Lois Richer - Secrets Of The Rose

Was this woman trying to smear Grant’s reputation? Would that help her find Aimee? Shelby hated her sudden suspicion of everyone, of every situation. Grant would never have endangered her or Aimee. Never.

If Aimee was all right, then she was being held by someone. But there had been no ransom request. Nothing made sense. Who would steal a child from her home, from the mother who loved her beyond anything else in the world, for no reason?

“I can’t imagine what any of Grant’s work would have to do with Aimee’s abduction. And remember, my husband died ten months ago. Why wait this long?” She saw Natalie’s lips part and realized she was wasting time by arguing. “Never mind. Whatever you want to know, I’ll tell you.”

“Just tell me what you can recall.”

Shelby thought for a moment, organizing the bits of information her brain had retained.

“I never knew exactly what my husband was trying to recover. I was busy, working my own cases. When we were home, we deliberately focused on each other and our child, not on work. I do remember that Grant said his client was an older woman—over ninety, I think.” Was that what he’d said? Shelby reconsidered. “Or maybe the client hired him to find someone over ninety. Anyway, age was one reason why he wanted to conclude his investigation quickly.”

She reached toward the phone.

“I’m afraid I don’t know the client’s name offhand, but I can find out if you must know. Though I can hardly imagine she’d be a threat.”

Natalie frowned, shook her head.

“No. You’re probably right, a woman that old wouldn’t be involved in kidnapping. Perhaps something else connected with the business then? Some new client whom you’ve offended in some way?” she asked hopefully.

Shelby shook her head.

“Not me. Since Grant’s death, I haven’t even gone in to the office. Daniel, that’s Daniel McCullough, is in charge now. He was one of our operatives, but he’d ceased most of his fieldwork and begun to fill a role as coordinator when the business grew too much for Grant and I. Since Grant’s—well, lately Daniel’s been handling everything. If you want to know about other clients, you’d have to talk to him.”

“Okay. I’ll call him later. He’s trustworthy?”

“Completely.” At least there Shelby had no hesitation.

“Good. Now, I have more questions for you.”

Shelby rose, her mind moving into the automatic mode it would have used if this had been someone else’s child she’d been hired to find.

“Yes. You’ll want a picture, of course.” She started toward the door, but was prevented from moving by a firm hand on her arm.

“It’s okay, Shelby. We already have one. Your neighbor came over a few minutes ago. He woke up, saw the cars and was worried about you. He found a photo of himself and Aimee. We’re using that. For now.”

There was a look on Natalie’s face that Shelby didn’t understand.

“Tim? Tim is here?” She looked around, then realized that they would keep him away from her until they had all their answers. “Thank you, Lord, for Tim.”

“How well do you know Tim Austen, Shelby?”

Some flicker in the detective’s midnight-blue eyes added a waver of unease to the moment. Shelby frowned. There was something suspicious in her question.

“How well?” She shrugged. “As well as I know most people. Better, actually. He’s lived next door for about six months. No, maybe it’s been longer than that.” She drew a hand through her mussed-up hair and realized she hadn’t combed it, hadn’t yet showered. As if that mattered.

“I don’t remember exactly when Tim bought the house. But he never knew Grant. He came after that.” She smiled. “Aimee loves Tim. And he loves her. Tim often used to watch her playing while I was busy arranging details for the garden.”

“The garden?” Natalie stood at the window, her eyes on the newly tilled earth beyond the windows.

Shelby sucked in a breath of courage. Rehashing all these details seemed futile to her, but she supposed the police had to start somewhere.

“The rose garden. Yes.” She walked to the doors, pulled them open and motioned to the area beyond. “My husband loved roses. This was his garden. I’m working on plans to make this house and its grounds a public attraction, as a sort of memorial to him. He’d want to share the beauty he and Gran planned. Grant was my grandmother’s soul mate when it came to roses.” She couldn’t help the little smile that bubbled up at the memories.

Natalie scribbled in her book.

“The two of them had this saying: ‘The secrets of the rose can teach you about life.’” Clear as a bell, she heard Grant’s voice repeating the familiar phrase, his hands grimy with soil, face flushed from the sun, his grin radiant. He was so real in that moment, she could have believed he was standing there.

Then, like a mirage, the image dissipated, and she was alone.

Again.

Shelby swallowed, stared at the bush nearest the doors, the last one Grant had planted. Deep Secret he’d named it.

“Anyway, that’s my plan,” she murmured. “Aimee and I don’t need all this room.” Not anymore. Not with just the two of them.

Or would there now be only one person living in her grandmother’s home? She pushed away the ugly thought, concentrated on the detective. “Anything else you need to know?”

“You grew up in this house?” Natalie Brazier seemed surprised.

“With my grandmother, yes. My parents died when I was young. Gran took me in, cared for me, loved me. She helped erase—” Just in time Shelby stopped herself. There was no point in rehashing her childhood. “I was a researcher. This was home base. She told me it would always be mine. That was after I’d come back from Istanbul. I was hired to retrieve a painting for a museum. I met Grant in Istanbul.”

Shelby watched the men moving methodically across her lawn, knew they were police, scouring the ground for any clue they might find.

“Look, none of that past history matters, does it? I just want to find my daughter.” Her arms ached to hold that squirming little body, to feel those pudgy hands cup her face, kiss her cheek with a sticky sweetness that mere water couldn’t wash away. Would she ever feel that again?

“We’re trying, Shelby. Humor me, will you?”

As if she had a choice? Shelby let her glance slide around the room, felt a stab of anguish when it came upon the Christmas portrait they’d had taken the summer before, while the roses still bloomed. Aimee, beautiful beyond description in her white fairy-princess dress, as she called it. Grant, brown and fit from that trip to Greece, with his arms around “his girls.” Herself, grinning, blissfully happy, totally unaware her world would soon shatter. In the weeks and months that followed, Aimee was the reason she’d hung on, kept it together. The Christmas cards with the picture sat in the basement yet, still boxed, never to be sent. But this one photo she kept up here. It helped ease the loss of Grant somehow, helped her remember to be grateful she had his child to love.

Aimee. Her baby. If Aimee didn’t come home…Fear for her beloved girl clawed at her. She was so tiny, so innocent. Shelby’s heart shuddered. She could no more stop her tears than the rush of love that welled up inside her.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized over and over, “I can’t seem to stop crying.”

“You go ahead and cry if you want. Believe me, I understand.” Obviously uncomfortable, Natalie got up, walked around the room. “This is an interesting old house. How many rooms are there?”

“H-how many rooms?” Shelby considered it a most dubious inquiry to make at this particular time and began to wonder about Natalie’s experience in cases such as this. Shelby’s patience was running short, she wanted action. “I don’t know how many rooms there are. I never counted them.”