“I’m always in church on Sundays.”
“Yes.” Weariness clouded Aiden’s eyes. “But are you listening?”
Owen dropped his father’s gaze and instead studied the pictures. Was he listening to Pastor Larch every Sunday? He tried to listen, but the words seemed to sweep past him without ever snagging hold of anything. He’d slammed the door on his heart when Patrick had died and Victoria had left him. Not much got past the barrier he’d erected.
“I came to ask you a question.”
“I’m listening.”
“These white streaks on Stanley Evans’s truck—do we know how they got there?”
Aiden’s chest rose and fell with a heavy sigh. “We tried to look into it ten years ago. Never got an answer. His daughter left town before we could ask if she knew where her dad had picked up the scrapes. Best theory we could come up with was that, being drunk all the time, he’d swerved and scraped something, and it was never reported. We’ll probably never know what it was.”
“So no one ever followed up with Victoria?”
“She left town right after the accident. Didn’t come back until six months ago.”
“I see.” Owen stood. “Maybe it’s time we ask her, then.”
Aiden frowned as though he doubted Victoria would remember anything after ten years, but he didn’t call him back.
Owen carried the pictures across the street to where Victoria pulled bubbling fruit tarts from her ovens. He breathed in the aroma of apples, blueberries and cherries. “Smells amazing in here.”
She gave him a wary look, never really lifting her gaze from the tarts she balanced on their way to the cooling racks. She transferred the last two pans before switching the oven off and turning her attention to him. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so.” Owen gingerly laid out the pictures on the pristinely clean countertop.
Victoria’s face blanched as she looked over his shoulder. “Is that—?”
“Your father’s truck.” Owen nodded. “Or what was left of it after the accident. This is the file—”
“Why are you looking at that? Why dredge up the past?”
“I need answers.”
“I need answers about who’s been causing trouble today, not ten years ago.” She took a step back. “I told you I was sorry, Owen. If I could change what happened, I would.”
Owen could see she was upset, and probably about to throw him out, and maybe even change her mind about pressing charges. “Did your father have an accident prior to the accident?” He blurted the question quickly.
“I don’t know.”
“There’s white paint on his truck. It wasn’t there that day when we washed his truck—how long before the accident was that? A couple of weeks?”
Victoria raised her hand to her forehead, her face flushed, whether from the steaming tarts or anger or something else, he wasn’t sure. “It was the Saturday before. I remember because I felt nauseous but I didn’t know why. I was already pregnant—I just didn’t know.”
Her blush made sense.
But the timing didn’t.
“That was less than a week before the accident. Not much time for him to pick up damage like this—”
“Especially when you consider he wasn’t driving at all that week.”
Owen looked Victoria in the eye. “Wasn’t driving?”
“No. Remember? He promised me he wouldn’t drink and drive. He couldn’t stop drinking, so that truck sat in that spot until…” She swallowed.
“Until the night of the accident?”
“I think so.”
Owen stared at the pictures. “So, maybe it wasn’t an accident?”
“What?”
“Patrick’s car was blue. Your father’s truck was red. They were on a country road—there was nothing white to scrape up against, except maybe for another car.”
“So, what are you saying? Do you think—”
Owen didn’t have to think. He knew. “Someone else caused the accident.”
Victoria shook her head. “But my father was behind the wheel of the truck that hit Patrick. He caused the accident.”
Realizing that Victoria didn’t have his law enforcement background, he pointed to the pictures and explained his theory. “When I investigate an accident, I determine who or what caused the accident based on the factors that created the situation that led to the accident.”
“In this case, my dad driving drunk.”
“No.” Owen flipped open the file to the toxicology report. “Everyone in town always assumed he was drunk because of his reputation, but according to this, there was no alcohol in his system when he died.”
Victoria froze. “He promised me he wasn’t going to drink and drive anymore.”
“I have every reason to believe he didn’t break that promise.” Owen pulled out the photograph of the white streak on the truck. “Someone else grazed your father’s vehicle. That’s what caused this white streak. It wasn’t there when we washed the truck the week before. He didn’t drive it again until that night, so he couldn’t have picked it up between then and the accident.”
“And he wasn’t drunk when he was driving.” Victoria spoke the words as though she was still trying to convince herself they were true.
“Somebody else scraped against his truck—somebody in a white vehicle. They forced his truck to crash into Patrick’s car. Your dad didn’t cause that accident. Somebody in a white car caused the accident that killed them both.”
It took Victoria’s wide brown eyes almost a full minute to blink. “But who?”
ELEVEN
Victoria’s thoughts were full over the next couple of days.
Maybe her father hadn’t killed Patrick.
It changed everything.
It changed nothing.
