How Secrets Die (4 page)

A glance at the clock on the bell tower of Town Hall informed him that the morning was nearly gone, eaten up by talk that led nowhere. Marge Bailey, their dispatcher/receptionist, gave him a sympathetic look as he came in out of the bright fall sunshine. Marge was fond of telling people how she used to babysit for Mac and his brother, and her motherliness with him was balanced by the crisp, no-nonsense way she dealt with police matters.

“No fun?”

He grimaced. “Maybe it'll satisfy him for the moment, so I can get some work done. Did the state police crime stats come in yet?”

“On your computer.” She glanced toward his office door. “But first, you have a visitor.” Marge rolled her eyes. “Bart Gordon. All het up about something. I told him you were tied up in a meeting, and that if he had something to report, another officer could speak with him, but he insisted on waiting for you.”

“Right.” Bart was one of those people who always had a list of complaints, most of them not police business at all. Looked as if the last shreds of his morning were being swept away. Well, his job was to protect and serve the community, even when they wasted his time.

Mac strode into the office, tossing his cap onto the desk. “'Morning, Bart.”

Bart Gordon shot out of the visitor's chair that took up too much space in Mac's tiny office, already crowded with desk, chair and files, made to seem even smaller by the framed photos of various town dignitaries and events that covered most of one wall.

“It's about time you're getting back. I've been waiting.” Bart looked prosperous, self-satisfied and florid, as usual. He was enough older than Mac that their lives hadn't really touched at any point.

“Didn't Marge tell you I was at a meeting with the DA?” he asked blandly. “I'll have to speak to her about it.”

Taken aback, Bart sat down again. “She mentioned it,” he said reluctantly.

“Well, what can I do for you?” Mac edged around his desk and sat in the creaky swivel chair he'd inherited from his predecessor.

Bart seemed to get up a head of steam again. “Are you aware that Jason Reilley's sister is in town?” He made it sound like an accusation.

Now, what was there in Kate Beaumont's presence to make Bart so hot under the collar?

“Yes, I've met her.” He kept his voice carefully neutral. “Is there a problem?”

“A problem? When a perfect stranger walks into my office and starts prying into my business?” Bart seemed to take a breath, maybe deciding that wasn't the way he wanted to present himself. After a moment he leaned forward, an earnest expression on his ruddy face. “Now, Mac, you know I always have the best interest of Laurel Ridge at heart. Adverse publicity about a prominent business like ours can't do anyone any good. I'm just trying to protect the reputation of our town.”

More intrigued by Bart's attitude than anything else, Mac raised an eyebrow. “Is Ms. Beaumont threatening you with bad publicity? How?”

“Not exactly.” Bart hesitated as if balancing the wisdom of confiding in the police against his obvious irritation with the Beaumont woman. “But she's stirring up talk about her unfortunate brother's death. You know how uncomfortable that was. I think it best that it be forgotten, not dragged into the public eye again.”

In other words, Bart Gordon had the wind up because of Kate Beaumont's interest in her brother's death. But why? There'd never been any suggestion of involvement on the part of the company.

“I can't run the woman out of town because she makes you uncomfortable,” he pointed out.

“I know. But it's just so inconsiderate. We've already dealt with all that unpleasantness, and it certainly wasn't our fault. If I'd known the boy was likely to go back to drugs, I'd never have agreed to give him a chance.” He was beginning to sound petulant, and Mac's supply of courtesy was running dangerously low.

He rose, hoping to indicate that the interview was over. “I'll have a talk with her.”

“Yes, well, I suppose that will have to do.” Bart made it as far as the door before his grievance burst out again. “What does she want here, anyway? And why did it take her over a year to decide she had to come?”

Muttering a soothing word or two, Mac eased him out the door and closed it firmly.

But the question lingered in his mind. Little though he wanted to admit it, Bart Gordon did have a point. Why had Kate Beaumont waited over a year to come to the place where her brother died?

* * *

K
ATE
WALKED
THE
flagstone path to the cottage, disappointed but not deterred by the failure of her effort to speak to Russell Sheldon. Apparently it was true that the retiree was in poor health, since a caregiver had opened the door at his house and politely but firmly declined Kate's request to speak to him.

Very firmly—almost as if she'd been warned that Kate might come calling. Someone from the financial office had probably tipped off the woman, and it would be interesting to know who it had been.

She passed into the shade cast by the tall hedge along the side of the bed-and-breakfast, chilled when she stepped out of the bright autumn sunshine. She glanced up. The clear, crisp day seemed to accentuate the bright colors that appeared here and there on the ridge that isolated the town. She wasn't sure she'd enjoy living in a place where the hills crowded so close.

