Читать книгу Asking For Trouble - Millie Criswell - Страница 8

BETH CONTINUED to gape at the bones, and what she was thinking was…well, unthinkable.

Iris and Ivy had been acting stranger than usual of late, if that was possible. The old ladies had a reputation for eccentric behavior, and for being a bit off their rockers. She couldn’t deny that they were both somewhat addled.

Shivers of foreboding tripped down her spine as she tried to decide what to do about the bones. After a few moments, Beth came to a decision: They had to be reburied. If anyone else found them, it would reflect very badly on her aunts.

But what if they’re guilty?

What if Iris had done away with Lyle McMurtry and then had enlisted the aid of her sister to bury the poor guy in the cellar, as everyone suspected? As hideous as that thought was, it had to be considered.

If she reburied the bones, she’d be an accessory after the fact. Hiding evidence was a crime, not to mention immoral. But what other choice did she have? The old ladies were already suspects. Sheriff Murdock had made no secret that he thought they were responsible for McMurtry’s disappearance. And she was responsible for them. They’d always been there for her; she couldn’t abandon them now.

Picking up the camp shovel, she set to her task, vowing to get to the bottom of the mystery, and knowing that until she did, the bones would have to remain hidden. It might not be the wisest decision, but it was the best one she could come up with at the moment.

Beth knew she should go to the sheriff and report her find. But how could she? The whole scenario sounded crazy. And a reinvestigation into a fifty-year-old matter could jeopardize the lives of her aunts. Innocent people were convicted every day of crimes they didn’t commit.

As nutty as the old women were, she loved them dearly and had to protect them, which is why she couldn’t go to Iris and Ivy with her suspicions. It would hurt them tremendously.

But what if they’re guilty?

She couldn’t think about that now.

The officer from the bank was due to arrive at any moment. Once Mr. Pickens completed his inspection of the inn she would sit down and think long and hard about what she was going to do. But she wouldn’t mention them to anyone. If Mr. Pickens found out about the bones, she could kiss her loan goodbye.

The wind whipped a spindly pine branch against the narrow dirt-covered window and Beth nearly jumped out of her skin. But no wonder she was nervous. She had a pile of buried bones in her cellar and a couple of loony aunts who were looking pretty guilty of a fifty-year-old crime.

Feeling chilled to the bone—poor choice of words—Beth proceeded with her task. A few moments later, a glimmer beneath the worktable caught her attention. Dropping the shovel, she moved toward it, kicking the dirt with the toe of her shoe until the object was revealed.

The gold locket was tarnished and appeared very old. She picked it up and, using her thumbnail as a wedge, attempted to pry it open. The lid finally popped to disclose two small black-and-white photographs. One was unmistakably her aunt Iris, looking young, radiant and happier than she’d ever seen her. The other was of a handsome, smiling man Beth assumed was Lyle McMurtry.

She stared at the locket in disbelief, shaking her head at the full import of what she’d just discovered—another piece of incriminating evidence.

Was this proof positive that her aunts were somehow involved? The locket was obviously her aunt Iris’s, and now here it was at the scene of the crime, if a crime had actually been committed.

Not only was she hideously lacking Lara Croft’s chutzpah, she apparently had little of Nancy Drew’s flair for mystery, either.

Dropping the piece of antique jewelry into the front pocket of her jeans, she got down on her hands and knees and began clawing the earth in the same fashion the dog had minutes before. She was filled with apprehension and dread, worrying and wondering what other items she would find that might shed light on what had occurred in this basement so long ago.

At first, her search came up empty and she breathed a sigh of relief. But then, just as she was about to give up, she spotted something white. Yanking hard to free it, she discovered a piece of old linenlike material. There appeared to be splotches of dark brown covering it. Blood? She swallowed hard. Paint? She prayed fervently, unwilling to take the chance it wasn’t connected.

Beth gathered up the remaining pieces of material, which looked to be part of a man’s shirt, and placed them in the ground with the bones. She had just dropped the last shovel of dirt onto the makeshift grave when the doorbell chimed.

If she didn’t get this mess sorted out quickly, Mr. Pickens could become the next victim. After all, Aunt Ivy had seemed rather irritated with him.

Okay, so maybe I’m overreacting.

Surely there had to be a simple explanation for everything that had happened. She was too young to be an accessory to murder. And with her coloring, she would look awful wearing one of those hideous orange prison jumpsuits.

