Season of Secrets (3 page)

“A Charleston Christmas with all the trimmings.” He grimaced. “Thanks to the Internet, he has a calendar of every event through to First Night. If I try to skip a thing, he'll know it.”

“Blame the tourist bureau for that.” Her smile flickered. “They wouldn't want to miss a single visitor.”

“Anyway—” He reached out, thinking to touch her hand, and then thought better of it. “Anyway, will you help me do Christmas, Dinah? For Court's sake?”

Aunt Kate had schooled her well. No one could tell from her expression the distaste she must feel, but somehow he knew it, bone deep.

“For Court's sake,” she said. Then, cautioning, she added, “But we'll have to work around my job.”

“You have a job?” He couldn't help the surprise in his tone.

“Of course I have a job.” Her voice contained as much of an edge as she probably ever let show. “Did you think I sat around all day eating bonbons?”

“No. Sorry.” He'd better not say that he'd assumed she'd been like Annabel, doing the round of society events and charity work until she married. “I am sorry. I guess I'm still thinking of you as a schoolgirl.”

“I haven't been that in a long time.” She seemed to
accept the excuse, but those deep violet eyes were surprisingly hard to read.

“Sorry,” he said again. “So, tell me what you do.”

“I'm a forensic artist. I work for the Charleston Police Department primarily, but sometimes I'm called on by neighboring jurisdictions.”

He couldn't have been more surprised if she'd said she was a lion tamer, but he suspected it wasn't a good idea to show that.

“That's—”

“Surprising? Appalling? Not a suitable job for a well brought up young lady?”

Her tone surprised him into a grin. “That sounds like what Aunt Kate might say.”

“Among other things.” Her face relaxed. “She still has trouble with it. She doesn't think I should be exposed to—” She stopped suddenly, her smile forgotten on her face.

“To violence,” he finished for her. “It's too late for that, isn't it?”

“Yes. Much too late.” It sounded like an epitaph.

 

If she let herself think about Marc's intentions for too long, Dinah could feel panic rising inside her. She'd forced herself to hold the subject at bay but now, driving to police headquarters the next day, she took a cautious look.

How could Marc possibly expect to learn anything new after ten years? Did he really think he could find the solution that had eluded the police?

Obviously, he did. In a sense, she could under
stand his determination. He saw a possible harm to Court in the unanswered questions, and he'd do anything for his son.

Ten years ago he'd loved his son, of course, but he'd been so preoccupied with his work that he hadn't been as available to Court as he should have been. Apparently, after he left Charleston, he'd turned his priorities around completely. She had to admire that.

But she wasn't so sure he was right about Court. Knowing more about his mother's life was admirable, but knowing more about his mother's death could only cause pain. She should know. She'd lived with that pain for too long.

What if Marc imagined she knew something about the night Annabel died that she'd never told? Everyone else had long since accepted the fact that she hadn't seen or heard anything. The dream was just that, a dream.

But Marc tended not to accept something just because everyone else did. She remembered that about him clearly. It had made him a good prosecutor. She wasn't sure it made him a safe friend.

She pulled into a parking place near the headquarters building on Lockwood Boulevard. Across the street, the black rectangular monument to fallen officers gleamed in the winter sunshine, making her heart clench. She pushed Marc into the back closet of her mind. She'd go inside, find Tracey, and concentrate on some complicated police case instead.

She hurried inside, clipping her identification to the pocket of the blazer she wore with tan slacks. She
still smiled at the memory of Detective Tracey Elliott taking one look at her the first time they'd met and telling her not to come to headquarters again looking like a debutante.

At the time, Tracey had resented having a civilian artist foisted off on her by the chief of detectives, who'd been influenced in turn by an old friend of Aunt Kate's on the city council. Dinah had never regretted using influence to get in the door. She could prove her abilities only if they gave her a chance to try.

Nodding to several detectives who'd eventually accepted her, she wove through the maze of desks and file cabinets to where Tracey sat slumped over a thick sheaf of papers.

“Good morning.”

Tracey shoved one hand through disheveled red curls, her green eyes warming with welcome. “Don't tell me it's good unless you've got some decent coffee stashed in that bag of yours.”

It was a long-standing joke between them. Dinah set her tote bag on the desk and lifted out two foam cups, handing one to Tracey. She sat in the chair at the side of the gray metal desk and opened hers.

Tracey inhaled, seeming to gain energy just from the fragrant aroma. “You're my hero.”

“Not quite. Just a hardworking forensic artist. Do you have something for me?”

She hoped. It had been a longer than usual time between assignments, and even though she didn't have to depend on her income from her work, that occa
sional paycheck gave her a sense of accomplishment, validating her professional status.

Her relationship with the department was still prickly. Some officers viewed any civilian on their turf with suspicion. The fact that she produced good results with difficult witnesses didn't necessarily change that.

