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Deidre’s heart pounded. She recognized Jackson Montgomery from the Cobblestone the evening before. She hadn’t had an opportunity to study him then. He looked nothing like the sallow drunkard she’d encountered four years before. She was stunned to discover how attractive he was. Tall, closely cut black hair, sharp and piercing blue eyes, a physique honed to perfection, and a strong hand that gripped her arm. She tried shaking him off, to no avail.
The seemingly mad woman who’d run out of the Island Chronicle building was having trouble catching her breath.
Jackson’s astonishment shifted from the other woman back to Diedre, and his hand released her as if her skin was molten lava.
Deidre shot him a feral smile. Hatred and other less identifiable emotions unfurled in her chest. “My name is Deidre Spence. Charity was my twin, Mr. Montgomery. My identical twin. What a pleasure to finally make your sobered acquaintance.”
“Twin.” He fairly choked the word out. “Charity had a... twin?”
“I find it difficult to believe you didn’t know.” Deidre smoothed her hands over her russet crepe skirt.
“She’s dead?”
Deidre scowled at his feigned surprise. Of course it was feigned. “As if you didn’t know.”
One hand went to his hip, the other rubbed the back of his neck. His eyes bore through her. “How the hell was I supposed to know? I couldn’t care less if she were dead or living in a cardboard box in the Freedom Tunnel or residing in Tibet among the monks.”
“Why you obnoxious, overbearing ox—”
Another woman, equally fashionable, but apparently too dignified to run, strolled over from the opposite side of the street with a massive hound trotting at her side. She stared at Deidre. “Charity—”
“Not Charity,” Jackson bit out. “She claims she’s Charity’s twin.”
“Claims?” Jackson Montgomery’s audacity floored Deidre. “We have the same face!”
“Oh my. You are the spitting image of her, aren’t you? Jackson, you can hardly deny the fact... except for the hair,” the third woman said. “I’m Josephine Smith. Call me Jo. This is Frizzle.”
Deidre held out her hand, but Jo’s hands quickly moved to her back. An awkward pause ensued and Deidre rushed to cover. “I’m Deidre Spence. Charity was my sister.”
Jo’s brows lifted. “Was?”
“My sister is dead,” she said with a pointed look at Jackson.
The panting woman had gathered her breath and stuck out her hand. “Don’t mind Jo,” she said. “I’m Lydia Gould. Jackson is our cousin. His manners are atrocious.” She smacked him on the shoulder. “We thought he’d finally outgrown his childish rudeness.”
He hadn’t appeared to change a single iota to Deidre from four years ago. She shook Lydia’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“So... you’re the one staying at the Knox’s cottage?” Jo said.
“Er, yes. The Island Inn and Pebble Bed & Breakfast were fully booked for the summer. Melinda at the café found out that I needed a place and she spoke to the owner. I was just on my way there to talk to her. Melinda, that is.”
“The preacher who lived in the cottage is also dead,” Jackson said flatly. “Isn’t that an interesting coincidence?”
Deidre shot him another scowl. “As a matter of fact, it is.”
“Ruth, Reverend Knox’s daughter, is currently staying at the manor house with us, Miss Spence,” Jo said gently.
“Mrs.” Deidre corrected automatically—her ruse to protect Lori. She hoped no one would notice that she was using the same last name as Charity.
“Of course. Mrs. Spence. Melinda was right to think of it. Ruth is much too overwrought to go back to the cottage.”
“Thank you, Jo, but please, you must call me Deidre. Ruth’s feelings are explicable under the circumstances. In exchange for staying at the cottage, I’ve agreed to pack up Miss Knox’s things. Do you know if or when another minister is to be installed?”
“The sheriff has already notified the Bishops’ Council of the need for a replacement,” Jackson dropped her arm.
“Yes, but there’s plenty of time, I’m sure.” Lydia said. “Nothing gets done on the island when the arts fair is going on. Too many tourists.”
A soft breath escaped from Deidre, she rubbed her arms. “I’m relieved to hear that.”
“You must have lunch with us,” Lydia said.
