Perfectly Matched

by Heather Webber

  I physically ached for that boy, but I was beyond grateful for the man he’d become.

  I followed him into the building, breathing deeply of the cool library air. It was a special scent, musty and full of possibilities. I glanced around, noted the small nooks where a child could curl up and escape in the pages of a good book.

  What a haven this must have been for Sean.

  I blinked away sappy tears and watched him approach the information desk. He chatted with the librarian for a few moments, popping his dimples left and right, and finally turned back to me.

  “Mrs. Atterly retired ten years ago, and now lives in an assisted living home down the street. Are you up for another stop?”

  Catch me if you can.

  “Lead the way.”

  Ten minutes later, we were standing in the lobby of Stonelick Retirement Village, waiting for Mrs. Atterly. The doorman had called her for us, and she’d said she would be right down.

  Sean was unusually nervous, fidgeting and working his jaw side to side. I put my hand on his forearm and let my fingers slide down to his wrist. My whole hand tingled with electricity as I drew closer to his palm. I lingered near the base of his hand, teasing him by pulsating my fingers against his skin.

  He snapped his head to look at me.

  I smiled and said, “Just reminding you that you’re not alone.”

  His jaw stilled. He calmed. His eyes brightened. “It worked.”

  Elevator doors opened and a tiny older woman stepped out, using a cane as she came toward us. Her back was stooped, but her eyes were alight with curiosity. Dressed in a trendy cream pantsuit and black pumps with thick heels, she didn’t hesitate to come up to us.

  Thrusting her hand out at me, she said, “Elizabeth Atterly.” She tipped her head. “Do I know you?”

  I shook her hand and was grateful she wasn’t thinking of something she’d lost, and said, “I’m Lucy Valentine.”

  Sean held out his hand, and she took hold of it. “I’m Sean Donahue. I knew you a long time ago.”

  She squinted at him. “You came into the library when you were younger.” In an aside to me, she said, “Those eyes are unforgettable.”

  I agreed.

  “I called you ‘Dimples.’”

  Sean smiled.

  “Ah, there they are. Come, sit down.” She bustled toward a small lounge area with several couch groupings.

  Sean helped me settle in and put my crutches on the floor.

  Mrs. Atterly gazed at him. “I’ve often wondered what became of you.” To me, she said, “He’d spend hours reading. Anything he could get his hands on.”

  “He still does that,” I said.

  She smiled. “I’m happy to hear that.”

  Sean looked gobsmacked, as if the ghost of Christmas past had just plopped down in front of him. My guess was that he had good reason for not going to see Mrs. Atterly during all these years. After all, he knew where to find her.

  But locating her meant dealing with a past he’d rather forget.

  I said, “Sean and I are private investigators looking into a case, and a lead happens to intersect with Sean’s past.”

  She oohed. “A P.I. He always did like the old Hardy Boys books. Did you?”

  I found it odd that she kept addressing me, rather than him, but then I realized she was trying to make him comfortable. She sensed his unease.

  “I did, though I much preferred books like Watership Down.”

  Her hand fluttered over her heart. “Pipkin.”

  I nodded. “It doesn’t get much better.”

  “Now what’s this about a case?” she asked, finally looking at Sean.

  He took a deep breath. “Do you remember a boy called Johnny Largo? Big kid, really rough around the edges?”

  “Hard to forget, that one.” She shook her head and said to me, “You simply know some children aren’t destined to make it, no matter how hard you try.”

  Next to me, Sean stiffened. “Did something happen to him?”

  Thin blue veins crisscrossed the top of her hand as she squeezed the handle of her cane. “He died in a street fight, probably fifteen years ago now.”

  Well, there went that lead.

  “I see,” Sean mumbled.

  Softly, she said, “You were a lucky one, Dimples.”

  He met her gaze straight on. “I know.”

  We chatted with her for a few more minutes, catching her up on Sean’s story before standing to leave.

