“You could buy a house like this with your trust fund,” Preston said.
“I like my place.”
“It’s kind of small, don’t you think?”
“No.”
“And isn’t it weird living so close to your grandmother?”
“No.”
She took off her sunglasses and gave me a disbelieving glare. “I don’t get you.”
The feeling was mutual. I knocked on a thick wood door, taking in my surroundings. The day had dawned dark and gloomy and hadn’t changed much as morning seeped into afternoon. Martha’s Vineyard was but a speck in the distance, shrouded in mist.
John McGill had handled David Winston’s estate after his death and would hopefully point me in Joanne’s direction. I’d called ahead and Mr. McGill was kind enough to see me and Preston, though I doubted he often took appointments on Saturdays.
The door opened with a great whoosh, and a woman came out. She wore a nicely tailored suit, carried a briefcase, and said, “Thank you for your time.”
Or maybe he was such a workaholic, weekends were just more billable hours.
The older gentleman standing in the doorway replied with, “Thank you for coming. I’ll get back to you.”
He wore a spandex biking outfit of screaming yellow and subtle black. An aerodynamic helmet was nestled in the crook of his arm. “Mr. McGill?” I asked.
Smiling, he bowed. “At your service.”
Immediately, I was charmed. Preston too. She flashed him her hundred-megawatt smile.
“I hope we haven’t caught you at a bad time?”
Smoothing back thick white hair, he said, “Is there ever a bad time when beautiful women are at your door? Come in, young ladies, my bike ride can wait. I don’t suppose you’re here about the job?”
I shook my head, and we followed him through a vestibule into a small office. “I called earlier. I’m Lucy Valentine and this is Preston Bailey. Thank you for agreeing to meet with us on such short notice.”
“Happy to help.” He eyed a pile of notepads on his desk, his longhand nearly impossible to read.
“I don’t suppose either of you transcribe?”
“Not anymore,” I said, grateful.
Preston glanced at me.
“I went to paralegal school for a while,” I explained.
“You did?” she asked, eyebrows raised.
“Among other things.” I wanted to tease her again about not knowing my life as well as she thought, but now wasn’t the time.
“More’s the pity,” John McGill boomed. “I can’t find the right fit. I just need someone to type up my notes. I hate these newfangled computers. But enough about that.”
I tried not to let my gaze drop below his chest. The spandex left little to the imagination. “Have you been riding long?”
“Twenty years. I had a heart attack at fifty and made some changes. Now remind me of your name again, young lady,” he said to me.
I sat in a worn leather chair. “It’s Lucy Valentine, but I’m becoming partial to ‘young lady.’ ”
He laughed and sat in a massive swivel chair behind his desk. The wall behind him housed floor-to-ceiling windows, but the inside wall was crammed with overflowing bookshelves. “Young lady it is, then. And you?” he asked Preston.
She introduced herself and pulled out a business card.
“The Beacon?” he said, squinting at the small text. “Never heard of it.”
Preston groaned and sank back in her chair.
“We’re here about Joanne Winston,” I said. “You handled David’s estate when he passed. I’m hoping you might have some information about his mother.”
He steepled his fingers. “I was the Winston family attorney for years. What do you wish to know?”
“Anything, everything. Is she even alive?”
“I’ve not heard otherwise, and I think I would. News as such would travel quickly in this town. Charles and Joanne were mainstays, you see. Lived here for nigh on forty years, but moved on to Florida over a decade ago to take advantage of year-round warmer climes in hopes the various ailments plaguing Charles would benefit from the change. Unfortunately he died not long after the move. Joanne decided to remain in Florida, an address in …” He squinted one eye closed. “Lakeland. We had several conversations after David died, but nothing lately.”
Sean had tracked Joanne to the Lakeland address. From there she had disappeared.
“Did she remarry after Charles died?”
“Not that I know. May I ask why you’re looking for her?”
“Just trying to help someone track down an old friend.”
“I see, I see. Have you tried contacting her daughter?”
I frowned. “Her daughter? I thought she and Charles only had one child. David.”
“True, but Joanne had a little girl when she met Charles.” He did the eye squint again. “Lea is her name. Her father died in World War II. Charles wanted to adopt Lea, but Joanne was adamant that Lea always carry her father’s name.”
Chills danced down my spine, swept up my arms, raising bumps along the way.
Preston found her voice first. “Do you happen to remember Lea’s last name?”
More squinting. “Everly? Everson?”
“Epperson?” I asked.
He snapped his fingers. “Yes, that’s it. Do you know her?”
“No,” I said. “But I know her father.”
Once we were back in the car, I called Leo. His home phone rang and rang with no answer and no voice mail.
“This is big,” Preston said. “Bigger than big. Enormous. This could launch my career.”
I frowned at her.
“What now?”
“This isn’t about you. It’s about Leo. He has a daughter.”
“I know!” she squealed. “And it’s going to make me famous.”
I rolled my eyes.
“I think I’ll turn down the Herald when they offer me a job. Hold out for something better. The Globe, the New York Times.”
