by Kylie Logan
“He’s got inventory at the Irish store tonight.”
“Now who’s acting innocent?” She squealed out a laugh. “I didn’t ask about inventory.”
“Technically, you didn’t ask about anything else, either.”
“Except you know I’m dying to know. You and Declan . . . you’re getting along?”
That was putting it mildly. Since there was no sense in sending Sophie’s imagination soaring any further than the stratosphere where it already was, I simply concurred. “We’re getting along.”
“He’s spending a lot of time at Pacifique.”
“He is.”
“And you’re getting along.”
“We’re getting along.”
“He’s a good man.”
“He is.”
“And he’d make a great husband.”
“Sophie, out!” I pointed toward the door and for once, Sophie knew she’d crossed the line. After a quick “See you tomorrow,” she was on her way.
I was left shaking my head. At Sophie. At Declan. At the fact that people just couldn’t be happy with things the way they were, even when things were fine.
I guess that’s what I was still thinking about an hour and a half later when I drove home to Pacifique. The farm is in Cortland, about thirty minutes northwest of Hubbard, and by the time I got home, it was long past dark.
“Inventory.” I breathed the word while I parked my car near the barn where Rocky used to pot up fresh herbs that she’d sell at farmers’ markets, and when I stepped through the mud to the house, I realized how much longing there was in my voice. If Declan didn’t have to finish inventory at Bronntanas, the store no one could remember the name of and simply called the Irish store, we’d share a late-night glass of wine and stories about what we’d done that day and then—
The heat that built in my stomach at the thought dissolved in an instant.
My back door was open.
No sooner had the thought hit like the punch of a heavyweight champ than I heard the squeal of tires on the driveway and saw the pulsing blue and red of police car lights. A second later, the squad car screeched to a stop next to me and Tony Russo jumped out of the car. I’d met Tony during the investigation of Rocky Arnaud’s death a few months before and I knew he was an honest, dependable, steady sort of cop.
I did not realize he was also telepathic.
I stammered, “But how did you . . . ? Where did you . . . ? How could you . . . ?”
The answers to my questions arrived along with Otis Greenway, my nearest neighbor, who came huffing and puffing through the copse of maple trees beyond the barn.
“Sorry! Sorry, I had to leave.” Otis is middle-aged, middle height, and paunchy. Even in the thin light that flowed from my open back door, I could see that his face was the same vivid red as the lights on Tony’s squad car. Automatically, I grabbed his arm and piloted him to the bench just outside the back door.
“What’s going on?” I asked no one in particular.
While Otis fought to catch his breath, Tony stepped up beside me. “Mr. Greenway here called 911 just a few minutes ago.”
“That’s right.” Otis nodded and pulled in a breath. “Minnie and I . . .” Minnie was his wife. “We . . . we were out for a little walk and that’s when I saw it. I . . . I knew it just didn’t look right. I knew I had to call the police. But then Minnie . . . well, you know how it is, Laurel. You know how she can wander off. And she started off toward home and I couldn’t wait around here for the cops to arrive. I had to get her home and now . . .” He pressed a hand to his heart. “Now I’m back.”
“So go over it again, Mr. Greenway.” Like I said, Tony was the steady sort. He knew the last thing Otis needed was excitement and he took it slow and easy. “What exactly did you see?”
“Well, we’d just come around the barn.” As if we’d forgotten where it was, Otis looked that way. “And I saw that the light was on in Laurel’s kitchen. But I didn’t see her car, and I thought that was strange. And that’s when I saw him.”
“Him?” The single word stuck in my throat.
Otis dipped his head. “A man. He walked out your back door. And it’s not the man I’ve seen around here so many times before, not Declan.”
I refused to let my cheeks heat up, even when Tony gave me a knowing look.
“This was another man, one I’d never seen. He walked out of your house and he looked all around like he wanted to make sure no one saw him. I knew it wasn’t right. So that’s when I called.”
“And you did the right thing, Mr. Greenway.” Tony bent so he could look Otis in the eye. “Can you tell me what the man looked like?”
“Sure.” Otis thought about it, but not for long. “He was a short fellow, kind of thin. Of course it’s dark and I couldn’t see really clear, and the second he saw me he jumped in a car that was parked down the driveway, but I can tell you he was wearing glasses and a gray coat. And a hat. Yeah. A black fedora.”
Chapter 3
“It had to be the same man.”
This was so obvious, I wasn’t at all sure why Declan had an expression on his face that reminded me of a thundercloud. We were in the office at the Terminal, me perched on the desk and him, over near the door, his arms crossed over that broad chest of his and his feet slightly apart.
Maybe he hadn’t heard me.
“The guy I told you about? The one I gave dinner to last night here at the restaurant. The way Otis described him, it had to be the same guy he saw running out of my house.”
Declan stalked to the other side of the office. Just for the record, this did not take long because the office isn’t very big. Maybe the narrow room and the high ceiling explained why when he finally spoke, his voice sounded so loud.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
I tossed my hands in the air. “I did call you. I called you this morning. And I told you I didn’t call you last night because I knew you were doing inventory and—”
“And what? Laurel, somebody breaking into your house is a pretty big deal. You could have gotten hurt.”
