Chapter
Eight
Corbin was waiting outside Bradfordwood’s gate for Willow when she left for work the following morning, as promised.
“I was more comfortable with you when you were thoroughly evil,” she murmured darkly as she drove past his Navigator.
When they arrived at the inn, everything was as it should be. Even so, Corbin insisted on staying while she prepared and served breakfast. He cleaned up after her in the kitchen while keeping an eye on the inn’s parking lot through the window over the sink.
She was just about to put her foot down and demand he leave when more of her fans appeared. Corbin immediately called the police. Then he talked her into printing the inn’s logo and each registered guest’s last name onto blue pieces of paper that the guests could place on the dashboard of their cars. That way, he reasoned, they and the police could determine at a glance which of the cars in the inn’s parking lot were legit and which were suspect.
Corbin Stewart was no stranger to fame. No stranger to protecting privacy.
“You’re not my director of security,” Willow said to him as he aligned the blue papers into a neat stack. She felt a little guilty for failing to inject sting into her words. Sting would be safest. She was letting herself down by failing to inject sting. Yet he was being so decent this morning that she couldn’t quite manage it.
“You have no director of security,” he said. “Which concerns me.”
“The police are on it.”
“The police aren’t always nearby.”
Once the inn had been put back to rights after breakfast service, Willow prepared to leave.
“I’d like to stay a little longer,” Corbin said. He sat at the kitchen computer, one foot set on the opposite knee, his wide back leaning against the desk chair.
“I can’t stay. I’m meeting Melinda for lunch.”
“I’ll stay without you.”
“Oh. Ah . . .”
“Afraid I’ll steal the silver?”
“Very afraid.” If he was half as good at stealing silver as he was at stealing hearts, then none of the inn’s treasures were secure.
“I’ll keep out of sight back here. I won’t steal the silver, and I won’t eat the leftover French toast. But I will call the police if I see any trespassers.”
In the end, she let him stay. If he wanted to donate his time to watch over the inn, what was it to her? She wouldn’t be here. And if she wasn’t in proximity to him, she wasn’t susceptible to his appeal.
“I’m interested in Josephine’s charm bracelet,” Willow said to Melinda.
The two of them were ensconced in Melinda’s restaurant of choice, the dining room at her country club. Plates of salad and glasses of iced tea rested before them. Beyond the window adjacent to their table, rain fell steadily over outdoor tennis courts devoid of players.
“Josephine received that charm bracelet as a high school graduation gift from our mother’s parents,” Melinda said.
“Did she add each charm individually?”
“Do you think you can tell me the significance of each charm?”
“I can try.”
Willow consulted the photograph she’d taken of the bracelet. “Sand dollar.”
“Our aunt and uncle have a beach house in California. Our family used to spend time there every summer. Josephine loved it. It was one of her favorite places.”
Willow took notes on her phone. “Cross.”
Melinda had just taken a bite of salad and held up a finger while she chewed. After swallowing, she dabbed her lips with her napkin. “Josephine became a Christian when she was around ten. There were times when she seemed strong in her faith and times when she seemed to drift. But, overall, her faith was important to her.”
“The Liberty Bell.”
“Hmm.” Melinda appeared to think it over. “I don’t know.”
“Heart lock?”
“Perhaps Alan gave that to her as a gift at some point?”
“Eiffel Tower?”
“Josephine studied abroad in France one summer during college.”
When they’d covered all the charms, Willow set her phone aside. “I wanted to ask you about the Polaroid pictures inside Josephine’s box of the inside of Josephine’s car. Charlotte said that Alan had taken them.”
“Yes.” Melinda zipped up her Nike jacket. “When Josephine didn’t come home in time for dinner the day she disappeared, Alan went out looking for her. He drove around town until he found her car, parked across from Penny’s Diner. He went inside Penny’s, expecting her to be there. But, of course, she wasn’t.”
“When we had lunch at your house, you said that Josephine met with Paula the morning of the day she vanished.”
“Right.”
“And they met because Josephine was rumored to have been having an affair with Paula’s husband.”
“Yes. They met at Columbine Park. Paula and Keith’s son was around three at the time. I think Paula asked Josephine to meet her there because she didn’t want Keith to know about the meeting, and she was hoping the playground equipment would occupy her son while she and Josephine talked.”
