by Kay Hooper
“Unless they had it all along,” Cassidy pointed out. “That could be it, you know. Maybe the mirror was passed along from generation to generation and finally ended up in the attic because some Kilbourne lady decided she liked silver better than brass for her dressing table. It could have lain forgotten up there for a long time. And maybe, after the auction, somebody in the family was looking over the list of things sold and saw the mirror listed. Recognized it—and went ballistic.”
“Maybe.” But Laura didn’t really believe that. She had nothing more to go on than her feelings, but those told her the mirror had a different history, that it had come into the possession of the Kilbourne family fairly recently. “But if not, if Dena has to comb through records from Revolutionary days to the present, then it’s going to take a while before I have any tie to the Kilbournes.”
Cassidy looked at her steadily. “Logically, of course, there is another way to look for the information. Go right to the source. Having the mirror in your possession should at least get your foot in the door.”
That possibility had been lurking in Laura’s mind for hours, but she instantly said, “I don’t think I’d have the nerve to go to their door, Cass. Especially now. According to the papers, they’ll bury Peter Tuesday afternoon. I just … I don’t think I could go to them and ask about the mirror.”
“I don’t think you’re going to have a choice,” Cassidy said. “If you want to figure this thing out for yourself, I mean. The police might possibly tell you if somebody in the family confirms that Peter came here to discuss the mirror, but I bet they won’t bend over backward to tell you much more than that. And only somebody in the family can tell you what reason Peter might have had to try and buy the mirror back.”
“They’ll be in mourning. And I’ve been all but accused of murdering Peter; what if they know that?”
“They probably will know it, if the police concentrate on you,” Cassidy pointed out. “Especially once the press gets hold of it. But being suspected doesn’t mean you’re guilty, Laura, and even if the press rushes to judgment, surely the family will want to know the truth.”
“If someone I loved was murdered,” Laura said, “I wouldn’t want his accused killer in my house. Period.”
“You haven’t been accused. The police have questioned you, like they’ve no doubt questioned other people. Because he was here hours before he was killed. But he left here alive, remember that, with his chauffeur to verify that fact. You’re an innocent woman trying to find out if this mirror you bought at their estate sale might have something to do with his death. Period.”
Laura managed a smile. “That sounds so nice and logical. But it might just take more nerve than I can muster.”
Cassidy unwound from her curled position on the couch and got up, stretching absently. “You have plenty of nerve, friend. You’ve just never needed it before. As a matter of fact, I’ve always thought that quiet manner of yours hid pure steel underneath.”
“I don’t know how you could have gotten that idea,” Laura murmured.
“No?” Cassidy smiled wryly. “Because, like me, you come from a big family. Because your being the third oldest out of eight kids, and the oldest girl, means you spent your childhood with plenty of responsibility heaped on your shoulders. Because you had five younger siblings clinging to you and two older ones teasing you—and if that doesn’t toughen up someone’s hide, nothing will. And lastly, because you walked away from all that at eighteen and have seldom looked back since. You’re strong enough to do whatever you have to do, Laura. Believe me if you don’t know it yourself.”
This time, Laura’s smile was easier. “Thanks. I’ll have to think about it, though—going to the Kilbournes.”
“Well, let me know what you decide. I need to go home and get ready for work tomorrow. Want to split a take-out order for supper?”
“I don’t think so, thanks. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Cass.”
“You bet.”
When she was alone in the quiet apartment, Laura leaned forward in her chair and picked up the mirror. She held it in her lap for several moments, tracing the pattern on the back, then lifted it and turned it until she could see her reflection. But as always, she looked past herself, as if she expected to see something just beyond her shoulder.
“What is it?” she murmured. “What do I always expect to see?”
As always, there was no answer. But Laura had to wonder if perhaps one of the Kilbournes could answer that question for her. Or answer another one, why Peter had wanted the mirror back. Either way, this mirror now connected her with the Kilbourne family, for good or ill.
The only thing she knew for sure was that Cassidy had been right. The mirror was likely to do one thing, at least. It was likely to get her in the door of the Kilbourne house.
If she had the nerve to make the attempt.
JOSIE KILBOURNE HUNG up the phone and rubbed her eyes with a sigh. Between the calls of sympathy, and the funeral arrangements it had fallen to her to make, Monday morning had been a busy one for her. She’d barely had time to think, and suspected that the shock of finding out about Peter’s murder in the early hours of Sunday morning was still a long way from wearing off.
It seemed unreal to her still, that he was gone. That someone had violently ended his life. She could even think with detachment how ironic it was that he had died in a run-down motel—Peter, who had always demanded and usually got the best of everything.
She looked at the stack of notes before her that were ready to be folded into envelopes and mailed. They were handwritten, the notes, in a spidery but steady and beautiful hand on elegant notepaper, and Josie couldn’t help wondering if Amelia had stayed up all last night to respond personally to the calls and messages of condolence that had come in yesterday. If so, it was nothing the old lady didn’t normally do; Josie had known her to walk the quiet halls of the house at all hours.
