by Bobbi Holmes
“He certainly didn’t seem overly concerned about Chris being competition,” Walt smirked.
Chris shrugged. “He figured I was just a beach bum.”
“Well, you are.” Walt took a puff off his cigar.
Chris shrugged again and then took a sip of the wine. He looked over at Danielle. “Are you sure this is the same brand Adam bought me? The one that’s over three hundred bucks a bottle?”
“I’m positive.”
Chris frowned and looked at the wine. After a moment, he set it down on the coffee table and pulled out his cellphone.
“Who are you calling?” Danielle asked.
“Adam.”
For the next few minutes, Walt and Danielle silently listened to Chris’s side of the conversation. When he was off the phone, he turned to Danielle. “Adam owes you an apology, which will be delivered tonight in the form of filet mignon, which I’ve offered to barbeque.”
Danielle frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Danielle, you know I adore you.” Chris glanced over at Walt and back to Danielle. “And you know Walt adores you. But I think Baron Huxley is just after your money.”
Walt paused mid-puff and looked at Chris. “Her money?”
“What are you talking about? I got the impression he has his own money. Heck, he wanted to fly me to San Francisco for dinner.”
“After you left Adam’s office, your Mr. Huxley started asking Adam about you—and Adam being Adam, they talked about your two inheritances and the gold coins. In Adam’s defense, he figured everything he was saying was public knowledge.”
“So why jump to the conclusion he’s after my money? Not that I’m remotely interested in the guy, but still…”
“The reason Huxley was in Adam’s office is he’s listing his beach house. He wants to dump it, and fast. He’s so anxious to sell that he’s having Adam list it way below market value and he won’t carry paper or consider a long escrow. It’s pretty obvious the man needs cash. And if that’s true, why bring over a three-hundred-dollar bottle of wine unless he figured he’d be seeing some return.”
“You mean he wasn’t just interested in my sunny disposition and wholesome good looks?”
Twenty-Six
Saturday afternoon cartoons were playing on the television, yet Edward MacDonald suspected he was the only one listening to them. Sitting in his recliner, he looked up from the newspaper and glanced over to the breakfast bar. His sons had abandoned their cereal bowls on the counter. A half-eaten slice of toast was trapped on the linoleum floor, impaled by the barstool Evan had been using not five minutes earlier.
He could hear the boys. They were in Eddy’s bedroom, playing. Picking up the remote from the side table, he aimed it at the television and turned it off. Setting the remote down, he focused his attention back on the newspaper and turned the page.
Looking up at him from the next page was the drawing of Antoine Paul. MacDonald regretted not pulling the drawing after Danielle had informed him Heather understood Paul was a ghost, not a living man. He hoped running the drawing wasn’t going to cause any problems.
Shirley Paul was just about to pour herself another cup of coffee when her phone began to ring. Setting the empty cup on the counter, she walked to the kitchen table and picked up the phone. Looking at the caller ID, she saw it was her brother’s old girlfriend, Alice, who she hadn’t talked to in over six months. Taking a seat at her kitchen table, she answered the phone.
“Hey, Alice. Long time. How are you doing?” Glancing over at the counter where she had left her cup, Shirley stood up and went to pour herself that cup of coffee she had intended to get before the phone rang.
“Hi, Shirley. Have you heard anything from Antoine?”
With one hand holding the phone to her ear, she used her other hand to pour herself a cup of coffee. “Nothing’s changed.”
“I saw him!” Alice blurted.
Just about to pick up the now full cup of coffee, Shirley froze. “What do you mean you saw him?”
“Well, not him, exactly. But a drawing of him and I swear it looks exactly like Antoine. It ran this morning in the Frederickport newspaper.”
Shirley frowned. “Frederickport? Where’s that?”
“It’s a little Oregon beach town south of Astoria. I have a friend who lives there. She saw the drawing in this morning’s newspaper and she thought he looks exactly like your brother. She took a picture of it and emailed it to me.”
Abandoning the coffee on the counter, Shirley returned to the kitchen table and sat down, her full attention on what Alice was telling her.
“What kind of drawing are we talking about?”
“It’s one of those police sketches, you know, when they’re looking for a person of interest. He was seen in Frederickport, looking in people’s windows.”
Shirley shook her head. “Antoine in Frederickport? Looking in people’s windows?”
“Shirley I never believed Antoine would just disappear like that. I know you think he ran off with that woman he was seeing, but I can’t believe he wouldn’t contact you. That wasn’t the Antoine I knew.”
“I’d rather think that than the alternative,” Shirley said in a dull tone.
“I know you believe if he didn’t run off with her, then it means he’s dead, but maybe there’s another possibility. I always wondered, perhaps something happened, he had an accident, he lost his memory. That would explain him doing something out of character like looking in windows.”
Shirley could feel her heart race. “When was he sighted?”
“I tell you what, let me email you the article and picture. You can read it yourself.”
Adam sat with Bill at Pier Café’s lunch counter, waiting for their breakfast. Next to him on the counter was a newspaper a previous diner had abandoned. He snatched up the paper just as Carla came to refill their cups.
