They’d waited all day Monday for the art professor to call back or email. Then Tuesday. Finally this morning, Marshall had gone into full police mode, deciding enough was enough and declaring his plan to make the four-hour drive up to Minneapolis and get answers.
So here Mara was, sitting beside him in a cramped office on the campus of the University of Minnesota. It smelled of stale coffee and leather. A series of framed watercolors ornamented one wall, and the shelves lining another were crammed with textbooks and sculptures.
Professor Anthony Hodgkins had yet to return after showing them into the space and promising he’d return soon.
“He probably thinks we’re crazy, landing on his doorstep out of the blue like this,” she whispered.
Marshall had his chin on his fist and a faraway look in his eyes. The vinyl-covered chair he sat in was way too small for him and he shifted. His height and breadth made the few college kids they’d passed in the art department hallway look like gangly teens. “It’s not exactly out of the blue considering how many times we tried to contact him.” His tone held the gruffness of a police officer on the trail of a suspect.
But then he lightened just enough to cast her a teasing look. “I showed up on your doorstep unexpectedly and that turned out all well and good, yeah?”
It simply wasn’t fair that such a brief dimpled grin—yes, she’d finally decided those lines under his stubble were dimples—and a wink could turn her palms sweaty and her cheeks warm. “I don’t know if finding a porcelain doll in my bed at night and my shower the next morning counts as ‘well and good.’”
“Sure does to me.” It was practically a drawl.
It’d been like this ever since Sunday. One minute he seemed lost in his own thoughts, distant, focused on work around the Everwood or putting the pieces of Lenora and her parents’ disappearances together. The next, he was lighthearted, even playful. He’d mused endlessly about that hidden room behind the fireplace while they worked—coming up with one entertaining story after another as to why it might be there.
Honestly, he’d begun to remind her a little of Jenessa, a busy bee intent on staying distracted. And it was clear enough now what he was trying to keep from thinking about—a wife who’d walked away, a child who’d died. How did a man ever recover from that?
Maybe he didn’t.
Once or twice on the way to Minnesota she’d started to ask about Laney, but like the intuitive detective he was, he’d seen her questions coming and deflected them with ease.
“I hope we get something out of this trip,” she said now. “We’re giving up a whole day of work.”
“Yeah, but the pest control people are taking care of the carpenter ants today. It’s probably easier to do that without us underfoot anyway.”
He wasn’t wrong. And at least it was only carpenter ants they were dealing with, not termites. With that good news, they’d been able to hire Drew Renwycke to come out later this week to work on the new porch. Mara was pretty sure the man had quoted them a ridiculously low price for the project, but even so, her grant dollars were beginning to dwindle dangerously low.
As were the number of days left before the open house and the city council’s review of their progress. But they were making progress. In just two days, they’d painted all eight guestrooms. Mara had ordered new mattresses and bedding. She’d stuck with neutral colors and simple décor rather than coming up with themes for each room. The house already had plenty of unique features as well as large windows that displayed the outdoor beauty all around. She’d rather skip the kitsch and keep things simple so the Everwood’s natural charm could shine.
Still, for every task they’d accomplished, another three or four popped up. And now that Jenessa’s newspaper article had drummed up local interest, they’d booked a few rooms for early May. Which made everything seem all the more real.
But with the computer from the front desk still in police custody, Mara had been forced to take down reservations by hand and have people mail their deposit checks. Not an effective way to do business. She’d likely need to dip into what meager funds were left to buy a new computer, and she might as well upgrade the system they were using while she was at it and—
“Mara, I can hear the wheels in your brain spinning.” Marshall reached over and squeezed her hand. “Stop worrying. We still have a week and a half until the open house.”
“I should’ve stayed back at the Everwood today. I could’ve gone to the library and worked on our website and Facebook page.”
He gave her a look she couldn’t read. “You said ‘our.’”
