What's in a Name?, Page 3

  The grainy eight-by-ten photo, blown up from some magazine column, showed Casey Wallace beaming at her tuxedo-clad husband, who was holding a framed plaque and smiling for the camera. Casey wore a low-cut red dress which displayed an ample bosom and clung in all the right places. He tried to superimpose Kelli’s face on Casey’s. Subtract the blonde chin-length bob and the wispy bangs. Add glasses.

  He stared for a good five minutes, but Kelli wouldn’t pop. Hollingsworth must be grasping at straws.

  He sighed and leafed through the background papers. Computer hotshot, married at twenty-three, almost ten years ago. One son, born a year later. Newspaper clippings—society pages, Casey an adjunct to her husband. An article about a convenience story robbery-shooting, killing the husband and three-year-old son.

  He looked at the photocopy of a newspaper obituary. A blurred black-and-white photo of the memorial service, with the grieving family virtually unrecognizable.

  He scanned the reports from Hollingsworth. Nothing he hadn’t read twenty times. Kelli Carpenter had a perfectly normal history with no apparent connections to Casey Wallace, except in Hollingsworth’s mind. Kelli had a degree in environmental science from UCLA, had worked for Stockbridge at EnviroCon for the past three years.

  Why Hollingsworth connected the two women eluded him, but Blake would do what he was being paid to do. And for now, that would be to tell Dwight Hollingsworth there was no way Kelli and Casey were the same person. Or to hire a licensed PI, not an Mergers and Acquisitions executive who grew up pounding nails.

  Rustling leaves, flickers of motion, and the distinct feeling of being watched sent a tingle across Blake’s skin. Some sort of bird in the tree? A flash of movement in the underbrush had him leaping to his feet. Crap, there were probably snakes out here. What the hell was he doing in the woods? He stuffed the papers back into the envelope and jumped up, brushing debris from his jeans. Again, something moved. Blake froze. He debated whistling. Or shouting. Seconds later, a distinctly human figure moved deeper into the woods. Recognizing a park ranger uniform, Blake relaxed. He must have wandered across the park boundary.

  He drove another twenty minutes, eyes flicking between the winding road and his cell phone readout, before he got a clear signal. Five more minutes before there was a turnout in the road. He punched in Hollingsworth’s number and got the cool, efficient voice of Mrs. Madison, Hollingsworth’s assistant.

  “Is he in?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Windsor. He’s meeting with Mr. Griffith—his campaign manager—until four.”

  Blake felt a tingle of excitement. “So, he’s really running?” He saw the door out of Mergers and Acquisitions opening.

  She hesitated. “Well, he hasn’t announced it officially, but from what I hear, they’re discussing strategy. Rather loudly at the moment, as a matter of fact. Once they iron out the details, I expect Mr. Griffith will call a press conference. He seems quite eager to move forward.”

  He wondered if Mrs. Madison was eavesdropping, then dismissed the notion. The woman was privy to all of Dwight’s doings without having to resort to subterfuge.

  “I hear you did a great job with the Connolly account,” she said. “How are you enjoying your vacation?”

  Vacation? He hesitated. Dwight Hollingsworth had said to keep this a low-key investigation, with no links to Hollingsworth Industries. If Mrs. Madison was unaware of it, it was downright subterranean. “Fine. Weather’s great.” Where the hell was he supposed to be? “Um … no need to bother him. It’s not important. I’ll check in when I get back.”

  “Very well, Mr. Windsor.”

  So, Dwight was really running for governor. That meant there would be some holes to fill. Blake planned to move upward in Hollingsworth Industries. Several notches. To do that, it looked like he’d play handyman a little longer.

  * * * * *

  At Henry’s General Store, Kelli handed Hank her envelope. “This needs to go Express Mail.”

  “No problem.” He passed her a small box. “This came for you.” The curiosity in his eyes was obvious.

  “You have a cutter? I’ll check it out.”

  He slit the tape and pushed the box across the counter. “How’s the new guy? Getting the place fixed?” Faded blue eyes showed grandfatherly concern.

