Sweet Tea and Secrets

by Joy Avon

  Iphy kept her eyes on Quinn. Her expression was both sad and hopeful. “I know two boys who will be excited to see you. I also think their mother can cook you a wonderful late lunch. With some food in your stomach, you’ll feel better.”

  “Peggy will never want to see me again,” Quinn said. “She’ll think it’s my fault.”

  Callie quickly intervened, “Peggy was at the police station this morning to plead for you. She asked me to team up with her and find proof to clear your name.”

  Quinn shocked upright and stared at her. His face went deathly pale. “No,” he said in a croak. “She can’t involve herself. She can’t poke around. What if the killer comes after her? What if he hurts her or even kills her as well because of what he thinks she knows or could discover?”

  He started the engine. “I have to get to her and tell her not to do anything stupid.”

  “She’s at Book Tea right now,” Iphy said. “I kept an eye on her all morning. We can all go there, and then you can go with her to her home and have a late lunch and play with the boys. No—no protests. I don’t think Peggy will stop worrying about you or poking around, as you call it, until she knows you’re all right. You owe it to her to show up.”

  Quinn stared at her, then said, “Maybe you’re right. I need to explain to her how dangerous it is. She can’t get hurt. Or the boys.”

  He looked into Biscuit’s eyes. “In the back, boy.”

  As if the border collie understood how important this was, he jumped between the seats to get into the back. Iphy poked Callie with an elbow, propelling her to the car. “Callie can go with you to restrain Biscuit during the ride. A dog on the loose in a car isn’t very safe. We’ll meet up at Book Tea.”

  Callie hurried to get into the back and pulled Biscuit to her. His tongue was out and his tail wagging as if he was excited to hit the road.

  Quinn strapped himself in and looked in the rearview mirror. “Aren’t you afraid to come with me? In case I’m the killer?”

  “I don’t think you hurt Jamison. Gut feeling.”

  “Your friend the deputy doesn’t agree. He’s dead set on nailing me for it.”

  “He’s just worried about what might happen if he doesn’t act.” Callie patted Biscuit. “He’s not prejudiced. He checked on everything you said during the interrogation. That’s how he found out you’re no journalist. You told me the truth. Still, as soon as Falk showed up, you lied. Why?”

  “To explain my interest in the Monica Walker disappearance. What better cover than being a journalist? Most police officers don’t like journalists since they get too close to crime scenes or write about sensitive information—you know how it is. I counted on him not liking me either and buying into my sensationalist interest in the cold case. I have friends who work for news sites, so I could mention a couple of names to make it credible.”

  “But not credible enough. Falk only had to place a few calls, and your whole story unraveled. You don’t have a professional interest in it. It’s personal.”

  Quinn nodded. They were driving now, and Callie wasn’t sure how smart it was to discuss a painful topic en route. Quinn needed his attention on the road.

  “Why did Falk decide to let you go?”

  “I have no idea. But he did tell me he’d need me again and to stick around. I had the impression as I was leaving the station that they were gearing up for something. They were all running around.”

  “Oh.” Callie’s stomach tightened at the idea of some big thing in which Falk would also play a part. An arrest? Maybe in another case? After all, the Jamison murder wasn’t the only thing on his agenda. If he had to arrest someone on the run, someone dangerous, he could get hurt.

  Quinn said, “That’s why I thought that if I wanted to leave, I had to do it right away. While the police officers were occupied elsewhere. How did you know I was out, anyway? I assume Falk didn’t call in the good news?”

  Callie flushed under his probing glance in the rearview mirror. “No, someone called Iphy. Worried about you, it seems.”

  “How can that be? I don’t have any friends here.”

  “That’s what you think.”

  For the briefest of moments Quinn met her gaze in the rearview mirror and then looked away. His jaw was tight. Callie realized it would take some convincing to get it through his head that he did have friends here and that they would help him solve whatever he had gotten caught up in.

