In the kitchen, Dovie made a snoring noise.
“Hey!” Em said.
“Live a little,” Dovie said. “You’re only young once.”
“Why do I feel ganged up on?”
My phone rang, the Hawaii Five-O theme song I’d programmed to let me know when Aiden was calling. “Hi, Aiden,” I answered.
Em’s face lit before she caught herself and focused on Rufus’s ear. Her aura and Aiden’s were a perfect match. They were destined to be together. Soul mates. True love. It had all the makings of a happily ever after. If only one of them would make a move. It was like watching paint dry, seeing the two of them dance around a relationship. Even though my father had told Em about the perfect match, she claimed she didn’t want to rush into anything, and Aiden claimed he was waiting for Em to heal.
It was enough to drive me crazy.
“I got your message about Mac Gladstone,” Aiden said. “And I made some calls. I’m meeting with the lead investigator first thing in the morning. He made it sound like there might be something we’d be interested in but didn’t want to get into it over the phone. I’ll call after.”
I ran through my morning to-do list. Near the top was finding Tristan Rourke. “Anytime.”
I hung up. Dovie held out my tea as I walked by the kitchen island. “Anything?” she asked.
I filled her in as Rufus snored from his spot at Em’s feet. “Sean also found a notice from an insurance company in Mac’s desk.” I fished it out of my tote bag and showed it to Em.
The sheet of paper had “This Is Not a Bill” stamped across the top and itemized all Mac’s claims for the last six months. In the past three months he’d seen three different doctors, visited the hospital twice, and made monthly stops at the local pharmacy.
Em tapped the paper. “This doctor, Gregory McDonald, is a big-time oncologist.”
“Mac had cancer?” Dovie said.
“Maybe.” Em stood and stepped around Rufus’s prone body. “These hospital visits are probably for scans.”
I rummaged around my tote bag for the prescription bottle. “And this?”
“It’s a strong painkiller often used for cancer patients, so yeah, I’d say Mac had cancer. Aiden can probably get his medical records.”
“But his granddaughter said he was healthy.” I was trying to wrap my brain around this turn of events.
“Maybe she didn’t know,” Dovie said. “I certainly had no idea he was having any health problems, and news like that would spread around here.”
I also told them about the phone call Mac’s granddaughter had overheard. Dovie let out a long sigh and leveled a knowing look at me. “Sounds as though someone was trying to stop him from doing something drastic.”
“Something drastic like suicide?” Em said.
It was certainly beginning to look that way.
7
Coffee. Nectar of the Gods first thing in the morning.
I sipped gratefully as Thoreau slept on my lap and Sean drove down Roxbury side streets. To my surprise, he hadn’t had any luck finding Tristan Rourke online. Tristan was completely off the grid. No credit cards, no license, no state ID, no work history, no tax filings—ever. He didn’t own any property and had no death certificate.
For all intents and purposes didn’t exist.
Except we knew he did.
The tires of Sean’s Mustang crunched over roads sanded for better traction. Almost eight inches of snow had fallen overnight. Preston had to beg off coming with us as her editor had called with an unexpected assignment, but she made us promise to take notes.
So far, there wasn’t much to be noted.
I had to confess I wasn’t thrilled to be looking for an ex-con. I reminded myself I wasn’t in business to judge Meaghan. Or Tristan. Just to reunite them and let destiny take its course. But now I had some serious reservations. “I had high hopes he’d turned his life around, left crime behind.”
“There’s still hope, Pollyanna.”
I arched an eyebrow.
“Living underground is a bit suspicious,” Sean conceded.
“Very suspicious. I don’t know what to tell Meaghan.”
The voice of reason, Sean said, “Nothing to tell yet.”
He was right. We didn’t know anything for sure. All we had was an address for Rourke’s grandmother, who had been listed as his next of kin through the prison, and a picture of Rourke faxed from a contact of Sean’s at Cedar Junction.
