"We need to talk," he said, as I drew closer.
"You found Vernell?" My heartbeat quickened.
"No, but I'm working on it." His icy blue eyes never left my face. He was searching for something inside me, I could tell that much. I just didn't know what he wanted.
He took another swallow of coffee and stood up. "Let's walk a little bit."
I raised an eyebrow. This was new behavior. Weathers wasn't the type for strolls.
He took off, as if he had a destination in mind, barely waiting to see that I'd joined him. We left the parking lot and turned out onto Elm Street, moving south toward the railroad tracks. The early morning rush had started and cars passed us, heading into the main business district, moving quickly away from Jack's fringe neighborhood, unwilling to linger among the closed antique shops and funky nightspots.
Weathers kept moving too, toward a little triangle-shaped park that lay just in front of the train tracks, rucked behind the front row of buildings and the encroaching neighborhood of aging Victorians. The park was seldom used, even in the daytime, because of its proximity to Lee Street and the people who wandered the neighborhood looking for handouts or a bench to sleep off a drunk.
Weathers walked toward a bench that faced the entrance to the park. It was the only one of the few benches a cop would've taken. It backed up to a brick wall and had a view of all three park entrances and exits. There was no way to sneak up on it. No surprises possible here.
He motioned for me to sit down, then sat next to me, but further away, so he could face me as he spoke. I sat there waiting, but he didn't say a word. Instead he was watching me, then looking away, paying exaggerated attention to the park and the train tracks.
Mama says any man'll eventually get around to making his point and it doesn't do to rush him. "A man holds counsel with himself, Maggie," she said, "and only comes to you when he thinks he's drawn a conclusion." Mama always saw it as her job to help Daddy "interpret" his conclusion to her way of thinking.
Marshall finally turned to face me, drew in his breath and exhaled for a long, silent moment. "I wanted to call you, but I couldn't," he said. "The timing wasn't right, Maggie. It wasn't you. It was me."
I sat there, staring at my hands. I wasn't sure I wanted to see the look in his eyes, or read a lie on his face. I've heard every excuse a man can give in life. I didn't want to look up and realize this was just another one.
He must've sensed that, because he reached over and laid one strong hand on top of my two. I looked up finally and saw him watching me. I had a hundred other questions lined up for him, but I couldn't make the words come out.
"Maggie, I'm divorced," he said. "When I met you, it hadn't been final for more than a month. I just wasn't ready for a woman like you. You're not the type for something casual. And right now, that's all I have to offer."
He looked at me as he spoke, straight into my eyes, and on through. When I looked back at him, all I could see was a wall.
"That doesn't mean I'm not attracted to you, or that I wouldn't want to spend more time with you. It's me; that's all. I'm not ready and I don't want to hurt you."
Of course, he couldn't see that he was hurting me now. What was he saying, that girls like Tracy were what he was looking for? What was I, yesterday's cornbread?
"I understand," I said, and stood up in front of him. "You don't owe me an explanation. It was just one of those things."
I was holding my head up, like maybe I could keep the rush of tears from climbing uphill from my heart to my eyes, but it wasn't working. I turned away and he snatched my hand and tugged me back. He stood up and pulled me into him, so close now that I could feel his breath on my hair.
"You don't understand. It matters to me. I don't want to see you hurt."
I looked up at him, the top of my head just touching his chin. He reached up with one hand and stroked the side of my cheek. His fingers were rough but gentle as he cupped my chin and leaned down to kiss me. His lips brushed mine, soft at first, then more insistent.
"It matters to me," he said again, and pulled me the rest of the way into his arms. We stood like that, in the crisp early morning, in the park by Jack's house and I felt as if the entire world had vanished, leaving us alone, together.
Of course, the world had to intrude, crashing back in like a drunken stranger with the shrill ring of Marshall's cell phone.
"Weathers."
He listened, cocking his head and squinting his eyes almost shut. He too, was trying to salvage the moment, his arm still encircling my waist, his hand stroking my back.