“I'm not sure.” Tracey frowned, shoving a manila folder over to her. “We have a witness to a knifing, but she's all over the place. We know she has to have seen something, but she's not admitting it.”

Dinah scanned through the file, relieved to have something to think about besides Marc. “Is it gang-related?”

“Could be, but there's something about it that doesn't fit. The victim was a sixteen-year-old—parochial schoolkid, no gang involvement. The witness is her best friend. They were on their way home from a movie and took one shortcut too many.”

She nodded, registering the site of the crime. It wasn't an area where she'd walk at night, alone or with a friend.

“Will the witness talk to me?”

“That's the problem.” Tracey's expression spoke of her frustration. “Yesterday she would. That's why I called you. Today she says no. She knows nothing, saw nothing. And her friend won't be going to any more movies.”

The words might have sounded flippant, but Dinah knew they weren't. She and the rough-edged detective had developed a friendship that probably surprised Tracey as much as it did her, and she knew the depth of pain that any death brought Tracey.

“I'm sorry.” She wanted to say more, but knew she
shouldn't cross that line. “Maybe she'll change her mind. Call me anytime.”

Tracey nodded but gave her a probing look. “I thought you might be too busy since your cousin-in-law is back in town.”

“How on earth did you hear about that?”

“He was a suspect in an unsolved murder. Word gets around, believe me.”

“He didn't kill Annabel.”

Tracey raised an eyebrow. “You sure of that?”

“Of course I am.”

“Nice to be sure.”

She swallowed irritation. “All right, Tracey. What's this all about? Did you get me down here to talk about Marc?”

“No.” She shrugged. “But you're here. I couldn't help asking what you think about Marcus Devlin's return.”

The irritation faded away. Tracey was just being Tracey. She couldn't blame her for that.

“I was surprised.” That was honest. “I didn't think he'd ever want to come back, because of the tragedy.”

“Why did he?”

“His house has been rented all these years. The renters recently moved out, so he came to make arrangements to put it on the market.”

“A good Realtor could have taken care of that for him.”

“You're like a dog with a bone, you know that?”

Tracey grinned. “That makes me a good detective. Why did he really come back?”

“Because of Court. His son. My cousin's son. Court
wanted to see the house before it was sold. They're staying through the holidays. Not that it's police business.”

“It's an open case,” Tracey said gently. “Dinah, you must know that most often, a pregnant woman is killed by a husband or boyfriend.”

“Not even you can believe Marc would bring his thirteen-year-old son back to that house if he killed the boy's mother. Besides—” She stopped.

“Besides what?” Tracey prompted.

“Marc wants to find out the truth.”

“I've heard that line before.”

“Tracey, he didn't kill Annabel. He couldn't have.”

“In that case, why does his return bother you so much?” Tracey held up her hand to stop a protest. “You're not that good at hiding your feelings.”

“I was in the house that night,” she said slowly. “I suppose you know that.”

Tracey nodded. Of course she knew. She'd probably read all about the case before she'd ever agreed to work with Dinah.

“I don't want to have to relive the pain again. I loved Annabel. I want to protect her memory.”

“Why does her memory need protecting?”

Dinah could only stare at Tracey, aghast that the words had come out of her mouth. She wasn't even conscious of thinking them, but now that she'd spoken, she knew it was true.

She wanted to protect Annabel's memory. And she didn't know why.

“W
e need to get a big tree, Dad. One that reaches the ceiling, okay?” Court leaned forward in the back seat of Marc's car, propping his arms on the back of Dinah's seat.

Marc didn't take his eyes off the road, but Dinah saw the slight smile that touched his lips. She thought she knew what he felt—that it was good to see Court enjoying himself so much.

She'd like to think so, too, but this tree-buying trip could turn out to be a disaster. She eyed Marc. Did he really not know what he could be walking into?

“How exactly do you expect to get a tree that big back to the house?” Marc asked, as if it were the only concern on his mind.

“We can tie it on top.” Court twisted to look out the side window, bouncing Dinah's seat. “Hey, is that the water over there?”

“Charleston's a peninsula—we're practically surrounded by water. Your dad is taking us to the Christmas tree sale via the scenic route.” As far as she was concerned, the longer it took to get there, the better.
“Fort Sumter is there at the mouth of the harbor. We should take the boat trip out one day while you're here.”

“Cool.” Court pressed his face against the glass for a better look.

His absorption in the view gave her the opportunity for a carefully worded question aimed at Marc. “Are you sure you want to go to this particular tree sale?” she said quietly. “There are several others.”

Marc's jaw tightened until it resembled a block of stone. “The Alpha Club sale still benefits charity, doesn't it?”

She nodded, not wanting to verbalize her concerns within Court's hearing.

“Then that's where we're going.” Marc's tone didn't leave any room for argument.

