by Marta Perry
“And?” Dad seemed to be waiting for more. He had to know that that was the sort of thing that happened too often to cause comment.
“It was just odd, that’s all. She’s a stranger, but she seemed kind of familiar to me.”
He could feel his father’s gaze on him. “A looker, was she?”
Mac grinned. “You could say that. A striking brown-eyed blonde, if you want to know.”
“That’s the answer, then.” Dad sounded amused. “She probably had a starring role in one of your dreams.”
He chuckled, as he was meant to, but then he shook his head, running the sandpaper smoothly along the grain of the wood. “Sounds like it, but that wasn’t it. I’ve got a good memory for faces, and I’m sure I’ve seen her before.”
“If she was visiting someone in town, you might have noticed her. In fact, it sounds as if you could hardly miss her.”
“She said she wasn’t visiting anybody. Asked directions to a place where she could get lunch, as if she was just passing through.”
“You told her the café, I suppose.” Dad spoke with the experience of one who knew there were few other places in Laurel Ridge where you’d be likely to get a good lunch.
“I did,” he said slowly. “But I saw her going into Blackburn House instead.”
“So maybe she wanted to look around the shops.”
Mac didn’t respond. Slowly, very slowly, a memory was stirring in the back of his mind. An image. A rainy day, the kind of steady downpour that managed to trickle down your neck no matter how protected you were. Soggy grass underfoot, and drooping, saturated flowers, the ribbons around them stained with water. A cemetery, but not the one at the top of the hill.
“That’s it.” He straightened, one hand on the back of the chair, gripping it tightly as the impact of the memory hit. “I saw her a little over a year ago at a cemetery in Philadelphia. At the funeral of that young guy who worked in the financial management office. The one we found dead of an overdose right up there on the hill where she’d stopped.”
Dad met his eyes, startled and sympathetic. “That poor kid? Is she some relation?”
He nodded, the memory clarifying now. “I didn’t speak to her, but someone pointed her out to me. His sister—no, his half sister. The names are different, but I’m sure of it.”
The picture was stamped so firmly on Mac’s mind that he wondered why he hadn’t realized it the minute he’d seen Kate Beaumont. Maybe he would have, if she’d been named Reilley, like the half brother.
Funny how much you could tell about a situation just from body language. The half sister and the father had stood several feet apart, obviously not touching, not even looking at one another, each one isolated in his or her own grief.
Tom Reilley, presumably Kate Beaumont’s stepfather, had been a retired cop. That had been one reason why Mac had driven to Philadelphia for the funeral. Professional courtesy, if you will. The man’s son had died on his turf.
Mac realized his own father was studying him, an expression of concern on his face. He’d known—he always seemed to know—how hard Mac had taken the death. This was his town. He was responsible for it. That meant never letting a situation get out of control, because if it did, then as a peacekeeper, you’d failed.
Jason Reilley, lying dead against a gravestone in the oldest section of the cemetery, a fatal combination of alcohol and pills in his system, had been out of his control.
Another memory flickered, just for an instant. Another town, a world away—flattened homes, the smell of burning in the air, a small, huddled body...
His father stirred. “Well, no reason for the woman not to come here, I suppose. Maybe she felt as if she wanted to see for herself where he died. Sort of a pilgrimage.”
It struck him then. Kate Beaumont hadn’t looked to him like a woman on a pilgrimage. She’d looked like a woman on a crusade.
His uneasiness was full-blown now. His sudden movement set the chair rocking as he headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” Dad put out a hand to still the rocking.
“To have a talk with Ms. Beaumont.” Mac’s course of action solidified. “Maybe you’re right. But I want to know why, when she saw who I was, Kate Beaumont was so careful not to mention her relationship with Jason Reilley.”
* * *
KATE HADN’T GONE more than a few steps inside Blackburn House before she realized that checking out the business that had hired Jason as an intern wouldn’t be unobtrusive. The building was smaller than she’d expected, though impressive with its marble entrance hall and Victorian woodwork. To her right was a quilt shop, and through the window she could see several women in Amish dress browsing along rows of fabric.
The business on her left checked her for a moment. Whiting and Whiting Cabinetry. Related to Chief of Police Mac Whiting? Probably. It wasn’t that common a name, and Laurel Ridge was a small town.
She walked toward the back, past a graceful staircase that clearly led to offices on the second floor. That must be where the financial consultants had their offices. The rear of this level housed what appeared to be a storage room and a bookstore.
Kate paused, looking at the display of bestsellers in the window. It was unusual to find an independent bookseller thriving in a small town, but this one appeared to be doing fine. Several customers wandered through the aisles, a toddler stacked blocks in a corner with children’s books, and an elderly man seemed to be having an animated conversation with the woman behind the counter.
Upstairs, then, for a look at the offices of Laurel Ridge Financial Group. No one else was on the stairs, and Kate felt conspicuous as she hurried her steps.
The second floor was quiet. Two offices on the right, two on the left and what seemed to be a private area separating them. Rejecting the attorney’s office and the door marked with only the name Standish, she turned left and found a real-estate company and then the offices she’d been looking for.
