Night Scents (22 page)

"Set me up, you mean?"

She nodded, plainly not liking the thought of it either way: he was the guilty party or he was someone who'd been set up by a local.

She was getting attached to him. Clate could see that much. He could also see she wasn't sure she liked the thought of that, either. He could understand. He presented complications, rubbed rough against all that was comfortable and certain in her life. Easier not to get attached.

"I think it's far-fetched, Piper. I've got enemies, but—"

"I know. I'm probably grasping at straws." She squinted at him in the glare of clouds and hazy sunshine. "I just don't want any of this to touch Hannah."

"Understood."

"She's waiting for me. She was making scones this morning. One of the old ladies in the complex brought her a jar of homemade strawberry-mint jam, and she wants me to try it."

"You two," Clate said, grinning suddenly. Scones. Strawberry-mint jam. No, his life wasn't at all like Piper's. "Have a good time. I'll catch up with you later."

She seemed happier as she rode off. He, however, was feeling a tumultuous mix of emotions, all of which he rounded up, stuffed in a sack, and shut up tight. He needed to keep his wits about him, and letting his emotions run wild would undermine that effort. Lust, dread, anger, exhilaration, confusion, and an undeniable rush of unexpected grief for a life he'd never led, for an old woman he missed, in his own way, perhaps as much as Piper would miss her great-aunt Hannah when she was gone.

And she wasn't ready, any more than he had been. The prospect of that loss—the certainty of it—was what scared Piper Macintosh most.

Hannah guessed what was up the moment Piper walked through the door. "Clate Jackson has insinuated himself into your consciousness, hasn't he?"

Piper scowled. "Not in the way you think."

Her aunt smiled knowingly.
"Exactly
in the way I think."

As tempted as she was to argue her case about a man who would sit on a car bumper and just dare her to bounce him into the next county, Piper resisted. She'd only egg Hannah on. She was sitting at her computer, her color printer feeding out a bright page. One of her family recipes. She was doing them up for Piper to pass down to subsequent generations.

"Have Andrew and Benjamin been out to see you today?" Piper asked, changing the subject.

"The posse." Hannah clucked, climbing to her feet. "They stopped by this morning before work. We had tea."

"They drank your tea?"

"They insisted on inspecting the bags first."

"You have tea bags? How come you never serve me regular tea?"

"You have a more adventurous spirit. I was tempted to add a drop of a new decoction into their cups, but I decided that would be improper, although it certainly would have improved Andrew's mood. He's getting ornery."

Piper laughed. "He's always been ornery. It's just that he's directing it at you for a change."

"Well, he can undirect it. They both kept looking at me to see if I really had gone daffy. I finally got out my broom and pretended I thought I was flying around the room. I even cackled. Andrew was all for calling in the white coats, but Benjamin knew I was just trying to get their goat."

"Oh, Hannah." Piper bit back a laugh, imagining her brothers' outrage when their aunt didn't take their concerns seriously. "Did they believe you didn't leave Stan Carlucci that tincture?"

She waved a hand. "I have no idea and I don't care. Stan can have me arrested as a menace if he has the evidence."

"He doesn't."

"Of course he doesn't. I didn't leave him that tincture."

The doorbell rang, and Piper got it automatically, leaving Hannah to close out her desktop publishing program.

Sally Shepherd smiled from the threshold. "Piper, good morning. I thought that was your bike out front. May I see Hannah a moment? If I'm not interrupting—"

"You're not interrupting. Come on in."

Sally mumbled a thank-you. She struck Piper as even more reserved and formal than usual, her tendency when under stress. Although they weren't really friends, they'd known each other forever; Sally was a part of Frye's Cove because of her grandfather, Jason Frye, and her frequent visits to the Frye house. When feeling squeezed, Sally always fell back on good manners, something Piper couldn't say for herself—her behavior with Clate that morning a case in point.

She did have enough manners to offer to absent herself while Sally and Hannah talked, but Sally shook her head. "No, stay, Piper. I have nothing to say that you can't hear." Her smile faltered, and she twisted her unmanicured hands together. "Hannah, I've heard about the tincture Stan Carlucci found, and I wanted to let you know that I spoke up in your favor. Paul, of course, is keeping an open mind, but I know you'd never deliberately poison or harass anyone."

