In His Wife's Name
Joyce Sullivan
BACK FROM THE DEAD…?Sexy lawman Luke Calder was honor bound to keep his wife's two-year-old murder case alive. And though evidence would have him believe Mary had returned from the dead, this eagle-eyed cop knew better.Who was the beautiful impostor?Whoever she was,she was in trouble.And Luke vowed to blow her cover before whoever was trying to kill her succeeded. Except, while Luke's protective cop instincts served him well in unraveling this mystery, his physical responses to this stranger were proving problematic. Luke hadn't been able to safeguard his wife two years ago, but he'd be damned before this unsuspecting woman suffered the same fate!
“Thank you, Luke. You rescued me today in more ways than one.”
For several seconds Luke’s thoughts scattered at the sensation Mary’s hand created in his. Soft. Her hand felt so soft and delicately feminine. So…
Misleading.
That was the only term Luke would allow himself to describe his intense reaction to her touch.
As Mary climbed into her truck and drove off with a smile and a wave, Luke couldn’t help wondering what he was walking into and how it might be connected to his wife’s murder. Mary’s truck’s punctured tire had his gut shrieking warnings that something wasn’t right. Whether Mary was an impostor or not, Luke was afraid for her and her daughter.
This Mary Calder, whoever she was, had an enemy.
Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,
What’s bigger than Texas…? Montana! This month, Harlequin Intrigue takes you deep undercover to the offices of MONTANA CONFIDENTIAL. You loved the series when it first premiered in the Lone Star State, so we’ve created a brand-new set of sexy cowboy agents for you farther north in Big Sky country. Patricia Rosemoor gets things started in Someone To Protect Her. Three more installments follow—and I can assure you, you won’t want to miss one!
Amanda Stevens concludes her dramatic EDEN’S CHILDREN miniseries with The Forgiven. All comes full circle in this redemptive story that reunites mother and child.
What would you do if your “wife” came back from the dead? Look for In His Wife’s Name for the answer. In a very compelling scenario, Joyce Sullivan explores the consequences of a hidden identity and a desperate search for the truth.
Rounding out the month is the companion story to Harper Allen’s miniseries THE AVENGERS. Sullivan’s Last Stand, like its counterpart Guarding Jane Doe, is a deeply emotional story about a soldier of fortune and his dedication to duty. Be sure to pick up both titles by this exceptional new author.
Cowboys, cops—action, drama…it’s just another month of terrific romantic suspense from Harlequin Intrigue.
Happy reading!
Sincerely,
Denise O’Sullivan
Associate Senior Editor
Harlequin Intrigue
P.S. Be sure to watch for the next title in Rebecca York’s
43 LIGHT STREET trilogy, MINE TO KEEP, available in
October.
In His Wife’s Name
Joyce Sullivan
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Joyce Sullivan credits her lawyer mother with instilling in her a love of reading and writing—and a fascination for solving mysteries. She has a bachelor’s degree in criminal justice and worked several years as a private investigator before turning her hand to writing romantic suspense. A transplanted American, Joyce makes her home in Aylmer, Quebec, with her handsome French-Canadian husband and two case-book-toting kid detectives.
Books by Joyce Sullivan
HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE
352—THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS
436—THIS LITTLE BABY
516—TO LANEY, WITH LOVE
546—THE BABY SECRET
571—URGENT VOWS
631—IN HIS WIFE’S NAME
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Mary Calder—What really happened the night this beautiful public relations consultant was murdered? Luke Calder—He was determined to discover who had killed his wife.
Shannon Mulligan—Mary Calder’s name gave her a new identity and an escape from her past.
Rob Barrie—He wouldn’t rest until he and Shannon were man and wife…again.
Dylan White—What would this teen do to protect his mother’s income?
Glorie—The burglary in her gift shop was most puzzling.
Bill Oakes—What could the resort caretaker tell Luke about the woman who called herself Mary Calder?
To Mom and Dad,
My first heroine and hero, who taught me the meaning
of family and commitment and unfailing support.
Acknowledgments
My sincere thanks to criminologist T. Lorraine Vassalo
and family lawyer Marci Lin Melvin, B.A., LL.B.,
for patiently answering my questions about the
Canadian legal system. And to fraud detective
Paul Heagle, Ottawa-Carleton Regional Police Services
(retired), for explaining how the men and women in blue
get the job done. Without you, this story would never
have been more than an idea on a piece of paper.
Thanks also to the following for helping me get the
details right: Jackie Oakley, Ottawa-Carleton Regional
Police Services; Dr. Stephen W. Maclean; Nina Fast, R.N.;
Deborah Sarty; Pat and Linda Poitevin;
and Kay Gregory. Any mistakes are my own.
Last but not least, a heartfelt hug to Judy McAnerin
for her exceptional plot analysis skills!
Contents
Prologue (#u3fb8ce2f-4465-569d-b682-1392393ceabf)
Chapter One (#u8ccb70b5-2779-53e2-813c-08c493adfa79)
Chapter Two (#u22bed145-ad2f-56da-b7a6-6f55d4929e50)
Chapter Three (#u6a7c22a1-7617-5ccc-88f2-0f8297db1871)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue
Mary was unmindful of the car tailing hers; its looming headlights in her rearview mirror were insignificant and blurred by the darkness of the night and the sleet lashing her windows. At least her meeting with her client at the country club had gone well, and he’d been open to her suggestions to smooth over his furniture company’s image in the media after a consumer’s report on the evening news had targeted it for its sales tactics. She didn’t know why public-relations crises were like fevers in sick children, which reached a flashpoint in the middle of the night.
Mary smiled, thinking about children. Babies in particular. And making a baby with Luke. Her toes had turned to ice cubes in her black leather pumps. What she needed was a hot bath, candlelight and Luke’s long lean body sharing the tub with her.
Mary stopped her sports car for a red light at a dark intersection, her mind drifting to fantasy. Too bad Luke was on duty tonight.
Without warning her door was jerked open. A hand brutally gripped her arm and attempted to pull her from the car.
Mary fought back instinctively. Honked the horn. Screamed at her attacker. In her peripheral vision, she saw a dark-clothed figure dart in front of the headlights—a woman?
Something struck Mary. Hard. Her left arm exploded with pain. Her attacker reached across her body and released her seat belt. As he dragged her free of the car, Mary saw her attacker’s face…looked straight into his eyes. Shock came in a frigid thrust she felt to the depths of her soul. In that brief all-knowing instant, Mary knew she wouldn’t survive the night.
Chapter One
Sixteen months later
The shrill of the phone literally caught Luke Calder with his pants down. After putting in a ten-hour night shift on the streets in a patrol car, all he wanted was some shut-eye. With a tired sigh, he kicked his jeans toward the laundry pile on the closet floor and reached for the phone beside his bed. “Calder here.”
“Constable Calder, this is Alex Hudson from the credit bureau. You asked us to flag your wife Mary’s file and notify you of any activity.”
Luke’s fingers stiffened on the telephone receiver, as his body tensed against the sudden eruption of emotion in the pit of his stomach. The barren sand-colored walls of his bedroom shifted around him as if on motorized tracks. More than a year had passed since Mary’s murder, and Ottawa-Carleton’s finest detectives and forensic experts—fellow officers Luke had faith in, would trust with his life—hadn’t been able to come up with a lead in her murder. The investigation was in limbo—just like Luke’s life—delegated to a stack of cold files on a major-crime detective’s desk. He closed his eyes to block out the spinning walls and dredged deep inside himself for the professional control that had been drilled into him at the police academy. A lead. Oh, God, please let this be a lead, he prayed. “Has there been some activity?” he bit out.
“Yes,” Hudson acknowledged, his husky voice tinged with compassion. “A business-loan application to a bank in British Columbia. A branch in Blossom Valley. It probably would have gone unnoticed if you hadn’t flagged your wife’s file.”
Luke sucked in his breath as his brain computed the significance of the information through an insulating layer of shock. When he’d made the request of the credit bureau after Mary’s purse was stolen during the assault and attempted carjacking, he’d been more worried about the perpetrator running up Mary’s credit cards to her limit, not fraudulent bank loans. But still, there could be a connection, however remote. “Did the applicant give a current address?”
“Only a box-office address in Blossom Valley. Have you got a pen?”
“Just a sec.” Luke reached for his black duty bag, which he’d tossed on the bed a few minutes ago. After a moment’s fumbling with the zipper, he produced a pen from a side pocket, then grabbed for a notepad, a woodworking magazine resting on the oak bedside table he’d made Mary as a first-anniversary gift. “What have you got?”
Hudson read off the address.
Luke jotted it down, forcing his hand to form each letter. His fingers had turned to rubber. “Thanks, I’ll take it from here.” His knees gave out as he hung up the phone. Luke sank onto the bed, his heartbeat spiking and his thighs shuddering as if he’d just chased down a perp. Nausea swirled in his stomach as he pressed his forehead to his bent knees, but there was no way to avoid the anguished images that twisted him inside out—images of Mary dying in fear…in pain…without a cop in sight to save her. Much less her own husband.
