Thirty-One
Jonathan Devlin’s memorial was held the following week. Despite his stature, the service was to be low-key, by invitation only. I had no intention of crashing the event, but I felt compelled to be near so that I could at least offer Devlin my silent support even if he never knew I was there.
I found a shady and inconspicuous spot across the street and watched from afar as the mourners filed into church. Devlin was one of the last to arrive, and as much as I wanted him to know that I was there for him, I backed even deeper into the shadows.
Claire Bellefontaine was at his side. The two made a striking couple, both elegantly dressed in somber black. To casual onlookers, they would appear the perfect couple, but even before Devlin had told me about their relationship, I’d seen the cracks. I’d witnessed firsthand the chill between them. Now it wasn’t at all difficult to detect the stiffness in his posture and the way he pulled away when she slid her arm through his.
They were almost at the entrance when he turned suddenly and glanced across the street as if he had sensed my presence. He couldn’t see me. I was certain of that and yet he had somehow intuited my nearness. Or maybe he just knew me that well.
Claire turned, too, sweeping her gaze along the street. My heart jumped painfully as her gaze seemed to linger and I could have sworn I saw her smile.
Then they both turned and disappeared inside the church.
I told myself not to loiter. I could still be noticed and I didn’t want to call attention to myself. And anyway, I needed to get back to work. Between the weather and my own detective work, I’d fallen behind.
As I left my position, I saw someone emerge from a recessed doorway across the street. She had on sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat, but I recognized my aunt at once. I started to wave and call out to her, but something froze me. The way she stared across the street at the church sent a warning tingle up my spine.
So many things flashed through my head in that moment. Bits and pieces of that last overheard conversation between her and my mother came back to me.
“Oh, Lyn, you can’t confront him. Not in your state.”
“Why not? You don’t think it would be interesting to hear what he has to say for himself after all this time?”
“It’s been nearly fifty years. Half a century. How can anything about that man possibly matter to you now?”
“He’s old and sick. It’s never too late to develop a guilty conscience.”
Like Devlin, Aunt Lynrose seemed to sense my scrutiny. She turned for a moment to scour the sidewalk and then she whirled to hurry away, disappearing around the next corner as I remained stunned by her presence and by the implication of all those memories.
And then I rushed after her.
I wasn’t certain I had the courage to confront her with my suspicions, but as it happened, I never got the chance to find out. I turned the same corner and collided with Rance Duvall.
He wore dark glasses so that I couldn’t see his eyes, but his smile was as open and charming as ever. He put his hands on my shoulders to steady me, but I backed away, repelled by his touch.
“Well, hello,” he said warmly. “Amelia, right? Our cemetery restorer.”
I didn’t at all care for his use of the possessive pronoun. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going...if you’ll excuse me...” I took another step back from him.
“No, don’t run off. I’m glad we bumped into each other. You’re a hard woman to find these days.”
“You’ve been looking for me?”
“I drove out to Woodbine the other day, but I somehow missed you. I did see the caretaker, though. He’s a strange fellow, isn’t he? He said he hadn’t seen you all day, but your car was still parked at the front of the cemetery.”
“Maybe he was occupied elsewhere. I don’t see him every day.”
“Well, let’s hope he earns his keep somehow.” Rance Duvall took off his sunglasses, folded them and put them in his pocket. He was still smiling, but his eyes were as cold as ice.
“Why were you looking for me?” I asked, keeping my tone even.
“The cemetery on Duvall Island could use someone like you. Some of the headstones have very nearly crumbled to dust. I wondered if you would be interested in taking on the project once you’re finished with Woodbine.”
“I don’t know,” I hedged. “My schedule is full through the next year. I wouldn’t want you to wait that long. Time is of the essence in those kinds of situations.”
“Sounds like business is booming. That’s good for you, bad for me,” he said with another smile. “Perhaps you could at least spare an afternoon to give me some advice. I would really love for you to see the cemetery. I don’t believe there’s another like it. You’re the only other person I know of who could appreciate its hidden charms.”
I suppressed a shudder as his dark gaze took me in. “I’ll try to make some time,” I murmured.
“Then I’ll call you in a week or two. I’ll be out of town for a few days. I’m leaving right after the service, but you don’t need to wait for my return to visit Duvall Island. The excavation is winding down. I know Temple will be disappointed if you don’t make it out to the dig before she closes the site.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” I glanced up the street, but Aunt Lynrose was nowhere to be seen. “I really should go. I’m keeping you from the service.”
“You aren’t going?”
“I didn’t really know Jonathan Devlin well.”
“That surprises me. He spoke very highly of you.”
“Of me?” I stared at Duvall in astonishment. “I doubt that. We only met a couple of times.”
“He must have known you by reputation then. He told me once that you were a woman of rare talents and abilities. I believe he was a little in awe of you.”
I frowned. “Maybe he meant someone else.”
“Oh, no. He was specific.” He paused thoughtfully. “I belong to an organization that’s very interested in people like you.”
My heart bounced painfully. “People like me?”
