The Undercover Affair Read online

  A crew was already lined up to pour concrete and to bring in plants. There was to be an undercover officer working alongside the legitimate laborers. The task force had set this up.

  “Perhaps we should review the plan as discussed with your husband,” Lyndsay said.

  Kitty’s face darkened. “No. I’m happy with the back patio as it is. I like the outdoor hot tub. Instead, I’d prefer that the master bedroom suite and the upstairs living area be updated. You and I will keep it as our surprise for Paul.”

  If she were a real designer, rather than a police officer, Lyndsay would be terribly concerned. But her job, above all, was to keep Kitty happy, and therefore unsuspicious. Her only real concern with the design plans she and Karen had decided upon was to keep her police-employee laborers busy with a cover story. She needed to fit them in to Kitty’s plans somehow.

  “Very well,” Lyndsay said calmly. They would skip the concrete pouring, but keep the plants. They were on order, with a police planter set to install them. Also, the hot tub would stay.

  “Tell me about the master suite, Kitty. It’s been locked, and Congressman MacLaine asked that I not enter.”

  Kitty waved her hand. “Probably because his safe is in there.”

  “His safe?” Her heart beat faster. No one had said a word about a second safe. Had the congressman even mentioned this to her commander?

  “Should I be worried? About the liability,” she explained.

  Kitty shook her head. “That’s not a consideration.”

  “Okay.” Lyndsay kept her voice cheerful. “It sounds like we’ll be going against what your husband ordered, then.”

  “This is my project for my birthday. And I’ve wanted it for a long time.”

  “How long have you lived here?” Lyndsay asked conversationally. In the academy, she’d been taught that when a person got upset, that it was best to keep him or her calm.

  “We haven’t lived here much since we were married. I never liked that he lived here with somebody else. It reminds me too much of...not me.” Kitty’s jaw moved.

  Ah. So here was the point of tension.

  “And this is your first renovation on the house?” Lyndsay asked gently.

  A short nod. There was an internal anger to her that Lyndsay could sense. A resentment against her husband, perhaps.

  Lyndsay directed a bright smile at her. She could calm a person in a bad mood. It was one of her strengths. Besides, she felt compassion for Kitty, moving into a house that her husband had shared with another woman.

  Kitty wasn’t exactly acting in concert with him. Beneath the smiling surface, she seemed unhappy. Maybe she usually hid it behind a manic, enthusiastic persona. That march of busy-busy-busy. Lyndsay recognized that particular coping mechanism, as well. Being lonely, she did it herself sometimes.

  Lyndsay stood. “I’d love for you to walk me through the house, Kitty. When your husband hired my firm, we spoke about your tastes over the phone, and he filled out some questionnaires for us, but obviously, it’s preferable to hear about your wishes directly from you. I’d love to see what you feel about everything. Hear what you have to say.”

  Kitty’s mouth pursed in thoughtfulness. “What exactly did Paul say to you about my tastes?”

  “You like blues and greens, ocean colors. You want a clean, contemporary design that uses natural materials. Much like what DesignSea specializes in,” she said hastily.

  Kitty nodded. “He did do a great job choosing the design firm,” she admitted.

  Excellent. Lyndsay silently praised Commander Harris for that decision.

  “Why don’t we head upstairs?” Honestly, Lyndsay was dying to get into the master bedroom suite and investigate that safe. The team needed to be informed.

  “First, let me tell you what I want done with this room,” Kitty said. “Right now it’s just a big empty space with a couch and two chairs. I want to keep the pictures of me—” she pointed to the two nudes over the fireplace, and Lyndsay recognized Kitty right away “—but not on white walls. And we’ll need to replace the cracked tile floor. I’d prefer nice vinyl flooring—not wood—since we are at the beach. I really want to see a nice, inviting space with color and modern floors and furniture.”

  “Of course. I’ll make sure that this room is painted and decorated to give it a beachy feel.”

  “Yes, like what you did in your design. I want you to fix up the whole house like that.”

