Kiss Me, Kill Me

3

Rose argued over who would carry her luggage up the outside staircase to the garage apartment but conceded when Carrie jokingly said it was a deal-breaker.

She only had three bags anyway. A large suitcase, a smaller overnight bag that matched it, and her giant quilted handbag. Carrie took the suitcase and the overnight bag, noted the Prada tags dangling from the handles and thought the woman must be loaded. And yet her car was a relic. Sam would know the make, model and what kind of engine powered the thing, but Carrie’s knowledge extended only to recognizing an old car when she saw one. Maybe it was a classic or something.

Not that she cared how much the woman was worth.

Carrie set the luggage on the floor just inside the door and, turning, handed the key to Rose. “It’s all yours. You should have a good cell signal up here, and if you brought a laptop with wireless, it should pick up the signal from the house. Use it all you want.”

“My goodness, free Internet? This room is a real bargain.” Rose smiled, then extracted a notepad and pen from her oversize handbag, quickly scribbled on the top sheet, tore it off and handed it to Carrie. “Here’s my cell number…oh, and I’ll pay in advance for the first week, too—that is, if cash is okay. I can’t believe I remembered everything but my checkbook when I changed handbags for the trip.” She rolled her eyes. “Age does odd things to one’s memory, dear. You’ll see someday.”

“It’s not a problem. I don’t know anyone who would object to cash.”

Smiling, Rose handed her a stack of twenties.

She seemed as delighted with the garage apartment as if it were a room in a five-star hotel. Then again, Carrie had taken pains to make it as homey and comfortable as possible. The cabinets were old-fashioned, slate-blue-painted wood with antique white china knobs. The walls were eggshell, with slate-blue trim to match the cupboards, and the table was fashionably retro red Formica, with vinyl-padded chairs on metal frames. There was a small living area, complete with satellite TV and a floral print love seat, chair and antique-looking coffee table. The bedroom was tiny but had everything it needed, and the adjoining bathroom had been recently modernized.

Carrie scribbled down her cell number for Rose, then looked around, trying to think of anything she might have forgotten, but she was pretty sure she’d covered everything. “If you think you’re all set, then, I’ll head out,” she said.

“I’ll be fine here. I’m a little tired, anyway, so by the time I unpack and get settled in, I’m sure I’ll be ready for a nap. Go on, enjoy your evening.”

“It’s not that kind of an evening,” Carrie said softly.

Rose frowned, her face sincere. “Oh?”

“I’m joining with other volunteers to search the woods for the miss—the runaway boy.”

“You knew the boy, then?”

“Know him. I know him,” Carrie said. “He’s one of my son’s best friends. They met in day care.”

“You’ve lived here that long?”

Carrie nodded. “More than sixteen years now.”

“I’m so sorry, dear. I hope you find him safe and sound. Is there any way I can help?”

“Not tonight, Rose. You’re tired, and I don’t think traipsing through the mountains is what you need tonight.”

The older woman nodded. “Or any night, for that matter.” She rubbed her back. “Arthritis, you know. Still, there must be some way I can help. You’ve been so kind about letting me stay here when you didn’t intend to.” She tilted her head. “I’ll think on it. Maybe by tomorrow I’ll have come up with an idea.”

“That’s sweet of you,” Carrie told her. “I hope to God that by tomorrow it won’t be needed.”

“I hope so, too. With all my heart.” Then, to Carrie’s surprise, Rose hugged her. “Stay strong, dear. Keep on hoping.”

“Thanks, Rose. Call me if you need anything. If I’m out of cell phone range, just leave a voice mail. I’ll call you back as soon as I get a signal again.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll be fine. Good luck, dear.”

“Good night, Rose.”

Carrie Overton left at last, and Rose parted the curtain and watched her as she walked down the exterior stairs. A moment later she heard the garage door opening below her, and seconds after that Carrie’s minivan backed out, then rolled smoothly down the paved driveway and out of sight.

