They stood on the curb, waiting for a handful of cars to pass. “There’s been a spate of burglaries over the last couple of months,” he said. “Three or four camps out on Wilson Lake. The First Baptist Church not long ago. Margaret Ellison—she taught at the high school for forty years—came home one night and caught them going through her jewelry box. They were wearing ski masks, and they got away with an antique necklace. But not before they knocked her down and broke her hip.”
“Good God.”
“Whoever did this has taken jewelry, cash, electronics. At least one firearm. Also, a bunch of stupid little trinkets with no value to anyone except their owners. Which is why we think it’s teenagers. They’re mostly taking things they can sell for quick cash, but sometimes they get sidetracked by silly stuff. A pro would’ve ignored the trinkets.”
“And you think the Washburn brothers are involved?”
“Teddy and I both have our suspicions. That tribe they come from isn’t known for raising model citizens. Their father and two older brothers have all done time. But so far, there’s no evidence. No anything, except gut instinct. They’re bad news, the whole lot of ‘em.”
“And this is the guy Beth thinks is God’s gift to women. Jesus.”
The street cleared, and they crossed. “I sent out an e-mail to every pawn shop between Bangor and Portsmouth,” he said. “A list of what’s been taken, and a picture of Margaret Ellison’s necklace. I had a hit this afternoon. Guy who runs a pawn shop in Auburn called and said he recognized it. He just sold it three days ago.”
“Was he able to tell you who brought it in?”
“The name he gave didn’t check out. Jeff Brennan, from Pownal. He doesn’t seem to exist. But the description sounds a lot like Nicky Washburn. It’s not much to go on.”
“Security camera?”
“Broken.”
“Of course. Can you recover the necklace?”
They paused in the parking lot next to her car. “He said he doesn’t keep sales records for small items like that. But the woman who bought it comes in every few weeks, so there may be hope. I’d like to get it back for Margaret. Of course, even if we get it back, we’ll have to hold it as evidence until we can convict somebody.”
“That seems like a double-whammy. First, the crooks take your property. Then the cops keep it.”
“It sucks. But our hands are tied. We have to follow procedure.”
“Well. This has all been very enlightening.”
“Don’t say anything. It could jeopardize the investigation.”
“My lips are zipped. But I’m glad I told you about Beth.”
“Me, too. I’m especially glad you came to me, instead of Dad or Rose.”
“It’s hard building trust. I didn’t want to sic your folks on her and make her life hell. She’s a teenage girl, she’s going to have crushes on guys, and no teenage girl wants her parents trying to get inside her head. What concerned me was the fact that he seemed to be returning her interest. And not in a good way, if you know what I mean.”
“I’ll try to keep a closer eye on her. Spend a little more time with her.”
“So will I. She and Emma are inseparable. If I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”
* * *
EVEN THOUGH THERE was nothing she wanted less right now than to talk to Ryan, she’d always known him to be a reasonable person. At least, he’d been reasonable during the three years they’d lived together. Maybe she could convince him to see her point of view and return the dogs. She’d been stewing over the situation for weeks, ever since Leland Epstein had advised her against taking him to court. There was some truth to the old adage about catching more flies with honey than with vinegar. It was worth a try.
Tucked away in a private corner of Dad’s studio, her stomach tied in knots, she placed the call. There was no guarantee that he’d even answer. She hadn’t attempted to contact him since the break-up, and she doubted he was in any hurry to talk to her. But she hoped that common decency would compel him to take her call. That those three years they’d spent together were enough leverage to make him at least mildly curious about why she was calling.
But it wasn’t Ryan who answered. A breathy female voice said, “What do you want?”
Vanessa. Taken aback by the woman’s overt hostility, it took her a moment to recover. “I’d like to speak to Ryan if he’s available.”
“He’s not.”
What the hell was Vanessa Ortiz doing answering Ry’s phone in the first place? “This is important.”
“You lost, cupcake,” Vanessa said. “I won. Get over it.”
