Writ on Water (29 page)

Chloe turned quietly, placing her feet with care so no crackling sticks would betray her.

“No.”

It was only a single syllable, but Chloe recognized Rory's voice. It stopped her cold and raised the hair on her arms.

“Let the river have it,” Rory said.

“It's an old Chevy—could be worth something,” the boy suggested hopefully. “I swam down and had a look at her. No body damage. Don't know why they junked her.”

“Doubt it's worth retrieving. The engine will be filled with silt, the upholstery shot. We'd have to hire a crane in to move it. It's just scrap iron, not worth the effort to haul it out.” Rory's voice was calm.

“Okay. Thought maybe your dad would like it—sort of a get-well present.”

“Cars aren't MacGregor's thing. Now, if you could find some more of those gnomes . . . I'm afraid that a lot of them have gotten broken lately.”

The boys laughed.

“I don't think they make 'em anymore. They passed a good-taste law at the state capitol.”

“I can't imagine why.”

Chloe's hand fisted. Rory sounded convincingly relaxed as he chatted with the boy—but he
had
to know whose car this was and be worrying!

“Well, let's get back to the house. That blasted lawn needs cutting again,” Rory said.

There were loud, crunching footsteps and a sharp rustling in the shrubbery. Stupidly, Chloe started to panic and prepared to run from Rory, but the inexplicably alarming sounds receded, assuring her that the three of them were headed away from her.

No one knew she was there. She was still safe.

Realizing that she had almost run away and what that meant, she trembled wildly. She had actually been afraid—
afraid of Rory
.

“Oh, God.” Chloe's knees gave way suddenly and she found herself sprawled on hard earth, wild grass and mint crushed beneath her. A thick fall of trees had blocked the water while she was standing, but down there she could see the river through the dying branches. The smell of tattered leaves was thick in the air. The river made a sharp bend at this spot and had slowed to a muddy drool. The lost Chevy would be mostly hidden by muck, perhaps already eaten by rust. How had the boys found it? Probably fishing for river wrack.

Chloe pressed closer to the dead branches, trying
to see. Of the car there was no sign. But there was a pile of green plums beside a badly bent sapling that she suspected someone had been using as a slingshot. Harmless boy fun, except it had brought him down to the river. Just like she had been brought down to the river.

On the other side of the canal, a flock—no, a murder; they called it a murder—of crows were feeding on some kind of carrion.

Chloe drew back.

“This is crazy. I'm jumping to conclusions. Maybe it isn't Claude's car in the river. There must be lots of Chevrolets in the area. I saw some driving through town.”

But of course it was Claude's car. She knew it as surely as she did the smell of wild
mentha
. Some part of her damned hyperactive subconscious had brought her here.

That, or maybe Isaac's ghost?

“No. This can't be. Think! Why would Claude's car be in the river? There has to be an explanation.”

Thoughts—one vision very ugly—flashed through her mind: Claude's body floating in the car. Suspicion was insidious and looking for a toe-hold in her mind. It asked her if Rory actually knew about her film. If he knew that
she
knew that there had been no handgun at the time of the murder.

She was so far gone that she actually wondered for one moment whether Rory had slept with her because he wanted her silent loyalty rather than her body.

But that was ridiculous—too crazy a thought even for her hysteria. She couldn't doubt the chemistry that had happened between them. It had been there from their first meeting, and he wasn't a dinosaur like his father. He couldn't actually believe that sharing his bed would buy her silence. For heaven's sake! They weren't married. And in this day and age a woman could testify against her husband.

Chloe took a few deep breaths of the crushed mint and began to deliberately quiet her breathing. As soon as she forced the flood of panic away, a reasonable explanation came to mind and aborted the worst of her incipient hysteria.

Claude wasn't in the car. The boys said that they had been down to look at it. No one was in the river. As for why the car was there . . . the car was in the river because Claude—or someone—had put it there. They knew the police would be on the lookout for a '58 Chevy Belaire, so Claude had dumped it in the river, trusting that the current would carry it away from Riverview.

