Devlin's Light (29 page)

Byers pondered this. “Maybe Shuman hid the money somewhere around Devlin’s Light, then came back looking for it. Maybe your brother caught him.”

“I guess that’s possible.” India frowned, her arms crossed against her chest.

“The other possibility is that the two deaths, while unfortunate, were unrelated.”

“Let’s think this through. Who else was there when your company went to settlement on this property?”

Byers sorted through the papers in his briefcase. “There was Mrs. Devlin and a lawyer named Patricia Sweeney. A representative of the title company named Peter Hales. Shuman …”

“Lucien, we need to talk to these other people.” India looked over the papers.

“My thoughts exactly.” Byers nodded. “And first thing Monday morning, I will personally do that very thing. May I call you next week?”

“Let me get one of my cards for you,” she said as she left the room. “I’ll be right back.”

Once in the dining room, where she’d left her pocketbook earlier that morning, she searched through her wallet with shaking hands until she found a card. Returning to the sitting room, she found Lucien Byers looking out the front window to where Corri and Ollie were trying to maneuver over the cracked pieces of sidewalk on roller skates without falling. Corri made it through the worst of it, but Ollie did not. India grimaced as the child fell half onto the sidewalk, half onto the grass.

“Ollie, are you all right?” India called from the front door.

The child picked herself up and brushed the leaves and pine needles from her denimed bottom, nodding that nothing much was damaged but her pride.

“Is she hurt?” Byers asked with apparent concern as India handed over her business card.

“No, just embarrassed. I’ll have to have that sidewalk repaired, though, before someone does get hurt. It’s the sort of thing that my brother used to take care of.” She smiled wanly.

“It’s obvious that you miss him terribly. I’m so very sorry.”

“We all are.” She shrugged, then turned her attention back to the card. “I’ll be at this number on Monday.”

“Assistant district attorney, city of Paloma, Pennsylvania,” he read. “Quite impressive. I suppose you could look into the whereabouts of some of the players.” He raised the sheaf of papers and shook them slightly.

“Absolutely. As a matter of fact, if you fax copies of those documents over to my office, I’ll get someone working on it first thing this week.”

“Excellent. And I will start to gather what information I can on Shuman. I know a very fine private investigator.”

“Maybe I can help locate Shuman. I’ll see what’s in the computer banks on him.”

“Wonderful. Maybe if we work together we can get to the bottom of this. And perhaps, eventually, reach some sort of agreement on that tract of land.”

“An agreement?”

“India, regardless of what our combined efforts find, I— my company, that is—is still out a quarter of a million dollars. Money that was paid to your sister-in-law.”

India stiffened. “Lucien, I am not responsible for Maris’s actions, nor do I have any responsibility to you or your company. Certainly I feel terrible that this has happened, but I don’t believe I have any obligations here, even if I had two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to pay you back.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to. It isn’t the money I want. We have invested a good deal of money into the development of that land—land that our records show we purchased. I would like to think we could work out something that would permit me to proceed with those plans.”

“I think we both need to speak with our lawyers and see where this all stands.” She frowned.

“India, I hope you don’t take this personally, but I have an obligation to my company. If there is any recourse, I will have to pursue it.”

“I understand. I’m sure I’d do the same thing. I just feel so terrible about this.”

“I appreciate that.” He snapped the briefcase closed briskly. “I’m only sorry that we had to meet under such unpleasant circumstances.”

India walked him to the door and shook his hand when it was offered. He gave her a card, which she placed upon the table just inside the doorway.

“I’ll talk to you on Monday,” he told her as he walked across the porch and down the steps, pausing to look up the street to where Corri and Ollie were skating toward the corner. He waved as August pulled the Buick into the driveway.

Business couldn’t be too bad, India noted as he drove off in his brand-spanking-new Mercedes.
But if he makes any
more deals like the one he made with Maris, his next trip will be on a Raleigh ten-speed.

“Who was that slick-looking fellow?” August came into the kitchen through the back door and set a bag on the counter. “Someone from Paloma?”

