“Jake, you do not have to pay for Johnny O’Reilly’s lunch.”
“I don’t want you to be out the money. I’ll talk to him. Tell him not to come back unless he intends to pay.”
“You’re not going to arrest him?”
He looked uncomfortable. “You could press charges. I’d really rather you didn’t. I mean, he’s an old man. He probably doesn’t have the money.”
It was at that exact moment that Tara realized that she’d fallen for Jake. He was a tough guy who knew how to use a gun and thwart the bad guys but he also had a good soul, a kind heart.
“Johnny isn’t stealing from me.”
“I saw him, Tara.”
“Johnny worked his whole life as a hired hand on several of the local dairy farms. He milked cows. That is until his arthritis got so bad that he had to retire. But there was no pension. No 401(k). Not even Social Security. He worked for cash. The good news is that he didn’t pay taxes on his income. The bad news is that he didn’t pay taxes on his income. He never contributed into the system. So now he lives off his small savings. That’s it.”
“How do you know all that?”
“Janet told me. Of course, it took me three months to get the whole story out of her. She’s not exactly a gossip.”
“That would require talking,” Jake drawled.
Tara laughed, glad that Jake had relaxed. “Once I figured out what was going on, I realized why there were days on end that Mr. O’Reilly would just order milk. Nothing else. He only had so much money to spend for the month, and when he was out he just stopped eating.”
“That’s horrible,” Jake exclaimed, looking appalled. “Surely there are resources, even in Wyattville, that can help him.”
“There are. But he’s a proud man.”
“But yet he’s letting you help him?”
“Oh, I’m not helping him. We have a deal.”
“Tara, the man can barely get around. What kind of help can he be?”
“See those flowers on the tables?” Tara pointed to the small sprig of flowers carefully arranged in the inexpensive glass vases that sat on each of the tables. “That’s his work. And he does all my window displays. I have the best holiday decorations of any merchant.”
“I don’t get it. How did you know that a seventy-year-old farm hand could do that type of work?”
“Watch him. He never sits down that he doesn’t pull out his pencil and start drawing on his place mat. And his pencil always has a sharp point, just so. The man is an artist.”
* * *
F
IVE MINUTES LATER
Jake sat in his squad car, waiting for the air conditioner to kick in.
The man is an artist.
Jake had seen the old man doodling. It hadn’t meant anything to him. But Tara had looked deeper. Who the hell was this woman who could look into a person’s soul? And what did she see when she looked into his?
He was pondering that when his radio cracked to life. “Vehicle accident. Corner of Third and Flatbush.” Lori Mae was calm but evidently determined when she added, “Chief, did you get that?” she prodded.
“Injuries?” he asked as he flipped on his lights and siren.
“None reported.”
When he got to the scene, he saw that it was a one-car accident. A late-model Jeep had smashed into a telephone pole, denting the front end. The driver was still in the car, arms braced on the steering wheel, head bent.
He parked, got out, and was six feet away when he realized it was Madeline Fenton. He crouched next to the vehicle. The impact had either not been severe enough to activate the airbags or they weren’t working. “Madeline,” he said. “It’s Chief Vernelli. Are you okay?”
She turned her head, blinked her green eyes and smiled. “I’ve had better days, I guess.”
He did not see any signs of obvious injuries. No facial lacerations or bruising. She was wearing a seat belt.
“What happened?”
She smiled again. “A cat ran out in front of me. I couldn’t hit it, could I?”
He stood up and stepped back from the car. There were no skid marks to indicate an attempt to stop suddenly. Maybe she hadn’t been going very fast. He opened the car door. “Let’s get you out of there.”
She swung her legs to the side and there was a lot of leg—she had on a very short dress. She stood, swayed, and he reached out to steady her. She grabbed his shoulders for support. “I think I might have bumped my head,” she said.
“Do you want to seek medical care?” he asked.
She put her hand on his chest. “Oh, that’s not necessary. I’m not going to get a ticket or anything, am I?”
He could write a citation. There was always something that a cop could come up with. Failure to stop to avoid an accident. Distracted driving. But what would be the point? “No. I will complete a report, however. You’ll probably need that for your insurance company.”
