His Secret Son Page 2

  The police detective was kneeling next to her, waiting with a look of strained patience, and she caught him glancing at her right hand.

  Hadn’t she been holding a knife? It was gone now; maybe she’d dreamed it.

  “You...found—”

  “We’re keeping the knife as evidence, Mrs. Peterson,” the policeman said. “Would you care to make a statement?”

  “I didn’t kill him,” she said, and saw in his face that he didn’t believe her.

  Lowell must have been stabbed, she thought. But he was so strong. Who could have done this?

  The detective asked her to describe what had happened. After she did, he asked her the same questions again, as if trying to trip her up.

  She didn’t understand why he seemed so accusing. It was odd, awakening with a knife in her hand, but even if somehow she’d wielded it, she would only have done so in self-defense.

  What did the man think she had to gain by murdering Lowell? As he excused himself to confer with the photographer, his voice gave her a clue. He used that pseudorespectful, subtly mocking tone that some people adopted when addressing the rich.

  He thought she’d done it for the money.

  Lowell’s wealth, including the ownership of Peterson Printing, would presumably go to Jeff. And therefore, until he grew up, to Joni. She didn’t want it, but she doubted the detective would believe her. On TV, people killed for money all the time. Maybe some did in real life, too. But not her.

  The police would be even more suspicious if they learned that Jeff wasn’t Lowell’s biological child, but she hoped the medical records would remain confidential. Besides, to Joni, the boy had been Lowell’s son.

  She just wished she could remember exactly what had happened tonight. If she could explain how she came to be holding the knife, maybe she could convince the detective of her innocence. But her mind remained a blank. As she’d told MacDougall, she recalled exchanging a few words with Lowell, and then nothing.

  Finally, the policeman gave the paramedics the okay to remove her. They fitted Joni with a cervical collar to protect her head and neck, then gently lifted her onto a gurney.

  As they rolled her to the ambulance, she saw Celia standing on the sidelines, staring at her with mingled horror and fascination. It gave her the bewildering sense of being some stranger in a newscast instead of her ordinary self.

  The doors closed and the ambulance jolted forward, sirens screaming. Joni’s mind began to fade.

  At the hospital, she slipped in and out of consciousness most of that night and early Thursday morning. She felt the needle pricking her hand to start the intravenous tube. She heard the diagnosis: a concussion and bruised ribs. She listened to carts rattling by in the hospital corridor and voices on a distant intercom, but still she remembered nothing of what happened to Lowell.

  The nurses seemed solicitous, bringing extra pillows and laying a cool cloth across her forehead. Joni’s public relations duties included interviewing staff members for the in-house newsletter. Apparently, she’d generated some goodwill, or perhaps, as she hoped, they were this kind to all the patients.

  Later that morning, she finally came awake. The first thing she did was to call Bobby’s mother, Kathryn Owens.

  “I’m so sorry,” Kathryn said earnestly. “I heard on the radio what happened. But the boys don’t know.”

  “If yon or Fred wouldn’t mind driving Jeff to Herb’s...”

  Joni hated to impose. Over the past few years, the Owenses had done her more than their share of favors. But her son needed someone close to give him the awful news about his father, and the best person was his great-grandfather.

  “Of course we don’t mind. Jeff knows the address, doesn’t he? And we’ll stop by your house and pick up some clean clothes for you.” Her friend knew where Joni hid a key. “You’ll need something to wear when you leave the hospital.”

  Joni started to thank her, but Kathryn waved it away. “I know you’d do the same for me.”

  “Of course,” she said. “But I hope you never need it.” Thank goodness for friends, Joni thought as she hung up. Without them, a single mother could scarcely survive.

  Around noon, she heard raised voices in the hall and recognized the gravelly tones of her boss, Basil Dupont. The nurse was refusing to let him in until the doctor gave the okay for visitors. He in turn refused to leave a potted plant until he could deliver it in person. For a public relations director, Basil had a remarkably dour personality.

