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Inn BoonsBoro
On The Square
“Looks good,” Owen commented.
“Looks damn good,” was Ryder’s opinion.
“Now all we have to do is finish it, furnish it, outfit it, staff it, and fill it with guests.” Beckett stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Should be a piece of cake, considering what we started with.”
He glanced down the street, nodded to the sign outside the gift shop. “Gifts Inn BoonsBoro. It works.”
“Mom and Madeline swear it’ll be ready for the opening Friday night.”
“As long as all we have to do is show up and eat crab balls.” Ryder shifted his gaze to the building beside the inn. “You know she’s already making noises about us getting to work on that place so we can get a bakery back in there.”
“One thing at a time. Let’s just bask,” Beckett suggested.
“Time for basking when we get it finished.” Ryder checked his watch. “And time’s wasting.”
“I need to work with Hope and the webmaster this morning.”
“While you’re at it, call Saville,” Ryder told Owen. “We’re going to be ready for them to bring in the flooring, let it acclimate.”
“It’s on my list. Beck, why don’t you check at Gifts, see if there’s anything that needs doing. Then you can grab us some coffee. It’s frigging cold today.”
“First hard frost forecast for tonight. We’ve still got exterior work to finish. Don’t sneak in the back room with Clare,” Ryder told Beckett as they left him to head across the street. “You’re on the clock.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He took another moment for a solo bask, then started down to look into the gift store.
He had to admit, it looked just fine. Warm and welcoming with its sunny walls, the displays of pottery and handcrafted jewelry, the art hanging on the walls or waiting to be hung.
He checked with Madeline, who opened more boxes of stock, and took down a short list of small chores to be finished before the opening.
Tucking the clipboard under his arm, he walked into TTP.
“Hi, Romeo. Clare’s upstairs.”
He lifted his eyebrows at Charlene—Charlie Reeder’s wife. “Romeo?”
She pursed her lips, made an exaggerated kissing sound. “You’re such a sweetie.”
“True. I need three coffees, large. I’ll go up and say hi to Clare while you’re getting that together.”
“She’ll be glad you did.”
Beckett shook his head at Charlene’s wink, wondered just what TTP put in their coffee these days. Then he climbed the creaking stairs to Clare’s office.
With the phone to her ear, she held up a finger as she offered him a big, bright smile. While she finished the call, he stepped to her window, looked out at the inn again, enjoyed seeing the sign in place.
“Beckett.”
He turned, found his arms full of her. “Thank you so much,” she said before she caught him up in a long, dreamy kiss.
Whatever they put in the coffee, he decided, he wanted some. “Okay, you’re really welcome. For what?”
“For the flowers. They’re gorgeous, and such a wonderful surprise. I made what Liam called girl sounds over them until he was forced to combat them with gagging noises. We made a real scene.”
She hugged him hard, rubbed her cheek against his. “But you should’ve come in. I’d’ve fixed you breakfast.”
“What flowers?”
She sparkled when she eased back. “As if. The roses I found on my doorstep when I took the kids to school.”
“Clare, I didn’t send you any flowers.”
“But they were—What?”
“I didn’t bring any flowers by your place this morning.”
“But the note said—”
“What did it say?”
“Always thinking of you. Oh God.” Because her knees went shaky, she sat. “There was a box, a plain white box on the doorstep, and the roses and note inside. I worried because it was so cold, but I don’t think they were there very long. They were fine. They’re beautiful. They’re not from you.”
“Have you seen him?”
“No. Well, in the grocery store yesterday, for a second I thought I did.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“I wasn’t sure. In fact I thought I’d just imagined it.” She grabbed Beckett’s hand. “Please don’t do anything. I’ll call Charlie, I’ll call him right now and tell him. But please don’t do anything. I really think the more attention we pay, the worse it’ll be.”
“Call Charlie. Next time, if you think you see him, you call me.”
“I will. I promise. I—He’s sent flowers before.”
“When?”
