“Because I think he’s made her think he’s in love with her and she’d never give up the man she loves,” Rainey said. “As a lawyer, I can tell you that the DA has the latitude of charging them with a number of things,” Rainey said wearily. “If I find out Gideon is behind this, I promise you that I’ll ask the DA to drop the charges against Sylvie, unless there are other circumstances we don’t know about.”
“You might be right.” He rubbed his neck. “I can’t imagine Sylvie’s involvement either.”
“I’m going to take a shower and lay down for a few minutes. Then I want to go back to town, pick up my car, and visit Lydia—I mean Marie.”
“Sounds like a plan. We both need some sleep,” Deuce said.
Wearily, they climbed the stairs. With the mid-morning sun flooding the bedroom, when Rainey saw the bed her shower was forgotten.
Fully dressed they laid side by side determined to get a little bit of rest.
What seemed like only minutes later, Rainey woke to the sound of Deuce’s phone going off in the distance. She knew it was someone from the department because of the distinctive ring.
“Wake up.” She punched him and he sat straight up. “Your phone is ringing.”
While Deuce took the call, she went to the bathroom and splashed water on her face, then brushed her teeth. After hanging up the towel, she walked back into the bedroom and saw Deuce sitting on the side of the bed with his face in his hands.
She sat down beside him scared of the news he had received. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t believe I’m such a fool.” He threw his phone against the pillow. “I don’t deserve being sheriff if I can’t even figure out such a simple plan by that bastard Gideon Duncan.” He slammed his fist into the pillow.
“What plan?”
“Sylvie turned on him finally. There’ll be so many charges filed against him that he’ll be in prison for a long time, but that doesn’t get her out of hot water over the damage done to your property.”
“Don’t worry about my stuff. I won’t press charges against her. Just tell me what he had against me.”
“It wasn’t against you personally. Just as you suspected, that sonofabitch Gideon Duncan used Sylvie to do his dirty work. Let her think he was in love with her so she’d spread rumors around town.”
“I don’t see what rumors have to do with it.”
“You know there’ve been men in town from the Green-Mart Corp checking on property to buy to build a store here, right?”
“I think I heard about that the first day I got into town. But what does that have to do with wanting me out of town?” She could see anger written all over Deuce’s face so she didn’t want to push him. She just let him tell the story the way he wanted.
“Gideon owns the warehouse next to the depot and he was trying to force Wilson to sell the depot to him because he knew Green-Mart needed to build in that location. One plot of land wasn’t any good without the other. That’s when he apparently decided to use Sylvie’s vulnerability by making her think he was in love with her. He wrapped her around his little finger and told her things that he knew she was going to tell others.”
Rainey raised an eyebrow and took a deep breath.
“Apparently, when she couldn’t scare you away but ended up befriending you, he took the plan to another level.”
“That’s why he came and talked to me as a friend. Telling me to get out before I got hurt. Then he laughed and corrected himself by saying he didn’t mean physically hurt but financially hurt.”
“I’m sure. I think the department solved another case. Pending further investigation, my guys found blood on the fender of Gideon’s black sedan. Bet anything it belongs to Wilson. According to Sylvie, when he didn’t kill Wilson, he tried to burn the depot, thinking it being of no value would make Wilson sell to him but that didn’t work. Then as you could see on the surveillance tape, he broke in through the freight doors and wrecked the place, thinking you’d pull up stakes and leave, thus giving Wilson no income and an incentive for him to sell to Gideon, who in turn would sell both properties to the Green-Mart folks. I doubt Sylvie knew of his plan until after the fact.”
“Then Wilson didn’t know the Green-Mart people wanted to buy the depot along with the warehouse Gideon owns next door?” Rainey said.
“Apparently not. According to Sylvie, Gideon represented to them that he was the owner, not Wilson. He set the rumor mill in action when he told everybody that the Green-Mart was going to be built out near the truck stop off I-40 to throw them off.”
