Rosemary for Remembrance

by Christine Arness

  In contrast to the penetrating dampness of the weather outside, Ross found the interior of the Cozy Nook to be warmed by a roaring blaze in the massive stone fireplace at one end of the room. Low, smoke-blackened beams and electric imitations of kerosene lamps gave the room a snug, sheltered appearance.

  Abigail was seated at the table nearest the fire. Intent on arranging scraps of paper in a pattern, she was oblivious of his entrance, her head bent, the braid hanging heavy on her breast.

  Skirting the tables, he crossed the room and stopped beside her. “May I join you?”

  She gasped and her head whipped up. The breeze from the abrupt movement scattered the papers. Without waiting for permission, he pulled out a chair and sat down. He noted the hearts decorating some of the pieces of paper and how in a protective gesture, Abigail’s hand had closed on a square pink envelope. She held the rest of her body very still.

  Ross recognized the same look that had flashed in Olivia’s eyes, mingled defiance and terror. He reached out his hand in reassurance but let it drop to his side.

  He had anticipated such a reaction, but her revulsion still struck him like a blow. Steeling himself to continue, Ross placed the envelope on the table between them. “These are the reports you wanted on Rosemary Dickison. The autopsy findings are included.”

  “Just leave me alone. I don’t want to talk to you.” She was breathing hard, her eyes a tawny gold in the firelight.

  A cowardly voice inside his head urged him to go but Ross was unable to leave without another glimpse of the enchantress who’d so captivated him at their first meeting. “Please, Red. We need to clear the air between us.”

  She was shaking her head. “Leave. Now.”

  Realizing that the bartender was staring at them as he polished the dark wood of the bar, Ross lowered his voice. “I can hardly attack you in front of a witness, can I? Please—all I ask is ten minutes to explain about Olivia.”

  A stout woman in a flowered smock bustled up with a laden tray. “Your shepherd’s pie, love, but you didn’t tell me what the gentleman wanted.” She placed a steaming dish in front of Abigail and turned to Ross. An order pad appeared in her hands. “Shockin’ly cold for August, isn’t it? Perhaps beer and a pie like the young lady’s, sir?”

  “He’s not staying.” Abigail’s voice was curt and the woman shrugged, giving Ross a curious glance as she picked up the tray and retreated to the kitchen.

  Ross hadn’t taken off his jacket and beads of perspiration dotted his forehead as he shifted his shoulders against the chair’s unyielding back. The flames cast a net of golden haze over Abigail’s head, highlighting the wisps of hair that had escaped from the braid.

  She made no attempt to eat—her attention was focused instead on maneuvering the pieces of paper as if by conquering their chaos she could make order out of whatever was troubling her. Her concentration was almost painful in its intensity; Ross had to look away and in doing so, he discovered a scrap of pink paper stuck to his rain-spotted sleeve.

  He unpeeled it and studied the fragment, recognition dawning. “This is part of a valentine, Red.”

  No reply, although at his words a shudder racked the slim body seated across from him.

  “From someone special? Someone who hurt you in some way?”

  She had shut him out, taking no notice of his questions. The flavorful steam from the shepherd’s pie made his mouth water and he swallowed and scratched his jaw, groping for the words that would erase the nightmare of a week where each encounter ended in disaster, driving them further and further apart.

  The fire crackled. He leaned forward and grasped her hand as she reached for another piece of the valentine. “Red—look at me.”

  Abigail raised her head, her eyes hard and bright. “Let go of me, Mr. Stewart.”

  Each word was as brutal as a slap in the face. Anger at her stubbornness began to boil beneath the surface but he released her and merely said, “I thought you cared about Rosemary.”

  “I do.” She accented the first word.

  His muscles tensed as he started to rise and abandon her to her jigsaw-puzzle emotions, but the desire to reach her held him in the chair. “Rosemary had extensive bone fractures, Red, and internal bleeding into the intestinal area.”

  Her gaze strayed to the brown envelope. “The injuries described might have resulted from being struck by a vehicle, but she also could have been beaten to death. The doctor found human tissue under her fingernails.”