He’d been on duty that night. Mary had died before she’d reached the hospital. He hadn’t even had the chance to tell her that he loved her one last time. Why hadn’t she just let her assailant have the damn car?
A sob caught in his chest, building until the pain of it vibrated through his body and throbbed in his brain. His fingers clutched the magazine like a lifeline to sanity. Would this address lead him to Mary’s killer?
THERE WAS SAFETY living in a small town. Shannon Mulligan could look out the window of Glorie’s Gifts Galore—one of the many shops in British Columbia’s Okanagan Valley where her handmade crafts were sold—and easily scan the six-block length of Blossom Valley. She knew the proprietor of every store in the Western-style business district by name and every face that belonged here. Strangers stuck out like palm trees in a desert and made her hackles rise until she assured herself that the stranger couldn’t possibly be her ex-husband.
Surely the fact that Rob hadn’t found her in sixteen months meant he likely never would. She and Samantha were safe.
As if knowing she was the object of her mother’s thoughts, nine-month-old Samantha gurgled and cooed with delight as her plump sweet fingers latched on to a bright red apple appliquéd to the green gingham skirt covering a nearby display table. A basket filled with vegetable-and fruit-shaped napkin rings nearly slid off the table as Samantha tugged on the tablecloth. Shannon expertly grabbed the basket to prevent it from crashing to the floor, then worked the gingham cloth from her daughter’s grasp.
“Oh, you silly girl!” she admonished gently. “The apple is so pretty and colorful, isn’t it?”
Samantha beamed up at Shannon from her stroller, her cap of silky dark hair mussed and her dark eyes glinting with smoky-gray and mottled-brown flecks of mischief. Eyes so like Rob’s, Shannon’s ex-husband, that they irrefutably confirmed the truth of Samantha’s sordid conception. Shannon prayed daily that her baby hadn’t also inherited her father’s tendency to fly into rages at the slightest provocation.
So far, Samantha’s temperament had been as meek as a lamb’s. Despite the terror and uncertainty that had hounded Shannon during the days and nights of her pregnancy, she loved her daughter more than life itself. Because of Samantha, Shannon had found a courage inside herself she hadn’t known she possessed. She’d taken risks, impossible risks, but they’d all been worth it. Rob would never be able to lay a hand on her again.
Her eyes stung with tears as she bent to kiss her daughter’s brow. Samantha deserved a safe and happy childhood. That was all that mattered.
“Not to worry, Mary,” Glorie assured Shannon, bustling up beside them and breaking Shannon’s train of thought. “I should have offered to get the door for you, but I just couldn’t take my eyes off that batch of birdhouses you just brought in. I promised to put one aside for a customer.”
Shannon could see by the genuine softening of Glorie’s careworn face that the gift-shop proprietor truly didn’t mind Samantha’s inquisitive fingers. Glorie’s heart was as generously proportioned as the body that housed it, and sometimes Shannon felt certain the residents of Blossom Valley would forgive her for assuming another woman’s identity. It wasn’t as if Shannon was doing Mary Calder any harm. She was just borrowing her name and her likeness.
Shannon eased Samantha’s stroller out of the aisle as Glorie pulled the door open. “Now don’t forget, Mary, you promised you’d drop off a dozen welcome signs and at least three letter boxes before the long weekend. I can’t keep them in stock. Your Garden Patch collection is just taking off.”
“And I couldn’t be happier,” Shannon replied with a sigh of contentment, feeling grateful that her new career fulfilled both her creative and her financial needs. She was making plans to buy additional tools and to hire someone with woodworking experience to cut the wooden pieces for her crafts so she could concentrate on the finishing and painting. Unfortunately the business loan she’d applied for at the bank to allow her to move her business out of the lakeside cottage she rented and into a larger place of her own had been denied, but Shannon was sure that had more to do with her short residency and lack of employment history. Her income was steadily improving. She just had to prove to the bank she was a good risk.
Promising Glorie she’d be back in a few days with her order, Shannon pushed Samantha’s stroller out onto the sidewalk. July sunshine bathed her face and bare arms with ovenlike warmth. The newspaper office was two doors down. She entered and made arrangements for her Help Wanted ad for a woodworker to be inserted in the upcoming Weekly Gazette. Now all she had to do was make a quick trip to the lumberyard for supplies, then head home to put Samantha down for her afternoon nap. Shannon did all her cutting while her daughter napped, looked after business details and sketched designs during the mornings, then painted at night after Samantha was in bed.
Her step quickened and she felt like singing with happiness as she pushed Samantha’s stroller toward the beat-up green pickup truck she’d embellished with decorative artwork advertising her Garden Patch collection. A billboard on wheels.
She’d fastened Samantha into her car seat and was climbing behind the steering wheel when she noticed the toy rattle tucked beneath the windshield wiper. What on earth?
Shannon climbed out of the truck and removed the pastel-pink bear-shaped rattle. She’d never seen it before in her life. It looked brand-new. Had someone found it on the sidewalk and assumed it belonged to her because they’d seen a car seat in the truck?
Shannon glanced up and down the street. There wasn’t a person in sight. So why, then, did she feel vaguely uneasy as she climbed back into the truck?
FROM A DISTANCE the woman leaving the newspaper office bore a striking resemblance to Mary—bare shoulders tanned a golden brown, the sun glinting off flaxen hair carelessly sweeping sculpted cheekbones. The exuberant bounce in her step as she pushed the stroller down the sidewalk seemed so bitingly familiar that Luke’s heart twisted with an impossible wish that the past sixteen months of his life had been some cruel hoax. But reason told him that Mary’s death was real. He’d identified her battered body.
Still, from the moment he’d spotted her double leaving the cottage at nine-fifteen this morning, the back of her truck loaded with boxes, this woman with the baby—whoever she was—affected him like a channel surfer punching the remote control of his emotions. Luke experienced flashes of white-hot rage, stomach-knotting confusion and sharp pangs of unsettled longing as he tracked her movements to three different gift shops in the area. Was it mere coincidence that she shared his wife’s name and likeness? Had the credit bureau made a bureaucratic error? Or was something else going on? How many Mary Tatiana Calders with the same birth date could there be in one country?
He was going to call Ottawa on his cell phone and have her license plate run when he got back to the motel. He dropped a tip on the coffee-shop table where he’d sat the past half hour conducting his surveillance and hustled outside to his rental car. The woman in faded jeans and a white sleeveless cotton blouse was just starting the engine of a brightly painted pickup that made following her child’s play.
Before he’d been granted emergency leave and hopped the first flight he could to Penticton, the Okanagan city nearest Blossom Valley with an airport, Luke had called Detective Sergeant Zach Vaughn, the lead investigator in Mary’s murder, to inform him what was up. Vaughn had tried to dissuade him from checking out the lead. Department policy discouraged officers from investigating cases involving family members. But since they both knew Luke had a right as a citizen to investigate his own case, Vaughn had agreed, with certain conditions. Luke was an informant traveling on his own time, with his own funds—though he still had a badge that could grant him certain privileges with the local police. Luke was to keep in constant touch with Vaughn. The minute Luke found any evidence linking this woman to Mary Calder’s murder Vaughn would call in the local police to take over the investigation.
After Luke had agreed to the conditions, Vaughn had checked the police computer and found out the woman had a British Columbia driver’s license, which gave Luke the street address the credit bureau hadn’t been able to provide.
Luke eased into the traffic behind a dusty black coupe with a dented right fender. This Mary Tatiana Calder didn’t go far, just to the hardware store on the west end of town. Luke pulled into the parking lot a good two minutes behind her, then sauntered into the store while she was wrestling the stroller out of the bed of the truck.
He planted himself near the book display just inside the entrance, fanned open the pages of a how-to book on wiring and waited. Suddenly the automatic doors swung inward and Luke heard the woman’s muted voice talking to the infant. But he lost track of the words as his gaze took in the baby girl propped up in the stroller and wearing a pink sundress that reminded Luke of cotton candy and all things feminine. Her full round cheeks, dark silken hair and wide gooey smile caught him like an arrow to the heart.
Once upon a time he and Mary had dreamed about having children. Planned for it. They’d even had names picked out. Nothing too fanciful like Tatiana, which Mary had hated as a child. Simple solid names like Ryan and Laura.
Pain Luke thought he’d banished clawed at his throat as his gaze trailed upward toward the baby’s mother. The shape of her oval face enhanced her startling resemblance to Mary, but only superficially. Even as his body registered the woman’s beauty, his brain logically picked out subtle differences—the nose that was longer and delicately pointed, the smattering of freckles across her cheeks, the smile that was wider. Eyes that were more hazel than blue. And from his vantage point he could see the telltale traces of natural-brown roots in her dyed blond hair.
