28. Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Eight
Juliet
W hen I awoke, I pawed half-heartedly through the bin of clothes from Libby, moved nearly to tears once again by the sweetness of the gesture. I pulled on a plain green shirt and leggings, then combed through my hair with my fingers and shoved it up into a bun.
Before going downstairs, I leaned against the cool porcelain of the bathroom sink and sucked in several deep, rasping breaths as I fought back a fresh wave of grief.
“It’s going to be okay,” I told my reflection, flinching at the hoarseness of my own voice.
I found Henry in the kitchen, slicing tomatoes. Numbness had set in, turning my insides as dry and dusty as they'd been before I set out for Spruce Hill. For a moment, I just stared at the back of his head, but he must've sensed my presence and turned toward me.
“Hey,” he said gently, setting aside the knife and wiping his hands on a towel. “Did you sleep?”
As soon as he dropped the dishcloth, I moved into him, burying my face against his chest. His arms went around me, so steady and comfortable that something settled deep inside me. I breathed in the scent of his soap, letting it soothe my nerves as much as his embrace did, but it was another few minutes until I trusted myself to speak.
“Yes,” I said. “A bit. Is it lunchtime already?”
Henry pressed his lips to the top of my head, then guided me to the table and brought over a tray of sandwich fixings.
“Just about. We’re meeting Lewis Zoratti at two, if you’re still up for it.”
My head jerked up in surprise. “We are?”
“If anyone can tell us who the hell that other guy was, it’s him,” he said.
“You don’t think the fire was an accident.”
It didn’t come out as a question, nor had I meant it as one. We were the only two people who’d been in that cottage recently and neither of us had left any appliances running that could have started a fire. Somehow I didn’t think Nan had been the type to overlook outdated electrical wiring, either.
I watched the conscious effort he made to unclench his fists, then I wrapped my hand around his, rubbing my thumb absently across his palm. After a second, he rotated his wrist to twine his fingers through mine.
“I think,” he began, “that there are too many unknowns for my comfort. This stuff doesn’t happen in Spruce Hill.”
“Until I came to town,” I replied, horrified by the thought.
“Oh no,” Henry said swiftly. “This is not your fault, not by a long shot. But something is going on, and we’re going to figure it out.”
His certainty reassured me to some small extent, enough that I was able to force myself to eat a sandwich, at least. Libby dropped by with one gift bag filled with toiletries, including my own bar of soap from Mark, and another bag containing a sketchbook and set of drawing pencils.
I burst into tears at her thoughtfulness. Henry looked on helplessly while Libby held me tight.
“You’re not alone around here,” Libby said when I finally drew back from the hug. “We look out for each other in this town, and you’re one of us now. If you want to ditch this clown to go shop for underwear later, you just let me know.” She shot Henry a look and added, “We’ll keep Blue at our house until you’re ready for her.”
I gave a weak smile and thanked her again, then turned immediately into Henry’s chest as she left, taking Blue home with her. Though my shoulders shuddered under his steady hands, no more tears came.
“When do we need to leave?” I asked. “I’d like to shower before we go, if there’s time.”
Henry kissed me gently and said, “Take all the time you need. The house isn’t far.”
I stood beneath the stream of hot water for several long minutes before finally shampooing my hair. When I lathered my body with Henry’s soap, I realized the scent was different on its own.
Maybe he did have something to do with it.
Libby’s bag of toiletries included a wide-tooth comb and a pack of hair elastics, so I sent a silent stream of thanks across the short distance between the houses. The shower had calmed me, washed away the lingering traces of smoke, and cleared my mind of the haunting image of flames leaping through the shattered windows at the cottage.
Instead of sorrow, I was filled with a rising surge of fury at the senselessness of it all.
There was probably nothing more to discover from any of the boxes we'd hauled down from storage, no answers to any of my questions about the past, but what a waste, destroying all those memories—photos and artwork and decades of handwritten journals, along with my painting for Henry.
And for what? To frighten me away? Send me packing back to Minnesota?
I allowed anger to comfort me in the face of loss.
When I came downstairs, Henry’s eyes widened at the expression on my face. I gripped the front of his shirt and pulled him against me.
“I take it the shower did you some good,” he ventured.
“I’m pissed,” I said in a low growl.
He lifted a brow as I claimed his mouth, pouring all of my raging emotions into the kiss, but he accepted everything I had to give, offering back something soft and sweet that I couldn’t examine too carefully just yet.
After several long minutes, I released him. For the first time, he was the one to look a little dazed and off balance, but his resulting grin comforted me.
