Glancing at the security touch-pad next to the boathouse door, wondering if the code ever had been changed, she noted it wasn’t even armed tonight. Undoubtedly Diane’s dislike of boats and the lake in general had something to do with the carelessness. The boats had been Minna’s and her late husband’s province, and then when Charles—nearly twenty-five years older than his wife—had gotten sick and Florida had become more inviting than Chicago with its frigid winters, they had given both crafts, along with the estate, to Brian and her and their only grandchild.
The next generation…
Elise felt along the lintel above the boathouse window and experienced the thrill of success when she produced the key that had been placed there “just in case,” years ago.
Unlocking the door to an important part of her past, she thought about how they’d kept the original master suite intact for Brian’s parents. They’d assumed Minna and Charles would spend part of the summer with them but they’d never had the chance. Elise had grown up in a Chicago bungalow, an elf house compared to this. Mitchell House had two huge master suites, two junior suites and four additional bedrooms, so every member of the family had a place of his or her own at the old homestead.
She shone her Maglite around the inside of the boathouse and gasped when she saw that it was empty. Swiftly moving to the electronic garage doors, she looked out the small window next to them. Both craft were docked at the pier, sheltered by the curve of land that formed a tiny private harbor.
Of course. In residence, Minna would demand to be out on the lake whenever time and weather permitted. Always the sportswoman, according to Brian, the matriarch of the Mitchell family also rode horses and played tennis like a pro. Elise wondered if her mother-in-law lived at Mitchell House full-time now that Charles was dead from congestive heart failure.
Relieved that the boats were still here, Elise sighed and let more memories fill her. The life that now seemed so far away and the husband who was so out of reach came back to her with clarity, but only for a moment. Then the twin ghosts slowly faded, until she was alone once more in an empty boathouse, her purpose in rescuing her son, all that was left to her.
If only she’d been able to convince Brian to refuse Mitchell House, to insist his parents deed it to Kyle, instead, everything would be different. She would have preferred they kept their condo or bought a more modest home where they could have led their own lives. Then maybe Brian would still be with her and their son, and she wouldn’t have lost all that she held dear.
Now she could hardly remember what he looked like—the husband she’d loved so much. And the feelings she’d once had for him were less vivid. Even the horror of finding him dead didn’t hold her in thrall as it had for so long.
She had to admit that, at last, Brian was slipping from her. When she closed her eyes it was no longer his visage that haunted her, but one less welcome. Logan Smith. She wondered why that was. Maybe because he wasn’t as tough as he made out. Maybe because he was helping her to protect her son.
A sadness enveloped her as she stood in the dark and looked down at the water, at the craft that would be her escape. Hers and Eric’s. Soon, she thought, pushing away that image of Logan staring at her with his hard gaze.
Her pulse picked up as she crossed through the interior of the boathouse to the other door—the one snugged into the paneled interior, unseen from the outside. The building had been backed against the side of the bluff that, at this point, plunged down to the lake. And the hidden door had a clandestine purpose, an entrance to a tunnel that ran just below ground to Mitchell House. Rumor had it that the original owner had made his money running liquor across the lake during prohibition times, and the tunnel had been built for the operation.
Elise was tempted to use the tunnel right now, as she had many times in the past. She could get into the house and make her way up to Eric’s bedroom without anyone knowing. She could see her son…run her hand through his soft curls…kiss his forehead…hold him…
And chance getting caught and ruining everything!
Elise sighed again. The tunnel would have to wait for another day. She closed the door and wiped temptation from her mind.
She ought to get some sleep if she was to have her wits about her when dealing with Diane the next day, so Elise left the boathouse and replaced the key above the window, with the intention of heading straight back into the house and going to bed. But as she took a step away from the building, she sensed movement to her right.
Heart in her throat, searching for a quick lie to explain what she’d been about, Elise whipped around and snapped on her Maglite.
Squinting against the bright light, Logan said, “Is that really necessary?”
She snapped it off, and with her pulse pounding in her ears, whispered, “What are you doing here?” It was as if she herself had conjured him with her disturbing thoughts.
“I was going to ask you the same question.”
Too aware that someone inside the main house could be as sleepless as they, could look out a lakeview window and spot them—the sky was cloudless, the moon nearly full—she moved past Logan and slipped through the hedges back to the Parkinson yard. He followed, and she felt his presence behind her, a powerful stimulant. Too powerful for her to want to be alone with him in that house right now.
Instead, she took the stairs down to their private beach—a slim strip of rock and coarse sand mixed with stones, its natural state more beautiful to her than any pristine beach with powder-fine sand.
Perching on a rock, she kicked off her shoes and socks and rolled up her jeans to her knees, and by the time Logan joined her, she was back on her feet and approaching the water.
“You’ll be sorry,” he warned her. “That water can’t be more than seventy degrees yet.”
She knew he was correct before the frigid lake water washed over her toes. And when it did, she had to muffle her own squeals as she danced along the tide line until she couldn’t stand the cold a minute longer.
