All extended their hands, acknowledging him. The last one held back. “Tyler Cole,” he said, introducing himself.
“James Curtis.”
There was something about Mr. Curtis Tyler disliked, something he could not place. And that wasn’t like him, because he made it a point never to prejudge anyone. The man’s smile was too wide, his casual attire was too perfect, and his hands were too soft for a man. Everyone who’d come to the Clark cookout wore colorful shirts, tank tops, shorts, T-shirts, cutoffs, and sandals, while James Curtis was decked out in wheat-colored linen gabardine slacks, a matching raw silk shirt, and a pair of shoes that cost enough to buy a Hillsboro family of four enough groceries to last a week.
R.W. ran his fingertips over the thick mustache framing his upper lip. “Curtis is a political analyst. His specialty is campaign strategy.”
Quietly, smoothly, Tyler threaded his fingers through Dana’s, easing her to his side, his polite smile still in place. “Are we to assume you’re serious about entering the mayoralty race?”
“Quite serious,” R.W. said, showing all of his bought-and-paid for thirty-two porcelains. “Can I count on your vote, Dr. Cole?”
“I’m not ready to commit to any candidate without hearing the issues.”
R.W. turned his attention to Dana. “What about your lovely wife?”
Tyler’s smile faded. “You’ll have to ask herself yourself. I do not presume to speak for her.”
R.W. affected an expression that used to send chills up and down Dana’s spine while making her stomach muscles contract. He’d lowered his eyelids and stared at her as if she were a piece of food to be devoured in one bite. What she’d once thought sexy was now lecherous.
He lifted one eyebrow. “Dana?”
“I, too, can’t commit. I haven’t been back long enough to qualify as a legal resident of this county. I’m certain when the election comes around, I’ll definitely be a registered voter.” Shifting slightly, she rested a hand in the middle of Tyler’s chest. “Darling, will you please get me something to drink?” Her hand went from his chest to her throat. “I find myself so parched.” Her drawl was so authentically Mississippi, one would’ve never thought she’d been away twenty-two years.
“Why don’t we go and get something together, sweetheart?” Tyler’s voice was soft as sterile cotton.
Dana fluttered her eyes. “I’d love that.”
The four men watched, mouths gaping, as Tyler led Dana over to a tent that was set aside for refreshments. Four pairs of admiring male gazes lingered on the perfection of her legs in a pair of white walking shorts.
“Damn!” moaned the loan officer from Southern Trust. “Now, that’s what I call a real woman. A woman like Dana will always let a man feel like a man, unlike that hoochie mama I had to cut loose last week. She claims she’s so independent, but because I work in a bank, she thought I could go and take money out of the vault like I have my own private stash. She’s taken begging to a level that is truly phenomenal. She asked for money to get her hair and nails done, and then turned around and said her mama and sisters needed theirs done, but the straw that broke the camel’s hump was when she wanted me to buy Pampers for her baby. Because she wasn’t talking to her baby’s daddy, she didn’t want to ask him for money.”
“Walter, you know you’re talking smack,” R.W. drawled sarcastically. “I told you before that you can’t get rid of that woman because she put a root on you. Did your mama tell you about eating from women?”
“She ain’t got no root on me,” Walter grumbled, pushing out his lower lip.
The three laughed at his expression, and the more they laughed the more Walter pushed out his lip.
Dana was finally able to get Billy alone to ask him about Sheriff Newcomb’s notes. “What have you discovered?”
Billy shook his head. “Not much, Dana. It appears as if Philip Newcomb wasn’t much for writing. But I did place a call to the police in Greenville. I was told they had jurisdiction in all murder cases in the county at that time. Twenty or thirty years ago small-town sheriffs had little or no actual police training.
