by Nancy Bush
She stopped at the bottom step, clutching the sack of pastries with tight fingers. Though it wasn’t that far from her apartment as the crow flies, there was a world of difference in the relative value of the properties. She’d been highly aware that there was an invisible line somewhere between them, and she’d sensed that Aimee recognized the difference and resented her for it.
Callie climbed the stairs, opened the outer door, and walked down the narrow hallway that led to the back apartments. Aged wallpaper was peeling away from the corners, and the overhead light gave off only the weakest illumination. Dirt had collected on the glass shade and Callie wondered when, if ever, the landlord had last cleaned the outer areas of the building.
She knocked on Tucker’s door, wishing her heartbeat would assume a normal rate again. There was no reason to work herself into such a state. Tucker had lived without her for over five years, for Pete’s sake, and soon she might be just a memory to him. It wasn’t as if his whole life was at stake, or that she could do anything about it even if it were.
The door cracked an inch, a chain lock showing through the opening. Aimee Thomas peered out.
“Allo? Ah, Miss Cantrell,” she said, recognizing Callie, making no effort to open the door farther.
“Hello, Ms. Thomas,” Callie answered. “Is Tucker at school? I bought him some pastries from the bakery and I wanted to give them to him.”
She tried hard not to appear as if she were trying to peek beyond the dark-haired woman barring the doorway, but she couldn’t help a glance over Aimee’s head. From the limited vision provided by the cracked doorway Callie could only tell there was no one in the living room.
“Yes, he is at school.” Aimee was slim, attractive, and seemed too expensive, for lack of a better term, for her surroundings. Her hair was short and severe and her eyes were large, liquid dark pools filled with suspicion. Callie had assumed she was French, though she’d thought she’d heard some words in English from behind the front door before Aimee had answered it. As soon as Aimee saw Callie, however, she’d cut her cell phone conversation short and switched entirely to French.
“Could I leave the pastries?” Callie asked. “I told him I would bring them to him.”
Reluctantly Aimee took the chain off the door and stood back, allowing Callie entrance. Callie stepped inside before she could change her mind. This grudging hospitality was more than she’d expected, after talking with West and learning of even deeper mysteries surrounding Tucker than she’d already thought. Aimee hadn’t been friendly the previous time they’d met, but she’d built her up to something more in her mind since yesterday.
Pulling the white bakery sack from her plastic carryall, Callie held it out to Aimee, who was still standing by the door as if regretting allowing Callie inside.
“Tucker likes you,” Aimee stated flatly.
“We’re friends.”
Callie and Aimee stared at each other, equally uncomfortable. Maybe Aimee’s cavalier attitude to child rearing had to do with the fact that she wasn’t Tucker’s mother. Maybe she didn’t really care about Tucker the same way a mother would.
The moment spun out and a tiny line formed between Aimee’s brows. Callie’s palms felt sweaty and her heart pounded as she wrestled with herself. She’d walked through the door intending to ask some questions of the woman, but she could feel herself chickening out. But that was what the old Callie would do. The one under Jonathan’s thumb. She didn’t want to be that Callie anymore, so she asked quickly, before she could change her mind, “Do you know someone named Teresa Laughlin?”
She had to hand it to the woman. Apart from a widening of her eyes and the faintest intake of breath, she managed to keep her composure. But Callie could tell she’d scored a direct hit.
Barely missing a beat, Aimee said, “Non,” suddenly very French.
“Never heard the name?”
“Non.”
“Huh. Maybe I made a mistake.”
“I theenk you did.”
“I was told I look like this Teresa Laughlin whose son’s name is Tucker. It seemed kind of random, but coincidental. . . .” Her pulse was rocketing now. She’d managed the first few lines of her mental script but now her throat was tightening, her own sense of right and wrong playing havoc with her role-playing. She could feel heat climbing up her neck.
Aimee’s mouth worked. She seemed to want to ask a question but couldn’t find the words. Finally, she let fly a string of rapid French, finishing with, “What do you want with Tucker? You are too friendly weeth heem.”
