“Go ahead.” He stretched his arms. “Take as long as you want. I don’t mind. In fact, I’m flattered.”
I only half heard him as I took up my pencil and began sketching. In shades of gray, a face took shape and features formed, slowly coming to resemble Justin. I was so deep in concentration that when he spoke, it was as if his words came piercing through a dream.
“What?” I asked absently.
“I said, have you made any progress in your search?”
I frowned, both because my concentration had been broken and because Justin had brought up the disturbing subject that for a while I had managed to forget.
“Maybe,” I answered, not looking up. Justin’s nose was giving me trouble.
“What does that mean?” He paused, then went on when he received no answer. “Robin, I want you to trust me. I thought you did—but if you don’t—if you don’t want to talk about it—”
“Don’t move,” I ordered, pretending to be engrossed in my drawing.
“Whatever you say,” and he fell back into silence.
But the damage was done. Justin had started my mind working and I couldn’t turn it off. What progress was I making? None. And Philip would be back tomorrow, demanding results . . .
Frustration returned. My pencil strokes grew darker under the increased pressure. I wanted desperately to break through this mystery. Only then could I be free. Because it was like Justin had warned me: I’d started this, and I couldn’t stop until I found answers, or I’d always be wondering, never at rest . . .
A plan began to form in my mind. Slowly at first, then bursting into existence like a firecracker. Mr. Hanson, the one who had employed Christopher Renton, still lived in Lorens. He had a bad back, but he was alive. I would find a way to meet the man, talk to him, and ask about Christopher. Even though I wasn’t sure how I would go about asking the questions, I wanted to try. Surely Mr. Hanson could tell me something I didn’t know. It was such a simple plan. Why hadn’t I thought of it sooner?
I laid down my pencil and studied my drawing critically. Though it was a fairly good likeness of Justin, it didn’t satisfy me. It wasn’t what I’d been striving for. I’d failed to capture his heart, his soul, his essence. But then maybe that just wasn’t possible.
“Very good, but you made me look better than I really do,” Justin said when I showed it to him.
As we retraced our steps around the pond, I wondered whether I should mention my plan. Justin might be able to give me some helpful suggestions on how to go about interviewing Mr. Hanson. Three times, the words to ask him were almost on my lips. The first two attempts, since I was unsure of how Justin would react, the words died with my courage. The third attempt, he spoke before I could.
“What made you mention Hanson’s Hardware this morning?” His voice was casual, but it put me on alert. I sensed it was a shield for real interest. True, Justin had saved me the trouble of broaching the subject, but why had he? Suspicion seeped through me like poison.
“I just made the connection.”
“Yeah, I heard you say that this morning.”
“You sound as if you don’t believe me.”
“I do. But I also think there has to be a reason for making that connection, and to mention it.”
“Why?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him smile. “I know you. And when you ask a question, you have a reason.” He shrugged. “You’re not a small talker.”
You know me too well, I thought.
“So tell me,” he said.
Why should I? I was struck by a fist of disappointment. Justin, too, had a reason for doing things. He had asked me to meet him at the park for a specific reason—to interrogate me—and I detested him for it and for luring me here in such a sneaky way. “Tell you what?” I asked, swatting at a butterfly that flew too near my face.
“Why you’re interested in Hanson’s Hardware.”
I’m not sure why I answered, maybe because I didn’t know what else to do. “Christopher Renton once worked there.”
“I figured it was probably something like that.” Justin’s voice was so low, it sounded almost as if he were talking to himself.
“I want to visit old Mr. Hanson . . . see if he can tell me anything—”
“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” Justin broke in, sounding suddenly angry. “You’re just going to keep digging and digging and digging—”
“So?” I asked indignantly, to cover my confusion. One moment you’re helping me, the next you’re against me. Make up your mind! “It’s my business. I have every right to dig if I want.” And don’t act so concerned—this is none of your business!
