by Tanya Holmes
He’d combed his wavy silver-blonde hair back, taming it with pomade. Narrow-faced and clean-shaven, he wore his usual evening garb: navy blue satin PJs and a matching smoking jacket. He took a seat on the leather sofa across from me. “Is this ‘talk’ the reason you were quiet at dinner as well?”
Quiet? Try angry. Try anxious—and betrayed. “Did Auntie know about Mother’s obsession with you?”
He registered momentary surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
“I visited Valene Campbell, Cheltenham Manor’s old cook. She said Mother was in love with you. Did Auntie know?”
His walls went up immediately.
I watched him weigh all the ‘what ifs,’ and ‘why nots.’ If he answered me, he’d be acknowledging something he wanted to avoid, but if he didn’t….
“I never told her,” he finally replied begrudgingly.
His admission left me temporarily speechless. “Why not?”
“I wanted to spare her feelings.”
“Did Mother tell her?”
“Of course not. Lilith was too much of a coward. Luckily your Aunt still believes that woman gave a damn about her.”
I kept my expression neutral. “Mrs. Campbell also said Uncle Jackson blackmailed her into keeping silent.”
Sears removed a crisp, white hanky from his breast pocket and slid his glasses off. He started cleaning them, his movements smooth. Arching a brow, he asked, “Was this visit in any way connected to your trip to Cheltenham Manor?”
I hadn’t seen that one coming. “How in the world—”
“Someone observed you leaving. With him.”
In times past, I’d have stumbled right into Uncle’s trap. He and Auntie would put me on the defensive. They’d ram the same nauseating twaddle about appearances down my throat. Then I’d give the appropriate contrite response. They’d trained me better than Pavlov trained his dogs.
I met his accusing stare. “What went on between Mother and you? Have you ever left calla lilies at her grave?”
He shoved his glasses back on. Scowling, he tossed the hanky, then pushed off the sofa and started pacing.
Ah, yes, Uncle was definitely rattled.
“I’m seeing a hypnotist,” I announced, feeling rather smug and liking it. “I’ve already had two consultations with him. Next time, he’s going to try and put me under, but before he does, is there anything you’d like to tell me?”
Tension sharpened his features as he ran a hand up and down his left arm. “I don’t know what has gotten into you, but some things are best left alone.”
His abrupt change in temperament intrigued me. I eased myself up. Studying him like a painting that had just been unveiled, I stepped closer. “Trace is innocent. He tried to help me, but you know that already, don’t you?”
“I know no such thing,” he countered. “And his motives for helping you now aren’t as altruistic as you think.”
“Spare me.” I propped my fists on my hips. “FYI, Uncle, I saw him give Mother mouth-to-mouth. Why would a spade-wielding Bluebeard do that?”
“Remorse. Guilt. How should I know?” Still massaging his arm, he glared at me. He was becoming more agitated by the second. “Whatever you think you remember didn’t happen. It’s just something your mind cooked up. Lilith ended their affair, fired him, and so he killed her.”
I shook my head. “You’re actually starting to believe your own lies.”
He tore away to the mini bar, splashed a few fingers of brandy into a snifter. After draining it, he slammed the stem down and rounded on me. “Don’t you find it strange no one else got murdered after they threw that scoundrel in jail?”
“First you said it was a crime of passion, now you’re trying to make him into a serial killer? Which is it, Uncle? Lizzie Borden or Ted Bundy?”
“Both,” he said with a haughty lift of a brow.
As I considered his defiant eyes, my body pulsed with determination. “You know something? I’ll get the truth. Even if I have to drive to Roanoke and camp outside Uncle Jackson’s house.” Folding my arms, I invaded his personal space with deliberate ease. I wanted him as uncomfortable as possible. “Admit it. I saw something the morning Mother died.” When his face blanched, I smiled. “Never mind. I have my answer.”
“I swear, if you continue with this, I’ll….”
“You’ll what?”
At that exact moment, the massive double doors burst open. They hit the walls with a raucous thump. Auntie stormed in. The silky train of her white geisha lounging pajamas fluttered behind her.
