An Accidental Woman (16 page)

“If she wanted more, why did she marry a local?”

“Probably because Micah's tall, dark, and handsome. Yes, it's a cliché. But that's what he is. He's also silent, which means he's a mystery, and that adds to the turn-on.”

“Does he turn you on?”

“No,” she said pedantically. “I don't personally
like
the silent type, and besides, I never knew him well before Heather. It takes a lot of work to get to know Micah, a lot of work to find out how softhearted he is, which means that
you
may be able to worm the occasional bit of information from me—like you're doing right now, Griffin Hughes—but you won't get anything from him.”

“It's an issue of trust between you and me. You trust me.”

“Excuse me?” she asked. “I trust you? Didn't you just say you pointed the FBI our way?”

“No. I said that my brother picked up on things I said that
inadvertently
resulted in his finding Heather. I told you the truth. You trust that I'll do that.”

“I do not.”

“Yes, on some deeper level you do. So is Micah approachable? If I went to talk with him, would I be welcome?”

“Not if he knows you caused all this.”

“What if he didn't. Could I get him to talk?”

“About the weather, the woods, or the sap? Maybe. Suggest writing about Heather, and he'll cut you down cold.”

Griffin sighed and sat forward. “I can't write about Heather. I'm doing something else.”

“What's to keep you from doing two stories at once?”

Coming up from the sofa, he returned to her desk. Taking paper and pen, he wrote down a name and a number, and pushed the pad her way. “Prentiss Hayden. Give him a call. He'll tell you about the deadline that's closing in fast.”

“Prentiss Hayden?” Poppy didn't have to be told who he was. The man was a political legend. “I'm impressed.”

“Don't be. I wasn't his first choice. Two others came before me. Both quit before they'd written a word.”

“He's demanding?”

“Very.”

“If that's so, what're you doing here?”

“Obviously not winning
you
over,” Griffin said with a snort and
pushed a hand through already-mussed auburn hair. “Okay. I'm here to ease my guilt. If it hadn't been for me, this wouldn't have happened. But I can help reverse it. I have contacts all over the country.”

“From your work?”

“Some from that. Some from my father. He's a corporate lawyer turned CEO. He turns companies around. He's built something of a name for himself.”

Poppy knew that Griffin was independently wealthy. He had told her that back in the fall. Now something rang a bell. “Not Piper Hughes.”

“Yes. Piper Hughes.”

“But you told me your father was a Griffin, too.”

“He is. Griffin P. Hughes. The ‘P' is for Peter, but he was always a charismatic kid leading the crowd, so he became Piper, as in Pied Piper, to distinguish him from his father, who was the first Griffin.”

“What did they call
that
Griffin?”

“Griffin. My dad's done well, but Granddad was actually the source of the big money.”

“What'd he do?”

“Made cookies. Hummers.”

“You're kidding,” Poppy said with a grin, conjuring up images of chocolate, peanut butter, and graham cracker crunch. Hummers had come second only to s'mores at the Blake house, and s'mores, like hot dogs, were best only at summer cookouts on the lake. Hummers were a winter staple.

Griffin grinned back. “I wouldn't kid about that.” He picked up the remote and flipped on the TV. “Hummers were serious stuff back home.”

“I haven't had one in a while.”

“No loss. The business was sold a dozen years ago. Then my grandfather died and left us each a bundle from the sale.” He switched channels. “No more breaking news.”

Poppy's grin faded. “Not about Heather. Not for twenty-nine days.”

“Less than that, if we come up with something good. Charges can be dropped.”

“Which brings us back to your contacts. Okay, Griffin. What's the price?”

“A shower.”

She rolled her eyes.

“I'm serious,” he insisted. “We rich boys are used to hot water. I have none, and now you tell me that I won't be able to get it. Know how grubby I feel? So let's make a deal. One piece of new information—on either Heather or Lisa—in exchange for one hot shower.”

Appalled, Poppy put a hand on her chest. “I am not letting a strange man use my shower. That'd be like getting a roommate from the want ads.”

“It's done all the time. I'm told it works well. Besides, I'm not a strange man. You know me.” He pointed at the pad of paper near her hand. “If you want a reference, call Prentiss. Better still, ask for his wife. I stayed with them for a month.”

“Ahh. The postcard from Charlottesville.”

“She'll tell you I'm a decent guy.”

“But why me?” Poppy cried. Showering was such an intimate thing. “Why here? Go ask someone
else
for a hot shower.”

“Yeah, and have them laugh at me? They're already laughing about the loons. And the water. No water means no plumbing, and no plumbing means a hole in the ground. I'd put money on the fact that right now, right this minute, someone is over at Charlie's taking bets about when I'll cave in and go north to the inn.”

“If they're not doing it now, they'll do it later. Thursday nights there's music in the Back Room. Music and talk. I'd advise you not to go.”

“Why not?”

“Because thanks to what's happened to Heather, this is not a night for a new face.”

“And you think they're going to let me in their
showers?
So what do I do? Come on, Poppy. Take pity. Be a sport.”

