Season of Secrets (4 page)

That startled him. “Do I?”

She blinked. “Everyone knows he was crazy about her.”

“I didn't.” Had he been hopelessly stupid about his own wife? “How did Annabel feel about him?”

“Oh, Marc.” Dinah's eyes filled with dismay. “Don't think that. It never meant anything. Just a crush on his part.”

“And Annabel?” Dinah wanted him to let it go, but he couldn't.

“Annabel never had eyes for anyone but you. She just—I think she was flattered by James's attention. That was all. Honestly.”

She looked so upset at having told him that he didn't have the heart to ask anything else. But he filed it away for further thought.

He bent to pick up the stack of boxes. “We may as well take these to the family room. If I know my son, he'll drag everything out, but he won't be as good about putting things away.”

Dinah went ahead of him to open the door to what
would be the back parlor in most Charleston homes. They'd always used it as a family room, and he and Court had managed to bring down most of the furniture that belonged here. By tacit agreement, they'd avoided the front parlor, the room where Annabel died.

“Court looks so much like you. Looking at him must be like looking at a photo of you at that age.”

He set the boxes down on the wooden coffee table that had been a barn door before an enterprising Charleston artisan had transformed it. “Funny. I was thinking that I saw a little of Annabel in his face when he looked down from the stairs.”

“I know.” Her voice softened, and he realized he hadn't done a good enough job of hiding his feelings. “I see it, too—just certain flashes of expression.”

He sank onto the brown leather couch and frowned absently at the tree they'd set up in the corner. He'd told Court it would be too big for the room. The top brushed the ceiling, and he'd have to trim it before the treetop angel would fit.

“Maybe it's because we're back here. My memory of Annabel had become a kind of still photo, and she was never that.”

“No, she wasn't.” Dinah perched on the coffee table, her heart-shaped face pensive. “I've never known anyone as full of life as she was. Maybe that's why I admired her. She was so fearless, while I—” She grimaced. “I always was such a chicken.”

“Don't say that about yourself.” He leaned forward almost involuntarily to touch her hand. “You've been
through some very bad times and come out strong and whole. That's something to be proud of.”

“I'm not so sure about that, but thank you.”

For a moment they were motionless. It was dusk outside already, and he could see their reflections in the glass of the French door, superimposed on the shadowy garden.

He leaned back, not wanting to push too hard. “Being back in the house again—has it made you think any more about what happened?”

“No.” The negative came sharp and quick, and she crossed her arms, as if to protect herself. “I don't remember anything about that night.”

“That summer, then. There might have been something you noticed that I didn't.”

She shook her head. “Do you think I didn't go over it a thousand times in my mind? There was nothing.”

And if there was, he suspected it was buried too deeply to be reached willingly. Dinah had protected herself the only way she could.

He'd try another tack. “You're connected with the police. If there's any inside information floating around, people might be more willing to talk to you than to me.”

Dinah stared at him, eyes huge. “Someone already talked to me. About you.”

“Who?” Whatever had been said clearly had upset her.

“A detective I work with.”

He was going to have to drag the words out of her. “What did he say?”

“She. She said…”

He could see the movement of her neck as she swallowed.

“She reminded me that the case is still open. And that you're still a suspect.”

He should have realized. He, of all people, knew how the police mind-set worked. And this detective, whoever she was, wanted to protect one of their own. Wanted to warn her off, probably, too.

“Dinah, I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

“I didn't think. I've put you in an untenable position. I shouldn't have. If you want to back off…” He shook his head. “Of course you do. I'll make some excuse to Court.”

As if he'd heard his name, Court came into the room, arms filled with evergreen swags. “I found them,” he announced happily. “But we don't have nearly enough lights, Dad. We need to go get some more before we can do this. Want to come, Dinah?”

She stood, smiling at Court. “You two go.” She glanced at Marc, the smile stiffening a little. “I'll unpack the ornaments while you're out. I'll be here when you get back.”

He understood the implication. She wasn't going to run out on them, although she had every reason to do so. He felt a wave of relief that was ridiculously inappropriate.

“Thank you, Dinah.”

 

Was she crazy? Dinah listened as the front door clicked shut behind Marc and Court. Marc had understood. Or at least he'd understood the spot he'd put her
in professionally, if not personally. He'd given her the perfect out, and she hadn't taken it.

She couldn't. She may as well face that fact, at least. No matter how much she might want to stay away from Marc and all the bitter reminders, too many factors combined to force her to stay.

She'd been thirteen when he married Annabel, the same age Court was now. With no particular reason to, he'd been kind to her, putting up with her presence when he'd probably have preferred to be alone with his bride, inviting her to the beach house at Sullivan's Island, even teaching her to play tennis. She'd told herself she didn't owe Marc anything, but she did.

