The Fire of Home (A Powell Springs Novel) (11 page)

Your sister,

Jessica

On the defensive since Bax had given her this letter, Amy had expected a bitter, scathing diatribe, full of anger and accusations. Sh
e’d
found something else. She took a deep breath and rested her head in her hands.

She had no friends here, or anywhere else, for that matter. Adam had systematically blocked her from creating friendships with other people, even women. Fear and relief warred within her—she knew Jessica had swallowed her pride to make this offer. But the prospect of facing her sister across a dinner table was daunting. Under the best of circumstances it would be awkward. And dear God, what if she brought Cole with her? She couldn’t face them both.

She picked up the letter and reread it.

I’ll wait for you in the dining room.

It didn’t mention him. Maybe . . . maybe it would be just Jessica and her.

Wednesday evening. That was tomorrow. She could do this, she resolved, clutching the paper. She was strong enough to face her sister. She had something decent to wear now and no good excuse to avoid her.

Pushing away from the table, she made her way up the back stairs to the second floor. She kept her eyes on the letter as she walked down the hall toward her room. When she passed the bathroom she noticed that the light was on. Since the door was open, she assumed no one was in there. She had to stay on top of these things—the power company wasn’t giving them electricity for free. With her concentration on her sister’s letter, she didn’t look up, but walked in, unseeing, and pushed the button switch.

“Hey!”

Amy jumped and fumbled with the switch, mortified. “Oh! Bax! I—I’m sorry! I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

He stood at the sink holding a long razor, a towel slung over one shoulder, and his face half-covered with shaving soap. This time he wore a white sleeveless undershirt with the neck unbuttoned to the center of his chest. Sh
e’d
seen Adam shave countless times, but the sight had never once stirred her, certainly not as Bax did now.

He gestured at his soapy face and held out the hand clutching the razor, as if to reinforce the obvious evidence of his presence and task. Then he turned back to the mirror and continued scraping his face with the blade. The sound of the light rasping noise sent pleasant chills rushing over her scalp and down her arms. This was the second time today h
e’d
roused that feeling in her. His backside was slim, and his jeans fit his legs as if the
y’d
been tailored just for him.

Embarrassment competed with fascination within her. How much more forward could she be? She straightened and focused on getting out of the room. “Perhaps if you had closed the door—please excuse me, I’ll just—I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Is there trouble in that letter you got there?” He nodded at the page in her hands.

He was just full of nosy questions. First that business about her wrist, now this. “Excuse me,” she repeated, more firmly this time, and turned to walk away, grasping the doorknob behind her as she went.

“Do you know why someone would be watching you?” He looked at her reflection in the mirror over the sink.

The question all but nailed Amy’s feet to the floor. “W-watching
me
?” She spun around. “Someone is watching me?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure of it.”

“Where? How do you know? What makes you think that?”

He leaned closer to the mirror and the razor flashed again. The muscles in his right arm flexed.
Whssk.
“I saw a man standing at the far west end of the yard, just outside the fence after I came in from giving you that letter.”

“But why?” Of course, she already knew the answer to that.

“I asked first—why?” He wiped the blade on the towel. “Is it Jacobsen?”

His directness flustered her. “I don’t—well . . . would my own husband spy on me? That’s silly. He knows I was coming here. I told him,” she lied. “He could just knock on the door and talk to me.”

Raised brows and a skeptical expression served as his answer.

“There have been all sorts of people wandering through Powell Springs since the war ended.” She continued, “You should know that yourself. After all, even you didn’t live here when I was in town before.”

She saw the muscles in his back stiffen, and he faced her.

“Everyone has a past, Amy.
Everyone.
Including you.”

Diverted momentarily, she gave him an even look. “And what’s yours? You know far more about me than I do about you.”

Whssk.

He ignored her question. “I just thought yo
u’d
want to know about this so you’ll pay attention to who’s behind you, who might be hanging around outside, or following you. I’m telling you what any lawman would. You don’t have anyone else to give you cover.”

