The Secrets of Stoneley

“What?”

“You don’t look like the ‘father’ type.”

“What type do I look like?”

“Dad, Pops, something a lot less formal.”

He was right. If she’d lived in a different house, with a different father. She turned away, not wanting him to see the truth in her eyes. “We’re a formal family.”

“Yeah, I sense that.” Mick let his gaze wander the oversized foyer they were standing in. Marble tiles glistened beneath his feet, a crystal chandelier hung overhead and a large round table took center stage. A vase of red roses added color, but did little to soften the museum-like feel of the place. It was a far cry from the comfortable, lived-in Queen Anne he’d grown up in, or the well-worn Cape Cod he now owned. A far cry from what he imagined Portia’s home looked like.

He stepped into the drawing room behind her, watched as she sat on a wide velvet ottoman in a corner of the room. She could have taken a seat on the couch next to her twin and Delia, a rocking chair between the chairs Bianca and Juliet were seated in, the loveseat where her father and his newest girlfriend sat or the wing-backed chair that matched the ones Miranda and Winnie were in. Instead, she’d taken a place just on the edge of the circle created by her family, her shoulders tense as if ready to do battle. Interesting.

“Good. We’re all finally here. Let’s get this over with. Alannah and I have plans for this evening.” Ronald’s voice whipped out, filled with impatience, and Mick turned to the older man.

“This won’t take long, Mr. Blanchard.”

Ronald shrugged, his black eyes giving away nothing of what he felt. “Why don’t you have a seat and tell us why you’re here. You said something about a private investigator?”

“As I told you earlier, Garrett McGraw was killed two weeks ago. I’m investigating his death.”

“And?”

“He was murdered.” Mick kept his voice even and his tone neutral. He wasn’t here to make accusations. Yet.

“So my daughters told me, but I don’t see what that has to do with my family.” He was lying. Mick could see it in the subtle shifting of his eyes, the quick glance he shot Bianca’s way.

“I have reason to believe Mr. McGraw had business dealings with one of your daughters.”

“Any dealings he had with my family are private, Detective.”

“They might have been before Garrett’s murder. Now things have changed.”

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to agree to disagree.” Ronald stood, his obsidian eyes flashing a challenge. “Now, if you don’t mind—”

“We’ve got nothing to hide, Father.” Bianca cut in, shooting Ronald a look that might have been a warning. “No reason not to tell the detective what we know.”

When she turned her attention to Mick, she was all business, her expression cool and unperturbed. “I hired Garrett McGraw to find information about our mother. I’m sure you’ve seen the story in the local papers.”

“I have.”

She nodded. “Then you know he found evidence that our mother might be alive.”

“And that some people are claiming her death was an elaborate cover-up, that the family might not have wanted to admit she had mental-health issues. Yes, I know.”

“Cover-up! What kind of newspapers are you reading?” Ronald’s face reddened, his hands fisting at his sides.

“Specifically? The one that paid him several thousand dollars for his story.”

“And you believe that garbage?” Ronald shook his head, apparently disgusted, though Mick was sure he saw fear in the man’s eyes.

“What I believe is that Garrett McGraw was working for your family. He found information that you might have preferred to keep hidden. Now he’s dead. According to his weekly planner, he was to meet with someone in your family two days before his death. I’m wondering if that meeting took place.”

“It did. I paid him for the information he’d found.” Bianca spoke quickly, as if afraid her father might say something that disagreed with her account.

“And he didn’t ask for more?”

“More money? No. I asked him to continue investigating. He agreed.” Bianca looked puzzled, and Mick was sure she knew nothing of McGraw’s reputation. Most people didn’t. Which was the way McGraw had wanted it and the way Mick felt obligated to keep it.

“So you had no idea he was planning to sell your family’s story to the tabloids?”

“Of course not.”

“If you’re implying that my sister knew what Mr. McGraw planned to do and committed murder to keep him quiet, you’re way off.” Portia spoke up, her voice quiet but firm, her dark eyes staring into his as if she could read whatever motive he might have.

“I’m not implying anything. I’m asking.”

“And I’m telling you that Bianca would never commit a crime. I doubt she’s ever even gotten a parking ticket.”

