OVER HER DEAD BODY: The Bliss Legacy - Book 2 (14 page)

“I thought you said you didn’t care about our sister,” Paul said, eyeing her with renewed interest.

“I don’t.”

“You’re not even curious?”

“No.” She shook her head, hoping Paul wouldn’t launch into one of his family-is-everything lectures. Considering their own upbringing—or lack of it—his family fixation was ludicrous. And how the hell he managed to separate what they
did
for a living from what they
were
,
was amazing. She wished she could compartmentalize her life as easily.

“Just the mother, then?” He looked disapproving, but Erica didn’t care. Paul would go along. Paul always went along—except about her getting rid of the babies. The idea of that made him crazy.

“The
mother lode
,” Erica corrected. “And the end to all our problems.”

“So you keep insisting,” he said, letting out a breath. “But if there’s no sister to be found, no proof, no record of adoption …”

The smile dropped from Erica’s lips, and she tightened them. “It’s there. I know it. The Weaver woman kept receipts for light bulbs bought in the sixties, for God’s sake.” She paused, refusing to let doubt cloud her vision of salvation—money enough to save both their asses. “It would be easier if I didn’t have to sneak around, but the girl Bridget follows me around like a puppy and Farrell never leaves the house—and now I’ve got Hammond to deal with.” She breathed out to ease her tension, tired of her brother’s endless second-guessing and a Mayday situation she couldn’t control. Erica liked control. “You’re absolutely certain about the year of birth?” she asked, desperate to limit her time shuffling through the endless files.

“Nineteen eighties. That’s what she said.”

“At least that narrows it down somewhat. Now, tell me again exactly what the recently departed, and oh-so-saintly Mary Weaver wanted her precious ‘forgiveness’ for. Word for word.”

Christiana pulled her tidy, compact station wagon off the road, about a quarter mile from Mayday House. She turned the car off, leaned her head back, and pressed her hand to her thumping heart. The depth of her fear, growing with the miles traveled, surprised her, but she had to do this. Had to find the truth before she took another step into the future she’d so carefully planned.

For the millionth time she wished she’d never picked up the phone that night, never listened to Mary’s ramblings, her begging for forgiveness while Christiana’s head reeled under the weight of the old woman’s confession.

A confession slamming into her prudently constructed life with the impact of a wrecking ball.

Christiana clung to the hope Mary had been disordered by dementia, that she’d confused her with someone else, but that thread of hope was too fragile to build a life on—and far too risky.

If Christiana were one of her own patients, she’d urge her to seek the truth, not attempt to build a life on lies or deceits. It was time to take her own advice.

She put the car in gear and drove slowly forward until Mayday House came into view. She remembered it from her one visit years ago, when she’d come looking for her birth parents. Mary had lied then, but then she wasn’t dying, wasn’t begging Christiana for her forgiveness, wasn’t, as she’d said the night of her phone call, going to meet her Maker and wanting to leave her “black deeds behind.”

Black indeed …

The house rose in the gathering darkness, tall and gray. Yellow light filtered from the main floor windows and from one on the second floor. The third floor was dark. A large construction refuse container sat at the end of the driveway with some broken furniture propped against it. A pickup was nosed up to it. Behind the pickup, a rising moon cast its light on a highly polished silver Jaguar. A path led from the road to the house: on one side of it the lawn was mowed; on the other the grass looked a foot tall with weeds reaching even higher. The porch lurched to the left and had missing posts under the railings.

She pulled in behind the Jaguar, got out of the car, and checked her slim gold watch. Almost seven. She told herself nervously, they’d be at dinner, and she’d be interrupting. She should wait. Do this tomorrow.

While she dithered, the front door opened and a woman stood framed in the light of the doorway. Christiana took a deep breath for courage. She had no choice but to move forward now, because there was no way the woman hadn’t seen her.

She made her way toward the porch, gathered what resolve she could with each step. Dear God, she’d spent the day in front of cameras, talked to a room filled with boisterous high school students. She could do this.

The woman on the porch stood at the broken railing and watched her approach. When she reached her, Christiana put out her hand. “I’m Christiana Fordham,” she said, sounding surprisingly normal, considering the swirling and jumping in her stomach. “I called and made an appointment to see Keeley Farrell.”

