Scarlet Vows

One more ghost to prod his conscience.

He’d awakened hours later, alone and cramped, inside his car, sand all over his clothing. His keys had dangled from the ignition. If it hadn’t been for the lingering scent and taste of her, he would have told himself he dreamed the entire scene.

Guilt had been his harsh companion driving through the empty streets that morning. He had showered and changed, returning to the diner as soon as he could get away without complicated explanations.

If he lived to be a million he would never forget the smile of her greeting, or the way it had withered and died when he’d sputtered out an apology.

Brianna Dudley had haunted him for four years and he hadn’t realized how much until just now. He stared at the murky horizon and tried to force his stiff muscles to relax.

“You should take off your shoes.”

“What?” Drew looked down and found a small boy staring up at him.

“If you’re going walking on the beach you should take off your shoes. Otherwise they get sand in them and they feel yucky.”

The boy pushed at the bridge of his wire-framed glasses and regarded Drew solemnly.

“Yucky, huh? Isn’t the sand hot on your feet?”

The boy nodded.

“Then I guess I won’t walk down there after all.” Not even if the urge to see if that dune was still there was eating a hole inside him. The dune was probably gone, anyhow, or at least changed beyond recognition. And even if he recognized it, so what? He couldn’t undo the past.

But maybe he could find out why the present hadn’t changed. Maybe instead of a walk on the beach, he’d take a walk up the hill to where the clapboard houses sat like little boxes. If he was going to run for mayor he should see how his constituents on this side of town were coping with their lives.

Chapter Three

Reflected in the late afternoon haze, the houses appeared shabbier than he remembered, the neighborhood more run-down. The narrow cobblestone street was in bad need of repair. Yet flowers bloomed, even though most had a wilted look, as if they, too, struggled to survive.

Drapes were drawn tightly, doors and windows shut against the heat, adding to the neglected air. Even the noisy hum of window air conditioners didn’t detract from the deserted appearance. The late afternoon sun baked the neighborhood without the faintest whiff of a breeze.

Drew paused beneath the drooping leaves of a tall, gnarled tree that rose from the withered ground at the curb of the only house sporting open doors and windows. More weeds than grass covered the ratty lawn, while scraggly, misshapen bushes hid the peeling paint that covered the front porch with its sagging steps and broken railing. Brianna’s house. Or it had been. Did she and her mother still live here?

A group of young children in bathing suits suddenly erupted around the corner. Squeals split the depressing silence.

Rooted to the spot, Drew watched as the group clattered noisily up the steps. The screen door opened and a woman who could have been Brianna’s twin sister stepped outside. Only, Brianna didn’t have a twin sister. She also didn’t have a daughter, but the tiny little redheaded urchin leading the pack was definitely related.

The woman bent down and laughed at something the child said. She wiped at a smudge of dirt with a motherlike flick of her thumb. The resemblance between the three was extraordinary.

Did they share the same intriguing spray of freckles across their faces?

The miniature Brianna threw her arms around the woman’s neck while the other four children chattered excitedly. High-pitched giggles completely destroyed the gloomy silence of the neighborhood. As the woman ushered the group inside, her gaze came to rest on him.

Now that he saw her features more clearly, he recognized Pamela Dudley. Old enough to be Brie’s mother, she was also young enough to have a three-or four-year-old daughter, he realized. The man he’d seen with Brie yesterday must have been her father.

Pleased at that thought, he became aware that the woman continued to stare at him. Exactly the sort of protective look a mother might give a stranger out of place in her neighborhood and paying too much attention to her child.

He offered her a friendly nod and started walking, trying to look casual. Great. She probably thought he was a child molester. He should have gone over and introduced himself.

As what? Her daughter’s first lover? The man who would be mayor? Drew lengthened his stride. He should have gone walking on the beach, after all. He only hoped Pamela Dudley didn’t call the police. He’d spent enough time with the forces of law and order yesterday.

Detective Cullen Ryan had been thorough. Ursula Manning was dead. Accident or not, Ryan needed to determine who had fired the fatal shots and why the woman had been there in the first place. Drew had had to curb his temper more than once as he answered questions repeatedly. He had never even met the woman. But he understood Ryan’s frustration. The man was a good cop and he had a job to do.

What had the woman been doing there?

Drew slowed his pace as he approached the corner where the crumbling brick strip club, Girls! Girls! and the Wharf Rat bar, shadowed the narrow sidewalk. This was not the greatest neighborhood to be raising a child. All sorts of unsavory types hung out down here.

When a figure suddenly stepped from the shadows of the bar, Drew’s heart jumped, even as he recognized Leland Manning. At least those rumors of Manning being a vampire weren’t true. Drew had seen him in daylight twice now, though both times those eerily cold eyes seemed to burn right through him.

“Dr. Manning,” he greeted. “I didn’t have an opportunity to offer my condolences yesterday. I really wish I could have reached your wife in time.”

Drew stopped, stunned by the malice in those deep-set eyes. In that instant, Drew had no trouble believing there was something unearthly about Leland Manning.

“You’ll pay,” Manning said coldly. “I’ll see to it.”

“Hey, I didn’t kill your wife,” Drew protested.

Manning strode past. Only then did Drew notice Jake Carpenter, co-owner of Wheels, standing on the sidewalk a few feet away.

“I was there yesterday,” the ex-marine said gruffly. “Damn fool thing, running out there like that. Only luck kept you from getting shot, too.”

“Tell it to Manning,” Drew said ruefully.

“Don’t think that dude’s of a mind to listen.” Jake gazed after Manning and his features puckered into a frown. Drew found his own heart thudding unevenly. Manning had vanished.

The men exchanged uneasy looks. Manning could have stepped into one of the shops lining the street, but it seemed unlikely given the nature of those establishments. Come to think of it, why would a grieving widower be in this neighborhood the day after his wife’s death?

“Guy’s weird,” Jake muttered.

Privately, Drew agreed. He didn’t know Manning, though his Uncle Geoff did.

“Hard to picture someone like him married to a woman like Ursula Manning.”

Drew rubbed his jaw, nodding in agreement. He still expected Manning to step out of one of the shops.

“Cops know what she was doin’ there?” Jake asked conversationally.

Drew turned his attention back to the beefy biker. “If they do, they aren’t saying.”

But Ursula Manning had been scared. Drew had seen her look toward the line of trees right before she fell. David Bryson had been lurking in those trees only a short time earlier—a fact Drew had been only too happy to share with the police.

So had Leland Manning.

“At least ballistics will show who fired the fatal shots,” Jake said. “That should change Manning’s attitude.”

“Hopefully.” While all the weapons had been confiscated for testing, in the confusion immediately following the shooting, things had been pretty muddled. It was possible the police had missed a gun or two.

“Understand Manning’s wife was a nature photographer from Salem,” Jake said thoughtfully. “Guess that might explain what she was doing in the woods, but you have to wonder what made her climb a clearly posted fence that way. She must have heard the gunfire.”