Читать книгу Buried Sins - Marta Perry - Страница 7

Zach was aware of the sudden silence that greeted his words. The room was so still he could hear the tick of the mantel clock and the thud of the dog’s tail against the Oriental carpet.

But there was nothing peaceful about it. Tension flowed from Caroline Hampton. And, to a lesser extent, from her sister and grandmother.

It was a shame they were here, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. If he’d come to the door and asked to speak to Caroline privately, it would only have raised more questions.

The plain fact was that something was going on with this woman, and if it had to do with the law, it was his responsibility. And he knew there was something, would have known it even if not for that call from the Santa Fe PD. He could see it in those brilliant green eyes, read it in the tense lines of her body.

“I can’t imagine why you’d hear from the Santa Fe police about me. Did I leave behind an unpaid parking ticket?”

He had to admire, in a detached way, the effort it had taken her to produce that light tone.

“Not that I know of.” He was willing to pull out the tension just a little longer in the hope that she’d come out with something that wasn’t quite so guarded.

“I don’t understand.” Katherine Unger sat bolt upright in her chair, chin held high. He’d never met anyone who had the aristocratic manner down any better than she did. “Why on earth would the police be interested in Caroline?”

The words might have sounded demanding. But there was a sense of fragility underneath that made it clear he couldn’t prolong this.

“Apparently your granddaughter left Santa Fe without telling her friends where she was going. They’re worried about her.”

Caroline’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying someone reported me missing?”

“Raised an inquiry is more like it. The police department down there was willing to make a few phone calls to allay the woman’s fears.” He made a play of taking his notebook out and consulting it, although he remembered perfectly well. “Ms. Francine Carrington. I gathered hers was a name that made the police sit up and take notice.”

“Caroline, wasn’t that your employer at the gallery?” Mrs. Unger glanced from her granddaughter to him. “My granddaughter had a position at one of the finest galleries dedicated to Southwestern art in the state.”

She nodded stiffly. “Francine was my boss. And my friend.”

“Well, then, why didn’t you tell her where you were going?” Rachel looked puzzled. Obviously, that was what she’d have done under the circumstances.

“Because—” Caroline snapped the word and then seemed to draw rein on her anger. “I left a letter of resignation for her, planning to call her once I got here. I certainly didn’t expect her to be so worried that she’d call the police.”

So she’d left what was apparently a good, successful life at a moment’s notice. In his experience, people didn’t do that without a powerful reason.

“Apparently she told the officer she spoke with that you’d been despondent over the recent death of your husband. She—”

A sharp, indrawn breath from Mrs. Unger, a murmured exclamation from Rachel. And an expression of unadulterated fury from Caroline. Apparently he’d spilled a secret.

“Husband?” Mrs. Unger caught her breath. “Caro, what is he talking about? Does he have you confused with someone else?”

Shooting him a look that would drop a charging bull, Caroline crossed the room and knelt next to her grandmother’s chair.

“I’m sorry, Grams. Sorry I didn’t tell you. Tony and I planned to make a trip east this spring, and we were going to surprise you. But he—” She stopped, her voice choking, and then cleared her throat and went on. “He was killed in an accident a few weeks ago.”

It was his turn to clear his throat. “I apologize. I thought you knew all about it, or I wouldn’t have blurted it out that way.”

Caroline stood, her hand clasped in her grandmother’s. She had herself under control now, and again he found himself admiring the effort it took her. “I intended to tell my family when I got here, but I haven’t had the chance.”

“I understand.” But he didn’t, and he suspected Mrs. Unger didn’t, either.

“I’m sorry that I worried Mrs. Carrington. I’ll give her a call and let her know I’m all right.”

There was more to it than that. He sensed it, and he’d learned a long time ago to trust that instinct where people were concerned. Caroline Hampton was hiding something.

She’d left Santa Fe in such a rush that she hadn’t even talked to the people closest to her. That wasn’t a trip. It was flight.

“I’ll be in touch with the department in Santa Fe, then. Let them know you’re fine and with your family.”

She nodded, eyes wary. “Thank you.”

