As Laurel Ridge embraces a stranger hungry for answers, a sinister truth is awakened

A hard-hitting reporter, Kate Beaumont unearths the deepest lies and brings harsh truths to light. But the story that lures her to the gentle town of Laurel Ridge, Pennsylvania, is closer to her heart than anyone knows. The details of her half brother’s sudden death have never made sense. She owes him justice, yet the one man who can help her is the stubborn sheriff she can’t stand.

Protecting his town is Mac Whiting’s top priority. Everything else—including pacifying a beautiful crusader on a mission best left resting in peace—is secondary. But as Kate’s search embeds her in his world and attracts a skilled criminal, she needs Mac’s protection. Drawn together by deadly secrets, they must find a way to trust each other before a killer silences them both.

Praise for Marta Perry

“Abundant details turn this Amish romantic thriller series launch into a work of art.”

—Publishers Weekly, starred review, on Where Secrets Sleep

“Crisp writing and distinctive characters make up Perry’s latest novel. Where Secrets Sleep is a truly entertaining read.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Perry’s story hooks you immediately. Her uncanny ability to seamlessly blend the mystery element with contemporary themes makes this one intriguing read.”

—RT Book Reviews on Home by Dark

“Perry skillfully continues her chilling, deceptively charming romantic suspense series with a dark, puzzling mystery that features a sweet romance and a nice sprinkling of Amish culture.”

—Library Journal on Vanish in Plain Sight

“Leah’s Choice, by Marta Perry, is a knowing and careful look into Amish culture and faith. A truly enjoyable reading experience.”

—Angela Hunt, New York Times bestselling author of Let Darkness Come

“Leah’s Choice is a story of grace and servitude as well as a story of difficult choices and heartbreaking realities. It touched my heart. I think the world of Amish fiction has found a new champion.”

—Lenora Worth, author of Code of Honor

How Secrets Die
Marta Perry

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Dear Reader,

I’m so glad you decided to read the final book in my Blackburn House series. I’ve especially enjoyed writing this series because I’ve been able to pick up pieces from real Pennsylvania small towns to incorporate in the stories, which makes the setting very real to me. In fact, the clock tower on the cover is actually the clock tower on Main Street in the town where I live!

In How Secrets Die, police chief Mac Whiting finally meets his match in a woman who is just as stubbornly determined to do the right thing as he is. After getting to know Mac in the two earlier books, I hope you enjoy watching as he and Kate battle each other as well as the forces of wrong to find their own happily-ever-after.

Please let me know how you feel about my story. I’d be happy to send you a signed bookmark and my brochure of Pennsylvania Dutch recipes. You can email me at marta@martaperry.com, visit me at www.Facebook.com/martaperrybooks or at www.martaperry.com, or write to me at HQN Books, 195 Broadway, 24th FL, New York, NY 10007.

Blessings,

This story is dedicated to my husband,

who always believes in me, with much love.

Death isn’t the greatest loss in life.

The greatest loss is what dies inside of us while we live.

—Amish proverb

Contents

COVER

BACK COVER TEXT

Praise for Marta Perry

TITLE PAGE

Dear Reader

DEDICATION

EPIGRAPH

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

GRANDMA’S HOMEMADE NOODLES

EXTRACT

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

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 Italianate building that was Blackburn House, where Jason had worked. The place where he’d lived, the place where he’d worked. That was where she had to begin.

She hadn’t been here when Jason had needed her, but she was now. She’d find the answer to the question that haunted her, because if she didn’t, she’d never be satisfied. What had happened in this seemingly quiet, peaceful town that had led to her brother’s death?

* * *

MAC DROVE DOWN Main Street, keeping an eye on the compact car ahead of him. He wasn’t following the woman exactly, but she had stirred his curiosity. Something had been just a little off-kilter about their conversation, and her defensiveness had startled as well as intrigued him.

He frowned, trying to put his finger on the exact source of his unease. Kate Beaumont had seemed vaguely familiar to him, but he couldn’t quite place her. Thick, honey-blond hair was pulled casually back on the nape of her neck, allowing wavy tendrils to escape and curl around her ears. Her lightly tanned skin seemed touched by the gold in her hair, and even her eyes were a golden brown. Surely, if he’d ever known her, he’d remember. A man didn’t run into that many brown-eyed blondes—and especially not one carrying a chip the size of a mountain on her shoulder.

The familiarity remained stubbornly elusive, so he put the resemblance on a back burner to percolate. It would come through, sooner or later. Meantime, it looked as if his mystery woman was going to take his advice. She’d pulled into a parking space across from the café.

A moment later he realized he’d jumped to conclusions. Ms. Beaumont wasn’t headed toward the café. Instead, she was walking up the sidewalk of Blackburn House. Now what, exactly, was she up to? Unless she had a sudden yen to buy quilt fabric or a book, there wasn’t much in Blackburn House to attract a casual visitor.

Curiosity had him turning in at the driveway that ran along the side of the building. At the rear of Blackburn House stood the old carriage house, converted into the workshop of Whiting and Whiting Cabinetry. Not that he was the Whiting or the son involved in the business. Dad might have had hopes in that direction at one time, but when Mac had come back from a stint in the military, he’d known the carpentry trade wasn’t for him. Still, Dad seemed content with one son in partnership, and the business suited Mac’s brother, Nick, perfectly.

Parking, Mac eyed the back door into Blackburn House. That might be a bit too blatant, running into the woman so quickly. She really would have cause to cry harassment if he did that, wouldn’t she?

Instead, he headed into the cabinetry shop, prepared for the usual din of saws and hammers. But all was fairly quiet at the moment. One of the Amish carpenters who worked in the shop sat on a bench in the rear, his lunch bucket beside him. He raised a thermos in Mac’s direction, and Mac grinned and nodded.

He’d forgotten it was lunchtime. No doubt Nick was lunching with his fiancée, Allison, assuming she’d been able to get away from the quilt shop.

His father, instead of eating the lunch Mom had packed for him, was bending over a rocking chair, carefully hand-sanding a spindle. The normal work of the shop—custom-designed kitchen cabinets—sat all around him, but he was focused on the rocker instead.

“Hey, Dad. Is that for Mom?”

His father looked up at his approach, pushing his glasses into place. Folks said Nick looked more like their father, but all three of them had the same lean, straight-featured faces. Dad’s eyes crinkled at the sight of him.

“Your mom says she has enough furniture, thank you very much.” He grinned. “This is a gift for Allison. The way those women are fussing over this wedding shower, you’d think no one had ever gotten married before.”

“Better not let Mom or Allison hear you complaining.” Mac leaned against a handy workbench. Since he was safely removed now from the farmhouse that his brother, Nick, and Nick’s young son shared with Mom and Dad, he could take a more detached view of Nick and Allison’s wedding preparations.

His father raised an eyebrow. “Bet you haven’t even thought of setting up the bachelor party yet. That is a best man duty, you know.”

“I know, I know. But Nick doesn’t like any of my ideas. Especially not taking off to Vegas for a weekend.”

Dad swatted at him as if he were a pesky fly. “Be nice to your brother. He’s taken long enough to decide to risk marriage again. And as for you...”

“Don’t start,” Mac said quickly. “I hear enough of it from Mom. She’s taken to reminding me that I’m not getting any younger, as if I were teetering on the doorstep of the nursing home.”

“She wants more grandkids.” Dad eyed him severely. “You’re supposed to do your part.”

Mac shrugged. “I’ve got a whole town to look after already. That’s enough for me at the moment.”

“Here.” Dad tossed him the fine sandpaper he’d been using. “Do a little work for a change while I pour out my coffee.”

Mac bent obediently over the chair, hands caressing the smooth curves of the fine maple. He might not want carpentry for his life’s work, but he still enjoyed the calming nature of the skill. Seeing the grain gleam in response to his movements was satisfying.

“What brings you in here at this hour?” His father took over his spot, leaning against the workbench. “Not enough to keep you busy at the office?”

Mac shook his head, not looking up. “Just a funny thing that happened. I had to speak to a woman parked in the no-parking area up by the cemetery. She seemed... I don’t know...upset, maybe. Annoyed at me for speaking, that’s for sure.”

“And?” Dad seemed to be waiting for more. He had to know that that was the sort of thing that happened too often to cause comment.

“It was just odd, that’s all. She’s a stranger, but she seemed kind of familiar to me.”

He could feel his father’s gaze on him. “A looker, was she?”

Mac grinned. “You could say that. A striking brown-eyed blonde, if you want to know.”

“That’s the answer, then.” Dad sounded amused. “She probably had a starring role in one of your dreams.”

He chuckled, as he was meant to, but then he shook his head, running the sandpaper smoothly along the grain of the wood. “Sounds like it, but that wasn’t it. I’ve got a good memory for faces, and I’m sure I’ve seen her before.”

“If she was visiting someone in town, you might have noticed her. In fact, it sounds as if you could hardly miss her.”

“She said she wasn’t visiting anybody. Asked directions to a place where she could get lunch, as if she was just passing through.”

