by Robin Wells
“And what’s wrong with my body language?” Frannie asked.
Jasmine looked at her, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Well, right now, for example, you’re slumping in your chair and wearing a woe-is-me expression. Your body is saying ‘Go away. Leave me alone.’”
“So can’t you guys take a hint?”
Jasmine went on, undaunted. “You send out signals that tell men to keep their distance. Instead of crossing your arms and looking all shut down and inaccessible, you ought to sit up, lift your head and smile.”
Frannie shifted uneasily. “I don’t want to be a phony.”
“This isn’t about being phony. It’s about being smart.” Summer’s voice was matter-of-fact. “It’s about being your best self. If you become aware of what you’re doing, you can start behaving the way you want, instead of just acting out of habit.”
Frannie hated to admit it, but Summer’s words made sense.
“You agreed to this whole makeover idea in the first place because you wanted to be more confident,” Jasmine chimed in. “Well, the key to feeling more confident is to start acting as if you already are.”
“I don’t know…”
“Well, I do,” Summer said adamantly. “I wouldn’t be married to Gavin right now if I hadn’t changed my ways.”
It was true, Frannie realized. Summer had made a deliberate effort to change her studious, bookworm persona, and it definitely had paid off. Frannie was now so used to thinking of Summer as charming and gorgeous that it was hard to remember how she used to hide her beauty.
Of course, Frannie thought, Summer’s beauty had been there all along. All she’d had to do was let it shine.
Was the same thing possible for her? A ray of hopefulness lit up her heart. She couldn’t expect to be a raving beauty like Summer, of course, but maybe she could stop being such a plain little mouse.
“We’re right, and you know it,” Jasmine said.
The bell over the front door jangled. Frannie pushed back her chair, relieved at the interruption. “I’ll get it. That’s probably the couple with reservations for tonight.”
Jasmine glanced at her watch. “Oh, dear, look at the time! I need to run by the dry cleaner’s before they close.”
“And I’d better get home,” Summer said, rising from her chair.
“You all get going, then. I’ll go take care of the guests.”
“Stand up straight and pull up your chin,” Jasmine called.
Frannie made a face as her cousins headed out the kitchen door, but she did straighten her back as she pattered barefoot across the waxed wood floor to the entry foyer.
Instead of the elderly couple she was expecting, Frannie found Whitehorn’s newest police detective standing at the front desk.
“Gretchen, hello. It’s nice to see you again.”
The attractive blonde smiled. “Good to see you, too.”
“How’s the investigation going?”
“We’re making a little progress, thanks to your aunt.” Gretchen tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “Actually, much as I hate to upset her, I wondered if I might speak to her again and see if she’s recalled anything further.”
Frannie’s stomach tightened uneasily. The previous visit by the sheriff and Gretchen had left her aunt more troubled than ever. Celeste’s nightmares had worsened, and she’d grown even more distracted and jittery.
All the same, Frannie couldn’t very well refuse the detective’s request. “She’s on the porch with some guests. I’ll go and get her.” Frannie gestured toward the front room. “Why don’t you wait in the parlor?”
Gretchen placed her hand on Frannie’s arm as she turned to go. “Before you go, let me ask you something.”
Frannie hesitated. “Sure.”
Gretchen’s expression was warm and concerned. “How is your aunt’s memory? In general, I mean. Does she usually have trouble recalling things?”
“Not usually, no.”
Gretchen looked at her thoughtfully. “You know, sometimes people repress memories that are extremely traumatic. I can’t help but wonder if your aunt has blocked something out that is just too awful to face.”
Frannie had been wondering the same thing. And if the memory was so terrible that Celeste had buried it for thirty years, how would she deal with it if it resurfaced now?
Five minutes later Celeste clutched the upholstered arm of the leather chair in the parlor and told herself to breathe. Sometimes she forgot to do it automatically. She had to concentrate, to consciously make an effort, just to take in air. It was a feeling she often got in her dreams—those dark, swirling, awful dreams that tangled her up like sea grass, holding her down, winding around her. The harder she struggled to get free, the more tightly bound she became.
