Midnight Secrets (28 page)

Savannah took a few minutes to walk around the interior, picking up a framed photo of her and her sisters at the beach when they’d been barely old enough to walk. Some of the things here were castoffs from the mansion that one Wilde or the other no longer needed but couldn’t bear to part with.

She wandered into a bedroom and stopped. Dozens of boxes she’d never seen before were stacked against one wall. She strode over to them, flipped the top off one of the boxes, and gasped. It was filled with letters. Withdrawing a stack, she dropped down onto the bed and read:

My dearest Camille, today I went to the library and checked out five of your favorite books.

She shuffled to another letter. The first line read:

Cammie, I had dinner with the Neelys tonight. Marvin still drinks too much.

Letters from her grandfather to her grandmother. Were all the boxes filled with them? Standing, she opened another box and found the same thing.

Touched beyond measure, Savannah sat on the bed again and flipped through more of the same. Every detail of her grandfather’s life was written to the wife he lost years ago. From the looks of it, he wrote her every day.

How he must have missed her.

Getting to her feet, she suddenly noticed that dates and years were written on the sides of some of the boxes. She stacked and restacked, putting what she could in correct date order, and then began to read in earnest.

Two hours later, the sun was glaring full force through the blinds and she had only made it through half a box. So many letters … so many memories. They detailed her grandparents’ romance, from the day they met through their courtship and too-short marriage. She didn’t know what moved her most … that he had loved her from the moment he met her and chronicled that love with letters, or that even after her death, he had continued writing to her. The boxes to her left were dated long after her grandmother’s death. One box was dated the year of his death.

She’d had no idea about the letters. She knew he had worked in his office each day for years. Somehow she had assumed it was related to family business. Now she knew many of those hours were spent in long conversations with her grandmother via these letters.

Opening up another box, Savannah picked up a letter that was apparently the first one written—the night a young Daniel Wilde had met his future bride, Camille Rose Harris.

My dear Camille, we met tonight at a party given by my good friend Carver Nelson. You were wearing a pink dress with white lace and I couldn’t help but think that your name fit you to perfection. Your skin was like the cream color of a white rose, and the way you styled your golden hair reminded me of a beautiful camellia flower. The moment you smiled at me, my heart almost burst. When you accepted a dance, it was the happiest moment of my life.

Her grandfather had often shared stories of their courtship. He’d said that it was love at first sight. His letter bore that out. How would it feel to be so loved and adored that even after death, the love was as strong as ever?

She placed the lid on the box and opened another one. Many of the letters were short, some just one or two sentences. She pulled out a short one, and tears flooded her eyes as she realized it was written the day of her grandmother’s funeral:
I said goodbye for the last time today. I looked upon your beautiful face, kissed your sweet lips. You’re not there anymore, I know that. But you’re still with me, my love, I know you are. We buried you in the cemetery beside your parents. I know you’re in heaven with them now. I’m glad you’re together but I’m so very lonely, my darling.

Wiping the tears from her face, she opened another letter. This one was more upbeat, filled with news of the town and people they had known. Settling herself into an old rocker beside the window, she drew a box close to her and immersed herself once again in her grandfather’s thoughts from so many years ago. She unfolded another letter and, as she checked the date, felt a chill sweep up her body. It was dated the day after her parents’ death.

My dearest Camille, something dreadful has happened. Our son is gone and so is our dear, sweet Maggie. They say it was a murder-suicide. That Beckett killed Maggie in a fit of rage and then, out of guilt, took his own life. How is that possible? How could our beautiful son have committed such an atrocious act? Yes, he had issues with his temper when he was younger. And there was that sadness that often seemed to sweep over him, but that hadn’t happened in years. Not since he met Maggie.

I was gone, out of town, visiting Austin and his family in Mobile. I was told there was a terrible argument at the country club. Opal, our cleaning lady, found Maggie’s body and then the police chief found Beckett hanging from the old oak out back. My heart is bleeding … how could this have happened? And what about their sweet, precious children? What am I to do? I wish you were here with me. You would be my solace in this madness.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Savannah refolded the letter. Part of her wanted to stop reading now; reliving those days was still too painful. But her grandfather had rarely talked about that time, understandably. Seeing his thoughts and feelings gave her not only a different perspective but also an odd sense of closure.

She opened up another letter, this one dated four days after her parents’ funeral.

Cammie, I have come to the conclusion that it is all a lie. There is something devious and wrong in this town. I don’t believe Beckett committed these awful deeds. After talking with several people at the country club, I believe this was a lie perpetrated by the real murderer. Someone killed Maggie and then killed Beckett, framing him for Maggie’s death. I have no proof. I’ve gone to Chief Mosby with my suspicious and he laughed them off. When I told him I would never believe our son was capable of murder or suicide, I swear he threatened me. Not in so many words, but his eyes took on a gleam. He mentioned the girls, Savannah, Samantha, and Sabrina. Told me I should concentrate on taking care of them. That they should be my concern. He told me their welfare was in my hands. Which, of course, it is, but I don’t believe that’s what he meant.

I don’t know what to do. The children are my life and my responsibility. If I pursue this, will something happen to them? Or am I just using them as an excuse because I’m a coward? I wish you were here to tell me what to do. How can I continue on, knowing that my beloved son and daughter-in-law were murdered? Yet how can I put their children at risk? Please, Cammie, tell me what I should do.

Barely aware of her surroundings, Savannah never noticed that the letter fell from her hand to the floor. Waves of shock and denial pounded through her. Never in all these years had she heard it suggested that her father hadn’t committed the murder. There had never been any doubt that she’d ever heard of. Was this just something her grandfather had come up with to help him deal with his pain? What proof had he had? Other than what he referred to as the vague threats by Mosby, was there more? What had made him suspicious?