  Finally, he went away, taking the plant with him. She dozed again, awakening when the nurse came in with the clean clothes Kathryn had dropped off. The woman also carried a large flower arrangement in a vase. “A man brought this while you were asleep,” she said, and handed Joni the card.

  “Get well soon,” read a masculine scrawl, followed by a signature. Charlie Rogers, her son’s soccer coach. That was sweet, Joni thought.

  The last time she attended a practice, he’d come over afterward to talk and seemed on the verge of asking her out when the Owens family stopped by. He’d been kind to come and visit her, Joni thought, but, all the same, she was glad she hadn’t had to make small talk.

  By late afternoon, her mind cleared enough for her to sit up and read the newspaper. On the front page was a photograph of her and Lowell that had been taken five years ago at a charity concert. In happier times.

  Rain pelted against the hospital window. The dark mood suited Joni as she studied the reporter’s words, trying to let reality sink in.

  Printing company owner and country-club board member, Lowell Peterson, was found fatally stabbed on the patio of his ex-wife, whom he was suspected of harassing. The police have declined to release information about the murder weapon, but unconfirmed reports say a kitchen knife was missing from the cutlery block on the kitchen counter.

  Although rain has destroyed much of the evidence, police say it appeared that the former Mrs. Peterson confronted her husband and an altercation ensued. Mrs. Peterson sustained a concussion and bruised ribs.

  The cuts on Mr. Peterson’s hands and arms are believed to indicate his attempts to fight off the knife attack...

  All the pieces fitted. Except that Joni hadn’t taken a knife when she went out to the patio.

  It was possible, however, that she had left it on the glass table a few nights ago while barbecuing. She couldn’t be sure she’d brought the knife inside.

  Could she have killed Lowell and not remember it? Joni didn’t want to believe it, but especially after suffering a head injury, she couldn’t completely disregard the possibility.

  The newspaper ran a lengthy biography of Lowell. His honors during high school. The student offices he’d held at nearby University of California, Santa Barbara. His prominence in the community.

  Joni stared at her former husband’s chiseled features in the photograph. Once upon a time, he’d swept her into the clouds. Unfortunately, she’d had years to sink back to earth under the weight of his critical, controlling behavior.

  Two years ago, she’d hit the ground with a thud. It had taken one phone call from Kim DeLong. Until then, Joni had refused to believe the gossip about them. Kim had been Lowell’s high school sweetheart, but they’d drifted apart in college. After marrying, then divorcing a banker in San Francisco, she’d returned to Viento del Mar a year earlier.

  Judging by Kim’s maliciously gleeful tone, she’d enjoyed calling Joni to crow about her affair with Lowell. She’d also enjoyed rubbing salt in the wound by saying that Joni had never been the right woman for him.

  When confronted, Lowell had admitted the affair and, furious about the phone call, dropped Kim immediately. Her bitterness was loud and abusive.

  Joni pushed the memories aside. Kim and the divorce now seemed almost trivial compared with Lowell’s death.

  How was Jeff taking it? And what about Herb? The realization that she might have caused that dear man the worst kind of pain—the loss of his grandson—made her feel even more despondent. />
  Another thought sent terror prickling along Joni’s spine. What if she were convicted of murder and sent to prison? She’d never even seen the inside of one except in films, the kind where prisoners were beaten and humiliated. How could she survive in a place like that?

  And Jeff. What if he lost both his parents? Who would take care of him?

  There was no other family but Herb, who was seventy-seven and had a heart condition. Joni’s own father had deserted when she was just a child. Her mother, a hardworking waitress, had died of an aneurysm shortly after Joni turned eighteen.

  Jeff’s only other close relative was Lowell’s brother, Dirk, whom she had met briefly at her wedding and at her father-in-law’s funeral two years later. She remembered little about him except that he had bright blue eyes, like Jeff’s, and seemed eager to get away from Viento del Mar.