  “Oliver said she scratched his face.” Her voice was low-pitched and thoughtful, almost as if she were talking to herself.

  “The coroner didn’t mention any of those facts at the inquest.” Ross paused. “The autopsy report makes me believe you’re right, Red. Rosemary was murdered.”

  “Because of the human tissue scrapings?” Abigail’s eyes, liquid bronze in the firelight, searched his features. “Oliver Payton told me that he made a pass, she scratched his face and walked off while he was looking for the car keys that she had thrown out of the window. I believe he was telling the truth.”

  “Did he also tell you Rosemary was approximately three months pregnant? And that one of her ex-lovers, Matthew Boyington, was the deputy sheriff who found her body?”

  “No!” The word was a gasp of pain and she reached for the brown envelope, the clear, pale ovals of her nails gleaming.

  He could follow her train of thought, their minds tracking together. Matt Boyington might have caught Rosemary alone and vulnerable on a country lane—would she have been wary of a deputy in a sheriff’s car?

  Abigail put the envelope down unopened and ticked off names on her fingers. “Spider, Austin, Lawrence, Oliver, Matt. Any one of them could have killed her. I wonder if Belle knew about the pregnancy? Flora certainly didn’t. And Connie, Connie was holding back when I interviewed her…”

  She was becoming animated. Ross’s past history was forgotten as she used him as a sounding board, her gaze focused inward.

  “Her pregnancy changes everything. Austin painted a nude portrait of Rosemary and if he used a flesh-and-blood girl as a model, they must have been on very intimate terms. Spider threatened her and there’s a chance that he was the father of her child. Matthew was still obsessed with her—according to Connie, he changed shifts so he wouldn’t have to watch her ‘floating in the arms of another man.’”

  As her imitation of Connie’s breathy voice trailed away, Ross asked, “Who tore up this valentine, Red?”

  The flush faded to pure ivory as she stared at him, her lips parted. “I did.” The answer came slowly as her hands dropped back into her lap and he hated himself for having quenched the sparkle in her eyes.

  “Did the person who sent you this valentine hurt you, Red?”

  She closed her eyes as if to shield her anguish from him and he leaned forward, sensing they were on the verge of a breakthrough. He chose each word with care. “Don’t cling to the pieces of the past, Red. Throw them away—get on with your life. I can help you put the pain behind you.”

  She looked at him and he saw no forgiveness in her eyes. Her voice was hoarse as she asked, “What do you know about pain except how to inflict it?”

  Thoughts of Olivia and their dead child pierced him like a well-placed sword thrust and Ross bowed his head, not trusting himself to speak. His anger at her treachery was mingled with sorrow that she hated him enough to wound him in this fashion. They sat in charged silence. Ross stared at the reconstructed valentine with a blurred gaze until the phrase “undying love” came into sharp focus.

  Some man had abandoned Abigail and stripped her emotional armor away, leaving her vulnerable and hurting, with no solace except the empty words on a cheap card.

  Without caring whether his rage stemmed from empathy or a desire to revenge himself upon her, he lashed out. “I know enough about pain that you don’t carry it around in a pink envelope and scourge yourself with memories.”

  He snatched up the piece of paper with its handwritten
phrase, and thrust it into the fire. He wished he could do the same with the man who’d left this woman so emotionally crippled. The paper fluttered down until it smoked and charred and crumbled to ashes in the blue heart of the flames.

  A faint sound came from her lips. Her protest goaded him on; she needed someone to set her free. Turning back to the table, Ross began to gather the remaining pieces.

  “No! Stop!” Her hands clawed at his, but he managed to toss the largest piece, a red heart, into the fire.

  Miraculously escaping the flames, it landed on the hearth. Abigail kicked the fire screen aside and knelt to pick it up—just as a glowing spark shot out and landed on the paper. She recoiled as the heart flared up and was gone.

  The roaring in his ears faded and Ross realized what he’d done. Abigail seemed dazed; she remained crouched by the hearth, one hand still outstretched to rescue what was now only a pile of ash.

