by Melissa Tagg
She squared her shoulders. “So, Lenora’s brother-in-law hasn’t heard from her?”
Sam turned from the broken window at the front of the room, still half-covered with tarp. “No, and he wasn’t bothered by it either. From the sound of things, he was used to going months without hearing from his brother and Lenora. Said they traveled a lot.”
Mara nodded. “They were freelance photographers.”
Sam rubbed his chin. “The crazy thing is, there’s hardly anyone else to reach out to. Lenora and her husband never had kids. The brother-in-law never married, so there aren’t any nieces or nephews. George Worthington had some extended family, but if the brother-in-law doesn’t know anything, it’s hard to believe anybody else will. Though I’ll do my due diligence and reach out to each of them.”
“Other than that, where do you go from here?”
“Hopefully the computer and papers we’ve pulled from her desk will give us a running start. We’ll check credit card and phone records, bank account activity. Freelance work makes it a little harder to check with past employers, but we’ll try to identify some publications she shot for regularly, see if someone hired her for a job. I realize you said she’d retired but you never know.” He flipped open the little notebook he’d been scribbling in all morning. “Otherwise, you’re our best and only lead for the moment.”
There was a gravity to his tone and something of a warning in his raised brow, discomfiting enough that she couldn’t help looking away. She crouched beside an open can of paint, reached for a stir stick, and swirled it into the yellow liquid. “I’ve told you everything I can think of. Believe me, I wish I knew more. I feel guilty enough for not doing something earlier.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“I told you already, I didn’t think of it as a disappearance. At first, I thought she was coming back. And then later, I assumed . . .” The remorse she’d felt all day yesterday punched its way in again. Marshall had told her to give herself a break, but that was easier said than done. She looked up to meet Sam’s eyes, unspoken but undeniable allegation in his expression. “Am I a suspect?”
“Suspect? We don’t even know there’s been a crime yet.”
Yet.
“But since you brought it up, if there were a crime . . .” He tapped his pen against his notebook. “You’re the last person we know of to see and talk to Lenora Worthington. And from what I can tell, you’re the only one who stands to gain anything by her disappearance.”
She shot to her feet. “Gain anything? What could I have—”
“You’re staying free of charge in a house you don’t own. You’re running an establishment you don’t own. You were granted twenty thousand dollars from Maple Valley to fix up a property that, once again, you don’t own.”
“I think you’ve made your point. No, the Everwood isn’t mine. But Lenora left me in charge. She asked me to take care of it. That’s what I’m doing.” She crossed her arms. “As for the money, I wouldn’t have even known about the city’s business fund if not for you. I don’t know why you’d try to help me if you think I’m up to something fishy here. Maybe you could do us all a favor and make up your mind.”
A slow clap ricocheted throughout the room, followed by a hearty “Hear, hear!”
Jenessa strode in the room, upbeat as always, back to full fashion in another all-black ensemble. Only her turquoise feather earrings added a splash of color. “Sam, you’re crazy if you think Mara has anything to do with Lenora’s disappearance.”
Sam glared at her. “No one asked for your opinion, Jen.”
“Since when have I waited to be asked?” She pushed her hair over her shoulders and came to stand beside Mara.
“Why are you even here?”
Her blue eyes gleamed. “I have information for our investigation.”
“Our investigation?” Sam closed his notebook. “Nope, not happening. I don’t need you interfering—”
“Fine. I’ll talk to Mara.” She turned her impish grin on Mara. “I’ll tell you what I’ve discovered about Lenora’s parents and their disappearance. All it took was peeking at some county records, running some names and birthdates through a few databases.”
Sam had started moving across the room, but his footsteps slowed as Jenessa went on.
Her dimples deepened. “I’m pretty sure it was Lenora’s parents who vanished from Maple Valley in the sixties. The County Assessor’s Office helped me out there. A Kenneth and Sherrie Rayleen owned the Everwood from late 1956 to 1962. I did a search in our digital archives and found an article about them from fifty-six—just a short piece about the new inn owners and it mentions a daughter.” She glanced over her shoulder at Sam. “You’re still here?”
