Saving Allegheny Green

by Lori Wilde

  But he must not have understood because he kept one hand over my lap, the other still quietly massaging my neck.

  I had to get away from him. I was too big, too old to be sitting in a virtual stranger’s lap. Never mind that we’d gone to the same high school. We’d never moved in the same circles, never really known each other.

  His nearness was playing havoc with my common sense. I was aware of many things about him that I hadn’t noticed when I’d been preoccupied bawling my head off. Like, he was so big…and hard. All muscle and sinew. I felt strange to be held by someone so overwhelmingly strong. Strange and a little frightening.

  And kind of sexy.

  “You can let go of me.” Enough beating around the bush.

  “I know,” he said placidly, not moving an inch.

  I waited. For what, I wasn’t sure. I peeked surreptitiously at his face. Maybe he was joking. Ha, ha. But he wasn’t smiling.

  In fact, he looked a little ominous, the descending twilight bathing his angular features in deep shadows. He stared at me, his eyes dark and hypnotic. He didn’t move. Didn’t twitch an inch.

  What control! What discipline! I admired him more than words could say. And yet I was a little scared of him, too, but I wasn’t about to let him know that.

  I stared back, desperate to prove I was as strong as he.

  A stillness settled over the evening. Complete silence. No fish splashing in the river beyond. No crickets chirping. No dogs barking. No lawn mowers firing up in the distance.

  Mere minutes ago I felt safe in Conahegg’s sheltering arms, now I felt anything but.

  Conahegg shifted slightly against the seat and I nearly leaped out of my skin at the tension. What was he going to do?

  He pressed his thumb to my lips and still, he said nothing. But his eyes said everything.

  Uh-oh. Trouble. Warning, warning, danger, danger.

  To my utter confusion and amazement I felt such a powerful rush of sexual attraction for him that it almost propelled me backward out of his arms and into the river. I jerked. He held on tight.

  “Ally,” he said in a perilously soft voice. “I’m hanging on to you until we get things out in the open so stop trying to get away.”

  Oh my God. Time for the showdown. Time to face the inevitable. Time to stand up and admit that I had a thing for Conahegg.

  But I wasn’t that brave. I wasn’t ready to face my attraction to the town sheriff. Not yet. I decided to play dumb.

  “Er…” I stammered. “Get what out in the open?” Yet even as I spoke, I was distracted by his maleness. His straight white teeth, the cleft in his chin, his ears which were a tad too big.

  “You know.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Let’s talk about chemistry, shall we?”

  “Oh, I was lousy at that in nursing school. Barely passed.”

  “You underestimate yourself, Ally.”

  “No really,” I chattered. “I struggled to understand that ionic bonding stuff and the only half-filled shells I was interested in had ricotta cheese and marinara sauce.”

  He ran his thumb along my chin. It was a roughed, callused thumb that raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

  “Stop playing dumb, it doesn’t suit you.”

  “How do you know what suits me? You don’t even know me.”

  “I know you far more than you think.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. For instance I know you’re scared to death.”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘to death,’” I grumbled.

  “But you’re scared.”

  “Oh, all right,” I admitted. “I’m scared.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because I want you to kiss me.”

  “Very good, Ally. Because I want to kiss you, too.”

  Red alert!

  My stomach lurched as it does when I ride the Shock Wave at Six Flags. Conahegg and I were staggering toward unknown territory, crossing over into uncharted waters. If I had any sense I would demand he let me go. But I was in short supply of common sense at the moment. It had been used up. Sucked dry from years of thinking and doing for everyone in my family. I was empty. Waiting, no yearning, to be refilled.

  We hovered in space like hummingbirds at a feeder, our mouths almost touching, moving infinitesimally closer.

  Finally, when I didn’t think I could stand the tension one second longer and my vocal cords were stretched to the screaming point, Conahegg bent his head, pressed his lips to mine and kissed me.

  I kissed him back because—hey go ahead and shoot me—I wanted to kiss him.

