ShadowsintheMist

by Maureen McMahon

  She removed her glasses and held up the book. “It’s very good,” she said.

  I recognized it immediately. My novel. The one I’d so proudly discussed with Leo as proof of my talents. Now it seemed like a stale memory written by a novice still filled with boundless ambition and enthusiasm. I realized, unhappily, that I’d be hard-pressed to recapture that spirit and zeal again.

  “It’s a bit sappy, don’t you think?”

  She shook her head. “Not at all. It’s very romantic.”

  Romantic! What did I know about romance?

  “Is something wrong, dear?”

  “No. I’ve just hit a snag with the new novel and thought I’d take a break. Thought I’d see if I could find something to read.”

  She nodded. I hesitated, then sat down opposite her. “Actually, there’s something on my mind,” I said. “I’ve been thinking of Mother. I found her journals. Do you remember the ones she used to write?”

  Martha nodded, her eyes sad. “I put them in the attic after the accident.”

  “Some of the pages are missing. It looks as though they’ve been ripped out. Do you know if anyone else has read them?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “I don’t think so. Who would want to, other than you? Your father wanted me to destroy them. But then, he wanted everything of your mother’s removed. Her death was so hard on him. I just couldn’t burn them, though. I thought one day you might want them.”

  “I’m grateful for that. Just reading them makes me feel I know her better.” I paused uncertainly, then plunged on. “Mother talks of Grant in her journals. I get the impression she really disliked him. Do you know why?”

  She shifted uncomfortably and I expected her to try to sidestep the question. Instead, she sighed and met my inquisitive gaze with resignation.

  “She didn’t talk about it much,” she said, “but I think she resented your father’s attachment to Grant. Your mother was a bit insecure. You know she came from pretty humble beginnings and to find herself suddenly thrust into a world of wealth and fame—well, it was overwhelming, to say the least.

  “It was difficult for her to function in her new role without Leo’s constant support and you know your father. He was always jetting off, leaving her alone here at home. I’m sure he’d have taken her with him more often but she didn’t feel comfortable in his world. The times he did spend with her she treasured and I think when Grant came onto the scene, she felt Grant was taking a bit of that time from her.”

  She shrugged. “Your mother spoke to Leo once about sending Grant away and it was the only heated argument I recall them having. Leo stubbornly refused to discuss it and Anna went to her room in tears. Later, he tried to make it up to her by spending more time at home. As far as I know, the subject was never discussed again.”

  “And what about Grant?” I asked, intensely interested. “Did he know how Mother felt?”

  Martha shook her head. “I really don’t know, dear. He was such a broody boy in those days. If he did, he was tactful enough not to mention it. After the argument, Anna was careful to avoid Grant. I think she might’ve even been a bit frightened of him. It would only be natural, since she knew he’d once been a petty thief and grew up under unsavory conditions. But what difference does all of this make now?”

  “I really don’t know,” I hedged. “I’m just trying to understand some of what she wrote. What about the accident? Do you know any of the details?”

  “Probably no more than you,” she said. “Your mother and father went out riding and she fell. That’s all I know.”

  Her answer was brisk and I knew I must drop the subject. It wouldn’t do to frighten Martha with my interrogation. Any further questioning would surely arouse her suspicions and I wasn’t ready to share what could very well be just paranoia.

  Unfortunately, Martha knew me too well and she eyed me with skepticism. “You’re worried about something, Suzanna,” she said, putting the book aside.

  I frowned but didn’t meet her eyes.

  “I know these past weeks have been a great strain on you,” she said, “on all of us but I don’t think digging up the past will help anyone. I also know you married Grant only out of a sense of duty to your father. It’s only natural you’d resent it but if my opinion means anything to you, I think it was the right thing to do.

  “Grant is a fine man—take it from me. He’s held this family together, in one way or another, for years. Perhaps in his younger days, he was a bit callous and distrustful but those days are gone. I really feel he has only good intentions when it comes to the business and the family…and you.” She looked at me intently and her eyes glistened. “He loves you, you know. Has for a very long time.”

