He slowed, checked out the various shops and stores, noted the location of The Cove Gallery before turning onto Cabrillo Road, which ran parallel to the ocean. Heading north, he found himself winding through residential sections of town, past wooden Craftsman-style houses. Most appeared to have been freshly painted. Many displayed flower boxes overflowing with alyssum, geraniums, and impatiens in delicate hues from white to pink to scarlet.
When he reached the point on the south end of the cove, he pulled into a scenic overlook, killed the engine and set the brake.
The moment he stepped outside his SUV, the onshore breeze kicked up, forcing him to zip his brown leather jacket. He walked to the guardrail. Even with mirrored sunglasses, he had to shield his eyes from the intense sunlight reflecting off the water. He watched distinct lines of swells form peaks offshore and counted six surfers in full wet suits cutting the waves on short boards. Then he turned full circle, taking in the view.
Lazy rolling hills covered in spring green grass and wildflowers tapered down both sides of the canyon to hug the cove. A few homes were scattered here and there on the hillside.
As he looked back toward town with its idyllic Plaza Park and avenue of historic storefronts, he shook his head. The place might look like Mayberry-by-the-Sea, but as long as real people inhabited it, Twilight Cove wasn’t as bucolic as it appeared to be. He’d been in the investigative business long enough to know that.
The town still resembled the California dream of a hundred years ago—what so many other beach cities would look like if not for overdevelopment, smog, and too many rats in the maze.
The salt air was tinged with the sea and time. Standing in the cool breeze off the ocean, Jake easily imagined a clipper ship racing under billowing sails, her hold filled with wares to sell to the Spanish dons, Indians, and padres living in the shadow of the missions.
Steep steps and a narrow trail below the bluff led down to the beach. Limited parking and lack of accessibility to the cove kept the town from becoming overrun by seasonal tourists the way Monterey and Carmel were. Twilight Cove’s small strand was still pristine. Only the hardy and the surfers didn’t mind tackling the steps.
If it hadn’t been for obligation and the driving need to see if a hunch would pay off, he would have lingered to inhale the fresh salt air and let the strong breeze whip through his hair and clear his mind. But he wasn’t here on vacation. He’d come on what just might prove to be a wild-goose chase, but he was more than willing to risk taking the time if it meant finally winding up a case that had been open far too long.
He’d driven to Twilight Cove because he was a man of detail who hated loose ends, but most of all, he had come because of a personal obligation. He’d come to Twilight out of duty to a friend long gone, a friend as alive as ever in his memory.
The Cove Gallery was exactly as it appeared in the photos he’d seen in the Budget Traveler magazine. Uncluttered and open, with glossy golden oak floors and white walls, the interior was the perfect backdrop for the artwork displayed on the walls and free-form sculptures on platforms scattered around the room.
Jake had no sooner cleared the threshold when a slim young man sporting an artfully trimmed, pencil-thin beard along his jawline started across the room to greet him. He wore wire-framed glasses and was dressed entirely in black.
Geoffrey Wilson introduced himself, extended his hand in greeting, his smile both wide and genuine.
Jake shook hands. “My name’s Jake Montgomery.” He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a folded page carefully torn from a magazine, opened it. “I saw this article on your gallery in Budget Traveler .”
The article stated that Geoff Wilson was twenty-nine years old, had moved west from Chicago three years ago after having grown tired of the brutal winters in the Windy City. The gallery had been open for a year and showcased local talent.
“Wonderful! I’m glad you stopped by. Go ahead and have a look around,” Wilson invited.
“Actually,” Jake pointed to the page that showed a photo of Wilson standing in front of a painting. “I’m interested in the piece on the wall behind you in this photograph. The sunset seascape with the transparent figures in the foreground.”
“An excellent choice, but I sold that a month ago.”
“Who’s the artist?”
“A local. Carly Nolan. Cove Gallery handles her work exclusively. She’s one very talented lady.” He started moving toward the far corner of the room. “Carly brought in a new painting just last weekend. I’m sure you’ll find it equally stunning.”
