MADIGAN'S WIFE

by Linda Winstead Jones

  As hard as he tried to convince himself of that, he knew what he wanted from Grace was much more than her willing body. He wanted things to be the way they had once been, and that wasn’t going to happen. Not ever. She’d left before. If he got involved with her she’d leave again. Hell, he’d barely survived the first time.

  And she was right, dammit. They couldn’t have just sex without it becoming more. The emotions that flowed, unacknowledged, between them were intense and complicated. He didn’t want complicated, not from her, not from anyone.

  But Grace was his weakness. He wasn’t strong enough to push her away again and again. Not if she kept looking at him this way, not if she kept kissing him back when he lost control and went to her. She had to maintain the wall between them, she had to fight him tooth and nail. She had to understand that they had no future together. He knew just how to make sure she got that through her pretty head.

  “I’m taking the job in Mobile,” he said.

  Grace’s eyes got big, but she said nothing.

  Ray plowed forward, knowing what he had to do. “I’m going to call Stan tomorrow and let him know, but I’m also going to tell him that until this thing with you is taken care of I’m not available.”

  Her lips trembled, just a little. Her eyes went soft and vulnerable. Dammit, she wasn’t supposed to look hurt. Like his leaving was a betrayal, like he owed her something more.

  “Don’t stay for me,” she whispered. Unshed tears made her dark eyes sparkle dangerously. “I can … I can…”

  “You can do what?” he interrupted. “Hide? Run? Hire a full-time bodyguard?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “All three, maybe.”

  “No,” he insisted. “This is the way it’s going to be, Grace, and I don’t want any argument from you. We’re going to catch this guy. Until then, I’m going to watch over you like a hawk.” He nodded his head, left no room for argument. “Before this mess is over you’ll be so sick of me you’ll probably offer to buy me a bus ticket to Mobile.” He tried a smile but it was weak, more of an effort than he wanted to admit.

  “What if we never know who it is?” she asked softly. “What if you never find him?” He could see the fear in her face, fear of the never-ending nightmare of a killer waiting … patiently waiting…

  He wondered which she was more afraid of. Never catching the killer, or living indefinitely in this painful limbo, caught between the past and the future they didn’t have.

  “We’ll get him.”

  “And then you’re moving to Mobile to go into narcotics again. Undercover?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What if Stan can’t wait?”

  Knowing that he couldn’t have Grace, no matter how much he craved her, put a damper on the evening. Right now he just wanted her to go back to bed where he didn’t have to see her. Where he didn’t have to look her in the eye and pretend that he’d forgiven and forgotten the way she’d left.

  “He’ll wait,” Ray said, reaching for the laptop.

  *

  Chapter 7

  «^»

  Grace had tossed restlessly half the night. She’d dropped into bed disheartened and exhausted, but for what seemed like an interminably long time her mind refused to be still. When she had finally fallen asleep she’d had the dreams, the nightmares she thought she’d finally gotten rid of. In her nightmares, Ray was dead and there was nothing she could do to save him.

  She woke weary, unrested but unable to go back to sleep. Ray was going back to undercover work, would probably already be on his way to Mobile if not for the murder she’d witnessed and the fact that when she ran from trouble she ran to him.

  It was too early to be up and about on a Sunday, but she rolled out of bed, dressed in figure-concealing sweats, and combed her hair with her fingers. Coffee, about two pots, would make her feel better. Maybe.

  Ray was sprawled on the couch, his body too long for the makeshift bed, an arm thrown over his eyes to cut off the morning light that shot through the part in her living room curtains. And still he slept, dead to the world and apparently without a care.

  Grace started the coffee. While the coffeemaker coughed and sputtered, she stepped outside to collect the Sunday paper from her front walk, then quickly reentered the house and locked the door behind her, her gaze landing on Ray as he opened his eyes.

  “Dammit, don’t go outside by yourself,” he said gruffly, still more asleep than awake.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No.” He closed his eyes again. “I never kid with you, Gracie.”