Jackson recovered his annoying arrogance. “Not so fast, Lydia.” He looked at Deidre. “Mrs. Spence and I have several important things to discuss.” He took Deidre gently by the arm again and turned her to him. “Let’s start with exactly why you’re on the island. I find it much too coincidental that Charity and Knox are both dead. Not just dead,” he clarified, “but murdered—stabbed.”
The shock of his words was usurped only by his fingers searing her skin.
He sent a pointed look to his cousin, Lydia, a look Deidre had no trouble reading. “Not a word of this better show up in the Chronicle, cuz.”
The next thing Deidre knew, she was being hauled back along South Church Road towards the cottage.
~~~
Jackson didn’t trust himself to speak, fuming all the way up the road to the cottage, leaving his cousins behind, gaping. Logically, there was no reason to be angry with Deidre Spence. Hell, he more than anyone knew how Charity could spin a tale to epic proportions. She had been a master at using her sex appeal to manipulate even the most cynical. And Jackson was more cynical than most. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have a few flaws of his own. In his own father’s eyes, Jackson had been nothing but a spineless mama’s boy with no future. In the year since his parents’ deaths, though, Jackson wanted to believe he’d matured.
He liked to believe that in some ways he had—he no longer flew into a rage at the least little slight; his rages had faded with his father’s death; he no longer drank like a fish; and he took his cousins’ ribbings with the dry wit in which they were meant. He’d even go so far as to say he actually liked Jo, Lydia, and Tevi. He wouldn’t have said that some twenty years ago when they’d come to the island and invaded his home.
He dropped Mrs. Spence’s arm. “Did I hurt you?” he asked gruffly.
She rubbed the spot but shook her head as they walked on. The silence was not uncomfortable per se, but it hovered like a heavy specter. When they reached the house she didn’t go up the steps to the porch, instead leading them around to the back and down a path that sloped to the water’s edge.
Deidre Spence’s demeanor was fierce not hostile. She seemed a conundrum of contradictions with her subtle makeup, conservative dress, softer yet fierce tone as compared to Charity’s outrage and mocking one. He came to a stop at the shore’s edge. “You may not believe me, but I am sorry for your loss.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “I truly didn’t wish her harm.”
He cut a glance her way in time to see her full lips tighten. She crossed her arms over her midsection as she stared out at the open sea.
Jackson tried a different tack. “Besides me,” he said with gritty determination, “who else do you suppose would want Charity dead?”
Her gaze snapped to his, then back over the water. “No one I can think of,” she clipped out in brisk haughtiness.
He might have found her sarcasm amusing, but with Charity’s demise, there were now two deaths—not just deaths, but stabbings—to account for. He didn’t know how or if they could possibly connect, but—as he had told his cousins—it was too coincidental. Mrs. Spence’s accusations frustrated him and unfurled every deep-seated self-doubt he’d ever harbored in his gut.
He studied her lifted chin. “I feel like we’ve met before—”
Curiously, her cheeks pinked, but she cut him off. “What exactly is your vocation, Mr. Montgomery?”
He laughed. It was self-deprecating at best. “I’m a, uh, private dick.”
She turned slowly, fully facing him, clearly shocked by his words. “You investigate crimes?”
An edge of his past temper flared at her obvious skepticism. She didn’t know him, didn’t know his abilities, his feelings, his inner workings. She knew nothing about him. With effort, he tamped back his aggravation. “It’s true,” he said, hating his defensive tone.
“When was the last time you saw my sister?” she asked.
“The day before my father paid her to walk away from our marriage—no, wait. There was one other time. But I was, uh, a little inebriated at the time”— a fiery heat crawled up his neck—“so that memory is a bit fuzzy. What about you?”
“Not since Christmas.” Her voice sounded grudging. After a long moment, her shoulders fell and her body shook with a silent ragged cry.
Jackson strode over and put his arm around her. She sagged against him. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Spence, Deidre.” She felt familiar in his arms but how could that be when they’d only just met? “Why wouldn’t Charity mention she was a twin?”
She pulled away from him.
He tugged out a handkerchief and handed it to her.
