Past Suspicion (Christian Romantic Suspense)

by Therese Heckenkamp

  I knew the answer was no.

  So how could I escape?

  Yet how could I remain here to be tormented by fantastic illusions, out of a past that was not even my own? I hated feeling this way. I wanted to feel in control, not . . . not . . .

  Hopeless, whispered my mind, and the word sounded sinister. I shook myself, trying to control my imagination. I could not remain like this, working myself into a frenzy. I reached out and switched on the bedside lamp, closing my eyes and reopening them, trying to adjust to the glare.

  After a minute of staring unseeingly, I finally noticed the book on the nightstand. It had been lying there for days. So engrossed had I been in my own concerns that I’d forgotten about the Victoria Holt novel. Now, with a great sense of relief, I picked it up. Here, in these pages, I knew I could escape, turn myself over to someone else’s world, and with this temporary release, stabilize myself. Then, with my mind clear, maybe I would be able to think my own problems through.

  When I opened the book, my eyes caught on an inscription, which I had overlooked when I first found the book in my mother’s chest. The words were written in bold black ink on the inside title page:

  To my Tiffany on her eighteenth birthday, April 13, 1979. May your own life be filled with romantic adventure, and may you follow your dreams always, wherever they may lead you.

  Love, Christopher.

  Christopher. Christopher Renton.

  And it was signed love.

  I knew I would not sleep any more tonight.

  * * *

  How thankful I was that the next day was Saturday. I’d had an unrestful night, to say the least, and was relieved to be able to lie in bed for as long as I wanted. True, the bookstore was open on Saturdays, but my uncle had stressed from the beginning that I could have Saturdays off for a free weekend whenever I wanted.

  I wanted.

  The truth was, I didn’t feel like getting up and facing the day. In fact, I didn’t feel like getting up ever again. I pulled the sheets over my head, but even as I lay there under the blankets, I had no peace. Thoughts churned through my mind, scraping and grinding like malfunctioning gears.

  I finally figured I’d be better off if I got up and did something—anything—so long as it would distract my overactive mind. Dragging myself out of bed, I dressed, plodded downstairs, and ate a bowl of cereal. Stale as could be. No wonder I usually skipped breakfast. I returned to my room and stood at the window, feeling out of place in the big, silent, empty house. I noticed the lilacs below my window were starting to shrivel up, turning brown and ugly. “Good,” I said out loud.

  I turned to face my room. The unmade bed and clothes scattered across the floor told me it needed cleaning. On the desk, I noticed that the wedding photo of my parents was askew in its frame. For that matter, I realized, so were most of the pictures on the walls. I frowned, wondering if my uncle had been sneaking around my room, touching things.

  No. I had to be honest with myself. Though I didn’t know much about my uncle, I knew he wouldn’t do that. He minded his own business. So much so that I hardly knew he existed.

  I straightened the photograph, then the pictures, remembering how back home, Saturday had always been cleaning day. Recalling layers of dust on tables and shelves, I decided this whole house could use a good cleaning. From the looks of things, my uncle probably cleaned once a year at the most. And, as this was May, apparently he did not do it during spring-cleaning time.

  I went downstairs and turned on the living room stereo, tuned in to the only station I could find that was playing anything familiar, and turned up the volume. There, I told myself. That should keep me company and block out my thoughts.

  Once I began cleaning, I became ambitious, exterminating every speck of dust I could find, polishing the woodwork from the tables to the stairway banister, vacuuming the carpets, and sweeping the hardwood floors. Periodically, a familiar song played on the stereo, and I sang along.

  I felt more normal than I had in days.

  Finally, I surveyed my work with pride. Probably this house hadn’t looked so good in years. Probably twenty years.

