Undeniably Yours

  “What kind of things?”

  She left me in the doorway and went to kiss Sean’s cheek, and then coo over Ava. “She’s the spitting image of Aiden, isn’t she? Hello there, beautiful girl.”

  “Mum? What things?”

  Mum knelt down on the floor next to Ava and picked up one of the stuffed animals—a lamb—and started making overdramatic baaing noises. Baa! Baaaaa! BAAA!

  My mother was highly skilled in the art of diversion.

  At first Ava looked to Sean like she questioned my mother’s sanity (I’ve questioned it a time or two myself), but then she laughed.

  Not swayed by her lamb-tastic performance, I said loudly, “What kind of things?”

  “Baa!” Mum answered, bouncing the sheep over Ava’s legs.

  “Baabaabaa!” Ava echoed, reaching for the lamb.

  Miraculously, my mother handed it over. Finally.

  Before I could ask her again about the things she wanted to show me, someone knocked on the door.

  “Who could that be?” my mother said brightly.

  Her tone told me she knew exactly who it would be.

  Sean looked amused. I had the feeling my face did not show any amusement whatsoever.

  I pulled open the door to find a skinny little man, upper middle aged and dressed in a three-piece suit, surrounded by three scary-looking men who wore dark clothing and carried big guns.

  The skinny man’s eyes were wide with fear, his forehead dotted with sweat, and his knees knocked as he clutched a satchel to his chest.

  “Shit,” my mother said, scrambling to her feet. “I forgot to tell him the safe words.”

  “Shit! Shit! Shit!” Ava echoed.

  Oh, that she said perfectly.

  Sean dropped down and began baaaing madly to try to distract Ava from repeating the curse word—Aiden would be seriously displeased to learn of the latest addition to his daughter’s vocabulary.

  I glanced from Sean to my mother to Mr. Shaky Knees and laughed.

  “Lucy!” my mother chastised as she pushed past me saying “fuzzy navel” over and over in higher and higher octaves to the men in black.

  I swiped tears from my face. “I can’t help it!”

  My mother grabbed Mr. Shaky’s arm and pulled him inside. “Lucy, this is Reginald Bruce. He’s an architect. Your father and I hired him to draw up the plans for Valentine, Inc.”

  “Hi,” I said to him, doing my best to hold in more laughter. Another giggle bubbled out.

  “Wh—Who are they?” Reginald asked, surreptitiously looking over his shoulder.

  The three men in black still stood on the porch.

  I wanted to say something like “Your worst nightmare” but poor Reg looked like he’d already had a time of it. I couldn’t bring myself to tease him. “Security.”

  Reg’s eyes grew even bigger. “Impressive.”

  “Come sit down, Reginald,” my mother said, patting his hand.

  One of the men in black said, “Everything good here?”

  I said, “Depends on why my mother brought an architect by.”

  He stared.

  “Yep,” I said. “All’s good.”

  I received three nods, then the trio turned and marched off the porch. One veered off and grabbed the plate of cookies before heading back into the woods.

  By the time I let in Thoreau and closed the door, Sean had a whole farmyard of stuffed animals gathered around Ava. A duck, cow, and a horse had joined the lamb. He was doing his best Old MacDonald impersonation as he mimicked quacks, moos, and neighs.

  Still in his jammies with his bandaged head and scruffy beard, he looked absolutely ridiculous lying on the floor playing with stuffed animals.

  Yet…I fell a little harder for him.

  “Lucy, come look,” Mum said as she unrolled a large piece of paper on the table. Building plans.

  “What is that?” I asked, trying to make sense of it. “It doesn’t look like Valentine, Inc.”

  Reginald’s head snapped up and he said to my mother, “You didn’t tell her?”

  My mother waved away his concern.

  “Tell me what?” I asked, squinting at the plans.

  “About the renovations,” Reginald said, swiping his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief.

  “Right, the renovations. At Valentine, Inc.” Why did I feel as though we were talking in circles? “Mum?”

  “No,” Reginald said, looking between us. “The renovations…here.”

