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Dead to Begin With
Vivian Conroy
‘Highly recommend for any cozy mystery fans.’ - Holly (Goodreads)Looking for a new fun cozy crime series? Then spend some time at the coast with Vicky Simmons amateur sleuth!Coming home can be murderVicky Simmons is looking for the simple life. She’s ready to trade in London for a slower pace by opening a British Country Gift Shop in her old hometown on the coast of Maine. Little does she know a few old faces are back in Glen Cove, including unrequited teenage crush Michael Danning—having taken over the local Gazette and looking better than ever.All is looking rosy until Vicky finds herself face-to-face with a dead body and Michael is the prime suspect. When the sheriff links the motive for murder to the unsolved disappearance of a teenage girl twenty years ago, Vicky must turn amateur sleuth. She’ll stop at nothing to save Michael…and unmask the real killer!The first book in the new Country Gift Shop Cozy Mystery series, look out for book 2: GRAND PRIZE: MURDER! coming soon!



Coming home can be murder
Vicky Simmons is ready for the simple life. She’s ready to trade in London for a slower pace by opening a British Country Gift Shop in her old hometown on the coast of Maine. Little does she know a few old faces are back in Glen Cove, including unrequited teenage crush, Michael Danning, having taken over the local Gazette and looking better than ever.
All is looking rosy until Vicky finds herself face-to-face with a dead body and Michael is the prime suspect. When the sheriff links the motive for murder to the unsolved disappearance of a teenage girl twenty years ago, Vicky must turn amateur sleuth. She’ll stop at nothing to save Michael…and unmask the real killer!
Available from Vivian Conroy (#ulink_4482075d-c164-5c28-9927-09009649f8b7)
ACountry Gift Shop Mystery series
Dead to Begin with
Coming soon:
Grand Prize: Murder!
A Lady Alkmene Callender Mystery series
A Proposal to Die For
Diamonds of Death
Deadly Treasures
Dead to Begin with
Vivian Conroy


ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES
VIVIAN CONROY
discovered Agatha Christie at thirteen and quickly devoured all the Poirot and Miss Marple stories. Over time Lord Peter Wimsey and Brother Cadfael joined her favorite sleuths. Even more fun than reading was thinking up her own missing heirs and priceless artifacts. Discover the glamour and secrets of the roaring twenties in Vivian's Lady Alkmene Callender Mysteries and open up shop, with murder in the mix, in the contemporary Country Gift Shop Mysteries. For news on the latest releases, with a dash of dogs and chocolate, follow Vivian on Twitter via @VivWrites (https://twitter.com/vivwrites)

Contents
Cover (#u4d357c3a-372d-53c2-bd93-814f50774987)
Blurb (#u6ae87bd7-b643-54ba-bf65-495ebd991bdb)
Book List (#ulink_86f7c7a0-2d10-5ba8-a086-bbd46c1f05e6)
Title Page (#ua1dd0795-0eba-5b26-956c-1a9fc80c3ae6)
Author Bio (#u8ce05ae1-f263-5088-afa4-0550a8ca3d9f)
Acknowledgements (#ulink_b482772c-b6d9-5236-94a9-9d420757e325)
Chapter One (#ulink_696368e8-81b8-57e9-86e9-e4db89ac48c6)
Chapter Two (#ulink_9b93195f-130c-50cc-8dd7-41390070cae0)
Chapter Three (#ulink_5801bea5-8376-5544-8a56-17040ec4b10a)
Chapter Four (#ulink_71959941-5743-5c31-92f0-7cd599ed4866)
Chapter Five (#ulink_98d6ddce-4c8c-5a4a-af41-a18c8f48a659)
Chapter Six (#ulink_f452397d-285a-5aba-9622-1873467177b0)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgments (#ulink_646d260c-3a50-5edf-9208-649f0b86eae4)
Thanks to all editors, agents and authors who share insights into the writing and publishing process.
A special thanks to my fantastic editor Victoria Oundjian and her team for embracing fictional Glen Cove with all its human and canine inhabitants, and to the design team for the evocative cover with the coastal feel.

Chapter One (#ulink_a0d7115b-36d8-5b51-ae84-5f4ccff7ac31)
Vicky Simmons tiptoed to the archway leading into the living room area and listened to her mother’s voice coming from the den. “You don’t say. When did you see that?”
Vicky grinned to herself. As the call had ended the big welcome-home breakfast prematurely, she had already suspected it came from one of her mother’s informers.
‘Informer’ was the right word as Glen Cove’s jungle drum was more reliable than any other network could ever be. But Claire Simmons would never admit to the insatiable curiosity of her circle of friends. Her favorite defense was: “I’m not nosy; I just like to know things.”
What Claire wanted to know most right now was what her daughter would be doing with her time now that she was back in town and had to make a living outside of her established foreign correspondent career. The welcome-home breakfast had been set up solely to quiz Vicky about this topic, but knowing every peep she said would travel far and wide, Vicky had dodged all her mother’s questions.
She did want to share her big plans with her mother of course, but only after she had made sure it would work out. She had to see the property she had cast her eye on in person. The real estate agent had sung its praises over the phone, but then that was his job. When viewed in real life, the property might turn out to be too big for a gift shop, or in need of substantial changes to make it suitable for the classic feel Vicky had in mind. She did have some savings left from all those years in London, but she didn’t intend to spend them right away on repairs and adjustments.
Grabbing a pen from the basket on the sink, she scribbled on a scrap: Gone to get some groceries. V. She stuck the note to her mother’s fridge with a Welcome to Glen Cove magnet. Of course the magnet had waves and gulls and a lighthouse. Everything in Glen Cove was sea-orientated: seafood restaurants, boat rentals, souvenir shops brimming with shell-decorated photo frames and postcards of the harbor with all the fishing boats. Vicky’s gift shop wouldn’t sell any of that. It would focus on bringing a British touch to life, be it through exclusive home decoration articles, china, clothing, books or tea. It would fill a niche.
At least that was what Vicky had told herself when she had thought up the idea in the comfort of her London pad. She had made sketches of what her store would look like, inside and out, had written long lists of the products she might sell, had visited websites of potential suppliers. She had even already ordered a set of china with rosebud décor, because she had been so certain she could sell it either way.
Every step had fed the fire inside, even the little setbacks of estimating costs and hearing from suppliers they were reluctant to deliver to someone whose name was not established. That only made it a challenge, and challenges were fun. She had missed them as she had settled into the routine of writing her successful travel columns. Ten years had about exhausted every wedding venue and secret hideaway anyway.
And life began at forty, right?
Just as her hand was on the back door handle, a voice behind her back said, “Wait, I’ll come with you. I want to show you some changes in town.”
Vicky froze, surprised that Claire had resurfaced so soon. “I thought it was Pam on the line.”
“Had to go baby-sit her granddaughter. She only called to say Roberts put his place up for sale. The next to leave. This town is drying up.” The sadness in Claire’s voice could not be missed.
Vicky swallowed. In summer when the tourists flooded in, the town flourished, presenting that postcard idyll holidaymakers longed for. It was like the incoming tide, bringing unsuspected riches to the shore. But in fall the tide became outgoing as the ocean that had lured the tourists now drove them away, cold gusts of wind whipping the sharp sand across the deserted beach and even into the windowsills of cottages that were no longer let.
Winter months were dark and depressing when the bell over your store door didn’t ring once in a whole day.
It was possible to stay afloat as a store owner if you had a second source of income, from fishing for instance. If you had to live off the store alone, it was harder. Especially if the store concept you wanted was something quite new for the town. It could become a major hit or a terrible disaster. That latter possibility stared Vicky in the face. As she had given up on her life in London, her career, her friends, there was no way back either.
Claire came up to her. “Come on, Coco.”
Nails scratched on the floorboards, and a cuddly white bichon frise ran past Claire up to Vicky, whining for a pat. Vicky smiled as she leaned down to scratch the doggy behind the ears. Her shoe-box apartment hadn’t allowed her to have pets. Here she intended to take full advantage of the nearness of her mother’s beloved lapdogs. “Where’s Mr. Pug?”
“On his walk.”
“His begging tour, you mean.” Mr. Pug always took a morning stroll on his own, just down the road and back, around the time when people went to their mailboxes or left for shopping. His cute black face usually persuaded them to give him a cookie or another snack.
“He likes the good life.” Claire leaned down with the leash in her hand. “Come here, Coco; be a sweet girl now.”
With a playful yap the dog jumped just out of Claire’s reach.
Claire sighed. “Stand still now, girl. Come on.”
“Let me do that,” Vicky said, trying to pull the leash from her mother’s hand. Coco could be just like a naughty toddler staying out of reach.
“I can put my own dog on the leash,” Claire protested, tearing the leash away and leaning even further to clip it onto Coco’s collar. “Turning seventy doesn’t make one weak or senile.”
Vicky held her breath, worried that the playful dog would scoot away again and Claire would hurt her back. Her mother had suffered from joint trouble for some time now, although in her letters she had always pretended everything was fine. But Vicky had seen the tightness in her mother’s facial muscles this morning as she had struggled to get the lid off the tin with biscuits.
“There.” Claire put the leash in place and straightened up with a satisfied grunt. She cast Vicky a glance. “That retirement home Emma was raving about doesn’t even allow pets.”
“I didn’t know Emma had any pets,” Vicky said innocently, although she knew full well what her mother was driving at. Ever since Vicky had told Claire she was coming home, Claire was convinced it was a conspiracy to get her out of her cottage and her independent life and into a retirement home. The idea of losing her freedom, and her dogs, set her mother’s blood on fire. But Claire did need someone to be close to her and cater discreetly to her needs. Board up the cottage windows when a storm was about to blow in, get an old photo album out of the attic. Or just spend a night together watching Claire’s favorite gardening show. But if Vicky really wanted to help her, everything would have to be done in a way that made Claire feel like she was still doing everything on her own.
“There is Mr. Pug now,” Vicky said quickly and opened the back door to meet the dog halfway along the driveway. She squatted and patted his sturdy body. Mr. Pug grunted in satisfaction, tilting his face up to her. The crumbs around his mouth looked a lot like blueberry muffin.
Just a few feet away from them the Glen Cove Gazette rested in the grass, thrown there by the newspaper boy who never bothered to get off his bike. The whole front page seemed to be taken up by a photograph of a stunningly beautiful woman.
A woman who seemed somehow familiar.
“Celine…” Vicky said under her breath.
A chill went up her spine, and she scrambled to her feet. Snatching the newspaper up from the grass, her hands began to tremble. She stared into those familiar eyes. It was a stunning portrait of the girl who had gone missing over twenty years ago, but somehow more mature, even more commanding in her stark classic beauty. The blonde hair so soft around her face, the eyes a little sad, boring their way straight into the beholder’s heart.