Leo had a daughter. My chest was feeling all funny, tight and swollen. I couldn’t wait to tell him, to see the look in his eyes. Yet, I couldn’t help wondering … Had his family known about Lea and kept the baby a secret because they hadn’t liked Joanne? My instincts said yes, but I knew there was no way to learn the truth. My chest tightened, ached, at the sadness of it all.
I tried dialing Leo again. No answer.
Snowflakes floated from the clouds, swirling and twirling in a beautiful wintry dance. Temperatures hovered just below freezing, and according to the forecast on the radio, three to six inches of snow was predicted by morning.
Preston took a sharp turn and her handbag tipped over. I bent down to scoop up the contents that had spilled across my feet as she droned on about a career writing human interest stories.
I shoved a journal, her digital recorder, a checkbook ($193.28 balance), and her wallet back into her bag along with various receipts and notes. A glossy flyer caught my attention.
“I hadn’t thought about human interest, not really,” she said, speeding up to merge. “I always thought I’d be a little more hardcore, but human interest suits me just fine. I have a flair for it, if I do say so myself.”
I couldn’t pull my gaze from the flyer. Local artist Cutter McCutchan was holding a showing tomorrow night at a gallery on Newbury Street. The date and time were circled and Preston had written “Get copy of guest list.”
I quickly shoved the paper in her bag. Preston had lied to me. She knew exactly who Cutter was, yet she’d denied it. Why?
Just ask her, I told myself. But I couldn’t bring myself to do so. Something warned that if I did, it would open up something I wasn’t prepared to deal with.
“Your father has contacts at the Globe, right?” she asked. “Didn’t he match the editor with his wife?”
“My father knows a lot of people,” I said numbly as thoughts of justifiable homicide once again flitted through my head.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked. “Is this about Leo? Of course I’m happy for him. He’s going to be over the moon.”
I was saved from answering by the sound of my phone singing. It was Marisol. I would normally let it go to voice mail, but I was in no mood to pick up my conversation with Preston. “Hi,” I said.
“We need bait,” she said.
“Bait?”
“For tonight. I just got a call from Desiree, the hostess at Spar? He has reservations tonight. Probably going to show up again with his spiffy business buddy, so we need some bait.”
Preston slid her sunglasses on top of her head and glanced at me. She could obviously hear every word. I had to be careful what I said. “And where, exactly, are we going to get some?”
“Damned if I know. I thought you could find someone. Do I have to do everything?”
“Do I need to remind you whose idea this was?”
“Don’t get all pissy on me. We’re in this for the greater good.”
Wipers slashed at the falling snowflakes. A headache was building behind my right eye. “Maybe he’s going with Em. Did you think of that?”
“He’s not. I’m meeting her in an hour for her fitting, then we’re going to dinner and a movie.”
“Then how are you going to be at Spar?” I asked.
“I’m not. You are.”
“Marisol …”
“Lucy. Just find someone and be there. Eight o’clock.”
She hung up on me.
“I’ll do it,” Preston said.
I shoved the phone in my bag. Sean and I had made plans to spend some time alone. I really didn’t want to cancel, yet I couldn’t back out on Marisol. Bringing him with me wasn’t such a good idea. He was rather noticeable. Even in a place like Spar he’d stand out. And I really didn’t like the idea of women in slinky dresses making passes at him. If anyone was going to be making a pass, it would be me. Though on second thought, me in a slinky dress with Sean glued to my side didn’t sound like a bad idea.
“You don’t even know what it is,” I said.
“Sure I do. You need a decoy. That’s what they’re called.”
“Who’s called?”
“Women who entrap unsuspecting men, usually married men.”
“ ‘Entrap’ is a strong word.”
“That isn’t very black-and-white.”
“Thanks for the offer, but no thanks.” I needed to find someone I could trust. Like a hooker from a Craigslist ad or someone.
“Why not? And who are you staking out? Not Sean?”
“No!”
“The guy Marisol is dating?”
I glanced at her, suspicion in my eyes.
“I told you, I know a lot about your life.”
I wasn’t liking it one bit.
“Wait,” she said, snapping her fingers. “The guy Em is engaged to. That makes sense, since Marisol is spending the evening with her.”
“Does your brain ever shut off?”
“No. Do you want my help or not?” she asked.
I supposed hiring a hooker probably wasn’t a good idea, whether she was more trustworthy than Preston or not. And now that she’d figured out what I was up to, there was no point in keeping her at bay. Dovie always liked to say, Keep your friends close, your enemies closer. I knew exactly where Preston stood in those categories.
“Okay,” I said. “But no writing about it!”
“Off the record, I promise. On one condition.”
“What?”
“You tell me about the missing person case you’re working on. You owe me, Lucy Valentine, after squeezing me out of that protest story. I’m trying to build a portfolio, you know.”
“Fine,” I said through clenched teeth. “But you keep my name out of it.”
“Agreed. Who is it?”
“Sarah Loehman.”
“Holy mother of God. Have you found her body yet?”
“Not yet.”
But I hoped it was only a matter of time.
17
I’d just walked in my door when the phone rang. It was Sean, and I’d decided that bringing him along tonight was better than canceling. I set the mail on the kitchen counter. No Handmaiden letter. I was thankful for the reprieve.