“I’m not that perfect, Portia.” Bianca smiled at her younger sister, and Mick saw the affection between them. Obviously, it wasn’t Portia’s relationship with her sisters that had her sitting at a distance. So maybe it was her father that she had a problem with. Or his girlfriend.

“I didn’t say you were perfect. I said you weren’t a murderer.” Portia rose and paced across the room, tiny bells jingling at her wrist as she swept a hand over her hair.

“My questions are standard. I’m not accusing anyone here of murder.” And if he were, Bianca wouldn’t be the one he’d target with his allegations.

“If you were, the accusation wouldn’t go far. I was out of town at Westside Medical Center the day Mr. McGraw died. I didn’t hear about his death until I returned home,” Bianca answered.

“Can I have the phone number to verify that?”

“Of course.”

“Did anyone else in the family know Mr. McGraw was working for you?”

Bianca hesitated, her eyes straying to the chair where Miranda sat. The silence stretched for a moment too long. Then Miranda spoke, her voice calm. “I knew. And I don’t have an alibi. I was here alone the night he died. My father and Aunt Winnie were both at a charity auction.”

“You don’t need an alibi. No one would ever suspect you of such a horrible thing!” Portia shot Mick a look filled with worry and frustration, but there was nothing he could say to ease her concern. His investigation had led him to her family. He’d follow it through until he found the answers he sought.

“I think we’re at a dead end, Detective.” Ronald moved toward the door. “Let us know if there’s anything else we can do to help.”

As dismissals went, this one wasn’t subtle, but Mick had learned what he’d wanted to. Bianca and Miranda seemed forthcoming and willing to work with him. Ronald was a different story altogether. “Thank you for your time. I’ll be in touch.”

“Let me walk you to the door, Mick.” Winnie Blanchard stepped toward him, her hazel eyes asking questions he couldn’t answer. At church they were acquaintances, maybe even friends. Here, Mick was a cop with a job to do.

“Aunt Winnie, you’ve been on your feet all day. I’ll walk him out.” Portia put a hand on her aunt’s arm, her gaze on Mick. “I need to get something out of my car anyway.”

“All right, but put your coat on. It’s a bitter night.”

“I will.”

“Don’t forget, Portia, we were planning to discuss your possible transfer to Blanchard Fabrics tonight. I’ll expect to speak with you when I get home.” Ronald’s tone held a hard edge Mick couldn’t ignore. He studied the other man, saw that he watched his daughter with a mixture of frustration and confusion, as if there were something about her he just couldn’t understand.

And maybe that was the case. Portia did stand out from the rest of Ronald’s daughters, her style alone separating her from her casually sophisticated sisters.

“Of course, Father.” Portia’s words were stilted, her expression blank, and Mick felt something stir in his chest, a need to step in, to offer protection. Though from what he didn’t know.

He pushed the door open, held it as Portia proceeded him into the foyer, catching a whiff of sunshine and flowers as she passed. “Do you really need to get something from your car?”

“My cell phone. Though I suppose it could have waited until morning.”

“But what you have to say to me can’t wait?”

“Something like that.” She smiled, relaxing for the first time since they’d walked into the house, her dark curls bouncing as she stepped outside.

Beyond the soft glow of the porch light the world was pitch-black, the moon and stars hidden behind thick clouds, the roar of the ocean a rumbling backdrop to the still night. What had it been like to grow up here, so close to the pounding fury of the ocean and the stunning beauty of cliffs? Mick supposed the experience would have been different for each of the six sisters, though he had a feeling that for Portia it hadn’t always been a good one. He reached toward her, pulling her coat closed. “You need to button up. It’s freezing out here.”

“I’m okay.” She wrapped her arms around her waist, holding the coat closed and emphasizing a too-thin frame. Had she been ill? Or was she one of those women that thought thinner was better?

And why did he even care? He raked a hand through his hair and tried to refocus his attention. “So, do you want to tell me why we’re out here?”

“I want to know if you really believe my sisters are murderers.”

“I don’t believe anything…yet.”

“Come on, Mick, we both know that’s not true. You’ve got suspicions. I want to know what they are.”

“I think Garrett McGraw’s murder has something to do with your family.”

“But—”

“But I don’t think any of your sisters are involved.”

