Love Inspired Suspense June 2015 #1 (51 page)

ELEVEN

G
retchen's planner lay open on her bed, and she had already dialed the first guest's phone number on her phone. All she had to do was hit Call. One button to begin the cancellation process...and end her dreams forever.

She thought back to the interview three months ago that had set her plans in motion and started the flood of reservations.

After she'd taken Troy and his cameraman for a walk down the snowy boardwalk, she'd sat down with him in front of the fireplace at the restaurant and gave the viewers a warm window into her world. A fire glowed behind them in the huge hearth. She hadn't known how vibrant the interview had been until the preview aired. She'd worn a blue woolen sweater that matched her eyes but hadn't realized when she'd chosen it that it would also pull the colors from the painting above the fireplace.

Troy had asked all the right questions about heritage and history. He'd wanted her to share all she knew about the first inhabitants of the island, who happened to be pilfering pirates. He'd portrayed amazement on the screen when she told him about a sunken ship left over from the pirate days still off the island's coast. He'd also asked her to relay some of the tales she grew up hearing from the elders on the island and how they came to find such a gem...and how they kept it a secret for so long.

A secret.

The word affected her differently now. She had laughed it off with Troy, saying they didn't intend to keep it a secret. The island was just so far from the mainland that no one went out that far unless they were invited. It was one of those places that someone had to tell you about.

Gretchen remembered smiling at the camera and leaning in. She told the viewers, “Consider yourselves told and invited.” She leaned back and shook Troy's hand to begin a great partnership with him and his crew. Then the camera pulled away from them and lifted to the painting above as music ended the interview session and the screen blackened before going to a commercial.

Gretchen jumped from her bedside, her throat dry in an instant on a sharp intake of air.

Len's painting had been aired for the world to see.

Gretchen paced her floor wondering if it had been that interview that incited the danger. Had it scared Len into thinking someone would come for it? Did it make him so angry with her that he lashed out and tried to kill her? Had the airing of the interview made him paranoid that someone from his past would come looking for it,
or him
, on his island?

His
secret
island.

The screech of a power tool wrenched through her empty house. Gretchen jolted at the sound, confused as to why someone ran it. The crew was supposed to be packing up to leave the island. The renovation wouldn't be continuing as planned.

So, then, who was in her house?

She dropped the phone to her bed and went to the door. Her hand rested on the doorknob, but before she turned it she noticed the crowbar leaning against the wall. It had been put there after Len visited that first day the crew arrived. When she saw him holding it, she had thought it humorous to think an old man in his nineties would be able to hurt anyone.

“I won't make that mistake again,” she said and grabbed hold of the heavy, cold bar. She opened her bedroom door with the crowbar raised for protection.

The power tool echoed off the walls of the immense hall and foyer. She followed the sound to the railing and looked down to where it came from.

Colm knelt down at the foot of the stairs, cutting away the broken boards where she'd fallen through.

Calling down to him would be useless over the noise. She also didn't want to startle him and make him slip with the saw. Gretchen decided to wait a few minutes until he put the tool down. She walked to the top of the stairs and sat down, planning to ask him just what he was up to, when the saw stopped. Except when the last echoing screech of the power tool filled her house, it was replaced by a pleasant whistling tune coming from Colm's lips.

Instead of alerting him to her presence, Gretchen sat still and listened...and watched. For two years she had seen this handsome television host crack jokes and melt hearts with his smiling eyes. Since she met him two weeks ago, she'd learned that the host wasn't who he appeared to be and that he came from a life of street fighting and basic survival. But knowing this didn't tell her who he really was, either.

Colm whipped out a tape measure and pencil, still hunched over, then made quick work of preparing the floor for new boards.

She almost laughed aloud. The house was filled with holes in the walls all around her, and here he was whistling away as content as could be with the one in front of him.

He also looked as though he knew exactly what he was doing.

He wasn't a fraud at all.

Colm's whimsical Irish melody came to an abrupt halt, and Gretchen looked from his hands to his face staring up at her.

