Whispering winds widows, p.4
Whispering Winds Widows, page 4
By the time Reyna reached the steps, Ben was waiting for her on the porch.
“Morning,” he said with one of those male nods that you had to be looking for to spot.
“Good morning to you.” She climbed the final step and set her hands on her hips. “Why don’t you show me around the place and tell me what your reno involves?”
He shrugged. The movement involved only one shoulder and was nearly as negligent as the nod. “Or we could just get straight to the point as to the relevance of this house to your research. This house was the last place the Three were known to be together. No one saw them here that day, of course. But the wives all stated that there was a meeting here.”
He gestured to the door, and she went inside.
Reyna was surprised at his bluntness and to find lights on inside. Though there would have been some light anyway since it was morning, the interior would have been shadowed without interior illumination.
“I had temporary power restored on Friday,” he explained, noting her attention to the vintage fixtures hanging from the ceilings and the sconces on the wall near the fireplace.
Reyna wandered to the staircase. It was a bit more ornate than she’d expected for a farmhouse. The flower carvings on the newel-post were particularly interesting. She traced the surface, her fingers noting the slight irregularities in the pattern that suggested it had been hand carved. The front edge of the treads reflected the same carefully hand-carved design.
“My father and grandfather’s work.”
Reyna turned to Ben. “Your father worked in the city,” she said, not arguing with him but surprised by the information.
“The summer before he disappeared,” Ben began, “my father left his job in the city and started working with my grandfather again. My mother was most unhappy. She had bigger plans than Whispering Winds and hoped to move down to the city in time.”
So there had been trouble with at least one of the couples. The three men had disappeared on October first—the upcoming October would be thirty-one years ago. It had been a Saturday, and the men had met here at this house for a card game. They’d played cards twice a month. Had for years. To anyone’s knowledge, nothing had been different or amiss that time except for the meeting place. Considering that it was well away from the men’s homes, privacy might have been the motivating factor.
Reyna turned around in a slow circle, taking in the front hall and the parlors on either side. She let the idea that this was the place where they’d met up for the very last time on that fateful day soak in.
“Who owned this house at the time?” Reyna asked, moving to the parlor on the left side of the hall. The mirrored overmantel of the fireplace was dusty but in perfect condition. Even the tile around the firebox looked great.
“Duke Fuller. He and his wife, Deidre, wanted to restore the home and turn the farm back into a thriving property. Deidre didn’t care for the plain details, so she hired my grandfather to add a few distinctive ones. Like the carving on the staircase.” He gestured to the fireplace. “And the overmantel.”
Judging by the condition and the layers of dust, Reyna assumed the house had remained empty all these years. “The restoration was never finished?”
“No. Deidre left it just as it was, and it sat here all this time. She decided to put the place on the market and asked me to get it back in shape.”
“You have a team or a couple of employees?” Otherwise this was going to be a long wait for the lady.
Ben laughed. “Just me and my pops, though there isn’t a lot he can do these days. I have a few sources—friends—who help out from time to time if the need arises.”
“I guess it’s a good thing she’s not in a rush, then.” Reyna moved back into the front hall and crossed to the other parlor.
“Guess so,” he agreed.
Reyna didn’t wait for an invitation; she moved on to the kitchen that spanned the back of the house. The layout of the first floor was very similar to the one at the Kane home, with the exception of no bedroom downstairs. The only other room on the first floor was a smaller parlor that, considering all the bookshelves lining the walls, had been a library.
“There was no blood or other evidence of violence found in the house or anywhere outside,” she said.
“Nothing,” he agreed.
“What was the overall condition of the house at the time?” Reyna searched her memory for the details. “No one had lived in it for a number of years, correct?”
“That’s right.” He crossed to a broad window and stared out over the landscape. “The Henry family had all died out, and the place had been empty for about fifteen years. It was in pretty good shape. Just needed an update and whatever options the new owners wanted to add.”
“Was there any connection between Ms. Fuller and the previous owners?” Deidre Fuller’s maiden name was Henry.
“The last owner was her uncle,” Ben said. “He had no children, and when he passed, the property went to Deidre. She was a teenager at the time, so her parents held it in trust for her. Judging by some of the photographs I’ve found in my mother’s old scrapbooks, they used this place as a hangout a lot in their younger days.”
“Before they married?”
“Right. Like a private teenage hangout.”
And then their husbands had disappeared here. In Reyna’s opinion, that had to mean something.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Ben said. He leaned against one of the bookcases, arms crossed over his chest. “I’m sure you read how about ten years ago ground-penetrating radar was brought in. They found no remains anywhere on the property. Not in the garden, not in the basement. Nowhere. The properties where the Three lived were checked as well.”
