Читать книгу Little Girl Lost - Shirlee McCoy - Страница 12

Blanchard Manor stood like a stone sentinel guarding the cliffs that jutted above the Maine coastline. Over a hundred years old, the house had become an icon in Stoneley, symbolizing the strength and fortitude of the people who’d carved lives from the harsh ocean and craggy earth. To Portia, it symbolized something else entirely—a way of life she refused to be part of, a cold formality that stifled warmth and emotion. As a child, she’d dreamed of leaving the Manor, of making a name for herself in the community of artisans that lived in Stoneley. It hadn’t taken her long to realize that her father’s influence extended into the town and beyond and that if she ever wanted to become her own person, an artist in her own right, she’d have to go much farther than the town she’d loved.

New York had seemed the perfect place to find herself. And she had for a while, enjoying the novelty of opening her arts-and-crafts store, of teaching art to young students, of being Portia the artist rather than Portia, Ronald’s daughter. Still, each time she returned to the Manor, she was reminded of old dreams and even older wounds, of an emptiness that she’d never quite been able to fill, a longing to be accepted for who and what she was instead of being judged for what she wasn’t—the perfect daughter willing to take her place in the family business.

“We’re in the drawing room.” Aunt Winnie called out from the room to the right of the front door as Portia stepped into the house, and Portia felt a twinge of guilt. Winnie had been so good to her, so good to all of them. Who was she to complain about what she hadn’t had when what she had received from her aunt had been so rich in affection?

“We’re coming.” She pasted on a smile and followed Rissa across the foyer, hoping no one inside the drawing room would sense her melancholy mood.

“You okay?” Mick pulled her to a stop outside the door, his words just for her.

“I’m great.” She met his gaze, keeping the smile in place even as his light blue eyes speared into hers. Could he see what she was hiding? The part of herself that wanted to be anywhere but where she was right now? “We’d better go in before Father comes looking.”

‘“Father?”’ He cocked his head, letting his gaze travel from her fluffy pink earmuffs to the mukluks that covered her feet.

“What?”

“You don’t look like the ‘father’ type.”

“What type do I look like?”

“Dad, Pops, something a lot less formal.”

He was right. If she’d lived in a different house, with a different father. She turned away, not wanting him to see the truth in her eyes. “We’re a formal family.”

“Yeah, I sense that.” Mick let his gaze wander the oversized foyer they were standing in. Marble tiles glistened beneath his feet, a crystal chandelier hung overhead and a large round table took center stage. A vase of red roses added color, but did little to soften the museum-like feel of the place. It was a far cry from the comfortable, lived-in Queen Anne he’d grown up in, or the well-worn Cape Cod he now owned. A far cry from what he imagined Portia’s home looked like.

He stepped into the drawing room behind her, watched as she sat on a wide velvet ottoman in a corner of the room. She could have taken a seat on the couch next to her twin and Delia, a rocking chair between the chairs Bianca and Juliet were seated in, the loveseat where her father and his newest girlfriend sat or the wing-backed chair that matched the ones Miranda and Winnie were in. Instead, she’d taken a place just on the edge of the circle created by her family, her shoulders tense as if ready to do battle. Interesting.

“Good. We’re all finally here. Let’s get this over with. Alannah and I have plans for this evening.” Ronald’s voice whipped out, filled with impatience, and Mick turned to the older man.

“This won’t take long, Mr. Blanchard.”

Ronald shrugged, his black eyes giving away nothing of what he felt. “Why don’t you have a seat and tell us why you’re here. You said something about a private investigator?”

“As I told you earlier, Garrett McGraw was killed two weeks ago. I’m investigating his death.”

“And?”

“He was murdered.” Mick kept his voice even and his tone neutral. He wasn’t here to make accusations. Yet.

“So my daughters told me, but I don’t see what that has to do with my family.” He was lying. Mick could see it in the subtle shifting of his eyes, the quick glance he shot Bianca’s way.

“I have reason to believe Mr. McGraw had business dealings with one of your daughters.”

“Any dealings he had with my family are private, Detective.”

“They might have been before Garrett’s murder. Now things have changed.”

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to agree to disagree.” Ronald stood, his obsidian eyes flashing a challenge. “Now, if you don’t mind—”

“We’ve got nothing to hide, Father.” Bianca cut in, shooting Ronald a look that might have been a warning. “No reason not to tell the detective what we know.”

