Buried Sins (6 page)

“You’re Zach’s sister.” And that shouldn’t give her spirits a lift, either. The marital status of Zach Burkhalter was nothing to her.

“The woods are full of Burkhalters around here,” Zach said easily. “Mom and Dad each had five siblings, and then they had another five kids to add to the mix.”

“You’re lucky you just have sisters,” Karen said. “Brothers can be such a pain.” She threw a light punch toward Zach’s shoulder.

“Well, I’d better finish setting up.” Standing there looking at Zach was not conducive to her peace of mind. It just made her remember those moments when she’d told him far too much. And had had the sense that he understood even more than she’d told.

Things had been quiet since then. With a little luck, they’d stay that way, and she could stop wondering what had become of that sketch Zach had faxed to Santa Fe.

Caro pulled the quilt from its protective covering and slid her metal chair over next to the screen to climb on.

“Let me give you a hand.” Before she could say no, Zach had rounded her table. He took the end of the quilt, lifting it over the screen as she unfolded it. “Is this how you want it?”

“Yes. Thanks.”
Now please go away, and let me get back to concentrating on the craft show.
It wasn’t Zach’s fault that he made her tense up, sure that at any moment he’d say something about the prowler. Or the sketch.

He drew the quilt down behind the screen, and she smoothed it out with her hand. It fit perfectly, falling to table height in a cascade of rich, saturated color.

“That’s lovely, too.” Karen took a step back to admire the quilt. “Handmade. Are you selling Amish quilts, as well as your jewelry?”

Caro shook her head. “I just wanted it to give me a colorful background. My sister found a treasure trove of quilts stored in the attic.”

She started to climb down from the chair, and Zach caught her hand, steadying her. Solid, strong, like the man himself. He wouldn’t be a featherweight in a crisis, but she guessed he’d expect a lot from anyone he got close to.

“It’s a lot better than looking at cement-block walls,” Karen said. “Would you mind if I borrowed the idea and did something similar in my booth?”

“Not at all.” She took a step away from Zach’s supporting hand. She didn’t need support. She did quite well on her own.

“As long as you don’t try to borrow the quilt, as well,” Zach said.

His sister shot him a haughty look. “I happen to have quilts of my own. Although I’m not sure I have anything as fine as that one.” She fingered the stitches, so even and neat that it was hard to believe they were done by hand.

Quilts seemed to be a safe topic of conversation. “Do you know anything about restoring antique quilts? I found one that dates back to pre–Civil War, and I’d love to get it into shape to display.”

Karen shook her head. “Not me. The person you should talk to is Agatha Morris. She’s a local historian and something of an authority on old quilts and coverlets.”

“To say nothing of being the mother of Churchville’s mayor, as she’ll be sure to point out to you,” Zach said.

“You just don’t like Keith because he tried to get the county commissioners to cut your budget. And he only did that because you gave him a speeding ticket.”

Zach shot his sister a warning glance. “Don’t go around saying things like that, Karrie.”

She wrinkled her nose at him, in the inevitable manner of little sisters everywhere, and then nodded. “Okay. But how about my coffee? And bring one for Caroline, too. She looks thirsty.”

“You don’t need—” she began, and then lost track of what she was going to say under the impact of Zach’s rare smile.

“Cream? Sugar?” His eyes warmed, almost as if he knew he’d had an effect on her.

“One sugar. No cream.” If he kept looking at her that way, she might have to reassess her opinion of him.

Straight-arrow cop, she reminded herself as he sauntered off toward the food stand. Maybe he was one of the good guys, as her sister said, but that didn’t mean he could ever understand someone like her.

Zach hadn’t intended to spend so much of the day at the craft show. Usually he came by whenever Karrie was exhibiting, just to help her set up or tear down. Somehow today he didn’t feel like heading for home.

Ruthie was here, somewhere, with his mother. Mom had been teaching her how to crochet, and that had sparked her interest in Aunt Karrie and the craft show. Thank goodness his daughter had Mom around to handle the girlie stuff. He could teach her how to catch a fish, but he was pretty clueless in some departments.

He rounded the corner of the row of stalls and spotted his sister, leaning across her table to show something to a customer. Beyond her, he could see Caroline, also busy with a customer. Her face was animated as she displayed a bracelet, draping it across her wrist.

His gut tightened at the thought of those bruises on her right wrist. Nobody should treat a woman that way. On the other hand, could he believe her account of how it had happened? He wasn’t sure, and until he was, until he knew for sure she wasn’t involved in something criminal, he’d tread carefully where Caroline was concerned.

