"Sure, I'm just tired. And you?" What I really wanted to do was snuggle up against someone—he would do very well—shut my eyes, and forget about the world for a few minutes. Everything about him was safe. Warm. Made to make a woman feel protected.
Thankfully, I had more sense than that. He was different. It would be stupid to let my control slip even a little. And if I had been feeling weak, a conversation about David Ford had helped to reapply the shell.
"I'm fine. Have you told your family yet?" He gestured to the phone. I handed it back. "Yeah, just a minute ago. I guess that my mother knew she was sick. At first, she thought she had died from it."
"It's a shame you had to tell her the truth."
I grunted indelicately, deciding not to grace him with my mother's sage remarks. "What about you? Did you get your calls made?"
He handed me the paper he'd been holding in his left hand. "I got them from Jamie, Penny's lawyer."
It was the addresses and phone numbers of Dennis Strinton, Kathleen Audbergen, and Lloyd Granger. Dennis and Lloyd indeed lived in Lubbock, and Kathleen lived in Santa Fe, New Mexico.
"So, do you have any deep insights?"
The corners of his lips turned down, going against the grain of his faint wrinkles, consistent with a man who'd spent a lot of years smiling. "I don't have anything at all. I don't even have any shallow insights."
I laughed, despite the fact that the situation wasn't actually funny. "I always have shallow insights about something."
"Well then, what have you got?"
We spent hours discussing what we'd learned, what we didn't yet know, and what it could all mean. It seemed apparent that the same person had killed both Norma Jean and Penny, but it also seemed like a lot to assume. It was a lot to assume that someone who was old enough to have committed murder in 1969 would still be alive and well enough to do it again in 2015. And it defied logic that they would want to.
Clearly, the person hadn't known that Penny was ill or hadn't felt they could wait that long. The only motive we could figure for Penny's death was to keep her from coming forward with what she knew about Norma Jean's. Then again, even if the original murderer was still alive and killing, what could he have to lose in his seventies or eighties that would be worth murdering for again?
I couldn't imagine that living out your final years at a minimum-security prison could be any worse than living it out at a nursing home, where living the high life meant getting changed twice a day. So, what was this person protecting that was so important to them?
After dinner and dishes, we talked about it more. Aodhagan and I went into his den with a bowl of popcorn and a seemingly endless supply of unanswerable questions. "All we have to do is figure out why Norma Jean was killed, and I believe we'll figure out who killed Penny."
I organized my notes into a pile. As a writer, I was a compulsive note taker. "You know, I've just been thinking. The people we talked to were all Norma Jean's contemporaries, people she went to school with. And they all seemed to believe that she was killed because she taunted the wrong person.
"They are obviously operating under the assumption that the killer was someone else they went to school with. Whereas I was operating under the mistaken impression that all killers are adults. It would make more sense to kill again if they were younger than we had assumed. Maybe even as young as Penny."
"We really have to get something out of these old friends of hers. If Penny knew enough to push someone to such extremes, then surely they have to know at least a little something."
In my head, I could hear the part that he hadn't voiced. If Penny's middle-aged cronies told us nothing, that would be exactly what we had, nothing. Instead of dwelling on all we didn't know, we made plans for the morning and headed up to bed.
In the morning I awoke early, before my alarm went off. I dressed and padded down to the other end of the hall where the French doors led out onto the balcony. There was no trace of Aodhagan. Like every morning, he seemed to have disappeared.
I tried the handle on the door to my right, just to see something that I hadn't seen, dismissing Aodhagan's warning to stay out of his other rooms. I opened the door across from mine to discover Aodhagan's bedroom. All of the furniture was dark sumptuous cherrywood, including the giant-sized, four-poster bed against the center of the wall. Of course, it was neatly made.
On the bedside table, he had two books. One of my earlier works about an axe murder in 1913 Ohio that hadn't even been opened and an antique leather-bound volume of Robert Burns's poems.
