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

“Sorry I couldn’t get back to you yesterday on the license plate. I was working on another unsolved murder,” Detective Vaughn told Luke over the phone the next morning. His voice was brisk and merciless, like a wire brush scraping rusted metal. Luke heard the sounds of papers being leafed through in a file. “The truck is registered to Mary Tatiana Calder.”

Luke grunted a noncommittal response. Hearing his wife’s middle name spoken out loud by another human being rankled. It seemed a violation of the trust his wife had had in him. A secret only the two of them had shared. But there were no secrets from the police.

And this Mary Calder would have no secrets from him.

Luke brought the detective up to speed about the change in his accommodations and his interview with Bill Oakes. “He told me the suspect has been renting since a year ago last April—two weeks after Mary died. She told him her husband was dead, which is the same line she gave me.”

Vaughn was silent a moment. “You think there’s a custody issue involved?”

“Possibly. It makes the most sense to me. I didn’t see any pictures of a man when I was in the house. I checked the garage for boxes of personal belongings, but no dice.”

“So maybe the husband slit the tire?” Vaughn suggested. Luke could almost hear the gears churning in the detective’s head. “That puts an interesting spin on the situation. You got a name for the husband?”

“No, not even a first name. But then, she’s evasive whenever I ask personal questions. My gut feeling is she’s running from something.”

“Or someone. Think you can get her prints? We might be able to identify her. Stands to reason that if she was involved in Mary’s murder or is the type to buy stolen ID, she may have been in trouble with the law before. She might have a record.”

“I’ll get them,” Luke promised.

Vaughn instructed him to keep in touch and hung up.

Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, with the small cell phone tucked into his pocket, Luke took the dirt path by the lake in the direction of Mary’s cottage. She wasn’t expecting him for another half hour, but he figured he could get the lay of the land and keep a vigilant eye on her cottage at the same time. The person who’d slit her tire might be keeping close tabs on her. And Luke didn’t want anything to happen to Mary and her daughter. Mary was the key to the answers he needed.

Voices drifted over to him from the other cottages. But the only person he encountered on the path was a sullen-faced teen in a black tank top and baggy swimming trunks that hung past his knees. The kid had bleached his dark hair to an electrifying hue and had affixed a row of silver studs to his right earlobe. Luke wondered if he’d ever looked that sullen as a teen.

Mary and Samantha were outside when he arrived. Samantha was sitting in a small sandbox with brightly colored toys while Mary was seated in a blue Adirondack chair that someone—Mary herself?—had turned into a work of art with hand-painted renderings of garden spades, hoes and seed packets. A mug of coffee sat on the wooden arm of the chair and a pencil and sketchbook were in her lap.

“Good morning, Luke, you’re right on time.” Mary’s welcoming smile was so cheerful and beguiling it stirred a response from his body that was far too vigorous for his comfort. She was dressed in a pair of sky-blue shorts this morning, with a matching blouse.

He averted his gaze from the devastating eyeful of tanned silky arms and legs as a razor-sharp sliver of guilt pricked his heart. “Of course I’m on time. Believe it or not, I know a number of contractors and subcontractors who actually show up at the time they promise.”

Mary laughed doubtfully.

Telling himself that he wasn’t attracted to her but to her passing resemblance to his Mary, didn’t help. It only made him feel more unsure. The truth was he didn’t want to feel anything for this Mary and her daughter. He was here to seek justice for his wife, nothing more, nothing less. He needed closure and peace to free himself from the limbo of his existence. Then maybe he could get on with his life.

Samantha gave a whimper of frustration as she tried to turn over a mold filled with sand. Luke hunkered down beside her so he could see her face beneath the brim of her pink sun hat and smiled at the unidentifiable clumps of sand she’d created in the sandbox. Judging by the forms she was playing with, they were supposed to be animal shapes. “I see you’re quite the designer, kid, following in your mother’s footsteps. Want some help making that turtle?”

Samantha sweetly handed him another shovel, those big smoky brown eyes of hers a trap in themselves. Luke helped her fill the plastic turtle mold with sand, then flipped it over. The turtle held its shape. Samantha clapped her hands as he added two tiny pinecone eyes. “There you go, kid.”

