A Shadow on the Ground (6 page)

Her room.

She opened her mouth to call Sean’s name, but a sudden wave of uncertainty stopped her. Was it Sean? Sean would have charged up the stairs calling her name. Sean’s work boots would have thundered down the hall to his room. Sean would have never gone in her room without asking permission. Would he? She stood frozen, clutching the bath towel to her chest. The person in her room moved noisily across the floor.

She could hear the drawers in her antique dresser being jerked opened and shoved closed, old swollen drawers that were hard to manage. She had always meant to rub beeswax on the bottoms to keep them from sticking, and whoever was opening them, wasn’t having an easy a time of it.

Another loud scrape sent her heart flying to her throat.

She dropped her bath towel in the sink, lifted her blue terrycloth robe off the hook, and slipped it on. She stared at the broken door lock. One more thing in the Maguire mausoleum that hadn’t worked in fifteen years.
“Why do you need a lock on the bathroom door?” Opal had asked Sean. No reason, he’d mumbled, tucking his magazine under his arm and turning seventeen shades of scarlet.

Morgan glanced at the tiny window above the toilet. Sean always parked in the same spot. If he had come home, she would be able to see his Jeep from the window. She inched her way across the room, one wet bare footstep at a time, praying the floorboards beneath the linoleum wouldn’t creak and give her away. She eased the louvered shutter open, rose up on her tiptoes, and craned her neck to see out.

No Jeep.

She was alone in the house with a stranger. Had she locked the front door? She couldn’t remember. The root cellar door? The office door? The latch on the back door could be tricky. More than once, she thought she’d locked it, only to discover the next morning it had been left open all night.

Her closet door banged against the adjoining wall.

Another surge of panic shot through her. She held on to the towel rack to stop her hands from shaking. The person rattling around her room didn’t seem to care how much noise they made, so it was a sure bet they thought they were alone in the house. As long as she didn’t make a sound, and the intruder didn’t have to pee, she was reasonably safe in the bathroom. For the moment. She picked up the plunger sitting in the corner beside the toilet. Not exactly ideal for whacking a robber where it counted. But better than nothing.

She grabbed her cell phone off the chair and eased it open.

No bars. No service.

God
,
she hated living in the country. She might as well be on the moon. Give her a big, crowded, messy town to live in any day. Some place with city water, paved roads, and reliable phone service. Some place with a Cineplex and a sushi bar.

A string of muffled curses echoed from the other side of the wall. It sounded like a woman, but the walls were thick, and she couldn’t be sure. What were they looking for? Money? She didn’t have any. The flag? No one in Riverbirch except Ethan knew about it. And if Ethan wanted to steal it, he would never have the balls to break into her house in broad daylight.

She wasn’t sure why she had never told Sean about Denny giving her the Civil War flag. She’d wanted to, but as the years passed, hiding the fact she was sitting on a goldmine became too difficult to admit. The insecure part of her, the part that needed a lifeline in her back pocket, knew if she told Sean she had the means to save his farm, and withheld it from him, he would be deeply wounded. The last thing she ever wanted to do was hurt her brother; she wasn’t sure she could bear the guilt. And yet, she’d said nothing.

The door to her room swung open and banged against the wall. Footsteps moved into the hall then stopped. Was the bathroom she was hiding in next? Was this person going to go from room to room, like every monster in every horror movie she’d ever seen?

Morgan held her breath. She slid the terrycloth sleeve over her hand and pressed it against her mouth to keep from crying out.

Stay still, stay still, stay still. Don’t breathe, don’t breathe, don’t—

The footsteps moved away from her room, then traveled the length of the creaky hall toward the staircase. Morgan glanced in the mirror over the sink at her chalk white face. A film of perspiration glistened on her temples, her eyes wide and paralyzed with fear. She recognized that person. She’d seen her once before in a rearview mirror, the night she drove out of Denny Quillen’s life.

She sat on the side of the tub. The soft
tick-tick
of the round plastic wall clock whirred over her head. She waited for what seemed an eternity, until she finally heard the pulse and whine of a car motor start up near the front of the house. She opened the bathroom door and peeked out. Then she ran as fast as she could down the hall, across the upstairs parlor into Opal’s old room. She hurried to the window and batted the thick velvet curtain to the side. A flash of black metal glinted in the afternoon sun as the tail of a car disappeared around the bend.

