“He’s really a good man at heart.” Gracie pressed her hand to Dylan’s arm.

He covered her fingers with his. She looked down at their entwined hands for a moment before peeking up at him with a look that went straight to his heart.

“Oh, ho!” Tanya’s attention bounced between them like a ping-pong ball. “It’s like that, is it?”

“Like what?” Gracie should never try to play poker. Bluffing was obviously not her strong suit.

“You know.” Tanya’s voice held a world of implication. “No wonder Clay was upset.” Then her face fell. “Poor Clay.”

Dylan had heard enough about ‘poor Clay.’

Chapter Sixteen

Dylan looked at his watch and spared Gracie from making a response. “Do you think your grandfather’s ready for company? I have an appointment at three.”

“Something you need my help with?” Gracie perked up.

He’d like to have her assistance if that meant spending the afternoon blocking out everything else, but he refrained from suggesting it. She had plenty of things to do besides keep him company.

“Nothing interesting.” He pushed his chair back and stood. “I’m meeting a plumber and an electrician at the cabin.”

Gracie jumped to her feet. “I thought you couldn’t get anyone lined up until next week.”

“Mayor Thompson put me in touch with some guys this morning. I started cleaning the place yesterday. Once the plumbing and electricity are working, I can make more headway.”

“That’s great,” she said, already on the move. “See ya later, Tanya.”

When they reached her grandfather’s room, Gracie checked her step in the doorway, forcing Dylan to stop behind her.

Amid a jungle of potted greenery and bouquets of flowers, with the sun shining brightly on her silvery hair, Mrs. Lattimer read aloud from The Old Man and the Sea. Her husband had his head tilted toward her, but his gaze focused on the block of wood and knife in his hands. A newspaper with the wood shavings curled over its surface covered his lap.

Dylan waited behind Gracie for the weathered face to look up. Deep brown, intelligent eyes, just like Gracie’s, crinkled with pleasure.

“Come on in if you’re comin’.” He waved them into the room. “If I’m gonna be stuck here another day, I might as well have company.”

“And not just me, Granddad.” Gracie crossed the room to kiss the top of his bald head. “I’ve brought Dylan Bradford to meet you.”

“Excellent idea, Gracie.” Mrs. Lattimer laid her book aside. “Hello, Dylan.”

“Hello, Mrs. Lattimer. How do you do, sir?” With his hand out, Dylan advanced through some steely scrutiny.

Luckily for Dylan, the old man put down the knife before clasping hands. “Clay says I could be better, but I won’t be until I’m home.”

“I understand your eagerness to get back to Liberty House,” Dylan said.

Gracie’s grandfather ran practiced fingers over the sailboat he’d carved. Even while studying Dylan, he managed to scrape the sharp-edged blade along the miniature hull with flawless expertise. “Bradford, huh? You’ve got the look about you, all right.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dylan noticed Gracie sneaking a peek at the medical chart on the door.

He moved forward to stand at the foot of the old man’s bed. “I understand you know some of my family, sir.”

“Ay-uh.” Mr. Lattimer used the down-eastern affirmative. “Worked at Old Maine for your grandfather, your father, and your uncles. Fine men.”

“Thank you, sir. They thought a lot of the people of East Langden, too.”

Mr. Lattimer shook his head while pushing the knife’s edge along the sail. “Carpentry was more than work to me, but the factory was just a business to them. Leastways, they closed it when it suited them and never looked back.”

“I always believed your father would have acted differently if he had lived.” Mrs. Lattimer settled her glasses more firmly on her nose. “But Arthur lost heart for furniture-making after Matthew died.”

“He told me the factory was losing money and closing it down was merely a business decision.” Dylan watched their reaction to his uncle’s version of the story.

The couple exchanged skeptical glances, and the old man scowled. “Did he now?”

“Do you know differently?” Dylan asked. “How much did you know about the financial end of the business?”

“Not much, but I know we were turning a profit up until the day they closed the doors on us, leaving a lot of good people out in the cold.”

“Fact or speculation?”

The knife blade passed slowly along the slope of the wood several times before Mr. Lattimer answered. “Nora’s cousin, Edwin Moss, was the plant manager.”

Dylan’s gaze searched out Gracie. She tucked the chart under her arm and drew near the bed.

“Where is Edwin Moss now?” he asked. “Would he be willing to see us?”

“He took a job down in Portland after the factory closed. When he retired, he moved back here. I doubt he’d be much use to you.”

“He’s been in Rosewood Nursing Home with Alzheimer’s for the last few years,” Mrs. Lattimer explained. “We go to visit him once a month, but he seldom recognizes us.”

“Who was the local bookkeeper or accountant?” Gracie asked.

“Shannon Morrisey.” Mr. Lattimer looked to his wife. “She was a friend of Marlene’s who went to work for Old Maine right out of business school. Only worked there for a few years before they closed. Do you know what became of her, Nora?”

“Oh my, Shannon Morrisey. I’d forgotten about her.” Mrs. Lattimer worried her bottom lip before continuing. “I believe she married an insurance salesman and moved out west. Denver, maybe. Is it important?”

“Probably not.” No point letting them see his disappointment over yet another dead end. “I guess it doesn’t matter so much why Old Maine closed.” Unless his uncle had lied or misled him about it for some reason. But Dylan wasn’t sure how that information fit in with all the rest. “But closing the plant seems to have worked out well for you.”

“Ay-uh, it did. I was master carpenter there, but I prefer being my own boss.”

“Lots of people do.” Gracie moved to take her grandfather’s pulse.

The old man pulled his wrist out of her grasp and took her hand in his. “Let me be, missy,” he grumbled. “Clay’s my doctor, not you.”

“Master carpenter,” Dylan repeated. “Sounds important. Did you know my father well?”

“Well enough.”

“How often did he come here?”

“About once a month. Sometimes more. Less after his election to the Senate, of course.”

“Who came in his place after that?” Gracie pushed her grandfather’s shoulder forward to fluff his pillow.

He frowned at her continued fussing and settled back, but Dylan caught the look of fondness the old man cast toward her. “One of his brothers, usually. Tommy or Arthur.”

“How often did any of them come here unrelated to work?”

“They came down to sail or fish some. But if they didn’t stop in at the factory, I usually didn’t see ‘em.”

“They often stopped at the bakery,” Mrs. Lattimer offered. “Tommy especially had a fondness for my snickerdoodles.”

“Snickerdoodles, huh?” He flicked a hot glance toward Gracie and smiled. “I’d like to try those.”

“Did you ever see any of them around at a time or place you wouldn’t have expected to?” Gracie asked her grandparents, but her cheeks colored at the look from Dylan.

Mrs. Lattimer frowned. “Are you asking about their relationship to Lana?”

“Or anything unusual you might remember.”

The old couple sealed their lips in exact replicas of one another.

“We’re not asking you to gossip, Gran. We’re asking you to help Clay.”

Mrs. Lattimer features relaxed slightly. “I really don’t recall anything useful. Do you, Chester?”

“No.”

Just Dylan’s luck. Two of the few lucid people still living with a good opportunity to have witnessed his family’s activities would have to be as closed-mouthed as clams. “I saw the picture Mrs. Lattimer took of Gracie with my father the day he died. Is that the last time either one of you saw him?”