Eight Classic Nora Roberts Romantic Suspense Novels

by Nora Roberts

  “You’re such a card, Teddy.” But she kept close to his back. “Smells like dead roses, and … Lord knows.”

  “That’s the ghostly scent of departed souls, my dear.” No use telling her it was embalming fluid, formaldehyde, and Mr. Clean. He moved to another door, and using her light, found the next key.

  “You’re sure?”

  She swallowed, nodded.

  Teddy pushed open the door, wishing the Palmers were less fastidious. A nice moaning creak would have been perfect. Josie took a deep breath and hit the lights.

  “Shit.” She rubbed damp palms on her thighs. “It looks sort of like a dentist’s office. What do you use those hoses for?”

  He smiled, wiggled his eyebrows. “Do you really want to know?”

  She moistened her lips. “Maybe not. Is that …” She gestured toward the form under the white sheet. “Is that her?”

  “The one and only.”

  Josie felt her insides tremble. “I want to see.”

  “Okay. But it’s look and don’t touch.” Teddy walked over and eased down the sheet.

  Josie’s mind spun once, twice, then settled. “Jesus,” she whispered. “Jesus. She’s gray.”

  “Haven’t had time to fix her makeup.”

  Pressing a hand to her stomach, Josie took another step. “Her throat …”

  “Cause of death.” He rubbed a palm on Josie’s apple-firm bottom. “The knife had a six-, maybe seven-inch blade. Now look here.” He eased one of Edda Lou’s arms from under the sheet. “See the way this area of the wrist is discolored? The flaking skin? She was tied with a common clothesline.”

  “Wow.”

  “She also bit her nails.” He tut-tutted and covered the hand again. “This contusion at the base of the skull”—he turned the head—“it shows that she was struck before death. Certainly hard enough to render her unconscious, during which time we would conclude she was bound and gagged. There were fiber traces in her mouth and on her tongue that indicate the use of a red cotton cloth.”

  “You can tell all that?” Josie found herself hanging on every word.

  “All that and more.”

  “Was she, you know, raped?”

  “I’m running tests on that. If we’re lucky enough to find a trace of sperm, we can run a DNA.”

  “Uh-huh.” She’d heard the term somewhere. “Whoever did it killed her and the baby.”

  “The lady died alone,” Teddy corrected her. “Hormone levels were flat low.”

  “Pardon?”

  “No buns in her oven.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Josie looked down at the gray, lifeless face, and her mouth pursed in thought. “I told him she was lying.”

  “Told who?”

  She shook off the thought. This was no time to bring up Tucker’s name. Instead, she looked away from Edda Lou and around the room.

  The thing was, once you got settled inside, it was fascinating. All those bottles and tubes and slim, shiny instruments. She strolled over to pick up a scalpel, and in testing the blade, sliced the pad of her thumb. “Shit.”

  “Baby, you shouldn’t touch those things.” All solicitude, Teddy whipped out a handkerchief and dabbed at the thin line of blood. Over his head, Josie stared at the face on the embalming table. Beer made her head woozy.

  “I didn’t know it was so sharp.”

  “Sharp enough to slice little pieces off you.” He clucked and dabbed until she smiled. He really was the cutest thing.

  “It’ll stop quicker if you suck on it.” She brought her wounded thumb to his mouth, eased it between his lips. While his tongue laved the wound, she let her eyes close. There was a powerful intimacy, knowing he was tasting her blood. When her eyes opened again, they were heavy with lust.

  “I’ve got something for you, Teddy.” As he drew her thumb deep into his mouth, she reached over the tray of keen-edged instruments, her hand wavering, then finding the purse she’d dropped there. While his hand slid up her thigh, hers dug into the bag. It convulsed into a fist as his fingers slid under the hem of her shorts, nipped under the elastic of her panties, and found her.

  “Here you go.” With a little sigh she pulled out a condom. Her eyes were gold and hot as she yanked down his zipper. “Why don’t I put this on for you?”

  Teddy shuddered as his pants fell to his ankles. “Be my guest.”