  I said, “Thank you so much. You’ve been a big help.”

  Sean’s hand rested on the small of my back. “Yes, thank you.”

  “Take care,” she said. “And come back to visit any time.”

  We’d taken a couple of steps toward the door when Sean suddenly turned around. “Mrs. Atterly?”

  She hadn’t budged from her spot—she’d been watching us go.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you mind if I give you a hug?”

  A smiled bloomed across her face, and she opened her arms wide. “I’ve been waiting sixteen years.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Even though the lead to Johnny Largo didn’t pan out, Sean had a calm demeanor about him. I think seeing Mrs. Atterly finally laid a few of his ghosts to rest. He’d promised to come back and visit with her again soon.

  We were on our way to meet with Curt Meister, Sean’s fire buddy. He’d called, wanting to ask us a few questions.

  My cell phone rang, and I fished in my handbag for it. The purse was practically empty since I hadn’t yet replaced my wallet—or anything that had been in it.

  A zing of anxiety swept through me as I imagined the flames melting my credit cards, my photos, and my driver’s license.

  The call was from Preston. “He asked me out,” she said.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Graham Hartman. Well, first he accidentally tried to cop a feel, then he asked me out.”

  “Accidentally?”

  “He claims he tripped and reached out to grab on to me to keep from falling. Thankfully, I was on to him, and sidestepped.”

  I smiled. “You let him fall?”

  “Hell, yes.”

  I laughed. She sounded like her old self. Maybe her passing out yesterday had been a fluke, and Dovie had been wrong about a broken heart. “Serves him right.”

  “Anyway, I couldn’t take it another minute. While he was in Starbucks, I excused myself to go to the ladies room and booked it out of there. I can’t take a full day with him. In fact, I’m done with all of them. I cancelled on Annie for tomorrow. I’m going to have to use information I’ve already gathered for the article. My editor is just going to have to understand.”

  “Did you at least get some good tidbits before you bolted?”

  “Definitely. The man enjoys talking about himself.”

  I knew that firsthand.

  “I have lots to follow up on. Casework he’s done with the police, client info who’ve agreed to talk with me for the article...”

  “Did he mention anything about the missing little girl specifically?”

  I suddenly realized that Preston didn’t know I’d seen the little girl’s name—or about her abductor and his car. We had a lot to catch up on.

  “Actually, yes. It might be a big breakthrough,” she said somberly. “He’s called Orlinda, but she hasn’t returned his call yet.”

  There was a lot of that going around. I’d tried several more times this morning to reach her. I had a million questions about the vision I had in my sleep.

  “What did he see?” My pulse kicked up a notch. There was sadness in Preston’s voice that warned me I wasn’t going to like the answer.

  Softly, she said, “He saw a shallow grave in the woods. He’s pretty sure he can pinpoint the location.”

  My breath caught in my throat. “Did he say where?”

  “Maine.”

  I bit my lip as tears sprung to my eyes. Sean kept casting looks at me, but if I turned to him now, I was
going to lose it. “Is he sure the vision is related to the little girl?”

  “He’s positive.”

  My heart broke. Right then and there, it split in half and cracked open. All my hopes and dreams that Bethany was alive spilled out and evaporated.

  “Lucy?” Preston said, gently probing.

  “I’ll be okay. I just need some time to digest the information.”

  “I wanted to tell you in person,” she said, “but when I went to the office, the building was locked up tight and my key didn’t work. What’s going on?”

  I swallowed over the enormous lump in my throat. “Dovie didn’t tell you?”

  “Tell me what? She was already at her Zumba class this morning when I woke up. What’s wrong?”

  “It’s a long story.” I glanced at the dashboard clock. “Can you meet me at my cottage in a couple of hours? I’ll tell you all about it.”

  We set a time, and I hung up. Dropping my phone into my bag, I sighed.

  “Bethany?” Sean said.

  “Graham saw a vision of a shallow grave in Maine.”