  “It’s going fine,” she said. “They’ve moved up the deadline, so we’re busy.”

  “He cleaned me out of peanut butter when he got here. Doesn’t seem to be an adventurous eater. Big guy, though. Quantity over quality, I’d say.” Hank grinned, revealing yellowed teeth.

  She unfolded the padding and ran her fingers along the cool metal inside. “Signs for the nature trail,” she told Hank.

  She went back to her Jeep. Before she started the engine, she pulled out her cell phone and called Jack Stockbridge to tell him the signs had arrived and the Environmental Impact Statement was on its way.

  “How’s Windsor working out?” he said. “You okay?”

  “Fine and yes.”

  “You know I wouldn’t have sent anyone if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. But it won’t be long, and you can go back to being your own solitary self.”

  “I know. I’m sorry I overreacted when you called yesterday.”

  “Kiddo, you know I’ll do whatever you want. I owe you one.”

  She relaxed her grip on the phone. “No, you don’t. I’ve told you a million times, all Justin needed was a little redirecting. He has the skills, but he needed a better outlet for them. How’s he doing, by the way?”

  “Getting top grades at OSU and a part-time job at a software company. Making me and Margaret proud parents.”

  She took a quick moment to share the pride. Justin Stockbridge was a formidable hacker, but his compulsion to see how much he could get away with would have gotten him caught sooner or later. Back to the issues at hand. “So, what more can you tell me about Windsor?”

  “Not much. Thornton recommended the guy when I told him we wouldn’t be ready in time without immediate help.”

  “Thornton? I thought all he did was throw money into the project. I didn’t know he actually looked at the little people doing the work.”

  “You might think about removing the stick from your cute little behind, Kiddo.” Stockbridge’s voice had taken on an irritated edge.

  “Sorry.” She fingered through her mail. “The new schedule’s adding some pressure. I worked most of the night.”

  “Look, Thornton called, apologized for moving the start date. Said he’d heard good things about a handyman agency, Windsor had come recommended and suggested I call. You know EnviroCon needs this project. The man talks, I listen. The agency was legit. Windsor was available. Enough? Or should I dig deeper?”

  “No, it’s all right. I overreacted.” She put the Jeep in gear and tried not to think about the way her heart rate picked up every time she looked at Windsor. Maybe her body was telling her she was ready to live again, picking someone safe to practice on. Nothing serious. No relationships. Just getting comfortable being in the same room with someone carrying the XY chromosome set.

  Camp Getaway would open and she’d be on her way to another assignment. Never staying long enough in one place for anyone to connect her to Casey or Robert.

  Back at the house, she settled at her desk with a sense of accomplishment. When she was a kid, she’d always eaten her vegetables first, saving the good stuff for last. With the government paperwork on its way, she felt like she’d finished her beets and was ready for something yummy.

  The next most important item on her list, a Certificate of Occupancy, wasn’t exactly dessert, but it was Windsor’s responsibility to bring the cabin up to code, not hers. Still, she ought to check. As she strolled down the path to the cabin, she told herself it was important she keep tabs on his progress.

  Blake called down from the roof when she approached. “Everything all right?”

  She squinted into the sun and looked up at him. Her heart did that tap dance agai
n. He’d taken his shirt off and was on hands and knees, hammering shingles. Shading her eyes with a forearm, she said, “Fine.”

  “You want the nickel tour?” He stood up, balancing on the pitched roof without any trouble.

  “No—you keep on doing what you’re doing. I’ll only be a minute.” She stepped inside, inhaling the scent of fresh-cut wood. Without the plywood covering the windows, the room seemed bigger. Sawdust danced in the gold afternoon light, swirling in the breeze, dusting her like a winter snow flurry. In place of stacks of lumber, she imagined the cabin with ten bunk beds lining the walls. She heard children whispering in the dark before falling into a dead sleep the way you did after being in the mountain air all day, hiking along the trails.

  Unbidden, a smiling cherubic face flashed in front of her. Lucas. He’d have been in third grade now, like the first group of kids coming here. Memories burst through her defenses. The smell of talcum and baby breath when she lifted him from his crib in the mornings. The warmth of his hands resting against her bare shoulders when she carried him. The weight of him as his body relaxed into sleep. She blinked back tears.

