Devlin's Light

by Mariah Stewart

  “You make it sound as if you never saw her.”

  “Oh, no, it wasn’t like that. Maureen did the things that would have taken up Mother’s time when she wasn’t writing, so that she could spend time with us.” Zoey leaned back against the seat. “She was great, Maureen was. Younger than Mom and sassy as the day is long. Supposedly she was the only child of very wealthy parents. She had incurred their wrath by insisting upon marrying someone they felt was totally unsuitable. She thought they’d come around, in time, to accept her husband, who apparently proved to be every bit as much of a gold digger as her parents said he was. He left her, and she and Ben never heard from him again.”

  “So what happened? She tried to go home but her parents wouldn’t take her back?”

  “No. Mother thought that Maureen felt so guilty that her mother had died while she was out trailing around with this reprobate she’d married that she couldn’t face her father. Anyway, she came to work for Mother. Her son, Ben, was Nicky’s age. They were inseparable.”

  Zoey’s eyes took on a faraway glow, a fact that was not lost on India.

  “I had a terrible crush on Ben, from the day he came to stay until the day he left. And then some, maybe.” She tried to shrug it off, but the wistful look lingered on her face. “All the time I was growing up, when I was in high school and I was so gangly and odd looking, I always dreamed that Ben would come back and take me to the prom and slay my dragons. Too much, huh?”

  “I can’t imagine you not being gorgeous, Zoey.”

  Zoey laughed. “For most of my life, I looked like a puzzle whose pieces had been put together just slightly off. I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror without cringing until I was eighteen or nineteen years old.” Zoey’s face softened, remembering. “Nothing like Georgia, who is so perfectly pink and golden and always has been. Or like Mother, who is, well, you saw what my mother is like. Even when we were poor as church mice, those first two years after Dad left, my mother always had that air of elegance around her.”

  She sighed. “And now you know probably more than you’d ever want to know about the Enrights.”

  “What happened to Ben?” India asked.

  “Maureen got sick, very sick. The doctors told her she was dying. She wanted to go home to die. Her father came and took her and Ben back to Massachusetts.”

  “And you never saw him again?”

  “Once. After his mother died, he ran away from his grandfather and came to my mother. Who, of course, had to call his grandfather and let him know where Ben was. His grandfather came and took him back. We never heard from him again.” Zoey leaned against the steering wheel and stared out the front window as if looking back through time. “Ben was so different. He was so angry. Even his eyes were angry. I cried for days.”

  “Maybe someday your paths will cross again.”

  “I’ve never stopped hoping that they will.” Zoey forced a wistful smile as she pulled away from the curb. “Do you believe in fairy tales, India?”

  “I guess a little.” India smiled.

  “Well, I don’t know whether Ben grew up to be a prince or a toad, but I’ve never stopped wishing that he’d come back.”

  “Zoey, I do believe that if anyone could will something to happen, it would be you.”

  Zoey flashed the Enright mega-watt smile, and India laughed.

  Wherever he was, Ben Pierce didn’t know what he was missing.

  Chapter 18

  “Where have you been, dear?” August called from the dining room when she heard the soft fall of India’s stockinged feet in the hallway.

  “I ran into Zoey Enright out on the beach. We went to Pete’s for some hot chocolate,” India told her. “Pete sends you his regards.”

  “Hmm.” August shrugged off Pete’s sentiments as casually as she might shrug off an idle remark.

  In another life, Pete had been among the many young men in Devlin’s Light whose heads were turned by a saucy Augustina Devlin. In those days of youthful arrogance, she had been a woman who liked a man to dance to her tune. Pete, however, preferred a tune of his own and so had sought out a woman more willing to dance along with him. No one knew for certain whether or not August had ever regretted having turned her back on Captain Pete Moreland, but there were those in town who had their suspicions.

  “Coincidentally, India, while you were gone, Nick called. They have two extra tickets to see the Nutcracker in Baltimore and asked if the two of us might be available to join them.”

  “I would love to go, but I can’t.” India shook her head. “You and Corri should definitely go, though.”

  “India, what do you mean you can’t go?” Aunt August wore her stern face, her fists resting on her hips.

  “I have to be back in Paloma early on Sunday. I have a lot of work to catch up on, and I need some time to make some phone calls within the department on Monday to follow up on the information I got from Lucien.” India sat upon the bottom step. “As much as I would love to go to Baltimore, Aunt August, it’s time I simply don’t have to spare this weekend.”

  “Well, perhaps if you …” August frowned, and India recognized her aunt’s where-there’s-a-will-there’s-a-way face.

  “Aunt August, I want to take a leave of absence. I cannot ask my boss to grant that while I have so much work pending. It wouldn’t be fair. Plus I need to start looking into this land deal that dear Maris pulled off right before she died.”

  “It does seem coincidental, doesn’t it? Maris gets mixed up with this … this bamboozler Shuman, together they bamboozle Byers, then she drowns.” August’s eyes narrowed. “Shuman, Maris, and the money all disappear at the same time.” She shook her head as if shaking off a chill. “And to think that my boy married such a woman.”

  August blustered into the kitchen. India sighed and followed her.

