by Kay Hooper
Holly pursed her lips in a considering manner. “I’d say that Aunt Sarah taught valuable lessons.”
“I’ve learned to value them,” Joanna said. “She also taught me to be a shrewd and energetic shopper. How’re the stores in town?”
“Eager for your business,” Holly replied cheerfully. “Honest, though, the clothes at On the Corner are first-rate; the manager gets them from L. A. and San Francisco—even New York, Atlanta, and New Orleans. And if you’re looking for things rather than clothes, try One More Thing; it’s a little antique shop, and sometimes they have some really great stuff. Both places are on Main Street, like most of the shopping in the area.”
“Sounds good, thanks.”
With a slightly guilty expression, Holly said, “I should probably tell you that the owner of The Inn also owns On the Corner. But I don’t get kickbacks for sending customers in, I promise.”
“Too honest for your own good, I see.”
Holly sighed. “Just a highly developed sense of guilt.”
“Well, never mind. I need a new sweater, especially if the temperature stays this chilly, and On the Corner sounds like just the place to get one.”
“They have some beautiful sweaters.” Holly smiled at her. “And they’ll deliver here if you don’t want to carry shopping bags.”
“Terrific. Then I’ll walk into town instead of driving. Thanks a lot, Holly.”
“My pleasure. Have fun, Joanna.”
Waving to the brunette, Joanna went back into the hotel so that she could get her purse and go out the front of the building to take the most direct route into town. Within five minutes, she was back outside and on her way to town, walking briskly. It did occur to her almost idly that the man and woman who had mistaken her for Caroline in Atlanta were possibly managers or buyers from a couple of the stores here or had some other type of job that had taken them three thousand miles away.
Or else there had been some bizarre coincidences at work.
Joanna felt distinctly wary of encountering those two people here in Cliffside. Because once she did, it would undoubtedly take no time at all for the news to get round town that she had been mistaken for Caroline in Atlanta—which made her decision to “vacation” here suspect, to say the least. Still, there was nothing she could do about the situation except hope they were still away and would remain away for the next couple of weeks.
Joanna reached town after ten minutes or so, having encountered no one. The place was neat, with clean streets and sidewalks and attractive storefronts. It took her only a moment to find the sign for On the Corner at the end of the next block.
But she lost all interest in clothes at the first store she came to, and stopped on the sidewalk as though she’d run into a wall. The store itself was not particularly interesting to her; it appeared to specialize in wicker things, from baskets to furniture. But in the front window, propped on a brass easel, was the painting from Joanna’s dream.
“Of course, we had to have it,” Kellie Hayes told Joanna as they both stood admiring the painting. “The little girl in a field of flowers, that basket in her lap. We thought it’d be perfect for the store. Mr. Barlow didn’t want to sell it, but he finally agreed to let us display it in the window. Of course, he doesn’t need to sell everything he paints—so much money these artists make at big shows in San Francisco and New York!—and he said this was a favorite, so not for sale at any price.”
“I don’t recognize his name, but I know nothing about modern artists,” Joanna said. “Is he very famous?” This had to be important, she thought. The painting done by a local artist had to mean something, or else why had it been a part of the dream? What was the connection to Caroline?
“Oh, yes, dear, very famous. And he never does seascapes, isn’t that odd with him living on the coast? It’s his portraits he’s famous for, people all over the country have commissioned him to paint them. He does things like this one, of course, to please himself, and I’ve heard he accepts a student now and then, though I’ve never seen strangers about his place. But anyway, he’s been in lots of magazines about artists and art. They do say he’s even one of the artists under consideration to paint the president’s portrait. Can you imagine? Not that he’d be impressed, of course.”
“Wouldn’t he?”
“Oh, I don’t think so. He’s a very charming man, Mr. Barlow, and handsome, but he does have a way of looking at you sometimes that makes you feel he might be laughing at you inside. Not really unkind, just as if he thinks most of life is a pretty good joke.”
“You sound as if you know him very well. So, he’s lived here a long time?” Joanna kept her voice casual.
