An Accidental Woman (4 page)

Had it been summer—or spring or fall—she might have pulled in and talked with John face-to-face near the willows. But this was winter, and winter made maneuvering in and out of the Blazer over icy paths, much
less unshoveled ground, harder to do. Besides, she wanted to get home to her phone lines. So she simply punched in the
Lake News
number as she drove past.

“Kipling, here,” John answered in the distracted voice that said he was buried in the
Wall Street Journal, New York Times,
or
Washington Post.

“It's Poppy,” she said and jumped right in. “Do you know what's going on?”

“Hey, sweetie.” His voice lightened instantly. “No. What's going on?”

“You haven't heard any news?”

“Uh, we slept late,” he said a mite sheepishly. “Just got in, actually.”

Poppy felt a twinge of envy imagining the why of Lily and him sleeping late. It didn't help her mood any. “And you haven't had any calls?” she asked tartly.

“You'd know that better than me.”

“John.”

“No. No calls yet.” He was cautious now. “Tell me what I missed.”

“Heather,” Poppy announced, letting loose with her disgust at the situation in general and the need to place blame in particular. “You missed Heather.” She gave him the basics, then said, “I'm wondering how something like that could happen in a free society, because Heather is
the
last person I would ever accuse of anything, much less false identity and murder. But someone did. So I'm driving along here,” now on the road that circled the lake, with no other cars in sight, just tons of snow, scads of naked trees, and plenty of questions, “and I'm thinking about who the canary could be. No one in town would snitch on Heather, because everyone here loves her, and even if they didn't, they love Micah, and even if they
didn't,
they wouldn't betray one of us for fear of reprisal from the rest. So I'm thinking it has to be one of the bozos who was in town last fall during the whole mess that gave Lily her unwanted fifteen minutes of fame, and those guys are
your
friends—”

“They are not,” John broke in, “but hold on, back up.
What
happened to Heather?”

Slowing when a deer darted across the road ahead, Poppy watched its white tail twitch as it leapt gracefully over a snowbank and loped off through the trees. “She was arrested by the FBI. I don't know much more.
Micah dropped the girls here in a rush and went to get Cassie. They were going off after the Feds. I don't know where—”

“To Concord. The Feds go to federal court, and the nearest one is in Concord.”

Poppy drove on at full speed again, both hands tight on the wheel, though the road was beautifully plowed. “Federal court.” She tried out the words. “Heather in federal court. Doesn't work for me.”

“That's because you assume she's innocent.”

“Well, don't you? Think back to every single interaction you've ever had with her. Did she ever sound like she was concealing a dark past?”

“No, but that's because I don't take her for a pathological liar. If she were one, though, chances are she could fool people. You'd be amazed at how convincing a pathological liar can be.”

Poppy bristled. “Heather is totally honest. People trust her. Ask Charlie. He knows how to spot the good ones. It took him less than a year to get Heather out of the kitchen and into managing the restaurant. Hell, Kip, she's the one he leaves in charge when he and Annette go away with the kids—and, technically, she isn't even working for him anymore! Would he do that if she was dishonest?” She edged the Blazer to the right when an old station wagon approached. It was the postmaster, Nathaniel Roy, on his way to work. Nat was a bespectacled seventy-five, but he was sharp enough to know Poppy's Blazer and would have been agile enough to flick his headlights if he wanted her to stop. The fact that he simply waved and drove on told her that he hadn't heard about Heather, either.

“Poppy, you're preaching to the choir,” John said. “I agree with you. But it's not like we've known her all her life.”

“We haven't known you, either,” Poppy pointed out. “Or Lily. Both of you spent years away.”

“But we were both born here.”

“And you'd condemn Heather because she wasn't?”

“Poppy, Poppy,” John pleaded, “I'm not condemning her. I'm just making the same point that other people are going to make.”

Poppy wanted to argue, but she knew he was right. “Fine then, let's move on. Can you make some calls? Find out where she is? Try to keep a
lid on things? I don't want history repeating itself. Lily was hit with false charges, and the result was two lost jobs, an abandoned apartment in Boston, and a media circus.”

“The result of which,” John noted, “was that she fell in love with me.”

“But Heather already loves Micah,” Poppy reminded him sweetly. “She already loves the girls. She doesn't need a crisis to bring her to her senses. Honestly, why would someone do this to her? I cannot imagine she has a single enemy in town—and while you're asking questions, I want to know who
thought
he recognized her. In the process of clearing Lily's name last October, you humiliated several rather powerful media guys. Think there's a chance that one of them is seeking revenge?”

“They wouldn't dare.”

Poppy gave a shallow laugh. “All three of them are still working.”