  “We only have two weeks,” she gently reminded Kitty. “And I have to do something with the outside terrace because I already ordered the plants and the crew, but I’ll tell you what, I’ll leave the hot tub and anything else that you want me to keep. And for now, besides the living room, we’ll choose one other room to transform, exactly as you’d like it. But just one. Which would you like?”

  She prayed Kitty didn’t choose the kitchen, because then she would have to refuse her. But if she’d said that upfront, then Kitty might have chosen it. Kitty seemed to have a perverse streak in her, and Lyndsay, while she felt compassion for her obvious unhappiness, had no desire to tap it.

  “All right. Let’s go upstairs.” Kitty set her chin. She stood, walk-marched over to the curving staircase to the second floor and motioned Lyndsay to follow.

  Lyndsay knew the floor plan well, having already worked here for four days. Honestly, what needed the most work was the guest bedroom suite, the rooms where Lyndsay would sleep, which were a wreck, with peeling paint and old, stained carpeting.

  Of course Kitty did not choose the guest bedroom suite. Lyndsay followed her down the hallway toward the master bedroom.

  Lyndsay paused. Curiosity made her stay quiet.

  Kitty tried the handle, but the door didn’t open.

  “It’s locked,” Lyndsay said. “I was asked not to enter.”

  “Well, I want it updated. I hate our furniture, I hate our window treatments, I hate the paint color.” Kitty pulled out her key ring again, and flipped through the keys. Dramatically, she opened the door and stepped inside, waving Lyndsay after her. “Isn’t it ugly?” she asked Lyndsay.

  A king-size bed. Two nondescript dressers—his and hers. Two windows with messy old blinds, drawn. That same white paint that was in every other room. Builders’ grade.

  Wordlessly, Lyndsay entered the small hall that led to the door into the master bath. Also in the hallway were two walk-in closets.

  The safe must be inside one of them. She would check that out later. Turning, she saw a small alcove built into the corner of the room. Here were two more original paintings. Watercolors, smaller than the oil paintings of Kitty downstairs. She peered closer. There was a woman in both paintings, but she didn’t look like Kitty. She sat on the beach in front of this cottage, frolicking with two golden retrievers.

  “I want this entire master bedroom area updated,” Kitty was saying, “including new furniture and bedding. And of course I want the master bathroom remodeled by the time I return from my trip. The open sitting room at the top of the stairs, too. So in summary, I’d like the downstairs living room painted and both main floors, up and down, need to have flooring installed. Of course, that is in addition to the master bedroom and bathroom update.”

  “Kitty...” Lyndsay warned. It was inconceivable that she could manage all that in two weeks, plus act as an undercover detective.

  Defiant, Kitty moved to stand beside her. “I know you have our credit card on file. I know you have a generous limit and more than enough time to implement these small changes for me.”

  I can’t do all the flooring, or the master bathroom tiling, Lyndsay was about to say. But Kitty was gazing at the two watercolor paintings with a strange look on her face.

  Lyndsay stilled, watching her.

  “It wouldn’t be a bad thing if these went missing,” Kitty spit.

/>   “What do you mean?” Lyndsay asked, her heart beating faster.

  Kitty turned and gave her a cryptic smile, then lowered her lashes. “I’m sure they’re insured.”

  Whoa. The cop in her was straining on the leash, eager to interrogate Kitty.

  “Who are they?” Lyndsay asked instead, casually. “The woman and the dogs, I mean.”

  Kitty snorted. “The less said about that, the better.”

  What did this mean? Lyndsay bit her cheek. Had anyone on the task force interviewed or considered Mrs. MacLaine? Lyndsay would bet not.

  “Your husband is an art collector?” Lyndsay pressed. She leaned closer to the paintings. The signature was an illegible scribble. “Who’s the artist?”

  Kitty laughed. “It’s not important. The important thing is that I’m trusting you with the key to this room. But as a reminder, only you are to enter inside. Absolutely no other people can.”

