An Honorable Man Page 5

  “This other person,” Sierra asked. “Was his name Ben Nash?”

  “It most certainly was. Said he was a reporter for some newspaper in Pittsburgh. Do you know him?”

  “Sort of,” Sierra said absently while she prepared to go against her instincts. The other times she’d been in the library, she’d kept her conversations with Mrs. Wiesneski brief to avoid gossiping. “Did he ask you any questions?”

  “As a matter of fact, he did.” Mrs. Wiesneski lowered her too-loud voice, eager to share her information. “He wanted to know if I had a record of everyone who signed on to the Internet Friday morning. Well, you know how busy we get in here come tourist season. People are waiting to use the computers when we open at nine. Even if we did keep a record, which we don’t, I wouldn’t have told him, being as that’s privileged information.”

  So Ben had been unsuccessful in tracking down the sender of the anonymous e-mail. Interesting but not unexpected.

  “He also asked if I remembered anything about some tourist who died in Indigo Springs a long time ago,” Mrs. Wiesneski continued. “Now you know me, I remember everything. Except that was before my time.”

  Sierra’s brows must have lifted, because the other woman kept talking. “I know sometimes it seems like I’ve been here forever, but it’s only been seventeen years. Now are you gonna tell me what this is all about?”

  Not likely, Sierra thought.

  “Curiosity,” Sierra said. “He asked my brother and me the same kinds of questions.”

  The librarian nodded, but the speculative gleam in her eyes suggested she realized Sierra had dodged the question. Her attention wavered, and she nodded to a spot behind Sierra.

  “Speak of the devil,” she said.

  Sierra quickly turned around to see Ben Nash striding through the library straight toward them with his long, measured gait. Self-assurance poured off him, but she had the impression he’d be surprised if he knew he’d drawn every eye in the place.

  “Please thank Betty for her help,” Sierra said hurriedly, referring to the other librarian by name, before quickly moving away from the desk.

  Whatever Ben had to say to her would be said in private.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  BEN WATCHED Sierra Whitmore hurry past the shelf containing the new releases with her chin high and her steps clipped, her pretty mouth turned down at the corners.

  He hadn’t expected her to be happy he’d tracked her down yet couldn’t help wishing for the warm smile she’d greeted him with earlier. Before she’d found out who he was and why he was in town.

  “Ready to go?” he asked.

  “I thought we were meeting at my office.”

  “I took a chance you’d be here instead.”

  Her gaze slid to the reference desk, probably to check if the microfilm she’d been viewing was still visible. Even if he hadn’t caught a glimpse of the canister, he could have easily figured out she’d come to the library to go through back issues of the Gazette. He’d done the same earlier that morning in his quest to find information both about the case and her father.

  Her chin lifted even higher when she regarded him again. She’d shed the traditional doctor’s white coat, revealing a red top that added vibrancy to her complexion and a skirt that showed off a pair of long, beautiful legs. She was undeniably attractive, but it was her underlying spunk that drew him to her, hinting at facets of her he’d yet to discover.

  “There’s something you should know about me,” she said with spirit. “I never enter any situation unprepared. I like to know what I’m up against.”

  “Totally understandable,” Ben said. “I can give you the phone number of the Tribune and the name of my managing editor if you like.”

  From the slight widening of her eyes, he surmised she’d thought to check out his story of what had happened to Allison Blaine, but it hadn’t occurred to her to verify his credentials.

  “I can find the phone number myself, thank you very much,” she said.

  Even on guard and distrusting, she was polite. Yet he was more interested in what was under the stuffy facade. He’d love to get another glimpse of the woman he’d kissed the night before. That wasn’t going to happen unless he could make amends.

  “I’m sorry about last night,” he began.

  She put a finger to her lips and cut her eyes at the exit. The library was fairly busy, with a few of the people perusing the bestsellers regarding them with open curiosity. Sierra led the way outside into the April sunshine.

