by Becky Wade
Chapter
Eleven
The afternoon after her visit to Bradfordwood’s inlet, Willow sat alone at a table within the Edge of the Woods Bakery and Tearoom. The tearoom’s peaceful interior—rustic pine floors, whitewashed walls, round tables supporting arrangements of pink peonies and tiny green berries—contrasted with the restless interior of Willow’s mind.
She hadn’t seen Corbin since she’d dashed out of the rehab center four days ago like a shopper toward a Black Friday sale. But any minute now, he and Charlotte would be arriving for today’s Operation Find Josephine meeting. She’d be forced anew to confront the archvillain of her life. Who was the same person who’d injured himself on Friday protecting her.
Dredging up the past at the inlet had helped. As she’d hoped, it had stacked weight onto the Why Corbin Spells Disaster side of the scale right when the Why Corbin Might be Likable side had begun acquiring weight for the first time in years. She felt rejuvenated in her animosity.
As this meeting drew nearer, however, she’d also felt something that slightly resembled . . . anticipation? Almost as if she was looking forward to seeing him? She’d been sternly trying to talk herself out of the feeling.
With an agitated sigh, she pulled her phone from her purse and brought up CrateandBarrel.com. To distract herself, she scanned their Tabletop & Bar page.
All this angst over Corbin was pointless. It wasn’t like she was going to do anything with him. She was leaving Washington in just six weeks. She lived in LA. Innkeeper was not her profession. Modeling was her profession.
When she’d taken this extended break from modeling, she’d assumed that she simply needed rest and a change of scenery in order to cure her case of burnout. She’d believed that the enthusiasm she’d once had for her career would return in time.
So far, it hadn’t. In fact, somewhat the opposite had occurred during her five months in Merryweather. The more distance she’d gained from modeling, the more distance she’d enjoyed having and the less interested she was in returning. She still had faith, though, that when she showed up on the set of her first booking after her hiatus, her old enjoyment of modeling would greet her.
If that didn’t happen, she’d need to reevaluate. She had commitments on her calendar through January, and Willow Elizabeth Bradford did not break her work commitments. Ever. The jobs that were on her calendar, she would absolutely fulfill.
The door of the girly tearoom swung open to admit Corbin. The scale of his body made the furniture filling the space appear kid-sized.
Her breath jammed. He was a whole lot of . . . a lot.
He threaded his way through the space wearing a black sweater and jeans. In his left hand he carried an iPad. A navy blue sling encased his right arm.
At this hour, the high tea hour, the restaurant was filled without exception by women. Some of them hushed at the sight of Corbin. Some murmured to their friends. None of them was without a reaction and all of them tracked Corbin’s progress.
“Good afternoon,” Willow said, setting her phone aside.
“Good afternoon.”
“Where’s Charlotte?”
He placed his tablet on the table and took the seat opposite her. “It’s Jill’s birthday, so I dropped Charlotte off at home after PT. They have a celebration planned.”
“But I suggested we meet here today instead of at the inn for Charlotte. I didn’t have any guests checking in, and I thought she’d enjoy coming to the tearoom.”
“And yet there’s only me.”
“You have my number now. Why didn’t you let me know she wasn’t coming?”
He raised a brow. “Why do you think?”
She swallowed.
“It’s because I love tea,” he said.
Humor tugged at her lips.
“Frankly, I’m glad for the chance to talk to you about Josephine without Charlotte present. Who are we kidding? The little K-pop lover is just slowing us real detectives down.”
Willow laughed.
An employee set a glass of ice water in front of Corbin and handed him a tiny pink menu.
“You’ll need to choose a tea flight,” Willow said. “Once you do, they’ll bring you three different types of tea to try.”
“Sounds like today’s my lucky day.”
“More lucky than you realize because I’m paying.”
He cocked his head. “I always pick up the tab. Remember?”
“I’m paying today to thank you for . . . the other morning.” Maybe then they’d be even, and she wouldn’t have to keep on feeling indebted.
“You’re buying me a tea flight as a thank-you gift?” He appeared to be fighting back laughter.
“That and cucumber sandwiches, scones with clotted cream and jelly, and cookies.”
“That sounds like a thank-you punishment.”
“Just order, you ungrateful sod.”
A waitress, aged approximately ninety, hobbled up to their table. Despite her years, she was not immune to Corbin’s charms. She gawked at him like he was her Frank Sinatra.
Willow cleared her throat. “I’d like to order the decadent indulgence—”
“You betcha. Coming right up.” Corbin placed his left palm on the table and rose halfway to standing. “Should we kiss here, or would you rather we take it outside?”
“Corbin!” She brandished her menu. “I was trying to order a food item.”
“Oh,” he said with false innocence.
Willow glanced at their waitress. The older lady was actually blushing. What was the correct protocol? Should she apologize for Corbin’s inappropriate suggestion? Before Willow could formulate an apology, the waitress started to giggle.
Willow straightened in her seat. “As I was trying to say, I’d like to order the decadent indulgence high tea for two.”
“What tea flight would you like, miss?” the older woman asked.
“The subtle and sweet flight, please.”
