Warning Signs (Love Inspired Suspense) (10 page)

EIGHT

S
aturday lunch at the Underground Küchen bustled with boisterous camaraderie. Trying to find a table or a spot at the bar proved useless, and when a lively little ditty broke out, Owen got caught in a human wave that eventually delivered him to the back corner by the kitchen—or
küchen,
as they said in German.

He missed the swinging door coming at him by mere inches and came face-to-face with a middle-aged waitress squeezed into a green velour bodice laced up over white frills.

“Oops, didn’t see you there.” The woman lingered for a beat while she slanted her coiffed head in his direction. “Hey, aren’t you the new teacher?”

“Yes, I’m Owen Matthews, the new English teacher. I heard great things about this place, but I had no idea it would be this crazy. Is it always like this?”

She cackled and pushed a pen into her shellacked, bleached hair. “Only at certain hours of the day. I’m Tildy. It’s nice to meet you. Come, I’ll set you up by the bar. Can’t have you sitting by the kitchen for your first visit.”

She led the way, parting the sea of people with a wave of her manicured hand. Behind the bar, she pulled out a stool. “Sit. We serve meat here. If you’re looking for seafood, then you’ve come to the wrong place. That fishy stuff is at the other restaurant at the other end of the boardwalk.”

Owen sensed a rivalry between the two restaurants, and as much as his interest was piqued, going with the flow of this place would be his best course of action if he was going to get his questions answered. “I’ll take the special,” he hollered over the din.

The crowd fell silent. First the people nearest him, then whispers went out until they reached every ear. A fork clattered. Someone scoffed loudly.

“Well, you heard what he said,” Tildy announced, a smile growing so wide it popped out her laugh lines. “Give the man the special!”

A bell clanged at the other end of the bar.

Not a good sign, in Owen’s estimation.

Another frilly waitress bounced off to the kitchen. She returned moments later, backing out of the swinging door because her hands and arms were laden with multiple dishes. He denied they were all for him even though she headed in his direction.

“Are you a praying man, Mr. Matthews?” Tildy asked as the first platter thumped down in front of him. The plumpest, juiciest knockwurst encircled the rim twice. Curved like a huge pair of smiling lips, it looked like his food laughed at him.

He shook his head at the daunting sight. “Not anymore,” he mumbled.

“Well, you might want to get right with God before you dig in. You’re going to need Him more than ever before.” She cackled as she filled a large stein and sloshed it down in front of him.
“Feierabend!”
she yelled.

“Feierabend!”
voices echoed in unison, then started up another rowdy song. Owen believed it was an old Irish melody and not German at all, but who was he to ruin their fun?

He peeled his eyes from his heaping plates and lifted his gaze to the jovial group. Genuine smiles encouraged him to dig in. Bright eyes seemed eager to bask in his victory. He thought that was interesting. They wanted him to succeed, not fail.

With a knife and fork in his hands, he mumbled,
“Feierabend,”
whatever that meant, and sliced his first piece. The pop of the tight knockwurst skin could be heard on the other side of the room, and the crowd roared.

The man nearest him slapped his back. “Do you need some help with any of this? I’d be glad to lighten your load, unless of course you have a death wish.”

A death wish.

The words slammed into him. So many times he’d actually wished for exactly that. Wishing it could have been him instead of Rebecca. Wishing one of the dangerous jobs he took on would finally dole out his correct punishment.

Death.

That’s what he deserved, and yet here he still sat, alive and well. Instead his innocent wife had paid the price, and his son, who never hurt a living soul, continued to pay daily.

It hit Owen that he hadn’t thought about Rebecca’s death in a couple days.

The knockwurst in his mouth soured. His stomach revolted as he pushed the bite down.

He frantically attempted to pull an image of his wife from the recesses of his brain, but instead another woman appeared behind his eyelids. A certain redhead gazed back at him with something blazing in her gray eyes.

Forgiveness.

He pushed his plate away and stood up. His hands slipped against the bar’s rail. They were drenched in a cold sweat. A vicious scrub to his eyes did nothing to remove her image. He didn’t want her there, and he didn’t want what she was offering. She was nothing to him but a job. And she sure wasn’t the person to be offering him forgiveness.

