by Robin Caroll
She let the smile slip away. "It is. Listen, I wanted to ask you about that project."
"Yeah?"
"Do you remember anything odd about the job?"
"The Hope-for-Homes house?"
"Yeah." She lifted her pen and chewed on the end.
"What exactly are you thinking of?"
"Nothing in particular. Just wondering if you remembered anybody hanging around the site who didn't belong or something like that."
"No. I'm sorry."
"Do you have a list of your crew who worked there?"
"Of course."
"I know you had one Second Chancer."
"Yeah. Sam Roberson."
"What do you remember about him? Was he a good worker?" Sam had also worked for Bob Johnson on some days. Was he flipping interests to get onto sites?
Jonas laughed. "I hope so. I hired him on full time after he was released from the program."
Alana would be pleased to hear that. "No problems with him, then?"
"Not a one. He's one of my best workers."
"Thanks, Jonas. I appreciate it." She replaced the receiver and made a note. At least she could cross one name off her list. If Sam Roberson had gone even slightly over the line, Jonas would've yanked him back faster than a flooding in a hurricane. He sure wouldn't have hired him.
Layla glanced back over the list. She'd save the call to Bob for last. Going to the next number, she lifted the receiver again and dialed.
"Denny Keys Electric." The older woman's forced chipper tone grated against Layla's nerves.
"Denny, please."
"May I ask who's calling?"
"Layla Taylor."
"Hi, Layla. You haven't heard?"
She sat forward, hunched over the desk with every muscle tensed. "Heard what?"
"Denny had surgery two weeks ago. Had his hip replaced. He's still in the physical-therapy unit."
Two weeks ago. Definitely couldn't be involved with the burning. "No, I didn't know. I'll have to send him a card. Thanks."
"Anything I can help you with, hon?"
"No. Just give Denny my best when you talk to him." Layla replaced the receiver and crossed another name off the list.
Progress, although she hadn't learned anything useful for her situation. She didn't even really know what she hoped to find out. Something. Anything.
The phone rang, startling her. "Hello."
"How's it going?" Alana sounded awful, even compared to her tone earlier that morning.
Layla swallowed the sigh and forced her voice to come out upbeat. "Making some calls. What's up?"
"I just heard Ms. Ethel passed away."
Words wouldn't form. Layla's heart tripped.
Alana sniffled. "Her grandson says she slipped into a coma and just stopped breathing."
Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision. "I-I can't believe it."
"I know." Alana sniffed again. "I called Pastor Chaney. He's headed to the hospital now. It's awful."
"I don't know what to say."
"There's nothing to say. I just wanted you to know."
"Thanks."
"Cameron and I are still planning on going to your performance tonight."
"You don't have to."
"I want to."
"Well, considering Ms. Ethel . . ."
Alana let out a little laugh. "She'd be the first one to tell you the show must go on."
Layla smiled as the woman's face danced across her mind. "Yeah, she would."
"She loved watching you dance, Layla."
The ache in her chest tightened. "I know."
"Well"—Alana cleared her throat—"we'll see you tonight. Seven, right?"
"Right. Thanks." She hung up the phone, a large hole already forming in her heart. She'd miss Ms. Ethel. More than she missed her mother.
No. She wouldn't go there now. Layla forced herself to shove aside the grief. She knew all too well she'd take it back out and deal with it later. When she was in the privacy of her house.
Layla glanced at the clock. She had time for another call or two. She lifted the phone and dialed the next number.
"Y Building Supplies, how may I direct your call?"
"Ed Young, please."
"May I tell him who's calling?"
"Layla Taylor."
"One moment, please."
Music flooded against her ear. She tapped her pen to the beat of the easy-listening tune. This was probably a waste of time. Ed had been the supplier her father used most often. He'd been so supportive when Kevin Taylor had died. Encouraging to Layla when she started her own company. She never had to prove herself worthy of his business.
Not like some of the independents she'd had to convince.
"Well, hello, Layla." Ed's booming voice vibrated over the line.
Layla smiled. "Hi, Ed. How're you?"
"Fine. Fine. How's business?"
"You know. Slow season."
"What can I do for you?"
"I need to pick your brain about the Hope-for-Homes project we concluded a few months ago. You were the supplier on it."
"I remember."
"Do you recall anything odd about the job?"
"Odd?"
"Yeah." She lifted her pen and chewed on the end again. "Like if you remember anybody hanging around the site who didn't belong or something like that."
"No. I'm sorry." Ed paused. "Then again, we only delivered the materials and dropped them off."
"That's what I figured." She sighed. "Just had to ask."
"Why? What's going on?"
"Did you see the article on me in today's paper?"
"I haven't read the paper yet. What's the deal?"
She wrapped the cord around her finger. "Long story short, that house was burned down and they found a body in it."
"Oh, dear. I hadn't realized."
"Yeah. So I'm just trying to figure it out."
"Aren't the police investigating?"
She snorted and let the cord go. It sprung off her finger and hit the desk. "I don't think they're doing a good job of it."
