She sighed, hesitating longer this time. “Nothing I can grab hold of. I am a lawyer, Dylan, and I try to deal in facts and not get carried away with speculation.”
“When you do have facts, you’ll tell me.”
“No promises.”
No promises? The woman had backbone, Dylan gave her that. “I’m still trying to figure out why my father thought there might be a connection between the Ashworth jewelry robbery and Knights Bridge.”
“I understand your curiosity, Dylan.”
Another careful answer. “I haven’t told you yet. I also found an article about the robbery torn out of a newspaper, with Isaiah Webster and Knights Bridge handwritten on the edge.”
There was silence on the other end. “I have to go.”
Dylan didn’t pressure her. Whatever she wasn’t telling him—he’d get it out of her eventually.
He sat at the old English teacher’s table with a pad of paper and put everything he knew about 1938 in chronological order. His father had been an interesting, often frustrating mix of impulsiveness and careful calculation. He could easily have lined up the same set of facts and, instead of analyzing them, went with whatever his gut told him.
He’d left a message with his mother in Los Angeles. She finally called him back, and he asked her the same questions he’d asked Loretta. She had nothing to add to what she’d already told him—until she said, “Your father did mention wanting to see Boston after his mother died. That was a long time ago.”
“What did Boston have to do with his mother?”
“She grew up there. She left after she married your grandfather. They lived in New York City before they moved west after he was born. I think that’s right. Dylan, I hate to tell you this, but the blunt truth is that your father wasn’t a big part of my life—except for you.”
“I know. It is what it is.”
“I love you, and I know he loved you.”
“That’s not what this is about.”
“Then what is it about?”
Olivia Frost, but he said, “Curiosity.”
His mother laughed, as Dylan knew she would. “Now you sound just like your father,” she said as she hung up.
There was no internet connection in the house. If he planned on staying in Knights Bridge much longer, he had to hook up Wi-Fi.
Who was he kidding? He wasn’t going to stay. He didn’t belong here. He would only end up breaking Olivia’s heart.
Or his own, he thought as he considered his options. In his years playing hockey and then operating in Noah’s cutthroat business world, he’d learned to act decisively, but Knights Bridge was different. The stakes were different. Losing a game, losing money—they mattered, but they weren’t the same as dealing with the people in a close-knit community and their dreams and secrets.
He had to think. He had food in his little fridge. The weather was good, so leaks weren’t an issue for the moment.
He could take his time.
Loretta Wrentham settled into the comfortable, ergonomic chair at her desk in her La Jolla home office and contemplated the situation in Knights Bridge on the other side of the country. She remembered Duncan McCaffrey walking into this room on a stormy afternoon two years ago. “You get a few drops of rain in Southern California, and people suddenly forget how to drive. They all talk about the oil buildup on the roads, but I think they just can’t deal with rain.”
She’d smiled at him. “Come back and live here awhile, and you’ll remember.”
“You’re my son’s lawyer.”
“Yes, I am. What can I do for you?”
“Nothing. Just…” He hadn’t wanted to tell her anything but finally relented. “I’m leaving everything to Dylan except for what I’m giving to a foundation that specializes in historical archaeology.”
“Are you ill?”
Duncan hadn’t looked shocked or dismayed. He had seemed, in fact, amused and pleased by her bluntness. “I’m not ready to croak yet. Soon, maybe. I’ve never expected to live to a ripe old age. No, Lori—”
“Loretta,” she’d supplied.
“Loretta. That’s a pretty name.”
She couldn’t swear to it, but she suspected she’d blushed. “Thank you.”
“Loretta, I’m on a treasure hunt that might lead me somewhere I shouldn’t go. Not that I don’t want to, but shouldn’t. If I die before it’s complete, I’ll have left Dylan a few clues. It’s up to him if he doesn’t do anything with them. It’s up to him if he even looks at a thing I’ve left him.”
“All right.”
