Andy sighed, nodding. “I’ll tell Harriet myself.”
Lyman attempted a feeble grin. “You do that.”
Wyatt stood back, not wanting to interfere with relationships forged long before he waltzed into town. He noted that, while Lyman had insisted on accompanying his daughter, he was standing back, not interfering or trying to take charge. On some level, he seemed to understand that she was her own woman, even if he didn’t like her choices or trust her decisions—and worried about her and loved her. There were no conditions on their father-daughter relationship. It just was what it was, something Wyatt found rather amazing to witness.
McNally went inside, and Lyman paced in the driveway. Finally he glanced at Wyatt. “Where’s your buddy the PI?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since this morning.”
“Think he did this?”
Wyatt had already considered that scenario. “It’s possible.”
Lyman’s gaze was steady. “It’s possible you did it, too.”
“From your point of view, I imagine it is. From mine, no.”
“Penelope’s my only kid. My wife and I lost two before we had her, and one after. We spoiled her, I admit it. We wanted her to have a mind of her own—” He took a breath, asserting his natural stoicism. “And by God, she does.”
Wyatt smiled. “That’s obvious.”
She emerged from her kitchen a little paler, a lot shakier. She had to grab the handrail on the way down, and it wasn’t because the steps were icy. Wyatt could see the unsteadiness, the shock registering of someone breaking into her place, searching her things. “Jeez,” she said, “the bastard even went through my underwear drawer.”
“We’ll catch him,” her father said, leaving it at that. She nodded, looking somewhat reassured. He wasn’t minimizing her fears—she was accustomed to his taciturn nature. If her father had fallen apart or gone into a rage, Wyatt thought, Penelope would have really worried. She expected that stoicism, was comforted by it.
“Anything taken?” Wyatt asked.
She shook her head. “Not that I can see. Granddad’s rifle, my gold jewelry—everything’s still there.”
Lyman frowned, jerked a thumb at her house. “They going to be in there long?”
“Pete’s debating whether or not to dust for prints. He doesn’t think he’ll find any, and since nothing’s been stolen and no one was hurt, it’s not that high a priority.”
Lyman drew his mouth into a straight line. “I don’t want you staying here by yourself. Go down to the inn and stay with Harriet or come up to the house and stay with your mother and me. And why the hell did you get your grandfather’s rifle out? You going to tell us that?”
McNally’s brows drew together. “Good point, Lyman.”
Penelope, however, wasn’t going to tell them about the vaguely threatening messages—yet. Wyatt would talk to her and perhaps insist. But right now, with the police and her father breathing down her neck, she focused on where she’d sleep. “I’m not going to be run out of my own home.”
Her father bit off an annoyed huff, one more in a long series of toe-to-toe battles with his daughter. “You want to be asleep in your bed next time this guy comes around? Eh? Is that what you want?”
Wyatt shook his head in amazement. “The more scared and worried you two are, the more you yell at each other.” They both turned and glared at him, and he laughed. “I knew that’d unite you. Penelope, if your police pals are finished with you, I’d be happy to drive you to town for something to eat before your blood sugar bottoms out. Your father can take your truck to the airport, and I’ll drop you off when we’re finished. How does that sound?”
She opened her mouth to protest—just because she was in the protesting mode—but shut it and nodded. “That sounds fine.”
Her father’s eyes widened. “Just like that?” He turned to Wyatt and gave a short laugh. “You Sinclairs.”
“I’d like to wait here a little longer,” she said, more subdued but far from meek.
Wyatt nodded. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She attempted a smile. “Why don’t I find that comforting?”
Oh, but you do, he thought. If her father wasn’t standing there, he’d have said it. But it didn’t matter—he’d tell her later. Because what worried her right now, maybe more than having her house broken into and someone sending her peculiar messages, was how comforting she found his presence to be.
Penelope couldn’t stop shaking. It was almost like the time Andy McNally had pulled her out of the lake and she shivered so badly she loosened a tooth. But she was twelve then, and she’d had hypothermia. To his credit, Wyatt didn’t comment.