When she turned her attention to Mick, she was all business, her expression cool and unperturbed. “I hired Garrett McGraw to find information about our mother. I’m sure you’ve seen the story in the local papers.”

“I have.”

She nodded. “Then you know he found evidence that our mother might be alive.”

“And that some people are claiming her death was an elaborate cover-up, that the family might not have wanted to admit she had mental-health issues. Yes, I know.”

“Cover-up! What kind of newspapers are you reading?” Ronald’s face reddened, his hands fisting at his sides.

“Specifically? The one that paid him several thousand dollars for his story.”

“And you believe that garbage?” Ronald shook his head, apparently disgusted, though Mick was sure he saw fear in the man’s eyes.

“What I believe is that Garrett McGraw was working for your family. He found information that you might have preferred to keep hidden. Now he’s dead. According to his weekly planner, he was to meet with someone in your family two days before his death. I’m wondering if that meeting took place.”

“It did. I paid him for the information he’d found.” Bianca spoke quickly, as if afraid her father might say something that disagreed with her account.

“And he didn’t ask for more?”

“More money? No. I asked him to continue investigating. He agreed.” Bianca looked puzzled, and Mick was sure she knew nothing of McGraw’s reputation. Most people didn’t. Which was the way McGraw had wanted it and the way Mick felt obligated to keep it.

“So you had no idea he was planning to sell your family’s story to the tabloids?”

“Of course not.”

“If you’re implying that my sister knew what Mr. McGraw planned to do and committed murder to keep him quiet, you’re way off.” Portia spoke up, her voice quiet but firm, her dark eyes staring into his as if she could read whatever motive he might have.

“I’m not implying anything. I’m asking.”

“And I’m telling you that Bianca would never commit a crime. I doubt she’s ever even gotten a parking ticket.”

“I’m not that perfect, Portia.” Bianca smiled at her younger sister, and Mick saw the affection between them. Obviously, it wasn’t Portia’s relationship with her sisters that had her sitting at a distance. So maybe it was her father that she had a problem with. Or his girlfriend.

“I didn’t say you were perfect. I said you weren’t a murderer.” Portia rose and paced across the room, tiny bells jingling at her wrist as she swept a hand over her hair.

“My questions are standard. I’m not accusing anyone here of murder.” And if he were, Bianca wouldn’t be the one he’d target with his allegations.

“If you were, the accusation wouldn’t go far. I was out of town at Westside Medical Center the day Mr. McGraw died. I didn’t hear about his death until I returned home,” Bianca answered.

“Can I have the phone number to verify that?”

“Of course.”

“Did anyone else in the family know Mr. McGraw was working for you?”

Bianca hesitated, her eyes straying to the chair where Miranda sat. The silence stretched for a moment too long. Then Miranda spoke, her voice calm. “I knew. And I don’t have an alibi. I was here alone the night he died. My father and Aunt Winnie were both at a charity auction.”

“You don’t need an alibi. No one would ever suspect you of such a horrible thing!” Portia shot Mick a look filled with worry and frustration, but there was nothing he could say to ease her concern. His investigation had led him to her family. He’d follow it through until he found the answers he sought.

“I think we’re at a dead end, Detective.” Ronald moved toward the door. “Let us know if there’s anything else we can do to help.”

As dismissals went, this one wasn’t subtle, but Mick had learned what he’d wanted to. Bianca and Miranda seemed forthcoming and willing to work with him. Ronald was a different story altogether. “Thank you for your time. I’ll be in touch.”

“Let me walk you to the door, Mick.” Winnie Blanchard stepped toward him, her hazel eyes asking questions he couldn’t answer. At church they were acquaintances, maybe even friends. Here, Mick was a cop with a job to do.

“Aunt Winnie, you’ve been on your feet all day. I’ll walk him out.” Portia put a hand on her aunt’s arm, her gaze on Mick. “I need to get something out of my car anyway.”

“All right, but put your coat on. It’s a bitter night.”

“I will.”

“Don’t forget, Portia, we were planning to discuss your possible transfer to Blanchard Fabrics tonight. I’ll expect to speak with you when I get home.” Ronald’s tone held a hard edge Mick couldn’t ignore. He studied the other man, saw that he watched his daughter with a mixture of frustration and confusion, as if there were something about her he just couldn’t understand.

