“Physically and emotionally, right?” His aqua eyes regarded her sadly.
She hadn’t considered her reaction in that light. “I suppose so. It’s instinctive.”
"We all have our inner demons." Kieran stepped away. “Okay now?”
"Yes." She sucked in a deep breath. "What’s happening with the contest?”
“We’d better take a look.”
He’d carried her far enough uphill for a good view of the judges, who were sampling bites of each pie. In between, they refreshed their palates with nibbles of cracker and sips of water. In their phones, they made notations on a checklist, which she knew—because she'd helped draw it up—rated the entries on texture, freshness, flavor and originality.
After finishing their tasting, the panelists formed a huddle. Samantha reminded herself that the prize was a framed certificate suitable for hanging on a wall she didn't have and a set of pie pans she wouldn’t need on a cruise ship.
It also meant having one's name and recipe included in the Book of Cheesecake Champions. That had been Beth's idea. Using Photoshop, the teacher had designed the cover in red, white, blue and green. The idea was to publish the recipes of the winners and runners-up, along with short biographies of the winning bakers and a history of the town.
Samantha would be long gone before it came out. Why should she care whether her name was included?
But she did care. She wanted future residents to discover that someone named Samantha Avery had once lived here and helped launch their community traditions.
Eons later, the chef mounted the podium and raised his arms for silence. He was a tall, pink-faced man who spoke with an engaging Australian accent. "Well, mates, here we go.”
Samantha’s heartbeat speeded.
He started with honorable mention, followed by third and second places. “And the winner is…” He paused dramatically. “Beth Bonning!"
Samantha applauded by rote. At least the winner wasn't some stranger. And Beth had helped organize the festival.
Nevertheless, disappointment weighed on her spirits. She'd tried so hard. Now there'd be nothing left to remind anyone that she'd ever been a part of Hidden Hot Springs. She hadn’t even placed second or third.
The chef held up his hand. "Did I mention she wins first prize in the low-fat category? Mates, let me tell you, your diet never had it so good! Nonfat sour cream topping, low fat cream cheese and egg substitute, a real treat for you health enthusiasts. And for the rest of us, too!"
More applause accompanied Beth as she climbed up to take a bow and accept her certificate and pans. In her frazzled state, Samantha had forgotten they’d established a range of categories, which were printed on the back of the entry form.
She hadn’t checked a category. Did that make her ineligible? She didn’t recall setting a rule about that.
There followed prizes for most original, most bizarre, and best decorated. Finally, the chef reached the Best Overall category. “Honorable mention goes to…” Three more names were announced.
Second prize went to newcomer Lee Huang, a dark-haired woman with a shy smile who’d also won the Most Original category with her oatmeal-raisin cookie crust. She drew plenty of cheers.
"And now," the chef said as Lee descended, "the moment we've all been waiting for—the grand prize winner. Let me tell you, it was a hard choice. We really suffered over this one, mates."
Men called good-natured jeers. "I'd like to suffer like that, too!" "My heart bleeds for you!"
"We never knew cheesecake came in so many varieties," the chef continued. "I have to say that, for me personally, I like to keep things simple. Basic ingredients, perfect execution."
This didn't sound promising. Samantha’s pie featured a three-flavor novelty twist.
"But sometimes I'm proved wrong," the chef said. "First prize goes to the vanilla-chocolate-raspberry pie baked by our own Mrs. French."
Who?
A roar went up. Propelled toward the stage by Kieran's hand on her back, a dazed Samantha tried to figure out what had happened.
“Also known as Samantha Avery!” the chef concluded, and the applause surged.
She mounted the stage, overwhelmed by the raucous support. People were on their feet, stomping and cheering. For a woman who considered herself a perpetual short-timer, she’d developed a lot of friends in this audience.
Tears pricked her eyes. No group of people had ever cared about her this much..
When Samantha faced the microphone, the noise rippled away. "I guess—I mean—I'm glad you've all come today—"
A popping noise echoed against the hills. Samantha broke off. Was someone setting off fireworks early?