“You told her the café, I suppose.” Dad spoke with the experience of one who knew there were few other places in Laurel Ridge where you’d be likely to get a good lunch.

“I did,” he said slowly. “But I saw her going into Blackburn House instead.”

“So maybe she wanted to look around the shops.”

Mac didn’t respond. Slowly, very slowly, a memory was stirring in the back of his mind. An image. A rainy day, the kind of steady downpour that managed to trickle down your neck no matter how protected you were. Soggy grass underfoot, and drooping, saturated flowers, the ribbons around them stained with water. A cemetery, but not the one at the top of the hill.

“That’s it.” He straightened, one hand on the back of the chair, gripping it tightly as the impact of the memory hit. “I saw her a little over a year ago at a cemetery in Philadelphia. At the funeral of that young guy who worked in the financial management office. The one we found dead of an overdose right up there on the hill where she’d stopped.”

Dad met his eyes, startled and sympathetic. “That poor kid? Is she some relation?”

He nodded, the memory clarifying now. “I didn’t speak to her, but someone pointed her out to me. His sister—no, his half sister. The names are different, but I’m sure of it.”

The picture was stamped so firmly on Mac’s mind that he wondered why he hadn’t realized it the minute he’d seen Kate Beaumont. Maybe he would have, if she’d been named Reilley, like the half brother.

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... But there was no point in going down that road again.

“When I spoke to you earlier, at the cemetery—” he paused “—did you want to see the place? Is that why 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.

CHAPTER TWO

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 so lovely in the spring that I haven’t the heart.” She darted a look at Kate. “Your brother said it was like the hedge around Sleeping Beauty’s castle. He liked it.”

“I’m sure he did.” From childhood, Jason had escaped life through myth and fantasy, and she wasn’t surprised he’d thought of it in that way. “No thorns, thank goodness,” she added.

The door swung open, and Mrs. Anderson vanished inside. “Just let me get some lights on, so you can see the place properly, although there is light from the windows, of course.”

Kate hesitated on the doorstep, one hand on the frame. A tendril of ivy entangled her fingers as if to restrain her. This is it, a voice seemed to be saying in the back of her mind. Once you’re committed, there’s no going back.

I don’t want to go back, she insisted. I’m already in this to the end.

The only possible thing worse than knowing the truth of why Jason died would be never knowing at all.

* * *

MAC WAS STILL thinking about that odd encounter with Kate Beaumont when he headed into the café for coffee. He should be concentrating on the recent explosion of illegal prescription meds surfacing in town. Trouble was, he had a suspicion Kate Beaumont might be likely to set off a few explosions of her own.

“Uncle Mac!” The high, young voice of his nephew cut through the chatter of the lunchtime crowd. “Look what I have!”

Grinning, Mac wended his way through tables to where his mother sat with his brother’s boy, Jamie. Jamie was holding a sticky bun in an equally sticky hand.

“Do you want some, Uncle Mac? I’ll share.”

Mac stepped back out of range of Jamie’s waving hand. “No, thanks. If I eat that in my uniform, I’ll have the bees following me around town.”

Jamie, at eight easily impressed, found that hilarious. While he was doubled up with giggles, Mac raised an eyebrow at his mother. “No school today?”

Ellen Whiting, slim and attractive, shook her head. “Dentist appointment. I’ll drop him at school after lunch.”

“I didn’t have cavities,” Jamie announced proudly around a sticky mouthful.

“So you’re making up for that by eating lots of sugar, right, buddy?” Mac ruffled Jamie’s fair, silky hair.

“Ach, such a sweet boy can use some sugar.” Anna Schmidt, the Amish owner of the Buttercup Café, set a mug of coffee in front of Mac and gestured him into a chair. “I’ll put your coffee refill in a to-go cup, but for now sit down and visit like a normal person.”

“Denke, Anna.” He slid easily into the Pennsylvania Dutch expression he’d heard all his life. “You scold me as much as my mother does.”

“I don’t scold,” Mom said. “I just suggest.”

“Over and over,” he teased. He glanced toward the door at the sound of the bell and stiffened. Kate Beaumont had just come in.

She spotted him and stopped midstride, making him think that she was fighting the inclination to turn around and walk back out again.

His lips twitched. She probably didn’t know how obvious she was. Perversely, he rose, nodding to her and forcing her to recognize him. “Ms. Beaumont, it’s nice to see you again. Come and meet my mother.”

If anyone had a talent for making people thaw, it was Ellen Whiting. He’d be fascinated to see how long Kate held out against her.

Kate approached somewhat unwillingly, he thought.

“Kate Beaumont, Ellen Whiting.”

His mother held out her hand. “So nice to meet you, Kate. Won’t you join us?”

Before Kate had a chance to respond, Jamie burst into the conversation. “Hi, I’m Jamie Whiting. Not James, cause that’s my grandpa’s name. Sometimes Grammy calls him Jimmy to tease him, but she always calls me Jamie. Does anybody call you Katie?”

Kate looked a bit stunned at Jamie’s conversational style, but she managed to make a recovery. “Hi, Jamie. No, nobody calls me Katie. Just Kate, okay?”

“Okay. Grammy says you should always call people what they want to be called, because nicknames can hurt people’s feelings. Aren’t you going to sit down?”

Under the pressure of that wide, innocent blue gaze, Kate sat in a chair, but she perched on the edge of it, as if ready to make a quick retreat.

Mac reached across to hand Jamie another napkin. “Maybe if you’d slow down a bit, somebody else could talk.”

Jamie just grinned at him, but he subsided.

“Mom, Kate’s brother was Jason Reilley. You remember—the young man who passed away last year.” He glanced at Jamie, but his nephew was deeply engaged in eating the last crumb of his treat.

His mother’s eyes filled with quick sympathy. “Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry. That was just tragic. You must miss him terribly.”

As usual, his mother had moved straight to the heart, and he saw Kate’s lips tremble for an instant. “Yes,” she murmured. “I do miss him.”

“Losing someone is never easy, but I always think it’s especially hard when it’s a young person.” His mother clasped Kate’s hand. “Naturally you must have wanted to see where he lived.”

Funny. He’d assumed she’d wanted to see where her brother had died, but Mom jumped to the opposite conclusion. And she must be right, judging by the way Kate was looking at her—with a kind of startled surprise at meeting understanding from a stranger.

His mother never stayed a stranger with anyone for long. In a few minutes she’d elicited the fact that Kate had lost her job with a Baltimore newspaper in a series of cutbacks.

“I’m not the only one.” She shrugged off an expression of sympathy. “People seem to rely on the internet for their news these days, not the daily paper.”

“Laurel Ridge must be the exception, then.” He decided it was time he got back into the conversation. “We still have to have our daily dose of the Laurel Ridge Standard, don’t we?”

Mom chuckled. “How else would we know what was going on in town? The grapevine is good, but we have to see some things in print to believe them.”

“Myself, I’d say gossip is more interesting.” Anna appeared, setting a mug of coffee in front of Kate without being asked. “But there’s nothing like the newspaper for seeing who’s got what for sale. My boy Luke just got a perfectly good harrow from someone who was going to pay to have it hauled away as junk.”

Kate looked startled at the server’s entering the discussion, as well she might. He suspected Laurel Ridge had a few surprises in store for her.

“Anna, this is Kate Beaumont. She’s visiting Laurel Ridge for a bit.”

“Ach, gut.” Anna’s round face beamed. “Wilkom. I’ll be seeing you in the Buttercup, then, ain’t so?”

“I guess so. I’m staying right across the street.”

“Mrs. Anderson’s.” She nodded. “I guessed as much. Will you be having some lunch? The chicken pot pie, maybe?”

“Just a salad, please. To take out.”

“I’m sure you’re busy getting settled in,” Mom said, wiping Jamie’s hands and face despite his protests. “We’ve delayed you long enough, and I must get this boy back to school.”

“Do I have to...” Jamie began, but he subsided at a look from his grandmother. Sliding from his chair, he gave Mac a throttling hug and turned to Kate. “See you again soon, okay?”

Kate smiled, her expression softening. “It was nice to meet you, Jamie.”

“I hope we’ll have a chance to get better acquainted while you’re here,” Mom said, touching Kate’s shoulder lightly. “I know Grace Anderson will make you comfortable. Her rooms are lovely.”

“I’m sure they are. I’m actually renting the cottage, and it’s...charming.”

Did he really hear an infinitesimal pause before the final word? It seemed to him it was far from charming for her to be living in the very rooms where her brother had spent his last days.

He waved to Jamie, who’d paused at the door for a last look, and then turned back to Kate.

“Your little boy is a sweetheart,” she said quickly, maybe to forestall any criticism from him.

“My little nephew,” he corrected. “Jamie is my brother Nick’s boy. I’m not married.”

“I see.” She seemed to be readjusting her thoughts.

It wouldn’t be any of his business where she stayed, if it weren’t for his instinct that she was hiding something. He couldn’t shake his conviction that a big-city reporter wouldn’t be spending time in Laurel Ridge without an agenda. Bluntness was probably the only way he’d get an answer.

“Why are you living in the cottage? What are you after in Laurel Ridge?”

