Winter Winds Read online

  Reprieve! She could call Meg. She’d be at the store by now.

  “I’ve got to call my business partner,” she said, stopping outside the hospital’s doors.

  Phil blinked. “It can’t wait?”

  Of course it could wait. “I’ve got to let her know I arrived safely,” Dori said as she pulled her cell phone from her purse. It sat dark and dead in her palm, turned off for the flight. She flicked it on and hit the office number.

  Phil wandered to a bench and sat.

  “Hello. Small Treasures. Meg Reynolds here.”

  Dori could picture Meg sitting in the cramped space in the back of their store, coffee cup steaming beside her, Krispy Kreme donut sitting beside the cup. Just hearing her voice eased some of Dori’s anxiety. “Meg, it’s me.”

  “Ah, you made it. Good trip?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  Meg laughed, a wonderful sound that always cheered Dori, even on her black days. But she was serious when she asked, “So how’s Pop?”

  “I haven’t seen him yet,” Dori admitted.

  “Ah.”

  Dori narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean, ah?”

  “You’re procrastinating.”

  “I am not. I needed to call you.”

  “Right. The store couldn’t run for even one day without you checking in. Where are you?”

  “At the hospital.”

  “And you haven’t been to his room yet?” Dori could imagine Meg shaking her head in disbelief. “Procrastinating.”

  She hated it when Meg was right. “No, I’m not.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  Meg’s sigh echoed through the air. “If you say so, girl. But listen to me. You go in that room and kiss that man and hug Honey and tell them you love them. Masochism should never last six years.”

  “I am not masochistic.”

  “Dori, sweetie, do you honestly think ostracizing yourself from the people you love most in the world is normal?”

  Dori glanced at Phil who was studying the parking lot with great seriousness. Still, she turned her back completely on him and said in a voice just above a whisper, “But Trev…”

  “Forget Trev,” Meg said. “This trip is about Pop. Get in that room. Now!” And she was gone.

  Dori was torn between anger and laughter. Meg loved to play parent, and it irked Dori to no end when she did, especially since Meg was usually right. Like now.

  Dori sighed, clicked off her phone, and dropped it back in her purse. She turned to Phil. “Let’s go see him.”

  Phil didn’t say, “About time,” but it was written all over his face. Well, it wasn’t that she wanted to be an emotional coward. To her severe embarrassment, she just was. Even though she recognized that her cowardice was the result of the losses and hurts of the past, her parents and Trev especially, it was still humiliating to be so spineless.

  An elevator disgorged them on the third floor where Phil turned left. He stopped in front of a door that had a tag naming Seth Trevelyan as the room’s occupant. He turned to Dori. “Pop looks old.”

  She blinked, trying to absorb that information. While Pop was old, seventy-six if she remembered correctly, he had never looked old. He had broad shoulders and a barrel chest. His hair, though gray, was thick, and the wrinkles on his face only made him more ruggedly handsome. There was a time when Dori imagined Trev looking like Pop when he was old. Now she no longer cared what Trev would look like, but she was glad Phil had given her this warning about Pop.

  “He always seemed invincible,” she said, her voice soft, sad.

  “Yeah.” Phil took a deep breath. “That’s why seeing him like this hurts so.”

  Dori made no move to enter the room. She didn’t want even a glimpse of him in one of those hospital gowns with no back, infirm and vulnerable. She wanted him to always be strong and wise and there.

  “I remember the first time I saw him.” A small smile tugged at her lips.

  Phil nodded, remembering along with her. “He walked into the condo that day and took over.”

  “I was so scared.” She gave a puff of humorless laughter. “Make that terrified.”

  “Me, too. I had no idea what was supposed to happen to you when your parents died, but I was sure it had to be very, very bad.”

  As if anything could be worse for a child than being told you’d lost your parents. Boom! Just like that, her mother and father with their wonderful laughs and enfolding hugs were gone. Even now, eighteen years later, it was still painful. “Remember the lady cop they sent to tell us about the crash and to take me away?”

