Thirty-Eight
Thomas was innocent. And that left her with nothing.
Worse. It left her with a pissed-off killer and no idea who it might be.
Instead of walking back to the cottage along the road, Charley cut through the ATV trail that sliced a narrow path through the oak trees bordering Jeffrey’s property.
Sunshine flickered through the branches above, but she saw only the ragged edges of slashed canvas. Glistening red letters. Proof she’d come close to the truth. And missed it by that much. Or hadn’t even recognized it.
Maybe she really had been playing detective. And now she was losing the game.
Humidity pressed in on her, sticky and cloying. Instead of providing relief, the heat seemed trapped between the trees, thicker here. Mosquitoes swarmed around her. A line of sweat trickled down her spine.
What was the last clue they’d found? The blueprint. But someone had already slashed a knife through her painting when Matt told her about it. The timing didn’t match up.
Last night, she’d asked Kayla to tell her the truth.
Trying to get me drunk, so I confess to murder? Charley’s stomach twisted at the memory of her defensive tone. The anger in it.
If Thomas didn’t murder Andrew, that only left one person. One suspect with the most motive. Maybe Alex was right all along.
But no matter how the facts added up, she couldn’t believe Kayla did it.
A staccato hammering broke the silence, followed by a shrill, raucous cackle that slammed her heart into her throat. The sound echoed through the trees. She glanced at the shadows crowding around her, then up.
A red-headed woodpecker drummed against the tree.
High above her head, worn and weathered boards crossed the sky. A deer stand. Built by hunters to give them a better vantage point. She noticed now the sections of ladder, still bolted to the trunk and slowly rotting. A remnant from when this was just forest, without cottages or roads.
Even these familiar trees held secrets that whispered of violence. Of bloodshed.
She skirted around a patch of low growth with clusters of three leaves on each plant. Poison ivy. Green as the binding of the book, weighing down her bag.
What had Alex said? You have to find out how a person lived to find out how they died.
The blueprint Matt found hinted at engineering fraud that spanned years. And started with a death Andrew had a hand in. Another murder, but one Alex knew nothing about.
The leaf-shaped shadows moving over the ground reminded her of the cutout leaves on Hamadryads’ dustjacket. Nick Thorn’s wood nymphs had spread their roots beyond the page.
Maybe it was as simple as tracing those roots back to the source of inspiration. To Lizzie. And Clarkston Engineering.
In the distance, kids shrieked and splashed. The joyful sound carried across the water.
Who would know more about the past? Someone who watched people, all the time.
Sarah had been surprised — no, horrified by the destruction in the gallery. Still, Charley had seen that flicker of dread cross her face when Alex said he’d catch the murderer. The woman was hiding something. Maybe the clue they needed.
Stepping from the trees onto gravel, her heart lifted at the sight of the cottage’s earth-toned siding and red shutters.
Hadn’t Sarah said it was up to the observer to uncover the secrets?
She had to take a bike ride into town.
The bell chimed as Charley pushed through the door of the b&b into the scent of bacon and freshly brewed coffee. She’d left Cocoa tied up outside, so this would have to be quick.
Mirrors — wooden and rustic, gilt and ornate — hung on the walls, reflecting glimpses of the lounge and the few guests who lingered over brunch. And sunlight. Even on a wet and gloomy day, there would be light here, glimmering in those frames. A horseshoe shaped bar took up the back corner of the room. Narrow floor-to-ceiling shelves, filled with tattered paperbacks, tempted guests to borrow a book, to get lost in a story.
The Blue Heron b&b, inside and out, was all charm and tongue-in-cheek whimsy, from the terracotta archer kneeling in the garden to the vintage hostess stand in the lounge. The stand held a stack of menus and a glass jar filled with assorted silver-wrapped chocolates she recognized from Chocoholic’s.
A middle-aged woman carrying a tray, loaded down with a teapot and bone china cups, paused on her way passed. “Here for a late breakfast, hon?”
“Actually, I’m looking for Sarah Felles.” She’d expected to find her in the centre of activity, talking to the guests. People watching.
“I’ll let her know. On second thought —” She hesitated, seemed to toy with an idea, then said, “Why don’t you go on up? She’s in the Royal Colonnade.”
“The what?”