  * * *

  At Book Tea, Iphy told Peggy she was off for the day and could take Quinn home for a meal. Peggy seemed a little insecure now that Quinn was suddenly out and about again. She asked Callie, “Do you want to come as well? You can help me whip up a salad.”

  Callie wasn’t sure if Quinn would be more forthcoming if he had Peggy all to himself, but she was so curious about his story that she couldn’t say no. They took along Biscuit and Daisy and set out for Peggy’s house.

  It lay along a road off Main Street just where the heart of town ended, with all the shops, the community center, and the church, and the coastal road began that took traffic from Heart’s Harbor to neighboring towns.

  The house was painted a soft blue, and fishing nets decorated the porch. Seashells formed a colorful mosaic above the door, and a miniature wooden boat hung beside it. On the boat’s bow it read, in neat lettering, “Greg Peggy Jimmy Tate.”

  Callie glanced at Quinn and saw his gaze lingering on the names, on the representation of the happy family Peggy had had before her husband died at sea during a Coast Guard rescue mission. Three young lives had been saved that night, but his had been lost, and his boys had been left without a father.

  Jimmy and Tate arrived at about the same time as they did, coming from the other direction. Judging by the kite Jimmy was carrying and the ball Tate had, they had been on the beach. Tate yelled as soon as he saw Quinn. He dropped the ball and ran for him.

  Quinn caught him and lifted him high, holding him up as if it took no effort at all. Tate squealed and laughed. Jimmy squatted to pat Biscuit. The dog rubbed his head against Jimmy’s shoulder and barked as if he wanted to say hello.

  Peggy, her hand on the key to unlock the front door, smiled at the four of them.

  Callie saw something in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. A sort of tenderness.

  But what kind of man was Quinn Darrow really? He had just told her and Iphy that he had had spent his life running away from trouble. Now he had landed headfirst in a murder case. Not exactly the sort of stable man you wanted to see a widow and her two young sons get involved with.

  “You play a little, and I’ll make something to eat,” Peggy said, brushing through Jimmy’s hair. He tried to dodge her hand, saying “Moooooom!” in a reproachful tone. Grabbing Biscuit by the collar, he led him around the house. Tate followed, with Daisy hard on his heels, Quinn bringing up the rear.

  Peggy gestured to Callie to follow her inside. The large kitchen with yellow curtains and lots of stainless steel had a wooden table with four chairs in a corner. The fourth chair was marked with a paper plaque, handwritten in bright marker with “Ace.”

  Looking at his name so suddenly there, Callie felt uncertain as to what she was doing here. Falk wouldn’t like her any better for not just letting Quinn be. For bringing him to Peggy’s house and near the boys.

  Peggy opened the tall fridge and began to collect lettuce, cheese, cooked potatoes, cold cuts, and other things that could go into a salad. She also took bowls and plates out of a cupboard and put them on the table. Her expression was pensive, even tight, and Callie wasn’t sure how to start a conversation. Her own head was swimming with confused questions and fragments of information.

  As Callie mixed the salad, Peggy cut up bread and put grapes on a separate plate. Rearranging the fruit, she asked slowly, “So how is Quinn? I mean, is he really angry about being arrested by my brother?”

  “I don’t think he’s angry. He understands why Falk started to suspect him. He’s more worried about how this will a
ll turn out. But let him tell you that himself. Can we take all of this outside?”

  “Sure. The weather is nice enough for it. Last night there was terrible rain.”

  “I didn’t hear a thing. I was exhausted.”

  They all sat down at the long outdoor table and ate in silence for a while. The dogs basked in the sunshine on the lawn, Daisy curled up into a ball, Biscuit stretched out, half on his back, with two paws up in the air. Jimmy mentioned, between bites of salad and bread, that they had flown their kite really high, and Tate added that it had almost gone behind the clouds. They seemed too restless to sit at the table long and begged Quinn to play soccer with them, but Peggy said they had to play by themselves for a while and let Quinn eat in peace. Then he would then join them and play with them for the rest of the afternoon.