Sighing, Rose dug in her quilted bag and pulled out a copy of the most recent edition of the Shadow Falls high school yearbook, opened it to the sophomores’ page and gazed at the faces she had circled after her perusal of the birth records from the summer of sixteen years ago—the year the good Dr. Overton had arrived here, interestingly enough.

Running her fingers over the three young people whose faces were encircled in red ink, she whispered, “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll find you soon. I promise.” And then, digging further, she pulled out a red pen and drew an X across the already-circled face of Kyle Becker.

By the time Carrie had turned on the propane for the garage apartment’s kitchen range, thrown the switch to engage the electricity, shown Rose around and explained how everything worked, testing everything as she went just to make sure it did, then headed out to the firehouse, three hours had passed. The searchers would have begun at four and would search until dusk. And it was nearly dusk now. With such a long head start, though, her odds of catching up to them in the woods before they were well on their way back to the road were slim.

The best she could do would be to wait at the firehouse for them to return. It was hard on Sam, going through this nightly ritual. And being Sam, he joined in the searches during the day, too, when he didn’t have soccer practice or a game. The first two days, he’d even skipped practice to search for Kyle, but Carrie had finally insisted he try to keep to a routine, to achieve some kind of normalcy in the midst of all the chaos and worry and fear.

She wished with everything in her that she could take his pain away, make this all better for him. He was suffering, and she hated seeing her son suffer. God, she would give just about anything to see Kyle walking up to her front door, a towel over his shoulder, asking to use the pool out back.

Her stomach knotted. She told it to stop. Kyle was fine. He was going to show up any time now.

She pulled into the firehouse’s sprawling, black-topped, vehicle-filled lot, spotting Gabriel Cain’s VW Bus and automatically steering into the serendipitously empty spot right beside it. By then the sun was setting. Another twenty minutes, she thought, and the buses would be lining up, opening their doors so the streams of volunteers could come pouring out.

But maybe this time there would be good news. Maybe this time…

She knew better, though. If they’d found Kyle, she would have received a phone call by now. Sighing, she got out of her car and walked over to the Volkswagen, peering curiously through its windows.

A guitar case lay on the floor between the front seats. An air freshener in the shape of an eighth note dangled from the mirror. The GPS system was a new one, high-end, and was mounted to the dash. She tried the door and wasn’t surprised to find it unlocked. Then she slid it open and stuck her head inside. She was curious, just dying to climb in and do a little snooping. That would be completely inappropriate, she told herself. Totally out of line. And besides, she had no business being so curious about the man. He was just another tourist, not to mention a drifter and a starving artist and a dozen other things that made him all wrong for her.

And yet she couldn’t seem to stop thinking about him, being curious about him. Why? What was it about Gabriel Cain that so fascinated her?

There was a rolled-up sleeping bag in the back, she noted. Or at least it looked like a sleeping bag. And a green canvas duffel, like the kind they gave to military personnel. The duffel was stuffed full, but she wasn’t about to look inside.

There were stacks of magazines and books, and she couldn’t resist flipping through those, wondering what a man like him might read.

Nature magazines, travel magazines, magazines about hiking and kayaking. But there were also things like Newsweek, Time, Mother Jones and the Onion.

She wasn’t surprised he was a lefty. Or a nature nut. She wished some of the publications gave insight into his character that she hadn’t already guessed. Okay, she turned to the books. There were several in a netted basket he’d rigged up on one side of the van. Without climbing in, she couldn’t see all the titles, but she saw a few. One caught her eye. Turning to Gold: The Life and Times of a Country Music Legend.

She recognized the title. It was about her favorite singer, Sammy Gold. The aging star had recently made a huge comeback, after recording his own version of a famous heavy metal ballad. Gold’s take on the song had outsold the original, and earned him the respect and dollars of a whole new generation of fans.

She, of course, had loved him long before that.

