Deeply, Desperately

by Heather Webber

  “I’ll call if I find anything. I promise.”

  I snapped my phone closed. “The Sarah Loehman case.”

  “Ah,” Dovie said, sipping on her coffee and opening the morning Herald. “The husband got away with murder, right?”

  “Everyone seems to think so.” I poured a mug of coffee and looked her over. “How’s my favorite felon this morning?”

  She looked none the worse for wear, considering. Her hair was twisted into a fancy knot, and she wore tailored jeans, a cashmere sweater, and leather loafers. Grendel was swatting at the tassels.

  “Such sass from you. I’m just fine, thank you.”

  “And Mum?”

  “Lovely as usual.”

  I sipped my coffee. “Glad to hear it. When’s your arraignment?”

  She flipped through the paper. “Monday morning.”

  “You know, eventually they’re not going to let you off with a slap on the wrist and a fine.”

  “We did nothing wrong.”

  “Dovie.”

  “What? Human bodies are beautiful.”

  “You’re lucky you and Mum didn’t get arrested for indecent exposure along with the disorderly conduct charge.”

  “We were hardly indecent. We had on underwear and bras.”

  Thank goodness for small favors. I wondered what Preston would have thought of my mother’s and grandmother’s underwear choice. Both had been wearing animal-print thongs when arrested.

  “I don’t know how you didn’t get hypothermia.”

  “Adrenaline.”

  “Good to know.”

  She turned another page. “Sass.”

  “I get it from you, remember?”

  “Not me. Your mother.”

  I smiled. “What are you looking for in there?”

  “Coverage of the protest. Nothing. Not even a picture.”

  My gratitude for that was endless.

  “Thanks for bailing us out. Again.” Dovie slid her foot back and forth. Grendel leaped to and fro, chasing tassels.

  “How about no more protests? At least until after Christmas?”

  “Okay, though your mother has her heart set on the war protest next week.”

  “I’ll talk to her.”

  “Just don’t have your father do it. You know how she likes to be contrary where he’s concerned,” Dovie said, kicking off her shoes. Grendel pounced on them, trying to drag one away.

  “I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. He’s incommunicado. He has a new girl toy.”

  “You’d think he would have learned his lesson with the incident on the beach.”

  “You’d think. I wish he’d call. I really need to talk to him.”

  “About?”

  “Work stuff,” I lied.

  “He’ll turn up. He always does.” She turned another page. “Oh ho! Speak of the devil.”

  “Dad?” I asked.

  “None other.” She tapped the page. “Out last night at the symphony and not alone.”

  “Do you know her?” I asked. The woman stood in the background of the shot, but she was watching Dad intently. A casual reader might not have picked up that they were together.

  “If my eyes don’t deceive … that’s Sabrina McCutchan.”

  “Strange to hear that name again so soon,” I said.

  Dovie snapped her fingers. “I wonder if your father is matchmaking. Pairing Cutter and Preston together.”

  Something shifted inside my chest. It felt remarkably like relief. The explanation made perfect sense. It was something my father, a diehard romantic, would love to pull off.

  She gathered up her paper and kissed my cheek. “I’m off. I have a meeting with the caterer.”

  “Try and stay out of trouble. I’m not sure you have many get-out-of-jail-free cards left.”

  She blew a kiss. “Don’t worry so much, LucyD!”

  If only it were that easy.

  13

  Sunbeams spread out from the horizon, welcome fingers of light massaging warmth into the day. Sean and I were on our way to track down the cheerleader I’d seen during my reading with Faye Dodd.

  It was closing in on two o’clock, and we’d just merged onto the Southeast Expressway, heading north toward I-95 and New Hampshire. Bumper-to-bumper traffic stretched far and wide, on both sides of the highway. No reason for it that I could see, but around here reasons weren’t needed.

  My long legs ached with the need to stretch. It felt as though we’d been in the car for days, not hours. I tugged off my boots and pulled my feet up onto the seat, tailor style.