Kate stationed herself in front of the posters of available properties displayed in the plateglass window of the real-estate office, trying to appear absorbed in the description of what was called a desirable four-bedroom residence and the photo of a decrepit-looking farmhouse, optimistically labeled a fixer-upper. From there, she could glance into the windows of the office next door.
The first thing she noticed was that something was missing. Jason had mentioned, when he’d first accepted the internship one of his professors had helped arrange, the names of the two partners who comprised the professional staff: Russell Sheldon and Bartley Gordon. Now there was only one name listed on the door—Gordon. Below it, in suitably smaller letters, she read, Lina Oberlin, Assistant and Office Manager. What had happened to the other partner?
The room beyond the window told her nothing. A reception desk, where a twentysomething with improbably red hair sat filing her nails, another desk behind hers, which might once have been Jason’s, and three uncommunicative doors.
Kate sensed movement in back of her, and before she could turn, she saw a face reflected in the glass. Mac Whiting stood behind her, his jaw especially uncompromising.
She swung around. “Are you following me, Chief Whiting?”
“Looking to ask you a question.” He seemed to make an effort not to sound as intimidating as he appeared. “When we met earlier, why didn’t you mention that you were Jason Reilley’s sister?”
“Half sister,” she pointed out, her mind scurrying busily. How had he identified her with Jason so quickly? She’d never even been to Laurel Ridge before. She had gone straight to Philadelphia when she’d heard the news of Jason’s death. “That’s why our names are different.”
He inclined his head at that obvious statement, but his eyes never left hers. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
The phrase sounded a little stilted, but Kate thought she
detected real regret in his voice, and she warmed toward him before she reminded herself who he was.
“Thank you.” She hesitated, but curiosity was stronger than her desire to keep the man at arm’s length. “How did you know who I am? Or is it your practice to run a background check on everyone who comes to Laurel Ridge?”
Surprisingly, he didn’t seem to take offense at that, although his face didn’t relax. “I didn’t have to. I recognized you from—” he hesitated, his straight brows drawing down “—from the funeral.”
She was probably gaping at him. Kate gave herself a mental shake. “You were at my brother’s funeral? Why?”
“He died in my town.” The words were clipped. “Call it a courtesy.”
“You didn’t speak to me.”
“Under the circumstances, I thought it was better not to. I figured you and your father didn’t need the reminder of what happened.”
“Stepfather,” she corrected automatically. “You mean your assumption that Jason was just another druggie who’d overdosed in your town.”
He stiffened. “It wasn’t a question of assuming anything. The postmortem confirmed the cause of his death.”
She wanted to protest that Jason had been clean for nearly three years before he died, but told herself bitterly that it was hardly likely a cop would be convinced by her opinion. Not when Jason’s own father hadn’t been.
Kate rubbed her arms, chilled by the vivid reminder. Jason had looked so young by the time she’d been able to see his body at the viewing. With every care and stress wiped from his face, he might have been a sleeping child again.
When she didn’t speak, Whiting frowned at her with a look of frustration. “Weren’t you satisfied with the coroner’s findings? Is that it?”
“No.” She could hear the reluctance in her voice. She’d like to argue, but she couldn’t. Jason had died of a combination of powerful prescription painkillers and alcohol. It was only too likely. But it didn’t answer the important question. It didn’t tell her why.
“Ms. Beaumont?” Whiting’s voice had gentled, and he reached toward her tentatively. “I’m sorry. I wish it had been different.”
He sounded convincing, but she wasn’t going to take anything at face value here.
“Yes.” Different. If she’d come before, if she’d known or even guessed... But there was no point in going down that road again.
“When I spoke to you earlier, at the cemetery—” he paused “—did you want to see the place? Is that why you’re here in Laurel Ridge?”
Whiting was bound to ask that question, of course. And she’d have to answer him, but she wasn’t about to trust him with the real reason she was here. He would, inevitably, be on the side of his town, his people.
“I’m taking some time off before I start looking for a new job.” That, at least, was more or less true. The Baltimore paper that had employed her suffered, as most print papers did, from dwindling circulation. They’d resorted to what they euphemistically called retrenchment. “My stepfather passed away recently, so I don’t have any other family left. I wanted to spend a little time in the last place my brother lived.”
That might sound morbid, but it was the best she could do in terms of an explanation.
“I see.” Whiting was studying her face, as if measuring exactly how much he believed her. “I’m sorry about your stepfather.”
She nodded, accepting the sympathy wordlessly. He would, she supposed, expect her to regret Tom Reilley’s death, and she didn’t have anything to say that was likely to make sense to a man like Whiting. Another cop, another man with hard edges and no tolerance for someone who didn’t live by his rules.
He took a step back, and Kate felt as if she could breathe again.
“I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for here.”
Her gaze flew to his face, but he apparently didn’t mean anything specific by the words. He was just attempting to console. He couldn’t possibly have any idea what she was really looking for in Laurel Ridge.
I want to know why. I want to know what happened to my little brother in your town that led to him taking his own life.