  “No movers? Or tradespeople? I can’t change the furniture or paint the walls in that case.”

  “Well, then you must be with them at all times, no exceptions. My husband prefers this door be locked. No one should be left in here alone.”

  “Understood.” Lyndsay nodded. She was most excited about the knowledge of the two previously unknown watercolors, and about Kitty’s strange reaction to them. Lyndsay realized she was leaving a whole lot of questions on the table, but she didn’t want to make Kitty suspicious, and there were other avenues she could take to find answers. The investigator within her was chomping at the bit, in fact.

  Still, with all this reno work to supervise, it was going to be a very busy two weeks. Good thing she liked to keep busy. “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Thank you,” Kitty said. “I’ll be excited to come home and see what beautiful things you’ve done for me.” She gave Lyndsay a heartfelt, happy smile.

  And Lyndsay couldn’t argue with that. She liked to see people happy. Who didn’t?

  She needed to get the information she’d learned about the paintings to the task force. She would discuss it with Pete during their meeting.

  On the plus side, all this work gave her the perfect excuse to skip a few lunches at the Seaside with Andy and his crew.

  “You’re a hard driver, Kitty. But thank you for trusting me with your home. You have a good trip, and I’ll have the big reveal ready when you return.”

  * * *

  KITTY’S RED SUV wasn’t gone from the driveway thirty minutes when the front doorbell rang. Putting down the laptop where she had been looking for anything related to the watercolor paintings—and coming up empty—Lyndsay reluctantly headed to her guest room, where she had a commanding view of the street.

  Andy’s van was parked in her driveway. AJ sat in the front passenger seat. Moon in the rear. The engine was idling.

  Sighing, Lyndsay headed downstairs and pulled open the door before Andy had a chance to ring the doorbell again.

  He met her with a grin. “You’re still here. That’s a good sign, right?”

  Unable to hide her own smile, she grinned, too. It had made her quite happy to have some detective work to attend to.

  Andy hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “We’re heading to the Seaside. Wanna join?”

  Where she would come face-to-face with John Reilly again? Not on his life.

  “Wish I could, Andy,” she said cheerfully, “but I’m swamped. Mrs. MacLaine loaded me with work. Would you mind bringing me back a sandwich?”

  “Okay. You want an Italian sub?”

  “Um, yes, please.” She really wasn’t hungry, but she might be in an hour or so. “Hold on, let me get my wallet.” She held up a finger and dashed to the kitchen before Andy could protest. In two seconds, she was back again. “Here’s a twenty. I forgot to pick up supplies, so if you could throw a few bottles of water into the bag, I’d be grateful.”

  Andy took the bill and plopped it into his shirt pocket. Peering at her, he asked, “Is everything okay with you and John? I saw you guys talking this morning. It looked kind of heated.”

  She forced a smile. “Everything is okay. Really.”

  “Okay. If you say so.” Andy tipped his hat. She remained at the door until Andy hopped back inside his vehicle, then backed the van into the street. From the back seat, Moon gave her a wave.

  Smiling to herself, she waved back. But it wasn’t until she’d closed the door that she felt truly relieved.

  She could only wait and see what John would do now, then deal with it as best she could. Hopefully the background alias that the task force had built for her would be enough to cover her.

  It had fooled Kitty. Pray that it fooled John, too.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  JOHN SAT AT his usual table in the restaurant—the same seat that Lyndsay had favored—and stared at his laptop screen.

  Lyn Francis checked out. He’d found her social media profiles and her professional portfolio, though Jason Francis was too popular a name to verify. But in his gut, John doubted that she’d lied about him.

  He leaned back and closed the laptop. Frankly, he was acting as if he was obsessed with her. Two days she’d missed coming in to his restaurant, and he was taking it personally. All this stuff with Patrick was making him not trust people. When Lyn had spoken of her family, it had seemed real to him. For that alone, John was inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt.

