I run over my mental list of discussion points. It’s probably a dumb evening to set up a date—right after he’s pulled a half-nighter. But I feel I need Thomas’ go-ahead before getting more deeply enmeshed in this mystery surrounding Rose’s death.
Right before I walk out the door, my sky-blue cell phone rings—playing the Doctor Who theme song. Thomas thinks I’m a total geek for loading that one up. Like Miranda with her Twilight Zone fascination, I’m a bit of a sci-fi freak.
The number shows up as The Haven.
“Hello? Miranda?”
“Yes, it’s me, honey. Listen, we need to get together. How about tomorrow?”
“I was planning on it. Do you need anything from town? I’m going over tonight.”
“Don’t you bring anything but yourself. Vesta always gets my supplies when she shops, and I have some coffee cake Paul brought over today.”
My jaw clenches involuntarily. “Paul was over?”
She sighs. “Of course he was—he comes over about every day, Tess. Things are getting pretty serious between us.”
Pretty serious? What does that mean for a couple of almost-seventy-year olds? I can’t ponder this.
We nail down the details, my mind fixated on the pretty serious news. What if she’s going to tell me she’s getting married? How can I feign happiness?
Absently, I change the contents of my purse to my favorite eel-skin clutch, a gift from my Chinese roommate in college. I’ll try to look high-class tonight, even if I did grow up in a smaller town than this one.
It’s still light out when I get to the bistro. I pull into the parking area, where Thomas stands, lanky limbs propped against his old navy Volvo. Somehow the man and the car belong together. As I get out, he winks and bows.
“Shall we take a jaunt along the waterfront first, m’lady?”
Hand in hand, we stroll down the walkway, which runs along the Ohio River. We slow to scrutinize the scenes on the long mural wall, which depicts the battle between the Shawnee natives and the Virginia Militia. When we reach the concrete outdoor amphitheater, we stop, sitting on a cold built-in bench and silently watching the men work on their docked ferryboats. One of the boats’ deep air-horns makes me jump.
“You seem on edge lately.” Thomas’ eyes are fixed on the metal bridge in the distance. “You worried about your doctor appointment?”
“No, no, nothing like that. Just some stuff going on with Miranda.”
“Drama for the Grande Dame?” He laughs.
“Actually, yes. Someone’s bringing the drama to her. And to me.” The words pop out before I think.
Thomas turns, his brown eyes narrowed. He must’ve combed his hair, since it’s not as spiky tonight. He has just a hint of five o’clock shadow. His crisp white shirt and charcoal-and-orange striped tie exude power somehow. He gently turns my shoulders toward him. “What did you say? Who’s bringing drama to my wife?”
I chuckle inside, remembering the lusty dentist at the reunion. Last time someone brought the drama to Thomas’ wife, he was completely oblivious.
I open my mouth to explain, but a tall blond man on the sidewalk above us draws my eye. In the twilight, I can’t see him very well, until he turns around and stares at me.
It’s Axel Becker. Date night is off to a roaring good start.
10
~*~
Once baby Charlotte was born, Miranda pulled away from me. Some days, I’d go down to the creek and swirl my feet in the icy water, just to feel alive. I’d sit on the rocks in our woods, watching the clouds sift between the bare branches. I wondered if I had any real friends at all.
My lover had disappointed me. He didn’t want me to follow through with my plan. He had another plan, he said. A better one. But I’d have to do something for him first—something I refused to do. I began to see him through different eyes. He was merely another self-serving man, like Paul. He’d never had my best interests at heart.
I decided that love was fickle, and nothing but pain. I would continue to make my own happiness, and I would use my lover to do it. I would promise the world and give him nothing in the end. Why should I? Nothing was free in life, not even love. My own father never loved me. My husband probably hated me. My lover only thought he loved me. I didn’t even have a God who loved me anymore.
All the Bible verses I learned in Sunday school felt empty. Songs like “Jesus Loves Me, This I Know.” I didn’t know that. Perhaps I needed to read my Bible; try to understand more. But I couldn’t even go to church, couldn’t ask the questions burning in my heart.
