Page 159 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

He set her suitcase down by the door and indicated the sofa. “Have a seat. Would you care for a cup of tea or a soda? We’re not completely uncivilized here.”

“No, thank you.”

He smiled faintly, and Becca found herself scrutinizing him. She judged him to be in his mid-thirties, and there were lines etched around his mouth that reminded her of the pain he’d suffered with the loss of his wife, Becca’s cousin Laura.

“Do I pass muster?” His sardonic tone broke her reverie.

Becca’s face grew hot, and she looked away. “I’m eager to get to work. History is my passion, and I’m thankful for the opportunity to help you.”

“I admit I’m leery of the whole thing, but it’s time I got back to writing, and I don’t have time for all the research. I hope it works out.” He crossed one jean-clad leg over another. “I have a feeling you and I are going to mix about as well as sailors and society matrons.”

Becca bit down on her angry words, her jaw aching from the effort to keep silent. If she’d had any other choice, she would have turned and stalked out the door. “I’ll do my best to do my job and stay out of your way,” she said in an even tone.

“The only thing I question is your sanity. Why would you be willing to bury yourself on this island? Running from a broken heart?” He said the last with a trace of mockery, and she stiffened.

“I like solitude. This place reminds me of the house my grandparents owned when I was a child.”

“I think there’s more than you’re telling me. But I’m desperate, so you’ll have to do. Your pay is room and board plus a thousand dollars a month. That suit you?”

“It suits, Mr. Duncan. One other thing. I haven’t set up a bank account yet, so if you could pay me in cash, that would make things easier.”

“Fine, but call me Max.” He rose and beckoned her to follow him with a crooked finger. “I’ll introduce you to the housekeeper. She’ll see to your needs.”

Becca followed him down the hall to the kitchen. A short woman, almost as round as she was tall, was kneading dough on a rough wooden table. She looked to be about sixty, and her ample hips and stomach pressed against the flour-covered gingham dress she wore.

Moxie Jeffries. Becca had hoped she was gone by now. Her dour stories of her Ojibwa heritage legends had haunted Becca’s dreams for years.

Her dark eyes narrowed when she saw Becca, and Becca had to force herself to meet the woman’s gaze dispassionately. She prayed the housekeeper wouldn’t recognize her.

“Moxie, this is my new research assistant, Becca Lynn. Becca, this is our housekeeper, Moxie Jeffries. Her brother Morgan is the groundskeeper.”

Moxie Jeffries grunted and jerked her head. “If she can organize your notes, she’s a miracle worker.” Her dark eyes perused Becca’s face. “You look familiar to me.”

Panic tightened Becca’s chest. She couldn’t be recognized, not right from the start. “How strange,” she said feebly.

Mrs. Jeffries shrugged. “It will come to me.”

Becca could only pray it didn’t. “I’m looking forward to my stay.”

She offered her hand and almost winced at the woman’s iron grip. A smug smile teased the corners of Mrs. Jeffries’ mouth, and Becca realized the woman meant to hurt her with her crushing grip. Uneasy, she tugged her hand loose and turned to Max.

“I think it’s time I got unpacked and ready for my duties.” She wanted to get away from Mrs. Jeffries’ suspicious stare. She doubted the woman recognized her, but it would be best to stay out of her way, just in case.

Max nodded. “Moxie will show you to your room. You can meet the rest of the group over dinner. They’re all out on the boat this afternoon. I’m sure they’ll be ecstatic at the relief from boredom your presence will bring—at least for a few hours. I’ll bring up your suitcase in a few minutes.”

A reprieve. Already exhausted, Becca followed the housekeeper, tripped over the first step. She hated being clumsy. If only she could be like her sister Wynne, small, dainty and graceful as a swan. Regaining her composure, she gripped the handrail to make sure she didn’t stumble again.

She made a familiar turn at the top of the stairs then stared. Her eyes blurred with tears as Mrs. Jeffries stopped in front of the second door down. Becca’s old room.

It seemed too good to be true she’d be housed in her childhood room. Becca moved slowly down the hall and stood in the doorway looking at the same space she’d occupied as a child. The wallpaper’s yellow pattern had faded a bit more, but she’d forgotten the mellow tones of the oak casing around the windows and door. The books she’d read as a child occupied the small bookshelf under the window.

She stepped into the room. Ancient lace festooned the canopy bed, and she remembered lying here and studying the pattern in the lace. Her grandmother had made the canopy and coverlet for the bed when she was still a young bride, some fiftyyears ago. Becca touched the lace and let it drape through her fingers. The fine cotton felt soft.

Tears burned the back of her throat. The last time she’d been here, her mother had come in to pray with her before bed. Becca could almost imagine she could smell her mother’s perfume here. Had Mom stayed in this room before the explosion?

She moved into a dapple of sunlight that warmed the oak floors. The Aubusson carpet under the bed looked different, but maybe she just didn’t remember it. Becca bounced on the bed then kicked off her shoes.

“Anything else?”

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