by Jacie Floyd
The knowledge that her interest in his moneymaking ability wasn’t self-serving sent a burst of relief gushing through him. “It looks like the town’s undergoing a revitalization without my help.” He considered getting another beer but decided to stay where he was and watch for a tongue sighting instead.
“It was a slow recovery after Old Maine Furniture closed.” Her tongue peeked out and a sense of satisfaction washed over him at having his patience rewarded. “A lot of people drifted away, but recently, some of the younger people have returned. Coming home with fresh ideas, new perspectives.”
Without anything more encouraging than an occasional grunt of agreement on his part, she told him more about the town’s financial status than he cared to know. After she’d ground to a halt, he realized she seemed to expect him to agree to do something about it.
“Why should I?” he mused, more to himself than to Gracie.
“It was your family that closed Old Maine Furniture and put half the population out of work. Just because it became inconvenient or unpleasant for them to come here after—after—”
“After my father’s death? Yes, that was unpleasant and inconvenient,” he said, laying on the sarcasm.
He’d only been a child at the time, but he knew his grandfather and uncles well enough to know that they never based business decisions on sentiment. Did they?
Apparently, all of the Liberty House guestrooms were assigned patriotic themes. Gracie had installed Dylan in the Stars and Stripes suite the day before. The comfortable room boasted a sitting area with a framed colonial American flag hanging over the fireplace. But the panoramic view of the ocean beyond the double windows was the room’s money spot. He studied the view as he talked to his uncle.
“Where are you staying?” Uncle Arthur’s voice boomed over the speakerphone.
“At Liberty House, a B&B about three miles from the cabin. An elderly couple named Lattimer own it. You remember them?”
“The name sounds familiar.”
“The old man’s in the hospital. I haven’t met him, but apparently he worked at Old Maine before it closed.”
His uncle muffled a cough. “I’ve probably met him, but we closed that plant—what? More than twenty years ago.”
“For some of the people here, there’s still resentment about the lost employment.”
“I don’t know why. We kept the place going as long as we could and gave them as fair a shake as possible. If this Lattimer fellow owns a bed and breakfast out on the bay, it doesn’t sound like he was hurt by it. That’s an expensive chunk of real estate.”
“He works hard, from what I hear. Most of the people do, but I can see how long it’s taken the town to reverse the economic downturn.” Dylan hesitated before bringing up a potentially touchy subject. The Senator was frequently touchy about having his decisions questioned, and all of this happened so long ago. “I’ve been wondering why the family closed the factory. Someone here suggested it was because of my father’s death...”
“Indirectly, I suppose it was. The cost of hardwood and labor kept going up. The demand for expensive, custom furnishings wasn’t keeping pace. The place had been a tax write-off for several years.”
Plausible, but Dylan had his doubts.
“After your father’s accident, Dad lost interest. Tommy’s talents lay elsewhere, and I was gearing up for the Senate race. With all of that going on, we needed to divest ourselves of some of the dead weight. And with Old Maine’s poor performance, it was the first to go.”
“That’s what I thought.” Dylan’s tone didn’t disguise the seed of doubt taking root. “But I’d like to see the closing documents and final financial reports if they’re still around somewhere. Do you know where they are?”
“You know the drill. We’re only required to keep closing documents for seven years. Why the sudden interest? You’ve never questioned any of the family business decisions before.”
“Well, for some reason, a whole town holds us to blame for a lot of things, and I’d like to know the full story.”
“Honestly, I doubt that the records still exist, but I’ll have someone at Bradford International check. I’ll have to get back to you on that.”
“Thanks. I’d appreciate it.”
“Are you thinking of selling the East Langden property? I know a good realtor up that way.”
“I’ll probably sell it, but it suits me to start renovating the property first. No one would buy the place as it stands.”
“Do you want me to send up a crew of workers?”
That would solve a lot of his problems, but it would create others, too. “Yeah, I do, but hold off until next week, okay? If I can use the locals instead, I’d like to.”
“Whatever works best for you.”
After exchanging family news, Dylan prepared to disconnect the call when his uncle stopped him. “Just a second, Dylan. Here’s some news that might interest you.”
“What’s that?”
“After a lot of discussion with Delia, Frank, and various political groups, I’m considering running for president in the next election.”
“Great, congratulations!” His uncle had always wanted to take this step, but the timing had never been right. “Dad and Grandfather would be so proud of you.”
“I hope you are, too, and that I can count on your support.”
“Of course, I’ll do whatever I can.”
“I know this will be a disruption for everyone, but I expect it to be worthwhile, too. We’ll get together and plan strategy before the holidays. It’s still hush-hush, but I wanted to warn you about what’s going on.”
Setting aside the impact Arthur’s bid for the presidency would have on the family, Dylan e-mailed his assistant, talked to his buddy Wyatt about their plans to attend the upcoming NBA finals, checked the latest figures on the Dow, and made a few trades before calling Natalie. After his brief and dismal report on the Clayton situation, he kicked back to catch up with her.
“I’m fine,” she said. “I went to the doctor yesterday, and he swears this child won’t make an appearance for another four weeks. Although you’d think differently if you could see how huge I am. If I were in Washington, tourists would mistake me for the National Rotunda.”
