The Detective's Secret Daughter

by Rachelle Mccalla

  “I’m glad you did.” Owen rushed to reassure her that her presence hadn’t been a nuisance. “You’ve provided valuable insights. You knew Olivia better than either of us ever did. Olivia was a female with a daughter. So are you. That means you can understand her in ways Ryan and I can’t. In fact, if you think of anything else—something Olivia might have said that didn’t seem important before, or any new connection on why she might have come to Fitzgerald Bay, of all places, or who might have mailed this box—”

  Victoria nodded eagerly. “I’ll call you. Right away. Olivia deserves justice. And her baby—” Victoria stopped, and her mouth trembled slightly “—her baby may still be out there, somewhere.” She looked down at the Manhattan address on the check. “Possibly with her mother’s killer.”

  Owen exchanged looks with his brother. The game had changed. They weren’t just working for justice for the dead, but for the living. There was a missing baby out there somewhere.

  As Victoria stepped through the doorway, she looked up at Owen with the same wide-eyed expression she’d worn on her arrival, and he realized their conversation about Paige had been interrupted.

  He debated what to say. Should he offer to talk with her again? He still wasn’t sure he could sit through a conversation without being overcome by the feelings that raged inside him. But then again, if he wanted to learn anything to help him attain joint custody, he needed to know more about Victoria’s relationship with her daughter.

  “Is there a time we could talk?”

  She looked relieved that he’d asked. “Sometimes business is slow in the afternoons. You could stop by then.” She looked up at him through those long eyelashes, and suddenly he was a teenager again, dropping her off at her father’s front door, hoping for a good-night kiss.

  He shook the thought away. “I’ll be by then, if I get a few minutes.”

  A faint smile flitted across her face, and she fled back down the short hallway.

  Owen watched her go, a thousand questions still storming through his mind. What was it about Victoria that made his heart beat with such a funny rhythm? He was angry with her—furious that she’d taken his child from him. And yet, at the same time, there was a part of him that still wanted to pull her into his arms.

  Ryan cleared his throat, and Owen turned to find his oldest brother watching him closely.

  “Well, that explains it.” Ryan’s eyes narrowed with distinct displeasure.

  “What?”

  “I looked at your file on the Sugar Plum incidents.”

  “And?”

  “I’m wondering…” His brother’s mouth seemed to take its time working out his words. Odd. Ryan usually had no trouble stating his mind. “Are your feelings for Victoria getting in the way of your seeing the obvious?”

  “What?” Owen asked.

  “Have you considered Victoria as a possible suspect?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Does her insurance cover the break-in?”

  “I didn’t think to ask, Ryan.”

  “Ask. And open your eyes. Her father had a criminal past.”

  Owen planted his hands on his hips just above his gun belt. He respected his brother, but Ryan had gone too far. “Don’t ever confuse Victoria with her father. I know her father was responsible for Patrick’s death, but that was not Victoria’s fault.”

  To his surprise, Ryan smiled. “I guess that answers my question.”

  “What?”

  “You still have feelings for her, and they’re interfering with your judgment. Maybe I should put someone else on this case.” Ryan’s gaze traveled through the room. No one else was in the office, but his eyes rested on Hank Monroe’s desk for a couple of meaningful seconds.

  Owen found himself chafing at the very idea. Hank had stolen Victoria from him. Hank was still involved with Victoria, somehow. The money in his lunch sack proved that, even if Owen wasn’t sure exactly what it meant. “I don’t think Monroe is going to be any more objective about Victoria than I would be.”

  “All right, then answer this one for me—who mailed the Baby Henry package?” Ryan hefted the lightweight box with one hand.

  “How would I know?”

  “Want to know my theory?”

  Owen raised an eyebrow in invitation.

  “Whoever mailed this package is trying to send us a message. They know we’ve already taken two months to not solve Olivia’s murder, so they’re getting impatient. Not impatient enough to explain everything, but impatient enough to give us a clue. And they wanted to make sure we understood, so they watched until the package was delivered, then showed up in person to fill in all the gaps in the story.”

