Secrets (19 page)
“Just love euchre. I almost always win.” The woman’s laugh became a cough nasty enough to send a shock of concern through Rese.
Her own breath quickened. “Are you all right, Ms… .”
The woman waved her off. “Good heavens, don’t do any of that Ms. stuff. I am Miss Potter. Miss Evvy Potter. That’s two
v
’s so people don’t say Eevy. It’s for Evelyn. But Evelyn was my mother’s name so I became Evvy.”
Well, now that was cleared up….
“My first beau was killed in the second great war. Served under Patton. Most of the men from around here came back, but not James.” She sniffed and shook her head. “I met Ralph when I was seventy-three. I live next door there.” She pointed out the side window to the house Rese had guessed, then leaned in conspiratorially. “He was a younger man. Sixty-nine. Scandalous.”
She laughed. “But oh, we did get on. Sixteen years we were neighbors— and sweethearts—and no one guessed.” Her eyes sparked with humor. “We made it a game to be particularly testy with each other.”
Evvy Potter shook her head sadly. “He had to go to the home. He just wasn’t strong. And he was slipping a little.” She tapped her temple. “Not that I would tell him.”
Rese said, “It must be hard.”
Evvy shrugged. “When you live to be ninety, you get used to losing friends. We’ll all be storming the pearly gates soon enough.”
Heaven. A comfort, Rese supposed, for those who believed it.
“What did you say your name was?” Evvy’s gaze was sharp again.
“Rese Barrett.”
“What sort of name is Rese?”
“Short for Theresa.” That was two people she’d told within days.
Evvy nodded. “And that young man I’ve seen?”
“He’s my cook. He’ll help me run the place.”
“I thought you might be taking guests. This is too much house for one. Ralph said so constantly.” She formed an impish grin. “Mostly when he was proposing.
‘Evvy, this house is too big for me. It needs a wife inside.’
”
“You said no?”
“I lived fifty-two years with my mother, and thirty-eight alone. Ralph was a wonderful diversion. But I had no mind to move in with the man.”
Rese had to smile at that. “You can still come over if you want. I don’t know what guests I’ll have, but there may be some who know euchre.”
Evvy’s face crinkled like crepe. “That’s nice.” She started for the door, then mentioned over her shoulder, “And don’t mind the noises at night.”
Rese froze, hearing again the moans and howls of that one particular night.
“I’m certain it’s not haunted. Even though someone was murdered here.” The hairs stood up on Rese’s arms. “In the attic?”
Evvy raised her brows. “I’m not sure what room. Ralph might know. But I don’t think I ever asked.”
Rese scrutinized the parlor after Evvy closed the door. Murder. Old houses always had history, as Lance said, but not many had the dubious honor of murder. She should have asked who and why instead of where. But she was not sure she wanted to know. She could imagine too well once the lights were out. If she had a name and a face to put to the creaks … It hadn’t been as bad since she confronted the ghosts the night Lance scared the breath from her.
“Re—”
She spun with a cry.
Lance stopped, hands splayed before him. “What?”
She closed her eyes at what a fool she’d just made of herself. All because some old woman spooked her. She jammed her hands to her hips. “Did you need something?”
He matched her position. “Roofing nails.”
“Oh. I’m out. You’ll have to go get them.”
He eyed her quizzically. “Need anything else?”
Tranquilizers. That was three times he’d sent her heart to her throat. Not counting last night in the doorway of his room. That was a different jolt altogether. “No.”
“Everything all right?”
“Of course.” Rese turned her back and gathered the scraps of maple from the floor, laying them across her worktable. Why hadn’t she explained about her neighbor’s visit, shared the wonderful news that blood had been spilled inside these walls? Blood never went away. You could paint over it and with the right equipment, it would still show up.
Her lungs compressed. She heard the roar of pain, saw the blood flung onto the wall.
Dad!
Herself in slow motion, running toward him as he fell. Warm, ruby-colored fluid, coursing through her fingers. Rese clenched her fists against her face and tried to breathe. Then she started to cry, the tears she had fought filling her palms as his blood had.
She jerked as Lance took her shoulders and turned her. What was he doing there? Hadn’t he gone out the door?
“What’s the matter, Rese? What happened?”
