by Peggy Jaeger
Frayne stared at me, his expression circumspect and chary, almost disgusted. “You can’t believe that, Cathy.”
“I don’t know what to believe since, like I’ve said, we have no true facts of what occurred. People are named as suspects of crimes every day. It doesn’t mean they’re all guilty.”
His mouth turned downward.
Before he could challenge my thoughts, I added, “Or say he did commit the murders—”
“I think the facts as they’ve been presented assures he did.”
“And I believe there’s room for doubt. But say, for the sake of debate, he did. It may explain why, when he landed here, he spent the rest of his life atoning and dedicating his days to service and spirituality. He started a new life in a new place and set about doing everything in his power to do good. You know from your research about the ways he helped the community grow and prosper. There was never a hint of scandal or of any kind of wrongdoing. A tradition of service to the greater good filtered down to his family and the generations that came after him.”
Frayne shook his head, and his eyes drifted down to where he held my hand. He shook out of it. “You can excuse what he did simply because he never did it again? Because he lived a blame-free life from the moment he arrived here? Because he tried, to use your word, to atone for it with his newfound religious fervor and dedication?”
“That’s not what I’m saying—”
“It sounds like it. It sounds like you feel all his further actions of supposed service to man and God made up for the taking of two innocent lives.”
“I’m not saying it’s true; I’m merely offering it up as an explanation, a theory. And nothing excuses murder, Mac. I would never condone that. If the scenario is true, though, it would explain a great deal about why he set the town up the way he did, why he made the teachings of the Bible such a tenet of the town he helped build. Wasn’t one of the questions you wanted answers to why the streets all had to have ecclesiastical names and meanings? Why Josiah had such a religious bent?”
“Naming streets and preaching the word of God doesn’t excuse heinous crimes or behavior, Cathy.”
“I didn’t say excuse, I said explain.”
It was as if he hadn’t heard me.
“What about the families of the bank manager and his wife? How do you think they felt, knowing their loved ones were murdered with no one to take the blame, no one to prosecute for the crime? They didn’t get the chance for a do-over, like Heaven did. They didn’t get to run away and start over with no consequences for their past actions, wipe the slate clean. They didn’t get revenge on the person who took those lives—”
“Don’t you mean justice?”
He stopped, brows pulled so close together I couldn’t see where one eyebrow ended and the other started.
“What?”
“You said revenge. Don’t you mean they didn’t get justice for what happened?”
“Christ. You argue like a lawyer—”
“I am a lawyer.”
“A fact that’s never far from my mind, believe me.” His face was a mask of loathing. “I thought you might be upset your town founder, the man who supposedly gave it all to God and country, could, in reality, be a murderer who fled arrest and eluded capture. I thought, erroneously it appears, you might feel wronged your beloved town leader, a man who all believed was a paragon of the love-thy-neighbor philosophy could be nothing more than a gutless killer. I thought you’d feel, I don’t know”—he swung a hand in the air—“betrayed that the man was a liar, a killer, maybe a psychopath. That you might feel something bordering on anger instead of this blind acceptance he’d somehow expiated himself for a great sin. I guess I was wrong on all counts.”
Frayne stopped, shook his head again, and stood, cup in hand. He brought it to the sink and then placed his fists on either side of the rim, his chin dropping to his chest. Somewhere along this discussion we’d slipped out of speaking about a 1700s crime and were brought much closer to one from the more recent past.
Like the loss of his family, my despised status—I’d come to understand—was never far from his mind. His indignation, be it for an unsolved, centuries-old double homicide or a present-day tragedy, was strong, and nothing I could say or do would change it.
I should have been angry at his continued revulsion of my profession, or at best, hurt. I’d thought we’d gotten past it. I should have railed in my own defense and for Josiah, who had no one to speak for him now, or it appeared, two and a half centuries ago. The need to comfort this tortured man who’d stolen my heart was stronger than those needs though, because I went to him, pressed my body against his back, and wrapped my hands around his waist.
He stiffened.
I ignored it and pressed in closer.
The breath he expelled a moment later was sonorous in the still room. His shoulders dropped, and he cupped my clasped hands with one of his own and squeezed. His reflection in the window above the sink showed a man stark with emotions and tragically sad.
“I’m…sorry,” he said after a while. “I don’t know why I snapped at you.”
I did, but those words were better left unsaid.
He twisted around to face me and slipped his arms around me as I had him. “It wasn’t my intent to start an argument about all this. I don’t want to fight with you.”
“Look,” I said. “As much as I love a good debate, I don’t want to fight with you, either. About Josiah or anything else. We’re never going to be one hundred percent sure what happened since it occurred long ago. Speculating about the info you’ve found is fine, but it’s not a definitive answer. Maybe we should just be happy you’ve found a link to Josiah’s past in Richmond for your research. That’s more than any other biographer has ever done. The reason he came here may not ever be proven, but you’ve gone further, historically, than anyone else ever has, and that’s something to be celebrated.”
His eyes were still heated, the expression floating in them wary and concerned.
“And speaking of your research, I have some news,” I said.