“Are you okay, man? I was just joking. This stuff won’t really kill you. I’ve been eating it all my fifty years. A horse has got nothing on my health.” The man pounded his chest. Owen zeroed in on a gold ring the man wore. The letter
T,
affixed in black, glinted back at him. He impressed the image into his brain to replace the one of Miriam.

Breathing deeply, Owen reseated himself on his stool. A few people around him observed him with concerned expressions. “Sorry,” he said. “Something didn’t go down right.” He feigned a smile at their nods and picked up his fork.
“Feierabend,”
he said. It was halfhearted but enough to lighten the mood again.

“Feierabend!”
someone yelled, and the song restarted. All attention was effectively diverted off him.

“I’m Jerome, by the way.” The man next to him put out his hand to shake. “Jerome Thibodaux.”

Ah, the infamous Thibodaux family.
An opportunity to do some digging had presented itself. “I have a Ben Thibodaux in one of my classes. Any relation?”

“My son.” A few strings of sauerkraut hung from the corners of Jerome’s full mouth.

“He’s a good kid. Smart.” Owen sliced a piece of the knockwurst.

“Well, that’s the first time someone’s ever said that about him. Are you sure we’re talking about the same kid?”

“I think so. Wears a lot of black.”

“Yup, that’s him all right.” Jerome shook his head. “After his mother left, I did the best I could raising him, but somewhere along the way I lost him.”

Owen soaked up the information. Without a file to read up on Ben’s life, Owen would take every morsel of info he could get his hands on. “Sorry, to hear that. Divorce is never easy on anyone, especially the kids.”

“Oh, Ben doesn’t remember his mother. He was a baby when Rita left. She didn’t want to live on the island anymore. Thought it was too isolated. And poof!” Jerome snapped his thick, stubby fingers. “She took off with nothing but a Dear John letter in her wake.”

“So you were left to raise your son alone? Do you have any other kids?”

“Nah, just me and Ben. How about you? Do you have any kids?”

“Yes. A son, too. He’s eight.”

“What’s his name?”

Owen started to say Cole, but an image popped into his mind, halting him. The image of a cameraman cranking the camera. Owen chuckled out loud. “His name is Cole. He loves anything to do with pictures, especially video.”

“Cool.” Jerome speared a potato and shoved it into his mouth whole. “Mmm-mmm-mmm. Tildy is amazing. I always knew I picked the wrong woman.” He nodded at the plate in front of Owen. “Dig in before it gets cold.”

Owen took another bite. “So what do you do for a living?”

“Just another lobster boat captain. Makes for long, lonely days out to sea and back. Not much to do out there but pick up my pot.”

Owen cut him a glance. “Did you just say
pot?
”

Jerome’s roar of laughter turned to a fit of coughing. “I like you, Owen.” Jerome shook a speared potato at him. “No, I said pots, as in lobster pots, traps, you know. You just misunderstood with all the noise in here.”

Owen agreed with a nod, but he speculated. Why
couldn’t
the pot be of the marijuana variety? The lobster boat could be a cover.

The swinging door to the kitchen swung wide. Len Smith’s old frame ambled through the door, and people hollered a greeting and made way for him. He acknowledged them all with a single wave and took the offered seat on the other side of Owen.

“Hello there, son.” Len stretched his neck to look down the bar. He gave a nod to the waitress. “The usual.”

“Mr. Smith,” Owen greeted the man. “How do you do?”

“I could ask the same of you. Any luck on figuring out that mishap with the school’s electrical panel?”

“Not yet, but I’m working on it.”

“Good. There seems to be quite the multitude of accidents occurring lately. Don’t get scared off just yet. Stepping Stones really is a pleasant place to live.”

Owen gestured to the crowd around them. “It seems like it. I’ve been given a pretty warm welcome here.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“So do you work in the kitchen, too?” Owen referenced the swinging door the old man had come through.

“No, I used the back door.”

“Back door? This place is built into a cliff. How could there be a back door?”

Len chuckled. “It’s a stairway passage, leading up to the top of the cliff. My house is perched right above us, overlooking the sea. Let’s just say I have my own direct route to the ocean, and this lovely establishment.”

“So you don’t have to take the road down. That’s convenient,” Owen stated.