And that was just what worried him, he realized as he headed out the door. Her family.

Mrs. Unger had welcomed her granddaughter with open arms, as was only natural. But from everything he’d heard, she didn’t know a lot about the life Caroline had been living in recent years.

It was entirely possible that Caroline Hampton had brought trouble home with her. Someone ought to keep an unbiased eye on her, and it looked as if that someone was him.

Caroline woke up all at once, with none of the usual easy transition from dreams to morning. Maybe because it wasn’t morning. She stared at the ceiling in the pitch-black, clutching the edge of the Amish quilt that covered the queen-size bed in the loft of the apartment, and willed her heart to stop pounding.

She’d been doing this for so many weeks that it had almost begun to seem normal—waking suddenly, panic-stricken, with the sense that something threatened her out there, in the dark. Nothing. There was nothing. There was never anything other than her own haunted memories to threaten her.

She rolled over to catch a glimpse of the bedside clock. Four in the morning. Well, it served her right for getting onto such a crazy schedule. As it was, she’d slept twelve hours straight after that encounter with the cop and the endless explanations to Grams after the man had finally left.

Much as she’d like to blame every problem in her life on Zachary Burkhalter, she really couldn’t in all honesty do that. And it wasn’t his fault that just seeing him sent her mind spinning back crazily through the years, so that she was again a scared sixteen-year-old, alone, under arrest, at the mercy of—No. She jerked her thoughts under control. She didn’t think about that ugly time any longer. She wasn’t a helpless teenager, deserted by her mother, thrust into the relentless clutches of the law. She was a grown woman, capable of managing on her own. And if she couldn’t sleep, she could at least think about something positive.

She shoved pillows up against the oak headboard and sat up in bed. Her new brother-in-law was certainly talented. Most of the furniture in the apartment, as well as the barn apartment itself, had been built by him. Since so much of the furniture was built-in, he’d left it here, and she was the beneficiary.

She couldn’t blame Burkhalter, she couldn’t blame the comfortable bed, and it was pointless even to blame the stress of the trip. She hadn’t slept well in months, maybe since the day she’d met Tony Gibson.

She’d been working on a display of Zuni Pueblo Indian jewelry for the gallery, repairing the threading of the delicate pieces of silver and turquoise, set up at a worktable in the rear of the main showroom. That had been Francine’s idea, and Francine had a sharp eye for anything that would draw people into the Carrington Gallery.

As usual, there was a cluster of schoolkids, accompanied by a teacher, and a few retirement-age tourists, in pairs for the most part, cameras around their necks. She’d already answered the routine questions—what did the designs mean, how valuable was the turquoise, did the Pueblo people still make it and, from the tourists, where could they buy a piece.

She gave her spiel, her hands steady at the delicate work as a result of long training. Eyes on her—she was always hypersensitive to the feeling of eyes on her—but she wouldn’t let it disrupt her concentration.

The group wandered on to look at something else eventually. Except for one person. He stood in front of the table, close enough to cast a long shadow over the jewelry pieces laid out in front of her.

“Did you have another question?” She’d been aware of him the entire time, of course. Any woman would be. Tall, dark, with eyes like brown velvet and black hair with a tendency to curl. An elegant, chiseled face that seemed to put him a cut above the rest of the crowd. Even his clothing—well-cut flannel slacks, a dress shirt open at the neck, a flash of gold at his throat—was a touch sophisticated for Santa Fe.

“I was just enjoying watching you.” His voice was light, assured, maybe a little teasing.

“Most people like seeing how the jewelry is put together.” She wasn’t averse to a little flirting, if that was what he had in mind.

“They were watching the jewelry,” he said. “I was watching you.”

She looked up into those soulful eyes and felt a definite flutter of interest. “If you want to learn about Zuni Pueblo jewelry,” she began.

“I’d rather learn about C. Hampton,” he said, reading her name badge. “What does the C stand for? Celeste? Christina? Catherine?”

“Caroline. Caro, for short. And you are?”

“Anthony Gibson. Tony, for short.” He extended his hand, and she slid hers into it with the pleasurable sense that something good was beginning.

