A Family Kind of Gal (7 page)

Yep, she had her problems at the old apartment house. There were four tenants besides himself. Mrs. Ellingsworth, whom he'd already met, occupied one basement unit, an art student lived in the other, and a recently married couple resided on the main floor of the carriage house. The upper story was empty, recently vacated by a man named Lafferty.

He'd learned all this from Max Crenshaw as they'd driven from one place to the next. The Realtor seemed to know everything that happened in Bittersweet.

“Now, I'm gonna show you something that I don't have listed yet—well, no one does, but it's part of our latest local mystery, and since we're driving by anyway...” Crenshaw braked at a run-down old ranch with a small cabin near the front of the property, a couple of sheds and an imposing barn at the back. Vast, untended acres stretched behind the house.

“Weird deal, this,” Max said as he nosed the Cadillac into the drive, shoved the gearshift into Park and let the car idle. “You mind?” he asked as he rummaged in his breast pocket and came up with a crumpled pack of cigarettes.

“No.”

“Good. I'm tryin' to cut back, but, hell, you know how it is.” He shook out a cigarette, offered one to J.D. and punched in the lighter.

“No, thanks.”

“Ever smoke?”

“Years ago.”

“Wish I could quit. Anyway, this place belongs—or belonged, depending upon what you want to believe—to a guy by the name of Isaac Wells.”

“Did it?” J.D. was suddenly more interested in the dilapidated cabin and desolate acres.

“Yep. Old Isaac lived here all by himself. Never married. Had a sister who died a long while ago and some brothers who have scattered to the winds, but, oh, a month or two ago, Isaac just up and disappeared.” The lighter popped, and Max, after rolling down his window, lit up. “Weird as hell, if ya ask me. No one's heard anything from him. You'd think if he died or was killed, someone would've found his body by now. If he was kidnapped, he would have been ransomed, though what for I can't imagine. Some of the people in town think he had money locked in a deposit box in one of the banks or buried in tin cans around the ranch, but that's all just hearsay as much as I can tell.” He smoked in silence for a few minutes. “You know, if he just took off on his own, someone he knew would have heard from him, wouldn't they?” He shook his head and jabbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. “Anyway, this place could be on the market—I'm sure as hell looking into it. Then again, it might stay just as it is forever.”

J.D. studied the abandoned acres through the windshield. The house was small, in need of paint, with a couple of windows that were cracked. The barn, built of cedar planks that had weathered gray, was huge and sprawling; the other outbuildings looked worn and neglected. The entire spread seemed lonely. Desolate.

“He was an odd one, old Isaac, but didn't have any enemies that I knew of. Like I say, it's a mystery.”

“Without any clues?”

“If they've got 'em, the cops aren't saying.” He shifted the car into Reverse. “Let's mosey on down the road a piece. I've got a couple more ideas. The first place—the Stowell spread—is listed with a Realtor in Medford. It's about a hundred acres, well-kept and the owners are anxious to sell, would even agree to terms—not that your company would need them—but let's take a look-see just in case.”

He backed the Cadillac out of the drive, and J.D. watched Isaac Wells's place disappear from sight in the side-view mirror.

Max prattled on. The boring music continued to play. The miles rolled beneath the wheels of the old car, and J.D. itched to be anywhere else on earth. With each passing minute, he felt that he'd made the biggest mistake of his life by showing up in Bittersweet.

* * *

Juggling two sacks of groceries, Tiffany managed to unlock the front door. “I'm home,” she called out, but knew before no one answered that she was alone. On a chair in the parlor, Charcoal lifted his head, then arched his back and stretched lazily. “Anybody here?” she said to the house in general, then sighed. “I guess it's just you and me, eh?” The cat yawned and padded after her to the kitchen.

A note in Mrs. Ellingsworth's chicken scratch told her that she had taken Christina to the park. Stephen was still at his grandmother's house doing yard work. She set the sacks on the kitchen counter and started unpacking the groceries only to notice that the wedding invitation she'd tucked away was on the counter, lying open, seeming to mock her.

“Great,” she muttered, fingering the smooth paper.