  When Josie shot down the drive to Sweetwater about two A.M., feeling used up and sated from sex, Billy T. Bonny was crouching behind the front fender of the red Porsche. He swore as the headlights sliced the dark a few inches from his head. Ten more minutes and he’d have been finished and gone.

  His heartbeat roared as Josie hit the brakes. Gravel spat out and bounced on the toes of his work boots. His grease-smeared fingers tightened around the handle of his wrench.

  As she climbed out of her car, he held himself in a tight ball and watched her feet. They were bare, carmine-tipped, and she wore a thin gold chain around her ankle. He felt a quick rush of sexual interest. Her scent was on the air, darkly sweet, mixed with the deeper tones of recent sex.

  She was humming Patsy Cline’s “Crazy.” She dropped her purse, scattering lipsticks, loose change, a small department store’s worth of cosmetics, two mirrors, a handful of foil-wrapped condoms, a bottle of aspirin, a neat little pearl-handled derringer, and three boxes of Tic Tacs. Billy T. bit back an oath as she bent to retrieve her belongings.

  From the underbelly of the Porsche, Billy watched the long line of her legs fold up as she crouched, saw her hand scramble around, dumping the contents back into the bag along with a fair share of gravel.

  “Hell with it,” she muttered. Yawning hugely, she got to her feet and started toward the house.

  Billy T. waited a full thirty seconds after the door shut before he went back to work.

  chapter 9

  On Sunday mornings most of Innocence gathered in one of its three churches. The Church of Redemption was for the Methodists, and made up a large part of the religious pie. It was a small gray box smack in the center of town. It had been built in 1926 on the site of the original First Methodist Church which had washed away—along with Reverend Scottsdale and the church secretary he’d been breaking several commandments with—in flood waters in ’25.

  On the south end of town was Innocence Bible Church, where the blacks went to worship. There was no law of God or man that segregated the churches. But tradition was often stronger than law.

  Every blessed Sunday the sound of rich voices raised in song flowed through the open windows with a clarity the Methodists couldn’t compete with.

  Across from Redemption and down a block was Trinity Lutheran. It was famous for its bake sales. Della Duncan, being in charge of such matters, was given to bragging that Trinity had raised enough money selling brownies and custard pies to buy a stained glass window. That had inspired Happy Fuller to organize three catfish suppers for Redemption so that they could buy a bigger window.

  Those down at the Bible were content with their clear glass and clear voices.

  Sundays were a time for prayer, contemplation, and fierce competition in Innocence. From three pulpits the word of God rang out and sin was put in its place. In hard wooden pews old men and children nodded off in the heat, and women wielded their fans. Organs blared and babies wailed. Hard-earned money was dropped into the passing plates. Sweat rolled.

  In all three holy places, preachers bowed their heads and reminded the congregation of Edda Lou Hatinger. Prayers were requested for Mavis Hatinger, her husband—in none of the churches was Austin referred to by name—and her remaining children.

  In the back pew of Redemption, pale with grief and confusion, Mavis wept silent tears. Three of her five children were with her. Vernon, who’d inherited his father’s sullen looks and mean temper, sat beside his wife, Loretta. She hushed their toddler as best she could with a well-used pacifier and practiced knee bounces. Her cotton dress stretched tight across her pregnant belly.

  Ruthan
ne sat beside her, dry-eyed and silent. She was eighteen, and ten days out of Jefferson Davis High School. She was sorry her sister had died, though she hadn’t loved Edda Lou. Sitting in the stifling church, all she could think of was how quickly she could make enough money to get out of Innocence.

  Bored and wishing he were anywhere else was young Cy. His feet were cramped inside the hard black shoes that were already a size too small, and his neck was chafed from the starch his mother had sprayed into his collar. His family was an embarrassment to him, but at fourteen, he was stuck with them.

  He hated the fact that the preacher was talking about them like they were to be pitied and prayed for. Too many of his peers were scattered through the congregation, and his face flamed every time one of them shot a look over a shoulder. It was a great relief to Cy when the service ended and they could stand up. As sachet-scented ladies made their way to his mother to express sympathy, he ducked out the back of the pew and hurried off to have a smoke behind Larsson’s.

