They didn’t understand. If I was completely truthful with myself, I had to admit I didn’t quite understand my motivation, either. I thought it might have something to do with not feeling worthy of the money after losing my ability to read auras, but it would probably take a therapist to sort it out completely.
And as much as I needed one, therapists were out of the question. No one was to know of my gift, and if I couldn’t talk about my family and our eccentricities, then I’d probably spend the whole hour talking about the weather. Not much mental health help there.
Dovie spun and nearly dropped her spatula when she saw me. “LucyD! You’re home.”
“Indian?” I ventured, sniffing the air.
“Good nose. Masala Bhindi.”
I leaned up and kissed both her flushed cheeks. At an even six feet, she was tall and lithe. Part of her physique came from her dancer background; part of it came from liposuction.
Striking white hair cascaded down her back, stopping just shy of her shoulder blades, in stark contrast to the black turtleneck she wore. Tight jeans tucked into knee-high leather riding boots completed the outfit. Six bangles (she and my mother shared a love of bracelets) on each arm jangled as Dovie gestured. Two long jade rope necklaces looped around her graceful neck.
She’d come a long way from the slums of New York City, where she grew up. My grandfather had first spotted her when she was dancing burlesque at a little club in Manhattan.
He’d claimed it was love at first sight.
As a Valentine he should have known better.
Dovie’s gorgeous peaches-and-cream complexion glowed with good health. She’d had cosmetic help through the years and was now reaping the benefits, looking much younger than her seventy-five years. Except for the snow-white hair, she could pass for my father’s sister instead of his mother.
“I tried calling,” she said, scratching Grendel under his chin. He purred contentedly.
“Really?”
She arched an eyebrow at me, clearly not buying my feigned confusion. “I hope you didn’t have dinner plans.”
“I didn’t.” The smells coming from the sauté pan on my cooktop had awakened my appetite. I’d lost it after my little visit to the park and Michael’s.
I was at a loss, not sure what to do next or who to turn to.
As it stood right now, I needed absolute proof that there was, in fact, a body buried in Great Esker before I called the police to investigate. That meant only one thing. I was going to have to do a little digging. Literally.
And until then I would try not to jump to the conclusion that Michael had anything to do with putting the body there, though my mind had already made that leap.
The TV was on in the living room, the sound low. Images of Wompatuck State Park flashed across the screen. Dozens of volunteers searched ravines, thick forests, and marshes. Had Suzannah made it down?
“Horrible,” Dovie said, motioning to the TV.
“Do they still think the father did it?”
“No word yet.”
“Suzannah is helping search.”
“Oh? Did you see her today?”
I set Grendel down and slid onto a wrought-iron counter stool. I adjusted the floral padded cushion so it wouldn’t slip off. “Mum didn’t talk to you?”
Dovie put down her wooden spoon. “Should she have?”
I was going to kill my mother.
“She left town today,” I said, trying to sound casual.
Dovie’s snow-white eyebrows dipped beneath blunt-cut bangs that lent a youthful air to her face. “Odd that she didn’t tell me.”
Dovie was my mother’s closest friend. Which simply drove my father to distraction.
“Where to on such short notice?” Dovie asked.
I focused on the specks in my granite countertop.
50 times 3 is 150.
The square root of 400 is 20.
“St. Lucia,” I said.
“How lovely,” she said suspiciously.
“With Dad.” I cringed.
“Pardon?”
“She and Dad went to St. Lucia to escape the media storm.”
Dovie rolled her eyes. “It’s not like Oscar to be such a coward.”
“I believe it was doctor’s orders.”
“Hooey. His heart is just fine now. It’s his pride that’s stinging.”
Though I thought Dad’s cardiologist might not agree, I had to admit Dovie was right also. Dad’s pride was hurt. As well as his reputation.
Dovie tapped her spoon against the edge of the pan. “How long will he be gone?”
“Two weeks.”
“He’s just recently returned after his heart attack. He’s backlogged. Now is not a good time for him to shut down the business.”
I couldn’t look at her. “He didn’t close down.”
“Explain yourself, LucyD.”
“Well, ah, Dad put me in charge of his clients for two weeks.”
Glacial green eyes narrowed. “You?”
I fiddled with the ruffle on the seat cushion.
Dovie picked up her glass of wine and chugged.
“Something about the bloodlines,” I murmured, feeling the need to explain. Wine sounded good. Really good. I poured myself a glass while Dovie stewed, absently stirring the nirvana in the pan.
“Bloodlines, my freckled behind. He does realize I was the one who set him up with your mother?”
My mother had grown up on the California coast, the daughter of tried-and-true hippies. She’d migrated east to go to school at Berklee College of Music and had met my father during an anti-busing protest. Mum had been there to picket; he’d been there to try to stop Dovie from chaining herself to something. Somehow Dovie managed to involve herself in every protest and movement she felt strongly about, and didn’t care if she was arrested trying to make her point, despite the embarrassment to the family.
Being of similar minds, my mother and Dovie had hit it off right away, and it had been Dovie’s matchmaking that had brought Mum and Dad together.
