Protecting Her Child. Debby Giusti

the bramble as the Lincoln drove out of sight, probably heading back to Dixie’s house. He glanced at the bungalow. Torn between seeing what had prompted the twosome to drive so far in the middle of the night and wanting to follow them, he crossed the road and stepped into a small kitchen. Neat. Clean. A bowl of fruit sat on the counter. An open pantry next to the back door held a few cans of vegetables, a box of oatmeal and a jar of pickles.

      The design on the linoleum was old and faded but without a spot or crumb. The floorboards creaked as he walked into the living–dining room combination where a love seat and rocker edged a braided rug. A wooden crate, decorated with a collection of seashells, served as a coffee table. Two folding chairs and a card table sat in the dining area.

      Swatches of fabric that had drawn the guy’s interest lay on the table in various pastel patterns of tiny, delicate hearts and crosses. Pete drew closer, overwhelmed by a sense of familiarity. The intricate motif looked like something Eve would create.

      Glancing into the bedroom, he smelled a fresh, floral fragrance as sweet as honeysuckle. Had to be a woman’s room.

      Blow-up mattress on the floor. Rumpled bedding, the beige blanket and pink top sheet thrown aside.

      Had someone or something interrupted her sleep? Not Dixie and her friend. The house hadn’t been occupied when they had entered through the back door.

      A photo on the floor next to the bed caught Pete’s attention. A woman with shoulder-length raven hair and green eyes the color of the ocean looked lovingly at a man, perhaps two inches taller, who held her close.

      For an instant, Pete longed for something as real in his life.

      Abruptly, he turned away. Whoever lived here didn’t need her privacy violated.

      Stepping into the kitchen, he spied a stack of bills on the counter addressed to Meredith Lassiter. Probably the gal in the photo.

      He glanced at the open pantry, noting the black hinges attached to the doorframe.

      Odd.

      He retraced his steps to the bedroom.

      A couple of pairs of slacks and a blouse hung on the rack in the closet. Slippers were neatly placed on the floor below.

      He hadn’t noticed earlier, but the closet door had been removed from its hinges, just like the pantry.

      Some type of space-saving decorating trick?

      Then Pete left the house, the lights still ablaze to warn the woman, should she return before the break of day. Tomorrow he’d make more inquiries in town. Hopefully, he’d learn why Dixie and her friend had driven through the night to break into this bungalow.

      A second question needed to be answered as well.

      Who was Meredith Lassiter?

      “Are you a policeman?”

      Not the response Pete expected from the shopkeeper.

      “No, ma’am, but I am trying to find Meredith Lassiter.” He paused, searching for a way to ease the concern he saw in the woman’s eyes. Gray hair, mid-sixties, she continued to stare at him.

      “I’m a friend of her mother’s.” Pete needed the woman’s cooperation. “One of Meredith’s neighbors said she teaches quilting classes here at your store.”

      “Taught. Past tense. She’s missed her last three classes and hasn’t answered her cell in days.”

      The friend-of-the-mother angle must have worked, although annoyance was still evident in the shopkeeper’s voice. Hopefully aimed at Meredith and not at him.

      “I left a message, reminding her that she’s got a check to pick up,” the woman continued. “With the economy and all, I don’t have to tell you money’s tight.”

      He thought of the lack of funding for his research. “Yes, ma’am.”

      The woman shrugged and worried her fingers. The frustration he’d heard earlier in her voice softened to concern. “I thought she’d be back by now. Truth be told, I’m worried about Meredith. She’s a delightful young woman with a big heart. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to her.”

      Pulling out his business card, Pete placed it on the counter. “I’m staying at the Lodge over the weekend. If she comes back, would you tell her that Pete Worth is looking for her?”

      “Shall I mention her mother?”

      “No.” Pete glanced at the colorful quilts displayed around the shop. “Her quilting. Tell Meredith I’m interested in her work.”

      The woman’s eyes softened. “She is gifted.”

      “Do you happen to know where I could find her boyfriend?” Pete thought back to the bedroom photo. “The guy’s about her age, maybe a few inches taller. Dark hair, long sideburns?”

      The shopkeeper furrowed her brow. “Doubt there’d be a boyfriend this soon after her husband’s death. I heard the police are calling it a homicide.”

      A buzz sounded in Pete’s ears. Like a trapped fly. His own internal warning system. Seemed the deeper he dug, the more problems surfaced. His desire to help Eve had led him to Dixie and now to a missing woman whose husband may have been murdered.

      Getting involved in a homicide investigation wasn’t on his list of things to do this weekend, but if Meredith knew Dixie, she might provide information that Eve needed to know.

      “Ma’am, do you recall when her husband died?”

      “Hmmm? Must have been six months ago or so. Meredith never talked about him, and most folks didn’t connect her with the story in the paper. Seems he died on a fishing boat out of Jackson Harbor.”

      “South of here?”

      “That’s right. The article said he’d just hired on. Went out on a day trip, and his leg got tied up in one of the nets as it was being tossed in the water. According to the story, he was pulled overboard, and the blades on the motor caught him. Cut him pretty bad. He bled to death before they could get him to shore.”

      “They?”

      “The crew. I wouldn’t have thought much more about the accident except the paper ran a picture of the wife he left behind, and Meredith arrived in town not long after that. Last week the police arrested the boat owner.”

      If the husband had been involved in something criminal, Dixie and her boyfriend could be as well. Perhaps that’s why they’d made the late-night visit to Meredith’s bungalow.

      Pete pointed to the counter where he’d placed his card. “You have my cell number. Be sure to tell Meredith I’m looking for her.”

      “Do you know that other guy who stopped by? He wouldn’t say what he wanted.”

      Pete thought of Dixie’s friend. “Big man with a ponytail?”

      The shopkeeper shook her head. “The man was Latino, probably five-eight.” She touched her face. “He had a scar on his left cheek.”

      Evidently, Dixie and her boyfriend weren’t the only other people looking for Meredith. The shopkeeper had mentioned the police, who probably wanted a chat with the grieving widow as well.

      Leaving the store, Pete headed down the block to the diner and sat in a booth that faced the street with a clear view of the quilt shop. Three cups of coffee later, he noticed an elderly woman shuffle inside, holding a cane in her right hand. One of the few people who had visited the shop that morning.

      Pete caught the eye of the waitress and pointed to his cup, which she quickly refilled.

      Taking a sip of the hot brew, he glanced once again at the shop. The old woman stepped through the door and onto the sidewalk.

      This time she held the cane in her left hand.

      A baggy sweater hung over her sweatpants. A floppy hat