Still Waters

by Tami Hoag

  She was dry-eyed and pale, her skin looking waxy beneath a layer of makeup that had been applied with a lavish hand. Two shades of blue shadow arched over her eyes in a monochromatic rainbow that went to her brow line. Rouge dotted her cheeks in spots of hectic red. Her hair, dyed a shade of peach that brought to mind fiberglass insulation, rose up in a teased and sprayed cone, looking impervious to any disaster—natural or man-made. Tragedy might drive Helen to her knees, but her beehive would survive.

  A low buzz of activity sounded in the house behind her. News of Jarrold's death had hit the grapevine, and the women of Still Creek had begun to arrive with food in hand to offer comfort and shore up the grieving with tuna casserole and applesauce cake.

  “Dane,” she said, the corners of her lips flicking up in an automatic smile. “I thought you might be another woman from the church. We have enough Jell-O to last the year already. Mavis Grimsrud brought this one.”

  She lifted the jiggling red mass to give him a better look. It was molded in the shape of a fish with bulging maraschino cherry eyes and fruit cocktail innards showing through the transparent sides. Dane tucked his chin and clenched his teeth against a grimace.

  “I don't know why people think we need Jell-O when someone dies,” Helen said, her piping voice hovering somewhere between chipper and shrill. She looked up at him, her eyes a little glazed from shock or tranquilizers, over-plucked brows tugging together like a pair of thin question marks. “Why do you think that is, Dane?”

  “I—a—” He shrugged, at a loss. He had expected her to have questions about Jarrold, the case, the senselessness of murder. Jell-O was out of his realm.

  “I suppose everyone has a box in their cupboard,” she mused absently. She balanced the plate on one forearm and picked at a cherry eye with a long coral fingernail. “If you know that trick with ice cubes, you can have it ready in a flash. Now, a hot dish, that's something else. Arnetta McBaine brought one by made with Tater Tots. She told me once she keeps a casserole in her freezer for emergencies.”

  Dane drew in a long, patient breath. “Helen, how are you doing? Do you need anything?”

  She snapped out of her fog with a half-laugh of embarrassment. “I'm fine,” she said, her voice fluttering like Glinda the Good Witch from the Wizard of Oz. Her lips tightened against her teeth and her eyes squinted into nothingness. “Jarrold is the one not doing too well. And my mailbox. My poor mailbox isn't well at all.”

  “I know. Lorraine told me you'd called. I thought I'd drop by myself—”

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Jarvis. I just wanted to offer my condolences.”

  Dane jerked around, eyes blazing. Elizabeth stepped past him on the stoop and offered her hand to the Widow Jarvis.

  Helen's wispy brows scaled her forehead again. “I'm sorry,” she chirped. “Do I know you?”

  “No, and I'm terribly sorry we have to meet under these circumstances. I'm Elizabeth Stuart.”

  “Elizabeth—?”

  For an instant Helen Jarvis went still while the cogs of her brain slipped into gear. The lull before the storm. Elizabeth saw the sudden flash of recognition, then fury in the woman's tiny eyes, the rise of natural color beneath the clown dots of rouge on her cheeks. She pulled her hand back and braced herself for she knew not what.

  “You're that woman,” Helen said, her voice suddenly so low and rough, she sounded like the devil talking through Linda Blair in The Exorcist. Elizabeth took a cautious step back, the short hairs rising on the back of her neck. “You're that southern woman.” She hissed the word as if it were one of the foulest in her vocabulary.

  “I'm from Texas, actually,” Elizabeth said weakly.

  Helen edged out onto the step, a wild sound rumbling in her throat like a poodle growling. Her body was rigid and trembling visibly, her face flushing red as rage bubbled up inside her. If a human could have imitated a volcano about to blow, Elizabeth figured this was about what it would look like, right down to the fiery cone of hair thrusting up from the top of her head. It was a frightening thing to behold, and she could only stand and watch, like a deer caught in headlights, too flabbergasted to think of anything else.

  “You bitch!” Helen exploded, fury blasting out of her in waves. “How dare you come to this house! How dare you!”

