Читать книгу In His Wife's Name - Joyce Sullivan - Страница 15

Shannon was deeply relieved when Luke’s references all checked out. Even though the southern Okanagan wasn’t exactly teeming with crime, it had been risky to allow a stranger to change her truck’s flat tire. Even riskier to offer him a job out of the blue. But she’d taken all the right precautions by not giving Luke her phone number or home address until after she’d verified his references. She just hoped he would work out until she could find a more permanent replacement.

Luke’s brother-in-law hadn’t sounded pleased that Luke was taking on a part-time job. But the two clients who’d returned her calls last night had raved about his reliability and his finish work.

And Luke had been willing to start this morning. Surely it was the prospect of getting some work done this afternoon that made her heart race with anticipation when she heard his sedan pull into her drive right on time, wasn’t it?

LUKE SHOWED UP for his first day on the job determined to make substantial headway into solving the mystery of Mary Calder. Yesterday after he’d made arrangements for his phony references, he’d checked her phone number and discovered she only had a business line listed under her company’s name, not a residential one under her own name. Then he’d spent a half hour combing the listings for Calder in the phone book for Blossom Valley and the nearby towns, but none of the three Calders he’d dialed had acknowledged being related to Mary. However, one elderly gent had offered the information that Luke wasn’t the only one who’d called seeking a woman by the same name.

Luke eyed dispassionately the tidy white cottage with crisp blue trim on the porch rails and the gray weatherbeaten detached garage, which were set back in a stand of trees. Two oak-barrel halves overflowing with salmon geraniums and mounds of white flowers marked the beginning of a stepping-stone path that wended its way to the cottage’s front door. A patchy lawn, bare in spots, stretched down to the cattail-fringed shore of Kettle Lake.

Luke felt his body tense as he climbed out of the sedan. Somehow the prospect of seeing Mary again made him feel as if he was entering a war zone populated with more enemy troops than allies.

Mary emerged from the cottage as he reached the stone path. “Hi, Luke!” she called out. The welcoming sunny warmth of her smile hit him like a sharp blow to the ribs. Without the thirty pounds of equipment and body armor he usually wore while on duty, Luke felt exposed and vulnerable to the emotional rounds her every look and gesture seemed to inflict on him.

With her flaxen hair glinting in the sunlight and her lighthearted step, Mary looked the picture of innocence in blue-and-white candy-striped overall shorts and a white tank top. She wore red running shoes painted with black dabs that made each foot look like a wedge of watermelon, and white cotton socks edged with blue hand-crocheted lace. Luke dredged up a smile and tucked his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans. A massive weight settled in his stomach as if he’d swallowed rocks for breakfast. Nothing was more important to him than finding out who had murdered his wife. “Hi yourself,” he replied. “Nice day, isn’t it?”

“It’s beautiful. I just put Samantha down in her crib for her nap. If we’re lucky she’ll go to sleep, and I can give you an uninterrupted tour of my workshop. It’s out here in the garage….”

She was babbling. Was he making her nervous? Or was she worried about the baby? Or the threat against her life yesterday? Luke noticed she carried a portable baby monitor in her hand. He fell into step beside her and tried to act casual as she led him to the detached garage. But he felt more awkward than an adolescent on a first date. Fortunately Mary was doing enough talking to carry both sides of the conversation.

She paused to unlock the door and flick on the overhead fluorescent lights. “I’m warning you, my workshop is small, but functional.”

She wasn’t exaggerating. Luke examined the collection of power tools she had skillfully crammed into the one-car garage, which was little more than a shack constructed of decaying cedar siding. At least it had a window, albeit a small one, to bring in some light and ventilation.

It wasn’t every day he met a woman who knew a jigsaw from a scroll saw, much less wasn’t afraid of the whine or the ten-inch gleaming blade of a miter saw. Luke was frankly impressed that this Mary Calder seemed totally in her element, ankle-deep in sawdust. His wife had always tiptoed into his workshop as if getting sawdust on her three-hundred-dollar shoes and tracking sawdust into the other parts of the house were indictable offenses.

But why would someone want to hurt this Mary?

Luke detected an unmistakable wariness in her hazel eyes as she spoke to him, the same wariness he’d glimpsed fleetingly yesterday. It was the same hunted look perps wore when he questioned them on the street. Gut instinct told him there was something lurking here behind Mary’s bright smiles. He hoped, with time, that he could convince her to share her fears. Meanwhile, he’d provide protection for her and her daughter. Not that he was armed. Only federal police officers could transport firearms from one province to another.

