by Karen Young
“What’re you going to do, Buck?”
“Hell if I know.” He rubbed the side of his jaw as he slowed for a stop sign. “How about we stop for some lunch before I drop you off? I have to tell Jack how the fire started and why and he’ll have to take it from there. But I don’t have to do it on an empty stomach.”
“Just out of curiosity, does anything kill your appetite?”
He looked over and gave her an air kiss. “Only when my wife threatens to divorce me.”
They took their time over lunch at Daddy Gee’s. “At this rate,” Anne said, watching him polish off a dish of peach cobbler, “you should consider buying into this place. I hear restaurants are big items with retired sports figures.”
“Can’t do it. Thanks to Ty and Chief Breedlove, I’m already into a physical therapy facility, a teen center, a baseball camp for promising athletes and I’m farming cotton. You like restaurants, I’ll spring for you to open one.”
“I can’t. I’m going to be too busy being a mother.”
His mouth dropped. “You’re pregnant?”
She laughed. “How could I be, Buck? We’ve only been trying two days.”
He stood up, grinning, and pulled her chair out. “But we had multiple possibilities in those two days,” he said in a sexy drawl near her ear. She felt a rush of heat, hurrying out ahead of him. How had she ever thought she could leave Buck?
“Okay,” he said, driving out of the square. “No more procrastinating. I’m dropping you at the Marshes’ and then I’m heading for Tallulah’s top cop.”
Anne’s gaze was fixed on a line of cars at the town’s single red light, but her thoughts were elsewhere. “I know your mother has a reputation for being rather aloof, but don’t you think it was odd how remote she appeared telling us what she’d done? It was almost as if she was relating someone else’s story…sort of like John Whitaker’s journal entries. Except that John’s words had a lot more emotion.”
“Because he was a better person,” Buck said grimly. “That’s an ugly thing to say about my own mother, but the calculating way she set about her plan to seduce my dad into marriage was ugly. And then when he didn’t propose and she found herself pregnant—without being sure whose baby it was—she had what she needed to trap him. It’s disgusting!”
“I think what my dad said is probably nearer the truth,” Anne said quietly. “John was passionately in love with her—no doubt about that—and there was a good chance the baby was his. Whether she was ‘of his class’ was irrelevant, but it’s plain that that’s been a sore spot for your mother all these years.”
“You’re saying he would have divorced her otherwise.”
“I think so, don’t you? There was no stigma in divorce in the sixties, which is when all this happened. Still, she was one cool lady today, wasn’t she?” Her gaze narrowed, thinking about it. “Maybe a little too cool, Buck.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think we should turn around and go back.” She glanced at her watch. “How long ago was it that we were there?”
“It’s been a couple hours. Why should we go back?”
“Well…” She rubbed her nose, thinking. “It’s just a thought, but what do we know about Victoria all these years? She’s always nagging Paige about the public image of the Whitakers. She harps on Claire for failing to measure up as a proper Whitaker. And yet she tells us the details of the disgraceful way she tricked John into marrying her, she admits to an affair with a redneck and she confesses to committing arson. I know she’s sick, but being sick doesn’t suddenly change an individual’s personality.”
At a stop sign, Buck signaled to turn toward the Marsh house. “So why did she do it?”
“Don’t turn here, Buck.”
“Because she’s not going to be around to cope with the scandal,” he said suddenly. “I see where you’re going.” In the next breath, he released his cell phone from its clip and punched the programmed number for Belle Pointe. “It’ll take us twenty minutes to get back there. I’ll call and tell Miriam to keep an eye on her whether she likes it or not.”
With his fingers dancing restlessly on the wheel, he waited for Miriam to pick up. After five rings, the answer machine kicked in. He swore and disconnected. “I’m trying again. Miriam’s there, she’s gotta be.”
He keyed the number again and waited through four rings.
“Whitaker residence.”
It was Miriam and she sounded strange. “Miriam, Buck here. I want—”
“Oh, Mr. Buck! Oh, thank God. Mr. Buck, it’s—” She broke down in a storm of weeping, trying to talk, but Buck couldn’t make out anything she said.