“You’re the one who needs to get over it,” she said. “I’m calling about the do—”
But Vanessa was gone, the line dead. “That little bitch,” she said in utter disbelief. “She hung up on me.”
When she dialed a second time, it rang, and rang, and rang. Ry’s voice mail picked up, and she disconnected. Pigs would fly around wearing pink tutus before she’d leave a message that he would perceive as groveling. Besides, if Vanessa had access to his phone, she probably knew his password and would erase the damn message before he ever saw it.
So much for human decency. Paige dialed the number of her attorney. When she had him on the phone, she said, “Leland, it’s Paige. I need you to draft me a strongly-worded letter.”
MIKEY
MIKEY FLIPPED THE steak on the grill, heard its satisfying sizzle. At the other end of the patio, Amy was setting the table with plates and forks and steak knives. In skin-tight jeans and a white tank top that did an admirable job of showing off her assets, Amy Tardiff emitted her own brand of sizzle. She straightened, caught him looking at her, and gave him an inexplicably sad smile before returning to the house for the salad.
She was right. He should be nicer to her. But these days, he found the simple act of putting forth more than minimal effort exhausting.
Keep moving forward. That’s what they’d told him at the hospital, in PT and OT and behavioral therapy. He’d heard it from the nurses, the doctors, the psychiatrists who specialized in PTSD, in grief trauma, in limb loss. The words might have varied, but every one of them had sung the same tune. Focus on where you’re going, not where you’ve been. You can’t change the past. There’s only the future, and the future is what you choose to make of it. Take those lemons life has handed you and make lemonade.
Two years. Two years since the day his heart died, and no matter how irritating the platitudes, he was making an effort. Moving forward. Focusing on what was in front of him, instead of looking back. Making lemonade. Here was another platitude: If you’re going to talk the talk, you’d better be willing to walk the walk. He was walking for all he was worth.
Sometimes the grief washed over him in waves. A scent, a snippet of music, or the unique formation of clouds in a summer sky, and he was gone, swimming against a dark and murky tide, tumbled and suffocated and drowned. Other times, it was subtle: a tickle at the back of his neck, a quivering in his stomach. A whisper in his ear.
Two years. He should be over it by now. Would he ever be over it?
The odds didn’t look good.
Amy returned, salad bowl in hand, the storm door slamming behind her. “How’s that steak coming along?”
“Just about done.” He made an exploratory cut. The pink center oozed blood. Medium rare, the way they both liked it. With a sharp fork, Mikey skewered the steak and plopped it onto a plate, turned off the gas, and carried it to the table.
For a time, they focused on the business of eating, until Amy set down her knife and fork and said, “How was your day?”
“Fine.”
“That’s all you can give me? Just fine?”
He lowered his fork and reached for one of her homemade dinner rolls. “It was a typical work day. Nothing that stood out.”
In the moment of silence that followed, he realized she was waiting for him to ask about her day. Sometimes, he had to remind himself to be civilized. It
used to come naturally. It didn’t seem to any longer. He picked up his butter knife and dipped it into the tub of margarine she’d brought out. He hated margarine. “You?” he said.
She let out a breath. “Summer school is a nightmare. I’m teaching American Lit to the usual suspects, some of whom are repeats from last year. I gave them Moby Dick for a reading assignment. Lots of weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. Very little rejoicing. One sophomore asked if he could read the CliffsNotes version because with his busy social life, he doesn’t have time to read the whole book.”
He bit back a smile, remembering his own sophomore year, when the teacher who’d assigned that very book was his own father. He’d found Melville to be mind-numbingly dull. It hadn’t ended well. He’d made it through the book, but the resulting critical analysis paper had earned him a C grade. Nobody had ever accused Jesse Lindstrom of favoritism when it came to his son. “He’ll make it through,” Mikey said. “Reading a book like that builds character.”
“A book like that? Just what does that mean?”
“It’s not exactly the kind of thing a fifteen-year-old boy dreams about reading.”
“So sorry. Maybe I should’ve assigned Penthouse.”
