It's a Wonderful Wife (13 page)

“I've been overseas on an extended business trip, so I haven't been able to call and find out how she's doing. And since it would have been awkward to ask Stanley just now, and knowing you're Miss Glace's good friend, I was hoping you could put my worries to rest. You say she's traveling? Has she been gone very long?”

“Cadi told me she expected to be gone only a couple of weeks. But that was two weeks ago as of
yesterday
, and she's still not back.”

Jesse sighed out loud. “Well, I suppose if I ever found myself in Miss Glace's shoes, I might feel that a little time and distance could help put things in perspective.”

“Yes,” Beatrice whispered, fingering a button on her sweater. “I guess I would, too.”

“Have you heard from her?”

Beatrice nodded. “We've been talking and texting nearly every day.”

“And is Miss Glace having any luck finding a motorhome?”

The store owner suddenly broke into a genuine smile as she reached in her pocket and—bingo!—pulled out a cell phone. “Cadi has checked out at least half a dozen,” she said, walking toward him as she fiddled with the screen, “and even sent me pictures, asking my opinion. See?” she offered, holding the phone facing him, then peering over the top of it as she kept fumbling with the screen. “You'll have to do it,” she said, handing him the phone. “Just ignore the texts and keep scrolling up to the pictures.”

Jesse nearly shouted when he saw the ten numbers in the caller ID banner above the texts, and thanked God that Beatrice had kept the pictures in the conversation instead of saving them to the photo gallery.

Ten simple, beautiful, freighter-moving numbers. Not bothering with the first three, recognizing Maine's area code, Jesse memorized the last seven while slowly scrolling through the lengthy conversations to the first picture. “Wow, that's the size of a bus,” he said while continuing to permanently etch those seven numbers on his brain.

“That's exactly what I told her.” Beatrice moved to stand beside him, then reached over and scrolled up. “I suggested she get something smaller. There,” she said, tapping the screen to enlarge the photo of a midsized motorhome. “I told her to get that one.” She frowned up at him. “Until she mentioned it cost eighty-two thousand dollars even though it was used. Land sakes, if you go inland just a few miles you can buy a decent
house
for that.”

Jesse nodded in agreement as he studied the photo, looking for clues as to where it had been taken, then scrolled up to the next two photos as he slowly began to suspect they'd all been taken on the same RV dealership lot. He looked through several more while checking the dates, and saw they had been sent two or three days apart—Cadi apparently wanting Beatrice to believe she'd found them in different towns.

Oh yeah, no one could accuse Miss Glace of not knowing how to tell a good lie. But then, hadn't she had everyone convinced she and Stanley were engaged for over two years? Hell, she'd pulled off an even more elaborate lie with her father for
fourteen
.

Jesse sighed out loud again. “Even if she comes back empty-handed, just shopping for a camper has to be therapeutic. And Miss Glace appears to be doing just—” He stopped scrolling on another photograph, this one a selfie of Cadi holding a copy of the
New York Times
.

She'd made it as far as New York? Sweet God, the woman had run
toward
Stapleton.

Or toward a client who had gallantly rescued her twice already?

“What's this?” Jesse asked, tilting the screen to show Beatrice the photo.

“Oh, that,” the store owner said with a nervous laugh, grabbing the phone and shoving it in her pocket as she walked away. “Cadi sent me that as a joke. She's not really in New York; you can buy that newspaper in most cities in Maine.”

Christ, he hoped it was only a joke. “Then why send you a photo of that particular paper?”

Keeping her back to him, Beatrice began fidgeting with something on the counter. “The day Cadi left, I . . . ah, I may have accused her of accepting your offer to look for a motorhome in New York,” she softly admitted, finally turning to expose red cheeks and a sheepish smile. “The girl thinks it's a big secret, but I've always known how much she wants to travel. And since you apparently proved to be a gentleman the night you picked—the night she hid in your camper, I got it in my head she was really running off to meet you at the Trenton airport.”

