The Summer Bones (31 page)

He'd waited a long time for her already—a long time.

“I can wait,” he added. “Let's get this right, okay?”

* * * *

Victoria lifted a pair of slacks and folded them carefully—with too much care. Her suitcase was filling up with neatly folded clothing, most of which she hadn't even worn yet. She'd made quite a mess the other night when she'd yanked her nightgown from the bottom of the bag.

The room was quiet—eerie and quiet. She hadn't lied to Damon about the ghosts. She felt them everywhere, and mostly in this room. Her sister existed here as a little girl, clamoring in her impetuous way for Victoria to remember.

Emily, still here, still the center of attention.

Maybe she didn't need to take everything back with her. Shaking out a linen blouse, she considered leaving some clothes behind—pieces of herself. A gesture. Damon would go to sleep a few feet from where she'd left some of her personal belongings. She liked the idea of it. It was a beginning.

She hadn't bothered with the closet upon her arrival, leaving everything in her suitcase because she was so distracted. Michael had been nice enough to bring a dress from her apartment for the memorial service and the rest of her clothes were Mayville casual. Taking the blouse to the closet, she hung it up and closed the door. She wasn't leaving Damon. Not for good. She'd left some of her clothes behind.

Two steps. She took two steps before turning around, puzzled at what had caught her eye. Going back, she opened the door again. A sleek black case sat at the back of the closet. Blood pounded into her ears as Victoria moved to retrieve it.

She recognized it. Of course she did. She had given it to her sister a year ago on their birthday. A beautiful, thin, black briefcase big enough to hold sketches and fabric samples and photographs.

The police hadn't found Emily's briefcase in her car—her purse, yes, her briefcase, no. Yet she'd left the office that last day of her life holding it in her hands. Why was it in the closet?

With trembling fingers, she flipped up the latch. Inside, right on top, she saw the notes that Emily had taken the morning she had disappeared. The day she had probably died. The date was neatly inscribed on the corner of each drawing and fabric pieces were paper clipped to the top. Victoria's hands shook as she touched the sheets, meaningless to her except for the signature scrawl of her dead sister's handwriting.

Emily had visited the farm the day she'd been killed. The irrefutable proof lay in her hands.

Her grandmother was in the parlor, dusting the top of a walnut end table, her mouth pursed in concentration. Wisps of gray hair escaped from a bun at the nape of her neck and her spectacles had journeyed down her nose in their usual fashion. Victoria stood in the doorway, loosely holding Emily's briefcase, her mind still whirling.

“Grandma?”

“Honey?” She turned and blinked. The room smelled sweetly of lemon and oil.

“Did you put this in my closet?” she asked, lifting the case.

Frowning, Mildred Paulsen studied the case. “Yes, dear. Emily left it here. I thought she might be looking for it.”

“When? What day? Do you remember when she left it?”

“I'm not sure, dear. I just found it and put it away.”

“Found it where?”

“I … well, maybe the kitchen. I had to put it somewhere, the closet seemed the right place.” She added with a small frown. “Do you suppose she needs it?”

The artless question was enough to send a small chill down Victoria's spine. She looked at the gentle face, the small crease of anxiety between the brows. “No, Gran. I don't think she needs it.” Her words were infinitely soft. This wasn't one of the good times—the remembering times.

She turned away so her grandmother wouldn't see the glossy spill of tears from her eyes. She swallowed rapidly, fighting off the attack of grief. The briefcase bumped her leg.

Going back upstairs, Victoria laid the case on the bed and stared at it. The simple, physical presence of that case in the closet was a key link to what had happened to her sister. She hadn't been followed and run off the road, or stopped by some lunatic for some reason. At least, not before she had come to the farm. It was terribly frustrating to think that the answer lay behind her grandmother's blank eyes, and no key could unlock that lost vault.

Almost fearfully, Victoria lifted the lid of the case and began to sift through the papers inside. She probably shouldn't be doing it, she thought. She probably shouldn't have touched the case at all. Hopefully she hadn't obliterated fingerprints or other trace evidence.

