No Hiding Behind the Potted Palms! A Dance with Danger Mystery #7

by Barton, Sara M.

  “I don’t understand. You’re not a doctor.”

  “I’m the point man for the simulation technology. Vanguard Advanced created the program, so I’m supposed to introduce it.”

  “Oh.” Mac was rummaging around in the kitchen. I could see him out of the corner of my eye, but I couldn’t figure out what he was doing in there.

  “So, what do you say — dinner tonight?” Tom let his eyes linger on my lips, reaching out a hand to trace the curve of my cheek with his fingertips, imbuing all of the familiarity of a long-ago lover. Three years ago, I would have jumped at the chance to rekindle the fire. Two years ago, I would have played hard to get, testing the waters, to see if there was anything left to salvage of our relationship. A year ago, I would have turned him down, wanting to punish him for deserting me when I was at my most vulnerable. And now? That bold stroke of determined confidence irritated me as I stood there, those long fingers summoning up the specter of that intimacy we had once shared. It was as if Tom saw no distance between us, no time that altered the course of our relationship. He acted as if we would just take up where he left off, now that my mother’s health no longer interfered. It dawned on me that he was playing me, not out of love, but out of necessity. So, if I really wasn’t the love of Tom’s life, why did he want to see me? “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  That assumption, that I was his for the taking, got on my nerves. This was the man who left me to cope alone with my mother’s health crisis while he moved onto the next woman. Was it only that Adelaide was now deceased? Is that what made me attractive to Tom? Or was there something else pushing him in my direction?

  “Sorry,” I shook my head. “That’s not possible.”

  Mac walked in on the tail end of that exchange. I noticed the look he gave my former lover and my confusion grew. Why would Mac seem so aggrieved by a total stranger?

  “Kim, we should probably get going,” Mac said somewhat impatiently. I watched Tom size up the other man in the room. He seemed to be looking for the competitive edge as he fluffed up his mental tail feathers.

  “Tom Robacher.” His hand shot out like a heat-seeking missile, looking to connect to Mac’s. I watched in fascination as Mac maneuvered to avoid introducing himself. “And you are?”

  “Not you. Excuse me.” Abruptly, uncharacteristically, Mac turned on his heel and headed down the hallway. It was a rude explosion of testosterone I hadn’t expected. Maybe I hadn’t imagined that spark between Mac and me.

  “Serious relationship?” There was persistence in the tone of Tom’s question. He was looking for information. Why?

  “Tom, you’ll have to excuse me. I’m on my way out.”

  “Oh, come on. Let me see you again,” he urged me, touching my wrist. For a moment, I almost thought he was feeling for a pulse. I pulled myself away from him and led him to the door.

  “It’s not convenient.” I waited for him to step out the door, but he lingered.

  “I won’t take no for an answer,” he warned me in a low whisper.

  “You’ll have to, Tom.” I took two steps away from him, holding the door wide open.

  “Are you that angry with me?” Tom gave a brief, disbelieving shrug of his powerful shoulders and stepped outside. He didn’t stop until he got to his car. By then, I had almost closed the door. That didn’t prevent him from making a declaration before the latch hit the strike plate.

  “I’m willing to admit I made a mistake in letting you go. I’m willing to make it up to you.”

  Behind the safety of the closed door, I took a deep breath. My head seemed to spin. How many times had I rehearsed my speech to Tom? How many times had I imagined him returning, tail between his legs, ready to acknowledge what a great mistake he had made in abandoning me? And yet here and now I had heard those words and felt nothing for him. No pang of sorrow for what might have been. It was as if the emotional fog had finally lifted, revealing the truth of what we shared. The shock hit me hard. Did that mean our relationship had been a fraud?

  “Ready?” Mac came into the hall. I exhaled, shaking myself free of the past, at least for the moment. Had I really wasted the years dreaming about something that had never really been?

  “Let’s go,” I managed to say more cheerfully than I felt. “I just need my bag.”

  “Are you okay?” Mac’s eyes were on me, studying my face.

  “Absolutely,” I smiled.