“So at some point after Josephine left the park, she drove to Penny’s Diner.”
“That’s right.”
“And no one who worked at Penny’s or near Penny’s saw her that day?”
“No one.”
“And no one knows why she parked there.”
“No one knows. When Alan didn’t find Josephine inside Penny’s, he assumed she was shopping nearby. He couldn’t find her, though, in any of the stores. So he decided to search the Pacific Dogwood Trail. Are you familiar with that trail?”
“No.” Nora’s mother had been killed while walking alone on a park trail. Her death had scarred Willow’s dad, and for as long as Willow could remember, he’d been very protective of his daughters. He’d never allowed his girls to go hiking unless in a large group, which had been fine with Willow. After what had happened to Nora’s mom, she’d never been eager to strike off solo down a wilderness path.
“There’s an easy loop at the base of the Pacific Dogwood Trail,” Melinda explained. “A few longer, more difficult hikes branch off from that, but it seemed unlikely to Alan that Josephine would have taken any of those, so he stuck to the loop.”
“Why did it seem unlikely that she’d have branched off?”
“Because she’d left the house that morning wearing a casual dress and sandals that had a little bit of a heel to them.”
It didn’t sound as though Josephine had been planning on hiking. Willow jotted more notes. “Did Alan take the Polaroids after he completed the trail?”
“Yes. By the time he finished the trail, it was around seven thirty p.m. and the sun was starting to set. He was really worried, so he went home, got his camera, and raced back to her car to take pictures.”
“Why did he want to take pictures?”
“I believe he wanted to show them to the police. After he took them, he drove to the police station.”
“If he gave them to the police, then why aren’t they still in the possession of the police?”
“I have no idea.” Melinda scooted her plate a few inches away.
“In one of the Polaroids, I saw that Josephine’s keys were tucked under the floor mat. Did she usually leave her keys in that spot?”
“Not that I can remember. She was a practical person, and leaving your keys in your car for anyone to find isn’t practical.”
Willow sampled some of her salad, thinking through everything Melinda had told her. “I read a thank-you card from Jeremy to Josephine. Who’s Jeremy?”
“Do you remember me mentioning that one of Josephine’s patients at the treatment center became a suspect in her disappearance?”
Willow nodded.
“That’s Jeremy. He was a troubled young man a few years younger than Josephine.” She made a shooing motion with her hand. “Yes, he was released a few weeks before Josephine disappeared. Yes, he had a crush on Josephine. But I never thought he had anything to do with what happened to my sister. He was with his mother on April twelfth. He had an alibi.”
Mothers sometimes lied to protect their children. Willow set her fork aside carefully.
“I love Charlotte,” Melinda said. “I’m glad to see her take initiative on something. . . . I just wish, I really wish, it wasn’t this.”
“I know,” Willow said. And she did. She understood. “A science fair project about whales is probably more Charlotte’s speed.”
“Exactly. A science fair project on whales would be a lot less troubling and would give Charlotte a far greater chance at success.”
“She’s passionately focused on this case,” Willow said.
Melinda rolled her lips inward. “That’s just how Josephine used to get, too. Passionately focused. Once Josephine set her mind to something, no one could talk her out of it. She was as persistent as the day was long.” She paused. “Which might have been her undoing.”
Later in the day, when Willow returned to the Inn at Bradfordwood to make cookies and lattes and check in two new sets of guests, she found Corbin inside the inn’s kitchen. He informed her that more of her fans had arrived during her absence and that he’d called the police.
Cody’s tweet had been deleted less than twenty-four hours after it had gone up. Still, there was no chance of putting the cat back in the bag. Some of the people who’d seen Cody’s tweet announcing her location had retweeted the information to their followers. And some of their followers had taken the news to other social media sites.
Her whereabouts were only of interest to a small group of her most rabid supporters. A much smaller subset of that group lived near Merryweather. And a much smaller subset of that group had taken the initiative to journey to the inn. Still, that final group was sizable enough to have created a recurring issue.
The next day, Thursday, followed an almost identical pattern. Corbin accompanied her to the inn that morning. Three of her supporters made an appearance during the day. He called the station each time. The police responded quickly, and on every occasion, escorted her fans from the inn’s property peacefully.
