Hidden Motive (4 page)

S
able shivered beneath the folds of the afghan. Murph was checking the garage for automobiles, which she should have considered immediately.

Perry leaned toward Jerri at the hearth, and Sable heard him mumble an apology for the accident with the flashlight.

Jerri patted his broad, fleshy shoulder, then pointed down at his leather-soled, black dress shoes. “May I suggest that next time you travel, you wear lug-soled boots?”

Sable pulled the afghan more snugly around her. Could that push have been an accident? Someone else could have slid, then bumped against her. But somehow she would have expected anyone with integrity to say, “Excuse me for pushing you off the mountain. How can I make it up to you?”

Audry bent over Sable. “While we're waiting to discover the identity of our mystery host, why don't you put me to work gathering towels and blankets for—”

The basement door at the end of the hearth opened suddenly, and a tall, dark-haired man entered.

Sable recognized him immediately. “Craig!”

His heavy brows tipped upward in surprise at the small crowd huddled around the fireplace. “Sable? What on earth are you doing back? Who's your company?”

Sable rushed forward and gave her old friend a quick hug, suddenly overwhelmed by relief. She felt his surprise at such an affectionate welcome, especially since she'd just seen him at her grandfather's funeral only two days ago.

“What are you doing down from the mountain?” she asked.

He glanced at the rest of the group, and then at Murph, who was returning from the garage.

Sable took Craig's arm and turned to the others. “Meet our nearest neighbor, Craig Holt. We can probably thank him for the fire and the unlocked door.” She noticed Murph's suddenly intent look. “He's a family friend,” she explained, turning back to Craig. “I tried calling here last night, but no one answered. I couldn't reach either of my brothers or Mom.”

“Weather got bad soon after you left yesterday, so your mom drove to Eureka Springs earlier than she'd planned to stay with Randy,” Craig explained. “And the phone line's down. What are you doing back so soon?” He gestured toward the others. “It isn't the best of weather for a house party.”

“They're passengers on our bus. We're stranded.”

“Bus?” Craig said. “In this weather? Why would you take a bus when you—”

“I'll explain it all later,” Sable assured him.

Craig shrugged. “Your mom wanted me to keep an eye on things while she was gone. With the ice storm, I thought I'd just stay for a couple of days. No use trying to get home from here, and I'm sure not going to try to drive in this mess.

“So that's your Jeep in the garage?” Murph asked.

Craig nodded, giving Murph a silent once-over.

Sable asked Craig to round up some towels, and he seemed eager to escape the small group of strangers.

The attic was filled with old clothes accumulated over the years. There were sure to be things that would fit the guests.

She thought about the safe, hidden deep behind the antiques, old furniture and storage boxes. She had never paid much attention to it, except when she and her brothers had played up there as children, imagining the heavy old safe to be stuffed with stolen cash or gold pieces or treasure maps.

At this point, she hoped it contained something more precious—proof of Grandpa's innocence. If only she knew the combination.

While Simmons, Perry, Jerri, Audry and Bryce spread their wet coats over the bricks of the raised hearth, Sable glanced toward Murph. In the six weeks since he had come to work at the clinic, she had found him to be kind to patients, attentive to details and extremely attractive. His appeal was undeniable—from the dark-lashed green eyes and dark auburn hair to the broad shoulders. Patients and staff trusted him. He was willing to help his colleagues, without needing credit.

Sable also sensed that maybe he wasn't as open and uncomplicated as he initially appeared. Now, however, he represented solidity in a world of shifting foundations.

She pulled off her shoes and socks, rolled up the legs of her jeans, and sank her bare feet into the warmth of the deep carpet while she watched Murph with the others. When he turned toward her, she looked away.

Audry inspected an antique brass planter containing a thick silk fern, then stepped to the cabinet filled with antique figurines. “Some of these things must be older than I am. Probably in better working order, as well. Beautiful job of decorating.”

“Thank you,” Sable said.

“You did this? And the drapes, the paneling, those mirrors in the corner?”

“The paneling has been here as long as I can remember. My grandfather and mother and I redecorated the house together last summer. I supervised. Mom did the sewing, and Grandpa did the heavy lifting.” She studied the small rocks in one of Grandpa's display cases, turned to Audry, then frowned and looked back at the rocks. There was something different about them….

Craig came back down the stairs with an armful of mismatched towels. “Come and get 'em,” he said.

Audry reached for a small hand towel and gave it to Sable. “Honey, I think you need to step closer to the fire. Your hair is still wet.” She took Sable's arm and gently urged her forward. “Where is your grandfather now?”

“We…had his funeral this week.”

Audry lost her grip on Sable's arm. Her face paled noticeably in the dim flicker of the fire.

“Audry? Are you okay?”