“And you, sir?”
“Do you serve beer?” Corbin asked.
A fresh flurry of geriatric giggles erupted at his question.
“No,” Willow said to him dryly. “They do not serve beer.”
“In that case, I’ll have tequila.”
The waitress chortled. “I like you,” she said to Corbin.
“I like you, too. How about you just choose a flight for me?”
“Certainly, sir.” She ambled off.
“I can’t take you anywhere,” Willow said.
“You can take me outside for that kiss.”
“Let’s get down to business, shall we?”
Corbin eyed her. “Have you pressed charges yet against the guy who attacked you?”
It took Willow a second to adjust to his swift conversational tack change. “I met with the police about it. Going in, I wasn’t sure if what occurred was enough to merit charges. But it turns out that it constitutes misdemeanor assault. So I pressed charges for that and also filed for a restraining order.” She’d taken those steps, in part, because Nora and Britt had encouraged her to do so. Since the attack, Nora had been swinging by Bradfordwood to check on her, and Britt had been supplying her with extra chocolate.
“Good. You gave the police his license plate number?”
“I did. His name’s Todd Hill, and he’s from Olympia. The next steps will be the prosecutor’s.”
“Todd Hill from Olympia isn’t one of my favorite people.”
“Nor mine.”
“If you see him anywhere, you’ll call the police and me, right?”
“Yes.” To the police. No to calling Corbin, though it was easier to leave that unsaid. She didn’t want him wrecking his other shoulder, and she didn’t want him doing anything that would give Todd a legitimate reason to sue him. “I’m really hoping the assault charge and the restraining order put an end to it. How’s your shoulder?”
“Improving.”
“How long do you have to wear the sling?”
“A week total.
So just a few more days now.” A pause. “Do you ask because you’re concerned about me?”
“I ask because I’m polite.” She clasped her hands together on the table. “Let’s talk about Josephine.”
He went to work on his tablet. “Charlotte wouldn’t part with her Josephine notebook, but she did let me take a picture of her to-do list from our last meeting.”
They talked through the items listed. They’d both followed up on the things they said they’d do, but their efforts hadn’t led to any promising new information.
“I heard from Melinda about the DNA she submitted,” Willow said. “No hits.”
He leaned back in his chair. “We know that DNA from the bones found near the hiking trail was logged into the system. So if Melinda’s DNA turned up no hits, then the bones found near the hiking trail don’t belong to Josephine.”
“Exactly.”
“Thanks to this shoulder injury I got while saving your life—”
“I don’t remember you saving my life, precisely—”
“I haven’t been able to work on my house the past few days. So I’ve been reading everything I can find online about people who went missing in Washington in the ’70s.”
“Did you find any similarities or connections to Josephine’s case?”
“No. So then I searched for missing people in Idaho in the ’70s. Then Oregon. Then Montana. Last night, I finally came across a lead.”
Willow regarded him with surprise. An actual lead?
A server brought out cucumber sandwiches on fancy white china plates dotted with periwinkle flowers.
“Huh,” Corbin said as he lifted one of the sandwiches. “I didn’t know people made food this small. My sandwich is the size of a dog biscuit.”
The server returned with teacups for each of them.
“About that lead,” Willow prompted.
He ate his sandwich in two bites while opening the browser on his tablet. He clicked on a bookmarked website, then slid the tablet to Willow.
The website appeared to belong to a TV station in Montana. The title read, Thompson Falls Resident Vanished Forty Years Ago Today. A video of a news story that had run on the station was embedded below the title. It showed a still shot of a good-looking blond man dressed in ’70s clothing. Willow scrolled to the article beneath the video.
“They say in the article the same things they say in the video,” Corbin told her.
“When did this story run?”
“About a year and a half ago.”
Willow bent her head to read.
Thompson Falls, Montana—Forty years have passed since businessman, rancher, and philanthropist Stan Markum vanished without a trace. Stan, the eldest son of multimillionaire businessman Charles Markum, was a famously private man. After Stan inherited his father’s business and his 200,000-acre ranch in northwestern Montana, he quietly involved himself in numerous charities, Civil Rights causes, and the political campaigns of Foster Holt and Edward Russell, among others.
The thirty-nine-year-old father of two disappeared on the morning of April 12, 1977, after leaving home on his way to work.
Mr. Markum’s case remains unsolved, and the vehicle he was driving the day he went missing has never been discovered.
Forty years later, Stan Markum’s wife and children are left with far more questions than answers concerning the fate of their beloved husband and father.
If you have any information regarding the disappearance of Stan Markum, please call the Thompson Falls Police Department.
Willow lifted her gaze to Corbin. “This man disappeared on the exact same day as Josephine.”
“Yes.”
“What could possibly explain that?”
“Coincidence.”
“Or . . . ?”
“Or a connection between Stan and Josephine of some kind,” he said.
Willow rubbed the tip of her thumb against her plate, thinking. “What could connect a wealthy businessman from Montana to a social worker from Washington?”
Corbin ate another sandwich.