“I DON’T SEE WHY I had to leave school before Thanksgiving break. It’s only a week away, and Missy Stuart’s invited me to her slumber party. Now I’ll miss out. And everyone’s going to be there.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Brad Donovan studied the sullen face of his twelve-going-on-thirty-year-old daughter while still managing to keep his eyes fixed on the traffic ahead. Congestion on Interstate 95 was always a nightmare at this time of morning.

He’d wanted to leave late last night, but had been faced with one medical emergency after another. First, Bobby Bartley had fractured his clavicle playing baseball, then he’d had to perform an emergency tracheotomy on a fifteen-month-old infant, who’d swallowed a piece of Lego toy that had lodged in his windpipe. So now he was doomed to sit in traffic and listen to Stacy whine for the next several hours.

“I’ve already explained, Stace, about Grandpa’s disappearance. It’s not like him not to call or let us know where he is.”

“He sent you a postcard.”

The postcard from the Two Sisters Ordinary was the only clue he had to his father’s last known whereabouts. When he didn’t receive a call back from the innkeeper after leaving several messages, he’d decided to drive to Mediocrity and see for himself if the inn’s proprietor could shed light on his father’s disappearance.

It wasn’t like his dad to cut off all contact with his family. Robert Donovan was organized, punctual and thoughtful. The old man had lived with him and Stacy since Brad’s mom passed away eight years ago. And though he seemed to have adjusted to life as a widower, to giving up his independence somewhat, Brad sensed that all was not well. His father had been morose lately. Brad had done his best to compensate, to offer companionship and support, but it hadn’t been enough.

Six weeks ago, his dad had packed up his ancient Chevy Impala and announced quite unexpectedly that he intended to visit the Pennsylvania countryside, along with a few Civil War battlefields. Brad had offered to go with him, to make a family vacation out of the trip, but his father had been adamant in his refusal—almost rude, come to think of it. It was obvious the old man wanted to be alone. But why?

“Gramps probably just found some other stupid battlefield to see,” Stacy pointed out, before opening her purse and taking out a tube of bright red lipstick. She applied it meticulously, blotting the excess, while viewing herself in the vanity mirror, her head tilting from side to side.

Stacy was growing up too fast. Since her mother’s death four years ago to ovarian cancer, the young girl had turned from a downy chick into a fledgling swan, and Brad was often at a loss trying to figure out how to handle the difficulties of puberty and adolescence. The first bra and menstrual period had been traumatic enough, but now it was makeup, loud music and boys. Eight years of medical school and a pediatric residency hadn’t prepared him for being the father of a pre-teen girl.

He and Stacy hadn’t been communicating very well lately, and he wasn’t quite sure how to remedy that. If he objected to the clothing she wore or the TV programs she watched, she called him old-fashioned. If he suggested that she spend more time on her homework, Stacy accused him of being overly critical—“in her face,” as she put it.

It was extremely frustrating for a man who had chosen as his vocation the care and nurturing of children not to be able to figure out what was ailing his own daughter.

“Do you think I’m pretty, Dad?”

The question came out of nowhere, as they often did, and Brad downshifted the BMW into third gear before answering, ignoring the honking horn of the minivan behind him. “You’re beautiful, Stace, just like your mom. I’ve told you that many times.”

“Then how come Billy Carson said I was flat-chested and needed breast implants and that my front teeth were spaced too far apart?”

Billy Carson of the spiked green hair had little room to talk, but that had never stopped the loud-mouthed delinquent from giving his opinion. He was one of Brad’s patients, but that didn’t mean he had to like the kid, especially now that he knew he’d been staring at his daughter’s chest. Little pervert!

“I doubt very much if Billy even knows what breast implants are. And you’re not flat-chested, just slower to develop than some girls your age.” He could tell she wasn’t happy or convinced by his explanation, so he added, “In case you haven’t noticed, all the top fashion models are pretty sparse on top. It’s the look these days.”

“Yeah, it may be the look, but boys still like girls with big boobs.”

So did men, but Brad wasn’t about to point that out to his impressionable young daughter. “I think you’re going to like the inn where we’ll be staying. It looks very quaint from the postcard.”

Wrinkling her nose in disgust, she replied, “It’s probably going to smell old and musty, like Grandma Ruth’s house used to.”

“Grandma was a bit old-fashioned, I guess. But there’s always something to be learned from an older person.”

“Then how come you’re always telling Gramps how to do stuff? Maybe his way would be better than yours.”

Before Brad could muster a suitable response about his responsibilities as head of the household, his need to have order and complete control, Stacy had put on her headphones, popped a wad of gum into her mouth and tuned him out, which was probably just as well.

It would be difficult to explain his need for normalcy and sameness since his wife’s death. He really didn’t understand it himself. He just knew that he needed his routine, his life, to remain uncluttered and uncomplicated.