Carrie backed out of the VW and slid the door closed, feeling a little guilty for snooping, but not overly so. She hadn’t done more than peek. But her timing turned out to be impeccable, because she heard the distinctive sounds of bus engines in the distance even as she stepped an innocent-looking distance away from the VW and tried to act as if she hadn’t been snooping. The buses, three of them, pulled up along the side of the road in front of the firehouse, air brakes hissing. Their doors folded open, and the volunteers began streaming out, heading to their cars. It was clear there’d been no sign of Kyle today. The searchers had the usual hanging heads and disappointed faces that were somehow relieved at the same time. At least they hadn’t found a body.

She spotted Gabe the minute he stepped off the bus, and his eyes were on her almost as fast. The smile that appeared on his face the minute he saw her told her he was absurdly glad to see her, and then he turned to speak to someone behind him, pointing in her direction as he did.

The person behind him turned out to be her son, followed closely by Sadie, and the two met her eyes and waved. She frowned. What were they doing, hanging out with the stranger?

Even more oddly, Sadie turned to speak to the man right behind her, another total stranger. And he, too, glanced her way and lifted a hand in greeting.

Wait, wasn’t that the suit-wearing tourist she’d spotted at the soccer match? It was. Good Lord, had Sam and Sadie appointed themselves the unofficial Shadow Falls welcoming committee?

Before she had time to think more on that, all four came toward her, arriving in mid conversation as Sam was telling Gabe about how the falls here were nearly always in the shadow of the surrounding mountains, giving them—and the town—their names.

“Hey, Mom. You know Gabe. And this is Ambrose.”

“Ambrose Arthur Peck,” the man put in. “Of Manlin, Taylor & Strauss.”

“Oh. Of course, sure, I’ve heard of your firm.” Albeit, only because the financial advisors’ TV commercials ran on her favorite twenty-four-hour news station every hour, on the hour. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She extended a hand, her brain telling her that Ambrose was the one she ought to have her eyes on, not Gabe. But his handshake was wimpy, his skin damp, and his eyes never bored into hers in the way that Gabe’s did. Instead they met, then dodged, then met and dodged again. Jerky eyes, in constant staccato motion.

“The pleasure is all mine, Dr. Overton. I’ve heard wonderful things about you.”

“I’m afraid my son’s opinion of me might be slightly biased,” she said.

He smiled. “Oh, but it wasn’t just your son. The lovely Sadie and Mr. Cain joined him in singing your praises, as has anyone else I’ve asked about you.”

Her smile died. “You’ve asked about me?”

“Um….” He lowered his eyes. “I—I suppose a more suave sort of man wouldn’t have let on.”

She lifted her brows.

“I saw you at the game. Noticed the lack of a ring and thought I might ask you to dinner while I was in town.”

“Oh.” Carrie was a little embarrassed on his behalf, but flattered, too. Her gut reaction was to say no way, but her practical brain told her that he was far more likely to be a suitable date than a starving artist would. “Well, I haven’t eaten yet tonight,” she said.

“Oh, tonight. Yes, well, tonight. I um—”

“We’re having Gabe over tonight, Mom,” Sam said.

“Whoa, hold up now,” Gabe said, raising both hands, traffic-cop style. “You and I made those plans, Sam. Your mom didn’t.” Then he nodded at Carrie. “You do what you like. We can get together without you. Or, just pick another night to jam if you’d feel better not having a stranger in your house when you’re not home.”

The guy was considerate. And polite. And gorgeous, in that free bird, drifter sort of way.

Sam moved forward, gently closing a hand on Carrie’s forearm and tugging her off to one side, out of earshot of the two men. Leaning close, he whispered, “Please, Mom? That Ambrose guy is a dork, anyway.”

“Sammy!”

“I know, I know. You prefer dorks. I get that. But you get lots of chances to have dinner with guys like him. How many times am I gonna have a chance to play guitar with Gabriel Cain?”

She blinked and tipped her head to one side. “You say that as if he’s somebody important.”

Her son blinked at her in a way that only a son could. His expression was one she might use if she were standing in front of the Mona Lisa and someone suggested it would make nice refrigerator art.

