Beguiled

by Deeanne Gist

  He’s going to kiss me, she thought. And I smell like sweat!

  She lowered her chin, breaking the contact. He stayed where he was for a few seconds more, then took a step back. Edging around him, she picked up Romeo’s water bowl, refilled it, and set it back down.

  “See you tomorrow,” she said, rubbing the dog’s head.

  Then she slipped out the door, unsure if she had been saying good-bye to the dog or to Karl.

  Chapter Eleven

  Logan stared up at the ceiling, unable to sleep, his sheets sticking to him like flypaper. On the desk in the corner, his manuscript pages glowed white in the gloom. Not enough of them, though. Not nearly enough. He was tempted to roll out of bed and flip the laptop open. But it was no good. He’d hit a wall—too tired to write more, too stressed to sleep.

  Reaching over, he flicked on the bedside lamp. His notebook lay open, turned to a page with a name and number and plenty of underlining. He grabbed his cell before he could stop himself. He’d just leave a voice mail.

  “Hello?”

  He sucked in his breath. The last thing he’d expected was for her to pick up. “Uh, it’s Logan Woods.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Hello.”

  “Did I wake you?” He glanced at the clock and cringed. Two in the morning.

  “No. I have a load of wash I’m waiting on.”

  Stacking his pillows, he propped up his head. “Listen, you were really a lot of help yesterday.”

  “I was?”

  “Yeah. I guess you heard about the latest break-in? Jamison Ormsby, the violinist?”

  She sighed. “I saw your article this morning. I used to work for them—him and his first wife, I mean.”

  “He told me.”

  Silence on the line.

  “Are you there?” he asked.

  “This is awful. I don’t know why it keeps happening.”

  He tried to picture where she was and realized he couldn’t. He had no idea where she lived. “Maybe we should sit down and go over a list of all your clients, past and present.”

  She groaned.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I just did that with Detective Campbell.”

  He rose up on one elbow. “Nate took you in? For a statement?”

  More silence.

  “Rylee?”

  “He thinks I did it, Logan. He asked me for an alibi.”

  “He’s only fishing. I can’t imagine he really thinks that.” But Logan could imagine it. Only too well. He’d assumed the police were dragging their heels on the breakins, considering how slapdash the follow-up at the scenes had been. But if Nate had pulled her in for questioning, that put things in a new light.

  He sat up in bed.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  “That we need to find this guy. Robin Hood, I mean.”

  Rylee put the phone down. The clock on her dvd player still flashed from the last power outage, so she had to crane her neck around to see the time on the microwave. A quarter past two in the morning. The television was on, tuned to a network sitcom she never watched, volume muted. She’d fallen asleep on the couch.

  Kicking the blanket off her feet, she went into the kitchenette, poured a glass of Kool-Aid, and debated the wisdom of sharing her client information with a reporter. Detective Campbell had a warrant. Logan had nothing but a thirst to find the culprit.

  Down the corridor in the laundry room, all the machines had gone quiet. Retrieving her load of wash, she slung it into the back of a dryer, tossed in a softener sheet from the community box, and fed in some quarters.

  Back at her apartment, she found the door next to hers standing open. She gave it a tap. “Liz?”

  The door swung wide. She took a step into her friend’s apartment, as small and bare as her own. As Liz liked to joke, it was lots of shabby, and not much chic. A futon from her college days was draped in a striped sheet. A particleboard coffee table centered on a fuzzy, hand-me-down rug. Thick grocery-store candles burnt low.

  “Liz? It’s me.”

  Liz walked in from the bedroom, still in her Bavarian barmaid outfit, blond ringlets cascading over her freckled shoulders. Since last summer, she’d been working full time at Queen Anne’s Revenge, a pirate-themed restaurant out on Daniel Island. Lots of tourists, plenty of tips.

  “Hey, girl.” Liz gave her a hug. “I just got home.”

  “I was doing some laundry.”

  Liz scrunched up her nose. “I need to do mine, too. Make yourself at home while I change.”

