Peppermint Creek Inn (33 page)

“Jeffries did it to Blake, it’s highly likely he did the same to Jack. Fits the profile anyway. On top of that, he has a bad habit of showing up in places right after bad things happen.”

Yes, Justin did have a habit of showing up when he was needed. The bastard!

The top step creaked as Tom shifted his weight, his concerned eyes raked her face. “You okay?”

“It’s a shock,” she admitted.

“You didn’t want to believe it was Jeffries because of his past partnership with your husband.”

“They depended on each other on the force. They seemed so close. They were best friends since they were kids. How did you find out about them being partners?”

“Cran Simcoe.”

“And he doesn’t like Justin either.” She shook her head in puzzlement. “It’s funny, come to think of it.”

“What?”

“No one likes Justin. Jack and I seemed to be the only ones he got along with.” She spotted sudden understanding flash brightly in his green eyes. “You’ve figured something out haven’t you?”

He nodded. “The first day I arrived here I saw Jeffries driving out of your place in a cop cruiser.”

“I asked him to look after my home while I was away.”

“And you did that often? Asked him to keep an eye on your place.”

“Yes. Like I said, I’ve seen shadows lurking around here. Not to mention someone torching my inn. How did I know if my house wasn’t next?”

“If he was checking out your place, he couldn’t have missed the broken kitchen window that first time he drove in. Unless—”

“Unless he broke it himself,” Sara finished for him. “And why the rat?”

“Send me a message. Blake called me a rat just before he was about to blow my brains out. Maybe I double-crossed him. Maybe the money we found belongs to him or to Jeffries. Either way, somehow Jeffries knew I was coming here and he left the rat to scare me off. Keep me away from you. Keep you out of this.”

“Maybe he found the note in your pocket, that’s how he knew.”

“He might have, but I don’t think so. I was just plain lucky I found the slip of paper scrunched up at the bottom of an inside pocket myself. If he found it, he wouldn’t have put it back into my pocket. If I was found dead with the note, then you’d be under intense interrogation. Jeffries doesn’t want you hurt. And I think I’ve figured out why he’s gone out of his way to protect you.”

“Well don’t keep me in suspense.”

“He’s in love with you.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t be silly.” Sara laughed, unable to grasp the idea Justin Jeffries would be in love with her.

“You said you’re the only one he gets along with. And why would he follow you two to Canada from New York? And what kind of a man would drive two hours through mud on an all-terrain vehicle to deliver you groceries when he already knew you were okay and he was supposed to be out looking for a man who’s wanted for the disappearance of his partner?

“And all the other times he’s showed up unexpectedly. When your husband was murdered. When the inn was on fire. I’m sure he’s dropped in other times, too.”

Sara’s mind whirled as the truth of Tom’s words sunk in. Justin Jeffries had been a pest since her husband had died. Always underfoot. Dropping in uninvited for dinner. Sometimes even bringing dinner.

“You think he killed Jack because of me?” she asked tightly. If that was the case, she would never be able to live with something so horrible.

Tom shrugged and said softly, “People have killed for love before, and if this is the case, then, dammit, don’t you dare think it is your fault. He’s the one who is sick.”

She’s the one who felt sick. “I don’t want to hear any more.” Abruptly, she stood.

In her haste, she accidentally brushed against her empty mug she’d set onto the edge of the stairs. The mug tipped over and rolled. Before she could catch it, the mug crashed onto the stone patio, shattering into splinters.

“Oh, darn it,” Sara gasped.

Suddenly out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Tom’s pasty white face and she jolted at the look in his eyes.

A look of intense horror.

—

Gushing crimson.

Wet and sticky. Metallic smell.

The familiar pounding began to swell against his temples.

He cursed silently as he watched the crimson liquid continue to pour freely. Blood seeping into the light blue carpet. A man. Around sixty-five, maybe older. A burgeoning pool of blood spreading from where his jaw once was.

Tom shook his head, trying to clear the visions. He didn’t want to remember. Not now. Not ever!