  Tired, I sank into a worn, overstuffed living room chair and let my hands dangle over the sides. That was when I realized there was one thing I hadn’t done. It was silly, really—yet I couldn’t resist—it had always been my favorite part of cleaning. I used to look forward to it when I was little because I never knew what treasures I might find. My mother would tell me to reach my hand down the sides of the furniture to search for any small objects that had sunken in, and it always delighted me to find loose change, which my mother let me keep, or a long-lost toy, such as a doll’s comb or a little book.

  I wondered when the last time these pieces of furniture had been searched, if ever. The sofa and chairs looked old enough to have been in the house forever. I slid my hand into the depths of the first armchair. Ugh. My fingers recoiled at the touch of dry dust and matted hair. (I’d forgotten about this part of the job, and no wonder.) I felt carefully for any solid objects. Nothing. I felt along the other side.

  Aha! I came up with two coins: one, a very dull penny, the other, a 1975 dime. Pocketing the money (after all the work I’d done, I figured I’d at least earned eleven cents), I moved on to the sofa. Here, I found a pen and two more pennies. (So make that thirteen cents.) I searched down the side of the last armchair, which scratched me with its coarse brown cloth. My fingers brushed something cool and metallic, probably another coin.

  But no, it was the wrong shape. My fingers grasped and pulled up a small tarnished key. I turned it over in my hand, intrigued, wondering what it was meant to unlock. I’d begun imagining all sorts of possibilities when a loud pounding on the front door startled me, and I froze. Until I realized I had nothing to be scared of; why was I so paranoid? I crept forward, parted a curtain, and peeked through the front window to see who was standing on the porch.

  “Philip!” Pocketing the key, I opened the door and tried to act natural—I didn’t want him to know how psyched I’d been just because someone knocked on the door when I was home alone, as if I were a kindergartener.

  He stepped right in and gave me a quick hug. “Hi, Robin. I hoped you’d be here. I just wanted to stop in to see you—and give you these.” A bouquet of red roses appeared like magic from behind his back. He held them in my face, waiting for me to take them.

  “Oh!” was all I could say. No one had ever given me roses before. If they had, my mother probably would have sent them to a lab to be tested before she’d even let me smell them.

  The beauty of the roses choked me. “This is so sweet of you, Philip,” I finally managed, and I forgot any resentment I’d felt towards him for not helping me look for Christopher Renton. “Thank you. They’re absolutely gorgeous!”

  “Maybe,” and he gave me a wide smile, “but if you want gorgeous, look in a mirror.”

  I felt my face turn the color of the roses. Fumbling with the bouquet, I turned away. “I need to put these in water. Make yourself comfortable.” I led him into the living room, silently thanking myself for having cleaned the house.

  When I returned, Philip was leaning forward in the scratchy brown chair, facing me. I noticed the stereo was turned off. Now I could hear my thumping heart.

  “Brace yourself, Robin. I have something fascinating to tell you.”

  I waited, my heart pounding harder.

  Philip glanced over his shoulder. “The old geezer’s not around, is he?”

  I shook my head, assuming he meant my uncle.

  “Good.” Philip paused. Then he said, “I found it.”

  I stared blankly into his eager eyes. Eyes that looked as if I should know instantly what he was referring to. “You found it?” I repeated.

  “Yes. The letter—the letter that tells where the map is hidden—the map that shows where the gold is buried.”

  “But—how—”

  “I just kept thinking about your mother’s note, couldn’t get it o
ut of my mind.” Philip’s eyes blazed; I’d never seen him so excited. “So yesterday, I went back to the mansion—”

  “You were at the mansion yesterday? When?”

  “Does it matter?”

  I was thinking of my visit to the mansion with Justin. But Philip couldn’t have been there then—we would have seen his car. “No. I was just curious. Why didn’t you wait for me to help you search?” I was relieved he hadn’t. I wouldn’t have wanted to go with him. I had no intention of ever setting foot in that mansion again.

  Philip shrugged. “You worked yesterday. I couldn’t wait.”

  “So you searched through all those books—by yourself?” I asked, incredulous.