"You're sure?" Weathers barked. His hand tightened, then froze. "See if you can find a more solid link. Any family?" He listened. "All right, I'll take that. You get on this other." He touched a button and slid the phone back into his pocket. The Weathers of a moment ago had vanished. The cop was back and it wasn't good news.
"Is it Vernell?" I asked. I took a step backward, out of his arms, out where I could read him and know.
"Not directly," he said. He drew the words out so that they began to take on the opposite meaning. Directly. Somehow I knew he felt Vernell was involved directly.
"We've got an I.D. on the man in the truck. His name's Nosmo King. You know him?"
I frowned. Why would I know him?
"No. Should I?"
Weathers turned and nodded in the direction of Jack's warehouse. Our moment in the park was over. He meant for us to start walking, and the pace he set was a quick one.
"He's trouble. He's a money man for the Redneck Mafia. You ever hear of them?"
It felt like an accusation instead of a question. His tone and manner had changed, making me wonder what else he knew.
"Why don't you quit running around the barn and tell me what's really going on?"
Weathers cut down the alley that ran up to Jack's warehouse. His unmarked sedan was parked beside a scraggly clump of mimosa trees. He stepped just short of the bumper and looked at me.
"Nosmo's a real predictable guy. He ate breakfast at Tex and Shirley's three days ago, just like he always does. Had two eggs over easy, grits and gravy, dry toast and black coffee. Then, after breakfast, Nosmo did something completely unpredictable: He left the restaurant and disappeared off the face of the earth." Marshall's electric blue eyes darkened. "His breakfast partner that morning was none other than your ex-husband, Vernell."
My head spun and I couldn't put the pieces together. What had Vernell been doing talking to Nosmo King? The possibilities were endless and none of them were good.
"So what happens now?" I asked.
Marshall's hand was on the door handle. He was already thinking three moves ahead. In his mind, he was a million miles away.
"I'm going to see Nosmo's widow," he pronounced calmly, "and then I'm going to find out how Vernell and Mr. King came to hook up."
I thought about the stranger in Vernell's house. Could the Redneck Mafia be looking for Vernell? Was that who the stranger was working for? I shook myself and looked at Weathers. I thought about telling him, but for some reason held back. If the stranger worked for the Redneck Mafia, Weathers would find out sooner than I could. And what did I have to tell him anyway? A dark-haired stranger held a gun on me and then kissed me? And how would I explain not telling Weathers earlier? I needed more proof before I started raising a fuss about someone who could turn out to be perfectly harmless.
My stomach did a little flip, remembering the feel of his lips on mine, the way his eyes had seen right down inside my soul, as if he could read my mind. No, that guy wasn't harmless. It was my Pure T. Stubborn nature that held me back. I would tell Weathers when I was good and ready.
Chapter Eight
My little cottage sits on a small side street between two college campuses. It is over a hundred years old, drafty as your granny's drawers in a hurricane, and totally mine. I parked my ancient Beetle a good two blocks away, behind the YMCA parking lot, and snuck up on my own house.
I looked up and down
the street for a motorcycle and saw none, but that didn't mean I wasn't cautious. I slipped down the alley, looked both ways before I crossed my dot of a backyard, then darted up the stairs to the door that opened into my converted sleeping porch-bedroom. I had the door open and was inside the house in seconds, the thrill of victory quickly shattered by the reality of defeat. My bed had been slept in and my house smelled like coffee. Freshly brewed coffee.
"Sheila?" I called softly.
The Shadow stepped into the doorway of my bedroom, one of my coffee mugs in hand, and a huge grin on his face.
"Just like I thought," he said. "Those eyes blackened right up." He sipped his coffee, all the while studying me. "It's not bad, though, what you did with the makeup. From the stage they might not even be able to tell. Guess it's the sunlight, huh? Kind of shows up everything."
I spun around and grabbed the doorknob. My heart thudded against my chest and my palms were sweating.
He didn't move from the doorway. "Have a nice day," he said slowly. "When Sheila gets in I'll tell her you were by."
