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Winning Amelia
Ingrid Weaver


Can fate really be this cruel?Amelia Goodfellow can’t escape her bad luck. After her ex-husband’s embezzlement conviction cost her everything, winning the lottery seemed like fate’s way of paying her back. But to then lose the painting she hid the winning ticket in? Amelia is done with luck. She’s going to get that painting and her life back. Even if it means hiring her old flame, private investigator Hank Jones.Trust isn’t easy for Amelia, so keeping Hank in the dark about the ticket just makes sense. Tracking the yard-sale purchaser of the painting should be simple, but then an auction of stolen art complicates the search, and Amelia suddenly has more to lose than money.A second chance with Hank might be priceless.







Can fate really be this cruel?

Amelia Goodfellow can’t escape her bad luck. After her ex-husband’s embezzlement conviction cost her everything, winning the lottery seemed like fate’s way of paying her back. But to then lose the painting she hid the winning ticket in? Amelia is done with luck. She’s going to get that painting and her life back. Even if it means hiring her old flame, private investigator Hank Jones.

Trust isn’t easy for Amelia, so keeping Hank in the dark about the ticket just makes sense. Tracking the yard-sale purchaser of the painting should be simple, but then an auction of stolen art complicates the search, and Amelia suddenly has more to lose than money. A second chance with Hank might be priceless.


“My fee isn’t the issue.”

“Then what is?”

“I asked for the real reason you want that painting.”

Amelia’s chin trembled. She tightened her lips.

“You can’t honestly expect me to believe you would be willing to throw away the money you do have on a piece of worthless, not very good art that doesn’t even belong to you. What are you holding back, Amelia?”

She remained silent.

Hank used to have more patience than she had. It was a good bet he still did. He waited her out.

It took less than a minute. When she finally did speak, her voice shook. “During the past year and a half, I’ve lost my business, my reputation, my husband....” She cleared her throat. “You name it, I lost it. I lost so much, it got to the point that I stopped believing I could win.” I want to start living again. I want the right to be happy again.”

“And you believe that finding this painting will do all that?”

She surged to her feet. “Yes!”


Dear Reader,

I’m not much of a gambler, unless you count organic gardening, which between the weather and the bugs is pretty chancy. I suppose you could count computer card games as a form of gambling, too, since they’re definitely risky with respect to how much of my time they end up consuming. Come to think of it, strolling down the cookie aisle in the grocery store is a huge and rather dangerous gamble, depending on how hungry I happen to be. So I can relate to my heroine’s decision to buy a lottery ticket, in spite of the astronomical odds against winning.

Every aspect of writing Winning Amelia was a pleasure for me. For one thing, it’s set in the picturesque small town of Port Hope, which lies halfway between our farm and Toronto and thus is my favorite spot to meet my city friends for lunch. Though there isn’t actually a Mae B’s, the restaurant where my heroine worked was inspired by some of the places I’ve visited. The house where she lived was based on the one where I grew up—the simple, story-and-a-half design was used in Port Hope as well as in neighborhoods throughout southern Ontario. As for the oddball characters that crop up in the book, let’s just say the countryside provides plenty of fodder for a writer’s imagination.

Above all, I enjoyed creating a story for the Heartwarming program, because it’s one that can be read by anyone. It celebrates not just romance but real, lasting love. That’s the kind of love that survives the big, dramatic issues like kids and finances as well as the everyday stuff of an ordinary life. And love like that is well worth any gamble!

Warm wishes, and happy reading!

Ingrid


Winning Amelia






USA TODAY Bestselling Author

Ingrid Weaver






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


INGRID WEAVER

began her writing career by propping an old manual typewriter on her children’s play table. Twenty years later she is a USA TODAY bestselling author of thirty books and the recipient of a Romance Writers of America RITA® Award. She currently resides on a farm near Frankford, Ontario, with her family and a varying collection of critters.


This book is dedicated to everyone in my family whose birthdays wound up on Amelia’s lottery ticket. Those are truly lucky numbers.


Contents

CHAPTER ONE (#u2ae878fc-89b5-593d-8e38-cf95397ef383)

CHAPTER TWO (#u1d3b61d3-3779-577e-bde3-08e69c04a037)

CHAPTER THREE (#uf41a4a30-0e4d-5b20-8b5d-b023cfeace98)

CHAPTER FOUR (#uce9e51f4-1d72-5ccf-94c8-7aeccea1d0e6)

CHAPTER FIVE (#ue63e7533-8786-5c88-8635-2dbb016a48b6)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

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)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE

BY THEMSELVES, NUMBERS were meaningless squiggles. It was what they represented that mattered. This particular string of six—1, 3, 4, 17, 23, 29—happened to represent the birthdays of Amelia Goodfellow’s family: her own, plus those of her brother, her sister-in-law and all three nephews.

The sequence also appeared to be the winning numbers in yesterday’s Lotto 6/49 draw.

Crockery rattled against crockery. The chinka-chink sounded oddly like...the clink of coins. Amelia set the dishes back on the table and reached for the newspaper. The previous customer had left no tip, only a discarded Toronto Star, so maybe Amelia was too annoyed to be seeing straight. The sun was glaring off the moisture remaining from where she’d wiped the table, so it could have been a trick of the light. Or fatigue. Or simply a bad case of wishful thinking. Sure. No reason for her hands to be shaking like this because she’d probably made a mistake, right?

She squinted at the paper.

The lottery results were in bold print in a box on the lower right-hand corner of the front page, along with the weather forecast and the horoscope for anyone whose birthday was today. There had been only one winning ticket. 1, 3, 4, 17, 23, 29. Her lips moved silently as she read the numbers again. No matter how many times she repeated them, they remained the same.

The jackpot had been over fifty-two million, not a record but close to it. To be exact, it had been fifty-two million, four hundred and eighty-five thousand, seven hundred and twenty. More numbers. They were too mind-boggling to grasp, even for someone who had once made her living by dealing with figures.

“Excuse me, miss?”

Yet these were more than simply figures on a page. This was a new house for Will and Jenny. It was redemption for Spencer’s crimes. It was the ability to think of tomorrow without feeling her stomach curl into a knot. It was the future. A brand-new, shiny, fire-engine-red, fresh-off-the-showroom-floor life in which she could stop apologizing and start living again.

“We’d like to order, please.”

Bubbles worked their way into her throat, stealing her breath and making speech impossible. The sensation was so unfamiliar, and it had been so long since she’d experienced it, Amelia didn’t recognize the joy immediately. Yet that’s what it was. Pure joy.

“Hello?”

She looked at the paper again, just to be sure. There they were, in all their multmillion-dollar splendor: 1, 3, 4, 17, 23, 29, the numbers she always played, the numbers she could never forget. She pumped her fist in the air and whirled.

A pair of women was seated at the booth across from her. The older one raised a penciled eyebrow. “Well, it’s nice to see someone so happy. Did you read good news?”

Amelia wouldn’t have thought she could smile any wider but she did. Her cheeks ached from it. Those crazy joy bubbles were swirling through her blood now. Her knees shook as badly as her fingers. She stumbled backward and came up hard against one of the boxes that held fake philodendrons. Plastic greenery crackled against her palm as she steadied herself with one hand. In the other she still clutched the paper. “Good?” Her voice rasped. She had trouble getting the word past her lips because every facial muscle was locked into her grin. “Uh-huh. Oh, yeah.”

The woman’s amusement dimmed. Her gaze darted around the tiny restaurant, as if she were seeking help. The lunch rush at Mae B’s was over. Apart from the ladies and an elderly man in the booth near the entrance, the place was deserted. “Are you all right, miss?”

Amelia nodded so hard, the pencil she’d tucked behind her ear slipped out and bounced on the floor. She left it there. She wouldn’t need to write down any more orders, or depend on finding tips when she cleaned the tables, or wear this stupid, frilly, pea-green apron. She took off the apron and dropped it on the plastic plant, then tore off the corner of the page with the lottery results and put it in her skirt pocket.

The ticket. She had to get the ticket.

Mae Barton and her husband, Ronnie, regarded her sternly as she raced through the kitchen. Though Ronnie was tall and fair while Mae was dark and well-rounded, like many longtime married couples, they had begun to resemble each other. Their frowns were identical. “Where’re you going?” Ronnie demanded. “It’s not time for your break.”

Amelia gasped through her grin. “Purse!” was all she managed. She yanked open the storeroom door and skidded to a stop beside the first shelf. Her purse lay where she’d left it when she’d come in this morning, right next to the big cans of ketchup. She unzipped the purse and pulled out her wallet.

“What on earth is going on?”

She glanced over her shoulder.

Mae stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips. “You had customers waiting, last I saw.”

“Sorry, but...” Amelia’s voice broke as she peered in her wallet. A ten, two fives and a handful of change. No ticket. She sucked air through her teeth.

Mae moved closer. “Amelia, are you okay? You don’t look well.”

She groped among the tissues, mints, sunglasses, keys and stray coins in the bottom of her purse for a few panicked moments until she remembered: little Timmy had emptied her purse onto the floor last month when he’d been looking for candy, and the dog had eaten her paycheck. Since then, she’d taken precautions. She hadn’t stored the ticket in her wallet or her purse. She’d found a far better place. A good, safe place. She laughed.

Mae grasped her arm. “You’re not high, are you? We told you up front we’ve got a zero tolerance policy for that sort of thing.”

“I’m not sick or crazy or high, Mae.” She retrieved the scrap of newsprint from her pocket and waved it in front of her. “I’m just rich.”

“What?”

“I won Lotto 6/49.”

“You what?”

Amelia’s eyes misted as she looked at her boss. The Bartons weren’t her friends, but they had hired her when no one else in town would, and for that she would always be grateful. They had taken a chance. Granted, they gave her receipts extra scrutiny, and they certainly hadn’t let her anywhere near their books, but she didn’t hold that against them. She would have done the same in their place, considering her reputation. She flung her arms around Mae and gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek. She felt her boss stiffen, but she didn’t care—at this point she would kiss a ketchup can. “I won!”

“How much?”

“The whole enchilada.”

“But—” Mae pulled back. “That’s...”

“Fifty-two million, give or take a few hundred grand.”

“Good heavens!”

“What’s all the shrieking about?” Ronnie asked as he joined them. “It better not be another rat, after what I paid the exterminator.”

“Amelia won the lottery.”

“You’re kidding!”

“The numbers were in the paper.” Amelia returned the newsprint to her pocket and wiped her hands on her skirt. “I only found out a minute ago.”

“Are you certain?”

