Dark Secrets 2: No Time to Die; The Deep End of Fear (18 page)

When he and I entered the main hall, his mother emerged from the library.

"Darling, how was school?"

"Okay." He edged away from the library door.

She held out her arms. "Are you forgetting something? Patrick!" She sounded hurt.

He dutifully went back and kissed her.

"Trent has just arrived from Philadelphia. Come say hello to him and Robyn. You as well, Kate."

Through the door I could see Robyn pacing back and forth, pressing a cell phone to her ear. Years in the sun had aged her skin. The vertical creases between her eyebrows had deepened noticeably, and her black hair had streaks of silver. She still had the bone structure of a beautiful woman, but Ashley's suggestion that she was the bad queen in
Snow White
didn't seem that farfetched. As Patrick and I entered, she glanced at me, then turned her back.

Trent was sitting at a desk, dressed in a business suit, reading some kind of document. He was still slender, with thin, almost colorless hair. He had adored Ashley but had been hopeless at playing. She and I had had a much better time with my father, who, though I hadn't realized it then, had the imagination and heart of a child.

"Trent," Emily said, "here's Patrick, and his new tutor, Kate Venerelli."

Trent's blue eyes looked up over his reading glasses. He rose from his seat. "Good God!"

I had thought Mrs. Hopewell and Robyn would have warned Trent about me, but the small, satisfied curve of Robyn's lips suggested they hadn't. The little color Trent had in his cheeks disappeared completely.

"You're a double for your mother."

Patrick gazed up at me. "You have a mother?"

"Everyone has one at birth," I replied.

"How old are you now?" Trent asked me.

"Seventeen."

I could see him doing the mental calculation. Ashley would be nineteen. As children, both of us had strongly resembled our mothers. What would Ashley have looked like now—another Corinne, his wife when he first met her?

"I was sorry to learn about your father's death," he said.

I nodded, but Trent didn't see it, sitting down again, his eyes returning to the paper he'd been reading before he had even finished his sentence.

"Here's Patrick," Emily said, sounding a little peeved that her son had not been acknowledged by Trent.

"Hello, Patrick," Trent responded, without looking up. When Patrick didn't reply, Trent added crisply, "Children speak when spoken to."

And when
looked
at, I thought.

"Hi," Patrick said, his lips barely parting. He had learned from his half brother how to greet a person coldly.

"So when will
your
charming son arrive, Robyn?" Trent asked.

"By now, I thought." She returned the cell phone to her pocket. "I'm worried."

"You don't think he stopped by a few parties on the way up from Beach Ball University, do you?"

"No, Uncle Trent, I did not," replied a deep voice, "because I knew how delighted you would be to see me."

"Brook,' his mother greeted him with relief. He kissed her, his lips barely brushing her cheek.

Ashley's cousin and "best enemy" had inherited the Westbrook look, a handsome, large-featured face, dark hair, and blue eyes.

I can't tell you how happy I was to leave sunny Florida and come back to this cold, damp place," Brook said sarcastically. "Exactly when is dear Grandfather coming home?"

"Tomorrow, Brook, and I'm counting on you," his mother responded with a meaning-filled look.

"As always," he replied casually, and sprawled in a chair, one foot up on the low table in front of him. His skin was deeply tanned. "And who are you?" he asked, eyeing me.

"Kate."

"Kate Venerelli," his mother said.

Brook blinked. I could see the change in his eyes. "Katie!" he exclaimed softly, sitting up straight. His eyes traveled down and up me in a way that made me squirm inside, which wasn't much different from the way I reacted to him when I was five. I had steered clear of a boy who played hard enough to hurt, kicked nests of wild kittens, and threw rocks at a pet when he thought no one was looking.

"Kate is Patrick's tutor," Emily said.

Brook glanced at Patrick. "Hey, little jerk." There was no fondness in his greeting.

Patrick simply stared at him, which made Brook laugh.

"You know, Patrick, I always thought you were stupid. But maybe you're not as dumb as I figured—maybe you've been faking it so you could get a pretty tutor."

Emily took a step toward Brook.

"Just teasing," he added quickly, unconvincingly. His gaze skipped around the room. "Something's missing," he said. "Ah! The old dragon."

Trent immediately turned toward the fireplace mantell behind him.

"I guess she's in the kitchen chewing out Cook," Brook added, pleased with his little joke, which apparently referred to Mrs. Hopewell.

"Where
is
the Chinese dragon?" Trent asked, still surveying the mantel.

"Robyn took it," Emily replied, like a child happy to tattle. "She claims your father promised it to her."