“You wouldn’t mind giving me a ride home?” she asked. “I don’t really feel up to driving right now.”
It was a little beyond the call of duty and in truth, Madeline made him uneasy. There was something about her that wasn’t quite right. But he’d become friends with the Fentons over the course of the past couple weeks as he’d helped build the shed. They’d be disappointed in him if he didn’t offer some basic assistance. He’d drive her home and they could take over.
Her car was far enough off the road that it wouldn’t impede traffic. Might produce lots of speculation but the town probably needed something new to talk about. “Okay. Lock your car. I’m sure your dad can bring you back later for it.”
She smiled and hung on to his arm as he walked her to the car. He opened the door and as she got in, her dress slid up, leaving not much to the imagination.
And his heart rate didn’t so much as speed up. What the hell was wrong with him? She was single, attractive and obviously uninhibited. It could be some rocking sweet sex.
But…but she wasn’t Tara.
He glanced at Madeline and was grateful to see that she was leaning her head back and had her eyes closed. The ride took seven minutes. When they arrived, she waited for him to open her car door.
“Feeling okay?” he asked.
“Maybe a little unsteady,” she said, holding tight to his arm. Her body was close—close enough that he could feel her breast pressing against his arm. He edged away, she closed the gap, and he started to get a real bad feeling.
She opened the front door and the interior of the house was quiet and dark. She shrugged off her shoes. “Can I get you something to drink?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I need to be going. Where are your parents?” It seemed like a ridiculous question to be asking a grown woman, but he really wanted to see Alice and Henry come around the corner and relieve him of this burden.
“I’m not sure,” she said. She sank down on the couch and patted the spot next to her. “Have a seat.”
The bad feeling was getting worse. He’d known that she was mean-spirited and a little narcissistic from talking with her, but this was proof that she had a screw loose. Had she really dented her car just so that he’d bring her home?
“I’m leaving,” he said.
“But my head…” She put out her lower lip, like a pouting child.
“Is fine. Look, Madeline. I’m not interested.” He could do this in a nice way. “You’re a very beautiful woman and some guy would be lucky to have you but I’m not that guy.”
Her pout turned into an ugly sneer. “So my mother was right. You’re sharing more than a ride with Tara. Sweet, sweet Tara. We love her like a daughter, Tara.”
She stood up and strode angrily to the door. Suddenly her balance was just fine. She flung it open. “Let’s be clear about this.
I’m
the one kicking you out.
I’m
in charge.”
He was on the porch when she added, “You know she’s not really…”
She stopped, with what appeared to be a visible effort.
Really what?
It galled him that he wanted to beg this woman who was nuttier than a Christmas fruitcake to finish her sentence. He was so damn hungry to know everything, to have answers. He stood perfectly still. Unwilling to ask. Unwilling to walk away.
“…perfect,” Madeline said, almost spitting the word. “Not. Really. Perfect,” she repeated before she slammed the door in his face.
* * *
A
FTER LUNCH
, Tara walked over to the bank, as she did most days. Usually she went later in the day to make her afternoon deposit. Today, she went straight to the lobby where they kept their ATM and a pay telephone. The lobby was empty because most of the people in Wyattville still preferred to go to a teller. They could get their check cashed and pass a little time with a friend or a neighbor.
She needed to call Michael’s office. Not to talk to him. Just to find out if he was there. That would be enough. She’d have to be careful. He’d have a different secretary. A new one came every few months. This one, like the rest, would be young, probably blonde and eager to please. She’d be absolutely thrilled to be working for one of the partners. She’d be well-groomed, her speech perfect. And she’d know how to screen the calls.
But Tara knew the secret. She’d give her a false name, something nonmemorable. And then tell the young woman that she was interested in having Michael champion a local charity. It wouldn’t matter which one. The secretary would know—any call that held the promise of revenue or good publicity would merit meticulous handling. Once Michael answered, she’d hang up. If he wasn’t there, then she would know. She would know that what she suspected was true. He was closing in.
