At Any Cost

by Lauren Nichols

  He set the wedge and cheap pine aside, then rose, dusted his hands on a rag, and ambled over to her. “That was quick. How did it go?”

  “All right, I guess. I’m not the best judge.”

  His brow lined. “I assume he asked if you had enemies.”

  She nodded. “Right after he asked if anything was missing. I still have to look over the rooms. But yes, he asked if I’d had problems with anyone.”

  “You told him about the attack?”

  “Yes. I gave him the name of the lead investigator in the case and offered to print out an internet photo of Courtland, but he said he’d get what he needed from the Michigan police since he’d be talking to Detective Caspian anyway. He’s putting a BOLO out on Courtland—and Mrs. Bolton.”

  “What about fingerprints?”

  She wiggled her fingers. “They were all mine. The room was spotless when Mrs. Bolton arrived, and I was the only one who’d entered it after she checked in.”

  Jenna sank to a plastic-covered settee, weariness joining the fear she struggled to hide. She studied her clasped hands. “They’ll never find her.”

  Beau matched her quiet tone. “You’re a smart woman. You pay attention to detail. I’m sure you gave him enough information to track her down and find out who put her up to this. Provided that she didn’t do it on her own.”

  Startled, Jenna looked up. “On her own?”

  He dragged a sawbuck close to her—eased down on the cross beam and linked his hands between the spread of his legs. “I know you’re sure that Dane is behind this. But this woman could’ve had her own reasons—reasons that have nothing to do with you or what happened in Michigan.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Mental illness? Jealousy? A grudge against B and Bs in general? When Perris finds her, you’ll have your answer.”

  “I don’t see that happening. The only reasonably accurate information I could give him was her height because I’m five-six, and we stood eye to eye. Her weight and hair were guesses. I never saw her out of her bulky jacket and brown wig.”

  “She wore a wig?”

  “And tinted glasses.” Suddenly filled with frustration, she got up, needing to walk. “You know, there was a moment while I was checking her in when I had an uneasy feeling about her—partly because of the wig, and the fact that she’d be doing an audit on a Saturday. But I ignored it. I chalked it up to paranoia after having my credit card number stolen. She showed me her driver’s license, and the photo looked like her, so that was good enough for—” She stopped abruptly. “Would a DMV photographer allow her to wear a wig for her driver’s license photo?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Height and eye color are the only descriptors on PA licenses these days, probably because hair color can change daily. And unless it was a curly red clown’s wig, the photographer might not have noticed.”

  True enough. She might not have noticed it, either, except for the cowlick that drew attention to the wig. Suddenly something else occurred to her. “I just remembered something. She said she was from North Carolina, but she didn’t have an accent.”

  “Then you might want to talk to Perris again. He’ll need that information.”

  Aunt Molly entered the room at a brisk clip. “What that fascist robot needs is a personality!” She turned to Jenna and softened her tone as Beau pushed to his feet. “Forgive me for not coming back after taking that phone call, but I was afraid I’d say something unladylike to that arrogant boob. What did I miss?”

  Jenna squeezed her hand. “No apology necessary, and you didn’t miss much. He took my fingerprints for comparison before he dusted the room. All of the prints were mine. Then he took a few more photographs and collected the razor blades. He’s hoping to find partial prints, but he’s not holding out much hope.”

  “So he’s finished upstairs?”

  “For the moment.”

  “What about the mess he made?”

  “We’re free to clean it up whenever we want.” Jenna moistened her lips. “Who was on the phone?”

  “Millie. She said she called yesterday when I was out.”

  Jenna winced. Yes, she had and she’d forgotten to mention it. “I’m sorry. She wanted to firm up plans for your trip to Hartford. She’s really looking forward to your birthday dinner at Chang Chung’s.”

  “Well, that’s not going to happen now. I told her that there was too much going on here, and I couldn’t get away.”

  “No,” Jenna insisted firmly, “you have to go.” Not only had Molly and Millie Wentworth been best friends since elementary school, they were born on the same date. “You two have been planning this for a month.”

