Roark Page 3

  Even Aunt Birdie stood from where she’d been seated and made her way over to stand right behind his chair. “You knew, and you didn’t tell any of us,” she said. “You’d better have a damn good reason why.”

  Suri was shaking her head. “There is no good reason. You had no right!” Her voice went from almost cracking with grief to yelling with rage in about three seconds, and Ridge got up and moved next to her.

  “We’re entitled to any and all information regarding our mum, Roark. You should’ve told us.” Ridge wasn’t any happier than Suri was at this moment—which Roark had expected—but he wasn’t yelling. At least not yet.

  “I didn’t want to upset you more than was necessary.” It was the only excuse he had.

  Roark hated the pain etched on his siblings’ faces. Ridge had the darker complexion of their father, his long locs pulled and twisted into some intricate design that left them hanging neatly down his back. He was only an inch shorter than Roark and stood with an arm around Suri’s shoulder.

  Suri leaned into Ridge, her arms folded across her chest. She was the mirror-image of their mother, except her flair for making a bold fashion statement no matter what she wore and her love of makeup. Today, her hair was styled in a very neat bun, her lips were ruby-red, and the black-and-white checkered pantsuit she wore fit her small frame perfectly.

  “This has been extremely difficult for all of us. I wanted to get all the facts first before I came to you with this.” He still believed that had been the right move, even though the two of them were staring at him as if his words had floated into oblivion.

  Aunt Birdie poked him in the shoulder. “Well, cat’s outta the bag now. Tell us what you know.”

  Roark glanced over his shoulder at his aunt and met her steady gaze. She wore black today as well, with some type of silver wrap. Her gray-streaked hair was styled and hung straight to her jaw. “From the start, the firefighters believed the fire was intentionally set. But they have to follow protocols in their investigation, so we did the next best thing and had the autopsy expedited.” He was still leaving out bits and pieces, but he suspected they just wanted him to get to the point.

  “Who is ‘we’?” Ridge asked.

  Roark met his brother’s gaze. “Cade, Linc and I.”

  “Oh, so our cousins get to know what’s going on with our mum’s death, but we don’t.” Ridge didn’t hold back the heat in his tone, and Roark couldn’t really say he blamed him.

  That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to hold steady to his reasoning. “Yes. You know that as an FBI agent, Cade has access to people who can dig into things quickly and quietly. Linc was there the day the Station Officer from the Fire Brigade shared some of their preliminary findings, so he was automatically in the loop.”

  “And you couldn’t pick up a phone and call us? We couldn’t be looped in?” Suri shook her head, her lips thinning as Roark knew she was doing her best not to cuss him out in front of Aunt Birdie.

  “Not a smart move,” Aunt Birdie said. “But what’s done is done. What did the report say?”

  Roark stood then. He was tired of everyone looking down on him as if he were in the hot seat. Well, he technically was, but he didn’t have to act like it. “She was alive when the fire was started.” He said those words quickly, because no matter how many times he’d read them, or saw the typed words on the report in his mind, he still hadn’t come to terms with them. “There was smoke in her lungs.” He cleared his throat and pushed on. “There was a drug in her system.”

  “A drug?” Suri asked.

  “Succinylcholine. It’s like a powerful muscle relaxant. So, she laid in her bed, wide awake, while her room and the ones closest to her were set on fire.” There, he’d said it out loud. Somebody had killed his mother, and Roark had no idea why.

  Tears were already running down Suri’s face as Ridge held her closer, his lips drawn in a tight line. Even Aunt Birdie was silent.

  Francois hadn’t spoken in the last few minutes but now walked around his desk and came to stand in front of them. “A detective by the name of Gibbons, who works in the Major Investigation Unit of the Metropolitan Police Department, called the office yesterday. As I’m not in the criminal division of our firm, I didn’t take the call, but the message was passed on to me because of our appointment today. The detective wishes to speak to each of you about your mother’s death. You are, of course, not advised to talk to anyone without legal counsel.” Again, the solicitor’s words were delivered in a very dour tone as he folded his hands in front of him.