She looked over to the matching armchair, and Frannie gave her a reassuring smile.
The detective seated on the sofa leaned forward. It was the same one who had come the other day with Rafe—the pretty young woman with the shiny hair and the intelligent eyes, the woman who looked far too nice to be investigating something as dark and evil as murder.
“Tell me, Mrs. Monroe,” the detective said, “have you remembered anything further about the night Raven disappeared?”
“No. I…” Celeste made herself take another breath, then briefly closed her eyes. She felt as if she were floating down a river, floating away, away from herself. And yet part of her was standing on the river bank, watching. She opened her eyes and reminded herself to exhale. “It was all a very long time ago.”
Why couldn’t she remember? Why was that time so fuzzy and gray in her memory? A whole piece of her life was missing. She’d tried and tried to remember it, but it only brought headaches and a sad sense of shame. She ought to be able to do better than this.
She saw the look Gretchen shot Frannie. The lady policeman thought she should be able to do better, too. In adequacy, heavy and smothering, wrapped around her like a thousand grasping tentacles.
“We followed your advice and went out to the old Kincaid mansion yesterday. We found two guns in Jeremiah’s collection that could have been used in the shooting,” Gretchen said. “It’s looking more and more like Jeremiah was the murderer.”
“No,” Celeste breathed.
The detective’s brows shot up. Celeste found herself as surprised as the blond woman looked.
“You don’t think he did it?” Gretchen asked.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Celeste didn’t know. She was bewildered at her own response. “I—I just don’t feel right about Jeremiah being blamed for this,” she mumbled.
“The evidence all points to him, Mrs. Monroe. He disliked Raven and didn’t want his sister to marry him, so he had a motive. And now it looks like he owned the murder weapon.” Gretchen’s eyes settled on Celeste, warm and understanding. “It’s always hard for family members to accept that someone they knew and loved was capable of murder.”
Oh, Jeremiah was capable, all right—Celeste had no trouble believing that. Yet somehow, the whole thing just didn’t seem right. It was like a piece in a jigsaw puzzle that had the right shape and the right color, but just didn’t fit.
The room felt as if it had started spinning. That sometimes happened in her dreams, too—the room would spin faster and faster, like the ballerina in the music box she’d owned as a child. She’d loved that shiny wooden box, loved its lilting music, loved to watch the beautiful, twirling, porcelain ballerina. Her parents had given her that box, and when she was ten years old, she liked to think of them smiling down from heaven as she danced to its music, danced a private pas de deux with the ballerina, just for them.
Jeremiah had smashed that box against the wall in a fit of anger one afternoon, because the music had interrupted his viewing of a football game.
Celeste closed her eyes and gripped the arm of her chair as the room spun faster and faster.
“Mrs. Monroe?”
She opened her eyes
to find Gretchen looking at her quizzically. “If you remember anything, please give me a call.” She pulled a card out of her black bag and held it out to Celeste. “Anything—even something small, something you might think couldn’t possibly be significant—might be a help.”
Celeste nodded. “All right.” She cautiously let go of the chair arm long enough to take the small white card, then gripped it again.
“What happens now?” Frannie asked the detective.
“Well, we wait for the ballistics report on the guns,” Gretchen said. “And we’re trying to locate Raven’s brother, Storm Hunter, to see if he can shed any light on the events of that night.”
“Where is he?”
“We don’t know. Jackson Hawk, the attorney for the Laughing Horse Reservation, is helping us look for him.”
“So you’re in a holding pattern for a while.”
“On this case.” Gretchen tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “But I’ve got plenty to keep me busy. Another body was found at the resort construction site this morning.”
“Another body!” Frannie gasped.
The words echoed in Celeste’s head, circling around and around, making her feel as if she were trapped inside a bad dream. Another body, another body, another body…
Gretchen nodded grimly. “This one’s recent. It appears to be an accident or suicide.”