  At Lowell’s request, Dirk had reluctantly donated sperm, but his only acknowledgement of Jeff was to send a small present each Christmas, usually an article of clothing that might have been chosen by his secretary. “Uncle” Dirk didn’t even acknowledge the boy’s birthday.

  She and Lowell had discussed the possibility of someday telling Jeff the truth. Joni believed a child had a right to know his own background, but Lowell had been so uncomfortable with the subject that she’d put it aside for later.

  If she kept the secret too long, though, there was always the danger that Jeff might learn or suspect that he’d been lied to. Rather than risk damaging his faith in her, Joni meant to tell him the story when the time felt right. But not now.

  A tap at the door interrupted her reflections. “Joni?” came a warm male voice.

  Despite his gray hair and a few age spots, Herb Peterson retained the erect stature and classic face that had once made him a popular figure in Viento del Mar society. The years had put a sparkle in his blue eyes and lent a curve to his mouth, and the sight of him always raised Joni’s spirits.

  Today, though, there was a redness around his eyelids and a tightness to the way he held himself. She could see that he had been mourning.

  “Please come in.” She gave him a quavery smile.

  “The nurse said you could have visitors. Jeff’s down the hall looking at babies through a window,” he said. “I thought it might be best if you and I spoke alone.”

  She wished she knew the right thing to say. “Herb, I’m so sorry about Lowell. I honestly don’t remember what happened.”

  “Did he attack you?” His voice broke painfully.

  “He admitted he’d been watching me,” she said. “Then he took a step toward me. After that, I don’t remember anything.”

  Herb remained on the far side of the room. “I have trouble accepting that my grandson was capable of stalking you. Let alone trying to harm you.”

  “I don’t think he did, and yet he must have,” Joni said. “It doesn’t make sense, does it?”

  “No, it doesn’t. By the way, I caught a reporter trying to sneak in here. I told her I’d complain to her paper if she bothers you again.”

  “Thank you.”

  The town’s newspaper and radio station were both owned by a local businessman who was an old friend of Herb’s. The man couldn’t ignore a major news story, but he would keep his staff within reasonable bounds.

  A movement near the half-open door caught Joni’s eye. She rolled her head on the pillow until she saw her son edging into the room. He wore his new navy pullover and tan Sunday-school pants, and his brown hair had been tamed with a comb and water. The extra tidy appearance only emphasized his unaccustomed pallor and the dark circles beneath his eyes.

  “Hi, sweetie.” She was grateful when he ran to her, even if his hug did make her ribs ache.

  “Be careful, Jeff. Your mom’s been hurt.” Herb rested a hand atop his great-grandson’s shoulder.

  “What did you tell him about...about...?”

  “He understands that his Dad’s gone to heaven,” Herb said. “We stopped by the church and prayed for him on our way here. I also asked the minister to officiate at the service.”

  Joni hadn’t given a thought to the funeral. As Lowell’s ex-wife and suspected slayer, she doubted she would have any say about the matter anyway. “That’s fine. When will it be?”

  “I’ve scheduled a memorial service for Monday aftemoon,” Herb said.

  “Jeff?” She gazed into the storm-blue eyes of the little boy who, despite a trace of gangliness, still seemed like her baby. “How are you feeling? Scared? Sad?”

  “I miss Daddy,” he admitted in a whisper. Although Lowell had rarely played with his son as a baby, he and Jeff had begun spending more time together since the divorce. “Do you think the police are wrong? Maybe he’s not really dead but, like, in a coma.”

  “I’m afraid not, honey.” Joni understood how he felt. She still imagined Lowell must be alive somewhere, out of sight. Working at the plant. Playing racquetball at the club.

  “Maybe he could come back,” Jeff persisted. “They could clone him. Like Mr. Spock on Star Trek.”

  “That’s make-believe,” she said.

  “I know,” Jeff conceded.

  He understood, Joni thought, at least on an eight-year-old leveL

  “When are you coming home, Mom?”

  “The doctor said I might be able to leave tomorrow.”

