by Julie Miller
Chapter Twelve
Had he been dreaming?
Brett’s first thought when he awoke alone in Ginny’s bed was that he had only imagined the incendiary passion of his cool blond detective. He knew she had been terrified by the break-in last night. Her instant burst of temper had clearly told him that.
He knew she was strong enough and smart enough to handle whatever threats the killer threw her way. But she shouldn’t have to handle them alone. He hadn’t been able to stand the thought of her being all alone.
And so he ignored her command and came back. Under the very real excuse of securing her apartment.
But then she invited him to stay.
He’d only had glimpses of the real Ginny. Passionate. Smart. Vulnerable. Caring. But last night, the crisp, cool, professional walls that she always tried to hide behind had crumbled into dust.
His body was sated, his mind heady with the memory of shy, sexy Ginny coming alive in his arms, destroying his own control.
He rolled over into the sunshine streaming through the window and caught a whiff of Ginny’s fresh, flowery smell lingering on the sheets.
He hadn’t been dreaming.
His smile stayed with him while he pulled on his jeans and freshened up in the bathroom. He went in search of coffee, found a half-empty pot in the kitchen and poured himself a cup. The main room and kitchen were spotless. And empty.
That was the first clue that his good mood would only be temporary. He got the second clue when he found Ginny, fully showered and dressed, working in her art room. She’d filled three garbage sacks with broken bits of frame and canvas. She was taping the back of a torn canvas when he entered.
“Good morning.” A safe enough way to start a conversation, he thought.
“When you found Mark Bishop at the Ludlow Arms, he was in the basement, right?”
Clue number three.
So she didn’t drop what she was doing and throw herself into his arms. He would have settled for a good morning instead of this topic.
Ginny propped the painting up on the easel and stood back to study it. Brett hooked one hand over the top of the easel and leaned in, forcing himself into her line of vision. “We need to talk about last night.”
“Zeke and Alvin were both found in the subbasement.” She sifted through her paintbrushes, but they’d all been matted or broken. She pulled a pencil from a drawer and came back to draw two X’s at the bottom of the painting.
Brett looked down at the oil painting beside him and immediately recognized the Ludlow Arms. “You did this?” he asked, impressed by the precision and energy in her work, though not particularly thrilled with the subject matter.
Instead of answering his question, she stood back and tapped her index finger against her bottom lip. Though he recognized the sign of deep thought, his body tightened with the memory of tasting that lip, and of the delightfully daring things that lip had done to him.
“There was an X on the fourth floor, but no body was found there. And the fifth X…what do the other two X’s mean?”
Finally, he stepped in front of the painting, forcing her to acknowledge him. “What are you talking about?”
She tipped her chin up, her blank eyes giving no indication that she had been affected by last night the way he had. “The blueprints I wanted to show you. I’ll have to pick them up at the station.”
She zipped past him to the door. “Sorry I don’t have any breakfast. I need to get to the office. Be sure to lock things up when you leave.”
He snagged her by the elbow, forcing her to turn and face him. “Ginny, last night—”
Her gaze dropped to his chest. Did she find it as diverting as she did last night? Or was she searching for the right lie to tell? “Last night was a wonderful experience. I’m glad you were here. I wasn’t as scared as I might have been. Thank you.”
“Thank you?”
Her hands flattened on his chest and pushed, a sure sign that this cool detachment was all an act. “Brett, I have work to do.”
“Just like that you shut off your personal life?” He called her on it. He set his coffee on the dresser and lifted her by the waist. Balanced between his hip and arm, he easily tipped her back and pulled her badge from its belt clip. He held the badge between them. “You don’t wear this thing twenty-four hours a day, angel.”
She snatched it from his fingers and twisted to free herself. He held on until she stilled. “What do you want from me?”
He buried his fingers in the soft curls beside her ear and tipped her face up, asking her to look at him and nothing else. “How about some honesty? How about that warm, real woman who knew how to laugh and love last night?”
“Put me down.” It was a plea, not a demand. Brett released her.
Ginny adjusted her blouse and clipped on her badge before saying another word. “When I was nineteen years old, I had an affair with one of my teachers in Paris. He swept me off my feet, made me forget everything but him and me being together. I thought I loved him.”
“Is this what you wanted to tell me yesterday? This is the experience you think can keep us apart?”
“Just let me talk. Please.”
Those cheeks that blushed so easily flamed with whatever emotion she was feeling. She’d come so far in giving in to those emotions since this engagement first started. But they still frightened her. He leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb, keeping her from running away, but allowing her the distance she needed to pace the room and tell her story.
“Jean-Pierre convinced me to meet him at his studio one night. Said that’s where he felt ‘inspired.’ He seduced me. Made wild, passionate love to me right on the dais where the models would sit when we painted portraits.”
Brett’s stomach twisted into knots. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. He didn’t want to hear about her wild passion with another man, but he suspected the worst of this story was yet to come.
“It was dark. Completely dark when we made love. We used touch and sound to find each other.”
“Is that why you’re afraid of the dark?”
She turned and offered him a weak smile. “It’s not the dark. It’s what lurks in the dark. The horrible things waiting in the dark to destroy you.”