Still, I needed to talk to someone. Someone not associated with Paul in any way. A name jumped to mind, the name of a classmate and friend I’d had in grade school.
Cliff Hogan. Now he was pastor of the small independent church in town. And Cliff knew how I grew up, in that big house with no father to speak of.
I called him and explained I couldn’t leave the house. He agreed to come over during the day, so Paul wouldn’t know we were talking. This was very unwise, but he was a young, single pastor and didn’t know any better. Neither of us could have foreseen the consequences we’d bring upon ourselves.
~*~
As soon as I recognize Axel, I do the first thing that comes to mind—I bury my face in Thomas’ shirt.
His crisp Eternity cologne combines with the Niagara starch and the faint masculine smell of sweat. He pats my head, doubtless unsure of what upset me so much. “Tess?” he whispers. “You okay?”
I raise my head inch by inch, careful to keep it turned away from my German stalker. Thomas’ stubble is rough as I cup my hand under his chin. “Just worried, that’s all. But it’s getting dark. Let’s talk on our way to the restaurant.”
Thomas joins me as I stand, veering to the right—the opposite direction from Axel.
“Um, aren’t we going away from the bistro?” Thomas stops mid-stride.
I offer him a very alluring smile. “Just gives us more time to talk. We’ll circle around.”
Works like a charm. As we walk, I tell him all about Miranda’s note and the unnerving meal with Paul. When I mention the woman’s face in our window and my begonia of doom, Thomas groans and mutters ominously about protecting his woman. I finally bring up my conversation with the Good Doctor and share what he said about Miranda’s inheritance from Rose.
Thomas nods thoughtfully. “Yes, I think I’ve heard Royston mention the Darby account. That’s Rose’s surname—her father was French—and a big-time steamboat owner, back in the day. There was definitely some money to be had there. Rose was their only child.”
His arm covers mine, and I squeeze it tighter to my body. The minute the sun set, the cool breeze off the water picked up. The dark wetness seems to bite into my suit jacket and thin blouse. But the chill isn’t just outside.
“Thomas, when I put the pieces together, they don’t fit. Rose was a recluse. She couldn’t have children. But would that be enough to make her do herself in?”
“People do it all the time, for punier reasons than that.” Thomas speaks like a world-weary cynic.
“And the letter? Why would it have her handwriting?”
“Who told you it’s her handwriting?” Thomas’ eyebrows quirk up, and I laugh at his intense look before I answer.
“Well, Miranda, of course. Her best friend. And Paul didn’t even recognize it! Imagine not recognizing my handwriting…”
“Maybe by the time I get to be an old geezer, I’ll forget too!” Thomas laughs.
We finally step up onto the main town sidewalk, heading left toward the bistro. Thomas might be hungry and tired, but he’s getting a little too slap-happy for me. This is a serious investigation.
He grins. “I see that dubious look, missy.”
“I’m telling you this stuff so I can get your informed opinion on things, Thomas!” My stomach gives a loud growl for extra emphasis. Seductive, I’m sure.
I try to focus straight ahead, determined not to glance at the creepy
Mothman statue in the center of town. Those metal claws and glowing red eyes freak me out. Just because Point Pleasant got famous for some alleged alien sightings doesn’t mean I have to embrace the insanity. Thomas knows this, and he valiantly steps between me and the statue as we pass it.
A few steps farther, to my left, a gold curliqued name stenciled on a lit bay window pulls me up short. Fabled Flowers—the shop where Axel works. Potted ferns form a soft border inside, showcasing the display itself, which channels Beatrix Potter. A worn, stuffed family of rabbits seems to hop around a white picket fence. Red and white roses are juxtaposed with green cabbages and bright-orange carrots. Rosemary sprigs are shaped into a hedgehog—Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle!
I give a short whistle. “Can you believe this? I’ve never seen such edgy flowers!”
Thomas stretches his arms. “Edgy, for sure. Look, I’m hungry, and you know this town always seems to shut down early. I can’t talk until I get fortification.”
