Suspicious Origin

by MacDonald, Patricia

  “It will?” Zoe asked. “When?”

  “I don’t know exactly when,” said Britt. She was still fuming at Kayley’s father, but she figured she’d better not say anything negative about him to Zoe. “Look, honey, the less you talk about this whole business about your dad with Kayley the better, okay?”

  “We talk about everything,” Zoe insisted. “Besides, my father didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Zoe, that’s not the way other people see it,” Britt said.

  “That’s the way I see it,” Zoe said stubbornly. “And that’s the truth.”

  It’s just as you told Kayley’s father. She’s used to trusting Alec, Britt thought, suppressing the urge to chastise her. “You don’t know what the truth is,” said Britt.

  “I know more than you,” said Zoe.

  Britt stared through her windshield into the growing darkness and did not reply.

  At the house on Medford Road, Zoe disappeared up to her room while Britt managed to put together a simple dinner for them. She called up the stairs to Zoe, who descended obediently, and together they ate in silence. After a mumbled request to be excused, Zoe bussed her dishes and then headed back upstairs toward her room. Britt followed her out into the hallway.

  “What are you doing?” she called after her.

  ‘“Working on Vicki’s present,” said Zoe, without any rancor in her voice.

  ‘“What present is that?” she asked.

  “I’m knitting her a scarf,” said Zoe.

  “I didn’t know you could knit,” said Britt.

  Zoe nodded. “It started out to be a baby blanket but then I changed my mind ’cause she’s not keeping the baby.”

  “That’s true. A scarf is a good idea.”

  Britt sighed, relieved at the apparent truce between her and Zoe and returned to the kitchen to finish cleaning up. When she was done, she went out into the living room and looked around. God, I hate this place, she thought. What a mess. The trash bags that Alec had begun to fill lay discarded in the middle of the rug. She began to try to tidy up, sorting through the remaining boxes, and hauling the bags down the hall to a tiny utility room behind the kitchen. At least there will be one room you can sit in, she thought. She was returning to the living room for the last bag when there was a knock at the door.

  Frowning, Britt thought about how grimy and disheveled she was, and then reminded herself that it didn’t matter. There was nobody around here she was trying to impress. She opened the front door and saw Dean Webster, his blond hair glinting under the porch light, a bottle of champagne tucked under the arm of his unzipped parka. He leaned against the door frame and smiled boyishly.

  The sight of him made her blush, remembering how she had clung to him the night of the fire. How he had pulled her up against him inside his coat. “Hi,” she said shyly.

  Dean grinned, and gazed at her bandaged hands. “You’re looking a little better,” he said.

  Britt sighed. “I was kind of freaked out the other night.”

  “That’s all right,” Dean drawled. “You don’t need any excuse to want to wrap your arms around me.”

  Britt shook her head and smiled. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she said. But she found his arrogance kind of amusing. And she couldn’t help remembering, even though she’d been coughing, and her hands were experiencing a searing pain, how his body felt when she was pressed up against him.

  “I just thought you might want to celebrate,” he said.

  Britt glanced up the stairs and then pushed her hair back off her forehead. “Celebrate?” she asked. “What’s to celebrate?”

  “Hey, we got our man,” he said cheerfully. “He’s right where you wanted him.”

  “Keep your voice down,” she said. “My niece is upstairs.”

  He dangled the bottle by its neck. “Don’t tell me you don’t like champagne.”

  Britt sighed. “I guess I could use some company,” she admitted. “Come on in.” She turned to lead the way into the living room.

  Dean started to slide by her in the doorway and then stopped, when they were face to face. He gazed down at her. His smooth young face had been tanned and creased by the sun and there was a wolfish gleam in his eye. Britt felt both uncomfortable at how close he was standing and how tempted she was to get even closer. Oh no, she thought. Don’t encourage him. He doesn’t need much encouragement. She started to edge away from him. His lips were close to her face, and she could smell alcohol on his breath.

  “I see you started without me,” she said wryly.

