Past Suspicion (Christian Romantic Suspense)

by Therese Heckenkamp

  Time passed slowly. I found myself looking at my watch every ten minutes. Then, sorting through the donated box, I discovered a Victoria Holt novel. The memory came back to me of lonely Friday nights—nights when other teens were out on dates—when I’d curl up in bed with one of these Gothic suspense novels (you know, the kind in which the heroine gets herself into a dangerous situation which she should have foreseen), telling myself I didn’t care that I wasn’t out too. And once I started reading, I didn’t care.

  With its yellow, tattered pages, the book I held in my hands looked as if it had been read many times. I opened it carefully but the spine still crackled. I read the first chapter. Then I was hooked, as I’d known I would be. A good book was just what I needed to divert my mind from my disturbing morning. I shouldn’t have talked to Justin; I knew that now. Settling in a back corner, I shoved all thoughts of him to the most remote section of my mind. Dim light filtering through a dirty slice of window created the ideal reading atmosphere, and I was soon absorbed in another world.

  About halfway through the second chapter, bells jingled into my consciousness, breaking the book’s spell by announcing another customer’s arrival. I grumbled to myself and moved farther back in the corner, although my cobweb-laden hair and clothes later proved what a mistake that was.

  Because my uncle was still at his desk, and therefore technically “busy,” I knew I should go see if the customer wanted help. But I stayed where I was. I didn’t feel like helping some old lady find a book that she could just as easily find without me. A moment later, I wasn’t surprised to hear my uncle call, “Robin, we have a customer,” which I figured was his polite way of saying, “Get out here and help.”

  I closed my book, committing the page number to memory, and set it on the windowsill. If this old lady turned out to be half as fussy as the one who’d come in earlier, I wouldn’t get a chance to return to the book for quite some time.

  Now, the way I saw it, the chances of meeting two good-looking guys in one day in the same obscure bookstore were virtually nonexistent, so I was genuinely startled to discover this customer was a tall, blond-haired young man.

  I couldn’t help wondering if he had perhaps wandered into the wrong store. Maybe it was just the effect of his dashing bandit’s mustache (honest, on him it looked awesome), but I found it impossible to picture him reading a book—at least not for pleasure. What was he doing here?

  When he smiled at me, I had to reach out and take hold of the edge of the closest bookshelf. “Hi,” I said, slightly breathlessly, “can I help you?”

  “Sure can,” he replied, and for some crazy reason, I blushed. My eyes darted to my uncle, but he was once again absorbed in his papers. Gladly, I returned my gaze to the customer and found myself thinking how odd that I, who’d almost never spoken to a guy for more than two minutes—let alone without swarms of people around—had spent the morning with a good-looking guy, and now I was meeting another. This guy was more handsome than Justin, I noted, and bound to be less weird.

  I broke out of my thoughts to realize he was speaking. “I was thinking of picking up a mystery book. Something that’ll give me a chill, or better yet, keep me awake at night. Got anything that would qualify?”

  “Of course.” I turned to lead the way. “They’re here in back.” I led him to the last aisle, glad that I had dusted the shelves. “Are you looking for any title in particular?”

  “No, I think I’ll browse.”

  So there was no reason for me to hang around. “Just tell me if you need any help,” I said, thinking, At least I have my book to keep me company. As I picked it up, the young man turned to face me.

  “What do you have there?”

  I held it out for him to see. “I just started reading it,” I said, not knowing why I was telling him this.

  His eyes skimmed the jacket. “Romantic suspense . . .” His eyes met mine with bold directness. “That’s what you like to read?”

  I tightened my hold on the book. “Maybe,” I said. “I like it so far.” This guy was making conversation, and I told myself his attention should make me happy, but instead, a strange weariness swept over me. I was tired of answering questions that were no one else’s business.

  The man was still talking. “. . . adventure and treasure and far away places . . . Those things are great in books, but they’re even better in real life.” A knowing smile spread across his face. “Some people sit around and dream about those things.” He paused, looking me straight in the eye. “Other people go out and find them.”