Heat traveled up her neck. “I didn’t mean to imply . . . I know you’re not staying indefinitely. But you’ve done so much work. None of it would be possible without you. We’re partners. It’s our project. That’s all I meant. Not, you know, anything else.” Where was the mental spigot to turn off her sputtering words?
“Partners,” he repeated, expression still indecipherable. Still holding her hand.
Which he released a moment later when Anthony Hodgkins reentered the room. The professor looked to be barely thirty, if that. He wore a faded jean jacket over his tee and tan pants. Only the flecks of gray in his goatee kept him from fully fitting in with the students they’d seen spilling from his classroom a few minutes ago.
“Sorry for the wait. I’ve got office hours on Wednesdays after class, so I needed to make sure my TA could cover for me.” He flopped into the chair behind his desk, its wheels spinning him backward until he hit the wall.
“Sorry to show up unannounced—” Mara began.
“But if you’d returned any of our calls, this wouldn’t be necessary,” Marshall finished.
Okay, so they were playing polite cop, crotchety cop.
But the professor was unfazed. “Dude, I haven’t listened to a voicemail in probably five years.”
Mara put her palm on Marshall’s knee before his rolled eyes could lead to a curt retort. “We have some questions about a painting. And a woman who we think may have come to you asking about the same painting.”
He rolled forward. “No way. The Jameson piece?” He slapped the top of his desk with his palms. “Has to be. Only other time someone has randomly shown up at my office to ask about a painting, she wanted to know about The Crabapple Tree, too.”
Mara’s hope rose. “So you did see Lenora.”
“Sweet older lady with silver hair and glasses? Looks like a grandma? I don’t remember her name, but that’s only ‘cause I’ve got sixty-some kids in Art History 101 this term and my brain is maxed.”
Marshall leaned forward. “But she was here around Christmas?”
The professor nodded. “She must’ve found my name online somewhere. I did my thesis on Henry Jameson. Early 1900s artist. Never very widely known outside art critic circles, but he had a few renowned pieces, including a two-piece painting called The Crabapple Tree. She told me this crazy story about remembering the Jameson from when she was a kid. Well, the story itself isn’t crazy—all it consisted of is a faint memory of seeing the painting on the wall of her childhood home. Which, I mean, come on. She looked like she could be seventy. She probably just remembers seeing a picture of it somewhere.”
Now Marshall was the one restraining Mara. He’d placed his hand over hers on top of his knee. He spoke through gritted teeth. “And why is it so crazy to think she’d have a memory like that?”
“Because that painting’s been missing since the 1940s. It was one half of a pair, both part of a prized collection belonging to Argo Spinelli. Think Al Capone, but just slightly less machine-gun-happy.” The professor reached for a mini-fridge near his desk and pulled out an energy drink. “Thirsty?”
They both shook their heads.
“Spinelli’s an interesting guy. He’s worth a thesis of his own. Got his start during Prohibition, like a lot of mob types. And like a lot of them, he had his fingers into Hollywood too. His daughter was even an actress for a short while.” He shrugged. “Anyhow, when both canvasses went missing, Spinelli took out ads in newspapers across the country, pleading for the return of the Jameson, bemoaning the loss of his ‘greatest treasure.’”
He took a swig of his drink before continuing. “One canvas turned up in 1960. Some art collector in Europe got his hands on it. And then, crazily enough, he was found dead in an alley. Police were eventually able to link the murder back to Spinelli, which is how he finally ended up behind bars. But apparently, even from prison he continued his quest for the other half of the painting. Never found it, though. Died in the late eighties.”
Mara dropped back in her chair. She couldn’t have imagined such a wild story. But Marshall’s hunch had proven correct. Lenora had been looking for the painting. Surely that’s what accounted for all those nighttime searches in the attic. It hadn’t been some fanciful, impulsive hunt either. She’d gone far enough to research, to travel and consult with an expert.
Which begged the question—had Lenora purchased the Everwood solely because of the possibility of finding the painting?
