He looked at his watch. Three more hours. Three more hours before they discovered whether there were answers to a fifty-year-old mystery. An ugly mystery. A tragic mystery that could have tragic consequences.
Jessie seemed to notice his discomfort. “I’ll show you around a bit more,” she said. Then turned to Sol. “Will you be there this afternoon?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” he said.
She nodded. “Be careful. I think we were followed.”
“Rob will be here with me,” he said, “and he’ll tend the shop this afternoon.”
She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you for everything,” she said.
Sol had at least thirty years on Jessie, but Ross still felt a knot of jealousy bunch in his gut. He knew it was as much for her life here as it was the man himself. Then he harnessed it as he’d harnessed such feelings in the past, fencing them in someplace where they couldn’t hurt. Much.
Ames Fuller’s studio was in the basement of a large, rambling Victorian house in an old residential section of Atlanta. The street was full of restored homes with stained-glass windows and elaborate gingerbread trim. She realized immediately, however, that Ames’s home was protected by a state-of-the-art security system. A high, ornate wrought-iron fence surrounded the house, and the gate featured an intercom. Only a buzzer would admit a visitor.
She knew why. Ames had a priceless collection of old books and he often sold them from his home.
Jessie was sure they had lost anyone who might have tried to follow them. Ross had driven this time, twisting and turning, shooting through yellow lights. With her directions, he’d even circled through the nearby zoo’s labyrinthine roads, emerging out of one of its seldom-used service roads. But she took one last look around. No dark sedan.
She pressed the button, identified herself, and was buzzed in. Someone could probably climb the fence, but the windows had the kind of wrought-iron work that substituted for iron bars.
Jessie felt her heart pound as she was admitted by Ames, who had a satisfied smile on his face. Sol was already there. He looked worried.
“I found what you were looking for,” Ames said. “Come with me.”
He led the way downstairs to a room flooded with powerful recessed lighting. One wall was lined with bookcases made of some kind of metal and protected by thick glass cases. Inside were leather-bound volumes.
A worktable sat in the center of the room, a stool in front of it. She saw her book there. It was open at the back, a piece of parchment-type paper next to it, along with the back inside cover page of the book.
Ames picked up the thin parchment. “I found this under the cover,” he said. “It’s so thin no one would notice it unless they had reason to look.” He paused. “It had your name on it, so I didn’t read it.”
A kind of dread, an inevitability, filled her. She wasn’t sure now that she wanted answers. She looked at Ross. His face was tense.
She picked up the letter. The ink was fading, but she recognized her father’s scrawl. She had to strain to read it. He’d never been good at penmanship. A lump settled in her throat as she remembered how difficult it had often been to decipher his writing.
Jessica,
I don’t know whether you will find this letter. Part of me wishes you will. Another … well, you’ll understand when I finish.
I had hoped you would never need to sell this book. Since you’ve found this letter, I suppose you did. Only a dealer would notice the back cover. And so I am, finally, leaving you a legacy.
It is a mixed one, for at last you will know your true roots and the events that led me to abandon them. Please do not judge me harshly.
Your real name is Clements. I was one of six children born to Hall and Mary Louise Clements in the Sedona area of Arizona. I helped manage the family ranch until 1950, when I discovered that one of my brothers, Heath, had stolen family money and planned to leave Arizona with my wife. I won’t justify what happened next. I found them in our family’s cabin. I had a rifle with me, and I threatened to use it. He tried to take it. It went off, and the bullet hit him in the heart. Lori, my wife, attacked me, accused me of murder. I pushed her away. She fell and hit her head on the stone fireplace. She was unconscious when I left, but I knew she would go to the police. I couldn’t think of anything but running.
One of the two people I loved most was dead; the other hated me. I feared the family’s reaction, the humiliation and scandal I had brought to them. To be honest, I also feared the law. I couldn’t bear the thought of a cage.
My brother had used the stolen money to buy bearer bonds—and a partnership—in a new company. Before he died, Heath told me he’d hidden the bonds and that the location could be found in the primer. When I left the cabin, I picked up his briefcase on the way out, knowing I would need money and suspecting he had some of the stolen money with him. Instead, I found the book.
The bonds had no value then, and I discounted the possibility that they would ever have any. Then several years ago I happened to hear someone mention the name of the company and I realized it had succeeded beyond anyone’s dreams. I’ve been following its progress ever since, and I expect those bonds are now worth a great deal of money.
I discovered the location of the bonds on the inside of the back cover. They are buried under the hearth of the fireplace in the family cabin at Oak Creek. There is a loose stone there, a cache where Heath and his twin and I used to hide treasures.
I wish I’d had the courage to tell you earlier, but I could never force myself to reveal the truth about your father, to see even more disappointment in your eyes. I allowed the days to go by. And now, coward that I am, that I have always been, I know I’ll never have the words …
Perhaps some day you will find this letter and return to the family what belongs to them. I know Heath meant them to have the money.
I leave it to you to redeem both of us.
And forgive me.