I plucked the photo out of a folder. Shorn blond hair, striking pale blue eyes, a scar crossing his nose. He didn’t look like a stereotypical bad guy. If I stared long enough, I could almost see the boy he once was, the boy Meaghan Archibald had loved.
Still loved.
I had to keep that in mind with this case. Had to keep an open mind, period.
The houses on Maureen Rourke’s street were surprisingly well maintained for the rough-and-tumble neighborhood. The triple-deckers sat nearly side by side with freshly painted clapboards, newer-looking porches, and bright, clean windows. Tiny strips of snow-covered lawns bled into the street, no sidewalk boundary protecting home sweet home from the big bad world beyond. Cars sat along the blurred line separating yards from traffic, most plowed into their spot until a good thaw or someone with the wherewithal to dig out the car came along.
Roxbury, in general, was one of Boston’s transitional areas. High crime, drug houses, and drive-by shootings were mixed in with hardworking residents just trying to make their way in life.
By all accounts, Maureen Rourke was one of the latter. According to tax records, she’d worked two or three jobs at a time since she was fifteen years old. Everything from chambermaid, to washwoman, to entrepreneur.
I remembered what Meaghan had said—that Tristan’s grandmother had been too poor to take him in when his mother died. I couldn’t imagine how hard that must have been—for both of them—and wondered if she had worked so hard to raise the money to get him back from the state, only to see him arrested and taken away for good.
Three years ago, right after Tristan had been released from prison, she opened her own business, a Laundromat we’d driven past on our way here, A Clean Start.
Someone had a sense of humor.
Thoreau lay snuggled on my lap. We’d opted to bring him along instead of leaving him at my place. Dovie would have her hands full with Rufus as he adapted to his new surroundings. She had decided to keep him— I’d never had a doubt.
Someone at Maureen Rourke’s house had been quite industrious. Not only had a car, a newer-model Camry, been shoveled free of snow, but the walkway and front steps had been cleared as well.
We idled in front of the three-decker. Sean said, “The deed is in Maureen’s name. And apparently the house was bought with cash two years ago. There was never any mortgage on record.”
I heard the undertone in his voice. I had a dozen reasons why Maureen would suddenly have so much cash on hand, but reality was hard to overlook. Tristan probably helped buy the house. His release from prison and the timing of the business opening and the purchase of the house were too coincidental. Where he found the money was anyone’s guess at this point, but I had a sinking feeling that whatever he was doing wasn’t on the up-and-up.
Sean hopped out, removed the plastic chair saving the empty parking spot in front of the house, and parked. I bundled Thoreau in a blanket and left him in the front seat.
The wooden door had been painted a beautiful colonial red. An arched window at the top of the door didn’t have a speck on it. I knocked. A moment later, an older woman answered the door. Reddish hair streaked with white was pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck. Beautiful creamy skin was dotted with freckles, and wrinkles creased the corners of her eyes and lips. Ice blue eyes twinkled at us as she wiped her hands on a dish towel. “What you be needing, darlin’s?” Her voice was rich with an Irish brogue. She had to have been a stunning beauty in her younger years.
“Are you Maureen Rourke???
? I asked.
Behind her, dark wooden floors gleamed in the morning light. The scent of coffee and something baking lingered in the air. She tipped her head, and some of the cheer left her eyes. “Who be asking?”
Sean stuck out his hand. “I’m Sean Donahue. And this is Lucy Valentine.”
“Donahue, eh? A good Irish lad you be?”
“Depends who you ask.”
She chuckled and turned her blue eyes my way. “Valentine? Certainly not Irish.”
I loved the roll of her Rs. “I’m not certain what it is.”
She tsked as though this were a grave sin and addressed Sean. “What brings you here?”
“We’re looking for Tristan Rourke,” Sean said, handing her a business card. The Lost Love logo took up half the card: two hearts, one fading into the background. “Sean Donahue, Private Investigator” was on the other half, along with his contact information.
“You’re a detective?” she asked.
“A private investigator,” I answered. “We’ve been hired to find Tristan.”
