Not until they’d broken the connection did Sarah realize she hadn’t told her therapist the scariest part. It wasn’t the pennies from her dead husband. Pennies were nothing, compared to letters from a dead man she’d hated.
19
Back in the carriage house, she scanned the workbench. Stuck a needle-nose pliers, slightly rusty, in her pocket. You never knew when you’d need one, or where to find it when you did.
An old oil drum sat on the floor, full of detritus likely meant for the hide and steel company’s next community recycling day. She glanced in a wooden tool box and a glint of brass caught her eye. A key? Yes! She hadn’t been imagining things after all. Not this thing, anyway. She dug out a ring of keys in all shapes and finishes, even a black skeleton key. Several small keys could be the right size for a padlock or a trunk.
At the bottom of the steps, she pulled on the cord. Shoot. She’d forgotten to bring out a new bulb, or the flashlight.
No matter. She made her way up the stairs and into the apartment. They had a virtual antique store in here. Fingers crossed that Brooke remembered which box held the china and stemware.
In the bedroom, she gave the dollhouse a fond look, then turned her attention to the trunk. In, out, in, out. Yoga breathing had its uses in all kinds of situations. Her fingers shook as she fiddled for one of the smaller keys. She took another calming breath and bent close.
For the first time, she noticed a monogram on the brass plate beneath the lock. CSE in an elaborate script, the S larger than the initials of the first and middle names. This had been her great-grandmother’s trunk before her marriage.
She tried the first key. Nothing. Found a second, the same size. No luck.
On the third try, something gave inside the mechanism. She waggled the key gently until she heard another movement. Lifted the latch. The lid was hinged, and she held her breath as she used both hands to raise it.
The scents of rose and cedar greeted her, along with the smell of old paper—slightly sweet, with a hint of must. And dust. She turned and sneezed into her elbow.
A cedar-lined tray rested on a narrow ledge. On the top of one compartment, cradled in tissue paper, lay three white roses tied together with sprigs of baby’s breath by a pink ribbon. She set the paper aside gently, then lifted out a white satin dress with a lace collar. A child’s dress.
Sarah Beth’s.
The loss of her husband at forty-seven was killing her, but to lose a child …
Beneath the dress lay a small book, the edges of its white cardboard cover darkened with age, and in the center, the drawing of a baby, draped in a garland of flowers. Baby’s Days, it read. Sarah laid the dress carefully across her lap and reached for the book. The first page showed a sleeping baby beneath the words “Record of Birth,” and below, the particulars of Sarah Beth’s arrival into this world. She turned the pages slowly, noting each milestone Caro had recorded—first steps, first words, first laugh. A height and weight chart. Black paper corners held small black-and-white photos onto the pages and Sarah squinted for a closer look. She’d seen photos of Sarah Beth on the gallery wall in the Victorian—as a baby in Caro’s arms, as a toddler with her brothers, and in this very dress. The photos had come down years ago, and her mother set a few around the house, rotating the display. But seeing these pictures, in this lovingly detailed baby book, the little girl’s dollhouse close by, broke her heart, because she knew that the rest of the pages—the school record, the list of friends, the markers of a full life—would always be blank.
She closed the book and gently returned it to the tray, refolded the dress, and laid the dried roses on top. The other compartment held two matching sailor outfits in different sizes. These she was sure she’d seen, in a photograph of her grandfather and his brother as young boys.
Beneath the tray were more albums and scrapbooks—leather-bound, cardboard, even handmade with thin wooden covers. Boxes crammed with bundles of letters tied with ribbon, so full the lids no longer fit. She pried a bundle out just far enough to read the handwriting. From Cornelius McCaskill to Miss Caroline Sullivan, Butte, Montana. The envelopes bore postmarks from around the country.
Love letters? The man who would become her great-grandfather, courting her future great-grandmother.
She had never seen any of these. The curse of a packrat family. She set the box back in the trunk, careful of a few rolled-up photos, wondering what else it held.
