“So Delie is in line to get his money too?” he asked as the dots connected. “Maybe that accounts for her interest in me. If she thinks we are…together. Maybe she hopes I’ll be on her side.”
“Maybe. She certainly isn’t happy about sharing anything with me. If you think she’s a piece of work, wait until you meet Dolores. Well, enough of my history. What about you?”
“Oh, my life isn’t so interesting. I had a good childhood. No such thing as a perfect one, but mine was close. My parents have been married forever and are still happy. The day I told my parents I wanted to be a writer was the day I think I let them down. It was one of those ‘Writer? Don’t you pronounce that doctor?’ moments. I was smart, but I was never going to cure cancer. So maybe, like Conrad, I hoped to probe the human heart instead of doing surgery on it. I had some setbacks, but eventually I had the time and the money from working some odd jobs. So I bummed around Europe and saw the pyramids and the Taj Mahal and came up with plots and wrote them down. Amazingly, they sold. But then I met you, and all other thoughts have left my brain.”
“It’s late. I need to go.”
He nodded, not wanting to break the spell.
They were quiet, obviously lost in their own thoughts, as they dressed. Kennedy led the way out of the grotto and across the field holding his hand.
* * *
Wylie woke the next morning with a new determination to explore the story that was Kennedy and her family. He pulled out his laptop earlier and started at the beginning, when his car broke down. The story took shape under his fingers. Sometimes it was so easy to put the words on paper. That is, if you discounted the miles you had to crawl on broken glass to get there.
He had decided to stop and go out for something to eat when someone knocked on the door. He opened it to see a man in uniform standing impatiently. Wylie stifled his grin looking the man up and down. He was perfectly cast as the small-town sheriff. He was tall and broad, in his early fifties, clean-shaven except for the thick black mustache that graced his upper lip. His eyes were blue and direct with no artifice.
“Yes, can I help you?” Wylie asked.
“I’m Sheriff Miller. Can I come in?”
Wylie stepped aside to admit the sheriff and closed the door. He held out his hand to shake. “Wylie Nichols.”
The sheriff ignored Wylie’s outstretched hand, and Wylie wondered if anyone in this town shook hands. “Yes, I know who you are. I have a few questions.”
“OK. Questions about what?”
Before the sheriff could respond, there was another knock. The door slammed open before Wylie could answer it. Kennedy flew into the room. “Don’t say anything,” she said to Wylie. Then she addressed Miller. “He’s not going to talk to you until I call Roger.”
“Who’s Roger?” Wylie asked.
“There’s no need for that…yet,” Miller said to Kennedy.
“Yet?” she fairly screeched. “Just how long do you propose we wait?” This last was dripping with sarcasm.
“Kennedy, you need to mind your own business. I just want to ask him some questions, is all.”
“Sure, I’ll bet.”
“Kennedy, you need to calm down. I’ve never been mean to you or mistreated you. You have no call to be nasty. He’s a stranger, and I hear he was seen walking toward the grotto last night.”
“What is going on?” Wylie asked neither one in particular. Then to Kennedy, “Who is Roger?”
“A lawyer,” she answered.
“Why would I need a lawyer?” Wylie was totally baffled.
Kennedy looked askance at him, as if he were a not very bright child. “Delie.”
“What about her?”
“Dead,” Kennedy answered.
“What!”
Kennedy confronted Miller. “See. He had no idea. Why are you even here?”
“Kennedy, the whole town knows. So there’s no use in playing dumb.” This last was directed at Wylie. “And I know all about that temper of yours.”
“Would somebody please tell me what is going on? Slowly. In one-syllable words so I can understand,” Wylie said.
“They found Delie’s body early this morning. By the grotto,” Kennedy responded.
“Our grotto?” Wylie asked.
“Our grotto?” Miller repeated.
“What I mean is…Kennedy showed it to me.”
“When was that?” Miller asked.
“Last night. But Delie wasn’t there. Not when we were, that’s for sure,” Wylie said.