“My birthday. Always red roses, like these, but I really thought . . . And he’s always signed his name before. Beckett, he’s shown up at the grocery store a few times, which was why I thought I’d imagined seeing him there—after what happened, then your truck. I thought I was just spooking myself.”
“Where else?” Beckett asked, his voice deadly calm. “Where else has he just shown up?”
“Oh.” Rocking a little, she rubbed her temples. “Oh God, when I think about it that way . . . Okay. I’ve run into him at the mall a few times, but I run into people I know there now and then, so I never thought much of it. Outside the bank, more than once.”
He watched her thinking it through, watched her go pale thinking it through.
“In the pharmacy parking lot, in the nursery where I buy my plants. Other places, too, I see that now. Just like I see he always seems to show up when it’s just me. Not when I have the kids along, or Avery or my mother, or anyone.”
She paused a moment. “That’s not coincidence.”
“No, it damn well isn’t. It’s stalking. Tell Charlie everything. And Clare, I’ll be coming by your house every day after work until this stops.”
“I’m not going to argue. The flowers.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “There’s something just not right about a man who’d send flowers after all this. It’s not just being a pest.”
“I don’t think it ever was. Make sure you tell Charlene and the others about this. And don’t work in the store alone.”
“God.” She rubbed her forehead. “No, you’re right. I just need to settle down and think this through. I’ll call Charlie now.”
“I’m right across the street. Keep your phone with you.”
“I will. Beckett? You be careful, too. He might try to do something, something more than damage your truck.”
“Don’t worry.”
But she did. Even after she’d talked to the town deputy, she worried. She called Avery, and at her friend’s insistence they went together to retrieve the box, the note, the flowers—all of which they took to the police station.
“Beckett’s right. Sam’s a gutless bastard, but it’s better if you’re not alone—at work, at home. Anywhere for now.”
“Avery, you don’t really think he’d try something?”
“I honestly don’t know, so we’re not taking any chances. You lock your car doors when you’re in it, when it’s parked—and your house, too. Not just when you leave or at night. Promise.”
“You don’t have to worry about that. I’m not ignoring it, but I’m going to let him think I am. The less he believes I’m affected, the sooner he’ll stop.”
Maybe, maybe not, Avery thought, and watched Clare walk back to the bookstore, waited until she was inside before crossing over to the inn.
She found all three Montgomery brothers in a conference in the half-finished kitchen. “Looks great,” she said briefly. “We have to talk.”
“We’re in the middle of something here,” Ryder began. “We’re going to head over to your place in about an hour. What the hell color are you wearing this week?”
Avery pushed a hand over her hair. “Cherry Cola, it’s a little intense.”
“What’s wrong with your regular hair?” Owen wanted to know.
; “I’ve worn it nearly thirty years. Do you have anything you’ve worn almost thirty years? And that’s not why I’m here. We have to talk now. Clare and I took those damn flowers over to the police station, but I don’t know what the hell they can do about it.”
“I don’t know what the hell we can do about it.” Owen shoved his measuring tape back in his tool belt. “What we’d like to do at this point would get us five to ten.”
“Breaking his legs isn’t the answer anyway, which is too bad. Look, Sam gets these obsessions. He zeroed in on me a while back.”
“When?” Owen demanded. “What?”
“Back when I was just opening the shop—that was before Clare moved back. And it wasn’t as whacked as this. He used to come in while I was working on the setup. People were in and out all day back then. Telling him he was in the way or I was busy wasn’t enough to shake him off. He’s like a frigging blood leech.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
She shrugged at Owen. “It didn’t last long, maybe a couple of weeks. Listen, Clare’s default is polite; my polite wears faster. I cured him one day when I told him if he didn’t leave me the hell alone Luther would brand his balls. Luther,” she said, speaking of the blacksmith, “was working on the vents at the time. Luther’s not going to brand anybody’s balls, but he looks like he could.”
“Pretty good thinking,” Owen decided.
