Past Suspicion (Christian Romantic Suspense)

by Therese Heckenkamp

  Unfortunately, Memorial Day made my uncle ambitious not only for gardening but also for grilling out. “We can eat dinner outside, have a picnic and enjoy the spring evening,” he said. To me, who only wanted to get back to the diary, this made the evening sound like eternity.

  My uncle wanted to cook brats, and of course it turned out that we had no brats. For that matter, we had no brat buns. Consequently, I made a quick trip to the grocery store and ended up buying as many groceries as I could carry, enough to stock us up so I wouldn’t have to keep running back and forth to the store. If my uncle suddenly decided we needed maraschino cherries, we would have them.

  But, while paying for everything, I realized with a jolt that stocking up on groceries should no longer concern me. After tomorrow, I wouldn’t be living here, and my uncle could eat pizza every night for the rest of his life for all I cared.

  As soon as I left the store, an uncomfortable feeling started bubbling in the pit of my stomach. At first I told myself it was hunger, but the feeling spread until it affected more than my stomach. As I walked along the sidewalk, I kept glancing behind me. I didn’t see anyone, but as soon as I faced forward, I felt the feeling again, stronger. A feeling that told me someone was watching me . . . following me. I quickened my pace while the paper grocery bag became a boulder in my arms.

  After all I’d discovered about Justin, it had been a mistake for me to come into town. The paranoid feeling grew until I felt like a balloon swelled to the bursting point. A balloon painted with a target. Stupid as it sounds, I was convinced that at any moment a figure would appear beside me or a green Jeep roar up and kidnap me.

  Reaching the house seemed like a miracle. I ran inside, aching to deposit my load. My stiff fingers would hardly loosen their hold on the grocery bag. When they did, my hands were so unsteady that it took me a full two minutes to unpack. Even then, I almost dropped the jar of maraschino cherries.

  And after all that, I still wasn’t free to return to the diary. My uncle managed to think up all kinds of odd jobs for me to do—locating a bag of charcoal, helping him drag the picnic table out from storage, setting our places—so that I didn’t have a spare second. When my uncle suggested that pasta salad would be an ideal addition to our picnic dinner, I automatically began boiling a pot of water just to get it over with. All the while, my thoughts spun in high gear, my mind revolving on the map. I had to find it. Everything depended on it. Especially Philip.

  Realizing this, I felt a twinge of apprehension. The map, the map—that seemed to be all Philip cared about. Rinsing the cooked pasta in a colander in the sink, I asked myself, Would Philip still want me if it weren’t for the map?

  I gave the colander a vicious shake. Of course he would. I knew he would. I didn’t have to reassure myself. Philip cared about me. He hadn’t even known about my mother and the map until I told him, unlike Justin, who had known all along, probably his whole life. I dumped the pasta into the creamy dressing, mixing fiercely with a big spoon.

  My uncle and I ate crisp brats and warm pasta salad in the backyard at the picnic table to the accompaniment of chirping crickets. Eating heartily, my uncle looked as if he didn’t have a care in the world. I wondered what it would be like to feel so content. True, I appreciated the peacefulness of the spring evening, the gentle breeze and the twittering birds . . . but there was such a sad, temporary air lingering over it all, making me acutely aware that this was my last night, my last dinner with my uncle, so that I suddenly found my food difficult to swallow. I surveyed the yard, thinking I never would have believed I could feel reluctant to leave this behind. I had let myself get used to life here, to the point of almost caring for it.

  But I’ve made my decision, I thought, chewing rapidly. I’m not going to waste my life in this small town, and I can’t let sentiment displace rational thinking. By this time tomorrow I’ll have begun a completely new life, the life I want to lead, and I’ll leave this one behind forever.

  “I’ve enjoyed this weekend off,” my uncle was saying, oblivious to the thoughts grinding through my head, “but it will be nice to get back to the store tomorrow, don’t you think?”