Jesse felt his heart rate settle down at the hope that Cadi was still in Maine. “Well,” he said with a deceptively negligent shrug, “I suppose my sending flowers to a woman who had just caught her fiancé in a compromising position might make you question my motives. So maybe you shouldn't tell Miss Glace I was checking on her,” he suggested, not wanting Beatrice to call Cadi the moment he left. “That way
she
won't get the wrong impression of me.”

“Yes. Yes, I think that would be best.”

“Well, I better get going if I want to reach Castle Cove before the marina closes so I can see about getting my boat in the water,” he said, walking to the door. “But I'd like to thank you for reassuring me that Miss Glace is doing well.”

“You're welcome, Mr. Sinclair.”

He opened the door, but decided to add a little insurance. “My friends call me Jesse.”

“And my friends call me Bea,” she returned, giving him a warm smile. “So you make sure to stop in and see me whenever you're in town.”

“I'll do that,” he said with a nod, losing his own smile the moment he stepped outside.

Jesse strode across the road and, with only a cursory glance at Glace & Kerr Architecture, climbed into his truck and started the engine, checked for traffic, and made a U-turn. He drove several miles out of town and pulled into a scenic turnout, then took out his phone and input Cadi's new number—only to still with his finger over the call button.

Dammit to hell; he'd been so focused on hearing her voice that he hadn't considered what to say.
Hi, there, Cadi, it's me, Jesse. Jesse Sinclair? Yes, well, I just found out you're driving around pretending to shop for a camper when you're really running from a loan shark with the hots for you. So could you please tell me where you are so I can come get you and— What's that? Yes, I know you probably don't need or particularly want a virtual stranger to come save your pretty little ass, but I really think you should . . . I thought I could . . .

Yes, what had he thought?

Dammit to hell again; he didn't like that Stanley was right about it needing to be Cadi's decision. She definitely was a grown woman, and anyone with half a brain could see it was intelligence making those big blue eyes sparkle. There was also the fact she was highly creative, which could very well prove to be her greatest asset when it came to protecting herself.

Jesse dropped his head onto the steering wheel with a groan. If he wanted any sort of relationship with the ever-more-interesting Miss Glace, insisting he could do a better job of keeping her safe than she could probably wasn't the way to go about it.

Okay, then; he'd give her until five p.m. tomorrow to call. But that still didn't mean he had to stand around with his hands in his pockets. He sat up and dialed a pretty damn good asset of his own, then pulled back onto the road.

“I want you to find out everything you can about a New Yorker named Ryan Stapleton,” he began without preamble the moment Nathaniel came on the line. “How much money he has and how he makes it, who his friends are, where he shops and eats and even what teams he roots for—everything. You can probably start somewhere in the middle of the legitimate businessman scale and work your way
down
from there.”

There was a pronounced pause, then a soft, “Ohh-kay. Sounds like . . . fun.”

“Also find out where he's planning to build his new house. And Nathaniel?”

“Yeah, boss?”

“You not only make sure Stapleton doesn't know he's being researched, you don't let anyone know what you're doing. And that includes my brothers.”

“Yes, sir,” Nathaniel snap-whispered. “This is strictly between you and me and my triple-password-protected, invisible computer.”

“Just don't go skulking down any dark alleys looking for information, you got that? If you hit a dead end online, discreetly get the name of the security firm Ben used when he found out he had a teenage son three years ago and let
them
scour the alleys. Just be clear they answer only to you or me.”

“Got it.”

“But first off I need you to research small, unobtrusive cell phone antennas that will extend the signal and overnight one to me.” Jesse glanced at the dash clock. “If I don't call you later with an address, send it to me general delivery at the Castle Cove post office. Oh, and be sure everything to make it function is in the package. I need to get that antenna up and running first thing tomorrow, and I can't exactly pop out to the nearest store for parts.”

“Got it,” Nathaniel drawled. “One cell antenna even an executive can put up. Anything else?”

