by Marta Perry
Angelo ran a hand over the stubble on his deeply tanned face. “Sorry about how I look. When I finally got your messages, I figured I’d better just come. I was having trouble with the RV, so I borrowed a car from a friend and drove straight through.”
“You should have called.” Marisa’s tone was gently scolding, but she smiled each time she looked at her father.
“You know how I feel about cell phones.” He shrugged. “Figured the best thing I could do was get here. I stopped at the Miller place, but they said you were staying here for a couple of days. They also told me…” He came to a halt.
“We found a body this morning.” Link got it out fast, before Marisa could break it more gently. He wanted to see how the man would react to a blunt statement.
He didn’t get much. The man’s face tightened as he took it in, but he had the kind of stolid face that didn’t give much away.
“They can’t be sure of the identity,” Marisa added. “But under the circumstances—”
“About that.” Angelo leaned forward, planting his hands on his knees. “Just what has been going on around here? I understand why you came to begin with, but it sounds as if things have gotten pretty darn complicated.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” Jessica said. “I’m sure Marisa would like to fill you in, but I’d suggest we get to the police station before they find out you’re here. It’ll look better that way.”
“We?” Angelo raised his eyebrows at her.
“It’s up to you, of course. But I’m an attorney, so I can sit in with you and be sure you’re treated fairly until you hire someone of your own.”
That rattled Angelo; Link could see that in his eyes.
“They must be mighty eager to talk to me, it seems. Why—? Well, I guess that’s obvious, isn’t it? If my wife has been murdered, I’m the most likely suspect.”
Marisa made a small sound of distress, and he patted her hand.
“No point in getting upset, honey. I didn’t do it, and they’d have a hard time proving I did. But Ms. Langdon is right. If they’ve been looking for me, it’s better if I go in on my own.” He glanced at Jessica. “I’ll take you up on that offer, thanks. Don’t want to go putting my foot in my mouth the first time I talk to the cops.”
“I’ll go, too.” Marisa stood. “Just let me get my things together, and we’ll go back to the Plain and Fancy after you’ve talked to them. You look as if you could use some sleep.”
She headed for the stairs. Link followed her, putting his hand over hers to stop her as she started up.
“Get a room for your father, but there’s no reason for you to leave here. I’m sure Mom wants you to stay.”
She drew her hand free slowly, maybe reluctantly, but her face was determined. “I want to be with him. And I’ll feel safe with him there.” She hesitated for the space of a heartbeat. “Besides, it’s better this way.”
The silence stretched between them, filled with all the things left unsaid. He wanted to speak the words that crowded his lips…the words that would make her stay. But he couldn’t.
“ADAM BYLER WASN’T that hard on me, honey.” Her father reached across the restaurant table to pat her hand. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say he believed me, but he was polite.”
“Wait until you encounter the district attorney,” Marisa said, pushing the remnants of apple crumb pie around on her plate. “He’s more of a pit bull.”
“Preston Connelly? Yeah, Byler said he’d want to talk to me tomorrow. Seems like I remember him, vaguely, from when we lived here.”
“What kind of things did Chief Byler ask you?” Her tale of everything that had happened had taken them most of the way through the meal. Now it was his turn.
“Oh, not much.” His gaze slid away from hers.
“Stop trying to protect me.” It just makes things worse. “I’m all grown up now, and I need to know—even more than the police do.”
“I guess that’s true.” He frowned, stirring his coffee absently. “I have tried to protect you, but in the end, that didn’t do any good, did it?”
“No.” She wouldn’t compromise on that. She’d done her own share of trying to protect him, hiding her need to know about her mother. “I’ll be a lot better off with the truth.”
“Truth’s a slippery thing sometimes.” He took a sip of the coffee, made a face and added more sugar. “Your mother and I fell crazy in love, but I guess neither of us really understood how hard it would be for her.” He shook his head, sorrow tugging down the lines of his face. “Now I can see that she needed a lot more support from me, but I was young and stupid. What did I understand? I thought she’d be happy, just being married, having a baby…”
“Did she regret the choice she’d made?” It was the question she’d asked everyone, and everyone seemed to have his or her own take on it. Maybe, as Dad said, the truth was slippery.
“She never regretted having you.” His voice was sure. “Don’t doubt that for an instant. But I guess she felt isolated, like she didn’t belong anyplace.”
“I remember hearing her say that once. It was…sad.” She blinked back tears.
“I thought it reflected on me if she wasn’t happy. So we’d end up quarreling.” He looked up at her. “The cops are onto that.”
“Not from me,” she said.
“No, of course not.” Surprise registered in his eyes. “You didn’t know. Did you?”
The truth, she reminded herself. “I heard, sometimes. After I’d gone to bed. I didn’t understand.”
“Honey, I’m so sorry. We never dreamed you could hear.”
He looked so upset that she had to comfort him. “Don’t worry about it. That was a long time ago.” A long time, but it still lived in her dreams.
Dad ran his hand through his hair in a characteristic gesture. “I messed up. But I never harmed your mother. When we found she was gone…” His face twisted. “I thought she’d left. I really believed that, and all the time she was lying there, dead.”