“When did you get there?” he asked. He smiled broadly...which did funny things to her belly.

“A few minutes ago.” She shrugged and played with the crowbar still in her hands. “I didn't want to disturb you. You seemed very involved in your work. I don't think I've ever seen you so...happy. What song were you whistling?”

“Something my da would whistle when he was in his woodshop.” Colm laughed and said, “I never knew the song had words until I was much older. I found out there was a reason he whistled it and never sang it.”

Gretchen laughed, too. “Not appropriate for young ears?”

“Hardly.” Colm made a mark on the floor with his pencil and grabbed his manual saw to cut a hanging piece. “A penny?”

Gretchen's smile relaxed. She tilted her head. “I was just thinking that I finally figured out who you are.”

He put the saw back into his bucket. “Who I am? I'm Colm McCrae. That's nothing new.”

“No. Before I met you, I only knew you as the funny-talking TV personality. Okay, and the cute one, too. But then you came here, and I saw a side of you that, well, I'll be honest, scared me.”

The shine in his eyes dimmed. “I would never hurt you, Gretchen. You have nothing to be afraid of.”

“I know. That's what I'm trying to say. Your TV personality isn't who you are. Your past as a street fighter doesn't define you, either. Sitting here, watching you, I finally see.”

He raised one eyebrow with a smirk. “I'm almost afraid to hear this.”

Gretchen smiled down at him. “Don't be. It's good. Real good. You're a carpenter, Colm.”

His smirk evaporated in an instant. He shook his head a few times before he said, “Nay. My da was a carpenter. I just play one on the telly.”

Gretchen frowned at his denial of her observation. But she also knew he'd had a lifetime of believing the worst of himself. Colm's dysfunctional past told her that a declaration of his true identity wasn't going to change his self-image instantly. No, it would take more than words for him to believe.

She reached over and caressed the spindle of the original ornate railing that ran along the upstairs balcony. It had once continued down the staircase, sweeping out at the bottom. “You know, the rest of this railing is out back in the barn. It's in pretty rough shape. I had planned on buying new, figuring it would be cheaper and easier to replace it rather than restoring the original.”

“Seriously? You have the rest of the railing?”

“Yeah. Do you think it's worth restoring? Or should I just replace it?”

Colm scanned the railing above him. “I'd have to take a look at it, but I might be able to bring it back to its original beauty. I'd love to try.”

Gretchen beamed at him. “See what I mean? You're a true carpenter. Face it, Colm.”

“Or what? You'll knock me out with that crowbar?” He skeptically eyed the bar in her hand.

Gretchen nearly forgot she still held it. “When I heard the saw, I grabbed it in case...well, in case there was an unfriendly person out here.”

“Good. Glad to see you're taking this seriously. But since you brought it out, bring it down here so I can lift out the broken boards.”

Gretchen stood to descend the stairs. At the bottom, Colm took the crowbar and gave a quick pull on a board. It came out clean. He moved on to another board.

“That one isn't broken,” she said. “Why are you taking it?”

“It's uneven with the floor. I figured since I was replacing the cut boards, I would replace this one, too. I wouldn't want your guests tripping over it.”

Gretchen shook her head. “The Morning Glory won't be opening its doors. But I know what you mean about these old floorboards. When I was trapped in the attic I tried to move a chest over to the window so I could reach to open it. But the chest hit a raised floorboard and fell over.”

“I'm so sorry you had to go through that.”

“I'm sorrier Len put me through it. If I had known when I saw him carrying this crowbar out of the attic that he meant to hurt me, I would have—” Gretchen stopped, an odd look on her face.

“What? You would have what?” Colm attempted to pull her back to the conversation. “Gretchen?”

“May I see that crowbar for a second?”

Colm passed it over to her. “What are you thinking, Goldie?”

“I'm not sure. Seeing you lift the boards gave me an idea. What would Len need this for if all he planned to do was pour turpentine on the floor? Come on.” She picked up her steps on the stairs with Colm right behind her.

