“What did the police have to say?”
Whirling around, Wynter discovered her dad and the ever-present Linda Baker standing at his side. They’d arrived together at the hospital, and Wynter had been forced to bite her tongue more than once when she’d caught sight of the secretary fussing over her dad as if he was a child, not a grown man with a PhD.
“I think they’re still investigating,” she said. “But I’m not sure how they can discover who pulled the trigger.”
“What is there to investigate?” Linda demanded, her reptile gaze flicking over Wynter’s rumpled T-shirt and jeans. As if silently chastising Wynter for not taking the time to change her clothes before rushing to the hospital. Wynter had wondered what the woman would say if she could have seen Wynter’s coveralls that had been covered in blood after cradling her grandpa’s head in her lap, waiting for the ambulance to arrive. “It was obviously a hunter who accidentally shot your grandfather.”
Wynter scowled. “This was no accident.”
Edgar cleared his throat. “We don’t know what happened, Wynter.”
She jerked her head to glare at her dad. The older man was in his usual white shirt and black slacks, although he’d taken off his tie and stuffed it in his pocket.
“You don’t find it strange that someone broke into my apartment to leave a threatening note and then the next day I’m nearly shot?”
“You weren’t shot. Your grandfather was,” Linda pointed out in tart tones.
Wynter blinked. Was the woman disappointed Wynter wasn’t the one lying in the hospital bed?
“Linda,” Edgar’s voice was unusually stern. “Wait for me in the car.”
“But—”
“Please.”
“Very well.” With pursed lips, the woman turned to grab her jacket off one of the sofas and headed out the door.
The second she’d disappeared, Wynter narrowed her eyes. “Are you going to take her side?” she demanded.
Edgar pulled off his glasses and started to polish them with a handkerchief he carried in his pocket. “I’m not taking anyone’s side,” he gently corrected her. “We don’t know what happened, but I think you should consider the fact that your grandfather was complaining that he’d caught a group of hunters trespassing on his land just last week. They shot two turkeys before he could run them off.”
Wynter blinked in surprise. Her grandpa never said anything about trouble with poachers.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. I told him to call the cops, but he said he’d taken care of them. You know how he is.”
“Stubborn,” she muttered.
“Exactly.” Her dad replaced his glasses and tucked away the handkerchief. “It’s just something to keep in mind.”
Wynter nodded, but Edgar had already turned to grab his trench coat that was folded on a coffee table.
“Are you leaving?” she asked.
Edgar pulled on his coat. “The doctor said that Dad is as comfortable as possible for now. They’ll call if anything changes.”
Her lips parted to argue, but he had a point. It wasn’t like Sander would know if they were pacing the waiting room or in the comfort of their home. And the doctor had been quite adamant that no one would be going in to see the older man tonight.
“Are you riding with Linda?” she instead asked.
Edgar flushed, his expression defensive. “We’re going back to the office. I still have to schedule the summer classes.”
“Of course.”
Pulling on his coat, Edgar awkwardly shifted from foot to foot. “Did you want to stay with me? At least for tonight.”
“I’m staying with Noah.”
“Oh.” He couldn’t fully disguise his relief. “Good. I’m . . .” With a vague lift of his hand, her dad bolted toward the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah.”
Wynter shook her head, not quite sure when her relationship with her dad had become so strained. They’d never been best buds, but they’d enjoyed each other’s company. Maybe it was because she’d been so busy with the restaurant. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d shared dinner or spent the day together. It was too easy to grow apart.
Telling herself she would try to do better, she turned her thoughts to her dad’s claim that there’d been poachers on the farm. She wasn’t a hunter, but she knew that it was turkey season in Iowa. It wouldn’t be the first time people from out of town wandered onto her grandpa’s land.
Still, what were the odds ... ?
She was trying to wrap her mind around the possibility that the shooting had been nothing more than a terrible accident when a woman in a tailored pantsuit with her dark hair pulled into a knot at the back of her head and striking features set in lines of sympathy crossed the waiting room to pull Wynter into her arms.
“Wynter, I’m so sorry.”
“Erika,” Wynter breathed in surprise.
Then she promptly burst into tears.
Chapter 11
Wynter wasn’t sure how long she sobbed. It was probably only a couple of minutes, but it was enough to give her the cathartic release that she needed.
At last she pulled back and wiped the tears from her face. “Sorry. I don’t know what happened.”
Erika offered a gentle smile, her dark eyes filled with a compassion that Wynter remembered during the year she’d spent in group therapy. She’d always insisted that the kids call her Erika instead of Dr. Tomalin. Not to try to be their friend, but to be more approachable. Then she’d built a sense of trust that let the group know it was a safe place to express any emotion without fear of being told that it was wrong to feel that way. Overall, she had a unique ability to offer a sense of calm acceptance no matter how out of control the situation might be.
“I’m going to guess that you’ve been under stress and needed a shoulder to cry on,” she murmured.
“Something like that.” Wynter sniffed and cleared the lump from her throat. “I’m better now. Feel free to return to your regularly scheduled programming.”