Celine Dobbs’ disappearance had been a life-changing event for the entire town. Also for Vicky herself. Looking out of her window at night seeing the searchlights on the beach where workers combed the caves for a dead body…
Somehow her hometown hadn’t felt the same anymore. Perhaps that had even pushed her to become a foreign correspondent and leave the States altogether. Leave behind a confusing time of insecurity for a whole new life far away. First in Switzerland, then in the UK.
Frowning, Vicky read the thick black letters above the photograph: Missing girl’s twin: Reopen case.
So it was not Celine in the picture.
No, of course not, how could it have been? Celine had vanished at nineteen. This woman was of Vicky’s own age, but still with that ageless beauty that had made the Dobbs twins legendary in the area. This had to be…
Vicky dug through her memories. What had Celine’s sister been called?
Diane?
Yes, her name was in the piece below. Diane Dobbs.
Vicky held the paper up to Claire. “Didn’t Diane leave for Europe to study there?”
Claire nodded. “Got married there, has kids.”
Vicky ignored her mother’s reference to her favorite topic of marriage and babies and asked, “Why would she suddenly want to revisit the little town where her family was torn apart? Her likeness to her vanished sister will cause a stir.”
“A sensation is more like it, and that’s exactly what they want.” Claire crossed her arms over her chest, her chin up in a challenging gesture.
“They?” Vicky queried. She studied the large photograph again. “Is Diane doing this for her parents? I suppose it doesn’t get any easier to live with when people get older, have time on their hands to think about it.”
She searched the facial expression, the eyes, of the woman in the photograph as if those could give away the reasons for this rather desperate action. After all, after so long a time all evidence, if there had been any, had to be gone.
Did Diane really think people would remember something? That someone would suddenly come forward with new information to support her request to reopen the case?
Scanning the article to look for the vital paragraph on what kind of new information was wanted, Vicky’s gaze descended on the byline.
Interview by Michael Danning.
Another shock went through her, worse almost than the one before. “Michael Danning wrote this article?” Had he visited Diane in Europe?
No, this picture was taken in Glen Cove. Vicky recognized the iconic lighthouse in the background.
Claire huffed. “Don’t pretend you didn’t know he was back in town.”
“Michael back in town? Here in Glen Cove? Why would he come back here when…”
“When we all know he abducted and killed Celine.” Claire leaned back on her heels. Her prim nod underlined her harsh words.
Vicky shuddered at the thought such talk would get around town. “Mom, you can’t call someone an abductor or a killer before he is actually convicted. And even then people do get convicted for crimes they didn’t commit.”
Vicky clutched the paper. Michael’s fate if he had ever been forced to go to trial had been on her mind every now and then over the years. When a story hit the news about someone getting accused of a crime and trying to clear his or her name. Or when a story hit about someone having spent time in jail and then the true culprit getting arrested, based on DNA evidence for instance. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be locked up and know you were innocent but had no way of ever proving it.
She said with difficulty, “A lot of people worked hard at the time to make sure Michael got smeared, but there was never enough evidence to take the case to trial.”
“Because there was no body found.” Claire held her gaze. “That was Danning’s smartest move. They couldn’t prove murder, as they could never establish Celine did die. But how could she still be alive? Do you believe a daughter is so heartless she would never let her parents know what happened to her? That she is just living her life someplace not caring for how her own family feels?”
Vicky pursed her lips. It didn’t seem likely.
Claire said, “You only came back here to see Michael Danning again. I knew from the moment you told me about your return.”
Vicky tried to scoff. “I had no idea he was out here. You sure didn’t tell me, and who else would have? How long has he been here anyway? He and Diane? All those times we talked on the phone or you wrote to me, and not a word about either of them.”
“Diane hasn’t been here long,” Claire protested.
“That’s not the point,” Vicky said. “You even called me to tell me a neighbor painted his garden gate yellow.”
“Canary yellow. Quite hard on the eyes.”
“Mom! Celine’s disappearance is the biggest thing that ever happened in Glen Cove. Why would your friends not talk about it? Pam just called to say Roberts is selling his place. She must also have called to tell you about Michael’s return, Diane’s, and this whole thing about the disappearance case being reopened, right?” Vicky tapped on the paper’s headline. “You knew and yet you never mentioned it to me.”
Anger rushed through her, pushing her happy expectations for her gift shop away. How could her mother have stayed silent about something as important as this?
“Reopening the case, hah!” Claire grimaced. “That’s just what Michael Danning is printing in that paper of his. It’s what the both of them want, not what will happen.”
Vicky tilted her head. Her mother’s tone intrigued her. “How can you be so sure?”
Claire marched to the gate. “They should have left it alone. Everybody had forgotten about it. We don’t want it all dragged up again.”
She waved a hand in the air. “You were questioned by the police at the time. My only daughter, questioned by the police.” The indignation was thick in her voice like it had been a personal slight she couldn’t forget.
“Everybody in college was questioned,” Vicky protested. “It had nothing to do with me personally. They were just trying to find clues to that mystery man Celine was allegedly meeting. But nobody had ever seen him or could give a clear description of him.”
“Because he doesn’t exist. He was just some fabrication of Danning’s to shift the blame. He killed Celine.”
“You don’t know that so please stop saying it.”
Claire continued as if she had not heard Vicky’s protestations, “Now that you have left London behind and come to live here for good, you will go work at the Gazette. What else would you do with your time? You’re a reporter, a good one; you love your work. You’re not going to sit on your hands. You’re not going to Monday afternoon bingo or whatever else they think up around here for people who have nothing to do all day long.”Claire’s hand tightened on the gate. “You’re young and ambitious. You can’t fool me that you suddenly want to do something else, outside of the reporting world. No, this was all a setup from the start. You’re on your way now to the Gazette’s building, to see Michael Danning about freelance assignments. Or maybe even about a part-time job there? You have enough experience; he might take you on for that. But I’m telling you it’s a bad idea. That paper is dead, has been for ages. And with him in charge, people won’t touch it for sure. No matter what he comes up with for a cheap headline. They all know about him.”
Claire pulled back her narrow shoulders in her lilac cardigan. “I don’t know how I’ll be able to explain to my friends that my daughter is going to work for that man.”
So that was why her mother had been so reluctant to accept her homecoming as good news. Not only because she was afraid of a retirement home, but also because she had suspected Vicky wanted to work with Michael Danning. The Houdini among bachelors as Claire had called him, before Celine had vanished. After that, Claire had been convinced Michael was to blame. He was the last person alive she wanted associated with her only daughter.
Cheerful chimes wafted over to them on the breeze. The church tower’s melody for the quarter of an hour. A quarter to ten.
Vicky started, dropping the paper in the grass. It was a good ten-minute walk, and she didn’t want to arrive in a sweat from rushing. If only she had brought her bike to her mother’s. But she had figured it would be nice to walk into town, the old route she had taken countless times, and see if much had changed. It had seemed nostalgic and fun. Right now, however, she was shaken to the core by the news of Michael’s return and the possibility the old disappearance case would be reopened.
Taking a deep breath, she said, “I have to go. And no, not to see Michael Danning. You kept that hidden from me very cleverly. Too bad really. If I had known Michael was back in town and this whole thing was about to unfold…I might have decided to stay away until it was over.”

Chapter Two (#ulink_5aa3769f-b936-5aa2-b45e-eab975d19939)
Vicky stepped out of the garden gate, Claire hot on her heels with the dogs.
“How do you mean stay away until it was over?” Claire asked in a small voice.
Vicky clenched her hands into fists by her sides. Her overeager mother had drawn all the wrong conclusions and thereby achieved the exact opposite of what she tried to accomplish: dragging her daughter into a situation Vicky herself would have preferred to stay away from.
She sighed before saying, “You could at least have given me a choice. I considered it all when I wanted to come back: giving up my job, my friends, moving into a small town where all eyes would be on me. To some people here I never grew up. They will treat me again like I’m still a teen. But I didn’t consider this whole Celine business of old. Diane back in town, the case about to be reopened. And Michael even stirring up this hornets’ nest. I can’t believe it. Why would he do that?”
“You still care for him,” Claire groused. “Why else would you respond like that? It does matter to you.”
Vicky snapped her face toward her mother. “Of course it matters. Michael left like…a man on the run. Everybody believed he was guilty. Not of some minor thing but of a horrible crime, a premeditated cold-blooded killing.”
Claire blinked in confusion. “Nobody said it had to be premeditated. He could have killed her in a fit of rage.”
“But nobody saw them together that night. Michael’s car was clean. The body never found. If you kill someone in a fit of rage, you have not prepared your actions so you make mistakes and there are traces. Even eyewitnesses. Something that points back at you. I worked in the newspaper world long enough to know about such things. If Michael really killed Celine without anybody finding out about it, he would have had to prepare every step of the way. So when people accuse him, they actually say that Michael planned the murder of his own girlfriend, way ahead and into enough detail that he left no traces and could get away with it.”
Vicky shivered as she put the conclusion into words. “Now why would he come back here and face all of those evil allegations again?”
Vicky’s heart cringed for Michael Danning’s position, and she had to take a few steadying breaths. She shouldn’t become so emotional about it all. That was not the way to convince her mother she didn’t care.
As if she sensed that feeling, Claire held her head down and pushed ahead, satisfied to let the charged silence speak for itself.
Wanting to know so many things, Vicky could just scream that her mother wasn’t giving her anything more. Her quiet morning devoted to finding the perfect space for her gift shop had spiraled out of control, dragging her back into the whirlpool of the past. The one big event that had rocked Glen Cove and had never completely left public memory. It had left an invisible scar on the idyllic town, a scar that the many tourists might not see but that the long-time inhabitants felt itching from time to time.
The sheriff who had not been able to solve the disappearance.
Friends who had been questioned and played against each other.
The rumors about anonymous tips smearing people, just because the caller thought the occasion was best used to get even for an old insult.
Like a stone in a pond, the disappearance of one girl had rippled into so many lives, changing them forever. Even after two decades had passed, it was not over.
With the ocean at their backs, they were walking toward the church’s tower that protruded over the center of the town. Houses were scattered in groups with generous green among them. Gardens had signs announcing they were competing in the annual competition for best garden in town. Claire had mentioned in passing that for her record of winning three times in a row she had been made an honorary member of the jury.
This realization washed Vicky’s anger away. Her mother’s behavior had its reasons. As a lifelong inhabitant, Claire cared so much for her reputation in town. It was logical she had been upset by her own impromptu conclusion that Vicky was moving back here to go work for Michael Danning. A murder suspect who had never managed to clear his name.