Rory, if he even knew about the car before Bob Munson showed him the derelict, hadn't told her about this for the same reason he hadn't told her anything else. He was protecting his family, and he was protecting her from the dilemma of having to decide whether to go to the sheriff with what she knew. She was projecting her own guilt about not going to the police onto Rory, and the longer she went on living with the lie of omission,
the further her trust was eroding. The fault was within her, not with Rory.

Anyway, there was every chance that he would tell her about the car the next time he saw her. The Munsons knew about it, after all.

“Of course.” Chloe turned her face into the bruised mint and continued to inhale deeply, hoping it would have a calming effect on her nerves and stomach, both of which were still badly knotted. “But what am I going to do if he doesn't talk to me?”

It was then that she discovered another part of what had altered inside of her.

“Well, damn. How could this have happened so quickly?”

Chloe exhaled slowly. She needed to speak to Rory. Somehow, she had to find a way to tell him that she knew what was going on and not to worry because she wouldn't mention the cemetery to anyone—and all without actually saying anything so baldly. She didn't want to force an acknowledgement of the situation from him before he was ready. She told herself that she wouldn't do it because that was too much like blackmail. If he confided in her, it had to be because he trusted her—and because they were so close that keeping secrets was no longer a possibility. No other confession was worth having.

It might not even be safe
.

But would that opportunity for honesty ever come? Probably not, if it were left to Rory. Who in his right mind would ever admit to helping a killer?

“Damn it all. It can't be that hard to drop a hint or two,” she said wearily, tired of the guilt and being torn mentally. “He should trust me.”

Probably she
should
go to the police and tell them about the car; it had nothing to do with the family burial grounds. That would get everything out in the open. But she already knew that she wasn't going to do it. That was part of the change. Like Rory, she would keep quiet and pray for another rainstorm, one large enough to create the kind of torrent needed to move a heavy automobile down the river and out to sea.

Chloe staggered to her feet, smoothing the dirt and furry seeds from her blouse and skirt. She realized that she smelled strongly of river mint. Though she liked the aroma, the idea of returning to the house drenched in its scent was vaguely troubling. It reminded her of the moment when her faith had failed her. It was sort of like having blood on one's hands or a stain on one's conscience.

“You reek of mint,” Rory said into her ear, slipping an arm around her waist and pulling her back from Saint Francis so he could kiss her. “Have you been out playing in the herb garden?”

Chloe couldn't help it; she stiffened slightly when Rory drew her against his damp chest and nibbled on her neck.

The question he'd asked was a perfectly innocent one, but some inner perversity made Chloe
choose not answer. Somewhere along the way, she and truth had parted company, and lying now seemed the normal course of action. If Rory wanted truth, she thought pettishly, he should have to begin by telling her at least some part of it.

Or was that childish and stupid?

“Chloe, are you all right?”

“Yes.” She cleared her throat.

“You shouldn't be out without a hat,” he said, settling his own onto her head. It was large and tilted over her brow. “You look flushed.”

Chloe's stance softened.

On the other hand, since it wasn't desirable to live with half-truths and evasions, she promised that she would make an effort to clear the air. Soon.

However, she wouldn't start with the mint and what she had heard at the river. Something smaller would do for the first confession. It was always wise to test the water before diving in.

Sighing, she leaned into Rory's embrace.

“I was in the garden for a little while. I went to the hospital this morning and . . . and afterwards I wanted to take a walk. I've been wandering everywhere.”

“You didn't go to the cemetery, did you?” he asked gently.

“No, I didn't.” She turned her head and glared at him.

Rory laughed and, tipping up the brim of the hat, kissed her scowling forehead. His large, rough hand caressed her waist. She had to admit
that it felt wonderful. While he touched her, it was impossible to believe that anything they had done was truly bad.

