As the server slid the plate of steaming pasta in front of Sadie, it clicked. The idea that Binky might put other people on the same case came floating back to her. No, that couldn’t be right, could it? Had more than one detective keyed in on Molly at the same time? Wait, make that three, considering that Bryce and Susie hadn’t arrived together and clearly hadn’t expected to see each other.
Sadie caught the server as she turned away from the table, calling her back.
“I think I’ll have a glass of wine after all,” she said.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Molly gathered the used wine glasses from the dining room and took them to the kitchen. She rinsed them out, placed them in the dishwasher and tossed the paper napkins in the trash. Returning to the dining room, she picked up the cheese and cracker tray and both bottles of wine. Two wine glasses had not been touched. From the kitchen, she’d heard Sadie, Bryce and Susie talking. Mr. Miller and Dan must have skipped the wine and appetizer hour. Nothing strange about that, Molly thought. Not everyone is social.
She wasn’t an extrovert herself, a trait that had made her one of the “out” crowd while growing up. It wasn’t that she didn’t have ambitions. She was just happier when life was simple. High school cliques were complicated. So were college sororities and club activities. High-level corporate work was even worse, hence her satisfaction with the administrative assistant job she’d had. But being accused of bank robbery? Complicated didn’t even come close to describing it.
Sometimes she wondered if she should have stayed in Tallahassee and fought it out. Pushed the police harder, maybe, though they seemed to stop taking her calls seriously. She’d looked into hiring a private investigator to prove her innocence but found even just the retainer too expensive for her modest savings. These actions wouldn’t have stopped the persistent threats. If the people who had sent the coded notes were trying to scare her, it had worked. They knew where she lived, where she worked and what kind of car she drove. Sure, she could have attempted her own investigation, but where would she have started? She had no investigative experience. And what would have kept her safe in the meantime?
Molly leaned forward, resting her forearms against the sink’s tile edge. Some days she felt like a coward. Other days she felt she’d made a smart decision. Moving to Cranberry Cove and taking over Aunt Maggie’s business gave her the power to start over, to create a new life.
She jumped at a light knock behind her. Spinning around, she found Bryce standing in the doorway, watching her. Had he been there awhile? Or had he entered just as he knocked?
“I was hoping to find you here,” he said. His expression was relaxed, not smug or flirtatious. There was something different about him – a lack of arrogance, perhaps? It must be the novel, Molly thought. He’s stuck on a section and it brought out a bit of humility. Good.
“I was just cleaning up from the wine hour,” Molly said, turning toward the sink. She could feel his eyes on the back of her neck. A shimmer of heat ran up her spine.
Remembering her manners, she glanced over her shoulder. He was a guest, after all. Turning her back on him wasn’t polite, even if he had interrupted her in the inn’s private space.
“Help yourself to a glass.” She nodded in the direction of the wine bottles and unused glasses.
“Only if you’ll join me,” Bryce said. Ah, Molly thought, so much for the humble moment. He knew his way around women. And he wasn’t checking out for another six days or so? This wasn’t going to be easy.
“I’m fine, thank you,” Molly said. “But you go ahead.” She bagged the cheese and crackers, putting them away before turning toward Bryce. When she did, he was holding two glasses of wine, one stretched out to her.
“Really, I shouldn’t,” Molly said, hesitating, but tempted.
Bryce smiled, continuing to hold the glass out. “No, I think you should. I’d like to talk to you and you’re probably going to need the wine.”
“Writer’s block?” Molly asked. He must really be stuck. She took the glass and started for the door to the dining room.
Bryce shook his head. “No, not in the front room. Let’s sit back there.” His glance fell on a small kitchen table against the far wall.
Molly laughed. “Isn’t the dining room a nicer place to sit and talk literature than my battered, old kitchen table, surrounded by pots and pans?”
“For this conversation, I’ll be more comfortable in here, and I think you will, too,” Bryce said.
Molly sighed. Did he really think talking about a novel in progress was going to ruin the other guests’ reading experiences? What an ego! The book might be terrible. Still, he was determined to talk and she was too tired to argue. She sat down at the small table.
Bryce sat across from her. He swirled the wine in his glass before taking a sip and setting it on the table. His looked down, his eyes focused on the wine. Molly watched him, curious about his unusual behavior. A tingle of uncertainly ran through her. Maybe sitting in the far corner of the kitchen hadn’t been a good idea.
Bryce looked up and met Molly’s gaze. “I need to tell you something,” he said.
Expecting him to continue, Molly watched him lift his wine to his lips, emptying the glass. He stood, walked across the kitchen, brought the bottle of wine to the table. He offered Molly more, which she declined, and then filled his own glass.
This must be one heck of a case of writer’s block, Molly thought. What could she possibly offer? She didn’t even know what the story was about. Some help she’d be.
“You’re not going to like this,” Bryce began. “But I need you to hear me out.”
For the first time since meeting the handsome guest, Molly felt nervous for reasons other than attraction. This was starting to sound personal. Whatever it was, it wasn’t about his novel. Instinctively, Molly pulled her arms in closer to her body.
“I’m not sure I like where this is going,” Molly said.