And Annabel—how much more she owed Annabel, her bright, beautiful cousin. She'd loved her with a passion that might otherwise have been expended on parents, siblings, cousins her own age. Since she didn't have any of them, it all went to Annabel.

Finally there was Court. Her lips curved in a smile, and she bent to take the cover off the first box of ornaments. Court had stolen her heart again, just as he had the first time she'd seen him staring at her with unfocused infant eyes when he was a few days old.

Whatever it cost her, she couldn't walk away from this. All her instincts told her Marc was wrong in what he wanted to do, but she couldn't walk away.

She began unpacking the boxes, setting the ornaments on the drop-leaf table near the tree. They were an odd mix—some spare, sophisticated glass balls that Annabel had bought, but lots of delicate, old-
fashioned ornaments that had been in the family for generations.

One tissue-wrapped orb felt heavy in her hand, and an odd sense of recognition went through her. She knew what it was even before she unwrapped it—an old, green glass fisherman's weight that she'd found in an antique shop on King Street and given to Annabel for Christmas the year before she died.

For a moment she held the glass globe in her hand. The lamplight, falling on it, reflected a distorted image of her own face, and the glass felt warm against her palm. She was smiling, she realized, but there were tears in her eyes.

She set the ball carefully on the table. She'd tell Court about the ornaments, including that one. That kind of history was what he needed from this Christmas in Charleston.

She'd been working in silence, with only an occasional crackle from a log in the fireplace for company, when she heard a thud somewhere in the house. She paused, her hand tightening on a delicate shell ornament. They hadn't come back already, had they?

A few quiet steps took her to the hallway. Only one light burned there, and the shadows had crept in, unnoticed. She stood still, hearing nothing but the beat of her own heart.

Then it came again, a faint, distant creaking this time. She'd lived in old houses all her life. They had their own language of creaks and groans as they settled. That had to be what she'd heard.

She listened another moment. Nothing. She was letting her nerves get the better of her at being alone in the house.

A shrill sound broke the silence, and she started, heart hammering. Then, realizing what it was, she shook her head at her own foolishness and went in search of her cell phone, its ring drowning out any other noise. Marc hadn't had the phone service started. She'd given him her cell-phone number in case he needed to reach her.

The phone was in the bottom of her bag, which she finally found behind the sofa in the family room. She snatched it up and pressed the button.

“Hello?” Her voice came out oddly breathless.

“Dinah? You sound as if you've been running. Listen, do you think a string of a hundred white lights is enough? Court put two strings in the cart when I wasn't looking.”

Her laugh was a little shaky. “You may as well get two. If you don't use the second one, you can always take it back.”

“I guess you're right.” She heard him say something distantly, apparently to the cashier. Then his voice came back, warm and strong in her ear. “Is everything all right? You don't sound quite yourself.”

“It's nothing. Really. I was just scaring myself, thinking I heard someone in the house.” When she said the words, she realized that was what she'd been thinking at some deep level. Someone in the house.

“Get out. Now.” The demand was sharp and fast as the crack of a whip.

“I'm sure I just imagined—”

“Dinah, don't argue. Just get out. And don't hang up. Keep talking to me.”

Logic told her he was panicking unnecessarily, probably visited by the terrible memory of coming into the house and finding Annabel. But even if he was, his panic was contagious.

Holding the phone clutched tightly against her ear, she raced across the room, through the hallway and plunged out the door.

D
inah slid back on the leather couch in the family room, cradling a mug of hot chocolate between her palms, and looked at Court. He'd collapsed on the couch next to her into that oddly boneless slouch achieved only, as far as she could tell, by adolescent boys. His mug was balanced precariously on his stomach.

“More cocoa?”

He shook his head, the mug wavering at the movement. “I'm okay.” He watched her from under lowered lids. “How about you? You feeling okay? Anything you want?”

He was attempting to take care of her, obviously. The thought sent a rush of tenderness through her. She tried to keep the feeling from showing in her face. He wouldn't appreciate that when he was trying so hard to be nonchalant about the prospect of an intruder in the house.

Marc's footsteps sounded, far above them. He was searching the attic, probably. She was convinced he wouldn't find anything. She'd simply overreacted to being in the house alone, and, in turn, he'd overreacted. There'd been no one in the house.

It was probably best not to talk to Court about that. She nodded toward the bare tree, propped in its stand in the corner. “Do you always have a big tree at home?”

The corner of his mouth twitched, making him look very like his father. “Not big enough. We have a town house. It's plenty big enough for the two of us, but Dad always says there's not room for a big tree.” He sent a satisfied glance toward the tree. “This is more like it.”

