Into The Darkness

by Kathy

  Meg took a bite. "Mmmm. It's wonderful." Ed, his mouth stuffed, nodded in enthusiastic agreement. Kate planted her elbows on the table. "So what's this about the cottage?"

  Meg explained, though she suspected she was not telling Kate anything she didn't already know. At least Kate didn't give her any guff about ghosts. "Good idea. Always hated to think of that place falling apart. It was such a pretty little house."

  "I thought you'd be out looking for property for me, like the others," Meg said.

  Kate gave Ed a look of disgust. "I told 'em that was stupid. You already own half the town—or you will, when your gramma passes on."

  "That won't be for a long time."

  "It's all in the hands of the Lord," said Ed. "He giveth and he taketh away—"

  "He isn't gonna take Mary Mignot till she's damn good and ready to go," Kate said. "That sweet-little-lady act of hers fools all you men, but underneath she's tough as nails."

  "Do you really think so, Kate? I've been worried about her."

  "They say at the hospital she's doing just fine, honey."

  "Physically, yes. It's not her heart. ... I mean, that's a concern, of course, but she's also been saying some of the most peculiar things—"

  "She misses Dan something terrible," Ed said, shaking his head mournfully. "And she knows he's waiting for her on the other side. That there ring must've been one he gave her—ow!"

  He looked reproachfully at Kate. "Just stop that dismal talk," she ordered. "I swear to God, there's nobody so depressing to be around as you religious types. Don't you give Meg any more of that crap about the other side, you hear? And Meg, you quit worrying. There's nothing wrong with your gramma's mind. Bet you never heard her say anything sillier than what just came out of Ed's big mouth."

  "I'd better get back to the store," Meg said quickly. "Riley's alone."

  "You haven't found anybody yet?" Kate asked.

  "Not yet. There's a woman we might hire; I've got to call her and set up an interview."

  "Hold on a minute. . . ." Kate vanished into the kitchen.

  "Don't run off," Ed said, looking at her with round, sad eyes. "I didn't mean to make you feel bad, Meg; seemed to me it should be a comfort to you, knowing your gramma was safe in the hands of Jesus."

  Meg patted his plump pink hand. "You didn't make me feel bad, Ed."

  The swinging doors parted and Kate came out with a parcel that she thrust at Meg. "Take some pie to Riley. That boy never eats right."

  "You knew, didn't you?" Meg said. "All of you knew about his injury. Why didn't you tell me?"

  "He gets real mad when you tell people," Ed said innocently. "I don't want him mad at me. They said he knocked Tom Gentry clean across the bar at the Golden Calf the night after— ow!"

  "Never mind, Kate," Meg said with a smile. "It's no news to me that Riley is at odds with half the husbands in town. I'm sure he'll appreciate the pie."

  If I don't ram it down his throat, paper and all, she thought as she headed for the door.

  The man must have some good qualities, though—aside from the ones that had made her a victim, along with Candy, Debbie and God only knew how many others. Meg made a sour face; it stung her pride to put herself in the same category as those two. Well, anyhow, Mike and Ed liked him, and they weren't susceptible to sex appeal. And Ed's casual suggestion about the fede ring made as much sense as any other theory. The ring might well have been one Dan had given his wife to commemorate some private anniversary or moment of tenderness. Compared to his other magnificent gifts it appeared insignificant, but it might have a special meaning to Mary.

  Meg arrived at the store in time to rescue Riley from a customer who was berating him because her locket wasn't ready. A few well-chosen references to the recent tragedy reduced Mrs. Flockey to silence, if not apologies; Riley promised to have the locket ready in an hour, and the woman grumbled her way out.

  "It wasn't supposed to be finished till Thursday," Riley said after the door had closed.

  "She's an unreasonable old bitch," Meg said. "Dan was always complaining about her. Here."

  "What's this?" Riley eyed the package suspiciously. It was oozing red juice; Meg had unconsciously vented on the gift some of her frustration with the recipient.

  "Strawberry-rhubarb pie. Kate sent it."