He’d expected to hear something from that Santa Fe PD by now about the sketch he’d faxed them, but so far they’d been silent. His request was probably pretty far down on their priority list.

As he neared the stand, he realized that the person she was talking to was that photographer, Tenley. Interesting that the guy was still around. Something about him hadn’t quite rung true from the first time Zach saw him.

Zach picked up one of Karen’s baskets and turned it over in his hands, trying to separate their conversation from the buzz of talk that surrounded them.

From what he could make out, Tenley was intent on asking her out, and Caroline was equally intent on selling him something. It seemed to be a bit of a stand-off.

“Are you planning to buy a basket today?” Karen turned to him as her customer moved off, dangling a bag containing one of her smaller items.

“Why would I do that, when you keep giving them to me? If you want your family to buy, you’ll have to stop being so generous.”

“Small chance of that,” Karen said. “You have a birthday coming up, don’t you? What kind of basket would you like?”

Caroline, seeming to overhear, turned to smile at his sister. “That’s what it is to be related to a crafter. As far as I can tell, my sisters like my jewelry, but they could hardly tell me anything else, could they?”

“Of course they like it,” Tenley put in quickly. “Your adaptation of Zuni designs is inspired. As a matter of fact, I’ll take the bracelet for
my
sister’s birthday.”

“Excellent.” Caroline beamed. “I’ll gift wrap it for you.”

“You seem to know a lot about Southwestern design.” Zach leaned against the table. “You spend some time out there?”

Tenley looked startled at the direct question, but then he tapped his camera. “My work takes me all over the place. I know enough about Zuni art to appreciate it.” He turned quickly back to Caroline, pulling out his wallet. “Don’t bother to gift wrap it. I’ll take it as it is.”

In a moment he’d paid, claimed his package and moved off. Frowning, Caroline turned to Zach.

“You just scared off a customer. I might have been able to sell him something else.”

He shrugged. “If someone’s scared of the police, it’s usually because they have something to hide.”

Her reaction to that might have been invisible to anyone else, but not to him. He was looking for it, and he saw it—that faint withdrawal as muscles tightened, the slightest darkening of those clear green eyes. Caroline took that personally. That meant she had reason to do so.

And that meant he should do the thing he’d been putting off for days—run a check on her and find out just what it was about her past she wanted to hide.

“Caroline, here’s just the person you should talk with about your quilt.” Karen’s voice had both of them jerking toward her. His reaction was mild annoyance, but he suspected Caroline’s was relief.

The annoyance deepened when he found Agatha Morris and her son Keith standing behind him. He jerked a nod. “Mrs. Morris. Mayor. Enjoying the show?”

Agatha gave him an icy nod before turning to Caroline. With her iron-gray hair worn in a style reminiscent of Queen Elizabeth, her sensible shoes and the flowered dresses she wore whatever the season, Agatha was a formidable figure. “I understand you’re Katherine Unger’s granddaughter.” The words sounded faintly accusing.

Caroline smiled, extending her hand. “I’m Caroline Hampton.”

Agatha glanced toward the jewelry, seeming not to notice the gesture, but Keith slid past her to take Caroline’s hand. “Welcome to Churchville, Caroline. I’m Keith Morris.”

You couldn’t fault Keith’s manners, even if you did think him too much of a featherweight to be mayor of any town, no matter how small. Maybe the voters had been bemused by the freckles and aw-shucks smile.

“My son is the mayor of Churchville, you know.” Agatha never missed an opportunity to mention that. She cast a critical eye at the quilt. “Karen says you had some question about an antique quilt. If it’s that one, it’s not nearly old enough or unique enough to be of interest.”

Caroline seemed to stiffen at the slur. “No, I’m familiar with the history of this one. I found an older quilt in the attic at Unger House, one made by my grandfather’s grandmother during the 1850s. It has an interesting design—a combination of flying geese with a star. I’d like to know more about it.”

He expected Agatha to welcome the opportunity to show off her expertise. She could be counted on to launch into a lecture at a moment’s notice.

But she didn’t. She stood perfectly still for a moment, staring at Caroline as if she’d said something off-color. Then she shook her head. “I’m afraid that would hardly be worth pursuing. Such quilts are rather common—of no historic interest at all.” She turned away. “Come, Keith.”

With an apologetic glance at Caroline, Keith followed his mother down the crowded aisle between the tables.

“Well.” Karen sounded as surprised as he was. “I’ve never known Agatha to miss an opportunity to tell someone exactly how to do almost anything.”

Caroline shrugged. “Obviously she didn’t think my quilt was worth her time.”

