“My father,” Anne-Marie offered, baring her teeth. “Don’t forget about the friend you shot simply to hurt Jazz. Why do you hate him so much?”
“Because he had everything that should have been Tate’s,” Ella returned simply. Her soft gray eyes grew distant, a bittersweet smile curving her mouth. “I begged his father to leave Delia, begged him not to marry her. He laughed at me, said I was a sweet girl, but it was just a crush.”
Looking back at Anne-Marie, she said, “His brother was a poor replacement. I wanted to make him jealous, make him realize we belonged together. Instead, he told me how happy he was for us. And that Delia was pregnant. It should have been me.”
Those words said, Ella took a deep breath, closed her eyes. The lines around her mouth and eyes faded as the tension left her face. “And everything Jasper gave to Jazz should have been Tate’s. And then after Jasper died, she up and married Beau Muldoon, the simpering, little fool. Oh, you’ll never know how sweet it was to see her come into town with a black eye or split lip.”
Edging closer, Ella leaned down and gave a conspiratorial grin and wink. “Beau was always so certain she’d leave him, that she had another man on the side. And from time to time, I let it slip that I’d seen a strange car in the driveway, or her disappearing inside one of Lem’s motel rooms.”
Understanding dawned in Anne’s eyes, darkening them. Face pale with rage, Anne-Marie whispered, “How did a good man like Tate come from a witch like you?”
The sharp slap across her cheek whipped her head around, hair flying into her eyes. Eyes trained on the floor, she breathed deep, the stinging in her face, the ringing in her ears all fading in comparison to the sickness in her gut.
“You really ought to watch what you say, Dr. Kincaid,” Ella said, rubbing the palm of her hand. “I can either make this short and sweet or long and terrible. It’s your choice.”
“Doc Kincaid, Mama’s missing.”
Desmond’s head whipped around, his intense gaze pinning Marlie to the wall. “She went to the bathroom. You were with her.”
“She went out the window,” Marlie whispered, her eyes wide with disbelief. “The window. My mama who can barely even climb the stairs without help.”
“Oh, Jesus.” Desmond pressed his fingers to his eyes, frustration and worry eating a hole in his gut. What in the hell did he do? Half the men in the county were out trying to track down his daughter. Who was going to leave that search to come looking for a crazy, old woman who liked to wander off and dress kittens in doll clothes?
“Any idea where she could have gone?” Desmond asked, forcing his voice to stay calm and even.
“No,” Marlie whispered. “Damn it, Doc Kincaid. Anything could happen to her. She just got out of the hospital. Her body is too weak for this!”
“Okay, girl. Here’s what we’re going to do. In my desk, I have a small derringer. It belonged to my wife’s mother and I would have given it to Anne-Marie but she doesn’t care for guns.”
Only the derringer wasn’t there.
Neither were the bullets.
“You’re out of your ever-loving mind,” Jazz said flatly as he leaped into the off-road jeep.
“I hope to God I am,” Tate murmured. But the sick feeling inside his gut only intensified. He wasn’t wrong.
Siren blaring, Tate sped down the highway, taking a small, dirt access road that led back into the woods behind the lake. “She cut Marlie’s hair,” he said over the noise of the truck tearing through the woods. “I had just said a few days earlier, right in front of…of my mother, how I loved Marlie’s hair. And then it gets hacked off.”
“You’re condemning your mother on that?”
“Mama has a .38 and she knows how to use it. And she wasn’t asleep the night I got the call about Doc Kincaid. I forgot about that. And the look on her face when I told her you had an alibi—Anne-Marie.”
“None of that means shit, Tate. Why would your mother…” His voice trailed off as Tate stopped the vehicle. He recognized the place, the place where he had gone fishing that last time with his father and Tate.
“Mama and Daddy had a fight that night, about me coming with you. Mom didn’t want me to come, said Jasper had no right to spend time with me. It made no sense to me. But Mama grieved more for your daddy than she did for mine. And for the longest time, I thought she hated you.”
Leaping out of the truck, Tate glanced back to Jazz. “Any way I can convince you to stay here?”
