“Did you hear anything else they said?” Sierra asked.
“Only bits and pieces. I wasn’t really listening. Oh. But I did hear Ben ask about your father.” She winked. “That sounds to me like a man who’s interested in you.”
Sierra suddenly found it difficult to draw breath. Just days ago Ben had promised not to grill the towns-people about her father. He’d gone back on his word.
“I can’t wait to try this on,” Sara said, cradling the gold gown.
“I’ll help,” Annie said.
The two of them disappeared into the dressing room. Sierra didn’t move, but her world tilted on an axis. Uneasiness roiled inside her. Last night she could have sworn Ben had given up his quest to sully her father’s name. That no longer seemed to be the case.
It was looking increasingly likely she’d slept with the enemy.
DUSK SETTLED OVER the mountain, muting the view from the overlook. The trees blended together in a dark green blur, and the Lehigh River below was impossible to see.
Ben stood with his hands resting on the waist-high railing that ran along the lip of the mountain ledge. He was, unsurprisingly, alone.
The Riverview Overlook would be busiest when the sun was high in the sky, bathing the valley in light. It probably also got a fair amount of traffic at night from teenagers scouting for a dark place to make out.
At twilight, however, there was little reason to be here. Yet this was the time of day his mother had died. According to Alex Rawlings, his grandparents reported his mother liked to come up here to think. Was that what she’d been doing? If not, had she been alone?
He leaned forward, squinting down the side of the mountain. Visibility was poor, but he could still tell the ground dropped steeply.
Because of the vagaries of erosion, there was no way to tell for sure what the terrain had been like nineteen years ago. If the town hadn’t erected a railing until after her death, how bad could it have been?
Treacherous enough that his mother had plunged to her death. If, that is, she fell. He still couldn’t accept that scenario, even though he’d only been able to find circumstantial evidence to the contrary.
The anonymous e-mail pointing to Dr. Whitmore. The lie Mrs. Whitmore told about her husband’s whereabouts at the time of the death. Sierra’s failure to alert him her mother had lied.
The last one stung far more than it should have. Almost as disappointing as his failure to make progress on the story was his eagerness to let himself become distracted. By a Whitmore, no less.
“I’m sorry I’m not getting anywhere, Mom,” he said aloud, except she couldn’t hear him. Nobody could.
A sound rang out in the silence. His body jerked and his heart jumped before his brain belatedly relayed the source.
His cell phone.
Feeling like a fool, he took the phone from his pocket and checked the illuminated small screen. It showed an unfamiliar number with a Philadelphia area code. After a moment’s hesitation, he established the connection.
“Hello,” he said.
“Ben. It’s Connor.” His younger brother. “I’m glad I finally reached you. The cell number I had for you was wrong.”
Ben had changed his when the newspaper issued its reporters new phones earlier in the year.
He yanked himself out of the past and focused on his brother. When had he seen him last? Christmas, he thought. “How have you been, Connor?”
“Good. I got promoted to assistant manager at work.” Ben blanked for a moment before recalling his brother had a job in the sales division of a computer hardware company.
“Congratulations,” Ben said. “How about Sally and the kids? How are they?”
“Growing like weeds. The kids. Not Sally. But I didn’t call to talk about me.” He paused. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”
Ben peered out over the railing. His brother had remembered her birthday, too. “I’m fine.”
“Your office told me how to get in touch with you.” Connor’s words were measured. “They also told me you were in Indigo Springs working on a story. Is it about Mom?”
Ben didn’t see any reason not to fill his brother in. “Yeah.”
He relayed information about the e-mail that started the whole thing, ending with the leads he’d followed today. It had been easy to confirm Dr. Whitmore had played in the Lakeview Pines golf tournament the year his mother died. He’d been less successful getting back in touch with Mrs. Whitmore. He’d driven to Mountain Village Estates when she didn’t answer her phone, but the gatekeeper claimed she wasn’t home.
Ben didn’t mention the fruitless conversation he’d had that morning with Quincy Coleman, who didn’t remember his mother ever stepping foot in the bank.
Neither did he mention Sierra and the information she’d withheld.
“It’s been frustrating,” Ben said. A colossal understatement. “I know in my gut there’s something to this, but I can’t find it.”
“It was a long time ago,” Connor said. “It’s tough for some people to remember what happened last week, let alone nineteen years ago.”
“How about you?” Ben asked. “You were here in Indigo Springs when she died.”
“I was four years old,” Connor said. “My mind’s pretty much a blank. All I remember about Mom is one day she was here and the next she was gone.”
Ben had wandered away from the railing as he and his brother talked. Next to him was a bench strategically positioned to take advantage of the view. He sank into it, feeling profoundly sad. “That’s all you remember about her?”
“Not quite,” Connor said. “You know that scar on my temple? Sometimes when I notice it in the mirror, I can see her clear as day. I was horsing around like usual, tripped and fell into the edge of a table. Then there she was, smoothing back my hair, kissing my forehead, whispering soothing words. I always think of that when I think of her.”
Ben’s throat felt so full, all he could do was nod. His memories of their mother, although more numerous, were along the same vein.