“No, I couldn’t have. Like I told you when you walked in here, thanks to Otis, Tony was there practically before I was. And another cop showed up right after. It’s not like I walked in and looked over the place all by myself. And when they did walk through the house—”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. They checked out everything and no one was there.”
“Which is why I didn’t want to bother you. The excitement was all over. There didn’t seem to be much point in—”
“Sharing big, scary news with the one person you should want to share it with more than anyone else?”
His words slammed into me like a punch to the solar plexus and I sucked in a breath. “When you put it that way—”
“There’s no other way to put it!” He scraped a hand through his dark hair. I’d called him as I drove to the Terminal that morning and told him what had happened the night before and no sooner had I parked in the lot at the side of the building than he came racing over from the Irish store across the street. Then I would have described his hair as tousled. Now it looked more as if the shock of all I’d told him had run through him like an electrical current, taking that gentle tousling to the nth degree. In a flash, he was back across the office and standing right in front of me. He put his hands on my shoulders and bent so he could look me in the eye.
“You’re impossible! You think you can take on the world, all alone. All by yourself.”
“That’s because I can.”
I didn’t mean to stiffen at his touch, but I guess he noticed because he dropped his hands.
“But you don’t have to! Don’t you get it? That’s why I’m here.”
“And I appreciate it. I do.”
“You’re not supposed to appreciate it. I’m not looking to play the hero or to make yo
u feel obligated in any way. You’re just supposed to accept it. It’s something I want to do for you. Something I need to do for you. I love you and it’s my way of showing you that. If you’re just going to reject me every time I try to—”
“So now I’m rejecting you because I didn’t want to bother you when I knew you had a lot of work to do?” Really, he could sometimes be as maddening as he was usually wonderful. “It was late. I knew you were busy. Tony checked the house and he assured me I was safe. I didn’t need you racing over to Cortland in the middle of the night like the cavalry in some old western. For one thing, I’d worry about you driving too fast and getting into an accident. And for another, there was nothing you could do at that point. Everything was under control.”
“Except for the fact that some random guy was in here last night eating your food and then drove thirty minutes to Cortland and broke into your house to go through your things.”
“Yeah, my things.” Thinking about it, a chill scraped up my spine and I wrapped myself in a hug. “The house is a mess.”
He slanted me a look. “A mess I could have helped clean up.”
He was doing his best to smooth over our harsh words and even if he wouldn’t have believed it, I did appreciate that. I gave him a playful boff on the arm. “You can still help me clean up. I didn’t touch a thing last night. I was too tired to even try. And anyway, Tony wants me to look through everything carefully so I can tell him if anything is missing.”
“And is there?”
Because I didn’t like to be indecisive, I hated shrugging, but sometimes, it’s the only way to handle a question. “Hard to tell. The kitchen . . .”
I made a face. “Every single one of my cookbooks is off the shelf, the drawers are open and emptied. Upstairs is a mess, too. It’s going to take days to get it all back in order.”
He dared a step closer. “I’ve got days.”
“And I . . .” Since it wasn’t easy for me to admit I couldn’t carry the weight of the world on my shoulders and my shoulders alone, I swallowed around the words. “I’d love your help. You’re familiar enough with the house. Maybe you’ll notice something I won’t. Something missing. Something broken.”
He cocked his head, wrinkled his nose, and gave me a look. “So why would some stranger eat here, then break into your house? And how did he know where you live?”
I plopped back against the desk. “I wish I knew. I guess it would be easy enough to find me—it’s not like I’m trying to hide my identity or where I live or anything. But why . . . why would he care? He was . . .” In my head, I pictured the man I’d offered dinner to the night before. “There was something off about him. He wasn’t filthy, exactly, but he was tattered. Like his clothes were tired. And he wouldn’t look me in the eye.”
“Well, maybe he has a conscience and he was feeling guilty about what he was planning after dinner.”
A thought hit. “Or maybe he didn’t want me to get a good look at his face,” I suggested.
Declan’s dark brows rose. “You mean you think it was someone you know?”
I thought about it. But not for long. “No. No way. He’s certainly not a regular. Inez and Dolly didn’t know him, either. Still . . .” Forcing myself to think, I took a deep breath and tried my best to settle my mind. “There was something about the way he sat there. He was hunched over the table, reading the newspaper, but if I did that . . .”
Since it was hard to explain, I demonstrated. I stepped forward so Declan had to step back, then I pulled out the chair and sat down facing the desk.
“Say this is the table out in the restaurant.” I tapped the desk. “And here’s my newspaper.” I pulled over a sheet of paper as a substitute. “And I’m just sitting here casually reading it and drinking coffee and . . .” Just to prove it to myself, I took a careful look at how I was seated. My shoulders were rolled forward, my elbows were on the desk. I had one hand around a pretend coffee cup and the other resting against that faux newspaper.
“That’s exactly how he was sitting,” I told Declan. “Until I walked up. Then he tucked his hands in his lap.”