“Deuce, I lost count of the charges that’ll be filed against Gideon Duncan and, unfortunately, Sylvie for being an accomplice.” Rainey thought a minute, and then said, “Unless she turned state evidence against him.”
“You know, I think Danny said he told her that he’d see what he could do to keep her out of trouble, if she’d tell him everything she knew about Gideon.” He quirked a grin at her. “That’s the best way I know to get a girl to roll over on the man she loves.”
“Not the very best way to get a girl to roll over on the man she loves, but it is when they are both facing prison time.” She kissed him lightly. “Anything Sylvie gave up will only help the state’s case, so I know they will go easy on her. She’s just a naive woman, but I have to admit she isn’t as dumb as she wants people to think. And rolling over on Gideon shows that. Let me know when bail is set because I plan to bail her out, if she doesn’t have enough money herself.”
“After everything that happened, you’d bail her out?”
“I’m totally convinced Gideon used her, Deuce.”
“Tell you what, if you’ll rub my neck, I’ll help raise the money for her bail,” Deuce said.
“Deal.” Rainey willingly massaged his back while thinking that if only the results from the crime lab would come back everything would be perfect.
“You know I think a power bigger than both of us had a hand in my not interrogating Gideon because I’d likely be in jail for beating the living hell out of the sonofabitch. Any man who would take advantage of a woman should have their conjones served to them for breakfast via their asshole.”
“That was an interesting visual.” She finished massaging his neck and shoulders, then suggested that they lie back down for a while and get a little rest.
“No. I’m going to my office. You rest. I can’t sleep, so won’t even try.” He put his hands on hers and kissed one and then the other. “Thanks. Once my investigator calls and the results from the damn state crime lab come in, I’ll sleep for a week.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Deuce didn’t know where the time had gone, but it had been three days since Gideon and Sylvie had been arrested. As anticipated, the DA’s office had informed him that they’d cut a deal with Sylvie. In return for her testimony against Gideon, they would recommend probation. Of course, she’d lose her job with the government, but he’d given thought to asking Rainey if she’d consider giving Sylvie a job at the antiques store, since it was about to open and Sylvie would make a good employee.
Undoubtedly, one of the provisions of her probation would be to remain gainfully employed, plus she’d have monthly probation fees and a hefty fine to pay.
Gideon wasn’t going to have to worry about Green-Mart putting him out of business because by the time the DA finished filing charges against him, the only work he’d be doing would be prison laundry.
Deuce watched Rainey as she prepared dinner. He’d really tried to be patient with her but wasn’t sure how much more he could stand. If he could have one wish fulfilled it would be to pick her up, take her upstairs to his bed, and make love to her until the roosters crowed three mornings in a row. Hell, the living room sofa would do. Even the orange sleeping bag. He wanted her and wanted her badly.
“You know I made A’s in French in high school, don’t you?” Her comment brought him back to reality, but it seemed to come out of nowhere.
“No, I don’t think I did but I�
��m not surprised.” He tried to stop watching her fine heinie as she squatted down to get a pot out from under the cabinet.
“There are only three things I can do in French besides speak it. Make French fries, French toast . . . and French kiss.”
“And you have to use frozen French fries and I know damn good and well you don’t even know how to make French toast.”
“But I do know how to French kiss.” She came to him, sat on his lap, and kissed him in a way she’d never done before. Her tongue explored the recesses of his mouth, making the blood in his brain boil, not to mention what she did to him between his waist and knees.
“I think you’ve proven your point. I’ll never eat another French fry or take a bite of French toast again without thinking about that kiss.” He closed his eyes and thought that was probably the best kiss he’d ever had in his life. French or otherwise.
“Can you open this for me?” She interrupted his thoughts as she handed him a bottle of spaghetti sauce.
He opened the jar only to see her pour it in a pan on the stove.
