Portia tried her best to ignore the detective as she fought with the laces on her skates. Unfortunately, Mick Campbell was hard to ignore, his presence a disturbing note to the already discordant evening.

Exasperated, she met his gaze. “You’re welcome to head back to the house if I’m taking too long, Detective.”

“I’ve got plenty of time.” A half smile eased some of the intensity from his face, and Portia found herself studying him. The dim light couldn’t hide his rough-edged good looks. He’d be an interesting subject to capture in charcoal.

By the time she finally managed to remove her skates, her stomach was twisting with nerves. Murder. Just the word filled her with dread.

THE SECRETS OF STONELEY: Six sisters face murder, mayhem and mystery while unraveling the past.

FATAL IMAGE-Lenora Worth (LIS#38)

LITTLE GIRL LOST-Shirlee McCoy (LIS#40)

BELOVED ENEMY-Terri Reed (LIS#44)

THE SOUND OF SECRETS-Irene Brand (LIS#48)

DEADLY PAYOFF-Valerie Hansen (LIS#52)

WHERE TRUTH LIES-Lynn Bulock (LIS#56)

MILLS & BOON

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SHIRLEE McCOY

has always loved making up stories. As a child, she daydreamed elaborate tales in which she was the heroine—gutsy, strong and invincible. Though she soon grew out of her superhero fantasies, her love for storytelling never diminished. She knew early that she wanted to write inspirational fiction, and began writing her first novel when she was a teenager. Still, it wasn’t until her third son was born that she truly began pursuing her dream of being published. Three years later she sold her first book. Now a busy mother of four, Shirlee is a homeschool mom by day and an inspirational author by night. She and her husband and children live in Maryland and share their house with a dog and a guinea pig. You can visit her Web site at www.shirleemccoy.com.

Shirlee McCoy
Little Girl Lost

Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to Shirlee McCoy for her contribution to THE SECRETS OF STONELEY miniseries.

To Seth, whose honesty inspires me and whose gifts

never cease to amaze me.

To Beth Sharo. If we weren’t sisters, we undoubtedly would have been friends. What a blessing to be both!

And to Rodney. Just because.

Be at rest once more, O my soul, for the Lord has been good to you. For You, O Lord, have delivered my soul from death, my eyes from tears, my feet from stumbling, that I may walk before the Lord in the land of the living.

—Psalms 116:7–9

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,

Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st,

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

—William Shakespeare, “Sonnet 18,” lines 9–14

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

ONE

She was going to have fun if it killed her. And, judging by the way Portia Blanchard’s feet were slipping out from under her, it just might.

“Come on, Portia. You can do better than that.” Her older sister Cordelia laughed the words as she sped by Portia, her skates spraying chips of ice as she passed.

“Your skirt is too long and too full. That’s why you’re having trouble. Let’s go back to the house. You can change clothes.” Miranda, the oldest of Portia’s five sisters, took her arm, urging her toward the edge of the pond.

“Changing won’t transform me into a world-class skater, Miranda.” Portia pulled away, her clumsy efforts almost landing her on the ice. She’d never been graceful on skates, but she’d always loved trying. Loved the yearly twilight skate she shared with her five sisters, loved the cold crisp air, the feeling that no matter what the future held, they had each other. “Besides, I don’t want to miss sunset.”

“We’ve still got twenty minutes until sunset. That’s plenty of time to get to the house and back.” Miranda was nothing if not determined.

“Twelve minutes. Give or take a few seconds,” Bianca, second-born and usually the peacemaker of the family, cut in. “She’s an adult, Miranda, not a kid. She can wear what she wants, so stop nagging her.”

“I was not nagging. I was just pointing out that pants might be more appropriate.”

“Appropriate? Since when has Portia been appropriate?” Nerissa skated toward them, a smile lighting a face so like Portia’s even their father had difficulty telling them apart.

“Since never.” Juliet joined them. The baby of the family, she had a restless energy that was never quite contained, though tonight she seemed subdued, her green eyes lacking their normal sparkle.

They all seemed subdued and Portia knew she was partially to blame, her heartache adding to the discordant note of this year’s reunion. Maybe she should have stayed in New York. The family had enough to worry about without adding her troubles to the mix.

“No, you shouldn’t have stayed in New York.” Rissa leaned in close, sensing her thoughts and whispering the reassurance in her ear.

“No twin secrets tonight.” Juliet smiled, but there was something in her eyes that bothered Portia. Sadness? Jealousy? “We’re here to have fun and relax. So why are we all looking so gloomy?”

The question hung in the air, no one willing to give voice to the answer. After almost twenty-three years of believing their mother dead, they had evidence that she might be alive. It was she who occupied their minds this cold February day. But more than that occupied Portia’s.

She thought of Tad, of Jasmine, of the wonderful time they’d had together at last year’s Winter Fest, and felt something hot and tight fill her chest. “You’re all looking gloomy because none of you can compete with my grace and beauty on the ice.”

She whirled away from her sisters, attempting a spin that athletic Delia could have done in her sleep, but that Portia had never perfected. Her skirt billowed out, tiny silver mirrors sewn into the material catching the last rays of golden sunlight. For a moment she was fluid and graceful, the world reduced to a smeared painting she longed to capture on canvas—powdery snow, towering evergreens, a hazy purple sky. Then her feet tangled and she flew backwards, landing in a heap of fabric, laughter bubbling up and spilling out. If it was edged with hysteria, only Rissa would hear and she’d never dream of pointing it out.

Detective Mick Campbell followed the sound of laughter across a road and through a cove of trees. Unless he missed his guess, the pond he was looking for was just ahead. According to Winnie Blanchard, all six of the Blanchard sisters were skating there. A thin layer of snow muffled his footsteps as he moved into a clearing shadowed in twilight. The pond, much larger than Mick had expected, shimmered in the fading light. As Winnie had said, six women were in the center of the ice. Five stood with their backs to Mick. The sixth sat in a puddle of bright fabric, laughing up at her sisters. Mick had the impression of wide, dark eyes, finely drawn features and curly hair pulled back from a pale face.

Which sister was she? Not Miranda. Mick had known the eldest of the six in high school and had seen her once since his return to Stoneley nine months before. Bright colors weren’t her style. Neither was loud laughter. If memory served, Juliet had fair hair and light eyes. He’d seen pictures of Bianca in recent weeks. This wasn’t her. That left Cordelia and the twins—Nerissa and Portia.

The woman sitting on the ice laughed again, extending her hand to one of the other women and allowing herself to be pulled upright. Perhaps she sensed his gaze. One minute she was laughing, the next she fell silent. Even from a distance Mick could see her body stiffen, her back straighten. She turned her head, glancing up the slope of the hill where he stood.

He raised a hand in greeting and strode forward, not quite catching what she said to her sisters. Whatever it was had them turning as one to watch his approach.

“Hello, can we help you?” She called out to him, gliding forward a few inches before slipping and landing in a heap on the ice once again. This time she didn’t laugh, though Mick was sure she wanted to.

“I’m Detective Mick Campbell. Stoneley Police Department.”

“What can we do for you, Detective?” She struggled to her feet as her sisters started toward the edge of the pond.

“I’m investigating the death of Garrett McGraw. I’ve got a few questions I’d like to ask your family.”

“According to the newspaper, Mr. McGraw was drunk and drove off a cliff. I don’t see what that has to do with us.” Bianca Blanchard stepped off the ice and sat on a wood bench, her dark eyes calm.

“Garrett McGraw was dead before his car went over the cliff.”

“Heart attack?” Bianca pulled on boots and stood.

“He was murdered.” Mick watched for a reaction, scanning the faces of each of the sisters, hoping to glimpse guilt or innocence in their expressions. His gaze was caught and held by the only sister still on the ice. She moved gingerly, wobbling on skates she obviously wasn’t use to, her forehead creased with concentration. Unlike her sisters, she lacked a natural grace on ice, though her gentle beauty and guarded expression made Mick want to look closer.

“Murdered? Are you sure?” Bianca spoke, pulling Mick’s attention back to the conversation.

“Unfortunately.” Things would have been easier if the answer had been a different one. A man like McGraw made as many enemies as he did friends. Finding the person responsible for his death might prove difficult, though Mick was determined to do so. He owed his ex-partner that much.

“And you think this has something to do with our family?” It was Miranda who spoke this time, her concern obvious.

“Your father and aunt are waiting at the house. Why don’t we discuss it there?”

“Why don’t you tell us what you suspect? Then maybe we’ll talk.” Another one of the sisters spoke, her short hair spiking out from under the knit cap she wore.

