Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
The hearse driver closed his prayer book with a snap. "Amen."
"Amen."
The soft echo snapped Ryan's head around. When he saw the woman standing just inside the gate, his insides went tight with fury.
She couldn't leave him alone. Couldn't give Billy even these few moments of peace. He swept his gaze over the formal dress uniform, the spit-shined back heels, the small bunch of waxy red gladiolas in her hand. Deliberately, he turned his back to her.
"We'll take care of everything from here, Mr. McMann."
"Fine."
"The headstone should be in place within ninety days. We like to give the ground time to settle, you understand." The driver tucked his prayer book in his pocket and stretched his chin in a vain attempt to ease the discomfort of his tie. "You can view it come the end of July."
Ryan didn't plan to hang around Montgomery long enough to view anything come July, much less the headstone he'd ordered. With a curt nod, he turned away. His departure from the small cemetery took him right past the silent, watching woman.
Carly didn't speak to McMann as he strode by. His closed face didn't invite comments or condolences any more than the rigid set of his shoulders under his dark suit coat.
The charcoal gray suit surprised her. Not that he'd worn it, but that he wore it so well. Up to now she'd seen him only in jeans and work shirts, or jeans and no shirt at all. The McMann she'd dealt with on previous occasions carried himself with a potent mix of strength, controlled violence, and raw masculinity. This one added power and a surface patina of sophistication to that combustible combination.
His pinstriped worsted hung in executive, tailored lines that only emphasized his athletic build. His pale yellow shirt with its white collar and cuffs had somehow stayed crisp in the humid spring warmth. He'd had his hair trimmed, Carly noted. Jet black and too short to make any pretenses to styling, the severe cut suited his lean features.
His shoes crunched on the gravel path leading away from the cemetery. Carly waited until the footsteps faded before following the path to the freshly dug grave. She wasn't exactly sure why she'd left her still-unfinished report to drive down here. Partly -because of a lingering regret that she hadn't gone straight to the prison after meeting Billy in the woods and talked to him before he died. Partly because of a nagging, irrational guilt. She couldn't shake the thought that her unexpected appearance and rapid-fire questions had upset Hopewell so much that he'd lost his concentration, taken his mower down that slope at too steep an angle, and died under its crushing weight.
And partly, she acknowledged with brutal honesty, she'd driven down to this little cemetery because she'd expected to find McMann here. From the moment she'd spotted the brief notice of interment among the death notices her grandfather always wanted read to him, Carly had anticipated another confrontation with McMann, another opportunity to get beyond his brittle outer shell to the complex individual beneath.
One look at his face had shattered that plan. The Mann wasn't in any mood to talk. Not to her anyway.
Slowly, she made her way along the gravel path to the tall, lanky attendant waiting beside the grave for the cemetery workers to arrive.
"Afternoon, ma'am," he said politely, swiping a handkerchief across the back of his neck. "This humidity is almost worse than the rain."
"Almost."
"Are those for the newly deceased?" He nodded to the blood red gladiolas. "Yes."
"If you care to place them with the other remembrances, I'll tell the diggers to put them on the grave when they finish."
The other remembrances. Aside from the modest spray resting atop the casket, the only other tribute to Billy Hopewell was a small arrangement of white carnations. Pity washed through Carly. How sad that so few people cared for the young man in life or mourned his death.
Stooping, she placed the gladiolas beside the carnations. Her gaze caught on the card almost hidden among the white blossoms.
Sleep with the angels. J.
Carly felt her pulse quicken. In her brief, one-sided conversation with Billy Hopewell, he'd mentioned two names. Only two. Ry and Joy. Could this "J" be Joy?
What had the inmate said? Something about Ry insisting it wasn't right. As did Joy. What wasn't right? Who was Joy?
Without a qualm, Carly plucked the card from the arrangement and made a mental note of the name and address of the flower shop stamped in blue ink on the back; the Flower Basket, out on Eastdale Drive.