For a moment, the woman didn't respond. She pressed her hands against her cheeks, closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath. “Forgive me. I…suppose the excitement must have upset me more than I thought.”

“Do you feel weak?” Sable asked. “Are you in pain?”

Audry opened her eyes. “I'll be fine. Don't worry about me.” She sighed. “I'm so sorry to hear about your grandfather.”

“Thank you. I'm sure you'll feel better with some warm clothing.” She gestured to the others. “Craig, would you show everyone to the attic where there are extra clothes? I'm going to change quickly and make some warm drinks to knock off the chill.”

Those who had brought overnight cases went upstairs to change, while Craig led the others to the attic. Sable changed quickly in her own room, then went to her mother's bedroom on the first floor.

The bed was unmade, and Sable caught sight of a faded, pea-green backpack tossed into the far corner of the room. It was Craig's—she'd seen it many times when he'd gone hiking with Randy and Peter. For a moment, she felt uncomfortable about anyone—even a family friend—moving into her mother's bedroom while she was away. It made sense, however, to stay downstairs, near the fire. After all, Craig had spent plenty of time here, hanging out with her brothers, listening to Grandpa's stories, exploring the cave.

Sable reached for the telephone atop Mom's bedside stand. The line was dead. Jerri might still be able to reach dispatch through Grandpa's broadband radio in the family room.

Sable opened the top drawer of her mother's nightstand, where Mom kept all her most recent correspondence. The drawer was a disorganized mess, totally expected for Mom, especially during a time of crisis. Grandpa's death had hit her hard. Sympathy cards were mixed with grocery receipts and bills. Most of the unopened envelopes were probably sympathy cards, but the envelopes could contain anything.

Mom had never handled grief well, and she was prone to depression. When Dad died, Mom's meticulous world had collapsed for many months afterward, which was why she'd moved back here to be with her father. Sable and her brothers had learned many years ago not to talk to their mother about the death of a loved one.

This past week, Sable had attempted to explain to Mom the change of heart—the change of life—that she and Grandpa had experienced at Christmas, when Noah Erwin had explained to them the true power of Christmas. On Christmas night, less than two months ago, Sable and Grandpa had become committed followers of Christ, and Josiah Kessinger had lived the final few weeks of his life with newfound faith.

Mom had refused to listen. “If that gives you comfort, Sable, then you cling to that,” she'd said gently. “I'll remember my father in my own way.”

Grandpa's new faith did give Sable peace.

Sable found a recent letter with Grandpa's Freemont return address, which she slid into the front pocket of her slacks. She placed everything else back into the drawer and closed it.

The second drawer in her mother's bureau contained tax records that Sable had organized at Christmas. On top of it all was an unopened business envelope addressed in type to this house, with no return address.

Sable opened the envelope, pulled out one sheet of folded paper and read.

“Oh, Grandpa,” she whispered. “You
did
it? You really
did?
” She sank onto Mom's bed, bewildered. Devastated.

Josiah Kessinger—who had always been there for her, whom she had admired and loved, who had shared his heart and home with her whole family—was confessing to fraud?

Grandpa…

This past week she'd comforted herself with the assurance that her grandfather wouldn't do what Otis Boswell and the police had accused him of doing. She'd been sure his name would be cleared because of the integrity with which he'd lived.

That foundation of comfort began to crumble.

She stuffed the note into the front pocket of her slacks. She couldn't think about it right now. She
couldn't
believe it!

She heard a squeak of floorboards just outside the room. She had pulled the latch that locked the ancient doors, of course, but the knob of the right door turned slowly.

She stiffened and held her breath.

“W
ho's there?” Sable called sharply.

The knob stopped rattling, and the floor creaked again. Sable rushed to the door and jerked it open to find Craig Holt backing away, his tall frame slouched, as usual, a huge silhouette outlined by the firelight.

“Sorry, Sable,” he said, obviously embarrassed. “I thought you'd be changing in your own bedroom upstairs.”

“I'm not changing, I'm looking through some papers.”

“Guess it was a little slick getting here. You okay? You don't look the best.”

“Thanks,” she said drily. This was the Craig Holt she knew. At twenty-nine, he still retained many of the boyish qualities her brothers had outgrown. Still terminally shy around most women, he preferred hunting and fishing over any other social activity, and he was a die-hard spelunker. A few years ago, he had made a few awkward attempts to ask her on a date. She'd been too busy studying medicine to pay much attention.

“Where's your car?” he asked. “Why'd you take the bus?”

“The car's…I wrecked it.”

“What! You wrecked that Camaro?” He made it sound like a personal affront. “When?”

“Last night.”

“Oh, man, that stinks. How bad?”

Sable shook her head, comforted by the predictable response. “Thanks, I'm fine, but I appreciate the concern.”

“Sorry, but you're obviously okay.”

