Past Suspicion (Christian Romantic Suspense)

by Therese Heckenkamp

  Justin wouldn’t—couldn’t—leave me alone. He had told me this. I gulped, thinking my uncle was right to be suspicious of Justin. He wanted something, was after something . . . I recalled his persistent interest in my problems and concerns about the past and my mother’s accident. Uneasily, I recalled how much I’d confided in him—how much I had trusted him. Now I knew I’d been deceived. I remembered this morning, and Martha, and suddenly I knew what I had to do to confirm my fears.

  Running into the hall and grabbing the phone book from under the telephone table (I’d moved it up here from the den), I flipped through the pages until I found Martha’s name and number. After six rings, I was about to hang up, discouraged, when I heard a bright, “Hello?” on the other line.

  Delighted to hear from me, Martha began bubbling on eagerly about her day, but I wedged in my question. “There’s something I wanted to ask you,” I began, absently wrapping the phone cord around my finger. “When you met Justin Landers, that guy who was with me this morning, I thought maybe you—recognized him or something . . .” I waited.

  “Oh, yes—” Martha’s voice changed slightly—“that’s a strange thing—did you know he looks just like your mother’s old boyfriend?” She didn’t give me a chance to answer. “Don’t laugh,” she said, and laughed herself. “I know how that sounds, but it’s true! It shook me up for a moment, I must say. But then in a small town like this it’s not that odd to meet relatives of people you once knew, especially when you’re as old as me. But I had heard Christopher moved away . . .” She jumped subjects, and it took me a moment to realize she was now referring to Justin. “Is he a good friend of yours? The resemblance is quite interesting . . .”

  Interesting. What an understatement. The phone cord, wrapped painfully tight around my finger, was cutting off circulation. I wanted to laugh, then I wanted to cry.

  “ . . . you should ask him about it. I never forget a face, you know, and that Mr. Landers is definitely some relation—”

  Christopher’s son, I thought. And I said, “Thanks, Martha, I’ll do that. Bye.”

  But should I? I replaced the phone and freed my finger. Why should I tempt fate by letting Justin know that I knew his secret? Doesn’t he deserve a chance to explain? But what was there to explain? He should have already told me and he hadn’t. I had been stupid enough to think he had been attracted to me, but he obviously had an ulterior motive for seeking me out. He didn’t deserve a chance. If I gave it to him, he’d probably end up twisting things to make matters worse for me. No, I would be a fool to trust him.

  Now I understood why my uncle had misgivings about Justin. From the very beginning, he’d recognized the resemblance to Christopher Renton. Why hadn’t he told me? But what would he say, that he didn’t trust Justin because he looked like someone my mother once dated? Was that a reason to avoid someone? And would I have listened to him if he had told me?

  Surely my uncle was remembering Christopher’s involvement with my mother. Was he afraid Justin would influence me the same way Christopher had influenced Tiffany? Did he fear, as I now did, that the past was repeating itself? Justin taking his father’s part and me, my mother’s? That was too crazy to contemplate.

  It would mean the diary held my fate. Thinking this, I returned to it.

  April 21, 1979

  That old man Hanson is such a tyrant. You know what he did? He fired Chris from the store! I’m even more indignant about it than Chris, who is amazingly calm. He says he’s surprised he stayed as long as he did, and he’s glad to get out of there. He said he never liked working under Hanson’s thumb. Of course, now he has no job. But he’s not worried, so I guess I shouldn’t be, either. He’ll find something when he needs to.

  Enough about that. There’s too much happiness to write about. I’ve been counting down the days . . . yet time isn’t dragging. I’m much too busy for that. Another reason Chris says he’s glad he doesn’t work at Hanson’s anymore is that now he has more time to spend with me and help me with the story. It’s coming along well; I hope to have it finished by June. And listen to this. I just got an incredible break, one that’s sure to guarantee the story’s success.