One refusal didn't spell the end. The caregiver had to leave sometime. She'd just have to catch Sheldon at a time when he was alone. No good reporter would ever give up after the first rebuff.

The walkway led to the stoop at the front door, where she exchanged the shadow of the hedge for those of the shrubs that overhung the cottage. Had Jason ever felt claustrophobic, living in such an enclosed space?

Kate drew out her keys, her fingers caressing the silver dragon on the key ring before they selected the door key. But when she touched the door, the key wasn't necessary. The door was unlocked, and it swung soundlessly open a few inches.

She stepped back, her heart pounding. She hadn't left the cottage unlocked. Double-checking the locks was second nature for someone who'd spent her life in an urban area, and Tom had drilled safety and self-defense into both of them.

No sound came from the cottage, but that didn't mean it was safe to go in. She threaded her fingers through her keys, almost hearing her stepfather's voice instructing her, and grasped her cell phone with the other hand. She pushed the door wide with her foot and peered inside, senses alert.

Nothing. At this point, Tom's instructions would have stressed moving away and calling the police, but she had no desire for another encounter with Mac Whiting.

Kate took a cautious step inside, then another, and listened, holding her breath. After a moment or two, tense muscles began to relax. Whoever had been here must be gone.

Even as she thought it she sensed movement behind her. She whirled, striking out with the hand holding the keys—
get out, scream, run
—

Iron fingers grabbed her wrist before the blow could land. She froze, face-to-face with Mac, staring breathless into his narrowed eyes. For a long moment they stood very close, and the air seemed to quiver between them.

Then he stepped back, releasing her, his eyebrows lifting slightly. “You always greet visitors that way?”

“Visitors generally knock.” Kate grabbed for the shaken fragments of her composure.

“The door was open.” Whiting took hold of her wrist again, turning it to examine the points of the keys extending through her fingers. “Very effective weapon.”

The touch of his hand made her too aware of the fierce physical presence behind his lazy smile and small-town manner. She drew away, and he didn't attempt to stop her.

“My stepfather was a cop. He taught us both self-defense.”

“You must have been his star pupil.” He studied her face for a moment. “You want to tell me what this is all about? I was just coming to talk to you. You came into the cottage as if you were expecting an attack.”

Kate turned away, rubbing her fingers against the silver dragon. “I locked the door when I left earlier,” she said shortly. “When I came back just now, it was unlocked.”

“You're sure?” He shot the question at her.

“Of course I'm sure,” she snapped. “I didn't grow up in Hicksville. I learned to lock doors as soon as I was tall enough to reach the knob.”

Before she'd finished, he was giving her a firm push toward the door. “Go outside while I check the house.” Without looking to see that she obeyed, he moved toward the bedroom, staying to the side as he opened the door.

Nothing happened. He disappeared into the room. Kate followed to find him surveying the clothes she'd tossed on the bed. Mac gave her a sharp look. “I thought I told you to go outside.”

“I don't follow orders well.” She glanced around and shrugged. “Doesn't look as if anything's disturbed in here.”

He'd moved to the dresser, and she spoke again, impatient.

“I didn't bring the crown jewels with me this trip. The only thing of value here is my computer.” The computer. She spun and fled back to the other room. The computer still sat on the small side table she'd appropriated to use as a desk.

“It's still here.” Mac spoke behind her. “So apparently you haven't been burgled.”

“It's here.” Quickly she checked her files. Jason's diary was there, all right.

“Everything okay?” Mac had moved close enough that she felt his breath on her neck when he spoke. Close enough, most likely, to read the titles of the files. She shut the laptop.

“Okay. Except that I left it turned off, and now it's on.”

But he was already moving to the kitchen, most of it visible from where they stood. “Easy to make a mistake about a thing like that, isn't it?” he said. “And I think I've solved the mystery.” He held something up. “Your burglar left you a present. Smells like nut bread.”

“Mrs. Anderson.” Kate's jaw was tight, and she struggled to relax it. “She means to be kind, but...”

“But you'd rather she didn't,” he finished for her. His face took on the amused look that annoyed her so. “I've never heard of locking doors to keep out kindness.”

Kate took a deep breath, trying to think of a response that didn't sound petty. She couldn't. “Was there some reason you came over, Chief Whiting?”

His smile suggested he knew what she was thinking. “Mac, please. It seems you've ruffled the feathers of one of our prominent residents.”

She looked at him blankly for a moment. “Who?” She couldn't imagine Russell Sheldon's caregiver going to the police about her visit.