He ducked his head behind the pages of the wiring book as the woman’s gaze swiveled past him. Instead of moving directly into the maze of plumbing and electrical-parts aisles, she turned toward the customer-service desk. Luke watched as she stopped in front of a bulletin board mounted on the wall near the desk and removed from her denim purse a piece of paper, which she posted on the board.
She seemed to be scanning the board with interest, then with a sigh, turned and headed right past him into the store, close enough for him to become acquainted with the exotic scent of her perfume, which made him think of hot summer nights and jasmine. Luke hid his face behind the book until he was certain she’d passed, then casually moved over to the bulletin board.
The Help Wanted notice she’d posted gave him all the excuse he needed to make the woman’s acquaintance.
AWARE OF THE TIME, Shannon hurriedly buckled her daughter into her car seat as the yard clerk loaded her lumber order into the back of her truck. It had taken longer than she’d anticipated to select and purchase the knot-free planks she needed; now she was worried Samantha might fall asleep before they got home. Taking a nap in the car, even a short nap, usually screwed up her daughter’s sleeping schedule, and Shannon needed to start cutting the pieces for the signs and the letter boxes today if she was going to fill Glorie’s order as promised.
Shannon climbed into the cab, slamming the door behind her. The engine ground for a second, then sputtered into life. She breathed a sigh of relief and popped a children’s cassette into the tape player, hoping a sing-along would keep her daughter awake and entertained for the next twenty minutes.
Cheerfully warbling a silly ditty about lost little ducks, Shannon turned onto the highway. Blossom Valley, located in close proximity to Canada’s arid desert region of Osoyoos, was framed by rugged hills covered with sagebrush and antelope-bush and the occasional stand of ponderosa pine and cottonwood. Orchards of ripening peach, apricot, apple and cherry trees lined the highway, and vineyards crept up the hills, irrigated by the many crystal-blue lakes that abounded in the Okanagan.
Shannon had picked this area because her aunt Jayne, who lived in Halifax and knew the bleak cold rain of the Maritimes, had toured the region with a friend several years ago and had come home raving about the dry climate.
A few minutes outside of town, the highway climbed, winding between a lake and a ridge of mountains. The curves were sharper. Shannon felt an insistent tug on the steering wheel as it seemed to resist her efforts to stay in her lane. What was going on? With fear mounting that they might plunge off the road, she reduced her speed and gripped the wheel tightly.
The truck continued to lean to the right, and it took Shannon a full minute before she realized she probably had a flat tire. There was no shoulder here where she could safely pull over, but she knew there was a lookout over the lake not far ahead. Knuckles white with fear, Shannon slowly negotiated the curves, feeling as if she was trying to coax a recalcitrant bull into submission. By the time she pulled safely into the lookout, her heart was pounding and her face was damp with perspiration.
Now what? She didn’t belong to an auto club that gave roadside service. And she’d never changed a tire in her life. Shannon slowly climbed out of the truck and examined the deflated right front tire. There were many things she’d never contemplated doing before Rob had assaulted her. Changing a tire should be a piece of cake.
“NEED SOME HELP?”
Shannon looked back over her shoulder in alarm at the driver of the blue sedan that had pulled up behind her. She’d been so intent on figuring out how the jack worked and at the same time soothing Samantha, who was mewling with growing indignation at being confined to her car seat, that she hadn’t heard a car approach.
She gazed up warily at the brown-haired man who’d offered his assistance. He had a hard dangerous look to his face, or what she could see of his face beneath the reflective sunglasses concealing his eyes. Something about the sharply chiseled nose and the shadow of stubble clinging to his jaw made her throat go dry as she rose from her crouched position. “Thank you for offering,” she said firmly over the sound of Samantha’s distressed cries, “but I’m sure I can manage. It’s the twenty-first century. Women change tires. I’m setting a good example for my daughter.”
The man laughed dryly and removed his sunglasses, clipping them onto the ribbed neck of his navy T-shirt. “She’s a little young, wouldn’t you say? It’d really be no trouble to help you, ma’am. The least I could do is drive into town and call someone to assist you. My name’s Luke Mathews.” Quiet intense gray-blue eyes gazed back at her. Pulled at her in a curious way Shannon didn’t understand.
“Thank you, but it’d be faster to change the tire than wait for a tow—” she broke off as Samantha let out an eardrum-piercing wail. Shannon instinctively turned toward the truck and her daughter. Samantha’s face was red and tear-streaked. Shannon reached through the open window and stroked her sticky cheek. “Oh, Samantha, it’s all right, baby. We’ll be home soon.”
Samantha’s mouth opened, her little pink tonsils quivering, and her eyes squeezed tight as another pitiful wail erupted from her tiny body.
Shannon’s heart clutched at her daughter’s obvious discomfort. Over the noise of her daughter’s cries, she heard the engine of the sedan suddenly extinguish and a car door open. She looked back over her shoulder, alarmed to see Luke Mathews striding purposefully toward her truck.
“Ma’am,” he said, a smile tugging at the corners of his lean mouth. His eyes were lit with a deference that inexplicably soothed her apprehension at his approach. “It looks to me like you’ve already got your hands full. Why don’t you take your baby out of your vehicle—it’s safer and she’ll be cooler—while I change the tire? It’ll only take me a few minutes. Have you already set the emergency brake?”
Shannon decided Samantha’s women’s-lib training could take place another time. Right now her baby needed to be held and comforted. And her instincts were telling her that Luke Mathews didn’t mean her or her daughter any harm. Not with those eyes.
“Yes, I set the brake,” she replied as she jerked the door open to unbuckle Samantha’s car seat. Her usually meek daughter’s arms and legs waved in a fury as Shannon pulled her into her arms. Shannon grabbed her keys and her purse—just in case her instincts about Luke were wrong.
Shannon rocked Samantha in her arms as Luke popped the hubcap off the wheel and used some weird-looking tool to loosen the nuts slightly. Then he put the jack in place and began pumping the tire iron with practiced ease. The front right corner of the truck rose steadily off the ground.
“Are you a mechanic?” she asked, watching the smooth play of muscles rippling beneath his T-shirt. He wore faded jeans and scuffed running shoes.
“No, I’ve worked in construction mostly…well, until recently.”
That explained the muscles that bulged in his arms like rocks. “Recently?”
“I was working for my brother-in-law’s company in Vancouver. But he and my sister are going through a bitter divorce, and I didn’t like being caught in the middle. He was cheating on her.”
Shannon didn’t know what to say except, “I’m sorry.”
“I am, too. They’ve got kids.” He nodded at the illustrations painted on her truck advertising her Garden Patch collection. “You in business for yourself?”
“Yes, I am. Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Mary Calder. I’m a crafter, mostly wooden crafts—letter boxes, birdhouses, yard ornaments and other home accent pieces.”
Luke’s smile as he glanced at her warmed her with frank admiration. “Good for you. I’ve been thinking about starting up my own custom-finish carpentry business—you know, molding, cabinetry. I’ve taken a few months off to scout out possibilities.” Luke expertly finished loosening the nuts and slid off the damaged tire.
Shannon noticed his face turn serious, his lips pressing into a thin line as he examined the puncture. “What is it?” she asked, coming closer to peer over his shoulder.
He showed her a four-inch-long slit. “There’s your trouble.”
Shannon sighed. “And they’re new tires. Maybe I can have it repaired under the warranty.”
Luke didn’t say anything. He put the damaged tire in the truck bed and hoisted the spare into his arms.
Shannon tried not to stare at the flexed muscles in his arms. She couldn’t remember ever being fascinated by her ex-husband’s physique. Or was it that ever since Rob had hit her, she was more aware of the threat a man’s physical strength imposed? She pushed the disturbing thought away and focused on what Luke had just told her about his employment situation. An idea took form in her mind. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a part-time job while you’re scouting out those possibilities?” She went on quickly, feeling heat climb into her cheeks. “I’m looking for a woodworker to cut the shapes I need for my crafts. With your experience it sounds like you’re well qualified. I’m not sure I can pay you what you usually make doing construction, but it would be something while you’re trying to decide what to do with your future.”
His gaze flickered up to meet hers, steady and soothing as the dusky skies of twilight. He didn’t appear the least bit offended by her spontaneous offer. Shannon wondered if those eyes ever ignited into a rage. When she’d fallen in love with Rob, she’d never imagined that he would hurt her, either. An event-planning consultant, Rob had always seemed confident and in control. The type of person corporations and organizations depended on to flawlessly carry off their conferences and special events down to the last detail. But Shannon hadn’t been able to depend on him to cherish her as a husband should cherish his wife.
Still, she told herself reasonably, she wasn’t asking Luke to share her life—only work for her part-time. Shannon clutched Samantha tightly to her hip and held her breath. Would Luke accept her offer?
HOOK, LINE AND SINKER, she’d offered him a job. Luke’s mouth pulled into a slow halfhearted grin that made him feel hollow inside as he pretended to mull over her offer. What the hell was the matter with him? He was unofficially working a murder investigation. His wife’s murder investigation. He should feel pleased that the suspect had swallowed his background story and offered him a job. Instead, he felt deeply ill at ease.
