Deadly Secrets on Mackinac Island Page 3

  Not after she’d worked so hard to pretend she never cared for Jonathan. That their relationship had never proceeded past a weak adolescent shadow of love. But as she hid in the B and B, she had to admit she’d fooled herself. It wasn’t the pressure of law school and starting a career that kept her from relationships. She couldn’t even blame the uninteresting men she ran into. Maybe they’d been uninteresting because they weren’t Jonathan.

  In the early light of morning, she decided to attack the mess of emotions head-on. After finding a taxi, she headed to the cottage. Home. It hadn’t been that for years. Alanna stood on the porch, bag next to her, key in hand. One jab and twist and she’d fall inside. She hesitated, listening for the sound of heavy footsteps across the lawn. A bird jabbered angrily somewhere near her, but she didn’t hear the sound she anticipated and feared.

  Alanna took a steadying breath and twisted the key, opened the door, and pulled her bag into the small sitting area. Dropping the suitcase’s handle, she marched to the kitchen and stood at the window. A dock angled from the backyard into the small pond the house shared with Jonathan’s cabin. Heat curled through her at the thought of the nights she and Jonathan had sat at the end, toes dangling inches above the water, shoulders touching.

  Before she got lost in more what-ifs and unfulfilled hopes, she spun on her heel and headed to her small bedroom. As soon as she stepped inside, she groaned. Nothing was as she remembered from high school. Every scrap of pink had transformed into the perfect guest bedroom rather than a teenage girl’s dream escape.

  If she hurried, she could shower, change, and hike to town before the studio opened. Tonight she could wallow in the past. Now she had to survive the present.

  By noon she couldn’t wait to leave the art studio and join the tourists staring in the fudge shop windows. The four walls had closed in as she answered questions about the island, none leading to sales.

  People wanted free tourist advice. Didn’t they understand that if she didn’t sell art, she couldn’t keep the studio open to answer their questions? Maybe she needed to talk to Mom about lower-priced items that were accessible to more checkbooks.

  She merged with the melee on Huron. Today several tour groups stood out in the crowds with their matching ball caps or guides wielding umbrellas. She stepped against Doud’s Market’s tan wall to let a group of smiling senior citizens pass. Their guide steered them to Fort Mackinac. One lady teetered on spiky heels that weren’t designed to navigate the steep hill and stairs leading to the fort. Maybe Ste. Anne’s Church would be a better destination for her.

  The last tour member smiled as she passed. Alanna nodded at her then continued to the Yankee Rebel. The mix of cleanly painted wood buildings smashed against brick storefronts gave the street a touristy, village feel, her favorite part of the island.

  She entered the restaurant and waited for the hostess to acknowledge her.

  “Alanna Stone. Over here.”

  Alanna longed to disappear as the boisterous voice bellowed. A man her daddy’s age waved at her from the back corner.

  “Come join me.”

  She glanced around and didn’t notice anyone she recognized, though after eleven years she wasn’t sure she’d recognize many. In fact, the idea he knew who she was after all this time seemed incongruous. Still, the tables had started to fill. Maybe she should join him.

  The man stood and headed her way. He took her arm and escorted her to the table. “This way. It’s time you returned, young lady. Sorry it took your daddy’s stroke to get you here. This may be a good that comes from it. Time to return, face the past, and clear the air, so to speak.”

  Alanna watched him out of the corner of her eye as they crossed the room.

  “Here, let me help you.” He pulled out a chair next to his, waited for her to sit, then scooted her to the table. “Remember me?”

  “No.”

  “Not surprised. I’ve lost a lot of weight. Had the gastric bypass. Worked like a charm.” He patted his waist then brushed a lock of salt-and-pepper hair out of his eyes. “Gerald Tomkin.”

  “Mr. Tomkin?” The principal? No wonder she’d blocked him. The man always acted as if the whole world wanted to hear every word he said, no matter how inconsequential or irrelevant. But swiping the hair out of his face was classic Mr. Tomkin. She’d graduated with his son Brendan, who had seemed destined to follow in his father’s pompous footsteps. After the graduation party accident, he’d been even more unbearable, like he had taken Grady’s death personally.

