The Consequence of Murder

by Nene Adams

  Veronica snapped out of her trance. “No, no, just thinking, that’s all.” With a determined air, she began forking macaroni and cheese into her mouth, though from her gloomy expression, she might as well have been chewing goat droppings.

  Mackenzie thought she certainly didn’t look like a woman anticipating a night of sinful pleasure. “Is anything wrong?” she asked, setting down her beer bottle.

  “No,” Veronica answered, too quickly and far too cheerfully. “Everything’s fine.”

  Shit. Mackenzie’s stomach curdled. I knew this whole thing was too good to be true.

  Suddenly, the food tasted like ashes. She put her half-eaten dinner aside. Clearly, Veronica already regretted her impulsive invitation. What to do? Should she make an excuse and go home to spare Veronica from embarrassment? Or should she stay and brazen it out? Frustration and annoyance warred with sympathy and insecurity. At last, she cleared her throat to capture Veronica’s attention.

  “Hey, if you’re not in the mood,” she said, “we can do this some other time.” When Veronica’s big green eyes widened further, she added, “I mean dinner, you know, just a nice, artery-clogging dinner between two good friends.”

  Veronica blinked. “You don’t want to…?” Her voice trailed off.

  “Yes, I want to!” Mackenzie babbled. “But goddamn it, Ronnie, you look like you’re about to swallow a dose of cod liver oil instead of…well, instead of have a good time. If you don’t want get together, that’s fine. I’ve got some things to do at home anyway—”

  The instant the words tumbled out of her mouth, she knew she’d made a mistake.

  Veronica’s face turned ashen, her pinched nostrils white around the rims. “I apologize if I’ve put myself forward where I’m not wanted,” she said, her voice like chipped ice, her spine ramrod straight. “Please, by all means, don’t let me detain you.”

  Appalled, Mackenzie lurched out of her chair, ignoring the twinge from her injured leg. “No, Ronnie, no, I swear to God, I do want you. I want you so much, my guts hurt.” She nearly fell to her knees.

  To her relief, the corner of Veronica’s mouth twitched, and she began to regain some color. “I’ve never been compared to a stomachache before,” she said.

  “Not very romantic, huh?” Mackenzie sat down a bit shakily.

  Veronica put her plate on the table, stood and held out a hand. “Let’s go find out if we can make tonight a little more romantic, okay?”

  Mackenzie took the offered hand. Where they touched, she imagined sparks flying.

  In the bedroom, the sparks turned to a bonfire.

  Mackenzie let everything slide out of her mind except the reality of the beautiful woman next to her. Heat bloomed where bare flesh met bare flesh.

  She glutted herself on Veronica’s tanned skin, on the round breasts and long thighs she’d wanted to touch for so long. In her turn, she surrendered to Veronica’s hands, to the fingers and mouth that trailed fire in their wake, and found release at last.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The next morning, Mackenzie woke filled with drowsy lassitude and aching a little, her muscles stretched and warm. Rode hard, she thought, slowly grinning. But what a ride!

  She hummed and rolled over to poke Veronica, but found herself alone in the bed with the tangled sheets. Her grin turned into a frown. She sniffed. The scent of coffee hung in the air. Perhaps Veronica was making breakfast.

  Mackenzie leaned her back against the headboard and rubbed a palm over the curve of her hip, remembering the strength and sureness of Veronica’s touch and the gun calluses that had caught on her skin. Her fingertips slid over her belly. She’d been so greedy for kisses…sweet kisses, biting kisses, soothing kisses, tender kisses, every one a delight.

  A giggle escaped her. How could she have jumped to the idiotic conclusion that Veronica was straight? If last night was any indication, Veronica was about as straight as a pretzel, and knew how to please and be pleasured. Mackenzie sighed in fond remembrance.

  An unwelcome subject abruptly intruded on her happiness: Debbie Lou Erskine.

  Veronica hadn’t exactly explained how or why she’d ended up in a clinch with the Lesbian Antichrist. Pricked by the thought of her ex-girlfriend, her bubble of gloating satisfaction popped. Mackenzie threw off the sheet and swung out of bed in search of her clothes, coffee, Veronica and an explanation, in that order.

