I Think I Love You (30 page)

She turned back. "Even me?"

Cissy sighed and reached for her cup of coffee. "I know you've always held out hope for a happily-ever-after for me and your father."

"And what's so bad about that?"

"It's unrealistic, dear. Especially in light of everything."

Regina's gaze landed on the broken leg of a chest of drawers. Holding it level was a dusty copy of
Your Emotional Checklist,
the book she'd dedicated to her mother. Nice.

She looked up and crossed her arms. "I'm not giving up on Daddy."

"Your father isn't the man you think he is."

"Mom, I know you're hurting and confused—"

"He had an affair with your Aunt Lyla."

Regina literally took a step back. "I... don't believe it."

"I didn't either, at first, but I came to believe it. And it's eaten at me for almost twenty years."

Regina closed her eyes briefly. "So that's why you and Dad are splitting up."

Cissy nodded.

"I'm not trying to make excuses for him, Mom, but that
was
twenty years ago."

"I don't care. When John and I committed to each other without a marriage license, it was a symbol of the faith and trust that we had in each other. Your father violated that trust, and I can never forgive him." She shook her finger. "I told you this because I thought you should know, but you can't tell anyone."

Regina swallowed the lump of emotion in her throat. No wonder her family was crumbling—it was built on a foundation of lies and fantasies. "I won't."

Cissy patted the spot next to her on the bed, and Regina sat. "Prepare yourself, sweetheart, for further disappointment in the people around you. I wish, for your sake especially, that we could have been a more normal family. Mica and Justine didn't need normal, but you did."

Her mother made it sound like such a shortcoming.

Cissy sighed. "This is a double tragedy for Mica and Justine, losing Dean and their father. How are they?"

"They're, um, each dealing with their grief in their own way. Why don't you get dressed and come downstairs? Uncle Lawrence is here."

Her mother smiled sadly. "Lawrence is taking a big risk being with us during a time like this—his political reputation could suffer by association."

"He cares about you."

Cissy nodded and smiled with genuine fondness. A light knock sounded at the door.

"And there he is, I'll bet." Saved. "See you later?" She gave her mother a kiss, then went to the door. It was Lawrence, all smiles as he greeted his sister. Regina left them and closed the door, reeling over the news that her own father had slept with Lyla.

She remembered Lyla flirting with John, touching him when they talked, winking. But her father had never shown Lyla any special attention, except maybe the time she and Justine had argued over that broken vase and he'd taken Lyla's side.

That had happened a few weeks before she was murdered, because Justine had still been paying off that vase when it happened. Which might mean that their father had been fooling around with Lyla during the time she was murdered. A cold hand of fear clamped down on her heart.

Or fooling around with Lyla during the exact
moment
she was murdered.

Chapter 25

For a great aerobic workout, DO jump to conclusions.

Regina's knees weakened. Was it possible that her father had killed Lyla all those years ago and had killed Dean too? Now she understood why Cissy didn't want her to tell anyone about the affair—if Bracken's attorney got wind of the fact that the father of the girls who had witnessed the murder not only was sleeping with the victim but also had access to the murder weapon....

"Are you okay?" Mitchell asked.

She whirled around and resisted the overwhelming urge to confide in him. "Yes."

He seemed dubious but indicated his laptop. "I'm ready whenever you are."

She nodded and led the way down the hall. "The attic is empty, so we'll start in one of the bedrooms. There's a great Chippendale chest-on-chest in the rear guest room."

"Can't wait to see it," he murmured, but she could tell he was preoccupied.

"So," she said, trying to sound casual, "what did Uncle Lawrence want to talk to you about?"

"He just wanted to reiterate his belief that the right man was behind bars and how he didn't want to see you girls dragged through the mud."

Was Uncle Lawrence, too, protecting John for Cissy's sake? Assuming he knew about the affair. She tried to put aside her worries as they set about tagging the items in the rarely used guest room. Mitchell was intrigued with the chest-on-chest and with an art glass lamp. After they finished, they moved down the hall to the next bedroom.

He made a humming sound. "White canopy bed—this must be your room."

She nodded. "For eighteen years." She pivoted, looking at the furnishings through his eyes. White, feminine furniture with pastel linens. Lazy ceiling fan. Two sets of tall bookshelves and a step stool.

"Looks girly," he observed. "I assumed you were more of a tomboy."

She laughed. "I was, but Cissy was determined to make me into a lady."

He walked over to her bookshelves. "Nancy Drew. Complete set?"

"For that particular edition, except for number twenty-one,
The Secret in the Old Attic."
She smiled, fingering the spines. "I'd like to buy them back from the estate, if that would be possible."

He frowned. "They're your books—take them."

"Is that allowed?"

"Sure. The bank isn't interested in auctioning off every last matchstick. Besides, I'd venture you've more than earned back your own books with all the hours you've put in."

She lifted her hands. "As you can see, there's nothing much of real value in here, except perhaps the desk. From the hand-painted scenes, I believe it's Edwardian."

He ran his hand over the wood and nodded. "You're right," he said. "Nice piece." Then he looked down at the papers spread across the surface of the desk.

Too late, she realized the manuscript she'd been reading in her spare time lay there.

He picked up a sheet and read the page heading: "'I THINK I LOVE YOU: Relationship DOs and DON'Ts for Grown Women.'"

He looked at her, and even though she fixed a nonchalant expression on her face, she felt her neck grow hot. "It's a manuscript I'm considering."

One side of his mouth pulled back and he continued to read from the page he was holding. "Don't be too available, especially after you sleep with him." He looked up briefly, then resumed. "You should ration intimacy because when it comes to sex, men are like cattle, which, if led into a field of green clover, will eat until they founder themselves and die. In short, men and cattle must be domesticated for their own survival." He looked over the top of the page. "You're not really going to print this, are you?"

