by Stacy Finz
“Can I help you?” A woman with salt-and-pepper hair, wearing a Nugget Market apron, gave Emily the stink eye. She’d probably seen her scrutinizing the food without a shopping cart or basket and thought she was casing the joint.
“I’m new to the area and was just checking out the store.”
“Oh,” the woman said, still looking at her with suspicion. “I’m Ethel. My husband and I own the Nugget Market. You live here in town?”
“Actually, I’m living on the McCreedy Ranch.” In a barn.
Ethel seemed to relax. “You’re that girl up from the city, the famous cookbook author.”
“Editor. I’m an editor,” she said, flustered. “And I’m not famous.” At least not for cookbooks. “I’m Emily, by the way.”
“Welcome to Nugget, Emily. Clay told us you were coming and that you helped write his friend’s cookbook. Are you planning to write one about McCreedy Ranch? Their beef is famous, you know.”
“No,” she said, realizing that it was only natural for people to wonder why someone, especially a single woman, working in the food-publishing industry, would come to live in such a remote place. “I’ve got some other obligations right now, but you never know. You have a great store.”
“Thank you. We try, but it’s a small town. You’re probably used to Whole Foods and those beautiful gourmet shops in the Bay Area. But if there is something special you need, we can always order it. And every Thursday there’s a farmers’ market in the square—the community center, when the weather’s bad. Lots of produce, homemade jams, cheese. We have some very nice artisan food makers here.”
“That’s good to know,” Emily said. “I test a lot of recipes and I do really like to buy local.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place. We also have a cooking club, the Baker’s Dozen, if you’re interested. Now mind you, we’re all amateurs, but we do like to get together and trade recipes, gossip, that sort of thing.”
For so long Emily had lived like a hermit, too consumed with grief to be social. She did miss the camaraderie of other cooks, though. “When do you meet?” she asked just to be polite. She didn’t want to commit to anything.
“The second Saturday of every month at the Lumber Baron Inn,” Ethel said.
That piqued her interest. “The big Victorian on the square?” Emily would love to get a look inside.
“That’s the one.” Ethel smiled with pride. “Maddy Breyer . . . actually, she’s Shepard now . . . owns it with her brother, Nate. It has a state-of-the-art commercial kitchen that she lets us use. We usually gather there at about noon.”
“Things are a little hectic right now with the move and all,” Emily said, and Ethel nodded in understanding. “Maybe once I get settled. I was thinking of wandering the square for a while; maybe grab breakfast at that Ponderosa place. But I need groceries, so I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
“Oh, you go on,” Ethel told her. “We’re open until eight p.m., so you’ve got plenty of time. Now be sure to check out the Bun Boy too. That’s Donna Thurston’s place. Besides having the best burgers in the Sierra, she’s one of the Baker’s Dozen.”
“The Bun Boy?” Emily tried in vain to stifle a giggle. “Never mind the burgers, I love the name. I’ll absolutely try it.”
But before she went on any culinary explorations, Emily had one important stop to make. It had been Detective Wynewski’s idea. The Palo Alto investigator had suggested she introduce herself to the local police chief and give him Wynewski’s card—just in case there were questions.
Since the day Hope went missing, Emily had lived her life in a fishbowl. Reporters regularly showed up at her door whenever police thought they might have a break in the case. Or when another unfortunate child went missing or was found dead. It was always a circus. Television trucks parked on the sidewalks. Reporters doing their live shots in her front yard.
“Ms. Mathews, what advice would you give the parents of the victim?”
“Should they take a polygraph, given how it turned out for you?”
“Do you think this could somehow be related to Hope’s case?”
As much as she hated it, they were lucky to get continued attention. Few child-abduction cases ever got as much publicity as Hope’s. The FBI speculated that it was because Palo Alto was the last place anyone expected such a terrible crime to occur. After all, wealthy tech moguls like Mark Zuckerberg and the late Steve Jobs lived there.