  If she had any doubts about falling in love with Ray again, his determination to go to Mobile killed them all. She couldn’t afford to give in, no matter how tempting surrender would be.

  He’d been working undercover the second time he’d been shot. Luther had shown up at her door in the middle of the night and she’d known before he said a word, she’d known, that Ray had been hurt again. Just like the first time, she’d imagined the worst as Luther drove her to the hospital. Just like the first time, she’d arrived to find him wounded and doped up but still the same old Ray. Smiling. Laughing. Holding her hand and telling her everything would be all right as she’d perched on the edge of his hospital bed and cried.

  Someone had made him, that time, and all hell had broken loose, the way he told it. He’d caught a bullet in the leg, but was pretty lucky, all things considered.

  All things considered.

  She’d died a little that night, deep inside in a place that didn’t heal easily. The fear had stolen part of her youth, her hopes, her innocence. She’d never been able to make Ray understand that.

  Grace unfolded the paper to see the murder victim’s picture on page one. Carter Lanford looked surprisingly different in the posed photograph; alive, unafraid, handsome in a cultured kind of way. She turned the paper over to take a glimpse at the bottom fold, and found herself staring at a familiar face.

  “Ray,” she said softly, then louder, when he didn’t respond. “Ray!”

  He opened one eye, rolled up, and ran sleepy fingers through his hair. Anyone, everyone, should look disgusting waking up, but not Ray. He looked like a man should in the morning, a little coarse but still appealing. Invitingly warm and deceptively innocent. Long and rough, tall and solid. Somehow mussed hair and stubbled chin were attractive on Ray. Oh, she was such a putz!

  “Do you have any idea what time I got to sleep last night? This morning, actually,” he grumbled.

  “I know her.” She held the paper up, grasping it with both hands and thrusting it forward so he could see the bottom half of the front page. “The widow. We’re in the same exercise class.”

  “You know her?” He was instantly awake.

  “Not let’s-have-lunch know her, but say-hi-in-the-locker-room know her. Yeah.”

  She didn’t really enjoy putting a familiar face to the not-so-distraught widow Lanford. It made her queasy. Louise Lanford, the paper said. Grace couldn’t remember ever exchanging anything more personal than first names, usually just commiserating over a tough class now and then. Louise was a few years older than she, but not many. Late thirties, she imagined.

  “What are the odds?”

  Grace shrugged her shoulders. “Huntsville’s not that big a town. I see the same people all the time, in the grocery store, in class, on the road, in the office. Is it really such a stretch that I’d know her?”

  “Not really.” She had finally grabbed his interest. “What’s she like?”

  She tossed Ray the paper and plopped down in her chair, thinking. Pondering. “She strikes me as being tough. One of the steel magnolias you hear about. A real lady on the outside, hard as nails on the inside.”

  “Interesting. Do you think she’s tough enough to commit murder?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” Grace tried to remember the words they’d exchanged, the woman’s attitude and facial expressions. “She’s very confident. False smile. Calculating eyes. Let’s put it lik
e this. I wouldn’t want to get in her way.”

  She had Ray’s full attention. He didn’t look sleepy anymore. “Did she ever talk about her marriage?”

  Grace shook her head. “No, we talked about crunches and heart rates and body aches, not personal stuff.” Not that she had any personal stuff to talk about, these days.

  Ray glanced over the article, then lifted his head and stared at her. “Wait a minute. Exercise class? You run four or five days a week and you go to exercise class, too?”

  “Yes,” she said, lifting her chin a little and trying not to sound defensive.

  “Why?”

  Gotta do something. “What difference does it make? I like to exercise. It makes me feel good.”

  She expected a quip about new and improved methods of exercising and feeling good, along with a friendly wink, but she got neither. She didn’t even get a heart-stopping promise-filled grin.

  “Whatever turns your crank,” he muttered, returning his attention to the newspaper.

  *

  A Sunday afternoon drive was pleasant enough, with Grace beside him and the sun shining bright.

  She’d taken a long shower and emerged with her hair twisted up and a touch of makeup on her flawless face. Her navy blue pants were creased and conservative, and the pale blue lightweight sweater she wore was just a little baggy. Except when she moved just so and unknown to Grace her fine shape was momentarily revealed.