What was that? She lifted out a Whitman’s Sampler box and removed the lid. Inside lay letters addressed to Mrs. Cornelius McCaskill. A few envelopes had return addresses in Deer Park—Old Mill Road, the Stage Road, Mrs. B. F. Taunton on Second East. They’d lived on Second East, before they moved to the Victorian, but she didn’t remember the house number. The light was too poor to make out the date on the faded postmark.
Beneath the letters was a leather-clad notebook in a lovely golden brown. She set the box and lid aside and stroked the soft, smooth cover.
Caroline Sullivan McCaskill, the signature on the flyleaf read. This had been her great-grandmother’s journal. She squinted at the opening entry, wishing for that flashlight.
Sunday, May 21, 1922
Our first morning at Whitetail Lodge. Con has taken Tom and little Harry out for a walk along the lakeshore while I write at the desk in our bedroom, my darling Sarah Beth asleep in the nursery.
Of course. The sewing room had once been a nursery. Connected to the master bedroom by a pocket door, it was perfect for that.
We wake to marvelous views of the lake and mountains through the French doors, and I opened one a few inches, to let in a cool breeze.
She flipped ahead, pausing at an entry from June 1924.
Mrs. O’Dell made the most wonderful sponge for Con’s birthday, topped with strawberries—a gift from one of the young Society women. (What fun to put it that way!) I told her it was unnecessary, but she insisted—she grew them herself and they were divine.
Mrs. O’Dell. Holly was named Helen O’Dell McCaskill—Holly was a nickname—after a family friend, but Sarah had never heard anything more about the woman. Who was this mysterious “society woman” who grew the strawberries? And when were strawberries ever unnecessary?
She flipped ahead to the last entry, dated 1926, though several empty pages followed. Why had Caro stopped writing? Were there other journals?
She’d take the journal with her and explore it under better light. She returned the box and tray to the trunk, closed it, and stood.
Heard a sound. Held her breath. Were those footsteps? Heavy footsteps, drawing closer. She stared at the door. Who might be coming up here? Why? There was no escape.
“Who’s there?”
No one answered.
Then a shadow filled the doorway. Her heart all but leapt into her throat.
“Sarah?”
“Oh, Connor.” She stepped into the light. “You scared me for a moment. You find more damage? I’m not surprised.” Her breath was returning to normal, but it hadn’t caught up with her voice yet. “I’d like to bring this trunk into the lodge. It’s awfully heavy. I don’t know how you two managed to haul it up the stairs.”
“We didn’t,” he said, his brow furrowed. “That one was already in here. I didn’t open it.”
“It’s filled with old albums and scrapbooks, keepsakes I think belonged to our great-grandmother. Could you and Matt—uh—uhh.” She raised her elbow to her face and sneezed.
“Sure. But—”
“Connor, what is it? What—?” She sneezed again.
A half-smile crept onto his lips. “I’ll get Matt.”
* * *
In the lodge, Sarah left the journal and pliers on the kitchen counter, then headed for the bathroom to wash off the dust.
A few minutes later, she heard a clatter outside and rushed to open the front door. “Don’t worry about your boots,” she called. The men lugged the brass and leather trunk through the front hall and set it in Grandpa Tom’s office.
“What’s up? I can see it on your face.”
“I need to explain. About Lucas.”
She perched on the corner of their grandfather’s desk and crossed her arms. “I just didn’t realize he’d done any work for the company. Or that you knew him. But it’s a small town. And from what Nic says, when it came to lawyers in Deer Park, you didn’t have a lot of choice.”
“I know what happened twenty-five years ago, sis,” Connor said.
No, you don’t. Not all of it. Connor had been a kid then, thrilled to meet an honest-to-goodness, real-life college basketball star. Michael had been kind to the gangly teenager, and Connor had been devastated by his death. As far as he knew, as far as anyone around here knew, the wreck was a terrible accident. And he didn’t know what Lucas had done to Janine. His ignorance was her fault; they’d kept their mouths shut.
But now the man was dead. And maybe she’d held her grudge too long.
