Cape Refuge (23 page)

 

C
ade's phone call to Hanover House woke Blair up. It was late, past time for her to open the library, but he was glad she had gotten some sleep. “Sorry to wake you, Blair,” he said. “I called your place first. I figured you were there. I need to go to Hanover House and look in your parents' office.”

“What are you looking for, Cade?” she asked in a hoarse voice.

“Their checkbook,” he said. “I want to know where Thelma and Wayne spent their money. I need to account for every penny.”

“Why?”

“It's part of the investigation, Blair,” he said. “Do you know where their bankbook is?”

“Yes,” she said. “We'll be waiting.”

 

 

C
ade and McCormick got to Hanover House and knocked, but there wasn't an answer right away. He figured Blair and Morgan were still getting dressed. It had only been a few minutes since he woke her up.

He slid his hands into his pockets and looked out at the water across the street. So much had happened since he had sat in that warehouse with Blair and touched her scars. Life seemed to have sped into fast-forward ever since.

You really know how to kick a girl when she's down.

The words clanged through his heart, a stark accusation. He hadn't meant to hurt her. They had just been sitting there alone, and he had felt so close to her. He shared her grief, her anger, her confusion.

He had only wanted to touch her. And he had meant what he said. He didn't see those scars anymore.

But she did, and her perception of herself was cruelly filtered through him.

The door finally opened, and Blair leaned out. “Come on in, guys.” He could see that she hadn't gotten much sleep last night. Her eyes were puffy and red and so were Morgan's.

“Why do you need their checkbook?” Blair asked as she followed them into the office.

“I need to check the deposits. And I want to look through their other papers.”

Morgan came down the stairs and followed them into the house. She led them into the room off the kitchen that their parents had used as an office. “It's just like they left it,” Morgan whispered.

Cade saw the checkbook sitting on their desk, and he picked it up and thumbed through. “Where are their bank statements?”

“I don't know,” Morgan said. “We have their file cabinet at Blair's house. I didn't see them in there.” She opened a small cabinet in a hutch on her father's desk. Several notebooks were lined up there. “Here,” she said. “I think they kept them in one of these.”

Cade took a notebook and began flipping through the pages.

Blair came up beside him, her puffy eyes pleading. “Cade, please, take the bank statements, but leave the other papers where they are. I need them.”

“What for?”

Blair looked at McCormick as if she didn't want to answer in front of him. Cade didn't want to make her. “Come here,” he said. He took her arm and escorted her out to the sunporch at the back of the kitchen. The smell of oil paint filled the room, and a half-finished painting sat on an easel in the corner.

Blair looked up at him, and he could see the pain in her eyes. He hated that pain, and wished he could exorcise it from her heart.

“Tell me, Blair,” he whispered.

She swallowed and looked out at the shed in the back of their yard, where her father used to putter. “I was looking into what caused my scar,” she said. “There's some secret in my parents' past, some way my father was involved with what happened to me. Last night I found some notes he'd written. He said he'd caused my scars, but he didn't say how. And I found out that it was a raging house fire, not some little grease fire like they said, and the police thought it was arson. I have so many questions. I haven't finished going through all their papers yet, but I need to, Cade.” Her eyes shone with her plea. “If I find anything that will be of interest to you, I'll give it to you, I promise. You know I'm trying to find who the killer is too.”

“I need to go through them first,” Cade said quietly. “Don't worry. If I find out anything about your past, I'll let you know. Besides, now that I know you're looking, maybe I can do a little snooping around on my own. I have a few resources you don't have.”

She turned back to the glass door into the house. “Not many.”

He knew that was true. With her library skills and command of the Internet, Blair was usually able to come up with information as fast as he could.

“Promise you'll tell me if you run across anything?” she asked.

“Promise,” he told her.

“And do you swear that you won't mess up the files? I don't want anybody but you going through them, Cade. You get a bunch of hands on them, there's no telling what's going to become of that information, and it might have some link to my parents' past.”

“You have my word,” he said.

She sighed with resignation. “All right, take them,” she said. “I'm trusting you, Cade. And I hope you'll hurry because I need them back as soon as possible.”

“If I don't find anything vital in there, I'll give them back to you,” he said. “But if I do, I'm going to have to hold it as evidence.”

She didn't like it, he could tell, but he could see the trust in her eyes. That made his work a little less difficult as he went back to riffle through her parents' things.

 

B
lair was in no mood to take the phone call that came that afternoon from East Coast Properties, Inc., the company who had approached Thelma and Wayne weeks ago about selling Hanover House.

The caller identified himself as James Clark. “I'd like to make an appointment with you and your sister,” he said. “I'd like to discuss the possibility of my company purchasing your property.”