“That doesn’t leave many other possibilities.”

“No. It doesn’t.”

Which meant, Portia thought, that Mick either suspected her father or her aunt. Since she couldn’t imagine anyone believing that Aunt Winnie was a murderer, she had to assume he was going after her father. Should she bring it up? Would he? Before she could make up her mind, Mick spoke, his words doing nothing to put her at ease. “Your father has the most to lose if something happens to Blanchard Fabrics.”

“That doesn’t mean he’d kill to protect it.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I am.” But even as she said it, Portia doubted her own words, her own belief in her father. If, as she suspected, he’d lied about her mother’s death to keep Trudy Blanchard away from her children for almost twenty-three years, what else might he lie about? What else might he be capable of? Her heart beat hard with what she was thinking and Portia stepped back toward the door. “I’d better get back inside.”

She didn’t wait for Mick to respond, just shoved the door open and fled inside.

Mick waited until the door clicked shut, then headed to his SUV. Portia’s loyalty to her family was something he admired, but it wouldn’t keep him from doing his job. McGraw had been murdered. Mick might have lost his respect for the man who had been a childhood friend and, later, a fellow Portland police officer, but he couldn’t allow that to influence his desire to solve the case. Especially since Mick had been partially responsible for McGraw’s dismissal from the force years ago. If he’d known then…

He wouldn’t have done things any differently. What happened was a result of McGraw’s failures and sins, not Mick’s, yet somehow he still felt responsible. The wind howled, tugging at Mick’s leather jacket and urging him into the car and away from Blanchard Manor and his own dark memories. He couldn’t change the past, wouldn’t hurry the future. It was time to go home, to sit in front of a fire, maybe roast marshmallows with his six-year-old daughter Kaitlyn.

He glanced back at the house as he pulled onto Bay View Drive. Lights were blazing from all three levels, but still it seemed a lonely place and once again he was struck by the difference between Portia and the environment she’d grown up in. When he’d first seen her on the ice, he’d thought her to be carefree and exuberant. That had changed when she’d walked into Blanchard Manor. All her vitality had drained away, replaced by a quiet somberness that didn’t match her bright clothing, or the vibrancy in her eyes. Had being around her father caused the change? Or was it the house itself, the staid, museum-like decor that had drained her?

And why had he even noticed or cared? It had been three years since his wife Rebecca had died in a plane crash. In that time, he’d created a life for himself and his daughter. A life that didn’t include women. At least not women younger than Mick’s mother. Now was definitely not time to change that. Not when he was responsible for investigating Stoneley’s first murder in thirty years. And not when the woman in question was the daughter of Mick’s prime suspect.

THREE

Portia watched the sunrise from the balcony off her room. French doors open, icy air seeping through her pajamas, she stood in awe as dawn painted the sky with vivid pinks and golds. For just this moment, she was exactly where she wanted to be, doing exactly what she wanted to do, no one hanging over her shoulder questioning her choices. She supposed that was the hardest part of belonging to a large family—always having people watching her, judging her actions.

If she were a different kind of person, what her sister, her aunt, even her father thought wouldn’t matter quite so much. But she wasn’t and it did. Which was why her conversation with Ronald the previous night had left her antsy and unhappy, his insistence that her New York City lifestyle was a mistake making her question her certainty about where she should be. Where God wanted her to be.

After all, wasn’t that the point—to be where He wanted, doing what He wanted her to do, whatever that might be?

“And therein lies the problem. I have no idea what You want, God. I thought I did, but lately I’m just not sure.”

“Talking to yourself again?” Rissa peeked in the room, her hair curling wildly around a makeup-free face.

“Talking to God.” Portia threw herself down on the bed. “I don’t think He’s listening.”

“Hmmm.”

“Hmmm, what?”

“Hmmm, you had a nice long chat with Daddy dearest last night and now you’re upset. Why am I not surprised?”

“Because you know Father never gives up once he sets his mind to something and he’s set his mind to getting me to work for Blanchard Fabrics.”

“Portia, he’d have every one of us working at the company if he had his way. Why do you let it bother you so much?”

“I don’t know.” And she didn’t, though she wished she could change it. “Maybe because I’m a twenty-six-year-old woman who’s still hoping to make her father proud.”

