In Search of Truth

by Sharon Wray

  “Do you have a number where I can reach him?”

  “Of course.” After giving him Lawrence’s contact number, she said, “For the record, I don’t believe Lawrence set the fire. He loves this house.”

  “Still, I’d like to talk to him. We also dusted for prints and took photographs.” Detective Waring stared at the last firetruck pulling out. “It’s possible the fire was a cover for the burglary.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.”

  He touched her elbow. “Mrs. Pinckney, if you remember anything else, let me know.”

  “Thank you, Detective.” Once he left, she went through the garden and stopped a few feet away from the burned-out shed, which was now surrounded by yellow police tape. She heard rustling sounds and saw a man’s dark-haired head.

  “Zack?”

  His head poked through a broken window. “I’m checking everything out.”

  “We’re not supposed to go in there. There’s police tape around the perimeter. And a yellow sign that says DANGER. DO NOT ENTER. You walked past it.”

  “Huh.” He leaned out to see the sign posted on the doorframe. “Must’ve missed that.”

  She laughed when she should’ve scolded. “Did you find anything salvageable?”

  “Come take a look.” He disappeared again.

  Taking a deep breath, she ducked under the tape and went inside. She wasn’t one for breaking rules. But it was her husband’s family’s property.

  On cue, thunder rumbled and dark clouds rolled in.

  Zack stood in the center of the burned-out room. “See? Nothing to worry about. I left Nicholas Trott with your girlfriend Maddie and her daughter, Susan. They’re waiting for you in the house.”

  “I forgot they were coming over.”

  He touched what was left of the wood mantel over the colonial-era fireplace. “I introduced myself, but I think she already knew all about me.”

  Allison walked around, avoiding blackened debris. Since the building, which had once been a colonial-era kitchen, was partly made of brick, the walls were still upright. Inside, the remaining crossbeam over her head dripped with dirty water. The only thing left were the metal parts of gardening tools hanging on walls and lying on the floor. What hadn’t burned was now wet and mangled. “Maddie is my best friend. She knows all about you.”

  He waggled an eyebrow. “Everything?” Allison laughed in that knowing, female way that made Zack frown.

  “Maybe.” Although she teased him, the truth was that there wasn’t anything to tell. Yes, he’d spent the night with her but it wasn’t like they’d done anything other than kiss.

  Twice.

  He moved and a brick mantel support fell out, missing his foot by an inch.

  She took his arm. “We should get out of here.”

  He shoved his hand into the hole left by the brick and pulled out a bag. “What’s this?”

  “I don’t know.” She opened the bag and found a white handkerchief with an SP monogrammed on the edge. “This is one of Stuart’s handkerchiefs.”

  She unrolled the white cotton and discovered a heavy iron key.

  She held it up and saw the unusual markings on the key’s handle. A JL in the middle of a lily. “I’ve seen this before. This is the same marking as on the door handle going into the Satyr Club/Usher Society building.”

  Before Zack could answer, Maddie appeared in the doorway. Her body shook and her eyes were wide. “Susan is missing.”

  Chapter 16

  Alex shoved his cell phone into his back pocket. According to his most recent texts with Marcellus, the Prince was not responsible for the fire. And, in typical warrior form, wouldn’t admit whether or not he knew who was responsible.

  After the firefighters left, Alex discovered a hidden path lined with rose bushes and boxwoods. The huge garden had multiple hidden ponds and seating areas. Despite its formal design, the area had gone wild. Rose branches snagged his pants and he couldn’t help but stomp on daisies and violets that refused to stay within their boundaries. The live oak trees carried Spanish moss like it was a burden they couldn’t shed, and the smell of jasmine soaked the air.

  It was a mess, but he didn’t mind. He related to the inability to follow rules.

  When he turned a corner, he found a raised fountain held up by the tabby wall. A Pan statue sprayed water out of two flutes into the basin filled with white and purple water lilies. Hidden from the world, he took his sharpening stone and knife out of the pocket of his motorcycle jacket. After dipping the stone in water, he sat on the edge of the pond and sharpened his blade. He was still annoyed over the fact that Kells didn’t think he was mature enough to carry a gun.