  “Oh, my stars. They’re suspects.” Aunt Birdie stepped closer to Francois. “You’re saying my nephews and niece are suspected of killing their mother? Of drugging her and burning her in her bed? I’ve never heard anything more preposterous in my life. We’re Donovans! We’re dedicated to family above all else. You and this detective are out of your damn minds!”

  Roark moved to place a hand on his aunt’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Aunt Birdie. I’ll handle this.” He didn’t look back at Ridge and Suri. He kept his hand on his aunt and stared Francois directly in the eye. “We’ll make statements regarding our whereabouts at the time of the fire, and that’s it. I’ll contact Edward Burrows in your criminal department, and he can have those statements notarized and submit them to the detective. That’ll be the extent of our cooperation with the MPD.”

  Francois acknowledged Roark’s words with a stiff nod.

  “As for the will and the estate, send me, my brother and sister a copy. We’ll handle whatever’s necessary and let you know if we have any difficulty. Now, we’re leaving.” Roark guided Aunt Birdie toward the door, hoping his siblings would follow.

  They did, and once outside the solicitor’s office, they watched as Roark helped Aunt Birdie into the back seat of the car waiting at the curb for them.

  “We’re not finished.” Suri wasn’t going to let this go easily. “I’m beyond pissed at you for keeping this from us, and I know you have more answers than what you just gave in there.”

  “She’s right,” Ridge added. “We’ll meet at your place tonight to discuss.”

  Roark only nodded his agreement. There was no use in arguing with them on the street. He wasn’t going to apologize for doing what he’d thought was right to protect them. He’d been doing so all their lives and he wasn’t going to stop now, no matter how bent out of shape they were about it.

  Chapter 3

  Painswick

  Gloucestershire, England

  “Dammit!” Tamika ran to the stove, pulled on oven mitts and moved the large pot of sauce to one of the back burners. She turned off the burner she’d had on high heat—hence the reason her meatballs and sauce were bubbling. Well, that wasn’t the only reason. If she hadn’t been focusing on the right words to put in the text message she was sending, she would’ve remembered to keep her mind on her food.

  While the mitts were on, she pulled open the over door and eased the shelf out midway. She almost sighed as the aroma of the fresh bread hit her nostrils. It needed a few more minutes to get that golden brown on top, and then she could take it out. After putting it back and closing the oven, she moved to the counter and picked up her phone.

  Of course, there was no response yet. It was silly to think he would’ve responded so soon. Especially since he’d been ignoring her for the last week.

  “She won’t eat a thing,” Tuppence, the housekeeper said when she entered the kitchen. “For weeks, I used money from the house account to pay for one of those meal services. She never ate any of it.”

  Because the food was probably nasty.

  Tamika didn’t say that aloud and she went to the stove so Tuppence couldn’t see the face she made to go with her thoughts. “My mother taught me how to cook. My grandmother taught her. She’ll eat this spaghetti and meatballs. It was my Dad’s favorite.”

  Again, she left out what she was really thinking. Her mother was going to eat this spaghetti, even if Tamika had to stuff each forkful into her
mouth.

  Sandra Rayder had lost forty pounds in the last year so that her once-toned build now appeared gaunt and wiry. Legs that used to walk unflinchingly on five-inch heels barely held her small frame upright when Tamika had insisted she get out of bed and walk into the bathroom for her shower. Her mother wasn’t sick, at least not physically. Sandra was heartbroken and depressed, and while Tamika knew she couldn’t feed her mother out of either of those conditions, she was hopeful that leaving her apartment in Alexandria, Virginia to come to the English countryside would make a difference.

  Tamika was still trying to convince herself that was her main reason for coming here.

  “Thank you for all your hard work, Tuppence. I’m glad she’s had you this past year.”