  “Your mom kept me up-to-date on your progress. Impressive, young lady. But I knew you had it in you to change the world.”

  Alanna studied her hands, unused to praise from him. “Are you still at the school?”

  “No. Retired last year and now working with the island’s foundation. You should get involved. Right up your alley as an attorney. In fact, I have a project to discuss with you. One important to the foundation’s future.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be here long enough for a project.”

  A waitress stopped by the table.

  “We’ll talk more after we order. I’d get the pot roast sandwich. You won’t be disappointed.” He rubbed his stomach.

  Still bossy as ever, but it did sound good. “All right.”

  The waitress collected their drink orders, and Alanna glanced around. The door opened, and sunlight streamed through the opening.

  “Doris, where are you hiding?”

  Jonathan Covington—here? Alanna slouched in her chair. She picked up a menu and pretended to study it intently, holding it in front of her face. Footsteps clomped across the wooden floor in her direction. She kept her head buried, refusing to look up.

  “Gerald Tomkin. Just the man I wanted to see.”

  Alanna stifled a sigh and glanced up. She forced a smile on her face, one that froze when she noticed the funny way he looked at her. He clutched the chair across from Gerald. “Still rent your flower garden for photos?”

  “Another wedding?” Gerald gestured at the table. “Why don’t you join us?”

  “Of course.” Jonathan took a seat then frowned.

  “Flower garden?” Alanna jolted as she felt something on her shoulder. Mr. Tomkin had placed his hand there. She started to scoot her chair away, but that would put her closer to Jonathan.

  “I rent it out occasionally for the right event.” Mr. Tomkin grinned. “When it’s in full bloom, it’s a spectacular backdrop.” He looked at Jonathan. “When would you need it?”

  “I’m not sure yet. But would like to add it to a wedding proposal.” Jonathan shifted his attention and quirked his head as if trying to decide if it was really her. “Alanna Stone?”

  “Hi, Jonathan.”

  “What brings you back to the island? Your father’s stroke?” His eyes searched her face, wariness keeping a safe distance between them.

  “Yes.” She tried to meet his gaze but couldn’t.

  “Is he improving?” Genuine concern lined his voice.

  She found his gaze, saw the concern mirrored there. “Not much change. That’s why Mom asked me to come.”

  “Aren’t you a high-powered attorney? Can’t imagine you staying here long.” Jonathan played with the napkin-wrapped silverware at his place.

  “I can’t. Just long enough to find someone to run the store.

  Shouldn’t be too hard.” She hoped. Then she’d run to the ferry as fast as she could.

  Mr. Tomkin nodded then turned to Jonathan. “So tell me about this wedding.”

  Alanna tuned the two out as they talked details and locations.

  “Then you can help me talk Miss Stone into helping with the foundation. As an attorney, she’s exactly what we need to wade through the tangled mess of finances.”

  Jonathan shrugged, a shuttered look clouding his face. He served on the board? Another reason for her to avoid it if they pressed her to serve. She couldn’t get involved, not when a legal dispute here could delay her return to Grand Rap
ids.

  The waitress returned and set waters in front of them, somehow knowing to add a third for Jonathan. “What can I get you today?”

  They rattled off orders, and the waitress disappeared in the back.

  Alanna took a sip of water, watching Jonathan from underneath her eyelashes. His jaw tightened, and then he took a deep breath and seemed to make a decision.

  “Maybe we can catch up tonight.”

  “Maybe.”

  Gerald guffawed. “I see you two still have something between you. Good thing Jaclyn’s not here.” He leaned toward Alanna, like he could get any closer. “That mama wouldn’t be happy. And her little boy is latched on to Jonathan. You’re a regular daddy figure.”

  “Gerald.” Jonathan’s frown should have stopped Gerald.

  “Let me warn you. . . . Nature Boy here spends his extra time scouring the trails for the Audubon Society. Don’t see the relaxation in that, but to each his own.”