Always remember, I loved you.
Jon Clayton (Harding Clements)
April 1988
Jessie stared at the date. It was the month she’d turned sixteen. He must have written it before he’d given it to her on her birthday. The line on the page blurred from the sudden moisture in her eyes. Then she read it again. One of the two people I loved most was dead; the other hated me.
But Lori died that day. Had her father been mistaken? And he said nothing about a fire. If his brother had died of a rifle bullet, then wouldn’t a coroner have discovered it, and called it by an ugly name? Murder?
Her father wasn’t very old then. A little younger than she was now. She couldn’t even imagine what had gone through his mind that day. The panic. Fear. Grief. Betrayal.
She felt that grief now. She wished she’d known. Maybe she could have done something …
“Jess?” Ross’s voice. She felt the concern in it.
Wordlessly, she handed it to him.
She watched his face as he read it. No surprise there. Her heart sank precipitously. She wanted surprise. Shock.
It would have been there if he’d not already known at least a good part of the story. But there was none. He’d known about her father. He’d known that he had killed his brother. He’d known that Harding had left his wife alive.
She struggled for an explanation. Perhaps her father had been wrong. Perhaps Lori had died from the fall. But then what of the fire? Surely since her father was confessing murder, he would have confessed to it all.
Not my secret to tell. Ross’s words.
Yet it was the key to much that had happened. It had to be. Betrayal ate at her. She almost doubled up with the pain of it. Ross had known she suspected that her father could have murdered both his brother and wife. Instead, it had been an accident, and he’d left his wife alive. And Ross knew.
What else did he know?
Bile rose in her throat and she fought to keep it down, to maintain her composure, to do what had to be done, to accomplish what her fath
er had wanted.
She turned away from him, freezing him with the icy shock she herself felt. She took the letter from him and passed it to Sol. She had no secrets from him, and he was involved now since the store had been burglarized.
When he finished, his eyes flickered from her to Ross and back again. His lips thinned and she knew he’d picked up on her feelings. “Is there anything I can do?” he asked gently.
She shook her head and took back the letter. She stared at it blindly, fighting to keep tears at bay.
She turned to Ames, who was watching curiously. “Can you make a copy of this?”
He nodded. He took the fragile sheet of paper and disappeared, returning shortly with the original and copy.
She put the original in the book and handed it to him. “The bank is closed. Will you keep the book for me for a few days?”
“Of course,” he said. “I’ll put it in my vault.”
She reached out her hand, hoping it wasn’t trembling. “Thank you. You’ve been extraordinarily kind.”
“It’s been a pleasure. But in return, I ask that you tell me the ending of this story.”
“I will,” she promised. Then she gave Sol a hug. He clasped her tight, and she knew he sensed her tumultuous feelings. The grief for her father. For his regret. His lost years. Then the anger. The sense of betrayal. Betrayal from all of them. All of her so-called family who’d kept so much from her. Even Ross. She’d given him all her trust. He’d given her none.
She carefully folded up the letter. She would reread it. Again and again.
She didn’t look at Ross. She wanted to be alone, to grieve by herself for a man she’d never really known.
But she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t leave him in the middle of a city he didn’t know. Instead, she put the folded paper into the pockets of her slacks. She wanted it on her. Then she nodded to the men and walked toward the door. Ross fell in next to her, matching stride for stride. But she didn’t want to look at him. She didn’t want him to see how wounded she was.
“Would you like me to drive?” he asked at the car.
“No,” she said shortly.
She did look at him then. His dark eyes were steady. His mouth was grim. A muscle flexed in his cheek. That was always the only sign that he felt anything. But he didn’t say anything more. No excuse. No explanation. Did he even know what he had given away by his silence?
She didn’t know. She only knew there was one more person she could no longer trust.
twenty-seven
Ross didn’t say anything on the way back to her house. He knew what he’d just lost in those few seconds. He knew he’d lost the trust, the closeness that had developed between them. He’d seen comprehension dawn in her eyes when he’d stopped reading the letter.
And he had no defense. He couldn’t say why he’d withheld information she’d wanted so badly, because then he would be betraying someone else. He’d thought his heart immune to wreckage. It wasn’t. He consoled himself with the fact that he hadn’t been tossed out on the street. At least, she realized he wouldn’t harm her in any physical way.
He turned slightly and watched her. He also occasionally glanced backward. No dark sedan. They’d definitely thrown whoever had been following them. If they had been followed.
He looked at her, at her set face, the chin jutting forward in that determined way of hers. She wouldn’t look at him, and when she did her eyes were like ice. He’d not seen that side of her before. It was formidable. It said, “Don’t touch, don’t approach.”
He had no idea how to do either. He accepted that she wanted him to leave her alone, just as he accepted that he could not. She was probably in more danger than ever. If whoever wanted those bonds knew she had the information leading to them, she would be a prime target. Damn it all to hell.