“It's still not for sale,” Blair said, though she knew they should listen to the offer.

“We're prepared to offer you fair market value. There's no harm in discussing it with us. We'll come there, if you'd like.”

Blair's eyes were tired from staring at the computer screen for so many hours as she tried to get more information about her parents. She swiveled her chair around and rubbed her eyes roughly.

She supposed he was right. There
was
no harm in listening. They could always say no. But in case money got tight or Hanover House became too much of a burden for Morgan to handle alone, it would be good to know what their options were.

“All right,” she said. “We'll meet you at Hanover House at seven tonight. I'll make sure my sister is there.”

 

 

J
ames Clark was a tall man in a thousand-dollar suit. His pitch to buy the house was more persuasive than Blair had expected.

The offer was generous, too generous to ignore. But Morgan sat quietly through the whole conversation, her lips compressed with distaste.

When Clark left, Morgan started up the stairs without a word.

“Where are you going?” Blair asked. “Aren't we even going to talk about this?”

Morgan turned around at the top of the stairs. “Blair, this is my home,” she said. “It's where we spent most of our childhood. It was our parents' dream. We have no business selling it.”

“Morgan, the city council may not even let us keep it open. Contributions from our donors are bound to drop as they hear about the murders. And if it's not making money, the property taxes will do us in. Besides, who will run it?”

“I can,” Morgan said.

“How can you say that?” Blair asked. “It took four people to run it before. Mama and Pop and you and Jonathan. And who knows when Jonathan is going to get out? It's just you now. And I don't want to help, Morgan. I don't want to take this on.”

“You don't have to,” Morgan said. “It's not going to be your problem.”

She disappeared across the top floor, and Blair followed her up. Morgan had gone into their parents' room. So Blair rushed behind her. “It's my problem just knowing it's here,” she said, “just knowing it's something that we own and that we can't manage.”

Morgan sat down on the edge of the bed and ran her hand over the bedspread that her mother had made. “Jonathan and I will manage it. He'll get out and come home, and we'll manage it.”

“Jonathan will want us to sell it,” Blair said. “You know he will.”

Morgan wiped the tear rolling down her cheek. “Why would you say that?”

“Because he's been wanting the two of you to get a home of your own since you got married. He's done nothing but complain about this place. Just ask him.”

“All right, I will,” she said. “When I visit him tonight I'll ask him.” Her eyes glimmered with tears as she stood up again. “I love this place.”

“But let's face it,” Blair said. “We're trying to solve their murder. We're trying to deal with the stress of what's happened in our lives. Keeping this place up is going to be a major burden, not to mention the questionable character of some of the tenants who come here. I mean, Sadie alone is going to drain you. And then there's Gus, if he gets out of jail. Mrs. Hern will be a handful before long. And Rick Whatever-His-Name-Is.”

“I can do it,” Morgan bit out.

“They're offering an awful lot of money,” Blair said. “Think about it. We wouldn't have to fight city council anymore. We wouldn't have to deal with these tenants and all the questions flying through town. We could start over and try to put this awful thing behind us. We could invest the money and live off of it. And you and Jonathan could have your own place and start a family.”

“We could have a family here.”

“All right, just ask him. That's all I ask,” Blair said.

“I said I would.”

“Just see what he wants to do,” Blair said. “But if he agrees with me, we'll sell it, right?”

Morgan looked down at her feet, struggling with the emotions on her face. “I don't know,” she said. “All I'm promising to do is ask him.”

 

L
et's do it, Morgan,” Jonathan told her when she visited him later that day. “Come on, we could get our own little place, maybe right on the beach, and not have the burden of always taking care of other people. We can't do what your parents did. I can't.”

Tears filled her eyes, and her mouth trembled with the effort of holding them back. She didn't want him to know how disappointed she was in his answer.

“Think about it. Do you want to be a mother to everybody in town at your age, to every transient who comes up on a boat, to every prisoner released with no place to go?”

“Somebody has to do it,” Morgan said.

“No, somebody doesn't,” Jonathan threw back. “Your parents did it and it was wonderful. They filled a need. But they were
called
to fill that need, Morgan, and we weren't. You can't inherit a ministry and expect to be as passionate and adept at it as the people who left it to you. And whether you like it or not, the bed-and-breakfast is a ministry. It was their ministry. But not ours. There are other things we can do.”

“But what about the tenants?”

“Well, Gus is here,” Jonathan said. “He'll be in prison for the rest of his life, I hope.”

“But there's Rick and Mrs. Hern, and now Sadie.”

