92 Pacific Boulevard

  “Ben,” she said, stepping out of the kitchen as she tied her apron around her waist. “Should I bring the stuffed peppers or my chicken potpie?”

  He didn’t respond right away, as if he was considering the decision. “The potpie.”

  “Good. I was leaning toward that myself.”

  He nodded.

  “I’ll make three, so there’ll be plenty for you, and I’ll take one over to Olivia and Jack this afternoon.”

  “Great idea.” He set aside the paper to pet Harry, who slept contentedly in his lap.

  Charlotte returned to the kitchen and got out the flour and lard. None of those store-bought piecrusts for her! She had the time and a recipe she’d inherited from her mother, one that couldn’t be matched.

  “Come and chat with me,” she called out to Ben as she kneaded the flour and lard. The dough was soft and supple; her mother had always warned her not to knead it too long, but the timing had become a matter of instinct. Charlotte sighed. Her mother, God rest her soul, had been a wonderful cook.

  Some of the recipes she’d been collecting for Justine and her new restaurant were from Charlotte’s mother. Admittedly, there were a few that were a bit challenging to translate for a modern kitchen—and a cook who couldn’t spend all day preparing them!

  “What’s so amusing?” Ben asked as he slid into a kitchen chair.

  “Oh, I was just thinking about my mother and her recipe for dumplings.”

  “Oh?”

  “For years she told me it was a secret family recipe. Some secret. Flour and water were the two main ingredients.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Oh, there are a couple of other things, but no big deal. The real secret was in cooking them for a good long while. That’s what she used to say—a good long while. I decided that was too vague and imprecise for Justine, so I left the recipe out.”

  “Have you given them to her yet?”

  “No, but the collection’s nearly ready.” Many of the original recipes had been lost over the years—or never written down—and Charlotte had to reconstruct them from memory. The project had helped fill the dreary winter days. With Ben so depressed lately, she’d stayed close to home.

  “I feel guilty using grilled chicken from the deli in this potpie,” Charlotte confessed. She’d picked up two of them the day before, since they came in handy and never went to waste.

  Ben dismissed her concern. “No one will know.”

  “I will, but it’s nearly as tasty and it does save me time.”

  Ben got up and poured himself a second cup of coffee. “I heard from David yesterday afternoon.”

  Charlotte’s hands momentarily stilled. The call must have come while she was out getting groceries. She waited for him to elaborate, and when he didn’t she felt compelled to remain silent. Ben would tell her as soon as he was ready.

  “He wanted another loan.”

  That was hardly a shock. The only time his youngest son called was when he needed financial assistance. David was a user and had no skills when it came to money management. No ethics, either—he’d lie about anything to anyone, including that young girl who’d just had his baby. And his father.

  “What did you say to him?” Charlotte asked.

  “I told him no.”

  “And he got angry with you.” This was a pattern. Ben had held firm to his stipulation. He refused to lend his son any more money until David paid back the loans he’d already made. Over the course of their marriage, Ben had received a few checks from David, but they’d all bounced due to insufficient funds.

  Nothing had upset her husband more, however, than discovering that his son had fathered a child and then abandoned the mother—and this was after his divorce. Naturally David denied that he was responsible for Mary Jo’s pregnancy, but given his history and given the girl’s sincerity, that denial was just another lie.

  “We had an argument,” Ben murmured, obviously distraught.

  Charlotte dumped the pie dough on a floured board. “I have a son who’s disappointed me, too,” she said, wanting to reassure him that many parents faced such trials. She rarely referred to Will as a disappointment, but the fact that he’d been repeatedly unfaithful to his wife had distressed Charlotte deeply. Like any mother, she wanted to believe the best of her child. Sadly, she recognized that was no longer possible with the man Will had become.

  Ben shook his head. “Will’s transgressions are bad enough, but they don’t come close to David’s.”

  “I suppose so…” At least Will hadn’t tried to steal from her or, she was positive, anyone else. And he’d been a good brother to Olivia during her illness.

  “I keep wondering what I could’ve done to set David straight when he was young,” Ben said.

  “You can’t blame yourself,” Charlotte countered quickly, “any more than I can blame myself for Will’s…weaknesses.”

  Ben seemed to agree with her. “Intellectually I know you’re right, but that doesn’t wipe out the regrets.”

  Charlotte identified with his sorrow. When she’d learned how Will had taken advantage of Grace Sherman, how he’d lied and misled her, she’d been horrified. Acknowledging character flaws in one’s child was a dull ache in a parent’s heart.

  “Besides, Will’s straightened out his life,” Ben said. “It sure looks like it, anyway.”

  Charlotte fervently hoped that was the case, but she couldn’t be positive. He’d never shown her that deceitful side of himself. Outwardly he was the perfect son but she couldn’t ignore the less-than-salutary aspects of his behavior.

  “I talked to him recently,” she said, “and the gallery seems to be doing well. It’s good to see him excited about what’s happening there.”

  “I heard he’s seeing Shirley Bliss.”

  Charlotte had heard that bit of local gossip, too. The artist had immediately caught her son’s eye. She hoped this relationship was right for them.

