The scent of grilling wafted by again. It emanated from a takeout joint two storefronts away, where several bikini-clad young women were lined up at the counter. How artless and perfect they looked, these California girls with their unmarred tans and minuscule swimsuits. Damp, tangled hair and oversize sunglasses made it impossible to assess their features, but Lisa couldn’t suppress a twinge of jealousy.
Ryder was spending the day surrounded by nearly naked women. Heck, he lived half a dozen miles away. Once Lisa departed, he would hardly lack for romantic opportunities.
Glumly she went to get in line. The girls ahead of her carted their food away, and she ordered a burger, fries and a soft drink. Not exactly health food, but the desperate would eat anything.
No one appeared interested in the surf shop, and, lunch sack in hand, Lisa decided not to risk spilling food inside. Instead, she passed the store and headed for a nearby bench.
Abruptly, she halted. Outside a curio boutique, a window box overflowed with deep green foliage and vivid red geraniums. Another image superimposed itself. Flowers outside my window. Red and yellow tulips. A memory!
If she stared hard enough at the picture in her mind, maybe she could see more. The view through the window—a city? A town?
“Hey, uh, Lisa?” A shaggy young man peered at her handwritten name tag. “You work in the surf shop?”
“Yes?” She snapped back to the present. “Did you want to buy something?”
“Not exactly.” Long scraggly hair framed the fellow’s young, rather sweet face. “This girl, uh, Buffy, said I should check you out because you’re hot.”
Buffy had been the girl on the previous day who wore an orange top and purple bottom. “She’s matchmaking for me?”
“Not with him!” A shorter fellow, also about eighteen, thrust himself in front of his shaggy companion. Thin-faced and remarkably pale for the vicinity, he had the nervous habit of rubbing his hands together. “I’m more your type, wouldn’t you say?”
“No comment.” While Lisa hated to hurt his feelings, she wasn’t interested in flirting. Moreover, hunger pangs were affecting her temper.
Although it was impolite to eat in front of others without offering them any, Lisa nibbled on a couple of French fries. The two young men watched in fascination as she chewed and swallowed. She hoped Buffy wouldn’t send any more admirers. Lisa hated being treated like a public spectacle.
Still, they might be useful. “Did she tell you I’m looking for a friend of mine named Ginger?”
“Yeah, and that’s sort of why—” The first fellow broke off and thrust out his hand. “My name’s Jason but everybody calls me Greek.”
“Hello, Jason.” She shuffled her food and freed a finger, which he shook solemnly. “Are you from Greece?”
“No, he’s a geek, but Greek sounds better,” explained his companion, who also shook her finger. “I’m not so proud. Call me Moron.”
“Moron?” Lisa repeated. “Isn’t that an insult?”
“It’s better than Nerd, which is what he is,” Greek said affably. “A computer nerd.”
“And it beats Percy Moroni, which is my real name.” On the point of rubbing his palms together, the thin-faced fellow stopped and regarded the hand that had touched Lisa’s. “I’ll never wash it again.”
“You’ll never wash what again?” said Greek.
Lisa ate a couple more fries. The boys stopped babbling and stared as the food went down her throat. It seemed to her that their gazes dropped well below the point at which her swallowing ended. “Greek, you started to say something about Ginger,” she prompted.
“Oh! Yeah.” His gaze wandered over the beach. “See, we’ve got this crash pad.”
“You and...Moron?”
“And a few friends,” added his pale friend. “Ladies welcome, anytime.”
“Red hair and freckles? About sixteen? She might have been there, uh, one or two nights,” Greek continued. “Is she in trouble?”
Lisa restrained the impulse to wolf down more food. She needed to ask some questions. “No,” she said. “But I’m worried about her. Any idea where she is?”
Both heads jerked back and forth. No. “We’ll send her over if we see her,” said Moron.
Not a good idea. “Better yet, let me know where she is, okay? She’s real jumpy. I just need to talk to her.”
“Will do,” said Greek.
“Where’s your place, anyway?” she asked.