He gave a puff of annoyance. “Just go on, Jen.”
Her expression turned smug. “The crazy thing is, I can’t find any record of a Kenneth and Sherrie Rayleen, with the same birthdates, anywhere after 1962. Or a Lenora Rayleen either. At least not one whose age matches.”
Sam cut in. “If all you did was a Google search—”
“Of course I went deeper than that, Sam. I may not have the same resources you do but give me a little credit. And it gets stranger.” She turned to Mara again. “Not only could I find no record of them after 1962, I couldn’t find anything before the mid-1950s either. No marriage license, no past addresses.”
Sam had given up any pretense of disinterest and he stood with them now. Mara chewed on the new information. What could this mean? Could Lenora’s parents simply have passed away at young ages? But if that were the case, wouldn’t Jenessa have found obituaries?
Jenessa pulled a piece of paper from her purse and handed it to Sam. “Here you go. Names, birthdates, what records I could find from the fifties and early sixties. Do your own search, Sam, but I’ll be sincerely stunned if you find anything.”
That was as begrudging a look of acceptance on Sam’s face as Mara had ever seen. And maybe a smidge of pride. “You’re kind of annoying, you know that, Jen?”
“Yep. And you love me for it.” She refocused on Mara. “Hey, is Lucas around?”
“Uh, no. He left for the orchard at the crack of dawn.”
“Bummer. I was hoping . . . ”
Sam pocketed his notebook and the paper Jen had given him. “Give him space,” he said softly.
“He was in Mexico for months. That doesn’t count as space?”
“Jen.”
Mara watched the exchange, clueless yet curious.
Sam started toward the lobby but stopped halfway across the room. “Oh, Mara. Right before that return call from Lenora’s brother-in-law, you’d started telling me about a trip Lenora took around Christmas. We never got back to it.”
“Oh. Right.” She bent to pour yellow paint in a metal tray. “A trip up to Minnesota. She left on December twenty-second and only expected to be gone a couple of days. But a blizzard hit.” She dipped her roller into the paint. “She ended up not making it back until the twenty-seventh.”
“Did she mention a reason for the trip?”
Mara shook her head. Once again, she hadn’t asked. Why hadn’t she asked?
Sam pressed his lips into a thin line and soon Jen was talking again, asking Sam about Sunday dinner, bugging him about giving Mara a hard time.
“You spent Christmas all alone here? No guests?”
Mara whipped her gaze behind her. When had Marshall come in? “There were a few guests before and after Christmas, but none were around on Christmas Day. I pretended it wasn’t a holiday, treated it like a normal day. It wasn’t that bad.”
Marshall looked doubtful. He also looked . . . tired. His hair stuck out as if he’d combed his fingers through it one too many times and those circles were back under his eyes. And he was leaning against the wall. The wet wall she’d been painting just before Sam arrived.
“You okay, Marsh?”
“What? Oh, yeah. Just a headache. I’m fine.”
“Too bad you can’t s
ay the same about your shirt.”
He straightened, looking down and over to where a streak of yellow climbed the side of his back. “Oh. Lovely.”
She turned away to hide her smile. The one that was surely too big and gave away too much.
A cold wind bellowed, curling its way under the roof of the Everwood’s porch and rattling what little remained of the lattice climbing one side.
“Yep, definitely snow on the way.” Drew Renwycke observed the bundle of cotton-white clouds overhead before hopping off one corner of the porch, easy enough to do now that the railing had collapsed. “That’s March in Iowa for you.”
It was the most the man had spoken since Marshall met him on the front lawn minutes ago. He’d gotten Renwycke’s name from the owner of the hardware store downtown. A local who’d returned to town a couple of years ago and opened his own carpentry business.