Carol’s death had turned his world upside down. He’d never realized, until she was gone, the depth of despair he was capable of, the gut-wrenching emotion, the emptiness inside him. For months after her death, his life had been chaos and confusion. Now that things were almost back to normal he wanted it to stay that way.

And driving to Pennsylvania in search of his errant father was not what he considered normal, or the way he wanted to spend his free time. And neither was dealing with rude country-inn owners who didn’t return phone calls.

“I’LL BE IN TOUCH about the loan, Beth. And please thank your aunts for the jam. Mrs. Pickens will be delighted.”

After the banker disappeared down the front steps, Beth slammed the door shut and leaned heavily against it, breathing a deep sigh of relief that the inspection was finally over.

Mr. Pickens’s visit had gone on a lot longer than she’d anticipated. The man had been disgustingly thorough. He’d stuck his head in every oven, freezer and refrigerator, flushed toilets, turned faucets on and off, and she fully expected him to don a pair of white gloves to see if she had dusted the furniture that morning.

She hadn’t.

But the worst had come when he’d ventured into the cellar, poking around at every little thing. She’d held her breath, waiting in fear that he would discover the bones and shirt, but fortunately the banker had found nothing amiss.

The grandfather clock in the foyer gonged four, and Beth knew her aunts would be expecting her to join them shortly for their daily ritual of afternoon tea, and to give them a full accounting of her meeting with the banker.

She had just turned toward the stairs when a knock sounded at the door. Thinking Mr. Pickens had forgotten something, Beth rushed to answer it.

Opening the door, she stared at the dark-haired man standing on her porch. He was tall and looked to be in his mid-to-late thirties, judging by the crow’s feet appearing at the corner of his eyes. The stranger smiled, and she caught a glimpse of perfect white teeth. The man’s parents had obviously spent a fortune on orthodontics when he was a kid. The money had been well spent. He was very good-looking, but then, he probably knew that. Most handsome men did.

“Mrs. Randall?”

“It’s Ms. Randall. Can I help you?” she asked, and it was then she noticed the young girl standing next to him. The dislike in her pretty blue eyes gave Beth pause. Most people waited until after they’d spoken to her before deciding they disliked her.

“I hope so. I’m Bradley Donovan.”

She held out her hand. “Welcome to the Two Sisters, Mr. Donovan.” When he clasped her hand, she looked up to find that hundred-watt, hundred-thousand-dollar smile shining down on her and felt its warmth.

“Actually, it’s Dr. Donovan. I’ve left several messages on your answering machine regarding my father, Robert Donovan. He was a guest here some weeks back and now he’s missing.”

Beth’s heart began to pound. She remembered Robert Donovan. He’d played cards with her aunts on several occasions. She swallowed. Two gentlemen who’d been in contact with her aunts were now missing? She didn’t like the odds.

“When I didn’t get a response I decided to come in person to see if you could shed any light as to my father’s whereabouts. My daughter and I are very worried about him.”

Preoccupied with Mr. Pickens’s visit, Beth hadn’t had time to return his calls. “I’m afraid I can’t be of much help, Dr. Donovan. I remember your father, but I have no idea where he’s gone.”

“I’m not worried about Gramps,” Stacy Donovan blurted. “Just you are, Dad. I figure Gramps has gone off to visit some stupid battlefield. You worry too much. Chill, okay?”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Beth said, holding out her hand to the girl who responded by smacking her gum loudly, a sound only slightly less irritating than fingernails raking a blackboard. “I’m Beth. And you are?”

The girl hesitated a moment. “Stacy Donovan. My dad made me come here. I didn’t want to. This place smells really old, like dead people live here or something.”

The kid had a good nose; she’d give her that.

“Apologize to Ms. Randall at once, Stacy.”

“That’s okay. It’s not—”

“Sorry.” The young girl’s apology lacked conviction.

“Come in,” Beth said, remembering her manners and leading them into the front parlor. It was a cozy room, decorated in rose-and-green-floral chintz; the walls were painted a warm buttery yellow, with pretty lace curtains hanging at the double-hung windows.

“Actually, Stacy, this house is really old, over a century old, as a matter of fact. And the smell you’re referring to is probably the incense my aunt is burning upstairs. I’ll speak to her about it. I’m not crazy about the smell, either.”

