Sweet Caroline's Keeper

by Beverly Barton

  Caroline could hear her own long-ago screams. Incessant. Terrified. Hysterical. Sounds from years gone by.

  Someone touched her. She gasped and jerked away.

  "Sorry," Fletcher said. "I didn't mean to startle you."

  Caroline swallowed. "A part of me would like to burn this place to the ground."

  "It's yours. You can do whatever you want with it."

  "I could give it to you. After all, this house belonged to your father."

  "Yes, but he left it to your mother and she in turn left it to you," Fletcher reminded Caroline. "My dear, I'm afraid this house is your headache, not mine."

  A quirky smile lifted the corners of Fletcher's lips. In many ways he reminded her of his father. Tall. Debonair. Good-looking. And quite charming. She laced her arm through his and sighed. "I think Preston would want to see people living here again. A family. Parents. Children. He did so want us to be a family, didn't he?"

  "Yes, he did."

  "I think I should renovate this place and put it up for sale." Caroline glanced around and this time she saw the room as it was, not as it had once been. Holding the mem­ories at bay, she led Fletcher out into the hall, where Lyle stood, dusting off his hands.

  Lyle sneezed. "Sorry. You know I'm allergic to dust."

  "Yes, I know that's your story," Caroline said jokingly. "At least you convinced Aunt Dixie of that fact. I always had to dust and vacuum your room for you."

  "Yes, you did," Lyle replied. "But in return, I always washed the supper dishes, didn't I?"

  "Only because Aunt Dixie made you do it." Caroline glanced at the staircase, which rose from the entrance hall to the second floor. "I want to go up and have a look at my old room before we leave."

  "Have you decided what you want to do with this place?" Lyle asked.

  "Mmm-hrnm. I think I'm going to hire a contractor first thing next week and have the place fixed up enough to sell. The church's charity programs could use a sizable donation, couldn't they?"

  Lyle's mouth formed a surprised oval. "Are you really thinking of donating the proceeds from the sale of this house to the church?"

  "Mother wouldn't approve, of course, but I think Preston would. Don't you agree, Fletcher?"

  "No doubt he would," Fletcher said. "Father was a gen­erous man."

  "Then it's settled." Caroline knew in her heart that she had made the right decision. In coming here today—to face a past that still occasionally haunted her. And for choosing to donate the money from the sale of her old home to the church where Lyle had been a minister for the past several years.

  So, Caroline was going to renovate and sell the old house, then donate the proceeds, in Preston's name, to the Congre­gational Church. A fitting tribute to a man she had loved like a father. Preston would have wholeheartedly approved. He'd been a great one for pomp and circumstance. How he had enjoyed his role as an agent for Peacekeepers International, thought to be only a philanthropic organization established for doing good deeds around the world. But Preston had also enjoyed playing secret agent, taking risks. He had loved the cloak-and-dagger games, the adrenaline rush of outsmarting everyone around him.

  Despite his job with the Peacekeepers, Preston Shaw had been an asset to his true friends and associates of the Loy­alists Coalition, never forgetting to whom he owed his real allegiance. When given an order, he obeyed. Unfortunately, his adherence to the dictates of a cause controlled by a select few had cost Preston his life. Once the Peacekeepers had discovered the man was a traitor, what else could they do but eliminate him?

  Unfortunate that the child had been at home the night Ai­dan Colbert had assassinated the Peacekeepers' rogue agent. Lucky for Colbert that she had been unable to identify him. And even more fortunate that Preston had not lived to follow through on the threats he had made against the organization to which he'd sworn his first allegiance. For several years after Preston's death, they had held their breaths, wondering if he might have found a way to reach out from the grave to wreak vengeance. But with each passing year, they had re­laxed more and more as they began to believe that Preston had left behind no evidence to link him to their organization or to expose the identities of its other members.

  They had kept a close watch on Caroline, just as the Peace­keepers had. But for entirely different reasons. She was no

  longer of any interest to them and, since Aidan Colbert's death two years ago, apparently of little interest to the Peace­keepers. But since there was and had been for many years a connection between Caroline and him, he still maintained a personal interest in her and even felt affection, to a certain degree.