  “We’ll celebrate together,” Molly assured her. “We’ll just do it at a later date.”

  “Aunt Molly—”

  “Jenny, we can talk about this later. Right now, I have a question.” Worry deepened the lines in her pixie face. “Did you tell Chief Perris about the couple outside the courthouse?”

  “No, because he would’ve felt obligated to question them, and they’re not involved in this. Besides, they have enough on their plates. Promise me you won’t mention it to him, either.”

  “I won’t. But I think you should.” The phone rang again, and Molly sighed. “I’ll get it. So much for this being our slow season. I only wish we were able to accommodate our guests.”

  Jenna met Beau’s eyes across the room. He’d obviously heard their conversation, but he didn’t ask who they were talking about because that’s the kind of man he was. She was glad of that because she wouldn’t have felt comfortable telling him about her exchange with Devona Chandler. A mother’s grief over her son’s imprisonment didn’t need to be discussed. “I should call the station and talk to Perris,” she said finally. “Thank you for listening.”

  “No problem,” he said quietly. “Always glad to lend an ear. Or a shoulder.”

  There it went again—that little blip of awareness. “Likewise,” she replied because it was the only thing she could think of. Yet she’d meant it, and that troubled her. The bad boy who’d thrilled then discarded teenage girls when they were in high school was a tall, broad shouldered, good-looking man now. And according to the gossips, his cavalier lifestyle hadn’t changed.

  Even if she felt confident about dating again—even if she thought it was safe to involve another man in her life—she didn’t want to be one of Beau’s casualties.

  But oh, how she longed to risk it.

  * * *

  Impatient, sick of waiting for the call he’d been expecting, he snagged the disposable cell phone from the hotel nightstand and pushed the only number programmed into it.

  The thin, wiry man answered on the first ring. “Yes?”

  “Have you heard from the woman?”

  “She just called. I was about to phone you. She finished her assignment and her credentials have been destroyed.”

  “Is everything in place?”

  “It is.”

  “Good. I’ll expect a delivery to my hotel room tomorrow night. Use a messenger service. I don’t want any of this traced back to me.”

  SIX

  In the rear of his shop in his partitioned-off “clean room,” Beau finished buffing the Haskells’ sealed oak kitchen cabinets, draped them in plastic, then returned to the business side of his workshop to turn down the thermostat. He congratulated himself on remembering. Because ever since he’d left Jenna this evening, she’d been on his mind.

  Identity theft and ants could be explained away, but razor blades were another matter. Of course, there was still a possibility that the Bolton woman was a nutcase who’d been acting alone, and this Dane freak had nothing to do with the vandalism. But if the creep was innocent, then someone really had an axe to grind with Jenna. Were the axe-grinders “the couple outside the courthouse” that Aunt Molly had mentioned? Maybe. Now he wished he’d asked who they were talking about, but he didn’t like answering questions about himself, and he did his best to afford ot
hers the same courtesy.

  Turning off the lights, Beau stepped into the crisp night air and locked his workshop. Strategically directed spotlights showed the way to his house, and with every step he remembered how good it had felt to hold Jenna close this morning, remembered the light citrus scent of her shampoo.

  He’d dated a lot, but like Jenna, he’d failed badly at finding someone to share his life. For a time he’d thought it was Shelley. Strike one. Then Beth had come along, and the abandoned kid in him had gotten so wrapped up in the idea of having a real home and family, he’d missed the signs that said it wasn’t going to happen. Strike two.

  So despite an attraction to her that nearly took his breath away some days, Jenna couldn’t be number three. He wasn’t sure he could bounce back from that.

  A voice in his head told him to stop wavering—that they were worlds apart.

  Beau frowned. Her father had certainly thought so. Years ago, he’d overheard a conversation between Webb Harper and Aunt Molly. He’d gone to the Blackberry’s back door to tell his pint-sized savior that they needed gas for the mowers, when he’d heard Harper’s quiet voice through the window screen.

  “Look, I know he’s a nice kid. I like him. I’m sorry he’s being raised by a granddad who couldn’t care less about him. But he’s running with a bunch of thugs, and that kind of thing rubs off. I don’t want him hanging around my daughter.”

