by Marta Perry
“One sister. Shelley flirted with the idea of law school, but then a guy came along, and she decided she didn’t want to spend that many more years in school.”
“Married?”
“Yes, she’s married and lives about an hour’s drive from here. Three kids, so at least my mother’s stopped expecting me to produce grandchildren for her.”
“That must be a relief.” Her lips curved, showing her dimple.
“It is,” he said with emphasis. There was also the matter of his father’s health to keep Mom occupied, so she’d stopped worrying about Trey’s single status. Not that that would stop her from putting in her two cents’ worth if he so much as went to a movie with a female.
“Here we are.” He nodded at the mellowed brick building that had been the police station for a hundred years. Its classic lines were a bit distorted by the one-story, three-bay garage with its metal roof, providing space for emergency vehicles.
He considered asking her to exercise a little discretion with Chief Carmichaels, but feared doing so would have the opposite effect. At least she was in a better mood than when they’d left the café.
Chief Mike Carmichaels was in and willing, albeit reluctantly, to see them. Once they were seated in the chief’s minuscule office, Carmichaels leaned back in his creaking desk chair and surveyed Amanda with a speculative look on his square, honest face.
“So you claim you might be the Winthrop girl’s child, I hear from Trey.”
Amanda perched on the edge of her chair, looking wired enough to dart from it at any instant. “I’m not making any claims, Chief Carmichaels. I just want to know the truth. It came as such a shock to learn that I wasn’t who I thought. There must have been some relationship between my mother—between Juliet Curtiss—and Melanie Winthrop. I’d have been two months old when Melanie died. You can see why I might wonder if that’s the answer to who I am.”
Mike’s expression softened, and Trey saw he’d been moved by Amanda’s words. So maybe it hadn’t been a mistake for her to talk to him.
Carmichaels cleared his throat. “I get that. Trouble is, I don’t see any way of proving it one way or another—not unless someone from the family agreed to DNA testing.”
Amanda slid back on the chair, sending Trey a look that might have contained a little triumph. “That would be the only definitive answer to my parentage, but I’d want to feel more sure of the facts myself before I’d even ask them to do that. So I hoped you might help me.”
“How?” The chief’s gray eyes became guarded. He might be sympathetic to Amanda, but he wouldn’t be eager to alienate Elizabeth Winthrop.
She hadn’t mentioned the need to find out whether or not she’d been legally adopted, but Carmichaels didn’t need to know the importance of determining that. He couldn’t know anything.
“Just tell me anything you remember about what happened when Melanie died. For instance, were you able to find out when Melanie had arrived back in town?”
He seemed to look at that question from every angle before deciding to answer it. “No, we weren’t. That was odd. We couldn’t even find out how. She hadn’t come on the bus, and there was no abandoned car that might have belonged to her.”
So the police had been more thorough than Trey had thought. Mike would have been a patrolman then, and Clifford Barnes the chief. Too bad Clifford wasn’t around any longer to answer any questions.
“Strange,” Trey said while Amanda seemed to digest the chief’s words, sifting them for anything useful. “It almost sounds as if someone drove her to town and dropped her off. But if so, you’d expect them to come forward when she died.”
Carmichaels moved as if he’d suddenly found his chair uncomfortable. “Unless she’d been hitchhiking and was dropped off by a stranger. That was what Chief Barnes decided must have happened.”
“You didn’t agree?” Amanda was onto the doubt in his voice in an instant.
But he stiffened. “It wasn’t my business to disagree with the chief.” He shrugged. “Besides, I wasn’t in on any of the decision-making. Too high up for me at that stage.”
To forestall Amanda making another remark about toadying to the powerful, Trey broke in with a question. “What about the person who found her? I never did hear who that was.”
“An Amish kid from one of the nearby farms, it was. Course there weren’t any cell phones then, even if he’d been allowed to have one. Way he told it, she was partly in the water at the base of the falls. He pulled her out.”
“She was dead already?” Trey asked.
Carmichaels nodded, his face grave. “As I recall, he realized pretty quick it was too late, but he ran all the way to the nearest place with a phone. You can imagine how long it was until we actually got on scene.” The chief fell silent, staring down at the green blotter on his desk as if he saw again that tragic image. “The chief and I got there first, but the rescue crew wasn’t far behind. I could hear them crashing through the woods with their gear while we were standing there looking down at her, all broken...”
He stopped abruptly, probably realizing he might be talking to Melanie’s daughter.
Amanda drew a shaky breath. She was probably trying to think what else to ask. “Do you know his name? The boy who found her, I mean.”
“Let me think a minute. It was one of the Miller kids, I believe, but I don’t remember which one.” He shook his head. “It’ll come to me. I’ll let you know when I think of it.”
“Why wasn’t there a postmortem?” Obviously that was still bothering Amanda.
“Like I say, that wasn’t my decision. Besides, it was obvious what caused her death.” His face tightened. “If you’d seen her...well, I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. That’s a long way down, and nothing but rocks and water at the bottom.”
