Still Lake

by Anne Stuart

  There was no mistaking the warning in Zebulon King’s flinty eyes, and Griffin gave him a slight nod. “No more yammering,” he said. “Maybe I’ll just get out of your way for now. Go for a drive, maybe find a place to eat.”

  “The Village Diner is open in Waybury,” Zeb said, suggesting the next town over.

  “Maybe I’ll just take a picnic and go wander through the town. I’m particularly interested in old graveyards.” It was deliberate, and he half expected Zeb to react.

  He’d underestimated the man. If Perley looked distressed, Zeb just shrugged. “Suit yourself. Can’t imagine what a grown man would find interesting about a bunch of tombstones, but there’s many who find them of interest. Just be careful.”

  “Careful?”

  “The one on the lake road gets a bit swampy at the edge. That old rattletrap of a car wouldn’t have too good a time in the mud. Wouldn’t want you to get stuck.”

  Like hell, Griffin thought. “Nice of you to warn me,” he said.

  “Doesn’t hurt to be too careful,” he said in his iron-hard voice. “You take your time, and we’ll be finished for the day by three.”

  It wasn’t even eight-thirty in the morning, which made for a long, empty day, but Griffin couldn’t very well object. He couldn’t go up to the inn—people were crawling all over the place at this hour, and he didn’t expect Sophie to greet him with open arms. Besides, there were three or four cemeteries in the old town, some going back to the 1700s when the town was first founded. Finding the graves of the murdered girls might take some time. Particularly if it included looking for other, unidentified murder victims.

  The two King men were looking at him, clearly waiting for him to take his leave. “Can I shave first?” He didn’t bother keeping the sarcasm out of his voice.

  “If you make it snappy. I’ve got work to do in the bathroom.”

  Griffin managed to take almost a full hour showering and shaving, a petty revenge that nevertheless left him inordinately pleased with himself. By the time he got back to the kitchen Addy King was busy sweeping the back porch, and she didn’t look up when he filled a travel mug with the last of the coffee. Maybe she was deaf.

  He didn’t think so.

  He grabbed his keys, heading for the front door, then came to an abrupt halt.

  Sophie Davis was standing on the porch, a plate of cookies in her hand, a wary, determinedly pleasant expression on her face.

  Griffin leaned against the doorjamb, barring the entrance. “What’s this?”

  He frightened her. It was fascinating how easy it was to unnerve her, but it suited him just fine. Sophie Davis didn’t strike him as someone who’d respond to charm or seduction, both of which he could turn off and on with sublime ease. She didn’t trust him, wisely. And he couldn’t rid himself of the notion that she had something to hide.

  She was too young to have remembered the media coverage of the murders. She was maybe in her early thirties at the latest, more likely late twenties, and she’d been in Colby for only a few months. Not really time enough to develop secrets, unless she’d brought them with her.

  He knew nothing about her, apart from the fact that she didn’t particularly like him. Normally that wouldn’t have bothered him, but he couldn’t afford to ignore any anomaly while he was here. So he managed a faint, predatory smile, just to see her squirm.

  “I brought you cookies,” she said in a nervous, breathless voice.

  “I can see that. Why?”

  “To thank you for bringing my mother home.”

  “I could hardly let her wander around alone at that hour, could I?”

  “You strike me as the kind of man who’d do just that,” she said.

  He didn’t blink. She’d taken her white kid gloves off, ready to get down and dirty. He was more than willing to join her. “So this isn’t really a social call,” he said. “You want to tell me why you’re really here?”

  There was a muffled crash behind him as Addy dropped something in the living room. He didn’t bother to turn and look, but Sophie turned pale. “Who’s here?”

  “Marge Averill sent the people you recommended out here to do some of the maintenance. You haven’t answered my question. Why are you here?”

  “I need to talk to you.” She looked about as happy as a woman facing a firing squad.

  “Fine. We can’t talk here—too much going on. I was going for a drive—you can come with me.”

  “I’ve got things to do….”

