It’d been a year since the John Doe had checked into Thyme and Tide and promptly gone to meet his Maker. So much of that night remained a blur in Bob’s mind. Of one thing he was sure: the man, whoever he was, had evoked the recurring nightmare. As the years passed, the dream had come less and less frequently. But it had returned that night. When he woke, he’d had the same sensation he always felt following the nightmare. He’d been badly shaken; discovering their guest dead in the downstairs bedroom had heightened his anxiety beyond anything he’d experienced in years.
Considering the number of times Sheriff Davis had stopped by since that fateful morning, Bob couldn’t help feeling he was somehow a suspect. It was Davis’s last visit that had led him to contact Roy McAfee. He’d half expected an arrest warrant. He needed to talk to someone he trusted, someone who could help him, so—at Pastor Flemming’s suggestion—he’d gone to Roy.
Retelling the story of that day in a Vietnam jungle hadn’t been easy. Peggy was the only one he’d ever told. Bob didn’t know what would’ve happened to him if not for his wife, who’d held him and wept with him as he relived those terrible memories. Since then—until now—they’d never spoken of the incident again.
He peered out at the road again. Sure enough, the sheriff’s car drove through the wrought-iron gate that marked the driveway to Thyme and Tide. He recognized Troy Davis at the wheel. Bob reached in his rear pocket for a clean rag and wiped his hands free of sawdust and grime.
Davis parked in back and climbed out, nodding in Bob’s direction.
“Sheriff,” Bob said, coming out to meet him. He extended his hand, which Troy Davis shook, all the while looking him full in the face. That was encouraging. If Davis planned to arrest him, he figured there’d be some sign. Thus far, he hadn’t seen any.
“How’s it going, Bob?” Troy asked.
“All right.”
“Peggy around?”
“She’s inside baking. She’s probably almost done. Cookies, I think. Do you want to come in the house?”
Sheriff Davis nodded. “I’d like to talk to you both.”
Bob led the way through the back door off the kitchen. As he’d predicted, Peggy’s cookies were cooling on wire racks and the lingering scent of oatmeal and raisins filled the room. She must’ve seen Troy pull into the driveway because she’d already placed three mugs on the table and had the coffee poured. She’d set aside a plate of cookies, too.
Silently they each took a seat at the round oak table in the alcove next to the kitchen, then reached for a mug.
“You have news?” Peggy asked.
Bob admired the fact that she got straight to the point. He assumed the sheriff had learned something. The fact that he was here in uniform told Bob this wasn’t a social call.
“We have the identity of our John Doe,” Sheriff Davis said. He paused as if he expected Bob to provide the name.
Peggy gasped. “You know who it is?”
“Maxwell Russell.” Once again, the sheriff looked at Bob.
“Max?” Bob repeated slowly. Roy had wondered about that possibility. A chill raced down his spine, and he closed his eyes as the face of his old army buddy came to him. The room felt as if it were buckling beneath his chair. In the back of his mind, for whatever reason, he’d known that the man who’d died was somehow connected to his past.
“You remember him?” Davis asked, but it was clear he already knew the answer.
“We were in the army together—that was years ago.”
Davis nodded as if waiting for more.
“Why didn’t he identify himself?” Bob asked. They hadn’t seen each other in nearly forty years. Max hadn’t arrived on his doorstep that night by accident. He’d come for a reason—and died before he could tell Bob what it was.
“I was hoping you could give me the answer to that,” the sheriff murmured.
Bob couldn’t. He’d never been particularly good friends with Max. They were in Vietnam together, in the jungle…in the village. Afterward all four men had gone their separate ways, desperate to put the past behind them, to forget. No one wanted a reminder of what they’d done. Least of all Bob.
After the war, Bob had stayed away from Cedar Cove simply because Dan had chosen to return to their hometown. Bob did eventually move back, but the two men rarely spoke. It was as if they were strangers now, although in their youth they’d been close friends.
“He died before he could tell you anything?” The sheriff made it a question.
Bob pushed away his chair and stood. With his back to the sheriff and Peggy, he stared out the window. “No matter how many times you ask the question, I can only answer it one way. Max came to the door without giving us so much as his name, paid for a room and said he’d fill out the paperwork in the morning.”
“But by morning he was dead.”
The sick feeling in Bob’s stomach intensified. He didn’t understand why Max had come to Cedar Cove in the first place. Even more of a mystery was the fact that he’d had extensive plastic surgery—and that he’d carried false identification.
“How’d you find out who he was?” Bob had a few questions of his own.
“His daughter filed a missing person’s report with the police in Redding, California. I spoke to Hannah Russell earlier in the week.”
“California?” Bob repeated. The trail had first led to an investigation in Florida, but that had quickly gone cold.
“What did she tell you?” Peggy asked before Bob could.
“Unfortunately not as much as I’d like. The last time she spoke to her father, he told her he was leaving town. He didn’t give her any details. They were apparently quite close, but when she questioned him about where he was going and why, he was evasive.
“He never returned. After two weeks, she reported him as a missing person.”