“Used to be in construction too,” the store’s owner, Sunny Klassen, had said. “He does everything from putting up buildings to home renovation to custom woodworking.”
But could he repair a porch that’d taken the brunt of a fallen tree’s damage? Preferably in just a couple of weeks’ time?
Drew had already picked his way from one end of the porch to the other, inspecting rattling floorboards and the half-demolished stairs. He dropped to his knees now and peered underneath.
Marshall unrolled the sleeves of his flannel shirt, wishing for a coat and quick answers from the guy.
Wishing even more that the hazy beginning of a headache he’d awoken with this morning would make itself scarce. He blamed another phone call late last night from Penny. Unanswered, of course. Probably didn’t help that he’d been up on the rooftop at the crack of dawn, patching leaky spots.
“So what do you think?” he asked Drew, jumping down to the grass, still brittle from an overnight frost. “Is it salvageable?”
Drew straightened, cheeks ruddy from the wintry bite in the air and the knees of his Levi’s now smudged with dirt. “Honestly, no.”
Marshall kept a groan at bay, but frustration clamored all the same. Ever since Mara had returned from the town meeting, he’d been trying not to let it show—his uncertainty that they could really get this whole place in top form before the open house she’d agreed to. And now they had the local police trailing through the house, slowing down today’s work. At least they’d moved down to the basement at this point and Mara was back to painting. He would be too as soon as Drew finished his assessment. Not a positive one, apparently.
The man shook the dirt from his hands. “Sorry it’s not better news, but even if that tree hadn’t destroyed half the porch, it probably should’ve been ripped out years ago. A lot of the wood is rotting and I don’t like the way things look down there.” He signaled toward the underside of the porch. “You may have bigger problems than a ruined porch.”
No stopping his groan this time. “Termites?”
“Or maybe carpenter ants. Which wouldn’t be as bad but it’s still a hassle to deal with. In either case, they tend to be dormant during winter, but evidence of past damage is obvious. I’d get a pest control guy out here ASAP.”
He hated the thought of telling Mara. Between the renovations, planning for the open house, and trying to figure out how to advertise and book rooms on a miniscule budget, she had enough to deal with. Not to mention that grilling she’d just received from Sam Ross.
He’d overheard all of it and it’d been all he could do not to march into the next room and tell Ross to take it easy. But the closeness of last night had carved an awkward distance between them this morning. And, really, it might be for the best.
He glanced up to a sky bleached of color, expecting a swirl of flurries any minute. “So what do we do about the porch?”
Drew eyed the marred structure. “Your best bet is to do away with all of this and build a brand new one.”
Resigned, Marshall sighed. “I’ve never built a porch before.”
“You’d be surprised at how quick of a project it can be. Heck, you can buy pre-fab stuff that makes it a cinch. Although, I’m probably betraying my woodworking trade in saying so.”
Marshall’s phone cut in then. A text that he spared only the briefest glance. Penny.
I’m gonna bug you until you call me, Marsh.
With a puff of white air, he stuffed his phone into his pocket and refocused. Tried to blink past the throbbing in his head.
Probably futile to ask but he might as well try. “Any chance you’re up for the project? I mean, it’s Mara’s call, obviously, but she’d probably be happy to hand it off to an expert. Problem is, we’re on a time crunch.” And even if they had all the time in the world, money might be an issue. Which meant the pre-fab option was probably the way to go. Unless Drew could give them a good deal on a custom build.
“Business picks up for me in the spring, but I might be able to squeeze it in.” Drew gave the porch another once-over. “Tell you what—you get pest control out here, figure out what you’re looking at, and give me a call. I’ll see what I can do.”
Marshall’s relief was instant.
But short-lived. A car had rambled down the lane and parked out by the police vehicles while he and Drew were speaking. Out came a woman . . . and a young girl.
Before they even crossed the lawn, Sam Ross appeared at the top of the porch stairs. “Well, hey there, you two. You got here fast.”
The girl came flying toward Sam. “Hi, Dad!”