“Don’t hold your breath waiting for that to happen.” Rissa stretched and yawned. “Do you have big plans for today?”

Portia did. She planned to visit the Stoneley police department to find out if there’d been any more progress on the McGraw case. That was something Rissa didn’t need to know, though. “I’m running errands for Aunt Winnie and picking up that horrid dress from Mr. Dugal.”

“Not the Winter Fest dress?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I thought you’d been saved that…honor.”

“You mean humiliation.”

“Hey, I wore it my senior year of high school. It wasn’t that bad.”

“Riding in a horse-drawn carriage, dressed like a winter princess is fine when you’re seventeen. It’s not fine when you’re my age.”

“Our age. So, say no.”

“I tried, but Mr. Dugal takes a lot of pride in making sure every woman in Stoneley gets the opportunity. Apparently, he’s decided it’s my turn.”

“And you didn’t want to hurt his feelings so you said yes.”

“Actually, Aunt Winnie accepted for me. She thought it might cheer me up. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.”

“In that case, I forgive you for being a push over. And at least you won’t go down in history as the oldest Winter Fest princess. Wasn’t Jenny Wilcomb sixty-five?” Rissa yawned again, her eyes shadowed with fatigue.

“Forty, but thanks for trying to make me feel better. Now, stop yawning. You’re making me tired.”

“Sorry. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Me, neither.”

“I doubt anyone did. We were probably all worrying about the same thing.” Rissa dropped down onto the bed and threw her arm over her eyes. “Mother.”

“And Garrett McGraw.”

“And how much Father really knows about all of this.”

“I think he knows a lot.” Portia expected Rissa to agree and was surprised when her twin turned to face her. They were eye to eye, just inches apart the way they had been so many times when they were children and had something important to discuss.

“If he did, I don’t want to know.”

“How can you not?”

“Because if he’s lied all this time, that means he’s kept us from knowing our mother. I don’t think I can handle that.”

“You’re one of the strongest people I know, Rissa. Of course you can handle it.”

“I’m glad someone has faith in me.” She pushed up from the bed. “I think I’m going to hide out in my room today. I’ll see you at the parade tonight.”

“Hide out? Are you okay?” Worry brought Portia to her feet.

“Yeah, just working on my new play.” Rissa pushed open the door and stepped out into the dark hall, her expression hidden by shadows. “Another week or two and I should have it done.”

“I thought you were here for a vacation.”

“I’m here for Aunt Winnie. And for you.”

And if it weren’t for them, Rissa wouldn’t have come at all. She didn’t say the words, but Portia knew the truth. In recent years it had been she, not Rissa, who’d pushed the idea of returning to Stoneley for Winter Fest. Next year, Rissa might not return at all. The thought made Portia sadder than it should have, and she smiled, trying to hide her feelings. “We know. And we appreciate it. Now, go get your work done, or you’ll be blaming me when you fall behind schedule.”

Portia watched Rissa disappear into her room, then closed her own door. Though the twins had always been in sync, Portia’s affection for the town she’d grown up in had never made sense to Rissa. As far as she was concerned, they were well rid of Blanchard Manor and of Stoneley.

And maybe she was right.

But driving through the town, visiting the places she’d loved so much as a child, always felt like a homecoming in a way returning to New York never did.

Portia sighed and shook her head, grabbing clothes and a handful of jewelry. She needed to get out of the house, get some fresh air, not sit around moping about things she couldn’t change.

Twenty minutes later, she was on her way, driving the vintage VW Bug she’d bought a few years ago, the scent of her aunt’s homemade cookies and fudge wafting through the vehicle and making her stomach growl. She thought about snagging one of the oatmeal raisin cookies she’d seen Winnie pack, but the Winter Fest parade committee consisted of several women who weren’t above counting cookies to make sure each volunteer had brought the proper number of snacks. If Winnie’s offering was off by a cookie or two, she’d be the talk of the committee for months.

Maybe Portia would stop by Beaumont Beanery instead. Coffee and a Danish would go a long way toward waking her up. The thought cheered her and she hummed along with the radio, the lightening sky and crisp white clouds that sprinkled it making up for the long, restless night she’d had.

