After Caroline

by Kay Hooper

  For the first time, Joanna wondered what her aunt would think of this situation, and the answer came swiftly. She would commend her niece for having the gumption to journey across the country in search of the meaning behind disturbing dreams, but she would urge caution because Joanna was, after all, surrounded by strangers. Strangers who had all known Caroline.

  Particularly this stranger.

  Joanna conjured a smile in response to his. And kept the conversation firmly on the subject she knew best and could casually discuss throughout the length of a meal and a drive back to town in the company of a disturbing stranger who hid his secrets all too well.

  “Maybe, but Aunt Sarah was the true adventurer. Do you know, she once rode across India on an elephant? And she was the only person I ever knew who had actually been to the North Pole. The South Pole too. And Madagascar. Have you ever known anyone who went to Madagascar? If there really had been dragons at the edge of the earth, she would have found them ….”

  On Friday morning, after a quick stop by the library, Joanna began “working” the other side of Main Street. The sense of urgency that had brought her to Cliffside had not abated at all; as she awoke every morning it seemed even stronger. She had to do something to try to ease that tension, and the only thing she could think of was to keep trying to find out about Caroline—particularly her death. Her murder. Somewhere in all this was an answer, Joanna knew. Somewhere was the reason she had been driven to come here.

  She just had to find it.

  There were a number of stores on this side, including two jewelry stores, what was once upon a time a five-and-dime, a store that made signs, two tourist-type stores selling souvenirs and other like items, and a couple more clothing boutiques.

  At first, Joanna thought she’d have the same fair success as the day before in gathering bits of information about Caroline, but that optimism was soon proved wrong. The first store she went into was one of the clothing boutiques, and while the young clerk (whose nametag read Sue) was professional and polite in asking her if she needed help, she also retreated immediately when Joanna said she was “just looking.” And for the next fifteen minutes or so, Joanna was uncomfortably aware of being watched.

  Not stared at. Watched.

  She actually drew a breath of relief when she was once more outside on the sidewalk, and couldn’t wait to move along, away from the windows, so that she no longer felt those unblinking eyes on her.

  It’s because I look like Caroline. That’s all.

  Squaring her shoulders and conjuring a friendly smile, Joanna went into the next store, which was one of the souvenir-filled ones. This time, the lone clerk remained behind his cash register, reading a newspaper and listening to the oldies station on his quiet radio.

  Joanna was so conscious of his disinterest that she picked up a souvenir at random, not realizing until she got up front that her prize was a cast-iron doorstop in the shape of a beaver. Thinking that maybe such an absurd choice would break the ice, she approached the cash register and said hi to the middle-aged man.

  “Will this be all, ma’am?” he asked, polite but unresponsive.

  “Yes, thanks.” She watched him begin to ring up her purchase, adding casually, “You have some very nice things here.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. That’ll be thirty-eight fifty, ma’am.”

  She handed over two twenties and tried again. “My name’s Joanna.”

  His mild blue eyes were unreadable as he handed her the change and a sturdy bag containing her doorstop. “Yes, ma’am. Thanks for coming in.”

  There was, Joanna thought, something very, very deliberate about his unresponsiveness, almost as though it had been rehearsed. He seemed a little too studied as he turned away indifferently and picked up his newspaper again, dismissing her so completely that she felt almost invisible.

  Back out on the sidewalk, Joanna cradled her awkward purchase against one hip and stood eyeing the next store with a little frown. One of the two jewelry stores. What would she find in there?

  She found Mr. Landers, who was pleasant and who told her a sweet story about Regan and a necklace the little girl had got for her mother. But when Joanna tried to probe his feelings about Caroline, his affable smile faded a bit, and his eyes turned guarded. She was a nice lady, that was all he said. And when Joanna mentioned Scott, Mr. Landers abruptly recalled some business he had to take care of in the back, and was there anything else he could do for her?