Oh, yes, she was one hundred percent certain. She had bought the ticket at the corner store across from the high school on her way home from work on Thursday. She remembered that vividly. There had been a lineup at the cash and everyone was talking about the possibility of a record jackpot. Although the odds of winning were astronomical, she’d thought, why not take a chance? Her luck couldn’t get much worse.

She couldn’t wait to tell Will. And especially Jenny. She plunged her hand back into her purse for her phone before she remembered she’d cancelled her wireless plan in order to economize when she’d moved in with her brother. But even if she still had a phone, this was the kind of news she should deliver in person. The look on their faces would be priceless....

Actually, not priceless. The look would be worth fifty-two million.

She gave both Mae and Ronnie more hugs, along with a garbled apology about leaving early. She would make it up to them. Buy them a new freezer and some real plants. She believed in paying her debts, and now, finally, she could.

Luck seemed to be with her still, because Will’s old Chevette started on the third try, and it only stalled once before she could put it into gear and pull out of the parking lot. She would buy her brother a new car, or better yet, one of those big, manly pickups she’d seen him ogling. She could get a new minivan for Jenny that had built-in TV screens to entertain the kids and would be large enough to hold their growing brood. She could provide cars for each of the boys when they were old enough to drive. While she was at it, she could get one for herself. Nothing sensible or conservative like the black Beemer that had been repossessed last fall. No, this time she would get something fun. Bright and shiny, maybe even red, like that future that was dangling in front of her.

A horn blared. Amelia had no idea how long she had been sitting at the green light, dreaming about new cars. With a jaunty wave to the driver behind her, she started forward. The summer tourist season was in full swing. There was more traffic than usual in Port Hope’s historic downtown. Located an easy hour’s drive along Lake Ontario from Toronto, it was a popular destination for day-trippers seeking a break from the city. Luckily—there was that word again—the congestion thinned quickly once she coaxed the Chevette into doing the climb up Walton Street. Within minutes, she had left the old brick and quaint shops of the heritage district behind.

Will and Jenny’s neighborhood was a fair distance from the river and the lakeshore. It wasn’t on the route of the self-guided tours that were marked on the town maps. By today’s standards, the houses were small and plain. Most were one-and-a-half-story boxes that had been tossed up in a hurry more than sixty years ago during the post-war baby boom. Some had been customized with expanded porches, or extra rooms in the attic, but there was no disguising their humble pedigree. The properties that came up for sale didn’t remain on the market for long, though. The area was close to schools, the streets were quiet enough for road hockey any season of the year, and the houses were within the budget of young families.

But her family wouldn’t need to worry about budgets anymore, would they?

A sedan she didn’t recognize was parked at the side of the road in front of her brother’s house. A pair of strangers in sandals and matching turquoise, Hawaiian-style printed shirts moved among open cardboard boxes that were arrayed on the lawn. Closer to the front steps there stood a few chrome-and-vinyl chairs, an old brass plant stand and the exercise bike that had been stored in the basement. Amelia nosed into the driveway. Her way was blocked by a metal-legged card table displaying knickknacks and rows of paperback books.

She had forgotten about the yard sale. Jenny had started it yesterday. She’d claimed she wanted to clean out the basement this weekend, since Will was constructing an extra bedroom plus a playroom for the boys down there. Amelia suspected the primary reason for the yard sale was to raise extra cash. The closer Jenny got to her due date, the more nervous she became about their finances.

But she wouldn’t need to worry anymore, would she? And Will wouldn’t need to build any extra rooms, because Amelia would buy them a house big enough to hold everyone, no matter how many more babies they produced.

This just kept getting better and better, didn’t it? Amelia got out of the car and practically skipped up the driveway. She was giddy with the possibilities that continued to pop into her mind.

Her sister-in-law sat on a lawn chair in the shade of the maple beside the driveway. Strands of dark hair had escaped from her ponytail and drooped against her cheeks. A faded Argos T-shirt that had once belonged to Will stretched over her pregnant belly. She bore little resemblance to the delicate woman with the sparkling brown eyes who had married Amelia’s big brother fifteen years ago. Jenny was a nurturer, and like many women in her position, she tended to put her family’s needs ahead of her own. Riding herd on three boys—four, if she counted Will—had taken their toll.

One of the first things Amelia was going to do once she cashed in the ticket would be to treat Jenny to a spa day. Or make it a week. Get her a new wardrobe, get Will one, too, then send them on a cruise as a second honeymoon.

Jenny’s brow furrowed as Amelia approached. “What’s wrong? Why aren’t you at work?”

She rocked back and forth from her heels to her toes. There was so much she wanted to say, so many promises she was finally able to make, the words were getting dammed up behind her grin. She savored the moment. “I’ve got some news.”

“You didn’t quit, did you?”

Amelia laughed. She hadn’t officially said the words. She’d been too stunned. But there was no reason to continue waiting tables now. “Not yet, but I will.”

“How much do you want for this?”

The Hawaiian-shirt couple had moved to the edge of the driveway. The man pointed to the plant stand he held.

“Thirty dollars,” Jenny replied.

“There’s some corrosion on the leg here. I’ll give you ten.”

“It’s an antique. Fifteen.”

“Don’t quibble, honey,” his companion said. “It’s already a bargain.”

“All right, fifteen.”

Jenny reached for the small plastic storage container beside her chair. It held a substantial layer of coins plus a surprising number of bills. She took the man’s twenty, gave him a five for his change, and carefully snapped the lid closed.

Forget savoring the moment. Amelia couldn’t contain herself. As soon as the couple loaded their purchase into the sedan at the curb and pulled away, she blurted it out. “I won the lottery.”

“Why would you quit that job?” Jenny asked at the same time. “I realize it didn’t pay much, but I thought you were happy that Mae...” She paused. “What did you say?”

“I won Lotto 6/49.”

“Sure. Pull the other one.”

“No, really, I did win. That’s my news. I came home as soon as I found out.” She waved her arm toward the items on the lawn. “You don’t need to have this yard sale. With my winnings—”

“Seriously? You actually won something?”

“I won the jackpot. More than fifty-two million.”

Instead of smiling, Jenny’s lips trembled. “I don’t find that funny, Amelia.”

“I’m not joking.”

“But...”

She tugged her sister-in-law to her feet and bent her knees to bring their faces level. “I’m not joking,” she repeated. “I really did win.”

It took a few seconds to sink in. Amelia understood the reaction, because she had trouble grasping this new reality herself. Repeated disappointments had a way of doing that to a person. After so much bad news, it became easier not to even hope for good.

Jenny’s smile blossomed slowly, like a flower bud finally exposed to the sun. Her cheeks dimpled. The lines worry had etched on her face lifted into traces left by old laughter. And her eyes sparkled. “You won?” she whispered.

Oh, yes, this was definitely worth a few million. Amelia nodded.

Jenny screeched and threw her arms around Amelia, pulling her as close as her baby bump allowed.

“Hey! What’s going on?”

At Will’s voice, they both looked toward the house. He stood on the front stoop, clad in his typical carpentry clothes of blue jeans and a dark green shirt. He balanced eighteen-month-old Timothy on one hip while he held the screen door closed with the edge of a battered work boot. Toto, the paycheck-eating Scotch Terrier, jumped against the other side of the door in a bid to get out.

Jenny broke off the hug. She got as far as saying Will’s name before she started to sob.

He shifted Timothy under one arm and leaped down the stairs. “Baby, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

Jenny wiped her eyes. “Amelia.”

“Auntie Mia, Auntie Mia,” Timmy chorused, squirming in his father’s hold. He wore only a T-shirt and diaper, which was loosening with each wriggle. The dog slipped past the screen door and bounded toward them, adding his high-pitched yapping to the commotion.

Will glowered at Amelia. He was protective by nature, especially when it came to his wife. Although at five foot nine he was only an inch taller than his sister, his frame was packed with solid muscle earned from a lifetime of working with his hands. He could be an imposing figure to someone who didn’t know what a marshmallow he was inside. He raised his voice over the din. “What did you do to her?”

Amelia laughed. “Down, boy. Those are happy tears.”

“That’s right.” Jenny hiccupped. “Your sister won the lottery.”

“What? Come on.”

“It’s true,” Amelia said. “I played our birthdays like I always do. 1, 3, 4, 17, 23, 29. Those were last night’s winning numbers.” She withdrew the scrap of newspaper from her pocket and held it up to him, just as she had for Mae. “See for yourself.”

Will caught her wrist to steady her hand. He looked at the paper, then at her, then back at the paper. His face paled beneath his freckles. “Is this for real?”

“As real as fifty-two million and change.”

“You’re rich.”

She shook her head. Not for a second had she considered keeping the winnings for herself. Her family had stood by her through the bad times, and there was no way she wouldn’t share the good ones. “We’re rich, big brother,” she corrected. “Stinking, filthy, ridiculously, never-worry-about-a-job-again loaded.”

He released her wrist to pass his hand over his face. His fingers shook. Then he tipped back his head and whooped. So did Timmy. Laughing, Will swung the toddler over his head and spun in a circle. “We’re rich, Timmy. There’s a new word for you. Rich. What do you think of that?”

Timmy chortled and kicked, his entire body expressing his glee. Will pulled him back down before the diaper fell off completely. Owen and Eric, drawn by the noise, ran around the house from the backyard. At ten, Owen was a miniature version of his father, right down to the thatch of red hair. A leather catcher’s mitt engulfed his left hand—he was on a baseball kick this month. Six-year-old Eric had his mother’s coloring as well as her nurturing instinct—instead of a baseball mitt, he held the neighbors’ marmalade cat. Momentarily anyway. It streaked off as soon as it spotted Toto.

The boys needed no convincing to join the celebration. Seeing the adults happy for a change was reason enough.

It wasn’t only cars she could buy the boys. She could get Owen season tickets to the Jays games and send him to a baseball camp. She could put Eric through veterinary school. There would be no limit to whatever dream they wanted to follow.

This continued to get better and better.

Amelia wiped her eyes as she led the way to the house. At first, she assumed the place looked different due to her excitement. Having a life-changing experience would give anyone a new perspective. Then she noticed the old sunburst-shaped clock was missing from the living room. So was the ugly wooden floor lamp with the lopsided base. The shelf above the computer held far fewer knickknacks than it had when she’d left for work this morning.

Apparently, Jenny had added more items to her yard sale that hadn’t been limited to the junk in the basement. That was good, since the sunburst clock lost five minutes a week, and the lamp tended to fall over at the slightest bump. This also meant there would be less to move when Amelia bought their new house.

She wouldn’t wait that long to move out of here herself, though. There was hardly enough space for her now.