Perhaps her return did look somewhat odd now that Michael was back here, and Diane. Like they had planned it between them. After all, Vicky was a reporter as well. Someone who had made a name for herself digging into the past of idyllic country seats and lovely wedding locations, but the essence of digging was always the same. Vicky couldn’t deny that Celine’s disappearance raised tantalizing questions that could cause someone to become obsessed.
Especially someone who had been personally involved.
“Everybody knows he killed Celine.” Claire could contain herself no longer. “And don’t you forget it.” She wagged a finger at Vicky. “Danning might have persuaded Diane to claim now that there is proof that says differently but…if the police found nothing at the time, there can’t be any now. Where would it have come from all of a sudden?”
That was a very good question. With all her journalistic experience Vicky had no answer to it.
She wished she had taken the newspaper along so she could study the article in more detail. Could she go buy one at Jones General Store after she had talked to the real estate agent? The headline would certainly be an ideal conversation starter, and Mrs. Jones liked to talk. Vicky might hear some interesting tidbit that her mother, with her antipathy toward Michael Danning, conveniently ignored.
“They have nothing,” Claire said with conviction. “They are only kicking up dust. Probably to boost the Gazette’s sales. When Danning took over, he claimed he could revive the paper. But his way of making good on that promise is less than tasteful, I say—”
Vicky had raised a hand to stop her mother mid-sentence. “Michael has taken over the Gazette? It’s not just a temporary position?”
“Of course not.” Claire huffed. “Why else would I be worried you will go and work there? He is editor-in-chief now. Can do what he wants. Write what he wants. Print what he wants.”
Claire waved both hands in the air. “He is like a dictator now. Can steer public opinion.”
Annoyed at her mother’s gross exaggeration, Vicky pursed her lips and pretended to be distracted by the activity in the old harbor to their left. A new marina had been built away from the town where tourists could moor their yachts, but this old harbor was still the place where fishermen worked day by day to bring in fresh catch for the diner, some hotels outside of town and the local fish dealer. Just the smell of real clam chowder was something Vicky had missed abroad. Here she could make it herself, or go to the diner where they served it fresh, with thin slices of homemade rye bread.
Maybe there would be time for lunch after her appointment? It was tempting to know Michael was at the Gazette’s building. Today’s headline was a shocker so why couldn’t she drop by and have a chat? The reporter inside of her was desperate to know what clue Michael and Diane were holding that had given them the confidence to take this bold step. It had to be something substantial, for Vicky couldn’t believe it was just a move for publicity, like her mother claimed, to boost the Gazette’s sales. That would be so…cold and mercenary. This news of a possible reopening of the case could have reporters descending on the town to pick apart any bit of the story they could get their hands on. People could be implicated all over again.
Or was that Michael’s ultimate objective?
Making others go through the same thing he had gone through at the time?
Taking revenge on the town that way?
She hadn’t been in touch with him since he had left, under suspicion, like a man on the run. She had no idea how bitter he might be.
“They must be lying about having anything,” Claire said, with a prim little tilt of her chin.
“You don’t know that,” Vicky protested, also to stem her unpleasant suspicions about Michael’s possible motives. “Cold cases get reopened all the time. The police might be able to use a vague DNA sample that they couldn’t use before because the technology needed wasn’t available at the time. Or maybe they arrested a man for another crime and Diane believes this man is also her sister’s abductor.”
Claire shook her head. “Diane is a wife and mother, not a detective.” She paused for emphasis.
Knowing Claire had also wanted to see her daughter married and with kids by now, Vicky didn’t respond to the challenge.
Claire continued, “Danning printed false allegations before, you know, forcing Gwenda Gill out of business.”
Vicky frowned. “Gwenda Gill? The lady who ran the beauty parlor on Main Street? But… You wrote to me that she lost customers because of another beauty center or spa thing opening nearby.”
“Yes, that’s right. It has a Greek name that I can’t pronounce. It took away all Gwenda’s customers, in just a few months. But the allegations in the Gazette were the final blow. Saying something like her revitalizing spray really being tap water.”
“That’s a serious allegation. I mean, if it were true, it would amount to product doctoring. Defrauding her customers who believed they were buying a quality product.”
Claire nodded. “It ruined Gwenda’s reputation. People even came to the parlor with half-used bottles asking for their money back. And someone wrote ‘cheat’ on her window. All because of that article in the Gazette based on an anonymous source.” Claire grimaced. “It showed off Danning’s character to perfection. He’s a predator.”
Vicky stared ahead. This news was a different kind of blow. She planned on renting the former beauty parlor. It seemed like a perfect place for her store concept. But if there had been some sort of campaign to ruin the parlor and its owner—allegations of fraud, threats left on the window—she might be the next target. That only made her more nervous about her business plans.
To steer conversation away from the unfortunate Gwenda Gill, Vicky glanced at her mother. “How does Sheriff Perkins feel now that Michael is back in town pursuing the old case? He never could accept he hadn’t solved it.”
Claire sighed. “Sure, it still stung, he did mention that once in a while, but he had to accept it. No officer can ever solve all of his cases, right? And this is but a small town. He had never dealt with something so big before, nor did he have to afterward. I doubt he will let Danning look at his old files. Diane’s appearance won’t change that.”
“What old files?” Vicky pressed. Her reporter blood was positively churning now.
“On the disappearance case of course.” Claire sighed in impatience. “Seems that when Perkins retired as sheriff, he took some old cases with him. Things that were still puzzling him, or frustrating him—who can tell? Keeps them in his barn. For his own personal use of course, not to have people snooping around in them. Least of all Michael Danning, the prime suspect at the time.” Claire shook her head.
Vicky queried, “How do you mean ‘when he retired’? Perkins is no longer sheriff? You didn’t tell me that either.”
“Well, our new sheriff is not competent. That’s all I’m going to say about it.” Claire gave a determined nod. “Hopefully he’ll shoot himself in the leg soon enough and he will be forced to step down. End of discussion.”
Vicky’s mind was scrambling to make sense of it all. A new sheriff, Michael in charge of the local paper, running a story about Diane and the old disappearance case.
Just as she was back, full of plans and hopes, this whole thing had resurfaced, filling her head with questions and feelings she didn’t want to feel. Back then Celine had vanished without a trace. Some people wanted to believe it had been the work of an outsider, the mystery man who had supposedly been dating Celine. But what if the perpetrator had been a local? What if he or she was still living here?
Had Vicky actually returned to a town where a murderer lived among them, smiling at people, acting like a normal person? While in reality…
What if Michael suspected that and had started this campaign with Diane to…
Smoke out this killer of old?
That could be pretty risky.
They had to be desperate to know the truth. And bring this person to justice.
Claire kept her eyes on Vicky as she asked, “You’re not going to work for Michael Danning, are you?”
Vicky saw real anxiety in her mother’s eyes—deep concern. Had Claire drawn the same conclusion as she herself had, about the dangers involved in rekindling the old case?
Was she worried Vicky would somehow end up entangled in the investigation and run a risk of getting hurt?Feeling a little milder about her mother’s never-ending meddling, Vicky reached out and squeezed her mother’s hand. “No, not at all. If you have to know the truth, I’m meeting Everett to discuss a special plan. I want to open a store, to make myself a living.”
She cringed in expectation of an earful about the financial risks, but the mention of Everett cheered Claire up at once. She smiled and clutched the dogs’ leashes tighter. “Wonderful. You must ask Everett to come to dinner later this week.”
Vicky’s jaw dropped that her mother wasn’t fuming about the disasters looming when one wanted to open a store in Glen Cove. Quickly she said, “Sure, I’ll ask him, but I doubt that he has the time for it.”
“He needs a decent meal once in a while,” Claire said. “Since his mother died, I doubt he cooks for himself. Must all be microwave food.” She made a face. “It’s just the neighborly thing to invite him over.”
Of course. Vicky suppressed a cynical laugh. Claire would study them all during dinner to see if sparks flew. She had always liked Everett Baker because he was a chess champion like Vicky’s dad had been and because his real estate business was expanding all the time. Such a man could support a family, unlike the drifter type that Michael Danning was supposed to be in her mother’s opinion.
Vicky would rather avoid Everett’s lectures about his latest sales, but Claire would be excited about the dinner and might not mind the whole store idea so much. Maybe Vicky could even ask Everett to put in a good word for her. If he told Claire that a new store concept was just what Glen Cove needed, Claire would believe him right away. It would make things much easier.
Deep in thought Vicky bumped into a blackboard on the sidewalk. It advertised honey, wax candles and a special Keep the Bees Buzzzy bread.
“Our new baker is also a beekeeper,” Claire explained. “The bread is sold to support his hobby. I have no idea if anybody ever buys it. Every store in this town is struggling, you know.”
She cast Vicky a sharp look. “Especially in the winter months when the tourists aren’t showing themselves here. Lots of people have started a new initiative during the summer and things looked bright, only to find they couldn’t make it through November. I don’t want you to make a fool of yourself.”
“The Joneses are still here,” Vicky said in defense, nodding at the general store on the other side of the street.
“Of course they are. All the locals feel obliged to buy from them. They’re an institution around here. I’m talking about newcomers. Like Gwenda and her beauty parlor.”
Vicky clenched her jaw. With Gwenda’s bankruptcy fresh in people’s minds, the scrutiny would be intense. Was she entirely sure that she wanted to try this? It would be terrible to see it go awry in front of all the people who knew her.
In front of Michael Danning even.
Claire said, “Gwenda still does her dog shows, you know. I wonder if that makes her money. She’s always complaining her no good ex-husband is paying her nothing for alimony. Mortimer is a handyman so I suppose he can’t afford much. But Gwenda keeps insisting he has some secret stash of money somewhere. Now I’m asking you: where would he have got money? I do hear he overcharges but that’s hardly a crime. People should negotiate before they accept a price, right?”
Vicky nodded vaguely, looking ahead to where the parlor had sat. The parking spaces on the other side of the street were ideal for customers. It really was a first-rate location.
Which probably came at a matching price, and Everett Baker would squeeze her for every dime he could get.
Vicky looked out for the tall, slightly stooping figure of the real estate agent and then realized that the man waiting for her in front of the parlor was another.
A tall, broad figure Vicky would recognize anywhere.
Michael Danning.

Chapter Three (#ulink_aa4ca6a3-1fcb-54d1-b31e-6726ab865e3f)
Her mind went blank, as her gaze traveled the familiar broad shoulders and determined stance. It had been so long and yet it seemed like yesterday that she had seen him walk the beach alone, throwing driftwood into the water. Just two days before he had left town to escape the media frenzy. A departure that had been interpreted as a confession of guilt.
Claire took her arm and pulled at her. “Let’s cross the road. I want to show you something.” Lowering her voice, she hissed, “His suits look like he is in dire need of money. But I dare say the Glen Cove Gazette won’t get him a decent salary. Maybe he is using this story about Diane wanting to reopen the case to put pressure on people for gain. He always had this cocky way about him.”
