The Drake House (17 page)

Brad sighed. “You’re human. I thought it, too.”

“Her sister could be covering for them,” Nick said, but he sounded doubtful. “Brad, I need Trish alone for a minute, and it may seem odd we’re all gone.”

“Got it,” he said, letting go of her hand. “Find me if I’m needed.”

When Brad left the office, Nick closed the door. In an instant, her back was against the door and Nick’s mouth on hers. His body pressed hers into place, his hands cupped her face. Hard, expectant, his kiss raked her mouth, her senses. For a moment, it was just her and him, all the other craziness drifting away.

He pulled back, dropping his forehead to hers. “I’ve wanted to do that all day.”

So had she. His mood swings were giving her whiplash, but she couldn’t drum up the energy to care. “I thought you wanted to talk,” she said.

“Well, that too.” He stepped back and pulled out his phone. “I went to the Drake property today with Steve to check it out. We found nothing, but I took a picture of the house. Maybe seeing it will trigger something.”

There was nothing to trigger, she’d never seen the house. But when he turned the phone’s screen around to show her, she took it from him. Instantly, her hands shook. Echoed voices crowded her mind.
Get her out of the water. Put her down
. Quick as a flash the voices were gone.

She hadn’t realized she said anything out loud until she looked up and saw Nick’s face. A muscle ticked in his jaw. Fear edged the corners of his mouth.

“You screamed the same two sentences when you were sleepwalking the night Andrew died.”

She fisted her hand around his cell phone. “I don’t remember.”

Chapter Eleven

The entire population of Small Rapids, or so it seemed to Nick, had shown up for Trisha’s Bunny Hop on the orchard. Apparently, attendance was high for her events, but Nick suspected a larger turn out this year partly due to morbid curiosity over the murder, partly because the weather proved unusually pleasant for spring in Wisconsin, and partly a need to come together as a community.

Either way, Nick watched from the sidelines near the house, just as he’d done at Andrew’s funeral in the back of the church. No one and nothing seemed out of place. The frustration was killing him.

Chuck ran past him in an Easter Bunny costume, a gaggle of kids giggling and trailing after. Nick smiled, the feeling unfamiliar. He didn’t have much to smile about lately.

Trisha was on the other end of the orchard, a yellow sundress floating around her as she crouched to collect eggs with some of the older children. His heart constricted. She was a vision. She’d left her hair down today, the thick mass of dark hair drifting over her shoulders. He turned away.

Nancy had set up a food tent on the north end of the orchard. He watched her arranging deviled eggs and brownies with Trisha’s mother, wondering if the housekeeper could be capable of murder. Nick didn’t think so, but what she’d said awhile back grated in his brain. Like everything else, it made no sense. Physically, he didn’t think she had the strength to hold down six-foot-two Andrew McArthur for three to five minutes with a rope around his throat. But her husband could. Eduardo, standing in a group with some of the other men near Trish, was built like an ox.

But where’s the motive?
They were supposedly in Chicago, but alibis have lied before.
Again, nothing added up.

Hank and Mabel Eaton were in Florida at the time. Or so everyone thought. It should be easy enough to check their financials to see if he hopped a plane. She, like Nancy, probably wasn’t strong enough. Perhaps all four of them knew something.

For Trisha’s sake, he hoped to hell his instincts were wrong.

A breeze picked up, wafting the smell of Sloppy Joes and brats in his direction. Thousands of cheerful plastic eggs hung from clotheslines, swaying with the wind. Buds were forming on the trees. Before long, Eaton’s Orchard would be in full bloom.

Things had been quiet since her men returned.
Too quiet.
There’d been no threatening calls, nor any news from Detective Lafferty.

Nick moved back to his rental house a week ago, not that he’d slept much. Between worrying over Trisha’s safety and remembering their wicked lovemaking, Nick was running on fumes.

Something was building in this town; he just hadn’t a clue what yet.

The only progress made was finally tracking down the attorney who handled Alexandra Drake’s estate. Trisha wanted her spring event out of the way before making the drive with him to Milwaukee for a meeting. Nick wanted answers now, but he’d have to wait until tomorrow.

Brad made his way over to Nick from the tent where Brad had been dying eggs and bobbing for rubber duckies with Trisha’s father. “Your hands are green,” Nick noted, nodding to them.

