by Gina Wilkins
Dean didn’t urge Mark to stay. He had his own mission to accomplish. One he dreaded, even as he anticipated the pleasure in Anna’s dark eyes at having the truth finally revealed.
“You are going to print the article?” he asked as he reached for his door handle with his left hand.
Mark nodded. “I’ll print it, as soon as I decide how to word it.”
Dean left the Bible lying in his seat. “You’ll need the letter,” he said, nodding toward the old book. “You’ll want to have it verified first, maybe get a few experts to comment on it. Make copies and spread them around for insurance. I’ll be calling on Margaret Vandover this evening.”
“I know how to do my job.” The slight curtness of Mark’s tone told of his weariness, the strain of what lay ahead for him. For both of them.
Dean winced. “I know. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. Sorry if it sounded as though I did.”
Mark nodded, appeased. “I’ll keep you updated on my progress.”
“Thanks. And, uh, Mark. Be careful.”
“I should be saying that to you.”
They both knew that Margaret was aware of the truth. Had she hired someone to warn Dean off, or had she shared her knowledge with someone else in the family who’d vowed to keep it buried?
That was something Dean figured he’d find out before long, one way or another. At the moment, he didn’t even care.
He needed to see Anna.
AUNT MAE was waiting in the newly remodeled lobby when Dean entered the inn, standing behind the buffed and polished reception desk as though he were an arriving guest. “So you and Mark are back from your mysterious mission,” she commented. “Were you successful?”
“Yes. I’ll tell you all about it this evening,” he promised her, thinking how very patient she’d been with him during the past weeks, despite her obvious worry.
It was typical of her that she didn’t press him for details. “You look tired,” was all she said as she rounded the end of the desk and approached him. “Is your arm hurting?”
It was throbbing dully, but it couldn’t compare with the pain centered in Dean’s chest. “It’s fine.”
“Maybe you should get some rest.”
“You’re probably right,” he agreed, trying not to sound too eager to be alone. “I’ll be in my room if you need me.”
She nodded, watching him closely. She laid one hand on his good arm before he could move away. “Dean? Are you going to be all right?” she asked, deep concern in her eyes.
He kissed her soft cheek. “Sure I will, Aunt Mae,” he said heartily, knowing he was lying. “Aren’t I always?”
He felt her watching him as he left the lobby, but he didn’t dare risk looking back.
He was concerned that she might read the truth in his eyes, and know that he wasn’t all right. That he might never be all right again.
He stopped by the vacant sitting room on his way to his bedroom. Anna wasn’t there, or at least, she didn’t appear to him if she was.
Running his left hand through his hair, he headed for his room, his steps heavy. He was certain she would come to him there.
Anna would be impatient to hear what he’d learned, he reasoned. She would be delighted that Mark planned to write the article clearing hers and Ian’s reputation.
Dean wished he could be a little happier that he’d done this for her. Happy that justice had been served after all this time, and that he’d played a vital role. But all he could think about was Anna’s certainty that she and her brother would be freed when their names were cleared.
He had to believe she was right. Why else would they have remained here for so long, when the others before and after them had all gone on?
He hoped he’d have a chance to tell her goodbye. To touch her one last time. To feel her cool lips beneath his. To tell her how much he would miss her. How he would never forget her. Never stop loving her.
She wasn’t in his room.
“Anna?” he called cautiously, looking around. Was she there, watching him?
“Anna, I’ve found what you’ve been hoping for. Mark and I have proof that you and Ian were murdered. That you were innocent.”
There was no response.
He looked at the corner where the empty chair sat, his shirt from the night before still draped over it. It was only a chair. Only a shirt.
“Anna?” he said again, turning away from the corner and looking toward the bed where she’d come to him, kissed him, showed her concern for him. “Are you here? I want to tell you what Watson said.”
The room was silent. Dean sensed that he was alone. Anna wasn’t there. Would she ever be again?
He sank to the edge of the bed, his head bent, his right arm drawn tightly against his body, the pain of his injury merging with the aching of his heart.
“Anna,” he whispered. “Don’t leave me like this.”
DEAN HALF EXPECTED Margaret to refuse to see him when he showed up at her door that evening. Though he was prepared to fight his way in, if necessary, it didn’t come to that. He was escorted into her parlor by a coolly courteous housekeeper.
He found Margaret sitting in a fragile-looking antique chair, flanked by her son, the mayor, and her nephew, the chief of police.
Dean looked from Margaret to Charles to Roy. “Well?” he asked dryly. “Where’s the senator?”
“Gaylon is at his home in Little Rock,” Margaret replied briskly. “I saw no need for him to be involved in this.”
Dean cocked his head curiously, trying to read the woman’s expression. “You act as though you were expecting me.”
She nodded. “I was. I received a call this afternoon from Bill Watson. He was...delighted that you’d visited him. He wanted me to know the details of your conversation.”
“I wish someone would tell me what the hell is going on here,” Mayor Charles Vandover complained, looking from his mother to Dean. “Why did you go see old Bill, Gates? What is this vendetta you have against my family?”