  Joanna left without buying anything. This was very … odd. She could hardly believe that Main Street divided Cliffside into helpful and unhelpful sides, so she could only assume that something had changed since yesterday to make these people wary of her. Had Griffin returned from their lunch and quietly spread the word that her questions about Caroline weren’t to be answered?

  If he had, why? Why were her questions so dangerous?

  And if he had not, then why was she meeting with so much unresponsiveness today? Because small towns were naturally resistant to questions, and her interest in Caroline and her family was considered excessive? Was she merely being politely warned off? Or was there something more sinister in the closing ranks of Cliff side’s citizens?

  More than a little unnerved, Joanna entered the next store, another clothing boutique. This time, she was met with a smiling face. The youngish clerk introduced herself in a friendly manner as Linn, and she didn’t hesitate to admit that she knew who Joanna was.

  “I expect everybody knows by now,” she said frankly. “With you looking so much like Mrs. McKenna, that’s hardly surprising, is it? Is there anything special you’re looking for, Joanna?”

  Answers! “No, not really. Maybe a new sweater. It’s cooler here than I expected.”

  She was led to sweaters and several were suggested. Linn’s manner was brisk and friendly, but quite businesslike. She didn’t seem disposed to chat, and when Joanna tentatively broached the subject of Caroline, Linn replied vaguely and politely excused herself to attend to another customer.

  By the time Joanna selected a sweater almost at random and took it to be paid for, she was unsurprised to see Linn’s smiling face and guarded eyes. But the confirmation of her expectations was nevertheless disturbing—so much so that Joanna turned back toward The Inn rather than continue shopping.

  As she walked, she tried to concentrate on what she knew or had heard—mostly yesterday, although the stop at the library had provided at least one bit of information.

  The tourist who had fallen to his death had been named Robert Butler, a businessman from San Francisco. He had, apparently, been walking too close to the edge and slipped. Nobody seemed to think there had been anything more to his death. An accident. A sister came up to claim the body. End of story.

  Other than that, she had found out that it was very likely that the man and woman who had mistaken her for Caroline in Atlanta were Dylan York and Lyssa Maitland, two of Scott McKenna’s employees. Both, she had heard, were currently out of town on business for him, and there had been some vague mention of the East Coast.

  They were due back soon. Too soon.

  And Joanna had also discovered that Caroline had bought a little antique box at One More Thing about a week before she was killed. Was that important? She didn’t know. It was just another piece of the jigsaw puzzle, one more fact to add to the rest.

  Joanna wondered if she’d ever be able to put the pieces together and find out what the picture was.

  It was Friday afternoon when she met Cain Barlow.

  After having a solitary lunch in her room at the hotel, Joanna was more than ready to find a quiet place and just let the sea breezes clear her jumbled thoughts. She ended up buying a newspaper and trying to read that on the cool veranda, but found her thoughts wandering again and again from the news of the day. The news didn’t seem too important here, she thought, at least not today.

  It was almost four o’clock when restlessness drove her from the veranda. With daylight saving time still in effect, th
ere were still a couple of hours of light left, so she wasn’t worried about getting caught in the dark. She moved toward the cliffs but turned north instead of south, fighting her urges because she was determined not to wander in the direction of the McKenna house. Not now. Her head was stuffed with details about Caroline as it was, and she needed to sort through them.

  She stayed back a few feet from the edge of the cliffs and just strolled north. Since Cliffside’s Main Street was set a slight distance inland, there was room between the town and the jagged cliffs for a number of widely spaced cottages, each an individual design so that the overall effect wasn’t one of mass production but originality. Most were privately owned by townsfolk, and she’d been told that nobody would mind if she walked up that way.

  There was, actually, a narrow footpath that wound along the irregular coastline a safe distance back from the rocks, so Joanna followed that. She had passed a couple of the cottages, seeing no one, and was about to turn back toward The Inn when, through the trees that had begun crowding the coastline here, she saw another cottage. And saw him.

