Hidden Motive (5 page)

“People are wandering all over the house. We can't keep track of everyone.”

“Just go. I'll be down in a moment.”

Murph did as he was told. But he didn't like it.

M
urph stood in the middle of the room with a pile of blankets under his arm, watching Perry the chubby man and Jerri the substitute bus driver circulate among the others with mugs of steaming coffee and cocoa.

When he saw Sable coming down the stairs, he raised an eyebrow in a silent inquiry. She gave a reassuring nod. The safe was apparently secure in the attic.

“Special brew for our hostess.” Perry's fleshy cheeks stretched in a grin. He handed Sable a mug of hot chocolate as she took the final step into the living room. “You probably saved our lives and nearly lost yours, so you get the last cinnamon stick.”

Audry took a quilt from Murph. “No need for you to take care of the rest of us, Murph. We all might as well make ourselves useful.” She shot an impatient look at Simmons, who was sprawled across the sofa, brooding in front of the fire.

Murph ambled across the room, studying first young Bryce, then Simmons. He turned again to Sable, who peered at the others through the steam rising from her mug. Her expression reflected his own uneasiness.

“Do you have a farm, Sable?” Bryce gestured toward a picture on the wall of the black Angus bull posed with two young guys, apparently Sable's brothers.

“Not anymore. My grandfather sold all the farm animals.”

“All but the dog,” Craig said. “I've been taking care of him.” Sable's neighbor glanced out the window at the gray, storming sky, then sat on the hearth beside the stack of logs. “Sable's got an honest-to-goodness cave here, with ghosts.”

Murph suppressed a smile at Craig's youthful exuberance. He seemed much younger than he looked.

“Ghosts.” Bryce's tone left no doubt about his disdain.

“Ask Sable,” Craig said. “Her family lived with the legend.”

Bryce looked at Sable, scorn still in place.

She took another sip of her chocolate and sat next to Craig on the hearth. “He's talking about a story that accompanied the cave when my grandfather took over this place thirty years ago,” she said. “Two brothers from New York bought the property in the early forties, intending to mine it for zinc and lead. Unfortunately for them, the man who'd sold it claimed it had rich deposits of ore.”

“They bought it without checking it out?” Bryce asked.

“No,” Sable said, “they checked it and found galena and sphalerite, the ores for lead and zinc, but later they discovered they'd been tricked. Someone had planted the ores in the cave. That's what is called ‘salting a mine.'”

“How is that done?” Bryce asked.

Sable hesitated, closed her eyes for a very brief moment as an expression of darkness crossed her face. “It was probably shot into the walls with a gun to make it look as if the ore was imbedded.”

“But when the men explored further,” Craig said, picking up the story, “word spread that they'd discovered silver.”

“Silver!” Bryce exclaimed.

“Craig, don't lead him on like that,” Sable warned. “It was just a rumor.”

Craig ignored her. “Somebody offered the partners an outrageous amount of money for the cave.”

“Every tale about this cave is different,” Sable said. “Both partners disappeared. This part of the country had a flood about that time, and the community was preoccupied with the rising rivers, so nobody searched for the owners.”

While Sable told the story, Murph surreptitiously studied each face in turn. Craig sat watching Sable with rapt attention, like a love-struck schoolboy…or maybe that was Murph's imagination.

“Later, neighbors did search for the men,” Sable continued. “They even wrote to New York. No reply.”

Murph looked at Simmons, who hadn't moved from his position on the sofa. Audry wandered around the room, looking at family pictures, studying figurines. Perry Chadwick had returned to the kitchen, possibly to rustle up some food. He didn't appear to have missed many meals.

“The land passed down the family line,” Sable continued, “and then a nephew of those two men sold it to my grandfather.”

“Legend has it that the ghosts of the two men guard the treasure.” Craig made his voice dramatically spooky.

“What legend?” Sable razzed him. “There's no legend.”

Craig ignored her. “Sable's grandpa figured out the ghost activity. The barometer rises and falls in a cave the way it does outside, creating a draft. That causes the door at the cave's entrance to open and close all by itself.”

Bryce's shoulders slumped. “That's all there is to it?”

“Sorry to be such a disappointment to you,” Sable said dryly. “Nothing's ever haunted us here.”

