Chapter
six
Well . . . yes. The robbery of those paintings did happen around the time that I met Frank,” Carolyn said to Zander the following Tuesday. “But you can’t think that Frank had anything to do with the Triple Play. Can you?”
“If you’d asked me a few weeks ago if I thought Frank could’ve had anything to do with an art theft, I’d have said no,” Zander answered. “But I wouldn’t have believed that he’d had a past life or a rap sheet, either.”
Zander had arrived at The Giftery, the gift shop on Main Street where Carolyn worked, to take her to lunch. Since she was the only employee present at the moment, they’d leave once her co-worker returned from break.
His aunt slowly emptied a new roll of quarters into the drawer of her cash register. Plink. Plink plink. Plink.
Carolyn had decided of her own volition to return to her job today. Eight days had passed since Frank’s funeral, and she’d told Zander last night that without Frank and without work, she didn’t have anything to do but float in a sea of grief. She wanted her familiar routine and interaction with her coworkers and customers.
Long earrings swayed from her earlobes today. Her wavy hair looked shiny and clean. She’d ironed her blue shirt and black skirt. However, dark circles smudged the skin beneath her eyes, and her wrinkles had etched deeper.
Aunt Carolyn’s aura of peace had been punctured. She had daughters who loved her and a grandchild on the way and friends and siblings. However, none of those people could replace her husband.
Zander understood. If Britt died, his life wouldn’t be worth a penny to him. He honestly didn’t think he’d be able to go on—
A woman near Carolyn’s age with short blond hair entered the shop.
“Sunny,” Carolyn said, coming out from behind the counter.
“Carolyn.” Sunny embraced Carolyn with sympathy and kindness. “How are you?”
The two talked quietly while candles, women’s bath products, signs, coffee mugs, boxes of chocolate, locally made jellies, stationery, and many other feminine items crowded around Zander. The Giftery always made him feel the way he’d feel if he entered a women’s restroom. Like testosterone wasn’t allowed.
He carefully moved his elbow away from a display of Easter decorations. Tiny eggs, rabbits, ducks, and flower ornaments hung from a tree. An Easter tree? He’d never heard of such a thing.
“Sunny, this is my nephew, Zander Ford.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Sunny said.
“You too.”
“Zander’s going to take me to lunch,” Carolyn explained.
“Excellent.” Sunny hitched her large purse higher on her shoulder. “I stopped by to check on you, but I have several errands to run. I’ll swing back by when I’m done, and we’ll chat more then.”
“Perfect.”
“Nice to meet you,” Sunny called as she sailed from the shop.
When he’d first moved to Merryweather from inner-city St. Louis, the fact that just about everyone here knew one another or knew of one another had made the town seem ridiculously small. He’d expected to feel bored at best and claustrophobic at worst. Instead, he’d grown to appreciate Merryweather’s close-knit community.
Here, he hadn’t been another nameless, faceless kid being herded through the public school system. Here, he and Carolyn belonged. Here, after eighteen months in foreign countries, he was known.
Carolyn assisted two women who were buying matching coffee mugs. When they’d gone, Zander pitched his voice low to mask it from the handful of people still browsing. “Just so I have the timeline right in my head . . . did you meet Frank before or after the Triple Play?”
She fidgeted with the ring on her finger that contained a green oval stone. “Before. He visited the Pascal summer long.”
“How often?”
“Very often. He was a museum member, so he could come whenever he liked. We didn’t say anything out of the ordinary to each other on his first few visits, but as the days went by, we talked a little bit more and flirted a little bit more each time.” Sorrow darkened her gray eyes.
“Did he ever ask strange questions?” Zander asked. “About the museum’s security, for example.”
“Not that I can remember.”
“Was the museum closed for a while after the robbery?”
Her forehead furrowed. “I believe that . . . yes, it was closed for a time. Maybe a week or ten days? So that the police could investigate and we could repair the window and have new security systems installed.”
“And Frank returned to the museum as soon as it reopened?”
“I think so. If not right away, then very soon after.”
“Was he limping?”
“No. At least four or five times he showed up when I was scheduled to give a tour so that he could join the tour group, even though he’d heard it all before. It was after one of those tours that he asked me out on a date.”
“You said yes.”
“And we had a great date. To Orcas Island.” Her chin wobbled. “I can’t believe he’s gone, Zander. I keep waiting for it to sink in, and it still hasn’t.”
“I’m so sorry. We don’t have to talk about this now.”