  Jonathan shrugged, an easy gesture that didn’t dislodge the distance in his eyes nor the tightness around his mouth. “Not all of us thrive on conflict.”

  “Touché.” Gerald laughed, but hardness settled in his eyes.

  “Maybe I’m tiring of it. The mess with Hoffmeister is enough to wear anyone down. You know what that’s like. Lots of conflict.” He glanced up, and then a sharp grin twisted his face. “Lookie there. Isn’t that Jaclyn, Jonathan?”

  Jonathan glanced toward the door and nodded as the red-haired pixie made her way toward their table. “Sure is.”

  Maybe Alanna should be glad Jonathan didn’t bound from his chair to welcome her. Instead, it felt like a load of rocks from the shoreline dropped in Alanna’s stomach. The thought of eating anything left her nauseous.

  Jonathan leaned toward her. “You okay?”

  His sensitivity only made matters worse. Now tears and regret puddled with the debris from the past. “I’m sorry. I don’t feel well. If you’ll excuse me.”

  She bolted from her chair and fled before either man could say anything and before Jaclyn arrived at the table. Alanna didn’t turn back, didn’t glance in the window, didn’t stop as she felt the past waiting to pounce.

  4

  Alanna unlocked the door to the Painted Stone, her hands shaking and heart pounding. What was she thinking? The last thing she should do is spend one moment more than necessary with Jonathan Covington. When she abandoned the island, she’d left him behind, too.

  What had Gerald meant when he threw out that comment about Jaclyn? It had been years. . . . Jonathan couldn’t have waited. It was only normal for someone as good-looking and kind as Jonathan to find a woman to spend his life with.

  He couldn’t have waited. She knew that. Really.

  But a father? She’d glanced, couldn’t stop herself. He didn’t wear a ring.

  If he was a father, then she needed to stay away from him. Keep at least twenty feet between her and the first man to kiss her. The man who still made her pulse gyrate. She’d be crazy to spend one moment with him. . .especially alone at the pond. They shared too much history there. Summers roaming the woods. Stolen kisses on the dock.

  “Come on.” She twisted the key to the side and pushed the door open. It ricocheted off the wall, and she left the keys hanging from the lock. She hurried to the counter and shoved her purse beneath it before slipping into the tiny bathroom to check her reflection. Her eyes were wide, her cheeks flushed. She tried to pat her hair back into submission, but her hands trembled.

  That settled it. She was a fool.

  “Anyone here?” A woman’s voice lured her back to the shop.

  Alanna pasted on a smile and slipped from the bathroom. “Can I help you?”

  The woman dangled keys in her hand. “You left these in the door.”

  Alanna’s cheeks flushed hotter, and she stepped forward. “Thank you. I rushed in.”

  “I’d say. Looked like a woman with the past on her heels.”

  The woman had no idea. The past squeezed her from all sides. Alanna pulled her thoughts to the customer. “Can I help you find anything?”

  “I’m all right.” The woman gave the keys to Alanna then turned to the artwork. “Has this studio been here long?”

  “My parents opened it twenty years ago, the summer I turned nine.”

  “Umm. What brought them to the island?” She cocked her head to the side as she studied one of Mother’s richly detailed landscapes.

  “Mom always wanted to paint but claimed no time and no inspiration. We vacationed here one weekend, and that changed.”

  “Any of these hers?”

  “Only the best.” Alanna pointed to the large four-by-five painting the woman stood in front of. “This one was painted from the side of the fort. Knowing Mom, she didn’t take the road up— she would have hiked a back trail. She called it getting in the mood.’ And a walk through the woods always worked. But that’s why you see the fort and then the roofs of the buildings around here leading to the lake. Most people would paint looking up at the fort, but not Mom.”

  “She’s very talented.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You might think I’m just saying that, but”—the woman reached into her bag and pulled out a slim business card—“I teach art at U of M. Her color use reminds me of a student of mine. It’s quite distinctive.”

