Buried Sins (2 page)

Emma sniffed, leaving no doubt of her opinion of that, and headed back toward the kitchen and the new loaf of bread she no doubt had rising on the back of the stove.

Grams’s blue eyes, still sharp despite her seventy-some years, rested on her in a considering way. “Emma’s right. You don’t look as well as you should. Is something wrong?”

Since there was no way she could tell just part of the story, she couldn’t tell any of it. “I’m fine. Just tired from the trip, that’s all. It’s good to be here.”

“If you’d let us know, I’d have had a room ready.” Rachel was ever the innkeeper. “Never mind. It’s just good to have you home.”

Now was not the moment to point out that this hadn’t been home to her since she was six. After beginning her prodigal-daughter return with an encounter with the police, she was just relieved things were going so well with her grandmother and sister.

Her mind cringed away from that moment when she’d heard the wail of the siren. It was not the local cop’s fault, obviously, that the sound still had a power to evoke frightening memories. Still, he hadn’t needed to give her a ticket. He could have just warned her.

Pay the two dollars, as the old joke went. Just pay the fine, which was likely to be considerably more than that, and forget the whole thing.

Barney, Grams’s sheltie, pressed at her knee, and she broke off a tiny piece of sandwich for him and then stroked the silky head. Tiredness was settling, bone deep. She hadn’t stopped for more than a few hours all the way back, pushed onward by a panic she’d only just managed to control. That was probably why she’d been speeding when she hit the Churchville village limits—that unreasoning need to be here.

She glanced across the table at Rachel, who was curled up in an armchair, nibbling on a snickerdoodle. Neither she nor Grams had asked the question that must be burning in their minds: Why had she come?

She ought to have created some reasonable explanation during that long trip, but she hadn’t. How could she begin? They didn’t even know she’d gotten married.

It had seemed like such a sweet idea when Tony proposed it—to wait until they had time to make the trip east and then tell both her family and his in person about their marriage. He’d said his people lived in Philadelphia. Was that true, or was it a mirage, like so much of what he’d told her?

As it had turned out, it was just as well that her family didn’t know. If they did, it would be one more reason for them to look at her with the faintly pitying, faintly censoring expression they so often wore.

Poor Caro, the one who’s always in trouble. Poor Caro, the one who can’t seem to get her life together.

“You look beat,” Rachel said, getting up abruptly. “We can catch up on things later. I’ll make up a room so you can get settled and take a nap if you want.”

Grams stopped her with a slight gesture. “It occurred to me that Caroline might want to have Cal’s apartment. Now that he and Andrea are living over in New Holland, it’s just standing empty.”

Rachel stared at her. “But…won’t she want to be in the house? Why would she want to be out in the barn apartment by herself?”

When she’d been here at Christmas, Caro had seen the apartment her older sister’s husband had built in one end of the barn where he’d started his carpentry business. It was simple and uncluttered, with a skylight that would give her plenty of natural light for painting. As she so often did, Grams had known exactly what she needed.

“It would be perfect.” She interrupted Rachel’s argument about her quarters ruthlessly. “Grams, you’re a genius. I’d love to have the apartment. If you’re sure—I mean, you could rent it to someone else.”

“Nonsense.” Grams’s smile warmed her heart. “It’s yours. I thought it would suit you.”

Rachel still looked troubled at the idea, but she nodded. “Well, fine, then. It’s clean and ready. I’ll help you move your things in.”

“Great.” It seemed to be a done deal. She’d gone from mindless running to having a home. The thought was oddly disorienting.

Had she really been thinking rationally when she’d packed up what she could fit in the car, arranged to ship the rest, written a note to her boss at the gallery and fled Santa Fe without a backward glance? What would Rachel think if she knew? Or worse, Andrea, the oldest of the three of them, with her sensible, businesslike approach to every problem?

She couldn’t explain it, even to herself. She’d just known she couldn’t stay there any longer. The urge to run was too strong. The frightening encounter in the plaza had tipped her over the edge, but the need to leave had been building since before Tony’s death—probably from the moment she’d realized she’d married a man she didn’t really know.

She could only be grateful Grams and Rachel hadn’t asked for explanations. She didn’t think she could lie to Grams, certainly not under Grandfather’s judicious eyes, staring wisely from the portrait. Maybe, somehow, after a little rest, she could figure out what part of the truth she could bear to tell.