  “Don’t touch it—you might get burned.” Ross bent and took hold of her arms, lifting her to her feet as his careless words of the other night came back to haunt him—“I’d rather risk a blister than freeze to death.” He massaged the sleeves of her shirt. “Red, I’m sorry. I had no right—”

  A shiver rippled through her body and she shook off his grasp. With swift, sure movements, she collected her purse and the envelope with the reports; without sparing another glance in his direction, she threaded her way across the room between the empty tables and walked out the door.

  Ross remained by the fire. He gazed down into the crackling flames and he tried to recall the ending to a story from childhood about a tin soldier and a paper dancer. The tale had affected him deeply because his mother always cried when she read the ending.

  “Women!” The bartender, a man with heavy jowls and a white apron coating a rounded stomach like icing on a bun, was leaning on the bar and shaking his head in sympathy. “Ain’t they a kick in the pants? Want a drink, buddy? On the house.”

  “On the house, Herb?” His stout mate appeared in the doorway of the kitchen and pointed an accusatory finger at the deserted table. “The woman didn’t pay for her shepherd’s pie and I find you giving away drinks to our only remaining customer? This is a business, not an open house!”

  The woman’s broad, flat nose combined with her husband’s jowls to give the pair the look of half-breed bulldogs. The argument continued, but their words seemed to come from a great distance. Ross was numb. A kaleidoscope of images tumbled through his mind: his father reeling back, blood running from the corner of his mouth; the man in the bar, eyes bulging and face dark with suffused blood; Olivia prone and sobbing on the freshly turned soil of a new grave; and Abigail clawing at the hearth.

  He suddenly remembered the ending of the story—the tin soldier had melted into a glowing heart after his lover had been destroyed by a spark from the fire. Bending stiff knees, Ross began to gather up the pieces of the valentine still scattered across the floor.

  Chapter 29

  Bronze floodlights illuminated the fountain and the front of the mansion as Abigail joined the end of a procession of automobiles inching toward the two men serving as parking valets. When her turn came she left the engine running and emerged from the car under the porte cochere, the emerald water silk skirt of her Victor Costa gown swirling above her dark green pumps.

  “Skip the party, Ms. James—I can take you to the moon.” Rakishly handsome in a tight-fitting jacket and pants with black piping, Quincy approached and ran an approving gaze over her body.

  She pulled her short silk cape closer, not bothering to conceal her dismay at the meeting. “What are you doing here?”

  “I trade my first ten bucks in tips for the privilege of parking her limo and the lady asks, ‘What are you doing here?’ No heart, darling. Just a cold, cruel stone.”

  Abigail ignored his reproachful glance. “Julia hired you? I thought you were masquerading as a gardener this summer.”

  “Gardener, parking valet, doorman, vegetable picker—anything that will keep me close to you.”

  “Your approach might be more effective, Quincy, if you used a trowel instead of a snow shovel.” As she tried to pass, he captured her hand and raised her fingers to his lips.

  An impatient horn tooted behind them and she tugged gently to free herself. “Time to start earning that extra ten dollars.”

  His tongue flicked against her palm before he dropped her hand and slipped behind the wheel of the car. After she had displayed her borrowed invitation to an impassive butler, Abigail found herself rubbing her palms together as if to erase the memory of Quincy’s caress and decided that the man’s intense gaze reminded her of a vampire marking his next victim. She surrendered her cape to the waiting maid and was directed down the hall and into a room large enough for ballroom dancing.

  The hurdle of getting by Julia undetected was passed when she discovered that Austin Kyle, handsome in a tuxedo, had been posted just inside the door beside a cabinet that displayed a breathtaking collection of coral and rose quartz figurines.

  “Ms. James. How delightful to see you again.” He bowed over her hand. “Will Paul Faber be joining us?”

  “Paul sends his regrets, Mr. Kyle. He wanted to be here, but a family commitment intervened.”

  “We’ll miss him, but he has sent a charming emissary in his stead.” Austin smiled and turned to greet the next couple.