Kate flared up at that, as he’d expected. “I’m not after anything. Besides, wouldn’t you do the same, if it was your brother?”

What exactly was the passion that flamed in her eyes and made her skin flush? Not grief, he thought. Or at least, not only grief. Something more.

He took a moment, and then tried to respond honestly. “If I lost Nick all of a sudden, I don’t know what I’d do. It would be like losing part of myself.”

Their eyes met. Held. She looked stunned, vulnerable, and that very vulnerability had the power to draw him in. To make him want to touch her, comfort her.

But he couldn’t. Not when he didn’t know what she was going to bring to his town.

Deliberately he went on. “But I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t try to retrace his final steps. Not unless I was looking for something. What are you looking for, Kate?”

Watching her face then was like watching ice form on the river. She stared at him as if he’d just crawled out from under a rock. Not bothering to deny it, she rose, slung her bag strap over her shoulder and headed for the counter, probably to wait for her order.

He gazed at her for a long moment. No good trying to get anything more from her now. The rigid line of her back told him that much.

Maybe it was just as well that he’d said something to infuriate her again, because when she’d looked at him with vulnerability in those golden-brown eyes, he’d have had a tough time holding on to his own good judgment.

* * *

BY THE TIME Kate entered Blackburn House that afternoon, she’d tried a dozen times to dismiss Mac Whiting from her thoughts. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t stay gone. She had no doubt he’d be an obstacle in her path if she let him.

She wouldn’t. She’d already dealt with one hardheaded cop in her life, and she could deal with Whiting. Anybody who’d been raised by a difficult man like Tom Reilley had developed a tough shell. Except Jason, of course. Maybe if he had, his life wouldn’t have ended the way it had.

The important thing was to get on with her plans, and that meant starting at the place where Jason had worked. He’d spent every day there, and judging by what she’d been able to decipher of his video diary, he’d had a lot of opinions about the place.

Preoccupied, she headed for the stairs, passing an Amish woman standing in the doorway of the quilt shop. The woman smiled and nodded as if Kate were known to her. The power of the grapevine in a small town? Maybe so. At least she seemed friendly.

Movement behind the glass door to Whiting and Whiting Cabinetry made her nerves jump irrationally, and she turned her face away as she hurried past, gaining the stairs without incident.

Whatever activity there was in Blackburn House seemed concentrated on the ground floor. Once again there was no one on the steps, and the upper hallway was deserted. A murmur of conversation came from the real estate office, but Laurel Ridge Financial Group was empty, save for the same young receptionist behind the front desk, her head bent over a printer that was spewing out papers.

She looked up at the sound of the door opening, seeming to brighten at the prospect of an interruption. “Welcome to Laurel Ridge Financial.” Abandoning the printer, she flipped open a pad on the desk. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, I’m afraid not.” Kate glanced at the nameplate on the desk. “I just dropped in. I hope I’m not interrupting you. Are you Nikki?”

“That’s me.” Nikki jerked an impatient nod toward the printer. “Just boring routine, even if the office manager does think the printer will jam when somebody’s not watching it every minute. You’re new around here, right?”

Kate couldn’t help smiling. “How does everyone I meet know I’m a stranger?”

Nikki rolled her eyes. “Easy to see you don’t know what it’s like in a burg the size of Laurel Ridge. Everybody knows everybody. Boring.” She managed to insert a wealth of meaning into the word, which seemed to be one of her favorites.

This kid couldn’t be much more than seven or eight years younger than her, but Kate felt aeons older. With that improbably red hair and the matching scarlet nails, Nikki looked like a fifteen-year-old trying for a fake ID. She had a small, sharp-featured face and an obvious disdain for the job she held.

Had she thought Jason boring, too? Or had he been interesting, an urban stranger, someone she hadn’t known all her life? Kate didn’t think Jason had mentioned Nikki, but he may have. He often didn’t bother with names when he talked about people.

Only one way to find out. “I wonder if you remember my brother. He worked here for the summer last year.”

“Jason?” Nikki’s pointed features seemed to tighten. “Jason was your brother?”

“That’s right. I’m Kate. Kate Beaumont. I suppose you got to know him, with you two being the only young people working here. Did he mention me?”

“He said he had a sister who was a reporter someplace.” Nikki pushed a curl out of her face with a scarlet fingertip. “That’s you, huh?”

Kate nodded, debating with herself about how much she wanted to say to the receptionist. Maybe it was better not to let Nikki think she wanted anything in particular, at least until Kate knew how close she’d been to Jason. “He seemed to enjoy his job.”

Nikki shrugged. “It’s an okay place to work, if you don’t mind routine. And I took him around a little bit. You know, showed him what passes for nightlife in a place like this.”

“He told me you’d been friendly.” He hadn’t, but let that pass in the interest of establishing a rapport with Nikki. “He appreciated it, especially since he didn’t know anyone here.”

“Maybe. But he sure didn’t like partying all that much.” Nikki didn’t seem to realize that a big sister might consider that a good thing. “That’s why it was so strange when he—well, you know.” She lowered her voice, as if speaking of death required softer tones.

“You didn’t have any idea he’d been into drugs?” In Kate’s experience, someone like Nikki was more likely to recognize the signs than one of the bosses would have been.

“I didn’t think—”

One of the doors behind Nikki opened, and her voice cut off immediately.

“Nikki, why didn’t you tell me there was a client waiting?” The man who surged forward, hand extended, had the kind of professional smile usually worn by anyone who had something to sell—his slightly puffy cheeks creasing, eyes crinkling in welcome as if she were a long-lost relative. “I’m Bart Gordon.” He clasped her hand warmly. “And you are?”

“Kate Beaumont.” How long would it take for the jovial welcome to wear off once he knew she wasn’t a client? Not long, she suspected, but maybe she was being too cynical.

“She’s Jason Reilley’s sister,” Nikki said before Kate could.

Gordon stiffened, his hand releasing hers. “I see.” The smile became noticeably artificial. “What brings you to see us, Ms. Beaumont?”

“I happened to be in Laurel Ridge and thought I’d like to introduce myself to my brother’s friends and colleagues here. And to thank you for the beautiful flower arrangement you sent for the services.”

The man’s tension seemed to ease. “The least we could do. Such a sad loss,” he murmured.

“I see that Mr. Sheldon is no longer active in the firm. I did want to express my thanks to him, as well.” And ask him about my brother.

“Russell Sheldon retired last year. Poor fellow—the work was getting beyond him. I’ll be sure to give him your message when I see him. Thanks for stopping by.” Gordon’s fingers brushed her elbow, as if he’d usher her out.

Not yet. She ignored the hint. “Jason’s death was a terrible shock, of course. Especially since he’d been so enthusiastic about his internship. Was there some issue at work that might have disturbed or upset him?”

Gordon’s already flushed face reddened alarmingly. “Are you trying to blame us for what your brother did? If you think you can hold the firm responsible, you’ve got another—”

The door to the other office opened behind him, a woman emerging. Kate’s wayward imagination presented her with an image of a Bavarian clock, with figures appearing and disappearing through their little doors.

“Bart, I’m sure you’re misunderstanding the situation.” She smiled at Kate, extending her hand. “I’m Lina Oberlin, Mr. Gordon’s assistant. Did I hear him say that you’re poor Jason’s sister?”

In other words, she’d been listening behind the door. Maybe, as Nikki had said, things were so boring that any interruption was welcome.

The female assistant was fair, blonde and fortyish, with hair drawn back from a pale, nearly colorless face. Lina Oberlin had small, even features and a trim figure that could have been appealing in anything other than the plain gray pantsuit she wore. It was as if she’d deliberately set out to fade into the woodwork.

“That’s right...” she began, but Bart Gordon’s voice ran over hers like a steamroller.

“The idea of it. We’re the ones with a complaint. Here I was, giving the kid a second chance, and he goes and brings the worst kind of publicity down on the firm.”

Her brother was dead, and he was worried about publicity. Kate’s fingers tightened into fists. Before she could cut loose, she happened to catch a glimpse of the receptionist’s face. Avid, blatant curiosity—an eagerness, even, to see a drama unfolding in front of her.

And more, perhaps? If Nikki was glad to see the apparently forgotten situation raked up, that might mean she knew something.

“You don’t mean that.” Lina Oberlin’s voice seemed to hold a warning for her volatile boss. “I’m so sorry.” She touched Kate’s arm lightly. “We were all stunned by what happened to your brother. Jason was such a nice boy. I’m sure he was happy here. Perhaps you and I could have a quiet talk later?” She glanced at Gordon, as if to ensure that he wouldn’t burst out again.

“I’d appreciate that.” Kate let herself be led to the door. She couldn’t accomplish anything more here now, but she wasn’t dissatisfied with this first encounter. Outright anger was more revealing than bland sympathy.

Her presence angered Gordon. Why? And why did Lina Oberlin feel the need to intercede? Mere politeness, or something more?

And what about the receptionist? She’d have to make a point of talking to Nikki away from the office, little though she wanted to satisfy the girl’s keen curiosity. She didn’t doubt that if there was something to tell, Nikki would seize the chance to be involved.