“You won’t have heard of us, but we’ve been around for ages. You might call us a preservation society. Membership is usually legacy and always by invitation only. But perhaps I’ll mention your name to the others. We’re always on the lookout for new blood.”
* * *
The exchange with Rance Duvall chilled me even more than the sighting of my aunt. His friendly tone didn’t mask his subtle threat. He knew about me. He knew all about my gift. If I tried to interfere with his and Claire’s plans, he would give my name to the Congé. I didn’t see how else to interpret his words.
I watched him until he was out of sight and then I hurried back to my car. By this time, Aunt Lynrose was long gone. I had no hope of finding her downtown so I decided to see if she’d gone home.
A little while later, I pulled to the curb in front of her house, noting the absence of her car in the driveway. Where she might have gone to after she’d rushed away from the church, I had no idea. I tried her phone and when she didn’t answer, I wondered if she was avoiding me. Not one to be easily discouraged, I settled in to wait for her.
Minutes passed and then half an hour. I tried her phone again. Still no answer.
I began to grow antsy. I got out of the car and paced up and down the sidewalk for a few minutes, trying to talk myself out of a bad idea. I knew where Aunt Lyn kept her spare key. I’d used it any number of times to check on her house when she was out of town. I kept fixating on those old memories that had surfaced, particularly the one involving the locked door at the end of her hallway and that blue porcelain box on the floating shelf. It had been years since I’d seen her place the key inside. For all I knew, she could have hidden it elsewhere by now.
I told myself I should keep
my nose out of my aunt’s affairs, but this was more than idle curiosity. I had been dragged into a mystery through no action of my own. I hadn’t asked for the ghost child to manifest in my presence. I never meant for the sound of that haunting melody or the scent of woodbine to awaken so many memories. But now that it was all coming together, I had to see it through. The ghost child wouldn’t rest until I found her.
Glancing around for any sign of prying eyes or my aunt’s car, I turned and strode up the walkway, bending quickly to extract the key from underneath a flowerpot.
The house was as immaculate as ever, serene on the surface, but as I stood in the foyer gazing around, I experienced another of those strange premonitions. This wasn’t a happy house. This was a place of secrets.
The locked door beckoned. I eased down the hallway and put my ear to the door. I didn’t hear anything inside, not even the faint tinkle of the mobile. Taking the blue porcelain box from the shelf, I opened the lid.
The key to the locked door had been placed in a separate compartment, as had other hidden treasures, among them a folded newspaper clipping and a gold locket with a broken chain. The same locket I had seen clasped in Jonathan Devlin’s cold hand.
My heart thudded as a wave of dizziness washed over me. I bent double, dragging air into my lungs to quell the nausea that curled in my stomach and clogged my throat.
Aunt Lyn had been in the house the night of Jonathan Devlin’s death. She had taken that locket from his hand before fleeing the scene of his murder. I didn’t want to believe she’d had anything to do with his death. I was desperate to come up with another explanation for the presence of that locket in her house. Maybe it wasn’t the same necklace. Maybe all of this was just some strange coincidence.
But it all made sense now. My aunt and Devlin’s grandfather.
Something came to me as I clutched the locket. I remembered once when Aunt Lyn and I were sitting on the porch at my parents’ house in Trinity. I’d just met Devlin and I asked if she knew anything about his family. She’d told me that his parents had died when he was a teenager and his grandfather had taken him in. She’d referred to the elder Devlin as Bennett rather than by his first name, Jonathan. The slip hadn’t registered at the time. Only now with the obituary of Jonathan Bennett Devlin fresh in my head did I recall it.
And now I remembered something else—the aberrant trace of white flowers and fresh linen in Jonathan Devlin’s study the night he died. A scent that had, even in my shock at finding his body, taken me straight back to my childhood.
I knew without a doubt that Aunt Lynrose had been in the Devlin mansion. I even had an inkling of her motive. But still I needed more proof.
I pressed the locket release and the lid popped open, revealing a miniature replica of the infant portrait embedded in the stone crib in Woodbine Cemetery. My aunt’s baby must have been buried in the unnamed grave, but what about the ghost of the murdered child? I still didn’t understand the connection.
Returning the locket to the porcelain box, I unfolded the clipping. The headline and accompanying photo nearly bent me double again. I instantly recognized the child’s face because her ghost had been visiting me since my first day in Woodbine Cemetery.
The headline read Search Halted for Ten-Year-Old Mercy Duvall.
Mercy.
According to the article, the child had gone missing from Duvall Island during a storm. She was presumed drowned when her older brother, Rance, had found a capsized dinghy.
Only I and her killer knew the truth. Mercy Duvall hadn’t died in that storm. Her neck had been broken after she’d been pushed down a steep set of stairs.
My heart twisted at the very thought of her murder, still hidden after all these years. But at least now I had a place to start my search. And I had a suspect. No wonder I’d had such a visceral reaction to Rance Duvall.
I put everything away and then went into my aunt’s bedroom. I found what I was looking for at the back of her closet—a pair of boots with an indention in the right heel.