  Ben wandered back to the living room and his paper, and Charlotte continued her cooking. After she’d placed the bottom crusts in three different casserole dishes, she made the gravy and added the cut-up chicken and sautéed vegetables. When she’d finished, she poured the mixture into the piecrusts, arranged the strips of lattice on top and set all three dishes in the oven.

  She threw a load of laundry in the washer, then joined Ben in the living room. He was doing the crossword puzzle and she sat across from him and picked up her knitting. For forty-five minutes they worked quietly while the pies baked, lost in their own thoughts.

  Just before eleven-thirty, Charlotte removed the hot dishes from the oven, put on her coat and retrieved her purse. This was the first potluck she and Ben hadn’t attended as a couple since they were married.

  Ben carried the warm chicken pie to the car and kissed her before she left. “Have a good time.”

  She kissed him back. “I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

  “No need to rush. Harry and I will hold the fort.”

  Despite his encouragement to linger and visit with their friends, Charlotte returned to the house two hours later, her head buzzing.

  Ben met her at the door and took the empty casserole dish from her hands. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

  “Oh, yes, I always do. Everyone asked after you and I said you were a bit under the weather.” Thankfully, she’d managed to sidestep other questions. A number of their friends had pressed her for details, certain Ben must be suffering from a nasty virus currently going around. She’d reassured everyone that Ben was fine, and physically he was. Emotionally, that was another story.

  He brought the empty dish to the kitchen sink and looked at her, frowning slightly. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothing’s wrong, but I do have some interesting news.”

  “Sit down and tell me.”

  Charlotte pulled out a kitchen chair. “Sheriff Davis stopped by to speak to the group,” she said.

  Ben reached for the notice mailed once a month to sen
iors who belonged to the center. Charlotte had propped it on the kitchen table. He quickly scanned the details. “It says here that Grace was supposed to be the guest speaker.”

  “Oh, she was, and she did a fabulous job.” Although Charlotte volunteered at the library, it never ceased to astonish her how many books she hadn’t noticed. “Grace was kind enough to bring in a box of bestsellers and she gave a short synopsis of each. Oh, Ben, they all sound like such good stories. I made a list of several I knew we’d both enjoy.”

  “When did Sheriff Davis speak?”

  “After Grace. He came by unexpectedly and asked to address the group.” Troy visited once or twice a year but generally as a scheduled speaker. Charlotte had always been fond of him and appreciated his tips for seniors.

  “What did he have to say? Another warning about not giving out personal information over the phone?”

  “Not this time. He asked for our help.”

  “How so?”

  Charlotte drew her chair closer to the table. “You remember reading about the remains in the cave outside town, don’t you?”

  “Of course. It was a little before Christmas. And there’ve been a few press and TV stories since.”

  “Yes, and now there’s additional information. According to the coroner’s report, the remains are those of a young man who had Down syndrome. The sheriff asked if any of us remembered a family with a Down syndrome boy.”

  “Was someone able to help him?” Ben asked.

  Charlotte shook her head. “There was plenty of discussion, and Bess had a vague recollection of a woman with such a child. I do, too, but for the life of me I can’t remember who she was.”

  “I’m sure you will in time.”

  One of the most annoying effects of aging was this forgetfulness, these infernal memory gaps. The name was there, right on the edge of her consciousness, but it remained just out of reach. This was going to bother her until she came up with it.

  “You’ll probably think of it in the middle of the night,” Ben said.

  His confidence in her was reassuring.

  “After Troy left, Bess and I talked about who it might be. We threw around a few names but none of them felt right. It seems to me the woman was a relative of someone who once lived here—a cousin, aunt or some such. Why can’t I remember?” She tapped the side of her head with her index finger.

  Ben sat back in his chair. “Tell me what you do remember and maybe that’ll jog your mind.”

  “I know I met the boy once.”

  “Just once?”

  “Yes, his aunt had him, I believe…At least, that’s what I seem to recall. She complained to me that his mother kept him inside most of the time. The mother, whose name has completely escaped me, was terribly protective of him, sheltering him from just about everyone. She was something of a recluse herself, I believe.”

  “When was this?”

  Charlotte shook her head. It’d been so many years now…“I can’t say for sure, three or four decades ago. Maybe more. His aunt or whoever it was had taken him to the waterfront park. He was enthralled with it. She said it was probably the first time he’d ever set foot in a park.”

  “What were they doing?”

  “Even now I can see that boy on the merry-go-round. He was laughing, so happy to be outside in the sunshine.”

  Her memory was slowly coming back. Talking about it was helping, just as Ben had suggested.

  “Go on,” he urged.

  Charlotte closed her eyes. “His aunt seemed delighted by everything he did.” She smiled at the memory, although she couldn’t picture the woman clearly. Oh, why couldn’t she remember her name? “The mother loved that child. The aunt, too. If anything happened to him, I’d stake my life on the fact that neither of them had anything to do with it.”

  “But there’s nothing to say this is the same child.”

  “I know.” Charlotte nodded. Nevertheless, she suspected it was the same boy. Frowning, she stood.

