Czytaj książkę: «How Secrets Die»

Death isn’t the greatest loss in life.

The greatest loss is what dies inside of us while we live.

—Amish proverb

Contents

COVER

BACK COVER TEXT

Praise for Marta Perry

TITLE PAGE

Dear Reader

DEDICATION

EPIGRAPH

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

GRANDMA’S HOMEMADE NOODLES

EXTRACT

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

A CEMETERY SHOULD be a place where people were buried—not where they died. Kate Beaumont, confronted so unexpectedly with the place Jason had chosen to end his life, stopped the car in mid-traffic, earning an irritated honk from the driver behind her as he was forced to come to a halt, as well.

The driver circled her, looking annoyed but refraining from the rude gesture she anticipated. Apparently drivers were a bit more polite in a small town like Laurel Ridge, Pennsylvania, than they were in the city. Her hands were shaking, and not from the sudden stop. She pulled off the road near the stone wall that encircled the graveyard.

Ridiculous, to let just the sight of the place send her into a tailspin. She was tougher than that, wasn’t she? But while she could face down a recalcitrant politician or an irate citizen in search of a story, she couldn’t maintain that level of detachment where her younger brother’s death was concerned.

Kate took a long breath, fighting to still the tremors that shook her. She focused on the scene facing her, thinking of how she’d describe it for a newspaper article.

Laurel Ridge’s cemetery covered the top of a rounded hill at the eastern end of town. Spreading maples, their leaves already turning color, shielded gray tombstones. Some of the stones were worn and tilted, their lettering eroded, while others were new enough to make it obvious the cemetery was still in use. The whole place had a well-tended air, the grass mown, with beds of gold-and-burgundy chrysanthemums blossoming here and there.

Which was the stone Jason had leaned against when he’d taken that fatal dose of pain meds and swallowed that final mouthful of whiskey? She could find it, she supposed, since the name had shown clearly in the newspaper photo she’d scanned online. But looking at the spot wouldn’t lead her to any answers.

Movement reflected in the rearview mirror startled her, and her stomach tightened as she realized a police car had pulled up behind her. Great. All she needed was to draw official attention to herself before she’d even begun the task that brought her here.

An officer slid from the vehicle and started toward her. Taking a firm grip on her nerves, Kate planted a smile on her face and hit the button to roll down her window.

She was about to speak when a closer look at the man’s uniform gave her another shock. The lettering on his pocket read M. Whiting. McKinley Whiting, then. Chief of Police in this backwater town, and the man who’d dismissed her little brother’s death as just another druggie overdosing himself.

Kate gritted her teeth, fighting to keep her feelings from showing as she looked up at the man. Tall and lean, he had dark hair in a military-style cut and a jaw that conveyed determination. He didn’t affect the dark sunglasses so many cops did, and his brown eyes studied her, missing nothing, she felt sure.

“Are you having car trouble, ma’am?” His voice was a bass rumble.

“No, not at all. Is there a problem?”

“You can’t park here.” He nodded to the no-parking sign directly in front of her fender. “If you’re interested in the cemetery, you can turn in at the gate just ahead. You’ll find a gravel pull-off where you can park, if you want.”

“I don’t.” Kate’s tone was sharper than she intended, but she couldn’t seem to control the spurt of temper. “Can’t a visitor to your town stop to get her bearings without being harassed?”

Reading the surprise in his face, she clamped her lips shut before she could make matters worse. She’d overdone it—lost her cool and let her feelings show. The last thing she wanted was to rouse the suspicions of the local cop before she’d been in town for five minutes.

“Sorry,” she muttered before he could speak. “I didn’t mean...”

“No problem.” He said the words easily, but his brown eyes were watchful. “I wasn’t trying to harass you. If you’re lost, I’ll be glad to help you find your way, Ms....”

He left it hanging there, obviously intent on learning her name. For the first time she was glad her name wouldn’t connect her with Jason Reilley.

“Kate Beaumont.”

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Beaumont. I’m Mac Whiting.” She could see him stowing her name away in the filing cabinet of his mind. “Coming to visit someone here in Laurel Ridge?”

“No.” Guilt and grief were a powerful combination. She should have. If she’d come to visit Jason the summer he’d spent here, maybe he’d still be alive.

That was the danger of loving someone. It hurt too much when you let them down.