“But that all changed, because everything’s now high-tech. I have a computer in my office that will match up fingerprints and give me a rap sheet on a defendant in less than three minutes. I have the most up-to-date crime-scene equipment on the market today. You can’t blame Philip Newcomb, because he’s a dinosaur. He wouldn’t know the first thing about turning on a computer, collecting hair samples for DNA testing, or how to use a rape kit.” He patted her hand in a comforting gesture. “I’m sorry.”
She smiled despite the disappointing news. “It’s all right. I plan to go to Greenville to check out the coroner’s and fire marshal’s reports.”
“If I can help you in any way, please let me know. For the more technical pieces I can hook you up with a few of old friends from the Bureau.”
She kissed his cheek. “Thanks again. For everything.”
Tyler listened to the incessant ringing in his ear, swearing softly under his breath. Why couldn’t he connect with anyone in his family? He’d called Palm Beach, hoping to talk to his Aunt Vanessa, but the Kirklands had deactivated their answering machine. His next call was to Las Cruces, New Mexico, hoping Emily would be able to give him the information needed to contact her mother, but again he heard the persistent ringing.
His last resort was to call Michael. Someone had to be home at the Georgetown residence. Michael, as a teacher, didn’t work the summer months, and Jolene, the mother of a one-year-old, was four months pregnant.
He sighed audibly when he heard the break in the connection. “Hey, primo.”
“How’s married life, Tyler?”
“Excellent, Michael. I’m calling because I’m trying to locate your mother. I called Chris, and Emily, but there’s no answer there, too.”
“Everyone’s in Ocho Rios for a month. Mom and Dad went down last week, and Emily, Chris, and the kids left yesterday. I told them to use the house, because it looks as if Jolene and I won’t get down there this year.”
“How’s she feeling?”
“She had a couple of weeks of morning, afternoon, and evening sickness, then it stopped. She’s eating a lot of little meals to try to put on the five pounds she lost during that time. This pregnancy is so different from her first one. I can’t wait until it’s over. She won’t let me look at her. And if I try to touch her, it’s ten times worse than the Tet Offensive, the Battle of Gettysburg, and the Battle of Hastings combined. I’d rather face a napalm assault than have her in my face. Primo, the woman hates me.”
“Your wife is pregnant, Michael. You should get some literature and read about the changes in her body.”
Tyler held the phone away from his ear when he heard his cousin cursing about what he could do with his literature. “Why don’t you take her away?” Tyler asked. “Maybe you guys should go to Ocho Rios. After all, you own the property now.” Michael’s parents had given him and Jolene the house and five miles of private beach for a wedding gift.
“Right now it’s too hot for Jolene. All she complains about is the heat.”
“I’d have you guys come here, but I’m still waiting for furniture for the bedrooms. In fact, half the rooms are still empty.”
“Thanks for the offer, primo. I guess it’s not as bad as I’m making it out to be. I’m glad you called because I got a postcard from Gray a couple of days ago. He’s touring Europe this summer. He wrote he should back right after Labor Day. I’m sorry about that. I guess it comes down to bad timing. By the way, how’s Dana?”
“She’s good. If you hear from your mother, have her call me. I need her help in setting up a philanthropic foundation.”
“I’ll call her and tell her to call you.”
“Thanks, Michael.”
“No problem, primo.”
Tyler hung up, his anxiety dissipating quickly. He’d received his credit-card statement with the hotel charges for the Connellys. Writing a chec
k, he paid the charges, his mind working overtime when he realized he had to set up a foundation for medical research in Hillsboro. The nearest county hospital was several miles outside Calico, too far for Hillsboro residents. He’d told the Connellys the foundation was the SCC Foundation for Medical Research—the initials SCC for Samuel Claridge Cole—his grandfather.
Samuel Cole had been a businessman, not a medical practitioner. If Tyler was going to give away his wealth, then maybe the name of the foundation should honor a medical professional.
His forehead furrowed slightly as he scribbled names on a pad that was advertising a new drug. He wrote down his grandfather’s name with a money sign next to it. After all, the money he planned to donate he’d inherited following Samuel Cole’s death.