  “I want you back today,” the boy said.

  “There could be some delay....” she began hesitantly. “Legal matters.” She didn’t know how to explain the possibility of her arrest. It might be more than Jeff could bear. Maybe more than she could bear, too.

  “No, there won’t,” Herb said. “I’ve got the name of one of those top lawyers from Los Angeles. If anybody gives you a hard time, we’ll talk to him.”

  “Herb, I can’t afford that.”

  “I can,” he said. “And I will. Don’t you worry, Joni. Nothing can ever make up for losing my grandson, but I know in my heart you aren’t to blame.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “It’s a simple fact,” he said. “No need for thanks.”

  The room fell silent. On a distant intercom, a woman’s voice summoned a doctor to the delivery room.

  Then Joni heard a noise in the hall that sent her heart slamming into her throat. It was irrational. A trick of the imagination.

  Lowell’s footsteps.

  She knew that sound so well. The well-muscled weight of him. The confident step. The slight scuff as if he were kicking the ground out of his way.

  She’d been listening to people come and go along the linoleum all day. Hospital personnel, patients, visitors. None of them had sounded remotely like Lowell.

  The steps headed in their direction.

  “That’s Daddy.” Jeff gave her a confused look, then ran toward the door.

  Herb caught him by the arm. “Jeff, wait!”

  “It’s him!”

  The newcomer stopped right outside, blocked by the partially closed door. Even though she knew that it couldn’t possibly be Lowell, Joni found herself holding her breath.

  The door swung open.

  His hair was darker then Lowell’s, and his eyes a deeper blue. But he had the same broad shoulders, the same arrogant stance.

  To her surprise, she felt a shiver of the awe that used to run through her eleven years ago, every time Lowell stopped by her counter at the print shop. This man radiated an intense masculine power, perhaps even more strongly than his brother.

  “Dirk,” Herb said. “You got here fast. I just sent the message last night.”

  “I was in the Silicon Valley on business,” said the man, giving his grandfather a rueful hug. “I’d been planning to head down this way tomorrow. Lowell and I were going to get together for the first time in years. Now we’ll never have the chance, will we?”

  As he turned toward Joni, his words seemed full of accusation. He paid no attention to Jeff.

  In all these years, hadn’t he ever been curious about the boy he’d fa
thered? What kind of man was Dirk Peterson?

  In the past, it hadn’t mattered. Now, it mattered tremendously. Because, Joni realized with a jolt, he might be in a position to take Jeff away from her.

  Chapter Three

  With a bandage wrapped around her head and her hair limp against the pillow, Joni didn’t look much like the girl Dirk remembered from years ago.

  She’d made a striking bride with her unusual bone structure and large hazel eyes. Her shy way of ducking her head had been countered by the athletic buoyancy with which she moved.

  The impression of vulnerability mixed with resilience had lingered in Dirk’s mind as he returned to the Los Angeles university where he’d been earning a business degree. But he’d been too preoccupied with his own unresolved adolescent rage and with deciding on a career to give much thought to the woman who married his domineering brother.

  A few years later at his father’s funeral, Joni had appeared very young in her black suit. But Dirk hadn’t paid her much attention; he’d been suffering deep regret at the realization that he and his father would never have a chance to be close.

  His sister-in-law looked older now, and less impressionable. In her expression, he read sorrow and determination.

  She’d only grown more alluring, even in bandages, he reflected unwillingly. She reminded him of a kitten that had survived to maturity, gaining a few scars but developing a self-contained silkiness along the way.

  He suspected she would always hold part of herself back. That had been his impression when he first saw her, dancing with his brother at the country club a few nights before the wedding. It had been Lowell who pulled her closer, Lowell who whispered in her ear, and Joni who shifted her face subtly away.

  What had her motives been in marrying his brother, and then in divorcing him? Was she an opportunist? A manipulator? Or simply an intriguing woman with hidden depths?

  Dirk had to remind himself that this wasn’t his battle to fight.