Authors: Suzanne Brockmann
“Jazz?” Frankie asked.
Simon had to laugh. Didn't it figure? Maybe the notion of Frankie Paresky being a private investigator wasn't such an absurd one. After all, she knew everyone on the island—and apparently everyone who had ever visited the island too.
“I knew a boy named Jazz who vacationed here
every spring for a number of years,” Frankie continued. “I think I first met him when I was, I don't know, maybe twelve. The last time I saw him was the year I turned eighteen. He was on spring break from college—Boston University, I think it was. His family always rented one of the houses on Pelican Street.”
“I can't believe you can remember some kid who was here only two weeks out of the year,” Simon said.
Frankie flashed him a look. “Jazz was …. memorable. I don't recall his last name, but I'm sure I've got it written down somewhere.”
Jazz. The name—and the expression on Frankie's face—suddenly brought forward memories of an uncommonly good-looking teenage boy with sun-streaked brown hair and the wiry phy sique of a marathon runner. In fact, Simon could picture Jazz running along the beach, hand in hand with Frankie, laughing and gasping and collapsing on the sand to kiss her—long, slow, deep kisses that were heart-stopping even to watch. And God knows Simon
had
watched. That was the summer Frankie had turned eighteen— the summer Simon had realized that his little sister's
best friend had grown from a scruffy kid into a dazzlingly beautiful woman. He couldn't keep his eyes off Frankie—even when she was with Jazz.
Simon had actually asked Frankie out that summer, but she didn't seem to notice him. She was totally wrapped up in that bastard Jazz— despite the fact that the kid had been gone for nearly two months.
“Is that where you intend to start the search?” Quinn asked. “By tracking down the son?”
“I think we're going to have to,” Frankie told him. “If I remember correctly, Jazz was living with his mother and his stepfather. Jazz and John—if Jazz's stepdad really is the man we're looking for—wouldn't have the same last name.” She took a manila file folder out from a drawer and wrote “Quinn” on the tab. “I'll also check with a friend of mine who works at the real estate office. Ten or twelve years is a long time ago, but she just might have rental records that go back that far for the houses on Pelican Street. Maybe we can find John's last name that way.”
Quinn nodded. “I'll be staying at the Seaholm
Resort until my flight out tomorrow evening. Let me know if you find anything.”
“You're leaving so soon?”
He smiled ruefully. “I could stand a good vacation, but unfortunately, I've got business back home that won't wait. I didn't even have time to call you before I left Michigan. I apologize for showing up unannounced.”
Frankie put her notes into the file and closed it. “Not a problem.”
Clay Quinn glanced at his Rolex watch. “Would you mind calling a cab for me?”
Frankie froze. “Umm.”
Simon knew what she was thinking. She was thinking that the island's one cab was parked over on the next block. She was thinking that even if she ran upstairs and changed back into her T-shirt and shorts and baseball cap, there was no way that Quinn wasn't going to recognize her as the cabdriver this time.
Simon came to her rescue. “I've got my Jeep right outside. Why don't you let me give you a lift up to the resort?”
“Well, thank you, I'd appreciate that.” Quinn stood up, gathering his luggage and overcoat. He
turned back to Frankie. “I forgot to mention— I'm going over to the house on Pelican Street tomorrow morning, if you'd like to come along. I'm not sure if there'll be any clues inside, but who knows?”
“What time?” Frankie asked.
“Nine o'clock?”
“I'll meet you over there.”
“I'll be there too,” Simon said.
Frankie smiled sweetly at Simon. Much, much too sweetly. “May I see you in the back room, please?” She turned to Clay. “Will you excuse us for just a moment?”
“Of course.”
Simon followed Frankie down the hall and into the kitchen, watching as she closed the swinging door behind them.
“I appreciate your giving Clay Quinn a ride to the resort,” she said in a low voice, “and I'll love you forever for being here for me this afternoon, but you are
not
my assistant or my sidekick or my
anything.
Unless, of course, you want to help with the less glamorous work—like digging through the real estate records …. ?”
“Nine o'clock tomorrow morning, the doors to
number six Pelican Street are going to be opened for the first time in years.” Simon tried to keep his voice low too, but he couldn't keep his excitement hidden. “Think of the treasures that could be inside!”
