Molly sighed. She didn’t want to appear disproportionately belligerent. “I’m sure you’ll find lots of interesting stories—varied perspectives—without mine.” She lifted her palm and gestured across the table. “Like Brian. He played quarterback for Michigan, came back home, started a successful business, and he ran for congress.” She leaned back in her seat, as if that should get the ball rolling—and in a direction away from her.
Brian added, without any trace of disappointment or bitterness, “And lost.”
Molly was quick to keep things moving. “But that doesn’t diminish the experience. He’s been dedicated to making Glens Crossing a place a person wants to raise their kids in. He’s your story. The Boy’s and Girl’s Club—” she paused “—I saw in the paper the other day that you’ve led the board to breaking ground on a new facility.”
Dean nodded his interest, but still focused on Molly. “I want everyone’s story. That’s why I’m staying for a while. Brian’s perspective.” Dean pointed toward the kitchen. “Papa’s perspective . . . I’m assuming there is a Papa.” He didn’t wait for confirmation. “The high school principal’s perspective. The garbage collector’s perspective. Everyone has a unique view of their slice of the world. Molly, yours is particularly interesting because of the contrast you offer and the choice you’ve made.”
Molly nodded; there didn’t seem to be any sense in arguing further at this point. She said to Brian, “We should be sure he interviews Ed Grissom.” She grinned and explained to Dean, “He’s a real character.” Returning her gaze to Brian, she asked, “Is he still calling the Air Force and the FBI about aliens?”
Brian smiled sadly and said, “Ed died four months ago.”
“Oh.” Molly felt tactless in the extreme. “I didn’t know.”
“Yep. Massive stroke. Left Hattie totally unprepared and out there on that farm all alone. She can’t make a living just selling eggs. I’ve been trying to get her to sell the farm and move into town. Poor woman never drew a breath without Ed telling her to. I’m not sure she even knows how to write a check. A couple of women from her church are checking on her, helping make sure the electricity’s paid and such.”
Molly had to strain to remember Hattie Grissom. She finally recalled a small, mousy woman, who wore ill-fitting old lady clothes and kept her eyes fixed on the ground. And Molly could never remember seeing her without her husband. She moved along like a thin shadow behind him. With his wild accusations and alien conspiracy theories, he was the one everyone noticed. It was as if his presence had eclipsed his wife completely.
“I’m sure she’s absolutely lost,” Molly said. “They didn’t have children, did they?”
“None that lived.”
For a few moments they ate quietly. Then, before the silence grew uncomfortable and Dean decided to make her the topic of conversation again, Molly said, “So Dean, you’ve been living in the Middle East for five years?”
He nodded and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
She asked, “Where, exactly?”
“Wherever there’s trouble. Which, when you talk about the Middle East means pretty much all over. I use Saudi Arabia as my home base most of the time. But I don’t actually have a permanent address. I follow the unrest, live in hotels, tents . . . whatever’s available.”
“A nomad,” Brian offered. Then he laughed. “That’s why Glens Crossing is so much more ‘civilized.’”
“Exactly,” Dean agreed.
“So, you don’t have a wife and children, then?” As soon as Molly said it, she realized it sounded like she was fishing for a date. “I mean . . .”
Dean lifted a hand to signal she was off the hook. “I know what you mean; I’m the professional question asker, remember? And no. No wife. No kids. No girlfriend. Just me and my passport.”
“How long before your boss decides you’ve been punished enough and you get to go back and do some real reporting?” Brian asked.
Dean leaned back in his chair and laid his napkin on the table. “As it’s turning out, I’m not all that anxious to leave. This town is proving to hold some very interesting avenues.”
Molly knew he wasn’t referring to the streets—and didn’t really want to be one of those avenues. She couldn’t afford the complication. She took one last drink of her Coke, then put her money on the table for her pizza. “I need to be getting home. We walked and I hate to have Nicholas out in the air after it gets too cold.” The baby had fallen asleep in the seat. She put on his hat and picked up the blanket. “Thanks to you gentlemen for sharing the table.”
Dean stood and helped her with her coat. His hands lingered on her shoulders for a moment while she picked up Nicholas’s blanket. She hadn’t had a date in a long while, but her senses weren’t deadened entirely. She knew he’d misinterpreted her questioning about a wife.
Oh well, that aside, the conversation had provided what she wanted. Dean Coletta was definitely not Nicholas’s father; he’d been living in the Middle East for years. Nor did she think he had anything to do with his father; Dean had barely looked at the baby all through dinner.
But he had shown interest in her. Perhaps it was just the story. Still, when he looked at her, it felt like more. And a tiny place deep inside wanted it to be more. It had been a long, long time since anyone had looked at her like that. And parts of her were responding without her permission.
My God. She had to keep in mind, in the eyes of everyone around her, she’d just had another man’s baby. How would it look if she responded to that interest?
She needed to get out of here, away from this crowded space, into the fresh air.
She faltered slightly.
Dean put a steadying hand on her arm. “Maybe I should walk you home.”
Molly said, “I’m fine. It’s just so warm in here. You two go on and share your manly stories. I don’t have far to go.”