The room smelled like Aodhagan, and through the closet door I could see some of his clothes, but the room might otherwise have been unoccupied. I paused, running my fingers against the velvet curtains and pulling in the scent of him through my nose with slow, deep breaths. Though I was sure I would find some personal effects behind the closed bathroom door, I had a sudden epiphany. Although Aodhagan had lived in this house for two years and, if he was to be believed, planned to live here for years to come, he didn't actually live here.
He hadn't changed anything from the state he'd bought the house in, because he didn't actually want to occupy it. He might have even been doing a fairly good job of pretending that maybe he would get to leave soon. It was the same delusion I'd been operating under since I'd rolled into town. It was probably the only open rebellion his private, peace-loving soul could manage and only then because it didn't hurt anyone except for him.
He'd lied when he'd said he didn't enjoy living in Birdwell. He hated it. Probably every day.
He had his little room behind the stairs, because everybody had to have someplace, but I had no doubt that the rest of his things from his previous life were up in the attic, or in the basement, waiting for the day he was able to accept that he was back in Birdwell for good.
Blinding anger suddenly stabbed at me. Anger at his mother who, like mine, had forced him into something he didn't want to do when, unlike me, he was clearly destined for bigger and better things. I couldn't blame the woman entirely, since Aodhagan had admitted that although his mother had summoned him, it was his conscience that made him stay. I just hoped that he was here for a really good reason.
I left the room, shutting the door behind me. I could only imagine the horror of being trapped in Birdwell forever, when I was itching to get out after being trapped here five days. I was nearly down the stairs when Aodhagan came in the front door clad in gray sweatpants and a blue T-shirt with JHU printed on the front. He'd obviously been exercising. He seemed surprised to see me. "You're up early."
I shrugged. "I couldn't sleep." I shifted uncomfortably, and I realized my opinion of him had altered just slightly, and like with Dooley yesterday, I felt a new understanding and respect for him.
I also felt a queasy sort of thrill at how incredibly sexy he looked, all flushed and sweaty. An increased respect for him and an increased pulse rate for me could only lead to disaster. I made some muffled excuse about something that I needed to get from my car and fled out of the house into the morning air.
In a few minutes, the crispness of the day and the fact I had no shoes on and was standing on some very cold and hard gravel brought me completely back to my senses. Even if he wanted nothing to do with me on a personal level, Aodhagan MacFarley was bad news.
I needed to see to my aunt's burial, solve her murder, and get out of town, before I decided that men were a good idea again. And yet, deep inside, I knew that the real threat to my resolve was kind, clever, dimpled Aodhagan living in his hated, perfect house. I should have stayed in New York. It was safer there.
"Hey, Helen." This time I stifled my scream before I had a repeat of Saturday morning. I turned to face Junior Hudley, who was beaming at me. "What are you doing out here with no shoes on?"
"I have no idea," I admitted.
He furrowed his brow in concern. "Well, you better get on in, there's a storm coming our way and fast." He opened Aodhagan's door without knocking and ushered me in. My feet, now on
normal surfaces, were giving me a piece of their mind, and I longed to put on a pair of socks. Unfortunately, Junior just kept right on talking. "It's the first storm in weeks, and Marian and me gotta go to Lubbock today."
I had a fabulous idea. If Marian saw the man from the library again, surely she would recognize him. If either Dennis Strinton or Lloyd Granger were the man, maybe she would be able to tell us.
"I gotta couple of houses to list in the tri-county directory." I had no idea what he was talking about, until I remembered someone saying he was a real estate agent. "You look real pretty today, Helen. Those are nice pants."
I looked at my Escada trousers like I hadn't picked them myself. "Thanks, they cost me about six hundred dollars."
As planned, I had finally stunned him into silence, and I hoped there were soon to be socks in my future, when Aodhagan came down the stairs. His thick black hair was still wet and ruffled, and he smelled vaguely of soap.
"Morning, Junior, you need something?"
