“It’s clearing out,” she reported. “Four people sent compliments to the chef. Three for the French toast, one for your Spanish omelet.”
“Thanks.” She already had mixing bowls and pots soaking in the deep sink and was thinking about today’s lunch specials. Curried lentil for soup and—
“One of the men asked about you. Wanted to know your name.”
She went absolutely still, not turning until she was sure she could control her expression. “Why did he care?”
Anita shrugged. “He really liked the French toast.”
“Is he still here?”
Anita ran a credit card through the slider. “He was one of the late-comers. Back corner table.”
Heart drumming, Naomi debated with herself. Look? Don’t look?
What good would it do to look? They were unlikely to send anyone after her she’d recognize. Still…knowing someone out there was curious about her personally made the hair on her nape raise. It was a creepy sensation, like knowing you’re being watched even though you can’t spot the watcher.
And – the back corner table. Naomi had noticed before that the local cops eating here almost all chose that table when it was open. Apparently they preferred to keep their backs to the wall. Maybe other paranoids – say, criminals – had the same preference.
Finally, she couldn’t stand it. She took a couple of hesitant steps out of the kitchen, through the service area, just far enough to be able to peek into the dining room.
Anita was currently clearing one table while chatting with a couple at a neighboring one – Linda and Palmer Ellenbogen, frequent diners. A retired money manager and city council member, Palmer was signing the credit card slip Anita must have just handed him.
Two small tables were occupied by single men, both strangers to Naomi. The one in the back corner appeared at first sight to be harmless. He was texting on his phone or checking email while groping for his coffee cup with his free hand. Strongly built, he was late thirties at a guess, wearing jeans, work boots, a navy wool shirt open over a T-shirt. Disheveled, dark red hair and stubble suggested he was not a sales rep planning to make some calls, or not today, anyway. A lumberjack or construction worker, maybe, or the rare single male tourist. Heck, maybe his wife just wasn’t a breakfast eater. He didn’t send up a flare for Naomi, which didn’t keep her from stepping back quickly when he raised his head.
Only then did she see that the second guy here alone was looking straight at her.
For no known reason, he scared her. Heartbeat accelerating, she scuttled back into the kitchen, her wild gaze going to the back door.
Run.
Instead, she retreated far enough to press her back to the counter edge right beside the rear exit. There she waited, trying to control her breathing. If he appeared—
Instead, Anita did, ringing up another charge while calling, “Have a nice day.” The bell above the door tinkled as someone apparently departed.
The flood of fear retreated like a wave, exposing clean-washed sand. Playing with the unwary, Naomi reminded herself. The next wave might be a monster that would fling itself higher on the beach and pull any fools out to sea.
Nonetheless, her tension loosened by increments. The man was somebody who’d stopped for breakfast. That’s all. Restaurants, by their very nature, served strangers. She’d been in this particular stranger’s line of sight by chance. His thoughts had likely been elsewhere. People rarely even took in their waiter’s face, not to remember. She’d been background clutter.
It really sucked to have become such a scaredy-cat, to have to deal with these too-frequent moments of terror, her body reacting with a primitive fight or flight reflex that left her feeling like a soggy, wrung-out dish rag afterwards. Most often, the cause wasn’t even logical.
She might have made an appointment to discuss her problem with a doctor and request a heavy-duty dose of anti-depressants or anti-anxiety medications, except for one, teeny little reality check – she had real enemies who would like very much to kill her, if only they could find her. And then there was the fact she’d just as soon avoid coming to the attention of law enforcement, too.
But her second anniversary in Cape Trouble was approaching, and no one had found her yet. She had to be doing something right.
Keep to herself. Stay out of sight. No contact with anyone from her past. No artless confidences to new acquaintances. Don’t be foolish enough to completely trust anyone. And never, ever, ever let down her guard.
She was smart enough to know a killer wouldn’t necessarily look dangerous. It could even be a woman who came hunting her.