  He peered at her as if he had no idea of what she meant. “What?”

  Britt shook her head. Don’t be such a prude, she told herself. He’s a young guy who likes to have a drink. No big deal. “Have a seat,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

  She walked to the kitchen, stopping to glance critically at herself in the hall mirror, and then rummaged through the cabinets until she found a couple of dusty wineglasses. She carried them down the hall to the living room.

  Dean, who was splayed out on the couch, looked up as she came in. Uneasily aware of his appraising glance, Britt set the glasses down on the coffee table. She was glad she had picked up the room a little. “There,” she said. “You do the honors.”

  Dean wadded up the foil and then frowned as he untwisted the wire around the neck. He grimaced, and held the bottle away from him trying to displace the cork. When it didn’t come out, he placed the bottle unsteadily between his knees. Britt watched him and wondered just how much he had already had to drink. He seemed to be having a very difficult time with the task.

  Dean looked up at her suspiciously. “What are you looking at?” he said.

  “Nothing,” she said quickly. “I hate opening champagne.”

  “Nothing to it,” he said, trying to tug the cork out. The bottle slipped out from between his knees and tumbled to the floor. “Oh shit,” he said.

  “No harm done,” said Britt. “It landed on the rug. Maybe I can get it,” said Britt. “Do you want me to try?”

  He picked up the bottle and scowled at her. “Back off,” he said. “I can do it.”

  Suddenly Britt had the familiar sinking feeling she had known on any number of bad dates. This was a mistake. She felt grateful to him for his help, and she was certainly lonely here, but not that lonely. Maybe she was too picky, but she didn’t like sloppy drinkers. She’d crossed that category off her list a long time ago.

  “Never mind,” she said. “I’m not thirsty.”

  “Oh, come on now,” he said, patting the seat beside him. “I’ll get it open. Just keep your panties on.”

  “I mean it, Dean. Forget the champagne. I don’t want any.”

  “You’re not even going to sit down?”

  Britt sat, but at a distance.

  “So,” he said. “If we don’t open the champagne, how we gonna toast to success?”

  “What do you mean, success?”

  “I told you I’d get him for you.”

  “You might be exaggerating your importance just a little bit,” she said.

  “And you could show a little gratitude,” he snapped.

  “And you could show a little self-restraint. I told you to be quiet. My niece might hear you.”

  “Are you telling me she doesn’t know about it?” he asked.

  “She knows,” said Britt grimly. “I just don’t want to upset her.”

  “Hey, she better get used to it,” said Dean. “Daddy’s headed for the Big House.”

  Britt nodded, chewing the inside of her mouth.

  “You don’t look too happy about it,” Dean observed. “What does it take to make you happy?”

  “Believe me. I’m not feeling very happy,” she said.

  Dean nodded, and tried to look solemn. But a smile broke through. “Still, you have to admit. We’re a good team, aren’t we?”

  Britt looked at him narrowly. “Now we’re a team?’ she said skeptically.

  “We could be,�
� he said in a teasing tone, leaning toward her on the couch. “If you were to give me a few introductions in the right places.”

  “Ahh,” she said. “Of course. I almost forgot. The price tag.”

  “Are you saying you won’t do it?” he demanded.

  “Oh no. I’ll do it.”

  “All right,” he said, clenching his fist and pumping the air.

  ‘When I get back to Boston,” she said.

  “What do you mean? What’s keeping you?” he asked.

  Britt inclined her head toward the staircase. “I’m staying here with Zoe.”

  Dean sat up straight on the couch. “Here, in Coleville? For how long?”

  “For as long as I need to,” she said.

  “What about the network? And Donovan Smith?”

  “Well, I’m hoping my job will still be there when I get back.”

  “Hoping?” he said.

  “Don’t worry. I can still give you references.”

  “They won’t be much good to me if you’re out of work,” he said sarcastically.

  “Look, Dean, I know a lot of people…”

  “Yeah, and you’re gonna be asking them to give you a job,” he complained. “Never mind about me.”

