Come Find Me

by Debra Webb

  Someone would have to pay.

  She had a reputation for finding the truth, however crude and dispassionate her tactics.

  Barton glanced at the blazing fire he’d meticulously prepared to chase away the morning chill. Guests loved arriving in the lobby of his inn to a glorious fire roaring in the massive stone fireplace. One guest or an innful, he never liked to disappoint.

  He crossed the quiet room and stepped behind the two-century-old registration desk. His grandfather’s grandfather had imported the intricately carved mahogany greeting-counter from Spain. The matching hutch that hung on the wall behind the counter and housed messages for guests and room keys had been designed and handcrafted by the same artisan. Every square foot of this inn echoed centuries of history from near and far. It represented all that Barton was. In good times and bad, he never neglected his responsibility to his heritage.

  After slipping his reading glasses into place, he opened the leather-bound reservation book. He despised computers. Refused to use them to this day. He liked making reservations the old-fashioned way, the way his father had and his father before him.

  Scrawled in the block for today’s date was one name.

  Sarah Newton.

  He closed his eyes and fought to calm the emotions warring deep in his chest.

  No matter how good she was, he had to make certain she didn’t find the one secret he had kept carefully hidden for so very long.

  No one could ever know.

  No one.

  Squaring his shoulders with determination, he dismissed the worry. Failure was out of the question. He would not allow her to destroy all that he had worked for his entire life.

  All his forefathers had carefully preserved for those who came after.

  He would stop her.

  Whatever it took.

  Chapter 4

  The Living Word Church, 6:10 A.M.

  “Amen.” Reverend Christopher Mahaney lifted his head and gazed at the beautiful crucifix adorning the wall beyond the modest altar.

  He had prayed for most of the night. A sweet child was still missing. Christopher’s eyes pinched shut in agony. Another lay dead beneath a snow-covered blanket of earth.

  The devil had ascended upon the community of Youngstown with devastating impact, igniting a ripple, the full effects of which were building, broadening, threatening...

  “Forgive me, Father,” Christopher murmured, the anguish seizing his faulty heart yet again.

  He’d begged for forgiveness over and over during the days since the first girl had gone missing. Though his heavenly Father forgave His children freely, Christopher was not so sure he would ever truly be forgiven for this despicable mistake. A sin for which he had no acceptable excuse.

  Except that he was guilty of just one thing—giving her what she wanted.

  She had cried on his shoulder and told him of her desperation...of her darkest desires. She had needed him. He had surrendered to the temptation. Then, afterwards, she had changed her story. Insisted he had misunderstood her needs.

  Anger trickled into his veins. He served his congregation selflessly...was always there for each and every one of them. Did no one see his own needs? He was, after all, only human.

  Christopher resisted the frustration and anger. The error was his...no matter the excuse. The path of repentance was the only road to forgiveness.

  Perhaps forgiveness was not the issue...but punishment.

  He squeezed his hands together in supplication.

  “Give me the strength, Father...to stand firm during the coming trials.”

  When the chosen time came there was no escaping God’s wrath. As a faithful servant, he would not be so bold as to wish to escape. He was not entitled to mercy. The wherewithal to endure would be gift enough. He must humbly accept whatever punishment his dear Lord decreed.

  But not this...

  His chest heaved with a burdened breath.

  She would arrive today.

  Mere hours from now.

  He had read accounts of her exploits in other towns, with other cases. She left many desolated lives in her wake. Not even the innocent stood in her way. As God had sent forth his faithful servant Ezekiel amid the children of Israel to reveal their sins and to give warning...she too came forth as a revealer and to give warning.

  The truth would be exposed, naked in the light, for all to see and be outraged.

  There was no escaping...no hiding...not when one’s fate had been ordained.

  Christopher genuinely feared that the Divine decision regarding his having succumbed to the sins of the flesh had already been made.

  He was as certain as a lowly human could be.

  She was his punishment.