Whiting’s eyes were probing again. If she’d worn a sign, it probably wouldn’t have been more obvious that she was hiding something.

Kate swallowed hard and tried for a normal tone. “I’ve been driving for several hours. I just thought I’d find a place for lunch.”

He nodded, again with that watchful look. Protective, that was what it was. As if his town might need protecting against her. Well, maybe it did.

“Turn left just ahead, and you’ll be on Main Street. There’s a café a few blocks down on your left, across from the bed-and-breakfast.” He pointed, leaning against the car as he did so, and she had a sudden sensation of masculine power in his nearness. “The Buttercup. I can vouch for the food, and the prices are reasonable.”

She hadn’t expected that casual reference to the bed-and-breakfast, and it shook her. Would it be the same one where Jason had stayed when he came to Laurel Ridge? If so, it was going to be one of her first stops.

“Okay, thanks.” She managed a cool, dismissive smile. “I appreciate the recommendation.” She turned the ignition key, her fingers brushing the silver dragon charm Jason had given her, and put her finger on the window button.

Whiting looked at her for a moment longer, and then slowly stepped back so she could close the window. She put the car in gear, glanced behind her and pulled out. It was simple enough to watch Whiting in her rearview mirror. He’d drawn out a notebook and was jotting down her license number.

She doused a flicker of anger. A search of her license wouldn’t tell him anything except her address in Baltimore. She’d never been arrested, so a query to the police there wouldn’t help him, even if he went that far.

But this encounter had clearly shown her that she’d have to do better. True, she hadn’t expected the first person she’d meet in Laurel Ridge to be the policeman who’d been quoted in that article about Jason’s death. She might be excused for losing her grip just a bit, but it was unfortunate. She’d made herself an object of his interest before she’d had a chance to do a single thing.

But what difference did it make in the long run? Sooner or later she’d have to divulge the relationship between her and Jason. If she didn’t, she’d have no reason for asking questions about him.

She’d toyed with the thought of trying to conceal her identity. She could have claimed to be writing a newspaper story about Jason’s death, but that didn’t sound credible even to herself, not after over a year had passed.

Kate made the turn onto Main Street and drove down it at a sedate speed, reading signs as she went. There, ahead of her on the left, was the café Whiting had mentioned, and on her right the bed-and-breakfast. She slowed, peering toward the rear of the white clapboard building, and caught a glimpse of a small building nearly hidden by the trees. That had to be it—the cottage where Jason had lived during his three months in Laurel Ridge.

And next to the bed-and-breakfast rose the imposing Italianate building that was Blackburn House, where Jason had worked. The place where he’d lived, the place where he’d worked. That was where she had to begin.

She hadn’t been here when Jason had needed her, but she was now. She’d find the answer to the question that haunted her, because if she didn’t, she’d never be satisfied. What had happened in this seemingly quiet, peaceful town that had led to her brother’s death?

* * *

MAC DROVE DOWN Main Street, keeping an eye on the compact car ahead of him. He wasn’t following the woman exactly, but she had stirred his curiosity. Something had been just a little off-kilter about their conversation, and her defensiveness had startled as well as intrigued him.

He frowned, trying to put his finger on the exact source of his unease. Kate Beaumont had seemed vaguely familiar to him, but he couldn’t quite place her. Thick, honey-blond hair was pulled casually back on the nape of her neck, allowing wavy tendrils to escape and curl around her ears. Her lightly tanned skin seemed touched by the gold in her hair, and even her eyes were a golden brown. Surely, if he’d ever known her, he’d remember. A man didn’t run into that many brown-eyed blondes—and especially not one carrying a chip the size of a mountain on her shoulder.

The familiarity remained stubbornly elusive, so he put the resemblance on a back burner to percolate. It would come through, sooner or later. Meantime, it looked as if his mystery woman was going to take his advice. She’d pulled into a parking space across from the café.

A moment later he realized he’d jumped to conclusions. Ms. Beaumont wasn’t headed toward the café. Instead, she was walking up the sidewalk of Blackburn House. Now what, exactly, was she up to? Unless she had a sudden yen to buy quilt fabric or a book, there wasn’t much in Blackburn House to attract a casual visitor.