  Alanna studied the card. Janine Ross, associate professor. In her coral capris and white shirt, she didn’t have the look of an artsy person. She wore no multicolored, dangling earrings or wildly swirled scarf. And with short blond hair missing any teal or purple highlights, Janine looked like a career woman enjoying a weekend escape.

  “Not what you expected?”

  Alanna chuckled. “I guess not.”

  “I’ve spent a lifetime breaking expectations.” Janine moved to the next painting, giving it only a cursory glance before working her way along the room. “I like the bold use of color on the walls. They act as an additional mat.”

  “That’s what Mom said, though you should have seen my father’s face when she handed out the gallons of paint.”

  “Have you thought about printing note cards? Tourists would love them.”

  “True.” Alanna moved to the counter to make a note. A customer didn’t need to know she hadn’t stood in the shop for eleven years. “I’m sure Mom’s considered it. . . .”

  “Tell her to call me if she needs a printer. I know one who does excellent work.”

  “Thank you.”

  Janine stopped when she came back to the first painting. “Are you certain this is your mother’s work?”

  “Yes.” Alanna approached the painting and pointed to the squiggled signature in the lower right-hand corner. “That’s her John Hancock.”

  “The resemblance to my student’s work is uncanny. Huh.” She stared a moment more then made her way to the door. “What was his name? Trevor?” she muttered as she exited onto the bustling sidewalk.

  Trevor? Why would the professor mention Trevor? As far as Alanna knew, her brother hadn’t taken any art classes, but really they’d drifted apart. It was possible. And with years watching Mom paint, it couldn’t be unusual that he’d picked up her love and technique.

  Alanna watched her progress up the street for a minute then turned back to the painting. It was ridiculous to think that the painting could be anyone but Mom’s. Most artists approached Fort Mackinac from the front. The stairs were daunting enough from that perspective. Few people had the energy to work their way up the roads and then wind a path through the trees. It seemed too much work for an uncertain reward. Yet Alanna had helped Mom lug her easel, paints, and supplies through all kinds of narrow trails and switchbacks in the hunt for the perfect sunlight.

  After Alanna entered high school and had to juggle its heavier course work, Trevor accompanied Mom on her painting hikes. He’d carried a sketchbook with him on those trips. Before she’d left for college, she’d snuck a few peeks at the pages. He had talent, but painting?
Could he have taken classes from this professor after he followed Alanna to U of M?

  Alanna studied the painting, this time breaking it into grids as she methodically examined it. Little things seemed off, but she hadn’t accompanied her mom in so long, maybe she didn’t know Mom’s style anymore. How would Trevor make such detailed paintings without returning to the island, something Alanna was certain he hadn’t done? Still, the woman’s words raised a niggling doubt. It was her mom’s signature, but was it her painting? It seemed an absurd thought. Why would Mom ask someone to create paintings for her to sign? Mom came alive when she held a paintbrush in her hand and studied a canvas.

  The tinkle of the bell dancing against the door pulled her thoughts from the painting. A group of four women walked into the studio, their loud chatter bouncing off the floor and muting the smooth sounds of jazz. Alanna smiled at them then slid behind the counter, careful to stay out of their way as they wandered the room.

  She doubted they would buy anything. And that’s what she needed. Customers who had the interests and pocketbooks to make purchases. Daddy’s medical bills wouldn’t get paid by lookers. Especially if the art they sold wasn’t by the artist claimed.

  No amount of knickknacks and art by other Upper Peninsula artists could cover that kind of fraud.

  Jonathan replaced the phone on the hook. Everything was lined up for Edward and Bonnie’s anniversary celebration. The owners of Haan’s 1830 would hold its rooms and suites for the family, and he had a couple of other B&Bs on notice that there could be overflow guests. The rest was up to Edward. If he got the word out in a timely fashion, this could become the wonderful event the man had envisioned.

  It was after six, and Jonathan felt ready to escape to his cabin. Maybe he’d spend some time fishing at the pond. There wasn’t much to catch, but what was there always fried up nice for a quick meal.