Night Scents (38 page)

"What made you suspect Tuck of trying to find the treasure?"

"The way his eyes shifted, his general demeanor last night. He wanted his greed and envy of Andrew and Benjamin to pay off financially, but he was afraid he'd end up getting blamed for things he didn't do. My mention of the map offered him the chance to try one last time to get to the treasure before anyone else did."

"Clever. But he didn't actually say anything incriminating?"

"Not that anyone else would have noticed, no," Hannah said, smug.

Piper let her aunt enjoy her victory. "Well, if it wasn't Tuck and it's not you, who in blazes is it? Does Ernie have any ideas?"

"The calls concern him, but in his opinion, everything else can be explained by blaming Tuck or me."

"You?"

"Of course. The daffy witch. The crazy aunt who conjured up a man for her niece. What Tuck didn't do, I did."

"You know I don't believe that," Piper said.

Hannah smiled. "I know. Piper, I had a dream last night." Her vivid green eyes grew distant, but she frowned, visibly shaking off whatever was on her mind. "No, it's not clear to me yet. When I'm meant to understand it, I will. I need to be patient."

She shifted the conversation to Piper's new wardrobe, which she made her go out to the car and fetch to show her. She asked about her plans for fixing her house and gave her advice on what decoctions and infusions she should be adding to her diet while under such stress. "And Clate Jackson," Hannah said as Piper started toward the sliding-glass doors. "He's the one, isn't he?"

Piper imagined his body in hers last night, the night so dark she couldn't even see his face, yet everything about him had seemed so clear, so distinct in her mind. And yet, a part of him remained elusive. "Hannah, I'm just not sure—" She hesitated, searching for the right words, the focus of her thoughts. With a pang of regret, she knew what she needed to say, to hear herself say. "He may be the one, but I'm not sure that Clate and I were meant to find each other. Not in this lifetime." It was the kind of talk her aunt would understand.

Hannah nodded in understanding, if not agreement. "You'll know soon."

"You already know, don't you?"

"Yes."

When Piper arrived back at her house, no one was around. The insurance adjuster, her brothers, her father, concerned friends, and students had all been and gone, and she was alone, if not for long. She'd promised to meet Clate next door and have dinner with him. Andrew and Benjamin would show up later to put plastic over her roof for protection when it rained. So much work had to be done, and meanwhile, her life was in limbo.

Fatigue had worked its way into every muscle of her body, into her brain. The aftereffects of yesterday. The expected low after such an adrenaline surge. Yet it was more. She could feel it somehow.

A father he hadn't seen in eighteen years, a brother and a sister he had never seen.

She didn't understand. She couldn't. If his father was sober now and was trying to make amends, why not at least see him? He hadn't accepted his past. That much was obvious to her. But her parents hadn't been self-destructive, abusive alcoholics. Although she'd lost her mother at two, she'd always been surrounded with love and support. Sometimes she felt confined and claustrophobic, but that was nothing compared to what Clate had endured.

Then there was the business in Tennessee, his high-profile life there, his fancy hotel, his employees, his house on the river with the tall fence and the big dogs. She'd never met his dogs. How could she say she was in love with a man when she'd never met his dogs?

She didn't know him. He was an illusion. She'd gotten caught up in Hannah's fantasy and had fallen in love with the man she'd wanted Clate Jackson to be, not the man he was.

But she
had
fallen in love with him. Suddenly there was no question of that.

A truck came down the road, and Andrew pulled over, his tires spitting gravel and sand. He rolled down his window. "Pondering your losses, kid?"

She squinted at him. "I guess. It all feels worse today."

"Bound to." His expression was serious; he hadn't switched off his truck engine. "Piper, I don't know if it's my place to tell you this, but I thought about it, and I figured, hell, if it was me, I'd want you to tell me. But I'll give you the option. You want me to talk or you want me to shut up and you go on over and ask Clate yourself?"

"Ask Clate what?"

"About his real plans for his property."

Piper frowned. "You've heard something," she said.

"A letter from a research historian here in town. I found it on my windshield when I finished work." He handed over a neatly folded, heavy sheet of stationery. "Apparently this guy was hired by Clate's company to research the history of the Frye house. The original house was built in the center of town—"

"That's not news."