If so, then why all the talk about bringing it back to life? Why go through with a kitchen renovation or let Mara fill a notebook full of ideas for the rest of the house if she planned to leave once she found what she came for? If nothing else, why hadn’t she asked Mara to help search the house if she thought the painting might be there?
“It’s a great little mystery, that missing painting,” the professor said. “But trust me, neither half of The Crabapple Tree was ever tucked away at a bed and breakfast in Iowa. It would’ve taken a first-class criminal to get that thing away from Argo Spinelli.”
He leaned back, propping his feet on his desk. “And what kind of criminal hangs up a stolen piece of artwork worth millions in a rural bed and breakfast, anyway?”
“She found the painting, didn’t she?”
Marshall plucked his sunglasses from the cup holder in between his seat and Mara’s and dropped them over his eyes. Vivid sunlight reflected off pastures quilted in white. The sky was a stunning blue today, the rolling landscape of farmland making the drive back to Maple Valley a pleasant one.
If not for the tension radiating from the seat next to him.
The professor had told a riveting story, and it’d seemed to settle things in Mara’s mind: Lenora Worthington had never intended to stay at the Everwood. She’d come searching for something specific and when she’d found it, she’d left.
If she’d found it.
So Mara conjectured, anyway.
Didn’t feel exactly right to Marshall, though. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something didn’t line up. “Mara, we don’t know—”
“It makes sense. It explains why she was always puttering around in the attic. It explains why she’d just up and leave. She knew the painting was worth a boatload of money and she didn’t want to wait around to offload it and make a fortune.” She reached forward to turn up the heater.
It still wasn’t toasty enough in here for her? He’d started overheating twenty minutes into the drive. “But she bought the B&B last June, right? It wouldn’t take more than half a year to search the attic or even the whole house.”
Mara shrugged. “Okay, then maybe she didn’t find it and she was just sick of looking and gave up. Or after talking to Hodgkins, she got another lead that took her away from the Everwood and it was simply too much bother to let anyone know where she was going or that, oh, by the way, she wasn’t coming back.”
Marshall closed the vents nearest him. “Or you’re not being fair.”
She twisted in her seat to pin him with a glare.
“I’m just saying, you’re assigning motives to her that could be way off mark. You told me that when you came to the Everwood last summer, Lenora made you feel safe and welcome. You said she took you under her wing and gave you a home. Does that really sound like a woman who has tunnel vision over a piece of artwork to the point that she cares more about it than someone she spent months building a friendship with?”
He could see his argument take effect in the way she slumped against her seat.
“I never met Lenora, so maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about,” he conceded. “But last week you felt bad for assuming she’d abandoned the Everwood. I’m just trying to save you from another round of guilt if it turns out her disappearance has nothing to do with this painting.”
“Do you really think that’s the case?”
He didn’t know what he thought yet. Only that his gut protested the idea that a woman Mara and Sam had described as sweet and gentle would be hardened enough to leave someone worrying about her indefinitely, painting or no. And that even if this whole thing was about some missing painting, they still should’ve been able to track her down.
But the last activity on her credit card was a gas station in Davenport and she could’ve gone anywhere from there. Sam had an officer looking through camera footage from tollbooths in a six-state radius, on the lookout for her license plate number, but so far . . . nothing. Gruesome as it sounded, a serious car accident would make sense, especially one that landed her in a hospital and unable to communicate. But they’d scoured accident reports with no leads.
Now their only lead was a canvas that’d been missing for almost eighty years and a high-profile criminal family that’d surely scattered and died out decades ago.
Mara propped her feet on the dash and leaned against the headrest, eyes closed, lashes curling against her cheek. She looked peaceful despite the questions he was sure still swarmed inside her mind.
“Hey, Mara? Random question. I’ve never really asked how you ended up at the Everwood.”
She opened her eyes and rolled her head his direction. “I was on the road. I saw a brochure in a rest stop. An old brochure, as it turns out. Made the Everwood look pristine and new. I thought it looked pretty, and I needed a place to stay for awhile, so I sought it out.”