  Talk about your rockets red glare, talk about your bombs bursting in air. It was absolutely the most perfect kiss on the face of the earth.

  Why, I moaned inwardly, couldn’t it have been lousy? Why couldn’t he have been one of those sloppy mouth breathers? Why couldn’t he have been a face licker? But oh, no. Conahegg had to be faultless.

  Should have known.

  Just my luck I get the best kisser this side of the Mason-Dixon.

  He was more delicious than Godiva chocolates. He had an exquisite mouth and the firmest skin. He tasted sweet and hot and full of sin.

  I was aware of nothing but him. He was a man. A real man. Not some pasty-faced wimp like Casey Yearby. Not a whiny Mama’s boy like Thomas Lutten. He was all male and if the bulge under my thighs was any indication, he thought I was all woman.

  That’s when the fear set in as I realized what I’d stirred up. Could I handle a man like Conahegg? I was used to being in control. I liked being in charge. With Conahegg it would be a constant scrap to keep a foothold. Was I ready?

  In a word?

  No.

  I was trembling. Because I liked kissing him so much. Because I was so powerfully attracted to him. Because I was so terrified of losing myself in the strength of his personality.

  But damn me, I wanted to have sex with him. No-holds-barred, wild, rough animal sex right there on the dock, so anyone who happened to stroll by could see. I didn’t care.

  Perhaps that’s what scared me most.

  I’d lost all sense of what was important and that was from a single mind-numbing kiss.

  He must have detected my change in attitude because Conahegg pulled back. He was breathing heavily, his pupils dilated. His hair, despite its short length, was mussed. He looked very different from his normal, composed self. My heart strummed when I realized I’d caused his transformation from self-contained sheriff, to sex-crazed wild man.

  “I’ve been wanting to do that from the moment I saw you,” he rasped.

  I fluttered my eyelashes, trying to make light of his pronouncement. “Aw shucks, Sheriff, I bet you say that to all your material witnesses.”

  “I’m serious, Ally.”

  “Look, Conahegg,” I said, my voice shaky.

  “Sam.”

  I ignored his offer to call him by his first name. “We can’t do this again.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because…” I couldn’t meet his gaze. “I’m not available.”

  “You mean you have a male friend.”

  “No. It means there’s no room in my life for a male friend.”

  “Why not?”

  I waved my hand at the house. “You know my family. I work two jobs. When do I have time for a dalliance?”

  “Is that what you think I want? A dalliance.”

  I could not, would not look him in the eyes. “It doesn’t matter what you want.”

  “Ally?”

  We both leaped about a foot at Mama’s voice, me scooting from Conahegg’s lap at record speed. Somehow she’d sneaked up on us. I busily patted my mussed hair.

  “Evening, Mrs. Green,” Conahegg greeted her.

  “Hi, Mama,” I said sheepishly.

  “Allegheny Allison Green, what’s happened to your manners? Aren’t you going to invite your guest inside for tea?”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CONAHEGG SPENT the next ha
lf hour sipping herbal tea and listening to Mama and Aunt Tessa tell him about their unwanted visitors. Me, I slunk off into the corner to deal with my jumbled emotions and only occasionally reached up to finger my lips.

  I could still taste Conahegg.

  He finally left after assuring us he’d have his men look out for Sissy and that’d he’d personally pay a visit to Dooley Marchand and Darlene Hughes.

  I felt a little better, but not much. That night I barely slept, between sizzling fantasies of Conahegg, nightmare images of Denny drowning and Sissy running from an angry, troll-doll-smashing man.

  The unease I’d been feeling since finding Rocky’s body grew into full-blown anxiety. If I didn’t do something constructive soon, I was going to scream. That and the fact I needed something to keep my mind off Conahegg and what had happened on my dock.

  Finally, at dawn, I threw back the covers and got up before the alarm went off. I skipped breakfast and arrived at the home health care office before anyone else. I spent that time combing through Tim’s and Rocky’s charts. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for and I didn’t find anything of value.

