Truly, Madly

by Heather Webber

  “Now you’ve really got me interested.”

  He’s talking about the case, he’s talking about the case. . . .

  Breathe.

  I knew myself well enough not to embark alone on this journey to find out what happened to the body buried in the woods. I needed help, and Sean was more than qualified. But if I brought him into this, he would have questions.

  Ones I wasn’t sure I could answer.

  “What have you gotten yourself into, Lucy?” he asked.

  “Nothing that’s going to turn out well.”

  “Are you in over your head?”

  “It’s complicated,” I repeated. “But it’s not something I want to do alone.”

  “You can trust me,” he said in a voice heavy with sincerity.

  I looked deep into his eyes, fought the urge to run my finger over the bump on his nose, and said, “Even if that’s true, can you trust me?”

  His eyebrows dipped. “Trust you?”

  I’d taken him by surprise. “Yes, trust me.”

  He studied me for a long time, his gaze never leaving my face, his eyes searching mine. “Yeah, I think I can.”

  “All right then. We need to go on a little field trip. Today? Around dusk?”

  “What kind of field trip is this?”

  “You’ll see. Oh, and you’ll want to bring a shovel, and is there any chance you could bring a dog with you?”

  “A dog? Why?”

  “For a cover, naturally.”

  “A shovel and a dog.”

  “That about sums it up. Oh, and a couple of flashlights.”

  “You’re a woman of mystery, Lucy Valentine.”

  “You have no idea, Mr. Donahue.”

  NINE

  The phone rang not long after Sean left the office. Since Dovie had yet to reappear, I was fielding phone calls.

  “Hello, Valentine, Inc.,” I said from my knees as I dug through my father’s file cabinet. I was halfheartedly looking for matches for my few clients.

  Sean and I had exchanged cell phone numbers and made plans to meet at the Hingham Shipyard at four thirty. I told myself I wasn’t looking forward to seeing him again, but who was I kidding?

  “This is Preston Bailey with the South Shore Beacon. May I speak to Ms. Valentine?”

  “I’m sorry, but she’s gone to lunch,” I lied, trying to disguise my voice with a nasal whine.

  She hummphed and hung up.

  I smiled and sat back, stretching my legs and wiggling my toes. My kitten-heeled boots lay atop each other near the door.

  As I searched files, I couldn’t stop thinking about Michael.

  In the back of my mind lurked the suspicion that he might be responsible for the skeleton. And no matter how I tried to dismiss the theory, I couldn’t.

  The body was buried in his hometown. His ring was on the body . . .

  But wait.

  His ring!

  If Michael had been responsible for the body in the grave, he would have already known where his family ring was. Therefore he wouldn’t have been thinking about the ring being lost when I shook his hand. I never would have seen the ring on the finger of the skeleton.

  He hadn’t known where the ring was.

  He didn’t know about the body.

  He wasn’t a killer.

  That I knew for sure.

  I smiled, suddenly relieved that one of Valentine, Inc.’s clients wasn’t a cold-blooded murderer. Talk about bad for business. I don’t think there was a vacation long enough or an island far enough to escape that kind of news.

  My relief was short-lived.

  Someone had been killed. And as of right now, only two people knew about the murder. The killer. And me.

  How did I get into this situation? I was currently (albeit reluctantly) in the business of love, not murder.

  Closing the file cabinet, I sighed. I was done for the day. There were only so many files I could look at before going cross-eyed.

  However, I had pulled a few files with Raphael in mind. Relying solely on the personality quizzes, I’d found three women who might—might—be good matches for him. Oddly, I was suddenly excited by the prospect of setting him up. I just hoped I didn’t let him down.

  My cell phone rang, and I reached for it. It was Marisol.

  “Have you seen Em?” she asked.

  I’d met Marisol Valerius and Emerson Baumbach during a mom and tot yoga class when we were three years old. As our mothers liked to remind us on every possible occasion, we’d despised each other at first sight.

