Читать книгу Season of Secrets - Marta Perry - Страница 9

“I just wish you wouldn’t go over there.” Aunt Kate followed Dinah to the front hall the next day as if she’d bar the door.

Dinah stopped, managing a smile for her great-aunt. “I wish I didn’t have to.” She hadn’t told Aunt Kate about Marcus’s intention of looking into Annabel’s death. That would only distress her more.

“Well, then—”

“I must, don’t you see?” Obviously Aunt Kate didn’t, or they wouldn’t be having this conversation again. “You’re the one who taught me about the importance of family.”

Aunt Kate’s lips pursed into a shape reminiscent of a bud on one of her rosebushes. “Marcus Devlin is not a member of our family.”

“Annabel was.” She struggled to say the words evenly.

Aunt Kate’s eyes misted. “Does he know you haven’t been in that house since Annabel died?”

“No. And you’re not to tell him.” She clutched Aunt Kate’s hand. “Promise me.”

“Of course, dear. But if it bothers you that much, it’s all the more reason not to become involved with Marcus’s visit.”

“This isn’t about Marcus. I have to go over there for Court’s sake.”

Aunt Kate gave in at that—she could see it in her eyes. It was a good thing, because Dinah couldn’t bear to argue with her.

“I suppose if you must, you must.” She touched Dinah’s hair lightly. “You’re as stubborn as I was at your age.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” She bent to kiss her aunt’s cheek.

“We’ll deal with the gossip somehow, I suppose.” Her aunt tried one last volley.

“Darling, you know they’ll gossip anyway. What I do or don’t do won’t change that.”

“I suppose. It’s just…” She caught Dinah’s hand as she opened the door. “Be careful, Dinah. Please.”

The intensity in her aunt’s voice startled her. “Careful of what?”

“Marc. Just be wary of Marc. There may be more to his return than he’s telling you.”

Dinah could think of nothing to say to that. She slipped outside, closing the door quickly.

Aunt Kate, through some instinct, seemed to know more than she’d been told. Marcus did have an agenda, and it certainly wasn’t one of which Aunt Kate would approve.

Well. Dinah stood on the piazza for a moment, pulling her jacket a little tighter around her. How had Aunt Kate stumbled upon that? Had she sensed something from Dinah’s reaction?

She’d tried to hide her feelings after Marc had left the previous day. This idea of his that he’d look into Annabel’s death—well, it might be understandable, but she couldn’t help him. She had to make him see that.

She went out the brick walk to the gate in the wrought-iron fence that enclosed Aunt Kate’s house and garden. The gate, like most of the others on the street, bore a wreath of magnolia leaves in honor of the season.

She touched the shining leaves. Maybe Court would like to make one, if he was determined to observe a real Charleston Christmas. Charlestonians were justifiably proud of their Christmas decor.

Crossing the quiet street, she had to will her steps not to lag. She took the step up to the curb, facing the gate in the wrought-iron fence. Marc’s gate was similar to Aunt Kate’s, but the black iron was worked into the shape of a pineapple in the center—the traditional symbol of Southern hospitality.

The house beyond, like Aunt Kate’s and most other old Charleston houses, was set with its side to the street, facing the small garden. According to local lore, the houses were laid out that way because in the early days of the city, home owners were taxed based on how many windows faced the street. The truth was probably that they’d been clever enough to place the piazzas to catch the breeze.

Open the gate, go up the brick walk. Her breath came a little faster now. Ridiculous, to hear her heart beating in her ears because she neared her cousin’s house. She should have faced this long ago. If Aunt Kate hadn’t sent her away so quickly after the tragedy—

She stopped herself. Aunt Kate had done what she thought was best when confronted with the death of one great-niece and the emotional collapse of the other. She couldn’t be blamed.

Dinah had come back to Charleston as an adult. She could have gone into the house at any time, but she’d successfully avoided every invitation.

Her first instinct had been right. Marc’s return would change all of them in ways she couldn’t imagine.

She reached for the knocker and then paused. In the old days, she’d run in and out of Annabel’s house as if it were her own. She shouldn’t change things now. She grasped the brass knob, turned it and let the door swing open.

Please, help me do this. Slowly, she stepped inside.

The spacious center hallway stood empty, the renters’ furniture gone with them. Weak winter sunshine through the stained-glass window on the landing cast oblongs of rose and green on the beige stair carpet. The graceful, winding staircase seemed to float upward.

The space was different, but the same. Even without Annabel’s familiar furnishings, it echoed with her presence, as if at any moment she would sail through the double doors from the front parlor, silvery blond hair floating around her face, arms outstretched in welcome.

A shudder went through Dinah, and she took an involuntary step back.

“I know.”

She turned. Marc stood in the doorway to the room that had once been his study. He’d exchanged the jacket and tie he’d worn the previous day for jeans and a casual ivory sweater. His eyes met hers gravely.

