“And your grandmother served marshmallows for Hanukkah?”
All right, maybe he could be interested. “She’d take a marshmallow, sandwich it between two dried apricots and hold the thing together with a toothpick.”
“That sounds disgusting.”
She considered defending the odd treat, then decided to save her strength for what mattered: the Chronicle’s investigation into the missing school-budget money. “It’s very tasty,” she said. “I’ll go check on your shoes.”
She hurried down the hall to the bathroom, taking deep, steady breaths and reminding herself that Jeffrey Barrett was her adversary, in town to silence her. His cute butt and his devastating eyes were irrelevant, as was his help in the parking lot earlier. He was trouble, and she’d better not forget it.
She pulled the hair dryer out of his left loafer, tucked it into his right loafer, turned it back on and inhaled another deep breath. If he thought her grandmother’s recipes were disgusting, screw him. He wasn’t invited to the party.
She stopped in the laundry alcove, removed his toasty socks from the dryer and carried them to the kitchen. “Here,” she said, tossing them to him en route to the coffeemaker. “Your shoes will be ready soon.” She busied herself stuffing a filter into the basket and scooping in ground coffee beans, then hesitated. “Would you prefer coffee or tea? Or cocoa?”
He appeared briefly startled, then a smile traced his lips. “Coffee’s fine.”
His smile disconcerted her. “What’s so funny?”
He sat down to put on his socks. “When a woman asks a man if he wants to come to her house for a drink, she usually doesn’t mean coffee.”
“I usually do,” she retorted. She finished preparing the coffee and switched on the machine, then crossed to the back door and opened it. Nellie bounded into the warm room. With deft timing, Alana flung the old towel over her and squatted to dry the snow from her tawny fur. As soon as Alana released her, she trotted over to her water dish and drank, slurping loudly.
“What did you say her name was again?” Barrett asked.
Alana glanced at him. With his socks on, he looked less vulnerable. Unfortunately. “Nellie. She’s named after Nellie Bly, the crusading reporter back at the turn of the twentieth century.”
Barrett watched Nellie lap up her water, her tail slashing through the air. “Oh, yeah. She’s got crusading reporter written all over her.”
Again, in spite of herself, Alana laughed. She used the time it took to scoop some kibble into Nellie’s food dish to erase her smile. The coffeemaker beeped and she fetched two mugs from a shelf. “Milk or sugar?” she asked, all traces of amusement vanquished.
“Straight up, thanks.”
Alana filled the two mugs and brought them to the table. She sat across from Barrett and tried not to let his steady gaze or the sturdy line of his jaw distract her. He was in Crescent Cove to give her a hard time, she reminded herself. “Speaking of crusading reporters,” she said, “I assume your afternoon of research proved that I’m a fair and honest journalist. I’m not out to destroy anyone’s reputation. I am out to report the facts, and I intend to continue doing that. It’s my job.”
“How did you wind up here? The Crescent Cove Chronicle is a step down from the Bridgeport News.”
She sat up straighter. He hadn’t learned about her previous job by reviewing the Chronicle archives. He must have done research on her before coming to town. Sheesh. How many hours was he going to bill Robert Willis for? And why? Alana hadn’t accused Willis of anything other than being responsible for the missing money.
She could only hope Barrett’s research hadn’t uncovered the whole unpleasant story about her departure from the News. “Chet Holroyd offered me an opportunity to do more than just report,” she said, which was true. “Since joining the Chronicle staff, I’ve done some text editing and written a couple of unsigned editorials. I’ve consulted on layout and design and helped select photos. Because it’s a smaller paper, I get to do more.” She sipped her coffee. “Crescent Cove is much prettier than Bridgeport, too.”
“Much snowier,” he muttered. “But thanks to you, my feet are warm and dry.”
She sipped some coffee and waited for him to continue speaking. She’d already told him more than he ought to know about her.
“How will you feel,” he asked, “if you discover that the missing money has nothing to do with Robert Willis?”
