Absolutely, Positively (7 page)

“What do you think this is? A halfway house?”

“Hey!” Em cried. She was searching Dovie’s fridge for something to eat.

“No offense,” Dovie said to her. She made kissing noises in Em’s direction.

Emerson Baumbach, one of my two best friends, had been living here since breaking off her engagement and moving out of the condo she shared with her ex shortly before Christmas. She would have moved home to her parents’ house, just down the road, but there had been a big fight about the wedding and the ex and there was a lot of puffed-up pride stuff still going on.

Em kissed back.

“You two are making me queasy,” I said.

Sean had headed back to Sam’s place to pick up Thoreau and a change of clothes, then was coming back here. It
was
like Sean already lived with me, but making it permanent seemed to be tempting the fates a little too much for my liking.

Em, apple in hand, laughed as she sat next to me in Dovie’s morning room, which was my favorite room in the house. It was dark now, but in the morning, sunlight flooded this room, filling it with happiness and life as it bounced off the blue walls, the overstuffed furniture, the knickknacks Dovie had collected over the years. This was the room where Dovie spent most of her time, and it showed in everything—the indent in the seat of her favorite chair, the teacup on the table, and the crossword puzzle folded, unfinished, on the floor near the fireplace.

Rufus trotted over, sat in front of Em, then dropped his chicken on the floor and his head in her lap. She rubbed the underside of his chin.

“He likes Em,” Dovie said. “Give him to her.”

“Okay,” I said. “Congrats! It’s a boy!”

Em, wild-eyed, looked between us. “Dovie, you do realize I live here, right? Don’t you remember the halfway-house comment?”

Dovie snapped her fingers. “Marisol.”

Marisol Valerius was my other best friend. She and Em had been part of my life since we were little things, running amok on the beach as topless toddlers. The topless thing hadn’t lasted (except in Marisol’s case), but the friendship, after a rocky start, had.

Marisol was a veterinarian who often left her unadoptable charges at my place, which explained my three-legged cat, Grendel, and my one-eyed hamster, Odysseus. Turnabout would be fair play. “I’ll call her.”

“He is sweet,” Em said. Rufus looked up at her with adoration. “And when I find a place of my own, it would be good to have some company.”

“I was kidding about the halfway house!” Dovie quickly said. “Don’t go thinking about moving out because of that.”

Em bit into her apple, chewed. “It’s about time I start looking, don’t you think?”

The conversation brought me back to Sean and his apartment hunt. He was due at my place in less than an hour. How easy it would be if he just stayed … forever.

“No,” Dovie said. “Tea, anyone?”

My nerves were jumping. “I’ll have some.”

Em’s red hair had been pulled into a sloppy bun atop her head. Her full cheeks glowed with happiness. She’d put on some weight since the breakup, but she was happier than I’d seen her in a long, long time. “How’s school?” She’d recently quit her job as a pediatric intern to go back to school for a degree in elementary education.

Em smiled. “Really good. Spring break starts in a couple of days.”

“Are you going anywhere?”

“I’m a little old for spring break, don’t you think? I’m going to rest, relax, and catch up on my reading.”

“Exciting.”

She bit into her apple, ignoring me.

“You should go somewhere, not mope around here.”

“I’m not moping.”

She was totally moping.

“Besides, where would I go?”

“Anywhere you want.”

“Not Paris.” Rufus lifted his eyebrow as she took another bite of apple. She broke off a chunk and gave it to him.

“Definitely not,” I agreed. She was supposed to go to Paris on her honeymoon—which would have been this week if the wedding hadn’t been canceled. No wonder she was moping. “But anywhere else.”

“By myself?”

I hated the thought of her going alone, but it was better than the alternative—moping here alone. “Why not?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I have a lot of reading to catch up on.”

In the kitchen, Dovie made a snoring noise.

“Hey!” Em said.

“Live a little,” Dovie said. “You’re only young once.”

“Why do I feel ganged up on?”

My phone rang, the
Hawaii Five-O
theme song I’d programmed to let me know when Aiden was calling. “Hi, Aiden,” I answered.

