Faceless

by Alexandra Ivy

  “Sadly true. But they could make an effort.” He held up a french fry, shaking his head as it dangled limply from his fingers.

  Wynter pushed away her own plate. The grilled cheese hadn’t been bad. But it hadn’t been good.

  Serviceable. That’s what her father would call it. In his world things were functional, efficient, and adequate. For an English professor he was surprisingly pedantic. Shades of gray.

  Wynter, on the other hand, saw the world in vivid greens and yellows and splashes of blue. “Why do you think she lied?”

  Noah drummed his fingers on the table. He didn’t pretend he didn’t understand her abrupt question. “My first guess is that she’s scared.”

  Wynter agreed. Tillie tried to act tough, but it didn’t take a genius to detect, beneath the brittle brashness, a woman who was terrified. Of what? That was the question.

  “I could understand when the shooting first happened. I’d be scared too if there was a mugger out there who was randomly killing women. But after twenty-five years, why wouldn’t she tell the truth?”

  “Because she might know something that is still a threat to the perp.”

  “You mean that she recognized him?”

  Noah shrugged. “It’s one theory.”

  Wynter studied Noah’s tanned, sculpted features that had already attracted the attention of every woman in the diner. When they talked about his work it was usually about his conservation efforts, and the community outreach programs. He never discussed the law enforcement side of his job. Now she realized that he would instinctively think like an investigator.

  Exactly what she needed.

  “Maybe if I offered her a reward she might be willing to tell me what she knows,” Wynter suggested.

  “The woman is obviously desperate for money,” Noah agreed. “But would you really trust anything she had to say?”

  Wynter thought back to her brief conversation with Tillie. As a rule she tried not judge people until she had a chance to get to know them; it was all too easy to jump to wrong conclusions. But there’d been a hard, cynical glint in the older woman’s eyes. Wynter suspected she would say anything for some easy cash.

  “Probably not.”

  “Besides, there’s more than one possibility for why she lied. It might be because she was doing something she wasn’t supposed to.”

  Wynter arched a brow. “Like what?”

  “She could have had a friend watching the place so she could take a break or have a smoke.” He shrugged. “Maybe she was in the storage room having sex.”

  She heaved a sigh. Noah was right. There were dozens or even hundreds more possibilities. “Meaning we’ll never know?”

  Without warning, he reached across the table to grab her hand. His skin was warm and his palms callused from physical labor. Something inside her relaxed at his touch.

  “Wynter . . .”

  His soothing words trailed away at the sharp screech of sirens. Like a flock of geese sensing danger, the entire diner craned their heads to watch the fire truck zoom down the narrow street with its lights flashing. A minute later the sheriff’s SUV flew past.

  Voices buzzed as customers speculated on what had happened, then a man at the booth next to them pulled his phone from his pocket and lifted it to his ear. He shared a brief conversation with the caller then abruptly rose to his feet.

  “Gotta go,” he announced in a terse voice. “Have Suzy put the bill on my account.”

  His companion eyed him with a curious expression. “What’s happening?”

  “Fire at the Lyddon place,” the man said. “They’re calling in the volunteers.”

  “Tillie Lyddon?” the companion demanded.

  “Yep. I warned the sheriff that place was a death trap.” The man reached to grab his coat and pulled it over his flannel shirt. “It was only a matter of time until she poisoned herself with toxic waste or burned herself to the ground.”

  “Is Tillie okay?” someone asked from another booth.

  The man looked grim. “Right now it looks as if she’s trapped inside.”

  Wynter listened to the exchange in stunned disbelief.

  “Shit,” Noah muttered, tightening his grip on her hand to urge her out of her seat. Then, tossing a twenty-dollar bill on the table, he tugged her out of the diner.

  Wynter headed to her truck parked at the side of the building, taking her seat behind the steering wheel as Noah climbed in beside her. For several minutes they sat in silence as they considered the awful possibility.

  Wynter was the first to say the words out loud. “Is this our fault?”