She shook her head. “Nothing.”
He tipped her face up.
“It’s just…” She pulled away, putting distance between them. “Thinking about Dad. How—”she sucked in a breath—“he died.” She forced herself to look at him.
His eyes were soft and deep. “How did he die?”
She swallowed. “We were working. Just the two of us. An old lodge near Muir Woods.” Dad had loved those woods, the majestic redwoods reaching to the sky, a towering testimony to time and survival.
“We were so far from everything.” If it had happened in the city, emergency services would have gotten there. Instead there’d been only her. “It had gotten dark, and I was turning on the work lights.” A blaze of white flashed behind her eyes, an electrical jolt. Her cry cut short by—She pressed her hands to her face and shook her head. “I can’t.” Saying it out loud was worse than months of silence.
She lowered her face. “You can go. I’m fine.”
“You’re an unreliable judge of that.”
She frowned. “I’m fine, Lance. Go get your nails.”
“I don’t want to leave you alone.”
She half smiled. “With the murdered person?”
He shot her a queer glance. “Murdered person?”
“According to my neighbor, someone was killed in this house.”
“Which neighbor?”
She jutted her chin toward the side window. “Miss Evvy Potter. I’ve reached an understanding with the ghost, though. I haven’t heard any moans lately.”
“What else did she tell you?”
“She was in love with a younger man. He was only sixty-nine.”
Lance cocked his head.
“They kept it quiet though. So the gang wouldn’t be jealous.”
He half smiled. “She sounds like fun. I might have to get to know her.”
“I don’t think she’d go quite that young.”
Lance stroked his chin. “You never know.”
“You might believe yourself the hunk no woman can resist, but Evvy is too independent for you.” She closed her arms around herself.
“I like independent women. I even like cranky, confused, unsociable women.”
“I’m not unsociable.”
His smile creased his eyes. “You thought I meant you?”
She scowled. “Would you go away? I have work to do.”
“You won’t faint on the scaffolding, will you?”
“I never faint.” Though she’d been all but catatonic by the time the emergency vehicles reached the cabin. She would not think of that now. Certainly not before Lance left her in peace. She crossed over and climbed the scaffolding like a monkey.
Faint. Hah
. He would faint before she did.
Rese lifted the hand sander, but just before she continued on the spot where she’d left off, a sound like a muffled gunshot came through the wall.
Momma smells of verbena and summer roses.
A rustle of taffeta. Small white hands.
Skin like unskimmed milk, fresh and smooth,
but lacking sweetness.
Beautiful, but I find no comfort there,
for discontent clings to her like a hungry urchin.
L
ance fondled Baxter’s ears as the dog begged a ride. Mounting the bike, he glanced back toward the house. He’d have to take Rese at her word. Her wrenching tears had stopped the moment he touched her. She wanted to grieve alone. And he had enough to think about.
A murder in the villa had to be significant. Even though other people had lived in the house, Nonna’s silence suggested a past tragedy, and her urgency now indicated a wrong she wanted to right. What greater wrong was there than a life cut short? A thrill of anticipation. What else did Rese’s neighbor know? As old as she sounded, she might know quite a bit. Maybe all of it.
What had Rese said her name was? Potter. Eve Potter. He glanced at the smaller house next to the villa, its sloping roof ending in a trellis of verbena and a garden almost as untended as theirs. It must have been built after the DiGratia vineyards were gone, or perhaps it was an addition for an in-law or married offspring.
Lance hesitated. Should he talk to its occupant now? Too obvious. As he started the bike, Baxter jumped aboard, determined not to be left behind. They went into town and bought the supplies. The dog was glad for the drive, short as it was. It had been too long since they’d had some open road.
Soon, buddy. Soon
.
He couldn’t ignore Nonna’s charge, and his fresh concern for Rese added to it. But once he’d done what he came for, he and Baxter would hit the road. Wouldn’t they?
Back on the property, Lance went to work on the carriage house roof, the sun heating the back of his neck and shoulders as he hammered the plywood. His muscles pulled and bunched, remembering and responding to the work. His hands had hardened.