“I know,” he said again. “I feel it, too. It’s as if she’s going to come through the door at any moment.”

“Yes.” She took a shaky breath, oddly reassured that his memories were doing the same thing to him. “I thought it would seem different to me, but it doesn’t.”

He moved toward her. “I thought I’d already done all my grieving.” His voice roughened. “Then I found the grief was waiting here for me.”

She nodded slowly. For the moment, the barriers between them didn’t exist. Her throat was tight, but she forced the words out.

“I haven’t been in here in ten years. I couldn’t.” Her voice shook a little. “Or maybe I was just a coward.”

Marc grasped her shoulder in a brief, comforting touch and then took his hand away quickly, as if she might object.

“You’re not a coward, Dinah. It’s a natural reaction.”

Ironic, that she’d just done what she’d told Aunt Kate not to do. Still, the confession of her weakness seemed to have eased the tension between them.

“What about Court? Is he having trouble with being here?”

He shook his head. “He doesn’t seem affected at all. It’s unnerving, somehow.”

It would be. She had a foolish urge to comfort Marc. “He was only three, after all. He slept through everything. He doesn’t have the memories we do.”

“No.” He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling. “I’m grateful for that.”

“Maybe that makes it right that you kept him away from us.” She couldn’t help the bitterness that traced the words.

His jaw tightened. “I thought it was best for him.”

“Obviously.” Unexpected anger welled up in her. Both Marc and Aunt Kate had done what they thought was best, regardless of the consequences. “Are you sorry for the pain that caused us? Or do you just not care?”

Marc looked as startled as if a piece of furniture had suddenly railed at him. His dark eyes narrowed, and she braced for an attack.

Footsteps clattered down the stairs. They both jerked around toward the stairwell.

“Hey, Dad, can I go—”

The boy stopped at the sight of her, assessing her with a frank, open gaze. She did the same. Tall for thirteen—he had his father’s height, but he hadn’t broadened into it yet. He had Marc’s dark eyes and hair, too, and for a moment she thought there was nothing of Annabel about him.

Then he trotted down the rest of the steps and came toward her, holding out his hand. “I know who you are.” He smiled, and it was Annabel’s smile, reaching out to clutch her heart.

“I know who you are, too.” Her voice had gotten husky, but she couldn’t help that. “Welcome home, Court.”

Marc still couldn’t get over how quickly Dinah had bonded with his son. He finished dusting the desk he and Court had carried from the attic to his study and put his laptop on it. That’s where Dinah and Court were now, happily rummaging through the attic’s contents to see what should be brought down for their use over the next few weeks.

At some point, he’d have to take a turn going through the attic. The thought of what that would entail made him cringe. He hadn’t sorted a thing before he left Charleston. Now the reminders of his life with Annabel waited for him.

And, as Dinah had pointed out, he should make the house look furnished if he intended it to show well to prospective buyers. That hadn’t occurred to him, and he could see already that Dinah would be invaluable to him. And to Court, apparently.

Court surely couldn’t remember her. He’d only been three that summer. Still, Dinah had spent a lot of time with him. Maybe, at some level, Court sensed that they already had a relationship.

He opened his briefcase and stacked files next to the computer. The vacation time he’d taken to come here had been well earned, but it was impossible to walk away completely from ongoing cases. He’d have to spend part of each day in touch with the office if he expected to make this work.

His mind kept drifting back to that summer, unrolling images he hadn’t looked at in years. Annabel hadn’t felt well much of the time, and she’d been only too happy to turn Court over to Dinah. Face it, Annabel had been annoyed at being pregnant again, and each symptom had been a fresh excuse to snap at him about it.

He should have been more sympathetic, and he knew that painfully well now. He’d been absorbed in prosecuting a big case and relieved to escape the tension in the house by the need to work late most evenings.

What he hadn’t expected was how devoted Dinah became to Court, and how well she’d cared for him. Maybe she’d loved him so much because she’d always been alone, the only child being raised by an elderly aunt, shipped off to boarding school much of the time.

That was one thing he’d been determined not to do with Court. The boy had lost his mother, but his father had been a consistent presence in his life. He’d thought that was enough for Court, until the past few months.

“Are you stacking those files, or shredding them?” Dinah’s voice startled him.

He glanced down at the files he’d unconsciously twisted in his hands. He put them down, smoothing the manila covers.

“I was thinking about something other than what I was doing. Where’s Court?” He turned away from the desk, the sight of Dinah bringing an involuntary smile to his lips. “You have cobwebs in your hair.”

She brushed at the mass of dark curls. “He found the boxes of Christmas ornaments, and he’s busy going through them. Your attic needs some attention.”

“That’s just what I was thinking.” He crossed to her, reaching out to pull the last wisp of cobweb from her hair. Her curls flowed through his fingers, silky and clinging. “I can’t close on a sale until I clear the attic.”

