“Senior night.” India smiled. “It’s been a tradition forever in Devlin’s Light. The night before high-school graduation, everyone in the class piles into boats and rows from the beach at the end of Darien Road out to the Light and back.”
“Well, some of these kids apparently decided to take a shortcut through the marsh.”
“Kids have been doing that for years too.” She laughed. “This cabin, and one farther down toward the swamp, used to be empty from time to time. Kids used to come here to… hang out.”
“Hang out, or make out?”
“Both.”
“Did you used to, ah, hang out here?”
“From time to time I may have.” She grinned as his forehead creased in a frown. “In any event, I suspect some of the kids who headed this way back in June may not have known that someone was living here.”
“Quite possibly. They may also not have known that a short-eared owl had decided to build a nest in the ground out there.” He pointed toward the marshy area between the cabin and the bay. “Apparently they came too close that night, because it was shrieking to beat the band. Just like tonight. Just like the night that Ry died.”
As they stood pondering the possibilities, a small boat rounded the point and made a big, looping, lazy turn in the bay before heading back toward the beach at the opposite end of the cove. The shadowy forms of the two occupants of the boat appeared as little more than silhouettes against the moonlit water, and the sound of light, young laughter drifted across the bay.
“I don’t recall ever seeing anyone out on the bay much later than this,” Nick said, glancing at his watch, “and it’s just after ten o’clock.”
“But the night Ry was killed you said you woke up around two.”
“What would anyone be doing out here at that hour?”
“Luring Ry to the Light.”
“You think he knew someone was there?”
“Very likely. Why else would he have gone? And it was unlikely that anyone had called. Aunt August would have heard the phone.”
“Can you see the Light from August’s house?”
“Yes. From several of the bedrooms on the second floor, and from all the windows across the back on the third floor. You can definitely see it from Ry’s bedroom.”
“So if someone was in the Light, with a lantern or something, Ry could conceivably have seen them from the house?”
“Sure, Ry and I used to do it all the time.”
“Do what all the time?”
“Go out to the Light, then signal home with a flashlight if we were there after dark.” She grinned. “It used to spook some of the little kids in the neighborhood. Especially around Halloween. They all thought it was Eli Devlin.”
“But why would Ry be up, looking out the window, at two in the morning?”
“Got me. Unless something woke him up that night too.”
“Wouldn’t have been the owl. It’s too far from August’s house.”
“Well, it couldn’t have been much of a noise. Aunt August said that she hadn’t even known he had left the house that night.”
“So whatever it was…”
“… might have been meant to awaken only Ry,” she finished the sentence for him.
The list of new information began to tick off in her head.
Could someone have been in the marsh near Nick’s cabin that night?
Had someone, somehow, gotten Ry’s attention at the house and managed to send him to the Light and to his death?
Who? How? And why?
Could the same person who disturbed the owl have awakened Ry? If not, then that could mean that more than one person had wanted Ry dead.
She shook her head. She could not think of one single person who would have wanted him dead, and two were out of the question.
“I should be going,” she said. “It’s late.”
Nick sighed deeply but did not protest. Sliding his hands the length of her arms until they encircled her wrists, he tugged gently in the direction of the house.
“I’ll get your things,” he told her, freeing her arms reluctantly.
For several long moments, India was totally lost in thought.
The sound of the screen door rubbing slightly against its wood frame brought her attention back to the immediate here and now. She watched Nick step out onto the deck, and not for the first time she admired the sight of him, tall, broad-shouldered, handsome, with a tumble of dark curls and a devastating smile.
Conscience prodded her, reminding her that she had come to the cabin in the hopes of learning more about her brother’s death, not to make time with his best friend.
She tried to keep this thought in mind as he draped first her sweater, then his arm, around her shoulders and walked with her toward the side of the cabin, following the wooden path to the steps and down to where her car was parked. Whistling, all the while, in her ear.
The Temptations. “My Girl.”
Ry would’ve loved it.
Aunt August’s Deep-Dish Apple Pie
dough for double-crust pie (prepared, refrigerated dough works fine)
8-10 apples, peeled, cored and sliced
1 cup sugar
1/4 cup flour
3 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon salt
4 teaspoons fresh lemon juice
1/2 cup raisins
3 tablespoons butter, cut into small pieces
Prepare crust according to package (or your recipe) for a filled, double-crust pie. Roll out dough, transfer to a deep, 10-inch pie plate. Press into place, leaving a little overhang.
Combine apples, sugar, flour, cinnamon, salt, lemon juice and raisins, mixing well. Pour into pie crust. Dot with butter. Roll out second crust, place over pie. Pinch edges of the two crusts, then trim excess. Cut several slashes into the top crust.
Bake in a 350° oven for 45 minutes, checking crust to see if edges are browning too rapidly. If so, cover edges with foil and bake until filling is bubbling and the crust is golden.
Chapter 10
The song was still in her head as she took the steps to the second floor of the old Devlin house two at a time. How could that man have known that “My Girl” was one of her all-time favorite songs, guaranteed to turn her knees to water every time?