  Rylee curled up on the futon, flipping through one of Liz’s old copies of Domino.

  “Have you reconsidered my offer?” Liz called out.

  “Not really.”

  Since they were both looking to economize, Liz had proposed going in as roommates. A co-worker had tipped her off about a rundown duplex in Summerville. “No charm, but oodles of cheap.”

  If they split the rent, the half-hour commute would be worth it, according to Liz. But Rylee wasn’t convinced. She was already putting too much faith in her little car. Moving farther out from Nonie and work, no matter how much it saved, was too much of a risk.

  Liz took a quick shower, then appeared in wet hair and a knee-length T-shirt. She arranged herself cross-legged on the futon, buffing her head dry with a towel. “So why are you stalling on my offer?

  You know you wanna be my roomie.”

  “It’s not that.” Rylee continued to flip through the magazine.

  “You’re still worried about the distance?”

  “It’s bad enough already. My car’s making funny noises, and I’m afraid to take it in.”

  “That’s not the real reason, though, is it?”

  Rylee looked up. “What do you mean?”

  Liz gave her a sympathetic smile. “You’d be moving in the wrong direction. You want to be closer to Charleston, not farther away.” She shook her head. “That crazy rule of yours, only working south of Broad. You like to pretend that’s where you live.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Liz’s tone gentled. “I think you do. You’re trying to recapture what you had when you were little bitty and lived there with your parents.”

  Rylee fingered her pearl pendant. Liz was the only person she’d ever told about her father leaving along with the truth about her mother’s death.

  She had fleeting memories of her parents. All of them good. Except for her mother’s funeral. She’d spent the entire ceremony searching for her father among the towering men smoking cigars. Among the women wearing black dresses and too much perfume. Knowing somehow that he was gone for good. To this day, she hated the smell of cigars and she never wore a fragrance of any kind.

  She remembered Nonie most of all, though. Rocking her. Comforting her. Instructing her.

  “Men are unreliable,” she’d said, resting her head against Rylee’s. “They might come through in a pinch, but in the long haul, the only person you can ever really count on is yourself.” Her tears dampened Rylee’s hair. “Promise me you’ll remember that.” She pulled back, placing her hands on Rylee’s cheeks, looking her straight in the eye. “Promise me.”

  “I’ll remember, Nonie. I promise.”

  Rylee set the magazine on the coffee table. “I need some advice, Liz.”

  “Yeah?” She lowered the towel to her lap. “What’s up?”

  Rylee took a deep breath. “There’s this guy—”

  Liz squealed. “Rylee, you? You haven’t dated in, like, forever.”

  “No, it’s not like that. We’re not seeing each other. He’s a newspaper reporter who’s been investigating these Robin Hood break-ins, and all but one of the houses belong to clients or former clients of mine. It’s kind of creepy, to be honest, and people I care about have been hurt.”

  “People you care about? You mean clients?”

  “Yes.”

  “Rylee.” Frowning, she untwisted her legs. “They’re clients. Not family. There’s a difference.”<
br />
  “I know. I’m not saying they’re family—just that we’re . . . close.” She paused. “Anyway, this reporter guy, Logan. He thinks I can help him figure out who the burglar is. Or at least, what all the victims have in common.”

  “Besides you.”

  “Bottom line, he wants my help. First I said yes, but maybe I shouldn’t have.”

  Liz tilted her head. “Why not? I don’t see what the big deal is.”

  “You don’t think I’d be betraying my clients?”

  “Rylee, what are you talking about? If somebody broke into my house, how would you be betraying me by helping bring them to justice?”

  “I guess. If you put it that way—”

  “What other way is there, girl?”

  “It’s just . . . this particular guy.”

  Liz gave her a speculative look. “Is he cute?”

  Rylee smiled in spite of herself. “That’s not what it’s about.”

  “That’s always what it’s about. You’re sweet, honey, and I know all you want to do is take care of your grandma. But have you ever thought you might need more than a dog in your life?”

  “I have more than a dog.”