As she opened a cupboard to show him where she stored her reversible electrical drill and bits, Luke could hear via the monitor Samantha noisily sucking on a bottle.

“Are these your husband’s tools?” he asked mildly. He had noted the absence of a wedding band yesterday when he was changing the truck’s tire.

She looked startled. “No. They’re all mine. I took up crafting after Samantha’s father died.”

“I’m sorry.”

She waved away his sympathy with a flustered smile, setting the baby monitor on the workbench beside a plastic file box filled with manila files. She pulled some patterns from two of the files. “Basically I’ve got forty-plus designs in my Garden Patch collection that I sell to retailers in the area. About half my designs are seasonal items. My busiest periods are Christmas, Halloween and Easter, though business is brisk in the summer with the tourists. The files here contain all the patterns you’ll be using. The patterns clearly indicate how many pieces must be cut per finished item. And I usually make a note on the inside of the file folder how many pieces can be cut from a particular dimension of lumber.” She pointed to a pile of lumber stacked on a couple of sawhorses. “These pine one-by-eights are for a rush order of letter boxes and welcome signs.” She laid the patterns out on two of the planks, her quick fingers minutely adjusting the placement of each pattern piece. “I’ll need a dozen signs and eight letter boxes as soon as possible.”

Luke slid his hand over the surface of the raw wood and tried not to be so aware of the scent of this woman, like an exotic hothouse flower, mingling with the aroma of the sawdust and the cedar shingles as she positioned a pattern piece along the grain of the wood. He’d hung up his toolbelt and sold the house when Mary had died, afraid that he might destroy, rather than create, in his grief. Finishing the house would have been a constant reminder of all that he’d lost. The condo he lived in now, with its neutral color scheme and barren walls, was blessedly free of memories of Mary. Someday Luke thought he might hang pictures on the walls and empty some of the boxes that filled the spare bedroom. “I think I can handle that.”

She nodded approvingly. “You’ll find sandpaper in a plastic bin beneath the workbench. I’d like the pieces sanded and ready for finishing. I do most of the painting in the house.” She paused awkwardly, her face blanching beneath the smattering of freckles. “You’re welcome to come inside to use the facilities, have a coffee. I always keep a pot on. Since we’re a ways out of town, you might want to bring a lunch and keep it in the refrigerator.”

“Thank you.”

Shannon hoped she was doing a good job of hiding her nervousness. Even though she’d checked Luke’s references and knew he was who and what he purported himself to be, warning twinges ignited inside her like firecrackers when they’d stepped into the garage. He was so male. So tall. And those competent blunt-tipped fingers had seemed so large as he’d stroked her tools.

Shannon told herself she was being ridiculous. She couldn’t live in fear of every man who entered her life.

Her ex-husband had robbed her of too much already. She wasn’t going to give him the power to make her distrust Luke. It was perfectly reasonable to allow Luke inside the garage and access to her home to use the washroom.

She tilted her head and caught his unwavering gray-blue gaze. “Are you going to be staying at the Orchard Inn in Oliver for the time being? I’d like to know where I can reach you. Sometimes no matter how hard I try to keep to a schedule, something happens to throw me off.”

“Are there any motels in Blossom Valley? That would save me some driving time.”

“There’s one motel outside of town, though it’s usually full this time of year because it’s on the highway. It might be more affordable for you to rent a place by the week. I can guarantee you steady part-time work for the next two weeks—it’ll take me at least that long to find someone permanent. You can ask at the tourist-info center in town for a list of local rentals, or you might try asking Bill Oakes. I rent this place from him. He owns the blue house with the butterflies as you turned onto Shady Pines Road. Prices are reasonable because it’s not on one of the more popular lakes. The cottages along this road belong to his family, most of whom have moved to other parts of Canada. They don’t want to sell, it seems, so Bill rents them out and calls the place Shady Pines Resort.”

Those blue-gray eyes regarded her thoughtfully. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. I take it you’re not from around here, either? Your accent sounds more Eastern.”

Shannon blinked. “Who me? No I—”

A cry pierced the air in the garage, followed by a thump and a plaintive wail.

Shannon gave Luke an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Luke, I have to go.” Before he could say a word, Shannon hightailed it out of the garage.

Luke stared after Mary, his mind churning with speculation. She’d been frustratingly evasive when it came to answering personal questions. Was she truly a widow or was she lying?

He’d bet coffee and a doughnut she was lying. Had the person who’d slit her tire been an ex-spouse angered over a custodial dispute? Or was there more to it than that? Had she taken her daughter without the father’s consent? That might explain why she’d stolen another woman’s identity, if she had. But Luke had no proof that this Mary Calder wasn’t whom she claimed—only unscientific hunches.

