by Burton, Mary
“Jerk.”
She marched around the side of the house, opened the lid to a trash can, dumped the note in the bin, and slammed the metal lid down. The clang reverberated up her arm.
Adrianna turned her back on the trash and moved forward. “I am not going to be scared off by a bunch of cowards.”
Happy Anniversary.
Stillness sank into her bones and she felt sudden hot tears burn her eyes. She tipped her head back, willing the sadness to vanish. “It means nothing. Someone is just messing with you.”
Happy Anniversary.
And yet the simple words scraped open old wounds she’d prayed had healed.
Adrianna’s still damp hair brushed her face and clung to her skin like a spiderweb. Suddenly she didn’t have the patience for the thick mane. She combed her fingers through her hair until it was off her face and tied it back with a rubber band.
A measure of control returning, she got into her car, locked the doors, and clicked on the radio. She cranked a Sheryl Crow tune. The singer’s words and melody rolled over her and coaxed away her fears. She wouldn’t think about the damn card. Her only priority today was getting the graves moved.
Adrianna fired up the engine, backed out of her driveway, and soon was skimming east down I–64. She elbowed aside thoughts of the note and used the drive time to call clients on her cell.
She owned Barrington Designs, an interior design business that specialized in home décor. A business that required not only an eye for design and color, but a talent for managing thousands of details that fit together like the pieces of a puzzle. Fabric colors. Shades of tile. Hardware. Furniture selection. All had to be considered, chosen, and monitored. It took endless follow-up calls to keep her projects on time and budget.
By the time Adrianna exited the interstate and wound down the old country roads to the estate, she’d contacted two painters, a wallpaper hanger, and a furniture company in North Carolina. She concluded her last call as she reached the estate’s white brick pillars.
The grass by the entrance was overgrown. The paint on the estate’s columns was chipped and several of the top bricks were missing thanks to age and a hurricane that had hit the county in late August.
A savvy seller in this slowing real estate market would have worried about curb appeal, but the estate had sold within hours of being listed. The buyer, William Mazur, was a powerfully built, fortysomething man with buzzed hair and sun-weathered skin. He had explained that he had always loved the property and had dreamed of owning it since he’d first moved to the area. He’d paid her asking price and his only stipulation was that she remove the family graveyard from the estate. Having graves on the property was too unsettling for his new wife. She’d agreed immediately.
Now as she drove through the pillars toward the house, she fended off jabs of guilt. The Thorntons had treasured the Colonies. So much family history. So much tradition. And she was selling out.
Her mind drifted to the last time she and Craig had visited. Just a week before their late September wedding, her mother-in-law-to-be Frances Thornton had asked the couple to travel to the estate and place flowers on the graves of the departed Thorntons. Frances and Adrianna’s own mother Margaret Barrington had been friends since college and Adrianna had grown up loving Aunt Frances and would have done anything for the woman who by then was weeks away from losing her battle with cancer.
“Craig, you really need to take this seriously,” Adrianna had said as she’d knelt in front of the grave.
Craig’s thick blond hair hung restlessly over crystal blue eyes and he reminded her more of a boy than a man. He wore khakis, a white polo, and Italian loafers with no socks. “I am taking this seriously, babe.” He checked his Rolex watch. “How long do you think this is going to take?”
“I don’t know. We’re supposed to put flowers on each grave and have a moment of silence.”
“What’s with the moment of silence?”
“I don’t know. This is your family tradition, not mine.”
Adrianna laid the lilies on the grave and rose, brushing the leaves from her designer jeans. “Now take my hand and let’s bow our heads.”
His smile was loving, indulgent. “You worry about the details so much, Adrianna.”
And he never worried. “Traditions hold families together.”
“They suffocate me.”
“Craig.” The warning note in her voice reminded him that she’d broken their engagement last summer. She’d grown tired of the parties and the glib jokes. She had needed a man, not a boy. Only a great deal of pressure from her mother and his mother had brought her back to him at summer’s end. This was their second chance.
Craig straightened his shoulders and his expression became somber. “Okay, I’ll be more serious. I promise.” He wrapped long fingers around her smooth, soft hand.