"You are truly amazing, Robyn," Trent said to his sister. "One day I'm going to come home and find the main house stripped. But I'll know where to find everything—in your wing."

"Not if I sell it first," Robyn retorted. "Besides, Daddy did say he would give it to me."

Trent rose, lifted a small bronze from the mantell and carefully turned it in his hands, as if appraising it, then placed the figure in his open briefcase.

"Guess what? Dad promised this sculpture to me."

Brook threw back his head and laughed. Emily got the same tight-lipped look as I had seen on Patrick's face. I had been right about her: She was intimidated enough by her husband's children not to insist that these things still belonged to Adrian.

"So Grandfather is on his last legs," Brook said. "That's hard to imagine."

"I find your lack of respect appalling," Emily said to Brook, apparently not cowed by a college student.

"Oh come now, Emily, why else would you have married an old man?" Robyn challenged her.

"It's called love, Robyn, but I doubt that word is in your vocabulary."

"You are wrong! I have loved him all my life," Robyn replied, with such intensity that her voice sounded strange. I have loved him, lived with him, and taken care of him longer than you have."

"The prognosis is less than a year," Trent told Brook.

Joseph was right, I thought. Adrian was dying and the vultures were gathering, each one afraid that the next person would get a larger slice of the inheritance. What a lovely group for a child to grow up around!

"I'm taking Patrick outside," I said.

He bolted for the door, and I followed.

"Play clothes," his mother called after us. "Put on his play clothes, Kate."

I didn't know a little boy could peel and dress so quickly. He ended up with his mittens on the wrong hands, which we fixed when we got outside. We walked silently for a few moments. I let him lead the way and guessed that we were going to the pond.

"What does it mean, 'on his last legs'?" Patrick asked me when we were a distance from the house.

I hesitated, then lied. "I'm not sure. It must be an American expression. Sometime when you and your mother are alone, ask her."

We walked beyond the formal gardens and through a bare orchard that ended at paddocks and a horse barn. As a child I had thought I was luckier than Ashley because my parents and I lived in one of the employee cottages, which was near the horse bam and, better yet, an empty cow barn with lofts and ladders, where Ashley and I had liked to play. Between the horse and cow barns was Ashley's favorite place, the pond.

Surrounded by a thick ring of trees, mostly cedar and pine, it was reached by a narrow path. Round, about half the size of a soccer field, the pond looked as it had twelve years before, but the collar of vegetation had tightened around it, the circle of evergreens growing inward, encroaching on its edge, casting long shadows on its half-frozen surface. Dying things and living things mixed together here. A rush of feelings came back to me with the distinctive smell—a smell that was both fresh green and thick with decay. Alone with Ashley, knowing no one could see us, I had found the pond a frightening place. Ashley could think of a hundred forbidden things to do.

"Want to play hockey?" Patrick asked.

"Here?" After what had happened to Ashley, surely someone had taught him.

"We can pretend we're on skates and use branches for hockey sticks."

"Patrick, the ice is too soft! When it's dark and slushy, you can't skate. It will never hold your weight."

"Yes, it will."

"Sorry, but—"

"Ashley said so."

The breath caught in my throat. "What did you say?"

"Ashley told me it's okay."

I felt a finger of ice along my spine. "Well, she's wrong." I crouched next to Patrick. "Are you listening? She's dead wrong."

I looked out at the thin ice, at the hole in it, a circle of black water lying off-center in the pond. There is a scientific reason that area doesn't freeze well, I told myself. Perhaps the pond's spring was located beneath it, or the temperature was warmer because of the amount of sun it received. Though even now, it wasn't hard to believe Ashley's explanation. I had seen the brown and black water snakes basking On the shore and could easily imagine other creatures with serpentine limbs, which Ashley had said hid beneath the pond's dark surface, waiting to pull us under.

I turned to Patrick, who was gazing toward the watery circle. I guess Ashley is your imaginary friend," I said.

He nodded. "Only she's not imaginary."

"Oh? What does she look like?"

"She has brown hair. It's very pretty, brown and curly. She wears a pink coat. She always wants to wear her purple shoes."

Another chill went through me. Ashley had loved her purple sneakers and would wear a pink snowsuit. But most little girls love pink and purple, I reminded myself, and a lot of people have brown curly hair. And though I had seen no pictures of her displayed in the house, it was very possible someone had shown him one.

I debated whether to tell him that I had played with a little girl named Ashley, then decided against it. It was a big leap to think he was talking about the child I had known. My job would be simpler if I didn't admit to him that I had once lived here.