She'd give them a call when she got back to the office. Or maybe she'd just drive out and talk to the shop owner. If she flashed her ID and her letter of appointment, she shouldn't have any difficulty getting the name of the customer who'd sent the flowers. For curiosity's sake if nothing else, Carly wanted to close the last loop before finalizing her report.
The carnations occupied her thoughts as she let the creaking wrought iron gate swing shut. She followed the path to the weed-grown parking lot, only to stop short at the sight of McMann leaning against the MG's fender.
Elbows bent, suit coat shoved back, he jingled the coins in his pockets. His loosened tie hung in a lopsided loop around his neck. The top two buttons of the pale yellow shirt yawned open to show a curl of dark hair at the base of his throat. Suspicion, distrust, and something Carly couldn't quite define clouded his eyes.
"What are you doing here?"
"Paying my respects."
"Yeah? Do you pay your respects to every inmate who ends up under a mower?"
"Only those I've spoken to."
The jingling coins went silent. He regarded her intently. "You told me you only spoke to Billy once, for a few seconds."
The guilt Carly wanted to deny stung her again. "I did only speak to him for a few seconds, but..."
"But what?"
"Well, I..." This was ridiculous. She had no reason to feel as though she contributed to the young man's tragic accident. But she did. Dammit, she did.
When she didn't reply, McMann's expression went tight and hard. Pulling his hands out of his pockets, he pushed off the fender.
"What the hell did you say or do to Billy?"
Carly's jaw set. She didn't particularly appreciate being grilled like this.
"I spooked him," she admitted curtly. "I threw questions at him so fast he couldn't get out an answer."
"Yeah, he had that problem. Or didn't you notice?"
"I noticed. All right? I noticed."
"But your kept after him anyway."
The disgust in his face singed her already prickling conscience. "Yes, I kept after him."
The confession cost Carly. Big time. She didn't often mishandle people the way she had the young inmate. Pulling off the flight cap, she scraped her palm across her damp forehead.
"I shouldn't have peppered him with questions like that. Not after I realized he had... a problem. I should've handled him more calmly, more carefully."
"If you had, he might not have run away, jumped on that mower, and sent it tumbling down a ravine? Is that what you're thinking?"
"Maybe."
"Well, well," he said with caustic incredulity. "A lawyer with a conscience. Who would have believed it?"
The jeer pushed exactly the wrong buttons. She'd taken all she intended to take from Ryan McMann. Her hand swung upward.
His arm whipped up to meet hers. A brutal grip manacled her wrist. She gaped at his white-knuckled hold for several seconds before jiggling the flight cap that dangled from her fingertips.
"One," she said icily, "I raised my hand to put on my cover, not to slap your face, although I admit the idea holds considerable appeal at the moment. Two, I've told you before I don't like being pawed. And three..." Her voice dropped another dozen degrees. "You're hurting me."
His glance bulleted from her face to the arm he'd captured. Disgust rolled across his features once again, but this time it was directed inw
ard. His grip loosened.
If his gaze hadn't shifted back to hers at that moment, Carly would have snatched her arm away. The unremitting emptiness in his eyes held her frozen.
"I'm sorry."
He dragged the words from a place so dark and private that her own anger fizzled.
"I don't... I've never..." He drew in a harsh breath, began again. "Despite my record and all evidence to the contrary, I've never intentionally hurt a woman."
She believed him. For an insane moment, she believed him. Her heart thudding, she kept silent as he unwrapped his fingers and dropped a light kiss on the inside of her wrist.
"I'm sorry," he said again.
She nodded, letting him make what he wanted of the small movement. Her heart was still hammering when he climbed into the late model Bronco parked next to her MG and drove off.
She felt the imprint of McMann's mouth on her skin all during the drive around the south loop.
The late afternoon rush hour had already started. Every stoplight seemed to be working against her. Traffic jerked along at a stop-and-go crawl until well past Montgomery Mall, and moved sluggishly on the eastern bypass.