She bit back a smile. "It's supposed to be funny."

"Well, it's not."

She laughed. "I think it is."

He flipped his finger against the page. "It's this kind of propaganda that keeps men and women at odds."

"No, I think that's plain old biology."

He smirked and returned the piece of paper to her desk, then walked the perimeter of the room. "This room smells like you."

"Is that good?"

"Yeah. Unless you're trying not to notice."

She watched his back, trying not to notice a few things herself.

He stopped at the closet door. "Any goodies in here?"

"A few old linens—Mom got on that kick in the early eighties and we suddenly had tablecloths coming out of our ears."

He opened the door and hanging on a hook was her "How to Sleep Alone" nightshirt. Great.

"What is this, your armor?"

She bristled. "No. It's... none of your business."

He rummaged through the tablecloths. "Tell me—do you ever get the idea that people don't want to be happy?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"I think sometimes that people are afraid to be happy—afraid that it'll feel good, but it won't last, and then they'll feel worse than they did before."

She squirmed. "I don't think that's a conscious decision to not be happy; I think that's self-preservation."

He rummaged. "Doesn't sound like much fun."

She studied his profile, alarmed at how appealing it had become in such a short time. "Not everyone's top priority is fun." And to her abject horror, she teared up.

"True," he said mournfully, then closed the door. "We can bundle the linens—" He stopped when he saw her face. "Hey, I didn't mean to upset you. I was talking off the top of my head."

She turned her back and wiped her eyes. "It's not you—it's... everything. God, what a train wreck."

He came up behind her and more tears squeezed out. "Let's take a drive," he said. "I think we could both use some fresh air, and I have something to show you."

She relented, mildly curious, and happy for a change of scenery. Outside, Mitchell slid back the side door of the van and whistled for Sam, who happily jumped in. Regina climbed into the bucket seat on the passenger side and rolled down the window. Mitchell dropped into his seat and started the engine with practiced ease.

She hadn't told anyone that she was leaving, but she was pretty sure they'd never miss her.

At the end of the driveway sat Pete Shadowen in his cruiser. He got out and put on his hat, then waited for them to drive up. Today the bottom half of his uniform was short pants, undoubtedly in deference to the temperature. Indeed, he seemed to have some kind of heat rash between his knees and the tops of his white tube-top socks.

"Cute," Mitchell mumbled.

"Be nice," she said, then smiled at Pete when he walked up to the driver's side. "Hey, Pete."

"Hey, Regina. Cooke."

Sam bared his teeth and snarled. Mitchell snapped his fingers and apologized. "It's the uniform," he explained.

Pete frowned slightly. "No word from your dad, Regina?" The toothpick bobbed and he scratched heartily below her line of vision.

"No."

"Where are you two headed?" He sounded a tad accusatory, as if they were on their way to a torrid tryst. Or maybe she was simply projecting.

"Running errands," she said. "There's going to be a memorial service for Dean tomorrow night at Williams's if you'd like to come. I don't suspect there'll be much of a crowd."

"Nah," he agreed. "Even the regulars won't come just to look at an urn. You know how the folks around here prefer a good open-casket viewing."

Mitchell looked over. "His body is being cremated?"

She nodded. "Mica said it's what he wanted."

"Would never have thought that of Dean," Pete said.

"How well did you know him?" Mitchell asked.

Pete shrugged. "He was a dropout, older, kind of wild. We didn't run in the same circles. I knew him when I saw him, or when Dad talked about him."

"He was in trouble with the law?"

Another shrug. "Carousing, breaking city limits curfew, stuff like that." He scrunched up his face. "And then there was Rebecca Calvin—I'd forgotten all about her."

Regina's ears perked. "The daughter of the man who sells old books?"

"Sounds like the same man—sells cars on the side, too. Drives a flatbed truck?"

"Yes. What about his daughter?"

"Committed suicide when she was fifteen."

"I don't remember that."

"She was older than us, older than Justine, I think. Lived up Macken Hollow, just her and her dad."

"What happened?" Mitchell asked.

"Hung herself. Turns out she was pregnant, and rumor was the baby was Dean's. I think he was only fifteen at the time, too."

Regina swallowed hard. When Mr. Calvin had said his daughter had been gone a long time, he'd meant dead.

"Guess there was bad blood between the old man and Haviland?" Mitchell asked.

"Yeah. The old man was pretty torn up about it, wanted my dad to lock Dean up, but there wasn't anything he could charge Dean with."

"Has anyone questioned Mr. Calvin to see where he was the night Dean was shot?"

Pete shifted foot to foot. "I don't mean to sound crass, but it seems pretty clear that John is the guy we're looking for here."

"Right, the
obvious
theory," Mitchell said.

Pete leaned in. "Sorry, Regina. You know we'll go as easy on John as we can when he shows up."

She bit her tongue and nodded. "Thanks, Pete."

"Monroeville doesn't seem like a hotbed of crime," Mitchell said. "How many murders in the last twenty-five years?"

Pete thought hard. "There was Lyla Gilbert, then, about five years ago, Fitz Howard—"

"Who's he?"

"Local plumber. Was plumbing George Farrell's wife, and George ran him over with an Oldsmobile. That was a closed-casket funeral."

"Any others?"

He shook his head. "Not until Dean. We're more of a farm-accident kind of community." From the car, his radio screeched. He pointed. "I'd better get that. I'll see you tomorrow night at the memorial, Regina."

She said good-bye, and they pulled out onto the two-lane highway that led back to town. She slumped comfortably and leaned close enough to the window to catch the breeze.