“Because the house is a much warmer place to talk, Delia.” Miranda pushed her feet into black snow boots. “I, for one, could use a cup of coffee.”

“Coffee would be good. Are you okay, Portia?” Bianca grabbed her skates and turned toward the pond. Mick followed the direction of her gaze, saw the skirt-wearing sister still easing toward the edge of the ice.

“I’m fine. Just give me another minute.”

Portia. He should have known. The name fit the woman, its exotic sound matching her interesting choice of clothes. Despite three years spent avoiding women and relationships, Mick was intrigued. As he watched, she stepped off the pond, her feet wobbling, her gaze on her sisters rather than the ground. He knew what would happen next and moved toward her.

A few questions he wanted to ask the family? The detective made it sound so innocuous, his relaxed manner belying the seriousness of what was happening. Obviously, if he didn’t suspect her family was involved in Garrett McGraw’s murder, Detective Campbell wouldn’t be here. Portia tried to convey her fear silently to her sisters, but they all seemed intent on grabbing skates and moving toward the path that led back to Blanchard Manor. She’d have to say something. That was all there was to it. “I—”

Before she could finish, her ankle twisted under her and she tripped, bracing herself for the third fall of the evening. Instead, hard fingers gripped her arm, pulling her upright. “Whoa! Careful.”

“Thanks.” Portia looked up into clear blue eyes and a face as cold and implacable as Maine in the winter. She didn’t know what she’d been hoping for—compassion? Softness? Some sign that he wasn’t here to destroy her family? It wasn’t there. All she saw was determination and what looked like anger burning beneath his cool gaze.

“No problem.” He stepped back, putting distance between them, though he watched her intently, as if waiting for her to stumble again. She hoped she’d disappoint him, but the skates twisted as she took an unsteady step toward the bench.

He grabbed her arm again. “Keep it up and you’ll break your ankle.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

He stared into her eyes for a moment, then smiled, the slow upward curve of his lips causing her heart to stall and start up again.

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“Because you’ve seen how graceful I am?”

“Let me help you, Portia.” Rissa grabbed her hand, squeezing twice, the silent communication they’d perfected as children and still used on occasion. What are you doing?

What was she doing? Her family might be in serious trouble, the business her grandfather had worked so hard for in for more of the bad publicity it had garnered a few weeks ago when Howard Blanchard had crashed his sister’s sixtieth birthday party. The girls’ grandfather and family patriarch, he’d once been the pillar of the community. Despite that, or perhaps because of it, his wild accusations and incoherent ramblings had made him tabloid news. The gossip was finally dying down. Portia wanted to keep it that way. Which was why she should not be joking with a man determined to dig up more trouble for her family.

She shot a look at her twin, shrugged her shoulder in response to her questioning look and hurried over to the bench, trying her best to ignore the detective as she fought with the laces on her skates. Unfortunately, he was hard to ignore, his intense stare making her fingers fumble on the laces.

Exasperated, she met his gaze. “You’re welcome to head back to the house if I’m taking too long, Detective.”

“I’ve got plenty of time.” A half smile eased some of the intensity from his face, and Portia found herself studying the craggy planes and deep hollows of his cheeks, the dark stubble on his chin and the fine lines that fanned out from his eyes. The dim light couldn’t hide his rough-edged good looks. He’d be an interesting subject to paint. Or better yet, to capture in charcoal.

He raised an eyebrow and she dropped her gaze, heat creeping up her neck and into her cheeks. She could sense his impatience, the impatience of her sisters who hovered at edge of the woods. By the time she finally managed to remove her skates and pull on her mukluks, her heart was pounding with anxiety, her stomach twisting with nerves. Murder. Just the word filled her with dread.

“Are we ready?” Rissa grabbed the skates from the place where Portia had dropped them. “I’m freezing.”

“Me, too.” Portia stood, started to follow her retreating sister and was pulled up short by a tug on her skirt. A jagged piece of wood had caught the silky material and she leaned down to free it as icy wind blasted across the clearing, knifing through the clothes she’d layered herself in. She shivered, tugged at the cloth.

“Let me help.” The masculine voice sounded so close to her ear that Portia jumped, turning to face the detective who stood just inches away. His eyes were even bluer than she’d thought, his hair a short, spiky golden-brown that looked as if it would be soft to the touch.

That she would even think such a thing had Portia stepping back, dropping her eyes away from his knowing gaze. “I thought you’d gone on ahead.”

“And leave you out here by yourself?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time I’d been out here alone.”

“But it may be the first time you’ve been out here alone while a murderer wanders free.” He leaned forward and peered at her skirt. “Why don’t you let me do that for you?”

“Thanks, Detective, but I think I can handle it. And I really am okay out here alone.” At least she always had been before. As a child, she’d often wandered the grounds of Blanchard Manor long after the sun had set, but the deepening twilight and dark woods suddenly seemed sinister and foreign.

“Everyone around here calls me Mick.” As he spoke, he brushed her hands away from the material and worked it free.

“Mick, then. Thanks for the help. Again.”

“No problem. Again. Come on. Let’s catch up to your sisters.” He offered his hand, his eyes hard to read in the fading light.

She hesitated and then linked her wool-covered fingers with his leather-covered ones. It was a bad idea. Holding hands with a man was high on her list of things she shouldn’t ever do again. Hadn’t that been how her relationship with Tad had started—a brush of his fingers against hers as they’d chatted about Jasmine’s progress in the art class Portia was teaching? The next thing she knew, they were strolling through her arts-and-crafts store laughing about something she couldn’t even recall.

“Relax. I don’t bite.” His voice broke into her thoughts, the hint of laughter in it a surprise.

“Maybe not, but you are investigating my family and that makes me uncomfortable.”

“Why? Do you have something to hide?” The laughter was still there, though Portia sensed an intensity to the words, a stillness to the man that let her know he was weighing her comments and responses.

“No.”

“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about. Besides, I’m investigating a murder, not your family.”

“Yet, you’re here. You must think there’s some connection.”

“Not yet. That’s what I’m trying to determine.” He ushered her onto the path that led through the trees.

“I can tell you the answer to that right now. Investigating my family is a waste of time. No one in it would commit murder.”

“And I can tell you that half the people I interview say the same thing. A good majority of them are wrong.”

What could she say to that? That she trusted her sisters, her aunt? Her father? That she’d never been betrayed, or lied to, or discovered that someone she believed in didn’t deserve her confidence? She had. It was a lesson she’d learned hard and well and had no intention of repeating, but that wasn’t something Mick needed to know.

The sound of branches breaking up ahead saved Portia from saying anything at all. Mick’s hand tightened on hers and he pulled her off the path and into the deep shadows of the trees.

“What—?”

“Shhh. Let’s see who it is before we make our presence known.” He whispered the words, his lips close to her ear, his breath warm against her cheek. She could feel the tension in his muscles, the coiled strength. Another branch snapped and Portia jerked, bumping against Mick, her heart thrumming a rapid beat. His arm came around her, pulling her close against his chest. She allowed it, her mind filled with visions of masked murderers stalking through the trees.

“Portia?” Rissa’s voice carried through the trees, and Portia sagged with relief.

“Right here.” She pulled her hand from Mick’s and stepped back onto the path. Twilight filtered through the trees coloring them in purplish light. The effect was eerie, the hazy glow shifting around the shadowy figure that stood a few yards away. Rissa? It had to be, yet a trick of light warped her figure, making her seem taller, bulkier. More sinister.

“There you are.” Her twin stepped closer, her stylish wool coat and bright knit hat now visible. “Everyone else is already at the house warming up. What’s taking so long?”

“I got tangled up with the bench.” Portia strode forward, breathless, still nervous for reasons she couldn’t name. “Mick was kind enough to help me out.”

“It wasn’t a problem.”

“That’s good to know. Portia tends to get tangled up with things, so having an extra set of hands around to free her is great news for me.” Rissa’s words were light and teasing, but Portia could sense the anxiety that radiated from her twin. As laid-back and low-key as Mick seemed, he was there for a reason. They both knew it, and Portia was sure, were both worried about what he might find. Until recently, they’d believed their family story to be mundane. The tragedy of their mother’s death was so far removed from their lives they felt it in only the most indirect ways. Now, what had seemed mundane had become a mystery and everything they’d believed to be true was a lie.

How that related to Mick’s murder investigation, Portia didn’t know, but she had a sick, horrible feeling a connection was there. And when Mick found it, there might be very little she could do to save her family.

