Love Inspired Suspense January 2014 (24 page)

David stopped tossing the salad and leaned against the counter. There was his answer. He wanted people to treat him as though he was innocent until he was proven guilty. Shouldn't he do the same for Laurel and Caroline?

“Something smells wonderful.” Laurel leaned a shoulder against the kitchen door frame.

David offered her a smile, but she stared back at him as if she'd never seen one before. She was still dazed, and he couldn't blame her. He stirred the sauce bubbling on the stove.

“If you and Caroline want to set the table, we can eat in about ten or fifteen minutes.”

Laurel called her daughter, and they headed to the glass-fronted cupboards that held plates and glasses.

“Wow!” the teenager said. “This kitchen's got about every technogadget on the planet.”

David wrinkled his nose. “I know. It looks more like the kitchen of a five-star restaurant than a cabin in the woods. I like to cook, but the prior owner was something of a gourmand. I was told that he sometimes brought his private chef with him. I prefer doing things the old-fashioned way.” He motioned toward the paring knife and cutting board.

“Which reminds me,” he continued, “I'll move into the chef's bedroom tonight, and you two can have the larger bed in my room.”

“You don't have to do that, Mr. Greene.” Laurel said.

“Not doing it because I have to...and it's David. Remember?”

Their gazes locked. Laurel clutched a short stack of plates to her chest. Her eyes searched his. Would she be able to see that he meant her well? That he was not a threat to her safety, and that he wasn't going to judge her?

She gave a brief nod. “Thank you, then.”

“Don't thank me too much.” He chuckled as she headed for the sitting room with the plates, Caroline in her wake, toting fistfuls of silverware. “I'm going to make you change the sheets yourself. You'll find a stack of them in the hall closet. Take your pick.”

Laurel glanced over her shoulder, a corner of her mouth quirked upward. “I think we can handle that.”

Soon they sat down in front of steaming beef stroganoff, tossed salad and biscuits with honey butter.

“What an awesome feast!” Caroline eyed the serving dishes.

“I wish I had more of an appetite.” Laurel's words came out softly.

Enthusiasm faded from Caroline's face, and her gaze fell to her empty plate.

“I'm sorry, honey. I shouldn't have said that.” Laurel covered her daughter's hand with hers. “You enjoy this meal, and I'll do my best to follow your lead. It does smell wonderful.” Her gaze cut to David and then back toward her daughter. “We can't allow ourselves to feel guilty for living.”

Caroline gazed at David. “You can tell she's got a master's degree in psychology, right?”

David folded his hands. “You can be thankful for and take pride in an intelligent and well-educated mother.” Did he detect a smidgeon of gratitude in Laurel's eyes?

“Um, yeah.” Caroline's nose wrinkled the barest degree.

“You can tell my daughter has never looked at the matter that way before.” Laurel's statement was directed toward David but her attention was fixed on her daughter. Their stares dueled.

“Feel free to dig in.” David delivered the invitation, then closed his eyes and bowed his head to say a soundless grace.

He didn't believe in making them uncomfortable by pushing his faith on them. He was more the live-it-and-trust-they-see-something-they-want sort of soul winner.

Lord, I'm trying but I could use a little help. There's some serious healing to be done between these two, not to mention a crime to solve. Of course, You know that. I'm a bucket of problems with my own crime to solve, so if You'd bring them across the path of someone who can help them sort things out, I'd be grateful... Oh, and thank You for this food. Amen.

Silence rang in his ears. Weren't the ladies going to eat? He opened his eyes a sliver, then widened them all the way. His guests sat with heads bowed over their plates. Laurel's lips moved without sound. Caroline's head came up, and a smile flickered at him as she reached for the stroganoff. Her mother's gaze lifted slowly, no smile, but she helped herself to the mixed green salad.

Were these two fellow Christians? Maybe his after supper plans would help clarify the matter. His gaze traveled to the baby grand as he reached for the biscuits.

“Caroline, I noticed you play the piano.”

“A little bit,” she said. “I've only had a couple years of lessons.”

“Do you like playing?”

The girl pursed her lips. “I love music. I'm just not sure if I can play well enough to make it worth the cost of the lessons.”

“Honey, cut yourself some slack,” Laurel said. “You've come a long way, but you can hardly expect to be a professional yet. Mastering an instrument takes time and effort.”

“More effort than I've been putting in, you mean.”

