Summer Kisses

by Melinda Curtis

  “He was... They were...” Some of the bluster deflated from him.

  “It’s a gray issue,” Becca continued. “Like this. I have to stand up for what I believe in. I hope this won’t go to trial. But if it does, I’ll be okay.” She took a deep breath, gave him a half smile. “And I hope you’ll stand with me.”

  Flynn’s expression was unfathomable. “I’ve got things to do.” He headed toward the door.

  “And that’s why I’m destined to walk alone,” Becca murmured.

  None of them moved as they listened to Flynn drive off. Truman didn’t complain that he hadn’t been asked along.

  Becca blew out a breath. “My Gram used to say that chocolate chip cookies could rescue a bad day.” She disengaged herself from Truman.

  “No one’s let me have a chocolate chip cookie in ages,” Edwin said.

  “I’ll help.” Agnes followed her to the kitchen.

  “Does this mean Becca isn’t going to jail?” Truman asked.

  No one answered him.

  * * *

  THE FIRST BATCH of cookies weren’t out of the oven when Becca heard a car pull up in front of the house.

  Agnes moved to the door. She hadn’t mentioned the ring since Flynn left. “Who do we know that drives a minivan? A man.” She backed away from the door to let Becca see.

  If clichéd private investigators had a look, it was the rumpled, cheap suit and sharp eyes. Becca knew this was the man who’d come to see Flynn before.

  “Rebecca MacKenzie.” He stopped very close to the screen door. The satisfied way he said her name sent a shiver down her spine. “I was hoping to find you here.”

  “Who’s there?” Edwin grumbled awake.

  “I’m Wes Webber. I’ve been hired to look into your caregiver’s background.” His smile gave Becca a sick feeling in her stomach, like he wanted to eat her up and pick her out of his teeth.

  “Is that Webber with one B or two?” Edwin asked, reaching for the pad of paper on the end table near his chair.

  “Two Bs, sir. I’ll save you some phone calls. I was in NCIS for most of my navy career. My nose is clean.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t take you at your word.”

  “May I come in?” He raised his hand toward the knob.

  Becca repressed a gasp.

  “No,” Edwin said.

  Becca had never felt so threatened and protected at the same time, even though the screen door wasn’t latched. She was glad Truman was in his room with Abby.

  “Why are you here?” Agnes peeked from behind Becca.

  “I got a call this morning from Harold Epstein’s daughter, Diane. She says there are several pieces of her father’s jewelry missing.”

  Becca winced. “She’s lying.”

  Agnes clapped her hand over her mouth.

  “We’ll see. I promised Flynn I’d come by and tell him before the police were called in.”

  “They can search my motorhome,” Becca said, confidence finally returning. “They won’t find anything.”

  “You could have hocked them already. Where can I find Flynn?”

  Becca was tempted to tell him Flynn wasn’t available, but Flynn wouldn’t forgive her, not if he’d asked the man to tell him. If ever she wanted proof as to Flynn’s feelings, she’d gotten them aplenty in the past twelve hours. “He’s at the construction site.”

  “I know where that is.” He left.

  Becca collapsed onto the couch.

  “How dare that woman do that to you. She’s going to try and frame you just like they do on those television shows.” Agnes paced the living room. “Wait until I tell Mildred and Rose. They’re going to die of jealousy.”

  “Agnes,” Becca said.

  “Right. Sorry.” Agnes drew herself up. “I’m ready to return Harold’s ring now.”

  “I think it’s for the best,” Edwin said.

  For once, Becca didn’t defend Harold’s wishes.

  * * *

  FLYNN WAS IN the farmhouse talking to the drywall contractors when someone called his name outside.

  Wes Webber was waiting for him on the porch.

  Flynn looked past him, but no police cars were in the driveway. In his jeans pocket, his cell phone made noises announcing a text message.

  “Got news about your sister,” Webber said.

  Flynn nearly sank to his knees in relief. He’d been expecting bad news about Becca. “She’s safe?”