“Persistence can be a good thing—up to a certain point,” I saw Justin clenching and unclenching his hands, veins protruding over the muscles in his arms, “but you have to know when to let things rest. The past is finished. Stop looking back.”
I rolled my eyes, just waiting for him to start quoting something at me.
“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into—”
“I’m just going to talk to an old man. Where’s the harm in that?”
Justin grabbed my arm and stopped walking, so that I stumbled and almost fell. Justin didn’t seem to notice or care. “You’re doing this for that guy, aren’t you? Because you think you have to, to make him like you.” His eyes held mine. “He can’t make you, Robin. Tell him no. Don’t let him get you involved—”
“Involved?” I yanked my arm away. “I am involved! This is my mother I’m talking about. How dare you! I’m not doing this for anyone else. I’m only trying to find out about her past. Is that too much to want?” I fought the trembling in my voice and my body. “I thought you understood!”
To make him like you. The words burned in my heart. Was that the way Justin saw me? As such a pitiful person, no one would like me unless I served them, trying to earn a puppy-dog loyalty? How pathetic. I stalked away, my only thought being to put as much distance as possible between me and Justin.
“Robin!” He was at my side again, but I refused to turn and face him. “I’m not finished!” His tone was startlingly severe. “Listen to me!” I turned, almost afraid he’d grab me again if I didn’t, and glowered at him. “All I’m saying is, don’t get in over your head. Don’t do this for the wrong reasons. He’s only in this for the map. What do you know about this Philip guy, anyway? How do you know you can trust him?”
“Oh! Listen to yourself!” My laugh sounded almost hysterical. “How can you stand there and say that? You’re no better—I know at least as much about Philip as I know about you—and you think I should trust you. I don’t care if you are a reporter. That doesn’t give you special privileges or the right to do anything you want.” My knees were shaking, making it hard to stand, but the words kept coming. “You can’t tell me what to do. I’m not your responsibility—I’m no one’s responsibility—I can take care of myself!”
To make him like you. My mind would not let it go. “And if you think I’m so worthless that I have to buy friendship, then why do you keep bothering me? I don’t need you and I certainly never asked for you. I don’t want to see you again. Ever. So leave me alone.”
Justin’s voice dropped to a cold, quiet level. “I can’t.”
The reply was so unexpected, so contrary to how a normal person would react, that I backed away, sickly confused. Turning, I broke into a run.
I can’t. Those words beat in my head, driving my muscles.
I can’t. As much as those two words shook me up, it was the way he had said them that unnerved me the most. So icy that they froze my heart.
I can’t. Half an hour later, lying on my bed, my head still racing, I tormented myself over the meaning of those words. He couldn’t leave me alone? Maybe my uncle was closer to the truth than even he realized. What kind of person was Justin? I’d thought I was finally beginning to know him, but now I had to admit I wasn’t even close. He was frighteningly unpredictable, a
contradiction within himself.
In my head, I gathered incidents against him. Our first meeting. He had been waiting for me outside the bookstore; I was sure of it now. And all those questions he’d asked me. His parting words. And he’d turned up again and again: at the park, at Christopher Renton’s old place, during the storm, and today, at church. These meetings couldn’t be coincidences.
Or was I just overreacting, analyzing a crude statement made on impulse? Had he really meant those words, or had he said them simply because he wanted to shock me, knew how to provoke me, knew where my sensitivities lay and was taking advantage of them? Why was he torturing me like this?
I jumped up and grabbed my hairbrush from the dressing table. I pulled the brush fiercely through my hair, making it fluff out as wildly as a lion’s mane. Wryly, I thought how it matched my mood. I wasn’t going to let Justin or anyone else tell me what to do. I’d already made up my mind.
My uncle was napping in the living room, a newspaper over his face, when I crept downstairs and into the den where I located a telephone book and looked up “Hanson.” For that name, only one address in Lorens was listed: 203 Willow Street.
It was time for me to take a walk.
