“What?”
“Let’s go find out. We’ll just knock on the door—”
“We can’t!”
“We can. I’m willing to bet that whoever owns this house is a history buff, and that they’ll be more than willing to help us if we explain how much it would mean to us to know.”
“Ryan, you can’t just walk up—”
“Sure, I can.” He shrugged and released her hand, then sauntered past the hedges and along the tiled walkway to the massive porch. “Coming?” he called to her.
“No!”
He shrugged again and knocked on the door.
Lucia stared at him in amazement. A moment later she saw the door open, but she couldn’t make out the person standing in the doorway.
Ryan turned back to her. “Sweetheart, come on in. Mrs. Merriweather will be happy to show us the house. She needs to think about our offer, though.”
“What?” Lucia mouthed.
“Sweetheart!” Ryan said again.
Lucia walked up the path to join him. She saw a very old, fragile woman standing in the doorway. She had marvelous pale-blue eyes, a wrinkled face and a sweet smile.
“Mrs. Merriweather, my wife, Lucia,” Ryan said.
Lucia started to cough, and Ryan patted her on the back. “She’s from Atlanta. She still isn’t accustomed to good sea air.”
Mrs. Merriweather laughed with pleasure and extended her hand to Lucia. “Hello, dear. Do come in. Your husband has been telling me that he’s anxious to buy the place. I hadn’t thought about selling, but I’d just love to have you to tea.” She raised her voice slightly. “Mary, we have company for tea. Do come in, Mrs. Dandridge.”
Lucia stared at Ryan, ready to throttle him.
“It was the only way to get us in,” he whispered.
“You lied to that lovely old woman.”
“Don’t you want some tea?”
“I don’t want you lying about this!”
Mrs. Merriweather, who had started into the house, paused. “Is there a problem, Mrs. Dandridge?”
“Lucia, please, Mrs. Merriweather.”
“Lucia. What a lovely name.”
“There’s no problem,” Ryan said. “My wife just hates to impose.”
“Oh, no imposition. I shall enjoy your company. Please.”
Lucia stepped into the beautiful old house with Ryan’s arm around her.
CHAPTER 9
The house was charming, right out of a novel. They were welcomed into a large entryway with a marble floor, an overhead chandelier and a sweeping staircase leading to the gallery above. The ceiling was high, and the walls were light, and there were matching huge bay windows with velvet-covered seats on either side of the door.
Mrs. Merriweather was a traditionalist, Lucia saw quickly. The furnishings were beautiful antiques. There was a fine mahogany sideboard against the far wall, while the entryway chairs were early Victorian.
“How lovely!” Lucia murmured.
“Really, you must come up and have tea,” Mrs. Merriweather said delightedly.
Lucia stared at Ryan, who shrugged.
Mary made her appearance then, coming down the stairway. She was an attractive redhead in a white nurse’s uniform. She flashed Ryan a smile, and he smiled back. Lucia elbowed him in the ribs. “Shape up, Mr. Dandridge. Wives don’t care for flirtatious husbands,” she whispered.
Mary hurried down the stairs. Mrs. Merriweather introduced them all, then led Ryan and Lucia through the high arched door to the left. They came into a study with shiny hardwood floors and rows of books against the front wall, and tall open windows to the rear, their sheer white drapes blowing in the breeze. The windows looked out over a gorgeous pool.
“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” Mrs. Merriweather asked, following Lucia’s gaze. “My brother put the pool in, in 1934. It was so delightful when the children were here. But then his son was killed in World War II, and we lost young Thomas in Korea, and it’s been just me ever since, I’m afraid.”
“We really shouldn’t impose—” Lucia said.
“Nonsense!” Mary said firmly from behind her. Lucia whirled around. The young nurse was carrying a tray of tall glasses filled with iced tea. Mint sprouted over the top of them. “Mrs. Merriweather is thrilled with your interest.”
The old woman nodded, taking one of the glasses. “Of course. Not just anyone can appreciate an old place like this.”