“Well then,” he said lightly, “let’s go.”
The Zorattis lived in a tidy brick colonial about five miles from the inn. Lewis was a handsome, broad-shouldered man approaching fifty, sporting a full head of black hair peppered with silver. He clasped my hands in his as he gave me a warm, beautiful smile.
I was immediately charmed. It was easy to picture a young version of him with my mother—they would have been beautiful together.
“Oh, I’m sure everyone in town has been raving over your resemblance to Nan with that coloring,” he said gently, “but you look just like your mother.”
I jerked in surprise, but Lewis shook his head at my expression of disbelief and offered another sweet smile.
“Aside from the hair, you could’ve been her twin. Same big blue eyes, cute little nose, mouth made for smiling. She was a real beauty, just like you. I was truly sorry to hear about her passing, Juliet.”
Though Henry looked ready to jump in at the first sign of tears, I felt calm, serene almost. That connection to my mother filled me with joy, despite the darkness in the day’s beginnings.
“Thank you,” I said softly. “That means a lot to me.”
His wife, Anne, poured us all some lemonade as we sat down at a table on the patio. She echoed her husband’s sentiments as she handed me a glass.
“You’re a stunner, just like your mama,” she said with a smile. “Melissa and I had a strained relationship, I’m sorry to say. Frenemies, you might have called us. But she was remarkable, so vivacious. This town was a little too quiet after she left.”
“We heard there was a bit of trouble over at the inn last night, is everyone all right?” Lewis asked.
Henry squeezed my hand under the table. I bit my lip and let him answer for us both.
“There was a fire at Nan’s cottage. No one was hurt, but we’re not sure about the extent of the damage yet.”
Both of our hosts looked horrified by the news.
“Oh, now that is a damn shame,” Lewis said, shaking his head. “If you need any help with rebuilding, please let me know. I’m a contractor by trade. I’d be happy to help you with anything you need, anything at all. I have a lot of fond memories around the cottage and the inn—Missy and I were playmates long before we ever dated. That place means a lot to me.”
I couldn’t speak around the sudden lump in my throat, but I managed a wobbly smile and a nod of thanks.
We all sipped at our lemonade for a moment, then Henry drew a breath and bit the bullet, surging forth to get the real reason for our visit out into the open sooner instead of later.
“In Nan’s journals, she mentioned someone by the initial T, someone who spent a lot of time with Melissa. Do either of you happen to know who she might have been referring to?” he asked them.
Lewis rubbed his jaw thoughtfully and shook his head. Anne, however, shot her husband an apologetic look before she answered.
“Yes,” she said, dropping her voice a touch. “His name was Tom, I can’t remember the last name. Started with an H. Heller? Holler? Something like that, I think. He wasn’t from around here.”
I leaned forward. “Does he still live in Spruce Hill?”
“Oh no, he left town not long after Missy did. Lewis and Missy were dating, but . . ." She waved a hand as though that explained everything.
“We weren’t exactly exclusive,” Lewis put in, seeing my baffled expression. “Missy wasn’t the type to settle for one person, not back then anyway. We went to dances together, the movies on Friday nights, that kind of thing. I knew she was seeing other guys, but she never rubbed my face in it. I was half in love with her anyway, so I was willing to take what time she would spare for me. She even sent me a letter, right after she left town.”
“She did? Do you still have it?”
Excitement flooded my veins until Lewis shook his head again. Before disappointment could take root, Anne cut in.
“Oh yes, it’s in my dresser.” At her husband’s startled look, she smiled kindly. “When we got married, I found it tucked into one of our high school yearbooks. I showed it to Nan, because the whole town knew she’d been searching high and low for your mother. There was no return address.”
“What did it say?”
“Not much, just that she was sorry she didn’t get to say goodbye to Lewis, and that it was best for everybody if she didn’t stick around. But she did mention . . . ”
I straightened in my chair. “Mention what?”
“That she was pregnant. I don’t think Nan knew until I showed her the letter. I’ve spent decades feeling guilty for invading Melissa’s privacy like that, but it had been years since she left. I didn’t know what else to do.”
Lewis caught my gaze when it shot to him. “Much as I’d love a daughter like you, Juliet, Missy and I were never, uh, intimate.”
“Right,” I said softly, clearing my throat. “Anne, you shouldn’t feel guilty. I don’t know why my mom left town, but if that’s how Nan knew I existed, I’m glad you told her. She wrote me letters over the years, even without a way to send them. I found them in the attic.”
