“No!” Grace shrieked. “You can’t let him in the house, Sophie. You can’t trust him. Where’s Marty? He’ll kill her too, I know he will. And me. He’ll have to silence me before I tell everyone the truth. Of course, no one will believe me. Even my own daughter thinks I’m a crazy old loon.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy, Mama,” Sophie said. “I just think you’re a little upset, and you need to calm down. No one wants to kill me, no one wants to kill anyone.”
“I can prove it to you,” Grace said, her voice high-pitched and desperate. “I have notes, pages and pages of notes, that will prove it beyond a shadow of a doubt. I’ve got them hidden in my room. Let me just get them for you….”
“Prove what?” Doc asked, his voice calm and soothing as he stood behind the screen door on the porch. Sophie hadn’t even heard the car return, she’d been so caught up in worrying about Grace’s delusional state. He would have barely had time to drop Rima off before coming back here. Thank God, Sophie thought.
“Grace is worried that—” she began, but Grace interrupted her before she could finish the sentence.
“I was afraid that the shepherd’s pie had poison in it,” Grace said. “I think there are spirits in this place, wanting to do us harm. Make the spirits go away, Doc. They frighten me.” Grace’s brief spell of paranoid lucidity had vanished, and she looked like a terrified, pathetic child.
“I’ll take care of it, Grace,” he said gently. “I brought something to help you sleep, and I’ll stay with you so that no one can hurt you. Would you like that?”
Apparently Grace had forgotten all about her previous fantasies. “Would you, Doc? Would you promise to sit with me all night, never leave my side? That’s the only way I’ll feel safe.”
“Grace, you can’t—” Sophie protested, but Doc silenced her.
“Of course, Grace. Rima has already gone to bed, and she knows that sometimes I’m called out all night long. She won’t worry. I’ll stay right here with you, I promise.”
Grace smiled happily, back to the sunny childhood that had become her habitual home. She wandered toward her bedroom, humming beneath her breath.
“You shouldn’t have to do this, Doc,” Sophie protested in a low voice. “I can sit with her….”
“Nonsense. I brought a sedative with me, and once I give her a shot she’ll be out like a light. I have a good book, and I can sleep anywhere, even standing up if I have to. The remnants of my training as an intern.”
“It’s not fair—”
“Enough of this, young lady. It isn’t fair that you’ve been saddled with a disturbed mother. What happened to set her off this time? She seemed peaceful enough when I left.”
Sophie shook her head. “I don’t know. She just started babbling about murder. She said you were going to kill us all.”
“Did she?” Doc sounded more amused than alarmed. “And how did she know this?”
“Apparently the flowers were talking to her,” Sophie said. She felt close to tears.
“That’s one of the sad things about senile dementia. They never seem to be happy delusions. If flowers started talking, wouldn’t you think they’d have happy things to say instead of talking about death and murder?”
“I wouldn’t know.” She took a deep, shuddering breath.
“I think you need a nice cup of tea and a good night’s sleep.”
Sophie shook her head. “I can’t. But I’ll be happy to make you some.”
“You don’t need to take care of me, Sophie. I’m here to help you out. Let me go sit with my patient, and you do whatever it is you need to do to unwind. Take a hot bath, read a book. And don’t worry about us—we’ll be fine. If Marty comes home and you’re not up, I’ll tell her you were tired and went to bed early.”
“All right,” she said, not willing to argue anymore. She could no more sleep than she could swim across Still Lake. She was restless, anxious, deeply troubled. She needed to get out of this house, away from everyone for a little while. She needed space to think and just to breathe.
She knew what Doc’s reaction to that would be. Just as hysterically paranoid as her mother’s, though he seemed convinced that John Smith was the danger. If anyone scared her, it was the disapproving Zebulon King. He seemed just the sort of Old Testament patriarch who would decide to punish the unrighteous. Mind you, until a couple of days ago she’d been depressingly righteous herself, but who knew how the mind of a religious fanatic worked?