“It could be nothing but junk, Si.”
“It could be priceless. It could be exactly what one of my clients is looking for.”
“And it all belongs to this mysterious John,” Frankie pointed out.
“You find this man John,” Simon said, “and I'll get him to sell me Alice Winfield's antique furniture.”
Frankie was looking up at him, the expression in her eyes unreadable. What was she thinking? He had no trouble with other women. Other women he could read like a book. But Frankie …. she was a mystery.
“Look.” Simon hoped he didn't sound as desperate as he felt. “All I want is to get into that house and take a look around. Let me show up tomorrow morning, and we'll be even. Clean slate. Full payback.”
She didn't say a word. She just looked at him.
“Okay,” he said. “I'll also go over to the real
estate office with you this afternoon, help you sort through rental records. Then we'll
really
be even.” He paused. “Please?”
Frankie smiled. “I'm wondering, if I just keep standing here, not saying anything, will you eventually offer me the deed to your house.”
“I don't think taking a look inside Alice Winfield's house is quite worth the deed to mine,” Simon said. “But I'd appreciate it if you could give me a few minutes to think it over.” He paused for one tenth of a second. “All right, I'll throw that in too.”
Frankie laughed, shaking her head. “You're impossible to refuse.”
“You were doing a damn good job of it a few minutes ago.”
Frankie pushed open the kitchen door, gesturing for him to lead the way out. “I'll meet you at the real estate office in half an hour.”
THE RENTAL RECORDS
weren't computerized until 1989,” Maia Fox told Frankie, pulling down several file boxes and a great deal of dust from the real estate office's basement storage shelves. She carried one of the boxes to the large table set up under several rows of bright fluorescent lights. A copy machine stood ready and waiting nearby. “The previous owner recorded everything by hand, in record books. This box holds the books dated 1971 to 1975. I'm not sure how complete they are, or if they'll even have the information you're looking for. But if the house was rented
through this office, there should be
some
record of a payment transaction in these books. Those from 1976 to ‘80 and ‘81 to ‘85 are over there.”
“Thanks, Maia,” Frankie told the sweet-faced real estate agent.
“Let me know if you need anything else,” Maia said with a smile. Her smile faded as she looked at Simon. Giving a little sniff, she went up the rickety basement stairs.
Frankie turned to Simon, one eyebrow raised.
Simon opened the file box and pulled out the first account book, pretending to be intrigued by its fake leather cover.
“Are you going to tell me what that was about?” Frankie asked. “Or am I going to have to guess?”
Simon knew enough not to play dumb. He smiled ruefully. “She hasn't forgiven me.”
“Should I even bother to ask why?”
“We had something of a short-lived affair a few years ago.”
“Oh, Simon, you didn't.”
Simon actually had the good grace to look ashamed. “She came by with a casserole and some comfort after Dad's funeral. I wasn't thinking
clearly—I passed on the casserole and took the comfort. I should have done it the other way around, because she was looking for something a little longer-term. I can plead not guilty by reason of temporary insanity due to grief, but it's true, I should have recognized that Maia was a mistake right from the start.”
“Is there anyone in town that you
haven't
slept with?” Frankie asked. “No—forget it. I don't really want to know the answer to that question.”
She sat down and began leafing through the second account book. The pages were organized by month. The rental properties were listed down the left-hand side. There were four on Pelican Street that were rented with any regularity. And— hip hooray!—the renters’ names, addresses, and telephone numbers were listed in neat spidery handwriting in the right-hand column.
“Here's how we're going to do it,” she said. “We'll make copies of the pages dated February through May that list any Pelican Street rentals. Highlight in yellow the Pelican Street lines on the photocopy and make sure the month and year of the rental are clear on the page. And if the renter is named John, mark it with red.”
“You know, Francine, I haven't slept with everyone in town.”
Frankie looked up. He was still standing there, holding the ledger book, his face serious as he watched her steadily. She stood up and crossed to the copy machine, lined up the page on the glass surface, closed the lid, and pushed the start button.
“It's really not my business if you have.”
