Season of Secrets (7 page)

Thunderous blows hit the door, making the glass tremble. She winced away.

“Come on.” She grabbed Court's hand. “We've got to call the police.”

They ran together back to the kitchen, where she grabbed the cell phone she'd left on the counter, punching in 911.

“An intruder is trying to break into the house.” She could only hope she sounded calmer than she felt as she gave the address.

“Officers are on their way.” The dispatcher's voice crackled in her ear. “Don't hang up. Keep talking to me.”

“He's coming around the house.” Court hung on the sink to look out the side window. “He's going to try getting in the back.”

“He's coming to the back of the house.” She relayed the words, heart thudding. Court—she had to keep Court safe.
Please, Lord, show me how to keep Court safe.

“Go to an inside room and lock the door.” The dispatcher's voice was sharp. “Don't come out until you know the officers are there.”

She swung around. “Someplace with a lock.” Maybe Court's mind was working better than hers was. Not the
pantry—it didn't lock. Her mind cringed at the idea of being trapped in the cellar.

“Powder room,” Court said. He seized her hand and grabbed the wooden rolling pin from the table. “It locks from the inside.”

She had a quick image of the man's face, framed in the back window, as they raced back through the swinging door, into the tiny powder room under the stairwell. Slam the door, lock it, switch on the light.

Court's face, in the glow of the overhead light, was excited. Not afraid. Excited.

“Wow, Dinah. Nothing like this ever happens at home.”

“Trust me, it doesn't usually happen here.” She was still clutching his hand, and she wasn't about to let go. “That's generally considered to be a good thing.” She pressed the phone to her ear. “We're locked in the powder room. I can hear him banging on the back door. If he gets in—”

“The patrol car is nearly there. Just hang on a few more minutes.”

She nodded, then realized how ridiculous that was. The woman couldn't see her.

But Someone Else could. Heedless of how Court would react, she put her arm around him and closed her eyes.

“Dear Father, put Your protection around us now. Keep us safe from harm.”
Another volley of crashes against the back door came, and she winced.
“We trust in You, Lord. Amen.”

“Amen,” Court echoed softly.

Please, Lord—

The wail of a siren punctuated the prayer. The police were here.

 

Marc screeched to a halt in front of the house, heart pounding, mind whirling with fear and jumbled prayers.
Let them be all right. Please, let them be all right.

Neighbors clustered on the walk, defying the genteel traditions of Tradd Street by craning their necks to watch the police load a man into the back of a black-and-white. Leonard Hassert.

Marc's stomach clenched as he recognized the man and remembered his angry, shouted threats at the prosecutor when the jury convicted him.

He ran up the walk, brushing past the uniformed officer on the veranda and raced inside. “Court! Dinah!”

Court exploded out of the family room and into his arms. He held his son tightly, heart twisting in his chest. He couldn't lose Court, no matter what, he couldn't.
Thank You, Lord.

“Where's Dinah? Is she all right?”

“I'm fine.” Dinah stood in the doorway of the family room. She managed a smile, but fear still haunted her eyes. “We're both fine. If I ever have to be locked in a powder room with someone while a maniac pounds on the back door, I'll take Court.”

Court freed himself, flushing a little. “Hey, you were pretty tough yourself.”

“I wasn't the one who thought of the rolling pin as a weapon. I'm just glad we didn't have to use it.”

“He didn't get into the house?” His mind started working again, now that the primal need to protect them had eased.

“No, thanks to the new lock you put on the back door.”

“The police got here in time.” Court grinned. “Boy, was I ever glad to hear that siren.”

“Not as glad as I was,” Dinah said, smiling at him. “You thought the whole thing was thrilling—admit it.”

Dinah and Court had moved to an entirely new plane in their relationship. That was what facing danger together did for them, apparently.

But they shouldn't have had to. It was no thanks to him that they were safe. God had answered his prayer, but left him with a load of guilt. He hadn't protected them.

“Do you know who that guy was, Dad? The police want to talk to you about him.”

He owed Court an honest answer. But not, perhaps, too many details.

“His name is Leonard Hassert. I sent him to prison, back when I was a prosecutor.”

Hassert. The name echoed in his mind. Hassert had threatened him. Hassert had been out of jail, pending appeal, when Annabel died.

“Did he—”

Dinah stopped Court's eager questions with a hand on his arm. “The detectives are waiting to talk to your dad, remember?”

