Framed: A Psychological Thriller (Boston's Crimes of Passion Book 2)

by Colleen Connally

  Slowly, she closed her mouth, thought better of it, and sealed her lips. Walter stared at her, eyes dark and emotionless, like a shark’s. He was baiting her. She reprimanded herself. She knew better than to take the bait.

  Kincaid appeared surprised. His brilliant blue eyes narrowed shrewdly. “I think the question is more why it is so important to you?”

  Riley glanced over at Kincaid. She had almost forgotten he was a reporter this morning, but not now. The fact resonated within the room, along with the knowledge he had done his research on the family.

  Totally unaware of the spectacle he was making of himself, Walter ignored Kincaid and continued to press Riley. “You received a parcel from Helen last week.”

  A faint smile emerged on her face. “As a matter of fact, I did. What is it to you?”

  “I want to see it. Now! The FBI found evidence that her fool son was trying to blackmail the family. Were you in on it?” His voice snarled. “Is that what you have resorted to?”

  “You really should cut down on your caffeine, Walter,” she advised.

  She walked briskly into her bedroom and came back with a large manila envelope. She dumped the contents out on the couch. Pictures littered the cushions. Pictures of when she was younger…with her father. The home of her youth. Beach days.

  Walter snatched up the envelope and looked into it. He turned it upside down and lit into Riley, “Nothing else?”

  Pointing to the return address, Helen Barlow, 1744 Old Oak Street, Roslindale, MA, she asked, “Is this what you wanted to know?”

  Instead of answering, Walter shuttled through the pictures. Not finding what he was looking for, he threw them up in disgust.

  In contrast to his edgy manner, she kept her voice deliberately calm. “You know, I find it awfully suspicious that it is you interrogating me and not the FBI, if what you say is true. It makes me think it is more the private investigators you hired who had questions.” She shook her head. “You’re too old for such games. All you had to do was ask.”

  Walter’s eyes bored into hers. “I believe it would be better served to ask what your game is, Riley. Why did Helen send you these pictures? Have you been in contact? Did she send you anything else?”

  “What’s with all these questions? We talked yesterday.”

  “But you didn’t mention that Helen sent you an envelope. What did you expect me to think, especially with the police trying to figure out who murdered the poor woman?”

  Sighing heavily, she made no attempt to hide her irritation; her patience was spent. “For God’s sakes! Mrs. Barlow called me a couple of weeks ago. Said she was going through some of her old boxes and found some pictures she thought I would like to have. They are of Daddy and me…there is even one of Momma.”

  Realizing they were getting nowhere, she concluded, “If it makes you feel better, I will show the police what Mrs. Barlow sent me. But honestly, do you really believe she was killed over my old pictures?”

  “No,” Walter acknowledged. “But I’m warning you, Riley. Don’t cross me.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Take it any way you want.” He scowled at her. “You got your way. You have the house for a little while longer. You are going to the gala, but if you try anything…anything at all to me or…”

  Suddenly, it hit her. She murmured under her breath, “Olivia is home.”

  “And she is quite disappointed with the way the events have unfolded.” Walter added, “Stay away from her at the gala…more importantly, Dennis.”

  She met his eyes once more. He had delivered the message he had intended. He crossed the room. Before he exited, he turned at the door. “If you don’t heed my warning, you will regret it. That I promise you.”

  Riley stared at the closed door. She rubbed her tired eyes. Frustration clawed at her. Why did she ever think any dealings with her uncle would have gone any different?

  Why…oh why…did she care?

  Abruptly, she pivoted around. When she glanced over at Kincaid, he gave her a sympathetic look. It pissed her off.

  She couldn’t take any more. Without another word, she left the room and retreated into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

  * * * *

  As Riley stomped off into her bedroom, Kincaid couldn’t take his eyes off her finely rounded curves. The thought of holding her this morning—caressing…kissing—bombarded his libido. Damn Walter Ashcroft.