“Who was it?” Frannie asked.
“A heavy equipment operator named Peter Cook. He evidently fell to his death.”
Another death, Celeste thought. So much death. It was everywhere—hiding, lurking, biding its time, just waiting to strike. Life was so short. So short and so precious.
And yet she’d lost a part of hers. There was a void in her memory, a missing part of her life.
Frannie rose and saw the investigator out. Celeste leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes, listening to the creak of the door opening, the murmur of soft goodbyes, the thud of the door closing. Soft footsteps told her Frannie had returned to the room. With an effort, she opened her eyes.
“Are you all right?” Frannie asked.
“Yes. But that detective’s on the wrong track.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.” Celeste rose from the chair. She was tired, so very tired, yet she could no longer sit still. “But I feel it in here.” She touched her chest. “It just doesn’t seem right that Jeremiah should take all the blame for this.”
Frannie put a hand on Celeste’s arm. “Like Gretchen said, I’m sure it’s hard to accept that your brother could do such a horrible thing. But the evidence all points to Jeremiah, Aunt Celeste.”
“The evidence is only physical.” Celeste brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. A need, a compulsion, was growing inside her. She needed to do something. She could no longer sit idly by. She needed to take some action. “Sometimes things aren’t as they seem. I’ve got a feeling—a strong feeling—that there’s more to this than meets the eye.”
And I intend to do a little investigating of my own, she suddenly decided. The truth was there, some where inside her. It was swirling around in her dreams, skirting the edges of her nightmares.
What was that line from the Bible? “The truth shall make you free”—that was it.
She needed freedom. She needed truth. She needed to reclaim her memory—for the sake of Blanche, the sake of Jeremiah, the sake of Raven.
But most of all, she thought with a twinge of desperation, for the sake of her own sanity.
Six
“Oh, Frannie, you look like a princess!” Summer finally found a moment at the festive, elegant Whitehorn Ball to speak with Frannie and Jasmine.
“I feel like a princess.” Frannie touched the fabric of her sleek red gown that her cousins had helped her find in a marathon shopping expedition in Bozeman. Her hair, thanks to a new stylist, was swept up into a tousle of loose, elegant curls.
In the past week, her cousins had put her through the equivalent of beauty boot camp. They’d taught her how to apply makeup, drilled her on posture and body language, and made her walk in heels for hours. They’d helped her pick out shoes, a matching purse, and face-flattering rhinestone earrings. They’d insisted she get a manicure and pedicure. They’d even made her select a new perfume.
And it had paid off. Frannie looked better than she’d ever dreamed possible. “Is this really me?”
“It’s you, all right.” Summer beamed like a proud mother. “I wish that slug Joe who dumped you in college could see you now.”
Joe. For years, the mention of his name had conjured up the image of his face, complete with painful details such as the cowlick in his hair, the paleness of his lashes, the cleft in his chin. Most painfully of all, it reminded her of the way he’d dumped her for her college roommate.
For the first time, Frannie realized she couldn’t recall exactly what Joe looked like. Her stomach didn’t knot at the thought of him, she didn’t ache with loneliness, and his memory didn’t stir up the old, awful feelings of inferiority that used to grip her like a bad cold whenever he came to mind.
He’d lost his power to hurt her. She was over him. Her lips curved in an enormous grin.
“Kyle seems floored,” Summer said.
“Kyle?”
“Your date,” Summer said dryly.
Frannie blushed. She knew it was silly, but throughout this whole night the man she kept thinking about was Austin. She couldn’t seem to get him off her mind. She kept thinking about the way he’d come to her rescue with Lyle, the way he’d gently bandaged her knee, the way he’d felt when she’d fallen in his lap. The smell of him, the warmth of him, the feel of his hand on her hip—the thought of it sent hot shivers racing all over her body.
Summer leaned across the linen-draped bistro table in the dimly lit hall. “So what do you think of Kyle?”