“I know it seems as if I use women—”
“Seems? Something tells me Maia would laugh if she heard you say that.”
“I don't,” Simon protested. “At least I don't mean to. I've never made a woman any promises— and I certainly never made any to Maia. For God's sake, it wasn't as if she didn't know me. Did she honestly think that one night with her was going to change my entire life?”
“Yeah,” Frankie said wryly. “She probably did. And I hate to break it to you, but there's probably more than one woman out there who interpreted your actions as unspoken promises.”
“
Unspoken
promises?” Simon let out his breath in a half-laugh of exasperation. “Well, that's their problem.”
“It's your problem too.” Frankie flipped through the account book and found May. “Maia thinks you're the kind of man who breaks his promises. I'm sure she's not alone in her thinking.”
The copy machine whirred again.
Simon shook his head. “If I promised to be faithful, I would be. If I asked someone to marry me, I'd hold those vows sacred.”
His blue eyes were lit with intensity, and Frankie found herself believing him. Of course she believed him. Simon would keep his promises. But the promise of a lasting relationship was one he'd never, ever make, not in a million years.
“I just haven't met a woman that I'd want to spend the rest of my life with,” he continued. “I haven't been in a relationship that hasn't made me feel …. hell, I don't know …. trapped.” He looked down at the book he was still holding in his hands and cleared his throat. Frankie found herself holding her breath, waiting to hear what he had to say. “Everyone thinks all I do is have fun, but you know what? I'm not having so much fun anymore. All of my friends are getting married and having babies, and I'm still dating their little sisters. At the rate I'm going, sometimes I feel as if
it's just a matter of time before I start dating their daughters. I'm tired of it, Frankie. But every time I'm with a woman and I ask myself if maybe she could be the one, I come up with a four-foot-long list of reasons why I should turn and run. So I run.”
Simon looked up at her, waiting for some kind of response, wanting to hear her opinion and advice. It was odd—Frankie had known Simon since his family had moved onto the key when he was a teenager. Through the years, despite the fact that she was his sister Leila's friend, they'd had quite a number of these soul-baring heart-to-hearts, and Frankie had never failed to be surprised by the faith and trust Simon put in her friendship.
She knew for certain that his conversations with whoever his current lady-love was never went this deep. Still, there were times—like when Frankie watched him across a crowded restaurant as he flirted with a dinner date, drawing the palm of his lover's hand to his lips, or when he slow-danced with some lovely young thing at the Rustler's Hideout—that she would have traded the heart-to-hearts for a bit more body contact.
But not anymore, Frankie reminded herself.
She had been hired to find Jazz. How about
that
for destiny? She was going to be paid—and paid well—to find the one boy she'd never managed to forget.
But if Jazz was so unforgettable, why was she so damned distracted by Simon's picture-perfect looks, by his elegant cheekbones and perfectly shaped nose, by his neon-blue eyes and his graceful lips, by his thick blond hair and to-die-for body …. ?
“Maybe you have to stop thinking of yourself as being trapped,” she told him, pulling her gaze away from his.
“Secure
is a much nicer word for a permanent relationship. And maybe if you focus on what you've got rather than what you can't have …. “
“Easier said than done.”
“You know, I predict you're going to meet a woman you simply cannot live without,” Frankie said. “You're going to take one look at her, realize that she's your soul mate, and you're going to promise her the sun and the moon.”
“Soul mate, huh? You're a hopeless romantic, Paresky. Man, who would've thought?”
Frankie turned back to the copy machine,
opening the lid and turning the ledger's page. She pressed the start button and the machine hummed. “So what if I am?”
Simon pushed himself up so he was sitting on the table. Frankie had her back to him as she diligently made copy after copy from the record book. “Tell me about this Jazz guy that you're looking for. I didn't really know him, but I remember that you and he were hot and heavy for a while.”
Frankie turned to look at him, and as usual, her eyes were unreadable. “I never went out with the kids who came down here for vacation,” she said. “Except for Jazz. He was different. He was the kind of boy who read classic literature and watched movies with subtitles. He could recite poetry and play the piano, and he picked me a bouquet of wildflowers every time we were together. I never knew anyone like him before.” She smiled. “He was my first.”