  He had his back to her, his attention fully on the painting on his easel even though he didn’t seem to actually be working on it, and Joanna found herself walking toward him without really thinking about what she was doing. And she didn’t think about what she was saying when she blurted, “I thought you never painted seascapes.”

  He turned quickly, brilliant green eyes widening and then narrowing as they fixed on her face. He was a good-looking man, tall and well built, his coppery hair cut much too neatly for an artist.

  “Damn,” he said in a deep, pleasant voice, drawing the curse out.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” she said. “I’m—”

  “Joanna Flynn,” he supplied.

  She sighed. “Why do I even bother to try saying it? I’ve hardly had to tell anybody who I was since my first day here.” She eyed him and couldn’t resist saying, “And you’re Cain Barlow, local artist.”

  He had a sense of humor; there was a laugh in his eyes when he responded in a polite tone, “Just so, Miss Flynn.”

  “Oh, call me Joanna. Everybody does.”

  “All right, Joanna. I’m Cain.” He hadn’t taken his eyes off her face, and shook his head now in a gesture that was not quite disbelief. “Forgive me for staring, but from an artistic viewpoint it really is … fascinating.”

  “From my viewpoint too,” she told him a bit ruefully. “It’s odd enough to look so much like somebody else, but when you find yourself surrounded by people who knew that other person … well, let’s just say it’s been an experience.”

  “I imagine so.”

  She glanced past him at the painting. “If I’m disturbing you, I’ll go away.”

  Cain shook his head. “I was finished for the day. Just brooding.”

  “I was told you didn’t paint seascapes,” Joanna said, repeating her first remark as she studied what was definitely a seascape. Like all his work she had seen so far—the painting at the basket shop and photographs in the art book she’d bought—this one was filled with color and life. Unlike other seascapes she had seen, his depiction of a promontory north of his cottage, ocean waves battering its rocky base, was not done in dark shades of gray and blue but in unexpected swirls and splashes of warm, brilliant colors.

  “I don’t paint many,” Cain said. “The sea doesn’t really inspire me.”

  “If this is what you can do when you aren’t inspired,” she said, “I would love to see what you consider a result of true inspiration.”

  “Know anything about art?” he asked in a neutral tone.

  Joanna smiled at him. “Don’t worry, I won’t madden you by saying that I don’t know art but I know what I like.”

  “It’s a true enough statement from most people.”

  “From me too, I suppose—but I won’t say it.” She returned her gaze to the painting and went on slowly. “This … makes me feel. I noticed the same thing with your painting in the wicker shop. All the color and life just seem to leap right off the canvas.”

  “I’m glad you like it, Joanna.” He was absently cleaning a couple of brushes with a paint-spattered rag as they talked.

  She heard a slight note of constraint in his voice and thought it probably made him uncomfortable to hear his work talked about. According to what little she had read about him, Cain Barlow was one of those rare, amazingly gifted artists who painted to satisfy a creative demon inside him; he didn’t care about commercial success beyond being able to earn enough to live on, and it was said that art critics respected him for not giving a damn about their opinions.

  Or anyone else’s, probably.

  Joanna took her gaze off the painting and looked at him, reminding herself that one of his paintings had appeared in the dream that had brought her here. So, what did he have to do with Caroline?

  “Now you’re staring,” he said, a little amused.

  “Sorry. Something just occurred to me. The painting at the wicker store … is the little girl Regan?”

  “You’ve met her?”

  “Briefly, the other day. Shook up both of us. Is it her in the painting?”

  “She didn’t pose for it,” Cain replied. “But she gave me the idea when I saw her in a field one day. She was picking flowers for her mother.”

  “I guess you knew Caroline.”

  “Everyone did. Surely you’ve realized that by now.” He began putting away his brushes in a case, his movements methodical and unhurried. “It’s not only a small town, but Caroline could trace her roots to its beginning. That still counts for something in a place like this.”

