the trees, and Portia sagged with relief.
“Right here.” She pulled her hand from Mick’s and stepped back onto the path. Twilight filtered through the trees coloring them in purplish light. The effect was eerie, the hazy glow shifting around the shadowy figure that stood a few yards away. Rissa? It had to be, yet a trick of light warped her figure, making her seem taller, bulkier. More sinister.
“There you are.” Her twin stepped closer, her stylish wool coat and bright knit hat now visible. “Everyone else is already at the house warming up. What’s taking so long?”
“I got tangled up with the bench.” Portia strode forward, breathless, still nervous for reasons she couldn’t name. “Mick was kind enough to help me out.”
“It wasn’t a problem.”
“That’s good to know. Portia tends to get tangled up with things, so having an extra set of hands around to free her is great news for me.” Rissa’s words were light and teasing, but Portia could sense the anxiety that radiated from her twin. As laid-back and low-key as Mick seemed, he was there for a reason. They both knew it, and Portia was sure, were both worried about what he might find. Until recently, they’d believed their family story to be mundane. The tragedy of their mother’s death was so far removed from their lives they felt it in only the most indirect ways. Now, what had seemed mundane had become a mystery and everything they’d believed to be true was a lie.
How that related to Mick’s murder investigation, Portia didn’t know, but she had a sick, horrible feeling a connection was there. And when Mick found it, there might be very little she could do to save her family.
TWO
Blanchard Manor stood like a stone sentinel guarding the cliffs that jutted above the Maine coastline. Over a hundred years old, the house had become an icon in Stoneley, symbolizing the strength and fortitude of the people who’d carved lives from the harsh ocean and craggy earth. To Portia, it symbolized something else entirely—a way of life she refused to be part of, a cold formality that stifled warmth and emotion. As a child, she’d dreamed of leaving the Manor, of making a name for herself in the community of artisans that lived in Stoneley. It hadn’t taken her long to realize that her father’s influence extended into the town and beyond and that if she ever wanted to become her own person, an artist in her own right, she’d have to go much farther than the town she’d loved.
New York had seemed the perfect place to find herself. And she had for a while, enjoying the novelty of opening her arts-and-crafts store, of teaching art to young students, of being Portia the artist rather than Portia, Ronald’s daughter. Still, each time she returned to the Manor, she was reminded of old dreams and even older wounds, of an emptiness that she’d never quite been able to fill, a longing to be accepted for who and what she was instead of being judged for what she wasn’t—the perfect daughter willing to take her place in the family business.
“We’re in the drawing room.” Aunt Winnie called out from the room to the right of the front door as Portia stepped into the house, and Portia felt a twinge of guilt. Winnie had been so good to her, so good to all of them. Who was she to complain about what she hadn’t had when what she had received from her aunt had been so rich in affection?
“We’re coming.” She pasted on a smile and followed Rissa across the foyer, hoping no one inside the drawing room would sense her melancholy mood.
“You okay?” Mick pulled her to a stop outside the door, his words just for her.
“I’m great.” She met his gaze, keeping the smile in place even as his light blue eyes speared into hers. Could he see what she was hiding? The part of herself that wanted to be anywhere but where she was right now? “We’d better go in before Father comes looking.”
‘“Father?”’ He cocked his head, letting his gaze travel from her fluffy pink earmuffs to the mukluks that covered her feet.
“What?”
“You don’t look like the ‘father’ type.”
“What type do I look like?”
“Dad, Pops, something a lot less formal.”
He was right. If she’d lived in a different house, with a different father. She turned away, not wanting him to see the truth in her eyes. “We’re a formal family.”
“Yeah, I sense that.” Mick let his gaze wander the oversized foyer they were standing in. Marble tiles glistened beneath his feet, a crystal chandelier hung overhead and a large round table took center stage. A vase of red roses added color, but did little to soften the museum-like feel of the place. It was a far cry from the comfortable, lived-in Queen Anne he’d grown up in, or the well-worn Cape Cod he now owned. A far cry from what he imagined Portia’s home looked like.
He stepped into the drawing room behind her, watched as she sat on a wide velvet ottoman in a corner of the room. She could have taken a seat on the couch next to her twin and Delia, a rocking chair between the chairs Bianca and Juliet were seated in, the loveseat where her father and his newest girlfriend sat or the wing-backed chair that matched the ones Miranda and Winnie were in. Instead, she’d taken a place just on the edge of the circle created by her family, her shoulders tense as if ready to do battle. Interesting.
“Good. We’re all finally here. Let’s get this over with. Alannah and I have plans for this evening.” Ronald’s voice whipped out, filled with impatience, and Mick turned to the older man.
“This won’t take long, Mr. Blanchard.”
Ronald shrugged, his black eyes giving away nothing of what he felt. “Why don’t you have a seat and tell us why you’re here. You said something about a private investigator?”
“As I told you earlier, Garrett McGraw was killed two weeks ago. I’m investigating his death.”
“And?”
“He was murdered.” Mick kept his voice even and his tone neutral. He wasn’t here to make accusations. Yet.
“So my daughters told me, but I don’t see what that has to do with my family.” He was lying. Mick could see it in the subtle shifting of his eyes, the quick glance he shot Bianca’s way.
“I have reason to believe Mr. McGraw had business dealings with one of your daughters.”
“Any dealings he had with my family are private, Detective.”
“They might have been before Garrett’s murder. Now things have changed.”
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to agree to disagree.” Ronald stood, his obsidian eyes flashing a challenge. “Now, if you don’t mind—”
“We’ve got nothing to hide, Father.” Bianca cut in, shooting Ronald a look that might have been a warning. “No reason not to tell the detective what we know.”
When she turned her attention to Mick, she was all business, her expression cool and unperturbed. “I hired Garrett McGraw to find information about our mother. I’m sure you’ve seen the story in the local papers.”
“I have.”
She nodded. “Then you know he found evidence that our mother might be alive.”
“And
