Sweet Talk

by Jackie Merritt

  But maybe she didn’t give a damn anymore, she thought dismally. Life had always been hard for her, even in her glory days when she had partied big time with a long string of boyfriends whose names and faces had faded to oblivion.

  Sighing, she went to her closet and stared at her clothing. Everything looked stale and uninteresting. Jinni was right, she thought; she needed to go shopping.

  But even the prospect of a new wardrobe didn’t perk up Val’s spirit. Clothes were clothes. What did it matter if they were old or new, too big or a perfect fit? Tears stung her eyes. Was it even possible to be more unhappy?

  Estelle rapped at the door. “Val, honey, Jinni’s on the phone. Do you want to take it in there?”

  Val went to the door and opened it. She couldn’t take her misery out on Estelle. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “I’ll pick up in here.”

  Estelle looked worried. “Are you all right, Val?”

  “I’m not ill.” She could tell that she hadn’t appeased Estelle’s concern with that brief reply, but what else could she say? Certainly not the truth—that she was heartbroken and lovesick and deeply immersed in self-pity. This time, in the face of this most current body slam, she simply could not keep self-pity out of the picture. Life hadn’t been kind to Valerie Fairchild, and she would like to know why. Her own sister, Jinni, with the same parents, the same upbringing, had grown up golden, while she had hit every pothole in every road she had ever traveled.

  Still, she adored Jinni, and she walked over to the phone on the bedstand and picked it up. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Estelle pull the door closed.

  “Hi, Jinni,” she said, trying very hard to sound normal.

  “Are you still in bed?”

  “Of course not. I’m just moving slowly this morning.” Val heard the kitchen extension being hung up and she sank down on the edge of the bed to converse with her sister in comfort. “And to answer your next question, no, I’m not ill.”

  “Well, something’s wrong. I can hear it in your voice.”

  “Your imagination has run amok this morning. There is nothing wrong with my voice.”

  “Not with your voice, in your voice. I can read you like a book, little sister.”

  “Oh, you cannot!”

  “Now you’re angry? Don’t try to convince me everything is peaches and cream, sweetie pie, I know you far too well to be put off the scent with a quite laughable show of anger.”

  “You are absolutely incorrigible.”

  “Agreed. Now, what’s really going on over there?”

  “I…I can’t figure out what to wear today. I hate my clothes. They’re either outdated or so big they practically fall off.”

  Jinni took a moment, then said, “You’re obsessing over clothes this morning? Val, I’m serious now. Is that your only reason for still being in your bedroom at this late hour?”

  “When can we go shopping?” Val asked, deliberately dodging her sister’s curiosity.

  “Well…not this week. Max is determined to get to the truth of the fire so Guy can be exonerated, and I really should stick close to home, at least close to Rumor, in case he needs me for something. But let’s shoot for next week, okay?”

  “Has anyone identified the old man at the clinic?”

  “Not yet.” Jinni related everything going on with the old fellow in bed at the Family Clinic. “Maybe Dee Dee will be a little more helpful today. We’re all hoping, even though I feel certain she did her best yesterday. Mr. Jackson, if that’s who he is, must have changed drastically in appearance since she last saw him. The specialists Max brought in said he is terribly undernourished, and of course he’s quite old. Poor man. Val, do you think it’s possible that he eluded the fire and has been living out there in the wilds ever since?”

  Val heaved a sigh. “Jinni, life has taught me anything is possible.”

  “That’s true,” her sister said slowly, her voice laden with suspicion again. “What is it you’re keeping from me, Val? Don’t you know you can tell me anything?”

  Tears filled Val’s eyes. “Jinni—”

  But Jinni broke in. “What in the world? Oh, it’s Michael! He just ran past this room with the speed of a tornado. I’ve got to go and see what’s happening. Call you later.”

  Val put down the phone, then sat there staring at nothing. Her eyes dried of their own accord, and she wished listlessly that she had the energy and desire to face the day.

