204 Rosewood Lane (28 page)

“So what does Mitchell think?”

“He can't pinpoint anything out of the ordinary. He's ruled out just about everything. It wasn't his heart. Not all the toxicology reports are back, but it wasn't any of the common poisons. Basically, we just don't know what killed him. Seems he was healthy one minute and dead the next.”

“Time of death?”

“According to Joe, it looks like he died in his sleep shortly after he arrived at the Beldons' place.”

Roy had to admit to being more than curious now; this case was downright fascinating. “I don't think you made this appointment just to discuss ideas with me. How can I help you?”

Troy Davis removed the toothpick and discarded it in the garbage can next to Roy's desk. “I can't classify this as homicide, but nothing's adding up here. He carried fake ID, but then a lot of people do.” He sighed loudly. “I don't have the manpower to invest in this case. I was hoping to hire you as an independent contractor to help us identify our John Doe. And if you happen to come across any other information, so much the better. We'd be grateful to find out anything we could.”

“What else can you tell me?” Roy asked. He'd already made his decision—this was the kind of assignment he savored—but thought he should know exactly what he was up against before he said yes.

“Just that our John Doe was meticulous in everything he did. His stuff was neatly packed inside his bag. It looked like something out of a military school. His clothes are the highest quality, top-of-the-line. Expensive. His raincoat was some Italian brand I can't even pronounce. Cost more than I make in a month.”

“What kind of car did he rent?”

“Funny thing—you'd expect a Lexus or something, considering the expensive clothes, but it was a Ford Taurus. Interesting, eh? You'd assume he could afford to rent whatever he wanted, but he chose about as inconspicuous a vehicle as you can get.”

That brought up another question. “What kind of cash did he have on him?” Roy asked.

“Just a couple hundred dollars. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Okay,” Roy said firmly. “Count me in.”

“Great.” Troy stood and offered Roy his hand. “If you'll stop at the office, I'll give you copies of our files, and you can go from there.”

Roy could hardly wait. As Troy left, Corrie hurried into the room, her eyes questioning. “He has a case for you?”

“Not just any case,” Roy said. He stood at the window, watching the sheriff step out of the building and head toward the parked patrol car. This John Doe was as intriguing as any case he'd ever handled.

 

Olivia had bran muffins baking in the oven—her mother's recipe—and was singing along with a tape of the Broadway musical
The King and I
while she washed dishes. The doorbell rang, and she shook soapsuds off her hands as she went to answer it. She didn't bother to turn down the volume.

Still humming, she opened the door to find Jack Griffin on the other side. He was hours early.

“Hello, young lovers, wherever you are,” she sang, pulling the door wider and motioning him in.

“
Lovers?
Did I hear someone mention the word
lovers?
” He wagged his eyebrows playfully and stepped into the house. The music swirled around them and taking Olivia by the waist he bent her dramatically over his arm, then brought her upright.

“Oh, my,” she said, playing along. “You do make my heart beat fast.”

Taking her by the shoulders, Jack faced her and his smile slowly faded. “I want you to go back to the word
lovers.
”

“It's
young
lovers.”

“No,” he said, taking her fully into his arms now. “Forget
young.
The word is simply
lovers,
as in you and me.”

His eyes grew darker and more intense. Olivia realized this wasn't a joke anymore but a question that Jack—her fun-loving, anything-for-a-laugh companion—was presenting to her. “I…” All of a sudden life seemed very complicated. Jack had phoned earlier in the day and suggested they get together; he wanted to talk. He'd sounded lighthearted for the first time in months. Olivia guessed that it had something to do with Eric. A few weeks ago, Jack had mentioned that his son had requested a job transfer and would be moving out shortly. He said he'd miss the boy, but he'd sounded pleased about Eric's resolve and renewed energy—and no less pleased about having his house to himself again.

Before she was forced to reply, the timer on her oven rang, offering Olivia the perfect excuse to escape Jack and his question.