“Thank you.” She blew her nose. “It’s a complicated story.” She strolled over to a flat rock, sat down on the ground, and adjusted her skirt. “Our father sold pianos after the war. In 1921, he took a position with Ford, selling Model Ts. He changed after that. Things grew tense between our mother and him.” She let out a long sigh.
“What does he do now?” Jackson modulated his tone, matching the softness to hers. He moved near her and lowered himself to the ground beside the rock on which she perched.
“Nothing. He was killed in a speakeasy raid six months after taking his new job. Charity didn’t take his death so well. Not that I did either, but I was Mother’s favorite and Charity was Father’s.” She leaned over and tugged at pieces of grass. “When Father started his new position with Ford, Mother went to work in Manhattan in the garment district. She worked herself to death. Literally. She died the year before our father. After that, Charity and I had only one another to lean on. By the time we turned fourteen, Charity had taken to running off.”
That must have been the year Jackson had met her. His own memories rushed him. The kids hanging about Serpent’s Point in the summers. He and Penelope sitting close together on the sand in the warm nights, listening to the raucous noise going on around them, talking softly. A stolen kiss now and again. How Penelope had resented her father’s tyrannical ways, how she’d just wanted to blend in with the other girls her age.
Then came Charity’s sensational arrival on the scene. In the beginning, she’d made horrific fun of Penelope, but after a while the two became inseparable. Inseparable summer friends. Penelope had started wearing heavy eye liner and blood-red lip paint, imitating Charity’s dress and bold manner. The sight had sickened him. Penelope had been too sheltered and too innocent for someone as fast as Charity Spence.
Jackson hadn’t been immune to Charity. Neither had Penelope. She was in full rebellion against her father. Together, Charity and Penelope made for a potentially combustible situation. That last night, Jackson had seen Simon Jr. walking with Penelope. They disappeared from sight. Junior was not the most trustworthy of the group. He’d been known to take unwanted liberties.
Penelope needed looking after and Jackson had started after her, but Charity had stopped him when she snagged his arm and kissed him full on the mouth—a sensual assault that had stolen all his senses. All thought of Penelope had fled.
In all his fifteen years, he’d never been kissed like that before. The shock to his fifteen-year-old hormonal senses spread to desperation. He needed Charity. His hand crept up her shirt, her arms entwined his neck. The only one who’d resisted her wiles had been Wyn. Maybe that was why Jackson had resented Wyn so much at the time. Even as randy teens, Wyn had shown restraint and maturity.
That was the summer Penelope Knox had been murdered.
“What happened to Penelope Knox?” she asked as if she’d read his mind.
Jackson considered what and how much to say. Mrs. Spence seemed more gently-natured that her brash twin. But she’d asked. “It was fifteen years ago. It was summer. The nights were warm. As warm as it can get at night this time of year.” He stretched out along the grass on his side. He took up a piece of grass and fingered it. “Penelope was raped and killed.”
Penelope’s short scream had jerked him back to his senses. He tore himself away from Charity and ran toward Penelope but he’d been too late.
Jackson found no joy in his childhood memories. Not a single one of them.
~~~
Deidre gasped as the brutal picture of Jackson’s words seared through her.
He rose quickly to sitting. “Forgive me. I forget myself. I’m really quite crude to my core,” he said smiling.
“Not at all, Mr. Montgomery.” Her voice trembled and she squeezed her fingers into a fist to stop their shaking.
His smile was sharp, somewhat feral. “You’ve been warned.”
She blinked and looked away from him. The water had a calming effect. “So, who killed Penelope?”
“I suspect it was the son of a prominent summer resident. But nothing was ever proven,” he said with a huff of disgust. “As I said, it happened fifteen years ago. Penelope’s murder showed us that the island was no longer the safe haven we islanders had believed it.”
Nausea uncoiled in Deidre’s stomach.
“What makes you think I killed Charity?”
“She was found in the Trinity Church graveyard on the steps of the Claremont crypt, wearing a sable coat you’d given her.”
He drew in a sharp breath. “Who found her?”
“I did.”
