Finding Laura Read online

Laura frowned. “He seemed perfectly nice, charming. Not exactly the buttoned-down lawyer type, judging by his necktie—Looney Tunes characters. But he is a lawyer, and I can’t see this particular lawyer stabbing a man to death in a motel room.”

  “Okay. What about Daniel?”

  Laura’s first reaction to that question was an instant and definite negative. No. No, not Daniel. He hadn’t killed Peter. It wasn’t possible. That kind of hatred wasn’t in him. He hadn’t stood over his brother’s body in that shabby motel room driving the knife in again and again.…

  “Laura? Hey, what’s wrong?”

  “It’s cold in here,” she heard herself murmur. “That’s all.”

  “That’s not all. You went white. What is it?”

  After a moment, Laura said, “I keep forgetting the reality of it. That a man was brutally murdered. And then, suddenly, something makes it real to me.”

  Cassidy nodded in understanding, but asked, “What made it real to you this time? That I asked about Daniel?”

  “Not so much that as … I just got an image in my head. How it must have happened. I told you imagination was a curse.”

  “I guess so.” Cassidy studied her thoughtfully and added, “I hate to repeat the question, but …?”

  “Daniel?” Laura tried to think objectively, and when she couldn’t, tried to at least convince Cassidy that she was able to. “I don’t know, Cass. He seems awfully calm and … controlled. And way too smart to do something so hasty and reckless—to say nothing of illegal and immoral. I just can’t believe he went to a seedy motel and stabbed his own brother to death.”

  “No matter what the provocation?”

  Laura lifted her shoulders in a helpless shrug. “I don’t know that there was provocation—I mean, beyond the usual type of sibling rivalry. Apparently, Peter didn’t have much to do with the family business, so I doubt he was involved in this power play I think is going on between Daniel and Amelia. And so far nobody’s said a word about Daniel and Peter not getting along.”

  Cassidy nodded, obviously not convinced but willing to move on. “Okay. How about the Widow Kilbourne? You met her, right?”

  Realizing only then, Laura said slowly, “You know, every woman in that house with the Kilbourne name is a widow. Amelia and Josie, Madeline—and Kerry. All of them are widows.”

  “Doesn’t say much for the longevity of the Kilbourne males, does it?”

  Laura started to mention Josie’s comments about the history of the family being filled with untimely deaths by accident or violence, but decided not to get into all that. Instead she said, “It’s Kerry you’re wondering about, isn’t it? Peter’s widow?”

  “Right.”

  “She was in California, remember? At least, I haven’t heard anything to indicate otherwise. Josie says she usually travels swathed in scarves and wearing heavy makeup, but there doesn’t seem to be any doubt that it was her—”

  “Wait a minute. Scarves and heavy makeup?”

  “I would have thought your tabloid sources would have mentioned it,” Laura said a bit dryly. “Kerry is badly scarred, Cass. Most of one side of her face. It looks like a burn or something like that.”

  Cassidy looked shocked. “Scarred? Peter’s wife? How?”

  “Well, I don’t know. To be honest, I didn’t even think to ask Josie—and Amelia isn’t exactly someone I could ask about it. The scars don’t look recent, though, and something about the way Kerry speaks and acts tells me she’s been that way for quite a while.”

  It was Cassidy’s turn to shrug helplessly. “Does this mean anything about Peter’s death?”

  “God knows.” Laura sighed, feeling abruptly tired. “I spent an entire day at the house, and I’m more confused than ever. Nobody seems to be grieving over Peter’s death—except his mother, naturally, and I haven’t met her yet—but nobody’s admitted to hating him, either. I feel definitely odd asking them where they were the night he was murdered, and besides, the police must have. So all I can do is go on sketching Amelia and pick up what I can.”

  “Any luck finding out about the mirror?”

  “Still more questions than answers. Josie said she didn’t see how it could be valuable to the family, or she would have known about it, and she’s probably right about that. But she also said that Peter was in charge of doing the inventory before the sale, and that Daniel didn’t see the entire inventory until it was over with—that afternoon. Shortly before Peter came to see me.”