“He gave me a bracelet with lavender stones. I tried to give it back to him but he insisted I keep it.”
Her head snapped around in shock. “What? That’s my bracelet! He can’t give it to you.” Her face turned dark red. “I’ve been going crazy.” No French accent now, Callie saw. Aimee seemed to recognize that fact because she forcefully calmed herself down. “Tucker must have taken it, but it ees mine.”
“I’ll make sure you get it back,” Callie said, which she had no intention of doing until she knew more. West hadn’t tried to wrest the bracelet away from her, but she believed it was a Laughlin heirloom and even though it had been in Aimee’s possession, that didn’t necessarily make it hers.
“When?” Aimee demanded.
“I’ll come back later with it. After Tucker gets home?”
“He’ll be back around three,” she said, her expression dark. Callie sensed she was holding her anger in with difficulty and decided to beat a hasty retreat.
At the door, Aimee said in perfect English, “I don’t know what you’re after, but Tucker is not for sale.”
“Of course not. I—”
“I will see you at three,” she said in that same flat voice, closing the door behind her with a slam.
“Holy shit,” Callie whispered to herself. She started to walk away, then retraced her steps and pressed her ear to the door. She heard a string of swear words in English and then footsteps pounding her way. Quickly, she racewalked to the front door of the building and let herself outside. Her heart was pounding so hard she could practically see it.
Minutes passed, but Aimee did not appear. Maybe she’d just been pacing inside the apartment. There was a back way out and Callie wondered if she’d left that way. Callie thought about retracing her steps and examining the area, then changed her mind.
One thing was clear: Aimee knew the name Teresa Laughlin. It followed that Teresa was Tucker’s mother and the woman West was seeking. Aimee was likely a temporary caretaker. Maybe through some kind of foster care on the island? But Tucker hadn’t come with the bracelet, so it was more likely she knew Teresa.
“Curiouser and curiouser.”
Looking around herself, Callie saw no evidence of a man spying on her. No West Laughlin, as far as she could see. She headed back toward her apartment, taking a circuitous route just in case there were unseen eyes as she drew near. She slowed her steps and changed her mind before entering. There was something she wanted to do.
She was on the street in front of her apartment building and she started walking faster again. She hadn’t looked at her building, so if anyone was watching, maybe they wouldn’t notice that her steps had slowed. By anyone, she meant West, as she didn’t think there was any other player in this drama, other than possibly Teresa, who might be a thousand miles away or more.
She waited for a cab and when one finally stopped for her, she asked if he knew where the nearest Internet café might be. He nodded and drove her down the hill and about ten blocks away from the bay.
The place didn’t have a name as far as Callie could see, and it was right next to a sandwich shop, so Callie got herself an egg salad sandwich and ate half of it, tossing the rest away. Then she checked in at the desk of the Internet café and was assigned to a cubicle with a PC in the second row. Her back was to the door and windows, and she glanced furtively behind herself as she sat down.
It would be so much simpler if William called with in
formation on the Laughlins, she thought as she brought up Google. Maybe there was nothing to find, but there generally was something if you were dealing with a family with as much money and prestige as it sounded like the Laughlins possessed.
She hit on them right away. Victoria Laughlin was the matriarch in charge of Laughlin Ranch, Inc., a renowned cattle ranch in the San Joaquin Valley of California. Nearest large city was Bakersfield, but the town of Castilla was closest to the ranch, right off I-5. Though a working ranch, it was also the site of a Western-style restaurant, Laughlin BBQ, which served up beef and lots of it. There was also a gift shop attached to Laughlin BBQ called The Bull Stops Here where one could purchase barbecue equipment, aprons and the like, and red meat enthusiasts could order T-bones, rib eyes, and roasts off the Internet or become a club member for a constant supply.
