Chapter
seven
Zander glanced in his rearview mirror, eyes narrowed.
He’d decided to write at the Merryweather Coffee House for the next few hours. A new black Expedition had been behind him most of the way from the inn to town. Not close to his bumper. Far back. But consistently there.
The Expedition’s presence hadn’t registered as noteworthy until it had taken the same turn off the road that Zander had. Then the next turn, too, toward Merryweather’s downtown.
Zander took a left, drove a block, then pulled into a parking spot on the street. Two cars moved through the intersection behind him before the Expedition turned left, as he had, driving toward his position.
Zander scrambled to get the camera on his cell phone ready.
He caught a glimpse of the driver—a man wearing a baseball cap—as the Expedition rolled past. Zander snapped a photo of the rear license plate, then watched the SUV disappear into the underground parking structure favored by tourists.
He tapped his thumb against his steering wheel, waiting for the SUV to reappear. It didn’t. Which probably meant that the man had parked and exited via the stairway that emerged on Main. Most likely it had been a coincidence that the Expedition’s destination was located so near his own. Merryweather’s Main Street served as a hub for the whole community.
Flicking up the hood of his rain jacket against the drizzle, he walked toward the coffee house. He kept an eye out for the man in the baseball cap. No sign of him.
The guy could be behind him.
If so, Zander didn’t want him to know he was aware he’d been followed. So, after two blocks, Zander pretended to answer his phone. This was likely insane, but the pretense gave him a reason to stop. He set his shoulders against the exterior brick wall of the flower shop and turned his focus back in the direction he’d come, hoping that he gave off the impression of staring at nothing while listening hard to the nonexistent person on the other end of the line.
Plenty of people made their way up and down the street. Even so, Zander spotted the man in the black baseball cap almost at once.
The man stood approximately twenty yards away, studying a display window. He wore gray track pants and an exercise sweat shirt. Perhaps in his early thirties, he gave off the impression of fitness and toughness. Maybe a military vet? If not, he could pass for a UFC fighter.
Suspicion ran thick through Zander’s veins.
If Frank had robbed the Pascal Museum, then anyone who knew what had happened that night could be following him in hopes that he’d lead them to the money they believed Frank had hidden away. Or they might want the Renoir. Or they might worry that Frank had left behind evidence that could incriminate them.
Alternatively, Frank could have gotten himself involved in something illegal in recent years. If that was the case, then military guy might be keeping an eye on him for any number of reasons.
What should he do?
He spoke nonsense into the phone as he swiveled to peer down the street toward the coffee house. A short distance beyond it hung The Griddle’s sign.
Zander checked the time. 11:37. On a Thursday. He’d taken his aunt out to lunch enough times over the years to know that Merryweather’s police chief had a standing lunch date with his adult daughter at The Griddle on Thursdays. They ate early, and with any luck, would already be inside.
Zander finished his imaginary call and made his way to The Griddle. Sure enough, the police chief and his daughter sat at their usual table near the front window.
He hesitated, pushing the hood from his head. He might be overreacting. In fact, the chances of that were strong.
Zander wasn’t concerned for his safety in an immediate sense. If military guy knew he was staying at the inn, then he could have jumped Zander in the woods when he’d gone running this morning.
This wasn’t about his current well-being. This was about the ominous storm he’d sensed on the horizon ever since he’d learned that his uncle had taken Frank Pierce’s identity. A growing number of unknowns continued to feed the storm, giving it power, making him worry about a threat he couldn’t name. He had an opportunity to address one of those unknowns, and he’d rather be proactive than sorry. He’d rather make a fool of himself than do nothing.
He crossed to the chief’s table. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir.”
The police chief’s daughter startled slightly. The chief regarded him with friendly inquiry. He had a neatly trimmed white beard and dark, intelligent eyes.
“I’m Zander Ford, Frank and Carolyn Pierce’s nephew.”
“Yes, son,” the chief replied, “I know who you are.”
“Again, I apologize. But I think there’s a man outside who’s following me.”
For a moment, no one spoke. Then the chief glanced fondly at his daughter. “Will you excuse me for a minute, honey?”
