Читать книгу Little Girl Lost - Shirlee McCoy - Страница 13

Portia watched the sunrise from the balcony off her room. French doors open, icy air seeping through her pajamas, she stood in awe as dawn painted the sky with vivid pinks and golds. For just this moment, she was exactly where she wanted to be, doing exactly what she wanted to do, no one hanging over her shoulder questioning her choices. She supposed that was the hardest part of belonging to a large family—always having people watching her, judging her actions.

If she were a different kind of person, what her sister, her aunt, even her father thought wouldn’t matter quite so much. But she wasn’t and it did. Which was why her conversation with Ronald the previous night had left her antsy and unhappy, his insistence that her New York City lifestyle was a mistake making her question her certainty about where she should be. Where God wanted her to be.

After all, wasn’t that the point—to be where He wanted, doing what He wanted her to do, whatever that might be?

“And therein lies the problem. I have no idea what You want, God. I thought I did, but lately I’m just not sure.”

“Talking to yourself again?” Rissa peeked in the room, her hair curling wildly around a makeup-free face.

“Talking to God.” Portia threw herself down on the bed. “I don’t think He’s listening.”

“Hmmm.”

“Hmmm, what?”

“Hmmm, you had a nice long chat with Daddy dearest last night and now you’re upset. Why am I not surprised?”

“Because you know Father never gives up once he sets his mind to something and he’s set his mind to getting me to work for Blanchard Fabrics.”

“Portia, he’d have every one of us working at the company if he had his way. Why do you let it bother you so much?”

“I don’t know.” And she didn’t, though she wished she could change it. “Maybe because I’m a twenty-six-year-old woman who’s still hoping to make her father proud.”

“Don’t hold your breath waiting for that to happen.” Rissa stretched and yawned. “Do you have big plans for today?”

Portia did. She planned to visit the Stoneley police department to find out if there’d been any more progress on the McGraw case. That was something Rissa didn’t need to know, though. “I’m running errands for Aunt Winnie and picking up that horrid dress from Mr. Dugal.”

“Not the Winter Fest dress?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I thought you’d been saved that…honor.”

“You mean humiliation.”

“Hey, I wore it my senior year of high school. It wasn’t that bad.”

“Riding in a horse-drawn carriage, dressed like a winter princess is fine when you’re seventeen. It’s not fine when you’re my age.”

“Our age. So, say no.”

“I tried, but Mr. Dugal takes a lot of pride in making sure every woman in Stoneley gets the opportunity. Apparently, he’s decided it’s my turn.”

“And you didn’t want to hurt his feelings so you said yes.”

“Actually, Aunt Winnie accepted for me. She thought it might cheer me up. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.”

“In that case, I forgive you for being a push over. And at least you won’t go down in history as the oldest Winter Fest princess. Wasn’t Jenny Wilcomb sixty-five?” Rissa yawned again, her eyes shadowed with fatigue.

“Forty, but thanks for trying to make me feel better. Now, stop yawning. You’re making me tired.”

“Sorry. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Me, neither.”

“I doubt anyone did. We were probably all worrying about the same thing.” Rissa dropped down onto the bed and threw her arm over her eyes. “Mother.”

“And Garrett McGraw.”

“And how much Father really knows about all of this.”

“I think he knows a lot.” Portia expected Rissa to agree and was surprised when her twin turned to face her. They were eye to eye, just inches apart the way they had been so many times when they were children and had something important to discuss.

“If he did, I don’t want to know.”

“How can you not?”

“Because if he’s lied all this time, that means he’s kept us from knowing our mother. I don’t think I can handle that.”

“You’re one of the strongest people I know, Rissa. Of course you can handle it.”

“I’m glad someone has faith in me.” She pushed up from the bed. “I think I’m going to hide out in my room today. I’ll see you at the parade tonight.”

“Hide out? Are you okay?” Worry brought Portia to her feet.

“Yeah, just working on my new play.” Rissa pushed open the door and stepped out into the dark hall, her expression hidden by shadows. “Another week or two and I should have it done.”

“I thought you were here for a vacation.”

“I’m here for Aunt Winnie. And for you.”

And if it weren’t for them, Rissa wouldn’t have come at all. She didn’t say the words, but Portia knew the truth. In recent years it had been she, not Rissa, who’d pushed the idea of returning to Stoneley for Winter Fest. Next year, Rissa might not return at all. The thought made Portia sadder than it should have, and she smiled, trying to hide her feelings. “We know. And we appreciate it. Now, go get your work done, or you’ll be blaming me when you fall behind schedule.”

Portia watched Rissa disappear into her room, then closed her own door. Though the twins had always been in sync, Portia’s affection for the town she’d grown up in had never made sense to Rissa. As far as she was concerned, they were well rid of Blanchard Manor and of Stoneley.

And maybe she was right.

But driving through the town, visiting the places she’d loved so much as a child, always felt like a homecoming in a way returning to New York never did.

Portia sighed and shook her head, grabbing clothes and a handful of jewelry. She needed to get out of the house, get some fresh air, not sit around moping about things she couldn’t change.