The Mary Tatiana Calder he’d been conversing with for the past fifteen minutes didn’t strike him as being a hardened criminal who’d stolen a woman’s identity to defraud a bank. Not with that fresh face, the pristine eyelet top and those comfortably faded jeans. On the surface she seemed like the kind of frank warmhearted woman the world depended on to raise children, run countless errands and volunteer for good causes, in addition to being loving wives and career women. But even nice women with soft beguiling smiles, legs a model would envy and gently rounded derrieres had secrets. This Mary was a paradox.
Her truck’s tire had been deliberately punctured—probably with a knife when he was inside the hardware store. She was lucky that she and her daughter hadn’t had an accident.
Why would someone want to harm her?
Mary was patiently waiting for his reply. “I just might take you up on your offer,” he said finally as he methodically tightened another nut. “Might be nice to have something to keep me busy until I make some decisions—and I have to admit my hands are aching to hold some tools.” He glanced at her again, letting his eyes tangle with her hazel ones over her baby’s silken head as long as he dared. Those hazel eyes spelled trouble. They were like the surface of a lake—shimmering with sunlight one minute, clouded with some inner torment the next. “I left my toolbelt at home—a definite mistake.”
“You can borrow my toolbelt if you take the job,” she said with a teasing lilt to her voice. “When would you be willing to start?”
Luke felt himself erecting an invisible wall to block out the wholesome appeal of her personality. “When would you like me to start?” he countered, matching her tone.
“Is tomorrow too soon? That would give me a chance to check your references this afternoon.”
Ah, references. So, she wasn’t as gullible as he’d first assumed. At least he hadn’t been lying about his carpentry experience. He’d spent a few summers in his youth doing construction for a friend’s father’s business, and he’d been renovating the eighty-year-old fixer-upper he and Mary had bought to raise the family they’d hoped to have.
“I don’t have a résumé,” he admitted. “I’m staying at the Orchard Inn in Oliver, but if you give me your number, I could call you later with the information.”
The baby’s eyelids drooped heavily as her head fitted snugly against her mother’s shoulder. As Mary lovingly cupped her head, an S-shaped frown settled between Mary’s brows. “How about I call you, instead?” she suggested. “Samantha’s schedule is a little unpredictable. Could you get together at least three references by five tonight?”
“No problem,” Luke assured her, wondering if her guardedness over her phone number was prompted by plain common sense—or fear. She wasn’t wearing a wedding band. Was she a woman living alone? Maybe her relationship with the baby’s father hadn’t worked out. Luke mulled over the ramifications of this possibility in his mind. She’d listed only the post-office-box address in the ad she’d posted in the hardware store. “You can reach me at the motel.” He told her the room number as he finished tightening the last nut.
A flush of color touched her lightly freckled cheeks like the blush of sun-ripened apricots, making him aware once again how different she was from his Mary. His wife’s skin had been like milk and honey in the winter, the honey tones darkening to bronze in the sun. And when she was flustered or angry, twin scarlet blossoms stained her cheeks.
Grief swelled in him.
“Sounds like we’re close to a deal, then,” she said in a tone that sounded too open and sweetly sensual to be businesslike. Or criminal.
Luke swore to himself and struggled to maintain an impersonal professional distance. “Y-yes, ma’am.”
She smiled down at him as he disengaged the jack. “You can call me Mary.”
Mary.
“Sure M—” Luke straightened, the jack in his hand, towering above her by a good six inches. His jaw tightened rebelliously, refusing to produce the name he’d said thousands of times. But never like this. Never in a moment of deceit.
Mary took an unconscious step backward, wariness rising in the dappled-hazel depths of her eyes like plumes of smoke. Luke realized swiftly that he was blowing it. “Sure, Mary,” he said more forcefully than he intended. A dirty feeling coated his insides.
Mary trembled. And Luke wondered if his distaste for saying her name had shown. Or was she afraid of something or someone else? Had she realized that tire hadn’t slit itself? He pretended to misinterpret her shudder. “Your arms are shaking. Is your daughter growing heavy?” Before she could object, he opened the truck’s passenger door so she could buckle Samantha in her car seat. Luke stepped away from the door and stowed the jack.
Arms free again, Mary turned to him and offered him her hand and a smile of gratitude. Neither of which Luke felt comfortable about accepting.
“Thank you, Luke. This probably sounds like a cliché, but you rescued me today in more ways than one. I’ll give you a call about five at your motel, okay?”
“I’ll be expecting it.” For several seconds Luke’s thoughts scattered at the sensation Mary’s hand created in his. Soft. Her hand felt so soft and delicately feminine. So…
Misleading.
That was the only term Luke would allow himself to describe his intense reaction to her touch. He released her fingers quickly, feeling as if his response betrayed his wife in some fundamental way.
As Mary climbed into her truck and drove off with a smile and a wave, Luke couldn’t help wondering what he was walking into and how it might be connected to his wife’s murder. The truck’s punctured tire had his gut instinct shrieking warnings that something wasn’t right. Luke was afraid for Mary and her daughter.
Imposter or not, this Mary Calder, whoever she was, had an enemy.
Chapter Two
Shannon was deeply relieved when Luke’s references all checked out. Even though the southern Okanagan wasn’t exactly teeming with crime, it had been risky to allow a stranger to change her truck’s flat tire. Even riskier to offer him a job out of the blue. But she’d taken all the right precautions by not giving Luke her phone number or home address until after she’d verified his references. She just hoped he would work out until she could find a more permanent replacement.
Luke’s brother-in-law hadn’t sounded pleased that Luke was taking on a part-time job. But the two clients who’d returned her calls last night had raved about his reliability and his finish work.
And Luke had been willing to start this morning. Surely it was the prospect of getting some work done this afternoon that made her heart race with anticipation when she heard his sedan pull into her drive right on time, wasn’t it?
LUKE SHOWED UP for his first day on the job determined to make substantial headway into solving the mystery of Mary Calder. Yesterday after he’d made arrangements for his phony references, he’d checked her phone number and discovered she only had a business line listed under her company’s name, not a residential one under her own name. Then he’d spent a half hour combing the listings for Calder in the phone book for Blossom Valley and the nearby towns, but none of the three Calders he’d dialed had acknowledged being related to Mary. However, one elderly gent had offered the information that Luke wasn’t the only one who’d called seeking a woman by the same name.
Luke eyed dispassionately the tidy white cottage with crisp blue trim on the porch rails and the gray weatherbeaten detached garage, which were set back in a stand of trees. Two oak-barrel halves overflowing with salmon geraniums and mounds of white flowers marked the beginning of a stepping-stone path that wended its way to the cottage’s front door. A patchy lawn, bare in spots, stretched down to the cattail-fringed shore of Kettle Lake.
Luke felt his body tense as he climbed out of the sedan. Somehow the prospect of seeing Mary again made him feel as if he was entering a war zone populated with more enemy troops than allies.
Mary emerged from the cottage as he reached the stone path. “Hi, Luke!” she called out. The welcoming sunny warmth of her smile hit him like a sharp blow to the ribs. Without the thirty pounds of equipment and body armor he usually wore while on duty, Luke felt exposed and vulnerable to the emotional rounds her every look and gesture seemed to inflict on him.
With her flaxen hair glinting in the sunlight and her lighthearted step, Mary looked the picture of innocence in blue-and-white candy-striped overall shorts and a white tank top. She wore red running shoes painted with black dabs that made each foot look like a wedge of watermelon, and white cotton socks edged with blue hand-crocheted lace. Luke dredged up a smile and tucked his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans. A massive weight settled in his stomach as if he’d swallowed rocks for breakfast. Nothing was more important to him than finding out who had murdered his wife. “Hi yourself,” he replied. “Nice day, isn’t it?”
“It’s beautiful. I just put Samantha down in her crib for her nap. If we’re lucky she’ll go to sleep, and I can give you an uninterrupted tour of my workshop. It’s out here in the garage….”
She was babbling. Was he making her nervous? Or was she worried about the baby? Or the threat against her life yesterday? Luke noticed she carried a portable baby monitor in her hand. He fell into step beside her and tried to act casual as she led him to the detached garage. But he felt more awkward than an adolescent on a first date. Fortunately Mary was doing enough talking to carry both sides of the conversation.
She paused to unlock the door and flick on the overhead fluorescent lights. “I’m warning you, my workshop is small, but functional.”
She wasn’t exaggerating. Luke examined the collection of power tools she had skillfully crammed into the one-car garage, which was little more than a shack constructed of decaying cedar siding. At least it had a window, albeit a small one, to bring in some light and ventilation.
It wasn’t every day he met a woman who knew a jigsaw from a scroll saw, much less wasn’t afraid of the whine or the ten-inch gleaming blade of a miter saw. Luke was frankly impressed that this Mary Calder seemed totally in her element, ankle-deep in sawdust. His wife had always tiptoed into his workshop as if getting sawdust on her three-hundred-dollar shoes and tracking sawdust into the other parts of the house were indictable offenses.