TWO

Blanchard Manor stood like a stone sentinel guarding the cliffs that jutted above the Maine coastline. Over a hundred years old, the house had become an icon in Stoneley, symbolizing the strength and fortitude of the people who’d carved lives from the harsh ocean and craggy earth. To Portia, it symbolized something else entirely—a way of life she refused to be part of, a cold formality that stifled warmth and emotion. As a child, she’d dreamed of leaving the Manor, of making a name for herself in the community of artisans that lived in Stoneley. It hadn’t taken her long to realize that her father’s influence extended into the town and beyond and that if she ever wanted to become her own person, an artist in her own right, she’d have to go much farther than the town she’d loved.

New York had seemed the perfect place to find herself. And she had for a while, enjoying the novelty of opening her arts-and-crafts store, of teaching art to young students, of being Portia the artist rather than Portia, Ronald’s daughter. Still, each time she returned to the Manor, she was reminded of old dreams and even older wounds, of an emptiness that she’d never quite been able to fill, a longing to be accepted for who and what she was instead of being judged for what she wasn’t—the perfect daughter willing to take her place in the family business.

“We’re in the drawing room.” Aunt Winnie called out from the room to the right of the front door as Portia stepped into the house, and Portia felt a twinge of guilt. Winnie had been so good to her, so good to all of them. Who was she to complain about what she hadn’t had when what she had received from her aunt had been so rich in affection?

“We’re coming.” She pasted on a smile and followed Rissa across the foyer, hoping no one inside the drawing room would sense her melancholy mood.

“You okay?” Mick pulled her to a stop outside the door, his words just for her.

“I’m great.” She met his gaze, keeping the smile in place even as his light blue eyes speared into hers. Could he see what she was hiding? The part of herself that wanted to be anywhere but where she was right now? “We’d better go in before Father comes looking.”

‘“Father?”’ He cocked his head, letting his gaze travel from her fluffy pink earmuffs to the mukluks that covered her feet.

“What?”

“You don’t look like the ‘father’ type.”

“What type do I look like?”

“Dad, Pops, something a lot less formal.”

He was right. If she’d lived in a different house, with a different father. She turned away, not wanting him to see the truth in her eyes. “We’re a formal family.”

“Yeah, I sense that.” Mick let his gaze wander the oversized foyer they were standing in. Marble tiles glistened beneath his feet, a crystal chandelier hung overhead and a large round table took center stage. A vase of red roses added color, but did little to soften the museum-like feel of the place. It was a far cry from the comfortable, lived-in Queen Anne he’d grown up in, or the well-worn Cape Cod he now owned. A far cry from what he imagined Portia’s home looked like.

He stepped into the drawing room behind her, watched as she sat on a wide velvet ottoman in a corner of the room. She could have taken a seat on the couch next to her twin and Delia, a rocking chair between the chairs Bianca and Juliet were seated in, the loveseat where her father and his newest girlfriend sat or the wing-backed chair that matched the ones Miranda and Winnie were in. Instead, she’d taken a place just on the edge of the circle created by her family, her shoulders tense as if ready to do battle. Interesting.

“Good. We’re all finally here. Let’s get this over with. Alannah and I have plans for this evening.” Ronald’s voice whipped out, filled with impatience, and Mick turned to the older man.

“This won’t take long, Mr. Blanchard.”

Ronald shrugged, his black eyes giving away nothing of what he felt. “Why don’t you have a seat and tell us why you’re here. You said something about a private investigator?”

“As I told you earlier, Garrett McGraw was killed two weeks ago. I’m investigating his death.”

“And?”

“He was murdered.” Mick kept his voice even and his tone neutral. He wasn’t here to make accusations. Yet.

“So my daughters told me, but I don’t see what that has to do with my family.” He was lying. Mick could see it in the subtle shifting of his eyes, the quick glance he shot Bianca’s way.

“I have reason to believe Mr. McGraw had business dealings with one of your daughters.”

“Any dealings he had with my family are private, Detective.”

“They might have been before Garrett’s murder. Now things have changed.”

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to agree to disagree.” Ronald stood, his obsidian eyes flashing a challenge. “Now, if you don’t mind—”

“We’ve got nothing to hide, Father.” Bianca cut in, shooting Ronald a look that might have been a warning. “No reason not to tell the detective what we know.”

When she turned her attention to Mick, she was all business, her expression cool and unperturbed. “I hired Garrett McGraw to find information about our mother. I’m sure you’ve seen the story in the local papers.”

“I have.”

She nodded. “Then you know he found evidence that our mother might be alive.”

“And that some people are claiming her death was an elaborate cover-up, that the family might not have wanted to admit she had mental-health issues. Yes, I know.”

“Cover-up! What kind of newspapers are you reading?” Ronald’s face reddened, his hands fisting at his sides.

“Specifically? The one that paid him several thousand dollars for his story.”

“And you believe that garbage?” Ronald shook his head, apparently disgusted, though Mick was sure he saw fear in the man’s eyes.

“What I believe is that Garrett McGraw was working for your family. He found information that you might have preferred to keep hidden. Now he’s dead. According to his weekly planner, he was to meet with someone in your family two days before his death. I’m wondering if that meeting took place.”

“It did. I paid him for the information he’d found.” Bianca spoke quickly, as if afraid her father might say something that disagreed with her account.

“And he didn’t ask for more?”

“More money? No. I asked him to continue investigating. He agreed.” Bianca looked puzzled, and Mick was sure she knew nothing of McGraw’s reputation. Most people didn’t. Which was the way McGraw had wanted it and the way Mick felt obligated to keep it.

“So you had no idea he was planning to sell your family’s story to the tabloids?”

“Of course not.”

“If you’re implying that my sister knew what Mr. McGraw planned to do and committed murder to keep him quiet, you’re way off.” Portia spoke up, her voice quiet but firm, her dark eyes staring into his as if she could read whatever motive he might have.

“I’m not implying anything. I’m asking.”

“And I’m telling you that Bianca would never commit a crime. I doubt she’s ever even gotten a parking ticket.”

“I’m not that perfect, Portia.” Bianca smiled at her younger sister, and Mick saw the affection between them. Obviously, it wasn’t Portia’s relationship with her sisters that had her sitting at a distance. So maybe it was her father that she had a problem with. Or his girlfriend.

“I didn’t say you were perfect. I said you weren’t a murderer.” Portia rose and paced across the room, tiny bells jingling at her wrist as she swept a hand over her hair.

“My questions are standard. I’m not accusing anyone here of murder.” And if he were, Bianca wouldn’t be the one he’d target with his allegations.

“If you were, the accusation wouldn’t go far. I was out of town at Westside Medical Center the day Mr. McGraw died. I didn’t hear about his death until I returned home,” Bianca answered.

“Can I have the phone number to verify that?”

“Of course.”

“Did anyone else in the family know Mr. McGraw was working for you?”

Bianca hesitated, her eyes straying to the chair where Miranda sat. The silence stretched for a moment too long. Then Miranda spoke, her voice calm. “I knew. And I don’t have an alibi. I was here alone the night he died. My father and Aunt Winnie were both at a charity auction.”

“You don’t need an alibi. No one would ever suspect you of such a horrible thing!” Portia shot Mick a look filled with worry and frustration, but there was nothing he could say to ease her concern. His investigation had led him to her family. He’d follow it through until he found the answers he sought.

“I think we’re at a dead end, Detective.” Ronald moved toward the door. “Let us know if there’s anything else we can do to help.”

As dismissals went, this one wasn’t subtle, but Mick had learned what he’d wanted to. Bianca and Miranda seemed forthcoming and willing to work with him. Ronald was a different story altogether. “Thank you for your time. I’ll be in touch.”

“Let me walk you to the door, Mick.” Winnie Blanchard stepped toward him, her hazel eyes asking questions he couldn’t answer. At church they were acquaintances, maybe even friends. Here, Mick was a cop with a job to do.

“Aunt Winnie, you’ve been on your feet all day. I’ll walk him out.” Portia put a hand on her aunt’s arm, her gaze on Mick. “I need to get something out of my car anyway.”

“All right, but put your coat on. It’s a bitter night.”

“I will.”

“Don’t forget, Portia, we were planning to discuss your possible transfer to Blanchard Fabrics tonight. I’ll expect to speak with you when I get home.” Ronald’s tone held a hard edge Mick couldn’t ignore. He studied the other man, saw that he watched his daughter with a mixture of frustration and confusion, as if there were something about her he just couldn’t understand.

And maybe that was the case. Portia did stand out from the rest of Ronald’s daughters, her style alone separating her from her casually sophisticated sisters.

“Of course, Father.” Portia’s words were stilted, her expression blank, and Mick felt something stir in his chest, a need to step in, to offer protection. Though from what he didn’t know.

He pushed the door open, held it as Portia proceeded him into the foyer, catching a whiff of sunshine and flowers as she passed. “Do you really need to get something from your car?”