“I do, too. My husband—”

“Oh, bullshit,” Bax said, frowning. “Just give up on that lame-horse story.” He had to interrupt her. He couldn’t listen to her defend that lousy Jacobsen, and he hadn’t even met him. Amy might not be an angel, but from what Bax had heard, while that good-for-nothing had lived here, h
e’d
intimidated people around town during the war with his threats to report them to the government as unpatriotic, preached brimstone and bleak retribution, and then was caught with his pants down visiting a prostitute. “Some husband. He broke your arm, left bruises on your neck, and you’re terrified of him.” He sucked in a hiss of breath when he nicked his chin with the razor. He pressed his thumb to the dot of blood and then turned to face her. “He’s not protecting you. And he could very well be the one keeping an eye on you.” It could also be Breninger, he realized, but he didn’t want to complicate things. As long as she stayed sharp, and he did too, that would help.

Amy stared at him, aghast. How could he know all that? She searched for words to refute everything h
e’d
said,
anything
, then realized she had nothing to fight back with. Everything he said was uncomfortably true. She was surprised that h
e’d
noticed the bruising but she knew he was right. His comment hit her like a slap with a cold washcloth. A lump the size of a peach pit formed in her throat. H
e’d
reminded her again that she was friendless, and except for her sister, she was alone in the world. That was better than being some man’s doormat and slave. But surely there must be some middle ground, some happy in-between. Susannah had found it twice. Jess had it—despite Amy’s maneuverings.

Without another word, she walked out and went to her own room.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Tabitha Monroe sat at her dressing table with a hand mirror, trying to subdue both her nerves and her blonde bob. The short haircut was oh so chic, at the very crest of fashion these days. But her own hair, permanently waved, had suffered from the drying, ammonia-smelling chemicals used to wind her arrow-straight mane into tendrils. It was difficult to manage, and the memory of longer hair was bittersweet. Still, it was all the rage and she liked keeping up with the latest looks. Oh, how her charity committee had squirmed with jealousy upon learning of her Chanel No. 5. When she told them it was sold only in exclusive Paris boutiques, ah, what joy that had brought her. She knew that envy was eating them alive. Her marriage to Harlan had elevated her from the lowly, barren status of old-maid schoolteacher surviving on relatives’ charity, to this wonderland of social and material wealth.

But she was not in the mood to host the arts league luncheon today. It had been scheduled for two weeks and only her own death would be an acceptable excuse for canceling at this last moment. In any event, it was now one o’clock and the cook was busy in the kitchen with chilled poached salmon for twenty guests, who had already begun to arrive.

She turned this way and that, trying to see the back of her head while maneuvering the mirror. At least with her hands occupied she couldn’t chew her cuticles, a dreadful habit that emerged when she worried. Right now, those cuticles were torn and ragged.

She had not seen or heard from Harlan since the morning after his late-night “business meeting,” and it simply was not like him. She barely slept, listening for him to come home. Elsa turned off the lamp in the foyer every morning, the sedan wasn’t in the garage, and the help was beginning to talk. Sh
e’d
made up her mind—if he wasn’t here by dinner, she would call the police. The impulse had struck her immediately, but sh
e’d
hesitated. If nothing was wrong, h
e’d
be furious with her for making a big fuss and involving the law. After the night that car had idled at their curb, sh
e’d
asked a lot questions, but h
e’d
dismissed her demands for answers. Now, of course, she was suspicious again. Who had been in that car? And why were they interested in the Monroes?

Dear God, maybe he was lying in a ditch somewhere, or drowned in the river . . . any number of things could have happened. This was simply not the kind of trouble that Tabitha Pratt Monroe allowed in her well-ordered life. If Harlan wasn’t hurt, h
e’d
better have an excellent excuse for making her worry so.

On top of everything else, the gardeners had not come to work either. Her roses were suffering and the grounds were beginning to look shaggy. And to think that Harlan said she did not make good use of her time. The responsibilities were never ending.

“Miss Tabitha?”

Tabitha heard the maid’s quiet voice along with a light tapping on her bedroom door. “What is it, Elsa?”

Elsa slipped into the room and closed the door behind her with a quiet
click
. “There are two gentlemen here to see you, ma’am.”

She frowned slightly. There were no men on the guest list. “Gentlemen? Who are they?”

Elsa held out a small silver tray bearing a white calling card.
Donald F. Rinehart
.
Tabbie examined both sides, one of which was blank. The name meant nothing to her. “You said there’s more than one?”