“Ryan…” Lucia paused, helping herself to an iced tea and thanking Mary. “My husband is a builder, Mrs. Merriweather. He works on new structures, and he also does reconstruction and preservation work on old homes and buildings.”
“How wonderful,” Mrs. Merriweather said. “Do sit down now, please. Mary, stay here with us. Maybe you can remember a few things that I can’t.”
They sat down, and Ryan guessed aloud that the house had been started in 1835. He was close, Mrs. Merriweather was pleased to tell him. The original Merriweather had come south from a Maine fishing village in 1830, and he had started the house two years later. Fishing had been their trade then, until the war, and then the Merriweathers had become blockade runners. “First, of course, they watched the shelling of Fort Sumter from atop the widow’s walk. Cecilia Merriweather left a fascinating diary of the time. They had a party at the house that night. They were so full of optimism! Charleston was a beautiful city, then as now. Hot as Hades in the summer, but so lovely in spring. There are shells in the house—a cannonball stuck in the roof. We’re ever so lucky that so much of the city is left—the North blamed South Carolina for the war, you see. We were the first state to secede. When Sherman made his march to the sea, we were lucky that he didn’t head straight for us and raze Charleston to the ground. But he didn’t, so this wonderful place of American heritage is still here. Oh dear, I seem to be wandering. Cecilia was my grandmother. My father was born upstairs in 1865, right when everything was falling apart for the South. They say that Cecilia paced the widow’s walk, waiting for her husband to come home.”
Ryan and Lucia glanced at each other quickly.
“Did he come home?” Ryan asked.
“Never. His ship was sunk in a naval battle off Newport Mews, and he never came home again.”
“And Cecilia?” Lucia asked sweetly.
“Cecilia? Oh, she never remarried,” Mrs. Merriweather said. “She raised her son and kept her property free from the Yankee carpetbaggers—oh, do excuse me, young man. You have a New England accent, and I mean nothing against you.”
“No offense taken,” Ryan said, smiling.
Mrs. Merriweather looked at Lucia. “You’re from the South.”
“Atlanta,” Lucia agreed.
“A fine city,” Mrs. Merriweather said. She patted Ryan’s knee. “Of course, I’m sure that you come from a fine city, too.”
“Boston.”
“Ah. Yes. Another bastion of tradition.”
“A Yankee bastion, but a bastion,” Ryan said. He set down his tea and rose. “Mrs. Merriweather, could I impose on you for the use of a phone?”
“Of course. Mary, if you would be so kind…?”
Lucia frowned, watching as Mary led Ryan from the room. Mrs. Merriweather didn’t seem to mind that the stranger she had invited into her house wanted to use her phone. Indeed, she seemed pleased about the entire afternoon. “Mrs. Dandridge—”
“Lucia, please.”
“Yes, yes. Lucia, please come with me. I’d love to show you the garden surrounding the pool. And there are some wonderful outbuildings here. We have the carriage house, of course, and the old kitchen. And there’s the caretaker’s house, a charming cottage. It’s a wonderful property, really.”
“Oh, it is,” Lucia agreed. She followed Mrs. Merriweather out a rear door and into the garden, then paused, looking back. What on earth was Ryan up to?
* * *
There was a tiny room for the phone beneath the winding staircase. It held a carved Edwardian seat, a Tiffany lamp and an old brass phone.
There were no push buttons, so Ryan spent a few minutes talking to the operator to assure himself that he would be charged for the long-distance call to Myrtle Beach, not Mrs. Merriweather.
Finally he reached Sergeant Joe Mahoney. “It’s Ryan Dandridge. Did you find anything?” he asked.
“Ryan, yes. I sent a man over. We found prints all over the place, but none that I can trace. I’m sure they must belong to Ms. Lorenzo and her cousin, and to you, perhaps. None of them belong to Lopez. He has a record, and we were able to draw up the information on the computer.”
“Is that it?” Ryan asked, disappointed.
Joe sighed over the phone. “There was a dark hair in the tub, but, Ryan, we’d need something to compare it with. An awful lot of people in this world are dark-haired.”
“And nothing else? No fibers, no clues?”