They arrived at her cottage at close to seven. Atlanta traffic had consumed nearly an hour and a half. He didn’t know how she tolerated it, the traffic and the smog that hovered over the city. He already longed for the clean skies of northern Arizona.
They got out of the car. The air was muggy and hot. Great bulbous clouds filled the sky, and he smelled the coming rain. The denseness of the air seemed to heighten the aroma of the garden, spreading the sweet scent of magnolia and lilies and other flowers he didn’t recognize.
The garden was visible evidence of her affection for the house, for this place she’d made her own. He hated the way she hesitated at the door, as if her one haven had been irretrievably spoiled. He saw her glance apprehensively up and down the street.
Nothing. No suspicious cars. No suspicious people.
Ross took the house key from her and motioned for her to let him go in first. He checked all the rooms. Nothing seemed disturbed. He appreciated the fact that she didn’t ask if such precautions were necessary. She’d simply accepted that they were. Nor did she quarrel with his self-appointed role of protector. She didn’t seem to notice him at all, in fact. She had tuned him out as completely as he’d done to others.
When he’d satisfied himself that everything was as they had left it, he joined her in the living room. “What do you plan to do now?”
She looked at him with cool eyes. That hurt more than angry ones would. “What do you think I should do?”
He stilled. There was a coldness about the question. Even an accusation.
He knew what he wanted her to do. Burn the goddamn book and the letter. The Clementses didn’t need an opening of an investigation of a murder—murders—fifty years earlier. There was no statute of limitations on murder.
“Whatever you think should be done,” he finally said. “It’s your call.”
“It’s my father’s call. He wanted the money returned.”
“All right. How do you want to start? Go to the police?”
She looked up at him. “You don’t want that, do you?” Her eyes had narrowed.
“It’s the safest way to handle it.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“No,” he said flatly.
“No, you didn’t answer my question, or no, you don’t want me to go to the police?”
He shrugged. “No, I’m not going to answer that question.”
“Because of Sarah?”
He turned away.
She persisted. “She was involved in some way, wasn’t she?”
“Only in making sure the family … wasn’t hurt,” he finally said. Part of the truth.
“What do you mean?”
“She used her … the family’s influence to convince the authorities that autopsies weren’t necessary. She’d known what had happened when she found Heath’s note and Harding disappeared. She suspected they would find murder if they looked. Her favorite brother would be hunted like an animal.”
“That was all?”
“The facts can still destroy the family,” he said, realizing how weak the argument sounded.
“Did she—did you—think I would run to the police with a fifty-year-old crime my father committed?” She was outraged. And hurt that she hadn’t been trusted.
“She didn’t want you to know, either,” he said. “She was still trying to protect your father. I swore to her years ago I would never say anything.”
“My father said Lori was still alive when he left her.”
He shrugged. “He was frantic, Jess. He may not have realized how badly he’d hurt her.”
“And the fire? Was that just convenient?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps a spark from a gun. There were fires all over that summer, and authorities assumed one trapped Lori and Heath. A fire crew found the bodies.”
“And Sarah’s role in all this?”
“She suspected what had happened, and she diverted the attention of the police. She told them that Harding had left on a business trip. When she reached him by phone and when he heard about his brother and wife, he said he needed to get away.”
“Then my father killed two people,” she sa
id, her voice breaking slightly.
He wanted to take her in his arms, but he couldn’t. Not now. He wasn’t that much of a bastard.
Her eyes seemed to stare through him. She wasn’t accepting everything he said. But neither was she rejecting it.
“I want to finish this,” she said. “But I don’t want to destroy everyone in doing so. If we just get the bonds and give them to the family, then … all this should stop.”
“But then you’ll never know who tried to run you off the road.” Ross was acting the devil’s advocate now, arguing first one side, then another. He wanted her to be sure, to have no doubts. Or as few as possible. Damn it, she had a way of turning him into knots.
“Do you think I’ll really find that out if I go to the police?”
He doubted it. He shrugged. “It’s up to you.”
“I don’t,” she said, then went to the phone. “I think we should go to Sedona tomorrow and see if the bonds are still there.”
He liked that “we.” He nodded, taking the phone from her hands. God only knew how much she’d already spent in plane fares. This was one time the ranch could pay. She had, after all, saved it. He made the reservations, however, for Las Vegas. “We’ll rent a car there,” he said. “If we disappear from here, someone might watch the Phoenix airport.”
She listened as he made all the arrangements, using the ranch credit card, but her face seemed frozen. She looked as if she would break into a thousand pieces if she allowed her emotions off a very tight leash. And yet she had still thought of the Clementses first. He was baffled at that.
“Would you like a drink?” she asked when he hung up the receiver.
He shook his head. “Would you like dinner?”
“No,” she said. “I’m not hungry. I’m going to bed. Make yourself at home. Help yourself to anything.”
Anything but her. The words were unsaid but he felt them. She disappeared down the hall, but he knew he would always remember the way her lips trembled. The break in her voice. Everyone in her life had let her down.
Including him. Perhaps especially him.
Perfect Family Page 35