Beguiled

by Deeanne Gist

  He cleared his throat. “It’s Logan Woods, remember? I’m Rylee’s . . . friend. From the other night. We stopped by and visited.”

  Her head craned for a better look. When he stopped talking, she waited, as if for a translation. At the foot of the bed, Nurse Melanie encouraged him with a nod.

  “Rylee sent me to tell you . . .”

  The old lady blinked.

  “She wants you to know . . . everything’s fine.”

  Nurse Melanie shuffled to the door. “I’ll leave you two alone a minute.”

  He wasn’t sure that was such a good idea. He almost called after her, but that would have been even more absurd. After campaigning so hard to get into the room, there was no turning back.

  Nonie stared at him a moment, then shut her eyes.

  Her breathing grew deep and regular. Asleep.

  On the nightstand, the stack of photo albums sang to him like a siren. Their leather covers glistened like the skin of the forbidden fruit. He stood, waited, and then moved quietly around the bed. At the far side, he leaned over her, checking to make sure she was asleep. Then he picked up the album on top, opening to the middle.

  He couldn’t find the photo from the other night. After flipping a few pages, his eyes alighted on a candid shot, a man in a three-piece suit seated in a leather chair, reading a small black book. It wasn’t the reader who caught his attention, though.

  On the side table behind the man’s chair stood a familiar-looking piece of art. A bronze-cast jockey identical to the one that was plucked unnoticed from the Bostick house, later discovered on the steps of First Scots Presbyterian, where Rylee had smothered it with her hands.

  Stunned, he turned the page. Nothing revelatory. He continued through the album, stopping on the second-to-last photo.

  In the lower corner of the leaf, a sepia-toned boy had a violin propped beneath his chin, bow at the ready. Logan held the album closer, scrutinizing the instrument. He wondered whether the details were clear enough for Jamison Ormsby to tell whether or not this was his Prokop. And though Logan would ask him, he already knew in his heart that it was.

  Did Rylee know about these? Of course. She had to. Which meant she hadn’t been honest with him. She’d known all along these items were linked to her family somehow, yet she never said a word. He wanted to know why.

  “Is she asleep?” Nurse Melanie stood in the doorway, eyebrow raised.

  Logan closed the album, tucking it under his arm. “She nodded off before I could explain. So I’d appreciate it if you’d keep her away from any tv or radio.” He patted the album. “I’ll bring this back when I come check on her again.”

  Before the nurse could reply, he slipped past her into the hallway. In his hand, the album grew heavy as a stone.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  According to the jail’s desk clerk, it would be after ten thirty before Rylee would be released. So Logan hit the newsroom, pounding the keyboard like it was his evening workout. His article about her arrest was due within the hour.

  He skimmed over the actual arrest, though, focusing instead on the inconsistencies of the investigation. Highlighting what he could about the stolen painting.

  A curator at Gibbes Museum hadn’t been able to offer much, since the painting was in a private collection. And his calls to Ann Davidson about Rylee as well as the painting’s provenance had gone unanswered so far. Meanwhile, he had plenty on the painter, Charles Fraser, to use as filler until he gleaned more specifics.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket. He answered without checking the display, thinking Mrs. Davidson was finally returning his call.

  “I just read the pages you sent,” his agent said. “And this dog-walker character is great. I can’t believe all this stuff! The editor went crazy. She wants you to ramp Rylee up a bit, though. Really flesh her out. Give us an intimate look at her background, her fears, what makes her tick.”

  Logan stilled. He’d e-mailed the raw pages to get Seth off his back, assuming they’d talk before he forwarded anything to Dora. Now, hearing his agent talk about Rylee this way, as if she was just another character in the story, he wanted to take it all back.

  “To be honest, Seth . . .” He shifted in his chair. “I was actually going to decrease her role. Maybe take her out completely.”