Em’s face lit before she caught herself and focused on Rufus’s ear. Her aura and Aiden’s were a perfect match. They were destined to be together. Soul mates. True love. It had all the makings of a happily ever after. If only one of them would make a move. It was like watching paint dry, seeing the two of them dance around a relationship. Even though my father had told Em about the perfect match, she claimed she didn’t want to rush into anything, and Aiden claimed he was waiting for Em to heal.

It was enough to drive me crazy.

“I got your message about Mac Gladstone,” Aiden said. “And I made some calls. I’m meeting with the lead investigator first thing in the morning. He made it sound like there might be something we’d be interested in but didn’t want to get into it over the phone. I’ll call after.”

I ran through my morning to-do list. Near the top was finding Tristan Rourke. “Anytime.”

I hung up. Dovie held out my tea as I walked by the kitchen island. “Anything?” she asked.

I filled her in as Rufus snored from his spot at Em’s feet. “Sean also found a notice from an insurance company in Mac’s desk.” I fished it out of my tote bag and showed it to Em.

The sheet of paper had “This Is Not a Bill” stamped across the top and itemized all Mac’s claims for the last six months. In the past three months he’d seen three different doctors, visited the hospital twice, and made monthly stops at the local pharmacy.

Em tapped the paper. “This doctor, Gregory McDonald, is a big-time oncologist.”

“Mac had cancer?” Dovie said.

“Maybe.” Em stood and stepped around Rufus’s prone body. “These hospital visits are probably for scans.”

I rummaged around my tote bag for the prescription bottle. “And this?”

“It’s a strong painkiller often used for cancer patients, so yeah, I’d say Mac had cancer. Aiden can probably get his medical records.”

“But his granddaughter said he was healthy.” I was trying to wrap my brain around this turn of events.

“Maybe she didn’t know,” Dovie said. “I certainly had no idea he was having any health problems, and news like that would spread around here.”

I also told them about the phone call Mac’s granddaughter had overheard. Dovie let out a long sigh and leveled a knowing look at me. “Sounds as though someone was trying to stop him from doing something drastic.”

“Something drastic like suicide?” Em said.

It was certainly beginning to look that way.

7

Coffee. Nectar of the Gods first thing in the morning.

I sipped gratefully as Thoreau slept on my lap and Sean drove down Roxbury side streets. To my surprise, he hadn’t had any luck finding Tristan Rourke online. Tristan was completely off the grid. No credit cards, no license, no state ID, no work history, no tax filings—ever. He didn’t own any property and had no death certificate.

For all intents and purposes didn’t exist.

Except we knew he did.

The tires of Sean’s Mustang crunched over roads sanded for better traction. Almost eight inches of snow had fallen overnight. Preston had to beg off coming with us as her editor had called with an unexpected assignment, but she made us promise to take notes.

So far, there wasn’t much to be noted.

I had to confess I wasn’t thrilled to be looking for an ex-con. I reminded myself I wasn’t in business to judge Meaghan. Or Tristan. Just to reunite them and let destiny take its course. But now I had some serious reservations. “I had high hopes he’d turned his life around, left crime behind.”

“There’s still hope, Pollyanna.”

I arched an eyebrow.

“Living underground is a bit suspicious,” Sean conceded.

“Very suspicious. I don’t know what to tell Meaghan.”

The voice of reason, Sean said, “Nothing to tell yet.”

He was right. We didn’t know anything for sure. All we had was an address for Rourke’s grandmother, who had been listed as his next of kin through the prison, and a picture of Rourke faxed from a contact of Sean’s at Cedar Junction.

I plucked the photo out of a folder. Shorn blond hair, striking pale blue eyes, a scar crossing his nose. He didn’t look like a stereotypical bad guy. If I stared long enough, I could almost see the boy he once was, the boy Meaghan Archibald had loved.

Still loved.

I had to keep that in mind with this case. Had to keep an open mind, period.

The houses on Maureen Rourke’s street were surprisingly well maintained for the rough-and-tumble neighborhood. The triple-deckers sat nearly side by side with freshly painted clapboards, newer-looking porches, and bright, clean windows. Tiny strips of snow-covered lawns bled into the street, no sidewalk boundary protecting home sweet home from the big bad world beyond. Cars sat along the blurred line separating yards from traffic, most plowed into their spot until a good thaw or someone with the wherewithal to dig out the car came along.