The sound rang out again. People peered around, trying to see where the noise came from.
Pete jumped up beside Samantha. "Everyone keep calm," he said. "Sounds like someone's got hold of a few firecrackers. You folks sit tight while we investigate."
He hopped off the stage. "You stay here," Kieran called to Samantha.
He, Lew and Pete exchanged glances, then headed for the highway. They were loping, as if itching to run but trying to avoid frightening the guests.
Samantha jumped down and raced alongside. "What's going on?"
Kieran’s expression was grim. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
“Tell me!”
Although he kept his voice down, there was no disguising his alarm. "That wasn't a firecracker. It was a gunshot."
Chapter Sixteen
When Kieran reached the downtown, it sat silent and deserted. Another shot jolted his ears, coming from due west. Near Uncle Albert's cabin.
Sprinting along the highway ahead of Lew and Pete, Kieran remembered the night when he'd confronted the mountain lion. Although he kept a rifle at the office in case a rabid animal menaced the site, there was no time to go for it. Kieran would have to rely on his wits—and trust to luck.
With the mountain lion, shouting and waving his arms had done the trick. He wasn't so sure that would be the case if he came face to face with Hank. What the hell was the guy shooting at, anyway?
Kieran rounded the bend, startled to see a shiny Cadillac parked below the cabin. It wasn't the kind of car he pictured Hank driving. Then a bony figure in a blood-red skirt and jacket stalked into sight around the building.
Beatrice.
A dark knot formed in the pit of Kieran’s stomach. Her arrival could mean only one thing.
When she spotted him, the triumphant sneer on her face confirmed it. Damn Laird Baird. Damn the stupid judge who couldn't see that he was condemning the innocent. Damn—well, damn everybody who abetted this predator.
Kieran stopped at the edge of the pavement. "What's going on?"
Beatrice stuffed her handgun into her oversize purse, then glanced nervously behind her. "I stopped to look for you. Don't you live here?"
“In that old cabin? No.” Another thought hit him. "You were trying to shoot me?"
"No. That lynx or the puma or whatever it is.”
“You shot the cub?” Kieran was shocked by the woman's cruelty, not to mention her ignorance of the law. “Don’t you know it’s illegal to shoot a mountain lion except in self-defense?" Or in defense of livestock or a protected species such as bighorn sheep, but he saw no reason to enlighten her on that score.
"This is my property and I'll shoot anything I like," Beatrice snapped. “Unfortunately, I missed.”
“Good,” Kieran said. “But it's not your property yet."
Lew and Pete came puffing up as Beatrice produced a paper from her purse. "This injunction requires you to stop all work until the claim is resolved."
"Then you stand to inherit nothing but a ruin," Kieran retorted. "If we can't work, we can't pay our bills."
"That’s not my problem." Beatrice shrugged as Lew examined the papers. "Besides, I'm sure you're making things sound worse than they are. Well, I don't scare easily."
Lew handed the papers to Pete, so the foreman could read t
hem, too. "She's right. We can't drive another nail until we get this injunction lifted."
"Which you won't," Beatrice scoffed. "By the way, who are these men?"
"Lew Jolson, project architect. And this is my foreman, Pete Zuniga."
The bony woman regarded Lew with interest. "The architect? Well, now. I've heard it's dangerous to change horses in midstream. I might have a job for you."
Lew shot her a quelling gaze. "Not if hell freezes over."
"You'll regret those words." Beatrice's anger mutated into confusion as a band of people trotted into view on the highway. "What's this, a jogathon?"
"We're having a Fourth of July festival," Kieran said. "Everyone heard the gunshots."
Beatrice sniffed at the crowd. "I might as well get something to eat, then. Tell them to clear the road. If they want to gawk, they'll have to do it somewhere else."
She climbed into her car and slammed the door. Kieran waved the new arrivals back. In view of his cousin’s attitude, she might not hesitate to plow right into them.
Spotting Samantha, he took her aside onto the path that led up the slope. To her questioning look, he said, "The judge granted the injunction. The project is dead."