“The Camaro's gone. It went into the canal down by Freemont. I'll tell you all about it later. Right now, I think I'd better see to our guests.”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Craig hesitated, already backing away. “Well, I think I'll bring in some more wood for the furnace.”

She watched him walk away, shaking his head, and she knew he was grieving the loss of the Camaro.

When he opened the front door, Sable heard the hiss of rain slapping on the icy ground. It would be light soon. The darkness was already lifting, though in this hollow it would be hours before the sun would appear—if it came out at all today. The thermometer read twenty-nine degrees.

Simmons came down the stairs, his curly brown hair hanging in wet ringlets around his face. He wore an old, red plaid shirt that had once been Peter's favorite. Simmons's thick, muscular neck prevented him from closing the top button, but the shirt hung in folds around his midriff.

“Somebody get overheated?” he complained as he reached for the door to close it.

Just then, Craig came barreling through with an armload of wood. “Oh, good,” he said when he saw Simmons standing there, “you look like you could carry a few sticks of wood without much trouble. Want to bring in another armload or two?”

Simmons joined him.

Sable went to the kitchen. Already, she missed the peace that had always greeted her when she came home. Tonight, home didn't offer the safety and seclusion she desperately needed. She felt vulnerable.

Had she and Murph been followed from Freemont, in spite of their precautions? Could her fall have been a deliberate attempt to hurt her?

The kitchen held Sable's sweetest memories; she and Grandpa had spent so many hours renovating it. From the smooth brick floor to the thick pine ceiling beams, she felt his presence. He'd carved the beams himself.

The pain of his loss filled her again. How she missed him, and how she ached from the words of his letter.

She leaned against the work island in the middle of the large kitchen, admiring, as always, the beautiful counters that Grandpa had inlaid. In the dining room, she could see the corner of the rustic table with split log benches, also handmade by Grandpa. Everywhere, the reminders both saddened and warmed her.

She picked up a kettle and carried it to the double sink. Waxing nostalgic, she grasped the bright red handle of the old water pump and worked it up and down. After a little exercise, she was rewarded by a healthy stream of water from the spout. She filled the kettle and carried it past the antique woodstove to the modern electric stove on the far wall. The pump and the woodstove came in handy during bad weather. The electricity in this old house wasn't reliable.

She lit a burner, left the water to heat and went upstairs. She needed to make sure the old safe was still securely locked.

The long, L-shaped upstairs hallway glowed with the light of electric lamps in three of the small alcoves. Colorful oil lamps stood on polished wooden shelves at intervals in the paneled hall—cleaned and ready in case of a power outage.

The house was well insulated, partially recessed into the hill behind it, which helped warm it in the winter and cool it in the summer. Sable had fond memories of the tricks she'd played on her brothers during childhood games of hide-and-seek. She'd climbed from the sewing room window on the second floor onto the cliff just inches from the window ledge. Then she'd scaled the rocky crag up one floor, scampered over to the attic window and climbed back inside.

After the third or fourth time, Peter had caught on and locked the windows, leaving her outside on the ledge.

In addition to the sewing room, the second floor had four bedrooms and two bathrooms. The floor below had two more bedrooms and another bathroom. Enough space for plenty of people to stay comfortably. Under ordinary circumstances.

She found Murph standing beside the dresser in her bedroom at the end of the hall, studying an old photograph album.

He looked up when she entered, holding up the book. “I recognize Otis Boswell and your grandfather.” He pointed to one of the photos. “Who's this other man?”

She leaned close and saw the familiar, beloved face of Grandpa in his old camouflage hunting cap, grinning as he held his rifle balanced across his shoulder. To his right stood Otis Boswell, at least six inches shorter and twice as broad. The third man was taller than Grandpa, with black hair and a familiar, warm smile.

“That's Reuben Holt,” she said. “Craig's father.”

“Craig's father was also friends with Boswell?”

“I wouldn't call them friends, exactly. Grandpa and Boswell hunted on Reuben's property a few times, with Reuben's permission. Reuben and his wife, Camilla, moved to Jefferson City a few months ago. Reuben's running for the state senate.”

“Craig is living in the middle of the Mark Twain National Forest by himself?” Murph asked. “A young man like him?”

She shrugged. “Craig's an outdoorsman, and he owns a marina near Eagle Rock.”

“You know him pretty well?” Murph asked.

“Very. Craig was a good friend to both my brothers. He was always hanging around here.”

“How well did he know your grandfather?”

“Very.”

“And Boswell?”

“The Holts never seemed to care much for Otis Boswell. Why the questions, Murph? What are you thinking?”

“I wonder if the Holts might know something we don't.”

“About Boswell?”

Murph closed the album. “If Josiah Kessinger didn't salt that mine, and Noah Erwin didn't salt it, it stands to reason their other partner did.”