“I’m Keeley.” The woman, whose face she couldn’t see clearly in the porch shadows, took her hand and said, “Bridget told me you called, but she didn’t tell me exactly when you were coming. It’s always nice to meet a Mayday House patron. One I wrote several letters to if I remember right.” She gave a short laugh. “Requesting donations—as usual.”

Christiana sensed her smile through the darkness. “Yes, you did, and I’m sorry I didn’t reply, but I’ve been terribly busy.” She lifted a hand and waved it awkwardly. “But I’m in the neighborhood, so—”

“Good, come on in. We’re about to have coffee and apple pie. Not very good pie” —she shrugged— “I made it. But at least the fruit won’t let us down.”

“Thank you.” Christiana followed her into the house. The house where she was born. The house that held the secret to a past that, if brought to light, would destroy her future.

“You’ve been here before, haven’t you?” Keeley said when they were in the roomy kitchen.

“Yes. Once. I came to see Mary, and—” She stopped when she noticed the man sitting at the table, drinking coffee and turning the pages of a newspaper. When he looked up and saw her, he stood.

Except for the scar running along his strong jaw, he was as physically perfect a man as she’d ever seen, maybe six-two, dark hair, lean muscled body, smooth tan skin, and deep golden brown eyes shadowed by eyelashes that no doubt made women weep with jealousy. And desire.

He was exactly the kind of male she’d lusted after in high school, when she’d been trapped behind braces, glasses, and severe acne. Although those years were long behind her, men like Gus reloaded all her insecurities, both the pain of youthful yearning and the awful tide of confusion and distress that came with being invisible. A teenage ghost.

“Gus Hammond,” he said, offering his hand, then enclosing hers. Not quite a handshake, not quite a caress, but sustaining the hand/eye connection just long enough to be intriguing. To be flattering.

Keeley handed her a coffee and said, “Be nice to Christiana, Gus. She’s been a generous patron to Mayday through the years.”

“I’ll try,” he said, and when he tilted his head and half smiled at her, Christiana sensed Gus could be
extremely
nice—if he set his mind to it.

Keeley gestured toward the table Gus had risen from. “Take a seat. I’ll get the pie.” She went to the counter. “You’re a long way from Portland. What brings you our way?”

She was about to answer when Gus said, “If I’ve got it right, it was a TV spot.” He studied her until she blushed. “When you walked in I thought I’d seen you before. The early news, right? Speaking at a high school? You’re a psychologist.” He rested his liquid brown eyes on her and her stomach fluttered.

“Yes, my own show will be airing in the new year—if all goes well. The high school in Seattle was a PR stop … of sorts.” She sounded vague, apologetic. That had to stop.

“Ah,” he said, not taking his eyes off her. “Sounds like a lot of work.”

“Yes, but rewarding work. I like it.”

“Teenagers are a tough crowd.”

“The toughest.” She smiled at him.

He didn’t smile back, but somehow managed to intensify his gaze, as if he’d switched on a light behind his eyes.

“So, what brings you to Erinville?” Keeley, carrying two plates of pie, took a chair beside her.

Christiana glanced at Gus, then back to Keeley. “I, uh, have some questions. But I, uh …” She glanced at Gus again. The conversation with Keeley Farrell would be hard enough; talking in front of a man she’d met only moments before and knew nothing about would be impossible.

He stood immediately. “I’m going for some fresh air.” He looked at his watch, then said to Keeley. “I won’t be long—or far.”

She rolled her eyes, and he gave her an annoyed look.

Christiana couldn’t figure out whether they liked each other or there was some kind of subtext between them she couldn’t read. Interesting.

When he’d left the room, Keeley said, “Don’t mind Gus, he’s just doing his job.”

“His job?”

She hesitated. “He’s security. We’ve had some problems around here lately.”

“What kind of problems?”

“Nothing to worry about—especially if you’re here to do what I hope you are and kick-start your donations to Mayday House.”

She’d smiled along with the obvious charitable plea, but to Christiana’s eye, the smile was forced, tense. Like someone required to conduct business as usual as chaos reigned behind the scenes. She knew the feeling well, especially lately.”That’s not why I’m here,” she said. “It’s something else entirely. Something unsettling.”