Well, she might not know how to make spaghetti from scratch, but she sure knew how to French kiss.
Moving behind her, he stretched to reach for a bottle of wine in the cabinet above the stove. He deliberately pressed in enjoying—hell, loving—the feel of her rounded tush pressed against his groin. The way she twisted her bottom just a little, pressing her left cheek squarely into his manhood, was an indicator she knew what he was doing. He tried to hold off Mother Nature, who took exception to his efforts and fought back. She was winning, too!
Rainey walked over to the sideboard and picked up Deuce’s sunglasses and put them on him. “Hey, wear these. They’ll shade your eyes from your ego!”
Deuce should have been ashamed for deliberately riling her up, but he couldn’t help himself. It was their way of handling each other. Habits were hard to break, and it made him feel eighteen again . . . just like he was in high school but with maturity.
His iPhone rang. One hell of a time for him to get a call, but then he was on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
Not being sure whether he would be receiving bad news or good from his investigator, Deuce walked out of the kitchen towards his study.
“Hey, man, I hope you have some good news for me.”
“You’re not going to like it, but nobody has been there to see Hunter in weeks, and before then it was only his attorney. The reason you’ve been getting the runaround from prison officials is because Hunter has been in a coma and on life support since he tried to commit suicide. They are trying to keep down the publicity.”
“Damn it to hell. Did you find out if there was anything about Edgar Allan Poe in his cell?” Deuce asked.
“Yep. The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe and the portions of ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’ that were in the letters were highlighted. And there’s something else. I noticed that the letters came from zip code 94964, which is the town of San Quentin so they were postmarked in the United State Post Office. The prison has their own post office and that zip code is 94974. One digit different, but if we could have discovered it, it would have answered a lot of questions.”
“If he didn’t have any visitors other than his appeals lawyer before he tried to end his life, how in the hell did he get the letters out of the prison?”
“This is going to make your balls turn inside out, but you’ll never guess who his appeals lawyer was.”
Deuce had a bad feeling about what he was about to learn, just by the way his investigator began the sentence. He really didn’t want to ask but did. “Who?”
“Got your television on? You can find out for yourself. Don’t wanna ruin your surprise.”
“I can have it on in thirty seconds.” Deuce rushed to the television remote and turned it on. “What station?”
“Any national news channel. And I’m bettin’ that Miss Clarkson is going to want to be there when you watch the news report. Hurry, the Los Angeles County DA’s office is about to have a presser.”
Deuce called for Rainey to turn off the stove and come to the living room. Then he said to the investigator, “Send me your bill direct to my office.”
“What’s going on?” Rainey came in drying her hands on a tea towel. “And why do you have the TV on?”
“Sit down. Remember I told you that I hired a PI, since we were getting the runaround from the folks at San Quentin?”
“Yes, but what does this have to do with him?”
“Listen. I don’t know either.”
A portly woman with graying hair moved away from the camera and a reporter with a microphone stepped in front of the camera.
“That was the press secretary for the LA DA’s office,” Rainey said.
“I know.”
They listened intently as the news correspondent began her report.
“As we learned from the Los Angeles County District Attorney’s office, a grand jury has handed down indictments against former DA, Judith Mason, for domestic terrorism for her part in assisting mass murderer Alonzo F. Hunter in terrorizing the lead prosecutor on his case, R. Maressa Clarkson.” She took a quick breath, and then continued. “In conjunction with the indictment of former LA County DA Mason, an arrest was made for a suspect who allegedly assisted Miss Mason in locating Miss Clarkson. Although they did not release the name of the individual, CNN has been told by reliable sources, but not independently confirmed, that it’s an operator of a used car lot in East Los Angeles. We’ve been told also from a reliable source that the man was posing as a secret informant for the Los Angeles Police Department. It’s also been reported, again not independently confirmed, that the motive behind the plot was revenge because Miss Mason blamed Miss Clarkson for the DA’s losing in the primary to reelect her as the Los Angeles County District Attorney. In another unconfirmed report, Miss Clarkson’s whereabouts are unknown. It has been reported that the indictments were sealed.”