“I’m not going to be able to make it tonight, Lucy.”
I took a deep breath. “Why not?”
“I’m back at the hospital.”
“Oh my God! What’s wrong? Are you all right?”
“It’s not me, Lucy,” he said in the barest of whispers.
I felt foolish. Of course it was Cara. Not his heart. Mine could settle down now, thankyouverymuch. “Cara?”
“Yeah. She fainted after I brought her home earlier, hit her head. I don’t know how long I’ll be here, but the doc thinks she’ll be released soon.”
“But then she probably can’t be left alone.”
“No.”
I bit my lip.
“You understand?”
How could I not? “Pefectly,” I said.
I snapped my phone closed, stared blurry-eyed through the living room windows. Snowflakes melted against the glass, leaving behind a polka-dotted screen.
I took a second to tend to Grendel’s separation anxiety by rubbing his ears. After he settled down, I gave him his highly anticipated piece of cheese.
Looping around the living room, I turned on all the lights, added water to my tree.
Let it go. Let it go.
I couldn’t control what was happening to Cara, or Sean’s need to be there with her. I didn’t doubt that he cared for me—maybe even loved me—but I also knew that at one point Cara had meant a lot to him too.
I slumped in my favorite chair and rocked. Grendel jumped onto my lap, started kneading my stomach. I rubbed the underside of his chin as his purrs filled the room with happiness.
I tried Leo again without any luck. I dislodged Grendel, fired up my laptop. I did a quick Google search on Lea Epperson. I didn’t find anything helpful. I lacked the PI search engines Sean had access to. And I couldn’t very well call him at the hospital.
But …
One-handed I flipped open my phone, dialed.
“Sam here,” Sam Donahue answered brusquely.
“It’s Lucy.” Silence stretched a smidge too long. “I’m not calling about Sean, don’t worry.”
“Then you know where he is.”
“It’s not a secret.”
“I wasn’t sure … It’s weird, Lucy. That’s all.”
“I know, but enough about that. I know it’s Saturday and I know it’s late, but I need a favor.” I filled him in on Lea Epperson.
Girls squealed in the background. His daughters. My heart broke that Leo never knew his own little girl.
“I’ll get right on it,” Sam said.
“Thanks.”
“And Lucy?”
“Yeah?”
“This thing with Sean …”
It felt as though a thorn had wedged in my throat.
“It’s temporary. He cares about you. A lot.”
“Thanks, Sam. Call me if you find anything.”
As I lowered the screen on my laptop, I heard a car outside. Grendel heard it too. He was already at the door. Probably hoping it was Thoreau. Poor, lovestruck kitty.
Unfortunately, I knew how he felt.
I peeked through the drapes. Aiden was walking up my front steps. Quickly, I opened the door.
He wiped his feet before coming in. “I was thinking about what you said.”
“What did I say?”
“About love at first sight.”
He still looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. Bloodshot eyes, unkempt hair. It just wasn’t like him.
Aiden dutifully scratched Grendel’s ears as he sat on the couch, stretched his long legs. He tipped his head, studying my crooked Christmas tree. He nodded to the stack of mail on the table. “Anything new?”
He was asking about the Handmaiden letters. “No.”
>
“That’s good.”
“Is it?”
“Not escalating.”
“Plotting instead?” I asked sarcastically. “Lulling me into a false sense of security?”
“You’re being careful, right?”
I sighed. “Always. So what’s this about love at first sight?”
“I do believe in it. Now are you going to tell me why you asked?”
“I told you. I was curious.”
“And I’m a performer with Cirque du Soleil.”
The image was so funny I couldn’t help but laugh.
A smile cracked his serious face. “Spill it.”
“I just think people should trust their instincts. Fight for what they want. Don’t you?”
“Not necessarily. Not if someone you care for is going to get hurt in the process.”
“But what if they’re not? Going to be hurt, I mean. In the long run, at least?”
“Lucy.”
“Aiden.”
“What are you trying to tell me?”
A horn honked from outside. Preston was here.
I opened the door, made a be-right-out gesture.
Aiden stood. “You have plans.”
I made a split-second decision. “You can come.”
“Where?”
I hesitated for only a second before saying, “Well, Marisol and I are on a quest to prove that Joseph Betancourt is a no-good, lying, cheating sleazeball so Em will break up with him. Preston and I are going to Spar tonight because Joseph has reservations. The plan is that Preston is going to try to seduce him, I’ll take some pictures, we’ll show everything to Em, and bing, bang, boom, the wedding is off and maybe Em will live happily ever after with someone she truly loves.”
He didn’t so much as blink. “I’m in.”
“I’ll get my coat.”
Spar was packed wall to wall with bodies. If I had any worries that Joseph might spot me and be suspicious, they were erased the minute I walked in the door. We were late, having run into traffic on the highway. The snow was affecting the roads, but not business at Spar. I could barely move between people.
“He’s already here,” I shouted to Preston after I spotted Joseph at the same table he sat at last night and with the same man.
Deeply, Desperately Page 12