“Of course.”
“Be right back.” The older man followed Zander to the restaurant’s foyer. He’d dressed in a black police uniform with stars embroidered into the collar, a badge over his heart, and his last name—Warner—written across a gold pin. Zander relayed all that he’d observed since leaving the inn.
“Let’s go introduce ourselves to this person and see if we can’t determine what’s going on,” Chief Warner said.
Military guy was now positioned three storefronts down from The Griddle in a protected spot under an awning. Since Zander had last seen him, he’d continued to move in the direction Zander had taken. He held his phone, his concentration fixed on it as he tapped its screen.
“Excuse me,” Chief Warner said to him as they neared. Everyone in the area, including the man in the baseball cap, looked to him. “A word with you, sir, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Military guy responded to the chief’s words with an expression of mild surprise, nothing more. “I don’t mind.”
“Silas Warner, police chief.” The chief extended a hand.
“Nick Dunlap.”
They shook. “This gentleman here thinks you’ve been following him,” the chief said. “That true?”
Nick spared Zander a brief, annoyed glance then returned his focus to Chief Warner. “No, sir.”
“You don’t know him?” the chief pressed.
“I’ve never seen him before.”
“It’s just a coincidence that you both took the same route into town and ended up within a few feet of each other?”
“Yes, sir. Must be.”
“Did you enter town on Valley View Highway?” The chief’s manner was far more conversational than interrogative.
“I did.”
“Coming from?”
“Portland, Oregon, this morning. I’m on a road trip and stopped here to stretch my legs and get food.”
“Where you headed?” the chief asked.
“Today? Seattle.”
“Are you under probation?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you ever been arrested?”
“No.”
“Do you have your driver’s license on you?”
Nick inclined his head to the side a few degrees. “I do.”
“May I see it?”
“For what purpose?”
The chief gave a relaxed shrug. “I just like to be thorough.”
Nick paused. “Sure.” In order to pull out his wallet, he set his phone on the ledge near Zander. The phone’s upturned screen revealed a text message conversation. Zander made out the initials TR centered in a circle at the top above small print that read Tom R. He leaned in to read more, but the phone went dark.
Nick passed his license to the chief, who carried it down the nearby alley until he was beyond earshot. He spoke into his shoulder microphone.
Nick had full control over his irritation with Zander. Nevertheless, it was an almost palpable force. “Look, man. I’m not following you.”
Zander sized Nick up, saying nothing, letting Nick register his own irritation level. One thing he knew: Merryweather’s Main Street attracted locals or tourists who were either female or over the age of sixty. What it didn’t tend to attract? Young male military vets traveling alone.
In under a minute, the chief returned. “Here you are, Mr. Dunlap.” He handed back his license. “Enjoy your time in Merryweather.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Zander and the chief fell in step, leaving Nick behind. “His record’s clean,” the chief said.
“I mentioned earlier that I took a picture of his car’s plate. Would it be possible to run that and see what comes up?”
“I’ll have Kurt run it when I get back to the station. Like I told Mr. Dunlap, I like to be thorough.” They stopped before the restaurant and he extracted his phone. “License plate number?”
Zander rattled it off and the chief recorded it in his phone. “Got it.”
“I’m sorry if I wasted your time.”
“It’s all right.” The grooves of the older man’s face held compassion. “I’m sorry about what happened to your uncle, son.”
Zander nodded. The chief clapped him on the upper arm and returned to his daughter.
Zander watched Nick enter the taco shop across the street.
If he’d wasted the chief’s time, the way that it looked he had, he really was sorry. Sorry to have cut into the man’s lunch hour. Sorry to have made himself look paranoid in the chief’s eyes.
An overactive imagination was an occupational hazard for writers. He wrote about dark characters, after all. A serial killer in his first book. And in his current manuscript, an assassin. Had he been wrong about Nick?
Maybe.
Then again. Maybe not.
A clean record in the past didn’t guarantee innocence in the present.