  How would he endure?

  Chapter 5

  Youngstown Municipal Offices, 1:55 P.M.

  She was here.

  Kale Conner stepped outside Youngstown’s Municipal Offices as the Budget rental car pulled into the lot. Mayor Patterson owed him one for this. No one on the village council had wanted this job, but not a single member was willing to allow Sarah Newton to roam the town unsupervised.

  Her reputation preceded her.

  By several hundred miles and endless newspaper headlines.

  “Ms. Newton?” Kale ordered a smile to go along with the cordial tone he managed. There was work he could be getting done. Running a decent-sized fleet of lobster boats kept him plenty busy. But, as Patterson had so graciously reminded him, he also had an obligation to the citizens and to the village. There would be times that obligation would need to take priority over all else. Like now. Since Kale was the first in all the generations of Youngstown Conners to hold a political office, he doubted his father would be particularly proud if he screwed it up this early in his new career.

  New...right. His career was the same as it had always been—pleasing everyone but himself.

  Get over it. There were worse things. Doing the right thing was something to be proud of.

  “That’s me.” Newton thrust out her right hand.

  Kale gave her hand a quick, polite shake. Her grip was firm, self-assured. He’d expected nothing less. “Kale Conner. I’m certain you’re anxious to get settled at the inn.” Zipping her coat against the chill, she glanced around. “Actually, I’d like to go to the scene first.” Her gaze reconnected with his. “If you’ll give me directions, I’ll be fine on my own. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience anyone.”

  The offer was tempting but he had his orders. “You’re our guest, Ms. Newton. We—”

  “Sarah,” she cut in.

  Kale hesitated.

  “That’s what people call me,” she explained, obviously mistaking his pause to modify his strategy for confusion at her suggestion. “At least in the beginning.”

  He nodded. “Sarah,” he repeated. “We appreciate what you’ve come here to do and we want to facilitate your efforts any way we can. I’m completely at your disposal.” Good for him. He’d gotten out the whole backup spill without a glitch. He couldn’t see any reason why she wouldn’t grasp the logic in that explanation.

  Except maybe for the skeptical look in her eyes. Clearly he’d needed a Plan C. She was nowhere near convinced of his sincerity or the sensibleness of his offer. Great.

  “That’s very nice of you, but I’m used to working alone.”

  He just bet she was. She had that whole martyr-with-a-cause attitude about her, from the defiant tilt of her chin to the wide set of her feet. At all of five three or four, maybe ninety lean pounds, and full of spit and fire, she was ready for battle. Blond hair hugged her neck and would probably hug her face if it weren’t so haphazardly tucked beneath a black ski cap. Shaggy gold wisps curled this way and that. But it was the eyes that put him on guard. Bluer than any body of water he’d navigated, and he’d navigated plenty. Intense, high-octane blue. And totally suspicious of his motives.

  “But leaving you to fend for yourself wouldn’t be very neighborly of me.” When all else fails, go
for the basics. “I insist on making your visit here as pleasant as possible.”

  That analyzing gaze she skillfully wielded claimed another few seconds to complete its scrutiny of him, then she presented half a smile. “You mean you don’t trust me so you want to babysit me.”

  Well, hell. “Ms. Newton—Sarah—” he amended, “we’ve had a murder. The first in twenty years.” The irritation he’d kept tightly compartmentalized seeped past his guard. She didn’t want him hanging around and, in truth, he had better things to do. But that was just too bad for both of them. “We’ve got an eighteen-year-old girl missing. We want her found and this case solved. The whole village is living in fear of who might be next and, so far, the police don’t have a shred of evidence, much less a suspect. If you can figure this thing out, I’m all for it. So’s the rest of the town.”

  As if she’d read his mind when he visually sized her up, she tugged off the ski cap, finger-combed her hair, then pulled the cap back into place before settling her full attention on him once more. She sighed as if she had to trawl long and deep for patience before responding. “Let’s be completely frank here, Mr. Conner, I—”

  “Kale,” he interrupted.