She planted herself in front of him. "Kieran, we can't let this happen."
"We have no choice."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "I don't accept that.”
His anger boiled over. "It doesn't matter whether you accept it! This isn't up to you."
His fierce tone failed to shatter her determination. "There has to be more we can do."
"Sure there is," Kieran said tightly. "We can finish entertaining all these people and then I can clean out my office. Next week I'll call my creditors and try to figure out how to avoid dragging my friends down with me."
He stalked toward the picnic area, not checking to see whether she followed.
*
Sometimes you had to save a man from his own bullheadedness, Samantha reflected as she sped toward Kieran's cabin.
She supposed that, from his perspective, he'd done everything possible to save his town. That was true, if you played by the rules.
But Beatrice was manipulating the rules to hurt good people. In Samantha’s opinion, an honest person had a right to play things fast and loose, also.
Just a little. Like, by going behind Kieran’s back.
Her finger trembled as she tapped the detective's number into her phone. She got it wrong the first time and had to apologize to a grumpy young man whom, judging by his hoarseness, she'd probably awakened. He must have partied hard the night before.
She glanced at her watch. Two o'clock in the afternoon. Her wrong number might have been sleeping in, but hopefully James Dunaway wasn’t.
The phone rang three times. She was on the point of giving up when a gruff voice said, "Yeah?"
"It's me," she answered. "Samantha Avery. You found something about Beatrice?”
"That's right. I'd be happy to show you the information if you can drop by."
Rats. "I'm several hours' drive from La Jolla," Samantha said. "Could you email it to me?”
“It’s a couple of documents. I’m afraid my scanner’s broken.”
“You could fax them." There wasn’t likely to be anyone in Kieran's office to notice.
"My scanner is also my fax." Which meant that was broken, too.
"Surely there's a mailbox place open on a Saturday. Or one of those office supply stores. They usually have a fax." Couldn't he tell how desperate she was? "This is urgent. I'll pay extra."
Dunaway grunted. "Where are you? Up the coast somewhere?"
"Inland. A place called Hidden Hot Springs," she said.
"Okay, I found it." Dunaway must have done a quick search under the town’s name. “Directions and all.”
"You mean you'll come here?" She couldn't believe her luck.
"It mentions a cheesecake festival," he replied. "I love cheesecake."
"I'll bake one special for you if they run out," Samantha said. "Oh, Mr. Dunaway, that would be wonderful!"
"Someplace private we could meet?"
The most secluded spot would be Kieran's cabin, but she’d feel even more like a traitor inviting the detective here. "On the highway, the first place you'll see is a ramshackle cabin. It's out of sight of the town. I could meet you there."
"Good enough," the man replied with a touch of cheer. "Says here the driving time is an hour and fifty-five minutes."
“When will you leave?”
“In about five minutes.” Dunaway must be crazy about cheesecake. Or just bored on a holiday weekend.
"I'll be there," Samantha said. Only after he hung up did she reflect that he’d lost his Southern accent. Or, more likely, she’d simply overlooked it.
Now Samantha had to return to the festival and pretend she wasn't waiting for the most important information of her life. If they gave Academy Awards for real-life performances, she’d earn one today.
*
Mary Anne knew something was wrong the minute Pete came slogging up the hill.
His sturdy shoulders drooped and his mouth was set with unaccustomed fury. At least he hadn't been shot, which was what she'd feared.
"It's the injunction," he burst out as soon as he reached her. "That idiot judge gave it to him.”
Mary Anne didn't know much about business or the law. But she could see Pete was hurting in a bad way. "Does this mean you lose your job?"
"I'm one of the partners," Pete said. "I don't just lose a salary. I lose my time, my investment and worst of all, I'm on the hook for some of the debt."
Mary Anne wished she had bright ideas like Samantha. All she could think of to say was, "Aren't debts usually secured?"
"Our security was the land," Pete answered. "If it turns out Kieran doesn't own it, we're all screwed."
