Love Inspired Suspense June 2015 #1 (42 page)

She bounced back up. “No way. This is my house, and if someone's in here, I want to know who it is. Besides, you won't be able to identify the person—I will.”

Her idea didn't sit well with him. She could have broken her neck once today. He didn't like her putting it out there again. He'd rather she leave the house while he searched it, but judging by the tilt of her chin, she wasn't going anywhere.

“Stay close, and if I tell you to run for the hills, you better leg it.” Colm withdrew the hammer up and out of its loop again. Heading back out into the hall, he stopped at the first closed door and swung it wide. Empty, except for a bed and dresser placed against the far wall. Obviously Gretchen's makeshift room for the time being. He shut the door to move on, but a sound came from two doors down.

Colm brought his arm up to stop her. She didn't balk, which told him she'd heard it, too, and understood the danger of the situation. He made his way to the room, shoving the door wide.

Before he could say anything to the man standing there, Gretchen let out a quick gasp behind him and said, “Seriously? How could you?”

THREE

T
he picture before Gretchen was ludicrous. Len Smith held a crowbar in his withered hand. The ninety-five-year-old man could barely stand up straight, never mind raise the tool above his slumped head to fight Colm, who couldn't be older than twenty-eight.

“Colm, put the hammer down,” she instructed the younger, very ruggedly strong man who was no match for the elderly, declining one. “This is Len. He's like my grandfather. In fact, he's a grandfather to everyone here on the island. I would say he would never hurt me, but lately those words have lost their weight when it comes to the islanders.”

Len grunted, but remorse traced his droopy eyes. “I'm sad to say it, but I would have to agree. It pains me to see such upheaval in Berlin.”

“Berlin?” Colm repeated.

“You mean Stepping Stones, Len, don't you?” Gretchen asked.

“Yes, yes, of course.” Len looked at the corners of the ceiling. “All because of this house? I don't get it. You have a fine home, Gretchen.”

“Well, I appreciate that, Len, but it's going to be a whole lot better when I'm done.”

“I don't doubt it, and I don't doubt you. You have to believe that I am on your side.” He smiled. “I hope you don't mind I gave myself the tour. Nobody was around when I came in. That attic is impressive, by the way. Are you going to finish it and claim it as your living quarters and let out the rooms on this floor to guests?”

“I would have loved that, but I think I'll make a better income booking the attic. I had hopes it might be an extended rental for the whole summer for someone. I'll make the servants' quarters out back my home.”

“You're a wise businesswoman. Always have been, though. The way you helped your mom run the restaurant, it's no wonder Tildy is bent out of shape for losing you. You were more than a waitress and businesswoman, though. You're also a fabulous cook. Your guests will go home ten pounds heavier when they taste your handiwork in the kitchen. I might sell my house and move in.” He cackled his oh, so comforting laugh, one that made her want to crawl up into his lap the way she had as a little girl. “Let you take care of me in my last years.”

“You're practically a fixture at the Underground Küchen restaurant. Mom would never allow you to leave, too,” Gretchen said.

“True enough, especially with the holes in your floor. So many bombs. When will they end?” Len's eyes flitted around the room and his shrunken shoulders folded in. He looked so forlorn that Gretchen reached for his arm.

“Len, is everything okay? You seem confused.”

“Is he touched?” Colm whispered into her ear. She shot a questioning look at him. He mouthed back,
Dementia?

“Of course not,” she replied, but the old man's behavior said otherwise. “Len, there are no bombs. I think you're just remembering the war. All is safe here.”

Colm grunted. “Your floor's been cut. You call that safe?”

“Cut? What's he talking about? Who cut your floor?” Len snapped back to the present day.

“Everything's fine, Len. Don't worry.”

Len eyed them. She was glad to see his keenness restored but wished it weren't focused on her. “Glad to hear it, but you might want to make repairing that hole downstairs a high priority. Wouldn't want you facing a lawsuit so close to your grand opening. Could put a damper on your plans.”

“Interesting you should say that.” Colm had brought his hammer down but still held it in front of him, tapping the face of the tool into his palm. “Do you have any other tools on you besides that crowbar? A saw, perhaps? One with power, I'd imagine.” His threatening stance made Gretchen think he cared about her.

For a split second only.

