In His Wife's Name. Joyce Sullivan
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from him.
Luke brought the detective up to speed about the change in his accommodations and his interview with Bill Oakes. “He told me the suspect has been renting since a year ago last April—two weeks after Mary died. She told him her husband was dead, which is the same line she gave me.”
Vaughn was silent a moment. “You think there’s a custody issue involved?”
“Possibly. It makes the most sense to me. I didn’t see any pictures of a man when I was in the house. I checked the garage for boxes of personal belongings, but no dice.”
“So maybe the husband slit the tire?” Vaughn suggested. Luke could almost hear the gears churning in the detective’s head. “That puts an interesting spin on the situation. You got a name for the husband?”
“No, not even a first name. But then, she’s evasive whenever I ask personal questions. My gut feeling is she’s running from something.”
“Or someone. Think you can get her prints? We might be able to identify her. Stands to reason that if she was involved in Mary’s murder or is the type to buy stolen ID, she may have been in trouble with the law before. She might have a record.”
“I’ll get them,” Luke promised.
Vaughn instructed him to keep in touch and hung up.
Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, with the small cell phone tucked into his pocket, Luke took the dirt path by the lake in the direction of Mary’s cottage. She wasn’t expecting him for another half hour, but he figured he could get the lay of the land and keep a vigilant eye on her cottage at the same time. The person who’d slit her tire might be keeping close tabs on her. And Luke didn’t want anything to happen to Mary and her daughter. Mary was the key to the answers he needed.
Voices drifted over to him from the other cottages. But the only person he encountered on the path was a sullen-faced teen in a black tank top and baggy swimming trunks that hung past his knees. The kid had bleached his dark hair to an electrifying hue and had affixed a row of silver studs to his right earlobe. Luke wondered if he’d ever looked that sullen as a teen.
Mary and Samantha were outside when he arrived. Samantha was sitting in a small sandbox with brightly colored toys while Mary was seated in a blue Adirondack chair that someone—Mary herself?—had turned into a work of art with hand-painted renderings of garden spades, hoes and seed packets. A mug of coffee sat on the wooden arm of the chair and a pencil and sketchbook were in her lap.
“Good morning, Luke, you’re right on time.” Mary’s welcoming smile was so cheerful and beguiling it stirred a response from his body that was far too vigorous for his comfort. She was dressed in a pair of sky-blue shorts this morning, with a matching blouse.
He averted his gaze from the devastating eyeful of tanned silky arms and legs as a razor-sharp sliver of guilt pricked his heart. “Of course I’m on time. Believe it or not, I know a number of contractors and subcontractors who actually show up at the time they promise.”
Mary laughed doubtfully.
Telling himself that he wasn’t attracted to her but to her passing resemblance to his Mary, didn’t help. It only made him feel more unsure. The truth was he didn’t want to feel anything for this Mary and her daughter. He was here to seek justice for his wife, nothing more, nothing less. He needed closure and peace to free himself from the limbo of his existence. Then maybe he could get on with his life.
Samantha gave a whimper of frustration as she tried to turn over a mold filled with sand. Luke hunkered down beside her so he could see her face beneath the brim of her pink sun hat and smiled at the unidentifiable clumps of sand she’d created in the sandbox. Judging by the forms she was playing with, they were supposed to be animal shapes. “I see you’re quite the designer, kid, following in your mother’s footsteps. Want some help making that turtle?”
Samantha sweetly handed him another shovel, those big smoky brown eyes of hers a trap in themselves. Luke helped her fill the plastic turtle mold with sand, then flipped it over. The turtle held its shape. Samantha clapped her hands as he added two tiny pinecone eyes. “There you go, kid.”
An unbearable ache wedged just below his heart, widening into a chasm of pain deep enough to drown in. It took every ounce of his willpower not to let himself think about what kind of father he might have been if he and his wife had had a baby. He’d been eagerly doing his duty to get her pregnant in the weeks before her death.
The Adirondack chair creaked behind him, and Mary’s voice, rich with motherly indulgence, encircled him in a bubble of intimacy that touched the emptiness inside him. “Oops, what are you going to do with that pinecone, Samantha?” she said as her daughter pinched another pinecone between her thumb and forefinger and ever so carefully placed it off-center on the turtle’s head for a nose.
“Nice touch, Samantha,” he praised her, patting her back awkwardly. “Every turtle needs a nose. It helps them find lunch.” Samantha giggled as Luke rose and brushed his hands on his jeans.
He risked taking another look at Mary and tried not to think about all those seemingly insignificant yet cherished moments he’d spent with his wife. The Saturday-morning French-toast breakfasts, the visits to antique shops to find just the right touches for their home. The hello and goodbye kisses. So many lost moments, lost dreams. So much he owed his wife. Luke took a firm mental step away from the edge of the chasm that threatened to suck him into its darkness. He could do this no matter what it took.
To his relief, Mary wasn’t paying him any mind. She was scanning the drive and the lawn leading down to the lake, the S-shaped frown he’d noticed yesterday inching between her brows. “Hey, I just noticed you’re on foot this morning. Did someone drop you off?”
“No, my car’s parked at my cottage down the way. Bill Oakes had a vacancy, so I moved in last night.”
“Oh, I thought maybe you were visiting the area with a friend you hadn’t mentioned.” Luke groaned inwardly at the hint of interest in her voice. Was she subtly inquiring whether he was involved in a relationship? It was bad enough that he felt some feelings of attraction for Mary. He didn’t want them to be reciprocated—even if it might facilitate getting some answers out of her! The situation was complicated enough. “I’m staying here alone,” he admitted finally, figuring the less he elaborated, the better.
She flashed him another beguiling smile. “That’s great you got a cottage. Which one?”
“Small one, in terrible need of repair. I’ve heard trains that were quieter than the pipes knocking in the walls when the shower’s turned on. But the price was right.”
“That’s Abner’s cottage. The oldest brother. He’s tightfisted, apparently. Can’t see why he should spend good money on improvements for other people to enjoy.”
Luke studied her closely as she took a sip of coffee. Hair framed her face in tousled disarray as if she’d combed it with her fingers when she’d risen from bed. She wasn’t wearing any makeup. There were lavender smudges under her eyes. From fear? Sleeplessness? Pushing herself too hard? “Bill Oakes didn’t mention it,” he said.
“Can I get you some coffee?” She started to rise.
He waved her to stay seated. “I’ll get it. You keep working. Mugs are in the cupboard above the sink, right?”
Luke saw uncertainty flash in her eyes. Why? At the prospect of him entering her home?
She settled herself back into her chair. “Yes, help yourself. Sugar’s in a bowl on the counter and there’s cream in the fridge.”
Luke nodded and ambled toward the front door. Conscious of the ticking seconds, his steps quickened once he’d stepped inside the cottage. The phone was mounted on the wall at the end of the kitchen counter. An old white pitcher crammed with pencils and a notepad was positioned near the phone, but there was none of the daily minutiae he expected to find: an address book, a calendar, letters, bills, bank statements. The day planner she’d had yesterday was nowhere