1 A High-End Finish (10 page)

“I usually go after work on Tuesdays and Thursdays and Sunday mornings.”

“Okay, I’ll try to be there Tuesday afternoon. About five?”

“Wonderful,” she said. “I’ll see you there.”

•   •   •

When I arrived home, Wendell Jarvick’s car was parked in my driveway. For the fourth day in a row! My shoulders stiffened instantly. I was so sick of him and there was nothing I could do to get rid of him. At least I wasn’t alone in my feelings. There wasn’t a hotel in town that would give him a room.

He had complained about Robbie barking at him, but who could blame the little dog? I’d seen Wendell glaring at poor Robbie and I wouldn’t put it past Mr. Dog Hater to try to kick my little guy when I wasn’t around.

I’d had to laugh, though, when I saw Tiger approach Wendell and start winding her way around his ankles, tripping him up as he was walking to the stairs. Wendell began to swear at the cat, who dashed away. By the time Wendell reached the top of the stairs, he was sneezing loudly. My Tiger knew exactly whom she was dealing with.

Maybe on a world-hunger scale, it was no big deal that Wendell’s car was blocking my access to the garage. But in my little world, he was a major pain, deliberately obtuse and disrespectful. Not only to me, but to my father. And my animals. And half the people in town. I thought back to that scene with Whitney and wondered what would’ve happened if Tommy hadn’t stopped her from strangling the man.

Before I lost my nerve, I decided to confront the passive-aggressive jerk.

I just wished Dad hadn’t left to go fishing with Uncle Pete, so he could park his gigantic RV right behind Wendell’s car, blocking him in. That would get Wendell’s shorts in a twist.

I ran upstairs and knocked on his door, but there was no answer. It was early afternoon, so he was probably out having lunch somewhere. Or perhaps he was off annoying some shopkeeper in town. I decided to watch and wait until I saw him arrive. I’d forgotten to check the mail the day before, so I walked out to the mailbox and that’s when I saw him strolling up the sidewalk without a care in the world.

“Hello, Wendell,” I said with forced cheerfulness. “Now that you’re home, you can move your car.”

His face scrunched up and I could tell he was insulted by the demand. “I refuse to allow you to treat me this way. It’s not right to ask a guest in your home to park on the street.”

Aggravated, I clamped my teeth together so tightly, I had to wonder if I was wearing out the enamel. “Technically, you’re
not
a guest—you’re a tenant. You’re renting a room from me for two weeks and you’re bound by the contract you signed when you first made the arrangements.”

He sniffed at me. “There was nothing about assigned parking space in the contract.”

“Exactly my point. You’re
not
assigned a parking place so you can’t park here.”

“That’s a stupid argument.”

“This is private property.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my next-door neighbor Jesse walk out to check his mailbox. From twenty feet away, he asked, “Everything okay here, Shannon?”

“Everything’s just great, Jesse.”

Then Mrs. Higgins from across the street toddled down her walkway and stood at her picket fence to watch. Mrs. Higgins was in her late seventies and hardly ever left her property, yet she always seemed to know everything that was going on in town. By osmosis, maybe?

The two senior citizens had the biggest ears in Lighthouse Cove. I should’ve lowered my voice, but I was so angry, I no longer cared who heard me.

I turned back to Wendell. “I’m asking you nicely to move your car, so please do it now or leave my premises.”

“I don’t know why you’re complaining,” he said, shifting his shoulders for emphasis. “At least my car looks good. Better than that hideous truck you drive.”

Okay, now he was just being nasty. My truck was in perfect condition, and I washed it regularly.

I could feel my nostrils flaring like those of a bull about to attack. “I don’t care what you think of my truck. It’s
my
truck and I’ll park it in
my
driveway whenever I want to.”

“Whatever.” He brushed me off with a sweep of his hand. “I’m going to go take a nap.”

“Don’t you walk away from me.” I could feel my blood pressure spike and I shouted, “You are not authorized to park on my property. If you don’t move your car this instant, I’ll have it towed.”

He whipped around. “You tow it and I’ll sue you.”

He would
sue
me? He couldn’t sue me, could he? Did I care?

He reached the garage and walked haughtily up the stairs. His chin was stuck up in the air like that of some pissy six-year-old pretending to ignore me.

“Just move your damn car!” I yelled.

