Kiss the Moon (8 page)

Penelope went into the second bedroom, which she’d converted to a study, and turned on her computer. While it booted up, she stared at the framed front page of the
Cold Spring Reporter
from the first day of the search for Colt Sinclair and Frannie Beaudine. On her bookcase, she had scrapbooks of articles and cassettes of recordings she’d done of interviews with locals who remembered the crash and the ensuing search. She hadn’t developed such a hobby just because Colt and Frannie were pilots, because they’d disappeared in one of her favorite planes or because her father and grandfather and Aunt Mary had participated in the search. She’d come to it because of Harriet, because of the years she’d listened to her cousin fantasize—at first tentatively, then with more certainty—about being the daughter of the handsome, adventurous couple.

Wasn’t her cousin entitled to her fantasy? It was harmless enough. But Penelope pushed such thoughts aside and got on the Internet, going straight to one of the sites devoted to the missing Piper Cub. There was an amazing amount of information, gossip, speculation and junk about Frannie and Colt on the Internet, most of which was useless. Theories about their disappearance ranged from elopement to kidnapping by aliens with a thousand scenarios in between. They were alive and living in Canada, they were Communist spies, they were thieves, it was a suicide pact, it was murder-suicide. Colt was the foppish un-Sinclair, the impressionable college grad, the innocent. Then he was the quintessential Sinclair, the rake, the daredevil, the instigator. Frannie was the beautiful innocent, the bookish refugee from the wilds of New Hampshire, the vixen, the gold digger. Every possible theory from the nutty to the sublime was there.

News of Penelope’s false alarm had reached the enthusiasts. Debate was raging about why she’d changed her story. Had she been forced? Had she found something in the wreckage she wanted for herself? There were, of course, conspiracy theorists. But most believed she’d simply made a mistake, even if her turn-of-the-century dump was an awkward cover for that mistake. They didn’t want to give up their Frannie-Colt fantasies any more than Harriet would want to give up hers. Not every mystery begged for unraveling.

How had she ever thought finding their plane would help her cousin? Seeing her flush and stutter over Wyatt Sinclair this afternoon was unsettling, and now Penelope wished she’d never started down this path. She should have kept her big mouth shut about what she’d found in the woods.

But, as her grandfather would remind her, there was no point crying over spilled milk.

She decided she’d have supper by the fire and read until she fell asleep. The aftereffects of her mishap in the sky and tea with Wyatt Sinclair were taking their toll. She couldn’t think straight.

An instant message flashed on her screen. She jumped, startled, then was pleased for the diversion. She had plenty of friends in faraway places.

Frannie Beaudine was a sweet young thing not unlike you. Yet her bones lie bleached by the elements, her flesh no more, her body and spirit dead and gone. Do you want to share her fate? Behave yourself, Penelope. You know what you’ve done wrong.

She stared at the screen, paralyzed. She didn’t breathe. She didn’t blink. The words blurred, and her eyes stung until tears formed. Finally she hit the key to reply. But the person on the other end was no longer available. She jotted down the user ID. It would be useless, she knew—who would send such a message if it could be easily traced?

She typed a reply, deleted it. Maybe she should pretend she hadn’t received the message, hadn’t read it. Just ignore the thing. Don’t do anything to stir the pot.

Her hands shook, and suddenly her whole body was shaking. She gulped for air, felt the bile stinging her throat.

“Well, Aunt Mary,” she said, “you should have your front row seat.” Because she was scared. There was no other word for it.

She returned to the great room, where the warm fire of the wood stove helped to calm her. She could call the police. Andy McNally would roar out here. But what could he do?

It was a kook, she told herself. The Internet was full of kooks. No one took instant messages seriously. She’d once had one asking her if she liked to skinny-dip in Lake Winnipesaukee. The whole
world
knew she’d claimed she’d found Colt and Frannie’s plane. She should have anticipated such harassment. Andy McNally would tell her as much.

Her stomach ached, and she had to fight dizziness, a pulsing pain behind her eyes. She was Penelope the Fearless, the woman who could live on the lake in her grandfather’s cabin, who loved adventures and thrills and action and scoffed at things that went bump in the night.

Yet as the sky slowly went black and the fire crackled in the stove and she couldn’t even hear the caw of a crow, she couldn’t shake her fear. The reporters, Wyatt Sinclair, a Sinclair investigator, her mishap in the air, her own lie—and now a creepy message on the Internet. It was all too much.

