sorry to disturb you.” It was Frank Harris, the local police chief, kneading his hat, his deputy Will Powell’s kindly rugged face totally without his usual smile, two paces behind him. “May we come in?”
Suzannah stood back wordlessly, her sense of foreboding deepening with every second. She watched them move into the entrance hall with its grand divided staircase soaring to the upper level, then turn to face her ready to show their hand.
“What’s wrong, Frank?” A voice came out, husky, strained. Not hers. “Is it Martin?” She could see it in his eyes.
“Mind she doesn’t faint,” Will Powell cried out warningly, starting forward.
Somehow they were in the drawing room, Frank gently supporting her. “I’m so sorry, Suzannah.” His voice was deep, kind, distressed. He eased her into a chair. “It was an accident. Martin ran off the River Road Piled up against a tree.”
“Oh God, no!” Her whole body sagged and her face fell into her hands. No, not Martin. Life taking another tragic twist.
“I’m so sorry,” Harris repeated, reminding himself there was worse news to come. Martin White hadn’t been alone. His passenger had been killed as well. Cindy Carlin from the town. He had known her instantly from her long blond hair. Hell, he knew them all. Knew them from when they were kids. Suzannah, Martin, Cindy, the migrant boy, Nicholas Konrads, he had all but run out of town. On Marcus Sheffield’s orders. Had to be seven years ago but he still felt terrible about it. Konrads had turned out to be a business genius. Suzannah had married the wrong man. Marcus Sheffield, arrogant, wealthy, the master manipulator had lost his substantial fortune and his once robust health. Now his son-in-law, picked by his own hand, Suzannah’s husband, little Charlotte’s father, was dead. For all its grandeur, Bellemont Farm, the town’s historic landmark, was a sad place.
Suzannah could barely remember the events leading up to the funeral. She put herself on autopilot and somehow she got through. She never heard all the rumours and gossip that swept like a bushfire through the town. She refused help, gently turned her well-meaning friends way, explained about Daddy to Charlotte, discussed matters briefly with her father and organised all arrangements herself. Martin was gone and it was all her fault For all that her world had fallen apart years ago.
The day of the funeral there were no tears from Heaven. Martin White was laid to rest in brilliant sunshine with family, friends, just about everyone he knew, attending his funeral at the Anglican Church where he and Suzannah had been married. It was a big funeral conducted with sombre dignity as the families closed ranks. People spoke quietly, no matter what their feelings, huddling together in groups. Cindy Carlin’s funeral the day before was just the opposite with the girl’s parents loud in their condemnation of Martin White and the Sheffield family who thought they still owned the town. How young Nick Konrads had been run out of town was rehashed. A great many long-standing scandals were aired.
This isn’t happening, Suzannah thought as she listened to the minister drone on in what seemed to her in her grief, a mindless fashion. Her father, tall, gaunt, a shadow of his former handsome powerful self, stood by her side. Across from them Martin’s family were ranged all golden haired, all distraught inwardly but steady as she was herself. Martin was to be buried in the White family plot in deference to his family’s wishes. Suzannah had always got on very well with Martin’s mother and sisters but they weren’t looking at her now. Because of her Martin was dead. It would never be said. Just buried in hearts. The prominent families of the district stuck together. They left it to people like Cindy Carlin’s family to air their dirty linen.
On the fringe of the crowd of mourners, dark glasses shielding his eyes, Nick Konrads stared at the young woman he had loved so passionately. Not even extreme tragedy could rob her of her heart-stopping beauty. Against the stark black of her wide-brimmed hat and her black suit, her skin glowed with the perfection of magnolias. He knew she had a child, a little girl, but her figure was as girlish and slender as ever, her long legs exquisite. Marcus Sheffield, her father, the man who had wrought such havoc and suffering in his life, stood protectively beside her, a striking-looking man still but his body had lost its fine shape and erect posture. Nick knew about the stroke. He knew about the failed business dealings, the downturn in Sheffield’s fortunes. His agents were busy acquiring Bellemont Farm now, the scene of his humiliation. He had never thought for one moment Martin White would die an early death. No matter their tremendous differences, the way Martin and Marcus Sheffield had conspired against him, he had never wanted that. He had taken a risk, really, coming here today. Despite the superficial changes—maturity, shorter hair, grooming, expensive clothes—many people would recognise him. But he couldn’t keep away. He had received news of Martin White’s death only last night, then with a wince of pain. It wasn’t right, someone not yet thirty-one, the same age as himself, should be snatched so cruelly from life. How wretched Suzannah must feel. He knew the marriage hadn’t been happy. He knew everything. The simple ceremony was almost over. He had to go. But nothing would interfere with his plans. It wasn’t his way to hide. He would come back to this town if only as an infrequent visitor. But he could come back to this town in triumph. The new owner of Bellemont Farm, Marcus Sheffield’s castle.
He would have got clean away, because he was walking swiftly to his parked Mercedes, except for Jock Craig, his old math teacher at the high school. Craig came running up behind him grasping his arm.
“Aren’t you Nick Konrads? It is you, Nick?” His voice held surprise and an unmistakable note of respect.
There was nothing else for it but to turn and shake hands. “Mr. Craig, how are you?”
“Fine, Nick, fine.” The man stared at him with keen, shrewd eyes. “Bad business, eh? A tragedy. It must have taken some courage coming back for the funeral? Although you and Martin were never exactly friends.”
“Suzannah was my friend, Mr. Craig,” he said, not conscious of the severity of his expression.
“Of course, of course. She’s in agony, poor girl. One can see that clearly behind that ingrained poise. Actually my boy, she’s coming this way. Sheffield, too. Perhaps you’d better go?” he suggested. “I only say that with the best of intentions.”
“I know.” Nick nodded briefly. “But Marcus Sheffield doesn’t bother me any more.”
“He did once.” Jock Craig spoke kindly. He had never believed for one moment young Konrads was a thief, though Sheffield swore he had stolen a safe full of jewellery, which eventually turned up in the toolshed behind the Konrads’ modest house.
“Sheffield has had to live with what he did.” Nick’s face showed nothing, neither anger nor hatred. I’m ready for him this time, he thought.
Jock Craig shuddered. He couldn’t help it but Marcus Sheffield was way past dealing with anyone let alone the striking self-assured young man before him. Craig had followed Nick Konrads’ career with great interest. Even as a boy he’d been staggeringly clever. Pity about the mother. Never recovered from her husband’s death, the scandal about her son had almost destroyed her. Marcus Sheffield had a lot to answer for, he thought. And he wasn’t the first to think it.
Nick stood quite still while she was approaching, outwardly very calm, but his tall lean frame emanated a daunting power. Inside his blood ran cold. He had loved Suzannah. Even after her betrayal and the great humiliation he had suffered, he had still yearned to see her. Proof of his obsessive attention to her lay just beneath the skin. Scratch it and draw blood. He had never recovered from her loss even when he was sleeping with other women. He had Adrienne in the car even now promising her a drive around the beautiful countryside where he had lived as a boy, with lunch afterwards at one of the fine restaurants along the coast. It was bad to use her as some kind of shield and he felt a stab of remorse. Adrienne was a beautiful woman, a divorcee a little older than he, sophisticated, charming, witty. He had enjoyed her steady company—he was far from being a promiscuous man—for almost a year now, keeping her friendship but not offering anything. It seemed to suit Adrienne. Both of them had been badly burned.
Now Suzannah approached, utterly unforgettable, her body