The doorbell chimed, startling her. Rachel, already on her feet, headed for the hallway, muttering something about not having any reservations for today.

A low rumble of voices, the sound of footsteps in the hallway. She set down her cup and rose, something in her already steeling. It couldn’t be anything to do with her, could it?

The cop—the one who’d stopped her earlier—paused for a moment in the doorway and then came toward them.

“Chief Burkhalter wants to see Caro.” Rachel, behind him, looked perplexed. “What…”

She forced a smile. “The chief has already given me a speeding ticket today. Maybe he wants to make sure I’m going to pay up.”

Slate-gray eyes in a lean, strong-boned face studied her. “I’m not worried about that, Ms. Hampton.” He took a step toward her, and she forced herself not to move back. “Fact is, I’ve had a call inquiring about you. A call from the Santa Fe Police Department.”

Z
ach was aware of the sudden silence that greeted his words. The room was so still he could hear the tick of the mantel clock and the thud of the dog’s tail against the Oriental carpet.

But there was nothing peaceful about it. Tension flowed from Caroline Hampton. And, to a lesser extent, from her sister and grandmother.

It was a shame they were here, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. If he’d come to the door and asked to speak to Caroline privately, it would only have raised more questions.

The plain fact was that something was going on with this woman, and if it had to do with the law, it was his responsibility. And he knew there was something, would have known it even if not for that call from the Santa Fe PD. He could see it in those brilliant green eyes, read it in the tense lines of her body.

“I can’t imagine why you’d hear from the Santa Fe police about me. Did I leave behind an unpaid parking ticket?”

He had to admire, in a detached way, the effort it had taken her to produce that light tone.

“Not that I know of.” He was willing to pull out the tension just a little longer in the hope that she’d come out with something that wasn’t quite so guarded.

“I don’t understand.” Katherine Unger sat bolt upright in her chair, chin held high. He’d never met anyone who had the aristocratic manner down any better than she did. “Why on earth would the police be interested in Caroline?”

The words might have sounded demanding. But there was a sense of fragility underneath that made it clear he couldn’t prolong this.

“Apparently your granddaughter left Santa Fe without telling her friends where she was going. They’re worried about her.”

Caroline’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying someone reported me missing?”

“Raised an inquiry is more like it. The police department down there was willing to make a few phone calls to allay the woman’s fears.” He made a play of taking his notebook out and consulting it, although he remembered perfectly well. “Ms. Francine Carrington. I gathered hers was a name that made the police sit up and take notice.”

“Caroline, wasn’t that your employer at the gallery?” Mrs. Unger glanced from her granddaughter to him. “My granddaughter had a position at one of the finest galleries dedicated to Southwestern art in the state.”

She nodded stiffly. “Francine was my boss. And my friend.”

“Well, then, why didn’t you tell her where you were going?” Rachel looked puzzled. Obviously, that was what she’d have done under the circumstances.

“Because—” Caroline snapped the word and then seemed to draw rein on her anger. “I left a letter of resignation for her, planning to call her once I got here. I certainly didn’t expect her to be so worried that she’d call the police.”

So she’d left what was apparently a good, successful life at a moment’s notice. In his experience, people didn’t do that without a powerful reason.

“Apparently she told the officer she spoke with that you’d been despondent over the recent death of your husband. She—”

A sharp, indrawn breath from Mrs. Unger, a murmured exclamation from Rachel. And an expression of unadulterated fury from Caroline. Apparently he’d spilled a secret.

“Husband?” Mrs. Unger caught her breath. “Caro, what is he talking about? Does he have you confused with someone else?”

Shooting him a look that would drop a charging bull, Caroline crossed the room and knelt next to her grandmother’s chair.

“I’m sorry, Grams. Sorry I didn’t tell you. Tony and I planned to make a trip east this spring, and we were going to surprise you. But he—” She stopped, her voice choking, and then cleared her throat and went on. “He was killed in an accident a few weeks ago.”

It was his turn to clear his throat. “I apologize. I thought you knew all about it, or I wouldn’t have blurted it out that way.”

Caroline stood, her hand clasped in her grandmother’s. She had herself under control now, and again he found himself admiring the effort it took her. “I intended to tell my family when I got here, but I haven’t had the chance.”

