Breach of Trust

by DiAnn Mills

  As if on cue, Miss Alma bustled through the door—her purse slung loosely from her shoulder, her foil-wrapped banana nut bread in one hand and two books in the other.

  “Good morning, Miss Alma,” Paige said. “Do you need some help?”

  “No thanks. If I loosen my hold on one thing, everything else will fall.”

  A picture of PoliGrip hit Paige’s mind. “Well, you’re the first today.”

  Miss Betty sashayed in, a true Southern belle dressed in her Sunday best, complete with a pillbox hat. “Miss Paige, may I brew a pot of decaf coffee?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s waiting for you.” Oh, how she loved these precious people.

  Within moments the rest of Split Creek’s Senior Book Club arrived. Paige waved at Reverend Bateson, and as usual, Miss Eleanor and Mr. Shafer were bickering about something.

  “At least we agree that Daniel Keary should be our next governor,” Miss Eleanor said.

  At the mention of that name, Paige thought she’d be physically ill. Keary was running on an Independent ticket, and she didn’t care if a Democrat or a Republican pulled in the votes. Anyone but Keary.

  “I have banana bread,” Miss Alma said. “But don’t be picking up a book with crumbs on your fingers.”

  “We know,” several echoed.

  Paige appreciated the comic relief. The rest of the members placed chairs in a circle beneath the massive chandelier while Paige checked in their books.

  The library door opened again, and Jason Stevens walked in with his camera. The sight of him erased the pleasantries she’d been enjoying with the book club members. He made his way to the circulation desk and stood at the swinging door, trapping her inside.

  Hadn’t she just swept the bugs off the steps of the library?

  “Since you won’t let me take your picture outside, I thought I’d snap a few in here. Wow—” his gaze took in the expanse of the building—“this was a bank.” His brilliant whites would have melted most women’s resolve.

  Paige approached the swinging door. “No pictures, please. They always turn out looking really bad.”

  “How about lunch?”

  “Are you coming on to me?” Disgust curdled her insides.

  He waved his free hand in front of his face. The man knew just when to utilize a dimple on his left cheek. “I’m simply looking for a story to go along with my photos. This library is charming, fascinating, and so are you.”

  Revulsion for the dimple-faced city boy had now moved into the fast lane. “Miss Alma, I’ll help you arrange the chairs.”

  “Nonsense.” Miss Alma shook her blue-gray head. “You help this young man. Those old people can do something besides stand around and complain about their gout and bursitis.”

  Any other time, Paige would have laughed at the remark. But not today.

  “Looks like they have everything under control.” The low, seductive tone of Stevens’s voice invited a slap in the face.

  “I suggest you visit with a few other business owners for your newspaper’s needs,” she said.

  “I’m very disappointed.”

  “You’ll get over it.”

  “Can’t we talk?” He leaned over the swinging door.

  “You can leave, or I can call the sheriff. Your choice.” She picked up the phone on her desk and met his gaze with a stare down.

  “So much for sweet, small-town girls.” He tossed her his best dejected look. Obviously he wasn’t accustomed to the word no.

  Her reflexes remained catlike thanks to tai chi workouts still done at home behind drawn curtains. With minimal effort, she could dislocate a shoulder or crash the kneecap of an opponent twice her weight. Such skills were not a part of the job description for most small-town USA librarians, but then again most of them didn’t have a working knowledge of Korean, Angolan Portuguese, Swahili, and Russian. The ability to decipher codes, a mastery of disguise, and a knack for using a paper clip to open locks . . . not to mention a past that needed to stay buried. She had to resist the urge to toss Stevens out on his ear. Calm down.

  “I’m sorry we don’t have the book you wanted. I’m sure one of the branches in Oklahoma City can help you.”

  A silent challenge crested in his gray eyes, and she met it with her own defiance.

  Stevens walked to the door and turned, carrying his camera the way patrons carried books. “Know what? This town would be a great place to hide out a CIA operative.”