In a fancier house, the room where she slept would be called a den, but here it was known simply as the back room. The door was ajar when she reached it. That wasn’t unusual, so she wasn’t alarmed. Everyone in the family was in and out of this room on a regular basis, since Jenny’s sewing machine was set up in here, and the kids often played on the futon that served as Amelia’s bed. She hadn’t minded because she’d had no right to complain. There were no spare bedrooms, and as the saying went, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

But now she allowed herself to think about it. Even though she adored her nephews, she was looking forward to the time when she could sleep on a real bed again and not need to check for toy cars and stray Lego blocks when she opened out the futon. She would enjoy regaining the little luxuries she used to take for granted, like privacy, and having a closet all to herself, and taking a long soak in the bathtub whenever she wanted without causing a lineup outside the door. Once she cashed in that ticket she could choose where and how she lived. She would never, ever, need to depend on anyone’s charity again.

The sound of Jenny’s voice came from the direction of the kitchen, along with Toto’s yapping. “Timothy, put the bone down,” she ordered. “It’s Toto’s.”

“Mine.”

“It’s full of germs.”

“Mom, I’m hungry,” Owen whined.

“Me, too,” said Eric. “Can I have a cookie?”

“How about an apple?” Jenny offered.

“Ugh!”

“Or some raisins—” Jenny groaned in exasperation. “Timmy, no! Get that bone out of your mouth!”

Amelia chuckled. Quiet was another luxury that was rare around here, although she was getting used to the daily circus and would probably miss it when she was gone. Once she cashed that ticket...

Uh-huh. The ticket. It was high time to actually hold it in her hand. She pushed the door of the back room completely open, then turned toward the wall at the end of the futon.

The space was empty. The painting that normally hung there was gone.

Her smile dissolved. The room spun. For the second time in an hour—could it only have been an hour?—she stumbled from shock. “No,” she whispered.

There had to be a simple explanation. Maybe the wire that held the painting had broken. It could have bounced and ended up behind the futon. She grabbed one corner of the futon frame and slid it away from the wall, but nothing was there.

Heavy footsteps crossed the living room and approached the doorway. Will spoke as he drew near. “We’ll use Jenny’s van when we go to the lottery office. I wouldn’t want to take that old Chevette on the highway all the way to Toronto.”

Amelia dropped to her knees, then flattened herself on her stomach and pressed her cheek to the floor. Aside from a collection of dust bunnies, the space beneath the futon was as empty as the space behind it. She scrambled to her feet and clawed at the mattress to tip it away from the frame, but she found nothing other than a squished coloring book.

“Too bad we have to wait until tomorrow,” Will continued. “But they wouldn’t be open on a Sunday. What are you doing?”

Her gaze darted wildly around the room. She could see at a glance there was no place to conceal anything large. It wasn’t here.

“Amelia?”

“Where’s the painting?”

“What?”

She thumped the side of her fist against the empty wall. “The painting of the farm that was right here.”

“I put it on the lawn with the other stuff.”

“You what?”

“It was a piece of junk. I thought you’d be happy to see it go.”

She pushed past him and ran for the front door. She didn’t remember seeing the painting on the lawn, but then, she hadn’t really looked. It had to be there, because no one would want something that ugly, would they? The painting itself was awful. Jenny had acquired it at someone else’s yard sale with the intention of using the frame to dress up a mirror. The frame was old-fashioned, carved wood that was warped in places and gaped away from the canvas and had provided a perfect spot to tuck a folded slip of paper because it had been high up, out of sight and beyond the reach of little fingers and hungry dogs. It was a good, safe place that she’d felt so clever about finding. Please, oh, please let it still be there....

It wasn’t. That much was clear from the instant she reached the front stoop. She pressed her fingers to her mouth but she couldn’t feel them. Her entire body was going numb. That was a mercy. If only the numbness could reach her brain and her heart.

This couldn’t be happening. She already knew what it was like to lose everything, but to lose it again? Before she’d even got it? Fate couldn’t be this cruel, could it?

The door opened behind her. “Amelia?” Will asked. “You’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”

Her legs gave out. She sat down hard on the top step. “The lottery ticket.”

“What about it?”

“I wedged it underneath the frame of that painting.”


CHAPTER TWO

HANK JONES DID his best to concentrate on the conversation, because it definitely wouldn’t be cool to be caught slack-jawed and staring. He’d heard that Amelia Goodfellow was back in town. Given the size of Port Hope, he’d known it was possible they would run into each other eventually, but not in his wildest dreams would he have imagined she would be waiting for him to open his office on a Monday morning.

Typically, the clients of Jones Investigative Services ranged from employers who wanted in-depth background checks on job applicants to estate lawyers tracking down missing heirs and people who wanted their spouses followed. Fairly routine stuff, which was okay with Hank, because it meant he hadn’t yet taken on a case he couldn’t solve. But he doubted this case would be routine. The last time he had seen Amelia, she had vowed never to speak to him again. She’d kept her word for almost fifteen years.

Nevertheless, here she was, sitting in the worn leather armchair across from his desk like any other potential client. For the first time since he’d started the business, he wished he’d put more effort into the office decor. He wondered what she thought of the wheezing air conditioner in the window behind him, or the five-year-old computer that hulked on his desk, or the prize pickerel that occupied the place of honor above the coffeemaker. He also wondered why her opinion should matter to him.

If she noticed the thrift-shop decorating scheme, she didn’t let it show. She kept her face as politely neutral as her request. “Will you take the case?”

Her voice sounded the same. In his more fanciful moments, he used to compare it to syrup, but he was no good with words, and that wasn’t right, anyway. Her voice wasn’t sugary, and sweet wasn’t an adjective people would use to describe Amelia. It was the way syrup flowed, rich and clear, that reminded him of her voice. It was also hard to stop the stream of her words once they got going. They tended to stick, too.

Her appearance hadn’t changed much over the years. Her hair was a bit straighter and cut to chin length instead of corkscrewing over her shoulders, and it had darkened marginally, yet it was unmistakably the Goodfellow red. Did she still insist on calling it auburn? Beneath her flowered blouse and denim skirt, her figure appeared to be as slender as when she’d been a teenager, although she’d lost that coltish, all arms and legs look.

He suspected that even if he’d been blindfolded, he would have recognized her presence. The leather chair creaked as she shifted because she couldn’t sit still. The air around her seemed to crackle with energy she couldn’t quite contain. Amelia never did anything halfway. When she wanted something, she pursued it with her whole heart.

“Or would you have a problem working for me?” she asked.

The blunt question didn’t surprise him. The Amelia he’d known wouldn’t tiptoe around an issue. She’d been the most honest person he’d ever encountered. Well, except for her blind spot when it came to her hair color.

Would he have a problem taking her on as a client? As a rule, he didn’t make spur-of-the-moment decisions. He preferred to inspect all sides of a topic first. That’s what made him a good investigator. This situation was different, because he already knew the answer to her question. Of course, he wouldn’t have a problem working for Amelia. He wasn’t a kid anymore. He would never again be that idealistic fool, goofy with puppy love, laying his heart bare for her to trample with her size-eight feet. The pain had faded. They’d both moved on.

And the truth was, he was curious. Whatever had brought her here had caused her to swallow her pride and break one and a half decades of silence. Anyone, even if they weren’t a professional snoop, would want to know what it was.

“This is what I do for a living, Amelia,” he said. “The problems that happened between us were a long time ago.”

“Distant past,” she agreed.

“We were friends long before we made the mistake of trying to be more.”

She exhaled. It was accompanied by a subtle lowering of her shoulders. “That’s a good way to put it. Yes, we were friends once, weren’t we?”

“And since you need help, I’m glad you came to me.”

“I was hoping you would feel that way.”

“Did you think I would kick you out?”

“After the way we parted, I wasn’t sure. People can change.”

“Not me. I’m the same old, dumb lug I always was.”

“You were never dumb, Hank. Otherwise, I wouldn’t want to hire you.”

He smiled. “It’s good to see you, Amelia. You haven’t changed, either.”

If he’d hoped to relax her, he’d been wrong. Instead of returning his smile, she shifted uncomfortably and glanced at her wrist. It likely was a reflex action, since she wore no watch. “Thanks,” she said. “I apologize if this seems rude, but would you mind if we do the catching-up later? You weren’t open yesterday, and I’m a little anxious to get things going.”

The old Amelia used to charge straight ahead once she’d decided on her course of action, too. He could see for himself that she was anxious. The skin beneath her eyes appeared shadowed, as if she hadn’t slept the night before. There were new lines at the outer corners, which added maturity to her gaze. The color was as striking as ever. He’d once compared it to the shimmering patches of blue-green his father’s outboard used to leave on the surface of the water when they went trolling back when he was a kid. Not the smoothest compliment to use when trying to impress a girl, comparing her eyes to an oil slick.

“Hank?”

Her tone wasn’t exactly cool, but it wasn’t warm, either. It was cautious. Businesslike. Which he should have expected. As she’d just made clear, this wasn’t a social call. He picked up a pen and readied a fresh page in his notepad. “You said that you want me to find a painting?”

“That’s right.”

“I’ll need as many details as possible before I can plan how to proceed. You do have time to answer some questions, don’t you?”

“Go ahead.”

“How did the painting go missing?”

“My sister-in-law held a yard sale on the weekend. She sold the painting yesterday while I was at work. She remembers getting thirty dollars for the painting, but she doesn’t remember anything about who bought it.”

“So it was your sister-in-law who sold the painting.”

“You remember Jenny? Will’s wife?”

He and Amelia had been in their final year at high school when they’d gone to her brother’s wedding together. They had laughed and danced and figured it was fate when she had caught the bouquet. They’d been sure they would always be as happy as they’d been then. That alone was proof they’d had a lot of growing up to do. Less than three months later, they had broken up.

“Yes,” he replied. “I remember. How are she and Will doing?”

“Fine. They’re expecting their fourth child next month.”

“Is your brother still working at that custom furniture place north of town?”

“Lancaster Cabinets, yes.”

“I heard business wasn’t good last year. Are they doing okay now?”

“As far as I know.”

“Why did Jenny have the yard sale?”

“She wanted to clean the excess junk out of the house.”

“Can’t blame her, with a fourth kid on the way. So this painting had been kept at their place?”

“Right. I’ve been staying with them since...” She hesitated.

He wouldn’t pretend ignorance. “Since your legal troubles?”

“I see you’ve heard about it.”

Anyone not living in a cave would have heard about it. The scandal and ensuing criminal trial that had bankrupted Amelia and her husband’s investment business more than a year ago had been featured on the nightly news of every major network. It had been splashed across the national papers, too. There had been a mini business boom for local hotels and car rental agencies caused by the reporters who had come to her hometown looking for information to do background pieces. For a while, she had been Port Hope’s most infamous native.

