by Karen Harper
Win Jackson, too, obviously wanted to protect Shadowlawn, and not have it lost to outsiders. In talking to Jasmine, Nick had learned that Win was not in the store the day Francine died. He’d been on the grounds here, photographing the river, though he hadn’t exactly told Claire when he took those photos. At least he now had new plans to preserve Shadowlawn the best way he could.
A car horn honked. Nick’s BMW had turned in down the lane. He stopped next to her and rolled down the window.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she told him, walking to the car.
“I like the sound of that.”
“Because I have a lot to tell you, and you won’t like some of it.”
“Great greeting, Claire. Let’s talk before we’re back with the others. I’m a big boy and I can take it.”
He pulled the car off the lane between two trees, killed the engine and got out. He brought a burst of air-conditioning with him. Was it just the weather and her stroll that made her feel suddenly flushed?
They walked a ways deeper into the trees. He shoved his sunglasses onto the top of his head, maybe to see her better. “So hit me with the worst,” he told her, his fists perched on his hips, his legs slightly spread.
Claire leaned back against a tree to steady herself. “All right. Cecilia Moran hates Jasmine and has told the detective working on Lola’s murder that Francine heavily financed, I don’t know for how much, their puppet shop because, I’ve learned from other sources, ‘Lola was like a daughter to her.’ Needless to say, with Shadowlawn in financial danger, Jasmine could have been furious with Lola and might have confronted her. Lola was drugged with something in her drink in the store—which I saw when we were there, the ice hadn’t even melted completely—before someone hanged her. In short, Cecilia believes Jasmine killed her sister.”
“Damn it all! Wait until Sheriff Goodrich pounces on all that.”
“Exactly.”
“But you were with her—you’re her alibi, especially with unmelted ice in the drink.”
“If the detective took note of that.”
“I know you’ll work up formal reports to me about the others, but any more bombshells?”
“Neil and Bronco don’t want to be forced off the grounds. I had Bronco pegged as a gentle man, but his Clark Kent turned into Superman and he nearly punched out a tree a few minutes ago. Also, Win Jackson’s going to be back here—if Jasmine gives the okay—to photograph inside the mansion. So, not him, but I believe the others had access to Francine’s pills—as did Jasmine.”
“That Lola-Cecilia complication with Francine’s funds could have really set Jasmine off,” he admitted.
“She was upset by her mother’s affection for Lola for starters...”
He sighed and put a hand on the tree she was leaning against. “If there’s anything else, let’s have it,” he said.
“All right. Not about one of our possible suspects, but when Jace read in the St. Augustine paper about Shadowlawn—since he knew I was working here—he wanted to see it.”
“He’s here?”
“Not now, but he came out yesterday around 10:00 a.m. or so. He parked out on the road and walked in—and got knocked out by someone he didn’t see under that so-called ghost tree near the front of the house. He came to and left for an emergency center to get stitched up.”
“So that’s partly why he wanted to meet you in the lobby last night. He’s got to steer clear of all this. Did he refer to it as the ghost tree?”
“No, I got that from Bronco, who believes it’s haunted by an ancestor of his and from some pretty scary pictures Win took of it at night.”
Nick looked furious. “Well, maybe you can just write up that one of the ghosts killed Francine because she wanted to sell this place. Wouldn’t that be a great defense when they charge Jasmine, which I’m expecting any day. They’re just getting all their ducks in a row first, and now they may try to indict for a double murder.”
“I will write things up for you, as much as I know. So who’s left to interview? No one new, as far as I know,” she said, answering her own question. “I’d like to be around when Win photographs the interior, though, get a closer look at that so-called Rosalynn’s room and Francine’s bathroom, the places she might have kept her pills. I was hoping to convince Jasmine—with your help—to let me help her go through some of her mother’s correspondence, anything else I can find. Who killed ‘Miss Francine’ may still lie with ‘Miss Francine,’ even though she’s dead.”
Staring intently at her, he nodded. “I hate it—hate it!—when someone who may have been murdered has the slur of suicide dumped on them.”
The slur of suicide? she thought. He was speaking with such passion, so that was personal. It must have been horrible for him when his father supposedly killed himself, which a young boy could see as desertion or rejection.
“Claire,” he said, seeming to focus on her again instead of looking through her, “about Jace. Is he still around—not around here, but around you?”
“Except that we both love Lexi—no.”
“But to come here... I’m telling you, he still worries about you and cares.”
“Only for Lexi’s sake, and maybe old time’s sake, too. He’s en route to Los Angeles and then Singapore right now, that’s really where he wants to be, trust me.”
He nodded. They stared deep into each other’s eyes. She felt warm and her words trust me, echoed in her mind. Did she trust Nick? Right now, she felt they teetered on the edge of a cliff.
He pressed her gently against the tree. His free hand lifted to cup her chin, caress her cheek with his thumb. Her hair snagged on the rough bark. A breathless moment hung between them as he lowered his head and brushed her cheek with his. She felt the slight rasp of his beard stubble clear to the pit of her belly.