That got me. I turned back and glared at him. "Get out of my house. I'm calling the police!"
He shook his head. His dark black hair reflected the sunlight that streamed in through my bedroom windows. His eyes twinkled. He was getting just the reaction he wanted. He slouched against the doorjamb, studying me over the rim of his coffee mug. He stopped smiling and the light went out of his eyes.
"Call them," he said. "But if you do, Vernell's a dead man."
"How do I know he isn't dead already?" I said. "Where is he?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "Your guess is as good as mine. I'm just telling you what the others will do if they find him, especially with the police in on it. You get them all wrapped up in this and I'll guaran-damn-tee you that they'll kill him first and ask questions later. You don't want to go calling the police or raising a bunch of senseless hell. You need my help."
"I need your help? I do not need help from you. What I need is to call the cops and get you out of my house!" I tried to look like I meant business, like I wasn't terrified, but he didn't seem to take me seriously.
He half-turned away from me, heading back into my kitchen. "You need all the help you can get. Now, come on," he said, "the coffee's fresh and I was about to rustle up some breakfast. You hungry?"
"No," I lied, sounding for all the world like a surly teenager. I hung back, trying to make up my mind. For some reason, I didn't think he was going to hurt me. You don't cook breakfast for someone you intend to kill-at least that's how I saw it.
"I want you out of my house," I said, moving reluctantly toward the kitchen. "This is breaking and entering, you know."
He chuckled. "As easy to pop as your house is, it oughta be called trick or treat." He laughed again, highly amused with his own cleverness. "How do you take your coffee?"
"Black."
"Figures," he said. "Wouldn't want any cream and sugar to lighten you up."
"Now listen here," I said, "I'm about over this act of yours. You cannot break into someone's house, eat their food, and threaten them without repercussions."
He spun back around and smirked. "Didn't figure you for the type to use uptown, big words. Repercussions, huh? Well, let me tell you something, Vernell's the one facing repercussions. You're just lucky I'm helping you out. I know more about him and the trouble he's in than the cops will ever know."
"You are not helping me out!" I crossed the kitchen floor, took my skillet out of his hand, and shoved him aside. "Move! If anyone cooks here, it's me." He took a step backward and frowned. "And another thing," I said. "I don't break bread with strangers. Who are you? I think you at least owe me that much."
I crossed my arms, holding the skillet against my side. I hadn't ruled out using it for knocking some sense into him, but if he was telling the truth and could help me find Vernell, then I'd be a fool to run him off. I stared at him, trying not to look at his mouth, trying not to remember the way he'd kissed me and the way I'd reacted.
He reached one hand back into his jeans pocket, pulled out his wallet, and flipped it open for me to see. Inside was a picture and a card identifying him as Anthony Carlucci, licensed private investigator.
I looked at the picture and then I looked at him. The picture didn't do his dark eyes any justice, but it was him. His hair was longer now, and he had a serious case of five o'clock shadow, but it was definitely him.
"You can call me Tony," he said, and stood there, staring me down in my own home.
I looked away at the carton of eggs sitting on the counter-top. He had really been intent on cooking breakfast in my kitchen. Next to the stove sat my coffeepot, full of strong, black liquid. I inhaled and half-closed my eyes, then sighed and turned my attention back to Carlucci. Well, at least he was somewhat domesticated.
"You didn't start the grits water?" I said, pulling out another pot.
"Hashbrowns," he answered.
"Grits," I said. "My house, my food, my rules."
He smiled and stepped over to the coffeepot, grabbing a new mug as he went. "Here," he said, pouring the steaming coffee into the cup. "You haven't had enough to be thinking straight."
I slammed the skillet down on the stove and cut the fire on underneath it. "Who hired you?" I asked. I reached past him, pulled open the refrigerator door, and grabbed the bacon. Mama always said, "If you fill a man's stomach, you'll dull his senses." Mama never argued with Daddy when he was hungry, and Daddy never won an argument.
"I can't say. It's confidential."