“My cell phone. Though I suppose it could have waited until morning.”

“But what you have to say to me can’t wait?”

“Something like that.” She smiled, relaxing for the first time since they’d walked into the house, her dark curls bouncing as she stepped outside.

Beyond the soft glow of the porch light the world was pitch-black, the moon and stars hidden behind thick clouds, the roar of the ocean a rumbling backdrop to the still night. What had it been like to grow up here, so close to the pounding fury of the ocean and the stunning beauty of cliffs? Mick supposed the experience would have been different for each of the six sisters, though he had a feeling that for Portia it hadn’t always been a good one. He reached toward her, pulling her coat closed. “You need to button up. It’s freezing out here.”

“I’m okay.” She wrapped her arms around her waist, holding the coat closed and emphasizing a too-thin frame. Had she been ill? Or was she one of those women that thought thinner was better?

And why did he even care? He raked a hand through his hair and tried to refocus his attention. “So, do you want to tell me why we’re out here?”

“I want to know if you really believe my sisters are murderers.”

“I don’t believe anything…yet.”

“Come on, Mick, we both know that’s not true. You’ve got suspicions. I want to know what they are.”

“I think Garrett McGraw’s murder has something to do with your family.”

“But—”

“But I don’t think any of your sisters are involved.”

“That doesn’t leave many other possibilities.”

“No. It doesn’t.”

Which meant, Portia thought, that Mick either suspected her father or her aunt. Since she couldn’t imagine anyone believing that Aunt Winnie was a murderer, she had to assume he was going after her father. Should she bring it up? Would he? Before she could make up her mind, Mick spoke, his words doing nothing to put her at ease. “Your father has the most to lose if something happens to Blanchard Fabrics.”

“That doesn’t mean he’d kill to protect it.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I am.” But even as she said it, Portia doubted her own words, her own belief in her father. If, as she suspected, he’d lied about her mother’s death to keep Trudy Blanchard away from her children for almost twenty-three years, what else might he lie about? What else might he be capable of? Her heart beat hard with what she was thinking and Portia stepped back toward the door. “I’d better get back inside.”

She didn’t wait for Mick to respond, just shoved the door open and fled inside.

Mick waited until the door clicked shut, then headed to his SUV. Portia’s loyalty to her family was something he admired, but it wouldn’t keep him from doing his job. McGraw had been murdered. Mick might have lost his respect for the man who had been a childhood friend and, later, a fellow Portland police officer, but he couldn’t allow that to influence his desire to solve the case. Especially since Mick had been partially responsible for McGraw’s dismissal from the force years ago. If he’d known then…

He wouldn’t have done things any differently. What happened was a result of McGraw’s failures and sins, not Mick’s, yet somehow he still felt responsible. The wind howled, tugging at Mick’s leather jacket and urging him into the car and away from Blanchard Manor and his own dark memories. He couldn’t change the past, wouldn’t hurry the future. It was time to go home, to sit in front of a fire, maybe roast marshmallows with his six-year-old daughter Kaitlyn.

He glanced back at the house as he pulled onto Bay View Drive. Lights were blazing from all three levels, but still it seemed a lonely place and once again he was struck by the difference between Portia and the environment she’d grown up in. When he’d first seen her on the ice, he’d thought her to be carefree and exuberant. That had changed when she’d walked into Blanchard Manor. All her vitality had drained away, replaced by a quiet somberness that didn’t match her bright clothing, or the vibrancy in her eyes. Had being around her father caused the change? Or was it the house itself, the staid, museum-like decor that had drained her?

And why had he even noticed or cared? It had been three years since his wife Rebecca had died in a plane crash. In that time, he’d created a life for himself and his daughter. A life that didn’t include women. At least not women younger than Mick’s mother. Now was definitely not time to change that. Not when he was responsible for investigating Stoneley’s first murder in thirty years. And not when the woman in question was the daughter of Mick’s prime suspect.

THREE

Portia watched the sunrise from the balcony off her room. French doors open, icy air seeping through her pajamas, she stood in awe as dawn painted the sky with vivid pinks and golds. For just this moment, she was exactly where she wanted to be, doing exactly what she wanted to do, no one hanging over her shoulder questioning her choices. She supposed that was the hardest part of belonging to a large family—always having people watching her, judging her actions.

If she were a different kind of person, what her sister, her aunt, even her father thought wouldn’t matter quite so much. But she wasn’t and it did. Which was why her conversation with Ronald the previous night had left her antsy and unhappy, his insistence that her New York City lifestyle was a mistake making her question her certainty about where she should be. Where God wanted her to be.

After all, wasn’t that the point—to be where He wanted, doing what He wanted her to do, whatever that might be?

“And therein lies the problem. I have no idea what You want, God. I thought I did, but lately I’m just not sure.”

“Talking to yourself again?” Rissa peeked in the room, her hair curling wildly around a makeup-free face.

“Talking to God.” Portia threw herself down on the bed. “I don’t think He’s listening.”

“Hmmm.”

“Hmmm, what?”

“Hmmm, you had a nice long chat with Daddy dearest last night and now you’re upset. Why am I not surprised?”

“Because you know Father never gives up once he sets his mind to something and he’s set his mind to getting me to work for Blanchard Fabrics.”

“Portia, he’d have every one of us working at the company if he had his way. Why do you let it bother you so much?”

“I don’t know.” And she didn’t, though she wished she could change it. “Maybe because I’m a twenty-six-year-old woman who’s still hoping to make her father proud.”

“Don’t hold your breath waiting for that to happen.” Rissa stretched and yawned. “Do you have big plans for today?”

Portia did. She planned to visit the Stoneley police department to find out if there’d been any more progress on the McGraw case. That was something Rissa didn’t need to know, though. “I’m running errands for Aunt Winnie and picking up that horrid dress from Mr. Dugal.”

“Not the Winter Fest dress?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I thought you’d been saved that…honor.”

“You mean humiliation.”

“Hey, I wore it my senior year of high school. It wasn’t that bad.”

“Riding in a horse-drawn carriage, dressed like a winter princess is fine when you’re seventeen. It’s not fine when you’re my age.”

“Our age. So, say no.”

“I tried, but Mr. Dugal takes a lot of pride in making sure every woman in Stoneley gets the opportunity. Apparently, he’s decided it’s my turn.”

“And you didn’t want to hurt his feelings so you said yes.”

“Actually, Aunt Winnie accepted for me. She thought it might cheer me up. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.”

“In that case, I forgive you for being a push over. And at least you won’t go down in history as the oldest Winter Fest princess. Wasn’t Jenny Wilcomb sixty-five?” Rissa yawned again, her eyes shadowed with fatigue.

“Forty, but thanks for trying to make me feel better. Now, stop yawning. You’re making me tired.”

“Sorry. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Me, neither.”

“I doubt anyone did. We were probably all worrying about the same thing.” Rissa dropped down onto the bed and threw her arm over her eyes. “Mother.”

“And Garrett McGraw.”

“And how much Father really knows about all of this.”

“I think he knows a lot.” Portia expected Rissa to agree and was surprised when her twin turned to face her. They were eye to eye, just inches apart the way they had been so many times when they were children and had something important to discuss.

“If he did, I don’t want to know.”

“How can you not?”

“Because if he’s lied all this time, that means he’s kept us from knowing our mother. I don’t think I can handle that.”

“You’re one of the strongest people I know, Rissa. Of course you can handle it.”

“I’m glad someone has faith in me.” She pushed up from the bed. “I think I’m going to hide out in my room today. I’ll see you at the parade tonight.”

“Hide out? Are you okay?” Worry brought Portia to her feet.

“Yeah, just working on my new play.” Rissa pushed open the door and stepped out into the dark hall, her expression hidden by shadows. “Another week or two and I should have it done.”

“I thought you were here for a vacation.”

“I’m here for Aunt Winnie. And for you.”

And if it weren’t for them, Rissa wouldn’t have come at all. She didn’t say the words, but Portia knew the truth. In recent years it had been she, not Rissa, who’d pushed the idea of returning to Stoneley for Winter Fest. Next year, Rissa might not return at all. The thought made Portia sadder than it should have, and she smiled, trying to hide her feelings. “We know. And we appreciate it. Now, go get your work done, or you’ll be blaming me when you fall behind schedule.”

Portia watched Rissa disappear into her room, then closed her own door. Though the twins had always been in sync, Portia’s affection for the town she’d grown up in had never made sense to Rissa. As far as she was concerned, they were well rid of Blanchard Manor and of Stoneley.

And maybe she was right.