  A few minutes later he heard barking and a soft female voice calling out, “Nicholas Trott! Come here, boy!”

  He put the stone away and stood, still holding the blade. When Nicholas Trott appeared, the shaggy mutt jumped on Alex with his tongue out.

  “Nicholas Trott!” the feminine voice shouted. “Get down!”

  The dog ran back to a tiny girl. She wore a purple leotard and net skirt that sparkled in the sunlight. Her brown hair had been pulled tight into a bun and someone had attached glittery purple wings to her back. She dropped to her knees and buried her face in the dog’s neck. When the dog pulled out of her embrace and loped away to chase a squirrel, she stood. She barely came up to his waist yet stared with brown eyes that showed a soul as old as his.

  Shit. He and kids didn’t mix well.

  She watched him with a wariness that made him feel as if he’d crawled out of hell. Which he had done. Twice.

  “Why are you holding a knife?” Her voice had an innocent, singsong quality that reminded him of someone he didn’t want to remember. Someone he’d loved, lost to death, and still missed.

  “For protection.” Which was better than admitting he was waiting to kill that evil fuckface Remiel Marigny. Alex shoved the knife into his boot. “Why are you wearing wings?”

  “For my ballet class.” She twirled, the wings fluttering as she moved. “We’re practicing for our fall recital, A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

  “Huh.” He wished he had a cigarette but he’d smoked his last one.

  She held out her hand. “I’m Susan Ashton. I’m almost eight. My cat is named Mrs. Pickles and I’m looking for a leprechaun.”

  Not only did he know nothing about kids, he knew even less about precocious little girls. Since he couldn’t leave her hanging, he shook, taking her much smaller hand in his. “Alex Mitchell.”

  “I’m not allowed to call adults by their first names.” When he dropped her hand, both of her palms landed on her hips. “I’ll call you Mr. Mitchell.”

  “That’s cool.” Not sure what to do next, he said, “You know you’re not supposed to talk to strangers, don’t you?”

  “Of course. My mother says now that we’re alone in my grandmère’s house, we need to be extra vigilant.”

  “Why are you living alone?”

  “My dad is staying with his girlfriend. Except my parents aren’t divorced yet.”

  “Oh.” Wow. What did one say to that? “Are you sure you’re only seven?”

  “I’m almost eight.” Her lower lip quivered. “I listen a lot. That’s how I knew my parents were getting divorced before they told me.”

  He raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t sure how he felt about having something in common with a young girl, but it sure as hell didn’t feel manly. “I listen a lot too.”

  “Really?” The yearning in that question made her seem closer to seven instead of eight.

  “Yep.” He crossed his arms. “I listened to my older brothers argue.” Mostly about him.

  She dropped her head, all bravado gone. “I don’t like it when adults argue.”

  He knelt in front of her and waited until she met his gaze. “Most of the tim
e when adults argue, they’re doing it because they’re scared.”

  Her eyes widened. “Scared of what?”

  He shrugged. “Adult stuff. Stuff that has nothing to do with you.”

  She leaned in to whisper, “I still don’t like it.”

  He whispered back, “I don’t either.”

  Finally, she smiled again. “Mr. Mitchell, may I see your knife?”

  “Sure.” He stood and took his bowie out of his boot. “Don’t cut yourself. I’m in enough trouble.”

  “I promise.” She took it and started waving it around. “It’ll be our secret.”

  “Susan!” Another female voice sounded out through the garden.

  Susan answered, “I’m here, Mom!”

  Alex heard footsteps, and then a woman in a strapless blue sundress and white sweater appeared. Her long brown hair had been pulled back, but damp curls framed her face. Her low sandals crunched on the oyster-shell walkway as she hurried over.

  “Susan… What is that?”

  Susan waved the bowie around again. “It’s Mr. Mitchell’s knife!”