Placated, she smiled. “Just stand here for a minute in silence.”
They stood in front of Craig’s father’s grave: Robert Thornton, devoted husband to Frances and loving father to Craig. She bowed her head and said a silent prayer for the Thorntons and for the marriage she was about to enter.
Within seconds Craig started to squirm and tap his foot. She opened one eye and peeked at him. “Didn’t your dad ever talk about this ceremony?”
Craig tossed her a rueful grin. “You knew Dad. He wasn’t the talkative type.”
Robert Thornton, unlike his only son, had been a serious, stern man. “He had to have said something.”
“Dad wasn’t as much into the family legacy thing as much as Mom was. You know how obsessed she is with the family. Especially now.”
Adrianna desperately wanted Craig to take charge of this moment and be a man worthy of her sacrifices. “And?”
He gave her a good-natured smile. “I honor the Thornton family and the privileges they’ve bestowed. And into the family welcome my new bride. We will be forever and always together.”
She lifted a brow. “That’s what you’re supposed to say?”
He leaned forward. “Close enough. And we’re supposed to kiss.”
“Really?”
“Really.” He winked as he kissed her warmly on the lips. “Now, I have a lovely bottle of Chardonnay and a picnic lunch in the trunk of my car. Let’s enjoy this day and leave the dead in peace.”
She let him wrap his arms around her and she sank into the warm embrace, savoring the scent of his cologne. “Do you take anything seriously?”
“I take you seriously.” Genuine emotion punctuated the words. “I love you. I never want to lose you again, Adrianna.”
The rapid beat of his heart drummed against her ear. Craig did love her. And she cared deeply for him. She just hoped it was enough and that marriage would help him settle down and mature.
“I’m pregnant.”
He hauled her back and stared into her eyes. “What?”
She nibbled her bottom lip, now afraid that he wouldn’t want the child. In so many ways he was a child. “Four weeks.”
Craig’s mouth rose into a genuine smile. He hugged her close. “Babe, this is great!”
“You’re okay with this? I know it wasn’t planned.”
He chuckled warmly. “It’s the best news I’ve ever heard! Life is going to just get better and better.”
Two months later a drunk driver had broadsided their car. She’d miscarried and Craig had suffered irreparable brain damage. He’d languished in a coma for two years before he’d died last December.
A twin pair of cardinals flapped across the drive, startling her and closing her mind to the memories that only made her miserable.
A deep breath loosened the tightness in her chest as she drove the half mile down the gravel driveway, which flowed into the circular loop by the old house’s front door. Out of the car, she glanced at her watch. With minutes to spare before the scheduled meeting with the grave excavation team at the cemetery, she had time to check on the progress in the house.
The place ha
d been a showpiece just fifteen years ago, and had hosted some of the state’s most powerful and rich. She’d attended parties here as a teenager. Frances had even hosted her sixteenth birthday party in this house.
But over the last few years, she’d not visited the property. Her neglect showed in the rot that had eaten away at the rounded columns, the mold that had dulled the whitewashed clapboard, and the missing shingles damaged in the August storm.
Adrianna climbed the front steps and moved into the central foyer that led to a wide staircase and a long hallway that cut through the first floor. Open doors leaked light in from the side rooms to the hallway.
“Mrs. Wells,” Adrianna shouted.
Mrs. Wells peered out the front parlor. The housekeeper was a sixtysomething woman with short curly red-gray hair and a plump frame that filled out her blue sweatshirt and faded jeans. She and her husband, Dwayne, lived just miles from here and had looked after the estate for forty years. The woman dabbed red-rimmed eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”
Concern gave Adrianna pause. “Is everything all right, Mrs. Wells?”
Mrs. Wells sniffed. “Yes, yes, I’m fine. It’s just so emotional closing up the old place. So many memories. Thank you for asking, Mrs. Thornton.”
Adrianna tensed. “Please, just call me Adrianna.”
Mrs. Wells offered a lopsided smile. “It just doesn’t feel right calling you by your given name.”