“I have nothing against your family, Mayor,” Dean replied. He hadn’t been asked to sit down, so he remained standing, his good arm at his side, the other resting in the white sling across his chest. “Or at least, I had nothing against any of you until someone dropped a potting bench on me and almost killed me.”
Chief Roy Peavy jumped up from his seat. “What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded, the loud, officious voice incongruous with his mousy appearance. “You aren’t blaming us for your own damn-fool carelessness, are you?”
“I wasn’t careless. I was deliberately attacked. And yes, I think someone in your family was behind it.” Dean looked at Margaret again. “How much do they know?” he asked her.
She looked almost as old as Watson had earlier, though Dean knew she was nearly twenty years younger than the man. “Nothing,” she admitted. “I’m the only one who knows the truth.”
“So you’re the one—”
“I asked that you be warned about interfering with my family business,” she cut in flatly. “I never intended for you to be seriously injured.”
“Who was he?”
“The son of a man who once worked for me,” Margaret replied with a resigned sigh. “He has a rather long record, and he isn’t particular about how he comes by the money to support his habits. It wasn’t the first time I’d had him do a favor for me.”
Charles also rose from his chair, staring at Margaret incredulously. “Mother?”
“Please sit down, Charles. You, too, Roy. This won’t take long.”
Margaret drew a deep breath. Dean noticed that she still hadn’t invited him to take a chair. “How much is it going to take to keep you quiet?” she asked him coolly.
He narrowed his eyes. “You think that’s why I’m here?”
She shrugged delicately. “Why else? As you pointed out, you have no reason to hate me, no reason to want to humiliate me and my family in this town because of something that happened long before you arrived. You he
ard something that made you suspect the truth and you figured you could make some money from it, just as Bill Watson did for all those years. I’ve had you investigated, Gates. I know you’ve put every penny you own into that worthless old inn. Obviously, you think you’ve found a way to recoup some of your investment.”
“Mother, what the hell is this all about?” Charles demanded. “What does Gates have to do with Bill Watson?”
Margaret sighed. “I guess this man is going to make sure you know the truth. Maybe it’s time you do. You’ll probably have to support him the rest of his life because of it, just the way I’ve had to support Watson before him.”
Dean folded his arms, waiting to hear what she’d tell her son.
“My father murdered Ian and Mary Anna Cameron, and Buck Felcher,” she stated baldly. “He participated in an official cover-up and later killed Stanley Tagert, the crooked police officer who’d been in league with him. He then took the money he’d made through the sale of contraband merchandise and, through shrewd investments, made enough to establish himself and his heirs as prominent and powerful citizens of this area. Bill Watson knew the truth from the beginning. He blackmailed my father for years. I found out everything several years later, when it was my turn to pay for Watson’s silence.”
Charles and Roy seemed stunned.
Dean concentrated on Margaret. “You didn’t care that two innocent people were murdered, that their reputations were ruined in their hometown?”
“I never knew them,” Margaret stated simply. “I loved my father. He was a powerful, respected man in this town. How could I let his name be smeared by something that had happened years before I was born? He was already dead when I discovered the truth about him. The Camerons left no heirs, no one to suffer from their tragedy. I saw no purpose in letting the truth out.”
“Did you deliberately cause trouble for Mark Winter when he began to research a book about the murders?”
Margaret hesitated. “I made it clear that the local citizens wouldn’t care to have their dirty laundry aired in public through a book that cast our town in an unfavorable light.”
She had a unique way of rationalizing her behavior, Dean thought wryly. She made it sound as though it hadn’t been herself and her own family reputation she’d been protecting, but the entire population of the small town she and her kin had dominated for so many years.
Margaret glanced at Roy. “You’ll say nothing about any of this, of course,” she said. “I will pay for Mr. Gates’s silence. And Mr. Winter’s, as well, I presume.”
“No,” Dean said with a cold smile. “You won’t. I’m not here for your money, Mrs. Vandover. I’m here to let you know that the whole truth will be printed in the Destiny Daily, exactly as Bill Watson told it to us. We have a letter from your father backing him up.”
She paled. “You—you’re printing the story?”
“Yes.”
“But... but why? Don’t you know what that will do to my family?”
Dean shrugged. His injured arm throbbed, reminding him that this woman did not deserve his sympathy. “Had you told the truth when you learned of it, rather than going to such extremes to hide it, your family wouldn’t have suffered nearly as much,” he said. “No one would have blamed you for your father’s actions. Of course, no one would have named a library after him, either. Something tells me that name will be changed soon.”
Anger flared in her eyes. “You do this and you’ll regret it. I swear you will!”
“I’ll take my chances.”
After a long, taut moment, she wilted as she realized there was nothing more she could do to stop him. “You’ll destroy my father’s name—and mine, as well—but I won’t let you destroy my family.”
She turned back to her nephew. “Mr. Gates will probably want to press charges against me,” she said calmly. “You will cooperate with him if he does. You’ve been an honest officer of the law. No one will hold your grandfather’s actions against you if you continue to do your job well. Nor the improvident behavior of your eccentric old aunt,” she added with a touch of grim humor. “You make it clear you had nothing to do with this, you hear?”