  “You think Victoria mailed the package?”

  “Open your eyes, Owen.” Ryan strode toward the door. “And find out.”

  Victoria placed the steel wedge atop the hard surface of the log and gave it a couple of taps with the sledgehammer to set it in before taking a step back and giving it a good hard whack.

  The wedge went flying.

  The log looked completely unscathed.

  The knot in her shoulders ached with defeat, but she found where the wedge had landed in the snow, dusted it off and tried again. Thursday morning had arrived with a fresh layer of snow and a gas bill fifty percent higher than any previous since she’d decided to buy the Sugar Plum and return to Fitzgerald Bay.

  Was God letting her down?

  She’d done her research—looking at all the costs associated with running the inn—and made a thorough investigation before deciding it was the best move for her family. The down payment had required all the money she’d saved from her parents’ life insurance policies. The mortgage was only supposed to take up part of her profit, leaving her just enough to live on. Paige would have the small-town upbringing and excellent local schools she deserved. And Victoria would fulfill her mother’s dream of owning and operating the very inn her mother had worked for years ago, before cancer had stolen her dreams and her life.

  But it wasn’t working out that way.

  Tapping the wedge in a little harder this time, Victoria stepped back cautiously, raised the sledgehammer and brought it down hard, hoping to send the wedge deep into the wood as she’d seen on the wood-splitting instructional video clips she’d found online.

  The wedge went flying into the snow.

  “Need a hand?”

  “Aaah!” Victoria jumped at the sound of a deep voice behind her, dropping the sledgehammer.

  “Sorry to startle you.” Owen reached for the sledgehammer and dusted it off, while Victoria took a step back and tried to catch her breath.

  “I didn’t see you coming. And maybe I am a little jumpy, still. And I’m frustrated with this stupid log.” She gave the large piece of wood a kick. “Ow.”

  “Here, let me see.” He picked up the wedge from where it had fallen in the snow. “These things can be tricky.” Setting it on the log, he gave it a couple of hard taps—just as she had—and took a step back.

  Victoria ducked behind him, hoping to stay out of the path of the flying wedge.

  Owen gave the sledgehammer a mighty heave, sinking the wedge deep into the log, splitting it completely in half. The two sides fell wide-open and the wedge clattered to the ground.

  “No way.” Victoria shook her head. “That’s exactly how I did it.”

  “Maybe you loosened it up for me.” Owen reached for the next log, setting the wedge as though about to test his own theory. Victoria watched in disbelief as he split the second log with two hits.

  Owen looked over the massive pile of logs that almost filled the small backyard where Victoria and Paige were planning to keep a garden come summer. When she’d delivered decorated birthday cakes for a local farmer’s twin granddaug
hters, she’d spotted their woodpile, and since neither the farmer nor his wife could find their checkbook, she’d bartered the cakes in exchange for the wood—only to learn the wide logs were too big around to fit inside the inn’s woodstoves.

  “How many of these do you want split?” Owen reached for another log.

  “Enough to heat the inn.” Victoria sighed as she looked at the pile—which hadn’t seemed so big until she’d discovered how difficult the stuff was to split. “The fireplaces in the dining rooms and the suites are high-efficiency woodstoves. I usually keep just enough of a fire going for ambiance, but I thought if I had more wood to burn, I could lower my next gas bill.”

  “That would do it.” Owen split the log cleanly in half with a single swipe before knocking the wood aside, setting on the wedge and splitting another log.

  Victoria watched, her emotions swirling. She felt more than a little jealous of his skill, but at the same time grateful for his help, and a bit guilty about letting him do the hard work for her. But he was so much better at it than she was.

  “I can’t let you split all those for me. It’s very nice of you, but I’m sure you came by to finish our conversation from yesterday.” When he paused in his chopping, she pulled the split wood aside, into a pile closer to the rear door of the inn.