“Can I explore the cave?” Bryce asked.

“If we're stuck here long enough,” she said.

“All right!”

“And if you want to study a map first,” Craig said, “there's one up on the wall in the attic. Josiah did all the surveying and drew it up himself. It's pretty close to scale.”

Jerri strolled into the room, her muscular arms crossed over her chest and her red hair spiked as if she'd been combing it with her fingers. “I just reported in. Thanks for the use of your radio, Sable. I got to it just in time, the batteries are almost dead. We've got to stay put for the time being.”

Perry yawned and stretched like a plump cat. “I think I'll prepare for bed, if nobody minds.”

The others agreed that they were ready to retire, too, and Sable assigned rooms, giving the second downstairs bedroom to Bryce. The rest were upstairs.

“If it's okay with you, Sable,” Perry said, “I'll use the cot in the sewing room upstairs. I've been told I snore like a semi truck. It's the weight, you know.”

Murph agreed to share a room with Simmons, though he hated the thought of sleeping with the pistol gouging his ribs. To his dismay, he learned from Sable that the room had bunk beds. His six-foot-one-inch frame would not fit easily into a bunk.

As everyone retired, and Murph entered the room he was to share, a duffel bag sailed past his left elbow and landed on the lower bunk.

“First dibs,” Simmons called behind him. He flopped onto the mattress, shoes and all. “I hate heights. Mind turning off the light?”

 

The sound of footsteps and muffled voices upstairs diminished as Sable settled in front of the living room fireplace. She allowed herself the luxury of distant memories.

She remembered sitting flanked by her brothers, staring into the flames while Grandpa perched on the stone hearth across from them, his blue eyes sparkling as he wove an exciting, spur-of-the-moment tale.

The stories he'd told the three of them were always fiction. At least, the ones he'd called
stories
were, but when Sable was alone with him, they'd shared dreams. Grandpa's dream had always been to send his grandchildren to college.

He'd paid to see those dreams come true. Only later did Sable discover that the tuition money had come as a loan from his business partner, Otis Boswell.

Sable pulled out the letter she had stuffed into her pocket along with the confession note. Setting the note aside, she scanned the first two pages of the last letter Grandpa had written to Mom, dated December 20.

The last page caught her attention.
I have a surprise for you and the kids,
it read. Grandpa always had a surprise of some kind.
Not sure about it yet, but I know it's there. Don't want to ruin it.
The remainder of the letter, written in his usual flamboyant style, said nothing more about it.

What could he have been talking about? Maybe the Seitz mine? He'd been so sure it would sell and he would be out of debt for good. But that was no secret.

A quiet movement startled her. She turned to find Murph standing on the stairs. His auburn hair had dried, and he wore jeans that were too short for him. An old, faded blue turtleneck of Peter's peeped out from beneath a baggy, ragged denim hunting shirt of Grandpa's.

“Nice fashion statement,” she teased. “That shirt must be at least twenty years old.”

“I'm a paramedic, not a model.” He chuckled and shoved the sleeves of the shirt up to his elbows as he padded barefoot down the stairs and across the carpet to join her.

He sat next to her and rested an arm across the back of the sofa. “How are you holding up?”

“Part of me is so tired I want to crawl into my bed and sleep for a week. Another part feels I may never sleep again.”

“It was rough up on that cliff,” he said quietly. “For a moment, I was afraid we'd lost you.”

“So was I. You're pretty good in an emergency.”

“It was Bryce who suggested fastening our belts together for a rope. Good thing Perry Chadwick has a big waist.”

“I barely reached it as it was,” she said.

He gently touched a tender spot on her chin. “It's turning a pretty shade of purple. Did it happen when you fell?”

“It must have.”

“Are there medical supplies here in the house? The way things are going, we'll need them.”

“I have a supply in my bedroom.” She examined the scratches on his neck. “You could use something on those.”

“Yes, Doctor.” He reached down and touched a series of scratches on the back of her hand. “Physician, heal thyself.” His voice sounded…almost intimate.

Sable wanted to bask in his reassuring strength, but she knew that was a response to the fear that stalked her.

