204 Rosewood Lane (36 page)

“Can I do anything for you?” Cliff asked.

Grace shook her head. “I'm so tired. I haven't slept more than two or three hours at a stretch since Dan was found.”

He grazed her temple with his lips. “Sleep now,” he urged.

She reached for his hand and held it. “I don't want you to leave.”

“I won't. I'll be here when you wake up.”

“Promise.” That was important to her for reasons she didn't want to analyze.

“I promise.” He led her into the bedroom, and when she lay down on the bed, he covered her with a blanket, leaned over and kissed her cheek. Then he crept from the bedroom and turned off the light.

Grace closed her eyes and heard the door to her room close with a soft click. While sleep was tempting, all she really needed was to rest her eyes for a moment. But she instantly drifted off. Three hours later, when she woke, night had settled in and darkness surrounded her.

As she took a moment to orient herself, she heard someone in her kitchen. Tossing aside the afghan Cliff had spread over her, she climbed off the bed and came into the hallway.

“Cliff?”

“I'm here.” He appeared, wearing her apron along with an enticing grin. “I've made us dinner.”

“You cook?”

He shrugged. “Don't expect anything fancy.”

The table was set, with everything neatly in place. A tantalizing scent wafted from the oven. He'd put the roses in a vase on the table and had used her best china and linen. His care sent a feeling of warmth surging through her.

“Olivia phoned,” Cliff told her. “We spoke for a while. Maryellen checked in, too. You might want to give her a call later.”

“What about Olivia? Should I return her call?”

“Only if you want. She was more concerned that you not be by yourself, but I assured her I was here for you. I'm not going anywhere, Grace.”

His words comforted her. She'd felt so desperately alone since the discovery of Dan's body. Even after he'd disappeared, she hadn't experienced this cold loneliness in quite the same way.

Reaching for the pot holders, Cliff withdrew a casserole dish from the oven. “I hope you like shepherd's pie?”

She didn't feel like eating, but nodded. Since he'd gone to so much trouble, the least she could do was make an effort to show her appreciation. Only when she actually sat down to eat did she realize how hungry she was.

“You're an excellent cook.”

“Thank you.” He smiled, apparently pleased by her praise. “My repertoire is pretty basic, though.”

When they'd finished with the meal, they lingered over coffee and then, because she needed to do something with her hands, she started clearing away dishes. Cliff insisted on helping and wouldn't take no for an answer.

“I meant what I told Olivia,” Cliff said as he set a dinner plate inside the dishwasher.

“What do you mean?”

“I'm not leaving you. Don't worry, I'm not going to set up camp in your living room, but I want you to know I'm here for the long haul.” He leaned against the counter and sighed. “Today, the day you've buried your husband, probably isn't the right time to tell you this, but I care deeply about you, Grace.”

His words hung in the air between them.

“I care about you, too,” she said quietly. She knew that Cliff
was meant to be in her life as surely as the sun shone in the sky.

“You feel the same way?”

“Don't sound so surprised.”

“It's just that—damn, you can't say that to a man when he has a dishtowel in his hand.”

“Sure I can,” she teased, “and do you know why? Because I don't plan on leaving
you
anytime soon, either.”

Then they were in each other's arms again. They didn't kiss; the day of Dan's funeral was too soon for that. But the time
would
come again and they'd both know when it did.

 

“Are you sure your boyfriend won't mind me stealing you on a Friday night?” Stan asked Olivia as they stood in line at the six-plex theater.

“Jack's busy.” He'd phoned and invited her to come with him to the school board meeting, but she'd declined. Because Jack was so paranoid about Stan, she didn't mention that she was going to an early movie with her ex-husband. She would tell him, though; she just didn't want a big discussion about it.

“This is almost like old times,” Stan said.

“Not quite. Are you buying the popcorn or am I?”

“You are,” he said.

“Well, in that way, I guess, it
is
like old times.” With three young children, a night out for them had been infrequent. Going to a movie every six months was a big deal. In order to save time, Stan generally bought the tickets while she stood in line at the snack bar.

“Where is Clark Kent, anyway?” Stan asked as they walked into the theater.

He certainly was curious. “He had a meeting to attend.”

“Are you going to tell him about this? Because I don't want to be a source of trouble between you two.”

“Of course I'll tell him.” She wasn't one who kept secrets, and Stan should know that. His questions irritated her.

They sat in the back of the theater, and as soon as they were settled in, Olivia took a handful of popcorn.

“You actually like this guy, don't you?”

With her mouth full, she simply nodded. The truth of it was, she did. Jack was intelligent and argumentative and he had a sense of humor; he challenged her and he made her laugh. He was a bit insecure, too, but she was willing to look past that.