  “Let’s call Nick back and tell him that you and Corri will go. It’ll be a real treat for Corri as well as for you. You haven’t been to the ballet in almost a year, and I know you dearly want to go. And you’ll have a wonderful time, August. Just think of how much fun it will be on Tuesday night, telling your card club about going to Baltimore with Delia Enright.”

  “You know me entirely too well, India.” August laughed. “And you’re right, I do want to go.”

  “Go where, Aunt August?” Corri sailed into the kitchen on her roller skates.

  “Uh-uh,” India pointed to the skates. “Not in the house.”

  “Where is Aunt August going?” Corri sat down and without argument began to remove her skates.

  “To see Georgia dance in the Nutcracker tomorrow night in Baltimore,” India told her grandly.

  “Oh, oh,”—Corri jumped up, the left skate still tied on her foot—“can I go too, please, please? I heard the Nut-cracker music on television this morning. It’s so floaty!”

  Corri twirled around.

  “Well, we were considering that very possibility.” India tried to look pensive.

  “Really? I really could? Is Zoey going too? And Nick?”

  “I think all of the Enrights are going,” August told her, “but they could only get two extra seats.”

  Corri visibly counted. “But there are three of us,” she pointed out.

  “I can’t go, sweetie,” India told her. “Even if there were three tickets, I couldn’t go. I have tons of work to do between now and Monday morning.”

  “Oh, but Indy—”

  “Sorry, sweetie. Maybe another time. But if I want to take lots of time off, I have to put in lots of time now. Understand?”

  The phone rang and August answered it.

  “Why, we were just discussing that very thing, Nick.” August’s clever eyes did not miss the way India’s color deepened at the sound of his name, or the little smile that played across her lips and that her niece thought no one else could see.

  Good. Just as August had hoped.

  Very good.

  “She’s right here, Nick.” August tapped India on the
shoulder and handed her the telephone.

  “What’s this I hear about you passing on the ballet?” he asked.

  “Aside from my normal work schedule, something has come up that I need to look into.”

  “Now what could have come up so quickly?” She paused. Corri was in the room, working hard to get a knot out of her skates’ laces, well near enough to hear every word India said. India did not want to discuss the shady dealings of the mother with the child so close at hand.

  “India?” Nick questioned the unexpected and overly long pause.

  “Ah …” She sought the words.

  “Why don’t you let me take you out to dinner tonight and you can tell me all about it.”

  “Aren’t your mother and sister still there?”

  “Yup. But they have their own plans for this evening. Some parlor concert at Captain Jon’s.”

  “Oh, I passed by there today. I saw the activity but forgot about the concert.” India smiled at his use of the locals’ name for the Devlin mansion in town. “And now that you mention it, I believe Aunt August is going also.”

  They agreed upon a time for dinner, and India fled to the shower, taking the steps her usual two at a time. August sighed with true satisfaction and hummed as she rinsed out the coffeepot in the kitchen sink. Things were moving along quite nicely. Quite nicely indeed.

  Casual dress, Nick had told her, which was, India thought, fortunate, since casual was about all she had brought home, other than the dress she had worn on Thanksgiving Day. Shaking the extra water from her hair, India brushed it from underneath with one hand and blow-dried it with the other, hoping to give it volume. She pulled on a pair of khaki pants and a sweater the color of ripe plums, popped shiny silver shells on her ears and slid her grandmother’s large silver filigree ring set with amethysts onto her middle finger. She was ready long before Nick rang the doorbell.

  “Hey.” He grinned and leaned down to brush his lips across hers when she opened the front door. “I’m happy to see you.”

  “Hey, I’m happy to see you too.”

  “And I’m happy to see my niece getting out for a change.” August came into the hallway from the back of the house. “Now, where are you going tonight?”

  “I thought maybe we’d have dinner at Carol’s,” Nick said.

  “Ummm, Carol’s crabcakes,” India’s eyes lit up at the thought of the plump little cushions of chunky white crabmeat, expertly seasoned and browned.

  “Carol’s it is, then.”

  “Will you be home late, dear?” August watched Nick help India into her suede jacket. Watched him straighten her collar. Watched India smile up into his face.

  “I doubt it,” India called over her shoulder as Nick took her hand and led her through the front door.

  “Where’s Corri tonight?” He took her hand and they strolled, unhurried, down the sidewalk. “Umm. You smell as good as you look. What is that scent?”

  “Freesia,” she told him. “And Corri is at a birthday party at a friend’s house. Darla will bring her home.”

  “Then we have, oh, a whole few hours to spend together.” He looked pleased at the prospect. “Walk or drive?”

  “Walk. It’s only a few blocks. I could use the exercise.”

  “According to my sister, you had plenty this afternoon.”

  “Not nearly enough to make up for all I ate yesterday,” she said, laughing.

  “I’m glad you had a little time to spend with Zoey. Besides being my sister, she’s one of my all-time favorite people.”

  “I enjoyed her company. But you know, I never did get around to asking her what she’s doing these days,” India noted.

  “I believe she may be gainfully unemployed once again,” Nick mused. “Though I think she is considering several options. I told you, I believe, that Zoey has had many jobs over the past few years. She just hasn’t found her calling yet.”