“
Dammit!”
she whispered.

She dropped on to the four-poster bed and stared out the window, willing the car to back up and identify itself. If only she’d been braver. Left the bathroom quicker. Run down the hall faster. Made it to the window sooner. If only.
If only.

She hated those words.

She bounded off the bed and retraced her steps to her room. Her gaze flicked from the dressers to the bed to the closet. Everything looked the same. Nothing seemed out of place. If she hadn’t been trapped in the bathroom, and heard someone rifling through her things, she would never have suspected anyone had been there.

Her gaze shot to the table beside the bed. She jerked opened the drawer and pulled out the tiny crowbar she kept wedged between the dividers. She scooted the wooden rocker away from the window, flipped back the blue and white rag rug, and with one expert twist, pried loose a small section of floorboard. She slipped her hand between the slats until she touched the plastic box, then lifted it out and opened the hinged top. Relief flooded through her as she stared at the flag.

The deafening sound of off-key chimes, courtesy of Opal’s three-hundred dollar Westminster doorbell, ricocheted through the upstairs hall.
Bong, bong,
bong,
bong
. Every other note sharp or flat. As soon as Morgan had the money, she was ripping it out of the wall and replacing it with one that didn’t make her want to tear her hair out.

She shoved the box back into its hiding place and rushed downstairs. Was the front door still locked? Why hadn’t she checked it after the intruder had left? Why hadn’t she put clothes on? All good questions. She wished she had answers for them. She glanced out the front window. A silver-white car she didn’t recognize sat parked beside the fence. She pulled the robe lapels closer together and peered through the screen.

Lawrence Finch stood on the porch. His face always gave her a start. Pale green eyes bulged beneath a wide, protruding forehead. Wisps of graying blond hair fluffed across his scalp. A series of tiny scars spread like tentacles across his temple to his right cheek, twisting the shiny skin around his right eye as if it were covered with plastic wrap.

He saw her before she could draw back, and she had no choice but to open the door.

“Miss Maguire.” His thin lips curled into a smile. She’d never been able to place his accent. New York? New Jersey? Some place up north, with enough of a sneering, patronizing edge to make the locals suspicious.

“Mr. Finch.” She tightened the belt on her robe. His gaze dropped to her chest.

“I’m looking for Sean. Is he home?

“No, but I expect him any minute.”

“We came to extend our condolences.”

“We?”

Another man, shorter and stockier than Finch, stepped into view. “I don’t think you’ve met my business associate, Peter Mendoza.” Mendoza grinned. The glint off his gold front tooth sparkled in the waning light.

“I hear my friend Harlan Spannagel won't be working for you anymore,” Finch said.

“Friend?” Morgan laughed. “You're kidding, right?”

Harlan had never made any bones about his dislike of Lawrence Finch. Finch had lured their apple pickers away with salaries Sean couldn't begin to match. The honeybee shortage, resulting in a severe lack of fruit tree pollination, had lowered the apple crop by over forty-percent, enough to sink even the most successful orchards. Without Harlan to run interference, Maguire Orchard couldn't hold on much longer. And Finch knew it.

“Well, thanks for the heartfelt sentiment,” she said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

She tried to close the door, but Finch's reflexes were swift. He held the screen open and jammed his foot in the gap.

“I think you’d better leave.” Morgan tried to keep the tremor out of her voice.

Finch’s steely gaze held hers. The scarred green eye quivered in its socket. “We’d like to talk to you, Miss Maguire.”

Mendoza crossed a beefy arm over his chest. “Yeah, too bad about old Harlan. Now that your watchdog's permanently muzzled, and you can’t find nobody to pick them apples, I reckon you'll have to think about selling.”

“And I reckon you might want to think about replacing that gold tooth. It makes you look...greedy.”

Finch shot Mendoza a warning glance, then smiled at Morgan. “I’m sure when your family's had a chance to get over the shock of Harlan’s passing, you'll realize it would be in your best interest to reconsider my offer.” He paused. “But take your time. I wouldn't want you to regret your decision.”

“That sounds like a threat.” Morgan looked at Mendoza. “That was a threat, right? Didn’t it sound like a threat to you?”