  Susan’s mother stopped, and her chocolate-brown gaze met his. “Why does she have your knife?”

  All of the breaths he’d ever taken and would ever take rushed out of his chest. Where Susan was cute, the mother was stunning. Of course, he had a fondness for great breasts, lean legs, and flashing eyes. “Susan asked to see it.”

  “When a seven-year-old wants to see something, you let her have it?”

  “Mom!” Susan’s eyes widened. “I’m almost eight!”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Sure.”

  Susan slashed the air once more before handing him the knife. “I’m not a baby.”

  Alex slid the knife into his boot as Zack arrived with Allison.

  Zack grabbed Alex’s arm. “What’s wrong?”

  Alex yanked away. “Nothing.”

  “Maddie?” Allison touched her friend’s shoulder. “Is everything okay?”

  “I guess. Come on, Susan.” Maddie took her daughter’s hand, and they walked toward the house. But not before Susan waved goodbye.

  Allison’s quizzical glance moved between Zack and Alex. “I’ll go back to the house with Maddie.”

  When the women disappeared, Zack glared at Alex. “What did you say to Susan?”

  “She asked to see my knife. No big deal.”

  Zack’s sigh reminded Alex of Kells: one part frustration, one part annoyance, one part disgust. “I need you in the game, Alex.”

  “I’m in the fucking game. Hell, I’m meeting my brother to win the fucking game.”

  Zack shook out his swollen, bruised hand. “This whole day has been an epic failure.”

  Alex thought about Maddie’s silky hair, almond-shaped eyes, soft skin, and firm… “The day’s only half over, brother. There’s still time to turn it around. You gotta have faith.”

  “You’re lecturing me on faith? Do you know how fucked up that is?”

  For the first time since Alex could remember, he smiled—a genuine grin that almost turned into a chuckle. “I do. And you know why I’m smiling?” Alex slapped Zack on the back. “Because fucked up is what we do best.”

  “Glad you think that way, bro. Because I have a job for you.”

  Alex cocked his head. “What?”

  “I’ll call Rafe to see if he can find out anything about where the Fianna are holding Emilie. I want you to find Isabel—”

  “No.”

  “—and steal back the Pirate’s Grille.”

  Fuck.

  * * *

  Allison poured lemonade as Maddie hung up the house phone. Susan sat at the table with a book. Sighing, Allison found a hair band in her dress pocket and pulled her hair up. The day’s heat had won, and it was time for the high ponytail. “Thank you for taking that call, Maddie. I can’t deal with Lawrence anymore.”

  “He told me some of the Pinckney relatives have arrived for Stuart’s memorial on Friday.”

  “Ugh. It’s only Wednesday.”

  “I know.” Maddie shrugged. “Because of the fire, Lawrence is settling everyone, including himself, at the Meeting Street Inn. He said if Detective Waring contacts you with more information that he wants to know ASAP.”

  “Of course he does.” Allison placed a glass of lemonade and a plate of brownies on the table for Susan. Thunder rolled again and the first big splats of rain hit her kitchen window. It was almost six p.m., but with the dark skies, it felt more like midnight.

  Zack entered the kitchen, shoving his phone in his back pocket, and she met his gaze. Then he winked. Thank God Susan had only been exploring the garden and not missing. To be fair, Maddie had been under enormous stress lately and was more protective than normal.

  “Did Mr. Mitchell leave?” Susan turned the page of her book.

  Zack patted her head. “Yes. I told him next time he wants to show you his knife to ask your mom first.”

  “Okay.” Susan smiled around her lemonade glass. “Thanks, Mr. Tremaine.”

  Maddie frowned, and Allison sat to squeeze her hand.

  Zack took water bottles from the refrigerator and handed them out. With all the going in and out of the house, as well as the approaching storm, the humidity had overpowered the AC.

  “Thank you,” Maddie said, opening her bottle. “It’s so awful that someone set your shed on fire. Can you talk to Lawrence about restarting the alarm?”