Which was precisely why my father wouldn’t let Dovie run Valentine, Inc.
“Why choose you over me?” she asked.
I figured it was a rhetorical question and therefore didn’t answer. Grendel pawed at my leg and I lifted him into my lap.
Marisol, during her third year of veterinary medicine at Tufts, had rescued him from euthanasia after he’d been hit by a car. He’d lost his back left leg but otherwise was a normal healthy cat—if you didn’t count his separation anxiety.
“I can match,” Dovie said. “Didn’t I find Elizabeth Petersby a new husband?”
“Only because you foisted one of your many admirers onto her at your annual Christmas party last year and he latched on.”
“Did they not fall in love because of it?”
I scratched Grendel behind his ears. He purred so loud it vibrated the wine in my glass.
Debating with Dovie about her merits as a matchmaker was pointless. Simply because my credentials weren’t any better. But my father had made up his mind, and if there was one thing I knew from twenty-eight years’ experience, it was that he rarely changed it.
“You should talk to Dad.”
“Does that mean you don’t want the job?”
“I didn’t say that.” Why was I so quick to defend? I didn’t want the job.
Did I?
I supposed my hesitation had something to do with Michael Lafferty, that missing diamond ring, and the body in the woods.
I refused to believe it had anything at all to do with Sean Donahue and my sudden hots for him. He was apparently involved with someone else if that phone call was any indication. Completely off-limits in my book. I’d learned that lesson a few years ago, the hard way.
“I’ll talk to him,” Dovie said, downing another glass of Pinot Grigio. Looking at me pointedly, she added, “And did you know that Elizabeth just had her first great-grandchild?”
“Boy or girl?” I asked.
“You’ll never be too old. Or too feeble.”
Dovie retrieved plates from an overhead cabinet. “One never knows what life has in store.”
Not wanting to play her game, I turned my attention to the TV and the continuous coverage of the Little Boy Lost. Salty gusts of wind buffeted the cottage’s windows. How long would the little boy last outside?
If he was even alive.
Dovie set the dishes on the dining room table, a rickety plastic folding table complete with tacky metal chairs. I’d been saving for my dream table but was still many dollars short of my goal. Until then a nice tablecloth and slipcovers did a great job camouflaging.
I did a double take.
“Four plates? Why four?”
Even if she had included Grendel in the meal, which had happened more often than I liked to admit, that would be three plates. “Who’s coming?”
Dovie waved a hand in casual dismissal. “Marisol called earlier. Said she had something for you.”
Oh no. Whenever Marisol brought me something, it was usually furry and needed a lot of TLC.
“Who else?” I asked.
“Don’t you worry about such things.”
Grendel must have sensed my agitation; he jumped off my lap with a loud rrreow.
“Who?” I asked again, slipping off the stool.
Ignoring me, she launched into a cheery rendition of “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.”
Panic set in.
She couldn’t have possibly . . .
I eyed her.
She would have—she absolutely would have invited Butch the butcher to my house.
My cell phone rang. I pounced on it, not even looking at the ID screen.
“Hello.” Please let it be salvation calling.
“Lucy? It’s Sean.”
Temptation—not salvation. Close enough in my book.
My grandmother raised a thinly plucked eyebrow in my direction. Fight-or-flight had set in, and seeking to get out of my house as soon as humanly possible was foremost on my mind. I focused on the TV set, on the pictures of the little boy, and I quickly formed a plot to escape.
“Oh, hi, Suz,” I said airily. “Any word on the little boy?”
“It’s Sean,” he corrected.
“Oh, that’s so sad,” I said. “They need more help? I don’t think I can. My grandmother made din . . .” I paused for dramatic effect. “I know a little boy’s life is at stake. . . . Okay, okay, she’ll understand.”
“She will not,” Dovie chimed in, tapping her foot. The staccato beat of her heel echoed.
“I’ll call,” I said, “as soon as I get there.”
Sean cleared his throat. “Do you need me to call you back?”
“That would be great.” I darted for my coat and dug through my front closet for a suitable pair of shoes, a pair of mittens, and my Red Sox stocking cap. “See you then.”
Dovie stared me down, hands on hips. “You cannot leave.”
“Sorry, Dovie, but they need more help, looking for the little boy. Gotta run.”
“You wouldn’t be trying to pull one over on your grandmother, would you?”
“Tell Marisol I said hi!” I dashed out the door into the chilly night, my cell phone clutched in my hand.
I should have been feeling bad about leaving Marisol to deal with Butch. Or thinking about the little boy lost in the woods—because I really was going there to help look for him. Or even about Michael Lafferty and how finding him a match had suddenly turned my life inside out.
But all I could think about was Sean Donahue and wanting to hear his voice again.
Even though I knew better.
SIX
My cell rang ten minutes later, as I was winding my way down Route 228 toward the main gate of Wompatuck State Park in Hingham. The moon hung in the sky like something out of a children’s picture book, lending little light. Scattered lampposts weren’t enough to cut through the darkness. My high beams cut through the shadows. Old colonials, Cape Cods, and gambrels lined the Hingham road, most with long drives, landscaped lawns, and high price tags.
