After Caroline (11 page)

After a moment’s thought, Joanna nodded to herself. Shopping, of course. Tourists always shopped. So she’d just stroll into town and see what all the stores had to offer. And talk to people.

Griffin’s warning aside—and damn the man for assuming she had the sensitivity of a stone!—Joanna had no intention of asking direct questions about Caroline, not unless whoever she was talking to brought up the subject first. Which most anyone was likely to do, given the resemblance, of course. Still, she was unlikely to cause anyone
pain by talking about a subject they brought up themselves.

“Well, it’s about time you—”

Joanna turned around, surprised, to encounter Holly’s surprise.

“Oh, sorry. You know, I hate to tell you this, Joanna, but not only do you look like Caroline from the front, you look like Amber from behind.”

“Amber? You mean that girl who runs around here in shorts?”

“That’s her. I was going to tell her it was about time she packed away her shorts—only it was you.”

“She has to be ten years younger than me,” Joanna objected. “And you can’t possibly believe I move like her. Please say you don’t believe that.”

Holly chuckled. “No, no. It’s just that your hair is the same shade and length, and you have the same build. She’s probably at least a couple of inches shorter, but with the heels, who can be sure?”

Joanna sighed. “That’s all I need, to look like somebody else. Is there a hairstyling salon around here? Maybe I could dye my hair flaming red.”

Holly laughed again. “Don’t do anything rash.”

“Oh, I won’t. I’m a very prudent woman, not given to doing rash things.”
Except flying three thousand miles to get to know a dead woman
…

“Another lesson from Aunt Sarah?” Holly asked curiously.

It was Joanna’s turn to chuckle. “One of many. Always think things through—and sit up straight, and get your elbows off the table.”

Holly pursed her lips in a considering manner. “I’d say that Aunt Sarah taught valuable lessons.”

“I’ve learned to value them,” Joanna said. “She also taught me to be a shrewd and energetic shopper. How’re the stores in town?”

“Eager for your business,” Holly replied cheerfully. “Honest, though, the clothes at On the Corner are first-rate;
the manager gets them from L. A. and San Francisco—even New York, Atlanta, and New Orleans. And if you’re looking for things rather than clothes, try One More Thing; it’s a little antique shop, and sometimes they have some really great stuff. Both places are on Main Street, like most of the shopping in the area.”

“Sounds good, thanks.”

With a slightly guilty expression, Holly said, “I should probably tell you that the owner of The Inn also owns On the Corner. But I don’t get kickbacks for sending customers in, I promise.”

“Too honest for your own good, I see.”

Holly sighed. “Just a highly developed sense of guilt.”

“Well, never mind. I need a new sweater, especially if the temperature stays this chilly, and On the Corner sounds like just the place to get one.”

“They have some beautiful sweaters.” Holly smiled at her. “And they’ll deliver here if you don’t want to carry shopping bags.”

“Terrific. Then I’ll walk into town instead of driving. Thanks a lot, Holly.”

“My pleasure. Have fun, Joanna.”

Waving to the brunette, Joanna went back into the hotel so that she could get her purse and go out the front of the building to take the most direct route into town. Within five minutes, she was back outside and on her way to town, walking briskly. It did occur to her almost idly that the man and woman who had mistaken her for Caroline in Atlanta were possibly managers or buyers from a couple of the stores here or had some other type of job that had taken them three thousand miles away.

Or else there had been some bizarre coincidences at work.

Joanna felt distinctly wary of encountering those two people here in Cliffside. Because once she did, it would undoubtedly take no time at all for the news to get round town that she had been mistaken for Caroline in Atlanta—which made her decision to “vacation” here suspect, to say
the least. Still, there was nothing she could do about the situation except hope they were still away and would remain away for the next couple of weeks.

Joanna reached town after ten minutes or so, having encountered no one. The place was neat, with clean streets and sidewalks and attractive storefronts. It took her only a moment to find the sign for On the Corner at the end of the next block.

But she lost all interest in clothes at the first store she came to, and stopped on the sidewalk as though she’d run into a wall. The store itself was not particularly interesting to her; it appeared to specialize in wicker things, from baskets to furniture. But in the front window, propped on a brass easel, was the painting from Joanna’s dream.

“Of course, we had to have it,” Kellie Hayes told Joanna as they both stood admiring the painting. “The little girl in a field of flowers, that basket in her lap. We thought it’d be perfect for the store. Mr. Barlow didn’t want to sell it, but he finally agreed to let us display it in the window. Of course, he doesn’t need to sell everything he paints—so much money these artists make at big shows in San Francisco and New York!—and he said this was a favorite, so not for sale at any price.”

“I don’t recognize his name, but I know nothing about modern artists,” Joanna said. “Is he very famous?” This had to be important, she thought. The painting done by a local artist had to mean something, or else why had it been a part of the dream? What was the connection to Caroline?

“Oh, yes, dear, very famous. And he never does seascapes, isn’t that odd with him living on the coast? It’s his portraits he’s famous for, people all over the country have commissioned him to paint them. He does things like this one, of course, to please himself, and I’ve heard he accepts a student now and then, though I’ve never seen strangers about his place. But anyway, he’s been in lots of magazines about artists and art. They do say he’s even one of the
artists under consideration to paint the president’s portrait. Can you imagine? Not that he’d be impressed, of course.”