She could visualize it too clearly, and a shudder went through her.
“Marisa, I want you to go back to Baltimore.” He focused that look on her—the one that said this was not up for argument. “It’s not safe for you here, and there’s no reason for you to stay.”
The look was effective, but she wasn’t a shy fifteen-year-old asking to go to a party.
“I’m staying, so don’t bother. Do you really think I’d leave you at a time like this? Anyway, I doubt that the police would let me go, now that it’s an official murder investigation.”
He winced, but nodded. “I suppose you’re right.” He stretched, reaching for the check. “I need to take a walk and get some of the kinks out. Process all this, too. I’ll see you back at the Miller place, okay?”
She nodded, realizing it was more the mental than the physical strain he wanted to deal with. “Just tap on my door when you come in.”
By the time she reached the car, her mind had started churning again. The police, the DA… Surely they would get to the bottom of things. Or would they just pounce on her father as the most likely suspect?
Their knowledge of the quarrels made matters worse. She slid into the driver’s seat and pressed her palms to her temples. She didn’t like being that five-year-old again, hiding under the covers or running into her parents’ bedroom and seeing…
She stopped, looking with amazement at the image that had just popped from the recesses of her mind. It was as if she had opened a long-closed door, and this had fallen out, as fresh as if it happened yesterday.
Herself, running along the hallway with hair ties in her hand, ready to have Mammi fix her braids for school. Opening the door, seeing Mammi kneeling on the braided rug, putting something into a black hole in the floor.
She blinked, looking at the image with adult eyes. A loose floorboard. Her mother had picked it up and put something into the recess underneath.
She reached for her bag to pull out her cell phone. Stopped.
Who could she call? Whatever her mother put under that board wouldn’t still be there, but if it was, who could she trust to see it? What if it contained something that seemed to incriminate her father?
She wrapped her fingers around the steering wheel. If anything was there, she had to see it first. Why not? It was still light out, perfectly safe. And unless the real-estate agent had changed it, she knew the code for the lock box Link had used.
She shoved the key into the ignition. Five minutes at most. That was all it would take to get into the house, run upstairs and find out if what she imagined was real.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A FEW MINUTES LATER Marisa stood on the porch of the house that had once been home. She wiped her palms on her slacks. Ridiculous, to feel so guilty. It wasn’t as if she were going to steal anything.
Aren’t you? the voice of her conscience asked.
No, she was not. If whatever her mother had put under that floorboard was still there, then it rightfully belonged to her. Or maybe to Dad, but either way, she would reclaim it.
She raised her hand to the lock box, held her breath and punched in the numbers. It clicked and swung open, and she grabbed the key.
She shoved the key into the keyhole, her fingers fumbling in her haste, and took a quick look around. The overgrown hedges on either side of the house effectively hid her from view. Only someone passing directly in front could possibly see her.
The door creaked open in response to the key. She started inside, reaching up to close the lock box. If anyone did come by, the place should look as normal as possible. Heart thudding, she went in and shut the door behind her.
Quiet. Even the faint sounds from the street didn’t penetrate here.
It should feel odd, even frightening, to be alone in the empty house, but it didn’t. Dusty and ill-kept as it was, the house wasn’t really silent. It echoed with the sounds of her childhood.
A small version of herself, counting the steps loudly as she went up and down. That must have nearly driven her parents crazy, but she’d been so proud when she could count them all. Mammi, singing softly in Pennsylvania Dutch in the kitchen, with the aroma of baking cookies drifting through the house. Daddy coming in the door from work, calling out, “I’m home. Where’s my girl?”
The memories were comforting, even if that time had ended in pain and grief that she hadn’t been old enough to understand.
But she’d better hurry. Already the shadows were deepening in the house as the light faded outside. All she had for illumination was the penlight on her key chain.
She went up the stairs quickly, intent on what had to be done, and went into what had been her parents’ bedroom without hesitation.
In the room she stopped. The image was clear enough in her mind of what she’d seen that day, but the room looked so different without furniture.
The double bed would have been about there, she guessed, with an oval braided rug beside it. The rug had been flipped back a little, brushing against Mammi’s knees as she knelt.
Marisa dropped to her knees on the dusty floor, studying the boards. Wide and uneven, they were marked with knotholes. They must have shrunk at one time, leaving cracks between some of them, filled now with dust and who knew what else.
Her hands moved over the boards, testing each one. Press, feel for movement. Pry at the cracks, breaking a fingernail. Nothing. They seemed as solid as if they hadn’t come up since the day they were laid.
She sat back on her heels, frustrated. Maybe she was overestimating how much space the bed had taken up. She moved to her right, adding another layer of dust to her already filthy slacks, and began the whole process over again.
Press, pry, wiggle. Move on to the next, her heart sinking with every failure. Could her subconscious have made the whole thing up?
She pressed on the next board and felt it move under her hand. Her breath caught. This must be it. If only—
A sound broke the silence, freezing her in place, stomach clenching. That had sounded like a moan. She listened, ears straining for any sound.