The press had played up the area’s affluent residents, portraying Drew as a powerful Silicon Valley attorney. Initially, the media had spurred speculation that Hope’s abductor had kidnapped her for ransom. And the crap reporters had dug up on Emily could’ve fueled a whole season’s worth of plotlines for Desperate Housewives.
Despite the pain and humiliation, she’d wanted Hope’s face out there. All it took was one person to see the news and come forward with information. Maybe here in Nugget the media wouldn’t find Emily. Or maybe they’d discover someone else to harass. But the police at least deserved a heads-up.
They’d also need to know the background just in case Emily’s prayers were answered and someone found her little girl.
Chapter 3
“Hey, get up. This ain’t no country club.” Clay smacked Cody over the head with a pillow.
“Knock it off, Dad,” Cody said in a groggy voice as he burrowed deeper under the covers. “What time is it?”
“Late.”
Cody sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Did we miss camp?”
“Yep.”
“How come? You never let us miss stuff.”
Clay shrugged. “It’s Friday. I thought we’d go to Reno, hit a couple casinos.”
“Really?”
Clay’s lips curved up. “No.”
“What about the waterslides?”
“Definitely a possibility.”
“Woo-hoo!” Cody cheered, jumping up and down on the bed. “What about Justin?”
“Him too. Go wake him up.”
Cody flopped down. “No way. He’s mean in the morning.”
Lately, his eldest was mean all the time. “I’ll wake him. You get in the shower.”
Clay tapped on Justin’s door and waited a few seconds before entering. The room smelled bad, like sweaty socks and Doritos. Laundry littered the floor and dirty dishes covered the surface of Justin’s desk. He opened the window, letting in a warm breeze, hoping to air out the place.
“Time to get up, Justin.”
When he got no reaction, Clay yanked at his son’s blanket.
“Go away,” Justin groaned and pulled the pillow over his head.
“Up.” Clay grabbed the pillow.
“What’s your problem, man?”
“I’m giving you a furlough from camp today. Cody wants to go to the waterslides in Reno. Wanna go?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Nope.” Clay tried to sit on the edge of Justin’s bed, but with the kid stretched out there wasn’t much room. When had his boy gotten so big? He’d been away for so much of his sons’ lives that he still thought of them as babies. “I think it’s time we bought you something larger than a twin, huh?”
Justin rolled to his side. “I don’t want to go to the stupid waterslides.”
“Come on, it’ll be fun. Afterward, we’ll catch a movie. Just the three of us.”
“What about the cows? Who’ll fuck ’em while you’re gone?”
Clay pulled Justin up so fast by his pajama top he heard it tear. When their faces were just inches apart he said, “I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that, because I don’t want to ruin Cody’s day. But, Justin, don’t you ever talk to me like that again. We clear?”
“Yes, sir.” And for all his bravado, the boy had true fear in his eyes.
“Now get showered and dressed. Be down in twenty. And when we get home, I want this room cleaned. It’s a damn pig sty.”
Clay went down the staircase to the foyer and looked up at a life-size portrait of Clayton “T
ip” McCreedy II. “Dad,” he said, “I’m sorry for all the shit I must’ve put you through when I was Justin’s age. I love you, but why the hell did you have to die? I could use a little help here.”
Single fatherhood seemed to be a McCreedy curse. The old man had raised him from a baby after his mother had passed. Tip had been a devoted father, but tough as nails. If Clay had ever spoken to his dad the way Justin had to him, Tip would’ve knocked him into the next hemisphere.
Less than two years earlier, Tip, who’d never had so much as a case of the sniffles, dropped dead in the hay barn from a massive heart attack. Clay had been in the Middle East at the time and the navy had given him leave to come home. Not long after, he hung up his pilot wings and retired with the rank of lieutenant commander, so he could take over the ranch. Then six months later, Jen wrapped her Lexus around a tree.
“Ready, Dad.” Cody came bounding down the stairs in a pair of swim trunks and a T-shirt.
“You pack something to change into after the waterslides?”
“Uh . . . no. Should I?”