“I don’t believe it.” A tendency toward thinness passed from one generation of Bradfords to the next along with big feet and perfect vision.
“I’m swelled up like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade balloon. My ankles are as puffy as marshmallows.”
“Did that happen when you had Josh?”
“No, but the doctor said to stay off my feet and watch my salt intake. The usual stuff. Oh, by the way, I talked to Linc’s cousin Victoria yesterday. She said—” Natalie stopped short when he heard a crash and then a wail in the background. “Sorry, I’ve got to go unearth Josh. Nothing serious. He just pulled some books over. Talk to you later, okay?”
She disconnected before Dylan could say goodbye. He slumped deeper into the overstuffed chair. She sounded fine, but that weight gain couldn’t be good. Maybe he should call Linc and nose around. Or maybe not. Natalie wouldn’t thank him for interfering. Of course, a medical problem sounded like Gracie’s area of expertise. He could ask her opinion.
A thump outside the house took Dylan to one of the windows. Pulling the drapes open, he found Gracie perched precariously on top of an extension ladder, washing the panes of glass.
Just the sight of her, engrossed in her task, tongue peeking out, perspiration beading her face and creating a damp spot between her breasts brightened his day. She moved from one window to the next until she disappeared from his view.
Damn.
Driving into town, Dylan wondered what in the hell he thought he was doing. When he’d decided to come to East Langden and investigate, the plan had been to discredit Clayton. But in fact, the only thing Dylan knew how to investigate was an interesting stock tip. He’d assumed he could come in and snoop around without drawing much attention, but his pres
ence in this small coastal community was about as subtle as a hurricane.
He considered the bits of information he’d gleaned from Gracie the night before. David Collier had been Lana Harris’s cousin as well as Clayton’s guardian. The good doctor hadn’t seemed eager to help, but he was a reasonable starting point.
At breakfast that morning, Mrs. Lattimer had passed along the news that her son-in-law had suffered a heart attack the year before. Only recently had he returned to work on a limited basis. Clayton had been all set to join a practice in Boston. But with David in failing health and the town in need of more than one physician, Clayton had agreed to handle David’s practice until another partner could be recruited.
Dylan turned onto a tidy street a block off Main and parked in a space in front of David’s office. Behind a sliding window in the empty waiting room, a no-nonsense female in stiff white cotton took Dylan’s measure.
“I’d like to see Dr. Collier.” He flashed the disarming grin that usually worked to his advantage.
“He isn’t in yet, and he isn’t taking new patients.” Attila the Nurse appeared unphased by the show-stopping grin. “Would you like to make an appointment to see Dr. Harris?”
The thought of allowing Clayton near him with pointed or sharp instruments was enough to give him a case of hives. “It’s personal. Would you ask Dr. Collier to call me?”
Dylan was determined not to retreat, and the nurse seemed just as reluctant to relent. Before a victor in the mental power struggle emerged, the older doctor strolled in from the back of the building. Dylan detected a flicker of resignation cross his normally expressionless face. Attila stood in the old man’s presence.
Dylan cleared his throat. “Good morning, Doctor. Could you spare me a few minutes?”
The doctor looked at his watch, and then at his sentry.
“You’re to meet with the mayor in fifteen minutes,” she warned, taking a seat behind the desk.
“This won’t take long, Ethel. Let me know when he arrives.”
Chapter Nine
David turned and exited. The nurse grudgingly gave Dylan permission to follow.
The doctor had settled into a leather chair in his office before Dylan entered. Chock-full of books, files, plants, charts, and even a skeleton hanging in one corner, the room also contained a massive oak desk and a couple of well-worn chairs. An ancient yellow cat with a bandaged paw lay curled up in one of them. He could picture Gracie here. Her big heart and hometown charm would fit right in with the cranky doctor and wounded cat.
Dylan took the vacant seat. Doubting David had much patience for small talk, Dylan hesitated over a starting point for their conversation. “How long have you been practicing in East Langden?”
“Long time,” the doctor said, as chatty as ever.
“Did you know my father and uncle?”
He shrugged. “Some.”
“And you were Lana Harris’s cousin?”
“Right.” The old man clasped his hands on the desktop.
“Before her disappearance, did she confide in you about her personal life?”
“No.”
Dylan again cursed his under-developed interrogation skills but pressed onward. “Do you know the names of any men she used to go out with?”
The doctor raised and lowered his scraggly eyebrows, the facial equivalent of a shrug. At last! A reaction.
“Where do you think she went when she disappeared?”
His expression went from poker-faced to frozen. “I don’t think she went anywhere.”
Wow, a complete sentence. They were on a roll. “Then where is she?”
He paused before answering. “I think she’s dead.”
“Why do you think so?”
Another pause. “She never came back.”
Shifting in his seat, Dylan thumped his foot against the adjacent chair leg, disturbing the marmalade cat. Green eyes blinked open and stared up at him. He reached out to pet it, but the cat preferred otherwise. It gingerly got to its feet then stepped stiffly onto the desk and parked its rump beside David’s clasped hands. The doctor’s absent stroking between the cat’s ears transformed the animal into a purring machine.
