The Scent of Heather Page 8

  “Because there’s wax on your glove. You were in this house last night. You were in my room and knew I was asleep there.”

  “So there’s wax on my glove. That doesn’t mean I tried to burn you alive. And as for being in this house last night, I wasn’t the only one here.”

  Maggie tilted up her head and eyed her sister with cold suspicion. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Sophie could have been here before or during her party. David was here with me. And someone else.”

  “Someone else?”

  “Yes. We heard someone’s car start up after we left the house and parked in the grove to admire the scenery.”

  “Whose car?”

  “How should I know. I don’t know anybody around here.”

  “What kind of a car was it?”

  “I don’t know that, either.” She hesitated, looking embarrassed. “If you must know we were too busy necking to turn and look at it when it passed on the road.”

  Maggie tried to sort out this new bit of information. One more suspect was something she had not counted upon.

  “Maggie, ever since we came to this house you have been acting so strangely I don’t know you. Do you truly think I was responsible for the fire in your room last night?” When Maggie did not answer, Rebecca went over to her and shook her. “Do you really think that?”

  Slowly Maggie raised her eyes again. She looked deep into her sister’s eyes, refusing to let her gaze falter again. “I don’t know, Rebecca. I just do not know.”

  She turned stiffly and started out of the room, scooping up her gloves that Rebecca had laid down on the table. At the door she paused. Sounding as unruffled as though they had spoken nothing but pleasantries for the past several minutes, Maggie said, “David is coming for dinner. I suggest you get straightened up. I’ll take care of the cooking so you needn’t bother with anyone or anything but yourself.”

  As she went back up the stairs, Maggie made a mental lineup of all those on her suspect list. There was Sophie, of course, who was so irresponsible she might be capable of just about anything. Then there was David McCloud...and her sister, Rebecca...and someone else, someone who’d driven to Heather House last night.

  None of it made sense. Only Rebecca had any reason to wish her ill.

  But, to see her dead? What could Rebecca gain by that? There was only the money that remained from Rod’s insurance. It was a sizable sum, true, but not sizable enough to kill for. Besides, Rebecca had money of her own and she was young enough to remarry or earn more. And Rebecca surely wasn’t capable of it now. The doctor said....

  Maybe the doctor was wrong.

  The past started to crowd in on her. She shook her head. “No,” she said, “that was a long time ago.”

  David had no reason to want her dead. Sophie, of course, was unbalanced; there was no doubt about that. Maggie would have to be on her guard where Sophie was concerned. But even Sophie wouldn’t burn down the roof over her own head.

  And who had driven past Rebecca and David in the grove? Maggie didn’t know anyone in Pinebrook who’d want to see her dead, but then she didn’t know who was living in Pinebrook. Perhaps there was someone from her past who’d seen her and learned she was going to be living at Heather House. That too was silly because there wasn’t a single person in her past who would benefit from her death.

  Suddenly Maggie saw Rod and Rebecca wrapped in a heated embrace. Rod was alive, she’d always known that. He hadn’t drowned in that accident. A wife could feel such things as a husband’s death. She’d never believed or accepted the news of Rod’s death and never would believe it until she saw his lifeless body for herself. The reason the insurance people hadn’t found the bodies was because there were no bodies to find. She’d thought about that for a long, long time.

  She started climbing the steps again...very slowly.

  Rebecca was the one who had accidentally found this house listed for rent in the real estate section of the paper. Rebecca was the one who had insisted they come here to live. Was it possible that Rebecca knew Rod was alive? Was it Rod who’d driven away from Heather House last night? Was this all some bizarre plot to unite her husband and her sister?

  Rebecca had overreacted when Maggie mentioned her suspicion that Rod was not dead. Rod could well be living somewhere in Pinebrook waiting for the chance to get Maggie out of the way. It was possible that Rebecca had managed to turn him against Maggie.