But driving through the town, visiting the places she’d loved so much as a child, always felt like a homecoming in a way returning to New York never did.

Portia sighed and shook her head, grabbing clothes and a handful of jewelry. She needed to get out of the house, get some fresh air, not sit around moping about things she couldn’t change.

Twenty minutes later, she was on her way, driving the vintage VW Bug she’d bought a few years ago, the scent of her aunt’s homemade cookies and fudge wafting through the vehicle and making her stomach growl. She thought about snagging one of the oatmeal raisin cookies she’d seen Winnie pack, but the Winter Fest parade committee consisted of several women who weren’t above counting cookies to make sure each volunteer had brought the proper number of snacks. If Winnie’s offering was off by a cookie or two, she’d be the talk of the committee for months.

Maybe Portia would stop by Beaumont Beanery instead. Coffee and a Danish would go a long way toward waking her up. The thought cheered her and she hummed along with the radio, the lightening sky and crisp white clouds that sprinkled it making up for the long, restless night she’d had.

Today would be a better day than yesterday. A better day than the day before. As a matter of fact, Portia planned to make this the best day of the new year. She was still thinking that as the engine stalled and died.

Mick was running late. Ten minutes late, to be exact, the constant ringing of his cell phone reminding him again and again that he had twenty eleventh- and twelfth-graders waiting at the church for his arrival. He grabbed the phone, answering it for the fifth time in as many minutes. “Campbell here.”

“You know you’re supposed to be at the church.” Roy Marcell, chief of police, good friend and co-leader of the church’s youth group sounded as irritated as Mick felt.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Just thought I’d make sure.”

“You and ten other people. It’s been a rough morning.”

“Katie have trouble getting out of bed?”

“No, she had trouble finding matching shoes.”

“Yeah, I remember those days. So, what’s your ETA?”

“Ten minutes. Sooner if you’ve got coffee.”

“You’re in luck, so get here fast. The bus’ll be here in fifteen.”

“Right.” Mick tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and rubbed the ache in his neck. When he’d volunteered to chaperone the youth group’s ice-fishing trip, he hadn’t planned to be heading a murder investigation at the same time. Five hours wasn’t much time to lose, but it felt like too much when McGraw’s widow and children were waiting for answers regarding his death.

He grimaced, rounded a curve in the road and braked hard as a neon-green Volkswagen Beetle appeared in front of him. The SUV fishtailed, but held the road as Mick maneuvered to the shoulder, his heart pounding with adrenaline.

He swung open the door and strode toward the car, watching as a woman stepped out. “Need some help?”

“It died on me. I think I’ll need a tow.” The voice was familiar, and Mick took in the delicate features, black curly hair and dark eyes. It could have been either of the twins, but somehow Mick knew it was Portia. Maybe it was the clothes—dark pants paired with a multi-colored coat—or maybe it was the tilt of her chin, the hint of laughter in her eyes. Whatever the case, he had no doubt which twin he was speaking to.

“You’re out and about early.”

“I could say the same about you, Detective.”

“Mick, remember? Have you tried to start the car up since it stalled?”

“Not yet.”

“Mind if I try?”

“Go ahead.” She passed him the keys, her hands encased in fuzzy pink mittens that Kaitlyn would have loved. Somehow on Portia they worked, the quirky fabric adding to her unique style.

“Nice mittens.”

“You’re the first person over ten years old to say so.”

“Yeah? Well, don’t let it get around. I wouldn’t want to ruin my tough-cop reputation.” He slid into the Bug, the sound of her laughter following him and making him want to turn and watch the amusement playing out on her face.

But he didn’t have the time, and not just because he was running late. A woman like Portia would need lots of attention. More than a man with a six-year-old daughter could give. Though Mick had to admit, he might be tempted to try if she didn’t live a few hundred miles away. Being married to Rebecca had taught him an important lesson. A relationship with a woman who traveled more than she was home didn’t work for him. He doubted a long-distance relationship would be any different.

He turned the key in the ignition, heard a quiet click and knew he was about to add a few more minutes to his ETA. “Looks like it’s not budging. Where were you headed?”

“Town hall. Aunt Winnie asked me to drop off a few things for the parade tonight.”

“Go ahead and put them in my truck while I call for a tow.”

She looked like she was going to argue, so Mick pulled a bag of cookie-filled containers from the back seat of the Bug and handed it her. “I’ve got a bunch of teenagers waiting for me to chaperone their ice-fishing trip. If I don’t give you a ride, I’ll have to stay here and wait until the tow truck arrives. Let’s save some time and do things my way.”

To Mick’s surprise, Portia gave in gracefully, grabbing the bag and carrying it to the SUV. Less than five minutes later, the Bug was safely on the shoulder of the road and they were on the way to Town Hall, the interior of the SUV filled with the scent of chocolate and something else—a flowery, feminine scent that Mick thought must be Portia’s shampoo.

She glanced at him and smiled, her eyes shadowed and dark. “Thanks for the lift. I hope your ice-fishing crew won’t leave without you.”

“Seeing as how I’m one of the youth group leaders, I don’t think I have much to worry about in that regard. Besides, Unity Christian isn’t far from Town Hall. I’ll only be a few minutes late.”

“You’re a youth group leader?” She turned toward him, tiny bells on her earrings jingling as she moved.

“Does that surprise you?”

“Maybe. I guess I didn’t picture you as the churchgoing, youth-group-leading type.”

Before Mick could ask what type she had pictured him as, she shifted in her seat, her hands clenched in her lap, her shoulders tense. “I was planning to come to the station to see you this morning. Since you’re not going to be there, do you think we can talk now?”

“Sure.”

“What you said about my father last night is…disturbing.”

“I imagine it is, but I can’t change the facts. Your father has a reputation to uphold and a company to protect. That company is your family’s bread and butter. Without it, your father can’t maintain the lifestyle he’s cultivated. Men have killed for less.”

“I know, but I don’t think my father would. He may be difficult at times, but he’s no murderer.”

“I don’t doubt your sincerity in saying that, but I’ve got to check out the facts and find out the truth for myself.” He pulled up in front of Town Hall and turned to face her.

She frowned, her eyes a deep brown that reminded Mick of milk chocolate and Valentines. He had the urge to lean forward, cup her cheek with his hand, see if her skin was as smooth and silky as it felt. And that was bad news.

He’d have to be careful around Portia. Really careful. Otherwise, he might find himself getting more involved than he intended.

“So you’re going to keep investigating my family.” She sounded tired and defeated, and Mick was surprised at how much that bothered him.

“I’m going to keep following my leads. Right now, they all head in that direction. By tomorrow, things might change.”

“That’s nice of you to say, Mick, but I don’t think you really believe it.”

He didn’t, though he was checking out other possibilities. McGraw hadn’t been a cop for long, but there was no doubt he’d made enemies while he was one.

Mick considered telling Portia as much, but for the sake of McGraw’s family, he didn’t. Bringing up the past would do no good, unless the past proved to be connected to the case. “Tomorrow is a new day. Anything is possible. That’s something I do believe.”

“A new day. Yeah, well, I hope it’ll be better than the last few.” Portia pushed the door open, anxious to get away, but Mick snagged her hand before she could retreat, his blue eyes searching hers.

“Has it really been that bad?” He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, his fingers lingering there for a moment.

Portia blinked, surprised by his touch, by his words, by the concern she saw in his eyes. Did he really care that much about a woman he barely knew? If so, how would he act toward someone he loved?

Just thinking the question made her uncomfortable, and she tugged her hand away, reaching over the seat for the bag of baked goods. “No, not that bad. Just…” What? Discouraging? Disheartening? “Difficult. I used to think I understood our family. Now, I’m not sure it’s anything like what I believed. And that’s hard.”

“You’re talking about the new information regarding your mother.”

It wasn’t a question, but she answered anyway. “What else? But there are other things, too. It’s hard not to worry and wonder when so much of what’s happening is out of my control.”

“I don’t blame you for that, but worry never changes anything.”

“My head knows that. My heart isn’t convinced.”

He watched her for a moment, then smiled, a slow, easy curve of his lips that made Portia’s heart leap and her stomach tumble and twist.

“Tell you what, why don’t we make a deal? I’ll keep you updated on the case. You relax and stop worrying.”

Did he really think it was that easy? “How about I promise to try not to worry?”

“Good enough. Here’s my card. Call me if you have any questions or concerns.”

Portia took the card, tucked it into her coat pocket and tried to get out of the SUV gracefully. As usual, her efforts fell short. Her boot caught on the edge of the door and she tumbled forward, nearly losing her grip on the bag and her purse.

“Careful.” Mick grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back. “You destroy the stuff your aunt baked and you’ll be the talk of the parade committee for the next ten years.”