“Mom,” Vicky hissed back, “I’m not going to avoid Michael. Let’s just say hello and act normally, OK?”
She tried to pull Claire back from the curb, but Claire hung on her arm with all her might, whispering, “Even if he asks you to do articles for the paper, you won’t say yes, you understand? He can’t be trusted. I don’t want you to ever be alone with him. He might kill you too.”
Raising her voice, she said in an exaggerated cheerful tone, “Now let’s go see the library, honey. You’ll love the changes they’ve made. And I want you to meet Marge Fisher. She walks the dogs for me sometimes. If you’re going to start a store, you need her help. She can become your assistant or something.”
Vicky wasn’t keen on an impromptu assistant being planted on her by her mother—probably someone from the inner circle of the ‘informers’—but at least Claire seemed to accept the idea there would be a store. If only to keep Vicky away from the Gazette and Michael Danning, of course.
Vicky firmly extracted her arm from her mother’s grasp. “You go ahead to the library. I’ll come over later when I’ve talked to Everett.” She didn’t intend to meet up with this Marge Fisher for as long as she could avoid it, but it was counterproductive to say that to Claire now.
Claire pressed, “You invite Everett to dinner, you hear.”
“Yes, Mother.” Vicky ushered her in the direction of the library’s double doors.
Claire snorted, but obeyed and disappeared inside, already calling out to someone she knew.
Vicky exhaled in relief. There was no way Claire could see her from the inside of the library. And Michael Danning happened to be in front of her meeting point with Everett while Everett wasn’t there yet. Might as well kill time with a little chat. She itched to know more about the paper’s headline, Diane and the old police files that their retired Sheriff Perkins had. It was all purely professional of course. An interest in the news value of the story.
Crossing the street, she reached up quickly to check on her hair. As a future store owner she had to look presentable.
“Victoria!” Michael Danning flashed a broad smile. His dark hair was still thick, graying only at the sideburns. His sophisticated look was underlined by his expensive cashmere sweater over gray pants, which probably belonged to a tailor-made suit. Claire’s remarks just now had made it sound like he was on the brink of poverty, but Vicky knew better. The struggling Gazette might not pay him much, but Michael Danning had made his fortune abroad before he had come back here. The clippings on all the prizes won for his undercover work were in a shoe box among her things. Safely hidden away where nobody would ever see them.
Michael looked her over like he was searching for the familiar. “I heard you were meeting Everett here this morning to negotiate for this piece of property. And since Everett is always late, I thought I could meet you here and chat for a sec.”
He waited a moment as if he wasn’t sure what to say next.
Vicky’s mind raced with all she wanted to know about his reasons for coming back to town, but it was impossible to start that topic out of the blue. They needed casual lines to ease back into the old confidence. And how much confidence had there really been between them? To her their friendship had meant the world, a meeting over lunch to talk about classes, Michael helping her out with an assignment or two. But Michael had been with Celine and…
Michael said, “To be honest, I had no idea you were into beauty products these days. You uh…don’t intend to continue the beauty parlor, huh? Not to discredit you or anything, but that lady outside of town has organized things really well. You won’t be able to take back her clientele.”
Vicky always got defensive when people told her she couldn’t do something. Challenge was the biggest trigger word in her book.
But she wasn’t opening up a beauty parlor just to show Michael Danning that she could. “No, I have a completely different plan for the property. I know nothing about curlers and mineral clay, you know. I never go to such places myself.”
“And you don’t need it.”
Michael Danning could still turn on the charm like the cold-water tap. If she was smart, she’d stay on friendly terms with him to ensure good press about her store, but nothing more. He was just too easy to like, but heartache was the last thing she needed. Her focus had to be on starting her gift shop.
“You can smirk all you want,” a voice said agitatedly, “but you just move in and do better.”
A woman had popped out of the door beside the beauty parlor’s entrance, leading to the upstairs apartment. It was still let to the former owner of the bankrupt beauty parlor. The well-groomed black poodle beside the woman further confirmed to Vicky she was face-to-face with Gwenda Gill. The antagonism in the woman’s words and facial expression didn’t bode well.
Vicky looked for a quick way to lighten the mood and leaned down to pat the poodle. “You must be Jewel. I’ve heard so much about you.” Glancing up at the owner, she said, “My mother wrote to me about the dog shows you go to. You’ve won a lot of prizes with Jewel, right?”
Straightening up, she reached out her hand. “So nice to meet you. I’m Vicky Simmons, and I…”
But Gwenda jerked the poodle back and snapped at Vicky, “Nothing nice about it. You move in from out of town and think you know everything, right? Well, if people didn’t want to give me business, why would they give it to you? You don’t belong here either.”
“Now, now, Gwenda…” Michael tried to hush her, but Gwenda shot him a deadly look and hissed, “You helped them ruin me. You published those anonymous letters accusing me of using inferior products. Mere water I had put into spray bottles and sold as skin vitalizer, huh? I should have sued you for it!”
“Those letters had a name and address on them,” Michael said, lifting a placating hand.
But Gwenda screeched, “That address didn’t even exist. You could have verified that. Glen Cove is not exactly a city of millions. It was Mortimer, and you knew it. You took his side.”
She pointed a red-nailed finger at Michael. “Newspaper people always claim they check their sources. But you didn’t check anything. You were just after a sensationalist story and you didn’t care who suffered from it.”
Michael shook his head. “It was easy enough to get a bottle of that so-called vitalizer and have it analyzed. In a laboratory? Don’t you think I have the connections to do that?”
Gwenda’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you waste the valuable time of your connections on my small-town business? There was nothing in it for you.”
The poodle lingered beside Vicky, but Gwenda tore it along. “You were all just siding with Mortimer. Working hard to break me, so I’d move away from Glen Cove. But I won’t. I will stay right here to confront him with his guilt!” And she marched off. Her Cuban heels worked the pavement like she’d trample anybody who got in her way.
People on the other side of the street were looking at them, and Vicky felt her cheeks flush. She wished Everett Baker would just get here and take her inside to escape those curious glances.
Beside her Michael sighed. “It’s sad, I suppose, but people just don’t take Gwenda seriously. She likes to exaggerate. And she married a local man while she isn’t from Glen Cove herself. That alone guarantees that in the case of a conflict the locals will side with her husband, against her.”
“That may be, but she didn’t exaggerate about those letters. My mother told me you did print them, and just a hint of such allegations can ruin a business overnight. I guess you were very sure that there really was something amiss. Abroad you always did such careful research to capture the essence of what was going on.”
Michael’s intense stare made Vicky’s face flame. She muttered, “Not that I followed your career or anything. You just notice when somebody you used to know hits the news, you know.”
Her words rang a little false even to her own ears, and she was glad Michael couldn’t know about all the clippings she had saved over the years. It was a little silly for a woman her age.
“It’s of course possible that Mortimer wrote those anonymous letters.” Michael held Vicky’s gaze. “Mortimer is Gwenda’s ex-husband. He divorced her, or she divorced him. They don’t exactly agree on the details, you know.”
Vicky frowned hard. “I remember him from school. Pretty sporty, right? Didn’t he have a chance to get a baseball scholarship?”
Michael nodded. “He didn’t take it though, started working at a garage right away. He could always get the college kids spare parts at reduced prices.”
Vicky eyed him. “And how did he get those parts?”
“Who knows? I was sort of surprised when I came back here that he was still around. I had expected a guy like him to move away to a place with more action.” Michael shrugged. “Anyway, rumor has it his marriage never really worked. They were poles apart, him working with predator birds, her being into dogs. Not a great combination. Most birds are terrified of dogs. They get defensive and aggressive. I think his great horned owl almost got one of her Chihuahuas once. She called him a filthy farmer; he called her a stuck-up makeup doll. And then I’m just quoting the nice bits.”
He made a face. “Anyway, I heard that he did help her lease this building, start the beauty parlor. I guess he hoped it would give her something to do, so they wouldn’t be at each other’s throats all the time. From my sources I got the impression he genuinely wanted to save their marriage.”
He thought for a moment.
“So?” Vicky asked. “I don’t understand why a man who did everything to save his marriage would have written poisonous accusations about his wife’s business. Especially as he had even helped her start it.”
Michael nodded. “Exactly. That’s why it didn’t make sense to suspect Mortimer of having written those letters. He tried all he could to build bridges with Gwenda. But it didn’t work out. They split up anyway. Gwenda moved into the apartment over the beauty parlor. Kept saying Mortimer was spreading lies about her, wrecking her business. But I guess that people just got tired of coming in for a facial and hearing Gwenda rant about her ex, the skimpy alimony, the vacation she couldn’t afford. You come to a beauty parlor to be pampered, relieve stress, right? Well, all of Gwenda’s harping just drove them out of their minds. So when this New York socialite with the institute moved in… It has some kind of Greek name, but everybody around here just calls it the Glam Parlor.”
Michael’s grin intensified. “She won a lot of people around fast. She doesn’t complain about her ex, but plays relaxing music. She also doesn’t bill every single drink.”
“It sounds like you’ve been there yourself.” Vicky scanned him suspiciously.
“I did an article on the new business in town. That’s what an editor does, especially if it’s a small town. People like to be informed about newcomers.” Michael looked innocent. “Of course she showed me around the premises and we had a drink, talked about her reasons for settling here. In my newspaper article I left out some bits of that, as they were uh…too personal.”
Oh, boy. Vicky could just picture how he had enticed the woman to share all about her past—maybe some unhappy love affair or the death of a beloved spouse—while he listened to her and said all the right things. Michael Danning was still the natural-born charmer he had been in college.
And now he might also want to know all about Vicky’s London years and her business initiative and… She might end up toasting to her new success with him, and staring into his dark chocolate eyes and feeling kind of light-headed…
No way. She’d better arm herself against Michael Danning’s charm, before her old crush on him returned full force. It had been embarrassing at eighteen. She really didn’t want to think about how it might look today.
“So,” Michael said in the meantime, “if it’s not beauty-related, then what are your plans for this piece of real estate?”
“Some home decoration shop, right?” a voice said behind Vicky. Everett Baker stepped into full view, his face red from rushing, his hand clammy as he pressed hers.
Glen Cove’s real estate agent was so tall he always stooped a little and looked awkward in his crumpled gray suit. But looks could be deceiving. According to Claire’s letters, Everett Baker negotiated aggressively for his clients and could hold his ground against competitors from bigger firms.
“Sorry to be late,” Everett said in a casual tone. “I had an urgent call and… Well, you know how it is when you lead a busy life.” He glanced at Michael Danning as if to make sure he heard it too. “They never give you five minutes to breathe.”