Carly barely noticed the delays. Hands locked on the steering wheel, she played and replayed those moments with McMann in her mind. Why had she deluded herself into thinking she could get past his impenetrable barriers? Why had she let him get to her like that? And why in God's name did her flesh still burn where he'd kissed it?
A sick feeling curled in her stomach. This was the second time he'd touched her. The second time she'd allowed him to. She could have jerked her arm free. Withered him on the spot with a few well-chosen words. Walked away.
Instead, she'd stood rooted to the ground like one of his adoring, adolescent fans while he bent his head and pressed his lips against her wrist.
She couldn't understand her reactions. She'd never experienced this absurd combination of dislike and fascination for any man, let alone a key witness in an investigation. She had to shake this preoccupation with McMann, had to put this damned Article 32 behind her.
Grimly determined, she turned off the eastern bypass onto the old Atlanta highway. A three minute drive and one wrong turn brought her to the small strip mall that housed the Flower Basket Boutique and Gift Shop.
The shop owner was a small, cheerful woman with berry bright eyes and fluttery hands. She bobbed her head several times when Carly asked about the delivery to the southside cemetery.
"The white carnations? Oh, yes, such an odd little offering, don't you think? I recommended lilies or white roses... for the same price... but she wanted only the carnations."
"She? You mean Joy?"
"I think that was her name." The proprietress riffled through a cardbox filled with handwritten orders. "Yes, yes, that's it. Joy Matusi... Matusin..."
She stumbled, providing the perfect opportunity for Carly to lean across the counter and help her with the unusual name.
"Ma-tu-sin-ak," she enunciated. "Joy Matusinak."
She got the address and two digits of the phone number before the shopkeeper refiled the card.
"Is Mrs. Matusinak a friend of yours, dear?"
"No, in fact we've never met. Billy... the deceased... mentioned her."
"I see." She folded her plump hands. "Well, what can I do for you?"
A very satisfied customer left the Flower Basket a few moments later carrying a tissue-wrapped cluster of fresh-cut irises.
Fifteen minutes after that, a not-quite-as-satisfied Carly climbed back into her MG after striking out at the two-story brick and stucco Matusinak residence. More curious than ever about the connection between Billy Hopewell and the woman who lived in a subdivision that shouted wealth and privilege, Carly decided to try to reach Joy Matusinak by phone later that evening.
Dusk had fallen by the time she drove down the narrow alley to the converted carriage house she'd purchased in a moment of sheer insanity. Set at the rear of what was once one of Montgomery's most magnificent estates, the two-story, wisteria draped cottage echoed the French revival style of the main house. With its pumpkin-colored stucco, charcoal gray plank shutters, and arched dormer, it more than made up in charm what it lacked in modern plumbing or wiring.
Between her job, her mother's campaign, and the Judge's deteriorating condition, Carly hadn't given the cottage the time or attention it demanded. Bit by bit, however, the necessary renovations were getting done. A sweating electrician had spent three weeks re-wiring the place to bring it into compliance with current fire and safety codes. Carpenters had torn out acres of wood flooring and paneling eaten by rot. The kitchen still lacked cabinets and generally looked about as inviting as a war zone, but the newly installed central air-conditioning purred like a Siamese kitten.
It's cool air slapped at Carly's lungs as she let herself in through the attached garage. Tossing the irises into the chipped enamel sink the workmen hadn't gotten around to removing yet, she pushed through the swinging doors and put the kitchen chaos behind her. In the rest of the house, at least, she could justify her insanity. Here, she found tranquility.
Heart-pine beams polished to a golden hue by time and loving hands timbered the hallway. The same mellow pine framed the square arch leading into the high-ceilinged living area, created by knocking down two walls. French doors flooded the spacious area with natural light and exposed the potted geraniums and the heavy wisteria shading the walled patio.
Kicking off her shoes, Carly curled her toes against the smooth wood. A quick click of a remote turned on the high-tech sound system that took up one whole wall. The newscaster on her favorite FM station cut through the quiet of the dusk.
"... forecasting more thunderstorms for tomorrow and Friday, with the possibility of flash flooding throughout the weekend."
