Buried Sins

by Marta Perry

  The smile wavered. Except that their situations weren’t quite the same. Garner had died peacefully in his bed of a heart attack that was not unexpected. Tony had plunged off a mountain road after a furious quarrel with his wife, leaving behind more unanswered questions than she could begin to count.

  And it hadn’t been grief or an overactive imagination. Someone had been watching her. She shivered at the thought of that encounter in the plaza. Someone who claimed Tony owed him an impossible amount of money. Someone who claimed Tony was alive.

  She hadn’t told Francine about that incident. She would the next time they talked. Francine had known Tony longer than she had. She might have some insight that eluded her.

  Something tapped on the living room window. She jerked around so abruptly that coffee sloshed out of the mug onto the granite countertop. She pressed her hand down on the cool counter, staring.

  Nothing but blackness beyond the window. The security lights that illuminated the back of the inn didn’t extend around the corner of the barn.

  A branch, probably, from the forsythia bush she’d noticed budding near the building. The wind had blown it against the glass.

  Except that there was no wind. Her senses, seeming preternaturally alert, strained to identify any unusual sound. Useless. To her, all the sounds here were unfamiliar.

  Something tapped again, jolting her heartbeat up a notch. The building could make dozens of noises for all she knew. And everything was locked up. Rachel had shown her, when she’d helped bring her things in, still worried at the idea of her staying alone. But even Rachel hadn’t anticipated fear, just loneliness.

  How do you know that’s not what it is? You’re hearing things, imagining things, out of stress, grief, even guilt. Especially guilt. Tony might be alive today if that quarrel hadn’t sent him raging out onto the mountain road.

  She shoved that thought away with something like panic. She would not think that, could not believe that.

  Setting the mug on the countertop, she turned to the window. The only reasonable thing to do was to check and see if something was there. And she was going to be reasonable, remember? No more impulsive actions. Just look where that had gotten her.

  She walked steadily across to the window and peered out. Her eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, or maybe that was the first light of dawn. She could see the outline of the forsythia branches, delicate gray against black, like a Chinese pen-and-ink drawing.

  Her fingers longed for a drawing pencil. Or a charcoal, that would be better. She leaned forward, trying to fix the image in her mind.

  Something, some sound or brush of movement alerted her. She stumbled back a step. Something man-sized moved beyond the window. For an instant, she saw a hand, fingers widespread, dark and blurry as if it were enclosed in a glove, press against the pane.

  Then it was gone, and she was alone, heart pounding in deep, sickening thuds.

  She ran back across the room, fingers fumbling in her handbag for her cell phone. Call—

  Who would she call? Grams or Rachel? She could hardly ask them to come save her from whatever lurked outside.

  The police? Her finger hovered over the numbers. If she dialed 911, would Zachary Burkhalter answer the phone?

  The man was already suspicious of her. That wouldn’t keep him from doing his job, she supposed. It wasn’t his fault that she feared the police nearly as much as she feared the something that had pressed against the window.

  She took a breath. Think. The apartment was locked, and already the first light of dawn stained the sky. She had the cell phone in her hand. He…it…couldn’t possibly get in, at least not without making so much noise that she’d have time to call for help.

  The panic was fading, the image with it. It had been so fast—was she even sure that’s what she’d seen? And if she wasn’t sure, how did she explain that to a skeptical cop?

  Clutching the phone in one hand, she snapped off the light. Safer in the dark. If someone were outside, now he couldn’t look in and see her. She crept quickly toward the stairs, listening for any sound.

  Upstairs, she pulled the quilt from the bed and huddled in the chair at the window, peering out like a sentinel. She stayed there until sunrise flooded the countryside with light, until she could see black-clad figures moving around the barn of the Zook farm in the distance.

  THREE

  In the light of day, sitting in the sunny breakfast room at the inn across from her sister, Caroline decided that her fears had been ridiculous. Already the images that had frightened her were blurring in her mind.

  The figure—maybe a branch moving, casting shadows. What she’d thought was a gloved hand could well have been a leaf, blown to stick against the windowpane for a moment and then flutter to the ground. There were plenty of last year’s maple leaves left in the hedgerow to be the culprit. Her overactive, middle-of-the-night imagination had done the rest.

  “Thanks.” She lifted the coffee mug her sister had just refilled. “I need an extra tank of coffee this morning, I think.”

  “Did you sleep straight through?” Rachel looked up from her cheese omelet, face concerned. “You looked as if you could barely stay on your feet. Grams wanted to wake you for supper, but I thought you’d be better for the sleep.”

  “You were right.” If not for what happened when she woke up, but that wasn’t Rachel’s doing. Besides, she’d just decided it was imagination, hadn’t she?

  She’d looked in the flower bed when she went outside this morning. Crocuses were blooming, and tulips had poked inquisitive heads above the ground. The forsythia branches, so eerie in the night, were ready to burst into bloom. There had been no footprints in the mulch, nothing to indicate that anyone had stood there, looking in.

  She’d clipped some sprigs of the forsythia, brought them inside and put them in a glass on the breakfast bar as a defiant gesture toward the terrors of the night.