Twenty minutes later, she was on her way, driving the vintage VW Bug she’d bought a few years ago, the scent of her aunt’s homemade cookies and fudge wafting through the vehicle and making her stomach growl. She thought about snagging one of the oatmeal raisin cookies she’d seen Winnie pack, but the Winter Fest parade committee consisted of several women who weren’t above counting cookies to make sure each volunteer had brought the proper number of snacks. If Winnie’s offering was off by a cookie or two, she’d be the talk of the committee for months.

Maybe Portia would stop by Beaumont Beanery instead. Coffee and a Danish would go a long way toward waking her up. The thought cheered her and she hummed along with the radio, the lightening sky and crisp white clouds that sprinkled it making up for the long, restless night she’d had.

Today would be a better day than yesterday. A better day than the day before. As a matter of fact, Portia planned to make this the best day of the new year. She was still thinking that as the engine stalled and died.

Mick was running late. Ten minutes late, to be exact, the constant ringing of his cell phone reminding him again and again that he had twenty eleventh- and twelfth-graders waiting at the church for his arrival. He grabbed the phone, answering it for the fifth time in as many minutes. “Campbell here.”

“You know you’re supposed to be at the church.” Roy Marcell, chief of police, good friend and co-leader of the church’s youth group sounded as irritated as Mick felt.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Just thought I’d make sure.”

“You and ten other people. It’s been a rough morning.”

“Katie have trouble getting out of bed?”

“No, she had trouble finding matching shoes.”

“Yeah, I remember those days. So, what’s your ETA?”

“Ten minutes. Sooner if you’ve got coffee.”

“You’re in luck, so get here fast. The bus’ll be here in fifteen.”

“Right.” Mick tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and rubbed the ache in his neck. When he’d volunteered to chaperone the youth group’s ice-fishing trip, he hadn’t planned to be heading a murder investigation at the same time. Five hours wasn’t much time to lose, but it felt like too much when McGraw’s widow and children were waiting for answers regarding his death.

He grimaced, rounded a curve in the road and braked hard as a neon-green Volkswagen Beetle appeared in front of him. The SUV fishtailed, but held the road as Mick maneuvered to the shoulder, his heart pounding with adrenaline.

He swung open the door and strode toward the car, watching as a woman stepped out. “Need some help?”

“It died on me. I think I’ll need a tow.” The voice was familiar, and Mick took in the delicate features, black curly hair and dark eyes. It could have been either of the twins, but somehow Mick knew it was Portia. Maybe it was the clothes—dark pants paired with a multi-colored coat—or maybe it was the tilt of her chin, the hint of laughter in her eyes. Whatever the case, he had no doubt which twin he was speaking to.

“You’re out and about early.”

“I could say the same about you, Detective.”

“Mick, remember? Have you tried to start the car up since it stalled?”

“Not yet.”

“Mind if I try?”

“Go ahead.” She passed him the keys, her hands encased in fuzzy pink mittens that Kaitlyn would have loved. Somehow on Portia they worked, the quirky fabric adding to her unique style.

“Nice mittens.”

“You’re the first person over ten years old to say so.”

“Yeah? Well, don’t let it get around. I wouldn’t want to ruin my tough-cop reputation.” He slid into the Bug, the sound of her laughter following him and making him want to turn and watch the amusement playing out on her face.

But he didn’t have the time, and not just because he was running late. A woman like Portia would need lots of attention. More than a man with a six-year-old daughter could give. Though Mick had to admit, he might be tempted to try if she didn’t live a few hundred miles away. Being married to Rebecca had taught him an important lesson. A relationship with a woman who traveled more than she was home didn’t work for him. He doubted a long-distance relationship would be any different.

He turned the key in the ignition, heard a quiet click and knew he was about to add a few more minutes to his ETA. “Looks like it’s not budging. Where were you headed?”

“Town hall. Aunt Winnie asked me to drop off a few things for the parade tonight.”

“Go ahead and put them in my truck while I call for a tow.”

She looked like she was going to argue, so Mick pulled a bag of cookie-filled containers from the back seat of the Bug and handed it her. “I’ve got a bunch of teenagers waiting for me to chaperone their ice-fishing trip. If I don’t give you a ride, I’ll have to stay here and wait until the tow truck arrives. Let’s save some time and do things my way.”

To Mick’s surprise, Portia gave in gracefully, grabbing the bag and carrying it to the SUV. Less than five minutes later, the Bug was safely on the shoulder of the road and they were on the way to Town Hall, the interior of the SUV filled with the scent of chocolate and something else—a flowery, feminine scent that Mick thought must be Portia’s shampoo.

She glanced at him and smiled, her eyes shadowed and dark. “Thanks for the lift. I hope your ice-fishing crew won’t leave without you.”

“Seeing as how I’m one of the youth group leaders, I don’t think I have much to worry about in that regard. Besides, Unity Christian isn’t far from Town Hall. I’ll only be a few minutes late.”

“You’re a youth group leader?” She turned toward him, tiny bells on her earrings jingling as she moved.

“Does that surprise you?”

“Maybe. I guess I didn’t picture you as the churchgoing, youth-group-leading type.”