“A home decoration thing?” Ignoring Everett, Michael Danning studied Vicky with a frown. “Tourists who come in for the day don’t take along a big dresser, and smaller objects don’t bring in real money. Gwenda Gill might be a pest at times, but she is right about one thing: you need a good plan to open a store here or it will tank.”
He pointed at the hardware store across the street where an age-old man in gray coveralls was shaping a wooden dog for a little boy. “Since it’s become fashionable to buy a fixer-upper cottage in Maine, people run to the hardware store to do their own repairs. Besides that, the old men still have their share in the fishing business. Don’t have to depend on the hardware store alone.”
Vicky exhaled in a huff. “I know that. I grew up here, remember?”
Michael pushed on like he hadn’t heard her. “But home decorations? If you want to make a living off this… Or are you still writing?”
She made a so-so gesture. “More or less. A magazine asked me to do a column about my move from London back to the countryside of Maine. It will run biweekly for a year.”
Back Home With Vicky Simmons offered a way for her loyal readers to say good-bye to her gradually. As they had followed Away With Vicky Simmons for ten years, it would be a big change for all of them.
Vicky continued, “That’s some income. But it won’t last forever. Besides, I really wanted to try something different. I had made some plans already and got my confirmation on the plane over here. A fellow passenger overheard I came from London and wanted to know everything about the royal family. She even asked me if I had any memorabilia that I wanted to sell to her and her friends. That clinched it for me. There is a huge potential market for British products in the US. And having lived in London for so long, I’m an expert on those. I know the best places for plaids, sweaters, home decoration, books. And royalty memorabilia, of course.”
Just talking about it filled her with energy again. “I’ll also have to sell via a website for bigger reach. I need business cards and flyers to spread in the area and…”
Her mind buzzed with everything she needed to do, making her both excited to get started and just a little overwhelmed. After all, she had never done anything like this before.
Everett Baker said, “Well, I’d better let you look inside then so you can see how perfect this object is for your purpose.” He pulled out a bunch of clinking keys and dived at the door.
Vicky expected Michael to be leaving now that she was supposed to tour the building with Everett. Before he could do so, she put her hand on Michael’s arm. “I saw Diane’s story in the paper today. I was kind of surprised by her visit to town. I thought she was settled in Europe.”
Michael nodded. “She is, with her family. But she’s back in town for the summer. Alone.”
There was a strange tone to his voice as if he didn’t like it. Vicky frowned. “Did you ask her to come out here?”
“Of course not. It’s a terrible idea.”
Vicky was stunned. “But…you did print her story. You must have realized how it will stir things up.”
Glancing past Michael, Vicky saw the wife of the general store owner peeking at them around her postcard display. While pretending to rearrange something, she was keeping an eye on everything that happened in the street. Most gossip that traveled along the Glen Cove grapevine originated at Jones General Store.
Vicky couldn’t help wondering if Mrs. Jones had known, at the time, if Celine was seeing another man than Michael. If anybody in town had known, it would have been her.
Had the police ever asked her?
Would it be in those old files that former Sheriff Perkins had?
“Are you coming?” Everett Baker’s voice demanded from the door.
Vicky shook herself. “Sorry, Michael, I have to go in.” From Claire’s disclosures she knew that Everett Baker had no time or patience for people who wanted to see a property ten times and then decided that the living room windows were too small for their liking anyway. He expected people to judge his objects as he did: by their obvious potential for an intended purpose.
That was OK with Vicky. She knew exactly what she wanted. The location of the former beauty parlor, in the heart of town, with parking space in front, was already perfect. So unless it looked really bad or small inside, her mind was fully made up. She’d take it. Then her adventure could really begin.
Light-headed with anticipation, she followed Everett Baker inside.
It was dark and clammy, with that typical scent that permeates a room that’s been shut off for too long. There were ugly marks on the dark wooden floor where the chairs had been clamped for the customers of the beauty parlor. Dust bunnies hovered in the corners, fluttering in the draft that came in through the open door.
The walls were bare, and tape had left broad yellowish stripes on the white where apparently posters had hung. The white itself wasn’t white anymore, but grayish, with scattered dark spots as if decay was eating its way right into the walls.
Vicky glanced up at the ceiling. The low beams should be authentic plain oak. But they were painted a shocking lilac.
All in all, it was the least likely place for an elegant English country gift shop.

Chapter Four (#ulink_f1d402ab-2b9d-57b3-bf97-e51a0ca71dc5)
“You’d better think twice about what you’re doing,” Michael Danning said solemnly behind her back. He had ambled in after her like it was natural. “The Joneses won’t like another business moving in. Competition, that’s the way they’ll see it.”
“What for?” Vicky was still working through the shock of the store’s sad interior. It needed a lot of work. Much more than she had bargained for. That was kind of daunting. On top of that she didn’t need Michael Danning’s gloomy predictions.
She turned to him defiantly. “So the Joneses sell food, ice cream over the counter and those typical souvenirs any coastal town sells: postcards, shell-rimmed mirrors. I’ll sell cozy mysteries, teapots, scented candles, pillows… My sales wouldn’t bite theirs. In fact, my store’s appeal can pull in customers from a larger area, who might also buy food and souvenirs at their place. It will only be an advantage to them.”
She raised a hand and counted on her fingers. “And to the diner, the baker, the gas station just out of town. You know what it’s like when people drive out for a holiday. They spend more time than they intended. They want to have coffee, buy some souvenirs. They might even take a boat out for the afternoon. Everybody will benefit from my initiative.”
“Save it for the city council,” Michael said glumly. “I don’t think the Joneses will see it quite that way.”
He exhaled in a huff as if he was sorry for what he had to point out, but felt obliged to say it anyway. “People don’t like change around here, Vicky.”
The confidential Vicky struck a chord inside of her. Having grown up in Glen Cove, she knew the town better than an optimistic newcomer might. People talked down about outsiders who moved in and tried to do something different. After the disaster with Gwenda’s beauty parlor, they would be twice as skeptical. Convincing them might prove to be an uphill battle.
“Look…” Michael put his hand on her arm “…if you decide to do it, I will support you all the way. I can even write a nice little article about your business. And offer you advertising space at reduced rates.”
The golden specks in his eyes lit as he leaned closer. “We would of course need to spend some time together so I can get to know your uh…vision for the store?”
She stared into his eyes, noticing how little he had changed. Some lines here and there but still a firm jaw and an irresistible smile.
Everett Baker cleared his throat. “I haven’t got all morning.”
“Yes, uh…” Vicky stepped away. Michael Danning’s hand slipped off her arm. Her mind spun with the scent of his aftershave, and the possibilities of their seeing each other more often.
Everett Baker gestured up to the lilac beams. “It’s just paint. It can be changed back. I imagine that you have a big vision for this place. That you’d really make it stylish. Old oak beams again, soft beige walls, sheepskin in front of the fireplace.”
“What fireplace?” Michael Danning asked skeptically.
“Well, there used to be one, but Gwenda had it bricked up. Didn’t fit the parlor’s modern image, she said.”
“I thought tenants couldn’t make any big changes?” Michael retorted.
“The owner sort of let it slip by. Gwenda was so nice at first.” Everett Baker pulled a sour face. His large sinewy hands knotted and unknotted in front of him. “She wound everybody round her little finger. By the time we got to know her true character, we were all stuck in a long-term lease. She was having problems with her husband, so we didn’t want to push her too hard. But we’re more than willing to let you change it all back.”
“Yes, of course. That way you’d have a better building at no cost to you.” Michael measured Everett with a hitched brow. “If Vicky needs to hire people to bring back the old fireplace and get those beams out from under that ugly paint job and…”
“Look, if she wants changes, that’s her business.” Everett Baker straightened up. The gleam in his eyes told Vicky he had smelled her interest and would bargain for every bit he could get out of her. “We’ll let you do it and give all permissions of course. But you’ll have to hire your own people and pay for it from your own pocket. Maybe you could hire Mortimer.”
“Mortimer? Forget it,” Michael said.
“He is a first-class handyman,” Everett said to Vicky.
“And a first-class scam artist,” Michael said. “He overcharges.”
“So negotiate for the price.” Everett leaned back on his heels, sizing up Michael. “Mortimer knows he won’t get the first price he asks for, so he starts out higher. That’s only logical. Vicky can stand her ground.”
Michael shook his head. “It’s a terrible deal for her and a great one for the owner. Vicky’s changes would make the property more valuable, and in case she leaves it again, you can rent or sell it to someone new for a much higher price.”
Vicky wanted to say something, but Everett didn’t give her a chance. “If you’re convinced you can make this home decoration store thing work out, then you should give it a try. People will of course say it’s insane and will never work in Glen Cove, but hey, you can always prove them wrong.”
He cast her a sly look. He had been to college with her and knew, like most people in Glen Cove, that Vicky Simmons could never say no to a challenge. With Michael Danning’s opposition, Everett was willing to put pressure in all the right places to make sure that Vicky didn’t back out now.
Not that he had to pressure her at all. The potential was really there. Vicky could just see two leather armchairs standing there, one decked with some nice Scottish plaids, the other filled with embroidered pillows. She’d put a small cherrywood side table beside it with a tray on it, carrying delicate china with her favorite rosebud décor.
Then she’d have bookcases over there full of cozies and against the other wall a big sideboard that could display silverware and soap. The whole store would have to breathe a homey atmosphere so customers could see the objects like they were already part of their own interior. They’d come in for a quick look, not intending to buy anything, but once they saw the beautiful combinations of things, they’d start a shopping spree.
Yep, she was a goner. Smart or not, Everett Baker and the owner profiting off her back or not, she had to have this store and make her dreams for it a reality.
Everett grinned at her. “You like it. You see all the possibilities.”
Michael exhaled hard as if he realized he was losing ground.
Vicky pointed at Everett. “But you help me get a good handyman for the job. At a fair price.”
Everett gave a nod. “I’ll tell Mortimer you’re on a budget. He needs money so he’ll budge.”
Michael shook his head, but Vicky ignored him. She felt a rush of exhilaration as she spoke the words she had envisioned saying when she first thought up the whole thing, “OK. I’ll take it.”
Michael groaned and raised both hands in a fake gesture of surrender. But Vicky noticed the warmth in his eyes. He had always appreciated people who fought for their dreams. Maybe now that she was pursuing hers, they’d get closer?
Closer than they had ever been before?
Michael leaned over and said, “You can forget about Mortimer though. With Gwenda still living overhead, Mortimer won’t show his face here. The two can’t stand the sight of one another.”
Everett smiled smugly. “Trust me. Mortimer needs money. He’ll come.”

“Does it really have to cost that much?” Vicky asked. She eyed Mortimer Gill over the papers he had just handed her. She could understand it wasn’t easy to get an old fireplace out again after it had been bricked up by somebody who had not cared for preserving it, but… “I want to keep a tight rein on my budget.”