“Maybe he wasn't up there putting something on my floor,” she said. “Maybe he was up there putting something
in
my floor.”

* * *

The attic still held a trace of the licorice and piney fumes, but for the most part the turpentine spill had been cleaned up, thanks to Sly. The man had a wealth of knowledge and was always quick to help where he was needed. After Ethan had been carted away the day before, Colm was glad to have his old friend to fall back on, especially since Colm planned to continue this restoration whether Gretchen still believed in her dreams or not. He would believe enough for her.

“The uneven board was right in here.” Gretchen led the way into the attic room. The room stood empty except for a chest pushed up against a side wall. A broken window was all that remained of the evidence of Gretchen's torture.

Colm's stomach twisted when he thought of her laboring for air, the window above blocking her.

“Someone moved the chest to the wall, I think. I don't remember pushing it that far. It was dark, but I'm pretty sure it had been situated right in the middle of the room.” She moved to the center. “Right here, I think.”

Colm joined her search for a floorboard that looked higher than the others. When she bent to touch the floor with her bare hands, he told her to stop. “There still could be traces of the turpentine. I don't want it on your hands.”

“I hope there are no traces left.” She straightened back up. “This place could go up like a torch. Thank the Lord it hadn't already.”

Colm smiled. “So you aren't ready to let the old house go after all. There's hope for you still.” He knelt to take over and quickly found the board she had bumped. “I think I found it.” He pulled at the board's edge, but it didn't budge.

“Try the crowbar to lift it like you did to the board downstairs.” She handed him the piece of steel and stepped back.

Colm inserted the flat wedged end down the side of the board. He cranked the bar down, but it didn't go far.

Gretchen circled around him. “Wait, I think you should try from this end. See how these boards end at the same place? It's as though they were all cut at the same length, unlike the rest of the wood boards that vary in length and starting point.”

Colm changed positions and inserted the tool where she specified. One crank and up popped not one board, but eight.

Colm halted in surprise, the gap only a few inches up from the floor. “It's a trapdoor.” He shot a look up at Gretchen. Her eyes were full of shock and wonder.

“Go ahead, Colm. Open it. Don't keep me waiting.” Her impatience mimicked exuberance, but he couldn't fault her. He felt the same way.

Reaching his fingers under the lifted edge, Colm brought the boards to their straight-up position, and there, in a five-by-five wooden compartment, lay something shaped like a rectangle and wrapped in brown paper.

“Three guesses?” he asked, stepping back for her to do the honors. “Or should we just tear into it?”

“Tear.” Gretchen knelt and lifted the rectangle out of its hiding place. Her fingers dug in at the corners. Someone listening would have thought it was Christmas morning with all the paper tearing and rejoicing cries that followed, Colm thought.

He sat beside her and brought the painting onto both their laps.

A European country scene with a stone wall and a path filled the piece of art. A lone figure, a painter judging by the artistic tools slung on his back, walked along under bright blue skies with two trees behind him. Leaves of assorted fall colors lay on the ground around the figure. The man was familiar-looking with his yellow-brimmed hat.

“Colm, do you know what this means?” Gretchen turned to him with tears filling her eyes.

“Um...Len had a van Gogh hanging on your restaurant wall all these years?”

“No, it means... Wait, what? This is a van Gogh?”

“Well, I'm far from an art scholar, but I've seen enough of van Gogh's self-portraits to recognize him out for a stroll.”

Gretchen's mouth fell wide. “Do you think it's a reproduction?”

“Why would Len go to such great lengths to hide it here in your house if it were?”

“True, but I still can't believe this. A van Gogh?” Seconds elapsed into minutes as she processed the find. “The painting had hung over the fireplace for so long, it became almost invisible to us. None of us thought anything of it. But when the show aired the interview, it showed the painting on the wall for anyone watching to see. Len must have known someone would recognize it. He hid it because he wanted to protect it. I think we should put it back. At least until we know what's going on and who's after it...enough to try to kill me. I hope this means it wasn't Len after all.”