  At eight, I left the office for Swiggly’s house.

  The good reverend was in a surprisingly upbeat mood.

  When I arrived, he was finishing up a morning swim with his personal physical therapist, a strapping, buff, lifeguard type he introduced to me as Gunther.

  Gunther—who with his blond hair, blue eyes and straight white teeth could have passed for one of those California beach musclemen—carried Swiggly from the pool. He sat him at the patio table and vigorously toweled him off while I questioned Swiggly about his health.

  Miss Gloria came into the backyard, a bankbook in her hand. She took one look at me and stopped. “Oh,” she said, then turned and went back into the house.

  “I’m doing pretty good, aren’t I?” Swiggly asked. He rang a bell and Esme magically appeared. “Orange juice,” he told her. “And toast. Wheat bread.”

  She bobbed her head and disappeared.

  Swiggly looked at me. “You want anything? I can call her back.”

  “No thanks.”

  “In fact,” Swiggly continued, “thanks to the Power and Glory of our Lord Jesus Christ in heaven, praise God, thank you, Amen. I won’t be needing your services any longer, Miss Green.”

  He did look exceptionally well. His color was good and his eyes bright. He even hummed a few bars of “The Old Rugged Cross.”

  “Your doctor wants us to see you for another month, Reverend Swiggly.”

  Swiggly waved a dismissive hand. Gunther plugged in a blow-dryer to an extension cord. “What do doctors know? They think they are God, when it’s the Lord Jesus Christ who controls our fate, not the minor machinations of so-called healers.”

  Oh boy, I could feel a rant coming on.

  Page 196

  “Besides…” Swiggly smiled up at the tanned Adonis standing beside him wielding a hairbrush and the blow-dryer. Gunther turned on the hair dryer and began arranging Swiggly’s pompadour. “I’ve got Gunther. He can take care of my health care needs,” Swiggly shouted over the noise.

  “It’s your choice, sir,” I shouted right back. “But I’ll have to make your doctor aware of your desires.”

  “I would expect no less from you.”

  Somehow, that sounded like a put-down. Hell, I didn’t care. I had enough problems without having to kowtow to a pompous, egomaniacal holy man.

  “Great.” I closed his chart and got up. “I wish you a speedy recovery, Reverend Swiggly.”

  “Why, thank you, my girl.”

  I left that house feeling very happy to be gone, but as I pulled from the drive I happened to glance up and saw the curtain from the upstairs bedroom drop.

  Someone had been watching me.

  “ALLY, ARE YOU IN SOME KIND of trouble?” Joyce Kemper asked when I returned to the office.

  “No.” I frowned, signing off on Swiggly’s chart and handing it to the secretary for processing. “Why do you ask?”

  “Sheriff Conahegg called here. He wants to see you in his office. ASAP.”

  “Is that what he said?”

  Joyce nodded.

  A thrill shot through me. Conahegg wanted to see me. Apparently, he wasn’t taking no for an answer when it came to our relationship. I was both pleased and irritated. How did that man simultaneously evoke such opposing emotions in me?

  “I’m sure it’s nothing,” I said, retrieving my purse from my desk drawer. “You know that the sheriff is Denny’s Junior Adventurers troop leader and we took the kids camping on the river over the weekend. It’s probably got something to do with that.”

  Joyce grunted, unconvinced.

  But while I was spinning tall tales for Joyce, my pulse was thrumming. For better or worse, I was going to see Conahegg again.

  Turning, I fled the office and arrived at the sheriff’s department in five minutes flat when the trip should have taken ten.

  I didn’t even bother to announce my presence to the dispatcher. The front desk looked pretty busy anyway. I strode down the corridor as if I knew what I was doing and knocked on Conahegg’s open door.

  He was parked behind the desk, busily dispatching a stack of paperwork and looking more delicious than any human being has a right to look. He glanced up, but didn’t smile. Was something wrong?

  My stomach plummeted and I forgot about sexual attraction. Did he have bad news concerning my sister? I braced myself for the worst.

