Past Suspicion (Christian Romantic Suspense)

by Therese Heckenkamp

  “Something to indicate—that maybe it wasn’t an accident.” The words came out on their own, startling me. Then I realized this suspicion had been in my mind, fermenting steadily ever since reading that detective’s statement about considering the possibility of foul play. Now I was considering it, and my words caused a tense silence that even the sweet strains of music could not fill.

  “Robin,” Philip said, taking my hand, “how’d you ever get an idea like that? Surely not from the articles.”

  “They did mention the possibility of foul play.”

  “Mentioned? Possibility? That doesn’t sound like much.” Philip frowned. “Robin, don’t do this to yourself, don’t search for more heartache. You’ve got to let this go.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  When Philip spoke, he sounded more serious than I’d ever heard him. “I’m afraid you might be latching onto this because you don’t want to face the truth—”

  “But that’s just it!” I almost pulled my hand away. “No one knows the truth! No one knows what really happened. No one but my mother—and she couldn’t remember. So the newspapers just published what they assumed happened, and that was the end of it.”

  “I see.” Philip picked up his glass as if to drink from it, rotated it while staring at it, then set it back down with a clunk. “And you, Robin—you don’t think that’s the end of it?”

  “No. Yes. I don’t know.” I stood up, shaking my head. “I’m sorry, Philip, but this is all very confusing.”

  Philip pushed out his chair and hurried around the table to my side.

  “Of course it is, Robin, and I understand.” Did he? I searched his eyes as we stood together under a dim, multicolored-glass hanging lamp and was touched to see just how serious they were. He really cared. In the midst of my disordered feelings, I felt as if I were being given a rare insight into Philip’s character.

  “The way it happened is too suspicious,” I tried to explain, not only to Philip but also to myself. “How could my mother just fall? She wouldn’t be that careless. She wasn’t a careless person.”

  “It could happen.”

  “Then why didn’t people think that when Connie Ingerman fell?” I didn’t wait for an answer. “Because everyone had already formed their conclusions. They knew she’d lost her love, so they decided that was a reason for her to commit suicide.”

  “Are you saying your mother tried to commit suicide?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Sorry, I thought that’s what you meant.”

  “What I mean is, it’s like people just make their own conclusions, whatever suits their fancy at the time, and then it sticks—like fact—when it isn’t fact at all. What if the answer isn’t always the obvious one?” My voice had grown loud and my face, hot. People turned to stare.

  Philip ignored everyone else and concentrated on me. “Well, if you want to look at things in a different way,” he said, his voice lowering, “have you asked yourself why your mother kept her accident a secret from you all these years?”

  “Of course I’ve asked myself that . . .” I let the sharp words fade into silence.

  “See, I don’t quite understand.” Philip hesitated. “To me, above anything else you’ve told me, that’s what strikes me as the strangest. Why did she keep all this from you? What else was she hiding?”

  I studied his face before answering. “Philip, what are you getting at?”

  “Well, if she didn’t tell you the truth—what’s to say she told anyone the truth? What’s to say your mother really had amnesia? What’s to stop her from lying about that, too?”

  “Don’t say that!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I sat back down. “I’m sorry, too.” My voice was quiet. I didn’t want to be angry at Philip. What had happened wasn’t his fault. But I didn’t like the new suspicion he’d planted in my mind. I didn’t want to add more complications to an already confusing situation. “Why would my mother fake something like that?”

  “I’m not saying she did. Only, people can be funny. You can’t know what motives they might have hidden. They can seem perfectly normal, and you’d never suspect—”

  I dropped my head into my hands.

  “Maybe I’m going about this the wrong way. I want to help you, Robin.” I felt gentle fingers run over my hair in a soothing motion. “I’m not trying to frustrate you. Understand that. I’ll help you in any way I can. And if you’re looking for answers, probably the best place to start is already at your fingertips.”

  I lifted my head.

  “Your mother’s papers,” Philip continued, “the ones you told me about, her research papers.”

  “But I’ve already gone through them.”

  “I know. But how thoroughly? You said there were a lot.”

  “An overwhelming mess,” I admitted.

  “Then you might have missed something important.” Philip paused. “Tell you what. How about I help you search through them?”

  I pretended to study my fingernails. It was true I didn’t want to go through the papers by myself. That’s why I hadn’t touched them since that first evening. Having someone to go through them with me would keep me from becoming submerged in depression. And it was such a considerate offer. I wasn’t quite sure what we would be looking for, but Philip seemed confident this was the right thing to do, and that was good enough for me. “All right,” I finally agreed.

  “Great. How about I take you out for dinner again tomorrow night? I’ll come over early—say five?—and we can go through the papers first.”

  I almost said yes, but for some reason I thought of my uncle. I didn’t want to push things with him. “Let’s make it Thursday.”

  “Why?” Philip looked disappointed.

  “I—just need some time.”

  “I understand.” I was grateful he didn’t press the issue.

  “Now, how about a movie?” Philip asked, reverting to his carefree self.

  “As long as it’s something light and humorous. I’ve had enough drama for one evening.”