“Aunt Kate—well, I guess she's actually your great-grand-aunt—hasn't had a real tree since I grew up. She's content with a little artificial one on a table.”

Court's great-grand-aunt. Aunt Kate had to be made to see that she must talk with Court about his ancestors. She didn't have to discuss his mother, if she didn't want to, but she couldn't deny a relationship with the boy.

“Yeah, that's what my grandma and granddad do, too. They say real trees are too expensive in Arizona, anyway.”

“Do you see them much?” Marc's parents had left Charleston within a year of Annabel's death, moving to Arizona supposedly for his mother's health. It might have been that, of course, but she doubted it. Did they feel they were living in exile?

“We were out for Thanksgiving.” Court maneuvered himself upright, letting the mug tip nearly to the point of no return before grasping it. “Maybe I should go see if Dad needs any help.”

“I don't think—”

“Dad doesn't.” Marc came in on the words. “Everything's fine.”

Dinah sensed some reservation behind the words,
and her stomach tightened. There was something he didn't want to say in front of Court.

“You sure? I could check the cellar.” Court obviously considered that he should have been included in the search.

“Already done.” Marc glanced at his watch. “If you want to e-mail your buddies before we call it a night, you'd better go do it.”

“How about the tree? I thought we were going to decorate.”

“Tomorrow's time enough for that. Dinah has to go home.”

“Okay, okay,” he grumbled, but went toward the door. “You'll help tomorrow, won't you, Dinah?”

She was absurdly pleased that he wanted her. “I have to go into work in the morning, but I'll come and help in the afternoon.”

Court lifted an eyebrow in Marc's characteristic expression. “I wouldn't mind seeing police headquarters, you know.”

“Dinah's going to work, not giving tours.” Marc gave him a gentle shove. “Go on, and don't stay online too late. I'm walking Dinah home.”

Court disappeared across the hall, raising his hand in a quick goodbye. Dinah waited until the office door closed behind him.

“Did you find anything?”

“Nothing to take to the police.” His level brows drew down. “Anyone could have popped the back door with a screwdriver, though. I blocked it tonight with a
two by four, but I'll put a new lock on tomorrow.” He picked up her jacket, holding it for her. “Come on. I'll walk you home.”

“That's not necessary.” She slid her arms into the jacket. He adjusted it and then clasped her shoulders.

“Maybe not, but I'm going to.”

The sense of being protected and taken care of was entirely too tempting. But she wasn't the little cousin any longer. She was a big girl now. She took a deliberate step away, putting some space between them.

“You're overreacting. All that was wrong was a creaking old house and my overactive imagination. There was no need for you to come rushing back here like a…a superhero, out to rescue the damsel in distress.”

“Is that what I did?” His face had gone still.

“Yes.” Marc had to understand that their relationship had changed. They were never going back to the way things had been between them. “I didn't need rescuing.”

He frowned at her for a long moment. Then he seemed to come to a decision. He pulled something from his pocket and held it out to her.

“Probably you're right. But I didn't feel like taking it for granted after reading that.”

She smoothed out the crumpled sheet of yellow tablet paper. The message on it was printed in pencil, in block letters. It informed Marc, with the embellishment of considerable profanity, that he was a killer and that he would be punished.

She resisted the urge to drop it and scrub her hands. “Where did you get it?”

“It was shoved in the mailbox sometime today. Luckily I found it, not Court.”

“In the mailbox—not mailed?”

“No.” His expression became grimmer, if that was possible. “That means the author of that missive was on my veranda today. If I overreacted when you thought someone was in the house, I had good reason.”

“I guess I would have, too. But people who write anonymous notes don't usually act on them.”

“Is that the police consultant speaking?” He shook his head, taking the paper back and tucking it into his pocket. “Sorry. I know you mean well. I know what you say is true. But it's not easy to be rational when—”

She knew what he was going to say. “When someone you love has been killed in this house.”

He gave her a baffled, angry look. “Exactly. Irrational or not, that's what I felt. And maybe it's not so irrational. The person who killed Annabel is still out there, remember?”

“I'm not likely to forget. But if he has any brains at all, he'll stay as far away from you as possible.”

“Maybe so. Still, I'm not taking any chances. So tomorrow I'll put a new lock on the back door. And tonight I'll walk you home.”

There was more that she wanted to say, but she didn't think he was in the mood to hear it. So she went ahead of him to the front door, stepping out onto the piazza where she'd fled so precipitously earlier, listening to him lock the door carefully.

The air was chilly, and she stuffed her hands into her
pockets. A full moon rode low in the sky, sending spidery shadows across the walk. She heard Marc's footsteps behind her, and he reached out to push the gate open when she reached it.

She paused on the walk. “You could just watch me to my door, you know.”