“No, I asked you to discover what happened to Frank, and you’re doing just that. The least I can do is answer your questions.” She fidgeted with the ring again. “Where was I?”
“Your first date with Frank. To Orcas Island.”
“That’s right. After that, he started coming to the museum on his lunch break every day. We’d sit together in the courtyard garden and eat our packed lunches at one of the little tables.”
“Did he dress like he’d come from a construction site?”
“He did.”
Carolyn’s redheaded coworker bustled into the store. “I’m here to relieve you so that you can take your lunch break! Ah, your handsome nephew’s here.” She grinned. “It’s good to see you, Zander.”
“Thanks. It’s good to see you, too.”
Carolyn retrieved her purse, then he and his aunt walked down Main in the direction of the restaurant she’d chosen for today’s lunch, the Soup and Sandwich Company.
An enormous white cloud blocked the sun, giving the light a muted feel. Spring breeze scented with cut grass rippled American flags and awnings.
As soon as the Historical Village came into view, he instinctively sought out Sweet Art and strained for a glimpse of Britt. One glimpse.
But no. None of the people walking around the village or sitting on its benches was her.
After their visit to the library on Friday, Britt had spent Saturday with her sisters. He’d spent the day accomplishing tasks that the publicity department at his publishing house had arranged for him. Two interviews and a Q&A session followed by a book signing.
When he’d told his publisher about his return to US soil, they’d jumped at the chance to schedule media events. He was glad that his publisher was working hard to promote his book, glad that Geniuses surprising popularity made events like the interviews and book signing possible. It’s just that parting from Britt in order to spend a day surrounded by strangers made him feel more lonely than he did when he was actually alone.
Sunday, he and Britt had gone hiking at Olympic National Park and last night, Monday, he’d brought a to-go order of chips and tacos to her house, and they’d eaten them while watching episodes of Once Upon a Time. Britt had tossed a chip at the TV every time a character had done or said something she didn’t approve of.
“I’m trying to think back to the Triple Play robbery,” Carolyn said. “I remember that the museum held all kinds of activities the day before because it was the Fourth of July. That night we hosted a catered dinner for our benefactors. I was exhausted by the time I got home. The next morning a friend of mine who worked at the museum called to tell me about the heist. I turned on the TV and watched a story on the morning news. I was stunned. The museum had cameras, a security guard or two on duty at all times, an alarm system. I couldn’t imagine how anyone had been able to get away with those paintings. Plus, I felt terrible for Annette Pascal. She was and is wonderful. Did you know that she and I still keep in touch?” She looked across her shoulder at him as they walked.
Gently, he steered her around a puddle. “No, I didn’t.”
“I started looking for a job when I was twenty and had a hard time finding one. I only had an associate’s degree, and I wasn’t exactly in high demand on the job market. Annette interviewed me personally and we got along well. Do you know much about her?”
“Very little. Only what I’ve read in articles.”
“She’s stylish and intelligent and articulate. Very self-controlled. I wouldn’t say that I’m any of those things.” She huffed wryly. “Even so, she took me under her wing and gave me a job at the museum which, at the time, was like a dream come true for me.” She laced her hand around his arm, and he crooked his elbow. Her shoulder rested against his as they made their way forward. “Annette and I stay in contact through cards and lunches when I’m in Seattle or when she comes this direction. There’s no telling how much money she’s personally spent trying to find the painting that’s still missing.”
“Young Woman at Rest.”
“Yes. Of the three that were stolen, that’s the one she always wanted back the most.”
“Do you remember it from when it was hanging in the gallery?”
“I do. It was beautiful. So much so that it almost glowed from inside, as if a lantern was shining out from behind the canvas. It had a whole wall to itself because it was just that special.”
They passed a bookshop and a bar.
“I can’t stand to think that Frank might have been one of the men who took those paintings from Annette. He was good.” She spoke in a way that made him think she was trying to convince herself, to shore up her cracked trust in her husband.
“Yes, he was.”
“If Frank had been one of the robbers, he would’ve brought a lot of money to our marriage.”
“Yes.”
“I’m the one who handled our family’s finances. I can assure you that Frank didn’t bring any money to our marriage except what he made working construction. Remember his coupon clipping on Sunday nights?”
“I remember.” Zander nodded at a passerby walking a dog. “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to take a look at Frank’s home computer, work computer, and cell phone.”
“Certainly. You’re welcome to.”
“Kurt Shaw told me that he and the police chief already searched them and found nothing. But it can’t hurt for me to double check.”
“Until the morning we met with Detective Shaw to talk about Frank’s autopsy,” Carolyn said, “I was certain that I knew Frank through and through. So very certain.”