When she pulled out of Bradfordwood’s gate on Friday morning, she found the street empty of Corbin. It appeared that he’d finally grown bored and come to the (justified) realization that he had better things to do with his time than keep an eye on her and her inn.
Several seconds passed as she looked both ways for a gray Navigator. Nope. He wasn’t coming.
She turned her Range Rover onto the road and told herself she should be relieved that Corbin hadn’t shown. Having him in her space at the inn, having to look at him every time she turned around, talk to him, smell his soap . . . it had muddled her head.
However, relief was not what she felt in response to his absence. Instead, she almost felt . . . sorry?
It dawned on her that she’d been looking forward to seeing him. She hadn’t meant to! But the evidence was in the extra time she’d spent doing her hair and choosing today’s long white top, scarf, leggings, boots, jacket.
She groaned.
What was she doing? Over the past few days, she’d allowed Corbin to involve himself in her fan situation. She’d allowed him to wash her breakfast dishes, joke with her, and call the police for her.
She needed her emotional soldiers, the ones who’d always protected her. She needed them back at their posts immediately. What was that term? Stat? Stat, soldiers! Back at your posts!
When she reached the inn’s parking lot, she was encouraged to see that every car in the lot had a blue paper with the inn’s logo printed on it lying on its dash.
She walked to the back of her SUV and was lifting the box of croissants she’d picked up at the Edge of the Woods bakery from her trunk when she heard the sound of tires crunching gravel.
Corbin? She leaned back to get a look at the approaching car.
Not Corbin.
The car appeared to be a Mitsubishi that had been souped-up. Its paint job was reminiscent of The Fast and the Furious. No blue paper on its dash.
She quickly closed her trunk and began walking along the path to the inn, carrying the box of croissants.
“Willow!” a man’s voice called. “Willow Bradford.”
She glanced back.
A tall, heavy-set young guy—this must be the one Corbin had said weighed three twenty—hurried toward her. He had olive skin, a shaved head, a goatee, dark eyes. “Hold up a second,” he shouted.
Willow’s lungs tightened. “Sorry, this isn’t a good time. I’m in a rush.” She walked as rapidly as she could in her high-heeled boots. Please, Lord, let him respond respectfully and leave.
He didn’t. Fast, heavy footsteps approached as he jogged in her direction. “I’m one of your biggest fans.”
“Thanks, but I’ve got to get to work.”
“It’ll just take a minute.”
The polite part of her chafed at the prospect of avoiding interaction with him. But the cautious, experienced part of her knew better. This guy hadn’t left the property on Tuesday morning when Corbin had asked him to go. And now he’d returned to the inn even though the police had given him a warning when they’d ushered him off. He was stubborn, he was trespassing on her land, and he was three times her size.
He came to a stop a few yards in front of her on the path. His shortcut across the grounds had positioned him between her and the inn.
He’d cut off her escape route.
Willow halted and tried to master the fear beginning to course through her.
“Willow, hey. I’m really glad to finally meet you.” He was out of breath because of his sprint. “I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time. My name’s Todd.”
He had no sense of boundaries and was overly persistent, but those faults didn’t have to mean he was dangerous. She straightened tall. “Todd, I really need to get to work inside.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. I won’t keep you, I just . . . I’m a big fan. A huge fan. I really need a picture with you.”
“Someone recently took a photo of me without my permission and posted it to social media. It’s caused me and the Merryweather police quite a bit of difficulty. I don’t want my presence in Merryweather to become a public thing.”
“I get it. But this’ll just take a second. I won’t say anything on social media about where you are.”
“If I allow you one picture will you go?”
“Yes.”
“And you won’t disclose my location?”
“No.” One of his hands started to rattle nervously at his side.
Grimly, she nodded her permission. He leaned in and took a selfie of them.
“Now if you’ll just let me pass by—”
“Willow, this one’s not very good.” He held up his cell phone. “Can we take a few more?”
“You agreed to one. Please let me pass.”
He gave her a victimized look, as if she were the one who was out of line. “I’m not asking that much of you. I drove a long way to get here, and I’ve been waiting a couple of days for this, so let’s try a few more.” Rising determination underscored his words. “Some video footage would be good, too.”
Anxiety seized Willow. She’d had to deal with people like Todd a few times over the years. No matter what you gave them, they wanted more.