That shook Amanda visibly. He suspected she was finding it impossible to hold on to the detachment she’d had initially. It was probably coming home to her just what kind of Pandora’s box she was opening with her search.
The silence that fell was his cue to get her out before she had a chance to push too hard with Chief Carmichaels. He stood, holding out his hand.
“Thanks, Chief. It was good of you to answer my client’s questions.”
He shrugged it off. “No problem. After all these years, I’d think it’s impossible to find out much of anything, but I can understand why Ms. Curtiss wants to know.”
Amanda stood, managing a smile. “Thank you. If I have any other questions, I hope I can come to you.”
Carmichaels’s expression stiffened, but he nodded. He went to the door and opened it, obviously just as glad to see them out.
A wave of sympathy swept over Trey as he walked beside Amanda out of the office. Amanda was still grieving the loss of the woman who had always been her mother. Now she had the challenge of mourning a birth mother, as well. How did anyone cope with that load of trouble?
CHAPTER FIVE
DARKNESS SEEMED TO fall earlier here than in the city. Especially when she was alone in the cottage with just Barney for company. Amanda knew that was an illusion, caused by the lack of ambient light in the surroundings, but it was isolating.
She crumpled the paper in front of her and tossed it in the direction of the trash can. And then got up to throw it into the can when it landed on the floor.
Barney, who’d been lying on the rug he’d appropriated as his own, raised his head and looked at her.
“I know, I know. I’d better give it up for a bad job.”
She’d been trying to compose a letter to Elizabeth Winthrop, explaining the situation and asking for an interview, but she couldn’t find the right words. One draft had sounded pleading, another vaguely threatening. Neither was the impression she wanted to make on the woman who might be her great-grandmother.
There had be
en a photo of Elizabeth accompanying one of the newspaper articles—obviously a staged head shot. Even in that, the lined face had portrayed both grimness and determination. A woman with a face like that wasn’t likely to be guided by emotion.
At least Amanda’s research had given her a clearer picture of the Winthrop family. Melanie had been the daughter of Elizabeth’s only son. He and his wife had been killed in a plane crash when Melanie was only a few months old, leaving Elizabeth to raise their child.
Elizabeth had a daughter as well, Betty Ann, who was much younger than her brother. An afterthought? An accident? Who could say?
Betty Ann was married to Donald Shay. From what Amanda had been able to glean, Shay ran the mill and managed the various properties owned by the family.
Aunt Betty. Uncle Donald. No, she didn’t imagine she’d ever be on those terms with them. Especially when she couldn’t compose a simple letter stating her case. All of this searching and interviewing was frustrating, when a DNA test could give the answer.
And it still wouldn’t tell her whether Juliet had legally adopted her. If Robert’s investigators weren’t able to find anything one way or the other, what then? Did she have any rights at all? She and Robert hadn’t discussed the worst-case scenario, and maybe they should have. Juliet had referred to Amanda as her daughter in her will. She’d think that would count for something with a judge, assuming it went that far.
She could ask Trey, she supposed. Always assuming he wasn’t fed up with her and her problems. She’d lost her temper with him earlier. Or maybe it was fairer to say that they’d both been exasperated with each other, but he’d been the first to extend an olive branch.
Barney raised his head again, but this time he wasn’t looking at her. He stared for a long moment at the front window of the cottage, as if looking for something out there in the dark.
“What is it, boy?” She went to the window and peered out, but could see nothing. The darkness was complete except for the rectangle of yellow light that lay across the porch from the window. “There’s nothing.”
Barney whined a little in apparent disagreement. He got up, padding softly from one window to the next. A little frisson of alarm slid down her spine.
“Come on, Barney. Are you trying to unnerve me?” She forced herself to turn away from the windows and took hold of his collar.
Barney gave a sudden, sharp bark, followed by a volley of barking and a lunge at the window. She swung around, and her heart jumped into her throat. Something—a face—pressed against the window, distorted by the glass.
Then the person withdrew a few inches and raised a hand in a wave. Amanda had a hysterical desire to laugh. It wasn’t a monster or an enemy pressing against the glass. It was Bertram Berkley, her mother’s agent. What was he doing here? She couldn’t imagine anything that would take him away from the city.
She went to the door, clutching Barney’s collar while she reassured him. Unlocking the door, she swung it open.
“Bertram! What are you doing here? You startled me. I didn’t hear your car.”
“Are you mad?” He hustled inside as if eager for shelter against the dark. “Drive my car up the rutted lane? Never. I left it down by the farmhouse. That road is bad enough.” He shuddered elaborately, overacting as always.
“Come now, it’s not that terrible. I’ve been bringing my SUV in and out with no problems.” She closed the door, realizing that he hadn’t answered her question about why he was here.
“Forgive me, dear, but your SUV is not a mint condition BMW.”
“Then you should have rented something more sensible to come here. And what are you doing here, anyway? If you’d called...”
“If I’d called, you’d have told me to stay in Boston.” He seated himself in the most comfortable chair and adjusted the crease in his trousers. “The famous Bertram Berkley charm doesn’t come across as well on the telephone.”