CHAPTER THREE

THE FEW BELONGINGS Kate had brought with her were quickly unpacked and stowed away in the cottage. She slid a suitcase into the back of the bedroom closet to get it out of the way. The rest of her things had gone into storage in Baltimore.

She hadn’t taken anything from Tom Reilley’s house except for Jason’s things. The rest had gone to a sale. The fewer reminders of life there, the better, as far as she was concerned.

Jason had probably felt the same way when he’d left his father’s house for the last time. It couldn’t have held too many happy memories for him. Although she hoped he might have cherished, as she did, the after-school hours they’d spent at home together.

Kate walked back into the living room. The cottage was small and compact. The living room had just enough space for a television, sofa and chairs in one end and a bookcase and desk at the other, where she’d immediately set up her computer. Jason would no doubt have set up in the same place. He couldn’t bear to be off-line, and he wanted a laptop for gaming.

If a person liked cottage style, the place was perfectly decorated, with cheerful chintz fabric on the furniture, white end tables and Cape Cod curtains on the windows. There was a small kitchen with a nook for a table and chairs, and a bedroom and bath. The shrubbery and vines she’d noted on the outside increased a sense of isolation, especially where they brushed against the windows.

It was quiet—too quiet for her tastes. She was used to the constant noise and movement of the city. This much solitude would take some getting used to.

Jason wouldn’t have minded it, she knew. As introverted as he’d been, he’d have welcomed it. Close contact with other people stressed him almost beyond bearing. College dorm life must have been a nightmare for him. It had taken time and maturity for her to understand that, but Tom never had. He’d always insisted Jason could be like other kids if he just tried harder.

Small wonder Jason had taken refuge in his fantasy world. There, he could be in control. He could shut out the outside world and focus on the voices in his imagination. If she’d understood that earlier, if his father had grasped it at all...

She pushed the thought away. She couldn’t go back. All she could do for Jason now was find out why he’d died, and the key to that had to be in his video diary.

Reluctantly, Kate turned her laptop on. The video diary had been Jason’s closely guarded secret. She’d known it existed, but she’d never had so much as a glimpse of it until two weeks ago, when she’d started clearing Tom’s house for the sale. It still felt as if she were violating Jason’s privacy by watching it.

She clicked the diary file, and Jason’s face appeared on her screen, looking as he’d so often looked in reality—soft brown hair standing on end as if he’d been running his fingers through it, hazel eyes magnified by his dark-rimmed glasses, his sensitive mouth unsmiling.

The first time she’d watched it she hadn’t been able to get all the way through even one entry—she’d been crying too hard. It wasn’t that much easier now, but at least she was able to control the tears. Now a session of trying to understand just left her wrung out and exhausted, her throat tight, her eyes burning.

Even if it hadn’t been for the grief, understanding would have been difficult, due to Jason’s refusal to be ordinary in referring to people. He almost never used names, instead dubbing the people he met with the identities of the mythic characters from his favorite books and games. Some Kate could understand a little, like the characters from fairy tales or Tolkien’s books, while others left her banging her head against the wall.

Now that she’d met the cast of characters at Laurel Ridge Financial, she might have a chance of identifying the people he referred to. Maybe even begin to understand what was happening in his life that disturbed him so toward the end of that summer that he would have turned to pills to dull the pain. Or to end it permanently.

She’d like to believe the overdose had been accidental. Unfortunately, she couldn’t convince herself of that. Jason had been clean for so long. He knew, if anyone did, the results of combining alcohol with those strong prescription meds.

Telling her stepfather her feelings would just have made the whole situation worse. Better to keep her opinion to herself until—unless—she knew for sure.

She clicked the video to start it, and Jason’s soft, diffident voice sounded, wrenching her heart.

“The King was upset today, and I’m not sure why.” Jason’s eyes were serious, concerned. This had been about midway through his internship. She paused the tape and pulled out a notebook to jot down her impressions.

The King. Well, that would probably be Bart Gordon, wouldn’t it? He seemed to be running things now.

But what had been his position relative to Russell Sheldon? She didn’t know, and such a simple thing could mean a world of difference in interpretation. She noted a query—find out who was in charge when Sheldon was still with the firm. Probably anyone would know. Like Mac Whiting, for instance, but she dismissed the thought. He was the last person she’d go to for help.

A firm knock on the door interrupted her line of thought. Mrs. Anderson again? She’d already been here twice, once with a freshly laundered blanket and again with a loaf of pumpkin bread. It was easy to see why she’d gotten on Jason’s nerves.

Kate got up, then turned back and closed the file she’d been watching. No one need know about the diary, not now, maybe not ever.

She opened the door, prepared to be polite to her landlady, and found the woman from the financial group, Lina Oberlin, waiting.

“Ms. Oberlin.” She was frankly surprised. She’d hoped the woman meant her comment about getting together, but she certainly hadn’t expected a visit so soon. “Please, come in. How did you know where to find me?” She hadn’t said a word about where she was staying while she’d been in the office, had she?

“It’s all over Blackburn House already, I’m afraid.” With a restrained smile, the woman stepped inside. “Please, call me Lina.”

“Lina,” she repeated. “How would anyone at Blackburn House know?” If she sounded a little suspicious, it was nothing to how she felt. Were people watching her?

“Obviously you’re not used to the way news spreads in a place like Laurel Ridge. After all, we’re right next door. I’m sure someone saw you moving in.” Lina shrugged. “People in a small town are interested in their neighbors.”

“Obviously so.” Kate gestured to the sofa. “Please, sit down.”

Lina had apparently come straight from work, since she still wore the tailored suit she’d had on earlier. She sat down, looking around the room with frank curiosity. “This is really quite nice, isn’t it?” Her gaze seemed to linger on the desk, and Kate was relieved that she had closed the file. “I haven’t seen the inside before, but it’s roomier than I’d have expected.”

“You were never inside when Jason lived here?” Kate sat down opposite the woman.

Lina’s lips twitched in what might have been a smile. “I can just imagine the talk that would have spread if I’d come to visit a young male colleague. I’m afraid financial consultants are expected to be models of rectitude in a place like Laurel Ridge.”

“Yes. I’d say Mr. Gordon made it clear that adverse publicity was frowned on.” She couldn’t seem to keep the resentment from her tone. Gordon’s facile sympathy had disappeared very quickly at any faint suggestion of fault on the part of the firm.

“That’s really why I’ve come so quickly.” Lina leaned forward, her pale face intent. “I’m afraid Bart reacted badly, and I wanted to explain. It’s not entirely his fault, you know. Our clients didn’t like seeing the newspaper stories about one of our staff in such a situation.” She shook her head, rueful. “Sorry. I don’t want to hurt you, but that’s the truth.”

Kate suppressed her irritation as best she could. “I understand being concerned for the reputation of the firm.” But Bart Gordon had overreacted, it seemed to her, and she really wanted to know why.

“But you think he was over-the-top.” Lina seemed to know what she was thinking. “I’m afraid he was so annoyed because he was the one who suggested taking Jason on as an intern. He talked Mr. Sheldon into it. Apparently Jason’s adviser was an old fraternity brother of Bart’s, and Bart agreed as a favor to him. Then, when things went badly...”

She let that trail off, and Kate managed not to point out that things had gone far more badly for Jason than for the firm. She hoped to get information from the woman, not antagonize her.

“Aside from the way it ended, how was Jason doing as an intern? I’m sure you have an opinion, working so closely with him.”

“Well, not really all that closely, I’m afraid. It was actually Russell Sheldon who seemed to take the most interest in Jason. He took the time to work with the young man, and according to him, Jason did very well. He always seemed very conscientious to me—almost too preoccupied with his work at times, I’d say.”

That sounded like Jason. He’d focus on a task to the exclusion of everything else.

“I’m glad Jason found a mentor here. I really should thank Mr. Sheldon personally, then. Is he still living in town?” It would be as good an excuse as any to probe into what the man remembered of Jason’s time here.

Lina looked doubtful. “Yes, Russell Sheldon is quite a fixture in town. Everyone knows him. But I don’t know that it’s a good idea for you to visit him.”

She paused, then seemed to realize she’d have to explain further if she expected Kate to drop the idea.

“The trouble is that Russell has been failing mentally for the past few years. He probably should have retired earlier than he did, to be honest, but he had such a good rapport with our older clients that we hated to see him go. They’d trusted him for years, and it wasn’t easy to convince them that they’d be quite safe in Bart’s hands.”

“Surely a short visit with him wouldn’t hurt...” Kate began, but Lina was already shaking her head.

“I understand the poor man is becoming increasingly erratic. Apparently the least disruption of his usual routine causes him to react very emotionally. In fact, his son has been trying to get him into an assisted living facility. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to cause Mr. Sheldon any distress, and I don’t imagine he even remembers Jason at this point.”

“I see.” Somehow she didn’t think she wanted to take Lina’s word for it, as helpful as she seemed. “I’ve hoped people who knew my brother during those last weeks might have noticed some indication of trouble. Anything that seemed out of his normal routine, any change in his attitude...”

