They went inside to a house that was cavernous and yet cozy in a varnished, dark-wood way. The ceilings were easily ten feet high, but the arched doorways somehow whittled the rooms back down to size. God knew, there were enough of them: twin parlors, a breakfast room, a music room, a cozy area, a game room, a reading room, a writing room—Quinn got lost just looking for the phone.
But he found it at last, an old black one being used to weigh down a slew of papers and magazines on a cluttered desk in a book-filled nook that smelled of fireplace ashes and potpourri. If rooms had personalities, then this one was smart, interesting, and heedless of other people's opinions. Quinn liked it as much as he liked its owner.
He looked up the number of the Acorn Motel and canceled his reservation there, then meandered back to the kitchen to reminisce with his old teacher over a pot of spiked tea. The second pot was steeping when they heard a sudden, sickening sound of shattering glass from in front of the house.
An accident, was Quinn's first thought; the street was still unplowed. He ran to the front door and flipped on the porch light, which, not surprisingly, didn't work. The wide street was dark, but he could see no cars embraced in a fender bender on it. All he saw was his rented brown pickup, parked the way he'd left it in front of the house.
Actually, not quite the way he'd left it. The front windshield had been smashed to smithereens.
More surprised than angry, Quinn ran out to the now-deserted street. Hard to believe, but someone must have followed him to Mrs. Dewsbury's house. He peered inside the truck. The front seat was buried under a blanket of broken glass. His camera and duffel bag were where he'd left them, but the caller had left a welcoming bouquet: red carnations, strewn all over the broken glass.
Somehow they didn't look right. Quinn reached inside and picked up a couple of them.
What the hell? He fingered the blooms. Wet. He looked at his hand. Red.
A clutch of carnations, dipped in blood.
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Keepsake Sample Chapter 2
'Any sign of them?" Mrs. Dewsbury called out.
Quinn turned to see his elderly hostess standing in the doorway, her small frame silhouetted in the soft glow of the parlor lamps. "Nah," he said. "They're gone."
He tossed the flowers back on the seat and wiped his fingers on a floor mat, then took a closer look around. He could see evidence in the snow where someone had jumped out of a car, scrambled over to the rental, done the deed, and escaped. The depressions were already filling in with newly fallen snow; no clues there. He scanned the other homes on the street. All were large with lots of windows, but all were dark. No doubt everyone was off doing Christmas errands. Shit.
He went back to the house, brushing the snow from his sweater before he rejoined Mrs. Dewsbury in the more formal of her two parlors. He expected to find a frightened, agitated little old lady. He was wrong. Old and little she might have been, but the lady was clearly pissed.
"I have lived in this house for eighty-one years and I have never—never—seen such a thing," she said in a shaking voice. "What will you do? How will you drive?"
Quinn shrugged reassuringly and said, "It's no big deal. I'll have the car towed and rent another if I have to."
"Too bad I sold the Buick to my nephew last year. Really, it's just too bad!" Her hands were trembling as she moved from armchair to drum table to davenport to the walker that she'd left in the archway between the two parlors. With white-knuckled fury she reclaimed the walker and began marching out ahead of him.
"We'll just see what Chief Vickers has to say about this," she huffed. "Use the phone in the kitchen to call him. It's a speakerphone."
Oh, perfect. "Y'know, Mrs. Dewsbury," Quinn suggested, "Chief Vickers may not be the most sympathetic man in Keepsake."
"Sympathy has nothing to do with this! Someone just broke the law, and it's his job to uphold the law."
Law, shmaw. Quinn was a lot more worried about staying on in the woman's house and putting her at risk. "Okay, look. I'll call and report this, but under the circumstances I think the best thing would be for me to—"
"Don't even think it!" she said in her best schoolmarm's voice. "You're staying here, as we agreed. This mess has gone on seventeen years too long as it is. I blame your father for running away, and I blame this town for hounding him into it. But Frank Leary is dead and gone now. There's no reason why the sins of the father have to be visited on the son."
"There was no sin, Mrs. Dewsbury. My father didn't murder Alison." Quinn had to force himself even to say the words; they caught in his throat like barbed wire. "He did not murder Alison."
