Page 50 of Tempest at Annabel's Lighthouse
“K.” Pete rounded the truck to the driver’s side and hopped in.
Shea climbed into the truck also, wishing for the first time in a long while that she could continue to see Pete through Marnie’s eyes. Attractive. A “hubby.” It was sexy and endearing simultaneously, though right now Shea could see only Pete. Just good ol’ Pete.
They’d uncovered that August Fronell lived in the local nursing home after Shea had given Marnie a quick call back at the diner to ask. She should’ve just asked when they were there, but Marnie’s comments about Pete had more than distracted her.
When Pete pulled into the parking lot of the one-story, sprawling center, Shea grimaced. “Eek. I hope I die before I get to this point.”
“Why?” Pete hopped from the car.
“Because.” Shea followed. “Think about it. No family to visityou. A bunch of strangers taking care of your day-to-day needs. I value my independence too much.”
Pete shrugged as they walked side by side into the facility. “Might be nice.”
Shea gave him a sideways look. “How so?”
“Three meals a day. Nice nurses.”
“Nurses, huh?” Shea shot him a look. “I get it.”
Pete didn’t answer, he didn’t even smile, he just held the door for Shea, and she entered ahead of him. At the registration desk, she got the directions to Mr. Fronell’s room, and they started down the appropriate wing.
“I need to ask him what he knows about Annabel, about this Rebecca, and about Jonathan Marks,” Shea said, even though Pete didn’t seem to take much interest in anything but following her. “I’m curious ifRebeccaeven plays a part in the story, or if she’s just a rabbit trail. Idoneed to stay focused on my book too. I don’t know if my editor wants me to go too deep into the conspiracy theories surrounding the history of the lighthouse or focus strictly on Annabel’s thread.”
Again, no response from Pete, but it didn’t matter because they’d reached the door of Mr. Fronell’s apartment. Shea knocked. Waited. Then knocked again.
“Door’s open!” a wobbly voice hollered.
Shea pushed it open and was instantly assaulted by the scent of peppermint, stale air, and the heat of a thousand fires. The elderly man must’ve had his thermostat set to eight-two. She noticed Pete push his sleeves up his arms after he closed the door.
August Fronell was a small man. His frame was bent at the shoulders, and his ears looked too large for his face. Wispy white hair was neatly combed, and he wore dress pants and a cardigan as though he were a little old accountant who’d forgotten he was retired. He sat in a wheelchair, his feet encased in black orthopedic shoes.
“Mr. Fronell, I’m—”
“Shea Radclyffe.” The man was sharp as a whistle, as were his brown eyes. “Heard rumblings you were in town asking questions for your next book.”
“You’ve read my books?” She smiled in pleased surprise.
“Nope. Not a one,” Mr. Fronell retorted.
Pete gave a suspicious clearing of his throat.
Shea quickly swallowed her humble pie. “Well, you heard correctly. I have a lot of questions, if you’d be willing to chat with me?”
Mr. Fronell eyed her for a second. “You’d be better off chatting with Gene.”
“Captain Gene?” Shea’s interest perked at the same time she felt instant disappointment. August Fronell didn’t seem to want company.
“Gene’s the one who knows everything. ’Course, no one takes his stories seriously. Just stories, they all believe.”
“And you don’t?” Shea inquired.
Mr. Fronell gave her a sharp look. “Gene don’t lie. What Gene says, is. That’s the truth of it.”
“When you say he knows ‘everything’...”
“I mean everything.” Mr. Fronell nodded. His hands massaged the arms of his wheelchair in a reflexive motion he probably didn’t even realize he was doing. “He knows the truth about Annabel’s Lighthouse and everything that ever went on there. Not to mention Pressie.”
“The mysterious creature of Lake Superior?” Pete inserted to Shea’s surprise.
