Season of Secrets (15 page)

“I didn't do a very good job of it.” She looked up at him, trying to smile, but her lips trembled.

Court had walked on toward the car, and for a moment they stood alone in the darkened parking lot, the faint glow from one of the overhead lights touching the upturned oval of Dinah's face.

His heart clutched. She was inexpressibly dear to him. He could never tell her that. He couldn't ask her to share the suspicion that was directed at him. And even if that were resolved, Annabel's memory would always stand between them.

He needed to lay the past to rest and push on into the future. But Dinah could never face it, so she could never let it go.

 

Dinah walked slowly down the staircase, running her hand along the rail. She no longer panicked on the stairs, but holding on seemed a wise precaution.

Court was asleep in his bed, oblivious to the concerns that plagued the adults in his life. His dad was safe and at home. That was all it took to give him uninterrupted slumber.

She couldn't hope for the same. In fact, she'd probably settle with a book on the sofa in the family room and stay awake for the duration. She'd be of small use to Marc if he needed her and she was asleep.

Besides, any sleep she had in this house was bound
to be tortured by the dream again. A chill touched her, and she went quickly down the rest of the stairs.

“Marc?” He was supposed to be resting, but somehow she doubted it. She glanced in the family room. Empty.

“Marc?” She called again, softly. Waking Court wouldn't make this night any easier, and she had no desire to launch into reassuring him again.

Or reassuring Aunt Kate, for that matter. It had been all she could do to keep her elderly great-aunt from coming to the hospital to see for herself that everyone was all right. She'd developed a fierce, protective love for Court in the short time she'd known him.

Dinah started back down the hall to the kitchen. Maybe Marc had decided to get something to eat. She could fix him a sandwich—

She stopped, aghast. The cellar door stood open, and Marc's legs extended into the hallway.

She reached the door in a second, terrified at what she might find. “Marc!” She clutched at his legs.

He turned an annoyed face to her. “What are you doing?”

“What are
you
doing?” Relief and anger sharpened her tone. “You're supposed to be resting. I thought you'd collapsed.”

“Sorry.” He shook his head and winced at the movement. “I didn't mean to scare you. I'm just following your lead.”

“My lead?”

“You're the one who told Draydon he should be looking into why the stairs collapsed.”

“That doesn't mean I think you should be disobeying doctor's orders. Please go and rest.”

She sat on the floor next to him, trying to peer over his shoulder. With the errant fuse replaced, she had a good view of the jagged timbers and the concrete floor. A shudder went through her. The image of Marc lying there would be fodder for a few more nightmares.

Marc played the flashlight he held over what remained of the top steps. Obviously he didn't intend to come out until he'd finished what he was doing.

She didn't want to know, but she had to. “Well? How does it look?”

He slid back into the hall next to her, raising himself to a sitting position. She could see by his expression it wasn't good news.

“The stairway was pretty rickety to begin with, braced by a couple of upright supports. It looks to me as if someone sawed almost all the way through the uprights. The first time anyone put any weight on the tread, he could bet the whole thing would come down. And he could have tampered with the fuse box at the same time.”

Her mind raced, trying to imagine it. “But how could anyone get into the cellar? How could they have done that without being heard?”

Marc shrugged, his face hard. “I locked the door into the cellar, but not the bulkhead doors. I figured the only danger was someone getting into the house itself. My mistake.”

“You'd have heard him, surely.” His expression had
begun to frighten her. Not for herself—for that unknown someone. “Even if he did it in the middle of the night, I'd think you'd hear something.”

“We've been out a lot. There were plenty of times when the house was empty and someone could get in. And with it getting dark as early as it does, why would he bother coming in the middle of the night?”

She digested that. “You think you know, don't you?”

He shook his head. “Somebody comes to mind. It's the sort of thing Carr might do, don't you think?”

“But he's—”

“Dead. I know. But this could have been done at any time. That's the beauty of it. Someone could do it and then just wait for me to have a reason to go down the cellar. No need to be anywhere near here when I fell.”

“It might not have been you.” A shiver went through her. “It could have been Court. Or me.”

Would she have gone down into the cellar, if she'd been alone with Court and the lights went out? Of course she would have. Carr, if it had been he, hadn't seemed to care much who he hurt. But there was another possibility.