  Tuppence, the five-foot-tall woman with low-cut gray curls on her head, umber complexion and robust demeanor, had kept this house going for the last fifteen years Tamika’s parents had owned it. The lovely four-bedroom cottage situated in the Golden Valley area of town had been a twentieth wedding anniversary present from Tamika’s father to her mother. Up until last year, the Rayders had come once a year for three weeks to vacation here. The remaining time, the rooms had been rented, the money going into the Rayders’ retirement fund. That, in addition to the money from her father’s pension and life insurance, was what her mother was living off.

  “It’s my job.” Her tone was curt as always, and heavily tinged with a British accent. “It’s also good that you came. She needs you.” And you should’ve been here before now. Those were the words Tuppence left out.

  It didn’t matter whether they were stated or implied, Tamika already knew, and she’d berated herself enough for that knowledge. But there’d been a much more important reason for her to remain in Alexandria after her mother had decided to leave.

  “How long will you stay?” The housekeeper’s movements were as brisk as her tone. Every part of the large, country-themed kitchen was hers, and everything she did was to highlight that fact. Like now—she opened a cabinet and pulled out the colander Tamika was going to need in about five minutes when it was time to remove the noodles from the boiling water.

  “Not sure yet.” It was a lie, but then again, it wasn’t. She accepted the metal colander and switched off the burner beneath the pot of boiling water.

  Tamika had been meaning to visit her mother in the last year but hadn’t found the time. She should’ve made the time and perhaps she would have if she’d known how serious her mother’s condition was. Luckily for them both, the insurance company where Tamika worked had decided she needed a very long vacation—or rather, a permanent one.

  “You should make the time to be with her. Your father’s death hit her hard. Never seen two people so much in love.” Tuppence picked up a cloth, went to the sink and turned on the water to wet it. She moved to the counters, wiping them down with a vicious and efficient rhythm. All the while telling Tamika exactly what she thought, without having to be asked. “It’s hard when a part of you is gone. I know, because my Jon left me ten years ago.” “Oh, I’m sorry, Tuppence. I didn’t know your husband passed away.” To be honest, Tamika didn’t know a lot about the woman, because she wasn’t as in love with this place as her parents had been. This was only the third time she’d been to England.

  Tuppence shook her head. “That fool’s not dead. He left me for a young spit of a girl, and I hope he rots in the bowels of hell for it. Still, in those first few months he was gone, I missed him horribly.”

  Tamika turned her head from the steam rising up from the noodles she’d just emptied into the colander and gawked at Tuppence. “You missed him after he left you?”

  The housekeeper shrugged. “Sounds silly, but there it is. Love works in all kinds of ways nobody understands. Anyway, your mother is missing her husband, her best friend.”

  “She’s staying in her bedroom all day and night, not eating, not talking to anyone but you. That’s not healthy.” And it was scary.

  Tuppence continued to shuffle about. “No. It’s not. But it’s part of the process.”

  “What process is that?”

  “The grieving process. Everybody goes through it differently.”

  Tamika rinsed the noodles and went back to the stove to dump them into the pot with the meatballs and sauce. The last thing she wanted to hear about was the grieving process. Her father had died in a fire at his office thirteen months ago. She wasn’t grieving, she was pissed off.

  “You’re in denial,” Tuppence said.

  “I’m trying to fix this dinner so Mama and I can watch Black Panther. I can’t believe she’s never seen it before.”

  Tuppence didn’t say another word as she continued to clean the kitchen. The silence was golden, and Tamika finished mixing the food. She eased the bread out of the oven and buttered the top before slicing it and added those slices to a small woven bowl.

  Tuppence came up behind her, reached around and set two plates on the counter before walking away, still not saying anything else. Tamika filled the plates with the spaghetti and meatballs. She transferred the two plates to a tray with the bowl of bread and then went to the refrigerator to grab the chunk of parmesan she’d picked up at the market. When she turned around, she bumped into Tuppence, who had one hand propped on her hip, the other holding the cheese grater out to her. Tamika accepted it with a stiff smile and then added a generous hill of grated cheese on top of each plate. When she turned to put the cheese back, Tuppence moved around her, adding two napkins, knives and forks to the tray.