She raised both hands. “Hey, it’s okay. You had every right to hire whoever you thought would do the best job for the company, and I don’t get to say boo, because I’m not running the business. Unless you killed him. You didn’t kill him, did you?”
“God, no, Sally. How can you say that?”
“Joking. Joking. Seems like most of the people who knew Lucas wanted to kill him, at one time or another.”
“He could be a first-class ass,” Connor said. “But if Jeremy was willing to let it go, maybe you should, too.”
“Jeremy?” She straightened. “What does he have to do with this? And don’t you tell me how my husband felt or didn’t feel.”
“Hey, what’s this mysterious trunk?” They heard Holly before they saw her. She stood in the doorway, looking from one sibling to the other. “What? What’s up?”
Holly’s words echoed Sarah’s own demands. They were all on edge right now. Sarah cradled the top of her head. She was sick of secrets. Parts of the story weren’t theirs to tell. But if it weighed this heavily, it might be time to lift the burden.
They told him about the letters. About Janine racing up to Deer Park to confront Lucas, only to find him dead on his office floor. About Leo’s suspicions and Nic’s attempt to piece together the truth, to bolster Janine’s defense and identify the real killer.
Through it all, Connor kept a closed face. When Sarah finished, he spoke to Holly. “So that’s why you’re here. This isn’t a girlfriends’ week to reconnect and comfort Sarah?”
Holly’s silence was his answer.
“How do you know the letters came from Lucas?” he continued.
“We don’t. Not for sure. But the four of us and Lucas are the only people”—Sarah stopped, correcting herself—“were the only people still living who were here that day. And we have no reason to threaten each other.”
“But why would he threaten you? I mean …” He ran a hand over his reddish-brown hair, in need of a trim. “Why bring it up now? Why do anything?”
“That’s what we don’t know,” Holly said. “One theory is that Lucas had plans to run for office and wanted to make sure we kept quiet.”
“About the assault.” Connor’s gaze narrowed and he glanced between them. “What else?”
“She ran from him, bruised and bloody, crying.” Sarah’s throat hurt, the rage unspoken for so long. “We were all there. The guys tried to confront him but he jumped in the car. They tried to stop him but …”
“And that’s when the accident happened.” Connor wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist.
“I—” Guts, Sarah, guts. “I have never been sure it was an accident. Yes, the moose came out of the borrow pit. Yes, Lucas was angry and even afraid. But …”
“You think—oh, God. You think he crashed that car on purpose,” Connor said. “Killing one man and nearly killing another.”
“I never knew you thought that,” Holly said. “I thought that was just my crazy theory.”
“I suspect each of us came to that same conclusion. The girls. Not Jeremy. Never Jeremy.”
“Holy crap,” Connor said. “I never would have hired Erickson …”
“I know,” Sarah said. “I know. The story never got out. Janine decided not to press charges, after what happened. We all thought he’d go to prison for the wreck. We never imagined he’d get off scot-free.”
Connor’s eyes were guarded, and she saw in this giant man the little boy who’d chased after his sisters on the lakefront lawn, who’d stepped into the family business young, working alongside their ailing father for years, keeping it going against all odds. And now, apparently, expanding it.
They heard the front door open. Connor poked his head out, then back in. “It’s Leo.”
A moment later, the uniformed sheriff joined the siblings in their grandfather’s office, forgoing the usual hugs, kisses, and handshakes. This was serious.
“If you’re here to see Janine—” Sarah began.
“No. Ms. Lund made crystal-clear that I was not to say anything more than hello to Ms. Chapman outside her presence,” Leo said.
“You’re treating her as a serious suspect,” Connor said.
“Everyone’s a serious suspect,” Leo replied sharply.
“We’ve told him everything,” Sarah said.
“All right. Good. I’m sending the letter and envelope to the state crime lab,” Leo replied, “for fingerprinting and a formal comparison to the others. Though it seems identical. Tell me about it.”
“It came to the house. I don’t remember seeing it, but either the housekeeper or I must have thought it was another condolence card and tucked it in the bag with the rest.”
