I lifted the heavy, old knocker on Nathan's door and brought it down, several times.
The old man growled again, this time with some murmurs under his breath.
I considered rolling away, but the door opened, and I was taken aback.
A man about my age in loose-fitting jeans and an olive-green T-shirt stood there. His feet were bare. A dark crop of spiky hair covered the top of his head, and black-rimmed glasses sat crooked on his face. He blinked several times and squinted at the sunlight, as if I'd just woken him, or maybe the dirt-crusted windows had made it dim inside. "Can I help you?"
"Hi. I'm Riley Spencer."
He raised his brows. "Oh, hi."
He'd heard of me? Of course, Riley. I was certain Lester had told him all about the girl who'd "accidentally" killed his relative.
"I don't mean to intrude," I said. "I just wanted to pay my respects." Okay, so I was really just a snoop who wanted answers about the recluse and my mom, but this man didn't need to know that.
He took a step back and opened the door wider. "No, please, come in. I'm Maxwell Dearborn, Max, Uncle Nathan's nephew."
So he did have family. I stepped inside the dimly lit foyer. It was small and unadorned except for a lopsided coat rack.
"I was just in the kitchen going through some things. Please join me. Can I get you some coffee?"
He was awfully friendly considering how and where his uncle died.
"No, thank you. I can't stay long."
I followed him down the hall, which held large billboard-sized portraits of a young Nathan. I stopped in front of a black-and-white photo. He looked debonair with his hair slicked back, wearing a jacket and tie. His complexion was flawless, but black-and-white photos had a way of creating that painted-on look. He looked just like he did in the photo Uncle Doug showed me.
Max stopped and turned my way. He smiled at the portrait. "That was taken after his very first film,
The Lighthouse
. It was actually about Danger Cove's lighthouse."
I glanced to Max. I'd never heard of it. In junior high school our social studies teacher was a lighthouse enthusiast, but I didn't recall him talking about a movie. "Really?"
Max rubbed the muscles on the back of his neck. "As the story goes, the producer was fascinated with the history of the lighthouse and wanted to make a film about a pirate who came to Danger Cove to look for treasure but fell in love with a local woman. I believe it's based on real history. Do you know of it?"
I shook my head. "I've never been fascinated with pirates or treasures."
Max smiled. "I wasn't either until I began researching. Anyway, when the producer visited Danger Cove to get inspiration, he met Uncle Nathan and immediately knew he was to play the lead. It was just luck that Uncle Nathan was also an aspiring actor. That movie made him an instant success."
I stared at the picture, mesmerized by his high cheekbones and strong jawline. He looked so regal. That wasn't the man in the bakery. What happened to him?
"He changed," Max said as if reading my mind.
I widened my eyes. "Very much so. Why?" It wasn't my business, but it was such a striking difference I had to ask.
Max, however, clamped his lips together. Darkness washed over his features. "He became troubled. The kitchen is this way." He turned and walked off before I could inquire deeper.
I caught a glimpse of a living room with a few boxes and stylish furniture. Despite Nathan being wealthy, I was expecting dilapidated hand-me-downs, probably because of how the man in my bakery hadn't seemed to care about his appearance or about the outside of his house. But everything in here was clean and in great condition. We passed a long mahogany dining room table with eight chairs and turned into a bright kitchen.
Sunlight poured through the windows. Whereas the front of the house was dark wood, this room had white cabinetry and cream-colored walls. It had a woman's touch. Did Nathan have a girlfriend? No, I couldn't imagine that.
"Please, have a seat," Max said and pointed to the table by the windows and the stools around the island.
I chose a stool. "I hope I'm not intruding."
He walked over to a box on a far counter, then turned to me. "No. I was planning on coming to the bakery to visit you. This saves me a trip. There's so much to do here. I've been quite busy."
"Are you going through and packing his things? That must be a hard task to do alone."
He sighed lightly, the load of the task apparent on his slumped shoulders. "It's more than I thought. I forgot how big this place was."
So he'd been here before, maybe visited over the years?
"Are you his only family?"
"No, my two aunts, Nathan's sisters, are in town too."
"Oh, then you don't have to do all of this alone."