Concern remained on Dean’s face. “You’re sure? Brian and I can talk later.”
She grinned. “Absolutely. Remember I’ve lived alone in Boston for ten years. I can take care of myself on the mean streets of Glens Crossing.”
The men laughed.
She waved and walked out of the restaurant, wishing she could shake the feeling of vulnerability that Dean’s touch had just created; a vulnerability that had nothing at all to do with Nicholas.
Chapter 8
Dean sat on the sofa in the dark living room of the rented cottage on Forrester Lake. In his hand he held a five-year-old photograph of his sister. But it was only out of habit; he wasn’t looking at it. He didn’t need to. Its image had been burned into his heart. Instead, his gaze was fixed beyond the big window, on the moon’s long, narrow reflection on the lake.
The iridescent silver of moonlight on water drew to mind Molly Boudreau’s eyes—the color of morning mist, of childhood dreams, of innocence. She appeared to be just the kind of person Julie would become friends with—kind smile, bright sense of humor, independent, intelligent.
Before he met Molly Boudreau, he’d imagined her to be manipulative and calculating. He had been sure she was the link that would lead to Julie’s killer. However, everything about Dr. Boudreau had taken him by surprise—knocked his perceptions askew, thrown roadblocks in the path of his well-laid plans.
Wouldn’t that just play along with the manipulative mindset? She’s showing me exactly what she wants me to see.
She was good. If he hadn’t come here armed with the notion that she was linked to his sister’s demise in some objectionable way, he would have been completely taken in. As it was, he was having to fight his own attraction to her.
He reminded himself he was attracted to an illusion. This was all part of the charisma she used to draw in the unsuspecting. He feared Julie had been the victim of a very calculated friendship.
Dean had developed a theory before he left Boston. It started when he tracked down Carmen, the girl who’d worked at the now-closed clinic where Julie had delivered her baby. Carmen hadn’t
had much to add to the vague and unfruitful story the police had already pieced together, except that Julie had developed a friendship with Dr. Boudreau.
When Dean tried to find Dr. Boudreau, he’d discovered the doctor had left town abruptly the same day Julie’s body had been found. Far too much of a coincidence. When he’d brought that fact up to the police, they said they’d already spoken with the doctor and were satisfied she had nothing to do with the murder.
Then Dean tried to press the police about the whereabouts of the baby that the autopsy confirmed Julie had recently delivered. They still saw no connection to the doctor. They had concluded the child was either dead or untraceable. Until they solved the murder, they had no place to begin to solve the mystery of the missing baby. They knew the baby had been in the hospital emergency room with Julie. But after that, there was no trace. Repeatedly, they assured him they were doing all that was humanly possible.
All the while, weeks were slipping by, making the prospect of solving this case less and less likely. So Dean had dug deeper himself, questioned and followed every scrap of information until it died out without yielding a single thread that would tie this whole mystery together.
Dr. Boudreau appeared to be his last hope for discovering what had happened to his sister.
He’d taken Smitty’s advice and accepted a leave from his job. As for the rest of his boss’s suggestion, that he take a long and recuperative vacation, that was bullshit. How was he supposed to lie on a beach while Julie’s killer walked around undiscovered and unpunished? Instead, he’d packed his bags and headed for Glens Crossing.
He went about it as carefully as if he were investigating a terrorist cell. If the good doctor was hiding something from the police, he doubted she’d spill her guts to the victim’s brother. That, compounded with the level of cooperation he could expect in a small town like this, led him to fabricate the cover story. Contrary to Molly’s accusation, he knew very well how small towns worked. They were the same all over the world. If a stranger came in asking questions about one of their own, the people of this town would shut him out. It would have nothing to do with guilt or innocence. It was loyalty, pure and simple.
This was going to take time. But he had plenty of that.
His quest was twofold. First and foremost was to discover who had killed his sister and why. Secondly, he needed to find out if there was a child, a niece or nephew, somewhere out there who needed him. This second aspect sparked a stormy mix of emotions. He knew his responsibilities to such a child. Responsibilities that would forever change his life—in ways an unencumbered, free-footed man didn’t want to contemplate.
And yet, this baby was his only living relative—the only person on the planet who shared his blood. He’d contemplated the issue from the moment he’d been told there had been a baby. Even if he located the child, he might still offer it up for adoption. That might be the best thing he could do. He just didn’t have the skills to be a good father, especially a single father—how screwed up would he make the kid? He owed it to his sister to find this baby and do what was right for it—whatever that turned out to be.
He continually pushed the thought away that his quest would reveal that the baby was as dead as Julie. Even with all he’d seen in this world, he had to believe no one would be cruel enough to kill an infant for no reason.
That line of thinking had led him right back to his current theory about Dr. Boudreau. He suspected there had been some sort of black market baby organization, and Dr. Boudreau was one of the doctors recruited to find unsuspecting expectant mothers—women who were alone and vulnerable. He’d done research on such a criminal ring years ago. This scenario played right into their mode of operation.