"So, you are?" Ed's voice deepened. "Layla, you need to let the police do their job."
"I know. It's just frustrating."
Ed chuckled. "That's why I'm considering retiring at the end of the year. Get out of this crazy business."
"You aren't serious?"
"Not really, but I have thought about it."
"You're too good to retire." She smiled. "Besides, you're my favorite supplier."
He laughed again. "And you're one of my favorite contractors."
A buzzing sound came over the line.
"But now I've got another call."
"No problem. Thanks, Ed. It was great talking with you."
"You too. And I'll think about it tonight. If any memory pops up, I'll let you know."
"Thanks." She placed the receiver back in its cradle.
Another dead end. They were all long shots. What did she think she'd find out?
She glanced at the clock. Four fifty. She'd have to call Bob on his cell. With a sigh, she lifted the phone and dialed the number.
"This is Bob." He answered on the second ring.
"Hey, Bob. It's Layla Taylor."
"Yeah?"
"Do you remember the Hope-for-Homes house?"
"Of course. Do you think drugs were there too?"
She couldn't really blame him for being defensive. Days ago she'd questioned him about drugs on his sites. Even though she'd been as diplomatic as possible, nobody liked the inference.
"Not that I'm aware of. I was just wondering if you remember anything odd or strange about the site."
"You were the foreman."
"I know. But maybe something I didn't see. Like strange visitors to the site when I wasn't there."
"Like a drug dealer? I know you think that's what happened on Thompson's site."
She sighed, sorry she'd ever talked to him. "No. Just someone who didn't belong."
"I
can't think of anybody. I didn't see anything out of the ordinary."
Another dead end. And she'd irritated Bob even more. He'd probably never do any plumbing work for her again. "Well, thanks anyway. You have a good evening."
"Why do you want to know?" He interrupted her dismissal.
"Well, the police are supposedly asking around. Trying to find out about the house burning and the body inside."
"So, why are you calling me? Did you tell them you thought someone was using drugs on one of my sites?"
"No, no. Nothing like that." Even though that's what Fred and Alana had determined. She bit her bottom lip. Why was she calling? What did she hope to find out? "I'm just trying to look into it. The police don't know any of us."
"You think one of us in the industry is responsible?"
"It would make sense, don't you think?"
"No."
"Then what do you think?"
"I don't know, Layla. I let the police do their job."
The chastisement stung. "Well, thanks anyway, Bob." She hung up the phone, letting her hand rest on the number pad as she thought.
She'd called all the independents she'd contracted and didn't learn a single thing. Except that Bob would never work for her again.
Right now she had to head home and get ready. She had a performance to give.
She'd give the best performance of her life tonight and may just have to do the same to save her business.
"THAT WENT BETTER THAN I thought." Houston started the car and pulled out of the LeJeune's driveway.
Maddox swallowed. "Always hard to tell someone her loved one is dead, though." Worse was witnessing a loved one dying right in front of them. He'd never forget the image of his mother dying on her bedroom floor. The memory was emblazoned upon his brain forever.
Houston glanced at the clock on the dashboard light. "I'm going to interview Fred Daly, Second Chances' assistant director and the good doctors there. Want to tag along?"
"I have plans tonight."
Popping his gum, Houston took his attention off the road for a moment to look at him. "Do tell?"
Heat fingered out across Maddox's shoulders and neck. "Yeah. I promised a certain lady supper in exchange for her help. She called it in today."
"Anyone special?" Houston concentrated on the road again.
"No. Definitely not." Maddox could've bit his tongue. He didn't mean to sound so sharp and callous.
"I see."
And by Houston's tone, Maddox knew he was about to get yet another lecture on the joys of a committed relationship. He wasn't in the mood, so he would cut off the spiel before Houston could start. "And I'm kinda working."
Houston grunted. "How's that?"
"Well, after supper, I'm taking the lady to a performance."
"A performance?" Houston steered the car into the sheriff's department parking lot. "How is that considered working?"
"It's a Flows of Grace performance."
Houston turned off the engine and twisted to stare at Maddox. "That rings a bell."
"It should." Maddox smiled. "It's the dancing group Layla Taylor belongs to. I already checked . . . she's scheduled to dance tonight."
"Think that's smart? Just to show up like that?"
"It's a public performance." Maddox reached for the door handle. "She probably won't even notice me in the audience."
Houston opened his door and got out of the car. He spit his gum into the trash can beside the parking lot. "And if she does?"
"So what?" Maddox slammed the door shut.
"She could take your presence there as harassment."
Maddox chuckled as he dug his keys out of his pocket. "Puh-leeze. Harassment? By attending a public performance? That's not harassment by anybody's standards."
"Stalking?" Houston stopped beside Maddox's truck.
Maddox frowned. "You're reaching now."
"I don't think it's a good idea."
"She won't even know I'm there. I promise."
"So, why are you going?"
"She's a person of interest in the case. I'm just trying to get a handle on her."
Houston grinned. "Yeah, you're trying to get a handle on her all right."
