Angel's Rest (24 page)

She believed he still considered himself to be Gabe’s pet. She wondered where he would end up once Gabe returned to Eagle’s Way.

That’s where her husband intended to live upon their return to Colorado. They’d talked about their living
arrangements over breakfast this morning. That is, he’d talked and she’d listened. Apparently the separate-bedrooms arrangement was off. Now he wanted separate houses. He’d offered up a list of reasons why they’d both be better off living apart, but Nic saw past them to the heart of the matter. Gabe was pulling back. He had spent this time in California working on their friendship, not their marriage. Sharing a home in Eternity Springs, even if they didn’t share a bed, would take it too close to a real marriage for his comfort.

She was adding the last of her clothes to her suitcase when he rapped on her door. “Nic?”

“Come in.” She took one look at him and saw his worry and concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Jack called. My—um, Jen’s husband is in the hospital. Heart attack.” He ran his hands through his hair and frowned. “I have to go … Pam has been through way too much. She was there for me, especially with Matty. I’m sorry, Nic. I’m gonna have to send you back to Eternity Springs by yourself. I’ll catch a flight to D.C. I hope you understand. They’re my family.”

And I’m not
. “Of course I understand,” she replied, ignoring the pang of hurt. Now was the time to be his friend. “Don’t think twice about it.”

“Thanks. We can catch the shuttle from here to San Jose. It leaves in twenty minutes. If we hurry, we should be able to make it.”

“Give me five minutes and I’ll meet you at the door.”

“Thanks, Nic. You’re the best.”

His words rang in her ears as she gathered up the rest of her belongings.
“You’re the best.” Yeah, right
. She wondered if the day would ever come when the man didn’t make her feel like second best.

At the Mocha Moose coffeehouse and Internet café in Eternity Springs, Sage Anderson responded to an email
from a gallery in Savannah, then sent off an e-card birthday greeting to an old friend from college. Finished with email, she checked the ESPN site for updates on March Madness standings, then sighed to see that the number twelve seed had whipped the number five seed and busted her East Region bracket. “Shoot, Sarah is going to kick my butt again this year,” she muttered.

Rising from her corner table, she wandered toward the bakery case, where a selection of cookies tempted her. The shop’s owner, Wendy Davis, was the only woman in town who could hold her own against Sarah when it came to baked goods. Her raspberry jam pinwheel cookies were as much works of art as Sage’s watercolors.

“Change your mind?” Wendy asked. “I have a batch of pinwheels hot from the oven.”

“You are a wicked woman.”

Sage took the warm cookie and her second cup of herbal tea back to the table and the computer. She clicked away from ESPN, and then her fingers settled on the keyboard as, from out of nowhere, the urge struck her to check up on the organization that had once meant so much to her. She even went so far as to type “www.doc” before good sense prevailed and she jerked her hands away from the keyboard as if they’d been burned.

What was that all about? Rattled, she brought her hands up to her face and massaged her temples. She could almost hear the monkeys chatter right now.

The lack of sleep must be getting to her. Nightmares woke her often, and in the small hours of the night she would try to exorcise the demons by painting, in the grip of a dark creative energy.

The work she produced those nights differed substantially from the bright, fanciful paintings that were attracting attention in the art world. That the midnight paintings frightened her was no great shock, since the
scenes came right out of her nightmares. That she never wished them to see the light of day held no surprise, either, due to the personal nature of the subjects. Almost always, she painted over the images in daylight.

She had kept a couple whose images were impressionistic rather than detailed. Those she kept facing the wall and covered with a tarp. She knew they were the best work she’d ever done, but they were, and would remain, her dirty little secret.

Bells rattled as the café’s door opened, distracting her from her dark thoughts. Sage looked up to see Celeste arrive for their strategy session regarding Eternity Springs’ local arts and crafts show, held each June in Davenport Park. As part of her Angel Plan, Celeste wanted to elevate the status of the event by holding a juried show of Colorado artists in conjunction with it. The idea was meeting some resistence from a few locals who preferred the flea market crowd to gallery patrons, so Celeste had appealed to Sage to help win them over.