“The muffins,” she said, and hurried into the kitchen. She grabbed two crocheted potholders and pulled out the tin. She set the muffins on the counter to cool.

When she turned around, Jack stood in the entryway. His eyes met hers. “Eric's moving out this weekend.”

“I thought that must be it.”

“I didn't mean to start off with that question about us, but you presented the perfect opening when you waltzed up to the door singing about lovers.”

She'd been caught up in the song and hadn't meant to suggest they fall into bed together.

“Olivia, listen,” Jack said, slowly advancing toward her. “I adore you.”

She felt the same way about him, but she also felt afraid. She hadn't been with a man since her divorce, sixteen years
before, and she trembled at the thought of sexual intimacy. Her hesitation frightened her, too; if she wasn't ready after all these years, then she might never be. And yet she
wanted
passion and that kind of closeness.

Feeling as though it was now or never, she threw open her arms. “Kiss me, you fool,” she intoned dramatically. All at once, her life had become the lyrics to a Broadway musical—and she loved it.

Jack reached for her and their lips met in a wild and thoroughly passionate kiss. Her legs were shaky and her head was swimming. It'd been a long time since they'd kissed with such abandon, almost as if they both understood that true intimacy was irrevocable. Making love meant everything between them would change….

Jack shuddered as he wrapped her completely in his arms. The music had ended, so when his cell phone rang, it startled them both. He ignored it. Instead, he kissed her again, with the same frantic need as earlier. “Come to my house,” he whispered, his voice husky. “I changed the sheets this morning.”

“Jack!” This was supposed to be seductive?

“I've dreamed about us there, overlooking the cove, making love.”

The phone rang five more times before it finally stopped.

The silence seemed louder than the ringing phone. Olivia took his face between her hands and gazed deeply into his eyes. “Does this have anything to do with Stan?” she asked, needing to know.

They'd argued over Stan, and in her opinion, Jack was being utterly unreasonable. He seemed to think Stan wanted her back—which would be news to Marge, who'd been married to him for more than fifteen years.

“No,” he said, kissing her. “It has to do with you and me. Leave Stan out of it.”

“Why now?”

“Why
not
now?” he countered.

She wasn't sure how to reply. As she tried to think clearly, to emerge from the fog of kisses and music, the doorbell rang. Saved by the bell—again.

When she hurried to open the door she found Jack's son, looking flustered, still leaning on the doorbell. “Dad?” he shouted urgently.

“Eric, what is it?” Jack asked, appearing behind Olivia.

“Shelly. She's in labor. She doesn't have anyone.”

“She phoned you?”

“No, a friend did. Her water broke last night and she's about to deliver. Could be anytime now. Her friend couldn't stay.” He paused. “I should be there, don't you think? She might need me.”

“True,” Jack agreed.

“But she doesn't want me around, at least that's what she said the last time we spoke.” He splayed his fingers through his hair. “I should be there. I
feel
it.”

“Then go.”

“I'm packed up, ready to leave for Reno.”

“Yes, I know.”

Eric seemed to be asking something and Olivia knew what it was, even if Jack didn't. “Do you want your father to go with you?”

“Would you, Dad?”

Olivia loved Jack even more for the way he responded. He hugged his son, cast Olivia an apologetic look and said, “Let's go.” He turned back to her and stretched out his hand. “Want to tag along?”

She considered it for a moment, then decided against it. “You two go on. Call me when the babies are born.” Pleased that Jack had placed his son's needs above his own, she took his hand in hers and gave him an encouraging squeeze.

Three hours later, her phone rang and it was Jack, calling from the hospital. “Identical twin boys,” he said triumphantly. “Eric stayed with Shelly, and she was happy he came to be with her. Both boys are strong and healthy.”

“Congratulations, Grandpa.”

“I
am
their grandfather,” he said. “Those babies are the spitting image of Eric. No one's going to doubt who their father is again. Especially my son.”

