Rowe wondered what had become of Becky. Had she fled for fear of being found out by Mr. Baker?
“Juliet was so afraid,” Phoebe said, fingering the baby garments, her eyes liquid with sorrow. “I wonder what happened to her.”
“You don’t know?” Somehow Rowe had imagined that if Phoebe saw anything at all, she would automatically know the whole story.
“All I saw was a conversation. Then she came in here and hid a note.”
Rowe opened the cigar box. It was crammed with yellowing letters. She and Phoebe went through them, opening each one.
“Here it is.” Phoebe handed her a shred of paper.
Rowe scanned the contents that confirmed her guesswork. Verity Adams had known about Juliet’s condition and had played a role in covering up the birth. She had adopted the child as her own.
Fascinated, she picked up Juliet’s diary and leafed through to the final pages.
My time must surely come soon. I am big with child. This confinement is a blessing to the extent that I need no longer appear in morning attire, bursting my corsets.
I cannot be sure if my father suspects something is amiss. I have taken to my bed feigning feminine indisposition of a delicate nature. Becky cares for me. Praise God, the snow is too heavy for the doctor to attend uponme…
The diary entries ceased three weeks before her death. Rowe imagined a desperate young women creeping downstairs in the night to conceal her secrets in the recess behind the wood paneling. Was that why her ghost lingered in this room?
“Did you speak to her?” she asked Phoebe.
“No. That only seems to happen when I’m dreaming. If I connect this way, it’s like a vision. I see things through their eyes and feel what they feel.”
“That’s incredible.” If there was a rational explanation for this phenomenon, Rowe couldn’t think of one. In fact, she was all out of bright ideas to explain anything that went on in Dark Harbor Cottage.
With a sigh, Phoebe placed the letters she’d been reading back in the cigar box. “It’s strange. She’s my ancestor, and all of a sudden, I feel like I know her.”
“Well, you sure look like her.” Rowe opened the gold locket and handed it to Phoebe. “I guess that’s her mom.”
Phoebe stared down at the tiny sepia portrait. “She looks like one of those silent movie actresses… kind of a Louise Brooks.”
“Quite a gene pool.” Rowe said.
“What do you think really happened to Juliet?”
“Maybe she had postpartum depression.”
It could be that simple, Rowe thought. Maybe Juliet had been stricken with despair after giving away her baby and had walked out into the snow intent on death. Another possibility presented itself. Perhaps Juliet had set off for her kind neighbor’s home bent on seeing her baby, believing she was strong enough to make the distance. She could have fallen or simply passed out. Perhaps the terrible accident had occurred exactly as the newspapers reported it.
“I hope she comes to me in my dreams,” Phoebe said. “There’s so much I want to ask her.”
“No kidding.” Rowe collected Juliet’s hidden legacy into a small heap and mused, “Perhaps we’ve solved this. Perhaps she just wanted you to know who she is. I mean, you are her great-great-granddaughter.”
Phoebe gave her a hopeful smile. “You think she might be able to move on now?”
“Who knows. I’d love to be able to tell the paranormal crowd that I laid a ghost to rest all by myself. Talk about street cred.”
*
This was a bad idea, Rowe thought as she watched the second hand tick the night away. It was two a.m. and Phoebe lay sound asleep next to her. She had insisted on spending the night at Rowe’s cottage, convinced that Juliet would visit her dreams.
In the shadow world of night, her face glowed pale and serene against the pitch-black nimbus of her hair. Rowe studied the narrow, delicate features, the dark eyelashes fanned on her cheeks, the fullness of her mouth. Sometimes, in her sleep, Phoebe rolled onto her side, dropping an arm across Rowe’s torso and pressing her face into Rowe’s shoulder. She never seemed comfortable in that position for long and invariably abandoned it as if Rowe’s body were bumpy furniture taking up space in the bed.
Rowe supposed neither of them was used to sleeping with another person yet. She had no idea what she did in her own sleep. She probably snored and ground her teeth, and Phoebe was too kind to tell her. Taking care not to make the bed bounce, she stretched out, facing away from Phoebe to stare around the moonlit room.
