“Like you said, they made their own choices. Besides, Tim is okay. And Skye is here and safe.”
He pressed his lips together. “We’ll see.”
He was right of course. They had no guarantee that Skye would stay clean. Abbie promised herself that she would do her best to keep her sister out of trouble.
He handed back the keys. “Call me when you get there so I know not to worry.”
She chuckled and kissed his cheek. “I will. And thank you.”
He stuffed his hands in his pockets and watched as she maneuvered the unfamiliar vehicle down the driveway and onto the road.
A short while later, Abbie turned off the main highway onto a narrow two-lane road that led to the old logging town. Leaves made brilliant green by patches of sun quivered in the wind. She swallowed back her fears as images of Saturday morning forced themselves into her mind.
She pushed the disturbing thoughts aside and instead tried to concentrate on how the area might look to a tourist coming to the artist colony and the monthly art fair. Not an easy task when Barbara had been killed and her body found not more than a mile away.
Don’t think about it. Yes, Barbara’s death is disturbing—tragic, but there’s nothing you can do about that. And her death had nothing to do with this town. Or did it? The town was a piece of real estate, and Barbara had been a Realtor. Jake had mentioned that she’d even had a client.
Earlier, on their walk, Jake had told her about a client of Barbara’s who was irate about the property being sold out from under him. He insisted that he’d made an offer on it before Pops had. Jake had paperwork to disprove him. What if this client had taken his revenge on Barbara?
She shook her head in an effort to dispel the idea and focused on the carved wooden sign she and Pops had seen the day before. She wondered if Travis had carved it and made a mental note to ask him. The sign, worn by wind, rain, and heat, needed a good cleaning. The vine maple and wild rhododendrons would have to be trimmed. Potholes fixed.
In another few minutes, she reached what looked like the main street and felt the same letdown she’d experienced before. The town, if you could call it that, looked more rustic and beaten down than the Victorian. Main Street was about a block long and had a library, a post office and small store, and a gas station. Across the street stood a small café and used book store. An OUT OF BUSINESS sign hung in the window, but books still sat on the wall of shelves, and several lay in a fan as a window display. The hours on the post-office/store told her it would only be open from noon to two, Monday through Friday. According to Jake, lack of funding had forced the community to close the school and bus their kids into Oceanside. Off the main road stood older homes in varying stages of disrepair. Abbie forced herself to look beyond the destruction and neglect and to see it all restored, filled with artists and students, and, eventually, tourists who came for shopping, retreats, and a good time.
Cold Creek Bed & Breakfast was located at the end of the street. Jake had been concerned that news of Barbara’s death would bring reporters and that they might take up all the rooms. The B&B offered the only overnight option. Fortunately, that was not the case. Dawn had thanked her for calling but told her things were as slow as usual. The lack of cars in the small gravel parking lot attested to the fact.
Just west of the B&B sat what looked to have once been a stunning Victorian. The house, with its gables and turrets and stained-glass windows, beckoned to Abbie, challenged her to come closer and explore the grandeur that had once been.
Farther up the road, Abbie spotted what could only be described as a mansion. It rested on a knoll, looking down on the town. From what Jake had told her, this incredible place had to be the Johansson estate. A black wrought-iron fence surrounded it. Abbie could hardly wait to get a closer look, but first, she wanted to get settled in her room.
As Abbie stepped out of the car, a woman with red hair and glasses hurried down the stairs. A wide smile rounded her face and brightened her brown eyes. She wore jeans and a red- and-white flannel plaid shirt and looked as though she’d been cleaning. “You must be Abbie.”
“I am. You’re Dawn?”
“What gave me away?” She chuckled. “Here, let me get that for you.” Dawn hefted the heavy suitcase out of the trunk as if it were a pillow. “Do you have more?”
Abbie nodded. “Just one. It’s in the backseat.”
Dawn insisted on carrying both bags. She deposited them in a room on the first floor at the end of a hallway. “What a beautiful room.” Abbie let her gaze wander over the Victorian furnishings and the decorative floral trim on the walls.