“I know you represent him and not me, but I want that to be clear. I don’t want to reach out from the grave and screw up his life for him.”
“It’s about this treasure?”
“Yeah. If he inherits a house in a little town in New England called Knights Bridge, then you know I didn’t finish.”
“Knights as in knights in armor or nights as in—”
“Armor. I think the Knights were a family in the area. Who the hell knows.”
“You know more than you’re saying.”
He grinned at her. “Yeah, I do, but not as much as you think.”
“Why did you buy this house? Does it have to do with this reluctant treasure hunt?”
“What would you do if you thought someone close to you had been involved with a long-ago crime?”
“Depends on the statute of limitations and the type of crime. Mr. McCaffrey—”
“Duncan. Anyway, I’m not telling you the details. The less you know, the better.”
“Did this crime involve murder? There’s no statute of limitations on murder.”
“No murder. I’m not out to unearth people’s secrets. We all deserve our secrets, don’t we?”
Loretta didn’t know how it happened, but they’d ended up in bed together. In his early seventies, Duncan had been a vigorous lover. She’d known there’d been a long string of women before her and it was meant to be a momentary interlude. She’d given herself up to the night. He had seemed complex, a man who loved life and knew who he was and yet was lost, didn’t know where he belonged. When he left in the morning, she had a feeling she would never see him again.
And she didn’t.
Being with him had rekindled a desire for love, and sex, in her life. She had started dating again. There’d been no repeat of such a one-night stand—she wasn’t the type and had never run into another Duncan McCaffrey—and she had no interest in letting his son know, or even hinting to him, that they’d been intimate.
She’d done what Duncan had asked and had simply paid the bills on the house in Knights Bridge; until Dylan started asking questions. Now the questions included a 1938 robbery involving a British aristocrat and jewels going back to Queen Victoria.
The treasure hunt, obviously, that had absorbed Dylan’s father.
In her view, Duncan had spoken with her under the assumption he had attorney-client privilege, but it wouldn’t have mattered.
“I’m not out to unearth people’s secrets.”
Loretta told herself that unless there was an urgent reason to do otherwise, she needed to respect Duncan’s secrets.
Plus, she realized he’d wanted his son to carry on the hunt on his own, without any goading from her.
Whatever was going on in Knights Bridge was meant for father and son.
Twenty-Two
Olivia was both pleased and surprised when her mother came out to Carriage Hill on her own. It was early—she was taking the morning off and didn’t have to be at the mill until noon. Just as well, Olivia thought, that she’d stayed home last night and painted and worked instead of inviting Dylan over for soup or knocking on his door. Figuring out what was going on between them was complicated enough without the added complication of explaining his presence to her mother at eight o’clock in the morning.
There was no question in her mind that if she’d seen him last night, he’d be at her house right now.
She made coffee and
brought it out to the terrace. Her mother brushed her fingertips over the lavender in the backyard. “It smells so nice already. Everyone in town is talking about this place, Liv.”
“Good talk, I hope.”
“All good.” Her mother stood straight. “I divided perennials at the house. I brought a bunch over here. They’re in the car. You don’t have to take any but I thought—”
“Are you kidding? This is great. I have tons of space yet to fill.”
They headed out to her mother’s car and loaded up the wheelbarrow with daylilies, astilbe, cranesbill geraniums, yarrow—Olivia was thrilled. She pushed the wheelbarrow back to the terrace, dumped it out and started sorting the plants. Her mother hadn’t labeled any of them. She recognized them on sight.
“I don’t want to get too far ahead of myself,” Olivia said, pausing her plant-sorting to help herself to coffee, “but I keep thinking about getting into artisan soap-making. Maggie’s mother has goats now. I could do goat’s milk soap scented with herbs and flowers from my own garden.”
“The Farm at Carriage Hill Soaps,” her mother said, sitting at the table and eyeing the plants she’d brought. “I like that.”