Amused in spite of herself, Amanda smiled as she sat down across from him. After a suspicious sniff at Bertram’s shoes, Barney returned to his hearth rug. Silence fell, almost oppressive. Bertram had brought a different atmosphere with him, but she couldn’t say it was an improvement.
She studied him, trying to figure out what he was feeling, but as always, she had a sense that his face reflected a carefully cultivated facade. “What’s so important that you chased me all the way up here on a workday to talk about? If this is about putting on a show again...”
“It’s Friday, dear,” he said gently. “I’m taking the weekend off. How better to enjoy it than a nice trip into the Pennsylvania mountains?”
“I should think a nice trip into New York City would be more to your taste.” He was right; it was Friday. She’d lost track of the days since she’d been here. Echo Falls seemed to exist in a world of its own.
“True.” He sighed elaborately. “But I’m endlessly self-sacrificing when it comes to my work.”
“I’m afraid you’re wasting your time. I’m really not at a place where I want to talk about my mother’s painting yet. It’s too soon.”
“My dear girl, it’s not too soon at all. The time to do a tribute to Juliet Curtiss is now, while she’s still in the public mind.”
“You mean you want to capitalize on her death.” She should have realized Bertram wouldn’t give up so easily. Her mother had been able to shut him down when he got carried away, but Amanda had yet to develop that gift.
“Not capitalize.” He shook his head, his expressive face drawing down into lines of sorrow, either at Juliet’s death or at Amanda’s failure to recognize his opinion. “A tribute, I said. We must remind the public of what has been so needlessly lost. A gifted artist, cut off in her prime by this horrific plague of gun violence—it’s a comment on our time.”
Amanda rubbed her forehead. “I can see some sense in what you’re saying, and I know you mean well. But I really can’t focus on that now. We’ll plan it together once I get past the shock, all right?”
She thought he looked as if he’d like to tell her she’d had three whole weeks to recover, but maybe she was wrong.
“That will be too late.” He leaned forward, intent. “Don’t you see? The market for Juliet Curtiss’s work is at an all-time high right now. We can’t let this slip away. You’re losing money with every week that passes.”
He meant sales. She supposed he knew what he was talking about, but... Then reality hit her like a hammer blow. Did she even have the right to sell Juliet’s paintings? A pit seemed to open in front of her, warning of all the possible missteps she could be taking.
That was another unarguable reason why she couldn’t agree with Bertram about the show he wanted. And it was one she didn’t dare tell him. She didn’t have any illusions about Bertram, any more than her mother had had.
Bertram’s good at what he does or I wouldn’t let him near my work. But his moral sense is nonexistent.
“Here.” Bertram pulled a folder from the leather portfolio he’d carried in with him, thrusting it toward her. “I have all the details worked out. You’ll see. It will be perfect, and you don’t have to do a thing.”
She took the folder because it was easier than arguing. She’d need to have legal advice before she sold even one of her mother’s paintings, but she couldn’t tell him that.
“I’ll look it over, I promise. I’ll let you know what I think. But it’s still going to have to wait awhile. Maybe next month.”
Maybe by next month she’d know whether she had any rights at all in Juliet’s estate, including the right to sell any of her paintings. For a moment despair swept over her. How was she going to deal with this? She didn’t doubt that Juliet thought everything had been settled with her will. If only she’d confided in Robert, or even in Amanda...
But that wouldn’t help her in dealing with Bertram right at the moment.
“Her brother? George Curtiss?” Whether he was still Uncle George was up for debate. “When did you talk to him? And why?”
Bertram seemed to realize he’d made a misstep. He stretched his hands out in a placating motion, but it was too late for that.
“Well?” She stood, giving herself the advantage of height. “Why were you discussing my business with George?”
Bertram turned sulky. “He’s an interested party, isn’t he? After all, he was Juliet’s brother. Her closest relative. After you. Really, Amanda, I’m just trying to do my best for you.”
Whether there was any suspicion or malicious intent in his words, she didn’t know, but she certainly wasn’t going to let herself be intimidated by him. Bertram would be doing what was best for him.
Anger stiffened her spine. “I expect discretion from you, Bertram. You shouldn’t be discussing my business with anyone else, including George Curtiss. If I don’t feel assured of your discretion and loyalty, I will put my mother’s work into other hands. Is that clear?”
She didn’t know whether she had the right to do that, either, but she suspected it would be an effective threat.
“All right, all right. I’m sorry.” He rose, regaining his usual urbane smile. “I’m sure you’ll be satisfied with my work. After all, your mother trusted me to handle everything. With her input, of course,” he added hastily, maybe reading a rebuttal in her face. “Look, why don’t you let me take you out someplace for a glass of wine and a bite to eat? Surely this burg has one decent restaurant that’s open on Friday night.”
“I’ve already eaten, thanks. And you’d better be on your way to wherever you’re staying tonight.”
Bertram gave a speculative glance around the cottage. “If you have an extra bedroom, maybe you could put me up.”