When they arrived at the Sunrise Inn, they found Jack Dunning chatting with Harriet at the front desk.
“Harriet just told me about the break-in,” Jack said.
He’d addressed Penelope, but Wyatt said, “I hope it wasn’t your doing.”
Jack shrugged. “I’m not that subtle.” He gave Penelope an unsubtle wink. “Maybe you ought to come clean about what you found in the woods.”
“The break-in wasn’t necessarily related—”
“Bullshit. You know it was. So do the police and everyone else in town.”
His tone was matter-of-fact and very certain, the professional at work. Penelope didn’t take offense. “It might be indirectly related. My name’s been all over the media—it could have prompted someone to see what they could find of interest in my home.”
“But they didn’t steal anything,” Jack pointed out.
Penelope figured Harriet must have gotten the whole story from Andy, then told Dunning. She said, “That’s because I’m not a rich woman. I don’t have anything worth stealing.”
Dunning leaned toward her, his gaze direct and unflinchingly to the point. “That’s because they didn’t find directions to Frannie and Colt’s plane. Think about taking Wyatt or me out to the crash site, Miss Chestnut. Take your father, take a friend. I don’t think you want to be the only person around here who knows where that plane went down. Whoever ransacked your house today could be ready to play hardball. Who knows what he’ll do next.”
She swallowed, her throat dry, tight. A quick glance at Wyatt told her he agreed with his father’s hired detective, if not his rough tactics. She inhaled through her nose, tilted her head. “You mean he might put a gun to my head and force me into the woods?”
“That’s one scenario. There are others. Put a gun to Harriet’s head, your father’s, your mother’s. I’m sure there are a variety of ways to motivate you.”
“Why? It’s just a missing plane. I know two people were killed, but it’s not as if they robbed a bank before they took off!”
“That’s enough, Jack,” Wyatt said quietly.
“Just want to be clear here.”
“You were clear.”
Harriet had gone pale. She said to Penelope, “I’m keeping a room available for you tonight. Your mother—she’s gone up to your house—”
“Good, she’ll see Pop and he’ll calm her down before I have to deal with her. How’d she take it?”
“With her usual stiff upper lip.”
Jack grinned. “You Yankees,” he said and rolled toward the side door. “I think I’ll take a ride out to your place, Miss Penelope, and see if I can be of any service.” His humor reached his eyes. “No charge.”
He headed out the door, and Penelope turned to Wyatt. “If you want to go with him, go ahead. I’ll be fine here. Harriet can drive me out to the airport later on. I kind of like the idea of you keeping an eye on that guy.”
“You don’t trust him?”
“I don’t like him. There’s a difference.”
Wyatt laughed. “No one likes Jack. That’s one of his charms.”
Harriet made a mew of protest. “He’s been nothing but a gentleman toward me.”
“That’s because you’re not lying to him,” Wyatt said.
Harriet looked awkward and uncomf
ortable, but Penelope didn’t come down on Wyatt for his implication that she was a liar. She was a liar. But she’d waffled before. She was convinced she needed to be extra careful about changing her story a second time. She needed to think things through, not react to whatever was being thrown at her. The messages, the break-in, Wyatt, Jack—together, they compelled caution, thinking before she acted. She wanted to be deliberate and do what was right when it was right, not leap from impulse to impulse.
And what was this morning, she asked herself, if not responding to an impulse?
It was doing what was right when it was right.
“You look as if you have a lot on your mind,” Wyatt said. “I’d like to talk to Jack. You’ll be all right?”
She attempted a quick smile. “If Harriet has any Indian pudding left, I’ll be just fine.”
Harriet touched her arm. “Do you want it warmed up with a scoop of vanilla ice cream?”
“Sounds like lunch to me.”
After Wyatt left, Harriet whispered to Penelope, as if someone might hear, “You sure you don’t want to follow Jack and Wyatt? You don’t seem to trust them—”
“It’s not a question of trust, Harriet. Right now I just want food. Besides, Pop has my truck. I’ll let all the men-folk do their thing. Dust for fingerprints, examine footprints, pontificate on the peculiarities of my life-style. They’ll give up after a while. Then I’ll go back up and make sure they didn’t miss anything.”