Still, after the murder of a favorite grandson, anyone would think that Amelia, who had celebrated her eightieth birthday earlier in the year, would have spent less time at her desk being polite and more time grieving with Peter’s mother and his widow.
That thought had barely crossed her mind when Josie grimaced. How could she even mentally criticize Amelia for staying away from Madeline when Josie herself hadn’t been able to bear the overwhelming grief of Peter’s mother? And Kerry obviously didn’t want comforting or company in her mourning; Peter’s wife—widow—had arrived back home today white and calm, saying little to anyone.
But Madeline had gone instantly to pieces when the news of Peter’s death had come, and she was no better now. Still, Daniel was the only one Madeline seemed to need, and he at least was patient enough to spend hours letting her cling to him while she alternately sobbed and talked brokenly about her “baby.”
Josie couldn’t help wondering if Daniel knew his mother would never grieve so violently for him, if he should predecease her. Peter had been her favorite, and though she had always looked to her older son for help and support, she had never been affectionate toward Daniel and seemed, in fact, a bit nervous around him. But if Daniel knew—or cared—that he was the least favored of his mother’s sons, he never let on. And he would remain with his mother, infinitely patient and uncomplaining, as long as she needed him.
But Amelia was another matter. To her, open and unabashed grief was … unseemly. Amelia was of a different generation, raised in a different and much more formal time by undemonstrative parents; maybe that was why she appeared—at least outwardly—unmoved by tragedy. Why she pushed aside grief to respond politely to the condolences of people who knew the family, and why she had no patience with the unbridled emotions of her daughter-in-law. And of course she didn’t look any different today than she had last week or last month, since it wasn’t possible to wear a darker shade of black to separate the degree of fresh grief from that forty years old.
Josie glanced down at her own darkly sober skirt and blouse and felt a twinge of u
neasiness. Had she donned the funereal outfit in deference to Peter’s death or because it had become automatic? She honestly couldn’t remember.
My God, am I becoming Amelia?
It was a distinctly unnerving thought. Five years had passed since Jeremy Kilbourne’s death in one of the odd accidents that seemed to befall so many of the Kilbournes, leaving Josie a widow at thirty. As a fairly distant relation of Amelia’s husband, and not on the wealthy branch of the family, Jeremy had also left his wife virtually penniless. So Josie, grieving and broke, had come to work for Amelia as her personal assistant.
It wasn’t a bad job by any means. The money was good, she got her room and board here, and the work was usually light. But as she looked down at herself, Josie couldn’t help wondering if she shouldn’t have gotten out of this house years ago.
“You should never wear a frown. It spoils the perfection of that alabaster brow.”
The mocking voice brought her head up, and Josie smiled slightly as Alex Kilbourne came into the room to perch on the corner of her desk. At twenty-eight, he was years younger than she was, yet he seemed older, extremely self-confident and sometimes uncomfortably perceptive. He was a very handsome man, tall and well built, a rare blond Kilbourne with greenish eyes, and he drew the attention of women almost as effortlessly as Peter had.
For the first time, Josie wondered who else he was sleeping with.
“It’s a day for frowning, I’d say,” she told him in a tone of mild reproof.
Alex lifted an eyebrow, his smile turning a bit wry. “Because one of his women finally took Peter out of circulation? You forget—I didn’t like him.”
“No, I hadn’t forgotten that. But you should at least be wearing an armband, Alex. It’s only decent.”
“You’re wearing enough black for both of us, sweet,” he told her.
She resisted an urge to glance down at herself again. “I look the same as always,” she said a little defensively.
“I know.”
He had never before commented on her habit of wearing dark clothes, but something in his voice now told her that he had certainly noticed it—and quite likely understood it. Unwilling to think too much about that, Josie changed the subject.
“Do you happen to know if Daniel is still with Madeline?”
“No, I haven’t been upstairs. Did I see the doctor go up a while ago? Not for Amelia?”
“No, Daniel said to call him to see Madeline. I imagine he could hold out during another night of her weeping, but if she doesn’t get some sleep before the funeral tomorrow, she won’t make it through.” Josie sighed. “And even though she looked awfully calm, the doctor gave Kerry something too; he said he wanted her to sleep until tomorrow morning.”
Alex gazed down at her intently. “How are you holding up?”
Josie shrugged. “I’ve been too busy to think much about it. But I looked at the newspapers this morning, and—”
“Ignore them,” he advised firmly. “Groundless speculation, mostly.”
“They said Peter checked into that motel with a redheaded woman.”
Alex looked at her gleaming auburn hair for a moment, then said, “So?”
“So I’m the only redhead in the family, Alex. The only one in the house, as a matter of fact. What if the police decide I’m a suspect?”
“You were with me Saturday night.”
“Until just before ten. They said Peter was killed around midnight.”
“You had no motive, and he wasn’t your lover. I would have said Peter wasn’t stupid enough to be carrying on with a relation by marriage living in the same house with his wife.” His eyes narrowed suddenly. “Or is there something you haven’t told me?”
Josie shook her head, but under his steady gaze finally sighed a bit impatiently. “He made a small pass—once—when I first came to live here.”
“You mean right after you’d buried Jeremy?”
She nodded.