“I was thinking something similar, earlier. What is this? Three saves? Four?”

“Three, but who’s counting?”

“Certainly not you.”

Mick laughed and shook his head. “You’d better get that stuff inside. See you around.”

He drove off as Portia stepped into Town Hall, and she told herself she was glad to be away from him. And she was. Mick wasn’t the type of man that appealed to Portia. She liked a more scholarly type.

You mean more boring and less exciting.

The words whispered through her mind, mocking her as she dropped off the baked goods. It was true, she tended to date men who were predictable, stable, easy to understand. That didn’t mean they were boring. Or maybe it did. But that was the way Portia liked it. She’d spent her childhood around men who were often unpredictable and moody. No way did she plan to repeat that pattern as an adult. Still, there was something about Mick she couldn’t ignore. A vitality and energy that appealed to her, an honesty that spoke to the deepest part of her soul.

And there was something else.

It had taken Tad six months to figure out that one of the twins was left-handed, the other right-handed. Even after that, he’d often confused Portia and Rissa. Mick, on the other hand, had seen them together once, yet somehow he’d known which twin Portia was. She found that to be both interesting and alarming.

Portia rubbed a finger against the ache behind her right eye and shoved thoughts of Mick to the back of her mind. The day had just begun and she already had a headache. That didn’t bode well for the remainder of the morning, let alone the afternoon and evening. She wanted to go back to the moment before the Bug had died, recapture the sense of excitement, of renewal. More than anything, she wanted to believe this really was going to be the best day of the new year and that all the days that followed would be better than the ones that had preceded her trip to Stoneley. Somehow, though, Portia doubted they would be. Unless she missed her guess, clouds were on the horizon—dark and foreboding—and no matter how much she might want to outrace the storm, she had a horrible feeling that it was only a matter of time before it caught up with her.

FOUR

Five hours later, Portia had a working car and a four-Tylenol headache. According to the mechanic who’d towed and fixed the Bug, her vehicle was in good shape. Now she just needed her head to follow suit. A few hours of quiet would go a long way to making that happen and she was relieved to see that the Manor’s seven-bay garage was nearly empty.

Even Rissa’s car was missing. Which meant either that her writing wasn’t going well, or she couldn’t bear another moment in the house. It was for the best. Portia had never been able to hide her feelings from her twin, and she had no desire to have to explain her conversation with Mick, or discuss his suspicions about their father. For now, she’d be content to keep the information to herself.

Briny air enveloped her as she hurried toward the house, the thick, salty scent of the ocean sweeping in from the cliffs. Watery sunlight filtered through the clouds, speckling the ground with gold, the trees with vibrant color. Portia’s fingers itched for a paintbrush, the urge to capture the shift of light and shadow easing the pounding pain in her head. For the first time in months, Portia felt the urge to grab her easel and brushes and paint.

She hurried inside, started up the stairs, heard a soft wail from somewhere above and knew that painting was not in her near future.

“Aunt Winnie? Miranda?”

Heels tapped against the hardwood floor. A door slammed.

“Thank goodness you’re home!” Sonya, the Blanchard housekeeper, appeared at the top of the stairs, the panicked expression on her face sending Portia racing toward her.

“What is it? What’s happened?”

“You’re grandfather. He…” Her voice trailed off as if she couldn’t bear to continue.

“Is he all right?” Portia raced up the stairs, her heart pounding, her mind filled with a million possibilities, all thoughts of headaches and painting gone. An Alzheimer’s patient, Howard Blanchard’s health had been declining for years, but in the past few months there had been an even more drastic change.

Sonya shook her head, her dark eyes flashing. “He attacked Alannah. Put his hands around her throat and nearly strangled her.”

“Strangled her? He can barely get up out of bed.” Portia started up the stairs that led to her grandfather’s third-floor suite.

“That’s what we all thought, but I’m telling you, somehow he had enough strength to grab Alannah by the throat.”

“Is she all right?”

“It’s hard to tell with that one. She’s in your father’s office, now, threatening to call the police.”

The police? That was the last thing they needed. “I’ll talk to her.”

“Someone better. You’re grandfather is sick. Not a criminal.” Her defense of Howard was a surprise. The tension between the housekeeper and her employer was something Portia and Rissa had often discussed. Neither knew the cause, they only knew it had always been there. Sonya’s urge to protect Howard could only mean the housekeeper thought he was nearing the end.

Portia’s heart beat faster at the thought and she put a hand on Sonya’s arm, hoping the gesture would calm them both. “I’m sure Alannah understands that.”

At least, she hoped she did. Her father’s latest girlfriend was hard to read. That she was self-absorbed went without saying. Whether or not she was spiteful remained to be seen.

Portia hurried down the hall to her father’s office. Sobs and jumbled words drifted through the door, and she knocked, then pushed it open. Alannah sat at Ronald’s desk, clutching the phone to her ear and dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

She met Portia’s eyes, gestured for her to enter the room and continued speaking. “I’m telling you, he’s dangerous. He had his hands around my throat. He could have killed me.”

Portia was tempted to grab the phone and tell whoever was on the other end of the line that Howard was too feeble to be dangerous, but Alannah was upset enough without her interference.

Instead, she took a seat in the chair across the desk from the other woman and waited.

“Of course I understand his condition, Ronald. You’ve told me about it often enough.” Alannah sniffed, grabbed another tissue from a box on Ronald’s desk. “I know. I know. Yes, I’ll be there. Give me another half hour.”

She hung up the phone, shot Portia an irritated look. “I suppose you’re here to explain the intricacies of your grandfather’s illness just like everyone else.”

“I’m here to make sure you’re okay.” Making sure she didn’t call the police was secondary to that, though Portia hoped she could manage it.

Alannah brushed strands of red hair away from her forehead, tucking them back into her chignon. “Okay? I just paid big bucks to have my hair styled. Now it’s ruined.”

“Loose chignons are in.”

“If I’d wanted it loose, I would have asked the stylist for loose.” Alannah’s aquamarine eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but Portia suspected they were more from anger than fear.

“I know what happened must have been awful, but Grandfather—”

“Is sick and doesn’t know any better. Miranda, Winnie and your father all said the same. I think I’m smart enough to get it.”

“I know you are. I didn’t mean to imply differently.”

Alannah sighed and nodded. “Of course you didn’t. I’m just upset. Whether your family wants to admit it or not, Howard has become dangerous.” As she spoke, she stood, a diamond brooch winking in the light as she moved. Portia recognized the intricate pattern and Victorian setting. Howard had shown her the piece when she was a child. He’d told the story repeatedly about how his wife Ethel had fallen in love with it, how he’d purchased it from an antique dealer for their tenth anniversary.

“Is that my grandmother’s brooch?” Before she could think better of it, the question escaped.

Alannah shot her a dark look, her hand hovering over the beautiful piece. “Yes. And before you accuse me of stealing it, Ronald told me I could wear it to the hospital fundraiser this afternoon.”

“I wasn’t going to accuse you of anything. I just wondered where you’d gotten it.”

“From your grandfather’s room. Your father was supposed to bring it by my place last night and forgot. I’d planned my entire outfit around the piece. I certainly couldn’t go without it.”

“No, of course you couldn’t.” Portia hoped Alannah didn’t notice the sarcasm in her voice.

Alannah nodded. “I knew you’d understand. You’re an artist, after all. Your father wasn’t quite as understanding. He told me if I really felt the need to wear it, I’d have to come get it myself.”

“That’s why you were in Grandfather’s room?”

“Yes. Ronald assured me it wouldn’t be a problem, but your grandfather saw me pin the brooch on and,” she paused, touching the skin on her neck. “Well, you know what happened next.”

“Father should have explained that the brooch was his mother’s. Grandfather gave it to her for their anniversary one year.”

“Maybe he should have told me, but the fact that the piece is special to Howard doesn’t excuse his behavior.”

“It doesn’t, but Grandfather didn’t mean any harm. I hope you know that.”

“Your grandfather tried to strangle me. If that’s not trying to harm, I don’t know what is. I’m sure the police would agree.” She stood, straightened her slim-fitting skirt and started toward the door.

Police. The word, idle threat or not, was enough to bring Portia to her feet. “You’re not planning to call them, are you?”

“Someone needs to make sure this doesn’t happen again. If that person has to be me, so be it.”

“Alannah—”

“I know you mean well, Portia, but I’m too upset to discuss this any longer. Besides, your father is waiting for me and I can’t miss the luncheon.” Alannah strode out of the room, closing the door firmly behind her.