Luke studied the pattern pieces she’d arranged on the pine board, then rearranged them to make a better fit. Somehow he’d make all the pieces of this case fit together, one at a time.

When, suddenly he heard Mary’s voice in the garage, speaking in soothing tones to the baby, Luke realized she had forgotten to take the baby monitor with her. “Oh, Samantha, come here, baby,” she crooned. “It’s okay. Everything’s all right. Mommy’s going to take care of you. Always.”

Was it Luke’s imagination or did he detect an air of desperation in her voice?

SHANNON WAS IMPRESSED when Luke brought her a stack of the finished wood for the welcome signs at the end of the afternoon.

“This ought to get you started,” he said with a gruff smile that made her chest feel strangely tight as she opened the screen door to him. “I’ll do the letter boxes tomorrow.” His face was beaded with a fine film of perspiration, and his clothes were speckled with sawdust. And he looked sexier than a pinup boy in a tuxedo. Raw and elemental.

Shannon took a firm grip of her hormones and reached down to scoop up Samantha, who was chewing on a biscuit. She’d had a productive afternoon. She’d painted two-dozen crow plant pokes. Tonight she could start on the welcome signs. “You look hot, Luke. Could I offer you a cold drink? Iced tea? Soda?”

“Water will be fine, thank you.”

Shannon motioned toward her worktable. “You can put the signs there and have a seat at the counter. Feel free to wash your hands at the sink if you like.”

He nodded wordlessly. As he stepped into her cottage, what she had always considered an airy space seemed to shrink enough to barely encompass his shoulders. Shannon fought the ripples of panic swelling in her.

Forcing a bright smile, she marched to the refrigerator and yanked open the door, reaching inside for a pitcher of water. One-handed, she poured him a drink and circled to the other side of the counter before presenting it to him. She felt safer with the width of the counter between them. But as he sat down across from her and she met his gaze, she could have sworn he understood her actions. Shame seared her. Was she that transparent?

Luke noted Mary’s uneasiness and the emotions shifting in her eyes, as well as the pink tide of color that rose from her neck and seeped into her cheeks before she turned away from him to examine his work. With her head lowered and her body pressed against the table as she held her daughter protectively on her hip, she reminded him of a hunted animal burrowing into its surroundings to escape the notice of a passing predator.

Compassion squeezed his heart. Just what or who was she running from?

He took a sip of water and let his gaze travel around the room. It exuded the whimsical touches of Mary’s creativity. Wreaths, bouquets of dried flowers and dozens of decorative hand-painted crafts dangled from pegs. Pegged racks painted a country blue were mounted at eye level on the pine-paneled walls. On one wall a narrow shelf was installed above the rack and held an assembly line of crafts in various stages of completion. Pencils, markers and brushes were carefully arranged in glass canning jars on the cottage’s dining table—an antique harvest table waxed to a soft mellow gleam—that obviously served as her worktable. A pine cupboard wedged into a corner held small plastic bottles of acrylic paint and cans of stain and varnish.

On the other side of the table was a playpen filled with stuffed toys and activity sets. He couldn’t see any photos of family and friends. No deceased husband. Like him, had she put the photos away because the memories they evoked were too painful? The room perfectly summed up what he already knew of Mary’s life: work, motherhood and a blank past.

He watched her run a finger along the sanded edge of a sign. “These look great, Luke,” she said, glancing back at him over her shoulder. “Expertly cut. Perfectly sanded. I’ll be begging you to stay on permanently if you keep this up.”

Luke was oddly pleased by her compliment. It had felt good to see the shapes emerge from the wood. “Thanks, but don’t get your hopes up. We both agreed this was temporary. I took the liberty of looking at some of the other patterns. I like your designs. How long have you been doing this?”

She shrugged. “Oh, I’ve been designing and painting things for years. I finally decided to be brave and turn my hobby into a job.”

Her breezy reply was characteristically vague. Luke dug in his heels, determined to peel back a layer or two. “I admire your initiative. It must not be easy running a business and being a single mom.”

He saw the muscles in the arm that circled her daughter tighten perceptibly. Still hovering over the worktable, she plucked a paintbrush from a jar, examined the bristles as if checking to make sure it was clean, then tucked it back into the jar. “It hasn’t been easy,” she admitted faintly, her back still to him. “When I was a teenager complaining about homework and studying, my mother used to tell me that if it wasn’t hard, then it wasn’t worth doing.” She turned toward him fully, her eyes glowing with steely determination. “I didn’t understand what she meant until I started this business. Now I’m glad my mother made me pay attention to algebra and geometry.”