Callie’s eye swept over the business information quickly. Then she clicked away from it, searching for more information about the family itself. She finally found a link to the family’s history and learned the tragic story of the Laughlin men. Fifty-some years earlier, Benjamin Laughlin, Victoria’s deceased husband, took the cattle ranch from its modest beginnings to the mass-producing mega-beef business it was today. Their son, Craig, took over after Benjamin died from a heart attack at sixty-four, but unfortunately Craig only lived another ten years before his own death in a single-car accident. Craig’s son, Stephen, was next in line, and he, too, died unexpectedly while on a hunting trip with friends. The article didn’t specify but it sounded like Stephen had been accidentally shot, and that tragedy had occurred about three years earlier.
Callie logged this information as truth, since it jibed with what West had told her. Stephen Laughlin left behind a wife, Teresa, and a son, Stephen Tucker. Victoria Laughlin was the current head of the family and CEO of the company, but she was eighty-three years old and rarely seen these days. The current face of Laughlin Ranch, Inc. was Teddy Stutz, the overseer/manager of Laughlin BBQ, The Bull Stops Here, and all Laughlin concerns.
There was a picture of a red-cheeked, middle-aged man smiling widely at the camera, wearing an apron with a comical snorting bull sliding to a stop in front of a huge sign for Laughlin Ranch.
What struck Callie was how at odds West’s description of his starchy grandmother was with the whole Laughlin Ranch publicity. Ted Stutz, whom everyone just called Cal, which the article said was because the ranch was located in California—if it had been in Texas, he would have been known as Tex—seemed the epitome of the outdoorsy cowboy type.
Callie checked some more links, looking for additional information, and came upon Victoria’s background. Ben Laughlin had seen her on a trip East with college friends and apparently was smitten as he wooed her to the West Coast against her family’s wishes.
“She came to regret that decision,” a familiar male voice said behind her head and Callie jumped.
“You scared me,” she said, turning around to meet West Laughlin’s eyes. He was in khakis and a navy T-shirt that showed off his tan, muscled arms.
His gaze drifted to her chin and he said softly, “That’s one helluva bruise.”
“Yeah?” Her throat felt tight but luckily her voice was normal. Wondering if Aimee had seen the bruise earlier, she said, “I had an encounter with a thug yesterday.”
“Thug,” he repeated. “Hmmm. Sorry about that.”
“Il ne pas de quois.”
“I thought you were just going to the bathroom.”
He sounded too, too casual. “I was. But I changed my mind.”
“You took the ferry back.” It was more a statement than a question.
“Yep. You followed me?”
“Tried to,” he admitted. He was sober, not the hint of a smile, and she found herself thinking he looked dangerous . . . and somehow more attractive.
“You found me here,” she said.
“Okay, I followed you from your apartment.” He lifted his hands in a “you got me” stance.
“You were at my apartment?” Her heart clutched. How had she not seen him?
Did he see me go to Tucker’s this morning?
“I knocked, but you weren’t there. Then I saw you coming down the street. I waited, but you cruised on by. Where were you coming from?”
Did he really not know? Or was he just toying with her?
“I should have told you I was leaving.”
“That would have been helpful. But then you didn’t want me to know where you lived.”
“Well, I don’t know you, Mr. Laughlin,” she pointed out, closing down the computer. She’d already paid for her time so she was free to leave, except he was standing in her way as she got to her feet.
“Oh, I think we got past the Mr. Laughlin phase a while ago. I coulda filled you in on that.” He gestured to the now blank screen.
There was no way she could pretend she hadn’t been checking up on him, and well, she didn’t see any reason she should. “Did you call William Lister?”
“No.”
“No? Why? Still have phone problems?”
He ignored that. “You done here?”
“Guess so.” It felt too close, standing next to him, but he was blocking her way to the exit so unless she wanted to circle all the way around, she had to wait for him to move.
Seeing her discomfiture, he took a step back and swept a hand toward the door. She had to brush against him to pass by and her upper arm touched the taut muscles of his stomach. It felt electric and she realized she was too aware of him as a male by far.
The look he sent her made her also realize that he knew what she was feeling. She didn’t like it one bit.