She shot a glance over her shoulder toward her car. Should she run in that direction? Or should she try to make it to the inn? She was almost positive that he could outrun her before she could reach the safety of either place. She had pepper spray in her purse. If she dropped the croissant box and reached into her purse, would she be able to find her pepper spray quickly enough?
She looked him in the eye. “The answer’s no,” she said as confidently as she could. “I’m going inside now.”
Every trace of friendliness drained from Todd’s face, revealing features stark with anger. He raised his phone and began videoing her. “You seem nice in interviews, Willow. Was that just an act? Are you nice? Be nice and let me take a few more pictures of us.”
She walked around him toward the inn. As she did so, his hand shot out to grab her. Willow side-stepped, just escaping his reach. Panic burst through her and she ran—
He lunged and caught her forearm.
The box fell to the earth. She twisted her arm from his grasp and bolted toward her car. She thrust her hand into her purse for her pepper spray. Where was her pepper spray? The toe of her boot struck a root, and she went sprawling forward through empty air. She landed hard on her hands and knees, heartbeat hammering.
“I was just reaching out to position you for a picture,” Todd spat. Distantly, she heard a car door slam. The crunching of twigs and leaves. “You didn’t have to make me lose my temper.” He leaned over her, reached down—
In the next instant, Todd was wrenched away. She looked up to see Corbin standing in the gap between herself and Todd.
“Back off,” Corbin growled.
Todd staggered back a few feet.
Corbin helped her—lifted her, really—to her feet. “Are you okay?” He scanned her face.
She couldn’t remember ever being this glad to see someone familiar. “I’m okay.”
Corbin released her and turned back to Todd.
“Who do you think you are?” Todd snarled at Corbin. His eyes roiled with adrenaline and wrath.
“I’m Corbin Stewart, you jerk. Get off Willow’s property.”
Todd advanced. “I just wanted a few pictures and some video with her.”
“And you wouldn’t take no for an answer?” Corbin asked.
“I wasn’t asking for much—”
“Back off,” Corbin warned. When Todd continued to approach, Corbin shoved him in the chest.
Todd came up swinging with both fists. Corbin arched out of the way, then threw a punch with his left hand. Thud. He connected squarely with Todd’s jaw. Todd faltered, then ran at Corbin as if to tackle him. Corbin bent at the legs and stopped Todd’s progress by burying his shoulder and upper arm into Todd’s midsection.
A sickening tearing sound rent the air.
Corbin drove Todd back until the younger man landed on the ground with a crash. Corbin stood, holding his own right shoulder, body taut with fury. “Get. Off. Willow’s. Property.”
He’d hurt his shoulder, Willow realized with dismay. Because of the angle at which Todd had barreled forward, Corbin had used his right side to stop him. That tearing sound had come from Corbin’s healing shoulder.
Todd attempted to clamber up. Slipped back. Finally made it to standing. His chest heaved. “I’ll sue you for that,” he told Corbin.
“Be my guest. I have an excellent team of lawyers.”
The two men faced off. Please don’t fight anymore. Please. Too much damage had been done as it was. Corbin’s shoulder had already been surgically repaired twice.
Todd stalked to his car, cursing with every step.
Corbin remained exactly where he was, attention trained on Todd. “Can you get a picture of his license plate?”
Willow just managed to capture a photo of Todd’s car before it disappeared from sight. Then she faced Corbin, feeling disheveled and shaky. Numb and at the same time acutely sensitive. “You injured your shoulder.”
He gave a curt nod.
“How badly?”
“I’m not sure. Did he hurt you?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
She explained the exchange between herself and Todd. “He grabbed my arm, and I yanked it out of his grip. I was running to my car when I tripped. That’s when you arrived.”
“Let me see your arm.”
With hands that weren’t quite steady, she straightened her scarf and shirt.
“Let me see,” he said.
She paused. Then pushed up her sleeve. An angry red ring encircled her forearm.
Corbin’s tight countenance remained the same, except for his eyes. They turned positively murderous. He’d bent his right arm in, against his abdomen. He reached out with his left hand and turned her palm faceup. A few light scratches marred the skin. Gently, he brushed dirt from her palm with his thumb. He lifted her other hand and did the same.
She couldn’t breathe. Her mind was a calamity.