  “So … now you think Daniel might have been the one to want the mirror back? But I thought he said he didn’t know anything about it?”

  “He did. But I thought—felt very strongly—at the time that he was lying. That he does know something about the mirror. I don’t know why he would have lied, though. And the fact is, I still don’t know why Peter tried to buy the mirror back. Whether it was his idea or someone else’s.”

  Cassidy pursed her lips thoughtfully. “It’s sounding more like a long shot every day that the mirror had anything to do with the murder.”

  “I know.”

  “But you still think there’s a connection?”

  “I think I have to find out if there is.”

  “Mmm. So you go back to that—what did you call it?—that oddly dark and repressive house?”

  Laura nodded. “Tomorrow morning at nine.”

  Unusually grave, Cassidy said, “Look, be careful, okay? I don’t know if any of these people murdered Peter Kilbourne, but it sounds to me like most of them have things to hide. And people protect their secrets.”

  “Yes,” Laura said. “I know.”

  “SO, YOU’RE LAURA.” She came into the west wing den where Laura was waiting on this overcast Tuesday morning for Amelia to return from a phone call, a young woman a little older than Laura who very much resembled a younger Amelia. “I’m Anne Ralston. Amelia’s granddaughter.”

  Laura nodded a greeting. “You look like her,” she offered.

  Anne didn’t seem entirely pleased. “Yeah, so I’m told.” She eyed Laura, frowning, and said abruptly, “You look like someone Peter would have hit on.”

  Laura was taken aback, but only momentarily. She glanced down at the current sketch of Amelia, then returned her gaze to meet Anne’s almost defiant stare. “Do I?” Her voice was mild.

  Anne found a chair and slouched down into it. “Oh, I’d say so. He liked redheads. But you already know that, don’t you?”

  “I’ve been told.” Laura was determined not to let this angry woman put her on the defensive. “Actually, though, I hear he just liked women. All kinds of women.” Unobtrusively she turned to a fresh page and began sketching Anne with rapid, spare lines.

  Anne’s lips tightened. “You sound just like the press, painting him as a horny son of a bitch who couldn’t keep his fly zipped.” She didn’t seem aware of being sketched.

  “Is that what he was?” Her hair was easy, Laura decided absently, as severely short as Amelia’s was elegantly long, almost spiky, and suited to her narrow face and sharp features.

  “He was okay,” Anne declared, her chin rising. “Maybe the press thinks he was nothing but a womanizer, and maybe certain members of this family can write him off without a second thought, but Peter was okay. He was a lot smarter than some people think, I can tell you that.”

  “Smarter how?”

  “He had plans. He was going to make people sit up and take notice.” Her voice was truculent. “Maybe Daniel thinks he’s the only one who can make money for the family, but—”

  “Anne, I thought you were due at the Moretons’ this morning,” Amelia said as she came into the den.

  “They canceled.” Anne shrugged, her face taking on a sulky expression that made her look rather like a thwarted teenager.

  “Then why don’t you take advantage of the time to begin going through your clothes? We’ll be into cold weather sooner than you think.”

  “Do we have to go through this twice a year?” Anne demanded, rolling her e
yes. “In the spring we pack away winter clothes, and in the fall we pack away summer things. My closet’s big enough for both, so I don’t see—”

  “You don’t have to see, Anne. You only have to accept that things are done a certain way in this house.”

  “This house is full of rituals, Laura, most of them Amelia’s,” Daniel had said. It appeared that this seasonal sorting of clothing was one of those rituals. Laura listened as she sketched quickly, trying to capture Anne’s discontented face before she left the room. As she was obviously about to do.

  On her feet now, Anne said, “Things have always been done a certain way in this house and this family, and I’m sick and tired of it. It’s stifling! And it’s dangerous, Amelia. You think I don’t know that Peter died because of the certain way this family conducts business?”