  Sean eyed me. “Doesn’t that hurt? Sitting like that?”

  I batted my eyelashes. “Have you been checking out my legs, Mr. Donahue?”

  “Every chance I get.”

  One little sentence and the car filled with anticipation. And tension—both the good and bad kind.

  We’d come so close to taking that next step, but it seemed something was always lurking, ready to trip us up. It happened to be Mum and Dovie last night, but they weren’t the only obstacles recently.

  I felt compelled to ask, “How’s Cara today?”

  I desperately wished she would just go away. Except I knew Sean couldn’t walk away until all her testing was done. The spinal tap she’d had done yesterday had been normal. An MRI of her brain was scheduled for Monday.

  “Not so good. Her right foot is dragging. Her doctor wants to check her into the hospital tonight for observation. She’s going to have some special scan done tomorrow.”

  I had no doubt Sean would be there with her for the test. “What do the doctors suspect?” I asked, trying to keep my mind off how much time he was spending with her.

  “Could be something spinal, an infection, a tumor, multiple sclerosis, Parkinson’s.”

  “Holy shit.”

  The corner of his mouth lifted in a little grin. He had a fondness for my swearing.

  He glanced my way. “I thought about what you said. About walking away in the long run.”

  Thinking about losing him caused a pain so intense, I had to divert my thoughts.

  I stared at the colorful rainbow artwork on the side of the old Boston Gas (now Keyspan) tank. When I was little, I used to try and find faces in the paint. Fred Flintstone. The dad from the Munsters. Rumor was Ho Chi Minh was painted into the blue stripe and if I stared hard enough I could see why.

  Finally, I said, “And?”

  “I can’t walk away from her right now, but I did tell her it was time to call her mother.”

  “You did?”

  “My place isn’t with her anymore,” he said, staring at the horizon. “But I can’t leave her to face all this alone.”

  “Did she call?” I didn’t want to get my hopes up.

  “Her mother is flying in on Monday night.”

  “She is?” I fairly cried in glee.

  He looked my way.

  “I, ah, mean, that’s great. It’ll be nice for Cara to have some family around.”

  He tipped his head back and laughed. I once asked my father the color of Sean’s aura. It was a charcoal gray with a hint of steely blue I could almost picture in my mind’s eye if I stared at him long enough. I, of course, didn’t know my aura color—none of the Valentines could see the auras of blood-related family members, part of Cupid’s Curse. Were we a match? Were he and Cara? If they were, I could find out—all I had to do was ask my father to take a look at her.

  I’d never ask him to. That was something I just never needed to know.

  I socked him in the arm. “Why are you laughing?”

  “You. I see right through your enthusiasm, Ms. Valentine.”

  “Can you blame me?”

  “No,” he said softly. “I can’t.”

  North of the tunnel, traffic eased. Snowfall had been heavier up here. The road before us was a ribbon of gray twisting through a winter wonderland.

  My phone rang. I’d changed the ring tone from “Deck the Halls” to “Winter Wonderland.” P
reston’s name came up on my screen. Had she discovered something about Leo’s lost love?

  “Lucy Valentine!” she snapped when I answered.

  “You sound like my mother.”

  “Well, isn’t that a coincidence? I’m calling about your mother.”

  “Oh?” I asked, a knot forming in my stomach.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  “Does your editor know you use double negatives?”

  “Don’t be evasive!”

  Sean lifted an eyebrow—obviously he could hear both sides of the conversation. “Evasive?”

  “I saw the picture this morning.”

  Of Dad and Sabrina? My heart double-clutched.

  “Your mother and grandmother look lovely in their skivvies.”

  It took me a second to realize what she was saying. I coughed. “There’s a picture?”

  “In the Globe.”

  Dovie would be thrilled at the news. “Ah. Well. Their proclivity for protesting is well known.”

  There was silence.

  “Preston?”

  “Did you only invite me to Falmouth to keep me from investigating the protest?”

  The hurt in her tone confused me. “Yes.”