Tara dialed the old, still-familiar number. She wrapped her fingers in the telephone cord, waiting for the secretary to answer. On the fifth ring, she got her wish.
“Masterly and Associates,” the young voice said.
“Michael Masterly, please.” Tara took a breath, hating the shrillness of her voice.
“May I ask who is calling?”
“Certainly. My name is Mary Johnson. I’m calling to see if Mr. Masterly might be interested in being the chairperson for our annual fundraising campaign for the cancer society.”
“I see. And when does your campaign kick off?”
The woman’s voice had warmed about 180 degrees. She’d obviously read her employee handbook.
“Next month. I was hoping to talk to him this week.”
“I’m sorry. Mr. Masterly’s out of town. He is calling in for messages.”
Out of town. Michael wasn’t at the office. Michael, who never went anywhere, was not in the office. “Uh, yes. That would be fine. Actually, I’ll just send him some material in the mail. Thank you.”
Tara gently returned the receiver to its holder. She looked over her shoulder, half expecting Michael to be behind her, watching her. But the room was empty.
Tara paced around the small lobby, knowing that she couldn’t stay there forever. She needed to get back to the restaurant. There was still two hours of business left.
Act normal.
It was getting harder and harder by the day.
Michael had found her. She was sure of it. He’d thrown the baseball through her window. And he’d almost hit her with the car. And when she’d come home from the picnic and thought someone was in her house, she hadn’t been crazy.
He’d set her garage on fire and then he’d gotten tired of playing with her and taken the most aggressive action of all. He’d found a way to lure her away from her safe places—her restaurant and her home. But he’d needed help. She had no idea who the man in the pickup truck had been. Maybe someone Michael knew. Maybe someone he’d picked up along the way and it had been strictly a fee-for-service agreement.
Pick her up, get her into the house and take the money and run.
Jim Waller had somehow become a part of it. Why, she had no idea. But there was no other explanation that made sense.
Michael was probably watching her, waiting for her to try to run again. But this time she wasn’t running. She’d left her life once, she couldn’t do it again. She needed to fight back.
And an hour later, when Jim Waller sat down at the counter and ordered his afternoon pie, Tara fired the first shot.
“Jim, I was wondering if you’d be interested in trying dinner again?” Tara asked.
“I… That would be fine.”
“I thought we might do something simple. How about we grill steaks at my place tomorrow night? I know it’s short notice, but I’m hoping you won’t be busy.”
“I’m not busy,” he said quickly. “That would be fine. Can I bring something?”
Well-mannered scum. “A bottle of red wine would be great.” Maybe she’d crack it over his head. “I’ll see you then.”
Chapter Fifteen
That night, Tara flipped pork chops, sticking a fork into one of them, to test for doneness. Dinner would be ready in just a few minutes. She’d offered to cook while Jake showered. It wasn’t because she felt obligated to feed her houseguest. No. She needed time alone, time to think.
Tara watched the flames underneath the fry pan, knowing that she was playing with fire. Waller was her link to Michael. And she intended to get some answers. Telling Jake about the dinner would be tricky. She knew he’d be angry, probably think she was a fool. She couldn’t tell him the truth. Not yet. Maybe after she had the information from Waller? Then she would let Jake help her.
Jake was finished with his shower and back in the kitchen before she had the bread cut. He took the knife from her, sliced the bread, buttered both sides and wrapped it in aluminum foil to warm it in the oven. Then he poured glasses of wine for both of them.
He had on jeans and a T-shirt. His feet were bare. He looked comfortable—like he’d been living in her house and eating dinner with her every day of his life.
She, on the other hand, was a bundle of nerves. She put the food on serving plates and set them on the table. They sat down, she passed the potatoes, and dropped her bombshell. “I’m sorry for the late notice, but you’re going to have to find something to do tomorrow night. I’m having Jim Waller over for dinner.”
Jake looked at her and very carefully set down the potato bowl. “What did you say?”
“You heard me. Jim’s coming for dinner.”
“Are you insane?” he asked, his voice still calm.
“No. But thanks for asking.” She stabbed her meat.