by Kay Hooper
There were several surprising touches within the surprising structure, such as vases of cut flowers on the two wrought-iron tables, and comfortable white cushions on the two chairs and the chaise longue. There were even a few blue throw pillows to provide both colorful contrast and further comfort.
Soft lighting came from inside the gazebo, obviously wired to the other maze lights, and the result was so inviting that Laura was completely charmed. “You’re right,” she said. “It is a jewel.”
Daniel’s fingers tightened briefly around hers, and then he was leading her toward the gazebo. “We’re about to get wet,” he said.
He didn’t release her hand until Laura had climbed the two steps up into the structure. She felt bereft the instant the warmth of his fingers left hers, but tried desperately not to let him see that as she leaned her umbrella against the half wall and began exploring. He remained in the doorway, one foot on the floor of the gazebo and the other on the first step as he leaned back against the support post and watched her. She could feel his gaze, but Laura didn’t look at him until she had explored the lovely, comfortable interior. The first drops of rain thudded against the roof as she sat down on the foot of the chaise and met Daniel’s intent gaze.
“Who takes care of it?” she asked.
“The gardeners take care of the plants and flowers, of course. Kerry’s responsible for keeping the interior so … inviting.”
Laura thought of Kerry out here, making a place of comfort for herself that was surrounded by both beauty and isolation, and for a moment she felt like an intruder.
“She won’t mind,” Daniel said, reading her thoughts or her expression. “Kerry isn’t quite as fragile as she seems.”
There was nothing unkind in his tone, but as Laura frowned at him, she had the odd feeling he was trying to tell her something. The rain was coming down harder now, yet it was still a peaceful sound in the gazebo. Laura wished she could feel peaceful. “Isn’t she?”
Daniel shook his head. “She survived an accident that would have killed most people. It left her scarred, but it also left her stronger.”
“What happened?”
“It was a car accident. Kerry was about ten, riding in the backseat while her mother drove. Another car ran a stop sign and hit them broadside. They ended up jammed between the car that had hit them and a big tree. Before rescue people could get to the car, it had begun to burn. They got Kerry out, but not before she was badly burned. Her mother wasn’t so lucky.”
Laura wanted to ask how Kerry and Peter had come to marry when they’d apparently been so distant with each other, but she was afraid Daniel would take the question as a too personal interest in Peter. Instead she said, “You care about Kerry.”
“Is that so surprising? She’s my sister-in-law.”
Laura hesitated again, then said, “But not the wife of a … loved brother.”
Daniel didn’t seem surprised. “No.” He smiled slightly at her reaction. “I’ve shocked you.”
“Not shocked. It was something I felt was true. I just—didn’t expect you to admit it,” she said honestly.
“Because we’re supposed to love our relations unconditionally? Tell me, Laura, do you love everyone in your family?”
The question caught her off guard, and so she answered more honestly than she might otherwise have done. “No. Some of them I do, but—no.”
“And you feel guilty about it.”
“Sometimes.”
“You shouldn’t.” Daniel’s broad shoulders lifted and fell briefly in a shrug. “Remember our discussion at lunch the other day? We don’t choose our families, and sometimes they’re so different from us that even tolerating them is a difficult thing to do.”
“Was it that way between you and Peter?”
Again, Daniel shrugged. “Something like that.”
Before she could stop herself, Laura blurted out, “Where were you when he was killed?”
Daniel’s face changed slightly, though Laura wasn’t sure just how or why. All she knew was that he didn’t like her question. But he answered it, his voice deliberate.
“I was out until after midnight. At a charity dinner. With a hundred or so witnesses.”
“I’m sorry.” Again, she spoke without thinking, aware of nothing but the need to make him forget her question.
“Sorry about what, Laura? That you had to ask where I was? That you thought there was a possibility I might have murdered my brother?”
Refusing to look away from his hard gaze, she said, “Why shouldn’t doubt work both ways? You haven’t said you believe I didn’t kill him.”
“Haven’t I?”
“You know you haven’t.”
After a moment he nodded. “Fair enough. All right, then. I don’t believe you killed Peter. I even doubt—in the face of my own knowledge of my brother—that you were his mistress.”
Instead of the relief she expected to feel, Laura was wary. “Why the change of heart?”
“I don’t believe you killed him because I’ve come to realize it isn’t in you to kill. No one who could sketch Kerry and Anne with so much understanding and Amelia with so much bafflement is capable of murder.”
“You looked at my sketches?”
He nodded without apology.
Laura felt her cheeks warm as she thought of the sketch of him she had secreted—she hoped—at the back of the sketchpad; he hadn’t mentioned it, so she could only hope he hadn’t seen it. “I did Kerry from memory,” she said.
“And with compassion,” he noted. “Which is what makes me doubt that you could have been sleeping with her husband.”
She digested that for a few moments, absently listening to the rain beat against the roof of the gazebo and thunder rumble distantly. “. …“and Amelia with so much bafflement …” What had he meant by that? Had she so totally failed to capture Amelia in her sketches? But before she could nerve herself up to ask him, he distracted her completely from the subject of sketches.
