It was all the things that made her who she washer pride, her inner serenity, her eye for beauty and strength. She'd told him she was like the hummingbird, seeking sweet nectar and the goodness of life. So, what had drawn her to him?
He was like an artificial flower, perhaps bright enough on the outside to draw a hummingbird, but holding no nectar, nothing that she could need or want.
He pulled up in front of his house, shut off his lights and engine, but remained in the car. What to do about Tamara? He knew she had feelings for him. It was in her eyes when she looked at him, in her touch and, like the song had said, definitely in her kiss.
It shouldn't be too long and Jeb would be letting her know that her cottage was once again habitable. There had been little time to work on the vandalism case so they still didn't know who was responsible and what kind of danger she still might be in. He knew she would insist on moving back to the cottage the moment it was ready.
One thing was certain. They couldn't go on the way they had been going. He didn't care how strong the temptation, he would not make love to her again. He couldn't. Eventually she would expect more and even though he might wish things could be different, he knew he had nothing more to give.
The front door opened and she stepped out on the porch. The hot night breeze plastered her sundress against her body, outlining each and every feature. He sighed. Catching a serial killer might be far easier than resisting the temptation of Tamara.
He got out of the car and ambled slowly toward the porch, unable to stop the slight catch of his heart as he approached her.
"You're earlier again tonight," she said. It was just before seven. "Did you eat?"
He nodded. He'd called her earlier in the day to tell her not to cook, that he was just going to grab a sandwich at work.
"I've got something to show you." With the guilelessness of a child, she took his hand in hers and led him through the living room and into the kitchen.
Papers lined the kitchen table in neat stacks. He saw the file on his mother's case there as well. "You've been busy," he said.
She flashed a quick smile. "I worked on this all day. I went through all the copies of invoices you'd received from the landscaping and quarries and made a list of people in and around Sycamore Ridge who have at one time or another ordered the Dalmatian blend of rocks." She held up a sheet of paper that appeared to have about ten names on it. "I think you'll find a surprise there."
He took the paper from her and quickly scanned the list. He sank into one of the chairs, for a moment speechless with shock. He looked up at Tamara. "Glen Cleberg? Are you sure about this?"
She nodded. "Three years ago he ordered a truckful of Dalmatian rock. The invoice shows it was delivered to his home address."
Clay felt as if he'd been kicked in the gut by a wild mustang. He stared down at the name once again. Chief Cleberg? "There was always a bit of bad blood between Glen and my father, but I can't imagine that Glen would have had anything to do with what happened out at my parents' house that night." He shot her a wry, humorless smile. "It's just not in his nature." Although, Clay intended to speak to Glen about it.
"All right, then what about the other names. Do any of them ring a bell?"
He scanned the list again. "Most of them are familiar, but none of them were friends or more than nodding acquaintances with my parents. No red flags that I can see here."
Tamara sighed with obvious disappointment. "I was hoping to help."
"You did help," he assured her. "You saved me hours of work by doing this."
"I did think of something else." She opened the file folder that held the photos of his parents' house. Some of the photos were quite grim … the ones of the chair where his father had been sitting when he'd been attacked, the blood spatter evidence that had arced on the walls from the blow Thomas had received to the back of his head.
She shuffled through these and came to a photo of his parents' bedroom. "The bedspread." She said the two words as if they, should mean something to him as she shoved the picture in front of him.
"Yeah, what about it?"
"Look at it, Clay. It looks like it's the same color as those threads you found."
"How did I miss something so obvious?" His question was directed more to himself than to her.
"Maybe because it was so obvious and because you've probably seen that spread a hundred times in your life." She sat in the chair next to his. "I know it doesn't get you any closer to finding your mom, but at least it maybe solves the mystery of those threads. Maybe your mom caught it on the striker plate the last time she took it from the bedroom into the laundry room."
"Maybe." He frowned thoughtfully. "But I can't imagine her getting it caught then pulling hard enough to tear it. She loved that spread … loves that spread." It horrified him that it was beginning to get easier and easier to think about and talk about his mother in the past tense.
"It just doesn't quite feel right to me." He stood. "Maybe I'll take a drive over to the house and get the spread, check and see if I can find where the threads have been torn."
She stood as well. "Do you mind if I come with you? I've been cooped up here for a little over a week. I wouldn't mind a little fresh air."
He hadn't thought about what it must be like for her, stuck in this house all day and all night long. "Sure, take the ride with me."
Within minutes they were in the car and headed toward Clay's parents' farmhouse. Although the evening was quite warm, Tamara insisted she preferred the windows open to the air conditioner.
"I'm sorry, I hadn't thought about how difficult it was for you to spend hours and hours in the house without a break away," he said.
She smiled and waved her hand as if to forget the whole subject. "It hasn't been a big deal. I just felt like some fresh air tonight."
They drove in silence, the comfortable quiet of two people in sync with one another. She was the first woman he'd ever spent any time with who didn't seem to be intimidated or worried about silence. Certainly his mother and his sisters had never met a silence they didn't want to break.