“You’ll like it even less when I tell you what I have to say, but I need you to promise to hear me out.” He reached across the table with one hand. Molly wrapped her arms around her waist. What a fine line there is between danger and safety, she thought. He could be a mass murderer or an escaped convict. San Quentin was only a few hours away, now that she thought about it.
“I’m not here to work on a novel,” Bryce said.
“I’m starting to get that feeling,” Molly said. If she weren’t so scared, she would think the situation comical. Here she was, trapped in the kitchen having a glass of wine with a guest who was about to confess to being a serial killer. Or he could be…. Molly suddenly felt sick to her stomach.
“There’s no easy way to put this, so I’m just going to spit it out,” Bryce said. “I was hired to take you back to Tallahassee to resolve the issue of the bank robbery.”
“No!” Molly bolted from her chair. Both wine glasses flew off the table and shattered against the tile floor. She lunged for the kitchen door, but Bryce was too fast. He grabbed her and turned her toward him, holding her arms firmly. Molly struggled to pull away, but he was too strong.
“Molly, you have to listen to me,” Bryce said. “I told you that you had to hear me out.”
“You lied to me,” Molly shouted.
Bryce released one arm and put his hand over her mouth. Her eyes grew wide with fear.
“Lower your voice,” he whispered. “I’m not going to hurt you. And I’m not taking you back to Tallahassee.”
Molly felt dizzy. Nothing he was saying made any sense. How did he find her? How was he involved with this, to begin with?
“I don’t trust you,” she mumbled, his hand still covering her mouth.
“I don’t blame you,” Bryce said.
It was true, Molly thought, what people say about your life flashing before your eyes just before you die. At that moment, she envisioned her childhood house, secure and safe, followed by university days when walking to her dorm room at night felt disconcerting. After that, one u
neventful work errand after another, leading up to the one that turned her life upside down. Wrong place, wrong time – one routine bank deposit had sent her life into a spiral of fear.
“If you promise not to shout, I can remove my hand and explain.” Bryce said. “I’m going to help you.”
Right, Molly thought. If she hadn’t been so terrified, she would have laughed. Holding someone hostage in a kitchen wasn’t her idea of help.
Molly nodded. She wasn’t strong enough to pull away, and there was no harm in hearing what he had to say. Obviously he was going to feed her some kind of fake story, then take her back to Tallahassee. Or kill her. Or do both. Maybe if she went along with his plans, she’d have a chance to get away later.
Bryce removed his hand slowly, watching to see if she’d cry out again. When she didn’t, he led her back to the table, stepping around the broken glass, and lowered her back into her chair, his grasp now gentle. He let go but didn’t move away.
“Just listen.”
“Sure, why not,” Molly’s fear began sliding into resignation. Besides, being held hostage was turning out to be exhausting. She needed to save her strength for escape. “Sit down. Obviously you’re not going to let me go anywhere.”
Molly ran through the current guest list in her mind, wondering if someone in the inn would hear her if she screamed. Sadie was almost certainly out looking for a new dining spot and that weird Mr. Miller hadn’t come out of his room since he checked in, other than once for breakfast. The barn suite was too far away for Susie and Dan to hear anything. Calling out for help was futile.
Bryce moved back to his side of the table and sat. He kept a close eye on both Molly and the kitchen door.
“It’s true that I came here to take you back to Tallahassee.”
“Yeah, I got that much.” Molly’s voice was dull and sarcastic. “But you said you’re not taking me.”
“That’s right,” Bryce said.
“So, this is where I’m supposed to ask why not,” Molly said. “Except I’m not going to believe anything you say. I don’t even know who you are, other than someone who tracked me down somehow, came here and pretended to be someone you’re not then trapped me in my own kitchen! Why should I believe you?” Molly’s voice rose with each statement.
“Molly, calm down.” Bryce’s expression was sympathetic, out of character with the smug façade he’d presented when they first met. Despite her misgivings, she felt calmer. “Just let me explain.”
“I’m waiting,” Molly said.
“I did come here to take you back to Tallahassee.”
“You already said that.”
“Yes, you’re right,” Bryce said. “It’s nothing personal. It’s what I do, bring people in.”
“Bring people in?” Molly said, her voice rising again. “As in, you’re a bounty hunter? You’re a freaking bounty hunter?”
Bryce smiled. “I really wish you wouldn’t put it that way. It sounds so Hollywood-ish. Besides, that’s not exactly what I do. I work with law enforcement. Really, it’s just a job.”
“Just a job,” Molly repeated. “Well, you found me. Congratulations. You can take me in now.” She slumped back in her chair.
Bryce smiled. “You’re not listening to me.”
“Well, excuse me if my listening skills aren’t working perfectly. I get a little stressed when being held against my will.”
Bryce threw his hands up in the air. “You know what, you’re perfectly free to go. Go anywhere you want. I don’t think you understand what I’m saying. I’m on your side, get it?”
“Why?” Molly asked.
Bryce sighed. “Because I have good instincts. I have to in order to survive in this business. And my instincts tell me you didn’t have anything to do with that robbery.”
“How about this, then,” Molly said. “Since you’re not taking me in, why don’t you leave and forget you ever came here?”