  “I’d rather the entire town didn’t know what you’re doing here.” She spoke in the same soft voice she’d used inside the charming brick building even though the library sat atop a small hill a fair distance from the street.

  “I’m not planning to keep it a secret.”

  “You kept it from me last night,” she retorted.

  “That’s why I was apologizing.” He scratched the back of his neck when she didn’t respond, wondering what he could say to get her to understand. “In my defense, I didn’t know who you were when we made plans to get together.”

  “Oh, really?” Disbelief dripped from her voice.

  “Really. It was only when the bartender mentioned you were a doctor that I put it together.”

  “Is that when you decided to pull one over on me?”

  “If that’s what I was trying to do, why didn’t I grill you about your father?”

  The steel in her expression didn’t melt, not even a little. “That’s no excuse for not telling me you were a reporter.”

  He remembered how crestfallen she’d looked when her ex-boyfriend had entered the bar, prompting him to temporarily put aside his investigation. “I didn’t think it was the right time to tell you.”

  “You thought wrong,” she said.

  She turned from him and walked away from the library, toward the sidewalk that cut a swath through the mix of delightful old buildings and new storefronts that made up downtown Indigo Springs. Some of the trees had started to blossom, giving the air a floral scent. He fell into step beside her.

  “There are a few things you need to know before we go see my mother,” she announced without looking at him.

  “Shoot,” he said.

  “My parents grew up next door to each other. They were married for thirty-five years. My mother was devastated when my father died. She says she can’t remember a time she didn’t love him.”

  She fell silent as they maneuvered around a man in khaki shorts and hiking shoes taking a photo of a woman in front of a pretty stone building. When they were free of the pair, she pointed across the street to a lush green space shaded with tall trees. It boasted park benches, a children’s play area with wooden structures and an amphitheater set well back from the road.

  “That park is the one the town’s renaming for my father,” she said. “My mother’s very proud he’ll be honored in that way. The whole family is.”

  Ben had a better grasp of why the town was honoring Dr. Whitmore since going through recent issues of the Indigo Springs Gazette at the library. He’d found an article about the upcoming memorial that detailed the late doctor’s involvement in a staggering number of charitable causes and civic organizations.

  “I’m not trying to take anything away from your father’s memory,” he said gently. “I just want to figure out why somebody sent me that e-mail.”

  She angled her head and the sunlight caught the highlights in her brown hair. He glimpsed the warmth beneath her cool exterior and wished he could turn back the clock to last night. He considered apologizing again, but didn’t see how it would do any good.

  “Did you consider that whoever sent the e-mail had something against my father?” she asked in a clipped voice.

  “Did your father have enemies?”

  “Of course not.” Her response was too quick, immediately making him suspect she was hiding something. Calling her on it wouldn’t be wise, especially when he could find out who had disliked Dr. Whitmore in other way
s.

  He took the conversation in a different direction. “It sounds like your parents were well-established in town.”

  “They were,” she agreed.

  “Then why did your mother move away?”

  “She said the big house felt empty without my father,” she said. “Some of her friends already lived at the retirement community and convinced her to give it a try. It’s close enough she can come to town whenever she likes.”

  They were almost to the curb in front of Whitmore Family Practice, where he’d parked his car. “How long will it take us to drive there?”

  “Forty minutes, give or take.”

  “Your car or mine?”

  “Both.” She answered so quickly she must have already decided upon the driving arrangements. “I live in the next block, as you already know. My car is the gold Lexus. You can follow me.”

  She never stopped walking as she delivered the news, conveying her decision wasn’t open for discussion. She’d been just as clear about her refusal to accept his apology.

  He swallowed his disappointment, rationalizing it was a good thing she was unwilling to explore their mutual attraction.

  He’d come to Indigo Springs to unlock the mystery of his mother’s death. He couldn’t let anyone, especially someone with the last name of Whitmore, distract him from his goal.