"Thanks for all the work you did today," he finally said.
"I didn't mind. I'd do anything I could to help you find her. She is somebody special to me, too."
She seemed to have no problem referring to his mother in the present tense and for that he was grateful. It didn't take them long to reach the ranch house.
He parked out front and steeled himself for seeing Uncle Sammy again. He hadn't seen him since the night he'd discovered his uncle had pawned his mother's jewelry. His anger had faded away with time … time to reflect that he shouldn't have been so surprised. After all, he knew his uncle's true nature and the act of pawning the jewelry had simply been a behavior of Sammy's nature.
"Have you ever met my father?" he asked as he shut off the engine.
"Yes, a couple of times at the cultural center."
"Why don't you come in with me and say hello. It would be good for Dad to see a familiar face that isn't family."
"All right," she agreed.
Together they walked up to the house where Clay knocked twice on the door then pushed it open and ushered Tamara inside. Sammy sat in a chair in front of the television and Thomas was on the sofa. Both men rose as Clay and Tamara entered.
Clay introduced Tamara to his uncle, then she and his father hugged. "I'll put some coffee on," Sammy said.
"No, that's all right. We aren't staying," Clay said. He turned to his father, who had sank back down on the sofa. "Dad, I'd like to take your bedspread back to my place."
Thomas frowned at him in bewilderment. "Why would you want to take the spread?"
"Let's just say I want to satisfy my curiosity about something," Clay replied. "It's probably no big deal, but it's something that's bugging me."
Thomas held his son's gaze for a moment, then waved a hand and sighed with the weariness of a man who had lost all hope. "Take whatever you want."
Clay wished the
re was something he could say to his father to ease the hopelessness, take away the grief that clung to his father like a shroud. But there was nothing short of returning his mother alive and well that would transform Thomas back into the man he had been.
It took him only a moment to go into the bedroom and pull the spread off the bed. He awkwardly folded it as best he could, and then carried it back into the living room beneath his arm.
"Thanks, Dad. I'll have it back to you in a day or so."
They murmured goodbyes, then Clay took Tamara by the elbow and pulled her out the front door, out of the house that oozed only the grief and despair of a man who'd lost his soul mate.
* * *
Tamara took the spread from Clay and held it in her lap as they pulled away from the ranch house. She ran her hand lightly over the slightly slick, blue-flowered material. "It must be so difficult for you to see your father that way … so beaten down and defeated."
"Yeah … it is hard. He's always been bigger than life, loud and passionate about everything and everyone. But without Mom he's become just a shell. And with each day that passes with no break in the case, he withdraws further and further into himself."
Again she stroked a hand over the bedspread. "Is this a new spread?" she asked.
He cast her a quick glance. "Not real new … maybe seven or eight months old. Why?"
"It doesn't feel like it's ever been washed."
"What do you mean?"
"It feels like it still has the sizing or whatever it is that they have when they haven't been washed," she explained.
"That's impossible," he said. "As recently as a week before she disappeared Mom washed the spread. In fact, she was mad because Dad had spilled grape juice on it and she didn't think she could get it out."
"I hate to be contrary, but I really don't believe this spread has been through a wash cycle."
"But that doesn't make sense," he protested.
"I'm just telling you what I think." She flashed him a quick smile. "You never told me I had to make sense."
"We'll know soon enough. As soon as we get home I intend to go over it with a magnifying glass and see if I can tell if there are any places where threads have been ripped."
"If you have two magnifying glasses, we can do it in half the time," she said.
This time his gaze lingered a moment longer on her. "Sometimes I think you just might be too good to be true."
She smiled. "Not at all. I just … I just want to help you." She stumbled over the words, appalled to realize she'd almost said she loved him.
She was grateful when they reached his house and they immediately got to work. They laid the bedspread flat on the living room floor, then each armed with a large magnifying glass, they began going over it inch by inch.
Tamara knew it was quite possible this was a waste of time, that the threads might not even be from the bedspread. But she had to admit the color looked right, as did the mix of polyester and cotton.
If they found a place where the threads had been torn, then the mystery of those threads Clay had found in the striker plate would be solved.
But they found no place where the threads on the bedspread had been ripped or torn. They traded places and went over it a second time and still found nothing.
"There doesn't seem to be any grape juice stain anywhere, either," Tamara said. She sat on her haunches at one end of the spread and Clay sat on the opposite end, a wrinkle of confusion cutting into his forehead.
"I don't understand it. You really think this hasn't been washed?"
"All I can tell you is that it's got the feel of a brand-new bedspread," she replied.
His gaze held hers from across the blue flowered material. Dark and troubled, he stared at her, but it was obvious he was lost in deep concentration. "This isn't their spread."
"What do you mean? We just drove over and you took it from their bed."
"I know…" He raked a hand through his hair, his frown cutting deeper across his forehead. "When Mom first disappeared Alyssa kept getting visions of her in her bedroom. Alyssa said she knew it was Mom's bedroom because the bedspread was the same."
He ran his hand over the spread, lost in thought. Whatever he was thinking wasn't pleasant, for his eyes seemed to grow darker, more haunted by the moment.