  Joey came around the corner, sizing up Webber, still not liking him, if the low set of his brows was any indication.

  “Pops,” Webber acknowledged Joey, before turning back to Flynn. “Is it okay to give you this information out here? Seems like there’s a lot of ears.”

  “Tell us.” Flynn only fleetingly realized he thought of him and his father as a unit.

  “She’s in rehab in Petaluma.”

  “That can’t be.” Flynn felt caged.

  Joey seemed to be chewing on the inside of his lip.

  “Your sister is addicted to alcohol,” Webber said. “She checked in for a seven-day stay to try and jump-start her recovery and realized she needed at least the thirty-day program, the cost of which is going to hit your credit card next week.”

  “But Kathy has a job. She’s a good mom. I never saw any signs.”

  Webber shrugged. “People get really good at hiding their addictions. Consider yourself lucky that she realized she had a problem before someone like your nephew got hurt.”

  The comments Truman made about having to put Kathy to bed and make sure she got to work in the morning took on more meaning. No wonder the kid used to walk around as if he bore the weight of the world on his shoulders. He had been.

  “Her mother battles addiction,” Joey weighed in. “Some of those traits are genetic. Good for Kathy.”

  “You were worried about your sister not calling. There are no cell phones, computers or tablets allowed during her treatment. The Serenity Club only allows phone calls on Sundays, and then only with supervision and only if the patient feels up to it. I wasn’t allowed to see your sister, but you can call and arrange for a visit next Sunday.”

  “How did you find her?”

  “Trade secret.” Webber grinned. “But you may want to check her credit card charges next time.”

  “Thank you.” Flynn stood awkwardly, waiting for Webber to leave.

  “One more thing,” Webber said. “This is your advance warning about your caregiver. The daughter of her last client says there are several pieces of jewelry missing. I’m getting the police involved today.”

  Flynn’s head was shaking. He exchanged a glance with his father. “I don’t believe it.” He barely kept himself from revealing there’d been just the one ring.

  “You’re talking about the woman who takes care of Edwin? The one who drives that wreck of a motorhome?” At Webber’s nod, Joey laughed. He gave Flynn a reassuring look. “She’s not the type to steal.”

  Webber started making sounds of protest, but Joey would have none of it.

  “People who steal jewelry wear brand-name goods like a badge. Mark my words. That girl doesn’t have it in her to steal all that jewelry.” Joey spoke directly to Flynn. “You look into this closer and you’ll find those baubles were recently hocked or sold to a jewelry store to melt down the gold. And the name associated with it won’t be Edwin’s caregiver.”

  “Since when is an ex-con a good judge of character?” Webber said.

  Dane bellowed for Joey.

  “You become good at reading people inside. Or you don’t make it outside.” Joey nodded at Flynn. “You let me know if I need to make inquiries.”

  Flynn felt as if someone had his back—someone besides Will and Slade.

  Webber scoffe
d. “You shouldn’t believe him. She’s guilty.”

  “I trust my father’s judgment.” Flynn wasn’t near as unsettled by admitting that out loud as he might have been a few weeks ago.

  Webber shook his head. “When I told her we’d discovered things were stolen, you should have seen her face. She knew justice was closing in.”

  “You told her? You went to my house?”

  “I was looking for you.” He shrugged. “What’s it matter?”

  “My grandfather has a weak heart. If he goes to the hospital because of you and your arrogant need to rub your greatness in people’s faces, I’ll be taking you to court for breach of contract. I told you specifically to stay away from the house.”

  The angry, wild feeling tying Flynn in knots must have shown on his face, because Webber nodded and slowly walked away.

  Flynn leaned against the railing, gripping the dust-coated wood.

  Remembering he’d received a text message, Flynn checked his cell phone. It was from Becca: Running an errand. Edwin insisted on coming.

  Of course he did. His grandfather probably wanted to protect Becca. Flynn hit the button to call her.

  The phone rang too many times. Flynn was assuming it would roll to voice mail when Agnes answered. “Flynn, Becca can’t talk right now. She’s driving.”

