Waterfront Weddings (54 page)

A rustling sound like she’d placed her hand over the phone scratched his ear. Then muffled voices bantered for a moment.

“Jonathan, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Can he contact you at this number?”

“He can try. It all depends on how Don feels.”

“Of course.” He couldn’t ask her to sacrifice her husband’s needs for a client. “You’ll hear from him soon.” He cleared his throat. “You didn’t need to leave this morning.”

“I did.” An alarm sounded in the background. “I’ve got to go. Take care of my girl, Jonathan.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The call disconnected before he was certain she’d heard. Didn’t matter. She knew he’d do anything for Alanna.

His e-mail dinged, and he opened the message. Edward. He smiled ruefully. The man knew how to get what he wanted. Jonathan composed a quick message and hit S
END
. Then he turned back to his plans for another wedding, this one a fifties theme. He wondered if the bridesmaids would wear poodle skirts. That would create unforgettable images for the photographer and make a fun reception. In fact, he knew the performer to call, an Upper Peninsula singer who specialized in the sounds of the fifties and sixties.

He sketched out some thoughts and then sent an e-mail to the bride and her mother. With any luck, the women would sign off on his ideas and he could get the performer signed for the event.

His phone rang and didn’t stop the rest of the afternoon. When he finally reached a break, he stood then stretched. He wandered to the window and looked down on the foot traffic. There weren’t many people around. Guess the tourists weren’t in the mood for a chilly last day of May on the island. It would pick up; it always did.

Until then he knew the business owners would pray for the day the mainland folks flooded the island. Much as he loved the peace and tranquillity, without the chaos of nonlocals, the island remained a shell of itself.

Something clomped against the stairs. He glanced at his watch. Company now?

A
s soon as the clock reached six, Alanna bolted. Tomorrow she’d interview potential employees by phone, but for now she needed to clear her head. Forget about everything.

A trip around the island might clear her mind. At least that’s what she hoped as she mounted her bike. At the end of the street, she stopped at the library. Biking around the island could wait, but the search for answers couldn’t. She wandered the aisles of the small building until she found the slim section of yearbooks. She flipped through the one from her senior year. So many photos showed a small group of tightly knit teens. When there were only a couple handfuls of students in a class, you got to know each other well.

Alanna stopped flipping when she reached Trevor’s picture. He looked so young and full of boyish excitement. He’d been all of a sophomore with the future waiting. A few pages more and she stared into Grady’s cocky face. He looked like he ruled the world rather than the small kingdom of the Mackinac Island school. Even her photo conveyed someone with big dreams.

What happened to those? Somehow her vision of her future died along with Grady. She’d fled the island rather than return after college. She’d wanted to make a difference; now she invested herself in a job she was good at but didn’t love.

Someone cleared her throat, and Alanna glanced up with a start. An elderly woman with gray hair cut in short layers around her face studied Alanna.

“Sorry, ma’am, but it’s time to close.” She cocked her head.

“Of course.” Alanna closed the yearbook. “I’ll get out of here now.”

“Don’t I know you?”

Alanna shrugged as she pulled the book close like a shield. “Maybe, but it’s been years since I’ve been in the library.”

“Hmmm. I could swear you’re the image of Rachelle Stone.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“Alanna?” The woman grinned. “Well, it’s time you came back, kid. You probably don’t remember me. Tricia McCormick. Went to college with your mom and followed her here.”

“That’s right.” Alanna carried the yearbook to the copier and started copying the pages showing the classes. “Sorry I didn’t recognize you.”

“It’s been years.” Tricia’s look traveled to the bookshelf. “Reminiscing or searching?”

“A bit of both.” Alanna returned the yearbook back to its slot.

“Your mom said you could never let it go.” The woman sighed. “It was a sad day, but the rest of us moved on. Time for you to do the same.”

“I can’t.”

“Still stubborn I see. I don’t know what you’ll find here, but feel free to come back as often as you need.”

Alanna nodded then hurried to her bike and away from the woman’s gaze. Tricia McCormick knew the old her as well as anyone on the island. Well enough to know she bulldogged questions. And this was one she couldn’t walk away from.

Should she continue around the island?

The shadows had lengthened while she read inside. Maybe she’d find Mr. Hoffmeister. See if he was still angry. It seemed so out of character for him to make accusations like he had. Especially when she hadn’t really started digging. After all, how would he know about her conversation with her mom? And what did that have to do with him? It wasn’t as if she’d done much yet to look into Grady’s death. Her presence alone couldn’t be enough to get him out of sorts. Could it? Had Ginger run to him after she dropped off the file? That seemed unlikely but possible.

She eased her bike to a stop in front of I’m Not Sharing. The lights warmed the windows and inside of the shop. It looked empty, but she got off anyway. As long as the lights were on, the shop was open.

The door opened easily as she pushed it, the bell announcing her entrance. As soon as she entered, the familiar fudge-laced air flooded around her. She waited inside the door on the mahogany-stained, plank floor. The display cases stood with shelves almost bare of fudge. Looked like the morning would be early and busy or the store wouldn’t have fudge to sell.

Muffled voices whispered from the back area, but Alanna couldn’t see anyone. She waited a minute, taking in the shop. Whoever worked tonight had worked hard to get things ready for closing.

A couple of empty marble tables sat in the prep area. Counters stood clean and ready for new batches of fudge to be worked and cut into yummy slabs. She waited a few minutes to give the conversation in the back a minute to wrap up, but still no one came out to check on who had entered. Had they missed the bells when the door opened? Must be an intense conversation.