In her anger the old woman was candid, and in her candor she was brutal. "Some people in Keepsake will never believe he didn't hang her at the quarry, Quinn. Or that he wasn't the one who got her pregnant. I'm sure you know that."
Wincing at the all-too-familiar vision of his classmate twisting from a rope, and unnerved by the ease with which his old teacher alluded to his father as a suspected murderer, Quinn said fiercely, "He was innocent, goddammit!"
Immediately Mrs. Dewsbury's expression softened, and she became everyone's favorite grandmother again. "For what it's worth, I don't believe—I never believed—that your father did it, Quinn. He was far too kind, much too gentle. But he kept to himself, and you know how everyone always thinks that still water runs deep. It was much easier to accuse him than to search for some vagrant—or look closer to home."
Quinn gave her a sharp look. Closer to home. So he wasn't the only one who had glanced in that direction.
She lifted the cordless phone from its base and held it out to him. "Now call."
****
Olivia Bennett was in her shop, Miracourt, turning a bolt of satin in mistletoe green, when the bells above the door jangled in another cheerful br-r-ring. Two snowy children came charging inside, shepherded by Olivia's twin brother and his wife Eileen. The kids should've been droopy after their long day in New York, but they'd reached the stage of unfocused energy that comes from being overtired. Besides, Christmas was coming. Who had time to droop?
"Hey, look who's here," Olivia said cheerfully to her niece and nephew. "Two melting snowmen."
"We're not snowmen," said the very literal five-year-old. "We're just all covered with snow." The child stomped her boots on the floor, then began brushing the snow from the sleeves of her red woolen coat.
Her mother stopped her. "Careful, honey, you don't want to ruin Aunt Livvy's fabrics. That's a gorgeous color, Liv," she added, pointing to the satin. "It'd look fabulous on you. You should make something for yourself out of it."
Olivia laughed out loud at the notion, then tucked a dark curl behind her ear and began feeding the fabric through her Measuregraph. "Who has time to sew anymore, much less to design?"
Owen Randall Bennett, Jr., her handsome twin brother who was as fair as she was dark, grinned and said, "Oh, come on, Livvy, we all know you could design a dress in your sleep, weave the fabric before lunch, and sew it together by cocktails."
"Wow. Am I really that talented?" she said, giving him a mild look.
Still smiling, Rand said, ''Nn-o; but you are an annoying workaholic."
"Oh, dear. I keep forgetting that I have an affliction. How was The Nutcracker, Zack?" she asked her nephew.
Zack, who at nine had reached the age of feeling obliged to seem bored about life in general and Nutcrackers in particular, said, "Fine."
His little sister had been turning an endearingly awkward pirouette. Suddenly she stopped and exclaimed, "The Nutcracker was big. He was huge!"
Zack stuck his ungloved hands in his pockets and shrugged. "Not that huge."
"Yes he was!"
"Wasn't."
"Mom! He was, wasn't he? He was," Kristin insisted, dropping into a sudden, pitiable whine.
"Everyone's pooped," Eileen explained as she pulled off her daughter's red-and-white knitted snowflake cap. She ran her hand through the
child's blond curls, blonder even than her father's, in an effort to restore some order there. "It's too bad we couldn't catch an earlier train. How did the tree lighting go?"
Liv made an initial snip in the satin, then took up the fabric on each side of the cut, tearing the yardage away from the rest of the bolt. "Don't know," she said as she folded the rich, drapery fabric into a square. "My help's out sick and I've been stuck here since nine. But I assume it went as usual."
She turned to the customer who'd been fingering various bolts of silk boucle and said, "That was five yards of the floral tapestry, Sue?"
Measure twice, cut once; it was the creed Olivia lived by.
The customer came back to the cutting table, pursed her lips and said, "How much did you say it was a yard?"
"A hundred eighty-nine."
"Hmm. Better make that four-and-a-half yards. I'll make the underside of the cushion out of a plain fabric."
"Are you sure? You won't be able to flip the cushion, in that case. After all that effort, it'd be a shame—"
"You're right, you're right. Add a yard."
"It's really more cost-effective in the long run."
"Oh! Black thread!" The customer hurried over to the wall display.
"Did Dad drop by after the tree lighting?" Rand asked his sister.
