by Kim Allred
Rather than drive directly to the heart of the city, Jackson crept up on it, starting in a large circle and then moving closer, street by street, letting Finn get a good look at the area. Finally they closed in on what Finn assumed was the center of town.
“Do you mind going around a couple of blocks, just one more time?” Finn asked before Jackson could park.
Jackson checked his watch. “Sure, I’ve got a minute or two.”
Finn grimaced. Knowing Jackson’s driving speed, even a couple of blocks would take a great deal longer. Jackson circled again, and Finn determined the downtown area was centered within a few blocks, everything within walking distance.
Getting out of the truck, Jackson stretched his back and pointed west. “The marina is only a few blocks over there if you need to pick up anything.” He hitched up his pants and met Finn in front of the truck. “Now, I have two appointments. Take about an hour or so. There’s a pharmacy around the corner. It should have a decent selection of watches. I suggest that be your first stop. There’s a small diner in the building next door, sandwiches and such, so you can find me in there.”
“Thank you again, Mr. Jackson,” Finn said. “I’ll be on time.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Jackson waved him off, made his way to a brick building, and disappeared inside.
Finn turned away from the building, assessing the scene around him. Sleek, flashy cars, loud noises, myriad signs and tall, tightly spaced buildings all combined to overwhelm his senses, leaving him a touch claustrophobic. He longed for the open sea and would even welcome the roughest storm over this sprawl of urbanization. At least the storm was something he knew how to conquer. Honing his bearings, he followed Jackson’s instructions and headed for the pharmacy, but instead of purchasing a watch, he bought a prepaid cell phone.
Back outside, Finn changed directions. He kept a casual pace, his long strides making good time without appearing to be in a hurry. He glanced in each window that he passed as if window shopping, but always remaining aware of his surroundings, occasionally turning his head to take in the sights, using the glass window fronts as mirrors. He didn’t think he was being followed, but Finn hadn’t gotten where he was by being careless.
Even with the onslaught to his senses, Finn had to admit he needed to get out and stretch his legs on solid land. He had tired of walking the deck. As much as he loved the ocean and the feel of the waves beneath him, he longed for the day he could settle down and focus on his other passion, his horses. But that life seemed so far away. At times, it seemed his memories were merely dreams, his home having never existed, except as wild fantasies that crept into his mind in the wee hours of the morning.
Stopping at his final destination, Finn took a casual look around, and, not seeing anyone appearing interested in him, he stopped in front of a bookstore. After one last look down the street, he ducked inside. The thick smell of books and coffee reminded Finn of home. The building was older but well-kept, the original wood floors well maintained through the years. Row upon row of tall wooden bookcases ran deep through the store. What he could see of the walls above the cases appeared to be brick painted a rich russet brown. The few windows provided enough light, and with the incandescent lighting, the room emitted a warm, inviting atmosphere. The place reminded Finn of his own library, although the store had a grander smell, the aroma of coffee mingling with the mixed combination of new and old books.
“Welcome. Can I help you find anything?”
Finn spun around to find a young woman, more of a child, peering up at him through rimmed glasses. She took a small step back, then her smile widened.
Finn smiled in return. “I’m just looking, but I’ll tell you if I need anything.”
The girl nodded, still smiling. “I’ll be close by. Don’t hesitate to ask.”
When she didn’t move, Finn bowed his head and turned back to the aisles laid out in front of him. He could sense her still watching him, but he ignored her, used to the stares of others.
He meandered through the aisles, glancing at the spines of the books, and found the source of the coffee. A small counter occupied a section of wall midway through the building. Several tables were positioned around the counter, half of them occupied, people either chatting with friends or reading. The aroma was so enticing, he couldn’t pass it by, so he bought a cup of brew. Carrying it deeper into the store, he noticed the books got older and the musty smell stronger. Finn stopped to read a few titles, recognizing some of the literary novels. Others appeared to be historical reference books. He assumed the used books weren’t as popular, which explained why they were shelved in the back, but he spied a couple of individuals perusing the shelves.
At the back of the shop, a small area opened up, revealing three small sitting areas. Smaller bookshelves and a plastic plant separated each section, providing customers with a more private setting. Two gentlemen lounged in the outer sections, leaving the middle section empty. Finn studied the men, trying to discern if one of them was the man he sought.
The man to the left had three stacks of old books in front of him. He picked books one by one, turning each over in his hands to read the cover before opening it and flipping through, stopping occasionally to read something, then moving on. When finished, the man set the book onto one of two small piles, then picked up another book, working through it, repeating the process. This was a buyer, not the man he was looking for.
The second man sat in the seating area farthest from where Finn stood. He partially faced the wall, making it difficult for Finn to get a good look at him. He appeared well-dressed, judging from his tailored coat. A small briefcase of high-quality leather sat on the floor next to his chair. The man held no book and none rested on the table in front of him. He stared at the wall, and except for one glance at his watch, sat still as a statue. This was the man he was seeking. Finn edged around the surrounding bookshelves to get a better look at him.