“I even have a design in mind for the packaging.”
“You’re bursting with ideas these days, aren’t you? I know from work at the mill that some will prove to be profitable and worth the effort, and some won’t. We learned early on that we can’t compete with the large manufacturers. We had to focus on quality custom millwork.”
Olivia nodded, appreciating her mother’s insights. “Artisan soaps fit with my plans for a getaway and small shop. I wouldn’t want to get into selling soaps over the internet but focus instead on small batches, almost as a premium for guests.” She set her coffee on the terrace and knelt back down among the dirt and plants—plants that now needed homes in her backyard. “It’s all fun to think about.”
“Do you think you’ll start your own design studio or keep freelancing for your old boss?”
“I don’t know yet. It depends on finances, I suppose.”
“Liv…” Her mother stood up, stretching her lower back. “You left Boston sooner than you thought you would, didn’t you? There were problems.”
Olivia sighed, reaching for a daylily that could be further divided. “There were, yes, but they’re sorted out now.”
“You’re happy here?”
“I am, yes, Mom.”
“Dylan McCaffrey—”
Olivia quickly changed the subject. “What do you know about Grace’s book? I asked Dad and Grandma, but they don’t know much.”
“I don’t, either. I think writing helped her to cope with selling her house.”
“Has anyone read it?”
“Not that I know of. She says she doesn’t want anyone to read it until after she’s gone.”
“I know, but I was hoping she let someone read at least parts of it. Think she has secrets?”
“I can’t imagine what they’d be, or why she’d want to tell them in a book and not just take them to the grave with her. I think it’s just the story of her life.”
“Maybe there’s more drama to her life than any of us realize. I’d love to get my hands on a copy of this book. She’d never know.”
“Olivia, shame on you!”
She grinned. “I’d never do it, Mom. You know that. Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t want to.”
“What about Dylan? Does he know about Grace’s book? Is he putting you up to sneaking a copy of it?”
“I don’t know what he wants, but he’s not putting me up to anything.”
“There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“There’s a lot I’m not telling you, Mom.”
“I should be glad?”
“Ha, I wish my life were that interesting.” Olivia grinned, sidestepping her mother’s questions, and separated the roots of the daylily. The weather was warmer than she’d expected, and she wished she hadn’t bothered with a long-sleeve shirt never mind a sweater.
She and her mother worked comfortably together through most of the morning, plotting where to put the perennials, dragging fertilizer and garden tools from the shed, digging and planting.
“It’s good to have you back here, Liv,” her mother said as she started for her car. “So long as you’re happy.”
“I am happy, Mom.”
After her mother left, Olivia wandered through the upstairs of her two-hundred-year-old house. Mark could help expand the rooms and add bathrooms, whatever was needed for an overnight getaway, but right now she had to concentrate on daylong events. A local walking group had just booked their annual meeting there in June. They planned to hike up Carriage Hill.
Olivia looked out her bedroom window at the view behind her house. Wildflowers were starting to blossom in the fields. She loved this place. She couldn’t let this opportunity slip through her fingers. She couldn’t imagine what she’d do if The Farm at Carriage Hill failed. Go back to Boston and work for Marilyn? Find a place for herself in her family’s millwork business?
“I won’t fail,” she said aloud.
She headed back downstairs and out to the front yard to plant the last of her mother’s perennials. Buster followed her and flopped in the shade, dutifully staying out of her flowerbed.
Five minutes later, Dylan showed up and found her elbow-deep in the dirt. He struck Olivia as preoccupied if not distant. “What’s on your mind?” she asked, settling back on her heels as she looked up at him.
He tugged a maple leaf off a low-hanging branch. “I’m not here to screw up your life, or this town.”
She narrowed her gaze on him. “What have you found out?”
“Lord Ashworth’s sister was Lady Helena Ashworth.” Dylan tossed the leaf down to Buster. “Lady Helena married a British flyer named Philip Rankin, but she died before the war. I’m still digging, but it looks as if the jewels actually belonged to Lady Helena—she inherited them from her grandmother.”