  Perhaps Colbert should have eliminated her that long-ago night. Even some of the other Peacekeeper agents had agreed. But in the end, there had been no need. Preston had told neither her nor her mother anything about his double life. And despite his threats, he had not bequeathed either of them the secret documents he had sworn he possessed.

  Caroline was safe. Safer now than she'd ever been in the fifteen years since her stepfather's death.

  Chapter 2

  When a Talbot County contractor who attended Lyle's church told Caroline that he would contribute his services for free, other church members, including a plumber and an elec­trician, volunteered their services to renovate the house in Baltimore. Most of the job would have to be done on Sat­urdays, but the workforce had turned out en masse last week, so things were moving along quicker than anticipated. This was their second Saturday, and the main focus today was stripping wallpaper and tearing out damaged Sheetrock.

  While six men worked on the main project, ripping out the mildewed walls in the two basement rooms—one used as a wine cellar years ago and the other a former minigym—Caroline and three other women stripped old wallpaper off the upstairs bedrooms. As she and her friend Roz, who had been her assistant at the studio for the past three years, con­centrated their efforts on Caroline's old bedroom, Mrs. Mabry and Allison Sims worked diligently in the master suite.

  As she scraped away at the stubborn wallpaper, Caroline tried to remember only the happy times she'd spent in this house, but try as she might, bad memories kept creeping into her thoughts. Her instincts had warned her to stay away, to put as much distance between herself and the past as she possibly could. But how could she let others work to restore the house while she stayed away? She couldn't, of course.

  "Damn!" Roz cried suddenly, and stuck her index finger into her mouth.

  "What's wrong?" From where she sat perched atop the ladder, a wet sponge in one hand and a metal scrapper in the other, Caroline glanced down at her friend, who had been attacking the stubborn paper along the baseboard.

  Roz sucked on her finger, then removed it from her mouth and held it up for Caroline's inspection. "The stupid scrapper slipped and I nicked my finger on the edge."

  Caroline laid aside her equipment and climbed down the ladder. "Here, let me take a look. I've got a first aid kit in my car, if you need a bandage."

  "It's just a scratch, but you know how little cuts can hurt like the devil."

  Caroline grabbed Roz's finger and inspected it thoroughly. "It's not even bleeding."

  "Okay, so I'm a crybaby." As Roz shrugged, she rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.

  Caroline adored Rozalin Turner. Few people understood their friendship, not even Lyle, who knew Caroline so well. But she realized that poor Lyle didn't know quite what to think of the flashy, loudmouthed Roz. She wasn't the type of woman he was used to being around—nothing like Aunt Dixie or Caroline or the good ladies of the Congregational Church. Roz wasn't a Southern lady, not by the widest stretch of the imagination. Roz was. . .well, Roz was Roz. A liberated free spirit.

  Roz had come for an interview three years ago, answering an ad in the newspaper Caroline had placed for an "all-around personal assistant to a professional photographer."

  Just one look at Roz and Caroline had thought how easily her appearance might offend some of the studio's wealthier clients. Then
as now, her curly bleached-blond hair had been piled atop her head, giving her a sexy, tousled look. She wore shorts, a tank top, an ankle bracelet, three toe rings, six pairs of tiny gold hoops in her ears and a belly button ring. But within five minutes of talking to Roz that day, Caroline had realized that to counter the negative effect of her wild-child appearance, Roz possessed a flamboyant, exuberant person­ality that could charm the birds from the trees.

  They had become fast friends and Roz was, without a doubt, the best assistant in the world. She had a way with adults and children alike. And although she tried to hide her softer side, the woman had a heart of pure gold. Almost everyone recognized that fact and appreciated Roz for the wonderful person she was—everyone except Lyle, who was put off by everything Roz said and did. In the beginning, Caroline had tried to bridge the vast gap between her cousin and her assistant, but had finally given up any hope that the two would ever be friends.