But why would someone want to hurt this Mary?
Luke detected an unmistakable wariness in her hazel eyes as she spoke to him, the same wariness he’d glimpsed fleetingly yesterday. It was the same hunted look perps wore when he questioned them on the street. Gut instinct told him there was something lurking here behind Mary’s bright smiles. He hoped, with time, that he could convince her to share her fears. Meanwhile, he’d provide protection for her and her daughter. Not that he was armed. Only federal police officers could transport firearms from one province to another.
As she opened a cupboard to show him where she stored her reversible electrical drill and bits, Luke could hear via the monitor Samantha noisily sucking on a bottle.
“Are these your husband’s tools?” he asked mildly. He had noted the absence of a wedding band yesterday when he was changing the truck’s tire.
She looked startled. “No. They’re all mine. I took up crafting after Samantha’s father died.”
“I’m sorry.”
She waved away his sympathy with a flustered smile, setting the baby monitor on the workbench beside a plastic file box filled with manila files. She pulled some patterns from two of the files. “Basically I’ve got forty-plus designs in my Garden Patch collection that I sell to retailers in the area. About half my designs are seasonal items. My busiest periods are Christmas, Halloween and Easter, though business is brisk in the summer with the tourists. The files here contain all the patterns you’ll be using. The patterns clearly indicate how many pieces must be cut per finished item. And I usually make a note on the inside of the file folder how many pieces can be cut from a particular dimension of lumber.” She pointed to a pile of lumber stacked on a couple of sawhorses. “These pine one-by-eights are for a rush order of letter boxes and welcome signs.” She laid the patterns out on two of the planks, her quick fingers minutely adjusting the placement of each pattern piece. “I’ll need a dozen signs and eight letter boxes as soon as possible.”
Luke slid his hand over the surface of the raw wood and tried not to be so aware of the scent of this woman, like an exotic hothouse flower, mingling with the aroma of the sawdust and the cedar shingles as she positioned a pattern piece along the grain of the wood. He’d hung up his toolbelt and sold the house when Mary had died, afraid that he might destroy, rather than create, in his grief. Finishing the house would have been a constant reminder of all that he’d lost. The condo he lived in now, with its neutral color scheme and barren walls, was blessedly free of memories of Mary. Someday Luke thought he might hang pictures on the walls and empty some of the boxes that filled the spare bedroom. “I think I can handle that.”
She nodded approvingly. “You’ll find sandpaper in a plastic bin beneath the workbench. I’d like the pieces sanded and ready for finishing. I do most of the painting in the house.” She paused awkwardly, her face blanching beneath the smattering of freckles. “You’re welcome to come inside to use the facilities, have a coffee. I always keep a pot on. Since we’re a ways out of town, you might want to bring a lunch and keep it in the refrigerator.”
“Thank you.”
Shannon hoped she was doing a good job of hiding her nervousness. Even though she’d checked Luke’s references and knew he was who and what he purported himself to be, warning twinges ignited inside her like firecrackers when they’d stepped into the garage. He was so male. So tall. And those competent blunt-tipped fingers had seemed so large as he’d stroked her tools.
Shannon told herself she was being ridiculous. She couldn’t live in fear of every man who entered her life.
Her ex-husband had robbed her of too much already. She wasn’t going to give him the power to make her distrust Luke. It was perfectly reasonable to allow Luke inside the garage and access to her home to use the washroom.
She tilted her head and caught his unwavering gray-blue gaze. “Are you going to be staying at the Orchard Inn in Oliver for the time being? I’d like to know where I can reach you. Sometimes no matter how hard I try to keep to a schedule, something happens to throw me off.”
“Are there any motels in Blossom Valley? That would save me some driving time.”
“There’s one motel outside of town, though it’s usually full this time of year because it’s on the highway. It might be more affordable for you to rent a place by the week. I can guarantee you steady part-time work for the next two weeks—it’ll take me at least that long to find someone permanent. You can ask at the tourist-info center in town for a list of local rentals, or you might try asking Bill Oakes. I rent this place from him. He owns the blue house with the butterflies as you turned onto Shady Pines Road. Prices are reasonable because it’s not on one of the more popular lakes. The cottages along this road belong to his family, most of whom have moved to other parts of Canada. They don’t want to sell, it seems, so Bill rents them out and calls the place Shady Pines Resort.”
Those blue-gray eyes regarded her thoughtfully. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. I take it you’re not from around here, either? Your accent sounds more Eastern.”
Shannon blinked. “Who me? No I—”
A cry pierced the air in the garage, followed by a thump and a plaintive wail.
Shannon gave Luke an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Luke, I have to go.” Before he could say a word, Shannon hightailed it out of the garage.
Luke stared after Mary, his mind churning with speculation. She’d been frustratingly evasive when it came to answering personal questions. Was she truly a widow or was she lying?
He’d bet coffee and a doughnut she was lying. Had the person who’d slit her tire been an ex-spouse angered over a custodial dispute? Or was there more to it than that? Had she taken her daughter without the father’s consent? That might explain why she’d stolen another woman’s identity, if she had. But Luke had no proof that this Mary Calder wasn’t whom she claimed—only unscientific hunches.
Luke studied the pattern pieces she’d arranged on the pine board, then rearranged them to make a better fit. Somehow he’d make all the pieces of this case fit together, one at a time.
When, suddenly he heard Mary’s voice in the garage, speaking in soothing tones to the baby, Luke realized she had forgotten to take the baby monitor with her. “Oh, Samantha, come here, baby,” she crooned. “It’s okay. Everything’s all right. Mommy’s going to take care of you. Always.”
Was it Luke’s imagination or did he detect an air of desperation in her voice?
SHANNON WAS IMPRESSED when Luke brought her a stack of the finished wood for the welcome signs at the end of the afternoon.
“This ought to get you started,” he said with a gruff smile that made her chest feel strangely tight as she opened the screen door to him. “I’ll do the letter boxes tomorrow.” His face was beaded with a fine film of perspiration, and his clothes were speckled with sawdust. And he looked sexier than a pinup boy in a tuxedo. Raw and elemental.
Shannon took a firm grip of her hormones and reached down to scoop up Samantha, who was chewing on a biscuit. She’d had a productive afternoon. She’d painted two-dozen crow plant pokes. Tonight she could start on the welcome signs. “You look hot, Luke. Could I offer you a cold drink? Iced tea? Soda?”
“Water will be fine, thank you.”
Shannon motioned toward her worktable. “You can put the signs there and have a seat at the counter. Feel free to wash your hands at the sink if you like.”
He nodded wordlessly. As he stepped into her cottage, what she had always considered an airy space seemed to shrink enough to barely encompass his shoulders. Shannon fought the ripples of panic swelling in her.
Forcing a bright smile, she marched to the refrigerator and yanked open the door, reaching inside for a pitcher of water. One-handed, she poured him a drink and circled to the other side of the counter before presenting it to him. She felt safer with the width of the counter between them. But as he sat down across from her and she met his gaze, she could have sworn he understood her actions. Shame seared her. Was she that transparent?
Luke noted Mary’s uneasiness and the emotions shifting in her eyes, as well as the pink tide of color that rose from her neck and seeped into her cheeks before she turned away from him to examine his work. With her head lowered and her body pressed against the table as she held her daughter protectively on her hip, she reminded him of a hunted animal burrowing into its surroundings to escape the notice of a passing predator.
Compassion squeezed his heart. Just what or who was she running from?
He took a sip of water and let his gaze travel around the room. It exuded the whimsical touches of Mary’s creativity. Wreaths, bouquets of dried flowers and dozens of decorative hand-painted crafts dangled from pegs. Pegged racks painted a country blue were mounted at eye level on the pine-paneled walls. On one wall a narrow shelf was installed above the rack and held an assembly line of crafts in various stages of completion. Pencils, markers and brushes were carefully arranged in glass canning jars on the cottage’s dining table—an antique harvest table waxed to a soft mellow gleam—that obviously served as her worktable. A pine cupboard wedged into a corner held small plastic bottles of acrylic paint and cans of stain and varnish.
On the other side of the table was a playpen filled with stuffed toys and activity sets. He couldn’t see any photos of family and friends. No deceased husband. Like him, had she put the photos away because the memories they evoked were too painful? The room perfectly summed up what he already knew of Mary’s life: work, motherhood and a blank past.
He watched her run a finger along the sanded edge of a sign. “These look great, Luke,” she said, glancing back at him over her shoulder. “Expertly cut. Perfectly sanded. I’ll be begging you to stay on permanently if you keep this up.”
Luke was oddly pleased by her compliment. It had felt good to see the shapes emerge from the wood. “Thanks, but don’t get your hopes up. We both agreed this was temporary. I took the liberty of looking at some of the other patterns. I like your designs. How long have you been doing this?”