CHAPTER TWO
SINCE HER IDENTITY was already known to Chief Whiting, Kate didn’t see much point in being less than open with the owner of the bed-and-breakfast. She paused on the sidewalk, taking in the white-frame building, its welcoming porch lined with pots of yellow-and-burgundy chrysanthemums. Jason had mentioned Mrs. Anderson in one of his infrequent phone calls last summer, and Kate had formed the impression from his words of a bustling busybody, intent on knowing all about her guests and everyone else in town.
Well, the woman wouldn’t have to pry if Kate was up-front with her—relatively speaking, at least. And if Mrs. Anderson spread the word about Kate’s presence, it might pave the way to conversations with people who had known him. Of course, Mac Whiting might already be talking about her. She grimaced, not sure she wanted to know what he thought.
The front door stood hospitably open. Kate rang the bell once and stepped inside, onto a braided rug bright against wide, gleaming oak floorboards. An archway on one side of the hall led into a sunny living room—or maybe parlor was a better word, given the Victorian settees, marble-topped tables and grandfather clock. To her left, a drop-leaf table apparently did duty as a reception desk, and a heavily carved staircase wound upward behind it.
No doubt alerted by the bell, a woman emerged from a swinging door that must lead to the back of the ground floor—probably the kitchen and private area. Plump and graying, the woman had a beaming smile for her visitor.
“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting. I’m Grace Anderson. Passing through, are you? Were you looking for a room for the night?” She hurried to flip open an old-fashioned register on the table, sounding hopeful.
“Actually, I’d like to stay for a bit longer than that.” She paused, oddly reluctant to take the plunge now that she was here. “I’m Kate Beaumont. Jason Reilley was my brother.”
“Oh, my dear.” The smiling expression crumpled, and Mrs. Anderson’s eyes filled with tears. She came around the table, holding both hands out to Kate. “I’m so very sorry for your loss.”
The woman’s obvious distress pierced Kate’s armor, and she fought back her own tears. “Thank you.” Her voice was husky, and she cleared her throat. “Jason spoke of your kindness.”
Actually, Jason had seemed annoyed by her fussing over him, but coming from a young man finally out on his own, that was only natural. He wouldn’t have been eager to trade what he considered an overprotective big sister for a mothering landlady.
“He was a dear boy.” Mrs. Anderson wiped away tears with the back of her hand. She hesitated, studying Kate’s face and then glancing away. “Did you come...” She let the question fade away, obviously curious but hampered by good manners from probing a sensitive subject.
Kate had a wry inward smile for that convention. It was one of the first things to go for a reporter. Well, the story she’d told Whiting had better stay consistent.
“I’m taking a little time off before looking for a new job, which will mean relocating. I thought I’d like to spend some time in Laurel Ridge. This place seemed to mean a lot to Jason.” She paused, but she may as well go after what she really wanted. “I hoped your cottage might be available to rent for a few weeks, maybe a month.”
The woman’s expression grew wary. “Are you sure that’s wise? Maybe it’s not...not healthy.”
Was she afraid Kate would kill herself with drugs and alcohol, the way Jason did? The thought stung, and Kate had to force a smile.
“The cottage sounded so charming from the way my brother described it. And I’ll be writing several freelance articles while I’m here, so I’d appreciate having the extra space to work.”
That seemed to mollif
y the woman, but there was still a trace of doubt in her eyes. “Yes, well, why don’t we take a look at the cottage first? Maybe it won’t be what you want at all, and I have several lovely rooms in the house.”
“Thanks. I’d like to see the cottage.” She waited, the smile pinned to her face, letting the silence grow between them. She’d guess Mrs. Anderson wasn’t very good with silences.
“Yes. Fine.” The woman gestured toward the door she’d come in. “We’ll go out the back.”
A dining room lay behind the parlor, complete with built-in cabinets containing an elaborate china service. An oval cherry table was large enough to seat a dozen, making her wonder how many guests were in residence. The place seemed very quiet.
The kitchen beyond was obviously Mrs. Anderson’s own domain, with a corner devoted to a computer and filing cabinet and another turned into a cozy nook with a television and a recliner. On the opposite side a glassed-in sunroom looked out on flower beds.
Mrs. Anderson gestured toward the long table that occupied the sunroom. “I serve breakfast there from seven to nine on weekdays and eight to ten on Saturday and Sunday. Or if I have a party that wants to meet together, I can set up in the dining room.” What sounded like a routine announcement was interrupted by a sudden smile. “Well, really, you can let me know what time you want breakfast, as long as I’m not too busy.”
Encouraged by the thaw, Kate ventured a question. “Did Jason usually have breakfast here, or did he fix his own in the cottage?”
Mrs. Anderson shrugged, sailing on out the back door and dangling a set of keys. “Sometimes one, sometimes the other. On workdays, he’d often just have cereal in the cottage, even though I told him he ought to have a good hot breakfast.”
The words conjured up an image of Jason, hair rumpled, eyes sleepy, crouched over a bowl of his favorite cereal. There were days when he’d eat nothing else for breakfast, lunch and supper unless she intervened.