“Relieved,” she admitted. “I’m hoping it’s a bookkeeping error. Right now the town auditor is going through the records. Maybe that’s what she’ll find.”
“You won’t feel guilty for having smeared a good man?”
“I didn’t smear Robert Willis.”
“This is a small town,” he said unnecessarily. “Everyone knows everyone. And they all read the Chronicle.”
“And they want to learn what happened to their tax money. As a reporter, it’s my job to find out for them.”
He let out a long breath. “All right. It’s late. We can talk about this more tomorrow.”
Tomorrow? He was planning to work through the weekend on this nonsense? “I’ll be out of town tomorrow,” she told him.
“You’re traveling in this storm?”
“It’s supposed to stop by morning. The roads will be plowed.”
“You’re driving somewhere? Can your car handle it? You don’t have four-wheel drive, do you?”
“I don’t need it, most of the time.”
“Where are you going?”
If she didn’t answer, he’d assume she was hiding something. “Burlington,” she told him. “I’ve got to buy candles.”
“For your party?”
She nodded.
“They don’t sell candles in Crescent Cove?”
Once again, his interest surprised her. She glanced at Nellie, who was happily devouring her kibble, and drank some coffee. “I can’t find candles here that fit my grandmother’s menorah. I inherited it when she died. It’s an antique. I guess they had different-sized candles back then.”
“An antique?”
She stood to refill their cups, then decided to show him the menorah, since he seemed to care and she loved to look at it herself. She exhumed it from the depths of her tote bag, unwrapped it and placed it at the center of the kitchen table.
He leaned back and admired it. “Wow. That’s really nice.”
“I bought some Hanukkah candles in town, but they were too narrow. And then this lady…” She reached back into her tote and removed the candle the woman at Burning Bright had given her. “The saleslady at a candle store told me this candle would work, but it didn’t fit, either.”
Barrett lifted the candle, studied it as intensely as he’d studied the menorah and then propped the candle into the shamas holder, the top candle separate from the other eight. “It fits fine.”
To Alana’s amazement, it did. Apparently, the shamas holder was a different size from the other eight holders, since the candle hadn’t fit those when Alana had tried it out in the car. “I’ll be damned,” she murmured, shaking her head. “I’ve got one candle that works. I still need a whole bunch more.”
“Let me see the ones you bought.”
Wonderful. Barrett had gotten the white candle into the shamas holder, and now he thought he could work miracles. Humoring him, she handed him the box she’d bought earlier that week at the stationery store. He opened it, pulled out one candle and stuck it into the first holder on the right. It fit.
“How’d you do that?” she asked, annoyed that he’d gotten the candle to work when she hadn’t, but also thrilled to think she wouldn’t have to drive all the way to Burlington this weekend to buy candles. She pulled the candle out of the left holder and reinserted it. It nestled perfectly in its cup. “It’s not like I didn’t try to get these candles to work a dozen times.”
“You obviously don’t have the right touch,” Barrett teased.
She glanced sharply at him and saw him smiling. His smile
was much too sexy, only adding to her indignation that he’d succeeded where she’d failed in getting the candles to fit. The menorah had been her grandmother’s, after all. She should have been able to manage the candles better than some silver-eyed stranger.
“Well,” she said, tamping down her annoyance. “Thank you.”
“I know my way around menorahs,” he told her. “I’ve lit a few in my day.”
She stared at him, surprised. Given his Mayflower-sounding last name, she never would have guessed. “Are you Jewish?”
“My mother was,” he said. “I guess she still is, although she isn’t observant. My dad was raised Presbyterian, so when they married they joined the Unitarian Church. There were lots of us half-and-half kids in that church. It’s a good faith, very accepting, embracing all paths. One of those paths included my grandmother and her menorah. And her candles always fit.”
“So do mine, apparently.” Thanks to you, she almost added.
“Does this mean I can come to your party?”
“It’s a week from tomorrow. You won’t still be in town then, will you?”
His smile increased. “Publish an article clearing Robert Willis’s name and I’ll be gone,” he promised.