"Sure thing, Aodhagan. I gotta list Bee Franklin's house today in the tri-county directory, and she told me you picked up her papers for me last time you were in town."
"I did. Are you headed into Lubbock then?"
"With Marian." At their identical puzzled expressions, I decided to spell it out. "I thought maybe we could let her peek at Dennis and Lloyd. You know, to see if they look anything like Garth Brooks."
"Oh." Awareness lit up Aodhagan's eyes. "Good idea. Junior, how about you and Marian meet us for lunch at Clive Custer's, and I'd like Marian to go on a little errand with us."
Junior looked doubtful. "Well, okay. As long as she don't care."
Junior and Aodhagan solidified their plans, and he was on his way. A short time later, despite a violent change in the weather and a giant dose of doubt, so were we.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Since we didn't want Marian to be seen by either man, we decided to visit them first and bring her back to look at them after lunch. By the time we'd made it off the farm road and back on to old familiar Highway 84, a direct shot to Lubbock, the heavy clouds produced rain in violent torrents.
Aodhagan didn't seem to mind, but I'd begun to realize that even if he hated every minute of it, I would probably never know. Tuesday morning traffic was light. We continued on the highway until we had looped halfway around the city. Although it was not Manhattan, it looked fairly cosmopolitan.
"Do you come here a lot?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Sometimes. Sometimes there's no other place to get the things we need."
"I guess I'd just want to…you know, get out of town." I regretted the words the moment they slipped out, considering how just an hour or two ago I had realized the depth of his desire to get permanently out of town.
"Well, that's the truth. I would go completely crazy if I didn't travel so much. I leave town at least once or twice a month."
"To where?"
"Oh, anywhere. DC, Boston, New York, Chicago."
"What for?"
"Conferences, mostly."
"Conferences for what?" I pressed. This was like pulling teeth and not romantic like his parents' dental love story.
He shrugged again, looking uncomfortable. "Actually, I'm a…"
I really would have liked to hear what he was going to say, but at just that moment a truck, a dark F-250 with heavily tinted windows, went out of control and slammed into us from the side.
Aodhagan struggled to keep the Land Rover from hydroplaning. He wasn't entirely successful, and we slid back toward the other car that, instead of slowing down, seemed to be attempting to stay completely parallel with us. As soon as Aodhagan righted us, making a fairly impressive save, the truck came at us again, ramming us harder this time. I was stunned by the hit and almost as much by the fact this was no accident caused by bad weather and reckless driving. This was a direct attempt to hurt us.
This time, we weren't so lucky, despite Aodhagan's fancy steering-wheel work. We slid toward the side of the road, and just for good measure, the truck dropped back long enough to slam violently into our left rear bumper before speeding off. We jetted right off the side of the highway and into a steep, muddy embankment, with Aodhagan attempting to keep some modicum of control all the way down. Thankfully, probably due to his vigilance, we didn't flip, but we did crash into the other side of the embankment with enough force to slam us back in our seats and leave us dazed for a long second.
Getting out of the car and circling it in the pouring rain trying to assess the damage was difficult. We couldn't see well. But it looked significant. Some fidgety woman in a red business suit pulled over to the side of the road and said she'd seen the whole thing and had called the police on her cell phone.
Aodhagan made one more trip around his beloved car, grumbling under his breath. We got back into the car, which now had a greatly shortened front end, and waited where we could at least be dry if not comfortable.
We sat for a few moments in silence. "Someone tried to kill us," he finally voiced the elephant in the room. Or the cab, as it were.
I was so bothered by the sound of those ominous words, coming out of the mouth of a real person, that I tried to rationalize it. "Maybe… I don't know… Maybe it was an accident."
It sounded weak and stupid, even to my own ears. Having a whole heck of a lot of trouble with the blurring lines between reality and my profession, I wondered if I would ever be able to write again after all this was over. Maybe I would switch to trashy romances. If I lived that long. The thought gave me a wet, nasty chill.