"Where is Ashley's home?" I asked.

"I don't know. She's here a lot."

"Here—where?"

"The pond," he said, his voice betraying exasperation.

"I don't see her."

He thought a moment. "Maybe she is hiding from you.

I scanned the trees uneasily, then once again turned my eyes to the dark water where Ashley had drowned. I remembered the day she had died, how she, my mother, Joseph, and I had been looking everywhere for her favorite rabbit. Thanks to Ashley's carelessness and Brook's deliberate efforts, many of her pets escaped, not only their cages but the house. Searching outside, Ashley and I kept calling to one another, then after a while, no one heard her voice. The adults found the ice broken through and dragged the pond to recover Ashley's body. When they drained the water, they found her rabbit and reasoned that she had chased her pet onto the ice and had fallen through.

"You see her!" Patrick exclaimed. He had been watching my face.

"No. No, I don't."

He looked disappointed. "Maybe next time."

"Patrick, I don't understand," I said. "Is Ashley a ghost?"

He was silent for a moment. His frown told me he was seriously thinking about the question. "Can ghosts be alive?" he asked at last.

"They were alive once."

He shook his head. "Ashley's alive now."

This was getting too creepy for me. "Why don't you show me some other places?" I suggested. "Do you have swings?"

"And monkey bars," he said. "The best ones are by the cottages."

"Let's go see them." As Patrick and I left, he glanced over his shoulder. "We'll be back later," he assured whatever he saw in the wintry air.

Chapter 4

Friday morning I drove to Wisteria Country Day School, muttering to myself all the way.

"Why do you keep saying, 'To the right'?" Patrick asked as we motored along.

"So I remember to drive on that side of the road."

"Why would you drive on the other side? There are cars coming."

"Good point."

After dropping him off, I arrived back at the house in the middle of a family quarrel, the subject of which was money—who was spending how much on what. I paused in the hall, picking out the voices of Trent, Robyn, and Emily. Two women carrying cleaning equipment, part of the estate's day help, nodded to me as they passed. They either pretended not to notice the raised voices or were so used to it, they weren't interested. I headed upstairs, glad that I had eaten breakfast earlier and that my room was two floors above those where the family gathered.

The bright day made the white room cheerier than it had seemed two days ago, and the slanting roof made it snug, though no warmer. Outside the wind was gusting up and the temperature dropping. The plaster walls of the room were cold to the touch, the old glass panes in the windows frigid. Mrs.

Hopewell had provided me with a wool blanket, quilt, rug, and what appeared to be old kitchen curtains—thin panels of yellow fabric with red teapots all over. I stuffed towels at the base of both windows, pulled a chair closer to the radiator, and settled down to read. My only company was the photo of my father that I had set on my bureau.

About eleven o'clock I heard a car drive up to the house and a flurry of activity downstairs, indicating that Adrian Westbrook had arrived home. An hour later, though I had not asked for lunch, I was informed by intercom that it would be delivered. My offer to fetch it myself was rejected. Henry, the older gentleman who had first answered the door for Amelia and me, served me in my room and instructed me to leave the dirty dishes outside my door. I wondered if the situation downstairs was tense.

Over lunch, I studied my U.S. atlas, focusing on the Maryland area, calculating the distance from the Eastern Shore to Washington, D.C. It appeared short enough for a day trip. I finished my soup and sandwich, put on headphones and a CD, then flipped through another book, looking for sites both Patrick and I would enjoy; after all, I was supposed to be introducing him to things that "a well-bred person should know."

I didn't know how long Mrs. Hopewell was standing inside my room, observing me read. With my music on, I hadn't heard her open the door.

"Mr. Westbrook will see you now."

I pulled off the headphones. "I'm sorry, did you knock?"

She ignored the question. "He hasn't a lot of time to waste."

"Please tell him I'll be down in five minutes," I said, wanting to wash my face and retrieve the ring from my drawer unobserved.

"He will see you
now."

Interpreting this to mean I was to follow her, I stood up, making a motion to do so. She preceded me out the door, and I closed it behind her. "I won't be long," I called.

A few minutes later, I found Mrs. Hopewell waiting for me on the second-floor landing.

"I hope that Mr. Westbrook has been told about me," I said, as we descended the stairs. "Mr. Trent seemed rather startled yesterday."

"He has been informed," the housekeeper replied coolly. "He knows who you are."

"Good."