And maybe that was the case. Portia did stand out from the rest of Ronald’s daughters, her style alone separating her from her casually sophisticated sisters.

“Of course, Father.” Portia’s words were stilted, her expression blank, and Mick felt something stir in his chest, a need to step in, to offer protection. Though from what he didn’t know.

He pushed the door open, held it as Portia proceeded him into the foyer, catching a whiff of sunshine and flowers as she passed. “Do you really need to get something from your car?”

“My cell phone. Though I suppose it could have waited until morning.”

“But what you have to say to me can’t wait?”

“Something like that.” She smiled, relaxing for the first time since they’d walked into the house, her dark curls bouncing as she stepped outside.

Beyond the soft glow of the porch light the world was pitch-black, the moon and stars hidden behind thick clouds, the roar of the ocean a rumbling backdrop to the still night. What had it been like to grow up here, so close to the pounding fury of the ocean and the stunning beauty of cliffs? Mick supposed the experience would have been different for each of the six sisters, though he had a feeling that for Portia it hadn’t always been a good one. He reached toward her, pulling her coat closed. “You need to button up. It’s freezing out here.”

“I’m okay.” She wrapped her arms around her waist, holding the coat closed and emphasizing a too-thin frame. Had she been ill? Or was she one of those women that thought thinner was better?

And why did he even care? He raked a hand through his hair and tried to refocus his attention. “So, do you want to tell me why we’re out here?”

“I want to know if you really believe my sisters are murderers.”

“I don’t believe anything…yet.”

“Come on, Mick, we both know that’s not true. You’ve got suspicions. I want to know what they are.”

“I think Garrett McGraw’s murder has something to do with your family.”

“But—”

“But I don’t think any of your sisters are involved.”

“That doesn’t leave many other possibilities.”

“No. It doesn’t.”

Which meant, Portia thought, that Mick either suspected her father or her aunt. Since she couldn’t imagine anyone believing that Aunt Winnie was a murderer, she had to assume he was going after her father. Should she bring it up? Would he? Before she could make up her mind, Mick spoke, his words doing nothing to put her at ease. “Your father has the most to lose if something happens to Blanchard Fabrics.”

“That doesn’t mean he’d kill to protect it.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I am.” But even as she said it, Portia doubted her own words, her own belief in her father. If, as she suspected, he’d lied about her mother’s death to keep Trudy Blanchard away from her children for almost twenty-three years, what else might he lie about? What else might he be capable of? Her heart beat hard with what she was thinking and Portia stepped back toward the door. “I’d better get back inside.”

She didn’t wait for Mick to respond, just shoved the door open and fled inside.

Mick waited until the door clicked shut, then headed to his SUV. Portia’s loyalty to her family was something he admired, but it wouldn’t keep him from doing his job. McGraw had been murdered. Mick might have lost his respect for the man who had been a childhood friend and, later, a fellow Portland police officer, but he couldn’t allow that to influence his desire to solve the case. Especially since Mick had been partially responsible for McGraw’s dismissal from the force years ago. If he’d known then…

He wouldn’t have done things any differently. What happened was a result of McGraw’s failures and sins, not Mick’s, yet somehow he still felt responsible. The wind howled, tugging at Mick’s leather jacket and urging him into the car and away from Blanchard Manor and his own dark memories. He couldn’t change the past, wouldn’t hurry the future. It was time to go home, to sit in front of a fire, maybe roast marshmallows with his six-year-old daughter Kaitlyn.

He glanced back at the house as he pulled onto Bay View Drive. Lights were blazing from all three levels, but still it seemed a lonely place and once again he was struck by the difference between Portia and the environment she’d grown up in. When he’d first seen her on the ice, he’d thought her to be carefree and exuberant. That had changed when she’d walked into Blanchard Manor. All her vitality had drained away, replaced by a quiet somberness that didn’t match her bright clothing, or the vibrancy in her eyes. Had being around her father caused the change? Or was it the house itself, the staid, museum-like decor that had drained her?

And why had he even noticed or cared? It had been three years since his wife Rebecca had died in a plane crash. In that time, he’d created a life for himself and his daughter. A life that didn’t include women. At least not women younger than Mick’s mother. Now was definitely not time to change that. Not when he was responsible for investigating Stoneley’s first murder in thirty years. And not when the woman in question was the daughter of Mick’s prime suspect.