I peer beyond the ferns and the fence, trying to see if someone’s inside. Wonder if Axel runs the shop or just works—
“AGH!” I jump backward as Axel’s face emerges, right behind the glass. He’s staring at me, pale eyes fixated.
Thomas grabs my arm. “What the—?”
I start walking, fast as I can. We can beat him, we can beat him, I’m hungry…
An old cowbell clangs into the glass door as Axel swings it open wide. This is a nightmare. Right here with my husband, he’s going to accost me. Video images of the stolen kiss race through my mind.
“Tess. You like the begonia?” His German accent seems more pronounced than our last meeting.
Thomas stops following me and turns, pointing loosely at Axel. “Begonia?” His tone is quizzical, light. But I know flaming hot lava simmers underneath it.
I step in quickly.
“Thomas, meet Axel. He delivered that yellow begonia, you know, from someone anonymous…” I step right next to Thomas, ready to catch his arm, should he choose to hit the big German with it.
Thomas turns to me. “You and the florist are on a first-name basis?”
Axel doesn’t pick up on Thomas’ negative vibe. At all. He strides right up next to me. “We went to college together.” He pats my arm and looks at me. Oh, good mercy, no. It’s the possessive stalker look.
Thomas’ perfect white smile is so incongruous, it’s downright terrifying. His long fingers bend, tightening into fists. I wanted him to be protective, but he’s about to go loco on a German who bears more than a passing resemblance to Dolph Lundgren in Rocky IV.
I hug Thomas tightly, getting up in his face before I turn. “Axel, this is my husband, Thomas Spencer. He’s a lawyer. We’ve got to get going, though.”
Axel nods, looking from Thomas to me. No doubt he’s used up his quota of words for the day. He smiles and lumbers back toward Fabled Flowers. I wait for the cowbell clang before I finally let go of Thomas. My arms are shaking.
Thomas’ set jaw and the way he power-walks past me lets me know I’d better zip my mouth and let him cool off. By the time I catch up with him, we’re at the bistro. Once the hostess seats us, I decide to break the ice. After all, this is a date.
“So…how was your day?”
Thomas slaps the menu on the table. “Well, Tess, it was just great, till some whopping guy I’ve never met came up and leered at my wife like she’s a piece of German chocolate cake.”
“Come on. He just knew me in college and happens to be the florist.”
“And was he the anonymous donor of aforementioned flowers?”
He’s veering toward lawyer-talk. Not good. Where’s our waitress, anyway? Maybe breadsticks would help. I wave frantically toward the kitchen. Finally, a woman walks our way.
The waitress says, “Today’s special is—” She stops as Thomas turns his smoldering eyes on her. His anger gives him a masculine edge he’s completely oblivious to.
The waitress blushes, then continues. She has lovely fair skin with peachy undertones. Even her hair looks peach—some kind of strawberry blonde. She turns full-on toward me to finish her spiel, and I gasp.
Those wide-set eyes. That hair. The pale skin. She’s the face I saw in my window. The watcher in my woods.
11
~*~
The first time Cliff came to talk with me, snow had blanketed the ground. His old orange Dodge truck rumbled up our drive. I put on my rabbit-fur trimmed coat and white leather gloves to go and meet him.
He jumped out of the truck into thick snow that swallowed his boots. “Rose! Good lands, you haven’t aged one bit!” He yanked his feet free and tromped over to hug me. “You look like a snow queen, all dressed in white.”
I couldn’t believe his comments, much less his enthusiasm over seeing me. I felt like the only person in his world. Cliff had always had that way about him. He drew people close without trying hard at all.
He had changed since grade school. His freckles seemed less pronounced, and his red hair had darkened considerably.
I had hot cider waiting inside, along with cinnamon rolls I’d made for Paul’s breakfast. Cliff put more wood in the fireplace and we sat, watching the glowing, crumbling logs.
“I have a feeling you called me for a reason. Might as well begin at the beginning.” His directness disarmed me.
