How Secrets Die. Marta Perry
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HOMEMADE NOODLES
A CEMETERY SHOULD be a place where people were buried—not where they died. Kate Beaumont, confronted so unexpectedly with the place Jason had chosen to end his life, stopped the car in mid-traffic, earning an irritated honk from the driver behind her as he was forced to come to a halt, as well.
The driver circled her, looking annoyed but refraining from the rude gesture she anticipated. Apparently drivers were a bit more polite in a small town like Laurel Ridge, Pennsylvania, than they were in the city. Her hands were shaking, and not from the sudden stop. She pulled off the road near the stone wall that encircled the graveyard.
Ridiculous, to let just the sight of the place send her into a tailspin. She was tougher than that, wasn’t she? But while she could face down a recalcitrant politician or an irate citizen in search of a story, she couldn’t maintain that level of detachment where her younger brother’s death was concerned.
Kate took a long breath, fighting to still the tremors that shook her. She focused on the scene facing her, thinking of how she’d describe it for a newspaper article.
Laurel Ridge’s cemetery covered the top of a rounded hill at the eastern end of town. Spreading maples, their leaves already turning color, shielded gray tombstones. Some of the stones were worn and tilted, their lettering eroded, while others were new enough to make it obvious the cemetery was still in use. The whole place had a well-tended air, the grass mown, with beds of gold-and-burgundy chrysanthemums blossoming here and there.
Which was the stone Jason had leaned against when he’d taken that fatal dose of pain meds and swallowed that final mouthful of whiskey? She could find it, she supposed, since the name had shown clearly in the newspaper photo she’d scanned online. But looking at the spot wouldn’t lead her to any answers.
Movement reflected in the rearview mirror startled her, and her stomach tightened as she realized a police car had pulled up behind her. Great. All she needed was to draw official attention to herself before she’d even begun the task that brought her here.
An officer slid from the vehicle and started toward her. Taking a firm grip on her nerves, Kate planted a smile on her face and hit the button to roll down her window.
She was about to speak when a closer look at the man’s uniform gave her another shock. The lettering on his pocket read M. Whiting. McKinley Whiting, then. Chief of Police in this backwater town, and the man who’d dismissed her little brother’s death as just another druggie overdosing himself.
Kate gritted her teeth, fighting to keep her feelings from showing as she looked up at the man. Tall and lean, he had dark hair in a military-style cut and a jaw that conveyed determination. He didn’t affect the dark sunglasses so many cops did, and his brown eyes studied her, missing nothing, she felt sure.
“Are you having car trouble, ma’am?” His voice was a bass rumble.
“No, not at all. Is there a problem?”
“You can’t park here.” He nodded to the no-parking sign directly in front of her fender. “If you’re interested in the cemetery, you can turn in at the gate just ahead. You’ll find a gravel pull-off where you can park, if you want.”
“I don’t.” Kate’s tone was sharper than she intended, but she couldn’t seem to control the spurt of temper. “Can’t a visitor to your town stop to get her bearings without being harassed?”
Reading the surprise in his face, she clamped her lips shut before she could make matters worse. She’d overdone it—lost her cool and let her feelings show. The last thing she wanted was to rouse the suspicions of the local cop before she’d been in town for five minutes.
“Sorry,” she muttered before he could speak. “I didn’t mean...”
“No problem.” He said the words easily, but his brown eyes were watchful. “I wasn’t trying to harass you. If you’re lost, I’ll be glad to help you find your way, Ms....”
He left it hanging there, obviously intent on learning her name. For the first time she was glad her name wouldn’t connect her with Jason Reilley.
“Kate Beaumont.”
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Beaumont. I’m Mac Whiting.” She could see him stowing her name away in the filing cabinet of his mind. “Coming to visit someone here in Laurel Ridge?”
“No.” Guilt and grief were a powerful combination. She should have. If she’d come to visit Jason the summer he’d spent here, maybe he’d still be alive.
That was the danger of loving someone. It hurt too much when you let them down.
Whiting’s eyes were probing again. If she’d worn a sign, it probably wouldn’t have been more obvious that she was hiding something.
Kate swallowed hard and tried for a normal tone. “I’ve been driving for several hours. I just thought I’d find a place for lunch.”
He nodded, again with that watchful look. Protective, that was what it was. As if his town might need protecting against her. Well, maybe it did.
“Turn left just ahead, and you’ll be on Main Street. There’s a café a few blocks down on your left, across from the bed-and-breakfast.” He pointed, leaning against the car as he did so, and she had a sudden sensation of masculine power in his nearness. “The Buttercup. I can vouch for the food, and the prices are reasonable.”
She hadn’t expected that casual reference to the bed-and-breakfast, and it shook her. Would it be the same one where Jason had stayed when he came to Laurel Ridge? If so, it was going to be one of her first stops.
“Okay, thanks.” She managed a cool, dismissive smile. “I appreciate the recommendation.” She turned the ignition key, her fingers brushing the silver dragon charm Jason had given her, and put her finger on the window button.
Whiting looked at her for a moment longer, and then slowly stepped back so she could close the window. She put the car in gear, glanced behind her and pulled out. It was simple enough to watch Whiting in her rearview mirror. He’d drawn out a notebook and was jotting down her license number.
She doused a flicker of anger. A search of her license wouldn’t tell him anything except her address in Baltimore. She’d never been arrested, so a query to the police there wouldn’t help him, even if he went that far.
But this encounter had clearly shown her that she’d have to do better. True, she hadn’t expected the first person she’d meet in Laurel Ridge to be the policeman who’d been quoted in that article about Jason’s death. She might be excused for losing her grip just a bit, but it was unfortunate. She’d made herself an object of his interest before she’d had a chance to do a single thing.
But what difference did it make in the long run? Sooner or later she’d have to divulge the relationship between her and Jason. If she didn’t, she’d have no reason for asking questions about him.
She’d toyed with the thought of trying to conceal her identity. She could have claimed to be writing a newspaper story about Jason’s death, but that didn’t sound credible even to herself, not after over a year had passed.
Kate made the turn onto Main Street and drove down it at a sedate speed, reading signs as she went. There, ahead of her on the left, was the café Whiting had mentioned, and on her right the bed-and-breakfast. She slowed, peering toward the rear of the white clapboard building, and caught a glimpse of a small building nearly hidden by the trees. That had to be it—the cottage where Jason had lived during his three months in Laurel Ridge.
And next to the bed-and-breakfast rose the imposing