“Great. Just great. One more thing to worry about.” Portia sank down into the chair, her headache returning with a vengeance. Lately, it seemed every day brought a new set of troubles. Grandfather’s attack on Alannah was bad enough, but if Alannah went to the police, news about what had happened would spread through town like wildfire.

Portia leaned back in the chair and stared up at the ceiling. Maybe she should call her father, tell him how determined Alannah was to contact the police, but what good would it do? Ronald had probably already tried to talk his girlfriend out of her plan. Maybe the best thing to do was nothing at all. Maybe, as Mick had told her, she should relax and stop worrying.

As if she could.

She sighed, her eyes scanning the room. It was her father’s domain. One she’d rarely visited as a child and had seen even less of as an adult. It never seemed to change. The same leather chairs. The same polished wood desk. The same heavy drapes. All seemed exactly as they’d been the last time Portia had ventured into the office, the dark masculinity of it unappealing to her, but apparently exactly what her father preferred. And maybe that was the point. Ronald had never encouraged any of the Blanchard women to feel comfortable in his office.

She glanced around the room again, seeing it in a new light—not a quiet retreat forged by a man whose home was overrun with young girls, but a hiding place for information he might not have wanted his daughters to find. Was it possible her father kept information about Mother there? If he’d lied about her death, if he’d known all along she was alive, would he have dared keep information about her in his home office? It didn’t seem possible, but Portia had to know for sure. She pulled open the desk drawer, rifled through pencils, pens, paper clips and scraps of paper. The next drawer yielded just as little—current electric bill, water bill, credit card statement, phone bill. She paused, her hand on the last item, and then slowly pulled it from the pile. Most of the numbers listed were familiar, with the exception of three out-of-state area codes. She grabbed a piece of paper from her father’s printer and jotted the numbers down, knowing she was violating his trust, but unable to turn away from the course she’d set. She was just returning the phone bill when the door to the study flew open. Portia jumped, closing the drawer and trying to look less guilty than she felt.

“What are you doing in here?” The housekeeper stood in the doorway, nearly quivering with indignation. “You know your father doesn’t like his things touched.”

“I was just getting a piece of paper and a pencil.” That was part of the truth anyway.

“It looks like you’ve got it, so you’d better come out of there.”

“I’m coming.” She slid the paper into her pocket and stepped past Sonya. “I think I’ll go up and check on Grandfather.”

“Howard’s just fallen asleep. It’s probably better to let him rest.”

Portia stiffened at the commanding tone, but decided not to argue. Sonya had been part of the Blanchard household for more years than Portia had been alive. While she could sometimes be overbearing, she always meant well. “I’ll go up later, then.”

Sonya nodded, her dark eyes shrewd. “Were you able to talk some sense into Alannah?”

“I tried.”

“Hmph. I knew she wouldn’t see reason. A woman like that is only interested in what she can get out of any situation.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s probably hoping your father will give her the brooch. Or take her on another one of those fancy trips they’re always going on.”

“Sometimes you’re a real cynic, Sonya.”

“And sometimes you’re naive, but I try not to hold it against you. Now, go. I’ve got plenty to do without having you under my feet.”

The words were the same ones Portia had been hearing since she was a child, and she smiled as she moved away. The papers rustled in her pocket, stealing the grin from her face.

Sonya thought her naive, and maybe at one time she had been. But not anymore. Snooping in her father’s office proved she was just as cynical as the housekeeper. Maybe the last few months had affected her more than she’d thought. Or maybe, like her father and Tad, she simply wasn’t the person she’d thought herself to be.

The thought wasn’t a comfortable one, but she couldn’t let it go as she downed three Tylenol, grabbed her easel and paints and headed out to the cliffs.

FIVE

Portia had always found comfort in painting, in the challenge of blending colors, of smoothing paint onto canvas, of trying her best to recreate the beauty of God’s creation. Being back in Stoneley only added to that feeling. Even as the wind slashed through her coat and gloves, she found a quiet peace out on the cliffs. High above, a hawk screamed. Far below, waves crashed against rock. Life, even in the frigid winter months, continued in the thick growth of evergreens, the spindly yellow grass and the glossy black birds zipping from tree to tree.

Portia dabbed more paint onto the canvas, feeling better than she had in months. This was what she’d missed. The quiet throbbing pulse of nature. New York City had its own pulse—an exotic beat that had appealed to her for a while. In the end, it hadn’t found its way into her soul the way Stoneley had.

“I knew I’d find you out here.” Rissa’s voice sounded above the crashing waves, and Portia turned to watch her sister hurry across the clearing.

“I was wondering when you’d show up. Thought you were going to hide out and work today.”

“Delia, Juliet and I decided to go into town. The house was too…”

“Quiet?”

“Claustrophobic was more the word I was thinking.” Rissa studied her. “You look happy.”

“I’ve always loved painting here.”

“You’ve always loved here, period.” She stared out toward the horizon, her eyes covered by dark sunglasses. “I know you don’t want to come back to New York.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.” Rissa smiled, the expression so sad, Portia’s own content mood disappeared.

“The truth is, I don’t know what I want anymore.” She rinsed her paintbrush. “I’m not like you. I don’t have one dream, one goal, one passion. I wish I did. Then maybe my choices would be clearer.”

“If it weren’t for Father, would you come back to Stoneley?”

Would she? It was a question she’d been asking herself over and over again since Tad went back to his ex. “Maybe.”

“‘Maybe’ is not an answer. ‘Maybe’ is just you sitting on the fence, letting life pass you by because you’re too afraid of standing up for what you want.”

“Rissa—”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. You’re the kind of person who never wants to disappoint the people you love. I understand that. I just hope you don’t regret it one day.” Rissa shrugged. “Anyway, Sonya asked me to track you down. Mr. Dugal called to remind you that you’re to be at the parade a half hour early. That gives you less than an hour to get there.”

“It’s that late already?” Portia grabbed her supplies, hoping Rissa couldn’t see how deeply her words had cut. It was true that she didn’t want to disappoint those she loved, but was that so wrong?

Only if in refusing to disappoint them you ignore God’s leading.

The thought weaseled its way into her mind and she pushed it away. Of course she wanted to go wherever God led. She just needed to figure out where that was.

Later. When she didn’t have so much going on, so many things to deal with, she’d sit down and look at her options. For now, she’d just take things a day at a time and pray that God would keep her from making too many mistakes.

An hour later, she realized that He’d allowed her to make at least one. The Winter Fest Princess costume had seemed harmless enough when she’d picked it up earlier in the day. Now that she was wearing it, she was sure it had its origins as a medieval torture device. The corset top pinched in at the waist and the brocade skirt weighed almost as much as Portia herself. The tiara dug into her scalp and made her uncontrollable curls stick out in a hundred different directions. Beautiful she was not, but a promise was a promise, and she somehow managed to stuff herself and ten layers of petticoats into the Bug.

As she’d expected, the parade route was cordoned off, parking close to the beginning of the route was impossible. Fifteen minutes after she’d arrived in town, she parallel-parked between two pickups on a street fifteen blocks from where she needed to be. She was already five minutes late. Mr. Dugal wouldn’t be pleased.

The heavy, fur-lined cape slowed her pace, but she managed a semi-jog, her high-heeled boots slipping and sliding over icy patches.

“You look like Cinderella running from the ball.” Mick’s voice was a deep, warm and all too familiar surprise. “Only, no glass slippers.”

“Glass? Please. I’m having enough trouble in these.” As if to prove the point, her foot slipped and she slid sideways.

“Maybe if you slowed down…” He grabbed her elbow, the amusement in his gaze obvious.

“I can’t slow down. The parade is going to start in fifteen minutes and I’ve got to be in it.”

“Ah, the Winter Fest Princess. I’d almost forgotten that tradition.”

“Forgotten?”

“I grew up here. Went to school with your sister, Miranda.”

“Really? I’m surprised I don’t remember you.”

“You were probably still in pigtails when I left town.” His gloved fingers cupped her arm, his shoulder brushing against Portia’s as they walked, and she was absolutely certain that if she’d ever met him, she would have remembered him.

She swallowed hard, trying to force down fluttery nerves she had no business feeling. “My pigtail phase lasted a while. I still sport the style sometimes.”

“Not tonight, though.” He used his free hand to touch the curls that framed her face, his eyes dark blue in the evening light. “I have to say, I like the curls.”

“Thanks.” She needed to change the subject fast. The conversation felt way too personal. “I guess your ice fishing trip is over.”

“It had to be. I’m on duty tonight.”

“Too bad.”

“Not really. I haven’t been to a Winter Fest Parade in years. I’d forgotten how many beautiful sights there were to see.” His words, coupled with the appreciative gleam in his eyes, were a quiet caress that stole Portia’s breath.