Patrick was still dead and so was her father. She and Owen agreed not to say anything to anyone about their discovery. Whoever had actually caused the accident that day had believed for the past ten years that they’d gotten away with their crime. If they learned otherwise, they might try to silence those who knew the truth.
Owen had insisted they not take that risk.
They tried to recall everyone who drove a white vehicle ten years before, but the color had been as ubiquitous as snow in winter. The accident could have been cause by anyone.
Besides, it wasn’t as though Victoria had any time to discuss the past with anyone. She had a future to take care of, and her best hope of turning a profit for the month of March lay in a little present from God: Saint Patrick’s Day was on a Saturday this year.
The annual Fitzgerald Bay Saint Patrick’s Day Irish Heritage Parade and Festival was always a big deal, but even more so since the holiday fell on a weekend. The inn was booked almost full, and though the weather was forecast to be chilly, for once it wasn’t supposed to rain or snow. That meant there was a potential for huge crowds lining the parade route that went right past the front of the Sugar Plum. And given the predicted chill in the air, Victoria was planning a full lineup of hot coffees, cocoas and teas. And, of course, Irish pastries to go with them.
And then, in the evening, the Sugar Plum would host a buffet of corned beef, red potatoes, cabbage and all the trimmings. Victoria would prepare most of the food ahead of time so she could focus on busing tables, which would hopefully be filled for hours.
If that wasn’t enough to keep her thoughts occupied, Paige would be riding on the church float with her Sunday school class. And since the girl insisted on wearing her green dress again—Owen had told her how nice she looked in it, so she wanted to wear it again—Victoria had the added hassle of figuring out how many layers of thick tights and long underwear she could stuff under Paige’s dress.
But Owen had clearly had time to think about it.
He popped his head into her kitchen around closing time Friday evening.
“I see you got your new safe.” He gestured with the papers he held in his hands.
“It’s punch-proof.” Victoria shot him a quick smile before turning her attention to the pans of shamrock-shaped cookies she was frosting. She’d made five times the usual number, and hoped to sell each one, though any leftovers would end up on the evening buffet. “What have you got there?”
“I printed off a map of the roads in the area where the accident took place.”
He didn’t specify which accident. He didn’t need to.
Victoria stopped frosting cookies, quickly washed her hands and ushered him out to the front podium, where a bright light would illuminate what he needed her to see.
“Where’s Paige?” Owen laid out the pages.
“In her room, reading the books she got at the Reading Nook with the gift certificate from your father. I don’t like leaving her up there alone, but she has her cell phone, and I hooked up her old baby monitor so I can hear if there’s a disturbance. Every once in a while I hear her laughing at her book, so that calms my fears.” She studied the pages as she spoke, unsure what she was supposed to be looking for.
Owen tapped a red X on the page, just inside the Fitzgerald Bay city limits. “I marked the site of the accident. Patrick was headed north to pick up some friends who lived out of town.”
“So you’re wondering what my father might have been doing driving around out there?”
“He didn’t pick up that paint out of thin air. Do you have any idea why he left the house that evening?”
“I was working here.” Victoria had been a waitress at the Sugar Plum throughout most of high school. “I was supposed to close that night—back then the Sugar Plum didn’t close on Fridays until midnight, and then we had all the cleanup before we could leave. But the police called my aunt after the accident and she drove to town to tell me what happened. She took me to stay with her and my uncle in New York.” The memories—her despair, horror and utter mortification, came flooding back.
“And your father hadn’t been driving anywhere? Did you need anything that he might have gone to pick up? Groceries? Milk?”
“Dad didn’t drink milk. He drank—” She looked at the map, and suddenly knew exactly where her father might have been headed. “He drank moonshine.” She tapped the map, where a winding line bisected the other not far beyond the red X. “Frank Gallagher lived right down Mayflower Road.”
“Gallagher was finally arrested for running shine, what, about a year after the accident? But he’d been at it for years before the county sheriff caught him.”
They both tipped their heads over the spot, and Victoria silently read the names of the people who lived in the area, who would have had a reason to drive the same road that night.
“Murtagh.” Victoria tapped the label on a nearby property.
“Where have I heard that last name before?”
“Britney Murtagh, my waitress.”
“The blond-haired girl who had means and opportunity to mess with your safe?”
“And maybe a motive, too.” Victoria sighed. “Do you think she was hoping to run me out of business so I’d leave town before I stumbled upon the truth of what really happened that night?”
“She’d have been a little kid, but her dad, Larry, has lived on that stretch of road for years. Wonder what he might have been up to that would have prompted him to run your father off the road.”
Owen had moved close to Victoria as they both bent their heads over the maps, studying Mayflower Road as though the secrets of what had happened there ten years before might be revealed if only they looked hard enough. Now he met her eyes from only inches away, and Victoria felt the pull of his presence, drawing her closer like a magnet. It would be so easy to dip her head those last two inches and rest her cheek on his shoulder. And she knew how safe and warm she’d feel if he wrapped his arms around her.