  Before Elizabeth could draw breath to answer, the Jell-O mold came flying at her. The plate dropped away en route, like a booster off a rocket, and shattered on the concrete of the terrace. The gelatin bass kept coming. It hit her square in the chest and burst like an overripe melon, spewing fruit cocktail and shards of Jell-O in all directions. Elizabeth fell back with a gasp of astonishment, arms spread wide as if she'd been shot.

  Dane snarled a curse under his breath as globs of red goo pelted his clean shirt. He grabbed Helen by her rigid shoulders and turned her back toward the house.

  The doorway was suddenly overflowing, ladies from Our Savior's Lutheran Church spilling out onto the terrace, their faces frozen in various expressions of horror and excitement according to their personal bent. Mavis Grimsrud, who bore a notable resemblance to Ma Kettle, let out a shriek at the sight of Elizabeth, though whether it was concern for Elizabeth or for her own dismembered Jell-O masterpiece was difficult to tell.

  “Grandma Schummacher's plate!” she wailed as her gaze fell to the terrace. She hitched up her cotton housedress to her knees in one meaty fist and squatted down to pick up the slivers of china.

  Dane herded Helen around her, singling out Kathleen Gunderson with his gaze. “Kathleen, take Helen inside and see that she lays down.”

  “Lie down,” Helen growled, digging her heels in every step of the way into the foyer. “Talk to that slut about lying down.”

  Kathleen, a dainty woman Helen's own age, took a firm hold of her friend's arm and dragged her another step into the house, her mouth tightening with disapproval. “Helen, for heaven's sake, there's no need to air that dirty laundry now.”

  “Dirty laundry! I gave her some dirty laundry!” Helen's shrill little-girl voice ended in a squeak and giggling uncontrollably she went off into the nether reaches of the house with Kathleen.

  “Judas H.,” Dane muttered. He turned and pinned Edith Truman with a look.

  She raised a hand, needing no order. “I'll go call Doc.”

  The rest of the women lingered around the doorway, eyes on Elizabeth. No one rushed out to console her or to help her brush the mess off her clothes. Not one voice was raised in inquiry or sympathy or explanation. They stood up against the side of the Jarvis home as if they were guarding the portal against a foreign invasion, their gazes ranging from carefully blank to wary to accusatory.

  Elizabeth stood just off the terrace, staring back at them, reading their expressions. The faces were new, but the sentiment etched there was no different from what she'd seen on the faces of the Atlanta Junior League ladies the day news of her impending divorce had hit the grapevine. She was an outsider. She was unwelcome here. Separation stretched like an invisible gulf between them, yawning wide, with no one willing to reach across to her. She was alone.

  The feeling was nothing new, but somehow it managed to hit her with an unexpected amount of hurt. Being snubbed by Atlanta's upper crust when Brock's propaganda campaign against her had been at its peak hadn't broken her. But standing here next to Jarrold Jarvis's lawn jockey with cherry Jell-O dripping down her and the venerable matrons of Our Savior's Lutheran Church looking down their noses at her had tears crowding her throat.

  “Why don't you ladies go in and make some coffee,” Dane suggested.

  He held Mavis's elbow as she hefted herself up, the final remains of Grandma Schummacher's plate crunching under her orthopedic shoes. Great, he thought, as if the town wasn't already buzzing with news of the murder; now there would be this tale to tell and retell. How “that southern woman” made poor Helen Jarvis lose her mind.

  As the last of the church ladies went into the house and the door swung shut behind them, Dane wheeled around. “Dam
mit, I told you to wait—”

  The rest of his diatribe jammed in his throat. Elizabeth was standing there in her faded jeans and college T-shirt, scraping red Jell-O off herself, blinking back tears. Tears. Shit. He could take her tantrums and tirades. Her tart tongue kept her just where he wanted her—at arm's length. But tears. He hadn't expected tears, had never been sure what to do about them. Something suspiciously like tenderness sprang unexpectedly to life inside him, and he winced as if it were a thorn.

  “Well,” she said on a shaky breath, trying to force one of her cocky grins. “So much for paying my respects.”

  One fat crystalline drop rolled over her lashes onto her cheek. She swiped at it angrily, leaving a globby smear of gelatin. Dane swore under his breath. He stepped off the terrace, pulling an immaculate white handkerchief from his hip pocket.

