The Rebel's Return

by Beverly Barton

  When the service ended, Dylan escorted Maddie toward the waiting limousine. Leaving his wife’s side, Hart O’Brien caught up with Dylan and called out his name.

  Dylan stopped and turned. While the small crowd that had assembled at the graveside dispersed, Hart said, “We need to talk.”

  “Here?” Dylan asked.

  “How about inside the limo? That would give us some privacy.”

  “What’s this all about?” Maddie inquired.

  Hart motioned toward the open limousine door. Dylan waited for Maddie to slip inside, then followed her. Hart got in, closed the door and sat opposite them.

  “I’m going by my gut instincts,” Hart said. “And by the fact that my wife says that if Maddie believes in you, then you’re an okay guy.” A hint of a smile played at the corners of Hart’s mouth. “I know you’ve been snooping around, asking questions. You need to let us, the police, handle things. You could get in over your head—” he glanced at Maddie “—and take Maddie with you, straight into some big trouble.”

  “Y’all find my father’s killer and I’ll back off,” Dylan said. “Until then—”

  “What if I keep you informed?” Hart asked. “What if you know what we know—would that satisfy you? Would you stop playing amateur detective then?”

  “Are you making the offer?” Dylan looked Hart square in the eyes.

  “I got an okay from Chief Terry to keep you posted,” Hart said.

  “I’m no longer a suspect?”

  “Not as far as the police are concerned.”

  Dylan understood his meaning. The police had no real reason to suspect Dylan and no evidence of any kind. But there would still be people in Mission Creek who’d think Dylan had murdered his own father.

  “Bring me up to date and I’ll consider your deal,” Dylan said.

  Hart nodded. “Two things. One: Erica Clawson thinks she remembers seeing a man getting in a car parked in the front parking lot when she first went outside on her break, before she saw your father’s body in the pond. Two: The murder weapon has disappeared from the crime lab.”

  “Interesting.” Dylan absorbed the information. “Even if the gun is missing, does it really matter? Y’all identified it as the murder weapon and the forensic guys didn’t lift any prints off the gun, right? So why would anybody bother stealing it? And if Erica Clawson can’t identify the person she thinks she saw, then what good does that do us?”

  “Erica might remember more,” Hart said. “She seemed awfully nervous when we questioned her.”

  “The girl did find a dead body,” Maddie reminded him. “That’s enough to make anybody nervous.”

  Hart shrugged. “The missing weapon is what concerns us. We hadn’t made public the fact that there were no fingerprints found on the gun, so if it was stolen, whoever took it might have known something only a few people knew, only we insiders knew—Chief Terry had requested the gun be tested more thoroughly, for the lab to look for a palm print. Finding a palm print is always a long shot, but more than one criminal has been caught that way.”

  “Are you saying that y’all believe somebody inside the police department took the gun?” Maddie asked.

  Hart grunted. “Either the police department or the sheriff’s department. Looks like when we cleaned house, one rat might have eluded our trap. Either that or some new recruit has been bought off.”

  “Any ideas on who?” Dylan asked.

  “Not a clue,” Hart said. “But if there’s still one rotten apple in the barrel, I’ll find him.”

  “What about the palm print?” Dylan asked. “You said it was a long shot. Did—”

  “Yeah, the lab lifted a palm print, but that will help us only if we bring in a suspect and can compare prints.”

  Maddie nudged Dylan. “Why don’t we tell Hart who we think might have been behind your father’s murder?”

  Dylan contemplated her suggestion. If Hart O’Brien could trust him, then he should be able to trust Hart. “We think it’s possible that either Carmine Mercado or Frank Del Brio hired a hit man to kill my dad.”

  Hart’s eyes widened. “A mob hit?”

  “A personal vendetta,” Dylan said. “Because my father defended the four men accused of killing Haley Mercado and got them acquitted.”

  “I’d say we’ve come to the same conclusion—that it’s a possibility one or both of those men were involved. And if our killer is a hit man, he’s a sloppy one. I’d say he’s some two-bit sleazeball hood.”