  “Come on in.” He raised his chin. “Shut the door behind you.”

  “Uh-oh, this doesn’t sound good.” I tried to sound lighthearted, hoping to make him smile.

  He didn’t smile back. “I’m afraid it’s not.”

  “Did you find Sissy?” I whispered, almost afraid to ask.

  Conahegg shook his head.

  I plunked down on the seat, clutched my purse to my chest. “What then?”

  He cleared his throat. “Bad news.”

  “Tell me straight,” I said, feeling like a character from some bad fifties film noir.

  “You were right.” Conahegg laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles. That’s when I realized he was nervous, too. What did he have to be jittery about?

  “What about?”

  “About Rocky.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He pushed several sheets of stapled papers across his desk toward me. “Autopsy report.”

  My hand shook and my mouth went dry. Okay, I had great intuition. Why then did I suddenly feel so horrible?

  I picked up the papers and held them next to my nose because I didn’t want to put on my reading glasses in front of Conahegg. I skipped to the section marked: cause of death—asphyxiation.

  “I don’t understand. I thought you said I was right.”

  “Keep reading.”

  And read I did. There were discrepancies in the marks on Rocky’s throat. The coroner concluded he had been asphyxiated first and then his neck had been broken. There had also been a lump on the side of his head indicative of blunt trauma, but that wound had not caused his death.

  “I still don’t get it.” I looked at Conahegg. “From reading the report, he suffocated himself, then fell off the bed, breaking his neck and hitting his head.”

  “The logistics don’t add up. No matter how he fell, he wouldn’t have hit his head in that spot.”

  “No?”

  “And,” Conahegg said. “I got to thinking about what you’d told me concerning Rocky’s phobia.”

  “You did?”

  “I talked to Darlene and some of his friends. They confirmed what you’d said. He was terrified of having anything around his neck.”

  “So you believe it was murder and someone tried to cover it up as autoerotic asphyxiation?”

  “Yes.”

  “But who?”

  He took a deep breath and when he didn’t meet my eyes I began to worry. Conahegg is a straightforward guy. He’s not into av
oidance.

  “We found fingerprints on the belt used to hang Rocky,” he said.

  I clamped my hands into fists, dreading what he was about to say next. The pitying expression Conahegg gave me was the one you reserve for families of the deceased. A shiver blasted through me.

  “No,” I whimpered.

  “The fingerprints belong to your sister.” I shook my head. “It’s a mistake.”

  “There’s been no mistake.”

  “The lab screwed up. It happens.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Sissy’s innocent.”

  “I’m afraid your sister looks guilty as sin, Ally,” he said softly. Pity flashed on his face but only for a second. “She had the means and no alibi.”

  “But why? What’s her motive?”

  “Anger. Money. You told me yourself she had bad experiences with men. She had already shot Rocky once for lying to her about his wife.”

  “You’re wrong. My sister isn’t capable of doing something like that”.

  ” Could Sissy have killed Rocky?

  It was unthinkable, unimaginable and yet she had shot him in the foot. My sister did have many secrets, as I’d recently discovered, that she held close to the vest.

  “You told me yourself she wasn’t happy with Tim Kehaul after he left her for another lover. Is that the action of a rational woman?”

  “Sissy isn’t crazy.”

  “Men have taken advantage of your sister for her entire life. She has ample motivation for murder.”

  “Next thing you know, you’ll be telling me that Sissy killed Tim.”

  “There is that possibility.”

  “What? Are you telling me Tim didn’t die from autoerotic asphyxiation, either?”

  “No. That’s exactly what Tim died from as far as we can ascertain. What I am telling you is that it might not have been an accident. What if Sissy went to see Tim and pleaded with him to be her lover again? What if she convinced him to play kinky sex games with her? What if, right when she has him where she wants him, she kicks the stool out from under him and doesn’t cut him down? The way Tim died is more indicative of having a partner. Most autoerotic victims sit in a chair or lie on the bed, not climb up on a step stool.”