  Roz's stomach growled. "Isn't it getting to be lunch-time?"

  Caroline pulled her wristwatch from the pocket of her faded jeans to check the time. "It's only eleven. Lunch is at noon. Mrs. Mabry brought two big picnic baskets overflow­ing with food. Just hang on another hour and we'll have a feast."

  Caroline surveyed her tall friend's slender curves. How was it possible for someone to eat like a stevedore and keep a model-thin figure? Every extra bite that went into Caro­line's mouth wound up on her hips and thighs.

  "Caroline!" Allison Sims cried as she rushed into the room. "Steve just called out to me from downstairs and said to come get you. They've found something in the basement they think you should see."

  For a brief moment Caroline's heart stopped beating as an odd thought flashed through her mind. Had they found a dead body? Don't be silly, she told herself. You're letting being in this house spook you. Your imagination is working over­time.

  "What did they find? A treasure chest filled with diamonds and rubies?" Roz asked, her large, brown, Bette Davis eyes widening with speculation.

  "He didn't say," Allison replied. "But he said for us to hurry."

  Roz and Caroline joined Allison and the three met Mrs. Mabry on the landing, where she waited for them.

  Steve stood at the bottom of the backstairs and motioned for them to come down, which they did. "Caroline, you're not going to believe this, but when we tore out that back wall in the wine cellar we found a. . .well, we think it's a secret passageway of some sort."

  "You're kidding." Caroline's heart fluttered.

  "And that's not all," Steve said.

  "What do you mean, that's not all?" Roz asked.

  "The guys are waiting for you." Steve grabbed Caroline's wrist. "You'll have to see this for yourself."

  The image of Preston Shaw's body sprawled out on the study floor appeared in Caroline's mind, but she brushed it aside, telling herself not to be ridiculous. If there was a dead body downstairs, a skeleton hidden away for years, Steve wouldn't be acting so excited, now would he?

  Since their plans included working on the house from early morning to late into the night every Saturday, Caroline had arranged to have the electricity turned on, as well as the wa­ter. The stairs leading down into the belly of the old house were well lit, plainly revealing several steps with rotting edges and a wall covered in an accumulation of spiderwebs. Steve brought her to a halt at the bottom of the stairs. The other five men, including Lyle, stood circling something as they gazed down toward the floor.

  "She's here," Steve informed them.

  Five heads popped up and five pair of eyes focused on Caroline, who stood frozen beside Steve.

  Roz gave her a shove. "Go on. Fm dying to find out what they've discovered."

  As Caroline moved toward the circle, the men separated and one by one moved away from the object resting on the concrete floor. She stared at the metal box, approximately twenty inches square, and immediately recognized it as some sort of small safe.

  "Diamonds and rubies," Roz said.

  "Or perhaps some stocks and bonds," Steve suggested.

  "Could be cash money," Marty Johnson said.

  "Might be nothing but an empty safe," Lyle told them.

  "It's closed, and unless you can figure out the combina­tion—" Steve looked directly at Caroline "—we may never find out what's inside."

  "Why would you think I'd know the combination?" Car­oline asked.

  "Because of the initials on the safe," Steve said.

  "What are you talking about?" Caroline walked closer to the safe and knelt in front of it.

  "What were your stepfather's initials?" Lyle asked.

  "P. W. S.," Caroline replied. "Preston Wakefield Shaw."

  The six men said "Hmm-mmm" in unison.

  Caroline dropped to her knees and examined the safe. There, attached to the front, were tarnished silver letters— the initials P. W. S. "This must have belonged to Preston."

  "Our guess is that he put this safe in the hidden passage­way," Marty said. "Did he ever mention the passageway or the safe to you or your mother?"

  Caroline shook her head. "Not to me, but perhaps to Mother. I wouldn't know about that." But as she denied knowledge of the passageway and the safe, a long-forgotten memory tried to resurface. The night he'd been killed, Pres­ton and her mother had gotten into another of their many arguments and her mother had stormed out of the house, on her way to yet another party. Preston had noticed Caroline standing in her bedroom doorway and had come over to her.