Laughing softly to herself, she hopped and skipped over the stone-strewn sand, back to where she’d left her shoes. And where Logan had parked himself, of course, still wearing fine trousers and a pale shirt open at the neck, as usual. He was watching her intently if in silence. Moon-gleam lit his face, which appeared softer than normal, as if he’d actually enjoyed watching her make a fool of herself. Even his gaze had lost that intensity that haunted her.
“Was it worth it?” he asked, but there was diversion rather than judgment in his tone.
“Definitely worth it. I know I’m alive.” She parked herself opposite him so that they faced each other, brought her feet up on the rock and began brushing off wet sand. “That’s the thing that got to me most in the past three years. Sensory deprivation. The sights, sounds, smells of a whole life became nothing more than memories. And after a while those memories faded and became gray, just like the walls of the prison.”
Remembering, she shivered.
“Cold?” he asked.
“No.”
She shook her head, but she couldn’t make her body behave. Her goose bumps had goose bumps—a reaction not only to the coolness of the early May night, but to the horror she’d escaped. Vigorously, she rubbed at her still damp feet.
“Here. Let me.”
He cupped both feet in his hands, wrapping warm flesh around cold. His body heat seeped through her toes, her ankles, her limbs, and when he began working the pads of her feet with his fingertips, zeroing in on sensitive spots, the heat spread to her middle.
Squirming, she freed herself, muttering, “Better, thanks,” and fetched her socks.
“So what were you doing next door this time of night?” he asked again.
“What were you doing spying on me?”
“Curiosity. I fell asleep downstairs. You woke me up.”
She pulled on one sock, then the other. “So why didn’t you say something?”
“This way was more interesting. You weren’t planning on s
neaking a boat out onto the lake, were you?”
Her throat seized up. Surely he couldn’t know she planned her getaway by water—she’d barely figured it out for herself.
“I spent a lot of time in those boats on this lake with my husband,” Elise said pointedly, sticking a foot into a shoe. “I miss that.”
Logan’s eyebrow shot up as he murmured “Hmm” in a noncommittal manner.
“It’s true.”
“But I expect it’s not why you came down here.”
“Expect whatever you like.”
“I can’t help you if I don’t know what you’re thinking.”
“Perhaps you can’t help me at all,” Elise said, rolling down her jeans legs. She wasn’t about to give away the store, not when she didn’t know this man. What she knew about him—that he still smelled like cop—was enough to make her distrust him. “Perhaps fixing my own life is something I need to do myself.”
“Too late for that.”
Yes, it was. And she didn’t want to get into it again.
So, to appease him, she said, “Diane invited me to work on a fund-raiser with her.”
“This afternoon? Or should I say ‘yesterday afternoon’ to be technically correct?”
“Right.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You didn’t exactly give me the chance,” she reminded him. “You put other things in my mind.”
Memory of the kiss stretched out between them.
Logan broke the silence. “When? The meeting with Diane, I mean.”
“Tomorrow…uh, this afternoon to be technically correct.”
“So you’re nearly inside, and on your first try. Nice work.”
“I lucked out. The fund-raiser is next week and obviously Diane needs help to get the details finished. I’m thinking she’ll probably have me running around doing any grunt work that’s left. Good thing I don’t have to report for work until six.”
“You need to be careful, no matter how good your disguise.”
“I’m planning on it.”
“This fund-raiser—what’s the charity?” he asked.
“Harbor from the Storm. It’s a shelter for abused women and their children in some nearby suburb.”
“Glen Ridge,” he said, his voice going odd as if his throat had tightened. “I know the place.”
Know the place how? she wondered. “It’s a worthy cause, I assume.”
“You would think so.” Abruptly, Logan got to his feet. “I don’t know about you, but I need my beauty rest.” He turned toward the stairs. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
“Sure.”
She scrambled to her feet and followed him this time, as he jogged up the stairs. When he got to the top, he stopped, but his attention was no longer on her. He was staring down at the lake in front of the Mitchell estate.
More specifically, he was staring at the docked boats, and in the moonlight, his expression seemed speculative.
She hadn’t distracted him from wondering about her purpose in going there, after all, Elise realized. So let him stew about it. She wasn’t going to give him any more ammunition than she had to.
Chapter Seven
Thursday morning was trash pickup, Logan remembered immediately upon awakening at dawn.
Groaning, he rolled over in bed and checked the clock. It was barely six. The trucks wouldn’t be coming through for another couple of hours. He pulled a pillow over his head and willed himself back to sleep.
Impossible.
The trash thing preyed on his mind. One of the little details the lawyer had insisted he remember. He had to make their being in the house look good, like they were your average Mr. and Mrs. Joe Citizen.
A shower put life back into him. The old pipes groaned under the water pressure and so did he. With pleasure. He wondered if the noise would wake Elise. Though a bedroom lay between them, he imagined the pipes rang their early-morning greeting through every one of the five bathrooms in the big old house.
He imagined her awakening, stretching, becoming annoyed with him. And when she threw off the covers, her intent to give him a piece of her mind, she was absolutely, devastatingly naked.
Logan groaned and hit the cold water….