  "Oh. Thanks. I guess I'd better get to work on that locket."

  "Riley. . . ."

  "Yes?" The juice had stained his fingers. Without warning or conscious intent, Meg pictured her lips and tongue tasting the sweetness of the syrup and the texture of his skin. She turned scarlet. Riley couldn't have known what she was thinking, but neither could he mistake the change in her expression. His lips parted. Meg didn't hear what he said; something odd seemed to have happened to her hearing.

  She heard the telephone, though. It was practically at her elbow, and it shrilled like a siren. Riley turned and headed for the shop, clutching his pie. Meg took a deep breath, picked up the phone and dealt, not too coherently, with a woman who was interested in selling her mother's jewelry and who insisted on describing it, rhinestone by rhinestone.

  I've got to stop this, she thought, as the dreary catalog of costume jewelry droned on. It's ridiculous. I haven't blushed since I was fourteen. What's the matter with me? I never felt like this about Nick. . . .

  A flurry of customers and telephone calls kept her busy for a while and gave her time to regain her composure. She placed a call to their prospective clerk and set up a time for an interview, wiped strawberry juice and moldy sawdust off the counter and searched, vainly, for the box containing the bear's remains. Riley must have taken it into the shop. Sparing her tender feelings, no doubt. What an ass she had made of herself over that stuffed toy. But no more of an ass than she had made of herself in another, more demoralizing way.

  The telephone rang again. When she heard the voice on the other end she was suddenly, coldly herself again. He identified himself only by name, as she had requested, and asked if she wanted to call him back.

  "Yes—I mean, no," Meg said, glancing at the closed door at the back of the store. If she watched what she said, there was no way Riley could tell to whom she was speaking. "Go ahead."

  He didn't explain how he had gotten the information so quickly. Meg didn't have to ask; she knew only too well that computer technology had made private records an oxymoron. Legally or illegally, there were ways of tapping into almost every system, from credit ratings to FBI files.

  The early records were scanty. There wasn't much one could say about a child, after all—birth date, place of birth, school attendance. Meg listened impatiently, her fingernails tapping a soft tattoo on the glass of the counter. She was beginning to wonder why she had asked the detective to go so far back in time. Mrs. Riley had been only twelve years old when Dan returned from the war, only twenty when she married.

  Her husband was ten years older than she. British-born, he had come to the States in 1948 after serving. . . .

  Meg straightened. "What? Say that again."

  He repeated the information. "Is that what you wanted? Shall I go on?"

  "Yes. . . . No, never mind. I'll have to ... I'll have to let you know. Later."

  She had a feeling she wouldn't need the firm's services any longer. They had found the connection between Dan and Riley, though it wasn't the one Meg had expected. Not his mother; his father, who had served in the Burma-India theater during World War II. The words she had spoken to George came back to her with damning force. "Suppose he pulled a swindle of some kind. Isn't it possible that one of the other people involved in the deal still holds a grudge?"

  Or had passed it on—to his son.

  Was this one of the pieces of information Darren had chosen not to pass on? Meg would have been delighted to find another omission for which to blame him. He had not known about the jewelry, but if he had an ounce of imagination he ought to have realized that the relationship between the families might be based on a friendship that had been forged i
n the fires of war, instead of being so quick to cast aspersions on Dan and an innocent woman.

  Darren didn't have an ounce of imagination. That was one of his problems.

  Meg pressed her hands to her head. If she accused Darren of leaping to conclusions he would politely point out that the original relationship between Dan and Riley Senior didn't eliminate the possibility of a later, stronger relationship between Dan and Mrs. Riley. In fact, it would explain how he happened to meet her. Thank God she hadn't told Darren about the jewelry; he would dive on that like an owl on a mouse. It was a much stronger motive for harassment than some hypothetical psychosis.

  Meg's eyes went to the clock. It was getting late—but not late enough to offer an excuse for further delay. She was torn between a cowardly fear of confronting Riley, and an equally pervasive need to know the truth. She stood biting her lip in a frenzy of indecision until something quite outside herself took control of her limbs and moved her toward the back of the store.

