Devlin's Light (33 page)

“We will, Indy. We’re going backstage, like we did in Paloma.” Corri chatted excitedly and stood still barely long enough for India to button up her coat and kiss her cheek. “And we are going all the way to Baltimore in a
limousine!”

“That in itself is a treat,” India told her as the child flew out the door toward the waiting car.

Nick tucked a kiss right below her left ear on his way out.

“Have fun,” she called from the doorway, where she stood and watched as Delia’s long silver limo pulled down the street.

India crossed her arms against the chill and looked into the night sky. The clouds were low, snow clouds, and she hoped the weather would hold until she returned to Paloma. Part of her wished she was in the long sleek car, setting off for Baltimore to see a wonderful performance in a beautiful theater, to share the night with Nick and his mother, Aunt August and Corri. Had she not only last night said she wanted to make more time for her family this holiday?

And I will
, she promised herself.
As soon as this trial is over, as soon as I finish up this last bit of work.

There’s never going to be a last bit of work
, she told herself.
There’s always going to be another case. Another victim. Another trial.

She sighed as she checked the locks on the back door, on the cellar door, on the side-porch door. She remembered a time when no one in Devlin’s Light locked their doors, winter or summer. There had never been a reason to. Not until that summer that had changed everything.

How many bad guys do you have to convict, how many do you have to put away, before you can forgive yourself?
Nick had asked.

India knelt in front of the fireplace and stacked a few more logs onto the fire, watching until the flames inched upward to the top of the stack.

How many bad guys, India?

Tossing a file onto the sofa, she spread its contents out before her and began to separate the work into her customary piles. Statements. Photographs. Diagrams. Forensic reports. Police reports. Medical reports.

How many, India?

She stared into the fire, Nick’s face rising before her in the flames, looking as he had when she walked into the hall tonight. The same look he had when he kissed her wrist in Carol’s the night before. The flames flickered just as the candlelight had danced across his face when he blessed her with his full and easy smile. She closed her eyes and felt his hands on her skin, his lips trailing down her throat. The memory of it sent a tingle down her spine all the way to the tips of her toes.

How many, India?

Maybe—just maybe—not as many as she had once thought.

She sighed and went to work.

It was almost seven-thirty when it occurred to her that she had not eaten since noon. Putting aside her notes, she padded into the kitchen on feet cushioned by thick woolen socks. The refrigerator was stocked with Thanksgiving leftovers, and India opened containers and foil-wrapped packages until she had a little of this and a little of that on her plate. A turkey sandwich on homemade whole wheat bread, a little mayonnaise, a little lettuce, a dollop of cranberry relish. Some black olives, celery stuffed with cream cheese. She made a nest of sorts on the floor in front of the fire with several throw pillows from the sofa and a soft crocheted afghan, and it was there that she curled up to eat her dinner. The house was so quiet, quiet enough to hear the ticking of the hall clock and the hum of the refrigerator’s motor when she went into the kitchen to rinse off her plate. She poked into the pantry and found one small slice of cranberry pear tart left, and it called to her. Leaving it on the small chipped china plate, she grabbed a fork out of the dishwasher and went back to sit by the fire.

I probably did not need that dessert
, she told herself.
I feel like a total glutton.

She leaned back against the sofa, but the fancy hardwood
carvings on the arms dug into her back. An elegant little settee, it had not been designed for comfort. She piled some cushions closer to the fire and pulled the afghan up to her chin and snuggled under it.

Just for a minute or two, she promised. She’d go back to work in just a few minutes …

India opened her eyes with a start. There was a whisper of movement, of some soft uncertain sound, a sense of a presence there in the house. She sat up slowly, cautiously. The charred end of a log fell and hit the brick firebox with a thud, causing her to jump nearly out of her skin. She tilted her head to listen. No, whatever had awakened her was more subtle than the falling log. The hairs on the back of her neck stood straight up as she strained to listen. Something—some
hushed
something—there in the hallway, there on the steps leading to the second floor, no louder than the sound made by furtive eyes watching in the dark.

