Admit One (9 page)

Mason waved a hand. “Think nothing of it.”

Sarah looked him over, her gaze frankly assessing. “Your eye looks better,” she finally said, “but you’ve still got some dark circles. Are you feeling okay?”

“Ah…” he really should be used to the direct, open manner of Americans by now, considering the amount of time he’d spent with them. Tucker was probably the most forthright individual he’d ever had the suspect fortune to encounter, and Sarah, while a bit more polite about it, wasn’t exactly one to dither. When a Yank asked you how you were, it seemed they actually expected an
answer.

“Fine,” he said, and knowing that wouldn’t suffice, added: “I’ve simply been up late the past few nights, getting up to speed on my temporary role in the play.”

She tilted her head, her long copper curls falling over her shoulder. “Nice of you to fill in for Tommy. Much as he’s said otherwise, I think he was relieved to be able to rest up this week. Not to mention that the cast is positively delighted to be working, however temporarily, with an actor of your caliber. Branson was practically glowing when he came in for his coffee today.”

Mason moved his shoulders, vaguely uncomfortable. He considered these people
friends
, and didn’t care to have himself placed upon a pedestal.

“Yes, well,” he murmured. “Always happy to hear I’m responsible for an outbreak of bioluminescence among the populace.”

Sarah laughed, a deep, rich, throaty sound, and the cat jumped down to rub against his mistress’s ankles.

“I better get back to work.” She scooped her obese pet off the ground, cradling it against her chest as she stood. “I’ll try to make sure Useless doesn’t bother you again. Get some rest. I’m looking forward to seeing you in action tonight.”

Mason made some noncommittal noises as Sarah left, then plopped back down on the tumbled pillows. He stared at the beaded board ceiling, watching the blades of the ceiling fan churn the warm, golden air like a paddle in a crock of butter.

He frowned at that rather odd image. Apparently the thought patterns of the eighteenth century man he’d most recently portrayed hadn’t entirely left him.

And that was the question, wasn’t it? Where did the character end, and Mason Armitage begin?

Mason snorted. “What a load of rubbish,” he said aloud. He swung his legs over the side of the bed again, planted his feet firmly on the ground.

He had a performance to get ready for tonight.

ALLIE
asked herself what exactly she thought she was doing, even as she walked through the cemetery gates. They’d closed The Dust Jacket early in anticipation of opening night at The Playhouse, and normally Allie would have been at the theater by now, running errands, helping to put out the last minute fires that inevitably cropped up on the first night of a new play, and yet here she was. Visiting the centuries old grave of a distant cousin.

She would like to think that she was driven strictly by courtesy – and curiosity – rather than the desire to avoid bumping into Mason backstage, or seeing him in his element. But if there was anything she’d learned over the course of the past year, it was that lying to herself did her no favors. Better to face the truth and deal with it. And the truth was that she was afraid that in watching Mason in action – rather than simply reading reviews and blog posts from rapturous fans – she might come to view him differently. As someone larger than life. And given how hard she’d worked to re-build her own self-esteem, to see herself as just as worthwhile as the next person, including Mason, well…

It was certainly cowardly of her, but if there’d been a suitable excuse to miss the play tonight without it being glaringly obvious as to why she was missing, she probably would have made it.

Pushing all that from her mind, Allie stepped carefully across the pine straw-and-cone covered ground, trying to avoid treading on graves or tripping over markers. The age of this cemetery being what it was, there wasn’t a distinct path for visitors to follow, let alone a paved road.  The most recent burials had taken place in the nineteen-thirties, before the church had been struck by lightning for the second time – and subsequently abandoned. But there were graves dating back to the early eighteen hundreds. The oak trees which stretched their gnarled, moss-draped limbs over the headstones, like a mother hen protecting her chicks, had probably been mere saplings when Eugene Hawbaker was interred here.

Heading back toward the far corner where he was buried, Allie frowned at the sight of the yellow crime scene tape stirring in the evening breeze. Will said the department had gathered all the evidence they needed, but she guessed they’d left the tape up as a deterrent. Curiosity often drove people to do weird and unpredictable things.

Allie glanced down at the bright, cheerful spring flowers she held in her hand. She’d cut them from The Dust Jacket’s garden, intending to give them to the play’s cast, but at the last moment had gathered a bunch for Cousin Eugene as well. It seemed appropriate. A sort of apology for…
snogging
, as Mason would say, on his grave.

Walking cautiously, she wound around the maze of drunkenly tilted, eroding headstones. She could lay the tribute outside the tape, she guessed.

Allie eyed the gravesite, visible now in the fading daylight, and sighed a little at its appearance. The headstone was lichen-covered marble, and had probably been quite lovely at one time, taking the shape of a tree trunk with a scroll nailed to it. The words etched into the scroll had faded, but Eugene’s name and his dates of birth and of death were still faintly visible.

  The ground surrounding the headstone was a mess. A significant quantity of dirt had been displaced, piled to the side, and numerous shoeprints marred the freshly turned over soil. Allie frowned at the pile of soil. It was entirely too large to suggest a single rootworker borrowing some for their spiritual practice. Was Will right? Had someone intended to
sell
it?

But then how were they planning to get it out of here?

The events of that night had been chaotic and confusing, but she was pretty sure she hadn’t seen a wheelbarrow. She would ask Will, but knew that would put him in a position of talking about an ongoing investigation, which was something she tried to avoid. Will took his oath of office very seriously, especially since he’d discovered that the previous Chief – a man of which he’d thought highly – had likely been engaged in corruption. Will never said, but she suspected that it was a conversation Will’d had with the man as much as a severe heart attack that had pushed him into retirement. Now Will, in typical Will fashion, was trying to make up for what he saw as a blight on the honor of his position by being even more conscientious than he had been. It was admirable, but didn’t help satisfy Allie’s curiosity. However, there were worse things in life than being stymied.