“Miriam,” he said in a firm tone. “Listen to me. Calm down and tell me what’s wrong.”
“I’ve already called 911, Mr. Buck. It’s your mother. Oh, this is terrible!”
“What is terrible? What’s happened?”
“I don’t think I should tell you this on the phone.”
He set his teeth. “Tell me.”
She blew her nose and drew a fortifying breath. “She’s gone, Mr. Buck. Ms. Victoria has killed herself.”
Twenty-Five
The curved drive at Belle Pointe was crowded with automobiles. At first glance, Buck recognized Claire’s car, Pearce’s Lexus and Jack Breedlove’s police unit. An ambulance was parked close to the front door and further along the drive were two more cars. “One of those will be Bill Armstrong,” he told Anne, “Ma’s doctor.”
As he stepped down to the ground, Buck looked up at the house and his stomach did a slow roll. It dawned on him that the last hour he’d spent with his mother would probably haunt him forever. Drawing in a deep breath, he put out his hand to Anne and together they went up the steps.
He recognized the rookie cop posted at the door. “Daniel,” he said, “is the chief inside?”
“Yes, sir. Upstairs. The EMTs are in there, too. Uh, I’m sorry for your loss, Buck.”
“Thanks, Daniel.” Still holding Anne’s hand, he gave it a squeeze. “Stay here, sweetheart,” he told her. “No need for you to see this.”
He took the stairs at a fast clip, barely pausing as he passed two men he didn’t recognize in the hall. When he reached his mother’s bedroom, he slowed, swallowing down the queasiness in his stomach.
A knot of people were gathered at the bed. Two EMTs, Victoria’s doctor, Pearce and Claire, Jack Breeedlove. His gaze fell on his mother’s face. When he left her that morning, there’d been circles under her eyes and her skin had a sickly pallor. Now it was as pale as marble and oddly peaceful. The EMTs, he saw, were readying her to make the transfer from her bed to a stretcher. On the floor and scattered about the bed was evidence of medical apparatus that told him they’d tried to revive her. For the first time since hearing she had died, he wondered if he and Anne had been wrong fearing she was suicidal. Maybe it was a heart attack. Or a stroke.
Claire looked up as he stepped into the room. “Oh, Buck!” She moved to meet him and hugged him wordlessly. When she let him go, she was wiping tears from her eyes. “I knew she was sick, but she shouldn’t have had to die this way!”
Over her head, he met Pearce’s eyes—remote and empty of emotion. “She was in a lot of pain,” Buck said to Claire.
“There are meds for pain. She could have had the best of care. It’s not as if we couldn’t afford it,” she said bitterly. “I talked to Miriam yesterday like you told me. She was nervous, but she didn’t give me any hint that Victoria was eaten up with cancer!”
“You need to go downstairs,” he told her in a gentle tone. “Anne’s there. Find Miriam, between the two of you, I bet she could use a little comforting right now. Okay?”
“Okay.” At the door, she looked back at Pearce. “We’ll need to tell Paige together, Pearce.”
“No, you can do it.”
She gave him a long look. “Do you want to go with me to pick her up from school?”
He shook his head. “I need to see about
arrangements.”
Her eyes went to Jack, standing straight and stern near the window, as if she’d like—needed—some sign from him, but his gaze remained fixed on the EMTs dealing with the body of her mother-in-law, now draped in a blue sheet. After watching the body transferred to a stretcher, Claire left and Buck turned his attention to his mother’s physician.
Bill Armstrong had treated Victoria for as long as Buck could remember. A tall man, thin as a result of his addiction to marathon running, he was unsmiling now as he shook hands with Buck.
“I’m saddened over this, Buck. I tried my best to get your mother to agree to chemotherapy, but she was determined to refuse.”
“I know. She told me the same thing today.” He stepped back as Victoria was wheeled out of the room. “We talked a little over two hours ago. She was sick, but she wasn’t at the point of death. Was it a heart attack?”