An unbearable ache wedged just below his heart, widening into a chasm of pain deep enough to drown in. It took every ounce of his willpower not to let himself think about what kind of father he might have been if he and his wife had had a baby. He’d been eagerly doing his duty to get her pregnant in the weeks before her death.

The Adirondack chair creaked behind him, and Mary’s voice, rich with motherly indulgence, encircled him in a bubble of intimacy that touched the emptiness inside him. “Oops, what are you going to do with that pinecone, Samantha?” she said as her daughter pinched another pinecone between her thumb and forefinger and ever so carefully placed it off-center on the turtle’s head for a nose.

“Nice touch, Samantha,” he praised her, patting her back awkwardly. “Every turtle needs a nose. It helps them find lunch.” Samantha giggled as Luke rose and brushed his hands on his jeans.

He risked taking another look at Mary and tried not to think about all those seemingly insignificant yet cherished moments he’d spent with his wife. The Saturday-morning French-toast breakfasts, the visits to antique shops to find just the right touches for their home. The hello and goodbye kisses. So many lost moments, lost dreams. So much he owed his wife. Luke took a firm mental step away from the edge of the chasm that threatened to suck him into its darkness. He could do this no matter what it took.

To his relief, Mary wasn’t paying him any mind. She was scanning the drive and the lawn leading down to the lake, the S-shaped frown he’d noticed yesterday inching between her brows. “Hey, I just noticed you’re on foot this morning. Did someone drop you off?”

“No, my car’s parked at my cottage down the way. Bill Oakes had a vacancy, so I moved in last night.”

“Oh, I thought maybe you were visiting the area with a friend you hadn’t mentioned.” Luke groaned inwardly at the hint of interest in her voice. Was she subtly inquiring whether he was involved in a relationship? It was bad enough that he felt some feelings of attraction for Mary. He didn’t want them to be reciprocated—even if it might facilitate getting some answers out of her! The situation was complicated enough. “I’m staying here alone,” he admitted finally, figuring the less he elaborated, the better.

She flashed him another beguiling smile. “That’s great you got a cottage. Which one?”

“Small one, in terrible need of repair. I’ve heard trains that were quieter than the pipes knocking in the walls when the shower’s turned on. But the price was right.”

“That’s Abner’s cottage. The oldest brother. He’s tightfisted, apparently. Can’t see why he should spend good money on improvements for other people to enjoy.”

Luke studied her closely as she took a sip of coffee. Hair framed her face in tousled disarray as if she’d combed it with her fingers when she’d risen from bed. She wasn’t wearing any makeup. There were lavender smudges under her eyes. From fear? Sleeplessness? Pushing herself too hard? “Bill Oakes didn’t mention it,” he said.

“Can I get you some coffee?” She started to rise.

He waved her to stay seated. “I’ll get it. You keep working. Mugs are in the cupboard above the sink, right?”

Luke saw uncertainty flash in her eyes. Why? At the prospect of him entering her home?

She settled herself back into her chair. “Yes, help yourself. Sugar’s in a bowl on the counter and there’s cream in the fridge.”

Luke nodded and ambled toward the front door. Conscious of the ticking seconds, his steps quickened once he’d stepped inside the cottage. The phone was mounted on the wall at the end of the kitchen counter. An old white pitcher crammed with pencils and a notepad was positioned near the phone, but there was none of the daily minutiae he expected to find: an address book, a calendar, letters, bills, bank statements. The day planner she’d had yesterday was nowhere in sight.

He quietly eased open the cupboard doors and the drawers nearest the phone. They held craft supplies and mismatched dishes. He surveyed the kitchen, dining and living areas for her purse, but didn’t see it. Her worktable was covered with partially painted signs, but no files or books that might contain business records. Luke decided she probably kept her purse and her business records in her bedroom, out of her daughter’s reach. Maybe she had a computer.

He’d have to find another opportunity to look. Luke found a mug and filled it with coffee. He noticed there weren’t any photographs stuck to the refrigerator when he took out the cream. Not even a picture of Samantha. Luke found that odd. Most people who had kids plastered their homes with photos of their offspring.

As he stepped back outside, coffee in hand, he complimented Samantha on her progress at making a second turtle. Samantha beamed up at him, her eyes sparkling with mischief beneath the brim of her hat as she tipped over the mold. Sand spilled out and formed two mounds that looked more like a snowman than a turtle. Samantha giggled.

