to know how you happened to get in touch with him.”
“Well, that’s an easy question. We talked on the telephone.”
“Just like that? After all these years?”
“I’ve kept track of Michael,” her grandpa admitted.
If Annie had heard those words eleven years ago, possibly even eight or seven years ago, she would have been devastated. Michael had meant so much to her. He was the only person, other than Lionel, she’d trusted after the death of her parents. When Michael had abandoned her without a word, she’d lost her first true love and her best friend.
But she’d made her peace with the past and had moved on with her life. If her grandpa and Michael had been pen-pals, and kept it from her, she wouldn’t let it matter. But she still didn’t want him staying at the house, raking up old memories. “Grandpa, this isn’t a real convenient time for Michael to visit.”
“You misunderstand, Annie. He’s not here for a visit. Michael came here to help take care of me. Just until I get rid of this dang clumsy walker and can stand on my own two feet.”
She glanced at Michael, who stood with infuriating calm, observing their conversation. Annie tried to equal his cool detachment. She knew nothing about him. They’d been apart far longer than they’d been together. “Are you some kind of medical professional?”
“No,” he said.
“Not a doctor or a male nurse?”
“No.”
She turned back to Lionel. “We don’t need Michael. You have a physical therapist coming by three times a week, and I’m here. Grandpa, that’s why I took a leave of absence. To help you.”
“Well, honey, I’m just not comfortable with you doing some things for me. It needs to be another man. I got to have help getting dressed. Getting in and out of the bathtub.”
“I can do those things,” she protested. “My arm is going to be healed in no time, and I’m plenty strong.”
“That’s not the point, Annie.”
It sure as heck was! “We don’t need—”
“I want Michael to stay.”
Too agitated to stand still, she crossed the room to his rumpled bed and began pulling the covers together. “If you really need a man to help, we can hire somebody. Maybe one of the football players from the high school.”
“No,” Lionel said firmly. “That’s not who I am in this town. I can’t have folks thinking of me as a helpless old codger. I got plans for the future, and they don’t include being tended to by some teenager I don’t even know.”
“I won’t get in the way,” Michael said smoothly. “Lionel says you have a guest bedroom downstairs.”
Viciously she plumped the pillows on his bed. Their plans were made. She had no choice but to accept Michael’s presence, but she didn’t have to like it.
The telephone on the bedside table rang, and Annie snatched up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Hi, Annie. I heard you were back in town. This is Jake Stillwell. Remember me?”
“Of course I do.” She could hardly forget Jake Stillwell. Not only was he blond and good-looking, but he was the only son of the richest family in Bridgeport, the owners of the last remaining lumber mill.
“I’d like to get together while you’re in town. Maybe tomorrow night?”
But he was married to Candace Grabow, the most popular girl in school and the bounciest cheerleader in the history of the Bridgeport Badgers. And, Annie remembered belatedly, Candace was the daughter of Edna who ran the local minimart. “You’re married, Jake.”
“Divorced,” he said. “How about it, Annie? We can have dinner. I know a nice little place on the coast.”
“Sounds lovely, but I’ll have to take a rain check. Until my grandpa is settled in, I don’t want to be away from the house for too long.”
“I understand,” he said. “Give me a call when you’re ready to go out.”
“Sure thing.”
She hung up the receiver. Both Lionel and Michael stared at her with wary eyes.
“Jake,” Michael said disgustedly. “Was that Jake Stillwell?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“You can’t go out with him, Annie.”
She gaped, unable to comprehend his colossal arrogance. “Are you presuming to tell me what I can and cannot do?”
“All I’m saying is that you shouldn’t date any of the guys in town until we know what’s going on with Bateman.”
“Get real! There’s no way scum like Bateman is somehow involved with the Stillwell family.”
“We don’t know,” Michael said. “You were attacked four days ago in Salem. Was it Bateman?”
That thought had been gradually forming in the back of her mind. Her confrontation with Bateman on the street had been very similar to the mugging. It felt the same. But the shapeless poncho had disguised her assailant’s girth, and his face was distorted by the nylon stocking. “I can’t make a positive identification.”
“Could it have been someone else?”
“Yes,” she conceded. “But it seems unlikely, especially since Bateman has a history of attacking police officers.”
Lionel said, “Bateman might be working with somebody else. A long time ago, when he was arrested, he was part of a gang. Michael is right. Until we know what’s going on, you should be very careful about who you spend time with.”
Once again the two of them had united against her with an outrageous plan. She glanced between them. “Well, boys, if Bateman is part of some sort of conspiracy, I suggest you leave the detective work to me. After all, I am a trained policewoman. You, Lionel, are a retired football coach, and you…” She focused on Michael. “I don’t know what you are.”
“I captain a charter vessel based in Seattle.”
“So, you’re not a professional detective.” She made a slashing motion with her good hand. “End of story. If anybody is going to be investigating around here, it’s me.”
“You and Mikey could work together,” Lionel said. “Like partners.”
“I don’t think so.” She turned on her heel and headed toward the door. “I’ll be in my bedroom.”
“What about dinner?” Lionel asked.
“Michael wants to be your little helper. Let him cook.”
Head held high, she crossed the upstairs landing to her bedroom, closed the door and fell backward across the hand-stitched blue-and-white quilt. She stared up at the ceiling. Less than an hour ago she’d seen Bridgeport as a peaceful sanctuary with sheltering forests and hummingbirds sipping nectar. Now it was chaos. Her inner turmoil twirled like a kaleidoscope centered on the flower-patterned light fixture.
She closed her eyes, settled down and almost immediately realized she was hungry. Unfortunately, after her high-handed exit, she didn’t feel ready for another encounter. She’d wait to eat until after Lionel and Michael had gone to bed.
She checked her wristwatch. It was only half-past seven. How late would they stay up?
After taking a shower, washing her hair, adjusting the splintlike cast on her arm and dressing for bed in a satin pastel nightgown, which was—as she readily admitted—an overly feminine reaction to her daytime uniform, she could still hear the rumble of male voices from the bedroom across the hall. There was also laughter. Her grandpa and Michael were sharing