The scandal had also ended her marriage to Spencer Pryce. Feeling any satisfaction over that fact would have been mean and petty, so Hank had tried not to. Despite what she’d done to him, he would never want to see her hurt. “I’m sorry you had a hard time, Amelia.”

She acknowledged his sympathy with a tight nod. “Thank you, but that’s in the past, too. My only concern now is with the painting.”

“I assume it was valuable?”

“Only to me.”

“Could you explain that?”

“You know about my troubles, as you put it, so you must also know the courts seized Spencer’s assets to make partial restitution for the money he stole. That included our joint property.”

“I heard. It wasn’t fair.”

“Depends on your viewpoint. Our former clients thought it wasn’t enough. They would have preferred a few pounds of flesh, too.” She made an impatient motion with her hand. “That’s beside the point. I’m telling you this because I want you to know how important that painting is to me. I have practically nothing left from my old life because I ended up liquidating my personal property in order to pay my lawyer’s fees.”

“Except for the painting?”

She hesitated. “No, it wasn’t part of our art collection. Jenny found it at a yard sale last year. She bought it because she liked the frame.”

“Are you saying this painting belonged to your sister-in-law, not you?”

“Technically, yes, but I thought of it as mine.”

“I don’t understand. Why?”

“It hung on the wall in their back room. That’s where I’ve been sleeping. The painting was the last thing I saw at night and the first thing I looked at in the morning. I got to know every detail. It became very special to me. When I came home from work yesterday and discovered it was missing—” Her voice hitched. She swallowed, taking a moment to regain her composure. “All I’ve been able to think about since then is how to get it back.”

Her emotion over the painting appeared genuine, but it seemed out of proportion. Her reaction didn’t make sense. The Amelia he remembered had been impulsive at times, yet she’d also been practical. There must be something she wasn’t telling him. “What was the painting like?”

“It was a landscape, a grassy hill with an old farmhouse and weathered barns. Oil on canvas. The scene looked a lot like the countryside around here.”

“How big was it?”

“I couldn’t give you exact measurements, but it was large. At least three feet wide and two feet high.”

“Do you know who painted it?”

“The signature at the bottom corner was hard to decipher. It started with an M and could have been Mather or Martin. Possibly Matthews. The name’s not important because I’m sure whoever painted it wasn’t a professional artist.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not very good.”

“But you liked it?”

“Yes.”

“Then why did Jenny sell it? Did you two have a fight?”

“No. She wasn’t being vindictive, if that’s what you’re getting at. She hadn’t known how...precious it was to me. I hadn’t told her.”

“I see.”

“And what difference does it make why she sold it? It’s gone.”

“I asked because if she’d gotten rid of it to hurt you, she might remember perfectly well who bought it but just doesn’t feel like telling you.”

Amelia lifted one eyebrow. “You’ve gotten cynical.”

“No, I’m just being methodical. That’s how I operate. I need to consider every angle.”

“Jenny feels awful about selling it. She’s almost as upset as I am.”

“Was your brother at the yard sale?”

“On and off. Most of the time he was working on the rooms he’s building in the basement and keeping track of Timmy. He’s their youngest.”

“Then he didn’t see who bought the painting?”

“No. His other two boys had been at the park in the morning and played in the backyard after lunch. They didn’t see anything. None of the neighbors did, either.”

“You asked them?”

“I went to every house on the block. Not everyone was home. The people who were couldn’t tell me anything.”

It didn’t surprise him that she’d already tried to solve her problem herself. That was typical of Amelia. The fact that she’d decided to seek anyone’s assistance, particularly his, was an indication of how serious this was to her. “How had Jenny advertised the yard sale? Signs? An ad in the paper?”

“Both.”

“That means her customers weren’t limited to people in the neighborhood.” Hank tapped his pen against his notepad. “With so many tourists in town, the buyer could have been visiting and just happened to see the signs or read the ad.”

“I realize we don’t have much to go on,” she said, “but I really, really need to get that painting back.”

“I agree, there’s not much to go on. I don’t know if I’ll be able to help you.”

“You can try, can’t you?”

Hank had always admired Amelia’s intelligence. Unlike him, she’d breezed through high school and aced every course. Her brilliance in mathematics in particular had earned her a full scholarship to the University of Toronto. He’d been thrilled when he’d learned about that scholarship, even though it had meant the beginning of the end for the two of them. She was certainly smart enough to grasp the fact that her painting could be a few hundred miles away by now. For all they knew, it could be out of the country. Tracking it down would be time-consuming and expensive, if not impossible. He was about to shake his head when he met her gaze.

There were tears in her eyes.

That threw him. So did the urge he felt to leap from his chair and take her into his arms.

Whoa, where had that come from? He gripped his pen harder and stayed where he was. “I’d like you to answer one more question.”

“Okay, what?”

“What’s the real reason you want this painting?”

“I already told you. I got very attached to it. It’s important to me. Extremely important. I need to get that painting back, no matter how long it takes or how much it costs me.”

“You just finished telling me you sold most of your assets before you moved in with your brother.”

“I can pay you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I might not have access to the kind of wealth I used to have, but I’m living rent-free and I make a decent wage plus tips at Mae B’s. Name your price. Once you find that painting, I’ll pay whatever you want.”

Hank fought to keep his pity from showing. Amelia Goodfellow, their class valedictorian and girl voted unanimously the most likely to succeed, the brilliant financial advisor whose company had once been worth millions, was waiting tables at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant. The urge to hug her returned. “My fee isn’t the issue.”

“Then what is?”

“I asked for the real reason you want that painting.”

Her chin trembled. She tightened her lips.

“You can’t honestly expect me to believe you would be willing to throw away the money you do have on a piece of worthless, not very good art that doesn’t even belong to you. What are you holding back, Amelia?”

She remained silent.

He used to have more patience than she had. It was a good bet he still did. He waited her out.

It took less than a minute. When she finally did speak, her voice shook. “During the past year and a half, I’ve lost my business, my reputation, my husband...” She cleared her throat. “You name it, I lost it. I lost so much, it got to the point that I stopped believing I could win.”

“I’m sorry.”

She clenched her hands in her lap. Her knuckles were white. “I don’t want your pity, Hank. I’m only telling you this to make you understand.”

“About the painting?”

“Yes. That’s where I’ve drawn the line.”

“How?”

“Losing that painting was the final straw. It woke me up. I’m through taking what Fate dishes out. This time, I’m fighting back.”

“Okay, but—”

“I want to start living again. I want the right to be happy again.”

“And you believe that finding this painting will do all that?”

She surged to her feet. “Yes!”

“Amelia...”

“I’m not asking for a guarantee because I realize it’s a long shot, but it’s possible to beat the odds. I know it’s possible. The whole key is being willing to try.”

This was the Amelia he had fallen in love with. Passionate, spontaneous, throwing herself one hundred percent into whatever she did. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her.

“Will you try, Hank?”

“As you just said, it would be a long shot. I couldn’t in good conscience take your money for—”

“Fine.” She turned toward the door. “Then I’ll find someone who will.”

He shoved himself out of his chair and rounded the desk. “Amelia, wait. I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you. I just said I wouldn’t take your money.”

She faced him. “What does that mean?”

“I’ll make a few inquiries, and I’ll try poking around on the internet, but it will be on my own time. I won’t charge you.”

Relief appeared to be warring with pride. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I may come up empty.”

“If anyone can find it, you will. But I don’t need charity. I can pay you.”

“It’s not charity. Consider it a welcome-home present.”

Her lips twitched. It was the first hint of a smile he’d seen. “Finding that painting would be a better gift than you could possibly imagine.” She held out her right hand. “Thank you, Hank.”

He clasped her hand without thinking. He concluded most of his meetings with a handshake. Often a handshake was the only contract he needed.

But the contact of his palm with Amelia’s jarred him. Her energy tingled through his skin, just as it had when they’d been teenagers. His pulse sped up. So did his breathing. Her scent was something else that hadn’t changed. It was earthy and inviting, like the tangy smell of new grass on a sunny spring day. Not that he’d ever said that aloud, because telling a girl she reminded him of a lawn was even less romantic than the oil slick thing.

Romantic?

Yeah, sure. There was as much chance of rekindling their romance as there was of finding her painting.


CHAPTER THREE

“I CAN’T BELIEVE you lied to him,” Jenny said. “How can you expect him to do his job?”

Amelia finished paring a carrot and handed it to her sister-in-law. Timmy was down for his afternoon nap, so the house was unusually peaceful. Sporadic hammering came from the backyard, where Owen and Eric were attempting to construct a fort with the scrap lumber and drywall from Will’s basement renovation project. Rather than relaxing, Jenny was taking advantage of the lull to get a head start on dinner...and to speak her mind. “I didn’t actually lie,” Amelia said. “I just omitted certain facts.”

“Same thing.”

“He doesn’t need to know about the lottery ticket in order to find the painting.”

“I’m surprised Hank agreed to work for you at all.” Jenny placed the carrot on the cutting board and began chopping. “If I recall, you two didn’t part on the best of terms.”

“That was more than a decade ago. He’s a professional. This is business.”

“Didn’t he think it was a little odd for you to make such a fuss over a worthless old painting?”

“I said it was important to me.”

“You must have been very convincing.”

“Well, it is important.”

“At least you told him the truth about that much.”

“I actually told him more truth than I’d meant to.”

“How so?”

“He seemed as if he was about to refuse me, and I was feeling desperate. I got into how much I’ve lost lately.”

“Ah.”

“I didn’t set out to play on his sympathy, but he probably feels sorry for me anyway.”

“I’m not so sure. Is it possible he still cares about you? That would explain why he took your case.”

“No, Jenny. What we had was only puppy love. It died a long time ago.”

“Hmph.”

Jenny’s skepticism made her flinch. Hank had agreed the past was over and done. Their new relationship was purely business. Well, business between old friends.

But how businesslike was it to work for free? And what about that moment this morning in his office when their hands had touched?

The years had been more than good to Hank Jones. He’d reached his full height of six foot three by tenth grade, but he’d been lanky, to put it kindly. Now his frame had fleshed out into the classic, broad-shouldered, slim-hipped, male silhouette of underwear models and Hollywood hunks. He’d grown into his face, too. The angled jaw and sharp features that had seemed harsh on a boy looked good on a man. Okay, more than good—spectacular, particularly when he smiled. He likely did that a lot, since laugh lines crinkled the corners of his light brown eyes. His sand-colored hair was streaked blond by the sun and was as thick and straight as ever. It was too neatly trimmed to fall over his collar anymore, but he hadn’t been able to tame it completely. The same stubborn, endearing lock that used to fall over his forehead still did.