The pressure in his head swelled. The pain spread outward from his temples, across his forehead to the back of his head. A tight band formed, squeezing, forcing the thoughts from his brain like a fruit squeezer squeezes fruit.

His heart slammed against his chest. He fought to remain in control. The blood continued to roll freely. He had to stop the blood flow! He raced to the man lying facedown on the floor. But it was too late.

He could tell by the deathly paleness gripping his skin. The man was almost dead. But he had to try anyway.

He reached out and turned the man over. He gasped in horror. Part of his chin and throat had been blown away. Automatically he pressed his fingers against what was left of the man’s chin and throat in a desperate attempt to stem the flow of blood.

Thick. Warm. Sticky.

“Tom! C’mon Tom! You’re scaring me!”

Sara’s voice. He had to snap out of it. Oh, God! Had he killed the old man? He had to find out. He allowed his mind to drift back into the God-awful scene.

His hand felt warm and sticky. He looked down. His hand was covered in blood.

“Tom?” Her voice tugged at him.

He blinked again dashing away the vision until Sara’s pretty face loomed in front of him. She reached toward him, grabbing his shoulders with her warm, soft, delicate fingers. Shaking him.

Nausea swarmed in his stomach. His head felt as if it were an exploding watermelon. Just like that old man’s.

His hand still felt warm and sticky.

Covered with the old man’s blood.

“You shot him.” A crisp voice sliced through the air. “You’re a damn murderer!”

“Call 911.” Tom shouted angrily. “Dammit call 911!”

“I’ve got witnesses,” the harsh voice bellowed, ignoring his plea. “You’ll never get away with it.”

“Dammit, Tom! Can you see me?” Sara’s soft voice cut off the harsh accusations. Her voice became louder. Clearer. Sharper. Insistent.

“Tom! Look at me!”

Cold sweat splashed down his back in rivulets. Pain stretched tight across his head. Why would he kill a feeble old man? And who was the accuser? Don’t think about it. Don’t remember it! Don’t!

His muscles ached like the dickens. His mouth tasted of bile and he felt as if he had the worst hangover of his life.

“You okay?” Her pretty smile wavered into view. It was watery but reassuring. He looked around.

Shards of sunshine splashed against the towering pine trees, and a gentle wind rippled the tall grass in the meadow. The gray-planked veranda floor stood steady beneath his unsteady feet. Then he dared to look down and realized with overwhelming relief his hands were covered with the peppermint tea. Not blood! Best of all, Sara stood beside him.

Desperate, he reached out and took her into his arms. He held onto her for dear life. Prayed to God she wouldn’t be taken away from him by his own hand.

—

Sara’s heart thundered against her chest as she stood at the kitchen screen door watching Tom splitting the logs he’d piled in the parking lot earlier in the week. The idea that Justin Jeffries might be in love with her had finally sank in, and she’d begun to analyze the possibility Justin might have been the one who’d murdered her husband.

She’d been so nice to the man. Only because she’d felt so sorry for him. She gripped her fists in anger. Unfortunately, her husband and her children had paid the price. They were dead because of Justin Jeffries.

Somehow, she would have to prove it. But how? She didn’t know yet, but the next time she laid eyes on Justin Jeffries he was going to wish he had never met her.

She watched Tom take a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow then he continued chopping.

When the cup had broken, he’d had that vision again. The one about seeing a man lying dead on the ground. Blood pooling beneath his head. And he’d admitted more details.

He’d tried to stem the blood flowing from the man’s fatal wound. Why would he do that if he’d shot the man on purpose? And whose voice had he heard telling him he’d murdered the old man?

What had Dr. McKay said? The memories may return spontaneously or be triggered by something. Perhaps something familiar.

The cellar in the abandoned house at Jackfish had triggered Tom’s memories of being held captive. And she was pretty sure the mug shattering had triggered the old man’s death. But why had he reacted to breaking glass? And what had triggered a violently ill reaction while they’d been sitting in her truck, searching through the paper bag for the headache pain reliever?

Sara shook her head in dismay. How in the world would she sort out this mess before Garry and Jo called?

