He skimmed the lines. “I thought you said you didn’t know the numbers.”
“You asked if I had made a copy of the paper or written down the numbers. I said no, which was the truth. I didn’t write them down until just now.”
“You’re sneaky.”
“No, I’m not.” She flashed him a sassy grin. “You just don’t ask the right questions.”
“I’ll be sure to make them more pointed in the future.”
He lowered his gaze to the page he held. R45 87, G45 165, R2.55 282. Finally, he looked back up at Allison. “Not a clue. This is going to take some thought. Can I have this?”
Allison nodded. “Just be careful. Someone wants that awfully bad.”
Yeah, bad enough to hold a knife to her throat. “I’m going to make sure the house is secure, but you really need an alarm system.”
“I thought about it after the first break-in.”
“Good. The sooner you get it installed, the better. And a good guard dog wouldn’t hurt. But I suppose that’s out of the question.”
“I actually thought about that, too. A Rottie at the foot of my bed would be pretty comforting. But I don’t know what I’d do with him during the day.”
He frowned. He could offer to move in and sleep on her couch. But he knew the answer to that without asking. He would have to settle for the alarm. And the secure locks. And the regular patrols. And the Glock. Today he would make some calls and get her enrolled in a basic pistol class.
But there was only one surefire way to take Allison out of danger.
Make sense of those numbers.
SIX
Allison sat in the living room, legs stretched out on the brocade sofa and back resting against one padded arm. Her iPad sat in her lap, completely at odds with the nostalgic air of the turn-of-the-century furnishings.
She loved her whole house. But if she had to choose a favorite area, this would be it. The room exuded a rich warmth, with rose-tinted walls framed by walnut wainscoting beneath and heavy crown molding above. The fireplace at the far end had yet to house a fire, at least by her hands, but the elaborate walnut chimney breast had been the source of many compliments.
She stretched her arms upward, then dropped her gaze back to the modern-day technology in her lap. She had found the Levy County property appraiser’s website and located her house. The sales history supported what she had been told by the real estate agent. Her grandparents bought the place in the early forties. Eventually, they had gone into assisted living, and when they died, the house had gone to her aunt.
That was when life for the Winchesters started its downward spiral. Her uncle ran off with a younger woman, and her aunt deeded the house to her cousin and took off. Actually, that was information she had before talking to the real estate agent. She was sixteen when her dad got the call. He and her aunt hadn’t been close, but when her life fell apart, Marilyn Winchester Morris reached out to her brother.
Sandra Morris hadn’t reached out to anybody. Whatever her reasons, after a year of owning the house, she washed her hands of the whole thing, and no one had seen hide nor hair of her since. Three years later, the house went for a few thousand in unpaid property taxes.
Maybe she had learned something. Maybe she had found the paper and deciphered the numbers. And hadn’t wanted to be around for the fallout.
Allison frowned. She needed to locate her cousin. She would start with her dad. He might know the whereabouts of her aunt. Then her aunt could put her in touch with her cousin. One of them ought to be able to shed some light on the cryptic message in the newel post.
She returned her gaze to the tablet. After the ridiculously low price from the tax sale was one more entry. Two years ago, to Allison Winchester, also at a ridiculously low price. She had reaped the financial benefits of the prior two owners’ neglect.
She drew in a deep breath and clicked off the site. She wouldn’t check out the investor who owned the house between her and her cousin. He never occupied it.
Her stomach growled, reminding her of the chicken thawing in the kitchen sink and that 6:00 p.m. was approaching fast. She had just set the iPad aside when the doorbell rang. A knot of tension formed in her stomach, and her pulse rate picked up several notches. All her visitors lately had been criminals. Or police officers with bad news.
She moved to the living room window and pushed aside the sheers to peer through the miniblinds. Two figures stood on her porch, one human, one canine. She swung open the door. Blake held Brinks’s leash in one hand. A plastic grocery bag hung from the other.
A teasing smile climbed up his cheeks the moment his eyes met hers. “I’m here to discuss joint custody.”
“What? Joint custody of whom?”
“Him.” He pointed to the Doberman at his side. “Can I come in?”
She backed away from the door to allow them to enter. What crazy idea had he come up with now?
He stepped into the foyer. “Remember when you said a Rottie at the foot of the bed would be comforting?”
“I wasn’t serious.”
“Sure you were.” He pushed the door shut behind him and removed Brinks’s leash. “The only drawback was that you didn’t know what to do with him during the day.”
“I don’t know what I’d do with him at night, either.” Whether or not she was home was irrelevant. Bathing, feeding, walking, dog hair all over the house—she wanted no part of it. Although with Brinks’s short coat, he probably didn’t do a whole lot of shedding.
Blake shrugged. “Brinks isn’t exactly a Rottie. Actually, he’s a pretty sorry excuse for a Doberman. But think how much safer you’d feel having him here.”
“You’re trying to give me your dog?”
“Not give him to you. Just share him with you. I get days, you get nights.” He flashed her a crooked grin. “And I’m sure we can come to an amicable agreement regarding holidays.”