She wanted to reach out to him, to take away the haunting that shadowed his eyes, but she knew nothing could … nothing except the return of his mother to the family … to the son who loved her.
"What are you thinking?" she finally asked, unable to stand it any longer.
He looked at her with eyes filled with torture. "What I'm thinking is that this isn't the bedspread that covered my parents' bed for the past eight or nine months. This spread was put on the bed the night that my mother disappeared."
"But why? Why would somebody do something like that?"
His fingers bunched up so that he held a fistful of the material. "I don't know the why, but if what I'm thinking is true, then this wasn't a crime of opportunity. This was thought out long in advance by somebody who knew my parents well, by somebody who had been in their house, seen the spread on their bed. This was done by somebody they trusted."
Tamara gasped. It was bad enough to believe a stranger had entered their house, nearly killed Thomas and apparently kidnapped Rita. It was far worse to contemplate that such a thing had been done by a trusted friend or acquaintance. "What are you going to do now?" she asked as Clay rose from the floor.
"Call my sisters and see if they know where Mom might have bought the spread. If my theory is right, then somebody recently bought that same spread and I'm hoping the spread is the trail that leads to Mom."
As he got on the phone, Tamara scooted around so she could look at the tag to see the brand of the bedspread and if there was a particular name of the pattern.
By the time he'd hung up from speaking to both sisters, she had the information written on a sheet of paper for him. "Select Bedding is the brand and Blue Wisteria is the pattern."
"Thanks." He took the piece of paper from her. "Neither Breanna nor Savannah have a clue where she might have bought the spread."
She followed him into the kitchen where he pulled a phone book from the cabinet then sat at the table in the chair next to where she'd been sitting and sketching before he'd arrived home.
"What's next?" she asked, also sitting at the table. "Mom was a firm believer in keeping Cherokee Corners money in Cherokee Corners. She would have bought the bedspread here in town." He opened the phone book to the yellow pages section. "It's probably too close to closing time for me to get any answers from anyone tonight, but I'll make a list of the stores that carry bedding, then start first thing in the morning and see what I can find out."
"Do you want me to make some coffee?"
"That would be great."
By the time the coffee was finished brewing he had a dozen names of stores written on a sheet of paper. He raked a hand through his hair and reared back in the chair. "This is such a long shot," he said more to himself than to her. "There are only three ways I'm going to find out who purchased a spread like Mom's. If the purchase was a charge, or a delivery, or if some salesclerk remembers who bought it."
"Clay, you can't think negatively before you even begin the search," she said as she poured him a cup of coffee. She carried it over to where he sat and as he reached for it he bumped her sketch pad.
The pad flipped and landed face-up on the floor. "Sorry," he said and reached down to grab the pad. He froze halfway to the floor and she knew he was looking at a sketch she'd never intended him to see. He picked the pad up and laid it on the table, sketch side up. "What's this?"
"It's just a sketch," she said and reached out to turn the pad over. He grabbed her wrist to halt her, his gaze still focused on the sketch.
It had been strictly a labor of love. It was a picture of Clay, long, straight hair streaming over his shoulders. He was clad in a pair of tight jeans and a traditional Cherokee ribbo
n shirt.
When he looked at her, his eyes were filled with cool anger. "You can sketch it, paint it or dream it, but I'm never going to be this man." He released her wrist.
"It … it doesn't mean anything," she said quickly. She couldn't stand the sudden distance his eyes radiated as he gazed at her. "I was just messing around … I'm an artist … I sketch what's in my head. Clay … I'm in love with you."
She wasn't sure whether she spoke the words as some sort of crazy defense or simply because she couldn't hold them inside her heart for another minute.
Abruptly, he shoved away from the table and stood. The frown he'd worn before had only been a hint of the one that now tormented his features.
He thumped a finger against the sketch. "That's who you're in love with. Some Cherokee warrior who's only a figment of your imagination." He raked a hand through his hair, his gaze not quite meeting hers. "We've been foolish, playing house and making love when both of us know there's no future with each other."
The words, even though she'd thought them to herself before, spoken out loud by him devastated her. No future. She'd recognized it with her head, but her heart still refused to fully accept it.
She took a step toward where he stood, but he held up a hand to halt her, as if he couldn't stand the thought of her near him. "Clay … I love you, but I don't understand you. You are Cherokee, and no matter how much you deny it, that's who you are."
"I'm half Cherokee. My father is Irish."
"But, you are Cherokee nevertheless. Why have you turned your back on that part of you? Please, help me understand," she begged.
"I already told you what happened … what made me realize I didn't want to be Native anymore." His voice was curt, the words clipped.
She gazed at him in amazement. "You mean because a bunch of silly boys made fun of you years ago? That's it? That's all there is to it?"
His eyes flashed with anger. "You weren't there. You have no idea what I went through."
"You've allowed childhood pain to follow you into adulthood and dictate who you've become." A frustrated anger rose up inside her, an anger bred in the growing hopelessness that filled her heart.
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