How Secrets Die. Marta Perry
Читать онлайн книгу.
you’re here in Laurel Ridge?”
Whiting was bound to ask that question, of course. And she’d have to answer him, but she wasn’t about to trust him with the real reason she was here. He would, inevitably, be on the side of his town, his people.
“I’m taking some time off before I start looking for a new job.” That, at least, was more or less true. The Baltimore paper that had employed her suffered, as most print papers did, from dwindling circulation. They’d resorted to what they euphemistically called retrenchment. “My stepfather passed away recently, so I don’t have any other family left. I wanted to spend a little time in the last place my brother lived.”
That might sound morbid, but it was the best she could do in terms of an explanation.
“I see.” Whiting was studying her face, as if measuring exactly how much he believed her. “I’m sorry about your stepfather.”
She nodded, accepting the sympathy wordlessly. He would, she supposed, expect her to regret Tom Reilley’s death, and she didn’t have anything to say that was likely to make sense to a man like Whiting. Another cop, another man with hard edges and no tolerance for someone who didn’t live by his rules.
He took a step back, and Kate felt as if she could breathe again.
“I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for here.”
Her gaze flew to his face, but he apparently didn’t mean anything specific by the words. He was just attempting to console. He couldn’t possibly have any idea what she was really looking for in Laurel Ridge.
I want to know why. I want to know what happened to my little brother in your town that led to him taking his own life.
SINCE HER IDENTITY was already known to Chief Whiting, Kate didn’t see much point in being less than open with the owner of the bed-and-breakfast. She paused on the sidewalk, taking in the white-frame building, its welcoming porch lined with pots of yellow-and-burgundy chrysanthemums. Jason had mentioned Mrs. Anderson in one of his infrequent phone calls last summer, and Kate had formed the impression from his words of a bustling busybody, intent on knowing all about her guests and everyone else in town.
Well, the woman wouldn’t have to pry if Kate was up-front with her—relatively speaking, at least. And if Mrs. Anderson spread the word about Kate’s presence, it might pave the way to conversations with people who had known him. Of course, Mac Whiting might already be talking about her. She grimaced, not sure she wanted to know what he thought.
The front door stood hospitably open. Kate rang the bell once and stepped inside, onto a braided rug bright against wide, gleaming oak floorboards. An archway on one side of the hall led into a sunny living room—or maybe parlor was a better word, given the Victorian settees, marble-topped tables and grandfather clock. To her left, a drop-leaf table apparently did duty as a reception desk, and a heavily carved staircase wound upward behind it.
No doubt alerted by the bell, a woman emerged from a swinging door that must lead to the back of the ground floor—probably the kitchen and private area. Plump and graying, the woman had a beaming smile for her visitor.
“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting. I’m Grace Anderson. Passing through, are you? Were you looking for a room for the night?” She hurried to flip open an old-fashioned register on the table, sounding hopeful.
“Actually, I’d like to stay for a bit longer than that.” She paused, oddly reluctant to take the plunge now that she was here. “I’m Kate Beaumont. Jason Reilley was my brother.”
“Oh, my dear.” The smiling expression crumpled, and Mrs. Anderson’s eyes filled with tears. She came around the table, holding both hands out to Kate. “I’m so very sorry for your loss.”
The woman’s obvious distress pierced Kate’s armor, and she fought back her own tears. “Thank you.” Her voice was husky, and she cleared her throat. “Jason spoke of your kindness.”
Actually, Jason had seemed annoyed by her fussing over him, but coming from a young man finally out on his own, that was only natural. He wouldn’t have been eager to trade what he considered an overprotective big sister for a mothering landlady.
“He was a dear boy.” Mrs. Anderson wiped away tears with the back of her hand. She hesitated, studying Kate’s face and then glancing away. “Did you come...” She let the question fade away, obviously curious but hampered by good manners from probing a sensitive subject.
Kate had a wry inward smile for that convention. It was one of the first things to go for a reporter. Well, the story she’d told Whiting had better stay consistent.
“I’m taking a little time off before looking for a new job, which will mean relocating. I thought I’d like to spend some time in Laurel Ridge. This place seemed to mean a lot to Jason.” She paused, but she may as well go after what she really wanted. “I hoped your cottage might be available to rent for a few weeks, maybe a month.”
The woman’s expression grew wary. “Are you sure that’s wise? Maybe it’s not...not healthy.”
Was she afraid Kate would kill herself with drugs and alcohol, the way Jason did? The thought stung, and Kate had to force a smile.
“The cottage sounded so charming from the way my brother described it. And I’ll be writing several freelance articles while I’m here, so I’d appreciate having the extra space to work.”
That seemed to mollify the woman, but there was still a trace of doubt in her eyes. “Yes, well, why don’t we take a look at the cottage first? Maybe it won’t be what you want at all, and I have several lovely rooms in the house.”
“Thanks. I’d like to see the cottage.” She waited, the smile pinned to her face, letting the silence grow between them. She’d guess Mrs. Anderson wasn’t very good with silences.
“Yes. Fine.” The woman gestured toward the door she’d come in. “We’ll go out the back.”
A dining room lay behind the parlor, complete with built-in cabinets containing an elaborate china service. An oval cherry table was large enough to seat a dozen, making her wonder how many guests were in residence. The place seemed very quiet.
The kitchen beyond was obviously Mrs. Anderson’s own domain, with a corner devoted to a computer and filing cabinet and another turned into a cozy nook with a television and a recliner. On the opposite side a glassed-in sunroom looked out on flower beds.
Mrs. Anderson gestured toward the long table that occupied the sunroom. “I serve breakfast there from seven to nine on weekdays and eight to ten on Saturday and Sunday. Or if I have a party that wants to meet together, I can set up in the dining room.” What sounded like a routine announcement was interrupted by a sudden smile. “Well, really, you can let me know what time you want breakfast, as long as I’m not too busy.”
Encouraged by the thaw, Kate ventured a question. “Did Jason usually have breakfast here, or did he fix his own in the cottage?”
Mrs. Anderson shrugged, sailing on out the back door and dangling a set of keys. “Sometimes one, sometimes the other. On workdays, he’d often just have cereal in the cottage, even though I told him he ought to have a good hot breakfast.”
The words conjured up an image of Jason, hair rumpled, eyes sleepy, crouched over a bowl of his favorite cereal. There were days when he’d eat nothing else for breakfast, lunch and supper unless she intervened.
It was a matter of twenty feet or so to the cottage, but the small building was almost screened from view by an overgrown hedge of lilac bushes that surrounded it, to say nothing of the ivy that climbed up the walls and over the door.
Mrs. Anderson pushed back a lilac branch as she fumbled with a key.
“Sometimes I think I ought to have the dratted things cut to the ground, but they smell