  “Could he be wrong?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But he was right about my wallet.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too.” Rain fell gently against the windshield, mimicking tears as the droplets slid down the glass. “I keep waiting for these cases, the ones without happy endings, to get easier to deal with. To be able to process the information and move on. But it just doesn’t happen. Every time a person, especially a child, turns up dead, a bit of my heart dies, too.”

  I’d consulted on dozens of missing persons cases with the police, and most did not have happy endings. They were getting harder and harder to deal with. I’d spoken to Orlinda, who was a psychologist by trade, about it and the advice she had given me was to allow myself to grieve. And then move on to the next case.

  Because the families needed me.

  The missing needed to be found.

  And I was one of the very few who could get the job done.

  I had to suck it up and deal with reality.

  Even if reality sucked. Big time.

  I swiped a tear from my eye and took a deep breath. “Sometimes life is so unfair.”

  “I know.”

  Wipers rhythmically slashed at the window. Of course Sean knew how unfair life was. He, better than most, probably knew exactly how frustrated I was.

  My phone rang again, and I pulled it out of my bag. It was Suz.

  “Lucy Valentine, that Annie girl is one cuckoo kook. She crashed the voicemail system last night.”

  “I thought I told you to turn it off.”

  “I never do what I’m told.”

  I swiped another tear and smiled.

  “Anyway, she left over a hundred messages. All begging for you to get in touch with her. I’m not sure whether you should call her back or get the police involved.”

  I supposed I’d let Annie suffer enough. “I’ll take care of Annie.”

  “Thank goodness. But you’d think if she was a real psychic, she’d know how to reach you. I’m leaving the voicemail off for the rest of the weekend.”

  “Gee, what a good idea. Wish I’d thought of that.”

  “Smart ass. Any news on the arsonist? I saw there was another fire last night.”

  I filled her in about Sam’s house, but left out the part about my driver’s license. No need to freak her out.

  She said, “This is scarier than I thought.”

  Much, much scarier.

  “I’ll let you know about any new developments,” I said.

  “Okay, then I’ll see you on Monday, unless you decide to keep the office closed next week, too.”

  “My father would have a stroke.”

  “It’s better than being burned to a crisp.”

  She had a point.

  “Be careful, Lucy,” she said as she hung up.

  Sean said, “You mentioned Annie. From your group?”

  “She called yesterday.” I told him about her writings and how she’d called me a witch. “Honestly, I don’t really want to talk to her ever again, but if she’s so desperate to get in touch it makes me wonder why. It has to be important, right?”

  “Maybe so, but the witch thing...”

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe make her suffer a little longer.”

  I smiled at him. “When did you get so vindictive?”

  “Don’t mess with the people I love.”

  The phrase reminded me of yesterday morning, when he realized Sam was in danger. Whoever it was lighting these fires didn’t know how far Sean would go to track him down. Even if the leads were pitiful, Sean would never give up.

  Traffic on the highway had slowed to a crawl. I saw flashing lights ahead that hinted there’d been an accident. Sean’s fingers drummed on the steering wheel, and the calm that had washed over him after meeting with Mrs. Atterly was long gone.

  Sean explained that we were meeting Curt Meister at a small coffee shop south of the city—and not at the firehouse—because Curt was taking a risk in talking to us.

  It felt a little hinky to me, but it made me wonder what he wanted to ask us.

  As we slowed to a stop, Sean looked over at me.

  “What?” I asked at the question in his eyes.

  His fingers stilled on the steering wheel. “How did you see that fire last night? You don’t have those kinds of dreams.”

  By just thinking about it, the scent of gasoline filled my nostrils. “I can’t explain it. Maybe Orlinda’s teachings are finally breaking through. Maybe this work on Bethany’s case has opened up my psychic channels.” I said that last part using finger quotes. Orlinda was always harping on about psychic channels, and I’d never paid much mind. It sounded so...phony.