  Abigail lingered to admire the basket of flowers held by a miniature Japanese woman made of coral, but soon realized that Austin’s duties as the host precluded any opportunity for an in-depth discussion.

  Turning to survey her surroundings, she noted that despite the presence of a Steinway Grand piano and a pair of velvet-covered ottomans, the room with its baroque ceiling seemed almost bare of furniture. Polished floor boards gleamed like a pool of honey under the light shed by two enormous crystal looped chandeliers. Abigail and the other arrivals joined those already standing on cranberry-shaded runners laid down at intervals to protect the floor’s finish.

  Accepting a glass from the salver whisked under her nose by a black-jacketed attendant, Abigail was hailed by Cathy Simon, her usual seatmate at bar association meetings.

  “Abby! Know any home remedies to remove champagne stains?” Cathy was dabbing at her skirt with a handkerchief.

  “A scissors or a charge card.” Abigail shook her head in commiseration. “And that skirt’s too brief to shorten.”

  “Which leaves Mastercard.” Cathy grabbed a glass from a passing waiter. “Heard the latest rumor about the Dragon Slayer?”

  Abigail choked in midsip. Dragon Slayer was Cathy’s nickname for Ross Stewart. “No. Aren’t those silk draperies gorgeous? This room was probably a grand ballroom at one time.”

  “It’s big enough to be an airplane hangar.” Cathy gave the room a frankly curious survey. “Bet that piano’s strictly for show—I can’t imagine our hostess’ll be sitting down and banging out a few tunes while we sing along. But anyway, according to my contact in the S.A.’s office, the boss man is in love.”

  Despite the vast space surrounding them, Abigail began to feel claustrophobic and curled her toes inside her green pumps. “Anyone we know?”

  Cathy’s pert nose twitched. “Not me, worse luck. Jerry hasn’t uncovered her identity yet, but he’s on the trail. Lately Ross’s been working overtime, skipping lunch, and acting as grouchy as a bear disturbed during hibernation. Even made the staff work today—on a Saturday—but the clincher came this morning when he handed Jerry a police report that had hearts and cute little snowmen doodled all over it. It’s got to be love.”

  “Or a bleeding ulcer.” The stem of the glass cut into Abigail’s fingers; the room was suddenly very hot and the buzz of conversation filled her head like a swarm of angry bees.

  Cathy sighed. “I’d give anything if Ross was doodling my name. That man’s got a sexy voice and eyes green enough to cash at the bank. But enough chitchat—I’m going to hit the buffet. Care to join me?”

&
nbsp; “Go ahead, Cath. I’ll catch up in a moment.” Abigail remained standing near the piano and greeted passing colleagues and acquaintances with distracted smiles while her mind tried to absorb her friend’s careless revelations.

  After visiting Rosemary’s grave, Abigail had found herself succumbing to the aching weight of depression over her new insights into her relationship with Michael. Hence her stop at the Cozy Nook and the attempt to reassemble the valentine, as if reading his last message again would offer conclusive proof that Michael did love her.

  Across the room a Canadian goose frozen in the takeoff position, wings upraised before the downbeat to display the intricate detailing of its feathers, was displayed on a pedestal before an oval mirror flanked by crystal girandoles. She crossed the room toward the sculpture, skirting chatting couples and using a smile and a nod to avoid being drawn into any of the conversational groups.

  “Do you like him?” Austin Kyle had forsaken his station at the door to join her inspection of the carving.

  “I thought I recognized your work. He’s magnificent.”

  The older man ducked his head in shy acceptance of her praise. “He took over a year but I had to get him out of my head.” Slim hands darted like hummingbirds to sketch a figure in the air. “I see these pictures—an inner vision—of a bird trapped inside the wood and I have to set it free to fly.”

  Free? Abigail’s impression was more of noble sadness than the freedom of flight, as though this bird had been doomed never to feel the bite of wind through its feathers. Perhaps the artist was unable to create the illusion of liberty because he himself had been stifled. Stroking the goose’s head, she found hard wood where Austin’s skill had created the look of downy softness. He went on to explain his current project and the difficulties of fashioning webbed feet.