“How you doing, Carla?” Bill asked. “I like your new hair color.”
Setting the coffee pot on the counter, she reached up and tugged on a lock of hair. “Do you? I thought I needed something more serious.”
Adam set the newspaper on the counter and looked up at Carla. “Why’s that?”
In response, Carla shrugged. She leaned down, resting her elbows on the counter as she propped her chin on one balled fist while her other hand fidgeted with the newspaper’s edge. “I heard Steve Klein’s funeral is on Friday.”
Bill picked up his cup and took a sip, his eyes on Carla. “You going? He was a regular in here.”
“I doubt it. I have to work that day.”
Adam picked up the paper again. “I’ll probably go.”
“I hate funerals,” Bill grumbled.
Adam turned the newspaper’s page, his eyes skimming over the articles. “Great, now we have a peeping tom running around.”
“Peeping tom? Where?” Carla leaned over the counter to get a glimpse of what Adam was talking about.
Instead of a morning jog, Heather sat on her bed, casually leaning against her headboard, methodically dissecting a cinnamon roll from Old Salts Bakery. Tugging off one curled layer at a time, she popped each one into her mouth and then licked her fingers before removing and eating another sweet hunk.
She felt a little guilty filling up with carbs and sugar when she should be out giving her cardio a workout, but she’d had a rough week. After consuming the roll, she licked her fingers one more time, removing any remaining sugary residue.
Reaching to the nightstand, she grabbed the glass of almond milk and took a swig before picking up the newspaper from the mattress. That morning she’d only gotten out of bed to bring in the morning paper, pour herself a glass of almond milk, and snatch the sack with the cinnamon roll she had purchased yesterday.
Bella slept soundly on the foot of the mattress. With a sigh, Heather skimmed the front of the newspaper and then turned the page. There, looking back at her, was Antoine Paul.
“So you’re a killer?” Heather asked the drawing.
Beverly Klein sat in her husband’s recliner, the open newspaper in her lap. It was turned to the obit section. Steve’s obituary had come out in this morning’s paper; she had already read it three times. The picture they had used was fairly recent, taken for his new business cards last month. Reaching out, she ran a finger over her husband’s image—captured in newsprint. Beverly reminded herself she needed to stop by the newspaper office and pick up some additional copies of the paper. She was certain Roxane and Steven would each want a copy.
Closing the newspaper, Beverly leaned back in the chair and stared up at the ceiling. There was so much she needed to do before Friday. She wondered if she should buy a new dress for the service, or perhaps she had something in her closet that might do. She wasn’t going to wear black. With a smile, she remembered how Steve insisted mourners attending a funeral should wear colorful clothes to celebrate the deceased’s life.
Looking back to the newspaper, she skimmed the front page and then turned to the next page. There, looking at her, was a drawing of a handsome young man. There was something faintly familiar about him, but she couldn’t figure out what it was.
Just as she was about to read the article accompanying the drawing, her phone began to ring. Tossing the newspaper to the floor, she got up from the recliner and went to find her phone.
“I hope this isn’t going to cause the chief a bunch of grief,” Danielle said as she stared at the drawing of Antoine Paul in the morning paper. She sat at the kitchen table, reading the article while Lily stood nearby, making French toast.
Turning the slices of French toast over in the pan, Lily glanced over to Danielle and then looked back to what she was doing. “I thought you told the chief Heather understood Antoine was a spirit. Why did he bother running that?”
“At first we just wanted to get a likeness of Paul so we could use it to figure out who he was. But then Hillary gave me his name, so it wasn’t really necessary. But then, Heather’s morale seemed bolstered believing someone was taking her seriously, so the chief figured he’d go ahead and let it run—and then when I explained to Heather who Paul really was, running the piece seemed a moot point.”
Lily flipped the French toast onto a plate. “So why is it in the paper?”
“Actually, it was supposed to be in Wednesday’s paper, and then there was some mix-up—and then after Heather learned the truth, the chief wasn’t going to run it, but then someone at the station got their signals crossed and sent it down to the paper, and here it is.”
Dropping the plate of French toast on the table, Lily sat down. “Well, the guy is a missing person, so maybe that drawing will stir up some memories and help figure out what really happened to him.”
Helping herself to a slice of French toast, Danielle glanced across the table at Lily. “Yeah, but he’s dead. He’s been dead for about eleven years. Anyone who reads this article will assume he’s still alive.”
If Baron Huxley hadn’t cleaned out his refrigerator the night before, he wouldn’t be standing by the front entry of Lucy’s Diner, waiting for a table. Last night he’d hope to be doing something more exciting than cleaning out his refrigerator and getting his house ready to go on the market. He’d had high hopes of convincing Danielle Boatman to go out with him—and then that surfer kid had showed up and spoiled it all. Baron shook his head.