  Yet, clearly, it wasn’t.

  “The dream was so real. It was as if I was there, that I was the one dousing the place in gasoline. The one who lit the match. I saw everything through the arsonist’s eyes.”

  “Did you feel what he was feeling, too?”

  “No.” Thank God. “My emotions were still in place. The horror at what I was seeing, the panic...”

  “The readings you had on Bethany, were they the same? Seeing things through her eyes?”

  “I was definitely seeing things through her point of view.”

  “Yet, with Bethany, you saw the past. And with the arsonist you saw the present.”

  Would I eventually be able to see the future? “I don’t know how it works. It just happens, and I can’t seem to control when it does.”

  Traffic inched along. “You’ll figure it out, Lucy. Patience.”

  I playfully punched his arm. “When have you ever known me to be patient?”

  His dimples popped. “You were really patient last night on the living room floor.”

  Heat climbed my neck. “That wasn’t patience. It was savoring. There’s difference.”

  “We’ll have to put that to the test.”

  Whoa! It was getting hot in here. I needed to put this subject back on track. “It’ll be nice when Orlinda finally calls me back. I have so many questions...”

  And not nearly enough answers.

  Chapter Twenty

  Curt Meister looked nervous.

  Fidgeting. Looking over his shoulder. Tapping his fingers on the tabletop.

  His anxiety was contagious, as I was starting to feel extremely agitated.

  Curt’s blue eyes darted between us. “All hell’s about to break loose in the department over that missing matchstick,” he said.

  Sean said, “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I never thought in a million years the cat would eat it.” He pushed his coffee mug between his hands. “I can take the blame. Say I stole when I was at the station yesterday.”

  “I appreciate that,” Curt said, “but I’d rather not visit you in prison. Listen, evidence is lost all the time.”

  That statement didn’t exactly reassure me.

  “Th
ings are misplaced. Items are not labeled correctly. It happens. Unfortunate, but true. There are plenty of other matchsticks to build a solid case.”

  “But?” Sean said.

  “There are whispers,” Curt said, glancing over his shoulder. He looked back at us and ran a hand over his thick dark hair.

  Sean stiffened next to me.

  “What kind of whispers?” I asked. Condensation slid down the sides of my plastic cup. The mocha-colored iced coffee inside no longer held any appeal.

  “I don’t know how to say this,” he said.

  Sean gripped his mug. “Just spit it out.”

  Curt said, “You’re under suspicion, Sean.”

  “What?” I cried. “That’s crazy.”

  “It’s not,” Sean said.

  I glanced at him. “Did you forget that I was lying in bed next to you last night when Sam’s house went up in flames?”

  Sean gave me a half-hearted smile. “There’s no forgetting that. But that’s not what I meant. It makes sense that I’m under suspicion. It’s not unheard of for firefighters to turn into firebugs.”

  “Especially,” Curt said, “when it’s a firefighter who didn’t willingly leave his job. One who has a girlfriend who mysteriously predicts when the fires are going to be set. I don’t suppose you saw a face in your vision, Lucy? A reflection from a mirror or a window? Some sort of description to give the investigators.”

  I thought back to the vision, really concentrated on looking for anything that would reveal the arsonist’s identity. “No.”

  “You said you saw his hands? Were his nails clean cut? Jagged? Did he wear a wedding band?”

  “He wore blue latex gloves.” Disappointment washed over me. “I can’t even say for sure if he’s black or white.”

  Curt stared at his own hands, twisted his wedding band back and forth. “That’s too bad.”

  Anger bubbled up in me. This was ridiculous. “And what would Sean’s motive be to target his own brother?”

  “It might not even be about Sam per se.” Curt glanced toward the front door, then at me. “Motive for fires is usually either revenge, or about being a hero.”

  “A hero?” I said. “How?”

  “By solving the crimes,” he said. “Or by putting out the fires himself. Saving the day.”