  “Let your mind rest,” Ben said. “The name will eventually come to you.”

  He was right, only it was difficult advice to take. She knew this family or had known them at one time, and she kept worrying away at it.

  “Didn’t you tell me you wanted to bring Olivia one of the pies?”

  “Oh, dear, I’d nearly forgotten.”

  “Would you like company?” Ben surprised her by asking.

  The spark was back in his eyes, and that encouraged her. “I’d love it.”

  “I’ve decided I can’t let my son’s weakness disrupt my life. All I can do is make an effort to be the best grandfather I can.” Ben’s gaze met hers and he took her hand. “Shall we go, my dear?”

  He was going to be all right; she was sure of it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was almost the end of his workday—if a cop’s day ever ended. Megan had asked him to stop by the house before he went home, and Troy had agreed. She hadn’t said why, but she’d let him know it was terribly important. Seeing that the last time he’d ignored her request he’d been sucker punched by the news about Faith, he thought he should make at least a token appearance.

  The phone rang just as he was leaving the office. He considered not answering but, with a sigh, reached across his desk and grabbed the receiver.

  “Sheriff Davis.”

  The call was from Kathleen Sadler, the Seattle reporter who’d been on a mission to embarrass Cedar Cove. She wanted the latest update on the skeletal remains.

  Polite but firm, Troy gave her a stock answer, made his excuses and disconnected. He’d addressed the seniors’ group earlier that week to request help and information, and that had brought his most promising lead to date. He’d acted on impulse, dashing into their monthly gathering. Sometimes crimes were solved in unexpected ways.

  Because of the phone call, he was a few minutes later than he’d told Megan. Even before he got to the front door, she’d flung it open; it was as if she’d been looking out the window, waiting for him.

  “I thought you weren’t going to come,” she cried.

  “I said I’d be here.” He didn’t understand why it was so all-fired important that he show up on a Thursday evening. She must’ve rushed home from work herself.

  “I know, it’s just that…” She hesitated. “Never mind. Come in. I baked your favorite oatmeal cookies.”

  After the day he’d had, Troy was grateful for an excuse to relax. Sitting heavily in a kitchen chair, he muttered, “What’s the occasion?”

  “Think of it as a late Valentine’s Day gift.”

  This year’s Valentine’s Day had been a disaster. He’d bought a large box of expensive chocolates for Faith. He’d never expected to pay that much for candy. He’d bought a bouquet of red roses, too. They should’ve been gold plated for what they cost. As it turned out, he might as well have flushed all that cash down the toilet. The day before he’d intended to drop them off, he learned that Faith was leaving town.

  So much for romancing her with flowers and candy! The roses were wilting in a vase on the mantel and he’d stuck the chocolates in the fridge. If she wanted to go back to Seattle—or wherever—he wasn’t going to stop her. Not that he had the power to do so, anyway. The woman had a mind of her own, and he could see that it was already made up.

  “Do you want coffee or tea with your cookies?” Megan asked, standing attentively beside his chair.

  “Coffee.” Anything was better than the stale brew at the station. The stuff was often as black as tar and just as thick.

  His daughter brought him a plate holding four cookies and a mug of coffee with a touch of half-and-half, which was exactly the way he liked it. “I assume you want something?” Treats like this generally came at a price.

  “Daddy!” Megan put her hands on her hips, her expression one of shock. “How can you even suggest such a thing? We hardly ever have time to talk anymore, just you and me.”

  “Okay, what shall we talk about?” He crossed his legs and le
aned back. He was certain this little rendezvous was leading somewhere.

  Before his daughter could respond, the doorbell rang. A look he could only describe as panicked flashed across Megan’s face.

  “Are you expecting anyone?” he asked.

  She shrugged and glanced away. “Not really.”

  Megan hurried to the front door and in that instant everything became clear to Troy. This hadn’t been a random invitation. His daughter had decided to do some matchmaking.

  Troy stood, pushing aside the cookies and his coffee, and entered the living room. “Hello, Faith.”

  Her face fell when she saw him. She was obviously as surprised as he was—perhaps more so.

  “Megan asked me to stop by so she could show me the baby blanket she finished knitting.” Faith’s tone implied that she wasn’t a party to this arrangement.

  Troy didn’t need anyone to tell him the entire setup was Megan’s doing.

  “I’ll get the blanket,” Megan said cheerfully, acting oblivious to the tension between Faith and Troy. “Why don’t you two talk while I…find my knitting.”

  As soon as Megan left the living room, the silence seemed louder than any words they might have said. Troy wondered which of them would speak first. He’d decided it wasn’t going to be him.

  Apparently Faith had made the same decision. They both stood there examining the carpet, each pretending to ignore the other.

  Okay, fine, he’d take the initiative. “I apologize for this,” he said curtly. “I had no idea Megan was setting us up.”

  “I didn’t, either,” Faith told him.

  It was pleasant not to be snapping at each other. Only months ago, they used to talk for hours on end. They’d laughed together and shared memories and dreams.

  Troy exhaled a sigh. “Listen, about the other night—”

  “Last week in the grocery store—” Faith started speaking at the same time.