“Let me see, when did he buy his little house?” Kellie frowned in thought as she gazed at the painting. “It must have been four or five years ago, at least. He only spent summers here the first few years. Then, about a year ago, well…”
Joanna nodded encouragingly. “Something changed?” She had always been able to “read” most people quickly with a kind of intuitive understanding, and Joanna was leaning on that ability heavily right now. Within a minute of saying hello, she had known that Kellie would happily talk about anything or anyone suggested to her; she was a born gossip and likely to be completely aware of everybody’s dirt.
Kellie laughed. “Well, I guess it’s no secret. It was obvious that Mr. Barlow noticed Holly Drummond sometime that summer—have you met her yet, Joanna? She manages The Inn—and when fall came, well, he just stayed on. They make a very nice couple, though people do say he’ll never marry her and she’s wasting her time thinking otherwise. Personally, though, I think there’s something that keeps him here, and she’s such a bright, pretty girl.”
“You’re probably right,” Joanna told her. “Um … is there another place in town that displays Mr. Barlow’s work?”
“Oh, no, dear, he says he’s not about to become Cliff-side’s local artist and have the tourists taking pictures of him. But if you’re interested, I think Sam might have something you can look at. He runs the bookstore two doors down, you see, and I believe he has a book with pictures of some of Mr. Barlow’s work in it.” Kellie smiled.
Joanna bought a basket.
“I must say, you look an awful lot like Mrs. McKenna,” Sam Atherton said, shaking his head. He seemed a bit wary, but the resemblance clearly intrigued him, and he couldn’t take his eyes off Joanna. “She was a nice lady—and a regular customer. Was always in here buying books, mostly for Regan. That little girl does love to read—and what a vivid imagination. Do you know, she once told me there were fairies living beneath the cliffs?”
“With me, it was always trolls,” Joanna said, following him toward a rear corner of his crowded bookstore. “There was a bridge near the house where I lived, and I was convinced trolls lived under it.”
His smile was perfunctory. “Sounds like you and little Regan would get along fine. Me, the most I ever imagined was that I played shortstop for the Giants. Here you go, Joanna—this book has quite a lot about Cain Barlow in it.”
“Good, just what I wanted,” she said, taking the fairly heavy book from him. “And do you have some kind of history of the area?”
“Sure,” he said after what seemed to her a slight hesitation. “Over here, against the wall…” He led the way to the other side of the store, still talking casually—and still glancing at Joanna. “I guess you’re probably tired of hearing that you look like Mrs. McKenna, but it really is the most amazing thing. People can’t stop talking about it.”
“I can’t help being interested in her,” Joanna said.
“I guess you would be. Can’t say that I knew her all that well, even though she’d been a customer for years. She was always nice, like I said, but she didn’t talk about herself.”
He was trying, Joanna thought, but she wasn’t really buying his disinterest. Whether he knew more about Caroline than he was willing to say or had merely disliked her and didn’t want to reveal that, it seemed clear to J
oanna that he wasn’t being nearly as open and casual as he seemed to be. She had the distinct impression that he was weighing every “casual” word before he spoke it, and that he wouldn’t give away anything he didn’t want her to know.
But why? What was it he didn’t want her to know?
“What about Mr. McKenna?” she asked, casual herself.
Sam’s rugged face never changed expression, but his eyes went shuttered and his voice turned decidedly cool. “Well, about him I couldn’t say much at all. Not much of a reader. He comes in now and again, but not often. Always perfectly pleasant, but … kind of cold, I guess you’d say.”
Definitely doesn’t like Scott McKenna, and doesn’t care if I see it. “He owns a lot in town, doesn’t he?”
“Oh, yeah. The lumber mill about ten miles from here. Quite a bit of land. On the Corner and a couple of other stores. The Inn and several cottages he rents out summers. And then there’s the greenhouse.” Sam frowned, those guarded eyes briefly narrowed. “You know, that’s kind of funny now that I think about it. All the things he owns in this town, and the greenhouse is the only thing Scott McKenna put his name on.” He looked at the shelf in front of him and pulled out a book. “Here you go, Joanna—the best history of the area that I carry.”