“I guess it has to be done.” The shadow in her eyes said she knew how difficult that would be.

“Maybe you could help sort things out.” There was probably every reason for her to say no to that. “There might be some things of Annabel’s that you would like to keep as a remembrance. I’m sorry I didn’t think of that sooner.” He’d been too preoccupied with his own grief to pay sufficient heed to anyone else’s.

She made a gesture that he interpreted as pushing that idea away with both hands. “I don’t need anything to help me remember Annabel.”

Once he’d been amused at how Dinah idolized his wife. Now he found himself wondering how healthy that had been.

“You might help me choose some things to keep for Court, then,” he said smoothly. Court was probably a safe way to approach her. She’d been crazy about him when he was small, and he’d certainly returned the favor. “I remember him running down the hall full tilt, shouting ‘Dinah, Dinah, Dinah.’”

A smile that was probably involuntary curved her lips. “I remember him singing ‘Someone’s in the Kitchen with Dinah.’ You taught him that to tease me.”

They were smiling at each other then, the image clear and bright between them. He leaned forward.

“You see, Dinah. We do have something in common.”

Her eyes darkened. “If anything, too much.” She took a breath, as if steadying herself. “Court really wants to have Christmas here.”

He nodded. He was playing dirty pool, getting at her through Court, but he’d do what he had to. Any excuse to keep her in the house might help her remember.

“A Charleston Christmas with all the trimmings.” He grimaced. “Thanks to the Internet, he has a calendar of every event through to First Night. If I try to skip a thing, he’ll know it.”

“Blame the tourist bureau for that.” Her smile flickered. “They wouldn’t want to miss a single visitor.”

“Anyway—” He reached out, thinking to touch her hand, and then thought better of it. “Anyway, will you help me do Christmas, Dinah? For Court’s sake?”

Aunt Kate had schooled her well. No one could tell from her expression the distaste she must feel, but somehow he knew it, bone deep.

“For Court’s sake,” she said. Then, cautioning, she added, “But we’ll have to work around my job.”

“You have a job?” He couldn’t help the surprise in his tone.

“Of course I have a job.” Her voice contained as much of an edge as she probably ever let show. “Did you think I sat around all day eating bonbons?”

“No. Sorry.” He’d better not say that he’d assumed she’d been like Annabel, doing the round of society events and charity work until she married. “I am sorry. I guess I’m still thinking of you as a schoolgirl.”

“I haven’t been that in a long time.” She seemed to accept the excuse, but those deep violet eyes were surprisingly hard to read.

“Sorry,” he said again. “So, tell me what you do.”

“I’m a forensic artist. I work for the Charleston Police Department primarily, but sometimes I’m called on by neighboring jurisdictions.”

He couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d said she was a lion tamer, but he suspected it wasn’t a good idea to show that.

“That’s—”

“Surprising? Appalling? Not a suitable job for a well brought up young lady?”

Her tone surprised him into a grin. “That sounds like what Aunt Kate might say.”

“Among other things.” Her face relaxed. “She still has trouble with it. She doesn’t think I should be exposed to—” She stopped suddenly, her smile forgotten on her face.

“To violence,” he finished for her. “It’s too late for that, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Much too late.” It sounded like an epitaph.

If she let herself think about Marc’s intentions for too long, Dinah could feel panic rising inside her. She’d forced herself to hold the subject at bay but now, driving to police headquarters the next day, she took a cautious look.

How could Marc possibly expect to learn anything new after ten years? Did he really think he could find the solution that had eluded the police?

Obviously, he did. In a sense, she could understand his determination. He saw a possible harm to Court in the unanswered questions, and he’d do anything for his son.

Ten years ago he’d loved his son, of course, but he’d been so preoccupied with his work that he hadn’t been as available to Court as he should have been. Apparently, after he left Charleston, he’d turned his priorities around completely. She had to admire that.

But she wasn’t so sure he was right about Court. Knowing more about his mother’s life was admirable, but knowing more about his mother’s death could only cause pain. She should know. She’d lived with that pain for too long.

What if Marc imagined she knew something about the night Annabel died that she’d never told? Everyone else had long since accepted the fact that she hadn’t seen or heard anything. The dream was just that, a dream.

But Marc tended not to accept something just because everyone else did. She remembered that about him clearly. It had made him a good prosecutor. She wasn’t sure it made him a safe friend.

She pulled into a parking place near the headquarters building on Lockwood Boulevard. Across the street, the black rectangular monument to fallen officers gleamed in the winter sunshine, making her heart clench. She pushed Marc into the back closet of her mind. She’d go inside, find Tracey, and concentrate on some complicated police case instead.