  “Would you call Zoey a bit of a rolling stone?” India asked.

  “Not really. Mother says it’s not that Zoey’s flighty so much as she just hasn’t landed yet. But we all know that when she does, it will be with both feet. She’ll make an enormous splash and she’ll live happily ever after.”

  “Does believing in fairy tales run in your family?” India looked up at him as they passed under a streetlight. The halo of pale yellow obscured his features for a brief instant, rendering him faceless in the foggy night.

  “Maybe.” He laughed and passed out of the light, his eyes and nose and mouth returning to their appointed places. “Must have something to do with having a mother who writes fiction, who always makes certain there’s a happy ending. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, just something Zoey said today.” India and Nick stepped sideways to permit a group of noisy teenagers to pass by. “She was talking about an old friend of yours that she had a crush on.”

  “Ben Pierce.”

  “That’s it.”

  “Why was she talking about him?”

  “She said he had been your friend, like Ry had been. And that she was sorry that you had lost both of them.”

  They had reached Carol’s, the small restaurant that occupied the first floor of a rambling Queen Anne-style house on Bond Street in the “newer” section of town. “New,” in Devlin’s Light, referred to houses built after the Civil War, as so many of the structures had been built before 1800. There would be a fifteen -minute wait for their table, they were told, so they opted to wait at the bar, which occupied what had once been the music room in the century-old house.

  “India Devlin, I haven’t seen your face in here in, well, I can’t remember how long.” Jake the bartender dried his hands on a towel and reached them across the mahogany plank that served as the bar top. “Hey, and Nick too. How’s it going?”

  “Going well,” Nick told him.

  “Hello, Jake.” India smiled.

  “Let’s see, a glass of zinfandel for India and a beer for Nick, right?”

  “You’ve got a great memory, Jake.” India nodded.

  “How’s your aunt doing, Indy?” Jake set the wineglass on the bar in front of her.

  “She’s doing just fine.”

  “Gotta be tough on you guys this year with Ry gone.” Jake shook his head sadly. “Hell of a guy, Ry Devlin was. Hell of a guy.”

  “Thank you, Jake. I appreciate your remembering him,” India said softly.

  “Aw, how could you forget a guy like that?” Jake shook his head again and took a few steps to the left to fill another order.

  India sipped at her wine and Nick stared into his beer, his fingers slowly turning the glass around in his hand.

  India broke the silence. “It’s hard to lose a friend. It’s good when people remember him, when they talk about him.”

  She thought back to Lucien Byer’s visit that morning.

  “Someone stopped by the house this morning,” she told him. “A real-estate developer named Lucien Byers. He said he is the president of Byers World. He was looking for Maris.”

  “Maris?” Nick’s eyes widened. “Did you tell him he was about two years too late?”

  She nodded. “It seems that not long before her accident, Maris had ‘sold’ Byers some of the Devlin land—about seventeen acres or so down along the river. He had the agreement of sale with him, with Maris’s signature and a very poor forgery of Ry’s on the bottom.”

  “What?”

  “Of course, it’s not worth the paper it’s printed on, but Mr. Byers wasn’t happy to learn he’d been tricked out of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

  Nick slammed his glass on the bar. “Start from the beginning, and tell me everything.”

  She did.

  “Wait a minute,” he said when she had concluded. “You think there may be some connection between Maris’s death and Ry’s?”

  “It’s beginning to look that way. Suppose for a minute that Maris did take this cashier’s check and cash it—”

  “She’d have been walking aroun
d with a quarter of a million dollars. Where would she have stashed that?”

  “I think that’s exactly what this Shuman wanted to know. So maybe she didn’t tell him.”

  “And he killed her? Or maybe she did tell him and he killed her anyway, then hid the money and disappeared before Byers could figure out the fraud.”

  “Then he came back looking for the money in Devlin’s Light.”

  “Where else could she have hidden it? The house, the Light, or someplace in between?” India rationalized. “Maybe Ry caught him, and he killed Ry.”

  “Hmmmm.” Nick pondered this. “I guess it makes as much sense as anything else. Ry really didn’t seem to have any enemies. I spent several days out at Bayview last week. I couldn’t find one person who said one thing against him, India. From the faculty to the administrators, he was well liked, highly respected. Even the students I spoke with had nothing but good things to say about him. But didn’t you say that you thought there might have been two people involved in his death?”

  “That’s a possibility. Someone to get his attention, to draw him out to the lighthouse. Someone waiting there to kill him.”

  “Then there was someone else working with Shuman.”

  “There were several names on the settlement papers. A lawyer, a settlement clerk, someone from the title company. At the very least, one of those persons would have had to be involved in order to have lent a sense of authenticity to the sale. Byers promised to fax me copies of all the documents first thing on Monday morning. Once I have the names of the players we can start to track them down.”

  “That’s why you need to be back in Paloma early on Sunday?”

  India nodded. “That’s part of it. I need to get my ducks in a row if I’m going to ask for a leave. The Man won’t be happy.”

  “‘The Man?’”

  “The D.A. My boss.”