“There are several problems here. First, I don’t keep records of those who make purchases, only clients who leave items for consignment.” Her eyes widened. “And second, even if I did know the original owner of the sweater Mr. Gladstone purchased, I couldn’t possibly give out personal information belonging to that client.”
I waited patiently for her to finish—quite a feat, as I was eager to get the information and go. I looked around for Aiden. This was where he needed to step in. He was standing at a rack of clothes, fingering a Hawaiian print shirt. I coughed. He looked up and the fabric slipped from his fingers.
Striding over, he introduced himself and let the woman examine his badge. He provided the dates Mac had been in the store and the fact that he’d used a credit card for his purchases. “There should be a trail, either electronic or paper. Or both.”
By the time Aiden was done, she was blushing to the tips of her frosted brown hair. He might not have the power of dimples, but he had a no-nonsense cop look about him that terrified many people into complying with his wishes.
“I can return with a warrant if you prefer,” he added gently, “if it would ease your conscience.”
Her hand fluttered over her chest. “There’s no need for formality. As this is a police request, I’m more than happy to do my part. It’ll take just a moment.”
When she turned, Aiden flashed me a triumphant smile. I thought he enjoyed throwing his power around.
The woman—her name was Madeline—alternated between tapping on her computer and checking a thick logbook.
I leaned toward her. “If it helps, I heard the sweater was absolutely hideous. Deep orange with confetti-like colored shapes all over it.”
She lifted her head from her computer. “That sweater?”
“You remember it?” I asked.
“Hard to forget. It was early December and a woman came in with all kinds of ugly clothes. Her brother had just passed on and she was looking to unload his wardrobe. There was a mound of items on the counter I just couldn’t accept. I have a reputation, you know.”
Aiden and I nodded so she’d keep talking.
“About the time I was telling her I couldn’t take any of her items, a very handsome, distinguished man came in. He saw the sweater on the counter and straight off asked if he could buy it. I certainly wasn’t going to turn down a sale, but I can’t express how shocked I was when he sorted through the entire pile on the counter and bought several of the items from that lot, including an equally ugly sky blue sweater with purple stripes, a ratty coat, and worn-out sneakers that barely had any sole left.”
I held in a smile. Mac really must have wanted to get under Jemima’s skin.
“I had a dickens of a time telling the woman I couldn’t take the rest of her clothing. She simply didn’t believe me when I said no one would buy them.”
“Do you have the woman’s name?”
Madeline flipped through the logbook until she found what she was looking for. “Orlinda Batista.”
“Do you have an address?” Aiden asked, pulling out a notebook.
“Only a phone number,” she said, reading it off the book.
Aiden jotted it down. “Thank you. We might be in touch if we need any more information.”
“If I can help,” she said, her eyes bright, “I’ll be glad to.”
She was so sincere I almost expected her to salute.
“Can I ask why you need to see the woman?” she asked. “How does the sweater factor in?”
Aiden glanced my way and must have seen the hesitation in my eyes. “Sorry, ma’am. That’s confidential.”
Her lips formed a little o, and she pressed her hands to her heart again.
Outside the shop, Aiden glanced at his watch. “I have to go back to work, and I need a little time to track down the address that goes with this phone number. Are you free tomorrow?”
“I’ll clear my schedule if I have to.”
I just hoped Orlinda Batista’s palm held the energy I needed to find Mac. Unfortunately, I was losing hope he was alive.
26
As soon as Aiden dropped me off at home, I dialed Marisol to run my plan past her.
“You’re brilliant,” she said, her voice light with laughter. “It will work. It has to work!”
I hoped it didn’t backfire. “So, whoever talks to Em first has to get the information out of her. Deal?”
“Deal. How did Dovie’s date go?”
My phone beeped with call-waiting, and I let it go through to voice mail. “I haven’t talked to her yet.” I explained about Rufus and the break-ins.