From below, Baxter whined a soft welcome. Resting one knee on the rafter, Lance paused and looked down. Sybil. His first thought was to hide, but that was a little hard on the roof. Then he considered how Rese would handle it—up front and in your face. He’d just tell her he wasn’t interested.
He set the hammer on a crosspiece and climbed down while she fondled the dog. Then she stood up, showing six inches between her low-slung shorts and the paisley shirt that matched her lavender naval ornament. He could not keep his eyes from going there, but thankfully Baxter demanded her attention again.
Laughing, she petted the dog’s neck. “Been riding your Harley, Baxter?”
Lance answered for him. “He’s mostly hung around here.”
She looked up. “Why don’t we take him somewhere?”
He leaned on the doorjamb. “I can only manage one passenger at a time.” Though, technically, with Baxter in front, Sybil could have the back seat.
She straightened, pressing her palms to her lower back, the sun glinting on the beads and silver that accented her sun-tanned navel and sharp hip bones. “It’s a great day for a ride. Seen the vineyards yet?”
He dragged his gaze back to her face. “No, but that’ll have to wait. I’ve got a lot to do.”
“She doesn’t give you a break?” Sybil stepped inside and looked around.
He could blame it on Rese, but that wasn’t true. He’d crafted the deal.
“It’s my time, but it’s short.”
“You’re going to live in this?”
He looked around the space, three times the size of his cell at the Italian convent and, unlike his apartment at home, shared with no one. It felt more his than many places he’d stayed. Yeah, he could live there. “It’s got character, maybe even history.” Murder and mayhem.
She rolled her eyes. “There you go again.”
He spread his hands. “A neighbor told Rese someone was murdered in the villa.”
Sybil tipped her head to the side. “Still angling for that story?”
“Well…”
She rested her finger on her cheek. “Is this for Rese or you?”
Rese would want any information he got, but would he tell her? He shrugged. “I’m just ’satiably curious.”
She smiled. “You know what happened to the Elephant’s child.”
He’d pegged her for an avid reader.
She eyed him now. “I tell you what. I’ll apply my journalistic expertise.” She smiled. “And you join me at the jazz fest tonight.”
“Jazz fest?”
“A female jazz ensemble at the park. Six o’clock.”
Lance rubbed the back of his hand across his chin, damp with sweat. He could handle jazz in the park, especially to get information he might not find himself. There had to be more than he’d come up with, especially if the neighbor’s tale was true. Nonna’s letter to Conchessa suggested a tragedy, and now this neighbor claimed murder, but he’d found nothing in his local search—not that he really knew how to go about it.
Maybe Sybil was the key. “Sure.” He smiled. “Find me something good.”
Sybil patted Baxter, then tossed her hair over her shoulder. “See you at the park.”
Some of his best friends were women. Some of his worst nightmares too. He could always let Sybil know what a screw-up he was. In spite of her flagrance, she had class and pedigree. She’d dump him in a minute.
————
The moment Star walked in, Rese knew the escapade was finished and the aftermath imminent. She climbed down from the scaffolding and led her up the stairs to the Rain Forest room, guessing they had only moments before it hit.
“I know it was stupid. I don’t even care.” Star’s eyes grew glassy fragile, then tears washed out. “I was only trying to forget.”
Rese stroked her matted and tousled hair, the spirals twisted into knots. Star always trashed her hair. But they would brush it out, strand by strand. The rest wasn’t so easy to untangle.
Star gulped. “It hurts, Rese.”
“I know.” Sometimes she wished she could let the hurt out the way Star did. But it didn’t seem to help, and she already regretted her own quick bout of tears.
“He said I needed medication.”
“Who did?”
“Maury.”
Rese didn’t suppose they were talking about the vintner of the past two days. That would have been backlash, not the cause of Star’s sudden appearance and subsequent collapse. She should have assumed impending crisis. “Who’s Maury?”
Star clenched her teeth. “We shared a studio.”
And more, Rese guessed. Star had no barriers and no discrimination. But it was significant that she’d pursued her painting with the guy. Significant and risky.
Star grabbed her sides and wailed. “I could have broken through—done something more than play parts at … fairs and festivals—if he hadn’t…” She squeezed a fist, then pressed it to her chest with a cry. “ ‘And where th’ offense is, let the great axe fall!’ ”