  Veronica wasn’t in the kitchen. The coffeemaker was on, the pot about half full. A mug sat on the counter, holding down a piece of paper.

  Recognizing Veronica’s handwriting—neat and schoolgirl round, so unlike her own indifferent scrawl—Mackenzie snatched up the note to read:

  Dearest Mac,

  I’m sorry. I had to leave early this morning on an emergency call. There’s coffee for you. Milk’s in the fridge. Bagels and low fat cream cheese if you’re in the mood. Thank you for last night. I had a wonderful time. I’ll call you later, promise.

  Love, Ronnie

  P.S. We owe each other a good morning kiss. Consider this my IOU.

  Mackenzie was touched by the postscript, but also a bit irritated at the demands of the job taking Veronica away before she could claim a morning cuddle. She poured a cup of coffee and added milk. The bagels looked okay, but she needed caffeine first. Before she could take her first sip, her cell phone rang.

  She picked up the phone. “Cross speaking.”

  “Hey, Kenzie,” said James Larkin. “You awake?”

  “No, I’m sleep talking,” Mackenzie grumbled. “What’s up?”

  “I guess you haven’t seen the news this morning.”

  “What news?”

  “Turn on the TV. Channel Ten.”

  “Can I not have a cup of coffee and a chance wake up first?” Mackenzie moved to the living room and found the remote control. She spent a moment admiring and being envious at Veronica’s tidy housekeeping skills. Not a speck of dust to be seen anywhere.

  Clicking on the television set, she navigated to Channel Ten, the home of Antioch’s local news station.

  The news anchor, Charlene Wyatt—granddaughter of George Wyatt—was a bubbly, personable, blue-eyed, peroxide blond whose bland good looks belied her intelligence. Time and plenty of money spent in an orthodontist’s office had given her a television-friendly smile. Mackenzie had gone to school with Charlene when she’d been pudgy, worn glasses and had an overbite. Sarah Grace, slightly tipsy on sherry, had once said Charlene could eat corn on the cob through a knothole, bless her heart.

  “To recap our top story,” Charlene said, looking and sounding somber as she gazed out of the television screen, “this morning, the body of Jacob Dearborn, pastor of the United Methodist Church, was found at his home. The police have not yet issued an official statement, but an anonymous source close to the department has revealed the circumstances of Dearborn’s death are suspicious and police are treating it as a homicide.”

  The screen behind Charlene flashed a picture of Jacob Dearborn: his iron-gray hair swept back from his brow, his face creased in a smile. He wore a dark blue suit and teal silk tie. His right hand was lifted in a friendly gesture reminiscent of a benediction.

  Mackenzie turned off the television. Jacob Dearborn was an important man in Antioch. As the Methodist pastor, he was well respected. He owned a lot of property, more now that he’d purchased most of Sweetwater Hill, and had a lot of influence. If he’d been murdered…Rubbing her hand across her mouth, she broke off the thought.

  Dimly, she heard Larkin’s voice. She’d never disconnected the call on her cell phone. She lifted the instrument to her ear in time to hear the end of his question.

  “—you there?” he asked

  “I can’t believe Dearborn’s dead,” she said.

  “Murdered,” Larkin corrected. “It’s true. Charlene Wyatt isn’t the only person with sources in the police department. I had it straight from the horse’s mouth, as it were. And I’m not going to tell you who it is, so don’t ask.”
r />   “Who’s the lead investigator?”

  “I’ll give you three guesses and the first two don’t count.”

  “Probably Maynard, right?”

  “Right.” Larkin paused. “Do you have an alibi for last night?”

  Mackenzie turned around, walked to the kitchen, picked up her abandoned cup of coffee and finished it in a couple of gulps before she answered.

  “I spent the night with someone,” she said cautiously, unsure if Veronica wanted their fledgling relationship to be public knowledge or not. For all she knew, Veronica was firmly in the closet at work. They’d never discussed the subject. “Jack, why do I need an alibi?”

  “Not that long ago, Dearborn tried to file a complaint against you with the police. Someone will remember that fact, Kenzie. Someone always does,” he said. “You may not be a suspect, but you’ll certainly be a person of interest.”

