way into town this very morning? The trash truck backup beeps screeched through the morning air.
And why was he so anxious that the garbage collectors take it all away?
She suddenly spied the balled-up paper she’d seen him throw in, resting precariously on a piece of metal jutting inside the dumpster. With a modest stretch, she snagged it and dropped to the ground again, spreading it open, smoothing her hand over the fancy letterhead.
National Security Lenders & Mortgage Company.
She scanned the words.
Dear Mr. Ashland…pleasure to secure your mortgage in the amount of $5 million…for the property parcel located along Bushrod Avenue…Bitter Bark, North Carolina…
This wasn’t Dave Ashland’s land! It belonged to James Fisker. How did he get a mortgage on it?
By forging the real owner’s signature.
“Oh my God.” This was damning, criminal evidence.
But why wouldn’t he shred it? Because he just found out from a tenant ten minutes ago that James Fisker was in town, leaving Dave no time to destroy evidence. Oh, yeah. Desperate men did dumb things.
But her thoughts were drowned out by the sound of the trash truck, backing up to get into position to come down the alleyway.
Evidence that he was clearly anxious to have the trash truck remove.
Oh, no. They were not taking one single thing out of this dumpster, unless it was Chloe herself, because she was getting that evidence to take the son of a bitch down.
Two minutes later, she was standing in the dumpster, plucking through a mountain of what looked like damning evidence, each one clicking the story into place. But she couldn’t be sure. There were so many contracts, so much fine print, so much…legalese.
She pulled out her phone and tapped one button and waited for Shane to answer.
“Chloe,” he said, his voice low. “I’m so glad you called. I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t let you—”
“No time for that! Where are you?”
“Just leaving town with Daisy. What’s wrong?”
“I need a good lawyer. Right now. Right this minute, Shane.”
“Where are you?”
She glanced to the side and then down at the bags of poop near her feet. “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. Meet me in my aunt’s office as soon as you possibly can.”
“Okay, I’m on my way. But, Chloe, listen to me. I have to tell you something. You can’t leave. You can’t let us end. I can’t. I love—”
A deafening bang cut him off, followed by the warning beeps and the rumble of a trash truck engine as it closed in on her dum
pster.
“What the hell is that, Chloe?”
“Garbage truck.”
“Where are you?”
“Dumpster diving.”
After a second of stunned silence, he whispered, “I’m on my way.”
She stuffed the phone in her pocket, gathered her precious papers, and managed to climb out, seconds before a shocked garbage collector reached her. But none of that racket drowned out the sound of what Shane had been about to say.
Clinging to the sound of his unfinished declaration, she ran to the town hall.
Chapter Twenty-three
Chloe reeked.
And Shane couldn’t remember anything ever smelling better. She smelled like hope and promise and a woman who was willing to do anything to get what she wanted.
With each passing moment, he was more certain that was him.
Daisy was pretty fond of Stinky Chloe, too. She’d had her snout all over Chloe from the minute the two of them had arrived at the mayor’s office and, after Chloe washed her hands, had gone straight to work on the fastest legal argument he’d ever created in his life.
“Now I know why he was setting up Jeannie and Mitch when I saw him in the park that day,” Shane mused as the evidence mounted. “From day one, he’s been opposed to this idea, sabotaging you so it would fail, but trying to look like he supported it.”
Chloe nodded, her attention on the papers she’d found while Shane called up the program to run a title search using her aunt’s PC. He handed that over to Chloe when he finally reached the chief legal counsel of National Security Lenders. The other lawyer gave Shane an earful of good information, and Shane repaid it by giving him the exact address the man needed.
The whole thing had taken less than an hour, but left them scant seconds to crash the meeting before her aunt took the podium to officially resign.
“Come on, come on,” Chloe urged as Shane put the finishing touches on his notes and took one more look at the key documents he’d use. Dave Ashland was going down so hard, and not just off the mayor’s podium. Someone was headed to prison. “It’s almost ten o’clock.”
“Okay, I’m ready.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her leashing Daisy. “Don’t you want to leave her here?”
She shot him a look like he’d suggested tossing the dog out the window, making him laugh and fall a little more in love with her.
A minute later, the elevator door whooshed closed and trapped them alone together, traveling from the fourth-floor mayor’s office to the assembly room on the first floor.
He sniffed and leaned closer. “Eau de Trash is my new favorite fragrance.”
She smiled. “You should have seen the look on the garbage collector’s face when I climbed out of that thing.”
“Would have paid huge money for that.”
“I just hope it was worth it,” she said. “I hope Dave doesn’t have some excuse or rationalization. Fisker is there, you know. What if he’s in on it?”
Shane snorted. “He’s not in on this or Ashland wouldn’t have been tossing state’s evidence like yesterday’s newspaper,” he assured her. “When Fisker finds out what Ashland did, he’s going to thank us.”
“You’re absolutely one hundred percent sure?” she asked, squeezing her hands together as if she couldn’t contain the mix of anxiety and hope.
He leaned closer. “Absolutely one hundred percent sure.” He lowered his head for a kiss, but she inched back.
“About this case.”
“Oh, I’m only about eighty percent sure of the case.” He winked. “About you? I’m one hundred percent.” A thousand percent. A million.
The elevator clunked to a stop, and the doors opened in front of the closed assembly room on the ground floor of Bitter Bark Town Hall.
“Only eighty?” she asked.
“That wasn’t the important number.”