He made this weird chuckle sound, and I couldn't tell if he was happy or disgusted. "That would be nice, but no. Aunt Holly and Aunt Gloria aren't known for their hard work. They're not even staying here. They're at Ocean View Bed & Breakfast."
I quickly frowned. Tension in the family. That didn't surprise me though. What did was Max talking to me, a stranger, so freely.
"And your parents?" I asked, feeling like Duncan Pickles, interrogating the poor, disheveled mourners.
"Excuse me?"
"You said Nathan was your uncle, so one of your parents was his brother or sister, right?" I smiled and hopefully came across as harmless.
He glanced away. "My father was his brother. Dad passed away a few years ago."
There I went, cramming my size-eight foot down my throat. "I'm very sorry for your loss. For all of it."
He turned back to his box. "Thank you."
A weird silence hung between us. I wasn't sure what else to say or ask. I had a zillion questions, but this man was already going through enough. He didn't need me poking around. I wasn't sure how else I'd learn about Nathan's connection with Mom, but it wouldn't happen today.
I stood up and pushed the stool in. "I should get going. Again, I'm sorry."
Max turned to me and pushed his glasses up his nose. "Thank you, but it wasn't your fault."
I swallowed hard and smiled. A heavy lump settled in my chest.
"Right?" he asked.
My pulse rose. "N-no, of course not." I may have felt slightly guilty for whatever transpired in my bakery, but I most certainly wasn't responsible.
"Right," he said, but there was something in his eyes that made me think he didn't quite believe it.
* * *
"This is a bad idea," I said and blew a long lock of strawberry-blonde hair out of my eyes. Actually, it wasn't even hair, more like nylon.
"Sit still," Tara barked and adjusted the wig on my head. She sat back and surveyed her work. "It looks…passable."
I sighed. "That horrible?" I pulled down the sun visor in her car and stared into the tiny mirror. I had toned down my makeup today and practically had a naked face with just a light coating of mascara to highlight my blue eyes, a hint of blush, and a smudge of my red lipstick, just giving a rose hue to my mouth. I didn't look as bad as Tara made out. I pulled on the navy hat and wondered if playing a cop was the best idea.
When I had told Tara about needing the bank footage, she informed me the bank manager was new to town. I didn't ask how she knew this. It wasn't important at the moment, but I assumed he was buff and tanned. And just as luck would have it, Tara owned a cop uniform from a Halloween party two years ago.
My stomach grumbled, and fear squeezed my chest. "I'm not sure I can do this."
"Of course you can. It's not a big deal. Think of it as acting.
"This isn't pretend. It's impersonating a cop. That's all kinds of jail time."
Tara's left eye twitched. "Don't think about it. Just go in there, believe you have the authority, and get that tape."
I nodded as if I was in agreement, but in reality, my brain was screaming, "Don't be a fool."
If I didn't go inside, though, it meant not getting answers. I could take the flash drive to Lester, but I doubted a gloved hand and some spotted shoes would be enough to convince him to reopen the case. So without any other options, I pushed open the car door and stepped out.
I re-tucked the back of the light-blue shirt into the navy pants and walked across the parking lot. We had specifically timed this for 1:00 p.m., when only one teller would be in the bank and the other would be at lunch. I planned to hide my face as best as possible, but I prayed I wouldn't run into a customer. Wig or not, I still looked like me.
Luckily, the bank was nearly empty. The teller helped an elderly woman at the counter, and neither of them paid attention to my entrance.
The black sneakers I chose to complete the look squeaked on the tile flooring. I headed to the desk by the front windows, where a man my age sat. He wore a navy pinstripe suit and was adjusting the knot in his burgundy tie. He was definitely not buffed or tanned. In fact, he was the opposite. So how did Tara know him? Had her type changed?
He looked up as I approached, and then he stood as I stepped up to his desk, and held out his hand. "Hello, I'm the bank manager, Mr. Stewart. How can I help you?"
I placed my hand in his and shook. "I'm here about the death of Nathan Dearborn at the Cinnamon Sugar Bakery last Friday."
He wiggled his tie knot again and returned to his seat. "I heard about that. I'm afraid I didn't know the man. I'm new to town."