“As a matter of fact,” Jesse drawled in return, his protégé's maddeningly persistent sense of humor moving the freighter a little farther off his chest. “Check with that security firm and see if they can find out where a cell phone is located if I provide them with a number.”

There was an even longer pause, and then, “Law enforcement can, but I'm fairly certain private citizens—or private security firms—can't.”

“Ask anyway.”

“Consider it done. Anything else?”

Jesse suddenly had a thought. “Do you know if anyone from Glace and Kerr Architecture tried to contact me while I was gone?”

Another pause. “I seem to remember seeing something in your mail,” Nathaniel said distractedly as Jesse heard papers shuffling. “Yeah, here it is. Looks like a card. The return address isn't Glace and Kerr, though. It's from Cadi Glace.”

Jesse felt his heart falter and then start racing. He checked his rearview mirror and pulled to the side of the road, then stared out the windshield. “What's the postmark date and town?”

“June seventh and Whistler's Landing.”

“What day of the week was the seventh?”

“Ah . . . Saturday. You want me to open it and see if it's about your house?”

Jesse dropped his chin to his chest on a silent curse. That was two days after he'd sent the flowers, meaning it was a thank-you card. “No. It's personal.”

“Ah . . . Cadi Glace also called,” Nathaniel said—Jesse perking up at the hesitation in his voice. “Marjory recognized the name Glace and put the call through to me.”

Jesse's heart shot back into overdrive. “Do you remember
when
she called?” he asked, wondering if it had been after her phone had gotten “ruined,” which meant she wouldn't have had his private cell number. “What did she want?”

“I'm fairly certain the call came after the card,” Nathaniel said as Jesse heard what he assumed were pages turning on a call logbook—bless the kid's borderline OCD organizational skills. “Yeah, here it is. She called on Tuesday, June tenth.”

“Is there a reason I'm only hearing this
now
?”

“Two reasons, actually: first, because there really wasn't anything to tell you, and second, because she asked me not to mention she'd called.”

“So Miss Glace is signing your paychecks now?” Jesse said quietly.

“No, sir,” Nathaniel said, all business again. “But since she wouldn't leave a message, I thought . . .” A heavy sigh came over the line. “Do you have any idea how many people call you in a matter of two weeks? Why do you think I keep such a detailed logbook? I can usually handle most of their questions or problems, so I only tell you about those I can't. Miss Glace seemed to fall in the first category.”

Jesse blew out a heavy sigh of his own. “Tell me again what day she called.”

“Tuesday, June tenth, which is the day after you left for Europe.”

Which was also the day after Stanley had sent her away, according to Beatrice. “Did Miss Glace happen to say what was so
unimportant
for her to call me?”

“She just asked to speak with you. I explained you were overseas but that maybe I could help, since I'm responsible for payments and scheduling and most things concerning your house. Miss Glace said her question had to do with the design and asked how long you'd be gone.”

“And you said?”

“I told her I didn't expect you back for at least three weeks. But knowing how anxious you were to get hold of your plans, I offered to have you call her the first chance you got.”

“And did Miss Glace give you her number?” Jesse whispered.

“No, she asked for yours instead.”

“And did you give it to her?”

“Yes, but I explained it would be easier if
you
did the calling, since there was no telling when you'd be thirty thousand feet over some ocean or in a meeting. I told her even I usually have to wait until you call.”

Jesse was back to wanting to roar. “Did she give you her number then?”

“I'm sorry, boss. After all that, she decided her question wasn't really that important. But for the record, I even went so far as to say you'd probably fire me if those house plans got delayed, and she . . . she said . . .”

“She said what?” Jesse growled.

“She laughed and said to tell you that if you didn't give me a big fat raise instead—and this is a direct quote, so don't shoot the messenger—‘you're going to find yourself living in a very unpretentious hollow tree.'” Nathaniel cleared his throat. “When I told her I didn't get the joke, Miss Glace suggested I read Winnie the Pooh.”

Jesse felt himself grinning at the idea that Cadi wasn't any more worried about spending Tidewater's money than she was his. “And did you read it?”