Finally calm, she started the enormous pot of soup cooking, then rolled out pastry dough for peach tarts that would bake while she juggled preparations for the dozen entrees on her lunch menu, not including the simpler salads and sandwiches that Anita would help with.
So…what about the one guy had set her off?
Once upon a time, she’d have thought he was sexy. Maybe that was reason enough. The last man she’d gone on more than one date with had turned out to be an assassin-for-hire. Gee, maybe any hormonal reaction to a man fired up her panic. Good thing she wasn’t looking for romance or even just sex, then, wasn’t it?
This guy had been leaner than the other one, more like a greyhound beside a mastiff. Hair darker than hers, eyes…she wasn’t sure. Gray or hazel, maybe. Lighter than you’d expect with his coloring. Striking bone structure, the cheekbones broad, prominent and blunt. Almost brutal. There’d been something exotic about that face. And – his expression might have had nothing to do with her, it might have reflected whatever he’d brooded about while eating breakfast, but it wasn’t pleasant. He hadn’t been debating whether his next activity should be checking out the tide pools or climbing the path to the lighthouse to take photos.
She shivered, listening to Anita’s cheerful voice and the faint tinkle of the bell on the door as more diners left. Too early for any to be arriving; the café didn’t close between breakfast and lunch, but the few people who wandered in before eleven-thirty or so usually wanted only coffee and a muffin.
The lunch rush had her too busy to worry. It wasn’t until Anita was gone, the sign turned to closed and the door locked that Naomi thought again about the two men. She was adding up the day’s receipts and preparing for a quick stop at the bank. Either man or both might have paid cash - in fact, it appeared most people eating breakfast here this morning had paid cash - but an excess of caution had her flipping through the credit card slips, starting at the bottom of the pile.
The names were mostly familiar. She made note of the two that weren’t.
Julian A. Granath. Julian’s signature consisted of a few loops and a couple of straight lines. Unreadable, if his name hadn’t been on the card.
Randall Bresler. No middle initial, handwriting with perfectly formed letters.
Neither name seemed to fit the guy with the sharply sculpted cheekbones, although – well, that was dumb, wasn’t it? He could just as well be a Joe Smith. The man with the dark red hair could go with either name, she supposed. Or neither. There’d been plenty of genuine tourists in the café this morning.
The Cape Trouble Chamber of Commerce had run ads in several recent issues of Oregon Coast Magazine as well as the Portland Oregonian and the Seattle Times trumpeting the appeal of winter getaways. Pounding surf, twining mist, unspoiled beaches, heaps of driftwood, sand dollars and Japanese floats. Either because of the ad or the improving economy, tourism was up. She’d prefer not to think people had chosen to vacation here because of the other press Cape Trouble had recently gotten, when a serial killer had been arrested this summer. No matter why, inns were full on Friday and Saturday nights despite the season.
She zipped cash along with a deposit slip into the bag for the bank, and placed the credit card slips into a plain envelope to take home with her. Bag over her shoulder, she let herself out the back door into the alley, where she had wedged her compact car in beside t
he dumpster. The earlier rain had subsided into a barely-there drizzle that felt cool and clean.
Her usual careful look up and down the alley was aborted when she saw Monica Sanchez, who owned the art gallery two doors from the Sea Watch, heaving a full bag into the dumpster. Relieved to have safe company, Naomi started toward her car.
The lid clanged shut and Monica turned and saw her. “Hey. Looked like you were busy today.”
“Swamped. What about you?”
“Busier than usual for this late in the fall.” A voluptuous brunette, Monica smiled with satisfaction. “I sold an Elias Burton original this morning.”
Naomi grinned. “Bet that made your day.”
Elias Burton was a local boy made good whose watercolor and oil originals went for prices in the neighborhood of $5,000. Naomi didn’t know what Monica’s commission was, but it seemed likely to be in the 30-40% range. Naomi had wondered a little if he and Monica had something going that had nothing to do with art, mainly because they were both, in their own ways, spectacular looking.