  “I see.”

  “But,” I said quickly, “I was glad you were there. In fact, I need to go back tomorrow and speak to that lawyer.” Sean would be busy with Cara, and it would be nice to have company—even if it was Preston. “Do you want to come too?”

  More silence.

  “Preston?”

  “I’m thinking about it. That Christmas tree protest could have been a real scoop for me, Lucy.”

  I refused to apologize. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I’d been trying to protect my family. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  I heard the pout in her voice. “I suppose.”

  As I hung up, Sean said, “She is like a little sister.”

  I groaned and dialed my father as we crossed into New Hampshire, paid our tolls.

  His voice boomed, “Oscar Valentine.”

  “Where have you been?” I asked.

  “Who is this?”

  “Not funny.”

  “I’m amused,” he said.

  “I was worried.”

  “Who’s the parent here?”

  I was wondering the same thing myself. “Look, I need to know.”

  “What do you need to know, Lucy?”

  “Preston Bailey. Is she my sister?”

  “Preston?” he barked in surprise. Then he started laughing.

  “Dad.”

  More laughter.

  “Dad.”

  More laughter.

  “Dad!”

  More laughter. I hung up, looked at Sean. “Guess that’s a no.”

  “I’d say so.”

  “Good to know, but I’d still like to figure out what the link is between Cutter McCutchan and Preston.”

  “You could call your father back.”

  I tucked my cell into my purse. “No, thanks. How’s Andrew doing, by the way? Is he back to work?”

  “Not yet. The hospital kept him for observation, but couldn’t find anything wrong—it wasn’t his appendix after all. Now the doctors think it was a bout of pancreatitis. He expects to be back at work on Monday.”

  Poor kid. “When are you going to call Rosalinda?”

  “Sam said he’d take care of it.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “What? You don’t think he will.”

  “He won’t.”

  “Time will tell, right?” Sean said.

  Time might tell, but I was going to have to do something about this, for Andrew’s sake.

  Soon.

  The cheerleader’s name was Shannon. Shannon O’Meara. Sixteen years old. A junior at Portsmouth High School.

  It amazed me how much information was willingly imparted to strangers. Sean and I sat across from each other at a local McDonald’s, waiting for Shannon to take a break from her shift.

  In my vision she hadn’t struck me as the type who’d flip burgers as an after-school job, but it turned out that Shannon’s single mom had been diagnosed with breast cancer last year and was struggling to pay the bills. Shannon had taken a part-time job to help out.

  As I watched Shannon now, taking orders and dropping baskets of French fries into hot oil, it was easy to see the cheerleader in her. With her bright smile and easygoing manner, she stood out among the other workers.

  I dipped a fry into a tiny paper cup filled with ketchup. Finding Shannon had been easy.

  We tracked her to the high school that I’d seen in my vision. A quick glance at the sports photos hanging on the wall in the school’s lobby and I was able to pick her out of the team cheerleading picture. Thankfully the school was still full of kids staying after for various extracurriculars. Sean asked a girl walking by if she knew the blond-haired blue-eyed cheerleader. Not only had we learned Shannon’s name, but her life history as well.

  Some kids didn’t mind talking to strangers. And talking and talking.

  A peek in the phone book gave us an address for Shannon. She lived in a rundown duplex in a neighborhood of other rundown houses, cracked sidewalks, potholed streets, and enormous chestnut trees.

  The door was answered by Shannon’s mother. Maggie O’Meara was impossibly young to have breast cancer, mid-thirties at best. She was medium height, slender build. Baggy jeans and a Portsmouth High School sweatshirt nearly swallowed her whole.

  I forced myself not to stare. She was completely bald, lacking any hair at all—eyebrows and lashes included.

  Sean handed her a card, and I introduced us. “We’re looking into the disappearance of a woman named Sarah Loehman.”

  Maggie leaned against her door, glanced at the card. “I don’t understand. I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  Sean said, “We have reason to believe that the silver heart bracelet your daughter Shannon wears once belonged to Sarah. She had it with her when she went missing.”