“What's he going to do about his job?” Eric had accepted the transfer and was expected to start at his new job in Reno in a week or so.

“I don't know, that's up to him. Fortunately he's got a few days before he has to decide.”

 

Seth and Justine had decided to call their restaurant The Lighthouse. Justine liked the name because it reminded her of the home where she'd grown up, on Lighthouse Road. The lighthouse at the far end of the cove was one of the community's most distinctive landmarks. Seth seconded the name because it underlined the fact that this was a seafood restaurant.

The idea of opening a restaurant had been in the back of his mind for years, but he loved fishing and the money was too good to turn down. Living aboard the sailboat, his expenses had been minimal and he'd invested wisely. After he'd married Justine, he realized that the long separations fishing demanded no longer appealed to him. Now, with a baby on the way, the time was right to start his new business.

His father agreed and offered to invest in the restaurant as a
silent partner. It was a bold move on both their parts. Seth had done his research and was well aware that almost half of new restaurants failed in their first year. He was determined to minimize the risks, to do everything right. Menu, staff, prices, décor, promotion—he and Justine had thought everything through. Seth was a decent cook, but he didn't have the expertise and knowledge that running a full kitchen would require. He advertised for kitchen staff and asked other restaurant owners for advice. He soon learned that Jon Bowman had an excellent reputation. When Jon applied for the position, of chef, Seth studied his resumé, then called and asked for an interview.

On the second Friday of March, Jon Bowman arrived, walking into the ongoing construction mess.

The renovations were only partially finished. A crew of carpenters were constructing new booths while electricians hung the light fixtures. The floors had been sanded and refinished, the walls had their first coat of paint and the windows had been replaced. Seth and Justine had decided to keep the original mahogany bar, which was a classic.

Seth led Jon into the room that would be his office and gestured toward the chair. “I like what you've done,” Jon said as he sat down. “When are you planning to open?”

“We're hoping for the first week in May.”

Jon glanced over his shoulder as though to estimate how much still needed to be done. “Everything should be finished by then,” he said confidently.

“As you know, we're looking for a chef. One who'll oversee the menu and work with us closely as we grow.”

“That's why I'm here. I've been cooking at André's for the last three years. I created their menu, which has an emphasis on seafood.”

“And before then?” Seth had already reviewed the résumé, but he wanted to hear the details from Jon. He and Justine had made a point of visiting André's twice to sample Jon's signature dishes.

“I was at the VFW in Olympia. I have references if you want.” He handed Seth a single sheet of paper with a list of names and telephone numbers.

“Where did you get your training?” The résumé had been decidedly light on that kind of information.

He tensed a little, but that might have been Seth's imagination. “Picked it up here and there. I don't have a lot of formal education. I started out as a short-order cook for a breakfast place in Tacoma and worked my way up. It isn't like I'm going to have my own TV show soon, if that's the kind of chef you're looking for.”

“It isn't,” Seth assured him. He couldn't afford a celebrity chef, anyway. He remained curious about Jon's background, but didn't press the issue. “I understand you're also a photographer.”

Jon nodded. “I'm a damn good chef, but my passion is my camera.”

He didn't hide his love for his work and that suited Seth.

“If you're willing to give me a chance, you won't be sorry,” Jon said fervently.

Every instinct Seth possessed told him to hire the man. “I'm going to start stocking the kitchen in a month's time. Can you be ready by then?”

Jon nodded. They discussed wages, benefits, recipes and other details. When they'd finished, Seth took him around the restaurant and was pleased when Jon offered him design and decorating tips. He liked his ideas and shared them with Justine that evening.

“I had a feeling Jon Bowman was going to be the one,” she told him as Seth worked in the kitchen, preparing dinner.

“I did, too.”

Justine sat in their living room with her legs propped up to keep down the swelling in her ankles. At six months, the swelling was only slight, but still a concern. Seth had taken over the cooking and been inventive with eliminating salt.