“But weren’t you on your way somewhere? Were you looking for a new job at the time? Waiting to start a new nannying position?”
She visibly shuddered. Which made him both curious and concerned. And worried she’d turn the heat up even higher.
“Uh, no. I was done nannying. Actually, I’d wanted to be done for a long time.” She dropped her feet from the dashboard and sat up straighter. “I love kids and some of the families I worked for were really nice. But I was sick of feeling like an add-on, you know? It would’ve been different if I’d had family to go home to on holidays or days off. Or if I’d stayed in one place long enough to make close friends.”
He passed a dawdling RV. “So you gave it up and hit the road.”
He could feel her watching him, and he glanced away from the interstate to see the uncertainty in her eyes. There was more to the story, and she was trying to decide whether to share it.
The cop in him wanted to prod her on. Instead, he gave her time to decide as he shrugged out of his coat.
“Are you hot?”
“Uh, more like boiling.”
She laughed and reached for the controls. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“Because you were still cold.”
And that, it seemed, made her decision for her. She let out a long breath before speaking. “My second-to-last family was in Ohio. I was in charge of a couple of younger kids, but there was an older sibling—a half-brother from the father’s first marriage.”
His grip tightened on the wheel. She’d barely explained a thing, but already the air between them shifted as he began to sense the direction her story might be going.
“Garrett was in college, so I didn’t meet him until I’d been with the family for several months. And I didn’t think much of it when I did.” Her gloved hands were knotted in her lap. “But then he found me on social media and messaged me—repeatedly. Started coming home for visits more often too.”
Yes, he definitely knew where this was going. His foot pressed harder on the pedal.
“He asked me out and I said no. That should’ve been the end of it. I was ten years older than him, for heaven’s sake. But he kept asking and the asking turned into harassing. I began asking for days off when I knew he’d be home.” She yanked off her gloves. “It was never violent or anything. But when he started leaving notes in my room, I decided to talk to his parents about it. Except they didn’t believe me. Just a silly crush, his dad said.”
“Idiots.” He growled the word.
But Mara didn’t appear to hear him. “Then Garrett came into my room one night while I was sleeping.”
“We gotta pull over if this is going where it sounds like it’s going, Mar.”
“It’s not. He just scared me, that’s all. He was mad that I’d talked to his parents, and he was trying to intimidate me.”
“There’s no ‘just’ and there’s no ‘that’s all.’ Harassment is harassment.”
“Well, anyway, I packed and left the next day. Didn’t even give two weeks’ notice. It was easy to get another job. There was a family who knew the Lymans. They were in the same social circle, made all the same rounds of galas and fundraisers and such, and they’d told me once if I ever needed a new position . . . ” She took another breath, pausing as if filtering past details. “I hadn’t even been there two weeks when Garrett showed up at their house. I was packing my bags again by the end of the day. The family didn’t want any drama.”
It was all Marshall could do not to hit the steering wheel.
“I knew I couldn’t stay in the same town. So I hit the road. A couple months later, I was still sort of floundering. I was staying in a hotel in this suburb outside of Chicago. And he found me there.”
“He followed you?”
“I’d posted my resume on a job site online and it had my cell number on it. Somehow that led him straight to me.”
Marshall’s tires squealed as he yanked the wheel and veered onto the exit ramp they’d nearly passed.
“Why are you—”
“Mara, you’re describing a stalker.” He pulled onto a side road. “What did you do when he showed up?”
“He barged into my room and tried to talk me into going back to Ohio. I told him he was crazy and to leave me alone. He backed me into a corner. There was a . . . struggle. But it was short.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“I wound up with some bruises. But I kicked him, uh, strategically and got out of there. I heard him yelling after me. ‘I’ve found you twice now. I can find you again.’” She had the door handle in a vise grip. “I knew he was a creep before, but this time . . . I guess I took it more seriously. I deleted all my social media accounts, took down that resume. I started driving and . . . You know the rest.”