  Reason dictated that this was no time to be contemplating sex. He had a story in his hands. He would be well served to listen to the warning bells going off concerning Riley Ashcroft. But if this morning had been any indication, this strong attraction he felt for her wasn’t going to be easily ignored.

  Walter Ashcroft ruffled his feathers, but the man hadn’t accomplished his objective if he thought his little display this morning thwarted Kincaid’s efforts for this scoop. No, far from it.

  Kincaid smelled blood. Instead of diverting his attention, Ashcroft had only served to magnify his interest.

  The more Kincaid thought of the story, the more his instincts flared.

  Walter Ashcroft’s hot temper was well documented over the years. The man was used to getting his way. This time, though, Riley had called him out immediately, making it quite obvious there was little love between the two.

  It was also apparent Ashcroft had come to make a point—warning Kincaid against Riley. He heard it. Just didn’t care.

  Kincaid glanced over his shoulder. He heard water running. Riley must be taking a shower. Probably assumed I left.

  He hadn’t.

  Walking over to the couch, he picked up one of the pictures. Smiling back at him was what seemed a happy family. A young, pretty woman, blonde with a head full of curls and a warm smile, held a chubby, giggly baby girl. A man held the two close to him and looked down at them, beaming with happiness.

  Kincaid recognized Jack Ashcroft. In another picture, Jack had his arms around his brothers, Walter and Donald, smiling broadly, seemingly greatly enjoying each other’s company. From the picture, it looked as though the three had been close, but appearances certainly were deceiving when it came to this wealthy Boston elite family.

  Then a picture caught his eye. Jack Ashcroft knelt on one knee beside a young African-American boy dressed in a Pop Warner football uniform. A handsome lad. Pride radiated from Jack Ashcroft’s eyes at the boy.

  Was this Harrison Taylor? How the hell had this normal-looking kid become a vicious cop killer?

  As he stared at the boy, questions bothered him. The information he had obtained indicated the Taylor case had been cut-and-dry. What had Helen Barlow known that had gotten her killed? Was her murder connected to that knowledge or just a coincidence?

  Was it a coincidence that Jack Ashcroft had known Harrison Taylor…from Riley’s own words…looked at him like a son? Or was he about to get himself mixed up in a family squabble over nothing more than greed and power?

  Every instinct he possessed told him there were just too many coincidences, which added up to a story. He needed only to take one layer off at a time. One thing was for certain—he had a great deal of hard work in front of him and he needed Riley’s help.

  Right now, though, he was hungry.

  * * * *

  The aroma of coffee filled the air, along with the sound of bacon sizzling. Riley rounded the corner of her hall and saw the culprit.

  “I thought you were gone.”

  “Without a shirt?” he asked in a light, casual voice, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be cooking breakfast in her kitchen. “Sit.” He pointed to her breakfast nook. “My cooking skills are limited at best, but I think it’s edible. Hope you like scrambled eggs.”

  Riley contained her protest and complied with his demand, mainly because she just realized she was starving. He gave her an easygoing smile and sat a glass of orange juice in front of her.

  “You smell of gardenias.”

  He didn’t give her a chan
ce to reply, but turned on his heels and went back to the stove. She took a small sip of her juice, but couldn’t take her eyes off her shirtless chef. In the bright morning light, she was awestruck by his broad shoulders and ripped stomach.

  She had convinced herself in the shower that this morning on the couch had been an anomaly, but she had been foolish to think it would have been so easy to forget. The memory of his kisses lingered; she shivered on the remembrance.

  Portioning the eggs out on the plates, he added a couple of pieces of bacon with a slice of toast. He looked up as he rounded the kitchen counter with their breakfast. “I think it’s time we had a heart-to-heart.”

  She sighed. “Really, I don’t know what we have to say.”

  He laughed, a light, easy laugh. “I will confess talking isn’t what I would like to be doing, but for right now, it’s probably best we lay out some ground rules.”

  She watched him sit beside her. So sure…so arrogant with his damn potent sensuality. She fought the urge to run. He invoked feelings she thought she would never feel again. It frightened her.