As long as she kept away from everyone she’d be fine. Doc might not agree, though. He didn’t have to know she’d left the house. As far as he was concerned she could be sound asleep upstairs.
“Call me if you need me,” she said.
“I won’t need you. Grace trusts me, deep in her heart, despite her current delusions. I promise you, we’ll be just fine.”
Sophie leaned forward and kissed Doc’s soft, shaven cheek. “Thank you for everything, Doc. I can’t imagine where we’d be without you.”
18
Sophie really did try her best to avoid temptation. She took a hot bath, and afterward, for some reason, decided to wear some of the ridiculous underwear Grace used to buy her. It had been an ongoing family joke—every Christmas and birthday Grace would swoop back into their lives and present her staid daughter with lacy, impractical underwear, which Sophie would leave in her drawer. Looking at them tonight, she remembered her mother as she was before, slightly naughty, sharp-tongued and clever. Now she was a poor lost ghost of that vibrant woman, and Sophie wanted to cry.
Tears were a waste of time, she reminded herself. On a whim she pulled the scandalous underwear from her top drawer, took off the tags and put them on. The bra made her look even more voluptuous than she already, unfortunately, was, and the panties were just this side of a thong. She slid them on, anyway, staring at her reflection in the wavering mirror above her dresser.
Not bad if you liked well-built women, she decided impartially. She was never going to be fashion-model thin, but all those muffins and slices of peach pie hadn’t done any noticeable damage to her curves. She just needed to find someone she was willing to take her clothes off for and she’d be fine. Unfortunately, the only person she wanted to strip in front of was John Smith.
She was pretty enough, in a bland way, she decided. Blue eyes were boring, though at least hers were reasonably big. On the other hand, her mouth was definitely too large, and she didn’t care much for her full lips, either. Nose and skin were good, except for that mark on the side of her neck. He’d probably done it on purpose, she thought darkly. Branding her, just so everyone would know what she’d been doing in her spare time. Son of a bitch.
She should have gone to thank Mr. King for towing her car earlier in the day, but the man made her uneasy. She should offer to pay him, though chances were she’d get it wrong. She either offered to pay for things that were simply considered neighborly, or she didn’t offer to pay for acts that were considered services rendered. Maybe eventually she’d get it right, but for now it would have been better to offend Mr. King than cheat him.
She could walk down to the Whitten cottage, leave an envelope on the porch for Zebulon King, and then take off before she ran into anyone. Anyone at all.
Anyone like John Smith. Who the hell was she kidding? The only reason she wanted to go down there was in hopes that she might run into him, that he’d put his hands on her and override any common sense that might get in her way.
She’d be crazy to go, as crazy as her mother. She was courting danger, and she was much too wise to do that. And she was going, anyway.
She pulled on the rest of her clothes, covering up the naughty underwear, and tried to read a book to get her mind off him. Why in the world did women actually choose to wear this kind of stuff on their bodies, she thought restlessly? She preferred her underclothing in plain white cotton so she didn’t have to think about it. She kept trying to concentrate on the book, and all she could think about was the way the bra cupped h
er breasts. Hell and damnation.
She should take her clothes off and put on her nightclothes. And then lie in the bed, unable to sleep, for hours and hours and hours.
No, that was out of the question. So was sitting in her bedroom trying to read. Maybe she should just go down to the Whitten cottage and face John. She needed to make it clear she had no interest in him, in his hands and mouth and any other wicked part of his body. She wanted her old life back.
She slipped out the front door into the warm night air, as silent as she could be. Through her mother’s window, she could see Doc sitting by Grace’s bed, reading something out loud. It looked like the Bible, and Sophie had to bite back an inappropriate urge to giggle. Grace had never cared much for organized religion, but right now she had no choice but to put up with it from Doc’s gentle company.