“Not the answer I was hoping for, but—” She sat back and lifted her coffee to her lips, looking calm, politely interested. “I’m listening.”

Christiana swallowed hard, tried to peel away the fear lining her mouth. “I’m here to find out who my father was and why Mary Weaver killed him.”

With the barest of tremors, Keeley set her coffee mug on the table. “I don’t think I heard you right.”

Christiana knew she was shocked, but no more than she herself had been during Mary’s midnight phone call. “You’ll want—need—to hear it from the beginning.”

“Yes.” Keeley sat forward in her chair and nodded. “The very beginning.”

“Okay.” Christiana picked up her unused pie fork and held it between her hands. “I was born here. September, nineteen eighty. Adopted that same month.”

“Go on.”

“I wasn’t told I was adopted until ten years ago. My mother told me just before she died. She said it had been a private adoption—” She fiddled with the paper napkin she’d been given with the pie. “Which I took to mean the legalities weren’t observed. It turned out I was right. My mother said that my adoptive father’s poor health—he died when I was nine—coupled with the fact that they were older than the norm, made adopting through regular channels difficult if not impossible. Then they found Mayday House and Mary Weaver. It was Mary, to quote my mother, ‘who made it happen.’” She smoothed some stray hair behind her ears. “So here I am.”

“Do you have proof? Of any of this?”

“I have a letter from my mother. When I showed it to Mary, she got terribly upset, but she didn’t deny it.”

“When was that?” she asked.

“A few months after my mother died,” Christiana said. “I came here”—she waved a hand—“to find out what I could about my birth parents.”

“And did you? Find out anything, I mean?”

“No. Mary told me they were both dead. She said my birth father, a businessman of some kind, had died during my mother’s pregnancy, and my mother was killed in a car accident a year after I was born. Apparently she’d been an aspiring actress. When I pressed her for more information—anything at all—she appeared nervous, then said she didn’t remember, and she didn’t have any records because they’d been lost in the fire.”

“The fire?” Keeley looked confused. “She said there was a fire, you’re sure?”

Again Christiana nodded, but she didn’t say anything, deciding she’d let the woman’s next question lead the way.

Keeley took her time framing it. “What did you do then?”

“I left. I know this sounds awful, but to be honest I think I was relieved to hear they were dead, that I didn’t have to take things any further.” She closed her eyes briefly and opened them to see Keeley staring at her, judging her. “You think I’m strange, don’t you, to come all this way, then let things drop?”

“No. I don’t.” She got up, walked to the sink, and placed her mug in it. “I think relief is a natural reaction under the circumstances. There are times the unknown is better left
unknown
.” She looked back at Christiana. “But you’re here now. And you’re accusing Mary Weaver of killing your birth father. I don’t understand.”

Whatever shock Christiana had seen registered on Keeley Farrell’s face was gone now, replaced by cool speculation.

“Accusing?” she echoed. “I’m not sure that’s the right word. More like I’m here looking for the truth.” She paused before continuing, because what was to come was the most difficult to explain. “About a month or so ago, shortly after one in the morning, I received a call from Mary. She sounded a bit frantic. Overwrought. The conversation was quite scattered. At first all she did was ramble about all her girls, how important her work was, then she went on about what tools and appliances Mayday House needed updated—” she stopped and smiled briefly. “She talked about you. Your work in Africa. How you were going to carry on for her. The conversation—if you could call it that—veered this way and that, not making too much sense, but I didn’t want to hang up on her. I knew she was troubled, so I listened—all the while wondering why she was calling me. I barely knew her.”

She paused, pushed her uneaten pie toward the table’s center, while Keeley stood woodenly across the room.

“I’d made some donations to the house from time to time after our one meeting,” Christiana went on. “But always by mail. It had been ten years since my visit.” She rubbed the lines gathering in her forehead. “But because, in my profession, phone calls like Mary’s—cries for help—aren’t unusual, I did what I could, which—given the time of night and the miles between us—was listen and try to soothe her. Just when I thought I’d be on the phone all night, she calmed down. Then, almost formally— and very, very clearly—she said she’d killed my birth father, and she begged for my forgiveness.”