The secret Aunt Kate had confided hung heavy on her soul. She'd made the decision to tell him before the accident, but that had intervened. Now, she wasn't so sure. It might have had nothing to do with Annabel's death, and it would hurt Marc so much. And if Draydon found out, he'd think it gave Marc the perfect motive for murder.

“If he wanted me to leave Charleston, it probably
didn't really matter to him who got hurt.” His face was so tight it looked like a mask, but a muscle twitched under the raw abrasion at his temple.

She couldn't give him something else to worry about, not tonight. Surely bad news could wait a little longer.

She touched his arm, reassured at the feel of warm skin and hard muscle. “I know you don't want to talk to Draydon, but you have to tell him this.”

“I know. I will.” He closed his hand over hers for a moment. “But not tonight. Court needs time to get over his scare before we're plunged into having police in the house. In the morning is time enough.”

“I suppose.” But she certainly wouldn't be sleeping tonight.

Marc stood and held out his hand to her. She took it, and he helped her rise. Then he turned away to shut and bolt the cellar door. He spoke without looking at her.

“I think it's time for you to go home and get some sleep. We'll be fine.” His tone was coolly dismissive, as if he talked to an employee.

Anger flickered through her, warming her. “Nice try. I promised the doctor I'd stay, and I haven't changed my mind.”

“Dinah…”

“No!” Aware she'd raised her voice, she glanced up the stairs, but there was no sound from Court. “I'm going to make myself a cup of tea, and then I'm going to curl up on the couch in the family room. Please go to bed. I'll be checking on you through the night, just as the doctor ordered.”

She waited for an argument. It didn't come. Marc just stared at her for a long moment. Then he turned and went quietly up the stairs.

She let out a shaky breath. It could have been worse, although what could be worse than having Marc look at her as if she were an irritating stranger?

Please, Lord. I don't know what to do about this. I'm afraid for Marc. I don't know where to turn. Please, hold us in Your hands tonight.

Somehow just the act of prayer calmed her fears. She went steadily across the hall to double-check the lock on the front door. Everything was safe.

As it had been safe the night Annabel died? She couldn't let herself think about that, or she'd never get through this night.

She walked quickly past the side table. The jasmine had been replaced with a spray of greens and holly. It didn't matter. It still reminded her of Annabel.

T
he night had been peaceful, but Dinah certainly didn't look it. She frowned at her reflection in her bedroom mirror the next morning. She patted some concealer on the dark shadows under her eyes and dusted powder over it. That would have to do for the moment.

She glanced at her daybook as she tucked it in her bag. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. She seemed to have lost a few days from this Advent season in the turmoil of the past few days.

Well, Christmas would come whether she felt ready or not. It didn't depend on how many gifts she had wrapped.

Her cell phone rang, and she hurried to pick it up from the dresser, heart thumping. How long until she didn't react to every unexpected sound?

“Hello?”

“Hey, girlfriend, saddle up. Teresa's ready to talk to you.” Tracey didn't bother to hide her exuberance.

“Seriously?” That was unexpected.

“You bet. How soon can you meet me there?”

“Half an hour. Frankly, I'm surprised the captain
was willing to let you use me, after everything that's happened.”

Tracey's hesitation gave her away. “Let's say that what the captain doesn't know won't hurt any of us.”

“I don't want you to risk your job for me.”

Tracey chuckled. “Don't worry. All I'm risking is a chewing out. And if we get anything, it'll be worth it. See you there.”

If they got anything. Dinah grabbed her bag and headed for the stairs.

Please, Lord. Let us bring some closure to this situation, for Teresa's sake, at least.

Once she was in the car, fighting the morning traffic that was inevitable in a small city hemmed in by two rivers, she let herself think about Marc. He was meeting with Draydon this morning. She'd offered to be there and had been turned down so curtly that it was almost an insult.

Her feelings didn't matter. All that mattered was that Lieutenant Draydon see that someone was after Marc. That he take it seriously. Draydon might begin from the suspicion that Marc was guilty, but headquarters scuttlebutt said he was a fair man. That was the best they could hope for, wasn't it?

She pulled to the curb behind Tracey's car, greeted her and went back up the narrow, dirty stairs, her heart beating faster now, her hands clammy. Would this be the day they got something?

Once again the anxious-looking mother ushered them in, and once again Dinah took her seat at the table
across from the girl, pad in her lap. Teresa wrapped her arms around her thin body, staring down at the plastic lace place mat in front of her.