Zoe and Jessie were sprawled on their dog beds, and Molly lay comatose on her back inside her crate, her fat puppy paws flopped over her round belly. Rowe smiled at the sight, happy that Phoebe had fallen in love with the little pug. Rowe had been lucky to find her. There were no puppies at the local pound or the rescue society. It was the wrong time of year. Calling around breeders, she’d chanced on one who had just had a puppy returned after its new owners were posted overseas. Mentioning her name had helped. The guy knew her books and was thrilled to sell one of his dogs to a so-called famous author.
The thought filled Rowe with gloom, and she twisted the heavy signet ring she now wore on her right pinky finger, Phoebe’s gift. Her contract discussions were on the brink of collapse and ugly litigation. She had a very simple choice—hand over her pitiful novel or give back half a million bucks. Her publisher was not willing to wait another year for her to write something decent. They wanted a new book now. Period.
“Throw them something,” Parker had pleaded on the phone last time they spoke. “Opening chapters and a synopsis. Show them you’re getting back on form.”
As if. Rowe had fobbed him off with some bullshit about a new idea she was developing. The last thing she needed right now was for her agent to dump her. But she was beginning to doubt she would ever write anything good again.
Lack of sleep was a big help, she chided herself, trying to clear her mind enough to drift off. She felt uneasy, as if something had stirred in the house and was on the prowl. Locking the bedroom door wasn’t going to keep the restless presence out, but she’d done so anyway.
Rowe decided she would call Dwayne and Earl the next morning. She was convinced that she and Phoebe had uncovered the reason Juliet haunted the ballroom. She must have wanted someone to know the truth about the baby. But what was the presence in the kitchen? Had they unwittingly disturbed it? Was it now patrolling the entire house seeking out sharp objects to hurl?
She closed her eyes and sent a message to whatever was lurking in the ether.
Don’t mess with me and I won’t mess with you.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Rowe stared out the window of Phoebe’s kitchen. “It’s landing in the meadow,” she said in a tone of disbelief.
Phoebe felt queasy watching a dark helicopter inch through the blizzard beyond the woods. “Maybe they’re trying to get out of the bad weather.”
“I think it’s a Black Hawk.” Rowe crossed to the back door and lifted her barn coat from its hook. “I’m going to go see. They might need help.”
“No, don’t. It’s probably my boss.”
Rowe gave her an odd look. “Do they normally send a chopper for you?”
“No, I fly to DC and they meet me at Dulles airport.” Phoebe couldn’t believe it. She’d only been home for a few weeks, and Vernell hadn’t called to let her know about a new case. Something urgent must have come up.
“I guess they couldn’t get over here the usual way.” Rowe vacillated in the hall. “The ferry’s not sailing.”
Lying in their customary spot on the rug in front of the wood stove, Molly curled between them, both Jessie and Zoe lifted their heads suddenly and sprang up, hair raised. Alpha to the bone, Jessie ran to the back door, growling and slavering like she had rabies.
Rowe gripped the yellow Lab’s collar and tried fruitlessly to calm her down. “This is weird.” She craned over her shoulder at Phoebe. “There are guys in the trees.”
Phoebe pictured the squads of trainees she saw running around in body armor every day while she was at Quantico. Vernell had probably brought a bunch of them along for a training exercise. With a sense of dread, she moved to Rowe’s side. It was hard to make out anything through the steadily falling snow, but she could see shadowy figures converging on the garden. Two men in long overcoats struggled along the pathway Rowe had dug out the day before. It had to be something big to drag Vernell out here when he was supposed to be on vacation, she decided. He didn’t look happy about it, either.
An authoritative knock shook the door, and as soon as Rowe had dragged Jessie into the den, Phoebe turned the handle. Vernell and a man she didn’t know stood on the back porch. The stranger signaled to some men farther back, and several advanced toward the house while others took up positions around the perimeter of the garden. They were not wearing the usual dark blue Quantico clothing but were in cold-weather gear and goggles.
