by Gina Wilkins
“My step-grandmother,” Margaret corrected him regally. “My father was born of my grandfather’s first marriage. My biological grandmother died when my father was very young. His father remarried several years later.”
“Of course.”
“Still, my mother was fond of the rose gardens. She spent many hours tending them during the years that we lived at the inn. remember quite a few of the roses that were planted there. Damasks and gallicas, moss roses and lovely, delicate climbers. The wonderful old ‘antique’ roses. I’ve planted a few of the same varieties in my own gardens, though of course the modern hybrids are so much easier to raise. I’d be happy to make a list of suggestions for you.”
“I’d like that. Thank you.”
Margaret nodded, obviously pleased with the opportunity to give her expert advice. “Is there anything else you’d like to ask?”
He’d been waiting for this opening. He’d already talked to the chief of police, only to be told, as Mark had been, that no official police records from 1921 had survived, and that there had never been cause for anyone to doubt Deputy Tagert’s accounts of the events of that February night at the inn. Chief Peavy hadn’t appreciated Dean’s speculation that Peavy’s ancestors might have been more involved in the scandal than they’d let on, and he’d made his objections quite dear. He’d all but thrown Dean out of his office, and had ordered him to leave the past alone.
Undaunted, Dean had driven straight to Margaret’s house. He managed a convincing chuckle. “I’ve heard most of the old stories of the inn’s history, of course. Seems like everyone in town has taken time to tell me about the ghosts.”
Margaret’s forehead creased in disapproval. “That nonsense again? Honestly, one would think grown people had better things to talk about.”
“It is an interesting story, I suppose, if one believes in that sort of thing.”
“Which I do not,” Margaret said crisply.
“Nor I,” Dean agreed hastily. “What rational adult could possibly believe that ghosts are drifting around, endlessly seeking truth and justice?”
“Exactly. Though I don’t know what the search for truth and justice has to do with the Cameron twins.”
Dean looked vaguely surprised. “According to some of the locals, Ian and Anna Cameron were innocent of any crimes and murdered because they knew too much. It’s said they’re seeking to clear their names and avenge their deaths before they leave this world and go on to the next.”
“What balderdash! Everyone around here knows better than that. Someone’s pulling your leg, Mr. Gates. My father’s stepsiblings certainly were guilty, as em barrassing as that is for us. There was never a question otherwise.”
“It was fortunate for your grandfather that no one ever questioned him about the convenient timing of the twins’ deaths. I suppose his reputation in town was so spotless, there was never any suspicion of whether he was involved in the tragedy.”
“Convenient timing?” Margaret repeated stiffly.
“Well, he would have had to turn the inn over to them after that night,” Dean reminded her almost apologetically . “As suspicious as everyone is these days, that in itself would have called for a more intense investigation. But things were different back then, I suppose.”
“They most certainly were. Citizens did not question the word of a respected officer of the law, nor did they make reckless accusations against a prominent local businessman. If anyone has suggested differently to you, Mr. Gates, I wish you would tell me who it was. I would like to have a word with him about viciously slandering my ancestors.”
“Forgive me, Mrs. Vandover. No one has said anything about your ancestors. I’m afraid I’m a mystery-novel buff. Always looking for a red herring.”
“Perhaps you should turn to more edifying reading, Mr. Gates.” Margaret’s tone was downright chilly now. “Might I suggest the holy book?”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.”
Her eyes were even colder than her voice. For the first time, Dean understood how this woman had managed to completely intimidate so many of the townspeople. There was an almost palpable air of menace about her, enough to take him aback, even though he had no real fear of her.
“I’ll have my gardener prepare a list of fine roses for you,” she said flatly. “My personal secretary will put it in the mail.”
He took her less-than-subtle hint, and stood. “Thank you again for your time, Mrs. Vandover, and for the tea. I hope to restore the inn and the gardens to their former elegance, as they were under your father’s care.”
