“Anything?” Sophie leaned against his arm, trying to stare into the magnifying lens with him. He could feel the heat of her body. He breathed in the lilac scent on her skin. An unwanted awareness raced through his bloodstream. It took all his control to subtly move back in his chair, breaking their contact and not letting her know how her nearness had affected him.
“Nothing yet. Sorry.” Again, Cain picked up the glass. But when he saw Sophie getting ready to lean in again to look at the picture, he knew he had to distract her. “Do you have any cookies?”
“Cookies?” Sophie sat back, an astonished look on her face.
“Yeah. Cookies. Toast. I like crunchy food with my coffee.”
Sophie laughed. The sweet, tinkling sound filled the cabin and did nothing to deter his acute awareness of her. “Okay, cookies it is. But I get to deduct the cost of food from your bill,” she teased as she scampered into the kitchen.
Cain grabbed the picture for a quick look before she returned. He held the lens over the third woman in the photo and leaned in for a closer look.
Nope. Don’t know this one, either.
Cynicism rose up in him. Of course it wouldn’t be this easy. When was life ever easy? Then he stamped down those unproductive thoughts and tried to brainstorm another solution to the problem.
“Anything?” Sophie mumbled, busily munching away on a chocolate chip cookie and offering him one from a small plate in her hand.
He waved the cookies away. The distraction had served its purpose. “No. But I’ve got an idea. Grab your things and come with me.”
SEVEN
A
sound at the door of Cain’s office drew Sophie’s attention and she looked up from the yearbook she’d been studying.
“Anything?” Cain came through the door with at least a dozen more books in his arms, which he dumped unceremoniously on the edge of the desk.
“No. Not yet.” She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hands and tried to muffle her sigh. She’d been sitting for hours trying to match the faces of the girls in the photo she’d found in her mother’s Bible with the yearbook pictures.
“Where are you getting all these books?” she asked.
“Mrs. Neville, the town librarian. If you’re looking for any book on any subject, she won’t stop until she tracks it down.”
“Wouldn’t it have been easier to look through these books at the library instead of dragging all of them over here?”
“Absolutely.” Cain leaned back in one of the leather chairs and made a show of opening a yearbook. “But Mrs. Neville would have been staring over our shoulders, peppering us with questions and then spreading stories all over town. I don’t think it’s a good idea to ruin the element of surprise just in case we do locate the girls.”
“So what did you do to get her to let you bring all these books over here? And shouldn’t the books be at the high school instead of the library?”
“Mr. Fenton runs the high school. He’s a clean freak. Organizer from hell. Honestly, he even calls biweekly locker inspections and bans the kids from using their lockers if they’re cluttered. These books are over twenty years old. He would have thrown them out. Mrs. Neville prides herself on saving high school history by keeping the yearbooks in the library storage room.”
“And she gave them to you because…?”
“I told you. I have a unique way of dealing with obstinate women. Want a lesson?”
Sophie laughed. “No, thanks. I’ll pass.” She turned her attention back to the book in front of her, looked through the last two pages and slammed it closed. “Nothing.”
“Don’t give up. All three girls lived in Promise at one time or another. At least one of them must have graduated from the local high school. We just have to match our photo to the girl’s yearbook photo and we’ll have a name.”
“I’m not giving up.” Sophie rubbed her eyes again. “But this is the third book I’ve gone through and I’m getting worried. What if I’m missing something?”
“You’re not missing anything. I’ve watched you stare at each and every photo so hard you can probably tell me if they have a zit on their nose.” He slid another book across the desk and then opened one of his own. They’d been scouring the pages in front of them for only a few minutes when a loud growl from Sophie’s stomach broke the silence.
Cain laughed and then glanced at his watch. “Five o’clock. We’ve worked straight through lunch. What do you say we take a break and grab some dinner? I have an inside source who assures me tonight is homemade pot roast at Holly’s diner.”
Sophie grinned. “And I was beginning to think you were a machine and didn’t need common sustenance like other mere humans.” Careful to bookmark her place, she stood and followed him from the office.
Sophie didn’t know what pleased her more—the exuberant welcome from Holly when they entered the diner or the delectable aroma of cooked beef and onions wafting through the room. Her heart responded to the first, her stomach painfully growled at the second.
