but she seemed kind of familiar to me.”
He could feel his father’s gaze on him. “A looker, was she?”
Mac grinned. “You could say that. A striking brown-eyed blonde, if you want to know.”
“That’s the answer, then.” Dad sounded amused. “She probably had a starring role in one of your dreams.”
He chuckled, as he was meant to, but then he shook his head, running the sandpaper smoothly along the grain of the wood. “Sounds like it, but that wasn’t it. I’ve got a good memory for faces, and I’m sure I’ve seen her before.”
“If she was visiting someone in town, you might have noticed her. In fact, it sounds as if you could hardly miss her.”
“She said she wasn’t visiting anybody. Asked directions to a place where she could get lunch, as if she was just passing through.”
“You told her the café, I suppose.” Dad spoke with the experience of one who knew there were few other places in Laurel Ridge where you’d be likely to get a good lunch.
“I did,” he said slowly. “But I saw her going into Blackburn House instead.”
“So maybe she wanted to look around the shops.”
Mac didn’t respond. Slowly, very slowly, a memory was stirring in the back of his mind. An image. A rainy day, the kind of steady downpour that managed to trickle down your neck no matter how protected you were. Soggy grass underfoot, and drooping, saturated flowers, the ribbons around them stained with water. A cemetery, but not the one at the top of the hill.
“That’s it.” He straightened, one hand on the back of the chair, gripping it tightly as the impact of the memory hit. “I saw her a little over a year ago at a cemetery in Philadelphia. At the funeral of that young guy who worked in the financial management office. The one we found dead of an overdose right up there on the hill where she’d stopped.”
Dad met his eyes, startled and sympathetic. “That poor kid? Is she some relation?”
He nodded, the memory clarifying now. “I didn’t speak to her, but someone pointed her out to me. His sister—no, his half sister. The names are different, but I’m sure of it.”
The picture was stamped so firmly on Mac’s mind that he wondered why he hadn’t realized it the minute he’d seen Kate Beaumont. Maybe he would have, if she’d been named Reilley, like the half brother.
Funny how much you could tell about a situation just from body language. The half sister and the father had stood several feet apart, obviously not touching, not even looking at one another, each one isolated in his or her own grief.
Tom Reilley, presumably Kate Beaumont’s stepfather, had been a retired cop. That had been one reason why Mac had driven to Philadelphia for the funeral. Professional courtesy, if you will. The man’s son had died on his turf.
Mac realized his own father was studying him, an expression of concern on his face. He’d known—he always seemed to know—how hard Mac had taken the death. This was his town. He was responsible for it. That meant never letting a situation get out of control, because if it did, then as a peacekeeper, you’d failed.
Jason Reilley, lying dead against a gravestone in the oldest section of the cemetery, a fatal combination of alcohol and pills in his system, had been out of his control.
Another memory flickered, just for an instant. Another town, a world away—flattened homes, the smell of burning in the air, a small, huddled body...
His father stirred. “Well, no reason for the woman not to come here, I suppose. Maybe she felt as if she wanted to see for herself where he died. Sort of a pilgrimage.”
It struck him then. Kate Beaumont hadn’t looked to him like a woman on a pilgrimage. She’d looked like a woman on a crusade.
His uneasiness was full-blown now. His sudden movement set the chair rocking as he headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” Dad put out a hand to still the rocking.
“To have a talk with Ms. Beaumont.” Mac’s course of action solidified. “Maybe you’re right. But I want to know why, when she saw who I was, Kate Beaumont was so careful not to mention her relationship with Jason Reilley.”
* * *
KATE HADN’T GONE more than a few steps inside Blackburn House before she realized that checking out the business that had hired Jason as an intern wouldn’t be unobtrusive. The building was smaller than she’d expected, though impressive with its marble entrance hall and Victorian woodwork. To her right was a quilt shop, and through the window she could see several women in Amish dress browsing along rows of fabric.
The business on her left checked her for a moment. Whiting and Whiting Cabinetry. Related to Chief of Police Mac Whiting? Probably. It wasn’t that common a name, and Laurel Ridge was a small town.
She walked toward the back, past a graceful staircase that clearly led to offices on the second floor. That must be where the financial consultants had their offices. The rear of this level housed what appeared to be a storage room and a bookstore.
Kate paused, looking at the display of bestsellers in the window. It was unusual to find an independent bookseller thriving in a small town, but this one appeared to be doing fine. Several customers wandered through the aisles, a toddler stacked blocks in a corner with children’s books, and an elderly man seemed to be having an animated conversation with the woman behind the counter.
Upstairs, then, for a look at the offices of Laurel Ridge Financial Group. No one else was on the stairs, and Kate felt conspicuous as she hurried her steps.
The second floor was quiet. Two offices on the right, two on the left and what seemed to be a private area separating them. Rejecting the attorney’s office and the door marked with only the name Standish, she turned left and found a real-estate company and then the offices she’d been looking for.
Kate stationed herself in front of the posters of available properties displayed in the plateglass window of the real-estate office, trying to appear absorbed in the description of what was called a desirable four-bedroom residence and the photo of a decrepit-looking farmhouse, optimistically labeled a fixer-upper. From there, she could glance into the windows of the office next door.
The first thing she noticed was that something was missing. Jason had mentioned, when he’d first accepted the internship one of his professors had helped arrange, the names of the two partners who comprised the professional staff: Russell Sheldon and Bartley Gordon. Now there was only one name listed on the door—Gordon. Below it, in suitably smaller letters, she read, Lina Oberlin, Assistant and Office Manager. What had happened to the other partner?
The room beyond the window told her nothing. A reception desk, where a twentysomething with improbably red hair sat filing her nails, another desk behind hers, which might once have been Jason’s, and three uncommunicative doors.
Kate sensed movement in back of her, and before she could turn, she saw a face reflected in the glass. Mac Whiting stood behind her, his jaw especially uncompromising.
She swung around. “Are you following me, Chief Whiting?”
“Looking to