  “I could’ve stayed home,” she said, not for the first time.

  “She might be more inclined to talk with a woman there,” he said, not willing to tell Grace that he wasn’t ready to leave her home alone. Not yet. “You know, do the girl thing and give her a hug and listen while she spills her guts.”

  “That’s so cold,” she admonished.

  “Welcome to my world,” he muttered.

  The Internet was a fine place to start, but for a murder investigation it was definitely inadequate. Ray had spent the morning on the phone, talking to people who knew Lanford. Luther would have his hide if … when he found out, but that certainty hadn’t bothered Ray for any longer than it took to punch seven numbers into the telephone.

  He had to find out who murdered Carter Lanford, put the guy Grace had seen in jail, and get the hell outta Dodge.

  You just couldn’t find info like this on the Net. Carter Lanford was, to all outward appearances, a decent man. He was not only on the board of the Children’s Hospital Charity, he’d founded the charity along with a doctor friend. He was generous with his money, contributing to several other charities and schools as well. Look at the public man and you saw only what the man wanted to be seen. You had to talk to people who knew him to get the dirt.

  By all accounts Lanford hadn’t been exactly charitable at work. The guy was a shark. Maybe that’s what it took to make it big in business, but it was no way to make friends. It was a great way to make enemies.

  Heather Farmer, Lanford’s secretary, had been Ray’s last phone call this morning. He hadn’t gotten much out of the conversation, but he’d sensed potential there. Heather had been so distraught she could hardly speak over the phone. When Ray had suggested a face-to-face meeting, she’d quickly agreed. Anything to catch the man who’d killed her boss, she said.

  The secretary was more distressed by the murder than the widow. Did that mean anything?

  “You’ll have to let me buy you lunch,” Grace said, staring out the window. “To celebrate.”

  “To celebrate what?” he asked, his eyes on the road.

  She turned her head to look at him and smile. “Your birthday. Don’t tell me you forgot your own birthday.”

  “No. I was just kinda hoping everyone else had.”

  “Thirty-four’s not so old,” she teased. “You’re not quite ready for a walker and a bad toupee.”

  “See?” he said, taking one hand from the wheel to shake a censuring finger at her. “This is why I’d just as soon you’d forgotten.”

  She ignored him. “I was going to get you one of those sporty car hats, the kind little old men wear when they drive, but I just didn’t have time to get to the department store. I’ll pick one up this week. Promise.”

  “Very funny,” he muttered.

  “Houndstooth, I think,” she mused.

  “You’re merciless.”

  “Or would you prefer a solid lemony yellow? You know, something people will see from miles away.”

  “Don’t make me pull this car over,” he warned.

  An awkward silence filled the air where seconds earlier there had been joy and lighthearted teasing.

  In years past Grace had teased him more than once to the point where he’d threatened to pull the car over. And he had, a couple of times, pulled off a country road or into a quiet park. And things had gotten … hot. That had happened long ago, though. It wasn’t going to happen again. Dammit.

  Fortunately he saw his turn ahead, and moments later they were driving down a peaceful residential street, looking at the numbers on the mailboxes.

  “She makes good money, for a secretary,” Grace said, studying the tall brick houses that lined the curving street. “You said she was single, right?”

  “Yep.”

  Ray pulled into a circular driveway. This was one of the nicest houses on an upscale street Yellow brick, wide double doors, professional landscaping. Heather Farmer was twenty-seven years old, had gone to college but hadn’t finished, and had been working for Lanford for three years. Lanford was a savvy businessman; he did not overpay his employees.

  “Wow,” Grace said as she stepped from the car. “I shoulda been a secretary.”

  Heather answered his knock quickly, as if she’d been waiting and watching for them. She had short cinnamon hair and a strikingly pretty face, and she was dressed for a quiet Sunday at home, in pastel plaid flannel pants and a pale yellow cotton blouse. Her green eyes were red and swollen from crying. At least someone was mourning poor Lanford.