  “Anne.” Amelia’s voice was icy. “Peter died because he was a married man having a sordid affair. And that affair had nothing to do with business.” She held her granddaughter’s gaze for a long minute, then went to the chair where she had earlier posed for Laura and sat down. “And now, if you don’t mind …”

  Without even glancing toward Laura, a burning flush coloring her high cheekbones, Anne turned and stalked from the room.

  Amelia sighed and smiled a bit tiredly at Laura. “I’m sorry you had to see that little scene. I try to make allowances for the child—Josie told you about what happened to her mother?”

  Laura nodded. “Yes. A terrible thing.”

  “She was already an adult when it happened, but it was still a tremendous shock, of course. I try to remember that. But she’s difficult. Very rebellious, even now—she just turned thirty-one, though she certainly doesn’t act it. And everything is always my fault, without question.”

  “She does seem very angry,” Laura ventured, abandoning the hasty sketch of Anne and returning to the one of Amelia she’d been working on earlier.

  “She didn’t say anything terrible to you, did she, child?” Amelia was anxious.

  “No, nothing like that.” He had plans. What had Anne meant? And why was she so convinced that Peter had died because of the way the family conducted business?

  “Good, that’s good. She often speaks without thinking, you see. Take that remark about Peter and the family business; she knows very well that Peter was never involved in the family business. But I suppose it’s simply difficult for her to accept that his own immoral behavior got him killed.” Amelia nodded sadly as though to herself. “They were close, you see.”

  But she didn’t say “the family business,” Amelia. She said “the way this family conducts business.” And I think that’s a different thing entirely.

  But Laura merely nodded and focused her gaze on the sketch, unwilling to question Amelia on a point that seemed elusive even to herself. But even as her fingers worked skillfully, her mind was fixed elsewhere. Anne was probably a woman damaged by the tragedy of her father accidentally killing her mother; who wouldn’t be? But though that might well explain her sulky and discontented personality, it didn’t really explain, Laura thought, her pointed remarks about the “certain way” the Kilbourne family conducted business.

  The question was, did Anne know something about Peter’s murder, or was she merely speculating? And, either way, how could a seeming crime of passion have anything to do with business?

  Laura looked beyond the sketchpad at Amelia, finding the old lady sitting primly as usual, smiling faintly as usual, and couldn’t help wondering if her dismissal of Anne’s remarks had been as offhand as it had seemed. Was Amelia convinced Peter had died by the violent hand of a mistress? Or was there something odd in the way family business was conducted, something that might have resulted in his death?

  Laura smiled. “Amelia, if you could lift your chin just a fraction—there. That’s perfect.” And she concentrated on getting those dark eyes just right.

  AS SEEMED TO be her habit, Amelia left Laura shortly before twelve in order to “check on” lunch; Laura assumed it was another indication of the precision with which she ran this house, that she wanted to inspect preparations for lunch before the meal was placed before a guest. Then again, it seemed likely that she did the same thing even if a guest was not present, simply because she was a perfectionist.

  That realization made Laura eye her sketch uneasily. Would this suit a perfectionist? Probably not. The only positive note was that Amelia had not asked again to see the sketches, and Laura hoped she wouldn’t. It was going to be unnerving enough having her view the actual painting once she began working on that; these preliminary efforts, though improving, were not meant to be judged by a perfectionist.

  Laura closed the sketchpad with a sigh, then looked up as she heard a few unhappy notes from a piano. The music room was just across the hall, she remembered, and she guessed that Kerry was getting in a bit of practice before lunch.

  She left her sketchpad on the chair and went out into the hall, thinking only that the music sounded awfully despondent and that no one should be that alone. But she didn’t realize until she was a couple of steps into the music room that it wasn’t Kerry sitting on the padded bench of the baby grand and playing the sad notes.

  It was—had to be—Madeline Kilbourne.

  The wide, pale blue eyes she turned to Laura were red-rimmed and a bit puffy from crying, and also had that slightly vague look that came from some sedatives. But despite the drugs, she was perfectly dressed in an elegant black suit with pearls, and her attractively graying dark hair was flawless. So was her makeup.

  “Oh, excuse me,” Laura murmured, not venturing from her place just inside the doorway and not at all prepared for this meeting. “I expected Kerry.”