“Bart Gordon seems to think you're planning to stir up bad publicity for his company.” He raised an eyebrow. “And he's not yet aware that you're a reporter.”

That comment seemed to come from left field. “My profession has nothing to do with it. My reasons for being here are purely personal.”

“And they are?”

Her fingers clenched, nails biting into her palms. “I've already told you. I want to see the place where my brother spent the last months of his life.”

“Yes, you told me. But I don't think you mentioned why you waited a year to come.”

If she threw the computer at him, he'd probably arrest her for assault. She glared at him instead. “Not that it's any of your business, but this is the first opportunity I've had to get away from work for any length of time.”

Mac seemed to be weighing her words, his eyes noncommittal.

Nettled, she couldn't keep from responding to what she suspected was disbelief. “I think that's all I have to say on the subject. So unless you intend to arrest me for making the good residents of Laurel Ridge think about something they'd rather forget, I'd appreciate it if you'd leave.”

His smile flickered. “I'll buy that, for the moment. But if you ever decide to confide in me...”

“I won't.” Her tone was tart.

“In the meantime, take my advice and steer clear of Bart Gordon. We wouldn't want him charging you with harassment, would we?” He gave her another extended look, then turned and walked out.

Kate let out a long breath. She hadn't seen the last of him—there was no doubt of that in her mind.

In the meantime, she had a more immediate problem. Obviously the landlady had come in, bearing food. But would she have started the computer? Somehow Kate didn't think so.

At least whoever had done so hadn't been able to get past the password, as far as she could see. But who? And why?

CHAPTER FOUR

K
ATE
STOOD
FROWNING
at the computer for another moment. Then, realizing she was standing right in front of the window, she looked out, half expecting to see Mac Whiting staring in at her.

No one was there. She moved away from the window, and then went back and pulled the curtains closed. It made the small room dark, but it eliminated the sense that someone was watching her.

Rubbing her arms, she stalked into the kitchen. Mac had been right, of course. He seemed to make a habit of that. The neatly wrapped loaf on the counter bore a label. Nut bread, it proclaimed, in Mrs. Anderson's already familiar writing.

Drat the man. She'd already been shaken at finding the cottage door unlocked, and the immediate confrontation with him had really knocked her off her balance. That was probably why she'd had that intense awareness of him as a man. That, and the brief glimpse he'd given her of an intense protectiveness lurking under his professionalism.

He'd rocked her, and she didn't want that. Didn't have time for it, and really didn't welcome it. There was no space in her thoughts right now for anything but her mission.

Why, Jason? Why?
She had nothing but the last journal entry to go on. If only he'd been clearer, just that one time.

He'd been upset, that much was evident. He'd talked about something wrong, something that had rocked him to his very soul.

Something so serious that he had taken his own life. She'd come reluctantly to that conclusion over a number of sleepless nights. It would be so much easier if she could believe he'd died of an accidental overdose. But she couldn't.

Someone had hurt Jason beyond bearing. She had to know who. Why.

Shaking her head, she forced herself to concentrate on more immediate problems. Like who had been in the cottage while she was out.

Kate rested her hand on the smooth, rounded surface of the loaf. Granted that Mrs. Anderson had been in the cottage, she still came back to the conviction that the woman would not have turned on Kate's computer. Naturally Mac would assume she'd been mistaken about turning it off, but she distinctly remembered doing so.

There was no point in going over and over the same ground. Kate grabbed her bag and went quickly toward the door. She'd thank Mrs. Anderson for the nut bread and add, very politely, that she'd rather the woman didn't come in when she wasn't there. Even a temporary tenant had a reasonable expectation of privacy, didn't she?

Crossing the yard, Kate tapped on the back door. Mrs. Anderson, busy with something at the stove, turned and waved her in.

The door was unlocked, and the first thing Kate noticed in the back hallway was a wooden rack attached to the wall, containing a row of keys, all neatly labeled. She hadn't noticed it when they'd come out this door the first time, probably because she was too intent on persuading Mrs. Anderson to let her have the cottage.

Obviously she didn't have to look far for a means by which someone could get into the cottage. That person had only to wait until Mrs. Anderson was in the front of the building, open the back door, reach in and lift the key from its hook. Apparently people here didn't have much concern for security.

Mrs. Anderson, wiping her hands on a towel, hurried to meet her. “Sorry. I thought I'd get a few coffee cakes baked to put in the freezer. Weekends get busy during the fall foliage season, you know.”