She made herself go out to her woodpile and bring in wood, five trips, five full armloads, until her wood box was overflowing, because she had no intention of letting the fear get to her. She hadn’t this afternoon when she’d realized she was low on fuel. She wouldn’t now.

She dumped the last load into the box. A log rolled off and narrowly missed her toe. She jumped back, out of breath from exertion and too much adrenaline pumping through her system. There were more logs on the floor—five at least. She’d tossed in one load after another, not concerned about neatness, only about the need to force herself to keep moving.

Hearing a car negotiating the pits and ruts of her spring-ravaged dirt road, she prayed it would continue past her cabin.

It didn’t.

She groaned. “Now what?”

Picking sawdust off her fleece shirt, Penelope went to the side door off the kitchen. Maybe it would be her father, telling her he’d changed his mind and she wasn’t grounded, after all.

But there on her doorstep, as if he’d
known
his timing couldn’t be any worse, was Wyatt Sinclair.

Five

H
e wasn’t wearing his leather jacket, as if he expected to go straight from warm car to warm house. Penelope could feel him taking in the bits of sawdust and wood on her shirt, her difficulty in getting a decent breath. “Your road’s nothing but mud,” he said. “I sank up to my hubcaps.”

“It’ll freeze overnight. Of course, it’ll be all mud again by noon.”

“What happens if you have to get out of here in a hurry?”

“I use my four-wheel drive.”

Wyatt paused, studying her. She wondered if she was pale, if she had a wild look in her eyes. He said, “May I come in?”

Just what she needed. “Sure. I’m a little out of breath from filling my wood box.”

He glanced past her into her front room. “Looks as if it’s plenty full.”

She raked a hand through her hair, ignoring the snarls, the bark chips. “I kind of just dropped the last two loads. I’m more tired than I thought.” Changing the subject was her only hope. “Have you eaten yet? I was just about to heat up some chili.”

Wyatt didn’t move. “Penelope, are you all right?”

“Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be? Here, come inside before we let the cold air in.”

He came in without comment, and she shut the door behind him. The quiet thud made her heart skip. What if he’d sent her that instant message and now he’d come to see the results of his handiwork? Except he seemed more direct, more the type to tell her straight to her face that she’d lied.

You know what you’ve done wrong.

She didn’t know! Was it telling about the plane in the first place? Or changing her story? What was so wrong about trying to keep the spotlight off an old hermit and her crazy cousin? They were alive. Colt and Frannie weren’t.

But Colt’s family was, she reminded herself. She shook off the thought. The message was from a nut, someone intent on upsetting her after she’d dashed expectations of ending the mystery of what happened to Colt Sinclair and Frannie Beaudine. Well, mission accomplished. She was upset.

“I’ll fix your wood box,” Wyatt said, his gaze on her, narrowed, wary. “You can heat the chili.”

“Don’t feel obligated to stay.”

He smiled. “Already regretting your invitation?”

She didn’t know if his steadiness was a tactic to throw her off guard or if he was simply trying to be nice. Either way, she found his presence reassuring. Suddenly she could feel the warmth of the fire, and her breathing was less shallow. Wyatt got to work arranging the overflow logs still in the wood box. Penelope caught herself watching him, then quickly pulled open the refrigerator for the quart of chili her mother had given her yesterday. She scooped it into a bowl and heated it in the microwave while Wyatt continued his work.

“Did Harriet give you directions?” Penelope asked.

“Don’t skewer her, but, yes, she did.”

Her cousin would never give such directions to a guest she didn’t know, but if most people in Cold Spring demonized the Sinclairs, Harriet romanticized them. Penelope couldn’t blame her for telling Wyatt where she lived. She chopped onion and grated cheese, got out bowls and spoons, and when the microwave dinged, she put everything out on the table.

Wyatt had the wood box straightened, the extra logs neatly stacked in front of it. He joined her at the table. The hissing and crackling of the fire, the sudden darkness outside, the scratch of her chair on the floor all made her aware of how isolated she was, how far from any help if Wyatt Sinclair was a nastier son of a bitch than she thought he was. She was on her own with him.

“Was there something I could do for you?” she asked, keeping her tone formal and distant.

A darkness came into his eyes that hadn’t been there before, and she took a quick breath, realizing the multiple ways he could interpret her question. But he, too, maintained an outward level of formality. “I’d like you to tell me about your cousin and why she thinks she’s Colt and Frannie’s daughter. It’s not something she made up out of thin air, is it?”

Penelope shook her head. She sprinkled cheese on her steaming chili. She would have to tell him something. If she didn’t, he’d find another source, perhaps not one as devoted to Harriet as she was. “Not out of thin air. Out of a coincidence.”

