Shirlee McCoy - Little Girl Lost

“Our age. So, say no.”

“I tried, but Mr. Dugal takes a lot of pride in making sure every woman in Stoneley gets the opportunity. Apparently, he’s decided it’s my turn.”

“And you didn’t want to hurt his feelings so you said yes.”

“Actually, Aunt Winnie accepted for me. She thought it might cheer me up. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.”

“In that case, I forgive you for being a push over. And at least you won’t go down in history as the oldest Winter Fest princess. Wasn’t Jenny Wilcomb sixty-five?” Rissa yawned again, her eyes shadowed with fatigue.

“Forty, but thanks for trying to make me feel better. Now, stop yawning. You’re making me tired.”

“Sorry. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Me, neither.”

“I doubt anyone did. We were probably all worrying about the same thing.” Rissa dropped down onto the bed and threw her arm over her eyes. “Mother.”

“And Garrett McGraw.”

“And how much Father really knows about all of this.”

“I think he knows a lot.” Portia expected Rissa to agree and was surprised when her twin turned to face her. They were eye to eye, just inches apart the way they had been so many times when they were children and had something important to discuss.

“If he did, I don’t want to know.”

“How can you not?”

“Because if he’s lied all this time, that means he’s kept us from knowing our mother. I don’t think I can handle that.”

“You’re one of the strongest people I know, Rissa. Of course you can handle it.”

“I’m glad someone has faith in me.” She pushed up from the bed. “I think I’m going to hide out in my room today. I’ll see you at the parade tonight.”

“Hide out? Are you okay?” Worry brought Portia to her feet.

“Yeah, just working on my new play.” Rissa pushed open the door and stepped out into the dark hall, her expression hidden by shadows. “Another week or two and I should have it done.”

“I thought you were here for a vacation.”

“I’m here for Aunt Winnie. And for you.”

And if it weren’t for them, Rissa wouldn’t have come at all. She didn’t say the words, but Portia knew the truth. In recent years it had been she, not Rissa, who’d pushed the idea of returning to Stoneley for Winter Fest. Next year, Rissa might not return at all. The thought made Portia sadder than it should have, and she smiled, trying to hide her feelings. “We know. And we appreciate it. Now, go get your work done, or you’ll be blaming me when you fall behind schedule.”

Portia watched Rissa disappear into her room, then closed her own door. Though the twins had always been in sync, Portia’s affection for the town she’d grown up in had never made sense to Rissa. As far as she was concerned, they were well rid of Blanchard Manor and of Stoneley.

And maybe she was right.

But driving through the town, visiting the places she’d loved so much as a child, always felt like a homecoming in a way returning to New York never did.

Portia sighed and shook her head, grabbing clothes and a handful of jewelry. She needed to get out of the house, get some fresh air, not sit around moping about things she couldn’t change.

Twenty minutes later, she was on her way, driving the vintage VW Bug she’d bought a few years ago, the scent of her aunt’s homemade cookies and fudge wafting through the vehicle and making her stomach growl. She thought about snagging one of the oatmeal raisin cookies she’d seen Winnie pack, but the Winter Fest parade committee consisted of several women who weren’t above counting cookies to make sure each volunteer had brought the proper number of snacks. If Winnie’s offering was off by a cookie or two, she’d be the talk of the committee for months.

Maybe Portia would stop by Beaumont Beanery instead. Coffee and a Danish would go a long way toward waking her up. The thought cheered her and she hummed along with the radio, the lightening sky and crisp white clouds that sprinkled it making up for the long, restless night she’d had.

Today would be a better day than yesterday. A better day than the day before. As a matter of fact, Portia planned to make this the best day of the new year. She was still thinking that as the engine stalled and died.

Mick was running late. Ten minutes late, to be exact, the constant ringing of his cell phone reminding him again and again that he had twenty eleventh- and twelfth-graders waiting at the church for his arrival. He grabbed the phone, answering it for the fifth time in as many minutes. “Campbell here.”

“You know you’re supposed to be at the church.” Roy Marcell, chief of police, good friend and co-leader of the church’s youth group sounded as irritated as Mick felt.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Just thought I’d make sure.”

“You and ten other people. It’s been a rough morning.”

“Katie have trouble getting out of bed?”

“No, she had trouble finding matching shoes.”

“Yeah, I remember those days. So, what’s your ETA?”

“Ten minutes. Sooner if you’ve got coffee.”

“You’re in luck, so get here fast. The bus’ll be here in fifteen.”

“Right.” Mick tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and rubbed the ache in his neck. When he’d volunteered to chaperone the youth group’s ice-fishing trip, he hadn’t planned to be heading a murder investigation at the same time. Five hours wasn’t much time to lose, but it felt like too much when McGraw’s widow and children were waiting for answers regarding his death.

He grimaced, rounded a curve in the road and braked hard as a neon-green Volkswagen Beetle appeared in front of him. The SUV fishtailed, but held the road as Mick maneuvered to the shoulder, his heart pounding with adrenaline.

He swung open the door and strode toward the car, watching as a woman stepped out. “Need some help?”

“It died on me. I think I’ll need a tow.” The voice was familiar, and Mick took in the delicate features, black curly hair and dark eyes. It could have been either of the twins, but somehow Mick knew it was Portia. Maybe it was the clothes—dark pants paired with a multi-colored coat—or maybe it was the tilt of her chin, the hint of laughter in her eyes. Whatever the case, he had no doubt which twin he was speaking to.

“You’re out and about early.”

“I could say the same about you, Detective.”

“Mick, remember? Have you tried to start the car up since it stalled?”

“Not yet.”

“Mind if I try?”

“Go ahead.” She passed him the keys, her hands encased in fuzzy pink mittens that Kaitlyn would have loved. Somehow on Portia they worked, the quirky fabric adding to her unique style.

“Nice mittens.”

“You’re the first person over ten years old to say so.”

“Yeah? Well, don’t let it get around. I wouldn’t want to ruin my tough-cop reputation.” He slid into the Bug, the sound of her laughter following him and making him want to turn and watch the amusement playing out on her face.

But he didn’t have the time, and not just because he was running late. A woman like Portia would need lots of attention. More than a man with a six-year-old daughter could give. Though Mick had to admit, he might be tempted to try if she didn’t live a few hundred miles away. Being married to Rebecca had taught him an important lesson. A relationship with a woman who traveled more than she was home didn’t work for him. He doubted a long-distance relationship would be any different.

He turned the key in the ignition, heard a quiet click and knew he was about to add a few more minutes to his ETA. “Looks like it’s not budging. Where were you headed?”

“Town hall. Aunt Winnie asked me to drop off a few things for the parade tonight.”