It was curious, I thought, that Mrs. Hopewell had made the long trek up to the third floor to fetch me rather than employing the intercom, or Henry, or the young man I had noticed at her beck and call in the kitchen earlier. Of course, that is the problem with wanting to be in control—it requires a great deal of personal effort.

"Mrs. Hopewell, do you still live in the house?"

"Yes."

"If I remember correctly, you are in the section that connects to Mrs. Caulfield's wing, the second floor of it."

She glanced sideways at me. "You must remember a great deal from your time here."

"Just bits and pieces," I replied. "I don't think I could draw a map of the house or the estate, but I
do
seem to know how to get from one place to the next."

She waited til we reached the bottom of the steps, then turned toward me, blocking my path with her foot. Her muddy brown
eyes
had a peculiar shine to them. "I am sure your mother filled you in on many things."

"No, after we left Mason's Choice, she and I never talked about the place." I saw no reason to inform Mrs. Hopewell that we never talked at all.

The woman's nostrils quivered, as if she could sniff the truth, then she ushered me to the office and gave a quick double rap on the door.

"Thank you, Louise," a voice called from within.

She opened the door.

"Katie Vefterelli," Adrian Westbrook greeted me, rising from behind the desk as I stepped inside the room. "All grown-up! What an enchanting sight you are! Welcome back, Katie," he said, taking my hands warmly, then cocking his head slightly to the right, as if looking over my shoulder. "That will be all, Louise."

Mrs. Hopewell turned abruptly and exited.

"The door, Louise," he called after her.

It was closed. I imagined her listening through the keyhole.

"Hello, Mr. Westbrook."

"Mr. Westbrook?
Have we suddenly become formal? Must I now call you Miss Venerelli? Don't you remember, child, you insisted on calling me Adrian, no matter how many times your parents corrected you. You said you liked the name much better. You're not going to change that, are you?"

"Wel—"

"I'd be insulted—I'd feel like a doddering old man if you called me Mr. Westbrook. I'm already old and will be doddering soon enough, as I'm sure they've told you. They're all abuzz about my impending demise. It's a wonder they haven't put tags on the furniture, claiming their loot. But don't
you
make me a relic before I have to be."

His blue eyes had lost none of their spark, and his white hair, though shorter than in his pictures, was still thick. He hasn't had radiation recently, I thought. His color was poor, as was my father's, but despite illness and age, he was a handsome man, having the large, even features Robyn had inherited, plus a sense of humor, which she hadn't. The lines engraved in his face traced amusement rather than frustration and anger.

"You look wonderful," I said honestly.

"You've worked one day and you want a raise?"

"You know that isn't true. And you know that what I said, is."

He smiled. It was nice to feel at ease with someone in the house. I had liked Adrian as a child and found that I still liked him now.

He gestured for me to sit down, then took a seat himself. "My condolences on the loss of your father."

"Thank you."

"And your mother, how is she?"

"I haven't seen her since I was five."

For the second time in two days, I had someone gazing at me incredulously.

I knew she and Luke had separated, but I assumed…" He didn't complete his sentence. "So you are on your own," he said. "That can't be easy."

"I can handle it."

One corner of his mouth turned up slightly. "I have no doubt."

"I do have one matter relating to my father, which I need to take care of," I went on. From my pocket I pulled out the ring. "He asked me to return this to you."

Adrian stared at it. "Good Lord."

"You recognize it?"

"Yes, of course. It was my grandmother's."

I don't know why my father took it," I said, shifting in my seat uncomfortably. "All I know is that I am supposed to return it."

I laid it on the table next to Adrian, since he didn't seem inclined to take it There was a faraway look in his eyes.

"It would really help me," I continued, "if you could tell me why Dad had it. I never knew him to be a thief."

"Oh, Katie, of course he wasn't a thief," Adrian said, picking up the ring, then placing it in his desk drawer. "Luke was an artist, with an artist's temperament, as I am sure you know."

"Yes…"

"I'm equally sure I wasn't the only client your father accused of failing to appreciate his genius."

I smiled a little. "You weren't."

"He left here in an artistic huff. I suppose he took the ring, fearing that I wouldn't make good on the work he had completed for me. I did, eighteen months later, when he surfaced in England, painting for an old college chum of mine."

I frowned. "He should have returned the ring then."

"Oh, don't be hard on him. He was young with a little girl to support and no money saved. It is a testament to your father's honesty that he kept it all these years with the plan of returning it."

I wanted to believe him—to believe the best about my father—but stories weren't matching up. "Mrs. Hopewell said that you sent us packing."