Brad shrugged. “Egg dye. Par for the course.”

“I never pegged you as a guy who liked kids.”

Grinning, Brad said, “Shows what you know. I like kids. They’re easy to understand.”

Nicked laughed and scanned the orchard for Trisha again. He didn’t know if it was for protection or the joy of watching her, but it had been difficult to keep his eyes off her for long. They hadn’t touched since he kissed her in her office a week ago.

Brad nudged him with his elbow. “Why don’t you go over there instead of drooling from here?”

Nick frowned. “I think I liked it better when I hated you.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the house. “Don’t tell me you’re a romantic?”

Appearing to mull that over, Brad gazed down before looking back at him. “I’ve never seen her so worked up over a guy before. And yes, I’m a romantic. But she’s not. So go work on her.”

Nick would like nothing more than to give in and play house with Trisha. To settle down and allow himself to fall in love—-

He straightened.
Not possible. Remember who you are.

“It’s safer over here,” he answered.

****

Using the excuse of needing to meet with a supplier for the orchard, Trisha and Nick left Small Rapids and headed into Milwaukee. Their appointment with Albert Winfield, Alexandra Drake’s attorney, was at ten.

Trisha fidgeted with her purse strap from the passenger’s seat, watching Nick weave his way through the end of morning rush hour on I-94 toward downtown. They’d made changes to the interstate since she’d been here last, but the traffic was still relentless.

Exiting on Clybourn, Nick turned north until hitting Wells Street and locating a parking structure. She could smell Lake Michigan and hear the seagulls crying from the open window. Her stomach wouldn’t calm down.

“It would be best to let me ask the questions,” he said, not looking at her. “If you have something to add, go ahead, but I want to see what he knows without probing too deeply.”

She nodded, placing a hand over her stomach. “God, I’m nervous.”

Reaching over, he took her hand briefly, then apparently thought better of it and let go. It was the first time he’d touched her in a week. “Don’t be.”

Albert Winfield’s office was on the eighteenth floor in one of Milwaukee’s skyscrapers, tastefully decorated in handcrafted vases and earth tones, with abstract neutral art on the cream walls. It smelled like expensive fresh-ground coffee, making Trisha wish she’d had the stomach for more than one cup before leaving.

After giving their name, his secretary, a rail-thin woman in her sixties, stoically directed them down a hall. Briskly knocking on a glass door, she ushered them inside wordlessly.

Nick closed the door behind them as Mr. Winfield rounded his desk. “Ah yes, Ms. Eaton…Mr. Mackey. It’s very nice to make your acquaintance. Please, have a seat.” He gestured toward a deep brown leather sofa. He pulled up a chair in front of them as they sat.

Trisha was taken aback by the attorney. He had to be near seventy, not a white hair on his head out of place, and bifocals perched at the end of his nose. Pictures of what she assumed to be family cluttered the shelves behind an oak desk. He wasn’t intimidating at all. She felt herself immediately relaxing.

After they politely declined something to drink, Mr. Winfield opened a file in his hand. “It’s been a long time since I opened Lexie’s file, but after you called…”

“Lexie?” Nick asked, leaning forward.

Perhaps the man’s faculties weren’t all there.

“Yes,” he said, scooting his glasses down his nose. “You called regarding the estate of Lexie Lynn.”

Before Nick could argue, Trisha piped up. “Lexie Lynn, the children’s book author?”

“The very same. That was Alexandra’s pen name, of course. She kept her private life very separate from her book-writing life.”

No way.
Trisha’s mouth flew open. “Are you telling me Alexandra Drake was Lexie Lynn, the best-selling, award-winning author of more than fifty children’s books?”

“Uh…” Mr. Winfield stammered. “I thought you knew this.”

“I read all her books as a kid. She’s a Newbury award winner.”

Trisha looked at Nick, but his face remained blank. Mr. Winfield stood and retrieved another file from his desk.

“You’re Trisha Ann Eaton, born to Hank and Mabel Eaton, residing in Small Rapids on…” He flipped a page over. “…Eaton’s Orchard?”

Nick placed his hand over hers on the couch and subtly shook his head, directing her not to answer. “Mr. Winfield, we came here to discuss ownership of the Drake property…”

“Yes, I know, Mr. Mackey.” He returned to his seat in front of them. “I’m old, son, but not senile,” he said to Nick with a grin. Looking at her, he said, “I’m wondering why it’s taken you so long to come?”