Her gaze lifted to the girl’s father, and Beth had the strangest sense of coming home as she stared into Bradley Donovan’s warm, comforting eyes. She shook her head to dispel the notion. “I’m very sorry about not returning your phone calls, Dr. Donovan. I’m not usually so inconsiderate, but I had several pressing business matters to attend to and forgot to check my answering machine.” Not to mention, there’s a pile of buried bones in my basement, which may or may not belong to Lyle McMurtry. And for all I know, your father might be down there, too.

Seating himself on the colorful sofa, Bradley Donovan yanked his daughter down beside him. “My father left our home in Charlottesville about six weeks ago. I know he stopped here because I received this postcard.” He removed the card from his pocket, handing it to her; she recognized it at once.

“We give these postcards to the guests. They’re in all the rooms. But I can’t recall anything unusual about your father’s departure. Perhaps my aunts know something. They may have spent some time with him. I really can’t be sure. I was just on my way upstairs to visit them when you arrived. I’d be happy to ask.”

Momentarily appeased, he nodded, and then went on to talk about the attractiveness of the inn, the traffic he’d encountered on the interstate, and the weather. Though she did her best to listen intently, nodding at the appropriate times, she found herself oddly mesmerized by the color of his blue eyes. Beth had met many men since her divorce and had never given a hoot about the color of their eyes, or any other part of their anatomy, for that matter. Her relationships hadn’t lasted long enough to find out if size really mattered.

Unfortunately, Stacy Donovan’s eyes were shooting daggers at her. If looks could kill, Beth would have been buried in the cellar, right next to whoever was down there.

“The woman thinks you’re hot, Dad. Let’s get outta here.”

Brad flashed his daughter an annoyed look. “That’s enough, Stacy! What’s gotten into you today?”

“I do not!” Beth shook her head in denial, her cheeks flaming bright red. “That never entered my mind.” Nor would it. Fool me once was her motto.

The doctor looked amused by her discomfort, and his dimpled grin made her eyes widen. “I’m sure it didn’t, Ms. Randall.”

Assuming a businesslike posture, she folded her hands primly in her lap. “Will you need to book a room, Dr. Donovan? I have several vacancies at the moment and can accommodate you.”

He nodded. “I’m not sure how long we’ll be here. I need to make inquiries about my father, talk to the local authorities, that sort of thing.”

The authorities! Beth swallowed her fear and forced a smile. “I can put you and your daughter in a lovely twin-bedded room on the second floor. It has a view of the pond.”

“That’ll be just fine. And call me Brad.”

“Hope our room’s not next to yours!” Stacy told Beth, her pert nose wrinkling in disgust. “I don’t want you bothering my dad. He doesn’t like women.”

Beth’s right eyebrow arched, her attention shooting to the doctor, whose face was turning all sorts of interesting colors. “Oh? Well, I—”

“Stacy doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” His daughter opened her mouth to say something else, but he cut her off. “Go out to the car and get your bag. Now!”

The girl heaved a dramatic sigh and sulked off. Beth wasn’t sorry to see her go. She didn’t have a great deal of patience when it came to children, especially mouthy, gum-smacking teenagers.

Unlike most women, Beth had no desire to have children. Her childhood had been so unhappy, her marriage such a disaster that she didn’t feel qualified to dispense motherly advice. She enjoyed being an independent businesswoman with no husband to dictate and no children to tie her down.

“Don’t pay any attention to Stacy, Ms. Randall. My wife died four years ago, and she hasn’t adjusted very well. My daughter sees every woman I meet as a threat.”

Beth smiled in understanding. “No problem—and it’s Beth. I was twelve once, much to everyone’s horror.” And she’d grown up without a father since the age of ten, so she understood the girl’s need to keep her dad close.

Their eyes locked and held for a brief moment, making Beth’s heartbeat quicken, then the front door opened and Brad’s daughter returned, breaking the spell, which relieved her to no end. She was already up to her armpits in complications; she didn’t need another one, especially a handsome doctor with a missing father!

As she ushered Brad and his daughter up the stairs to their room, Beth wondered what she was going to tell the man about his father’s disappearance. Obviously, her suspicions about the bones in her basement would not—could not—be a topic of discussion, not if she wanted to keep her aunts safe.

She felt the weight of the locket burning into her flesh, a painful reminder of gruesome possibilities.

Despite her best efforts not to, Beth found Bradley Donovan quite likable. He seemed kind and caring, and she couldn’t help but notice how muscular his body was, how blue his eyes were. Of course, Greg was handsome, too, and he’d turned out to be the world’s biggest rat bastard.

“Handsome is as handsome does,” her aunts were fond of saying, and she wasn’t about to forget that lesson.

Besides, she needed a man in her life right now like she needed another dead body in her cellar.