  "I'm sorry," he'd said. "Don't let the tension between Lenore and me upset you. I love your mother and you very much. Don't forget that."

  He had kissed her on the forehead then, as he often did. Preston had given her the only paternal affection she'd ever known.

  "I wanted to tell your mother something important, but she didn't have time to listen."

  "I have time to listen," Caroline had said. So naive. Such a child.

  He had placed his hand on her shoulder and said, "If any­thing happens—" He had cleared his throat and begun again. "I've put away something downstairs, something important. A sort of life insurance policy to protect your mother and you and Fletcher. But it's not something for you to worry about. I'll tell Lenore about it in the morning."

  When Caroline felt someone shaking her shoulder, she glanced up and saw Roz staring at her. "What's the matter with you?" Roz asked. "You're acting like you're in a trance."

  "No, I was just remembering a conversation I had with Preston."

  "Something about the safe?" Lyle asked.

  "I'm not sure. Maybe."

  "Do you have any idea what the combination might be?" Steve asked.

  "I haven't the foggiest," Caroline replied. "Isn't there an­other way to get into this thing?"

  David dumped his suitcase on the floor beside the simple brass bed, unloosened his tie and removed his sport coat. He reached into the closet and withdrew a wooden hanger, draped the coat around it and returned the hanger to the closet. After whipping off his tie and tossing it in a nearby chair, he flopped down atop the neatly made bed. He had flown in from Miami this evening, after two weeks of playing private nursemaid to a Latin American businessman and his family who were vacationing at Disney World. Jack Parker had been scheduled for the assignment, but at the last minute a client who had used Jack on his previous trip to Egypt had specifically requested him to act as his bodyguard for a return visit. Ellen Denby, CEO of the Dundee Private Security and Investigation Agency, had given David a twelve-hour notice and promised him a bonus, if he'd take the job without giving her a hassle. It seemed a couple of the other agents had worked for this particular businessman in the past and refused to be stock with his flirting wife and whiny kids, even for a day, let alone two weeks.

  David stared up at the white ceiling in his bedroom. He'd done nothing except move in some brand-new furniture when he'd leased this Atlanta apartment six months ago. After tak­ing the job as a Dundee bodyguard fifteen months ago, he'd rented a furnished one-bedroom
place, which had suited him just fine. But once he realized he would probably be staying with the Dundee agency for many years to come, he started looking for something larger. With three bedrooms the apart­ment was spacious, giving him enough room to spread out and move around, which he liked. He hated cramped quar­ters. A result of having grown up out in the country.

  The few people who had seen the inside of this place all said the same thing. That it looked as if he'd just moved in. No pictures on the walls. No personal objects scattered around here and there. A minimal amount of furniture. And not one memento that even hinted he'd had a life before he moved to Atlanta. And in a way, that assumption was correct. David Wolfe had no past beyond sixteen months ago, when he'd been released from a private hospital after enduring nearly a year of surgeries and rehabilitation.

  As far as anyone knew—including the other Peacekeepers International agents—Aidan Colbert had died in an explosion in the Middle East, In fact, he had almost died. Ellison Penn had had Aidan flown directly to a private hospital where he had been admitted under the name John Doe. Orders were then issued to do everything possible to save the man's life. At this hospital no one asked questions, not even the highly skilled doctors who had performed a miracle and not only saved his life, but had put him back together. Almost as good as new. Except that now he had someone else's face. Not quite as good-looking as he'd once been, but at least his face wouldn't scare small children.

  When he'd regained consciousness, after he'd been in the hospital for nearly three weeks, Ellison had paid him a visit and given him a precious gift. His freedom. A new identity. A new life. Few were ever allowed to leave Peacekeepers International. Few actually wanted to leave while they were still in their thirties. But Aidan Colbert had discovered that, after more than twelve years as an agent who was called upon to kill on demand, he had begun to lose his humanity. The killing, which he had once abhorred, had become simply a part of his job. Too easy. Too simple. Not enough regrets or maybe too many.