The housekeeper was over thirty years Adrianna’s senior. “This isn’t the nineteenth century, Mrs. Wells.”
A hint of humor sparked in pale green eyes. “Now that depends on who you ask. Some folks around here would strongly argue that point. Fact, I suspect some are still thinking the Confederacy will again rise.”
“I suppose you are right.” Adrianna smiled, following her into the parlor.
White sheets covered the furniture and carpets had been rolled. The furnishings would go with the house but the twenty-three paintings, which now were crated and tilting against the walls, belonged to Adrianna. They awaited transport to the auction house where they’d be sold in a week. Auction proceeds would be donated to the new Thornton Neonatal Unit at Mercy Hospital.
“It looks like you’ve made headway downstairs.”
“All the furniture has been polished and covered in the front two rooms. I’ve still to do the rest of upstairs furnishings.”
“Are Dwayne and Ben coming today to move the furniture to the warehouse?” Mrs. Wells’s husband and son, Dwayne and Ben Wells owned a successful moving company that specialized in antique furniture and artwork. Adrianna had used them on several Barrington Designs jobs.
“Ben said to tell you it would be first thing tomorrow. They had another small job today. I think antiques to a dealer.” She smiled. “The paintings will go to the auction house tomorrow as well.”
“You’ll have each piece cleaned by then?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Great. The new buyer, Mr. Mazur, had insisted the home’s interior be pristine.”
“Excuse me for asking, but isn’t Mr. Mazur bringing in contractors to renovate the wiring and plumbing?”
“He is. And you’re right, the contractors are going to tear the place up when they modernize. Why Mr. Mazur wants the house cleaned before a renovation is beyond me. But he is the buyer.”
Mrs. Wells nodded. “Will do.”
She checked her watch. “I’ve got to get down to the gravesite.”
“I saw that Dr. Heckman headed that way.”
Adrianna’s lips flattened. “No doubt he saw the public notice in the paper.” The notice had been required by the state.
Dr. Cyril Heckman had been a friend of Frances Thornton for many, many years. During the last years of her life they’d grown close. He now saw it as his personal mission to maintain the Thornton estate as it had been for generations. He’d filed suit in the spring to stop the sale but Adrianna’s attorney had had it dismissed.
“You want me to call Dwayne or Ben and have them run him off?”
“Tempting, but I can handle him.”
Mrs. Wells blew a strand of hair from her eyes. “I don’t like the man and I don’t care that Miss Frances was partial to him.” Mrs. Wells was intensely loyal to Frances Thornton’s memory. Frances had left Marie Wells the caretaker’s cottage and surrounding land in her will.
“Once the furniture and paintings are gone, have Ben bring the old drums up from the basement,” Adrianna said.
“Why do you want to fool with them? Let me go through them and save you the trouble.”
“I think it’s best I do it.”
“Must be three generations’ worth of stuff shoved in those bins. Good Lord, there is no telling what you’ll find.”
“Yeah, no telling.”
Chapter Two
Tuesday, September 26, 8:15 a.m.
Anticipation and determination congealed in Detective Gage Hudson’s gut as he drove down the rural road toward the Thornton estate.
“Hudson, Thorntons are practically Virginia royalty, and let’s face it, sport, you’re a good ol’ boy from southwest Virginia.” The comment came from homicide detective Nick Vega, who propped his arm on the front seat of the Crown Vic. Perfectly relaxed, he didn’t seem to have a care in the world even as Gage pushed the speedometer higher and maneuvered around a pickup truck.
Hudson was the lead detective in the missing persons division and more often than he’d have liked, his cases resulted in death. He’d consulted with Vega and the other members of the homicide team over the years and had gotten to know work styles and some habits. Vega’s jabs and digs were as much a part of him as his love of cigars and jazz music.
“Didn’t you hear my briefing to the homicide team?” His southwest Virginia accent deepened when he was under stress.
Vega shrugged wide shoulders honed by regular bodybuilding and amateur league baseball. About thirty, he had olive skin, ink-dark hair kept short, not shorn. He preferred casual open collars, loose pants, and bad jokes that disguised a lightning-quick mind. “Had to take a call. Missed the big finish.”
