Season of Secrets (9 page)

Charleston was a small town at heart—she'd always known that. And Baker's Café was popular with the locals, which probably explained why Phillips and James were sitting at a small table a few feet from her, engrossed in conversation. Just a friendly get-together, or were they talking about Marc's return?

She took the few steps that separated them. “James, if you eat Eggs à la Bakers every day, you'll need new suits the next time you run for office.”

She'd surprised him into a smile as he looked up from the plate of poached eggs, shrimp and andouille sausage. For a moment he seemed like the old friend she'd known for years, but then his expression frosted over as he remembered their last encounter.

“Dinah.” Phillips got up quickly. “How nice to see you. Won't you join us?”

She shook her head. “I'm on my way to work. I just stopped by for some muffins.”

James's eyebrows lifted. “Balancing the police department's interests with Marc's must be quite a job.”

“On the contrary. We all want justice, don't we?” So James still felt convinced of Marc's guilt, even though her lecture at the concert had seemed to soften him up.
A fragment of memory teased her. “By the way, didn't you used to use the same gardener Marc and Annabel did—Jasper Carr?”

“Carr? I remember him. One of a long series of unsatisfactory gardeners we hired. But he left Charleston long ago, for good, I thought.”

There was a piece of information she hadn't had. “Do you remember when that was?” Shortly after Annabel's death, perhaps?

He shrugged. “I don't keep track of people like that. Anyway, he's gone.”

“Not anymore. I saw him this morning. He spoke to me.”

Phillips put down his coffee cup. “Dinah, honey, seems to me the man had an unsavory reputation. You shouldn't be talking to him. Where did you see him?”

That was Phillips, of course, still thinking she was a little girl who had to be protected. Still, maybe it was as well not to give the gossip mill any more fuel. “I just ran into him on the street.” She glanced at the counter. “I must go. It's been nice seeing you all.”

Politeness dictated she say that, but she wasn't sure “nice” exactly described her feelings as she hurried back to the car. James had given her food for thought, though. It might be worth finding out when Carr had left Charleston, as well as when he'd returned.

 

“It's frustrating.” Tracey slapped a file down on her desk blotter, the sound masked by the usual hum of activity in the office late that afternoon.

Once again they'd had a futile visit with their witness. Teresa would go so far with Dinah but no further. Before Dinah could put a line on paper, she'd dissolve in tears and run from the room.

The case, frustrating though it was, at least distracted her from the disturbing encounter with Jasper Carr, Marc's equally disturbing intentions, and the revelation that Carr had left town sometime after Annabel's death. Maybe, if she put it to her correctly, Tracey could be of help.

“You know what's going to happen, don't you?” Tracey ran her hand through her hair, adding to her wild woman look. “I've got half-a-dozen other cases to work. If we don't get something soon, this will be pushed to the back burner. Somebody will look at it once a year, and that's it.”

“I know.” Dinah closed her eyes for a moment, picturing the spotless apartment, the work-worn mother, the haunted look in the girl's eyes. “If that happens, she'll never heal. Never.”

“That sounds like personal experience talking.” Tracey leaned toward her.

She shook her head. “Not really. I've gotten past the trauma.”

“Dinah, you wouldn't say that if you could see your face when you talk to Teresa. Every time you look at that girl, it's like you're looking in a mirror.”

“No.” She pushed that away with both hands. “Anyway, it's not like that. It's just on my mind because I'm concerned for Court.”

“Are you sure it's not Marc Devlin you're concerned about?”

“I'm sure.” She took a breath. Just ask. “You know, you could do something for me that would help resolve this situation.”

Tracey's eyebrows shot upward. “Something I could lose my job for?”

“No, of course not. I just want to locate someone. Jasper Carr. He used to be my cousin's gardener. He apparently left town after her death, but I know he's back, and I'd like to find him.”

“That sounds like a bad idea.”

“Will you do it?” She knew Tracey well enough to know that she might disapprove, but she wouldn't let her down.

Tracey gave an elaborate sigh. “I suppose. But Dinah, I'm telling you this for your own good. Take a couple steps back from Devlin.”

“I can't. I—”

“She's giving you good advice, Ms. Westlake.”

She hadn't heard Draydon approach. He stood over them. He'd shed his jacket, his tie was askew, and he looked as if he hadn't slept in a while.

She straightened, feet crossed at the ankles, hands folded in her lap, spine taut—typical Southern lady posture, drilled into her practically from birth. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Marc Devlin. Ms. Westlake, you don't want to get drawn in by him.” That was surely sympathy in his face.

“Marc did not kill my cousin.”

He sighed. “I guess you really want to believe that. But you've been involved in police work long enough to know that the obvious is true more often than not.”

“Not this time.” She would not let herself respond to the concern on their faces. “Anyway, what about Hassert? He certainly acted like a guilty man.”

“Guilty, maybe, but not of this crime,” Draydon said. “We checked and double-checked his alibi for the night of the murder before we let him go.”

“You let him go?”

He shrugged. “He's out on bail. He's smart enough to stay away from Devlin now, I'd say.”

Marc wouldn't be surprised. He'd predicted this outcome, but she hadn't wanted to believe it. “I wish I could be as sure as you are. He didn't look very harmless when he was trying to break into the house.”

“Look, Ms. Westlake, I'm only talking to you like this because you're one of us. You're not in any danger from Leonard Hassert.” He leaned toward her, his face intent. “It's Marc Devlin you need to watch out for.”