  I’m sorry. It was all my fault. What kind of a mother runs out of milk for her baby?

  That was another lifetime, when her universe was normal. And happy. Charles and Lucas were gone. Nothing could bring them back. And then too-good-to-be-true Robert Kilian had stolen the life she’d tried to put together after she’d lost them, leaving a life of looking over her shoulder as his legacy.

  She’d tried to lock the memories away someplace deep inside her, but they refused to stay buried.

  “I should get to the windows tomorrow or the next day.” Blake’s voice from the doorway made her jump. “Once the roof is fixed and the windows are in, she should be weather-tight.”

  She kept her head down. “Sounds like you’ve got everything under control.”

  His footsteps told her he was coming inside. She tensed. He walked past her, to a small cooler in the corner and removed a bottle of water.

  “It gets hot up there.” He peeled off his work gloves, took a swig and wiped his mouth.

  She nodded. In the dim light, his eyes didn’t grab hers. “You need to watch it. You can get a real burn at this altitude, even if it doesn’t feel hot.”

  “Thanks for the advice. I’m afraid it might be a little late though.” He turned so his back faced her. “What do you think?”

  Think? She thought of rubbing sunscreen on those broad, well-muscled shoulders. That fluttering below her belly started up again. Ridiculous. She pivoted and strode toward the door. The nature trail could wait until morning. Right now she needed to burn off these impossible feelings with hard, physical labor. She glanced at him over her shoulder. “What I think is that you should put your shirt on, Mr. Windsor.”

  She marched to the storage shed, loaded a wheelbarrow with a pick and shovel and headed toward a level spot near the lake. Plans called for a fifteen-foot fire circle and she attacked the brush and rocks with a vengeance. A place for roasting hot dogs and making S’Mores.

  Hot dogs. Lucas loved hot dogs. From the vendor in the park or cut up in macaroni and cheese. The kid would eat them cold if she’d let him. Charles always let him.

  Oh, God, how could it still hurt so badly? She abandoned the wheelbarrow and walked down to the water’s edge. The sun hung over the mountains waiting to drop the curtain on another day.

  You’re watching over him, Charles, aren’t you? Our Lucas? And Luke, I know you’re taking good care of Daddy. I love you two. I should be with you.

  Chapter Three

  From inside the cabin the next morning, Blake watched Kelli drive away. Yesterday afternoon she’d stuck close to the property, clearing brush and moving rocks, avoiding him as if he had some contagious disease. Now, he figured he had at least an hour. Being a million miles from nowhere had its advantages. Even so, he waited a good ten minutes before he went to the house in case she’d forgotten something and decided to come back for it.

  The deadbolts to her rooms were fastened although he expected no less. He went outside to check the windows and spotted Kelli’s bedroom curtain fluttering. A stroke of luck. She’d locked her doors but had left her window ajar.

  The screen came off with a touch, the sash lifted easily and Blake hoisted himself through the opening, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling of stepping into a universe beyond his normal boundaries. At a glance, her bedroom told him no more about Kelli Carpenter than she did in the flesh. The dresser displayed an assortment of dried plants in a clay pot, but no photographs. Nobody to think of while she dressed, slept, and went about her life? The top drawer revealed a pile of neatly folded utilitarian cotton underpants and bras. He couldn’t see any of those under the clingy red dress in the picture.

  In the second drawer he found T-shirts, and sweaters in the bottom one. Everything looked like it belonged to the Kelli Carpenter he’d met. He moved on.

  Beside the bed, a white porcelain reading lamp sat on a white-painted nightstand. What was it with this place and white? He sat on the bed and eased the drawer open. Nothing visible but a box of tissues and the paperback he’d seen in the living room when he’d arrived. Tucked into the corner of the drawer was some kind of a satiny fabric. A pouch of some kind. When he moved the tissue box to reach for it, he discovered another box, this one of ammunition for a thirty-eight revolver.