  Quinn seemed to want to protest, but he couldn’t be heard over the excited cries of the boys. They jumped up from the table and ran off inside to get things they wanted to show to Quinn later. The backdoor slammed shut. Biscuit, who had jumped up to follow them, stood on his hind legs against the door, gazing in through the glass pane to see if they were already coming back.

  Quinn looked at Peggy. “Are you sure you want to do this? I’m under suspicion of murder.”

  “Yes, but that will all be cleared up soon.”

  “Not by any of your doing. I don’t want you to go sleuthing. Not with a killer around. Jamison knew something, and now he’s dead. A big strong man, killed like it was nothing.”

  Peggy said, “Do you have any idea who did it?”

  Quinn shook his head. “If I did, I would have told the police, believe me. But I have no idea. I didn’t think Jamison knew all that much. Yeah, he got nervous about me asking questions, but that might have been because he hadn’t been able to get very far with the case at the time. He’s editor-in-chief now—I mean, he was—and so he might not have wanted to be reminded of old failures. His wife did tell me a thing or two about those early days in her husband’s career, but nothing significant. I can’t see why Jamison had to die.”

  Callie played with a bit of cheese on her plate.

  She had wanted to ask before, but with Quinn being so emotional it hadn’t seemed like the right moment. Now, however, it couldn’t be avoided any longer. “You said a personal interest in the Monica Walker disappearance brought you here. I don’t mean to pry, but it could be essential to solving Jamison’s murder.”

  Quinn looked up at her. “Can’t you guess? I told you already that my parents turned out not to be my real parents. On her deathbed my mother told me that she wasn’t my birth mother. She also told me that I shouldn’t try to find my real mother because it would only make me unhappy. I didn’t listen to her.”

  Callie’s mind raced. “You mean you know that … Monica …”

  “Not know. Suspect.” Quinn swallowed hard. “I didn’t listen to my mother’s sage advice, and I dug into my past. I managed to establish that my mother is an ‘M. Walker.’ Now, Walker isn’t exactly a rare name, but I also found out more about the circumstances of the birth, and it happened at a clinic not far from where Monica Walker lived as a teen. I pieced several things together before I dared conclude that Monica Walker could have been my mother. I knew vaguely who Monica Walker was, but when I looked closer at her story, and read about the disappearance here in Heart’s Harbor, I was sure there was more to it, there had to be. I mean, my real mother couldn’t just have vanished off the face of the earth. I searched online, and then I decided to come here in person and see what I could find out.”

  “I’m so sorry for you,” Peggy said. “I mean, it must have been a major shock to find out you were adopted and then to discover your real mother just disappeared.”

  Quinn sighed. “The accepted story was that she eloped with a lover. I was sure I could trace her. I mean, she had to have gone somewhere, lived there. People need money, they have ID, they use credit cards. But I found out right away that she left her ID in the hotel on the night she vanished. She didn’t take any of her things. Had she planned to take on a new identity? Had she already secreted away some money into an account someplace where people asked no questions? If she sailed away from here calling herself by another name, then how would I ever find her?”

  He knotted his fingers. “I admit I got pretty frustrated looking into the whole thing. Nobody seemed to remember anything beyond the details I already knew from the newspaper reports. Still, Jamison seemed to be keeping something back.”

  Callie nodded. She didn’t want to tell Quinn that Jamison had asked her to keep an eye on him.

  Had Jamison known that Monica had a child she had given up years before she ever became famous? Had he suspected that Quinn was that child?

  No, that seemed unlikely. There had never been any mention of Monica Walker having a child in any of the news reports. So how would Jamison have known about that?

  Jamison must have been worried for some other reason. But what could that be? Just his gut feeling about the case, which had never been good? In spite of the evidence he claimed to have that Monica left Heart’s Harbor alive and well and started a new life somewhere else. If she had done so, and there had never been any crime committed of kidnapping or murder, why did Jamison have to die?