She looked from Uncle to me. “What in God’s name is going on in here?”
“Ask him,” I said as I slammed out of the room.
SHANNON
____________________________
“Give me the benefit of the doubt for once,” I hissed into my office phone. “I’m telling you they’re all lying.”
“No, you think they’re lying,” Darien amended. “Look, you asked about hypnosis from a legal perspective and I’m telling you, it’s a hard sell. Anyway, there’s no reason to let some quack go poking around in your head.”
“I’ll never know what happened otherwise.”
“You solved the letter mystery. Why isn’t that enough?”
My pulse pounded. “This isn’t about the letter!”
“Since when? For weeks, you’ve been going on about some grand conspiracy. You tell me Patrick O’Dell forged your name, but you refuse to press charges. Why? Because you’re hell-bent on proving your family’s involved in a murder cover-up. Can’t you see how insane this sounds? Damn. Hold on. I’ve got another incoming.” The line clicked. “Darien Montgomery.”
This made the third interruption. Why the hell couldn’t he just ignore the calls? “It’s still me,” I ground out.
“Oh, sorry. I’ll be right back.”
When he switched over, I glowered at the lobby. My staff had mounted a laughable attempt to look otherwise occupied, but any idiot could see they’d been eavesdropping.
Moments ago, my discussion with Darien had lapsed into a heated debate. No doubt, my audience had overheard more than it should have.
“Sorry,” he said. “Now what do you know about this quack?”
Chair wheels creaked when I scooted forward. I didn’t mention Dr. Rosen’s name since Darien would recognize it from the research he’d done about Trace’s letter.
“The doctor isn’t a quack. He’s a board certified—”
“How long has he been in practice?” Darien’s voice boomed in my ear. “And what the hell happened to get you this worked up? You’ve been reading the transcripts again, haven’t you?”
“If what I suspect is true, they’re riddled with lies and distortions.” I rested my forehead on my palm. “The last thing I need is to cloud my brain with nonsense. Uncle Jackson was like a father to me and after he moved, the relationship stayed warm until I started asking questions.”
“I don’t doubt it. You’ve been calling him a liar.”
“Trace reported Mother to him. It was the night before the murder. Then later, Uncle Jackson said Trace’s claims were unfounded. Under oath. He said no one saw anything. He stuck to this lie even during Gartner’s cross!”
“This is old news. Jackson questioned everybody. Nobody corroborated Dawson’s crazy claims. Not his mother. Not even you.”
“Because they manipulated us all!”
“Do you hear yourself? This is crazy talk.”
I bolted up and started moving around like a caged animal. “Someone—either Uncle Sears, Uncle Jackson, or both—did something to me. I read my testimony. I couldn’t have been that convincing on my own. I was coached.”
Darien’s hard sigh made my eardrum vibrate. “Sears called me. He’s worried about you. He said you were with Dawson.”
I rolled my eyes. “Worried my ass….”
“So it’s true?”
“They’re all lying and you’re pointing fingers at me?”
“
Damn it, Shannon, you broke your promise!”
I jarred to a stop, raked my fingers through my hair, and whispered, “A promise I never should have made. My biggest mistake was in relying on you and everyone else.” I flopped into my chair. “Uncle tells you I’m crazy, and you believe it because you’ve got him on a pedestal. That’s what’s going on here. He says jump, and you—”
“Hey, I’m not the bad guy here. Neither is Sears.”
“That he might’ve killed Mother never crossed your mind?”
“More crazy talk,” he snapped. “Dawson was guilty—is guilty. You can rationalize this forever, but he brought it on himself when he picked up that garden spade.”
“Picked up is right. He found it in the driveway.”
“No. He claimed he found it in the driveway.”
“Just like Uncle Sears claims I wasn’t manipulated,” I slammed back. “You can’t have it both ways.”
Darien raised his voice. “What the hell are you talking about? He confessed!”
“No, he didn’t. He was bullied into a plea bargain.”
“You mean I bullied him, right?”