There had to be something—something that had pushed Jason into his final act.

“I wish I could be of more help.” Lina spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “In retrospect I do think Jason seemed a bit more preoccupied than usual toward the end of the summer, but then he’d been sending out résumés and looking for a position, so that’s only natural.”

Kate nodded. In one of his phone calls, they’d talked about the possibility of Jason getting a job near her. He wouldn’t have wanted to move in with her again, but she’d wanted to be close enough to provide some support, at least.

She tried another tack. “I suppose you don’t know any of the friends he made here?”

“I’m afraid not. Jason didn’t seem like the social type. He was more serious than a lot of young men his age.” Lina’s smile seemed to freeze. “I’d be wary of anything Nikki has to say about your brother, by the way. From what I saw, he was usually trying to evade her attentions.”

“Thanks. I’ll bear that in mind.”

“Well, you don’t need my advice. I’m sure a woman of your experience could see at once just how much you can rely on Nikki for the truth.” A smile warmed her rather restrained manner. “What was she doing when you came in? Filing her nails?”

Kate had to laugh. “Actually, I did spot her doing that earlier.”

“We’d get someone better, but there isn’t really all that much choice. The bright kids take off for college after graduation. At least Nikki knows how to operate the office equipment, and she’s better on the computer than Bart is.” Lina smiled. “Although that’s not saying much.”

“I sometimes think a five-year-old could teach me something new, despite my job.” In the interests of possibly getting more from the woman later, she should respond to any friendship cues.

Lina reached for her bag. “I won’t hold you up any longer, but if there’s anything I can do, please, let me know. Jason’s death must have been a terrible shock as well as a devastating loss.”

The woman’s sympathetic tone got to her, and for a moment Kate considered taking Lina into her confidence. But only for a moment. Her native caution reasserted itself. She didn’t intend to give too much away to anyone in this town, not until she had a better idea of where she stood.

* * *

MAC PULLED INTO his parking space in front of the police station the next day, fuming. The meeting he’d had with the district attorney had been an exercise in frustration. They both knew of the increasing presence of drugs in their community, and of illegal prescription meds in particular. But the problem wasn’t solved by talking about it—or at least, not by talking with a DA who was up for reelection this fall and wanted to be able to show voters he’d been actively involved in fighting drugs. All the DA wanted to do was give lip service to the problem.

Mac spared a passing thought to appreciate the crisp, clear weather that was so typical of fall in Pennsylvania. He didn’t have time to enjoy it today, unfortunately. He headed for the door of the solid redbrick building that had housed the station for the past century. The cement block addition along one side might not have the beauty of the original structure, but it gave much-needed space for police cars as well as the paramedics.

A glance at the clock on the bell tower of Town Hall informed him that the morning was nearly gone, eaten up by talk that led nowhere. Marge Bailey, their dispatcher/receptionist, gave him a sympathetic look as he came in out of the bright fall sunshine. Marge was fond of telling people how she used to babysit for Mac and his brother, and her motherliness with him was balanced by the crisp, no-nonsense way she dealt with police matters.

“No fun?”

He grimaced. “Maybe it’ll satisfy him for the moment, so I can get some work done. Did the state police crime stats come in yet?”

“On your computer.” She glanced toward his office door. “But first, you have a visitor.” Marge rolled her eyes. “Bart Gordon. All het up about something. I told him you were tied up in a meeting, and that if he had something to report, another officer could speak with him, but he insisted on waiting for you.”

“Right.” Bart was one of those people who always had a list of complaints, most of them not police business at all. Looked as if the last shreds of his morning were being swept away. Well, his job was to protect and serve the community, even when they wasted his time.

Mac strode into the office, tossing his cap onto the desk. “’Morning, Bart.”

Bart Gordon shot out of the visitor’s chair that took up too much space in Mac’s tiny office, already crowded with desk, chair and files, made to seem even smaller by the framed photos of various town dignitaries and events that covered most of one wall.

“It’s about time you’re getting back. I’ve been waiting.” Bart looked prosperous, self-satisfied and florid, as usual. He was enough older than Mac that their lives hadn’t really touched at any point.

“Didn’t Marge tell you I was at a meeting with the DA?” he asked blandly. “I’ll have to speak to her about it.”

Taken aback, Bart sat down again. “She mentioned it,” he said reluctantly.

“Well, what can I do for you?” Mac edged around his desk and sat in the creaky swivel chair he’d inherited from his predecessor.

Bart seemed to get up a head of steam again. “Are you aware that Jason Reilley’s sister is in town?” He made it sound like an accusation.

Now, what was there in Kate Beaumont’s presence to make Bart so hot under the collar?

“Yes, I’ve met her.” He kept his voice carefully neutral. “Is there a problem?”

“A problem? When a perfect stranger walks into my office and starts prying into my business?” Bart seemed to take a breath, maybe deciding that wasn’t the way he wanted to present himself. After a moment he leaned forward, an earnest expression on his ruddy face. “Now, Mac, you know I always have the best interest of Laurel Ridge at heart. Adverse publicity about a prominent business like ours can’t do anyone any good. I’m just trying to protect the reputation of our town.”

More intrigued by Bart’s attitude than anything else, Mac raised an eyebrow. “Is Ms. Beaumont threatening you with bad publicity? How?”

“Not exactly.” Bart hesitated as if balancing the wisdom of confiding in the police against his obvious irritation with the Beaumont woman. “But she’s stirring up talk about her unfortunate brother’s death. You know how uncomfortable that was. I think it best that it be forgotten, not dragged into the public eye again.”

In other words, Bart Gordon had the wind up because of Kate Beaumont’s interest in her brother’s death. But why? There’d never been any suggestion of involvement on the part of the company.

“I can’t run the woman out of town because she makes you uncomfortable,” he pointed out.

“I know. But it’s just so inconsiderate. We’ve already dealt with all that unpleasantness, and it certainly wasn’t our fault. If I’d known the boy was likely to go back to drugs, I’d never have agreed to give him a chance.” He was beginning to sound petulant, and Mac’s supply of courtesy was running dangerously low.

He rose, hoping to indicate that the interview was over. “I’ll have a talk with her.”

“Yes, well, I suppose that will have to do.” Bart made it as far as the door before his grievance burst out again. “What does she want here, anyway? And why did it take her over a year to decide she had to come?”

Muttering a soothing word or two, Mac eased him out the door and closed it firmly.

But the question lingered in his mind. Little though he wanted to admit it, Bart Gordon did have a point. Why had Kate Beaumont waited over a year to come to the place where her brother died?

* * *

KATE WALKED THE flagstone path to the cottage, disappointed but not deterred by the failure of her effort to speak to Russell Sheldon. Apparently it was true that the retiree was in poor health, since a caregiver had opened the door at his house and politely but firmly declined Kate’s request to speak to him.

Very firmly—almost as if she’d been warned that Kate might come calling. Someone from the financial office had probably tipped off the woman, and it would be interesting to know who it had been.

She passed into the shade cast by the tall hedge along the side of the bed-and-breakfast, chilled when she stepped out of the bright autumn sunshine. She glanced up. The clear, crisp day seemed to accentuate the bright colors that appeared here and there on the ridge that isolated the town. She wasn’t sure she’d enjoy living in a place where the hills crowded so close.

One refusal didn’t spell the end. The caregiver had to leave sometime. She’d just have to catch Sheldon at a time when he was alone. No good reporter would ever give up after the first rebuff.

The walkway led to the stoop at the front door, where she exchanged the shadow of the hedge for those of the shrubs that overhung the cottage. Had Jason ever felt claustrophobic, living in such an enclosed space?

Kate drew out her keys, her fingers caressing the silver dragon on the key ring before they selected the door key. But when she touched the door, the key wasn’t necessary. The door was unlocked, and it swung soundlessly open a few inches.

She stepped back, her heart pounding. She hadn’t left the cottage unlocked. Double-checking the locks was second nature for someone who’d spent her life in an urban area, and Tom had drilled safety and self-defense into both of them.

No sound came from the cottage, but that didn’t mean it was safe to go in. She threaded her fingers through her keys, almost hearing her stepfather’s voice instructing her, and grasped her cell phone with the other hand. She pushed the door wide with her foot and peered inside, senses alert.

Nothing. At this point, Tom’s instructions would have stressed moving away and calling the police, but she had no desire for another encounter with Mac Whiting.

Kate took a cautious step inside, then another, and listened, holding her breath. After a moment or two, tense muscles began to relax. Whoever had been here must be gone.

Even as she thought it she sensed movement behind her. She whirled, striking out with the hand holding the keys—get out, scream, run—

Iron fingers grabbed her wrist before the blow could land. She froze, face-to-face with Mac, staring breathless into his narrowed eyes. For a long moment they stood very close, and the air seemed to quiver between them.

Then he stepped back, releasing her, his eyebrows lifting slightly. “You always greet visitors that way?”

“Visitors generally knock.” Kate grabbed for the shaken fragments of her composure.

“The door was open.” Whiting took hold of her wrist again, turning it to examine the points of the keys extending through her fingers. “Very effective weapon.”