Dad.
How could one tiny word slice so deep?
“Sorry to spring this on you, Sam,” the woman said. “I couldn’t say no to the extra hours. Thanks for letting me drop her off.”
“Are you kidding? An extra day with my Mackenzie Lee?” Sam crouched and opened his arms to the girl. She was seven, maybe eight years old . . .
Marshall’s stomach lurched.
It took all of a few seconds for him to swing himself onto the porch, ignoring the steps, and launch into the house. All of a few seconds more to find himself upstairs . . .
Wrenching open the medicine cabinet in his bathroom, the one at the far end of the second-floor corridor. Small but adequate. Old but clean. Aqua tiles, rusty faucet . . . empty cabinet. He closed it with a bang.
He jabbed his fingers through his hair. What about the cupboard under the sink? He’d settle for anything—aspirin, ibuprofen.
Anything to ward off what he knew was coming. Already the familiar pain stabbed—so much more than the headache. Penny’s repeated calls. The little girl on the lawn. He hadn’t even looked at her long enough to take in many of her features, but it didn’t matter because all he’d seen was Laney.
Fraught need had him crouching on the floor, wrinkling his nose at the musty smell wafting from the cabinet under the sink, searching. Nothing. Just an old box of tissues, some cleaning products, and a few spare rolls of toilet paper.
The slam of the cupboard door joined his frustrated groan before he dropped into a sitting position.
How many times had he cowered on his own bathroom floor back home just like this? There’d been a time or two when he’d battled the urge to down every pill in the place. Would heaven still welcome him if that were his choice? Would he find Laney waiting?
It’d be worth it. It’d be worth it to see her again. Alive and whole instead of silent and still like the last time.
They shouldn’t have had an open casket. There was nothing healing or peaceful about it.
Marshall dragged his palms over his cheeks. Stand up, Marshall.
It was a whisper. A prodding. A conviction.
In another life, in his old one where he was still a man of deep faith, he might’ve believed that was a divine murmur. God’s voice. Saying his name. Letting him know someone saw and heard and cared.
But if it was God, why pick now to finally step in? After all He’d taken, why would God expect anything other than this version of Marshall—this shriveled, broken version? Mara said they always h
ad a choice, but how was a man supposed to choose anything when all he wanted was to feel nothing?
If it is you, God, then help me. Please.
Because he couldn’t keep living like this. One step forward, two steps back. Always waiting for the next attack of grief. Trying to move on but never quite believing it was possible.
I need you to take the pain away, God.
Or if nothing else, he needed God to help him stand up and go downstairs. He had work to do. He had someone counting on him.
But the headache, the roiling in his stomach, and . . . Why was it so warm in here?
“Marshall?”
Surprise knocked into him. Mara?
“I saw you run up the stairs. Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine.” It took way too much effort to stand, pat down his hair, open the door. His vision blurred and the room around him spun.
And then . . . nothing.
“I hate tea.”
Marshall’s voice was raspy, but gone was the feverish glaze in his eyes and though pale, his skin was no longer slicked with sweat.
Mara perched at the edge of the mattress far too small for the man half sitting, half laying against the mountain of pillows behind him. If not for the weariness tugging at her inside and out, she might laugh at the obstinate set to his jaw. “Just drink the tea, Marshall. It’ll help you sleep.”
She pressed the back of her palm to his forehead—blessedly cool. Unlike earlier when his temperature had spiked to 102 degrees. He’d been half incoherent, mumbling while Sam helped drag him to his bed. He’d tossed and turned for hours, tangled in sheets damp from his perspiration.
Mara had lost track of how many times he’d uttered the name. Laney. She’d never heard such anguish in a man’s voice.
Marshall let out an exasperated breath and reached behind him. “Why are there so many pillows on this thing?”
Was it his amusing aggravation or the way his hair stuck out every which way that gave him such a boyish look just now? “Careful. You’re going to make me spill your tea.”