As quietly as possible, India stood up and backed to the fireplace, reaching behind her to grab the black wrought-iron poker. A vague bump from overhead, an indistinct but dull sense of
disquiet
from the second floor sent her skin to gooseflesh. Her fingers tightened on the cold metal, and she took small, muted steps toward the stairwell. One by one, holding her breath, she took the steps upward, leaning into the dark, all of her senses on total alert. The muscles in her neck and shoulders soon began to protest the prolonged tension, burning to remind her she had stood motionless for far too long.

Taking a deep breath, she turned on the hall light and listened. Nothing.

Slowly, as quietly as possible, India went from one bedroom to the next, turning on the lights, looking in the corners. Nothing.

She locked the attic door from the outside and checked the bathrooms. Nothing.

There was nothing. No sound. No longer any sense of anyone in the house except herself.

With an unconvinced sigh, she went back down the steps to return the poker to its place, wondering if she had just experienced what Corri had referred to as a ghost. She paused on the landing to study the faces of several generations
of Devlins who were immortalized there in paintings and in photographs.

“Okay, folks,” she said aloud, “which one of you was it?”

None, she knew. All the years she had lived in that house, surrounded by the spirits of her ancestors, she had never once sensed anything even remotely sinister. The feeling she’d had tonight had caused her skin to crawl.

When, she wondered, had a less than benign spirit taken up residence on Darien Road?

“Is Corri awake yet?” India dropped her suitcase, already neatly packed, near the back door.

“I don’t expect her to wake up until ten,” August told her. “So much excitement last night, you know. She slept all the way home in the car—as did I part of the way—but it was such a big night for her.”

“Was the ballet wonderful?” India searched in the refrigerator for cream for her coffee.

“Always.” August sighed. “The
Nutcracker
always enchants. The music always enthralls.”

“’Floaty’ music, Corri called it.” India smiled.

“And ‘floaty’ it was. Georgia made a wonderful Snow Fairy. She’s just lovely, as are all of Delia’s children.”

“Speaking of which, Nick asked me to the Twelfth Night Ball.” India tried to sound as casual as possible.

“Really?” August attempted to match her niece’s nonchalant tone, but it wasn’t easy.

“Umm-hmmm.”

“Well, it’s been a few years since you showed up at that affair.” August turned her back to hide her little smile of satisfaction.

“More than a few. I haven’t gone since high school. It is still costume, isn’t it?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll have to find a dress.”

“Well, start by looking in the attic. There’re all sorts of things stored away up there. Darla wore one of your great-great-aunt Priscilla’s gowns last year. Fit her like it was made for her. She looked so beautiful.” August turned and smiled. “There’s a picture on my dresser, if you haven’t
already seen it, of Darla and Ry standing on the verandah of the captain’s house. Touched by moonlight, they were.”

“Maybe we should talk Darla into going with us this year.”

“That’s a lovely thought, dear. If it wouldn’t be too painful for her, it would be lovely.”

“Didn’t Priscilla have a twin sister?”

“Yes, Prudence.”

“Maybe Darla and I can go as Priscilla and Prudence. We could do our hair the same way, just like we did when we were in high school.” India smiled, thinking back to those days that, in retrospect, seemed so simple.

“And flirted with all the same boys, making them all crazy.” August chuckled. “Don’t think I didn’t hear about it. It seems like years since those days.”

“Aunt August, it
has
been years since we were in high school.”

“Sometimes it seems like only yesterday that your father came back and brought his babies home. After Nancy died.” August shook her head. “Things were never quite the same for anyone after your mother died.”

“You know, I don’t remember her at all,” India told her. “Even when I look at her picture, it’s almost the same as looking at the pictures of Gramma Logan. I never knew her either.”

“I always thought you must have missed her so, growing up.”