Curiosity had him turning in at the driveway that ran along the side of the building. At the rear of Blackburn House stood the old carriage house, converted into the workshop of Whiting and Whiting Cabinetry. Not that he was the Whiting or the son involved in the business. Dad might have had hopes in that direction at one time, but when Mac had come back from a stint in the military, he’d known the carpentry trade wasn’t for him. Still, Dad seemed content with one son in partnership, and the business suited Mac’s brother, Nick, perfectly.

Parking, Mac eyed the back door into Blackburn House. That might be a bit too blatant, running into the woman so quickly. She really would have cause to cry harassment if he did that, wouldn’t she?

Instead, he headed into the cabinetry shop, prepared for the usual din of saws and hammers. But all was fairly quiet at the moment. One of the Amish carpenters who worked in the shop sat on a bench in the rear, his lunch bucket beside him. He raised a thermos in Mac’s direction, and Mac grinned and nodded.

He’d forgotten it was lunchtime. No doubt Nick was lunching with his fiancée, Allison, assuming she’d been able to get away from the quilt shop.

His father, instead of eating the lunch Mom had packed for him, was bending over a rocking chair, carefully hand-sanding a spindle. The normal work of the shop—custom-designed kitchen cabinets—sat all around him, but he was focused on the rocker instead.

“Hey, Dad. Is that for Mom?”

His father looked up at his approach, pushing his glasses into place. Folks said Nick looked more like their father, but all three of them had the same lean, straight-featured faces. Dad’s eyes crinkled at the sight of him.

“Your mom says she has enough furniture, thank you very much.” He grinned. “This is a gift for Allison. The way those women are fussing over this wedding shower, you’d think no one had ever gotten married before.”

“Better not let Mom or Allison hear you complaining.” Mac leaned against a handy workbench. Since he was safely removed now from the farmhouse that his brother, Nick, and Nick’s young son shared with Mom and Dad, he could take a more detached view of Nick and Allison’s wedding preparations.

His father raised an eyebrow. “Bet you haven’t even thought of setting up the bachelor party yet. That is a best man duty, you know.”

“I know, I know. But Nick doesn’t like any of my ideas. Especially not taking off to Vegas for a weekend.”

Dad swatted at him as if he were a pesky fly. “Be nice to your brother. He’s taken long enough to decide to risk marriage again. And as for you...”

“Don’t start,” Mac said quickly. “I hear enough of it from Mom. She’s taken to reminding me that I’m not getting any younger, as if I were teetering on the doorstep of the nursing home.”

“She wants more grandkids.” Dad eyed him severely. “You’re supposed to do your part.”

Mac shrugged. “I’ve got a whole town to look after already. That’s enough for me at the moment.”

“Here.” Dad tossed him the fine sandpaper he’d been using. “Do a little work for a change while I pour out my coffee.”

Mac bent obediently over the chair, hands caressing the smooth curves of the fine maple. He might not want carpentry for his life’s work, but he still enjoyed the calming nature of the skill. Seeing the grain gleam in response to his movements was satisfying.

“What brings you in here at this hour?” His father took over his spot, leaning against the workbench. “Not enough to keep you busy at the office?”

Mac shook his head, not looking up. “Just a funny thing that happened. I had to speak to a woman parked in the no-parking area up by the cemetery. She seemed... I don’t know...upset, maybe. Annoyed at me for speaking, that’s for sure.”

“And?” Dad seemed to be waiting for more. He had to know that that was the sort of thing that happened too often to cause comment.

“It was just odd, that’s all. She’s a stranger, but she seemed kind of familiar to me.”

He could feel his father’s gaze on him. “A looker, was she?”

Mac grinned. “You could say that. A striking brown-eyed blonde, if you want to know.”

“That’s the answer, then.” Dad sounded amused. “She probably had a starring role in one of your dreams.”

He chuckled, as he was meant to, but then he shook his head, running the sandpaper smoothly along the grain of the wood. “Sounds like it, but that wasn’t it. I’ve got a good memory for faces, and I’m sure I’ve seen her before.”

“If she was visiting someone in town, you might have noticed her. In fact, it sounds as if you could hardly miss her.”

“She said she wasn’t visiting anybody. Asked directions to a place where she could get lunch, as if she was just passing through.”

“You told her the café, I suppose.” Dad spoke with the experience of one who knew there were few other places in Laurel Ridge where you’d be likely to get a good lunch.

“I did,” he said slowly. “But I saw her going into Blackburn House instead.”

“So maybe she wanted to look around the shops.”