“I'm glad you wanted to talk to me again, Teresa.” She kept her voice low. “Can we talk about that day again?”

Teresa shot her a dark, unreadable look. “Don't you want to ask me what he looked like?”

This was a little unusual for Teresa. Some witnesses jumped to that right away, but not the difficult ones. Not the ones she was called in on.

“If you want to tell me.”

She shook her head. “I've told you and told you. I've told everyone. I didn't see him. Or if I did, I don't remember.”

But her voice, her manner, cried out to Dinah's heart.

Please, Father. Help me to help her.

“Let's just talk about that day, then. Talk about what you did see.”

Back to the beginning. Talk about the day her friend died, lead her through all the small, mundane happenings of the day, the things that seemed ordinary at the time but now took on new meaning, viewed from the context of what they knew had happened that evening.

Teresa began to relax—she could see it in the way her fingers unclenched. More detail crept into her narrative. Who had spoken to them at lunch, what they'd said, who'd already seen the movie they'd planned to attend.

Almost without her recognizing it, Dinah's pencil began to move. She held her breath, forcing herself not to stare down at the page. Sometimes it happened this
way, as if God were letting her see through the words, see what the witness had seen, live it through her.

Hard. It was hard. Her breath quickened when Teresa's did. Her hands grew clammy, and her stomach lurched when the girls turned into the alley.

A dark figure, a scuffle, a scream—her own scream, or was it Teresa's? Fragments of details coming out almost without Teresa seeming to know it. A smell, the brush of fabric from a jacket, the sound of labored breathing. The knowing. Close your eyes, don't look, you must never know—

Dinah's pencil raced, emotion flooding through her body, into her fingers. Choking her.

Teresa stopped, as if a switch had been turned off. Her hands went to her mouth, her eyes glistening. “I can't.” She started to push away from the table, ready to flee.

“Not yet.” She didn't take her gaze from the girl. “Tracey, will you get her mother, please?”

Tracey moved. She heard the murmur of voices from the bedroom, their footsteps coming back. She held Teresa in place with sheer force of will.

When they were all there, she spoke. “Teresa.” She lifted the drawing pad, heavy now with the weight of grief. “Is this the man?” She held it so the girl could see.

Teresa stared, face horrified. She let out an anguished cry, echoed by her mother. “Yes. Yes.” She collapsed onto the table, sobs wrenching her body. Her mother gave a keening cry and held her.

Tracey's focus moved from the drawing to the school photos on the wall. “The brother?”

Her throat was so choked she could barely get the words out. “Yes. She'll tell you now. She'll tell you.”

She turned and fled from the room.

 

Dinah could only thank God that she didn't have to deal with the aftermath of their discovery, as Tracey did. She pulled the car into the garage and hurried through the back gate into the garden. The sky, dark and lowering, seemed to echo her feelings, looking at if it would burst into tears at any moment.

Was I right to expose the truth, Father?
She wrapped her jacket around her as she scurried toward the door.
It's going to bring so much grief for them. Maybe it would be better never to know.

She didn't know. All she knew was that she wanted to collapse into bed and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. That seemed very unlikely. Sleep, yes, but dreamless? She shivered as she pulled the door open. Dreams came with the territory for her.

She hurried into the dim hallway and nearly ran into Marc. Her breath caught, and she tried to arrange her face into something that wouldn't give away her feelings.

“Marc. I didn't realize you were here.”

“Just checking on Court, but don't tell him I said so. He's in the kitchen with Alice and your aunt, helping them bake pies. Or getting in the way, I'm not sure which.”

“They're delighted to have him, I know.” She edged past him. If she could just reach the stairs without letting him get a good look at her face, she could escape.

“Dinah?” He caught her arm. “What is it? You look as if you've been hit by a truck.”

She tried to smile. “That's an interesting comment coming from a man with your bruises.”

His hand slid to her wrist, his fingers encircling it. Could he feel the way her pulse hammered? Probably.

“You're shaking.” He checked around, seeming to know instinctively that she wouldn't want to run into Aunt Kate just now. “Come with me.” He led her into the front parlor, closed the door and nearly shoved her into a chair.

He sat down opposite her, holding her hand wrapped in his. “Talk. What's going on?”

“I should go upstairs. I don't want Aunt Kate to see me. She has enough prejudice against my work already.”