“Hello, hello,” Celeste said, tugging off her gloves and earmuffs. After placing her order with Wendy, she joined Sage at the table and set a large shopping bag on the floor. “I am so glad you suggested meeting here. I needed to stop by and place a cookie order for next week. I’m having a special visitor.”

“Oh? An old friend?”

“No, I’ve only spoken to her on the phone, but she seems like a lovely person. Her name is Alison Timberlake.” Celeste paused, preened, then announced, “Alison
Cavanaugh
Timberlake.”

“Of the Eternity Springs Cavanaughs?”

“If one goes back far enough, yes. Her branch of the family was a distant cousin to the Eternity Springs Cavanaughs. Our library has tremendous historical archives of the area, and our librarian, Margaret Rhodes, knows them forward and backward. Once I
discovered that Cavanaughs settled in Denver, it was easy to track down Mrs. Timberlake. She lives there, is married to an attorney, and they have three children. I have a few ideas I’d like to discuss with her regarding family heirlooms. She jumped at the chance to come for a visit.”

Sage tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear and frowned at Celeste. “You are still trying to solve the Lost Angel murder, aren’t you?”

“Not really, no. I admit that I have an interest in seeing that historical records reflect the truth, but in this instance I’m more concerned about the proper dispersal of Cavanaugh family treasures.”

“Hmm,” Sage said, her tone noncommital. Their inventory of the contents of the old Victorian mansion had turned up a number of valuable items, and the fact that this Mrs. Timberlake’s husband was associated with the legal profession sent up a red flag, or twelve. She’d hate to see anyone take advantage of Celeste or draw her into a lawsuit. Concerned, she asked, “Your sales contract for the house was specific in regard to the contents of the house, right? You do own them.”

“I do. Nevertheless, some things should remain in the family, and after speaking with Alison, I think she would welcome the opportunity to reconnect with her roots. Her visit ties into one of the reasons I’ve asked to meet with you today. Sage, I’d like to commission the design of a piece of jewelry.”

She sat back in her chair, surprised. “That’s flattering, but I’m not a jewelry designer, Celeste. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Just hear me out. I want a symbol that represents the healing energy of Eternity Springs. I’d like it to be adaptable for use as a small item of jewelry for both men and women—a charm or cuff link or pendant. These items will be made from the silver found in my cellar, and I
will give them as gifts when time and circumstances are appropriate.”

“You mean the thirty pieces of silver?” Sage said, her brow furrowing. “That’s … symbolic.”

“I think so.”

Sage’s creative mind engaged. Treachery and betrayal transformed.
Hmm
. Okay, so maybe she did know where to start. A variation of the angel’s wings on Winifred Smith’s locket formed an image in her mind, and her fingers itched for a pencil and sketch pad.

“Please say you’ll do it, Sage. You must do it. You are meant to do it. I know this at the bottom of my heart.”

In that moment, Sage knew it, too. “All right. On one condition, though. No commission. This will be my personal contribution to the effort.”

“Excellent.” Celeste sat back in her chair, her weathered face wearing a satisfied smile. “Mark my words, dear. I have a feeling this particular work will effect a wondrous change in your life.”

Before Sage could pursue that curious statement, Wendy Davis approached the table carrying Celeste’s coffee and two huge soft ginger cookies. “I hear work is progressing well at Angel’s Rest,” she said.

“We are ahead of schedule, believe it or not.”

“The contractors who come in here say they’ve never seen anything like it. They’ve not had a single weather delay.”

Celeste smiled beatifically. “The weather has been a gift from God. We have an excellent shot at holding our grand opening by the Fourth of July.”

“You’re kidding.” Sage gaped at her friend. “That fast? I don’t believe it. No building project gets done that fast in this part of the world.”

