Danger in a Red Dress (11 page)

He startled her by waving back.

Maybe he wasn’t as big a geek as she had imagined.

She started off again, fixing her sights on the top of the next hill—when her earpiece beeped. No one ever called her while she was on her run, so this couldn’t be good.

She slowed her pace, pulled her cell out of her pocket and looked at the ID, expecting to see Balfour House. But no, although the number tripped a vague memory in her brain. She touched her earpiece. “Hello?”

“Hannah? Is this a good time?” The deep voice sounded vaguely familiar, too, warm and soft, like a tender hand sliding down her spine.

Then she pegged it. “Trent. Trent Sansoucy.”

“You remembered. I’m flattered.”

He must have called the house and gotten her cell number. But why?

His voice changed, became concerned. “Are you sick? You sound like you’re having a heart attack.”

She laughed and sped up again. “I’m exercising.”

“You’re gasping.”

“I’m on a run. Gasping is a good thing. What can I do for you?”

“Susan Stevens is available now, and I’d like to make an appointment for her to come in and do her magic.” He was all business, his East Coast-accented voice sounding a little more Boston than before. “I’d like to get her in there before the party.”

“Me, too. How soon can we have her?”

“Tomorrow, if you like.”

“Tomorrow is perfect. Both Mrs. Manly and I are uneasy with the situation as it is.”

He went on the alert—she could tell by his voice. “Why? Have you seen anything? Heard anything?”

“Um . . . no.” She was not going to tell him she thought the house was watching her. He’d probably decide she was crazy, because, well . . . it was crazy. But despite her lectures to herself, that itchy, creeping feeling of being watched had never faded.

He must have heard her hesitation, and said sternly, “You should inform me of whatever you suspect.”

So she told him the easy part, the factual part. “I suspect that with the government accusing Mrs. Manly of hiding information about Nathan Manly and his fortune, there is the possibility that someone might want to pressure Mrs. Manly into revealing what she knows, and they might do it violently.” She didn’t add that Carrick Manly was her top suspect. Most people hadn’t glimpsed that slimy side of Carrick, and even she didn’t think he would actually resort to bloodshed.

The trouble was, when she’d met him, she had never suspected he would want Hannah to spy on his mother, either, and be willing to blackmail her to get his way.

“I’m concerned about that, too. I had hoped that hadn’t occurred to you.”

“I’m glad that you didn’t dismiss my fears.” She labored up another hill. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m being paranoid.”

“Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they’re not after you.”

She chuckled, as he meant her to.

“Truthfully, when it comes to danger, women tend to ignore their instincts when they shouldn’t.” Trent sounded so warmly concerned, she got that hand-down-her-spine feeling again. “Is there anything specific that bothers you?”

What the hell? She might as well tell him. He’d probably heard dumber things. “The house is old and it creaks in the wind, so I hear footsteps that aren’t there. It’s more than the money. It’s the whole
Nathan Manly hasn’t been seen since he disappeared
thing.” No matter how hard Hannah tried, she hadn’t been able to forget Mrs. Manly’s conviction that someone had killed Nathan, and that he was planning his vengeance. “I guess you could say I’m afraid of ghosts.”

“You’re afraid of Nathan Manly’s ghost? I thought he was still alive somewhere.”

“That’s what they say, but nobody knows for sure, do they?” Hannah had said too much, and she reined herself in, going back to the facts. “I’m more afraid of intruders, especially since I’d be the one defending Mrs. Manly.”

“Surely the servants would step in. The butler?”

“Nelson? No.”

Trent was silent for a long moment. “Then you’re right to feel uneasy. So I’ll send Susan at ten tomorrow?”

“Ten would be good.” She could make sure Mrs. Manly got dressed, ate her breakfast and took her meds, before Susan showed up.

“We’ll get the security set up as soon as possible.”

“Thank you.” Hannah liked that he didn’t make her feel stupid.

“So . . . how far do you run?”

How far do I run?
She repeated the question silently to herself. Trent wasn’t getting off the phone. He was making conversation.