  “I’m not worried.” But Mackenzie didn’t feel very confident. “Do you know any more about what happened to Dearborn? Channel Ten didn’t have any details.”

  “No official statement yet.”

  “You have a horse’s mouth inside the station, Jack, so give.”

  He huffed, the sound loud in her ear. “Okay, you did not hear this from me, understand?” He didn’t wait for her to respond, but went on. “His son Tucker found Dearborn’s body on the back porch this morning when he came downstairs. No obvious cause of death. Dearborn wasn’t shot or stabbed, but it wasn’t an accident. The case is too high profile for Hightower and the local morgue, so the Georgia Bureau of Investigation’s medical examiner will do the postmortem. The body’s on its way to Decatur right now.”

  “Poor Tucker,” Mackenzie said. She had never met the young man, but that didn’t matter. Finding his father’s body had to be traumatic. She hoped Kelly Collier was up to the task of consoling her fiancé.

  Her cell phone beeped. “Jack, I’ve got another call waiting.”

  “I’ve got to go, too. Take care, Kenzie.”

  “Thanks.” Mackenzie switched to the new call. “Hey, Ronnie, I missed you.”

  “Sorry, Mac. Have you heard about Jacob Dearborn?” Veronica asked, getting straight to business and annihilating what little was left of Mackenzie’s postcoital mood.

  “I just saw it on the morning news.”

  “Detective Maynard wants to talk to you. Can you come down to the station?”

  The back of Mackenzie’s neck prickled. The lack of emotion in Veronica’s voice meant one of two things: either she regretted what had happened between them last night, or someone else was listening to their conversation and she couldn’t speak freely.

  Mackenzie would bet her savings that the cause was the latter, not the former.

  Would James Maynard eavesdrop? He might, she decided. He knew she and Veronica were friends. The suspicious bastard probably wanted to make sure she was kept in the dark so he could try to startle a confession out of her or something like that.

  “Sure, Ronnie, I’ll drop by the station this morning on my way to work,” she said, her voice dripping venomous honey for Maynard’s benefit.

  “Thanks, Mac. See you in a little while.” Veronica ended the call.

  Putting her cell phone on the uncluttered coffee table, Mackenzie wished Kelly, Dearborn, Wyland and her cousin Jimmy to perdition for complicating her life.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The moment she entered the police station, Mackenzie saw James Maynard lurking around the sergeant’s desk. She went straight over to him.

  “Hey, Jimmy, terrible what happened to Mr. Dearborn, isn’t it?” she asked, taking the wind out of his sails. “You have a little girls’ room around here, I hope. My bladder’s about to bust.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice to add, “And Aunt Flo’s paying her monthly visit, if you know what I mean. I need to freshen up.”

  His expression went from stern to uneasy. “Over there,” he said, pointing.

  She turned her back to hide her smirk and walked across the room to the indicated door. Inside the white tiled restroom, she was unsurprised when Veronica came out of a stall.

  “We need to make this quick,” Veronica said hurriedly. She looked as though she’d dressed in a hurry that morning. Her uniform shirt was wrinkled, her pants legs lacking the usual sharp crease. Even her hair wasn’t pinned back as tidily as usual.

  Two long strides and Veronica was right there, almost pressed against her. Mackenzie’s pulse quickened. Her body yearned toward Veronica, whose warm presence blotted out the sterile restroom atmosphere. She blinked when she realized her hand had lifted of its own accord, poised to touch.

  Withdrawing her hand, Mackenzie cleared her throat and told herself that now was not the best time to indulge. “We need to get our story straight,” she countered.

  Veronica stared at her in confusion. “What story?”

  “Look, I figure I’m a person of interest in the Dearborn case, right?” At Veronica’s hesitant nod, Mackenzie went on, “I assume I’m here so Jimmy can question me. I don’t want to mess you up at work, so what do I tell him?”

  “What do you tell him?” Veronica took a moment to process the question. When the light dawned, her mouth flattened into a thin line. “The truth, Mac. You were with me last night.” Her severe expression changed. “Oh! I’m sorry. I guess you have reasons for not wanting him to know about us. I understand completely, in which case—”

  “Hush!” Mackenzie enforced her command by covering Veronica’s mouth with hers.