She had read the articles. A private investigator with his own television program had talked his producers into paying for the venture. Deidre Fuller had agreed to the only interview she’d done in twenty years. Reyna guessed because it would be part of the episode to air on television. Who didn’t love that fifteen minutes of fame? Although, in Deidre’s case, it had been more like three minutes. The main focus had been on the search for remains.
* * *
“THERE’S NOTHING HERE,” Ben said, “that’s going to tell the story of what happened that day.” This might not be true, but whatever was here, he wanted to be the one to find it.
Truth was he and Ms. Fuller had made a deal. He’d bought the place from her. No one was to know. He didn’t want his mother or his grandfather to know, and she didn’t want the public stir that would’ve surely followed the sale. So they’d executed a private transaction. He’d used the firm’s little-known development company to buy the property so no one would easily attach his name to it.
At this point he wasn’t really sure why he’d done it. Maybe it was reaching that age where life felt as if it were slipping by or maybe it was the breakup, but he’d suddenly needed desperately to do something. To figure out the past. To force it all to make sense somehow. Though he was fairly confident it never would.
But for some reason he had to try.
He hadn’t quite determined the reason, but he intended to do all in his power to get it done.
The idea that it perhaps had something to do with his grandfather’s advanced age wasn’t lost on him. The realization shook him, though this was not the first time he’d considered losing the man who had been his rock, his mentor—his world for most of his life. Ben did not want his grandfather to die never knowing what happened to his son. It just wasn’t right.
Clearly the man wanted to know or he wouldn’t have agreed to work with this...Reyna Hart.
His gaze settled on her as she wandered around the room looking at empty shelves as if the dust settled there might give her some insight.
He shook his head. How the hell would he get this done?
Reyna turned to face him. He flinched. The curiosity that captured her expression warned she hadn’t missed his lingering attention. To cover, he said, “What’s going through your mind right now?” He shrugged. “I mean, you’re not from around here. You don’t know any of the folks involved. You’re not a cop or a reporter. What does all this—” he turned his arms up “—say to you?”
She walked around the room, did a little more looking at the dust and cobwebs because God knew there was nothing else.
“It says there are secrets,” she announced, stopping maybe three feet away. Close enough for him to see those little freckles that made him want to trace their faint path.
He chuckled, mostly to cover the ridiculous thought about those freckles that had popped into his head. “I hate to tell you this, Miss Hart, but that’s hardly original and definitely not news.”
She gave him an acknowledging nod. “However, the point you’re missing, Mr. Kane, is that there are secrets and then there are secrets.”
His gaze narrowed as he searched her face, looking for some hint of where she was going with this. “I’m listening.”
“We all have secrets. Little things we do or say or that happen which we want to keep to ourselves. A little something we did or a habit that isn’t flattering. A mistake we made. That sort of thing.”
He got it now. “But you’re saying the secret or secrets about the Three is a different kind. The sort that has to stay secret no matter what. The kind that turns worlds upside down.” The twist in his gut told him she was right about that.
She nodded. “Exactly. Someone knows something. Someone right here in this little town. Someone you probably know. Maybe one or all of the Widows. And this thing they know could potentially reveal everything or just the first step in the right direction.”
“But how do you find that...thing?”
“You ask the right people the right questions, and you keep looking. It’s here. It has to be. It’s basic physics. All things that exist must be somewhere. The bodies—if the Three are dead—are somewhere. The weapon—if they were murdered—is somewhere. The murderer is somewhere.”
“All right.” Made sense so far. “I’ll tell you now I’ve searched this house top to bottom. I’ve walked this property step by step. I’ve found nothing.”
“Not finding it doesn’t mean it’s not there,” she countered. “What it means is that you need additional direction. The only way to get the right additional direction is to go to the source.”
“The Widows.”
“Yes. They were married to the missing men. They knew them and each other better than anyone—intimately—since they were lifelong friends. One or all of them knows something that can help us. All we need is a point in the right direction. We need at least one to give us that direction.”
The need to protect his mother nudged him. “You’re saying one or all three of the Widows have been lying all this time.”
“Not necessarily. It’s possible that she or they don’t understand the importance of what is known. Or it could be fear. Until you know why the three husbands went missing, you won’t know the motive for keeping the knowledge secret. And there will be a motive. Does that motive pose some sort of threat to the Widows? Who’s to say? But that is the typical reason secrets are kept.”
The idea wasn’t a new one. It had been discussed in previous investigations, but nothing had ever come of it. One investigator had even gone so far as to say that until it was known why the Three had disappeared there would never be any other answers.
Evidently, he’d made a valid point. Thirty years felt a whole hell of a lot like never at this point.
“You want me to get you meetings with the Widows,” Ben suggested.
“Your grandfather has already offered to do this, but if you’d rather be the one to make it happen, I can work with that.”
His mother would say no. He knew this up front. Ms. Fuller might be eager to get her point of view in first. She’d been easy to talk to when Ben had purchased the property. Then again, money had been involved. She might not feel the same when it wasn’t. He couldn’t say how Ms. Evans would react, but he was willing to try to make it happen.