  "Riley. I need to talk to you."

  "Come on in, then."

  The door wasn't locked. He was sitting at the workbench, his back to her. Without turning, he said, "If it's Mrs. Flockey, tell her I'll be finished with this in a minute."

  "It's not Mrs. Flockey."

  To Meg her voice sounded perfectly normal, but Riley dropped the locket and spun around. "What's the matter? Is your grandmother—"

  "No." Meg took a deep breath. "Your father and Dan were both in India in World War Two."

  "That's right." His eyes narrowed. "Didn't you know?"

  "Which one of them swindled the prince out of his jewelry? Or did they just steal it?"

  Every muscle in his face stiffened, freezing mouth and eyes into parallel slits. "You didn't know," he said softly. "He didn't tell you a damn thing, did he?"

  He got up and started toward her. Meg shrank back, but despite his bad leg he was too quick for her. Reaching around her, he caught hold of the door and slammed it. "Sit down," he ordered, nodding toward the chair he had vacated.

  "I don't want—"

  "Sit down. Please."

  The "please," hurled at her as an afterthought, didn't move her so much as her awareness that she had very little choice. She had never been so conscious of the fact that the room was as secure as any prison cell—windowless, banded in metal, bolted and barred except for the single door blocked by Riley's body. She edged toward the chair, never taking her eyes off him, and sat down.

  "You found the jewelry," Riley said.

  Meg nodded.

  "He must have told you where it came from. Otherwise—"

  "I figured it out," Meg said. She met his eyes defiantly. "I searched your desk one day when you weren't here."

  "Ah." He looked—pleased? It hardly seemed likely, unless her admission had confirmed his suspicions. "You recognized the sketch and realized it came from a book. . . . Smart work." He leaned back against the door, his arms folded. "Must have come as quite a shock to you, finding that hoard. I suppose you went running to tell your uncle and your lawyer all about it."

  "I suppose I did."

  "And neither of them. . . . But they wouldn't know either, would they? If Dan didn't tell you. . . ."

  He raised his eyebrows inquiringly, but Meg remained stubbornly silent. "All right," Riley said after a moment. "It was my old man who found the stuff."

  "Found it?" Meg repeated ironically.

  "That was how he described it. He was among the British troops who retreated to India when the Japs took the Burma Road in early 1942. The Brits began organizing a Burmese resistance movement not long afterwards; my father was one of the people who went back and forth between India and the Karen tribesmen who were fighting the invaders. A couple of years later, in '44. . . . Am I boring you?"

  Meg gave herself a little shake. She felt dazed by the sudden switch from melodrama to pedantry. "I don't want a history lecture," she snapped. "Get to the point."

  "As you like. It was while he was scrounging around the countryside with one of these guerrilla groups that he ran across a guy who claimed to have escaped from Karenni, which is. . . . Okay, okay; no history, no geography. Dad said he saved this guy's life, risking, of course, his own in the process. The guy had been wounded, though, and they had no medical facilities; when gangrene set in, and the man realized he wasn't going to make it, he told Dad where he had hidden the treasure. His version was that he had been a court official, and that the prince had entrusted him with the family jewels when the Japanese came their way. He managed to get out, disguised as a beggar, but the whole royal family was massacred."

  He paused, waiting with tilted eyebrows for her response. "How sad," Meg said. "And how very convenient."

  "Yeah. Dad thought the guy was raving, but he figured it was worth a look. Imagine how surprised and touched he was when he found the loot. He managed, with considerable difficulty, to get it back to India, where he showed it to Dan. They had gotten acquainted because of their mutual interest in gemstones. My grandfather was a gem setter—not a very good one, but Dad grew up around precious stones and knew enough to tell a zircon from a diamond, if not much more.