They sat in weary silence for several moments, then Murph gestured to the letter she had placed on the arm of the sofa. “Is that from Josiah? Looks like his handwriting.”

“How would you recognize Grandpa's handwriting?”

He picked up the pages. “I've seen his signature. He wrote with such flair.”

He fell silent as he deciphered the script, then he sat back. “Did he give any hint about the surprise mentioned here?”

“Not that I recall.”

Murph handed the letter back to Sable. “We should look for hard evidence that could incriminate someone for the Seitz mine debacle, for Noah's death and for Josiah's death.”

“Josiah's?” she exclaimed. “You think someone killed my grandfather?”

“You told me Josiah collected incriminating evidence against someone. Why would the perpetrator allow him to live?”

Sable gave that thought time to register. It shocked her. It infuriated her. And then she thought once more about the confession letter. Why would he write that? It made no sense.

“We have to examine anything we find without preconceived notions,” Murph said.

“If we can find anything to examine.” Sable stood up and walked to the fire. “The day after my grandfather's death, Otis Boswell paid me a call with two of Freemont's finest.”

“The police?”

Sable nodded. “He grilled me about Grandpa and flat out told me that my grandfather was a criminal. Then he tried to make it look as if I was an accomplice.”

There was a long silence, and Sable turned to find Murph's eyes blazing.

“I didn't tell anyone about it,” she said. “Not even Noah, who was our closest friend in Freemont.”

Murph stood up and stepped to her side. He placed an arm around her shoulders. “Boswell again,” he said. “You've got to realize that man's as dirty as they come. It had to be hard for you to hear that about your grandfather.”

“It was devastating.”

“We've both been devastated this week.”

She sat down on the raised stonework of the hearth. Something in Murph's tone registered. She'd heard the sound of grief in his voice earlier. She remembered his shock when she'd told him of Noah's death. More than shock. It had been more like stunned grief.

“How long did you know him?” she asked softly.

Murph didn't reply.

“What haven't you told me?” she asked.

He closed his eyes. With a deep sigh, he rubbed his face with his hands, then looked at her again. “Noah was my uncle.”

S
able stared at the man she thought she'd come to know well in the past six weeks. Murph, who had a big heart, a deft hand with patients and a good attitude with the rest of the staff, suddenly seemed like a stranger.

“Your uncle! Why the secrecy?”

He joined her on the raised hearth. “Noah called me a few months ago about some concerns he had. He wanted me to investigate Boswell Mining. He'd invested his life's savings into that Seitz property. He and Josiah were both worried when Josiah found a different title to that property.”

Sable could only stare at Murph. “He never told me.”

“According to the old title,” Murph said, “there were previously productive galena mines in a circumference around the Seitz land.”

So
that
was what Grandpa had been talking about when he suggested that he was concerned about some discrepancies. She was no miner, but she'd learned enough about mines to know that if there had been ore all around the property, that center part would have been barren. It was a well-known fact among miners.

“So the land had been misrepresented to them in the first place,” she said.

“Exactly,” Murph said. “Then Boswell gave an agent orders to sell. The agent misrepresented it, against the wishes of Noah and Josiah, and the new prospector became suspicious and checked it out.”

“But Grandpa took the blame in spite of his protests.”

“Noah told me about some events in Freemont recently,” Murph said. “The mining accidents, shoddy safety standards…a couple of people have disappeared.”

Sable reached into her pocket, grasped the corner of Grandpa's letter, and pulled it out with a sigh. “In light of what you're saying, this might throw a kink in the works.”

She handed it to Murph. “I found it in an unopened envelope in my mother's bedside stand,” she said.

They read it together. As Sable studied the words for the second time, she noticed something she'd missed before: the mention of missing her birthday party. She hated birthday parties. So why would her grandfather write that?

She knew it was his writing; his flamboyant style was not easily forged. She just couldn't bear the words, that, indeed, sounded like a confession.

Grandpa, how could you?

“This doesn't fit,” Murph said when he'd finished reading. “Why would he confess to fraud when he was collecting evidence about someone else's criminal activities?”

“I wish I knew.”

“What an awful blow this has been,” Murph said. “This letter mentions your birthday. When is it?”

“The day after Valentine's Day.”

“This coming Tuesday. How old? Or is it impolite to ask?”