Porcelain clinked as she shifted the weight of the tray on her arm. “All the rooms at the b&b are named after Regency circulating libraries. Hookham’s, Meyler’s, and Donaldson’s. The Royal Colonnade has a fireplace and a view of the lake, fit for the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge. At least, it was. Right now, it’s in shambles.”
Shock jolted through her. More vandalism? First the gallery, now the b&b.
Sarah owned both. Had she been the target? The attack to the gallery not a threat to her after all, but to Sarah?
She must know something.
“Well.” The smile dimpled the woman’s cheek. “You’ll see for yourself. Maybe she’ll let you help.” Help with what? “God knows, we’ve all tried and been shot down for the effort.” She nodded at the cased opening on the other side of the room. Curved letters in eggshell blue paint spelled out Hotel. “Head on through there, up the stairs. Second door on your right. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks.” Charley took a chocolate from the jar, the foil crinkling between her fingers. Maple melted on her tongue as she crossed the room, but even the sweetness couldn’t mask the bitter taste of adrenaline.
Steep, narrow stairs creaked beneath her feet. Pausing on the landing, she looked down a hallway of shelves. Inset bookshelves lined the walls, filled with paperbacks, row upon tightly packed row. A Persian rug protected the hardwood floor. She followed the faded centre line worn into the elaborate pattern. Running her fingers along the creased spines, she skimmed the titles.
All romances. Why was she not surprised?
From the second room she heard an electric whine. Catching a break in the noise, Charley knocked on the door. It swung open, onto the yellow glow of artificial light.
Mid-morning on a cloud-free summer day.
The room would have been brighter if the queen-sized mattress hadn’t been leaning against the wall, covering half of the window. Sarah stood in the heart of the timber bed frame. Slats lay on the ground at her feet. A floral silk scarf tied her grey curls back from her face. And she held a cordless drill in her hand, finger on the trigger.
“Don’t even think about it,” Sarah said, without looking up. “I’m more than capable of — Charley.” She lowered the drill, sounding surprised. “I thought you’d be in the gallery, putting things to rights.”
“It can wait.”
A wingback armchair faced the fireplace. A stack of crisp sheets and pillowcases lay folded on the dresser. The cozy room smelled of furniture polish and fresh flowers. But the heavy mattress pinned the cotton curtains against the window frame and the bed was far from usable. The room was in shambles, but this wasn’t an act of vandalism.
“What happened?” she asked.
“A broken bedrail.” Sarah’s eyes twinkled. “I doubt it was a pillow-fight, but one never knows.”
She kept underestimating the woman. Of course, she’d never be content to run the b&b from a distance. “You’re fixing the bed.” Had she moved the mattress herself, too? She must have had help with that, at least.
“You’d be surprised at how many slats, rails, and tenon and mortise joints I’ve repaired in my time. I’ve had years of experience” — she met her eye briefly — “in putting things right.”
Charley thought of the waitress’s comment. “Would you like some help?”
“No, thank you.” She picked up the glue, spread a thin layer over the strip of wood. “Novices make clumsy mistakes. And tend to make matters worse.”
If you want the job done right, do it yourself? “How else will anyone learn?”
Sarah bent to fit the reinforced rail against the frame, pressed it in place. “By watching from a safe distance.” She adjusted the position of the wood and nodded, satisfied. “Pass me those clamps.”
She figured the please was implied and handed them to her.
Sarah secured the clamps to the wood, one on either end. She tightened both, distributing the pressure evenly. Concentrated on the task at hand and obviously busy.
But Charley didn’t have the patience or the time to wait for a better moment. “I came to ask you about Lizzie.”
Humour lit her face. “I don’t think she damaged your paintings.” Then she looked at her more closely and her smile slipped. “Why?” Not surprised. Resigned.
“I know Lizzie worked for Andrew.” She had some facts, but not all, and they needed the rest. “I know she died on site, while the gallery was being built.”
Sarah bent to gather the drill bits into the palm of her hand. “A tragedy that occurred long before I bought the building.” She straightened. “I said it once and I’ll say it again, it’s best not to stir up old hurt.”
“Someone already has.”
“The murderer, you mean?” Irritation crossed her face. “You’re throwing caution to the wind. Taking a risk.”
Charley blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You’re ignoring the warning. Asking more questions.”
If she didn’t, who would? “You said it yourself. Destroying art is just another form of murder. And I won’t let them get away with it.”