“Did you go there together?” Miller asked.
“No, we met there,” Kennedy answered for him. “See. For all you know, maybe I was the one who killed her.”
“You’re not helping,” Miller cautioned her.
“I’m not going to kid you, Nichols. Things are not in your favor. You were seen fighting with Delie the other day, you were at the murder scene, and practically everyone in town witnessed your display of anger at Norma’s the other day. I’d like you to come to my office.”
Wylie hesitated, and the sheriff continued. “We can do this easy, or we can do this hard. Up to you.”
“Let’s go, Sheriff.
Before he could move, Kennedy grabbed his arm. “Wait until I can call Roger.”
Wylie patted her hand. “No need to call anyone. I didn’t do anything. I’ll be back soon, and we can go out to dinner, OK?”
Kennedy aimed a pleading look at Miller. “He didn’t do it.”
“Kennedy, I’m not saying he did. All I’m saying is I want to ask him a few questions. And he’s right; he should be back in time for supper.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Kennedy was sitting on the sofa in her tiny house, lost in thought. Two murders, so close together. First PJ’s, just weeks ago, now Delie’s. It was like some bad horror movie where the people started dropping like flies. Mama was in the back, resting. Delie’s death had affected her probably more than it should have, but Mama had agreed that Delie was shortchanged too. Now for her life to come to such a terrible and abrupt end was devastating.
Kennedy had avoided PJ’s funeral because she chose not to deal with the abuse that would be heaped on her from her half-sisters and Ruby. Her mama had gone even though Kennedy tried to talk her out of it. And Martha was sorry. She had just wanted to be able to say good-bye to the only man she ever loved, but the three witches—as Kennedy thought of them—had tormented her. Her mama had cried for days. But her mama was also the forgiving kind and couldn’t hold a grudge. Kennedy was almost grateful she didn’t share that quality. After all, righteous anger was its own reward. It kept vulnerability at bay. If you held people at arm’s length, they couldn’t hurt you. Especially if you knew their intentions.
So what was up with this man, Wylie? He was breaking every barrier she had spent her whole life building. It was unnerving, scary, and exhilarating all at the same time. She realized when he made love to her, he actually made love to her. The thought touched her in the deepest part of her being.
Kennedy was startled out her reverie by a tap on the door. She got up, and, hesitating, knowing it wouldn’t be opportunity knocking, she opened the door. Dolores stood there, head down, her hands linked in front of her. Kennedy was unexpectedly overwhelmed with pity for this woman. Telltale trails of mascara stained Dolores’s cheeks, and her eyes were puffy and red rimmed.
“Dolores, I am truly sorry,” Kennedy said.
Dolores looked her directly in the eye. So many emotions.
“The funeral’s in two days. I have to wait for them to do an autopsy. The idea just makes me sick. Why do they have to cut her up like that? It’s horrible.”
“Please, come inside.” Kennedy stepped back and ushered Dolores to the couch. “Is there anything I can do?”
Dolores burst into tears. “My poor baby sister.”
“I know,” Kennedy commiserated. “First PJ and now Delie…” She wasn’t prepared for the onslaught of rage from the other woman.
“
How can you mention them in the same breath? He was a no good gambler and a drunk. Just ’cause he got rich doesn’t make him worth a shit.”
“He was your daddy.” Kennedy’s voice was soft.
“Freddie is more of a daddy to me than PJ.” Kennedy stiffened at the mention of Freddie’s name. “Freddie is ten times the man PJ ever was. You just hate Freddie since he didn’t fuss over you. Why should he? He wasn’t interested in you.”
“You’d be surprised,” Kennedy whispered under her breath.
“You’re just jealous because Freddie didn’t want you. He wasn’t your daddy. You never had a real daddy, because no one would ever marry your mama.”
“Dolores.” Kennedy was trying desperately to be patient and charitable, but it was running thin.
“I came to tell you not to come to Delie’s funeral either. We don’t want you there.”