  I stiffened. “Why, that’s ridiculous,” I sputtered. “I mean, excuse me but how could you ever get such an idea?” I was certain Martha must’ve lost her marbles.

  She smiled patiently. “You can’t see it because you don’t want to.” She held up her hand as I opened my mouth to retort. “I only want to put your mind at ease, dear. Grant isn’t the person you should fear. He worries about you. Why do you think he’s trying to run the firm from this house? He’s trying to protect you. No, don’t scoff. Whether you want to believe it or not, it’s true.

  “Still,” she fingered her robe nervously, “there’s someone on the loose who is very dangerous. I only wish Grant could be here more often than he is.” She shuddered and I softened.

  The memory of Giles and his recent tragedy was obviously still too vivid to her. In my preoccupation, I’d all but forgotten the personal loss Martha had suffered.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been selfish,” I said. “You’ve been under just as much strain as anyone and I shouldn’t be bothering you with my problems.”

  “Our problems,” she corrected. “I’m afraid we’re all in this together. It seems to me there’s no rhyme or reason for Giles’ death. And now, if what they say about your father is true… Well, it makes me shudder to think of it.”

  I nodded. I didn’t know how much she knew or guessed about Leo’s ”accident”, but it wasn’t a secret the police were investigating Giles’ death as a homicide. They’d been to the house numerous times to question everyone, including Martha but so far there was nothing substantial to go on.

  They took the speedboat away after going over it carefully for clues. As expected, nearly everyone’s fingerprints were on it somewhere and the rain that soaked the beach that morning successfully washed away whatever other evidence might have been left. Still, they wanted to inspect the hull and propeller, so they impounded the craft for an unspecified period of time. I wasn’t sorry. I doubted any of us would ever want to set foot on it again, anyway.

  I left Martha some time later. I was still uneasy and more confused than ever. It was obvious Grant had a firm ally in our housekeeper and it would be pointless to try to sway such loyalty. Grant knew his trade well—knew how to win people over. Martha’s belief that he was somehow in love with me was probably just another part of his scheme. It was a way to present himself in the best possible light—as a caring, concerned, if not misunderstood, husband who had only my best interests at heart. My affection for David would only serve to martyr him in the eyes of those who supported him. His own questionable association with Darla LaTrobe had offered nothing overtly illicit yet. I figured he’d be too cunning to let a sordid dalliance interfere in his game plan.

  David met me on the stairs with obvious relief. “Here you are! I was worried. I knocked on your door and there was no answer.”

  I sighed. As much as I appreciated his care, sometimes his concern felt stifling. I was not in the mood for his attention right now.

  “I was just in the library,” I said. “Where have you been?”

  His hair was windblown and his face flushed. His canvas shoes were wet and I detected the fresh scent of lake spray on his clothes.

  “Just walking. I went down to the beach. It’s nice this time of night.”

  I no
dded thoughtfully, still preoccupied.

  “Come on,” he said taking my hand. “I could use a cup of something hot. Let’s raid the kitchen.”

  “Sure,” I agreed, welcoming the distraction.

  Together, we foraged in the pantry, deciding on hot cocoa. “With marshmallows,” I insisted, catching his enthusiasm.

  David prepared the cocoa as I spread honey on buttermilk biscuits left over from breakfast.

  We were comfortably settled at the kitchen table, chatting through mouthfuls of fluffy dough, with steaming mugs cupped in our hands, when Grant came in. He entered through the side door from the garage, his briefcase in hand and raincoat slung over one shoulder. A gust of cold air followed him in and his look, as he took in the companionable scene, did nothing to lessen the chill.

  “Well, well, isn’t this cozy?”

  I lowered my eyes, feeling a deep blush creep up my neck. David smiled, undaunted. “Want to join us? Or are cocoa and biscuits too mundane for your tastes?”

  “As a matter of fact, it sounds like just the thing!” He dropped his coat over a chair in the corner and tossed the briefcase onto the floor nearby. His suit coat came off, along with his tie and he casually rolled up his shirt sleeves as he searched the cupboards for the necessary ingredients.