But Hank’s appearance was irrelevant. Amelia had other priorities here, namely fifty-two million and change worth of them. She wasn’t interested in any man, and especially not one who had so thoroughly broken her heart. The bump in her pulse from their parting handshake was because she’d been in an emotional state over losing the ticket. That’s why she’d opened up to him about her feelings, too. It couldn’t have anything to do with her old crush on him. That would not only be absurd, it would be self-destructive and stupid. She rinsed off another carrot and applied her energy to the parer.

“Did I hear right?” Will asked as he moved into the kitchen doorway. Lancaster Cabinets was on summer hours, so it wasn’t unusual for him to get home in the middle of the afternoon. “You really went to Hank Jones for help?”

Amelia nodded at her brother. “I went first thing this morning.”

“That’s too bad. I think you should have gone to someone else.” He slipped his arm past Jenny to set his lunch pail on the counter and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. He patted her stomach. “How’s our little football player? Is he still kicking field goals?”

“She decided to take up tap dancing,” Jenny said.

Both Will and Jenny had resisted learning the sex of the baby she carried. They claimed it didn’t matter and would prefer to be surprised. For Jenny’s sake, Amelia hoped it would be a girl. “Why do you think I shouldn’t have gone to Hank, Will?”

Her brother crossed his arms and leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. “Jones likes to play private eye. That business of his is a farce.”

“What do you know about his business?” Amelia asked.

“Most of his work comes from his father, when he isn’t out fishing. He checks out customers who want to buy a car from the old man’s lot on credit. In my opinion, it was his daddy’s way of putting him on the payroll, since he couldn’t make it as a car salesman. It’s not much different from getting an allowance.”

That didn’t sound like the Hank she’d known, but people could change. Had she made another mistake? “I hope that’s not the case,” Amelia said. “I went to Hank because I thought he would be a good detective.”

“Are you sure that’s the only reason you went to him?” Jenny asked. “Maybe you still have some of the old feelings left, too.”

“Absolutely not. I told you, that’s completely over,” she said firmly. She returned her attention to Will. “Are you sure about Hank’s business? From what I remember of his character, being a private investigator would suit him. He’s observant, and he thinks everything through. He’s thorough and methodical.”

“You mean slow,” Will said.

“He’s tenacious,” Amelia said.

“He’s a stubborn idiot.”

Jenny pointed her knife at Will. “That’s too harsh. It wasn’t Hank’s fault that your truck loan fell through last year. It was because Mr. Lancaster had laid everyone off.”

“Temporarily. We were hired back when he got more orders. I told Hank we would be.”

“You’re not being fair, Wilbur, and you know it.”

Will muttered something under his breath. He hated being called Wilbur.

“If anyone was an idiot,” Amelia said, “I was for losing that ticket. If I hadn’t tried to be smart by sticking it in that frame, I could have bought you five new trucks by now.”

There was an awkward silence. Will was the first to break it. “I’ve been wondering about that,” he said. “Why did you store the ticket in the painting? I’m not criticizing you or anything, but it’s not where most people would put a lottery ticket.”

“I thought it was a safe place.”

“Remember how Timmy emptied her purse?” Jenny asked. “And Mae had to replace her paycheck?”

“Oh, right. Sorry about that, sis.”

“There was more to it than that, Will,” Amelia said. “The main reason I thought of using the painting is because it reminded me of the wall safe Spencer had installed in our condo. It was behind the Kandinsky.”

“The what?”

“The painting in our dining room.”

“You mean the blue and yellow one with the weird zigzags?”

Amelia nodded. That was one way to describe Wassily Kandinsky’s Expressionist style. Spencer had bought the artwork primarily as an investment. It had turned out to be the most valuable piece in their collection and worth almost as much as the condo. It had nothing in common with the amateurish landscape that had hung in Will and Jenny’s back room, except for its function. “I used Jenny’s painting because I regarded it as the poor woman’s version of Spencer’s wall safe.”

Will snorted a laugh. “I get it now. That sounds like something you would do.”

“I thought I was being clever,” Amelia said. “It was a stupid idea.”

“Water under the bridge. What’s done is done.”

She knew they were disappointed. Who wouldn’t be, after the way she’d gotten everyone’s hopes up? Because of her, the whole family had been on an emotional roller coaster. It had been a brief ride, one sudden climb followed by an equally sudden drop, yet Jenny and Will were taking the reversal of fortune in stride. Hiring someone to search for the ticket had been Amelia’s idea, not theirs. They felt it was a lost cause. They preferred to accept what they couldn’t control and get on with their lives.

They’d been the same way when she’d arrived on their doorstep six months ago, divorced, flat broke and unemployed. There had been no words of recrimination. They’d helped her carry the few possessions she’d saved inside, and then Jenny had fixed her a cup of herbal tea while Hank had dug out extra bedding for the futon.

Jenny patted her hand. “I think that carrot’s done, too.”

A quick glance showed her the carrot was turning into a matchstick. She passed it to her sister-in-law. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay. There’s less to chop.”

She had to admire Jenny’s glass-half-full attitude. Life probably would be simpler if she could master it herself. “Going back to the subject of paintings, I believe it’s safest not to tell Hank about the ticket, so I’d appreciate it if neither of you mentioned it to him.”

“Why?” Jenny asked. “You can’t be thinking he’d steal it?”

“People have been tempted by far less.”

“But you signed the back of the ticket, didn’t you?”

She grimaced.

“Amelia?”

“There was a long lineup at the Min-A-Mart when I bought the ticket on Thursday. By the time I got here I was in a rush to put away the groceries I’d picked up on the way home, so I just tucked the ticket straight into the painting. Once it was out of sight, I forgot about signing it.”

Will whistled. “That means anyone could cash it.”

“I know. Stupid move number two.”

“But Hank would be working for you,” Jenny persisted. “It would be against the law if he tried to keep that ticket for himself, whether he could cash it or not. You could take him to court...” She stopped. “Oh.”

“Right. Been there, done that, and couldn’t afford to buy the T-shirt. The law doesn’t stop anyone from taking what they want if they think they can get away with it. And the only people guaranteed to make a profit in court are the lawyers. I know mine certainly got rich off me.”

“She’s got a point,” Will put in. “It might be best to keep Hank in the dark.”

Jenny carried the cutting board to the stove and scraped the mound of diced carrots into the stew pot, then handed Amelia an onion. “You’re not being fair, either. You’re suspicious of Hank because of Spencer.”

Well, duh, Amelia thought. She picked up a small knife and jabbed the tip into the base of the onion. “You know what they say about once burned.”

“They’re two entirely different people.”

“So? They’re both male.”

“Hey,” Will said. “What am I?”

“You’re my brother, so you’re an exception.”

“Spencer Pryce was a lying crook,” Jenny declared. “He took advantage of your innocence.”

“You mean my gullibility.”

“You’ve known Hank since you were kids,” Jenny continued. “I think you should trust him.”

“I can’t. I used to think Spencer was a nice guy, too. We all did.”

“But—”

“Being fooled once was bad enough.” She pulled off a layer of onion peel. “I don’t intend to trust a man around my money again. Ever. Except for Will, of course,” she added.

Jenny pursed her lips. “Hmph.”

Amelia flinched again. This time it was from guilt. She realized it might be unfair to tar Hank with the same brush as Spencer, yet she had little choice. It wasn’t only men she couldn’t trust, it was her own judgment. “Our mother used to make that sound a lot, too. Do you learn it during childbirth, or what?”

Will snorted another laugh.

“Well, I think you’re making a mistake,” Jenny said. “There’s no excuse for lying.”

“Depends on the circumstances,” Will said. “Sometimes it’s the best way to handle a situation.”

“Don’t listen to your brother,” Jenny said. “He’s a bad influence. You owe Hank the truth.”

“She doesn’t owe him anything,” Will said. “Not after the way he treated her.”

Amelia sighed. So this was what lay at the core of her brother’s attitude toward Hank and his business. She should have expected it. Will could be as protective of his sister as he was of his wife. “That’s ancient history,” she said. “We were kids.”

“He hurt you.”

“Ancient history,” she repeated.

“Maybe, but I haven’t forgotten.”

“Try, okay? The past is irrelevant. My only concern is the painting, and Hank’s probably going to want to interview both of you.”

Will opened his mouth to respond when he paused and tipped his head toward the hall. Timmy’s voice drifted down the stairwell. It sounded as if he was rattling the sides of his crib. “Nap time’s over,” Will said. “I’ll get him.”

Jenny waited until they could hear Will’s footsteps pound up the stairs. She put her head close to Amelia’s and spoke quickly. “We made more than five hundred dollars from the yard sale.”

“That’s great.”

“You can use it.”

“What? Jenny, I can’t take your money. You need it.”

“It’s to pay Hank. I meant to give it to you this morning but you left before I could.”

Her eyes stung. She put down the onion. “You’re incredible. How can you be so generous?”

“I feel responsible because I sold that painting.”

“Please, don’t. You couldn’t have known.”

“I should have noticed the ticket!”

“No one would unless they knew where to look. It was folded up and tucked pretty deep inside the edge of the frame. And thank you for the wonderful offer, but I’ve got some money put aside in my first-and-last fund,” she said. She was referring to the money she’d been accumulating in order to pay the deposit on an apartment rental when she moved out. It was only a little over three hundred and fifty dollars, which wasn’t much—it would scarcely cover an hour of her former lawyer’s time. “And I still have my job. Besides, I’ll have plenty to give Hank as a reward once he finds the painting.”

“Didn’t he want a retainer?”

“No.”

“What if he doesn’t find it? How will you pay him then?”

“He, uh, said he doesn’t want any money.”

Jenny stepped back to study her. “He’s working for free?”

She nodded.

“Then I was right! He’s still got a thing for you.”

“It’s your pregnancy hormones talking, Jenny.”

“Hmph.”

Amelia covered her flinch by checking her wrist, then glanced at the clock on the stove. “And speaking of money, I’d better get going or I’ll be late for my shift.”

* * *

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Amelia pulled open the back door of Mae B’s. A haze of kitchen smells rolled out to greet her. It was a potent mix: onions from the soup of the day, which was always onion on Mondays, fat from the deep fryer, fresh rolls, stale coffee, plus a trace of mustiness that seeped from the brick walls of the old building in humid weather. Her empty stomach rolled. She braced one hand on the doorframe and turned her face to the breeze. She could have grabbed a sandwich before she’d left her brother’s place, but one of the few perks of working for Mae was a free meal.