Hungrily she watched the gorgeous muscles in Tom’s arms ripple as he swung the ax downward, splitting another romance log in half. By the fierce way he split the wood, she knew he was hurting.

She had to do something to make him realize she would stand by him no matter what happened.

First though, she needed to do something else. Hurrying out of the kitchen, she went in search for the items she would need.

—

Chopping wood didn’t make him feel a whole hell of a lot better, but it sure made it easier to push away the horrible flashes of memories invading his thoughts. Memories of the old man with part of his face blown away. Memories of panic. Of dread. Fear. And a whole host of other gut-twisting feelings.

Plopping the ax up against the chopping block, he took off his sweat-soaked shirt and used it to wipe away the cool perspiration curling around his neck. His arms ached from chopping for hours. His back was pretty sore and his head ached from the visions.

Taking this rare opportunity to look around, he inhaled at the terrific glow of the orange sunset touching the tops of the towering trees setting them ablaze with fire.

It would be night soon and he could be with Sara.

But was it sensible to make love to her without a future for them?

He clenched his jaw as the pain in his heart threatened to make him cry out. Sensible or not, he just couldn’t stay away from her. Couldn’t bear the thought of being separated from her for too much longer. His gaze flew to the tiny trail that intertwined through the darkening pine trees. The path led to the tiny cemetery in the field overflowing with pale powder blue forget-me-nots. He’d seen her disappear up it, hours ago. He knew what she was doing. He only hoped it didn’t hurt too badly.

Dropping his damp shirt on the parking lot’s log railing he picked up the ax and swung with all his might. The metal tip of the ax blade buried itself deep into the flesh of the beech tree log and he could swear it felt as if the ax itself had lodged deep into his own heart.

—

Hot tears roamed freely down Sara’s cheeks as she slowly slid the gold wedding band off her finger and tenderly placed it into the warm grass flowing over the gravesite.

“You died so suddenly, Jack,” she whispered to the big gravestone that contained the names of her family. “We left so much unsaid because we thought we had all the time in the world to say them.”

Gosh, this was harder than she’d thought. Taking a deep heaving breath, she let it out slowly before continuing. “Every time I see a flashing blue police light, I’ll remember you and the first time we met. Your cornflower blue eyes really floored me. I know I never told you that. I guess I should have.” Sara swallowed the lump in her throat as she continued. “I’m through mourning you, Jack. I’ve got to say goodbye. Get on with my life. I know that’s what you would have wanted. Keep an eye on our kids, okay? And please don’t worry about me.”

She picked up the painting she’d been working on when tragedy had struck her life. She’d never finished it. And she never would.

It was a portrait of two young children. Her children. How she’d imagined them to be at about six years old. Her portrait of their twins.

A boy, with gorgeous cornflower blue eyes. She’d made him into a young version of Jack. He was wearing blue jean coveralls over a bare chest and their girl, a young version of herself. Wearing a pretty lavender gardening dress. Her hair, long and flowing with luscious copper curls.

They were walking through the meadow behind the house. The meadow splashed with magnificent wildflowers. They were both smiling up at their father Jack who walked in between them carrying a pitchfork over his shoulder. They’d been on their way to till the vegetable garden.

She’d planned on giving the painting to him the day the twins were born, but it hadn’t worked out that way. Instead, she’d give it to him now. Swallowing back the tears bursting in her throat, she laid the portrait beside the gold wedding band.

Turning her thoughts to her unborn babies, her heart twisted painfully as she placed her handmade mobile with the happy faces onto the grass beside the other items.

“I’ll never hear your voices or see your faces,” she whispered softly. “Or play games with you. Tuck you in at night, or hear your prayers. I wish—” Sara took in another heart-wrenching breath. “I wish things had turned out differently. But I’ll rest easier knowing you’re with your father and your grandmother. And in God’s loving hands.”

Reaching out, she lightly touched the wedding ring and the portrait and the happy-face mobile, her shaky fingers committing their touch to memory.

“Remember that I love you all so very much, and I haven’t forgotten you just because I’m saying goodbye. Take good care of each other, and keep a watchful eye on your grandma.”