"That was no accident. That was a car trying to run us off the road. Did you get a good look at him?"
I shook my head. "It was too dark and rainy, and the windows were really tinted. I can't even be sure it was a man."
The police and the tow truck arrived simultaneously. The other driver hit the police first, saying how she saw it all and making it sound like a scene from a tawdry spy novel. Unfortunately, for all her colorful descriptions she couldn't give an idea of the kind of truck, let alone any information from the license plate.
Aodhagan said he couldn't imagine why someone would run us off the road on purpose, and I agreed. It was too long and sordid to try to explain to a stranger. An ambulance arrived several minutes after the others, and after they forced us through a cursory inspection, we were able to worm out of being rushed to the hospital for our bangs and bruises.
We had to repeat our story several times before the police agreed to drive us to rent another car. They got Aodhagan's home number and my cell—good luck with that one, coppers—and told us they would be on the lookout for a dark-colored Ford with a damaged front end. They didn't sound sure or even hopeful really, and I was not inspired to confidence.
At the airport, Aodhagan rented another SUV, although it was nowhere near as nice as his own. Grimly, he looked at his watch. "It's too late to catch them at home like I'd planned. Dennis Strinton works for Texas Tech, and Lloyd's office is in his Bible college's main building."
I put my purse and jacket into the new car, next to Aodhagan's messenger bag he'd rescued from the Land Rover. "So who first?"
"The college is closer." Reaching into his pocket, he used his phone to search out information about Dennis Strinton's class schedule.
"He has no classes between ten and two. That means he's probably in his office. He's the chair of the Political Science Department, so he'll probably be in the administrative building."
That decision made, I called Lloyd Granger's office, while Aodhagan started the car. I tried to make an appointment but hung up a few seconds later. "His secretary said he's not in, and she won't make any last-minute appointments for him until he comes in. I wonder where he is. Maybe driving around in a banged-up truck."
"Maybe," Aodhagan agreed. "Maybe not. We can't afford to get carried away by speculation."
It was about a ten-minute drive through town from the car lot to the campus of Texas Tech. Parking outside the administrative buildi
ng, we made a run for it under Aodhagan's old-fashioned umbrella. On the second floor, Dennis Strinton's name was listed under Politics and Finance, as big as life. Now I was starting to get nervous. This wasn't like a case where the victim was a hundred years dead. This was a murder that had happened days ago. Someone was still going to be motivated to protect his guilt.
I took a deep breath and knocked on Dennis Strinton's door. It was partially open, so when I got no response, we walked in.
"Hello?" He stared up from his desk, looking very much the picture of surprise. Was it because he hadn't expected to see us alive or because he hadn't expected to see anyone just burst into his private sanctum unannounced? Impossible to tell. It was clear, however, that he had been outside recently. He was still wet. "Who are you?"
"Uh, hi." I had no idea what to say. Did I just come right out and ask him what he knew about Norma Jean, or did I say something else first?
"Hi." He returned in a voice one might use to ask the question, What the heck do you want?
Aodhagan came to my aid. "Hi." He tossed in a third one and offered his hand to the flustered Dennis Strinton. "I'm Aodhagan MacFarley, and this is Helen Harding. We just wanted to talk to you for a few minutes about something."
Dennis Strinton cocked one bushy eyebrow, while I looked him over carefully. He desperately needed a trim for both his hair and his Grizzly Adams beard. He looked like Professor Ken, in cord slacks, a checked shirt, and a tweed sports jacket with brown corduroy patches on the elbows. "I think I've heard your name before."
"Probably. I'm the mayor of your old hometown."
"Birdwell?" Dennis Strinton truly did seem puzzled by this revelation.
"The very same. I'm here on behalf of the law firm, Johnson & Moore."
"Now see here, young man, I don't know what you possibly think that you could sue me about, but I…"
Digging Up Bones (Birdwell, Texas Mysteries Book 1) Page 12