  “Yesterday when I met you, I was trying to tell you that I’m looking into the Harrison Taylor case,” he explained. His voice altered. The flirtation was gone, turned serious and firm with purpose. “Being a journalist, I don’t lean one way or another. I let my story take me. It took me to Mrs. Barlow’s door.”

  His words took her aback. Kincaid had found a connection to the Ashcrofts. Something told her he wasn’t letting go, whether or not she helped him.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I need to know as much about Harrison Taylor as I can. You admitted you knew him.” He placed the picture of her father and a young Harrison down in front of her. “Tell me his story from your point of view.”

  “I don’t like to talk of that time in my life,” she replied with brutal honesty. “It’s hard for me.”

  “I know.” He gave her a small smile and took her hand in his. “I heard the pain in your voice last night…saw it in your eyes.”

  Suddenly, emotions overwhelmed her. Lord, what was wrong with her! She was never like this. Wiping back a stray tear, she shrugged, uncomfortable again.

  “Trust me, Riley. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  She looked into his eyes and saw his determination and focus. She withdrew her hand. “I don’t need you,” she said under her breath. “I don’t need anyone. Understand that. You would do well to heed Walter’s warning. I am an Ashcroft. You got me at a low point last night, Mr. Kincaid.”

  “I realize that witnessing that horrific scene must have brought back memories,” he said gently, ignoring her attempt at distancing herself from him. “Riley, one thing I’m not trying to negate is this…attraction between us, but I need to look into the possibility that Harrison Taylor was framed. It’s my job. My instincts tell me that you could help.”

  The truth of his purpose resonated within her. Wasn’t that what she wanted over the years—for the truth to be told? Why then did it suddenly scare her? What if she didn’t want to know the truth? How could she live if the hope inside her was destroyed; if the truth wasn’t what she wanted it to be? What if it was worse than it was now?

  She stared at the photo for a moment and then picked it up. No, above all else, she needed the truth.

  “What do you want to know?”

  * * * *

  “We can stop at any time.” Kincaid placed the digital tape recorder in front of Riley. “Tell me about Harrison Taylor.”

  “I grew up with him.” She had a faraway look in her eye. “His grandmother was our live-in housekeeper. Momma died when I was too young to remember. Meme was like a surrogate mother and in a twist of fate, Daddy became Harrison’s surrogate father.”

  “Why?”

  She sighed heavily. “Daddy was devastated when Momma died. For years after, he buried himself in his work. We lived in the same house, but from what Meme told me, he hardly saw me. He left early in the morning and came home late at night.

  “I grew up in the small community of Whipple. Northwest of Charleston, not far from the Wando River. It was Momma’s home. Daddy had our home built especially for Momma, a colonial-style house with two piazzas. Yellow, a lovely shade of pale yellow…large…too large, with enough extra room for both Meme and Harrison. They lived downstairs in the room by the kitchen, and then Daddy moved Harrison upstairs.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “My fifth birthday,” she said in her smooth, Southern drawl. “I was so excited. Nana had sent me this beautiful birthday dress. Somehow I got this idea that I was going to have a party. Meme tried to tell me. She baked me a cake, but I refused to blow out my candles until the guests arrived…I just knew Daddy had me a big surprise. He didn’t…he forgot…

  “I was so upset I ran away.” She paused, as if collecting her thoughts. It took every bit of control to keep her welling emotions from exploding. “I ran out the back door, through our backyard and into the marsh. I kept running. I got lost. It got dark and I was so scared…so…so scared.

  “I was wet, cold, and afraid an alligator was going to eat me. Then Harrison found me. There was a whole search team out there, but it was Harrison, who discovered where I was along with our family dog, Major. Harrison and Major stayed with me until they could locate us. He thought it best if we stayed put. I found out later it was because he came across an alligator while looking for me.

  “He didn’t leave my side.” A sudden smile emerged. “Daddy was so excited to have found me, he scooped me up in his arms and hugged me so tight. He turned to Harrison and asked him why…why had he snuck out to look for me?