He took her lips. No, she gave them. It was as if a bolt of lightning leapt between them. His free hand dropped to caress her bare throat, then skimmed her shoulder. His thumb slid beneath her V-cut cotton shirt and snagged in her bra strap. He tipped his head so their lips met. She opened her mouth slightly as he tasted her. Though she was pressed between the tree and his hard body, she felt dizzy, spinning. They breathed in unison as the kiss went on endlessly, but much too short a time, before he stepped back.
“Didn’t mean to do that, but I’ve been wanting to.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Against company rules.”
“Mine, too.”
“You wouldn’t want to work for a boss who does this.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I’ll take that for a yes.”
He kissed her again, gently, then harder, not touching her body this time, with his hands on the tree trunk on both sides of her head. But she pressed closer, her arms around his neck, kissing him back again, her breasts flattened against his chest. For that moment, nothing else mattered. But this time, she grabbed for sanity and, out of breath, broke the kiss. She either stepped or fell back against the tree, bumping her head. And that reminded her of reality.
He whispered, his voice rough, “You think this will get it out of our systems so we can concentrate on this case? Except for this, things are getting worse.”
“I didn’t think this time was wasted,” she said, amazed she could say something that made sense. As he had said, this was such a bad idea, so why did it feel so right and good?
They were about to kiss again, when something rattled or rustled nearby. And had someone sneezed? They turned their heads. That sound—dry leaves? About twenty feet away, only one frond in a palmetto thicket shivered despite the still air. Footsteps crunched something, then ran fast, faster away.
“Maybe Heck?” she said. “He was watching me before.”
“Not if he saw us together. Stay here, get in the car—all my imp
ortant stuff’s in there.” He thrust his car key into her hand and took off at a mad sprint toward the thicket.
17
Nick went to a full sprint. He saw no one ahead or off to the side. He went by sound, someone crashing through brush, feet flying.
This was the direction where Bronco lived. Claire said he’d been on the grounds this morning. But whoever he was chasing was heading along the river, away from Shadowlawn.
Damn, the guy had a big head start on him. He saw nothing, heard nothing now but his own ragged breathing and crunching strides through cypress needles and dried leaves. Not only had he not glimpsed anyone, but the guy seemed to have vanished, as if he’d gone into the river. Nick stopped, panting, still looking around. When he leaned over with hands on his knees and sucked in huge gasps of humid air, his sunglasses fell off the top of his head and hit the ground. He’d taken them off to get closer to Claire and he had to get back to her now. What if this was some sort of diversion? But he still felt he was the one being watched, not her. If he thought she was in danger, he’d send her home.
Swearing under his breath, he jammed his glasses on his face and jogged back toward where he’d left Claire. As he skirted Bronco’s trailer site, he saw the big man, raking ashes out of his fire pit. He didn’t look out of breath or sweaty. So much for his number one suspect spying on them. He bet Neil couldn’t run like that. Or Jasmine? Some outsider, the same one who had hit Jace Britten over the head when he got too close to the house?
He couldn’t bear to admit what scared him most, not out here, far from southwest Florida. But he had to admit that Clayton Ames’s reach was long and dangerous. When those shots had killed Fred Myron and wounded Claire at the courthouse, Nick had been near and moving toward them. But surely, if Ames sent someone to take him out, he’d send the best. Ames liked to toy with his prey—torment and torture. Nick knew he’d been a thorn in the man’s side for years, and he wasn’t going to stop. Unless he was stopped.
As he emerged from the trees near his car, Claire tapped his car horn. Good girl! She was peering out at him from the passenger side. He was relieved to see she was safe, along with his traveling office of files and laptop he kept in the car.
She popped open the locks as he hurried to the car and got in.
“See anyone?” she asked.
He shook his head, still out of breath. “Heard him running for a while. Lost him by the river near Bronco’s camp. But it wasn’t him, because I saw him calm and quiet there. You sure Jace flew west?”
“Of course he did! Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Nice to hear you defending him.”
“I wasn’t. You might as well blame that darn ghost again.”
“Don’t kid about that.”
“Could it have been a woman?”
“Jasmine can’t run that fast.”
“You’re so sure you know her. I realize you did once, but do you anymore?”
Frowning, he grabbed his water bottle from the console between them and took a long swig. “You’re not caving on my client, are you?”
“You well know there are other possibilities besides Jasmine being guilty, including Francine accidentally—or intentionally—overdosing.” She bent her left leg under her and turned toward him. “Nick, someone possibly spying on us is putting the pressure on. Who knows Sheriff Goodrich doesn’t have some deputy out here, watching our every move?”
“Okay,” he told her. Despite her being a big distraction for him, he valued her smarts and opinions or she wouldn’t be here. “I’m listening, because I know you have something to say.”
“I’ve taken a close look at everyone involved in this except one. I’ve only studied Francine through hearsay. But my forensic autopsies have included ‘interviewing’ the dead before—through not only the people but what they left written behind.”
“For a minute there, I thought you planned to talk to that big portrait upstairs.”