While she was growing up John Cawthorne had never been around. She'd never even met him until a few months ago, and for years—
years
—she'd believed him dead. So it seemed unbelievable to her that now, when she was thirty-three years old, a widowed mother of two, she should be expected to forgive and forget. Just like that. Well, guess again.

For the dozenth time in as many days she read the embossed invitation.

Mr. John Andrew Cawthorne and Ms. Brynnie Perez

Request the Honor of Your Presence

at the Celebration of Their Marriage

on Sunday, August 7th

at 7:00 p.m.

at the Chapel of the Rogue

Reception Following

at Cawthorne Acres

R.S.V.P.

“Fat chance,” she whispered to herself.

As far as Tiffany was concerned, John Cawthorne's upcoming marriage was a sham. She wanted no part of it and had refused to attend the nuptials. Even though John had called over, even though she'd felt a ridiculous needle of guilt pierce her brain for not accepting the olive branch he'd held out to her, she'd held firm.

Scowling against a potential headache, she retrieved a handwritten note that was still tucked inside the envelope. In a bold scrawl, good old John had tried to breach a gap he'd created when he'd turned his back on her mother thirty-three years ago.

Dear Tiffany,

I know I don't deserve your support, but I'm asking for it anyway. Believe me when I say I've turned over a new leaf and more than anything I want you and your sisters to be part of my family.

God knows, I've made more than my share of mistakes. No doubt I'll make more before I see the pearly gates, but, please find it in your heart to forgive an old man who just wants to make his peace before it's time to face his Maker. In my own way, Tiffany, I love you. Always have. Always will. You're my firstborn. I hope you will join me and your sisters at the wedding.

Your father,

John Cawthorne

* * *

Father.
There was that painful word again. Where had he been when her mother was working two jobs trying to raise an illegitimate daughter? Where had this wonderful “father” been during her growing-up years when she'd needed someone—anyone—to explain the complexities of the males of the species? Where had he been when she'd gotten married and had no one to give her away at the small wedding? What had he thought when she'd had children—his grandchildren?

John Cawthorne didn't know the meaning of the word
father.
She doubted that he ever would. She curled the letter in her fist, felt the edge of one sheet cut into her finger and tossed the crumpled pages into a wastebasket near the back door. Why was she even thinking of the man?

Because in a few days it will be his wedding day.

So what? So he was finally marrying the woman he'd professed to love after all these years—a woman who had collected more husbands than most women had pairs of earrings.

As for her “sisters,” she wasn't sure she had anything in common with either of them. Bliss was a few years younger than she. Just as she'd appeared today in the agency, Bliss seemed always to be a cool, sophisticated woman who had been born with the proverbial silver spoon firmly lodged between her teeth. She had always had John Cawthorne's name, had never experienced the feelings of loneliness and despair at being poor or different from other kids who, even if their parents had divorced, knew who their father was. Tiffany was fairly certain she wouldn't get along with Bliss Cawthorne.

As for her other half-sibling, Katie Kinkaid—well, Katie was a dynamo, a woman who was naive enough to think she could change the world by sheer willpower.

Tiffany had nothing in common with either of them. Not that she cared. She went upstairs, changed into jeans and a sleeveless blouse, scraped her hair back into a functional ponytail, then returned to the kitchen where she started unpacking the groceries. She was just about finished when she heard the sound of voices in the backyard. Folding the grocery sacks and placing them under the sink, she glanced through the window and spied Mrs. Ellingsworth carrying Christina toward the porch.

“Mommy!” the three-year-old cried as Tiffany opened the screen door. Christina scrambled out of the older woman's arms and ran up the back steps.

“She's plumb tuckered out,” Ellie said.

“Am not.” Christina yawned nonetheless, and the corners of her mouth turned down.

“Well, I am. I wish I had half that kid's energy.” Ellie mopped her brow as Tiffany held the door open and leaned down. Christina flew into her arms.

“We swinged and got on the merry-go-round,” she announced, her cheeks flushed.

“Did you?”

Ellie laughed as she stepped into the kitchen. “A few times.”

