Deeply, Desperately (14 page)

"You're welcome."

His tail rose and fell as he ate. I turned up the thermostat and pulled open the drapes. Muted, shady light filled the room. Outside, the snow around the cottage was tamped down and for a second I panicked, thinking someone had been lurking outside, but then I remembered the snowball fight. And smiled.

The ocean was calm. Too calm. Maybe Mum was right--there might be a doozy of a storm in the forecast
after all. I went about brewing a pot of coffee, unable to shake my dreams. One of them must have involved Em because she was on my mind. I picked up my phone, called her. She answered on the third ring, and she didn't sound right.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"It's nothing."

"It sounds like something."

"I don't know."

"Em."

"Joseph lied to me. He told me he was working late at the office last night, so I packed a picnic and brought it over to him. The office was locked up tight."

"But--"

"When I asked him about it, he said he decided to have dinner with his parents and stayed a while to visit."

I snapped my mouth closed. I'd been about to tell Em about Spar when she dropped that bombshell.

"Why didn't he just call me to let me know? And why didn't he invite me to come with him? Why did he lie?"

"I--I don't know." Joseph had clearly been doing business last night at Spar. Why not tell Em?

"He says I'm making too big a deal about it. Am I?"

I hedged. "I think you need to trust your instincts, Em."

"I just don't like arguing with him." She sighed.

"I'm sure everything will be okay," I lied. Sometimes lying wasn't wrong. Like now. Like when it would hurt my best friend to know that she was
marrying a sleazy scuzball who had no compunction about lying to her. Marisol was definitely right about him--he was up to no good. We needed to find some solid evidence against him.

"I hope so. I have a fitting this afternoon, and I don't want to be mad at him when I try on my wedding dress."

The coffeepot gurgled. I poured a cup, sipped. I couldn't come up with anything else to placate her. The truth was, I didn't like Joseph. I'd been willing to overlook that fact if Em was happy. She didn't seem happy anymore.

Em filled the silence. "Did you hear about Marisol and Butch?"

"She filled me in last night."

"She's been asking a lot of questions about Aiden. Do you know why? Is she interested in him?"

Em tried to sound casual, but I saw right through her nosy facade, and it gave me hope. I decided to string her along. "Not sure."

"Oh. Well, I was just curious."

"I'm curious too," I said, sipping. The furnace rattled as heat emanated from the radiator. I wasn't sure where Marisol was going with the whole Aiden part of her plan, but I knew she had Em's best interests at heart.

"I mean," Em said, "she and Butch just broke up."

"I know."

"She should, you know, take some time for herself. Not jump into anything else so soon."

"Marisol said as much herself last night." Right
before she'd sauntered to the bar, surrounded herself with men, and flirted the night away.

Em let out a breath of relief. "That's good. I worry about her."

"Me too," I said honestly. But mostly I worried about Em hating us if she found out what we were up to.

Preston and I were lost.

I'd let her drive, and she didn't have a cool GPS system. We'd been circling Falmouth for the past half hour.

"I think we should go left up here," she said, peering at street signs from beneath edgy blond bangs. Big sunglasses covered most of her face, but the corners of her eyes crinkled as she squinted.

"We went that way already," I pointed out.

"We did?"

"Yes."

We turned right. We'd gone this way too.

"We need to ask directions," I said.

"We'll find it. How hard can it be?"

I stared at her.

"What? We've only been circling for a few minutes."

"More like thirty."

"Are you always so argumentative?" she asked.

"Are you?"

"Yes."

I smiled.

"It's kind of my job," she clarified.

"I thought your job was asking questions."

"Sometimes there's arguing involved."

I checked for our turn, an innocuous-sounding "Ocean Point Road." So far, no luck. "How long have you been a reporter, anyway?"

"I started working at the
Beacon
seven years ago, starting when I was sixteen, answering phones. At seventeen I was beat reporting. I work hard."

"Never said you didn't."

"You have a look," she said.

"What kind of look?"

"Disdainful."

I lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. "Can't say I always agree with what you write."

"The truth?"

"Sometimes your truth comes in shades of gray."

"What's true isn't always black-and-white."

"It's always black-and-white," I said. "That's why it's true."

"You're wrong."

"Is this where the arguing thing comes in?"

She smiled. "Pretty much. Are you working with the police right now?" she asked, sneaking a look my way.

"Why?"

"Just because."

"That sounds like a shade of gray."

"C'mon, Lucy, you owe me a story. I'm never going to get hired by one of the bigger papers unless I keep writing big stories."

She'd written a really big story--on me--not too long ago, and it hadn't gotten her very far. "Whatever
happened to the
Herald
? I thought you were guaranteed a job there."

"It fell through."

"Why?"

"Black-and-white?"

"Yes."

"They wouldn't hire me because I don't have a journalism degree. Most papers require one now. But if I can only show them that I can write great stories ... Big stories ..."

"Why not get the degree?"

She slowed around a sharp bend. "It feels like taking a step back."

"But wouldn't it really be like taking a step forward?"

"Who are you, my older sister?"

Nope. Not if my father's reaction was any indication. I thanked my lucky stars for that. "Just seems like common sense."

She shrugged. "I prefer to do things my own way."

I frowned as we drove past another street that looked familiar. "We should get directions."

"We've been through this."

I groaned while we crept along looking for a street that I now doubted existed. Falmouth wasn't all that big. "Have you talked to my father lately?"

"Not really. He's been on the down low."

I didn't mention the new girlfriend. "I think he may be trying to match you."

Her head jerked up. "Me? What makes you think so?"

"Do you know someone named Cutter McCutchan?" I asked.

She looked straight ahead. "No."

"Well, his name was on your invitation to Dovie's party. Didn't you see it?"

"Didn't notice."

"I think my father is up to something. A little matchmaking maybe."

"It's the first I've heard of it," she said tightly.

"Does that upset you?"

She laughed. It wasn't tinkly at all. "No. Why would it?"

"I don't know. You tell me."

"It's just that I'm not really looking for a guy right now. I'm focused on my job. Aha!" she shouted as she swerved sharply onto Ocean Point Road. The sign for the gravel lane was nearly hidden behind an old maple tree. We must have driven past the entrance six or seven times already.

Preston pulled up in front of the only house on the street. Reaching over her seat, she hauled an enormous purse onto her lap and quickly hopped out of the car. I watched her go for a second, wondering why I had the feeling she was running from something.

John McGill, Esquire, might have had the best office location in all of Falmouth. He worked from home, a lonely beach house on a spindly point that jutted into Nantucket Sound. The stunning home, all glass and straight lines, was lifted off the ground by twelve-foot stilts. Ample protection from tidal surges.

Strong waves lashed against the shore, crashing in harmony. I pulled my hands through my windswept hair, trying futilely to tame it.

"I went into the wrong business," Preston said, staring in awe.

The house was a masterpiece, no doubt designed by some famous architect. We walked the stone path to the door. The Cape hadn't received any snowfall, but frost crunched under our feet.

"You could buy a house like this with your trust fund," Preston said.

"I like my place."

"It's kind of small, don't you think?"

"No."

"And isn't it weird living so close to your grandmother?"

"No."

She took off her sunglasses and gave me a disbelieving glare. "I don't get you."

The feeling was mutual. I knocked on a thick wood door, taking in my surroundings. The day had dawned dark and gloomy and hadn't changed much as morning seeped into afternoon. Martha's Vineyard was but a speck in the distance, shrouded in mist.

John McGill had handled David Winston's estate after his death and would hopefully point me in Joanne's direction. I'd called ahead and Mr. McGill was kind enough to see me and Preston, though I doubted he often took appointments on Saturdays.

The door opened with a great whoosh, and a woman came out. She wore a nicely tailored suit, carried a briefcase, and said, "Thank you for your time."

Or maybe he was such a workaholic, weekends were just more billable hours.