Too late.
She did set each piece of paper aside in order, trying to keep the sequence exact. Remembering there was a tiny and discreet pocket on the left side of the case, made especially to hold credit cards or money, she felt around with numb fingers.

What she found made her mind stop suddenly, like a car hitting a brick wall.

She forced herself to read, as dispassionately as possible, the tiny card Emily had tucked inside for safekeeping. Once it had been attached to a bouquet of flowers, a water stain unmistakable in the corner.

I love you, Kevin.

The muscles in her jaw were bunched so tightly they hurt. Ten seconds ticked by.

Love, Kevin.

Kevin. Who in the hell was Kevin?

Good God
, she thought numbly.
Kevin
.

The earring—the broad shoulders and uneasy smile—the high cheekbones that reminded you of his mother.

He works here on breaks and the summer. He goes to Purdue, he's on the football team
… It was too easy to picture young Donna's blush.

There was a Kevin—Gail's son, Kevin, who wasn't more than twenty. “My God, Em,” Victoria murmured aloud, closing her eyes.

Wait a minute
, she steadied herself.
Maybe I'm wrong. The world is full of Kevins.

But it made too much sense—Gail being so hostile in the beginning, angry, resentful, full of cutting remarks about Emily's lack of responsibility, then, her complete devastation, her denial of knowing Emily's lover, her vows that it was over between them. Victoria pondered the last conversation they'd had the day after Emily's body had been found. Gail had been more distraught than apologetic and she had wanted more information than she gave.

She must have died a thousand deaths to know that Emily had gotten pregnant and her young son was responsible. No wonder she wanted to pick Victoria's brain. No wonder she had made that incriminating remark about being petrified every time Ronald came to the office.

April … April was college spring break. That must have been when it happened—a sudden passionate fling, product of male-female lust, impetuous, maybe even a little rough, accounting for the bruises. It made sense. Emily doing what she wanted once again, damn the consequences. Emily getting pregnant because it hadn't been planned. Emily running to Chicago to hide the evidence of her unfaithfulness from Ronald. No wonder she hadn't been anxious to tell Victoria or anyone else about the affair. Their disapproval was not what Emily would want to hear.

Victoria opened her eyes. The room was very clear and bright. Her suitcase lay near the bed.
What was Kevin Benedict doing the Monday that Emily disappeared
? she wondered numbly.
Was the affair really over? Had she met with him that day? Had he killed her and brought her to the house to dump her body?
That seemed ludicrous, but nothing made much sense anymore. Victoria didn't know anything about him—he was the unknown variable she had feared all along.

She had to call the police. Going downstairs, she dialed the Mayville station and asked for Danny Haase, only to get someone else who informed her he was out and they didn't expect him back anytime soon.

She left a message and hung up. On the way to Chicago she would stop and talk to Gail. Nothing could keep her from confirming what she was sure was the truth. Gail might be protecting her son, but Emily had carried a child, too.

Poor baby
, Victoria mourned. She would love to carry Damon's child.
Poor baby, it never got the chance to be born. Poor dead, selfish Emily.

* * * *

Victoria had said good-bye and driven away. It was odd, after the past two weeks, to have the drive deserted and clear. Damon leaned on a rake, his hand shading his eyes as he watched the cloud of dust seep back toward the earth, waiting for the last trace of Victoria's departure to vanish and announce her truly gone—not forever, of course. But it would feel like it. He knew that from past experience.

How many times had he watched her leave? It seemed a lifetime that he had lived for those fleeting visits, concealing his true feelings under the mask of easy camaraderie. He had waited, helpless in the knowledge that whatever Victoria might really feel, he knew she wouldn't accept it. When she had told him she wanted it all, which was something he'd wanted for a long time, all meant a shared life, which would include children she could love like she felt she had never been loved by her own parents.

Flies scattered as he roused himself to rake some stray hay into a neat pile. There was no reason on earth that he and Victoria couldn't marry and have a healthy family. And now she knew it as well as he did. Yet he wondered how long it would take her to come to terms with the way the world was going to continue to regard them.

It was still damned complicated.

