Don't Take Any Wooden Nickels (24 page)

“I understand.”

Kirby nodded and then started the car. My hands were frozen solid, and I held them up to the heater vents as soon as he turned them on.

“Here, let me help you,” he said. He reached over and took one of my hands between both of his. He rubbed his hands together, creating heat that radiated through my hand and even up my arm. It felt wonderful, and after a moment I switched hands and let him do the other one. When he was finished, I realized he was looking at my face, almost expectantly, still holding onto my hand.

We were close together, and suddenly it dawned on me that he was going to try to kiss me. I turned away and pulled my hand back, glad he couldn’t see in the darkness that my face suddenly burned bright red.

“You’re such an enigma,” he said softly. He reached out a tentative hand and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. Then he gently placed his fingers on the back of my neck, as if to pull me to him. My skin pulsed where he touched it.

“I’m a widow, Kirby,” I said softly, not moving, not looking at him. “Lots of baggage. I think we’d do best to keep this on a purely friendly level.”

My statement hung out there for a moment, and then he finally took his hand away and put the car in gear.

“Sure, whatever,” he replied.

He turned the car around on the deserted road and silently sped off toward town.

Twenty-Six

The uncomfortable silence between us lasted almost all the way to Osprey Cove. But as we neared the bypass, Kirby turned to me and finally spoke.

“I’m a jerk,” he said. “Can I take you to dinner by way of apology?”

“What’s to apologize for?” I asked. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“No, but for the last hour I’ve been acting like a petulant child. All you did was turn me down. It’s not like you deserve the silent treatment.”

“That’s all right, Kirby. I’m not exactly swift at these male-female things anyway.”

“So, dinner? My treat, but friend to friend, of course.”

I chewed my lip.

“Sure. Why not?” I said finally. “I…I’m starving, actually.”

He took the road for Osprey Cove and steered through the congested streets toward the Harbor View Manor, a gorgeous, expensive restaurant situated on pilings out over the water. I had never eaten there, but I’d heard the food was the best in town.

“Shouldn’t we go somewhere a little more casual?” I asked. “We’re dressed for trooping around in the woods, not dining at the Harbor View Manor.”

Kirby laughed and continued up the ramp toward valet parking.

“I’ll give you a hint about how the very rich operate around here,” he said. “In Osprey Cove, the only people who get dressed up are the tourists.”

He came to a stop at the door of the restaurant and a red-jacketed young man appeared at my side almost instantly. We got out, and I noticed Kirby slipped the kid a twenty in exchange for his claim ticket.

“Evening, Tommy,” Kirby said.

“How are you tonight, Mr. Collins?”

“Fine, just fine.”

Kirby took my elbow and steered me into the restaurant. Despite a queue of people waiting in the lobby, we were whisked past all of them almost instantly and taken to a beautiful table for two right next to the window. As I sat and oriented myself with the restaurant and the gorgeous view of the harbor, Kirby chatted amiably with the maître d’. It was apparent to me that he must come here all of the time, a thought I found disturbing when I saw the prices on the menu. The least expensive entrée, a scallops-pasta dish, was $75! Prices went up from there, with several items costing in the three-figure range. Unbelievable.

“I hate to sound arrogant,” Kirby said after the waiter had taken our order and removed the menus, “but women do not often turn me down. That’s why I reacted like I did. I think mostly I was just surprised.”

I took a sip of water and looked out at the white twinkly lights sparkling in the trees along the water.

“That’s not arrogance, just realism. You’re handsome, rich, and charming,” I said. “I’m sure you can take your pick of women.”

“But not you.”

I met his eyes.

“It has nothing to do with you, Kirby,” I said. “It’s me. I don’t date. Ever.”

“Isn’t that lonely for you?”

I thought about that. His question wasn’t rude, just honest. I smiled, wondering how to explain.

“I have my faith to sustain me,” I said.

“That’s a crock.”

“You think my faith is a crock?” I asked incredulously.

“No, your faith is admirable. But the notion that God alone can fulfill the need for companionship? Sounds like an easy excuse to me.”

“I like my life as it is. I’m sorry if you can’t understand that.”

I knew I sounded defensive. But it seemed as though
everyone
was questioning my solitude these days.

Maybe, just a little, I was questioning it as well.

Our salads arrived, breaking the tension. Kirby waited until the server finished twisting pepper onto our plates before he graciously changed the subject.

“So tell me about this J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation you work for. What do you do there, exactly?”

This was safe conversational terrain, and I gladly launched into an explanation of what I did and how it worked. Kirby seemed genuinely fascinated by the whole process, and he asked me a number of insightful and probing questions. I had fun sharing some of the more interesting tales of my investigations. Careful not to name specific people or organizations, of course, I told him about some of the good and the bad, the selflessness and the scams.

“And you mean to tell me that this guy Tom simply gives his money away? He just
gives
it away?”

“That’s what philanthropy is, Kirby.”

“Yeah, but to that extent? Incredible!”

We easily talked our way through dinner. The food was, indeed, the best I’d had since moving here. Kirby had ordered lobster, and I feasted on a broiled shrimp dish that was out of this world. By the time they rolled around the dessert cart, we were both too stuffed to take another bite.