Stan seemed about to ask her another question when the previews started, for which Olivia was grateful. She didn't want to spend the evening discussing her personal relationships.

After the movie, they stopped for coffee and dessert at the Pancake Palace. That had also been part of their date-night routine. But as they sat in the booth across from each other, Olivia was determined not to let Stan sidetrack her, either with nostalgic references or with questions about Jack. He'd contacted her, wanting advice about his marriage. So that was going to be the subject of their conversation.

“Are you and Jack—”

“Wait a minute.” Olivia raised her hand. “Is tonight about you or me?”

Stan lowered his eyes. “Defeat has never come easy to me.”

Olivia had to bite her tongue to keep from reminding him that he'd been the one to pack up and move out of their home. He'd been the one to file for divorce and the one who insisted their marriage was over.

“What happened?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Marge wants out.”

“Why?”

“She says she doesn't love me anymore—that we had something special once but we don't now. She's already filed for divorce.”

“How do you feel about that?”

Stan refused to meet her eyes. “It hurts like hell.”

Then, because her own experience had given her some insight into Marge, Olivia asked, “Do you think she's met someone else?”

Stan's gaze shot to hers as he slowly nodded. “I've thought that for some time.”

Olivia didn't feel any sense of vindication at being right. She felt sadness for both her ex-husband and his second wife. Stan and Marge had once had a solid marriage, but apparently old patterns had reasserted themselves. She recalled that Marge, too, had been married when she'd met Stan.

“I'm sorry.”

He tried to make light of it, but Olivia knew him well enough to recognize the pain in his eyes. For the first time, she looked at him and didn't see the strikingly attractive man he'd once been. Stan seemed old and somehow worn-out, his skin sallow and lined.

They talked for nearly an hour and she was astonished to see that it was almost nine by the time they paid for their coffee and pie.

“I haven't been sleeping well,” he confessed as they drove back to the house on Lighthouse Road. “I have to tell you, Olivia, this divorce business has really got me down.”

She patted his hand. “Life has a way of working everything out. Don't give up on Marge yet.”

Stan pulled over to the side of the road. The sun was just setting, and the last threads of light cast a golden glow across the shimmering waters of the cove. “I've always loved the
view of the house from here,” he said, leaving the engine to idle.

Olivia did, too. She remembered when she'd first seen that old house with the For Sale sign in the front yard. She'd felt chills go down her spine. She didn't even need to tour the inside to know this was the home she wanted for her family. Although the price had been a stretch for them, together they'd managed to come up with the down payment and get a loan. The twins had been four then, and it was the first time they'd had their own rooms. Unfortunately the house hadn't been enough to hold their family together after the loss of Jordan. Yet in many ways Olivia viewed it as a symbol of everything that was best about their marriage.

“Marge moved out last weekend,” Stan admitted.

Olivia hadn't known that. “I'm so sorry, Stan.”

He sighed and looked away. “Thank you for not gloating. This is what I deserve, isn't it?”

“We've been divorced a lot of years.”

“Yes, I know, but you've been decent about it, Liv, really decent.”

She wasn't sure that was entirely true.

“I don't think I can face going home. Not tonight,” he said, sounding broken and tired.

“What are you going to do?”

“I'll just get a hotel room.”

Olivia knew this could just be a ploy, but she did feel bad for him, and she understood his not wanting to go back to an empty house. “There's no need to do that. You can sleep in James's old room and drive to Seattle in the morning.”

Some of the stress left his face. “You wouldn't mind?”

“No, but I do have an appointment tomorrow. I should leave by nine.” She and Jack were going to Sol Duc Hot
Springs so he could do research for a travel article. Since she had the better car, she was picking him up.

“No problem, I'll be on the road by eight. Sooner if you want.”

“Any time before nine will be okay.”

Stan parked his BMW in the back by the garage and before he went upstairs, Olivia gave him a fresh set of towels.

This was the first time they'd slept in the same house since their divorce. As she readied for bed, she wondered if she'd done the right thing by inviting him to stay.

In the morning, her doubts disappeared. She was awake at seven and while she brewed coffee she heard the shower running upstairs. Humming to herself, she was surprised to hear someone ringing her doorbell.

She ran to answer it.

“J-Jack?” she stammered, instantly afraid he'd hear Stan and assume the worst.

“I come bearing gifts.” He held two containers of coffee and a white bakery sack. “Maple bars,” he said enticingly. “Your favorite. I thought we'd have breakfast here before we head out.”

