by Sara Blaedel
Ilka stood in the doorway and watched him.
Mary Ann hadn’t given Sister Eileen a number, so Ilka couldn’t call to say she was on her way. For once she drove under the speed limit. She was in no hurry to be caught in the middle of a family dispute that didn’t concern her. Yet she felt she’d be representing her father by standing with Mary Ann now that the woman was ready to defy Fletcher.
The gate was open when she arrived, and she drove straight up to the house. Mary Ann’s station wagon was the only vehicle there. While Ilka parked, she heard two sharp cracks from inside the house, followed by a scream and loud female voices. She froze for a moment, then ran toward the front steps.
“Hello!” she yelled when she rushed through the doorway.
Everything was quiet, but a few moments later she heard moaning and what she took to be Mary Ann’s voice. “Hello,” she repeated, as she reluctantly headed for Fletcher’s office. The moaning turned into sobbing.
Ilka longed to turn around and run away. Her hands were stinging, and she looked down; her nails were digging into her palms. Someone spoke again. Mary Ann, she was certain now.
She stepped inside the open office door and froze. Raymond Fletcher lay on the floor in a pool of blood that covered most of the Moroccan rug in front of his desk.
Leslie was on her knees, motionless, holding a rifle in her hands while staring at her grandfather. Mary Ann sat beside her daughter, and she looked up at Ilka, but Leslie seemed oblivious to her.
Without thinking, Ilka walked over to Fletcher. He was wearing the same suit he’d had on when the police arrested him. His shirt was torn up from bullets. She thought about pressing something against the entry wounds until Mary Ann shook her head.
“He’s dead. I’ve called the police.”
Ilka couldn’t take her eyes off him. He must have just gotten back, she thought. And they were alone; no young butler or security people came running in like they would have if they’d heard the shots.
Leslie still hadn’t moved. Was she even breathing? She looked petrified, the way she was staring at her grandfather. Ilka took a step toward her half sister, but Mary Ann stopped her with a long look. She reached over and grabbed the rifle out of her daughter’s hands and laid it in her lap, then stroked Leslie’s back a minute before telling her to sit down in the armchair while they waited for the police.
Ilka watched Leslie obey her mother. “What happened?”
Mary Ann’s face was white, but otherwise she seemed in control of herself. “They had an argument. The police are a bunch of cowards, he was out in an hour. They let him go without charging him with any of the crimes I told them he was responsible for.”
Except for when the woman told Scott Davidson about being in love with his father and, later, Michael Graham, Ilka hadn’t heard much warmth in Mary Ann’s voice. And there wasn’t any now either as she described how her father had barely walked in the door before calling Leslie into his office.
“She’s hardly even been out of her room since we argued. I was packing my things in the room beside the office here. I couldn’t stay, not after reporting him to the police. I thought I had more time, but then I heard him calling Leslie, and I followed her and saw everything.”
Leslie glanced at her mother then turned back to her grandfather. She hadn’t looked at Ilka, and in fact Ilka doubted Leslie even knew she was in the room.
“He was furious. Mostly at me, of course, he wanted me out of the house, and Leslie too. He humiliated her, called her worthless. Said he made the mistake of his life by letting her be born. He called her biological father the most horrible things, and finally he compared her with Amber. Who was always the apple of his eye.”
Mary Ann looked over at her daughter. “Leslie ran out of the office, and I went back to finish packing. I thought I’d give her a few minutes before going in to see if I could make her feel better. But then I heard the shots.”
She spoke as if her daughter wasn’t sitting in the chair in front of her. It was difficult for Ilka to look at Leslie too. There was something repulsive yet also tender about how she stared at her grandfather. As if she needed to reassure herself he was really dead.
Ilka hadn’t heard any cars outside, but now voices and footsteps sounded out in the hall. She was annoyed at herself for not leaving before the police arrived.
Stan Thomas was the first officer in the room. He made a beeline for Raymond Fletcher, then turned to Mary Ann. “What happened?”
Leslie straightened up and was about to say something, but her mother spoke up in a clear, firm voice. “I killed my father.”
She held the stock of the rifle out to the policeman and said she was ready to be taken away.
Ilka caught Leslie’s darting eyes as she struggled to her feet and joined her mother. Mary Ann held her daughter’s face in both hands and kissed her cheek. Ilka heard her say she was sorry, but that was all. She turned her wheelchair and slowly rolled to the door.
Ilka stepped aside so they could leave. Thomas asked if there had been anyone else present during the shooting.
“No,” Mary Ann said. “I was alone.”
She twisted around to her daughter, who was right behind her wheelchair. “Go see your sister. I don’t want her hearing about this from anyone else.”
Leslie promised to tell Amber. She seemed listless, apathetic, and she shook her head when Ilka offered to drive her to the hospital. Slowly she walked down the hall, her arms folded across her chest as if she were holding herself together.
Ilka was alone in the room as she watched her go. She didn’t even want to try to imagine the thoughts running through Leslie’s bowed head.