I flashed a half smile, not sure if I should act professional or friendly. "Your ATM machine is positioned at an angle where its security camera may have picked up Mr. Dearborn's arrival that morning."
He frowned and stopped fidgeting. "Okay. But what does that have to do with the death?"
"There's been some discrepancy as to what happened that day. We're looking for a concrete timeline to certain events. I can't divulge information about an ongoing case, as I'm sure you understand."
"Yes, I do. Do you have a warrant?" he asked.
Damn. He was going to play this by the rules.
I sat on the edge of his desk and leaned forward, grateful I hadn't fastened the top button of my blouse. "I only noticed the camera a few minutes ago. I haven't had time to get a warrant yet. I figured I'd come in and see if I could get a copy now. The family is only in town for the funeral, which is later today, and they're just looking for answers."
He gazed around the room as if looking for assistance with the sexy woman. "I want to help but…"
I put on a high-wattage grin and leaned even closer. "You're new to Danger Cove. We're a small town and a safe, happy community. We do everything we can to help one another."
I was running out of pep-squad words, and in another minute my face would be on his blotter. "Are you married, Mr. Stewart?" Hey, a dose of downright, obvious flirting couldn't hurt, right?
He gave a peek of a smile and glanced away, as if my question embarrassed him. "Um, no, I'm divorced."
"Oh, that must've been so hard. I'm very sorry. I've never been married."
"That surprises me." He wiggled his tie knot again. "You're beautiful."
"Oh, aren't you sweet? Thank you. I guess I've been waiting for the right man to come along. You know, someone smart and with a great sense of civic duty."
Color rose up his neck. "I've been meaning to get better acquainted with the town. Maybe when you have some free time?"
I hoped my surprise didn't show on my face. "Yes, I'd love that. As to the security tape?"
He jumped up and hit his knee on the underside of his desk. "Yes, of course. One second." He raced behind the teller area and into a room in the back. The teller was still helping the customer.
I stood and paced the front of his desk. Through the large windows, I spotted Officer Fred Fields. He was across the street, walking toward the bakery, probably needing his daily fix. Crap. I couldn't have him seeing me like this. There'd be too many questions, and then I'd never get the tape.
Come on…come on. I willed Mr. Stewart to hurry the heck up.
Fred pulled on the bakery door, oblivious to the
Closed
sign I'd hung. Two good yanks, and he stopped, dropped his hand, and just stood there.
It's closed. Leave. Hurry up.
Finally Mr. Stewart emerged from the back with a disc in his hand. He brought it over with a big smile on his face.
Fred turned his back to the bakery and started to leave. He walked in the opposite direction of the bank, but his steps were slow, and he could turn around at any moment.
When Mr. Stewart was within my reach, I snatched the DVD from his fingers. "Sorry, I'm in a rush. Thank you." I briskly walked to the glass doors, wanting to get the heck out of here.
"Um, what about the sightseeing?" Mr. Stewart asked.
"I'll call you," I said over my shoulder.
When I reached the sidewalk, I held the DVD up, covering my profile, and hurried around the building to Tara's car. I slipped into the passenger seat and slid as low as I could. "Do you see Fred?"
She looked left to right. "No, you're clear."
I pulled the hat and wig from my head and tore off the light-blue shirt, popping a button in the process. I wore a pink tank top underneath. "Get the player."
She reached into the backseat and grabbed her portable DVD player. She inserted the disc and fast-forwarded to that afternoon.
We spent several minutes trying to locate the right moment. Eventually we found it and watched the mob enter the bakery. It looked like a herd, much like it had felt at the time. Then Nathan arrived.
Tara fast-forwarded it again, and I stopped it when everyone left. One or two people at a time trickled out. Nathan never left. We watched it until Elizabeth Ashby left with the cinnamon muffin she'd bought that day, and then Amber and Mrs. Hendrickson. I rewound it a second time, and we watched again. I stared at everyone's feet and hands, hoping to catch a glimpse of gloves or those moccasins, but the crowd was too thick, and a few DC residents chose to use the ATM machine, blocking the view at various moments.
"Nothing," I said with a sigh.