  I blinked. What a strange thing to say. I was about to ask him what he meant, but suddenly I didn’t need to. The words slid together and made sense, perhaps simply because he had spoken them.

  It must have been the mustache. I’d seen handsome heroes wearing mustaches like that in old movies and in novels. It made me imagine this guy as some kind of an adventurer, almost like someone out of a book himself. A buccaneer. Maybe even a prince. He had a look about him that suited the past, the time of pirates and treasure and treasure maps.

  “Oh, any old book will do, I guess.” He pulled a leather-bound volume from the shelf and gave me an amused smile, in which his lip lifted slightly and one corner of his mouth turned up. On anyone else it would have looked like a sneer. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

  I raised my chin. “That depends on whether I have anything to say.” I saw he was holding a copy of Daphne du Maurier’s Jamaica Inn, a book I had read and enjoyed very much. I nodded toward it. “Do you want to buy that?”

  “Is it any good?”

  “I liked it.”

  “Will I?” His gray eyes glinted teasingly.

  “How should I know? I don’t even know you.”

  “You could get to know me.”

  I ignored his words, though I knew my face, growing warmer every second, gave me away. “You won’t know whether you like it until you read it.”

  “You’re so serious,” he said, “but very logical.” Was that supposed to be a compliment? “I’ll probably never read this.” He tossed the book into the air and made an impressive catch. “I never read books for pleasure.”

  I raised my eyebrows, but I’d caught the humor in his eyes and couldn’t help smiling. I wondered if my uncle had seen the book sailing through the air. “Then why in the world did you waste your time coming here?”

  “Ah—but it wasn’t a waste of time,” he said solemnly. “I met you, didn’t I?”

  The meaning of his words was unmistakable. Unfortunately, I had no idea how to answer, no skill in this sort of situation as I knew some girls did. I’d hear them flirting in the halls and in the lunchroom—couldn’t help overhearing—and I always wondered how the girls knew exactly what to say. If they learned it in high school, it was in a class I never took. Again, I ignored his words.

  But I was attracted to him. He’d already proven himself friendly and funny, not to mention handsome, and I wanted him to like me. Now don’t get carried away, I warned myself. You don’t even know him. Now I wasn’t thinking logically . . . all friends start off as strangers. All people are strangers until you get to know them. If I never give anyone a chance, I’ll never have any friends! I thought, completely forgetting my resolution to remain friendless in this town.

  “I saw you come in here this morning. I rent one of those shacks across the street,” he explained. For a moment I was confused; my mind didn’t flash a picture of any shacks across the street. Surely I would have noticed— Then I realized he was exaggerating. “I usually see the old guy come in by himself. But today you were with him, and I thought to myself, ‘Hey, there’s a pretty girl I’d like to meet.’”

  “He’s my uncle,” I explained, ignoring the fact that I was blushing again.

  With a little prompting, he got me to tell him the whole story of why I was here in Lorens and what I was doing working in this bookstore. I glanced around our dim surroundings and attempted a laugh. “This sure wasn’t my choice—co
ming here.”

  “Kinda like a dungeon, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Exactly.” At least he understands me, I thought, and doesn’t argue my every word. Unlike a certain reporter.

  He told me his name was Philip Barnstrum, and that he was new in town, too. Why was he here? Simply because he’d never been here before. I liked that.

  “But I don’t know how long I’ll be staying,” he said. “Depends on when I get the urge to move. I never stay in one place very long if I can help it. There are too many places to go, things to do and see . . . if you know what I mean.”

  I knew exactly what he meant.

  It was amazing, the strong response Philip evoked in me; he knew just what to say. Listening to him talk about places he’d been, I couldn’t help envying him his freedom. But I’d be eighteen soon. I just had to keep reminding myself that. Soon I’d be free to do whatever I pleased. Though just what I wanted to do, I wasn’t sure yet. I’d never really wanted to go to college; my dreams did not lie in the direction of math or science or other cataloged disciplines. But I did love my art. “A waste of time,” my mother had insisted, but I knew it wasn’t. My mother had always acted as if I would certainly go to college, but I’d never intended to, not when there was a world waiting for me to explore. Now, realizing my mother no longer stood in my way, the full reality of my impending freedom sent my blood surging with new force.