Today would be a better day than yesterday. A better day than the day before. As a matter of fact, Portia planned to make this the best day of the new year. She was still thinking that as the engine stalled and died.

Mick was running late. Ten minutes late, to be exact, the constant ringing of his cell phone reminding him again and again that he had twenty eleventh- and twelfth-graders waiting at the church for his arrival. He grabbed the phone, answering it for the fifth time in as many minutes. “Campbell here.”

“You know you’re supposed to be at the church.” Roy Marcell, chief of police, good friend and co-leader of the church’s youth group sounded as irritated as Mick felt.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Just thought I’d make sure.”

“You and ten other people. It’s been a rough morning.”

“Katie have trouble getting out of bed?”

“No, she had trouble finding matching shoes.”

“Yeah, I remember those days. So, what’s your ETA?”

“Ten minutes. Sooner if you’ve got coffee.”

“You’re in luck, so get here fast. The bus’ll be here in fifteen.”

“Right.” Mick tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and rubbed the ache in his neck. When he’d volunteered to chaperone the youth group’s ice-fishing trip, he hadn’t planned to be heading a murder investigation at the same time. Five hours wasn’t much time to lose, but it felt like too much when McGraw’s widow and children were waiting for answers regarding his death.

He grimaced, rounded a curve in the road and braked hard as a neon-green Volkswagen Beetle appeared in front of him. The SUV fishtailed, but held the road as Mick maneuvered to the shoulder, his heart pounding with adrenaline.

He swung open the door and strode toward the car, watching as a woman stepped out. “Need some help?”

“It died on me. I think I’ll need a tow.” The voice was familiar, and Mick took in the delicate features, black curly hair and dark eyes. It could have been either of the twins, but somehow Mick knew it was Portia. Maybe it was the clothes—dark pants paired with a multi-colored coat—or maybe it was the tilt of her chin, the hint of laughter in her eyes. Whatever the case, he had no doubt which twin he was speaking to.

“You’re out and about early.”

“I could say the same about you, Detective.”

“Mick, remember? Have you tried to start the car up since it stalled?”

“Not yet.”

“Mind if I try?”

“Go ahead.” She passed him the keys, her hands encased in fuzzy pink mittens that Kaitlyn would have loved. Somehow on Portia they worked, the quirky fabric adding to her unique style.

“Nice mittens.”

“You’re the first person over ten years old to say so.”

“Yeah? Well, don’t let it get around. I wouldn’t want to ruin my tough-cop reputation.” He slid into the Bug, the sound of her laughter following him and making him want to turn and watch the amusement playing out on her face.

But he didn’t have the time, and not just because he was running late. A woman like Portia would need lots of attention. More than a man with a six-year-old daughter could give. Though Mick had to admit, he might be tempted to try if she didn’t live a few hundred miles away. Being married to Rebecca had taught him an important lesson. A relationship with a woman who traveled more than she was home didn’t work for him. He doubted a long-distance relationship would be any different.

He turned the key in the ignition, heard a quiet click and knew he was about to add a few more minutes to his ETA. “Looks like it’s not budging. Where were you headed?”

“Town hall. Aunt Winnie asked me to drop off a few things for the parade tonight.”

“Go ahead and put them in my truck while I call for a tow.”

She looked like she was going to argue, so Mick pulled a bag of cookie-filled containers from the back seat of the Bug and handed it her. “I’ve got a bunch of teenagers waiting for me to chaperone their ice-fishing trip. If I don’t give you a ride, I’ll have to stay here and wait until the tow truck arrives. Let’s save some time and do things my way.”

To Mick’s surprise, Portia gave in gracefully, grabbing the bag and carrying it to the SUV. Less than five minutes later, the Bug was safely on the shoulder of the road and they were on the way to Town Hall, the interior of the SUV filled with the scent of chocolate and something else—a flowery, feminine scent that Mick thought must be Portia’s shampoo.

She glanced at him and smiled, her eyes shadowed and dark. “Thanks for the lift. I hope your ice-fishing crew won’t leave without you.”

“Seeing as how I’m one of the youth group leaders, I don’t think I have much to worry about in that regard. Besides, Unity Christian isn’t far from Town Hall. I’ll only be a few minutes late.”