Chapter 12

Twelve

THAT HAD BEEN WEIRD.

As Jack's car disappeared down the street, Lindsey frowned after him from inside the front window.

What had carved those deep grooves above his nose as he'd delivered her pill and water? Why had he gone from solicitous to distracted in a heartbeat? What had triggered his fast departure?

Weirder still?

Her sudden case of motormouth about South Carolina.

Massaging her forehead, she wandered back to the couch. Sank into the cushions.

What on earth had prompted her to talk about that experience with a man she didn't even like, when it was hard enough to discuss it with someone she felt comfortable confiding in, like Dr. Oliver? Or her therapist in South Carolina.

It made no sense.

Except ... there was something about Jack Tucker that instilled trust, hinted at a compassionate heart. The man also exuded honesty and integrity and decency.

She punched the pillow she'd gripped during her tell-all session and shoved it into the corner of the couch.

It wasn't hard to see how a woman could fall for the handsome detective. Or why Clair had extolled his virtues during the four months they'd dated.

So maybe he was a good guy in general. But wanting a person to be someone they weren't was flat-out wrong.

And in Clair's case, it had also been deadly.

Swallowing past the sudden tightness in her throat, she stood. Grocery lists for the week weren't going to make themselves, and thinking about Jack Tucker—or trying to analyze her talkativeness this morning—was a waste of energy.

Her phone trilled as she entered the kitchen, and she veered toward the counter.

Madeleine.

Perfect.

A chat with her friend should help settle her nerves.

"Good morning, Lindsey." Madeleine returned her greeting in her usual cheerful manner. "I missed you at services and thought I'd check in. Did your rowing session run long?"

Lindsey blinked.

How had Madeleine known she'd gone sculling? As best she could recall, they hadn't discussed her Sunday plans during their last conversation.

"Um ... a little longer than usual. Did I mention I was going out to the lake this weekend?"

A couple of beats passed.

"I'm not sure. But don't you always row on Sundays?"

"During the season, but we're kind of past that now. I didn't go to the lake the last two weekends."

"Well, I couldn't imagine you not rowing on such a beautiful day. Though I expect it was chilly this morning, wasn't it?" Her friend's tone remained conversational.

"Yes." Lindsey shivered despite the midday sun that was bathing the world outside the window in warm, golden light.

Which was crazy.

Why would she suddenly have misgivings about someone who'd never been anything but kind to her? After all, Madeleine knew she stretched out the rowing season as long as possible, weather permitting. Even if she hadn't mentioned lake plans for this weekend, it would be logical for her friend to assume she'd work in a session, given the warm temperatures.

There was no reason for Madeleine's question to stir up doubt.

Yet uncertainty appeared to be her lot today. Thanks to Jack Tucker's skepticism, she was also beginning to doubt whether someone had grabbed her ankle this morning.

Could she be losing it? Starting to come unglued? Was a breakdown in her—

"... Chad and Dara, so I called them too."

Quashing her resurging panic, Lindsey tuned back in to the conversation. "Sorry. I got distracted for a minute. What did you say?"

"Chad and Dara weren't at church, either. I called Dara a few minutes ago. She didn't give me any details, but they had a very upsetting morning. The detective on the Robertson case paid them a visit."

Lindsey leaned back against the counter.

So that was why Jack had bailed on lake reconnaissance.

"Did she tell you what he wanted?"

"No. All she said was that he was following up on a new lead. Now I'll let you get back to whatever you were doing. I'm glad you were able to work in a rowing session this morning. I hope it relaxed you."

Hardly.

But Lindsey kept her comment more generic. "Rowing has always been my happy place."

Until today's experience had forever hosed her go-to scene for visualization exercises.

"We can all use one of those. And if the mild weather holds for a few more days, you may get in another session or two. Take care, and I'll talk to you soon."

Lindsey remained by the counter after the call ended, weighing the phone in her hand as she tried to quell the uneasiness rippling through her. To steady a world that suddenly felt off-balance.

Could her unsettled state be a delayed reaction to the frightening events of this morning, or had everything that had happened to her over the past twenty-one months taken a more serious toll on her mental stability than she'd thought?