She shrugged. “Oh, I’ve been designing and painting things for years. I finally decided to be brave and turn my hobby into a job.”
Her breezy reply was characteristically vague. Luke dug in his heels, determined to peel back a layer or two. “I admire your initiative. It must not be easy running a business and being a single mom.”
He saw the muscles in the arm that circled her daughter tighten perceptibly. Still hovering over the worktable, she plucked a paintbrush from a jar, examined the bristles as if checking to make sure it was clean, then tucked it back into the jar. “It hasn’t been easy,” she admitted faintly, her back still to him. “When I was a teenager complaining about homework and studying, my mother used to tell me that if it wasn’t hard, then it wasn’t worth doing.” She turned toward him fully, her eyes glowing with steely determination. “I didn’t understand what she meant until I started this business. Now I’m glad my mother made me pay attention to algebra and geometry.”
Luke laughed dryly. Samantha stopping chewing on her biscuit at the deep unfamiliar sound and looked at him in sudden interest, her delicate bow-shaped brows lifting as if questioning what her mother was doing conversing with this strange man in their home. Luke gave her an amused grin.
“She’s a cutie. How old is she?”
“Almost ten months.”
“She’s walking early. My brother’s kids were closer to a year old when they started walking. His son could crawl up bookcases and cabinets.”
“Thankfully Samantha isn’t that adventurous. She never quite got the hang of crawling, but I think her natural curiosity to touch things out of her arm’s reach propelled her into standing, then walking. She loves brightly colored objects, especially flowers. Right, baby?”
Eyes gleaming, Samantha gave her mother and Luke a coquettish smile.
Luke laughed. “I’ll bet she just likes mischief. With a smile like that, she’s going to break a lot of hearts when she hits high school,” he predicted.
“You think?” Mary laughed and playfully dabbed at a splotch of drool on her daughter’s chin. “I hope she has more teeth by the time she hits high school.”
Luke took a stab at shifting the conversation to the more personal. “Did you go to high school here in Blossom Valley? Place doesn’t look big enough to have a high school.”
“There’s a high school in one of the nearby towns.”
Luke kept his smile steady despite the way she’d sidestepped his question. Again. “I’ll bet you got all A’s in art class. Is that where you learned to paint—in high school? Or did you major in art at university?”
“Actually I taught myself to paint from books and magazines, then took a few craft classes. I was an administrative assistant before I decided to turn my hobby into a business. I have to say I much prefer being my own boss to being someone else’s gofer.”
“What kind of company did you work for?”
“The government,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand as if all government offices were the same. “It gave me a whole new perspective on office politics. Though I miss the regular paycheck. That’s one thing you might want to keep in mind if you’re going into business for yourself,” she said pointedly.
“There’s that,” he agreed. “I guess I’d miss my soon-to-be ex-brother-in-law and the rest of his crew. It must be isolating working for yourself.” Luke took a sip of water, deliberately waiting to see if Mary picked up the thread and carried the conversation. Perhaps mention the department where she’d worked or the names of co-workers she missed or still kept in touch with. Anything that might help him confirm her identity.
Usually if you waited long enough, people felt obligated to fill silences.
And Luke was vitally aware that this Mary might have the answers that would fill the yawning silence in his heart. His gaze settled on her expectantly.
She moistened her lips. “I’m too busy to feel isolated. Taking care of Samantha and keeping up with orders keeps me on my toes. Speaking of orders, what hours are you available tomorrow?” she asked, rocking the baby on her hip. Dropping her gaze, she pulled a pencil from a jar, her expression all business as she examined the day planner open on the table.
She’d changed the subject so effectively Luke realized he couldn’t push the topic any further today without raising her suspicions. But while he might have surrendered this minor skirmish, he wasn’t going to lose the war. As Mary penciled in a four-hour shift on the calendar for the next day, he promised himself that someday soon, whether she liked it or not, he’d be downright intimate with her personal history.
BILL OAKES WAS HOME when Luke rang the bell beneath the faded sign reading Shady Pines Resort, Management. He was an elderly man with humped shoulders, elfin ears and a cheek-splitting grin that declared life still agreed with him. Or else he was showing off thousands of dollars worth of dentures, Luke mused.
The resort caretaker’s shrewd brown eyes assessed Luke as he explained his desire to rent a cottage for two weeks and gave Mary Calder’s name as a reference. “She’s hired me to do some woodworking for her.”
Bill Oakes nodded. “Mary’s a nice girl. She re-painted my butterflies for me.” He gestured at five vibrantly painted wooden butterflies that looked as if they had just alighted on the blue siding of his residence. “My wife—God rest her soul—bought those for the cottage years ago. They were looking faded. I’m not good with paints and such, but Mary offered to do them for me. Didn’t charge me a cent.”
“She did a wonderful job,” Luke said. “Has she been your tenant long?”
“Oh, let’s see…A year ago last April. It was right after her husband died. She needed a change, what with the baby coming and all.”
Luke quickly computed the dates. Mary had been murdered in March of that year, on St. Patrick’s Day. “Yes, she mentioned he’d died and that she wasn’t from this area originally,” he murmured conversationally, grateful that Mary had suggested there might be a cottage available for rent at the resort. Renting here could provide him with additional opportunities to find out more about the woman with his wife’s name.
“She’s got a mother and an aunt in the East, I believe,” Bill Oakes said, withdrawing a ring of keys from his pocket. “Now I do have a couple of cottages available for weekly or monthly arrangements. One’s a lot nicer than the other. Come on, I’ll give you a tour. We’ve got our own private beach.”
Luke waited for Bill Oakes to lock the front door, then walked with the elderly gentleman along a series of paths that wound from one lot to the next. Glimpses of Kettle Lake were visible through the trees, diamonds of sunlight dancing across its blue waters. Regaling Luke with tales of his six siblings, their children and grandchildren, Bill Oakes extolled the virtues of Shady Pine’s sandy beach, then showed him the two available cottages.
Luke chose the smaller of the cottages, a drab decaying structure that boasted one bedroom the size of a janitor’s closet and indoor plumbing. The furnishings smelled musty and damp, but it was a two-minute walk to Mary’s cottage. And Bill didn’t have any objection to his moving in that evening.
On his way to the motel to grab his luggage, Luke mulled over the two kernels of information that Oakes had given him about Mary: she might originally be from the East, and she’d arrived in Blossom Valley a couple of weeks after his wife’s murder. It wasn’t much to work with, but combined with Mary’s vagueness about her history and her coincidental resemblance to his wife, it opened the door wide to the possibility that there might be some connection between this woman and his wife’s murder.
Luke’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel as the unease that had lingered in his belly all day like an undigested meal rose sharply in his throat. Despite the steady wave of cool air blasting from the air conditioner, Luke broke out in a cold sweat. He’d arrested people from all walks of life and knew that almost anyone given enough motivation was capable of committing the most heinous of crimes. But the thought that this Mary Calder had been involved in such a brutal act sickened him. Slamming on the brakes, he pulled off the road and bounced onto the grassy shoulder of a peach orchard. A bell pinged repeatedly, reminding him he’d left his keys in the ignition as he climbed out of his rental car. He needed fresh air.
He gulped in two ragged breaths, then doubled over and vomited onto the freshly mown grass.
THE PHONE RANG at ten-thirty in the evening just as Mary was washing her paintbrushes. She’d finished the fine-detail work on the plant pokes and gotten a head start on the signs, but she was too tired to do more tonight. She quickly dried her hands on a paper towel and reached for the phone. Who could be calling her at this hour? Her mother and Aunt Jayne were in Halifax—in a time zone three hours ahead. And they always called from pay phones so Shannon’s number couldn’t show up on a phone bill.
Could it possibly be Luke Mathews calling to say he’d be late tomorrow or had changed his mind about working for her because she’d been such an idiot today?
Why did that thought make her experience a sharp pang of disappointment?
Because ever since she’d walked out on her marriage to Rob, she hadn’t allowed herself to look twice at a handsome man, much less enjoy the simple pleasure of conversation. She’d been too focused on running and being safe. Even the eight months Rob had spent in prison after she’d pressed stalking charges against him, she’d been afraid to make new friends, afraid to share information about herself, worried that she might inadvertently give away her location or her new place of employment…and Rob would somehow find her again.
Even though she had Samantha, having Luke here today had made her painfully aware of how starved she was for friendship and adult company.
The phone rang again.
“Hello?” she said softly, breathlessly, into the receiver, her pulse spiking as an image of Luke, dusty and virile, unfolded in her mind.
Silence met her greeting. But the line hadn’t gone dead. She could hear sounds in the background: the unmistakable clinking of cutlery.
“Hello,” she repeated patiently, feeling the roots of fear sink deep into her chest and twine around her heart. “Who’s calling? What number are you trying to reach?”
The caller didn’t respond. But she could still hear the noises.