“I didn't say—”

“Let's tickle a few ivories after supper,” David put in quickly. “Just for fun. No
Beethoven's Fifth
Symphony
or anything. But first—” he wagged his fork at Caroline “—you and your mom put the dishes in the dishwasher. Cleaning up is the part of cooking I
don't
like.” He waggled his eyebrows, and Caroline giggled.

“You're on, Mr. Greene. I'd do dishes every night to eat like this. Mom tries, but cooking isn't her thing. It's lucky that I like bake-at-home pizza, sub sandwich delivery and Chinese takeout.” She gave a brief lift of her shoulders, laughed and then stuffed a bite of stroganoff into her mouth. Her eyes drifted closed as she chewed, and a soft hum purred from her throat.

David grinned and then the smile faded as Laurel laid her fork aside and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. Had Caroline's offhand remark about her mom's cooking brought that expression to her face as if she'd tasted something nasty? The sorrow that darkened those honey-rich eyes seemed deeper than a simple lack of culinary skills might cause. There were undercurrents here that he didn't understand and wasn't sure he wanted to navigate.

Small talk continued over the meal. David's effort to remain upbeat flagged as shadows settled over his guest's expressions. Clearing up time couldn't come fast enough. While Laurel and Caroline saw to the dishes, David tended the blaze in the fireplace.

“Are you up for ‘Chopsticks' then?” He waved a hand toward the piano.

Caroline backed away a step. “Seriously?”

“Go for it. I promise you it will turn out better than you think. I'll help you.”

“You play?”

He grinned. “I didn't truck this piano up here just to look at it.”

Caroline's cheeks pinked but she spurted a brief chuckle. “I suppose not.” She took a seat on the polished mahogany bench and placed her fingers on the keyboard.

Notes emerged hesitantly and then picked up speed. About the time Caroline hit a good cadence David slid onto the bench beside her and began to play a high counterpoint melody. She shot him a startled glance and stumbled over a few notes, then resumed her tune in earnest.

Laurel, who had come to stand to one side of the piano, rewarded him with a smile and a nod. David almost botched his next note.

The woman was lovely. Not in an exotic way—a hothouse flower like Alicia had been. Or in a delicate and fleeting sort of way like a rose. But with the graceful purity of the calla lily. He should know. On his Texas ranch, he grew plots of the stunning flowers that had been his mother's favorite. But now he was likely doomed to see another face in his mind's eye whenever he tended his plants.

Get a grip, dude.
He turned his attention on Caroline. “What else do you know?”

“Not much, but here goes.” Caroline moved into a rousing rendition of “Jingle Bells.”

Chuckling, David switched positions to her other side and began a bass note accompaniment. The girl's sunny grin turned his insides to mush. He'd be nothing but pleased if he could be 100 percent certain the two of them had nothing to do with the demise of the woman in their car trunk.

“That's it. I'm done.” Caroline slid off the bench. “Now let's hear what you can do.”

“Yes, please.” Laurel seconded the invitation. “Though that was really nice, honey. I'm proud of you.” She slid an arm around her daughter, and Caroline didn't pull away.

“You asked for it.” David moved to the center of the bench.

The keys were cool velvet beneath his fingertips. If anything other than gardening had saved his sanity these past few years, it was his music—another legacy from his mother. He transitioned into an airy rendition of “My Favorite Things” and then toned it down with
Für Elise.

“Hey, I recognize that one,” Caroline said. “It's Beethoven. I'll bet you
could
play his
Fifth Symphony,
no problem.”

“I can, but I'm not going to. How about this one?” He began “Morning Has Broken.” A few chords into the song a clear, strong voice took up the words. A heartbeat later, a more youthful voice joined Laurel's.

“You two can sing.” David smiled big. “This is going to be fun.”

Time drifted as they moved from one familiar favorite to the next—a few pop songs to please the teenager, but mostly praise choruses or old-fashioned hymns. At last, David pulled his hands from the keyboard and let out a slow breath. His guests echoed the soft sigh. Calm and peace enveloped the room. Rare commodities, especially under current circumstances.

“I think,” Laurel said quietly, “this would be a good note on which to say good-night.” She nudged her daughter. “Good night, David. And thank you.”

The gentle light in Laurel's eyes played a tune on David's insides.

“Thanks, Mr. Greene,” Caroline said as she allowed herself to be guided away.