“That’s all she knows?” Bob turned to face the sheriff. He gripped the back of his chair and slowly released his breath. Reclaiming his seat, he mulled over the information, feeling more confused than ever.
“It seems so,” Davis told him, picking up his coffee.
“Was it a business trip?” Bob asked next.
Davis shook his head. “He hasn’t worked since the accident.”
“Accident?” Peggy echoed.
“He was in a car crash five years ago. It killed his wife and badly disfigured him. The accident was the reason for his reconstructive surgery.”
Well, that explained that….
“I didn’t recognize him at all,” Bob murmured. He’d seemed vaguely familiar—his bearing, perhaps, but Bob would never have associated that stranger with the twenty-year-old he’d once known.
“In the last few years, Hannah’s lost both her parents. She took the news hard.”
“That poor girl,” Peggy said sympathetically. “She must’ve been beside herself when she didn’t hear from her father all those months.”
“It’s no wonder.” Bob didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until he heard the sound of his own voice. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table, splaying his fingers through his hair.
No wonder the nightmare had come that night. His subconscious had made some connection, and he’d been swept into the churning memories the nightmare induced.
“Do you know why Max would seek you out?” Sheriff Davis asked again.
“No.” Bob could only speculate.
“His daughter’s coming to get the ashes.” The sheriff looked from Bob to Peggy. When there was no one to claim the body or pay burial expenses, the county cremated the remains. “Hannah asked if she could speak to you both.”
“What did you tell her?” Bob asked.
“I told her it was up to you, but I imagined you wouldn’t have a problem with it.”
Peggy nodded. “When is she coming?”
“As soon as she can make the arrangements. She’s hoping to arrive next week.”
Peggy glanced at Bob. He knew what she was asking and he knew his answer, to
o.
“Tell Hannah she’s welcome to stop by anytime.”
The sheriff nodded. “I’ll do that.”
Olivia saw the huge bouquet of vibrant red roses being delivered to the courthouse when she broke for lunch. They were lovely, and in February, especially this close to Valentine’s Day, they must have cost a fortune.
She followed the florist’s deliveryman down the halls of the courthouse and wondered who was lucky enough to receive such gorgeous roses. When the man announced he was looking for Judge Lockhart’s office, she stopped abruptly.
Someone had sent her roses?
“I’m Judge Lockhart,” she said quickly, and led the way into her office. The roses were stunning, the buds just opening, their color rich and deep.
As soon as the man left, Olivia grabbed the card, certain Jack had sent them. She tore at the envelope, then hesitated when a second thought gave her pause.
They could be from Stan.
She stared hard at the half-opened envelope, and sank into her chair. She reached for the telephone, although she didn’t often call Grace at work.
It took a moment to get her best friend on the line.
“What happened?” Grace asked automatically. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing yet.” Olivia was giddy with anticipation—and a hint of dread. “I have the most incredible roses here and a sealed card.”
“You don’t know who sent them?”
“No.”
“Open the card,” Grace urged.
“I think they’re from Stan.”
“And you want it to be Jack?”
Olivia rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Of course I want it to be Jack.” But he’d already sent her flowers once, and it had been completely out of character then. Twice would be too much to expect.
“When was the last time you heard from him?”
Grace always did get caught up in the details. “We talk all the time.”
“Did he mention getting together for Valentine’s?”
Olivia strained her memory. If he had, it was only a vague reference. “Not that I recall. He’s busy, I’m busy. It’s harder now that the paper’s going to five days a week.”
“When was the last time Stan called you?”
Olivia didn’t answer. “They must be from Stan,” she said, already disappointed. The irony was, she couldn’t remember once in all the years they were married that Stan had sent her roses.
“Look at the card, would you?” Grace insisted.
“Oh, all right.” She ripped the envelope all the way open, holding her breath.
“Well?” Grace said after a few tense seconds.
“Stan.”
“That’s what you thought.”
“I know.”
“What does the card say?”
Olivia glanced down at it again, and with little enthusiasm read the few scribbled lines aloud. “‘Be my Valentine now and forever. Join me for a night to remember.’ And then it’s signed Stan.”
Grace muttered something unintelligible; whatever her friend’s sentiment, Olivia shared it. If Stan had loved her so much, he wouldn’t have walked out on their family when he had. He wouldn’t have married Marge the moment their divorce was final. He wouldn’t have abandoned Olivia in the hour of her darkest pain. Love demanded more.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Grace commented. “What are you thinking?”
Olivia grinned. “That Jack tries, but he doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body.”
“So what else is new?”
These days, Stan could be counted on to bring her flowers and candy, to make all the conventional gestures, but there was no substance to him. He had a handsome face and an empty heart. He seemed more worried about losing Olivia to Jack—as if she was the object of some male competition—than about her happiness.
“What will you tell Stan?” Grace asked.
“I’m afraid he’s going to be disappointed because I’ve already got a date.”
“You do? But you said Jack hadn’t mentioned anything about Valentine’s….”
Olivia’s decision had been made. “If he doesn’t ask me, then I’ll just ask him.”