In actuality, he probably thought the camera was still on him, because the show seemed to be the only thing he cared about.

But he had just helped her through a breathing fit, and there hadn't been any cameras on him then. Unless...

Gretchen's gaze zipped around the room, but quickly she shook her head at her overactive imagination—or a bit of Len's paranoia rubbing off on her. Cameras in the rooms would have to be minuscule pieces of equipment. Spy-like even. That settled it. She needed to open for business fast and stop spending her nights watching too many television shows. She zeroed in on Colm's Hollywood-handsome face. Watching too much TV was what gave her a warped sense of reality in the first place. Did she dare believe Colm McCrae's show could really help her get on her feet?

“No saw here,” Len responded to Colm's inquiry. “Found this crowbar on the attic stairs.” He passed it over to Gretchen. “Thought the crew out back might need it.”

Colm darted to the curtainless window. “My crew's here? They're early.”

“Well, I don't know anything about that, but you should have seen that ferry come in this morning all loaded up with machinery and crates and even trailers. That show of yours must be some operation, Mr. McCrae. I've never seen the Sunday ferry make the two-and-a-half-hour boat ride out here for anyone on a Monday.”

“Money talks,” Colm said as he turned and rushed into the hall. The sound of his boots echoed through the empty house as they hit each step rapidly. The front door slammed.

“Now,” Gretchen said, leaning the crowbar against the wall and taking a step closer to Len. “Tell me why you're really here, because it's not for a tour. You could have asked for that before I bought the home. In fact, you've lived on this island since after World War II, so you've probably walked the rooms of this house a million times before it was deserted after Hurricane Bob in '91, and probably after that even. So tell me, Len Smith, what brings you here? More warnings from the islanders? More requests for lengthy dead-end discussions about how I'm ruining the island? How tourists are sure to upset the way of life we've had for generations? I've heard it all. I've listened and taken everyone's feelings into consideration, but no one has done the same for me. Including you.”

Len frowned. He walked to the window and leaned his bent frame forward to grip the chipped sill. “I'm old, Gretchen. I don't have much time left.”

“Don't say that,” she retorted, unable to deny his remark. Especially after she thought how old he looked a moment ago.

He turned toward her, a toothy grin on his cute, wrinkled face. “You want truth? I'm giving you truth. Now listen. You're not too old to bend over my knee, you know.” He looked at her with grandfatherly eyes, the love in them sobering her.

She smirked back at him and stepped up to the window. “Whether you all want to believe it or not, I'm not a child anymore. I can make my own decisions now.”

Len huffed. “Tell that to your boyfriend.”

She felt her lips tighten. “Billy's not my boyfriend anymore. And he never will be again.” The television crew down below caught her eye, but her vision was blurred by anger.

“I wouldn't think so with the way he's riling up the town by calling all these meetings to stop you from rehabbing this place. If there was a possibility of a bridge, I'd say he's burned it.”

“That has nothing to do with my reason for ending it with him. I needed something he couldn't give me.”

“And what was that?”

“Freedom.”

Len grunted before saying, “I figured as much.”

Gretchen shot a look his way. Did Len know? A geyser of shame doused her. No, he couldn't. There was no way. She averted her gaze back out the window. She caught sight of the director she had met three months ago. He was speaking a little too closely to Colm, although Colm held his ground with folded arms, muscles in forearms flexed. Gretchen wished she could read lips, but by the way Colm's face took on a reddish tinge, it didn't look positive. Was Colm asking Troy about putting her fall through the basement on the cutting-room floor? Or at least what she admitted to after the fall? Gretchen looked back at the director.
What say you, Troy Mullen?

“No need to pretend with me, Gretchen. I know Billy held on to you a little too tightly. Some would say he meant well.”

“Meant well?” She whipped her attention back to the one man she had hoped to have on her side about this.
If
she was ever able to tell. “You have no—”

Len held up a gnarled hand. “I said
some
would say. But still, he's a deputy in the sheriff's department. That holds water. The townspeople like him protecting their island from others with agendas.”

“There are no agendas here other than my opening a small bed-and-breakfast to support myself. The crew from
Rescue to Restoration
isn't here for any reason but to help me. When they finish they will be gone forever.”

“Are you positive about that?”

“Now you sound like everyone else. Of course, what other reason would there be for them to be here?”