“Come on, Amy, that’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
He raised both eyebrows. “Seriously? You’re starting a fight over something as stupid as Moby Dick?”
“Moby Dick is not stupid. It’s one of the great works of American literature.” She leaned over her plate. “You’re in one of your moods tonight. I hate it when you’re in one of your moods.”
“I am not in one of my moods!” But even as he said the words, he realized she was right. He should have pleaded a headache, or a department meeting at Teddy’s house, because tonight, he wasn’t fit company for man or beast.
“I don’t understand why you’re so damn moody. Sometimes, you’re just unreachable. And you refuse to talk to me about it, so I never know whether it’s something I’ve done or said, or whether it’s just you, being pissy.”
He closed his eyes. Counted to ten. Opened them, and stared at the buttered roll he hadn’t taken a bite of. “It’s not something you said.”
“I heard you had coffee with Paige MacKenzie this afternoon. Is that what this is about?”
Amy had learned, long ago, that the best defense was a quick and cutting offense. He should be used to it by now, but her sneak attacks still caught him off guard. “What the hell?” he said in bewilderment. “Do you have people spying on me?”
“I was told that the two of you seemed quite cozy together.”
He didn’t mean to laugh. It simply spilled out of him, without bothering to ask for permission. When was the last time he’d laughed? He couldn’t remember, but he suspected it hadn’t happened at any point in the last two years. “There’s nothing going on between me and Paige,” he said.
“I don’t appreciate you laughing at me.”
“I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at the absurdity of what you just said. Paige and I are old friends. Nothing more. That’s not where my head is at. Not at all.” If she only knew how far away from Paige his head really was. But he’d never told her, and never planned to. Maybe, someday, he’d share the truth with somebody. But it wouldn’t be today, and it wouldn’t be Amy Tardiff. “I don’t owe you an explanation every time I have a cup of coffee with someone. But since—”
“All I want is the truth!”
“Since you’re so hell-bent on knowing,” he continued, “Paige stopped in at the station to talk to me about a family matter. We walked over to Dunkin’ Donuts and spent ten minutes talking over a cup of coffee.”
“Says you.”
The distrust in her eyes annoyed him. “You know what? I don’t get you at all. You’re smart, you’re sexy, you’re beautiful. You’re great with people, your students love you. You have more determination and drive than anyone I know. Self-confidence oozes from your pores. Except when it comes to me. When it comes to me, you’re clingy and insecure.” And he was too much of a gentleman to say it, but clingy and insecure were huge turn-offs for a guy.
She shoved back her chair. “Maybe if you ever showed any interest in me, I wouldn’t be that way.”
“Am I missing something? I practically live here. We sleep together three or four nights a week. Half the town thinks we’re joined at the hip. But I’m not showing any interest?”
Quietly, she said, “There’s a difference between being with someone and being with someone.”
Somewhere between Moby Dick and his apparent lack of interest, his appetite had fled. “I don’t want to fight,” he said. “I don’t even know how this fight started.” Clearly, there was more to it than an overrated book by a long-dead author. “Maybe I should just leave. Give us both some time to cool off, before one of us says something that can’t be taken back.”
“Fine.”
He was walking through a mine field, and he wasn’t unaware of the danger. But damned if he knew how to navigate it without disaster. “So…I’ll call you in a day or two?”
She crossed her arms, dinner forgotten. He’d practically had to barter his future firstborn child for those steaks. “Whatever.”
Suddenly, he couldn’t wait to escape. But he was still standing at the center of that mine field, and no matter which way he turned, he was in deep shit.
“Let me help you clean up,” he offered.
“Just go, Mike. Right now, I don’t want to look at you.”
She didn’t have to tell him twice. He just went.
