“You are an ungrateful, scheming little slut,” Ermy said boldly. “When I think how I wasted some of the best years of my life guiding you, advising you, trying to teach you a bit about the ways of the world...”
“You did a good job, between you and Lisa,” she answered, staring out the kitchen window. The day looked warmer and the sun was shining. It was no day for a young man to lie dead. No day for her husband to be in jail. She turned back to her so-called relatives. “It’s too late to change the past. When you get back from your visit I think you’d better start making plans to find some other place to live. I think you’ve worn out your welcome around here a long time ago. You and Willy.”
“Listen to me, you conniving little brat!” Aunt Ermy started toward her, grabbing her wrist in a bone-crushing grip. As a matter of pure reflex, Molly kicked her in the shins, and Ermy pulled away, shrieking curses. Some of the phrases were rather good, and Molly was sorry she couldn’t remember them for later use. Willy hurriedly helped his cousin out of the kitchen, hushing her with words Molly could neither hear nor imagine. By the time they reached the stairs she had quieted down, and the sound of their whispering was barely audible.
“What mischief are they hatching up now?” Mrs. Morse demanded. “If I were you I’d keep an eye on them before they leave. You might find the best silver gone with them if you’re not careful.”
“Don’t worry,” Molly said. “I wouldn’t trust Aunt Ermy farther than I could throw her, which is about half an inch. And Willy’s not any better.” She turned to Mrs. Morse. “Why don’t you go on home now? Everyone can get their own lunch around here—there’s no reason you should wait around for their sakes. I’m just going to call the police and then go for a ride. After a few minutes with those two I feel like I need a breath of fresh air.”
Mrs. Morse nodded sagely. “I know how you feel. You sure you won’t mind being all alone here?”
“Not a bit,” Molly lied, smiling bravely. After all, there’d be no one left to hurt her.
She was out for several hours on the back of old Fountain, the mellowest horse in the stable. The police had refused to release any information, either about Toby or Patrick, and Molly had slammed down the phone on the unhelpful Sergeant Stroup in a blazing fury.
Oddly enough, they didn’t seem interested in trying to search her blank memory one more time. Maybe they already had the answers, she thought, unnerved. She needed the ride to burn off some of the helpless frustration that swamped her, and she had no intention of spending another minute in the company of her hateful relatives. That last little battle with Aunt Ermy had been the final straw.
It was a gorgeous day, giving lie to the storm that raged in her heart. The fresh spring air did its best to convince her that all was right with the world. The budding trees, the daffodils and crocuses, the soft spring smell of wet, warm earth were an intoxicant, and she prayed that when she returned to the old stone house Ermy and Willy would be gone and Patrick would be back.
She should have known the latter would be too much to hope for. The house was very still as she made her way slowly, reluctantly through the barns toward the kitchen door. Her sixth sense, such as it was, was working overtime, and she had the unshakable feeling that something very bad awaited her inside the flagstoned hallways of Winter’s Edge.
She opened the door with deceptive boldness. “Anyone home?” she called out, thinking of the day just over a week ago when she first remembered altering this house. It seemed astonishing that so much could have happened in such a short time.
Slowly, bravely, methodically, she went through each room of the house, calling out as she went. By the time she reached the attic she should have been satisfied that the house was empty except for Beastie’s slumbering form, and yet she couldn’t shake her sense of panic. Of disaster lurking.
She hadn’t even had time to think about Toby’s death. It felt unreal—that intense light in his eyes suddenly snuffed out. She wanted to mourn, but all she could think about was Patrick.
She went back downstairs, determined to be calmly reasonable as she locked all the doors and windows, whistling tunelessly as she moved through the house. What she was locking them against, she didn’t know and refused to try to imagine—she was nervous enough already. The sun was already sinking low in the sky, and eerie shadows were growing in the spotless corners of the house.