“It’s nice to meet you, Tony.”

He held her hand between both of his. “Not nearly as nice as the reverse.” He glanced at the gold watch on his wrist. “I have a meeting with Ms. Carrington about the Carrington Foundation charity drive. Shouldn’t take more than half an hour. Might you be ready for coffee or lunch by then?”

“I might.”

“I’ll see you then.”

He’d walked away toward the stairs, his figure slim, elegant and cool against the crowd of tourists who’d just come in. Well, she’d thought. Something could come of this.

Something had, she thought now, shoving the quilt back and getting out of bed, toes curling into the rag rug that covered the oak planks of the flooring. It just hadn’t been something nice.

She would not stay in bed. If there was one thing she’d learned in the weeks of her disillusionment about her marriage, the weeks of grief, it was that at four o’clock in the morning, thoughts were better faced upright.

She pulled her robe around her body, tying it snugly. She wouldn’t go back to sleep now in any event, so she may as well finish the unpacking she’d been too tired to do earlier. She slung one of the suitcases on the bed and began taking things out, methodically filling the drawers of the tall oak dresser that stood on one side of the bed. The loft was small, but the design of closets and chests gave plenty of storage.

Storage for more than she’d brought with her, actually. She’d packed in such a rush that it was a wonder she even had matching socks. Anything she hadn’t had room for had been picked up by the moving company for shipment here. When it arrived, she would figure out what to keep and what to get rid of.

Especially Tony’s things. Maybe having them out of her life would help her adjust.

She paused, hands full of T-shirts. When had it begun, that sense that all was not right with Tony? Was it as early as their impulsive elopement, when his credit card hadn’t worked, and they’d had to use hers? It had grown gradually over the weeks, fueled by the phone calls in the middle of the night, the money that vanished from her checking account, to be replaced a day or two later with only a plausible excuse.

The fear had solidified the evening she’d answered his cell phone while he was in the shower. He’d exploded from the bathroom, dripping and furious, to snatch it from her hands. She’d never seen him like that—had hoped never to again.

Yet she’d seen it once again on the night she’d confronted him, the day she’d realized that her savings account had been wiped out. She still cringed, sick inside, at the thought of the quarrel that followed. She’d always thought she was good in an argument, but she’d never fought the way Tony had, with cold, icy, acid-filled comments that left her humiliated and defenseless.

Then he’d gone, and in the morning the police had come to say he was dead.

She dropped a stack of sweaters on the bed and shoved her hands back through her unruly mop. This was no good. The bad memories were pursuing her even when she had her hands occupied.

She’d go downstairs, make some coffee, see what Rachel had tucked into the refrigerator. She’d feel better once she had some food inside her, able to face the day and figure out where her life was going now.

Shoving her feet into slippers, she started down the open stairway that led into the great room that filled the whole ground-level space. Kitchen flowed into dining area and living room, with its massive leather couch in front of a fieldstone hearth.

She’d start a fire in the fireplace one evening. She’d put some of her own books on the shelves and set up a work table under the skylight. She’d make it hers, in a sense.

She went quickly into the galley kitchen, finding everything close at hand, and measured coffee into the maker that sat on the counter. The familiar, homey movements steadied her. She was safe here. She could take as much time as she needed to plan. There was no hurry.

A loaf of Emma’s fruit-and-nut bread rested on the cutting board. She sliced off a couple of thick pieces and popped them in the toaster. She had family. Maybe she’d needed this reminder. She had people who cared what happened to her.

She could forget that sense of being watched that had dogged her since Tony’s death. She shivered a little, pulling her robe more tightly around her while she waited for the toast and coffee. She’d confided that in only one person, telling Francine about her urge to give up the apartment, get rid of Tony’s things, try to go back to the way she’d been before she met him.

Her boss had been comforting and sympathetic, probably the more so because it hadn’t been that many months since she’d lost her own husband.