“I, on the other hand, am probably quite capable of murder, given enough provocation,” he said matter-of-factly.
Laura stared at him, uncertain.
Daniel smiled and added gently, “But I didn’t kill Peter.”
“Do you know who did?”
“The mysterious redhead, I assume.”
He’s lying again. Laura knew it as certainly as she had known it once before, when he had denied knowing why Peter had wanted to buy back the mirror. He could have given her that answer. And whatever he thought of his brother’s death, he did not believe some “mysterious redhead” had killed him.
So once again, Laura was left with mixed emotions. She was glad he now seemed convinced she was innocent—both of murder and of being Peter’s mistress—but he was not telling all he knew or suspected, and that was deeply disturbing to Laura. Why had he lied? What did Daniel know, and why was he so unwilling to tell her the truth?
“You’re frowning,” he said, his tone still gentle.
Saying the first thing that came into her mind, Laura responded, “I was just thinking that Amelia will be expecting me back at the house.”
“I told Josie I was coming out here to look for you,” Daniel said. “I’m sure she’ll tell Amelia where we are.”
And that’s what you want, isn’t it, Daniel? You want Amelia to know you’re out here with me. That we’re alone together. But why? Why? Am I nothing more than a pawn to you, a chess piece to be maneuvered in your game with Amelia?
Laura looked at his harsh face and enigmatic eyes and wondered how on earth it was possible to feel so much familiarity about a man and yet have so little knowledge of him. She knew him—how he stood and walked, how he held a glass, the way he would tilt his head slightly in faint mockery. She knew the rhythm of his voice, the feeling of his presence even if he came up behind her, and she thought she would have recognized the touch of his hand even in the dark. She knew when he lied to her.
Yet she didn’t know him at all. She
had no idea how the mind of Daniel Kilbourne worked. She didn’t know if he was quick or slow to trust, if he was easily amused, if he knew or even cared that his brother had been the favorite son. She didn’t know the books he read, the music he preferred, the kind of women he favored. She didn’t know if he was a good man, or if he hid his negative characteristics beneath the surface as easily as Peter had hidden his beneath charm. She didn’t even know if he liked the rain.
The strange thing was, there was a sense of frustration and bewilderment far back in Laura’s awareness, a vague but nagging feeling that she should know all those things about him. She didn’t understand it, couldn’t explain it—but that didn’t change the feelings.
“Laura?”
She blinked, realizing she’d been staring at him for several moments too long. “Oh … sorry,” she murmured. “I was miles away.”
“You were thinking about me,” he said.
After an instant of shock, Laura managed to say—albeit a bit unsteadily—“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“I’m not. You were thinking about me.” His voice was calm.
She knew another denial would ring hollow, but the uneasiness Laura felt about him and her response to him wouldn’t allow her to admit the truth. So, with a panicked sense of burning at least one of her bridges, she said lightly, “Oh, right—I guess I was. Amelia warned me about you, and I was just trying to decide if I believed her.”
Daniel’s eyes narrowed. Softly he said, “She warned you about me. What did she say?”
“She said you were a dangerous man. Are you?” She tried to sound merely curious, as one seeking the answer to an idle and unimportant question.
“Only to my enemies.” His answer was, just faintly, preoccupied, and his gaze seemed to be turned inward for a moment or two. But then he was looking at Laura again, seeing her, and there was a tiny frown between his brows. “Why did Amelia feel the need to warn you?” he wondered.
“I couldn’t say.” Laura paused, then added deliberately, “Aren’t you going to return the favor and warn me about her? What’s going on with you two, anyway?”
Daniel replied to the first question rather than the last. “Why would I want to warn you about Amelia?” But there was something thoughtful, even speculative, in his tone.
It made Laura feel distinctly uneasy, and she cast about in her mind for something outrageous to get them off the subject. “Oh, I don’t know. According to gossip, she killed her husband—your grandfather. Is that true?”
“I’ve always believed it was,” he replied mildly.
Laura sat up a bit straighter and stared at him. “You’re kidding.”
“No.” He shrugged. “There were no witnesses to the … accident. And though something had obviously cracked his skull open, nothing was found around the pool with blood on it. According to my father—who told me about it, since it happened before I was born—the police always suspected Amelia. So did my father.”
Clearing her throat, Laura said, “You’re just saying that because I dared you to warn me about her … aren’t you?”
“Am I?” Daniel’s smile was hardly there, and his eyes were as enigmatic as they had ever been. “There was a curious thing about my father’s death as well. He was supposedly shot by friends in a hunting accident. But those friends were actually friends of Amelia’s.”
“You’re not suggesting—”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m merely mentioning an odd circumstance of my father’s death.”
Laura felt a sudden chill and absently drew her jacket more closely around her. He wasn’t serious—was he? She got no sense of him lying, but surely he didn’t believe his grandmother had killed her husband and then somehow arranged the death of her son?
“You’re just trying to scare me,” she murmured finally.