She stared at the card for a long second before looking up at us. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t seen Tristan in years. He doesn’t keep in touch.”
Irish bluster if I ever heard it. Her Irish eyes were lying.
“Are you certain?” Sean asked.
“Quite, young man. I haven’t gone dotty in my old age.”
She was hardly old. Early sixties if a day.
“I’m afraid the two of you are wasting your time. Tristan is long gone from these parts. I don’t get so much as a phone call from the lad. ‘Tis very sad.”
“Yes,” I said dryly. “ ’Tis.”
The twinkle was back in her eye as she looked at me. “Valentine, you say?”
I nodded.
“There may be a bit of Irish in you after all. The pair of you have a good day now.”
She winked as she closed the door.
Sean looked at me. “That went better than I thought.”
I started down the steps. “That’s only because she liked you, the good Irish lad that you are,” I said, testing a brogue.
He laughed. “Jealous?”
“Terribly.”
Sean whispered, “We have company.”
Two men leaned against Sean’s Mustang. Thoreau had his little black nose pressed to the window as if he could sniff through the glass. He hadn’t barked at all. A watchdog he wasn’t.
The men were dressed in dark suits and dark trenches and wore dark sunglasses. They flipped open thin black wallets, revealing golden shields inside. “FBI,” the man on the left said. He was cute in a nerdy, grumpy kind of way. The kind of guy a woman loved to fall for in hopes she could change him into something wonderful. The kind of guy who would never change. The ultimate Mr. Wrong. “I’m Special Agent Thomas.”
“Agent St. John,” the other added. He was bald and a head shorter than his partner.
“It’s Donahue, right?” Agent Thomas asked, then nodded to me and added, “And you’re Lucy Valentine? What’s your business with Maureen Rourke?”
I shouldn’t have been surprised the agents knew who we were. If they’d been watching Maureen Rourke’s house when we pulled up, they could have easily called in Sean’s license plate. It wouldn’t have taken much more investigation to tie my name with Sean’s.
But … I glanced at Maureen’s house. There was also a very real possibility the house had been bugged, that they’d heard our whole conversation with Tristan’s grandmother.
Sean said, “We’re looking for Tristan Rourke.”
This news hadn’t surprised them. The house was definitely bugged. This pretty much sealed the deal that Tristan was living a life of crime. Law-abiding citizens didn’t often have the FBI looking for them.
“And having no luck finding him,” I added, passing them a business card. “We were hired to reunite him with a lost love.”
“Lost loves?” St. John smiled. Spirals of steam rose off his bald head. His skin was so tight against his bumpy skull it looked more like a topographical map.
I kept that observation to myself as I struggled not to be offended. “We all have our callings.”
Agent Thomas pinned me with a warning glare. “I suggest you stop looking for Rourke.”
“Why?” I asked.
“He’s the prime suspect in an ongoing federal case.”
Sean squared his shoulders. “Has there been a warrant issued?”
Baldy said, “Not yet.”
“What did he do?” I asked.
“That’s need-to-know information.”
“We’ll keep that in mind,” Sean said, unlocking the car.
“Do us a favor, Ms. Valentine,” Agent Thomas added. “Go back to playing with the Staties. We’ll be watching to make sure you do.”
They turned away, walked toward a black SUV parked two houses down.
The Staties—slang for the state police. The parting comment stung, but their dismissal hit a nerve. I didn’t like being told what to do. “Charming,” I said to Sean as he held open my door.
He stared after the men. “I’m getting a bad feeling about this case.”
That made two of us. Instinct. Intuition. They weren’t feelings I pushed away easily. It was only the look on Meaghan Archibald’s face that fueled my desire to find Rourke.
Well, that and the fact that the FBI had told me to stay out of it.
As I nudged Thoreau aside to sit, my eye caught movement in the upstairs window in the house next door. A lacy white curtain swayed.
The FBI weren’t the only ones who’d been watching us.
