Blood Kin (3 page)

Turning back to his project, he hammered two nails expertly into the section of trim, and then descended the ladder. Blood stained his left index finger and the palm and wrist of his left hand. “Pardon me, Ms. Bailey,” he said, cupping the offending digit. “But if I drip blood on Miss Emma's Aubusson carpet, there'll be hell to pay.”

“Daniel Catlin!” Emma appeared at the far end of the dining room. “What kind of talk is that? I'll thank you to keep a decent tongue in your head in front of my guests.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Daniel glanced back at Bailey. “I think I've been put in my place. Excuse me.”

She chuckled. “It's all right. I hear worse in my classroom every day.”

“Is that blood?” Emma demanded. She snatched off her apron and wrapped it around Daniel's hand. “How did you do that? Never mind. Come into the kitchen. It needs peroxide and a Band-Aid. Let me see. Stop your fussing. You'd think you'd cut the thing off.” She looked at Bailey. “Please come and have your dinner. This won't take a minute.”

“I'd like to take my bag upstairs first,” Bailey said. “And I really should call my . . . my friend—to let him know I've arrived safely. I promised him I would.”

“Have you got a cell?” Emma asked. “You do? Well, good luck, girl. Our reception on Tawes is terrible. No towers nearby.”

“Oh,” Bailey said. “Is there a house phone I could—”

“Sorry. That's out too. Happens all the time.”

Promptly at three, Bailey stood on Forest McCready's front porch and rang the bell for the third time. There was no answer, no sound from within, and no sign that anyone was in the house. Frustrated, she pulled the attorney's latest letter from her purse and read it for the fourth time today. She wasn't mistaken about the time or the date. What could be wrong?

What could go right? As Emma had predicted, she hadn't been able to get a signal on her cell. Not at the B and B, not on the street, and not here at the lawyer's
office. The same message kept popping up:
NO SIGNAL
. She'd had a few minutes to spare, so she'd stopped at Dori's Market and asked to use a pay phone.

“Sorry, can't help you, miss,” the clerk had said. “Phone's out. Haven't had a dial tone since last night.”

Despite Emma's warning, Bailey was surprised that her cell wouldn't work. She'd never had problems with the service before, not even when she was on vacation at a friend's in Nags Head last summer. With a sigh, she tucked the phone back into her bag and tried the doorbell again.

“You looking for the squire, lady?”

Bailey turned to see the burly teenager who been cutting the grass earlier standing at the foot of the porch steps, a large pair of hedge clippers in his hand. “I have an appointment with Attorney Forest McCready.”

“Squire McCready's not to home.” The boy gestured toward the bay. “He's likely in Annapolis today. Or Baltmer.”

“But I had a three o'clock—”

“You must be wrong about the day. He's not here. Miss Maude cooks for him, and she went to Crisfield on the mailboat this morning. If Miss Maude's not here, the squire ain't either.”

“But I had an appointment. . . .” Bailey took a deep breath and lowered her voice. “I'm sorry; this isn't your fault. I'm certain it's just a mix-up in the dates.”

“Must be.
Gone Fishin'
s not in the squire's slip.” The boy pointed toward the back of the house. “No way off here but by water.”

“I'll just leave Mr. McCready a note confirming that I was here at three.” She fumbled in her purse. “If you do see him, please tell him that he can reach me at Emma's B and B.”

He flushed and stared at his shoes. “No need for that, ma'am. No place else you could be staying.” He tugged the brim of his ball cap and returned to his hedge clipping.

Bailey wedged the folded message in the outer door and retraced her path down the front walk. Halfway to the street she hesitated, experiencing the oddest sensation that someone was watching her. Turning back, she studied the draped windows. There was no sign of the young man she'd spoken with and nothing unusual
about the house, so why was she feeling a prickling sensation at the nape of her neck? She shivered, suddenly cold, despite the warmth of the afternoon.

She glanced around, seeing no one, not the slightest movement on the street or from the adjoining yards or homes, other than a slight stirring of leaves on the massive oak trees and the flutter of a blue jay's wings as the bird landed on a nearby branch.

