Buried Sins. Marta Perry

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СКАЧАТЬ The forsythia branches, so eerie in the night, were ready to burst into bloom. There had been no footprints in the mulch, nothing to indicate that anyone had stood there, looking in.

      She’d clipped some sprigs of the forsythia, brought them inside and put them in a glass on the breakfast bar as a defiant gesture toward the terrors of the night.

      She put a forkful of omelet in her mouth, savoring the flavor. “Wonderful. Your guests must demand seconds all the time. Did Grams eat already?” She glanced toward the chair at the head of the table.

      “Emma thought she looked tired and insisted she have her breakfast in bed. When Emma makes up her mind, not even Grams can hold out.”

      She put down her fork. “Was she that upset because of me?” Because of all the things Caro hadn’t told her?

      “Don’t be silly.” Rachel looked genuinely surprised. “She’s delighted to have you here. So am I. And Andrea. No, it’s just Emma’s idea of what’s right. You’ll see. When people are here, Grams is the perfect hostess, and no one could keep her in bed then.”

      “It’s going well, is it?” Rachel and Grams had started the inn in the historic Unger mansion at the beginning of last summer on something of a shoestring, but they seemed to be happy with how things were going.

      “Very well.” Rachel’s eyes sparkled. “I know people thought this was a foolish decision, but I’ve never been happier. Being a chef in someone else’s restaurant can’t hold a candle to living here, working with Grams and being my own boss.”

      “And then there’s Tyler to make you even happier.” Her sister was lucky. She’d found both the work that was perfect for her and the man of her dreams. “How is it working out, with him in Baltimore during the week?”

      “Not bad.” Rachel’s gentle face glowed when she spoke of her architect fiancé. “Right now he’s in Chicago, but usually he works from here a couple of days a week, while his partner handles things at the office.”

      “I’m glad for you.” Caro reached out to clasp her sister’s hand. Rachel deserved her happily-ever-after. She just couldn’t help feeling a little lonely in the face of all that happiness.

      Rachel squeezed her hand. “I shouldn’t be babbling about how lucky I am when you’ve had such a terrible loss.”

      “It’s all right.” What else could she say? Rachel didn’t know that the real loss was the discovery that Tony had lied to her, cheated her and then abandoned her in the most final way possible.

      That was what happened when you trusted someone. She’d learned that lesson a long time ago. Too bad she’d had to have a refresher course.

      She could tell Rachel all of it. Rachel would try to understand. She’d be loving and sympathetic, because that was her nature. But underneath, she’d be thinking that poor Caro had blown it again.

      It was far better to avoid that as long as possible. She didn’t need to lean on her sister. It was safer to rely on no one but herself.

      She took a last sip of the cooling coffee and rose. “I’m going to drive down to the grocery store to pick up a few things. Do you need anything?”

      Rachel seemed to make a mental inventory. “Actually, you could pick up a bottle of vanilla and a tin of cinnamon for me. Otherwise, I think I’m set. Just put everything on the inn account. Your stuff, too.”

      “You don’t need—”

      “Don’t argue.” Rachel was unusually firm. “If you were staying in the house, you wouldn’t think twice about that.”

      She nodded reluctantly. There was independence, and then there was the fact that her bills were coming due with no money in her bank account, thanks to Tony. What did you do with it all, Tony?

      She felt a flicker of panic. How could she have been so wrong about him?

      Main Street was quiet enough on a Tuesday morning in March that he could patrol it in his sleep. Zach automatically eyeballed the businesses that were closed during the week, making sure everything looked all right. They’d open on the weekends, when the tourists arrived.

      The tourist flow would be small awhile yet, and his township police force was correspondingly small. Come summer, they’d add a few part-timers, usually earnest young college students who were majoring in criminal justice.

      He enjoyed this quiet time. He liked to be able to spend his evenings at home, playing board games or working puzzles with Ruth, listening to the soft voices of his parents in the kitchen as they did the dishes.

      Families were a blessing, but worry went along with that. Look at Caroline Hampton, coming home to her grandmother with who-knows-what in her background. No matter how you looked at it, that was an odd story, what with her not telling her family she was married, let alone that her husband died. The sort of odd story that made a curious cop want to know what lay behind it.

      He’d poked a bit, when he’d called the Santa Fe PD back to let them know that the lost sheep was fine. The officer he’d spoken with had been guarded, which just increased his curiosity.

      It might have been the city cop’s natural derision for a rural cop, or something more. In any event, the man had said that there was no reason to think the death of Tony Gibson was anything but an accident.

      And that way of phrasing it said to him that someone, at least, had wondered.

      He slowed, noticing the red compact pulled to the curb, then a quick figure sliding out. Caroline Hampton was headed into Snyder’s Grocery. Maybe it was time for his morning cup of coffee. He pulled into the gravel lot next to the store.

      When he got inside, Etta Snyder gave him a wave from behind the counter. “Usual coffee, Chief?”

      “Sounds good.”

      Caroline’s face had been animated in conversation, but he saw that by-now-familiar jolt of something that might have been fear at the sight of him. It could be dislike, but he had the feeling it went deeper than that.

      She cut off something she was saying to the only other customer in the shop—tall guy, midthirties, chinos and windbreaker, slung round with cameras. He’d peg him as a tourist, except that tourists didn’t usually travel in the single-male variety, and the cameras looked a little too professional for amateur snapshots.

      “Here’s the person who can answer your questions,” she said, taking a step toward the counter. “Chief Burkhalter knows all about everything when it comes to his township.”

      He decided to ignore the probable sarcasm in the comment, turning to the stranger. “Something I can help you with?”

      The guy looked as if he found him a poor substitute for a gorgeous redhead, but he rallied. “Jason Tenley, Chief. I was just wondering what the etiquette is for getting photos of the Amish. I’m working on a magazine photo story, and—”

      “There isn’t any,” he said bluntly. He’d think any professional photographer would have found that out before coming. “Adult Amish don’t want their photographs taken, and it would be an invasion of privacy to do so.”

      “What about from behind? Or СКАЧАТЬ