  Noah turned in his seat to directly meet her worried gaze. “How could it be our fault?”

  She grimaced as the sirens continued to echo through the street. “It’s no coincidence that Tillie’s house caught fire an hour after we spoke to her.”

  “You heard them in the restaurant. They’ve been expecting her place to go up in flames—”

  “Noah,” she interrupted.

  He heaved a sigh, scrubbing his fingers through the dark mahogany strands of his hair.

  “Okay, it does seem like more than a coincidence,” he grudgingly conceded.

  Wynter clutched the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. “There’s someone who didn’t want Tillie to talk to us.”

  Noah’s expression was grim. “All the more reason to return to Larkin. This has gone beyond being unhealthy. It’s dangerous.”

  Wynter considered his words. She wasn’t stupid. Or eager to attract the attention of someone who might have burned down Tillie’s house. Or worse, shot her mother in cold blood. But if there was a killer out there trying to protect his secrets, then would she really be safe sticking her head in the sand? “You think going home will protect me?”

  “Yes.”

  The word was said with blunt certainty, but there was an unease in his eyes that told Wynter he wasn’t as confident as he wanted her to believe. “I can’t just leave. I need answers.”

  He heaved a harsh sigh. “Do you have any relatives in town?”

  Wynter shook her head. “My grandpa died when my mother was a senior in high school and my grandma passed away ten years ago.”

  “No aunts or uncles?”

  “My grandma had a couple miscarriages after my mom so they stopped trying.”

  Noah glanced out the side window of the truck, as if considering their limited possibilities. They couldn’t go door to door asking if anyone knew who might have set fire to Tillie’s house. Or if they remembered the shooting at the Shell station from twenty-five years ago.

  “What happened to your grandmother’s house after she died?” he finally asked.

  “My father sold it. I used part of the money to build my greenhouses.” Wynter had been sad but resigned when her father had told her they had a buyer for the house. It had felt as if she was losing a part of the older woman who’d lived there for over forty years. Still, she didn’t want to see it decay like ... “Oh, of course.”

  “What?” Noah demanded as she dug her keys out of her purse and started the engine. “Where are we going?”

  “To my mother’s cabin,” she told him, turning out of the lot and headed toward Park Street, the main street out of town.

  “Where is it?”

  “Just a few miles north of Pike. We can be there in less than half an hour,” she assured him.

  He pulled on his seat belt even as he sent her a mystified glance. “Why are we going to the cabin?”

  Wynter didn’t have a great answer. The truth was, she didn’t have any better ideas.

  “The weekend my mother died, she brought me to Pike to visit my grandmother and she stayed there,” she murmured, picking up speed as they reached the main road.

  “At the cabin?”

  Wynter nodded. “It gave her the chance to work on her paintings without a child interrupting her muse.”

  “Was it something she did on a regular basis?”

  It wasn’
t just a casual question. Wynter frowned, then belatedly realized he was wondering if someone might have known her routine and followed her. Maybe from Larkin. “We came to Pike at least one or two weekends every month.”

  “And your mother always went to the cabin?”

  “Yes, as far as I can remember.” Wynter furrowed her brow, trying to dredge up the ancient memories. “Usually she dropped me off at Grandma’s on Friday afternoon and picked me up Sunday,” she said. The precise details were fuzzy, but she never forgot how excited she was when her mother would pull out her Rugrats suitcase and start packing her clothes. She adored spending time with her grandma. No one would tell her to sit up straight or put on her shoes. Her nose would be dusted with flour and the air would smell like yeast and butter and warm cinnamon. “On that Sunday she was later than usual. I was already asleep when she put me in the car. That’s why I was lying in the back seat when . . .” Her words trailed away and she grimly pressed on the gas pedal as they reached the edge of town.

  “Did your father sell the cabin?” Noah asked, thankfully not pressing for details of that night.

  “No. My grandfather left it in a trust-fund for me. Until I turned eighteen it couldn’t be sold. By then we both rarely remembered I own it.”

