When they stepped into the hotel lobby at least thirty minutes later, it was discordant from the accommodations she had in mind. Two settees, three chairs, and two side tables crammed the small space across from the registration desk. Everything looked like ragged castoffs from another establishment that had long ago been renovated with better taste.
“We seem to be quite a distance from downtown,” Lynnelle said.
“It’s better that way,” Willie said.
“How so?”
“Safer for you, to begin with.” Carey stopped at the desk only long enough to sign the registry—Lynnelle could not see what he wrote—and receive a key. He pointed to the stairs in a manner suggesting great familiarity with the establishment.
They climbed to the fourth floor. Surely there was an elevator, but seething over that question was the least problematic matter Lynnelle faced.
Carey unlocked a door, and they entered a room every bit as shabby as Lynnelle suspected it would be. A dingy green rug covered half the floor but failed to disguise the deepest gouge in the wood. A bedspread might have once been yellow, but its color lacked reasonable description now. Floral wallpaper peeled at the seams. A spider-thin crack wove through the frameless mirror above the chipped bureau. Two hideous pink upholstered side chairs were the least offensive pieces in the room.
Lynnelle put up both hands. “Surely you don’t think—”
Willie cut her off. “It’s not the Windsor, but it’s secure. We have eyes we trust here.”
The phrase made Lynnelle’s stomach tighten, still uncertain whether to trust the two pairs of gray eyes, in two different shades, that she looked into.
“We’ll talk through the plan,” Carey said, “and then Willie and I will implement it.”
“What about me?” Lynnelle slanted one eye toward him.
“You’ll wait here.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No!”
“I’m certain not to like it if this is the way it starts out. I want to speak to Mr. McParland first thing in the morning before anything happens.”
Willie turned to Carey. “You’ll have to show her.”
He sighed and nodded, reaching into his inner suit pocket. “You’ll want to sit down.”
Lynnelle glanced at the bed and instead opted for the edge of one of the pink chairs. She took the pages—written over the same signature she had come to recognize in her own correspondence—to read and then examined Willie in a way she hadn’t up to this point.
Their height and build were similar.
Their hair coloring was nearly identical.
Their faces were even the same shape.
Lynnelle’s eyes were pale blue and Willie’s light gray—close enough.
Of course, the people meeting her—Willie pretending to be her—had never met Lynnelle and wouldn’t know the difference anyway, but the impersonation would be credible.
“But my signature,” she finally said. “It’s on the authorizing documents.”
“Willie is a quick learner,” Carey said, “and we have the whole night.”
I take certain precautions in the conversations in which I engage with strangers. Due to the nature of your excursion, I advise you to do the same, Mr. McParland had written.
“Then how do I know Willie didn’t learn Mr. McParland’s signature?” Lynnelle said. “You could have stolen this stationery. I need to speak to Mr. McParland. Even this questionable establishment must have a telephone downstairs.”
“Actually,” Carey said, “generally it’s not in working order.”
Lynnelle still clutched McParland’s telegram. In good hands. Did he mean these hands?
“I have the proper authorization to act as my father’s representative,” she said. “Why shouldn’t I go myself and affix my true signature?”
“The papers you’ve carried, along with what you provided Mr. McParland, have helped us set a trap,” Willie said.
“A trap?”
“If you will. We cannot risk that it snaps closed without catching anything.”
“So you—I—am bait.”
“And a valuable witness,” Carey said. “We will want you to speak to the authorities. Mr. McParland will explain everything.”
When I meet you.
Lynnelle exhaled in uncertain surrender. “I like to use a good solid black ink.”
“We’ll need to change clothes also,” Willie said.
“My clothes?”
“Your hat, the brooch.”
Lynnelle’s hand flew to her mother’s jewelry. “I can’t part with this.”
“Someone on the train would have seen you with it,” Willie said. “You never took it off. I promise, you’ll get it back.”
Carey turned toward the door. “Geppetto will have some paper. I’ll be right back.”
“Ask him for food as well,” Willie said. “And lots of coffee.”
The hours swept by. As pink crept across the eastern skyline above the city, Lynnelle examined her name on a clean sheet of paper and found the signature indistinguishable from her own swirls and strokes. Without the steamer, the only clothing to trade with Willie was the traveling suit she’d worn across the rail miles and her final fresh blouse. Carey left the room again and procured breakfast from somewhere. His departing advice was for Lynnelle to sleep while she could. Geppetto would inquire later whether she was ready for lunch. They would be back as soon as possible.
And she was alone.
In a stranger’s clothes. Without most of the contents of her satchel. Sitting on the edge of the bed, with the spread gingerly pulled back, unable to imagine sleep in these circumstances.
Geppetto came to the door to collect the breakfast dishes.
“I thought I would come down to use the telephone,” Lynnelle told him. Call Mr. McParland. Call her father. Let someone know where she was.
“It is not working,” Geppetto said.
The truth, or convenient fabrication? There would be other telephones in the neighborhood. She could pay someone for the use of one.
“That’s all right. Perhaps I’ll go out for some air,” she said lightly. “I’ve been cooped up on a train for days. I could do with a walk.”