Sophie moved across the grass, her thin shoes making no sound. She had to be out of her mind, coming out on a night like this, going to face her nemesis. But she couldn’t sit around and wait anymore. She had to find out exactly who and what he was, and why he was living in Colby, Vermont. There was no innocent excuse, she knew, and the only reason had to be something to do with the old murders.
He wouldn’t have run her off the road—Doc was crazy to have thought so. If he’d wanted to hurt her, he’d had any number of chances to do so. Besides, what possible reason would he have to do her harm?
She’d walk down to the Whitten house, find the answers to her questions, then come back to relieve Doc. There was nothing to be afraid of. John Smith, or whoever he was, didn’t want to hurt her. No one did.
At least she had the dubious protection of Doc back at the inn. If she needed help all she had to do was scream—Doc might have slowed down a bit, but his hearing was almost supernaturally acute. If she got in trouble he’d come running.
So why was she walking into danger when she really needed to keep her distance? She knew perfectly well she was taking the first excuse she could find to see him. Maybe she just wanted to finish things up—once she got it over with she’d have no more excuses to go down there, and she’d be safe, whether she wanted to be or not.
The battered old Jaguar stood in the clearing. There were no lights coming from the house, and for a moment she wondered if he’d gone for a walk. She should just go home, come back in the light of day when it was safer. Except that she wasn’t quite sure she wanted to be safe anymore.
She should have turned and run. But the place looked still and quiet, and if he was anywhere around he would have seen her by now. She may as well walk right up to the front porch. If she was that stupid.
Still no sign, no sound from the dark house. She turned to go, both relieved and disappointed, when the Jaguar distracted her. She didn’t believe a word John Smith had told her, not even the anonymous name he’d given her. Didn’t she deserve to know whom she’d inadvertently slept with?
That wasn’t fair of her—there was nothing inadvertent about it. No one forced her, and she couldn’t really call sex an accident. Even if it felt like the most impulsive thing she’d ever done in her short, safe life.
She opened the passenger door of the car and slid inside. The glove compartment was right there, and she had no reason to feel guilty. She opened it and pulled out the leather case that held his registration.
Or someone’s registration. The car belonged to someone named Thomas Ingram Griffin of Sudbury, Massachusetts.
So why did that name sound familiar? She’d never been in Sudbury in her life—there was no reason she would know him. Who the hell was he, and what was he doing there?
She put the registration away, memorizing the name and address, and turned to open the door again.
Only to let out a shrill scream.
He was standing by the car looking at her, an unreadable expression on his face as he reached for the door handle. She acted instinctively, slamming down the lock, then reached across and locked the driver’s side, as well.
He took a step back, and if there was any humor in his dark eyes she didn’t see it. Instead he simply walked back to the porch, sat in one of the rockers and propped his feet up on the railing. Preparing to wait her out.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, she berated herself. Why the hell hadn’t she just bluffed it? So she’d been snooping. So he’d be pissed off. She wasn’t really afraid of him, was she? He might be angry, but he wouldn’t hurt her.
She leaned back in the leather seat, reviewing her options. Her talents ran more toward stripping wallpaper and turning buckets into planters, not hotwiring classic cars, and he hadn’t left the keys in the ignition, damn it. Actually, if he hadn’t left the keys in the ignition he must have them on him, and her locking the doors did her absolutely no good at all. She’d learned that the last time she tried this little stunt.
She looked up at him as he lounged on the porch, watching her. As if he could read her mind, he held up the keys in one hand, dangling them with a taunting gesture.
All right, so he’d won this round. She still wasn’t about to climb out of the car. Instead she rolled down the passenger window, letting in the cool lake air.
“We’ve already done this dance before,” he drawled. “Aren’t you getting tired of it, Sophie?”
“Who’s Thomas Griffin?” she demanded.
“Ever hear the phrase, curiosity killed the cat?” he said.
“Are you going to kill me?”