  Owen split another log before he answered. “Actually, I had some thoughts on that package Ryan showed us. Normally I wouldn’t discuss the details of a case with someone who’s not involved with the investigation, but you had a lot of helpful insights, and you knew Olivia. It occurred to me that Olivia might have said something to you—some innocent detail that only looks important when viewed in light of the bigger picture.”

  “I’d do anything to help.”

  “I appreciate that.” Owen set the wedge in place on another log before looking up at her and explaining quietly, “The lawyer’s address listed on the check proved to be a fake. The account has been closed.” He slammed the sledgehammer down on the log, giving Victoria the impression that he was frustrated with all the dead ends his investigation had encountered.

  He had every right to be frustrated. She felt that way, and she wasn’t the one trying to solve the first murder in Fitzgerald Bay in four decades, with the whole town watching.

  “What about the lawyer’s name? Can’t you use that to track him down?”

  Owen split a particularly large log with one strike. “He’s not listed anywhere—not even a driver’s license. The check was probably a scam, anyway. Even if Olivia had wanted to cash it, the thing probably would have been returned unpaid.” He emphasized the last word by splitting another log.

  Victoria was getting quite a pile of chopped wood out of the conversation, but Owen’s words only made her furious. “What kind of low-down dirty slimeball would do such a thing? Taking advantage of Olivia like that, when she’s alone and scared and pregnant? When you find the guy, I hope he rots in jail forever.”

  “If we find the guy. But we need whoever mailed that package to step forward and tell us what they know.” Owen leaned on the handle of the sledgehammer, and his blue eyes studied her with a troubled intensity.

  Between his expression and his words, Victoria got the impression Owen thought she knew something. “Why are you really telling me all this? I thought you said you don’t discuss confidential details of people’s cases.”

  “I don’t.” Owen slammed the sledgehammer down, splitting another log with a chilling crack. He looked back at her. “Not unless I believe there’s something important to be gained.”

  “Are you accusing me of withholding information?” For a moment, Victoria felt indignant. She’d told the police everything she knew about Olivia.

  “Have you told me the whole truth?” Owen’s piercing gaze stabbed at her heart. “Everything?”

  Victoria gulped a shaky breath. No, she hadn’t explained to Owen what had happened the weekend of Patrick and her father’s death. She’d tried to tell him before, but he hadn’t been ready to hear it. She’d tried to respect that. Did he want to know the whole story now? The way he looked at her with eyes that seemed to cut right through to her soul, she couldn’t imagine speaking the words out loud.

  She wanted to tell Owen the truth—to explain the whole story. That was part of why she’d returned to Fitzgerald Bay—part of why she’d brought cookies over to the police station, hoping to catch a moment with Owen and finally purge her guilty conscience. She had to tell him why it had taken her so long to let him meet Paige.

  The Bible verse on her fridge said the truth would set her free. Clinging to that promise, she worked up all the courage she could muster. “Owen?”

  FIVE

  “Yes?” Something that looked like relief filled Owen’s expression.

  “I need—”

  Suddenly the phone in her pocket began to ring. “I need to answer this.” She pulled out the phone and checked the caller ID. “It’s Paige.” Victoria assured her daughter she’d be down to pick her up momentarily. “Don’t leave Mrs. Murphy’s house. I will be there in three minutes.”

  “Paige has a cell phone?” Owen asked when she put away her phone.

  “For her safety.” Victoria watched as sadness filled his eyes. She hadn’t meant to remind him of the murderer at large in their community. A cell phone had seemed like a reasonable way to keep tabs on her daughter. “And for my peace of mind. I need to walk down to Mrs. Murphy’s. Paige’s voice lesson is over.”

  “I’ll accompany you.” He leaned the sledgehammer against the inn. “For your safety.”

  “I—” Victoria wanted to protest, to assure him she didn’t feel she was in danger, but those words wouldn’t have been entirely true.