“What?”
“I finally called Leigh James yesterday and told her about the storage locker contents. She was wicked excited about the discoveries you’ve made. I invited her over this afternoon and told her how you’ve been instrumental in cataloging everything. She should be here about one-ish.”
“I thought you wanted to wait.”
“I did, but this overwhelming cleaning bug hit me last week, and I realized I wanted all that”—I cocked my head toward the dining room—“out of here so my house could look normal again. Besides, some of those pieces, the clothing and Josiah’s journals, need to be in an environmentally secure space so they don’t start to deteriorate from exposure.”
Frayne nodded. “It’s the right thing to do, I know. Look…” He slipped out of my hold and leaned back against the counter. “I’m tired, and I’m gonna head back to the inn. I’ve been gone for a week, and I need to get some stuff done. I’ll come back a little before one to meet with Dr. James. Okay?”
“Of course. You don’t need to ask permission. You’re the one who discovered the stuff was missing, after all. I’m sure Leigh will value what you’ve done and any further help and insights you can give her.”
He slipped his hands into his front pants pockets and nodded, his gaze hidden behind the fringe of hair dropping across his forehead. If I was forced to describe him right now to a third party, I’d have to admit he looked equal parts tired, upset, and anxious.
I could understand all those emotions, because in truth, I was feeling the same way. The shock that Josiah might have been an escaped murderer was one thing. Coupled with the continued animosity Frayne had for my career and how close to the surface his feelings about it were made me a little angry and a whole lot of nervous it would ever change.
“Cathy…” He shook his head, then pulled me back into his arms. His fingers trailed up and down my back as the solid, steady beat of h
is heart against my ear went a long way in calming my nerves.
My only wish was I could do the same for him.
Chapter 19
I’d forgotten what a powerful force of nature Leigh James could be. I think she was made more so, postpartum.
The moment she laid eyes on the artifacts in my dining room, her eyes narrowed, and I swear I could hear her brain working and calculating while she went into command mode. Within an hour, I had a professional moving company in my house, boxing each item up with more care than Nanny had ever taken, to be sure. I’d been correct when I’d told Frayne Leigh would appreciate his help and insights with the discovery. As the workman wrapped, packed, and stored each item with infinite precision, Leigh peppered Frayne with questions about the information in the journals, each article of clothing, the timeline he’d written, even his trip to Richmond. I might have been designated the keeper of the keys by the historical society, but I was a lowly drone compared to Leigh. She was the queen bee, the high holy prefect of the entire museum and all its relics.
They worked late into the evening, the packers included, to get everything ready for removal to the museum’s laboratory, where each item would be examined by a licensed archivist and antiquarian, and then by the insurance adjustors on the museum’s board. While speaking with Frayne, Leigh had called a handwriting expert she’d worked with and made arrangements for him to view Robert’s and Josiah’s journals immediately upon arrival at the museum.
My head was spinning. I’d had no idea the extent of the legal verification necessary for the museum to claim the items were, in fact, true and actual possessions of the Heaven family. I should have known—for obvious reasons—but hadn’t given it much thought, caught up in the discovery and my relationship with Frayne.
When they’d all gone and my house was empty again, my dining room resembled a tornado in the aftermath. Frayne left at the same time as Leigh to follow the truck back to the museum. He’d given my arm a squeeze before leaving and had promised to call or text me. I’ll be honest, I was disappointed he’d left. Selfishly disappointed because I’d hoped he’d stay the night as he had prior to his Richmond trip.
Life the next week shunted back to what it had been prior to our becoming lovers. The house slipped into hollow emptiness again with Robert’s belongings now at the museum and Frayne no longer around to do his research. I’d hoped he’d come around in the evenings, maybe join me for dinner, but he hadn’t. Sporadic texts about the busy work of cataloguing and authenticating every item hit up my phone. Gone were the nightly texts telling me he missed me that I’d grown used to.
When I’d had lunch with my sisters one afternoon at the inn, Maureen shared with me Frayne had become a bit of a ghost guest. He’d leave for the museum right after breakfast every day, and when he returned, he’d sequester himself in his room, the sound of his typing on his laptop evident through the door. That he was focused and intent on the project was something I’d admired in the beginning when we’d met. I still did, but his dedication came at a cost to our budding relationship, and I couldn’t help but feel ignored.
Work got me through the loneliness, though, as it had in the past. Several family court appearances and a few adoptions filled my days and my mind.
A phone call one morning had me gearing up for a court date on a day I hadn’t been scheduled to appear.
I met with my young client and his grandmother before he was brought in and prepared a quick argument in my head. After the preliminaries were done, I happened to glance toward the back of the courtroom. Frayne stood, watching me. For a brief moment, I lost the train of my argument but was able to get the train back on the proverbial tracks a moment later after a deep breath and readjustment of my papers.
When Asa handed down his decision, I bid my clients a quick goodbye and told them I’d be in touch. Frayne was standing outside the courtroom, his hands in his jacket pockets, a familiar expression on his face.
“This a surprise,” I said by way of greeting.