  It wasn’t until kindergarten when bad seed Johnny Campanto cut off Marisol’s braids that we girls all bonded. It helped that Em and I had rubber-cemented the seat of his chair in retaliation. He’d been stuck for an hour. The good old days.

  We girls have been best friends ever since.

  “Seen her? Is she missing?” I asked, suddenly worried.

  “I talked to her last night, but he’s worried. He just called me looking for her. And you know if he called me, then he’s desperate.”

  Not “He” as in God, though Em’s fiancé thought he was God’s gift. His proper name was Joseph Betancourt, though Marisol rarely used it, mostly because she didn’t care for the man. Thanks to her absentee father, she had deep-rooted issues with high-powered career types like Joseph, an executive banker. I, however, had more tolerance, simply because if Em loved him, there had to be some redeeming factor.

  “Apparently,” Marisol continued, “she was supposed to call him at nine this morning and didn’t.”

  “So, she could just have gotten caught up at work and forgotten to call?”

  “Undoubtedly. Doesn’t he realize she’s a doctor? That she’s busy, too? He should get a clue.”

  Em was a second-year pediatric resident at Children’s Hospital. She practically lived there. And what little time she had left she spent trying to rein in her mother when it came to planning the wedding. I hardly saw Em anymore, mostly keeping up through hurried phone calls and quick e-mails.

  I tried to suppress the fact that Em and Marisol being doctors made me feel like a complete slacker. I could get a complex if I dwelled on my many career failures. “Did you call her?”

  “Her cell is off.”

  “How about we not worry until around dinnertime?” I said, hoping Em would check in.

  “Deal. Speaking of dinner . . . Last night.”

  I slipped on my boots. I had a good hour before I was due to meet with Raphael. I wanted to go see Jennifer Thompson’s parents. Now that I was sure Michael had nothing to do with the skeleton, I could proceed in my plan to reunite the two. “Yeah, about that. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It was a nice night. Dovie’s an excellent cook. She told me about you looking for that little boy. So sad.”

  In the empty reception area, the fireplace crackled. The TV was muted, but the news stations were still carrying full coverage of the search. There had been no new developments.

  “Very.” Especially since I felt so helpless in finding him. But I couldn’t share that with Marisol. Neither she nor Em knew about any of my family’s psychic abilities. It hadn’t been easy keeping that secret from them. “Tell me, what’s Butch look like? I’m supposed to have dinner with him tonight.”

  “He’s adorable. He looks a lot like Matt Damon.”

  “You love Matt Damon,” I said, hoping she’d take Butch off my hands.

  “Honestly, Butch and I hit it off, and in any other circumstances, I’d go for it.”

  Optimistic, I said, “What circumstances? Something that surely could be overcome.”

  “He’s a butcher, Lucy. I can’t date a butcher.”

  Marisol had been a vegetarian since first grade when she learned where veal cutlets came from. I thought about giving her the same speech I gave to Lola Fellows, but I knew Marisol too well. A butcher would never make the cut. I laughed silently at my own joke and decided that I’d been cooped up in this office much too long if I was cracking my
self up with bad puns.

  “Well, I guess I still have a date tonight.”

  “He’s nice,” Marisol said.

  “I’m sure he is. Dovie wants great-grandchildren—she wouldn’t pick just any guy for me.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”

  “You’re not making me feel better.”

  “But I can vouch for Butch.”

  “Is that his real name?” I asked.

  “No idea. You’ll have to find out. Give him a chance. Maybe you’ll finally find that someone special.”

  Marisol also didn’t know about Cupid’s Curse.

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “How’s Fluffy doing?” The noise of dogs barking filled the background. I could picture her in her lab coat, her dark bob swinging as she multi-tasked. During the day, she worked at a vet clinic in Quincy. At night, she volunteered at a free animal hospital downtown.

  “Fluffy?”

  “The hamster.”

  “I think he’d be outraged you named him something so embarrassing as Fluffy. His name is Odysseus.”