"Thank you, Sally. I appreciate your confidence in me."

"It's not that Paul lacks confidence—"

"You don't have to explain. I understand. He's trying to remain neutral."

"Yes." She looked relieved. "That's it."

Hannah smiled wryly. "Perhaps someone else in town is concerned with Mr. Carlucci's digestion."

"Or he made up the whole thing because he doesn't like you," Piper muttered.

"I don't think Stan's that devious or clever," Sally said, then blushed at her own impolitic words. "Not that I'm judging him. He's been so supportive of the inn and our move to Frye's Cove."

"I do give him credit for that," Hannah said.

Sally smiled, visibly relaxing. She'd always had a cordial, but not a close, relationship with her grandfather's second wife; she didn't understand Hannah the way Piper did. "I just wanted you to know, Hannah, that I—that Paul and I wish you nothing but the best."

"You're both very sweet," Hannah said. "Thank you for taking the time to stop by. How's the inn?"

They chatted for a few minutes, Sally becoming almost animated as she related the latest news on the Macintosh Inn. She and Paul were working on getting a piece on the inn and its colorful history—especially the Macintoshes—into one of the country living magazines. After his initial uncertainty about their move to Cape Cod, Paul was now fully committed. "He loves Frye's Cove," Sally said. "Not in the same way I do, of course. I feel as if... I don't know, as if I've finally come home."

After she left, Piper followed Hannah into the kitchen. "How come I don't get to be sweet?" Hannah scoffed. "Because you're not. You're a heel dragger."

"Not anymore. Clate dug under the wisteria. He says there's no treasure."

"Do you believe him?"

To her surprise, Piper didn't hesitate. "Yes, I do. He's rich enough on his own not to care about your treasure, but that's not why I believe him."

"Some people can never have enough. But you're right. Money isn't what drives him. He wants to find a home, a place where he belongs, but he's looking in all the wrong places." A flash of mischief in her old eyes. "Until now, of course."

"He's not looking for anything but relaxation in Cape Cod. That's why I believe him. The sooner he finds the treasure or proves it doesn't exist, the sooner he can get back behind his No Trespassing signs and stay there."

Hannah shook her head. "That's what you want to believe because it's less scary for you. No," she went on, checking a pot on her stove, "the reason you believe him is because your soul, the very essence of who you are, knows he's telling you the truth."

"Hannah, are you going to start talking about my destiny again?"

"No. There's no need. Your destiny was determined the moment Clate Jackson bought the Frye house." She inhaled her pot of a whitish, creamy substance. "This is an infusion of chamomile flowers and milk. Lovely, isn't it? It's wonderful for the skin and so relaxing. It needs to sit for a little while longer, but I'll give you a jar when it's ready."

"That'd be nice." She peered over Hannah's shoulder into her double boiler. "I'd like to learn enough about herbal creams and lotions to teach a class next summer."

Hannah beamed. "I'd be delighted to teach you." Without glancing around or giving any indication she was changing the subject, she said, "Stan Carlucci's suspicions about me and these phone calls you've been receiving have upset you. I'm sorry I called you a heel dragger. I wonder if it might not be wise to hold off on the treasure search for now."

"What?" Piper was instantly suspicious. "Why the sudden change of heart?"

Hannah stirred her chamomile-and-milk concoction, then retreated to her little kitchen table, suddenly looking even older than eighty-seven, no mean feat. "I can't let my urgency about the past hurt you now, in the present. That would be wrong."

"Are
you
worried about these calls?"

"Yes. Yes, Piper, I am."

Piper was silent.

Her aunt appraised her, eyes clear, determined to see what they had to see, kerchief in place over her snow-white hair. "Why, Piper Macintosh. Shame on you. You thought I might have placed those calls."

"No!"

"Then explain."

Hannah had always had a disturbing ability to read her only niece. Piper paced in the small, attractive kitchen. "I just worried someone else might think you'd placed them."

"Since when would I care what anyone thinks?"