  It all sucked as far as Cy could see. His sister was dead, his father and his brother were in jail. His mama didn’t do much more than wring her hands and talk to the Legal Aid guy in Greenville. All Vernon could talk about was paying somebody back. Loretta agreed with every word; she’d learned to agree fast and avoid a fist in the eye. A real quick study, that Loretta.

  Cy lighted one of the three Pall Malls he’d swiped from Vernon and tugged at his tie.

  Ruthanne had more sense than the rest, Cy decided. But she was always busy counting her money—just like Silas Marner and his coins. Cy knew she hid her cache in a box of sanitary napkins—a place her father would never look. Because Cy had a sense of loyalty—and he’d be just as happy to see her go—he kept Ruthanne’s secret to himself.

  He’d already figured that the minute he had his high school diploma, he’d be lighting out himself. There would be no chance of college for him. As Cy had a keen and thirsty mind, that hurt more than a little. But he was also a pragmatic sort and accepted what was.

  Though he’d yet to find real pleasure in smoking, he took another drag.

  “Hey.” Jim March sidled around the building. He was a tall boy, gangly, with skin the color of molasses. Like Cy, Jim was in his Sunday best. “Whatcha doing?”

  In the way of old friends, he dropped down beside Cy.

  “Just having a smoke. You?”

  “Nothing.” Comfortable with each other, they lapsed into silence. “Sure am glad school’s out,” Jim said at length.

  “Yeah.” Cy wasn’t about to embarrass himself by admitting he liked school. “Got the whole summer.” For Cy, it stretched out interminably.

  “Going to get you a job?”

  Cy moved his shoulders. “Ain’t no work.”

  Jim carefully folded his bright red tie and put it in his pocket. “My daddy’s doing some work for that Miz Waverly.” Jim didn’t consider it politic to mention that his father had replaced the windows Cy’s father had blown out. “Going to paint her whole house. I’m helping.”

  “Guess you’ll be a rich man.”

  “Shit.” Jim grinned and began to draw patterns in the dirt. “Get me some pocket money though. Got two dollars right now.”

  “That’s two more’n I got.”

  Lips pursed, Jim slanted a look at his friend. They weren’t supposed to be friends, not according to Cy’s old man. But they’d managed to remain so, on the sly. “I heard tell the Longstreets are hiring on for field work.”

  Cy hooted and passed the Pall Mall to Jim to finish off. “My daddy’d skin me alive if I went near Sweetwater.”

  “Guess so.”

  But his daddy was in jail, Cy remembered. If he could get work, he could start his own secret fund, just like Ruthanne. “You sure they’re hiring?”

  “What I heard. Miss Della’s down at the church bake sale. You could ask her.” He smiled at Cy. “They’ve got lemon pies down there. Might get one for two dollars. Sure would be nice to take some lemon pie down to Gooseneck Creek and catch some cats.”

  “Sure would.” Cy cast a look at his friend. His grin was slow and surprisingly lovely. “I really oughta help you eat it, or else you’ll just pig it down and puke it up.”

  While the boys were negotiating for pie, and women were showing off their Sunday dresses, Tucker was spread over his bed, luxuriating in a half doze.

  He loved Sundays. The house was quiet as a tomb, with Della off to town and everyone else asleep or sprawled somewhere with the Sunday paper.

  In his mother’s day it had been different. Then the whole house had marched off to church—spit and polish—to take their place in the front pew. His mother would smell of lavender and be wearing her grandmother’s pearls.

  After service there would be a varied critique of the sermon, talk of weather and crops. New babies would be admired and clucked over. Grown children come back to visit would be shown off by proud parents, and the young would take the opportunity to sashay and flirt.

  Afterward, they would sit down to Sunday dinner. Glazed ham, sweet potatoes, fresh biscuits, green beans swimming in pot liquor, and maybe some pecan pie. And flowers, there would always be flowers on the table. His mother had seen to that.

  Out of respect for her, Tucker’s father never touched a bottle on Sunday, not from sunup to sundown. As a result, those long afternoons took on a pleasant, dreamy quality in retrospect—an illusion perhaps, but a comforting one.

  Part of Tucker missed those days. But there was something to be said for snoozing in a quiet house with the chatter of birds piping outside, the hum of the fan stirring air, and the happy notion that there was no place to go and nothing to do.