Mounting evidence pointed toward the latter. Unless her mind was beginning to play tricks on her, why would she doubt a close friend like Madeleine or turn what may have been nothing more than an unfortunate accident into a sinister attack that perhaps had no basis in reality?

Fingers trembling, Lindsey set the cell on the counter as tendrils of fear twined around her windpipe, cutting off her air supply.

Another panic attack was looming.

No!

She wasn't going to let all the bad stuff that had happened mess with her mind. Whatever was going on, she'd get through it. And it wasn't as if she was in this alone. Dr. Oliver was in her corner.

In fact, why not call him now? He was always available to clients, and she could also set up an appointment for tomorrow or the next day. They'd talk this out, and she'd be fine. She would not lose her grip on reality.

As long as nothing else happened to rattle her world.

"I TOLD YOU not to bother me on weekends. This better be an emergency."

At the curt greeting from Matthew Nolan, Eric Miller swiped the sleeve of his T-shirt across his forehead and walked to the end of the deck behind his house, keeping watch on the door. This was not a conversation he wanted his wife to hear.

"There's been a new development."

"I'm listening."

"Robertson's wife came into the office Friday. Met with all the honchos. I got a memo this morning that she wants a complete report on all financials by the end of the month."

"So?"

"So there are discrepancies if anyone digs deep, as you know."

"A financial report isn't an audit."

"It could come to that. Apparently she intends to play a much bigger role in the company than anyone expected. She also wants to be briefed on pending deals. That would include the strip mall you're after."

Nolan was silent for a moment. "What's she like personally?"

"I don't know. She's always kept a low profile."

"Is she qualified to run the business?"

"I have no idea."

"If she plays as rough as her husband did, I'm not going to be happy." Nolan's voice hardened. "We may have to get aggressive in our efforts to dissuade her."

A wave of nausea rolled through Eric, and he tightened his grip on the burner phone. "I don't have the stomach for those kinds of games."

"It's a little late for second thoughts. You're already in this one. Here's what I want you to do. Find an excuse to talk to the wife on her next visit. Size her up and report back. In the meantime, I'll work my law enforcement connections, see if I can get more details about what the murder witness saw or heard. Let's hope she wasn't there during my phone conversation with Robertson ... or doesn't start to remember details if she was. Otherwise, she could be a problem. Thanks to the wife, I'm already on the cops' radar. I don't want any more hassles—or anyone breathing down my neck and watching my every move."

A bead of moisture trickled down Eric's back, between his shoulder blades. The Sunday temperature was warm, but fear, not heat, had activated his sweat glands.

"I need my money, Nolan."

"Do your job, and you'll get it. The simple solution is to convince the wife the strip mall isn't a smart deal. One more thing. In the future, let's use texts. No chance of anyone overhearing that kind of conversation."

Nolan ended the call, and Eric slipped the cell into his pocket, fingers quivering.

He wasn't cut out for subterfuge.

But there was only one way to end this nightmare.

Get the man what he wanted.

Best case, James Robertson's wife would be easier to work with than her husband had been, Nolan would get his coveted strip mall, and the witness to the murder wouldn't know or remember anything that could come back to haunt them.

Worst case?

He wasn't even ready to think about that.

" WHAT HAPPENED to the chicken cordon bleu?"

"Change in plans." Jack responded to Bri's question as he peeled back the foil from the pan of lasagna. "I had to work this morning."

"Bummer. Your lasagna is amazing, but I was all geared up for chicken." Cara peeked into the other oven in the double set. "However, if that's Mom's green bean casserole, you're vindicated."

"It is."

She offered him a melancholy smile. "I love when you make that. It's almost like Mom is still with us."

The very reason his menus often included the casserole that had been a staple at family dinners until Mom died a year ago.

"I wish she was still with us. Dad too." Bri dipped her chin and adjusted a fork that was slightly askew in one of the place settings.

Jack dished up the first generous serving of lasagna and handed the plate to her. "They are."

"It's not the same." Bri sniffed.

His throat tightened, and he resorted to the wisecrack strategy he employed whenever his emotions got unruly. "Hey. No crying in my lasagna. It has plenty of salt already."

Bri made a face at him. "Ha-ha."

"At least you have someone new in your life." Cara directed that comment to their sister, then focused on him. "You want me to put the green beans on the table?"

"Yes. Thanks."