“Christ,” Alex muttered.
“Well, he wasn’t exactly Mr. Sensitivity, despite his charm, we both know that. Anyway, I told him to leave me alone, and he did. It was probably just a knee-jerk reaction to a new woman nearby and meant nothing. You know how he was. Besides, unlike you, he didn’t seem too interested in older women.”
“Insensitive and stupid,” Alex decided. He leaned down and caught both her hands in his, pulling her gently up out of her chair. “You’ve been shut up in here all day, and your imagination’s beginning to work overtime; why don’t we go for a walk? There are still a few flowers blooming in the gardens, and it’s cool out.”
“No, I have to mail all these notes for Amelia today. And there are some messages she should see, and—”
Alex drew her closer and kissed her, cutting off her words and her refusal quite deliberately. His mouth moved on hers with the seductive skill that never failed to astonish her and make her weak with longing, and she heard herself make a sensual little sound when his arms went around her and she felt the strength of them. Unexpected strength in one who moved almost lazily and never seemed to exert himself.
“Don’t,” she murmured against his lips. “Somebody might come in.”
He tipped his head back and looked at her, smiling just a little. “Josie, we’ve been sleeping together for two months. Do you really think there’s anybody in this house who doesn’t know?”
Startled, she said, “Not Amelia, surely.”
He laughed. “She knew before anybody, sweet. You couldn’t sneak a secret past that old lady in pitch darkness a mile away from her.”
“She hasn’t said anything,” Josie protested.
“What would she say? We’re both over twenty-one and unattached, and despite the way she dresses and sometimes acts, Amelia is well aware of what decade we’re in. As long as we’re reasonably discreet, what’s she got to complain about?”
“She’ll think I’m cheating on Jeremy,” Josie said almost to herself.
Alex didn’t let go of her, but his arms loosened slightly and his expression was abruptly unreadable. In a level voice he said, “Jeremy is dead, Josie. He’s been dead for five years. You are not cheating on him.”
“I know that, but—but Amelia might not see it that way. She’s been a widow for forty years and still wears black, still keeps a place for David at the dinner table, and his picture by her bed, and—”
Alex framed her face in his hands. “Amelia wears black because she knows she looks good in it. As for the rest, if you think it’s emotionally healthy to keep an empty chair ready for a man who stopped needing it forty years ago, all I can say is that you ought to talk to somebody about this, sweet.”
Josie eyed him, conscious of brief amusement. “I take it you think the picture by the bed isn’t excessive?”
“Well, it’s not as bad as an empty chair. Do you keep a picture of Jeremy on your nightstand, by the way? Since you’ve never let me into the inner sanctum, I have no way of knowing.”
Back on balance now, Josie merely said, “I have his picture on my dressing table, not the nightstand.”
“When you move it into a drawer, or tuck it away in a photo album, let me know.”
“Why?”
He kissed her lightly and then released her. He was smiling, but his face was still unreadable. “Because then I’ll ask for an invitation into the inner sanctum.”
That surprised her somewhat; it implied that he didn’t want Jeremy looking over his shoulder while he made love to his cousin’s widow. But Alex had never shown a sign of being uncomfortable about their relationship. In fact, he had always talked to her easily and casually about Jeremy, before and since they had become lovers. But Josie chose not to question him, preferring not to look too deeply into Alex’s feelings about her dead husband.
“Walk with me in the garden,” Alex suggested again.
“I have all this work—”
“The work isn’t going anywhere, Josie, and nobody but you expects you to work all day without a break.�
�� Alex got off the desk and took her hand, leading her firmly toward the door. “For the sake of your health, we’re going for a twenty-minute walk. You can finish up the work for Amelia later. No arguments.”
Josie offered a final protest. “But don’t you have work to do?” Alex, with a law degree earned several years before, was “in training,” as he termed it, to take over as the Kilbourne family lawyer when the current one retired.
“Our office handles only one client, remember?” Alex said, pausing at the door to smile at her. “The Kilbourne family. And since Preston Montgomery doted on Peter, and since he’s amazingly emotional for a lawyer—even an old one—the firm of Kennard, Montgomery, and Kilbourne is closed for the week. The only thing I have to do officially is read Peter’s will to the family after the funeral.”
“You don’t have to sound so cheerful about it,” Josie felt honor-bound to say.
Alex shook his head slightly, still smiling. “After all this time you still don’t expect me to be conventional, surely? Josie, I refuse to grieve for a man I didn’t like, or respect his memory as if death made him a saint. I know he was blood, but he was bad blood. He was in a seedy motel room with another woman while his wife was away—and it wasn’t the first time. If you want to see me offer sympathy, you should have been there this morning when I picked Kerry up at the airport. She’s the one I feel sorry for.”
Since Josie felt the same way, it was difficult to criticize Alex for his attitude, but Josie had been raised by conventional parents and it was hard for her to discard their teachings. “I do too, but—”
“But?” He waited politely.
She smiled suddenly. “Never mind. You’re right—I should never expect conventionality from a man who wears Looney Tunes neckties within the hallowed halls of a venerable law office.”
He winked at her. “Now you’re catching on.”