  ROSEMARY WHITMORE straightened the pitcher of lemonade she’d set on the wicker table, sending the ice cubes clanking. She surveyed the tableau, then rearranged the tall glasses so they were equidistant from the pitcher.

  Once she was satisfied, she sat down on one of the chairs overlooking the third fairway of Mountain Village Estates’ eighteen-hole golf course. The community had been built with luxury in mind, from the well-appointed condos to amenities such as a health spa, tennis courts and swimming pool. Most days, she scheduled something to do, finding activity preferable to being alone with her thoughts.

  Today, however, she needed to think. To keep her wits about her. Within moments, she sprang back up again. Cookies. She could set out a plate of cookies.

  She took a pretty patterned dessert plate from a kitchen cabinet and positioned store-bought chocolate-chip cookies in an artful circle before heading back to the sunroom.

  “There,” she said aloud when the plate of cookies was adjacent to the lemonade. “Now I’m ready.”

  Except she’d never be completely prepared to face the reporter who was coming to ask about that poor woman who’d died at the Riverview Overlook.

  When Sierra called to tell her about him, she’d needed to sit down to steady herself. In the first few years after it happened, she expected someone to show up at the door of the house she’d shared with Ryan. The feeling of inevitability had gradually faded until she’d almost convinced herself she was paranoid.

  She couldn’t fathom why, after nineteen years had passed, someone was coming calling now.

  A piercing noise cut through the quiet of the place, making her jump. The doorbell. She heard the sound of the door opening, then Sierra’s voice. “Hello? Mother? We’re here.”

  Mentally scolding herself for being silly, Rosemary filled her lungs with air and exhaled slowly. Then she went to meet her guests, patting into place the blond hair she’d had styled the afternoon before.

  “Sierra, darling, it’s good to see you.” She greeted her daughter first, lightly embracing her and wishing they’d had a moment alone. She’d heard just this morning after church that Sierra—her Sierra!—had been kissing a mystery man in front of the Blue Haven Pub. Rosemary hoped that meant she’d finally gotten over Chad Armstrong breaking up with her, although Rosemary could understand why Sierra had been heartbroken. Both Rosemary and Ryan had thought Chad was perfect for her.

  “Mother, I’d like you to meet Ben Nash,” Sierra said when she stepped back from the embrace. “He’s the Pittsburgh Tribune reporter. Ben, this is my mother, Rosemary Whitmore.”

  She’d expected somebody unpleasant with intense, beady eyes, possibly wearing a trench coat and carrying a tape recorder. Ben Nash had none of those things. Tall and lean with a trace of a beard shadowing his strong, handsome face, Ben reminded her of her husband on those weekend mornings before he shaved. Ben’s hair was even the same shade of dark brown as her husband’s had been before he grayed. She blinked before she could tear up, reminding herself it was essential she keep up her guard.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Whitmore.” Ben stuck out his right hand and gripped hers with just the right amount of firmness.

  “Oh, please call me Rosemary.” She gestured behind her to the rear of the condo when they were through shaking hands. “Why don’t you come with me to the sunroom.”

  They reached the patio in moments, emphasizing how small the condo was in relation to the large house in Indigo Springs she’d vacated after Ryan died. Memories were funny things. They’d chased her from the house where she’d been so happy, yet she hadn’t been able to outrun them.

  She busied herself pouring lemonade from the pitcher. On the fairway, a golfer swung at a ball and hit nothing but air. She prayed she wouldn’t make a similar gaffe with Ben Nash.

  When she was through handing out drinks, she sat in one of the wicker chairs that flanked the table. “Sierra tells me you wanted to ask about my husband.”

  “That’s true.” Ben sat his lemonade down and scooted forward in his chair. “Specifically in relation to a woman named Allison Blaine.”

  “Oh, yes. Sierra reminded me she was that unfortunate tourist who fell from the Riverview Overlook.” As though Rosemary could ever forget. “A dreadful tragedy, that was.”