  She pushed her hands back through her hair. Oh, God, no. It just could not be. She was thinking like a madwoman. Rod wasn’t capable of such a horrible thing; neither was Rebecca, not really.

  She found herself standing at the window of her room, looking out. She glanced at a frail, little sparrow struggling with a huge twig, which was obviously too heavy for it to carry away. A second sparrow, just as tiny and frail-looking, fluttered down. Between them they caught the twig in their beaks and flew off with it.

  Maggie buried her face in her hands.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  All her designs for seducing David were tarnished now by her new suspicions. As sure as she was that Rod was still alive, she was just as convinced that David McCloud played a part in whatever scheme was afoot.

  Maggie was sitting before her dressing table looking not at her reflection, but the ghost shadows beyond it. She got up and wandered about the bedroom. The moment her mind’s eye was taken from the figures in the mirror, the room took over the scene. She hugged herself, feeling the solid security the walls and floors and ceiling radiated. Nothing could harm her so long as she stayed here in Heather House.

  She would have to get Rebecca away somehow, preferably with David McCloud. With Rebecca running off with David, Rod would see the folly of his ways and return here to her and to Heather House. She’d play along with their little game, but she and Heather House would remain victorious. Rebecca had tempted Rod away; Maggie would tempt him back again. Regardless of his faults, she knew he was the only man she could ever love.

  She glanced back into the mirror. Suddenly the shadows faded and her face’s reflection took shape before her eyes. She had to look closely in order to recognize herself. She was different. More beautiful. The lines at the corners of her eyes seemed less pronounced and there was a certain fullness about the mouth that she was pleased to see. A new kind of softness surrounded her features—a mature, refined loveliness that she liked.

  She knew she’d left the old Maggie Garrison back in her old life and the new one was much more to her liking, both in attitude and looks. She was thinking differently, acting differently, looking differently. She felt more alive and stronger, more capable...and more selfish, she added, feeling a bit guilty.

  She went to the full-length mirror near the bed and examined the overall picture she intended to present downstairs. Her hair piled high gave her a regal bearing. She tilted up her chin and smiled with satisfaction at what she saw in the glass.

  She’d never wear a black dress again. The flowing maroon dinner gown accentuated the darkness of her hair, the darkness of her eyes. It flattered her features. The single strand of pearls was in perfect taste. Rebecca, she knew, would bedeck herself with too much jewelry that clanked and jangled whenever she moved, calling attention to herself. Quiet sophistication wins out over flamboyancy every time, Maggie reminded herself. Like fireworks, the flash and bursts of color attract every eye, but the attraction is not long-lasting, merely a fleeting thing, and the plain, soft, restful beauty of the night sky they exploded against is what everyone finds far more comfortable and relaxing.

  She heard David’s car pull into the driveway. She was ready. She knew what she was going to do. She heard Rebecca call, “David’s here.”

  “Coming.”

  Maggie went to the top of the stairs and stood in the curve of the landing, out of sight. She heard Rebecca go across the foyer and open the door.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  And then there was a pause. They were embracing, Maggie k
new. She waited.

  “Hey,” she heard David say after a moment. “I see you decided to go along with the other Pinebrook residents.”

  “What do you mean?” Rebecca asked.

  “Your door. You’ve painted it white, I see.”

  There was the opening and closing of the door again and Rebecca said, “I hadn’t noticed. I thought it had always been painted white.”

  Maggie started down then. “I asked the carpenter to paint it for me when he was here this afternoon,” she said.

  They both turned. It was easy to see that David had not heard a single word of what she’d said. He was staring at her, drinking in her beauty. The look in his eyes assured her that her plan would work nicely.

  “Absolutely ravishing,” he gushed as he came quickly to the bottom of the stairs, leaving Rebecca standing at the open front door. “Maggie Garrison, you are a knockout,” he said with a handsome grin on his face.

  “Thank you, kind sir.”

  Rebecca, too, was staring at her. “Maggie, you’re beautiful,” she said admiringly. “Where on earth have you been hiding that dress? And your hair. Why haven’t you worn it like that before?”