“What?”

“Mom, he’s famous. Way more famous than Manlin, Taylor and Mozart.”

“Strauss,” she corrected. Then realized he’d been making a joke and acknowledged it with, “But that was good.”

“Gabe’s songs have been recorded by some of the biggest stars in the biz. Six of them have gone platinum.”

She lifted her brows, unable to stop herself from looking over her shoulder at the apparently unemployed hippie in the distance. Watching her, he smiled with one side of his mouth and lifted a hand just slightly.

She looked back at her son. “You’re kidding, right?”

“I bet everyone in town has at least one of his songs on their favorites list.”

“Everyone but me,” she said. “But then again, I prefer country music. So it’s safe to say he’s not a starving artist, then?”

Her son’s eyes had moved away from her and widened, and then he smacked his forehead and said, “Jeez, Mom.”

“What?”

She turned at the sound of a male voice behind her saying, “Not starving, anyway.”

She spun and had to tip her head back to meet Gabe’s eyes because he was significantly taller than she was. “That was probably rude.”

“Not at all. I was a starving artist for a long time. I don’t consider it an insult. And I like to think success hasn’t changed me much. Your assumption assures me that I haven’t. Frankly, I appreciate it.”

She lifted her brows. “I just assumed…” She shook her head. “I was making judgments based on your appearance. Something I’ve tried hard to teach Sam to never do. And I’m frankly ashamed of myself for it.”

“Don’t be. I promise, it’s my deliberate intent to look the way I do, to convey the image that look conveys. It’s who I am.”

“Yeah. He doesn’t start every sentence by saying, ‘Hi, I’m famous. Have you heard of me?’ the way that other guy does.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being proud of your success, pal,” Gabe said, even as Carrie was opening her mouth to correct her son.

“Then why don’t you act like you are?” Sam asked.

“My values, my choice,” Gabe replied easily. “Doesn’t mean I get to force them on anyone else, much less judge them for their own. Shoot, I don’t believe in big, flashy vehicles, either. For me, they just don’t fit. But I wouldn’t even think about telling you to sell yours and buy an old VW. Because for you, that wouldn’t fit.”

Sam nodded. “I got you.”

“Good.” Gabe turned to Carrie. “Have your dinner with Ambrose if you want. My feelings won’t be hurt in the least.”

She met his eyes. “Really?”

“Really.”

She blinked, and felt right down to her toes that she would far rather spend the evening getting to know Gabe. And yet that practical part of her mind whispered that Ambrose was a whole lot closer to what she wanted. And that Gabe was the epitome of everything she didn’t want.

“I think,” she said slowly, “that his feelings would be hurt.”

“I think I agree with you.”

She held his gaze, and something tingled along the back of her neck. “You do?”

“Yeah. He seems to put a lot of stock in ego. And being turned down would be a blow to his.”

She nodded, glancing at Ambrose, who was in an apparently fascinating conversation with Sadie. The girl was clearly wise enough to know that he was the topic of discussion and that she should keep him distracted until they had finished.

God, she loved that girl.

“You’re welcome to go back to the house with the kids, Gabe,” she said. “If I let Sam miss the opportunity to, uh, jam with his hero, I’ll lose out on that mother-of-the-year nomination yet again.”

Sam rolled his eyes at her corny joke, but there was love and appreciation in them, too.

“I’ll try to get home early,” she said. “Maybe if you guys can hold off on dessert, we could all have it together when I get back.”

Gabe lifted his brows. “Really?”

She shrugged. “It’s not every day a girl has a rock star in her house.”

“Just a songwriter,” he said. “I only play for pleasure.”

“Even better.”

“Yeah?”

She nodded. “Even though you should know I prefer country music myself.”

“Sammy Gold. I know.”

“Oh, my son has been talking, hasn’t he?”

Gabe nodded. “Ambrose is getting antsy,” he said. “Come on, Sam, let’s collect that girl of yours, and you can guide me back to the hacienda.”