Dawn pushed aside the drapes, revealing a large picture window and a sliding patio door that led to an aggregate deck bordered with colorful geraniums. A white café table with two matching chairs sat in the center, and off to one side was a chaise lounge. The patio offered a stunning view of a lake. “This is really nice.”
“It’s one of my favorite rooms.” Dawn opened the patio door, letting in the scent of fresh mountain air mingled with that of a forest—moldy and woodsy.
“I wasn’t expecting a view.” Abbie peered outside. “Everything is so lush and green.”
Dawn laughed. “Thanks to the rain. We’ve had one storm after another for the past three weeks. Flooding in a lot of places. That lake you’re looking at is actually a wetlands area. It fills with water every winter.”
“Could have fooled me.” Abbie stepped back and set her purse on the bed.
“Hey, listen, I’ll leave you to unpack. When you’re done, come on into the kitchen and have a cup of coffee or tea. I made some cookies this morning.”
“Yum. Tea sounds perfect.”
Abbie stepped out onto the patio and inhaled several deep breaths of the fresh air. Sunlight glistened on the wet grass and leaves. The air was nippy, but wonderful. After putting her clothes away and placing her bags out of sight in the small closet, Abbie went in search of a phone so she could call her father, as promised, to let him know she’d arrived safely.
“You were right, Pops.” Abbie stood in the entryway. “The town has a lot of possibilities if you look beyond the damage.”
“Your mother and I knew you’d feel that way. Should I call Jake and have him bring papers for you to sign?”
Abbie laughed. “Not just yet. I’d like to look around a little more. Maybe get a feel for how much it’s going to cost to get it up and running.”
“Don’t worry too much about that. Jake and I figured we could renovate a little at a time. Besides, we have the money.”
“I know.” Abbie had money as well—from her trust account, and the settlement from the insurance company after Nate’s accident. She hadn’t touched a dime of it during the time she’d been in North Dakota. She’d been afraid that any activity in the account would alert the authorities. The thought brought her up short.
She still needed to talk with the attorney. Jake had suggested they reschedule the appointment for tomorrow.
Minutes later, Abbie was sitting on a stool at the counter admiring the remodeled kitchen and biting into a chewy chocolate chip cookie. The distinct aroma of Earl Grey tea drifted from the floral English teacup. Abbie sighed. “I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
“I got the recipe from my friend Jeanette. You’ll meet her soon.” Dawn picked up a cookie and examined it a moment before taking a bite.
They talked about the delicious scents coming out of Dawn’s kitchen and about how she and her husband had taken over the place four years ago, staying rent-free and managing it for Isabelle Johansson. “The place was a mess,” Dawn told her, “but Keith is a builder so we lucked out. We did most of the work ourselves.”
Abbie noticed the strands of ivy decorating the arched entry to the dining area. “Did you paint that ivy trim?”
“I did.” She flashed Abbie a knowing smile. “With the help of some stencils.”
“Well, stencil or not—it’s lovely.”
“Thank you.”
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“I was just telling my dad I wished I’d brought my paints.”
“What do you do? Watercolors, oils, acrylics?”
“All of the above. I majored in art, so I’ve done it all.”
“Which is probably why your parents want you to run the artist colony.”
“You know about that?” Abbie took a sip of tea.
“Everybody in town knows about it. Barbara had been gushing about how she actually met the Grants.”
Abbie bit her lip, a mixture of pride and embarrassment warming her cheeks. Being on the farm for so long, she’d forgotten what it felt like to be the daughter of famous parents.
Dawn didn’t seem to notice. Her gaze was focused on the clock. She took another tray of cookies out of the oven and after setting them aside to cool, washed her hands. “Hey, listen. I’d love to stay and chat, but I need to pick up Cassie—my daughter. She’s part home schooled and part private.”
Abbie brightened. “How old is she?”
“Ten.” Dawn beamed. “She’s the light of our lives. Make yourself at home. I should be back in about an hour.”