  I looked up from my plate, confused. It hadn’t occurred to me that I would be working tomorrow. I’d just assumed . . . well, that tomorrow would be different. It was my birthday, after all, and I would be leaving. But of course my uncle didn’t know this. I’d had three days off already, and he expected me to work tomorrow. “I guess,” I said. My mind began struggling to overcome this new obstacle. I’d have to get off early, complain I had a headache or something, so Philip and I could get a head start.

  Darkness had fallen by the time I climbed the stairs to my room. I switched on the light before settling into the window seat, but not before seeing the starry masterpiece framed by my window. The sky looked like a sheet of tar on which someone had thrown a handful of glitter.

  It seemed as if I’d been away from the diary forever, yet the instant I picked it up, I was transported so swiftly to the past, it was as if I’d never left it.

  May 1, 1979

  I’m so excited by my discovery that I’ve already scribbled a short piece for my article. Now to analyze it in my diary. As it is, I can hardly control my fingers enough to write this. I found an old letter in one of the books from the mansion. It’s a letter written by Connie Ingerman, and in it, she mentions the map. More than that, she hints at its hiding place!

  I’d almost given up hope of turning up anything significant among the assortment of books in the mansion’s library, but tonight when I was paging through an old novel, I unexpectedly came across an envelope tucked between the pages. It’s addressed to a Stephanie Barrington. From what I could make out, she was a friend of Connie’s who lived back east in Philadelphia.

  But the letter was never sent. Why? Did Connie forget to send it, or did she simply decide not to? Or perhaps she never got the chance, had meant to send it, but . . . there’s no way of knowing for sure, I guess, but these are the sort of things I plan to analyze for my article.

  Tonight it’s late, too late to call Chris, but I’ll bring the book with the letter back to the mansion to show him tomorrow. He’ll be as thrilled as I am.

  The letter, written by this heartbroken girl longing for her love, brought tears to my eyes. Being in love myself, I can understand how she must have felt—as if she’d lost everything—everything that meant anything. Because all gold really is is a cold metal, and it cannot replace a living, loving person. The letter was long and depressing. It’s no wonder they say Connie committed suicide. And yet, I wonder . . . it might not have been suicide. I mean, they found her dead and assumed this, but they could not know for sure. What if by simply accepting it was suicide, they were blind to the possibility that it might have been an accident?

  I remembered my dream. The feeling of sadness, then freedom as I leaned against the balcony, and finally, fear, as I realized I was falling. It could have happened like that, I thought. Then I shook my head, reminding myself to focus. It was my mother’s, not Connie’s, mystery I was trying to solve. But it comforted me somehow to think that my mother had asked the same questions I had, and hadn’t simply accepted everyone else’s conclusion about Connie.

  I suppose I’m an optimist. I don’t want to believe that anyone would really take her own life, even for a broken heart. Losing love is a sad thing, surely . . . but not a reason to kill yourself.

  Why didn’t Connie mail the letter? It’s dated the day before her death. Wouldn’t she have mailed the letter first, if she were planning to commit suicide? But of course she might not have planned it. Maybe she did it on impulse. Or maybe she never had the chance (every angle has been playing through my mind, as it should if I want to make a good reporter), maybe there was foul play—maybe she was threatened by someone who wanted the map. She wouldn’t tell them—and then . . . murder. A motive? The map, of course. The map and the lure of gold.

  Or maybe my imagination is overactive. I do
n’t know. What I do know is, the letter holds the answer to finding the map. Realizing this, did Connie perhaps decide not to send it? (There I go again, I can’t seem to stop speculating.) Because there is a part in the letter that makes it sound as if Connie hid the map under the floor. She said it is close, so I’m thinking in her room, and she has thick carpet . . . I wonder if she hid it under there? Tomorrow, I intend to find out.

  With icy fingers, I turned the page to May 2, 1979—the day before my mother’s fall.