She didn’t seem mollified.
Dean left her home knowing he hadn’t exactly ingratiated himself with her. If he kept going at this rate, he’d soon have all the Peavy family hating him. And he was still no closer to the truth about what had happened on February 14,1921 than he’d been when he’d first seen Mary Anna Cameron.
He only hoped he could convince her that he really was trying his best. But, damn it, he was an innkeeper, not a private investigator. Just what the hell did she expect from him?
DEAN GOT a speeding ticket on his way home. He was only going five miles above the posted speed limit, something most rural cops overlooked, in his experience. Not this one.
The officer was fifty pounds overweight, his uniform crumpled and stained. He leaned into the window of Dean’s car with a scowl. “You were driving like a bat out of hell, Gates,” he said without asking for identification. “We don’t appreciate newcomers moving into town and risking the lives of our children with their disregard of our laws.”
Startled by the unfairness of the attack, Dean was taken aback for a moment. How did this guy—P. Jones, according to his badge—even know Dean’s name? They’d never...
Suddenly, he understood. This was Chief Peavy’s way of letting him know that life in Destiny could be difficult for someone who deliberately annoyed the Peavy family.
Knowing it wouldn’t do any good to argue, he kept his mouth shut and signed the ticket, promising only that he’d watch his speed in the future.
“I’d be more careful about a lot of things if I was you,” the officer growled, seemingly satisfied that Dean had been easily cowed.
Dean drove home with a scowl of his own, and a renewed determination to learn the truth, though he still didn’t know how.
“DEAN, my man, you are definitely one brave—or stupid—son of a gun. Guess you know you got the whole Peavy family calling you a nosy, interferin’ Yankee”
Dean winced and shifted the receiver to his other ear. “I know I haven’t exactly made myself a family favorite,” he admitted. “But, damn it, Mark, why are they so mad? All I did was ask if it was possible the Cameron twins were innocent of the crimes they were rumored to have committed.”
“And implied that Gaylon Peavy—and maybe even Charles—were somehow involved with their deaths,” Mark reminded him. “Not smart, Gates. I’ve told you how Margaret feels about the family honor. I’m not sure I’ve convinced you of her almost obsessive loyalty to her father. Apparently, she adored the ground the guy walked on. She’s all but canonized him, and few have the nerve to suggest in her presence that he was anything less than perfect.”
“If she’s so convinced of the family honor, it shouldn’t bother her so badly to answer a few simple questions.”
“Yeah , well, she’s bothered, all right. In fact, she’s downright pissed off.”
Dean chuckled at Mark’s dry drawl. “Okay, so I didn’t approach this in the most diplomatic manner. I’m afraid diplomacy has never been my strong point.”
“What next? Going to force the senator into a press conference to ask about his granddaddy’s alleged shady dealings?”
Sighing, Dean ran a hand through his hair. “Of course not. Though I thought I might ask the senator a few questions. Maybe he could lead me to legal records of the bootlegging investigation. Surely somestill exist, somewhere.”
“Trust me, Dean, Senator Gaylon Peavy isn’t goin
g to help you look into his family history, no more than Margaret or Charles or Roy are likely to. He’s got his political future to protect, you remember. Even a hint of scandal—current or seventy-five years in the past—is more than a career politician is willing to risk.”
“Well, hell, what am I supposed to do, then? How can I prove anything if no one’s willing to cooperate?” Dean directed the question as much at the empty room as to the man on the other end of the telephone line—just in case Anna was listening.
“I wish you’d tell me why this is so important to you, Dean,” Mark said, sounding suddenly serious.
Dean sighed. “I wish I could.” But you’d never believe me.
“You have to know it seems a little strange, your trying to reopen a seventy-five-year-old local police case.”
“I know.” And you’d think it even stranger if you knew the real reason I’ve become involved in this.
“And you’re not saying another word, are you?”
“No. I’m sorry, there’s nothing else to say right now.”