  Phil shuddered. “She was probably a very nice lady, but just thinking about her gave me nightmares for months.”

  “We must have been three pathetic mites,” Dori said, “all huddled together on the couch that was so deep that when we sat back, our legs stuck out straight like six skinny, knobby branches.”

  “You were the skinny one,” Phil said. “Not me.”

  “That’s right.” Dori grinned. “You were in your chubby stage then, weren’t you?”

  He threw her a fake scowl. “That’s not how I remember it.”

  “What I remember is Honey coming right over to us and kneeling.”

  Phil nodded. “Then she gathered all three of us in her arms.”

  “That’s when I started to cry. Again.”

  “I thought you’d never stop.”

  “Me, too. I knew this was a nice lady, but she wasn’t my grandmother. She was yours. And I didn’t have one. In fact, I didn’t have anybody but you and Trev.” Her mouth filled with the metallic taste of that long ago fear. “I was Little Orphan Annie without Daddy Warbucks. And I knew Miss Hannigan was waiting for me just around the corner.”

  Phil grinned. “That’s when Pop said, ‘She’s ours,’ and told Honey to grab our clothes. She strode to the bedroom like Joan of Arc onto the fields of Orleans, opened drawers and scooped out clothes. Trev and I helped, grabbing up toys and those baseball caps reading Ocean City, MD. Remember them?”

  She nodded. “Our fathers bought them for us on the boardwalk.” Her lips quirked in a soft smile. “I still have mine.”

  Phil stared at her. “You’re kidding.”

  “It was the last thing Daddy ever bought me, so it’s sort of sacred. It’s hanging from the post of my bed.”

  “You’ve always been a sentimental fool, haven’t you?” His expression was gently mocking and full of affection. “I bet you have the corsage from your senior prom, and you actually know where your high school yearbook is.”

  “Of course. Anyone of character has a big box of keepsakes.”

  “Dori, baby, keepsakes are things like heirlooms, not squashed corsages.”

  She shook her head. “Keepsakes are anything that causes you to remember special times or people. The baseball cap makes me remember my parents, especially on the days when they seem more a figment of my imagination than real people who loved me.”

  They were both quiet for a minute as they studied the name written by the door. Seth Trevelyan. Somehow both she and Phil had survived a devastating loss to become healthy adults, and it was largely due to the man lying ill in that room. Dori shuddered to think what her life might have been without Pop and Honey stepping in.

  “I remember that the policewoman threatened all kinds of legal repercussions when Pop carried me out to the car,” Dori said. “But nothing happened, did it? At least nothing we know about.”

  “There must have been some legal actions. After all, they became your legal guardians.” Phil gave her a quick hug. “That’s when you became a Trevelyan. Best sister a man could want.”

  Dori hugged him back. “I may have lost my parents, but I found a substitute family that couldn’t have been better.”

  That was the simple truth. From that day in Ocean City until today, she had never doubted that they wanted her and loved her, though she was the only one in the Trevelyan house named MacAllister.

  And she’d repaid that l
ove by staying away for six years. Guilt slammed into her afresh as she pushed open the door to Pop’s hospital room.

  Three

  WHEN MAUREEN GALLOWAY went to the Philadelphia airport prepared to follow Joanne Pilotti and the black bag, the last thing she expected was to find herself deep in Chester County, Pennsylvania, sitting in a hospital parking lot, waiting for some unknown person who had blithely left a treasure worth millions locked in the trunk of a white Saturn.

  What was going on here?

  She punched the memory button on her cell phone and listened to Greg Barnes’s phone ring. She couldn’t wait to tell him the latest news.

  Two hours ago she’d been sitting casually reading a book at the gate where the American flight from Chicago debarked, her Seaside PD credentials allowing her through security without a boarding pass. When Joanne appeared without a suitcase, Maureen had turned cold all over. Had their information been wrong? Had the bag been passed to someone else?