That was part of the problem. Hannah
didn 't
care. "Hannah, I just worry about you. That's all. You know everyone in town's talking about how you think you've lured Clate Jackson north for me. It wouldn't be a big leap for people to start wondering if you're so committed to the two of us falling for each other that you might stoop to—"

"To terrorizing you as a way of forcing you and Clate together?"

Piper nodded, wincing.

Hannah sputtered and huffed, outraged. "Well, I never."

"I've never doubted you, Hannah. It's just that everyone knows how you hate to be wrong."

"I'm not wrong."

Piper smiled. "I rest my case."

But her aunt sprang to her feet, her energy renewed, and dragged Piper back to the living room, where she proceeded to call up onto her monitor a map she'd completed of the grounds around Frye House. "It's rough, I know, but I think it provides a good framework for our plan, when we decide it's safe to dig again."

"Perhaps I should wait until the calls die down. Unless..." Piper tried to resist the crazy thought that popped into her head. Hannah's influence. But she continued, "Unless someone else really does know about the treasure and is trying to dissuade me from looking for it. In which case I should try to beat him to it."

Hannah looked up at her. "I don't want you putting yourself in harm's way."

Clate's way, yes. Piper patted her aunt's bony shoulder. "I won't. I really don't think this guy's going to get violent or anything. I think he's just trying to intimidate me."

"You're sure it's a man?"

"I suppose it could be a woman. It doesn't matter. I won't be intimidated."

For the next twenty minutes, they examined, discussed, plotted, suggested, and rejected ideas, never mentioning Clate's No Trespassing signs. When they finished, they had a game plan that neither knew exactly when or if they'd implement.

Before Piper could leave, she had to wait for Hannah to retrieve a little glass pot of her chamomile cleansing milk. "Refrigerate it," she said, returning from the kitchen. "I don't use preservatives."

"Thank you. I love chamomile." Piper cupped the still-warm pot in one hand. "Hannah, thank you for letting me read your letters. It was a privilege."

Her expression softened, her eyes warming, a touch of the seven-year-old she'd once been. "Your grandfather and greatgrandfather were good men, Piper. Not perfect, but good. I'd intended you to have those letters after my death. I don't know why I felt the need to wait." In a rare demonstrative gesture, she reached out and squeezed her niece's hand. "My father and brother both would have been proud of you."

Thunder rumbled, too close for Piper's comfort considering she was on her bicycle. Hannah noticed, and smiled. "Relax, you can have Clate drive you home."

"Hannah, I'm not calling him—"

"You don't have to. He will be here momentarily."

"He's coming here? Why?"

"I don't know."

Her words were hardly out, when the doorbell rang.

"You saw him through the window," Piper accused.

Hannah simply shrugged.

"Well, put the maps of his yard away before I let him in."

Piper answered the door, and indeed it was Clate, standing with one rock-hard arm on the door frame and his eyes on her. Their hot words on the road hadn't changed a thing. If he had had her out on the beach right now, she'd do just what she had last night. More. Destiny be damned, the man was all wrong for her! She had to get a grip on her common sense and pull back before she did something she regretted, like really fall for him.

He smiled as if he could read her thoughts. "Fancy meeting you here."

"You have an appointment with Hannah?"

"No, ma'am. Just thought I'd stop by unannounced and talk to her about you."

"Don't say that too loud." Piper glanced back at her aunt, who'd shoved the printed out diagrams of his property in a desk drawer. "She'll take credit for summoning you."

His eyes sparkled with amusement. "Maybe she did."

Hannah joined them in the entry and decided to kick them both out. "I'm tired. I need my nap." Piper had never known her aunt to nap. "Can you come back later, Clate?"

He turned on his Southern charm. "Yes, ma'am."

"Piper here was just about to leave. I'm worried she'll get caught in a thunderstorm—"

"Hannah, if it gets bad out, I'll find cover. I've been riding my bike around town my whole life."

"She's very independent," Hannah told Clate, ignoring Piper completely. "She's had to be to keep from having her two brothers swallow her whole."

"Hannah."

"So, naturally, it pains her to accept help, and she's unusually sensitive to any hint that she might not be capable of managing something on her own."

Piper tightened her hands into fists. "Hannah, you're lucky I love you. You're lucky you're eighty-seven. I swear—"