Zander was immediately welcomed inside Corbin and Willow’s house by Corbin himself on Easter Sunday. Corbin was easy to talk to and had a great sense of humor. Even so, Zander could feel himself withdrawing more than usual whenever he was around the guy. For years, he’d watched Corbin play football on TV. Every time he and Corbin talked, that’s NFL quarterback Corbin Stewart filled Zander’s head until there wasn’t room for much else.
He was going to have to get over himself. Corbin had joined the Bradford family when he’d married Willow, which meant Corbin would be part of Zander’s life from now on.
More than a decade after leaving St. Louis, Zander still had trouble squaring the hardship of his early life to the life that had come after. The Bradfords’ acceptance of him. A New York Times bestselling book. Now Easter lunch with Corbin Stewart.
He made a quick scan of the guests in the room. Willow, of course. Nora and her fiancé, John, were here, as were John’s parents and John’s sister’s family. He spotted Britt’s grandmother, Britt’s uncle, and two Bradford cousins and their families.
Britt, he didn’t see, which meant she was probably cooking.
After greeting everyone, he entered the kitchen.
“Oh good!” Britt smiled at him. “There you are. I’m putting the finishing touches on my potatoes gratin. Prepare to be dazzled.”
“I always am.”
She sprinkled the top of the potatoes with salt. “Everything else is ready. They’re not as desperate for me to save them with my culinary skills as they sometimes are.”
Zander hooked his thumbs through his belt loops and studied the impressive kitchen. “This house has changed since I was here last.”
“That’s because Willow’s worked her magic on it. I’ve accused her more than once of falling in love with Corbin for his house.” Turning, she slid her baking dish into the packed oven. “Every time I come here I feel like I’m inside a shoot for Architectural Digest.” She came around the kitchen island and hugged him. “Happy Easter, Zander.”
His gut clenched. “Happy Easter, Britt.”
They parted. She scooped up some pistachios from a decorative dish. “Would you like some?”
“Sure.”
She put half her handful on a napkin for him and the other half on a napkin for herself. They stood leaning against the island, facing each other, while she shelled pistachios.
She wore casual clothes most of the time, but on days like today when she dressed up, she appeared just as comfortable in her more formal wardrobe. A bright blue geometric pattern decorated her sleeveless white dress. The straps of her white high heels wrapped around her ankles. Her dark brown hair fell to the middle of her chest. She had on big silver earrings and three silver rings and she was ridiculously beautiful.
She caught him staring. With a flick of her fingers, she reminded him of his pistachios.
“Did you see any black Expeditions on the way here?” she asked.
“Not a one.”
“Bummer.”
“How can you consider the fact that I wasn’t followed by a suspicious military vet in an Expedition a bummer?”
“Because the incident with Nick added just the right level of intrigue to the proceedings.” When he’d told her about his run-in with Nick, Britt had responded with avid interest. “You have to remember how very sleepy things usually are around here.”
“I don’t think you’re going to be able to depend on Nick to liven things up. The plate on his SUV belongs to a rental car, which fits the traveler story he gave the police chief. I’m starting to think he was telling the truth.”
“But what if he wasn’t?” She raised a pistachio and an eyebrow.
He opened his mouth, and she lobbed the nut to him. He made a clean catch.
“Did you look through the profiles I sent you of the Nick Dunlaps on Facebook and Twitter?” she asked.
He, Britt, and Nora had all spent time looking for Nick Dunlap online over the past few days. Britt had volunteered to comb through the social media sites. She’d compiled links to all the Nicks she’d found that might be their guy and emailed the list to Zander. He’d studied the pictures associated with each one. “None of them were him.”
“Shoot. Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“I had big plans. If you’d been able to find him on Facebook, for example, then I was going to hunt for Facebook friends of Nick’s named Tom R.”
“Genius. And yet. None of them was him.” They’d all drawn a blank with Nick, even Nora.
Britt chewed thoughtfully. “What do you think about asking Kurt Shaw to contact the rental car company that owns the Expedition? They’d have all kinds of information on Nick.”
“I already asked Kurt about the rental car company’s records. He’s unable to request personal information without cause. Americans tend to dislike it when people trample on their privacy.”