Watching the doctor with this ancient feline, Dylan noticed the gentleness in the old man’s touch. His patients probably found his calm manner just as soothing and relaxing as the cat. Dylan wondered if anyone else found his brevity as annoying as he did.
“Do you know who Clayton’s father is?” he asked, weary of the game.
David’s hand smoothed rhythmically along the cat’s spine. “No.”
Dylan ground his teeth in frustration. “Would you tell me if you did?”
The doctor gave Dylan a long, undecipherable look. “If it would help Clay.”
Tired of bashing his head against this brick wall, Dylan decided to take one more shot before leaving. “Do you know anything that would help?”
David closed his eyes and nodded. “I know that Lana’s house was paid for.”
Dylan’s eyebrows shot upward. “What?”
“After she disappeared, I found the deed in her name, along with a letter from a Connecticut law firm. She didn’t make enough at the beauty shop to pay off a house.”
“Do you remember the name of the firm?” Dylan prodded.
“Latham, Benning, and Brown.”
Bile rose up from Dylan’s stomach, but he squelched it. Dwight Latham had been his father’s personal lawyer. Not that that fact alone meant anything. He’d probably had thousands of clients. Still, Dylan couldn’t deny the connection.
“I’ll look into it,” he said, standing. “Thank you for seeing me.”
Dismissing him without a glance, David scooped up the cat and placed it in his lap. He lifted the animal’s injured paw and began unwrapping the gauze.
Before stepping out the door, Dylan turned back in a move that was probably more like Inspector Clouseau than Poirot, but still. “One more question. I understand you were the one to find my father’s body after his death. What can you tell me about that?”
The cat yelped suddenly and dove to the floor. David’s jaw clenched. “Nothing that wasn’t in the report I gave to the police.”
“I’d like to hear the details from you.”
“I doubt I remember anything new after all this time.”
Dylan persisted. “Is it true that you and my father were friends?”
“Acquaintances.”
“You were the company doctor for Old Maine Furniture.”
David pursed his lips. “Yes.”
“What were you doing—”
“Excuse me, Doctor,” said a voice from behind Dylan. “The mayor’s here.”
A trip to the county court-house fifty miles away revealed that Lana Harris’s Cordial Street property was paid for the year Clayton was born.
Dylan pondered the significance of that fact while tracing the whereabouts of Horace Whitherspoon, the previous owner of the house. Unfortunately, Horace had died ten years after the sale.
A call to Latham, Benning, and Brown revealed Dwight Latham had passed away over a year ago. Latham’s son assured him the firm would cooperate as much as they could within the confines of attorney-client privilege. Meaning they wouldn’t cooperate at all. He called Uncle Arthur to see if he could smooth the way, but the senator was in a meeting.
Dylan’s next hope hinged on the realtor having some recollection of the transaction, but he struck out there, too. The realtor had retired to Phoenix three summers ago.
Even though Dylan had expected discrediting Clayton to be a no-brainer, the idea of sending for the detective his mother had hired was starting to take on new appeal.
On a separate and more aggravating issue, no one in East Langden was available to help Dylan with the renovation of his cabin. They all claimed to be booked up with the Spring Blossom Festival, an event that obviously required extensive carpentry and full-scale participation of the local citizenry.
Dylan reconside
red Uncle Arthur’s offer to send laborers up from Connecticut immediately, but rejected it. If the locals decided to cooperate, they’d be an invaluable source of information. He didn’t want to risk pissing them off by hiring outsiders.
For the second day in a row, Dylan drove back to Liberty House in defeat. After parking his rental car beside the garage, he went around back to see if Gracie was still washing windows. All of the panes of glass sparkled in the sunlight, and the ladder was gone. To locate her, Dylan followed the sound of MacDuff’s bark.
He discovered her planting a border of flowers along the garden path. The Scottie bounded about, the end of his leash looped around a bench leg. A wheelbarrow containing a flat of plants and a bag of potting soil sat nearby. A garden hose curled beside Gracie’s knee and emitted a thin stream of water.
The afternoon sun shone with unusual firepower for a spring day in Maine. Gracie’s skin glowed pink around the edges of her tank top. Pausing to push the hair off her forehead with her wrist, she stretched upward with an arch of her back. The innocently erotic gesture left Dylan’s mouth watering.
The sudden surge of interest annoyed him. “You’re getting sunburned.”
She spun around at the sound of his voice. Her knee came down on the hose. The plastic tube undulated like an angry snake. Its nozzle spit water onto her face and chest.
“Well, shoot.” Moving her knee off the hose, she pulled the soaked material away from her skin. “Why is it that every time I’m around you I end up getting wet?”
And just like that, Dylan got hard. He rejected his first six responses. Any one of them was likely to earn him a slap in the face. “Basic chemistry?”
She scrunched her nose in puzzlement for a moment and then her eyes widened. “Not that kind of wet.”
Her grinned. “You need a towel?”
“No, thanks. The water feels good, and the sun will dry me off soon enough.” Turning back to her task, she picked up a trowel and a pink flower.
“People were planting those all over town.” He came to stand beside her.
