Josie felt peculiar chuckling as she let him lead her toward the back of the house, but she couldn’t help it. She doubted there was anything Alex took seriously, but his casual attitude had frequently brightened her mood, so she seldom complained. Besides, she did need to get out of the house for a few minutes, to walk in a cool garden with a man who made her laugh, and forget the violent death of another man … even if only for a little while.
BY TUESDAY MORNING, Laura had received both good news and bad news from the police. The good news was that her fingerprints had not been found anywhere in the motel room where Peter Kilbourne had died or in his car. The bad news was that one of the keycards used in her building on Saturday night belonged to a tenant who had gone off into the wilds hunting—and nobody seemed to know when he’d be back. Until he returned, and assuming he verified that he himself had used his card to exit the building at eight thirty-five on Saturday night, Laura could not be eliminated as a suspect.
She didn’t think she would be even then, unless the police found another suspect. A suspect they didn’t seem to be looking for. They had already spent time at the company where she worked, asking questions about her of her boss and other employees, and everybody in the apartment building had also been questioned.
A friend who worked at her bank had told her that the police had obtained her banking records, looking for God knows what, and she was willing to bet they also had her phone records to find out if she had called Peter Kilbourne—or he had called her. Neither of which, Laura was certain, would provide the police with the connection they were seeking.
Laura tried to work all day Tuesday, but her concentration was spotty and she kept thinking about the fact that today was the day they were burying Peter Kilbourne. And it was early that afternoon when she received her first call from a reporter, which rattled her so much that she didn’t have a hope of getting any more work done.
She finally went to her boss and asked for a leave of absence, explaining truthfully that since the press now had her name and would undoubtedly be pestering her until the police solved the murder, it would be better for both her and the company if she took some time off.
“Take as much time as you need, Laura,” Tom Sayers said, more sympathetic than many employers would have been. “I’ll shift your projects to some of the others in the meantime.”
“I’m really sorry there’s been so much trouble, Tom.”
He smiled at her, a middle-aged man with a weathered face and sharp brown eyes. “I don’t see how you could have prevented it,” he told her. “All you did was buy a mirror.”
Laura was grateful that he believed in her, but not particularly surprised; he had hired her at eighteen on her innate artistic ability alone, training her himself and encouraging her to take night courses to get a college degree in the field of commercial art. Now, ten years later, Laura had her degree and was one of the top artists in his small but profitable graphic design business.
“Just take care of yourself,” he told her as she left his office. “And don’t let a bunch of nosy reporters turn your life upside down.”
Good advice, Laura thought as she drove home. But the situation had already turned her life upside down. Here she was, hiding out from the press—and taking an unpaid leave of absence from her job to do it, which meant money would be very tight if she couldn’t go back to work soon. And when she got home, it was to find on her answering machine several requests for interviews and a number of rude questions, which was definitely upsetting. She finally had to turn the phone off just to escape the constant ringing.
This is what I get for having a published number—even with just my initial in the book!
That afternoon she managed to get in touch with Dena Wilkes, the college student and researcher who had worked for her before, and Dena enthusiastically agreed to come over in the morning and get all the details as well as take photographs in order to start researching Laura’s mirror.
Laura spent Wednesday afternoon trying to paint. Her best efforts had always come purely from her imagination, so she tried to just let her mind wander and her fingers paint what they would. Not surprisingly, she found herself painting the mirror—but the perspective was interesting, she decided. The image taking shape on canvas was the mirror being held by a hand—a feminine hand.
Maybe when it’s finished, I’ll know what I’m supposed to see in the damned thing!
Cassidy arrived that evening, offering her company and Chinese take-out, and Laura was happy to accept both. In a determined effort to forget the murder, they watched an old movie on television and discussed the careers and sex appeal of all their favorite movie stars. Still, as soon as her friend went home, Laura was left with too many anxious thoughts.
Patience was hardly her strong suit, especially when she was all too aware that others—namely the police—were possibly in charge of her destiny; she wanted to do something herself, to put her fate back in her own hands. She told herself there was nothing she could do except find out about the mirror, but that undoubted fact did nothing to soothe her restlessness.
Then, on Thursday morning, she found among her usual mail two letters. One was positive, a motherly type of letter assuring her that of course she hadn’t killed Peter Kilbourne and that everything would be all right if she would just put her faith and trust in God. The other was a vehement and crudely worded invitation to her to burn in hell for her sins and crimes.
Both were from total strangers.
Laura’s rational mind told her they were the types of letters anyone experiencing a sudden—and negative—notoriety might easily receive, and that she shouldn’t let them get to her. But the mere fact that two strangers had somehow discovered she was the “female acquaintance of Peter Kilbourne being questioned by the police” was more than unnerving.
She dropped the letters as if they burned, staring down at them for a long moment. Then she went to turn on her phone, and hunted up the business card Peter had given her. She had a hunch he used the “business” cards more for social contacts than anything else, and when her call to the number on the card reached an answering service, she was sure of it. Without leaving a message, she hung up, wondering uneasily if the police were keeping track of calls made to Peter’s number now that he was dead.