Frannie saw the tuxedoed back of her date disappear into the crowd as he and Gavin and Jasmine’s date headed to the bar to refresh her and Summer’s drinks. “He’s very nice.”
“Uh-oh.” Summer looked at her closely. “I hear a ‘but’ in your voice. But what?”
Frannie hesitated.
“But you don’t find him attractive?” Jasmine prompted.
“No, he’s very nice-looking. But…” Frannie’s voice trailed off.
But he’s not Austin. It was ridiculous and Frannie knew it, but she couldn’t help it. “Kyle’s very nice,” she said, “but I just don’t feel any chemistry.”
“Well, that’s certainly not the case on his part,” Summer said. “He hasn’t taken his eyes off you.” Summer looked around and smiled. “But, then, neither have most of the men in this room. You’re the belle of the ball.” She looked out of the corner of her eye and lowered her voice. “Don’t look now, but here comes another admirer.”
Frannie glanced up to see a stocky man with a brown mustache standing behind her chair. The man nervously cleared his throat. “Would you like to dance?”
“Go ahead,” Summer urged. “I’m sure Kyle won’t mind.”
Frannie rose and smiled. She did feel like the belle of the ball. She felt attractive and feminine and sought-after. Instead of wasting the evening mooning over someone unattainable like Austin Parker, she told herself, she ought be enjoying the attention of all the men who were interested in her.
Her cousins were right, she decided as she stepped onto the dance floor. It didn’t hurt to live a little.
It didn’t hurt a bit, she thought when the orchestra played its last song two hours later as she danced with Kyle. “Is it already over?”
Someone turned up the lights. Kyle looked at her, his pale eyes shining hopefully in his even paler face. “It doesn’t have to be. We could go somewhere else.”
“Oh, let’s!” Frannie looked around the table. “I still feel like dancing. Why don’t we all go to the Hot T?”
Summer and Jasmine exchanged amused glances. Frannie smiled sheepishly, realizing that the sug
gestion was completely out of character. But she felt out of character tonight. Just for tonight, she felt as if she were living a fairy tale.
“That’s a great idea,” Jasmine said.
Summer turned to her husband. “I think that sounds like fun, don’t you, Gavin?”
Gavin glanced longingly at Summer and sighed, then smiled gamely. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
Loud country-western music spilled out of the wooden door into the night air as Frannie followed Summer into the Hot T honky-tonk thirty minutes later. It took a moment for Frannie’s eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. When they did, she saw that several couples in the casually clad crowd were wearing formal attire. Evidently a few other people attending the ball had decided to prolong the evening.
“There’s an empty table against the wall.” Gavin had to shout to be heard above the music and the noisy crowd. He steered Summer toward it. Jasmine and her date followed, and Frannie and Kyle brought up the rear. His hand was on the small of her back when Frannie suddenly froze in her tracks.
“Is something wrong?” Kyle asked.
Just that my heart stopped beating for a moment, and now it’s going a thousand beats a minute. “I—I’m fine,” Frannie managed to say.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
He’s not a ghost, but he’s been haunting me all the same. There, on the far side of the tavern, stood Austin, as handsome as the devil in jeans and a Western-cut blue shirt. He was leaning against the pine-paneled wall, his head inclined politely, smiling at a busty blonde in tight jeans and an even tighter halter top who was talking to him in an animated fashion. He looked over as Frannie stared at him, and his gaze collided with hers like a semitrailer in a head-on crash.
Frannie couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move. She could only stare as Austin stared back.
“Frannie?” Kyle asked, his forehead wrinkled with concern. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Huh? Oh, yes.” Frannie knew she should pull her eyes away from Austin, but she couldn’t seem to make herself. As she watched, Austin’s lips curved in a sexy smile, and he lifted his can of beer in a silent salute. Frannie unfurled her fingers in a weak wave, then hurried to the table to join Summer and Jasmine, feeling oddly shell-shocked.