  “Here here?” I pointed at the floor.

  Sean stopped mooing and watched us carefully.

  Reginald tipped his head and said, “It’s more like here there.” He motioned upward toward the roof. “The plans are to renovate the first floor and add a second story.” He looked at my mother. “Did I misunderstand, Judie? I’ve already hired a contractor…”

  My gaze whipped to my mother.

  She smiled ear to ear. “I brought cookies.”

  “There aren’t enough cookies in the world,” I said, folding my arms.

  “LucyD, just listen to reason,” Mum said.

  “No. I don’t have time for reason. I have somewhere I need to be soon.”

  “Five minutes,” Mum persisted. “Five itty bitty minutes.”

  “No.”

  “Four, then. Reginald came all the way out here and the poor man is still shaking from being accosted outside.”

  “It’s your fault he was accosted,” I pointed out.

  “A pesky detail,” she said. “And they were chocolate chip cookies I brought, remember? Your favorite.”

  I looked at Reginald. He blinked beguilingly at me.

  “Dovie’s never going to agree to this,” I said, pulling out my trump card. Dovie loved this place the way it was. Same as I did.

  “LucyD,” my mother reached over and patted my hand. “It was her idea.”

  “Shit!” Ava squealed.

  I agreed wholeheartedly.

  10

  The Brew the Day coffee shop occupied a corner of an upscale strip mall not far from Hingham center. Large planters filled with colorful summer flowers hung from lampposts along the sidewalk, and the shop’s pale-green awning flapped in the sea breeze. A decorative menu board boasted the lunch special of a tomato, basil, and mozzarella panini, which normally would make my mouth water, but I’d eaten half a dozen cookies on the way over. My stomach wasn’t too happy about my lack of discipline when it came to chocolate chips.

  I bought an iced coffee and crutched back outside to sit at a bistro table under an ivy-covered pergola. Trey Fisher was late.

  Aching, I stretched my muscles and breathed in the sea air to try to let go of some stress. It was nearly impossible. Between this case and my mother…

  My mother.

  I sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly, hoping that would ease the tension gripping my muscles, my nerves, my…world. I waited a second. Nope. The breathing thing wasn’t working. I eyed my iced coffee and suddenly wished it was a bottle of vodka. That might help.

  Renovations. On my cottage. My sweet little cottage. I loved every inch of its 800 square feet. Yes, it was tiny. Yes, it needed updating. But it didn’t need four bedrooms, three baths, and a balcony.

  I blew out another breath, which might have sounded more like a monstrous huff to the couple sitting next to me. I apologized and stuffed the straw in my mouth.

  The worst part of the renovation plans was that I didn’t really have a say in what happened to my home. I rented the cottage from Dovie…so if she had planned this whole thing with my mother then I could expect contractors to show up in a few days.

  I’d better start packing.

  I was so lost in miserable thoughts I didn’t hear the man approach until he started speaking.

  “I was told to look for a blonde with curly hair who had a boot on her foot. The detective neglected to tell me how beautiful you are. Might I say that the cuts and bruises only add to your appeal?”

  I glanced up
into the sky-blue eyes of Trey Fisher.

  He wore a fitted light-gray dress shirt tucked into tailored charcoal-gray dress pants. A black leather belt matched square-toed loafers. He looked every inch a professional, but his last comment zipped past acceptable and went straight to smarmy.

  I frowned, wondering if he spoke to all women like this.

  He held out a hand for a shake. “I’m Trey Fisher.”

  As though I needed an introduction. I’d seen his face on my TV for years. First as a Bruins forward, then as a sportscaster. I set my cup on the table and stared at his hand. He thrust it a little closer.

  Bracing myself, I reached out and shook. “I’m Lucy Valentine.”

  His hand wasn’t as big and beefy as one would think for a former professional hockey player, but it was strong, his skin rough and callused.

  I didn’t have any visions, for which I thanked my lucky stars. “Please sit,” I said, trying to pull my hand back.

  He was having none of it. I met his gaze. It was challenging—and dare I say it—a bit predatory.