  Yesterday, I finally worked up the nerve to talk to old Mr. Ingerman, and when I explained I was doing a feature story on the mansion, he was enthused about it and eager to help me—not what I expected! I so misjudged this old man. He’s nice, though in an odd, eccentric sort of way, and he may even let me interview him. But the most amazing part of all is that he gave me a key to the mansion. Now I can actually go through the place whenever I want. Such a privilege is more than I could have hoped for. (The whole town will be jealous!) But it’s just what I need; the story could never be complete without this firsthand research.

  Mr. Ingerman even said if I’m interested, I can take any books I want from the mansion’s library and look through them at home. Tomorrow, armed with a notebook and pencil, I plan to take my first tour through the mansion. The one condition this privilege comes with is that I don’t bring visitors. That’s no problem; I’ll just tell my friends they’ll have to wait for the story to be published. And when it is, the newspapers are going to fly off the racks!

  April 22, 1979

  The mansion is everything I hoped and feared. And more. You step inside and are instantly transported into the past. The atmosphere, pulsating with history, is almost overwhelming . . .

  So my mother had felt what I had. Back then, the atmosphere had been powerful, but I wondered if it were even stronger now. Perhaps it increased with time, grew with the tragedies.

  I can’t say I enjoy being in the mansion, for when I am, I’m filled with an unexplainable sensation of fear—almost to an overwhelming degree—and I want to turn and run as soon as I enter. It would be unbearable if I had to go through the place alone.

  My backbone stiffened. Hadn’t my mother just written that she was not allowed to take anyone inside the mansion? My eyes skimmed the diary in search of answers.

  I know Mr. Ingerman entrusted me with the key on the condition that I would be the only one to enter the mansion—no giving visits to friends, etc. . . . But this is different. This is Chris. He’s a part of this just as much as me. He’s helping with the story; he doesn’t count as a guest, and it wouldn’t be fair to leave him out. Besides, Mr. Ingerman can’t really expect me to go through that creepy place alone. There’s no harm in Chris’s coming. We keep it secret; I go in alone first, just in case anyone should see, and Chris comes a few minutes later. And let me tell you, those moments that pass before he does come feel like hours.

  Of course, I can’t help feeling a bit guilty about deceiving the old man, and others like my brother and even Martha, but it can’t be helped. I’m not sure I could make them understand.

  My insides felt giddy as my suspicions, the ones I’d been plagued with ever since I’d first learned about my mother’s accident, were confirmed. Things had not happened as they appeared. The simple explanation of the newspapers was wrong. Yes, Christopher had been there with Tiffany—but he hadn’t come looking for her later, as he’d told the paper. My mother would not have gone upstairs and onto the balcony alone. She would have been down below waiting for Christopher to arrive.

  And when he did, they would have both proceeded upstairs, both gone out onto the balcony, and then . . . ?

  I swallowed. In the article, Christopher had obviously not given a truthful account. Why not? What was he hiding? I remembered how I’d thought Christopher might have taken the map after finding my mother, but now I realized that if he’d been with her before the accident, it meant something worse. It meant he had played a part in the accident.

  Perhaps making it not an accident.

  Maybe Christopher lied to the newspapers to hide the fact that he had attempted murder.

  It was a strong accusation, but my heart, pumping strongly, believed it and sent blood gushing to my head to fuel my anxious thoughts.

  I recalled Justin’s aggravation at
my persistence in digging up the past. I recalled certain remarks he had made, all seeming to hint that he knew something I didn’t. And, if he were related to Christopher Renton, of course he would know. No wonder he hadn’t wanted me searching, no wonder he’d tried to steer me clear of Christopher. He didn’t want me to discover the truth, that his father had caused my mother’s fall.

  But there was something more. Something Justin wanted from me. Or else why— I put a hand to my throbbing head and was startled to hear the roar of a motor. Jumping up to look out my window, I caught a flash of red as Philip’s BMW sailed into the driveway and came to a whiplashing halt.

  Not now! I thought. My mind was too chaotic to make intelligible conversation with anyone. But when Philip looked up and saw me at my window, I was caught. I lifted my hand in a feeble wave and I knew I had to go downstairs.