Adrian looked surprised. "That's odd. Her memory has always been good," he replied. "Of course, that is how she would have perceived the situation.

As you may have noticed, she is loyal to a fault, especially to Robyn and me. She would assume I fired your father rather than think I was jilted by an un established artist"

That made some sense. But then why did we leave so secretly in the middle of the night? Perhaps because my father had stolen the ring.

"You look unconvinced," Adrian observed. "What did your father tell you?"

"Nothing. He never wanted to talk about our time here."

Adrian shook his head. "I hope your time with us left you with a few good memories. Ashley loved having you for her little friend. You were a very happy part of her life. I'm glad that Patrick will have that opportunity now. How do you find him?"

"Lonely."

Adrian sat back in his chair. "You are blunt, just like your mother."

"I hardly know Patrick, but it is obvious that he needs other children around him."

Adrian sighed. "You are probably right. Give me a few days to set my affairs in order, then we shall put our heads together to see what can be done for him."

I nodded.

I am delighted you are here, Katie—Kate, I suppose I should call you, now that you are a young woman. We'll be getting you a cell phone, which I'd like you to keep with you at all times. I don't know why the microwave and small refrigerator were removed from your room, but Mrs. Hopewell assures me they will be put back. You are welcome to eat in the kitchen anytime, of course, but most people want some privacy."

He rose, signaling the end of our meeting.

"Thank you… thanks—" I hesitated, not ready to address my employer by his first name.

The lines of amusement deepened in his face. "And what did we agree you would call me?" he asked.

"Adrian."

"Your father has come home," I told Patrick when I picked him up from school that day.

His face lit up. "Is he all better?"

"He still has cancer, but he is better right now," I replied, glad that I had asked Emily what they had told Patrick about Adrian's health.

"And he is very happy to be home," I added, as Patrick struggled to get his stuffed backpack in the rear seat of the car. "He can't wait to see you."

"I wish they could make Daddy's cancer go away." Patrick's voice sounded small, wistful.

I rested my hand on his shoulder. "Me too."

He climbed into the car.

"Fasten your seat belt," I reminded him, then got into the driver's seat and started the car. "So how was school today?"

"Okay… sort of… I got a fifty on my spelling test," he blurted suddenly, as I pulled out of the school lot. "It has to be signed."

"A fifty." I glanced in the mirror and saw his tense little face. "How many words were on the test?"

Ten.

"So you can spel five. That's a start. We'll work on the other five tonight."

He looked relieved that I hadn't come down hard on him. "will you sign the test?"

"No, your mother or father has to, but I will tell them we're working on those five words and learning new ones too."

"Okay," he said, sounding cheerful. "To the right, to the right," he chanted, recalling my mantra earlier in the day.

"I'm driving fairly wel now, Patrick. I don't think I need prompting."

"Yeah," he agreed, "only you came out of the parking lot where you are supposed to go in."

"I did?"

"That's why our crossing guard was blowing her whistle at you."

"She was?"

I glanced back in the rearview mirror. "Oh, well. You help me drive and I'll help you spell."

"Home is the other way," he informed me.

"Oh. Right." I needed to turn the car around. "Don't worry. All we have to do is—whoops! 'Do Not Enter.' So… so, we'll take a left, then another left." I made the first turn. "Wel get there eventually."

"When we do, can we play with my plastic horses? Ashley said you can ride Silver Knight."

"Ashley said—what?"

A horn blared at me as I turned the corner.

"To the right!" Patrick cried.

There was no time to veer away from the oncoming car. I slammed on the brakes. Our car screeched to a stop, nose to nose with the other vehicle. I wrenched around to look at Patrick. "Are you okay?"

He bobbed his head. "That was close."

There had been no thump, no crushing metal sounds, no shattering of glass. I sank back against my seat. "I'm sorry, Patrick. I hope I didn't scare you."

"Nope," he said. I saw him looking past me, and I turned to see the guy who had been driving the other car leap out of it. He shouted at me, waving his arms like a lunatic.

"What are you doing, lady? Are you trying to kill me?"

We could hear him though our windows were rolled.

"You ever driven a car before? Are you driving with your eyes closed? Do you know left from right? Do you want both sides of the street to be your side?"

I think he's mad," Patrick observed.

"Perhaps a bit," I said calmly. "You stay here." I got out of the car to speak to the guy and make sure no damage had been done. Cars moved slowly around our two vehicles, people craning their heads to see what had happened.

"Didn't you see me coming?" the guy asked as we strode toward each other. "What does it matter if you saw me?" he answered himself. "You're on the wrong side of the street!"