“Didn’t you say you found Thoreau by finding his leash? Can you do the same for Rufus?”
“I can’t. Mac bought Rufus’s leash. I remember Christa mentioning he special-ordered it.”
“Well, if it’s any peace of mind, I microchipped him yesterday. If someone finds him and brings him to a local vet’s, they’ll be able to track him back to me.”
“You’ll let me know if someone calls?”
“Right away.”
I didn’t feel much relief. I had the sinking feeling Rufus wasn’t running loose in the streets.
I’ll be in touch.
I hung up with Marisol, and suddenly cold, I turned the heat up another two degrees. I made sure all my doors and windows were locked and the alarm set. Grendel watched me from atop the fridge as I poked around for something to eat. I nibbled on a cold slice of pizza, but my stomach wasn’t in it. In fact, it was getting worse. At this rate I was going to have to see a doctor.
My phone chimed that I had a voice-mail message waiting—I’d forgotten about the call that had come in while I was talking to Marisol.
It had been from Sean. “Ms. Valentine,” he said, causing warmth to chase away a lingering chill. “Bad news, good news. Bad news is I’m stuck in a traffic nightmare heading out of the city. Good news is I’m on my way to you. I should be there in an hour or so.”
Just enough time for a bath. Finally.
Grendel hid under my bed while I ran the water and dumped in bath salts. I lit candles and turned the lights off. I sank into the water, letting the heat work its magic on my muscles, my stress, my worries.
I thought about Mac and what might have happened to him. I had pretty much ruled out any kind of blackmail scheme. The money he’d been withdrawing every month had to have been going to Jemima and Rick, to keep them afloat. It seemed more and more likely he’d killed himself. He made sure Christa was taken care of financially, and he made sure Rufus had his morning walk. He probably assumed Jemima would let Christa keep the dog, and that had been a poor supposition on his part.
Wind buffeted the cottage. The old wood within the walls creaked and shifted. Water splashed as I sat up, listening, straining to hear any noise out of place. The creaking had been louder than usual, but after listening intently for a moment, I relaxed. Tristan Rourke had made me completely paranoid.
I closed my eyes and wondered how Preston had fared with the Lone Ranger’s hat. She was absolutely tenacious when she was tracking a story. I sank deeper into the water as I worried about her discovering the truth about the auras. I hadn’t called Cutter yet—a mistake on my part. I’d do it as soon as I got out of the tub.
I heard another sharp creak and sat up again, every sense on alert. After a few seconds of listening to the wind, I sank back into the heat of the water. This bath wasn’t as relaxing as I thought it would be.
Focusing on a water droplet stubbornly clinging to the curved faucet, I let my head fall back onto the bath pillow. Candlelight flickered against the travertine tiles, and I allowed myself to remember a vision I’d had just before Christmas. It had been of Sean and me, him in a fancy black suit, me in a white sleeveless dress. A tropical flower had been tucked behind my ear, and my curls had been styled so they flowed over my shoulders. It had been a wedding—I was sure of that. It was all I had seen—and it had yet to come true. Between that vision and the one I’d had
yesterday of us in Hawaii, my concerns about our future rose on the thin spirals of steam from the tub, vanishing somewhere high above me. I wasn’t sure how we’d get there, and I had a feeling we had quite a few roadblocks ahead—but we would get there. Now if only I’d be able to stop worrying about what came after.
Using my toe, I dropped the lever to release the water from the tub. I dried off, moisturized, and wrapped my hair in a towel, turban-style. I grabbed my robe from the back of the door and was grateful to have the night alone with Sean. I’d try to block out the strains and stresses of my life right now and just focus on us.
I blew out the candles, opened the bathroom door, and screamed.
Tristan Rourke was sitting on my bed. Grendel was in his lap, and I could hear his purrs from across the room. Apparently, I’d been wrong. He had no pride at all. Not even a tiny iota.
“Did you have a nice bath?” Tristan asked.