“I—”

“Olivia,” Stan called as he bounded down the stairs. He stopped cold when he saw Jack. He wore one of Justine's old housecoats and a pair of her fuzzy slippers.

“You remember Stan, don't you?” she muttered, which was probably the most inane thing she could have said.

“Oh, yes, I remember Stan.” Jack's eyes were cold and narrow.

Stan, doing his best to appear dignified, wrapped the silky housecoat more securely around him. “Obviously, my timing couldn't have been worse.”

“On the contrary,” Jack said. “Your timing couldn't have been better.”

“Sorry.” Stan cast an apologetic look at Olivia and hurried back up the stairs.

Jack and Olivia faced each other. “You can't believe that Stan and I…slept together.” Surely Jack had more faith in her than that!

“Whatever, Olivia.”

This was such a juvenile response she didn't know how to react.

“He wants you back.”

She'd heard that before. But Jack didn't know how badly Stan was hurting. This
wasn't
what it looked like!

“You can believe me or not,” Jack continued. “That's completely up to you. But I'll tell you something. It's either him or me. You decide.”

“You want me to tell my ex-husband that I won't see him again?”

Surely even Jack must realize he had no right to make such a demand.

“That's exactly what I want, or we're through.”

“I don't deal well with ultimatums,” Olivia told him.

Jack set the coffee and the maple bars on the dining-room table. “That tells me everything I need to know.” He turned and headed out the door.

Olivia was so shocked she didn't know what to do. Shocked and then angry. It took her a full ten seconds to decide to chase after him. By then Jack had reached his dilapidated old car.

“You say Stan wants me back?”

“He's made that plain for months.” Jack's hand was on his door.

How dare he just walk away like this! If what he said
was
true, then the least he could do was show some gumption.

“Jack Griffin, do you care about me at all?” she cried.

He turned around and glared at her. “It's him or me. You have to decide.”

So Mr. Hotshot was still playing that game. “You're wrong. I'm not the one making the decisions here, it's you. You're the one who's running away with your tail between your legs. You're the one who's tossing out ultimatums.”

“What do you want me to do?”

Finally a question she could answer. “What I want, Jack Griffin, is for you to
fight
for me. Prove to me that you're worthy of all the faith I have in you.”

M
aryellen felt about as pregnant as she could get. It was hard to believe that she had another six weeks to go before her baby was due. She hadn't heard from Jon since mid-June, the afternoon she'd buried her father. She wasn't foolish enough to believe he'd relented and wouldn't follow through with legal action. In the three weeks since, she'd been constantly alert, waiting for him to make good on his threats.

With summer in full swing, Maryellen had been busy with the steady stream of tourists. The gallery was doing well, but several of her summer customers were disappointed to find she no longer carried Jon's work. She'd heard, via the grapevine, that he was selling exceptionally well at the Bernard Gallery in Seattle. Word had it that his prints sold out almost as soon as he delivered them. The problem was the same as when she'd carried his work; his deliveries were sporadic and demand far outweighed supply. She appreciated the reasons in a way she hadn't before. He used to cook at
André's and now worked five long days a week at The Lighthouse, which was quickly gaining a reputation as one of the area's finest restaurants. Seth and Justine's new venture appeared to be thriving with Jon at the helm.

Maryellen was pleased for the couple's success. What bothered her, what downright irritated her, was Jon's golden touch. He was too perfect, too good. Talent spilled out of him like water from an overfilled glass. He designed and built his own home, took brilliant photographs and was a talented chef. Other than his lack of minor social skills—which could, in fact, be seen as evidence of his sincerity and therefore a plus—the man had no flaws. If he did take her to court over shared custody of their child, there was every likelihood he'd win. Unless she was able to dig up some dirt in his past…She'd sensed secrets about him and he'd as much as admitted there was something to use against him.

The thought unsettled her. Battling for custody in a courtroom wasn't the way she wanted it. The plan had been to raise her child alone. She'd assumed that when and if Jon ever learned of the baby, he'd be relieved she hadn't involved him. But—as with so much else in her life—she'd been wrong.

By closing time, Maryellen was tired and out of sorts. Her feet hurt, she felt fat and ungainly, and the last thing she felt like doing was fixing dinner. Fish and chips appealed to her, so she stopped at a small café near Colchester Park that served some of the best.

She sat at an outside table, across the street from the water, with the Seattle skyline in the distance. Elevating her feet on the opposite bench, she set the cardboard container on the table and then licked her fingers, savoring the salty taste of hot chips. A pickup pulled into the lot, one she instantly rec
ognized, and Maryellen froze.
No, please, no.
Jon should be at The Lighthouse, he should be taking photographs or working on his house. He should be anywhere except here.

