out. It was simple enough to watch Whiting in her rearview mirror. He’d drawn out a notebook and was jotting down her license number.
She doused a flicker of anger. A search of her license wouldn’t tell him anything except her address in Baltimore. She’d never been arrested, so a query to the police there wouldn’t help him, even if he went that far.
But this encounter had clearly shown her that she’d have to do better. True, she hadn’t expected the first person she’d meet in Laurel Ridge to be the policeman who’d been quoted in that article about Jason’s death. She might be excused for losing her grip just a bit, but it was unfortunate. She’d made herself an object of his interest before she’d had a chance to do a single thing.
But what difference did it make in the long run? Sooner or later she’d have to divulge the relationship between her and Jason. If she didn’t, she’d have no reason for asking questions about him.
She’d toyed with the thought of trying to conceal her identity. She could have claimed to be writing a newspaper story about Jason’s death, but that didn’t sound credible even to herself, not after over a year had passed.
Kate made the turn onto Main Street and drove down it at a sedate speed, reading signs as she went. There, ahead of her on the left, was the café Whiting had mentioned, and on her right the bed-and-breakfast. She slowed, peering toward the rear of the white clapboard building, and caught a glimpse of a small building nearly hidden by the trees. That had to be it—the cottage where Jason had lived during his three months in Laurel Ridge.
And next to the bed-and-breakfast rose the imposing Italianate building that was Blackburn House, where Jason had worked. The place where he’d lived, the place where he’d worked. That was where she had to begin.
She hadn’t been here when Jason had needed her, but she was now. She’d find the answer to the question that haunted her, because if she didn’t, she’d never be satisfied. What had happened in this seemingly quiet, peaceful town that had led to her brother’s death?
* * *
MAC DROVE DOWN Main Street, keeping an eye on the compact car ahead of him. He wasn’t following the woman exactly, but she had stirred his curiosity. Something had been just a little off-kilter about their conversation, and her defensiveness had startled as well as intrigued him.
He frowned, trying to put his finger on the exact source of his unease. Kate Beaumont had seemed vaguely familiar to him, but he couldn’t quite place her. Thick, honey-blond hair was pulled casually back on the nape of her neck, allowing wavy tendrils to escape and curl around her ears. Her lightly tanned skin seemed touched by the gold in her hair, and even her eyes were a golden brown. Surely, if he’d ever known her, he’d remember. A man didn’t run into that many brown-eyed blondes—and especially not one carrying a chip the size of a mountain on her shoulder.
The familiarity remained stubbornly elusive, so he put the resemblance on a back burner to percolate. It would come through, sooner or later. Meantime, it looked as if his mystery woman was going to take his advice. She’d pulled into a parking space across from the café.
A moment later he realized he’d jumped to conclusions. Ms. Beaumont wasn’t headed toward the café. Instead, she was walking up the sidewalk of Blackburn House. Now what, exactly, was she up to? Unless she had a sudden yen to buy quilt fabric or a book, there wasn’t much in Blackburn House to attract a casual visitor.
Curiosity had him turning in at the driveway that ran along the side of the building. At the rear of Blackburn House stood the old carriage house, converted into the workshop of Whiting and Whiting Cabinetry. Not that he was the Whiting or the son involved in the business. Dad might have had hopes in that direction at one time, but when Mac had come back from a stint in the military, he’d known the carpentry trade wasn’t for him. Still, Dad seemed content with one son in partnership, and the business suited Mac’s brother, Nick, perfectly.
Parking, Mac eyed the back door into Blackburn House. That might be a bit too blatant, running into the woman so quickly. She really would have cause to cry harassment if he did that, wouldn’t she?
Instead, he headed into the cabinetry shop, prepared for the usual din of saws and hammers. But all was fairly quiet at the moment. One of the Amish carpenters who worked in the shop sat on a bench in the rear, his lunch bucket beside him. He raised a thermos in Mac’s direction, and Mac grinned and nodded.
He’d forgotten it was lunchtime. No doubt Nick was lunching with his fiancée, Allison, assuming she’d been able to get away from the quilt shop.
His father, instead of eating the lunch Mom had packed for him, was bending over a rocking chair, carefully hand-sanding a spindle. The normal work of the shop—custom-designed kitchen cabinets—sat all around him, but he was focused on the rocker instead.
“Hey, Dad. Is that for Mom?”
His father looked up at his approach, pushing his glasses into place. Folks said Nick looked more like their father, but all three of them had the same lean, straight-featured faces. Dad’s eyes crinkled at the sight of him.
“Your mom says she has enough furniture, thank you very much.” He grinned. “This is a gift for Allison. The way those women are fussing over this wedding shower, you’d think no one had ever gotten married before.”
“Better not let Mom or Allison hear you complaining.” Mac leaned against a handy workbench. Since he was safely removed now from the farmhouse that his brother, Nick, and Nick’s young son shared with Mom and Dad, he could take a more detached view of Nick and Allison’s wedding preparations.
His father raised an eyebrow. “Bet you haven’t even thought of setting up the bachelor party yet. That is a best man duty, you know.”
“I know, I know. But Nick doesn’t like any of my ideas. Especially not taking off to Vegas for a weekend.”
Dad swatted at him as if he were a pesky fly. “Be nice to your brother. He’s taken long enough to decide to risk marriage again. And as for you...”
“Don’t start,” Mac said quickly. “I hear enough of it from Mom. She’s taken to reminding me that I’m not getting any younger, as if I were teetering on the doorstep of the nursing home.”
“She wants more grandkids.” Dad eyed him severely. “You’re supposed to do your part.”
Mac shrugged. “I’ve got a whole town to look after already. That’s enough for me at the moment.”
“Here.” Dad tossed him the fine sandpaper he’d been using. “Do a little work for a change while I pour out my coffee.”
Mac bent obediently over the chair, hands caressing the smooth curves of the fine maple. He might not want carpentry for his life’s work, but he still enjoyed the calming nature of the skill. Seeing the grain gleam in response to his movements was satisfying.
“What brings you in here at this hour?” His father took over his spot, leaning against the workbench. “Not enough to keep you busy at the office?”
Mac shook his head, not looking up. “Just a funny thing that happened. I had to speak to a woman parked in the no-parking area up by the cemetery. She seemed... I don’t know...upset, maybe. Annoyed at me for speaking, that’s for sure.”
“And?” Dad seemed to be waiting for more. He had to know that that was the sort of