  My life has taken such a twisted turn in such a short time that it is all I can do to comprehend it. I only hope that writing this out will help me clear my mind and think things through.

  I was right about the map. Yet I feel no elation in writing this, no triumph. All that has drained from me. Today, my eyes were finally opened and I have seen Chris for who he really is. I’m no longer blinded by infatuation; instead, I’m choking on disappointment. All my high expectations are crumbling to dust, being blown away by the wind . . . but I’m getting ahead of myself.

  The map was there, under the carpet as I suspected. Ridiculous how easy it was to find. The carpet near the door wasn’t fastened down (like my carpet), and I simply lifted the edge and slipped my hand under it and over the rough wood. My fingers brushed paper, and it was the map, lying flat on the floor.

  That’s when a shadow fell over me from behind. For half a second, I think I feared it was Connie’s ghost come to guard the map. But it was only Chris. He’d arrived as usual. I’d been so eager to see if the map was there that I’d actually braved going up to the room alone. I thought Chris would be proud of me.

  When I found the map, I was ecstatic that it was real—that it was there in my hands—but when I looked up to show Chris, I felt a terrible chill. The look on his face produced a feeling far worse than any ghostly presence could have. I think he was angry that I hadn’t waited for him, that I’d found the map on my own. It was his eyes that gave him away. I was about to explain, when he tried to grab the map from me. Instinctively, I pulled back. Fragile as the map was, I warned him not to touch it. But what I wanted didn’t seem to matter anymore (and now, I wonder, did it ever?). Chris snatched the map from me. I never even got a chance to show him the letter I found yesterday.

  I’m beginning to suspect the truth of our relationship, how it’s been all along—or at least ever since that accursed night when Chris first saw the mansion and I told him Connie’s story. I think that’s when he latched onto the thought of finding the gold, and now he can’t let go. It’s become an obsession. Ever since that night, I guess this day of reality has been coming.

  Chris said the map is complicated. “We’ll need time to study it.” I didn’t say anything. Chris says to think of what this map means for us: a new beginning . . . a new life. The thing is, I don’t see it his way; I don’t see the map as rightfully ours, to take and use to find the gold. We can’t keep this secret. It has to be revealed to old Mr. Ingerman. I tried to explain this to Chris—that the Ingerman fortune has dwindled and that old Mr. Ingerman needs the money, that he could use it to preserve the mansion—but Chris wouldn’t listen, and there wasn’t time for arguing. It was getting late, and I had to get home because I’d promised Peter I’d make dinner. Chris softened suddenly (in a last attempt, I think, to win me to his way of thinking) and tried reasoning with me, saying no one will ever know if we take the map. But the thing is, we will know. And I’d have the heaviest burden of all, because I was the one trusted. Maybe that doesn’t matter to Chris, but it does to me.

  I told Chris I needed time to think. So that’s what I’m doing now. But I already know what I have to do. Maybe tonight will give Chris a chance to cool down and realize we have to act responsibly with this discovery. No matter how tempting it may be, we can’t just disappear with the map as he wants to. At least I managed to take the map back from him, after agreeing not to breathe a word of this find to anyone, and to meet him at the mansion tomorrow to come to a decision. Even so, “Don’t you trust me with the map?” Chris asked in an injured tone.

  “I can keep it safely hidden.”

  “Bring it with you tomorrow,” he told me.

  It’s obvious Chris resents that I am the one who found the map. Immature, I know, but I can read it in his eyes.

  Which brings me to my main concern. I don’t want to believe it, but Chris is not the man I thought he was. The sad thing is, I don’t think it was a sudden change of character on his part, but rather a sudden realization of his true character on mine. Now when I look into his eyes, all I see is greed. It hurts me, after all I thought I’d found in him, but I think maybe . . . I only saw what I wanted to see. I hope by tomorrow he’ll have gotten some sense into his head. That he’ll be different, not the stranger he was today.