  When Tamika went to the cabinet, she removed two green-colored glasses.

  “She likes lemonade. I make it fresh every other day. Scoop out some of the lemons and add to her glass.” Those were the last words Tuppence said before she left the kitchen.

  Tamika shook her head and chuckled; Tuppence was the surly grandmother nobody in the family wanted to piss off, but that’s exactly what Tamika had managed to do, and she’d only been in Painswick for a week.

  * * *

  Two Hours Later

  With more sadness than she thought she could ever feel again, Tamika watched as her mother reached out a hand to grab the butter-yellow-colored duvet and matching sheet.

  Sandra lay back against the many pillows and pulled the covers over her slowly, as if every movement was a tremendous effort. “Thank you for cooking, MiMi.”

  The sound of the nickname her parents had given her warmed Tamika to her soul and made her think back to happier times. But those times were gone, and the present was a persistent problem. She’d moved the tray with their empty dishes on it a while ago but had remained sitting on the opposite side of the bed from her mother while they’d watched the movie. “It’s no problem, Mama. You know I love cooking. It soothes the mind, just like you and Granny used to say.” Tamika wished her mother would’ve said it earlier today. She wished her mother would say anything more than the few polite words she’d been tossing at her and Tuppence.

  Sandra adjusted the covers, pulling them up to her neck this time, and nestled down in the bed. Tamika tried not to dwell on the fact that her mother had lost so much weight her pajamas were a couple of sizes too big, so the sleeves were rolled over several times to rest a few inches above her wrist. Her hair surrounded her face in limp strands that, while clean, had no style and no other evidence of care. That was a stark contrast to the woman Sandra used to be. The woman whose hair had once been thick and long, hanging down to her shoulders, styled perfectly thanks to Ms. Evelyn at the beauty salon she’d gone to since Sandra was a teenager. Tamika recalled spending many Saturday mornings in the basement beauty salon, playing with the other little girls whose mothers swore by Evelyn Beauchamp’s blessed styling skills. It wasn’t until Tamika turned fifteen—the age Sandra had deemed appropriate for her to get a relaxer—that she’d finally been able to climb into Ms. Evelyn’s chair.

  “You know, it’s still pretty early. We could watch another movie. Tuppence has all the latest DVDs in the main si
tting room. She said guests like to have a good selection of movies to watch, considering she only subscribes to satellite service with basic channels to help keep costs down. When the guests take a movie, there’s a small rental fee incorporated into their final bill, so the cost of purchasing the DVDs levels out. She’s got a good head for business.” And Tamika was talking a lot, a habit she’d had since she was eighteen months old and had said her first word, “some.”

  Her mother said she’d waddled around the house for weeks after that fine day begging for “some” of everything she saw—applesauce, marshmallows, her father’s cigar and even her mother’s body lotion. The thought made Tamika smile.

  “Why don’t I go down to see if she has Claudine? I know that’s one of your favorites.”

  “No!” Sandra said the word so loudly and with such vehemence, Tamika jerked back and blinked at the woman who otherwise appeared frail and weak. “That was the movie your father took me to see on our first date.” Those words were spoken in a softer tone as Sandra stared up at the coffered ceiling.

  Tamika had forgotten that was the reason the movie was her mother’s favorite. She wouldn’t have suggested it if she’d remembered, and now she was even more irritated with herself. The whole reason for coming in here with her mother tonight was to help Sandra snap out of whatever mood she’d been in, and so far, Tamika was doing a horrible job. “We can watch something else. I know Tuppence has lots of older movies, because she believes they’re what movie-making was really all about. Just name anything you want to see, and I’ll—”

  “I don’t want to watch any more movies,” Sandra said. “I just want to rest. I’m so tired.”

  “Mama, you’ve been in bed all day.” And she wasn’t sick. Tamika had no idea how a person could lay in bed for so long without being down with a high fever or in some other type of physical discomfort.