“No. Not without proving you’re innocent.”
“Shouldn’t that be easy, considering I am innocent?” Molly could hear the exasperation in her own voice. “I don’t even understand how this whole mess happened. All I did was run an errand that I’d run hundreds of times. Suddenly my whole life turned upside down, my face was on the news, threats arrived in the mail…. Do you have any idea what this has been like? Have you ever been under this kind of stress?”
Bryce thought it best not to mention the time in Italy when a fugitive tied him to the end of a gondola at night and dragged him through the canals of Venice.
Molly pressed her hands against the edge of the table and took a deep breath. Bryce reached across and slid his hands over Molly’s. She surprised herself by not pulling away. His warm palms on the back of her hands were comforting. She was starting to believe his intentions were good.
“Why are you so sure I’m innocent?”
Bryce squeezed her hands, released them and laughed. “Don’t take this the wrong way, OK? But I just don’t think you have it in you to have pulled off what this person or people did.”
Was this a compliment or an insult? Was he saying she wasn’t smart enough to be a criminal?
“You’re going to have to trust me,” Bryce said. “You have nothing to lose.”
“Are you kidding? I have everything to lose. I have a new life here, one I love.”
Molly paused at the last statement. It was true. She did enjoy running Aunt Maggie’s bed and breakfast. It suited her more than her office job in Florida had.
“I feel safe here,” Molly added. “If you really think I’m innocent, why not just drop it.”
Bryce shook his head. “I don’t think you are safe.”
“The police dropped it,” Molly pointed out. “That should be enough.”
“Yes, it should be.” Bryce ran his hand through his hair. “But this has nothing to do with who stole the money from the bank. This is about who stole the money from the crooks.”
“The police never said anything about that.”
“Of course not,” Bryce laughed. “The mastermind of a robbery isn’t going to file a missing money report. The police don’t know the money never made it to the ring leader.”
“How would you know that? I thought you were working with the police?”
“I am working with the police. Mostly.”
Molly felt a surge of manic laughter escape. “Ah, I’m starting to see a bigger picture here! I’m going to start calling you Bryce from Vice.”
Bryce frowned. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I was just kidding,” Molly said. “But whoever these people are, why aren’t they going after the person who took the money?”
“You’re not going to like the answer to that,” Bryce said.
“Try me,” Molly said.
“They think you took it.”
“What?” Molly smacked her hands flat against the table’s surface. “Why on earth would they? The security cameras showed the thief running one way while I walked in the opposite direction. It was all over the news. There’s no way they didn’t see the coverage.”
Bryce opened his mouth to speak, but Molly cut him off.
“And another thing,” she continued. “They would have seen that I was arrested and then cleared. That was all over the news, too.”
Molly paused, thinking over the notes that had arrived after the robbery. “We know you have it.” “We will find it.” There were others, as well.
“That’s what the notes were about, then,” Molly said, her eyes growing wide. “They weren’t pranks, were they? The bank robbers really do think I have the money!”
“Exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you.” Bryce said. “And they won’t stop searching until they find it.”
Molly dropped her head into her hands. “So now what?”
Bryce smiled.
“Now we figure out what really happened that day.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Mr. Miller opened his notebook an
d looked over his observations. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d left out something. It drove him crazy, the nagging sensation that he hadn’t completed a task. It didn’t matter what it was. It could be a grocery list or a dry cleaner’s ticket, a crossword puzzle or a driving test at the DMV. Once the idea settled in that he’d left something incomplete, he felt distraught.
That was exactly the way he felt about his observation of Molly that morning: “Tan slacks with no cuffs, a black T-shirt and print apron with coral seashells and a rickrack trim.” It just wasn’t right, yet he couldn’t put his finger on what was wrong. His fear, however, was that the T-shirt had been a dark navy, rather than black. It would seem a minor detail to most people, but it represented a nightmare for Mr. Miller. If he was losing the ability to detect colors correctly, what good were his observations?
His father had been color-blind and it was something he’d feared all of his life. Was it hereditary? The thought horrified him. He took pride in the accuracy of the notes he took. Color was not a detail to be taken lightly. A description of a person’s apparel without mention of color meant nothing.
He stared at his notes again. The apron had been decorated with coral seashells. Which would be a better match for that – black or blue? Just that thought brought on another, even more disturbing. Could she have been wearing a black shirt with a navy trim? Or was she wearing a navy shirt with a black trim?
If he were a man prone to swearing, he would be cursing the fact that he’d skipped the wine hour. Not that he ever attended those. For one thing, he didn’t drink. Alcohol weakened observation skills, and he needed to keep his skills sharp at all times. In addition, he simply didn’t like to socialize. Small talk bored him and that was all he ever heard at those gatherings. Even worse, people were so general in their conversations. He couldn’t get an accurate visual image with statements such as, “Her aunt likes bright colors and wears hats,” or, “We just traded in our car for a mini-van.” This type of conversation drove him to hyperventilate. Did they trade up from two cup holders to four, or maybe six? And did the aunt like shocking pink, form-fitting button-down cardigan cashmere sweaters or a blousy muumuu with a hibiscus print in teal and deep purple?
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