  Two weeks ago when Greg Barnes, a lieutenant with the Seaside police department, had gotten the anonymous phone call about the stolen goods being transported to Seaside, he’d been skeptical, as well he should be. He recorded the conversation and replayed it for the rest of the department.

  “I never heard of any such robbery” Greg said to the caller.

  “You haven’t been listening at the right places. Do some checking, and you’ll find the goods went missing from a prominent West Coast gallery in October. They’ve just been bought by Neal Jankowski.”

  Jankowski! “And you know this because?”

  “Let’s just say I know everything.”

  “Right,” Greg said. “But why are you telling me this? What do you get out of it?”

  “Neal Jankowski,” was the answer.

  “Ah,” replied Greg who wanted to bring Jankowski down too. He was a loose cannon, at once vicious and stupid, driven and without conscience. “Let’s hear some details.”

  “You do some checking first. Verify what I’ve said. I’ll call back in a few days.”

  Greg checked and found there had indeed been a major robbery in October. The stolen goods had been neither seen nor heard of in the ensuing three months.

  “Talk to me,” Greg said when the anonymous source called back.

  “On one condition. No feds. If you contact them, this deal is off, and Jankowski will move more and more of his operation to Seaside. He likes the quiet of your delightful little town as opposed to the noise and chaos of Atlantic City.”

  So here Maureen was, waiting at the airport for Joanne Pilotti, the woman the tipster said would have the goods in the suitcase she wheeled off the plane. But there was no suitcase.

  Her heart pounding at the possibility of some gigantic mix-up, Maureen stuck her book in her purse and walked purposefully with the crowd. She kept Joanne in sight, staying a careful two or three people in back of her, and followed her to baggage claim.

  In the crowd at the baggage carousel, Maureen stood behind and slightly to the left of Joanne so she could see the suitcase when it came down the chute. She couldn’t believe that Joanne had blithely checked it through instead of taking it on board with her. But then Joanne probably didn’t know what was in it.

  Please, Lord, let it come. Please, Lord. Help us get these guys! The idea of someone like Neal Jankowski setting up shop in Seaside was too terrible to contemplate.

  When the black bag slid onto the belt, Maureen felt limp with relief. With its red yarn tie around the handle and the clearly visible white chalk streak down its side, it was easy to identify. The operation would continue as planned. The net would finally close around Jankowski, and one of the scariest of the bosses would go down.

  As Joanne Pilotti reached for the bag, Maureen hit the memory button to call Greg Barnes back in Seaside. She stepped back farther so there was no possibility of Joanne overhearing her.

  Greg picked up immediately. “Yeah, Galloway?”

  “The bag just hit the carousel, and Joanne’s going for it.” Maureen blinked and went cold all over. “Wait a minute. Another woman’s taken it. Practically pulled it out of Pilotti’s hands.” Was this some elaborate plan for passing the baton? One that Pilotti wasn’t in on?

  “What?” Greg’s agitation was clear. “Who?”

  “Never saw her before in my life.”

  Greg hissed. “And Pilotti just let her take it?”

  “She did. She looks startled, sort of like you do when some unexpected and terrible thing happens, and you don’t know how to respond.”

  “When Jankowski gets hold of her, terrible will be the right word.”

  “Wait! Here comes another black bag with a red yarn tie. Pilotti’s going for it.”

  “Then that’s the bag.” Relief washed through Greg’s voice.

  “I don’t know, but I don’t think so. The one the unknown’s got has the chalk mark on the side. She’s wheeling it out to the curb. She’s also got a small carry-on and what looks like a laptop.”

  “So she’s got the bag we want.”

  Maureen only hesitated a second. “I think so.”

  “Then follow her.”

  “What about Pilotti?”

  “I’ll give her to Fleishman.”

  Maureen bit back a smile. And won’t he just love that!

  She struggled through the crowd and out to the curb. She easily found the unknown woman with the bag, a brunette about her age who stood with her arms wrapped about herself, shivering. As if the lightweight jacket weren’t clue enough that Philadelphia in January wasn’t her home, the still-vibrant tan indicated some warm climate. All who lived here were wearing their pasty white winter complexions.