Her imagination was getting the best of her. What she needed was a good run. Ever since she was a child, whenever she'd been stressed, running had calmed her. She glanced down ruefully at her bone-colored Italian heels and her straight linen skirt, neither conducive to jogging. Maybe a walk through Tawes would ease some of her annoyance at being stood up by the estate attorney.

Twenty minutes later, although the day was a near perfect one, and the homes, outbuildings, and oyster-shell streets exuded a nineteenth-century charm that would have been the highlight of any house-and-garden tour, her mood hadn't lightened one iota.

She'd seen very few of the residents as she explored the town, but she had passed a middle-aged woman hanging clothes in a backyard, a man planting annuals around his front steps, and a teenage girl on horseback. All of them had reacted as though she were a hooded leper carrying the black plague. The housewife had abruptly picked up her half-full basket of wet laundry and hurried into her house. The gardener had answered Bailey's cheery “Good afternoon!” with an aggrieved grunt, and the rider had glared at her suspiciously, kicked her palomino in the ribs, and galloped away down the center of the street without uttering a word.

“This must be a movie set,” Bailey muttered as she approached the old church and surrounding cemetery from a side street. “Either that or this town is a treatment center for the socially challenged.”

A wrought-iron gate stood open, and Bailey couldn't resist having a look around. Inside the churchyard, she noticed many raised brick graves and headstones dating to the eighteenth century. Drawn by her fascination with the past, she wandered along the worn oyster-shell path, examining the names and dates until she came to a section sheltered by a gnarled cedar tree.

All of the graves in this area bore the surname Tawes, and one—obviously a recent burial—was adorned with a container of honeysuckle and wildflowers. The polished marble headstone was etched with the silhouette of a running horse and the legend
ELIZABETH TAWES SOMERS, BELOVED DAUGHTER, WIFE, AND SISTER
.

Certain that this must be the great-aunt who'd remembered her in her will, Bailey paused to run her fingertips over the name on the face of the memorial. Elizabeth Somers had been only sixty-three at the time she died on March 16 of this year. Not old at all. Sixty-three was far too young. So much for Bailey's conjecture about a white-haired old lady in her dotage. Maybe the house she'd been left wasn't the Munster family's summer cottage, after all.

Close by, deeper in the shadows of the cedar, lay another grave covered with thick green moss and decorated with a similar floral bouquet. Bailey's throat tightened as she leaned to examine the inscription etched into the stone:
ELIZABETH “BETH” TAWES, GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN
.

Lichen grew over the dates, and Bailey scraped it
carefully away. Sixteen years. This Beth had lived only sixteen years, and she had died on . . .

Suddenly light-headed, Bailey snatched her hand away from the cold marble. Her birthday. It couldn't be a coincidence, could it? Was this young Beth her birth mother? Had she spent a lifetime steeling herself to confront a teenager who was already dead?

“Tragic, isn't it?”

Startled by the voice behind her, Bailey turned to face a tall, horse-faced woman dressed in an immaculate beige suit and pearls. “I . . . I didn't . . .”

“Did I give you a fright?” She smiled, revealing too-white teeth. “I'm so sorry.”

Bailey's heartbeat slowed to near normal. “No, really. I was just looking at . . . The gate was open.”

“There's no need to apologize. The church and cemetery are always open. I'm Grace Catlin, the pastor's wife.” She extended a plump, manicured hand. “And you must be Miss Bailey Elliott?”

“Yes, I am. But we've never met. How did you—”

Grace chuckled primly. “Tawes is a very small island, my dear. Everyone knows everyone else's business.”

Bailey returned the smile. “So I'm beginning to learn.” She enfolded Grace's thick fingers in her own. The woman's handshake was quick, cool, and practiced. As a minister's wife Grace Catlin likely had a great deal of experience in greeting parishioners at endless church functions. “Although I must admit, the island doesn't feel particularly friendly,” Bailey said. “I was beginning to think that I'd forgotten to wear my deodorant.”

“Yes. Well . . . no.” Grace gave a small sniff. “You must excuse them, my dear. Tawes sees few mainlanders.
For the most part, our parishioners are suspicious of strangers.”

