Page 161 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

Molly’s eyes brightened at the game. “I’m Priscilla and I just came over on the Mayflower. You want to play?”

“I’d love to,” Becca said. She rummaged through the chest, her fingers remembering the feel of the rich silks and brocades. She itched to pull out her favorite blue dress. It had belonged to her great-great aunt, Mary Anne Baxter. The scent of lilacs wafted to her nose, and nostalgia took her in an almost painful grip.

She pushed away from the chest, her throat too full to speak. This had been a mistake. She stepped to the window and looked across Lake Superior. What was she doing here? It was ludicrous to think she could discover her parents’ killer by herself. She’d never succeeded at anything in her life, and this was too important to mess up.

Molly leaned her arms on the windowsill beside Becca. “I saw the boat explode. Right there,” Molly said, pointing. “It was scary and I cried.”

Becca closed her eyes. She’d seen that horrific day over and over in her imagination. A lump formed in her throat, and she had to swallow three times before she found the voice to speak. “One of your daddy’s boats?”

Molly’s eyes filled with tears. “My Auntie died on the boat. She was nice—my uncle too. I wish they could come back from heaven. My Gram cried too.”

The lump in Becca’s throat grew to gargantuan proportions. She felt hot and cold at the same time and suddenly claustrophobic.

“Your eyes are all red,” Molly said, wiping her face. “You don’t have to be sorry for me. My mommy had to go to heaven too, so I’m used to it.”

The little girl’s precociousness took Becca aback. Molly practically talked like an adult.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” Molly said, patting Becca’s hand.

Becca managed a smile. “You talk enough for both of us. I’m sorry about your mommy. I’m sure you miss her very much.”

“Daddy doesn’t,” Molly said, her smile dimming.

Becca’s own smile faltered. Maybe the rumors were true about Max getting rid of Laura. “I’m sure he misses her too,” she said lamely.

Molly shook her head. “He said she was a witch. Is that like the Windigo? I didn’t want to ask Daddy because his face scrunches up and he gets mad when I talk about her.”

Right then and there Becca decided her first impression of Max was right on target. He was a bully and quite possibly a murderer. “Are you sure that’s what your daddy said?”

Molly nodded. “I heard him talking to Uncle Nick.”

At least he had enough sense not to speak ill of the child’s mother to her face. Becca’s ire cooled a bit. “He was probably just upset.” She ran her hand over the little girl’s hair, and Molly relaxed into the caress.

“Mommy used to braid my hair,” she said. “Daddy’s not very good at fixing it.”

“You look pretty,” Becca told her. “But anytime you need some help, you come to my room.”

“You’re nice,” Molly said. “I hope you stay forever.”

Becca’s conscience smote her. Molly didn’t deserve to get close to someone else and have them disappear. She should make sure to keep her distance from the little girl in the next few weeks.

She glanced at her watch. “Looks like we might have time to fix your hair before dinner. Want to come to my room?”

“Okay.” Molly lowered her voice. “Just don’t tell Daddy we were up here.”

Even as she agreed to keep the little girl’s secret, Becca wondered why Max objected to Molly’s harmless excursions to the attic. Maybe there was something incriminating up here. She’d have to nose around.

Becca braidedMolly’s hair then the little girl chattered away while Becca looked through the dresser drawers. Becca found herself wiping away tears when she smelled the lilac sachetamong the linen. It brought back poignant memories of her childhood.

When six o’clock came, she was eager to meet the rest of the residents of Windigo Manor. One of them had killed her parents.

Unobserved for a few moments, Becca stood in the door to the dining room and felt the years slip away. The large dining room displayed an elegance she’d forgotten. A damask tablecloth covered the large, rectangular table, and real silver tableware lay at each place setting. A massive centerpiece of flowers graced the center, and a walnut cart laden with silver chafing dishes stood ready along the wall.

Her gaze lingered on a tall, dark-haired man. He had to be Nick Andrews, Max’s half-brother, though his mouth lacked the stern lines of his older brother. His eyes held a hint of merriment Becca doubted she’d ever see on Max’s face.

He turned and saw her. “You must be Becca, Max’s new draft horse, though I must say you’re much prettier than I expected.”

At least he didn’t remark on her height like his brother. Becca smiled and stepped into the room, her hand reaching out to take his outstretched one. “You must be Nick.”

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