  I forgot to be defensive and actually enjoyed talking to Philip; he made it easy by asking most of the questions. Not questions like he was drilling me, but conversational questions, asked by someone who had a natural, friendly interest in me. Relaxing, I leaned against a bookshelf and even made some of the books fall. Both scrambling to pick them up, Philip and I knocked heads. After the stars cleared, we laughed.

  By the time I realized the narrow shaft of sunlight on the floor had shifted into oblivion, I felt as if I’d known Philip for years.

  “So, do you want to buy the book?” I finally asked, reluctant to end the conversation and see Philip go. But I was aware of my uncle at the front desk, and though he couldn’t see me, he probably knew I hadn’t been talking books all this time. Even the fussy old lady hadn’t spent so long. I was afraid my uncle might not pay me for my time if I didn’t start working. And anyway, if the vibes I was getting were correct, this wouldn’t be the last time I’d see Philip.

  “I sure do. Like I said, I’ll probably never read it, but if I want to, it’ll be there.”

  “That’s what I like about books,” I said, walking to the front of the store to ring up the sale. “They’re reliable. Not like people.”

  Philip smiled, showing perfect teeth. “Well, here’s something you can rely on: I’ll be seeing you again soon, and that’s a promise.” He took the book, flashed me one last worthy-of-treasuring smile, and left.

  From where I stood at the cash register, I watched him through the front window as he disappeared down the street. I was sorry he hadn’t asked for my phone number. Then I smiled, realizing I didn’t even know my number. No matter. Philip would find me again if he wanted to. Of that I had no doubt.

  “You know that young man?” my uncle asked, looking up from his desk across the room. His tone sounded impartial enough, but it didn’t fool me. The question still resembled the start of one of my mother’s cross-examinations.

  “I do now,” I said.

  Chapter Four

  Philip Barnstrum. Throughout the day I thought of his name, and it never failed to set my pulse quickening. I didn’t even try to tell myself I wasn’t eager to see him again.

  Now that I’d found someone to relate to, I no longer felt like a prisoner, and the self-pity I’d felt earlier vanished. As the day wore on, I even began to feel like being nice to my uncle. The truth was, I felt ashamed of the way I’d treated him. He didn’t deserve the grudge I was holding against him; it wasn’t my uncle’s fault that I’d had to come to Lorens. Since he was my only living relative, I guess he hadn’t had a choice in the matter, either. Maybe he hated my being here as much as I did.

  But he didn’t seem to. I almost wished he did, because that would have made it easier for me to hold a grudge.

  As my uncle and I walked homeward that evening after locking the store at exactly five o’clock, I had my chance to start a conversation and set things right between us. Only problem was, I didn’t know what to say. So we walked on without speaking, our footsteps making a dull rhythm on the sidewalk.

  I turned my attention to the scenery, the quaint homes and yards. I saw a veranda that looked set up for company with charming white wicker furniture and a wooden porch swing. The house itself reminded me of an overgrown dollhouse. Little colored glass bottles stood lined up in the front window, glimmering. On her knees, a woman whistled a merry tune while working in her front garden. Most lawns were sprinkled with bright dandelions, and blossoming trees and bushes grew everywhere. Palm trees were the only thing missing.

  When we passed a blooming wall of lilacs, my eyes were drawn to the purple clusters of little star-shaped flowers. Their fragrance floated into my nostrils, stirred my memory. It was what had touched me last night when I had smelled the clean sheets. But I had fallen asleep too quickly to grasp it, this something that had been lingering in the back of my mind for more than a week . . .

  I had been with my mother that last evening when a nurse entered the hospital room with a bunch of lilacs. Someone had sent them to my mother as a gift. The card read: From an old friend. That was all. It had puzzled me for a moment, and then I had forgotten about it. Greater worries were on my mind. My mother had grown worse. The doctor had done all he could, and I knew my mother was dying. I called our priest, and he came to give her the last rites.