The mild flurry of them changing the bedding and him lending them T-shirts and drawstring bottoms for sleepwear did little to disrupt the precious serenity.

“Your peace in the midst of trouble is such a gift, God,” David said as he pulled the covers over himself in the cook's bed.

The mattress was harder than he liked and the pillow too thin, but he wasn't about to complain. To God or to himself. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift.

He'd come up to the mountains to be alone and seek the truth. That plan had taken a major detour. Now, he might believe the disruption was a blessing in disguise—except murder had once again invaded his life.

No, he didn't want to go there. He needed to hang on for dear life to the evening's calm. But his thoughts had a mind of their own.

A stark vision formed in his head. Pale hair cascaded across shiny black luggage. Blue eyes and red lips frozen open. The blouse twisted away from one shoulder. An etched mark beneath the bare collarbone. A tattoo!

David lunged upright in bed, heart catching in his throat. The whole tattoo hadn't been visible—maybe half. The rest remained covered by the blouse. He'd only idly noticed it, as he'd been absorbed with the shock of the discovery and the futile search for a pulse. His hand had nearly brushed the telltale mark.

No wonder he'd had this feeling he needed to take another look at the body. His subconscious had registered what his consciousness had overlooked. He'd known one other woman with a similar tattoo in an identical spot. That woman was also dead, and he was suspected of killing her.

THREE

L
ying flat in the cushy bed, Laurel stared into the dark. The wind wailed around the corner of the cabin, raging against denied entrance. No wonder people's minds could slip when trapped in a storm. The constant drone tweaked every nerve.

If she could relax, maybe she could sleep. Laurel rolled over onto her side. She'd dozed off for a while after they'd first turned in, but the reprieve from consciousness had been short-lived. No way would she get another wink tonight, despite the luxury of silken sheets and a down-filled pillow.

That poor woman—murdered! What of Ms. Eldon's family—her parents? As a mother, Laurel could imagine the pain of learning about the loss of a daughter to foul play. How awful for them! What would she do if she lost Caroline?

Caroline.

The name sighed through Laurel's thoughts. The friction between them continued and had perhaps escalated. Why had Caroline never told her that she craved home-cooked meals—or that anything her mother made might be better off in the trash?

So cooking wasn't Laurel's strong suit. She'd be the first to admit it, and the shortcoming hadn't bothered her much. Until now. Caroline's casual remark, comparing her abilities to those of a total stranger, had cut to the quick. Why had Caroline bonded with this suspected murderer with such ease when she could hardly offer her mother a civil word?

Laurel could resent David for his charming ways that seemed to have mesmerized her daughter, but surely she wasn't that petty. The pleasant atmosphere he'd gone out of his way to provide deserved high marks. His efforts went beyond simply being charming. Given his apparent prayer before the meal and his song repertoire, he might even be a fellow believer in Christ. Why did that idea dismay her rather than comfort her? Maybe because Christ-follower and murderer were two roles that didn't reconcile.

What
was
she to believe about this man? Perhaps the best she could do was to strive to withhold judgment. His guilt or innocence wasn't her concern, after all. She had more pressing worries.

When the sheriff arrived, what was going to happen to Caroline and her? How could she protect her daughter?

God, have mercy!

If that was the best prayer she could offer, she was a pitiful specimen. She couldn't seem to muster so much as a mustard seed of faith to mix with pleas for help and guidance. How long had she been so dry spiritually?

Too long. The answer echoed in her mind.

From the tossing and turning on the other side of the bed, apparently Caroline wasn't sleeping either. In fact, the girl seemed to be doing her best to maintain the greatest distance possible from her mother. Not a difficult task in this king-size bed.

“Do you believe I might have done it?”

The whispered question electrified the darkness.

“Done what?”

“You know.”

Laurel's heart wept. “Why would you ask such a thing, honey?”

“You answered my question with a question. I guess that gives me my answer.”

“No, sweetheart. I never suspected you for a minute.”

Caroline snorted. “Yeah, but I'll bet you had to analyze the situation for at least fifty-nine seconds before you made up your mind what you were going to believe. You never accept anyone or anything at face value.”

Laurel caught her breath. Was this how Caroline viewed her mother's carefully cultivated caution and prudence? How could Laurel correct that perception? The solution to that problem would have to wait. Caroline needed reassurance right now.

“I
know
you, baby girl. There's nothing in you capable of doing...whatever was done to Ms. Eldon.”

