Authors: Vicki Lane
She opened her mouth to make a quick retort, thought better of it, and resumed her seat. “Okay. Point taken. But, Phillip, I need to talk to you about all this stuff before Kyra and Ben get back. Her father’s worried about her— says that she’s emotionally fragile and—”
“Her father? Peterson? Did you talk to him?” Hawkins was alert now. He leaned forward, his attention focused on her, waiting for her reply.
“Her cell phone rang last night. She had left it on the kitchen table and I thought she was asleep. So I answered it and it was her father—”
“What’d you think of him? Hank— you know, my buddy in the Asheville PD— Hank didn’t say much when I brought up the Rose Peterson case. Matter of fact, he was downright edgy— just hinted that someone important had shut down the inquiries and that the word at the watering hole had been that the murder was related to Peterson’s previous connections to organized crime. Kind of a settling of old debts. So what did Peterson sound like?”
Elizabeth considered, trying to replay last night’s conversation in her mind. “Well…I don’t know— he was kind of crude at first but it seemed like he was genuinely concerned about Kyra.”
Hawkins continued to stare at her, waiting for more. She tried to remember
— oh yes, the little tirade about Art!
“And not very fond of Aidan. I mainly got the impression of a powerful man, used to having things his own way. I also got the impression that he’s not a supporter of the arts.” A thought occurred to her. “Phillip, what if he was calling to make sure Kyra was awake and could get out of the house before his goon, the nanny, started the fire? I mean, maybe Peterson just wanted to get Kyra out of there and back into Asheville where he could keep a closer watch…could that be a possibility?”
Phillip made a noncommittal noise and then glanced at his watch. “You talk to him long?”
“Not really. Maybe five minutes at the outside. But, Phillip—”
“Then what happened— when the call was over?”
“I hung up, put the phone back by Kyra’s knapsack, and came out here. That’s when I heard the sirens and discovered that Kyra was gone—”
“Yeah, she told me about how she couldn’t sleep.” The tone of his voice revealed nothing. “When did she go to bed?”
“Right after we ate…say seven or seven-thirty. And it was well after nine when her father called, and I remember looking at the clock in the car when Ben and I were heading down the road to see about the fire. It was ten-thirteen. But what does all of this have to do with anything? She did tell you about the black car— the guy she calls her nanny?”
“Oh yeah, she told me.”
“Well, don’t you think it’s a possibility that this nanny person is working for her father…that he set the fire so Kyra would have to go back home? Or at least back to Asheville, where she’d be easier to keep an eye on? Or what if this is part of the same organized-crime vendetta thing— what if they’re after Kyra now?”
Her questions hung unanswered in the still night air. Down the road she could hear the crunch of gravel and low voices as Ben and Kyra neared the house. In the dim light she could see that Hawkins was running his hand over his head— a gesture that, she decided, meant he would like to change the subject.
“Phillip, quick, before they get back! Who does Sheriff Blaine suspect? I know you two are old friends; don’t try to tell me you haven’t talked to him!”
Phillip hesitated, then, as the voices came nearer, said quietly, “You probably don’t want to hear this, but the obvious suspect in any fire is the first person on the scene.”
“And that would be the man in the black car— the nanny.”
“Um…” He was hedging again. Elizabeth looked toward the steps but the sounds she heard indicated that Ben and Kyra were still out of earshot.
“Well, wouldn’t it?” She urged, trying to wring an admission of some sort from him.
He leaned closer and gently covered her hand with his. “Elizabeth, an objective law enforcement type like Blaine— or like myself, for that matter— would have to say we only have Kyra’s word for it about the nanny. No, Kyra’s the one Blaine’s going to be the most interested in at this point.”
Elizabeth considered this for a moment, trying to ignore the hand that was resting atop hers, then made a grudging admission. “Okay, I can see how that might be. But he will be looking into other possibilities, right?”
“Oh sure, no-stone-unturned type of thing.” Phillip started to pat her hand again, then hastily withdrew. “Sorry.” In the dimness, he might have been grinning.
Ben and Kyra seemed to be no closer. The distant murmur of their voices suggested that they were sitting on the rock steps that led to the upper garden.
“There were a couple of odd things that happened this afternoon,” Elizabeth said. “Let’s go get some more coffee and I’ll tell you about them…as objectively as possible.”
As they moved toward the kitchen, she told Phillip about the gunshot in the woods. “And I figured it was just kids playing around, because they got right out of there when I yelled. But when I called Morris Roberts— he’s the stepfather— he told me that the ‘young uns’ had been in Asheville all afternoon with his wife. And he’s not the sort who’d lie to spare the kids. He takes as dim a view as I do of shooting guns around livestock.”
Phillip frowned. “You said
they
ran off— how many were there?”
“I couldn’t see. I suppose it could have been just one person.”
“Did you think about calling the sheriff?”
“I told you, I thought it was the neighbor kids. And since they…or he…or she, for that matter— I couldn’t see anything— since whoever it was left rather than trying again, I just assumed it was an accident.”
Phillip seemed to be weighing this assumption. At last he said, “Yeah, that’s likely. Probably was just kids— if not your neighbor’s, some others. And what was the other thing?”
She told him about the black car that had almost rear-ended her; she pointed out that Miss Birdie had seen the same car several times. Phillip’s maddening and only response was to comment that there was probably more than one black car in the county. But he agreed to look into the matter.