The newspaper on a corner of his desk caught his eye. It was the edition of the Herald with the column Dana had written. Reaching for the paper, he flipped pages until he saw her byline. He read the column, smiling. His wife was a very talented journalist. Her portrayal of Dr. Silas Nichols was not only vivid, but also informative.
He picked up the pen and wrote: Dr. Silas Nichols—SCC Foundation for Medical Research. As soon as the letters formed themselves, he knew that would become the name of his foundation. Nowhere would anyone connect the C to Cole. One thing he was certain of, and that was that the new medical facility would have a modern neonatal unit.
Tyler pulled Dana closer to his body, pressing a kiss on the nape of her neck. He’d found the back of her neck as sexy as her lush mouth. “Why do you go to your grandmother’s house to work on your notes when you can use the library here?”
Dana heard the censure in his voice. “If I worked here, then it wouldn’t feel as if I’m working.”
“Come again?”
“If I worked here, then I wouldn’t get up early. I’d lie in bed, wasting precious time. I’d probably laze around, hang out in the garden, or perhaps even stop and watch the contractors putting in the pool or the ball court. Meanwhile, if I go to my grandmother’s on the days I don’t go to the Herald, at least I know have to get up, shower, and get dressed just like I was going into an office. I’m much more productive over there.”
“Have you decided what you’re going to do with the property?”
“You know I can’t sell until next June.”
“You might not be able to sell it, but you can rent it.”
She shook her head in the dimly lit bedroom. “No, Tyler. I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
Turning over, she tried to make out his features. “I’m not ready to let it go. I used to love going to Grandma’s. Everything good from my childhood came from that house.”
Tyler kissed her forehead. “You’re going to have to let it go sometime.”
“I know. But not now.”
“How are you coming with your research?”
“Good.”
“Just good?”
“Good is good, Tyler.”
There was a swollen silence, then his soft drawling voice. “Have you told your editor that you’re not coming back?”
“No.”
“What are you waiting for?”
“This is only the beginning of August. I have until the end of September before my leave expires.”
“Our marriage is not a trial run, Dana.”
“I know that, Tyler.”
“Then why do I feel as if at the end of September it’s going to end?”
His voice was void of emotion, and that bothered Dana more than if he’d barked at her. “I can’t help how you feel.”
“Do you even care how I feel?”
“Of course I care, Tyler.”
“Do you really care?”
“Yes, I do!”
“I don’t believe you, Dana!”
She moved away to the edge of the mattress. “It sounds as if you have a personal problem, Dr. Cole.” Sitting up, she swung her legs over the side of the bed.
Moving quickly, Tyler snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her back into the middle of the bed. “My problem is I’ve spoiled you.”
Turning, she pounced on him with the speed of a cat. “And you’re delusional,” she breathed out against his mouth.
He went completely still, staring up at her, her hair falling over her forehead. At that moment she reminded him of a cat. There was enough light coming from a tiny lamp on a table in the sitting room to make out her eyes shining like polished amber.
“I do spoil you, Dana.” He brushed his mouth over hers, nibbling on her lower lip. “The only thing I can’t do for you is breathe,” he crooned deep in his throat.
“You don’t spoil me,” she retorted, refusing to acknowledge his declaration. “It’s I who spoil you. I keep house for you—”
“A house you don’t have to clean,” he said, cutting her off, “because someone comes in and cleans twice a week.”
“I cook your meals.”
He nodded. “Granted you do prepare dinner.”
“And I warm your bed.”
He chuckled. “That you do. Don’t forget the garden.”
Her face burned when she recalled their passionate encounter in the garden. “Don’t forget that I strip for you, too.”
“How can I forget your striptease?”
“I did promise to strip for you again, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did. I’m still waiting, Mrs. Cole.”
Wrinkling her nose, she kissed the side of his strong neck. “You’re going to have to wait a little longer.” Tyler groaned in her ear, his teeth catching her lobe and nibbling it.