"There's someone out there for you too." Bri took the second plate he held out.

"Maybe."

Bri gave him a familiar look. The one that said "Let's work together to encourage Cara."

"You're only thirty-three, kiddo. It's not like you're over the hill." At Bri's eye roll, he shrugged. "What?"

"Your diplomatic skills leave something to be desired."

"I was just stating a fact. Thirty-three isn't old. You found someone, and you're thirty-four. The senior among us." As she liked to point out when it suited her, despite her mere six-month advantage over him.

"But I have issues." Cara set the casserole on the table and dug a serving spoon from his utensil drawer.

Bri jumped back in without giving him a chance to respond. "I do too. We all do. Comes with the territory if you're a kid from a rough background. We're just lucky we got the best foster parents in the world, and that they adopted us. If I met a guy who could look past my problems, you can too."

"Mine are different than yours. But you may be right. Jack's older than me and he hasn't found anyone yet either."

"Don't be too sure about that." Bri relieved him of the last plate and set it on the table.

"What does that mean?" Cara paused, spoon in hand.

"Nothing. Let's say grace." He took his seat, bowed his head, and launched into a longer-than-usual blessing, tacking on a silent prayer that his siblings would drop the subject of romance.

"He met someone who interests him." Bri spoke the instant he finished the blessing.

So much for the plea he'd directed heavenward.

"Yeah? Tell me everything." Cara picked up her fork and aimed it at him.

"There's nothing to tell. I'm not dating anyone at the moment."

"Bri?" Cara turned to their sister for more information.

"I won't dispute our brother's statement, since I've never known him to lie, but I'll stick by my claim that he's met someone who's caught his eye."

"Who is she?"

"He'll have to answer that one. I'm sworn to secrecy because it's case-related."

Cara's head swiveled back toward him. "Okay. Spill it."

"There's nothing to spill."

Bri speared a green bean. "When's the last time you saw her?"

She would ask that question.

"Seeing someone in connection with an investigation doesn't qualify as a social call."

"Unless you fabricate a work excuse to contact her." Bri arched her eyebrows as she chewed. "And you didn't answer my question. Telling."

His sisters knew him too well.

"I'm not in the market for romance." He shoveled in an extra-large forkful of lasagna.

"Why not?" Bri pinned him with the penetrating stare she usually reserved for fire scene investigation work.

He pointed to his mouth and continued to chew. Slowly.

"You're stalling." Bri angled toward Cara. "As a renowned historical anthropologist with keen insight into human behavior, what's your take on our brother's avoidance tactics?"

"I think that question is more the bailiwick of a psychologist."

At the mention of a psychologist, Jack stopped chewing as an image of Lindsey materialized in his mind.

"That got his attention." Bri tapped her index finger on the table, watching him. "The case you were called out for this morning wouldn't have been the Robertson murder, would it?"

He swallowed the mushy lasagna, since there was nothing left to chew. "I can't comment on an in-progress investigation."

"I'll take that as a yes—and an answer to my earlier question." Expression smug, she went back to eating.

"Does that mean this woman you like is related to a murder investigation?" Cara's gaze zipped back to him.

Their younger sister might think she had deficiencies that handicapped her in the romance department, but her intellect and instincts were second to none.

"This discussion is over. Don't forget to save room for dessert."

"I always have room for Mom's chocolate mint squares." Bri took a second helping of green beans. "I'm glad one of us makes them on a regular basis."

"Sorry. Not on the menu today. I ran out of time. But I have ice cream and sundae fixings."

"No chocolate mint squares?" Cara's face fell. "That was going to be my treat of the week."

"I promise I'll bake them for our next lunch. But I'd be happy to give you the recipe if you don't want to wait that long. It wouldn't hurt to expand your culinary repertoire beyond soup and omelets, you know."

"Why bother? We have a ton of great takeout places in Cape. Cooking isn't my thing."

"Trust me, we know. I almost broke a tooth on those ribs you made last spring."

"They weren't that bad."

Jack hiked up an eyebrow.

"Okay." She raised her palms in surrender. "I'll concede they were on the crunchy side. But I'm too busy to hone my cooking skills."

"If you're interested in finding a guy, you know what they say about the way to a man's heart."