“Look,” Mortimer said, “either I do it right or I’d better not do it at all. You get my point?”
Vicky sighed. Everett Baker had kept his promise by sending Mortimer out here first thing. She had also asked for a customer recommendation and had spoken on the phone to a Ms. Tennings, a perceptive elderly lady, who had declared that Mortimer knew his craft. He worked fast and neat.
Ms. Tennings had also volunteered that Mortimer had initially asked a higher price for the job than she had been willing to agree on. After a day or two, however, he had lowered his bid because he wanted the job anyway. “Perhaps if you let him dangle first and then call back, he’d be willing to tone down the price?” she had suggested with a smile in her voice.
Vicky rather liked Ms. Tennings’ way of thinking and now said to Mortimer, with a dubious expression, “Let me think about it and give you a call tonight, OK?”
“I can do it first thing tomorrow,” Mortimer pressed. “I understand you want to open up as soon as possible. Makes sense considering it’s now summer season. Tourists flocking in. If you hire a company, they won’t come at once. And they’ll send two workmen over. They always do. You pay for two people’s hours, and they’re only in each other’s way. I’m coming alone. And I’ll be out again the same day. Guaranteed.”
“I’ll call you tonight,” Vicky repeated. Mortimer had a point about companies always sending several workmen. That alone would cost her. But she didn’t want to cave on the spot. She fully intended to ask for a discount and he might give it if he doubted she’d hire him otherwise.
As a clearly disgruntled Mortimer walked out of the door, Vicky raised her head up to where a guy in his twenties balanced on a metal ladder, trying to get the lilac off the beams. Ms. Tennings had also recommended him. Being a student on holiday, he had been able to step up right away. He had also agreed to a set price for a full day of labor.
“How are you getting on?” she called to the painter, but he didn’t hear her over the drone of the music coming from the player in his pocket.
Vicky exhaled and walked outside. The lettering GWENDA’S BEAUTY PARLOR had been removed first thing by the young painter, much to the irritation of Gwenda Gill. She had watched Vicky’s every move from the other side of the road with her black poodle by her side. She had stood there like a sentry as Vicky had given the window a good cleaning, outside and in, and had then pasted a poster on the glass from the inside. It read:

Opening soon:
Country Gift Shop
your one-stop shop for everything British
china—scented candles—pillows—plaids—books
clothes—tableware—royalty corner

The moment Gwenda Gill had seen the poster, she had scanned it quickly. A derisive look had passed over her face, and she had walked away in a trot as if she couldn’t wait to meet up with other people and talk about the laugh of the century.
Of course Gwenda had every reason to feel antagonistic about a new store opening up in her old building. But still it felt like a bad start.
Shoppers had passed on the other side of the street, halting to look at the window and read the poster’s text. But Vicky had not been able to determine what they thought.
Maybe she should have pasted old newspapers against the windowpanes and let them guess what was going on inside, who had rented it and why?But then Everett Baker wouldn’t be secretive about it. She’d rather advertise it herself than let the grapevine spread the tale.
“Hello!” A woman with red curls dancing on her shoulders came up to her. Her pale face was slightly flushed, and her eyes sparkled. She wore a basic tweed jacket with elbow patches over a pencil skirt. Nice businesslike attire as of someone who works in an office.
“You must be Vicky Simmons, the new tenant of the old beauty parlor? You’re going to do the English store, right? I just love everything British.”
The redhead’s expression turned apologetic as she continued, “I suppose you hear this all the time and that you probably can’t take on everybody who says they know their English stuff. But I do know everything about cozy mysteries. Have been reading them since I was a teen. Agatha Christie, Dorothy Sayers, Patricia Wentworth. And Bella Brookes’ fabulous SEE BRITAIN AND DIE series.”
Vicky perked up. “I met Bella Brookes when she was doing a book tour in Wales, and got her to sign Death in Dartmoor.”
“That’s one of her best books. Especially the finale. I never saw that coming.” The woman looked impressed. “You actually know her?”
“I could email her,” Vicky mused, half to herself, “and ask her if she’d sign some books for me to put in the store in the opening week. Or maybe she can send out autograph plates or something? I suppose that will cost less than sending books from the UK to here.”
“I would love an autographed book. I think her sleuth is amazing. And I keep promising myself I have to go to the UK sometime and see all of those places she wrote about. If only the airfare wasn’t so outrageous—and the hotel prices!”
The redhead took a deep breath and blinked as if she’d suddenly returned from some elevated spot to Glen Cove’s Main Street. “Sorry to be going on like this. Cozies are sort of an addiction of mine. I thought that maybe… Well, I do have time on my hands when my kids are in school. I could give a talk on cozies and then we can have a quiz about the classics. I’ve got a friend who could bake us some scones and muffins to hand out to the participants. Turn it into a real British party.”
Vicky lifted a hand to stem the flood of words and ideas. She wanted to say that it was very nice to meet someone who shared her passion. That she appreciated the offer of help too, but that it was way too early for all that. She had enough on her plate with the renovations. Last night she had actually had a nightmare about lilac beams chasing her across the beach.
And she had to order more stock, make decisions about the window display and the opening hours. About a website, business cards, brochures and where to put them…
Just thinking about all the details that she still had to work out, her mind swam. She wasn’t able to take on any more right now.
But then Vicky reconsidered. This woman had come up to her with genuine enthusiasm about her gift shop concept. She was an Anglophile like herself. A kindred spirit. Someone who’d offered her help. Spontaneously.
So maybe it was a bit overwhelming at times. But she need not do it all alone. She could actually ask this brand-new friend to help out. She might even delegate some jobs to her.
“That’s great.” Vicky smiled, extending her hand. “I’m Vicky Simmons, just like you said, and you are?”
The woman grabbed her hand, looking apologetic again. “Sorry. I do that all the time! Running in talking without even telling people who I am! I’m Marge Fisher. I volunteer at the library. That’s how I know your mother. I also have my own column on the regional librarians’ site, What Marge Read. On Wednesdays and every second Saturday I organize stuff to get kids reading. Only job I could get where I can bring my own kids and nobody minds…”
She grinned. “Don’t worry. I won’t bring my kids into your store. My mother takes care of them a lot, giving me a free hand. That’s the advantage of living close to your parents. Without her I couldn’t do half of what I do now. Schoolyard fundraisers, fairs…”
Vicky remembered Claire had written to her about Marge’s homemade specialties that she sold for good causes. She seemed like somebody with a lot of contacts in town and a lot of goodwill because of all her volunteering. Engaging her in the store might eradicate some skepticism. If Marge Fisher took part in it, it had to be right.
“Look,” Marge said, “I guess you were on your way someplace, but I would love to have coffee together sometime and talk about your plans for the store. I just couldn’t believe it. My kind of store, coming to my own hometown. That’s so amazing. Can I treat you at the diner whenever you are free?”
“Sure. Actually I was on my way to the diner now, to get some coffee. And pie. I need sugar badly. To be honest uh… The restorations are a bigger challenge than I thought.”
“Yeah,” Marge leaned over confidentially. “I came to Gwenda’s beauty parlor when it was still open. I never liked much makeup on my face, you know, but I did like to get my nails done. I have to keep them polished or I chew on them. Bad habit. People look at your hands all the time when you’re helping them with their books. Can’t have shabby nails. So I came to Gwenda’s every six weeks for a professional manicure. You could just see the place go down.”Marge sighed sadly. “I think she should never have left Mortimer. He kept her grounded. She’s not a person who can be alone. I guess nobody can. But some people cope better than others, you know.”
Vicky nodded. Being alone had never bothered her, but then she had been able to fill her time with interesting things to do. Gwenda Gill had probably felt like she got no chances in Glen Cove and nobody really cared for her situation. With everything Vicky learned about her predecessor, she felt more sorry for her bad luck in life. “I understand this ex-husband of hers, Mortimer, keeps predator birds?”
“Yeah, he is a falconer, I mean, a professional one. He gives shows and all, performs at weddings where his owls fly in the rings. He still has to do odd jobs to make ends meet, but the birds are his life. Nice guy, down to earth and pretty solid. But Gwenda was never happy with him. Believed he could do better, make more money. At least that’s what she always said.”
Vicky nodded thoughtfully. She wanted a full picture of Mortimer Gill’s character before she hired him to work for her. “I heard Mortimer was behind some anonymous letters that got published in the Gazette accusing Gwenda of doctoring some of her more expensive beauty products? I mean, using cheap stuff and passing it off as brand material?”
“That was a big row, yeah. But nobody knew for sure if Mortimer was behind it. It could have been some unsatisfied customer, not getting rid of her wrinkles?”
Marge grinned. “Look, I can understand that Gwenda felt like everybody sided with Mortimer against her. But Mortimer always said he had nothing to do with those letters. I was inclined to believe him. He seemed to keep caring for her. Even after they parted ways.”
Vicky nodded thoughtfully. Marge’s assessment of Mortimer Gill was different from what she had concluded herself. More positive. Still, Michael had called Mortimer a scam artist and referred to him selling spare car parts at reduced prices when he had been working at this garage. It suggested Mortimer had been hustling from the first job he had ever held. Vicky wasn’t quite sure yet if she wanted to hire him to work on her fireplace or not.
Of course it would be for a few hours only, and the store was still empty. Perhaps it could do no harm?
“You know, falconry is a really British thing,” Marge mused. “At least people associate it with the Middle Ages, the royal courts and all. Big hunting parties, glamour. Maybe we could involve Mortimer in the store opening. Have his birds fly in the key?”
“Gwenda might interpret it as some extra slap on the wrist.” Vicky pursed her lips. “She still lives over my head, you know, and she’s already telling everybody I’ll never make it work.”
“All the more reason to get a spectacular opening for the store. I know Mortimer pretty well, as my husband takes care of his birds occasionally. His dad used to have predator birds too, so my husband grew up with them. Our boys are in love with owls. Go along to Mortimer’s every chance they get. We could ask Mortimer to do it, as a return favor. Just a phone call tonight…”
“Uh, great.” For a moment Vicky felt like she was getting way ahead of herself here, having barely dealt with the store renovations. To start planning the grand opening now seemed a little premature.
But she needed friends in town, people who would be committed to the store and its success. So it was in her own interest to accept this sudden offer.
She only hoped that Gwenda Gill wouldn’t get too steamed about it and think up a way to sabotage them.

Chapter Five (#ulink_a1cd3e36-2d9a-56b3-9215-f66193660943)
Marge held open the diner’s door for her. “After you.” Following Vicky, she inhaled deeply. “Cinnamon rolls, fresh from the oven. You’ve got to try some. They’re the best. You find a seat, I’ll order. Coffee?”
“Make it a large one.”