  “More than a pack of dogs. In other words, a man.”

  “Actually, my new client asked me to dinner.”

  Liz gasped. “No! The one who knew you as a kid? The hottie lawyer?”

  Rylee nodded.

  Squealing again, Liz coiled her towel into a turban. “So, when are you going? Where is he taking you? What are you going to wear?”

  “I told him no.”

  Liz gaped at her. “Ry-leeeeeee! Why did you do that? I mean that’s, like, every girl’s dream. Handsome, rich, hotshot attorney falls in love with poor overworked, underpaid Cinderella.”

  Rylee laughed. “I wish it were that simple.”

  “But it is!”

  Rylee pushed herself up off the futon. “How ’bout if I tell him you’re available?”

  “You’re on. And, Rylee . . . ?”

  She paused at the door.

  “If you want to help that reporter out, do it. It sounds like an adventure. You’d be crazy to pass it up.”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah. And if we were roomies, we could talk about this stuff all the time.”

  “Tempting.”

  Rylee and Toro walked along King Street all the way to South Battery, passing the narrowest house in town. A white-haired man in a Navy cap stood outside, guidebook in hand, while his wife fanned herself with a folded map.

  “Will you look at that, Martha? Just thirteen feet across. Thirteen feet.” He held so much reverence in his voice he might have been beholding one of the Seven Wonders of the World.

  This was the city she knew, alive with people overcome by its sights. Liz could talk about this love as if it were a weakness, but she’d never understand how deeply it ran in Rylee’s soul.

  Glancing at her watch, she headed back. Logan would be picking her up pretty soon. At First Scots Presbyterian, she peeked through the fence to see if Dr. Welch was around. No sign of him. But just in front of Toro’s house, she saw flashing lights.

  Please, Lord. Not the Davidsons, too.

  She recognized young Officer Kirk from the night she’d chased Logan up the monument. He was standing with one foot propped inside the cruiser’s open door, his elbow on the roof as he talked into the radio transmitter. In front of his car, a second cruiser had its flashers going. Officer Munn and Nate Campbell stood on the curb next to it.

  They’d boxed in a white pickup full of yard equipment. Her pace quickened as she caught sight of the lettering on the door.

  “What’s going on?” she asked. “Has the Davidsons’ house been hit?”

  Campbell scowled at her approach. “Not that we know of.”

  Her shoulders wilted in relief. She glanced through the open window of the truck, spotting a familiar profile. “George?”

  The gardener glanced at her, then turned away.

  Detective Campbell moved up on the passenger side while Kirk approached on the driver’s, his hand resting on the butt of his pistol.

  Kirk motioned George out of the driver’s seat, making him spread his hands on the hood.

  Campbell shooed Rylee away. “Move along, Miss Monroe.”

  She walked a few yards ahead, then paused at the Davidsons’ gate.

  Her words to Campbell yesterday rang loud in her ears. You cannot be serious, Detective. That would be like suspecting the gardener, simply because he works south of Broad!

  Had she inadvertently drawn Campbell’s attention to George?

  The sense of outrage she’d felt at being questioned came rushing back.

  “This is ridiculous,” she called out.

  Campbell turned around, blocking her view of what was happening. Instead of leaving, she pulled Toro back down the sidewalk.

  “Why are you doing this to him?”

  “I’m not going to ask you again.” He warded her off with his index finger.

  A black BMW pulled up in front of the pickup, Logan emerging from the driver’s seat, his button-down crisp, his sleeves rolled up.

  “What’s going on, Nate? Are you taking Pendergrass in?”

  Campbell never took his eyes off Rylee. “His name’s not Pend-ergrass. It’s Reid. George Reid.” He turned his attention to Logan.

  “Get her out of here.”

  Logan eyed the dog. “Go on, Rylee. Take the dog inside. I’ll be right here when you come back.”

  “Logan . . .” She heard the plea in her own voice.

  “Go on,” he said gently.