  She expelled a long, dejected sigh and made another wish: that she could crawl back in bed and sleep away the day.

  But Jim and Estelle were already at work for her, and Jinni was already worried about her. She had to pull herself together and get dressed.

  There was chaos in the Cantrell mansion. Michael was at the epicenter of the storm.

  “I didn’t remember it until a little while ago, Dad. I left school and rode my bike home as fast as I could. There’s a lot of ice out there, but I’ve got those good tires on my bike, and I made real good time. Anyhow, I remembered seeing that red thing on Mr. Jackson’s neck when he bent over one day. I asked him if he’d gotten burned or something and he laughed and said it was a birthmark. He said, ‘It’s my raspberry, Michael. I was born with it.’”

  Everyone began talking. The doctors had seen the birthmark, and it was solid proof that the man at the clinic was Robert Jackson.

  Now all they had to do was wait until he regained consciousness, which the physicians were positive could happen at any time.

  Max took his wife’s hand in one of his and Michael’s in the other. They stood as a family for several moments, each of them thinking the same thing. Maybe Mr. Jackson had seen the murders and maybe he hadn’t. But if he’d been a witness to the crime, then whatever his story of that dark and horrible day turned out to be, it could mean the difference between freedom or a life in prison for Guy Cantrell.

  Somehow that deeply felt, shared concern for a loved one brought the three of them closer together.

  Reed spent Monday afternoon plowing snow at all three of the homes on the Kingsley Ranch, his folks’, Russell’s and his own. There were hired men perfectly willing and able to do the job, but Reed needed hard work to get his mind off Val.

  Besides, he loved working outdoors in weather like this—crisply cold and so bright from the sun’s rays reflected off snow crystals that he had to wear his darkest glasses. Dressed warmly, he worked for hours, and by dinnertime, with the sun going down and a decided drop in temperature promising a freezing night, he was ready to quit plowing and take a long soak in a tub of steaming hot water.

  Satisfied because all of the access roads and driveways at the ranch were cleared and passable, Reed went into his house, took off his winter outerwear and walked in stocking feet to the telephone to check for messages.

  He listened to them and jotted down a couple of names and phone numbers, but he felt a yawning disappointment because none were from Val. Why he’d even hoped she’d call escaped him.

  He muttered a curse. He could work himself to death trying not to think of her, and still suffer. Why even try? he asked himself with a sullen, half-angry twist to his lips. The anger was aimed mostly at himself for being such a damn fool, but there was plenty left over for Val. She was completely unreasonable, and she wasn’t very honest about life, either. Did she care how badly she hurt other people, him in particular? No, she did not, and that didn’t put her on any pedestal he’d ever heard about.

  Yet he loved her.

  Growling because he couldn’t seem to do anything about his own damn feelings, he went to the kitchen for a bottle of red wine and a glass, then took his bounty to the master suite. He turned on the flow of water to fill the large tub in his bathroom, undressed and dropped his dirty clothes in the hamper.

  He stepped into the tub, sat down, leaned back and absorbed the luxurious sensation of hot water warming his body. He closed his eyes and sat that way until the water level reached his chest, then he flicked off the faucet and reached f
or the wine bottle. He yanked the cork—he’d opened the bottle a few days back and it was about half-full—and filled the glass. Then he sat back again, drank his wine and told himself that a man couldn’t have it any better than this. A day of work, a tub of hot water and some exceptional wine. He had it good, no doubt about it. Hell, Valerie Fairchild should have it so good.

  He looked at the bandage on his hand and felt a suspicious stinging at the backs of his eyes. His emotions were in shambles, and it angered him. He told himself that everything had gone his way for so long that he couldn’t take rejection like a man. He told himself to stop behaving like a spoiled boy instead of a grown-up. There were hordes of available women in the world. Hell, he could go down to Joe’s Bar this very night and find all the female companionship he could handle. Val wasn’t the only fish in the sea.

  But a momentary release of sexual pressure wasn’t what he wanted so badly he could taste it; he wanted Val.