She strode over to Fletcher’s desk, pulled out the right drawer, and grabbed the envelope with the twenty thousand dollars she’d returned to him earlier. Voices echoed from out in the hall, and she quickly folded the envelope and stuck it down in her high-waisted pants. After one last look at Fletcher lying in the pool of blood, she walked out of the house with the money. It was only fair.
Ilka was exhausted when she turned into the funeral home’s rear parking lot. She kept seeing the look Mary Ann had given her just before taking the rifle out of Leslie’s hands, an intimation that they would be sharing a secret the rest of their lives. By not telling Stan Thomas the truth, Ilka had accepted a new lie that would tie her once and for all to her father’s family.
How irritating, she thought. She shook her head. Raymond Fletcher had gotten what he deserved, though, and she really didn’t care which of the two women had ended his life, which was why she’d gone along with the deception. He was dead, and that was good. She would never forgive him for what he’d done to her father. And to her.
She realized she should call Davidson to tell him the good news, but after grabbing her phone she remembered Amber’s horses. Davidson seemed to be a good man, but those horses would have to be returned before Ilka could trust him. She should be calling Frank Conaway; now that Fletcher was dead, she was sure the case against him would be dropped, after what Mary Ann had said.
She held her phone to her ear and walked to the back door. Odd, she thought; it was unlocked. Alarm bells rang in her head and adrenaline shot through her body as she put the phone away. The curtains in Sister Eileen’s dark apartment were pulled.
Cautiously she pushed the door open, tiptoed inside, and stopped to listen. Silence. The preparation room was closed, and though Artie hadn’t used it the past few days, she could still smell the sharp chemical odor. She crept past the office and arrangement room, and when she reached the reception, Sister Eileen was sitting in a chair against the wall, where Michael Graham had waited when he arrived to plan his wife’s burial. A small suitcase stood on the floor beside her.
Ilka stared. Instead of her headpiece and nun’s habit, she was wearing a pair of jeans and a thin beige sweater. Her short hair was brushed back. She looked Ilka right in the eyes.
“Lydia Rogers, that woman the man was asking about this morning. It’s me.
The people who have been following you are looking for me.”
Ilka made her way over to the desk and sat down. The look on the nun’s face alarmed her. She leaned her arms on the desk and waited.
Sister Eileen sat in her familiar way, hands laced on her lap, as she held Ilka’s eye. “I’m sorry you’ve been dragged into all of this. It wasn’t my intention.”
“What do you mean?”
Sister Eileen shook her head but didn’t answer her. “I’m leaving now. I can’t allow what happened to Artie to happen to you. They’re too close, and that’s dangerous.”
If she hadn’t looked and sounded so serious, this sinister mood the nun was building would have annoyed Ilka. But there was something else going on that sent shivers up her spine: Sister Eileen had vanished. A different woman was sitting over by the wall.
“But what did you do?”
Suddenly Sister Eileen looked over at the door, and Ilka’s eyes followed, even though she knew it was locked, with the CLOSED sign hanging in it.
“It’s more what they’re accusing me of.”
“What?”
Sister Eileen took a deep breath. “I’m not a nun. For the past twelve years I’ve been living underground, on the run.”
Ilka sank back in the chair. This was all way, way too much; she wasn’t sure she could take any more. “But why?”
“They’re accusing me of something I’m innocent of. And if they find me, I’ll end up on death row. And they’ll execute me.”
“What? Death row? But…what is it they say you’ve done?”
“Murder. Multiple murders. They claim I’ve killed at least eight people.”
Ilka shook her head. Not that it was that great a shock to learn this woman wasn’t a nun; several things about her had made Ilka wonder. But these accusations sounded incredible. Her mouth felt dry as sandpaper. “But you didn’t, right?”
Sister Eileen—Lydia Rogers—glanced over at the door again before nodding. “Yes, I did. But I had my reasons to do so, and also I didn’t kill as many as they say I did.”
Ilka’s jaw dropped. “You’ve killed someone? Your nun’s habit, that’s just a disguise?”
She nodded again. They sat for a moment in silence, still looking, studying each other.
Ilka sat back up in her chair. “What do you mean, it’s dangerous for me?”
“If they find me here, you could be hurt.”
“They? Who are you talking about?”
“The man who was here this morning. The people who hurt Artie. The people who have been following you. They’ve been keeping an eye on you, hoping to find me. And they have. The man who approached us in the hospital parking lot, he recognized me.”
“I don’t get it, what do they want?”
“To have me arrested. They’re after the reward. Right now, they’re searching for your father too.”
Ilka looked at her in disbelief. “But my father’s dead! What does he have to do with it?”
Again, she ignored Ilka’s question. “I have to get out of here.”
“How much of this did my father know about? Did he know your nun habit was a disguise? That you’re on the run?”
Lydia squirmed, but reluctantly she nodded. “He found out about it the first time they tracked me down.”
Ilka was lost. “The first time?”
“Javi Rodriguez found me. He showed up one evening, but Paul heard me scream. And he came over and helped.”
“But why are they looking for my father? I told the man who came by during the service that he was dead. It doesn’t make any sense…”
Ilka watched as the woman’s face froze. “What is it you’re not telling me?”