“Sam, check on Rose for me when you get home, will you?” Carrie interjected, even as Gabe and Sam began to walk away.

“Sure.”

And then Gabe said, “Rose?” and Sam leaned closer, and began to tell him who she was as they moved on. Sam waved a hand at Sadie, never breaking his stream of words, and she smiled, said goodbye to Ambrose and headed to join them. Gabe got into his bus, Sadie and Sam got into the Sam’s treasured Expedition, and Carrie moved up to stand beside Ambrose.

“Sorry about the delay,” she said. “But yes, I’d love to have dinner with you. I just had to work out some logistics first.”

“That’s wonderful. I’m so glad,” Ambrose said. “I saw a lovely restaurant with a view of the falls the other day. God, what was the name?”

“Fallsview,” she said with a smile.

“Oh. Now how did I forget that?”

She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll just let you know in advance that it’ll have to be an early night for me.”

“Those logistics, hmm?” he asked.

“I’m afraid they can only be shuffled so far.”

“That’s fine. Honestly. I’ll be grateful for the company. But, um, since you have to leave early, why don’t we take separate vehicles to the restaurant and just meet there?”

“That is an eminently practical suggestion,” Carrie said. “I like the way you think.”

“Thank you,” he said, and then he stood there, silent for a moment, shifting from one foot to the other, until he finally said, “Well, I guess I’ll see you there, then?”

“Perfect. I’ll see you there.”

He took out his keys, looked at them, looked at her, looked at his car, then turned and walked away.

Being awkward with women, she told herself, was not a character flaw. It was actually endearing in a way.

And yet it wasn’t the upcoming dinner on her mind as Carrie drove through the tiny, quiet town toward the falls and the restaurant. It was Gabriel Cain. The quiet, unpretentious, apparently famous songwriter was not at all what he had first seemed. Not at all.

And she wondered what other facets of his personality remained as yet unrevealed. She was dying to talk to him, to listen to him talk back.

Not to mention use Google to see what came up.

She wished to the gods that Ambrose Peck was as appealing to her as the songwriter. But sex appeal wasn’t everything. She knew that. And in every other way, Ambrose was exactly her type.

Just like the last respectable, solid, intellectual she’d dated had seemed to be, she told herself, though she tried not to listen. She’d wasted a couple of months on that jackass.

Oh, well. Live and learn.

4

Ambrose didn’t wait for her in the parking lot. She found that a little odd but shrugged it off as she got out of her car and looked around. The building was made of darkly stained, rough-hewn barn beams and glass, and not much else. It made for the best view in town. Not seeing Ambrose anywhere, she went on inside.

She spotted him at a table near the back, perusing the menu. She noticed his hands and the ring he wore, a figure eight lying on its side—the sign for infinity, she thought. Interesting choice. Nodding her intention to the hostess, Carrie wound her way between tables to join him.

He must have heard her footsteps, because he lowered the menu and rose to his feet. “Ah, there you are.”

“I was only a minute or two behind you,” she said.

“Oh, I know. I just thought I’d go ahead and get us a table. You did say you were short on time tonight.”

Carrie pasted a smile over her momentary irritation and nodded. “That was…thoughtful. Thanks.” She pulled out her chair and sat down. Ambrose sat, as well, and picked up his menu again.

“Do you have any idea what’s good here?” he asked.

“Oh, everything’s pretty good. I like the broiled haddock a lot. Their tartar sauce is—”

“That would be an option if I were in the mood for mercury poisoning.”

“—homemade.” She blinked twice. Had he just criticized her for saying she liked haddock?

“As a doctor, I would think you would be aware of the damage heavy metal contamination can do.”

“Oh, I am. I think fish is fine in moderation.”

“I prefer not to take that chance.” He never took his eyes off the menu. “How is the pasta?”

“Good. Better if you let them grate some fresh lead over it.”

“Excuse me?” He lowered the menu, looking over the top of it at her.

“Lead. Heavy metal.” She shrugged. “It was a joke.”