Henry squeezed my hand when my breath hitched—the likelihood of those letters surviving the fire was slim.
“I saved Missy’s note. I’ll go fetch it for you,” Anne said, hurrying into the house.
Lewis eyed us both carefully now that his wife was gone, then said in a low voice, “I do remember Tom Heller. I didn’t realize that’s who Missy was seeing, but if so, it was probably a good thing she left. He wasn’t a good man. Mid-twenties, maybe. Definitely some years older than us. He came into town on a construction job.”
Construction job. I met Henry’s eyes and saw he’d made the same connection to that newspaper clipping. An involuntary shiver slithered up my spine.
“Guy liked to park across from the high school, watch the girls from his truck. I wouldn’t be surprised if she caught his eye. Missy could shine like the sun, when she wasn’t storming like a thundercloud,” Lewis finished.
“And you’ve never seen him since?” Henry asked.
I could feel the tension radiating from him and gripped his hand tightly, though whether I was hoping to give comfort or receive it, I wasn’t sure. More puzzle pieces were coming together, even if we weren’t finding answers yet to all of our questions.
Lewis shook his head just as Anne returned to the table and handed me the letter.
“You keep that,” he said. “I know what it’s like to lose a parent. Connections like that letter become priceless.”
We stayed to finish our lemonade, but neither Lewis nor Anne could tell us much more than they already had. I impulsively hugged both of them before we left, ignoring Henry’s muttered speculation about Libby rubbing off on me, and the couple looked delighted by the gesture.
Henry shook their hands instead, then laced his fingers with mine as we walked back to the truck. I stayed quiet until we were enclosed in the cab.
“So, my father might be Tom Heller, who might also be a serial killer, if those clippings Nan kept are any indication. Do you think he’s responsible for the fire?”
Henry opened his mouth to respond, then snapped it shut for a moment while he thought it through. “If Heller left town, why would he come back now? It’s been thirty years.”
“Don’t they say killers like to return to the scene of the crime?” I asked, then shivered again. “I can barely wrap my head around it all. My mom definitely knew Heller. She fought with him in public after a dance and again outside the inn, right before she suddenly left town. Why? Because he threatened her? Because she told him she was pregnant?”
“Or,” Henry suggested quietly, “because she made the connection between Heller and those murders? She had quite a temper, from all I’ve heard. Maybe she said something that made him realize she knew the truth.”
My blood ran cold, then my mind cleared of all but one thought. “So she might have left town to protect Nan.”
“And you,” Henry added.
“And me.” My voice was barely a whisper as I processed that possibility.
I stared out the window as we drove home, caught on the idea that my mother disappeared to protect all of us, rather than to get away from Spruce Hill or Nan in particular. Stupidly, I'd assumed that she left town over something trivial. Whether it was some argument between Nan and my mom, or Mom and whoever my father might be, I figured it had been the result of a flare of my mother’s famous temper.
Not because of a murderer. What the hell did you get yourself into, Mom?
Henry rubbed his jaw, mulling over the possibilities.
“I think we need to talk to Chief Roberts or Detective Hanson,” he said finally. “If this guy is back in town, he’s dangerous. Given the fire at the cottage, I’m inclined to think you’ve become his target.”
As much as I wanted to protest that last statement, I had to accept that it was looking more and more likely. Henry’s hand found mine and I leaned my head back against the seat.
“Okay,” I said softly. “This is unreal.”
“I know. But you’re not alone in this.”
There were those words again. I swallowed my tears as he squeezed my fingers reassuringly.
I reflected on clearing out my mother’s house, finding her note, the long hours on the road, all alone. Somehow, this first true solo adventure of my life had resulted in gathering around myself a group of friends—friends who were becoming family, the big family I'd always wished for.
It seemed ridiculous to feel this warm, welling sense of affection in the midst of whatever this mess was.
Henry texted the chief a head’s up with Heller’s name, then drove us to Spruce Hill’s very tiny police station. He smiled a little at my skeptical expression.
“Size isn’t everything,” he whispered in my ear as he held the door for me.
I hummed softly in response. “I mean, it sure helps.”
He choked back his laughter as Chief Roberts greeted us and led us into his office at the back of the station. I’d barely noticed anything about the chief after the fire, but now I was able to appreciate his gentle green eyes, the softness of his voice when he asked how I was holding up. He was several inches shorter than Henry, a rotund but broad man with dark hair that had gone mostly gray.
Even in my distraction, I thought he looked like a man who probably had a lot of stories to tell.