The touch of his hand made her too aware of the fierce physical presence behind his lazy smile and small-town manner. She drew away, and he didn’t attempt to stop her.

“My stepfather was a cop. He taught us both self-defense.”

“You must have been his star pupil.” He studied her face for a moment. “You want to tell me what this is all about? I was just coming to talk to you. You came into the cottage as if you were expecting an attack.”

Kate turned away, rubbing her fingers against the silver dragon. “I locked the door when I left earlier,” she said shortly. “When I came back just now, it was unlocked.”

“You’re sure?” He shot the question at her.

“Of course I’m sure,” she snapped. “I didn’t grow up in Hicksville. I learned to lock doors as soon as I was tall enough to reach the knob.”

Before she’d finished, he was giving her a firm push toward the door. “Go outside while I check the house.” Without looking to see that she obeyed, he moved toward the bedroom, staying to the side as he opened the door.

Nothing happened. He disappeared into the room. Kate followed to find him surveying the clothes she’d tossed on the bed. Mac gave her a sharp look. “I thought I told you to go outside.”

“I don’t follow orders well.” She glanced around and shrugged. “Doesn’t look as if anything’s disturbed in here.”

He’d moved to the dresser, and she spoke again, impatient.

“I didn’t bring the crown jewels with me this trip. The only thing of value here is my computer.” The computer. She spun and fled back to the other room. The computer still sat on the small side table she’d appropriated to use as a desk.

“It’s still here.” Mac spoke behind her. “So apparently you haven’t been burgled.”

“It’s here.” Quickly she checked her files. Jason’s diary was there, all right.

“Everything okay?” Mac had moved close enough that she felt his breath on her neck when he spoke. Close enough, most likely, to read the titles of the files. She shut the laptop.

“Okay. Except that I left it turned off, and now it’s on.”

But he was already moving to the kitchen, most of it visible from where they stood. “Easy to make a mistake about a thing like that, isn’t it?” he said. “And I think I’ve solved the mystery.” He held something up. “Your burglar left you a present. Smells like nut bread.”

“Mrs. Anderson.” Kate’s jaw was tight, and she struggled to relax it. “She means to be kind, but...”

“But you’d rather she didn’t,” he finished for her. His face took on the amused look that annoyed her so. “I’ve never heard of locking doors to keep out kindness.”

Kate took a deep breath, trying to think of a response that didn’t sound petty. She couldn’t. “Was there some reason you came over, Chief Whiting?”

His smile suggested he knew what she was thinking. “Mac, please. It seems you’ve ruffled the feathers of one of our prominent residents.”

She looked at him blankly for a moment. “Who?” She couldn’t imagine Russell Sheldon’s caregiver going to the police about her visit.

“Bart Gordon seems to think you’re planning to stir up bad publicity for his company.” He raised an eyebrow. “And he’s not yet aware that you’re a reporter.”

That comment seemed to come from left field. “My profession has nothing to do with it. My reasons for being here are purely personal.”

“And they are?”

Her fingers clenched, nails biting into her palms. “I’ve already told you. I want to see the place where my brother spent the last months of his life.”

“Yes, you told me. But I don’t think you mentioned why you waited a year to come.”

If she threw the computer at him, he’d probably arrest her for assault. She glared at him instead. “Not that it’s any of your business, but this is the first opportunity I’ve had to get away from work for any length of time.”

Mac seemed to be weighing her words, his eyes noncommittal.

Nettled, she couldn’t keep from responding to what she suspected was disbelief. “I think that’s all I have to say on the subject. So unless you intend to arrest me for making the good residents of Laurel Ridge think about something they’d rather forget, I’d appreciate it if you’d leave.”

His smile flickered. “I’ll buy that, for the moment. But if you ever decide to confide in me...”

“I won’t.” Her tone was tart.

“In the meantime, take my advice and steer clear of Bart Gordon. We wouldn’t want him charging you with harassment, would we?” He gave her another extended look, then turned and walked out.

Kate let out a long breath. She hadn’t seen the last of him—there was no doubt of that in her mind.

In the meantime, she had a more immediate problem. Obviously the landlady had come in, bearing food. But would she have started the computer? Somehow Kate didn’t think so.

At least whoever had done so hadn’t been able to get past the password, as far as she could see. But who? And why?

CHAPTER FOUR

KATE STOOD FROWNING at the computer for another moment. Then, realizing she was standing right in front of the window, she looked out, half expecting to see Mac Whiting staring in at her.

No one was there. She moved away from the window, and then went back and pulled the curtains closed. It made the small room dark, but it eliminated the sense that someone was watching her.

Rubbing her arms, she stalked into the kitchen. Mac had been right, of course. He seemed to make a habit of that. The neatly wrapped loaf on the counter bore a label. Nut bread, it proclaimed, in Mrs. Anderson’s already familiar writing.

Drat the man. She’d already been shaken at finding the cottage door unlocked, and the immediate confrontation with him had really knocked her off her balance. That was probably why she’d had that intense awareness of him as a man. That, and the brief glimpse he’d given her of an intense protectiveness lurking under his professionalism.

He’d rocked her, and she didn’t want that. Didn’t have time for it, and really didn’t welcome it. There was no space in her thoughts right now for anything but her mission.

Why, Jason? Why? She had nothing but the last journal entry to go on. If only he’d been clearer, just that one time.

He’d been upset, that much was evident. He’d talked about something wrong, something that had rocked him to his very soul.

Something so serious that he had taken his own life. She’d come reluctantly to that conclusion over a number of sleepless nights. It would be so much easier if she could believe he’d died of an accidental overdose. But she couldn’t.

Someone had hurt Jason beyond bearing. She had to know who. Why.

Shaking her head, she forced herself to concentrate on more immediate problems. Like who had been in the cottage while she was out.

Kate rested her hand on the smooth, rounded surface of the loaf. Granted that Mrs. Anderson had been in the cottage, she still came back to the conviction that the woman would not have turned on Kate’s computer. Naturally Mac would assume she’d been mistaken about turning it off, but she distinctly remembered doing so.

There was no point in going over and over the same ground. Kate grabbed her bag and went quickly toward the door. She’d thank Mrs. Anderson for the nut bread and add, very politely, that she’d rather the woman didn’t come in when she wasn’t there. Even a temporary tenant had a reasonable expectation of privacy, didn’t she?

Crossing the yard, Kate tapped on the back door. Mrs. Anderson, busy with something at the stove, turned and waved her in.

The door was unlocked, and the first thing Kate noticed in the back hallway was a wooden rack attached to the wall, containing a row of keys, all neatly labeled. She hadn’t noticed it when they’d come out this door the first time, probably because she was too intent on persuading Mrs. Anderson to let her have the cottage.

Obviously she didn’t have to look far for a means by which someone could get into the cottage. That person had only to wait until Mrs. Anderson was in the front of the building, open the back door, reach in and lift the key from its hook. Apparently people here didn’t have much concern for security.

Mrs. Anderson, wiping her hands on a towel, hurried to meet her. “Sorry. I thought I’d get a few coffee cakes baked to put in the freezer. Weekends get busy during the fall foliage season, you know.”

“I didn’t realize,” Kate said. And she had no idea what Mrs. Anderson considered busy. “I just wanted to thank you for the nut bread you left for me today. That was so thoughtful.” And I wish you hadn’t. “The thing is...”

She ran out of words. Maybe Mac had been right about this. How could a person lock the door against kindness?

“It’s nothing at all.” The woman waved her to a seat in the breakfast area. “Goodness, I’m baking all the time, it seems. And I worry about you, alone back there, just like Jason was. Now, you’ll stay and have a cup of coffee or tea, won’t you? Or iced tea or cider?”

Kate started to shake her head but changed her mind. In the interest of keeping good relations with Mrs. Anderson, she should accept. If they started chatting casually, she might find a way of suggesting that the cottage key be kept in a more secure location.

“Iced tea, thanks.” She settled into a chair and looked out on a flower bed filled with a colorful array of mums and asters.

Mrs. Anderson hurried to the refrigerator, returning to the table in moments with a tray holding a pitcher of tea, ice-filled glasses and fresh sprigs of mint. The woman must have been born to be a hostess.

“It’s nice of you to stop and visit.” Mrs. Anderson poured tea into the glasses. “How are you getting on, dear? It’s not upsetting you too much, living where Jason did?” Her round face crinkled with what seemed genuine concern.

“Not at all.” To Kate’s surprise, she realized that was true. She didn’t have a sense of Jason in the cottage, not the way she’d had when she’d cleared the house where they’d grown up. That place had been filled with memories, too many of them unhappy ones.

“That’s good.” The woman’s worried look didn’t vanish completely, but she seemed satisfied at the moment. “I noticed that Lina Oberlin stopped by to see you.” There was a bit of curiosity in the words.

“She knew I wanted to hear about how Jason got on there.” Kate paused. Apparently Mrs. Anderson kept tabs on who went to the cottage. Annoying, but it meant she might be able to provide information Kate needed. “I had hoped Ms. Oberlin might know about any friends Jason made at Blackburn House, but she didn’t seem to.”