“Bunches and bunches of times,” Christina said, then struggled out of her mother's arms and chased Charcoal outside.

“She's a goer, that one,” Ellie said, chuckling and watching through the mesh as Christina found an old tin pie plate on the back porch and toddled down the yard. “She'll be tired tonight.”

“Good.” Maybe then she would sleep through without the nightmares that had plagued her since Philip's death. “Taking her to the park was above and beyond the call of duty.”

“Any time. She's a joy, that one.” Then, as if realizing they were alone for the first time, Ellie asked, “Isn't Stephen back yet?” Before Tiffany could answer, she added, “That's odd. Octavia called and asked him to come over to mow the lawn. Said it would only take an hour. That was, when?” She checked her watch again. “Nearly three hours ago.”

“Figures,” Tiffany said. “I didn't find any note from him, but this was lying open.” She pointed to the invitation on the counter.

“Was it?” Ellie's face puckered thoughtfully. “I didn't see it.”

“Stephen must have found it and left it here.” Tiffany checked for another note, found none, and told herself not to worry, that Stephen was probably just with his friends fishing or swimming or hanging out.… But where? “Well, I suppose I'll hear from him before too long,” she said. “Now, how about a glass of iced tea or lemonade?”

Ellie reached for a tissue from the box on the counter and dabbed at her forehead. “I could use a drink, believe me. A vodka collins sounds nice, but it's a little early. Besides, I've got a date.”

“A date?” Tiffany repeated, surprised. “Who's the lucky guy?”

The older woman positively beamed. “Stan Brinkman. Retired. Once owned a roofing company that he sold to his sons. He's widowed, too, and spends his summers up here and drives a fifth wheeler down to Arizona each winter.”

This was news to Tiffany. “How long have you known him?”

“Long enough.” Ellie gave an exaggerated wink and walked to the door. “I'll tell you all about it later.” With a wave she was out the door, pausing long enough to say a few words to Christina who was feverishly plucking blades of grass and dropping them into the pie tin.

The phone rang. Tiffany grabbed the receiver on the second ring and, still watching her daughter through the screen, said, “Hello?”

“Mom?” Stephen's voice cracked.

“Oh, hi, kid.” She rested her hip against the counter. “All done with Grandma's lawn?”

“Uh…a long time ago.”

There was an edginess in his voice, and she realized something was wrong. Very wrong. She froze. “So where are you?” she asked.

He hesitated.

“Stephen?”

“I'm at the police station, Mom, and…and someone wants to talk to you.”

“Y
ou're where?
” Tiffany sagged against the kitchen wall for support. Dear God, this couldn't be happening.

“I said I'm down at the—”

“I know what you said, but how did you get there? Are you all right? What happened?” A jillion thoughts raced through her mind, none of them good, when she considered her thirteen-year-old son and his recent knack for getting into trouble.

“Yeah. I'm okay.”

“You're sure?” She wasn't convinced.

“Yeah. The officer wants to talk to you.”

“Wait, Stephen, should I come get you—”

“Mrs. Santini?” an older male voice inquired. “I'm Sergeant Pearson.”

Tiffany's throat was dry, her heart a beating drum. “What's going on? Is my son okay?”

“Aside from a shiner and a sore jaw, I think he'll be fine.” The sergeant's voice was kind but did little to soothe her jangled nerves.

“What happened?”

“He and another kid, Miles Dean, got into a scuffle down at the Mini Mart”

“A scuffle?” she repeated, anxious sweat causing the back of her blouse to cling to her skin. The older boy's father, Ray Dean, had been in and out of jail, and it looked as though Miles was following in his old man's footsteps. What in the world was Stephen doing with him this time?

“The boys got into a quarrel. One thing led to another, and a couple of punches were thrown. The clerk gave us a call, and we picked 'em up. All in all, your boy's fine.”

Relief caused her shoulders to droop, but she rubbed at the headache pounding in her forehead. “And Miles?”

The officer hesitated, and Tiffany felt a niggle of dread. “Miles always manages to get himself out of trouble.”