“Justice takes many forms and perhaps it’s already been served.”
On that shimmering hot summer day, in that comfortable room, a chill crept over her. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say to that?”
“Vandalism was a threat. To you and to Meghan. The message left for you in the gallery was clear. Unmistakable.” Sarah’s fingers tightened on the handful of steel. Metal ground against metal. “Nevertheless, you’re choosing to ignore it.”
She looked at the old bed frame, the brackets strengthening loosened joints, the reinforced rail. “Wouldn’t you do the same? Repair what’s broken?”
Shoulders tense, the woman’s posture radiated indignation. “There’s a difference between fixing a bed and solving a murder. You came here looking for answers, but I’ll share some words of wisdom, instead. Let it go.”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t try to find out everything there was to know about the ghost haunting your building.”
“My building, dear. And all I discovered is that she’s missed by many.”
“Some more than others.” She thought of Matt.
Startled, Sarah pinned her with a calculating stare. “So, you noticed it. I wondered if you would.”
Noticed what? She searched her memory, but she had no idea what Sarah meant. It could be anything.
Fake it. She had to play along, act like she knew. Don’t blink. Don’t react. Her pulse sped up. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“Only to those perceptive enough to see it.” Sarah shrugged. “He hides it well. Until he talks about her and then the look in his eye says it all.” She paused, left a beat to be filled.
Charley let it slip by, waited for her to speak.
Sarah said on a sigh, “That’s the look of a man who knows he had the most incredible thing in his life and nothing else will ever come close to it.”
Nick Thorn? But he’d passed away weeks before Charley arrived in Oakcrest. No, Sarah was talking about someone she had met. Someone who loved Lizzie. But who? She felt like she was stumbling her way through the dark. Carefully, she asked, “How do you get over a loss like that?”
“By spending time with her son.”
An icy wave of realization washed over her. “You’re talking about Jeffrey.” The name seemed to reverberate, hum in the air. “He was in love with Lizzie?”
Sarah’s eyebrows arched in stunned disbelief. “You didn’t know.”
Knees weak, Charley sank into the chair. Her thoughts felt as muddy as the water she soaked her paintbrushes in. “She had an affair with him?”
Sarah shrugged. “They worked together for years. It’s not a stretch of the imagination to think that there might have been more than friendship between them.”
She’d spoken to Jeffrey twice. They’d never talked about Lizzie. “Are you sure that wasn’t all it was? Friendship?”
“You mean, could I be romanticizing the past?” She seemed amused by that. “It’s possible.”
But unlikely. She didn’t have to be good at reading people to pick up on the subtext. “Lizzie never left Nick.”
“You’ve read Hamadryads. You know as well as I do why.” Sarah stood in the dismantled frame, drill bits scattered at her feet. A corner of her mouth curled up, just a fraction. “That book is a love letter to his wife. Published after her death, he brought her back to life on the page.”
As a tough and determined heroine, bent on saving the day, no matter what. And she’d taken on Clarkston Engineering by herself. “Rumour has it, there might be more to Lizzie’s death than meets the eye.”
“And you, of all people, understand just how easy it is to trick the eye. The only thing connecting Andrew’s murder and her accident is grief. Keep up the chase and, sooner or later, you’ll find yourself face to face with a killer.” Sarah met her gaze. “In a situation you can’t control.”
Fear skated down her arms. “Not if I lay the groundwork carefully. And trap them first.”
“Trust me, you’ll regret being the driving force behind the investigation.”
Anger stirred within her. “Is that a threat?”
“Advice, and I hope you’ll take it. You’re better off putting your energy into fulfilling your dreams. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity doesn’t come around twice. Why risk it?” Sarah’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Now, I need to get back to work, and I’m sure you do, too.”
Charley came here hoping to get information about the past. And she had. But what she found out wouldn’t help solve Andrew’s murder. It would only cause pain. Shatter trust.
It was just a guess, she reminded herself as she left the b&b. A romantic story pieced together from fragments of the truth. But it didn’t feel like fiction.
Warmth and pride filled Jeffrey’s voice when he talked about Matt. They moved in step through the workshop, without needing to say a word. Had that same crooked lift to the right side of their mouths when they grinned. That same hip-shot stance.
Like father and son.
She had to get the book back to Matt.