“Mr. Meade—he would like you to stay here and rest after your trip.” Behind Geppetto’s bland smile was firm enforcement of Carey’s definite instruction. “I’ll bring you a hot lunch, Miss Bending. You like Italian food, yes?”
Geppetto left without awaiting an answer.
Miss Bending? In what manner had Carey butchered her first name in the register along with her last?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Now Nolan could get down to business. Working from home on Saturday afternoon and twelve hours in the Denver office on Monday had cleared the decks to stay in Canyon Mines the rest of the week organizing himself for next Saturday evening’s meal, squeezing in essential legal memos and phone conferences when necessary. His assistant, paralegal, and junior associate all had instructions not to add anything to his schedule this week, however. Starting Tuesday morning, the Duffy kitchen would transform into Legacy Dinner Central.
Three. Two. One. Go.
He’d spent Sunday afternoon clearing the refrigerator of anything that didn’t absolutely have to occupy space in it. Soups from leftovers now stocked the freezer in the garage. A shepherd’s pie made from the last of the beef from his second practice brisket had been their supper last night. The shelves of the garage refrigerator were empty most of the time because Nolan had been expecting it to give out for years, and with just the two of them in the house, they rarely needed the overflow space. Now he was grateful for it and crossed his fingers that this would not be the week the old appliance gave up the ghost one night as he innocently slumbered while the cool shelves housed a city of vegetables. He was taking no chances with the briskets. Those would stay in the house. Right now they were lined up in eight aluminum roasting pans ready for spicing.
Jillia
n wandered into the kitchen to refill her coffee mug. Nolan rolled over one of the briskets to inspect it.
“Something wrong?” Jillian asked.
“I suppose not,” Nolan muttered. “This might have been trimmed a little better.”
“I still wish you had found somebody to help you.” Jillian pushed a button, and one of the fancy machines Nolan never bothered with whizzed and hissed. “Maybe it’s not too late.”
“First I just have to rub the brown sugar in,” Nolan said. “The rest is organizing. Washing all the fruit and vegetables. I can’t actually start cooking this far in advance.”
“Okay, but tomorrow or the next day, you’re really going to wish you had some extra hands,” Jillian said. “I’ll see what I can do to lighten my work schedule.”
“No need.”
“Big need. Two hundred meals.”
“Did we buy any brown sugar?”
“Dad, don’t mess with my head.”
“I’m serious. Where’s the brown sugar?” He only needed three cups. It was a staple, and it hadn’t occurred to him to put it on a shopping list.
Jillian pointed. “There should be plenty in the canister behind you.”
“Right. I’ll be fine. Go back to work.”
Jillian’s phone rang from her office, and she scooted off to answer it. Nolan reached for his white apron and chef’s hat. Even just for rubbing sugar into eight briskets, he might as well get in the groove. As he rolled sugar between his fingers and laid his hands on the first brisket, a pensive melody began in his throat, and he hummed as he worked. Italian opera, of course. The best music to cook by. Puccini this time. The Nessun Dorma aria. Nolan would never sing it as wondrously as Luciano Pavarotti or Plácido Domingo, but he enjoyed trying from time to time. “None shall sleep.” Nolan hoped the phrase was not a portent of what his week would be like. By the fifth brisket, he was singing, full voiced, of Calaf’s determination to win Princess Turandot’s hand. By the eighth, Nolan laughed at the thought that if anyone asked for his recipe for the spiced beef, he might respond by singing, “Ma il mio mister è chiuso in me.” But my secret is hidden within me.
“Dad!”
Nolan knew the tone in his daughter’s voice. “I’ll turn it down.”
“Thank you!”
Despite his promise, her office door clicked closed against future disturbance while she took another call.
Nolan ran his hands under a warm stream from the faucet and dried them before beginning the task of covering the roasting pans with foil and transferring them back to the refrigerator, where he had calculated carefully how they would fit. He wiped the breakfast bar clean and lined up heaps of celery, carrots, brussels sprouts, cucumbers, strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, cabbage, spinach, mushrooms, onions, watercress, and oranges. Everything had to be cleaned, pared, sliced, diced, pureed, and crushed in the right quantities before being stored in containers or zip-top bags that would keep everything handy when the moment came to add ingredients to recipes efficiently.
He would require a steady stream of Italian arias over the next few days. “Work smart,” he told himself, “and make sure you sleep.”
Nolan opened the pantry door looking for ten pounds of onions. They weren’t there. He checked the back porch, where they might have been left to save space in the kitchen. Not there either. This would not do. He needed at least ten pounds if the briskets were going to have the desired effect, and more for seasoning the soups. He yanked off his apron. The only solution was to dash out to the grocery store. Despite Jillian’s assessment of the general inefficiency of his shopping patterns, he did know where the store was, and he was capable of selecting onions. He jumped in his truck, drove directly to the store, and marched down the produce aisle. The avocados looked good—not too green, not too ripe. He put four in the cart. And tangerines would always come in handy. Neither item had any relationship to the weekend’s menu, but that was hardly relevant. Nolan preferred to be prepared for inspiration. Before the onions, he debated between sweet Vidalias and the more peppery red onions.
