How Secrets Die. Marta Perry
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Funny how much you could tell about a situation just from body language. The half sister and the father had stood several feet apart, obviously not touching, not even looking at one another, each one isolated in his or her own grief.
Tom Reilley, presumably Kate Beaumont’s stepfather, had been a retired cop. That had been one reason why Mac had driven to Philadelphia for the funeral. Professional courtesy, if you will. The man’s son had died on his turf.
Mac realized his own father was studying him, an expression of concern on his face. He’d known—he always seemed to know—how hard Mac had taken the death. This was his town. He was responsible for it. That meant never letting a situation get out of control, because if it did, then as a peacekeeper, you’d failed.
Jason Reilley, lying dead against a gravestone in the oldest section of the cemetery, a fatal combination of alcohol and pills in his system, had been out of his control.
Another memory flickered, just for an instant. Another town, a world away—flattened homes, the smell of burning in the air, a small, huddled body...
His father stirred. “Well, no reason for the woman not to come here, I suppose. Maybe she felt as if she wanted to see for herself where he died. Sort of a pilgrimage.”
It struck him then. Kate Beaumont hadn’t looked to him like a woman on a pilgrimage. She’d looked like a woman on a crusade.
His uneasiness was full-blown now. His sudden movement set the chair rocking as he headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” Dad put out a hand to still the rocking.
“To have a talk with Ms. Beaumont.” Mac’s course of action solidified. “Maybe you’re right. But I want to know why, when she saw who I was, Kate Beaumont was so careful not to mention her relationship with Jason Reilley.”
* * *
KATE HADN’T GONE more than a few steps inside Blackburn House before she realized that checking out the business that had hired Jason as an intern wouldn’t be unobtrusive. The building was smaller than she’d expected, though impressive with its marble entrance hall and Victorian woodwork. To her right was a quilt shop, and through the window she could see several women in Amish dress browsing along rows of fabric.
The business on her left checked her for a moment. Whiting and Whiting Cabinetry. Related to Chief of Police Mac Whiting? Probably. It wasn’t that common a name, and Laurel Ridge was a small town.
She walked toward the back, past a graceful staircase that clearly led to offices on the second floor. That must be where the financial consultants had their offices. The rear of this level housed what appeared to be a storage room and a bookstore.
Kate paused, looking at the display of bestsellers in the window. It was unusual to find an independent bookseller thriving in a small town, but this one appeared to be doing fine. Several customers wandered through the aisles, a toddler stacked blocks in a corner with children’s books, and an elderly man seemed to be having an animated conversation with the woman behind the counter.
Upstairs, then, for a look at the offices of Laurel Ridge Financial Group. No one else was on the stairs, and Kate felt conspicuous as she hurried her steps.
The second floor was quiet. Two offices on the right, two on the left and what seemed to be a private area separating them. Rejecting the attorney’s office and the door marked with only the name Standish, she turned left and found a real-estate company and then the offices she’d been looking for.
Kate stationed herself in front of the posters of available properties displayed in the plateglass window of the real-estate office, trying to appear absorbed in the description of what was called a desirable four-bedroom residence and the photo of a decrepit-looking farmhouse, optimistically labeled a fixer-upper. From there, she could glance into the windows of the office next door.
The first thing she noticed was that something was missing. Jason had mentioned, when he’d first accepted the internship one of his professors had helped arrange, the names of the two partners who comprised the professional staff: Russell Sheldon and Bartley Gordon. Now there was only one name listed on the door—Gordon. Below it, in suitably smaller letters, she read, Lina Oberlin, Assistant and Office Manager. What had happened to the other partner?
The room beyond the window told her nothing. A reception desk, where a twentysomething with improbably red hair sat filing her nails, another desk behind hers, which might once have been Jason’s, and three uncommunicative doors.
Kate sensed movement in back of her, and before she could turn, she saw a face reflected in the glass. Mac Whiting stood behind her, his jaw especially uncompromising.
She swung around. “Are you following me, Chief Whiting?”
“Looking to ask you a question.” He seemed to make an effort not to sound as intimidating as he appeared. “When we met earlier, why didn’t you mention that you were Jason Reilley’s sister?”
“Half sister,” she pointed out, her mind scurrying busily. How had he identified her with Jason so quickly? She’d never even been to Laurel Ridge before. She had gone straight to Philadelphia when she’d heard the news of Jason’s death. “That’s why our names are different.”
He inclined his head at that obvious statement, but his eyes never left hers. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
The phrase sounded a little stilted, but Kate thought she detected real regret in his voice, and she warmed toward him before she reminded herself who he was.
“Thank you.” She hesitated, but curiosity was stronger than her desire to keep the man at arm’s length. “How did you know who I am? Or is it your practice to run a background check on everyone who comes to Laurel Ridge?”
Surprisingly, he didn’t seem to take offense at that, although his face didn’t relax. “I didn’t have to. I recognized you from—” he hesitated, his straight brows drawing down “—from the funeral.”
She was probably gaping at him. Kate gave herself a mental shake. “You were at my brother’s funeral? Why?”
“He died in my town.” The words were clipped. “Call it a courtesy.”
“You didn’t speak to me.”
“Under the circumstances, I thought it was better not to. I figured you and your father didn’t need the reminder of what happened.”
“Stepfather,” she corrected automatically. “You mean your assumption that Jason was just another druggie who’d overdosed in your town.”
He stiffened. “It wasn’t a question of assuming anything. The postmortem confirmed the cause of his death.”
She wanted to protest that Jason had been clean for nearly three years before he died, but told herself bitterly that it was hardly likely a cop would be convinced by her opinion. Not when Jason’s own father hadn’t been.
Kate rubbed her arms, chilled by the vivid reminder. Jason had looked so young by the time she’d been able to see his body at the viewing. With every care and stress wiped from his face, he might have been a sleeping child again.
When she didn’t speak, Whiting frowned at her with a look of frustration. “Weren’t you satisfied with the coroner’s findings? Is that it?”
“No.” She could hear the reluctance in her voice. She’d like to argue, but she couldn’t. Jason had died of a combination of powerful prescription painkillers and alcohol. It was only too likely. But it didn’t answer the important question. It didn’t tell her why.
“Ms. Beaumont?” Whiting’s voice had gentled, and he reached toward her tentatively. “I’m sorry. I wish it had been different.”
He sounded convincing, but she wasn’t going to take anything at face value here.
“Yes.” Different. If she’d come before, if she’d known or even guessed...