Dean dropped the photo on the sofa and pressed his palms to his temples. The cottage suddenly felt much too confining for all of his emotions. He got up and began to pace in the dark. His path was limited to a circle around the coffee table and a loop into the tiny kitchen. Two times around only increased his sense of claustrophobia. He grabbed his jacket and walked out the door, across the porch, past the boathouse and onto the long dock that projected from the shore.
His exhalations came in silver puffs, reminding him that winter was inching ever closer. The dock creaked and moaned under his footsteps. It was too cold for insects and frogs. Dean heard the occasional owl in the distance. Other than that, if he held still, there was only the soft lapping of the water against the pilings. He closed his eyes and concentrated on it. It was the music of the gentle sweep of time blended with the quiet voice of nature. The sound slid beneath his skin in a warm flow that immediately lessened his tension.
Until that moment, he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the sound of water. For years, his life had been filled with gritty sand and barren rocky mountains—and worrying about people he didn’t know and often didn’t understand. Perhaps he should have been paying more attention to those close to his heart. How could his own sister have had a baby and not have breathed a word to him?
He still couldn’t understand it. If she’d been in trouble, if she had needed him, she had known to contact Smitty. That was Dean’s rule. His editor would have located him somehow.
But, he knew too well, Colettas didn’t call for help. They tackled their own problems and solved them alone. Colettas were never interdependent.
Her friends in New York had had no hint of warning before she’d disappeared. And every one of them had insisted that Julie hadn’t been dating anyone in particular in the months before she’d vanished. That statement was usually followed by, but you know how she was about private stuff.
Of course he knew. He was cut from the same cloth. Again, the Coletta credo.
A dull pain centered in his chest when he thought of his sister facing trouble alone. He knew she was tough on the inside; he’d seen her mettle plenty of times. But because of her waiflike appearance, he’d always thought of her as fragile, ethereal. She always seemed to have no more physical substance than sheer silk.
Had she been afraid? Had she known death was waiting for her?
A tear rolled down his cheek. He swiped it away with the back of his hand. Colettas didn’t cry, either.
If only he could have talked to her. He would have come home. He assured himself that he would have. How many times had he urged Nigel Clifford to leave because family came first?
My God, he realized, Julie had died within hours of Clifford’s death. At the same time Dean had been fighting for his own life.
Ever since he’d seen Julie in the morgue, fury had fueled every one of his days.
But now, as he stood on this peaceful lake in the crisp night air, a tiny bit of that rage ebbed away. New questions began to emerge.
Had Molly Boudreau been a comfort to his sister? Perhaps the link, the trust, between her and Julie was as simple as it appeared: they’d been two pregnant women without partners bonding through the experience.
But, deep in his heart, he doubted. Julie’s trust had been ill founded. When Molly had fled so oddly after the accident this afternoon, he’d been certain the hunch that led him here had been right: She did know something about Julie’s death. The way she’d paled when she heard his name, what other reason could there have been? Still, in their prolonged conversation this evening, he hadn’t been able to find anything sinister in her demeanor or her character. A far cry from a co-conspirator in a black market baby scenario he’d thought possible.
Or maybe it was just hard for him to distrust a woman who was a new mother. Especially one with gray eyes that broadcast guilelessness and innocence.
Why did he keep coming back to the same circle with this woman? He knew to trust his instincts—but for some reason, he continually doubted himself.
He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to relieve the cramped muscles there. Looking up at the stars in the night sky, he longed for the uncomplicated life of survival in a war zone. There was nothing there to cloud your emotions, every fiber of your being was
concentrated on staying alive.
He blew out a long vaporous breath.
Maybe he was barking up the wrong tree. But, he conceded, it was the only tree he had.
It might be much simpler to just go and tell the woman the truth, see what light she could shed on his sister’s last days.
Easier, yes—not wiser. His instincts held him back. And this instinct was one he was going to heed. Once the truth was out there, there’d be no reeling it back in.
Molly’s spirits began to lift immediately when she stepped outside Papa’s Pizza. With a breath of cool air she reshuffled her perspective on this entire evening. Now she saw, as sharp and clear as the pinpoint stars in the sky, that her fears of earlier today had been totally unfounded. Dean Coletta was who he said he was; Brian had confirmed that. And he’d been living outside of the United States for years, making any link to Nicholas’s father even less likely.
As she walked home, she began to restore the feeling of security she’d awakened with this morning. If the baby’s father was going to come after her, he’d have been here by now. He hadn’t—and she knew she had not made herself difficult to find. The man either didn’t know about the baby, or he didn’t care.
By the time she and Nicholas reached home, she once again felt solid in her footing. Standing on the sidewalk at the base of her front porch steps, she looked at the house next door where Mickey lived. Molly had been watching the girl come and go for three weeks. There had been no loud parties, no hot-rodding boyfriends. Mickey kept reasonable hours and Molly had seen her doing dishes through the window over the kitchen sink on most evenings. All in all, Mickey seemed to be a quiet and responsible girl.
In the most impulsive decision Molly had made since arriving in Glens Crossing, she picked Nicholas up, carried him to the Fultons’ front door and rang the bell. She realized at the last second that she might not have any more luck finding Mickey at home on a football night than she did in getting a pizza delivered.
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