“Do you want to sit in a booth or at the counter?” Cain asked.
“Sit at the counter, Sophie, so we can talk.” Holly, her T-shirt and jeans covered by a large white apron, swiped a cloth across the counter and had already dropped two napkin-wrapped bundles of silverware in the appropriate spots.
Sophie perched on the edge of the red-and-chrome bar stool and looked around. Most of the diners were deep in conversation with each other or busily eating their food. A couple here and there threw a less than friendly glance her way but Sophie chose to ignore them. She hadn’t broken her grandfather’s heart. She hadn’t even had the opportunity to meet him.
“So, what’s up? Any hot leads on the break-in?” Holly planted her elbows on the counter, her hands supporting her face, and grinned.
“Nope. Nothing yet.” Caught up in Holly’s enthusiasm, Sophie added, “But we found a picture I think is going to help. It’s of my mother and two teenage girls in front of the Weatherly cottage. We think they might still be here in Promise.”
“Cool. I told you my brother was a top-notch investigator. You’re in good hands with him.” Holly held out her hand to Cain. “You owe me five bucks for the testimonial. Pay up.”
Cain playfully slapped her palm. “I’ll pay up when I see two large plates of pot roast sitting in front of us.”
Holly’s laughter lingered after she moved away to get the food.
“I hope you don’t mind me ordering for you,” Cain said. “All the food served here is good, affordable and decently portioned—but the pot roast is something special.”
“You only say that because you’re the chef.” Holly, back in a flash, placed two steaming plates in front of them.
Sophie stared at Cain and struggled to keep her surprise in check. “You cooked this?”
“I did.”
“That’s his sole contribution to being my partner. Every Tuesday he provides the pot roast special,” Holly said.
“My only contribution?” Cain asked, feigning indignation. “Seems to me that most of the red, black and white decor in this place came from a little bit of green in my bank account.”
Holly laughed. “Yeah, well, that, too.”
“The two of you own this diner?” Sophie asked.
“Yep,” Cain replied. “I step in occasionally and help run the place but mostly I’m a silent partner—except for pot roast Tuesdays.”
“I don’t know about the silent part,” Holly teased. “But it’s true. Mostly, he lets me run things. And I let him run the P.I. business unless he has an odd job that needs a female touch. Our individual talents fill in the gaps for each other’s weaknesses. It makes the arrangement work.”
Sophie’s stomach growled again.
Cain and Holly laughed.
“Let me let you two eat. I’ll be back again in a couple of minutes to see if there’s anything else you need.”
Sophie stared at her plate and felt like Pavlov’s dog. The sight of the thick hunks of meat, red potatoes, hunks of carrots and celery combined with the rich, beefy aroma actually made her salivate. Unable to wait another second she took a bite and knew instantly that if she lived to be one hundred she’d never be able to cook as good as this.
She took a second bite. A third. And before she knew it, she had drowned out all the sights and sounds around her and done some serious eating. She was sopping the last remnants of gravy with her roll when she heard Cain chuckling beside her.
“I guess I don’t have to ask if you liked it. You attacked that plate like a starving orphan. Any second now, I expect to hear you ask for more.”
A rush of heat flowed through Sophie’s cheeks and down her neck. To hide her embarrassment, she smiled up at him and attempted to change the subject. “An ex-cop. A private investigator. A chef. You’re a complicated man, aren’t you, Cain? A man of many surprises.”
Raw emotion flashed across Cain’s face. He leaned closer. His voice low. His breath fanning across her cheeks. “You have no idea, Miss Clarkston, just how complicated this all feels to me right now.”
Her cheeks flamed. Somehow the conversation had abruptly steered from food to, what? Attraction? More? Sophie drew in a deep breath. She dared to look at him and saw her answer in the darkened eyes staring back.
Before either one of them could move—or even breathe—the sound of a siren sliced through the air. Red-and-blue strobe lights danced through the diner windows and most of the occupants strained to see what was going on outside.
Holly raced around the counter and cupped her eyes against the glass on the opposite wall. “It’s the Falcon kid again.” She shook her head from side to side. “Mom’s going to be so disappointed.”
