The Detective's Secret Daughter

by Rachelle Mccalla

  The measuring cup sat idle in her hands as she stared at it thoughtfully. “How many cups had I measured out?”

  “Eight.” Owen had paid attention, counting along with her silently in his head.

  “Thanks.” She started scooping again.

  “Next question. What kind of insurance coverage do you have against robbery?”

  Victoria stopped scooping flour long enough to explain. “I have small business insurance, but I selected a high deductible and minimum coverage to keep my costs down. Basically, if somebody falls down the steps and breaks a leg, I’m covered. Anything else comes out of my pocket. And if you’re suggesting I try to up my coverage at this point, my guess is, after what’s been happening around here lately, the price has only gone up.”

  She scooped two more cups of flour, then dropped the measuring cup again. This time, she didn’t bother to pick it up. “Or are you thinking I faked the robbery last week in order to commit insurance fraud?”

  Owen shrugged, watching her carefully, hoping for some clear signal that would tell him if she was being honest with him.

  Victoria shook her head and looked up at the ceiling. “How can you think that about me? Seriously—like I would try something like that? Like I would frighten my own child by having somebody rob the place?”

  “Perhaps Paige was in on it, too.” He hated even saying it, but he had to know, to be sure that he could trust her. And he needed to push her to get the truth.

  “Right.” Victoria nodded. “You think I would ask my own daughter to lie so I could commit a crime? Paige can sing, so maybe she can act—is that what you’re thinking? Honestly, Owen, there was a time when you used to trust me.”

  The words came out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

  “That was before you stole our daughter from me and hid her away for nine years.”

  Victoria closed her eyes, silently praying for patience and strength. Owen’s words made her furious—that he would stand there and patently accuse her like that, and that he would have so little faith in her at all. The man had once said he loved her. But obviously that was a long time ago.

  “Owen, what are you really here to learn? Is this about Olivia’s case? Or is this about Paige? I offered to tell you the whole story—”

  “I don’t want to hear about why you ran off with Hank Monroe.”

  “What?” Victoria had picked up the measuring cup again, but now she pitched it angrily into the bowl of flour, sending up a white cloud. “You think I ran off with Hank Monroe?”

  “The whole town believes you ran off with him.”

  Victoria wished she had something else to throw. Instead, she rose up on her tiptoes and got in Owen’s face. “Just like back in high school, the whole town believed Hank’s stupid story that I slept with him right before our senior year. Is that right? Because everybody knows Hank’s dad is a judge and my dad was a drunk, so Hank must be the one telling the truth, right?”

  Owen raised his hands and settled them onto Victoria’s shoulders, as though to calm her down.

  “Victoria.” He whispered her name soothingly near her ear.

  “You knew.” A little of the fight went out of her as grief and disappointment overcame her anger. “You knew I hadn’t slept with anyone, Owen.” She panted, breathless from fighting him, unsure if she could say what needed to be said. “You knew you were my first, the only man I’d ever been with. You were the only person in the whole town who believed that I hadn’t slept with Hank.”

  Slowly, as her voice went from angry to pleading, Owen’s firm grasp on her shoulders relaxed.

  Victoria took advantage of the moment to tear herself out of his arms. How could she let him hold her like that, when he didn’t even believe her? It would have been far too easy to melt into his arms, to give in to the simmering attraction she felt toward him still. But that would only lead to heartache. She knew no one else in Fitzgerald Bay believed her side of the story—she might have tried to refute the rumor that she’d run off with Hank Monroe if she’d thought anyone would believe her. But Owen’s response to the slanderous story was a low blow, and it struck a very tender part of her heart.

  She put a few steps’ distance between them. “Why did I think you would believe my word over his? Why did I even come back to this stupid town where everyone expects the worst out of me? Obviously I didn’t learn my lesson the first time around.” She stared at him, wishing he would tell her it wasn’t true, that he’d trusted her all along.

  Owen said nothing.

  Gripping the side of the mixing bowl to steady herself, Victoria picked up the flour scoop and headed back to the bag of flour. She stopped, trying to think.

  “Eleven,” Owen said softly.

  “What?” Distracted by the emotions that raged through her, Victoria wasn’t sure where the number came from.

  “You have eleven cups of flour in your mixing bowl.”

  “Thanks.” She finished scooping until she had the sixteen cups of flour she needed for her recipe. Then she stopped and looked at Owen, unsure what to do about the man in her kitchen.

  “On second thought, maybe I do want to hear your side of what happened our senior year.”

  Victoria let out a long breath, looked at the batch of dough she’d only just started and pinched her eyes shut against all the preparations that still had to be made before brunch, just over twelve hours away.

  “But maybe we’ve said enough for tonight, okay?” he said.

  “Okay.” The word came out like a sigh of relief.

  “Soon, though.”

  “Soon.”

  Owen arrived at the Sugar Plum plenty early the next morning for his family’s monthly gathering. As he might have predicted, Victoria zipped around the café, waiting on customers, pulling toasty-brown loaves of Irish soda bread from the oven and otherwise looking charming and beautiful as she bustled about her work, her golden hair already escaping from the elaborate twist at her neck.