“He didn’t introduce himself. First they asked for Mr. Monroe, but when I told them he’s not here, they asked for you.”

“For heaven’s sake, didn’t they say what they want?”

Elsa shook her head. “I tried to find out but they wouldn’t tell me.”

Tabitha took one last look in the mirror, then put it down and did her best to remain calm and keep her hands still. Inwardly, she felt as if birds were flapping in her chest. “All right, I’m coming. Put them in the library.”

“Shall I serve tea?”

“Certainly not. They can’t arrive without notice and expect more than five minutes of my time. I’ll call you if I need anything. And tell the ladies I’ll be with them shortly.”

The maid withdrew, but Tabitha’s anxiety continued to climb, and her index finger found its way to her teeth. Something was wrong, she just knew it. Her mind would not proceed further to imagine what that could possibly be.

With a final poke at her hair with a comb, she stood and smoothed out any wrinkles in her skirt, then went downstairs.

Her taupe silk dress swished lightly against her stockings as she descended the steps. Along the wall on the stairway, she passed oil paintings of people neither she nor Harlan knew, but which they fobbed off as pictures of his distant relatives. In truth, the portraits had been purchased through a buyer in New York. Their biggest challenge was keeping straight the names and family connections each painting was supposed to represent. In the Monroes’ social circle, if one had no family pedigree, one had to invent something. In some ways it was almost better than the real thing because they could make up anything they wanted, within credible reason. Of course, some care must be taken to avoid shining too bright a light on any one family member; the story had to be one that couldn’t be verified or denied by someone wise to society.

She reached the bottom of the marble staircase and heard the light chatter of feminine voices coming from the parlor. Before anyone could see her, she made her way to the library where two men stood in quiet conference while they waited for her. Immediately defensive, she lifted her chin and put on her haughtiest schoolteacher expression.

“Good afternoon. I’m Mrs. Tabitha Monroe. Perhaps you can explain to me what brings you here.”

The older of the two, well dressed in an expensive suit, stepped forward and extended his hand. “I’m Donald Rinehart, Mrs. Monroe. We met once at one of Robert Burton’s dinner parties. I am Mr. Burton’s attorney.”

“Oh, of course.” She was still certain sh
e’d
never seen him before or heard his name. “And that man rearranging my chinoiserie figurines?” She nodded toward his companion, who stood at the mantle fingering the artifacts.

“
Blackburn!
” he whispered harshly, and the man promptly put down the carved ivory dragon h
e’d
been studying. “Please excuse my assistant, William Blackburn, Mrs. Monroe.” He bent a brief, severe look on the man. “Assistant for the time being, anyway.”

The young man reddened and stepped forward to shake her hand. She said nothing to him.

“I still don’t know why you’re here, Mr. Rinehart, and it cannot have escaped your notice that I have luncheon guests arriving.”

The attorney cleared his throat. “Yes, I apologize for the interruption, and I wouldn’t have troubled you if this were not important. We were wondering if Mr. Monroe is at home.”

“No, he isn’t.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“I imagine he’s at work in Mr. Burton’s office,” she hedged. Maybe you should look for him there.”

“Mr. Burton hasn’t seen him in several weeks. Naturally, he is concerned.” He gave her a look that implied she should be as well.

Faced with this news, Tabitha worked to maintain a calm exterior, but growing panic swelled in her. “My husband has many interests and responsibilities.”

Rinehart considered the comfortable room, tastefully decorated with fine furniture, potted ferns, and elegant lamps. “You have a grand home, Mrs. Monroe. Do those interests extend beyond the scope of his job with Mr. Burton?”

She frowned at the suspicious tone of his questioning. “No wife concerns herself with the details of her husband’s occupation.” Truthfully, she had no idea what kind of work Harlan did, for Robert Burton or anyone else. The few times sh
e’d
bothered to ask, he had given her only a vague response. She suspected he would never tell her anything specific. That wasn’t surprising—her female friends and acquaintances didn’t know the details of what their husbands did for a living, either. But Harlan was an important man. He told her so, and because they lived well, she believed him.

“When did you last see him?” Rinehart asked.