“Uh, oh,” Luke said, not the least bit fooled by her attempt to entice him to play with her some more. He glanced back over his shoulder at Mary. “Your daughter’s pretty cute. She has your nose, but the rest of her must be her father.”

“She definitely has her father’s eyes. The rest…I don’t know, but I’ll keep her just the way she is.” Mary’s reply was characteristically vague, but her face glowed with motherly pride.

“Did you name her after her father?”

“No, I’ve just always liked the name Samantha. You’re good with her. She’s usually shy around men. Especially when I take her to the doctor.”

“It doesn’t matter what age you are, you don’t like doctors poking at you.” Luke took a sip of his coffee. The conversation had the level of intimacy he wanted if he hoped to get Mary to open up to him, but he could feel her skating around the edges of his questions about her husband as if aware danger lurked beneath them. “What did your husband do?” he asked.

A shadow darted across her expressive eyes. She tilted her head to one side, the sunlight striking her hair and turning it to corn silk as she met his gaze directly. “I know you’re just making conversation so we can get to know each other, but I’d rather not talk about my husband. He…” She paused, her lips twisting into a rueful smile. “It’s hard to explain, but losing him taught me how important it is to live life in the here and now and live it to the fullest.” As she spoke her shoulders squared as if threaded with an iron rod. “The past is over, done with, you can’t change it—sometimes you can’t even explain it. And the future, well, the future is something everyone assumes they’ll have, but the truth is that the only sure moment we have is the right now. For me, that’s my daughter and my business and the letter boxes that need to be cut today.”

“Is that your subtle way of telling me to quit jawing and get to work?” Luke quipped, feeling a wave of admiration for her, even though she’d just firmly barred the door on further questions about her husband.

“Yes.” The smile she gave him was pure, sweet and undeniably flirtatious. Luke promptly forgot about the past, the future and the need to cut the letter boxes in the present. The only thought on his mind in the here and now was that she had the most beautiful face, freckles, violet smudges and all. And those lips…would they feel as warm and sweet as the woman they belonged to?

Mary dug a key from the pocket of her shorts and handed it to him. “I hate to disturb Samantha when she’s happy in the sand. Can you unlock the garage and pass me the key before you leave for the day?”

“Sure. I’ll get started on the letter boxes right away.” Their fingers brushed lightly as he accepted the key, and Luke felt his limbs tingle with a slow anticipatory heat that made him patently aware, once again, of how delicate and feminine she was and how long it had been since he’d held a woman in his arms.

But he’d never hold this woman in his arms. Over time, even the best liars slipped up. And Luke had all the time in the world when it came to finding out Mary’s true identity.

CONCEALED BEHIND THE TREES, he watched them talking in front of her cottage. Anger rippled through him at the way she smiled at the man, as if she had no reason to be afraid. As if she didn’t deserve to be punished. Did she think having a man around would protect her from him?

No one could protect her from him. He was too smart. He’d proved last night that he could rattle her whenever he wanted. He’d heard the fear in her voice when she’d answered the phone. He was in control.

And that was only just the beginning.

WITH LUKE NEARBY in the garage, Shannon felt undeniably safer than she had last night after that unsettling phone call. She felt protected in the same way she had when she was a child learning to ride a bike without training wheels, and her father had walked beside her, a hand ready to catch her bike and steady her should she need it. After the way Luke had come to her aid yesterday, she knew that if Rob suddenly turned up on her doorstep, she could trust Luke to help her.

Not that she could tell Luke everything. It was highly improbable that the phone call last night had been Rob, but she’d learned the hard way never to underestimate what her ex-husband was capable of doing. Shannon tried to concentrate on sketching the design for a scarecrow crafted from a four-by-four recycled fence post, but even the slightest movement in the trees surrounding the cottage set her on edge.

Her experience with Rob had made her paranoid, and the only effective way to deal with it was to acknowledge the fear as a self-protective instinct and let it ride itself out. A few weeks from now the phone call would be just another insignificant wrong number. In the meantime, she’d be vigilant as always.

Samantha, who was practicing her new walking skills, toddled unsteadily around the sandbox, babbling to her toys like an excited bird. Her round face was damp with perspiration from the rising heat of the morning sun. Shannon decided to give up all pretense of working. “You look hot, baby. Let’s go inside and get you some juice.”