Armstrong held out a sealed plastic bag. “No, I’m afraid it was an overdose of this medication. I prescribed it for sleeping, but it looks like she saved up a couple of months’ supply and took them all at once.”
Anne punched the off button on her cell phone after telling Beatrice of Victoria’s death. Between them, she and Claire had decided to ask Beatrice to pick up Paige at school. Even before Anne got around to asking, Beatrice’s first thought was of Paige and she volunteered to pick her up. Anne was satisfied that the delicate job of telling the girl about her grandmother was in the right hands with Beatrice.
She chose the servant’s route to the kitchen with a thought to making coffee for the crowd that had somehow materialized out of nowhere just in the short time since word of Victoria’s death got out. If she were busy in the kitchen, she might avoid being cornered and pumped for information. Suicide was being whispered and she didn’t want to find herself in a position to confirm or deny it. Not that she could do either at this point.
Nearing the butler’s pantry, she stopped short at the sound of a man’s voice, an angry voice. Pearce. She paused with an idea of letting him know he could be overheard.
“You know all her secrets, Miriam, don’t try to tell me you don’t. And I’m warning you to keep your mouth shut.”
Was he threatening Miriam? Anne frowned, unable to hear the woman’s reply, but the tone was apprehensive. And fearful?
“Did she tell you where she put it?” Pearce again.
Another brief, low-toned reply from Miriam. What? Anne wondered. Put what where?
“Don’t lie to me!” Pearce again. “She’s gone now and you screw me over on this, there’s nothing says you get to stay on here for the rest of your life. You do that, you’ll be lucky to live as nice as one of the field hands.”
Furious at his bullying an old woman, Anne cleared her throat loudly and stepped to the butler’s pantry. She blinked at Pearce in shirtsleeves, his tie askew and his hair sticking up as if he’d been running his hands through it. She’d never seen him so agitated, but she dismissed any concern for Pearce. Miriam, looking fearful, was backed in a corner.
Anne shouldered past Pearce. “Miriam,” she said, slipping her arm around the thin shoulders. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I thought we’d make some sandwiches for the crowd.” She looked at Pearce and said coldly, “There’s a crowd gathered and they’re bringing your mother down now.”
For a moment, he seemed ready to have a go at her, too, but with a growl of frustration, he turned on his heel and stalked off.
Anne cocked her head, watching him. “I’ve never heard a person growl before, have you, Miriam?”
To her surprise, Miriam giggled. “Only Mr. Pearce…and he makes a habit of it.”
With her arm still about the woman’s shoulders, Anne walked with her to the kitchen. “There’s no need for you to make sandwiches for any of these people, Miriam. You’ve had a stressful day and the next couple of days will be difficult. I only said that because you looked as if you needed rescuing.”
“Thank you, Ms. Anne. That Pearce was a bully as a boy and he’s still a bully. As for sandwiches and food for people as they crowd in, several women from my church circle have already volunteered. They’ll be here soon and they’ll stay until we get past this terrible time.”
Anne gave her a reassuring squeeze. “What in the world was that all about? It sounded as if Pearce was threatening you.”
Miriam sniffed and put her nose in the air. “I’m not afraid of Pearce Whitaker. More likely he’s afraid of me.”
Buck guessed Pearce was bursting with a need to light into him. Something had him upset, big-time. With the house full of people, it wasn’t like his brother to appear looking as if he’d been pulled through a knothole backwards. To avoid the crowd avidly watching, Buck strolled around in search of privacy for the confrontation. But instead of being cornered by Pearce, it was Anne who clamped a hand on his arm.
“I need to talk to you,” she said urgently. “Privately.”
“I guess we could go to the equipment barn,” he said dryly.
“No, here.” Dragging him by the arm, she led him down the hall to the small powder room. Once inside, she closed the door and locked it, then flipped the switch that turned on the exhaust fan.
He was stressed out, grieving over the shock of his mother’s suicide and conflicted about what to do regarding his brother, a killer, but at the moment, with his pretty wife standing close to him in a very small room, looking like a female Sherlock Holmes with incredible blue eyes, he suddenly realized all was right in their world, his and Anne’s.