“Yes, it is. Wouldn’t you agree my passageway is convenient, Jerome?” Len leaned forward for a pointed stare across Owen.

With his mouth full of food, Jerome answered, “Very.”

Len waved the waitress on. “I’m going to grab my lunch in the kitchen and take it to go. Enjoy your meal, son.” He stood from his stool.

“Please wait.” Owen stopped him.

“Yes? You need something?”

“I was curious how you came by the knowledge of Nick Danforth’s assault yesterday. The school secretary said she heard the news from Tildy, who heard it from you.”

“Oh, well, it’s a small town, but I believe it was Frank who told me.”

“Frank Thibodaux?” Owen eyed Jerome. “Your father?”

Jerome nodded.

“And how do I find him?”

“Well, you won’t find him here, that’s for sure. He wouldn’t step foot in this place.” Jerome guffawed, an unpleasant sight with his mouthful of food.

Owen winced. “Why’s that?”

“He owns the restaurant at the other end of the pier.”

The rivalry. Owen made a mental note to skip the special at his next stop. “Thank you, sir.” He nodded to Len for his help and let the man get his lunch through the swinging doors.

Owen reclined to get a quick glimpse inside. A look around that passageway felt like a must. Was it lit? Did everyone know about it? He would talk to Wes first thing to see about getting access to it.

Owen missed the waitress carrying a tray of desserts to him. The German delights caused his throat to close in revolt. “Please tell me those are not all for me.”

“They sure are! Eat up, big guy!
Feierabend!
” she yelled and re-riled the crowd. But before a song could break out in full tilt, the voices died out as quickly as they’d revved up. Owen scanned the room for the cause in the atmospheric drop.

A shadowed figure stood by the door, backlit by sunlight.

Apparently an unwelcome visitor. Cold tension chilled the air. The person stepped out of the shadow, and Owen’s heart stuttered for a few beats.

Miriam stood at the end of the bar.

The sick emotion etched on her face had Owen pushing his plate away. She raised her hands and signed, “When you didn’t come back to the clinic, I got worried. But I can see you’re doing fine. Better than I’ve done in seven months.”

She turned and walked out. Awkward silence filled the long narrow room.

“Do you know what she said?” Tildy sliced into the uneasiness.

Owen shook his head, regretting what he had to say. “I have no idea.”

She clucked her tongue and swatted her towel on the edge of the bar. “And that there lies the problem, doesn’t it? She doesn’t understand us, and we don’t understand her. A real shame, it is.”

Owen withdrew his wallet and tossed a few bills on the counter. Concern for Miriam’s safety propelled him toward the door. She shouldn’t be walking around alone. Someone wanted her off the island, and judging by the subdued and chilly atmosphere left behind in the Underground Küchen, it could be any one of these people.

* * *

Miriam craved the one place where she felt free. The one place she felt at home. And it wasn’t her house.

Even with its few happy memories to draw on, something about her house wouldn’t let her breathe deeply. Deep breathing came only when she was in the water.

After trekking along the shoreline and up her sandy pathway to the cliff-top house for her swimsuit, Miriam returned to slice the frigid water with a dive.

Fall had closed in, dropping water temps. Each swim, she came to grips with the fact that it might be her last of the season. Today was no different. The cold froze her toes so quickly she nearly stuck close to shore instead of taking her usual course to the stones.

Swimming in the waves required thoughtful planning. Miriam needed to know her tidal times and be aware of the undertow that could take her. She needed to make smart decisions out here. One slipup could mean a watery grave.

A pause in her strokes every few minutes kept her on course. At one check, she swirled around in a circle as waves gently lifted and dropped her. The flavor of salt touched her lips with each undulation.

Her typical destination of the lighthouse was out. A certain someone would invade her mind if she went there today. It would have to be a different rock. One that didn’t have a memory attached to it. She only hoped she would be able to climb up safely. Some stones didn’t allow for easy access with their straight, slick height.

She scanned the horizon, spotting a low rock about fifty yards past the lighthouse. It would require more of a swim, but it was still safe and doable.

Miriam moved into a breaststroke, cutting the water with her smooth form and rhythm. The rock popped in and out of her view with each lift of her head from the icy water. Her extremities were losing feeling. Swimming this far out might have been a poor decision.