  Her eyes tapered with more blatant suspicion. “Kale,” she acquiesced. “I know who you are and why you’re here.”

  He resisted the impulse to brace his arms over his chest. Keep it relaxed. No telltale body language. He should have anticipated that she would look into who’s who in Youngstown before showing up. As much as she clearly wanted to give that impression, people like her didn’t dive into a situation blind. To the contrary, they calculated every move.

  “You’re a fifth-generation fisherman with a good-sized operation,” she said. “Like so many other small Maine fishing companies, you turned the greater part of your attention to lobsters when the fish stocks became largely depleted. Last year you got yourself elected to the Youngstown Village Council. I imagine your family’s very proud. But I also know that you’re the youngest and newest member of Youngstown’s esteemed council, so you get the menial jobs no one else wants to deal with. Like the potentially unpleasant task of handling me.”

  He opened his mouth to regain control of the situation but she held up a hand to stop him. “In the past ten years, I’ve been down this road more times than I care to recall. I’m well aware of what people, like you and your fellow council members, think of me.”

  She sent a pointed look across the street at Cappy’s Chowder House where most of the patrons had their noses plastered to the windows. “I know what the citizens in your town think of me when they haven’t even met me. And that’s okay.” Another of those half-smiles slanted one corner of her mouth. “I didn’t come here to make friends. I didn’t even come here to make nice. I’m here to clarify the facts in an unsolved case swaddled in naive myths. Nothing more.” She made one of those facial expressions that said whatever. “It’s quite simple. You don’t get in my way and I won’t get in yours. Capiche?”

  Don’t say anything you’ll regret.

  Though he’d passed impatient and was barreling toward ticked off, he took a breath. Kept it contained, as challenging as that proved. He inclined his head and countered her lengthy discourse with a somewhat shorter one of his own. “I know a little something about you, too, Sarah Newton. But I won’t trouble you with the details. Whether you believe me or not, we’re on the same side. If you can figure out what our chief of police, a fourth-generation lawman, and all his deputies can’t, then by all means, let’s get to it.”

  She searched his eyes one long, pulse-pounding moment. “All right. We’ll play this your way. Since,” she qualified, “we’re on the same side.”

  The muscle in his jaw throbbed from the hard set of his teeth. Stay cool. Don’t let her get to you. He gestured to his Jeep. “Why don’t we take my vehicle?” He patently scrutinized her mid-size sedan. “I think you’ll find that four-wheel drive comes in handy around here.” Although the temperature was fairly mild, they still had upward of two feet of snow on the ground. Last night’s misforecast storm had dropped six inches instead of two. The snowplows had been out in earnest this morning, ensuring the roads were cleared.

  “Good point.” She gifted him with one of those looks that said he’d earned a measly point, then she did an about-face and hustled back to her rental car.

  She grabbed the keys from the ignition and a black shoulder bag before locking the doors. The bag was nearly as big as she was. With her back still turned, she draped it over her head, allowing the strap to fall onto one shoulder while the bulky bag settled against the opposite hip. A good stiff breeze and she’d surely topple over.

  No question the lady was from New York. Black coat, bag, and cap. His gaze traveled down the slim-fitting black jeans. Judging by her shapely legs, he would wager she had one hell of a great backside.

  “I know.”

  His head snapped up. Busted. He was supposed to be representing the Village of Youngstown. The last thing he wanted was for her to think he was some kind of pervert scoping out her assets.

  “I was supposed to bring snow boots but I forgot.”

  He glanced down at the black Converse sneakers. She turned her palms up in a what-can-I-say gesture as she backed toward his Jeep. “I’ll pick up a pair while I’m here.”

  “That wouldn’t be a bad idea.” He’d dodged the bullet on that one. She didn’t strike him as the type who wanted to be looked at. At least, not that way.