Someone slid next to him in front of the onion bushel baskets.
“Hello, Mr. Duffy,” Drew said.
“Please call me Nolan.”
“Onions.” Drew planted his feet and crossed his arms. “Big decision.”
“The nuance in flavor can completely transform the dish,” Nolan said. “I’ve always favored the red, but I find myself wondering what Vidalia would do in this case.”
“Nothing wrong with experimenting.”
Nolan began filling a bag with red onions. For this occasion, the days of experimentation were over. “What brings you into the grocery store?”
“Hiking snacks. Apples. Granola bars. That sort of thing.”
“I could do with a hike.” Nolan dropped three extra onions in the bag for good measure.
“Then come along.”
“You tempt me.”
“I’m serious.” Drew pointed at the onions. “Anybody who needs all of those is working too hard.”
Nolan chortled. “Where are you planning to hike?”
“I hear interesting things about the glacier.”
“Might still be a little muddy, or even snowy at this time of year. But it’s not far, so if you don’t mind the risk, it’s worth the drive.”
“Then come along.”
Nolan considered the unexpected opportunity. “What would your aunt think?”
Drew gave an impish smirk. “She’s not invited.”
“I think I could manage a quick dash out to the glacier.” This was only Tuesday. He still had the rest of the week to panic about pulling together two hundred meals in time for Saturday.
They both checked out, and Nolan left his truck in the lot so they could ride together in Drew’s and he could serve as navigator.
“A personal tour guide is so much better than a brochure,” Drew said as they parked.
“It’s not a difficult hike.” Nolan closed the passenger door. “And you couldn’t ask for better views. Quite a bit different from ranch living, I imagine.”
They sauntered up the trail as they talked.
“I do get off the ranch.” Drew handed Nolan an apple. “But southern central Colorado is nothing like this.”
“Do you work full-time on the ranch?” Nolan pointed to a turn on the trail.
“The work is erratic. I like taking care of the animals, and I’m there for whatever Min thinks needs doing, but I have opportunities for other work as well.”
“And what line of work are you in?”
“This and that, here and there. But living on the ranch cuts expenses and allows me to give some other things a shot at least for a while. If they don’t work out, then at least I’ll know I tried.”
“Well, then I hope they do work out,” Nolan said, “and you find great satisfaction.”
“I’m not unsatisfied now,” Drew said. “All my life I’ve loved going to the ranch, and now I’m living there. And Aunt Min—she’s the person who first put me on a horse. I was scared half to death, but by then, she had so much experience helping children learn to ride. She was incredibly patient, even when I wanted to get off almost immediately. Aunt Min is the reason I love horses, the reason astride a horse is my happy place. She gave me my own horse. Because of Aunt Min and the ranch, I have my own horse and can ride whenever I want. I know you find it hard to believe, but she’s very generous.”
“In my experience,” Nolan said, “people do not have just one facet. Different people experience them in different ways for all sorts of reasons.”
“She’s smart as a whip. The way she ran the ranch before she retired and decided to sell off parcels of it—she learned the best from her own parents and grandparents.”
“That’s a wonderful legacy.”
“It is. I’m in awe. But sometimes she has a way of making everyone have something else they’d rather do, someplace else they need to be. Even my own grandmother, her sister
, never understood what could set off her sometimes, and Aunt Min’s husband and daughter would just sort of work around it until she got out of whatever funk she was in. I know I sure just want to get out of the way until it’s over.”
“Sometimes pain is underneath moments like that.”
“But about what? None of us can figure that out.”
They walked awhile before pausing again to gaze at the always-wintry view of the glacier’s height.
“The other thing I don’t understand,” Drew said, “is all the boxes.”
“Boxes?” Nolan raised an eyebrow.
“Everywhere. Min holds on to everything. She’s incredibly decisive about every other area of her life except which old documents to throw out.”
“So she keeps it all?”
Drew nodded.
“Always?”
“As far as I know. Boxes it all up and stacks it in the outbuildings. She won’t listen to anyone about it. As old as she is now, I think everyone is finished arguing with her. They’ll just pitch it all when she passes without opening any of it.”
“Some people are hoarders,” Nolan said. “It can be a form of mental illness.”
“She doesn’t keep anything and everything. It’s about documents. And she won’t put them in files. It has to be boxes.”
“Sounds like that can be frustrating for the family.”
They were looping back down the trail now.
“Is Jillian home today?” Drew asked.
“She was when I left.”
“I was hoping to see if she had a chance to look at my DNA results. Maybe she can tell me what she thinks—speaking of things Aunt Min is irrational about.”
“Come back to the house with me and we’ll find out.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
A narrow smile twisted at one corner of Drew’s mouth as he followed Nolan into the kitchen and set the onions on the counter. “I don’t think I ever heard what you do for a living.”
“I’m an attorney.”
“Do you represent a major bakery corporation? Or a small restaurant chain?”
“Family law, mostly. Some mediation work.”
When I Meet You Page 19