“Allie?”

She jumped a full foot in the air, dropping the flowers in the process. Or it felt like a foot, at least. Hand to her heart, Allie whirled around, mouth falling open as she spotted Wesley.

“Sorry.” Her former fiancé stuck his hands in the pockets of his pants, pushing his suit jacket back. It was a move he made whenever he felt cornered, or sheepish. From the look on his face, she guessed that sheepish was the current motivation. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Heart pounding, Allie took a deep breath before she spoke. He’d frightened the dickens out of her, to be honest. “It’s alright.” And while her initial instinct was to dismiss her reaction as silly, to make things comfortable for him, she reminded herself that she was no longer that person. Being polite didn’t mean you had to be a doormat. Her feelings and thoughts were just as valuable as his. “Although next time you sneak up on someone in an abandoned cemetery at dusk, particularly one that’s recently experienced some suspicious activity, you might want to consider that reaction. It’s fortunate I wasn’t armed.”

His light brown brows shot up. “Armed? You?”

“I have a gun,” she informed him coolly. “And I know how to use it.”

A smile lifted the corners of his lips. “Do you now? I’ll consider myself warned, and be sure to conduct myself accordingly in the future.”

Because the word
future
in conjunction with Wesley left a sour taste in her mouth, Allie pursed her lips. “What are you doing here, Wesley?”

Displeasure flashed in his espresso-dark eyes, but was quickly masked. “I saw your car parked outside the gates as I was going past.”

Apparently her car was a real liability when it came to disclosing her whereabouts. “And you felt compelled to stop because…”

“Because I wanted to see you.” This time he didn’t bother to mask his displeasure. “I know things haven’t been… comfortable between us lately, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care. I heard that you’d been involved in some sort of incident here several nights ago, and I simply wanted to make sure you were okay. This newfound suspicion of yours isn’t becoming.” Then he sighed. “And I regret any part I might have played in making you less than trusting.”

Allie started to tell him exactly what he could do with his apology, but she considered that he had a point. She
was
far more suspicious of other people and their motives than she had once been. And while not being naïve was a desirable character trait, continually assuming the worst about people probably wasn’t the best way to be. To be truly strong, one had to be willing to be open, at least a little. Skepticism was healthy, but cynicism just made you bitter. Allie didn’t want to be a bitter, disdainful person. That was entirely too much like her mother.

“You’re forgiven,” she told Wesley.

“For startling you?” He pushed up his glasses in a gesture that she’d always found endearing. “Or for the rest?”

“Well, let’s not get crazy,” she said, and found herself reluctantly smiling in response to his laugh.

His gaze shifted to the grave behind her. “Teenagers,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with them these days.”

Reminded of the purpose of her visit, Allie scooped up the flowers from the ground near her feet, arranging them more artfully as close to the grave as she could manage. “As much as they’re everyone’s favorite scapegoat, I don’t know that teenagers are to blame in this case.”

Wesley looked at her in surprise. “Really? Does Will have evidence that suggests otherwise?”

“I don’t know what kind of evidence Will has,” she said, brushing her hands together as she stood. “And wouldn’t talk about it if I did.”

“Of course,” Wesley said, his tone contrite. “And as an attorney, I commend you for your discretion.”

The wind blew Allie’s hair, and she pushed it out of her eyes as she looked at him. The setting sun caught his glasses and created a glare, making her realize how late it was getting.  The fact that she considered talking to Wesley preferable to going to the theater was the motivation she needed to get over herself.  She could handle watching Mason onstage. She was
looking forward
to it, in fact.

“I better get going,” she said. “I have to get to The Playhouse.”

“Opening night.” Wesley nodded. “I’ll see you there.”

“You’re going?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said, and Allie wondered why that struck her as vaguely ominous.

“May I walk you out?” He offered his arm.

Allie hesitated, but saw no way out of it without looking petty. “Okay.”

But when he placed his hand over hers, Allie had to resist the urge to jerk hers back.

“YOU
know,” Sarah said as she leaned against Tucker’s heavy shoulder. His arm came around her automatically, pulling her closer to his side. “I thought that I wouldn’t be able to take my eyes off Mason tonight. That he would sort of… upstage everyone, I guess. But if I’m being honest, I think it was Bran that stole the show.”

“Part of being a good actor is knowing the difference between a supporting role and a lead.”

She considered that a moment. “I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I am.”

Sarah socked the shoulder against which she’d so recently cuddled.

“Hey.” He rubbed the spot, then reached for his drink. “I’d hate to have you dragged out of the bar for spousal abuse.”

“We’re not married yet,” she reminded him in an ominous tone.

“You’re wearing my ring.” He picked up her hand, kissed it just behind the sparkling emerald. “And besides, what would the kids say if I came home with bruises? You have to consider the example you’re setting, Red.”

“They’re
animals,”
she reminded him. “As long as we feed them, they wouldn’t care if we swung from the chandeliers. And as I was
saying,
you’re right about Mason. If anything, he probably underplayed his part for the exact reason that he didn’t want to steal any limelight. Not that he wasn’t just super – because he was. The whole play was very well done. And speaking of Mason…” she looked around the crowded bar, a new place called Stage Left that had opened up next to the theater. “Where is he? The drink he ordered is getting warm.”

“I can fix that.” Tucker sat his own empty pilsner aside and commandeered Mason’s.