I shook my head in disbelief. “This isn’t even about him, is it? This is about you being wrong. Because if he didn’t do it, then you convicted an innocent man. God forbid the great Darien Montgomery, Esquire, should make a mistake.”
“I don’t deserve that. Especially not from you!”
I slapped my palm on the desk. “You weren’t there and neither were those jurors. I was. The boy I knew back then couldn’t have squashed a bug!”
My ears were burning. I looked up to find five sets of curious eyes on me. My staff had gathered around the water cooler. They’d spoken in hushed whispers, but upon discovery, they broke into exaggerated chatter.
I swiveled my chair around. “I have to go.”
Darien must have sensed the chasm between us had grown dangerously wide. “I don’t want us to part like this,” he said gently. “I need to know we’re okay.” He paused. “Are we?”
Shame doused my anger, but its source had changed. Now I felt guilty for the lie I was about to tell. “We’re fine.”
“Well, good.” He sounded relieved. “I wanted to surprise you, but I’m coming home early for Christmas. We’ve been apart so long, I fear you’ve forgotten what I look like.”
Clearly Uncle put him up to it. Home? Now? “But the trial—”
“Kate and the others have a good handle on things,” he said. “Honestly, I need a break—I need you, honey.”
I loved Darien—truly, fiercely, and deeply, but I wasn’t in love with him. Even worse, I feared my heart belonged to another, and maybe it always had.
Only problem was, I didn’t know whether I had the guts to follow it.
The office door chimed. I looked up to witness the Lovejoys pile in wearing the longest faces I’d ever seen. Ian nodded at Beatrice and led his wife to a seat. Something was wrong. Had I forgotten an appointment with them? I rifled through my day planner. No. They weren’t closing for another week.
“Ah, Darien, I need to go. I’ll call you later.”
As soon as I hung up, Beatrice’s voice exploded from the intercom. “The Lovejoys are here and there’s a Judy Mott from Dr. Rosen’s office on line 2. They had a cancellation and can fit you in tomorrow morning at 10:45. Is that good?”
“Yes, tell her I’ll take it.” I acknowledged the Lovejoys with a genial glance as I speed dialed Trace.
He answered on the first ring. “Hey, you.”
“Hey yourself.” His welcoming voice soothed my frayed nerves. “Dr. Rosen has an opening for me tomorrow morning. Are you free?”
“Yeah. Of course, but are you sure you’re ready for this?”
My heart fluttered. “No, but he thinks I am.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
No Rainbows
SHANNON
____________________________
Twelve years ago….
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Sheriff Jackson Gray murmured. His ragged brows arched above moss-colored eyes. “I just want to understand what happened. Your mother’s gone now, but I know she’d want you to tell the truth.”
I rocked back and forth in Auntie’s easy chair. My pulse raced. My heart pounded. So far, Uncle Jackson had spoken in a gentle voice, yet impatience lurked beneath the surface. It gave his tone an edge he couldn’t hide.
Five minutes ago, he’d stuck a needle in the back of my hand. It was attached to a tube that connected to an IV bag he’d hung on a pole beside my chair.
Overhead, a ceiling fan churned, the sound like one of those cartoon pterodactyls swooping in for its prey. Light speared from a brass floor lamp he’d set right next to me. It shone so bright, I had to squint to see.
“Shannon, honey?” he continued. “The day your mother died, why’d you stay home? This is official police business. You gotta tell the truth. Otherwise….”
“What?” I croaked.
“You’ll be leaving me no choice.”
Panic burned into me. “Will I go to jail?”
I had no reason to think otherwise. He’d done the same to Trace two weeks ago.
“Really, Jackson!” Auntie’s voice exploded from the rear. She was perched behind me, on the window seat next to Uncle Sears, and I imagined her standing ramrod stiff, with her tiny hands balled on her narrow hips. “This isn’t one of your prison camps, and she’s not a POW. She’s a child, damn you!”
“Shut up,” Uncle Sears hissed. “You know what’s at stake.”
Uncle Jackson smiled at me again, a smile that skirted his eyes. “Yes, honey. I’d have to take you in. Maybe even stick you in a cell. I don’t want to do that. Just tell me what I need to know, and everything’ll be fine. Okay?”