  Philip smiled. “I was lucky. I only had to go through three shelves before I found it. All it took was a little common sense.” He tapped his head. “How did the letter get in a book in the first place? I figured Connie left the letter in a novel she was reading. Then the book was found in her room, probably after she died, and simply returned to the library—maybe by a maid—and no one ever knew there was a letter between the pages.

  “So I asked myself what kind of novel Connie Ingerman would be interested in. Well—tastes don’t change that much—I thought of the kind you like to read. So I went through some romance novels. And I found the letter, still in its envelope.”

  “Amazing,” I whispered. “It sounds almost too easy.”

  Philip lifted an envelope and carefully drew out and unfolded a crinkled paper, which looked brittle enough to break at his touch. I knelt down beside the chair to get a closer look. The paper was so yellowed, the small curly writing so faded, I could hardly make out the words.

  “Don’t try to read it all,” Philip said. “It’ll take forever.” He pointed about a third of the way down the page. “Start here—this is where it gets interesting.”

  They ask me where the map is, but I shall never tell. I have hidden it, as John asked, and my promise to him means more than anything else. I loved him, and now I have lost him. All because of gold and greed—evil things. I care not for money. John’s gold is not worth what it cost both him and me, and I want no more to do with it. We did not need gold for our happiness; it was the gold that destroyed our happiness. Joyfully would I forfeit all I have if it would bring my John back. Alas, that can never be. As for the map, I hate it. I wanted to destroy it, but could not bring myself to do so, because that would mean breaking my promise to John, who asked me to keep it for him until he came back. He is never coming back, I know. Each morning when I awaken to a new day, I have to remind myself of this.

  Thus while I have kept my promise to John—hiding the map where it is close and secure—I have put it in a lowly place, where I will never have to look upon it again, where every day it will be treated as it deserves, trodden upon, forgotten… But I am rambling. Forgive me; I shall say no more of the map.

  Dear Stephanie, I know I can trust you. You care no more for gold than I, for you have found something worth far more: true love—as I, too, had . . . though for far too short a time.

  I wish you all the best for the future,

  Connie Ingerman

  “She practically spells out the map’s location,” Philip broke in, apparently figuring I’d finished reading the clue by now. He started folding the letter. “She hid the map under the floor.”

  I blinked a few times. My throat felt strangely tight, and my voice sounded unnatural when I spoke. “I wonder why she never mailed this—”

  “So I got down on my hands and knees on the floor of her room, the rose room, and I came to an edge where the carpet wasn’t secured. I slid my hand under the carpet, and do you know what I found?”

  “Why, the map—”

  “No.”

  I frowned, confused.

  “Hear me out,” Philip said, obviously delighting in stretching out the climax. “The map wasn’t there. But it used to be. What I did find is this—”

  He lifted his arm and dangled a silver bracelet before my eyes. It shifted and caught the light, winking at me.

  “It’s your mother’s. See the initials? T.H.”

  I practically snatched the bracelet from him. I turned it over affectionately, then let it rest in my palm as I stroked the smooth, slender chain, thinking, This was my mother’s. She wore it when she was my age . . .

  “Robin,” Philip’s voice shattered my tender thoughts, “your mother already found the map.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Philip’s words didn’t sink in right away. I sat on the carpet at his feet, staring at the bracelet curled in my palm. A coldness spread over me, but I didn’t shiver. It came like a slow freeze, spreading through my bones, my blood, my skin. When I spoke, I couldn’t feel my lips.

  “But that’s impossible.” I tried to laugh, but all that came out was a dry rasp. “My mother couldn’t find a treasure map. She couldn’t even find her own sunglasses on top of her head—”

  Philip didn’t laugh.