Harriet peered at her. “You don’t seem very upset for someone whose house was just ransacked.”
“Oh, I’m upset. I’m just not going to give Pop, McNally, Pete, Sinclair and that jerk Jack Dunning the satisfaction of falling apart in front of them, which I would do if I don’t get my Indian pudding and a few quiet minutes to think this thing through.”
“I don’t know why you have such a strong negative reaction to Jack. He’s been nothing but a gentleman to me. Of course, he has a job to do, and if he perceives you as being in the way, I can understand if he gets a little impatient. Well, I suppose there’s nothing you can do, provided you’re not lying—”
“Ah,” she said, “there’s the rub.”
Harriet snapped her mouth shut. After a few seconds she inhaled through her nostrils and said, “I’ll put two helpings of Indian pudding in the microwave.”
Thirteen
“S o what did you do, Jack,” Wyatt said, “ransack Penelope’s house to put the fear of God into her?”
“Wish I’d thought of it. I think some little creep’s got it in for her. Either he’s having fun or there’s a larger purpose.” He eyed Wyatt. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
Jack didn’t know about the threats. Neither did the police. Wyatt debated how long he’d give Penelope to come to her senses and tell all before he took the bull by the horns. “It’s not my place to say. Jack—this may be nothing, but I’m fairly certain my father hasn’t told me everything about my uncle’s plane crash or his affair with Frannie Beaudine. Do you think he’s holding back on you, as well?”
“I always work from that assumption.”
They were in Jack’s car, driving fast over the bumps, ruts, potholes and frost heaves. The sun and snow had done a job on Penelope’s dirt road, making it almost impassable. Wyatt decided he shouldn’t believe nine-tenths of what Jack told him.
“The girl’s in over her head,” Jack said.
Wyatt sighed. “I know it.”
Jack pulled in behind Penelope’s truck. Her father was still pacing in her driveway. He’d pulled his cigar out of the snow and had it lit, his wife waving a hand, batting away the smoke as she talked to him. Wyatt quickly got the gist of what she was telling him. Their daughter was a menace to herself and everyone else and needed therapy, peace, quiet. What she didn’t need was a Sinclair and a private detective badgering her. “And put that thing out, you’re going to get cancer of the lip.”
“These people,” Jack muttered beside Wyatt.
When she came up for air and noticed them, Robby Chestnut had the self-possession not to look embarrassed, if not happy, either. “The police would like to talk to both of you.”
“Good,” Jack said, “I want to talk to them.”
Lyman regarded Wyatt, cigar stump still in his mouth. “Where’s my daughter?”
“Having Indian pudding with Harriet. Any news here?”
“No. Andy’s checking up the road for witnesses. This time of year, you don’t get many people up this way. He’s got it in his head that a few hours later his daughters could have been here helping Penelope with her maple sugaring and they’d all have gotten themselves killed.”
“That’s a leap.”
“He’ll get over it. Right now he’s not a happy man.” He turned to his wife, his expression softening. “Robby, I’ve got to get back to the airport. You sticking around?”
“For a few minutes,” she said tightly. “I hate this, Lyman. If she really did find that plane, or if someone refuses to believe she made a mistake—” She shuddered, obviously thinking things she didn’t want to be thinking. “But I don’t know what difference it could possibly make. It’s not as if Colt and Frannie robbed a bank and there’s a million dollars sitting up in their plane. It was a tragedy. All anyone will find is the wreckage and human remains.” She caught herself, winced at Wyatt. “I’m sorry. I forget Colt was your uncle.”
Wyatt acknowledged her apology with a nod. “Did you know him?”
She took a sharp breath, and suddenly he could see some of her daughter in her. “I knew Frannie, too, although not well. She had such energy and optimism—it was contagious. Her death touched us all. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” She skirted past him, making her way ably through snow, ice and mud to her car, which she’d parked alongside the road, not on the driveway.
