She frowned. “But this doesn’t expose me, does it?”
“Not by itself, but Paul Goodrich, the reporter who first wrote about the Sawyer boy, thinks it’ll make a great follow-up story to find the benefactor.”
“He can’t find me, can he?”
“Not through me. Not through my office.” Connor leaned forward and crossed his arms on his desk. “But I think you and Millie need to be careful for a while.”
“Millie? Why would anyone think she’s the benefactor? She certainly doesn’t look the part.”
“Well, maybe you’re right. I doubt anyone will make the connection. I just thought I’d tell you. Goodrich is very good at his job.”
“I’ll be careful. Thanks for the warning.” She strapped her purse over her shoulder and rose to leave. “Meanwhile, you be thinking of how much you’ll contribute to the fundraiser. And make it good.”
With a quick smile at Kellie, Emily walked through the secretary’s office and out the law firm’s door, mentally planning the fundraiser for Homer and Eloise. Should she do a raffle, or would an auction be best? Or both. Both would be good. And a dinner.
A thought stopped her in her tracks just outside the elevator—this was how it started in Houston.
One auction. One successful auction. Then another, then a few charity balls and functions, then she’d been sucked into the scene. The publicity. The mountainous stacks of solicitations.
Wade.
And now a news hound was after her. What if he discovered who she was? If she ended up in the paper, could Wade find her? He was up for parole soon, and he hadn’t been too happy when she’d testified against him. What if he got out? What if he found her?
13
The doors opened and slid closed before Emily could stop them. She poked the button on the wall again and stepped back to wait.
Anonymity was vital. She couldn’t be at the forefront of a fundraiser. Media coverage was both inevitable and invaluable for a successful event. Just one picture of her in the paper or on a local station could somehow get back to Wade.
No. She couldn’t risk it. Connor was right. The couple had insurance and tons of friends and family, children and grandchildren. Someone would be willing to take them in and help them back on their feet. Sure, it would be a hardship for them for a while, until the insurance check came, and they’d probably have to leave town to stay with their son and daughter-in-law, unless they could find a place here, but they’d be all right.
The elevator doors opened, and she stepped in for the ride down.
The most a fundraiser could do was speed up the couple’s recovery, maybe let them get a jump-start on rebuilding before the insurance check arrived. They’d get by. They didn’t really need Emily’s help. She should just quietly work on her own house and stay out of the limelight.
On the first floor, her heels clacked across the gray marble as she strode to the exit. She shoved open the door and took a quick breath. Her lungs filled with the charred air.
Ever since she’d returned to Dogwood, she’d helped people she didn’t even know. How could she not help the Perittes?
She reached the curb and unlocked her car. She should solicit Lauren’s help. If they worked on it together, Lauren could handle the public and the media. Besides, thinking of all this rationally—which she should’ve been doing all along—the only way Paul Goodrich could discover her identity was through Connor, and he’d promised to keep her secret.
She settled in the front seat and phoned Lauren, getting only her voicemail. “Hey, kiddo, it’s me. Give me a call.”
The more she thought about it, the less threatened she felt. Between Connor’s promise and Lauren’s help, she should be able to pull this off without a single flash-bulb moment. As for Paul Goodrich—humph! She had better things to worry about, like buying the insurance for her new house.
****
After she’d arranged with Parker Milligan to insure the Queen Anne, she unlocked the front door with a sense of reverence. This was her house. Her home. The Queen Anne belonged to her.
Excitement bubbled like the healing waters of an artesian well. Refurbishing her own home would be the springboard to her new career: rescuing other houses of historical design from decay and ruin. She’d be working again. After the buyers paid off their mortgage on Deck the Walls and her most popular wallpaper designs were no longer in vogue and drawing royalties, she’d have no income. Returning to work was crucial, and before-and-after pictures of her new home would be proof to the world of her talent.
Well, not the world, but proof to enough people to keep her working.
A horn blared, and she jerked around to see Scott’s pickup park behind her convertible. He stepped from the truck and pocketed his keys. Dressed in jeans and a blue chambray shirt, he exuded masculinity as he waded through the weeds to the sidewalk.
Emily’s blood pulsed. She hadn’t seen him since Saturday night. “Hey, Scott. What are you doing here?”
“I was heading into town to look for you.” He was near enough, she could see worry lines crinkling his forehead. “Was that your apartment on fire this morning?”
“No, it was the Perittes’ house. Burned to the ground.”
“Ouch. They all right?”
“Shaken, but uninjured.”
“That’s a relief. But I’m really glad it wasn’t your place.” He smiled, and her nerves flittered like hummingbirds on spring flowers. He pointed up at the second floor. “Won’t be too long before I’ll be waving to you on the balcony.”
“It’ll be long enough before you see me up there. You saw how much damage there was.”
He looked her over, no doubt taking in the worn jeans and paint-stained work shirt. “Is that what you’re doing here now? Planning to fix it all by yourself?”
“I wish.” She led him into the entry and dropped her purse by the door, casting a critical eye around the grand hall. “I’m looking for things I can fix myself. I don’t think I could just sit back and supervise while Roger and his crew did all the work.”