Grace laughed, and it was the same wonderful sound Olivia remembered from when they were teenagers. It seemed only a few years ago that they were teenagers, talking endlessly about boys and dates and Valentine’s Day. Neither of them had expected to be single at this stage of their lives.
“Just when do you plan to give him this Sadie Hawkins Valentine invitation?” Grace teased.
Olivia laughed, too. “As soon as I’m finished here.” She was about to suggest that Grace invite Cliff, as well, but that relationship had become very complicated all of a sudden. She wasn’t sure what had happened, and Grace was reluctant to discuss it. Olivia gathered they’d had some sort of falling out. If it wasn’t cleared up after a while, she’d press the issue, but at the moment, Grace seemed content. After all the grief and uncertainty her friend had been through, that was good enough for now.
They spoke for a few more minutes, Olivia promising to call Grace with an update that evening. As soon as court was over for the day, she drove directly to the newspaper. The Cedar Cove Chronicle office was situated on Cedar Cove Drive, toward Southworth, where Washington state ferries transported cars and passengers to Vashon Island and West Seattle.
Once she’d parked, Olivia lost her nerve. She was part of a generation raised to believe that men did the inviting. Etiquette dictated certain procedures, and even though many of those rules were outdated in today’s world, they were so ingrained, Olivia had a hard time ignoring them.
Well, she’d come here for a reason, and she was determined to see it through. She marched purposefully into the office, only to discover he was in a meeting.
“I’ll get him if you like,” the receptionist told her.
“Ah…” Thankfully Olivia didn’t have time to formulate a response.
The door to the back office opened and Jack walked out, wearing a preoccupied frown. But the instant he saw her, his eyes brightened and his step quickened. “Olivia!”
Jack’s delight at seeing her seemed to infuse him with energy, and Olivia felt gratified. He held out his hands to her. “This is a surprise.”
“I’m looking for a Valentine,” she announced. “Are you interested?”
Jack chuckled. “Yeah, except…”
“What?” If he told her he already had a date, she’d hit him with her purse.
“I take it you want to go someplace other than the Taco Shack for dinner?”
“I like the Taco Shack, but…” It occurred to her then that Jack was nervous. He was afraid he wouldn’t meet her expectations. She also knew he wasn’t about to admit it.
“All right, the Taco Shack is out.” He paused, as though searching his limited repertoire of restaurants. “There’s always The Lighthouse, right?”
“Why don’t you let me make the reservations,” she suggested.
Jack grinned slyly in her direction. “Are you romancing me, Olivia?”
“I am.” She couldn’t see any reason to deny it. “So, are you interested or not?”
“You bet I am.” He draped his arm around her shoulder. “Can you have dinner with me tonight, too?”
“Taco Shack?” she asked.
Jack nodded. “They make a mean enchilada.”
“And I make a mean chicken pot pie,” she said, tempting him with her cooking. Jack ate far too many meals in restaurants. “See you in an hour?”
Jack nodded. “I’ve got some work to finish up. How about two hours?”
“That sounds great,” she said. Her spirits soared as she drove home, planning the rest of her menu.
Jack was only ten minutes late, and by then she had salad made, the table set and the pie waiting on top of the stove. She greeted him with an enthusiastic kiss. Sliding his arms around her waist, he held her a moment longer than necessary.
“I could get used to this
,” Jack said, following her into the kitchen. The chicken pie smelled savory and enticing, the crust a perfect golden-brown.
“So could I,” she confessed.
Jack had intended to go back to the office, but he stayed instead, and they cuddled up on the sofa and watched television. At eleven, Olivia reluctantly kissed him good-night at the door, then wandered into her bedroom, feeling contented and relaxed. She looked forward to another evening like this one; they’d be having dinner again soon, on Valentine’s Day, and she was already thinking about possible restaurants.
When she woke the next morning, it was because she’d heard a noise. Then she heard it again. It seemed to be coming from the kitchen. Frowning, Olivia sat up in bed. Reaching for her housecoat at the end of the bed, she slipped her arms into the sleeves, then hurried downstairs.
To her dismay, she found Stan sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading the Seattle morning paper. After the divorce, she hadn’t bothered to change the locks, but she couldn’t believe that, all these years later, Stan still had a key. Perhaps she’d forgotten to lock the door when she said goodbye to Jack.
“Stan!”
“Morning,” he said, as if he sat in her kitchen each and every day.
“What are you doing here?”
He set the coffee mug down. “Sorry if I startled you. I was in the neighborhood.”
Olivia was so furious she could barely speak. How dared he enter her home without permission!
“Did you get my roses?” he asked.
Olivia ignored the question. “What are you doing in my home?” She emphasized the fact that this house was hers; he no longer had any rights to it. Or to her…
He gave her that hurt-little-boy look she knew so well. “You’re upset, aren’t you?” he said.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to sneak into my home like…like a thief.”
“You’re absolutely right,” he agreed. “I apologize, Olivia. Now, please, don’t be angry with me. You know I hate it when you’re angry.”
Olivia refused to fall victim to his cajoling. “I don’t want it to happen again. Do you understand?”
Debbie Macomber's Cedar Cove Series Page 85