  “Robin,” my uncle said, meeting me at the bottom of the stairs, “there you are.” As if he hadn’t known I was in my room all this time. “You know,” he motioned to the plants I’d left sitting by the front door, “you should get those planted.”

  “Yeah, I will,” I said, heading for the door. (I should mention that the plants were far from qualifying as candidates for garden catalog covers; most of the leaves were curling and turning yellow.)

  “There’s no time like the present,” my uncle said cheerily. “It’s cleared up outside and the sun is shining. But that overgrown garden is going to be quite a chore. Tell you what, I’ll bring out the gardening tools—I know they’re around somewhere—and I’ll give you a hand.”

  I stopped, my hand on the doorknob. “Now?”

  “Now.”

  “But Philip just pulled up. I—”

  “Good.” My uncle smiled. “If he’d like to lend a hand, I’ll gladly find an extra shovel.”

  I ran out the door, my panic multiplying. Now that I wanted to tell Philip everything, there wasn’t time.

  Philip had just stepped out of his car. “Hi there, Robin. Did you miss me?” He rested his hand possessively on the sparkling red hood. “How about I take you for a spin? We can—”

  “Philip, I can’t. Not now.” I glanced back at the house. “Look, my uncle’s coming out in a minute and I’ll be stuck gardening. I won’t be able to get rid of him, so we don’t have much time. I need to talk to you—to tell you something important.”

  Philip immediately turned serious. “What is it?” He took my hand. “Tell me everything.”

  Standing in the warm spring sunshine with Philip holding my hand, I felt safe and protected and could almost believe that everything would be all right. What a relief to finally be able to unload my fears. “I’m glad you’re back.” I looked up gratefully into his eyes, so soft and understanding, and my latest worries came pouring out. I told him that I’d discovered Justin was related to Christopher Renton, that I didn’t trust him and that he’d been following me. “He scares me,” I whispered, savoring the comfort in Philip’s arms.

  “This is bad, Robin. Very bad.” He, too, began to whisper. “Every time we’ve gone out together, I thought I noticed someone tailing us. I thought maybe it was someone your uncle had hired to keep tabs on me or you. I was concerned, but I didn’t know it was this bad.”

  I pulled back, shocked. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I didn’t want to scare you. But now . . . you need to know the truth. I did some checking up on this guy—that’s what I was really doing yesterday—and I discovered he has . . . a rather disturbing background.” Philip grimaced. “His father died a strange death, one I’d rather not describe, and he’s got a mother in a mental home. I confronted the guy this morning, told him to stay away from you . . . You know what he’s after, don’t you?”

  I waited, not wanting to speak.

  “The map. The gold. Isn’t it obvious?” Philip’s jaw tensed, and his fingers pressed into my arms. “He must know about the map, and now he wants it.” I sucked in my breath as Philip pulled me closer. “I’m sorry it’s come to this, Robin . . . we’re going to have to be very careful.”

  This wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I pulled away just enough so I could study Philip’s face. “But you don’t think—he’s really dangerous, do you? I mean—I don’t even have the map.”

  “Yet,” said Philip, shaking his head. “Yet. But if he knows what we do—that your mother found it, and if you don’t have it yet, you’re the one who can find it, just like we know you will—he could be dangerous. You told him too much. Oh, it’s not your fault, don’t blame yourself.” He pulled me closer. “You didn’t know. How could you?” He smoothed my hair with his hand. “But now that you do, don’t talk to him again, no matter what. Ignore him if you see him. And above all, be on your guard. He’s just waiting for his chance. That’s why we have to stay one step ahead of him, at all times, at all costs. You’ve got to find the map, Robin.” I was startled by the slight shake he gave me. “Tonight, Robin.”

  “How?”

  “Search the whole room, the whole house if you have to. Top to bottom—everything!”

  My heart was pounding in my ears. “I will,” I said, and I remembered the diary and that I still had those final pages yet to read. With a flash of perception, I knew those pages would give me the insight I needed. “I’ll find the map. Tonight.” I was startled by my own husky voice, but even more by my words, spoken with complete conviction.