Chapter Eighteen
My heart was beating in my throat as I approached the clapboard house. There’s no reason to feel nervous, I reassured myself, I’m just making a neighborly call. And I decided the house, painted light gray and trimmed with dark green shutters, looked friendly. Delicate, lacy white flowers bordered the sidewalk. Yes, definitely friendly. Inviting, even.
I stepped onto the porch and pressed the doorbell, creating an interval of time that seemed to last forever, and yet it was over too quickly. Glancing at the windows, I thought I saw a movement at the drawn curtains, giving me the uneasy feeling I was being watched. I clutched the brown paper bag in my hands. It was filled with chocolate chip cookies, because if I had learned anything from my last experience—stopping in uninvited to see a stranger—it was not to start out without a plan. Or in this case, an excuse. So before leaving I’d filled this bag with homemade cookies, ones I had baked several days ago for Philip and me to snack on when he came over to go through my mother’s papers, but in the excitement I’d forgotten—
The door opened, jerking me back to the present.
“Hello.” A thin woman, whom I recognized as Mrs. Hanson, spoke before I could. Her face puckered into a questioning look. I smiled what I hoped was a bright smile, and gathered my words.
“Hello, I hope I’m not disturbing you,” I began, growing nervous when she didn’t assure me I wasn’t. I forced myself to continue. “I met you and your husband this morning. At church. My name’s Robin Finley—”
“Yes, I remember.” She waited, staying behind the partially open door as if protecting herself.
“Anyway,” I said, still smiling but hating it, “I—was just taking a walk . . . I thought I’d stop in and say hello. Actually, I was wondering if I could talk to Mr. Hanson, your father-in-law. I—have something for him.” I held up the paper bag. “Is he home?”
Mrs. Hanson didn’t answer right away, just stood there eyeing me distrustfully. No wonder. My performance hadn’t been the smoothest. First I’d claimed I was taking a walk, then I’d admitted I’d planned this visit. I knew I was being rude by dropping in unexpectedly, and I knew I wouldn’t trust myself if I were in this woman’s place, but I waited, heart pounding, hoping for the best. Finally the woman shrugged—probably not wanting to bother trying to figure me out—and stepped aside to let me in.
“He’s in his room,” she said, leading me down a short hall. “But don’t stay too long, he’s rather old.”
What kind of reason is that? I wondered, but I didn’t have time to decide.
Pushing a wooden door open without knocking, Mrs. Hanson announced, “Someone’s here to see you.” Then, shooting me one last quizzical look, she left.
A bent old man looked up from a chair by the window. He had about three strands of hair combed across his bald head. “What’s this?” he asked sharply. “A visitor for me?” His face crinkled into a yellow-toothed smile. “Close the door, missy, and sit down. Sit down.”
I was reluctant to do so. The room was stuffy with a smell that reminded me of old socks. But despite the man’s small stature, there was something commanding about his voice, and I shut the door and sat down in a large leather chair. It was so large, I felt lost as I sunk into its depths. My feet dangled above the floor. I thought it would be a good chair for curling up in and relaxing. But I wasn’t relaxed now. I wetted my lips. “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” I began.
“No need for the formalities,” he said, waving my words aside. “I’d tell you if you were disturbing me. Can’t you see all I’m doing is sitting here? I think I know why you came—you’re Tiffany’s girl, aren’t you?” Reading the answer in my startled face, he continued. “I heard you were in town. I’ve been wanting to catch a glimpse of you, to see if it’s true what they say, that you look so much like your mother. Yep, it’s true.” He chuckled with boyish glee, and I gathered that he had been the one spying through the curtains at me.
“Mr. Hanson,” I leaned forward, trying to summon a businesslike air (as well as escape the odor leaking from the chair), “the reason I came to see you is that I understand you had a man named Christopher Renton working for you at one time. Do you remember him?”