Jon seemed equally surprised to see her. He climbed out and stood beside his truck for a moment, appearing uncertain as to whether he should acknowledge her.

“I didn't follow you if that's what you're thinking,” he said in an expressionless voice.

“I know.” She refused to allow him to ruin her meal and reached for the saltshaker.

“Justine's having all kinds of water retention problems because of salt,” he said, frowning. “Should you be using it?”

“I'm completely healthy.” How like a man to try to tell her what to do. Her irritation flared up and just as quickly died.

“And the baby?” He focused on her stomach.

“She's developing nicely.”

“She?”

Maryellen nodded. “I've had periodic ultrasounds because of my age.”

“You knew all along?”

“No—I had them tell me just recently.”

“A girl.” He said it as if in absolute awe. “Have you picked out names yet?”

“I was thinking of Catherine Grace.”

His face softened. “My mother's name was Katie. She'd be very pleased if she knew.”

“You can tell her.” She didn't think he intended to keep the baby a secret. Perhaps this small concession on her part would convince him of her good faith.

“My mother's been dead fifteen years.”

“I'm sorry.” Maryellen instantly regretted saying anything.

“I want my daughter in my life,” Jon said, his voice firm.

“Perhaps we could reach a compromise.” It hadn't been part of her plan, but she didn't want to drag this through the courts, either.

“Such as?”

“Weekends?” she suggested.

His face as void of emotion as he considered her offer.

“I don't want to shuffle the baby back and forth—days with you, nights with me,” she explained nervously. “I want her life to be stable and full of love. Please try to understand.”

His reluctant nod followed. “All right. But my weekends sometimes aren't the same as yours.”

“We can work around that.”

“Then we're in agreement about the baby and me?” he asked, as though he wanted to be sure there was no misunderstanding. “She'll be with me two nights a week.”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.” He seemed relieved and perhaps even moved by her compromise. “I plan on being a good father.” He turned toward his truck, his reason for stopping at the café apparently forgotten. “Go easy on the salt, you hear.”

“Yes, sir.” Maryellen gave a mock salute and smiled, and to her astonishment, Jon smiled back. He got into his truck and drove off, but as his vehicle disappeared from view she realized that she'd done Jon Bowman a disservice. He genuinely cared for their unborn child—and for her. Throughout this ordeal he'd been honorable and kind. She was the one who'd mistreated him.

Maryellen's appetite vanished, and she pushed her meal away. The baby fidgeted inside her, stretching and kicking as if to remind her that every child deserved a mother
and
a father.

“All in due course, Catherine Grace,” she murmured, rubbing her abdomen, “all in due course.”

 

For five months Roy McAfee had searched for information on the John Doe who'd died at the Beldons' bed-and-breakfast. So far, he'd learned that the airline ticket had come from a small town in southern Florida. This same town was where “James Whitcomb” had lived, according to his counterfeit ID. Roy had traveled there, showed the man's picture to authorities in the area and come back with nothing.

His next angle had been to contact plastic surgeons in Florida, but none recognized the work or knew of the case. One physician suggested it seemed to have been done twenty or thirty years ago, as techniques had changed over time. While that was interesting, it wasn't especially helpful.

Six months after his death, the John Doe had yet to be identified. And despite the days and nights he'd logged on this case, Roy was no further ahead. The toxicology report had revealed nothing to unravel the mystery. Because of budget constraints, Troy Davis hadn't ordered more extensive tests.

Roy knew the county didn't have a lot of extra cash—and curiosity was definitely not an item in their budget. With no clear evidence of foul play, there was nothing to investigate.

Corrie came into the office carrying a cup of freshly brewed coffee. “You're thinking about the dead guy again.” Because they still didn't have a name for him, his wife referred to him as “the dead guy.”

Roy growled something unintelligible under his breath. “I'm not dropping it.”

“Troy doesn't have the money to continue funding the investigation.”

“You don't need to remind me of that.” After his last report, in which he had little information to add, Davis had said to let it go. Roy didn't like hearing that, but there were
plenty of other cases that needed his attention. Still, this one nagged at him, much the same way Dan Sherman's disappearance had.

“We've already put out more money than we've taken in.”

Roy had heard that before, as well. From the beginning, Corrie hadn't been keen on his delving into this investigation. He didn't think she could explain her reasoning any more than he could rationalize the time and expense he'd poured into the case.

“I can't stop thinking the dead guy came to Cedar Cove for a specific reason,” Roy murmured, turning the puzzle around in his mind. He didn't believe for a moment that this was a random visit. Something else that had bothered him was how the man knew about Thyme and Tide. The bed-and-breakfast wasn't on a main road. He had to go off the freeway and down several side roads in order to find it.