Poppy didn't want Griffin showering at her house. She really didn't. But he did have a point. Besides, being a sport was second to being a pal, which had nothing to do with romance. Being a sport was safe. Lord knew, she had experience at it. She was a best friend to most of the men in town. She could certainly be a sport when it came to Griffin, especially if it meant getting information that would help Heather.

“If you think I'm providing towels,” she warned, “think again. This isn't a bathhouse. And I am not doing your laundry.”

“I'm not asking you to. I'll use the laundromat. Laundromats are great for picking up information. Even rich boys know that.”

“The town won't tell you a thing,” she warned.

“We'll see.”

* * *

Lily said, “Poppy likes him.”

“If you were to ask her, she'd say no,” John teased.

“She's defensive. It's understandable.”

“Is she afraid of being hurt?” Annette asked. “Strung along, then dropped?”

“Speaking of being strung along,” Charlie said, “what's with Micah? I feel silly knowing so little about Heather and thinking myself so close to her. Micah's a hundred times closer. What does
he
know?”

Camille Savidge wasn't sure. She sensed that Heather kept secrets. Now, eavesdropping on the conversation from an adjacent office as she did the store's books for the week, she wanted to say that Micah didn't know a whole lot—and that Griffin Hughes wouldn't get much even if he went to the source.

The problem was that Heather needed help. Camille wasn't sure that Cassie had the resources to get the job done. If Griffin did, that was something to consider.

The meeting took place at Willie Jake's office, and Cassie was with him the whole time, but neither fact gave Micah much solace. He was a pretty straightforward guy. Ask him a question, and he could answer. Ask him the same question again, then again, and again, and he got pretty steamed. He didn't like people implying that he wasn't telling the truth.

So he was feeling raw when, after two hours of questions, he and Cassie were finally able to head to the jail. Cassie made it clear to him that the only reason she was along for this part of it was to get him the privacy of a lawyer-client meeting room. Five minutes into the visit, she found a reason to leave Heather and him alone.

As soon as the door was closed, Micah pulled Heather close. He missed the rosemary scent of the soap she used at home, but the softness of her was the same. Closing his eyes, he focused on the familiarity of her body against his. So much else had changed. He needed this.

“Cassie's angry with me,” Heather said in a voice muffled by his shirt.

“So am I. Talk to me, baby.”

He had never said those words before, never had to. Heather had always known without asking that he liked his eggs over easy, his shirts folded rather than hung, and the junk mail tossed out before he got
home, just as he had always known that she loved blue lupines, red shoestring licorice, and hot coffee waiting when she reached the kitchen in the morning.

He made great coffee. But he had often suspected that he could have burned the grounds in the making and she still would have smiled. She was always simply touched that someone thought to do this for her.

At least, he assumed that was the thought behind her pleasure. He knew it was behind his own. Heather was the first person in his life who seemed to want to make him happy.

Now, though, she didn't answer, just held him as if there was no tomorrow. In Micah's mind, no tomorrow didn't seem too far off the mark. He had always known Heather had a past. But he hadn't imagined it was something so bad that she wouldn't speak up, especially to defend herself against a charge of murder.

“Say something, baby,” he pleaded. “Say something so all this makes sense.”

She didn't speak.

“I know there are things,” he said into her hair—dark hair, with silver strands that might well have come from trauma. “I never asked. I didn't want to upset you.”

She remained silent.

“It never mattered to me,” he went on. “I just wanted you.” He hadn't planned to want her. Four and a half years ago, when Heather had entered his life, he was in mourning for his wife. He had two babies, two businesses, and no free time. He wasn't supposed to want a woman. And he hadn't wanted Heather when she first offered to baby-sit during the day while he worked. He liked her. He trusted her. It seemed like a good deal.

At the beginning, he came home during the day to check up on the girls. But he kept at it long after he knew they were fine. During summer and fall, when he was doing carpentry, he came home for lunch; during sugaring season, he came in for coffee, lunch, and snacks. Heather was a quiet, smiling presence in his home. He began to look forward to seeing her.

And the change from baby-sitter to lover? It happened after they'd kissed.

Well, they hadn't just kissed. How to stop at a kiss with Heather? It had been building for weeks, like sap rising in the growing heat of the sun. Try as he might to tell himself that it was inappropriate, Micah hadn't been able to keep from lying in bed at night in an agony of wanting that got worse and worse and worse.

Heather didn't encourage him. She never touched him. She didn't look at his chest or his legs or his fly—always only at his face. But the effect those silver eyes had was amazing.

Then one day, when the sap was boiling hard and he and a crew were late in the sugarhouse, she stayed to put the girls to bed. Later, when everyone else had left, she went over to help him finish and clean up. There, with the air sweet and warm, and his body hot and heavy, he thanked her for her help with a kiss.

It was the most natural thing in the world. But it wouldn't stop. They kissed, they touched, they undressed. He used no protection. He couldn't. He needed to feel every bit of her. He didn't care if he made her pregnant. Part of him
wanted
to do it. He was so in love he couldn't think of anything else.

He still was that much in love. Now, though, the place that had brimmed with Heather was a gaping hole. He'd been alone for two nights, and he felt a pain he had never felt when Marcy died.

“They keep asking me what I know,” he said.

“Who?”