“I understand.” But he didn’t, and he suspected Mrs. Unger didn’t, either.

“I’m sorry that I worried Mrs. Carrington. I’ll give her a call and let her know I’m all right.”

There was more to it than that. He sensed it, and he’d learned a long time ago to trust that instinct where people were concerned. Caroline Hampton was hiding something.

She’d left Santa Fe in such a rush that she hadn’t even talked to the people closest to her. That wasn’t a trip. It was flight.

“I’ll be in touch with the department in Santa Fe, then. Let them know you’re fine and with your family.”

She nodded, eyes wary. “Thank you.”

And that was just what worried him, he realized as he headed out the door. Her family.

Mrs. Unger had welcomed her granddaughter with open arms, as was only natural. But from everything he’d heard, she didn’t know a lot about the life Caroline had been living in recent years.

It was entirely possible that Caroline Hampton had brought trouble home with her. Someone ought to keep an unbiased eye on her, and it looked as if that someone was him.

Caroline woke up all at once, with none of the usual easy transition from dreams to morning. Maybe because it wasn’t morning. She stared at the ceiling in the pitch-black, clutching the edge of the Amish quilt that covered the queen-size bed in the loft of the apartment, and willed her heart to stop pounding.

She’d been doing this for so many weeks that it had almost begun to seem normal—waking suddenly, panic-stricken, with the sense that something threatened her out there, in the dark. Nothing. There was nothing. There was never anything other than her own haunted memories to threaten her.

She rolled over to catch a glimpse of the bedside clock. Four in the morning. Well, it served her right for getting onto such a crazy schedule. As it was, she’d slept twelve hours straight after that encounter with the cop and the endless explanations to Grams after the man had finally left.

Much as she’d like to blame every problem in her life on Zachary Burkhalter, she really couldn’t in all honesty do that. And it wasn’t his fault that just seeing him sent her mind spinning back crazily through the years, so that she was again a scared sixteen-year-old, alone, under arrest, at the mercy of—
No.
She jerked her thoughts under control. She didn’t think about that ugly time any longer. She wasn’t a helpless teenager, deserted by her mother, thrust into the relentless clutches of the law. She was a grown woman, capable of managing on her own. And if she couldn’t sleep, she could at least think about something positive.

She shoved pillows up against the oak headboard and sat up in bed. Her new brother-in-law was certainly talented. Most of the furniture in the apartment, as well as the barn apartment itself, had been built by him. Since so much of the furniture was built-in, he’d left it here, and she was the beneficiary.

She couldn’t blame Burkhalter, she couldn’t blame the comfortable bed, and it was pointless even to blame the stress of the trip. She hadn’t slept well in months, maybe since the day she’d met Tony Gibson.

She’d been working on a display of Zuni Pueblo Indian jewelry for the gallery, repairing the threading of the delicate pieces of silver and turquoise, set up at a worktable in the rear of the main showroom. That had been Francine’s idea, and Francine had a sharp eye for anything that would draw people into the Carrington Gallery.

As usual, there was a cluster of schoolkids, accompanied by a teacher, and a few retirement-age tourists, in pairs for the most part, cameras around their necks. She’d already answered the routine questions—what did the designs mean, how valuable was the turquoise, did the Pueblo people still make it and, from the tourists, where could they buy a piece.

She gave her spiel, her hands steady at the delicate work as a result of long training. Eyes on her—she was always hypersensitive to the feeling of eyes on her—but she wouldn’t let it disrupt her concentration.

The group wandered on to look at something else eventually. Except for one person. He stood in front of the table, close enough to cast a long shadow over the jewelry pieces laid out in front of her.

“Did you have another question?” She’d been aware of him the entire time, of course. Any woman would be. Tall, dark, with eyes like brown velvet and black hair with a tendency to curl. An elegant, chiseled face that seemed to put him a cut above the rest of the crowd. Even his clothing—well-cut flannel slacks, a dress shirt open at the neck, a flash of gold at his throat—was a touch sophisticated for Santa Fe.

“I was just enjoying watching you.” His voice was light, assured, maybe a little teasing.

“Most people like seeing how the jewelry is put together.” She wasn’t averse to a little flirting, if that was what he had in mind.

“They were watching the jewelry,” he said. “I was watching you.”