Just as we settled into the two chairs in front of his desk, Detective Hanson joined us. She squeezed my shoulder reassuringly as she moved to stand at Roberts’ shoulder behind the desk.
At my request, Henry did the talking. While he’d already informed the police about a possible gunshot during my trip out to Cooper’s Point and given them the details about those news articles Nan had kept, he now added Lewis Zoratti’s warning about Tom Heller and the entries that mentioned Melissa and T in Nan’s journals.
After relaying that information, Henry drew some folded papers from his back pocket and passed them across the desk. Chief Roberts took the printouts, then leaned back in his chair.
“I printed these this morning. They’re copies of the articles we found. The original clippings were at the cottage.”
“Your mother left before my time,” Roberts said to me, “but her departure had a way of coming up in conversation over the years. The sketch you found of this Heller guy, is it safe to assume that was inside the cottage at the time of the fire, too?”
I nodded, fighting back another wave of grief at the loss of Nan’s artwork, but Henry straightened in his seat like an idea had just popped into his head.
“Juliet is an incredibly talented artist,” he said slowly, turning to look at me. “Do you think you could recreate it?”
I cringed a little, more at the praise than at the prospect of drawing Heller. “I can try. I only saw it for a few minutes, though.”
“That would be helpful, since I didn’t find a single record of Tom Heller after he left Spruce Hill. It’s like he disappeared, same as Melissa,” Chief Roberts told us. “I found an old file from decades ago that mentioned him—an Officer Jameson broke up a fight outside a school dance involving one Tom Heller.”
“That was in Nan’s journal,” I replied.
The thought of trying to recreate Nan’s sketch after only seeing it for those few minutes initially caused a big ball of anxiety to settle in my stomach, but suddenly I was itching to get started.
“Do you have some paper? I’d like to try the sketch now, before I think about it for too long.”
Hanson fetched me a pencil and a few sheets of blank paper from the printer. The three of them spoke in low tones while I worked, but I barely registered any of their conversation over the sound of the pencil scratching against the paper. These thin strokes were nothing like the sharp, dark lines of charcoal that Nan had laid out, but my memory of the image was clearer than I expected.
By the time I finished, the paper showed a fairly close rendition of Nan’s artwork. I tried not to shudder at those malicious eyes staring back at me. When I slid the paper in front of Henry, his eyebrows shot upward.
“You’re amazing, Red. That’s him,” he said, turning it around to show the chief.
I shrugged as I watched the chief for a reaction. He frowned slightly, then he tapped the image with one finger.
“Does he look familiar to either of you?” he asked. “Hanson?”
The detective shook her head. “I’m good with faces but I’ve never seen him.”
“When I first saw Nan’s sketch, I had a vague feeling of familiarity,” I replied, though Henry also shook his head. “But then it evaporated, so I thought maybe I imagined it. Do you recognize him?”
Chief Roberts slowly cocked his head to one side, then the other. “I’m not sure. I should get this to a bigger department. The county sheriff’s office has a sketch artist they call in sometimes. Maybe he could do up a picture, age it by about thirty years—unless you want to give it a go?”
I blew out a breath. “I’ll take a picture of it so you can keep this copy. You should see if a professional can take a crack at it, but in the meantime, I’ll try. I can’t promise I’ll be able to do it justice, though. Portraits aren’t my specialty.”
The chief promised us he’d have a patrol car outside Henry’s house and another cruising by the inn at regular intervals, then suggested we go home and get some rest. None of it made me feel any less unsettled by this short visit, especially after letting the image of Heller’s face take up so much space in my brain.
“This is an unusual situation for a place like Spruce Hill,” Chief Roberts said somewhat apologetically, “but it’s our top priority right now to get to the bottom of this.”
Henry and I shook his proffered hand, then Hanson’s, and left the station. The sunshine felt almost like an insult in light of my current mood.
Once we were seated in the truck, Henry asked, “Do you want to take Libby up on the underwear shopping offer? Not that I have a problem with you going commando, but if you want a dose of normal, I know she’d be happy to take you.”
I grinned at his comment but shook my head. “I think I’d like to just go home and play with this sketch, if you don’t mind.”
I didn’t miss the warm glow of pleasure in Henry’s eyes when I referred to his house as home . At least, I assumed that was the reason for it, since I hadn’t said anything else to warrant such an expression or the resultant rush of emotion along my limbs.
The memory of my own home engulfed in flames dampened it immediately, but I let the curl of belonging twine through me anyway.
“Home it is,” he replied.
As he shifted the truck into gear, my heart whispered the word again.
Home.