“What happened?”
She hugged her arms around herself. Brett curled his toes into the floor to keep himself from going to her. “When we were done, the lights came on, blinding me. I heard applause.”
Brett swore. Once. Twice. He steeled himself for the rest of her confession.
“Jean-Pierre said I had that marvelous blush of new love, and that he wanted to paint me that way. That he wanted his students to paint me.”
He couldn’t take much more of this. He couldn’t stand the thought of his strong, sweet Ginny being used so callously. “Tell me you smashed his face and walked out of there.”
“I was in shock. Humiliated. Someone was snapping pictures. I wrapped myself in a sheet, grabbed my clothes and hid out in my apartment for a week.”
“Ginny…”
Now her anger started to kick in. But he could see it was mistakenly aimed at herself. “The same week, my sister planned to elope with Mark. She sent me three letters. She called me. But I didn’t read them, I didn’t answer her. I was so consumed with my own mistake that I ignored her—until it was too late.”
He went to her at last, catching her by the shoulders, shaking some sense into her. “It was his mistake. You were young.”
Her hands lighted on his chest but didn’t push him away. “I was stupid. Stupid to trust him. Stupid to feel sorry for myself. I can’t let my emotions get in the way of doing what’s right.”
“They aren’t mutually exclusive.”
Now her hands were clinging to him, desperate for him to understand. “I didn’t do my job. I will never make that mistake again.” Her fingers brushed a tremulous path down the center of his chest, petting him, soothing him, begging something from him. “I can’t love you, Br
ett. I can’t.” Tears pooled in her eyes when she looked up. “You deserve a woman who can.”
He let her go when she moved away. She’d put on a blazer and picked up her purse before he finally conquered enough of his anger to say something civil to her.
She was on her way out the front door before he stepped into the hallway and asked, “Does Jean-Pierre still live in Paris?”
“I don’t know.” She tucked a curl behind her ear. At least she could still feign sarcasm. “I didn’t keep in touch.”
He hoped the bastard had stayed on his own continent. If JP ever dared to cross the ocean, Brett swore he’d be a dead man.
He managed to set his anger aside for the moment. “I’ll pick you up tonight for the fund-raiser ball. Anyone who stayed at the Ludlow Arms and lived to tell about it has been invited. Maybe it’ll give you some ideas on what those X’s mean.”
“I don’t know if keeping up this engagement is a good idea anymore—”
“We’re still a team until these murders are solved.” He’d appeal to her sense of duty if he couldn’t reach her any other way. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”
She caught her lip on whatever protest she’d been ready to give and simply nodded.
When the door closed behind her, a bigger door closed on his heart. He’d failed once again.
Maybe it was better that he let her run away. He’d failed to make her understand that he loved her. He’d failed to keep her safe or find her sister’s killer. He’d failed to make Ginny understand that they could build a life together, brick by brick.
She knew how to love. She treated his friends in the neighborhood with respect and compassion. She fought for the truth. She made his father laugh and she stood by his side when he needed her most.
But because of this Jean-Pierre and the rotten timing of losing her sister, she’d lost her faith in those strengths. She’d lost her faith in every aspect of her life except her work.
She needed his love and patience and support, now more than ever.
He’d be damned if he’d fail her again.
GINNY PULLED the flashlight from the glove compartment of her car and climbed out to face off against her haunting adversary, the Ludlow Arms. Tall and imposing, the bright light of early afternoon did nothing to soften its unforgiving lines.
Brett’s demolition crew had parked their bulldozers and a giant crane in front. But the place was deserted. “Maybe the boss gave them the afternoon off for tonight’s party.”
As soon as she said it, she couldn’t help but form a mental picture of the boss. Tall and broad. Full of laughter and kindness. Powerful kisses and a sinfully deep voice that turned her staunchest resolve into putty.
She’d forgotten herself last night. She’d given in to needs and wants and led with her heart. Not the brightest move for a woman considered to be so smart. This morning she tried to explain to Brett why she could never truly be his woman.
How could she ever ask him to put up with her fears and doubts? She was just now learning to believe in a few friendships. Merle. Captain Taylor. John McBride. She could never ask Brett to be patient enough while she learned to believe in love again.
“Stop it, Rafferty.”
She’d tortured herself with this conversation a hundred times already today. It was time she did something useful. Like make an arrest on this case.
She hooked her purse over her shoulder and pulled out the sketch she had drawn from the blueprints. The X on the fourth floor marked the Bishop apartment, and could simply point out where Mark had first been beaten. Then he’d crawled down to his hiding place in the basement to meet Brett. But he died instead.
The fifth X was the mystery she couldn’t figure out. After studying the blueprints from every different direction, she decided to check the subbasement. She only prayed she didn’t discover another dead body.
Climbing up the steps and closing the front door behind her felt a lot like Jonah getting swallowed up by the whale. She tried to keep in mind that Jonah had been saved while she picked her way down the broken basement stairs and lowered the ladder through the trapdoor into the subbasement.
She turned on the flashlight when she reached the bottom and let her eyes adjust to the dim light. She pointed the beam and identified the first two locations from the blueprints. Alvin Bishop’s burial chamber and the base of the stairwell where Zeke had died.