A petite woman jogged toward her along the alley from the parking lot. Shaggy, purple-streaked brown hair bounced against her neck and a small pink knapsack swung from her arm. She couldn’t have been much past her teens. “Are you on your way in or out?” she asked breathlessly.

“In,” Amelia said. “Can I help you?”

“Please, tell me it’s not four-thirty yet.”

Amelia shook her head. “My guess is it’s not past four.”

“Thank heavens,” she said. She dug into her knapsack and pulled out a frilly, pea-green apron. She nodded toward the doorway Amelia was blocking. “Excuse me, I need to get past.”

Evidently, Mae had hired a new waitress. Amelia’s stomach did another lurch, but this time it had nothing to do with the kitchen smells. She stepped aside, then followed the woman along the back hallway. “My name’s Amelia. I work here, too.” At least, she hoped she did.

“I’m Brittany.” She switched her pack from hand to hand as she shrugged into the apron, then fumbled to tie the apron strings behind her back.

“Hold still, I’ll get that,” Amelia said.

Brittany stopped so quickly her hair fell over her eyes. She flicked it back with a jerk of her head. A row of metal studs adorned the rim of her ear. “Thanks!”

“You can put your pack in the storeroom.” Amelia secured the apron with a neat bow. “It’s the door on the right.”

“Could you do it for me?” she asked, pushing the pack into Amelia’s hands. “I can’t be late on my first day.” She laughed nervously and headed for the dining room. “I seriously need this job,” she said over her shoulder.

Amelia ducked into the storeroom. The hook where her own apron usually hung was bare. She didn’t need a detective to tell her the apron had been given to Brittany. She dropped the pink pack on the shelf beside the ketchup cans and went in search of her boss.

Ronnie was jabbing toothpicks into a BLT when she reached the kitchen. He greeted her without meeting her eyes. At her question, he nodded his head toward the corner beside the freezer where they had set up their computer. Mae was peering at the screen while she held a cell phone to her ear. From the sound of things, she was blasting someone about a late delivery.

Amelia waited until she had finished her call before she spoke. “Hello, Mae.”

Mae swiveled on her chair to face her. She wouldn’t meet her gaze, either. “I meant to call you earlier, Amelia, but things have been busy.”

“Do I still have a job here?” she asked bluntly.

“That’s what I wanted to call you about.”

“I was wrong about winning the lottery. I told you that as soon as I found out.” In fact, she had been too dazed to think of phoning Mae until Sunday evening. It was only after she’d had no luck going door-to-door questioning her neighbors that she’d remembered her dramatic exit from the restaurant and had attempted to do damage control. “You said it was okay.”

“I reconsidered.”

“You said you understood yesterday. You told me I could come back.”

Mae gave her a tight smile. “I’m sorry, Amelia. We’ve already found someone else.”

“How? It’s only been a day. You wouldn’t have had time to advertise.”

“Ronnie called her. She’s his niece, and he knew she needed the job. She’s putting herself through college.”

“I need the job, too.”

Mae’s expression hardened. She rose from her chair. “You don’t need it as much as Brittany does. She’s trying to better herself. You’ve already got a degree. You had your shot at a career.”

“Sure, but—”

“You know as well as I do that you’re overqualified for this job. You weren’t happy being a waitress, Amelia. While I don’t have any complaints about your work here, I realized it wouldn’t last.”

“Quitting was a mistake.”

Mae shook her head. “The reason you quit might have been a mistake, but it was bound to happen sooner or later. We knew it was only a matter of time before you moved on to something better. I have to do what’s right for my business, and I need waitresses I can count on.”

Amelia took a deep breath, prepared to argue further, when she realized she had nothing to add.

Mae was right. This would have happened eventually, winning lottery ticket or not.

Unfortunately, her final financial safety net, flimsy though it might have been, was now gone. Worse, she was pinning her hopes for the future on a man she wasn’t sure she should trust.

For someone who had vowed she wouldn’t let history repeat itself, this was beginning to seem far too familiar.


CHAPTER FOUR

HANK HAD LEARNED that Tuesday evening was usually the best time to find people at home. It took into account anyone who might have gone away for a long weekend or might have needed an extra day to recover from a busy one. It was usually too early in the week for people to host dinner parties or pay social calls. There were variables like soccer games, or shift work, and with kids home from school for the summer, there were unforeseen, random events like emergency visits to the hospital to get a broken bone set or a split lip stitched, but on average, Tuesdays were good.

He left his car near the corner of the street where the Goodfellows lived and began with the house at the end of the block. Despite the pleasant breeze that had come up as the sun lowered, the front window was shut tight. The flowers in the bed beneath it had gone brown and the lawn was in bad need of a haircut. Even from the sidewalk he could see a raft of advertising flyers sticking out of the mailbox beside the front door.

Tuesday or not, the owners likely were away, and judging by the condition of the flowers and the lawn, they’d probably been away for more than a week. Still, Hank believed in being thorough. That’s why he was canvassing the neighbors even though Amelia said she already had. He knocked on the door, waited a full three minutes, then moved to the next house. This set of homeowners was in, but they told him they had been at their cottage all weekend, as their sunburns and mosquito bites attested.

He had no better results as he worked his way along one side of the street. It wasn’t until he reached a tidy bungalow in the middle of the other side that his luck changed. No one answered his knock at the front door, but the front window was open and lace curtains stirred in the breeze. A minivan with a Ducks Unlimited bumper sticker was parked in the driveway. Hank stepped around a bed of petunias and followed the smell of burning charcoal to the back of the house. A white picket fence enclosed the rear yard. He stopped at the gate.

A stocky, middle-aged man stood in front of a round-bottomed barbecue where a row of hamburger patties sizzled on the grill. He had a beer bottle in one hand and a spatula in the other. Close to the house there was a picnic table on a patio made up of square paving stones. A teenage boy with earphone wires trailing past his neck drummed the edge of the table with his index fingers. Seated across from him, a woman with startlingly blond hair waved flies away from a stack of plates and a bowl of what appeared to be potato salad. She was the first to spot Hank. She raised her eyebrows. “Hello?”

Hank put on his most affable smile. “Sorry to disturb you folks.”

The man turned toward him. His round face was bisected by a sharp-beaked nose. “Whatever it is, we don’t want any.”

“I’m not selling anything.” He pulled the folder with his ID from his jeans and flipped it open. “My name’s Hank Jones, and I’m hoping you could answer a few questions for me. It won’t take long.”

The boy stopped drumming and regarded Hank warily. He had a younger version of the man’s round face and prominent nose. “Are you a cop?”

“Policeman, Jacob,” the woman said softly. “Mind your manners.”

The boy shrugged. “Yeah, whatever.”

The man hooked the spatula on the barbecue. He started to lift his hand, as if to take a swig of his beer, but awkwardly halted the motion. “What’s this about, officer?”

Something else Hank had learned, like finding people at home on Tuesdays, was that allowing people to believe he was connected to the law wasn’t a good idea. For one thing, it was illegal. For another, it didn’t necessarily lead to better results. A lot of individuals tended to watch their words more carefully than they normally would if they thought they were talking to the police. Above all, it was a lot simpler to tell the truth, because lies could get hard to keep track of. “I’m not a policeman, sir,” he said. “I’m a private investigator.”

“A private investigator,” the woman repeated. She surreptitiously fluffed her hair. “How interesting. I’ve never met a private eye before, Mr. Jones.”

He returned his ID to his pocket. “It’s not anywhere near as exciting as on TV, ma’am. I’m just helping out the Goodfellows. Do you know them?”

“Not real well,” the man said, apparently speaking for his wife. “I know them to see them. They’re in the white house with the black shutters down the block.”

“Yes, that’s right. Were any of you here on Sunday morning?”

“Sure, we all were.”

“Hey, is this about that painting?” the boy asked, pulling out his earphones.

Hank rested his forearms on top of the gate, striving for a relaxed pose despite his prickle of excitement. “Painting?”

“Some red-haired chick asked me about it Sunday night.”

“Jacob...” the woman admonished.

“Lady. Whatever. She caught up to me in the driveway. She was from that house where they had the yard sale and wanted to know if I saw who bought some big painting.”

“Wait a minute,” the man said. “What were you doing in the driveway Sunday night? You’re grounded, remember?”

“Uh...I was fixing my bike. The handlebars were loose.”

“That’s not what it sounded like. You said she ‘caught up’ to you. You went out, after we specifically told you to stay here, didn’t you?”

“We didn’t say he had to stay inside the house, Les.”

“You’re too soft, Ruth. I told you we shouldn’t have trusted him.”

“You could have gone to your Elks dinner alone. I wouldn’t have minded.”

“Maybe I should have. Next time I will.”

“Um, guys?” The boy—Jacob—seemed more aware of their audience than his parents were. He jerked his head toward Hank. “Could we focus here?”

Les pointed his free hand at his son. “Don’t talk to your mother like that.”

“Sor-ry,” Jacob drawled, rolling his eyes.

“Jacob!”

He ducked his head. “Sorry.”

The conversational pattern seemed well established. Hank decided he’d better jump in before it deteriorated further. “You guessed right, son. I did want to ask you about the painting. It was sold by mistake at the Goodfellows’ yard sale.”

“Yeah, that’s what the chi—uh, lady said. She wants it back.”

The woman called Ruth tilted her head, appearing thoughtful. Instead of fluffing her hair this time, she twirled a lock around one finger. “Is it valuable?”

“To be honest, the frame is worth more than the canvas, ma’am,” Hank said. “The painting only has sentimental value.”

“Is that so?” The man lifted his beer and took a long swallow, his version of being thoughtful. “Seems to me, Mr. Jones, it’s got to be worth something for them to hire a private eye to look for it.”

“I can understand how you’d assume that, but I’m working on my own time.” He’d told Amelia the same thing, and it was perfectly true. To be exact though, since he was self-employed, all the work he did was on his own time. “I’m helping out the Goodfellows as a favor,” he added. “I’m an old friend of the family.” Which was sort of the truth, too, since they’d been friendly enough to him fifteen years ago.

“So there’s no reward?”

“I wish there was. It would make my job easier.”

“I don’t know. Seems a lot of trouble to go to for something that’s not worth anything....” Les snapped his fingers. “The redhead who came around here must have been Goodfellow’s sister, right? The one who stole all that money!”

Ruth responded first. “It was her husband who stole the money,” she corrected.

“Same thing.”

“It is not the same thing, Les. A wife isn’t responsible for her husband’s behavior.”

“Sure, I’ll remind you of that next time I’m driving. I could do without the speedometer readings every ten seconds.”

“Well, I feel sorry for her. That man ruined her life.”

“Hardly. She let her husband take the blame and got off scot-free.”