“So, the lady loves tools.”
“Some of them.” She ran her hand over the cherry-wood banister that escorted the stairs up from the entry. Smooth as tree bark. “Palm sanders come to mind.”
“I think we can fix that.” He put his weight on the bottom stair and then climbed the next few steps. “We can fix those squeaks, too.”
“We?”
“Sure. I’m good for more than just destroying the sex lives of cats.”
“Millie and I are certainly glad you’re good at that.” She followed him up the stairs, pausing to finger a loose strip of wallpaper. Terra Verde Arabesque on an eggshell background. She lifted the paper and looked at the backing. Silk screened by machine. Circa 1920. Not old enough to be original to the house, but too old for her to leave on the walls. She’d have to—
“Em? Emily?” Three steps above her, Scott leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. “Did you hear me?”
Her cheeks grew hot. She felt like she’d been caught daydreaming in class. “No, sorry. What did you say?”
“I asked if Millie was going to move in here with you.”
“Oh. Uh...no. No, she’ll probably stay in the apartment. You know, close to the cats.”
“Where did you meet her?”
“Houston.” She brushed past him and continued up another step.
He stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Do you think you’ll ever be able to tell me what happened there?”
The stair she stood on was warped and so worn it dipped in the middle. She shifted her weight, and the step squealed like a rusty hinge—like her nerves whenever he asked about Houston.
“We really do need to fix these stairs.” She pulled away and continued upward. A trickle of sweat trailed down her back. “First thing I’ll do is get the water and power on. No way I can work in this house without at least a fan.”
“Maybe the air conditioner still works.”
“Wouldn’t that be heaven?”
An old pop song chimed from her cell phone. She scrambled down the steps to the front door and dug the phone from her purse. It was Lauren. “Hey, ladybug. You got my message.”
“A bit late, sorry.” Brakes squealed in the background. Lauren must have been in her car. “What’s up?”
Emily stole a glance at Scott, who was testing another step. Then she slipped into the dining room for privacy. “Did you hear about the fire in town today?”
“The Perittes’ house? I heard about it. Awful, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. I want to hold a benefit auction for them. Interested?”
“Oh, that’s a great idea. I’d love to do something to help.” A siren shrilled in the background and grew louder as it neared Lauren’s car. She kept silent until it passed. “Another fire truck. No telling where that one’s going. So, do you want to come out Saturday?”
“Sure. What time?”
“Shoot for early afternoon.”
“That works, but there’s one thing. Don’t mention this to anyone until we have a chance to talk.” She poked her head into the grand hall and caught sight of Scott on the second-floor landing. “I have something I want to discuss with you, and I can’t right now.”
“Where are you?”
“At the house. Scott and I are looking for ways to keep my money from padding Roger’s pockets.”
“Scott’s with you? I won’t keep you then. Say yes. See ya Saturday.”
“Say yes to what?” But Lauren had already disconnected. Emily folded her phone and stepped into the foyer to peer up at Scott. “That was Lauren. What am I supposed to say yes to?”
Looking like the shy teenager he once was, he shoved his hands in his pockets. “Going to the community theater with me Saturday night.”
She tilted her head. She’d already said no to him so many times she’d lost count, and she still wasn’t sure whether she was ready to date. But he looked so cute standing there, braving another rejection, that she found it difficult to turn him down. “Yes. I’d love to.”
****
Scott’s knees almost buckled. “Excuse me? Did you just say yes?”
Emily laughed and nodded, and he felt he’d grown three feet. Restraining from crowing like a rooster, he mustered all the dignity he could summon and smiled as he went down the stairs with a studied nonchalance. “Good. Seven work for you?”
Her eyes sparkled like sun-blessed crystal. “That works.”
“Good.” Suddenly, the suave, confident, man-about-town persona he’d slipped into dropped to his ankles like over-sized britches. What was he supposed to do now that she’d accepted? What should he say? Was there a—a protocol for this? “Should I—uh...should I pick you up here or at your apartment?”
Humor teased her lips, and he realized how foolish his question was. But she was gracious. “The apartment would be best.”
“Good, good.” He rocked on his heels. “So, seven o’clock at your apartment.”
“Right.”
“Right.” More silence, more heel rocking. Finally, he made a show of looking at his watch, even though he had no place to be. He just needed to find a double-sized root beer float to drown this shyness he thought he’d outgrown. “I’d better be going. I’ll see you at seven Saturday night.”
“We’ll have a great time.”
He nodded, gave her a little wave and then sprinted to his truck. She’d said yes!—and he’d acted like an idiot. He charged up the engine and squealed his tires as he raced from the house.
True, he’d been shy as a kid. But he’d outgrown it, hadn’t he? Learned to deal with it. He’d even dated in college. Sure, he may have gotten a late start at it, but he’d finally gotten up the nerve to ask someone out. Several someones in fact, not that he was bragging.
Up on the left of Central Avenue was the carhop restaurant, just one block away from the turnoff to his mom’s house. At sixteen, when he’d gotten his first set of wheels—an ancient blue sedan—he used to stop at the place on his way home and wash away the day’s humiliations with root beer floats. Fortunately, he’d had a high metabolism and was skinny all through school. Since his metabolism was still high, he wasn’t worried about ordering one now to settle his nerves.