Nothing. She was able to breathe again. Old houses made noises, that was all.
But her movements were more frantic as she worked at the board. This had to be it—she was sure. It moved, but didn’t come up. Something to pry it with?
She scrabbled through her bag, coming up with a nail file. This should do it. She ran the point of the file all the way around the board, as if she were loosening a cake in a pan. Slid the wide end under the board, using it as a lever. With a reluctant creak, the board came up.
Her heart stopped. The crevice beneath it wasn’t empty. Amazingly, against all odds, a metal box sat there, thickly coated with dirt.
She lifted it out and used up every tissue in her bag to get it clean enough to see what it was. Small, maybe ten inches square. The lid had been painted with a design, and there was enough of the paint left to identify a Pennsylvania Dutch hex sign—a stylized flower.
She should take it and run, but the feeling that drove her was stronger than mere curiosity. She had to know for sure that this was Mammi’s.
The lid resisted her pressure, and she had to resort to the nail file again. The box popped open. Papers, yellowed and fragile, but intact. She pulled out the top one, unfolding it.
A brief note to her mother, agreeing to meet her—At the crossroads. I will see you at four. Your cousin, William.
Pain gripped her. Her mother had needed help. She hadn’t turned to Daddy. She had turned to her cousin.
Her fingers tightened on the note, and she shoved it back in the box, closing the lid. She’d take the box back to the inn and go through the contents piece by piece. Then she’d decide what to do with them.
She stood, clutching the box, and turned toward the door. And the sound came again. A groan, louder this time, coming from downstairs.
She had to go downstairs. There was no other way out of the house. Regardless of what waited for her there, she had to go.
Moving cautiously, she edged along the hallway, hand on the wall, to the head of the stairs. There she stopped, listening.
Nothing.
Scarcely daring to breathe, she eased down a step, then another. One more and she should be able to see most of the hall. If someone was there, she’d see.
She stepped down, staying against the wall, praying the stair wouldn’t creak. She could see the length of the hallway now, but the shadows were deeper than when she’d gone up the stairs. Someone could be in those shadows, waiting.
She felt in her pocket for her cell phone and pulled it out, tucking the box under her arm. Careful. If someone was there and she tried to call, he could be on her long before the police got here.
She slid down another step, then another. Nothing moved in the shadows. There was no sound but the beating of her own heart, loud in her ears.
A few more treads and she’d reached the bottom. Just as she stepped down she heard it again—a moan, coming from the kitchen. A gasp. A word that might have been a cry for help.
She clung to the newel post, torn by indecision. A few steps would take her to the door. She’d be out, safe.
But she couldn’t do it. If someone was hurt, she couldn’t run in the opposite direction.
She moved quickly now, back the hallway, cell phone clutched in her hand, finger poised to hit 911. The kitchen door stood ajar. She put a hand on it, pushed it gently. Opposite her, the back door to the porch was open, letting in a chill breeze.
She saw nothing at first, and then she realized the dark shape on the floor wasn’t a shadow. It was a person. A man, stretched out, hand reaching as if pleading for help.
She took a step closer and knew him. It was Ephraim, Elizabeth’s youngest brother, who’d cried at the sight of her. He lay prone on the floor, blood seeping from the back of his head.
Just like Mammi, she thought. Just like Mammi.
MARISA FELT AS IF she’d been in the hospital waiting room for hours, but when she glanced at he
r watch, she saw that it had been less than an hour. She was alone, except for the young patrolman Adam Byler had left with her. To guard her or to protect her? She had no idea.
She crossed the room to the window, rubbing her arms with her hands. It wasn’t cold in here, but a chill had settled deep in her bones.
It had gotten dark outside while she’d been waiting, and a light rain was falling. The parking lot’s surface glistened, and the streetlights had a hazy glow.
Poor Ephraim. Did he even know what had happened to him? Their brief interaction hadn’t been enough to give her much understanding of him.
She’d ridden in the ambulance with him to the hospital, telling the paramedics she was his cousin. They’d looked at her a little oddly, but they hadn’t argued.
If he’d awakened during the trip, someone should be with him. But he hadn’t. The instant they arrived at the emergency-room door, he’d been whisked off. She’d been left to worry and pray.
The door began to move. Her breath caught. The doctor…but it wasn’t. It was Adam. He glanced around the room.
“Your father’s not here?” His voice was edged with suspicion.
“There’s nothing he can do.” That was true. But what also true was that she didn’t know where he was. She’d called the B and B and gotten no answer.
Adam’s expression said he knew what she wasn’t saying. “Let’s go over—”
The door opened, interrupting him. Her relief was muted by the fact that the person who entered was her cousin William, closely followed by Bishop Amos and Ezra Weis.
“Ephraim.” William had a tight rein on his emotions, but she could sense his anguish. “How is he?”
“I don’t know. The doctors are with him. They said I should wait here for word.”
“What happened? What did he say? How did you find him?”
Bishop Amos put a hand on William’s shoulder. “Let Marisa tell us what happened.” Ezra stood silently behind him, his face bleak.