Shannon hung up slowly, telling herself it was probably a wrong number, someone who’d misdialed and been confused by the sound of an unfamiliar voice. It couldn’t possibly be Rob this time—even though it was the third wrong number she’d received this week. She shook her head firmly, ticking off on her fingers all the logical reasons it couldn’t possibly be Rob. She’d taken all kinds of precautions—to the point of cutting off all contact with friends. Aunt Jayne and her mother didn’t even have her new name or phone number written down out of fear the information might somehow end up in Rob’s hands. They’d kept news of Samantha’s birth private and didn’t even keep photos of Samantha and Shannon at home. Instead, Shannon mailed them to a post-office box belonging to an acquaintance of her mother’s—a bridge partner—who kept them in her home, no questions asked, so her mother could see them at her weekly bridge games. Shannon never included a return address, and the acquaintance had no idea of Shannon’s new identity. She and Samantha were safe here.
Still, tonight’s phone call disturbed Shannon.
Enough to keep her awake into the early hours of the morning.
Chapter Three
“Sorry I couldn’t get back to you yesterday on the license plate. I was working on another unsolved murder,” Detective Vaughn told Luke over the phone the next morning. His voice was brisk and merciless, like a wire brush scraping rusted metal. Luke heard the sounds of papers being leafed through in a file. “The truck is registered to Mary Tatiana Calder.”
Luke grunted a noncommittal response. Hearing his wife’s middle name spoken out loud by another human being rankled. It seemed a violation of the trust his wife had had in him. A secret only the two of them had shared. But there were no secrets from the police.
And this Mary Calder would have no secrets from him.
Luke brought the detective up to speed about the change in his accommodations and his interview with Bill Oakes. “He told me the suspect has been renting since a year ago last April—two weeks after Mary died. She told him her husband was dead, which is the same line she gave me.”
Vaughn was silent a moment. “You think there’s a custody issue involved?”
“Possibly. It makes the most sense to me. I didn’t see any pictures of a man when I was in the house. I checked the garage for boxes of personal belongings, but no dice.”
“So maybe the husband slit the tire?” Vaughn suggested. Luke could almost hear the gears churning in the detective’s head. “That puts an interesting spin on the situation. You got a name for the husband?”
“No, not even a first name. But then, she’s evasive whenever I ask personal questions. My gut feeling is she’s running from something.”
“Or someone. Think you can get her prints? We might be able to identify her. Stands to reason that if she was involved in Mary’s murder or is the type to buy stolen ID, she may have been in trouble with the law before. She might have a record.”
“I’ll get them,” Luke promised.
Vaughn instructed him to keep in touch and hung up.
Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, with the small cell phone tucked into his pocket, Luke took the dirt path by the lake in the direction of Mary’s cottage. She wasn’t expecting him for another half hour, but he figured he could get the lay of the land and keep a vigilant eye on her cottage at the same time. The person who’d slit her tire might be keeping close tabs on her. And Luke didn’t want anything to happen to Mary and her daughter. Mary was the key to the answers he needed.
Voices drifted over to him from the other cottages. But the only person he encountered on the path was a sullen-faced teen in a black tank top and baggy swimming trunks that hung past his knees. The kid had bleached his dark hair to an electrifying hue and had affixed a row of silver studs to his right earlobe. Luke wondered if he’d ever looked that sullen as a teen.
Mary and Samantha were outside when he arrived. Samantha was sitting in a small sandbox with brightly colored toys while Mary was seated in a blue Adirondack chair that someone—Mary herself?—had turned into a work of art with hand-painted renderings of garden spades, hoes and seed packets. A mug of coffee sat on the wooden arm of the chair and a pencil and sketchbook were in her lap.
“Good morning, Luke, you’re right on time.” Mary’s welcoming smile was so cheerful and beguiling it stirred a response from his body that was far too vigorous for his comfort. She was dressed in a pair of sky-blue shorts this morning, with a matching blouse.
He averted his gaze from the devastating eyeful of tanned silky arms and legs as a razor-sharp sliver of guilt pricked his heart. “Of course I’m on time. Believe it or not, I know a number of contractors and subcontractors who actually show up at the time they promise.”
Mary laughed doubtfully.
Telling himself that he wasn’t attracted to her but to her passing resemblance to his Mary, didn’t help. It only made him feel more unsure. The truth was he didn’t want to feel anything for this Mary and her daughter. He was here to seek justice for his wife, nothing more, nothing less. He needed closure and peace to free himself from the limbo of his existence. Then maybe he could get on with his life.
Samantha gave a whimper of frustration as she tried to turn over a mold filled with sand. Luke hunkered down beside her so he could see her face beneath the brim of her pink sun hat and smiled at the unidentifiable clumps of sand she’d created in the sandbox. Judging by the forms she was playing with, they were supposed to be animal shapes. “I see you’re quite the designer, kid, following in your mother’s footsteps. Want some help making that turtle?”
Samantha sweetly handed him another shovel, those big smoky brown eyes of hers a trap in themselves. Luke helped her fill the plastic turtle mold with sand, then flipped it over. The turtle held its shape. Samantha clapped her hands as he added two tiny pinecone eyes. “There you go, kid.”
An unbearable ache wedged just below his heart, widening into a chasm of pain deep enough to drown in. It took every ounce of his willpower not to let himself think about what kind of father he might have been if he and his wife had had a baby. He’d been eagerly doing his duty to get her pregnant in the weeks before her death.
The Adirondack chair creaked behind him, and Mary’s voice, rich with motherly indulgence, encircled him in a bubble of intimacy that touched the emptiness inside him. “Oops, what are you going to do with that pinecone, Samantha?” she said as her daughter pinched another pinecone between her thumb and forefinger and ever so carefully placed it off-center on the turtle’s head for a nose.
“Nice touch, Samantha,” he praised her, patting her back awkwardly. “Every turtle needs a nose. It helps them find lunch.” Samantha giggled as Luke rose and brushed his hands on his jeans.
He risked taking another look at Mary and tried not to think about all those seemingly insignificant yet cherished moments he’d spent with his wife. The Saturday-morning French-toast breakfasts, the visits to antique shops to find just the right touches for their home. The hello and goodbye kisses. So many lost moments, lost dreams. So much he owed his wife. Luke took a firm mental step away from the edge of the chasm that threatened to suck him into its darkness. He could do this no matter what it took.
To his relief, Mary wasn’t paying him any mind. She was scanning the drive and the lawn leading down to the lake, the S-shaped frown he’d noticed yesterday inching between her brows. “Hey, I just noticed you’re on foot this morning. Did someone drop you off?”
“No, my car’s parked at my cottage down the way. Bill Oakes had a vacancy, so I moved in last night.”
“Oh, I thought maybe you were visiting the area with a friend you hadn’t mentioned.” Luke groaned inwardly at the hint of interest in her voice. Was she subtly inquiring whether he was involved in a relationship? It was bad enough that he felt some feelings of attraction for Mary. He didn’t want them to be reciprocated—even if it might facilitate getting some answers out of her! The situation was complicated enough. “I’m staying here alone,” he admitted finally, figuring the less he elaborated, the better.
She flashed him another beguiling smile. “That’s great you got a cottage. Which one?”
“Small one, in terrible need of repair. I’ve heard trains that were quieter than the pipes knocking in the walls when the shower’s turned on. But the price was right.”
“That’s Abner’s cottage. The oldest brother. He’s tightfisted, apparently. Can’t see why he should spend good money on improvements for other people to enjoy.”
Luke studied her closely as she took a sip of coffee. Hair framed her face in tousled disarray as if she’d combed it with her fingers when she’d risen from bed. She wasn’t wearing any makeup. There were lavender smudges under her eyes. From fear? Sleeplessness? Pushing herself too hard? “Bill Oakes didn’t mention it,” he said.
“Can I get you some coffee?” She started to rise.
He waved her to stay seated. “I’ll get it. You keep working. Mugs are in the cupboard above the sink, right?”
Luke saw uncertainty flash in her eyes. Why? At the prospect of him entering her home?
She settled herself back into her chair. “Yes, help yourself. Sugar’s in a bowl on the counter and there’s cream in the fridge.”
Luke nodded and ambled toward the front door. Conscious of the ticking seconds, his steps quickened once he’d stepped inside the cottage. The phone was mounted on the wall at the end of the kitchen counter. An old white pitcher crammed with pencils and a notepad was positioned near the phone, but there was none of the daily minutiae he expected to find: an address book, a calendar, letters, bills, bank statements. The day planner she’d had yesterday was nowhere in sight.
He quietly eased open the cupboard doors and the drawers nearest the phone. They held craft supplies and mismatched dishes. He surveyed the kitchen, dining and living areas for her purse, but didn’t see it. Her worktable was covered with partially painted signs, but no files or books that might contain business records. Luke decided she probably kept her purse and her business records in her bedroom, out of her daughter’s reach. Maybe she had a computer.