Maddox pointed at him. "Don't forget Uncle George invited us both over for lunch tomorrow. Fried backstrap. Noon."
"I'm in."
"See you tomorrow." Maddox slipped behind the wheel of his truck. He couldn't explain why he wanted to see Layla Taylor perform her ballroom dancing. He just did.
And he sure couldn't explain why he was taking Megan Goins with him. That could truly be an incident waiting to happen. But he'd needed an excuse to be there, and what better one than to be on a date.
Just in case Layla did see him.
Maddox started the engine and backed out of his parking space. A fleeting thought slashed across his mind. Would Layla get jealous if she saw him out with Megan?
Why did he even wonder?
ELEVEN
"A thing of beauty is a joy forever: its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness."
—JOHN KEATS
NERVES GNAWED HER STOMACH.
Layla let out the breath she'd been holding and flexed her fingers. She and Jeffery were up next. An American Viennese waltz—a one, two, three count. Performing to "Waltz for the Moon." Tempo of 177 beats per minute. Natural turn. Reverse turn. Closed changes forward. Closed changes back. Beautiful and elegant. She should be able to do this dance in her sleep.
She checked her dress a final time. The off-the-shoulder black Lycra dress clung to her like a second skin. The two sections of horizontal lace as well as the lace long sleeves itched against her dry skin. Layla kicked out the flaring bottom skirt. Perfectly hemmed, it didn't catch on her four-inch rhinestone-encrusted heels.
"You look amazing and we'll do fine. Stop fidgeting," Jeffery whispered in her ear.
She turned to smile up at him. "Easy for you to say. You don't have to worry about your dress getting caught in your shoes."
He chuckled, deep and reassuring. "Thank goodness." He ran a hand over his slicked-back hair. "How do I look?"
"Handsome as always." Handsome, he was. Tall, dark-haired, and as lithe as a cat.
And very much married to the love of his life.
He smiled. "My bride said to tell you she likes your hair that way."
Layla's hands automatically went to smooth her hair. She normally wore it up in a bun, but tonight she'd left it down, taming it into large waves reminiscent of the fifties. "Tell her thanks."
"You tell her after we dance."
His wife refused to dance but loved watching Jeffery glide across the floor. She never missed a performance. Layla thought her the sweetest thing. "I will."
The last bridge of Chester and Buffy's fox-trot began.
Layla exhaled slowly but smiled at Jeffery. She wiped her palms on the towel by the stage entrance. In a minute the announcer would introduce them.
A door slammed behind her. She shifted to see around Jeffery.
And almost threw up.
Looking more dashing and dangerous than ought to be legal, Randy Dean slipped backstage. He wore black slacks and a red silk shirt. He gripped a rose in his hand.
Layla remembered to shut her mouth. "What is he doing here?" she ground out between clenched teeth.
"I don't know, but by his outfit, I'd say he's come to dance the tango."
Oh, she was going to be sick.
Natalie Combs flitted to Randy, her long, black hair wound up into a French twist. "I thought you were going to stand me up." She kissed the air beside his face.
Every muscle in Layla's body tensed. The hair on the back of her neck stood at attention. And every word of her last argument with Randy flooded her.
"Well, maybe I'd be interested in something more permanent if you were more feminine," Randy sneered.
Layla's back stiffened. "Excuse me? More feminine?"
"You're a joke, Lay. All the guys laugh at you be
hind your back. No one takes you seriously as a contractor."
She couldn't have been more hurt if he'd slapped her.
"Why don't you stop trying to live up to Daddy's expectations?"
The urge to vomit nearly gagged her. She fisted her hands at her sides. "And do what, pray tell?"
"Act like a lady. Be more like Natalie."
Red flashed before her eyes. She'd heard all the rumors . . . and ignored them. Never even asked him about them.
Maybe she should have. "Natalie's so great, is she?"
"She knows how to be a lady. Be feminine. Knows how to keep a man interested." His words held the hidden meanings that ripped her heart from her chest.
So the rumors were definitely true. Her body went numb. "If she's such a lady, why are you here with me? Why aren't you chasing after Ms. Feminine herself?"
Randy's face contorted with anger. "Maybe I should be. Beats wasting my time with you—a boy wannabe."
Defiance lifted her chin. "There's nothing stopping you from leaving."
He grabbed his jacket. "Consider me gone."
Layla hadn't heard from him in six months. Six months! She'd been told he'd moved out of town. Natalie had never said anything during rehearsals.
Now he was back. His eyes met hers in the dim backstage lighting.
Her world tilted on its axis.
Chester and Buffy whizzed by. The emcee announced the waltz and introduced Layla and Jeffery.
She couldn't move.
Jeffery grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her to face him, away from Randy's debilitating gaze. "Ignore him. Concentrate. You can do this." He led her two steps toward the stage entrance.
She nearly tripped over her feet.
He steadied her. "Layla, look at me. Layla!"
She swallowed and met his stare.
"You can do this. Just follow my lead. Listen to the music. The beat. The tempo. Count it out in your head. One, two, three."