“Tell me,” he said softly, not making it an order.

“My great-uncle and great-aunt adopted Harriet around the time Colt and Frannie disappeared. Uncle George was a minister here in town forever. He’s my grandfather’s younger brother—he’s almost eighty now. He and Aunt Rachel have retired to Florida.”

“Aren’t there adoption records, some way to disabuse your cousin of this notion?”

“It’s not that simple.” She tried the chili, which was spicy and packed with vegetables. Her mother did like her hot peppers. “Look, this is none of my business or yours. Harriet didn’t ask for any trouble.”

“I’ll be discreet.”

A Sinclair discreet. Penelope almost smiled. “What about your father’s investigator? Are you going to tell him?”

“Jack doesn’t report to me, I don’t report to him.”

“I suppose you’ll find out anyway. Everyone in town knows the story.” She paused, added chopped onion to her chili, saw that none of what she’d said so far had affected Wyatt’s appetite. She forced herself to think, examine her options. They weren’t good. “Okay. Uncle George found Harriet on the church doorstep about forty-eight hours into the search for Colt and Frannie’s plane. The doctors figure she was between six and eight weeks old. She was wearing a diaper and a sleeper, and she was wrapped in a blanket. She’d been placed in an apple basket.”

Wyatt straightened. “Good Lord.”

“I know. It’s right out of a Dickens novel.”

“There must have been an investigation—”

“A thorough one. The authorities didn’t find a thing, not a single clue as to who her biological parents were, who’d left her there. My aunt and uncle stepped in and adopted her. They were thrilled—they have an older son, but Aunt Rachel couldn’t have any more children after him.”

“They treated Harriet well?”

“They’re a wonderful family. They love her, and she loves them. That didn’t stop her, though, from creating this kooky fantasy.”

“I don’t know,” Wyatt said, “maybe it’s not so kooky.”

“It’s much more likely someone took advantage of the hoopla over the missing plane. Chances are she’s the result of some incestuous or otherwise illicit relationship. But it’s a lot more fun to be Colt Sinclair and Frannie Beaudine’s long-lost daughter.”

“The timing—”

“There’s a narrow window of opportunity. Say Harriet was six weeks old. The Piper Cub disappeared in mid-April. That would mean Frannie would have given birth around the first of March. Right?”

Wyatt nodded, motioning for her to continue. She had his complete attention, every fiber of him focused on her and what she had to say. She felt energized, the fear and creeping exhaustion of an hour ago gone. Yet at the same time, she was keenly aware she was walking out on thinner and thinner ice. Telling this man
anything,
even something he could find out on his own in two minutes on the streets of Cold Spring, could be a mistake. She couldn’t assume she was in control. He had climbed dangerous, difficult mountains. He was used to capitalizing on whatever foothold opportunity offered him.

Penelope took a breath and continued. “The most visible part of her pregnancy would have been during the winter months, when she worked on the Sinclair Collection.”

“From what I understand, she worked night and day.”

“That’s what I’ve heard, too. I suppose it’s possible she could have been concealing a pregnancy.”

“Or she was just obsessive about her work. It was an enormous opportunity for her.”

“There are a thousand reasons this scenario doesn’t work. That’s just one of them. Frannie and Colt didn’t officially start seeing each other until a month or so before they disappeared. For her to turn up pregnant, they’d have had to have some sort of relationship the previous summer.”

Penelope paused for more chili. Discussing a sexual relationship with Wyatt under the best of circumstances would be awkward, but alone in her cabin, at night, with him already convinced she was a liar, with him so focused on her every word—it was impossible.

He finished his chili and waited for her to continue.

“I hope you don’t think you’re prying this information out of me by being so patient.”

He stared at her, then smiled suddenly, devastatingly. “Penelope, I doubt anyone could pry anything out of you that you hadn’t already decided to give freely, if grudgingly. As far as my patience—what gave you the idea I’m being patient?”

Her mouth snapped shut, and instantly she knew there was no good way to answer that question. She went on quickly. “Frannie and Colt were both in Cold Spring that previous summer.”

“Simultaneously?”

Penelope nodded.

“You seem to know a number of details,” he said.