  And then Reed tortured himself by thinking of their night together in her cabin. He shut his eyes and relived those hours, minute by minute. With her inhibitions—or whatever it was that hid her emotions—weakened by brandy, she had become hot as a pistol in his arms. They hadn’t slept. The passion between them had been truly incredible; he couldn’t imagine a more sensual experience.

  Groaning, he tried to rid his brain of those burning memories with physical activity. Grabbing soap and a washcloth, he bathed and then climbed from the tub. Drying off, he decided to eat whatever was on hand for his dinner. He wasn’t fit to sit at his parents’ table, or at Russell’s, Maura’s or Tag’s, though any one of them would welcome him should he drop in at mealtime. If all he could find in his refrigerator was the makings of a cold cheese sandwich, so be it. He was home for the night, and as if to prove it to himself, he donned a shapeless sweatsuit and house slippers.

  At some point of the evening, possibly while eating a dry and unappetizing sandwich, he faced facts. Val wanted nothing to do with him. He had to get on with his life without her. This moping around, feeling sorry for himself, had to stop.

  It felt like a decision, but when he went to bed later he felt a lot more like bawling than sleeping.

  He didn’t like that feeling one little bit. He wasn’t a maudlin crybaby, damn it; he was a Kingsley, and he could take whatever life handed him.

  Or didn’t hand him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The talk of the town on Tuesday was the Rumor Mill’s first installment of “…the complete story of the Logan’s Hill murders.”

  Tuesday’s publication began with the fire, and included before-and-after photos of Logan’s Hill that clearly depicted the ravages of the forest fire that had occurred so close to home. A chronicle of events, based on interviews with citizens, law enforcement personnel and firefighters, brought readers through the first day of the fire.

  Everyone who read it could hardly wait for the next installment, and the town was practically jumping with excitement. Interviewees were identified by the paper, and some of them were “doggone proud to be part of the hottest news story ever published by the Rumor Mill.”

  Reed read it and smiled faintly. He’d been interviewed several weeks ago and had all but forgotten it.

  Val read it, then reread the paragraph citing the interview with Reed Kingsley, Rumor’s fire chief, in which he explained the first day’s attack on the fire by the courageous local citizenry. The reporter then switched gears and praised Reed highly, as his quick thinking had clearly played a major role in saving the town from the fire’s voracious appetite.

  It was a lengthy article, full of drama, but it was drama as real as the morning sun and it had happened to all of them, to every resident, and more than a few folks shed tears while reading it.

  Jinni read it with her heart in her throat, then slid the newspaper across the breakfast table to Max, who had just sat down. She got up for the coffeepot and brought him a cup. Quietly she asked, “Would you like some eggs, darling?”

  He was already absorbed in the article. “Not now, thanks.”

  She resumed her seat and waited for him to finish reading. When he did, he raised his eyes and looked at her. The sadness in his tore at her heartstrings. She knew he had complete faith in his brother’s innocence and he was doing everything possible to prove it. The last thing he needed was a reporter writing about Guy’s arrest and incarceration for two murders he hadn’t committed.

  “When the series reaches Guy’s role in the whole awful episode, the newspaper cannot say he’s guilty, Max,” Jinni said softly. “And everyone already knows he’s in jail, awaiting trial. In fact, the newspaper has nothing to publish that hasn’t circulated around town at least a dozen times. They’re only trying to sell papers.”

  Max folded the newspaper and picked up his cup of coffee. “Which they have every right to do. In fact, Jinni, if I were running the Rumor Mill, I wouldn’t let this story slip by unnoticed, either. We’ve had murder investigations and trials before, but Guy’s invisibility formula adds something to the story that no other ever had. Believe me, this series will sell papers.”

  Thinking about Max’s theory, Jinni fell silent. Guy’s story of invisibility had affected people in a dozen different ways. A lot of townsfolk couldn’t quite believe it and laughed whenever it was mentioned. With her own ears Jinni had heard remarks such as, “I don’t believe in little green men, either. Invisibility? Give me a break.”