  The door opened, and John glanced up to see Andy and his crew filing in. John waited to see if she was with them, but, no. Yet again, no Lyn.

  Feeling antsy, he tucked the laptop under his arm and headed toward the kitchen. At the doorway, he came face-to-face with his brother, staring dully at him.

  How long had Patrick been watching? John shot him a look. His brother leaned over and scratched his ankle.

  John could tell Patrick to get in the kitchen and help with the phone orders or with unloading the dishwasher, but he suddenly felt tired.

  He circled around Patrick without comment and headed into the kitchen. His mother wore an apron and disposable food-prep gloves. Paper slips were tacked on the ledge over the table where she worked assembling sandwiches for a telephone order.

  They weren’t high-tech at the Seaside. The main reason John had come back, and then stayed on, had been to keep the books, handle the computer work and do the heavy-lifting maintenance tasks. At night, he also handled the bar. It wasn’t a small job to manage the place. His mother ran the kitchen operations and the daily menu, but John took care of almost everything else.

  While John stood there, the waitress came in with a slip she’d taken from another telephone order and lined that up with the others.

  John put the laptop away in the small office, locked the door behind him, then came out to stand with his mother. Distracted by his presence, she frowned. Once she’d had a great laugh, but he rarely heard it anymore. Her Italian mom—a grandmother John remembered with affection, a petite round woman with an infectious laugh, too—had taught her most of the recipes she enjoyed making for the Seaside, and he watched her for a moment as she took a length of freshly made bread, picked up a serrated knife and sliced it in half, as if she were performing a sacred ritual.

  Then she measured out a spoon of Italian oil and herbs—her mother’s homemade special. She spread it on the bread and added thinly sliced portions of salami, ham, mortadella. The same way she’d taught John to make his own sandwiches from the time he was young.

  She smiled slightly as she did it—indeed, it seemed to be her only pleasure. He didn’t have the heart to suggest that they talk about selling the place. It had been her dream that Patrick one day take it over, and according to her, that was what Patrick wanted, as well. John felt dubious about that, but said nothing.

  “Where’s your brother?” she asked, her voice barely audible over the m
usic that was playing over the kitchen radio.

  “I think he went back to the house,” John said. The small Cape-style home was connected to the rear of the Seaside by a covered walkway his father had constructed when John was young because his father had disliked cold weather.

  John had intended to look at the dripping faucet near the dishwasher, but instead he put on a pair of food-prep gloves and picked up one of the pink paper slips. He and his mother worked companionably, constructing sandwiches, side by side. Not saying a word, which was the way that John liked it.

  His mother finished the order she’d been working on, then bagged it. She glanced at John. “Your brother’s light was on all night in his room again.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “Reading, I suppose.”

  “That explains why he’s tired all day.”

  “Will you talk to him?”

  John talked to him, but it never seemed to do much good. He felt himself gritting his teeth. “Sure.”

  “He’s not like you, John. I worry about him. He’s just so sensitive.” Her knuckles were white from her grip on the paper bag.

  John wasn’t going to mention that, sensitive or not, Patrick should be in the kitchen helping her. His mother wasn’t blind. She knew that. She also knew that John always put his family first. Always.

  “I don’t know what else I can do for him,” he said, surprised at his own resentment of Patrick.

  “I wonder if we could talk with the court about him getting more services for counseling?”

  John had been working within the system as best as he could. Frankly, it was exhausting. “Sure, Mom.”

  “And why don’t we call and talk with his lawyer?”

  “Because I talked with his lawyer last week.” Each time they spoke it cost the business more money—money they didn’t have. “He said there’s nothing more we can do until the sentencing hearing.”

  His mother bowed her head. An oldies station played on the radio, which John knew reminded her of times when his dad was alive.

  John felt a slow burn. He’d been a teen once, the same as Patrick, but he hadn’t hung out with peers who’d done drugs. After Patrick had first been caught and arrested, the courts had begun testing him. He’d convinced John that he was clean.