In His Wife's Name. Joyce Sullivan
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wore while on duty, Luke felt exposed and vulnerable to the emotional rounds her every look and gesture seemed to inflict on him.
With her flaxen hair glinting in the sunlight and her lighthearted step, Mary looked the picture of innocence in blue-and-white candy-striped overall shorts and a white tank top. She wore red running shoes painted with black dabs that made each foot look like a wedge of watermelon, and white cotton socks edged with blue hand-crocheted lace. Luke dredged up a smile and tucked his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans. A massive weight settled in his stomach as if he’d swallowed rocks for breakfast. Nothing was more important to him than finding out who had murdered his wife. “Hi yourself,” he replied. “Nice day, isn’t it?”
“It’s beautiful. I just put Samantha down in her crib for her nap. If we’re lucky she’ll go to sleep, and I can give you an uninterrupted tour of my workshop. It’s out here in the garage….”
She was babbling. Was he making her nervous? Or was she worried about the baby? Or the threat against her life yesterday? Luke noticed she carried a portable baby monitor in her hand. He fell into step beside her and tried to act casual as she led him to the detached garage. But he felt more awkward than an adolescent on a first date. Fortunately Mary was doing enough talking to carry both sides of the conversation.
She paused to unlock the door and flick on the overhead fluorescent lights. “I’m warning you, my workshop is small, but functional.”
She wasn’t exaggerating. Luke examined the collection of power tools she had skillfully crammed into the one-car garage, which was little more than a shack constructed of decaying cedar siding. At least it had a window, albeit a small one, to bring in some light and ventilation.
It wasn’t every day he met a woman who knew a jigsaw from a scroll saw, much less wasn’t afraid of the whine or the ten-inch gleaming blade of a miter saw. Luke was frankly impressed that this Mary Calder seemed totally in her element, ankle-deep in sawdust. His wife had always tiptoed into his workshop as if getting sawdust on her three-hundred-dollar shoes and tracking sawdust into the other parts of the house were indictable offenses.
But why would someone want to hurt this Mary?
Luke detected an unmistakable wariness in her hazel eyes as she spoke to him, the same wariness he’d glimpsed fleetingly yesterday. It was the same hunted look perps wore when he questioned them on the street. Gut instinct told him there was something lurking here behind Mary’s bright smiles. He hoped, with time, that he could convince her to share her fears. Meanwhile, he’d provide protection for her and her daughter. Not that he was armed. Only federal police officers could transport firearms from one province to another.
As she opened a cupboard to show him where she stored her reversible electrical drill and bits, Luke could hear via the monitor Samantha noisily sucking on a bottle.
“Are these your husband’s tools?” he asked mildly. He had noted the absence of a wedding band yesterday when he was changing the truck’s tire.
She looked startled. “No. They’re all mine. I took up crafting after Samantha’s father died.”
“I’m sorry.”
She waved away his sympathy with a flustered smile, setting the baby monitor on the workbench beside a plastic file box filled with manila files. She pulled some patterns from two of the files. “Basically I’ve got forty-plus designs in my Garden Patch collection that I sell to retailers in the area. About half my designs are seasonal items. My busiest periods are Christmas, Halloween and Easter, though business is brisk in the summer with the tourists. The files here contain all the patterns you’ll be using. The patterns clearly indicate how many pieces must be cut per finished item. And I usually make a note on the inside of the file folder how many pieces can be cut from a particular dimension of lumber.” She pointed to a pile of lumber stacked on a couple of sawhorses. “These pine one-by-eights are for a rush order of letter boxes and welcome signs.” She laid the patterns out on two of the planks, her quick fingers minutely adjusting the placement of each pattern piece. “I’ll need a dozen signs and eight letter boxes as soon as possible.”
Luke slid his hand over the surface of the raw wood and tried not to be so aware of the scent of this woman, like an exotic hothouse flower, mingling with the aroma of the sawdust and the cedar shingles as she positioned a pattern piece along the grain of the wood. He’d hung up his toolbelt and sold the house when Mary had died, afraid that he might destroy, rather than create, in his grief. Finishing the house would have been a constant reminder of all that he’d lost. The condo he lived in now, with its neutral color scheme and barren walls, was blessedly free of memories of Mary. Someday Luke thought he might hang pictures on the walls and empty some of the boxes that filled the spare bedroom. “I think I can handle that.”
She nodded approvingly. “You’ll find sandpaper in a plastic bin beneath the workbench. I’d like the pieces sanded and ready for finishing. I do most of the painting in the house.” She paused awkwardly, her face blanching beneath the smattering of freckles. “You’re welcome to come inside to use the facilities, have a coffee. I always keep a pot on. Since we’re a ways out of town, you might want to bring a lunch and keep it in the refrigerator.”
“Thank you.”
Shannon hoped she was doing a good job of hiding her nervousness. Even though she’d checked Luke’s references and knew he was who and what he purported himself to be, warning twinges ignited inside her like firecrackers when they’d stepped into the garage. He was so male. So tall. And those competent blunt-tipped fingers had seemed so large as he’d stroked her tools.
Shannon told herself she was being ridiculous. She couldn’t live in fear of every man who entered her life.
Her ex-husband had robbed her of too much already. She wasn’t going to give him the power to make her distrust Luke. It was perfectly reasonable to allow Luke inside the garage and access to her home to use the washroom.
She tilted her head and caught his unwavering gray-blue gaze. “Are you going to be staying at the Orchard Inn in Oliver for the time being? I’d like to know where I can reach you. Sometimes no matter how hard I try to keep to a schedule, something happens to throw me off.”
“Are there any motels in Blossom Valley? That would save me some driving time.”
“There’s one motel outside of town, though it’s usually full this time of year because it’s on the highway. It might be more affordable for you to rent a place by the week. I can guarantee you steady part-time work for the next two weeks—it’ll take me at least that long to find someone permanent. You can ask at the tourist-info center in town for a list of local rentals, or you might try asking Bill Oakes. I rent this place from him. He owns the blue house with the butterflies as you turned onto Shady Pines Road. Prices are reasonable because it’s not on one of the more popular lakes. The cottages along this road belong to his family, most of whom have moved to other parts of Canada. They don’t want to sell, it seems, so Bill rents them out and calls the place Shady Pines Resort.”
Those blue-gray eyes regarded her thoughtfully. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. I take it you’re not from around here, either? Your accent sounds more Eastern.”
Shannon blinked. “Who me? No I—”
A cry pierced the air in the garage, followed by a thump and a plaintive wail.
Shannon gave Luke an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Luke, I have to go.” Before he could say a word, Shannon hightailed it out of the garage.
Luke stared after Mary, his mind churning with speculation. She’d been frustratingly evasive when it came to answering personal questions. Was she truly a widow or was she lying?
He’d bet coffee and a doughnut she was lying. Had the person who’d slit her tire been an ex-spouse angered over a custodial dispute? Or was there more to it than that? Had she taken her daughter without the father’s consent? That might explain why she’d stolen another woman’s identity, if she had. But Luke had no proof that this Mary Calder wasn’t whom she claimed—only unscientific hunches.