“Oh, right.” Court jerked a nod toward the family room. “They're in there. Come on.”

Dinah's fingers tightened. “I think they want to see him alone. Let's go clean up that mess we left in the kitchen, okay?”

She looked back, her eyes meeting his, as she and Court started down the hallway. Funny. He almost felt that she was telegraphing him a warning.

No warning was needed. For the first time in years he was looking forward to talking with the police. Adrenaline pumped through him as he headed toward the family room. After this, they'd have to admit that Hassert was a suspect in Annabel's death.

He stopped short in the doorway, eyes on the man who rose to meet him. Draydon. Lieutenant Alan Draydon had been in charge of the investigation into Annabel's death ten years ago. He'd made no secret of the fact that he'd thought Marc as guilty as sin, even though he couldn't find enough evidence to take it to trial.

That was then. This was now. Now he wasn't in a state of shock over his wife's death. Now he could make Draydon see that Hassert was a viable suspect.

“Lt. Draydon.” He didn't bother to offer his hand. The man wouldn't take it. Ten years hadn't changed Draydon all that much. A few more pounds, a little less hair. He still had a vague resemblance to a bulldog with those drooping jowls and sleepy eyes.

The sleepiness was misleading. Draydon was an aggressive detective—probably a good one, even though he'd been wrong in Marc's case.

“Mr. Devlin.” Draydon's lips winced in what might
have been intended for a smile. “So you've come back to Charleston. I always thought you would, eventually.”

He chose to ignore what was probably meant as a veiled threat. “I'm back. And that seems to have stirred up Leonard Hassert.”

“We'll investigate him. Probably take another look at your wife's death.” Draydon gestured toward a chair. “Have a seat, Mr. Devlin. I've been looking forward to talking to you since I heard you were back.” He smiled, and this time he actually seemed to be getting some enjoyment from the situation. “It's always good to have another chance to close an open case.”

Dinah had been right to send him that look of warning. Draydon wasn't focused on Hassert. He had zeroed in on the husband, just as he had ten years ago.

He hadn't succeeded then. Now, Draydon clearly thought he had another chance to prove Marc guilty of Annabel's death.

D
inah crossed the street slowly the next afternoon, aware of subtle changes in the atmosphere of the block. Some of the houses seemed closed to the neighborhood, their drawn shades proclaiming their noninvolvement. At others, lace curtains twitched as her neighbors watched her approach the gate to Marc's garden and push it open.

Well, they'd get over it. Wouldn't they? Surely they couldn't hold a grudge against her forever for her association with the disturbance the day before.

One positive thing had come out of it. Court was even now having tea with Aunt Kate, at her invitation. She wasn't sure Court appreciated the tea, but he seemed engrossed in Aunt Kate's stories of the family. She had it all at her fingertips, back to the first Westlake who'd come from London to the fledging colony in 1697. Her cheeks had been pink with excitement at having a new audience for her tales.

While Court was pleasantly occupied, she had to talk to Marc. There had been no chance the previous
day. He'd obviously not wanted to discuss the police reaction in front of his son.

But she'd seen the worry he tried to hide. His conversation with Lieutenant Draydon hadn't gone well. Not that she thought it would. She'd sensed Draydon's animosity only too well.

She walked through the house, expecting to find Marc in the study. It was empty, as was the family room.

She found Glory in the kitchen, slicing onions on the counter. Glory gave her a long, serious look.

“Hear y'all had some excitement here yesterday.”

“Too much excitement. Believe me, I could have done without it.”

“So could the neighbors, I reckon.” Glory jerked her head toward the back door. “Mr. Marc's out there. Some no-count left a message on the garage.”

“Oh, no.” It didn't seem a strong enough response. “People don't do things like that here.”

Glory's knife thudded against the wooden cutting board. “Looks like they do now. He didn't want Court to see it, but there's not much gets past that boy.”

“I'd better go and talk to him.”

She went out the back, trying not to think about Hassert standing there, pounding on the door. A few steps took her to the garage. She rounded the corner and stopped, stunned. Glory had warned her, but she still hadn't been ready to see the word
Murderer
in foot-high red paint on the back of the garage.

Marc, in jeans and a faded Citadel sweatshirt, was painting over the letters.

It took a moment to find the right casual tone. “It looks as if it will take a couple of coats.”