Carefully, I answered the phone one-handed.
“Do I want to know what that was all about?” Sean asked.
His voice sent confusing spirals of desire through me. I wasn’t a thirteen-year-old girl who had her first crush, though I was suddenly feeling like it. I seriously needed to get a grip. I’d only met the man today, for what? Ten minutes, tops?
But the vision . . .
I shook my head. The vision was one I couldn’t trust. And I really couldn’t trust my attraction to him, either. I had to remember Cupid’s Curse.
But a fling would be nice—
I snapped out of it. A fling would be out of the question. He had a girlfriend. Period. End of sentence. Stop acting like a love-struck fool, Lucy.
“Lucy? Are you there?” he asked.
“I’m here,” I said. “Sorry. The road is dark and twisty.”
“Where are you?”
“On my way to Wompatuck.”
“The Little Boy Lost?” he asked.
“I’m going to do my best to help find him.”
“Very charitable of you.”
“Hardly. I’d wanted to escape my grandmother’s romantic scheming.”
“Sounds like there’s a story there.”
“Many stories,” I said, thinking back to all the times Dovie had tried to set me up. But talking to Sean about anything romantic didn’t bode well for my psychological health. I needed to change the subject. Fast. “Did you have news for me?”
I heard papers shuffling. Ahead, I spotted oncoming headlights, and I switched off my high beams. I wasn’t fond of driving at night, and as a result I tended to drive much too slow, creeping along.
“I tracked her parents, Martin and Regina, to a new address in Lynn. Jennifer has an older sister named Melissa Antonelli, who also lives in Lynn. Oddly, I couldn’t find anything on Jennifer specifically since she graduated college,” he said. “Unfortunately, there are a lot of Jennifers out there.”
“Then she’s not . . . missing?”
“Not that I’ve found, and that would have turned up. Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Too much to go into. “Not really.”
There was a brief silence before he said, “Do you want me to call Jennifer’s parents? See if they’ll give me an address?”
“You can try. Tell them it’s in regard to Michael Lafferty.”
“I’ll call you back.”
If it were Jennifer in that grave, someone would have reported her missing. Her family, friends . . . Which left only one conclusion.
It wasn’t Jennifer in the grave.
Then who was it? And why was she wearing Michael’s ring?
My phone rang. It was Sean.
“Strange,” he said.
“What?”
“I spoke with her mother. She wouldn’t give me any information at all. And wouldn’t take my information, either, to pass along. All she said was that Jennifer was happy and to leave her alone.”
“Protective,” I said, wondering why. Was she trying to protect Jennifer from being hurt by Michael again, still believing he had betrayed her? Or from something . . . or someone else? Like the evil Elena and her trusty sidekick, Rachel?
“I tried the sister, too. No one answered. I’ll call again tomorrow.”
The moon slipped behind the clouds. I focused hard on the dotted white line separating lanes.
“What’s going on, Lucy? This is for a matchmaking client? This isn’t the usual check your father runs.”
“Yes, it’s for a client,” I said truthfully. “I’m doing things a little differently.”
“You want me to keep digging?”
&n
bsp; “That would be great.”
Maybe Jennifer had pawned Michael’s ring? Right. And the person who bought it coincidentally ended up murdered and buried in Michael’s home town, practically in his backyard?
I approached the entrance to the park and turned in. Cars lined both sides of the road leading to the gatehouse. News crews milled about. I found a place to park and shut off my engine.
I made a snap decision. “Are you busy tomorrow? There’s something I might need you for.”
“Sounds intriguing.”
My stomach tightened with his flirtatious tone.
“I’ll be in bright and early,” he said.
I didn’t miss that he worked long hours and didn’t seem to be in a rush to get home to his girlfriend. Was she his girlfriend? Now that I thought of it, he didn’t sound all lovey-dovey on the phone. Yet he was doing her shopping. . . . “I’ll come up and see you. Thanks for staying late tonight.”
“You’re welcome.”
I said a quick good-bye before I went and did something stupid like ask him if he believed in love at first sight.
Tall trees diffused the wind, but the temps continued to fall. I pulled on my stocking hat, slipped my mittens into my coat pocket. The night air was scented with burning pine, decomposing leaves, and the sharp sting of strong coffee.
The command post had been set up in the park’s visitor center. Outside the building, hundreds of people streamed around. To one side of the center, a small tent had been set up, according to a handmade sign, by the Friends of Wompatuck to serve coffee and snacks. On the other side, a line of police cars—local, state, and environmental—and two ambulances sat abandoned. There were several officers on horseback and bicycles. Several ATVs, four-wheeled all-terrain vehicles, were being ridden around the camp, others parked in a crowded parking lot across from the center.
Floodlights had been set up as well as portable heaters. Someone had started a campfire inside a ring of rocks in the center of the crowd. People hovered around the flames, warming their hands.
Blinking against the harsh artificial lighting, I didn’t know where to start. I hadn’t seen Suzannah, but I had the feeling she was around somewhere. Knowing her, she wasn’t as lost as I felt. She’d probably barreled in and taken over the search.
Truly, Madly Page 5