He got to the top of the stairs, unlocked the door to the suite, and disappeared inside.

I let out a frustrated scream.

“He’s not a very nice man,” Mrs. Higgins cried out from across the street. “You should tow his car.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Higgins,” I said, waving at her. Just what I needed was advice from a veritable shut-in. Even though she was right.

“That reminds me,” she said loudly, her elderly voice shaky in the chilly air. “Did you two hear about the strange man who bought the old lighthouse mansion?”

“What?” I asked, thinking she must be deluded. “Jesse, do you have any idea what she’s talking about?”

He shrugged. “Some movie star just moved here. That’s what I heard up at the diner.”

“Really? Where have I been?” But I knew the answer to that. I’d been running around town, trying to find out who killed Jerry Saxton. And I’d been squabbling with Wendell Jarvick in an attempt to get his stupid damn car off my property. I stared up at his room over the garage and wondered what to do next.

Jesse followed my gaze. “He’s something else, that guy.”

“I can’t stand him.”

“So tow his car like you threatened to do,” he said, leaning his elbow against his mailbox. “Gus’ll take care of it for you.”

Gus was the auto mechanic who’d been servicing my vehicles since high school.

“I know, but I have a feeling it would cause more problems than it’s worth.” I yanked the mail out of the box and slammed the door shut. “I just want Wendell to go away. Forever.”

“You can’t always get what you want, kiddo,” Jesse said.

“Don’t I know it?” I muttered, and walked back into the house.

•   •   •

That night I went to dinner at Lizzie and Hal’s for the second time in a week. Don’t get me wrong—I wasn’t complaining. Lizzie was a great cook and Hal liked to grill steaks, so why would I say no to their invitation?

Still, I was more than a little suspicious. For some reason, each of my friends had invited me over for dinner every night that week. Did they think I couldn’t be trusted to dine alone? Did they think I was lonely or nervous about being by myself in that big house of mine?

Maybe I should’ve been nervous. After all, the police hadn’t arrested anyone for killing Jerry yet.

And then there was Wendell. I hated having him stay in my pretty garage apartment so maybe it was just as well that I was away from home tonight. I was ticking off the calendar days until he departed Lighthouse Cove and, if I had my way, he would never come back again. I had only to avoid him for nine more days, but it wouldn’t be easy. He seemed to thrive on stirring up negative feelings wherever he went. That seemed like an inherently dangerous way to live one’s life.

After giving hugs to Lizzie and Hal and their two kids, Marisa and Taz—short for Tasmanian Devil, Hal always said—I handed Lizzie the bottle of wine I’d brought along with a small pink box of cookies.

“Are those cookies?” Taz whispered reverently. “Thanks, Aunt Shannon.”

“You’re welcome, sweetie,” I said, ruffling the eleven-year-old’s hair and getting a little choked up that he was still young enough to call me his aunt. “Good grief, he’s almost as tall as you are, Lizzie.”

“I’m taller,” Taz said, grinning.

“Don’t remind me,” Lizzie said, as she hung up my coat in the front closet.

Her very grown-up thirteen-year-old daughter, Marisa, took hold of the pink box. “I’ll put them in the fridge, Mom.”

“Thanks, honey. And no sampling, please.” Lizzie walked with me over to the kitchen bar. Hal had just poured glasses of wine so the three of us had a toast to the first lovely hints of fall in the air.

“I heard you had another run-in with Wendell,” Lizzie said after she’d taken a sip.

“How could you have heard that? It happened only a few hours ago.”

Lizzie gazed at me quizzically. “I’m sorry—where do we live again?”

“Small-town America,” I said, groaning. “But, come on, the only people watching us fight were Jesse and Mrs. Higgins.”

She gave me that same look and I held up my hand. “I know. They’re the town criers. They were probably on the telephone within seconds.”

“I found out about it at the market less than an hour ago,” Lizzie said.

“Ridiculous.” I sighed. “I don’t want to talk about it. But he’s a horrible man. We fought over something really stupid, but he made me so angry, I wanted to slap him. Really hard. I mean, really, really hard. And you should’ve seen what he did to Whitney at the pub the other night. What a jackass.”

I was pounding my fist into the palm of my other hand with enough force that Lizzie began to frown. “But you don’t want to talk about it?”

“Oh, hell.” I placed both hands flat on the bar counter to calm myself. “Let’s change the subject.”