  “I wasn’t sure. The guy seemed pretty persistent.” Mac slipped on his game face, his true feelings now concealed by a mask of neutrality. I wondered what was going on behind it.

  “The past is the past. I just found out it doesn’t matter to me any more.”

  “Interesting,” Mac decided, his dark brown eyes intently observing me.

  “Not really,” I replied. “I’d much rather hear about Jenkins Beach. Tell me more about your cottage.”

  Chapter Three —

  “It was built as a summer house in 1920 by the Frankle family,” he told me, as we pulled out of the driveway in his silver Buick. “Mr. Frankle was an insurance executive for Hawthorne Life and Casualty. He and his wife had eight children and a very nice life until the Great Depression. When the company folded, he lost his job. He and his wife sold their mansion in the city and moved to Jenkins Beach. Rumor has it he got into bootleg liquor sales and used the boathouse to store his wares. The property stayed in the family until 1977. That’s when it was bought by Darius Porter.”

  “The actor?” I had seen some of his movies on late-night cable. He was a “B” movie star, churning out thrillers and light comedies for several decades.

  “None other. He and his family used it for another twenty years. When he died, his widow turned it over to the Jenkins Beach Art Guild, with a rent of one dollar a year for twenty years. When the lease ran out in 2007, the house went on the market. It sold in one week, and the art guild got the money to build their new building on Main Street. The guy who bought it got as far as gutting it before he had to file for bankruptcy. I snatched it up as a short sale last year and had my contractor renovate it. Architecturally true to the time period, but with all the major conveniences of modern life.”

  “Sounds interesting,” I told him.

  We talked about Bonnie Oaks as we took Route 1 south. Mac was a steady, fluid driver, seamlessly weaving in and out of traffic.

  “The in-law apartment is in the attic, but there’s a small elevator. I put that in for Mae’s sake. You’ll find it comfortable. It’s about a thousand square feet. You’ll have the whole floor to yourself.”

  Maybe it wouldn’t so bad after all. I was beginning to be curious about the house, eager to see it.

  “Shall we stop for lunch?” Mac asked, as we left the highway and headed towards the town center. The Atlantic peaked through the tidy yards that lined Seaspray Avenue. I saw the rustic, faded sign for the Crab Hut up ahead. We pulled into a crowded parking lot and Mac squeezed between a BMW and a Chrysler mini-van.

  “If it’s this crowded in the spring, it must be packed in the summer,” I said. Mac laughed.

  “The line starts forming at eleven on the Friday before Memorial Day and it only slows down when the summer crowd departs. These days, that usually means late October.”

  We found a table by a window overlooking the harbor, where we could watch the traffic on the water. The waitress took our order for coffees and lobster rolls. We made small talk about Jenkins Beach while we waited for her return. In less than ten minutes, we were rewarded with plastic baskets containing a lightly grilled hot dog bun brimming with large chunks of buttered lobster meat, kettle chips, and pickles.

  “Dig in, “Mac directed me. He eagerly scooped up his sandwich and took a bite. A grin spread across his boyish face. “My favorite.”

  “Mr. Tweedie! As I live and breathe!” A hearty hand slapped Mac on the back.

  “Rogan, you old dog. How’s it going?”

  “Can’t complain.” A heavy-set blond man with long hair pulled back
in a pony tail slid into the empty seat beside Mac. He pushed a large hand across the table and pumped mine. “I’m Steve Rogan, Mac’s contractor on the cottage.”

  “This is Kim Sheffield, an old friend of mine,” Mac explained.

  “What did you think of it?” Steve demanded. “Do you approve?”

  “She hasn’t seen it yet.” Mac took a bite of his dill pickle. “We’re headed over there after lunch.”

  “Great. By the way, I got the lumber for the boathouse. I can start next week,” he announced. “You’ll both be seeing a lot of me for the next two months.”

  “Sounds good,” said Mac.

  “Glad to hear it,” Steve replied, getting up from the chair. “Got to run. I have to pick up little Stevie from school. Nice to meet you, Kim. If there’s anything you need to know about the area, consider me your local tour guide.”