“Bummer.” She tossed another nut into the air. Again, he caught it in his mouth.
He watched her shuck a few more pistachios. She’d painted her square fingernails black since he’d last seen her.
“Where were you supposed to be traveling this week on your Grand Tour?” she asked.
“China.”
“I hear China’s overrated.”
“Likely.”
“Not very many people live there, and it’s not very large, after all.”
“And the history there doesn’t date back very far.”
“Not far at all.”
“It’s better for me to be here running into dead ends as I try to research my uncle’s life.”
Britt’s small, white-haired grandmother, Margaret Burke, entered the kitchen clothed in an old-lady suit and a mink coat Britt and her sisters had nicknamed “Old Musty.” She always wore pearl earrings and her hair in a bun. Her bone structure was perfect, her sense of optimism less so.
“Would you like some pistachios, Mrs. Burke?” he asked politely.
“Goodness, no. They get stuck between my teeth.” She zeroed in on him. “Nora and John and I missed you at Easter services this morning.”
“I went to church with Carolyn,” Zander said. “She wanted to attend the early service before driving to Seattle to spend the day with her daughters.”
“You went to the Presbyterian church?” Margaret asked, as shocked as if he’d just announced that he’d visited the Kremlin.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I went to a service at Victory Fellowship,” Britt said, interceding on his behalf like a soldier bravely drawing enemy fire.
“Did they have a sermon?” Margaret asked. “Or just a great deal of loud music? Because if it was just a great deal of loud music, then it was a concert you attended. Not a service.”
“They had a sermon,” Britt said lightly.
“Did they offer an altar call?” Margaret asked.
“They have a reception room where you can meet with pastors after the service if you want to talk about salvation or need prayer or want to join the church.”
Suspicion tightened Margaret’s lips. “It sounds like Victory Fellowship is trying to make everyone too comfortable. Reception rooms,” she scoffed. “Coffee and tea. Big TV screens. Seats with cushions.”
“I’m not sure,” Britt said, “that being comfortable in church is a bad thing—”
“Many years ago,” Margaret interrupted, “our pastor would stand at the front at the end of the service. We’d sing ‘Softly and Tenderly,’ and between verses he’d spread out his arms and entreat people to make a decision. Guilt and discomfort are both motivating and convicting. Your generation is in need of more convicting. Much more convicting.”
“Mmm-hmm. When was the last time you went forward during an altar call, Grandma?”
“1946.” Margaret took her time eying her granddaughter and then him. “How old are you now, Zander?”
“Twenty-seven,” he answered.
“When I was twenty-seven, I’d already been married for several years. I was the mother of one child, with another on the way.”
“Yes,” Britt said, “but that was—”
Zander cleared his throat to warn her because he knew she was about to say forever ago.
“Things have changed,” Britt said. “A lot of people are getting married at an older age. Or not marrying at all.”
Margaret blanched.
“I think you’ve just caught a little bit of marriage fever,” Britt said to her grandmother, “now that Willow’s married and Nora soon will be.”
“My dearest dream, my only dream, is to see all three of my granddaughters married.” Margaret tipped up her chin in a way that reminded Zander of a wrongly accused prisoner facing the gallows.
“Now who’s using guilt and discomfort to motivate and convict?” Britt gave her grandma a kiss on the cheek, then went to check her potatoes.
“I still believe that the right man would be willing to marry a woman your age, Britt,” Margaret said, “although time is of the essence.” Margaret’s attention swung to him. “You plan to marry, don’t you, Zander?”
“Yes, I’d like to.”
“Are you courting anyone at the moment?”
“No, I’ve been traveling for the past several months.”
“Men have been known to fall in love with foreign women while traveling,” Margaret said.
“Grandma, no!” Britt snapped straight, looking outraged. “He’s definitely not allowed to fall in love with anyone from a foreign country. I can’t have him living the rest of his life in a place like Fiji. No, no, no.”
“He’s allowed to do whatever he’d like,” Margaret said to her granddaughter. “He’s twenty-seven.”
“He’s not allowed to do that.”