  “You want to talk to me or not?”

  She hesitated. “All right. Where should I put the cookies?”

  “Bring them with you. I haven’t had breakfast yet.” He moved past her, onto the porch, noticing with wry amusement that she backed well out of his way, just to make sure he didn’t get too close to her. You’d think she suspected him, the way she was acting. He hadn’t had people treat him like a leper since he’d gotten out of the Chittenden Correctional Center. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling.

  But she followed him, anyway, ten paces back like a dutiful Muslim wife, only to come up short at the sight of his car.

  He was prepared for her caustic reaction. Few people understood or appreciated his attachment to his car—even Zebulon King had thought it was an old junker. Old it certainly was. Worth more than Zebulon King probably made in a year. The simple fact that it was a Jaguar was far outweighed by its advanced age and seeming state of decrepitude. The damned thing ran like a top, and he kept it in prime condition. The interior was perfect, from the refurbished leather seats to the burled-walnut dashboard. Only the outside looked disreputable—a mangy collection of bondo, rust and dark gray paint.

  He went to the passenger door, opening it with an exaggerated flourish. “Not what you’re used to, I know, but it will have to do. Your carriage awaits, madam.”

  She approached it cautiously, as if she were expecting spiders to jump out at her. But when she spoke, her voice held a totally unexpected note of reverence.

  “It’s an XJ6,” she said softly, her voice husky. “What is it, a ’74, ’75?”

  “It’s a ’74,” he said, startled.

  “It’s beautiful,” she breathed, totally entranced. She handed him the plate of cookies and slid into the soft leather of the front seat like an angel entering heaven. She closed her eyes and took a deep, appreciative breath. “It even smells right.”

  He didn’t move, just stared at her. Annelise had always hated his car, insisting on taking her Mercedes or his more respectable Lincoln SUV. If he’d ever really needed the four-wheel-drive, it would have been in Vermont, but he’d decided to take the Jaguar on a last-minute whim. The Lincoln Navigator was huge and ominous; the Jaguar deceptively battered. And he’d wanted the excuse to take the Jag out on the highway, see what she could do after all the work he’d put into her.

  He hadn’t wanted a soft, flowery woman to practically have an orgasm the moment she climbed into it. Especially when he suspected that Sophie Davis had never had an orgasm in her life.

  He opened his mouth to suggest they take her car, then closed it again. So she liked his car. Obviously she had hidden depths, something to recommend her. He took one of the ginger cookies and popped it into his mouth. More than one thing to recommend her, he corrected himself.

  She had long legs beneath her flowered skirt, and he closed the door, feeling like a damned footman. She’d settled into the leather like a kitten on a blanket. He wondered if she was actually purring.

  He gave himself a shake that was more mental than physical, then moved around the back of the car to climb into the driver’s seat.

  Her eyes were still closed, and he wondered if she’d fallen asleep. The leather was soft, but not that soft. He stared at her for so long that she finally turned her head and opened her eyes. She had a dreamy expression in them, like someone in the midst of sex, and he realized he was getting an erection just from watching her. He’d never had sex with anyone in the roomy back seat of the sedan, but clearly Sop
hie would be someone worthy of the privilege. The privilege of the car, not him, though he intended to make it very much worth her while.

  He tried to break out of the erotic spell. “It’s just a car,” he said, not too sure of that.

  “You know as well as I do this is more than just a car.” A sudden frown creased her forehead. “Do you have other classics? I suppose you collect them, have someone fix them up for you….”

  “No one touches this car but me. And this is my only one. I have a new car for transportation, but this is…” He wanted to tell her the truth. That it was his heart, his soul, the one thing he loved most on earth, more than any human being who’d ever crossed his path. “My hobby,” he finished, deliberately downplaying it.

  She ran her hand across the soft leather seat, and he could picture that hand running across his skin. She’d look quite glorious, sprawled naked on the golden leather of his wide back seat. And if he didn’t stop thinking about that he was going to have to put the plate of cookies on his lap to hide his condition.