  Peggy urged Quinn to take some more salad, but he shook his head. “I can’t eat now.” He looked past their faces. “I just wanted to know the truth about my mother. I never meant for anyone to get hurt. But the frustration is even worse now. Jamison is dead, and now I’ll never find out what he knew. If he knew anything about me. I mean, he might have been killed because he had an idea about who had been in league with Monica to make her disappear. She can’t have done it alone. She needed a new ID, a boat … Can you see Monica Walker stealing a boat from a local fisherman? In her glittery top and her high heels?”

  Callie almost had to laugh. “It doesn’t seem likely. But who knows how charming she was? Maybe she only asked the fisherman to lend it to her.”

  “Then why did he claim afterward that it had been stolen?”

  “Because he was afraid to be associated with her disappearance, suspected of some crime.”

  Quinn pursed his lips. “Possibly, but I think the boat was really stolen. By Monica’s accomplice.”

  “The man she wanted to run away with?” Callie asked.

  “Yes. There must have been an affair of some kind at play. Some reason why she couldn’t just come out into the open with this new man in her life.”

  Callie said, “I heard all kinds of things from people, like maybe Monica was seeing a married man or maybe she was considering quitting the series she had become so successful with.” She frowned, thinking of Dave Riggs’s revelation to her that Monica had been in Heart’s Harbor to prepare for a new part. In a series about rural life, in a small coastal town, something a world away from the glitter of Magnates’ Wives.

  Callie said slowly, “Suppose there was a clause in her contract that said she couldn’t leave. So the only way out was to vanish.”

  Quinn sat up, eyeing her. “Who told you she considered quitting the series? Someone within the company who made it?”

  “No, of course not. She didn’t want them to know anything about her plans. Mr. Bates, the former owner of the Cliff Hotel, told me that the night it happened, Monica seemed very happy and glowing, excited, like she was going to do something she had wanted to do for a long time. That must have been her escape, her start on a whole new life.”

  “So we can exclude a crime.” Quinn leaned back with a relieved expression.

  Callie shook her head. “Unfortunately not. We still have to take into account that it’s possible that someone who Monica thought knew nothing about her plans did know and didn’t want her to get away. That person might have come to town to keep an eye on her, perhaps confront her? Imagine the scene. After dark, Monica runs away from the Cliff Hotel without taking any of her things. She goes to a lonely place where the boat is docked. The stolen b
oat. She wants to get on it, and suddenly someone is there to confront her. There’s an argument, maybe a blow. Monica falls, hits her head and dies. It could have been an accident, but one with far-reaching consequences.”

  “You think Monica is dead?” Quinn asked in a thick voice. “My mother is dead?”

  “I don’t know. Jamison mentioned to me that he had proof that she started a new life somewhere. I don’t know what that proof was or how he came by it. He seemed to believe she had engineered her own disappearance. At the same time, he said he had never had a good feeling about the case. And his need to know more, even after all of those years, suggests he was never completely sure about Monica’s fate.”

  Peggy said softly, “Would it be possible for someone well known to live somewhere for decades, going undetected?”

  “Of course,” Quinn retorted at once. “Why would anybody recognize her? If she left the state, maybe even the country, who would think it was her? If she lives in Paris now, who would know her there? Magnates’ Wives was a hit series here, not in Europe. In those days the internet didn’t even exist, and people overseas might not have heard of the disappearance. She could have changed her looks, dyed her hair.”

  Peggy reached for Quinn’s clenched hands. “Of course you want to believe she’s still alive. And she could be. Callie just said that Jamison claimed to have proof she started over somewhere new. But with Jamison dead, you have to consider the other option. That Monica died around here and that her killer is still among us.”

  Peggy swallowed. “That he or she felt threatened now that the old case is being dragged up again and decided to silence Jamison.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense at all.” Quinn leaned heavily on the table with his elbows, gesturing with his hands to underline his point. “Jamison claimed to have proof Monica had left Heart’s Harbor alive and well. If that’s true, what crime would there be to keep hidden? And if there was a murder and if Jamison knew something that could endanger the killer, why didn’t the killer get rid of Jamison before? Whatever way you look at it, Jamison’s murder makes no sense.”