  “No, no, no,” Seth said. “A beautiful girl is always a good draw, but you’ve got to play up this Southern Gothic backstory of hers, the victimized girl lashing out at the people living the life that should have been hers, a female Robin Hood. It’s fantastic.”

  Logan cringed. “Where did you hear that? I didn’t write that.”

  “Don’t you read your own paper? It’s all over the website. Dora’s called me twice already.”

  He fell back in his chair. “Unbelievable.”

  “What’s the matter? This is great. Maybe the national news stations will even pick it up. The bigger the story, the bigger the book deal.”

  “She didn’t do it, Seth. And she’s been through a lot. She has no family to speak of. No support system. I’m not about to exploit her further.”

  Seth took a moment before answering. “Logan, are you, have you . . . What’s up with you and this girl?”

  And that was the problem with having one of your closest friends as your agent. Not a lot gets by him.

  “Talk to me, man.”

  “I’m not dragging her personal life into this.”

  Seth laughed. “You’re dating her, aren’t you? You dog! You’re dating the prime suspect. That’s not a book proposal, Logan. That’s a movie deal.”

  “No.”

  “How long have you been seeing her?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Come on. How many dates?”

  One. But it didn’t matter. One. A hundred. He wasn’t putting her in the book.

  “Listen, things like this don’t drop in your lap every day, Logan. You should get on your knees and thank the patron saint of publishing. If she’s the story, and you’re with her, then you’re the story. I’ve got to call Dora with this.”

  Logan gripped the phone. “Just hold on a second.”

  “I understand,” Seth said. “In terms of the journalism, this is a serious breach of ethics. I’m not going to out you or anything. But once this contract is signed, you won’t need to worry about the code of conduct. All your conflicts of interest will be resolved. This girl will be your number-one interest after all.”

  “The entire book does not hinge on this one girl.”

  “Maybe last week it didn’t, but it does now. And all you have to do is live it, then write it down.”

  Logan pictured Nonie’s photo album. Rylee was somehow connected to the robberies. That much was obvious now. But until he’d spoken to her, he wasn’t going to jump to any conclusions—or let anyone else jump to them, either. “No, Seth.”

  “Why? You can’t be in love with her. You haven’t known her long enough.”

  “That doesn’t mean I’m willing to take advantage of her. She’s a person. With feelings. Who didn’t do anything but be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Everyone in your book is real. Every single crook you’ve written about is a person with feelings. Why should she be any different?”

  “She’s not like them.” I hope.

  Seth groaned. “You’re killing me here.”

  He tried a different tack. “Lacey would have my head. She’s already given me an ultimatum. Made it crystal clear that the paper’s my first priority. If she finds out otherwise, she’ll drop the hammer on me without a second thought.”

  “You told me you’d make whatever sacrifices were necessary.

  What’s changed, Logan?”

  He rubbed his eyes. “Everything.”

  After hanging up, he took a walk around the newsroom to clear his head, then tried Ann Davidson again. This time, he got through.

  “The Fraser?” she said, repeating his question. “Oh, we’ve had that painting going on tw
enty years or so. Acquired it from an estate.

  Well, not directly, of course. It went through a third party.”

  “A third party?” Trapping the phone between his ear and shoulder, he scribbled some notes. “Do you remember who that was?”

  “Grant Sebastian. He handled it all.”

  Logan froze. “You’re kidding.”

  “Why, no. It came from the home of his former law partner, Jonathan Monroe. Since you know Rylee, I’m sure you’re familiar with the family’s tragic story. When he left, there was a terrible debt to settle, and Grant stepped in to help. ”

  He removed the phone from his shoulder. “To help?”

  “He didn’t have to. He organized everything very discreetly, of course, to protect the family’s dignity. If it wasn’t for him, I think the Monroes would have lost everything.” She paused. “I’m not giving you my permission to use this information. This is strictly off the record, you understand?”

  “Of course.” Logan was reeling. “So you’re saying the painting stolen from your house used to belong to the Monroes? Do the police know that?”