“I didn't realize,” Kate said. And she had no idea what Mrs. Anderson considered busy. “I just wanted to thank you for the nut bread you left for me today. That was so thoughtful.”
And I wish you hadn't
. “The thing is...”

She ran out of words. Maybe Mac had been right about this. How could a person lock the door against kindness?

“It's nothing at all.” The woman waved her to a seat in the breakfast area. “Goodness, I'm baking all the time, it seems. And I worry about you, alone back there, just like Jason was. Now, you'll stay and have a cup of coffee or tea, won't you? Or iced tea or cider?”

Kate started to shake her head but changed her mind. In the interest of keeping good relations with Mrs. Anderson, she should accept. If they started chatting casually, she might find a way of suggesting that the cottage key be kept in a more secure location.

“Iced tea, thanks.” She settled into a chair and looked out on a flower bed filled with a colorful array of mums and asters.

Mrs. Anderson hurried to the refrigerator, returning to the table in moments with a tray holding a pitcher of tea, ice-filled glasses and fresh sprigs of mint. The woman must have been born to be a hostess.

“It's nice of you to stop and visit.” Mrs. Anderson poured tea into the glasses. “How are you getting on, dear? It's not upsetting you too much, living where Jason did?” Her round face crinkled with what seemed genuine concern.

“Not at all.” To Kate's surprise, she realized that was true. She didn't have a sense of Jason in the cottage, not the way she'd had when she'd cleared the house where they'd grown up. That place had been filled with memories, too many of them unhappy ones.

“That's good.” The woman's worried look didn't vanish completely, but she seemed satisfied at the moment. “I noticed that Lina Oberlin stopped by to see you.” There was a bit of curiosity in the words.

“She knew I wanted to hear about how Jason got on there.” Kate paused. Apparently Mrs. Anderson kept tabs on who went to the cottage. Annoying, but it meant she might be able to provide information Kate needed. “I had hoped Ms. Oberlin might know about any friends Jason made at Blackburn House, but she didn't seem to.”

“At Blackburn House? Well, let me think. He must have met Nick Whiting and his father, who run the cabinetry business, and Sarah at the quilt shop, but I don't think any of them ever got close. And of course the bookshop owner was much older.” She seemed to brighten a little. “There's Nikki, the receptionist. She'd have been more his age, and I think she stopped by a few times. And Rich Willis, the young attorney whose office is upstairs. He might have known Jason.”

“I hadn't thought of him. I might stop by and introduce myself.” She couldn't remember that Jason had ever mentioned the man, but it was a possibility. And she'd have to cultivate Nikki's acquaintance.

Mac's warning about staying away from Bart Gordon slithered into her mind. Too bad she'd managed to make an enemy of Gordon at their first meeting. But that hadn't entirely been her fault. Gordon had overreacted to her presence, badly overreacted. That had to mean something.

While Kate had been busy with her speculations, Mrs. Anderson had been burbling on, seemingly an inexhaustible source of local information. “...previous bookshop owner was killed, right there in Blackburn House.” She leaned forward, emphasizing her words with a tap on the table. “Right next door, can you imagine it? Such a scandal, it caused.”

Wheels turned. “Was that when Jason was here?”

“Oh, no, dear. That happened just this past spring. It turned out he'd been blackmailing someone.”

Impressive, but it didn't seem to have any possible relationship to her brother. “Who runs the bookshop now?”

“That would be Emily Waterston. She'd clerked there for years, and he left everything to her. Poor Emily.” She shook her head. “I'm afraid it's all been overwhelming for her. And now the high school girl who helped her part-time has gone off to college, leaving her in the lurch. Well, I mean, of course the young woman had to go on to college, but Emily hasn't been able to find anyone reliable to fill in.”

A bell rang in Kate's mind. A part-time job at the bookshop—what could be better? It wouldn't tie her down, and it would give her a legitimate reason for being in Blackburn House whenever she wanted.

“If she hasn't filled the position, do you think she might be interested in taking me on, just for the month? I...I could stand to have a little extra money coming in until I start a new job.” Actually she was fine financially since Tom had so unexpectedly left everything to her.

But as a reason, it seemed to satisfy Mrs. Anderson. “Why, I'm sure she would. That would give her time to look for someone more permanent. She'd be so relieved.” The woman rose as she spoke and headed for the telephone. “I'll call her right now and tell her.”

“You don't need...” she began, but Mrs. Anderson was already punching in the number.

Kate made an effort not to listen to Mrs. Anderson's side of the phone call, but it was hard not to hear. She got the impression the unknown Emily was jumping at the chance of immediate help.