“I don’t know, Britt,” he said. “I’m going to Korea next, and I think I could really go for a Korean woman. They’re gorgeous, and they seem really smart and calm.”
“Not allowed! Plus, you just stereotyped Korean women.”
“Is it a stereotype if the traits are positive?”
“When you’re done traveling, you’re going to come right back here to Washington,” Britt said, “and you’re going to fall in love with a local girl.”
Done. He’d already fallen in love with a local girl.
“I . . .” She paused, looking flustered.
She very rarely got flustered. Had she read his mind? Or maybe the idea of him falling in love with a local girl had bothered her for some reason?
Let that be it. Hope multiplied inside of him.
Britt flipped a lock of hair over her shoulder. “In fact, while you’re finishing your tour, I promise to keep an eye out so that I’ll have some good dating prospects waiting for you when you return home.”
Zander’s spirits took a sharp, sharp turn south.
“Like I said, time is of the essence,” Margaret stated. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep an eye out for a husband for Britt, Zander.”
Not going to happen.
If Britt married anyone other than him he’d have to move to Iceland and live in a hut without Wi-Fi. “Excuse me.” He moved toward the kitchen’s sliding door. “I want to see what Willow and Corbin have done with the yard.”
He couldn’t care less about the yard. He needed a minute to adjust to the uppercut punch of disappointment he’d just taken.
He walked beyond the view of the kitchen and kept going, inhaling the cool air.
“I’ll have some good dating prospects waiting for you,” she’d said.
As far as he was concerned, dating was a cuss word.
Britt delighted in discussing the subject. He hated it.
God knows he didn’t want to hear about the guy she’d met at a party, or about their first date, or about her concerns over his neediness. Almost as bad? Their discussions about his dating life.
Britt had often tried to play the role of matchmaker for him. Truth be told, she wasn’t terrible at it. She knew him, and she knew what type of woman would suit him. Most of the time, he’d side-stepped her attempts to set him up. But occasionally, he’d gone out with the women she’d recommended.
When his dating attempts failed, Britt would kindly suggest that he might be too picky.
He’d never argued. He was too picky.
Because he only wanted her. There wasn’t enough real estate in his heart for anyone else.
Britt didn’t want to own that particular piece of real estate, and a lot of the time, he didn’t want her to own it, either. The situation he’d locked himself into was stupidly painful.
So he’d repeatedly forced himself to give dating a shot. A handful of times, he’d dated a woman for a month or more. In those instances, he’d told himself to give it time. Why was he demanding so much? Relationships shouldn’t be rushed. He’d get to know the woman gradually, treat her as well as he possibly could, and maybe the feelings would come.
Once, he’d lectured himself into going out with Bailey Benton for three whole months. Bailey had been in law school. Her personality had been quick. Her laughter genuine. Her hair red.
But the feelings had never come.
They hadn’t come because of one simple truth: He was in love with someone else.
When Bailey had looked at him with melting softness, he’d felt like a jerk for two reasons.
One, because he’d known he was stringing her along and wasting her time. Bailey had deserved to be with someone who wasn’t constantly thinking to himself that dating her was a counterfeit version of what he really wanted.
Two, because he hadn’t been able to shake the notion that he was cheating on Britt. Britt, who regularly had boyfriends of her own. He’d finally come to the conclusion that it wasn’t Britt he was betraying, exactly. Each time he went out with someone else, it was his love for Britt he was betraying.
It had been a relief to take a break from dating while overseas. For eighteen months, he hadn’t had to hear the woman who was perfect for him tell him she’d found someone perfect for him who wasn’t her.
The Easter-themed tablescape Willow had created was, as Britt had expected it to be, a bona fide work of art.
Pink and white peonies flowed from squat vases onto varying sizes of moss-covered spheres. Nestled within the delta of flowers perched tiny terra-cotta pots sprouting real grass and silvery votive candles twinkling with light. Britt found her china plate by locating the pale pink egg stenciled with a B sitting atop a sea-foam green linen napkin.
She ate ham, green beans, a bread roll, a deviled egg, corn, and potatoes gratin. She avoided eating Grandma’s offering: green Jell-O with fruit and nuts suspended inside it.