8
The Porcupine was packed. I sidled up to the lunch counter, waited until someone left, and snagged a stool on the end. Raphael bustled back and forth, setting down orders, taking others, clearing plates.
I checked my phone for messages. I was still waiting to hear from Aiden. He was supposed to have met with the investigator on Mac’s case first thing this morning, then gotten in touch with me. Curiosity was killing me. I wasn’t known for my patience.
I had a voice mail—from Mum. “Oh, happy day, LucyD! My ring was right where you said it was. Thank you, thank you! Smooches!”
Smiling, I rolled my eyes and dropped my phone back into my tote.
“Good news?” Raphael asked. He gave me a quick kiss on my cheek. He motioned for another server to cover his station.
“Mum. She found her engagement ring.”
His dark eyes turned serious. “So she told you.”
“About her and Dad? Not so much told as I figured it out.”
How long would they have waited?
“Are you staying for lunch, Uva?”
“Not today. I just need some coffee and two turkey spinach wraps to go.”
“Something for the pooch?” he asked, nodding to Thoreau, who was nestled in the crook of my arm. Sean was looking for a parking spot.
I supposed Thoreau could have a little treat. “A plain turkey wrap.”
“To go? You sure?” Raphael punched the order into a computer.
“Definitely. This place is a nuthouse.” All the tables were full, and there was a line forming at the take-out counter.
“It’s the Lone Ranger.”
I whipped my head around to look out the glass storefront. “Where?”
Raphael laughed. “Not literally, Uva. He’s caused the upswing in business. People are using the Porcupine as home base while they hope to get a look at him.”
“More like take his money.”
“More like use our restrooms.”
I smiled, but my heart wasn’t in it. Too much going on in my mind.
Raphael took a long look at me. “Is there something wrong?”
He had been part of my life since I was three years old. If I were being completely honest, I’d admit he’d been more a father to me over the years than my own. But being completely honest made me feel slightly traitorous.
He’d nicknamed me Uva, Sp
anish for “grape,” when I was a tiny thing, throwing a temper tantrum of such proportions I’d turned myself as purple as a grape. Not long after, I’d begun calling him Pasa, “raisin,” because one day I hoped to turn into someone as good, as nurturing, as wise, as him. Well, that and he’d looked like a raisin, his whole face squished, wrinkled, when he scolded me over the hissy fit.
It didn’t surprise me he’d seen trouble in my eyes. I doubted there was anyone who knew me better, who could look straight through my many masks.
“Too many things to go into.” Like Mac, like Tristan Rourke, like the FBI watching me, like wanting Sean to move in with me.
“Hmmm,” Raphael murmured.
Maggie Constantine hurried over, carrying a plate of salad. She set it in front of the man next to me with a smile. “Lucy! Are you staying for lunch?” She looked around. “I can clear your favorite table.”
I wasn’t sure how the couple currently sitting at my favorite table would feel about that.
“I’m actually not staying,” I said.
I saw how very happy Maggie and Raphael were with each other, even though on paper it wouldn’t seem as though they’d make a good match. She was a Yankee fan; he was a die-hard member of Red Sox Nation. She liked classical music; it made Raphael’s ears bleed. She was younger by a good decade. Yet … they worked. Perfectly.
Something crashed in the kitchen. Maggie winced. “I should check on that.” She leaned across the counter, kissed my cheek. “We’ll have dinner soon, okay?”
“Okay.”
Raphael watched her leave, his eyes glowing.
“When are you going to marry her?” I asked.
“There’s time enough.”
“Is there?” I asked.
He rubbed an imaginary spot on the countertop. “I have a feeling you’re not talking about me.”
A server appeared and dropped off a to-go bag. I grabbed it and hopped off the stool. “Look at that. Gotta run. Sean’s probably already waiting upstairs and—”
“Uva.”
“Pasa, do you think it will last?”
He immediately knew what I was talking about.
My parents.
He tipped his head back and forth as if weighing options, then narrowed his gaze on me. Softly he said, “Does it matter?”