Stubborn. He had always been stubborn, and that hadn't changed. He'd been a member of the Alpha Club once and active in the civic and charitable activities of the group of young professionals. They'd been fellow attorneys, fellow Citadel graduates, movers and shakers in Charleston society. Did Marc think he'd find a welcome there now?

Her stomach clenched. She wanted to protect both him and Court from any unpleasantness, but she could hardly do that if he insisted on walking right into the lion's den.

Protect. She'd told Tracey she wanted to protect Annabel's memory. The truth probably was that she couldn't protect any of them, including herself.

Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, they drew up
then at the parking lot that had been transformed into a Christmas tree paradise—decorated trees, garlands, lights, live trees, cut trees, trees of every shape and size. The Alpha Club did its sale in style.

“Wow.” That seemed to be Court's favorite expression. He slid out of the car as soon as it stopped. “I'll find just the right one.” He loped into a forest of cut trees, disappearing from sight.

Dinah got out more slowly and waited while Marc came around the car to join her. “He definitely hasn't lost his enthusiasm, has he?”

“Not at all.” His smile was automatic, and she thought some other concern lay behind it. “He was asking me questions today about your family history,” he said abruptly. “I tried to answer him, but I'm probably not the best source for Westlake family history.”

She knew what he was looking for. “Aunt Kate is.” Aunt Kate was the repository of family stories that would be lost when she was gone unless someone cared enough to hear and remember them.

“I know she doesn't want to see me.” The words were clipped. “Do you think she'd talk to Court about the family?”

She could only be honest. “I don't know. I'll ask her.”

“Thanks, Dinah. I appreciate it.”

His hand wrapped around hers in a gesture of thanks. It lasted just for an instant. It shouldn't mean anything. It didn't mean anything. So why did she feel as if the touch surged straight to her heart?

It was nothing. A hangover from the teenage crush
she'd had once. She took a breath, inhaling the crisp scents of pine and fir, and shoved her hands in her jacket pockets.

“We'd better find Court, before he picks out a twenty-foot tree.”

They moved into the mass of trees. And mass of people, too. It seemed half of Charleston had chosen this evening to search for the perfect tree. Surely, in this crowd, it would be possible to find a tree and leave without encountering any of Marc's one-time friends.

They rounded a corner of the makeshift aisle through the tree display, and she saw that she'd been indulging in a futile hope. Court, pointing at a huge fir, was deep in conversation with a salesman. The man didn't need to turn for her to recognize him. And judging by the quick inhalation Marc gave, he knew him instantly as well.

He hesitated, and then he strode forward, holding out his hand. “Phillips. You're just the person I was hoping to see.”

Phillips Carmody turned, peering gravely through the glasses that were such a part of his persona that Dinah couldn't imagine him without them. Then his lean face lit with a smile.

“Marc.” He clasped Marc's hand eagerly. “How good to see you. It's been too long.”

“It wouldn't have been so long if you'd come to Boston to see us.”

So Phillips had been welcome to visit, while Annabel's family had not. Anger pricked her, and she forced it away as she approached the two men and Court, who looked on curiously, the tree forgotten for the moment.

“Phillips can't leave Charleston,” she said. “The city's history would collapse without him.”

She tilted her face up to receive Phillips's customary peck on the cheek. He always seemed to hesitate, as if remembering that it was no longer appropriate to pat her on the head.

“Dinah, dear, you're here, too.” He focused on Court. “And so you must be Courtney. Annabel's son.” His voice softened on the words. “I'm Phillips Carmody, one of your father's oldest friends.”

Court shook hands. “I'm happy to meet you, sir.” He gave the smile that was so like Annabel's, and she thought Phillips started a bit. It came as a shock to him, probably, as it had to her.

“How long are you staying?” Phillips glanced at Marc. “I heard you were putting the house on the market.”

“I see the grapevine is still active.” Marc seemed to relax in Phillips's company, his smile coming more easily now.

Dinah felt some of her tension dissipate as the men talked easily. It looked as if her fears had been foolish.

Marc had handed over a shocking amount of money and they'd negotiated when the tree would be delivered when the interruption came.

“Phillips! What are you doing?”

Dinah didn't have to turn to know who was there. Margo Carmody had an unmistakable voice—sugarcoated acid, Annabel had always said. How someone as sweet as Phillips ended up married to a woman like that was one of life's mysteries.

Dinah pinned a smile to her face and turned. “Hello, Margo. Are you working the sale as well?”

Margo ignored her, the breach in etiquette announcing how upset she was. Margo never ignored the niceties of polite society. Except, apparently, when confronted by a man her acid tongue had proclaimed a murderer.

“Look who's here, my dear.” Nervousness threaded Phillips's voice. “It's Marcus. And his son, Courtney.”