“I can believe it. But I won't be here long. I came to—”

“To see Mr. McCready about your inheritance, I suppose. Poor Elizabeth caused something of a scandal, her leaving her earthly goods to a mainlander.” Grace brushed an invisible speck from the front of her suit jacket. “Afraid you'll sell the property to developers. No one wants to see Tawes become another St. Michaels. All Washington weekenders and million-dollar sailboats.”

“I didn't come here to cause anyone problems.” Bailey brushed the dirt off her hands.

“Of course you didn't. We're really quite endearing, once you come to know us.” She smiled again. “Old-fashioned. Salt of the earth, as the saying goes. I was born here, you know. My family was one of the first to settle in the colony. Several noted Revolutionary War heroes. Are you interested in the island's history?”

“Yes.” Bailey picked up her purse from the grass. “My fourth-grade classes are doing a unit on colonial history this fall.”

“Then you must come over to the parsonage and meet my husband, Matthew. The reverend is our local historian. He knows simply everything about the history of Tawes, and he always keeps a fresh pot of coffee brewing.”

“That's kind of you, but—”

“Nonsense. Matthew will be so disappointed if you rush off without coffee and a slice of my famous apple cake. Please come. It will make his day, really.”

Bailey hesitated. The offer of coffee sounded good, but she wasn't certain she wanted to make small talk
with the minister and his wife. Grace might be friendlier than the other islanders, but she seemed rather eccentric. Bailey guessed Grace to be in her mid-fifties, but her speech and mannerisms made her appear a generation older. And for all her pretense of gentility, Grace's speech was stilted, her carefully coiffured hair a little too dark, and her rouged cheeks a little too pink to be natural. “I'm certain Pastor Catlin must—”

“Please. It's so seldom we have guests. You'll never have a better opportunity to learn firsthand about the island's history.”

Against her better judgment, Bailey allowed Grace to usher her into the two-story brick Federal-style house on the far side of the cemetery.

“Matthew! We have company,” Grace called as they entered the cluttered foyer.

Somewhere in the rear of the house a dog barked. Piles of books were stacked six deep on the bottom steps of the staircase and on the seat of a spindle-back chair that stood next to a marble-topped Victorian table. “Excuse the mess, dear.” Grace stooped to pick up a squeaky dog toy shaped like a rolled-up newspaper.

Bailey hesitated. “You have a dog?” She knew it was silly, but dogs always made her uneasy.

“Just a tiny one. And he's as sweet as can be.” She waved her hand toward the hall and adjoining rooms. “The parsonage is charming, but keeping up with a house this size when you have a pack rat for a husband is a daunting task.”

Bailey could smell the aroma of dark roast drifting from the back of the house. Coffee was one of her weaknesses, and she'd had only one cup today. “I can imagine.”

“Through here to the parlor. Everything is a mess.
My last cleaning woman didn't work out, and I haven't had time to replace her.” The pastor's wife led the way briskly through the living room to a formal dining room. “The house hasn't had much done to it since we had to replace the roof after Hurricane Hazel. I'm afraid we have no air-conditioning, but there's usually a breeze off the bay, and this side of the house is shaded by the two big oaks. Matthew, where are you?”

A small terrier dashed through the doorway and hurled itself at Grace. Bailey moved to the far side of the dining table.

Laughing, Grace scooped up the small buff-and-white animal and cradled it against her ample breasts. “This is Precious,” she said between wet, exuberant dog kisses. “I'm afraid we spoil her terribly. Matthew says I treat her like a child.”

Bailey began to wish she'd never accepted the invitation for coffee.

Grace waved toward a chair. “Perhaps I do spoil Precious. We were never blessed with children. Sit down. I'll get the coffee. I won't be a moment.” Still carrying the squirming animal, she hurried away.

Relieved that the dog was gone, Bailey glanced around the dining room. China figurines of gold-and-white shepherdesses and gaudy bric-a-brac covered the darkVictorian tables and the fireplace mantel. Two large windows were covered with heavy floral drapes that matched the fading wallpaper and the flowered carpet.

Bailey stifled a sneeze, thinking that the maid must have given notice quite a while ago. The room could have done with a thorough cleaning. The elaborate arrangement of plastic flowers that took up much of the table was as dusty as the multicolored crystals on the chandelier overheard.