“Was it the one in the window?” she asked. She hadn’t been able to help noticing the watercolor depicting a single person walking through the fog on a rocky stretch of beach. The first time she saw it, Naomi had stood on the sidewalk staring, gripped by loneliness so intense, she’d felt hollowed out. That was the power of his art – usually landscapes that somehow still evoked emotion. It was rare for him to paint people at all. Studying that particular painting, she’d kind of been glad.
“No. That one is…unsettling. I warned Elias it might be a hard sell. Draws people in, though. No, this couple bought an oil of a tide pool. A little less distressing to look at.”
“I wonder about him sometimes,” Naomi said impulsively, then regretted what she’d said. Friendly but not very personal was more her style.
“You and me both.” Monica’s tone was wry. “Listen, I left the store unmanned. I’d better get back in before someone robs me blind.”
“Good idea.” With a last smile, Naomi unlocked her car and slung her messenger bag into the passenger seat. “See ’ya.” She hit the button to lock the minute she was in.
Four blocks from the café, Naomi parked and went into the bank. The teller, an older woman she’d come to know, counted quickly, gave her a receipt and wished her a good day.
A couple of turns, and Naomi reached the Pacific Coast Highway, where she turned north. Her small rental cottage was in Jasper Beach, the next town up the coast – although calling it a town was an exaggeration. Jasper Beach was more a cluster of elderly homes, a few of which had once been stately, the rest shingled cottages, one ramshackle old resort, a two-pump gas station and small grocery store, a gift shop and a couple of artists’ studios. The small crescent beach had been named for the tiny, polished pebbles, many deep red jasper, that washed up to mix with the sand. Naomi preferred the quiet and intimacy of a village where everyone knew their neighbors to the larger Cape Trouble, where a good percent of the houses were rented by the night to tourists. To her regret, the huge new resort on the bluff now dominated her view from the cottage, and when it was complete, the mostly empty beach she loved would be flooded with strangers.
Men were swarming the skeleton structure right now and a crane seemed to be lifting roof trusses into place.
Her cottage didn’t even have a detached garage. She felt lucky to have a sagging carport that allowed her to come and go through a side door without getting wet.
Often when she arrived home, the next door neighbor’s curtain twitched, but not today. Come to think of it, Arthur Tuchek’s boat of a car had been missing. It might feel as if he was always home, watching her comings and goings, but he did have to grocery shop now and again.
Naomi unlocked and stepped into the tiny utility room, hearing the silence. From habit, she locked behind her. Two steps took her into the kitchen, where she went completely still.
Her junk drawer jutted open about an inch. It tended to stick. But she hadn’t needed anything out of it in…oh, a week, at least. And…the cupboard door right beside the refrigerator was partially open, too. Enough that she could see the way the shelf paper was peeling up – or had been lifted so someone could look under it.
Run.
Instead, she inched backwards, trying not to make even the smallest of sounds until her shaking fingers found the latch for the deadbolt.
*****
She’d barely gone inside, and next thing she rushed out to her car and leaped in.
Adam sat up straighter.
Her Ford Focus shot out of the driveway so fast, he wondered if Naomi Varner aka Kendrick had even glanced into the rearview mirror to ensure she didn’t slam broadside into some poor sucker who happened to be passing.
Not that there was much in the way of traffic, in this odd little cluster of homes on the other side of the point from Cape Trouble.
He set aside the binoculars, prepared to follow her, but had barely put his rented SUV into gear when she did a mid-block U-turn and stopped on the other side of the street from her house.
There she sat.
Through the binoculars, he saw that she was speaking on her cell phone, her gaze riveted on her house.
Huh. She hadn’t been brought out by an urgent call demanding her presence elsewhere, then. Something inside had alarmed her. He turned the binoculars on the house, looking for any hint of movement behind the small-paned windows. Closed curtains in almost every window blocked his view. Had she left them drawn, or had a visitor closed them to keep anyone from watching as he…what? Rummaged through her possessions? Or lay in wait for her?