  He watched her silently, still puzzling over her words from the evening before.

  Did he believe her? Part of him wanted to, but another part—a large, angry part—was still far too hurt by her betrayal. Whatever she’d done, whether she’d run off with Hank or not, nothing changed the fact that she’d hidden his daughter from him for nine years. She’d purposely, knowingly, cruelly taken away the most valuable gift he’d ever been given, before he’d even known his daughter existed.

  So no matter how much he wanted to pull Victoria into his arms and tell her everything would be okay, he wasn’t sure he believed it himself. There were still far too many questions that needed answers, but they’d have to wait until after brunch. He’d just have to make himself comfortable and try to enjoy himself.

  The first dining room held a roaring fire and a crowd of Saturday-morning customers settled back into couches or perched on chairs around small tables or in booths. The second dining room, which he’d heard referred to as the front dining room, was a more formal space, also with a fire roaring in the woodstove, but with larger tables and more family-style seating, which at the moment seemed to be occupied by every ladies’ society meeting group in town.

  Owen headed to the back dining room, a long, slightly narrower room whose pocket doors could be pulled shut for private family gatherings, such as the one his father had reserved it for this morning. Like all the rooms in the café, the walls of the back dining room were filled with photographs of patrons who had visited the place over the years. A wall in the front room held a collection of Massachusetts celebrities, from state politicians to Hollywood movie stars who’d stopped in for lunch while filming in the area. But the back dining hall was mostly local yokels, snapshots of the regular customers who filled the café on a daily basis.

  He stood in the open doorwa
y, admiring the photographs.

  They dated back for decades. As a child, Owen and his siblings had made a game of finding the people they knew in the pictures. His older brothers always seemed to know more people than he did, but he still felt the challenge stirring within him to see who he could recognize in the pictures on the walls.

  There was Pastor Peter Larch from the Fitzgerald Bay Community Church, so long ago his hair didn’t even look gray. Another picture showed Burke Hennessy seated at a table with his first wife, Cooper’s mother, back when Cooper could barely see over the edge of the table.

  He spotted members of Connolly family, his cousins, part of the extended Fitzgerald clan, whose ancestors had founded the town. There was his grandfather, Ian, celebrating his first win as mayor back in 1982. The man had been mayor for longer than Owen had been alive, but he was getting on in years and had announced his plans to retire this year.

  As he studied the careworn lines on his grandfather’s earnest face, Owen felt the weight of civic duty that had moved his grandfather to take the helm of the town, which had ushered in its most prosperous decades. It was a reminder of the hard work that had built the town, and of all that needed to happen to continue to make Fitzgerald Bay a peaceful place to raise a family.

  He needed to catch Olivia’s killer. He needed to keep Fitzgerald Bay safe.

  The hard clap of heels on the oak floor caught Owen’s attention, and he looked up in time to see Christina Hennessy on her way to the ladies’ room. “Mrs. Hennessy.” He smiled, having just spotted her picture on the wall. “You’re looking well today.”

  Her eyes lit up at his compliment. “I try to stay healthy, but age catches up with us all.”

  “You don’t look any older than you did in this picture.” Owen pointed to the photograph on the wall. “How long ago was that taken?”

  Christina looked at the picture he’d indicated. “I can’t be sure. Excuse me.” She continued through to the ladies’ room.

  Owen blinked, unsure if he’d offended her, and moved on to look at the pictures on another section of wall.

  His heart twisted at the sight of a photograph high on the wall. Two beaming boys looked straight into the camera, their arms slung around each other’s shoulders, chocolate-milk moustaches dripping from their upper lips.

  Himself. And Patrick.

  His cousin, his closest family member by age, practically his best friend for seventeen years. Though they’d drifted apart somewhat in high school, back when they were growing up, he and his cousin had been almost inseparable. He still missed their conversations sometimes, and the innocent games they’d play.

  He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. Patrick’s death had changed everything. In some ways, Owen wondered if maybe he still wasn’t over it. Like the great divide, it separated the innocence of his youth from the jaded reality of adulthood.

  Patrick had simply been out for a drive. Victoria’s father had crossed the centerline, hitting Patrick’s car head-on, killing them both.

  At the time, Owen had been dating Victoria. Or at least, he thought he had been. He’d gone to bed one night content in the knowledge that his cousin was his best friend and Victoria loved him. He’d awakened the next morning to learn that his cousin was dead, and Victoria’s father was, too.

  His first thought had been to find Victoria. When her mother had died, back when they were both in the fourth grade, he remembered her sitting at her desk, weeks and even months later, with tears running silently down her cheeks. He’d wanted to comfort her, but at ten years old, he hadn’t known how. So when he found out her father had died, his first instinct had been to pull her into his arms and hold her while they both cried.

  Except that she was gone. He called her house, he went to her house, he called all their friends. No one knew where she’d gone.