  “It’s quite…” She suddenly seemed to realize what she was doing. She stopped stroking the leather seat, sat bolt upright and blinked, trying to dispel that erotic haze. “It’s quite nice,” she said. She took the cookies from him.

  He turned the key, hearing the throaty rumble of the motor with anxious pleasure. He put it into Reverse, backing out the narrow, weed-choked driveway with consummate care. “Don’t even think it,” he muttered.

  “Think what?” She bit into one of the small, wonderful cookies, her white teeth severing it, her tongue pulling the rich flavor into her generous mouth. Shit, he had to stop thinking about sex.

  “I’m not letting you drive this car, no matter how much you appreciate it. No one drives it but me. It’s got too much power for most people, and besides, you probably don’t even know how to drive a standard shift.”

  He’d managed to get her back up. Not much of an improvement over her dazed, erotic reaction to his car. Basically everything she said and did was turning him on.

  “I like to drive stick,” she said in an ominous voice.

  “Oh, yeah? You don’t look to me as if you’ve had much practice,” he murmured. “You strike me as someone who’s been cruising on automatic for years.”

  He had no idea whether she knew they were talking in sexual innuendoes. If she did, she was staunchly ignoring it. Making him even hotter.

  “I don’t think my driving experience is any of your business,” she said.

  Maybe not ignoring it, after all. “I could make it my business,” he said in a low, seductive voice. “I could put you through your paces. See how you are on short hops, and how you stretch out on long, flat places. How smoothly you shift, and whether you throttle down with a rumble or a purr.”

  “Cut it out!” she said, her voice severe. “I didn’t come with you to talk about cars.”

  “Is that what we’re talking about?”

  “What else?”

  “I thought we were talking about sex.”

  “Not likely,” she said. They were already on the road that wound around the lake, the Jaguar cruising perfectly.

  “Then why are you here? Not for my charming company, I presume,” he said.

  She fidgeted with the seat belt. Her hand kept creeping toward the leather for a surreptitious caress, then pulling back again.

  “If I was looking for charming company it wouldn’t be with you. I know who you are and I know why you’re here, Mr. Smith.” Her use of his phony name was filled with sarcasm. “And I want you to keep away from my family.”

  9

  It wasn’t the reaction that Sophie was expecting, but then, the supposed Mr. Smith wasn’t anything like Sophie thought. He didn’t protest, didn’t get angry, didn’t do more than blink.

  “Okay, who am I?” he said in a reasonable voice.

  The car was vibrating beneath her, a beautiful velvet hum, and more than anything she wanted to lean back and close her eyes and absorb the sound and the feel of it. Clearly he was a man with unsuspected depths, to own a car like this one, but even that didn’t make him any less of a ruthless snake. A dangerous one.

  “You know as well as I do that you’re a reporter, trying to dredge up interest in the old murders.” She concentrated on pleating the fabric of her flowered jumper. “People like you have no sense of compassion for the victims—it’s over and done with. Why do you need to start ferreting around in someone else’s pain?”

  He didn’t bother to deny it. “I would have thought the victims would be past harming.”

  “The three girls weren’t the only victims. Their families, the whole town suffered.” She couldn’t keep the anger out of her voice.

  “You weren’t even here at the time. Why would you care?”

  “How did you know I wasn’t here?” she asked suspiciously.

  “If I were a reporter I would have done my homework, found out who still lived here so I could question them. As a matter of fact, though, you told me you’d just moved here a few months ago. Or had you forgotten?”

  She couldn’t remember telling him any such thing, but that wouldn’t prove anything. “That doesn’t mean I didn’t used to summer here. I could have remembered it all.”

  “You were probably not much more than ten,” he said. “And you weren’t here when it happened. Don’t waste your time trying to convince me you were.”

  “So what are you doing here?” she persisted.

  “I thought you’d figured all that out. I’m a reporter on the trail of a very old crime. Though why a reporter should care about ancient history is beyond me.”