Luke laughed dryly. Samantha stopping chewing on her biscuit at the deep unfamiliar sound and looked at him in sudden interest, her delicate bow-shaped brows lifting as if questioning what her mother was doing conversing with this strange man in their home. Luke gave her an amused grin.

“She’s a cutie. How old is she?”

“Almost ten months.”

“She’s walking early. My brother’s kids were closer to a year old when they started walking. His son could crawl up bookcases and cabinets.”

“Thankfully Samantha isn’t that adventurous. She never quite got the hang of crawling, but I think her natural curiosity to touch things out of her arm’s reach propelled her into standing, then walking. She loves brightly colored objects, especially flowers. Right, baby?”

Eyes gleaming, Samantha gave her mother and Luke a coquettish smile.

Luke laughed. “I’ll bet she just likes mischief. With a smile like that, she’s going to break a lot of hearts when she hits high school,” he predicted.

“You think?” Mary laughed and playfully dabbed at a splotch of drool on her daughter’s chin. “I hope she has more teeth by the time she hits high school.”

Luke took a stab at shifting the conversation to the more personal. “Did you go to high school here in Blossom Valley? Place doesn’t look big enough to have a high school.”

“There’s a high school in one of the nearby towns.”

Luke kept his smile steady despite the way she’d sidestepped his question. Again. “I’ll bet you got all A’s in art class. Is that where you learned to paint—in high school? Or did you major in art at university?”

“Actually I taught myself to paint from books and magazines, then took a few craft classes. I was an administrative assistant before I decided to turn my hobby into a business. I have to say I much prefer being my own boss to being someone else’s gofer.”

“What kind of company did you work for?”

“The government,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand as if all government offices were the same. “It gave me a whole new perspective on office politics. Though I miss the regular paycheck. That’s one thing you might want to keep in mind if you’re going into business for yourself,” she said pointedly.

“There’s that,” he agreed. “I guess I’d miss my soon-to-be ex-brother-in-law and the rest of his crew. It must be isolating working for yourself.” Luke took a sip of water, deliberately waiting to see if Mary picked up the thread and carried the conversation. Perhaps mention the department where she’d worked or the names of co-workers she missed or still kept in touch with. Anything that might help him confirm her identity.

Usually if you waited long enough, people felt obligated to fill silences.

And Luke was vitally aware that this Mary might have the answers that would fill the yawning silence in his heart. His gaze settled on her expectantly.

She moistened her lips. “I’m too busy to feel isolated. Taking care of Samantha and keeping up with orders keeps me on my toes. Speaking of orders, what hours are you available tomorrow?” she asked, rocking the baby on her hip. Dropping her gaze, she pulled a pencil from a jar, her expression all business as she examined the day planner open on the table.

She’d changed the subject so effectively Luke realized he couldn’t push the topic any further today without raising her suspicions. But while he might have surrendered this minor skirmish, he wasn’t going to lose the war. As Mary penciled in a four-hour shift on the calendar for the next day, he promised himself that someday soon, whether she liked it or not, he’d be downright intimate with her personal history.

BILL OAKES WAS HOME when Luke rang the bell beneath the faded sign reading Shady Pines Resort, Management. He was an elderly man with humped shoulders, elfin ears and a cheek-splitting grin that declared life still agreed with him. Or else he was showing off thousands of dollars worth of dentures, Luke mused.

The resort caretaker’s shrewd brown eyes assessed Luke as he explained his desire to rent a cottage for two weeks and gave Mary Calder’s name as a reference. “She’s hired me to do some woodworking for her.”

Bill Oakes nodded. “Mary’s a nice girl. She re-painted my butterflies for me.” He gestured at five vibrantly painted wooden butterflies that looked as if they had just alighted on the blue siding of his residence. “My wife—God rest her soul—bought those for the cottage years ago. They were looking faded. I’m not good with paints and such, but Mary offered to do them for me. Didn’t charge me a cent.”

“She did a wonderful job,” Luke said. “Has she been your tenant long?”

“Oh, let’s see…A year ago last April. It was right after her husband died. She needed a change, what with the baby coming and all.”

Luke quickly computed the dates. Mary had been murdered in March of that year, on St. Patrick’s Day. “Yes, she mentioned he’d died and that she wasn’t from this area originally,” he murmured conversationally, grateful that Mary had suggested there might be a cottage available for rent at the resort. Renting here could provide him with additional opportunities to find out more about the woman with his wife’s name.