She said from the bedroom doorway, “I wondered if you had seen me at the cemetery that morning.”
I closed my eyes briefly and then returned the boot to its mate before joining her in the bedroom. “I saw your footprints. There’s a mark in the heel of your boot. I’m sorry for invading your privacy this way, but I had to know.”
She nodded. “I assumed you’d put it together when I saw you across from the church. Those dreams you’ve been having. Your recall of those old conversations I had with your mama. You must have a lot of questions.”
“The infant buried in Woodbine Cemetery...was she your baby?”
Aunt Lyn folded her hands. “No one is buried beneath the crib. The grave is empty.”
I could only stare at her in shock. “I don’t understand.”
“The grave and monument were never anything more than an elaborate deception to keep me in line.”
I sank to the floor and drew up my knees. “Tell me what happened.”
“It’s a very sad story,” she said. “Though hardly unique. A naive, romantic young girl meets a wealthy older man who happens to be married.”
“Jonathan Bennett Devlin.”
She glanced up.
“Don’t you remember? You called him Bennett once.”
Her smile was sad. “Ironic, isn’t it? That name was meant as a safeguard so that I wouldn’t slip up and give away his identity. His idea, of course.” She sighed. “I remember now. We were on your mama’s porch. You asked what I knew about the Devlins. You can’t imagine my surprise and shock when you became involved with Bennett’s grandson. Although I suppose there’s no harm in referring to him as Jonathan now.”
“You hid your shock well,” I said.
“I’ve had years of practice. I was barely sixteen when I met him. Mother was his wife’s dressmaker and I went with her to their house one day. He saw me. He pursued me. And I foolishly fell in love.”
“And then you got pregnant. That’s why you were sent away.”
“Father threatened to have him arrested. I was still underage, you see. The charges would never have stuck. Not to a Devlin. But Father could have made things very unpleasant for everyone and so I agreed to go stay with my aunt. When the baby was born, Ben—Jonathan—arranged for an adoption with a good family, an old family. Wealthy and powerful like the Devlins. The child would never want for anything, he said. I told myself it was for the best. I was young. I had a promising future ahead of me. I thought I could put it behind me and move on with my life.”
“You did,” I said. “You became a teacher.”
“But I never moved on. Not really. I couldn’t forget. I ached for my baby. I imagined her crying for me at night and I cried for her, too. I finally confronted Jonathan. I told him that I needed to see her. Just a glimpse so that I would know she was healthy and happy. He talked me out of it, of course. He could do that at first. But I grew angrier as time went on and more determined. I threatened him. I told him I would go to his wife and tell her everything. I would go public. The statute of limitations wasn’t yet up. I could still send him to prison if he didn’t let me see our child.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me that the baby had died. She was only two years old but she’d suffered from a heart condition since birth. That was the reason he’d refused to let me see her. He’d wanted to spare me the grief.”
“You believed him?”
“Not at first. But he took me to her grave in Woodbine Cemetery.”
“The stone crib,” I said.
She nodded. “He told me that he had pulled strings and arranged for her burial in Woodbine. There was another grave, an empty grave for her family in Magnolia Cemetery, but I shouldn’t worry about the details. That little grave—unnamed and hidden—was just for us. Our special
place where we could go and be with our little girl.”
“Oh, Aunt Lyn.” I put my hand on her knee and she clutched it.
“How stupid I was to accept such an explanation. But I was still very young and half-crazy with grief. That’s my only excuse.” She paused to draw a quivering breath. “In some strange way, that grave gave me comfort and closure. A little peace. A place where I could sit with my daughter and read her stories the way I’d always dreamed.”
“When did you find out the grave was empty?”
“Not until a few weeks ago. Someone sent me an old newspaper clipping about a ten-year-old girl who had gone missing and was presumed drowned after a terrible storm on Duvall Island. I knew the moment I saw her picture that she was my daughter. She hadn’t died as an infant. Jonathan lied to keep me silent. He watched me weep beside that empty grave knowing that our child was still alive. He stole those years from me. Robbed me of the time I could have had with her. Robbed me of the chance to keep her safe.”
“Who sent you the clipping?”
“Jonathan.”
“But why?” I asked with a frown. “If he wanted to come clean, why not just tell you?”
“Maybe he didn’t think I would believe him. Or maybe he was too much of a coward to face me at first. But he was old and sick and he didn’t want to die without me knowing the truth. After so many years, I suppose he finally developed a conscience. He’s the one who arranged the Woodbine restoration, you know.”
“If the crib grave is empty, why would he care about Woodbine?”
“I can only guess, but Woodbine was the only memorial we had of our daughter. The only place we could mourn her. We’d both shed tears there.”
I thought about the locket at the bottom of that blue porcelain bowl. “Aunt Lyn, did you go see Jonathan Devlin before he died?”
She dropped her gaze. “Etta warned me not to. She thought it best to let the past stay buried, but I had to know the truth. And I wanted to hear him admit what he’d done. He owed me that much.”
The Awakening Page 26
