Stranger In His Arms. Charlotte Douglas
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“See how the town hugs the west shore of the lake?”
Jennifer nodded.
“When my daddy came to Casey’s Cove over a hundred years ago as the town’s first doctor, that area was several hundred feet up the mountain from Casey’s Creek.”
“Where was the lake?”
“Didn’t exist. Not until several decades later when one of FDR’s work projects dammed the creek and created Lake Casey. Underneath all that water,” Bessie waved her arm to take in the thousands of acres the immense lake covered, “are the ruins of several farms, homesteads, even a church, all condemned when the creek was dammed for the hydroelectric plant at the eastern end of the lake.”
Jennifer shivered at the thought of the ancient buildings rotting beneath the lake’s surface. Her peaceful retreat had suddenly acquired a sinister aura.
“What happened to all the folks who lived there?” she asked.
“They moved out of the valley or farther up the mountains,” Miss Bessie said. “Casey’s Cove hasn’t changed since then. The population remains pretty much the same. Sparse in winter and spring with just us locals. A few hundred extra summer and fall residents. Halfbacks, we call ’em—”
“Football players?”
Miss Bessie giggled like a young girl. “Yankees. Folks who moved down to Florida from the North then came halfway back, as far as North Carolina. And we also get the occasional passing-through tourists.”
“If there’re only a few hundred year-round residents, how many children are in your day-care center?” Jennifer asked.
“About twenty.”
“That’s a lot for such a small town.”
“Times are hard,” Bessie said, “and the women in Casey’s Cove have to work. Some clean and cook at the inns and hotels around the lake. Others commute to Sylva to work in the shops in town or at the university.” She stared over the lake without looking at Jennifer. “I have a special assignment for you at the center.”
“Bookkeeping?” Jennifer said, remembering her employment interview.
“There’s that, of course,” Bessie said. “But there’s more. There’s a little girl who needs you.”
“I don’t have any experience with children,” Jennifer admitted. “I told you that in my interview.”
“You have a kind heart,” Bessie said. “That’s all you’ll need. And you’ll fall in love with Sissy McGinnis the minute you lay eyes on her.”
“Sissy—?”
“She’s four years old. Her mother is in the hospital, undergoing chemotherapy for cancer. Sissy’s living with her aunt while her mother’s away. I figured since you were orphaned young and raised by your aunt, you’d have something in common with the girl.”
“What about her father?” Jennifer said.
Miss Bessie grimaced. “Low-down worthless skunk took off as soon as he learned Sissy was on the way. Nobody’s seen him since.”
At a loss as to how she could help the girl, Jennifer asked, “What do you want me to do?”
“Her aunt works days and is bone-tired at night. Sissy needs a grown-up who can help her through this trying time. I figure you’ll do just fine.”
“You’re giving me more credit than I deserve,” Jennifer protested. “I don’t even know how to start.”
“When you go to work on the books tomorrow,” Bessie said, “have Sissy help you.”
“But you said she’s only four.”
“You’ll think of something,” Miss Bessie said breezily and pushed to her feet. “Now, drive me back to the house. You can keep the car for running errands and driving back and forth to the day-care center.”
Jennifer went inside and grabbed her purse. As she stepped back onto the porch and was closing the front door, her gaze fell on the empty mug beside the large chair in the living room, reminding her of Dylan Blackburn’s visit. With the policeman’s prying questions and the responsibility of a four-year-old, Jennifer’s arrival in Casey’s Cove had quickly gone from serene to unsettled.
DYLAN ENTERED the tiny brick building that served as Casey’s Cove’s police station and jail. At the front desk Sandy Griffin, the dispatcher, lifted her eyebrows at the sight of his wrinkled shirt. Her fingers flew over a skein of yarn and a crochet needle as she worked a new afghan between radio calls.
The plump, middle-aged woman appraised him with gray eyes that matched her hair. “How’s your stomach?”
“Fine,” he said with a grin. “Miss Bessie was so excited about her new assistant she forgot to offer cinnamon buns.”
“Lucky you. Did you meet the new arrival?”
“Yeah.”
Sandy dropped her crochet needle and yarn to her lap. “Is that all you’re going to tell me?”
“What else is there?” Dylan answered evasively. He took a seat at his desk and called up a screen on his computer.
“What does she look like, for starters?” Sandy, like every other resident of Casey’s Cove, had an insatiable curiosity where outsiders were concerned.
“Pretty,” Dylan answered.
“And?” Sandy prodded. “What aren’t you telling me, Dylan Blackburn?”
“I don’t know.” He scratched his head in confusion. “Something about her isn’t right.”
Sandy’s eyes widened. “Miss Bessie didn’t hire a crazy woman?”
Dylan smiled and shook his head. “Her mental state is fine, for all I can tell. But I get the strangest feeling she’s hiding something.”
“You ought to know. You’ve got the best nose for trouble in town.”
“In all those be-on-the-lookout flyers you process every day,” Dylan said, “have you ever seen a reference to a Jennifer Reid?”
“Jennifer Reid.” Sandy scrunched her plump face in concentration and accessed her phenomenal memory. “I’ve seen that name before.”
Dylan’s heart sank. He had hoped his hunch was wrong, that Jennifer Reid wasn’t in some kind of trouble.
“It was last June,” Sandy said. “A missing person’s report. Came with a picture and complete description.”
“Is it in the file?”
The dispatcher shook her head. “A couple weeks later a bulletin came through that the woman had been found, so I tossed both papers.”
The missing person’s report didn’t correspond with Jennifer Reid’s story—not unless she’d left Memphis for Nashville without telling anyone. But why would she have done that?
Sandy’s memory of every paper that came across her desk was exceptional, so he pressed for more information, dreading what he might hear. “Did the missing person’s report hint that Jennifer was in any kind of trouble?”
Sandy shook her head and picked up her crocheting again. “Was she wanted for a crime, you mean? No, it was a straightforward missing person’s report. She had disappeared from home. You met the woman. You think she’s trouble?”
Dylan remembered the pixie face, dancing green eyes, and take-charge attitude. “I hope not. But there’s only one sure way to find out.”
He turned to his computer keyboard, checked his clipboard, and typed Jennifer Reid’s name, description, Social Security and driver’s license numbers into the national crime computer search engine. The inner workings of the machine clicked and