Buried Sins. Marta Perry

you to read it.”

      “Not many men write love notes anymore, I’d think. Too easy to e-mail or text message instead.” And not many women would throw such a message away, especially when the sender had just died. “He must have been thoughtful.”

      Her expressive face tightened. “Tony could be very charming.”

      That was the kind of word that could be either praise or censure. “How long were you married?”

      She turned away, as if she didn’t want him to see her face. “Just over a month.”

      At that point most couples were still in the honeymoon-glow period. “I’m sorry. That’s rough.”

      She swung back again, temper flaring in her eyes. “You obviously think I’m imagining things. I assure you, grief hasn’t made me start to hallucinate. I threw the letter away in Santa Fe. It reappeared here. Now that’s real, not imagination, whatever you may think.”

      “Okay.” He leaned back against the granite countertop, taking his time answering. “Question is, do you want to file a complaint about someone entering your apartment?”

      “You said the door hadn’t been forced.” She frowned, the quick anger fading. “I know I locked it when I left.”

      “The windows are all securely closed now, with the locks snapped.” A sensible precaution when no one had been living here, especially since the entrance to the apartment wasn’t visible from the main house. “Let’s take another look at the door.”

      He crossed to the entry, and she followed him. He bent to study the lock, moving the door carefully by its edge. The metalwork of the lock was new enough to be still shiny, and no scratches marred its surface.

      “I don’t see any signs the lock has been picked or forced.”

      “So only someone with a key could get in.”

      He shrugged. “Unless it wasn’t locked. Easy enough to forget to double check it.”

      “I suppose.” But she didn’t sound convinced.

      “Look, if you want to file a complaint—”

      “No.” She backed away from that. “I don’t. As you said, there could be some rational explanation.”

      He studied her face for a moment. “You’re not convinced.” He wasn’t too happy about the situation himself, but he didn’t see what else he could do.

      Caroline raked her fingers back through that mane of hair, turquoise and silver earrings swinging at the movement. “I’ll talk to Emma and my sister. Find out if either of them was in here this afternoon. If not—” She shrugged, eyes clouded. “If not, I guess it’s just one of those little mysteries that happen sometimes.”

      He didn’t like mysteries of any size. And he was about to take a step beyond normal police procedure.

      “You know, if you were to tell me what made you leave Santa Fe in such a hurry, I might be able to help you.”

      Her eyes met his for an instant—wide, startled, a little frightened. “How did—”

      She stopped, and he could almost see her struggle, wanting to speak. Not trusting him. Or having a good reason why she couldn’t trust whatever-it-was to a cop.

      “I don’t know what you mean.” Her voice was flat and unconvincing.

      “Neither of us believes that,” he said quietly. “I can understand that you don’t want to talk to me about your private life, but talk to one of your sisters. Or move into the house, where there are people around all the time.”

      “I’d rather stay here.”

      He let the silence stretch, but she had herself under control now. She didn’t speak. And he couldn’t help her if she wasn’t honest with him.

      “If you want me, you know how to reach me.” He stepped out onto the flagstone that served as a walk.

      She summoned a smile, holding the door to close it as if he’d been any ordinary visitor. “Yes. Thank you.”

      She might change her mind. Decide to tell him about it. But he suspected he was the last person she’d choose to confide in. He just hoped Caroline’s secrets weren’t going to land her in a mess of trouble.

      They were eating dinner around the long table in the breakfast room, but Rachel had made it both festive and formal with white linens, flowers and Grams’s Bavarian china. Caroline discovered that the sense of being welcomed home was a bit disconcerting. Nice to know they considered her arrival a cause for celebration, but at the same time, that welcome seemed to call for a response from her that she wasn’t sure she was ready to make.

      Depend on yourself. That was what life had taught her. Rachel and Andrea were her sisters, but they hadn’t lived under the same roof since she was fifteen—longer than that with Andrea. They’d left their mother’s erratic existence as soon as they could, as she had.

      Andrea and Rachel had left conventionally for college. She was the only one who’d gotten out by way of a correctional facility.

      “Great roast, Rachel.” Cal, Andrea’s husband of four months, leaned back in his chair with satisfaction. “You are one inspired cook. You ought to give the guests breakfast, lunch and dinner.”

      “No, thanks.” Rachel flushed with pleasure at the compliment. “We have enough to do as it is. I’ll save my favorite dinner recipes for family.”

      Andrea nudged her husband. “Haven’t I mentioned to you that it’s not the wisest thing to praise someone else’s cooking more than you praise your wife’s?”

      “You make the best tuna fish sandwiches this side of the Mississippi,” he said, leaning over to kiss her cheek.

      Andrea tapped his face lightly with her fingers, eyes sparkling in the glow of the candles. “Sweet-talking will only get you more tuna fish,” she warned.

      Caro’s gaze crossed with Grams’s, and she saw an amusement there that was reflected in her own. Marriage had taken away some of Andrea’s sharp edges. She’d always be the businesslike one of the family, but Cal had softened the crispness that used to put people off a bit. You could even see the difference in the way she looked, with her blond hair soft around her face and wearing slacks and a sweater instead of her usual blazer.

      Had she and Tony ever looked at each other with that incandescent glow? If so, it had been an illusion.

      Cal tore his smiling gaze away from his wife. “How do you like the apartment, Caroline? If you find anything wrong, all you have to do is give me a shout.”

      “Everything seems to work fine.” Except for the fact that someone got in while I was out. She wasn’t sure she wanted to tell them that, wanted to have them look at her the way Zach Burkhalter had, with that doubt in their eyes. “You’re obviously a good craftsman.”

      “He is that,” Andrea said. “You have to come over to our new house, so you can see how we’ve fixed it up. Cal built my accounting office on one end, and his workshop and showroom are in a separate building in the back.”

      “I’d like to.” She could hardly say anything else.

      How would they react if she asked how many keys to the barn apartment were floating around in possession of who-knew-who? Would they think she was afraid—the baby sister who couldn’t manage on her own?

      This was ridiculous. She was a grown woman who’d been taking care of herself for years. There was just something about being back at her grandmother’s table that made her feel like a child again.

      “You fix up the apartment to suit yourself,” Cal said. “That’s only right. Maybe I ought to put up a few more outside lights.” He nodded toward the wall of windows that overlooked the gardens, lit up now by the security lights on the outbuildings.