Gage tapped his thumb on the steering wheel. He wasn’t accustomed to repeating himself. He’d been a cop for twelve years and in missing persons for six. He was considered tenacious when it came to finding the missing; some went so far as to claim he was part hound dog.
No one questioned Gage’s competence, but many had wondered why he’d chosen police work when he’d had a promising football career.
Football—specifically quarterbacking—had set him apart since he’d played peewee ball. A strong work ethic and raw talent earned him the starting spot on the high school team and eventually a scholarship to Virginia Tech. Freshman year, he was a standout in the thirty-thousand-plus student body and by sophomore year a genuine star after a big win at the Sugar Bowl. Then came a quick marriage to the head cheerleader and a draft by the Atlanta Falcons. For a brief time he was bulletproof.
Two weeks into training camp, he’d taken a hard tackle. Tendons and bone in his shoulder had ripped and he’d ended up on the injured reserve list. While his wife remained in Atlanta, he’d returned to the home he’d recently purchased for his parents and siblings to mend. He’d been dozing one afternoon when his mother woke him up and asked where she could find Jessie, his ten-year-old sister. She was three hours overdue. He’d rattled the fog from his brain and started calling around. No one had seen her.
And then the grueling task of searching for Jessie had begun. For three days he didn’t sleep as he searched the woods.
And then on the fourth morning he had found Jessie in a dilapidated cabin. She’d been tied to a chair. Drugged. Covered in dirt. Scrapes on her legs. One shoe missing.
Jessie had looked up at him with hazy eyes. “Gage.”
Even now the memory choked the breath from his lungs. He’d rushed her to the emergency room and the doctors had confirmed his worst nightmare. She’d been raped.
That day had changed the cours
e of his life. He’d resigned from the Falcons and joined the police department.
That’s when he’d learned how much others had been so emotionally invested in his football career. Townfolks, his parents, and his wife all resented the decision and eventually abandoned him in some way. But Gage had never looked back. Never regretted the move.
Gage cleared his throat. “Three years ago, I worked the case of a missing woman. Her name was Rhonda Minor. She was supposed to meet her brother for a drink one Friday but she never showed. The brother called her cell phone repeatedly, tried to figure out where she’d gone, but she’d vanished along with all of her stuff. Her brother said she was a hardworking, good kid. He admitted that they’d fought a few days before but it wouldn’t be like her to just leave. I spoke to neighbors, roommates, and friends, and each said the same thing—she wanted to move to Italy to study art.”
All hints of humor vanished from Vega’s eyes. “Is that what she and her brother fought about?”
“Yeah. He didn’t like the idea of her leaving. Said her boss had put fancy ideas in her head.”
“And her boss was?”
“Craig Thornton.”
Vega whistled. “Craig Thornton of the Colonies.”
“Right. Rhonda worked at the Thornton Art Gallery as an administrative assistant. She had a degree in art from Virginia Commonwealth University and was looking to get gallery experience. Apparently Craig kept telling her how good she was and that she should paint full-time.”
“That gallery’s been around forever.”
“Eighty-one years.” Gage’s jaw tightened a fraction.
“So what happened? Was Thornton any help?”
Gage tightened his hands on the wheel. “No. The guy was a glib son of a bitch, who acted like it was all a joke. The instant I laid eyes on Thornton I suspected he was hiding secrets. He even showed me a postcard she’d mailed from New York City. It said: Thanks! “Ciao.”
Rain had pelted the city that October afternoon when Gage had gone to see Craig Thornton. He’d been in a foul mood and itching for a fight. Gage had dated Thornton’s new wife Adrianna Barrington the summer before. Adrianna had broken up with Craig and said she’d been ready to move on with her life. Dated. Shit. Who was he kidding? The affair had been hot and soul searing. Gage had dreamed of a future with Adrianna. And then he’d been pulled into a case midsummer. They’d not seen much of each other in those last weeks of August. He kept promising himself he’d make up for his long hours after the case was solved. And then she’d told him she was leaving him, returning to her ex, Thornton.