“So, she lives around here?”
Wilson paused, as if assessing Jake’s character for a second. “She lives nearby, yes.”
Jake followed him across the room, their even footsteps echoing in unison on the bare wood floor. The painting on the wall was of good size with a weathered frame that added to the tone of the piece.
The painting showed the huge dark boulders that ringed the cove and hugged the bluffs as violent storm waves crashed over them. The sky was gun-metal gray, dark and forbidding as the ocean. There were no buildings, no town above the cove, just wild grasses and two ragged junipers battered by the wind.
The artist had depicted a ghostly image of a young woman dressed in the style of the early 1800s standing at the edge of the bluff overlooking the water. Entirely painted in a sheer white, as if transposed over the painting, the woman stood with the fingers of one hand clenching the fabric of her long, flowing skirt. In the other hand she held a hat as if she had forgotten it was there. Long ribbons streamed over the brim, rippling just above the ground. Her hair was unbound, in wild disarray.
She was tall and lithe but her features were as subtly depicted as the rest of her, almost as if the artist wanted the viewer to wonder if there was actually a woman in the painting at all.
She could have been beautiful, or perhaps not. The artist left it up to the viewer to decide.
“This oil is of Twilight Cove from a different angle, one of the most dramatic pieces Ms. Nolan has done to date. Any work that showcases the cove tends to sell quickly. Visitors are so impressed by the beauty of this place that they want to take home a memory that will last a lifetime.” Wilson rolled up onto his toes, settled back on his heels and smiled. “Not to mention the good investment that original oils become.”
The Nolan piece was appealing in a haunting, ethereal way. Staring into the waves on the canvas was almost as hypnotic as watching the ocean. Not only that, but Jake found himself haunted by questions. Why was the young woman alone? Why had she gone to the edge of the bluff during a storm?
Except for a change of weather and time, it was a perfect rendition of the view he’d seen from the scenic viewpoint.
A label on the wall beside the painting listed the title as “Waiting.” The price was more than adequate for a local unknown. The name Carly Nolan was printed neatly beneath the title.
“This one’s a little dramatic for my taste,” Jake said. “Do you have anything else she’s done?”
Wilson’s smile luffed at the corner like a sail losing wind. “Not at the moment. Are you staying in town or just passing through?”
“I was planning on staying until Monday, if I can find a place.”
Geoff leaned forward conspiratorially. “Luckily it’s the off-season. I can call a fine B and B right here in town.”
“That’d be great.”
Jake followed him to the counter to pick up a business card. Wilson picked up the phone and punched in a number. He held his hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, “This is a wonderful place. So romantic.”
Within two minutes Jake had a room reserved at the Rose Cottage a few blocks away. Geoff Wilson made a sticky note to himself with Jake’s name on it with the reference— Nolan painting—and pressed it against the back of the counter.
Jake noticed a couple of tall baskets sitting near the cash register. One was stuffed with Chamber of Commerce maps. The other was filled with five-by-se
ven-inch cards printed with bios of the gallery’s featured artists. Flipping through, he realized that all but Carly Nolan’s biocard showed photographs of the artists.
He picked one up and read the scant information.
Carly Nolan is a local artist new upon the scene. Her haunting paintings of Twilight Cove and the surrounding landscape peopled with ghostly figures from California’s colorful past are quickly becoming favorites of collectors up and down the coast. Primarily working in oils, she has captured life in the very early days of the area using her own unique vision of color, style, and imagination.
“Please, take one,” Geoff urged. “Actually, if you’d like to meet her, Carly may be working here this evening. I’ll tell her you might drop by.”
“Really?” Jake looked down at the card, at the blank spot where the artist’s photo should be, and wondered if he’d hit pay dirt.
It was his partner, Kat Vargas, who’d found the article in Budget Traveler, not him. The painting in the background of the photo had reminded her of a small oil hanging on the wall above his desk.