“Where it stayed until last night,” Leo said, and she nodded.
“If Lucas Erickson was the kind of man who would threaten a woman whose husband had just died,” Holly said, “then he deserved what he got.”
“Probably not the best thing to say in front of the sheriff,” Sarah said, “even if he is our cousin. But I appreciate the sentiment.”
“Problem is,” Leo said, “that kind of logic gives me a long list of suspects.”
Was she imagining that his attention settled on her brother a moment too long? Surely Leo didn’t suspect his own family. Surely if he did, he’d bring in outside investigators.
“What if,” Connor said, “Janine heard about his ambitions—they’re hardly a secret—and decided this was the time to stop him? Times have changed.”
Easy to say, hard to believe. As the mother of both a young man and a young woman, she hoped sheriffs no longer told young women to get over it, to think about the man’s reputation. Leo would never say such a thing. But the rest of his ilk? She wasn’t convinced.
And why did Connor sound like he wanted Janine to be guilty?
A thick silence filled the room. In the distance, the chainsaw whirred.
“What if,” Holly broke in, “we misunderstood? The letter said ‘only you know what to do.’ We took that as a warning to keep silent, but what if it’s the opposite, telling us to speak out?”
“But who?” Sarah asked. Holly couldn’t mean … “No. If Janine decided it was finally time to expose him, to derail his ambitions, why not just do it? Besides, he’s run for office before and she didn’t say a thing.”
“That we know of,” Leo said.
So they were checking. “Leo, she’s not a terrified girl anymore. She’s a grown woman. Not that I believe she’s guilty for one minute, but if she’d wanted to kill him, why not just kill him? Why go to all this trouble? And why drag the rest of us into it?”
But it made a certain kind of sense. They hadn’t been all-for-one, one-for-all for a long time. What if Janine hadn’t been sure she could count on their support, not without manipulating them to rally ’round her.
Leo was eyeing her closely, as if he could read her mind. She wouldn’t put it past him—he’d know
n her her whole life.
But he wasn’t necessarily on their side. He’d say he wasn’t on anyone’s side, that his goal was the truth. Justice. She wanted to believe him, believe that he was better than the sheriff who had subtly, but surely, pressured her and Janine to hold their tongues twenty-five years ago.
“Leo,” she said. “I know you have to investigate her. You have to investigate everyone who had a beef with Lucas—his ex-wife, his former partner.”
“Unhappy clients,” Holly said. “Unhappy not-clients.”
“Lucas left plenty of both,” Leo said.
As she’d heard that first day back, in the Spruce, when Deb the waitress had aired her grievances and the older couple had chimed in with their gossip. And her own brother was a client, though he’d said nothing to suggest he’d been unhappy with Lucas. Neither had Renee Harper.
She stepped between her brother and sister and looped her arms through theirs. “We trust you to do your job.”
“Thank you, Sally. Sarah,” Leo replied.
“Speaking of jobs.” Connor dropped her arm. “Better get back to mine.”
The two cousins shook hands. “I see your crews are working up on Lynx Mountain,” Leo said.
Sarah frowned. “Do we have land up there? I know it’s a checkerboard, but I thought that end of the ridge belonged to George Hoyt.”
“He sold,” Connor said curtly and turned to leave, gesturing to Leo to go first.
Now what was that about? She stared at the men’s muddy footprints and wondered.
20
Didn’t matter if it rained buckets. If she came back cold and drenched and shivered and got the flu and spent a week in bed. Sarah needed to get out of this house and clear her head.
The woods were quiet. Connor had left, leaving young Matt to limb the downfall and pile up the debris. A full crew would finish the job next week and haul the merchantable timber back to the yard. But the roads on the property were clear and the threats to the buildings removed. The debris, the slash, they’d burn before the summer heat dried out the woods. She’d tended slash piles with her father in the spring and fall, rakes and shovels in hand, the smell of dank, mossy smoke working its way into her hair, her clothes, her nostrils. She should have hated it, but she hadn’t. She’d loved the time with him, time in these woods, time tending the family legacy.
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