"It is to Jackson and company. If he knows the Frye house was moved here back in the 1880s, he can use that to justify having it moved again and push forward his plans to develop the land."

"Who left you the letter?"

"I don't know. Could be the research historian, only he didn't want to let it be known he was a snitch. Could also be this guy who's been making the calls, hoping to stir up more trouble. I'm not accusing Jackson of anything, Piper. He could have a loose cannon employee on his hands, or this could be a hoax, part of this scheme to harass you to distraction." He shifted his truck into gear. "Ask him."

"I did ask him, and he said he had no plans to develop his land here."

"He wouldn't lie to you, would he?"

"I don't think so."

"Me, neither."

She tried to smile, but couldn't. "Thanks."

"Jesus, Piper, don't thank me. I already feel like a crawling piece of—well, never mind. You need anything?"

She shook her head, holding the offending letter, still folded, between her thumb and forefinger, as if it might suddenly ignite in her hand.

"Don't stay out here too long by yourself. Tuck won't dare make a move in this direction, but if he's the wrong guy—"

"I'm on my way over to Clate's now."

"I'll be back in an hour or so with Benjamin to see about your roof."

She nodded dully, and waited for him to turn around and head back down her narrow, isolated road before unfolding the letter.

The name on the letterhead was vaguely familiar, that of a Bostonian who summered in Frye's Cove. The letter was addressed specifically to Clate, at his offices in Nashville. It outlined the basic history of the Frye house. The building itself, she thought, not the people who'd lived there. In 1886, the letter noted, the house had been moved from its location on the Frye's Cove green to its present location.

Ammunition for the review boards. He'd need more. The environmental hurdles alone, especially with so much protected salt marsh on his thirty-acre parcel, would probably stymie any major development plans. She wasn't automatically opposed to any and all development. She did believe, with Cape Cod already facing so many problems as a result of its past mistakes, many of them made by her own ancestors, that any new development should be well conceived, in harmony with the land itself.

But that wasn't the point.

The point was, this letter was addressed to Clate Jackson.

Stuffing it into the pocket of her new cotton-linen cardigan, she marched into her back yard and down along the path, through grasses and beach peas and bayberry, to the edge of the marsh and through the break in the privet. The long, long June day was slowly settling into evening, the sun low in the sky, shorebirds arcing in over the marsh for whatever food they could find. The wind had died down, and there was a stillness, a peace, that seemed to come only at this hour, before dusk.

She spotted a figure out across the lawn, just beyond the grape arbor that had been the first Mrs. Frye's pride and joy. Every fall, Hannah used to let Piper pick all the concord grapes she wanted, and she'd make jelly and conserves to her heart's content. Doubtless, Clate wouldn't want a grape arbor in his resort. Maybe she wouldn't warn him about the poison ivy growing in its midst.

"You're getting ahead of yourself," she warned, half aloud. She didn't have the facts. Clate deserved a chance to explain.

But when she waved to him and he didn't wave back, she could feel a spark of anger. Irritated, she wouldn't have to think about loving him, about her house, about Hannah, about anything except how annoyed she was, how white hot. A resort. She didn't care if that was what he did, a function of who he was. She didn't care if he planned to get around to telling her after her own troubles had eased. If he'd lied to her, he'd lied. Period.

Of course, he could have a good explanation.

"Hey, Clate!" She waved again, and picked up her pace as she crossed the lawn. "I've got something to ask you!"

No response. How could he not have heard her with no wind, no competition from birds, traffic, anything? With the tangles of grape vines, poison ivy, and brush, she couldn't make him out clearly. Maybe he was absorbed in his task and just hadn't heard.

"Clate!"

She hated being ignored.

The closer she got, the less sure she was about what she'd seen. Or thought she'd seen. Now he'd dropped out of her line of vision altogether. She looked back over her shoulder, up to the Frye house on the rise above the bay, its pristine lines familiar to her, comforting. He wasn't on the terrace. No one seemed to be around at all.

She took a step backward, debating. She hadn't actually seen the man's face. She couldn't think of anything—body shape, hair color, clothing—that specifically made her think he was Clate, except that he was there, on his posted property.