“Buck, you—”
“Wait.” He put a forefinger on her lips.
“Buck, this is important!”
He caught her face between his hands. “Can I kiss you first?”
She looked at him like he was crazy. “They just took your poor dead mother away in an ambulance. There are at least thirty people milling around just outside this door. Claire’s a basket case and Pearce is—mmfftt.”
His mouth was on hers, hot and fierce and needy. She was so soft and sweet and the taste of her was everything good, he thought, reveling in the leap of his libido. With Anne fitted to him perfectly, head to toe, she completed him on some elemental level that he didn’t understand and didn’t need to. It was enough just to know that she was his. And when she sighed and opened her mouth, yielding to his need, he wanted to smile. Inside, he was smiling.
“What was that all about?” she asked a minute later with her head resting on his chest.
“I just needed it, darlin’.” He stroked her back lovingly. “So, what did you drag me in here to tell me?”
“It’s about Pearce. I just overhead him threatening Miriam.”
Buck’s hand went still. “Explain,” he said grimly.
And she did.
Buck had no trouble locating Pearce when he left the powder room with Anne. He was pacing just outside the door.
“We need to talk,” Pearce said. “Somewhere private.”
Buck looked unenthusiastically at the tiny powder room. It was one thing to be in there with his wife, another entirely with his brother. “I hope you can suggest a better place.”
“My bedroom,” Pearce ordered and with a shrug, Buck agreed. Soon enough his brother would have to come to grips with not being in charge, but since it suited Buck to have this talk, he went with him up the winding stairs to the sumptuous suite.
Pearce closed the double doors with a thwack. “I know you spent an hour with Mama this morning. She had to’ve taken those pills right after you left. What happened? What upset her?”
“I didn’t upset her, Pearce. Just the opposite.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I was the one who was upset. In my shoes, you would have been, too.”
Narrow-eyed, Pearce demanded, “What are you talking about?”
With a glance in the bedroom beyond to check that they were alone, Buck went to the window and faced Pearce with the advantage of light at his back and in his brother’s
face. “Anne and I read some of Dad’s entries in the journal last night.” He watched as Pearce went still, scenting danger. “I’m not sure what his purpose was. It could have been a secret he took with him to the grave, but for whatever reason, he decided against that.”
Pearce made a strong effort to look unconcerned. “Is there a point here?”
“The reason I went to see Ma this morning was because Dad mentioned Jim Bob Baker’s death. I had some idea of—”
“That again! Whenever the hell are you gonna let that go, Buck? I swear to God, I can’t figure you out. You—”
“If you let me finish, I promise you will figure it out.” He waited until Pearce grunted reluctantly. “Anne and I found Ma sick in bed, really sick. One look and I changed my mind about mentioning the journals, but she knew I had them and she guessed I’d read them. You know how she can be once her mind is made up. She would talk about it.”
“So…”
“Apparently she’d worried what Dad wrote in the journals and had searched for them for years.”
“The damn things should have been burned.”
“As it turned out, that was her plan for the Spectator archives,” Buck said. “Tallulah’s history was expendable, in her view, but I think she would have balked at burning a hundred and fifty years of Belle Pointe history. She had too much reverence for the Whitaker name.”
Pearce assumed a look of outrage. “You’re not suggesting Mama set that fire at the Spectator?”
“Cut the crap, Pearce. Anne overheard you threaten Miriam a few minutes ago. You wanted to know where Ma had stashed the laptop, which tells me you knew she set the fire. As to whatever else you might want to coerce from an old woman—one who changed your diapers and wiped your snotty nose, I’ll remind you—knock it off or I’ll knock something off you that won’t be easy to fix.”
“Big talk,” Pearce said with a sneer.
“Not talk, Pearce. That was a promise.” Buck waited a beat and, getting no more sarcasm, continued. “As for the fire, Ma admitted she set it, simple as that. She apologized for endangering Paige and Anne, but she needed to keep Anne from digging up secrets from the past.” He paused, watching his brother closely. “Your past, Pearce.”