“Yes, we found a cotton fiber, but that’s the same thing. Half a million pieces of clothing are made of the same kind of fabric. There was nothing to suggest that a murder had taken place in the tub—”
“The murder didn’t occur in the tub. The body was in the tub.”
“I’m sorry, but there was nothing to indicate a body was there, either. But…”
“But what?”
“Well, we can’t seem to locate Gino Lopez alive, either. The son is getting very upset. He’s filed a missing-persons report.”
“Has he now?” Ryan murmured.
“He came in last night. He says he can’t imagine where the old man has gotten to. He’s very concerned.”
“Then Lucia’s right.”
Joe was very quiet.
“What’s wrong?” Ryan demanded.
“This girlfriend of yours, you think she’s on the level, don’t you?”
“Of course!”
“I mean, you don’t think maybe she did away with this guy herself and is trying to throw off suspicion? She’s the only one who ever seems to see this body, you know.”
“She’s also five foot two and probably no more than a hundred and five pounds, Joe. How do you think she could possibly drag around a body like Lopez’s?”
“How do we know the body was ever dragged anywhere?”
Ryan felt his temper beginning to steam. “Joe, I guarantee you, Lucia did not murder Gino Lopez.”
“And how can you guarantee that?”
“Because I know Lucia Lorenzo.”
“That’s what Mr. Monahan said about Mrs. Monahan.”
“And who the hell are the Monahans?”
“Well, Mrs. Monahan killed her husband’s brother, and while he was busy saying she couldn’t possibly have done it, she was busy putting a bit of arsenic into his morning coffee…every day. So it’s hard to say, Ryan.”
“Joe—”
“All right. I’m not making any accusations. I was just asking, that’s all. What about the rest of that group? Don’t they all know Gino Lopez?”
“Sure. And I know him, too. He’s been a slimy character for years. Dozens of people would probably like to kill him. But that doesn’t mean anything.”
“Hey, don’t get defensive on me. I don’t even have a body yet!” He paused. “I’m sorry I didn’t come up with anything more.”
“Well, thanks for the effort.” Ryan hesitated for a moment, frowning. “Joe, no one saw your man go into the apartment, did they?”
“No, he was as discreet as a mouse. No problem. She’ll never know you were checking up on her.”
“I wasn’t checking up on her, Joe. I was just trying to keep her safe.”
“Has anyone threatened her?”
“No.”
“Then what are you worried about?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t like it. Well, I guess there’s nothing else to do for now. I’ll check with you later.”
“Sure thing, Ryan.”
Ryan slowly replaced the receiver. When he stepped out of the little room, Mary was waiting for him.
“Everything all right?”
“Yes, fine, thanks. I didn’t mean to take so long. Is everything all right out here?”
“Fine. Mrs. Merriweather has your wife outside. They’re inspecting the outbuildings and the pool area.”
“She isn’t really my wife.”
“No?” Mary said.
“Long story.”
“I thought you were engaged last time you were out here. That’s why I thought you wanted the house.”
Ryan shrugged. “Well, I thought I might be getting married last time I came here. But she left me.”
“How could she do such a thing!” Mary protested indignantly.
“She managed.” Ryan laughed. “She thinks I just barged in here today. I had time to swear Mrs. Merriweather to secrecy, but I’m glad you didn’t give me away, either. I’m taking a second stab at it.”
“Good for you. She’s beautiful.”
“Yeah, isn’t she?”
“But then, you’re pretty great yourself.”
“Thanks.”
“If she gives you a hard time again, make sure you come to me for some consolation.”
“I’ll do that, Mary. Oh, where do you think I should take her to dinner?”
“Di Martino’s is on the water and—”
“Nothing Italian.” He grinned. “Her family can make the best Italian food in the world. I don’t want to compete.”
Mary laughed. “Marshall’s. It’s on the water, too, and their fish is superb. I’ll make a reservation when you leave. What time?”
“Eight. We still have to drive back tonight.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks. I guess I’d better get back out there. Oh, and I’m going to buy the house. One way or the other.”