August had left on the small lamp next to India’s bed, and its low-watt bulb cast a faint and eerie glow into the hall. India closed the bedroom door behind her with a concentrated hush, not wanting to awaken August or Corri. It was after eleven, and the house lay in what passes for silence in an old house, with its mix of the occasional creaking pipe and the settling of old floorboards. The branch of a maple tree grazed against the window and made a slight rubbing sound. All else was quiet.
Rummaging in her suitcase, India found a nightshirt and set off for the bathroom at the end of the hall, the farthest from where her aunt and Corri lay sleeping. She wanted a quick shower to rinse the salt from the heavy marsh air from her arms and her hair. Then she would sit up in bed and make notes of all the information she had learned tonight. As the hot water pelted her skin, she began to compile a short list of possible suspects. Manning, certainly, needed to be talked to. Hatfield, possibly. And there were still some who thought that Kenny Kerns belonged at the top of that list.
It was no secret that Kenny has a trigger-quick temper, she reminded herself as she turned off the hot water and stepped onto the nubby dark green bath mat that lay across the cool white tile. She pulled two towels from the rack and wrapped one around her head before wrapping the other around her body. Drying her legs and her feet, she opened the door quietly, releasing steam and heavy warm air into the cool of the hallway.
Kenny may have been hotheaded, but she’d never heard of him being violent. Had the thought of Darla marrying Ry pushed him over the line? Indy grabbed her robe from the foot of the bed where she’d left it. As she did so, something rolled past her feet. She jumped back in surprise, then bent down to pick up a small round
black vinyl disc.
Funny, she hadn’t noticed it earlier.
She turned the 45 RPM record over and looked at the label. An old Jackson Five hit.
Corri must have been going through Ry’s record collection and for some reason picked this one out to play and forgotten to put it back.
India shrugged and placed it on the desk, then returned to the bathroom to towel-dry her hair. There was a lot to think about tonight. Starting with the man out beyond the marshes who was very slowly beginning to turn her inside out. She certainly hadn’t planned for it to happen, but Nick Enright was simply too much to ignore. Too kind. Too thoughtful.
Too adorable.
Too much man.
That was the bottom line here. How much longer could she pretend that Nick was nothing more than her brother’s best friend? Kissing him tonight had certainly made it abundantly clear that he was not a man to walk away from. Indy tried to recall the last time a man had taken her breath away with his kisses, or had lit a spark so deep inside her that it seemed the glow had found and warmed her very core. She wasn’t sure that she had ever felt what she’d felt when Nick Enright had begun to nibble on her lower lip, but she sure as hell hoped she’d get to feel it again.
India hung the damp towel over a metal bar, then turned off the bathroom light and slipped back across the hall to her room. Too tired now, her written list of suspects and other pertinent information would have to wait until tomorrow. Turning off the light, she tried to settle in for the night but was distracted by the images running at full tilt behind her eyes.
Nick as he looked when she arrived at his cabin, his easy smile and soft eyes watching, welcoming her. Almost as if he’d been waiting for her. As if he’d wished her there.
Corri’s pert little face, watching India from across the dinner table, studying the way Indy had absentmindedly stirred her iced tea before mimicking the motions.
Darla’s efforts to start her own business, encouraged by Ry to take her incredible baked goods on the road, so to speak, and begin to market her craft.
Ry’s plans to renovate the Light, to provide a space for Darla to have a home for the business she had always dreamed of.
India bit her lip and stared at the ceiling. She owed it to both of them—her brother and her best friend—to try her best to make that happen. It had obviously been important to Ry that he give Darla this freedom. She, India, could do no less. How to make that happen from Paloma? The weekends were short enough as it was, with trials coming up and Corri to think about. And Nick.
India turned over and punched her pillow. Life was complicated enough right now, she told herself sternly, without getting tangled up with Nick Enright.
She could have laughed out loud. If she wasn’t well on her way to tangling with him, what exactly would she call it? Her fingers traced the path his lips had made along the side of her face. She could almost feel his tongue teasing at the corners of her mouth.
Yeah, that was tangling, all right.
With a sigh, India threw back the covers and stood up in the cool of the night. Grabbing a fuzzy blue mohair afghan from a nearby chair, she wrapped it around her shoulders and eased onto the window seat that her father, years earlier, had built for her with his own hands. She smiled at the memory of her white-haired, scholarly father, his glasses perched upon his nose as he meticulously measured the space beneath the window and drew a corresponding diagram upon a sheet of blue-lined notebook paper. He had approached the project as he researched points of law, all his tools lined up ahead of time, in order of their anticipated usage. India had never before nor after seen her father work with his hands to cut wood and hammer it into place. He had done it for her, and he had felt that had been enough to prove he could—if he wanted to. He had simply never wanted to again.
India had spent so many hours curled up just so, she mused. Weeping over school-girl crushes or planning her career. For years she had sent her prayers off, heaven bound, from this very spot. And for years she had come to this very window to look out at the night, when the nightmares came and refused to give her peace.
India shivered and shook her head as if to clear it. With a sigh of exasperation, she pulled the afghan more closely around her and sank back against the wall, alone with the night and with her thoughts.