I told him everything about our marriage. I left my affair out of it. In my mind, that was already over. But Cliff knew I was hiding something—it was like he had a spotlight trained deep into my soul.
“Be honest, Rose. You seem weighed down, and not just from Paul’s bullying. What else is going on?”
Bullying. He saw it and acknowledged it. His clover-green eyes stayed on my face, waiting for an answer. It was too much for me. Truth spilled out, like water overflowing a dam. I couldn’t stop until I’d told him everything, even my plan for dealing with Paul.
And our fate was set that day.
~*~
Before I think, the words pop out of my mouth. “Excuse me, but do I know you?”
The waitress doesn’t have a nametag. Nametags are probably old-school, like Flo from Mel’s Diner, or Laverne and Shirley.
She blinks. “No. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.”
Thomas glares at me over his menu. I know he’s starving. “Oh, okay. I’d like the Cheddar Onion Burger. And a side salad with Ranch.”
The waitress turns to Thomas, her expression softening. Dude, she is totally scoping out my husband, even though she’s probably a good fifteen years older than I am.
The nameless waitress takes Thomas’ order, then walks through the swinging kitchen doors, swinging a little herself. Thomas ignores her hips and stares at me.
“What?” I take a sip of water. “I’ve seen her before, and you want to know where? In our window. She’s the one who’s been spying in our woods!”
Thomas’ anger dissipates. “Really? But why?”
“I have no idea.”
We drop our voices as the waitress reappears with our breadsticks. I smile. “Thanks—um, what’s your name? I didn’t catch it.”
My impromptu probing technique works.
“Rosemary Hogan.” She places a tub of marinara sauce in front of Thomas. “Careful, honey, that’s hot.” Her eyes rove down his shirt.
I interrupt her gape session. “Could I have some garlic butter?”
She pivots and gives me a longsuffering look. “Sure thing.”
As Rosemary walks to another table, Thomas leans forward and takes my hand. “I’ll pray,” he says. “Dear Father, we thank you for this food and this date. In Jesus’ holy name I pray, Amen.”
“Short and sweet?”
Thomas stuffs a bite of breadstick in his mouth, red sauce dripping onto his plate. “Hungry.”
Let it never be said that cavemen are dead. So much for the high-class, patrician husband I married.
After Rosemary drops off our main dishes, we start throwing ideas around. Maybe it wasn’t Rosemary in o
ur woods—after all, it was dark when I saw her. Still, her face looks so familiar.
Miranda’s note was from someone who doesn’t like Paul. I think back to my conversation with the Good Doctor. My face flushes as I visualize his immaculate appearance and replay his deep voice saying my name. These pregnancy hormones have hijacked my brains. I’m more Neanderthal than Thomas.
“…and so I had to make all those copies. Can you believe it? What’s our secretary get paid for, anyway? All she does is make gritty, tar-thick coffee every morning.” Somehow Thomas has segued into a gripe session about work.
“Good grief.” I try to echo his browbeaten tone.
He chows into his loaded baked potato. “And I swear our old paralegal is either dyslexic or blind. He messed up all the measurements on the deed he handed me.”
My eyes flit around the room, but don’t land on Rosemary. I want to talk more about the Miranda situation with Thomas, but he’s off in lawyer-land.
“They think I’m stupid because I’m in my twenties. Who cares that I have a UVA degree? The worst is when Royston butchers the wills I draw up. The man can’t even write!”
Thomas pauses as I sip my water. “By the way, I don’t think I told you, but you look amazing tonight. Pregnancy gives you quite a glow. And that blouse…so silky.” His deep brown eyes are soft and intimate. A little too intimate for the restaurant.
“Thanks.” I drop my voice to a whisper. “Could you get your hands on Rose’s will for me?”
Thomas leans closer, putting his hand on my knee. He’s still distracted. “You want a copy of it?”
“No, you loon. Just tell me what it says. You know, any weird contingencies or anything.”
“No problem. Consider it done. But tell me again why you’re in the middle of this? Why do you care so much about whether Rose committed suicide or got murdered?”
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