Margo managed to avoid eye contact with both of them. “You're needed back at the cash desk, Phillips. Come along, now.” She turned and stalked away, leaving an awkward silence behind.

“I'm sorry.” Faint color stained Phillips's cheeks. “I'm afraid I must go. Perhaps I'll see you again while you're here. It was nice to meet you, Court.” He scuttled away before Dinah could give in to the temptation to shake him.

“That woman gets more obnoxious every year.” She could only hope Court would believe Margo's actions were motivated by general rudeness and not aimed at them. “How Phillips stands her, I don't know.”

“He seems to come to heel when she snaps her fingers.” Marc's dry tone was probably intended to hide the pain he must feel.

“Would you expect anything else?” The voice came from behind her.

Dinah turned. Not James Harwood. It was really too much that they'd run into both of the men who'd been Marc's closest friends in the same night. Still, James
and Phillips ran in identical social circles, and they were both mainstays of the Alpha Club, regulars at the elegant old building that graced a corner of Market Street near The Battery.

“Hello, James.” This time Marc didn't bother to offer his hand. It was clear from the coldness on James's face that it wouldn't be taken.

“James, I—” A lady always smoothes over awkward situations. That was one of Aunt Kate's favorite maxims, but Dinah couldn't think of a thing to say.

“You shouldn't have come back.” James bit off the words. “You're not welcome here.”

Court took a step closer to his father. The hurt in his eyes cut Dinah to the heart. Court shouldn't have to hear things like that. Marc should have realized what might happen when he brought him here.

“I'm sorry you feel that way.” Marc's tone was cool, the voice of a man meeting rudeness with calm courtesy. But a muscle in his jaw twitched as if he'd like to hit something. Or someone.

“I think we're ready to leave now.” She'd better intervene before they both forgot themselves. “We have what we came for, don't we, Court?”

Politeness required that Court turn to her, and she linked her arm with his casually. “Ready, Marc?”

Please. Don't make matters worse by getting into a quarrel with James. It's not worth it.

Whether he sensed her plea or not, she didn't know. He flexed his hands, and she held her breath. Then he turned and walked steadily toward the car.

 

“Hey, wouldn't it look cool if we strung lights along the banister?” Court, standing halfway up the staircase, looked down.

Struck by a sudden flicker of resemblance to Annabel in his son's face, Marc couldn't answer for a moment. Then he managed a smile.

“Sounds great. What do you think?”

He turned to Dinah, who was dusting off the stack of ornament boxes they'd just carried down from the attic. In jeans and a faded College of Charleston sweatshirt, her dark curls pulled back in a loose ponytail, she looked little older than the sixteen-year-old he remembered.

She straightened, frowning at the stairwell. “What do you think of twining lights with an evergreen swag along the railing? I think I remember several swags in a plastic bag in the attic.”

“I'll go see.” Court galloped up the steps, managing to raise a few stray dust motes that danced in the late-afternoon light. A thud announced that he'd arrived at the attic door.

Marc winced. “Sorry. Court doesn't do much of anything quietly.”

“I'd be worried about him if he did.” Dinah glanced up the stairwell, as if following Court in her mind's eye. “At least he's not showing any signs that being here bothers him. And if he's not upset after what happened last night—”

“I know. I guess I haven't said you were right, but you were. We should have gone somewhere else for the tree.”

“I wish I hadn't been right.” Her face was warm with sympathy.

Maybe it was the sympathy that led him to say more than he intended. “I expected antagonism from Margo. She never liked Phil's friendship with me, and she and Annabel were like oil and water.”

“I remember.” Dinah's smile flickered. “Annabel had a few uncomplimentary names for her.”

“Which she shouldn't have said in front of you.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Margo doesn't matter. But Phil and James—”

He stopped. No use going over it again. No use remembering when the three of them had been the three musketeers, back in their Citadel days. He'd thought the bonds they'd formed then were strong enough to survive anything. Obviously he'd been wrong.

“Phillips is still your friend. He's just not brave enough to stand up to Margo. He never has been.”

“Maybe.” He'd grant her Phil, and his patent knuckling under to the woman he'd married. But…“James thinks I killed Annabel.” He checked the stairwell, but Court was still safely out of hearing, rummaging in the attic.

Dinah started to say something. Then she closed her mouth. It didn't matter. Her expressive face said it for her.

“You think I should have been prepared for that. You tried to warn me.”

“I thought it might be awkward. I didn't expect outright rudeness.”

She sounded as primly shocked as Aunt Kate might have, and he couldn't suppress a smile.

“You don't need to laugh at me,” she said tartly. “They were all brought up to know better.”

“Next you'll say that their mothers would be ashamed of them.”

“Well, they would.” She snapped the words, but her lips twitched a little. “Oh, all right. We're hopelessly old-fashioned here. I suppose James has been in politics too long to have much sense left. And besides, you know how he felt about Annabel.”