Willow looked back over the article. “It says here that Stan took part in the political campaigns of Foster Holt and Edward Russell. I’m not familiar with Edward Russell, but I’m very familiar with Foster Holt.”
“Was he one of Washington’s senators?”
“He was and still is one of Washington’s senators. He lives in Redmond, and he’s a legend in these parts. Very well respected. He’s one of the longest sitting senators in history. Back in 1977 he may have been serving his first term.”
“Let’s look it up.” Corbin searched the senator’s name. Both he and Willow bent over the results. “You’re right,” Corbin said. “Senator Holt was elected to his first term in 1976. But what does that have to do with Josephine?”
“Nothing.”
Willow observed downtown Merryweather through the tearoom’s windows. Beyond a neat row of storefronts and lampposts, she could just catch a glimpse of Nora’s historical village.
Something tickled the back of her mind. A thought. About Senator Holt? Stan Markum? Josephine? She couldn’t quite grab hold of it.
Their server returned, setting a three-tiered tray piled with scones on their table. Ramekins containing clotted cream and black currant jam, and their second cups of tea followed.
“More miniature food,” Corbin said. “How am I supposed to eat this?”
Willow moved a scone onto her plate and split it in half. “You separate the scone like so. Then you spread cream on top of each piece. Then you add jelly.”
Corbin followed her lead.
“You’re doing exactly what I told you to do,” Willow observed. “How refreshing.”
He glanced up from the careful concentration he’d focused on spreading cream on his scone. Amusement glinted in the brown depths of his eyes, but seriousness defined the set of his lips. “I’ll do anything you tell me to do. Always.”
Her stomach lifted with joy. One second stretched into the next before she remembered the correct response. “It’s more like you’ll do anything I tell you not to do.”
“How do I eat this? Tell me that. With a fork?”
“No. With your hands. Like a biscuit.”
They both took a bite of their creations. While chewing, he kept his mouth closed and smiled at her simultaneously.
It was fun to introduce the quarterback who’d experienced everything to something entirely new. It was fun to eat a scone with cream and jelly while watching him eat one, too. It’s possible that, in her organized and responsible life, she’d failed to schedule in enough time for things that were simply . . . fun.
“It’s good,” he said.
“It is. Especially with tea.” She took a sip. Just as she was setting her teacup back into its saucer, the thought she’d been reaching for earlier came to her.
Josephine’s charm bracelet. Something about the Stan Markum article had stirred a memory of Josephine’s charm bracelet. What, though?
She opened the Notes app on her phone and found the page where she’d typed the information Melinda had provided about each of the charms the day they’d met for lunch at the country club. Sand dollar. Cross. Liberty Bell.
Liberty Bell. That was it. That’s what she’d thought of when she’d read about Stan Markum’s support of politicians. “Do you remember the charm bracelet that was inside the box of Josephine memorabilia?” she asked.
Corbin nodded.
“One of the charms on it is the Liberty Bell. Melinda couldn’t tell me why Josephine had the Liberty Bell on her bracelet. Obviously, the Liberty Bell represents America. But it’s possible that it might represent something more specific. Like our government. Our leaders? Politics?”
“It’s possible. We know that Josephine was quick to support causes. Didn’t Melinda tell us that she participated in picket lines?”
“Yes.”
“It’s not hard for me to imagine her volunteering for political campaigns.”
“Me either. Senator Holt’s campaign would have been mobilizing right in Josephine’s backyard. It strikes me as strange that a Montana businessman took an interest in Senator Holt’s election. But it’s not that much of a stretch to imagine that Josephine might have been involved. I’ll call Melinda.”
Corbin finished his first scone and went to work doctoring another while Willow found Melinda in her list of phone contacts. When Corbin’s attention wasn’t on his scone, she could sense his gaze on her.
Melinda answered on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Hi, Melinda. It’s Willow. I have a quick question for you if you’re not too busy.”
“Shoot.”
“Do you happen to know if Josephine worked on the election campaign of Senator Foster Holt in 1976?”
A pause. “Goodness, I haven’t thought about that in years. The answer is yes. She volunteered for his campaign. I can’t remember if she made phone calls or knocked on doors or what.”
Willow gave Corbin a thumbs-up signal. At last! Progress. Willow told Melinda about Stan Markum.
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“You didn’t see news coverage about his disappearance near the time of Josephine’s disappearance?”
“No, not that I remember.”
Willow thanked Melinda and they disconnected.
“So Josephine and Stan both supported the senator’s 1976 campaign?” Corbin asked.
“Yes.”
“Which means they might have known each other.”
“Or they might not have,” Willow said. “Stan lived in Montana, so it could be that he was just a campaign donor. Josephine was a volunteer.” She nibbled on her scone, then dabbed her lips with her napkin.
“I like how you fold your napkin before putting it back in your lap,” Corbin said. “You’re tidy.”
“And proud of it.” She wished he’d stop looking at her so intensely.
“Let’s assume for a minute that Stan and Josephine knew each other,” he said.
“All right. Elections are held in November. So what could have caused Stan and Josephine to disappear five months after the campaign ended?”
“I have no idea. But the fact that they vanished on the same day has me interested.”