“You planning on dropping in?” asked Moron. “You’re welcome anytime.” He started to provide the address, and then both boys began to fidget and twitch. Lisa wondered if they’d been attacked by sand fleas, until she realized they were staring at someone over her shoulder.
She turned. Toward them marched a stocky policeman with a black holster belted around his midsection.
The boys edged away. “It’s Officer Nosy,” Moron said.
Paper crinkled. Greek, she noticed, clutched a paper bag in his left hand. As he tightened his grip, it took on the unmistakable shape of a wine bottle. Alcohol, according to signs, was forbidden on the beach, along with unleashed dogs and fireworks.
“Gotta go,” said Greek, and the two young men melted into the crowd.
Relieved to be alone, Lisa took a bite from her hamburger. To her surprise, the policeman stopped, square in the middle of the sidewalk. He was staring right at her.
Chapter Ten
Ryder should have worn sunscreen. As his watch edged past noon, he could feel the back of his neck frying, and his arms were turning suspiciously pink. He’d figured that having a modest tan would protect him. He’d forgotten how much sand and water intensified the effects of the sun’s rays.
An hour of distributing flyers and chatting with people might have toasted his skin, but it hadn’t netted much information. Not many girls had Ginger’s distinctive coloring, and a few people thought they’d seen her, but none could pin down a location.
The weather was hot for April, he reflected grumpily. If only it were raining, Ginger would be easier to spot in the deserted beach area. She might even have returned home.
The canvas bag of flyers was nearly empty. By the edge of the sidewalk, Ryder paused to flex his back and gaze over the crowd of wall-to-wall beachgoers. A red-and-blue disk whirled past him. A girl caught it, giggled, and heaved it into the air, without appearing to know who had thrown it in the first place. Down by the surf line, a group of kids was building a sand castle. Despite the stubby walls and crumbling turrets, their construction clearly soared in their imaginations.
The scene oozed peacefulness and safety. A sense of community. To a pampered girl like Ginger, this must seem like one big playground. Ryder hoped she would have no reason to learn how dangerously deceptive beach life could be.
Among the throng, he spotted a couple sitting on a towel, gazing out to sea. One had a mane of rusty hair spilling over her T-shirt. Ginger? Right there in front of him?
He picked his way cautiously between discarded soda cans, umbrellas and sunbathers. He was drawing close when the redhead turned to frown at him. Beaked nose. Stubbly cheeks. Sideburns. A guy, and not a friendly one, either.
Ryder handed him a flyer and beat a hasty retreat. The scent of fish frying in a seafood outlet reminded him that it was lunchtime. He ought to check on Lisa. It also wouldn’t hurt to buy a bottle of sunscreen at the surf shop. Ryder could endure pain, but suffering unnecessarily wasn’t brave, it was stupid.
As he set out, his thoughts flew ahead to Lisa. Would she still be there? Had he been a fool to leave her alone with the run of his friend’s business? She wasn’t a thief, in his judgment, and he didn’t believe she was up to anything else underhanded, either. More and more, Ryder admitted, as he stepped aside to let a skateboarder pass, he was beginning to believe her claim of amnesia.
Everything she said and did fit the story. Maybe he simply wanted it to be true. To believe that for a little while she belonged exclusively to him. Even here at the beach, whe
re young, scantily clad women abounded, no one attracted him like Lisa. It wasn’t only her striking appearance, but something deeper. Intelligence, humor, warmth...
Ryder gave himself a mental shake. He’d escaped his father’s aimless, impoverished life by never letting himself get soft. He didn’t intend to start now.
On the sand near the walkway, a young woman struggled to open her beach umbrella. While Ryder felt no compulsion to play Good Samaritan, he went to help so he could hand her a flyer.
“Allow me.” He reached for the recalcitrant shade.
From beneath a straw hat, a pair of sunglasses swung toward him and he felt himself examined critically. “Thank you.”
A measured tone. The woman, he realized at second glance, must be in her early thirties. Taking a guess at why she was on vacation during spring break, he said, “You wouldn’t happen to be a teacher, would you?”
A nod answered him.