“Very funny, but never mind avoiding this. I’d like to push Jasmine to let me look through her mother’s correspondence, business letters, her personal papers especially. Neil seems to think the sheriff only took her meds. If Jasmine tries to claim her papers are private or it doesn’t matter, I’m going to tell her she’d better help me because of Cecilia’s claims. And that we and the authorities know about the money her mother put in Lola and Cecilia’s puppet shop, which must have upset her mightily. Jasmine needs a jolt to open up more and that may be it.”
He nodded. He was sweating from his run, from how bad this case was starting to look, from just being near this woman again. He turned the motor on and started the air-conditioning. “You want me to push her on that so you can keep a neutral interview relationship with her?”
“No, I think I need to do it. Of course, if she tries to stop or fire me—”
“I won’t let her. You’re right, we have to dig deeper on this. We need a break and—”
His cell phone rang with a buzzing sound. He opened the top of the black leather console between them and took it out, staring at the screen.
“The Naples office,” he muttered and answered it.
It was Sean, one of the firm’s junior partners. “Nick, a Spencer Clawson, Attorney-at-Law, retired in St. Augustine, called here. He’s quite elderly and has been recovering from open-heart surgery, but he’d like to see you. This guy was Francine’s mother’s longtime attorney, then Francine’s before she went to you.”
“Yeah, I know, though I’ve never met him.”
“Well, he wanted to tell you something about a new will Francine was planning to make.”
“Any details on that?” Nick asked, as his heart rate picked up again.
“He only has it in draft because of his illness and her death. He couldn’t even attend her funeral. He lives someplace near St. Augustine called Vilano Beach. I’ve got the address here.”
“Okay, good. I just said I need a break,” he said with a quick look at Claire. She was listening intently. He realized, though he hadn’t put it on speakerphone, she could probably hear, but he was okay with that. He told Sean, “Give me the address and phone if you have it, and I’ll stop to see him this evening if it’s convenient for him, when we get back to town.”
After he jotted down the information and ended the call, he told Claire, “I’d like you to go with me this evening to listen to what Francine’s old lawyer has to say about some new will she wanted to make and never got to. It scares me she never mentioned it to me, nor did Jasmine—if she even knew. We can eat on the way back to St. A, then go see him. Heck can head back to town early if he wants. I’ve seen a copy of her will, one about a decade old, and I’d counseled her to make a new one if she was thinking of deeding Shadowlawn away.” He frowned. “But she didn’t tell me she’d acted on that. Maybe Jasmine didn’t know, either.”
“Or, maybe she did. Sure, I’ll go with you. Any port in a storm to help us.”
He turned to her and took her hand. “It’s starting to feel that way, isn’t it, like we’re in a storm and not making much headway? I know you miss your daughter and want to get back to her soon, but I feel something—or someone—is going to break. I just hope it isn’t Jasmine. Yes, go ahead and put some pressure on her, and I’ll back you up. Don’t mention to her about our going to see this Spencer Clawson. I’ve been so sure about trusting Jasmine. But now, I’m wondering if she’s working against us.”
* * *
“Hey, I’m on your flight to Singapore!” Amber Dixon, a stacked blonde flight attendant told Jace as he got off the flight at LAX. Rolling her suitcase behind her, she fell into step with him down the crowded concourse. When he only nodded, she snagged his arm. “How long is your layover in Singapore this time?” she asked with her tooth-whitener-ad smile. She was what pilots politely called “a clinger.”
“Two
days.”
“Oh, me too. You know the area so much better than me. I’m at the usual hotel where they keep us, in case you want some company.”
“Thanks, Amber.”
“Oh, what happened to your head?”
“Just an accident. See you later,” he said and kept going, but as usual, she clung like tape.
“I sure hope so!” she called after him as he headed into the men’s room.
When he checked into the airline desk to get his assignment and a cab for his overnight here in LA, the woman at the desk said to him, “You know, I think there’s something that came for you with the overnight mail.”
She bent down and drew out from under the desk a brown, square envelope addressed to him. No return address but it was postmarked St. Augustine. He didn’t think it was Claire’s printing, but who else would know how to reach him here?
“Thanks,” he told her and went over to lean against the wall and rip it open.
Inside were five-by-seven photos. The first one was evidently taken from above, like in a low-flying plane. Yet it was a clear close-up of Claire with, damn it, Nick Markwood. He muttered a curse. He even knew where this was. They were having an intimate picnic at what looked to be Lake Avalon at Sugden Park near where she lived. The second one—oh, yeah, he recognized this place for sure even with the overhead shot. It was also of the two of them, shoulder-to-shoulder, faces close, at the mooring area near their hotel in St. Augustine.
And the third one, also an aerial picture: someone was on the ground with someone else laid out nearby. Lots of people. A man bending over a woman?
He squinted at it, tipped it away from the light which blurred its glossy surface. His stomach heaved when he realized what it was: the lawn between the courthouse and parking garage. That must be Claire on the ground next to the body of Fred Myron! And bending over her, he wasn’t sure, but Darcy had said something about the opposing lawyer helping her. So that was Nick Markwood close to her, too, in all three pictures.