She gave a shaky smile and pointed to their destination. “It is now.”
“Chloe.” He reached for her hand before they walked out. “I’ve won cases with way less evidence and a real judge and jury. But I need to know one thing before I go in there. I need to know. Am I going to win or lose you? That’s all that matters to me.”
She searched his face for a long moment, her eyes as dark as he’d ever seen them, like bottomless pools that he wanted to climb into. “Shane Kilcannon doesn’t lose.”
“I will if I don’t have you.”
“Then win.”
But he didn’t know if she was telling him he’d win her…or ordering him to win the case.
So he had to do both.
With an easy nudge, holding all the papers from the dumpster, printouts of the title searches he’d run, and the case law he’d had a friend in real estate law email to him, he ushered her toward the door.
“My family will be up front,” he whispered as he reached to open it. “Sit with them.”
“Really?”
“That’s where you belong.”
The smile that lit up her face was the last thing he saw before they walked into the large meeting room with at least three hundred familiar faces filling rows and rows of metal chairs. A few faces turned to see who’d come in late, but most were riveted on the woman at the podium.
Blanche stuttered a little at the sight of the new arrivals in the back, her gaze split between Chloe, who headed up the left-side aisle, causing a bit of a stir as she held on to Daisy’s leash, and Shane, who went up the aisle on the opposite side.
In the middle of the front row, he spotted Dave Ashland, who glanced at him, did a double take, then returned his attention to the stage. Next to Dave was a very old man with white hair and suspenders whom Shane immediately recognized as James Fisker, a wealthy developer who’d lived in Bitter Bark until he retired to Florida about fifteen years ago.
Did old Mr. Fisker know he was sitting next to a man who’d essentially stolen five million dollars from him? Well, he was about to.
“And so, friends and citizens of Bitter Bark, it is with a heavy heart that I officially resign as—”
“I object.” Shane walked right to the front of the room, not caring that his terminology and technique were all wrong. He had to stop her and get on that stage.
A rumble ran through the crowd and, although he was tempted, he refused to look directly at Ashland. Any clue could give the man a chance to find a way to escape.
“Uh, Shane, there’s no objection here. I’m resigning.”
“Not so fast.” The stage was low, and he was up in one easy step.
Behind Blanche, the members of the town council sat at a long wrap table, looking at each other and him, confusion on their faces.
“I’m making a motion to stop you from saying another word until I speak.”
The crowd noise rose, along with some specific complaints.
“Your girlfriend lost, Shane, give it a break.”
“This isn’t how we run these meetings.”
“You don’t own this town, Kilcannon.”
“No, I don’t,” he said, choosing to answer that question as he calmly moved Blanche from the podium and set his papers down. “But that man, right there in the front row, James Fisker? He does own quite a bit of it. Is that not true, Mr. Fisker?”
The man sat up straight, stunned to be called on in the middle of the melee. “I suppose that is, yes.”
“In fact, is it not true that you are the rightful owner of the parcel of land that runs from along Bushrod Avenue from Mountainview Street on the south to Vestal Road on the north, currently known as the western perimeter of Bushrod Square?”
Ashland visibly paled, giving Shane a boost. Shane stole a look to his right, catching a glimpse of Chloe, seated next to his sister Molly, then Gramma, Dad, Darcy, and Liam in the second row. She gave him a secret thumbs-up, which shot even more adrenaline and confidence into his veins.
“I do own that land,” Fisker said, leaning forward.
“Then may I present this exhibit as evidence
that someone else has taken a five-million-dollar mortgage out on the property?”
“What?” Fisker stood now, gray brows furrowing. “That’s preposterous. I’ve owned that land since the 1970s. I collect rent from every business on that property. You are sadly mistaken, young man.”
But he wasn’t mistaken about the look of horror on the face of Ashland, who went wide-eyed with disbelief and fear.
“What do you have there?” Fisker insisted, coming closer.
“The Warranty Deed, signed by you, selling that parcel outright.”
“I did not sell it!” If he’d had a cane, which he almost needed, he’d have hammered the floor.
Behind Fisker, the audience went from momentarily rapt to grumbling questions and comments.
“But this deed says you have actually sold it to the Ashland Real Estate Company.”
“I let him handle the leases,” he said.
“That’s right, Shane.” Dave Ashland hoisted himself up, finally gathering his wits. “I don’t know what it is you’re up to, but this kind of shenanigan is exactly why we’re running your girlfriend and her ridiculous dog ideas out of town.”
That got another reaction from the crowd. But Shane took over with a booming voice in the microphone.
“Then can you explain this, Mr. Ashland?” He held up the wrinkled letter that Chloe had rescued from the dumpster. “This is a note, supported with complete contractual documentation, confirming that you, as sole owner of this parcel, took out a five-million-dollar mortgage using this bill of sale transferring the property from Mr. Fisker to you.”
“Impossible!” Fisker marched toward the stairs to join Shane. “I never sold anyone my land.”
“Well, he didn’t sell it…” Dave said, his voice less powerful now. “I handle the leases, and I think you got your paperwork mixed up, Shane. You’re a dog trainer, not a real lawyer.”
“Then you might have wished one of my dogs had eaten this.” He lifted the page of practice signatures. “Your extensive attempts to duplicate Mr. James Fisker’s signature, which you then, using your own real estate contractual creation skills, were able to forge on sale papers.”
“I…I…this is crazy.” He looked to the crowd for support, but about three hundred people were either slack-jawed or furious.