“Unless you want to sit in an air-conditioned movie theater, wet.”
“Okay.” He ran back up the stairs. “Down in a sec.”
Clay went to turn off the coffeemaker. Justin wandered into the kitchen a few minutes later, wearing jeans and a black Deadmau5 hoody. Hey, if the kid wanted to boil, that was his problem.
Cody raced past them, out the back door, letting the screen door slam. “I call shotgun,” he yelled.
Justin shoulder-checked him before Cody climbed into the front seat of Clay’s king-cab. It was going to be a long-ass day.
“Can we get breakfast?” Cody asked.
“Breakfast? It’s after lunch, kid.”
Justin stretched out in the backseat with his iPod, the bass rumbling loudly through his headphones. “Turn that down and buckle up,” Clay told him. Justin pretended not to hear, but clicked in his seat belt just the same.
“I’m starved, Dad.”
“Okay, Cody. We’ll get something in Reno.”
“Thai food?”
Clay started the engine, flipped down his sun visor, and slid on a pair of aviators. “Yeah, I could go for some Thai.”
Halfway down the driveway, Justin muttered, “I hate Thai food.” Apparently the loud music hadn’t killed his hearing yet.
Before Clay could respond, Emily’s minivan pulled up alongside them and he rolled down his window. “How was town?”
“Nice.” She smiled, but it never quite reached her eyes.
Clay didn’t think she was snobby, just standoffish. And he got the distinct impression that she was sad. At least she had a beautiful set of teeth—even and very white.
“No traffic jams,” she said.
“Nope, you won’t find many traffic jams here. You check out the Ponderosa?”
“I did. It was great, and so was your beef.” She looked inside the truck and halfheartedly waved to the boys. Cody waved back.
“We’re headed to Reno. You need anything?”
“I’m good,” she said. “You guys have a nice day.”
He turned onto Highway 70 and about twenty minutes later crossed the Nevada state line. In just that short distance the terrain changed from forest to high desert. That’s why Clay loved the Sierra; he never got bored looking at the mountain range’s thirty-nine thousand square miles of rivers and lakes, meadows and mountains, sequoias and chaparral.
“I have to be home by six,” Justin said, interrupting the brief, yet blessed, silence.
“Why?” Clay looked in his rearview mirror to find that his son had taken off his headphones and was pressing against the back of Cody’s seat. “Appointment with your broker?”
“I’m meeting Sean.”
Ah, Sean. Clay believed in giving everyone the benefit of the doubt—innocent until proven guilty. Growing up, his own best friend had been the town outcast. Now he was Nugget’s beloved police chief. But Clay was pretty sure that Sean Rigsby was the spawn of Satan. “To do what?” Rob a few banks?
“Hang out at the Hot Spot.” That’s what they called the beach near the barn. Justin put his headphones back on and slumped down on the seat.
“Hey, Justin?”
No response.
“Justin, Dad’s talking to you!” Cody shouted.
“What?” Justin yelled back.
“Give me the headphones.” Clay reached behind the seat, tapping Justin’s leg until he dropped the damn things in his hand. Then Clay shoved the headphones in the glove box. The kid was busting on his last nerve. “You’re not going anywhere until you clean your room. And I don’t want you hanging out at the river after dark, making a lot of noise, bothering Ms. Mathews.”
Justin curled his lip in anger. “Why’d you let her live there, anyway?”
“Because it was sitting there empty and she needed a place to stay.”
“Yeah, right.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Clay asked, looking into his rearview.
“It was Mom’s. You had no right,” Justin spat, before his voice cracked and he quickly swiped at his cheeks.
Ah, shit! Clay took the next exit, pulled into the first parking lot he could find, and hopped out of the truck. When he went to open Justin’s door, his son actually flinched, like he thought Clay would hit him. He pulled Justin out of his seat, into a bear hug and held him.
“Come here, Cody.” He pulled his youngest into the circle and they just stood there, hanging on to each other for life support. “I should’ve talked to you guys first.”