She relaxed and smiled. Was Mrs. Manly right? Their last conversation had been flirtatious. Had he enjoyed it? “I run two to four miles a day, depending on the weather and how much time I have.”

“The weather doesn’t look too good today.” She heard the breeze whistle across his mouthpiece; apparently he was outside, too.

“Good point.” She looked out at the clouds, tall, purple, and menacing on the horizon. She turned and headed back. Three miles, up and down slopes, through the grove, and along the cliff, to the house. In her distress about Mrs. Manly’s account, she hadn’t been paying attention. She’d come too far. She was going to get drenched.

“Why did you run so far?”

“Sometimes I need to get away.”

“She’s a difficult woman. Mrs. Manly, I mean. My father always said so.”

Hannah bristled at his assumption that Mrs. Manly was the one who drove her from Balfour House. “She’s had far too many disappointments in her life”—her husband, her son—“and far too much responsibility on her shoulders. It’s given her a hard shell, but on the inside, she’s a good woman.”

“It’s good of you to defend her.” He flailed around like a guy who knew he’d put his foot wrong, but didn’t know why or how. “Does she remind you of your mother?”

“God, no. My mother was . . .” Hannah laughed aloud. “If you looked up
joie de vivre
in the dictionary, there was a picture of my mother. Life wasn’t good to her, either, but she never let it get her down.”

“She sounds great.” He still sounded cautious.

Hannah supposed she had stomped on him a little too firmly, so she kept chatting. “She insisted we travel, have fun, enjoy ourselves when we could. We went to the Renaissance festival every year, and she always bought me a present—a scarf, or a ring, or a face carved into a knot of wood. Mom spoke French fluently, loved the French culture, worshipped French cooking. So we ate out once a week at a little café that specialized in French country cooking. We always split a dessert afterward—
mousse au chocolat
, or an éclair, or
crèpes à la Normande
. Vacations were usually a car trip to a bed-and-breakfast in Pennsylvania or somewhere close, but one year, when I was fourteen, one of her doctors won a trip to Provence, and he said he didn’t have time to go, so he gave it to her.”

“Just like that, he gave it to her.”

There was an edge to his voice. Cynicism, she guessed. But she assured him, “He was a good guy. I think Dr. McAllister did it because he knew how much Mom wanted to go. I think it was the best time of her life. I know it was the best time of mine.” Without warning, Hannah choked up.

The memory of that time flashed so brightly in her mind: sitting in a small bistro, smelling the blooming lavender, watching her mother turn her face up to the warm sun and smile. . . .

Hannah stopped running, turned and faced the oncoming storm, hoped the ragged edge of her breathing sounded like panting.

Trent waited just long enough for the constriction in her chest to ease. “What happened to her?” He didn’t sound curious; he sounded kind and as if he really wanted to know.

That hand again, caressing her back, easing her pain.

Directly below her, the thin slip of sandy beach stood exposed by low tide. The dark turmoil of the waves called to Hannah, and a narrow path twisted its way through the rocks and the bearberry. Defying nature, she stepped off the paved path and into the wild. “She suffered from rheumatoid arthritis.” Hannah slipped a little in the gravel, caught herself, kept going.

“Hannah?” Trent sounded worried. “Are you still running?”

“I am really, really running.” The beach got closer. The wind picked up. The ocean got wilder. And Hannah kept talking. “Mom’s last hip replacement was difficult. She’d had so many, you know, and we always existed on the edge of disaster. Her boss was not understanding—in fact, Mr. Washington would have fit well as a character in a Dickens novel—and Mom went back to work too soon.” The path ended three feet above the sand. Hannah jumped. Landed. Let the brief triumph sweep away the bitterness of her words. “She was running his errands, fell down his stairs, and died.”

“Good God, that’s horrible.” Trent sounded blankly astonished. “How old were you?”

Hannah walked up the beach, the damp sand hard-packed beneath her shoes. “Sixteen, but believe it or not, I was quite capable and survived very well.” She was proud of that.

“How? How does a sixteen-year-old with no parents manage to get herself a bachelor’s degree in nursing?”

“Scholarships, mostly. Mr. Washington was persuaded to settle a small sum on me, also, but that barely covered my living expenses. He was a respected lawyer, you know.” The spray splashed on her face. The clouds grew taller.