She shook her head. He was nuts. “I don’t need a dog. I’m having an alarm installed. It’s already scheduled.”
“When?”
She sighed. “Friday.”
“That’s four days from now. In the meantime, you need Brinks. Come on. Look at him. He likes you.”
She glanced down at the Doberman, who stood staring up at her. As if to confirm, his tail nub tipped side to side in a semiwag.
“He won’t be happy staying with me. He’s used to being with you.”
Blake’s features seemed to relax. He could probably tell she was weakening. “Not really. I’ve only had him a month. I rescued him from the pound.”
She dropped to one knee to scratch his neck. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad. If Blake had days, most of the care would fall on him. She would be responsible for breakfast. And walking him in the morning.
She straightened with a sigh. “All right. But I’m warning you. If he decides to start gnawing on my antique furniture or lifting his leg on my walls, he’s all yours.”
A wide grin spread across his face. “Don’t worry, he’s totally housebroken, hasn’t had any accidents. At least not lately. And he’s past the chewing stage.” He reached to run a hand down the dog’s back. “As long as there are no cats in the vicinity, he’s a really good dog. They tell me he even had papers. His owner probably got rid of him because of that funky right ear.”
She started to walk toward the kitchen, knowing Blake and Brinks would follow. “I don’t have anything to feed him. But I assume that’s what you’re holding.”
“I came prepared.” He plopped the plastic bag on the counter.
Her stomach rumbled again. Now it was past six. “Has he had his supper yet?”
“Not yet. I figured I’d do it here, so you know how much to give him.”
He reached into the bag and removed a porcelain dish with a painted bone i
n the bottom. A can came out next, and when he popped its top, Brinks perked up. The instant Blake put the bowl on the floor, Brinks plowed into the gravy-covered meat chunks as if he hadn’t eaten in a week.
Allison shifted her gaze from the dog to Blake. “And how about you? Have you had supper yet?”
“No. I was going to go back to the boat and scrounge something up once I left here. Or go out if I was feeling exceptionally lazy.”
“Well, this isn’t The Island Room, but if you’d like to stay, I’m fixing chicken and rice.”
“Chicken and rice sounds good.”
She turned on the faucet and squirted a dab of soap into her palm.
Blake did the same. “What can I do to help?”
“That closet over there is the pantry.” She tilted her head that direction then bent to take a pan out of the cabinet. “There’s a bag of rice on the second shelf. Measure me out one cup.”
As he poured rice into the measuring cup she had placed on the counter, she cast a sideways glance at him. He actually looked comfortable. She wasn’t used to that. Tom had avoided the kitchen as if it was a game preserve during hunting season and he was a deer.
She opened a dry bin. “You like onions?”
“I like everything except canned asparagus and liver.”
“Well, you won’t find either of those here. Fresh asparagus, maybe.”
Within a few minutes, the chicken had reached a rolling boil and the onions were sautéing. Brinks had long finished his dinner and was lying down, watching them from across the room.
She laid the wooden spoon on the stove next to the skillet. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For him.” She shot the Doberman another glance. “I’m going to rest a lot easier knowing he’s with me...even if he would lick an intruder to death. The intruder doesn’t know that. It’s sweet of you to loan him to me.” Blake was thoughtful in a lot of ways. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to find herself caring for him much more than she should.
“No problem. I’ll be resting easier, too, knowing you’re not alone.”
Her eyes locked with his, and the warmth there made her chest tighten. Yes, it would be so easy to fall for him.
She pushed the thoughts aside and turned to add water and rice to the onions, then checked the chicken. Once she was sure dinner was progressing as planned, she leaned back against the counter.
Blake eased onto one of the stools at the island. “So who all knows about the paper?”
“Just you and the Cedar Key Police Department. And some guy with a ski mask who’s determined to get his hands on it.”
“Maybe you ought to let some other people in on it, you know, your friends. The more brains involved, the better chance of solving this thing.”
“No.” The word came out sharper than she had intended. She softened her tone. “Until I know where this is going to lead, I don’t want it out there.”
“Why not?”
“What if my family was involved in something illegal?” She pushed herself away from the counter and began to pace. “What if we decipher the clues and they lead to some kind of contraband? Or a body? My life here will be over.”
“How? Even if your family was involved in something illegal, what’s that got to do with you?”
Nothing. And everything. “I’m a Winchester. When it comes down to it, that’s all that will matter.”
“You don’t think very highly of your friendships here, do you?”
She stopped pacing and returned to stir the rice. Blake didn’t understand. He would never understand unless he knew her past.
And that wasn’t going to happen.
Beyond the fact that she was widowed, no one in Cedar Key knew her past. And the last person she was going to tell was Blake. She couldn’t bear to see his warm brown eyes fill with condemnation. Or worse yet, pity for the stupid, gullible woman who had been too naive to see what was right in front of her.
Blake was a kind man, a good cop and a great friend. And keeping secrets from him didn’t feel right. But something told her she wasn’t the only one with secrets.
He was keeping a few of his own.