 

Marc pulled his rental car into the garage, trying to shove away the frustration that was eating at him. He'd have to walk into the house and act as if everything was fine. Dinah had been upset enough earlier over her encounter with Jasper Carr. He didn't want to aggravate that by his failure to locate the man, even though he itched to question her again for every single word Carr had spoken.

He walked quickly around the house. Not that he
expected to find anything or anyone, but it seemed an instinctive protective measure. The bear, prowling the area around his cave for foes.

Unfortunately, his problems were human, not animal.

Nothing disturbed the serenity of the garden. The white lights Dinah and Court had hung from the low branches of the live oak sparkled like stars in the chill air. The veranda light shone on the magnolia and holly wreath on the door, and the window candles seemed to call a welcome.

Welcome.
He hadn't thought about that word in connection with this house in a long time. He put his key in the lock, tapping lightly on the door. No point in alarming Dinah and Court.

But when he walked into the hallway, only Dinah came from the family room to meet him.

“Where's Court?”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Hello to you, too. Court went up to bed a while ago. He said to tell you thanks for asking me, but he doesn't need a babysitter.”

“Sorry. Hello, Dinah. I hope he didn't take out his antibabysitter attitude on you.”

She smiled, but he thought he detected strain in the fine lines around her eyes.

“Not at all. He was charming company. We went out to Citadel Mall and did some Christmas shopping and then ended up with hot chocolate and pepperoni pizza.” She shuddered a little. “His combination, not mine.”

“I figured that.” He crossed to the family room, shedding his jacket and tossing it on the nearest chair.
“That kid has a cast-iron stomach. You wouldn't believe what I've seen him put away for breakfast.”

She'd followed him into the family room, and she nodded at the logs glowing in the fireplace. “When we got home he insisted on starting a fire in the fireplace. He wanted to toast some marshmallows, just to top things off, but luckily there weren't any.”

“I'm glad for your sake.” He sank onto the leather couch, suddenly aware of how tired he was, and patted the seat next to him. “Now sit down and tell me what has you looking so stressed, other than Court's strange tastes in food.”

“Nothing.” She sat, but her eyes evaded his. “What happened tonight? Did you find him?”

“No.” He stretched his legs toward the blaze. He'd have said it wasn't cold enough to start a fire, but it was comforting anyway. “I went to one dreary dive after another in the part of town the chamber of commerce doesn't advertise to tourists. It was the same story everywhere. Carr is a regular, but they haven't seen him in a couple of nights.”

“Then he's changing his regular habits.” Dinah seized on that immediately. “That must mean something.”

“Maybe that he doesn't want to see me.” He studied her face. That delicate profile might have been etched on a cameo. “Come on, sugar. I can see something's wrong. You may as well tell me.”

“If you go back to Boston and call people ‘sugar' they'll have you arrested.”

He resisted the urge to smile. “You're stalling.”

“It's nothing.” She shrugged, focusing on the hands she had clasped in her lap like a schoolgirl. “I shouldn't let it upset me. It's the jasmine.”

For a moment it didn't compute. Then he realized she was talking about the flowers on the hall table. “The jasmine? What about it?”

“The scent gave me a headache, for one thing.” She rubbed the tips of her fingers between her brows. “But it also made me remember things. Is that why you bought it? Because scents stimulate the memory?”

“I bought it because Annabel used to put jasmine in that vase, that's all.” Questions burned on the tip of his tongue, but he had to proceed carefully. “Did the jasmine bring back memories of Annabel?”

What do you remember, Dinah? What memories are buried so deeply you never want to find them?

She nodded slowly, her lips tensing. “It made me think about that summer. Mostly I remember the quarrels. I'd forgotten that.” She looked at him then, with what might have been accusation. “You weren't around much, but when you were, it seemed you and Annabel were always arguing.”

She was being fair. It was irrational to feel pain at the look in her eyes.

“Yes.” He had to take a breath before he could go on. “Sometimes I think that's all I can remember of that time. The arguments. The heat. The pressure at work to succeed.”

He stared into the heart of the fire, remembering. There had been pots of flowers in the hearth the day
Annabel had thrown a Dresden china shepherdess against the fireplace. Shards of china had sprayed over the flowers.

“What did you fight about?” Dinah's voice had gentled, as if she felt his pain.

“Everything.” He shrugged. “Annabel didn't want to be pregnant again, did you know that?”

She shook her head, eyes wide. “But she loved being a mother.”

“She did. But we hadn't planned another baby just then. I thought, seeing how she loved Court, that it would be all right. That once the baby came, she'd forget how she'd felt.”

“She would have.” Dinah's words were quick and warm. “Of course she would have.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. But at the time, she hated it. Every symptom was another reason to rail at me. And she hated my job.”

“You were such a good prosecutor. I always thought—”

“What?” He put his hand over hers where it lay on the couch between them, wanting to know what that serious-eyed child had thought of them.

“I thought you were a hero, going out to battle the bad guys every day.”

“With a writ in one hand and a subpoena in the other.” He had to take it lightly, because he'd like to be that hero Dinah imagined.

“I'm sorry you lost that, Marc.” She seemed to read right past his words to his heart. “It's not fair.”

He shrugged. No point in talking about what couldn't be cured. He'd made a satisfying career for himself, even if it wasn't what he'd dreamed it would be.

“Annabel wanted me to give up prosecutorial work for something more prestigious. I was away too much, I wasn't consorting with the right kind of people—you name it, it became a quarreling point. I'm sorry you heard us.”