Biting the inside corner of her mouth, she decided to retrace her steps back to her house and regroup. Maybe she was just paranoid after yesterday, but the vicious, determined voice of her caller sounded in her mind.
"Bitch."

Yes, a quick retreat was the prudent option.

"Not so fast."

The voice came from among the pines, and before she could move, Paul Shepherd ducked under a low branch and emerged into the open. "Just stay right there, Piper."

She gaped at him. "Paul? What're you doing out here?"

"I wish you hadn't come." His voice was small, filled with regret. "Now it's too late."

"Too late for what?" She was mystified. What was he talking about? "It's not Stan again, is it? Look, Hannah didn't leave him that tincture of bistort and agrimony—"

"No, she didn't. I did."

Piper went still. "You?"

"I wanted people to think she was crazy, out of control. What did Stan call her? A menace. It suited my purposes."

"Your purposes being—oh, geez. You're the caller. You—"

"Yes, me, Piper. Surprised?"

She nodded. She had to buy time. She had to get away and get help and never mind the jumble of questions assaulting her. Why? How? What did Paul Shepherd care about an eighty-year-old Cape Cod mystery, about buried Russian treasure?

"If you'd done as I asked," he said mildly, "everything would have been fine."

Now.
She spun around and bolted across the lawn. Where was Clate with his damned antique knitting needle? Where were her brothers? Adrenaline and terror and crazy thoughts sped her along, but the tension of the last days, the fatigue, had taken their toll on her legs. She couldn't get breaths deep enough, fast enough. She dug hard, concentrated on running, running, running.

Paul shot out after her. He smashed one hand into her back and sent her sprawling face first in a move so vicious her mind reeled. This was Paul Shepherd? This was Sally's husband, a Cape Cod innkeeper?

Piper went down hard, her hands coming up just in time to keep her from landing on her jaw. The wind went out of her, and she gulped for air and tried to scramble to her knees.

Paul stomped her down with one foot on her back. "Don't move until I tell you to move."

"Paul, what the hell's the matter with you? You can't want to do this. It doesn't make any sense. Hannah's treasure doesn't exist. It's a dream she's had. I was humoring her."

He pressed his foot harder into the small of her back.
"Stop!"

His voice sounded strangled, close to tears. If he pressed down any harder, she wouldn't be able to breathe at all. As it was, she could smell the grass and sand, could feel clover tickling her nose. "Paul, don't say any more." She tried to control her mounting terror. She had to think, be rational, reason with him. "I can't prove anything. Whatever you've done, the police have no evidence. It'd be like Tuck. They let him go."

"It's too late. It's gone too far." He sucked in a breath, eased back on her. "Now. On your feet. Slowly, Piper. No tricks. Trust me, I'm not some big stupid beef like Tuck O'Rourke. You won't get a second chance to cooperate."

As if a first chance would get her anywhere. But when he removed his foot, she got up onto her hands and knees, stifling a wave of nausea as she spat out dirt and grass, then, slowly, as instructed, climbed to her feet. Her head spun.
Clate. Where are you?

She focused on Paul Shepherd. His hair was a mess, his eyes wild, his clothing impeccable. He was perspiring heavily, but not breathing hard at all. He was in better physical shape than Tuck. Sending a woman flying hadn't winded him. "Paul, don't let this thing escalate further. So far, you haven't hurt anyone. Clate's up at the house. He's waiting for me. My brothers will be here any minute. You can't succeed."

A terrible smile at the corners of his mouth widened to show his straight, white teeth, and finally erupted into a cold, amused, miserable sound that was half laugh, half sob. "You think the love of your life is going to rescue you? Ah, Cinderella. Think again."

"Paul—"

"He's dead, Piper.
Dead."

"No!" A croak, a gasp as the air, the energy, the spark, went out of her. Yet she knew it wasn't true. He was bluffing, or he was wrong. Clate wasn't dead. She knew.

"I killed him." Tears welled in his eyes, and he took a breath, calming himself. "Just the right amount of a few of Hannah's special herbs in his iced tea. I'm sure it tasted awful, but by the time he realized it, it was too late." He sniffled, croaked a sob. "Oh, God, I've never killed anyone before."