  “A wannabe hit man?” Maddie asked.

  “Yeah, something like that. The guy made too many mistakes to be a true professional. The scheme to kill the judge could have been a hasty decision, thus the use of a local wise guy.” Hart glanced at Dylan. “But without evidence, the police can’t go pointing fingers at anyone in particular.”

  “Well, I’m not hampered by your rules and regulations,” Dylan said. “I can—”

  “You can wind up getting your butt put in jail, if somebody doesn’t shoot you first.”

  Dylan harrumphed.

  “There are other possibilities,” Hart said. “We need to explore those before going off in the wrong direction.”

  “And what would the right direction be?” Maddie asked.

  “Judge Bridges was on the bench for quite a few years and he sentenced a lot of people to prison. Until we rule out every criminal who ever threatened the judge’s life—”

  “Do you have a list of those people?”

  “We’ve got a list, but we haven’t had time to check out everyone. Not yet.”

  “Is that the only other possibility?” Dylan asked.

  Hart shook his head. “A couple of months ago we had a baby left on the golf course, on the ninth tee. Flynt and Josie Carson are foster parenting the child, a little girl named Lena.”

  “What does this have to do with my father?”

  “Maybe nothing,” Hart said. “But we’ve found out that Judge Bridges showed quite an interest in the child’s welfare.”

  “So?” Dylan stared quizzically at Hart.

  “It may be only a coincidence, but three of the four men who found baby Lena were defendants in the Haley Mercado murder case. And the fourth defendant was supposed to have been playing with them that morning, but a last-minute substitute took his place when he had to go out of town.”

  “You’re stretching a little there, aren’t you, Detective?” Dylan said.

  “It’s my job to consider every possibility. That way we make sure we’re going after the right person.”

  The moment they arrived at the Bridges house, Maddie spoke to the caterers she had hired. Dylan had given her free rein in organizing the post-funeral reception. She had not only arranged for the caterers, the fresh flowers and the string quartet, but she had made several phone calls to various friends letting them know how disappointed she’d be if they didn’t stop by this evening. She’d be damned if she’d let anybody snub Dylan, regardless of their personal feelings or their suspicions about him. She had enough clout so that just the threat of her displeasure would assemble a nice crowd at the Bridges home.

  She’d also used a threat to keep her mother away—and to silence Nadine’s incessant warnings about Dylan. She’d told her mother plainly that she could and would discontinue paying for the upkeep of the huge mansion in which she resided so comfortably. Her mother would sulk for days and probably take to her bed with a sick headache, but at least she’d give Maddie a breather.

  Everyone who was anyone in Mission Creek put in an appearance, some staying for ten minutes, others for a couple of hours. Strange how the death of a friend or close acquaintance brought people together.

  Even though she’d been dazed by grief and thankfully numb after her father’s funeral, she remembered bits and pieces of that evening. Everyone who’d known Jock Delarue had had a story to tell, and listening to various people reminiscing about her father had been comforting. She hoped that hearing about his father’s life, told in vivid term
s by his oldest and dearest friends, helped Dylan deal with the judge’s death. Hadn’t some wise person once said that you were never truly gone as long as there was one person alive who remembered you?

  As the evening wore on, Maddie could sense exhaustion claiming Dylan. His broad shoulders slumped, his eyelids drooped occasionally, and she noticed he kept looking at his watch. She suspected that he hadn’t slept more than a few hours each night since the judge’s murder. And today, Dylan had gone through a lengthy funeral, then buried his father and spent the past three hours being a host. It was time for her to graciously rid the house of the stragglers, who were still drinking and reminiscing.

  Fifteen minutes later Maddie waved goodbye to the string quartet as she ushered them out the back door. Only the catering staff remained to clean up.

  Turning to Racine Borden, the caterer, Maddie said, “Thank you. Everything was lovely. Just perfect.” Then she added, “I’d like a fresh pot of decaf coffee brought to the study, please. And when y’all finish up, just lock the back door on your way out.”

  “Yes, Ms. Delarue. And thank you for using Borden Catering.”