  Wynter veered onto an access road, forced to slow to a near crawl as her truck bounced over the potholes. Wisconsin winters had a habit of chewing up pavement and turning it into an obstacle course.

  “When was the last time you were up here?”

  Wynter leaned forward, concentrating on the trees that lined one side of the road. She didn’t want to miss the turnoff. “I haven’t been to the cabin since my mother died.”

  “It hasn’t been used?”

  Her lips twisted at his surprise. Noah was addicted to nature, to the point where he’d built his home in the middle of a patch of land ten miles from the nearest town. It would take half a day to walk to his nearest neighbor. It would be unthinkable for him to own a property in prime hunting and fishing territory and not spend every minute possible there.

  “No. My grandmother had the windows shuttered after Mom’s funeral and posted NO TRESPASSING signs, but no one has been inside.”

  Noah fell silent as she reached the turn that was marked with an old billboard that advertised a nearby lodge and water resort. Thank God it was still there. It was the only way she could remember which road to take.

  She turned onto the narrow path before taking the first left and then another right and another left. She remembered the few times her grandma had driven her to the cabin, to take a picnic basket filled with lunch for her mother, that she would always sing a little song. Left, right, left. It’s easy as can be. Left, right, left. Don’t forget, sweet sweetie. Wynter had no idea if she’d sung the song to remind herself how to get to the cabin, or in case Wynter happened to wander away, so she might be able to find her way back.

  The path wound upward at a steep angle, and the dirt softened to a soggy mud. Worse, as she rounded a corner she discovered a large tree had toppled to land directly in their path.

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to walk.”

  Noah shoved open his door and jumped out of the truck without hesitation. By the time she joined him, he’d tilted his head back to admire the towering red pine trees that surrounded them. “It’s a beautiful location.”

  Wynter nodded, heading up the road to climb over the tree trunk. The cabin wasn’t far. “My grandma told me that my mother loved being here. It was a special place she came with my grandfather. Just the two of them. They’d fish and cook over a campfire and my mother would paint while my grandpa would read a book.”

  Noah kept step beside her, his large body moving with a loose ease that came from years spent hiking through the woods. Wynter instinctively moved closer. She wasn’t afraid. The sun was shining and the sound of birds chirping added a song to the air, but the trees were so densely packed they made her feel claustrophobic. As if they were closing in around her.

  She’d felt the same when she was just a little girl.

  “Your mom never brought you up here to spend the night?” Noah asked, almost as if he sensed she needed a distraction.

  “No.” She picked up the pace. The lake was over the small ridge just ahead. “I didn’t care. I loved spending time with my grandma,” she assured Noah. “I would sit on the kitchen floor and watch her cook. Even after my mother died, I would come to spend time with her.” A smile curved her lips. “She’s the inspiration for my restaurant. I’m pretty sure heaven must smell like her cinnamon rolls.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Noah murmured, releasing a low whistle as the trees at last thinned to reveal a wooden cabin perched next to the lake. “Is this it?”

  “Yes.”

  Wynter stepped into the clearing, taking in the picturesque sight. The lake wasn’t large, but it had been well-stocked by her grandfather and the banks were seeded with wildflowers that provided a sweet perfume during the summer months. The cabin was built of weathered wood with a tin roof and a chimney that was beginning to crumble. There was a shallow porch where a rocking chair used to sit along with a wooden rack for her grandpa’s fishing poles. Both were gone now, and heavy wooden shutters had been fastened over the windows.

  It made the place look gloomy. As if it had shut itself away to mourn the loss of her mother. Or maybe it was sulking at being abandoned.

  Wynter felt an unexpected pang of guilt.

  “How are you going to get in?”

  She jingled the key chain she held in her hand. “I’ve carried the key for years. I keep telling myself that I needed to come up here and check on things. If nothing else, I needed to make sure there was no squatter. I’ve just never had the courage.”