  For a moment, Veronica’s lips moved under hers as if she were still speaking. Mackenzie kissed harder, tasting bitter coffee and artificial sweetener. To her relief, Veronica finally responded with an urgent growl and an eager tongue that nearly unhinged her knees.

  All too soon, Veronica’s body stiffened. Strong hands took hold of Mackenzie’s wrists and pulled her away, even as she made a wordless whine for more.

  “Not now,” Veronica said, her face flushed, her mouth wet and red. She turned to the sink, wet a paper towel in cold water and began to pat her flushed cheeks. “Anybody could come in. I’m not ashamed, but finding us together right now might raise ugly questions.”

  Mackenzie leaned a hip against the counter, trying to catch her breath and calm her racing heart. “It’s okay for me to tell Jimmy about us?”

  “He’s just covering his bases. I doubt he really considers you a suspect,” Veronica said, glancing at her reflection in the mirror. “Tell the truth. We’ll be fine.”

  “Will do.” Mackenzie kissed the side of Veronica’s neck, just a quick brush of lips over the smooth skin above her collar, before heading toward a stall. “If Jimmy sees you, tell him you came in to check on me and I’m still doing mysterious female things. Bring up menstruation. He’ll be so embarrassed, he’ll probably go into a coma on the spot.”

  “Mac!” Veronica protested, but she laughed. “I can’t do that to my boss. On the other hand, I have no problem asking him where the janitorial staff keeps the tampon refills.” She nodded at the feminine sanitary products vending machine standing at one end of the room.

  “Not unless I’m there, cell phone in hand, to preserve the moment for posterity,” Mackenzie said, grinning. “See you in a few, Ronnie.”

  When three minutes had passed, she rinsed her hands and left the restroom.

  Maynard escorted her to an interview room about ten feet square, the walls painted a light blue that looked almost white under the fluorescent lights. The thin, royal blue industrial carpet underfoot smelled as it had been recently cleaned. An unseen fan whirred quietly.

  “Take a seat,” Maynard said, closing the door behind them.

  Only two chairs in the room, she noted, both the kind of molded orange plastic, armless, uncomfortable horror usually found in office waiting areas. One of them sported a small, hinged writing surface that could be swung up or down.

  Of course, Maynard sat on the chair with the writing surface. “Sit, Kenzie. I just w
ant to ask you a couple of questions,” he said. He sounded mild, but she didn’t miss the keen glance he shot her from under his dark brows.

  She dropped down in the other chair. “Can we get this over with, Jimmy, please? I have work waiting for me at the office.”

  “I won’t keep you long.” Despite his words, Maynard spent a few minutes removing a little spiral-bound notebook from his jacket’s inner pocket, locating a ballpoint pen in another pocket and raising the hinged desk and fixing it in place. His preparations made, he thrust his legs out in front of him with every sign of settling in for a while.

  Mackenzie vowed to revenge his behavior at the next family reunion.

  “Do you know why you’re here?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “I believe you know Jacob Dearborn.”

  “You know I do, Jimmy,” she replied. “He’s the pastor of the United Methodist Church, as anyone knows who’s lived in Antioch longer than five minutes.”

  Maynard scribbled in his notebook as if she’d said something profound. “And you and Mr. Dearborn had a confrontation recently.”

  “What do you mean by ‘confrontation?’” she asked.

  “He filed a complaint against you, said you were harassing a teenager in his church.” It was clear to her Maynard thought he’d scored a point.

  Mackenzie answered evenly, “Get your facts straight, Jimmy. I met Dearborn once, at his home, for about one minute. That’s it. As for the harassment…” She shrugged. “I’ve never been officially informed about this so-called complaint, so you’re lying. Why, I don’t know. I mean, okay, I put depilatory in your shampoo bottle when we went to summer camp that time, but you set fire to my favorite stuffed unicorn, so I thought we were even.”

  “Kenzie, you could be in trouble. I urge you to take this seriously,” he said.

  “Oh, screw you, Jimmy!” Mackenzie shot to her feet, not concealing her annoyance. Something about him, a personality conflict perhaps, had irritated her since they were children. She didn’t hate him, but he could rile her up like nobody else. “I watched the news this morning. I know Dearborn’s dead. Is that what this is about?”