  He heard a car engine and rolled over in bed. The movement revived a few aches. He grunted, waiting for the discomfort and the disturbance to pass.

  The knock on the front door had Tucker opening one eye. Sunlight speared it, causing him to hiss through his teeth. He considered playing possum, waiting for Josie or Dwayne to handle things. But Josie’s room was on the other side of the house, and Dwayne was probably just as comatose as he’d been last night when Tucker hauled him in from the lake.

  “Shit. Go the hell away.”

  He had snuggled into the pillow and was willing himself back to sleep when the knocking stopped. Before he could congratulate himself, Burke’s voice rose from beneath his window.

  “Tucker, get your butt up. I gotta talk to you. Dammit, Tuck, it’s important.”

  “Always goddamn important,” Tucker muttered as he pushed himself out of bed. All of his aches and pains began to awaken. Naked and irritable, he pushed open the terrace doors.

  “Jesus.” Burke tossed his cigarette aside and took a long, slow scan of Tucker’s body. It was a palette of black, blue, and sickly yellow. “He really worked you over, didn’t he, son?”

  “Did you come all the way out here and wake me up just to make that stunning observation?”

  “You come on out and I’ll tell you why I’m here. And put some clothes on before I haul you in for indecent exposure.”

  “Up yours, Sheriff.” Tucker stumbled back into the bedroom, looked at his tangled sheets with some regret, then grabbed some cotton drawstring pants and his sunglasses. That was as close to dressed as he intended to get.

  Since he wasn’t feeling kindly toward Burke, he took a detour into the bathroom to empty his bladder and brush his teeth.

  “Haven’t even had a cup of goddamn coffee,” he grumbled when he walked out onto the porch. Burke was sitting on one of the rockers. From the shine on his shoes and the crispness of his shirt, it was obvious he’d come straight from service.

  “Sorry to get you up so early. Can’t be more than a minute past noon.”

  “Give me a cigarette, you bastard.”

  Burke obliged, waited until Tucker had finished his little routine. “You really think making them shorter’s going to help you quit?”

  “Eventually.” Tucker pulled in smoke, winced as it burned, then
blew it out. He drew again, felt marginally better, and sat. “So Burke, what brings you calling?”

  Burke frowned at the peonies Tucker had tried to salvage. “Talked to that Dr. Rubenstein a while ago. He was having breakfast at the Chat ’N Chew. Waved me inside.”

  “Hmmm.” That had Tucker giving some thought to breakfast himself. Maybe he could sweet-talk Della into fixing up some hotcakes.

  “He wanted to fill me in on a couple things—mostly because he knows it’ll yank Burns’s chain. He’s strictly by-the-book—Burns, I mean. Damn near taking over my office. Can’t say I care for it.”

  “You’ve got my sympathy. Can I go back to bed now?”

  “Tucker, it’s about Edda Lou.” Burke fiddled with his sheriff’s badge. He knew it wasn’t purely professional for him to pass any information along to Tucker, especially since the FBI still considered him a suspect. But some loyalties ran deeper than the law. “There wasn’t a baby, Tuck.”

  “Huh?”

  Burke sighed. “She wasn’t pregnant. Came out during the autopsy. There was no baby. I thought you had a right to know.”

  A rushing sound filled Tucker’s head as he stared down at the tip of the cigarette. When he spoke, his voice was slow and deliberate. “She wasn’t pregnant.”

  “No.”

  “For certain?”

  “Rubenstein knows what he’s doing, and he says she wasn’t.”

  With his eyes closed, Tucker sat back and rocked. He realized a large portion of his guilt and grief had been due to the child. But there wasn’t a child, had never been a child, and grief easily transformed into rage.

  “She lied to me.”

  “I’d have to say that’s true.”

  “She stood there, in front of all those people, and lied about something like that.”

  Feeling useless, Burke rose. “I thought you should know. It didn’t seem right for you to think … well, I thought you should know.”

  Thanks didn’t seem quite appropriate, so Tucker only nodded, keeping his eyes closed until he heard the cruiser start, listened to it purr down the long, winding drive.