  I stayed by my mother’s side all that night as she wandered in and out of consciousness, mumbling strange things. Sitting beside her, listening, I wondered where she was. It sounded like she was far away, in another place and time, but every once in a while her mind floated back to me.

  “Robin?” she’d say, and I would take her icy hand, as if by doing this I could keep her thoughts with me. “I’m sorry—so sorry. I tried . . .” And she’d be gone again.

  I stroked the damp, dark hair back from her forehead, the way she used to stroke my hair when I was little, before I asked her to stop because I thought I was too old for such affection.

  “Christopher?” my mother called out desperately. “Robert?”

  Robert was my father. Who was Christopher?

  “Please . . . just away, away . . . ”

  She didn’t speak again for so long that when she did, I had no idea whether or not she was on the same train of thought.

  “No—I don’t know—stop!—you’re scaring me!”

  I drew my hand away from her forehead. She was scaring me.

  At one point, I must have been dozing. My heart jumped when she grabbed my hand and whispered, “Don’t trust anyone . . . He wants it . . . won’t ever give up . . .”

  I could hardly be human if I said her words didn’t frighten me, there in the dead of night with medical machines blinking red lights in the blackness of the room.

  “. . . take care of you . . . let him . . .” Her words dissolved into a sigh. In the darkness, I saw the whites of her eyes, saw them glaze over before closing.

  “Peter, I know it’s growing like a weed . . . rhubarb always does . . .”

  The name Peter meant nothing to me. It meant as much as all her other delirious rambling. Christopher and Peter—were they the names of people from her past? I had no way of knowing. Was she reliving some part of her past? I’d heard people do that sometimes when they are nearing the end.

  It chilled my insides, but it also frustrated me, the fact that if my mother was reliving her past, it was a past I knew nothing about. Somehow my mother had always managed to avoid the subject. I’d never realized it until this night, when it struck me and set me wondering, wondering about my mother’s life before I was born. I wanted my
mother to answer my questions, but it was too late to ask.

  “Rhubarb pie . . . your favorite, Peter.” I think she smiled. I strained to hear more. “I’ll bake one . . . tomorrow . . . ”

  She didn’t, though.

  Three o’clock that morning, my mother died.

  Now tears prickled my eyes, and I detested myself for remembering all this and bringing back the suffering of that night. I wondered if I would ever be able to forget.

  I blamed the lilacs for starting these disturbing thoughts, and that card that had read: From an old friend. My mother didn’t have any friends. I bit my lip. Well, she knew a few people from church and maybe from her housekeeping job, but an old friend? My mind drew a blank. I knew nothing about any old friend. Because I knew nothing about my mother’s past—it always came back to that.

  Guilt washed over me in a sudden, overwhelming wave. I gulped for air while my mind floundered for excuses, but the guilt only grew stronger. I didn’t know anything about my mother’s past, but I should. Here I was in her hometown, living in her old home with her brother—it made me feel obligated, somehow, to find out what I could.

  I told myself I should be eager to do this, yet something stirred uneasily, deep inside me at the thought.

  My uncle and I had long since passed the lilacs, but they had done their damage. The evening air slid over my skin like a clammy hand, making me shiver.

  I glanced sideways at my uncle. Ask him, I commanded myself. He’s your mother’s brother. He’ll be able to answer your questions.

  But my tongue wouldn’t move.

  My uncle and I had an employer-employee relationship at most, and I had my own cool behavior to thank for that. As we walked, I kept peeking at him from the corner of my eye, trying to determine what kind of person he was. He was an excessively ordinary-looking man, somewhat short, a little overweight, hair brushed with gray. He could be anywhere from early forties to late fifties—I couldn’t tell. And I couldn’t read his eyes behind the little round glasses. When it came down to it, I guess the only thing I did know about my uncle was his name: Peter Hutch. Mrs. Gills had told me that much. With a start, I only now connected the name. Peter—my uncle must be the Peter of my mother’s memories.