  “You’re Laura.” Madeline’s long, elegant fingers left the keys and drifted to her lap, and she tilted her head to one side as she considered the stranger. “Amelia wants you here.”

  “Yes. I’m very sorry about your son,” Laura said uncomfortably.

  Those dazed blue eyes filled with tears, and her voice shook. “He was my baby. Such a beautiful boy, so sweet-tempered, so full of charm. He was like his father, you know. He was all I had left of John.”

  Laura hadn’t meant to speak, but heard herself say, “You still have Daniel.”

  Madeline frowned a little and seemed briefly confused. Then she shook her head. “No, he’s not at all like John. And he was never mine, not like Peter was. He never came in and sat on my bed in the evening to tell me about his day. But Peter did. He never told me all his secrets. But Peter did.”

  Again, Laura heard herself speaking when she hadn’t intended to. “Did he tell you about the mirror, Mrs. Kilbourne?” Somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to address this woman by her first name.

  The question seemed to recall Madeline’s attention from some distant point, and she frowned again. “Mirror? That’s why you said he went to see you. Because of some mirror.”

  “Yes. A mirror I bought here at the estate sale. He wanted to buy it back. Do you know why?”

  “Peter wasn’t interested in mirrors. He wasn’t vain,” Madeline explained anxiously.

  The last thing Laura wanted to do was to grill this dazed, grieving woman, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “He said the mirror was a family heirloom, Mrs. Kilbourne. A brass hand mirror. Do you recall it?”

  “I don’t know anything about a mirror.” Madeline’s voice was dull now, but as she looked at Laura, her cloudy eyes cleared to become as sharp as a knife’s edge. “Did you kill my son?” she asked in the tone of someone who desperately needs an answer.

  “No.” Laura cleared her throat. “No, Mrs. Kilbourne, I swear I didn’t. I had nothing to do with his death.”

  Those urgent blue eyes remained fixed on Laura’s face for a moment, then tracked past her suddenly and widened. “Oh,” she said softly.

  “Mother, you should be resting.”

  Laura didn’t start at the sound of Daniel’s quiet voice, because she had been unconsciously bra
ced for it. She felt him behind her. But she heard her breath catch when he touched her for the first time, one of his powerful hands on her shoulder as he gently guided her to one side a step so that he could pass her there at the doorway.

  He didn’t look at Laura as he passed her, but went to his mother and took her arm, urging her to her feet. He didn’t appear to use force, but she rose immediately, looking up at him with a kind of entreaty.

  “You should be resting,” he repeated as quietly as before.

  “Yes. Yes, of course I should.” She looked at Laura, eyes cloudy again, and said with vague politeness, “You will excuse me?”

  Not trusting her voice, Laura nodded.

  Daniel led Madeline from the room, his gaze meeting Laura’s only once, fleetingly and unrevealingly.

  Alone, Laura stood there for a moment before she realized how tense she was. She lifted her hands and stared at them, unaware until then that her fingers had been curled so tightly that her nails had dug crescent imprints deep into her palms. She rubbed her hands together slowly.

  She felt ashamed of herself for having questioned Madeline, especially since the answers were useless to her. And she was afraid she had earned yet another black mark in Daniel’s book because of it.

  Before she could do more than consider that unhappily, Laura was distracted when a gleam of sunlight found its way through the narrow opening of the draperies and reflected brightly off a wall mirror above a side table. The light was brief as the sun ducked back behind the gray clouds that had been present all day, but Laura hardly noticed that. She had only looked into this room before and hadn’t seen the mirror; now, as always, she was drawn to it.

  She wasn’t even aware of moving until she stood before the mirror. It was a big mirror, two feet by three feet, in a gilded frame, all details Laura noted only in passing. As always, she ignored her own reflection to study the room behind her, past her right shoulder. And as always, what she saw left her with a gnawing sense of disappointment, because whatever it was she looked for was not there.

  “Damn,” she whispered.

  MADELINE WAS NOT present at lunch.