"Oh, puhleeze." Bri set her fork down with a clatter. "You of all people should know cooking isn't gender specific. Would you care whether a woman you liked could cook?"

Another image of the personal chef who'd captured his fancy materialized in his mind.

"He's off in la-la land again." Cara cocked her head.

"Uh-huh. Maybe he's wondering if this woman he's interested in can put a decent meal together."

No need to wonder about that.

Besides, his interest in her had nothing to do with her skills in the kitchen.

"Could we change the subject, please? Cara, why don't you fill us in on the plans you mentioned for a research project?"

"Shall we let him off the hook?" His younger sibling deferred to their sister.

"I suppose we'll have to. He's not going to talk anyway. And I've been wanting to hear more details about your plans too. The hints you dropped sounded fascinating."

Cara was more than happy to expound on the project she hoped to undertake during her fall sabbatical. It seemed there was a remote estate in southern Missouri that was home to journals written in an arcane French dialect only the reclusive owner could decipher, which Cara believed would contain a treasure trove of anthropological data. She was in the process of securing the owner's participation and applying for fellowships.

Jack listened with one ear while he mulled over next steps with Lindsey.

Based on that photo on her fridge, it wasn't hard to deduce the source of her antipathy toward him.

How to mitigate it was far less clear. Because the simple truth was that if he hadn't encouraged Clair to venture beyond her comfort zone, she'd still be alive.

He chased a lone green bean around his plate.

After four months of frequent dating, he should have realized the whitewater rafting outing he'd encouraged her to sign up for during her vacation would be too much of a stretch. Sweet as she was, she hadn't had an athletic bone in her body. In truth, much as he'd liked her, their leisure interests were polar opposites. Outdoor activities for him, needlepoint and afternoon tea for her.

In hindsight, it was clear a long-term relationship hadn't been in the cards for them and that it had been wrong to suggest she broaden her horizons with an activity more suited to his interests than hers.

He stabbed the bean, but instead of eating it, he laid his fork down.

Encouraging her to go whitewater rafting had been as misguided as someone privy to his background suggesting he go rock climbing, knowing it could be a recipe for disaster.

As the rafting had been for Clair after she'd fallen out of the boat, hit her head on a rock, and been dragged under the rapids.

The lasagna in his stomach hardened into a rock.

What had he been thinking?

And how was he ever going to make peace with the guilt that—

"... lost him a while back."

At Bri's comment, he refocused on the conversation. "I've been listening." Sort of. "Those journals seem like they would be of more interest to a linguist than someone with your background." A shot in the dark, but if an arcane language was involved, his comment shouldn't be too far off base.

"Huh." Cara considered him. "Maybe he was listening."

"Nah. He's just good at faking it." Bri gave a dismissive wave. "You want to tell us what you were really thinking about—or can I guess?"

Instead of answering her question, he shifted his attention to Cara. "You ready for a sundae?"

"Yes. And for the record, if you have met someone, I hope it works out for you."

"I hope it does too. When the right woman comes along." He stood. "Bri, you want a sundae?"

"Yes. My sweet tooth will be satisfied, even if my curiosity won't." She heaved a theatrical sigh, rose, and began to clear the table. "If you do get serious about this woman, tell me we won't be the last to know."

"You'll be at the top of the list. But don't hold your breath."

"I don't know. I sense romance in the air."

Jack snorted. "Blame that on Marc."

"For what it's worth, I get the same vibes. And there's no Marc in my life." A hint of wistfulness threaded through Cara's words.

Jack gave her shoulder a squeeze. "Don't give up hope."

"No worries. Hope springs eternal and all that. But I'm fine either way. I mean, I have a wonderful life and a career I love and a fantastic family. What's to complain about, right?"

"Right." Nevertheless, there was much to be said for having someone to come home to at night. Or so he'd been thinking lately. "Three sundaes coming up."

During the remainder of his sisters' visit, the conversation transitioned to more neutral topics, their usual lighthearted banter and teasing a welcome interlude in what otherwise had been an emotional roller coaster of a day.

By the time he walked Bri and Cara to the door later in the afternoon, his mental state was much more upbeat.

Yet as he doled out hugs, waved them off, and turned to face his empty house, his dilemma came roaring back.

What could he say to Lindsey that would convince her to forgive him for the role he'd played in her friend's death?