To be touched by him again was delight. And torture. He wasn’t trying to seduce her. He was simply brushing dirt off her hands. Yet the simple contact contained the force of a hurricane.
This is unsafe, her intuition murmured. The warning was sluggish, however. This is unsafe, she told herself more insistently and stepped back. She tried to push her hands into her pockets only to remember she was wearing leggings under her long shirt. She set her hands on her hips. “We need to get your shoulder taken care of.”
“Probably.”
“Should I call an ambulance?”
“No.”
“Then where do I need to take you? The hospital?”
“The rehab center, if Dr. Wallace is there today. I’ll call.”
“I’m going to run inside the inn real quick. Then I’ll meet you at my car.”
Willow retrieved the box of croissants, which sat intact on the ground, lid closed, without even a dent. She deposited them on the inn’s kitchen counter and called Britt to ask if she could take over breakfast duty at the inn. Britt said she’d be there within fifteen minutes.
“Dr. Wallace is on his way to the rehab center,” Corbin told her as she neared her car. “They’re expecting me.”
An injury to the Super Bowl–winning body of Dr. Wallace’s most famous patient? You better believe they’d be expecting him when he arrived.
“I also called the police,” he said. “When you have time, they want to talk to you about what happened. You should press charges.”
Willow opened the passenger door for him. He took a seat, his right arm still motionless against his side. She grabbed his seat belt and passed it to his left hand.
Willow started the engine and steered them toward the road. “Are you in pain?”
“Not much.”
She peeked at him. His face was pale, and he was clenching his jaw. “I don’t believe you.”
“It’s not bad.” He gave a sardonic smile. “So long as I don’t move.”
“How long has it been since your first surgery?”
“Ten months. I had the first surgery back in Dallas in January.”
“And the second surgery?”
“The beginning of June.”
“Why did you need a second surgery?”
For a moment, no sound other than the hum of the engine filled the car. Corbin shifted in his seat, trying to adjust his large frame into a more comfortable position. “My orthopedic doctors in Dallas wanted to try to save the humerus bone and the shoulder socket, so they used a metal plate and twelve screws to piece it all back together.”
Willow had yet to break a single bone.
“After the surgery, my right arm didn’t heal like it should have. It ached all the time. I had limited range of motion. After four months of therapy, the doctors decided I needed a second surgery. This time, they wanted to cut the bone off here.” With a flat palm, he indicated a mark halfway between his elbow and shoulder.
“They decided they couldn’t save the bone, after all,” Willow said.
“Right. They wanted to do something called a reverse total shoulder replacement.”
“Were the doctors in Dallas wrong initially? To try to save the bone?”
“No, I don’t think so. The theory is that it’s best to try to save the bone if it can be saved. Ordinarily, the first surgery works.”
“But yours didn’t.”
“Mine didn’t. Then again, I’ve never been ordinary.”
“Don’t feel obligated to joke with me while you’re in pain, Corbin.”
“I’m not trying to joke. I’m trying to flirt with you.”
“As you well know, flirting’s against the rules.” A silver Honda pulled out in front of her. “Excuse me, Honda, but I’m right here.”
“Did you just talk to that car?”
“Did you call Dr. Wallace after you found out you needed the second surgery?”
“Yes. Dr. Wallace works on a lot of players. He’s operated on a few of my buddies over the years with good results. So I came to Washington and, after the surgery, to Shore Pine.”
“With a bionic shoulder.”
He nodded.
It went unsaid that up until today, his recovery had been going well.
Willow steeled herself against a wave of regret. Corbin’s confrontation with Todd had happened fast. She hadn’t known what to say or do from the moment Corbin had pulled Todd away from her. Perhaps if she’d tried to reason with Todd or drawn Corbin away from him the outcome would have been different.
“I wish I’d been on time this morning,” he said. “Something came up at home, and I was late getting to Bradfordwood to meet you.”
“I assumed you weren’t coming.”
“I drove straight to the inn because I knew I was too late to meet you at Bradfordwood. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when Todd showed up.”
“I’m sorry about your shoulder.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Thank you for . . . defending me.” The words sounded overly formal.
“You’re welcome. That was the same guy I dealt with earlier in the week.”
“I figured.”
At a stoplight, she looked across at him. He’d tipped up his chin, the back of his skull against the headrest. His eyes were closed.