“At Blackburn House? Well, let me think. He must have met Nick Whiting and his father, who run the cabinetry business, and Sarah at the quilt shop, but I don’t think any of them ever got close. And of course the bookshop owner was much older.” She seemed to brighten a little. “There’s Nikki, the receptionist. She’d have been more his age, and I think she stopped by a few times. And Rich Willis, the young attorney whose office is upstairs. He might have known Jason.”

“I hadn’t thought of him. I might stop by and introduce myself.” She couldn’t remember that Jason had ever mentioned the man, but it was a possibility. And she’d have to cultivate Nikki’s acquaintance.

Mac’s warning about staying away from Bart Gordon slithered into her mind. Too bad she’d managed to make an enemy of Gordon at their first meeting. But that hadn’t entirely been her fault. Gordon had overreacted to her presence, badly overreacted. That had to mean something.

While Kate had been busy with her speculations, Mrs. Anderson had been burbling on, seemingly an inexhaustible source of local information. “...previous bookshop owner was killed, right there in Blackburn House.” She leaned forward, emphasizing her words with a tap on the table. “Right next door, can you imagine it? Such a scandal, it caused.”

Wheels turned. “Was that when Jason was here?”

“Oh, no, dear. That happened just this past spring. It turned out he’d been blackmailing someone.”

Impressive, but it didn’t seem to have any possible relationship to her brother. “Who runs the bookshop now?”

“That would be Emily Waterston. She’d clerked there for years, and he left everything to her. Poor Emily.” She shook her head. “I’m afraid it’s all been overwhelming for her. And now the high school girl who helped her part-time has gone off to college, leaving her in the lurch. Well, I mean, of course the young woman had to go on to college, but Emily hasn’t been able to find anyone reliable to fill in.”

A bell rang in Kate’s mind. A part-time job at the bookshop—what could be better? It wouldn’t tie her down, and it would give her a legitimate reason for being in Blackburn House whenever she wanted.

“If she hasn’t filled the position, do you think she might be interested in taking me on, just for the month? I...I could stand to have a little extra money coming in until I start a new job.” Actually she was fine financially since Tom had so unexpectedly left everything to her.

But as a reason, it seemed to satisfy Mrs. Anderson. “Why, I’m sure she would. That would give her time to look for someone more permanent. She’d be so relieved.” The woman rose as she spoke and headed for the telephone. “I’ll call her right now and tell her.”

“You don’t need...” she began, but Mrs. Anderson was already punching in the number.

Kate made an effort not to listen to Mrs. Anderson’s side of the phone call, but it was hard not to hear. She got the impression the unknown Emily was jumping at the chance of immediate help.

In a few minutes Mrs. Anderson hung up, turning to Kate with the satisfied smile of one who has done a good deed. “She’s so pleased. You can go over and talk with her right away and set something up.”

“That’s great.” Really great, that it had fallen into her lap so easily. Too easily? She had an almost superstitious mistrust of anything easy. Still, she couldn’t ignore the opportunity. Draining the rest of her iced tea, Kate stood. “Thanks so much.”

Mrs. Anderson flapped away her thanks. “No trouble at all.”

Kate couldn’t stop the triumphant smile that curved her lips as she headed out the door. So much for Mac Whiting’s warning. Not even he could turn a job at the bookshop into a matter of harassment. She’d like to see his face when he heard.

Not that she cared, of course.

* * *

MAC TOLD HIMSELF he’d done everything he could about Kate Beaumont’s troubling presence in his town. Unfortunately, his efforts hadn’t amounted to much. As for Kate herself, she made him think of nothing so much as a barricaded fortification—impenetrable walls bristling with weapons, ready to fire at the slightest provocation, or even at nothing at all.

Kate had every right to be here in Laurel Ridge. He just wished he could get rid of the feeling that she was nothing short of a roadside bomb, ready to explode at the slightest vibration.

Kate lingered at the back of his mind throughout the routine on his plate for the afternoon. Plans for the usual fall safety talk at the elementary school reminded him of Kate, saying that her stepfather had drilled self-defense into her. A meeting with the downtown merchants’ association over a rash of shoplifting made him think of her insistence that someone had tampered with her computer.

By the time he went back to his office, Mac had made up his mind. He had to find out more about Kate Beaumont, even if it meant letting her know he’d been inquiring about her. His lips twisted wryly. The words “police harassment” would undoubtedly be heard.

Marge lifted her eyebrows at him as he walked in. “Something funny?”

“Not really. Be sure all the usual stuff is collected for the elementary school safety talk, will you? We’re supposed to do it Friday afternoon.”

Marge nodded. “Will do. Johnny is down at the bank. A fender bender in the parking lot.”

Johnny was young John Foster, a raw patrolman who showed little signs of ripening. He sighed. “Maybe I’d better get down there.”

“You told me to remind you that he has to learn to do a few things on his own, remember?”

Marge was right. She usually was.

“Okay. I guess he can’t mess up a minor accident report too badly.” Doubt assailed him even as he said the words, but the kid had to do something to earn his salary.

Besides, Mac had something else to do. “Tell him to check in with me when he’s finished.” He headed into his own office. “I need to make a couple of calls.”

Actually there was one call on his mind. Phil Durban had served with him briefly in Afghanistan before returning to the Philadelphia PD, and he’d been Mac’s contact point over the whole disturbing business of Jason Reilley’s death. Phil knew the family, and if there were any rumors floating around about Kate Beaumont, he’d be aware of them.

Luckily Phil was in the station. Mac leaned back in his chair, which creaked in protest, propped his feet on the pulled-out bottom drawer and prepared to exchange the usual backchat with an old comrade.

The genial exchange of friendly insults over with, Mac got down to business. “Listen, Phil, I need some information.”

“Don’t tell me one of our local boys has ventured as far as the middle of nowhere to cause you trouble.” There was the ordinary gibe in the words, but he could sense Phil’s attention sharpen.

“Nothing like that, but someone has shown up here unexpectedly. Kate Beaumont.” He waited for a reaction. Phil might look as bright as a trout, but he had a brain that never forgot a thing.

“Tom Reilley’s kid.” Phil’s voice had slowed. “I wondered.”

“Wondered what?” Mac prompted. “Don’t be too forthcoming now, old buddy.”

“It’s not like I really know a lot, but I did stop by and see Tom once in a while. Poor guy.” Mac could almost see him shaking his head. “He took the boy’s death hard, and then when the cancer showed up, it was like he didn’t have the will to fight it.”

“Rough.” There wasn’t really anything else to say.

“Yeah. Not easy to be a cop’s kid, I guess. My wife not only carries the load, she knocks sense into me when I start bringing job issues home. Tom wasn’t so lucky.”

He’d had a vague notion Kate’s mother was out of the picture, but nothing more. “What happened to Tom’s wife?”

“Alcohol. She tried to drive on the expressway in the wrong direction. Left Tom to raise the kids the best he could.” Phil made a complicated sound in his throat that might have expressed either sympathy or regret. “Suppose he made some mistakes. Who wouldn’t?”

“Right.” He let the word hang for a moment, and when Phil didn’t speak, he prompted him. “What do you know about why Kate decided to come to Laurel Ridge?”

Another silence. When Phil finally spoke, he sounded reluctant. “Understand, I’m only saying this because you’re the one who’s asking.”

“Got it.” A man owed things to the people he’d served with—trust, for one.

“I stopped by to see if I could help when Kate was clearing the house. She’d found a lot of her brother’s stuff, including his computer, that Tom had put away. She didn’t confide in me. Well, she wouldn’t. But I got the idea she’d found something in her brother’s things that raised questions about the boy’s death.”

There was a sour taste in the back of Mac’s mouth. “Found what?” He ground out the words.

“Don’t know. She didn’t say. Maybe I’m wrong about the whole thing.”

“No. I don’t think you’re wrong.”

Phil had good instincts when it came to people. So did Mac. And he’d thought from the first moment he’d set eyes on Kate Beaumont that she was hiding something.

“Listen, about Kate...” Phil hesitated. “Whatever she’s up to, she’s a cop’s kid.”

“Yeah, I get it.” Professional courtesy again, he supposed. Kate, like it or not—and he suspected she didn’t—was part of the fraternity. Protect and serve. He owed that to every person in his community, yes. But he also owed it, and more, to someone like Kate.

So whatever it was she thought she’d found out about her brother’s death, he had to take it seriously. To help, if he could. And to do that, he had to convince her to open up to him.

“Thanks, Phil. I’ll do what I can.”

* * *

BY EVENING, KATE was feeling less than satisfied with her progress. She’d been hired by Emily Waterston with no problem, but the woman hadn’t been as forthcoming as Kate had hoped.

Emily, as she’d insisted Kate call her, looked like the stereotypical chatty elderly lady, with her halo of curly white hair and bright, inquisitive eyes. However, when Kate brought up the subject of her brother, Emily had shied away like a skittish cat that didn’t trust a stranger’s hand.

Kate would have to take time to earn the woman’s trust. Patience. Unfortunately, patience wasn’t her strong suit.