“She's gone, eh?” His grandfather spoke from the doorway of the barn. Damon nodded. The handle of the rake felt rough under his fingers.

“Was she all right? I mean to drive all that way.” The old man hovered, his face creased not only by years of weathering and sun but by sharp concern. His overalls and boots were thick with mud from the hog pen.

“She wants to go back to Chicago today. Get back to her routine, her life.”

“Smart girl.” Old eyes moved quickly under busy brows. “But then she always was. She'll be back soon enough I expect.”

“I hope so.” Damon wondered how much exactly his grandfather knew about his relationship with Victoria. Certainly she had been the last to figure out how he felt about her. Luckily, his grandfather was as private a person as any he had ever met and wouldn't mention anything remotely personal, even if he had walked in on the two of them naked and entwined in his bed. At that memory, Damon bent and picked up a discarded paper feed bag, continuing to tidy the yard as if he didn't have a thousand other chores ready and waiting for him.

“We should all do it, you know,” the old man said plainly.

Blank for a second, Damon said, “Do what?”

“Get back to our lives. Go on with our business.”

Damon straightened.

“What's done is done.” His grandfather told him firmly. “We can't bring her back. We need to move on.”

The sentiment behind the words was a sound one. Except for the fact that Emily had been murdered and dumped on their property. Getting on with life was somewhat difficult with the memory of that crime haunting every minute. “I guess so,” Damon agreed slowly, “or to at least do our best until the police can give us some explanation of what happened to Emily.”

At that he got a brusque nod. Watching his grandfather walking heavily away, his back bent with arthritis, Damon felt a twinge of incredulous suspicion.

“What's done is done?” he repeated softly into the afternoon.

* * * *

The car wash across the street was busy, sprays of water arching outward in a filmy curtain. Glistening BMWs and Hondas edged smoothly from the bay doors, their paint jobs shiny and clean. Allisonville Road stretched out black and hot and crowded with traffic.

What was not crowded was the parking lot at Benedict and Sims Interiors. Victoria parked her car by the front doors and wondered if it was Donna's day off, if Gail was just out, and where the delivery truck might be. Without Emily, the office personnel crunch was probably out of control.

Yet the lights were on. She got out of her car and tried the glass-paneled front door. It opened easily at her push. A blast of cool impersonal air hit her as she stepped into the reception area. Donna was not at her desk and the room was deserted. The place actually felt empty.

The phone began to ring. It rang twice and then stopped, and as Victoria curiously approached the desk, she saw that an answering machine had picked up the call, the light blinking as it received a message. The reception desk was orderly and the coffeepot switched off and clean. The appointment book was folded shut and set neatly under the telephone.

Nobody home. Victoria wondered with sudden unease if someone had simply forgotten to lock the door. Gail had looked like hell at the memorial service, her eyes swollen and puffy. The oversight wasn't out of the realm of possibility. Unfortunately, Victoria didn't have keys to fix the problem.

A noise—the slight bang of a drawer or cupboard—made her jump.

She turned. The door to Emily's office was ajar and someone was moving in there, a shadow passing the door. She said hesitantly, “Gail?”

No response. The shadow stopped, as if frozen by her presence and greeting. She felt the quick heartbeat of fear in her throat. Wild thoughts of burglars and their reactions to being caught by innocent people flew through her mind. She took one small step backward, glancing toward the door. The sunny sky outside was a reassuring sight.

The office door swung outward as she weighed the impulse to bolt outside and call the police from her cell phone. To her relief, it wasn't an uninvited intruder, but Ronald who emerged into the reception area. He didn't look particularly surprised to see her standing there, not bothering to close the door to Emily's office.

“Gail is not here,” he said plainly. “The office is closed for the week.”

“Closed?” Victoria repeated, her eyes wandering over his appearance. Yesterday, at her sister's memorial service, Ronald had been conspicuous by his absence. He'd made it very clear that he would have a private funeral for his wife. The family, as a whole, was more relieved than otherwise to have him stay away. His suspicions and accusations made everyone uncomfortable, and Victoria especially hadn't felt they could count on his good behavior. Not if he and Damon came face to face, which they surely would have.