“That’s wonderful. Mrs. Merriweather will be very happy.”
“I hope so. And she’ll have the carriage house for the rest of her life, rent free. She knows that, right?”
“Yes, and she’s touched. I hope things work out for you.”
“So do I.” Ryan gave her a thumbs-up sign.
Mary opened her mouth, then closed it, then decided to speak after all. “It’s none of my business, but—”
Ryan grinned. “She’s just not the marrying kind.”
“Has she said so?”
“Yes—quite clearly.”
“Um. But then, you do the same thing, you know.”
“I do what?”
“Well, you give the impression of being a die-hard independent. Maybe if you sat down and really talked…”
“We’ve talked before.”
“Sure, but maybe you were both on the defensive. It’s frightening to be hurt. To love someone more than that someone loves you. Maybe if you take the plunge, maybe if you dare say that you really love her…maybe then she’ll have the nerve to tell you back.”
“I don’t know,” Ryan said thoughtfully.
“I’m serious,” Mary said.
“Think the beach beneath the stars would be a good place to talk?”
“Anywhere is a good place to talk. Sometime when you’re alone, when all the right words can be said.”
“I’ll work on it,” Ryan promised her.
Impulsively, Mary kissed his cheek.
Ryan heard a slight sound and turned around. Mrs. Merriweather and Lucia were standing in the doorway. He was certain that Lucia had seen the kiss, though her eyes betrayed nothing as she stared at them. It didn’t bode well for the evening.
“I’ve shown Lucia the outbuildings. I’ve even tried to talk her into staying for dinner, Mr. Dandridge, but she simply won’t budge on the issue,” Mrs. Merriweather said.
Lucia was staring straight at him. “I feel that I, at least, have overstayed my welcome,” she said sweetly.
It was time to leave, Ryan decided. He thanked Mrs. Merriweather, winked at Mary and escorted Lucia out.
She pulled her hand from his the moment they reached the sidewalk. “Don’t you ever do that to me again!” she snapped.
&nbs
p; “Do what?”
“Tell someone that I’m your wife.”
“Why not? What else was I supposed to do? Tell that lovely old lady that I was interested in seeing her home for myself and my mistress?”
“I’m not your mistress, either.”
“It’s a horrible, archaic term, isn’t it?”
“Ryan, stop it.”
“All right. My occasional live-in lover.”
“I am not—”
He stopped on the street, catching her hand, swinging her around. “Then what are you, Lucia? Just what are you?”
She jerked her hand away and stared at him, her eyes smoldering with a deep, dark fire.
“I don’t know. Just what is Mary?”
“A friend.”
“A friend? You form your friendships rather quickly, don’t you, Mr. Dandridge?”
“Lucia, let’s not fight.”
“Look, Ryan, I don’t want to fight, either. That’s why I’m not your mistress or your occasional live-in lover or whatever it was that you wanted me to be! I don’t want to give you the third degree, or put you in a choke hold. But I’m afraid I find it humiliating to see you with another woman when—”
“I wasn’t with another woman!”
“She kissed you.”
Maybe, just maybe, Ryan thought, she was a little bit jealous. And that was a good sign. “Lucia—”
“Take me home!” she snapped. Her hands were on her hips, her head was tossed back, and her hair was cascading down her back in dark, lustrous waves. Her eyes were stormy, and he smiled suddenly.
“What is so amusing?”
“You really are gorgeous when you’re mad.”
“I’m not mad.”
“And you’re jealous, too.”
“I am not. I just want—”
“We have dinner reservations at eight.”
“Ryan Dandridge, I will not go to dinner with you.”
“Yes, you will.”
He reached for her shoulders, and she stiffened, trying to pull away. He didn’t care. In full view of at least half a dozen tourists, he pulled her to him.
“Ryan Dandridge, don’t you dare—”
He silenced her with his lips. They met hers with a fierce passion and with tenderness, and he kissed her as if they hadn’t seen each other in decades, as if he were desperate for the taste of her. He kissed her until her hands went slack against him, until she went still and breathless.
Lucia in Love Page 16