  “If I decide to come to Jenkins Beach, I’ll do that.” The fact was I hadn’t agreed to take on the role of caregiver yet. That hadn’t stopped Mac from spreading the word.

  “Fair enough.” Steve waved on his way out, the screen door of the Crab Hut bouncing in his wake.

  “No visit would be complete without homemade ice cream,” Mac insisted, as the waitress arrived to clear our plastic baskets. I chose peach melba, relishing every decadent bite. It had been a long time since I had indulged in anything other than low-fat ice cream. Mac ordered mint chocolate chip and he consumed it with great enthusiasm. He paid the bill as we lingered over the second round of coffee. We sat in companionable silence, enjoying the ever-moving flotilla of boats passing by the picture window of the local hang-out. At last, with the final sip of coffee drained from my cup, I put it down and scrunched up my napkin. Mac did the same.

  “Shall we?” was all he said.

  We left the restaurant, climbed back in the car, and headed towards Bonnie Oaks. I could feel Mac’s excitement growing as we turned down the old beach road. The houses here sat on larger lots. Most of them were of an earlier era, with lots of cedar shingles and period architectural details. There were wide porticos and screened porches spanning breadth of the elegant cottages, towers and turrets no doubt offering charming water views from the upper floors, as well as the occasional widow’s walk here and there. The beach sat behind tall dunes, out of view from my perspective as a passenger in Mac’s silver Buick Lacrosse, leaving me hungry for a glimpse.

  We turned right and traveled down a long, tree-lined street, away from the ocean. I could see the salt marshes on either side as we crossed the small bridges, one after another, heading towards the bay. This was a naturalist’s paradise, with flocks of sea and shore birds partaking of the bounty contained within the confines of the estuary.

  There were no houses here, only a wide expanse of marsh. I could see osprey nesting on large wooden platforms that dotted the winding waterway. Soon, the landscape began to change, as we came to Jolly Bay. I could see the bridge in the distance, tiny cars parading across its vast expanse.

  “The beach itself is a five-minute walk from the house,” Mac announced, breaking the silence between us. He pointed to my right. “There’s a public path that runs from Acorn Lane through to Ocean Avenue. You’ll see the sign by the big brown house with green shutters. You just follow it till you get to the boardwalk. It’s quite narrow in some spots. Some of the homeowners don’t like to share their land, so they’re rather stingy with their section of path. But it’s accessible.”

  “Lovely,” I decided. Already I was imagining myself sitting on the sand with my beach towel and a good book. “How’s the water?”

  “You have to watch out for the currents. They can be quite strong. The riptides can pull you out. If you do get caught, just swim parallel to the beach until they let up. Otherwise, you’ll exhaust yourself.”

  “I’m more of a dipper than a swimmer,” I confessed. “I was voted most unlikely to ever be a lifeguard.”

  Mac laughed at that, tilting his head back slightly, casually. In all the years I had known him, I had never really looked at him as a man, the way I was doing now. I was surprised to discover just how attractive he really was.

  “Here we are,” he told me as we pulled into a crushed shell driveway flanked on either side by an old stone wall. The house was situated at the top of a rise, surrounded by mature pine, spruce, and oak trees. There was plenty of shade from the hot sun and I felt a decent breeze come off the bay. As Mac parked the car, I gazed down at the private little cove below. I could see a boathouse and its attached pier, with a motorized boat lift. There was even a small spit of rocky shore, where a pair of chaise lounges sat, offering a peaceful sanctuary during the heat of the day.

  “Ready?” Mac was watching me take in all the details of Bonnie Oaks. I could tell he was proud of his accomplishment in restoring the property. It really was full of vintage charm. “We kept as true to the original details as possible, but we did it using modern materials. The shingles are actually made of cement, not cedar. Low maintenance.”

  I looked up at the dove gray cottage, dressed up with white trim. What had I been expecting? Something grand, befitting an insurance executive turned Prohibition smuggler? This was hardly a bayfront mansion. The style was Dutch Colonial Revival, with a stone foundation befitting a cottage in a woodsy setting. I could see there were plenty of nooks and crannies to the home. A second-floor sunroom rose up from the entry porch, supported by its large stone pillars. The gambrel roof had a wide dormer with an arched window on the third floor. Here and there, smaller dormers popped up along the second-floor roof line. The cottage was not overly large, but I could see what a charming retreat it had made for the Frankle family. We climbed the six steps up to the open porch. A paneled front door, painted in crisp blue, was framed by small sidelights. As Mac unlocked the door, I stood taking in the peace and quiet of the woods.

