17

Cutting her well-deserved break short by ten minutes, Alison bid Val farewell, promising to update her by phone that night. As she rounded the curve in the path, she caught sight of Ginny Walston, head staff docent, slipping into the office.

Loud, arguing voices arose immediately. Mostly, Ivy’s.

Due to the open windows—another example of Ivy’s cost-cutting measures, that is, no air-conditioning—she clearly discerned Ivy’s half of the conversation. Ginny’s quieter tones were less audible. Alison pressed her back against the exterior office wall. Maybe, at last, she could get to work on her real purpose for being at Weathersby.

“It’s unacceptable, I tell you, Ginny,” screeched Ivy. “The docents are talking about your slipshod management. We’ll soon be the laughingstock of Raleigh.”

She couldn’t make out Ginny’s soft-spoken murmur.

Ivy spoke at her usual high decibel level. “I’ve tried to be as patient and understanding as humanly possible after your tragedy.”

There was a low-voiced rejoinder as slight as the breeze ruffling the curtains at the window.

Then Ivy. “But I cannot tolerate your inebriation any longer. You almost tumbled down the steps of the porch as you led a group of visitors to the gift shop today. You are officially on notice, Ginny Walston. Despite our families’ long-standing friendship, one more incident and I’ll be forced to terminate your employment at Weathersby.”

“But with Leo gone, I need this job, Ivy.” This time, Ginny’s wail of protest could be heard at least a block away.

A pause. Had Ivy smiled at this point?

“Be that as it may, consider yourself warned. And now . . .” There was a rustling and staccato-like footfalls.

Alison decided it would be prudent to disappear for a moment around the side of the building.

“I have important work to do at the House, and you need a pot of strong coffee, Ginny.” Her boss burst through the door and hurtled up the path.

Alison waited until she was sure Ivy was gone for good on another of her crusades before stepping across the threshold. The sound of disconsolate sobbing floated through the open door of Ivy’s adjoining office.

She shifted from one foot to another, not eager to intrude on a painful and embarrassing private moment. But she decided she’d better take advantage of every second she wasn’t under Ivy’s eagle eye. Squelching any personal feelings of distaste, she strode into the room more confidently than she felt. Huddling in the visitor’s chair, Ginny’s face was in her hands.

“Ginny?” she whispered, trying not to startle the woman.

Ginny lifted her head and stared at Alison. It took a moment for recognition to dawn.

“Oh, yes,” she swallowed convulsively. Her pale, elegant-looking face hardened. “You’re Frank Monaghan’s widow.”

Alison flinched. No one had called her that until now. But, she supposed, that’s what she was. She remembered the front-page account in the News and Observer of Ginny’s husband’s death before Frank’s murder. Of a self-inflicted gunshot wound last summer.

“Yes.” She licked her lips. How to begin? “I’m Alison Monaghan.”

Ginny folded her hands in her lap. “I know who you are. I’ve seen you working in the garden every week with Polly Grimes for several years.”

With her stylishly coiffed ginger-colored hair and patrician face, Ginny was well respected and well liked at Weathersby, a volunteer until she’d come on staff shortly after Dr. Walston’s suicide. Tears lingered like dew on a lily’s petals, but she sat ramrod straight with her feet regally crossed at the ankles.

Ginny tilted her head. “No doubt you overheard.”

She ignored that remark for courtesy’s sake. “Did you know my husband, Ginny?”

Ginny clenched her hands together, but she answered in the same languid tone as before. “Unfortunately, I did.”

Alison stiffened, smelling the liquor on Ginny. This wasn’t the Ginny she remembered from docent teas and garden club. Had she and Frank become drinking buddies?

Ginny stood and scrubbed the tears from her cheeks. “He was a bully. Overbearing. One of the most conceited men I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet.”

Alison retreated a step.

Ginny scowled. “And he unfailingly propositioned me at least twice a month.” She glared at Alison, unblinking. “I thought you should hear it from me first. I turned him down each and every time, several times publicly. I believe I was, what your husband would term, a challenge.”

Alison’s mouth tightened. “And was this before or after you became a widow, Mrs. Walston?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she would’ve done anything to call them back.

A spasm of something crossed Ginny’s face. “It’s nice to know the media,” she said the word like one said vomit, “have a new target to pursue.”

Ginny tossed her head. “But good for you, Alison Monaghan. There’s hope for you yet. Maybe you won’t turn to booze, like I have. I would’ve taken you for a mouse. But you can roar, I see.”

She brushed past Alison to the outer office and stopped beside Alison’s desk. “A year and a half ago, Frank caught me at a weak moment. Leo had been out of town for a couple of days at a conference. We’d argued ferociously before he left.”

Alison’s eyebrows arched.

Ginny sighed. “I wanted him to retire. I was lonely. His passion, I believed, had always been his patients. I was a distant third, or so I’d convinced myself. I blame myself for the argument. I was trying to force him to choose, trying to cause a showdown between his work and me. After the board meeting that week Leo was gone, Frank asked me out for a drink. I went.”

Clamping her lips together, Alison grabbed hold of her chair.

Ginny’s shoulders slumped. “We had one drink, and I realized what a fool I was being. I got into my car and drove as far away from Raleigh as I could go on a half tank of gas. When I came to myself, I was somewhere between Burlington and High Point. I spent the night at a Motel Six.” Ginny leaned over the desk. “But nothing happened between Frank and me. That night or ever.”

“Not for any failure to try on Frank’s part,” Alison whispered.

Ginny glanced toward the window. “Leo picked that night to try to call me to apologize. Of course, I wasn’t there. All night he called without success. When he got home the next day, I told him a lie, that I’d been called away to a seminar for Weathersby. He, trusting man, believed me, and he promised to resign and wrap up his practice in the next six months. I’d won, you see.”

She laughed, but the sound echoed with despair. “I’d won, all right. Two weeks later, on the night I was facilitating new docent training, someone paid Leo a visit at our home. The police were unable to identify fingerprints. He left a note on his computer explaining what this evil person had revealed about my alleged affair with an unnamed someone. He drew out his shotgun from the display case behind his desk, put the gun to his mouth, and pulled the trigger.”

Ginny shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. “It had to have been Frank. I’d rejected him, and in his conceit, he couldn’t let me get away with that.”

Alison’s fingers clutched the chair. “But you don’t know that for sure.”

Ginny sniffed. “I know everything I need to know about the monster that destroyed my life. Don’t worry, though, there’s plenty of blame to go around.”

What did that mean?

Ginny cast her gaze to the floor. “Why do you think I drink? I’m not as brave as Leo. I’m a coward. Maybe I deserve to go on suffering.”

She couldn’t believe Frank had been responsible for Leo Walston’s suicide. Frank was all about the easy conquest. This wasn’t his style.

Alison jutted her jaw. “Leo should’ve trusted you and not jumped to conclusions without hearing your side of the story.”

Ginny shook her head. “Don’t try to absolve me. I’ll end my purgatory someday, the only way I know how.”

The door ajar, Alison observed Ginny’s mournful figure wend her way to the main house. A shadow flickered at the corner where she’d eavesdropped earlier.

Drawing a quick breath, Alison stumbled to the porch. She caught a flashing glimpse of dark clothing rounding the corner to the back of the office and the safety of the woods beyond.

Goose bumps broke out on her arms. She hugged herself, cold despite the growing midday humidity. Someone was watching her. A feeling of exposure and vulnerability swept over her.

She hadn’t realized until now her new working environment was so remotely located. It backed up to the dense, tangled undergrowth that led to the same dead-end road where Frank had met his death on Orchard Farm Road.