The older gentleman standing in the doorway replied with, "Thank you for coming. I'll get back to you."

He wore a spandex biking outfit of screaming yellow and subtle black. An aerodynamic helmet was nestled in the crook of his arm. "Mr. McGill?" I asked.

Smiling, he bowed. "At your service."

Immediately, I was charmed. Preston too. She flashed him her hundred-megawatt smile.

"I hope we haven't caught you at a bad time?"

Smoothing back thick white hair, he said, "Is there ever a bad time when beautiful women are at your door? Come in, young ladies, my bike ride can wait. I don't suppose you're here about the job?"

I shook my head, and we followed him through a vestibule into a small office. "I called earlier. I'm Lucy Valentine and this is Preston Bailey. Thank you for agreeing to meet with us on such short notice."

"Happy to help." He eyed a pile of notepads on his desk, his longhand nearly impossible to read.

"I don't suppose either of you transcribe?"

"Not anymore," I said, grateful.

Preston glanced at me.

"I went to paralegal school for a while," I explained.

"You did?" she asked, eyebrows raised.

"Among other things." I wanted to tease her again about not knowing my life as well as she thought, but now wasn't the time.

"More's the pity," John McGill boomed. "I can't find the right fit. I just need someone to type up my notes. I hate these newfangled computers. But enough about that."

I tried not to let my gaze drop below his chest. The spandex left little to the imagination. "Have you been riding long?"

"Twenty years. I had a heart attack at fifty and made some changes. Now remind me of your name again, young lady," he said to me.

I sat in a worn leather chair. "It's Lucy Valentine, but I'm becoming partial to 'young lady.' "

He laughed and sat in a massive swivel chair behind his desk. The wall behind him housed floor-to-ceiling windows, but the inside wall was crammed with overflowing bookshelves. "Young lady it is, then. And you?" he asked Preston.

She introduced herself and pulled out a business card.

"The
Beacon
?" he said, squinting at the small text. "Never heard of it."

Preston groaned and sank back in her chair.

"We're here about Joanne Winston," I said. "You handled David's estate when he passed. I'm hoping you might have some information about his mother."

He steepled his fingers. "I was the Winston family attorney for years. What do you wish to know?"

"Anything, everything. Is she even alive?"

"I've not heard otherwise, and I think I would. News as such would travel quickly in this town. Charles and Joanne were mainstays, you see. Lived here for nigh on forty years, but moved on to Florida over a decade ago to take advantage of year-round warmer climes in hopes the various ailments plaguing Charles would benefit from the change. Unfortunately he died not long after the move. Joanne decided to remain in Florida, an address in ..." He squinted one eye closed. "Lakeland. We had several conversations after David died, but nothing lately."

Sean had tracked Joanne to the Lakeland address. From there she had disappeared.

"Did she remarry after Charles died?"

"Not that I know. May I ask why you're looking for her?"

"Just trying to help someone track down an old friend."

"I see, I see. Have you tried contacting her daughter?"

I frowned. "Her daughter? I thought she and Charles only had one child. David."

"True, but Joanne had a little girl when she met Charles." He did the eye squint again. "Lea is her name. Her father died in World War II. Charles wanted to adopt Lea, but Joanne was adamant that Lea always carry her father's name."

Chills danced down my spine, swept up my arms, raising bumps along the way.

Preston found her voice first. "Do you happen to remember Lea's last name?"

More squinting. "Everly? Everson?"

"Epperson?" I asked.

He snapped his fingers. "Yes, that's it. Do you know her?"

"No," I said. "But I know her father."

Once we were back in the car, I called Leo. His home phone rang and rang with no answer and no voice mail.

"This is big," Preston said. "Bigger than big. Enormous. This could launch my career."

I frowned at her.

"What now?"

"This isn't about you. It's about Leo. He has a daughter."

"I know!" she squealed. "And it's going to make me famous."

I rolled my eyes.

"I think I'll turn down the
Herald
when they offer me a job. Hold out for something better. The
Globe,
the
New York Times
."