  Driving out of the parking lot, Philip cut a sharp turn past a parked Jeep. Spraying gravel, he barely missed making contact with the bumper.

  I let out my breath.

  “You weren’t worried, Robin, were you? You know me better than that.” Philip accelerated with a burst of speed. “I know how to handle this baby. You don’t think I’d be careless with her, do you? Heck, I probably had a whole two inches to spare!”

  * * *

  Not a single light lit the windows of the house when we pulled into the driveway, meaning my uncle had already gone to bed. This surprised me. I guess I was so accustomed to being under my mother’s constant watch that it was difficult for me to get used to the idea that no one was going to watch out for me like that anymore.

  Good, I told myself. That’s what I want.

  The moment Philip’s car stopped, I jumped out. Forcing my voice to sound cheerful, I called, “See you Thursday!” Then I let myself into the dark house and shut the door.

  * * *

  When Philip picked me up from the bookstore Thursday afternoon, I couldn’t wait to go through my mother’s papers. All day long my enthusiasm had been mounting until now I stood at the peak of optimism. Of course I had missed something important among all those papers, and whatever it was, Philip would help me find it.

  Leading Philip into the living room, I told him I’d bring the papers down, but he followed me upstairs. “We might find something else important in your mother’s room,” he explained.

  I gladly handed him the overflowing binder. He sat back in the desk chair to read. I sat on the bed, watching. Minutes ticked away as he sat silent, absorbed in the papers.

  “Listen to this,” he said finally, tapping a page. “Your mother really argues in favor of the treasure map. ‘No one has ever found the supposed map to John Ingerman’s buried gold, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. On the contrary, Connie Ingerman had no
reason to make up the story; her heart was for John, not his gold. Even the fact that no one ever saw the map is of little importance. If Connie’s sweetheart asked her to hide it, devoted as she was to him, of course that is what she would do.’”

  “Makes sense,” I said, tracing a quilt square with my finger. I began thinking about the possibility of the map still being hidden somewhere in the mansion. Then I caught Philip looking at me, his eyes alight.

  “The map exists.”

  “What?”

  “It’s just like she said—just like I told you. The map exists.” He waited for me to say something.

  “It sounds very likely,” I began, warily. We were speculating again about the map, and this wasn’t what we had started searching for. “But its existence doesn’t really change anything. I mean, if no one’s ever found it, what are the chances—”

  “Don’t you see, Robin? It’s like I told you before. If no one’s ever found it, that means it’s still where Connie hid it, which makes it all the more likely that we can find it. Someone will eventually. It might as well be us.” Philip spoke so fast, my thoughts could hardly keep up. “Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted, Robin? To search for a treasure? What an adventure, what a chance of a lifetime!”

  I could feel Philip’s enthusiasm infecting me, running through my veins, intoxicating me until the thrill threatened to force all other thoughts from my mind.

  “You’d know a treasure map if you saw one, wouldn’t you?” Philip asked.

  “Why—of course.” I faltered. True, I’d never actually seen one before, but why shouldn’t I recognize one if I saw one? I looked at Philip quizzically.

  “Good,” he said, returning to the papers.

  It seemed only a minute later that he said, “Robin.” I looked up, startled by his tone, to see him grasping a piece of loose-leaf paper. I leapt off the bed and joined him, reading over his shoulder a scribbled paragraph headed: “A Rumor No More.”

  In my investigation, I discovered a letter between the pages of a novel in the mansion’s library. This letter is important not only for its historical value, but also for the information it contains. The map exists! This letter, written by Connie Ingerman, proves it. And it hints at the map’s location.

  That was all.

  Philip broke the silence. “This is what we’ve been waiting for.” His voice lowered. “Now we have the chance that no one else has. This letter Connie wrote—it’s the key to it all.”

  “But we don’t have the letter.”

  Philip began fumbling madly through the papers, scattering them, mumbling, “It’s got to be here . . .” Suddenly he threw the papers to the ground. “Why doesn’t she have the letter!”

  I dropped to my knees and began shuffling the papers back together. “Maybe she left it where she found it—”

  “Why would she do a stupid thing like that?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not my mother! Maybe she couldn’t take anything out of the mansion, maybe—”

  “All right. Calm down.” Philip snatched the papers from me and continued reading. I dropped back onto the bed.

  Philip’s head jerked up. “What was that? It sounded like a door—”

  “It’s just my uncle,” I said. “He’s home from the bookstore. I guess I should run down and let him know what I’m doing tonight.” I got up reluctantly.

  “You do that.” He lifted the papers. “I’ll just finish looking through these.”

  I was back in about two minutes, stinging from my uncle’s suggestion that “you should bring your young man downstairs now that he’s had his tour of the house.”

  I flushed when I saw Philip had my sketchpad in hand. He must have found it in the desk. But he didn’t appear in the least concerned at having been caught with it.

  “These are real good,” he said, paging through. “You have talent.”

  “Thank you.” Apparently, he’d lost interest in my mother’s papers. They lay strewn across the carpet.

  He turned a page and came to my last drawing, the one of the ducks, and was about to close the pad when something stopped him.