  She laughed at me. “You gave him a name—good.”

  “Yes, yes, I’m keeping him. You knew I would.” I took another look at the TV and switched it off. “But no more pets!”

  “You might not have to worry.”

  “Why?”

  “The hospital might have to close. Lack of funding.”

  I wondered what would happen to all the animals they treated. “That’s awful.”

  “We’re going to hold a fund-raiser next month, but it might not be enough. . . .” Her voice trailed off as if she couldn’t contemplate the consequences. “But that’s enough of that. Call me if you hear from Em.”

  “Ditto.”

  We said our good-byes and hung up.

  Immediately I called Em’s cell phone. It was still off. I thought about trying the hospital, but there were so many negatives to that notion, I dismissed it immediately. I told Marisol I wouldn’t worry until dinnertime, but honestly, I already was. Em was the most punctual, organized, type-A person I knew. Not calling him was out of the ordinary for her. And even if she was busy at nine, it was almost noon now.

  Something didn’t feel right.

  The current address of Jennifer Thompson’s parents was in Lynn, just north of the city. I couldn’t think of it without singing “Lynn, Lynn, city of sin,” part of a rhyme created when corruption and crime were prevalent years and years ago.

  Sean had given me the address and the use of one of the SD Investigations cars housed in a parking garage down the street. He’d wanted to come along but had a client coming in and couldn’t cancel.

  The house was a nice two-story, not ostentatious, but upper middle class for sure. The lawn had yet to brown for the winter, and the shrubs had been freshly cut back. An autumn-colored wreath hung on the steel door. I used the brass knocker, the sound echoing down the block of similar homes.

  I hoped that meeting Jennifer’s parents face-to-face might sway them into passing my information along to her. Sean certainly hadn’t had any luck on the phone.

  The door opened an inch. “I’m not buying,” a man said. Late fifties, graying, with a soft stomach and hard eyes.

  “I’m not selling,” I said with what I hoped was a disarming smile. I handed him a Valentine, Inc., card.

  “What’s this about?”

  “Are you Martin Thompson?”

  The door opened a bit wider. He had the looks of a longshoreman. Weathered face, muscled body, snow-white beard.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m looking for Jennifer. Does she still live here? I have a client, Michael Lafferty, who’d like—”

  Jabbing a finger, he said, “No, she doesn’t live here, but you leave our Jenny alone. She’s been through enough with Michael and those girls.”

  “But there was a misunder—”

  He slammed the door in my face.

  As I started down the steps I was beginning to think reuniting Michael and Jennifer was the worst idea I ever had.

  “Look at what the cat dragged in,” Maggie Constantine said with a big smile as I slid into a two-person booth in a bright, cheery corner of the Porcupine. I took a seat facing the kitchen door because I loved watching the hustle and bustle.

  I set the files of Raphael’s potential dates on the table, slipped my handbag from my shoulder, and smiled back. “It’s good to see you, Maggie. Looks like business is doing well.”

  A line of people ordering lunch to go snaked toward the door. Most of the tables in the quaint dining room were occupied with those wanting to linger over their food. Food that smelled so good my stomach rumbled to life.

  “I couldn’t ask for much more,” Maggie said. Her brown eyes shone with good humor and intelligence. Despite the cold, she wore a pair of knee-length brown shorts and a white T-shirt covered by a black apron that looped around her neck. Her dark hair was pulled back into a sleek braid that swung halfway down her back. For the sake of comfort, she wore a pair of fun, youthful brown suede sneakers. A gold chain wrapped around a delicate ankle. She stood a little over five feet tall and was maybe one hundred pounds (wet), yet her personality made her seem larger than life. “Actually, any more and I’d need to expand.” She added saucily, “Think your dad would give up his space?”

  “Not in this lifetime.”

  She snapped her fingers. “Then I guess I’ll just have to make do.”

  I was glad to hear it. It would be very easy for Maggie to not renew her lease and move the Porcupine to a bigger location. I often met my father here during the lunch breaks of my various jobs. It had become a tradition—one I didn’t want to end.