* * *
Blake walked down Dock Street whistling a tune, a loaded plastic bag swinging from one hand. The weather was perfect. Although the sun was almost directly overhead, it wasn’t uncomfortable. An early cold front somewhere up north had left Cedar Key with paradiselike daytime temperatures in the low seventies.
Yesterday, he’d applied for two jobs. This morning he received a call from The Market offering him the position there. It was a far cry from police work, but would help alleviate his boredom.
But there was another reason for his cheeriness. Allison was taking him sailing. He had presented the request as a charter customer. Although she was appreciative of his help, she shied away from anything that smacked of romance. And that was okay. Remaining on a friendship-only basis was the safest way to go.
He couldn’t deny it—she had piqued his interest from the moment he met her. She was spunky enough to sail the waters around Cedar Key solo, resolute enough to tackle putting her house back together alone and resourceful enough to install new window locks and complete other projects without help.
But beneath the self-sufficient air was an underlying fragility. When he tried to pry, her guard went up, and she closed herself off. Sometime in the past, someone had hurt her. Deeply.
And that was why he refused to involve her in a casual romance. Whatever trauma she had experienced, he wouldn’t add to her pain.
He continued down Second Street, headed toward Cedar Cove. His route took him past the city park. This weekend, it would be packed with people, booths offering freshly made seafood and a local live band performing in the pavilion. According to several flyers around town, it was Cedar Key’s annual Seafood Festival, an event not to be missed.
As soon as he stepped onto the dock, Allison waved to him from the deck of her boat. He held up the plastic bag.
“Lunch, provided by Tony.”
As promised, he had walked to Tony’s Seafood Restaurant and picked up lunch to go—salads, bread and two bowls of Tony’s famous clam chowder. Everyone said Tony’s chowder was the best. He would soon find out.
Allison took the bag from him. “You’re bringing Brinks, right?”
He turned toward his boat, where Brinks stood looking out one of the windows. The dog responded with three enthusiastic barks. He deserved to go—based on what Allison had said that morning, he had been perfectly well behaved all night.
Blake grinned. “He was just waiting for you to ask. I’ll go get him.”
When he returned, Allison held out a hand to help him aboard. “It should be perfect sailing weather. Clear skies and a steady twelve-knot wind.” She handed him a life jacket, one of those big, orange things that he had always hated as a kid. His dad had made him wear one every time he got on the boat, even though he had been a strong swimmer since finishing kindergarten.
“Do I really have to wear this thing?”
“I won’t make you wear it, but keep it in easy reach. Brinks needs a safety line, though.”
He gave her a salute. “Aye, Captain.”
This was the professional Allison, the capable charter captain. Once away from Cedar Key, maybe she would let down her guard and give him a glimpse of the personal Allison, relaxed and friendly, without the restraints of professionalism or the threat of danger hanging over her head.
Yesterday, he had signed her up for a basic pistol class. The problem was, it wasn’t scheduled to start for another three weeks. He was actually considering taking her to a shooting range himself. There was one in Chiefland, a little more than a half hour away. But a few trips to the shooting range wouldn’t prepare someone who was afrai
d of guns to adequately defend herself.
Allison tied a small line around Brinks’s chest, securing the other end to a cleat near the stern, then pushed the ignition button on the motor. The outboard hummed to life. “I’ll get us under way. Then we’ll break out lunch.”
After untying the lines, she maneuvered around the other boats moored there and headed toward open sea. Brinks settled onto the seat, facing forward, sniffing the salty breeze. Excitement rippled through him.
Allison smiled down at the Doberman. “It looks as if he likes sailing.”
“He likes going, regardless of the mode of transportation—car, truck, powerboat, sailboat. Plane and train we haven’t tried, but he’d probably like those, too.”
She stepped forward to turn a winch near the companionway hatch, and the mainsail climbed the mast. When she pulled the line attached to the boom, the sail stopped flapping. The boat tipped a good ten degrees. After killing the motor, she unfurled the front sail, and they tilted another ten degrees. Brinks stiffened slightly, then shifted position and relaxed.
The angle apparently didn’t bother Allison. She stood at the wheel, left leg bent to compensate, the fabric brim of her boat hat flopping in the breeze. The usual thick braid hung down her back. Her shorts were similar to what she had worn on other occasions—cool, comfortable and modest length, and, as usual, the light blue button-up shirt was knotted at the waist. Apparently that was her standard charter attire.
The mainsail began to flap, and she adjusted the wheel, creating an almost imperceptible increase in speed. “Have you ever sailed?”
“No. I grew up around power boats, and that’s all I’ve ever had.”
“What do you think so far?”
He drew in a deep breath and let his head fall back. The triangular piece of white cloth rose skyward, its point ending far above the deck. Beyond that was blue sky, dotted with clouds. The only sounds were the wind whooshing past the sails and the rush of water flowing against the hull. The appeal of sailing was obvious. Especially with a beautiful woman. Whoever said sailing was romantic wasn’t lying. Of course, romance would be the last thing on Allison’s mind.
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