“Afraid so.” Marc's even voice didn't give anything away, but his jaw was tense and he didn't look at her.

“Marc, I'm so sorry. It shouldn't have happened.” She took a step toward him, not sure how to deal with the anger he had under such iron control.

“Obviously the neighbors didn't care for the police cars on their doorstep. I can hardly blame them.”

“Let me help.” She bent to pick up the second brush that lay next to the paint can.

He shook his head sharply. “Leave it alone, Dinah. You'll get dirty.”

“I don't mind—”

“Leave it, I said.” His voice roughened. “Consider this thing a warning for you, too.”

She took a breath. “Are you telling me to stay away from you?”

“I should.” He put the paintbrush down and swung to face her, planting his hands on his hips. “I put you in danger yesterday just from being in my house.” His jaw twitched. “And my son.”

“You weren't responsible for that man's actions.”

“I should have realized something might happen.”

He couldn't seem to let go of his guilt. And there was nothing she could do to help him.

“What did Draydon say? What's happening to Hassert?”

“He's in jail at the moment, but he probably won't
stay there for long. They'll plead it out. After all, he didn't actually get into the house.”

“And Draydon?”

“You already know what Draydon thinks, don't you? You saw that yesterday.”

Yes, she'd seen. “He'll investigate. He's a good cop, Marc.”

“Yes. He is.” Marc slapped paint on the garage wall. “He won't let his personal belief keep him from investigating thoroughly. But at rock bottom, he believes he knows who killed Annabel. Me.”

She didn't know what to say at the pain in his voice. “Marc, maybe you and Court should just go back to Boston.”

“I can't. It's too late for that. It's opened up again now. I have to go all the way.” He shook his head. “I tried to convince Court to join some friends on a ski trip for the holiday. He won't go.”

Of course he wouldn't. “He's just like his father. Stubborn.”

His mouth twisted. “I have to keep him safe. And you. I can't let what happened yesterday happen again.”

What would it take to make him understand? “You're responsible for Court, but not for me. I make my own decisions. I'm one of the grown-ups now, Marc.”

“So was Annabel.” He swung toward her again, and her breath caught. His face was ravaged with pain. “Don't you see? If Hassert killed Annabel, it was because of me. So, in a way, Draydon's right. I am responsible for Annabel's death.”

 

Marc hesitated as they came out the red door of the church, wondering if he should offer his arm to Kate Westlake. Or would that be presuming too much? She had invited him and Court to attend services today, but her attitude toward him still verged on the frosty.

Kate, as if she'd measured his thoughts, linked her arm firmly with Dinah's and went carefully down the steps to the sidewalk. Court had been looking at a brochure on the Circular Church's history as he exited the sanctuary, but now he caught up with him.

“Hey, Dad, did you know this church has been here since 1681?”

Dinah, overhearing him, smiled. “Well, not this building. This congregation. This is actually the third building on the site.”

“Westlakes have attended services here since the earliest settlers.” Kate tapped him on the arm. “That's part of your roots, too, Courtney.”

“I'll remember, Aunt Kate.” Court gave her the sweet smile that was so like Annabel's.

Her faded blue eyes glistened briefly. “You're very like your mother. You know that, don't you?”

Court nodded, probably a bit embarrassed to bring on so much emotion.

Kate might not have accepted Marc, but she'd accepted his son. Or did she just think of Court as Annabel's son?

The fierce family pride of hers might have some
thing to do with her sudden thawing. Either Court had won her over, or she was announcing to the neighbors that the Westlakes were not to be trifled with or insulted.

Well, either way, he was glad Court had a chance to get to know her. Kate was a piece of family history herself, the classic repository of all the family stories and legends. It would have been wrong to prevent Court from appreciating that.

To his surprise, Kate had actually talked to Court about Annabel. Court had come home from their little tea party clutching photographs she'd given him of his mother as a young girl. He'd had to struggle to hide his feelings. It probably wasn't cool, at thirteen, to be moved by having some mementos of your mother.

They walked down Meeting Street, thronged with Sunday morning churchgoers, toward the car, Court now holding Aunt Kate's arm, Dinah beside him. Would Kate talk to him about Annabel, if he asked her? About that last summer? She'd made her attitude toward him so clear that he hadn't even thought of it, but maybe since Court had bridged the gap, she'd be more open. It was worth a try.