Tomorrow, she decided, she’d find a way to make contact with Nikki, the receptionist. Nikki might not be entirely reliable, but she’d clearly been ready to gossip. In the meantime—

Kate rubbed the back of her neck, where tension seemed to be setting up permanent residence. The only useful course at the moment was to go back to the video diary once more. Painful as it was to watch Jason alive again, she might begin to understand some of his esoteric references now that she’d met a few of the people he’d known.

Pushing past her reluctance, she settled in front of the computer, a notepad ready at hand. A few clicks brought up Jason’s image. She’d start with the one posted on his arrival in Laurel Ridge and work through them.

Jason’s hope and enthusiasm for his new start came through so clearly in the first entry that it brought hot tears to her eyes. This was how he’d looked when he’d discovered a new fantasy game or a wonderful author. He’d seen a new world opening up in front of him. What had gone wrong?

Listening intently, she began jotting down every reference to the people he’d met in Laurel Ridge. She’d get them down, then try to figure out what they meant.

When a sound impinged on her concentration, Kate glanced up, startled to see that darkness crowded against the window. She’d been so intent she hadn’t noticed the passing of light. The noise had come from outside, she thought, and her heart thudded uncomfortably.

A second later someone knocked at the door. Cautious, she advanced to within a couple of feet of it. “Who’s there?”

“Mac Whiting. I’d like to speak to you.”

I don’t want to speak to you. But she opened the door.

“Sorry to bother you so late.” He was coming in even as he spoke. His movement was casual, but beyond that Kate had the sense that he held himself under tight control.

Whatever this was, she didn’t want to deal with it now. “I don’t want to sound unwelcoming, but it’s late.” She managed a smile. “And I have it on good authority that the neighbors will talk.”

Mac’s face tightened, all planes and angles. “They’d talk more if I asked you to come to the station to meet with me.”

“You can’t be serious.” She was instantly poised to fight. “You can’t have any possible reason—”

She stopped, realizing he wasn’t paying attention to her words. He was focused on something beyond her. Kate spun to see Jason’s face looking out at them from the computer screen.

She sped toward the computer, but even as she reached for it, Mac caught her hand.

Her breath caught. “Let go of me. That’s private.”

“Not just yet. What is it?”

“Nothing. Just a video clip of my brother.” She tried to twist away, to no avail.

“Something you found among your brother’s belongings when you cleared the house?”

Her gaze met his, her temper flaring. “How do you know about that? Who told you?”

His eyes shifted. She felt his reluctance and knew the answer.

“Don’t bother.” Bitterness laced her words. “I should be able to guess. Phil Durban, I suppose. You cops stick together, don’t you?”

“We have to.” Answering anger flashed in his face, and she saw him fight to control it. She suspected he didn’t often let impulse get the better of him. Unlike Tom, who would have exploded by this point in the conversation. He’d had a short fuse, and it wasn’t until she’d grown and gone that she’d appreciated the stress that went into his temper.

“Whatever your buddy guessed, he doesn’t know anything. I wasn’t foolish enough to confide in him.” She threw the words at him, clinging to the enmity between them.

But Mac didn’t flare back. Instead he studied her face, and his expression softened. “Phil’s a good guy. If you needed help, he’d have been the first to offer it.”

That sudden gentleness got under her guard. She turned away, and this time he didn’t try to stop her. “I don’t need help. Not from him. Not from you.”

“Well, now, that’s too bad.” The country-boy casualness was back in his voice again. “Because Phil thinks you found out something that made you suspicious about how your brother died, and I can’t leave it alone. If I made a mistake, I have to fix it.”

Kate hadn’t expected that, and the admission jolted her. “You mean that?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Do you have any reason to think I don’t?”

“No, I suppose not,” she admitted. Even Tom, as much as they’d fought, had always meant exactly what he’d said.

“Okay.” He made it sound as if they’d taken a giant step forward. “Let’s start over. What makes you think there’s something I didn’t find out about how Jason died?”

She tried to arrange her thoughts. Her instinct was to tell him nothing, but that had become impossible. But she didn’t have to say she suspected suicide. “It’s not a question of how he died. But why he died.”

Mac seemed to process the difference instantly. “An overdose...” he began, his voice gentle.

“An overdose, yes.” Her throat tightened. “I don’t imagine any coroner could miss that. But why? He’d been clean for nearly three years. He’d graduated with honors. He had a bright future. Why would he throw all that away?”

“Addiction is a day-by-day battle.” Mac rubbed the back of his neck, and frustration threaded his words. “Twenty years ago the worst thing Laurel Ridge cops had to deal with was a Saturday night drunk. Now we fight drugs like every other place in the country.”

“Do you think I don’t know that? I helped him through a couple of relapses. But he was doing so well. Something happened to him while he was here in Laurel Ridge that summer. Something that ended with him lying dead in that cemetery.” What? A breakup? A fresh battle with his father? Trouble at his job? There had to be something. Each time he’d relapsed, something had triggered it.

And if she never found that trigger? Either way, the responsibility came back to her. Her throat closed entirely, and she fought to hold back tears, shaking her head as she turned away from him.

He touched her arm in mute sympathy and guided her to the sofa. He drew the armchair closer and sat like a man prepared to wait as long as it took.

Kate sucked in a breath and swallowed hard. “All right,” she muttered.

“The coroner did confirm that there hadn’t been drugs in his system for some time before the overdose.” Mac’s tone was carefully neutral, as if he understood she needed that to hang on to her precarious control. “But what makes you think it was something that happened here that pushed him into it? Did he say anything to you about dealing?”

His attention seemed to sharpen on the question. Naturally that would be his first thought—that someone was bringing drugs into his town.

“If you’re thinking it was Jason, you’re wrong,” she said flatly. “He wouldn’t. And he hadn’t left here all summer, anyway.”

That had been part of Jason’s determination to make it on his own this time, without leaning on his big sister. He’d stay here for the duration of his internship. Phone calls only—no visits. And Jason never had expressed himself well on the phone. She needed to see his face to know what was happening with him.

“I know that. Obviously we looked into it—the drugs had to come from somewhere. Since he didn’t go anywhere to get them, someone brought them in. We never found out who.”

That had frustrated him. She could see it in his suddenly taut face.

“You don’t know who. But you must have some idea.” She leaned toward him, suddenly urgent. “There can’t be that many potential dealers in a place like this.”

“You’d be surprised.” His lips twisted wryly. “I had some ideas, yeah, but they all came up empty.” He jerked a nod toward the computer. “That file—what does that have to do with it?”

Kate rubbed her forehead as if she could scour away some of the confusion. “Jason kept a sort of video diary. Not every day, but most of the summer.”

“You didn’t find it until your stepfather died.”

She nodded. He was putting the pieces together. “Tom had kept everything that was returned to him, but I doubt he ever looked at it. When I started watching the diary...” She paused, not wanting to say more than she had to. Still, the time for that might have already passed. “I could see how excited and enthusiastic he was at the beginning of the summer. But something changed. He was worried, maybe even scared, about some situation. I think at his work, but I can’t be sure.”

“What precisely did he say? You must know that much.” Mac glanced at the computer again, probably longing to wrest the truth from it.

“It’s not as easy as that. Jason wasn’t exactly direct. He had a way of talking about places and people in a kind of code. I doubt you’d understand any of it.” Just in case he was thinking he’d walk away with her file.

Mac stood, as if he couldn’t pretend to relax for another moment. “Let me see it.”

“No.” She rose as well, facing him. “It’s personal, and you have no right...”

“It could be evidence in a drug case.” He left implied the threat that he could get a subpoena if she didn’t cooperate. “Whatever this code is, it can be broken.”

She’d laugh if this were anything but deadly serious. “It’s not that kind of code.” It was no good—she’d have to tell him more, or she’d never get rid of him. “Jason always loved fantasy—books, games, movies, whatever. I tried to keep up, just so I could share something with him. He’d refer to people and situations with references from fantasy that even I didn’t always understand.” She nodded toward the image of his face, frozen on the screen. “That’s what he did in the diary. He would have known what he meant, but the chances that anyone else could figure it out are slim to none.”

“But that’s what you’re trying to do. That’s why you came here. To see the layout for yourself, to meet the people, to figure out what or who led your brother to his death.”

There was no point in denying it. “It’s my own business,” she repeated stubbornly. “If I find anything that looks like a police matter, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Not good enough.” Mac could apparently be equally stubborn. “You’re not going to be conducting any sort of crusade in my town. Not unless I’m involved every step of the way.”

“You can’t force me...”

He raised an eyebrow. “Force? Who said anything about force? But either you let me in on it, or I’ll make it impossible for you to find out anything about anyone here. It wouldn’t even be hard. A few words to a few people, and you won’t find a soul in Laurel Ridge willing to talk to you.”

She didn’t doubt he could do it. “That’s blackmail.”

“That’s me, doing my job, whether you want me to or not.” His lips quirked, but his eyes were intent. “Take it or leave it.”

Kate wanted to kick him out. To say she’d manage this herself. Trouble was, he held all the cards.

“All right,” she said finally. “You win. I’ll take it.”

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