* * *
CARS PACKED THE parking lot at the Dairy Delight, and the lines snaked around both corners of the building. He squeezed the bike into a narrow space between a pickup truck and a Volkswagen Jetta. He might as well indulge himself in an ice cream. He’d only gotten a few bites of the steak he’d paid so dearly for. Mikey kicked down the bike stand, yanked off his helmet, dropped it on the seat, and got in line. If he lived to be a hundred, he would never understand women. Amy was bright, educated, competent. But when it came to relationships, she was the most insecure woman he’d ever met. Why couldn’t she see that her jealousy was pushing him further away? He hadn’t signed up for this, and if something didn’t change, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could tolerate her behavior.
There were two lines, and in spite of the crowd, things moved fairly quickly. When his turn came, he ordered an upside-down banana split. Might as well go all out, try to eat away some of his anger. Maybe the sugar would smooth out his rough edges. He left two bucks in the tip jar for the plump, rosy-cheeked woman behind the counter. Wishing her a nice evening, he picked up his ice cream, stepped away from the window, and came face to face with Paige MacKenzie.
Of course. This was a small town. The woman was everywhere. It would be impossible to avoid her, even if he wanted to.
His irritation with Amy, and with the world at large, kicked up a notch. “MacKenzie,” he said.
She stared at him through mirrored sunglasses that hid her eyes. “Lindstrom.”
“I didn’t see you.”
“I’m parked on the other side of the building.” She nodded in the direction of his ice cream and said, “Great minds think alike.”
In her hand, she held a tiny vanilla soft-serve cone. Compared to his gargantuan banana split, it sorely lacked something. Like substance. “True,” he said. “Except that you’re a lightweight.”
“If I ate that much ice cream, I wouldn’t be for long.”
Clever, the little pun she’d made. His eyes made a slow, deliberate slide down that long, lean body. “Somehow,” he said, “I doubt that.”
“Aren’t you just full of charm, Officer Friendly.”
She hadn’t lost an ounce of her sass. Still the same old feisty Paige. He realized that although he was still mad as hell at Amy, it didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy sparring with Paige. “I’m going to eat my ice cream now,” he said. “Over th
ere.” He nodded in the direction of a picnic table that was just being deserted by a family of five. “You’re welcome to join me. Or not.”
“That has to be the warmest invitation I’ve had all day.”
He sat where he had a clear view of the bike. Paige slid onto the bench across from him. The summer evening was warm and dry, with just a hint of a breeze, the slanted rays of the lowering sun adding dramatic shadows to the scene in front of him. He focused on eating his ice cream, and Paige did the same. Neither of them was inclined to chat, and after a couple of minutes, he started to relax. He was still royally pissed, but there was something about Paige. Even sitting here silently, she had the ability to soothe the savage beast inside him. It was a remarkable quality.
He knew half the people here tonight. Probably word had already gotten back to Amy that he was eating ice cream with Paige MacKenzie in front of half the town. Her phone was probably ringing off the hook. He’d be hearing about it for sure. Maybe it was time to give her a good reason to be jealous. Make a big public display of some kind. Go big or go home. It would be like poking a nest of snakes with a stick. The idea was childish, immature, potentially problematic.
And thoroughly satisfying.
Dropping his plastic spoon into his empty dish, he said, “Ever been on a motorcycle?”
Paige cast a quick, startled glance in the direction of his Harley. “Um, no.”
He kept a spare helmet with the bike, just in case. Amy, of course, hardly ever rode with him. She didn’t have a high opinion of motorcycles to begin with, and she hated messing up her hair. Eyeing Paige speculatively, he decided she didn’t look like a woman who cared about messing up her hair. “Want to go for a ride?”
This time, she examined the bike a little longer. “Sure,” she said. “Just remember that if you get me killed, my business manager and my executive assistant will both be wanting to have a few words with you.”
The woman was fearless. For an instant, he saw Rachel sitting in front of him, ubiquitous camera in hand, her auburn waves pulled back severely from her face because of the Iraqi heat. She’d been fearless, too. Some would say careless. “I won’t get you killed,” he said, then remembered he’d promised pretty much the same thing to Rachel, and look how that turned out.
Face the Music: Beyond Jackson Falls Book 1 Page 11