It was his turn to shrug. “So?”
“Oh, I don’t know!” I grumbled. “It’s just something I remember, that’s all. It doesn’t mean a thing.” Because one grumble didn’t help, I grumbled some more.
“So I guess yesterday wasn’t a good day, huh? I mean what with your house getting broken into, and you giving a free dinner to the guy who did it, and you killing all those tomato plants.”
Black humor, yes, but he was doing his best and in spite of myself, I smiled. “No, not a good day.”
“Which means today is bound to be better.”
“Yeah.” I stood up so I could give him a peck on the cheek. “Today is bound to be better and—”
“Oh!” The office door opened and Sophie let out a little squeak of surprise. Her cheeks shot through with color. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re not,” I assured her. “Declan just stopped by to make sure everything was okay.”
“You mean about your house last night.” Sophie tossed her purse on the desk and pulled off her blue Windbreaker. “He called me.” She gave Declan a look that wasn’t necessary since I knew who she was talking about as soon as she mentioned he. “You really should have called me, Laurel.”
My sigh pretty much said it all.
Sophie puffed out a little breath of annoyance. “Well, you shouldn’t have stayed by yourself last night.”
“There’s no use fighting with her,” Declan told Sophie, and a shake of his head left his hair more disheveled than ever.
“Exactly! And I’m fine. So neither one of you needs to worry.” I pushed past them and toward the door. “So let’s get to work.”
That would have been easier if Inez and Dolly and George weren’t right outside the office door.
“Heard!” Inez grabbed my arm.
“Terrible.” Before I could fend her off, Dolly pulled me into a hug.
“What do we need to do?” George asked.
What was all that about me being self-sufficient, independent, and fearless?
Before I could even try to stop it, my eyes filled with tears.
“You’re all . . .” I looked from coworker to coworker, and I sniffled a little, too. “Thank you. All of you. Declan . . .” I grabbed his arm and pulled him to my side. “Declan is going to be in charge of cleanup at my house. There’s no use even worrying about it this weekend, we’ll be too busy here. How about Monday after work? Since Declan’s in charge . . .” The smile I gave him was the sweetest I could muster. “He’ll make all the plans and have dinner arranged for all of us, too.”
Hey, Declan wanted responsibility, right?
I gave him a gotcha! smile and went into the kitchen to get ready for the day. Fridays are always busy and with spaghetti and meatballs, fire-roasted pizza, and eggplant parmigiana on the menu, that one was no exception. By the time Luigi Lasagna and his band were into their final set, playing wonderful and corny old standards like “Arrivederci, Roma” and “Volare” and “O Sole Mio,” there were still eight groups of customers waiting to be seated for dinner and six to-go orders on the front counter for pick up.
Just for the record, in all that commotion, there was no sign of the man in the fedora.
Earlier in the day, I’d promised myself I wouldn’t think about him and I’d been pretty successful (well, except for the time when I was making the morning coffee, the few minutes it took me to put out the day’s menus, when I seated the first lunch customers, when I rang out the first dinner customers, and a couple of times in between). This time, like all those other times I pictured the man, a prickle traced along my skin. I reminded myself he wouldn’t have the nerve to come back to the Terminal, but that hardly helped; I glanced over my shoulder.
And found a s
kinny woman with a hunched back looking up at me.
“Welcome to the Terminal.” My greeting was as automatic as a smile. “We’ll have a table for you in just a minute.”
In spite of the fact that it was considerably warmer than it had been the day before, the woman had a red knitted cap pulled down over her ears. She wore a black cloth coat and a pair of those knitted mitts that cover a person’s hands, but not their fingers, and her shoes were sturdy and had thick heels. She wore a pair of enormous round glasses with brown plastic frames that sat crookedly on her face thanks to the bulge on the bridge of her nose. Behind her glasses, her face was as wrinkled as a baked apple.
“Ladies’ room,” she croaked.
I pointed her in the proper direction and got back to work and never thought a thing of it until an hour later.
“Knitted mitts when the weather is warm,” I mumbled to myself. “And a man who tucked his hands in his lap when I came by to talk to him.”
What did it mean? I had no idea, but I promised myself I’d think about it the moment I had the chance.
Two hours later, I turned off the last of the lights and locked the front door only to find Declan out on the sidewalk waiting for me.
He kissed me hello. “I’m coming home with you.”
Not something I was going to argue with. Oh, I wasn’t looking for a watchdog, but after a long day at the restaurant, a little TLC sure wouldn’t hurt.
“I can drive,” I said, and he didn’t argue, but then, his vintage motorcycle was parked behind the Irish store and there was a nip in the night air. As soon as we were in the car, he pulled a sheet of folded papers out of the pocket of his jacket.
“I’ve got three places for you to look into,” he said.
I was negotiating a turn so I couldn’t give him more than a glance. “For . . . ?”
“A security system, of course. You had one put in Sophie’s house for her, but you never got one for Pacifique.” He poked a finger at the list on the page. “I’d go with this one. Owned by an Irishman.”
“And a relative, no doubt.”
