Season of Secrets (8 page)

“Annabel?” She looked up, eyes wide and startled, and he had the sense that for a moment she'd forgotten he was there. “No, I didn't mean—” She pressed a handkerchief to her lips. “Not Annabel. Dinah. I shouldn't have sent Dinah away.”

“You said Annabel.” He leaned toward her. “Kate, what did you mean?”

She put the handkerchief down and looked around. “What's taking them so long?” Her tone was querulous. “We should be ordering.”

He sat back in his chair. He couldn't badger an elderly lady in public. Or in private, for that matter. If he drove Kate to the verge of tears, Dinah would have his head.

He'd have to let it go for the moment. But while they debated the relative merits of tomato bisque with fresh crabmeat or lobster salad, he mulled over her words in the back of his mind.

She hadn't made a mistake or confused the two girls. For those few moments she'd been back in that summer, grieving over some way she felt she'd failed
Annabel. She knew something about that time that she wasn't ready to say, and he'd dearly love to know what it was.

 

Dinah tried to relax as she walked with Marc across the campus of The Citadel that evening, Court a few steps ahead of them in his excitement. She wasn't sure spending the evening at the Christmas concert was such a good idea, with suspicion circling around them like no-see-ums on a summer night.

Still, what else could they be doing that would be more helpful? Once Court had gotten his father reminiscing about his undergraduate days at The Citadel, their attendance was a forgone conclusion.

Court had what Aunt Kate would call a whim of iron. Annabel had been like that, too. Once she'd decided she wanted something, there was never any talking her out of it.

“That's where the cadets stage the Retreat ceremony every Friday during the school year.” Marc waved toward the expanse of lawn between the buildings.

“Can we come?” Court asked, predictably.

She could easily read Marc's expression, even in the growing dusk. He didn't really want to relive old school days, not under the present circumstances.

She could spare him that, at least. “I'll call and see if it's on for Friday,” she said. “I'm not sure when the holiday break starts. If they're doing it, you and I can come.” The long gray lines, marching in precision, the
flags fluttering and bagpipes keening—of course Court wanted to see it. Any boy would.

“That'd be great, Dinah.” He linked his arm with hers, and the unexpected gesture of affection touched her heart.

Marc's frown grew deeper as they approached the white pavement of the courtyard, The Citadel's battlements rising like a fortress around them. White Christmas lights sparkled from the buildings, and the courtyard was thronged with Charlestonians dressed in their best and cadets in uniform. It pleased her to see females among the cadets. Not many, it was true, but once that had seemed impossible.

She moved a little closer to Marc. Did he have the same wary, on-guard sense that she did? Coming here was entering into the heart of Marc's past, where he was likely to run into any number of people he knew, and have just that many occasions to be snubbed by them.

Marc was well armored, probably, but Court wasn't. She didn't want Court's bright, cheerful self-confidence to be dented by anything that happened here.

The chapel was filling up quickly. Did she just imagine it, or did the buzz of conversation take on a different tone as they went down the center aisle, guided by a cadet in dress uniform?

A lady never shows her feelings in public. Aunt Kate's maxims might seem outdated in today's world, but they were there to fall back on in situations like this. Head high, she slid into the pew next to Court.

They might have been wedged in with a shoehorn. She leaned across Court. “I'm going back to the vesti
bule to hang my coat up. It'll give us a little more breathing room. Don't give my seat away.”

Court grinned. “I'll throw myself across it if anyone tries to sit here.”

She worked her way back the center aisle, against traffic, seeing faces where before she'd concentrated on getting down the aisle behind the usher. Phillips and Margo sat in the last pew. Phillips glanced up and gave her a shy smile. Margo looked studiously across the rows of people, as if searching for someone she'd misplaced.

Well, she'd get through life very nicely if she never had to speak to Margo again. But she could feel her cheeks burning as she reached the vestibule.

The coatracks were jammed, of course, but she finally found an empty hanger and stuffed her coat in, heedless of wrinkles. She swung around and found herself staring directly at the Citadel tiepin of the man who stood behind her.

“Why are you cooperating with him?” James Harcourt spoke in a furious undertone, his fingers closing around her wrist. “Have you no loyalty to Annabel? She was your cousin.”

Anger spurted through her control. Maybe Aunt Kate could live up to her maxims. It looked as if she couldn't.

“Annabel was my cousin,” she said. “And Marc was your friend.”

“Was. He forfeited that when he hurt Annabel.” For the briefest of instants, fierce grief replaced the polished politician's aura that James wore so well. “Annabel would hate you for this.”