Noting the similarities, Kat tore out the article, brought it in and slapped it on the desk in front of him. Then she had folded her arms, cocked her head, and asked, “Think it could be her? Your Obsession?”
Jake pulled his thoughts back, quickly thanked Geoff, adding that he wasn’t certain he’d get by tonight but that he’d be in touch either way.
Before he left, he picked up a map as he turned to go and shoved both the biocard and map into the pocket of his brown leather jacket.
He had justified the drive up here by telling himself that he hadn’t had a weekend off in so long that he couldn’t remember when. But technically, this wasn’t exactly a weekend off.
He was here on the off chance that Caroline Graham had finally slipped up. After six years, the young woman who seemed to have fallen off the face of the earth might have reappeared.
It was a long shot. In fact, it was downright ridiculous to think there might be only one artist using the same technique, but if Caroline Graham had surfaced, if she were still painting and now calling herself Carly Nolan, then he might have stumbled onto a woman who had managed to elude one of the top investigative firms in Southern California for years.
2
IF THERE WAS ONE THING CARLY NOLAN COULD DO WITH her eyes closed it was wait tables. She’d been at it off and on since she was fifteen.
“Miss?”
She put a smile on her face and walked over to the booth near the window where a couple of well-dressed tourists stared at the $4.99 breakfast specials she’d set before them two seconds ago.
They weren’t happy. She knew the minute they’d parked their sleek new Jaguar out front that they wouldn’t be satisfied with anything at Plaza Diner. Their type usually drove straight through on the way to Carmel.
“Do you need something else? Ketchup? Salsa?” Patience was not a virtue. It was a trick of the trade.
The man in his sixties wore a cream-colored sweater draped around his shoulders. He stared at the stack of whole wheat toast triangles oozing butter as if they’d just crawled out of an alien mother ship.
“I specifically asked for dry toast,” he reminded her.
She reached for the plate of toast. “Sorry about that. I’ll get you another order.” She hadn’t taken two steps before he halted her in her tracks.
“Excuse me? Miss?”
She swung around. Smiled. Again. “Yes?”
“Did the cook use milk in these scrambled eggs? I specifically asked that he use water.”
“I wrote it down, so I’m sure he did.” Carly continued to smile as she pictured herself turning the stack of toast upside down on the man’s carefully styled white hair.
“Just eat it, Frankie.” The man’s wife barely looked up as she quickly peppered her own scrambled eggs and took a sip of her coffee. She smiled apologetically when her husband lifted the eggs with his fork to peer beneath them.
Carly carried the stack of toast to the wide window behind the counter that separated the kitchen from the main room of the diner. Glasses, the coffee machines, an old mint green malt and shake blender, along with green salad fixings were lined up beneath it. She set the toast down on the ledge beneath the chrome order wheel.
“Dry stack, Joe.” She winked at José Caron. In his early sixties, broad shouldered and still devilishly handsome despite the pounds he’d added with age, Joe had been manning the grill at the Plaza Diner since before Carly was born.
“Sure thing.” He winked back before he grabbed the stack and daubed each piece of toast with a paper towel and a flourish. Local legend had it that he was once a matador of some renown in Tijuana.
While Carly was waiting, she tallied the couple’s check. Before she snapped the vinyl order pad closed, she smiled at the photo of her son taped inside, a shot taken in his new Stingray T-ball T-shirt. The sight of his sunny, innocent smile, the endearing gap where one of his front teeth was missing, and his sparkling blue eyes was enough to remind her why she never missed a day of work. Looking at the photo helped her muster the energy to deal with the monotonous demands of waitressing for $5.25 an hour plus tips. Not that tips were huge in a diner like this.
All things considered, Chris was a happy, well-adjusted little guy, and she was bound and determined to keep him that way. She wanted to raise him right, do things according to the book so that he’d never experience anything like the dark years of her own childhood. The thought of Christopher doing half the things she’d done scared her to death.