  “What’s this?” he asked, pointing to the top of the page.

  “Oh,” I craned my neck and saw it was the name I had jotted down, Christopher Renton, “I almost forgot to tell you. That’s the name of the guy who found my mother after her fall.”

  Chapter Eleven

  At work the next day, I could not focus; I ended up shelving horror books with cookbooks and children’s books with romance. My mind was preoccupied with the previous evening. Philip and I had gone out to dinner, but I hadn’t enjoyed it much. All he wanted to talk about was the letter.

  “It’s sure to lead us to the map. We need to find it!”

  “How? We have no idea where it is.”

  “Yes, we do. Since your mother didn’t have it—and I don’t know why she didn’t just take it—”

  “Maybe because it didn’t belong to her—”

  Philip gave me an exasperated look, then continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “It must still be in a book in the mansion’s library.”

  “But you don’t know which book it’s in, and there must be hundreds!” Philip smiled, but I saw the determination in his eyes.

  “You don’t mean you’re going to look through them all!” “Whatever it takes. And you can help me.”

  In my mind appeared a bleak image of the mansion’s interior, the shadowy library and the stern portrait glaring down from the fireplace, and I didn’t answer.

  Philip hadn’t thought much of my Christopher Renton theory.

  “But he’s the one who found my mother after her fall,” I tried to explain. “If I could locate him and talk to him—”

  Philip shrugged. “You could try.”

  But since he didn’t offer any suggestions on how to go about doing this, I was left on my own. As I said, Philip’s thoughts were all for the map.

  My own thoughts turned to Justin. I couldn’t help remembering how he’d said he would help me, and how he’d helped me already. Would he help again? There was only one way to find out, and by noon Friday I found myself wondering if he’d be at the park having lunch as he’d claimed. Even as I made up my mind to find out, I wished there were some other way of going about this, because the idea of asking Justin Landers for help made my stomach turn.

  But since I couldn’t think of any other way, I hardened my feelings and went.

  He was there, sitting at “his” table, and before I came within ten feet, he turned to grin at me. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

  Groaning silently at his cocky attitude, I suppressed the urge to walk right past him. I reminded myself that I’d come here strictly on business and should act accordingly. Without a word, I drew a slip of paper from my pocket and held it out to him.

  “Nice to see you, too,” Justin said.

  I continued holding the piece of paper on which I’d written the name Christopher Renton. “This is the guy who found my mother after her—accident,” I began. “The article said he was her friend. I want to—”

  “So you think the next step is to trace this guy?”

  “Yes—”

  “How do you know if he still lives here? Or if he’s even alive? More importantly—what if he refuses to talk to you?”

  I thought Justin’s curtness was completely unnecessary. “I don’t know whether he’s alive or not. That’s what I need to find out. And he doesn’t live here—at least, he’s not listed in the phone book—and I won’t know whether he’s willing to talk to me or not until I locate him.”

  A smile spread across Justin’s face. “And you’d probably find a way to make him talk, even if he didn’t want to.” While I wondered if I should be offended by that comment, Justin glanced back down at the piece of paper and his smile faded.

  “Since you’re a reporter, I thought you’d know how to go about this sort of thing . . .” I waited for Justin to pick up the sentence. When he didn�
��t, I went on. “So I thought maybe you’d know where to go from here. Maybe you could—”

  “I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t promise anything.” Justin stood up, frowning at his watch. “I have to go.”

  “Oh.” I’d assumed he’d have plenty of time to talk. But, as usual, things weren’t going as expected. “Okay. When do you think you—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said, already walking away. “I’ll find you when I have something to tell you.”

  “Oh. Okay . . .” I faltered, wondering how he could be so sure. “Wait!” I yelled after him, suddenly realizing he hadn’t taken the piece of paper. I waved it in the air. “You don’t have the name—it’s Christopher Renton!”

  “I’ll remember!” he called over his shoulder.

  * * *

  On my way back to the bookstore, I nibbled on a sandwich, wondering whether I’d done the right thing. Could I rely on Justin? He might not bother to do anything, I thought. He certainly hadn’t seemed eager to help. I wiped my fingers on my jeans before entering the bookstore and returning to work.

  Who was I kidding, anyway—why should Justin make time to help me? Reporters were busy people, with deadlines to meet. Of course he wouldn’t want to get himself involved in my problems. Then I felt angry at him for leading me on. Last time, he’d acted as if he’d cared.

  Neither Philip nor Justin seemed to realize the importance of my find, and it became clear that if I was going to find out anything at all about this Christopher guy, I’d have to do it myself. With this in mind, I stopped in at the library at four-thirty (my uncle let me leave work early, thanks to my mention of a headache), and found a librarian.

  “I understand you only keep phone books going back five years. Can you tell me where to find books going back as far as, say . . . twenty years?” Waiting for her answer, I held my breath.

  “Oh, that’s easy,” the librarian said with a big smile, and I let out my breath. “We send them on down to the historical society. Do you know how to get there?”

  “No. Is it far?”

  “Oh, no. It’s only a block away. I’ll give you the address.” She wrote it down on a slip of paper and handed it to me.