Mark conceded, if not graciously, at least resignedly. “You’ll call me if you find out anything interesting?”
“You’ll be the first.”
“Thanks. I guess.”
Smiling at Mark’s grudging tone, Dean hung up the phone.
He looked around the sitting room. “I hope you’re satisfied,” he remarked to empty air. “Thanks to you, I’m not exactly scoring popularity points in my new hometown. I’m more likely to get run out of town on a rail.”
He turned to find Cara McAlister standing in the doorway, watching him oddly. He cleared his throat. “Er, talking to myself,” he muttered.
She nodded. “I was just going to ask if you like baked pork chops,” she explained. “I thought I’d make that for dinner this evening.”
“Sounds good. I, uh, have to go work outside now.”
“I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”
“Thanks.” He didn’t quite meet her eyes as he passed her on his way out.
He wondered how Anna would feel when he was dragged out of the inn in a straitjacket, which wasn’t such a farfetched image, the way things had been going lately.
ANNA WATCHED Dean leave the sitting room. She’d been watching him for a while, but she’d made no attempt to communicate with him. He looked so tired. She knew he’d been working very hard restoring the inn, and trying to find out the truth for her. He was risking his health, his business, his standing in his adopted community, everything...for her.
And he’d asked nothing in return.
Was it any wonder she had fallen in love with him?
He probably wished he had never met her. Would there come a day when he’d throw up his hands and tell her so? If he did, she would have to tell him goodbye. She would have to set him free soon, whether he succeeded in finding out the truth or not. He didn’t deserve what she’d put him through these past weeks.
It had never occurred to her that a heart no longer beating could still be broken. Now she realized that it could, indeed.
Her own broke a little more each time she forced herself to leave Dean Gates. It would shatter completely the day she had to tell him goodbye forever.
9
Not Death, but Love.
—Emily Dickinson
FOR THE NEXT TWO DAYS, Dean concentrated on researching Deputy Stanley Tagert. The information was limited, but a picture emerged of a surly, unpopular man who’d drifted into law enforcement because of his need for power. He’d married and fathered three children, only one of whom had stayed in the area after Tagert died in the hunting accident.
Dean tracked down Tagert’s grandson, who owned a struggling grocery store in a small town less than ten miles from Destiny. He explained that he’d purchased the Cameron Inn and was researching its history for his own curiosity. “I understand your grandfather was the officer who attempted to arrest the Cameron twins.”
Genial and cooperative, Arnold Tagert nodded his balding head. “Yup. My grandma told us about it. Said he was a real hero, but he paid the ultimate price for his dedication to the law.”
“What did she mean by that?”
Arnold looked around as though afraid he’d be overheard, though the few customers shopping in the store were yards away from the corner where he and Dean stood. “My grandma never believed the Peavys’ story about my grandfather droppin’ his gun and accidentally shootin’ hisself. She says she thinks Gaylon Peavy shot him.”
Dean looked properly scandalized, though he wanted to cheer, instead. Finally, he’d found someone who doubted the “official” story. Maybe, at last, he was coming closer to the truth. “Why would she think that?”
“Revenge. She says Gaylon was mad as a hornet at my granddad for shootin’ his stepkids, even though my granddad swore they shot first.”
Dean frowned, not at all satisfied with that explanation. “But I understood Gaylon was never close to his stepchildren.”
Arnold Tagert shrugged. “Around these parts, family loyalty goes a long way. Folks said as how Gaylon promised his second wife, the twins’ mother, that he’d look out for’em as long as he was livin’, and he might have thought he’d let ‘em down by not protectin’ ’em from their own criminal ways.”
“That doesn’t sound very likely,” Dean murmured.
Tagert smiled ruefully. “I know that. But Grandma was never quite right after her husband was killed, you know? And as she got older, she just got more peculiar. She always did hate the Peavys.”