“I know what I was like after Garner’s death,” she’d said, flicking a strand of ash-blond hair back with a perfectly manicured nail. “I could hardly stand to stay in that big house at night by myself. Jumping at every sound.” She’d nodded wisely. “But what you need is stability. All the grief counselors say that. Don’t make any big changes in your life, just give yourself time to heal. And remember, I’m always here for you.”

Caro smiled faintly as the toast popped up and busied herself buttering it and pouring coffee into a thick, white mug. Dear Francine. She probably didn’t think of herself as the nurturing type, but she’d certainly tried her best to help Caro through a difficult time.

The smile wavered. Except that their situations weren’t quite the same. Garner had died peacefully in his bed of a heart attack that was not unexpected. Tony had plunged off a mountain road after a furious quarrel with his wife, leaving behind more unanswered questions than she could begin to count.

And it hadn’t been grief or an overactive imagination. Someone had been watching her. She shivered at the thought of that encounter in the plaza. Someone who claimed Tony owed him an impossible amount of money. Someone who claimed Tony was alive.

She hadn’t told Francine about that incident. She would the next time they talked. Francine had known Tony longer than she had. She might have some insight that eluded her.

Something tapped on the living room window. She jerked around so abruptly that coffee sloshed out of the mug onto the granite countertop. She pressed her hand down on the cool counter, staring.

Nothing but blackness beyond the window. The security lights that illuminated the back of the inn didn’t extend around the corner of the barn.

A branch, probably, from the forsythia bush she’d noticed budding near the building. The wind had blown it against the glass.

Except that there was no wind. Her senses, seeming preternaturally alert, strained to identify any unusual sound. Useless. To her, all the sounds here were unfamiliar.

Something tapped again, jolting her heartbeat up a notch. The building could make dozens of noises for all she knew. And everything was locked up. Rachel had shown her, when she’d helped bring her things in, still worried at the idea of her staying alone. But even Rachel hadn’t anticipated fear, just loneliness.

How do you know that’s not what it is? You’re hearing things, imagining things, out of stress, grief, even guilt. Especially guilt. Tony might be alive today if that quarrel hadn’t sent him raging out onto the mountain road.

She shoved that thought away with something like panic. She would not think that, could not believe that.

Setting the mug on the countertop, she turned to the window. The only reasonable thing to do was to check and see if something was there. And she was going to be reasonable, remember? No more impulsive actions. Just look where that had gotten her.

She walked steadily across to the window and peered out. Her eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, or maybe that was the first light of dawn. She could see the outline of the forsythia branches, delicate gray against black, like a Chinese pen-and-ink drawing.

Her fingers longed for a drawing pencil. Or a charcoal, that would be better. She leaned forward, trying to fix the image in her mind.

Something, some sound or brush of movement alerted her. She stumbled back a step. Something man-sized moved beyond the window. For an instant, she saw a hand, fingers widespread, dark and blurry as if it were enclosed in a glove, press against the pane.

Then it was gone, and she was alone, heart pounding in deep, sickening thuds.

She ran back across the room, fingers fumbling in her handbag for her cell phone. Call—

Who would she call? Grams or Rachel? She could hardly ask them to come save her from whatever lurked outside.

The police? Her finger hovered over the numbers. If she dialed 911, would Zachary Burkhalter answer the phone?

The man was already suspicious of her. That wouldn’t keep him from doing his job, she supposed. It wasn’t his fault that she feared the police nearly as much as she feared the something that had pressed against the window.

She took a breath. Think. The apartment was locked, and already the first light of dawn stained the sky. She had the cell phone in her hand. He…it…couldn’t possibly get in, at least not without making so much noise that she’d have time to call for help.

The panic was fading, the image with it. It had been so fast—was she even sure that’s what she’d seen? And if she wasn’t sure, how did she explain that to a skeptical cop?

Clutching the phone in one hand, she snapped off the light. Safer in the dark. If someone were outside, now he couldn’t look in and see her. She crept quickly toward the stairs, listening for any sound.

Upstairs, she pulled the quilt from the bed and huddled in the chair at the window, peering out like a sentinel. She stayed there until sunrise flooded the countryside with light, until she could see black-clad figures moving around the barn of the Zook farm in the distance.