He’d have to find another opportunity to look. Luke found a mug and filled it with coffee. He noticed there weren’t any photographs stuck to the refrigerator when he took out the cream. Not even a picture of Samantha. Luke found that odd. Most people who had kids plastered their homes with photos of their offspring.
As he stepped back outside, coffee in hand, he complimented Samantha on her progress at making a second turtle. Samantha beamed up at him, her eyes sparkling with mischief beneath the brim of her hat as she tipped over the mold. Sand spilled out and formed two mounds that looked more like a snowman than a turtle. Samantha giggled.
“Uh, oh,” Luke said, not the least bit fooled by her attempt to entice him to play with her some more. He glanced back over his shoulder at Mary. “Your daughter’s pretty cute. She has your nose, but the rest of her must be her father.”
“She definitely has her father’s eyes. The rest…I don’t know, but I’ll keep her just the way she is.” Mary’s reply was characteristically vague, but her face glowed with motherly pride.
“Did you name her after her father?”
“No, I’ve just always liked the name Samantha. You’re good with her. She’s usually shy around men. Especially when I take her to the doctor.”
“It doesn’t matter what age you are, you don’t like doctors poking at you.” Luke took a sip of his coffee. The conversation had the level of intimacy he wanted if he hoped to get Mary to open up to him, but he could feel her skating around the edges of his questions about her husband as if aware danger lurked beneath them. “What did your husband do?” he asked.
A shadow darted across her expressive eyes. She tilted her head to one side, the sunlight striking her hair and turning it to corn silk as she met his gaze directly. “I know you’re just making conversation so we can get to know each other, but I’d rather not talk about my husband. He…” She paused, her lips twisting into a rueful smile. “It’s hard to explain, but losing him taught me how important it is to live life in the here and now and live it to the fullest.” As she spoke her shoulders squared as if threaded with an iron rod. “The past is over, done with, you can’t change it—sometimes you can’t even explain it. And the future, well, the future is something everyone assumes they’ll have, but the truth is that the only sure moment we have is the right now. For me, that’s my daughter and my business and the letter boxes that need to be cut today.”
“Is that your subtle way of telling me to quit jawing and get to work?” Luke quipped, feeling a wave of admiration for her, even though she’d just firmly barred the door on further questions about her husband.
“Yes.” The smile she gave him was pure, sweet and undeniably flirtatious. Luke promptly forgot about the past, the future and the need to cut the letter boxes in the present. The only thought on his mind in the here and now was that she had the most beautiful face, freckles, violet smudges and all. And those lips…would they feel as warm and sweet as the woman they belonged to?
Mary dug a key from the pocket of her shorts and handed it to him. “I hate to disturb Samantha when she’s happy in the sand. Can you unlock the garage and pass me the key before you leave for the day?”
“Sure. I’ll get started on the letter boxes right away.” Their fingers brushed lightly as he accepted the key, and Luke felt his limbs tingle with a slow anticipatory heat that made him patently aware, once again, of how delicate and feminine she was and how long it had been since he’d held a woman in his arms.
But he’d never hold this woman in his arms. Over time, even the best liars slipped up. And Luke had all the time in the world when it came to finding out Mary’s true identity.
CONCEALED BEHIND THE TREES, he watched them talking in front of her cottage. Anger rippled through him at the way she smiled at the man, as if she had no reason to be afraid. As if she didn’t deserve to be punished. Did she think having a man around would protect her from him?
No one could protect her from him. He was too smart. He’d proved last night that he could rattle her whenever he wanted. He’d heard the fear in her voice when she’d answered the phone. He was in control.
And that was only just the beginning.
WITH LUKE NEARBY in the garage, Shannon felt undeniably safer than she had last night after that unsettling phone call. She felt protected in the same way she had when she was a child learning to ride a bike without training wheels, and her father had walked beside her, a hand ready to catch her bike and steady her should she need it. After the way Luke had come to her aid yesterday, she knew that if Rob suddenly turned up on her doorstep, she could trust Luke to help her.
Not that she could tell Luke everything. It was highly improbable that the phone call last night had been Rob, but she’d learned the hard way never to underestimate what her ex-husband was capable of doing. Shannon tried to concentrate on sketching the design for a scarecrow crafted from a four-by-four recycled fence post, but even the slightest movement in the trees surrounding the cottage set her on edge.
Her experience with Rob had made her paranoid, and the only effective way to deal with it was to acknowledge the fear as a self-protective instinct and let it ride itself out. A few weeks from now the phone call would be just another insignificant wrong number. In the meantime, she’d be vigilant as always.
Samantha, who was practicing her new walking skills, toddled unsteadily around the sandbox, babbling to her toys like an excited bird. Her round face was damp with perspiration from the rising heat of the morning sun. Shannon decided to give up all pretense of working. “You look hot, baby. Let’s go inside and get you some juice.”
As she leaned down to place her sketchbook on the grass at her feet, something whizzed past her head. A second later, it struck the big terra-cotta pot she’d planted with petunias and alyssum with a sharp crack, putting a ding in the pot.
Shannon stared at the object. It was a rock the size of a golf ball. If she hadn’t bent over, it would have hit her in the head. It could have killed Samantha.
Panic spilled through her like carbonated bubbles. “Luke! Come quick!” she screamed as she leaped toward her daughter and scooped her up in her arms. A second missile hit the sandbox, spewing up sand inches from the spot where Samantha had been playing. “Stop it! You’ll hurt someone,” Shannon yelled as she ran toward the safety of their cottage, every cell in her body determined to protect her daughter. She yanked open the screen door, pulled it quickly closed behind her and secured the lock, her heart threatening to leap into her throat with every breath.
Samantha started to cry.
“Hush,” Shannon whispered. She peered through the screen, scanning the foliage to determine from which direction the rocks had been thrown. Please, God, don’t let it be Rob. The terror of the months he’d stalked her flared in her mind, a recurring nightmare that never left her. The phone calls. The notes filled with pleas, promises, threats and reminders of the vows she’d made to him, which she’d find on her windshield or taped to the door of her office building so that everyone at work could see. Or worse, the love notes he’d given her during her courtship that she’d find in the pockets of her clothes in her new dwellings. The cold dread that had hovered in the background of her every waking moment at the knowledge that she might turn around when she was walking down the street or purchasing groceries or heading for a meeting and find him watching her.
To her relief, Luke came tearing out of the garage, legs and arms pumping like a seasoned athlete.
“Mary? Where are you?”
Shannon had never been so glad to see muscles before. Surely Luke’s construction-honed physique was intimidation enough to make whoever had thrown the rocks think twice before doing something so irresponsibly dangerous again.
“We’re inside,” she called back, hating the fear that invaded her voice. Hating the fact that she couldn’t stop herself from leaping to the conclusion that Rob had somehow found her. “Someone just threw a couple of rocks at me and Samantha. One’s by the planter. I was sitting in the chair, and it came from behind and hit the planter. It almost got me. The other one landed in the sandbox.”
“Stay inside. I’ll check it out.”
Shannon’s heart ricocheted in her chest as Luke took one look at the planter and the chair where she’d been sitting, then ran toward the trees. Seconds later, his navy T-shirt and jeans were swallowed up by shadows and bristly pine branches. She didn’t want to think what might have happened if he hadn’t been here. What if the first rock had struck her and knocked her unconscious? Or the second rock had hit Samantha?
Caution curbed Luke’s movements as he skirted a thicket of chokecherry, searching for signs of Mary and Samantha’s attacker, scanning the trees and scattered clumps of vegetation for movement and listening for sounds of snapped twigs. What the hell had just happened? This second incident on the heels of the slit tire two days before confirmed that Mary and her daughter were in real danger. From whom? Did this Mary know something about his wife’s killer and someone wanted to silence her? His hair rose on the back of his neck. The stand of pine and aspen was eerily silent—no sound of birds chirping, making him think that someone was still nearby. Watching. Waiting.
“I know you’re there,” he said in an authoritative tone. “Come on out and apologize. That was a really stupid thing to do. Someone could have been seriously hurt.”
Silence met his demand.
“Well, if you won’t come to me, then I’ll come to you.” He strode toward a point in the path strewn with embedded stones, presuming the thrown rocks had originated there. Sure enough, two indentations in the sandy soil exposing fresh dirt confirmed his theory. He glanced in the direction of Mary’s cottage. The only thing visible from this position was the roof. Had a kid decided to use the roof as a target? He examined the ground carefully for footprints or items that might have tumbled from a pocket when the culprit had run off. The ground was hard-packed and sprinkled with a layer of dry pine needles.
He jogged down the path in a direction away from Mary’s cottage. There was no one in sight. Still, he continued on to the nearest cottage, where a man in a damp bathing suit, a bad sunburn ringing his neck, was pouring a bag of charcoal into a hibachi. Three kids ranging in age from maybe four to fourteen were fighting over a bag of hot dogs and a plate of buns.
Luke stopped to ask the man if he’d seen anyone pass by on the path in the last few minutes.
“Sorry. We were in the cottage,” the man replied.
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