  It’s awful to have this happen when everything was going so smoothly. But then maybe it was going too smoothly, and no matter what, it would not have lasted. Better to find out now than later. Things change, people get older, wiser . . . I feel decades older today than I did yesterday . . . and I’m thinking maybe I was too hasty, agreeing to everything Chris wanted. I’m thinking many things . . .

  But tomorrow will provide the verdict. I hope Chris will be reasonable, but if not, well, I’m prepared to do what it takes. I’m not backing down. I have the map hidden in my room, and here it will stay until I can figure out how to proceed, how to reveal this find to the right people. I won’t let Chris get his hands on the map again until I know I can trust him, though now I’m afraid this may never be. I’m terribly disappointed in Chris. You think you know someone—completely and utterly—then they shatter your beautiful picture of them, and you realize it was an illusion all along.

  But then maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. I hope so. Tomorrow I’ll know for sure. Tonight, however, with this terrible weight on me, I wish I’d never found the map. Indeed, I almost think it is cursed.

  I turned the page, but it was blank.

  There was nothing left to read.

  I closed my eyes, finding slight comfort under the dark pressure of my eyelids. My head was thumping heavily, as if I’d been reading a terrible suspense story. That’s what my mother’s diary is, I thought grimly. Only worse . . . because it’s true.

  I felt empty, let down that there was no more. Then I realized I didn’t need more. It became suddenly clear to me what had happened that fateful May day. My mother had returned to the mansion, alone, to meet Chris, and he was waiting for her. And for the map.

  Anger shot through me. How could my mother be so stupid? So naive, so trusting? She’d walked right into a trap. No one knew that Chris was at the mansion, that he had been there other times, too. She’d kept it secret, so if anything should happen—an “accident,” for instance—no one would realize Chris was involved. Everyone assumed she was there alone; they had no reason to believe otherwise.

  I thought of my uncle. Even if he suspected what had really happened, he had no way to prove it. No wonder he had reacted the way he had to seeing Justin. No wonder he was suspicious of him.

  True, I had no way of knowing exactly what had happened that day—whether Chris had planned to hurt my mother or simply acted in passionate anger—it didn’t make much difference to me because the outcome was the same. He had been there with her, and I knew somehow he was the one responsible for her fall. I knew it. And at that moment, I hated Christopher Renton with every fiber of my being.

  Amid this hate, I managed to turn my bitter mind to the map, determined to find it. But where should I begin? Philip had said to look everywhere. But I didn’t need to, I realized. My mother had said it was in her room. This room.

  My eyes shifted from the framed pictures to the nightstand, dresser, bed, desk, and bookshelf. Then to the window, door, and closet. I’d already been through the closet, but I might have missed something. Then there were all those books—the map could be tucked between any of those thousands of pages. There might be a hidden compartment or secret d
rawer in the dresser or nightstand.

  The thought of tackling every possibility no longer seemed simple. It could take me all night and I still might not turn up anything. As the possible hiding places multiplied, the room didn’t seem small and tidy anymore, but large and messy. What chance did I have of locating one thin piece of paper among all this?

  I realized then how much I had been counting on the diary to tell me where to search—at least give me some clue—but my mother had not even hinted at her hiding place. In her room, yes, but the big question was, where?

  Concentrate, I thought, setting down the diary. Where would I hide it? No—not where would I hide it—where would Tiffany hide it? I tried to put myself in her place, and suddenly I felt myself almost disconnecting from where I was and slipping, slipping backward through the years . . . into the past.

  I wasn’t alarmed.

  My head felt light, but not empty. It felt clear, refreshed . . . relieved and no longer cluttered. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, and when I opened them, their gaze drifted to the doorway. I walked to the door and stood facing the room, thinking, This is where the room begins.

  My gaze fell to my feet, where the edge of the carpet met the hall. I got down on my hands and knees and tugged the carpet up. It lifted, but not very far because just inside the door, to the right, the nightstand was pinning it down.