  “Oh, I’m sure it’ll be restarted in a week.” Allison played with the bottle cap, hating the fact that she had to break this news. “Once he moves back into Pinckney House.”

  Maddie placed her bottle on the table. “What are you talking about?”

  Zack spun another chair around and straddled it. “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  Susan ate her brownie and stared at the adults.

  “This is the situation.” First, Allison told Maddie about Stuart leaving Isabel the life insurance money. Before Maddie’s eyes fell out of her head, Allison added the news about Lawrence moving in and her moving out. “In a week, I’ll be living at Pirate House full-time. Since the upstairs isn’t safe, I’ll put a cot in the kitchen. At least there’s a half bath with running water.”

  “Can Lawrence do that?” Zack asked.

  “Yes.”

  Susan paused, mid-brownie bite. “Miss Allison? You have to move?”

  Allison nodded at the little girl.

  “What a nightmare.” Maddie leaned back in her chair. “Do you want me to take out the antiques?”

  “No. Honestly, I need the rent and I don’t require much room. I don’t want to live there permanently.”

  “Because it’s haunted?” Susan said with a chocolatey smile.

  Zack laughed, and Allison threw a napkin at Susan, who giggled.

  “For the record,” Zack said to Susan, “I think Pinckney House is haunted.”

  Maddie’s eyes widened as she sipped her water. “Have you seen a ghost here?”

  “I’m not sure…”

  “I cannot believe,” Allison said to Zack, “that the big bad Green Beret believes in the paranormal.”

  “I grew up in the number one most-haunted city in America, I live in the second most-haunted city in America, and today I’m in the sixth most-haunted city in America. So, yeah, I do.”

  “It’s okay, Mr. Tremaine,” Susan said in a whispery, little-kid voice. “I’ve seen ghosts here too.”

  Allison took a bite of her brownie and almost sighed. It’d been hours since the blueberry coffee cake and she was starving. “That’s the thinking that got Mercy Chastain accused of witchcraft and led to the panicked frenzy of Salem, where over two hundred were accused of witchcraft, about one hundred fifty people were arrested, four died in prison awaiting trial, nineteen were ha
nged, and one was pressed.”

  Zack smiled. “That’s why Salem is the fifth most-haunted city in America.”

  She tapped him on the head. “Ghosts aren’t real.”

  “I hope not.” Maddie stood and touched Allison’s shoulder. “We need to get home.”

  Allison stood to give Maddie a hug and kiss Susan on the head. “I’m okay. I promise.”

  Once they were alone, Zack tossed out his water bottle. “I’m so sorry you have to leave your home.”

  She ate another brownie, not caring about the calories. “At least I don’t have to move any furniture. None of it belongs to me.”

  He took her arm and forced her to look at him. “You don’t have to pretend to be strong or that this entire thing isn’t freaking you out. A few months ago, I lost everything as well. After we were dishonorably discharged, the army kept our bank accounts and many of our belongings.”

  She touched his chin. “Zack, I am so sorry. I had no idea.”

  He took her hands and pressed them against his chest. Beneath her palms, she felt the hard muscles moving from the force of his breathing.

  “Zack, I have no idea how, but I promise you we’ll find the treasure and save your sister. If anyone in this nightmare deserves a happy ending, it’s you.”

  “What about you?”

  “It’s too late for me. My marriage to Stuart taught me that.”

  “I disagree—”

  Her cell phone buzzed and she stepped away from Zack’s warmth to find it in her purse.

  “Is anything wrong?”

  She handed him her phone with the text: For women’s fear and love holds quantity, in neither aught, or in extremity.

  “It’s the third of these I’ve gotten today.”

  Zack frowned and scrolled through her phone to find the other odd texts. “This first one is telling you to stop searching for something. What were you doing when you received it?”

  “Searching the internet for information about the Prince and the Fianna. Although apart from Irish folk tales written almost a thousand years ago, there wasn’t a lot of information.”