“Then give them notice,” he said. “Give them time to find a place to live, and then we can sell.”

“What if they can't find a place?”

Tears rolled down her cheek, and he wiped them, tipping her face up to his. “Of course they can find a place,” he said. “There's real estate all over town, people renting places out. We're not the only game in town.”

“We're the only ones who take in the refugees,” she said.

“The what?” he asked.

“Mama used to say we took in spiritual refugees. That's what they are, you know.”

He pressed his forehead against hers. “You have a sweet heart, baby. That's why I love you. I know God's going to use it somehow, but it doesn't have to be at Hanover House.”

“Is it just the money?” she asked. “Is that what means so much to you?”

He leaned back. “That was a low blow,” he said. “I just want a fresh start with you, Morgan. I'm being accused of your parents' murders. There will be people in this town who'll always think I did it. I'm not sure how it's going to be, living in that house without them—the shadow of their murders hanging over us like that. And I've never been comfortable with you being around what you call the ‘refugees.' Call me overprotective, but that's what husbands are for.”

She dropped her face in her hands. “I'll think about it,” she said, “and I'll pray about it. It's just so hard. Too many changes all at once. And you're still in here. I thought you'd be out by now.”

“I'm going to get out soon,” he said. “As soon as Cade comes to his senses.”

She got up, and he pulled her into a crushing embrace. Alex Johnson, the cop guarding them, turned his back to give them some privacy.

“I miss you,” she whispered.

“Me too,” he said. “It's going to be all right, okay?”

“I know.”

“We're going to find who killed your parents. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, and they're going to be punished, and we're going to get our lives back to normal.”

She nodded, trying to believe.

She wept all the way back to Hanover House, then ran inside, hoping to avoid any of the tenants until she got to her room. But Sadie was sitting at the top of the stairs.

“Hi, Morgan,” the girl said brightly.

“Hi, Sadie.”

Sadie's face changed as she saw the tears. “I was waiting for you, but if you're not in the mood—”

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, it's okay.”

“Well, you had some apples in the refrigerator. I was just wondering if I could have one.”

“Of course you can. You can have anything you want in the kitchen. I told you that.”

“But I don't want to take advantage,” Sadie said. “I mean, it is a bed-and-breakfast, and this is a snack.”

“The guests have full run of the kitchen, all the time.” Through the blur of her tears, she regarded the bruise around Sadie's eye. It was healing to a yellow hue, and her arm, in its cast, still hung in a sling. The girl had been no trouble since she had come. She picked up after herself, helped Mrs. Hern, and kept quiet. “You can have all the apples you want.”

“Thank you,” Sadie said. She stood up and looked awkwardly at Morgan, as if she didn't know what to do next. “I'm still looking for a job, but when I get one, I promise to pay you back for all this.”

“Don't worry about it,” she said. “Just go eat.”

The girl ran down the stairs.

Morgan was emotionally drained by the time she closed herself into her room. She lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering what she would do if they sold this place. What would it be like to have a home of her own with Jonathan, knowing she could never come here again and walk through these halls and into her parents' room?

The phone on her bedside table rang. She picked it up. “Hello.”

“What did he say?” It was Blair's voice, soft and familiar.

Those tears assaulted her again. “He wants to sell,” she said. “But I have to pray about this, Blair. I'm just not ready.”

“Morgan, Mama and Pop wouldn't want you saddled with this.”

“Have you and Jonathan been comparing notes or something? Mama and Pop loved these people. They would be proud if I followed in their footsteps.”

“Of course they would,” Blair said, “but they'd never ask you to. They wouldn't expect it of you. I don't want to spend the rest of my life taking care of people just because they did, and I don't think you do either. And your husband sure doesn't.”

She closed her eyes and wished for sleep. “He thinks he might get out tomorrow, maybe the next day.”

“That's great,” Blair said, “but I guarantee you, he's not going to want to come back to that house. That money could help with a lot of things, Morgan.”

“What would Sadie do?” she asked. “And Mrs. Hern?”

“Sadie'll find someone else to help her, just like she did this time. And so will Mrs. Hern. Maybe a nursing home—”

“I'm
not
putting her in a nursing home! She's a long way from needing that!”

“All right, then. We can help her find a place. I'm not suggesting we throw her out on the street.”

Morgan closed her eyes. “What's the hurry?”

“Well, they might withdraw the offer,” she said. “I mean, come on. It's a good offer. I say we go ahead and sign on the dotted line while we still can.”

Morgan rubbed her forehead. It was beginning to ache. “I can't commit to this,” she said. “I have to pray about it. You have to let me do that.”

And with that she hung up the phone, no longer interested in what her sister had to say.