  Those words had trampled any notion he’d had of being more to Jenna than the kid who mowed her great-aunt’s lawns. So why was he still mulling over that possibility in his mind?

  Inside now, he grabbed a glass of milk and a handful of Oreos, then settled into his sparse-but-functional living room. He had the necessities: a TV, a blue plaid sofa, the recliner he was parked in, one lamp and an unfinished end table he’d started for Beth before things had gone belly-up.

  He put the TV’s remote control to work—then stopped abruptly when the screen filled with a muscle-bound actor who was saying something relevant. Muscleman had decided it was up to him to protect his woman because the local chief of police couldn’t find his posterior with both hands.

  Beau’s uneasiness grew. Perris was lucky to make two-out-of-ten on the personality scale. But was he inept? Could he protect her? And did she even need protection? No one had come after her physically. At the core of things, the only crime that had been committed was vandalism, and Jenna had opened her door to the vandal.

  His phone rang. Wondering who was calling this late on a Saturday night, he strode to the wall phone in the kitchen and said hello. He was instantly concerned when he heard Molly Jennings’s voice.

  “Aunt Molly? Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, we’re fine. I’m sorry to disturb you at home, but I thought you should know that we’ve decided to close the Blackberry until Christmas week. That will give us time to look over the entire inn and make certain there are no more surprises. We can’t have our guests at risk.”

  Good idea, but why was she telling him this tonight when they’d probably be seeing each other tomorrow at church? He also wondered why Jenna wasn’t doing the calling. “That’s probably for the best. It can’t hurt to be cautious.”

  “Exactly. So there won’t be any reason for you to keep the noise down when you resume work. You can make as much racket as you like.”

  “Okay,” he said, still curious about the call. “I’ll bring a wrecking ball on Monday.” But there was always a point to her conversations, and as he expected, she got to it.

  “I believe you heard me ask Jenna today about a couple who might want to ruin her business.”

  “Yes, I did. I also heard you promise not to mention it to anyone.”

  “No,” she returned, “you heard me say I wouldn’t mention it to Chief Perris. But Jenny is my world, and I need to share this with someone. Tonight you’re it because you care about her, too.”

  Yeah, he did, even though he had no intention of taking it further.

  “Several months ago, Jenny served on a jury and was appointed their foreman. They found the defendant, a twenty-three-year-old with major entitlement issues, guilty of vehicular manslaughter.”

  He knew this story. It had been in all the papers. The family lived a fair distance away, but the kid’s lawyer had requested and received a change of venue because of pre-trial publicity. “You’re talking about Lawrence Chandler’s son, Tim. He was driving drunk.”

  “Yes. Are you acquainted with the Chandlers?”

  “We’re not close, but I know them. I did some work for them a while ago. What happened with Jenna?”

  “After the trial, she was walking to her car when Mrs. Chandler came after her. She blamed Jenna for her son being convicted, and even though she lost sleep over it, Jenna didn’t see that as a threat.”

  “But it was?”

  “I’m not sure. But when someone tells you in anger that your actions have consequences, it bears considering. Last week, the boy’s appeal was denied. I have to believe that with Lawrence Chandler’s gas and oil money, and Timothy being their only child, they might’ve wanted to retaliate in some way.”

  “You think they hired Mrs. Bolton to trash the Blackberry.”

  “The timing is certainly right. Better than her belief that that Michigan monster is behind her troubles. When he got angry two years ago, he came after her directly. He didn’t send someone else. Why would he change tactics now?”

  Maybe because he had to, Beau thought. The guy was still wanted by the police, so if he was smart, he’d keep a low profile.

  “Well,” she continued when he didn’t speak immediately. “That’s all I wanted to say. Will we see you at services tomorrow?”

  “Yes, I’ll be there. Sleep tight, Aunt Molly.”

  Her voice turned weary. “That’s a tall order, young man.”