“Yeah, well, the local businesses really do go all out to make impressive floats.”

Mick laughed and shook his head. “I’m making you uncomfortable. I’ll stop. There is Mr. Dugal’s carriage, so I guess I’ll say goodbye for now.”

“Thanks for escorting me. I hope you didn’t go too far out of your way.”

“Actually, I ended up exactly where I needed to be. There’s something we need to discuss.” He turned to face her, the hardness in his eyes warning that Portia wasn’t going to like what he had to say. “Your grandfather’s actions earlier today.”

He knew. Somehow he’d already found out about the attack against Alannah.

“I can tell from your silence that you know exactly what I’m talking about. How about we meet after the parade?”

“Mick—”

“Mr. Dugal is heading this way and he doesn’t look happy. So, as much as I’d like to get your version of what happened this afternoon, I think it had better wait.”

“But—”

“Portia Blanchard, what is it you’re waiting for? A written invitation? The parade is about to start.” Mr. Dugal’s voice carried over the sounds of music and laughter that filled the night, and Portia winced, knowing she had to hurry or risk the entire town knowing she’d been late. That would almost be as bad for Aunt Winnie’s reputation as coming up a few cookies short in the snacks she’d provided. After all, despite Portia and her sisters’ ages, the town regarded everything they did as a reflection of the woman who had raised them.

“All right, I’ll meet you after the parade.”

“I’ll be at the end of the parade route. Until then, do your best not to worry about it.”

Portia nodded, but couldn’t speak past the lump in her throat. Alannah had actually gone to the police. Could things get any worse?

“Stop frowning. I can’t have a sour-looking Winter Fest Princess riding in the parade.” Mr. Dugal helped her up into the turn-of-the-century carriage, his stooped shoulders set against the winter chill, his frizzy white hair peeking from beneath a black top hat.

Behind the carriage, the high-school marching band practiced, trumpets blaring, drums pounding a jazzy beat. Beyond them floats created by local businesses waited—a wedding cake made of flowers, a snow family perched in front of a gingerbread house. Portia couldn’t see the rest, but knew from past experience they’d all be just as elaborate and beautiful. The comfortable familiarity of it should have eased her tension, but Mick’s words made relaxing difficult and enjoying the carriage ride almost impossible.

People waved and shouted greetings as the carriage lurched forward and the parade began. Portia did her best to smile and wave in true Winter Fest Princess fashion, though her insides were knotted up tight, her pulse racing. Had Alannah pressed charges? Would the police be at the Manor when Portia returned? What would happen to Grandfather? The questions circled in her mind. The trip down Main Street seemed to take an eternity, the two-mile trek feeling more like twenty. Portia wanted to hop out of the slow-moving carriage and run to the end of the parade route. Unfortunately, the entire route was lined with spectators. Many were people she knew. It was bad enough to contend for the position of oldest Winter Fest Princess; she didn’t want to go down in history as the only princess to abandon her post.

Finally, Mr. Dugal pulled on to a side street and parked the carriage. “That’s it, end of the road. You want me to bring you back up?”

“No, my car is actually closer to this end.”

“Then I’ll let you out here. Enjoy the rest of the evening.”

“You, too.” She climbed down from the carriage and watched until it turned a corner and disappeared from sight. The alley was dark, shadowed by buildings to either side. Portia had been here many times as a child, playing with friends who lived in one of the Queen Annes that lined the street.

She started toward the mouth of the alley, hoping Mick would be easy to find in the crowd. The sooner she spoke to him and cleared things up, the better. Though she wasn’t sure talking would do any good if Alannah had pressed charges. Something shuffled in the darkness behind her, a whisper of a sound that shivered along Portia’s spine and had her turning to peer into the blackness.

“Hello?” Nothing moved, and Portia almost convinced herself that the sound had been her imagination. Then it came again. More a rustle than a footfall. Shadows shifted, a strange realignment of blacks and grays that made Portia blink and step back.

“Is someone there?” She backed up again, moving as quickly as she could in the cumbersome dress, afraid to turn her back on whatever stood in the shadows.

And bumped into something solid and unyielding.

A hand landed on her shoulder, holding fast as she jumped and screamed. She tried to turn, felt her feet slip out from under her and screamed again as she was pulled up into hard arms.

She twisted, struggling against her assailant’s hold, her fist aiming for whatever it could connect with, panic giving her strength, a prayer for help shouting through her mind.

Mick grabbed Portia’s fist seconds before it made contact with his face. “Whoa. Two broken noses in a lifetime is two too many.”

“Mick?” She pushed against his arms and he eased her back onto her feet, feeling the quick, frantic beat of her heart and the fine tremors in the muscles beneath his hands. “You scared me half to death.”

“Were you expecting someone else?” He made his voice light, even as he scanned the alley and the shadowy blackness behind the buildings. Something had frightened Portia, and he didn’t think it was his sudden appearance.

“No. I just…” She turned her head, not even trying to free herself from his grip as she surveyed the area behind her.

“You just what?”

“Nothing.” She faced him again, shrugging her narrow shoulders.

“It’s not ‘nothing.’ You’re shaking.”

“I thought I heard something over there in the shadows.” She gestured to the back of the alley and Mick pulled a flashlight from his pocket and shone it in that direction.

There was nothing but brick and pavement, the area to either side the same.

“See? Nothing. Just a dark night and an overactive imagination.” She laughed, the sound hollow.

“Maybe.” Mick released Portia and stepped toward the place she’d indicated. Nine times out of ten a noise in the dark was nothing. It was the one time out of ten that Mick was worried about. “Tell you what, why don’t you go out onto Main Street? I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m just going to check around. It can’t hurt to take a closer look.” He cupped her upper arm and tugged her toward the lights and noise of the Winter Fest Parade. The band had passed and a float meandered by, boasting a three-tiered wedding cake of flowers complete with pint-sized bride and groom who waved cheerfully from their place on the top layer. People milled about on the sidewalk, laughing and chatting with one another. A few feet away, a street vendor sold pretzels to a smiling family. The scene was reminiscent of Norman Rockwell at his finest—small-town life portrayed to perfection. Yet, Mick couldn’t shake the feeling that something tragic had just been averted. “Stay here.”

“But—”

“Stay. Here.” He doubted the added emphasis would keep her from following, but he hoped for it anyway.

The ground in the alley was snow- and dirt-covered cobblestone. Mick searched it for clues that someone besides Portia had been there. He found hoofprints and footprints. More than one set. Mick would be hard-pressed to say which were fresh and which were from earlier in the day, maybe even the week. The ground was frozen, the thin layer of snow and slush over the cobblestone unable to melt even during the warmest time of the day.

The soft slide of boots on the ground and the swish of the heavy skirt Portia wore announced her presence. Mick wasn’t surprised that she’d returned. “I thought we agreed you were going to wait out on Main Street.”

“I thought you might need my help.” The words, coming from a woman almost a foot shorter and probably a hundred pounds lighter, made Mick smile.

“I appreciate your concern, but I told you to stay put.”

“How could I do that and help at the same time?” She stepped close, her arm brushing against his as she peered into the darkness. He caught a whiff of her shampoo and the subtle, flowery scent that was uniquely Portia.

“Did you find anything?”

“Footprints and hoofprints, but nothing conclusive.”

“Then maybe we can get out of here. This place is giving me the creeps.”

“Sounds good to me.” He flashed the light into the shadows once more, the nagging worry in his gut not dissipating despite the fact that he could find no proof that Portia hadn’t been alone. “What do you say to a cup of coffee somewhere warm?”

“Coffee?” That sounded like a bad idea to Portia. A really bad one. Discussing Alannah’s accusations was one thing. Doing it over a cup of coffee was another. “I don’t know. I’m not really dressed for it.”

“You look perfect to me.”

Thank goodness the darkness hid the color staining Portia’s cheeks. “What I mean is that Mr. Dugal won’t be happy if I spill coffee on the dress.”

“Did you bring a change of clothes?”

“In my car.”

“So let’s go get them. You can change at the police station and we can hit the Beanery after that.”

“Mick—”

“I’m not asking for a lifetime commitment, Portia. I’m asking you to have a cup of coffee with me while we discuss what your grandfather did this afternoon. It’s either that or we stand out here and discuss it. I spent most of the day outside. I’m about ready for a little warmth.” He cupped her elbow and led her out of the alley, neatly stopping any argument Portia might have made.

She told herself that it didn’t matter. That it was only a cup of coffee. But it felt like something more, and despite the fact that Mick wasn’t her type, Portia had the alarming feeling that he could do even more damage to her heart than Tad had.

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