A deep breath elevated his shoulders and did nothing to wipe away his scowl.
“What’s wrong? You look furious.”
His eyes narrowed. “What I am is disgusted with the entire system you represent.”
Oh, Lord. Not again.
Bracing myself, I asked, “Why?”
“I can’t believe you even need to ask—”
“Humor me. Please.”
His lips twisted, his scowl deepening. “Because the law is geared toward protecting and coddling the criminals, the lawbreakers, not the innocent victims. That boy”—he jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the room I’d exited—“stole something, and he’s being slapped on the wrist and given a do better the next time, son. It’s disgraceful. There’s no accountability for any kind of behavior anymore in this society.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No. How long where you in there?”
“Long enough.”
“So did you hear me say Dylan is an honor student and a varsity basketball player who’s never been in trouble before? For anything?”
“So what? He still broke the law. Just because he’s been a good kid doesn’t mean he hasn’t turned into a bad one.”
“Wrong.” I stabbed my finger at his chest. “He’s not a bad kid. Circumstances led him to do something he’d never have considered a month ago. Hell, a week ago.”
“Oh please. He made a choice—a bad one—and got caught.”
“Because he needed the money.” My voice started to rise, and it took me a second to pull back and collect myself. “Not everything is black and white in the world, you know. Good people do bad things when faced with impossible choices. They shouldn’t all be drawn and quartered as punishment.”
He put a hand up to halt me. “Save it. I have no desire to hear any bleeding heart arguments right now.”
For the first time in my life, I understood what the phrase seething with anger really meant. I literally saw a red haze form in front of my vision.
Lowering my tone to the pitch Colleen calls scary-sister-you’d-better-run voice, I ground out the words I wanted to scream at him. “Too bad, because you’re gonna listen to what I have to say.” He opened his mouth, but I steamrolled right over him. “His parents are opioid addicts and abandoned him last year. His grandmother, the only living relative he has who isn’t drug addled is in the process of gaining legal guardianship of him, which is why they’re my clients. A few weeks ago, Dylan’s mother broke into her mother’s home and stole a great deal of money from her, money needed to pay the rent on the small apartment she and Dylan are living in. She’s sixty-seven and survives on Social Security and a minuscule pension. Money is beyond tight, and add a growing teenage boy who needs to be fed, clothed, and housed into the mix, a boy who plans to attend college to better his life, and the theft left them in a dire situation. Dylan was terrified they were going to be evicted, and he did something stupid to try to help with the rent—”
“Stupid is the right word.”
“—and make sure they could stay where they were, safe and warm and not put out on the freezing sidewalk with nowhere to turn. He did it because he loves his grandmother and was afraid.”
Frayne swiped his hand in the air dismissively. “Sugar coat it anyway you want. What he did was wrong—”
“And he’s going to pay for it. He’s being held accountable for his actions, but one mistake shouldn’t be used to prevent him from attaining his future goals. He’s a good kid. He’s got the potential to go far in life.”
It was as if I hadn’t spoken.
“You said pretty much the same thing about Josiah Heaven. I don’t understand why lawyers are willing to excuse heinous behavior, shove it to the side, without anyone ever having to face consequences. You all bend facts to fit scenarios, let criminals go free when they should be incarcerated because of dumb mistakes and poor police work. You make plea deals that serve no justice. The jud
icial system in this country is an aberration and a joke. Thieves get to steal with abandon, murderers walk free with no thought of the consequences of their actions.”
People passing by stared as Frayne’s voice rose with each sentence. All the aggravation lacing his words had a beginning point from the moment his wife and daughter were killed. I knew it, but I also knew I couldn’t allow him to simply paint every single defendant and lawyer with a corrupt and contemptible label. In truth, I was sick of having to defend myself and my profession.
“You know,” I said, “I wonder how high and mighty you’d be if you’d ever made a mistake, ever made a choice that turned out to be a wrong one. Would you really be as contemptuous of the entire judicial system if you were falsely accused of something or if you were hanging out to legally dry because of your actions? I’d bet lawyers and the system wouldn’t look so abhorrent the moment you realized having them could save your ass from sitting in a jail cell.”
His face turned the color of chalk as I spat the words at him. I was tired, furious, and had had enough belittling comments about my job to last me a lifetime.
I turned at a sudden presence behind me to find Lucas, his thumbs tucked into his pants waistband. His shoulders were relaxed, and he was rocking back on his heels, a bland look on his face. A stance signaling he was calm and untroubled and which I knew meant he was anything but. Lucas was never as deadly focused and primed as when he appeared tranquil and composed.
“Everything okay here, Counselor?”
“Peachy.”
He cocked his head at me while his brows rose. “Okay. I need to talk to you about something.”
“Give me a few minutes, and I’ll meet you downstairs,” I told him.
He threw a stern warning glare at Frayne, then his gaze shot back to me. With a curt head bob, he walked away.
I waited a beat before turning my attention back to Frayne. His bare hands were fisted at his sides, his shoulders hugging his ears. The stiff posture was a good indication of how furious he was.