The smile remained. “I’m exactly where I planned to be,” she assured Wynter. “I was visiting a friend who is having surgery and I heard that Sander had been brought to the hospital. I know how close you are to your grandfather and I wanted to see how you’re doing.”
Wynter didn’t try to put on a brave face. Not with this woman. She’d see through any pretense.
“I’m a mess,” she bluntly admitted.
“Understandable. You’re worried about your grandfather. You’re supposed to be a mess.”
Wynter glanced away. Her emotions were raw and unstable, and a part of her longed to share the fear that was gnawing at her like a cancer. But was it fair? Dr. Tomalin had only stopped by to offer her sympathy, not to deal with Wynter’s current disasters.
“It’s not just concern for my grandpa.” The words were out before Wynter could halt them.
“Wynter. I might not be your therapist anymore, but you can always talk to me,” Erika murmured softly.
“I would like that.”
“Okay.” The older woman steered her toward a nearby sofa and they both sat on the hard cushions. Visiting hours for the ICU were over, giving them privacy despite the public setting. Turning so she could study Wynter’s face, Erika reached out to pat her knee. “What’s on your mind?”
Wynter took a minute to gather her scattered thoughts. She didn’t want to discuss the shooting. Or the note left in her apartment. This woman couldn’t help with those troubles. But she did have a unique insight that Wynter desperately needed.
“When I was in group, you said you knew Mom, but you couldn’t discuss her.”
The older woman didn’t actually flinch, but there was no mistaking her surprise at Wynter’s words. “The therapy was about your healing and accepting your mother’s death,” she said, her words carefully chosen.
“But you were friends?” Wynter pressed.
“Yes.” Erika tilted her head to t
he side. “Is there a particular reason you’re asking?”
“It was the anniversary of Mom’s death this week.”
The therapist’s pale face tightened, as if Wynter’s words touched a sensitive nerve. “Twenty-five years.”
“Yes.” Wynter blinked. It seemed a little odd that the therapist had known the exact year her mother died. Unless the two had been closer than Wynter suspected. There was an uncomfortable silence before Wynter forced herself to continue. “I visited her grave.”
“Good.” A wistful smile touched Erika’s lips. “It often brings us comfort to visit the resting place of a loved one.”
“Not this time.”
“Why not?”
“While I was in Pike I discovered that my mom wasn’t the woman I believed her to be.” The words came out in a staccato burst, as if speaking them quickly would ease the discomfort. Like ripping off a bandage. Fast and clean.
Erika studied Wynter with a hint of confusion. “I’m not sure what you mean. Are you suggesting that Laurel wasn’t your biological mother?”
Wynter shook her head. It’d never occurred to her that her mother might not be her mother. Or her father, her father ...
With a grimace she slammed a mental door on the possibility. She had enough problems without inventing more.
“She cheated on Dad,” she bluntly clarified. “More than once.”
Erika released a sigh, something that might be regret in her dark eyes. “Ah.”
“And that wasn’t all.” Now that Wynter had started, she couldn’t stop. As if she’d just been waiting for the opportunity to purge the noxious emotions that had been brewing inside her since learning of her mom’s past. “She spent money she didn’t have. My dad had to sell his book collection to pay her bills.”
Something flickered in the dark eyes. “Anything else?”
“She didn’t want me.”
The older woman gasped, as if genuinely shocked by Wynter’s abrupt claim. “That’s not true,” she rasped. “Your mother loved you. Very much.”
“How do you know?”
“She told me.”
“All mothers claim to love their children, don’t they?”
“Listen to me, Wynter,” the woman insisted, grabbing Wynter’s hand in a tight grip. “Your mom didn’t just claim to love you. She talked about you all the time.”
A tightness she didn’t even realize was clenching her muscles eased at Erika’s fierce insistence. She’d obviously been more worried by the fear she’d been an unwanted burden than she wanted to admit. Even to herself.
“Were the two of you close?” she asked her companion.
A nostalgic expression settled on Erika’s face. “When I came to Larkin I was hired as a counselor at Grant College. I was the first therapist they’d ever had and there were several professors who considered my position a waste of resources. It didn’t help that I looked like I was sixteen and was obviously overwhelmed by my first professional position.” She shrugged away the memories of dealing with the arrogant jerks who no doubt treated her with a barely concealed disdain. Wynter had grown up surrounded by academia and those stodgy professors who detested any change. Even if it was obviously for the better. “It was your mother who chatted with me at those dull academic parties and started inviting me to lunch. Even an occasional night out. She was the only one who cared that I was lonely and tried to make me feel welcomed.”
Wynter eagerly absorbed the picture Erika was painting of Laurel Moore. The past few days had deeply tarnished the memory of her mom. Laurel had been transformed from a loving parent to a selfish, pettily cruel woman who didn’t care about anyone’s happiness but her own. But now it was obvious that she had a kind heart. At least when she wanted.
“Did you know about the affairs?” Wynter asked. She didn’t have a perverted interest in her mom’s lovers. She wished she could scrub the thought from her mind. But if one of them was responsible for Laurel’s death, then Wynter needed to be able to protect herself.
“I suspected, but it wasn’t something we discussed,” Erika murmured.
“Did you hear any rumors?”