Guess she’d use the little bell resting on top of the glass case on the counter next to the old-fashioned cash register. None of those fancy computers for I’m Not Sharing employees. They still made change the old-fashioned way, one dime at a time.

Alanna hit the bell, the tinny sound not reaching far. She waited a moment then knocked it again, harder this time. “Hello?”

It sounded like a door in the back slammed, and she ran her hands over the smooth, walnut counter. Clearing her throat, she tried again. “Hello? Mr. Hoffmeister?”

Maybe someone else worked tonight.

“Coming.” He huffed around the corner, sounding out of breath, then skidded to a stop when he spotted her. “Alanna Stone. You’re the last person I expected tonight.”

“I know. I was headed home, but decided I needed to check on you.”

“Why?”

“This morning was. . .surreal. Have I done anything to offend you?”

He pulled his glasses down and rubbed his eyes. “Just a long few weeks.”

That didn’t explain why he’d come and publicly scolded her. He must have seen her skepticism.

“I probably got carried away. Between your questions and that monstrosity Tomkin wants to build”—he shuddered at the words—“I’m distracted. But you need to let everything drop between Grady and Trevor. That’s done and over.”

“Trevor still walks under a cloud of suspicion. Can you say you don’t blame him for the accident?”

“Each of you played some part in it.”

Alanna winced as his words slammed into her, the edge hard and on target. “Still. . .”

“It’s unsolvable, so stop. Find an employee for the shop and go home.”

“This is my home.” She paused at the word, shocked she’d said it and even more surprised that she meant it.

“Hasn’t been for eleven years. A few weeks won’t make that much difference. Go back to your job, friends, and new life. Leave us alone.”

Alanna stepped back, unsure what to do next. “Why warn me about Tomkin?”

“No reason.”

“Not buying it. You don’t make accusations unless you have something to back it up.”

“Let’s not talk about this now. Come back tomorrow. It’s been a long day, and I’m ready to head home.”

He looked exhausted, strung out, with crow’s feet etched into the corners of his eyes. “Just one minute.”

“Fine.” He looked at the counter then raised worried eyes to hers. “Didn’t you ever find it odd the amount of thrashing out there?”

“Out where?”

“In the water. Think about who was there. And what happened. It wasn’t an accident. Roughhousing’s one thing. This wasn’t.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?”

“What makes you think I didn’t?”

A clang erupted from the back. Mr. Hoffmeister jerked as if he’d been prodded. “Think you want some fudge?”

What had smelled so good when she stepped in now turned her stomach, but as she looked at Mr. Hoffmeister, she nodded. “A slice of the mint chocolate please.”

The older man grabbed a piece of wax paper from the box and then reached into the display case, his hand shaking as he claimed a slice.

“Not that one.” Alanna couldn’t remember him ever reaching for the wrong kind. Peanut-butter fudge didn’t look anything like the mint. “Mint please.”

“That’s right. Old brain is fuddled at the moment.” He chuckled weakly as he grabbed the right kind. He pulled out a bag but seemed to take extra time before he handed it over. He ran her debit card through the machine that looked oddly out of place next to the giant cash register. His movements jerked abnormally as he slid the receipt to her. “Have a good evening.”

“You, too, Mr. Hoffmeister.” Alanna left the store then turned to watch him from the window. He shuffled across the floor as if he carried the weight of a hundred problems then locked the door and flipped the sign. She waved, and he lifted a hand.

The street was quiet as she shoved off and pedaled home. The white bag glowed like a flag in her bike’s basket, waving a surrender to all who passed her. When she got home, she opened the bag. A small piece of paper, like it had been torn from the cash-register tape, fluttered to the table. Mr. Hoffmeister’s scrawl had her squinting as she tried to decipher it.

She stared at the slip. When had he found time to write it? She’d been there the whole time. And why not just tell her when she was in the shop? Why all the secrecy?

The questions bothered her as she tried to go to sleep and woke her during the night.

The next morning Alanna got a late start after her restless sleep. She slipped a headband on to hold back damp hair as she hurried to the studio. She slowed when she approached I’m Not Sharing. Police crime-scene tape fluttered around the outside. Dread sank like a weight through her at the image. What happened after she left? A few of the island police officers stood around the perimeter of the tape, their expressions hard and unwelcoming.

She eased to a stop.

“Keep moving, miss.” A uniformed officer still wearing his bike helmet gestured her on.

“What happened?”

“Can’t say.” He waved his arm. “Please keep moving.”

She eased back into the bike traffic. After she opened the Painted Stone, she’d call the island grapevine to find out what happened. Until then she had a couple of job interviews to conduct. At the pace her investigation wasn’t moving, she needed to leave the island as soon as possible. In fact, yesterday sounded better all the time.

With a last glance at the yellow tape flapping across the shop’s door, Alanna finished biking to work, her thoughts shadowed by the unknown. She focused on the interviews, which passed smoothly enough, with only one of the candidates showing enough interest to invite for an in-person interview. It helped that the college student lived in St. Ignace during the summer. After arranging the interview for the following morning, Alanna helped several people who wandered into the store. She sold paintings with mixed emotions.

She vowed to unravel the twisted mire around the art as soon as humanly possible. She munched a sandwich at the counter, counting down until she could take a legitimate lunch break again. Peanut butter and jelly had never been her favorite sandwich, and right now she’d give anything for a pot roast sandwich at the Yankee Rebel. She tried to imagine the nutty aroma of her sandwich was the meaty one the Yankee Rebel served instead, but her imagination couldn’t quite make the transition.

She finished the sandwich then placed a want ad in another paper. Eventually one would work. It had to.