Connor restarted the conversation, asking where in town Ben was staying. Ben told him about securing a room despite the tourists who’d started to fill up the town. They spent a few more minutes talking about nothing in particular until they ran out of things to say.
“Take care of yourself, man,” Connor said. “Keep in touch.”
Ben disconnected the call and wiped away what felt suspiciously like a tear. All these years, he believed he was the one most affected by his mother’s death. Connor’s phone call taught him that wasn’t necessarily true.
He should take comfort that there was someone else in his corner. Sitting in the darkness at the place she’d died, he no longer felt he was seeking answers only for himself. He was responsible for finding them for Connor, too.
A LONE CAR OCCUPIED one of the few parking spaces at the Riverview Overlook. Darkness had settled like thick, black fog over Indigo Springs, which would have made it difficult to distinguish the make and model if the car wasn’t silver.
She’d spotted Ben’s car at the overlook on the drive back from Harrisburg, but hadn’t pointed it out to Sara and Annie. As soon as they dropped her off, she’d gotten into her own car and went to confront him.
She swung her Lexus into the parking lot alongside his Sebring, immediately verifying the driver’s seat was empty. Before she switched off the ignition, her headlights illuminated a lone man sitting on the bench, facing the valley with his back toward her.
Ben.
Even with fifteen feet separating them, she could feel his hands running over her skin, his mouth moving on hers, his body joining with her.
His betrayal.
She gathered her composure, got out of the car and approached the bench. Wordlessly she sat down beside him. Only then did he turn.
“Hello, Sierra,” he said.
She dipped her head. “Ben.”
Since discovering he’d questioned Quincy Coleman about her father, she’d intende
d to take him to task, asking how dare he renew his efforts to incriminate her father when he had no evidence of wrongdoing.
How dare he make love to her and then deceive her.
Yet here, at the place where his mother had died, on his mother’s birthday, she didn’t have the heart. So she said nothing.
He seemed content to sit in silence. They’d been as close as two people could be the night before—as intimate as Sierra had ever been with anyone—yet they didn’t touch. The dozen or so inches between them could have been twelve miles.
The seconds passed, time seeming inconsequential on the mountain. She smelled evergreen and fresh, cool air. The rustling she heard could have been the wind blowing through the leaves on the trees or the nocturnal wildlife moving from place to place.
“I got your note this morning.” When he spoke, his voice sounded unnaturally loud. “I was surprised you thought I might leave town.”
It was a logical assumption. Despite his probing, he’d turned up nothing. Even the managing editor of his newspaper agreed. “You said your boss wants you back in Pittsburgh.”
“I didn’t say I was going. Someone sent me that e-mail. Like I told you, I won’t leave until I find out who.” His flinty tone brought home how badly she’d misjudged his obstinacy. He was like a dog with an old bone he wouldn’t let go.
“That doesn’t explain why you were questioning Quincy Coleman about my father this morning,” she said. “Don’t look so surprised. I have sources, too. I know you went back on your word.”
“My word? You’re one to talk.” He turned his head sharply. The sky was overcast with the few stars present providing almost no visibility. She still felt like his stare cut into her. “I know you lied to me.”
She stopped breathing.
“This morning at your place I knocked over some papers in the kitchen by accident.” He spoke without inflection. “When I picked them up, I came across a photo of your father in an orange golf hat.”
She didn’t have to ask if he’d realized the significance of the writing on the back of the photo.
“I never lied to you,” Sierra said.
“Oh, really?” he asked sarcastically. “You didn’t correct your mother when she insisted your whole family was out of town when my mom died.”
“That’s not the way it was,” she denied. “I didn’t find the photo until later.”
“So only your mother lied?”
“She didn’t.” Sierra resurrected the rationale she’d used with her brother. “It slipped her mind that there was one year we didn’t vacation the first week in July.”
“How do you know that?” he asked. “Did she tell you?”
Sierra hadn’t talked to her mother since coming across the photo. Rosemary Whitmore had taken a bus trip to Atlantic City with some friends from the Mountain Village Estates. She seldom turned on her cell phone. Sierra wasn’t even sure her mother knew how to check for missed calls.
“Don’t bother to answer,” he said. “I can tell by your silence that she didn’t.”
“Only because I haven’t been able to reach her,” Sierra retorted.
“Tell you what,” he said. “Let’s talk to her together. I think she could be the key.”
“The key to what?” she asked. “You’ve been in town long enough to know what kind of man my father was. Do you honestly believe he killed your mother?”
“I don’t know what to believe,” he said.
“I’m sorry about your mother. I really am. But it’s ridiculous to even consider my father had anything to do with her death,” she said. “You don’t have a shred of evidence. An anonymous e-mail doesn’t count.”
“If it’s so ridiculous, let’s go see your mother and clear it up right now,” he said.
“My mother’s out of town.”
“Conveniently out of town.” He didn’t pause for breath, continuing before she could argue. “When will she be back home?”
“I don’t know,” Sierra said.
Her eyes had adjusted enough to the darkness that she picked up the lift of his eyebrows. She kept her expression neutral so he wouldn’t continue to press her. Rosemary Whitmore planned to spend the festival weekend with Ryan and Annie when she returned from Atlantic City. Ben might be gone by then.