“You have to be resentful. You must want revenge, if not on him, then on other men who are indifferent bastards.”

She didn’t like that. Trent sounded like some radio personality with a pop-psychology degree. “It’s hard to avoid hoping that someday Karma catches up with Mr. Washington, but I don’t dwell on it. My mother had her reasons to be bitter, too, but she refused. She said, ‘We have to
live
a little, make ourselves happy, or what’s the use of all the suffering?’ And she was right. I know she was.” Ahead of her, the rock cliff, dimpled with shallow caves, swung far out into the waves. Hannah didn’t want to take the short, steep path that led to the top, back to civilization, to Balfour House, to Mrs. Manly, her illnesses, her challenging request and Hannah’s unbearable responsibilities.

But what else could Hannah do? She was running out of room on the beach. The storm surge was driving the tide higher and higher. If she stayed here, she’d be swept away.

So she climbed.

“I hear the ocean. Are you still on the path?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” She glanced up when she stepped onto the pavement, and caught sight of the birdwatcher, standing on the rocks on the highest spot on the estate, his binoculars sweeping the area. The binoculars found her and stopped, almost as if he’d been looking for her. Then they moved on.

She wanted to tell the fool that with this storm, even the seabirds were going to ground. But he was too far away, and as she watched, he seated himself again and scanned the horizon.

The first drops of cold rain splattered her forehead. She untied her hoodie, stuck her arms in it, and started running even before she had pulled up the hood.

To Trent, she said, “Thank you for asking about my mother. I don’t get to talk about her very often. When she died, my friends were afraid to say much for fear I’d cry, and then everyone forgot her, except me. So this has been pleasant, if a little one-sided.”

“It’s been interesting. I feel like I have insight into why you became a nurse.”

“Yes, there’s no mystery about me.”

“That’s not true. A lot of women would have figured they’d done their stint and swear never to care for another patient.”

“Instead, I want to save the world.” A gust of wind pushed her sideways. She stumbled, righted herself, and kept running. “Dr. McAllister told me I’d have to get over that or I’d burn out, and he’s right. I’m twenty-four, my last three patients were elderly and passed on in my care, and I can’t take much more. My next patient will be younger, one I can teach to live, not help to die.”

“Yes, it can’t be good . . . to have to help them die.” His voice sounded muffled, like he was talking through a cloth. “Will Mrs. Manly die soon?”

“She’s in better shape than when I came here,” Hannah answered tartly. Then she sighed. “But no, she’s not going to live forever. She doesn’t even want to.”

It was raining harder, and she wasn’t sure what he said, but it sounded like, “Is that what you tell yourself?”

With a roar, the heavens opened. Rain sluiced down in buckets, pummeling her, filling her shoes with water, saturating her clothes. “I gotta go,” she shouted.

“Talk to you next time,” he shouted back.

She shut her phone and ran as hard as she could toward Balfour House.

He might be bald. He might be short. He might be overweight. But she hadn’t enjoyed a conversation so much in years.

Of course, she’d been the one doing the talking.

Despite the rain that dripped off her nose and chin, she smiled. Next time they talked, it would be more balanced. She’d ask a few questions herself.

Next time.

In an excess of good spirits, she leaped up the stairs onto the porch, and hugged herself in delight. He had said he would talk to her
next time
.

Turning, she looked out over the Balfour estate and saw the birder leaping off the rocks and running toward the paved path.

She hoped he got inside before lightning struck.

 

To get back into Balfour House unseen, Gabriel had to take the long way around, staying out of sight of the windows until his last dash into the back door and up the stairs. In his room, he shook like a dog, then headed for the bathroom. He put the binoculars on the vanity and dropped his sopping-wet clothes on the cracked linoleum floor.

My God, the North was miserable in the winter. Worse, Northerners would look you in the eye and tell you this wasn’t winter—this was autumn.

He flipped the shower on hot, and when the steam was rising in the tub, he climbed in. He was so cold his toes hurt, he shivered so hard his bones rattled, but he had to say he’d learned a lot today.