“I’m looking for a runaway.” After snapping the umbrella into place, he took out Ginger’s picture. The woman glanced at it. “I’ve seen her,” she said.
“Where? When?”
“Yesterday afternoon.” Frown lines fanned around her mouth. “Frankly, that’s one of the reasons I returned today. I was worried about her.”
“Why?” Ryder asked.
“Mind telling me who you are?”
He produced his investigator’s license. After studying it, the woman said, “A man was talking to her for a long time. They were standing in an alley, and it looked as if he was trying to lure her away from the beach.”
Ryder caught his breath. It was the kind of scenario he’d feared. “Can you describe him?”
The woman tilted her head apologetically. “Nothing striking. Medium height, medium coloring, about thirty-five, I guess. His clothes were cheap—not raggedy, but the kind of heavy polyester stuff you find in a thrift shop.”
“How did she react to him?”
“She seemed uncomfortable but not frightened,” the teacher said. “You know how teenagers are. They think they can handle anything.”
“Did she leave with him?” Ryder prayed that the answer would be no. Not just because Anthony Callas was his client, either.
The woman shook her head. “He grabbed her hand as if to pull her along. It bothered me so much that I started toward them. Before I could speak, he scowled and left.”
“Did you talk to her?” Ryder asked.
“The way she glared at me?” the teacher said. “There was no point in lecturing. I was just grateful she didn’t go after him.”
Ryder handed her a business card. “If you see her again, I’d appreciate a call. Her father is very concerned.”
En route, to the surf shop, Ryder purchased a paper boat full of fried clams. They were greasy, chewy and a treat.
So Ginger had been alive and well on the previous day. He hoped the polyester man wasn’t still prowling the same place.
His steps slowed as he observed Lisa standing outside the store, hamburger in hand. Her long dark hair ruffled in the breeze, and the scarf wound around her head made her resemble a Gypsy beauty. A policeman stood with his back to Ryder. From his stance, he seemed to be speaking intently, while Lisa’s forehead puckered in confusion.
Were the authorities searching for her, after all? Were the New York police merely concerned for her well-being, or was she wanted for some other reason?
Ryder approached, keeping his hands in sight so as not to appear threatening. “May I help you with something, Officer?”
The patrolman shifted position so he could see them both at once. “Are you this lady’s boyfriend, sir?”
“Yes, I am.” The truth, more or less.
“Has she seen a doctor for these injuries?” He indicated the bruising along Lisa’s face and shoulder.
“I told him I didn’t need one,” she interjected.
The policeman watched Ryder. The implication was unmistakable. Abusive behavior had become a serious concern to law enforcement, and this might be an unreported victim.
“Did you explain about the accident?” Ryder asked her.
She wore a puzzled expression. “I told him I got hit by a cab, but I don’t think he believes me.”
“We don’t see a lot of cabs around here,” the officer said mildly.
“In New York,” Ryder said. “At the airport.” He saw no point in hiding the details, since the officer—J. Valencia, according to his name tag—was only checking out a case of possible battering. “She was treated at a hospital there. Lisa, show him the stitches.”
“Oh!” Reaching up, she removed the scarf and leaned forward. Officer Valencia inspected her head wound gravely. “That does look professional.”
“Believe me, I don’t hit women,” Ryder said.
“Hit me?” Lisa gasped. “Of course not!”
“We can’t be too careful,” said the patrolman. “Women frequently deny it to protect their men.”
“If a man hit me, I’d scratch his eyes out!” Lisa declared, so indignantly that even J. Valencia smiled.
Time to enlist some official help in another cause. “The truth is, we’re searching for a runaway girl.” He displayed his license. “At this point, her father would rather avoid making an official report, but I’d appreciate your letting me know if you see her.”
The policeman studied at her photo and listened with concern to the account of the polyester man. “We’re restricted as far as taking minors into custody unless there’s evidence of wrongdoing, but I’d be happy to notify you if I see her. And I’ll certainly keep an eye out for that guy.”
Ryder gave him a business card. Officer Valencia tucked it in his pocket, wished them a pleasant afternoon and sauntered off.