“My woman,” Jazz replied softly, heading down the long winding path that would take him to a tiny fishing cabin nearly two miles away.
“What are you planning on doing to me?” Anne-Marie asked wearily as the sun sank closer to the horizon. “You can’t stay gone forever.”
“Mmm. I’m trying to figure that one out still. Should I kill you and dump your body where somebody will find it? Somebody like Jazz? Should I pin it on him? Or should I just do it here and now, and dump your body in the lake?”
She discussed it casually, like she was trying to decide between a red blazer, or a navy one. Somewhat stupefied and getting weak from hunger and thirst, Anne-Marie stared at her with dazed eyes.
“I could always bring his little girl here and make it look like he was stark raving mad,” Ella whispered, arching an eyebrow as she considered that possibility. “We can’t have Tate wanting to go and raise her once Jazz is in jail, now can we?”
The fog that obscured her brain thickened and her head spun, heart thudding slowly in her chest. Anne-Marie barely even remembered moving but suddenly, she was on her side, a screaming pain in her right shoulder.
And free of the chair.
Hands still bound behind her back, she rolled to her feet and lunged forward, knocking the taller woman back. In slow motion, Anne-Marie watched as Ella fell backward, arms pinwheeling for balance. Her head struck the rough, wooden floor with a hollow thunk.
Sagging, whimpering out loud from the pain in her arm, Anne-Marie stumbled back, her weight falling against the spindle-legged table. As she teetered and lost her balance, a crash sounded in her head, lights blazing. Just as she slid to the floor, she heard Jazz call out, “Annie.”
Jazz leaped forward catching Anne-Marie as she dropped toward the floor. A cry tore from her throat and Jazz saw with sickening clarity the angle at which her right arm hung. Swollen and already discolored, her arm hung limply at her side, dislocated at the shoulder joint.
“Oh, God.” Lowering his forehead to hers, Jazz whispered, “It’s all right, Annie. You’re going to be fine.”
“No. She’s not.”
That voice. Turning his head, Jazz stared in numb stupefaction, watching as Ella McNeil staggered to her feet. In her wobbly hand, she held a .38, pointed directly at Anne-Marie’s head.
Curving his body around, shielding her as best he could, Jazz’s eyes dropped to the gun. “Put that away, Ella. Your son’s right behind me.”
“You brought Tate out here?” Ella demanded, the gun rising and focusing on Jazz, right between the eyes.
“He brought me. He knows it’s you, Ella. He figured it out. It’s not going to be easy for a man to lock up his own mother.”
“I’ll handle Tate,” she muttered, starting to pace. She whirled around, the gun raised and locked, once more, on Jazz’s head.
“No, Mama. I’m afraid not.”
Instantly, the lines around her eyes smoothed and the veil of sweet sophistication fell over her eyes. Turning, she smiled at Tate and asked, “Honey, whatever are you doing out here?”
“Put the gun away, Mama,” Tate said, his voice barely above a whisper. Tortured eyes met the gaze of the woman who had birthed and raised him. “I can’t let you hurt Jazz or Anne-Marie.”
“I’ve no intention of hurting them,” Ella promised, gun still trained on Jazz. “If you come much closer, honey, I’ll have to shoot one of them. This is for your own good. He was always interfering and taking what should have been yours. Even Anne-Marie. I intended f
or her to be yours and look what he did.”
“I don’t want Anne-Marie. I never did. She’s nothing more than a friend.” Keeping his voice level, Tate repeated, “Put the gun down, Mama.”
“You should leave this to me, Tate. I know how to handle this mess.”
“By killing my cousin and my friend? By hacking off Marlie’s hair and scaring her to death? You caused the mess. And you’re going to have to go to jail for it.” His voice roughened. “Why, Mama? Why in the hell did you do this?”
“Because this is what’s best for you. And don’t worry, I won’t be going to jail. Nobody needs to know what happened to them. We can even take care of Mariah.” With a small, pleased smile, Ella focused her eyes on Jazz’s averted head. “Everything will be just fine.”
“I know what’s happened, Mama. I’m the sheriff. Do you think I can ignore the fact that my own mother is a killer? For God’s sake, Mama, put the damned gun down!”