  “Miss Farmer, I’m Ray Madigan. We spoke on the phone.”

  Her eyes swept past him to Grace.

  “This is my wife, Grace.”

  “Ex-wife,” Grace corrected in a low voice.

  “You said you were an investigator,” she said suspiciously. “Cops don’t take their wives along when they work. Who are you?”

  “Ex-wife,” Grace muttered.

  Ray ignored her, as he reached into his back pocket for his ID. “I’m a private investigator.” He offered his ID and Heather studied it carefully.

  “I don’t know if I should be talking to you…”

  She shouldn’t be, he knew that. Luther wouldn’t like this, not at all. “The police haven’t spoken to you yet?”

  She shook her head.

  Luther would probably be by bright and early in the morning. Boy, would he be pissed when he found out Ray had beaten him to the punch.

  “They will,” he said. “I’m just trying to gather what information I can about the murder. If I find anything of importance I’ll turn it over to the police immediately.” It was clear that Heather wanted to talk, she wanted to vent and grieve and cry. Maybe she was tired of crying alone.

  “Well, I guess it won’t hurt anything to talk to you,” she said, stepping back and opening the front door wide.

  The interior of her house was as classy as the exterior. The furnishings were simple and expensive, classic and elegant. She used lots of white in her home, accented with pale pastels and gilt-framed artwork. The real thing, to Ray’s eyes. Two oil paintings and a piece of alabaster sculpture were placed near the front door, a first-class welcome.

  “You and Mr. Lanford were close,” Ray said as Heather led them into the cream-and-white living room.

  She nodded her head and sniffled as she curled up in a fat chair and motioned to the couch.

  “I know who killed him,” she said softly. “It was that witch he was married to.”

  Grace lowered herself to the couch and he sat beside her. Well, Miss Farmer di
dn’t believe in wasting time, that’s for sure.

  “What makes you say that?” he asked.

  She laid wide, teary eyes on him. “I just know,” she whispered. “In my heart I know she killed him.”

  “If you’re right, she didn’t work alone,” he said. “A man was seen with Mr. Lanford at the time of his death.” He didn’t want to point Grace out as a witness. The less people who knew of her involvement, the better.

  “If she didn’t do it herself she had someone do it for her.” Heather sniffled and brought a tissue to her weeping eyes. “Did she tell you that Carter wanted a divorce?” she snapped, her eyes turning hard. “That she’s been sneaking around behind his back for years? She did it and she had help. You tell the police that.”

  Looking at the grieving secretary, Ray had a suspicion that Mrs. Lanford had not been the only one sneaking around. “I’ll make sure they know.”

  “He’d asked her for a divorce, but she was being difficult. She didn’t want to give him up.” Heather angrily wiped away a tear. “What she didn’t want to give up was his money. She didn’t love him.”

  “Not like you did,” Grace said gently.

  Heather pinned her eyes on Grace, and her whole face changed. It softened and fell. “I did love Carter, and he loved me. We were going to be married as soon as he got rid of that wife of his. She was a horrid woman,” she said venomously. “Hateful and vindictive. She didn’t want Carter to be happy.”

  “That’s very sad for you both.” Grace leaned forward toward Heather. The move appeared to be intimate and comforting.

  Damn, she was good at this. Sympathetic and trustworthy and appealing, in a down-to-earth kind of way. If she ever decided to leave Dr. Doolittle he’d give her a job in a minute.

  Except he was moving to Mobile, Ray remembered with an unpleasant jolt.

  He nodded, trying to shake off his personal thoughts and return to the matter at hand. “You said Mrs. Lanford was fooling around. Do you have a name? Names?” It was too much to ask for.

  “You bet I do,” she said, with more than a touch of her own vindictiveness. “There were two of them, one new lover and an old flame who kept coming back. And I can do much better than provide a couple of names. They’ll both be at the Charity Ball on Friday. I can point them out to you. Introduce you. I hope you find out which one of them was involved in Carter’s murder and the courts send him and Louise to the electric chair for what they’ve done.”