“Thanks, Sam.” Joanna went to the counter with him to pay for the books, still chatting casually, this time about nothing in particular. Sam wasn’t the only one who could present a calm and untroubled front, she decided. She could too. But inside, she felt more than a little uneasy. Maybe she was just being fanciful, imagining an ominous meaning behind what was likely no more than the natural wariness toward a stranger, but she couldn’t help thinking that there was no reason for Sam to be guarded with her … or was there?
A few minutes later, she stood outside the store on the sidewalk, the two books—bagged—in her basket, and eyed the next store. She’d found one gossip who would no doubt talk to a post, and one bookseller who had talked without saying very much at all; what could she expect to find in the old-fashioned drugstore besides a soda fountain?
“Your Aunt Sarah sounds a lot like my Aunt Alice,” Mavis said, industriously wiping the immaculate counter in front of Joanna’s cherry Coke. “With a saying or proverb for everything. It does tend to make life simpler, though, doesn’t it? I mean, having an answer for most every question.”
“It does give you rules to live by,” Joanna agreed.
“That’s what I keep telling my boyfriend, Danny. He says the commandments are enough to worry about, but what I say is, the people who came before us had a few things figured out, and why shouldn’t we listen to them? My Aunt Alice lived through the depression and wars and—well, I think she’d earned the right to be listened to.”
“Oh, I agree. Aunt Sarah never gave me bad advice, never.”
“Neither did Aunt Alice.” Mavis smiled at Joanna with an obvious feeling of sisterhood. “Wouldn’t they both be pleased to hear us quoting them?”
Joanna nodded. “Definitely. Aunt Sarah always said that fame was the number of people who remembered you after you were gone.”
“Isn’t that the truth.” Mavis shook her head, then blurted out, “Oh, gosh, Joanna, you sure look like her!”
“Caroline? So I hear.”
“You don’t sound like her, not a bit, and you’re so relaxed and friendly where she was sort of shy, I guess—”
“Shy? I read somewhere that she spoke in public quite a lot.”
“Oh, she did—at least, pretty often. Committees and the PTA, that sort of thing. But when it was one-on-one like this, just casual-like, she always seemed shy, at least to me. Quiet, hardly talked at all. Didn’t smile much. She was beautiful—I mean, hey, look in the mirror!—but kind of … subdued. She just didn’t sparkle, know what I mean?”
“I think so,” Joanna said slowly.
“Except when Regan was with her, of course. She did love that little girl, and it really showed.”
“I keep hearing that.” Is that why Caroline wanted me here? Because of some danger to Regan? But what could it be? “I met Regan, and she seemed … sort of frozen. Very alone. I had to remind myself that she still had her father.”
Mavis’s cheerful smile faded and she looked away from Joanna, not quite guarded but definitely uncomfortable. “Oh, yeah, she has him. But from what I’ve seen and heard, the poor kid might as well be a complete orphan. I’ve never seen a man with less interest in his own kid.”
Another one who didn’t like Scott. “You mean, just now? Or—”
“No, he’s been that way most of Regan’s life. I guess some men should never be fathers. Everybody figures Caroline wanted kids and he just went along with the idea, the way he went along with all her ideas.”
“Was Caroline so … persuasive?” Joanna asked slowly.
“With men she was.” Mavis’s gaze returned to Joanna, and she made a little sound that might have denoted unwilling admiration. “She had that way about her, you know? Sort of helpless on the outside, and always needing a man to do one thing or another for her. Why, even the sheriff was more or less at her beck and call.”
“They were close?” It took an effort, but Joanna kept her voice only mildly interested.
Mavis looked thoughtful. “Well, I heard once that they were very close, if you know what I mean. But I never saw anything to prove that, and honestly, it might have been just gossip. All I know for sure is that he always seemed to have time to help her if she needed him. But I have to say, that’s true of most everybody in Cliffside. He’s an awfully good sheriff, Joanna. And he finds out things, you know? I mean, we don’t have a lot of crime here, but Sheriff Cavanaugh gets to the bottom of what we do have pretty quick. My Danny, he says the sheriff is like a terrier after a rat when he’s trying to solve a problem.”