“What do you think, Indy?” Darla passed a small white plate upon which sat a plump, fragrant muffin into India’s waiting hands.
“I think it smells incredible.” India lifted the plate to her nose for a closer whiff. “What kind is this one?”
“Raisin pumpkin. And these,” she said, removing a muffin tin from the oven and placing it upon a rack on the counter, “are raspberry cream.”
“Heaven!” India all but swooned. “Sheer heaven. Don’t wrap them all up. I may eat one of those too.”
“Wow. A two-muffin morning. You must have heavy doings on your mind.” Darla tucked a loose strand of blond hair behind her ear and watched Indy’s face for subtle changes, those little telltale signs of trouble or stress. There, there it was. Barely imperceptible, but to one who knew India as well as Darla did, the shadow that had crossed Indy’s face was unmistakable.
India shrugged and reached for the butter dish.
“How’s your new case going?” Darla tried to sound casual.
“Umm, okay. I think we have enough to get a conviction.”
“When does that trial start?”
“Two more weeks.” India nibbled at the edge of the muffin. It was dribbly with butter and tasted the way an early fall morning should taste. “Dar, I love these. These are my favorites.”
“I thought the strawberry cheesecake were your favorites.”
“Them too.” India licked crumbs off her fingers.
“Then what about the chocolate mocha?”
“Umm, right. Those.”
Darla laughed. “I wish you’d come home more often, Indy. I need your enthusiasm.”
“Oh, come on, Dar. I can’t believe that you’d need anyone to tell you that you bake like no one else. I’ll bet there’d be an endless stream of volunteers to taste-test your experiments.”
“Yeah, but I need that Devlin palate to do it right.” Darla sat down and rested her chin in her hand. “I miss Ry, Indy. I miss him more and more, not less and less.”
“Me too.” India sat her coffee mug down quietly on the table.
“We had the best plans, Indy. We had it all worked out. We were getting the Light all fixed up, repaired and painted and restored. We were going to do a sort of cafe in the two rooms downstairs, just simple fare that would be appropriate for a little morning munch or an afternoon tea. It was going to be so much fun. It was Ry’s idea that I sell my muffins and breads and stuff. He had a great advertising campaign all worked out and a marketing strategy.” Darla sighed and shook her head.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about all that. I think we should proceed just as you and Ry had planned.”
“It won’t be the same.”
“Of course it won’t be the same. Dar, nothing will ever be the same again. But that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t follow through with it. We both know that Ry would have wanted you to do this. That he did want you to have this. We’ll just finish the job ourselves. It may take a little longer, but I want to do it. I want the Light restored, Dar, if for no other reason than because Ry wanted it restored. That was his dream, and we will do it for him.” India closed a hand over Darla’s, which were clasped as if in prayer before her on the table.
“India, are you sure you don’t want to think this over? This was not an inexpensive project.”
“What’s to think over?” India shrugged. “It’s Devlin trust money, anyway. Ry’s and mine. I can’t think of a better way to spend it.”
“Would you want to see the plans Ry had drawn up?”
“Sure.” India nodded enthusiastically. “There’s no time like the present.”
“I’ll be right back.” Darla stood up, her sho
ulders still sagging from the weight of her sadness.
“We’ll fix it, Ry,” India whispered aloud as she poured herself another cup of coffee. “I can’t bring you back, but maybe I can help bring the life back into Darla’s eyes. Maybe we can get her business going so that she can support herself and the kids and maybe someday she’ll even be happy again. Maybe, with your help, we can make it happen for her.”
“Here’s Ry’s briefcase.” Darla swung the black leather satchel onto the kitchen table and unsnapped the closure. She opened the lid and swung it around so that it stood open to India’s scrutiny.
Inside lay folders, dark brown heavy cardboard secured with black elastic to keep the contents in. Each was named, the inch-high letters printed in Ry’s neat hand, in black felt-tipped pen. India’s fingers walked through the stack, scrolling the files.
Her brother had been meticulous in his research into the restoration of the Light. One file held paint chips and paint charts from several manufacturers of historic colors. India smiled. It was exactly Ry’s style to try to match both the exterior and interior shades as closely as possible.
Another file held a diagram of the massive fireplace that stood between the two main rooms of the Light’s first floor, as well as detailed photographs of every aspect of the structure. Several business cards of masons who specialized in brick restoration were paper-clipped to one side of the folder. A hand-printed list of books relating to historic fireplaces was included in the file, as were Ry’s sketches of how he saw the rooms once the renovations had been completed.
Ry’s optimism, his plans for his life with Darla lay before India’s eyes in the thin, penciled lines hastily sketched upon white construction paper. It pulled at her heart, which she had thought to be beyond breaking any further. In Ry’s hand, the rooms had become beautiful again in their simplicity, with small round tables and mismatched wooden chairs. Those same windows, which had not, to her knowledge, been opened in more than a hundred years, stood open to the sun and the soft salty breezes off the bay. She saw the Light through her brother’s eyes and knew that it was all exactly right, exactly the way it should be. The way it had to be.
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