  “Sit down,” I said. “I’ll get it. I know where everything is.”

  He didn’t argue but settled himself in the chair next to mine while I poured more milk into the pan and put a few more biscuits on the platter. The silence that ensued was distinctly uncomfortable. David and Grant gazed at one another with cool appraisal, while I nervously rattled the spoons and cups. When I sat down, Grant turned to me and smiled. “You look cute with a moustache.”

  “What? Oh!” I reached for a paper napkin and wiped the cocoa from my top lip.

  “There’s marshmallow on your nose,” he added and made to wipe it with his own napkin but I shrank away and rubbed the spot with my palm. His brows lowered and his eyes hardened and I cursed myself for being so transparent.

  “How are the family fortunes?” David asked, diverting attention.

  “Still intact despite an increasing number of freeloaders.” Grant’s sarcasm wasn’t lost and David’s eyes narrowed.

  “Suzanna was just telling me you’re letting a lot of the staff go, including Mike. Are you planning to replace him or are you going to join the ranks of lowly commuters?”

  I could’ve kicked David. I didn’t plan to confront Grant with that information just yet and the fact I confided in David certainly wouldn’t enhance the situation.

  Thankfully, Grant appeared unperturbed, stirring his drink nonchalantly as he replied. “It’s impractical to keep Mike on the payroll full-time when he’s only needed once in a while. There are plenty of pilots around who’ll work on a standby basis. It’s more economical. Besides, I thought Mike was working for you now.”

  “We give him what work we can.”

  “Surely, we can afford to keep him on?” I piped up. “He’s been with Dirkston for so long. I don’t think it’s fair to just fire him.”

  Grant eyed me with skepticism. “How much do you know about Mike Kensington, Suzie?”

  I met his gaze, lifting my chin. “I know he’s been a loyal employee for at least three years and that Dad trusted him implicitly.”

  “And do you also know he’s been arrested on three separate occasions for drug offenses?”

  My gaze faltered. “I… No. But surely, a man’s past record shouldn’t affect his present employment.”

  “Past record?” He snorted. “The last arrest was six months ago. He spent three days in jail for possession of cocaine.”

  “As I understand it, the case was thrown out of court,” David rejoined.

  “Only because the evidence was tampered with.”

  “There’s no proof of that.”

  “Yeah, there’s no proof because someone stole the goddamn evidence right out of the police station!”

  My eyes darted between the two. I felt like I’d been removed from the conversation and I resented both of them.

  “It was obviously a case of the police acting on a hunch,” David said, his own temper fraying. “It’s their word against Mike’s that they ever found anything on him. Who could steal a half kilo of cocaine right out from under the DA’s nose?”

  David’s eyes glittered with conviction but Grant’s face was rigid. He leaned his forearms on the table, his hands flat, his fingers splayed, hunching forward as if he intended to grab David by the throat and throttle him. When he spoke, however, his voice was controlled, patient and a fraction supercilious. It was the voice he used so often in court when he was about to deliver a verbal blow below the belt.

  “Who? Yes, indeed, who? Someone with enough clout to be able to stroll into a respected, well-manned precinct house, pick up the cocaine and stroll out again without a shred of resistance. Got any ideas, Einstein?”

  David’s face reddened and the muscles in his jaw twitched but he managed a stiff laugh. “I don’t think the officers in charge would appreciate your slur on their honesty. And if you think Mike’s mixed up in organized crime, you’re out of your mind.”

  “Funny, I don’t remember mentioning organized crime but now that you’ve brought it up…”

  Having endured this verbal sparring with mounting frustration, my temper finally snapped. “Stop it!” I shouted, springing to my feet and surprising even myself with my vehemence.