“I also thought I knew him through and through.”
“Every time I’ve been presented with information that’s different from what he told me, my knee-jerk reaction is to push it away. It’s painful to think that Frank lied to me, that I didn’t know him like I thought I did,” she said. “I still do want to know the truth, however. Even if it is painful. I think Courtney and Sarah and I are entitled to the truth.”
“I have to remember that the one thing I know for certain about Frank is the one thing that matters most: I know that he loved me. No matter what, I can hang on to that.” She gave her head a slight shake, as if to throw off the tears hovering beneath the surface. “He loved Courtney and Sarah and Daniel and you.” She squeezed his arm. “He loved you. You believe that. Don’t you?”
Heat constricted his throat. “Yes.”
“Frank and I weren’t given any sons of our own, so imagine our surprise—”
“—and horror.” He knew where she was going with her sentence.
“Imagine our surprise and delight when we were given two boys to take care of. You and your brother made our lives complete. You were no trouble.”
“Never?” he asked skeptically.
“Well, almost never.”
“You’re remembering us as angels now that we’re grown.”
“I’m remembering that it was a joy to have you under our roof. I’m so proud of you. And Frank was, too.”
“I couldn’t have asked for a better aunt and uncle. It blows me away, what you did for us.”
“It was our pleasure.” Ever since he’d come to live with her, she’d taken every opportunity to insist that it was their pleasure to provide for him and Daniel—even when he’d known doing so had sometimes been expensive and tiring and stressful.
“It’s good to have you here, Zander. But it would be selfish of me to keep you in Merryweather if you’re ready to leave and finish your trip.”
His body braced against the idea of leaving. “I’m not planning on leaving until we know what happened with Frank.” He had no sense of closure. Not about Frank. Not about Britt.
Apprehension continued to churn within him whenever he considered how Frank’s change of identity coupled with his disappearance the night before his death might impact Carolyn’s safety.
“When you decide that it’s time for you to leave,” she told him, “whether or not we’ve been able to discover what happened to Frank, then I want you to go ahead and leave. I would never want to hold you back.”
“I’m not ready to leave yet, Aunt Carolyn.”
“Just promise me that when you are, you’ll go.”
“I promise.”
The next morning at Sweet Art, Britt poured all five of her senses into the great love of her life.
Chocolate.
At the moment, she was tempering the chocolate, the step in the chocolate-making process that gave beginners trouble. It wouldn’t dare to give her trouble, however. After years of spending the largest share of her time, passion, and ability on chocolate, she’d become one with the medium.
She could taste the idea of a recipe before she made it. She’d traveled internationally to the birthplaces of chocolate to learn each culture’s secrets and to sample the nuances of their cacao beans. She read about chocolate. She attended meetings with fellow chocolatiers during which they all talked gleefully about chocolate. She often dreamed about chocolate.
She flirted with breakfast dishes, lunch dishes, dinner entrées, and other types of desserts. But in truth, she was monogamously committed to chocolate and unswervingly determined to create the most delicious chocolate she possibly could.
Back when they’d started Sweet Art, she and Maddie had both worked six days a week. Three years ago, they’d been able to hire part-time employees who operated the store for them on Saturdays and Sundays. Two years ago, they’d added a virtual assistant who worked several hours a week on marketing. A year ago, Britt had begun bringing in her pastry chef friends to assist in making chocolate for large custom orders or busy holiday seasons.
She and Maddie had good heads for business and worked well as a team. They’d grown Sweet Art the same way a gardener might cultivate a garden. They’d expanded their online business. They’d sold their chocolate into retail stores across Merryweather, Shore Pine, and Seattle. They’d courted mentions in food magazines, travel sites, and blog posts.
Soon they’d have the funds to hire even more help. In the coming year, Britt hoped to begin scaling her business so that she could sell her chocolate to stores in neighboring states. After that: world domination.
When she’d arrived today, she’d gone through her familiar routine—donning her chef’s coat, catching her hair into a bun and adding a stretchy, shoelace-wide headband in case any strands dared to wander.
Deftly, she stirred the dark chocolate while turning and testing in her mind the idea she had for a brand-new truffle.
Since her chocolate inspirations were sometimes mercurial, she’d learned to jot them down as soon as they came to her. She kept track of them in little notebooks she had stashed in her car, her purse, her house.
Ordinarily, she pondered a new recipe until the urge to create jangled from her fingertips. Only then would she shut herself up in her kitchen—at any time of the week, the day, the night—and indulge in a fit of artistic productivity.