“I’m not mad at you, Dad.” Good old Cody.
“Hey, Justin?” Justin wouldn’t look at him, maybe because he didn’t want Clay to see him crying. “I screwed up, buddy. I was just trying to help Ms. Mathews. She’s having some personal problems and—”
“You don’t even know her.” Justin pulled away and continued to wipe his eyes.
“No, I don’t. But Joe . . . you remember Joe? . . . The guy who gave us Blue when he was just a puppy . . . He was worried about Ms. Mathews and asked for our help.”
“Why couldn’t she just live with him?”
“He didn’t have an extra place for her like we do. And one of the things McCreedys do is help people.”
“Because we’re rich?” Cody asked.
“Well, we’re not the Rockefellers, but yeah, we do okay.”
“So this is like charity?” he wanted to know.
“No. Ms. Mathews is paying rent. But she needed an affordable, safe place to live. And they’re not always easy to come by. Still, I should’ve talked to you guys first.”
“What do you care about us?” Justin challenged. “We didn’t want to move here in the first place. You made us. If we’d never left San Diego, Mom wouldn’t have gotten into the wreck. It’s your fault she’s dead.”
No, it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t even Cutty Sark’s fault. Jen lived recklessly. Always had. The first time he’d met her was at a bar near the United States Naval Academy in Annapolis. They’d had one drink and maybe two sentences of conversation before she’d yanked him into the head, locked the door, unbuckled his belt, and screwed him sideways. Initially, he’d found her wild antics to be almost as much of a rush as flying an F-18 Hornet. She’d been sexy as hell and full of life. But her constant need to be the center of attention wreaked havoc on their marriage.
“Justin, I love you and Cody more than anything in the world. Someday, when you stop being mad at me, you’ll figure it out.” He reached out to touch his son, but Justin pulled away, leaving Clay at a loss.
Hell, it seemed like he was always at a loss when it came to his boys. And why wouldn’t he be? He hardly knew them. Most of their lives he’d been away at war—first Afghanistan, then Iraq. When he’d come home to stay, Clay thought they’d finally be a family. But Jen hadn’t liked Nugget, hadn’t liked being a rancher’s wife, and especially hadn’t liked the constrictions of having her husband in her bed every ni
ght.
“Ms. Mathews is very complimentary of how nice your mom fixed up that old barn,” Clay continued. “She’ll take good care of the place, and honestly, I wouldn’t feel right about kicking her out.”
“I’m okay with it, Dad,” Cody said.
“How ’bout you, Justin? Can you live with it? Your mom would be real proud.”
“Whatever.” Justin rolled his eyes, got back in the truck, and sulked the rest of the day.
Chapter 4
The Le Petit Déjeuner contract came a few days later and the money was even more than Emily had hoped for. It wouldn’t make her rich, but with a couple more gigs like this she could start supporting herself.
Ever since Laurent had emailed her, Emily had been playing around with recipe ideas. He wanted to stick to the most popular items on the restaurant’s menu and throw in a number of coffee-drink pairings to pay homage to Starbucks. But his recipes were of industrial-size proportions prepared in professional commissary-style kitchens. It would be up to Emily to reinvent them for the home cook.
She had always reveled in the satisfaction that came from developing a mouthwatering dish—one that could be passed down from generation to generation, made on special occasions as the ultimate gesture of love. She reveled in how the simple smell of something cooking could make a house feel like home. And how good food could comfort the soul.
But after Hope, she’d lost her love for cooking. The sweet scent of a working kitchen had turned acrid. And the meals Emily prepared, bitter. But, for the sake of survival, she had no choice. Cooking was the only skill she had to make money.
As she jotted down an ingredient list, voices caught her attention. Emily gazed out the kitchen window to see where they were coming from. Clay’s oldest son stood on the beach with a girl, puffing on a cigarette. He was trying to blow smoke rings, but was doing it badly. The girl seemed impressed though, smiling up at him like he was one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. Justin returned the favor by staring down her bikini top.