doors.
Pressing the doorbell button brought no sound or response from inside, so Rich gave the door sharp raps. Soon a panel swung ajar, and a statuesque woman with a pale, cold face stared out at him. The pulled shape of her gray-blue eyes betrayed one too many face-lifts. He wasn’t much of a judge of clothing, but he was pretty certain her silky-looking blouse and form-fitting pants cost more than Daddy would be happy to pay—as soon as he saw the credit-card bill. As far as Rich knew, Simon’s fiftysomething daughter hadn’t worked a day in her life, but she always dressed as if she lived around the corner from a New York boutique.
“Hi, Melody. Is your father in?”
Her artificially plump lips thinned. “What’s Mason done now?”
“This isn’t about your son.”
Her eyes widened. “It’s not?”
He didn’t blame Melody for being surprised. “I need to talk to Simon regarding a matter that’s just come up.”
“Can’t this wait until tomorrow? The old man’s locked himself in his study again.” One side of her mouth twisted into a sneer, a typical expression of this thrice-divorced former beauty queen.
“This isn’t a social call. It’s urgent.”
Melody shrugged one shoulder and motioned him inside. “Take your chances, then.”
He stepped into an enormous foyer with a vaulted ceiling. The westering sun poured a river of light through the stained glass in the fan window above the doors and sprinkled rainbow colors over a scuffed tile floor. A large Terry Redlin painting hung over an entry table along the wall, but it was a print. If they’d once owned the original, it had been sold long ago. Rich followed Melody’s designer-clad form up a hallway, where another pair of double doors confronted him.
“Just give a knock and see what happens.” Melody snickered and walked away.
Rich tapped with his knuckles. “Simon. It’s Chief Hendricks. I need to talk to you.”
Seconds later, a lock rattled and the door flung wide. A tall, sharp-faced man in his late seventies glared out at him. He cradled a brandy snifter a quarter full of dark liquid in one hand. “What’s that worthless grandson of mine done now?”
Rich stifled a sigh. “Whatever he’s up to, we’ll catch him, but this visit isn’t about him. The remains of an infant have been found buried in a shallow grave.”
“Where?” The snifter froze halfway to Simon’s mouth.
“In town.”
“A recent burial?”
“Old.”
Simon’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Come in.”
The study sprawled in faded elegance. Spacious dimensions, a long wet bar and a coffered ceiling clamored privilege and power, but thin spots on the carpet and the worn chairs angled toward the cold fireplace betrayed tight times. Simon led the way to a massive mahogany desk and plopped into a leather chair behind it, motioning for his guest to sit in the chair on the other side. Rich remained standing, the better to observe the man at the desk. Simon’s free hand gripped the arm of his chair is if he thought it might suddenly buck like a bronco.
“Details,” the senior Elling barked.
“Not many yet. The body was buried beneath Janet Keller’s rose garden.” That much would be common knowledge in less than a day around this small town. He withheld the information that the bones had been wrapped in yard goods from Jan’s Sewing Room.
Simon sat up stiff. “You don’t suppose Jan or Frank had anything to do with the kidnapping?”
“It’s too soon to suppose anything. We don’t even know for sure whose remains those bones are. Do you have any reason to think either of the Kellers might have taken your child? Bad blood of any kind? Raw business dealings?”
Simon croaked a laugh. “Those two do-gooders? Frank and I cordially disliked each other. No run-ins, just a different way of seeing the world. One reason we never did business together, and I kept our money at the other bank.”
“All right.” Rich opened his notebook. “I need to ask you a few questions to help identify the remains.”
“Go ahead.” The words held a note of caution.
The man sounded reluctant. Why? Shouldn’t a bereaved father be eager to identify the remains of his only son?
Nicole guided her car aimlessly through the streets of Ellington, gradually drifting toward the western edge of town. She couldn’t stay in the house with her stubbornly silent grandmother one more moment. And a step outside meant viewing yellow crime-scene tape flapping in the breeze. That lovely rose garden had masked a clandestine burial site all these years. Did Grandpa Frank know? How could he? How could he not? Maybe the patch of ground had been precious to him because of what lay beneath, not what was planted on top.
On her right, the town graveyard slid past. The baby’s remains should have been buried there in dignity. Maybe now the little body would find a proper resting place. But what name would be chiseled on the headstone?
Ahead loomed the fortresslike Elling home. Many folks thought the place grand. Nicole begged to differ. The brick structure resembled a prison more than a home. Even as a child, when her family visited Grandma and Grandpa, and she ran free with the town children, she’d sensed the place wasn’t built to welcome folks. It seemed fashioned to hide whatever went on within those thick walls.
The sun dipping toward the horizon picked a glint of red from the top of a black-and-white SUV parked in front of the massive entrance doors at the end of the long driveway. What brought the police chief straight from the bones found at the Keller property to the imposing Elling mansion?
Rich Hendrick’s tall, solid frame and bold features appeared in her mind’s eye. His green-gold gaze had peered into her soul, seen everything and revealed nothing. Or that’s the impression the cop look gave. Nicole knew better, but she’d felt exposed all the same. What if he discerned something that would prove one or both of her grandparents a baby killer? A tiny squeak escaped her tight throat. That was nonsense. Somebody other than Frank or Jan Keller had buried that child. Surely, Rich could see that. Anyone who knew her grandparents would laugh the notion to scorn. Wouldn’t they?
While she’d knelt next to him near the grave wrappings, his clean scent and gentle tone had touched an empty, aching place in Nicole’s heart. And the silver at the temples of his close-cut sandy hair had begged to be touched. He hadn’t been wearing a wedding ring.
She swallowed. Hard. Idiot! What was the matter with her?
Nicole turned the car onto a road at right angles to the Elling property and puffed out a long breath. Glen had been gone only six months. Wasn’t it too soon to feel attraction for someone else? Besides, she’d vowed never again to get involved with a cop…or any man with a high-risk occupation. Nicole shook herself and squeezed the steering wheel. The shock of her discovery must have made her a little loony.
A thick planting of trees screened the side of the Elling mansion from view. Nicole turned onto a narrow, paved county road that skirted the rear of the large property. The tree line thinned here, and she glimpsed patches of flower-garden colors contrasted against the weathered red brick of the building. A weed-edged approach beckoned between a gap in the trees. Nicole wheeled her small car into the dirt track and stopped, facing the Elling home.
Crossing her arms over the steering wheel, Nicole leaned her chin on one forearm and squinted toward the garden that looked as if it had been left to grow wild. Weed-green poked up amidst the white heads of Shasta daisies and orange tiger lilies. Ivy groped along the face of the building, tendrils drooping over windowpanes like shaggy lashes above dark, brooding eyes. With its location next to the graveyard and unkempt appearance, no wonder the town kids made up stories about this place.
What had she been told one moonlit night when she