  But not everyone knew or understood Guy’s genius. Jinni had pondered the subject quite a few times since her brother-in-law’s arrest, and while she, too, didn’t completely comprehend his scientific mind, she wanted to believe in him as much as Max did.

  The compact cellular telephone attached to her husband’s belt rang and he quickly reached for it. “Hello,” he said almost sharply. “Holt, good morning.”

  Jinni sat up and took notice. Sheriff Holt Tanner phoning at any hour was meaningful; his calling at this time of day put Jinni—and Max, she could tell—on alert.

  “Thanks, Holt. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” Max flipped the phone closed and got to his feet while reattaching it to his belt. “Jackson is finally awake and talking. He knows who he is and the doctors are optimistic about his memory. No one has asked him any questions about the fire. Holt said the attorneys are gathering in the waiting room and getting antsy, but the doctors are refusing any visitors until Mr. Jackson is examined again and resting comfortably. Holt thought I would want to be there, which I do.”

  He looked at his wife, and Jinni saw great concern in his beautiful blue eyes. “Would you like to come to the clinic with me?” he asked.

  “Do you want me there, Max?”

  “Jin, it’s up to you.”

  Should she be there? she asked herself. In the middle of a swarm of anxious lawyers, along with doctors that cared—or should care—about the health of the old man more than the answers to the questions raising the attorneys’ blood pressures? The sheriff would be there, and only God knew how many others. A journalist from the Rumor Mill, maybe? A photographer?

  “You go on,” she said, rising to kiss him goodbye. “I’ll go in my own car. And don’t worry if you don’t see me. I have visions of chaos at the clinic this morning, and while I’ve never been one to shy from crowds, I see no reason to get in the way by barging into the eye of that particular storm.”

  Max put his arms around her and gave her a warm kiss. “You will never be in the way as far as I’m concerned, so barge if you feel like it.”

  She smiled and ran her hands over the unique softness of his cashmere sweater. She loved touching him, with or without clothes, loved looking at him and hearing his voice. Could any woman be more fortunate than she?

  “I usually do, darling,” she said with just the right mixture of female smugness because she’d gotten her man, and pride because her man was such a rare breed. “Oh,” she added on an afterthought, “do you want your mother there? It wouldn’t be a bit of trouble for me to pic
k her up and drive her to the clinic, if you’d like.”

  Max hesitated, then shook his head. “No, I’ll fill her in later on…whichever way this thing goes. Let’s not raise her hopes or upset her until we know, okay? See you later, honey.”

  He slipped away and in a few minutes left the house. Jinni resumed her seat at the table, pulled the paper over and laid it flat to read the story again, this time more thoroughly. She wondered if she’d been hiding her head in the sand about the true and extremely serious nature of the Cantrell family’s worry about Guy.

  In the next instant, though, she realized that she was being unduly hard on herself. She was on Max’s team and would do anything to help him get through this, and in her heart she believed he knew it. She also believed—with every fiber of her being—that she had magically attained today’s most precious and elusive commodity, a happy marriage. She and Max would weather the storms of life and grow old together. It was a beautiful thought, one that touched her soul.

  If only Val had what she did, Jinni thought. Then everything would be perfect!

  Val was at the Animal Hospital tending to the kenneled dogs and cats, checking on those that were in treatment or recovering from a surgical procedure. She’d been busy for several hours, her mind wandering from this to that, when the actual time dawned on her. It was ten o’clock and Jim and Estelle hadn’t arrived!

  Instantly concerned—they always showed up before eight—Val went to the phone and dialed their home number. For one thing it was snowing again, and it wasn’t just a flurry. The falling snow was heavy and dense, and it was piling up fast. Perhaps the storm had interfered with their usual routine, Val reasoned.

  But no one answered at the Worth home, and Val’s initial concern turned to heart-thumping dread. Had they been in a road accident? Navigating in such a heavy snowfall was treacherous for anyone, even for a good driver like Jim.