  She put a forkful of omelet in her mouth, savoring the flavor. “Wonderful. Your guests must demand seconds all the time. Did Grams eat already?” She glanced toward the chair at the head of the table.

  “Emma thought she looked tired and insisted she have her breakfast in bed. When Emma makes up her mind, not even Grams can hold out.”

  She put down her fork. “Was she that upset because of me?” Because of all the things Caro hadn’t told her?

  “Don’t be silly.” Rachel looked genuinely surprised. “She’s delighted to have you here. So am I. And Andrea. No, it’s just Emma’s idea of what’s right. You’ll see. When people are here, Grams is the perfect hostess, and no one could keep her in bed then.”

  “It’s going well, is it?” Rachel and Grams had started the inn in the historic Unger mansion at the beginning of last summer on something of a shoestring, but they seemed to be happy with how things were going.

  “Very well.” Rachel’s eyes sparkled. “I know people thought this was a foolish decision, but I’ve never been happier. Being a chef in someone else’s restaurant can’t hold a candle to living here, working with Grams and being my own boss.”

  “And then there’s Tyler to make you even happier.” Her sister was lucky. She’d found both the work that was perfect for her and the man of her dreams. “How is it working out, with him in Baltimore during the week?”

  “Not bad.” Rachel’s gentle face glowed when she spoke of her architect fiancé. “Right now he’s in Chicago, but usually he works from here a couple of days a week, while his partner handles things at the office.”

  “I’m glad for you.” Caro reached out to clasp her sister’s hand. Rachel deserved her happily-ever-after. She just couldn’t help feeling a little lonely in the face of all that happiness.

  Rachel squeezed her hand. “I shouldn’t be babbling about how lucky I am when you’ve had such a terrible loss.”

  “It’s all right.” What else could she say? Rachel didn’t know that the real loss was the discovery that Tony had lied to her, cheated her and then abando
ned her in the most final way possible.

  That was what happened when you trusted someone. She’d learned that lesson a long time ago. Too bad she’d had to have a refresher course.

  She could tell Rachel all of it. Rachel would try to understand. She’d be loving and sympathetic, because that was her nature. But underneath, she’d be thinking that poor Caro had blown it again.

  It was far better to avoid that as long as possible. She didn’t need to lean on her sister. It was safer to rely on no one but herself.

  She took a last sip of the cooling coffee and rose. “I’m going to drive down to the grocery store to pick up a few things. Do you need anything?”

  Rachel seemed to make a mental inventory. “Actually, you could pick up a bottle of vanilla and a tin of cinnamon for me. Otherwise, I think I’m set. Just put everything on the inn account. Your stuff, too.”

  “You don’t need—”

  “Don’t argue.” Rachel was unusually firm. “If you were staying in the house, you wouldn’t think twice about that.”

  She nodded reluctantly. There was independence, and then there was the fact that her bills were coming due with no money in her bank account, thanks to Tony. What did you do with it all, Tony?

  She felt a flicker of panic. How could she have been so wrong about him?

  Main Street was quiet enough on a Tuesday morning in March that he could patrol it in his sleep. Zach automatically eyeballed the businesses that were closed during the week, making sure everything looked all right. They’d open on the weekends, when the tourists arrived.

  The tourist flow would be small awhile yet, and his township police force was correspondingly small. Come summer, they’d add a few part-timers, usually earnest young college students who were majoring in criminal justice.

  He enjoyed this quiet time. He liked to be able to spend his evenings at home, playing board games or working puzzles with Ruth, listening to the soft voices of his parents in the kitchen as they did the dishes.

  Families were a blessing, but worry went along with that. Look at Caroline Hampton, coming home to her grandmother with who-knows-what in her background. No matter how you looked at it, that was an odd story, what with her not telling her family she was married, let alone that her husband died. The sort of odd story that made a curious cop want to know what lay behind it.

  He’d poked a bit, when he’d called the Santa Fe PD back to let them know that the lost sheep was fine. The officer he’d spoken with had been guarded, which just increased his curiosity.

  It might have been the city cop’s natural derision for a rural cop, or something more. In any event, the man had said that there was no reason to think the death of Tony Gibson was anything but an accident.

  And that way of phrasing it said to him that someone, at least, had wondered.

  He slowed, noticing the red compact pulled to the curb, then a quick figure sliding out. Caroline Hampton was headed into Snyder’s Grocery. Maybe it was time for his morning cup of coffee. He pulled into the gravel lot next to the store.

  When he got inside, Etta Snyder gave him a wave from behind the counter. “Usual coffee, Chief?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Caroline’s face had been animated in conversation, but he saw that by-now-familiar jolt of something that might have been fear at the sight of him. It could be dislike, but he had the feeling it went deeper than that.

  She cut off something she was saying to the only other customer in the shop—tall guy, midthirties, chinos and windbreaker, slung round with cameras. He’d peg him as a tourist, except that tourists didn’t usually travel in the single-male variety, and the cameras looked a little too professional for amateur snapshots.

  “Here’s the person who can answer your questions,” she said, taking a step toward the counter. “Chief Burkhalter knows all about everything when it comes to his township.”

