Kris pivoted away from the counter. Jillian didn’t mind. She knew what to order.
“Kris Bryant,” Nia said, “and now Veronica O’Reilly.”
Veronica and her husband, Luke, ran the Victorium Emporium, done up with just enough Victorian charisma to make tourists park their cars, get out, wander through, and then wonder what else might be worth exploring on Main Street. Most of the smaller shops nearby owed their foot traffic to the presence of the Emporium.
“Hail, hail, the gang’s all here,” Jillian said. “Meet her at the door. I’ll get this round and assorted croissants and meet everyone on the couch.”
By the time Jillian arrived with espressos, lattes, and enough pastries to allow for extras to take home, the other women were laughing. They all ran businesses and dealt with people face-to-face day in and day out. She had her own business as well, but she was a researcher who prowled depths of the internet most people had no idea existed. Her clients included insurance companies, law firms—her father’s, primarily—and individuals who wanted to track missing heirs, sort out unidentified family members, or simply leaf out a family tree as far back as possible. Contacts came from across the country. On her desk were a dozen active cases at various stages of investigation. She had gone from attending genealogy conferences as a participant to presenting at them a couple of times a year, but for many cases she might never meet a client in person, much less have to spend the day disappointing dozens of customers with the lack of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream.
“These are from Ben Zabel’s bakery, you know,” Nia said, before biting into a cheese croissant.
Jillian snapped into the present conversation. Everyone knew where the baked goods came from. Ben worked himself to the bone supplying not only his own shop but Canary Cage Coffee, Burgers ‘n’ More, the Inn, and any other place in town he could think of to keep down the competition by selling them a better baked goods product than they could make themselves and guaranteeing that it would have more tourist-appealing homespun authenticity than anything they could ship in from Denver.
“I hear you have a new Carlotta at the Inn,” Veronica said.
Nia coughed brown liquid into her napkin. “That’s impossible.”
“Then it’s true.”
“I cannot possibly have a ‘new Carlotta,’ but yes, I did hire someone this morning. Barely thirty minutes ago. How can you possibly have heard?”
Veronica winked. “I sent Luke over to pick up the latest batch of wooden toy cars Leo had ready. We can’t keep those things in the store.”
“Well, there you have it.”
“Luke stopped in to say hello. He says she’s nervous.”
“Your husband is enough to make anybody nervous.” Nia wadded up her napkin and stuffed it into her empty coffee cup. “I’ll thank you all not to scare off my help with your effusion of small-town quirky charm. Come on, Jillian. We’d better get back to Meri.”
Jillian stifled a smile and closed the box of extra pastries. If her father was lucky, there might be one left when he got home from Denver that evening. Or not.
At the corner, Nia hooked a hand through Jillian’s elbow. “You’re coming with me.”
“I should get back to work.”
“Just another few minutes. You know what Luke can be like.”
“He just likes to kid around.”
“He says outrageous things in the process. I might need reinforcements to persuade Meri to stay.”
“I doubt it. You said she was desperate.”
“But not stupid. Sewanee double major, remember?” Nia began trotting toward the Inn. “Oh no. She’s getting in her car.”
Jillian trailed a few steps behind.
“Please don’t leave!” Nia called out.
Meri, who was leaning into her car, pulled her head out. “Ma’am?”
“Please don’t leave!”
They reached the car, a late-model tan Toyota Camry.
“I’m not leaving, ma’am.”
“You don’t have to ‘ma’am’ me.” Nia braced the back of the car as if she could hold it in place. “‘Nia’ is fine. Why are you out here?”
“Your husband said it was all right to get my things. He’s at the desk now. You did say room and board came with the position.”
“Yes, yes. I’ll show you the room right away. There’s a place you can park in the back, but you don’t have to move your car right now.”
Breath whooshed out of Nia’s lungs so fast Jillian had to suck in her lips to stifle a laugh. Jillian stepped forward. “What can I help you carry?”