Pushing that unnerving possibility out of her mind, she placed a second call, this one to a number she knew well. “Cass? Listen, didn’t you say that the Kilbournes banked there? I know you shouldn’t, but … can you get me the phone number at the house?”
ALLOWED THROUGH THE gate by an expressionless security guard, Laura drove her Cougar up the long driveway to the Kilbourne house at four o’clock that afternoon. She was still surprised to be here at all—surprised both because she’d found the nerve to call and request an appointment, and because that request had been granted so quickly.
She didn’t know quite what she would say to whichever member of the family had granted her request, but she had several Polaroids of the mirror in her purse as well as the receipt she’d been given at the auction for her cash purchase. Just in case.
She parked her car in the small turnoff near the walkway leading to the house and walked slowly up the brick pathway toward the front door. The house looked even bigger and more imposing than it had when she had first seen it days ago, and even though Laura felt the same affinity with it that she had felt then, she was also all too aware now that it was a house in mourning.
The funeral wreath still hung beside the front door.
Reaching it, she took a deep breath in an attempt to steady her nerves, and firmly rang the doorbell. The response came so quickly that she actually stepped back, startled, as the door was pulled open.
A lovely woman with beautifully pale skin and auburn hair stood there, looking at Laura intently out of wide gray eyes. Dressed very plainly in black slacks and a dark blue, silky blouse, she was inches shorter than Laura and slightly built; a delicate, almost doll-like woman who might have been
any age between twenty-five and thirty-five.
“Miss Sutherland? I’m Josie Kilbourne. Please come in.”
As she stepped into the entrance hall, Laura realized that it was Josie Kilbourne she had spoken to on the phone, even though the other woman had not identified herself then. Though her manner was brisk, her voice was curiously childlike and sweet, and instantly recognizable. But it was not she who had granted Laura’s request; after listening to it, she had gone away for a few minutes and then returned to set today’s appointment.
Barely giving Laura a chance to look around at the vast, marbled entrance hall, Josie said, “If you’ll come into the library, I’ll tell Mr. Kilbourne you’re here.”
Which answered the question of who had agreed to see her. Except, wasn’t there more than one Mr. Kilbourne in residence? Hadn’t the newspapers mentioned a lawyer in the family? He was probably the one.
The library, just off the entrance hall, was book-lined and very pleasant. There were two big windows, curtained in a dark gold fabric that went well with so much wood, and the hardwood floor was covered with a rug in muted tones of gold and burgundy. There was a huge desk in one corner, a smaller one closer to the door, and two long leather sofas faced each other at right angles to the magnificent fireplace.
“Make yourself at home,” Josie invited, using the common and informal phrasing that sat oddly in this decidedly grand house. She went out of the room, leaving the double doors open.
Too nervous to sit down, Laura moved slowly to the fireplace and gazed up at the big painting hanging above it. The little brass plate on the bottom of the gilded frame said Amelia Kilbourne, 1938. Nearly sixty years ago. She had been beautiful then, strikingly so, a slender, elegant woman with jet black hair arranged—unfashionably but definitely flattering—in a pompadour that lent her a turn-of-the-century air. And that impression was intensified by the high-necked, lacy dress she wore—again, not at all fashionable for the 1930s.
Laura studied the lovely face of a young Amelia Kilbourne, noting the high, sharp cheekbones that reminded her of Katharine Hepburn, and the dark eyes that contained a glimmer of mischief. And that smile, like Mona Lisa’s, hinted at mystery.
Her imagination touched, Laura wondered how that lovely face had aged in nearly sixty years. The woman who wore it had buried her husband and both her children as well as a grandson, and had lived through what were arguably the most turbulent years in her country’s history. And so much had changed. Travel by air had been exotic when she was a child; she had lived to see space travel. Television, personal computers, cable and satellite dishes, cellular phones, electronic security—had any of it changed Amelia? Or was she still the woman who had worn a pompadour in defiance of fashion because it suited her?
Laura didn’t know what made her turn suddenly, except the certainty that she was no longer alone. And her reaction, when she saw him standing in the doorway, was so powerful it was as if an actual electric shock had stopped her heart beating. In a moment of infinite silence, she stared at him, taking in his unusual height and wide, powerful shoulders, his gleaming black hair, and the palest blue eyes she had ever seen. He wasn’t handsome, but his harsh face was unforgettably compelling, and intensity radiated from him almost visibly, like the shimmer of heat rising from a fire.
Then, the utter silence was broken by his voice, deep and low, the tone measured. “I’m Daniel Kilbourne,” he said.
She swallowed hard and managed to say “Laura Sutherland” in an unsteady voice.
“Tell me, Laura Sutherland. Did you kill my brother?”
Chapter 3
She wasn’t what Daniel had expected. Beautiful, yes; Peter had said she was beautiful, and Peter had been a connoisseur of female beauty. She was tall, voluptuous without an ounce of excess flesh, and her face was strikingly lovely. Her hair, pulled back from her face and arranged simply in a long braid hanging down her back, was a bright and burnished red-gold, and she had the unmistakable fair skin of a true redhead as well as clear green eyes.