  “Where are you going?” Flynn asked through gritted teeth.

  “You should be happy.” Agnes didn’t sound happy. She sounded defeated. “We’re taking back Harold’s ring. His daughter is trying to pin a whole bunch of thefts on Becca. We’re going to set her straight.”

  “I don’t want my grandfather going with you.”

  “We’re almost to Cloverdale. There’s no turning back now.”

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  “He says he’ll meet us there,” Agnes relayed. “I didn’t think he knew where we were going.”

  His grandfather’s voice, labored and in command. “We can handle this. Flynn’s got plenty of responsibilities back in town.”

  Flynn may have had plenty on his plate, but the ones he most wanted to be responsible for were leaving him behind.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “AGNES, YOU DON’T have to come inside,” Becca said for what seemed like the fiftieth time as she parked Edwin’s Cadillac in front of Diane’s house in Santa Rosa. She looked at her ragtag supporters—Edwin, Truman, Abby and Agnes. “Give me the ring and Harold’s letter.”

  “No.” Agnes had been adamant the entire time. “I’m the reason you’re in this mess.”

  “I’m coming in, too,” Edwin said.

  “Better do it quick before I lose my nerve, then.” Becca went to the trunk for Edwin’s walker. Flynn would most likely kill her when they returned to Harmony Valley. He’d been unable to convince Agnes to divulge their destination.

  “Are we here to keep Becca out of prison?” Truman tumbled out onto the sidewalk with Abby.

  Not wanting to answer, Becca set up the walker and wheeled it to Edwin.

  “Yes.” Edwin accepted Becca’s help to stand. “And we’ll get ice cream on the way home if we succeed. That’s how you end all good campaigns—with ice cream.”

  Becca stared at the front door and then at her posse. “Last chance to back out.”

  “Harold loved me. Flynn’s right. I don’t need a ring to remind me of that.” Agnes squared her shoulders and led the way.

  They walked up to the front door and knocked.

  While they waited for Diane to answer, Becca couldn’t help but think that she’d upset far too many people by honoring Harold’s wishes. Her grandmother would have said just because it was the right thing to do didn’t mean it was the right way to do it.

  The door swung open.

  “Becca,” Diane sounded surprised to see her. Her shoulder-length gray hair floated crookedly about her face in a way that screamed for a good conditioner. She wore jean shorts that displayed her varicose veins and a bright black sweatshirt with a Mercedes logo stitched over her breast.

  In a wind tunnel of escaped air-conditioning, Becca introduced her backup. “Can we come inside and talk?”

  Before Diane could answer, a familiar minivan pulled up behind the Cadillac, tires squealing. Wes Webber got out. “I thought you might confront my client.”

  Becca squeezed Agnes’s hand.

  “Don’t be fooled by the bluff,” Edwin panted, filling the awkward silence. “I’d like to sit down out of the heat, Diane. May we come in?”

  Diane let them inside. They sat down in the living room. When Harold lived alone in the house, the couch sagged and the coffee table had rings on it. There was a new cream-colored leather sofa and two beautiful pine end tables. Agnes sat hip-to-hip with Becca. Truman sat at their feet with Abby. Edwin looked around, flipped the walker seat down and sat near Diane.

  Becca blew out a breath, praying for understanding. “Diane, I haven’t stolen any jewelry. I hope you know I’d never do that to you or Harold.”

  Diane looked almost seasick. The private investigator stared at his client intensely. Becca had assumed they’d both immediately refute her statement, but neither one said a thing.

  “Agnes,” Edwin wheezed.

  “I’m the woman you’re looking for.” Agnes’s voice wasn’t steady as she opened her fist to reveal the ruby ring. “Harold gave this ring to me sixty years ago when he asked me to marry him. And he sent it back to me after he died.”

  The look on Wes’s face was sour.

  “Diane, I owe you an apology.” Becca said the words stiffly. “I promised Harold I wouldn’t tell anyone, not even you, where the ring had gone, but I should have told you regardless.”

