A Lasting Proposal. C.J. Carmichael
Читать онлайн книгу.
Maureen noticed a beautiful white cat peeking out from under Cathleen’s chair. She bent to the floor.
“Hey, pretty kitty. Who are you?”
“Oh, Crystal was Dylan’s mother’s cat,” Cathleen explained. “He found her out on the street the day of his mother’s funeral.”
“Max kicked her out? Oh, you poor baby.”
Coaxed from her hiding place, Crystal allowed Maureen to scratch her under the chin before scurrying from the room.
Three beeps from the microwave announced that Maureen’s coffee with milk was hot. She cupped the mug in her hands, then stood to one side as Holly chatted happily with Poppy and Cathleen. It was great to see her daughter so animated. So she could be happy. When the right people were around.
Unlike many girls her age, Holly still didn’t care much about fashion or her looks. She wore her blond hair short, hadn’t asked to pierce her ears and still chose clothing with comfort in mind. Today she was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and thick gray socks.
Maureen supposed she was a bit of a tomboy, as Kelly had been at that age. Which Rod had definitely encouraged Holly to be.
Another sip of coffee went down like sulfuric acid. The pit of her stomach felt like a witch’s cauldron today. Must be the anxiety of the move…wondering whether or not she’d made the right decision. Maureen tossed the remaining contents of the mug down the drain and poured herself water, instead.
“I’ve put out plates and forks because the tarts are still so warm,” Poppy said, serving Holly first. Maureen noticed that Holly didn’t slide away when Poppy put a hand round her shoulders. “You’ll be starting at the Laurence Grassi Middle School, will you?”
Holly nodded. “I guess.”
Dylan had come downstairs from depositing their luggage. Maureen noticed him trying to catch her eye, his expression unusually serious.
“What’s up, Dylan?”
“I was wondering if you went to Conrad Beckett’s funeral,” he said. “Cathleen and I debated whether or not to attend. In the final analysis we decided against it.”
She understood his dilemma. He wouldn’t want to stir up old memories of Jilly’s murder. “I did go. Linda looked pretty rough.”
Guilt nudged as she recalled her good intentions of phoning before the move. But she hadn’t had five minutes to spare in the past two weeks.
“Do you think we’ll ever know who killed Jilly?” Holly asked.
“Knowing and proving are two different things, kiddo.” Dylan ruffled the curls on Holly’s head, then straddled the chair next to hers. Again, Maureen noted how her daughter didn’t seem to mind being touched, this time by her uncle.
How long would it take, she wondered, until everyone living in this house realized how much her own daughter despised and avoided her? Then one of her little secrets would be out….
That competent, capable Maureen was a lousy mother.
HOLLY LOVED HER NEW BEDROOM. It was a little young for a twelve-year-old, but she didn’t care. Each teddy bear in the room had its own personality. She’d named many of them on previous stays. Now she took Stanley off one of the shelves and propped him on the bed next to her.
“Hey there, Stanley. Want to know something? You and I are going to figure out who murdered Jilly Beckett.” All great detectives had a sidekick, right? Sherlock had Watson. Poirot had Hastings. She would have Stanley.
The bear stared back at her. She imagined him nodding his approval. Yes. I think I can work with you.
She pulled her backpack up from the floor and dug out the detecting kit her parents had bought for her eighth birthday. She’d told them she was going to be a detective when she grew up. They—especially her mother—thought it was just a phase, but it wasn’t. She was serious, and Jilly’s murder was the perfect opportunity to prove it.
The detecting kit was actually pretty cool, even though it was meant for little kids. It had a tape recorder that really worked, a flashlight and a camera small enough to fit in her palm. She checked all the batteries to make sure they hadn’t gone dead, then returned them to her pack.
She tossed the magnifying glass—it had nothing on a decent microscope—and opened the spiral-bound notebook to the first page. To begin, she jotted down the date—she’d seen her aunt Kelly do the same in the book she kept on her job. Then she started listing all the facts she knew about the night Jilly had been murdered.
Soon she had pages of information. When her mind was finally as empty as the drawers in the bureau where she’d been asked to unpack her clothes, she gave up.
“We have a lot of research to do, Stanley.”
She tucked the bear under her chin and rolled over onto her back. The ceiling was white. Just like at home. If she tried real hard, she could almost pretend…
No. The ceiling was the same, but the smells here were different. For starters, no one ever baked at her house. And the sounds—rather, the lack of them—were strange, too. No cars, or sirens, or rumbling old buses.
Close your eyes and pretend.
It was her favorite game. Pretend Daddy was still alive. That he’d been away on a long vacation and now he was back. He’d pull open her bedroom door and say, “How’s my little angel?” He always called her that, as if she was something wonderful, almost magical….
How’s my little angel? Kind of babyish for a twelve-year-old, maybe. But she hadn’t minded. Now no one would ever say those words to her again.
Holly could feel the sadness flowing. It always started this way. The aching would pour into all the empty spaces in her like water, until she was certain she would drown.
But she never did. All she did was cry. Sob and sob, until her head ached and she was tired enough to sleep.
She held up her bear so she could see his eyes. “Maybe you can cry with me sometimes, Stanley. You have a cute little face, but it’s sad, too.” She hugged him to her.
Daddy, Daddy, Daddy. Come back, Daddy.
MONDAY MORNING, AFTER Maureen had dropped Holly off at her new school, she went with Cathleen to see the town house for sale. The complex was in a cul de sac, backing onto Policeman’s Creek, a small branch of the Bow River.
“It’s nice here,” Maureen commented, turning in a full circle. Tall pines screened the development from the rest of town, and the sound of rushing water was audible from the street. The morning was sunny, and while the air was still cool, the day held the promise of the summer to come. The town homes were stained cedar, with generous windows, and each had its own driveway and attached garage, a welcome luxury in the long, cold winters.
Cathleen stood in front of the unit with the For Sale sign pounded into the small, square lawn. “Beth Gibson said she could get us inside later this afternoon. I suggested just after three-thirty so that Holly could come, too.”
“Perfect.” Maureen shoved her hands into the pockets of her fleece jacket. She’d slept better than she had in months in the down-duvet-covered bed at the B and B, and her sister and Dylan had done nothing but make her feel welcome. Still, she was used to her independence and longed to get set up in her own home as soon as possible. Plus, she wanted to free up the bedrooms of the B and B for the hordes of summer guests who would soon flock to the mountain town.
Three doors down, someone came out the front door. Maureen and Cathleen turned together, in time to catch Jake Hartman’s startled expression.
“Well, hello. Did you come to see me? If so, you went to the wrong number.” He had on a thick wool sweater and carried a leather portfolio in one hand. After locking his door, he strolled toward them.
“We were checking