I kept my back pressed to the wall. I looked to my left, out the bedroom. The alarm was off and the front door was open. “How’d you get in?”
“I’m a man of many talents,” he said, scratching under Grendel’s chin before setting him aside and standing up.
I was glancing around for some kind of weapon when Tristan said, “I think you know what I want. Are you in the mood to trade?” He kept his distance, which was good, because the only weapon I could lay eyes on was Grendel’s feather-on-a-stick. Which would do me no good whatsoever unless I wanted to tickle Tristan to death.
“Your father has excellent taste in art, by the way.” He chuckled.
“What’s so funny?”
“I wonder if your father knows who originally stole those paintings.”
I gasped. “You?”
“I’d call that making a full circle, wouldn’t you? Now how about a trade? The paintings for Meaghan’s file.”
“What about Rufus?”
He cocked his head. “Rufus? I only took the Vermeer and the Gandolfi.”
“The dog,” I clarified.
“What dog? Oh, you mean the sweetheart from the mailbox yesterday?”
“That’s him.”
“Sorry. If the pooch is missing, it’s not by my hand. Can’t you do your little magic thing with your hands and find him like you did the other little dog?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Too bad. The file?” he asked.
A flash of light caught my eye. Headlights. A car was turning down the lane. Sean.
“I’m sorry. I don’t have that information anymore.”
“I’d hate to sell those paintings.…”
I bit my lip. In my head I heard my father saying they were worth millions. “Can I think about it?”
I could now hear the crunch of tires on the snow-packed lane. Tristan heard it, too. He sprinted to the front door and looked back at me.
“One more day, Lucy Valentine. I’m losing patience.”
Then he was gone, out the door and down the steps. I ran to the doorway.
Sean had just opened the car door when Tristan went running out. He looked at me, then at Tristan, and ran after him. Thoreau barked from the safety of the car. I grabbed my cell phone from the counter and dialed 911 as Sean chased Tristan toward the bluff.
I could hardly believe my eyes when Tristan reached the edge, bent down, and disappeared over the edge into the darkness. Sean skidded to a stop before falling after him.
He was breathing hard when he met me on the porch.
“What happened to him?” I asked, still seeing him going over the cliff in my mind’s eye.
“He had a rope anchored to the bluff and a boat waiting for him below. He rappeled down the side of the cliff. I’ve never seen anything like it outside a Hollywood movie.”
I didn’t question the relief I felt—I didn’t like Tristan, but I didn’t necessarily want to see him dead, either. “The police are on their way.” It would be too late to catch Tristan. He’d be long gone by the time the police could contact the Coast Guard.
Sean was pale as he took me in his arms, held me close. “When I saw him coming out the door…”
Suddenly I was flying backward over the threshold. I landed with a bone-jarring thud. Worse, I watched in horror as Sean flew in the opposite direction, across the porch. He landed in a snowbank just beyond the steps.
Stunned, I couldn’t move for a second. It seemed as though I was watching in slow motion. Then my brain kicked in, and I realized what had happened. Sean had been shocked, his heart zapped by his implanted defibrillator. I scrambled to my feet, tripping in my haste to reach him. An overwhelming sense of loss and grief sat heavy on my chest, crushing. I fought to breathe normally. In, out.
This. This had been my vision.
I couldn’t lose him. I couldn’t.
I sent frantic pleas to every deity known to man. God, Buddha, the fates, the Tooth Fairy. Anyone who might be able to help me. To save him. To let us share a life together.
Together.
The sirens in the distance sounded to my ears like angels singing as I knelt in the snow next to him. I didn’t even know I was crying until the tears dripped onto his face.
“You better not be faking, Sean Donahue.”
He struggled to sit up. “Or else what?”
“I don’t know. I’d have to kiss you to death or something.”
“Good way to go.”
His voice was quiet, so quiet. I said, “Keep still.”
He reached up, swiped at the tears on my face. “I’m okay.”