  “You remember her then?” he asked, a note of eagerness in his voice.

  “Not her in particular.” Careful, she warned herself. “I remembered hearing about her going missing.”

  “Hearing about?” He’d picked up on the pertinent words in her statement, just like she’d intended.

  “We were out of town at the time.” She began repeating the story she’d rehearsed. “If I’m remembering correctly, and I think I am, she died early in July. When our children were young, we went to the Jersey shore the first week of July every year. Isn’t that right, Sierra?”

  Her daughter nodded. “That’s right.”

  Sierra was holding herself even more stiffly than usual, almost as though she was afraid a part of her might brush against Ben Nash if she moved. Rosemary couldn’t afford to speculate on their relationship. She needed to keep her wits about her.

  “Do you know if your husband was acquainted with Allison Blaine?” Ben asked.

  “I don’t see how he could have been.” Rosemary made her eyes wide and innocent. “I already said we were on vacation when she died.”

  “She’d been in town for a week or two before then. Maybe he ran into her before you went on vacation.” Ben reached into his back pocket and pulled something out. “Would you look at this photo and tell me if she’s familiar to you?”

  Rosemary took the photo. Sadness swept over her at the sight of the pretty, brown-haired woman. “Of course she looks familiar.”

  Ben seemed to be holding his breath.

  “I remember seeing her photo in the Gazette.” Rosemary handed the photo back to him.

  Ben exhaled and frowned. “I was at the library this morning going through back issues and didn’t run across her picture.”

  “Are you sure?” Rosemary felt her smile waver. She’d been positive the weekly newspaper had run Allison Blaine’s photo.

  “Very sure.”

  “Well, there must be an explanation.” She smiled when she thought of one. “Oh, I know. There were flyers all over town when she was missing.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t in town when she died.”

  Ben Nash was sharp, yet she could be smarter. “We weren’t. Some of the flyers must have still been up when we returned.” She didn’t let her smile falter. “Can I ask what this is about?”

  “I told you on the pho
ne, Mother,” Sierra interrupted. “He’s an investigative reporter, talking to anyone who might have known her.”

  Rosemary took a dainty sip of lemonade, grateful for the cool slide of the liquid down her dry throat. Sierra had explained very little, certainly not why Ben Nash had decided to look into this particular story. Rosemary wasn’t about to ask and risk coming across as too curious. She composed a noninflammatory question. “Why did you even think she might have known my husband, Ben?”

  He glanced at Sierra and a meaningful look passed between them. What was that about? Rosemary wondered. “I’m thorough.”

  “He knows what a good man Daddy was,” Sierra blurted. Again her daughter and Ben Nash seemed to communicate without words. Rosemary almost gasped. Was this reporter the man Sierra had been kissing? Was she involved with him? As much as she wanted her daughter to move on with her life, that would not be good. “I told him about the park that’s going to be renamed for him.”

  “A wonderful thing, isn’t it?” Rosemary said. “And so well-deserved. Ryan was such a fine man, tirelessly working for the good of the community.”

  Even though she spoke the truth, she was possibly laying it on too thick. She stopped talking.

  “Let me ask you one more question, Mrs. Whitmore,” Ben said. “Is it possible your husband knew Ms. Blaine without you being aware of it?”

  “No, it’s not.” Rosemary was well versed about anything and everything that had concerned her late husband. They hadn’t kept secrets from each other. “Now is there anything else I can get you? Some cheese and crackers, perhaps?”

  Ryan hesitated. “No, thank you.”

  She knew perfectly well all he wanted was information that could conceivably ruin her husband’s good name, which was all she had left of him.

  He wouldn’t get it from her.

  SIERRA FOLLOWED the mountain road as it lost elevation, carefully maintaining the speed of her Lexus so she didn’t catch up to the convertible in front of her. The car was a metallic silver Chrysler Sebring, sleek but not flashy.