His intensity, so at odds with the public James, shook her, and for a moment she was almost afraid.

Nonsense. She was letting this situation get to her, and she wouldn't do that.

“James, wake up. That's ridiculous. Annabel would laugh if she heard you say that. Marc didn't hurt her. He couldn't. How are you going to feel when the killer is found and you've already condemned one of your closest friends without even a trial?”

She wrenched her hand free and, not looking to see the effect of her words, she hurried away.

By the time she reached her seat, she was able to smile at Marc and Court in what she hoped was a normal way. It must not have been quite as convincing as she'd hoped, because Marc leaned toward her, a questioning look on his face.

Before he could speak, the organ music swelled, capturing them. She sat back, watching the procession of cadets. She'd enjoy the concert. She would not let the ugliness of suspicion taint what should be a beautiful experience.

Her own intentions probably couldn't have achieved that. But when the young voices rose in the old songs of rejoicing at the Savior's birth, she was so filled with that spirit that there was no room left for anything else.

Perhaps choir directors grew weary of doing the same music year after year, but nothing could have brought Christmas more surely into her heart than this. When a young female cadet stepped forward to sing “Silent Night” with candlelight glowing on her fresh
face, tears spilled over. Good tears—the kind that washed away pain and left her feeling free.

The music ended with the final verse of “Silent Night.” There were stars in Court's eyes when they stood. “Wow,” he murmured.

She smiled. He used that one word to cover a lot of emotion. “It was, wasn't it?” For a moment they smiled at each other, perfectly in accord.

She'd turned to start back up the aisle when it hit her—a wave of uneasiness so strong it made her pause, clutching Court's arm. Someone, somewhere in the crowded chapel, was looking at them with such dislike, even hatred, that it was palpable.

She tried to shake it off. She was imagining things, surely. But she found herself scanning faces as they moved along the aisle. Was it you? Or you?

They stopped at the coatrack while she retrieved her coat. She slipped it on, nodding and smiling as the crowd flowed around them. With a little luck, they'd be out the door without incident.

James stepped into their path. Her throat seemed to close. If he was going to create a scene here, of all places…

Marc stood still, hand on his son's shoulder, waiting for James to make the first move.

James nodded finally, the movement as jerky as a marionette. “Marc.” Having gotten that far, he seemed unable to get any farther.

She couldn't stand this. With an abrupt movement, she seized his hand. “Merry Christmas, James.”

He looked at her, startled, as if he'd forgotten she was there. Then his face twitched in what was probably meant to be a smile.

“Merry Christmas, Dinah.” He looked at Marc. “And to you, Marc. And Courtney.” He turned quickly, as if that was all he could manage. “Good night.”

“Well.” Marc glanced at her. “That was a surprise.”

She nodded. “Let's go home.”

S
he was on her way to work, and she absolutely wasn't going to give in to the temptation to check on Marc and Court this morning. Dinah pulled her hair back into the low knot that she considered her “work look” and gave herself a final quick survey in the dresser mirror.

Fine. She looked perfectly normal. A little concealer did wonders to hide the telltale signs of a sleepless night.

No, not entirely sleepless. She'd had the nightmare again, and she'd wakened with her mouth dry and her heart pounding. She'd switched on the bedside lamp and reached for her Bible, seeking solace. It had fallen open to a familiar verse.

For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face-to-face.

The verse echoed in her mind as she picked up her handbag and the portfolio that contained her drawing supplies. Well, that verse was certainly true enough of the current situation. It was impossible to see clearly what she should do or where the danger lay. The sensation she'd had at the concert, of inimical eyes watching them, sent a fresh shiver down her spine.

Enough. She stared at the silver-framed photograph on her night table, and her mother's face smiled back at her. Lila McKenzie Westlake had never been afraid of anything in her life. What would she think of a daughter who let herself be panicked by an imagined stare?

Imagined,
that was the key word. She'd probably just been feeling guilty over having spoken as she had to James.

She went quickly from her room and started down the stairs, running her hand along the polished railing. That outburst had been out of character for her, but maybe it had done some good. At least James had been civil to Marc afterward.

Marc wouldn't let it show, but the defection of people who'd been his closest friends had to hurt so much. In the old days there'd been a photo in his study—Marc, James and Phillips in their gray Citadel uniforms, arms around one another's shoulders, laughing. Their young faces had been like the young faces in the choir. Odd that she remembered that picture so clearly after all this time.

Aunt Kate still sat at the breakfast table when she came down. Dinah bent to give her aunt a quick hug. Aunt Kate had been in an odd mood since the Sunday brunch with Marc. She wasn't sure what was going through her mind.