Tempting though his offer was, her journalistic ethics weren’t for sale. “The Chronicle will clear his name once we have evidence that he isn’t guilty of theft or mismanagement.”
“Such lofty principles.” He drained his mug, set it on the table and stood. Nellie peered up from her bowl, clearly enthralled by the very big person in the kitchen. He slid his arms through the sleeves of his coat and winked at the dog before turning back to Alana. “So what time is your party? Just in case I’m still in town.”
“If you’re still in town, I’ll be sure to let you know,” Alana answered, thinking that as honest as she was in her work, she’d just told a whopper. If Jeffrey Barrett was still in town by next weekend, she would most certainly not let him know. He’d never be welcome at her party, even if he did have a way with candles.
Chapter Three
“Jason Farrar? Yeah, he’s here.” The hostess at Mort’s Diner, an old woman dressed in purple, with a long silvery braid trailing down her back, cupped her hand against her brow as if searching for a pirate ship on the horizon rather than a customer at a table. “There he is, in the fifth booth.” She pointed out one of the booths lining the front wall. The man she’d indicated had his back to the entry.
A clerk at the police station had told Jeff he could find Police Chief Farrar at Mort’s. Jeff hadn’t realized he needed to talk to the chief of police. All he’d asked was whether the police had launched a criminal investigation into the missing school-budget money. Aunt Marge had insisted they hadn’t, although she’d added that every time the doorbell rang she flinched, expecting to find an officer on her front steps.
Evidently, the clerk felt Jeff ought to discuss Uncle Bob’s situation with the police chief. Jeff tried not to read too much into that.
After thanking the hostess, he started down the narrow aisle toward the booth where Chief Farrar was seated. Farrar shifted and Jeff saw the woman facing him across the table, a heavy porcelain mug halfway to her lips. She saw Jeff, too; her eyes widened and she lowered her mug without drinking.
He hadn’t imagined his attraction to Alana Ross; he felt it just as keenly this morning as he had yesterday. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was about her that drew him in. Sure, her eyes were pretty. So was her hair, long and brown with sweet golden highlights. So were her delicate lips and her perfectly proportioned body. But hell, Boston was full of pretty women. Jeff didn’t have to travel all the way to the shores of Lake Champlain to find one.
He couldn’t say her personality was warm and welcoming. Granted, she’d offered him a drink last night—coffee, nothing exciting, and that was only because he’d been a Good Samaritan, risking the destruction of his loafers for her in the parking lot. Her invitation hadn’t been personal.
On the other hand, she’d insisted on drying his shoes and socks, which struck him as extremely personal. Sometimes, when things were going well, a woman might ask him to remove his clothes. But he couldn’t recall any woman besides Alana who had ever specifically asked him to remove his shoes and socks.
He liked that about her. He liked her dog. He liked her confidence. He appreciated a woman who knew what she was fighting for and then gave the fight her all.
Even from a distance he could read the series of emotions that passed across her face as her gaze met his: shock followed by a fleeting look of—could it be pleasure?—followed by irritation, resignation and finally begrudging tolerance. Jeff wondered if she realized how expressive her eyes were, how easily they gave her away.
Farrar must have noticed her staring, because he twisted in his seat and watched Jeff’s approach. “Jason Farrar?” Jeff asked, extending his right hand. The chief seemed friendly, especially compared with Alana. He was dressed casually, as was Alana, who had on a colorful sweater and jeans. Jeff had also chosen jeans today, as well as the thick-soled work boots he’d tossed into his car before leaving Boston, when he’d heard a weather forecast predicting snow in northern New England. “I’m Jeff Barrett,” he introduced himself to the police chief. “I was wondering if you could spare a few minutes sometime today so we could talk about the missing school-budget money.”
“Right,” the police chief said, as if he’d been expecting Jeff. “Alana and I were just talking about the school funds. Why don’t you join us.”
“If you’re sure you don’t mind…” One glance at Alana informed Jeff she did mind.