  There was instant silence and both men stared at me in surprise. My cup had overturned but I didn’t even notice the cocoa splashed across the white tabletop and dripping in muddy rivulets onto Lottie’s gleaming floor. “Just who do you think you are? You’re acting like a couple of bull elephants trumpeting your territorial rights! This isn’t about Mike Kensington, or Dirkston Enterprises or…or…”

  I put a hand to my head. What was I saying? Why was I so angry? I was suddenly aware the room was shimmering with pastel lights, moving like ripples over a mirror. I looked down at my hands where they gripped the edge of the table and they seemed to belong to someone else, as though my arms were detached and had become beings unto themselves.

  I felt as though there was nothing to anchor me to the ground and that at any moment, I’d whirl off into infinity. A wave of panic unlike any I ever knew, gripped me and, in painful slow motion, I turned stricken eyes to Grant just before I collapsed and blackness descended.

  I stood on the beach, gazing up at the lighthouse. It towered over me like a fortress. Huge, ink-black clouds whirled with uncanny speed across a multicolored sky. I was rooted to the spot. My feet were sunk to the ankles in cloying sand, yet my body was weightless, swaying with the gusting air. The changing cloud patterns distorted the lighthouse with their shadow and seemed to give it life. It seemed to be coming closer—growing larger—its beacon fixed on me like a menacing cyclopic eye.

  I struggled to pull my feet free of the sand but the action only intensified my predicament. I heard voices drifting with the roar of the wind—Grant’s, David’s, Leo’s, Giles’. I tried to reply, tried to call for help but my voice caught in my throat, choking me. My eyes were drawn to a window high in the tower. A glimmer of undulating light hung suspended there and I watched, frozen, as it gained depth and substance.

  I recognized the wedding dress and the face blurred by tendrils of fawn-colored hair. My mother’s mouth opened and though no sound came forth, I knew she was trying to warn me, willing me to go back. A darker figure loomed up behind her and I watched as she turned, struggled briefly and fell.

  “Suzanna!”

  It was Grant’s voice. I forced my eyes open a fraction. His face was close to mine. I felt the warmth of his breath. Gradually, sensations returned. My fingers ached and I realized I had hold of both his arms in a grip that hurt. My mouth was dry and my throat was sore.

  “Suzanna,” he repeated. “It’s all right! You’re all right now!”

  I loosened my hold and the
muscles in my body began to relax. The room swam slightly but I knew where I was—in my own room, in my own bed.

  “God,” I croaked. “What happened?” I squeezed my eyes shut to try to still the spinning room. My head throbbed painfully but when I opened my eyes again, the dizziness had subsided.

  “You passed out. How do you feel?” His face was lined with tension and his eyes were filled with concern.

  “Not too good,” I admitted. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  He carried me to the bathroom and held me up while I retched miserably. When I finished, he mopped my face gently with a cloth and put me back in bed, laying another cool, damp cloth across my forehead. I felt better, though my head still ached and my limbs were weak.

  “I had a dream,” I rasped, swallowing hard. Grant put a glass of water to my lips and I sipped gratefully.

  “You were screaming.”

  “Was I? No wonder my throat hurts. It was horrible! Mother was in the lighthouse and—and someone pushed her.”

  Grant set the glass aside and took my cold hands, chafing them gently. I watched him and the intensity of my gaze made him look up. I was surprised to see his eyes glistening with tears.

  “Jesus, Suzanna, you sure know how to frighten the hell out of me!”

  I attempted a smile. “Really? I didn’t know you cared.”

  He looked away. “I thought it was pretty obvious.”

  I curled my fingers through his and gave in to my emotions for a moment, accepting the comfort of his presence, setting aside my suspicions and allowing myself to drift with the flood of affection that tumbled in. I was too weak to fight it and felt no desire to. His touch sent a thrill through me like I’d never felt before.

  But the moment was short-lived. David appeared over Grant’s shoulder, his face also lined with worry. I released Grant’s hand.

  “Thank God, you’re awake,” David said. “How are you?”

  “Better, I think.”

  He came around to the side of the bed and hunkered down, tracing a finger down my cheek. Grant retreated to the other side of the room and absently fingered the knickknacks that cluttered the bookcase.