  “Harrison said, ‘You don’t abandon family.’” She shivered on the remembrance. “Daddy changed after that. Of course, Meme lit into Daddy afterwards. Told him it was time to start living in the present. Then we became a family of sorts.”

  He wrote notes as he watched her. Over the years, he had become good at reading people. Riley Ashcroft didn’t think Harrison capable of what he been accused of… It was evident she still thought of Harrison as a hero. Heroes didn’t commit murder.

  Her voice injected the love she felt for the people she talked about: Daddy, Meme, Harrison, and Grandmother Carver. From the sound of it, Harrison seemed more like her brother. He lived in a room down the hall from her. They went to the same school. Her father even coached his Pop Warner football team.

  In all the time she talked of her youth, she hadn’t mentioned her Boston family. His pen tapped on the table as he looked at her. “What of your grandfather, Walter Ashcroft, Sr. and your uncles?”

  Her expression altered. “There was a time that Daddy was really close to his father and brothers, but that was before my Uncle Donald married Vivian. Things changed.”

  Gesturing with her hand for him not to interrupt her, she pressed her lips together as if in thought. “Daddy was always close to Nana,” she clarified. “Nana called every day to talk to him…and me. I know she didn’t like Vivian either. I’m not sure exactly what the objection was by the rest of the family, but for me as a child, Vivian was cold and frightening.

  “The woman never smiled or said a kind word to me. She has this long, pointed nose. As a child, I used to call her the Wicked Witch of the West.” Riley gave a small laugh. “I still do.”

  “Why did the rest of the family dislike her?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not sure. I remember on a visit to Boston, I heard Aunt Cora call her a slut. Later on, I thought it was because my cousin, Noah, was born three months after Donald announced they had married.”

  “What did she do that split the family?”

  “I’m not sure that she did,” Riley answered honestly. “I just remember that when she came into the family, everything changed.”

  Kincaid nodded and noted the information. “How did it change?”

  “Donald and Daddy didn’t talk anymore. He never visited and when we went north, he was never around. Grandfat
her and Daddy argued. Walter and Daddy became quite close. Walter came often to Charleston with his family…then that changed too…”

  Riley winced. Kincaid said nothing, not wanting to press her. He was already forcing her to remember a difficult time. A moment later, she breathed out deeply.

  “Shortly before Daddy died, Walter came down to the house, anxious and nervous because he had gotten himself into some financial trouble. Some investment that went wrong. He wanted Daddy to help him…go to Grandfather. Daddy did.

  “That’s when everything exploded. Grandfather and Daddy had a big blowout. Daddy was angry…so angry. He told me that we weren’t going to see Grandfather anymore. Then the rumors started. The reporters were everywhere. Police…FBI…and then Harrison got arrested for murder.

  “Daddy immediately started Harrison’s defense.” She stopped and looked directly into his eyes. “The papers crucified Harrison. Saying the most awful things. The day before Daddy died, the FBI came to the house and questioned him. I remember it was on a Sunday. They stayed all day. When they left, Daddy was in the worst mood.”

  The reporter in him held back. He wanted to bombard her with a million questions. She had been so thorough with her details of her youth, but vague with the details leading up to her father’s death.

  Instead, he asked gently, “What happened to you after your father’s death?”

  “I went to live with Grandmother Carver.”

  “And?”

  “And what?” she asked curtly. “What do you want to know? That my Boston family left me with my poor, disabled grandmother…wanted nothing to do with me. I didn’t even see Nana again until I was a senior in high school…after Grandmother passed away.”

  “Why?”

  “How am I to know?” Her agitation clearly resonated in her tone. “Walter saw me at Daddy’s funeral. He told me that Daddy left me nothing because all his assets would have to be sold to cover what Daddy stole from Grandfather.

  “After Grandmother Carver passed, one of Daddy’s former friends, Clayton Edmunds and his wife, Adele, offered me a place to stay through high school. He’s the one who reached out to Nana.”