As she leaned down to place her sketchbook on the grass at her feet, something whizzed past her head. A second later, it struck the big terra-cotta pot she’d planted with petunias and alyssum with a sharp crack, putting a ding in the pot.

Shannon stared at the object. It was a rock the size of a golf ball. If she hadn’t bent over, it would have hit her in the head. It could have killed Samantha.

Panic spilled through her like carbonated bubbles. “Luke! Come quick!” she screamed as she leaped toward her daughter and scooped her up in her arms. A second missile hit the sandbox, spewing up sand inches from the spot where Samantha had been playing. “Stop it! You’ll hurt someone,” Shannon yelled as she ran toward the safety of their cottage, every cell in her body determined to protect her daughter. She yanked open the screen door, pulled it quickly closed behind her and secured the lock, her heart threatening to leap into her throat with every breath.

Samantha started to cry.

“Hush,” Shannon whispered. She peered through the screen, scanning the foliage to determine from which direction the rocks had been thrown. Please, God, don’t let it be Rob. The terror of the months he’d stalked her flared in her mind, a recurring nightmare that never left her. The phone calls. The notes filled with pleas, promises, threats and reminders of the vows she’d made to him, which she’d find on her windshield or taped to the door of her office building so that everyone at work could see. Or worse, the love notes he’d given her during her courtship that she’d find in the pockets of her clothes in her new dwellings. The cold dread that had hovered in the background of her every waking moment at the knowledge that she might turn around when she was walking down the street or purchasing groceries or heading for a meeting and find him watching her.

To her relief, Luke came tearing out of the garage, legs and arms pumping like a seasoned athlete.

“Mary? Where are you?”

Shannon had never been so glad to see muscles before. Surely Luke’s construction-honed physique was intimidation enough to make whoever had thrown the rocks think twice before doing something so irresponsibly dangerous again.

“We’re inside,” she called back, hating the fear that invaded her voice. Hating the fact that she couldn’t stop herself from leaping to the conclusion that Rob had somehow found her. “Someone just threw a couple of rocks at me and Samantha. One’s by the planter. I was sitting in the chair, and it came from behind and hit the planter. It almost got me. The other one landed in the sandbox.”

“Stay inside. I’ll check it out.”

Shannon’s heart ricocheted in her chest as Luke took one look at the planter and the chair where she’d been sitting, then ran toward the trees. Seconds later, his navy T-shirt and jeans were swallowed up by shadows and bristly pine branches. She didn’t want to think what might have happened if he hadn’t been here. What if the first rock had struck her and knocked her unconscious? Or the second rock had hit Samantha?

Caution curbed Luke’s movements as he skirted a thicket of chokecherry, searching for signs of Mary and Samantha’s attacker, scanning the trees and scattered clumps of vegetation for movement and listening for sounds of snapped twigs. What the hell had just happened? This second incident on the heels of the slit tire two days before confirmed that Mary and her daughter were in real danger. From whom? Did this Mary know something about his wife’s killer and someone wanted to silence her? His hair rose on the back of his neck. The stand of pine and aspen was eerily silent—no sound of birds chirping, making him think that someone was still nearby. Watching. Waiting.

“I know you’re there,” he said in an authoritative tone. “Come on out and apologize. That was a really stupid thing to do. Someone could have been seriously hurt.”

Silence met his demand.

“Well, if you won’t come to me, then I’ll come to you.” He strode toward a point in the path strewn with embedded stones, presuming the thrown rocks had originated there. Sure enough, two indentations in the sandy soil exposing fresh dirt confirmed his theory. He glanced in the direction of Mary’s cottage. The only thing visible from this position was the roof. Had a kid decided to use the roof as a target? He examined the ground carefully for footprints or items that might have tumbled from a pocket when the culprit had run off. The ground was hard-packed and sprinkled with a layer of dry pine needles.

He jogged down the path in a direction away from Mary’s cottage. There was no one in sight. Still, he continued on to the nearest cottage, where a man in a damp bathing suit, a bad sunburn ringing his neck, was pouring a bag of charcoal into a hibachi. Three kids ranging in age from maybe four to fourteen were fighting over a bag of hot dogs and a plate of buns.

Luke stopped to ask the man if he’d seen anyone pass by on the path in the last few minutes.

“Sorry. We were in the cottage,” the man replied.