Kennedy laughed humorlessly. “If you are thinking that hurts my feelings, think again.”
“Who cares about your feelings? We all know you and your boyfriend cooked this up to get more of PJ’s inheritance. Well, it won’t work. You can’t inherit if you’re in jail for Delie’s murder.”
“What are you saying? Where did you get this idea?” Kennedy was totally thrown off guard.
“Everyone knows, Kennedy. You’re not going to get away with it. I’m just saying—”
“You need to leave. I am sorry about Delie, but you need to go. Now!”
Dolores stood up and moved to the front door. “Come to think of it, maybe you should come to the funeral. That would show everyone what brazen trash you truly are.”
Kennedy was close to shouting now. “Go. Get out of my house.”
Then Dolores was gone.
Kennedy stumbled back to the sofa. Was it possible everyone really thought she and Wylie were responsible for Delie’s death? How was that possible? There was no reason. No proof. She was already getting the lion’s share of PJ’s estate. She certainly didn’t need to kill for more.
Suddenly, she was afraid to the depths of her bones. Tears sprang to her eyes and burned down her cheeks, hot with frustration.
Martha walked into the living room and sat down on the couch next to her daughter.
“Did I just hear Dolores’s voice?”
Kennedy fell into her mother’s arms as her body was racked with sobs.
After a time, Kennedy calmed. “Oh, Mama…”
“This isn’t just about Delie, is it?”
“No. Or PJ either. It’s just all of it. Miller has taken Wylie in for questioning.”
Martha didn’t need to ask who Wylie was. Everyone in this town knew everything. She stroked Kennedy’s soft hair and whispered comfort to her. Even though phrases like “It will be all right” and “It’s OK” and “Just cry it out” were necessary and appropriate, they didn’t help. Kennedy wanted answers for all that was going on and, more than anything, wanted Wylie to be safe. She hadn’t thought she would ever trust a man or actually care for one like this, but she had to admit it had crept up on her in a very short time. It was another complication her already complicated life didn’t need right now, but that’s what happened sometimes. What was the expression? “Life happens when we’ve made other plans.” Damn it.
* * *
The afternoon came and went. The sheriff’s office was just as Wylie expected. The walls had probably once been a shade of green but long ago mingled with so much dust they gave up any true claim to color. To the right of the door stood a large wooden desk covered with papers and an obviously out-of-date computer. The left side boasted two jail cells, currently ready to hold the town drunk or any other miscreants who disturbed the peace. Wylie imagined murder was an unusual occurrence, to say the least.
Wylie sat in front of the desk, a Styrofoam coffee cup in front of him, tapping a pencil against the scarred wooden surface.
Miller was pacing, deep in thought. “It makes no sense.” Miller stated this tiredly, and then he looked up as if hoping for divine intervention.
“Which part?” Wylie tried to control the sarcasm in his tone.
“Don’t be a smartass,” Miller said.
“I don’t understand why I’m here.”
“You’re here because…you’re a person of interest. Delie is dead, and so is PJ, and you’re a stranger and have a record. So I brought you here to ask you some questions.”
“Sheriff, I am not trying to be a smartass, but do I need to remind you I wasn’t even here when PJ died.”
“I know that. But just maybe you and Kennedy were in cahoots and planned it all ahead of time.”
“And maybe the moon is made of cream cheese. Just as likely.”
“Look, you have priors. What about that?” Miller asked.
“We’ve been through this already. The only weapon I ever used was my fists.”
“Yeah, well, you used ’em enough to kill a guy. Enough to have seen the inside of a prison. Maybe you made friends.”
Wylie acted as if he was about to protest, but Miller held up his hand. “What about the incident at the diner? Heard you assaulted Weir. Why would that be?”
“The guy at the diner was saying things about a lady. Things I never even heard in prison. For the record, the guy I killed was trying to rape my sixteen-year-old cousin.”
“Seems like you have a hell of a temper though.”
“Seems like I have a hell of a sense of honor,” Wylie spit back. “I served my time, and I’d do it again.”