Deuce pressed the off button on the remote control and the screen went blank.
“Well, that explains the purse. She knew when I was planning to disappear so she followed me and took my purse out of the trash bin. When she couldn’t get any more letters from Hunter to send me, she sent the purse as a last resort.”
Pulling Rainey to his side, Deuce prayed that he had the words necessary to comfort the best thing that had happened to him in his life. “It’s over,” he whispered, as he caressed her cheeks with the back of his hand. “You don’t have to live in fear any longer.” He lifted her chin and stared into emerald-green eyes brimming with tears. “And I’ve been thinking. I’m tired of doing this one night you sleep in my bedroom and the next in the guest room, so I made a decision.” He kissed her on her forehead and reached into his pocket.
Sliding on one knee in front of her, he took her hands in his. “Brainy Rainey, I want you in my life and in my bed forever.” He looked up and saw that her beautiful green eyes were full of life and unquenchable warmth, but still a tinge of pain remained. “So Brainy Rainey, Maressa Clarkson, will you go steady with me?”
He pulled out his senior ring that he’d found at his mother’s house and put it in Rainey’s hand, folding her fingers over it.
“I’d be honored to go steady with you.” She kissed him. “You’re the only one who stood beside me and accepted me just like I am. You’ve never expected me to be perfect and weren’t disappointed when I wasn’t.”
“I’ve got one more thing.” He stood up and walked to the coat closet, where he retrieved a small bonsai plant and his football letter jacket from high school. He put the plant on the end table and slipped his jacket over her shoulders and said, “You should have had this in high school.” He kissed her on the forehead. “There’s one string attached. Other than always sharing my bed, my only other request is that you learn to cook. I’ll send you to cooking classes or—”
“Shut up, you fool, before I change my mind and you have to ask Clara over at Pumpkin’s to g
o steady.”
Fifth-Generation Mrs. Grooms’s Chocolate Cake
For my readers who want to enjoy a larruping good chocolate cake, whether you think it’s the one baked by Winnie Mitchell or Clara at Pumpkin’s Café, here’s the history behind my Mrs. Grooms’s Chocolate Cake.
My family grew up on Mrs. Grooms’s Chocolate Cake made by my Grannie Johnson. A Godly woman, she swore that the recipe had been handed down generations and it’d originated with a neighbor named Mrs. Grooms.
The recipe had to be totally jinxed since neither my mother nor my aunt could make the cake as good as Grannie. I’m the oldest of four girls, and I ended up being the only one of my sisters who could prepare the cake where it’d come out like Grannie’s. Only one of my two daughters can make it so it’ll come out moist.
When my aunt by marriage, Aunt Martha, was nearing the end of her life, she finally gave up Grannie: The recipe may have been given to her by a neighbor but it actually appeared in a 1950s Good Housekeeping.
Maybe it didn’t begin as a generations-old recipe, but it is now since it was handed down from Grannie to Mama and Aunt Bobbie, to me and my three sisters, to my daughters and now my granddaughters. . . so it truly is a fifth-generation cake.
Enjoy the Fifth-Generation Mrs. Grooms’s Chocolate Cake.
2 cups sugar
2 cups flour
¼ teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons soda
1 cup oil
1 cup buttermilk
½ cup cocoa
2 eggs, beaten
1 cup boiling water
2 teaspoons vanilla
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.
Beat the eggs until fluffy, then add the buttermilk and oil, and beat together. Add all the remaining ingredients except the water. Stir everything until the mixture is smooth, then add water—make sure it’s boiling! The mixture will be thin when poured in the pan. Bake in an oblong 13x9-inch pan for 35–40 minutes. Allow to cool before adding the icing.
Chocolate Icing
The Troubled Texan Page 21