Shining the light on her drawing, she aligned herself with the layout of the room and stepped off the approximate distance to that mysterious fifth X. She hit a brick wall first, but like that false wall that had buried Alvin alive, this one easily crumbled beneath her fingers.
Stuffing the sketch into her purse and propping the flashlight under her arm, she used both hands to lift out bricks and set them on the dirt beside her. When she’d carved out a hole wide enough to climb through, she squeezed her eyes shut, held her breath and stuck her head in. A rat scurried across the wooden floor above her, sending down a cascade of miniature dirt clods on top of her head.
Startled, Ginny opened her eyes. She coughed the dust from her nose and throat. Then she smiled.
Reflecting the beam of her flashlight like bright, shiny silver, a string of small stainless-steel bells hung from an iron ring bolted into the wall. “What have we here?”
When she picked up the bells, they jingled with a tinny sound, not quite melodic, but certainly loud enough to be heard from a balcony on the floor above, or through a brick wall. Ginny counted four bells and noted the empty knot on the string where a fifth bell had once been tied.
“Think, Ginny.” She spoke aloud as she knelt down to go through the rest of the contents of the hidden cubbyhole. A Purple Heart medal. Could that have been Zeke’s? A cracked and moldy bottle of whiskey. Enough to pour into a coffee cup to keep Alvin drunk while he was being buried alive. A letter. In a man’s scrawled handwriting.
Dearest Amy,
Ginny flinched as if she’d been struck. Dated twelve years ago. Signed, Mark.
She dropped the letter and reached into her purse. The killer had taken everything that had once been Amy’s from Ginny’s apartment. Everything but the last letter she’d stuffed into her purse before dashing to the hospital to be with Brett.
The dampness of the dirt bled into her pants as she knelt beneath the beam of her flashlight to read Amy’s last letter. A final plea. A pledge of love. Forgiveness.
Ginny’s eyes teared up. She swiped the moisture away with the back of her hand and read on.
…In case something happens to us, I want you to have my silver bracelet. You’re the only one who knows how much I love Mark. So I want you to have it. I want you to remember how much we loved each other. I hope you’ve found this kind of love.
Amy
Ginny sat back on her heels. When her sister’s body had been brought to the mortuary, her mother had taken all of her personal items—clothes, earrings, her birthstone ring. After her mother’s death, her father had passed Amy’s things on to her.
“But there was no bracelet.” She pressed her finger to her lip, racking her brain for the missing answer. “I never got your silver bracelet.”
But she’d seen one.
Ginny closed her eyes and tried to remember. Black suits. Panic. Death. Brett.
Putting on a show to gain Brett’s attention.
Her eyelids popped open.
“Sophie.”
Sophie had worn a silver bracelet at Alvin’s memorial service. Could it be a coincidence? Or had Amy’s bracelet wound up on Sophie’s wrist? Frank Rascone could check his records at the jewelry shop to see if the bracelets matched.
A frisson of excitement coursed through her at the possible connection. But she was too thorough an investigator to celebrate a victory yet.
While she gathered the hidden items and stuffed them into her pockets and purse, she ran through all the evidence one more time. Somehow, this had to add up to Eric Chamberlain. He could have taken that bracelet from Amy’s a
rm and given it to Sophie. As a gift, or proof of Amy’s death, she didn’t yet know.
Feeling as if her time was running out, the Ludlow groaned and shifted above her. She heard the clunk of a falling beam. The patter of molding and masonry crumbling above her.
She scrambled to her feet and hurried toward the ladder. Her brain moved even quicker, categorizing clues and narrowing her way toward identifying the killer.
Ruby Jenkins had dated Mark Bishop and been warned away. Lydia Fitzgerald had had an inexplicable accident after seeing Mark. Amy had had her head bashed in for daring to elope with him.
Alvin wanted Mark to stay. He stopped him with a vicious beating. When Alvin wanted something done, he used his fists and his threats. Nothing fancier than that. No planning, no notes, no moving of bodies. All his victims were at the Ludlow Arms.
Amy died at the riverfront.
Alvin didn’t kill Amy.
Who else wanted to keep Mark from leaving with Amy?
“Sophie.”
Ginny paused on the first rung as she tried to grasp the possibility of a new suspect.
Sophie was tall enough to kiss Brett without standing on tiptoe.
A woman made the 911 call to help Mark Bishop.
Sophie wore a silver bracelet.
Maybe Eric Chamberlain hadn’t done all he could to protect Sophie twelve years ago. Maybe Sophie had protected herself.
“Idiot!” Ginny chastised herself for not seeing it sooner. Sophie wasn’t jealous of her engagement to Brett. She didn’t want Amy’s big sister poking her nose into the old neighborhood and finding out the truth.
Ginny stuffed her flashlight into her pocket and climbed the ladder. Crawling through the trapdoor, she saw the shadow of the two-by-four swinging toward her. She ducked, but it was too late.
A million stars exploded in her head and she was spinning, falling. Her chest burned with fire at the second jolt. She turned her cheek into a cool pillow and swallowed dirt.