  David took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “Your servant, ma’am.”

  “You may fix me a drink, kind sir,” she chided back. “One vodka martini in a thin-stemmed glass, very cold, very dry and with a twist of lemon peel, please.”

  “You have but to command. Where’s the hooch?” He laughed gaily and went toward the living room. At the doorway he turned. “How about you, Rebecca?” he asked, making it sound a little like an afterthought. Maggie saw the tiny little crease appear and disappear on her sister’s forehead.

  “The same,” Rebecca said. She closed the front door and put her arm around Maggie’s waist. Maggie could tell it was a forced gesture. “You’ve never looked more beautiful, Maggie,” Rebecca said, giving her sister a squeeze. That, too, was artificial, Maggie decided. “You were wise to hide that dress before I could get my hands on it. Where on earth did you get it? And when?”

  Maggie felt confident. She let herself talk girl-talk until David produced the martinis, then she turned her attention completely to him. She would make Rebecca jealous, which wasn’t altogether difficult to do. It was one of her sister’s several weaknesses. Being jealous, Rebecca always acted too hastily, moved and reacted too carelessly. She would react out of spite and Maggie knew that, more often than not, poor, jaundiced Rebecca usually wound up spiting herself.

  They lingered over the cocktails but Maggie purposely excused herself every so often, saying she had to check with Sophie to make sure dinner was being prepared according to Maggie’s instructions.

  Sophie needed no help, of course; Maggie used the ploy to show herself off to her best advantage, gliding gracefully across the living room, leaving a delicious hint of her favorite perfume trailing in her wake. Rebecca, she knew, was content to keep herself curled up like a kitten, diminishing herself into a little-girl size close to David’s side. A moving object attracts much more attention than an immobile one, Maggie concluded.

  Her efforts were rewarded. Each time she left or entered the room David’s eyes were on her. He’d comment about how delicious the food smelled, or he would remark about how well the new hi-fi unit blended into the decor of the room, but his thoughts were definitely not on his words.... They were on Maggie.

  “How old is this house?” Maggie asked David just as Rebecca started to say something about how little she knew about wines and grapes. Maggie knew just as little but would never admit it to anyone, especially a man who was more or less a connoisseur, as David claimed to be.

  “Quite old, believe it or not,” he said, smiling.

  “I believe it,” Rebecca said out of the corner of her mouth.

  “But how old?” Maggie persisted.

  David wrinkled his brow and started to think. “Well, I believe it was built sometime before the turn of the century. Offhand I’d say it was about a hundred years old, give or take a few years.”

  Rebecca made a face. “No wonder it’s falling apart.”

  Maggie flashed a bright, indulgent smile. “Oh, Rebecca, how can you say that? This place is like a citadel. I see nothing of deterioration here.”

  David leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and twirling his cocktail glass between his palms. “Structurally, this house could stand for another hundred years,” he said. “We had some fellows go over it from top to bottom just recently. They passed it with flying colors.” He looked around the room. “No, they don’t build houses like this anymore.”

  “I still think it’s like living in a bank vault.”

  “Rebecca, you’re just not romantic,” Maggie said slyly. Her head felt light and her feet seemed not to be anchored to the floor. She reveled in the weightlessness of her body. Yet, despite the slight giddiness she felt, her thoughts stayed very cool and very rational.

  A large painting hung on one wall, of a man standing proud and erect beside a handsome, carved Spanish table. She’d seen the painting earlier, of course, and had admired it greatly. She’d seen the Spanish table as well; it was in the room David had referred to as the library.

  “Who’s that? Did he build this house?”

  “No, that’s Heather Lambert’s husband, Louis Michael Lambert the Third. Quite an impressive fellow, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Very,” Maggie agreed. She glanced around at the other paintings. “Isn’t there a portrait of Heather Lambert, too?”