“You're supposed to talk to the lady you're escorting,” Dinah said primly. “Or have you forgotten all you learned about Charleston etiquette?”

“I still remember those Saturday afternoon dance classes, if that's what you mean.” The boys pretending to choke at wearing white shirts and ties, the girls preening in their dresses and white gloves. “Court doesn't know how lucky he is to have escaped those.”

She looked up at him, smooth brow furrowing. “Has something else happened? You looked worried.”

“No, not at all. Well, not any more than I was.” How could he be? He wouldn't tell Dinah that he wanted to talk to Kate about that summer. He had no doubt that she'd disapprove strenuously.

They reached the car, and Kate turned toward him. “We always have just a cold lunch after Sunday services. You and Courtney are very welcome to join us, if you'd like.”

Kate was thawing, actually speaking to him directly.

“Why don't you allow us to take you two ladies out to lunch instead? I have reservations at Magnolia's, and I'm sure they'll be able to squeeze two more chairs at the table.”

He deliberately mentioned the restaurant. Magnolia's was one of the places to see and be seen in Charleston. Kate would really be making a statement if she were willing to go there with him.

Her hesitation was infinitesimal. Then her chin went up. “That sounds delightful. Dinah and I would enjoy accompanying you.”

He drove sedately over to East Bay. Kate, who seemed to have appointed herself tour guide, contributed tidbits of history about the buildings they passed. If Court was losing interest, he managed to hide that fact.

Well, he had Kate's company, but getting her alone to have a serious conversation would be considerably more difficult. Between her dragon of a housekeeper and Dinah, they kept her well protected.

He was lucky enough to find a parking space near the entrance. As they approached the door, they found a caroling group in Victorian dress singing to a small crowd that had gathered on the sidewalk. Court stopped, curious as always. Marc nudged Dinah.

“Why don't you and Court enjoy the music for a few minutes? I'll take your aunt in and get her settled. I'm sure she doesn't want to stand.” Before any of the three of them could raise an objection, he took Kate's arm and hustled her inside.

The hostess swept them to a white-covered table by the window in one of the elegant dining rooms, with Kate nodding regally and exchanging greetings with at least half the people they passed. Charleston was a small town at its heart, when one disregarded the tourists and the students. Everyone in Charleston society knew everyone else. They'd attended those Saturday afternoon dance classes, gone to the same schools, woven a tight, virtually invisible bond.

He seated Kate, helping her to arrange her formidable fur stole over the back of her chair. “Comfortable?”

“Fine.” Her gaze met his. “I assume by all this manipulation that you wish to talk with me.”

“I—”

“That's fine, because I wish to speak with you. Does that surprise you?”

He nodded in wary agreement. Never underestimate the power of little old ladies, especially one like Kate Westlake, with generations of Charleston tradition behind her.

“I know that my return has raised talk. I'm sorry if that's distressed you.”

A flicker of humor showed in her face. “That wouldn't stop you, however.” She waved away any answer he might make. “There's no point in regretting. You're here, and we have to face that.”

The waitress interrupted with menus. She announced that the brunch specialty was shrimp and sausage with tasso gravy over grits, and disappeared again to bring the extra place settings he requested.

“Did you have something specific in mind?” He lowered his voice, speaking under the noisy conversation of the tourists at the next table.

“Just this. The sooner this situation is resolved, the better. For Dinah's sake, as well as the rest of us.”

“I don't want to hurt Dinah.”

“You might not be able to help it. The truth comes at a cost.” She shook her head, her fingers trembling a little as she toyed with her spoon. “You wanted to ask me something. What is it?”

She was giving him a chance he hadn't expected. “Yes, I do. Was there anything you noticed that summer, or anything that Annabel told you, that seemed unusual? Anything, no matter how small. A quarrel with someone, someone hanging around the house, anything.”

She shook her head slowly, not looking at him. “Nothing that comes to mind. It seemed like any other summer, except that Dinah was staying with Annabel. She'd run in every day, of course, always full of stories about Court.”

Dinah, not Annabel. “Annabel didn't talk to you about anything that was going on?” He felt a sense of futility. If Hassert had been the killer, there might not have been anything to notice.

“No.” Her voice lowered to hardly more than a whisper, and it was as if she were talking to herself. “I failed her. I didn't mean to, but I failed her.”

His attention sharpened. “What do you mean? How did you fail Annabel?”