  “Greg, some guy just called her name. Dori.”

  “Dori what?”

  “Come on. People don’t yell full names.” She shook her head in exasperation. “He’s hugging her, swinging her around. The suitcase just went flying.”

  When the guy finally put Dori on her feet and bent for the case, Maureen reached into her large purse and grabbed the small camera she always carried. It had been a gift from her parents when she graduated from the police academy.

  “To use to document situations,” Dad said. “You can take photos either day or night if you buy high-speed film with an ASA of 800 or higher.”

  Trying to be both quick and casual, hoping desperately that no one would notice, she raised the little camera and took a couple of quick shots of Dori and the man.

  “He just picked the case up,” she reported as she dropped the camera back in her bag. “They’re going to a car, and he’s loading her luggage, all of it, in the trunk.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “White Saturn. This year’s model, I think.”

  “License?”

  “Can’t see it. Others are parked too close, blocking the view.” Maureen began walking toward the car. A sliver of the plate came into view. “It looks like one of those with the lighthouse on it. You know, the New Jersey save-the-seashore ones?”

  “That narrows it to only a few thousand.”

  “Yeah, but it makes you think Seaside, doesn’t it? Coincidence only goes so far.”

  Greg grunted.

  “What do you want me to do?” She kept walking toward the car. “They’re about to get in.”

  “Keep following the girl. Don’t let her out of your sight.”

  Maureen nodded, turned, and raced toward the black Camry waiting on the far side of the island across the street. In it sat Cary Fleishman reading a magazine.

  “Out, Fleishman,” she said. “Greg wants you to follow Pilotti, and I’ve got to follow the unknown who grabbed the suitcase.”

  “What unknown?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why she’s an unknown.”

  Fleishman looked at her without moving. “How can I follow Pilotti if you’ve got the car?”

  Maureen socked him in the arm. “Come on. Out. And hurry!” She watched as the white Saturn pulled into the flow of t
raffic. “You know Pilotti’s going to Seaside. Go rent a car and catch up with her. But get out before I lose my girl.”

  “Where’s she going?”

  “I don’t know,” Maureen growled through gritted teeth. “That’s why I’m following her.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes, alone,” she said, counting to five. Counting to ten would take too long. “I do know how to do surveillance, you know.”

  Fleishman raised an eyebrow in doubt, tossed his magazine onto the floor, and slid out of the driver’s seat. “Call me when you need me.”

  Like it was a given she’d need him. Thanks goodness Greg Barnes didn’t think like Fleishman. Neither did Chief Gordon.

  With a puff of irritation and a vague wave, she pulled out, looking wildly about for the white Saturn. She had to find it before it exited the airport or she’d lose it. There were just too many ways it could go, though she imagined it would head to Seaside. She sped past Terminal B into the chaos that was Terminal C, the major US Airways hub. There she spotted the Saturn caught behind one of the buses for economy parking, forced by the crush of traffic to wait there, exhaust fumes condensing around it in the frigid air.

  She slowed, maneuvered behind the Saturn, and followed, surprised when the car turned onto 1-95 south instead of turning north toward the Walt Whitman Bridge and the Atlantic City Expressway and Seaside.

  As she cruised down 95 two cars behind the Saturn, Maureen called Greg again and gave him the license number.

  “Stay with them,” he ordered. “There’s a lot more than recovering stolen goods at stake here.”

  Maureen shuddered, knowing that was true. She’d only been in Seaside for a couple of weeks, but already she loved the town. The thought of someone like Neal Jankowski corrupting it was unbearable. She set her jaw. She would not fail. She hadn’t come this far, survived this much, to go down in flames.

  She had wanted to be a cop for as long as she could remember. Her father was one as were her two brothers and a sister-in-law. It ran in the blood.

  “You sure you want to do this?” Dad had asked when she filled in her application for the police academy.