Again, that darting look around, as though his grandmother were there to eavesdrop. “My mother had the idea that maybe ol’ Granddad had chased after Mary Anna Cameron while he was married to my grandmother. They say Mary Anna was a real knockout.”
Dean cleared his throat. “Yeah. That’s what I’ve heard.”
“Be that as it may, no one ever took Grandma serious about Gaylon killin’ her husband. Far as I know, it was ruled an accident and the case was closed within a few days. Grandma never spoke to a Peavy again, not that it bothered ’em any. But she kept up with ‘em, for all that. She seemed to know everything they did. Claimed she was waitin’ for justice to assert itself.”
Dean was getting desperate. “Mr. Tagert—”
“Arnold.”
“Thanks. Arnold, is there anyone still alive who actually knew Gaylon Peavy, or the twins? Anyone who might possibly know a bit more about the scandal than is generally known?”
Tagert frowned and scratched his head. “Ain’t no one still alive that I know of. Except maybe ol’ Bill Watson.”
Dean froze. “Bill Watson?” This was a name he hadn’t encountered before.
“His mama used to work at the inn, and she and Bill lived there when he was a boy. They moved to Hot Springs not long after the twins died, but Bill went back to Destiny years later and went to work for the Peavy family. Worked for ‘em till he was too old to even do odd jobs, and then they shipped him off to some nursing home. If he’s still alive, I guess they’re still payin’ his bills.”
“No one’s even mentioned him to me before.”
Tagert shrugged. “Not surprisin’. or Bill always was a loner, never had family or many friends to speak of. And it’s been years since he left. He’d have to be in his late eighties now, assuming he’s still alive. Most folks have probably forgot all about him.”
“If he is still alive, it’s possible that he would remember the twins. Remember that night, maybe.”
Tagert nodded. “Yeah, I guess. Would have stuck in his memory, for sure, even if he was just a kid at the time. Not that I ever heard him mention it while he worked for the Peavys. Nobody ever really understood that situation much, anyway.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“Far as anyone could tell, ol’ Bill never did much. A little drivin’, some gardenin’, runnin’ errands. But the Peavys kept him on the family payroll for years, then took care of him after he got too old to do anything useful. The Peavys w
eren’t exactly known for their loyalty and generosity—unless it was something they could do real public-like, to make’em look good, you know?”
Dean nodded to show that he got the point. Bill Watson was sounding more interesting all the time. Was it possible that Watson knew something about the shootings, even though he’d been a mere boy at the time? Or were the Peavys more loyal to longtime employees than the grandson of an embittered widow had been led to believe?
Whichever the case, Dean wanted to talk to Watson. “You don’t know which nursing home he’s in?”
“No, ’fraid not, though I think it was somewhere in Little Rock.”
Impatient to be away, Dean thanked Tagert for his time.
“Oh, yeah, sure. Listen, good luck with the inn, you hear? I always thought it was a purty place despite all the bad luck that seemed to surround it—not that I expect anything like that for you, of course,” Tagert added quickly.
Dean smiled wryly. “I hope you’re right. Bring the wife for dinner some night when the dining room’s open. Your meal will be on the house.”
Tagert seemed delighted by the generous offer.
DEAN CALLED Mark from his car phone. “Have you heard the name Bill Watson?” he asked, barely taking time to identify himself.
“Watson, er, wasn’t he once a handyman for the Peavy family?”
“That’s the one. Why didn’t you mention him before?”
“I forgot,” Mark confessed.
Dean scowled, but managed to keep his irritation in check. “What do you know about him?”
“Not much. His name came up when I started doing my research into the shoot-out. Someone remembered that he’d lived in the inn at that time. But I was told that old Bill is senile and hardly remembers his own name, much less anything about the Cameron family. He left Destiny in his late teens, came back fifteen years later and went to work for Margaret’s father, Charles. Stayed on the family payroll until he got too old and then they put him in a nursing home somewhere.”