Except she did. Sort of.
Out the front door into the heat, Callie inhaled a deep breath and let it out slowly. Tucker wouldn’t be at her apartment for another hour or two, if he showed at all, so she had some time to ditch West.
He followed you from your apartment. He may know exactly where Tucker lives.
“So, are we going to your place or mine?” he asked conversationally.
“I wish I could help you, I really do, but . . .” She spread her hands.
“Take me to the friend who gave you the bracelet.”
“I don’t think she’s around.”
“Why don’t you find out,” he suggested in a tone that suggested he was at the end of his patience.
“Y’know, I don’t have to put up with you. I thought about it last night, and I don’t owe you anything.”
“It’s not a coincidence you look like Teresa,” he said. “Something’s going on. You know more than you’re saying. We can just keep lobbing this back and forth between us, or you can cut through the bullshit and tell me the bald truth.”
“There’s no bullshit.”
“It’s all bullshit,” he disagreed.
“I’m a victim in this,” she reminded him in a low voice. “I didn’t ask for you or any of your theories. I should just call the gendarmerie.”
“You want the police? Call ’em.” His tone suggested bring it on.
Callie had really been just delaying while she came up with a game plan, but she didn’t have one and she wanted to know more about him anyway. “We’ll go to my place.”
“Finally.”
“Don’t push me, Mr. Laughlin . . . West. Don’t push me.”
Looking as perturbed with her as she was with him, he walked out to the curb and raised an arm to hail a cab.
Chapter Nine
Plans are in motion, speeding toward a bang-up finale, my friends. Years of patience are going to pay off. It’s finally my turn. There’s money to be made, and wrongs to be avenged. Oh, sure, it’s complicated. And dangerous. But that’s what life’s all about, right? Otherwise we just go through the motions, step by step, on our way to the graveyard. Well, that’s not how it’s going to be for me. I’m going to grab what I need, and if that starts with Teresa-fucking-Laughlin, all the better.
Daniella’s legs quivered beneath the table wh
ere she sat, hands folded tightly on the tabletop, her expression full of fear. Andre’s eyes glittered with fury, disappointment, and cold excitement, a sure sign that there would be hell to pay later. She had to look away, couldn’t meet his gaze. She’d never been good at hiding her emotions like Teresa, or Jerrilyn, or Naomi, though she was a better strategist than Clarice, who didn’t seem to know jack shit about anything. What the fuck was she doing, telling Andre that there was only one God? Of course there was, but saying something like that to The Messiah was like throwing gas on a fire. Didn’t she know that?
Daniella loved being with Andre, but she didn’t kid herself that he was an easy man. Some of his rules were just plain crazy, meant for his own pleasure and no one else’s, but then she’d had a lot worse and at least he took care of them all.
Unfortunately, she’d really screwed the pooch this time, one of her stepmother’s favorite expressions just as she was about to backhand Daniella. Last night, while she’d followed Teresa, keeping an eye on her to make sure she did what she was told, per Andre’s orders, she’d let Teresa get away. She’d been parked near the bar and had settled herself behind a Dodge Hemi truck with a view to Robert Lumpkin’s car. From there, she had seen Teresa weave out with the man, had watched as she’d shoved him into the front seat of a beat-up, piece of shit Ford Focus. Then Teresa had ripped some money from Lumpkin’s wallet, and had walked quickly away and around the building to the opposite street where the Xterra was parked. Daniella had made the mistake of checking on Lumpkin first, wondering what Teresa’s overall plan was because she was pretty sure Teresa was supposed to dispose of him somewhere else. He wasn’t dead, which she knew was probably what Andre had really wanted, and she was surprised Teresa had defied him. She had heard the Xterra fire up, just as she was opening the driver’s door for a peek. Lumpkin’s leg had popped out and she had hurriedly shoved it back in. He had been slumped over the seat, his body awkwardly bent over the console and into the passenger bucket seat. Teresa had definitely knocked him out, but that was as far as it had gone, apparently.
