by Marta Perry
“Of course. You’re right.” Her voice was still too high. “Rachel has a key. She might have brought something over from the house. I’m being stupid.”
She stepped forward and ran into an arm that was the approximate strength of a steel bar.
“Probably it’s one of the family.” His voice was casual, but his expression seemed to have solidified in some way, and his eyes were intent. “But let’s play it safe. You stay here.” It was a command, not a request.
She opened her mouth to protest and then closed it again. He was right.
He put the bags down and pushed the door open gently with his elbow. She wrapped her arms around herself, chilled in spite of the warmth of the sunshine.
No one would be there who shouldn’t be. The things that had troubled her after Tony’s death were far away, in a different world, a different life. They couldn’t affect her here.
Zach’s footsteps sounded on the plank floor, softened when he crossed the braided rugs. She could follow his progress with her ears. First the living room, then the adjoining dining area, then around the breakfast bar into the kitchen. That sound was the door to the laundry room; that, the door to the pantry.
When she heard him mounting the stairs to the loft, she could stand it no longer. She sidled inside. It wouldn’t take him long to look around the loft bedroom. Had she made her bed before she left? She hoped so.
Then he was coming back down, frowning at her. “I thought you were going to stay outside.”
“This is my home.” Brave words, but she wasn’t feeling particularly brave.
“There aren’t any obvious signs of a break-in. Maybe you’d better check upstairs for any money or valuables you have with you.”
She hurried up the steps, brushing against him as she did so, and was a little startled by the wave of awareness that went through her.
She had made the bed, and thank goodness nothing embarrassingly personal was lying out in plain sight. Although Grams would probably find it embarrassing that she’d left things half-unpacked. Grams was a great one for finishing anything you started.
In a moment she was starting back down. “I don’t see anything missing upstairs. I was in the middle of unpacking, so it’s a bit hard to tell.”
And the truth was that neatness had never been her strong suit. Or even a virtue, as far as she was concerned.
Zach stood at the worktable she’d pulled out from the wall, staring at the cartons that held her supplies for jewelry making. She’d wanted those things with her, because it was both a vocation and avocation. Or it would be, if she could ever find a way to make enough money to live on. She patted her pocket, where she’d tucked the information about the local craft show.
He held up a box that contained the supply of turquoise she’d brought. “This must be valuable, isn’t it?”
“Fairly. I don’t have any really expensive stones. I’ve been experimenting with variations on some traditional Zuni designs in silver and turquoise.” She touched a stone, tracing its striations with the tip of her finger, longing to lose herself in working with it.
“I doubt anybody’s been in here with the intent to rob you, or they’d have gone for the obvious.”
She nodded, reassured. “Thank you. I—well, I’m glad you were here. I probably overreacted for a moment.”
He shrugged, broad shoulders moving under the gray uniform shirt. “A break-in didn’t seem likely, but we have our share of sneak thieves, like most places. It’s always better to be cautious.” His voice had softened, as if he spoke to a friend. “And you’ve been through a rough time with your husband dying so suddenly.”
The sympathy in his voice brought a spurt of tears to her eyes. He was being kind, and she never expected kindness from someone in a uniform.
“We quarreled.” The words she hadn’t spoken to anyone here just seemed to fall out of her mouth. “We had a fight, and he drove off mad. And in the morning they came to tell me he was dead.”
Strong fingers closed over hers, warming her. “It was not your fault. Survivors always think that if they’d done something differently, their loved one wouldn’t have died. Don’t let yourself fall into that trap.”
He had a strength that seemed contagious. She could almost feel it flowing into her. Or maybe she was starting to see him as a man instead of a cop.
“Thank you.” She turned away, willing herself to composure. “I appreciate your kindness.”
“Plenty of people around here are ready to be neighborly. Just give them a chance.”
She nodded, shoving her hair back from her face. Something lay on the breakfast bar—a white sheet of paper that looked as if it had been crumpled and spread flat again. She took a step toward it, recognizing that it was something out of place even before she reached the counter.
She stopped, staring down at the paper, unwilling to touch it. She couldn’t seem to take a breath.
“What is it?” Zach covered the space between them in a couple of long strides. “What’s wrong?”
She turned, feeling as if she moved all in one piece, like a wooden doll. “That letter.” She took a breath, fighting down the rising panic. “Someone has been in here.”
Zach grasped her arm, leaning past her to look at the paper without touching it. “Why do you say that?” His tone was neutral, professional again.
“It’s a letter my husband wrote to me. I threw it away before I left Santa Fe. Someone came into the house and left it here for me.”
FOUR
Zach took a moment before responding. Was this hysteria? Caroline was upset, but she didn’t seem irrational, no matter how odd her reaction to that letter.
“Are you sure about that?” Careful, keep your voice neutral, don’t jump to conclusions. Getting at the truth was a major part of his job, and he didn’t do that by prejudging any situation.
He pulled a pen from his pocket, using the end of it to turn the paper and pull it toward them. “Take a closer look and—”
Before he could finish, she’d snatched up the letter, adding her fingerprints to whatever was already on it. Still, even if what she said was true, returning a letter that belonged to her to begin with probably wasn’t a crime.