After a moment, in a much gentler tone, Daniel said, “If I did that, I’m sorry. You have nothing to fear from Amelia, Laura. You aren’t at all likely to … get in her way.”
“I can’t imagine why, but that didn’t reassure me,” she told him, all too aware that it was easier for her to believe Daniel’s “warning” than it had been for her to believe Amelia’s. Then a sudden thought occurred, and she added, “Peter. You don’t think she—”
Daniel was shaking his head. “She’s eighty, and physically frail. There’s no way she could have killed Peter.”
“Does she have an alibi?”
“She was on the phone with a friend on the West Coast until almost midnight, according to her—and verified by the phone company and the friend.”
“You sound almost disappointed,” she noted.
“Well, it would have been simpler if she’d done it. One killer is all any family needs—” Daniel broke off and stared at Laura, obviously surprised. Somewhat grimly he said, “You’ve a beguiling way about you, Laura.”
She wasn’t listening. “You think someone in the family killed Peter?”
“I think,” he replied, glancing at his watch, “that Amelia is probably waiting for you and that it isn’t going to quit raining anytime soon. So if you’ll grab that umbrella, we’ll head back despite the rain.”
Almost automatically she got up from the chaise and got the umbrella. “You do think it was someone in the family. Who? Why?”
“Whatever I may suspect,” he said, “I haven’t any proof.” He took the umbrella from her and held it pointed outside the gazebo to open it, then took her hand rather than ask her to give it.
Laura looked down at their hands as she joined him under the umbrella, unnerved by the way her fingers compulsively twined with his. That and the physical jolt that was becoming a familiar sensation distracted her for several minutes, and it wasn’t until they had left the heart of the maze for the narrow leafy corridors of the puzzle that she spoke again.
“I don’t suppose you’ve confided your suspicions to the police?”
“No.”
She looked up at his face, shadowy under the umbrella, and wished she knew whether or not to believe him about any of this. They were walking so close together that she was overwhelmingly aware of him, and that kept clouding her thoughts. His hand was warm and hard, and she had to fight a ridiculous urge to lift it and rub her cheek against it.
His fingers tightened a little as though he had read her mind again, but all Daniel said was, “Leave it alone, Laura. Do what you came here to do. Paint Amelia’s portrait. Let the police investigate the murder.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You haven’t been a suspect.”
“I’ve been a suspect in your eyes.”
She hadn’t meant to, but Laura heard herself say, “No. Not really.”
His fingers tightened again. “Definitely a beguiling way about you.”
“Then maybe I should take advantage of it. Tell me about the mirror, Daniel.” This time she didn’t look up at him.
“I have nothing to say about it.” His response was so prompt that it seemed obvious he had expected the request sooner or later.
“Then tell me why you never asked to see it.”
He was silent for several steps. “Lack of curiosity, I suppose.”
“Well, you know, that’s a funny thing. You really should have been curious. I mean, a stranger comes to you and tells you that hours before his death, your brother tried to buy back a mirror she’d bought from your family’s estate sale earlier that day. That he offered her an incredible price for the mirror. And you never even ask to see it.”
“So?”
“So it isn’t … natural. You should have been curious. Why weren’t you curious, Daniel?”
“I had just buried my brother. I didn’t care about mirrors.” There was a touch of impatience in his voice now. “Besides that, I’d learned all I needed to from the inventory of the sale. The mirror was not a Kilbourne family heirloom and was therefore of no interest to me.”
You just lied again, Daniel. She wanted to pursue the matter, but it was clear that he
had no intention of telling her what he knew about the mirror—for the moment, at least. Besides, there was so much in her head now that she could barely think straight.
She fell silent, walking beside him with her hand in his and taking only vague notice of the turns he made. Which is why she was surprised when they emerged from the maze in remarkably short order.
Sighing, she said, “I should probably ask for the key. But I’m not going to.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re a very stubborn woman?”
“Why do I get the feeling that was a rhetorical question?” She glanced up, saw him smile, and wished it didn’t make her feel so absurdly pleased.
The rain was light but steady, tapping against the umbrella rhythmically as they followed the graveled path back up to the house. When they neared the veranda and passed over the flat patch of ground that had once housed the pool, she couldn’t help saying, “You don’t really think she killed your grandfather, do you?”
After a moment he replied, “No, of course not.”
And he was lying.
Wishing she hadn’t asked the question, Laura walked beside him up onto the veranda and then into the conservatory. He released her hand only then and occupied himself in shaking out the umbrella and leaving it by the door.
“Amelia’s probably in her parlor,” he said.
“Yes, I imagine so.” She got her sketchpad off the chaise where she had left it, holding it against her like a shield. “Thanks for the rescue,” she added lightly.
“My pleasure.” He looked at her as though he wanted to say something else, but finally shook his head a little and headed toward the doorway to the house.
Alone, Laura hesitated a moment before going in search of Amelia. She opened her sketchpad and flipped through the pages rapidly, finding everything as it should be. Except for one thing.