“We’ll just have some coffee, please,” Kirby said to the waiter, looking to me for confirmation. I nodded.

“Decaf for me,” I said.

The waiter left and we were quiet for a moment. I felt tired but strangely happy. The peaceful ambience of this lovely place was working its magic on me.

“I had a great day,” Kirby said, smiling.

“Thanks for your help,” I replied. “I’m sorry we didn’t make any real progress on the investigation, but at least we can rule out the GPS connection.”

“That’s how investigating works, isn’t it?” he asked. “By process of elimination?”

“Exactly. One by one, we take away what isn’t relevant until we’re left with what is.”

Twenty-Seven

I arrived home at 8:30 to find a number of messages on my machine. The first was Denise Hightower, the hairdresser, calling to check on me after all that had happened with Shayna.

“I can’t believe what you had to go through, seeing a dead body and all that,” she said. “Barbara told me you used to be a private investigator, but that still had to be hard to take.” She left her phone number, inviting me to give her a call if I needed someone to talk to or maybe go jogging with sometime.

The next message was from Denise’s sister, Barbara Hightower, the cop. Her tone was much less warm and friendly.

“Callie, this is Barbara Hightower,” the message said brusquely. “Looks like you worked things out with Shayna’s attorney, because I know you’re handling this case. I just wanted to give you a little word of advice. Call me.”

I leaned against the counter, curious, and dialed the number she had left after the message. She answered on the second ring, sounding tired and a bit subdued.

“Hey, Callie,” she said. “How’s it going?”

“Coming along,” I replied. “I’m wondering what your message was about. You have some advice for me?”

“Yeah,” she said, “no offense, but you need to tread carefully where the authorities are concerned. Make sure you don’t get in their way.”

I reached back to let down my chignon, the bobby pins clicking softly in my hand.

“What do you mean?”

“Just watch yourself,” she said. “If you interfere with this investigation, people might start getting mad.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“Not really,” she said. “But I went out to Russell Lynch’s farm today with Litman. He was a little concerned when Russell told him you had already been there asking the same exact questions we were asking.”

I thought of Litman and his unfriendly manner when we first met. He definitely seemed like the type you don’t want to cross.

“Hey, I’m just trying to help out a friend,” I said.

“That friend is a cold-blooded killer,” she replied.

My heart sank. If Barbara was now convinced Shayna was guilty, what hope did the poor girl have? Once the cops had their man—or woman, as the case may be—they often developed a sort of tunnel vision that blocked many other significant details from their view.

Still, I knew it would be a waste of time to try and convince Barbara of Shayna’s innocence at this point. I thanked her for her “advice,” hung up, and then listened to the rest of the messages.

They were from some of the charity directors I had tried to contact yesterday regarding references for CNA. Though it was too late to call most of them back tonight, I realized that the ones on the West Coast might still be at work. There was a three-hour time difference, after all. I called them back one by one and received testimonials praising CNA to the skies.

“I have nothing but great things to say about CNA,” a woman from Seattle told me when I got her on the phone, echoing sentiments I had already heard from three other agencies. “When they came in and helped me expand, it was like a dream come true.”

“They helped you expand?” I asked, thinking of Verlene and the soon-to-be-empty store next door to Advancing Attire.

“Oh, yes,” she effused. “By joining with them, I went from three hundred square feet to nearly two thousand. Now, granted, we’re not exactly in the high-rent district, but still. I couldn’t be happier.”

“Have you ever been to their headquarters in Cleveland?” I asked.

“No, I haven’t,” she said. “Haven’t needed to, really. We had a few meetings and training sessions at first, but they always came out here to us, not the other way around.”

I grabbed a pencil and paper and wrote myself a note:
Meetings and trainings on site.

“Are you handled by the Small Agencies Division?” I asked, remembering the woman who said she’d had a personality conflict
with the representative from that division. “Do you get along with the director?”

“Yes,” she said. “Our rep is just the greatest lady, a real take-charge kind of gal.”

“How about fund-raising?” I asked, thinking of the man in Houston who did his own fund-raising with monthly barbecues. My fifth criteria for judging a nonprofit was that they follow “standards of responsible and ethical fund-raising.” That was often where the credentials of some otherwise-respectable agencies began to fall apart.

“That’s the best part,” she said. “Since we joined up with CNA last year, we haven’t had to do a single fund-raising event. I haven’t had to bother with any of those tedious grant applications, either.”

I smiled to myself, thinking that our J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation grant applications were so long and involved, they were probably among the most tedious of all.

“Where does your funding coming from?” I asked.

“Oh, donors, of course. CNA found a couple of local businesses that send them a big check every month on our behalf. It’s amazing.”

I doodled on the pad next to my note, absently penciling little question marks around a dollar sign.

“How many businesses support you, if I may ask?”

“Three.”

“Three? Those must be pretty big checks! What’s the size of your budget?”

She hesitated, obviously wondering if she should be sharing this kind of information with a total stranger.

“Well, I suppose I can tell you,” she said finally. “It’s not like you can’t go look us up on Guidestar.”