How could he say that? Didn’t he know what happened? Hell, felt it? His heart had stopped. If not for that shock, he could be dead right now. Dead. I shuddered and tried valiantly to put the word out of my mind, but grief fluttered in my chest.
“Help me up,” he said softly.
“I think you should lie still. The police are almost here.” I could hear the sirens growing louder.
“Lucy, I’m freezing. Please. And your lips are turning blue.”
Me. He was worried about me at a time like this. I didn’t even feel the cold. If I was shaking, it wasn’t because I was only wearing a robe.… It was the fear. The damn fear.
“Please,” he repeated.
Grabbing hold of his forearms, I pulled. I helped him up the steps and into the chair next to the fireplace. He was heavy. I hated that the term “deadweight” came to mind. I used the collar of my robe to dry more tears. I had to stop crying. This wasn’t the time to fall apart. I had to be strong.
“I just need to sit for a minute,” he said.
“You need to go to the hospital. I’ll call an ambulance.” I looked around for my cell phone.
He grabbed my wrist. “No. I’m okay. I just need to call my doctor and transmit the reading. Remember? We talked about this.”
I drew in a shaky breath. We had talked about it. Months ago. He thought I should know what happened during a shock and the common procedure afterward. If he had another shock in the next twenty-four hours, he’d need immediate medical attention, but for now he was right. He just needed to sit and get his bearings. And I needed to calm down.
Ha! Like that was going to happen. But as I looked into his eyes, I knew I had to fake it. For his sake.
It’s just … I had never really expected him to have a shock. On the surface he was so healthy, so alive. Yet just underneath … a time bomb lurked. And it had just reminded me that Sean was living on borrowed time.
27
I was afraid to sleep.
Afraid that if I closed my eyes, when I opened them again Sean would be gone.
Gone, gone.
The forever kind of gone.
It was illogical—I knew he’d be fine at least for the foreseeable future. During my panic earlier, I’d forgotten about my other visions. The beach, the hammock. The white dress, the black suit. They had yet to be fulfilled. It gave me a small measure of relief. But then what? What if there were no other visions after those came true?
I g
lanced his way. He slept, looking blessedly peaceful for a change. I eyed his bottle of prescription medicine on the night table. He’d taken something to help him relax, to sleep, to keep torturous thoughts away. Lucky guy.
Checking the clock on my side of the bed, I saw it was just after 2:00 A.M. It had been a long night. An hour after the Cohasset police arrived at my cottage, the FBI showed up (I was beginning to really dislike Agents Thomas and St. John), then Aiden and a couple of state police investigators.
There had been so many questions, I’d lost track of what I answered. Thankfully, everyone had left Sean alone for the most part to rest. One thing they all agreed on was that my cottage wasn’t safe. I’d given in after an hour of trying to explain that I didn’t think Tristan Rourke would hurt me. No one listened.
I nixed all talk of hotel rooms and safe houses and went to the one place that felt as much like home as my place.
Mum’s.
She’d welcomed Sean and me and our menagerie with open arms and big smiles. There was nothing she liked more than houseguests, no matter the reason we were staying.
There was twenty-four-hour surveillance on the house, from land and sea. Tristan Rourke would have to be crazy to try to break in.
I expected he would try.
Moonlight slipped through the crack in the drapes. It was both sweet and disturbing that my mother had left my room as it was the day I moved out. My walls were covered mostly with Broadway show posters, but there were a couple of bands, too—Pearl Jam, Journey, Bruce Springsteen. I had eclectic tastes, even as a teenager.
I looked up. A yellow Aerosmith concert poster had been stapled to the ceiling above my bed, and my gaze traced the font, just for something to do, to keep my mind from wandering.
Sean coughed, rolled, and settled in again. I watched him carefully, monitoring the rise and fall of his chest.
My own chest squeezed so tight it hurt to draw in a breath. I couldn’t keep up this vigil. It wasn’t healthy—mentally or physically.