  “The map was there, Robin. And now it’s not. Face facts. Your mother read the letter. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out where the map was hidden. Since she had a key to the mansion, it would have been a cinch for her to get inside and search for the map. It only makes sense that she’d look for it. Heck, we should have realized that right away. But the bracelet’s the final proof—it proves she reached under the carpet—”

  “But she would notice if her bracelet came off—”

  “Why should she? She found a treasure map! I would imagine she’d be rather preoccupied.”

  “You don’t have to be sarcastic! It’s easy for you to surmise all this, but it doesn’t mean that’s what happened.”

  Philip’s voice remained calm. “Don’t try to deny it, Robin, it won’t do you any good. The map is gone. That’s your mother’s bracelet you’re holding. Put two and two together and the outcome is obvious.”

  But no matter how obvious it looked to him, I couldn’t believe it—didn’t want to believe it. Perhaps because I knew what it meant. More secrets, more lies.

  “I know this is a shock. But it’s also a wonderful discovery. Think of what it means . . . for us.” Philip leaned forward, his voice almost a whisper. “We’re closer to the treasure map than anyone.”

  “But it’s gone!” I cried, exasperated. “You said yourself that my mother took it!”

  “Think, Robin, think!” Philip’s eyes drilled into mine. “What do you think happened after your mother found the map? What did she do with it? We know about her accident, but what did she do with the map? There was never anything in the newspapers about finding a treasure map on her, and that would have been big news. So if she didn’t have it on her, she must have put it somewhere—hidden it—between the time she found it and the accident. Then when she fell, she got amnesia—”

  “And didn’t remember!” I broke in, suddenly enlightened.

  “Which means the map is still where she hid it.”

  I groaned. “But this is no better than when Connie hid the map. It could be anywhere!”

  Philip grabbed my hand.

  “No,” he said, almost viciously. “No. This is a million times better, because now we’re certain there is a map. And you—you’re your mother’s daughter.” His voice lowered to an unrecognizable level. “You can find it.”

  I blinked.

  “You can,” Philip repeated. “Say you will.”

  “I—I can’t promise anything . . . ”

  “But you’ll try?” His hands tightened on mine.

  “Of course I will—”

  “And you will tell me if you find anything? Right away?”

  “Yes.”

  Philip smiled at me, his eyes sparkling wildly. “This is real excitement, Robin. Could you ask for a better adventure? And we’re in it together—don’t forget!” He pulled me up from the floor so that we stood only inches apart, facing each other, looking deep into each other’s eyes. “Do you know what this could mean—for both of us?�
� He didn’t wait for an answer. “You’ll be eighteen soon. You’ll be free to do what you want with your life. Thousands of dollars could give us a good start, take us anywhere we want to go, California included. Think about it!” With that, he let go of my hands and headed for the door. “I’ve gotta go now, but I’ll be sure to call you tonight.”

  I stood breathless on the front steps, my brain pounding as he zoomed away. He had just described all that I had told myself I wanted: freedom, California, adventure and romance. So why did I feel so confused?

  Because it was too much, too fast.

  Inside the house, I could not stand the quiet. Silence overwhelmed me, clogging my brain so I couldn’t think. And there was so much to think about. About my mother and her past, about myself and my future.

  Philip had hinted at a future—a future with him. I turned this thought over tentatively in my mind. Philip and me . . . together forever.

  I decided to take a walk and clear my head with fresh air.

  But the air was damp and heavy, and before long my hair was clinging in sticky curls to my face and neck. Uncomfortable as this was, I soon forgot about it.

  My mother found the map. I repeated this to myself over and over. I hadn’t wanted to believe the words when Philip first said them—still didn’t want to—but deep down, I knew my denial only confirmed my belief. My mother had found the hiding place and the map was gone. There was no doubt in my mind that the bracelet, which I still held in my hand, was hers. I fingered the slender silver, slid my fingertips over the engraved letters. Then I put the bracelet on.

  Philip thought he had everything figured out, but one question remained. Where was the map now? What had my mother done with it? It was a question Philip expected me to answer. But how could I? I tried to think like my mother but realized I didn’t know how.