When lunch concluded, they moved outdoors for an egg hunt on the enormous grounds of Willow and Corbin’s house.
She and Zander made their way to Winnie, the four-year-old daughter of Britt’s cousin. Winnie squatted near her basket, both hands over her face, crying.
“Bad hair day?” Britt asked.
“I’m terr—terrible at finding eggs!” Winnie wailed.
That’s true, Britt mouthed to Zander above Winnie’s head. She is terrible. To Winnie she said, “Chin up, sister. If you join forces with Zander and me, I think we might be able to find more eggs than either of your brothers.”
Her tear-stained face lifted.
“I graduated with a minor in egg hunting,” Zander told the girl.
“And I was once crowned Miss Easter Egg.” Britt smiled and gestured for Winnie to stand.
The girl rose.
When Britt bent to unbuckle her shoes, the kayaking injury in her side tweaked with pain. She stilled for a second, pressing her hand to the spot. The ache subsided and she kicked her shoes free.
“Uh-oh,” Zander murmured. “Britt’s getting serious.”
“And you should, too,” Britt told Winnie. She tugged off Winnie’s Mary Janes and frilly socks while the little girl giggled.
When Zander picked up Winnie’s pink basket, Britt arched a brow at him.
He returned her look. “Real men carry pink Easter baskets.”
“Of course they do.” She grabbed Winnie’s hand. “Ready?”
“Nobody’s holding his hand.” Winnie pointed at Zander.
Britt took hold of Zander’s free hand. She’d held his hand plenty in the past. When her family prayed before dinner. When she needed to tow him somewhere in a hurry. But this time, the masculine strength and texture of it sent a hot thrill all the way to the backs of her knees, where it gathered and sizzled. Every other sensation, except the exquisitely acute sensation of his hand holding hers, fled.
“Now I’m ready,” Winnie announced.
“Hmm?” Britt tried to remember what Winnie was talking about.
“I’m ready to hunt for eggs,” Winnie clarified.
“Right. Of course.”
They hurried forward. As soon as they reached the first egg hunting spot, she let go of Winnie’s and Zander’s hands.
She made a show of looking for eggs even though she was approximately as coherent as a sleepwalker. Her hand, the one that Zander had held, felt entirely different than her other hand. More sensitive. As if the skin of that hand had been bathed in starlight.
Holding hands was sweet and snuggly and cozy. Respectful. Chaste. But it wasn’t powerful.
Or at least it hadn’t been before. The touch of Zander’s fingers just now had seethed with power and intimacy—
Fiasco, Britt. Fi-as-co.
Holding hands with a man did not rattle her! Nor did telling Zander that he needed to come back to Washington and fall in love with a local girl. But right after she’d said that to him earlier, an unpleasant lump had come into her throat and she’d felt like she was choking on her statement. The prospect of Zander falling in love with a local girl had struck her as ghastly—the last thing in the world she wanted. To cover, she’d made an overcorrection and said something dumb about searching for prospects for him.
She’d never had a problem setting him up in the past!
Zander found hidden egg after hidden egg.
Britt couldn’t spot a single one.
This new infatuation with him must end. She’d become, because of him, as terrible an egg huntress as Winnie.
Note passed between Britt and Zander in ninth grade:
BRITT: Would you go with Hannah to the mid-winter dance as friends? She doesn’t have a date yet, and it would help me out if you’d go with her. Plus, it would be fun to have you as part of our group that night.
ZANDER: If it would help you out, then sure. No problem.
Note passed between Maddie and Britt in ninth grade:
MADDIE: Hannah is really excited about going to the mid-winter dance with Zander. She won’t admit it, but I can totally tell that she’s crushing on him.
BRITT: No, I don’t think so.
MADDIE: Trust me! She is. Do you think he’s into her?
BRITT: Not in that way. I mean, I really love Hannah. But I don’t think her personality is quite right for Zander. They’re not a fit.
Note written by Britt in ninth grade:
Mom, Zander’s shoes are really worn out, and his jacket’s too small. Will you take me shopping this weekend so we can buy him new stuff for his birthday?