He moved to the opposite side of the room, allowing him a clear line of sight to the man. Average height, easy to see even from a seated position. His pale face indicated someone who spent a great deal of time indoors. Although this far north, it could be the effects of the gray weather that created the pallor—a sharp contrast to his dark hair, cut short to match his manicured appearance.
As Finn approached the seating area, the man stared at Finn with a sharp intensity. He looked Finn over with a distasteful grimace, then hid it behind a more congenial face.
“Mr. Murphy, I’m guessing.” His intuitive statement held an assertive command, though he kept his voice low. Finn could see the lawyer in him but, for a reason he couldn’t explain, he sensed this man didn’t spend much time in a courtroom. He’d bet his talents came with finding the loopholes.
“Aye, it is.” Finn let the brogue slip out, hoping the lawyer would consider him a ruffian. He might have made a deal with him, but he preferred to keep the lawyer on a tight lead. Finn didn’t often use fear to garner results, but he’d become impatient with the length of his mission. He took a seat across from the man, diminishing his height advantage and allowing a more even playing field. Finn relaxed, stretching out his legs, trying to appear casual next to this carefully controlled man.
The lawyer sat motionless, on the edge of his seat, ready to escape if necessary. He appeared bored, as if this is was all beneath him. Finn was paying him a large sum for his work, and he had been told the man was desperate for money. But the lawyer displayed a cool disinterest in Finn, as if he could take or leave the work. Perhaps Finn had misjudged him. He might excel in the courtroom after all.
He tightened his lips as he waited for Finn, a sign of nerves. Was he bluffing?
“Have you found the stone?” Finn said.
“No.” The answer was simple and definitive. “But I have found its last known location. I should know more in a couple days.”
“You’ve had several days already.”
“And I’ve worked a small miracle in tracing it so quickly.” Th
e lawyer’s response carried some bite.
Finn smiled. So there was some shark behind the clothes and smooth demeanor. “Agreed, you have. But you must admit, I did give you a fair amount to start with.”
“Yes, but the original name you gave me is no longer around. It’s all with the woman’s granddaughter. I need a couple more days to wrap it up.”
Finn didn’t like this new information. It seemed it was always something. Nothing was ever straightforward. “Is this going to be a problem?”
“No, no. I don’t think so,” the lawyer hesitated, his eyes shifting to a spot over Finn’s left shoulder. A small movement of his feet the only other visible indication of nerves. “I could use the next part of the retainer.”
Finn leaned forward, leering. “I see. You wouldn’t be trying to drag this out.”
For the first time, the lawyer’s eyes showed fear, and he responded with a raised voice. “It’s not my fault someone died.” He finished with a hoarse whisper. “I have no control over these things.” He pulled himself together, finding his spine to sit straighter.
Finn let him stew before standing. He pulled a folded envelope from his back pocket and tossed it on the table in front of them. “This should be enough until our next appointment. Don’t take my friendly demeanor as a sign of someone who doesn’t expect results.”
Finn marched through the bookstore, never looking back, knowing the envelope had been snatched by the lawyer before Finn had walked five paces. He retained a smile so anyone looking at him would only see an engaging man, but inside, pangs of dread flooded him. This was taking too long, and there was so much at stake. Each time he got so close, and then, when it was within his grasp, it vanished. Every failed attempt pushed him farther from home, and at times, the anguish threatened to overtake him.
He pushed through the door and leaned against the building, letting the sun warm his face. He caught the scent of the ocean. Though he was a few blocks away, he had time to clear his head before meeting with Jackson, so he turned west, heading for the marina.
12
AJ was in high spirits when she ordered her lunch at the Hill Street café, splurging on a toasted sandwich, a peanut butter cookie, and an iced latte. She grinned, realizing that Stella would cry with shame if she saw how she was celebrating her new series of articles. AJ had to agree it was not quite a martini. That was okay—she had her first story on old historical buildings almost in the bag. She’d accomplished most of her research on the McDowell place, some through the internet, some through old county records, and, finally, a call to one of the city historians. AJ had been able to sketch out a general outline on the ill-fated story of the builder and his wife.
The story intrigued her. A sailor by trade, James McDowell spent months at sea as captain of his own vessel before making Baywood his home. He built the house for his new bride, Mary, the love of his life. When he was at sea, transporting cargo along the western coast, she lived alone in the house with their young son. They seemed happy until complications from Mary’s second pregnancy ended in her death and that of McDowell’s second child. Lost in grief, McDowell became a recluse, leaving his son in the care of his in-laws. Then one day, he sailed away in his ship, never to return.
The horrific tale dampened AJ’s mood. Such pain and suffering, waiting all those years for a home and family, and then it ends with such tragedy and sorrow. She couldn’t imagine being in that type of situation, a love so deep that a person loses themselves entirely, with no reason to live after the other person was gone. She didn’t see it, and she couldn’t feel it, but she could try to write it. All she needed were the old pictures of the house Ethan had discovered, which she hoped to collect that afternoon.
With the McDowell story pretty well completed, AJ shifted her focus to the next piece, the Westcliffe Inn. Her calls to Stella had been a bust, resulting only in voice mails. She knew Stella would call when she could, but AJ was growing restless.