Mac didn’t respond. Slowly, very slowly, a memory was stirring in the back of his mind. An image. A rainy day, the kind of steady downpour that managed to trickle down your neck no matter how protected you were. Soggy grass underfoot, and drooping, saturated flowers, the ribbons around them stained with water. A cemetery, but not the one at the top of the hill.

“That’s it.” He straightened, one hand on the back of the chair, gripping it tightly as the impact of the memory hit. “I saw her a little over a year ago at a cemetery in Philadelphia. At the funeral of that young guy who worked in the financial management office. The one we found dead of an overdose right up there on the hill where she’d stopped.”

Dad met his eyes, startled and sympathetic. “That poor kid? Is she some relation?”

He nodded, the memory clarifying now. “I didn’t speak to her, but someone pointed her out to me. His sister—no, his half sister. The names are different, but I’m sure of it.”

The picture was stamped so firmly on Mac’s mind that he wondered why he hadn’t realized it the minute he’d seen Kate Beaumont. Maybe he would have, if she’d been named Reilley, like the half brother.

Funny how much you could tell about a situation just from body language. The half sister and the father had stood several feet apart, obviously not touching, not even looking at one another, each one isolated in his or her own grief.

Tom Reilley, presumably Kate Beaumont’s stepfather, had been a retired cop. That had been one reason why Mac had driven to Philadelphia for the funeral. Professional courtesy, if you will. The man’s son had died on his turf.

Mac realized his own father was studying him, an expression of concern on his face. He’d known—he always seemed to know—how hard Mac had taken the death. This was his town. He was responsible for it. That meant never letting a situation get out of control, because if it did, then as a peacekeeper, you’d failed.

Jason Reilley, lying dead against a gravestone in the oldest section of the cemetery, a fatal combination of alcohol and pills in his system, had been out of his control.

Another memory flickered, just for an instant. Another town, a world away—flattened homes, the smell of burning in the air, a small, huddled body...

His father stirred. “Well, no reason for the woman not to come here, I suppose. Maybe she felt as if she wanted to see for herself where he died. Sort of a pilgrimage.”

It struck him then. Kate Beaumont hadn’t looked to him like a woman on a pilgrimage. She’d looked like a woman on a crusade.

His uneasiness was full-blown now. His sudden movement set the chair rocking as he headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Dad put out a hand to still the rocking.

“To have a talk with Ms. Beaumont.” Mac’s course of action solidified. “Maybe you’re right. But I want to know why, when she saw who I was, Kate Beaumont was so careful not to mention her relationship with Jason Reilley.”

* * *

KATE HADN’T GONE more than a few steps inside Blackburn House before she realized that checking out the business that had hired Jason as an intern wouldn’t be unobtrusive. The building was smaller than she’d expected, though impressive with its marble entrance hall and Victorian woodwork. To her right was a quilt shop, and through the window she could see several women in Amish dress browsing along rows of fabric.

The business on her left checked her for a moment. Whiting and Whiting Cabinetry. Related to Chief of Police Mac Whiting? Probably. It wasn’t that common a name, and Laurel Ridge was a small town.

She walked toward the back, past a graceful staircase that clearly led to offices on the second floor. That must be where the financial consultants had their offices. The rear of this level housed what appeared to be a storage room and a bookstore.

Kate paused, looking at the display of bestsellers in the window. It was unusual to find an independent bookseller thriving in a small town, but this one appeared to be doing fine. Several customers wandered through the aisles, a toddler stacked blocks in a corner with children’s books, and an elderly man seemed to be having an animated conversation with the woman behind the counter.

Upstairs, then, for a look at the offices of Laurel Ridge Financial Group. No one else was on the stairs, and Kate felt conspicuous as she hurried her steps.

The second floor was quiet. Two offices on the right, two on the left and what seemed to be a private area separating them. Rejecting the attorney’s office and the door marked with only the name Standish, she turned left and found a real-estate company and then the offices she’d been looking for.

Kate stationed herself in front of the posters of available properties displayed in the plateglass window of the real-estate office, trying to appear absorbed in the description of what was called a desirable four-bedroom residence and the photo of a decrepit-looking farmhouse, optimistically labeled a fixer-upper. From there, she could glance into the windows of the office next door.