“Great idea. I’ll join you. Rolls are on me.”
As Marge made her way to the counter, Vicky looked around for two empty seats. The place was buzzing with local people who grabbed a quick coffee here and tourists who wanted a bite before they took a boat out. Those seated by the window were looking out into the street. It struck Vicky for the first time how much you could see from here. Had the outsider who had abducted Celine at the time spent hours here keeping an eye on everything? Determining how town life worked so he knew how to strike without being spotted?
“Here.” Marge appeared beside her carrying two steaming mugs in one hand, a plate filled with cinnamon rolls in the other. “How about that booth over there?”
“Yes, fine.” Vicky flushed realizing how she had been thinking about Celine’s disappearance again. A crime, or at least something that had looked a lot like a crime. And one that had never been solved. Some said that old Sheriff Perkins hadn’t tried hard enough because he had known who was involved. Someone influential in town, whom he did not dare touch.
Vicky shivered. She didn’t want to believe that was true. Glen Cove was such a friendly little place where people only wanted the best for each other. It was impossible someone would have lived among them for over twenty years, hiding such a dark secret. If Celine had met a sad fate, it had been the work of an outsider. A lunatic. The mystery would probably remain unsolved forever.
Vicky forced her thoughts away from it and followed Marge. Just as Marge wanted to deposit her mugs and plate on the table of the empty booth, two men came up from the other side claiming the same spot. One of them was in uniform. As he pulled off his hat and grinned, Vicky recognized him at once. Her mouth fell open. “Cash?” she said, “Cash Rowland?”
The man looked at her and seemed to be equally surprised. “Vicky! I had heard you were back in town. I planned on stopping by your project one of these days, to see for myself what you’re up to.”
He looked her over with an appreciative grunt. “You look good.”
So did he. A little more weight round the waist maybe, but as he was tall and athletic, it did no harm. A head of full blond hair, wild curls like he had always had. She bet he still drove a conspicuous car when he was off duty. One that would get him noticed wherever he went. Cash had always liked to get noticed.
Cash Rowland had been one of her best friends while she had grown up, the center of their group of friends, always good for a laugh, always in for a crazy idea. He was the one who had taken them all to Boston in his dad’s old station wagon to see some baseball game. She couldn’t recall what it had been, but it had been important to the guys. The girls had just tagged along because with Cash around you could always have fun.
His father had made it big inventing some small part that made machinery on ships work better. One invention, a lifetime of proceeds. The family had lived in a big old house on the outskirts of the town. They didn’t have the clout of background or town history, but they did have money. For a lot of people that was enough. Cash Rowland had gotten away with anything, including speeding, camping on public grounds…
It was odd to see him in a uniform all of a sudden and realize he was now the law around here. The Rowlands had always been a law unto themselves.
Was that why Claire had called the new sheriff incompetent? She had never liked Cash Rowland any better than she had liked Michael Danning. All bad boys. All trouble.
“Why don’t we sit down here together?” Marge suggested. “There’s plenty of room.” She cast curious looks from Cash to Vicky and back. Vicky wondered if there was something about the way Cash stared at her that had made Marge perk up.
Cash’s companion excused himself saying he’d call Cash later and walked off. He wore cowboy boots with gleaming silver toe pieces and spurs that clinked as he walked.
“Dear me,” Marge said. “I hope we didn’t scare him off.”
“No, he just wanted to talk about something that uh…” Cash fidgeted with his hat “…can wait.”
“OK.” Vicky sat down opposite Cash and cradled her coffee mug in her hands. She breathed the invigorating scent, then asked, “You’re sheriff now? I had no idea you aimed for a career in law enforcement.”
When they had discussed what they all wanted to be, Cash had always said pilot, or race-car driver.
Or stuntman.
Something risky that would take him places.
But they had all known he would probably just take over his father’s business. There was a big difference between your dreams and the way life worked out.
Cash shrugged. “It all happened so fast, you know. Perkins was getting re-elected time after time. People said he should get some competition. I put myself up to see how the town would respond to my candidacy. Kind of a joke really.”
It was so like Cash Rowland to run for sheriff, by way of a joke. He had never taken anything too seriously. She supposed most of Glen Cove had known that too, so it was surprising the townspeople had voted for Cash anyway. Maybe they had all just been longing for a change? Any change?
“Don’t scowl like that.” Cash took a cinnamon roll and bit into it with a grunt of appreciation. “I know it sounds weird, but people put their faith in me by electing me and I don’t intend to let them down. I already solved a cattle theft last week.”
Marge Fisher leaned back and laughed. “You call that solving?”
Turning to Vicky, she explained, “It turned out the cows that had been reported stolen had simply found a break in the fence and had walked off onto somebody else’s land. Once the neighbor reported major damage to his corn, the case was easily solved.”
Cash looked offended. “That’s what you say. I had to determine the amount of damages the owner of the cows had to pay to the guy whose corn got trampled. He threatened to take the thing to court, which would of course have been bad for both of them. I reached a settlement by applying all my tact and finesse.”
Vicky suppressed a burst of laughter. Cash had never been known for anything like tact, although he had always had a way with words to convince people of things they really didn’t want to do. She had figured he’d become a politician and talk himself into the senate or something. But of course he could have been thinking, like her, about aging parents, and the advantages of living close to them. She had understood from Mom that Cash’s parents still lived in that enormous house. Maybe Cash wanted to keep an eye on them?
Vicky asked Cash about some of their old friends who were still in town. It seemed most of the girls had left. Had their parents felt uncomfortable after the disappearance case, thinking it could have been a madman who might strike again?
Vicky played with the long spoon from her coffee mug, looking for the right words to approach the topic. “How about Celine’s family? Her twin sister? What was her name? Diane?” She knew full well where she was of course, but she wanted to get Cash talking.
Cash sat up like he’d been stung. His hands on the table clenched into fists. “Why do you ask about her?”
“Oh, I don’t know. She was all over the front page of the Gazette the other day.” The sudden tension made Vicky wish she had left it alone. Still she was sort of curious why Cash reacted like that. “She seems to think the disappearance case can be reopened?”
“Just talk.” Cash’s expression was tight and dismissive.
Vicky scanned Cash’s expression. “So there are no new facts? Something to throw light on what happened to Celine back then?”
Cash exhaled. “Look, Diane should have known better.” He scooted to the edge of his seat and gestured with his hands as if to underline his point. “She moved away from here after the disappearance, remember? Not everybody understood her decision to leave. Some thought it was terrible for her parents. Others even said she knew more. Had covered for Celine’s secret meetings with that unknown man.”
“So Diane knew there was a man involved?” Vicky leaned forward.
“That’s what they said.” Cash made a gesture with both hands. “But Diane left, graduated, met her future husband and got married. She lived abroad for all this time, raising three kids, who are all in an international school now. Then the marriage started to show cracks, so she went to a shrink. I guess she only wanted to hear that she had empty nest syndrome, and should get a hobby or something. But the guy told her that it all goes back to her sister’s disappearance. To unsolved business that burdens her life.”
It was obvious that it was all psychobabble to Cash.
“Her doctor,” Cash continued grimly, “told her she has to find some way to end the thing, for herself, in her mind.” He tapped his temple. “So instead of taking a nice vacation or something, and thinking it over for herself, Diane decided she has to show up here again. She’s back for the summer, intending to talk to all the people involved back then, in the investigation. Police officers, witnesses, friends. She’s walking around with a tape recorder, actually taping conversations. She says it’s just for closure and she’ll do nothing with the material she collects. Like write a book about it or something? But that big spread in the paper tells me a different story. She does want something.”
Vicky watched the tension flicker over Cash’s features. Knowing he was sheriff now, responsible for peace and quiet in Glen Cove, she could understand his resentment.
“Nobody can forbid her to do it of course,” Cash continued, “and I’ve heard there are actually people who enjoy talking about it, coming up with bizarre details they never shared with the police back then. To them it’s just something interesting, out of the ordinary. But…among other people there’s a feeling that it might do a lot of damage If not to Diane, then to the others who were intimately involved.”
Vicky exhaled slowly. She saw the risks as well. Had Michael and Diane understood the full impact of what they were doing? Also to each other? For Michael, seeing Diane, who was Celine’s mirror image, might bring back a whole lot of unwanted memories. Frustration and anger he might have believed to be long forgotten.
She said slowly, “Diane must believe she has something to go on. Else she would not have risked this.”
Cash nodded. “Well, you’d start thinking that. More than one person asked me recently if there were old police files on Celine’s disappearance they could see. I told them they had to talk to Perkins about it. He took some old stuff with him, when he retired, to keep as his private archive in his barn. Not sure if they did turn to Perkins, and if they did, how Perkins responded to it. Knowing him, he won’t want any interference with his old files.”
“And who wanted to see those old police files?” Vicky asked. Her heart was pounding so fast she could barely breathe.
“Michael Danning of course,” Cash said. “And Mortimer Gill. Gwenda’s ex-husband.”

Chapter Six (#ulink_e84e3b2c-1b9e-5a9d-a6df-75c970a08fd3)
Cash left Vicky and Marge soon after saying he had things to do. Marge checked her watch and exclaimed she had to run to pick up her kids from a friend. “Call me tonight to discuss things some more,” she called as she rushed off.
Vicky waved in agreement and finished the last draft of her now cold coffee. Her fingers still sticky from the cinnamon rolls, she returned to the store and spent the afternoon on her knees working on the floorboards. Smoothing, removing nails, filling up cracks and rubbing out stains. It started to look half decent, but her back felt broken and her stomach protested that a banana on the go did not really count as lunch. The fridge at her cottage, however, was half empty, and Vicky concluded her mother’s place was the better bet for a hot meal.
At Claire’s she found some great-looking lasagna and put it in the oven, set the table and selected some wine, then took Mr. Pug and Coco for a walk on the beach to ease her sore muscles. That was something she had missed in London: the wide desertedness of the beach, the sounds of the ocean, the scent of the salty air. There had been the Thames of course to walk along. At night with lights everywhere it had been very idyllic. But it hadn’t been the sea. Having been born in a coastal town, Vicky needed her regular encounters with the sea. Especially when it was incoming tide and the waves rolled to the sand with huge foaming white heads, crashing and breaking.
Claire always said not to take Mr. Pug and Coco to the beach. According to her, their fur got dirty from the sand in the air and they couldn’t walk up all those steps leading to the boulevard.
But Vicky believed the dogs enjoyed the beach as much as she did and took them anyway. She clambered down via a steep sandy path close to Claire’s home, carrying Mr. Pug, who was a bit fussy. Coco just ran down ahead of her, barking like crazy.