“No problem,” Abbie said as Dawn grabbed keys off a hook in what looked like a mudroom off the kitchen and opened the back door.
Abbie took advantage of the quiet and the sunshine and daylight to walk around town with a map Jake had given her so that she could determine which of the buildings were included in the Johansson property. She was excited to see that most of the buildings would be theirs as well as the dilapidated Victorian that had captured her attention earlier. Abbie walked to downtown Cold Creek. She had seen no one except Dawn since she’d arrived. The town looked abandoned except for a bike propped against the library.
The gas station and store had a closed sign in the window. The three-story building with a saloon sign hanging vertically on one corner was boarded up and looked as though it had been that way for a hundred years. Her artistic self could see the brick monstrosity restored into a restaurant and gift shop and hotel for visitors or apartment units for artists. The artists would include painters, sculptors, ceramicists, writers, quilters, and gourmet chefs. She’d bring in big names to teach classes at the retreat center. There would be a gift shop with numerous themes and art galleries where the artists could display and sell their wares, a bookstore featuring local authors, and a café with a bakery and a museum. Of course, they’d need a grocery store. Ideas flowed as the dream carried Abbie on its current.
All too quickly, her business side reminded her of the logistics of such a venture. “Do you have any idea how much money it would take to accomplish what you want to do?” She spoke aloud, frustrated with the direction her thoughts had taken.
She’d brought up the expense and the feasibility when she and her parents had talked the day she’d arrived. “We have the money, Abbie,” her father had said. “We can do this.”
Abbie lowered herself to a worn wooden bench in front of the old saloon. “Oh Pops, I wish I had as much faith in myself as you do.”
She pulled away from the negative thoughts. You can do this, Abbie Campbell.
A woman and a young girl stepping out of the library across the street caught her attention. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Kyrstin,” the woman said. “Remember to bring your math book.”
“I will.” Kyrstin, whom Abbie judged to be around twelve, glanced in Abbie’s direction, hesitated for several seconds, then jumped on her bike and pedaled away. She turned off the main road near the WELCOME TO COLD CREEK sign and disappeared into the woods.
“Hi.” The woman waved at Abbie. She looked to be in her twenties, attractive with dark brown hair held back with a barrette. “You look kind of lonely sitting out here all by yourself. I don’t mean to interrupt, but—”
“You’re not interrupting anything.” In fact, Abbie was glad for the distraction. She rose and walked across the street, smiled, and extended her hand. “Abbie Campbell.”
“Sam…Samantha Willis. I run the library here and”—she nodded toward the girl who’d bicycled out of sight—“I help the home-schooled kids when their parents need me to.”
“I heard about the school closing. Do you have a lot of students?”
“It varies. There are ten families who still refuse to bus their kids into Oceanside. All of them use the library on a regular basis.”
“I’m glad to see the library has remained open.”
“That’s only because my mother and I own and maintain it.” She smiled. “I’m the custodian, the librarian, the teacher. You name it, I do it.”
Abbie sensed a kinship of sorts with Samantha. “Have you lived in Cold Creek long?”
“My mother grew up here.” She opened the heavy wooden door and ushered Abbie inside. The place reminded her of a used bookstore she’d frequented in Grand Forks. There were two floors and a grand staircase in what looked like oak. The hardwood floors showed their age but had been well maintained.
Near the entrance stood an ornately carved desk. A large study table occupied a back corner, the stack of papers on top testifying to recent use. Unlike more modern libraries, this one boasted all wooden shelves. Abbie took in the familiar scent of books and wood as Sam continued. “She and my dad moved to California before I was born. But I spent a lot of summers here and moved back two years ago…bad marriage and all that. Now I live with my grandmother, Isabelle Johansson.”
“Jake told me about your grandmother.”
“At one time Grandma owned the entire town and a thousand acres around it.”