“I'll bring the newspaper in for you, and then I'm off to work.”

“You won't forget to check on the availability of caterers, will you, Dinah?”

“I'll take care of it,” she promised, suppressing a sigh. Aunt Kate's sudden decision to hold her Christmas tea this year was going to mean a flurry of decorating and cleaning. Still, if it made her happy, it was a small price to pay.

Getting to know Court had thawed her attitude considerably, and Dinah thought that once she'd talked to Marc, she'd no longer been able to imagine him a killer. But it was the paint on the garage door that had roused Aunt Kate's fury. What was the world coming to, when one of her neighbors could be so uncouth?

So Aunt Kate was throwing down the gauntlet to her friends. Come to my Christmas tea and be polite to my nephew-in-law, or lose my friendship. Once she'd decided to put herself on Marc and Court's side, there was no stopping her.

Dinah went quickly out the walk and then paused in the act of reaching for the newspaper. The magnolia wreath that she and Court had made and hung on the gate was no longer there. Instead it lay in the gutter next to the curb.

The anger that swept through her surprised her with its strength. She'd best not let Aunt Kate know about this. She went quickly out the gate and across the street, seething. Maybe she could get it fixed and up again before Court saw. Really, who would do a thing like that? Her Christmas spirit was taking a beating this year.

The wreath didn't look as bad as she feared when she picked it up. The vandal had simply ripped it from the
gate and tossed it, not taking the time to pull it apart. She turned it over. The wire loop they'd put on to hang it from was undone, but she could twist it back into place again.

“Ms. Westlake. Sure is nice to see you again.”

The voice startled her. She glanced up to find a man sauntering toward her. A ruddy weather-beaten face, thickly curling reddish hair, a patched denim jacket that strained over a paunch—he looked faintly familiar, but she couldn't place him.

“Good morning.” One last twist did it, and she hung the wreath back on the gate. “I'm sorry. I'm afraid I don't remember who…” She left the sentence open-ended, hoping he'd rescue her.

“Don't remember me, do you?” He stopped a few feet from her. “I reckon there's no reason you would. But I remember you.”

He leaned against the fence, and something in the movement brought a memory back. Annabel, looking out the window at the garden and shaking her head.

“That man does more leaning on the fence and talking than he does working. I'll have to speak to Marc about him.”

“You're Mr. Carr. You were the gardener for my cousin and her husband.”

And Marc had been looking for him unsuccessfully. She sent a glance toward the house. Was Marc home?

“That's right. You were just a kid then. Here you're all grown up now.” Both the smile and the way his regard lingered on her were a shade too familiar.

“I know Mr. Devlin would like to speak with you.”
She put her hand on the gate, pushing it open. “Won't you come in?”

Carr took a step back. “I heard that. Thought maybe I'd come by. Then I thought maybe I'd like to know what he wants to see me for first.”

She couldn't let him get away now that he was here. She made an inviting gesture toward the gate. “He's been talking with people who were here the summer his wife died. I'm sure it won't take long.”

“I don't know as I want to get mixed up in that.” He shrugged. “Never does a man with a business any good to get mixed up with the police.”

“There's no question of the police.” At least, not yet. “He'd just like to talk about what you remember.”

“Nothin'.” He said quickly. “I don't remember nothin' about that night.”

Her attention sharpened. Why did he assume she meant the night Annabel died?

“You might remember something that happened that summer that would be helpful.”

“I don't.” The movement of his eyes gave lie to his words. “But if someone did happen to know something, what do you s'pose it might be worth?”

It was like being handed a live bomb. Carefully. Handle this very carefully.

“If someone knew something about a crime, the best thing he could do would be to talk to the police. If you try to sell information—”

He stepped back farther, eyes widening in an unconvincing expression of innocence. “Hey, I didn't say
nothing about selling no information. I don't know anything. Don't you go putting words in my mouth.”

She'd gone too far, and she tried to repair the damage. “Just come in and talk to Mr. Devlin, all right?”

“No, ma'am.” He spun on his heel. “I don't have nothin' to say.” And he went off down the street at something approaching a jog.

She stared after him, frustrated. She'd blown it. She'd have to go and tell Marc that Carr had been here and she'd let him get away. Still, what more could she have done?

She went quickly up the walk and in the door before she could think of some reason to evade the task. She came to a dead halt in the foyer, feeling as if she'd walked into a wall. Or into the past.