  Hank Monroe had left town the same day. When Owen had first heard the rumor that they’d run off together, he’d refused to believe it. Victoria had gone out with Hank only once before she and Owen had begun dating their senior year of high school. She’d adamantly insisted that she couldn’t stand Hank, that he was pushy and after only one thing.

  Her insistence hadn’t quieted the rumors, then or now. Then, Hank had claimed they’d slept together. Victoria had denied it all through their senior year, and Owen had believed her, even defended her, though he knew he couldn’t change what people believed.

  Ten years later, Owen still wondered if he’d been naive to accept her word, or if, as some suggested, she’d simply been playing him, using him to make Hank jealous so she could get back together with him.

  “Hi!” A cheerful voice greeted him from the doorway, tearing his thoughts from the past. Emerald-green satin twirled in a circle, and when Paige came to a stop facing him, her smile was bright.

  And familiar.

  Owen looked back at the picture of him and Patrick.

  He looked back to Paige.

  Eerie.

  She had her mother’s delicate arched eyebrows instead of his stockier, straighter brows. Her long blond hair was curled into ringlets and tied with a bow. But besides those minor details, she looked just like the picture of him at the same age. He blinked and looked back and forth between the two again.

  Paige didn’t look much like Patrick, or any of the other young folks on the walls. She looked like him.

  The little girl danced with impatience. “What do you think of my dress? Is it okay?”

  Owen found his voice at last. “Okay? It’s so beautiful I can hardly find words to describe it.”

  Paige giggled with delight and pranced closer. “Are you excited to hear me sing?”

  “I got here early so I could get a good seat. Where do you think I should sit?”

  Beaming, Paige surveyed the room and took her time analyzing his seating options, suggesting several different places where he might have a good view.

  Owen tried to keep up with her words, but he couldn’t help watching Paige and wondering if anyone else could see what he saw so clearly. Cooper Hennessy had already guessed it. What if someone else realized the truth, and let on to Paige before he had a chance to get to know her and tell her himself?

  “Paige?” Victoria hurried into the room. “There you are. Help me in the kitchen, will you, honey?”

  Paige smiled. “Sure, Mom.”

  He looked at Victoria. “I look forward to talking to you at some point.” He turned to Paige. “And I can’t wait to hear you sing, Paige.”

  Paige beamed and headed toward the kitchen.

  “Yes,” Victoria said, her back already to him as she followed Paige. “When I have a spare moment.”

  Owen couldn’t imagine when Victoria would have a spare moment, not with the busy morning they had planned. But he was getting impatient. He’d talked to Cooper again about the possibility of joint custody, and he was going to need a lot of answers in order to make his case.

  And he would make his case. As he looked back and forth between the picture on the wall and his daughter sparkling in her green dress, he became only that much more certain. Paige was his daughter, and it was only right that he finally share custody of his child.

  Victoria could feel Owen’s eyes on her every time she entered the room. Yes, he wanted answers. She wanted answers, too. But in the meantime, his family members wanted coffee and rolls and corned beef and cabbage. Food was more urgent than questions.

  Bless her heart, Paige was helping out, toting napkins and jelly and cookies and spoons. But Victoria stopped short of letting her carry hot beverages. “We can’t risk spilling on your dress,” she reminded her daughter.

  Once everyone had been served and the fervor had more or less died down, Aiden Fitzgerald, Owen’s father, tapped his spoon against his water glass, and the Fitzg
erald clan fell silent as he announced their entertainment.

  Victoria nervously seated herself at the piano. Mrs. Murphy wasn’t able to be there to accompany Paige, so Victoria had dusted off her piano-playing skills enough to hammer out the tune. She and Paige had been practicing every spare minute on the dining room piano—much to the amusement of customers who’d happened by and caught them at it. As long as neither of them was overcome by nerves, they just might make it through the song.

  “‘Be Thou my vision, oh Lord of my heart,’” Paige began in her sweet little voice, the words almost lost amidst the haunting melody. But as she got caught up in singing the old Irish hymn, her voice grew stronger. When Paige reached the line, “Thou my great Father, I Thy true son,” Victoria’s fingers faltered on the keys, but she quickly recovered, and Paige didn’t seem to notice, and no one else did, either. It wasn’t until Paige finished the last lingering line that Victoria looked up and caught Owen looking at her.

  What was he thinking? His features were hardened, void of any emotion except maybe simmering anger.

  The entire family clapped enthusiastically, and Victoria ducked out of the room, pausing just long enough to make sure Paige wasn’t overwhelmed. From the looks of it, she was enjoying herself immensely.

  Owen watched Victoria exit. Much as he would have liked to go after her and demand answers to his questions, he couldn’t move. His heart was hammering far too hard inside him.

  Victoria had blushed when Paige had reached the line about the father and his son. What if someone guessed why she’d faltered? He tried to tell himself there was nothing behind it—the song was about being a child of God. God was the father in question, not any human.

  But the way his own throat had tightened hearing his daughter sing those words, he knew exactly why Victoria had stumbled. It was a reminder he desperately needed. Though he wasn’t sure he was ready for Paige to learn the truth, he’d rather she hear it from him than wait for rumors to start circulating.