Flinching at the icy wind, Phoebe said, “Quick. Come in,” and the two men stepped into the kitchen.
“You can close the door,” Vernell said when Phoebe hesitated.
“What about the others?” she asked, concerned to think of anyone standing around outdoors in below freezing weather.
“They’re on duty.”
“Poor guys. What a day for an exercise.”
Vernell made a noncommittal sound. He seemed uneasy. “Phoebe, this is Marvin Perry.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Ms. Temple.” The agent showed no signs of shaking hands. Instead his cold blue eyes were on Rowe, who was struggling to hang on to the dogs.
“This is my friend, Rowe Devlin.” Phoebe tried to say the word “friend” without inflection. She thought she caught a look of surprise on Vernell’s face, but nothing shifted in Marvin Perry’s expression.
“I’ll take the dogs to the front parlor,” Rowe said. “Looks like you’ll be tied up for a while, so I’ll catch up on some reading.”
Phoebe thanked her self-consciously, certain the two men had interpreted “friend” and now knew she was a lesbian. She steered them toward the den. “Please have a seat. Would you like some coffee?”
“Good idea.” Marvin Perry removed his coat. He was not as tall as Vernell but more solidly built and was casually dressed in black pants and turtleneck. His pants were tucked into snow boots, and he wore a gun in a shoulder holster.
Noting that Vernell had waited for the other agent’s cue before removing his own coat and gloves, Phoebe deduced that Marvin Perry must be higher ranked. She carried their heavy garments to the laundry and shook them free of snow, starting when a figure passed the window. Wiping the glass free of condensation, she peered out and was astounded to see men with guns clearing a path through her garden into the woods.
While she organized the refreshments, she could hear raised voices from the den but could not make out what was being said. Both agents fell silent as she returned, but the tension between them hung in the air. Phoebe set cream, sugar, and mugs on the coffee table and lifted the coffeepot from the stove.
Before she had a chance to ask his preference, Agent Perry said, “Black, thanks.”
He looked like a man who needed to be somewhere else, Phoebe observed. The toes of his boots moved up and down in tiny increments, driven by restless feet. A couple of his fingers tapped a silent Morse code on his thigh. The rest of his body was oddly still, his face impassive. He was handsome in a bland, clean-shaven kind of way, his hair nondescript light brown and cut short. It looked more fashionable than the typical FBI cut, like it was styled as opposed to barbered.
Wishing Rowe had stayed, Phoebe passed the coffees around and sat down in an armchair. “Well, I can see this isn’t a social call,” she said in an attempt to lighten the tension.
“I’m afraid not.” Vernell stared into his mug. “We need to talk.”
Phoebe stifled a sigh. She had been fantasizing about spending the rest of the week with Rowe, continuing their delicious explorations of the past days. Since their night at Dark Harbor Cottage, Rowe had stayed here. Phoebe had never been so happy in her life.
“What did the assistant director say about my suggestion?” she asked Vernell.
“Your situation is under review,” he said vaguely. “As of today, you’ve been seconded onto a multiagency project.”
“What does that mean?”
Marvin Perry’s eyes locked on her, not so much on her as through her. This surprised Phoebe. Most men stared at her the way zoo animals regarded their keepers at feeding time. “Good coffee,” he said.
Phoebe thanked him and yet again yearned for Rowe. It was amazing, she thought, that after such a short time she felt incomplete without her.
Pronouncing the words as if they tasted sour, Vernell said, “Phoebe, you need to come with us. You’ll be briefed fully later. Right now, we’re under some time pressure.”
“We can’t keep the chopper on the ground too long in these conditions,” Agent Perry elucidated in a silky tone.
“Of course.” Phoebe felt bad thinking about the men on the exercise. “Your guys must be freezing out there. They can come inside. Truly, I don’t mind.”
At this, something registered on Agent Perry’s face. He seemed amused, although it was impossible to tell. Perhaps he was attempting to channel a human emotion. It probably didn’t come easy to him.