Hank cleared his throat. “Excuse me? I think something’s burning.”

Les glanced at the barbecue. Smoke billowed from the hamburger patties. He swore as he scraped them off the grill.

“I can see you folks are busy,” Hank continued, “so I’ll make this quick. Did any of you go to the Goodfellows’ yard sale?”

Ruth seemed about to say something but as had happened before, it was Les who replied. “No way. We’ve got enough junk in our house as it is.”

Hank kept his gaze on the woman as he drew a business card from his shirt pocket and held it out. “If you remember anything later, I’d appreciate it if you give me a call.”

“Sorry, we can’t help you,” Les said. “Got better things to do than worry about that spoiled rich girl’s painting. If you ask me, she shouldn’t be showing her face in public anyway. It was because of her all those reporters camped out in front of her brother’s place last year. It was a disgrace for the neighborhood, brought everyone’s property values down. Next thing you know we’ll have a Hells Angels clubhouse at the end of the block.”

Hank concentrated on not crushing the card. It wouldn’t do Amelia any good if he lost his temper. If this was a sample of the kind of attitude she had to contend with in her own neighborhood, it was little wonder she’d seemed so tense when he’d seen her.

Ruth got up from the table and came over to take the card. She hesitated momentarily, then unlatched the gate and stepped through. “I’ll walk you out, Mr. Jones.”

“Burgers are ready, Ruth,” Les called.

“I’ll be right back.” She led Hank to the front of the house and stopped beside the bed of petunias. Her gaze darted to the neighboring houses. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about my husband. He has a low blood sugar condition and isn’t himself when he’s hungry.”

He suspected that apologizing for her husband was another well-established pattern of conversation for this woman. “No problem.”

“And we all think the Goodfellows are decent people. We feel sorry for Will’s sister. It’s nice you’re helping them out.”

“I’m doing my best, but so far I haven’t had much luck.” He lowered his voice confidentially. “They’ve had their share of troubles, and with Jenny expecting again, I’d hate to let the family down,” he finished. Then he waited. He could tell she had something else to say.

“I didn’t go to the Goodfellows’ yard sale.”

He nodded encouragingly.

She leaned closer and spoke in a rush. “But I happened to be weeding my flowers on Sunday morning while that sale was going on, and I remember seeing a man putting something flat in his car trunk.”

All right! “Could it have been a painting?”

“Possibly. It looked like a big, folded blanket, but it could have been wrapping something. Now that I think about it, it must have been the painting.”

“How large was it?”

She held her hands about a yard apart. “It was around this long, maybe bigger. I don’t normally pay attention to what my neighbors do, of course, but I couldn’t help noticing that.”

“Because of the size of the bundle?”

“No, it was the car that caught my eye. It was bright yellow. I suppose you could call it canary yellow.”

“Do you remember the make or model?”

“I wouldn’t know the difference. It was old.”

“Was it rusted? Patched? Dented?”

“Oh, no. I didn’t mean old that way. I meant it must have been from the fifties. It was one of those big, bulky sedans, like the kind that used to be used for taxis.”

That certainly narrowed things down. The lead might not pan out, but at least it gave him a starting point. Hank smiled. “Thank you, ma’am. You’ve been a lot of help. If you remember anything else, please give me a call.”

She put her hand on his arm. “Well, actually, there is something else I noticed after lunch that same day, while I was trimming the hedge....”

* * *

HALF AN HOUR later, Hank was climbing the steps to the Goodfellows’ house when he had a flash of déjà vu. The porch light was shaped like a lantern, a popular design, and the screen door was plain, white-enameled aluminum, variations of which he’d already seen in this neighborhood. The inside door was varnished wood and had been left open to allow the evening breeze to help cool the interior, which wasn’t unusual since most people around here would prefer to save the cost of running an air conditioner and let nature do the work. Yet the feeling of familiarity he was experiencing didn’t arise from what he saw, it came from what he felt.

He’d undergone the same swooping sensation in his stomach when he’d been a teenager and had called on Amelia at her parents’ house. Their front door had been painted forest-green, and the screen door had been a relic from the sixties, decorated with the silhouette of a flamingo. Rather than a square, cement stoop like the one he stood on here, their house had had a veranda along the front that had been large enough for a swing. Their porch light had been a high-wattage bulb in a glass globe, which had illuminated that swing—and anyone on it—like a spotlight, much to the disappointment of a teenage boy hoping to steal a few extra good-night kisses.

That place had been several miles from here, on the east side of the Ganaraska River that bisected the town. The neighborhood was much older than this one and had developed naturally, with no subdivision master plan. As a result, modest clapboard houses like the one where Amelia’s family had lived were mixed in haphazardly with stately, three-story, brick century homes like his father’s. It had taken Hank less than ten minutes to walk to Amelia’s. Sometimes he would take the junker he’d fixed up in shop class. Amelia had claimed she’d been able to hear it coming a block away, so she’d often be halfway down the walk by the time he’d pulled up. It wouldn’t have occurred to her to hide her eagerness to see him any more than he would have tried to hide his own.

But that was then, and this was now. He took a few deep breaths to calm his pulse, then pressed the doorbell.

Chimes sounded inside the house, followed by high-pitched yapping and the scrabbling of nails on hardwood. A small black mop of a dog skidded to a halt at the screen door. Barred from going farther, it spun in place and yapped faster.

Amelia appeared behind it, carrying a toddler on one hip. The boy was dressed in short pajamas and clutched a tattered yellow rabbit. The dog immediately lost interest in Hank and jumped at the stuffed toy.

“Toto, cut that out!” Amelia ordered, swiveling to turn the boy and rabbit away from the dog. She unlatched the door and moved back so Hank could enter. “Hi,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

Hank pulled the screen door shut behind him, enjoying the picture she presented. Amelia wore cutoff jean shorts that showed off her legs and a flowered blouse that was similar to the one she’d worn to his office, only this one had a smear of what could have been spaghetti sauce on the collar. Most of her hair was caught back by a scrunchie into a stubby ponytail at the nape of her neck. She wore no makeup, so her freckles stood out vividly against her cheeks, like sprinkles of melted cinnamon on warm pudding.

She had always managed to look beautiful to him, regardless of the circumstances. It used to leave him tongue-tied, or wishing he was so he wouldn’t embarrass himself by making clumsy compliments. Cinnamon? He tightened his lips.

She grasped his arm suddenly. “Did you find it?”

The touch set off another stomach swoop. He reminded himself that her eagerness wasn’t for him, it was for the painting. “Sorry, no. I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d give you an update.”

The dog backed up, took a running leap and latched on to the rabbit, yanking it out of the boy’s grasp.

“Mine!” the child yelled. He squirmed violently until Amelia shifted him to her shoulder. He arched his back and screamed. “No! My bunny!”

“Is this a bad time?” Hank asked.

“No worse than usual.” She led him the few steps to the living room. Toys were scattered on the floor. On a corner table sat a computer that appeared even older than his. Bulky, brown leather furniture huddled around an oval coffee table, which was covered with stacks of neatly folded children’s clothes. A wicker basket with more laundry sat on the floor beside it. The Goodfellows weren’t well-off, as Hank had already learned when he’d done the credit check for his father. Nothing appeared to be new here, but the mess was from disorder, not dirt. The sofa set looked comfortable, and the wooden pieces were skillfully crafted from solid oak. The overall effect was inviting and homey.

“Will and Jenny went to the movies so I’m in charge of the circus tonight.” Amelia nodded Hank toward the couch as she jiggled the boy in her arms. “Have a seat and I’ll be with you in two minutes. I just need to get Timmy settled.”

The two minutes stretched into ten. Hank used the time to observe what was visible from the living room doorway. Like the other houses of the same design on the block, this one had a kitchen and bathroom to the left of the hall that ran through to the back door. The staircase Amelia had carried Timmy up was in the center. Hank deduced the older boys were playing video games in the basement, since he heard phrases of the distinctive music from Super Mario emanating from the depths of the house.

Hank turned his attention to the room to the right of the stairs, which had to be the one where Amelia was staying. Through the open door he saw a table with a sewing machine and shelves crammed with folded lengths of fabric and small, plastic storage containers. Beneath the window was a toy box shaped like a treasure chest that stood next to a pine futon with a blue-and-white striped cover. The walls were bare, apart from an empty picture hook and smudged arcs on the paint where the lower corners of the painting would have rested.

He tried to imagine Amelia living here. It was difficult. She’d moved in months ago, yet he could see no trace of her personality in this room. Everything appeared to belong to her sister-in-law or her nephews. This was the room of someone who was passing through, who was marking time, getting from one day to the next. The look was familiar to him, since he’d lived that way himself during the years that had followed Amelia’s departure.

His gaze returned to the empty picture hook. He didn’t want to feel sorry for her, because she would hate that, but how could he help it? This cramped room was a giant step down from the luxury condo in Toronto where she used to live. Not that he had any firsthand knowledge of it—he would be the last person Amelia would have invited to visit. He’d seen pictures of the outside of the building on a newscast last year. None of the camera crews had been allowed past the lobby, but from what the reporters had described, the square footage of her apartment had been greater than this entire house. Amelia would have had closets that were bigger than this bedroom. She wouldn’t have had spaghetti stains on her collar or needed to contend with screaming toddlers or yapping mop-dogs. She would have worn designer outfits and gone to operas or art galleries or wherever it was rich people hung out in the city. That had been the life she’d chosen, after all.

And she hadn’t lived that life alone. She’d had her husband, the man she had chosen over Hank.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. Timmy wanted another story.”

Hank started at Amelia’s voice. He hadn’t heard her approach, likely because she was barefoot. She had loved going barefoot during the summer when they were kids. She used to be self-conscious about the size of her feet, but he’d thought they were perfect, long and slender, with a particularly ticklish spot in the center of the arch. He’d loved hearing her laugh....

Hank pushed his memories aside as Amelia returned to the living room. “It sounds as if you settled the dog down, too,” he said.

“He sleeps at the top of the stairs whenever Timmy’s up there. He thinks he’s a guard dog.” She cleared the stacks of laundry off the coffee table by putting them in the wicker basket. “The other two boys have popcorn so they should be good for a while.”

“You’ve got your hands full.”

“It’s Jenny and Will who are the busy ones. I try to give them a break when I can. It’s the least I can do.”

He waited until she sat, then took the chair across from her. “When do you expect them back?”

“Not for another hour at least. Why?”

“I was canvassing the neighbors tonight and hoped to talk to your brother and sister-in-law, too.”

“It would probably be too late. They both get up early, and Jenny needs lots of rest these days. We’ll have to do it another time.”

“I can talk to them on my own.”