She wasn’t shuddering now. Her voice didn’t even quiver.
But things were beginning to make sense. The way she triple checked the Everwood’s locks at night. How upset she’d been about that newspaper article of Jenessa’s. She hadn’t even told him about the article until a couple of days ago, and he hadn’t been able to figure out at the time why she wasn’t pleased about it. He understood now.
There were so many questions he wanted to ask now. Had she filed a police report? Were the kid’s parents aware that he’d followed her across state lines? What if there were other women?
And how—how had she held it together all alone like that?
Even in his worst, most grief-stricken and lonely moments, somewhere in the back of his clouded mind he’d known he wasn’t truly alone. He’d had Mom and Dad, Beth and Alex, Captain Wagner, other friends on the force. He might’ve done all he could to push them away. He might’ve been inarguably convinced none of them could understand the depth of his pain.
But still . . . he’d had them.
Mara hadn’t had anyone.
He steered onto a gravel lane at the foot of a snowy hill and parked. “Mara, have you . . .” No. He swallowed his questions. They could wait. All of it could wait. He leaned toward her, his elbow propped on his armrest. “You are an incredibly strong person. You amaze me. Thank you for sharing something so difficult with me.”
The engine grumbled and outside, a breeze skimmed a dusting of snow from the hill.
She bunched her gloves between her clasped hands, meeting his gaze without a hint of the leftover fear or anger or hurt he might’ve expected to be there. “Thank you.”
“For what?” Saying she was strong? It was only the truth.
“For not getting us into a car accident when you thought that story was going an even worse direction.”
She was smiling. After all she’d just told him, she was smiling and easing against her armrest. How? She’d just shared something awful and vulnerable.
Without the hum of the heater, the silence should be awkward and uncomfortable. Instead, the air between them felt somehow both taut and cozy at once, the console separating them like the thinnest barrier. He should ask one of those questions rolling about in his brain. He should pull back onto the road and make his way to the interstate.
He should definitely stop staring at her mouth.
Get a grip, man.
“Hey.” He squawked the word. Mara jumped. “How do you feel about sledding?”
Mara was cold and wet and tired and happy. It’d been two hours since she and Marshall had piled back into the truck after sledding down that countryside hill, and still her damp jeans clung to her skin and soggy socks chilled her feet. But oh, she was happy.
As the nighttime lights of Maple Valley glittered through the dark up ahead, she leaned against her headrest and closed her eyes.
She’d been startled when Marshall asked about sledding then convinced he was joking. But he’d hopped down from the truck, grabbing the coat he’d shrugged out of earlier. He’d reached into the cab behind and, wouldn’t you know it, he’d come up with a sled.
“Do you always drive around with a sled underneath your back seat?”
“Like the Boy Scouts say, ‘Be prepared.’”
“I think they mean survival supplies. Food and water.”
He’d met her on the passenger side of the truck. “Laney loved sledding.” A simple explanation saturated with meaning. “Couldn’t ever bring myself to take it out of the truck.”
She’d had the irresistible desire to reach up and cup his cheeks, already ruddy from the cold, and tell him . . .
That she wasn’t the only strong one.
That if he didn’t feel like being strong, though, she was here.
But he’d tromped into the ditch toward the rise of a hill before she could find the words, his boots sinking into feet of snow. “C’mon. It’ll be fun.”
“But this could be private property.”
“We’re currently in the process of renovating private property, aren’t we? A little rural trespassing should be nothing to us.”
“I’m not dressed for sledding.”
“Not a good enough argument.” He was already halfway up the hill. “Let’s go, Mara Bristol.”
So she’d followed, breathing hard by the time she made it up the steep hill. Maybe she’d better start exercising one of these days.
Or maybe it wasn’t the jaunt stealing her breath. Maybe it was tucking herself into the plastic sled, right in front of Marshall, his long legs on either side of her and his arms wrapping around her middle. Maybe it was his voice in her ear. “Hold on.”