  “You really bring out the best in people,” he grumbled, rubbing at the mess on her cheek, focusing on the task instead of on the almost overwhelming desire to take her in his arms and hold her. Soft. He was going soft in his old age.

  Elizabeth almost managed to chuckle. He had meant it facetiously, of course. Hadn't given a thought to the fact that he was actually being nice to her for once in his accursed life, she was sure. But he was. There was sympathy in his eyes behind the annoyance, and he had positioned himself between her and the house, shielding her from view of anyone peering out between the Levolors.

  “Could you rub a little harder?” she asked as he mushed her cheek up against the side of her nose. “I've never been partial to having skin there, and I think you've about got it scraped right off.”

  Dane scowled at her but gentled his touch.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, reaching up to take the handkerchief from him. “I'll get the rest, if you don't mind.”

  The rest was on her chest. The idea of letting his hand drift down to touch her breasts wafted through her mind as she looked up at him, as her fingertips bumped against his on her cheek. Just a quick vignette of involuntary fantasy, a fleeting image of those long, elegant fingers brushing against her.

  Dane glanced down at the globules of Jell-O clinging to the upper slopes of her breasts. His mind raced ahead to imagine what it might be like if she were naked and he were to gently rub those cool, glittering bits of sweetness over her skin, then lean down and let his mouth follow the trail. . . . Heat drifted through him, the core of it curling like a fist in the pit of his belly.

  His gaze drifted back up and caught on hers. She blinked, like someone trying to come out of a trance, and the tip of her tongue skimmed across her bottom lip.

  He wanted to kiss her. For an instant he couldn't see any reason not to lean down and taste that mouth. It was a matter of simple, unbridled lust, he told himself. A male wanting a female. Nothing complicated, nothing emotional. She made him hot, and his body wanted a chance to do something about it.

  He cupped her cheek, catching his thumb beneath her chin and tilting her face to a better angle.

  “Dane!”

  Edith Truman's voice cut through the sensual haze. Dane shook off the spell and turned around. Edith stood at the door with a dishtowel knotted in her hands, looking like his grandmother come out to call him in for pie. Having been married to Doc Truman for nearly sixty years, she had seen more than her share of human trauma and was luckily a woman who thrived during times of crisis. Her eyes were bright as she leaned out the door.

  “Mark just called to see if you were still here. They're getting things set up for the press conference, and apparently there's some disagreement over who gets to sit at the head table.”

  Dane raised a hand in a gesture that managed to combine acknowledgment and resignation. “I'm on my way.” He glanced over his shoulder at Elizabeth.

  “Come on, trouble,” he said, starting for the truck. “It's showtime.”

  “Would you mind dropping me off at Jolynn's?” Elizabeth asked, falling in step beside him. “I might attract undue attention if I show up at your little soiree looking like this.”

  Dane imagined she would attract attention if she showed up in a nun's habit, but he kept that comment to himself and muttered a grudging yes.

  “You're a prince,” Elizabeth said, climbing into the cab of the Bronco. She bit back a chuckle at the look he shot her. He wanted her to think he wasn't anything but a tough, ornery son of a gun with a badge. He didn't much like the idea that she had caught a glimpse of something nicer in him.

  “Don't spread it around,” he grumbled, sliding behind the wheel. “I'm not running a taxi service either, so don't expect me to hang around and wait for you while you try to decide what the latest fashion for a press conference is.”

  “No, sir.” She saluted him smartly, winning another disgruntled snarl for her efforts, then she relaxed against the seat and studied him for a minute as he started the truck and headed south again. “Much as it pains me to be civil to you,” she said soberly, “I do thank you.”

  “For what?”

  She toyed with the strap of the seat belt, uncomfortable, uncertain of her footing on this ground. She could stand toe-to-toe and fight with him. This was much trickier. It skirted the edges of liking him, and that seemed unwise. “For being decent,” she said at last.

  “I'm midwestern, it's ingrained.”

  “It wasn't ingrained in any of those women standing on that veranda.”