“It’s no trouble. I’d prefer to be present. That way you won’t need to bother giving me updates.” She gripped her knees and leaned forward. “Speaking of which, have you made any progress?”

“I do have a lead I’ll be pursuing. One of your neighbors believes she might have seen the car of the person who bought the painting.” He summarized what he’d learned from Ruth.

“That’s great!”

“It gives me a place to begin, as long as she actually saw what she claimed she did.”

“Oh, you can believe Ruth Talmidge. She’s a sweet lady. I see her busy with her garden most nice days. She always waves hello.”

“She did seem observant.”

“Jacob was the only one I talked to at the Talmidges’. He’d promised to ask his mom but I guess it slipped his mind.”

“He likely didn’t want to get into trouble for leaving the house. He was supposed to be grounded.”

“I’m glad you went back. It’s a good thing you were thorough.”

“I’d like to talk to your sister-in-law to confirm what Ruth told me. Describing a car that distinctive might help trigger Jenny’s memory.”

“Yes, it might. I’ll ask her as soon as they get home.”

“You said it would be late.”

“Well, yes, but that wouldn’t take long. I’ll call you tomorrow if I learn anything, okay?”

That was the second time she’d put him off, as if she were reluctant to have him talk to her sister-in-law himself, but that made no sense. It was true that Jenny would indeed need a lot of rest in her condition, as Amelia had said. “Sure. I’ll see what I can do about tracking down the owner of that car. Even if he didn’t buy the painting, he did attend the sale. That alone could prove helpful.”

“There couldn’t be many canary-yellow classic cars from the fifties around. The problem is finding it.”

“Depends where you look.”

“Can you hack into the Ministry of Transport database?”

He shook his head. “Hacking the MOT would be illegal. Besides, I do have another approach I could take. I heard there was an antique car show at the fairgrounds on the weekend.”

“Last weekend? That couldn’t be a coincidence.”

“Probably not. Collectors tend to baby their cars, so they don’t use them for everyday errands. I’m guessing the owner of that yellow car your neighbor saw brought it out for the show.”

“Then you can contact the group who organized the show!”

“That’s the first step. Odds are good that the person we’re after is a member, or that I’ll find someone who knows him.”

Amelia closed her eyes briefly. She exhaled on a sigh. “Hank, this is wonderful. Thank you so much for helping me.”

“I haven’t found anything yet, Amelia.”

“I know, but at least you’ve given me hope.”

Her anxiety over the painting appeared as genuine as it had when they’d met in his office. Now that he’d seen for himself how she’d been living, he could understand how she might be feeling emotionally raw. That made it more difficult for him to broach the next subject. “Do you believe that Ruth’s observations are reliable?”

“For sure. And with all the gardening she does, she likely knows everything that goes on in the neighborhood.”

“Then I hope you could explain something to me. She was certain she saw your family celebrating on Sunday afternoon.”

“What?”

“She said you had just gotten home.”

Amelia wiped her palms on her knees. “Sunday?”

“In the afternoon. Ruth saw you hugging Jenny and Will. She said the boys joined in, too.”

“That was before I found out the painting was missing.”

“What was going on?”

“Jenny made more than five hundred dollars at the yard sale.”

“Was that what you were celebrating?”

“Five hundred dollars is a lot of money.”

“From what Ruth described, you appeared very excited. I just wondered whether there was more to it. Was there?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“You seem nervous, and you’re not looking at me.”

She rubbed her knees once more, then folded her hands in her lap. “Money’s a sensitive subject for me.”

“Sorry.”

“And I don’t appreciate being given the third degree. If I had a dollar for every time people have given me attitude about the fortune I lost, I’d be halfway to getting it back by now.”

“I wasn’t giving you attitude, Amelia, or the third degree. I was just trying to make sense of what I heard. That’s how I work.”

“Well, what Ruth observed had nothing to do with the painting. It wasn’t until we came inside that I saw it was gone.”

“I see.”

“Good. Then let’s concentrate on that. What happens next?”

“Hmm?”

“Once you find out who owns that yellow car.”

“Then I go and talk to him.”

“In person?”

“That’s right. I prefer to speak with people face-to-face whenever possible. It gets better results. It’s too easy to say no over the phone.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“Why?”

“I could help. He might be more willing to talk to a couple than to a man on his own.”

“I do have some experience conducting interviews.”

“Why wouldn’t you want me along? We both want the same thing, don’t we?”

Hank always worked alone. It was one of the aspects of his profession that he truly enjoyed. He had never allowed a client to interfere with his methods, much less accompany him on an investigation. “What about your own job at Mae B’s?” he asked. “Won’t you be too busy?”

“They let me go.”

“What? When?”

“Yesterday. They gave my job to the owner’s niece.”

“Amelia, I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “I’ll find something else, but at the moment I have plenty of spare time so there’s no reason why I shouldn’t help you. It’s only fair, since you’re waiving your fee. And besides...” She smiled. “It would be more efficient if we work together. You wouldn’t need to waste time giving me updates.”

Her smile set off another flash from the past. It was the first full smile Amelia had given him in more than a decade, and like everything else she did, she put herself into it one hundred percent. Eagerness shone from her face. Her lips curved, her cheeks dimpled and her eyes gleamed the familiar, unique blue-green that made his brain shut down.

He’d never had any defense against that smile. His reasons for refusing her seemed trivial when weighed against the prospect of spending more time in her company. Sure, he normally worked alone, yet he’d known this case would be anything but normal from the moment Amelia had shown up at his office. It wasn’t merely curiosity that had convinced him to help her. He would have gone along with whatever she’d asked, regardless of how slim the chances of success, because his knee-jerk reaction had been to make her happy.

It still was.

Terrific. Obviously, nothing had truly changed in the past fifteen years. Amelia was still smart enough to talk circles around him. She still had the ability to wrap him around her little freckled finger.

And apparently, when it came to Amelia, Hank was still a fool.


CHAPTER FIVE

A ROW OF ragged spireas grew along the side of the garage and partially blocked the only window. Amelia lifted her arms to keep them from getting scratched, twisted around and used her back to push her way between the bushes. Once she reached the wall, she discovered that the window was coated with several years’ worth of grime. She cleared a peephole with the heel of her hand and leaned close to the glass. Although there was an hour to go before sunset, an ominously dark bank of clouds towered in the west, bringing an early dusk. “I can’t see anything, Hank,” she said. She cupped her hands around her eyes. “It’s too dim.”

“Hang on.” Branches rustled as Hank joined her. He took a handkerchief from the back pocket of his jeans and expanded the circle she’d cleaned, then clicked on a small flashlight and angled it against the window. The narrow beam slanted through the shadows inside the garage to reveal a dull, flat expanse of pale blue fabric.

“That doesn’t look like a car,” she said.

Hank passed her the handkerchief, waited while she wiped off her palm, then folded the cloth dirty-side-in and returned it to his pocket. He continued his inspection of the garage. “It’s a tarp. There’s a car underneath.”

She squinted. He was right. The fabric was draped over a large, bulky shape that could only be a car. “That’s got to be it.”

Hank continued to play his light over the tarp until he reached the lower edge. There was a sudden glint from a chrome bumper and the gleam of a highly polished fender. A yellow fender. “It’s the right color, and the shape does correspond to a fifty-seven Chevy. Whether it’s the right car remains to be seen.”

She knew that Hank was cautious by nature—after all, what other man his age would carry a clean handkerchief in his jeans?—so she tried to contain her impatience. He must know what he was doing. He had been right about the car jogging her sister-in-law’s memory. As soon as Amelia had described what Ruth had observed, Jenny had remembered how the man who had bought the painting had wrapped it in a quilt he’d had in his car trunk. She hadn’t noticed what model of car it had been, since she’d had to deal with other customers at the same time, but she did remember glimpsing bright yellow.

Amelia had relayed the information to Hank immediately, but it had taken him two days to get a response from someone at the car club who had organized the show last weekend, and another two days to learn which members had a fondness for canary-yellow paint. Of the six who owned cars of the right era that came close to the right color, three lived out west and two were in Quebec. Only one, Kemp Forsythe, whose spirea bushes they were currently standing in, lived within an hour’s drive of Port Hope.

“It’s the car, Hank.”

“Possibly.”

Still don’t like to make a commitment, do you? she thought. She swatted at a mosquito that hummed near her ear and turned to study Kemp Forsythe’s house. According to Hank’s research, the man owned a small computer repair business in town, and had lived at this address for twelve years. No one had answered the door when they’d arrived, and the windows were still dark, despite the rapidly deepening dusk. The ranch-style, brick bungalow appeared to be around thirty years old and was set well back from the road. A cornfield stretched out behind it and at least two acres of yellowed grass plus an apple orchard separated it from the nearest neighbor. The road itself was a winding, potholed length of tarred gravel that branched off a county road twenty kilometers north of the highway.

Hank had driven most of the way under the speed limit. Part of the reason for that might have been due to his choice of vehicle. For a man whose father owned a car dealership, he drove a remarkably unremarkable sedan. It was sensible, gray and at least six years old. She likely could have coaxed more speed out of Will’s old Chevette.

“We’ll give him another half hour,” Hank said. “If he doesn’t show up, we’ll come back tomorrow or next week. Tuesday evenings are usually good for finding people at home.”

“Come back? No way. My painting’s here. It has to be. We can’t leave.”

“Seeing how it’s Saturday, we could have a long wait.” Lightning flickered through the clouds, followed by a rolling grumble of thunder. Hank reached past her to push aside the branches that blocked her path. “Storm’s going to break soon. We can’t stay out here.”

There wasn’t much space between the bushes and the garage wall. His chest nudged her shoulder, his arm slid against hers, and instantly, warmth tingled across her skin.

The memory of another summer evening stole into her mind, when Hank had driven her to the lakeshore in the old jalopy he’d been so proud of. They’d left their shoes in the car and had gone to the water’s edge to watch a storm roll in. The breeze had been heavy with the smell of seaweed, wet sand and impending rain. The air had crackled, both from the storm and from their own sense of something about to happen. Their typical teenaged garb of shorts and T-shirts had turned every casual touch into the delicious feel of skin against skin. That had been the night their friendship had entered new territory, one they’d both been enthusiastic to explore. They’d begun the journey by sharing their first kiss....

Hank eased farther to the side, breaking the contact.

More thunder, louder than before. Amelia could sense electricity in the air now, too. She exhaled slowly and maneuvered out of the spireas. She brushed herself off more briskly than necessary. It didn’t work. The memories clung like static-charged lint. “We could try phoning him.”

“Do you have somewhere else you need to be?”

“No, of course not. Finding the painting is my number one priority.”




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