When he left his room dressed in jeans and a work shirt, no sound came from Elise’s quarters. He hadn’t awakened her, after all.
Downstairs, he put on a pot of coffee and, not in the mood for anything fancy, scrambled a couple of eggs and ate them straight out of the skillet. By the time he’d eaten and cleaned up his mess, there still was no sound from above.
For whatever reason, he was anxious to see her, to hear the sound of her voice. He was becoming obsessed with her. This wasn’t like him. It could be dangerous. He had to get his mind on something else.
He checked his watch. Plenty of time before garbage collection. He grabbed another mug of coffee and went outside, set himself in a deck chair facing the lake. He scooped a stool closer and put up his feet. Ah, now this was the life, he thought, momentarily forgetting why he was there.
Fingers of pink and gold spread across the eastern sky as the sun punched its way upward through a layer of fluffy white clouds. Toasting the morning with his mug, he predicted a magnificent spring day.
Involuntarily, his gaze wandered to the boathouse, or what he could see of it, since it was built directly into the bluff. What had drawn Elise there? Not the boats—they were docked at the pier and she hadn’t gone down to them. Not memories, either, he’d bet, for what kind of memories could she get out of an empty boathouse?
If it was empty.
Too late to investigate himself now. It would just be his luck that someone at Mitchell House would be awake and peer out at the boathouse if he tried to check it out now.
Logan shrugged. Why probably wasn’t important enough for him to get worked up over.
Though, try as he might to deny it, Elise herself was.
More fool he. Succumbing to her charms, as he seemed to be doing, put his own plans at risk. Next thing he knew, he would be going all out for her, helping her grab her kid and aiding their escape. Then, not only would he be criminal, but he wouldn’t get the one he was after.
Once upon a time, he’d believed in justice triumphing. Wet behind the ears, he’d done everything by the book. It had taken experience…disappointments…seething frustration—but eventually he’d come to realize that too often justice was only a word that got screwed around by people with money and power. And others, people with integrity and a need to make things right, got themselves discredited.
Or dead, like Ginny.
For him, that had been the end of going by the book, because the book sure as hell didn’t have the answers.
But he did—at least, he had some of them.
Now he just had to find proof without getting himself killed. Then maybe justice finally would be served. For Ginny, anyway.
But what about Elise?
What about her? his internal self argued. As much as he wanted to believe it, he didn’t know that she was innocent.
But argue as he might, he couldn’t put the possibility out of his mind.
Slugging down his coffee, he rose to take care of the garbage. The bag from the house went into the resin garbage container inside the garage, which he then wheeled down to the curb. Noticing an older man, thin and nearly bald, doing the same for the house to the south, one that was quite modest for the neighborhood, he waved in a neighborly fashion.
The balding man waved back and called out, “You just move in?”
“Yesterday,” Logan called back.
Not one to miss an opportunity to get information, he jogged over to the next property, which, along with several other houses in a row, was set away from the lake due to a curve in Sheridan Road. Short east-west streets provided inroads to the less modest lake houses.
“Logan Smith,” he introduced himself. “My wife Nicole and I are newlyweds.”
The older man shook
his hand. “Robert Hale. Call me Bob. Widower.” He punched the glasses edging down his nose back against his face. “Well, you’ll certainly pump young, new blood into the neighborhood.”
Bob looked to be eighty if he was a day.
“North Bluff is hard to resist,” Logan said, figuring Bob had been there a long time and was susceptible to a little flattery about his choice of community. “I guess once people move out here, they don’t leave unless they’re forced to because of a job transfer.”
“Or they die,” Bob said with a laugh. “Henrietta Parkinson was born in that house you’re in. Always said they’d have to take her out feetfirst.”
Logan waited a beat before giving a quick glance back toward Mitchell House and casually saying, “At least she wasn’t murdered.”
The older man frowned. “Humph. You heard about Brian Mitchell, huh? Who would have guessed that sweet wife of his was capable of such violence? I didn’t know her well, but I never figured Elise for one who would hurt a flea.”
“Maybe she didn’t,” Logan said, sensing the neighbor had an interest in the case. “Maybe someone else had it in for the guy.”
“He was a prominent lawyer, after all. Lots of people hate lawyers.” Bob laughed. “I should know—I was one for forty years before I retired.”
Figuring a lawyer-neighbor might have more than common knowledge about the case, Logan smoothly pulled him back to Elise’s late husband. “But apparently Brian Mitchell’s murder was an open-and-shut case. Right?”
“Yeah, well…”
“I mean, I remember reading about it, and I don’t remember any other suspects.”
“Well, no, there wouldn’t be, not with the sister-in-law Diane swearing what she saw and all.”
“You think she lied?”
“Not necessarily. She saw what she saw, but Elise might very well have found her husband dead like she testified. The authorities simply didn’t look any farther, no matter what they were told.”
Instincts humming, Logan asked, “What were they told?”
“Oh, nothing.” With a grimace of disgust, Bob waved the topic away. “Ancient history.”
Fake I.D. Wife Page 8