“Wouldn’t he?”

“Oh, I don’t think so. He’s a very charming man, Mr. Barlow, and handsome, but he does have a way of looking at you sometimes that makes you feel he might be laughing at you inside. Not really unkind, just as if he thinks most of life is a pretty good joke.”

“You sound as if you know him very well. So, he’s lived here a long time?” Joanna kept her voice casual.

“Let me see, when did he buy his little house?” Kellie frowned in thought as she gazed at the painting. “It must have been four or five years ago, at least. He only spent summers here the first few years. Then, about a year ago, well…”

Joanna nodded encouragingly. “Something changed?” She had always been able to “read” most people quickly with a kind of intuitive understanding, and Joanna was leaning on that ability heavily right now. Within a minute of saying hello, she had known that Kellie would happily talk about anything or anyone suggested to her; she was a born gossip and likely to be completely aware of everybody’s dirt.

Kellie laughed. “Well, I guess it’s no secret. It was obvious that Mr. Barlow noticed Holly Drummond sometime that summer—have you met her yet, Joanna? She manages The Inn—and when fall came, well, he just stayed on. They make a very nice couple, though people do say he’ll never marry her and she’s wasting her time thinking otherwise. Personally, though, I think there’s something that keeps him here, and she’s such a bright, pretty girl.”

“You’re probably right,” Joanna told her. “Um … is there another place in town that displays Mr. Barlow’s work?”

“Oh, no, dear, he says he’s not about to become Cliff-side’s local artist and have the tourists taking pictures of him. But if you’re interested, I think Sam might have something you can look at. He runs the bookstore two doors
down, you see, and I believe he has a book with pictures of some of Mr. Barlow’s work in it.” Kellie smiled.

Joanna bought a basket.

“I must say, you look an awful lot like Mrs. McKenna,” Sam Atherton said, shaking his head. He seemed a bit wary, but the resemblance clearly intrigued him, and he couldn’t take his eyes off Joanna. “She was a nice lady—and a regular customer. Was always in here buying books, mostly for Regan. That little girl does love to read—and what a vivid imagination. Do you know, she once told me there were fairies living beneath the cliffs?”

“With me, it was always trolls,” Joanna said, following him toward a rear corner of his crowded bookstore. “There was a bridge near the house where I lived, and I was convinced trolls lived under it.”

His smile was perfunctory. “Sounds like you and little Regan would get along fine. Me, the most I ever imagined was that I played shortstop for the Giants. Here you go, Joanna—this book has quite a lot about Cain Barlow in it.”

“Good, just what I wanted,” she said, taking the fairly heavy book from him. “And do you have some kind of history of the area?”

“Sure,” he said after what seemed to her a slight hesitation. “Over here, against the wall…” He led the way to the other side of the store, still talking casually—and still glancing at Joanna. “I guess you’re probably tired of hearing that you look like Mrs. McKenna, but it really is the most amazing thing. People can’t stop talking about it.”

“I can’t help being interested in her,” Joanna said.

“I guess you would be. Can’t say that I knew her all that well, even though she’d been a customer for years. She was always nice, like I said, but she didn’t talk about herself.”

He was trying, Joanna thought, but she wasn’t really buying his disinterest. Whether he knew more about Caroline than he was willing to say or had merely disliked her and didn’t want to reveal that, it seemed clear to Joanna
that he wasn’t being nearly as open and casual as he seemed to be. She had the distinct impression that he was weighing every “casual” word before he spoke it, and that he wouldn’t give away anything he didn’t want her to know.

But why? What was it he didn’t want her to know?

“What about Mr. McKenna?” she asked, casual herself.

Sam’s rugged face never changed expression, but his eyes went shuttered and his voice turned decidedly cool. “Well, about him I couldn’t say much at all. Not much of a reader. He comes in now and again, but not often. Always perfectly pleasant, but … kind of cold, I guess you’d say.”

Definitely doesn’t like Scott McKenna, and doesn’t care if I see it
. “He owns a lot in town, doesn’t he?”

“Oh, yeah. The lumber mill about ten miles from here. Quite a bit of land. On the Corner and a couple of other stores. The Inn and several cottages he rents out summers. And then there’s the greenhouse.” Sam frowned, those guarded eyes briefly narrowed. “You know, that’s kind of funny now that I think about it. All the things he owns in this town, and the greenhouse is the only thing Scott McKenna put his name on.” He looked at the shelf in front of him and pulled out a book. “Here you go, Joanna—the best history of the area that I carry.”

“Thanks, Sam.” Joanna went to the counter with him to pay for the books, still chatting casually, this time about nothing in particular. Sam wasn’t the only one who could present a calm and untroubled front, she decided. She could too. But inside, she felt more than a little uneasy. Maybe she was just being fanciful, imagining an ominous meaning behind what was likely no more than the natural wariness toward a stranger, but she couldn’t help thinking that there was no reason for Sam to be guarded with her … or was there?

A few minutes later, she stood outside the store on the sidewalk, the two books—bagged—in her basket, and eyed the next store. She’d found one gossip who would no
doubt talk to a post, and one bookseller who had talked without saying very much at all; what could she expect to find in the old-fashioned drugstore besides a soda fountain?