Sophie arched an eyebrow in a silent question.
“Mom runs a craft workshop Sunday afternoons at the church for troubled teens,” Cain explained. “She hopes finding constructive things to do with their time and talents will keep some of the borderline delinquents from crossing the line into the criminal justice system. Jimmy Falcon is one of her kids.”
“The boy’s bad news,” Holly said. “He’s got major anger issues. Painting a picture or working on leather isn’t going to help with that.”
“C’mon, Holly, give the guy a break. We both know why he has that temper. We might be just as angry if our mom ran off and our dad was a drunk.”
Holly shrugged. “Still don’t think arts and crafts is the way to tame that wild beast. He needs a good swift kick in his…”
“Holly!” Cain laughed. “Be careful. Any swearing and you’ll find yourself in Mom’s remedial class yourself.”
“Derriere. I was going to say derrierre.”
“Sure you were.” Cain stood and threw some bills on the counter.
“Since when do you pay for your dinner?” Holly scooped up the bills before he could change his mind.
Cain ignored the jibe, nodded a good-bye and cupped Sophie’s elbow. “Let’s go. We still have dozens of smiling yearbook pictures waiting for us.”
As they stepped out of the diner, Sophie’s eyes met and held with a young male teenager leaning over the trunk of the sheriff’s car. The sheriff handcuffed his hands behind his back. Others might have seen rebellion and anger reflected in those eyes. Sophie recognized other feelings…feelings she’d experienced herself—pain—loneliness—fear.
“What do you think he did?” Sophie asked Cain as they crossed the street together.
Cain glanced at the law enforcement cars and the multiple teenagers gathered. “Drag racing would be my bet. It’s been a real problem in our town lately. Some cities have gangs. We have punks with speed issues. We’ve had two deaths in the past year and one kid is in the hospital as we speak. But do they stop?”
“Your mom works with these kids?”
“She tries. She’s had a few success stories. I guess that’s what keeps her going.” Cain looked over his shoulder at the dark-haired youth being shepherded into the backseat of the sheriff’s cruiser. “That’s Jimmy Falcon all right. She had high hopes for him. Too bad.”
Once back at the office, they settled into the quiet routine of searching the yearbooks, but Sophie found it difficult to concentrate. She kept thinking of the pain she had seen in the boy’s eyes.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Cain said.
His voice pulled her out of her reverie. “Sorry. I was just thinking about your mom and her arts and crafts classes. Do you know if she ever introduced working with clay to the teens?”
Cain leaned back and threw an arm over the back of his chair. “I don’t know. Why?”
Sophie shrugged. “No reason, really.” She squirmed under his silent scrutiny. “It’s just that I’ve found clay is a very soothing medium. There’s nothing quite like pounding it and shaping it from its raw form into something unique and beautiful.”
“Wouldn’t that be a little complicated for these kids?”
“Not at all. They can start out with the clay squares you get in arts and crafts stores. There are lots of how-to books available. Even a beginner can make beads for jewelry or little figurines.” Her eyes lit up as she spoke. “You can develop quite a sense of accomplishment when you squeeze and mold a lump of clay and make it come alive. I believe it could really help a kid forget his anger or loneliness, if only for a little while.”
“Is that why I see you knead modelling clay every now and then? Working off steam?”
Her eyes shot to his and she felt vulnerable, like he’d seen a glimpse of her that she’d never shared with anyone before. “Something like that,” she said. “Pounding clay beats pounding heads. It’s a great stress reliever.”
“I imagine moving as often as you did was quite stressful. Never gave you the sense of having roots. Never let you form lasting friendships.”
“It wasn’t that bad. At least my dad isn’t the town drunk. And we did make friends—on the craft circuit. We’d see the same people every year.”
Cain stared at her long and hard as though he could see right through her. Without a word, she lowered her head and returned to the task at hand.
Two books later, when she’d decided this was a fool’s mission and was ready to throw in the towel, a familiar face smiled up at her from the page. She blinked, stared harder and blinked again.
A rush of excitement danced along her nerve endings. She picked up the photo in her left hand and a magnifying lens in her right. Comparing the face in the photograph with the picture in the yearbook, she grinned.