If he’d laid in wait, why hadn’t he grabbed her, whoever he was? And, if that wasn’t the case, what had scared her?
Interested and mildly annoyed, Adam settled in to wait. He’d known he wouldn’t be the only one to show up in Cape Trouble to hunt down the chef, but he’d hoped to have a day before he faced any competition.
No such luck, he thought philosophically.
He’d give a lot to know what she had on Gregory Cobb or someone else in his organization that made them so nervous.
*****
Naomi watched a large gray sedan round the corner and stop in front of her cottage. No flashing lights or siren. It was unmarked but also, with the distinctive antennas and the cage separating front and back seats, unmistakably police issue. Why hadn’t her 911 call brought a blue and white sheriff’s department squad car?
Her engine still ran. She stayed where she was, watching as a solidly built, sandy-haired man wearing a suit and tie got out. His hand slipped inside the suit coat, and withdrew holding a huge black handgun.
He looked vaguely familiar, although she couldn’t summon his name. She didn’t think he was a regular, but he ate sometimes at the café, she was sure. Some of her tension dissipated, although in its wake she wasn’t sure her knees would hold her if she got out and walked across the street to join him.
He was moving quickly, staying close to the cottage walls as he eased into the carport toward the side door she’d told the dispatcher was unlocked.
Maybe it would be better if she stayed put until he came back out.
At that moment, he disappeared from her sight. Anxiety grabbed hold again. She stared so fixedly, her eyes began to burn. She remembered to blink, but it didn’t help much.
And then the front door opened, and he appeared, his seemingly casual glance taking in the entire street, all the cottages, and, of course, her small blue car.
Naomi put it into gear and returned to her own driveway. The tall cop strolled to meet her.
“Ms. Kendrick?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Detective Jason Payne.” His eyes were an unusually light shade of brown. Naomi guessed him to be in his mid-thirties. He was handsome, although in a smooth way that didn’t move her personally.
Good thing, she thought semi-hysterically, considering her new theory about the connection between her sexual and panic responses.
“What did I do to deserve a detective?” she asked.
“I happened to be passing. Wasn’t a mile away when I heard the request for a unit.”
“There’s…nobody inside?”
“No. I…can’t quite tell what alarmed you.” His tone was neutral enough not to suggest he thought she was a nut. “Why don’t we walk through together.”
She bit her lip and nodded. “I went in the side door.”
He took a long narrow-eyed look over her shoulder. She turned enough to see that he was studying an SUV she hadn’t noticed earlier. No, she was sure she would have, if it had been parked just around the corner from her cottage when she turned down the street. It must have arrived since. Someone sat in the driver’s seat, although through the tinted windshield, she couldn’t make him out well.
With a chill, she had to wonder if he had searched her house and was now watching to see what she did about it.
Right. To break in and then sit there in plain sight made so much sense. He was probably waiting for someone.
The detective must have come to the same conclusion, because he finally gestured her ahead.
Inside, she stopped a few feet into the kitchen. “I didn’t get even this far. It was the open drawer that caught my eye. That’s my junk drawer. You know, screwdrivers, rubber bands, extra sticky notes, anything I don’t know where else to put.”
He nodded.
“I haven’t opened it in a week or more. It’s warped a little and needs a little sideways jiggle to close it.” She nodded toward the cupboard. “And…I was sure I didn’t leave that open, either. And, um, look at the shelf paper.”
Oh, God. That sounded so weak. Old cottage, damp climate, and some shelf paper laid who knew when that was peeling up.
The cop had returned his weapon to a holster hidden beneath his suit coat. Now he produced a pair of latex gloves from a pocket, snapped them on and fully opened the cupboard door.
The dishes were at least more or less where she’d stacked them.
See How She Runs (A Cape Trouble Novel Book 2) Page 2