In a few minutes Mrs. Anderson hung up, turning to Kate with the satisfied smile of one who has done a good deed. “She's so pleased. You can go over and talk with her right away and set something up.”

“That's great.” Really great, that it had fallen into her lap so easily. Too easily? She had an almost superstitious mistrust of anything easy. Still, she couldn't ignore the opportunity. Draining the rest of her iced tea, Kate stood. “Thanks so much.”

Mrs. Anderson flapped away her thanks. “No trouble at all.”

Kate couldn't stop the triumphant smile that curved her lips as she headed out the door. So much for Mac Whiting's warning. Not even he could turn a job at the bookshop into a matter of harassment. She'd like to see his face when he heard.

Not that she cared, of course.

* * *

M
AC
TOLD
HIMSELF
he'd done everything he could about Kate Beaumont's troubling presence in his town. Unfortunately, his efforts hadn't amounted to much. As for Kate herself, she made him think of nothing so much as a barricaded fortification—impenetrable walls bristling with weapons, ready to fire at the slightest provocation, or even at nothing at all.

Kate had every right to be here in Laurel Ridge. He just wished he could get rid of the feeling that she was nothing short of a roadside bomb, ready to explode at the slightest vibration.

Kate lingered at the back of his mind throughout the routine on his plate for the afternoon. Plans for the usual fall safety talk at the elementary school reminded him of Kate, saying that her stepfather had drilled self-defense into her. A meeting with the downtown merchants' association over a rash of shoplifting made him think of her insistence that someone had tampered with her computer.

By the time he went back to his office, Mac had made up his mind. He had to find out more about Kate Beaumont, even if it meant letting her know he'd been inquiring about her. His lips twisted wryly. The words “police harassment” would undoubtedly be heard.

Marge lifted her eyebrows at him as he walked in. “Something funny?”

“Not really. Be sure all the usual stuff is collected for the elementary school safety talk, will you? We're supposed to do it Friday afternoon.”

Marge nodded. “Will do. Johnny is down at the bank. A fender bender in the parking lot.”

Johnny was young John Foster, a raw patrolman who showed little signs of ripening. He sighed. “Maybe I'd better get down there.”

“You told me to remind you that he has to learn to do a few things on his own, remember?”

Marge was right. She usually was.

“Okay. I guess he can't mess up a minor accident report too badly.” Doubt assailed him even as he said the words, but the kid had to do something to earn his salary.

Besides, Mac had something else to do. “Tell him to check in with me when he's finished.” He headed into his own office. “I need to make a couple of calls.”

Actually there was one call on his mind. Phil Durban had served with him briefly in Afghanistan before returning to the Philadelphia PD, and he'd been Mac's contact point over the whole disturbing business of Jason Reilley's death. Phil knew the family, and if there were any rumors floating around about Kate Beaumont, he'd be aware of them.

Luckily Phil was in the station. Mac leaned back in his chair, which creaked in protest, propped his feet on the pulled-out bottom drawer and prepared to exchange the usual backchat with an old comrade.

The genial exchange of friendly insults over with, Mac got down to business. “Listen, Phil, I need some information.”

“Don't tell me one of our local boys has ventured as far as the middle of nowhere to cause you trouble.” There was the ordinary gibe in the words, but he could sense Phil's attention sharpen.

“Nothing like that, but someone has shown up here unexpectedly. Kate Beaumont.” He waited for a reaction. Phil might look as bright as a trout, but he had a brain that never forgot a thing.

“Tom Reilley's kid.” Phil's voice had slowed. “I wondered.”

“Wondered what?” Mac prompted. “Don't be too forthcoming now, old buddy.”

“It's not like I really know a lot, but I did stop by and see Tom once in a while. Poor guy.” Mac could almost see him shaking his head. “He took the boy's death hard, and then when the cancer showed up, it was like he didn't have the will to fight it.”

“Rough.” There wasn't really anything else to say.

“Yeah. Not easy to be a cop's kid, I guess. My wife not only carries the load, she knocks sense into me when I start bringing job issues home. Tom wasn't so lucky.”

He'd had a vague notion Kate's mother was out of the picture, but nothing more. “What happened to Tom's wife?”

“Alcohol. She tried to drive on the expressway in the wrong direction. Left Tom to raise the kids the best he could.” Phil made a complicated sound in his throat that might have expressed either sympathy or regret. “Suppose he made some mistakes. Who wouldn't?”

“Right.” He let the word hang for a moment, and when Phil didn't speak, he prompted him. “What do you know about why Kate decided to come to Laurel Ridge?”