  Maggie’s eyes widened. “Come on in.”

  Tired wooden floors creaked as she led us past a dusty dining room into the family room. A large picture window looked onto a marsh behind the house. Sean and I sat on a lumpy couch. Pictures brightened the room. Family portraits of two similar-looking blondes. Mom and daughter through time. At Disney World, at the beach, at Canobie Lake Park, at a picnic, at a school football game. There wasn’t a sign of a father in Shannon’s life, and Maggie wore no wedding band.

  An old armchair with a drooping cushion sat near the window. Gently, Maggie lowered herself into it. “I knew something was up with that bracelet. It looked too expensive to be a knockoff, like Shannon told me.”

  “Do you know where she got it?” I asked.

  Though she looked fragile, her voice was strong. “She got it about six months ago, right around her birthday. A present from the boyfriend she doesn’t know I know about. She tells me he’s just a buddy.”

  “I think I had a few of those,” I said, smiling.

  Maggie laughed. “Who hasn’t? It’s why I keep quiet. Let her think she’s got a big secret. Jimmy’s a good kid—I’m not too worried about him.”

  “Do you mind if we talk to her about the bracelet?” Sean asked.

  Cornflower-blue eyes stood out against her pale face. Worry wrinkled her brow. “She’s not in any trouble, is she?”

  Sean shook his head. “We just want to talk to her.”

  I pulled a picture of Sarah Loehman out of my bag, walked it over to Maggie. “Do you recognize this woman at all?”

  Thin fingers held the picture. Her gaze took in every nuance of the photo. “She looks vaguely familiar. I think I may have seen her on TV?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Her disappearance was in the news for a long time.”

  “And you think Shannon has her bracelet?”

  “It’s a possibility,” I said vaguely. “We’d really like to talk to Shannon and get
more information. Is she home?”

  “Working. Down the street. I’ll give you directions.” Maggie stiffly rose to her feet. She caught us watching her. “I’m okay. Better than most with my diagnosis. The worst part?” she said, leading us toward the door.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Shannon has to take care of me now. I’ve always prided myself on being a good mom. Providing for her, caring, nurturing. But I can’t find a job where I can work from home, and no one wants to hire someone so sick.”

  Sean held open the screen door for me. “I’m sure Shannon understands.”

  “Oh, she does and she doesn’t complain,” she said softly. “But it’s killing me.”

  I could only imagine.

  “I’ll call Shannon,” she said. “Let her know you’re stopping by.”

  Hence our trip to the Golden Arches.

  I pushed my fries away as Shannon bounced up to the table, a tentative smile on her lips. I slid over. “Do you want to sit?”

  “No, thanks. My mom said you wanted to talk to me?”

  “It’s about your bracelet,” Sean said.

  Her smiled vanished as she protectively slid her fingers over the metal. “What about it?”

  “We need to know where you got it,” I said gently.

  “At the mall,” she said quickly. “From Claire’s.”

  I shook my head. “That’s not the truth.”

  Her pale eyebrows dipped. “It is the truth.”

  “They don’t sell Tiffany bracelets at the mall, Shannon,” Sean said, kindness lacing his tone.

  I glanced at him. He’d known immediately to take a gentle approach. And it paid off as Shannon, her blue eyes brimming with tears, pleaded with him. “You can’t tell my mom. She’ll make me give it back.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her that she’d probably have to give it to the police. “Back where?”

  “To Jimmy.”

  “Your boyfriend?” Sean ventured.

  She nodded. “He’s, like, the greatest. He bought this for me for my birthday.”

  “Why would your mom make you give it back?” I asked.

  “Because she doesn’t know I have a boyfriend. You can’t tell her.”

  Little did she know. “I’ll make you a deal. We won’t tell your mom if you tell us how to get in touch with your boyfriend.”

  “Why?” she said, tipping her head. Her blond ponytail slashed the air.