“No, why would you think he was from Paloma?” India frowned, in search of a fresh cup of coffee to replace the one she had left in the laundry room.

“He just had
city
all over him.” August slid out of her winter coat.
“Ad unguem factus homo.
A man polished to the nail.”

India paused, then poured a second cup of coffee and handed it to her aunt, gesturing her toward the window seat.

“Aunt August, I think you’d better sit down for this one.”

It took a while, but by two o’clock that afternoon, India’s temper, initially suppressd by shock, was about ready to blow. How dare Maris even attempt to sell off Devlin land! How dare she involve this family in a fraudulent scheme! Was she really so stupid she could have believed that the truth would never see the light of day? Madder than she’d been in longer than she could remember, India decided to do what she always did when her cork was about to pop. She went running.

Dressed in a long-forgotten pair of sweatpants and heavy socks she found in the bottom drawer of her dresser, a turtleneck from her suitcase and one of Ry’s old sweatshirts, India rummaged in her closet until she found the old sneakers she’d been certain she had left there. How did any of us ever manage to run wearing nothing but plain old
sneakers?
India smiled as she tied the laces of the old white tennis shoes, envisioning the array of athletic shoes she had recently seen in a specialty store in the mall. Walking shoes. Running shoes. Cross-trainers. Tennis shoes. Basketball
shoes. As she went through the motions of a too-brief warmup. she compared the old white canvas sneakers to the fancy, high-priced numbers sitting neatly on the floor of her closet back in Paloma. She could not in all honesty say that she missed them.

Corri and Ollie were in the attic playing dress-up with the old clothes set aside for just that purpose, and Aunt August was in the sitting room, cozy in her favorite chair nearest the fire when India set out. August had been totally unprepared for the news India had had to share that morning, but she was not shocked to learn that Maris had been involved with underhanded dealings.

“I cannot say that I’m surprised, India.” August’s chin set and her mouth was drawn into a tight, straight line. “There was something about Maris. … I do not mind telling you it near broke my heart when Ry brought her home. I never understood it even for a second. Except for Corri, there was nothing good to be said for that woman. And sometimes it was hard for me to believe that she was really that child’s mother, she was so indifferent to her. But that’s another matter. For her to involve the Devlin name in a dishonest scheme …”

August shook her head as she reached for the phone to call the family lawyer to alert him to this latest bit of news, pausing to add, “God forgive me for my lack of charity, India, but the woman only got what she deserved.”

A chill from the east blew through Devlin’s Light, and the sky, pale gray earlier that morning, had deepened to the color of gun metal, the clouds falling so low that they all but dropped into the bay. A snow sky, India thought as she headed out through the town in the hopes of running off her anger. The first mile was arduous; it had taken her that long to find her rhythm again. The second mile was better, and she slowed as she looked through the high black wrought-iron fencing that marked off the grounds of Captain Jonathan Devlin’s mansion. The property took up the whole block, but it was only a small portion of what had once been the holdings of the oldest of the three original Devlins. Long ago given to the town, and used by the local historical society for a variety of fundraisers, the house stood tall and white, black shuttered and handsome, built to prove to the
captain’s in-laws, prominent Quakers from Philadelphia, that their beloved daughter Salem—short for “Jerusalem”—had married well. Which was all the consolation Jonathan could offer them, since Salem, by marrying a non-Quaker, had not been welcomed into the homes of her family.

It had been said that Salem Devlin lacked a proper Quaker spirit, having become overly fond of the exotic fabrics and fine jewelry that her seafaring husband brought to her from foreign ports. India wondered if the portrait of Salem still hung over the fireplace in the grand front hall. In a pastel done by a leading artist of the day brought all the way from Philadelphia solely for the purpose, Salem appeared boldly elegant in a white lace shawl over bare shoulders, her pale pink satin dress scooping low to display a long neck and creamy skin. Delicate fingers, one sporting a ring of blood-red rubies, tucked a dogwood blossom behind one ear, while her wrist was encircled with a double strand of pearls held fast by a clasp of rubies. Salem had not been a classic beauty, but her eyes sparkled and teased, even across the centuries. Clearly, there had been nothing plain about the captain’s lady.