The street light turned red. While the truck idled, he watched a carhop on skates carry a brown paper package and two giant sodas to a late model convertible.
Once, in high school, Emily had pulled her new hatchback into the space right next to his rust-spotted car. The lid to his float wasn’t on good, and he’d fumbled the drink, drenching the front of his shirt with root beer about the same time Lauren, sitting in Emily’s passenger seat, shouted a greeting out her window.
When Emily leaned forward to wave at him, he’d wanted to drop through the floorboards and slither away. He’d hated that she’d seen him looking like the gawky teenager he was then. That was the night before auditions for the high school play and...
The play!
An idea formed in his mind, and when the light turned green, he zipped past the restaurant and turned left a block away, heading toward his mother’s—and the things he kept stored in her attic.
14
Someone’s sitting at my table, not that I mind. It’s not like I usually come into the diner at this time of day. I’m rarely here for breakfast, just the occasional lunch. And, besides, there’s more than one air conditioner vent in this place.
The diner is layered from right to left. Red plastic booths at the window on the right, deli-style tables next, then the bar stools around the counter, and finally the kitchen. The only thing that doesn’t fit into any of the rows is the glass-front counter, filled with candies and topped with a cash register, perched right next to the front door. But what’s important to me is the grate-covered vents in the ceiling. It’s already hot this morning.
I limp back to the last booth, slide my net in, and plant myself directly under a blast of cool air.
“Mornin’, Millie,” Annie says. “You’re here early.”
“Had a hankerin’ for pancakes.” And a twenty dollar bill, crisp and fresh, burning a hole in my pocket. It’s seldom I treat myself to a meal, and breakfast is my favorite. I grab the folded menu propped between the bowl of sugar packets and the salt and pepper shakers. Gotta love this fare—fried everything. Clara doesn’t believe in letting the spoons get greasy all by themselves. “I’m hungry this morning. Slap on some sausage and eggs-over-easy with the pancakes.”
“You are hungry! I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat so much. Anything to drink?”
“Water. No—milk. I feel like splurging.” I glance behind the counter and then check the register. “Where’s Clara?”
“She’s been coming in late the past couple of days since the fire. Guess having Homer and Eloise at her house throws her schedule off.”
“So she’s putting them up for a while?”
“Until they decide where to go, I guess.”
Someone calls Annie, and she gives me a smile before slipping off to another table. I look around at the other diners clinking silverware against plates. Blue collars, pink collars, business suits. Wherever they fit on the social ladder, folks still get hungry. People who wouldn’t get invited to join the local country club sit right close to those who would keep them out. That’s what I love about this place. Highbrow meets redneck in the only downtown diner open for breakfast.
In the next booth, a thirtyish blond man munches on a toast wedge and talks with his mouth full. “According to the CEO’s assistant, they just got a letter with a certified check that was supposed to be the first of several.”
The older man sitting across from him, with his back to me, lowers his coffee cup. “Did she say who the letter was from?”
“Some attorney. Uh—” Blondie flips open a notepad. “Matthews. Connor Matthews, Attorney-at-Law.”
I pop a hand to my chest. If my heart wasn’t so strong, I’d be in cardiac
arrest right now. Those two must work for the paper. Is Blondie Paul Goodrich? The brown-haired guy must be the editor. I glance around the diner and try not to seem like I’m listening, but my gaze keeps snapping back like nails to a magnet.
“So, this Matthews guy is footing the bill, right?”
“Nope, we don’t know who’s paying for all this. Matthews represents someone who ‘wished to remain anonymous,’ according to the letter.”
“She let you see this letter?”
“No, and this is the strange part. She said even if it didn’t breach confidentiality, she couldn’t show it to me. Instructions were to shred it.” Blondie slapped the table. “Can you beat that?” His cell rings, and he grabs it from his pocket. “Goodrich...yeah, he’s here...we’re on it.”
“What’s going on?”
“Another fire a few blocks over. We gotta roll.” He shoved a piece of bacon in his mouth and rounded up his pen and notepad while the other man tossed twenty-five dollars on the table.
“That makes three now,” the dark-haired guy said as he headed out the door.
“They say this one’s goin’ up fast...”
The door closes behind them, and I take a moment to breathe. My head’s so jumbled I don’t know what to think. Ol’ Connor’s smart. Shred the letter. That was brilliant! At the same time, though, I worry about the fact there’s another house burning.
There’s no sign of smoke out the window. Wind must be blowing the other way. The Wednesday morning traffic thins long enough for me to see a silver and white kitty licking something on the sidewalk across the street. Pretty thing. Lucky for him I’m too hungry to go after him. I’ll park myself on the courthouse lawn later and see if I can find him again.
“They’ve got another fire, huh?” Annie approaches with my milk and a steaming plate that makes my mouth water.
“That’s what I heard. They were newspapermen, weren’t they? Was one Paul Goodrich?”
“Yeah, he comes in from time to time. The other one’s Kevin Favente, the editor.” She plops down some extra napkins for me. “You hear about the second fire yesterday?”
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