Rosewood Lane (Cedar Cove #2)(59)

Peggy smiled when she saw him. “Good morning, hon. It’s ages since you slept this late.”

“I know. I don’t understand why.”

His wife hesitated. “You had another of your nightmares.”

“I don’t really remember….”

“Are you all right this morning?” Her face creased with worry lines as she studied him.

“I’m fine,” he murmured. “I didn’t get up—did I?” Twice over the years, Bob had awakened somewhere outside their bedroom. The only explanation had been sleepwalking.

“You were in bed when you woke, weren’t you?” she teased.

He nodded and was instantly relieved. He hugged his wife, then poured himself a cup of coffee. Taking his Alcoholics Anonymous “Big Book,” he walked into the sunroom and settled in his recliner to read. He had twenty years of sobriety behind him, but he still lived one day at a time. He was a drunk who was one shot glass away from ruin, and he didn’t allow a day to go by without reminding himself of that. Twenty minutes later, Peggy took the muffins out of the oven.

Their morning routine was set, and it was almost ten before his wife realized they hadn’t seen their guest, although his car was still there. Curiosity led Bob outside to glance through the driver’s window. A map lay on the passenger seat and a half-full water bottle was in the drink holder, but he saw nothing out of the ordinary.

“I did tell him breakfast was between eight and ten, didn’t I?” she asked Bob when he came back into the house.

“Maybe he’s just sleeping in. He said he had a hard day.”

“It’s after eleven,” Peggy murmured a bit later.

“He’s an odd duck.” Bob wasn’t going to change his opinion about that.

A half hour later, Peggy was again concerned. “Maybe we’d better check to see if he’s all right.”

“Let him sleep,” Bob insisted. “For all we know, he could be in his room working. He did have a computer with him, didn’t he?”

“I don’t remember.”

To Bob’s way of thinking, if the stranger wanted privacy, he’d give it to him.

His wife sent him a questioning look, then shrugged and went back to the quilt she’d recently started. Bob went to his garage workshop; in retirement, he’d taken up woodwork and enjoyed building furniture. Over the years, he’d created some pretty nice pieces, if he did say so himself. He’d recently finished a chest of drawers and was proud of the workmanship. After he’d added a final coat of varnish, he returned to the house. It was now twelve-thirty. A look out the window revealed the stranger’s car parked where it had been earlier.

Bob fixed himself a ham sandwich and resumed his tinkering around the garage. A few minutes later, Peggy sought him out.

“I think we’re going to have to go in there,” his wife said. “I knocked on his door, but there wasn’t any answer.”

Bob decided Peggy was right. Following her into the house, he pounded on the bedroom door.

“Are you awake?” he called loudly.

“There’s no need to yell,” Peggy whispered. She looked nervous, and frankly Bob was starting to feel the same way. Although they’d been in business for more than ten years, it was the first time they’d had an experience—or a guest—like this.

“I have the key,” Peggy told him when there was no response.

“Okay.”

“Should I call Troy Davis?” she asked.

The sheriff was a good friend, but Bob didn’t want to waste Troy’s time if there was a logical explanation. “Not yet.”

“But something must be wrong.”

“Don’t leap to conclusions, Peg.” He wished now that he’d gone with his instincts and told the stranger to seek some other place for the night.

Peggy handed him the key and Bob reluctantly inserted it in the lock. Slowly, he turned the knob and swung open the door. Their guest was sleeping in the middle of the bed. His coat hung in the closet, with his hat resting on the shelf directly above. The suitcase was open, but it looked as though a surgeon had packed it. Everything was crisply folded and compact. The suitcase appeared to be undisturbed.

“He could just be sick,” Peggy said, clinging to Bob’s arm.

Bob doubted it. He recognized that smell, and his skin crawled with memories of jungle warfare almost forty years earlier. The scent of death was one a man didn’t quickly forget.

Whatever the stranger’s purpose for being in Cedar Cove, it would likely remain a mystery now.

Bob moved to the bed and stared down at him. The night before, his face had been shadowed by his hat, which was pulled low over his face. He looked younger now that Bob could see him clearly. Younger and completely at peace.

“Is he…dead?” Peggy asked, her dread palpable.

Although he already knew the answer, Bob felt for a pulse in the man’s neck. There was nothing. “I think it’s time we phoned Troy,” he said.

Fifteen minutes later, the yard was filled with emergency vehicles. EMTs, several officers and the medical examiner tramped through the house. Bob answered question after question, but he wasn’t able to provide Troy or Joe Mitchell, the medical examiner, with much information.

“There’ll have to be an autopsy,” Troy said.