  “You're new here,” Dane said, feeling a little embarrassed that he had to make excuses for his townspeople. “They don't know anything about you except—”

  “Except that I'm a notorious, man-hopping divorcee from the South,” Elizabeth finished, her mouth twisting at the injustice. “They know what they've read and they know I'm not one of them. I'm familiar with the routine, Sheriff. I've been through other versions of it before. Let me tell you, sugar, these old gals have got nothing on the ladies of Atlanta. I'm just not holding up as well these days, that's all.”

  Dane looked at her, his curiosity stirring at the remembered pain in her eyes. For a minute he forgot that he didn't want to get to know the woman behind the infamous legend. “I can't imagine that you didn't fit in in Atlanta.”

  She arched a brow. “Why? Because I have a drawl? Well, it's the wrong drawl, and I've got the wrong bloodlines, and I was born in the wrong town. The only thing I did right was marry money and enough of it so that all those little blue-blooded belles had to put up with me and smile while they were at it. But then, that's one of the traits of a true southern belle—she can cut you right down to the bone all the while looking like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. I am here to say it, darlin', God didn't make a more vicious creature than an Atlanta Junior Leaguer with a mood on. Every minute I lived there I had the feeling they didn't figure I knew enough not to wear white shoes after Labor Day.”

  Dane steered the Bronco over to the curb across the street from Jolynn Nielsen's house and let the engine idle. “Why can't you wear white shoes after Labor Day?”

  Elizabeth laughed, the tension dissipating. “Honey, you will never make it into the Junior League.”

  It sounded to him like nobody should want to. The picture Elizabeth painted was of an enclave of bitches waiting with claws extended to pounce on the first person to pick up the wrong fork at dinner. He rolled his eyes. “I'm crushed.”

  “And I'm grateful.” She smiled at him softly and held his handkerchief out to him. “Thanks. See you at the press conference, cowboy.”

  He dropped the handkerchief in the litter basket that hung from a knob on his door, then shot her a parting look. “Please don't get into any more trouble,” he said tightly.

  She batted her lashes in innocence as she settled her purse strap on her shoulder and slid down out of the truck. “Trouble? Who? Me?”

  NINE

  CHRIST ALMIGHTY, SHE CAME RIGHT AT ME,” ELIZABETH said, dragging her T-shirt off over her head. “Came right at me looking like Tammy Faye Baker in a frenzy—all crazed and bug-eyed, with this big cone of ha
ir and makeup done like she got caught in an explosion at the cosmetics counter in Woolworth's. I never had anything like that happen in all my born days.”

  With a grimace of distaste Jolynn lifted the discarded shirt off her bed, gingerly pinching the neck band between thumb and forefinger, and dropped it to the floor.

  “I guess now I know how the Panhandle Rodeo Queen must have felt that time I caught her in bed with Bobby Lee and I took after him with the pellet gun we used to shoot rats with.” Elizabeth shivered, recalling again the wild look on Helen Jarvis's face as she'd launched that plate. “Shook me something terrible.”

  She went to her friend's closet and stood there in her jeans and bra, eyes scanning the array of blouses for something suitable for a news conference. The closet wasn't offering much. That Jolynn's wardrobe had suffered in the years since her divorce was readily apparent. There wasn't a suit or linen blouse to be had. Jo was partial to men's flannel shirts for winter and men's work shirts for summer. Uncomplicated, unflattering, the costumes seemed to suit Jolynn's general air of being downtrodden. Elizabeth made a mental note to drag her off on a shopping trip as soon as things settled down and they were making a little money. She dug to the back of the closet and plucked out an oversize imitation gold lamé blouse. It was a bit much for day wear, but it was better than a castoff from the friendly staff at Harley's Texaco.

  “This'll do.”

  Jolynn frowned. “Hey, that's my good Christmas blouse!”

  “I'll be careful.”

  “Burn a hole in it and we won't have to wait for lung cancer to do you in—I'll kill you myself.”

  “If we can sell enough newspapers between now and Christmas, I'll buy you two of the real thing as a bonus,” Elizabeth said, slipping the blouse on and starting on the fake rhinestone buttons. “Provided some crazed woman doesn't do me in first,” she added, shuddering again. Her fingers stilled on the third button, and she looked up at Jolynn, eyes full of confusion and traces of hurt. “I can't figure it, Jo. I only found the body, I didn't kill him. What'd I ever do to Helen Jarvis to make her throw a Jell-O fish at me?”