While waiting for a table, he dug a couple quarters out of his pocket and purchased a copy of the morning newspaper. He didn’t normally read the local paper; what was the point? It wasn’t as if he lived full time in Frederickport, and he didn’t really care what went on locally unless it affected the property values. But Baron was bored, and when eating alone, he preferred to read something.
By the time he finished reading the articles on the front page, a booth opened up. After removing his reading glasses, he refolded the newspaper, slipped it under his arm, and then went to the booth. Sitting down, he tossed the paper on the seat next to him.
A few minutes later, the server took his order and brought him some coffee. While waiting for his breakfast, he picked the newspaper back up and turned the page. Absently glancing over it, he almost missed it—preparing to turn another page—and then he saw it. Antoine Paul.
Baron felt as if someone had just kicked him in the gut. Momentarily frozen, he stared at the smug face staring back at him. Adjusting his reading glasses, he moved the paper closer and read the accompanying article.
According to the piece, the nameless man in the drawing was a person of interest—the Frederickport Police Department was looking for any information on his identity. According to the article, he had been looking into the windows of a local resident—someone on Beach Drive.
Baron set the paper on the table and removed his glasses. Staring off into blank space, he frowned. Marlow House is located on Beach Drive…
Before he picked the paper up again, a couple teenage girls, who had been sitting at the booth behind him, stood up and were preparing to leave. As they passed Baron, one glanced down at the open paper on his table and looked at the drawing of Antoine Paul.
“Oh, there’s the picture of that creepy peeper I was telling you about!” the girl told her friend. Both teenagers were now standing over Baron’s table, gawking at the paper.
Baron looked up at the girls. “Have you seen this man?”
The teenager who’d pointed out the article shook her head. “No, but my mom showed me that article this morning. Told me to look out for the guy. What a creep!”
“Do you know anyone who’s actually seen him?” Baron asked.
The girl shook her head. “No.”
“Hey, I bet Elizabeth drew that!” the other girl said to her friend.
“Who’s Elizabeth?” Baron asked.
“Elizabeth Sparks,” the girl who had mentioned Elizabeth said. “She teaches art classes. She’s really good. Sometimes she does police sketches, you know, like in the movies where someone describes the bad guy and the artist draws him. Isn’t that cool?”
Twenty-Seven
It was surprisingly easy for Baron to locate Elizabeth Sparks. As it turned out, there was an art show at the museum, and she was one of the local artists being featured. When he arrived at the museum, he was happy to see the artists in attendance were all wearing name tags. It would make his task easier.
There were about twenty or more people already milling around in the museum when he arrived. According to the name tags of some, they were members of the Frederickport Historical Society, while others were members of the local art guild and participating artists. Those without name tags, he assumed, were patrons who’d come to view the display.
Taking his time, he leisurely strolled through the exhibits. By all appearances, he was taking in each piece of art, when in truth, his goal was to work his way to Ms. Sparks’s section and then strike up a conversation. The museum was not large, so it didn’t take long for him to arrive at his destination.
“You’re the artist?” Baron asked the attractive brunette. The answer to his question was obvious, considering her name tag and the signature on the painting.
“Yes, I am. Thank you for coming.” Elizabeth smiled brightly.
Baron made an obvious show of reading her name tag. He then smiled at her and asked, “Are you the one that sometimes works as a police artist for the local police department?”
Elizabeth blushed. “How did you know that?”
With a broad smile, Baron showed off his straight white teeth. “I saw your drawing in this morning’s newspaper. You’re very talented.”
“Thank you.” Elizabeth smiled and glanced down briefly and then looked up into his gray eyes.
“It’s always amazed me how an artist can do something like that. To draw a likeness of a person you’ve never seen before.” Baron shook his head. “Of cour
se, I have absolutely no artistic ability whatsoever. I’m in awe of people like you.”
“I’m sure you have more artistic ability than you realize.”
Baron grinned. “You’re just being kind.”
“Well, maybe you should take one of my art classes, and you’ll see I’m telling the truth.”
“Maybe I’ll do just that,” Baron said with a grin. “So tell me, do you think your drawing looks just like the man they’re looking for?”
Elizabeth shrugged. “Heather seemed to think so.”
“I assume that’s the one who saw him. The article said the guy was looking in windows over on Beach Drive. Sounds like a sicko, if you ask me.”
“In all fairness, he’s only a person of interest. One of the officers told me that she caught him looking in her window, but it’s possible he was an overeager tourist, looking in a house he assumed was vacant. You know, checking out a possible rental or maybe something to buy.”
“Has anyone else reported seeing him looking in windows around town?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Not that I’ve heard of.”
“So no one else has seen this guy?”
“As far as I know, it was just that one time.”
Baron frowned. “Really? Isn’t it a little unusual, doing a composite sketch over something so minor?”
Elizabeth shrugged. “Maybe there’s another reason they want to get ahold of this guy. Frankly, they really don’t tell me much.”
It was almost noon when Baron arrived at Frederickport Vacation Properties. When he walked into the office, he found Adam sitting behind his desk, eating a sandwich. The moment Adam spied Baron, he set the sandwich down and wiped his mouth with a napkin.