“She’s got a mother and an aunt in the East, I believe,” Bill Oakes said, withdrawing a ring of keys from his pocket. “Now I do have a couple of cottages available for weekly or monthly arrangements. One’s a lot nicer than the other. Come on, I’ll give you a tour. We’ve got our own private beach.”

Luke waited for Bill Oakes to lock the front door, then walked with the elderly gentleman along a series of paths that wound from one lot to the next. Glimpses of Kettle Lake were visible through the trees, diamonds of sunlight dancing across its blue waters. Regaling Luke with tales of his six siblings, their children and grandchildren, Bill Oakes extolled the virtues of Shady Pine’s sandy beach, then showed him the two available cottages.

Luke chose the smaller of the cottages, a drab decaying structure that boasted one bedroom the size of a janitor’s closet and indoor plumbing. The furnishings smelled musty and damp, but it was a two-minute walk to Mary’s cottage. And Bill didn’t have any objection to his moving in that evening.

On his way to the motel to grab his luggage, Luke mulled over the two kernels of information that Oakes had given him about Mary: she might originally be from the East, and she’d arrived in Blossom Valley a couple of weeks after his wife’s murder. It wasn’t much to work with, but combined with Mary’s vagueness about her history and her coincidental resemblance to his wife, it opened the door wide to the possibility that there might be some connection between this woman and his wife’s murder.

Luke’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel as the unease that had lingered in his belly all day like an undigested meal rose sharply in his throat. Despite the steady wave of cool air blasting from the air conditioner, Luke broke out in a cold sweat. He’d arrested people from all walks of life and knew that almost anyone given enough motivation was capable of committing the most heinous of crimes. But the thought that this Mary Calder had been involved in such a brutal act sickened him. Slamming on the brakes, he pulled off the road and bounced onto the grassy shoulder of a peach orchard. A bell pinged repeatedly, reminding him he’d left his keys in the ignition as he climbed out of his rental car. He needed fresh air.

He gulped in two ragged breaths, then doubled over and vomited onto the freshly mown grass.

THE PHONE RANG at ten-thirty in the evening just as Mary was washing her paintbrushes. She’d finished the fine-detail work on the plant pokes and gotten a head start on the signs, but she was too tired to do more tonight. She quickly dried her hands on a paper towel and reached for the phone. Who could be calling her at this hour? Her mother and Aunt Jayne were in Halifax—in a time zone three hours ahead. And they always called from pay phones so Shannon’s number couldn’t show up on a phone bill.

Could it possibly be Luke Mathews calling to say he’d be late tomorrow or had changed his mind about working for her because she’d been such an idiot today?

Why did that thought make her experience a sharp pang of disappointment?

Because ever since she’d walked out on her marriage to Rob, she hadn’t allowed herself to look twice at a handsome man, much less enjoy the simple pleasure of conversation. She’d been too focused on running and being safe. Even the eight months Rob had spent in prison after she’d pressed stalking charges against him, she’d been afraid to make new friends, afraid to share information about herself, worried that she might inadvertently give away her location or her new place of employment…and Rob would somehow find her again.

Even though she had Samantha, having Luke here today had made her painfully aware of how starved she was for friendship and adult company.

The phone rang again.

“Hello?” she said softly, breathlessly, into the receiver, her pulse spiking as an image of Luke, dusty and virile, unfolded in her mind.

Silence met her greeting. But the line hadn’t gone dead. She could hear sounds in the background: the unmistakable clinking of cutlery.

“Hello,” she repeated patiently, feeling the roots of fear sink deep into her chest and twine around her heart. “Who’s calling? What number are you trying to reach?”

The caller didn’t respond. But she could still hear the noises.

Shannon hung up slowly, telling herself it was probably a wrong number, someone who’d misdialed and been confused by the sound of an unfamiliar voice. It couldn’t possibly be Rob this time—even though it was the third wrong number she’d received this week. She shook her head firmly, ticking off on her fingers all the logical reasons it couldn’t possibly be Rob. She’d taken all kinds of precautions—to the point of cutting off all contact with friends. Aunt Jayne and her mother didn’t even have her new name or phone number written down out of fear the information might somehow end up in Rob’s hands. They’d kept news of Samantha’s birth private and didn’t even keep photos of Samantha and Shannon at home. Instead, Shannon mailed them to a post-office box belonging to an acquaintance of her mother’s—a bridge partner—who kept them in her home, no questions asked, so her mother could see them at her weekly bridge games. Shannon never included a return address, and the acquaintance had no idea of Shannon’s new identity. She and Samantha were safe here.

Still, tonight’s phone call disturbed Shannon.

Enough to keep her awake into the early hours of the morning.