With a pang, Sable thought about the note in her pocket. Grandpa had condemned himself with his own words. She needed to find out who had killed Noah. If Grandpa truly was guilty of fraud—and she still wasn't convinced that he was—she needed to know the extent of his culpability.

“I'll ask Craig what he knows,” she said.

“Not tonight. I don't think we need to tell anyone about all this yet.” Murph's expression softened. “Sorry, I don't want to worry you, I just opened the chest looking for blankets and found this photo album.”

The pleasantly aromatic scent of cedar pervaded the room as Murph helped Sable pull out two stacks of quilts and blankets.

Sable closed the chest, her thoughts awash once again in memories. “Grandpa made this chest for me years ago. I wanted him to make it out of cedar, and he wanted to work with oak. We argued about it for three days, until he gave in. After all, as I put it, if it was a gift for me, I should have my choice.”

“So you inherited your strong will from your grandfather.”

“You might say that.” She inhaled the fragrance of cedar again, and then she grew aware of Murph's sudden, watchful silence.

“What's on your mind?” she asked.

“Otis Boswell. The more I learn about the man, the less I like him.” Murph glanced toward the door, then leaned closer. “That man is not your friend.”

She grimaced. That appeared to be true. “Why not?”

“He personally came to the clinic and questioned us while you were away at the funeral this week.”

“About what?”

“I don't know what he asked the others. He asked me if I'd seen you carrying any papers home with you after hours.”

“Papers from the clinic?” she exclaimed. “That doesn't have anything to do with the Seitz mine.”

“You're right, it doesn't.”

She slid her hand into the front pocket of her slacks and touched the corner of her grandfather's note. “There's something else going on there, Murph. I know there is.”

“Is that the loving devoted granddaughter talking, or the logical mind of Dr. Sable Chamberlin?”

“Logic. Grandpa was a good man, not a defrauder. He especially would not defraud a friend like Noah.”

“That's what Noah said.”

“I'll do all I can to uncover the truth about Grandpa's involvement with the mine, and if I find proof that he did salt it, I'll see that the injured parties are compensated, even if I have to pay for it out of my own pocket. But there's no way the Josiah Kessinger I knew would ever have done what he's been accused of doing, and even less so since Christmas, when he became a Christian, thanks to Noah's influence.”

There was a discernible softening of Murph's expression, a tenderness in his eyes. “Leave it to Noah.” He turned away abruptly and stepped to the window.

She watched him. “Murph?”

He cleared his throat, took a slow, deep breath and released it. “Looks like it's up to us to find what we need to find here.”

She wanted to show him the note, and she would. At the moment, though, the sting of it was too fresh.

Murph turned to look at her, and his attention focused on the watch Sable wore around her neck. “Beautiful craftsmanship. It no longer runs?”

“It has sentimental value. Grandpa carried it in his pocket for years.”

“You loved him very much.”

“He was the main man in my life after my father died.”

Murph nodded slowly. “He did a great job.”

“Thank you.”

“Since the two of you were so close, did he ever mention anything to you about his concerns in Freemont?”

“Nothing.” And now she was regretting that. “He was one of those tough guys who don't like the women and children to worry.”
What else were you hiding, Grandpa?

Murph nodded. “I know the type. It runs in my family, too. But that means we have to start from scratch.”

“Yes, and we're on our own.”

“Of course.” Apparently, he caught some inflection in her voice, and he frowned at her.

“I didn't slip down that cliff tonight, I was pushed.”

 

A pulse of adrenaline snapped through Murph like a bullwhip. “Pushed! Who—”

“I don't know. Ever since it happened, I've tried to convince myself I imagined it, but what if—”

“—someone followed us from Freemont?” He exhaled a long breath. “I wish you'd told me sooner.”

“In front of the guests? I haven't had a chance to tell you privately.”

“They aren't guests,” Murph said. “We don't really know who they are.” Right now he wanted to find out, fast.

“We can't afford to alert anyone that we suspect. I'm still hoping it was somehow a mistake.”

“We can't take that chance.”

“We can't panic the whole house on a suspicion. I—”

“Hello! Knock, knock.” Audry's brisk voice rang out from the open doorway of the bedroom.

Murph looked around in surprise, and heard Sable's gasp.

“Audry,” Sable said. “You startled me.”

“Looks that way.” Audry entered the room. “Sorry, honey, but we need these quickly. Everyone is still chilled.” She reached for some of the blankets and carried them out, her footsteps echoing down the hallway.

“You were saying?” Murph prompted Sable.

She picked up some quilts. “I don't want to say anything about it to the others. Not yet. Would you carry these downstairs? I'm going to check the attic.”

“Alone?”

“As long as the others are downstairs, I'm perfectly safe.”