“I guess in some ways I missed
knowing
her, but I had you.”

“Not quite the same as having your mother, India.”

“I don’t know that I knew the difference,” India said softly.

“Thank you, India. Those may be the most loving words I have ever heard.” August’s eyes unwittingly filled with tears, and she brushed them away with the back of her hand.

“You were always there for Ry and me.” India found her own throat constricting with emotion, and she knew no further words were necessary.

India cleared her throat and sought less poignant ground. “Do they still do all of those dances?”

“Yes, certainly. It’s a
ball
, India.”

“Do the Websters still give lessons?”

“Yes, I believe so. Were you thinking about brushing up on your fancy steps?”

“Yes. Nick said he’d go too, so that we could dance.”

August closed her eyes and saw India swirling around the dance floor in Nick’s arms. The vision was so real to her, so vivid, she could almost hear the orchestra, almost smell the gardenia tucked into India’s hair, right there behind her ear.

“Well, I’m glad to hear that you will attend. It would have been the first time in, oh, I don’t know how many years that there was no young Devlin to lead the grand march.”

“Ry went every year,” India recalled.

“I can’t remember one year that he missed. Even the year that Maris died. He took me as his date.” August’s face softened, remembering. “He was so handsome, my boy. He wore a Victorian-era dinner jacket he found in the attic. Every lady in Devlin’s Light lined up to dance with Ry that night. Oh, they all said it was so that he wouldn’t be without a partner—him being a young widower and all, that was their excuse—but not a one of them fooled me. You could see it in their faces when they danced with him, young and old, they all looked the same way.”

“What way was that, Aunt August?”

“Beautiful,” she said simply. “As if waltzing with a beautiful man made them beautiful too.”

She was lost for a moment, remembering.

“Even me.” She smiled.

“Was that the year he took Darla home?”

“Yes. And they were inseparable from that night on.” August shook her head sadly. “It was Darla he had belonged with all those years. He was never meant to be with anyone else. Destiny
shifts
when you try to change it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“There are some things that are meant to be, India, in order for things to be right. Pretending that
you know better
, trying to rearrange the natural order of things, throws it all off.” August turned her back and began to fuss with the toast. “It’s important to recognize who you are and where you belong, and with whom.”

“What if you don’t know where you belong?” India asked softly.

“Everyone
knows
, India. Deep inside, it’s there, though some choose to ignore or, worse, think they can outsmart fate. Well, you can’t.” August’s chin squared and she rattled a drawer for a knife and proceeded to butter her toast. “Only thing worse than dodging it when you’re young is wanting it when you’re old, when it’s too late to call it all back.”

August poured her coffee and looked out the back window, and her eyes clouded with what might have been regret, as if seeking a glimpse of those wasted years. India wondered what it was that her aunt had let slip through her fingers so long ago that she sorrowed for now.

India sat on the edge of the dark blue leather chair in the big bright office of the district attorney of the city of Paloma, across the desk from the Man himself, and watched as the first glimmer of understanding crossed his well-worn face.

“It’s out of the question, India.” He leaned back in his chair. “I can’t do without you for three months.”

“Then I’m afraid that you’ll need to begin looking for my replacement,” she said gently.

“Now, hold up there.” He waved a navy blue and gold ballpoint pen loosely in her direction. “What’s this all about, India?”

“I need to be home for a while,” she told him, “home in Devlin’s Light.”

“This has to do with your brother’s unfortunate death, I am assuming.”

“Partly, yes. But there are other considerations.”

He tapped the pen on the desk with beefy, well-manicured hands.

“What guarantee do I have that you’ll be back in three months?”

“None I’m afraid,” she replied.

“Let me see if I understand this.” His head moved slightly from side to side as he appeared to ponder the situation, a habit that fooled neither of them. They both knew he understood perfectly. “I have a choice between letting you take your leave and
maybe
coming back in three
months, or I could know
definitely
, right now, that you will not be back at all.”