Her fear continued to escalate. “Well, I-I—Mr. Rinehart, has something happened to him?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

Oh, this was worse than sh
e’d
originally thought. She twisted her diamond wedding ring on her finger. “The police—we should call the police.”

“Not just yet. Mr. Burton would like to avoid a scandal if possible.”

Tabitha, never at a loss for a rejoinder, now found herself groping for words. “Scandal! What are you talking about?”

“Unfortunately, there are some irregularities in Mr. Burton’s accounts that point to Mr. Monroe’s area of responsibility, and he would like to get them sorted out. It involves a considerable amount of money.”

Irregularities.

Money.

Dear God, what had Harlan done?

“Tabbie, dear!” she heard Greta Van Weider trumpet behind her, “There you are! We were wondering—oh, good afternoon, Mr. Rinehart. Tabbie, are you part of the scandal you two are discussing? There’s nothing quite so deliciously naughty!”

While the two acquaintances made small talk, Tabitha felt as if the room were spinning. It dimmed to a gray mist and then turned black.

“Are you sure you’ll be able to manage while I’m gone?” Amy stood in the kitchen, wearing a new dress and shoes and a nice spring coat that had seemed like an unforgivable indulgence when she bought it. Owning a wrap that was designated for only part of the year was such a departure from having two dresses and a single drab coat that must serve for any season and any weather. To compensate, she decided to manage with the hat she already owned.

At the stove, Deirdre gave her a sidelong glance while she made gravy from the chicken sh
e’d
roasted. “Before you got here, I took care of Mrs. Donaldson and did this, too.”

Amy smiled. “Of course.”

“That teal color suits your complexion.”

“Thank you.” She glanced at the clock above the sink. “
I’d
better go. I don’t want to be late.” Amy smiled again, but inside her nerves quivered like a strand of spider’s web, and she wanted to hide in her bedroom. She was annoyed with Bax for telling her about some man watching her, even though it was something she should know—if it was true. Now she felt trapped in the house and hadn’t ventured beyond the back porch since last night after that indelicate scene in the bathroom. For all she knew, h
e’d
been wrong or—or made it up.
Why
he would do that, well, she had no idea.

Then there was her apprehension about facing Jessica. Originally sh
e’d
thought she would ignore her sister’s invitation to dinner. But . . . she was lonely. As a child she had been shy and close to her mother, disinclined to follow Jess on some of her close-call escapades. When Jess went away to school, and with their mother gone, Amy had come into her own. Sh
e’d
developed friendships and become involved in local activities and charities. Over the course of a single autumn, that had changed. She thought again about her sister’s letter and her own fragile hope that they could close the gaping wound Amy had opened between them. The events of those days past were not ones she visited often—their memories were painful and only served to remind her of the disastrous marriage she had entered into as a result of her actions.

When she opened the front door she looked up and down Springwater Street and at the vacant lot across the way. She didn’t see anyone except a neighbor four doors down wh
o’d
come out to get the mail from his mailbox. She adjusted her handbag on her arm, straightened, and headed down the sidewalk toward the New Cascades Hotel.

The day’s busy street traffic was dwindling on Main, and a cool, clear dusk settled over the town. Shops had already closed or were in the process of doing so. She passed Jessica’s office and saw that sh
e’d
locked up for the evening. Of course—she was meeting Amy for dinner at the hotel.

As she walked, her new shoes pinched but her attention was consumed with staying alert to any suspicious-looking man who might seem to be shadowing her movements. She saw no one until she reached Granny Mae’s café. Through the large front windows, she saw a few diners sitting at tables. She barely recognized the mayor, Horace Cookson, sitting alone with a roast beef dinner in front of him. His son, home on leave from Camp Lewis during the war, had brought the first case of influenza to Powell Springs. It had spread like a kerosene fire, and both his son and Mrs. Cookson died during the epidemic. The rumpled old dairy farmer looked as if h
e’d
aged twenty years instead of four.

As if waiting for her to come along, Granny pushed open her side door and hailed her. “Hello, there, Amy. My, but you’re looking smart and dressy.” The old woman wore her standard practical dress and dirty apron, and a strangely self-satisfied expression.

Amy groaned to herself. She hadn’t talked to Granny since the day sh
e’d
gone to her for Deirdre’s cough remedy. “Thank you.” She didn’t stop, though.