“I’ll get the meetings,” he agreed. “While I work that out, how about I take you on a tour of the property and then our town. You’ll have a better understanding of the place and the people then.”
“I would really appreciate that. Believe it or not, getting the feel of a place and the people can often sharpen your instincts.”
“I can see that.” Made sense.
Funny, he hadn’t expected to like this woman. The very last thing he’d wanted was someone else involved in what he felt he had to do.
Now it seemed exactly like the right move.
Then again, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d made a mistake.
Chapter Four
Harold’s Diner
Main Street
Noon
Reyna liked this town already. Small, quiet. Everyone seemed to know everyone else. Then again, she had been hearing about it from Eudora for months. Reyna felt at home here because of all that she’d learned and studied about the place. She’d spent so much time thinking about it, it was as if she’d lived here herself.
The reality of it, though, was even nicer than her expectations. The real place felt...peaceful.
This conclusion felt a bit strange since a possible triple homicide had taken place thirty years ago that remained unsolved. How was it that three grown men had vanished in a town so small and no one had a clue what had happened?
There was no logic in the notion.
Reyna studied the man seated across the table from her. Ben Kane’s father had been one of those three. How had he gone on through life all this time and not fought harder to know the reason? Then again, perhaps he had. Eudora had said little about Ben. She’d mostly spoken about his grandfather, Ward. Reyna suspected the two had had a connection at one time—perhaps a brief affair after his wife had passed away. A retired schoolteacher, Eudora had never been married. She had no children.
Ben looked up from the menu he’d been perusing. “If you’ve got a question, the best thing to do is ask it. Staring a hole through me isn’t going to get you any answers.”
“Why now?” she asked. “In the past I’m sure you’ve followed along with the investigations. Maybe even been involved on some level, but why decide to go the extra mile, so to speak, now?”
And that was the impression he’d given when he’d shown her around the Henry property. He wanted very much to find the truth. She had felt the tension in him when he’d spoken of his grandfather’s pain all these years, of how the disappearance had certainly sent his grandmother to an early grave.
Whatever his mother wanted, he hadn’t mentioned. Reyna suspected, based on Eudora’s conclusions about the Widows, that none of them wanted the past shaken or stirred ever again.
The trouble in that was this man—and Reyna. They both wanted answers. This wasn’t personal for her. She didn’t really know these people or this community, but it felt important. It felt like something she needed to do.
Ben placed the menu on the table. Reyna hadn’t even really looked at hers. She wasn’t hungry for anything except answers.
He held her gaze for long enough to have her wondering if he intended to answer. Finally he said, “My grandfather is eighty-five. His health is really good, in my opinion, for a man of his age. That said, I can’t deny the idea that I could lose him anytime. I know he wants answers. He tried harder than most to get those answers before admitting defeat. If I can somehow find those answers, it would be the most important thing I could possibly do for him. I want to do that for him.”
Reyna smiled and gave him a nod. “I can’t imagine a more noble reason.”
A gray-haired gentleman wearing an apron with the diner logo swaggered up to their booth. “Afternoon, folks.” He nodded to Ben. “You ready to order?”
Ben eyed him skeptically. “Since when did you start taking orders, Harold?”
Ah, Reyna got it now. This was the owner, Harold McGill. Eudora had said he was a very generous man—always feeding and taking up donations for those in need.
“Well now, Ben,” Harold said as he eyed the two of them, “that would be your fault for waltzing in here with this pretty stranger. You’re gonna have the whole town talking.”
“It doesn’t take much,” Ben said under his breath.
She smiled and reached out to the older man. “Reyna Hart. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. McGill. I’ve heard wonderful things about you from Eudora Davenport.”
“Mercy me.” McGill grinned. “I hope she’s doing well. I haven’t seen Eudora in ages.”
“She’s doing well enough,” Reyna said. Eudora wasn’t keen on anyone knowing the extent of her illness. “In fact, one of the projects I’m working on is Eudora’s life history.”
McGill’s eyebrows reared up. “Now, that’s a story I’d love to read. They say still waters run deep, and Eudora Davenport’s ran deeper than most, in my opinion.”
“I’m including the mystery of the Widows and their missing husbands as well.”
His expression turned to one of surprise as he glanced at Ben. “Is that so?” He pursed his lips and nodded. “It’d be a good thing, I suppose, to finally know what happened all those years ago.”
“You knew my dad pretty well,” Ben said. “Anything come to mind about that time frame? Any sort of trouble or issues?”
To Reyna’s surprise, the older man walked over to a table, grabbed an empty chair and dragged it to the end of their booth. He settled his short, stout frame into it and propped his elbows on the table. “Your daddy,” he said to Ben, “was a good man. Better than most, I’d wager. Just like his own daddy.”