“My contractors are motivated. Gabe helped me build premiums into the contracts for speed of completion, and so far my plan A is working out splendidly.”

The mention of Gabe Callahan tugged Sage’s thoughts in another direction. “Speaking of Gabe, do you know if Nic has heard from him or not? Any idea when he’s coming home?”

“I don’t know about Nic, but I heard from him yesterday. He called to update me on the building plan for the springs. He told me he’ll be returning later today.”

“Finally!”

Celeste nibbled at a cookie. “He said his brother-in-law is doing better, thank the Lord. I guess it was touch and go for a time.”

“I’ve felt bad for Nic,” Sage said after glancing over her shoulder to make sure they weren’t being overheard. “She’s put forth a brave face, but I know the gossip has been brutal. First the hasty wedding and then coming home alone from her honeymoon. I hope Gabe sets the record straight about why he’s been away.”

“Nic isn’t much for gossip, is she? Especially in regard to anything dealing with Gabe. It’s an admirable trait.”

“A frustrating trait,” Sage responded with a grin. “Now, since I’m not opposed to gossip, what’s up with the summer theater? I heard the Historical Society is pitching a fit after the theater group decided to produce
The Lost Angel Murder
.”

“As well they should.” Celeste sipped her coffee, then said, “The script is pure conjecture. Margaret and I have pored over every book, journal, and letter in the library. We’ve found nothing to support the charge that Daniel Murphy murdered that poor woman. He went to his grave declaring his innocence, and I think it’s wrong for the theater group to take creative license in a way that disparages a man’s reputation. I have to say, Sage, that in my experience with creative personalities, you are the exception to the rule. The scriptwriter is—oh, look. There’s Nic coming out of the library across the street.”

“She looks happy,” Sage observed. “Considering that Gabe is coming home, that’s a good sign, don’t you think? I sure wish she’d been more forthcoming about the honeymoon. I worry that—oh, no!”

Sage surged to her feet, watching in horror as out on the sidewalk, Nic slipped on a patch of ice. She slid into a bench, then tumbled over it and the bicycle chained to it. She fell, the bike coming down on top of her.

Her head hit the cement curb, and she lay still.

Sage grabbed her coat and rushed for the door, shoving her arms into the sleeves even as she sent up a prayer. When she was halfway across the street she saw blood staining the snow, and instantly she froze. In that instant, she was back in stifling heat on a dusty dirt road.

Bullets whizzed past her head. Clouds of flies buzzed around her. Slick, sticky blood coated her hands, her arms, even her face where the spray had splashed it
.

The gun swung in her direction
.

“Nic? Nicole?” The sound of Celeste’s voice jerked her back to reality. “Dear Lord, we need a doctor. Sage, help!”

Sage shuddered. Her knees felt like butter. She had the weight of Murphy Mountain on her chest.
Nic is your friend. You have to help
.

She forced herself forward as Celeste pulled the bike off Nic, then knelt in the snow beside her. “Nic? Nicole?” The older woman placed a hand at Nic’s neck. “She has a pulse, thank God. Nic? Nicole?”

Seconds ticked by. Another minute.
Too long
.

As Sage drew near, Nic’s eyes fluttered and she moaned.

Bob Carson rushed from the bank, a first-aid kit in hand. LaNelle Harrison flew out of the quilt shop, asking, “Is she all right?”

Celeste repeated, “Nic?”

Sage stood just beyond the circle, her hands clasped in a white-knuckled grip. She willed herself to go forward, but her feet remained cemented in place even when Nic’s pain-glazed eyes opened and she rolled onto her side and threw up.

Celeste asked, “Where do you hurt, honey?”

“Ohhh,” she moaned. She rolled back onto her back and closed her eyes.

“Nic? Nic!”

She isn’t tracking
.

“Where is the blood coming from?” the banker asked, setting the first-aid kit on the ground.

“Looks like she has a gash on her leg.”