LITMIR.BIZ

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hot rolls and drinking exotic blends of coffee on the street. They walked between long stalls, laden with every kind of fruit and vegetable. Grace liked the seafood stands the best. Fish, crab, shrimp, clams and scallops were displayed on beds of crushed ice. They cheered with the rest of the crowd as the fishmongers tossed large salmon to one another.

      They ate lunch on the waterfront under gray, overcast skies. Next they toured the Seattle Aquarium and saw the Imax film of the eruption of Mt. Saint Helens, a tourist favorite. By the end of the day, they were giddy with exhaustion. No one was eager to go out again, so they ordered pizza, which was delivered to their hotel room. They sat on the beds, ate with their hands and laughed over paying an outrageous three dollars for a single can of soda out of the room’s mini¬ bar.

      Despite being tired, they stayed up, dressed in their pajamas and robes, and talked away the night. Each avoided the subject of Dan and all the conjecture that surrounded his disappearance. Nor did they discuss Maryellen’s pregnancy, other than to come up with possible boys’ names. Yet both subjects were very much on their minds. Like Grace, neither of her daughters was willing to risk the fragile peace they’d discovered.

      Sunday when they checked out of the hotel, Grace was tired, and more than a little regretful that their time had come to an end. Yet she was exhilarated to have shared this special weekend with her daughters. It was everything she’d hoped it would be.

      “Let’s do this again,” she said as they sat in the ferry terminal and waited to walk onto the boat.

      “It won’t be as easy next year,” Maryellen said. “Not for me, at any rate. I’ll have the baby.”

      “Bring her,” Kelly insisted.

      “Her?” Maryellen joked. “You sound very sure that I’m going to have a daughter.”

      “It’s a girl,” Kelly said confidently.

      “How can you possibly know that?”

      “I just do.” She crossed her arms and stretched out her legs, leaning back against the hard wooden bench. “In my heart, I knew Tyler was a boy long before he was born and I have the strongest feeling that you’re going to get your little Catherine Grace.”

      Grace had no idea whether her daughter was guessing or if she did indeed “have a feeling.” In any event, she figured Kelly had a fifty percent chance of being right. Most importantly, she saw her daughters laughing and joking together when only a few days ago she’d thought that might never happen again.

      When she’d booked the hotel, Grace’s rational self had said she couldn’t afford this; now she knew it had been worth every penny.

      Roy McAfee looked away from the computer screen and glanced down at the Sherman file on his desk, a file that grew thicker by the week. Months earlier, Grace Sherman had hired him to discover what he could about her missing husband. So far he’d struck out. He’d come across a number of potential clues, but they’d all gone nowhere. Roy took this case personally and felt decidedly frustrated by his lack of success.

      After twenty years on the Seattle police force, Roy had reached the rank of detective. Following a back injury he’d sustained from tackling a suspect, he accepted early retirement. Timing was good; both their sons had graduated from college and were on their own.

      He and Corrie had moved to Cedar Cove, where the cost of living wasn’t as prohibitive and property values remained reasonable. Roy had expected to settle happily into early retirement.

      What Roy hadn’t expected was how quickly he’d grow bored with sitting around the house. Within eighteen months of moving to Cedar Cove, he’d started a new business—as a private investigator. Corrie had been around police work her entire life, and she took on the task of being his assistant and secretary.

      When he hung out his shingle, Roy had assumed he’d be getting mainly employee background checks and insurance cases, but the surprising variety of business that came his way made life interesting. His most puzzling and difficult case was the disappearance of Dan Sherman. The man had vanished so completely that if Roy didn’t know better, he might suspect Dan had become part of the Witness Protection Program.

      Corrie walked into the office and brought him a cup of freshly brewed coffee. She nodded at the computer screen. “Dan Sherman?”

      Roy shrugged. Corrie didn’t say it, but they both knew he just couldn’t leave that one alone. The hours he put in these days were without compensation. Grace had given him a budget and the money ran out before he’d found answers.

      “Troy Davis phoned,” Corrie told him. “He made an appointment for this afternoon.”

      Now, this was interesting. The local sheriff was only a nodding acquaintance. Roy had spoken to him a few times and their paths had occasionally crossed. Roy liked Davis well enough, but the sheriff didn’t seem quite as sure of him. Reserving his opinion, Roy supposed, pending more evidence.

      “Did he say what he wanted?” he asked.

      Corrie shook her head. “Not really, just that he might have a bit of work for you.”

      At three o’clock exactly, Troy arrived and Corrie ushered him into Roy’s office. Roy stood up to greet the sheriff, who was an inch or two taller than his own six-foot height and had a bit of a paunch. Too many hours spent behind a desk, no doubt. They exchanged handshakes and then both sat down.

      Troy crossed his leg over his knee, drew a toothpick out of his shirt pocket and poked it into the corner of his mouth. He waited a moment, then asked, “Do you remember a while back there was a death out at the Thyme and Tide? The Beldons’ bed-and-breakfast.”

      Roy did recall reading about it. The story was almost a classic. A stranger who’d appeared in the middle of a stormy night and booked a room, was found dead in the morning. No apparent cause. After the initial front-page article in The Cedar Cove Chronicle Roy hadn’t heard any more about the mysterious stranger, although he recalled one additional detail. The article had stated that the man carried false identification—a driver’s license that said he was James Whitcomb from somewhere in Florida.

      “We still don’t have a name for that John Doe.” Troy frowned. “For a while, Joe Mitchell thought we might’ve stumbled across Dan Sherman.”

      “Dan? Surely someone would’ve recognized him.”

      “Our John Doe had undergone extensive cosmetic surgery. He’s about the same build and coloring as Dan, which was why we brought Grace in to take a look at him. I felt bad about that. It was pretty traumatic for her, but she’s a strong woman. I admire that in her.”

      “So it wasn’t Dan.” Roy figured he might as well state the obvious.

      “Naw.” Troy’s gruff response lacked humor. He shifted the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “That would’ve been too easy.”

      “What did the John Doe’s fingerprints tell you?”

      Troy dropped his leg and leaned forward. “Unfortunately not a damn thing. He didn’t have any. Apparently he lost them in the same accident that resulted in the plastic surgery.”

      “Just bad luck? Or do you think he might’ve had them removed on purpose?” That was another possibility, although in the age of DNA, not as likely. But then, DNA technology was relatively new.

      Troy raised his shoulders in a resigned shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine. All I know is that his ID was false. He comes into town, stays at a bed-and-breakfast, and then turns up dead. Autopsy hasn’t determined anything conclusive. It isn’t your usual run-of-the-mill scenario.”

      Now Roy was the one frowning. “Do you think he might be part of the Witness Protection Program?” Funny how he’d been entertaining that very notion regarding Dan Sherman a few hours earlier.

      “I thought of that myself. There’s only one way to find out, so I contacted the local FBI.”

      “They were

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