  “Not from me they don’t. That girl’s in a bad enough position as it is.”

  “So you don’t think she’s guilty?”

  “Let me tell you something, young man. In this country, people are innocent until proven guilty. We trusted her, and until somebody can prove otherwise, I’m going to believe she kept that trust. What happened here would have taken a lot of hate, don’t you think? Well, I don’t believe Rylee has that in her. Do you?”

  “No, ma’am. I don’t believe she does.” He cleared his throat. “So this private sale, it must have included a lot more than the painting. Do you know if there was a violin, or maybe a bronze statue?”

  “I wish I could help you,” she replied, though it was clear from her tone she was glad she couldn’t. “The truth is, Grant knew about my admiration for Fraser and brought the piece by. I have no idea what else he brokered, or who did the purchasing. Apart from the house, of course—but everybody knows that.”

  “The house?”

  “The Monroe house,” she said. “On East Battery.”

  The photograph from the album came to mind, the familiar-looking façade he couldn’t quite place.

  “And who bought that?” he asked.

  She laughed. “You really do need to brush up on your local history, young man.”

  “Could you give me a name, ma’am?”

  “Grant Sebastian, of course.”

  Logan hunched over in a preformed plastic chair welded to a long series of matching seats, watching the featureless, gray double doors for any sign of movement. From time to time, they’d open to admit an officer or civilian technician, prompting yet another frustrated sigh. If the wheels of justice turned slowly, it seemed the wheels of injustice didn’t turn at all.

  Grant Sebastian finally pushed through the doors, escorting Rylee by the elbow. Logan jumped up, shaking the stiffness from his legs.

  She looked disoriented and pale, as if she’d spent a week locked in a basement only to be thrown out into the light. She gazed at him a few seconds in a daze, before a spark of life touched her eyes.

  He stepped forward but couldn’t cross into the cordoned-off area, nor could she leave it until the final paperwork had been executed. A woman behind a glass window worked through a series of pointless questions, which Rylee answered without once taking her eyes off Logan.

  The moment she’d signed her name to the last document, she flung the pen down and turned toward him. She didn’t run to his arms. She flew.

  Before he could brace himself, she was there.

  “Are you okay? Are you okay?” he kept saying.

  He kissed her forehead. Her cheeks. Her nose. Her eyes. Her jaw. Her ears.

  She bracketed his face with her hands, and drew his mouth to hers. Her lips were gentle and soft, filled with something unspeakable from deep inside.

  “I was so worried,” he said. “You’re shaking.”

  “Just get me out of here,” she whispered.

  Grant appeared beside them holding a limp paper bag. “Is this really all you had, Rylee? What about purse, wallet, keys, money, that kind of thing?”

  She stepped from their embrace, glancing into the bag. A coiled belt, a pair of shoelaces, and a paper envelope containing her jewelry.

  Logan kept a watchful eye on the lawyer. The man was living in Rylee’s ancestral home and brokered the deal for an item—maybe all the items—Robin Hood had stolen.

  A few hours ago, he’d wanted nothing more than for Grant to take over the case. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  “That’s it,” she said, clipping on the pearl-drop pendant she always wore. “I gave Logan my bag before they brought me in.”

  Logan forced himself to extend a hand. “Thank you for coming, Grant.”

  The attorney tucked a sheaf of papers into his litigation bag, then accepted Logan’s hand. “I’ve read many of your articles over the years.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Grant glanced at his watch. “You’re taking her home?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Nodding, he patted Rylee on the shoulder and told her to check in first thing in the morning. Then he was gone.

  Logan kept his arm around her as they walked to the car. The balmy night air only heightened the coolness of her skin. She listed back and forth with fatigue.

  “Have you had anything to eat?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “How does a Big Mac sound?”

  She pushed back her bangs. “I’d rather just go home. Is that okay?”