Abbie lowered herself into one of the stuffed chairs in the center of the enormous room as Samantha took the other one and continued her narrative. “As you may have noticed, things are kind of dead around here. Money is in short supply, and Grandma has had to sell off land. I’m not sure selling such a large chunk was necessary, but Uncle Steven, Grandma’s son, is handling all her finances. Grandma has agreed to everything. I think she’ll be fine as long as he doesn’t try to sell her house. It’s the big monstrosity on the hill.”
Abbie nodded. “Looks like a grand place.”
“It is, but it takes a lot of money to maintain. Steven is trying to talk her into moving to a retirement home in Oceanside.” Sam grinned. “But Gran is holding firm. She loves that old house and the gardens. I think taking care of it keeps her young.”
“I’d like to meet her.”
“She’d like to meet you too. She didn’t want to sell—not at first. She was afraid some developer would scoop it up and raze the town. But when your parents came around to look at it and told her about the plans for the artist colony, she changed her mind.” Sam stood. “Say, I’m getting ready to close up for the day. Would you like to head up to the house with me?”
“Sure.” Abbie could think of nothing she’d rather do. Sam and Isabelle were the perfect pair to fill her in on Cold Creek and Bear Lake.
Abbie waited for Samantha to lock up and the two of them went back the way Abbie had come, past the B&B, past the Victorian that Abbie had already claimed for herself and Emma—and hopefully Skye.
“What can you tell me about this place?” Abbie stopped in front of the old Victorian.
“It’s been vacant for as long as I can remember. It used to belong to a doctor. Steven had some remodeling done on it about ten years ago—turned it into a duplex. We’ve never been able to rent it out. It has a reputation for being haunted.”
“Really. Good thing I don’t believe in ghosts.”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure I do either, but how else do you explain the fact that everyone who’s been interested in renting it backs out?”
As Abbie glanced up at the house, a curtain in the third-story window moved. At least she thought it did. She chastised herself for being so vulnerable to suggestion. Still, she shivered as the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.
“Are you okay?” Sam followed her gaze.
“Fine.” Imagination, she told herself again. Still, she stepped
up her pace.
CHAPTER 17
By the time they had walked the hill and climbed the steps leading to the house, Abbie had to struggle to catch her breath. She’d worked hard on the farm but wasn’t used to climbing anything except stairs to the bedroom and basement three or four times a day. In Grand Forks, however, everything had been level.
Samantha led her through an ornate iron gate and around the side of the house. “We never use the front entrances,” she explained. “Gran says there’s no point tracking dirt into a living room we never use.”
They found Isabelle in the garden pulling out withered tomato vines. The knees of her jeans were soaked and caked with mud. A streak of dirt ran the length of one weathered cheek. Isabelle was a tall, thin woman with a ready smile. She wore her salt-and-pepper hair in a serviceable cut. Sam introduced Abbie and after chatting about the gardens, the three women went into the house. Isabelle excused herself. “Samantha, would you put water on for tea while I shower and change?”
“Be happy to.” Sam filled a kettle. Turning to Abbie she asked, “Would you rather have coffee? I can make you a pot.”
“Tea’s fine.”
“Gran and I have a cup whenever I get home.” She set out porcelain cups and saucers. A lazy Susan in the center of the table held sugar and small packets of creamers. The large kitchen had apparently been upgraded recently to the more modern linoleum floors, Formica countertops, and oak cupboards. “Who did the kitchen?” Abbie asked. The job looked professional, and if everything went as planned, she’d need a contractor soon.
“Keith Morgan and Travis Jennings.”
“Keith—as in Dawn’s husband?”
“The same.” Sam opened a cookie jar and took down a plate. “He did such a good job on the B&B that Gran hired him to do her kitchen. He and Travis do a lot of jobs in Oceanside for Brent O’Brien.”
While Sam busied herself in the kitchen, Abbie took a seat at the table in the bay window and admired the view. From this hillside home, she could see most of Cold Creek. Between the B&B and the possibly haunted Victorian was a path that led into the woods, probably to Bear Lake. On the other side of the lake was Travis’s mobile home. “Nice view,” Abbie said. “I love that you can see so much of the lake from here. I was over there on Saturday.”
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