  He rounded the hood and climbed into his Jeep. As determined as she was to stick to her own agenda and methods, she seemed reasonable enough. She had agreed to ride with him. That was a step in the right direction. “You might want to get gloves, too.”

  She made an agreeable sound as she settled into the passenger seat. “Definitely. Forgot those, too.”

  “We’ve set a record for snowfall this winter.” He started the engine, turned up the heat, and snapped his seat belt into place. Backing out of the slot, he added, “Hopefully the weather will cooperate for the next few days.”

  No comment.

  “Lucky for us, last night’s snowstorm hit well after the collection of evidence at the scene had ended. It can make things a little tricky when the weather gets in the way.”

  Not even a grunt of acknowledgment.

  He was done making attempts at conversation for now. He didn’t doubt for a minute that she would let him know whatever was on her mind. For the time being, she appeared absorbed in taking in the details of the environment. Might as well give her the scenic tour. Through the middle of Youngstown’s thriving, however small, business district and past the harbor. Across the wooden bridge that connected Route 1 to Main Street. Tourists always stopped near the bridge for pictures.

  “The candles in the windows,” she said, breaking her silence. “Are those for the missing girl?”

  Kale considered the houses along the street, tried to see them as she would. Most of the homes along Main were historic, with the accompanying plaques boasting the names of the original owner and dates as far back as the late seventeen hundreds. Trees, even older, guarded the picket-fenced yards.

  “Some,” he said in answer to her question. “Others are always there in the winter.” He made brief eye contact. “A number of the folks who were born and raised here choose to head for a warmer climate in the winter. It’s tradition to leave candles in the windows until their return. Electric ones, of course,” he added.

  “To keep evil away while they’re gone.”

  And so it began.

  “I prefer to consider the candles welcoming beacons for their return.”

  “The wind chimes dangling from porches? The sprigs of heather and rosemary hanging over front doors?” She twisted to stare at the house on the corner they’d passed. When she resettled in her seat, she tacked on, “And the glass bottles hanging from trees.”

  He braked for the four-way stop at the intersection of Main and High. “The family with the ornam
ental bottles moved here from Louisiana after Katrina. Don’t folks down there consider that art?” He shot her a look that dared her to prove otherwise.

  “The bottles are for warding off evil spirits, Conner. As are the rosemary and the heather. And the wind chimes.”

  Hadn’t they decided to call each other by their first names? “Don’t you have wind chimes in New York?” Lots of homes were adorned with those accents. It didn’t mean the occupants believed in witches and demons or any damned thing else.

  “Face it, Conner, this is New England. The place is steeped in ghost stories with vengeful spirits.”

  “I guess you don’t have those in New York, either.” He wasn’t going to argue with her. Damn straight, New England was steeped in many things, first and foremost history and tradition. He wasn’t ashamed of it. He just didn’t want her ridiculing the town and the people he loved in her heartless magazine. She hadn’t been here twenty minutes and she was already looking for ways to twist that history and tradition into something sinister and simpleminded.

  Case in point, she didn’t say a word about all the yellow ribbons. Folks had started putting those up the very next day after Valerie Gerard’s disappearance. No, that was too normal to mention.

  He rolled through the intersection, continuing east on Main. Newton’s attention lit on Bay View Cemetery.

  “You see the crow on the headstone?” She turned to face him. “People associate crows with death. But there’s perfectly logical reasons they hang out in cemeteries.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Pull over.”

  He’d asked for that one. “Sure.” He eased to the side of the street. Stellar job so far of setting the tone for her visit. She was right. He’d definitely gotten a raw deal on this assignment.

  But then, that was the story of his life.

  “Tell me if I’m off course here,” she allowed. “People believe there’s something evil about the person buried in that grave because of the crow.”

  Oh, she was going to love this one. “Mattie Calder,” he confessed. “According to village history”—he met his passenger’s expectant gaze—“she was a witch.”