India made a promise to herself that, while she was on her leave, she would visit the mansion, walk the worn floors and maybe take the time to read Salem’s letters to her beloved Jonathan and the journal her ancestor had kept while her captain was at sea. As she turned toward the beach end of town, India noted the flurry of activity near the front door of the big house; cars were parked in the circular drive and several of the townspeople had gathered on the front porch. Members of one committee or another, meeting to discuss some project, she mused.

The wind blew colder on the open expanse of beach, whipping India’s hair around her face, into her mouth and her eyes. She slowed her pace but did not stop as she drew up the hood of the old sweatshirt around her head, tucking her hair under it as best she could. Her face burned with exertion and cold, and she resolved to begin running on a more regular schedule and to call the gym as soon as she got back to Paloma. She missed her sessions at the gym as much as she missed Gif, a crusty old soul who for years had
appeared on the regular card at the Blue Horizon in Philadelphia and who now gave boxing lessons to youths he pulled off street corners in Paloma and tried to give them a place to work off their aggression. India had met him when he appeared as a character witness for a young man who was accused of beating up a schoolteacher in an alley on Paloma’s dark side. Gif had testified that the young man had been at the gym, boxing at the time of the attack, and had invited a skeptical India to check out his facilities. She did, and, having been goaded into getting into the ring for a quick lesson, India discovered a new love. Gif, with his totally flattened nose and four o’clock shadow twenty-four hours a day, was a wonderful teacher, and before long a stop at the gym had become a necessary diversion whenever India’s schedule permitted.

Unconsciously she slowed her pace, jabbing the air with her fists clenched from rage and cold, her body twisting with every punch thrown at an imaginary opponent.

Maris.

Just one shot, that’s all I want. Just one swing. Just one chance for one good shot at that LYING
[punch],
DECEITFUL
[punch],
SWINDLING
[punch],
NO GOOD
[punch punch punch],
THIEVING …

“Hey, India, slow down!” someone called from the top of the dune.

She turned to see Zoey Enright making her way across the hard-packed sand.

“Sheesh, I’d hate to be on the receiving end of those blows. Where’d you learn to throw a punch like that?” Zoey’s face was red as if she too had been too long in the afternoon cold.

“A gym in Paloma.” India grinned. “I’m terribly out of shape.”

“Looked just fine from where I stood.”

“Maybe boxing is like riding a bicycle.” India laughed. “Maybe you never forget how, once you’ve learned.”

“Looked like fun.” Zoey threw an unskilled punch into the air.

“It is. I was just thinking it was time to start taking lessons on a regular basis again. It’s great exercise.”

“Something I haven’t had in a while. After yesterday’s
dinner, I thought perhaps a little fresh air and exercise should go back on the agenda. But I’m afraid I didn’t dress well enough and I’m chilled to the bone and craving some of the hot chocolate that I saw advertised at the little shop back there on the dock. Can I talk you into joining me?”

“With very little effort. I’ve already gone a few miles, and to tell you the truth, my hands and feet are numb. Hot chocolate sounds great.”

“Which way is fastest?” Zoey asked.

“Straight down the beach.” India pointed over her shoulder.

“Lead on, then.” Zoey fell in step with India and they headed back up the beach.

“Were you headed anyplace in particular?” India asked.

“No, just exploring. Every time I visit Nicky, I try to see a little more of the town.”

“For a small town, there’s actually a lot to see. Starting right here.” India pointed to an osprey that had sailed out of nowhere to hover over the choppy water before diving down and grabbing a fish with its talons and soaring off. “The osprey population had been in a decline around here, but the ban on DDT some years back appears to have resulted in a recovery. The birds are more plentiful now across southern New Jersey. They nest in high places, and the electric towers along the coast have become favorite nesting spots.”

“What’s that one?” Zoey pointed upward to their right to a large, light-colored bird whose wide wingspread showed off dark patches on the wings and tale.