Her vision skimmed from his jaw to his collarbone. His neck looked both strong and, in that position, vulnerable.
“I have a favor to ask of you,” Corbin said.
She refrained from pointing out that asking her for favors was a violation of the rules. “Okay.”
“It involves my dad. He lives with me.”
His dad? “When I came by your house the other day I didn’t see anyone else,” she said.
“He was at therapy that morning. I can’t remember how much I told you about him when we were dating.”
“Not much.”
“I’ve never told anyone much about him.”
The light turned green. As she continued in the direction of Shore Pine, she reached back in her memory for the information he’d given her about his father. “You told me that your dad worked at one of the auto plants in Detroit.”
“Yes.”
“I know that your mom left him when you were what? Six?”
“Five.”
“I know that your dad was a single parent and that he faced some struggles. But I never could get you to go into detail about what he’d struggled with exactly.”
“Bipolar disorder.”
Willow’s breath released gradually.
“I’ve always tried to protect his privacy.” Corbin gave a muffled grunt as he tried again to find a comfortable position. If she had to guess, “comfortable” wasn’t going to be an option for Corbin until someone gave him pain meds.
“The year I signed with the Mustangs,” he said, “I moved my dad out of Detroit and bought him a house in his hometown of South Haven, Michigan. I wanted him to relax and enjoy his retirement. For ten years, he did great. He felt good. He was surrounded by friends and family. He played golf every chance he got. He worked a few hours a week at the YMCA as a referee.”
“What changed?”
“Three years ago, he was diagnosed with multiple myeloma. Have you heard of it?”
“Yes. Cancer of the plasma cells in bone marrow. It’s incurable, and the typical life span is around five years. Some patients live quite a bit longer than that, though. I wanted him to have access to the best doctors, so I moved him to Dallas to live with me.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Physically, he’s doing okay, considering that he takes a few dozen pills every day and goes in for treatments once a month. He’s tired a lot.”
They were just minutes from Shore Pine. Since she couldn’t see a single car in her rearview mirror, she twisted to face him at the next stop sign. “What’s the favor you need me to do?”
He stared at her levelly across the close space between the seats. “My dad’s expecting me back at the house soon, so I’m going to have to call him and tell him about my shoulder. When I do, he’s going to want to come to the rehab center right away.”
She dipped her chin.
“He doesn’t drive. I had to take away his car keys a while back.”
“Do you need for me to pick him up?”
“I do.”
“All right.”
“Do you remember how to get to my house?”
“I think so. If I get confused I’ll pull up directions on my phone.”
Solemnity settled into the contours of his face. “I’m not sure how he’ll be, with you.”
She could see that he hated that he’d had to tell her as much as he had, that he’d been forced to ask for her help. Corbin frowned. “Maybe this isn’t the best idea. Maybe I could ask my neighbor—”
“Your house is just a few miles from the rehab center. As soon as I drop you off, I’ll go get your dad. I’ll bring him to the center. It’ll be fine.”
Several beats of silence.
“His name’s Joe,” Corbin said. “I’ll tell him you’re coming.”
Excerpt from report filed by Child Protective Services employee, April 18, 1992, Detroit, Michigan:
I responded to a phone call from a Mrs. Adele Carter regarding alleged neglect of her son’s friend, Corbin Stewart, age nine.
Corbin banged on Mrs. Carter’s door yesterday afternoon to tell her that his father was unconscious and to ask for her help. Upon arriving at the condo of Joe and Corbin Stewart, Mrs. Carter found Joe, age forty, unresponsive. Mrs. Carter called an ambulance, contacted Corbin’s grandmother by phone, then drove Corbin to the hospital. It was later determined by hospital staff that Joe, who has a history of mental illness, had overdosed on benzodiazepines, which are typically prescribed for the treatment of anxiety and insomnia. Joe is expected to recover fully.
Mrs. Carter suspects that Joe is neglecting Corbin’s care. The Stewart home is in fair condition and does not give evidence of neglect. I spoke with Joe, who assured me that he cares for his son, that this was an isolated event triggered by his bipolar disorder, and that he regrets it deeply. He has agreed to seek treatment.
I met with Corbin privately. He told me that his father meets his needs, and he insists on remaining with Joe.
I classify this case as low risk and will follow up with Joe Stewart in ten days.