“Don’t you swear at me, Tate. Don’t you ever raise your voice to me,” Ella reprimanded, primly. “I raised you better than that.”
A tiny giggle sounded in the doorway. Slowly, all eyes turned and locked on Naomi Muldoon, her worn, pink nightgown stained to the knees with mud. In one hand, she twirled a set of car keys. In the other, she held a small, deadly derringer that was pointed dead center of Ella’s chest.
“Raised him better than that? You think you can go around and kill whomever you please, but it’s wrong for him to raise his voice or say ‘damn’?” Naomi asked, still laughing. “I wonder if I am the only one who sees some irony in that.”
“Naomi…?”
“Do put the gun down, Ella,” Naomi said calmly, a bright, cheerful smile lighting her face, making her look twenty years younger.
Dumbstruck, Ella merely blinked at Naomi as the woman entered the house. “You’re wondering how I know about this place,” Naomi guessed, pausing by Anne-Marie to brush her fingers against her forehead. She smiled a sweet, gentle smile. “Things will be fine.”
Then she turned her eyes back to Ella. “Oh, I knew about you and Beau. A mother knows those sorts of things. From the beginning, I knew about it. I couldn’t have cared less. As long as he was with you, he wasn’t laying his hands on Delia. Poor girl, she never could figure out why he went from adoring her to beating her, overnight. It took me a while to figure out, though, that you were the one planting stories in his head.”
“Go on home, you crazy bitch,” Ella snapped, face flushed, hands shaking.
Smiling, Naomi said, “It’s amazing, the things you can do and see and notice when people think you’ve lost your marbles, isn’t it? Of course, for a while there, it was touch and go.” Reaching up, she brushed her fingers over the curve of her cheek, remembering the bruises that had faded years earlier. “It’s taken me some time to ground myself again. But with Jackson and Beau gone and Lawrence up and moving away, becoming a deputy…well, things finally started seeming real again. And then my son dies.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ella said calmly, even though her face was pale with rage and her hands shook. “Delia killed Beau.”
“That she did. And he most likely deserved it; he was every bit as cruel as his father was. He would have started beating her sooner or later. You just sped things up.” Her shoulders raised and fell in a helpless shrug. “I don’t know that I could have done anything about it, but I’m ashamed I didn’t try.
“But it’s not Beau I’m talking about. It’s Lawrence. You killed him as surely as you tried to kill Doc Kincaid. Of course,” Naomi mused, walking in slow meandering circles around the room. “I could forgive that, maybe. As much as a mother could forgive such a thing, considering how evil he was. I am having some trouble, though, with what you did to my Marlie. And poor Mabel.”
Naomi paused by Anne-Marie again, watching her intently. Then she raised her head, focusing those misty green eyes on Ella. “Maybe the young doctor doesn’t want or need to know why. But I do. I haven’t been waiting outside all this time for my health, you know. Tell me why, Ella. I need to know.”
“So do I,” Tate said, voice flat.
“For you, Tate. I did it all for you,” Ella said, the gun falling slackly to her side. “He took everything that should have been yours, even Anne-Marie.”
“I never wanted Anne-Marie,” Tate repeated, spreading his hands wide. Dumbly, he stared at the gun he still held in one hand then raised his head to meet his mother’s gaze across the room. “You never even wanted me, did you? I was just something else for you to try to hurt Jazz’s daddy, wasn’t I? And that didn’t work, either.”
“Of course, I wanted you,” Ella insisted, moving closer. “You were the only good thing in my life. Of course, Jasper was supposed to have been your father—”
“My father was a good man,” Tate interrupted, backing away from her. “A damned good one. And you hated him, just like you hated everybody else. You hid it, all this time.”
“I didn’t hide it. But with Jazz gone, you would have been able to take your place in the community, the way you should have in the first place. You would have married Anne-Marie, married into one of the oldest, finest families in Kentucky…” As she spoke, Ella’s face smoothed and her eyes took on a far-off look.
Jazz brushed Anne-Marie’s hair back, kissed her brow, and rose smoothly to his feet, keeping his body between Ella and Anne-Marie. “And then I came back home, and ruined your plans, huh, Ella?”