The marble-topped stand Annabel had brought from her parents' house stood against the right wall again, opposite the doorways to the front parlor and the family room. The gold-framed mirror that had been a wedding gift hung over it once more, just as it had when Annabel lived here. And the vase on top of the stand held arching sprays of jasmine, Annabel's favorite flower.

Her mind whirled, the aroma touching memories she hadn't looked at in years. Annabel bending over her infant son, black curls falling forward, laughing as Court's baby fingers reached for them. Annabel triumphant and alive in evening dress, as she and Marc got ready for the bar association dinner—sparkling in black and diamonds, Marc, dashing in a tuxedo, eyes only for his beautiful wife.

Dinah took a strangled breath and turned to see Marc
standing in the door to the study, watching her. She cleared her throat, fighting for calm.

“I see you've brought some more furniture down.” Best if he not see the effect it had on her.

He nodded. “I had a talk with a real estate agent yesterday about putting the house on the market. She looked around and repeated what you said—it will show a lot better if it looks lived-in.”

“Did she give you the idea of buying the flowers?” The scent seemed to clog her throat.

“After we brought the stand down, I remembered that Annabel always had flowers there.” He touched the jasmine gently. “She liked the way they reflected in the mirror.”

“I remember.” She wrenched herself away from the past. “I just saw Jasper Carr. He spoke to me, out on the street in front of the house.”

“What?” Marc started toward the door. “Why didn't you bring him in? Is he still there?”

“Don't bother. He's left already. I'm sorry. I tried to persuade him to come in and talk with you, but he wouldn't.”

He turned back, giving her a quizzical look. “Don't look so tragic about it, Dinah. It's not your fault. It was a slim chance that he'd have anything useful to say, in any event.”

“That's just it. I think he might.” She hated saying this, knowing it was the one thing that would make Marc determined to find him.

“What do you mean?” He covered the distance
between them in a couple of strides, clasping both her hands in his as if she might try to run away. “What did he say? Tell me, Dinah.”

“I'm trying.” She was. It wasn't Marc's fault that the warm grasp of his hands on hers had robbed her of the ability to think straight, let alone speak. His intensity seemed to be an engine, driving her heart to pound out of her chest.

“Sorry.” He loosened his grip but still held her wrists gently in his hands. He'd be able to feel her pulse racing, if he bothered to notice. “I didn't mean to shout. Just tell me what he said. Why did he talk to you?”

Maybe better not to mention what had happened to the wreath. “I was adjusting the wreath on the gate when he walked up and started talking to me.”

“I see.” He looked as if he saw more than she'd said. But he couldn't know about the wreath.

“He recognized me,” she said hurriedly. “I didn't know him right away.” She went back over that odd conversation. “He said he'd heard you were looking for him, so I asked him to come in. But then he started being—well,
evasive
is the only word.”

“Did he say he knew something about Annabel's death?” It had to cost him to keep his voice that even.

“It was odd. First he said he hadn't noticed anything that summer and there was no point in talking to you. Then he said what if someone had noticed something, would you be willing to pay for information.”

“You're sure that's what he said?”

“That was the gist of it.” She looked into his face. “That's when I blew it. I said if he knew anything, he had to come forward. He denied saying it, insisted he didn't know anything, and off he went. Marc, I'm sorry. I should have been more tactful.”

“Don't beat yourself up over it.” His dark eyes were intent, focused on a goal she didn't see. “I'll take it from here.”

“But he denies knowing anything.”

His lips tightened. “It sounds as if he could be persuaded to remember something if the price were right.”

“You can't pay someone for information.”

“I'm not the police. I'll do whatever I have to.”

She didn't like the way he said that. “You don't know where he is.”

“The investigator I hired tracked down some of his favorite haunts. I'll find him.” He focused on her. “Look, it won't be much use doing that until fairly late in the evening, and I don't want to leave Court alone here. He wouldn't tolerate the idea of a babysitter, but could you think of something the two of you could do together tonight, just to keep him occupied?”

“Marc, can't you just leave it to that private investigator? Isn't that why you hired him?”

“No. I can't.” The words dropped like rocks.

Nothing she might say would change his mind. Trying would be an exercise in futility.

“All right. I'll think of something to do with Court.” Now it was her turn to clasp his hand firmly. “But, Marc, you be careful. Promise me you'll be careful.”

 

She was going to be late at headquarters, but maybe a peace offering would help. She swung by Baker's Café, parked and hurried inside, wishing she had time for one of their signature poached-egg dishes. Instead she ordered an assortment of scones and muffins and surveyed the breakfast crowd while she waited for the order.