Mendoza grinned.

“You're only postponing the inevitable,” Finch said. “Before this is over—and one way or another, it
will
be over—you'll be on your knees begging me to buy this place.” He smiled again, showing a long pair of incisors. “That’s something I think I’d like to see—you on your knees.”

“I’m sure you would,” Morgan said. She reached behind the door. Her fingers skimmed past the flashlight hanging on a hook and curled around the metal baseball bat in the umbrella stand. “But right now, I'm asking you to leave.”

“What if Mr. Finch don't want to?” Mendoza growled menacingly.

“Then I hope he's wearing steel toed shoes.” She stepped back and positioned the bat over Finch's wedged foot. “You know, Lawrence—can I call you Lawrence? Or is it Larry? I mean, we’re threatening each other, so we should be on a first name basis, don’t you think? Anyway, Larry, you’d be surprised how strong my little arms are after stirring apple butter for twenty-five years. And how good my aim is. I bet I could break four or five toes with this thing.”

Finch jerked his foot back. He smoothed the front of his navy sport coat and shot his cuffs. “You've had a trying day, Miss Maguire. I'll come back tomorrow when your brother is here.”

“Suit yourself. But the answer will be the same.”

Morgan closed the door and flipped the lock. She ducked through the kitchen to the laundry room and started pulling clothes out of the dryer. Standing half naked in front of Lawrence Finch had left her feeling vulnerable. And she hated feeling vulnerable. Almost as much as she hated bullies. Her husband had been a bully.

She dressed quickly in jeans and one of Sean’s white T-shirts, then sat on the hall tree beside the front door, balancing the baseball bat across her knees like Granny Clampett’s shotgun. She didn’t know how long she sat gazing through the delicate lace curtains, watching a long bank of clouds steal across the darkening sky, but by the time the utility lamp in the yard had come on, the hard wooden seat had rendered her rear end completely numb.

The sudden squeal of tires propelled Morgan to her feet. She grabbed the cordless phone off the desk and held her thumb over the 9, ready to call for help in case Finch and Mendoza were back for round two. She slunk into the shadows. A dark car backed over Opal’s prized azaleas and came to a halt beside the fence. For one crazy moment she thought it might be Gage, and a ridiculous lump of hope rose in her throat. But when the door swung open, she realized it was Ethan.

Ethan stepped out and stretched his long legs. With his lanky frame silhouetted against the glow of the interior light, he looked like a younger version of his father.

She ran down the front steps. “Oh, God, Ethan. I'm so sorry about your dad.”

Ethan's pale blue eyes filled with tears, and he blinked them back. “Thanks, Morgan. I’m sorry you were the one who had to find him.”

“Who’s in the car?”

“I’ve got Sean and Peach with me. Sean's passed out on the backseat. He promised he wouldn't throw up. I got the car detailed this afternoon.”

“Sean's drunk? He never drinks more than two beers.”

“Well, tonight he's hammered. Should we take him to Opal’s guesthouse out back? I don't think we can get him up the stairs. He’s dead weight.”

“There's a daybed in the sunroom off the kitchen,” Morgan said.

Peach pulled herself free, then helped them guide Sean, barely conscious and stumbling, up the porch steps to the sunroom. He flopped face first onto the iron bed.

“Someone might want to get a bucket,” Peach said. “He's starting to turn green again.” She placed her hands on the swell of her hips. “Better make it a big bucket.”

Morgan lined a waste can with a plastic grocery bag and set it beside the bed. “Sean, can you hear me?” Sean groaned. He turned his face toward the lamp. A shaft of light cut across his gaunt cheekbones, making him look older than his thirty-four years. She looked at Peach. “I’ve never seen him this wasted.”

Peach sat on the edge of the daybed. “When Jake Wheeler told him Harlan had died, he wouldn’t believe it.” She smoothed the quilted coverlet back from his shoulder then let her fingers glide over the strands of brown hair curling over his plaid shirt collar. “Poor baby. You mind if I sit here? Just to make sure he's okay?”

“Uh...no.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Peach murmured. “I’m so sorry.” She stroked Sean’s unshaven cheek with the back of her hand. “You just sleep now. Everything will be okay.”