  Britt felt suddenly weary of his presumptions. “Look. I’m sure you’re good at what you do. But, I don’t owe you anything, Dean. It’s not as if you’ve actually done anything for me. You dug up information. You did your job. The police would have gotten the same information sooner or later.”

  Dean’s face reddened. “That is such a lie. I spoon-fed them that information.”

  “Maybe you did,” said Britt impatiently. “That doesn’t mean you’re ready for prime time, my friend. I’m not saying I won’t introduce you around. But I have to tell you. You seem to be a little overly fond of the cocktails. You have to control that stuff in the big leagues, you know.”

  “Oh, I get it,” he said. “You got what you wanted and now you’re going to get high and mighty and give me advice. Treat me like a kid. I hate it when women are in charge. That’s what they do. They have to lord it over you. I’ve got the power and you don’t. Never mind that I put my butt on the line to help you. Never mind that that little fire put it right over the top for you…”

  Britt’s head jerked up and she stared at him. “What are you talking about?” she said. “What little fire?”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Dean’s expression was surly. “What’s your problem?”

  Britt stared at him. “What little fire?” she repeated. “Let me think,” he said sarcastically. “What could he possibly mean by that? Don’t play dumb.”

  “I asked you a question,” said Britt. “Are you referring to the little fire at the Bayberry cottage?”

  “What about it?” he said.

  “You said that I got what I wanted…” she said slowly.

  “That’s right,” he said in a defiant tone. Then he shook his head. “And now you’re not gonna help me, are you? You’re going to pretend you didn’t promise me anything. I can’t believe you,” he said. “I can’t believe what a waste of time you’ve turned out to be.”

  Britt’s heart was beating fast. “You set the fire? Why?”

  Dean scowled at her. “Look Britt, I’ve been trying to help you,” he reminded her. “You wanted Alec Lynch arrested. The cops were dragging their feet. You said everything was moving too slow You were threatening to go back to Boston.”

  Britt stared at him in amazement. “So you decided to move things along by setting fire to the place where I was staying?”

  Dean stood up unsteadily. “Oh, stop making it sound like it was a big deal. You wanted me to do it. You told me how Alec came to Bay-berry House and made threats against you. You complained about the investigation and how it wasn’t getting anywhere. You practically asked me to do it, and now you’re all righteous.” He made a face of outraged respectability. “Oh Dean, how could you? Come off it. It was no big deal. Nobody got hurt,” he said.

  “Nobody got hurt? How can you say that? Never mind these,” she said, waving her bandaged hands, “or the fact that all those volunteer firefighters risked their own safety. Don’t you care that Alec Lynch could be paying for your crime?”

  Dean walked to the front door and pulled it open, with Britt trailing him. He opened the door and a blast of cold air hit the two of them. “Oh, you’re defending him now? Excuse me. Isn’t this the guy who killed your sister?” Dean asked. “Or did you forget about that?”

  “Aunt Britt?”

  Britt looked up the staircase and saw Zoe, leaning over, clutching her brightly colored knitting in one hand.

  “I heard weird noises.”

  Dean looked up at Zoe and smiled. “Hi, sweetie,” he said.

  Oh no you don’t, Britt thought. “Don’t talk to her. Get out of this house,” she said. Then she lowered her voice and said, “I’m going to call the police.”

  Dean inhaled a deep breath of the frigid night air and it seemed to steady him. “And tell them what? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t say anything. Your imagination is running away with you,” he said.

  Britt shook her head. “You’re going to get into big trouble.”

  Dean lifted up Britt’s chin with one finger and gazed at her lips as if he were about to kiss her. Before Britt could jerk her face away from him he said, “No wonder you never got on camera.”

  “You’re drunk. Give me your keys,” said Britt.

  “You know something? I’ll tell you a secret. All this time, you thought I was interested in you. I wasn’t interested in you. I wanted to get to Boston because there’s someone there… I was just playing you…”

  “The keys, Dean.”