  “Here we go,” he said, stepping aside to let me pass.

  The entry hall opened up to a vestibule with a staircase, two doors, and two arched doorways, one leading to a dining room, the other to a long hallway that offered a view to the back of the house. I could see a sofa and chairs there, and beyond those, a set of french doors that overlooked the bay.

  “Let’s start at the top and work our way down,” Mac suggested. He opened one of the doors, revealing a small elevator, just barely big enough for the two of us. The push of a button on the electrical panel took us up to the third floor in a smooth, effortless ride. “Here’s the in-law apartment I told you about. This floor used to contain three bedrooms for the Frankle children.”

  The door opened to a wide open attic garret that contained enough charm to melt the doubts of any disbeliever. While the ceilings were low, they were lovely, with lots of angles. Light flowed in from a pair of discreetly placed skylights. A large arched window overlooked the bay at the back of the house. I could imagine the sunsets from this vantage point. They must be spectacular.

  The second thing I noticed was that there was no furniture in the place. It was an empty shell of warm ivory walls and plush wall-to-wall carpeting.

  “I haven’t had a chance to furnish it yet,” Mac confessed. “Maybe you would like to help me shop.”

  “Actually,” I sighed, “if I did decide to do this, I would like to use my own furniture. It’s been in storage for the last few years and I miss it.”

  “Great. That would save me some money. Let me show you the bedroom and the bathroom. This way, Kimmy.” He led me to a narrow room at the front of the house, with another arched window. It was simple, but attractive. A walk-in closet in the hallway provided ample storage space. The charming bathroom contained a clawfoot soaking tub with shower head and curtain, pedestal sink, and toilet. It was more than adequate for my needs.

  Mac led me to the stairs and we went down to the second floor hallway with its gleaming oak floors, dressed with attractive Persian carpet runners.

  “Laundry room,” he announced, throwing open a door to a good-sized room. “Ironing
board and steam iron in the cabinet. That door leads to the circuit breaker panel and the mechanicals for the house. Good to know if there’s ever an overload or you need to shut down the power.” Mac showed me a small blue-and-white striped room with a double bed flanked by a matching pair of small chests. There was a dresser on one wall and a chaise lounge by the windows.

  “I wanted to use it as an office, but Mae said she’d rather have a guest room, so she can have visitors.” I gazed around, admiring the tranquil walls, the brass bed, and the cheerful window treatments. The room had Mae written all over it. “She wants her sister to be able to visit. Who am I to say no to my mother?”

  I could tell Mae’s bedroom by the soft lavender walls, the billowing white lace drapes, and the many touches that added personality to the space. I recognized the antique bed from her previous home. I had seen it when Adelaide and I visited her last year when she was recovering from minor surgery. There was a floral upholstered chair by the window, with an ottoman. Mae’s spare reading glasses and a mystery novel sat on a little chest. Obviously Mae was enjoying the new house, with all its comfort.

  The charm continued into the ensuite bath. Not overly large, it had a walk-in shower that was tiled in white marble, with a bench for comfort and safety. An antique dresser, painted a soft green, was topped by an old-fashioned marble sink. There were decorative sconces with delicate milk glass shades on either side of an oval mirror. On the floor were marble hexagonal floor tiles, accented with small black ones, a nice period touch.

  By contrast, Mac’s bedroom was almost spare in its furnishings and totally lacking color. A king-size bed with a handsome tufted headboard was masculine, standing unaccompanied on one wall. The soft brown leather was warm and inviting, but the bedding was as white as the walls and trim, making the space feel cold and uninviting.. A dark gentleman’s chest took up most of one wall, with all its doors and drawers. A single club chair, upholstered in a tan microfiber, sat beside a writing table and a floor lamp.