Since she met him, Mary Anne had hoped, but doubted, that he could truly care for her. Today she'd begun to believe that he might. Now he looked so far away. She longed to reassure him that the situation didn’t matter to her, but she doubted that would ease his bitter disappointment.
Hearing the buzz of conversation die, she glanced toward the food table. There stood a woman as thin as an exclamation point, surveying the picnic area with a grimace of distaste.
This must be Beatrice. Everything about her had sharp edges, from her pointed chin to her bony ankles. In her scarlet suit, she stood out among the townspeople like a bloodstain.
Beatrice French Bartholomew frightened Mary Anne. The coldness in the woman's eyes gave the impression she could kill without remorse. Certainly she was destroying these men’s dreams, and perhaps Mary Anne’s, too.
It seemed wrong to hate someone she’d never met. From the way Samantha had described Beatrice, the woman was a wretch, without family or friends.
Maybe because she doesn’t deserve them.
Beatrice interrupted Mary Anne's reflections by climbing onto the podium and tapping the microphone. Pete's head jerked up. "What the hell is she doing?"
"Hello there." The woman spoke in a high, brittle voice. "I'm Beatrice French Bartholomew. As you may have heard, I've won the first step in my battle to reclaim my father's property."
Angry grumbling arose from the crowd. Beatrice raised her hand. "Don't misunderstand. My quarrel is with my cousin, not the rest of you."
"What's her point?" Pete growled.
"Maybe she's having second thoughts," Mary Anne whispered hopefully.
"More likely she didn't realize how big this project is. Now she needs our help." Pete's words carried a grudging satisfaction.
"I understand some of you are major partners in this resort," Beatrice continued, "and the rest of you are working for low wages in return for shares. I'll have my lawyer review your contracts so we can reach a reasonable arrangement."
Grumbles of dissent arose from the crowd. A few shouts rang out.
“Work for you? I’d rather work for a snake.”
“What
kind of traitors do you think we are?”
“We made that deal with Kieran, not you!”
“Things have changed,” she said, then stopped as Kieran mounted the stage. Beatrice glowered at him but moved aside.
Sunlight beat down on Kieran's tan face as he took the microphone. "A judge has granted my cousin an injunction halting all work until trial, which won't be for months. That means I'm ruined, but the rest of you don't have to be. Please don’t throw your investments away out of loyalty to me. Do what's best for yourselves. Please don't make a snap judgment out of anger."
As he stepped away, Beatrice wore the smuggest expression Mary Anne had ever seen. She’d like to slap the woman.
Where was Samantha? She’d tell that woman a thing or two.
Mack approached Pete, with Alice at his side. "I don't want to work for her." The workman laid one arm around his girlfriend’s waist. "I'd just as soon cut my losses and leave."
"That lady is pure poison," Alice added. "Might as well inject ourselves with bile as sign up with her. She'd cheat us in the long run, anyway."
Other men drifted up. They all agreed with Mack and Alice.
When he and Mary Anne were alone, Pete said, "I understand how they feel, but I hate to see them lose years of work. And their dreams. An opportunity like this happens once in a lifetime."
“You’ve decided to stay?" Mary Anne struggled to keep her tone neutral. It wasn't her place to choose sides.
Pete's brown eyes met hers. "I'm thinking about you. About us, and the future. Here we could have a nice home in a good community. If we leave, I'll be starting from scratch. I wouldn't have much to offer a wife."
The words slipped out as if spending their lives together were a foregone conclusion. Future. And we. And wife.
Mary Anne brimmed with happiness. “Lots of married couples start with nothing,” she said. “I have a job, and you'll find one soon enough."
She stopped, embarrassed by her boldness. Pete hadn't actually said he wanted to marry her. Maybe he'd been speaking in the abstract.
Lost in thought, he stood motionless for a moment and then strode over to the stage. Had she offended him?
Pete climbed up to the microphone. "Some of us have been talking, Ms. Bartholomew. I don't know how many of the men I speak for, but I'm the foreman on this project, and I'm packing my bags and heading out of here first thing tomorrow."
Run, Run, Runaway Bride Page 18