  He dangled the keys in front of her face and then snatched them back when Britt reached for them. “I’ll get to Boston on my own steam. I don’t need you.”

  “I’m calling the cops,” Britt warned him.

  “See which one of us they’ll listen to,” he said. He walked down the steps and away from her without a backward glance.

  Zoe, who was still watching from above, said, “Is that the guy on the news?”

  Britt took a deep breath, slammed the door and locked it. “Yeah,” she said.

  “What was the matter with him?”

  “He had too much to drink,” said Britt.

  Zoe nodded, as if this was something she could understand. “What was he doing here? Is this about my dad?”

  “No. Nothing about that.” She held up a hand. “Let me just…” She walked down the hall to the phone, and dialed the police.

  “Yes,” said the sergeant who answered.

  “A man just left my house. I’m afraid he’s…intoxicated. And he wouldn’t give me the keys to his car.”

  “Can you describe the car and tell me where you’re located ma’am,” said the sergeant. As Britt gave the information, her mind was racing. Should she start to explain to this sergeant about Alec and Dean and the fire at Bayberry House? She went over the conversation in her mind, trying to remember if he had actually admitted to it. Maybe this was something she needed to discuss first with Kevin Carmichael. It wasn’t as if this information would exonerate Alec Lynch in Greta’s death.

  “All right, ma’am,” said the sergeant. “We’ll keep an eye out for him.”

  “Thank you,” said Britt.

  She hung up the phone and turned around. Zoe was standing in the doorway, watching her. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing, nothing. How are you coming on your scarf?” Britt asked, wanting to avoid the subject of her phone call.

  Zoe looked at the wad of yarn in her hands. “I’m almost done,” she said.

  “Let me see,” said Britt.

  Zoe handed the knitting to her aunt.

  “Let me look at it in the living room.” Britt walked into the living room and sat down on the sofa, switching on a lamp to have a better look. The champagne bottle had rolled onto the f
loor. Britt shuddered at the thought of the ugly scene. She could not help wondering if what he had said was true. Did she, unwittingly, encourage him to set that fire? To cement the case against Alec Lynch. No, that was crazy. The idea never crossed my mind, she thought. She examined the knitting under the light. Her hands were trembling a little bit as she held it up. “How did you get all those colors in it?” she asked.

  “The yarn came that way, see?” said Zoe, showing her the brightly variegated skein of turquoise, orange, yellow, white and green.

  “That’s great,” said Britt.

  Zoe cocked her head and examined the knitting. “I lost the first one in the fire. Frances at the Knit Kit replaced the wool for free.”

  “That was nice,” Britt murmured.

  “Since it started out as a baby blanket I thought these colors would be good for a boy or a girl,” she said. “But now it’s a scarf.”

  “And it will look great on Vicki. I’m sure she’ll really appreciate it.”

  Zoe sighed. “I still have a lot to do though.”

  “You want me to read aloud for a while and you can knit down here?”

  Zoe looked at her shyly. “Yeah. That would be fun.”

  “Okay,” said Britt, “where did I leave that book?”

  “Over there,” said Zoe. “By the chair. I’ll get it.”

  Britt watched as the girl hunted through a pile of books and came up with Little Women. “All right, great,” she said.

  Zoe brought the book over and flopped down on the sofa beside her. Britt could feel the warmth of her arm through the sleeve of her shirt, and she could smell the sweet scent of her hair. Zoe began to arrange the yarn and her knitting on her lap.

  “Tomorrow,” said Zoe, “I’m going to tell dad about my plan.”

  Britt frowned. “What’s your plan?”

  “I’m going to get my Girl Scout troop to have a bake sale for him. For his defense fund.”

  “Defense fund?” Britt said sharply.

  “That’s what you have to do,” Zoe explained. “Mr. Carmichael told me about it. When he drove me back from the jail, I asked him what I could do to help my dad and he said that it would take a lot of money and you have to have a defense fund.”