“I'll take you there later, if you want to work. I need to get cleaned up and go to the hospital first though. I'd ask you to come, but as you discovered, they are still only allowing family in for visits. Also, there have been some reporters snooping around and I don't want to expose you to that.”

“I know about the reporters. The nurse told me.” Chloe gave her inner voice a chance to speak up, but it didn't want to say anything about seeing MacGregor.

“Good. I don't want you getting waylaid.”

“Well, I know what
you've
been doing this morning,” she told him, brushing away some of the stray bits of grass that clung to his arms as she changed the subject. Casually, she added: “You smell of mint too. Have you been rubbing it behind your ears?”

“Do I? I've been staking up plants this morning. That rain set everything off on a growing jag. Even the herb garden is out of control. We've got hours of work left to do.”

So, he wasn't going to talk about the river. She tried not to be disappointed.

“You probably won't want to send the boys to the cemetery then.” It wasn't a question.

“No, I need them here.” He gave her a last squeeze and then let go. “I'll bring some stakes along so we can pull back the creepers while you work.”

Stakes, not loppers. He was still thinking it was best to let the cemetery grow over.

“So, you are serious about letting the cemetery be overgrown?” she asked bluntly.

“Yes.” Rory's face closed up. “My father has been spending far too much time there. He'll have all eternity after he's dead. There's no need for him to be there now.”

Chloe tried to read Rory's face. Was this desire to let the garden grow over simply a desire to protect MacGregor? Maybe he just wanted to put all the worry behind them. If he wanted to forget the slave cemetery, she could understand completely. She never wanted to see it again either.

“He loved your mother very much, you know,” she finally said. “That's why he goes there.”

“I know. And when he dies I'll see that he is near her. But until he's dead I don't want him hanging around the mausoleum. It's bad for his heart and mind. He needs to get a life. Maybe even to get married again.”

Chloe shook her head. “MacGregor will never remarry.”

“Well, he can date then.” Rory ran an impatient hand through his hair. Leaves rained down. “He isn't
that
old.”

“And what about you?” Chloe asked softly. “Are you going to get a life too?”

Rory grinned suddenly. “I'm working on it. I have no ambition to spend my life alone if I can find some woman foolish enough to tolerate my
family. But what about you, o mistress of curiosity? Are you beyond all need for husband, hearth and home?” Rory turned away as he asked this, studying his newly mown lawn. “Are you maybe just using me for sex?”

Chloe blinked at the question. Was he making small-talk about
marriage?
Or was he seriously feeling her out?

“N-no. At least, I need a home. Hearth and husband are optional at this point,” she said truthfully. Her emotions were mixed on this subject even on a normal day. At present they were too tangled to even attempt deciphering.

“Holding out for the best?” he asked lightly.

“Absolutely.”

He turned his head and smiled down at her.

“Good. That limits the competition somewhat. Well, I still need to shower. Want to help?”

Chloe thought about it. Did she want to help him? Surprisingly, in spite of her upset and the weird thoughts popping out of her crazed imagination, she did.

“I'll do your back for you,” she said, slipping her hand into his.

“I was rather hoping you'd do more than that.”

“We'll see. Let's go in the side door,” Chloe said, tugging on Rory's hand.

“Why?” he asked, but he obligingly changed course.

“Because I looked in the window and Morag's
dusting in the front parlor. I don't want her to see us.”

“Embarrassed?”

“Yes. Aren't you?”

“No. I'm not.” He sounded mildly surprised at her admission.

They stopped by the small door and tried the handle. It was locked.

“Well, I am. I skipped breakfast because I didn't want to see Morag. So, you go in and unlock this door for me.”

“I'm really going to sneak you into my own house because you skipped breakfast?”

“Yes, you are—but not because I missed breakfast. I told you that I'm shy.”

“Chloe—”

“No sneaking, no shower. I mean it.”