This morning, her fingertips had not been jangling. In fact, she was having to stretch to reach an inspiration that wasn’t yet full-bodied because her motivation was less about art and more about chocolate as distraction.
She really needed to lose herself in chocolate because she really needed a reprieve from these ill-advised, uninvited, embarrassingly moony feelings she’d been having for Zander since their dinner in Seattle.
A memory of that dinner formed diamond sharp. Zander, who was wry and faithful and as constant as time, sitting near her, wearing that black Henley. His powerful concentration focused on her, just as it always did when he listened—
A pang of desire tightened within her.
This is exactly what had been happening!
And it was wildly annoying.
She seeded the chocolate by adding a handful of finely chopped cold chocolate to the warm, melted chocolate. More stirring. More chocolate fragments added. She tested it with a thermometer out of habit rather than necessity when she sensed that she’d brought it to temper. The thermometer confirmed her intuition. Eighty-six degrees. Now to reheat it slightly to finish the tempering.
The day that Nikki had met Clint at Sweet Art, she’d mentioned that Britt hadn’t “managed to keep” a single boyfriend. “Managed to keep” made it sound as though Britt had tried hard to keep her boyfriends. Actually, she hadn’t tried hard because she hadn’t wanted to keep them.
She lined up cream, cocoa butter, salted butter, rum, vanilla, and crème de menthe and imagined how different quantities of each would affect the outcome. She wanted this new truffle to blend the flavors of dark chocolate, white chocolate, peppermint, caramel, and salt into a perfectly balanced melody.
She’d had more boyfriends than either Willow or Nora. More than Willow and Nora combined.
Britt liked men and she liked dating them.
According to scientists, falling in love generated a huge endorphin rush, and Britt believed it to be true. Dating someone you liked intensely was a huge endorphin rush. As it happened, she was a woman who liked endorphin rushes. Bungee jumping? White-water rafting? Skydiving? High-wire walking? She’d done them all. Few things, however, were quite as much fun as developing a crush on a new boyfriend.
It was the sustaining of said crush that she’d never successfully accomplished. One or three or five months into a relationship, her crush would wear off like sunblock she’d forgotten to reapply after swimming. She’d realize that her infatuation had led to indifference instead of love. Then, he or she—but almost always she—would end things.
She was fine with her pattern. It’s not like she was in a hurry to find a man who had the super-power ability to convert a crush into love.
In just over a week, she’d be turning twenty-seven, which, to her, seemed on the young side for marriage. I mean, marriage. Marriage was a heavy, forever kind of commitment.
She cherished not having anyone to answer to.
On the other hand, there’d been no one to tell her he didn’t want her kayaking on a flooded river because he was scared she’d hurt herself.
She cherished that she could decide she wanted to take a trip to Canada, then leave for Canada the very next morning.
On the other hand, she didn’t have anyone to take a spur-of-the-moment trip to Canada with.
She cherished her freedom.
On the other hand, when she saw Willow with Corbin and Nora with John, she sometimes suspected that belonging to someone might be worth a few sacrifices.
An hour later she sampled her truffle.
Her lips tipped downward while she chewed. The artist had now become the critic. The peppermint was nice. The ratio of cream to salted butter, pleasant. But something was off. Something wasn’t as deep and rich and unique as it should be. What?
She wasn’t certain. She’d need to reflect on it then refine the recipe repeatedly across a period of days.
She wasn’t content with this truffle, but, all in all, she was content with her life. She had Sweet Art, her family, friends, her cottage, a world to explore, and Zander—
Pang.
She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the pang away. Carefully, she opened her lids, as if scared that another wayward pang might jump out from behind the stove and ambush her. She popped the rest of the truffle into her mouth.
If she fell in love with a man one day who didn’t bore her, who didn’t try to change or control her, who made the sacrifice of her freedom worthwhile—then fine. Great.
But if she never met a man like that, then fine.
Great.
Text message from Britt to Zander:
Britt
You’re still planning to come to Willow and Corbin’s on Sunday for Easter lunch, right? Pretty please?
Zander
I’ll be there.
Britt
Whew. I won’t have to force you there with a cattle prod. Did you finish going through Frank’s computers and phone?
Zander
I did. Even if Frank had tried to cover his digital tracks, I have confidence that I would have found something if there was anything to find.
Britt
You didn’t find anything?
Zander
Not a thing. My uncle’s devices held exactly what you’d expect from a man who loved his family and worked hard and followed the letter of the law.