  I yanked my hand away, and he sat down, smiling.

  “Did you see anything?” he asked, using air quotes around the word “see.”

  What on earth had Kira seen in him? Because I’d spent all of ten seconds with him and pegged him as a complete asshole.

  Jackhole, Aiden had called him.

  That fit, too.

  Well, okay. Trey was a handsome jackhole. I’d give him that. Somehow, his slightly-crooked nose only added to his good looks. With his thick wavy blond hair, wolfish gaze, and sexy beard scruff…he was easy on the eyes.

  “Well?” he said, leaning in. “You’re a psychic, right?”

  As Aiden didn’t usually come out and tell people I was psychic, I wondered how Trey had known. Had he recognized my name from news reports? I supposed it didn’t matter. He knew—and he’d been trying to test me. He hadn’t done his homework, however, because he hadn’t been thinking about an item he lost…or I would have seen it. I straightened and looked him dead on. “A psychic, yes. Your puppet, no.”

  His smiled broadened. “Feisty. I like that.”

  Dirtbag.

  Reaching in my tote, I pulled out a small journal and a pen. The sooner this interview was over and done with, the better. “How long have you been dating Kira?” I narrowed my gaze. “And does she know how you shamelessly flirt with women you just met?”

  Leaning back, he drew his left foot atop his right knee. Paisley-printed socks peeked out from beneath the hem of his pants. He’d come a long way from center ice.

  His gaze hardened. “Don’t flatter yourself. That wasn’t flirting. If it had been, we’d be in my car by now and you’d have that pretty little dress up around your waist.”

  “You’re charming,” I said, oozing sarcasm.

  Nonplussed, he shrugged. “I’m honest.”

  I had the feeling not too many women said no to him. Lifting my eyebrows, I said, “Then you can honestly answer my questions.”

  He didn’t fidget, but he looked pained, like he’d rather be anywhere but here. “Kira and me? We’ve been dating for two months, give or take.”

  Tapping my pen, I said, “Exclusively?”

  He hesitated only a second before saying, “Yes.”

  I studied him carefully. Honest, my ass. If I wanted, I could be in his car with him right now, having my way with him. The thought made me want to toss all those cookies I’d eaten. Why the pretense of being monogamous, then? What was he trying so hard to hide? “When did you file for a divorce?”

  His eyelid twitched. “I didn’t file. Tova did. A few months ago.”

  Tova Dovell Fisher, his stunning Swedish wife. “How long were you two separated before the filing?”

  “Technically, we’ve never been separated.”

  Beads of condensation slid down my plastic cup and pooled on the table. “What’s that mean?”

  “It means that we still live together,” he said. “Neither of us are willing to vacate our brownstone. Our lawyers are sorting it out while we sleep in separate bedrooms.”

  I couldn’t imagine the stress of that living situation. “I take it Kira didn’t spend much time at your place.”

  “Mostly when Tova was out of town for work.” He grinned and winked.

  I couldn’t tell whether he was being honest or trying to get a rise out of me. “Did you and Tova have an open marriage?”

  “It was open on my part.”

  I had the feeling that’s all that mattered to him—what he wanted. “Why get married in the first place if you’re not fond of monogamy?”

  “Tequila and an Elvis chaplain.”

  Ah. “Vegas?”

  “What happens there doesn’t always stay there. Sometimes it moves in and then refuses to get the hell out without taking half of your life savings.”

  I knew Tova had her own money—lots of it. But Trey had more. He had all kinds of endorsement deals, a line of sports clothing, and was an investor in many businesses.

  Personally, I kind of hoped Tova got more than half of his property. A jet rumbled overhead as I asked, “How’s she feel about Kira?”

  “We don’t talk about it.”

  “That sounds like a copout.”

  “What do you want me to say? That Tova hates Kira? That she kidnapped and killed her?”

  Interesting that he went there. “Does she? Did she?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Tova has a temper, but she’s a woman who rescues a cricket if it gets into the house.”

  “Is she the type who’d leave vicious messages on social media?”