“Thanks. I don’t have too much,” Meri said. “Just the things in the backseat.”
Jillian opened a rear door. The backseat held only a large duffel and midsize rolling pilot case. Meri already had a student-style messenger bag strapped across her torso.
“I’ll take the suitcase.” Nia grabbed the handle as soon as Jillian had the case out of the car, racing off as if she still feared Meri might change her mind. That left Jillian with the duffel. She closed the back door and started for the house behind Nia.
When the sound of the car’s front door closing as well didn’t come as quickly as she expected, Jillian squinted back. Meri hunched over a cell phone for a few seconds before throwing it onto the front passenger floorboard and slamming the door.
CHAPTER TWO
He could simply come into her office and kiss the top of her head. But no. That was not Nolan Duffy’s style—at least not when it came to his daughter, even if she was twenty-eight. His lips found the crown of Jillian’s head and buzzed loudly.
“You’d better not be spitting.” Jillian didn’t flinch.
“Put your hand up there and find out.”
“Ew.” Her fingers remained on her computer keyboard.
Nolan’s hands moved to Jillian’s shoulders and began a massage rhythm. “It’s almost seven. Why are you still working?”
“I’m on a trail.”
“Come in the kitchen and tell me about it while I scrounge us up some dinner.”
At the mention of food, Jillian’s stomach rumbled agreement. Woman cannot live on pastry alone. She could always return to her work later in the evening. After saving the open file on her computer, she picked up a manila folder and pen and followed Nolan into the kitchen.
He opened the pantry doors and then the stainless refrigerator. “I should go grocery shopping.”
Jillian guffawed. “Do you even know where the store is anymore? Besides, we have plenty of food.”
“I require inspiration.” He opened another cabinet.
“They don’t sell that at the grocery store.”
“Ah.” He pulled a box of their favorite fettuccine from the cabinet. “I shall whisk up a creamy Alfredo sauce adorned with fresh spinach. On the side we shall partake of large pitted black olives, crispy strips of fresh red peppers, and the ever-pleasing sugar snap peas.”
“Yum.”
Nolan rummaged for pots and utensils. “Now what’s your new case?”
Sitting at the granite breakfast bar, Jillian opened the folder. “An insurance company. An older man was found deceased in his home by a neighbor. Police know who he is and found some papers with a paid-up hefty insurance policy, but the beneficiary died years ago and the policy was never updated. There’s a provision for the benefit to pass to next of kin, but no one knows who that might be.”
“No clues in the man’s home about his family?”
“The detectives are stumped. They don’t even know who to notify about his death. After six weeks, the coroner is still holding the body in the morgue.”
“Enter the genealogist.”
“I think they have more information than they realize. They just need help interpreting it. I gave them a list of things to scan and send me to start with. How about you?”
Nolan waved a hand holding a wooden spoon while he poured heavy cream into a pan with the other. “Family law is full of drama. My favorit
e part is not when I win a judgment or get a big settlement but when I get people to listen to each other. It’s all in the story, you know.”
“So you’ve been telling me all my life.”
“Because it’s true.”
Jillian planted an elbow on the breakfast bar, set her chin in her hand, and watched her father cook. He hadn’t always cooked. When she was young he was on the partner track at his firm in Denver and missed a lot of dinners at home. On the weekends, his briefcase was stuffed with work that leaked out around the house—under a coffee mug on an end table in the cozy part of the elongated living room spanning the front width of the house where the family watched television, or on the piano bench where he paused to tinker with a few chords, Jillian in his lap, or splayed across her parents’ bed, or stacked on an ottoman in the more formal part of the living room. Living in a small mountain town thirty miles outside Denver was supposed to help him balance his life, but ultimately balance had come at the cost of something far more valuable than refurbishing an old Victorian.
“It’s your fault I’m a genealogist,” Jillian said.
Nolan whisked. “I know. I have no regret. Your mother died. We were both lost without her. I had to make sure you found yourself somehow.”