“Something happened at work. Tell me. Is it the case you were working on with the teenage girl?”

Clearly she wasn't getting out of the room without telling him something. “She agreed to see us again. This time…” She tried to control the shudder that went through her. “I can't explain it. Sometimes I just get so close to the witness that I react as much to the things they don't say as to what they do.”

To her surprise, he nodded. “I know. That happens to me sometimes when I'm questioning a witness or a client. You just know, even before you reason it out.”

“You understand. That makes it easier. Some of the detectives look at me as if I'm crazy.”

“They do the same thing, probably. They just call it a hunch, or a gut instinct.” The gentle movement of his
fingers on her hand soothed her. “So you identified the guy. That's good.”

“Not so good. It was her brother.” Her fingers strained against his. “I can't help but wonder if I did the right thing. What that family will go through—”

“Don't, Dinah, don't. It'll be rough, but they'll be able to heal now, don't you see?”

“I suppose. What a sad Christmas they'll have.” Her eyes were hot with unshed tears. She shook her head. “I'm sorry. I need to go upstairs and lie down for a bit.”

She stood, and he rose, too, his face drawn with concern.

“Believe it, Dinah. The truth is always better. Always. You were able to help that girl face it. If you—”

He stopped abruptly, but she knew what he wanted to say.

“Why can't I do the same for myself?” She swung away, hands clenching so tightly her nails cut into her palms. “That's what you mean, isn't it?”

“I guess I do.”

She couldn't bear the pity in his voice. “I didn't see anything!” She heard an echo of Teresa's words in her own. “I didn't!” She bolted from the room, running up the stairs as if something chased her.

By the time she reached the top she was breathless. She hurried into her room, shut the door and turned the lock. She never locked herself in her room. Never. But she had to be alone.

The impulse to throw herself on the bed and weep had been displaced by anger. She paced across the
room. How could he do that to her? He'd seen how upset she was already. How could he try and make her face that again?

She stalked to the window, staring down at the street. Marc came out of the gate and walked across toward his house. His shoulders were stiff with tension.

She turned away, hot tears spilling onto her cheeks. Her anger slipped away, leaving in its place a frightening emptiness.

She sank into her desk chair, fingers touching the objects on the desk at random. She hadn't even asked him how it went with Draydon. She should have.

Burying her face in her hands, she reached out to God.
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Taking my fears out on Marc isn't fair. He just wants to know the truth. But I can't. I can't.

That was what Teresa had said. She hadn't accepted it from the girl. She'd forced her to go deeper than she'd wanted to do, because they had to know the truth.

Justice. Tracey wouldn't use the word, but that was what drove her. The need for justice in a messy world.

Marc needed justice, too. He was in danger. Feelings didn't matter. She hadn't spared Teresa's feelings, had she? Why was she so protective of her own?

That's different, Father.

But it wasn't. It wasn't, was it? She picked up a pencil, fingers moving aimlessly. How did she justify sparing herself from pain?

She'd spent the past ten years praying to God to let her forget.
For now we see in a glass dimly
…She'd wanted to go on seeing dimly. Not knowing.

Was there anything to know? She took a deep, shaking breath.
Please, Father. If there's anything to remember, please let me remember. Let me see clearly.

She probed delicately into her mind, as carefully as a surgeon with a scalpel. Was there anything? That day—the memories came slipping back as she opened the door to them a crack.

Annabel, irritated at Marc for working late. Irritated at everyone and everything, it seemed. Scolding Court for some small infraction until Dinah had scooped him up, carrying him upstairs for a bath and a story, snuggling with him as if that would make up for Annabel's mood.

Standing outside Court's door, listening. Annabel had been in the parlor. She hadn't wanted to see Annabel again, angry that her grown-up cousin had acted so childishly.

Why are you being such a nag? Marc had to work late. He couldn't help it. You shouldn't act that way toward Court. Don't you realize how sensitive he is?

Shocking, to think those things about Annabel, beautiful, loving Annabel, whom she'd idolized.

Her tears had spilled over. She could feel them on her cheeks now, hot and salty. She'd run into her room, thrown herself on the bed, cried out all the frantic, fervent emotions that tumbled inside her.

Later, much later, something had wakened her. She'd opened the door, standing there with her bare feet on the wooden floor, hesitating. Voices. Someone was with Annabel. Had Marc come home? Were they arguing about his working so much?