  Joanna nodded slowly. “I got that feeling. But, you know, it’s funny, a lot of the people I’ve talked to said that they didn’t really know her. Was she as shy as all that?”

  “Shy? No. I’d call it repressed. She married right out of high school, and beyond being allowed to mother Regan however it suited her, I doubt she was given many choices in her life.”

  Joanna was more than a little startled, both by his words and by a note of definite anger in his voice. Did it come from a purely benevolent interest in a woman who had touched something in him? Or had Cain Barlow known Caroline McKenna much better than the gossips in Cliffside had realized?

  Before she could even begin to frame some kind of question, an interruption presented itself in the form of Amber Wade, who came down the path from The Inn wearing her usual very short shorts and very high heels and swaying on the latter probably more than even she intended due to the uneven trail.

  “Oh,” she said when she reached them, an uneasy and unfriendly glance at Joanna followed immediately by a glowing smile at Cain. “I thought you’d be alone, Cain.”

  “Joanna stopped by for a visit,” he said casually. “Have you two met?”

  “Not officially,” Joanna said. “But we’re both staying at The Inn. Hi, Amber.”

  “Hello. I’ve seen you around.” Amber looked at Cain’s painting. “Oh, how pretty,” she said.

  “Thanks,” said Cain with a faint smile.

  “I wish you’d paint me. Oh, Cain, why won’t you?”

  It occurred to Joanna that Amber said “oh” so often because the syllable pursed her lips as though she were ready to be kissed. It also occurred to her that Cain was being hotly pursued by a young lady with all the subtlety of a flamethrower.

  Lightly, he told Amber, “I never paint anyone between the ages of thirteen and twenty.”

  She looked confused. “Why not?”

  “The growing years. Never the same from one day to the next—and it’s a hopeless task to try and get that on canvas.”

  Amber was too young to be able to hide anything, including disappointment and a lack of comprehension. “Oh. But—”

  “Why don’t I walk you ladies back to the hotel?” he suggested. “It’s getting late, and I’m supposed to meet Holly there anyway.”

  Joanna thought about saying she wa
nted to walk farther up the coast before going back, but a quick glance from his vivid green eyes told her that Cain was asking for her help. Glad that she herself had survived being eighteen, she murmured that she’d be glad of the company and watched Amber fume silently.

  “Give me five minutes to put this stuff away,” he told them.

  “Need a hand?” Joanna asked.

  “No, thanks, I’ve got it.” And he did, vanishing into his cottage with the painting in one hand and his easel and equipment in the other.

  “He and Holly make a nice couple, don’t you think?” Joanna asked the younger girl, mildly curious as to whether Amber knew of the relationship.

  “She doesn’t appreciate him,” Amber replied instantly.

  “No?”

  “No. She’s always busy and—and she frowns at him a lot.”

  Joanna didn’t bother to remark that if Amber had seen those frowns, it was doubtless because she herself had been hanging around Cain—and probably too close for Holly’s comfort. Instead, she merely said, “Well, outsiders never really understand relationships between a man and woman, do they?”

  “I’m very perceptive,” Amber told Joanna. “Psychic, even.”

  Joanna kept her expression grave. “I see. And you think Cain needs a … change of girlfriend?”

  Amber actually went red, and Joanna couldn’t tell whether it was because Amber had honestly believed her crush had gone unnoticed by others or because she didn’t expect Joanna to be so blunt. “I,” she said, chin lifting high, “would support and appreciate his artism!”

  It was getting more difficult to keep a serious face, but Joanna tried, resisting the temptation to tell Amber that unless she believed Cain to be autistic and she meant to support and appreciate that, the word she probably wanted was “artistry.” Or just “art,” maybe.

  Cain came back out of the cottage about then, sparing Joanna the need to come up with some kind of response, and the three of them started back up the path toward the hotel. The path was really too narrow for all of them to walk abreast, but Amber stuck close to Cain’s right side, and since he directed most of his conversation to Joanna, she had to walk fairly close on his left.