“How peculiar,” Lisa said. “He thought you did this to me.”
Ryder gazed into her delicate face. He couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt her. Even when he’d been most furious with her, right after she dumped him, he would have risked his life to protect her. “He was just doing his job,” he said. “You’d be surprised how many jerks there are in the world.”
Then something occurred to him. He and Lisa had both, instinctively, withheld information about her amnesia. As if they believed it was risky to involve the authorities in the search for her identity. As if we were in this together, against the world.
Ryder scolded himself for exaggerating. Or, perhaps, for letting himself care too much. “How did it go this morning?” He gestured toward her food. “Sorry I didn’t get back earlier. I was planning to relieve you.”
“It went fine, but kind of slow.” Lisa plucked a clam from his container and downed it appreciatively. “I feel bad for Biff. We ought to help him drum up business.”
“I thought that’s what I was doing.” Ryder indicated his nearly empty bag of flyers.
They strolled toward the store together. “That’s true, but...” As she unlocked the door, Lisa glanced toward the rack of cover-ups and women’s swimsuits. “Who would know that stuff is in here, if they didn’t come in to buy a surfboard?”
“He’s got a couple of bikinied mannequins in the window,” Ryder pointed out.
“I thought they were just to attract attention to the surfboards. It didn’t occur to me he sold women’s clothing until I walked in for the first time.” Lisa planted her hands on her hips. “I’ve got it!”
“I’m afraid to ask what ‘it’ is.”
“An idea.” She pushed him toward the counter. “You take over the register. I’ll be back.”
“What—”
“I have no idea what line of work I used to be in, but something tells me I have a knack for promotions,” she told him on her way out the door. “See you!”
*
As it turned out, she wasn’t so much seeing him, as he—and a lot of other people—were seeing her, Lisa discovered. It hadn’t taken long to snag her new friends from the previous day. Starr jumped at the chance to put on a fashion show, and Buffy couldn�
��t resist joining them.
They changed clothes in the little dressing room and paraded in front of the store. Although the object was to attract women customers, most of the gawkers were male. Lisa could feel Ryder’s irritation from inside the store, but she refused to give up. Already several young women were wandering toward them to find out what was causing the fuss.
Neither Buffy, with her short brown hair and still-childish figure, nor tall, knobby Starr drew the same response as Lisa. However, they giggled and whooped, having a good time. More girls approached, and several went inside to check out the merchandise.
It was working! Lisa felt a small thrill of satisfaction when she saw one girl emerge with a purchase in hand. Already she was contemplating other promotional ideas. Perhaps a karaoke contest, or a Mr. Wet Suit competition.
Once she found out who she was, she might apply for a job with a marketing firm, Lisa decided. Or take courses in the field. She wanted to learn as much as she could.
When she ducked inside to change costumes, she saw Ryder ringing up a sale. While he wore a long-suffering expression, he didn’t object when she put on a different swimsuit and went out.
“That looks fantastic,” Starr said after Lisa emerged in a scarlet one-piece with black racing stripes. “You really fill it out.”
“How old are you, anyway?” piped up Buffy.
“I’m—” When it struck Lisa that she didn’t know her own age, she experienced a moment of panic, as if she’d nearly stepped off a cliff. Hanging on to her composure, she said, “Over twenty-one.”
“Yeah, I guess once you get up there, the exact age doesn’t matter, huh?” said Starr.
Whatever Lisa might have replied was lost as she caught sight of a new arrival among the onlookers. A slightly chubby girl with a froth of red hair and a generous sprinkling of freckles.
Standing alone, Ginger wore jeans and a T-shirt instead of swimwear like most other girls, and she was carrying an oversize shoulder bag. The earmarks of a runaway, Lisa supposed.
Until now, she hadn’t considered what she should do if she spotted the girl. As Ryder had pointed out, it would only scare her away to indicate they were after her. On the other hand, Lisa had told Buffy and Starr that she was seeking a friend named Ginger. At the moment, thank goodness, they were practicing graceful—well, almost graceful—turns a short distance away, and hadn’t noticed the newcomer.
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