“I could. But I'm not going to.” He slid his hand into the crook of her arm.

The street was still and deserted. She glanced up at him as they crossed. “Are you sure you want to stay, after all this?”

“Court would never agree to leave now. And I keep my promises to my son. Besides—”

He paused, and she couldn't make out his expression in the moonlight.

“Besides?”

He shrugged. “I told you. Now that I'm here, I know I can't go back to being content with the status quo.” His fingers tightened on her arm, and she felt his determination through their pressure. “Do you know why I went into a private firm when we moved away?”

The change of subject bewildered her. “Well, I suppose I thought you wanted a change. Or to make more than you could as a prosecutor.”

“There's certainly that.” There was a certain grim humor to his tone. “I've done far better financially. But that's not why. I went into a firm because no prosecutor's office or state's attorney's office would have me. Not with the shadow of my wife's murder hanging over me.”

The bitterness in his tone forbade any facile answer. For a moment she couldn't say anything at all.

“I'm sorry,” she said finally. “I didn't realize. I should have.” She hesitated, feeling her way. “I guess I've continued to look at what happened then as if I were still sixteen.”

“You're not sixteen anymore.” They'd reached the gate, and he opened it for her. “Now you can face what happened as an adult.”

Marc sounded very sure of that, and he didn't seem to expect a response. That was just as well, because she wasn't sure she could give one.

“Good night, Marc.”

He nodded. “Sleep well.”

She doubted that. She very much doubted it.

 

Marc wasn't sure how long it had been since he'd seen his son so thoroughly happy, so completely unclouded. Since before he'd started asking questions about his mother, probably.

“But Dad—” Court hung over the stair railing, looking ready to take flight. “Some colored lights along the porch would look really cool.”

“Piazza, not porch.” Nobody had a piazza in Boston, and the old Charleston term had come back to him.

“Piazza, then. We could get the kind that blink.”

Much as he liked seeing Court happy, he had to draw the line somewhere. The decorating was getting out of hand.

“I'm afraid not.” Dinah intervened before he could
come up with a way to nix blinking lights. “There are regulations on the types of decorations you can have on houses in the historic district. No blinking lights.” She smiled up at Court from where she sat on the floor, attaching the bottom of the garland around the newel post. “There should be a crèche somewhere in the attic. It was your mother's when she was a little girl.”

That was all Court needed to hear. “Good deal.” He galloped up the stairs.

“Thanks, Dinah.” He hooked the garland on the small nail under the railing. “I don't know what he'd have come up with next.”

“Reindeer on the roof, probably.” She smiled, but her eyes seemed shadowed, somehow. She turned away, as if she felt his gaze, dark hair sweeping down to hide her face.

“Probably,” he agreed. He focused on the garland. “Is it bothering you? Being here?”

“Not at all.” The response came too quickly.

“Something's wrong.” He leaned his elbow on the newel post, looking down at her. “Can't you tell me what?”

She stretched, slim shoulders moving under the deep purple sweater she wore. “It's work. You wouldn't be interested.”

“I would definitely be interested,” he said. “Come on, talk.” He still had trouble picturing Dinah in a police setting. A cotillion, yes. Police headquarters, no.

“Tracey Elliott is a detective who often calls on me. She's working a case where a young girl was killed. The only witness is her friend, a girl only a
couple of years older than Court.” She shook her head. “I have to struggle for my detachment every time I'm called in, but this one—” She shrugged expressively. “It's hard.”

“Can't someone else take this case?” The instinct he had to protect her was probably ridiculous. She wouldn't thank him for it.

She stiffened. “It's my job. I don't want anyone else to take it. Besides, it's going to sound conceited, but I can do this if anyone can. She'd shut down completely for a uniformed officer with a computer identification kit.”

“I guess I can see that.” Naturally a scared, traumatized teenager would rather talk to someone like Dinah. “Are you getting anywhere with her?”

“She keeps backing away, insisting she didn't see anything. But the evidence shows that she had to have witnessed the crime. So we keep trying. She's agreed to see me again tomorrow morning.”

“And that makes you tense.” He was still trying to get at the cause for the shadow in her eyes.

“Doing it is hard. But it's worth it if I get something that leads them to a killer, don't you think?”

She looked up at him, dark curls flowing away from her heart-shaped face, and he was struck by several feelings at once. That Dinah had grown into a woman to admire, doing something important, and that he was stuck in a job that, however rewarding financially, didn't measure up to his dreams.

“Yes, I guess it is.”

Dinah stood, her hands full of strings of lights.
“We'd better get on with this, or Court will think we're not doing our share.”

He went onto the first step. “Just feed the lights up to me, and I'll attach them. By the way, I almost forgot to tell you. Remember Glory Morgan?”