Clad in pink pajamas, I dragged my legs up tight against my chest.
“Now why did you stay home?”
In a muted whisper, I said, “It was volleyball day.”
“So?”
I don’t want to talk about this. Blessed Virgin please make him stop. “I…had to wear shorts.”
“You wanted to wear something else?”
My heart skipped. “Yes.”
“Why, Shannon?”
Please! “Because,” I muttered. “People would see.”
“See what?”
Help me! I’m begging you. I rested my chin against my thighs. “Ah…m-my skin. They’d see my skin.”
“What was wrong with it?”
Tears stung. There was no way out of this. “I h-had…bruises.”
Auntie gasped.
In a move that took a split-second, Uncle Jackson’s gaze dashed from me to her. He delivered a swift but silent rebuke, then looked at me again. “Where were these bruises?”
I sniffed and hugged my knees tighter, afraid if I let go, I’d fall apart. “On my legs. My arms. My back.”
“Did you tell anyone else about this?”
“N-no. Mother said the rainbows were our secret.”
His face paled. “Rainbows?”
I sniffed again. “My bruises—that’s…that’s what she made me call them. Something about G-god giving Noah a rainbow after the…the flood. She said that’s why Noah never forgot—because of the rainbow. So s-she told me that every time I looked at…at the colors, I should remember not to upset her.”
Auntie gasped again.
The sheriff’s throat worked. “Your Mother didn’t give you any bruises,” he said, clearly disturbed. “Do you hear me? You stayed home because you had a stomach ache, understand?”
I shook my head fitfully and my hair slapped my damp cheeks. My eyes were swollen from crying. “Can I please go back to bed?”
“That’ll be enough, Jackson!” Auntie stormed around and stood behind the sheriff. Uncle Sears followed. “Can’t you see she’s—”
The sheriff didn’t move, just flashed a beefy palm to silence her.
My gaze zigzagged from Auntie, whose face was soft with e
mpathy, to Uncle Sears, whose mouth was a grim slash, to Sheriff Gray, whose eyes had narrowed to slits. We’d been at this for more than an hour. I’d answered what seemed like a million questions. Now I wasn’t sure of anything.
I whimpered. “I’m so tired.”
“I won’t be a party to this.” Auntie burst into tears and fled down the hall. Her rapid footsteps echoed.
Uncle Sears moved away. He watched his wife’s retreat through hooded eyes and leaned against the wall. When he spoke, his voice was uncharacteristically warm and soothing. “Gumdrop? Were you upset when Trace got fired?”
I stopped mid-sob. The question took me aback. “Y-yes, of course.”
“When you get upset, what happens?” Uncle Sears asked.
Took me a second or so to think. “Um…I-I cry sometimes. Why?”
The sheriff sent him a nod of approval.
Uncle Sears stepped forward. His hands were clasped behind his back while he circled me, his pace slow and easy. I’d seen him do this at the courthouse. Mother had taken me once when I was five just to watch him work.
“Well, you cry when you get upset,” Uncle Sears remarked, his silver-blonde head tilted in thought. Like Father, he’d gone prematurely gray. “Don’t you feel sick sometimes too? I know when I get upset, all kinds of things happen. I’m nervous, and my stomach starts doing strange things.”
That surprised me. Nothing ever rattled Uncle. “Really?”
“Oh, yes. All the time.” He grinned, just like Father used to. They were twin brothers, after all. “I can’t sleep. I can’t eat—did you have breakfast that morning?”
“No,” I said feeling the first measure of calm.
“See? It was your stomach. Wasn’t it?”
“Um-yeah. I guesso.”
“And your Mother never gave you bruises, did she?”
I raised cautious eyes. “Yes.”
“No, she didn’t,” he said with a warm smile.
I started rocking. Oh, yes, she did.
In front of strangers, Lilith Bradford became “nice Mother,” but “mean Mother” always returned once “nice Mother’s” audience had gone.
That’s when “mean Mother” would yell at me, and correct me…and shake me…and beat me…with Father’s sterling silver walking stick.