Still, he hadn’t had a decent haircut in months, his beard stubble had reappeared and his dark eyes looked as haunted as some of the skips he picked up. Add the bumpy scar on his hip from an old bullet wound, he decided sarcastically, and he made one hell of an appealing package.
So why did he even give a damn how he looked tonight?
You know the answer to that one, hotshot.
Ike yanked his gaze from the mirror, bristling defensively and telling himself that he didn’t give a damn. He hadn’t driven up here to impress her. His “beauty” regimen was as simple as it got. No frills, no thrills. He showered, shaved and wore clean socks. That was it. Anyone who expected more could stuff it.
Cursing beneath his breath, he shed his underwear, then turned on the shower spray and snatched up the soap and tiny bottle of shampoo that housekeeping had placed on the vanity.
He was grateful for the amenities. He hadn’t packed much more than a change of clothes, his laptop, files and a razor, and the last thing he wanted to do was shop for the things he’d left behind.
Stepping inside the shower, he yanked the curtain closed, shut his eyes and let the water beat his face and shoulders. Let it pound his chest. These days he was thankful for the little things.
Because if there was one thing he’d learned in the last two years, it was that the big things—the important things—had gotten away from him.
Lindsay had barely said goodbye to her mother and returned to the mudroom to finish cleaning her paintbrush when the phone rang again. She sighed. She couldn’t take another bitter dissertation on the evils of Ike Walker, not tonight. Not with Ike’s troubling request still nagging at her. Not with her heavy heart still aching after seeing him again.
Quickly wiping her hands on a paper towel, she returned to the dining room. It was a relief when she checked the phone’s caller ID window and saw a local, though unfamiliar number. After her mother’s tirade, even another phone solicitor would be a welcome break tonight.
But it wasn’t a telemarketer looking to sell her more magazines.
John Fielding’s mellow voice had a smile in it when he identified himself. The bookstore’s courtly new owner was a recent arrival from Boothbay, and a decade older than Lindsay’s thirty-two years. When she’d met him at his shop’s grand reopening, she’d liked him on the spot, and it must have been mutual because he’d asked her out the very next day. She’d had her first date with him last weekend when they’d driven to Portland for dinner and the theater, then afterward, lingered over lattes and biscotti at a cute little coffee shop to discuss their love of books.
“Hello, John,” she said, glad for a reminder that she was making some changes in her pitifully out-of-balance life. Since she and Ike had parted, she’d filled her days with work, time with her mother and the occasional outing with friends. “How are you?”
“I’m well, thanks,” he said, a little hesitantly. “But forgive me, you sound tired. I hope I’m not calling too late.”
It was barely eight-fifteen. Lindsay let his comment about fatigue slide, though she did feel drained—and she knew exactly who to blame for the condition. “Of course it’s not too late. What’s up?”
“Well,” he said, happily warming to his topic, “last week you mentioned that you’d scheduled some vacation time to work on your home. I was hoping you’d set aside one of those days for me. Even a few hours would be wonderful.”
Lindsay waited through his chuckle.
“I don’t mean to be unkind,” he went on, “but my predecessor’s tastes were a bit pedestrian. How would you like to help me plan a store layout with a little more panache? Possibly help me move some books around and collaborate on a window display? It would give us time to get better acquainted, and later, I’d be delighted to take you to dinner at any place you name.”
“Sure,” she replied, wishing the prospect excited her more—and knowing where to place the blame for that, too. “When would you like to do it? I work tomorrow—Friday—then I’m free for two weeks.”
“A week from Sunday? I’m anxious to begin, but I’d rather not be all torn up during the week, especially since I just opened, and I’m closed on Sundays anyhow. Besides, waiting would give me time to make some of the preliminary moves. Would that work for you?”
Lindsay mustered some enthusiasm for him. “Next Sunday will be fine. By then, I’ll probably be glad to leave the sandpaper and varnish behind.”
But as she hung up a few minutes later, a hollow spot opened in her chest as she recalled something Ike had said when they’d just begun dating…when their hormones were in overdrive and she’d felt her pulse race just hearing his voice. When she’d asked him what was up, Ike had answered very differently.
“What’s up?” he’d murmured, making her knees go weak and her tummy float. “My temperature, thinking about you. When can I see you again?”
Sighing, determined to put Ike and the evening’s events out of her mind, Lindsay prepared to leave the room. Then her gaze caught the family photo of herself, Ricky and their mother atop her computer hutch. It had been taken two years after her father’s death, when she was sixteen and Ricky was eleven. Her heart lurched painfully as she reached for the beloved photograph.
What a darling little boy he’d been—her parents’ miracle child after doctors had informed her mom and dad that there would be no more babies. Then Ricky had shown up, all pink and wrinkled, and the three of them had showered him with love—especially Lindsay. She was his big sister, his doting protector. Then one afternoon as her dad was driving Ricky to a Little League game, a drunk driver hit their car head-on, and in an instant, Richard Hollis was gone. Her father’s death had devastated the whole family, especially nine-year-old Ricky, who was left with a pile of survivor’s guilt. After that, he’d struggled to find his place in the world.
Lindsay stroked her baby brother’s face through the glass, tears filling her eyes again, feeling the pain and helplessness again. Feeling the big-sisterly guilt. She’d failed Ricky, too. She’d promised to take care of him, and she hadn’t.
Releasing a trembling breath, she replaced the photograph and wiped her eyes before the tears could gain a foothold. Ike was right. They needed to know if Ricky’s death was connected to yesterday’s shooting. They needed to know if it was a random act of violence, or a cold, calculated murder.
Ten minutes later, she’d changed into faded jeans and a navy sweatshirt, and was striding down the dark, sloping road toward the harbor. Krafty Millie’s Café came into view first, the white-sided building brightly lit. Music and chatter filtered into the night as patrons left through the plate glass door and walked to their cars…and next door, sharing the same spacious parking lot, The Spindrifter Motel’s flashing neon sign said they had a vacancy.
Lindsay’s heartbeat quickened. Ike’s black Explorer was parked outside a room where light seeped under the closed drapes on the wide window, and a porch light attracted a squadron of moths. It was the only room near his SUV that appeared to be occupied.
Inhaling deeply, she crossed the gritty asphalt lot, walked up to the door and shooed away a few little fliers.
Suddenly it flew open, and she was tugged, gasping, inside.
“Sorry