  “You shouldn’t have to do it on your own.” Noah glanced around, as if emphasizing the isolation of the cabin.

  She turned her head to send him a grateful smile. “I’m not on my own.”

  Chapter 5

  There was a high-pitched screech as Wynter forced open the stiff door. A chill crawled down her spine. It felt like the cabin was battling to keep her out. As if it held secrets it wasn’t prepared to give up.

  Wynter shook off her ridiculous reluctance to step over the threshold. Her raw nerves were making her jumpy. The hinges squeaked because they were rusty. Nothing sinister about that.

  Entering the cabin, she was instantly swallowed by the gloom. She halted to reach into her purse and pull out her cell phone. Then, pressing the flashlight on, she turned in a slow circle.

  The room was small, with a low ceiling and a few pieces of faded furniture. The walls were covered with paneling, but the floor was plain wood planks. It looked like every other fishing cabin in this area, except for the fact that it was littered with the supplies of an artist.

  Near the window was an easel holding a rectangular canvas. There was a tall stool that was half-hidden by the stained smock that had been carelessly tossed on it. Around the stool were piles of paints and brushes and half-empty jars scattered in random patterns. And in the far corner was a stack of finished oil paintings waiting to be framed.

  “It’s like a time capsule,” she murmured, imagining her mother seated on the stool, her smock pulled over her clothes as she released her creative soul on the canvas.

  A sharp sense of loss cut through her. Not only had the world lost a gifted artist, but she’d been robbed of a mother. It was tragically unfair.

  Easily sensing her unexpected burst of grief, Noah headed back to the door. “I’ll open a couple shutters so we can have some light.”

  She nodded, appreciating the moment of privacy. This was why she’d waited so long to come to the cabin. She’d always suspected the ghost of her mother would be strongest here.

  Drifting toward the painting left unfinished on the easel, she studied the sweeping lines of vibrant color. There was something so . . . boldly alive about the strokes. As if the artist was perfectly confident that she was creating a
masterpiece.

  Lost in admiration, Wynter didn’t hear Noah returning. It wasn’t until he released a low whistle that she realized he was standing in front of the canvases piled in the corner.

  “Your mother was talented.”

  Wynter glanced around the room that was now filled with sunlight. It didn’t dispel the ghosts, but it lightened the heavy sense of sorrow.

  “I’ve always regretted the fact I didn’t inherit her artistic ability,” she told Noah. “My grandmother said she knew my mom was going to be a painter when she found her in the dining room coloring a mural on the wall when she was just five. By the time she graduated high school she had her paintings displayed in the state capitol building and a dozen scholarships to the finest art schools in the country.”

  Noah turned, his brows raised as if confused by her words. “You did inherit her talent.”

  “I can’t draw a stick figure.”

  “You create art on each plate that comes out of your kitchen.”

  “That’s . . .” Words failed as his praise settled in the center of her heart. Noah wasn’t a charmer. He didn’t flatter women or feel compelled to constantly flirt. He was direct, honest, and sometimes painfully blunt. Which made his compliment all the more precious. “Thank you.”

  Noah stepped forward. “Are you sure you want to do this today? I can bring you back next week. Or later this summer when it’s warmer.”

  Wynter wavered. A part of her wanted to turn around and walk away. Not because of the layers of dust, or stale air, or lingering ghosts. But she was tired from her long, stressful day, and not sure her emotions were entirely stable. Then again, would she be able to sleep if she returned to Larkin?

  Not a chance.

  Meeting Noah’s worried gaze, she forced a teasing smile to her lips. “You just want to come when the fish are biting.”

  He glanced toward the window that offered a view of the lake. “I wouldn’t mind testing the waters.”

  “We’ll come back. But first I want to look around.”

  “For what?”

  “I’m not sure.” Wynter crossed to peek through the opening into the tiny bathroom. There was a toilet, a bare sink with the plumbing exposed, and a handheld showerhead attached to the wall. Sparse. “This was the last place she stayed before she died. We might find something that will tell us if—”