92 Pacific Boulevard

She threw a load of laundry in the washer, then joined Ben in the living room. He was doing the crossword puzzle and she sat across from him and picked up her knitting. For forty-five minutes they worked quietly while the pies baked, lost in their own thoughts.



Just before eleven-thirty, Charlotte removed the hot dishes from the oven, put on her coat and retrieved her purse. This was the first potluck she and Ben hadn’t attended as a couple since they were married.



Ben carried the warm chicken pie to the car and kissed her before she left. “Have a good time.”



She kissed him back. “I’ll be home as soon as I can.”



“No need to rush. Harry and I will hold the fort.”



Despite his encouragement to linger and visit with their friends, Charlotte returned to the house two hours later, her head buzzing.



Ben met her at the door and took the empty casserole dish from her hands. “Did you enjoy yourself?”



“Oh, yes, I always do. Everyone asked after you and I said you were a bit under the weather.” Thankfully, she’d managed to sidestep other questions. A number of their friends had pressed her for details, certain Ben must be suffering from a nasty virus currently going around. She’d reassured everyone that Ben was fine, and physically he was. Emotionally, that was another story.



He brought the empty dish to the kitchen sink and looked at her, frowning slightly. “What’s wrong?” he asked.



“Nothing’s wrong, but I do have some interesting news.”



“Sit down and tell me.”



Charlotte pulled out a kitchen chair. “Sheriff Davis stopped by to speak to the group,” she said.



Ben reached for the notice mailed once a month to seniors who belonged to the center. Charlotte had propped it on the kitchen table. He quickly scanned the details. “It says here that Grace was supposed to be the guest speaker.”



“Oh, she was, and she did a fabulous job.” Although Charlotte volunteered at the library, it never ceased to astonish her how many books she hadn’t noticed. “Grace was kind enough to bring in a box of bestsellers and she gave a short synopsis of each. Oh, Ben, they all sound like such good stories. I made a list of several I knew we’d both enjoy.”



“When did Sheriff Davis speak?”



“After Grace. He came by unexpectedly and asked to address the group.” Troy visited once or twice a year but generally as a scheduled speaker. Charlotte had always been fond of him and appreciated his tips for seniors.



“What did he have to say? Another warning about not giving out personal information over the phone?”



“Not this time. He asked for our help.”



“How so?”



Charlotte drew her chair closer to the table. “You remember reading about the remains in the cave outside town, don’t you?”



“Of course. It was a little before Christmas. And there’ve been a few press and TV stories since.”



“Yes, and now there’s additional information. According to the coroner’s report, the remains are those of a young man who had Down syndrome. The sheriff asked if any of us remembered a family with a Down syndrome boy.”



“Was someone able to help him?” Ben asked.



Charlotte shook her head. “There was plenty of discussion, and Bess had a vague recollection of a woman with such a child. I do, too, but for the life of me I can’t remember who she was.”



“I’m sure you will in time.”



One of the most annoying effects of aging was this forgetfulness, these infernal memory gaps. The name was there, right on the edge of her consciousness, but it remained just out of reach. This was going to bother her until she came up with it.



“You’ll probably think of it in the middle of the night,” Ben said.



His confidence in her was reassuring.



“After Troy left, Bess and I talked about who it might be. We threw around a few names but none of them felt right. It seems to me the woman was a relative of someone who once lived here—a cousin, aunt or some such. Why can’t I remember?” She tapped the side of her head with her index finger.



Ben sat back in his chair. “Tell me what you do remember and maybe that’ll jog your mind.”



“I know I met the boy once.”



“Just once?”



“Yes, his aunt had him, I believe…. At least, that’s what I seem to recall. She complained to me that his mother kept him inside most of the time. The mother, whose name has completely escaped me, was terribly protective of him, sheltering him from just about everyone. She was something of a recluse herself, I believe.”



“When was this?”



Charlotte shook her head. It’d been so many years now…. “I can’t say for sure, three or four decades ago. Maybe more. His aunt or whoever it was had taken him to the waterfront park. He was enthralled with it. She said it was probably the first time he’d ever set foot in a park.”



“What were they doing?”



“Even now I can see that boy on the merry-go-round. He was laughing, so happy to be outside in the sunshine.”



Her memory was slowly coming back. Talking about it was helping, just as Ben had suggested.



“Go on,” he urged.



Charlotte closed her eyes. “His aunt seemed delighted by everything he did.” She smiled at the memory, although she couldn’t picture the woman clearly. Oh, why couldn’t she remember her name? “The mother loved that child. The aunt, too. If anything happened to him, I’d stake my life on the fact that neither of them had anything to do with it.”