“But, Aunt Margaret—”
“I won’t be pressing charges,” Dean said wearily. “I’m more than ready for this to be over. Destiny is my home, too, now. And I have an inn to restore.”
Margaret frightened. “Does that mean—”
“Mark’s working on an article now about the interview Watson gave us this afternoon,” Dean cut in. “I want everyone to know the truth about the Cameron twins.”
“Please don’t try to tell me you’ve seen the ghosts,” Margaret said, her lip curled, her disappointment at his determination to reveal the truth obvious.
“I’m the owner of the historic Cameron Inn,” he returned steadily. “It’s the only really honorable name in this whole mess. I want my future guests to know it.”
“That’s your only interest in this?” Charles asked skeptically.
“It’s all you need to know,” Dean replied.
Margaret held his gaze for a long moment, then allowed her own to waver. “Charles, please escort Mr. Gates to the door. And be polite. As Destiny’s mayor, you must support our local business owners.”
“Don’t know what you think you’ve accomplished with this, Gates,” Charles complained at the door as Dean prepared to step outside. “You’re only going to embarrass my family. And for what? A seventy-five-year-old scandal.”
“Not a scandal. Murder,” Dean corrected him. “Your grandfather should have paid for what he did, even if it’s only his place in the town’s history that suffers.”
Charles winced. “Damn. The gossip mongers will have a field day with this, especially those who have never liked my mother, anyway. When they find out she’s known about this—”
“She’s an old woman. She had nothing to do with the murders, though she shouldn’t have kept up the blackmail payments to Bill Watson. I won’t say anything about her hiring someone to attack me—unless, of course, she causes any further trouble for me or my friends.”
“She won’t,” Charles muttered. “Can’t say I’m ever going to like you after this, but none of us will give you any trouble. We’ll be too busy trying to rebuild our own reputations.”
“As your mother pointed out, no fair-minded person would blame any of you for your grandfather’s actions. Your mother’s behavior, on the other hand, is different. You and I both know I should be pressing charges against her. I could have been seriously hurt by her stunt, maybe even killed. As it is, I can tell you my arm hurts like hell.”
“Have the medical bills sent to me,” Charles said wearily. “I’ll take care of them. And, Gates—thank you for not pressing charges.”
“She’s had to live with the knowledge that the father she adored was a murderer,” Dean replied, his tone grim. “And now everyone else is going to know it. Maybe that’s enough.”
“Trust me, for my mother, there’s nothing worse you could have done to her.” The mayor saw Dean out, closed the door and then presumably returned to his mother’s side.
ANNA WASN’T WAITING when Dean returned to the inn.
With a part of him constantly on the alert for any sign of her, Dean told the whole story to his aunt and Cara. Casey had already been tucked in for the night; it was almost midnight by the time Dean finished the long, complicated tale. He left out his encounters with Anna, saying only that he’d had a feeling from the beginning that something was missing from the legend. Something that had intrigued him.
He couldn’t talk about Anna now. Maybe he never would.
“This is just fascinating, Dean,” Mae breathed when Dean had completed the tale with the details of his visit that evening to Margaret Vandover. “You’ve solved a seventy-five-year-old mystery. Unmasked a murderer, even though he’s already dead. You must feel like one of those fictional detectives you so love to read about.”
Dean just felt tired. And empty.
“It wasn’t all that exciting, Aunt Mae. I simply did some research.”
“And risked your life in the process,” Cara said heatedly, looking at his sling. “I can’t believe you let that mean old woman get away with hiring someone to attack you. She should go to jail for what she did to you, and so should the man who hurt you. Why, I—”
She stopped suddenly, her face going pale.
“What is it, Cara?” Dean asked.
“You, uh, wouldn’t want me to testify, would you?” she asked in little more than a whisper. “I mean, I’m grateful to you for taking us in and for being so kind to us, and I’m very sorry you were hurt, but I simply couldn’t appear in court. I—well, I just couldn’t.”
He wished he knew what Cara was hiding. What frightened her so badly. He hoped she would trust him enough someday to tell him. Maybe he will have regained enough energy by then to help her. For now, he let it go.
At the moment, he felt like a battered, fatigued, hopelessly lovesick male. Some hero, he thought with a private grimace.
Maybe he should leave Cara’s problems alone. Or let Mark try to convince her to share them with him.
“I wouldn’t expect you to testify, Cara,” he promised quietly. “As I said, I’m not pressing charges against Margaret. As far as I’m concerned, it’s over.”
Over. The word echoed in his mind. Was it over? Was Anna already gone, her mission completed?
Had she left without even saying goodbye?
It was all he could do not to groan aloud at the thought.
“What about that old photograph we found, Dean?” Mae asked, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “Did you tell Mark about it? Is he going to run it with the article?”
“No,” Dean said, more sharply than he’d intended. He couldn’t bear the idea of making that photograph available for the morbidly curious. The photo would be all he had left of Anna; he wouldn’t share it, not with anyone.
“I don’t want the photograph mentioned, Aunt Mae,” he added more gently. “I have my reasons, okay?”
“Whatever you say, dear,” she murmured. Dean didn’t miss the look that passed between her and Cara. Both of them then turned to him. The concern in their faces touched him, even as it made him restless.