Tony was leaning against the counter, uncomfortably close. He was slightly taller than Marshall Weathers, and larger, but without an ounce of flesh that wasn't muscle. Even without looking at him, I could feel him there. It was as if he radiated heat and something else that I couldn't quite put a name to.
"Man or woman?" I asked.
"Can't say," he answered.
I threw four strips of bacon into the hot skillet and listened to it sizzle against the burning surface.
"Why are you looking for Vernell?"
" 'Cause I got paid to look for him."
"By who? You can tell me that," I said. "What harm can that do?"
He shrugged. "I don't like to violate my code of ethics."
The bacon hissed and popped. "Yeah," I said, "like you have one. You work for the Redneck Mafia, don't you?"
That stopped him cold. He reached out, grabbed my arm and turned me toward him. "What do you know about that?" he asked. His eyes darkened and the look in them frightened me, but I wasn't going to let him know that.
"Nosmo King a friend of yours?" I said, letting my voice drop down to a near whisper. His grip on my arm tightened and I winced.
"How do you know about them?" he growled.
"The bacon's burning," I said, and jerked my arm away. I turned my attention back to the stove, knowing he wouldn't let it drop.
"Maggie, answer me. You can't drop a name like that and then stop talking. It's too dangerous."
"Who do you work for?" I shot back.
It was a standoff. I pulled the bacon out of the pan and slipped in the eggs. Over easy. I wouldn't look at him and he wasn't volunteering a thing. I poured grits into the boiling water and stirred them. The words Redneck Mafia and Nosmo King sure seemed to hit a nerve.
By the time the eggs were ready and the grits almost done, I had a plan. Mama always said, "A critter'll always come to sugar, long before he'll lick salt."
"Breakfast is on," I said. I pasted a stupid smile on my face and gestured toward my dining room. "You go sit down, let me tend to things."
Apparently he'd taken lessons in the same school of common sense. "Let me help you."
"I wouldn't dream of it," I purred. "You're a guest." Like hell, I thought, but swallowed it.
Tony picked up the coffeepot, filled our mugs, and then carried them into the dining room. Butter wouldn't have melted in his mouth.
I set his plate of food down in front
of him, then added a huge bowl of grits. I just couldn't help myself. Then I went back for my plate.
"Umm, umm," I heard him moan from the dining room.
"You know, Maggie, where I come from, we don't eat grits, but these are delicious!"
I know a liar when I hear one. I stuck my head around the corner and stared at him. He was shoveling plain grits into his mouth as fast as possible, ignoring the bowl of red eye gravy, and ignoring the pepper. What was wrong with him? It could only be one thing. He had Yankee written all over him.
"Glad you like 'em," I said, breezing past him to my seat. "Where I come from, grits just ain't no good without gravy and pepper, but I'm so happy to see you love them plain. What a tribute!"
Tony shot a longing glance at the redeye gravy, realizing his error, and knowing he couldn't switch over now.
We would've continued like this for I don't know how long, but Sheila saved me. The front door latch clicked, the door swung open, and my teenaged daughter faced down Tony Carlucci with a haughty glare.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded. "Mama, that's him! That's the guy that was watching Daddy's house!"
Sheila marched through the living room and straight up to the dining-room table. She was wearing a little plaid miniskirt, black knee-highs, and pigtails. She looked like a Catholic schoolgirl.
"Baby, this is Mr. Carlucci," I said. "He's a private investigator looking for your dad."
"No you're not," Sheila sneered. "Private investigators don't wear black leather jackets and ride motorcycles."
"Sheila, where are your manners? And why aren't you in school?"
Sheila gave me a pitying look. "Mama, I am trying to save your life!"
"Cutting school again, huh?" Carlucci said, grinning.
"Shut up!"
"Sheila!" I swung back to face Carlucci. "How do you know she cuts school?"
"Doesn't everybody?" he answered.
"Well, I didn't."
Now Tony and Sheila both favored me with a pitying glance.
Stand By Your Man mr-2 Page 5