Frantic to know more, Savannah delved back into the box. Each successive letter showed her grandfather’s tortured thoughts about what he should do, whom he should discuss his suspicions with. It seemed he ended up trusting no one because he wasn’t sure who was involved. His friends in Mobile told him to drop it, and even Aunt Gibby urged him to let it go, telling him he was pursuing something that had no hope of a good outcome. Finally, it appeared he had accepted that nothing could be done and apparently went to his grave wondering if he had allowed the murderer of his son and daughter-in-law to get away.

Savannah stood. Though stiff from sitting too long, she barely paid attention to her body as her mind raced with all she had learned and the multitude of questions she now had. Was this possible? Had the man she had despised for killing her mother and destroying their happy life been an innocent victim? Who would have done such a thing? And why?

She ran from the guesthouse as if demons chased her. Entering the main house, she grabbed her purse from where she’d dropped it on the kitchen counter and then ran out the door. Thankfully, Zach had kept his promise—her car was in the driveway, the keys were in the ignition, and a note lay on the seat:
Had Manny check your tires and oil. You were a little low on both.

For the first time, she noticed that her car was much cleaner, inside and out. Not only had Zach had her tires and oil checked, he’d had her car detailed. The interior smelled fresh and citrusy and the deep blue exterior paint gleamed from its bath. A wave of emotion swept over her at the sheer sweetness of the act. He had left this morning hurt and angry. Instead of maintaining that anger, he’d done something incredibly thoughtful and kind.

She would call and thank him; maybe invite him for dinner. She didn’t like how they’d left things.

That settled in her mind, Savannah started the car. Now, she had only one thought. She had to see Aunt Gibby and find out what she knew. Had her father really been innocent? If so, who had murdered her parents?

Chapter

Twenty-one

Zach was on the sidewalk talking to Mayor Kilgore when Savannah flew by in her Mustang. Hell, if he’d had his patrol car close by, he would’ve jumped in and run her down to issue a ticket. Where was she going in such an all-fired hurry?

“You two looked awfully chummy the other night. Nesta said she saw definite sparks.”

Discussing his love life with Midnight’s mayor wasn’t something he planned to do. Lamont’s bright eyes twinkled with questions he was apparently dying to ask. Zach shifted the conversation to something else he knew the mayor was concerned with. “I don’t think we’ll have any more vandalisms.”

“Really? Does that mean you caught the culprits?”

As far as Zach was concerned, the incident last night was over and would stay private. He’d had another blunt talk with both Henson and Dayton.

Clark Dayton had been uncharacteristically meek, apologizing repeatedly. He confessed to every vandalism crime, including the message on the school wall about Savannah. When a furious Zach had gotten in his face and threatened bodily harm if he came within a mile of Savannah, Dayton had stuttered out another apology and promised he wouldn’t. He’d even offered to paint over the words. The man seemed sincerely remorseful. Time would tell just how sorry the idiot was.

Henson, unfortunately, had been his same predictable self. Unrepentant, he had denied doing anything wrong and had threatened Zach with a lawsuit for harassment. As they’d walked out the door, Zach had issued one final warning. If another vandalism occurred, he was coming after both of them and would hold nothing back.

The arrests were known only to his department, and he wanted to keep it that way. His answer to Lamont’s question was deliberately vague. “Let’s just say I had a long discussion with some people who know some people. I don’t think we’ll see anything happen again.”

“That’s good, Zach. Real good. All that talk about you not being able to handle your job will die down now.”

The mayor’s words confirmed what he already knew. As lame and stupid as Henson’s and Dayton’s crimes had been, they’d been effective.

“I appreciate your support, Mayor.”

“How about you and Savannah coming over to the house next week for dinner?”

Accepting social engagements without talking to Savannah wasn’t something Zach felt comfortable doing yet. Though he hoped to hell they could get to that point someday. “I’ll check and see if she’s available. We’ll let you or Nesta know as soon as possible.”

With a nod and a hearty politician’s slap on his back, Lamont was gone.

Zach eyed the road that Savannah had sped down, tempted to find her and ask her what was going on. Instead, he forced himself to head back to his office. He had paperwork to finish up, a new deputy to hire, and plans for wooing one skittish assistant DA.

Visiting Aunt Gibby was never as simple as it sounded. First there were the social niceties to get out of the way. Even though Savannah had just seen her aunt a few days ago, the older woman went through the ritual of asking about Savannah’s health and her sisters’ health and a long discussion on whether or not it was going to be as hot this summer as it was the year before. When Gibby asked about her progress on the house, Savannah, at last, felt she could bring up the subject of the letters.

“Oh yes, I know your grandfather was a great letter writer. Why, I think I still have some letters he sent me from years ago.”

“Did you know he wrote to my grandmother even after she died?”

Sadness dulled Gibby’s eyes. “That doesn’t surprise me. Daniel missed Camille so very much.”

“I read some this morning that I found surprising.”

Gibby poured herself another cup of tea. “What’s that, dear?”

“He said he didn’t believe that Daddy killed Mama or that he committed suicide. He believed they were both murdered.”

The nervous clatter of the teacup before it crashed to the floor told Savannah she’d definitely hit a nerve.

Savannah grabbed a napkin and went to her knees to dry the spill and pick up the shattered china pieces. She glanced up at Gibby, whose face had gone sheet white. “You think that, too, don’t you?”

Gibby’s gaze dropped; her fluttering, nervous fingers wiped at the moisture on the table. “I didn’t say any such thing.”

Savannah took her seat again. “Then say something, Gibby. Please … tell me what you know.”