The older woman frowned, obviously uneasy. She’d been Wynter’s therapist for over a year. Long enough to develop an urge to protect her.
At last she shrugged in resignation. “There were always rumors swirling around Laurel. They claimed she was having a relationship with the art professor—”
“Dr. Peyton?”
“Yes. Along with her next-door neighbor when your parents moved from an apartment to their house, her deliveryman, and even one of the students she taught at the summer art camp.” Erika shook her head in disgust. “Most of those spreading the gossip were jealous and eager to make themselves feel better by trying to smear her reputation.”
Wynter made a mental note to check out Dr. Peyton. She already knew the deliveryman, Max, was dead. She’d have to do some investigation on who her parents’ next-door neighbor might have been, along with the student.
A shiver shook through her body. She didn’t want to try and figure out who could be cold-blooded enough to stand in front of her mother and shoot her in the chest. But what choice did she have?
“My grandpa said she was restless,” she said, trying to suppress the memory of the night her mom was murdered. It made the nightmares worse.
Erika considered her response. “Laurel was exuberantly emotional,” she finally said.
“What’s that mean?”
“Laurel lived with a passion that sometimes led her to extremes,” the older woman clarified. “She could be wildly happy one moment and then so furious, she would start throwing whatever she could get her hands on the next. She was charming and unpredictable and a hopeless romantic.” Erika lowered her lashes, but not before Wynter caught sight of the pain in the woman’s eyes. She truly mourned for her friend. “I’m not sure your father understood why she couldn’t be satisfied like the other professors’ wives. Or why she constantly craved excitement.”
“Larkin isn’t exactly a hot spot of thrills,” Wynter said dryly.
“No, but that didn’t mean she didn’t love her husband. And she adored you,” Erika was quick to reassure Wynter. “She just needed . . .”
“More.”
Erika leaned forward, her face softening. “Wynter, I’m not sure who you’ve been talking to, but your mother had many wonderful qualities. She was kind and funny and the very first person to offer help to anyone who needed it. She was an astonishingly talented artist and the most generous person I’ve ever known. Probably too generous.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Every hopeful artist in the area would ask for her to be a patron. I think she even left money in her will for local artists.”
Wynter made a sound of surprise. She’d known that her mother left money in a trust that she’d used to start the restaurant, but it hadn’t occurred to her that there would have been other beneficiaries. “What artists?”
“There was a painter who had a local gallery. It closed a few years after your mom died. Then there were scholarships given to the local high school to be used for art students to attend the summer art camp at the college,” Erika said. “I think Dr. Peyton is in charge of it.”
Wynter jerked. Dr. Peyton, the art professor. Again. Did that mean anything? Maybe, but how did she find out?
She shook her head in frustration.
“Any others?” she asked.
“I can’t remember.” Erika paused, her lips pursed as if she was reaching for a distant thought. “Wait. There was another one. Something to do with pottery.”
“Tonya Knox?” Wynter demanded.
“That sounds right,” Erika agreed. “She left money to build a workshop or something.”
Tonya had gotten an inheritance from Laurel Moore? And she’d never said anything?
Wynter didn’t know how to process the information, so she didn’t even try. “I had no idea.”
Erika reac
hed to give Wynter’s fingers a light squeeze. “Laurel was complicated, but never doubt she was a good person who loved you.”
* * *
It was a little after eleven P.M. when Noah entered his kitchen. It wasn’t a large space, but it was designed to be functional. The handcrafted wooden cabinets were taller and deeper than most prefab models, the island doubled as a table, and the stainless-steel appliances had been chosen by Wynter. They were small and sleek enough to fit in the space, but still restaurant grade.
He wasn’t an accomplished chef like Wynter, but he did eat at home most nights. Learning to feed himself decent meals had become a necessity, not a luxury.
Putting a small pan on the stove, Noah measured out cocoa, sugar, milk, and a pinch of salt. The hot chocolate had just reached the perfect temperature when he heard the soft pad of approaching footsteps. Turning his head, he watched Wynter enter the kitchen, his lips twitching.
After they’d left the hospital and arrived at his secluded cabin, Noah had convinced Wynter to eat the omelet and English muffin he’d made before tucking her in the guest bedroom. Now her hair was tangled around her sleep-flushed face and her slender body was faithfully outlined by her tiny muscle shirt and skimpy shorts.
A heat that had nothing to do with the nearby stove swirled through him. Noah swallowed a growl, although he did nothing to quash the desire that clenched his muscles. That horse was already out of the barn ... or whatever ridiculous metaphor his grandmother used to quote. He wanted Wynter. It was as simple and complex as that.
And he fully hoped that Wynter was interested in a romantic relationship.
“Noah.” Blinking as her eyes adjusted to the soft glow from the overhead lights, Wynter took a slow inventory of his bare chest and the jogging shorts that hung low on his hips. “What are you doing up?”
Noah poured the steaming liquid in two mugs. Then, stepping toward the center of the tiled floor, he placed them on the island.
“Making us hot chocolate.”
She shuffled toward the island, grabbing the nearest mug. “I’ve been asleep since nine o’clock. Why would you make me hot chocolate?”
Faceless Page 11