Either the John Doe had gotten completely lost in the storm, or he'd specifically chosen the Beldons' place. If so, why?

“Maybe he's a hit man,” Corrie suggested, then shook her head. “I've been reading too many mysteries.”

Roy had thought of that possibility himself. “In which case, he would've been carrying a weapon and he wasn't.”

“Unless it was being planted for him.” Corrie shrugged. “It happens that way in the movies.”

“Hit men carry their own pieces.”

Corrie leaned against the edge of his desk. “When's the last time you spoke to Bob Beldon?”

Roy had to think about that. “A couple of months ago, I think.” His wife had a gift for asking the right questions. “He swears he'd never seen the man before that night,” he said slowly.

“Yes, but I remember you telling me that something about his reaction was slightly off.”

That niggling feeling came every now and then. Roy didn't suspect Bob of anything underhanded, nor did he believe the other man was withholding information, but often people weren't even aware of what they knew. Bob most likely had some vague sense of recognition—so vague he didn't consider it worth mentioning. Maybe he'd met the dead guy in his previous job or on a vacation.

“I think I'll pay Bob and Peggy a visit,” Roy said.

Corrie grinned knowingly. “I figured you might think that was a good idea.”

Peggy was working in her herb garden when he pulled into the driveway. He could see her with her straw hat and a large basket, snipping and gathering. Getting out of the car, he waved to her; she waved cheerfully back. Although the couple was around the same age as Corrie and him, they hadn't socialized. He wasn't sure why.

Roy saw another car parked in the driveway, one he didn't recognize. Probably belonged to a guest. The front door opened before he could ring the bell and Pastor Dave Flemming stepped onto the porch. Dave served as a Methodist minister and was a likable guy; Roy had met him on a number of occasions. He knew that Pastor Dave had officiated at Dan Sherman's funeral, which had been small and private, and had met with Grace a couple of times since, helping her deal with the tragedy.

“Roy, how are you?” Pastor Flemming said, extending his hand. “Good to see you.”

“You, too.”

“You're popular today, Bob,” Dave said on his way out the door.

“You here to see me?” Bob asked.

“If you've got a minute.”

“Sure thing.” He held the screen door open and invited
Roy inside. “Pastor Flemming asked me to coach a church basketball team.”

“I didn't know you were interested in sports.”

“I haven't played in years,” Bob said as he led Roy into the kitchen. He offered him a glass of iced tea, which Roy declined with a shake of his head.

They sat across the table from each other. “Apparently Grace mentioned to him that Dan and I were local sports heroes a hundred years ago,” Bob murmured.

“You and Dan went to school together?”

Bob nodded. “We were good friends at one time. In fact, we enrolled in the Army on the buddy plan and took our training together.”

As long as Roy had lived in Cedar Cove, he couldn't remember the two men having more than a nodding acquaintance.

“I don't think you came by to ask me about Dan, now did you?” Bob said.

“No. I'm still trying to find out who your visitor was.”

“You learn anything?” Bob leaned forward slightly.

Roy shook his head. “I know you've gone over the details of that night a number of times.”

“With you and with Troy.” Bob sounded bored.

“I appreciate your cooperation.”

Bob nodded. “No problem.”

“Tell me your impressions again.”

“Let me think.” Bob leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. “It was late. The news was over and Leno was just coming on. I saw the car's headlights from the window and asked Peggy if we had any guests down on the books. She said we didn't.”

“What was your first reaction when you saw him?” Roy asked.

His eyes remained closed. “Hey—you know what? I thought he seemed familiar, which is odd because I didn't get a good look at his face. I'd kind of forgotten about that, with all the commotion the next morning.”

“Familiar?” Roy pressed. “In what way?”

Bob frowned. “I don't know. Nothing definite.”

“His walk? The way he carried himself?”

“Maybe.”

“What else?”

Bob opened his eyes and shook his head. “I had…an uneasy feeling.”

“Define uneasy,” Roy probed.

Bob thought a moment and then shrugged. “It was like a gut reaction—that this man meant trouble.”

“Trouble,” Roy repeated.

“I guess I was partially right, seeing that he turned up dead in the morning.” Bob sighed loudly and shook his head. “Sorry I can't help you more.”

“You have,” Roy said, which seemed to surprise Bob.

“How?”

“I'm beginning to think you
did
know this man. I want you to sleep on it. Let it work in your mind and get back to me if something else occurs to you.”

“You think he was here because of me?” Bob sounded shocked.