  Chapter 2

  Paige watched the Town Car pull away from the curb and head west to where she hoped Stevens would meet up with I-35 and drive north to Oklahoma City and never return. So Keary had sent him. Why? She hadn’t interfered in his campaign for Oklahoma’s governorship. Neither did she intend to get involved in any of his political aspirations. An ache rose and swirled inside her, helpless in a deadly storm.

  “What a strange comment.” Miss Alma shifted her banana bread to the other arm. “A mite early in the morning for someone to be drinking or doing any of those other things that boggle a person’s mind. Imagine CIA people living here.”

  Paige had hoped no one had heard Stevens’s final remark. “He’s supposed to be a photographer from Oklahoma City. Said he was taking pictures of our town for a magazine. Frankly I didn’t like the way he looked or talked. In fact—” Paige still had the phone in her hand. The incessant beeping reminded her she hadn’t disconnected it—“I’m calling Sheriff George to have him run a license plate check on him.”

  “Smart girl.” Miss Alma turned her good ear to Paige. “He could be some crook. Or worse yet, he could be one of those real estate developers who wants to turn our town into a mall or build a fancy subdivision. My goodness, he could have been at the courthouse for that very reason. I sure would like to know. We could petition and stop him. Ever seen that movie Chinatown with Jack Nicholson?”

  Paige lifted a brow and hid her amusement. “I think that was about water rights between two states.”

  “Don’t think it couldn’t happen here,” Miss Alma said. “Outsiders. Nothing but trouble. Make that call to the sheriff. Good thinking.”

  “I’ll find out and get back with you.” Paige dialed the sheriff’s number and waited for Lucy to get George on the line. “Mornin’, George. Had a little incident as I got to the library this morning.”

  “Anything I need to get involved in?”

  “A guy was here taking pictures up and down the street. Claimed to work for the Oklahoman, but I have yet to see a newspaper photographer who could afford a Town Car and a hand-tailored suit. I didn’t care for his attitude either. Anyway, I jotted down his license plate number.”

  “Might be a land speculator,” George said. “Ever see that movie Chinatown with Charlton Heston?”

  “Jack Nicholson.” Paige willed her body to relax and gave him the plate number. “I’ll be here the rest of the morning.”

  “I’ll call you back as soon as I have something.” She envisioned the tall, lean sheriff squinting as he scribbled the plate number. His friendship offered a benefit that came only from small-town living, but she feared what he could learn about her.

  “Thanks, George. It’s probably nothing, but his obnoxious behavior bothered me.”

  “No problem, little lady.”

  She replaced the receiver on the cradle. Some things she missed, like technology. She could still hack into systems with the best of them. For now, however, it would be best if she made the book club members comfortable and waited for George’s call.

  After the book club cleaned up and a grand total of two patrons returned and checked out books, the clock inched toward noon. Her peanut butter sandwich had begun to call her name, but she waited. A few moments later, the Split Creek High School football coach pushed his way through the double doors of the library.

  “Goodness, Miles, you must be knee-deep in two-a-day practices.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Sunburned face, dirt streaks on your Eskimo Joe T-shirt, an
d the smell.”

  Miles grimaced. “I own up to it all.”

  She allowed herself one moment to appreciate the man who, under different circumstances, might have captured her heart. “How’s the team looking this year?”

  “Good. They’re working hard. First scrimmage is a week from tomorrow on our field. That’ll give us an idea of how we’re shaping up before our first game after Labor Day.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “It’ll be sold out.”

  “Scrimmages are free.”

  “But we’re good.” His sun-bleached hair, highlighted in a way many women paid big bucks for, caught her attention. No man should be that good-looking—inside and out.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “It’s Thursday.” His gold and brown eyes held the mischievousness of a little boy. “I just wondered what flavor of pie today.”

  “Peach. I think there are two pieces left. A couple of the book club folks discovered my Thursday pie-baking ritual and actually retrieved the container from my car.”

  “What will I do when school starts?” Miles asked.

  The way he looked at her made her dizzy, and she turned to straighten the papers on her desk. The phone had not rung all morning. “Don’t know. I suppose I could hide a slice or two until after school.”