“So why did the brother have them?”
“When she died, apparently he ended up with them instead of her husband.”
“Helena and Philip didn’t have any children?”
“A daughter, Philippa.”
“Is she still alive? What about Philip? What happened to him? Did your father—”
“I have no idea what my father knew and didn’t know,” Dylan said, more with frustration than impatience. “I’m still gathering information on the Rankins.”
Olivia got stiffly to her feet, dusting the dirt off her hands and forearms. “You think Philip stole the jewels from his brother-in-law,” she said finally.
“The police never had a local suspect. Any suspect, for that matter.”
“Was Philip in Boston in September, 1938?”
“You ask good questions.” Dylan smiled, relaxing slightly. “You could keep the bastards away from Noah Kendrick.”
“I wish I could keep them out of my own life. Was Lord Ashworth a bastard?”
“Hard to say, but I doubt he and Philip Rankin played by the same rules.”
Olivia brushed more dirt off her hands but realized it’d take a good scrubbing to get it all. She hadn’t bothered with gloves. She could feel Dylan’s eyes on her and wondered what her life would be like now if Grace hadn’t sold her house to Duncan McCaffrey but was still there, watching birds, managing with home care and friends.
Dylan touched her cheek with a curved finger. “You’ve got a smudge of dirt on your face. Olivia…” He paused, moving his finger across her cheek to her hair, tucking a few strands behind her ear. “If you’re not busy right now, I’ll grab my files and you can see what you think.”
“I’m not doing anything that can’t wait.”
Olivia watched him walk back up the one-lane road, as pensive as she’d ever seen him. She put away her garden tools in the shed out back and glanced around her yard. It was taking shape, and she could imagine sharing it with people, looked forward to having a full schedule o
f events. She reminded herself that the mystery of Dylan’s house in Knights Bridge involved a father he’d lost less than two years ago. Her own problems suddenly seemed insignificant in comparison. She was excited about being back in her hometown, even if she’d taken a bumpy emotional and professional road in getting there.
When he arrived back at her house with a file folder in hand, the temperature had dropped, and she struck a match to the kindling and rolled-up newspapers she already had set up in the fireplace in the living room. Dylan sat on the floor, leaning back against the couch, his legs stretched out as Buster wandered in from the kitchen. Olivia felt her breath catch in her throat at the homey image, but she had never witnessed Dylan in action in San Diego, or at his home on Coronado—or in pads and skates on the ice. She’d seen pictures of him in his hockey uniform. Could she say, really, that she knew this man?
He explained that he had been to the library and used its computer since there was no Wi-Fi at his house. He had printed out what he could find on Lord Charles Ashworth and his sister, Lady Helena Ashworth. He handed Olivia a printout of a black-and-white photograph of a man and a woman standing in front of a mansion. “It’s the only photograph I could find of either of them,” he said. “It was taken in 1932. I found it on a site about the British aristocracy.”
“She’s lovely,” Olivia said. “He’s a bit watery.”
Dylan withdrew another printout from his file. “This one’s from 1912. Their grandmother sat for this portrait. Note the ring she’s wearing. It fits the description of the diamond ring that’s missing.”
The grandmother bore a strong resemblance to Lady Helena. Olivia peered closely at the ring. “It’s something, isn’t it? It’d make my wrist hurt.”
“Not much on baubles, are you?”
“Depends on the baubles, but I have no desire to own a ring worth millions.” Olivia studied the photograph again. “None of this was in your father’s trunk?”
“Not that I found, no.”
“You can hide a ring anywhere. If our British flyer stole the jewels and hid them in Quabbin and meant to come back, there’s not much hope of ever finding them. More than likely they’re under water now. It’d have to be like Gollum stumbling on Sauron’s ring.”
Secrets of the Lost Summer Page 24