Great. Just great. And he’s suspicious of me.
“Sounds like he’s suited to his job,” was her only comment.
“I’ll say. We’re lucky to have him.”
Joanna nodded in casual agreement, but her thoughts were anything but casual. A terrier after a rat equaled a man dedicated to the truth, but if that man had been involved with a victim of a so-called accident, even supposing he had not been involved in causing that accident, just how deeply would he dig for the truth?
“Another Coke, Joanna? Or something to eat? It’ll be lunchtime soon, you know.”
“I’m not really hungry,” Joanna said, conjuring a faint smile. “I think I’ll go on with my shopping now that I’ve rested.”
“For a little town,” Mavis offered proudly, “we have some pretty good stuff, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” Joanna said. “Oh, yeah.”
It was after two o’clock when Joanna came out of On the Corner to find Griffin leaning back against the store’s old-fashioned railing and quite obviously waiting for her. She was empty-handed, all her purchases having been left in the store behind her to be delivered to the hotel, and the bits and pieces of information she’d acquired today were a jumble in her head.
Even more, she was trying to decide if the wariness she had sensed at times today had been real or her imagination. If she had imagined it, it was no wonder, given her state of mind. But if she had not imagined it, then what lay behind it? Because she was a stranger who looked like Caroline? Because she was asking questions? Because something other than an accidental death had happened in this nice little town?
All she knew for sure, as she stood on the sidewalk, was that she felt wary herself. Especially now, confronting this man. She didn’t consider herself much of an actress, but she was determined to maintain her pose as simply a tourist enjoying the visit to his town.
So she didn’t hesitate to say, “We’ve gotta stop meeting like this, Sheriff. People will begin to talk.”
“As opposed to what they’ve been doing?” Not waiting for a reply, he asked, “Enjoying your shopping, Joanna?”
“Immensely,” she said. “I bought a lot o
f stuff, really good stuff.”
“I’m curious,” he said. “What’re you going to do with the basket? And with the clock in the shape of Cliffside’s courthouse?”
“Have you been following me?” she demanded.
“Not at all, I was merely on my daily rounds. Making sure the good citizens of Cliffside were all safe and happy.”
Joanna glanced around at the downtown area, fairly busy on this sunny Thursday afternoon, and wasn’t surprised to catch a number of covert looks directed toward her and the town sheriff. The problem was, what should have struck her as simple and genuine interest in someone who looked oddly like Caroline was beginning to seem sinister to her. To feel sinister. As if everyone but her knew something, some dark secret they didn’t want her to find out.
I’m just imagining things. Jumping at shadows.
“They look fine to me,” she said, lying.
“I’m good at my job.”
For the life of her, Joanna couldn’t tell how strong Griffin’s sense of humor was. So far, he hadn’t so much as cracked a smile, and the very dark eyes were completely unreadable. It left her uncertain as to just how serious his supposed curiosity was. Was he suspicious of her actions, or was he, in fact, merely being a small-town sheriff?
Finally, she shrugged and said, “I can always use another basket. Everyone can always use another basket. And the clock is simply my souvenir of Cliffside.”
“I assumed,” he said, “your souvenir of Cliffside would be the paperweight you bought at Merton’s.”
“That should teach you not to assume. The paperweight, with its replica of The Inn inside, is obviously a souvenir of where I’m staying. Specifically where I’m staying, I mean.”
He nodded gravely. “And the needlepoint pillow? I understand it represents the architectural marvels of our little community theater.”
“The needlework,” Joanna said, “is exquisite.”
“Umm. May I ask what is this fixation you have with buildings?”
Still not so much as the glimmer of a smile. He had a great poker face, this sheriff. Joanna cleared her throat. “Look, all those things just happened to appeal to me, that’s all. Surely there isn’t a crime against buying things you like.”