There were light clouds in the air but nothing suggesting bad weather, and Vicky unbuttoned her coat to let the wind play with it. Walking with the strong gusts in her face, picking up some shells here and there, she could forget about the headaches of all the repairs that still had to be done and focus on what she was happy and grateful about. Having leased the store, having connected with Marge. She had some great ideas for the store, and her love of all things British caused an instant connection between them. Maybe Claire’s idea of hiring Marge as an assistant had been a great suggestion after all. Then Vicky need not always be in the store herself. She had to talk it over during the call later tonight.
Vicky spread her arms and inhaled the salty air with relish. Things were coming together nicely.
Except for one thing.
A frown formed over her eyes. She really had to call Mortimer Gill and ask if he could start on the fireplace early tomorrow morning. Now that Marge had suggested involving him in the grand opening it made sense to use him as a mason as well. If Mortimer could really restore the old fireplace in a single day as he had claimed, his price for the job was not bad, and she could always squeeze him to give a small discount. Like five percent?
But something about the man still bugged her.
Mortimer’s interest in those old police files on Celine’s disappearance.
What could he possibly want with those? As far as Vicky could recall, Mortimer hadn’t been involved back then. Not as a witness or as a suspect. Why would he suddenly feel the need to look into it? Had Diane’s reappearance in town convinced him there was something to be found? For gain?
Michael’s mention of Mortimer’s little business in spare car parts suggested that already as a teen he had figured out how to make easy money. His current tendency to overcharge underlined he was still the ‘in for a quick score’ type.
What if Mortimer Gill intended to find some bomb in the old police reports that he could then drop on Glen Cove?
Once the lid was lifted, nobody knew what would come out. Vicky had lived in small towns long enough to know how rumors could get out of control, even out of the control of the one who had started it all. Like wildfire, they consumed everything in their way.
Loud barking tore Vicky from her worried contemplation. A couple of yards ahead of her Mr. Pug was trying to defend Coco from a much bigger dog who nuzzled her so wildly she almost fell over.
“Hey! Stop that!” Vicky broke into a run. Coco was terrified of larger dogs especially if they stood way over her. If she got hurt, Mom would never forgive her!
“Hey! You big lump!” Vicky ran up to the dogs and grabbed the German shepherd by his collar to drag him away. The dog looked up at her with a sort of surprise in his friendly face. He wagged his big bushy tail and even wriggled his head round to lick her hand.
“OK,” Vicky panted, “so you’re a good boy. And you only meant to say hello. But don’t fall all over Coco. She’s way too small to be your playmate.”
Not to mention what flying sand would do to her fur. Coco didn’t like to be bathed and last time Claire and Vicky had tried to coax the little princess into the tub, it had taken them an hour to clean up all the water and soap in the bathroom and change their own soiled clothes. It was surprising how strong a small dog could be.
“Excuse me, but that’s my dog.” The voice was cool and a bit haughty.
Vicky turned to the woman who wore an expensive sweatshirt over cargo pants. Her long blond hair fluttered loose on the breeze. Vicky held her breath. Even after so many years the likeness was stunning. Almost eerie.
“Celine,” she said, then could have kicked herself. “I mean, Diane. Ms. Dobbs. Or did you take your husband’s name?”
She realized she was starting to ramble and released the German shepherd, who ran off to snap at the waves. Coco pushed herself against Vicky’s leg, while Mr. Pug barked again as if he wanted to show he had driven the bigger dog away.
“Sorry,” Vicky said quickly, forcing a smile. “I believed for a moment your dog was attacking mine. That is, my mother’s dogs: Mr. Pug and Coco.”
In her experience dog owners usually thawed when they could discuss their pets. But Diane’s expression stayed cool and aloof. “My dog may look fierce, but he is well trained. Actually he’s a professional guard dog. I bring him on walks for protection.”
Vicky’s mouth fell open. “Have there been incidents lately?”
“I don’t intend to take any risks. I’m used to big cities; I guess it rubs off. You just don’t feel safe anywhere anymore.” Diane shivered a moment and rubbed her arms.
Vicky felt the need to say something reassuring, but was painfully reminded of Diane’s trauma in this place. Right here in Glen Cove her sister had vanished without a trace. It was hard to convince her it was a nice innocent little place.
Vicky took a deep breath. “I’m sorry that I called you Celine. But the…”
“Likeness is so striking.” Diane laughed bitterly. “That’s part of the reason why I left Glen Cove right after Celine…” She blinked a moment. “I just didn’t want to be compared to her anymore. It had always been fun to be twins, to be mixed up, even take each other’s place at times. But then it was no fun anymore. All the questions about how I was coping, how I felt. How did they think I felt? I had just lost half of me.”
Vicky held the woman’s gaze. Earlier she had looked at the newspaper photograph sort of trying to see the reasons for Diane’s return and now that she was face-to-face with her, she tried even harder. What did the look in those eyes tell her?
Diane swallowed. “I had that scholarship waiting for me so it was relatively easy to get away. I guess I felt relieved. It may sound terrible because I should have supported my parents, but…I was so tired of talking about Celine. Of waiting by the phone. The police told us that in a case of kidnapping the first twenty-four hours are crucial. If a person isn’t recovered by then, or comes back of his own accord, they are usually already…”
Vicky sucked in her breath. “I can’t imagine the police would say something like that.”
Diane straightened up. “Not the local police, no. They were so positive about a good outcome. A friend of my father’s told us the truth. Dad tried all kinds of friends for help, but…nobody could bring back Celine.”
The wind whipped strands of hair into Diane’s face, and she brushed them away impatiently. “I couldn’t stand the insecurity of waiting anymore. Or having to repeat my mother’s motto that there was still hope. To me hope diminished with every day that passed. I needed to work on my own life.”
“I understand.” Vicky waited a moment. It would be tactless to point out that Diane had left when everybody wanted to talk about Celine, and had come back when nobody wanted that anymore.
Diane said, “It didn’t really surprise me when my psychiatrist told me all of my problems were a consequence of my past. Of Celine’s disappearance. I had always known. Deep inside.”
She surveyed Vicky thoughtfully. “I know you’re Vicky Simmons, who also lived here when it happened. I think you knew Celine, although you never took classes with her, right? I’ve looked at old school pictures trying to remember all the names and then search for people online. I was curious what became of them all. Not everybody is still living here. Or living here again.”
The latter sounded almost accusing as if Diane blamed Vicky for having come home.
Or was it rather that Diane blamed Michael Danning for having come home? It was odd then that Diane had gone to Michael with her story. Michael had said explicitly that the interview had not been his idea, but Diane’s. What had been her intention?
Vicky was reminded of Cash’s remark that Diane wanted something. He had made it sound like he blamed her for it. Just because it stirred things up?
Or because Cash figured Diane’s actions were calculated? That every word she said was part of a plan to achieve a certain result? Planting seeds of suggestion that would soon shoot up into full-grown suspicion?
It did seem odd that Diane would meet a relative stranger on the beach and pour out her life’s story. Was she fishing for some kind of response? A flash of recollection?
Or an indication of guilt?
It had to be terrible to be surrounded by people and look at their faces wondering if one of them might be the face of your sister’s murderer.
Diane played with the dog leash in her hand. “A lot of people are back in town,” she said slowly. “I wonder what it is that pulls people back to their old hometown. Nostalgia? Wanting to see all the old places again, to compare them to your memories?”
It sounded soft and pensive, but Diane’s voice carried an edge as she pushed on. “Or is it a sense of guilt? Have you ever heard the theory that a criminal returns to the place of the crime? That that is the reason why the police take pictures of people who come to see a crime scene, or a fire? Because they believe the culprit might come back to see what he accomplished or watch people’s responses to the tragedy?”
Vicky took a deep breath. “I’ve heard about that, yes. And I suppose it happens. But there are a lot of normal people who go back to their old hometown for a lot of good reasons. Criminals are the exception, not the rule.”
To Vicky’s surprise Diane began to laugh. Not a harsh cynical laugh, but a warm heartfelt one. It changed her cold expression to a lively beautiful face, of someone you’d like to know better. “You’re so right,” she said. “I’m sounding morbid. It is completely at odds with this place. Glen Cove is friendly and sweet. I used to love it. Being back here, I remember how good I always felt, about the place and the people.”
She glanced around her, up and down the empty beach. “I thought it was a great idea when my psychiatrist suggested this trip. So much time had passed that I believed I could go back to the Glen Cove I had always cared for. That I could recover what I had lost and sort of find healing. But now I’m not so sure anymore. It’s not just the past. It’s the present. People have acted so hostile when I want to talk to them, like they are all protecting some guilty secret.”
“They need not.” Vicky buttoned up her coat again. It was chilly in the wind. “They’re just upset that the old story is alive again. People were made suspects at the time and they couldn’t defend themselves. It’s always worst to feel helpless.”
“Yes, I know.”
Vicky bit her lip. Perhaps Glen Cove should have taken a different attitude toward Diane’s return, welcoming her and even welcoming her questions, no matter how painful they might be. It was not Diane’s fault that her family name had become associated with a crime. The real person to blame was the abductor.
“Shall we walk together?” she suggested.
Diane appeared surprised at her offer, but agreed, falling into step beside her further down the beach toward the vantage point. The German shepherd was still chasing waves, while Mr. Pug padded along on the other side of the beach close to the cliffs. Coco had found a piece of wood, which she sniffed from all sides, before running after Mr. Pug, her tail up and her sharp bark filling the air.
Diane asked, “Where do you live?”
“At the far end of Main Street, where it turns away to Culver Road. There are several empty cottages there so I could rent one at short notice.”
“Then we’re almost neighbors,” Diane said. “I rented the one old widow Black used to live in.”
“The captain’s widow?” Vicky could still see the man in her mind, in his uniform coming back from a week at sea. Fishermen then still stayed out for days on end, and he had been in charge of a large ship that employed about ten men from Glen Cove and a neighboring town. The captain’s wife had been a nice petite woman who bought cookies at the baker’s and then handed them out to the children in the street. Her own grandchildren had lived on the other side of the country, and she had only seen them at Christmas.
Diane walked vigorously, almost smiling at her. “Yes, it’s a cute place with old-fashioned curtains and tiny rooms compared to what I’m used to. But I feel right at home. The kitchen is great with an old stove. I had to get used to handling it, but now I’m fine. It gives so much warmth that I spend a lot of time near it.”
She hesitated a moment. “Often I can’t sleep and get up to do some chore in the kitchen. Cleaning, breaking beans. I hadn’t done that in years, but it’s very relaxing. The same movement over and over again. Until your head gets empty.”
Vicky wondered if Diane had anybody to talk to now that she was out here. It seemed like she was dwelling mainly on her sister’s fate. That could not be healthy.
Maybe she should engage her in something distracting?
“I empty my head here on the beach,” Vicky said, gesturing around her. “I can forget all the craziness of my store renovations and just re-energize.”

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