  Philip smiled, but I could see it was forced. “You find it tonight, Robin, and I promise you that tomorrow we’ll be far away from this place. And you can forget this town ever existed.”

  Feeling slightly dizzy, I looked up into Philip’s face. Had I heard right? I needed to hear it again. To be sure. “You mean that?” I asked. “Really and truly—”

  “I do.”

  I struggled to steady myself. I searched his eyes, trying to read all that lay behind them.

  Philip searched my eyes in return. “What’s the matter, Robin? Don’t you want to get out of here? You always said you did. And just think, you and me, we can go anywhere. But first California. You’d like that, right? We’ll have the map, we’ll get the gold, and when we’re rich, we can do anything we want. You’ll be eighteen tomorrow; no one can stop you.”

  Saying this, he slid the mood ring off the finger of my right hand, where I’d been wearing it since the day I found it, and slipped it onto the ring finger of my left hand. I watched without blinking.

  “You know what that means, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I breathed. The now gold-colored stone winked at me in the sun and my eyes became mesmerized, wondering what the color symbolized. “It’s just that it’s so sudden—” My heart beat at a frantic pace, giving me the sensation that it was dancing to wild music.

  “It has to be. I’m afraid for you, Robin.” Philip squeezed my hand.

  Oh, never let go, I thought, half closing my eyes.

  I heard a low rumble as the garage door began to open behind us, and I realized my uncle was coming. I stepped back, but my eyes never left Philip’s.

  “I’ll call tonight,” he said, and reaching out, he touched his fingertip gently to my lips.

  “Hello there, Philip,” my uncle called as he approached, an assortment of garden rakes and shovels protruding in all directions from his arms. “We were just about to start some gardening. You’re welcome to join us if you’d like.”

  Amusement lit Philip’s eyes, which stayed on mine as he drew his finger away from my lips. “Another time, maybe.” He ducked into his car, gunned the engine, and mouthed, “Tonight,” before shooting out of the driveway.

  I stood coughing in the exhaust, terrified to feel my confidence draining, as if it were being pulled away by Philip’s car; I tried to hold onto it, but it slid from my grasp. My fears, always ready to take over, came crowding to the foreground of my mind. I had a whole day to get through before I would be safe. How would I ever stand it? Suddenly the sunlight was no longer comforting, and I felt hot and cold all at on
ce.

  Why did Philip have to go off and leave me? I wondered, taking a shovel from my uncle’s pile. He could have stayed to help with the gardening. At least we would have been together. What did he have to do that was so important, him with his free life and no responsibilities? Probably nothing. Then I smiled, because I couldn’t picture Philip working in a garden.

  Oddly enough, I began to picture Justin, sleeves rolled up and his muscular arms shining bronze in the sunshine.

  Thrusting my shovel into the earth, I banished the image.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I longed to tell my uncle how pointless starting this garden was because I wasn’t going to be around to take care of it. Tomorrow I would be gone. Tomorrow at this time, I’d be flying free over the highway, heading with Philip for California. Gold country.

  As I worked the ground, turning over clumpy earth and chopping it with my shovel, perspiration popped out on my forehead and dribbled down my temples. I continued thinking about all that was happening to me, and I wondered where I would be right now if I’d stayed in California. I’d be graduated and looking ahead . . . but ahead to what? I didn’t know. What I did know was I’d be alone.

  It was late afternoon by the time all the plants were safely in the ground. Only when I was brushing off my dirty hands did I realize I still hadn’t told Philip about the diary. Well, I rationalized, I didn’t get a chance. There had been so many more urgent matters to discuss. I recalled my promise—my firm resolution to find the map tonight—and I wondered how I could promise such a thing. How could I be sure I would find the map? Yet a vibrant, expectant sensation thrilled within me, telling me that because I had finally decided to do this, to find the map, I would. This thought drew me to return to the diary, and I started for the house.