  When she’d said good-night and hung up, Beau sighed, considered what she’d told him, then went into his cubbyhole of a home office and dropped into his swivel chair to access the internet. He was being manipulated by a pro, and he knew it. He just wasn’t sure what she wanted him to do. Interrogate the Chandlers? Camp out on Jenna’s doorstep and turn away anyone who looked suspicious?

  He typed in Prime Trust and Investments of Michigan. The site came up. There was no trace or mention of Jenna’s nemesis, but one thing was certain about cyberspace. Any information posted there lived on forever.

  He typed in Dane’s name. A moment later, he was staring at a sharply dressed man in a dark business suit. Jenna’s description had been right on the money. Courtland Dane’s eyes were blue ice, though the photographer had tried to show him in a trusting light. Instead he had the look of a cutthroat power broker. High cheekbones in a lean face…salon-cut medium brown hair…narrow, close-to-the-jaw, perfectly trimmed beard and mustache…a smile that barely touched his lips.

  Beau sank back in his chair and rocked for a while. Even though a designer suit and pocket silk wouldn’t be one of Dane’s wardrobe choices now, he looked nothing like the guy they’d seen yesterday at the diner. That made him feel a whole lot better. If Jenna was on some jerk’s to-do list, he’d rather it be the Chandlers’. They were well-to-do, well-respected business people—stereotypical pillars of the their community.

  He didn’t equate them with knives and blood.

  * * *

  Dressed in his collar and Sunday blacks, Reverend Paul Landers was a genial, elderly man with white hair, a bit of a pot belly and kind blue eyes behind rimless bifocals. Landers might not have been the best speaker St. John’s congregation had ever heard, but silver-tongued orators had nothing on him when it came to preaching about God’s love in today’s world.

  Jenna listened intently as she sat beside Aunt Molly, feeling as though he were speaking to her personally. She was aware of Beau’s presence in the pew behind her as the reverend wrapped up his sermon.

  “So on those days when life gets to be too much, remember this: our Father in Heaven wants us to be joyful. And the
re’s a difference between happiness and joy. Happiness is the result of a happening. Joy is the little candle in our hearts that celebrates life.”

  He folded his hands on the oak dais and smiled. “Your job makes you crazy? We’ve all been there. I was an accountant before I was a pastor.” He glanced around. “You’ve had a disagreement with a friend, coworker or family member, or you’re dealing with a problem that seems to have no solution? Well, if you’ve done everything in your power to resolve it, but nothing you do is working…you have to give it to God and move on. Don’t let people and events over which you have no control steal your joy. Joy is God’s gift to us. We shouldn’t squander it.”

  No, we shouldn’t, Jenna thought. But sometimes it was unavoidable.

  Raising his hands, the reverend brought everyone to their feet. “Now let’s all lift our voices—in joy.”

  Minutes later, Beau eased into step beside her as organist Emma Lucille Bridger segued smoothly from “How Great Thou Art” into a pleasant recessional hymn, and the congregation filed out, smiling, chatting and shaking hands. He smiled at her, and the message in his eyes was clear. It was the same message Aunt Molly offered as the three of them walked toward the parking lot.

  As she did every Sunday during the cold weather, her tiny aunt wore street clothes beneath her black faux-Persian-lamb coat and pillbox hat. “The reverend made a lot of sense today,” she said in an undertone as she pulled on her gloves. “I hope you were listening closely.”

  “I was,” Jenna replied.

  “But did you take his sermon to heart?”

  Jenna glanced around, hoping that no one was close enough to overhear. She didn’t want to answer questions—not even from sympathetic friends. She was saved from replying when her aunt caught sight of Delores Buck and her friend Donna, and said she’d see Jenna in the car.

  “Saved by the bell?” Beau asked.

  Jenna smiled a little. “For the moment, anyway.” If she’d been pressed to answer, she would’ve said that she’d taken the sermon to heart as much as she could. Because even on this sunny Sunday morning surrounded by friends and acquaintances, she was glad to have a tall, well-built guardian nearby. She was about to invite him back to the inn for a potluck brunch when the well-dressed Killians, Frank and his sister Barbara, strode past them with a cool look and a curt “Good morning.”