  “There used to be,” David said. “My father tells me they had their portraits painted at the same time and had a lavish party to celebrate their unveiling. Her portrait used to hang opposite his...over there where that large landscape now hangs. Whatever happened to it, or why she had it taken down, nobody seems to know. People who knew them and came here said that it was Heather’s ghost who took down the painting. It was hanging on that wall when she died.”

  “What did she die of?” Rebecca asked.

  David shrugged. “A broken heart, everyone said.”

  Maggie sighed. “Like poor Isolde.” She walked back and stood before Louis Lambert’s portrait. She studied it for a moment. “What a curious ring he’s wearing on his finger. Isn’t it a bit flowery for a man?”

  David laughed. “According to gossip, Heather had that ring designed to look like a sprig of heather. In the very center of the design she had her name engraved so that he’d never forget her. I suppose she always suspected he’d run off and leave her one day.”

  “Was he that kind of man?”

  “They say he was.”

  “The cad,” Maggie said with a smile. “How could he leave such a wonderful house as this? I just love it here.” She strolled around the room, admiring the old portraits, running an idle finger across the top of a table or a cabinet. “You know,” she started, “I’ve never been so affected by a house before.”

  “I’m all for going out and conquering the world,” Rebecca said as she drained her glass and handed it to David to refill. Maggie saw her smile and saw the way she let her fingers linger on David’s hand. “Anything, just so long as it gets us out of here.”

  “I for one would hate to see you go anywhere,” David said. He was talking to Rebecca but his eyes were on Maggie. He filled Rebecca’s glass and handed it to her. “Maggie?”

  “Oh, no, thank you, David. I’m afraid vodka and I become enemies after one glass.”

  “Since when?” Rebecca took a deep swallow.

  “How about some music?” David said. “I’d like to hear your new set.”

  “Oh, how silly of me,” Maggie said as she went over and switched it on. The soft, lovely strains of a popular song drifted over the room. “I’m not all that proficient at entertaining gentlemen. A more experienced hostess would have had the music playing before you arrived. You should have reminded me about the music, Rebecca.”

  “You’re an admirable hostess,” David said. “Would you c
are to dance?”

  Maggie smiled as his arms went around her and they started a fox trot. She could feel Rebecca’s eyes on her back. She let her arm go up around David’s neck, moving her body closer to his.

  “You dance very well,” he said, smiling down into her upturned face.

  “Maggie does everything very well,” Rebecca said from the couch.

  “You are both too flattering,” Maggie said, but she knew that Rebecca had not intended her remark to be flattering. Too often in the past it had been she on the couch and Rebecca in the arms of the man, dancing closely, whispering, smiling, flirting. Too many times Maggie had watched Rebecca dance with Rod while she sat and listened to George talk about his problems at work. Those days were finished.

  Just as the dance music ended, Sophie appeared in the doorway and motioned to Maggie.

  “Sophie is ready to start serving dinner,” Maggie said, easing herself out of David’s arms. She felt the reluctance with which he released her. She smiled up at him and patted his arm. “Shall we go in?”

  The dining room was lighted by a trio of candelabra placed down the center of the long oak table. In the muted light the room looked enchanting. Maggie herself had arranged two lovely silver bowls of flowers on the table and a large spray that dominated the serving cabinet. Yellows and oranges and lush, bright greens gave a delicate airiness to the room that complemented the heavy strength of the furniture.

  “I’ve set the three places together at this end,” Maggie explained. “I thought it would be much more intimate than spreading us out. This table could easily accommodate twelve quite comfortably.”

  “Twenty-four,” David corrected as they settled themselves.

  Maggie gave him an astonished look.

  “My parents used to come here, I’ve been told. They used to talk quite frequently about Heather Lambert’s lavish dinner parties.”

  Rebecca gave her attention to the soup. Maggie could see she was annoyed.

  Maggie cocked her head at David. “I don’t know where I got the impression that Heather Lambert was more or less a recluse.”