She longed to tell him what she’d expected for several days. Her period was late—five days late.
Sliding gracefully off her husband’s body, she lay on her side, her splayed fingers resting on her flat belly. Although her leave of absence was no longer an issue, she knew carrying a child would impact greatly on her efforts to clear her family’s name.
Each legal pad was filled with notes from a corresponding notebook, and the notes she’d gleaned from the notebooks would be entered into a database she’d created to analyze Eugene Payton’s observations. She wasn’t certain how he’d done it, but the attorney had used a cryptogram, using the alphabet, to record direct testimony. It had taken her two days before she was able to decode his secret language.
It wasn’t what was said during the trial as much as what hadn’t been said or asked. There were instances during testimony and cross-examination when she found it difficult to differentiate between the prosecutors and her father’s defense attorney.
Two names jumped out at her over and over: the defense attorney, Sylvester Wilson, and Peter Gillespie, the medical examiner from the coroner’s office.
Tyler’s moist breath swept over her shoulders. “Are you feeling okay?”
“Yes.”
And she was. She wasn’t sick; in fact, she felt wonderful. What she wanted to tell her husband was there was more than a fifty-percent probability he was going to become a father.
Twenty-five
Dana left the house minutes after Tyler, stopping to fill up her car before heading for Jackson, Mississippi. She’d called Sylvester Wilson, identifying herself. He’d hesitated for several seconds, then asked if he could help her. She’d told him that she wanted to talk to him about Harry Nichols’s trial. The soft-spoken attorney had agreed to meet with her following morning at ten-thirty. He’d insisted she not be late because he had a lunch meeting with the governor.
She maneuvered into a parking space in the back of a modern two-story brick building. The number of luxury cars in the lot indicated the lawyer either had a very lucrative practice or well-heeled clients.
A legal assistant showed her to an office filled with exquisite reproductions, informing her Mr. Wilson would meet her as soon as he completed a telephone call.
When Sylvester Wilson walked into the small conference room, Dana felt a cold chill race over her before she was given the opportunity to view hi
s face. Extending his hand, he offered her his professional grin, one that usually disarmed people immediately.
She rose slowly from the plush armchair and shook the proffered hand. His glossy dark eyes roamed over her body before settling on her face.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Nichols. It is Miss Nichols, isn’t it?” he asked, glancing at the rings on her left hand.
“Actually it’s Mrs. Dana Cole. I thought if I’d identified myself as Mrs. Cole you wouldn’t have granted me an audience so easily.”
She studied the face of the man who’d been charged with the responsibility for keeping her father out of jail, for proving him innocent beyond a shadow of a doubt. Sylvester Wilson was medium height, probably five-ten, and slightly built. His custom-made suit was cut to fit his slender body. She estimated him to be in his mid-to-late fifties. His coarse hair was close-cropped and sprinkled with silver. His accessories were impeccable, silk tie, handkerchief, and gold monogrammed cufflinks.
“Please sit down, Dana. May I call you Dana?”
She retook her seat, smiling. “Yes, you may.”
Sylvester took a seat opposite her, clasping his hands together on the highly polished surface of the rosewood table. He had to admit that he’d thought Dana Nichols Cole was Alicia Nichols come back to life when he first walked into the room. Her face, hair, body, and voice were the same as the murdered woman. In his family, the girls usually favored their fathers, but with Dana it was the opposite. Dana was Alicia’s clone.
“How can I help you?”
Dana decided to be direct. “I’ve been studying the details of the case you handled on behalf of Harry Nichols, and I have a few questions to ask you.”
He waved a manicured hand. “Ask.”
“Why did you only call one material witness on my father’s behalf? Why did you turn down Eugene Payton’s request to be called as a witness? Why wasn’t Georgia Sutton asked to testify? And why on earth didn’t you permit my father to testify in his own behalf?”
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