“Thank you, Dad.”
He turned around, his whisk still, to meet her green eyes with his.
“You sacrificed for me,” she said. “You gave up becoming a partner so you could work less. Work from home some of the time. Miss important meetings. Skip wining and dining the high-powered clients that would have meant high billables. Spend time with me. Help me find something to be interested in, nerd that I was. Nerd that I am.”
“You’re very good at what you do, Jillian. I couldn’t be prouder.”
“Dad, the sauce.”
He spun around to whisk again just in time.
“It’s true, Silly Jilly,” he said. “I’m proud. And I never thought of it as a sacrifice. Life is good.”
“Still. Thanks.”
Nolan whisked.
“Working at home tomorrow?”
“Yep.”
Nolan’s home office was upstairs, just above Jillian’s. She scooted off her stool and took dishes out of the cupboard while he pulled pots off the stove. He slid pasta into the lipped plates and poured the sauce before setting out the raw vegetables. They sat side by side at the breakfast bar. The kitchen held a cozy nook table, and around the corner was a full dining room, but this had always been their spot.
“Tomorrow you cook,” Nolan said.
“I have a chocolate croissant I might give you if you’ll change your mind.” Jillian swirled pasta on her fork.
The landline rang, startling both of them.
“Why do we still have that phone?” Jillian said. They both had cell phones never out of reach.
Nolan peered at the phone tucked away in the corner of the counter. “You tell me. The caller ID says your friend is calling.” He got up, lifted the phone from its cradle, and handed it to her.
“Nia?” Jillian said.
“Yes, it’s me,” Nia said. “Is your dad around?”
Jillian glanced at Nolan. “Yes, he’s right here.”
“Thanks.”
“For you.” Jillian extended the phone to Nolan.
“Hello, Nia.” Nolan juggled the phone and his fork. “Mind if I put you on speaker?” He set the phone on the granite and pushed a button.
“Did Jillian tell you about Meri?” Nia said.
“A young woman she hired today,” Jillian explained. “Carlotta’s not coming back.”
“I’d like you to meet her,” Nia said.
“I’m sure that would be lovely sometime,” Nolan said.
“Tonight,” Nia said.
“Whoa.” Jillian swallowed a mouthful of pasta. “We’re still eating dinner.”
“Perfect,” Nia said. “That gives me time to organize an impromptu dessert on the patio. Warm raspberry crumb cake with hand-cranked vanilla ice cream Leo made just the other day. Can you happen by in thirty minutes?”
“Sure,” Nolan said.
Jillian returned the phone to its cradle. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Nia seems to feel some urgency.”
“Something must have happened since this afternoon.”
“Like what?”
Jillian shrugged. “This is one of those situations where Nia is operating on instincts more than facts.”
“So she thinks there’s a story.”
“And of course you are just the one to get a stranger to talk.”
“She did offer raspberry crumb cake and hand-cranked ice cream. What can it hurt to walk down there and give it a try?”
They strolled in light jackets toward the Inn as streetlights brightened on Main Street, turned left on Double Jack Street, and found Nia, Leo, and Meri on the back patio.
Leo, with his glasses parked on top of his close-cropped head, tended flames in the fire pit. He pointed a finger at Nolan. “Where’ve you been, stranger?”
Nolan shook Leo’s hand. “Figured it was time to make sure you were behaving yourself.”
“As well as always.”
“That’s what worries me.”
Nia, standing in the dim yellow light of an iron lamp stand, licked ice cream off a spoon. “Come meet the latest member of our household while I fix you some dessert.”
“Hi, Meri,” Jillian said. “This is my dad, Nolan Duffy.”
Meri shifted her dish to her left hand and started to stand.
Nolan lifted a hand in a stop gesture. “Stay comfortable. Mind if I sit right here next to you?”
Meri shook her head, and Nolan dropped into the two-seat swing beside her and set it into a gentle motion. Nia expertly put a bowl of crumble and ice cream in his hands without disturbing the sway.