“To what?” But her question was lost to the wind and a squeal as they hurdled down the snowy hill, picking up speed and more speed and more—
Until the ditch loomed and spraying snow gargled her laughter and they hit a rut, spilling into the cushiony ground below. Cold, wet, happy, she’d stood. “Again?”
Over and over they’d zoomed on the sled—sometimes together, sometimes one at a time—leaving tracks up and down the snowy hillside.
And now she was still cold and wet and happy, no matter how furiously the heater panted. At least Marshall didn’t seem to be overheating this time. He still wore his coat and a relaxed expression as he pointed the truck to the road that led to the Everwood.
They’d spoken hardly at all on the way home. They hadn’t needed to.
Within minutes, the shadow of the Everwood rose up ahead. A lone lamp glowed yellow in one window. Marshall parked next to her car and soon they were climbing the porch steps.
She finally breached the quiet. “I can’t wait to get out of these clothes.” She stumbled over a step. “And into dry ones, I mean.”
“I know what you meant.”
And yet, she heard the rich undertone of teasing words he didn’t say. She unlocked the door. He followed her in. Coat, scarf, gloves, shoes—one by one she shed her layers. The subdued light from the lamp in the sitting room barely reached into the lobby.
She heard the click of the front door’s lock, and she glanced behind her. “Lucas isn’t back yet.”
Marshall hung his jacket on the coat tree. “He can knock. I’ll let him in.”
The house smelled of paint and at a gust of wind, little taps and brushes sounded all around—twigs, snow hitting windows and eaves.
She turned to Marshall. “Well, I know it’s not that late, but I think I may call it a night.”
“You’re not hungry or anything?”
“Maybe I’ll grab a Pop-Tart on my way through the kitchen.”
One dark eyebrow rose. “Not a bowl of cereal?”
“We’re out of milk.”
And now one corner of his mouth. “You like it with milk now?”
“I always liked it with milk.” Why was she still standing here, rooted to the cold floor? “Anyway . . . goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
She turned but only took one step before whipping back around. “But if you’re hungry, don’t let me stop you. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen.”
“I’ve been helping myself to anything in the kitchen for over a week now.”
“Right.” She turned again. Made it three or four steps this time. When she angled back, he was still standing in the same spot. “I feel like I should hug you goodnight.” Oh, she was absurd. Just plain ridiculous and awkward and if the creaky floorboards chose now to open up and swallow her, that’d be just fine.
But all Marshall did was shrug. “You can hug me goodnight. I’m not stopping you.”
Well, she couldn’t turn and run away now, could she? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. But there was nothing else to do other than close the distance between them and circle her arms around his waist. There, she’d done it and now she could turn around and get out of here before he could see how her cheeks burned.
But then he lifted his arms and tucked her against his chest. And the awkwardness slid away until she was pretty sure she could happily—even wet but no longer cold—stay here forever. Because he was warm and he smelled like cinnamon and nutmeg. Right, because they’d stopped to get apple cider and she’d said something that made him laugh, and he’d tipped his cup, and then complained the cider had dripped into his coat and down his shirt. The same shirt that didn’t come close to muffling the sound of his heartbeat now and—
She looked up to see him looking down.
“Mara Bristol,” he said low and husky, “if you want me to kiss you right now, I will. But you’re going to have to make it really clear. After what you told me about that creep, no way am I about to make any assumptions, let alone a single move without—”
She was on her tiptoes in an instant, cutting him off with a kiss—impulsive and unpracticed. For one horrid moment, she thought that rumble in his chest might be laughter.
But no, it was the sound of a man relieved. His arms tightened and one hand moved into her damp, tangled hair as he kissed her back. Seconds—minutes?—blurred, until finally, still crushed to his chest, she leaned back just enough for the breathless words to slip out. “I guess I made it really clear.”
And then he did laugh.
And he kissed her again.