“Not at all,” Farrar assured him. “So you’re Jeff Barrett. Your aunt Marge talks about you all the time.”
“Aunt Marge?” Alana eyed him curiously.
Opting not to answer, Jeff slid onto the seat next to her. The banquette was big enough for two, but not so big he could avoid brushing hips and shoulders with her, a contact that sent a hum of awareness through him. “I don’t know what she could be saying about me,” he told Farrar. “Maybe she was talking about someone else.”
Farrar grinned. “You want to order something? We’re about done eating already.” He gestured toward his plate, which held some toast crusts and a few remaining forkfuls of omelette. The plate in front of Alana contained only a bran muffin from which she seemed to have taken no more than a bite or two.
“I’ll have…” Jeff paused when he spotted a waitress approaching their table, her pad at the ready. “A cup of coffee, please,” he said, directing the rest of the sentence to her.
As soon as she was gone, Alana again asked, “Aunt Marge?”
Jeff supposed she’d find out sooner or later that Bob Willis was his uncle. He’d prefer that she find out later, so he ignored her question. “What I’m wondering,” he said to Farrar, “is whether Bob will be charged with anything.”
“I was just telling Alana, the auditor is still going through the past year’s records. We don’t charge without evidence of wrongdoing, and so far there’s no evidence.”
Jeff sent Alana a triumphant grin. “The Chronicle article implied there was.”
“I didn’t say there wasn’t,” Farrar reminded him. “I just said we haven’t found the evidence yet. The auditor is suspicious, though. The money disappeared in small increments, as if someone wanted to escape notice. A bookkeeping error would show up in big chunks—you know, someone misplaced a decimal point and it says ten thousand dollars where it should say a hundred. But when a little money goes missing here, a little there, some from this account and some from that, it usually means an embezzler is trying to cover his tracks.”
Alana sat taller in her seat. She broke off a chunk of muffin and popped it into her mouth, managing to chew and smile at the same time.
Of course she was smiling. She thought she had a big crime to report on. Nothing as exciting as what she used to write about in Bridgeport—Jeff had done a Web search last night at Aunt Marge’
s house and read some articles with Alana’s byline on them from the Bridgeport News’s on-line archives. One dealt with rising crime in a public housing project, another with the arrest of a pharmacist for forging painkiller prescriptions and selling them on the street. Those stories were a little juicier than missing school-budget money in Crescent Cove, where the word embezzler seemed grossly out of place.
Why had she left Bridgeport? It sure seemed like a step down, career-wise.
“Do you think Dorothy would talk to me?” Alana asked Farrar. Jeff wondered who Dorothy was.
Farrar shrugged. “She’ll be in her office today. She’s aware we need the audit done as quickly as possible, so she said she’d work through the weekend. Whether she minds being interrupted I can’t say.”
Dorothy must be the auditor. If Alana was going to talk to her, Jeff would, too. On the off chance that Uncle Bob was ultimately charged, Jeff as his lawyer would be privy to whatever evidence the police had against him—and whatever evidence they had would probably turn up in the audit.
The waitress arrived with a mug of steaming coffee for Jeff. He lifted it at the same moment Alana lifted hers and their elbows bumped. She had on a thick sweater, he hadn’t even removed his coat, yet a spark, hot and sharp, passed through all that insulation. Static electricity, probably. Cold, dry air and wool could cause that.
So could a woman like Alana Ross.
Stay focused, he ordered himself. He was in Crescent Cove for one reason only: to save his uncle’s ass. Alana was nothing more than a distraction.
Well, she was something more than that. She was the woman who’d written the damn article putting his uncle’s ass in jeopardy in the first place.
“I’ve got to run,” Jason said, swallowing the last of his omelette and then wiping his mouth with a napkin from the chrome dispenser beside the tabletop jukebox. “If you want to try Dorothy, you’ll probably find her at Town Hall most of the day. And if anything else breaks—” he nodded at Alana “—I’ll be in touch.” He turned to Jeff. “Give your aunt my regards, okay?”
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