She finished her sandwich and studied the cookie, trying to decide whether to eat it now or save it for later. It was just sitting there staring at her. She sipped her iced latte, deferring her first decision of the day, and glanced up as someone walked into the diner. Stunned, she dribbled iced latte down the front of her shirt, and AJ dabbed pointlessly at the spot. Her eyes darted back to the door.
It was him. She couldn’t believe it. There he was. She had been thinking about the inn, then he popped through the door. Well, not exactly popped—more like swaggered in.
The man on the ship.
Grateful for snagging a table in the back, she doubted he’d see her unless he actively searched the place. She hunched over the table, trying to make herself small as she ducked her head. He scanned the room. After a moment, her head snapped up, and she squared her shoulders, admonishing herself for hiding. She had every right to be here; she simply didn’t want to speak to him. She wasn’t spying on him, she was researching the inn.
Her face reddened. Okay, she’d investigated Mr. Jackson. She was spying on him, and she couldn’t face him without her guilt showing.
Berating herself for being foolish, AJ packed up her trash, the decision about the cookie resolved as she folded it in a napkin. She casually lifted her head to see if the man had seen her, and found him sitting at a table with another man, an older man with a thin gray layer of fuzz over his head. She couldn’t stop staring. His brown waves repeatedly fell over one brow, only to be pushed back. His eyes crinkled at the edges when he laughed, fully engaged with the older man, who seemed to be keeping them both ensnared in conversation, hand gestures and all.
AJ kept moving back to the younger, brown-haired man, who she gauged to be in his early thirties. His long legs stretched out in front of him, and AJ recalled him standing on the dock in front of her, tall and lean, shirt opened to reveal light brown hair on his chest. Warmth raced through her. She cleaned her table, watching them. They got up to leave.
Shoving the cookie into her bag, AJ grabbed her trash and latte, ready to follow them out. It wasn’t her best idea, but she was a reporter with a story to investigate, and she might never find him away from his ship again. Besides, Stella would want all the details. Her resolve in check, AJ raced to the door.
She peeked through the window. The men walked toward the street, deep in conversation. AJ followed, trying to stay out of sight. She stopped at the edge of the building, waiting for them to get farther ahead before following, but the men had stopped to climb into an old beat-up truck, the older man at the wheel. She couldn’t make out the license plate, but the truck looked like an old Ford, the faded paint color impossible to discern. AJ turned as the truck passed her, blending into traffic. While there was no way AJ could possibly know for sure, she would lay odds they were headed for the inn.
AJ had found Mr. Jackson.
AJ was pumped when she returned to the office, her investigative juices buzzing. Things were falling into place. She’d almost put this week’s story behind her, had stories sketched out for the next month, and, after her close encounter at lunch, the electricity shooting through her toes told her she was on to something with Jackson and the mystery man.
She picked up her cell and checked the time. Damn, I’ll be late for my meeting with Ethan. But she needed to talk to Stella, frustrated again with reaching her voice mail. AJ left a cryptic message, then raced out the door for the McDowell place. Her focus should be on completing the McDowell piece, but she couldn’t get Jackson out of her mind. She needed a way to find him. He couldn’t live too far from the inn.
AJ groaned. She should have searched county records on the Westcliffe when she researched the McDowell house. She shouldn’t be surprised. She got a blind spot when she hooked a story, shoving everything else to the back burner until she was done. With the McDowell story almost complete, her attention shifted to the inn. She needed to speak with Jackson, and the Westcliffe story would lead straight back to the captain of the mystery ship.
AJ found the McDowe
ll house enchanting. Shades of green everywhere, and the spring flowers, planted years ago, were in full bloom. The landscape was no longer manicured, and a natural wildness had taken over, which seemed appropriate. Knowing its history with the tragic love story demystified the legend. AJ no longer saw doom and gloom when she looked at the aged structure, just a building that had once seen happiness before a terrible tragedy struck. She snapped a great shot of the front of the house.
Ethan stepped out to greet her dressed in pressed slacks and a tailored black shirt, the sleeves rolled up, the look more casual without his usual jacket. She had a fleeting image of a different man, another side of him he never showed. It wasn’t anything she could put into words, and the vision disappeared as she remembered her reason for being there.
“Sorry I’m late.” AJ took a last picture before turning back to him.
Ethan guided her around to the side of the house. “Let’s finish the outside before heading back in.”
“Makes sense.”
Ethan strode toward the back of the house, his silent movement graceful but with purpose, even in his own home. “The front of the house properly reflects the love that built the place. But it’s the back that echoes the darkness and the tragedy.”
AJ let Ethan move ahead of her. She wanted to get a good look at the house, seeing it for the first time. Even the moldings on the outside of the house looked hand carved. The number of windows astonished her. She doubted the look was typical for its day, but she was pretty sure the house was the original design.
“A great many windows.” Ethan seemed to read her mind. “I checked the original plans. There have been a few upgrades through the years, but the design was all McDowell.” Ethan turned to the house. “He wanted to catch as much light as possible.”
“To keep the inside of the place as light as possible through the northwest winters.”