“Yeah, but in lesser jobs and under closer watch, and there's still me. They know I'd have no qualms about pointing the finger at them if they tried to point it at someone here without cause.”

“Well, someone did point a finger. While you're in Concord, see if you can find out who. You're an investigative reporter. Being nosy is what you do best.”

“Yeah, well, in this situation, it could backfire. You want to keep this contained? Restraint is the way to go. Ask too many questions, and people start thinking you have something to hide. So let's concentrate on whatever's happening in Concord today. Let me make some calls. I'll get back to you when I hear something.”

Poppy ended the call. Seconds later, she passed the stone wall that marked the entrance to Blake Orchards, her mother's pride and joy. The stones of the wall were waist-high lumps of snow, and the sign was draped with more of the fluffy white stuff. If she turned in and drove a half mile along the gravel road, between stubby apple trees that looked smaller than ever without leaves, she would reach her mother's house and a bit farther on, the cider house. Both were closed up for the winter.

Instead, she stayed on the main road as it climbed a hill and wound away from the lake for a bit, then back. Turning onto her own road, she followed it down to the lake. At the house, she quickly maneuvered her
chair out of the Blazer and rolled inside to the console that held dozens of buttons. She was anxious for news. John wouldn't have called back so soon, but what she really wanted was a message from Micah.

* * *

It was an emotion Micah shared with them. This was not where he wanted to be. He was supposed to be in the sugarbush with Heather, checking the mainline for last-minute damage. Yeah, he could do it alone, but he liked having Heather with him.

He had no choice, though. Cassie had told him to wait here, so he waited, his fists deep in the pockets of his flannel jacket, one booted foot flat to the wall, his eyes hooded, and his jaw clenched. He wanted to get Heather and get home. That was all. Get Heather, and get home.

After what seemed like an eternity standing there in that lobby, surrounded by the rumble of low conversation, Cassie strode down the hall from a room at the end. Long-legged, she was a standout in wool slacks and a blazer, a silk blouse and scarf, and a head full of curly blond hair, but the pickup of Micah's pulse had nothing to do with her good looks. He respected Cassie, but he wasn't drawn to her for anything but her legal expertise.

With Heather on his mind, he straightened.

Cassie didn't say anything when she reached him, simply indicated that he should follow her. Down another hall, they turned a corner. She knocked quietly on a door, the upper half of which was a milky glass, then turned the knob.

Micah expected to find Heather inside, but instead there were only an old, empty desk and a pair of battered metal chairs.

“Where is she?” he asked.

“Apparently still on her way,” Cassie replied, putting her briefcase on the desk. “Here's the thing. There'll be a hearing in a little while. It isn't an indictment, per se, just a hearing in front of a magistrate during which the Feds return the warrant—the warrant in question being the one involving flight to avoid prosecution. Heather won't have to say anything.”

She broke off when the door opened again.

Micah's insides lurched. Heather was there with a guard, who gestured her forward. She looked ghostly pale and even more terrified than she had been back at the house. Her silver eyes found his and held them, as though clinging for support.

At first he didn't move. There was a split second when he thought of the part of Heather's past he didn't know, the knapsack he had stashed away and the words that the federal agent had said.
We have evidence that her real name is Lisa Matlock, and that fifteen years ago she committed murder in California.
If Heather was hiding something like that from him, it would explain the fear in her eyes.

Then again, if she was innocent of the charges and feeling overwhelmed by something that was out of her grasp, her fear was justified.

He focused on that thought. She had no sooner stepped into the room when he crossed the floor, pulled her into his arms, and pressed her face to his chest. He didn't want to see those fear-filled eyes. But he could feel her trembling, which was nearly as upsetting. His Heather had always been calm and even-tempered. She had always been brave, as sure of herself as anyone could be who was a newcomer to a town as insular as Lake Henry.

He remembered thinking that about her the first time they'd met. It had been fall. With the syrup season long done, he was in carpenter mode. Charlie had hired him to install a wall of windows in the café to open it up to the birches. During the course of the job, he was in and out of the kitchen a dozen times a day. Heather was working there, first as a dishwasher, then helping prepare the food for cooking. She hadn't said much. To this day she wasn't a big talker—but neither was he. He remembered her being quiet, even shy, but self-assured. She had seemed comfortable with what she was doing, at peace, certainly not like a woman who was on the lam and had something to hide.

The guard stepped out into the hall and closed the door, leaving them alone with Cassie.

Micah said the first thing that came to mind, murmured against her hair. “Did you have breakfast?”

Heather shook her head against him and whispered, “They offered. I couldn't eat.”

He held her tightly for another minute, then lowered his mouth to her ear. “Where'd this come from?”