“FBI. They think I'm an accomplice.”

“To what?”

He felt a flash of annoyance. He didn't like being taken for a fool by anyone, least of all by Heather. She knew
to what.

“They searched the house,” he told her more harshly than he might have, but the mere thought of it brought back the fury he had felt at the time. “Turned the place upside down. Went through drawers and cabinets. Pulled up the rug and the mattress. They went through the sugarhouse, too.” They had even pulled a few logs off the woodpile, which had
given him a fright. But they'd soon stopped and moved on. “They didn't get much of anything except the computer. They picked it up and carted it off.”

Heather drew back. “But that has all our files.”

“They think there's more in there.”

“No, no, no, no.” Her silver eyes sparked. “It's all to do with the business.”

“They think there's coded messages.”

“Micah, it's all
business,
” she cried in outrage. “They can't take that. You
need
those files.”

He snorted. “For what? I can't work that machine.”

“Camille can. Call her.”

“What good'll that do, if they have the machine?”

Heather drew herself straighter. She gave a quick toss of her hair and a small, smug smile. Then she whispered, “Backup disks. She makes them each time she comes to do the books. We thought it was a good thing in case there was ever a fire.”

Well, that was something, Micah decided. But it still didn't mean that the business wouldn't fail if Heather wasn't back soon.

“I'm alone, baby,” he told her, unable to keep it in any longer. “I lie in bed alone in the dark and I'm wondering. All the time wondering. I don't know much more'n anyone else. All I know is I wanted to marry you, but you wouldn't. I wanted us to have kids, but you wouldn't. Tell me why.”

She wilted with frightening speed, became this other person he didn't know at all. “I have.”

Very slowly he shook his head.

She tried, “I couldn't . . . I'm not . . . there's Marcy.”

“Marcy's dead.”

She said nothing. He tried to read something in her eyes, but the sadness there simply set his head to spinning. That sadness didn't belong to his Heather. It belonged to someone else.

Feeling dislocated, he stepped back. Moments later, Cassie returned and they left.

* * *

Pulling up at the house, he slammed out of the truck and strode around back. Crossing the clearing to the sugarhouse, he went straight to the woodpile inside. There he stopped. He stared at the area where the knapsack was hidden, as if he could see it right through the wood. He ran a hand around the back of his neck, dropped his arm, flexed his fingers.

Heather had brought the knapsack with her when she had moved in. He had seen it with her things, then it had vanished. He had found it by accident a while after that, when he'd been taking Christmas ornaments from the closet, and it had fallen off the shelf. He had quickly put it back and hadn't touched it again. He hadn't wanted to see what was inside.

He still didn't. He could call himself a million kinds of fool, but he was too frightened to open the damn pack.

Turning on the heel of his scuffed boots, he went back to the house. In no time, he had pulled on a wool hat and gloves and, snatching up snowshoes on his way through the back hall, headed out again. He stopped at the outer woodshed for a chainsaw, a long-handled ax, and a sled. Then he headed up the hill.

* * *

On the chance that someone other than Micah was using it, he went up the front steps and across the porch to knock on the door. There was no answer.

Going around back, he knocked there. Then he went to the sugarhouse, opened the door, peered inside. The room held numerous large pieces of equipment, but its centerpiece was a stainless steel pan easily six feet wide by sixteen long. The rear part sat higher than the front, but the whole of it rested on a brick arch with a wrought-iron door underneath.
Above was a hood, from which a steel chimney rose to the cupola. The cupola was directly above the evaporator, and nearly as large.

“Hello?” he called.

When no one answered, he ducked back out and went around the sugarhouse. A woodshed, piled high with logs, stood against the east end of the fieldstone structure, close beside a huge set of double doors. Behind the sugarhouse, on the north, were two large steel tanks. Another tank, even larger, sat on a platform a few yards up the hill, and yet other machine stood off to the right. A bit farther off, nearly hidden in a stand of billowy firs, was a doorless garage, in which he could see a large tractor with a yellow plow on the front.

He headed up the hill toward the sound of the saw. Once past the tamped-down stretch, his boots sank deeper in the snow, but they were the right boots now, and besides, he figured that the saw couldn't be far. He crested one small rise and saw an evenly spaced stand of bare maples with snow on their limbs. He had to steer right and crest another rise before he finally spotted Micah in the distance. He was out of breath and sweating under his thermals before he was halfway there. By then, Micah had spotted him and killed the saw.

Had Griffin been a timid man, he might have turned and run. Micah Smith was a head taller than he was, the chainsaw might have been a toy for the ease with which he held it, and, below an orange wool hat, his face was threatening and dark.

Truth be told, Griffin couldn't turn and run, even if he
had
been timid. He could barely
wade
through the snow those last few yards, but wade he did, trying to look as pleasant and nonchalant and non-threatening as possible. When he was within striking distance, he stuck out a hand.

“I'm Griffin Hughes.”

“I know who you are,” Micah said and turned back to the tree he had downed. The stump was a dozen feet off, surrounded by sawdust in the snow. The branches had been removed and stacked in long pieces. With a quick pull, he set the chainsaw to snarling and went to work on the trunk.