  He decided to ignore the probable sarcasm in the comment, turning to the stranger. “Something I can help you with?”

  The guy looked as if he found him a poor substitute for a gorgeous redhead, but he rallied. “Jason Tenley, Chief. I was just wondering what the etiquette is for getting photos of the Amish. I’m working on a magazine photo story, and—”

  “There isn’t any,” he said bluntly. He’d think any professional photographer would have found that out before coming. “Adult Amish don’t want their photographs taken, and it would be an invasion of privacy to do so.”

  “What about from behind? Or from a distance?”

  The guy was certainly enthusiastic enough. “You can ask, but the answer may still be no. Sometimes they’ll allow pictures of the children, but again, you’ll have to ask.”

  “And you’d better listen, or the chief might have to give you a ticket.” Caroline, turning toward them, seemed to have regained her spunk along with her purchases.

  “That’s only for speeding,” he said gravely. “Although I’ve been known to ticket for blocking public access, when some outsider tried to take photos of an Amish funeral.”

  “I’ll remember that.” The photographer didn’t act as if the prospect was going to deter him.

  Caroline seemed ready to leave, but they stood in front of the doorway, and he suspected she didn’t want to have to ask him to move. Instead she sauntered to the bulletin board and stood staring at it.

  “Well, thanks for your help.” Tenley glanced at Caroline hopefully. “Goodbye, Ms. Hampton. I hope I’ll see you again while I’m here.”

  She gave him a noncommittal nod, her attention still focused on the bulletin board.

  Tenley went out, the bell jingling, and Zach moved over to stand behind Caroline at the bulletin board.

  “What are you looking for? The mixed-breed puppies, or that convertible sofa bed? I should warn you that the puppies’ parentage is very uncertain, and the sofa bed is one that the Muller kid had at his college apartment.”

  “You really do know everything about everyone, don’t you?” That didn’t sound as if she found it admirable. “Neither, but I’ve found something else I need.” She tore off a strip of paper with information about the upcoming craft show at the grange hall.

  She turned to go, and he stopped her with a light touch on her arm. She froze.

  “I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry for bringing up your husband’s death in front of your grandmother. I shouldn’t have assumed she already knew about it.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She seemed to force the words out. “I was about to tell her, anyway. If you’ll excuse me—” She looked pointedly at his hand on her arm.

  He let go, stepping back. What would you do if I asked you why you’re so afraid of me, Caroline? How would you answer that?

  It wasn’t a question he could ask, but he wondered. He really did wonder.

  Caroline drove straight to the barn by way of the narrow lane that ran along the hedgerow. She pulled up to the gravel parking space near the apartment door and began to unload. She would put her own perishables away before running the vanilla and cinnamon over to Rachel at the house. Maybe by then she’d have controlled her temper at running into Chief Burkhalter once again.

  Arms filled with grocery bags, she shoved the car door shut with her hip. And turned at the sound of another vehicle coming up the lane behind her.

  It was with a sense almost of resignation that she saw the township police car driving toward her. Resignation was dangerous, though. This persistence of Burkhalter’s was unsettling and unwelcome. She’d dealt with enough lately, and she didn’t want to have to cope with an overly inquisitive country cop.

  She leaned against the car, clutching the grocery bags, and waited while he pulled up behind her, got out and walked toward her with that deceptively easy stride of his. If he were anyone else, she might enjoy watching that lean, long-limbed grace. But he wasn’t just anyone. He was a cop who’d been spending far too much time snooping into her business.

  Her fingers tightened on the bags. “Why are
you following me around? Police harassment—”

  His eyebrows, a shade darker than his sandy hair, lifted slightly. “Etta Snyder would be surprised at the accusation, since she sent me after you.” He held up the tin of cinnamon. “She thought you might need this.”

  Her cheeks were probably as red as her hair. “I’m sorry. I thought—” Well, maybe it was better not to go into what she’d thought. “Thank you. That’s for my sister, and she’ll appreciate it.” She hesitated, realizing that probably wasn’t enough of an apology. “I am sorry. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions about you.”

  Those gray eyes of his didn’t give anything away. “No problem. Let me give you a hand with the bags.”

  Before she could object, he’d taken the grocery bags from her. Snatching them back would only make her look foolish, so instead she fished in her purse for the key.

  She was very aware of him following her to the door. Knowing his gaze was on her. The combination of cop and attractive, confident male was disturbing.

  “Does Etta often turn you into a grocery deliveryman? I’d think police work would be enough to keep you busy, even in a quiet place like this.”

  “You haven’t been here on a busy Saturday in tourist season if you find it quiet,” he said. “Dropping off something you forgot at the store is just being neighborly.”

  Neighborly. She didn’t think she was destined to be neighborly with the local cop. She reached the door, key extended. The door stood ajar. Panic froze her to the spot.

  “What is it?” His tone was sharp.

  She gestured mutely toward the door. “I locked it when I left.” Her voice was breathless. “Someone’s in there.”

  “It doesn’t look as if it was broken into. Anyone else have a key?”

  She took a breath, trying to shake off the sense of dread that had dogged her in Santa Fe. She was being ridiculous.