Carefully feeding the heavy fabric through the measuring device, Olivia shook her head and said, "I expect he's off politicking. He's trying to move up the vote on the tax relief proposal; did you know that?"
"Are you kidding?" Rand whispered, amazed. "I'm going to need time to lobby the council for that. What the hell is he thinking?"
Olivia shrugged. "He says he's losing his shirt. Poke your nose in Jasper's. He's probably at the bar with the mayor."
"You bet I will." He gave his wife a quick buss on the cheek and said, "Wait here with the kids, honey. I'll pop in, see if he's there, and then bring the car around for you. Toodle-doo," he said to his daughter, mussing her curls on his way out.
"Daddy, wait," Kristin said in a stage whisper. "Are we going shopping for Mommy's presents now?"
"No, that's tomorrow, remember?"
"Oh, good, 'cuz I don't have my money."
"No problemo."
Rand left, maneuvering his way around an incoming customer laden with boxes and bags bearing the imprints of the town's small but charming shops: the Kitchen Gallery, the Owl and the Pussycat, Cheap Thrills, Best Foot Forward. The lady was not only a shopper, but a local one, and that was the very best kind.
"Hi, I was in here earlier," the woman explained. "I bought a pair of silk tassels? Anyway,' somewhere in my wanderings I lost an earring. It's a gold twist, like this one," she said, holding out the mate.
No one had turned in an earring, Liv told her, but she asked for a phone number, just in case. While she rang up her latest sale, the woman scribbled the information on a Post-it Note.
"Isn't that something, about Quinn Leary?" she remarked as she handed the note over to Olivia. "He was before my time, but—"
Olivia's head came up. "Quinn? What about him?" she asked. She hadn't heard his name mentioned in years. She had a sudden, awful fear that he'd robbed a bank and killed all the customers and had made the six o'clock news.
"He's back, apparently."
"Back," Olivia repeated in a blank tone. "Back where? In jail?"
"Back here! In Keepsake!" The shopper shifted her bags to get more comfortable, thrilled that they hadn't yet heard. "During the tree lighting he was roaming all over Town Hill as if he owned the place. People were shocked," she said with a certain amount of glee. "I wish I'd taken the time to attend, but I wasn't wearing boots."
"But why?"
"Well, they weren't forecasting more than a dusting."
Eileen smiled and said, "I think she means, why would he come back now, after all these years?''
"His father died, they say, so I guess there's nothing to stop him. Not that people didn't try. Someone called the police, but their hands are tied. Quinn Leary's not a fugitive, and his father was never officially arrested, so Quinn never technically aided and abetted a fugitive, so—"
"He's back." Olivia had listened, dumbfounded, to the news. "Good God."
Her reaction took the smug woman down a notch. Nervous now, she whispered, "Do you suppose we'll have to start locking our doors during the day?"
Olivia stared at her. "Why would you do that? Quinn didn't do it. He was at a party with dozens of classmates when it happened. I know; I was there."
"Maybe so, but that kind of thing runs in families."
"What kind of thing?"
"You know—the killer instinct."
"That's ridiculous!"
Eileen jumped in to keep the peace. "Olivia went to high school with Quinn Leary," she explained. "They were on the student council together. They were friends, they—"
"No, we weren't," Olivia cut in. "We were rivals."
"But friendly rivals."
"Hardly. Oh, what does it matter! This is awful!"
"I knew it," the frightened customer said in an undertone. "He is dangerous."
Ignoring her, Olivia said to her sister-in-law, "My parents will be outraged. Rand, too. Oh—and my aunt! My uncle!"
When they were roommates in college, Olivia had told Eileen the whole shocking story of the fugitive and his son: how the gardener had been seen staring at Liv's cousin Alison on more than one occasion. How the hanging had been staged to look like a suicide, except that the rope had come from the gardener's shed. How the police had been on the brink of arresting Francis Leary when he ran off, accompanied by his son Quinn. And how Olivia's parents—the suspect's employers—had been left to fend off a nosy press and negative publicity.
Olivia had always insisted to Eileen that what little evidence the police had was circumstantial, and that she herself did not believe Francis Leary had murdered her cousin Alison. But then Eileen had begun to date Olivia's brother Rand and discovered that the rest of Olivia's family was convinced that the gardener was guilty.