“What about the money?” At Wylie’s look of confusion, Miller went on. “Now don’t act like you don’t know that Kennedy’s going to come into some money.”
Wylie laughed. “Yes, I know. She told me. Do I look like I need her money to support my lavish lifestyle?”
Miller looked at him as if puzzled by something. “You know, in spite of all this, I like you. I just can’t figure out why.” Miller shook his head in resignation. “Go. But…don’t leave town.”
“Really?” Wylie laughed. “No, I won’t, Sheriff. Besides, the guy at the garage is holding my baby hostage.”
“Baby?” Miller was confused.
“My car. A '68 Camaro.”
Miller chuckled. “Oh yeah. I heard. Yep, that’s a baby, all right.”
Kennedy was waiting outside the sheriff’s office, leaning against a pole and tapping a sneaker-clad foot. When Wylie appeared, she launched herself at him and threw her arms around his neck. “I was so worried,” she whispered against his ear.
“Why? I’m innocent.”
“Since when has that stopped the long arm of the law from reaching out?”
Wylie kissed her on the lips and then pulled back. “I have to tell you some things about me, about my past. I don’t blame the sheriff for wanting to talk to me.”
“Let’s go back to your room.”
“Not until I get some food. I’m starving.”
Kennedy smiled. “Yeah, I guess I am too. There’s that little grocery down the street that makes pizza. We could get one to go.”
* * *
The shabby motel room seemed like a haven. Kennedy had tried to get Wylie to talk to her, but he put her off until he had eaten most of the pie and washed it down with some Jack.
Finally sated, he sat back and patted his stomach. “Well, it certainly wasn’t the best I ever ate, but as hungry as I was—”
“OK,” Kennedy said, impatience in her tone. “Talk to me.”
Wylie considered retorting with some flip comment, but thought better of it when he looked into her eyes. This wasn’t the time to tease. “It was ten years ago. I was going out with my buddies. My sixteen-year-old cousin, Mandy, wanted to tag along. We went to the movies. We had decided to get something to eat when a boy from the high school in the next town showed up. I guess he knew Mandy somehow, and she clearly liked him. She said she wanted to hang out with him instead of getting food, so they went off together.” Wylie stopped, the memories tearing at him. He swallowed, took a deep breat
h, and continued.
“Later, when it was time to go, I went looking for her. I heard some noise from the park across from the restaurant, and when I got there, he had her pinned on the ground. He was trying to get her panties off. She was crying and struggling.” Wylie swallowed hard in memory.
“I told him to get off her. He said she was a cock teaser and wanted it, and I should just go. I warned him to stop, but he ignored me. So I pulled him off her and beat the shit out of him. He fell back against a rock and hit his head. He died. I didn’t mean to kill him. It was an accident. I just wanted him to stop hurting her. They charged me with manslaughter, and I served eighteen months.”
“I am so sorry,” Kennedy said when he finished.
“Don’t be. I’m not. I’d do it again. I mean, I didn’t mean to kill him, but any guy who would rape a sixteen-year-old deserves to have the shit beat out of him.”
“Thanks for telling me.” With that Kennedy rose from the chair. She wrapped her arms around his neck, which brought her breasts level with his mouth. It was an invitation he couldn’t resist. No doubt, she was the woman who had finally touched his heart. For the first time, he was truly, madly, and deeply in love. It was a revelation, and he intended to savor every moment.
He opened the buttons of her blouse, one by one. When her bra was fully exposed, he reached around and put his hands on her waist, pulling her closer. He trailed hot, wet kisses on the rise of her left breast and then ran his tongue inside her bra until it could tease the now-taut nipple. She groaned with pleasure. He moved to the right breast and again ran his tongue inside the restricting lace and pulled her hard nipple into his mouth. His hands worked. Her skirt, seemingly of its own volition, dropped to the floor. His mouth was on hers, exploring the sweetness of her with his tongue. They kissed passionately, deeply, the demand clear.
Texas Summer Page 7