Len shrugged. He leaned in and kissed her forehead. “Just keep your eyes open. Things aren't always what they seem. People aren't always what they seem. Take that TV host for example. I thought he had an Irish accent. When he was in here, I heard no sign of his heritage. What kind of man turns his back on his roots, unless he's got something to hide or gain? I should know. It was over sixty years ago I fled for my life from a Soviet-occupied Germany. I ran with nothing but the clothes on my back and my—”

“I know. Your family's heirloom painting. The painting hung above your family's fireplace for generations and now hangs in my mother's restaurant.”

“And will soon hang above your fireplace here.”

“What?” Gretchen gasped. “What are you talking about?” Maybe the man was touched, as Colm had put it.

“I've told everyone that I'm leaving you my painting.”

“Everyone? Len, the islanders will form a mob against me, my mother in the lead. Why me?”

“Like I said, I'm not getting any younger. It's time I put my ducks in order. As long as my painting hangs, my heritage lives on.”

“But my mom would never take it down! You don't have to worry about that.”

“I know, but I want you to have it, and that's final.”

“That painting has always hung in her restaurant.”

“Before the restaurant was your mother's, it was mine. The place represented my new beginning when I came here and opened it for business. If I'm correct this home is your new beginning, right?”

Gretchen nodded, her throat tight with emotion.

“Then I chose well for my legacy to continue.” Len looked out the window. “Unlike that television personality down there. What would his father say if he knew his son had let down his family name?”

Gretchen located Colm again below, this time stomping up the steps to a trailer that was placed along the tree line to the woods. Something had made him angry. Had Troy said no to his request on her behalf? Or no to some plan or agenda Colm had on his own? Without knowing who the real Colm McCrae was, she couldn't be certain.

“Maybe you're right,” she told Len. “I shouldn't be speaking for people I don't know. I would like to say the crew is only here to help me renovate, but I may be wrong.” She reached for Len's hand. “Will you pray for this whole situation? I hate being at odds with the islanders. But I also can't go back to the way things were.”

“That bad?” Len squeezed her hand and brought tears to her eyes. She bit the inside of her lip to stop the flow threatening to spill. All she could do was shake her head. If she opened her mouth to speak, only wails of pain and betrayal would come.

“Okay, sweetheart, you don't have to tell me today.” Len cupped her cheek so gently it nearly erased the memory of pain there. “But don't wait too long. Nothing can be resolved if you hold it in. Plus, my days are numbered, and I have those ducks I mentioned.”

“I said, don't talk like that,” she mumbled, wiping away the few spilled tears. “You're going to make me cry again. Plus you're here now, and that's all that matters. Thank you, Len, for being here for me. I really thought the whole island was against me. I don't feel so isolated anymore.”

“I'm just sorry you had to feel that way in the first place. So much is changing on my island. And it's not for the better. I just hope I can change the tides back before I take my final breath. Remember what I said, Gretchen—be careful of whom you trust.”

“That's easy. From now on, I only trust myself.”

* * *

“The scene stays?” Colm mumbled in disbelief as he snatched his yellow hard hat from the cabinet inside his trailer. Troy really was mad. Did he want the safety and health administration here shutting them down for unsafe conditions? Ratings were important, but not at the risk of the show—and definitely not at the risk of someone's life, especially the home owner's.

Colm adjusted the strap on the hat with a little more vigor than needed, his thoughts on how Gretchen wanted only to gain her independence from—

He stopped, his argument lingering. From whom? It wasn't as if she was forthcoming with the details. Why should he put his neck on the line for someone so closemouthed? He felt as if he'd spent his whole life helping people who never really wanted his help in the first place. There were only so many hits a guy could take. And yet Colm knew deep down he would take them all, no questions asked. A defender of the underdog he was, through and through.

He resigned himself to asking Troy again to lose the footage, but he knew the only way Troy would consider it was if he got something in return.

Troy had loved that they captured the fall on tape, and he didn't even know about the possibility that someone had cut the boards. Perhaps he should. Then the footage would be considered evidence and they couldn't release it. Nay, that wouldn't work. Knowing Troy he would want it more. And if for some reason he did agree to keep the mishap off the air, who was to say he wouldn't set up another mishap to replace it?