And now, seventeen years later, Olivia could see that her open-minded sister-in-law was still trying hard to stay that way about the whole affair, but not succeeding. Eileen looked doubtful and troubled as she said to her little girl, "Come over here, Kristin. Let's get your hat on. Daddy's going to be bringing the car by any minute."
An impromptu game of hide-and-seek between Olivia's niece and nephew came to a sudden end when Zack knocked over a bolt of ivory fleur de sole onto the parquet floor and into a puddle left by someone's boots. The accident brought an accusing shriek from Kristin, mortifying her older brother and prompting a sharp reprimand from their mother.
"Okay, that's it! Let's go, you two, before you wreck the whole place," she said, picking up the soiled bolt. "Livvy, I'm so sorry. Bill me for this, would you?"
Olivia now had two customers waiting with questions and another with a bolt of Ultrasuede in her arms. "Sure, okay," she said, still reeling from the news of Quinn's return.
Eileen apologized again for the silk as she rebuttoned her daughter's coat. A silver Lexus pulled up in front of the shop. Rand leaned on the horn, and his family hurried to the summons.
For the next two hours Olivia did the job of three assistants, which was the number that should've been at her shop in the course of the twelve-hour day. But two were sick and one had asked for the evening off to attend a wedding rehearsal; Olivia couldn't very well flog them into coming in. Still, it was the Christmas rush, and they'd put her in a bind.
And now this. Good grief—Quinn Leary. What was he thinking, strolling onto Town Hill in the middle of the tree lighting? It was the most celebrated event in Keepsake, attended by everyone who was anyone. Her father must have seen him. Had they exchanged words? What could you say at a time like that? Gee, Quinn, the sight of you sure brings back memories of the good old days: reporters peering through our first-floor windows, police rummaging through our garbage cans, neighbors staring over the he
dges to see if anyone was coming out in a body bag.
Olivia's parents had felt utterly betrayed when they learned that their gardener was under suspicion for murder. They'd given Quinn's father a dream job, after all, with a charming cottage for him and his son to live in, good benefits, and frequent raises. Frank Leary himself had once told Olivia that her mother was the best employer he'd ever had.
To be fair, it was also true that the man was a wizard as a groundskeeper: The extensive grounds on the Bennett estate were the envy of the county and had been photographed for House and Garden a few months before Frank Leary and his son took off in the night. Naturally the HG piece never went to press—one more reason, Olivia supposed, for her father to resent them.
Him.
Damn.
They were going to have to relive the murder all again—the discovery, the shock, the publicity, the depressing realization that Alison would never be a bridesmaid at Olivia's wedding and that Olivia would never be a bridesmaid at her cousin's.
She remembered a Saturday in her junior year when Alison's father was out of town and Olivia's mother had taken Alison and her to New York on a clandestine shopping spree. Olivia had prepared for the day by reading a book on dressing for success, and then had headed straight for the racks of career clothing. Alison, on the other hand, had gravitated toward more feminine, sexier things: V necks that dipped low, and tops with front zippers.
"You'll never get a job wearing something like that," Olivia had chided. She had been young and stupid then; what did she know?
"I don't want a job,". Alison had answered. "I want a husband. I want to get out of my house and away from my father. He won't let me go away to a four-year college; I'm going to have to commute to ECCC. No thanks. You pick your clothes, Livvy, and I'll pick mine."
When they found Alison at the quarry she was wearing one of those V-necked sweaters that she so preferred. She had put on weight because of the pregnancy: Her breasts were fuller than ever.
Olivia sighed, then flipped the card that hung by a silken cord in the door window to its closed side. She turned down the lights in the shop and dimmed the recessed halogen lights that hovered over the window display. The holiday window was always her favorite of the year, and this December was no exception. She had draped elegant fabrics—bolts of taffeta, brocade, and tissue in glittering silver and gold—to flow like sparkling streams and tumbling waterfalls into pools of shimmery opulence on the floor of the display window. With the lights dimmed low, the effect was of a winter scene at twilight: pure magic, if only you paused long enough to take it all in.
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