“You never did amount to anything,” Ella sneered at him. She glared at Jazz, barely aware anybody else was around them. Slowly, she raised her gun, completely unaware of her son shouting, of Anne-Marie’s cry, and Naomi’s movement.
“Mama, don’t!”
But it was too late. Even before the words had left Tate’s mouth, a gunshot ripped through the quiet night. And they were left staring at the lifeless body of Ella McNeil, a tiny, almost neat hole in the soft underside of her chin, a spreading pool of blood seeping from under her head.
“Mama…”
Tate’s eyes closed and he sank to his knees beside her while Jazz eased Anne-Marie back to her feet. Naomi moved closer, one hand resting on his shoulder. “Tortured souls sometimes can only see one way out, Tate. That’s not your fault, but hers.”
Without responding, Tate reached for his cell phone, his eyes full of rage and grief while he dialed out. Woodenly, he spoke into it. “This is McNeil. I’m out at the old Jenson place. I’m gonna need some medics and…”
Blood roared in her ears as Anne-Marie sagged against Jazz. “It’s over, right?” she whispered.
His murmured agreement barely registered before she gave in to the gray that beckoned.
“He’s not here,” Jazz whispered, reaching up and rubbing at the back of his neck. Staring out at the full sanctuary, he searched uselessly for a face similar to his.
“Tate’s having a hard time right now,” Desmond murmured, even as he searched the crowd for the third time. Sighing, he ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair. “I’ve got to get to Anne-Marie.”
As Desmond moved away from the pulpit, Jazz searched the final crowd of faces that had rushed into the sanctuary. But Tate wasn’t there. “I can’t believe he isn’t going to come,” Jazz muttered, clenching his jaw tight and turning his head away from the door.
When the strains of Ave Maria rang out, Jazz turned his face once more to the doorway, this time looking for his bride. Marlie appeared in the doorway, a smile curving her mouth, almost hiding the sadness in her eyes. Her dress, a deep blue, sleeveless sheath, clung to her willow-slim figure and in her hands, she carried a spray of white and lavender roses.
Then he saw Anne-Marie come around the corner. Her eyes sought his instantly and he felt the tension drain away. In her eyes, he saw a mirror of his own sadness, and a love he had never hoped to have.
She moved to join him at the altar, and all thoughts of time, regrets and Tate fell away as he stared into liquid green eyes.
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“I, Jasper Wayne McNeil Jr, take you, Anne-Marie Kincaid, to be my lawful, wedded wife…”
“…and do you, Anne-Marie Kincaid, promise to love and honor him, forsaking all others until death do you part?”
“I do.”
“And do you, Jasper Wayne McNeil Jr, promise to love and honor…”
“…anyone here who knows why these two should not be joined together, let him speak now or forever hold his peace.”
Automatically, Jazz and Anne glanced around before looking back at each other. As Reverend Matthews opened his mouth to conclude the ceremony, Anne-Marie smiled at Jazz.
“Wait.”
Black tuxedo jacket flapping around him, shirt half untucked, Tate sprinted up the aisle. “I was supposed to be the best man,” he panted, coming to a stop and staring at his cousin. “Am I still welcome?”
Staring into that flushed face, into eyes so like his own, Jazz felt the last of the grief drain from him. “Always,” he simply said, holding out his hand.
“Can we make it a double?” he asked, sliding Marlie a sidelong glance.
Tears filled her dark eyes, spilled down her pale cheeks as Tate moved closer. “Am I still welcome?” he asked again, lowering his head until his brow rested against hers.
A smile broke out on her face as she reached up, laid one hand on his cheek.
“Always.”
About
Shiloh Walker has been writing since she was a kid. She fell in love with vampires with the book Bunnicula and has worked her way up to the more…ah…serious works of fiction. Once upon a time she worked as a nurse, but now she writes full time and lives with her family in the Midwest. She writes romantic suspense and contemporary romance, and urban fantasy under her penname, J.C. Daniels. You can find her at Twitter or Facebook. Read more about her work at her website. Sign up for her newsletter and have a chance to win a monthly giveaway.
For the Love of Jazz Page 21