  As she entered the living room, Maddie found Dylan removing his jacket. “The caterers are finishing up and should be out of here soon. Until then, why don’t we go sit down in the study? I’ve asked Ms. Borden to bring us some decaf coffee.”

  Dylan whipped off his tie and undid the top two buttons on his shirt. “That sounds like a good idea. I’m dead on my feet.”

  Maddie slipped her arm through his and walked him down the hall and into the study. “This has been a long day. You look beat.” She led him to an old, overstuffed sofa. “Sit and relax.”

  He did as she requested and sat, leaned his head against the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. “God, I’m tired.”

  “You haven’t been sleeping, have you?” Maddie sat beside him.

  He lifted his eyelids and gave her a sidelong glance. “I can’t begin to tell you how many times since Dad’s murder that I’ve dreamed about his body floating in the pond. And like most dreams, they’ve been surreal and all mixed up. I keep hearing laughter. And seeing fingers pointing. And twice—” he swallowed hard “—twice I’ve dreamed that the townsfolk lynched me. Strung me up at the courthouse.”

  “Oh, Dylan.” Scooting closer, she grabbed his hand. “No rational person would believe you killed your father.”

  He squeezed her hand, then let go and rubbed his forehead. Apparently overcome with frustration, he slammed his fist down on his thigh. “I didn’t kill my dad, but maybe I could have done something to have prevented his murder.”

  “What do you think you could have done?” She recognized the emotion that rode him so hard—guilt. After her father died, she’d felt guilty, but had eventually come to realize that it was a common reaction among family and close friends when a person died. In the weeks and months after Jock Delarue’s death, she had thought of all the things she wished she’d said and done while he was alive. No doubt Dylan was now experiencing that same sense of regret.

  “If I hadn’t let so many years go by before I came home, then I’d have been here for him when he needed me. If we’d had a long-standing father-and-son relationship, I’d have known if somebody was threatening him. He would have told me if he was in trouble.”

  “It’s only natural to wish you could have done something that would have changed things.”

  “Is it?” He turned to Maddie, his gaze locking with hers. “You have no idea how guilty I feel. I keep thinking that it’s all my fault, that if I’d been a better son…” Dylan’s voice cracked. He jerked around, putting his back to her.

  Oh, God, help him, Maddie prayed. He’s hurting in the worst way possible. When she laid her hand on his back, he tensed.

  Dylan cleared his throat. “Why don’t you go on home? You’ve got to be exhausted, too.”

  “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

  He snorted. “Why? Do you think I’ll fall apart without you?”

  “No, of course not. It’s just that—”

  He whirled around, tension and anger etched on his features. “Look, Red, I’ve had about as much as I can stand of your sympathy. Stop hovering over me. You’re driving me nuts.”

  Maddie felt as if he’d slapped her. She stared at him, her gaze questioning his unkind comments.

  Racine Borden knocked, then opened the study door and brought in a silver coffee service and placed the tray on the desk by the windows. “Here’s the coffee you requested. We’re almost finished and will be leaving shortly.”

  “Thank you,” Maddie said, then rose from the sofa, walked over to the desk and poured herself a cup of coffee.

  The minute the caterer left the room, Maddie asked, “Would you like some?”

  “No. I don’t want any coffee. I want to be left alone.”

  She glanced down at the china cup she held in her hand. “Do you mind if I drink this before I leave?”

  “Hell, Maddie, just go, will you? Fix yourself some damn coffee at home.”

  What was wrong with him? she asked herself. Why all of a sudden had he turned on her, venting his frustration and rage directly at her? Think about it, Maddie. He almost broke down and cried in front of you just a few minutes ago. He’s let you get too close, let you see his vulnerability, something most men hate with a passion. He wants to warn you off before he loses control. The last thing on earth a man like Dylan Bridges would want was for someone to see him in a moment of weakness.

  “I’ll go.” She placed the cup and saucer on the silver tray. “I realize you’ll be just fine without me.” Turn the tables on him, she told herself. Let him know that you’re the one in need right now. Let him show you his strength. “But I’m not so sure how well I’ll do without you.”