  "I never did know the exact details of the deal they made," Riley went on. "Dad was vague about that; he could invent all the lies he wanted about the rest of it, there was no one alive who could contradict his story; but it was a little hard to explain why he didn't turn the treasure over to the British authorities until the legitimate heirs, if any, could be located. It's a reasonable assumption, however, that Dan took full advantage of my old man's dubious legal position. How much of the help Dan gave him in later years was due to Dan's conscience, and how much to some discreet blackmail from Dad, I don't know; but Dan sponsored him when he came over here and found various jobs for him—and subsidized him after he started hitting the bottle.

  "You have to understand—I didn't know anything about this until shortly before my father died, and I didn't think much about it then—figured it was just another one of his boozy fantasies. After the funeral Dan took me aside and offered—no, he told me he was sending me to college. I'd only met Dan a few times, and I didn't know Dad had shown him some of my sketches; but I wasn't having any of that college crap or anything to do with the jewelry business. I told Dan to take his offer and stuff it, and a few months later I got drafted, so that took care of that. After . . . after I got back from 'Nam. . . . Well, never mind. Dan finally tracked me down and that time I was in a more receptive mood. I'd been working for him for almost a year before he showed me the jewelry and told me his version of how he acquired it. It never occurred to me that you didn't know."

  He had moved from the door to the desk as he talked; now he sat on the corner of it, absently rubbing his leg.

  "No wonder you hated him," Meg said.

  "Hated Dan? Why—"

  She cut him short. "Did I hear the chimes?"

  "I didn't hear anything."

  Meg ran to the door and looked out. "I don't see anyone. Riley, for God's sake tell me the truth. I can understand why you'd resent Dan. He robbed your father. That's what it amounted to. He became rich and successful, in large part because of what he stole—"

  "Hey, wait a minute." Riley got to his feet, his eyes a brilliant topaz brown, "You've got it all wrong. My father was the one who. . . . I've wondered for years whether he murdered that poor devil to get the jewels. Why in God's name should I resent Dan? He probably saved my life. I loved the sneaky old bastard!"

  She had never seen his face so unguarded—the barriers lowered, not for her, but for Dan. "I loved him too," she said in a choked voice. "Damn him."

  "Hey! Anybody home?" The voice shattered the silence. It came from the intercom. Meg started. "That's Cliff. It must be____"

  "Five o'clock and all's well," Cliff called. "What's going on? Here I come, ready or not."

  Meg wrenched the door open and found herself nose-to-nose with her cousin. "Ah, there you are," Cliff said. "Am I interrupting somethi
ng?"

  "I didn't hear you come in," Meg said.

  "No? You must have been absorbed in ... conversation." Cliff peered over her shoulder, his eyes bright with curiosity. Meg stood firm; for reasons she could not precisely define, she didn't want Cliff in the shop. Cliff waved at Riley. "Hi, there. I brought your truck back."

  "Thanks," Riley said shortly. He came forward to take the keys.

  "Thank you. You know, you shouldn't huddle back here and leave the store unwatched. Lucky for you I'm so honest; I could have robbed you blind."

  How much had he overheard? Meg decided to ignore his comment; the verb might have been used innocently.

  "I had no idea it was so late," she said.

  "Time does fly when one is having fun. Can I bum a ride home, coz? Unless you were planning to work late."

  Meg didn't find his heavy-handed innuendos embarrassing, only tiresome. Before she could compose a proper put-down the shop door opened, and the tight little group in the doorway dissolved. Riley turned to the workbench and Meg advanced to placate Mrs. Flockey, closing the door firmly behind her.

  It took Riley more than a minute, but less than two, to finish the job; when he came out Meg was looking at pictures of Mrs. Flockey's grandchildren and mentally kicking herself for choosing that method of distraction. Mrs. Flockey refused to take possession of the locket until all three of them had admired every snapshot. Cliff entered into the game with enthusiasm; anyone other than a doting grandmother would have noticed he was overdoing it, for the children were conspicuously homely. Sated at last, Mrs. Flockey collected her snapshots, inspected her locket, paid her bill and waddled out.

  Cliff was the first to speak. "All that for twelve-fifty? She kept you half an hour overtime, and then had the gall to complain about the price."

  "If you hadn't cooed over those grisly grandchildren of hers she wouldn't have stayed so long," Meg said.