The look in his eyes said he would wrap his arms around her if she rested her cheek on his shoulder. The old pull of attraction felt stronger every time she looked at him.
Paige’s laughter burst from the baby monitor in the kitchen as she giggled at her book upstairs.
Victoria took a step back. Now was not the time to get close to Owen. There were too many uncertainties swirling around them for her to get caught up in the attraction between them. She had her daughter’s well-being to think about.
“I need to lock up.” Victoria pulled her keys from her pocket and headed for the front door. “And I need to run tonight’s report, tuck Paige into bed and then frost about forty dozen more cookies.” She waved him toward the door, hoping he’d leave quickly so she could get on with her work.
Owen stepped forward, then hesitated. “I suppose the cookie-frosting has to be done by a pastry-chef professional?”
She squinted at him, unsure what his remark meant.
He gave her a sheepish grin. “I don’t have a whole lot of experience frosting cookies, but if you’re willing to accept help from a nonprofessional…”
Victoria’s heart stumbled. Uncertain as she was whether she ought to spend any time around him, she knew she’d be up most of the night if she didn’t have help. With an extra set of hands, the cookies could be done in half the time. “You really don’t need to.” She paused. Owen looked prepared to leave.
Was she crazy? She couldn’t kick him out—not when she knew she could use his help.
“Paige was just getting after me for insisting on doing everything myself. Maybe I could use your help.”
“Let’s get to work.”
She got Owen started with the icing, then ran her cash report and went up to tuck Paige into bed. Owen looked as though he wanted to ask to help with bedtime, but Victoria didn’t give him time to speak the words. She and Owen had yet to work out any sort of plan for how they’d arrange joint custody. She wanted to put off that conversation as long as possible.
When she came back downstairs, she found Owen had abandoned the frosting knife for an industrial-size serving spoon, which dripped with bright green frosting. When her eyes widened at the sight, he looked sheepish.
“It’s not quite as precise, but it holds enough frosting to do six cookies between dips. Saves time.” He frosted four more cookies as he spoke, and nodded to the full pan he’d finished while she was upstairs. “They don’t have to be perfect, do they?”
Victoria looked at the cookies he’d finished. No, they weren’t quite the works of art she was used to preparing, but they looked plenty festive. And Owen was cranking them out in a fraction of the time it usually took to do the job. She laughed wearily. “You’re a genius.” Grabbing a full-size spoon from the row of hooks above the island, she joined him. “Show me how you do that.”
He smiled—and it lit up her heart more than she wanted.
The crowd gathered for the celebration bright and early the next morning. Owen strode through the crowded streets toward the Sugar Plum with his head tucked low into the collar of his coat. The March wind blasted cold, but at least the sun had poked out. The throng of revelers didn’t appear to be letting the chill put a damper on their fun, either. Not only were the streets filled with people, but many of them had kept with the tradition of donning green and white face paint to celebrate the holiday.
Half a dozen young men streaked down the street, wearing nothing above their jeans but green and white paint. Owen shivered on their behalf. He and his cousin Patrick had always talked abou
t painting themselves for the holiday. Their mothers had refused to let them try it, and once Patrick was gone, the appeal of their plan had gone with him.
He reached the Sugar Plum and made it halfway up the steps before catching up to the rear of the line. From the glimpse he got of Victoria through the window, she had her hands full.
Instead of waiting in line and watching her toil through the window, Owen ducked around to the back door, let himself in through the kitchen entrance and washed his hands before joining Victoria at the counter.
She didn’t see him, but when the customer ordered two coffee-and-shamrock-cookie specials, Owen noticed the pan in the glass case was down to one cookie. He’d passed the waiting pans in the kitchen, and ducked back to get one.
Victoria spun around just as he returned. The surprise on her face was quickly replaced by a relieved smile. As she pulled out the empty pan and swapped it out for the full one, she warned him, “I don’t want you to think I’m going to give you a job here just because you insist on hanging around.”
“It’s a popular place today.”
“It is.” She beamed and handed the customer his order.
“Where’s Paige?” Owen asked in a whisper as Victoria counted out change for the next customer.
“In the expert care of her Sunday school teachers. I’m hoping to catch a break in time to watch her float go by.”
Owen felt an odd swelling in his chest. He’d always loved watching the floats in the parade, and the Sunday school float was a favorite, dating back to when he was a kid. How many years had he wistfully wondered what it would be like to watch his own child on that float?
He’d finally get the chance.
But if it came down to it, he’d let Victoria watch, and cover the store if he had to. The woman had probably been up since three or four that morning, if the fresh-baked pastries that had appeared overnight meant anything. She’d earned a moment’s joy to celebrate like everyone else, and he was determined to see that she got it.
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