She looked up into those soulful eyes and felt a definite flutter of interest. “If you want to learn about Zuni Pueblo jewelry,” she began.

“I’d rather learn about C. Hampton,” he said, reading her name badge. “What does the
C
stand for? Celeste? Christina? Catherine?”

“Caroline. Caro, for short. And you are?”

“Anthony Gibson. Tony, for short.” He extended his hand, and she slid hers into it with the pleasurable sense that something good was beginning.

“It’s nice to meet you, Tony.”

He held her hand between both of his. “Not nearly as nice as the reverse.” He glanced at the gold watch on his wrist. “I have a meeting with Ms. Carrington about the Carrington Foundation charity drive. Shouldn’t take more than half an hour. Might you be ready for coffee or lunch by then?”

“I might.”

“I’ll see you then.”

He’d walked away toward the stairs, his figure slim, elegant and cool against the crowd of tourists who’d just come in. Well, she’d thought. Something could come of this.

Something had, she thought now, shoving the quilt back and getting out of bed, toes curling into the rag rug that covered the oak planks of the flooring. It just hadn’t been something nice.

She would not stay in bed. If there was one thing she’d learned in the weeks of her disillusionment about her marriage, the weeks of grief, it was that at four o’clock in the morning, thoughts were better faced upright.

She pulled her robe around her body, tying it snugly. She wouldn’t go back to sleep now in any event, so she may as well finish the unpacking she’d been too tired to do earlier. She slung one of the suitcases on the bed and began taking things out, methodically filling the drawers of the tall oak dresser that stood on one side of the bed. The loft was small, but the design of closets and chests gave plenty of storage.

Storage for more than she’d brought with her, actually. She’d packed in such a rush that it was a wonder she even had matching socks. Anything she hadn’t had room for had been picked up by the moving company for shipment here. When it arrived, she would figure out what to keep and what to get rid of.

Especially Tony’s things. Maybe having them out of her life would help her adjust.

She paused, hands full of T-shirts. When had it begun, that sense that all was not right with Tony? Was it as early as their impulsive elopement, when his credit card hadn’t worked, and they’d had to use hers? It had grown gradually over the weeks, fueled by the phone calls in the middle of the night, the money that vanished from her checking account, to be replaced a day or two later with only a plausible excuse.

The fear had solidified the evening she’d answered his cell phone while he was in the shower. He’d exploded from the bathroom, dripping and furious, to snatch it from her hands. She’d never seen him like that—had hoped never to again.

Yet she’d seen it once again on the night she’d confronted him, the day she’d realized that her savings account had been wiped out. She still cringed, sick inside, at the thought of the quarrel that followed. She’d always thought she was good in an argument, but she’d never fought the way Tony had, with cold, icy, acid-filled comments that left her humiliated and defenseless.

Then he’d gone, and in the morning the police had come to say he was dead.

She dropped a stack of sweaters on the bed and shoved her hands back through her unruly mop. This was no good. The bad memories were pursuing her even when she had her hands occupied.

She’d go downstairs, make some coffee, see what Rachel had tucked into the refrigerator. She’d feel better once she had some food inside her, able to face the day and figure out where her life was going now.

Shoving her feet into slippers, she started down the open stairway that led into the great room that filled the whole ground-level space. Kitchen flowed into dining area and living room, with its massive leather couch in front of a fieldstone hearth.

She’d start a fire in the fireplace one evening. She’d put some of her own books on the shelves and set up a work table under the skylight. She’d make it hers, in a sense.

She went quickly into the galley kitchen, finding everything close at hand, and measured coffee into the maker that sat on the counter. The familiar, homey movements steadied her. She was safe here. She could take as much time as she needed to plan. There was no hurry.

A loaf of Emma’s fruit-and-nut bread rested on the cutting board. She sliced off a couple of thick pieces and popped them in the toaster. She had family. Maybe she’d needed this reminder. She had people who cared what happened to her.

She could forget that sense of being watched that had dogged her since Tony’s death. She shivered a little, pulling her robe more tightly around her while she waited for the toast and coffee. She’d confided that in only one person, telling Francine about her urge to give up the apartment, get rid of Tony’s things, try to go back to the way she’d been before she met him.

Her boss had been comforting and sympathetic, probably the more so because it hadn’t been that many months since she’d lost her own husband.