She wore her pale slacks and silky green blouse with a certain unconscious elegance, and though her voice had wobbled a bit when she had introduced herself, her shoulders were squared with determination and her chin was raised. She had guts, he thought, to come here even knowing what they all must think of her.
But she was still … more than he had expected.
“Did you kill my brother?” he repeated when she remained silent.
“No.” She shook her head a little, her wide eyes never leaving his. “No, I didn’t kill him. I didn’t know him.”
Daniel came into the room slowly, relying on the control built over a lifetime to keep his expression unreadable. He went past her to the compact wet bar between the windows. “Drink?” She shook her head, and Daniel fixed a small Scotch for himself. He wasn’t a drinking man, but he needed one now.
Turning once again to face her, he moved toward her until he could rest a hand on the back of the couch between them. He sipped his drink, watching her, then said, “Peter went to see you Saturday. So you did know him.”
“I met him then,” she said, steady now. “But I didn’t know him. He spent less than fifteen minutes in my apartment, and then he left. That’s the only time in my life I’ve ever seen your brother.”
“Do you expect me to believe that?”
“It’s the truth.”
“Of course, you would say that, wouldn’t you?”
She drew a little breath, her fingers playing nervously with the strap of her shoulder bag. “You know I bought a mirror at your estate sale Saturday?”
He nodded. “Yes. The police asked me to verify that Peter had gone to see you because of the mirror.”
“You verified it?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know I was a stranger to him.”
He smiled slightly without amusement. “I know that’s the way it appeared.”
“It’s the way it was. He came to see me because he wanted to buy the mirror back. Do you—do you know why?”
Daniel looked down at his drink, moving his hand to swirl the ice cubes around in the glass. “No.”
He’s lying. Laura knew it. She didn’t know why he was lying, but she knew he was. She watched him lift the glass to his lips, her gaze fastening onto his right hand. He wore a big gold ring with a carved green stone that might have been jade or emerald, and there was something eerily familiar about how he held the glass with only his thumb and two fingers.
It was difficult for her to think clearly; she was still shaken and bewildered by the instant physical attraction she had felt to him. She had never been a woman who reacted to men quickly, cautious in that as she was in no other area of her life, and she wasn’t quite sure how to cope with what she felt. He was a stranger, and a man moreover who thought her at least capable of being a killer, yet she couldn’t take her eyes off him, and all her senses had opened up so intensely that she felt nakedly unprotected.
Daniel lacked Peter’s beauty, but his harsh features were compelling in a sensual way that made the younger brother seem almost absurdly boyish in retrospect. Daniel’s big, powerful body moved with uncanny grace, with the ease of muscles under absolute and unthinking control, and his very size and strength spoke of command, of natural forces just barely contained. She thought of a big cat moving silently through a dark and dangerous jungle, and the image was so strong she could have sworn there was a scent of primitive wildness in the room.
To Laura’s bewilderment, her body seemed to open up just as her senses had, to soften and grow receptive as if in invitation. Her skin heated, her muscles relaxed, her breathing quickened. Her knees felt weak, shaky. She felt an actual physical ache of desire.
My God, what’s happening to me?
Struggling inwardly to control what she felt, to concentrate on what she had come here to find out, Laura managed to speak evenly. “You don’t know why Peter wanted to buy the mirror back, but you know that’s why he came to see me on
Saturday?”
“As I told the police.” His pale eyes were fixed on her face, intent, almost hypnotically intense. He was absently swirling the ice around and around in his glass, the movement causing his ring to flash shards of green.
His hand was long-fingered and strong; she wondered if his touch would be sensitive or if it would overpower with its strength. A flare of heat burned inside her as speculation created a rawly sexual image in her mind. “You don’t know why the mirror was important to Peter?” she asked with an effort.
“That’s what I said.” His voice was even, his gaze unreadable.
Whatever she felt, he seemed unaffected, and seemed not to notice that she hardly shared his composure. Laura tried to draw a steadying breath without making the need for one obvious. “He said the mirror was an heirloom. Is it?”
“As far as I know, Miss Sutherland, it was one of many unused, unwanted items packed away in the attic by God knows who, God knows how many years ago.” He had only a trace of a Southern accent, something common to people who had lived and traveled much outside the South.
“Would anyone else in the family know more about it?”
“I doubt it.” He was abrupt now, a slight frown narrowing his eyes. And it’s not really the best time to ask them, he might as well have added.
It struck Laura for the first time that Daniel seemed completely unmoved for a man who had buried his brother two days before. Had the two men disliked each other? Or was Daniel merely a controlled man who gave away little of his emotions? He certainly looked hard, with those harsh features and chilly blue eyes, and though his attitude toward her said plainly that he was not inclined to believe her relationship with his brother had been either recent or innocent, he didn’t appear angered or in any way disturbed by the possibility that his brother’s murderer might be standing before him.
Still, he was obviously at least conscious that his was a house of mourning, and she wondered if that was why he had agreed to meet and talk to her—so that other members of the family, closer to Peter, would not be disturbed.