Could be. But it was still odd. Odd things seemed to collect around Caroline Hampton, for some reason, and he’d like to know why. Until he did—

“Daddy!” A small hurricane swept toward him, and Ruthie launched herself as if she hadn’t seen him for months, instead of hours. “Grammy said you’d be here.”

He lifted her in a hug and then set her back on her feet, overwhelmed as he so often was at the way God had brought her into his life. He ruffled her dark-brown curls as his mother came up behind her.

“Ruthie, you shouldn’t run off that way.” Mom divided a smile among them, sounding a little out of breath.

“Mom, Ruthie, this is Caroline Hampton.”

Ruthie caught the edge of the table with two probably grimy hands and propped her chin on it, eyes wide as she looked at the jewelry. “Wow. Did you make those?” Before Caroline could answer she’d ducked down and crawled underneath the table cover, to pop up on the other side next to Caroline, beaming at her. “I love your jewelry. Someday I want to have earrings just like yours.”

Smiling, Caroline bent down to let Ruthie touch the dangling spirals of silver that danced from her earlobes. His daughter touched the earring, making it shimmer.

“Ruthie, come out of there now.” Instead of waiting for her to crawl under, he reached across the table and lifted her in his arms. “You know better than to go into someone’s booth without permission.”

But that wasn’t what put the edge in his voice. It was the sight of his daughter leaning against Caroline.

Caroline took a step back, her face paling as if he’d struck her. He was sorry. He didn’t want to hurt her.

But like it or not, Caroline was a question mark in his mind. He’d give the woman the benefit of the doubt in any other instance, but not where his daughter was concerned.

“Y
ou really don’t need to stay and help me.” Caro opened the trunk of her car, peering around the lid at Rachel, who’d walked over from the house to help unload.

“It’s no problem.” Rachel seized a cardboard box. “Andrea wanted to stop by the show to help out, but she’s swamped, with tax time approaching.”

Rachel seemed to take it for granted that the family would pitch in to help. A wave of guilt moved through Caro. She hadn’t done much in the way of helping Rachel or Grams since she’d been back, had she?

“You have the inn guests to worry about. I’m sure you should be prepping for tomorrow’s breakfast or something.” She tried to take the box from Rachel’s hands, but her sister clung to it, laughing a little.

“Don’t be so stubborn, Caro. How many times did I say that to you when we were kids?”

“Pretty often. But not as often as Andrea did.” She had to return the smile. “That used to be her theme song when it came to me, as I recall.”

“And how you resented it.”

Yes, she had. She’d wanted to do things for herself, but Andrea, always trying so hard to be the big sister, had been just as determined to help her.

Until Andrea had left, headed for college, and she hadn’t come back. And then Rachel had taken off in her turn. She could hardly blame them for that, could she? Except that it had left her alone with Mom.

“I’m a big girl now. I’ve been doing my own loading and unloading from craft shows for a long time—” She looked up, startled, at the sound of another vehicle pulling up behind hers.

Rachel lifted a hand in greeting to Zach as he slid out of the car. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll let Zach do the heavy lifting, then.”

“Glad to,” he said, approaching. “Believe me, my sister has me well trained in the whole craft-show routine.” He reached past her to begin sliding the folding screen out of the trunk.

Rachel gave her a quick hug. “Come over and we’ll raid the refrigerator for supper whenever you’re hungry. Grams won’t want much after her tea party today.” She scurried off, leaving Caro alone with Zach.

He hefted the screen. “You want to get the door?”

“Actually I want to know why you’re here. Again.” She unlocked the door as she spoke. After all, there was no point in refusing a hand in with the heavy things.

“There’s something I need to talk to you about.” He stepped inside and set the screen against the wall.

She paused on the doorstep, stiffening. Whatever it was, she didn’t want to hear it.

Zach leveled that steady gaze at her. “You look like you’re tensed up for bad news.”

“I can’t imagine that you’re here to bring me good news.” She shoved the door shut behind her, aware of the alien scent almost before she registered it mentally. Her head lifted, face swiveling toward the kitchen.

“Coffee smells good.” Zach’s tone was casual, but his eyes were watchful.

“Yes.” She had to force the word out. “But I didn’t make any coffee this morning.”

He frowned, and then crossed the dining area and rounded the breakfast bar into the kitchen. “Somebody did. The pot’s still on—the mug rinsed and left in the drainer. You sure you didn’t start it and then forget about it?”

“I didn’t make any.” She walked to the counter. “I didn’t have time.”

Her mind flickered to those moments when Zack had brought her coffee at the show. When she’d actually felt as if they were becoming friends. It had been an illusion, like so much else.