  He chuckled. “She’s not very subtle, is she? Barracuda? Piranha? It’s laughable.”

  “You know for certain that she’s the one who left those posts?”

  “One hundred percent. Once in a while, she leaves her laptop open. I snoop. Sue me.”

  It wouldn’t surprise me if Tova left it open on purpose so he’d know she was trying to hurt Kira. “Has she ever had a face-to-face confrontation with Kira?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “When was the last time you saw Kira?”

  Without even taking a second to think about it, he said, “Thursday afternoon at work. It was the last I saw her.”

  I set the pen to rest in the channel between the pages of the journal. “I heard you two had a big fight recently. What was it about?”

  “You’re mistaken.”

  I tipped my head. “Am I?”

  “Yes.”

  Interesting. Morgan Creighton seemed sure, which made me wonder why Trey would try to hide it. “Did she talk to you about her latest story?”

  “Her whole world has been wrapped up in that case about the missing kid the last couple of weeks.” He sounded jealous.

  I asked, “Do you know who she was meeting with Thursday morning?”

  He shook his head. “She doesn’t like sharing that kind of information, but she keeps all her notes on a flash drive. Find that flash drive, and you’ll find a lot of answers.” He snapped his fingers. “I did hear her on the phone Tuesday night with someone, making plans to meet on Wednesday morning.”

  The day before all hell broke loose.

  “She said a name,” he said. “It was unusual, so it stuck in my head. Jarvis. And she promised to bring money.”

  “Money?” I asked.

  “Reward money.”

  I lifted a brow. “For the McDaniel case?”

  “No idea, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Kira often made it known she was willing to pay tipsters for valid leads, and she was eating, drinking, sleeping that case.”

  Valid leads. What had this particular tipster told her about the McDaniel case? “Jarvis? Is that a first name or last name?” I jotted it down. If I could find Jarvis, it might be the break I needed.

  Trey shrugged. “It’s probably on her flash drive. Like I said, find that…” He trailed off as his attention was diverted by a pretty young thing walkin
g into the coffee shop.

  Find the flash drive. That was easier said than done. It could be anywhere—including in the ruins of Kira’s home. If it had been incinerated, it wouldn’t be much good to us now.

  I switched to a different approach, my tried and true way of finding things. “Did you ever give Kira any gifts?”

  He said, “Yeah. Of course.”

  “Anything she might have been wearing when she disappeared?” I could read his energy and find the object. Gifts were the only time an item had two owners. “Earrings, a ring, a handbag? That kind of thing?”

  He tore his gaze from the young woman and focused on me. “I don’t think so. The jewelry I bought her was high quality. Not the type of pieces to wear casually at work or around town.”

  I was both disappointed and relieved. As much as I wanted to find Kira, I really didn’t want to touch him again. “Any chance she left some clothing at your place?” If she had, I could still do a scent reading.

  “Nothing that I know of,” he said. “She didn’t have a drawer in my bureau if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  This meeting was going nowhere fast.

  “Where do you think Kira is?” I finally asked him. He didn’t seem all that concerned she was missing.

  “I don’t know, but I’m sure she’s fine.”

  “You still think that way, even after her house blew up?”

  “Kira…Kira is indestructible. If she got herself in a mess, she’ll find a way out of it. I’m sure she’s holed up in a fancy hotel under an assumed name and laughing her ass off at the media coverage. That she’s the story. The talk of the town.”

  There was something in his tone that made me wonder if he knew more than he was letting on. Did he believe Kira orchestrated all of this somehow? It was the opposite of what Morgan had said. “You don’t think—”

  “Sorry,” he said, holding up one hand as he looked at his buzzing smartphone. “I have to get this.” He stood up and stepped out of earshot.

  Was Kira’s disappearance one big PR stunt? I thought about those bank records and recent withdrawals. Kira could be tucked into a very nice hotel for a few hundred dollars a night. I didn’t want to believe it. For Ava’s sake, I hoped Trey’s indifference was more about his own self-involvement. He was so wrapped up in himself, maybe he thought everyone else was, too.