The first thing she noticed was that something was missing. Jason had mentioned, when he’d first accepted the internship one of his professors had helped arrange, the names of the two partners who comprised the professional staff: Russell Sheldon and Bartley Gordon. Now there was only one name listed on the door—Gordon. Below it, in suitably smaller letters, she read, Lina Oberlin, Assistant and Office Manager. What had happened to the other partner?

The room beyond the window told her nothing. A reception desk, where a twentysomething with improbably red hair sat filing her nails, another desk behind hers, which might once have been Jason’s, and three uncommunicative doors.

Kate sensed movement in back of her, and before she could turn, she saw a face reflected in the glass. Mac Whiting stood behind her, his jaw especially uncompromising.

She swung around. “Are you following me, Chief Whiting?”

“Looking to ask you a question.” He seemed to make an effort not to sound as intimidating as he appeared. “When we met earlier, why didn’t you mention that you were Jason Reilley’s sister?”

“Half sister,” she pointed out, her mind scurrying busily. How had he identified her with Jason so quickly? She’d never even been to Laurel Ridge before. She had gone straight to Philadelphia when she’d heard the news of Jason’s death. “That’s why our names are different.”

He inclined his head at that obvious statement, but his eyes never left hers. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

The phrase sounded a little stilted, but Kate thought she detected real regret in his voice, and she warmed toward him before she reminded herself who he was.

“Thank you.” She hesitated, but curiosity was stronger than her desire to keep the man at arm’s length. “How did you know who I am? Or is it your practice to run a background check on everyone who comes to Laurel Ridge?”

Surprisingly, he didn’t seem to take offense at that, although his face didn’t relax. “I didn’t have to. I recognized you from—” he hesitated, his straight brows drawing down “—from the funeral.”

She was probably gaping at him. Kate gave herself a mental shake. “You were at my brother’s funeral? Why?”

“He died in my town.” The words were clipped. “Call it a courtesy.”

“You didn’t speak to me.”

“Under the circumstances, I thought it was better not to. I figured you and your father didn’t need the reminder of what happened.”

“Stepfather,” she corrected automatically. “You mean your assumption that Jason was just another druggie who’d overdosed in your town.”

He stiffened. “It wasn’t a question of assuming anything. The postmortem confirmed the cause of his death.”

She wanted to protest that Jason had been clean for nearly three years before he died, but told herself bitterly that it was hardly likely a cop would be convinced by her opinion. Not when Jason’s own father hadn’t been.

Kate rubbed her arms, chilled by the vivid reminder. Jason had looked so young by the time she’d been able to see his body at the viewing. With every care and stress wiped from his face, he might have been a sleeping child again.

When she didn’t speak, Whiting frowned at her with a look of frustration. “Weren’t you satisfied with the coroner’s findings? Is that it?”

“No.” She could hear the reluctance in her voice. She’d like to argue, but she couldn’t. Jason had died of a combination of powerful prescription painkillers and alcohol. It was only too likely. But it didn’t answer the important question. It didn’t tell her why.

“Ms. Beaumont?” Whiting’s voice had gentled, and he reached toward her tentatively. “I’m sorry. I wish it had been different.”

He sounded convincing, but she wasn’t going to take anything at face value here.

“Yes.” Different. If she’d come before, if she’d known or even guessed... But there was no point in going down that road again.

“When I spoke to you earlier, at the cemetery—” he paused “—did you want to see the place? Is that why you’re here in Laurel Ridge?”

Whiting was bound to ask that question, of course. And she’d have to answer him, but she wasn’t about to trust him with the real reason she was here. He would, inevitably, be on the side of his town, his people.

“I’m taking some time off before I start looking for a new job.” That, at least, was more or less true. The Baltimore paper that had employed her suffered, as most print papers did, from dwindling circulation. They’d resorted to what they euphemistically called retrenchment. “My stepfather passed away recently, so I don’t have any other family left. I wanted to spend a little time in the last place my brother lived.”

That might sound morbid, but it was the best she could do in terms of an explanation.

“I see.” Whiting was studying her face, as if measuring exactly how much he believed her. “I’m sorry about your stepfather.”

She nodded, accepting the sympathy wordlessly. He would, she supposed, expect her to regret Tom Reilley’s death, and she didn’t have anything to say that was likely to make sense to a man like Whiting. Another cop, another man with hard edges and no tolerance for someone who didn’t live by his rules.

He took a step back, and Kate felt as if she could breathe again.

“I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for here.”