“Yes,” Lizzie said, smiling, “because I have something interesting and fun to talk about.”

“Hooray.” I took a seat on one of the barstools. “Let’s hear it.”

“Okay, you’ve heard of MacKintyre Sullivan, right?”

“The writer? Of course. I love his books.”

“I do, too.” Her eyes lit up and she waved her hands excitedly. “Well . . . he’s moving to Lighthouse Cove!”

“Moving? Here?” I shook my head in confusion. “Why?”

“Why not? We have a wonderful little town.”

“Of course we do,” I said, “but he belongs in Hollywood or New York, doesn’t he?”

“No,” she said quickly. “I mean, yes. Okay, I was a little shocked to hear it, too, because what are the chances, right? But isn’t it awesome? I just reordered a bunch of his books for the store last week. Everybody loves him. Hal loves him, too. Don’t you, honey?”

Hal turned from the stove, where he was stirring something that smelled fantastic. I could detect the aroma of onions and garlic, so I was happy. He turned down the heat and joined us at the bar, where he’d left his wineglass. “His books are great.”

MacKintyre Sullivan was a famous crime novelist whose books were always winning awards and hitting bestseller lists. His main character, Jake Slater, was an ex–Navy SEAL turned private detective who specialized in lost causes. When things got really rough, he would call on a motley group of misfits from his black-ops days to help him right the wrongs of the world. Sullivan’s first book had been made into a blockbuster movie and Jake Slater was getting to be as popular as James Bond and Jack Reacher.

Lizzie rested her elbow on the counter. “I love Jake Slater. Rich, gorgeous, brave, dashing.”

“And fictional,” I said, smiling.

Marisa turned from the stove, where she had taken over stirring the onion mixture. “That movie was so awesome.”

“It was,” I said. I was a sucker for action films.

“You should see him in person, Shannon,” Lizzie whispered ecstatically. “He walked by the store this afternoon and looked inside the window. We made eye contact and he smiled and waved at me.” She patted her chest. “Oh, God, he’s soooooo cute! And he’s single! I heard he was engaged but it didn’t work out. Which means there’s no woman in his life. Currently.”

“Don’t even think about it.” I happened to glance at Marisa, who was rolling her eyes at her mom. Laughing, I said, “But he is awfully cute, at least according to his book jackets. I’m sure I’ll get a chance to see him eventually.”

“Of course you will,” she assured me. “Oh, and Cindy at the diner told me he likes to be called Mac. She said that while he was eating lunch, people came up and asked for his autograph and he was perfectly happy to give it. He’s not stuck-up or anything.”

“That’s nice to hear.”

“And she agreed that he’s incredibly handsome.”

I glanced over at Hal. “Did you get a chance to see him, Hal?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you think?”

He pressed both hands to his cheeks. “OMG, Shannon! He’s such a dreamboat.”

I laughed again. “You sound just like Marisa.”

Marisa turned and glared at me. “I resent that.”

“It was a compliment,” I said. “Your father’s funny.”

“I know. He makes me laugh all the time.” She ran over and wrapped her arms around her dad’s waist.

I shared a sentimental glance with Lizzie, who knew how lucky she was. Even though Marisa had recently become a teenager, she was still a sweet girl and hadn’t yet turned into a raging hormonal monster.

I took a sip of wine. “Do you know where he’s . . . Oh, wait a minute. MacKintyre Sullivan didn’t just buy the old lighthouse keeper’s house, did he?”

“Yes!”

Mystery solved,
I thought. Although the fact that Mrs. Higgins had heard the news before I had was just so wrong.

Our famous lighthouse had been standing out on the bluff since 1870 and the home attached to it was nearly as old. An earthquake had almost destroyed it, but instead of tearing it down, the town decided to refurbish it with steel reinforcement rods encased in concrete. It had lasted more than one hundred years and was still in fine shape.

The year I was born, the town of Lighthouse Cove acquired the lighthouse and attached mansion from the U.S. Coast Guard. In recent years, the light itself and the foghorn had been replaced with new technology that was maintained by the lighthouse trust. Recently, the trust had begun to search for a new owner for the mansion, a person who would agree to live next door to an operational lighthouse with its thriving gift shop and small museum.

Apparently they’d found a buyer.

“Do you think he means to live there?” I wondered aloud. “Or will he just fix it up and try to flip it?”