While traffic was slow, she busied herself filling the salt and pepper shakers, checking the ketchup and mustard bottles, and readying the salad station before the lunch crowd arrived.
There was nothing fancy about the Plaza Diner. The menu was extensive, the portions plentiful. Fish tacos were Joe’s specialty, and on weeknights they sold plenty of take-out meatloaf and baked herb chicken with garlic mashed potatoes to people too tired or too lazy to cook after a hard day’s work inland and the drive home through the canyon.
As she wiped down the counter and straightened the plastic-coated menus in their chrome holders, the tourist couple got up to leave.
Carly called out thanks, walked over to the table, picked up the check and the cash they’d left behind.
In a month the town would be packed with hundreds like them, the diner bustling with tourists sightseeing their way up and down the coast. Twilight Cove came alive in the summer when the town rolled out the red carpet for visitors from all over the world for a few weeks. By late October, Twilight settled back into the quiet peacefulness she’d come to cherish.
The phone rang, and Joe waved her over to the window.
“For you.” He handed it over, mouthing the word Geoff. She might have known. Unless there had been an emergency at the school, Geoff was the only one besides her next-door neighbor, Etta Schwartz, who would ever call her here.
“Hey. What’s up?” She smiled genuinely at the sound of Geoff’s voice.
“Can you work this evening from four-thirty to eight-thirty? An old friend of mine just phoned. He’s coming through town, and I invited him to stay at my place and promised to make my famous paella.”
“I think so. I’ll ask Tracy to take Chris to Etta’s after T-ball practice. You have to swear you’ll be in by eight-thirty to close up, though.”
“Cross my heart.”
“Okay. I’ll do it.”
“Perfect.”
“See you at four-fifteen.” She handed the phone back to Joe. His liquid dark eyes caught and held hers.
“You keep too much to yourself. You need to get out more, chica. I don’t mean by just helping out at the gallery, either. It’s not good for a young woman to be alone.” He leaned close to the window and whispered, “You need a sex life. I watch Sex and the City. I know these things.”
Her face heated up to her hairline. “I’m hardly alone, Joe.”
“A son doesn’t count. Yo
u need someone especial. Someone who stirs the blood and brings the roses to your cheeks and the sparkle to your eyes.”
“Are you hitting on me or trying to tell me I need to wear more makeup?”
He laughed, shook his head. “Not only am I too old for you, but you know that I lost my heart years ago.” He sighed, shrugged with resignation, and gazed across the room at Selma Gibbs, owner of the diner, as she took an order from a man in a window booth.
Joe sighed. “Ah, Selma. The love of my life. She still refuses to marry me.”
“She said you’ve had more loves of your life than she can count.”
“But then, so has she.”
Unlike Carly, Selma Gibbs was completely open about her illustrious past. Before she bought the diner in Twilight, she spent her youth managing a truck stop in the middle of the desert—a place she called an oasis between Los Angeles and Arizona. She knew all the truckers by name as well as in a biblical sense and managed to see they were served up anything they ordered, from hot apple pie to a quickie in their cabs.
Carly left Joe, turned around and saw Rand Campbell, resplendent in one of a quiver of Hawaiian print shirts, seated on a stool at the long counter. The local surfer claimed a couple of championship trophies from the eighties and now owned the Wind and Wave Sport Shop down the street. Rand never bothered to grab a menu.
Carly flipped open her order book.
“What’ll you have today, Rand?”
“Outside of you agreeing to go into San Luis Obispo for a movie and dinner, not much. But how about a tuna melt?”
“You got it.”
“And the movie and dinner?”
“Still no deal.”
Behind the window, Joe slammed pots together, his own way of making his opinion known. Carly hid a smile.
“Why is it the prettiest single woman in town is still unavailable?” Elbows on the counter, Rand propped his chin in his hands and stared up at her.
Lover's Lane Page 2