“Only because of Harriet.” She didn’t want him thinking she’d been eaten up with curiosity about his family. “We’ve always been close. She used to baby-sit me, and she’d tell me all kinds of stories. They were fascinating to a little kid. I ended up doing some investigating on my own.” She’d done a lot of investigating, but somehow she thought that would only add to Wyatt’s suspicions. “It’s far-fetched, but technically it’s possible that Frannie came back to Cold Spring, had a baby, and returned to New York—”

“With or without the baby? Was Harriet in the plane that night? If not, where was she? Who put her on the church doorstep? Did Frannie have help here in town? In New York? Did Colt know about the baby?” Wyatt shot out the questions rapid-fire, then exploded to his feet. “It’s damned far-fetched.”

Penelope nodded. “I know. We’ve all indulged Harriet. Please don’t embarrass her. She’s a lovely person, and she’s never hurt a soul—she never would.”

He grabbed up his chili bowl and set it in the sink, his movements abrupt, his frustration palpable. Penelope could feel her mouth going dry as she watched him pace her small house. Without his leather coat, she could see his slim waist, his flat stomach, and she tried not to think about all the things she knew about him—the triumphs, the tragedies, the rebellions—lest he read her mind and decide he was entitled to the mental files she had on him, too.

“It’s not as if Harriet plans to come after your family’s money or anything,” she said calmly. “She’s no threat to you.”

He stopped. He turned to her, his black gaze narrowed, suspicious, probing. Her stomach burned. She wished she’d heard him in her driveway in time to lock her doors, turn out her lights and hide under her bed.

Finally, he said, “Is your cousin why you changed your story about finding the plane?”

Back to the plane. Of course. Wyatt Sinclair would have a one-track mind. He was driven, relentless. Penelope got quietly to her feet and cleared her dishes, then flipped on the water in the sink. No dishwasher. Her grandfather didn’t believe in them.

Finally she turned to him. “You know, it’s wrong to accuse a woman of lying in her own home.”

His grin was so sudden, so unexpected, so
sexy
she could have melted onto the floor. He stood close to her, invading her space. “You’re right. I’ll wait until we’re on neutral ground.”

“There is no neutral ground, not around here. You Sinclairs might own the biggest tract of land in Cold Spring, but damned if—”

He touched one finger to her lips, silencing her mid-sentence. “I’m not ‘you Sinclairs.’” She could hardly breathe. The dark eyes, the half smile, the strong line of jaw, neck and shoulder fired her mind and senses with a kaleidoscope of images and possibilities. It was like getting sucked into some dangerous imaginary world. She jerked back and turned off the water, breaking the spell.

If Wyatt was aware of the effect he was having on her, he gave no indication. “I’m not my grandfather. I’m not my father. I came here for my own reasons. I want to know why you’re lying, but not at any price.” He paused, and when she said nothing, he added, “And I want to know why you’re afraid.”

She spun around. “I’m not afraid.”

He smiled, not pleasantly. “You lie persistently if not terribly well, Miss Chestnut.”

“Oh. So you’ve been in town an afternoon and already you can tell when I’m lying.”

“Some things are obvious.” He started for the door, a breeze gusting outside. He glanced back at her. “If you’re afraid of me—”

“I’m not.”

“I didn’t think so. You’ll be all right here alone?”

She nodded.

“Good night, then. Thanks for the chili.”

After he left, she stood at the sink, up to her wrists in hot, soapy water, and didn’t move until she heard his car out on her dirt road. Then the tears came, and she did the dishes and cried until she’d just had it with herself and Sinclairs and the whole damned mess. It wasn’t just Harriet, it wasn’t just Bubba Johns—she didn’t know what all it was, but she’d
had
to change her story.

“Damn it, Sinclair, I had to lie.”

But Colt Sinclair had been Wyatt’s uncle, his father’s only brother, and she had the power to put to rest the mystery of his death.

Yet deep down, on a level beyond reason and calculation, she knew the Piper Cub J-3 in the woods was meant to be where it was. Its discovery would only bring heartache and pain to those who, unlike Colt and Frannie, weren’t past suffering. It was an understanding she wished she’d come to sooner, before she’d blabbed to the world. But she hadn’t, and now she had Wyatt Sinclair to deal with.

Harriet settled onto a stool at the bar and sipped a glass of house Chardonnay, as she did at the end of each day. Robby, Penelope’s mother, had chosen the inn’s wine list. Harriet couldn’t wait to see her in the morning. They would make apricot scones in the inn’s tidy, warm kitchen, and they’d laugh and work and talk. Harriet would tell Robby everything. Robby was a good listener, and she never judged. She would caution and worry—she had her opinions—but she wasn’t one to pass judgment. That was what Penelope didn’t understand about her mother, which was a problem for another day. Harriet had enough on her mind.