“I’m not in the mood. Not right now, at least. Though I could always be persuaded to change my mind.” He might have been talking about afternoon tea in that pleasant, unemotional voice.
“Who are you?”
“Who the fuck do you think I am?” he said. “Use your brain.”
He was really beginning to piss her off. Not enough to make her get out of the dubious haven of the car, however. “I don’t know! I’ve already figured out that you aren’t a reporter, you aren’t a cop, and you aren’t a lawyer. That leaves a lot to go through.”
“As a matter of fact, I am a lawyer,” he said, as cool as the lake breeze. “But that’s not all. According to popular belief I murdered three women here some twenty years ago. I was known as the Northeast Kingdom murderer.”
He said it in such a calm, matter-of-fact tone that for a moment she believed him, and her stomach knotted in instant panic. And then common sense surfaced.
“Sure you are,” she shot back. “That’s why the place has been littered with bodies since you got back.”
His smile wasn’t the slightest bit reassuring. “You don’t believe me? Think about it, Sophie. Where have you heard the name Thomas Griffin before? You’re a smart woman underneath those stupid ruffles—it’ll come to you.”
Her momentary confidence faltered. She remembered the photo of the killer in the newspaper, the grainy features that looked nothing like the man lounging on the porch. He’d worn sunglasses and had a beard, and the tattoo of a snake coiling over one hip, and his name was…
Thomas Griffin.
“I don’t believe you,” she said, but her voice quavered.
“Oh, yes, you do. You’ve been so busy worrying about your mother and sister that you haven’t been jumping to the logical conclusions. I think Doc must have figured it out a while ago, though I can’t figure out why he hasn’t said anything yet. He’s always been so protective of his little town and its young women that he should have figured it out long ago.”
“He said something to me. He warned me away from you. I thought he was just being a fussbudget.”
“Did the warnings work? No, I guess they didn’t.” He answered his own question. “You’re here, aren’t you?”
“If you hurt me they’ll know you did it.”
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Then why have you got me trapped in this car?”
“I don’t. You showed up and decided to go snooping, and you’re the one who locked yourself in there. I can unlock the doors any time I want.”
“I’ll lock th
em again.”
“Honey, I hate to break it to you, but I’m stronger than you are. I’ve already proved that I can unlock the door even if you put your whole weight on it.”
“Enough with the cracks about the weight,” she snapped, her fear momentarily fading.
He laughed. “It’s the only way I can get to you. Besides, you know perfectly well how sumptuous you are.”
“Sumptuous?”
“Delicious,” he said, his voice low and beguiling. “Utterly succulent.”
“I hadn’t heard the Northeast Kingdom murderer was a cannibal,” she said.
“Not in the traditional sense of the word. What can I say? You make me hungry.”
She shivered, and she wasn’t sure why. It was an unseasonably warm night, and she felt hot and breathless in the car. And chilled. She needed to get home, make sure Grace and Marty were all right. She needed to cool down, strip off her layers of clothes. She looked at him sitting on the porch in the moonlight, obviously amused by her. Oh, my God, she’d had sex with a murderer! And even worse, she wanted to again.
“If you’re the Northeast Kingdom murderer, how many people did you kill?” she demanded. He still hadn’t moved, he just sat there watching her. Like a chef, trying to decide exactly what he was going to do with a plump young hen.
“I was convicted of killing one woman, and I spent five years in prison,” he said in his cool, emotionless voice. “They overturned it on a technicality, set me free and didn’t bother to give me a new trial. I’d been working toward my law degree while I was in jail and they knew they’d be screwed if they tried anything.”
“A felon can’t have a license to practice law.”
“Very informed, aren’t you? But I wasn’t a convicted felon—it was overturned, remember.”
“So you only killed that one girl?”
“I don’t know what I did. I had a blackout that night, and I’ve never remembered what happened. That’s why I came back here—to see if I could find out what really happened. To find out whether or not I really murdered anyone.”