She hurried inside, clipping her identification to the pocket of the blazer she wore with tan slacks. She still smiled at the memory of Detective Tracey Elliott taking one look at her the first time they’d met and telling her not to come to headquarters again looking like a debutante.

At the time, Tracey had resented having a civilian artist foisted off on her by the chief of detectives, who’d been influenced in turn by an old friend of Aunt Kate’s on the city council. Dinah had never regretted using influence to get in the door. She could prove her abilities only if they gave her a chance to try.

Nodding to several detectives who’d eventually accepted her, she wove through the maze of desks and file cabinets to where Tracey sat slumped over a thick sheaf of papers.

“Good morning.”

Tracey shoved one hand through disheveled red curls, her green eyes warming with welcome. “Don’t tell me it’s good unless you’ve got some decent coffee stashed in that bag of yours.”

It was a long-standing joke between them. Dinah set her tote bag on the desk and lifted out two foam cups, handing one to Tracey. She sat in the chair at the side of the gray metal desk and opened hers.

Tracey inhaled, seeming to gain energy just from the fragrant aroma. “You’re my hero.”

“Not quite. Just a hardworking forensic artist. Do you have something for me?”

She hoped. It had been a longer than usual time between assignments, and even though she didn’t have to depend on her income from her work, that occasional paycheck gave her a sense of accomplishment, validating her professional status.

Her relationship with the department was still prickly. Some officers viewed any civilian on their turf with suspicion. The fact that she produced good results with difficult witnesses didn’t necessarily change that.

“I’m not sure.” Tracey frowned, shoving a manila folder over to her. “We have a witness to a knifing, but she’s all over the place. We know she has to have seen something, but she’s not admitting it.”

Dinah scanned through the file, relieved to have something to think about besides Marc. “Is it gang-related?”

“Could be, but there’s something about it that doesn’t fit. The victim was a sixteen-year-old—parochial schoolkid, no gang involvement. The witness is her best friend. They were on their way home from a movie and took one shortcut too many.”

She nodded, registering the site of the crime. It wasn’t an area where she’d walk at night, alone or with a friend.

“Will the witness talk to me?”

“That’s the problem.” Tracey’s expression spoke of her frustration. “Yesterday she would. That’s why I called you. Today she says no. She knows nothing, saw nothing. And her friend won’t be going to any more movies.”

The words might have sounded flippant, but Dinah knew they weren’t. She and the rough-edged detective had developed a friendship that probably surprised Tracey as much as it did her, and she knew the depth of pain that any death brought Tracey.

“I’m sorry.” She wanted to say more, but knew she shouldn’t cross that line. “Maybe she’ll change her mind. Call me anytime.”

Tracey nodded but gave her a probing look. “I thought you might be too busy since your cousin-in-law is back in town.”

“How on earth did you hear about that?”

“He was a suspect in an unsolved murder. Word gets around, believe me.”

“He didn’t kill Annabel.”

Tracey raised an eyebrow. “You sure of that?”

“Of course I am.”

“Nice to be sure.”

She swallowed irritation. “All right, Tracey. What’s this all about? Did you get me down here to talk about Marc?”

“No.” She shrugged. “But you’re here. I couldn’t help asking what you think about Marcus Devlin’s return.”

The irritation faded away. Tracey was just being Tracey. She couldn’t blame her for that.

“I was surprised.” That was honest. “I didn’t think he’d ever want to come back, because of the tragedy.”

“Why did he?”

“His house has been rented all these years. The renters recently moved out, so he came to make arrangements to put it on the market.”

“A good Realtor could have taken care of that for him.”

“You’re like a dog with a bone, you know that?”

Tracey grinned. “That makes me a good detective. Why did he really come back?”

“Because of Court. His son. My cousin’s son. Court wanted to see the house before it was sold. They’re staying through the holidays. Not that it’s police business.”

“It’s an open case,” Tracey said gently. “Dinah, you must know that most often, a pregnant woman is killed by a husband or boyfriend.”

“Not even you can believe Marc would bring his thirteen-year-old son back to that house if he killed the boy’s mother. Besides—” She stopped.

“Besides what?” Tracey prompted.

“Marc wants to find out the truth.”

“I’ve heard that line before.”

“Tracey, he didn’t kill Annabel. He couldn’t have.”

“In that case, why does his return bother you so much?” Tracey held up her hand to stop a protest. “You’re not that good at hiding your feelings.”

“I was in the house that night,” she said slowly. “I suppose you know that.”

Tracey nodded. Of course she knew. She’d probably read all about the case before she’d ever agreed to work with Dinah.

“I don’t want to have to relive the pain again. I loved Annabel. I want to protect her memory.”

“Why does her memory need protecting?”

Dinah could only stare at Tracey, aghast that the words had come out of her mouth. She wasn’t even conscious of thinking them, but now that she’d spoken, she knew it was true.

She wanted to protect Annabel’s memory. And she didn’t know why.