Briskly she walked into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. Five-thirty. She picked up the discarded newspapers, grabbed a plate of home-baked muffins and went back into the living room to be near her sleeping canine friend.
Someone had already laid a fire, and she lit it, despite the warmth of the late afternoon sun shining through the multi-paned windows. She needed every bit of cheeriness and warmth she could get Someone had murdered Toby Pentick, and the one person she knew couldn’t have done it was the only one in custody. Whoever had killed Toby was most likely the same person who’d been trying to kill her. And here she sat, alone in the house, a perfect sitting duck. The idea was not exactly heartwarming.
Something incriminating was found by Toby’s body, Mrs. Morse had said. For some reason her mind went back to the handkerchief still hidden away in the bedside table. The handkerchief with Patrick’s initials and the mysterious rust-colored stains. And with a sudden horrid sinking feeling she recognized the short spurt of memory that came rushing back. The handkerchief wasn’t an ancient love token. She had found it clasped in her father’s murdered hand. And in a last moment of consciousness she had hidden it away from the police’s prying eyes. Something incriminating, her brain echoed.
On an impulse she couldn’t quite understand she made her way back up to the attic, to the gloom-shrouded shapes of the abandoned furniture. The handkerchief was exactly where she had left it, tucked in the back drawer of the ugly dresser. She stared at the orange, bloodlike streaks thoughtfully, some distant memory teasingly out of reach.
She slowly returned to the living room and the fire, the scrap of incriminating cloth in her hand. Settling back in the chair, she stared straight ahead. Beastie snored beside her, snuffling noisily in his sleep, bringing her back to her senses. If she doubted Patrick, what did she have left? She picked up the newspaper again, determined not to think about it.
The crossword puzzle proved too easy, the coffee had none of its usual wakening effects, and the warmth from the fire made her suddenly drowsy. In between clues she fell asleep, the handkerchief clutched in her hand.
Seventeen
It was an odd sort of dream, even from the beginning. It was too logical, too familiar to be a fantasy. And yet at the beginning it was as pleasant and somehow frightening as most dreams are.
It was her wedding day. She was dressed in the lace and eyelet dress that hung straight down past her shoulders, and the antique veil sat delicately upon her head. Her slanted green-blue eyes were filled with angry tears as Aunt Ermy and Lisa Canning bustled around her, making busy, critical noises.
“You look absolutely lovely, darling,” Lisa crooned, arranging the veil about her shoulders. “I’m sure Pat will be most pleasantly surprised.”
The bride felt a stab of resentment, one she hid quite well. After all, she had won, hadn’t she? He was marrying her, for whatever his reasons. He hadn’t waited for Lisa Canning to divorce her gentle-mannered older husband.
“For goodness sake, Molly, smile!” Aunt Ermy ordered in exasperation. “One would think you were going to your funeral instead of to a wedding. It’s not as if we all don’t know you’re in love with him and have been ever since you were a teenager. I only wonder how you managed to hook him.”
“I was wondering the same thing,” Lisa murmured lazily, fingering the opulent hot-house bouquet with the yellow orchids that she and Aunt Ermy had chosen for her. They had wanted to pick the wedding dress too—a dumpy-looking satin creation that had taken their fancy, but on this point she’d had a strange moment of stubbornness. She had taken her little car and spent the day shopping, returning with the simple, old-fashioned dress she now wore, and the slight victory gave her confidence as she watched her pale, nervous face in the mirror of her pink-and-white room.
“You don’t think he’s in love with you, do you?” Lisa leaned closer. At the betraying expression on the bride’s face, Lisa laughed. “Oh, you poor dear, you do! Did he tell you so?”
“No,” she whispered, unwilling to confide in the older woman. She had believed, held the idea firmly in her heart of hearts, that underneath his friendly exterior he really cared for her. That he just hadn’t realized it yet. Otherwise why would he have asked her to marry him? The money wasn’t that important—she would have given it to him anyway, and well he knew it.