“Meri, how did your first day go?” Nolan asked.
“All right, I guess.” She glanced toward Nia.
“She was fabulous,” Nia said. “Checked in our last set of guests all on her own flawlessly.”
“Congratulations! I remember my first day in Canyon Mines.” Nolan smeared ice cream evenly over his crumble. “It was Jillian’s first day too, though I doubt she remembers it.”
“I’ve seen the pictures,” Jillian said.
Nolan’s eyes brightened in the firelight. “Meri, didn’t anyone take your picture on your first day?”
“No, sir,” Meri said.
“Dad.” Jillian eyed him sideways. This wasn’t the first day of kindergarten.
“Well, you’re going to love it,” Nolan said. “Friendly people. All sorts of recreation, if Nia ever gives you a day off. You have a car?”
“Yes, sir.”
“My wife and I came looking for quiet mountain living. What about you?”
Meri tucked one corner of her bottom lip under her top teeth before answering. “Same, I guess.”
“Where’d you come from?”
Another beat. “Back East.”
“I’ve never lived in the East. What’s it like?” Nolan filled his mouth with dessert, as if settling in to listen intently to a good story.
Meri shrugged. “More humid and buggy than here, so far.”
Nolan nodded in the encouraging way that generally produced ongoing speech in other people. Meri simply took another bite of half-melted ice cream. Jillian counted the number of times her father let the swing glide before speaking. Six.
“Leo has always known how to build a nice fire,” Nolan said. “He roasts a mean marshmallow too. How do you feel about s’mores?”
“I like them all right once in a while,” Meri said.
“Jillian always burned her marshmallows at camp.”
“I did not!” Jillian’s protest was unhindered by a mouth full of food. This dispute had been going on for fifteen years.
Nolan winked. “Did you go to camp as a kid, Meri?”
She bounded out of her seat, shirking off Nolan’s atte
mpt to catch her before the forward momentum of the swing might cause her to stumble into the fire pit, and disappeared around an unlit side of the house. Nia cleared her lap of dessert detritus and shot after her. When she returned alone, Leo, Jillian, and Nolan were upright and staggered at erratic intervals on the patio.
“Well, there you have it. She’s gone,” Nia said. “I didn’t see where.”
“I didn’t hear a car,” Leo said.
“She didn’t take it. It’s still parked out front right where she left it when she arrived this morning.”
“I’m sorry,” Nolan said. “I did try.”
Nia sighed. “Yes, you did.”
“I’ll try again another day.”
“If you get another chance.” Nia sank into her chair.
“How far can she go in Canyon Mines?” Leo began separating logs in the fire pit to put out the fire.
“She doesn’t know where anything is,” Nia said.
“We’re right off Main Street. She found us once. She’ll find us again. We’ll leave all the lights on.”
“What if she doesn’t come back?”
“Her things are here,” Jillian pointed out. “She moved into her room. I doubt she has her keys in her pocket—probably in her bag—and I know she doesn’t have her phone.”
“How do you know that?”
“I saw her hook her keys in the pocket of her messenger bag when we dropped her things in her room, and she left the phone in her car. She’ll be back.” Jillian opted to omit the abrupt and purposeful manner in which Meri had abandoned her phone.
“Your eye for noticing detail is a beautiful thing,” Nolan said.
“I promised Veronica to finish a wooden buggy for her shop window,” Leo said. “I can stay out in the workshop with the door propped open and keep an eye out for her.”
Nia pivoted toward Jillian. “Meri Davies. You’re probably right that the name is short for something. Let’s hope the last name is genuine. I don’t have her Social Security number yet because she never gave me her finished paperwork, but if she’s telling the truth about Sewanee, that’s a place to begin, isn’t it? And if she’s from back East, maybe she’s lived in Tennessee all her life.”
Jillian nodded. “I can start there—if we need to.”
The Inn at Hidden Run Page 2