She appreciated the obvious diversion. “Thirty-one.” She rubbed her eyes, reconsidered the words she'd read and looked at the letter again. “Tell me if you think there's something about this that doesn't ring true.”

He leaned over her shoulder to look at it.

“It isn't Grandpa's style,” she said. “This letter rambles about things that don't make sense. All his other letters have been logical and direct.”

“I agree.”

She studied the note a moment longer, then folded it and put it back in her pocket. “Maybe I'm just trying too hard to excuse away these words.”

“Your grandfather influenced your life in many ways,” Murph said. “You've got to remember that the Josiah Kessinger who died in that wreck was a new man. If this note is true—and I'm not convinced it is—then maybe the guilt he felt about what he'd done was what drew him to Christ in the first place.”

“And so I'm supposed to be happy about it?” She regretted the bitterness that crept into her voice.

“No, but you should withhold judgment until you know the truth.”

Murph's words, spoken with quiet sincerity, didn't ease her pain. “I never thought there would be shame in being Josiah Kessinger's granddaughter.”

“Never be ashamed of who you are. You might have inherited your Grandpa's impulsive nature, too.” He tapped her gently on the arm. “Along with his strength of will.”

“I wonder who gave the order to those goons who chased us last night,” Sable said.

“So do I.”

They stared into the flames as if a message might come to them in the spiral of smoke that drifted lazily upward.

Something thumped against the front storm door. Sable froze. Murph leaped to his feet and pivoted, placing himself between Sable and the door.

The thump came again, then a familiar scratching on the screen. Sable went weak with relief, reminding herself to breathe. They were certainly on edge.

“It's Dillon.” She stepped around Murph and walked to the front door.

The furry head of a drenched German shepherd shoved through the doorway as soon as Sable unlatched the door. He barked, jumping up to splash her around the waist with his soggy paws. His tongue flicked out and caught her across the mouth before she could pull away. She laughed, hugging him in spite of the water and the smell of wet dog. He thumped his tail against the paneled wall.

“That's enough, Dillon,” she said, pushing him down. “Remember your manners.”

Murph stepped forward. Dillon saw him and his lips drew back in a challenging display of sharp, white fangs. His wet hackles sprang up as a low growl rumbled from his throat.

“No, Dillon,” Sable ordered. “It's okay. He's a friend.” She rested her hand on his head. “Friend.”

Dillon relaxed. His fangs disappeared, and he looked up at her with trusting eyes.

She glanced back at Murph. “Sorry. He's very protective.”

“Will he bite if I pet him?”

“Not now. He understands the word
friend.
” She reached for a clean towel from the stack, unfolded it, knelt in front of the dog. “Feet, Dillon. You know the routine.”

Dillon sat and raised his left front foot, then his right one, for Sable to pat dry. Then he stood at quiet attention and allowed her to work on his back feet and coat. By the time she was finished, the towel was soaking wet and Murph had made friends with Dillon.

At Sable's command, the dog lay in front of the fire with his head on his paws, his honey-brown gaze occasionally flicking toward Sable as she and Murph returned to the sofa.

“He's beautiful,” Murph said. “Does he understand
everything
you say?”

“Sometimes it seems like he does. Grandpa got him for all of us, but Dillon and I have a special friendship. He can sense my moods. Sometimes he's an embarrassing barometer of the way I feel about guests in the house.”

“You have a way with animals,” Murph said.

“I like them. I guess they can tell.”

He leaned forward and stroked Dillon's fur, then turned and looked at Sable over his shoulder with a grin. “You have a way with me,” he said softly. “Does that mean you like me?”

“Of course, I like you,” she said. “You're good with patients and helpful in ice storms.”

He chuckled and sat back. For a few moments, they were content to listen to the crackle of the fire and the hiss and slap of the rain outside.

“What are your plans after you get out of this…mess?” Sable asked.

For a few seconds, he didn't answer, just stared into the fire. “I liked working in the clinic,” he said. “But I also like the adrenaline rush of the emergency department. I'd planned to return to med school next year. I'm thinking I'd like to be an E.R. doc.”

“You were in medical school? What happened?”