Ben rose from the bench. She could barely make out more than his silhouette in the darkness.
“Let me ask you something, Sierra,” Ben said. “If you’re so sure your father is blameless, why did you just lie to me again?”
He didn’t wait for an answer, turning and walking to his car.
She couldn’t have given him one, anyway.
CHAPTER TEN
THE LOBBY OF THE Indigo Inn, the venerable hotel that had served the town for three decades, was deserted shortly before eight on Thursday morning except for the graying, middle-aged man waiting at the front desk.
Sierra hung back, glad for a few more minutes to compose herself. Her palms were sweating, her stomach was jumping, and she was fighting the urge to rush for the exit.
That would be the coward’s way out, exactly the route she refused to let herself take. What she had to tell Ben should be said face-to-face, even if it meant she’d be late for work.
The man in front of Sierra slanted her a weary smile. With his blocky build and slight paunch, he looked neither like an art lover in town for the festival nor an outdoorsman. The dark smudges under his eyes and his rumpled clothing made it appear as though he’d gotten even less sleep than she had.
“The guy who works here will be back soon,” the man said. “Some guest lost his key.”
“Thanks,” Sierra said. Considering the size of the crowd the town was expecting for this weekend’s festival, she hoped he’d thought ahead to make a reservation.
A short, thin man wearing a suit jacket and sporting a wispy moustache hurried across the carpeted lobby with quick steps and let himself around the desk. Sierra recognized the desk clerk from the times she’d seen him bustling around town.
“Sorry about that.” The clerk gave the stranger a bright smile. He either mainlined caffeine or he was a morning person. “Now what can I do you for?”
“I need Ben Nash’s room number.”
Sierra’s senses went on alert, the fatigue leaving her in an instant.
“I’m not permitted to give out room numbers, but I can certainly ring his room for you,” the clerk said in his chirpy voice. “Who shall I tell him is calling?”
“His father,” the stranger said.
His father! Sierra wouldn’t have figured out the connection on her own. The man looked nothing like tall, lean Ben, who she recalled resembled his mother.
The clerk picked up the phone and punched in some numbers. After what must have been several rings, he relayed the message, then hung up. His face contorted, his teeth flashing as he gritted them. “It’s room six, but before you go I should warn you that I may have woken him up. He sounds a little grumpy.”
“Thanks for the heads-up.” Ben’s father didn’t seem unduly concerned as he headed away from the front desk in the direction of the first-floor guest rooms.
Sierra ignored the clerk’s welcoming smile and followed Ben’s father, catching up to him in the hallway adjacent to the elevator.
“Mr. Nash!” she called. “Wait.”
His steps faltered, and he turned. His features were coarser than Ben’s, but he had the same strong jawline. “Sorry. Do I know you?”
“My name’s Sierra Whitmore.” She half expected him to react to the surname, but it didn’t appear to mean anything to him. “I heard you tell the clerk who you are. I’m here to see your son, too.”
His bewilderment turned to curiosity. “He expecting you?”
“No,” she said.
“Me, neither.” Ben’s father seemed to be a man of few words. “How do you know my son?”
She might as well tell him. He’d been married to Allison Blaine. He’d loved her. He’d be as affected by news of
her as Ben. “My father is the man who was mentioned in the e-mail.”
“You mean that e-mail Ben got at the newspaper? His brother mentioned something about that.” He sounded as if he was fuzzy on the facts.
“It’s why Ben’s in town.” She decided on full disclosure, no matter how difficult. “The e-mail implicated my father in your wife’s death.”
“What?” Mr. Nash screwed up his face. “Your father had nothing to do with that.”
Her heartbeat accelerated at his unexpected announcement. She moved a step closer to him. “My father’s name was Dr. Ryan Whitmore. Did you know him?”
“Never heard of him.”
A door at the end of the hall opened, then closed. A barefoot woman carrying an ice bucket disappeared into a nook. A sound like thunder, which was more likely the clanking of ice cubes dropping into the container, matched the frantic pounding of Sierra’s heart.
“Then why did you say my father wasn’t involved?” Sierra asked with an urgency she couldn’t disguise. “I know he was innocent, but how do you?”
“Ah, hell. Ben’s been hassling your family about this, hasn’t he?”
“Yes,” Sierra admitted.
“I was afraid of that.” Ben’s father’s face contorted into a mask of misery. “It’s my fault for not setting that son of mine straight a long time ago.”
The hammering of Sierra’s heart increased. “Set him straight about what?”
“About what really happened to his mother. That’s what I’m here to tell him.”
BEN SAT ON THE EDGE of his unmade bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Sierra came into focus, wearing a pale yellow blouse showing a hint of cleavage and a skirt baring her lovely calves. With tendrils of brown hair escaping from her upswept hair, she looked more like the woman he’d made love to than a doctor.
His gaze shifted slightly to the left of Sierra, who was positioned in the chair beside the hotel-room desk.
Occupying an armchair in the corner of the room was his father, his heavy eyebrows forming an inverted V, the lines around his mouth and eyes more pronounced than when Ben had seen him last.
An Honorable Man Page 14