For several seconds they stared at each other, then Lydia slowly shook her head. “Your father’s not dead.”
To be continued…
Also by Sara Blaedel
THE LOUISE RICK SERIES
The Missing Persons Trilogy
The Forgotten Girls
The Killing Forest
The Lost Woman
The Camilla Trilogy
The Night Women
The Running Girl
The Stolen Angel
The Homicide Trilogy
The Midnight Witness
The Silent Women
The Drowned Girl
THE FAMILY SECRETS SERIES
The Daughter
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Her Father’s Secret is a work of fiction. The book refers to several places in Racine that exist, but I’ve allowed myself the freedom to change and move them around, as well as to dream up other locales to fit my story. Spending time in Racine has sparked my imagination, but all the characters and their names are fictional.
My heartfelt thanks goes out to Christina Gauguin, an undertaker at Elholm Mortuary. She was my first contact with the funeral home business, and during the past few years she has taken time to answer many questions. And thanks to Victor, Lone, and Marianne for your kindness and time. All of you are my inspiration for this series about an undertaker’s daughter.
I also want to thank the Wilson Funeral Home and Anne Meredith from the Meredith Funeral Home in Racine for opening your doors to me and all my questions. Thank you for taking time to show me around and explain the finer points of the undertaking business that I wasn’t aware of, the American traditions in the branch being so much different from those in Denmark. I’m so grateful to you.
As with all my earlier books, I’m indebted to Steen Holger Hansen, the forensic pathologist who is always there to answer my questions. You are always a great help and inspiration to me.
I could never have written this book without Benee Knauer, who helps me with research in the United States. Benee has answered tons of questions and helped me dig up information I couldn’t track down. She’s also the one who makes sure I’m up on gun laws, medicinal warnings, the judicial system, and everything else that can be difficult for a Dane to be aware of in the States. Thank you so much for helping make Racine and my American universe feel like a second home.
And thank you, Adam. My son has turned out to be a terrific researcher. Before I wrote the book, he plowed through everything there is to know about harness racing in Wisconsin. Thank you so much, it’s such a pleasure to work with you. Concerning harness racing, I’ve made use of actual events and procedures, but here I’ve also allowed my imagination to build upon the information I’ve been given.
This book is dedicated to my close friend Preben Vridstoft, who introduced me to Racine. He’s the one who told me about the town’s large population of Danish descendants and that it’s also called “Kringle-town” because of its three Danish bakeries that send Danish kringles out across America. Without Preben’s extensive knowledge of the United States, Racine probably never would have showed up on my radar. And now I can’t imagine my story taking place anywhere else. Thanks for always being there for me, Preben.
My publisher, People’s Press, also deserves a big thank-you. It’s a pleasure working with you all. A special thanks goes out to my fabulous editor, Lisbeth Møller-Madsen. She’s always dedicated and knows precisely what I mean and what I want to talk about. Thank you so much, Lisbeth, we make a great team. Once again Rasmus Funder has zeroed in on the perfect mood for the book cover. Thanks! And thank you, Louise Thuesen, from the media department. I’m so happy to work with you.
I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to Elisa Lykke, my wonderful and talented PR agent. She keeps her sharp eye focused on what’s best for me. Thank you for always being by my side when I need you, both in Denmark and in the United States. You make things happen, and working closely with you means very much to me.
I am so thankful for my agent, Victoria Sanders, and her terrific team at Victoria Sanders and Associates, Bernadette Baker-Baughman and Jessica Spivey. You have become my American family, for which I’m very grateful. Thank you for the extraordinary effort you put in on my behalf; not only do you make sure my books are published all
over the world, but you’re there for me whenever I need you. Thank you.
And one more time, Adam—my greatest thanks go out to you. Not only are you old enough now to help me in my work, but you’re also the most important person in my life, my greatest support, my greatest happiness. Thank you.
Also, I’m sending an extra big thank-you out to those closest to me, because I’m never in doubt you’re there, even though I’m far away for long periods of time. Thank you for making me feel you’re much closer than the miles that separate us.
Finally, an enormous and heartfelt thank-you goes out to my fantastic readers and followers. You are my greatest source of encouragement. Thank you for your support and thank you for the warm welcome you’ve given to Ilka. I’m deeply grateful for your interest in reading what I write. It means everything to me!
—Sara Blaedel
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sara Blaedel’s interest in story, writing, and especially crime fiction was nurtured from a young age, long before Scandinavian crime fiction took the world by storm. Today she is Denmark’s “Queen of Crime” and is published in thirty-seven countries. Her series featuring police detective Louise Rick is adored the world over, and her new Family Secrets series has launched to great critical success.
The daughter of a renowned Danish journalist and an actress whose career included roles in theater, radio, TV, and movies, Sara grew up surrounded by a constant flow of professional writers and performers visiting the Blaedel home. Despite her struggle with dyslexia, books gave Sara a world in which to escape when her introverted nature demanded an exit from the hustle and bustle of life.
Sara tried a number of careers, from a restaurant apprenticeship to graphic design, before she started a publishing company called Sara B, where she published Danish translations of American crime fiction.