  “What about the other items?” Diane asked, but she was staring at Abby. “My father’s antique gold watch, the gold bracelet, all his other rings.”

  Becca experienced a moment of gut-wrenching panic. How could she prove she hadn’t stolen those items?

  “Why don’t you tell us what you did with them?” Edwin’s lopsided smile did little to calm anyone in the room.

  “Wes...” Diane turned to him. “If Becca took one ring, she had to have taken the rest of his valuables.”

  “Nonsense,” Edwin said.

  Wes sized up the room.

  “Becca’s telling the truth,” Agnes got riled. “And I’ve got proof.” Agnes dug in her purse for a yellowed black-and-white photograph and the letter Harold had written her on white lined paper. “Here’s the letter he wrote me on his deathbed. And this photo was taken the night Harold proposed to me at the Cliff House restaurant in San Francisco.”

  Becca hadn’t seen the photo until that morning. In it, a very young Agnes sat with a very young Harold, arms around each other, ruby ring glinting.

  “Oh, my God. That’s my dad,” Diane murmured. And then she scanned her father’s letter.

  “Please confirm that’s your father’s handwriting,” Edwin said.

  Diane frowned, but nodded her head. She handed the photo to Wes. “It’s easy to doctor a photo, isn’t it?”

  “Are you calling me a liar?” Agnes stood. “If your father were alive, he’d be ashamed.”

  “That picture was taken sixty years ago. Why didn’t you marry him? Why didn’t he seek you out when my mother died?” Diane was on a roll. “Or was there something going on between you all these years?”

  Agnes looked like she was going to cry.

  “Please, can’t we keep this civil?” Becca pleaded.

  “You stole the ring,” Diane said. “And everything else.”

  “No, I—”

  “You stole the ring,” Diane raised her voice. “And you would never have told me the truth if you weren’t being investigated and sued.”

  Since that was the gist of it,
Becca remained silent.

  “Clearly, the value of a promise means nothing to you, not like it meant to your father. He was an honorable man and I loved him. If my husband hadn’t come back from that POW camp, I would have married Harold and I’d like to think that if I was your mother that you’d have learned a thing or two about understanding and forgiveness.”

  Agnes heaved another breath so she could continue. “Becca took care of your father when you couldn’t—or wouldn’t—do it. Before you go thinking badly about her, think about how important she was to your father at the end that he’d trust her with this secret. Our secret. My secret.” Her voice cracked. Agnes drew her pixie height to its fullest. “You take that ring and sell it. And I hope to God that someone buys the ring and feels half the love Harold and I felt for each other. Because if you keep it, you’ll look at it and see a betrayal, by your father and by Becca, and maybe even by me. I couldn’t stand that, and I don’t think Harold could, either.”

  In two pixie strides, Agnes snatched back the photo and letter.

  “Call the police, Wes.” Diane’s voice was high and brittle, a taut wire waiting to snap and hurt someone.

  “I don’t think you want to do that. Does she, Mr. Private Investigator?” Edwin pinned the man with his gaze.

  Wes shook his head. “Nice try, Diane. But if you continue accusing Ms. MacKenzie of theft, I’ll track down every place you sold that jewelry.”

  “Is she a bad lady?” Truman pointed to Diane, having reached the legal time limit for seven-year-olds to keep quiet.

  “That is yet to be determined.” Edwin pushed himself to standing, pulling his walker around. “I’m ready for ice cream.”

  Truman popped up and ran toward the door.

  Becca didn’t know whether to apologize to Diane or leave in a huff.

  “Don’t say a word.” Agnes decided for her, tugging her toward the door. “I can see an apology forming on your lips. She’s not worth it.”

  But Becca was sorry. And she had an idea what to do about it.

  * * *

  “DON’T EVER RUN off like that again.” Worry and fear and anger had tied Flynn to the porch where he baked in the sun until Becca parked the Caddy in front of the house.