Nick’s hand pressed down on hers, obviously wanting her to stay quiet. She removed her hand from under his and folded them in her lap. “I don’t understand.”

“Well, after Lexie’s death, your parents took ownership of the house and land, as the will mandates. They never filed through the court…”

“What?” It was all she could say. Shaking, she looked from Nick to Mr. Winfield and back again. The attorney removed his glasses, looking as confused as she felt. There was a hard, dangerous edge on Nick’s face.

“Explain, please,” Nick said, his voice calmer than he seemed.

Mr. Winfield leaned forward. “Alexandra Drake left her house to you in her will. Since you were underage, the deed was to remain in your parent’s name until you turned twenty-five.”

Trisha couldn’t speak, her brain turning to mush. Her heartbeat drummed in her ears, almost entirely blocking out what they were saying.

“Why did she leave her house to Trisha?” Nick asked, still as calm as ever, as if they were discussing the weather or fishing.

“I can see this is a shock,” the attorney said, straightening. “I assumed you contacted me for the deed. I didn’t realize…” He shook his head. “Never mind. Alexandra Drake had no other family. She married young and had a son, but it’s my understanding she went through a bitter divorce. I’m not sure how, but the son died in infancy. It was after that she became my client. She purchased the property in question shortly after her first book published. All royalties from sales of the books go to children’s charities.”

Trisha hated how much her voice shook. “Why me, though?”

Mr. Winfield shrugged. “I don’t know, Ms. Eaton. She never said, just gave me instructions.”

Nick’s hand fisted next to her, the only indication he was unnerved. “How long after the will was drawn did she pass away?”

“It couldn’t have been long,” he murmured, putting his glasses on and flipping through the file. “Um, let’s see. My notes say she called me on May fourth; the will was drawn up on May sixth. She died on June seventh.”

Trisha didn’t know what to think. They’d come here for answers and only got more questions. Crazy, unimaginable questions. “You said my parents own the property?”

“Well, no.” He removed his glasses again. “Officially, they signed a statement acknowledging they heard the reading of the will, but the house never transferred ownership. They never filed in court. Like I said, Ms. Eaton, I assumed this is why you contacted me. To transfer the deed as Lexie wanted.”

****

Nick’s hand firmed on the steering wheel. They had yet to leave the parking structure after the meeting.

“Why wouldn’t my parents tell me about the house?” Trisha asked from the passenger seat.

Nick was wondering the same thing. The fact her parents hadn’t told Trisha about the house made as little sense as Alexandra leaving it to her in the first place. There must be a connection to Trisha and Drake somehow. Or the Eatons and Drake. And what could this possibly have to do with Andrew’s murder now, or Trisha’s missing person report thirty years ago?

“I don’t know,” he said.

Stay away from her. You were warned.

Nick had little doubt this, in fact, was entirely all about Alexandra Drake. Somebody didn’t want them to know something.

“Why would she leave me the house?”

He looked over at her, wishing he had even an inkling of a decent theory. Swallowing, he debated how much she could handle if he threw out ideas. Brad should be in on this too. He may know things without realizing it.

“Let’s head back. We’ll meet with Brad and see if we can make sense of it.” Someone resorted to murder to cover up this secret. If they knew he and Trisha were digging into the past, they could come after her next. “You can’t tell your parents what you know.”

“Why? I want answers, Nick.”

He returned his gaze to the windshield. “Me, too. Keeping you safe is more important right now.”

“From my parents? Nick—”

“Listen to me very carefully, Trisha.” His voice was harsher than he wanted to be, but she needed to be wary. To be scared. “I’m not ruling them out. Think about it. You yourself asked why they didn’t tell you.”

Her mouth fell open, reality dawning. It made him sick. Needing to call Lafferty, Nick reached for his cell just as it rang. He debated letting it go to voicemail after seeing the caller ID. “Hi Mom.”

“Hi yourself. Am I disturbing you at work?”

He glanced at Trish, but she paid him no attention. The dark circles under her eyes seemed darker in the low light from the structure. She needed a distraction and something to eat. Nick formed a plan. “No. I’m in Milwaukee, actually. I came down with someone.”