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HOW SECRETS DIE
By Marta Perry
Chapter One
A
cemetery should be a place where people were buried—not where they died. Kate
Beaumont, confronted so unexpectedly with the place Jason had chosen to end his
life, stopped the car in mid-traffic, earning an irritated honk from the driver
behind her as he was forced to come to a halt as well.
The
driver circled her, looking annoyed but refraining from the rude gesture she
anticipated. Apparently drivers were a bit more polite in a small town like
Laurel Ridge, Pennsylvania, than they were in the city. Her hands were shaking,
and not from the sudden stop. She pulled off the road near the stone wall that
encircled the cemetery.
Ridiculous,
to let just the sight of the place send her into a tailspin. She was tougher
than that, wasn’t she? But while she could face down a recalcitrant politician
or an irate citizen while in search of a story, she couldn’t maintain that
level of detachment where her younger brother’s death was concerned.
Kate
took a long breath, fighting to still the tremors that shook her. She focused
on the scene facing her, assessing it as she would when thinking of the word
picture she’d create for a newspaper article. Laurel Ridge’s cemetery covered
the top of a rounded hill at the eastern end of town. Spreading maples, their
leaves already turning color, shielded gray tombstones. Some of the stones were
worn and tilted, their lettering eroded, but the whole place had a well-tended
air, the grass mown, beds of gold and burgundy chrysanthemums blossoming here
and there.
Which
was the stone Jason had leaned against when he’d taken that fatal dose? She
could find it, she supposed, since the name had shown clearly in the newspaper
photo she’d scanned online. But looking at the spot wouldn’t lead her to any
answers.
Movement
reflected in the rearview mirror startled her, and her stomach tightened as she
realized a police car had pulled up behind her. Great. All she needed was to
draw official attention to herself before she’d even begun her task.
An
officer slid from the vehicle and started toward her. Taking a firm grip on her
nerves, Kate planted a smile on her face and hit the button to roll down her
window.
She
was about to speak when a closer look at the man’s uniform gave her another
shock. M. Whiting, the lettering on
his pocket read. McKinley Whiting, then. Chief of Police in this backwater town,
and the man who’d dismissed her little brother’s death as just another druggie
overdosing himself.
Kate
gritted her teeth, fighting to keep her feelings from showing in her face as
she looked up at the man. Tall and lean, he had dark hair in a military-style
cut and a jaw that spoke determination. He didn’t affect the dark sunglasses so
many cops did, and his brown eyes studied her, missing nothing, she felt sure.
“Are
you having car trouble, ma’am?” His voice was a bass rumble.
“No,
not at all. Is there a problem?”
“You
can’t park here.” He nodded to the No Parking sign directly in front of her
fender. “If you’re interested in the cemetery, you can turn in at the gate just
ahead. You’ll find a gravel pull-off where you can park if you want.”
“I
don’t.” Kate’s tone was sharper than she intended, but she couldn’t seem to
control the spurt of temper. “Can’t a visitor to your town stop to get her
bearings without being harassed?”
Reading
the surprise in his face, she clamped her lips shut before she could make
matters worse. She’d overdone it—lost her cool and let her feelings show. The
last thing she wanted was to raise the suspicions of the local cop before she’d
been in town for five minutes.
“Sorry,”
she muttered before he could speak. “I didn’t mean…”
“No
problem.” He said the words easily, but his brown eyes were watchful. “I wasn’t
trying to harass you. If you’re lost, I’ll be glad to help you find your way,
Ms.…”
He
left it hanging there, obviously intent on learning her name. Well, at least it
wouldn’t connect her with Jason Reilley.
“Kate
Beaumont.”
“Nice
to meet you, Ms. Beaumont. I’m Mac Whiting.” She could see him stowing her name
away in the filing cabinet of his mind. “Coming to visit someone here in Laurel
Ridge?”
“No.”
Guilt and grief was a powerful combination. She should have. If she’d come to
visit Jason the summer he’d spent here, maybe he’d still be alive.
That
was the danger of loving someone. It hurt too much when you let them down.
Whiting’s
eyes were probing again. If she’d worn a sign, she probably couldn’t have been
more obviously hiding something.
She
swallowed hard and tried for a normal tone. “I’ve been driving for several
hours. I just thought I’d find a place for lunch.”
He
nodded, again with that watchful look. Protective, that was what it was. As if
his town might need protecting against her.
“Turn
left just ahead, and you’ll be on Main Street. There’s a café a few blocks down
on your left, across from the Bed and Breakfast.” He pointed, leaning against
the car as he did so, and she had a sudden sense of masculine power in his
nearness. “I can vouch for the food, and the prices are reasonable.”
She
hadn’t expected that casual reference to the Bed and Breakfast, and it shook
her. Would it be the same one where Jason had stayed when he came to Laurel
Ridge? If so, it was going to be one of her first stops.
“Okay,
thanks.” She managed a cool, dismissive smile. “I appreciate the
recommendation.” She turned the key, her fingers brushing the silver dragon
charm Jason had given her, and put her finger on the window button.
Whiting
looked at her for a moment longer, and then slowly stepped back so she could
close the window. She put the car in gear, glanced behind her, and pulled out.
Whiting was easy to see in her rearview mirror. He’d pulled out a notebook and
was jotting down her license number.
She
doused a flicker of anger. A search of her license wouldn’t tell him anything
except her address in Baltimore. She’d never been arrested, so a query to the
police there wouldn’t help him, even if he went that far.
But
this encounter had clearly shown her that she’d have to do better. True, she
hadn’t expected the first person she’d meet in Laurel Ridge to be the policeman
who’d been quoted in that article about Jason’s death. She might be excused for
losing her grip just a bit, but it was unfortunate. She’d raised his suspicions
before she’d had a chance to do a thing.
But
what difference did it make in the long run? Sooner or later she’d have to
divulge the relationship between her and Jason. If she didn’t, she’d have no
reason for asking questions about him. She’d toyed with the thought of claiming
to be writing a newspaper story about Jason’s death, but that didn’t sound
credible even to herself, not after over a year had passed.
Kate
made the turn onto Main Street and drove down it at a sedate speed, reading
signs as she went. There, ahead of her on the left, was the café Whiting had mentioned,
and on her right the Bed and Breakfast. She slowed, peering toward the rear of
the white clapboard building, and caught a glimpse of a small building nearly
hidden by the trees. That had to be it—the cottage where Jason had lived during
his three months in Laurel Ridge.
And
next to the Bed and Breakfast rose the imposing Italianate building that was
Blackwood House, where Jason had worked. The place where he’d lived; the place
where he’d worked. That was where she had to begin.
She
hadn’t been here when Jason had needed her, but she was now. She’d find the
answer to the question that haunted her, because if she didn’t, she’d never be
satisfied. What had happened in this seemingly quiet, peaceful town that had
led to her brother’s death?