  “Perfect. Can I request some of those chocolate chip cookies, the ones with peanut butter?”

  “Oh, you can request anything you want. Not sure if you’ll get them or not.”

  “What about that white cake you make with the coconut?”

  “Italian cream cake? That’s reserved for when you win a game.”

  “And what about the carrot cake?”

  She pointed her finger at him. “That’s for those poor boys when they lose a game.” Watch it. You’re flirting too much.

  He stretched his hands to the ceiling. “It’s all good! When are you going to let me take you for a ride on my Harley?”

  “Thanks, Miles, but I have a theory that people have only so much luck in life, and I’ve already stretched mine to the limit. Keep your Harley. I’ll stick with my sensible, economic car . . . and seat belts.”

  He wrinkled his forehead. “Stretched your luck how?”

  “I’ll get your pie.” She walked toward the kitchen, and with each step, she pushed his presence into the no-feel arena.

  His culinary requests amused her when she considered her real skills—the ones she couldn’t use.

  “Dinner?” His voice called after her.

  Paige shook her head. “No, Miles. Just friends.”

  When she returned with the pie, he gave her a look of mock defeat. “I don’t bite except during a full moon.”

  “I know who you are and not a finer man walks this earth. I’m simply not interested in a relationship.”

  “I’m not giving up.”

  “Maybe baking for you is all I can ever do.”

  He moistened his lips. “I’ll take whatever you can give.”

  Resolve, commitment, and an obligation bannered across her mind. The shrill ring of the phone helped her to back away from him.

  “Hey, Paige,” George said. “I ran the license plate number.”

  Her pulse sped past the safety zone. “And did I overreact?”

  He chuckled, a deep rumble that resembled the man’s good humor. “Most likely so. His name’s Jason Stevens. I’m sure he meant no harm.”

  “I see, but what about his taking pictures for the Oklahoman?”

  “I have no idea. He could’ve seen a pretty girl and wanted to impress her. I think you can toss your concern.”

  But she couldn’t. She knew too much. “But he is from Oklahoma City?”

  “You sure make my job hard.” George paused. Knowing him, he was contemplating protocol. “Yes, he’s from Oklahoma City, but you didn’t hear it from me.”

  So Keary wanted her to know he still held the reins. “Thanks. I appreciate this. The next Stephen Bly Western that comes in will be put on hold until you can check it out.”

  “Thanks, and don’t hesitate to call me if this guy shows up again.”

  She hung up the phone. Later at home, she’d look into Jason Stevens when she had computer access and no one around to interrupt her.

  “Everything okay?” Miles lifted his face to the fan to cool off.

  “Sure. Better finish your pie.”

  He twisted his head and quirked a brow, but she ignored him. He had tweaked her emotions on more than one occasion. She had to distance herself from involvement with him, possibly include a round of rudeness. Not a road she wanted to take, but she didn’t have much choice. At the moment, Stevens held more importance than a high school football coach who pursued her like winning the state finals.

  “Did you see me in the back row of church last week?” he asked.

  “Since when did you stop attending First Methodist? I thought you loved the worship there.”

  “Oh, I do, but this certain librarian belongs to First Baptist North, and I’m trying to get her to notice me.”

  “When she’s in church, she tries to keep her focus on God.”

  “I know. Realized that last Sunday morning. And I didn’t mean to sound like Sunday mornings were a social hour.”

  “No problem.”

  He lifted the pie from her arms. “I’m outta here.”

  After Miles left and she was alone except for a mother and three small children who were amazingly quiet, she loaded a cart with new books to shelve.

  Paige—what a name for a librarian. Split Creek, Oklahoma, had become her home with its single zip code, dial-up Internet, and enough fried catfish to feed a Kenyan refugee camp. It was where she had to be.

  If only Miles didn’t tug at her heartstrings, the ones she’d vowed over seven years ago never again to tangle around anyone.

  The afternoon dragged on with a trickle of patrons. She couldn’t seem to shake the unsettling encounter with Stevens. Keary wanted something, but what?