Oh, no!
"The director of emergency services has issued a statewide alert. In addition, the governor has ordered evacuation of the farms below the Jones Bluff Reservoir to allow worried officials to open the flood gates."
Frowning, Carly headed for the stairs. Her grandfather's farm lay above the spill from the reservoir, but the river cut through the south pasture. She'd better get out there tomorrow to make sure the young couple who worked the place had moved the horses... and that blasted mule. It certainly wouldn't break Carly's heart if the damned thing floated downriver and out into the Gulf, but she knew better than to say so around the Judge.
Her uniform jacket came off before she hit the narrow, curving stairs; her blouse halfway up. She dropped both items on her bed. Her skirt followed a moment later. She'd just peeled off her panty hose when the doorbell chimed. A quick peek out the front window showed the gleam of a black Jag.
Parker.
The little ripple of irritation that hit her took her by surprise. She hadn't seen Parker since the cocktail party at her mother's house last week. Long enough to have forgotten her annoyance over his call to the warden. Certainly long enough to be ready for an hour or two of agreeable companionship... or Parker's skilled brand of lovemaking. Yet she threw on a pair of cutoffs and an old University of Alabama T-shirt and went downstairs with something less than enthusiasm.
When she opened the door, the tanned, smiling assistant DA held up a six pack of dew-streaked Corona and a brown paper sack reeking with the luscious aroma of fresh steamed shrimp.
"Hello, beautiful. Have you eaten yet?"
"Hello yourself, and no, I haven't."
"Care to feast on warm Gulf shrimp and cold beer?"
"Mmmm, sounds delicious."
"Not as delicious as you look." With a smile and a sureness that came with familiarity, he bent to take her lips.
It was her second kiss of the day. Warm. Sexy. Inviting. Even as her senses registered the contact, a shocked Carly realized that she was comparing Parker's touch to McMann's, searching for the same burning heat, the same electricity.
No! No way she was going there! Deliberately, she slammed the door on the thought. Still, sh
e couldn't bring herself to lean into Parker's kiss, to wrap her arms around his waist and welcome him with the spontaneous warmth he obviously expected.
His disappointment showed when he lifted his head, but he didn't comment on her restraint. Making himself at home, he strolled inside.
"The shrimp are getting more aromatic by the moment. Why don't we eat outside?"
"As long as you don't mind wisteria hanging down around your ears."
It was a standing joke between them. At five-three, Carly considered the tiny, walled-in patio just off the living room a perfect blend of beauty and function. At six-one, Parker had to stoop to avoid banging his head on white-painted arbor crossbeams and the twisted wisteria vines they supported.
"The vines and I are becoming best friends," he returned with a grin. "You get the cocktail sauce and some lemon. I'll start peeling."
By the time Carly carried out a tray loaded with plates, napkins, cocktail sauce, and thick wedges of lemon, her erstwhile guest had created a respectable pile of translucent pink skins on an outspread newspaper. A mound of succulent peeled shrimp was taking shape on the flattened brown paper bag.
"I tried to call you this afternoon," Parker mentioned as she elbowed the French door shut behind her. "The clerk said you'd gone to a funeral. Anyone I know?"
"I doubt it." She slid the tray onto the table and reached for the beer he'd opened for her. "Just someone I met briefly during—"
"What in the hell!"
Startled, Carly jerked her head around to find Parker staring at her wrist. His brows snapped together, his expression at once concerned and fiercely protective.
"Where did you get those bruises? "
Chapter Nine
Carly hadn't even noticed the purple smudges ringing her wrist. Absurdly, she found herself fighting the irrational impulse to cover the finger marks with her other hand. It was too late to hide them... not that she had any reason to. Too late, as well, to avoid the explanation Parker waited for.
For a moment she was tempted to he, to say she tripped and one of the mourners caught her wrist to break her fall. That shocked her even more than the realization that she'd measured Parker's kiss against McMann's. Carly admitted to a lot of faults. Lying wasn't one of them.
River Rising Page 10