“My father had pancreatic cancer. My mother was taking care of him fine until they had a wreck on their way home from a chemo treatment one day. Mom had some broken ribs, and Dad was pretty bruised up.”

“They needed you. And you came. And now?” she asked. “Don't they need you?”

“Dad went home just before Christmas.” He looked at Sable. “His true home.”

“I'm sorry for your loss,” she said. “And now Noah.”

“My losses aren't permanent.” He nodded to Sable. “How about you? What do you plan to do?”

“I want to do just what Grandpa and I talked about when we sat this way years ago,” Sable said. “I still want to be a country doc who knows all the patients she passes on the street, knows their kids' names, their parents' names and rubs shoulders with half her patients at the high school games.”

Murph turned to look at her, and the firelight gave a smoky glow to the strong outline of his face, bathing his hair with reddish-gold highlights. His thick, dark brows showed a serious side that counterbalanced the great sense of humor she had seen, working with him at the clinic.

“Now that I know you're Noah's nephew,” she said, “I don't understand how I missed the family resemblance. It's in the eyes…and in your heart.”

 

In the light of the flickering fire and the gathering dawn, Murph watched Sable's eyelids droop.

“You'd better go upstairs before you collapse,” he said.

She straightened her slender shoulders. “You too.”

“And if we've been followed?”

“Dillon will sleep outside my room. He always does.”

“Are you afraid someone will try to check out the attic while we're asleep?” Murph asked.

“Not with Dillon standing guard.”

“I could post
myself
outside your room, at the door.”

“Dillon will be more comfortable on the floor than you would,” she said.

Dillon raised his head and yawned, then stretched, licked Murph's hand and blinked his eyes.

Sable stood and stretched, too, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn. “You need sleep, Murph.” Firelight danced against the heavy oak paneling of the room as Sable turned toward the fire.

Murph couldn't stop looking at her. She had delicate features, finely arched black brows and thick lashes. Her face was soft and feminine, with high cheekbones and a firm, defiant chin. She looked fragile, but appearances were misleading. He'd seen the steel in her character. This morning she was pensive, quieter than usual. That didn't stop his growing attraction to her, even under the circumstances—or perhaps
because
of the circumstances.

Without thinking, he stood and moved to touch her, then hesitated and dropped his hand.
What am I doing?

Sable turned and smiled at him. Her smile faltered and she glanced toward the stairs. “You
are
going to nap?”

He nodded. “Be careful. Lock your door.”

“I will.” He saw that fear still lurked in her eyes. She turned away. “Good night.”

Murph watched her go, bare feet silent on the carpeted steps. The black ringlets of her hair formed a halo around her shoulders from the soft lighting in the second floor hallway. Maybe it was the storm, or the excitement of the past week, but something about her affected him with increasing impact.

After she disappeared from view, his last image of her lingered. If only he could help ease the fear that haunted her eyes. If only he could be sure he was capable of protecting her. He wasn't even sure he could protect himself.

He stepped over to the fire to throw on another log. Dillon still dozed, and Murph touched the soft, fire-warmed fur on the dog's neck. He closed the tempered glass doors of the fireplace, then stepped outside to check the weather. The wind and rain met him like a glacier wall. In the gray distance, he heard icy limbs crashing to the ground.

He returned inside and closed the door. The ice glaze must be at least an inch thick by now.

The lamp by the window flickered and went out as he crossed the living room. The electric lines must be down. That wouldn't be a problem. He'd seen plenty of oil lamps upstairs, a hefty supply of batteries on the basement landing, and a wood furnace in the basement. Later today they would see about chopping more wood.

“Come on, Dillon,” he called softly. “Upstairs. You need to keep watch over Sable.”

The dog stretched to his feet from his comfortable perch by the fire and followed Murph up the stairs in the meager light of the stormy morning.

After seeing Dillon to Sable's door, Murph stepped into the bedroom he was sharing with Simmons. The moment he stepped through the door, he saw Simmons bolt upright in the gloom.

“Who is it?” he snapped.

“Your roomie. Paul Murphy.” Murph wished he could get out of the clothes he was wearing and get comfortable, but that didn't look like a possibility for the near future. He noticed that Simmons braced himself up on one elbow, watchful, alert.

“You headed somewhere in particular?” Murph asked.