  As soon as the clock reached six, Savannah arrived. She attended college part-time, studying library science, and pulled the evening shift as her semester internship arrangement. Paige drove home, the 103-degree heat fueling the turmoil that simmered inside her. She felt under her seat and touched her Beretta.

  Paige’s little house on the edge of town usually gave her a sense of warmth and security. The quaint bungalow glistened with fresh white paint, and yellow lantanas bordered the sidewalk. Between the plague of grasshoppers and the drought, she’d had to replace the plants twice. Normally she stooped to admire a flower or snatch up a weed here and there before walking inside. Not today. This evening, her home’s charm had been swallowed up by derelicts from the past. She unlocked the door and paused in the shadowed doorway to complete a visual check. The earth-colored pillows were in place, and the pen on her antique desk still balanced precariously on the corner. She took a quick glance at her favorite painting above the redbrick fireplace—a pastoral scene with a farmer separating the sheep from the goats.

  With urgency racing through her veins, she took long strides to her bedroom. No quick change into running clothes or rummaging through her sparse pieces of mail until she laid her suspicions to rest.

  She powered on her PC and slowly connected to the Internet. I hate dial-up. Her search would take several hours. While waiting for connectivity, she fluffed up the beige and turquoise pillows on her bed and tugged on the uneven bed skirt. She threw a load of towels into the washer and poured a glass of iced green tea.

  Finally she was able to google Jason Stevens in Oklahoma City. Ah, an attorney who works for Hughes and Sullivan, the same firm as Daniel Keary. Might as well check out the entire site again. She clicked the link and read the blurb about the large law firm established in 1910. H&S employed more than one hundred attorneys. They specialized in meeting the needs of the business community in a diversity of legal expertise. Lots of prestigious honors, nationwide respect and recognition. Gave ba
ck to the community and offered free seminars to keep the public informed of legal matters. The site looked impressive, and visitors could even sign up for a newsletter. A good place to work for either the rising or established attorney. Hughes and Sullivan looked so good that she expected an evangelistic statement to pop up. Keary would likely hide a pitchfork in the source code.

  With a deep breath, she clicked on the list of attorneys. While she waited for the link to download, her bare foot tapped against the hardwood floor. One of her big toes had a huge missing chip of hot pink polish. She grabbed the bottle of polish to the right of her computer and whisked color over the sad-looking toenail.

  Finally the screen listed the firm’s attorneys in alphabetical order, and Jason Stevens’s name and photo appeared. She clicked on his name. He’d been with the firm five years and graduated from an Ivy League school. She went back to the alphabetized list of attorneys and read through each name to see if she recognized any others. She didn’t have a clue as to why Keary had sent Stevens to approach her today. Did he think she’d cause trouble this close to the election? If the good people of Oklahoma wanted Daniel Keary as their next governor, that was fine with her.

  No, it’s not fine at all. I gave up on bringing him to justice.

  Her eyes fixed on Keary’s name. She clicked on the link and saw his picture. A deadly smile with a blue hole of memories stared back at her. Phone, fax, and e-mail were listed below his impressive list of qualifications. She’d previously read the information, but she reviewed it again to jog her memory. Keary’s bio highlighted his legal expertise, Cornell education, various awards and recognition, professional affiliations, former work as a CIA operative, and even community work. The site did everything but establish his sainthood.

  Paige shivered. She thought of calling him and demanding to know the meaning of Stevens’s visit. But the thought of hearing his voice made her skin crawl—and the problems that call could evoke . . .

  A vivid nightmare forced its way into her thoughts—the explosion, the screams. The threats. Reality.

  She stood back from the computer and looked around. Through the open window she smelled the dry grass and heard birds call out to the early evening. The clock on the mantel in the living room clicked in rhythm to time passing. She walked into the living room and out onto the front porch to stare at the neighbor’s horses grazing near the fence. Here in the quiet of the country, she should feel contentment instead of the old restlessness. She’d hoped her new identity would root her in the traditions of small-town living. She’d changed the way she talked and lived. But only God promised security and protection for those she loved. I’d hoped I was a forgotten number in a deleted file.