“’Course I remember,” he answered, jerking his head defensively. “Just because a body gets old doesn’t mean he loses his memory, unlike some folks assume. Age ripens the mind. I have an excellent memory.” He tapped a sinewy finger to his head. “Christopher Renton. Why do you ask?”
“I—think he was a friend of my mother’s,” I said, as if that were an explanation.
“He was your mother’s boyfriend.”
I nodded, and I saw the old man’s eyes alight on the paper bag still clutched in my hand. He thrust his stubbly chin in its direction. “What do you got in there?”
The paper made a crinkling noise as I gripped it tighter. “First tell me about Christopher Renton.”
“Oh, that’s the way it is, is it?” He rubbed his chin. “Smart young lady . . . bring along some bait to catch what you want.” I thought I saw a twinkle in his eyes as they met mine. “All right. What do you want to know?”
“Anything you can tell me. What was he like?”
“Christopher Renton was a scoundrel,” the man declared. “Yes, he worked for me—for a time. But I was hard up for help or I never would have hired him in the first place. There was something about him I didn’t like from the start. He was too proud, for one thing. But with times like they were, I hired him.”
As he talked, I sat completely still, seizing every word, wondering at the contrast of his account to my mother’s. Whose should I believe?
“He stole from me,” Mr. Hanson said, “and when I found out, that was the end of him. I should have reported him, but I fired him and let it go at that. I should have reported him,” he repeated, grumbling.
Even though I’d only just met him, I suspected Mr. Hanson had a softer heart than he wanted to let on.
“No offense—Robin, is it?—don’t know why she named you a fool name like that—but your mother couldn’t see the real scoundrel behind that boy’s pretty face. Oh, he knew how to turn on the charm, he did. I watched him do it the first time Tiffany came into the store. I remember so well it disgusts me. Tiffany was so taken in by him that she left the store just walkin’ on air.”
I squirmed in my chair, not appreciating his making my mother sound like a fool, yet not wanting to interrupt and risk not hearing what else he could tell me. He continued talking, and the steady flow of information fed my hungry mind.
“Then there was the accident—you know about that?” When I nodded, the old man was obviously disappointed. I sensed he would have enjoyed being the one to tell me the story for the first time. “Well, at least something good came of it
, anyway,” he said. “It musta’ finally knocked some sense into her head, if you know what I mean. Those two had been planning on getting hitched, so I’d heard tell, but after the accident, Tiffany didn’t like the boy no more. Guess she finally saw him for what he really was—a scoundrel,” Mr. Hanson finished, apparently satisfied. “Now, how about that bag?” He licked his lips in anticipation, though how he knew the bag contained something to eat, I have no idea.
“But what about Christopher Renton—how did he react? To my mother’s rejecting him, I mean.” If he were such a proud “scoundrel” as Mr. Hanson claimed, I wouldn’t imagine he’d taken it too well. “And what happened to him after?” I waited, very tense. This was the answer no one had been able to give me so far.
“Being jilted?” he said in response to my first question. “Didn’t bother him that much, I guess, missy. Next thing I heard he went and got hitched to someone else quick enough, some rich gal. Then up and left, and good riddance, I said. This town didn’t need the likes of him.”
“Wait.” A thought struck me. “How do you know all this if he didn’t work for you anymore?”
“Oh, I saw his sister around once or twice before she moved.”
“Sister!” This was news to me. “He had a sister?”
“Yep. Twin sister in fact. Now she was a nice gal. Nothing like her brother.”
“Does she still live here? Do you still know her? What’s her name?”
“Now hold your horses! Christine hasn’t lived here for ages. All the young folk always want to get hitched and move away.”
“But she used to live here in Lorens?”
“Nope. She lived in the next town over, Mentawka, with her parents then her husband, but sometimes she came here to visit Christopher. To clean and cook for him, more likely. He went out and got his own place at sixteen.” Mr. Hanson grinned. “His parents probably kicked him out.”
Past Suspicion (Christian Romantic Suspense) Page 19