Her daughter sighed. “But you think I'm manifesting deep-seated abandonment issues.” Caroline bracketed the last half of her sentence in a tone that mimicked Laurel's dictation voice following a professional counseling session.

The accusing words jabbed at Laurel, but she firmed her insides. “We had this discussion in the car. Are you saying there's no possibility that Emily's leaving hasn't opened up some emotional scar tissue that you didn't realize was there?”

“I don't know, Mom.” The words emerged as a miserable whine. “I'm going to try to get some sleep.” The girl rolled over, presenting her back to her mother.

Laurel swallowed a foul lump in her throat. What fine-sounding psychobabble had she spouted? Such statements sounded wise and understanding during her public talks, but in the wee hours of the morning in this demented situation, they fell flat. Had her mission and ministry amounted to no more than empty air?

A noise grabbed Laurel's attention. Was that the front door closing? She hadn't heard their host leave his bedroom up the hall from theirs. The barest waft of chilly air moved through the room, and the hairs on her arms stood to attention.

David or an intruder? How would the latter be possible in the middle of the night in this storm? Laurel sat up.

“Do you hear someone in the living room?”

Caroline yawned but didn't stir. “Must be Mr. Greene. He padded past here a little while ago. Probably can't sleep either.”

“Oh.” Lame, but Laurel had no better response to offer. She hadn't heard the earlier movement, no doubt because she'd been so lost in fretting that other sounds hadn't penetrated.

“I think I'll get a glass of water.”

“K.”

Laurel slipped from between the sheets and stood on the scatter rug by the bed. She took a step onto the hardwood floor and quickly retreated onto the rug. The cabin definitely didn't have heated floors. Probably not even a basement, just a crawlspace beneath. Thankfully, electric baseboard heat kept the air in each room tolerably warm. She sucked in a breath and tiptoed quickly up the hall and into the carpeted living area.

The glow from the dying embers in the fireplace revealed that the room was vacant. Had David returned to his bed? How would that be possible? He would have had to walk past her to get back to his end of the hall. She looked toward the front door. His boots were missing. Why would he have gone out into the storm in the middle of the night?

Laurel went to the front window, parted the curtains and peered out. A ghostly wall of white shimmered in the darkness and hid any form or movement. Where was David Greene? Her heart thudded against her ribs as her misspent youth of watching horror movies played gruesome possibilities through her mind. Shivering, she drew back from the window.

“Don't be silly,” she whispered aloud. But her arms slid around her frame in a tight hug.

What if David's midnight mission had something to do with the murder? Was he out there satisfying morbid curiosity and messing with things he shouldn't? Should she throw on her shoes and outerwear and go after him?
Yeah, right!
as her daughter might say. She'd get two steps away from the porch and be unable to find either the cabin or her car.

She should go get a bottle of water. Her mouth had gone dry as the last pan of brownies she'd tried to bake. But while she was in the kitchen she could acquire a weapon—a knife, a meat mallet—whatever it took to stand between any threat and her daughter. If she was indulging morbid night fancies, she'd be happy to feel foolish in the morning with a defensive weapon under her pillow rather than ignore her inner alarms. She'd ignored those alarms more than once while married to Caroline's father and lived to regret it.

In fact, she was lucky she'd lived.

Laurel headed for the refrigerator. The bottoms of her feet registered the chill as she left the carpet for the kitchen tile. She flipped on the light rather than risk adding a stubbed toe to cold feet. The kitchen was as tidy as they'd left it. Their host's excuse for nighttime prowling wasn't the quest for a snack.

Her gaze scanned the countertops and landed on a wood block bristling with knife handles. Weapons search over. Her hand closed around the handle of the largest one, but a sound at the front door froze her in place.

“Brrr!” someone muttered and feet stomped the floor. David? Probably. But she couldn't be certain. And even if it was David, did that mean she was safe?

What legitimate purpose could he have for sneaking outside this time of night? She slid the knife from its housing and turned to face their host. If he was a threat, she was ready.

Her knees shook, but she firmed her spine as a parka-clad figure filled the kitchen doorway, face shrouded in a fur-lined hood. Her gaze fell to the items he carried, and her insides went limp.

* * *

Clutching a load of firewood in the crook of one arm and a flashlight in the other hand, David took in the stark fear staring at him from the pallor of Laurel's face. Then he dropped his gaze to the knife in her fist. His jaw clenched. So his efforts to reassure his guests this evening hadn't reduced his threat level in her mind.