“Your family weren’t the only ones left bereaved,” Lyman said, watching his wife’s retreating figure. He leveled his green eyes on Wyatt. “Frannie Beaudine had her faults, but she was well-regarded around here. A lot of people mourned her passing.”
“I understand.”
“Yep. I figure you do.”
Without further comment, he climbed into his daughter’s truck. Jack and the Cold Spring detective came out of the house, walked down the steps and around front. Wyatt went in the opposite direction, across the muddy dirt road. In one spot he sank to his ankles. He passed between two old maples with sap buckets hanging from taps and made his way into Penelope’s woods.
He had no trouble finding his way to Bubba Johns’s shack. This wasn’t the Amazon rainforest. There was no sign of the hermit, and Wyatt stood on the path, squinting against the brightening light and debating whether to have a look around the place. Under normal circumstances he wouldn’t consider it. But Bubba Johns had been spotted lurking around Penelope’s cabin, and Wyatt wanted to know why.
How the hell did an old man get away with living in the woods? Never mind that he’d set up housekeeping on Sinclair land—what about zoning, the IRS, the Census Bureau, the Board of Health?
Then again, this was Live Free or Die country, and Cold Spring was a small town where the people were willing to bend the rules for one of their own. Although they didn’t seem to know much about him, they obviously considered Bubba Johns one of their own.
Instead of going straight to the shack, Wyatt followed a footpath to the brook. He needed to think. Snow clung to rocks, clear water spilling around them. That was all he could hear, the sound of water. He closed his eyes a moment, listening, clearing his mind, breathing in the cool, clean air. He could smell the pungent evergreens, the wet, dead leaves along the edges of the brook where the snow had melted.
When he opened his eyes, a tall, thin, white-haired and white-bearded old man had materialized on the opposite bank. He wore overalls and a frayed wool shirt, and he leaned against a walking stick that was taller than he was. His gray eyes were level, neutral. Two big mutts panted at his side.
Bubba Johns.
&nbs
p; Wyatt decided to be formal and straightforward. “Mr. Johns, my name’s Wyatt Sinclair. I came up from New York after Penelope Chestnut said she’d found my uncle’s plane.”
“That’s got nothing to do with me.”
The hell it didn’t. Whatever happened in these woods, Wyatt instinctively suspected this old man would know about it. “She’s received threats—she hasn’t told the police yet, which makes me think she suspects you and wants to protect you, prove to you she’s going to keep her mouth shut.” But how could a hermit handle a computer, a fax machine? “Right now the police are at her house. Someone broke in and took a look around.”
“And you think that was me?”
“I don’t know. I’m keeping an open mind. No one believes her story about finding a dump. They think she found my uncle’s plane.”
Wyatt paused, but the old man said nothing, just stared at him with those penetrating eyes.
“My family owns this land. We have no quarrel with you staying here, provided you haven’t committed a crime.”
“And how would I prove that to you?”
“I figure you must know these woods pretty well. Even if you haven’t found the plane wreckage yourself, I bet you have a good idea where Penelope was on Sunday.” Using his toe, Wyatt rubbed the snow off a rock. “I’d like you to take me out there and let me see for myself. Maybe I can take some of the heat off her. I suspect someone’s trying to keep her off balance while they search for the wreckage. She’s not going to change her story again until she’s sure it won’t hurt anyone.”
“You’re a suspicious sort, Wyatt Sinclair,” the old man said.
Wyatt grinned. “Hell, you sound like half the women in my life.”
Bubba Johns smiled slightly and straightened, holding on to his walking stick with one hand. “I first saw Penelope stepping stones in this brook on a hot summer day. She’d wandered up from the lake—she was about ten. She was so caught up in what she was doing she didn’t realize how far she’d come.” The probing gray eyes fastened on Wyatt. “Sometimes she doesn’t realize the dangers around her, and she forgets how far she’s gone into the wilderness. Once, I had to lead her home.”
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