  She glanced again at George. Officer Kirk had cuffed him and with one hand on George’s elbow and the other on his head, assisted him into the back of a squad car.

  Whirling, she rushed through the gate and pulled Toro inside.

  “This is all my fault. I served George up to them on a silver platter.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  Logan headed toward Slightly North of Broad, a restaurant on East Bay. His head was still spinning from the scene on the street. He’d been afraid Nate was ahead of him, and he’d been right. George Reid back in Charleston? Masquerading as a gardener? He couldn’t believe it.

  “Yesterday I was trying to make Detective Campbell see how ridiculous he was being. I told him suspecting me was kind of like saying ‘the butler did it.’ Only I said it was the gardener.” She pressed her fingers to her forehead, her thumb ring glinting in the sunlight. “I was being sarcastic. I never meant for him to take me seriously.”

  He could tell she felt bad, but there was no reason. If Pender-grass really was Reid, it wouldn’t have taken an offhand remark from Rylee to arouse police suspicions. “You had nothing to do with it, Rylee.”

  “But I did!”

  “Nate said his real name’s George Reid. He was handed a ten-year sentence back in ’90 for grand larceny. It was a famous case back then.”

  She looked stunned. “There must be some mistake.”

  “I don’t think so.” He shook his head. “They caught him hauling paintings, jewels, and other valuables stolen from Low Country estates that had been evacuated due to Hurricane Hugo. If he’s the Robin Hood burglar . . . well, it kind of makes sense.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I included the Reid case in my book.”

  “Your book? You’ve published a book?”

  Turning on his blinker, he switched lanes. “Not yet. But I’m working on it. It’s about Charleston crimes.”

  “And George, my George, is in it?”

  “Yep. The thing that made his case so interesting is that only a fraction of the stolen goods were recovered in his trailer. The prosecutors of the day speculated about a whole series of vehicles, a convoy of thieves taking advantage of the disastrous storm. But Reid was the only one they caught, and he wasn’t talking. It was a real mystery—and Reid never cracked. He just did his time and disappeared. I had
no idea he was back in town.”

  She fell back against the seat. “Do you really think he’s the one?

  The Robin Hood burglar?”

  “I think it’s entirely possible.” He couldn’t keep the disappointment out of his voice. This wasn’t how the story was supposed to end.

  “But it doesn’t make any sense. If he’s an experienced thief, why would he donate the goods instead of hocking them?”

  He smiled in spite of himself. “You mean fencing.”

  “Fencing. And why would he steal relatively worthless things when there were bigger prizes to be had?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I really thought we were out ahead of the police on this. It’s a letdown.”

  “Assuming he’s guilty. Logan, just because the man has a criminal record doesn’t mean he’s the Robin Hood burglar.”

  “You really think he’s not?”

  She paused, biting her lip in thought. “Honestly? I don’t.”

  He turned right onto the brick pavers lining Cumberland Street and then left into the parking garage. He pulled into a space and cut the engine. “I wish I could say the same thing.”

  Shaking her head, she reached for her cell phone. With sudden resolve, she punched the buttons.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “I know someone who’ll believe me.”

  “Who?”

  “Karl.”

  He stiffened. “Karl Sebastian?”

  Nodding, she brought the phone to her ear. “I’m going to see if he’ll help George.”

  “No, wait,” he said. “I think—”

  “Yes. Hi. This is Rylee Monroe. May I speak to Karl, please? . . . Thank you.”

  He tried again. “Rylee. Karl’s firm may do both estate and criminal law, but the only one who’s good at both is Karl’s dad. Not—”

  “Karl! Oh, thank goodness you’re there.”

  Logan couldn’t help the flash of irritation that whipped through him. He’d called Sebastian, Lynch & Orton half a dozen times trying to get through to Karl. And she managed it on the first try.

  “I need your help.”

  “My help?” The silence of the closed car and parking garage allowed Logan to hear Karl’s voice leaking out of her earpiece. Rylee saw him lean closer and tilted the phone so he could hear better. “Has that cop been pestering you again?”