  She walked to the door, then paused and glanced over her shoulder. “I guess wanting to stay here with you was selfish on my part. I dread going home to my big, empty condo. I’m not quite as strong as you are. I hate being alone when I’m so sad and unhappy and—”

  “Drink your coffee before you go,” he said.

  “No. I…no, thanks. I’ll be all right. I’m used to being alone. It’s just that for tonight, I’d hoped—”

  While Maddie watched in astonishment, Dylan rose from the sofa and lunged across the room. She held her breath as he grabbed her, then she sighed when he pulled her into his arms. She leaned against him as his embrace surrounded her and he pressed his cheek against hers.

  “I’m sorry, honey. I wasn’t thinking about anybody except myself.”

  She slipped her arms around his waist and rested her head on his chest. He stroked her back soothingly. Bless him, he was comforting her. He was the one in charge now, the strong, commanding male.

  “Come on back.” He led her to the sofa, seated her and then went to the desk and picked up her cup and saucer. “Here you go, Red. Drink your coffee.” After handing her coffee to her, he returned to the desk and prepared himself a cup. “We had a nice crowd here tonight, didn’t we? I was surprised that so many people showed up. I figured they’d stay away in droves. Maybe everybody in town doesn’t think I killed my father.”

  “No one thinks that,” she said, knowing her statement was a little white lie. But what did it matter as long as it made Dylan feel better?

  They sat together on the sofa for hours and drank the decaf coffee and talked, both making sure the conversation never became too personal and didn’t delve too deeply into Dylan’s emotions. Sometime before midnight, they both fell asleep sitting together in the study. At two, Maddie woke and realized she was cuddled up against Dylan, her head on his shoulder. She stood, stretched and gazed down at him. He stirred, but didn’t wake, then he slumped over so that his head touched the arm rest. Maddie lifted his long legs and placed them on the sofa. When she removed his shoes, he murmured something unintelligible. She lifted a large knit afghan from the back of the sofa and draped it over Dylan.

  “Thanks
for needing me,” she whispered as she leaned down to kiss his cheek. “And thanks for not seeing through my little ploy.”

  Leaving him sleeping soundly, Maddie let herself out and headed home in the wee hours of the warm August morning.

  Nine

  In her home office, Maddie gathered her files together and placed them in her briefcase. The annual Labor Day barbeque at the country club was only a couple of weeks away and there was still a great deal to do. Thankfully, Alicia had turned out to be a godsend. The young woman was, without a doubt, the best assistant Maddie had ever had. And this past week having a topnotch assistant had been vital, freeing Maddie several afternoons to go off with Dylan in their continuing efforts to unearth information that might lead them to Carl Bridges’ murderer.

  So far, they’d come up with nothing that put them any closer to solving the crime. True to his word, Hart had kept them posted on the police investigation, which seemed to be going nowhere. And with each passing day, Dylan became more disheartened. But the more hopeless things seemed, the more determined he became not to stop searching, despite Hart’s cautions to let the police handle the matter.

  As she walked through the living room, Maddie deposited her briefcase and purse on the mahogany table in the foyer, then headed straight toward the delicious aroma coming from the kitchen. Anticipating Thelma’s homemade cinnamon rolls, Maddie swung open the door and followed the spicy scent. Thelma emptied a pan of freshly baked rolls onto a plate in the center of the oval, oak table.

  “Good morning.” Maddie sniffed, sighed and pulled out a chair. “To what do I owe the honor of being served cinnamon rolls this morning?”

  Thelma dumped the hot pan in the sink, then poured a cup of gourmet coffee into a ceramic mug and placed it on the paisley placemat in front of Maddie. “You said that as if I never prepare fresh-baked rolls for you.”

  “You don’t.” Before Thelma could defend herself, Maddie added, “And it’s because I’ve asked you not to. Your pies and cakes are delicious, too, but so tempting.” Maddie patted her round hips. “Every extra bite of sugar goes right here. It’s the curse of all short, curvy women.”