“I don’t see how you can be sure,” he began.

“Because I know what I did and what I didn’t do.” She snapped the words. “Because even if I had planned to make coffee, I wouldn’t have made that kind. Hazelnut. I don’t care for hazelnut. I don’t have any in the house.” Her voice was starting to veer out of control, and she caught herself, breathing hard.

“Who does like hazelnut?” he asked quietly. As if he knew the answer already.

“Tony.” It took an effort to swallow. “Tony liked hazelnut. It was all he drank.”

He stood for a moment, watching, and then came to plant his hands on top of the counter. “Tony’s dead. So how could he be here, making coffee in your kitchen?”

She sank onto the stool, her legs trembling. “He couldn’t. He couldn’t.”

“You said the man who threatened you claimed he was alive.” His gaze was so intent on her face that she could feel its heat.

“He was wrong. Or lying. Tony died in that accident. If he hadn’t, he’d have come back.”

Or would he? He’d already taken everything she had. What else was there to bring him back?

“There’s more to it than that.” Zach’s frown deepened. “That man, the one you drew the sketch of—”

“You’ve identified him.” Her gaze flew to his face. “You know who he is.”

“I had a call from the police in Santa Fe. They’re familiar with him. His name is Leonard Decker. Mean anything to you?”

She shook her head slowly. “Leonard Decker. I don’t remember hearing the name. What was he to my husband?”

“Good question.” Zach ran his hand absently along the edge of the granite counter. “According to the officer I talked to, Decker has a finger in a lot of pies, some of them probably illegal. They’ve never managed to convict him, but he’s been under suspicion several times—fencing stolen goods, gambling, that sort of thing.”

“Gambling.” She repeated the word, her heart sinking, mind flashing back to Francine’s speculations about Tony.

“You have any reason to think your husband was involved in anything like that?”

She started to shake her head, but something about that steady gaze seemed to stop her. She didn’t trust Zach. But what was the point of denying something he already seemed to guess?

“There was money missing from my account.” She pushed her hair back from her face, aware of the throbbing in her temples. “That was what we fought about, that last night. He’d cleaned out my savings and checking accounts.”

“Did he say why he needed the money? Give any explanation?”

“No.” His only defense had been in cruel, cutting remarks. “He seemed to think I’d cheated him in some way, letting him believe I had family money when he married me.” That accusation had left her numb and speechless. How did you defend against that?

Zach was silent for a moment. Maybe he knew there was nothing safe to say in response to that.

Finally he spoke. “Sounds as if Decker is nobody to fool around with, but I can’t see what he’d hope to gain by following you here. Unless he thinks you’re going to lead him to Tony.”

“Tony is dead.” But not even she was convinced by her tone.

“If he isn’t, would he contact you?”

“I don’t know.” Everything she’d thought she knew about Tony had turned out to be a lie. How could she be sure of anything? “Francine—my friend at the gallery—thinks so, but she doesn’t know everything.”

“You haven’t told anyone else about the money.”

“No.”

She thought he was going to ask why she’d told him, but he didn’t. He just shook his head.

“Why not move into the house? Nobody would risk paying you any surreptitious visits there, to make coffee or anything else.”

“That’s why.” She pressed her palms down on the counter. “Don’t you see? If Tony is alive, I have to know. If he’s trying to get in touch with me, I have to be where he can reach me.”

“Why wouldn’t he just walk in, then? Why fool around leaving you hints that he’s been here?”

“I don’t know. We didn’t exactly part on the best of terms. Maybe he’s afraid I’m being watched. I don’t understand any of it.” She squeezed the back of her neck, trying to press the tension out. It didn’t help. “But I can certainly understand why you didn’t want your daughter anywhere near me.”

“Ruthie.” His gaze was startled, but she could read the truth there. To do him credit, he didn’t try to deny it. “She’s my child. I can’t expose her to—”

“A criminal like me?”

“I was going to say to someone who might be surrounded by trouble.”

“You’re a wise parent.” If her own parent had been a little wiser, how different might her life have been? She wouldn’t have ended up spending those terrifying months in the juvenile detention facility. She wouldn’t have carried that around with her for years. Or would she have ended up the same even with good parents?

“I try. Picking it up along the way, I guess. I’d like to help you, Caroline. I’m not sure what I can do.”

“There’s nothing anyone can do.” Anyone except Tony. If he was alive, sooner or later he’d show himself. And then what? Did they try and put the pieces back together again, when there’d been nothing real to begin with?