Footsteps on the porch announced that Kyra and Ben were returning from their walk. As the two came blinking into the bright light of the kitchen, it seemed to Elizabeth that some essential change had taken place. She looked from Ben to Kyra, trying to pinpoint the elusive shift in demeanor, but there was nothing concrete, nothing beyond a fleeting expression. Kyra thanked them both again for their help and, yawning, announced that she was going to bed. Ben too made his good nights and headed for his cabin.
“Well, time for me to get going too.” Phillip stood and stretched. “I’ve got an early meeting tomorrow.”
They walked together back to the porch, where James was waiting to be let in. Phillip addressed the small dog solemnly. “What have you done with your girlfriends?”
James fell on his side and wriggled, delighted at the attention.
“Molly and Ursa spend the night out a lot— usually excavating a groundhog hole, if the dirt on their noses the next morning is any clue.” Elizabeth held the door open and James shot in, making for his pillow in her bedroom. “It was good of you to make the trip out again, Phillip. Kyra—”
“Kyra’s not why I come out here, Miz Goodweather.” He switched on the powerful little flashlight he had taken from his pocket and started for the steps. “Good night, Elizabeth.” He paused. “By the way, I’ll see if I can find out who made the 911 call. That could give us a lead.”
“A
lead.”
Elizabeth muttered as she watched the beam of his flashlight bob down the dark road. “He needs a
lead
when it almost ran into me.” She went back into the house, turned off the lights, and headed for her bedroom, noting the yellow line of light under Kyra’s door.
“Good night, Kyra.” She kept her voice soft, in case her guest was asleep.
“Good night, Elizabeth,” came a yawning reply. “Sleep well.” There was a click and the line of light disappeared.
In the bedroom James was curled in a tight little ball on his pillow in the Windsor rocking chair. Elizabeth turned on the ceiling fan, then stepped into her bathroom and filled the old claw-foot tub with warm water, dumping in enough lavender oil to fill the small room with its soothing fragrance.
As she settled into the comforting embrace of the bath, her mind turned inexorably to Phillip and to his suggestion that Kyra was the chief suspect in the fire.
How can he suspect her? Why would she want to destroy her own house? But it’s not her house, is it? And her art stuff was all out in the barn.
Still, what would she gain? Sympathy? Attention? She already had that with Boz’s death. No, it just doesn’t make sense.
She leaned back and closed her eyes.
Maybe I should make a list— things to look into, people to talk to. From what Phillip says, the police are likely to tiptoe around Kyra’s father.
She stretched out a foot and turned the tarnished brass tap, letting a little more hot water into the tub. A soak in the tub before bed was one of her greatest pleasures. Usually she brought a book with her and read till the water became too cool or till she dozed off. Occasionally her book would dip into the water as her eyes drifted shut, but she had made it a rule never to read borrowed books in the bathtub. Once wet, a book was never quite the same. It would eventually dry out, but always in a puffed-up, outsize version of its former self.
I’d like to know more about Marvin Peterson’s former self. The fact that the murder of his first wife is a taboo subject at the police department must mean something. Could Peterson have influence there as well as the organized-crime connections Phillip mentioned?
The urge to make a list became overpowering. Elizabeth pulled herself up, wrapped a towel around her dripping body, and padded soggily to her bedside table. Taking a notepad and pen from the drawer, she returned to the bath, noting that the warmth was just right. She stretched luxuriously in the scented water and began to write, holding the notepad high.
Her first entry, in big block letters, was
BE OBJECTIVE!
She smiled and began her list.
1.
2.
3.
4.
She awoke with a start. The water was cool and
English Gardens
was lying open on her belly. Or rather, floating.
With a sigh of disgust, Elizabeth lifted the sodden magazine and let it drip, then laid it gently on the towels. She yanked the drain plug loose and the water began to run out with a mocking gurgle.
When she was in the oversize T-shirt that was her nightgown, she turned her attention to the magazine, hoping that it could be salvaged. Carefully, she spread it open to a double-page photograph of a luxuriant garden. Roses cascaded from trellises, arbors, and trees— in all shades of pink, coral, and red. The title shouted in bold turquoise print: “Don’t Forget the Rose.”
She blinked, trying to focus her eyes and her mind. For a few seconds she stood there, staring at the soggy pages. Then she wrote on her notepad:
There’s always a previous murder.
Q
UER
Y,
THE
A
SHEVILLE GALLERY THAT HAD BEEN
slated to exhibit the photographs from The 3’s ill-fated performance piece, was on a street lined with galleries, antique stores, and an ever-changing array of restaurants. As she hurried along, just a step behind the fast-moving Laurel, Elizabeth noticed a place where she had eaten lunch with a friend back in the spring. At that time it had been a serene, expensively tasteful establishment, sparely decorated in shades of gray and serving even sparer Asian fusion cuisine. Now it was painted with a dizzying kaleidoscope of patterns in hot tropical colors and called itself Jerk Kitchen. It was, however, closed and a sign on the door read
Coming soon— In the Raw— A Natural Foods Eatery.
“So, Laur,” Elizabeth called after her daughter, hoping to slow her pace, “reckon it’s a clothing-optional restaurant?”
“Oh, Mum!” Laurel paused in her long-legged stride. “You need to get out more. Raw
food—
it’s a big deal just now. They do all kinds of fancy stuff with juicers and dehydrators and they never heat the food above, oh, like 115 degrees. That way all the enzymes are preserved. They say it’s really the only healthy way to eat because you get the complete nourishment from the food.”