Roxbury, in general, was one of Boston’s transitional areas. High crime, drug houses, and drive-by shootings were mixed in with hardworking residents just trying to make their way in life.

By all accounts, Maureen Rourke was one of the latter. According to tax records, she’d worked two or three jobs at a time since she was fifteen years old. Everything from chambermaid, to washwoman, to entrepreneur.

I remembered what Meaghan had said—that Tristan’s grandmother had been too poor to take him in when his mother died. I couldn’t imagine how hard that must have been—for both of them—and wondered if she had worked so hard to raise the money to get him back from the state, only to see him arrested and taken away for good.

Three years ago, right after Tristan had been released from prison, she opened her own business, a Laundromat we’d driven past on our way here, A Clean Start.

Someone had a sense of humor.

Thoreau lay snuggled on my lap. We’d opted to bring him along instead of leaving him at my place. Dovie would have her hands full with Rufus as he adapted to his new surroundings. She had decided to keep him— I’d never had a doubt.

Someone at Maureen Rourke’s house had been quite industrious. Not only had a car, a newer-model Camry, been shoveled free of snow, but the walkway and front steps had been cleared as well.

We idled in front of the three-decker. Sean said, “The deed is in Maureen’s name. And apparently the house was bought with cash two years ago. There was never any mortgage on record.”

I heard the undertone in his voice. I had a dozen reasons why Maureen would suddenly have so much cash on hand, but reality was hard to overlook. Tristan probably helped buy the house. His release from prison and the timing of the business opening and the purchase of the house were too coincidental. Where he found the money was anyone’s guess at this point, but I had a sinking feeling that whatever he was doing wasn’t on the up-and-up.

Sean hopped out, removed the plastic chair saving the empty parking spot in front of the house, and parked. I bundled Thoreau in a blanket and left him in the front seat.

The wooden door had been painted a beautiful colonial red. An arched window at the top of the door didn’t have a speck on it. I knocked. A moment later, an older woman answered the door. Reddish hair streaked with white was pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck. Beautiful creamy skin was dotted with freckles, and wrinkles creased the corners of her eyes and lips. Ice blue eyes twinkled at us as she wiped her hands on a dish towel. “What you be needing, darlin’s?” Her voice was rich with an Irish brogue. She had to have been a stunning beauty in her younger years.

“Are you Maureen Rourke?” I asked.

Behind her, dark wooden floors gleamed in the morning light. The scent of coffee and something baking lingered in the air. She tipped her head, and some of the cheer left her eyes. “Who be asking?”

Sean stuck out his hand. “I’m Sean Donahue. And this is Lucy Valentine.”

“Donahue, eh? A good Irish lad you be?”

“Depends who you ask.”

She chuckled and turned her blue eyes my way. “Valentine? Certainly not Irish.”

I loved the roll of her
Rs
. “I’m not certain what it is.”

She tsked as though this were a grave sin and addressed Sean. “What brings you here?”

“We’re looking for Tristan Rourke,” Sean said, handing her a business card. The Lost Love logo took up half the card: two hearts, one fading into the background. “Sean Donahue, Private Investigator” was on the other half, along with his contact information.

“You’re a detective?” she asked.

“A private investigator,” I answered. “We’ve been hired to find Tristan.”

She stared at the card for a long second before looking up at us. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t seen Tristan in years. He doesn’t keep in touch.”

Irish bluster if I ever heard it. Her Irish eyes were lying.

“Are you certain?” Sean asked.

“Quite, young man. I haven’t gone dotty in my old age.”

She was hardly old. Early sixties if a day.

“I’m afraid the two of you are wasting your time. Tristan is long gone from these parts. I don’t get so much as a phone call from the lad. ‘Tis very sad.”

“Yes,” I said dryly. “ ’Tis.”

The twinkle was back in her eye as she looked at me. “Valentine, you say?”

I nodded.

“There may be a bit of Irish in you after all. The pair of you have a good day now.”

She winked as she closed the door.

Sean looked at me. “That went better than I thought.”

I started down the steps. “That’s only because she liked you, the good Irish lad that you are,” I said, testing a brogue.

He laughed. “Jealous?”