Irene Brand - The Sound of Secrets

Rissa took a last look in the mirror, satisfied with her appearance. She loved the old-world feel of her newest outfit—a long, black velvet tuxedo jacket and pants complemented by a frilly, open-necked white cotton blouse. She put on a pair of black-and-white leather-and-suede flats and pulled her long, curly black hair behind her left ear, fastening it securely with a silver clip.

Hoping that the newest family revelation would be handled by the time she arrived at her Maine home, Rissa locked the door behind her and took an elevator to the parking area in the basement. She ran her hands approvingly along the side of the sleek, navy-blue Porsche that she’d bought over a year ago. Except for Portia, who never questioned anything Rissa did, the family hadn’t hesitated to give an opinion that she was foolish to spend so much money on a car that she seldom used. No one knew better than Rissa that getting around in the city was best done by subway, but when she wanted to go outside the city, she liked the freedom of owning her own car.

Hoping she wouldn’t have to be away more than a week, Rissa pulled out of the garage and began her journey. Because she preferred to travel at night, long after rush hour, once on the interstate, the trip to Stoneley would pass quickly. After she started northeast and was out of the heaviest city traffic, Rissa inserted a CD containing the theme music of her off-Broadway play, Memories of the Past, which had become a smash hit. The miles passed quickly as she listened to the musical scores and plotted her next play.

Daylight found Rissa within fifty miles of her destination, and she reveled in the beauty of the quiet countryside. A misty sunrise highlighted the villages where powerboats were leaving secluded harbors for the turbulent fishing waters of the Atlantic. A solid mass of spruce trees crowned the bluffs to the west. When she passed through marshlands, black ducks and green herons took wing at her approach.

In spite of her love for the city, a thrill of pride in her native state swelled in Rissa’s heart. The coast of Maine was rugged, powerful and breathtaking. God must have given an extra portion of His time to this area when He created the world.

Rissa hadn’t told her family that she was making a night drive to Stoneley, so when she was within twenty miles of home, she pulled into a rest stop to call them. Her oldest sister, Miranda, answered the phone.

“Good morning,” Rissa said. “I’ll be home in a half hour. You can warn Andre that I haven’t had any breakfast!”

“Rissa! You surely didn’t drive all that way alone, and at night! It isn’t safe,” Miranda said, giving her usual unsolicited advice—as she always did—to her younger siblings.

“But I made it!”

She had expected a long lecture on the subject, but Miranda said, “We haven’t had breakfast yet. Something terrible happened here last night. Be careful!”

Rissa held the phone away from her ear. Miranda had hung up on her! What could possibly be wrong at Blanchard Manor to cause her always socially correct sister to be rude? She had hoped that this short visit would be more peaceful than previous ones, such as when her family had been under suspicion in the murder of Garrett McGraw, a private detective her sister Bianca had hired to learn about their mother’s death. Sensing that wouldn’t be the case, Rissa sighed, joined the flow of traffic on the highway and headed for home.

Despite the sadness that had infiltrated the house as long as Rissa could remember, her heart swelled when Blanchard Manor came into view. She gazed fondly upward at the huge stone mansion with its castlelike facade, though she dreaded what new trouble had descended upon the Blanchard family.

Rissa punched in the security code at the gate and started toward the house.

Aunt Winnie, her father’s sister—the only mother Rissa could remember—never failed to be standing on the small porch, waiting expectantly when she returned home. Aunt Winnie was waiting, but she wasn’t her neat, usual self. She still wore her pajamas and robe, and her hair obviously hadn’t been combed since she’d gotten out of bed.

Instead of driving to the six-car garage at the side of the house, Rissa swung her Porsche into the circular drive and stopped abruptly. Leaving the door ajar, she ran toward her aunt as Miranda and Portia stepped into view, leaving the huge, wooden stained-glass door open.

“What’s happened?” she asked.

“Come inside, dear,” Winnie said as she leaned forward to kiss Rissa’s cheek. Rissa’s shoes clacked noisily on the marble-floored foyer. Inside the spacious hallway, her eyes were drawn toward the walnut staircase supported by heavy, ornate balustrades—a sight that had welcomed visitors to Blanchard Manor for years.

With an anxious glance at Ronald’s office, Winnie motioned toward the room to the right of the hallway.

“Let’s go to the living room,” she murmured, and they walked quietly into the room that hadn’t changed much in appearance since Rissa could remember.

Her sisters and Aunt Winnie sat on the twin settees grouped around a large coffee table.

“What’s happened?” she repeated when the door closed behind them.

Winnie motioned for Rissa to sit beside her.

“I’ve been sitting all night,” Rissa said, leaning against the closed door. “I’ll stand for a while. Don’t keep me in suspense—what’s wrong?”

“There was a terrible scene in the gazebo last night,” Miranda said.

“Terrible? What do you mean? Has someone else been killed?” Rissa demanded, irritated that they seemed to be beating around the bush.

“I don’t think so,” Portia answered. “We couldn’t see in the dark, but I checked as soon as daylight came. There wasn’t a body in the gazebo. The woman must have gotten away.”

“It happened about midnight,” Winnie said. “Ronald was in the gazebo with a woman. He shouted at the top of his lungs and woke the entire household. There must have been a terrible argument. I don’t suppose anybody slept after that.”

“Another woman? What’s happened to Alannah, his latest flame?”

With a disgusted sniff, Miranda said, “Oh, she’s still around, unfortunately. This definitely wasn’t a romantic tryst.”

“That’s right. He threatened the woman’s life if she shows up here again,” Portia said. “Father didn’t come upstairs after that, but spent the night in his office.”

A disturbing thought popped into Rissa’s head and fearful images built in her mind. “But he is all right, isn’t he?” she asked hesitantly.

“I’ve listened at the keyhole a few times,” Miranda answered. “He’s muttering and pacing the floor like a madman, and it sounds like he’s kicking the furniture when it’s in his way.”

Was her father deranged, too? Her mother had experienced serious postpartum depression. Now that Rissa’s psychiatrist had prescribed an antidepressant for her, Rissa feared that she had inherited her mother’s instability.

What if her father’s mind was also unbalanced? Dr. Pearson, her psychiatrist, had assured Rissa that she had only a mild case of clinical depression and had prescribed a low dose of antidepressants to combat her symptoms. But recalling some of Ronald’s temper displays, and his uncaring attitude toward his six daughters, she wondered if her condition was worse than the psychiatrist had diagnosed. And her grandfather, Howard, had Alzheimer’s. What chance did she have against such odds? Would she eventually lose her mind?

Rissa had chosen a Christian psychiatrist, one who counseled her patients with Biblical teachings along with traditional treatment. During the therapy sessions, Rissa often felt as if she were a child again in her Sunday school class at Unity Christian Church. Upon Dr. Pearson’s advice, Rissa had memorized a few Bible verses that she called to mind anytime she became depressed. The doctor had insisted that a daily dose of Scripture would be an added benefit to her medication.