A Secret To Tell You. Roz Fox Denny

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      “So I see.” He grimaced at her dusty work boots and smudged safety goggles pushed back in April’s short, dark hair.

      “To what do I owe this unscheduled visit?” she asked in an affected Southern drawl. She could count on sweet sarcasm annoying the hell out of Eric.

      Today, however, he apparently had other things on his mind. “I ran into your brother Miles in town. Had lunch with him. Don’t ask me how, but he cadged two invitations to a black-tie fund-raiser. A ball being held by Quinn Santini a week from next Saturday.”

      “Santini. The name’s familiar.”

      “Good grief, I should hope so! Quinn’s running for the U.S. Senate. My paper opposes him, and his picture’s been splashed all over the front page for months. You’ve probably heard your family talking about him, as well. They’re against his election, too.”

      Eric pulled two gilt-edged tickets from his inner pocket and fanned them under April’s nose. “I came here straightaway. If you don’t own a suitable dress, something long and slinky, you’ll need to buy one. This is a big, big deal, and could be important for me.”

      “Why would I spend a fortune on a dress I’d wear once, Eric? You know I hate getting even semi-dressed up for the parties my folks throw.”

      “Yes, but think of the connections you could make at an event like this. You said that in your trade you need social contacts to get your name out through word of mouth.”

      “It helps,” she agreed grudgingly, shutting the door as Eric returned the tickets to his pocket.

      “Is that coffee I smell? I could do with a warm-up.” Skirting April, he shrugged out of his topcoat and headed for her kitchen. “Hey, what’s this?” he asked, weaving around the plastic to drop his coat over a chair next to the stack of letters.

      “Something I found in the wall I removed today. Letters, but they’re written in German.” She hastily poured a mug of coffee and heated it in the microwave.

      Before she could place the mug in Eric’s hands, he was pawing through the letters. A couple of papers tucked between the last two envelopes floated to the floor. Setting his mug down with a thump, April bent and retrieved the pages. “Well, these make no sense. They’re lists of words that aren’t really words in English or German, as far as I can tell. More like scrambled groups of letters.”

      Eric tasted the coffee, made a face, then leaned over her shoulder. “Huh? Two words are spelled out—they’re bird names. See, it says Oriole at the top and Kestrel at the bottom.”

      “Yes. The second page has Kestrel at the top and Oriole at the bottom.” Refolding them, April shoved those sheets into the top envelope. “Maybe they’re anagrams.”

      “Or coded messages.” Squinting at the envelopes, Eric grew more animated. “April, who had this farmhouse built?”

      “I bought it from the heirs of Dr. David Shuman.”

      “Yes,” he snapped. “But after you researched the deed, I distinctly remember you saying this house originally belonged to Anthony Santini. No wonder the name’s familiar! Tony’s grandson is Quinn, who’s the senatorial candidate. April, what rock have you been under?” Eric demanded when she casually retied the ribbon around the letters and tucked the flattened rose underneath it. He tried to take the bundle, but she yanked it away and walked out of the kitchen.

      “Where are you going? April, let me read them.” His voice rose. “Have you asked yourself why a bunch of old letters would be hidden in a wall? What if old man Santini was carrying on some tawdry affair? With some German, yet—during the war?” Eric set down his mug and followed April. “Listen, if I don’t find anything juicy, I’ll give the damned letters back to you. But if I link Grandpa Santini to something sordid, this could be my lucky break. My ticket to the beltway.”

      She continued down the hall, but called over her shoulder, “Eric, honestly, you’re always seeing the next big story in everything you do. These are private letters. I didn’t see the name Santini anywhere. And if they were my love letters, I wouldn’t want them made public. I’m putting them in my bedroom. Then I’m going in to shower. Please let yourself out.”

      Eric’s forward momentum was stopped when April shut her bedroom door. He rattled the knob, found the door locked and pounded with a fist. Then he resorted to cajoling. “You could be holding dynamite, sweetheart. Tony Santini built this farm, but he spent a lot of time in Europe before and after World War Two. I’ve even read stories that hint he could’ve been a spy. April? Dammit, are you listening?”

      She didn’t respond, and thankfully, after a few minutes of shouting, Eric gave up. She heard him say, “I’m leaving, but I’ll be back when you’ve had time to think this through.”

      What did he mean? She had thought it through. But Eric was blind to everything except his career. And he had a temper. She was glad he’d gone with so little fuss.

      She didn’t dally over cleaning up. She’d observed Eric on the trail of a story. He was like a bulldog. He’d try to get his hands on the letters.

      After toweling her hair dry, April grabbed the letters and dashed through the drizzle to her pickup. Someone as astute about the political scene as Eric, but who April trusted more, was her old college roommate, decorator Robyn Parker. Unlike April, Robyn enjoyed the local social scene. She traveled in prominent circles from Virginia to Maryland to D.C. And had the lowdown on everyone of importance. She also could keep a secret.

      Twenty minutes later, April burst into Robyn’s fabric-cluttered shop, relieved to find her friend alone in her office.

      “Did we have an appointment? If so, I doubled up,” Robyn said. “I’m on my way to see Mrs. Mason Hightower.” The pretty redhead fumbled for her Blackberry and punched up her date calendar.

      “I only need a minute, Robyn. I made this discovery out at the farm.” Talking as fast as she could, April filled her in on what Eric said.

      “Wow! Much as I hate to agree with that know-it-all Eric Lathrop on anything, the Norma Marsh in those letters must be Quinn Santini’s grandmother. She’s pretty much a recluse and has been for years. Her hubby, Anthony, was some kind of government diplomat who put them on the social register. He died quite a while ago. I sure wasn’t aware he’d once owned your farmhouse. That’ll be a boon when it comes to selling it. Especially if Quinn wins the election.”

      “I’d forgotten Santini was the original owner until Eric reminded me. He remembered the name from when I researched the deed. It’s true that the history of a house in this area does add to its salability,” she added slowly.

      “You’ve also got the family tragedy,” Robyn said as she tossed fabric in a briefcase.

      “Tragedy?” April glanced up.

      “Yes. Anthony’s son, Brett, Brett’s wife and Quinn’s wife all died in a small plane accident four years ago. Brett was the pilot. It was headline news, and it’s surfaced again with Quinn’s campaign. If you ever got your head out of the sawdust bin, you’d know these things, April. I’ve heard that his grandmother babysits Quinn’s daughter. They live on adjoining estates.” Robyn rattled off the name of the most exclusive development in their county. “Now, he’s a man to drool СКАЧАТЬ