  “You bet.” He eased her into the passenger seat, careful that she didn’t fall, then went around to the other side. As they pulled onto the empty street, he glanced her way. “Rylee, do you know a dog named Butterscotch?”

  She turned her face toward him, leaving her head against the seat. “No. Should I?”

  “I just heard Karl mentioning it. Did he or the Sebastians or anyone you know ever have a pet named Butterscotch?”

  “Not that I know of. Why?”

  He shrugged. “Just wondering.”

  She let her head loll against the window. “I’m exhausted. But if I fall asleep, you have to stop me. I have too many things to do.

  First, I need a shower. Then I need to call my clients. I have to check on Nonie—”

  “It’s almost midnight, Rylee. Everything but the shower will have to wait until tomorrow. As far as your grandmother goes, though, I already checked on her.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “You did?”

  “Late this afternoon, I went out to Bishop Gadsden. To make sure she hadn’t heard. And then to make sure she wouldn’t hear.”

  She reached across the gearshift, cradling his hand. “You really did that?”

  “It’s no big deal.”

  “It is.” She smiled. “It’s a really big deal. . . .”

  Leaning over, she kissed him again, a damsel rewarding her knight.

  He needed to tell her about the trip to Bishop Gadsden. That he’d taken one of the photo albums and why. He needed to ask her about what Ann Davidson had said, too. But she sank against the window, eyes closed, and he decided it was better to let her sleep.

  They drove the rest of the way to her apartment in silence. He listened for her breathing, but the air-conditioner drowned it out.

  They paused at a red light, the intersection illuminated by streetlights, and he glanced over to study her gamine profile, the indolent upturn of her nose. The graceful jaw. The long neck. The swell of her chest. The flat waist. The long legs. The fringe around her cutoffs flickering in the A/C.

  She’d probably throw the shorts away now, not wanting to be reminded of this day. He looked at her legs again. It was a crying shame.

  Reaching the apartment brought memories of their unintentional night together, sleeping side by side in the parked car. This time, he rubbed his knuckles softly against her cheek until her e
yes opened.

  “Are we here?”

  He hoisted her bag from the backseat and came around to open her door. Glancing at the parking lot, he realized they still needed to collect her car, but the errand would have to wait. She wasn’t in any condition to drive. Maybe he could phone Wash once she’d settled in and the two of them could make up a convoy.

  She got a few paces ahead of him, anxious for home, unsteady as they ascended the stairs. He put his hand out in case she fell.

  When she reached her door, she leaned against the wall, eyes closed. “You have the keys.”

  He dug through the jumble of items in the messenger bag, chasing the sound of clinking metal. Finally, his fingertips hit on the telltale ridges.

  He aimed for the lock and missed, but the door cracked open anyway. “Rylee.”

  “Hmm?” She opened her eyes.

  He nudged the door open farther.

  “Wait here,” he whispered.

  Feeling along the wall, he flipped on the lights, then froze.

  Some forms of destruction seem random and impersonal. A tornado rips through, leaving carnage in its wake, but inspecting the debris never yields a message from the storm. Nature did what it did but had nothing to say.

  The scene in Rylee’s apartment was not like that. What he saw spoke. It screamed. And he recognized the voice all too well. Her couch disemboweled, her books scalped of their covers, the shelves upended and some of them snapped in two, as if over a knee.

  Every cd case opened, the discs methodically broken. Her dvds smashed. The kitchen had gotten a good shake, rattling everything, the contents of the fridge still fresh on the linoleum floor. Something viscous and ruby which he hoped was Kool-Aid had dried sticky on the surfaces. Liquid oozed from behind the closed microwave door.

  He advanced farther, turning on lights as he went, his body contracting into a crouch.

  The rags strewn across the bedroom floor had been clothes once.

  Now they lay tangled in odd bundles, almost corpse-like, studded with shoes that had gummy scars where their heels had been.

  The red dress from their visit to Nonie lay razored across the bed. The sheets themselves had been cut up beyond recognition.