“Looking for a snack?” he said, forcing his tone as near to natural as he could muster. “There's some brick cheese in the fridge that might need slicing, but I don't think you'll need the butcher knife.”

Her head snapped back as if his words had slapped her. “No—um— No, of course not. I was just...” She lowered the knife to her side, at a loss to finish her sentence.

“Let me put this wood down by the fireplace, and I'll help make sandwiches. I could use one, too...and a cup of cocoa. It's freezing out there, and big daddy storm hasn't let up any.”

“Sounds fine.” She nodded. “I'll get started on the cocoa.” She moved to the single cup brewer and plucked a K-Cup from the carousel next to it.

David plodded to the fireplace. He knelt and dumped the load of stubby logs into the box on the hearth. He should be angry with her. Furious even. Or at least offended, but the best he could muster was this deep sadness that weighted the pit of his stomach.

He rose and shed his parka, then tossed it onto one of the pair of easy chairs with more force than necessary. Maybe he
was
a little angry. He exchanged his boots for the house slippers he'd left on the rug by the door and rejoined his guest in the kitchen.

Laurel was standing at the brewer flamingo-style with one foot on the tile and the other pressed against the navy knit of her sweatpants. Unexpectedly, his heart warmed. Was he that starved for domesticity that the sight of a female at the homey chore turned him sappy? The two of them were on little more than speaking terms. Still, the tawny, sleep-tousled hair brushing her shoulders only added to her appeal.

She turned toward him with a pair of steaming mugs in her hands, and he mustered a smile. “Why don't you take those into the living room, and I'll make the sandwiches. Your bare feet must be chilled to the bone.”

Gaze averted, color high on her cheeks, she nodded and hustled from the room. Sighing, David dug cold cuts and cheese from the refrigerator. A few minutes later, he laid a plate beside her cocoa on a side table. She'd left the living room light off, but the glow from the kitchen conspired with the fireplace embers to outline her form curled up on the easy chair with her feet under her.

“Here.” He stripped the throw blanket from the back of the couch and laid it across her lap. No word of thanks or eye contact acknowledged his courtesy. What was with this woman? Either she was still petrified of him or her mind was consumed with what lay outside in the trunk of her car. Or maybe a healthy dollop of both. Good thing she had no idea what he'd really been doing outside.

“I'll stoke the fire,” he said.

A jingle stopped him in the act of turning away. He swiveled toward her. A set of car keys dangled from her fingers.

“I found these on the floor near your parka.”

“Really?”

“They must have fallen out of your pocket.”

“I—I suppose so.”

“What were you doing with them?” Even in the twilight, her gaze skewered him. “And how did you get them?”

Heart thumping, he went to the hearth, knelt and began positioning logs in the fireplace. Better if he answered this with his back to her. His face was likely to give him away. “You dropped them. Remember?”

“Dropped them! I don't—” Her words halted. “Oh, yes,” she said, tone subdued. “When we found the— When we went outside to get the luggage.”

“That's right.” With the poker, David prodded the fresh logs into position on the embers. “Guess I must have stuck them into my pocket after I caught them in midair.”

“So your excursion into the storm had nothing to do with the keys that happened to be in your pocket. You went outside for more wood?”

David swallowed against a dry throat. “There's a box on the porch.”

“We don't need the fire in the fireplace for heat in the house.”

“True, but a little blaze is nice if you can't sleep and want to toast your toes and sip cocoa.”

He inserted bits of tinder into the smoldering ashes, and flames began to flicker. If only he could be so successful in calming his guest's suspicions.

“I can't argue with that statement.” A soft slurp followed her words.

David rose and turned to find Laurel standing with her keys in one hand and her mug in the other. The blanket had slid onto the floor and lay crumpled at her feet.

“I'll take this to bed with me.” She raised the mug. “Thanks for making the snack, but I guess I really don't feel like eating. Enjoy your cozy fire.”

The flatly spoken words hung in the air as her graceful stride carried her from the room. David's gaze followed her retreat—empty protests, explanations, reassurances locked behind his tongue.

Good thing he'd never aspired to an acting career. He stunk at it. Laurel's body language communicated that she didn't believe he'd told her the truth. Well, he had; just not the whole truth. Before he grabbed the wood, he went out to her car first and verified his glimpse of that tattoo on the body. The tat was there, all right. His memory hadn't played him false.