Debbie Macomber - 92 Pacific Boulevard

“I did suggest she contact you,” Louie said, “only it turns out you were at the Rotary meeting and, fool that I am, I took the call.”

In Troy’s opinion, that was the mayor’s problem. “I’ll talk to her again, if you want.”

“I do. Apparently she’s coming to Cedar Cove on Wednesday and wants to interview the teenagers who discovered the body.”

“That is not going to happen.” Troy would do everything within his power to make sure of it. Philip Wilson, better known as Shaw, was of legal age but his name hadn’t been released to the press. Tanni Bliss, the other teenager, was still in high school. He’d contact their parents and give them a heads-up about this reporter. Both kids had been pretty shaken, as Troy recalled—Tanni more so than Philip.

“Good,” Louie said and gave a satisfied nod of his head. “You deal with this.”

“I will.”

“Do it fast. I gather she’s bringing a photographer to take a picture of the cave. She’s writing a feature story on this, and with our tourism initiatives, the timing couldn’t be worse. You’ve got to convince her there’s nothing to report.”

Troy shrugged. “Why do you suppose she’s so interested?”

“How would I know?” Louie flared. “Like I said earlier, this is bad timing. Jack’s doing a feature on tourism for the Chronicle that we hope will get picked up across the state, and this woman’s article is bound to overshadow his. Cedar Cove could do without the negative press.” He shook his head. “That’s not the half of it, either. The council just put together a request for state funds to enhance tourism in our area.” He looked up at the heavens. “Why is all of this happening now?”

Troy didn’t have an answer for him. “I’ll do my best to make it go away.”

Louie seemed slightly mollified. “I’d appreciate that.” He handed Troy a slip of paper. “In case you need it, here’s that reporter’s phone number. You try and reason with her.”

Troy sighed. The thing he’d noticed about reporters was that the more fuss he made, the keener their interest. Any bit of information he fed them was never enough; they demanded more. Then they’d dig around until they found what they wanted—or a reasonable facsimile thereof. Over the years, Troy had learned that the best policy was to say nothing, or at least nothing of substance. He was polite and cordial, but his lips were sealed.

After the mayor left, Troy hurried to his office. He’d just sat down at his desk when his cell phone chirped. He rarely received personal calls. A quick check told him it was his daughter.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he said.

“Hi, Daddy. I wanted to tell you I saw Faith.”

Hearing Faith’s name produced an instant flash of anticipation, immediately crowded out by regret.

“She gave me something for you.”

Troy sat up straighter. “She did?” He hated the hopefulness that elevated his voice.

“It’s a recipe for bran muffins.”

“Oh.” His hopes quickly deflated.

“You didn’t tell me you’d been over to her house.”

“It was a routine call. I stopped by to follow up after the break-in.”

“I think it’s terrible that someone would do that to Faith.”

Troy agreed.

“Have you seen much of her lately?” his daughter inquired. She sounded as if she’d been taking classes from a trained investigator.

“Just that once since the break-in.”

“I see,” Megan said. “Faith looked good, didn’t she?”

In Troy’s opinion, Faith always looked good. “Yes, she did,” he murmured.

“She said you really enjoyed the muffins and suggested I bake them for you.”

As he recalled, he hadn’t had anything to eat that particular morning and had skipped lunch. The fact was, he would’ve eaten sawdust if Faith had served it.

“I thought I’d bake these for you and bring them over this evening.”

“Wonderful, thank you.” A reminder of Faith was the last thing he needed.

“Can I drop them off after dinner? I mean, you’ll be home, won’t you?”

“Where else would I be?”

This was obviously an exploratory question to see if he’d be with Faith.

“Craig wanted to run a couple of errands tonight and I figured I’d go with him, then we’ll stop at your place. Should I call first?”

“No need. I’ll be home.”

“Okay.” She seemed disappointed. “I’ll see you around seven. We won’t stay long.”

“You’re welcome anytime, Megan, you know that.”

“I know,” she said.

They chatted for a few more minutes before Troy closed his cell and slipped it back inside its case. His daughter sounded better than she had since Sandy’s death. Troy was well aware that she missed her mother, but Megan had come to terms with her grief, the same way he had.

Before he went home, Troy left a message for Kathleen Sadler at the Seattle paper. For the second time, he asked that she direct all future calls to him. She probably felt Louie Benson was an easier target, but Troy planned to put a stop to that. He’d prefer the mayor not question him in the parking lot again.

On his drive home, Troy decided to swing past Rosewood Lane. He didn’t expect to see Faith, although he hoped he would. It’d been more than a week since they’d talked.

As it happened, he saw her struggling with a heavy bag of groceries, dragging them from the backseat of her car. She glanced up just as he drove slowly past. Since she’d already seen his vehicle, Troy pulled over to the curb and parked.

“Let me help you with that,” he said, moving toward her.

“I’m fine.” But even as she said it, she surrendered the two heavy bags.

Troy trailed her up the back steps and into the kitchen, where he set the groceries on the counter.

Faith stood against the stove, hands braced behind her. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” How polite and stilted they sounded, like strangers brushing past each other on the street.

“I don’t want you to think I make a habit of driving by your home, Faith,” he explained. “I’ve asked Deputy Walker to make a couple of detours this way during the course of his shift.”

“Thank you,” she said again. She lowered her gaze as if she found something on the floor of infinite interest.

“How are you sleeping?” he asked, reluctant to leave.

She didn’t answer right away. “Better,” she finally said.

“Any more unexplained noises?”

She didn’t respond.

“Faith, if there’s a problem I want to hear about it. You aren’t the kind of woman who imagines things.”

She shrugged. “It was probably nothing.”

“So you have heard something?”

“Last night …”

When she didn’t finish, Troy prompted her. “What about last night?”

“I.I thought I heard someone in the side yard. I got up and turned on the porch light and—”

“Don’t tell me you decided to investigate on your own!”

“Oh, honestly, Troy, I’m not stupid. I didn’t wait for a storm, light a candle and then go walking on the cliff’s edge like some gothic heroine, if that’s what you’re suggesting. I did phone 9-1-1, but while I waited for a patrol car I turned on the house lights and made a bunch of noise, as if I was ten people instead of just me.”

A smile tilted his lips. “Exactly how did you do that?”

“Well,” she said, grinning, too. “I banged a few pots, put the television on and started talking loudly to my imaginary son, who happens to be a professional wrestler.”

Troy laughed out loud.

“When the officer arrived, whoever was outside—if there was anyone outside—had long since left.”

Troy supposed that was why he hadn’t heard about this. He didn’t want to downplay its seriousness, nor did he want to alarm her. “Next time let the officer do his job and don’t distract the intruder. We want to catch whoever’s doing this, Faith.”