  Some of Sophie’s conviction started to fade. “It’s unsolved. People are always fascinated by unsolved mysteries. Besides, it had all the things people like to read about—sex, drugs and murder.”

  “People usually like money and fame involved in their murders, as well, and I haven’t heard about any missing treasure or famous politician mixed up in it. And who says it’s unsolved? Just because the boy was eventually released on a technicality doesn’t mean everyone doesn’t believe he didn’t do it. He was a bad one to begin with—anyone who was here could tell you that. And it makes it so much easier for the good people of Colby to think that an outsider would kill their young women, rather than one of their own.” There was a grim undertone in his voice, one she couldn’t quite define.

  “Well, there must be some question, or otherwise you wouldn’t be here,” Sophie said, not about to be swayed.

  “And what tipped you off that I was a reporter? Something I said? Something I did?”

  “Common sense. I saw the books in your bedroom—normal people don’t have books about serial killers for light reading.”

  “Any number of people are interested in true crime. Just look at the bestseller lists.”

  “So you’re writing a book,” she said, jumping at it. “I should have guessed as much. You probably have a million-dollar advance and you don’t care who you hurt.”

  He turned off onto a back road, driving away from the lake, an unreadable expression on his face. Not that she dared take more than a passing glance at him. She didn’t want to be caught staring at him, trying to figure out what it was that disturbed her so much about him.

  “It sounds like you’ve got it all figured out,” he said, concentrating on the narrow dirt road. “If you’re so good at solving mysteries, then maybe you ought to be writing the book.”

  “I don’t like true crime,” she said coolly. “I don’t enjoy other people’s pain. If I’d known about the Colby murders I might have chosen another place to move to.”

  “You’d have a hard time finding a town without some kind of bloody skeleton in the closet.” His voice was absolutely without emotion, but Sophie shuddered at the image his words summoned. “There’s always trouble behind a bucolic atmosphere.”

  “That’s a pretty cynical attitude. If you’re not a reporter or a true-crime writer, who are you? And for
that matter, where are we going?” The first hint of uneasiness tickled her stomach. What the hell was she doing, going off alone with a perfect stranger, one who filled her with illogical misgivings? The Kings would have seen her leave—they could testify if she disappeared and…

  “I doubt you’d believe anything I told you,” he said, interrupting her panicked thoughts. “I’m on vacation, and I wanted some peace and quiet. Not old ladies wandering around in my kitchen in the middle of the night, not uber-housewives delivering cookies.”

  “Uber-housewives?” she said, her panic replaced by outrage. “I’ve never been married.”

  “There’s a surprise,” he muttered under his breath.

  She couldn’t very well hit him while he was driving, not and risk the Jaguar. “Where are you taking me?” she demanded.

  “I’m not taking you anywhere. You insisted on coming along with me, so you’re stuck with it. And if you’re so good at jumping to conclusions you should have figured out where we’re going by now.”

  Sophie looked out the window. “There’s nothing on this road but the old Mackin farmstead and the…” she stopped.

  “The graveyard.”

  Sophie’s throat felt suddenly tight. “You haven’t done your homework,” she said after a moment. “The girls aren’t buried in the old McLaren graveyard. They’re down in the village cemetery.”

  “I’m not looking for those graves.” He’d pulled to a stop along the side of the road and turned off the engine. The deserted McLaren graveyard was on their right, the white fence peeling and rotten, the grass growing high around the old, sagging headstones.

  “Then why are we here? No one’s been buried here in over thirty years—they don’t even bother to keep the grass properly mowed. Most people don’t even remember there’s a graveyard out here. Certainly no one ever comes here anymore.”

  “You knew about it.” He climbed out of the car, and for a moment Sophie didn’t move. She still didn’t trust him. She could lock the car, slide into the driver’s seat and drive away. There were two advantages to that—one, he made her nervous. She couldn’t believe he’d really hurt her, but a tiny sliver of doubt had settled in the back of her mind.