“Get in touch with me if anything happens that worries you.” He put his hand over hers where it lay on the granite, and his grip was warm and strong. Reassuring. “If there’s any way I can help you find the truth, I will.”

Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked them back. “Thank you. But I don’t think—”

His grip tightened. “Promise me. If there’s a way I can help, you’ll tell me.”

There wasn’t a way anyone could help, so the promise was a small price to pay to be left alone.

“All right. I promise.”

What would anyone have to gain by making Caroline believe that her husband was still alive? Zach drove slowly down the bumpy lane to the main road, his mind still revolving around that odd incident with Caroline.

And the coffee. Was that remotely believable? He came back to the same question. If someone had gone into the apartment while she was out today and deliberately made a pot of her husband’s favorite coffee—

It was stretching his imagination to believe that much, but Caroline’s reactions had seemed genuine.

So get back to the question. If someone had done that, what would his or her purpose have been? To taunt Caroline about her husband’s death? To accuse her, in some veiled way, of contributing to that death? Or to make her think that her husband was still alive?

To think that. Or fear that. He didn’t believe for a moment that Caroline had told him everything about that relationship. Had there been reasons why she might have feared Tony Gibson? He hadn’t forgotten the bruises on her wrist, and his natural skepticism had made him question her explanation.

Still, the Santa Fe police had identified Leonard Decker, and there was a certain logic that would fit Tony Gibson into the picture with him.

On the other hand, and he had the feeling he was now on his third or fourth hand, Caroline could have engineered the entire story herself. He didn’t pretend to be a psychologist, but he’d seen enough human behavior in his years as a cop to know it was seldom entirely rational, especially when driven by strong emotion. If Caroline felt guilty in regard to her husband’s death, she might find a way to punish herself through these hints that he was still alive.

He knew a bit about survivor’s guilt himself—enough to accept that such a thing could happen, at least. He couldn’t forget—would never forget—that Ruthie might not be an orphan if he hadn’t failed to do his duty. He ripped his thoughts away from that. This was about Caroline, not him.

There was the least-palatable explanation—that Caroline had set up the situation deliberately, for reasons that had nothing to do with her feelings for Tony. Think about it. What would have happened if Zach hadn’t come along just when he did?

Rachel would have helped her carry the craft show things into the apartment, and Rachel would have been the one to hear the odd story about the coffee. She wouldn’t have his skepticism. She’d rush to her little sister’s defense.

He couldn’t dismiss the niggling fear that this could all be part of some elaborate scheme to get money out of Katherine Unger. She’d do anything if she believed her granddaughter needed her help.

Caroline could be telling the exact truth as she understood it, in which case she deserved sympathy and help, not suspicion. But he was a cop, and he couldn’t stop thinking like one. In any event, the only way to help anyone, innocent or guilty, was to find the plain, unvarnished truth.

He pulled up to the curb at the police station, glancing at his watch. It was past time he went home for supper, but he had something to do first.

He unlocked the door and went inside. It was just as well that everyone was gone. He didn’t want anyone listening to the conversation he was about to have, always assuming he could reach the detective in Santa Fe he’d talked with earlier.

A few minutes later he was leaning back in his chair, listening to Detective Charles Rojas of the Santa Fe PD, who had still been in his office thanks to the time difference.

Rojas seemed to have decided to be a bit more forthcoming. “The thing is, and this is strictly in confidence, Gibson had been under investigation in the weeks before his death.”

“Investigation of what?”

Silence on the line.

“Look, someone has been dropping hints to his widow that Tony Gibson is still alive. If through some bizarre chance that’s true, it’s in both our interests to work together on this.” He waited.

A rustling of papers sounded through the phone. “You’ve got a point there.” There was a thud, as if Rojas had propped his feet up on his desk. “Okay, here’s the story. Gibson was thought to have been involved in a fairly sophisticated series of scams.”

“Thought to be? If he tried to con someone, they ought to be able to identify him.”

“You don’t know these people.” Rojas’s voice betrayed his frustration. “Upper-crust society, whatever you want to call them. They don’t relish letting the world know they’ve been made fools of. Seemed like most of them would rather write off the con and forget about it. No one would identify Gibson directly. Maybe, eventually, we’d have pinned it to him, but he drove his car off a cliff first.”

“You’re sure about the identification of the body?” That was the crux of the matter, as far as he was concerned.

Silence again for a moment. “The car burned badly. Very badly. So far we haven’t received complete confirmation as to the driver’s identity. But Tony Gibson was seen driving the car about fifteen minutes before it went over the cliff. I think it’s a pretty safe assumption that he was the one in the bottom of that ravine.”