Certain she would end up covered with paint, Dylan took the tape from her and turned her hands palms-up to check. Sure enough, blue stripes. He handed her a rag from his back pocket. “Is it being repaired?”

“No.” Her bottom lip dipped down into a brief pout. “The transmission’s shot. Turley said it would cost more to fix than it’s worth.” Wiping her hands on the cloth, she pulled back a tarp corner to sit on the edge of the bed.

He took over the tape-removal task, eager for a diversion that turned his attention away from her body. “So, do you need a ride somewhere?”

“No, thanks. I have Gran’s car.”

“Are you going out? Will you be gone long?” Will you bring back food, he almost asked, but remembered the terms of his occupancy. No meals.

“I’m going to visit Granddad.” She folded her hands in her lap a little too studiously. “And then Gran and I are going out to dinner.”

The forced nonchalance warned him something was up. “With a friend?”

“Yes and my stepfather.” The sweetness of her smile would have surpassed those of angels. “Would you like to join us?”

He scowled. “Is Clayton the friend?”

She hesitated before admitting, “Yes.”

“Then, no.” He’d rather eat ground glass than have Clayton’s company for dinner.

“You’ll have to face him sooner or later.”

“Not tonight.” He tossed the ball of masking tape into a trash bag. “I need to take a shower and check on how the market closed.”

“Ri-ight.” She stood and smoothed her skirt, obviously not buying his excuse.

“Where’s MacDuff? You want me to keep an eye on him?”

“He’s over at my place.”

“Your place? Where’s that?”

She moved toward the door. “Over the carriage house. It’s where my mom and I lived when I was growing up. Gran saves it for me to use when I’m here. Nearby but separate.”

Good. They wouldn’t be sleeping under the same roof. Less temptation that way. “See you tomorrow then.”

“There’s a spare key on a hook in the laundry room. Lock up if you go anywhere.” She wiggled her fingers at him over her shoulder as she left.

He looked around curiously. Either the sun had chosen that moment to drop below the horizon or Gracie’s departure caused the light in the room to dim.

A couple of hours later, Dylan drove the Navigator down East Langden’s main commercial strip looking for dinner. All five blocks of it. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, keeping time to a tune on the rental car’s radio.

The street exuded an odd combination of prosperity and decay with signs of renovation interspersed among empty storefronts. A trendy coffee shop sat opposite an old-style bakery. A dusty hardware store rubbed up against a Fresh Market. Boutiques and antique shops interrupted a block of unoccupied buildings like the intermittent teeth in a jack-o-lantern’s smile.

Vague memories had haunted him when he drove through town earlier that day. A nagging recollection of holding his father’s hand while visiting local stores. His mouth watered, remembering a double-chocolate brownie he’d devoured while natives tousled his hair and shook hands with his dad in the yeasty-smelling bakeshop.

He added a stop at the bakery to his list of places to visit. Maybe that would jog loose other memories of his father. He had so few. If a closed sign hadn’t hung on the door, he would have circled right back to it.

Stomach growling, he turned his attention toward locating his next meal. A faded diner with plastic booths didn’t appeal to him. McStone’s Pub across from the town hall seemed the most promising until he reached the waterfront. A weathered sign that read Lulu’s Lobster Pot drew his eye. A steady stream of customers paraded through the building’s front door, encouraging him to give it a try.

Inside, rows of trestle tables marched down each side of the dining room. Framed and autographed photos decorated one long wall. A line of locals snaked beside it, waiting to give their orders to a woman behind the counter wearing a hairnet and Betty Boop make-up. Dylan scanned the menu painted on the wall above her head.

The choice was limited to small, medium, large, or jumbo lobster, herb bread, and the day’s side dish scrawled in chalk beneath the permanent menu. Not exactly fine dining. It looked clean and smelled delicious, but waiting in line didn’t appeal to him. He began backing out the door when an elderly foursome crept in, blocking his path. While he waited for them to clear the path, a raised hand to his right drew his attention.

Gracie.

She waved at him and pointed him out to Mrs. Lattimer and an older man. And Clayton.

Damn. The very person he’d hoped to avoid. He could leave with a clear conscience if he pretended not to see them. Dylan edged toward the door, but a barrel of a man emerged from behind the service counter and rolled forward.

“Dylan Bradford!” A meaty paw landed on his shoulder, anchoring him in place. “I’m Jake Armstrong, the owner and proprietor of the Lobster Pot, as long as Lulu—” he nodded toward the Betty Boop up front “—doesn’t hear me say so. The wife likes to think she’s in-charge just because her name’s on the sign. Har-har-har.” The booming laugh and elbow in the ribs underscored the jest. The brawny fellow drew a kerchief from his back pocket and blotted his red face.

“I knew your father. A fine man. Come with me. I’ll fix you up with the best and biggest lobster that ever found its way out of the sea and into your mouth.”

By this time, others in the restaurant had turned to point and stare. Dylan decided to bail out of The Lobster Pot. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Armstrong. Thanks for the offer, but I’m—”

“He’s meeting friends, and he’s late.” Gracie stepped up and linked her arm through his. “He’ll have the Number Three, Jake. We’re already seated, so if you’ll bring his order over when it’s ready, we’d be grateful.”

“Wonderful, wonderful!” Jake hustled away. “The Number Three! With extra bread! Coming right up.”

Chapter Six

“Thanks... I think,” Dylan said out of the side of his mouth as Gracie led him forward. Despite her motives, it would be rude to decamp now. “Where are the taciturn natives I’ve heard so much about?”

“Oh, they exist,” she said, “but Jake’s only lived here thirty years, so he doesn’t count. Sit there by Gran.”

At least she hadn’t placed him next to Clayton, although sitting across from him might be worse. Now the Bradford wannabe could glare at him throughout the meal. After Gracie settled on the bench beside the man, she introduced Dylan to the fourth member of the group.

“This is my stepfather David Collier.” Gracie smiled warmly, but the older man’s stony expression didn’t alter. “David raised Clay after his mother’s disappearance, you know.”

“How do you do, Dr. Collier?” Dylan recognized the name from the detective’s report, but he pounced on the new information that Clayton’s foster father was also Gracie’s stepfather. So what did that make Gracie and Clayton? Closer in more ways than Dylan had originally thought. Maybe not so close in others.

The older doctor nodded as they shook hands. David Collier had the kind of wise, distinguished face that Dylan always pictured his father having, if he had lived another couple of decades. But even when his father had died in his forties, the corners of his eyes held crinkles from smiling, and this man’s never would. No matter how long he lived.

Like they were the audience for a dinner theater production, the other diners leaned forward to listen in on the conversation. So much for Dylan’s plan of nosing around quietly. “I’d like to speak with you privately in the next few days if you have the time, sir.”

“All right” was all Dr. Collier said. At last, one of those taciturn natives.