  “She’s my daughter, too.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “Or if you prefer I can stay here and finish splitting your log pile.”

  “You can come. You have every right to.”

  Victoria set a brisk pace, not wanting Paige to wait any longer than she already had. Her intention had been to split a few logs in the few spare minutes she had before striking off to fetch Paige. Obviously, Owen’s arrival had sent her mind spinning off its track.

  The fresh snow and cold weather, chilly even for March in Massachusetts, kept the sidewalks relatively empty of people. Owen sidled up beside her and consulted in a low voice, “I need to know what you know, Victoria.”

  She tried to work up the courage to speak. Back in high school, they used to talk on the phone for hours. Owen had been closer to her than anyone else. But now ten years stretched between them like a chasm without a bridge.

  As she tried to think how to explain all that lay behind them, Owen said, “What do you think about this complication with the lawyer and the bank account being closed? Did Olivia ever talk about needing money?”

  “I know Olivia needed money. That’s part of why she took the job as Charles’s nanny—that and she was always saying—” Victoria bit back the words as their meaning struck her.

  “What?” Owen’s steps slowed to match hers.

  “She loved children.” Victoria shook her head and plodded on.

  “That only makes it more curious that she’d let herself become separated from her own child.”

  “Something criminal was at work,” Victoria agreed, glad when Mrs. Murphy’s home came into view. Through the row of windows on the sunporch, she could see Paige talking to someone who was just out of sight. At first she thought it might be Mrs. Murphy, but then she recognized the rusty old sedan parked in front of the house. It belonged to Britney, her fresh-out-of-high-school waitress, who she knew aspired to make singing and acting her profession, and who took voice lessons from Mrs. Murphy in the time slot following Paige.

  So, Mrs. Murphy and Britney would be busy with the l
esson. Then who was Paige talking to?

  “I see my father’s car.” Owen pointed up the street. “He owns Mrs. Murphy’s house. She has him over to fix things all the time. Sometimes I wonder if that much needs fixing, or if she’s just decided they’ve both been widowed long enough.” Owen gave a chuckle.

  Victoria tried to laugh along at the thought of Mrs. Murphy—who had to be a decade older than Owen’s father—trying to seduce the chief of police. But at the same time, she felt nervous at the idea of Paige talking to Aiden Fitzgerald—her only living grandfather. Though of course, neither Paige nor Aiden were aware of the fact they were related. It was a reminder of the many discussions that lay ahead.

  “Mommy!” Paige squealed happily when Victoria stepped through the front door of the enclosed porch. “I got my first gig!”

  “Gig?” Victoria wasn’t sure where Paige had picked up the term, but it seemed a tad precocious for her little girl.

  Aiden Fitzgerald chuckled. “I arrived just in time to hear this lovely miss singing one of our dear old Irish ballads.”

  Victoria knew Mrs. Murphy worked on the traditional Irish songs leading up to March, given the town’s Irish roots and the annual Saint Patrick’s Day celebration. But that didn’t explain the gig.

  “My father loves the songs of the old country,” Aiden continued, “but we can’t get the young folks interested in them. So when I heard her lovely voice, I knew I had to invite Paige to sing for our family gathering at your café this Saturday.”

  Victoria felt her mouth open, and she nodded, trying to get a grip on a situation that had been out of her control before she’d even arrived. She was ecstatic to host the Fitzgeralds for Saturday brunch—their reservation during an otherwise not-very-busy hour of the morning was her last hope for being able to make payroll this week. More than that, she saw it as her lone hope for winning the Fitzgeralds’ approval. It was a rare opportunity for her to demonstrate that she wasn’t just the daughter of the man who’d killed their cousin.

  But how could she allow Paige to sing for the Fitzgeralds? What if Owen let leak that she was one of them? Paige had a right to know that information before Owen’s extended family, but he and Victoria needed to discuss a lot of details before they were ready to share the whole story with Paige. She was so young and impressionable—she’d want to know everything, including what the future held. And Victoria had no answers to give her.