“I know what I’m talking about.” Her voice was tight, and her fingers, when she grasped the letter, showed as white as the paper.
A highly strung person might imagine things after a tragic loss. Her actions in leaving Santa Fe so abruptly weren’t what he’d call normal, but she might have reasons no one here knew about. That was what worried him. As well, there were those bruises he’d seen on her arms.
“Isn’t it possible this was among the things you brought with you? It could have fallen out when you were unpacking.” He glanced toward the stack of boxes that overflowed one of the armchairs. “Maybe Emma or your sister came in, tidying things up, found it and put it there.”
That generous mouth set in a firm line, and she shook her head. “They couldn’t find something I didn’t bring.”
Stubborn, and the type to flare up at opposition. Well, she hadn’t known stubborn until she’d met a Burkhalter. He could be as persistent as a cat at a mouse hole if necessary. His fingers itched to take the letter and find out what had her so upset about it.
“How can you be so sure it’s the same one?”
“Look at it,” she commanded. She thrust the paper into his hands, just where he wanted it. “You can see the marks where I crumpled it up before I threw it away.”
She was right. The marks were visible, even though the paper had been smoothed out before it was put on the counter. He read quickly, before she could snatch it away again, not that there was much to read—just a single page, written in a sprawling, confident hand. A love note.
Caroline grabbed it. “I wasn’t asking you to read it.”
“Not many men write love notes anymore, I’d think. Too easy to e-mail or text message instead.” And not many women would throw such a message away, especially when th
e sender had just died. “He must have been thoughtful.”
Her expressive face tightened. “Tony could be very charming.”
That was the kind of word that could be either praise or censure. “How long were you married?”
She turned away, as if she didn’t want him to see her face. “Just over a month.”
At that point most couples were still in the honeymoon-glow period. “I’m sorry. That’s rough.”
She swung back again, temper flaring in her eyes. “You obviously think I’m imagining things. I assure you, grief hasn’t made me start to hallucinate. I threw the letter away in Santa Fe. It reappeared here. Now that’s real, not imagination, whatever you may think.”
“Okay.” He leaned back against the granite countertop, taking his time answering. “Question is, do you want to file a complaint about someone entering your apartment?”
“You said the door hadn’t been forced.” She frowned, the quick anger fading. “I know I locked it when I left.”
“The windows are all securely closed now, with the locks snapped.” A sensible precaution when no one had been living here, especially since the entrance to the apartment wasn’t visible from the main house. “Let’s take another look at the door.”
He crossed to the entry, and she followed him. He bent to study the lock, moving the door carefully by its edge. The metalwork of the lock was new enough to be still shiny, and no scratches marred its surface.
“I don’t see any signs the lock has been picked or forced.”
“So only someone with a key could get in.”
He shrugged. “Unless it wasn’t locked. Easy enough to forget to double check it.”
“I suppose.” But she didn’t sound convinced.
“Look, if you want to file a complaint—”
“No.” She backed away from that. “I don’t. As you said, there could be some rational explanation.”
He studied her face for a moment. “You’re not convinced.” He wasn’t too happy about the situation himself, but he didn’t see what else he could do.
Caroline raked her fingers back through that mane of hair, turquoise and silver earrings swinging at the movement. “I’ll talk to Emma and my sister. Find out if either of them was in here this afternoon. If not—” She shrugged, eyes clouded. “If not, I guess it’s just one of those little mysteries that happen sometimes.”
He didn’t like mysteries of any size. And he was about to take a step beyond normal police procedure.
“You know, if you were to tell me what made you leave Santa Fe in such a hurry, I might be able to help you.”
Her eyes met his for an instant—wide, startled, a little frightened. “How did—”
She stopped, and he could almost see her struggle, wanting to speak. Not trusting him. Or having a good reason why she couldn’t trust whatever-it-was to a cop.
“I don’t know what you mean.” Her voice was flat and unconvincing.
“Neither of us believes that,” he said quietly. “I can understand that you don’t want to talk to me about your private life, but talk to one of your sisters. Or move into the house, where there are people around all the time.”
“I’d rather stay here.”
He let the silence stretch, but she had herself under control now. She didn’t speak. And he couldn’t help her if she wasn’t honest with him.
“If you want me, you know how to reach me.” He stepped out onto the flagstone that served as a walk.
She summoned a smile, holding the door to close it as if he’d been any ordinary visitor. “Yes. Thank you.”
She might change her mind. Decide to tell him about it. But he suspected he was the last person she’d choose to confide in. He just hoped Caroline’s secrets weren’t going to land her in a mess of trouble.
They were eating dinner around the long table in the breakfast room, but Rachel had made it both festive and formal with white linens, flowers and Grams’s Bavarian china. Caroline discovered that the sense of being welcomed home was a bit disconcerting. Nice to know they considered her arrival a cause for celebration, but at the same time, that welcome seemed to call for a response from her that she wasn’t sure she was ready to make.