Before Mick could ask what type she had pictured him as, she shifted in her seat, her hands clenched in her lap, her shoulders tense. “I was planning to come to the station to see you this morning. Since you’re not going to be there, do you think we can talk now?”

“Sure.”

“What you said about my father last night is…disturbing.”

“I imagine it is, but I can’t change the facts. Your father has a reputation to uphold and a company to protect. That company is your family’s bread and butter. Without it, your father can’t maintain the lifestyle he’s cultivated. Men have killed for less.”

“I know, but I don’t think my father would. He may be difficult at times, but he’s no murderer.”

“I don’t doubt your sincerity in saying that, but I’ve got to check out the facts and find out the truth for myself.” He pulled up in front of Town Hall and turned to face her.

She frowned, her eyes a deep brown that reminded Mick of milk chocolate and Valentines. He had the urge to lean forward, cup her cheek with his hand, see if her skin was as smooth and silky as it felt. And that was bad news.

He’d have to be careful around Portia. Really careful. Otherwise, he might find himself getting more involved than he intended.

“So you’re going to keep investigating my family.” She sounded tired and defeated, and Mick was surprised at how much that bothered him.

“I’m going to keep following my leads. Right now, they all head in that direction. By tomorrow, things might change.”

“That’s nice of you to say, Mick, but I don’t think you really believe it.”

He didn’t, though he was checking out other possibilities. McGraw hadn’t been a cop for long, but there was no doubt he’d made enemies while he was one.

Mick considered telling Portia as much, but for the sake of McGraw’s family, he didn’t. Bringing up the past would do no good, unless the past proved to be connected to the case. “Tomorrow is a new day. Anything is possible. That’s something I do believe.”

“A new day. Yeah, well, I hope it’ll be better than the last few.” Portia pushed the door open, anxious to get away, but Mick snagged her hand before she could retreat, his blue eyes searching hers.

“Has it really been that bad?” He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, his fingers lingering there for a moment.

Portia blinked, surprised by his touch, by his words, by the concern she saw in his eyes. Did he really care that much about a woman he barely knew? If so, how would he act toward someone he loved?

Just thinking the question made her uncomfortable, and she tugged her hand away, reaching over the seat for the bag of baked goods. “No, not that bad. Just…” What? Discouraging? Disheartening? “Difficult. I used to think I understood our family. Now, I’m not sure it’s anything like what I believed. And that’s hard.”

“You’re talking about the new information regarding your mother.”

It wasn’t a question, but she answered anyway. “What else? But there are other things, too. It’s hard not to worry and wonder when so much of what’s happening is out of my control.”

“I don’t blame you for that, but worry never changes anything.”

“My head knows that. My heart isn’t convinced.”

He watched her for a moment, then smiled, a slow, easy curve of his lips that made Portia’s heart leap and her stomach tumble and twist.

“Tell you what, why don’t we make a deal? I’ll keep you updated on the case. You relax and stop worrying.”

Did he really think it was that easy? “How about I promise to try not to worry?”

“Good enough. Here’s my card. Call me if you have any questions or concerns.”

Portia took the card, tucked it into her coat pocket and tried to get out of the SUV gracefully. As usual, her efforts fell short. Her boot caught on the edge of the door and she tumbled forward, nearly losing her grip on the bag and her purse.

“Careful.” Mick grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back. “You destroy the stuff your aunt baked and you’ll be the talk of the parade committee for the next ten years.”

“I was thinking something similar, earlier. What is this? Three saves? Four?”

“Three, but who’s counting?”

“Certainly not you.”

Mick laughed and shook his head. “You’d better get that stuff inside. See you around.”

He drove off as Portia stepped into Town Hall, and she told herself she was glad to be away from him. And she was. Mick wasn’t the type of man that appealed to Portia. She liked a more scholarly type.

You mean more boring and less exciting.

The words whispered through her mind, mocking her as she dropped off the baked goods. It was true, she tended to date men who were predictable, stable, easy to understand. That didn’t mean they were boring. Or maybe it did. But that was the way Portia liked it. She’d spent her childhood around men who were often unpredictable and moody. No way did she plan to repeat that pattern as an adult. Still, there was something about Mick she couldn’t ignore. A vitality and energy that appealed to her, an honesty that spoke to the deepest part of her soul.

And there was something else.

It had taken Tad six months to figure out that one of the twins was left-handed, the other right-handed. Even after that, he’d often confused Portia and Rissa. Mick, on the other hand, had seen them together once, yet somehow he’d known which twin Portia was. She found that to be both interesting and alarming.

Portia rubbed a finger against the ache behind her right eye and shoved thoughts of Mick to the back of her mind. The day had just begun and she already had a headache. That didn’t bode well for the remainder of the morning, let alone the afternoon and evening. She wanted to go back to the moment before the Bug had died, recapture the sense of excitement, of renewal. More than anything, she wanted to believe this really was going to be the best day of the new year and that all the days that followed would be better than the ones that had preceded her trip to Stoneley. Somehow, though, Portia doubted they would be. Unless she missed her guess, clouds were on the horizon—dark and foreboding—and no matter how much she might want to outrace the storm, she had a horrible feeling that it was only a matter of time before it caught up with her.