  Overhead, something classical floated from speakers perched in the four corners of the room. Bach, perhaps. Maybe Mozart. My father would have known in an instant. I’d spent too much time with Raphael—I could name that eighties tune in one note, but anything else? I was a lost cause.

  Maggie had made the move from New York City to Boston a little over three years ago, following her wheeler-and-dealer stockbroker husband after he accepted a job transfer. She’d opened the Porcupine to keep herself busy while her husband worked long hours.

  Tragedy struck when her husband died of a heart attack a year later, leaving behind a heartbroken widow. At forty-four Maggie could have done anything, gone anywhere. But somewhere along the way she had fallen in love with the city and her restaurant and decided to stay. She worked long hours, often in before sunrise and never out before sunset.

  I adored her even though she was a Yankee fan.

  Some things just had to be overlooked.

  “Eating alone today?” Maggie asked, handing me a menu.

  “No, Raphael is meeting me.”

  “The elusive Raphael. I hear he has superhuman powers.”

  I laughed. “It just seems that way. My father tends to exaggerate where Raphael is concerned.”

  A cloud passed over her dark eyes. “How long will your father be gone?”

  Over the past year, I’d wondered more than once if my father was seeing Maggie, but I’d never had the courage to ask either of them.

  Personally, I hoped not. Maggie was special, and my father tended to break hearts without looking twice. “Two weeks as far as I know.”

  “Is this a working lunch? Making matches over mashed potatoes?” she asked, motioning to my files while filling a water goblet.

  “Kind of.” Wait a sec. “You knew my father has me looking after the business while he’s gone?”

  “He mentioned it in passing yesterday when he stopped in to say good-bye. I was surprised—I never thought you were interested in his work.”

  Wait staff bustled around the dining room, decorated in casual creams and decadent jewel tones. The line at the take-out counter stretched farther toward the door. Raphael was late.

  I shifted, uncomfortable. Honestly? There was nothing I wanted more than to be a part of the family business. Making matches
, finding true love, doing something meaningful with a gift passed on through generations.

  But I couldn’t. Not since that night when I was fourteen and talking on the phone with Marisol during a thunderstorm.

  Life hadn’t been the same since.

  And fourteen years later, I still hadn’t figured out what to do with myself.

  “Let’s just say I was persuaded,” I said evasively, hoping Maggie wouldn’t question my lame response.

  “Am I interrupting?” Raphael asked, standing at a respectful distance.

  “Not at all,” I said. “You remember Maggie?”

  “We’ve met a few times.” He nodded in that old-fashioned-gentleman kind of way I found charming. “Pleasure to see you again, Ms. Constantine.”

  Maggie waved away his formalities and motioned him into the booth. “Call me Maggie.”

  Raphael nodded again.

  Maggie filled his water glass as he set his napkin on his lap. “I’ll let you two get to your lunch. If you speak to your father, please give him my best.”

  “I will.”

  As soon as she was out of sight, Raphael used his napkin to wipe a spot from his glass. “What?” he asked when he saw me arching my eyebrow at him.

  “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

  “Do you think she’d let me in the kitchen with my Mr. Clean?”

  “No.”

  He leaned back against the cushioned booth and scratched at the stubble on his cheeks. “Charming place.”

  “You say that as though you have issues.”

  “Do not jump to conclusions, Uva.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” I said.

  He laughed. “Don’t start with the ‘mmm-hmms.’ I’ll confess I would do things differently.”

  “Such as?”

  “The colors, first. So feminine. I’d decorate more neutrally.”

  “More boring, you mean.” I loved Raphael with all my heart, but the man knew nothing when it came to décor.

  He ignored me. “I’d renovate so the take-out line had its own entrance—too distracting to the sit-down diners.” Scanning the menu, he added, “And I’d add a few more items to the menu as well. More flavor. And expand the healthy options, so men like your father would have more options.”