Depend on yourself. That was what life had taught her. Rachel and Andrea were her sisters, but they hadn’t lived under the same roof since she was fifteen—longer than that with Andrea. They’d left their mother’s erratic existence as soon as they could, as she had.
Andrea and Rachel had left conventionally for college. She was the only one who’d gotten out by way of a correctional facility.
“Great roast, Rachel.” Cal, Andrea’s husband of four months, leaned back in his chair with satisfaction. “You are one inspired cook. You ought to give the guests breakfast, lunch and dinner.”
“No, thanks.” Rachel flushed with pleasure at the compliment. “We have enough to do as it is. I’ll save my favorite dinner recipes for family.”
Andrea nudged her husband. “Haven’t I mentioned to you that it’s not the wisest thing to praise someone else’s cooking more than you praise your wife’s?”
“You make the best tuna fish sandwiches this side of the Mississippi,” he said, leaning over to kiss her cheek.
Andrea tapped his face lightly with her fingers, eyes sparkling in the glow of the candles. “Sweet-talking will only get you more tuna fish,” she warned.
Caro’s gaze crossed with Grams’s, and she saw an amusement there that was reflected in her own. Marriage had taken away some of Andrea’s sharp edges. She’d always be the businesslike one of the family, but Cal had softened the crispness that used to put people off a bit. You could even see the difference in the way she looked, with her blond hair soft around her face and wearing slacks and a sweater instead of her usual blazer.
Had she and Tony ever looked at each other with that incandescent glow? If so, it had been an illusion.
Cal tore his smiling gaze away from his wife. “How do you like the apartment, Caroline? If you find anything wrong, all you have to do is give me a shout.”
“Everything seems to work fine.” Except for the fact that someone got in while I was out. She wasn’t sure she wanted to tell them that, wanted to have them look at her the way Zach Burkhalter had, with that doubt in their eyes. “You’re obviously a good craftsman.”
“He is that,” Andrea said. “You have to come over to our new house, so you can see how we’ve fixed it up. Cal built my accounting office on one end, and his workshop and showroom are in a separate building in the back.”
“I’d like to.” She could hardly say anything else.
How would they react if she asked how many keys to the barn apartment were floating around in possession of who-knew-who? Would they think she was afraid—the baby sister who couldn’t manage on her own?
This was ridiculous. She was a grown woman who’d been taking care of herself for years. There was just something about being back at her grandmother’s table that made her feel like a child again.
“You fix up the apartment to suit yourself,” Cal said. “That’s only right. Maybe I ought to put up a few more outside lights.” He nodded toward the wall of windows that overlooked the gardens, lit up now by the security lights on the outbuildings.
More lighting sounded like a comforting idea. “Thanks. I’m careful to lock up, but it would be nice to be able to see a bit farther outside at night.”
“Why? Is anything wrong?” Andrea, sharp as ever, jumped on that immediately.
“No. Nothing.”
They were family, she argued with herself. She could tell them. Except that she couldn’t tell them just a piece of her troubles—she’d have to expose the whole sorry story.
“When you asked if I’d been in the apartment earlier—was it because something happened?” Rachel’s voice was troubled.
Andrea’s gaze whipped round to her. “You thought someone had been in there?”
“It was nothing.” She should have remembered tha
t you could never get away with half truths with Andrea. She’d always taken her role as oldest sister seriously. Far more seriously than Mom had taken motherhood, in fact.
“You had better tell us, Caroline.” Grams sat very straight in the chair at the head of the table.
She began to feel like a sulky child, being told to behave by her elders. “It wasn’t anything serious. I found the door ajar when I came home from the store, and I was sure I’d locked it when I left.”
“You probably forgot.” Andrea’s response had echoes of childhood—of Andrea bringing the lunch she’d forgotten to school or picking up the jacket she’d left at a friend’s house. When are you going to be more responsible, Caro?
“I didn’t forget.” She could hear the edge in her voice. “I’ve been living on my own in the city for years, and it’s second nature to lock up.”
“Even so—”
It looked as if Cal nudged his wife under the table to shut her up. “To tell the truth, I seldom locked up when I lived there. The latch is probably sticking. I’ll stop by in the morning and take care of it.”
“You don’t need—” she began.
Cal shook his head decisively. “I’ll come by.”
His tone didn’t leave room for argument, so she just nodded. Apparently Andrea had found herself a man who was as strong-willed as she was.
The entrance of Emma from the kitchen put an end to anything else Andrea might have had to say. Emma placed a platter in front of Caroline. One look, one sniff of the delectable aroma, and she knew what it was.
“Emma, your peaches-and-cream cake. That was always my favorite.”
“I remember, ja.” Emma’s round face beamed with pleasure. “You’d come into the kitchen and tease me to make it when you were no more than three.”
For an instant she was back in that warm kitchen, leaning against Emma’s full skirt, feeling the comfort of Emma’s hand on her shoulder, the soft cadence of her speech, the sense that the kitchen was a refuge from tension she didn’t understand elsewhere in the house.