  When it hit him that ammunition meant gun, but there was no gun in the drawer, he decided he absolutely didn’t want to be caught in her quarters. Maybe she was one of those people who practiced good gun safety and kept the weapon and ammunition separate. Or maybe she had a loaded gun with her. His heartbeat quickened when it dawned on him she might have blown his brains out if he’d done anything to piss her off. Postponing any plans to check out her office, he slid the drawer closed, straightened the bedcovers and climbed out the window, careful to leave it ajar, exactly the way he’d found it. With frequent looks over his shoulder, he replaced the screen and jogged back to the cabin.

  * * * * *

  It was after twelve when Kelli returned from her work on the nature trail. Finding yet another batch of forms in the fax machine, she went to her desk and pulled out her legal tablet, drawing a fat line through “nature trail signs.” She moved on to the next item on her list. Activity sheets for the youngsters. She assembled her field guides, her notes and powered up her computer. Sounds of hammering alternated with the buzz of a power saw, eventually fading to white noise.

  By four, she’d had enough. A shower, dinner, and maybe she’d find her second wind. She moved into the bathroom connecting her office to her bedroom. The power saw’s whine seemed louder and she realized the bedroom window was open. Had she left it that way this morning? She hurried into the bedroom and took a quick survey, but everything seemed exactly the way she’d left it.

  Stop it. He’s out there doing his job and you need to get on with yours.

  Perfect gentlemen didn’t go snooping through other people’s things. She sucked in a breath. It was time to rejoin civilization. She put in a fresh pair of contacts, clipped her hair atop her head and slid her glasses back on. The reflection in the mirror was comfortably Kelli. She wondered if she’d even recognize herself as Casey anymore. And if she couldn’t, nobody else would. She wrapped her mind around that thought as she went to the kitchen.

  In the pantry, she found a bottle of merlot. She opened it and set it on the counter to breathe while she decided how to dress up chicken breasts.

  She started by chopping some onions and garlic. Unless you were making brownies, you could never go wrong with onions and garlic. After a quick shuffle through her recipes and a check of the refrigerator, she decided on a Dijon orange and honey glazed chicken. Over rice. She set a pot of water on the stove and measured the rice. A salad, and maybe green beans to round things out.

  She’d begun browning the chicken when she heard Blake’s boots clumping on the porch. The door opened and he pee
ked in, as if he wanted to make sure the coast was clear before coming inside. No question he was keeping his distance. She tried a smile and found it came easily enough.

  His eyes widened and he smiled back. “Smells good.” She followed his gaze to the array of ingredients she’d spread out and saw a hint of longing cross his face. “Real good.”

  When he gazed back at her, those brown eyes sucked her in and she took a calming breath. “I’m making enough for two, Mr. Windsor. I’ve been avoiding you and thought you might like to join me for dinner. Consider it a peace offering.”

  “Only if you’ll call me Blake.”

  She nodded. “Blake.”

  His grin spread and he ran his fingers through his hair. “Hell, you can call me whatever you want. I’m sick of canned stew and peanut butter.”

  “It’ll be about half an hour.”

  “Let me get cleaned up and I’ll help.”

  “I’ve seen you cook. How about if you set the table?”

  “Smart woman. I’ll be back.”

  Her hands trembled, but only a little, as she poured the rice into the water. She hoped Windsor—Blake—wouldn’t think her rude if she started on the wine before he joined her. Too bad if he did. She took two glasses from the cabinet and poured one, downing it like water before setting the bottle and glasses on the dining table.

  Get a grip. It was only dinner. How many times had she cooked for Charles’ business associates?

  She made sure her thoughts stayed away from the times she and Charles had cooked, side by side. Sometimes abandoning dinner for what he called a bedroom break. Images of Robert intruded, his rugged face turned feral when he’d poised himself above her. Her knees quaked and she leaned against the counter, fighting nausea.

  * * * * *

  Blake rushed through his shower, damp-dried, and found a pair of clean jeans. The thought of dinner that didn’t come out of a can nearly had him out the door half naked. He dug through his duffel bag and chose a navy blue turtleneck, slowing down to think. To plan.