“But there’s nothing to say this is the same child.”



“I know.” Charlotte nodded. Nevertheless, she suspected it was the same boy. Frowning, she stood.



“Let your mind rest,” Ben said. “The name will eventually come to you.”



He was right, only it was difficult advice to take. She knew this family or had known them at one time, and she kept worrying away at it.



“Didn’t you tell me you wanted to bring Olivia one of the pies?”



“Oh, dear, I’d nearly forgotten.”



“Would you like company?” Ben surprised her by asking.



The spark was back in his eyes, and that encouraged her. “I’d love it.”



“I’ve decided I can’t let my son’s weakness disrupt my life. All I can do is make an effort to be the best grandfather I can.” Ben’s gaze met hers and he took her hand. “Shall we go, my dear?”



He was going to be all right; she was sure of it.



Eighteen



It was almost the end of his workday—if a cop’s day ever ended. Megan had asked him to stop by the house before he went home, and Troy had agreed. She hadn’t said why, but she’d let him know it was terribly important. Seeing that the last time he’d ignored her request he’d been sucker punched by the news about Faith, he thought he should make at least a token appearance.



The phone rang just as he was leaving the office. He considered not answering but, with a sigh, reached across his desk and grabbed the receiver.



“Sheriff Davis.”



The call was from Kathleen Sadler, the Seattle reporter who’d been on a mission to embarrass Cedar Cove. She wanted the latest update on the skeletal remains.



Polite but firm, Troy gave her a stock answer, made his excuses and disconnected. He’d addressed the seniors’ group earlier that week to request help and information, and that had brought his most promising lead to date. He’d acted on impulse, dashing into their monthly gathering. Sometimes crimes were solved in unexpected ways.



Because of the phone call, he was a few minutes later than he’d told Megan. Even before he got to the front door, she’d flung it open; it was as if she’d been looking out the window, waiting for him.



“I thought you weren’t going to come,” she cried.



“I said I’d be here.” He didn’t understand why it was so all-fired important that he show up on a Thursday evening. She must’ve rushed home from work herself.



“I know, it’s just that…” She hesitated. “Never mind. Come in. I baked your favorite oatmeal cookies.”



After the day he’d had, Troy was grateful for an excuse to relax. Sitting heavily in a kitchen chair, he muttered, “What’s the occasion?”



“Think of it as a late Valentine’s Day gift.”



This year’s Valentine’s Day had been a disaster. He’d bought a large box of expensive chocolates for Faith. He’d never expected to pay that much for candy. He’d bought a bouquet of red roses, too. They should’ve been gold plated for what they cost. As it turned out, he might as well have flushed all that cash down the toilet. The day before he’d intended to drop them off, he learned that Faith was leaving town.



So much for romancing her with flowers and candy! The roses were wilting in a vase on the mantel and he’d stuck the chocolates in the fridge. If she wanted to go back to Seattle—or wherever—he wasn’t going to stop her. Not that he had the power to do so, anyway. The woman had a mind of her own, and he could see that it was already made up.



“Do you want coffee or tea with your cookies?” Megan asked, standing attentively beside his chair.



“Coffee.” Anything was better than the stale brew at the station. The stuff was often as black as tar and just as thick.



His daughter brought him a plate holding four cookies and a mug of coffee with a touch of half-and-half, which was exactly the way he liked it. “I assume you want something?” Treats like this generally came at a price.



“Daddy!” Megan put her hands on her hips, her expression one of shock. “How can you even suggest such a thing? We hardly ever have time to talk anymore, just you and me.”



“Okay, what shall we talk about?” He crossed his legs and leaned back. He was certain this little rendezvous was leading somewhere.



Before his daughter could respond, the doorbell rang. A look he could only describe as panicked flashed across Megan’s face.



“Are you expecting anyone?” he asked.



She shrugged and glanced away. “Not really.”



Megan hurried to the front door and in that instant everything became clear to Troy. This hadn’t been a random invitation. His daughter had decided to do some matchmaking.



Troy stood, pushing aside the cookies and his coffee, and entered the living room. “Hello, Faith.”



Her face fell when she saw him. She was obviously as surprised as he was—perhaps more so.



“Megan asked me to stop by so she could show me the baby blanket she finished knitting.” Faith’s tone implied that she wasn’t a party to this arrangement.



Troy didn’t need anyone to tell him the entire setup was Megan’s doing.



“I’ll get the blanket,” Megan said cheerfully, acting oblivious to the tension between Faith and Troy. “Why don’t you two talk while I…find my knitting.”



As soon as Megan left the living room, the silence seemed louder than any words they might have said. Troy wondered which of them would speak first. He’d decided it wasn’t going to be him.