by Lisa Jackson
“Yeah, you should have. But it’s too late for apologies, Shelby.” He turned and faced her with those damning eyes. “Let’s get on with this. What about the people who worked with Pritchart, or nurses at the hospital, someone who was there?”
Bristling slightly, she said, “I’ve called the hospital, asked for records, but all they have is the birth and death certificate. They show that Elizabeth died.”
“There had to be other people. Doctors—your anesthesiologist, aides, someone on the nursing staff or who worked in the maternity ward or pediatric unit.”
“I know. So far I’ve come up with nothing.” She lifted a hand to let it fall again.
“What hospital?”
She’d known this was coming. “Our Lady Of Sorrows in Coopersville.”
“Where Caleb Swaggart is?” he asked and she watched as the wheels of his mind began to turn.
“But it was smaller nine years ago. A lot smaller. It was before my father left an endowment to the hospital in my mother’s name. Then Our Lady Of Sorrows got swallowed up by a bigger system.”
His head snapped up. “When did this happen?”
“My father left his endowment right after I had the baby,” she admitted. “I didn’t know about it until this afternoon, when I saw some of his files.” She glanced at the house, caught Lydia watching them from an open kitchen window, then realized that Pablo was nearby, ostensibly weeding the flower garden on the other side of the arbor that guarded the pool. Was Lydia, from the vantage point of the corner window, observing Shelby and Nevada on one side of the arbor, or keeping her ever-vigilant eagle eye on her brother-in-law?
“How much of an endowment?”
“I don’t know. I just found a letter of thanks from the board of directors and the hospital administrator. I haven’t had a chance to talk to him about it yet.”
Nevada’s fist opened and closed. “You think it might have been a payoff, for the hospital’s part in this.”
“Yes.” She was sick at the thought, but it was true.
“Hell.” He raked impatient fingers through his hair. “Why was your father so against you keeping the baby?”
“The shame of it all,” she said with a sigh. “He thought I was hell-bent to ruin my life.”
“Were you?”
She looked into the eyes she’d once loved so fiercely, to the man she would have, years ago, walked through hell to be with. “Maybe. Who knows? I was just a kid. But the way I figure it, it was mine to ruin.”
“And our daughter’s.” A thread of accusation wound through his words.
“Let’s get something straight, Nevada,” she said emphatically. “No matter what, I would never, ever have done anything to hurt my child.”
“Except not tell the father.”
She felt as if he’d slugged her. “I ... I thought we got past that, but obviously not.” As far as she was concerned, the conversation was over. She started for her car. He caught up with her, grabbed her wrist and spun her around so fast she nearly collided with him.
“Okay, that was a cheap shot, but I want to believe that now we’re on even turf. You’ve told me everything I need to know. Right?”
“Absolutely.” Except about the rape. You haven’t come clean about the rape, Shelby.
“Good.” For a minute he didn’t say another word, and she felt his fingertips hot against the skin on the inside of her wrist. Her pulse jumped, and as she stared into his face she wished to high heaven that she was anywhere else on earth. Being this close to him was too nerve-wracking, too emotional, too damned seductive. “I—I have to go.”
“So do I.”
Still he didn’t move, and Shelby was vaguely aware of the gardener’s rake scraping in the dirt and a bird chirping high overhead, but for a second, while she stared up at Nevada, she felt seventeen again—all youth and innocence and rebellion. It had been so long ago. A lifetime. She swallowed hard, and his gaze drifted to her throat.
“Be careful.”
“I will.”
“If you get any more phone calls, or there’s any trouble ... Hell, I should come with you.”
“I’ll be fine. You take care of things here. Talk to Levinson. Find Pritchart.”
“Shelby—”
Oh, Lord, was he going to kiss her again? She pulled her arm away and he let go. “I mean it, Shelby. Don’t take any chances.”
The most risky chance I ever took was with you.
“I said I’d be careful and I will be. You do the same, Nevada.” And then she headed for her car. She didn’t say good-bye, didn’t watch as he made his way to his truck and drove off. Behind the wheel of the Cadillac, she blew her bangs from her eyes and adjusted the rearview mirror, where she caught a glimpse of her flushed cheeks and bright eyes. “Oh, yeah, and you’re a moron,” she chided. “A complete and utter moron.” She had to compose herself. She couldn‘t, wouldn’t, let herself fall in love with Nevada Smith again. Hell would freeze over first.
Shep Marson couldn’t shake the bad feeling that had been with him for the past couple of days—ever since he’d pulled Mary Beth Looney and Ross McCallum over. Nope, that uneasiness had followed him around like a bad smell and still tailed after him as he pulled into the Estevan driveway and cut the engine of his cruiser.
Officially, Shep was off duty, but he didn’t want to go home just yet. Peggy Sue was sure to be as snarly as a cornered timber wolf that he was late, but she’d have to wait. This was important. He hitched his pants up as he strode up the front walk.
The Estevan house, an adobe-and-tile bungalow, was well kept, the dry yard trimmed, petunias and marigolds blooming in abundance in planters clustered in pots on the shaded front porch. Fuchsias trailed bright pink from hanging pottery. A well-used tricycle was parked beside the hose bib. On the window ledge, a calico cat scratched at her ear with a back leg, but at the sight of Shep, it hopped off and slunk around the corner.
As he climbed up the steps, he heard a woman singing over the sound of running water. The hot, spicy scent of something made with chili powder and cumin wafted through the screen door. His stomach growled, and he took out his can of Copenhagen and put a fresh pinch under his lip; then he rapped on the door.
The singing abruptly stopped. The water quit running. He peered into the house, where a television was turned on in one corner of a living room, the sound turned down low.
Vianca appeared, her hair wrapped in a towel, water spots on the shoulders of her sleeveless blouse. “Yes?” she said through the mesh.
No need for introductions; they’d met before. Shep tipped his hat. “I thought I’d stop by and see how you and your ma were gettin’ along,” he said, then added, “This ain’t official business, you understand, just a friendly visit. I figure it’s tough on you both now that Ross McCallum’s out of jail.”
“Cabrón!” she spat out, her eyes flashing with anger.
He didn’t argue. Most people in Bad Luck considered Ross McCallum a bastard or worse.
Scowling, Vianca slid through the screen door and pointed to a couple of plastic chairs on the porch. “Madre hasn’t taken it well.”
“I can imagine.” Lowering himself into a dusty chair next to the one Vianca had claimed, he took off his hat and fiddled with the brim. He was usually a confident man, but Vianca Estevan was the kind of woman who made him squirm. Innately sexy, she had a kind of innocence beneath her tough-as-nails exterior, an innocence that he found damned attractive. She was rumored to be easy; Shep found himself wishing the gossip would prove true.
“Madre—she is not well.”
Shep nodded; he’d heard the story that ever since her husband was murdered, Aloise Estevan had slipped further and further into confusion. She attended Mass twice a day, was rumored to have a shrine built to Ramón’s memory in the house she shared with her daughter and grandson, and was known to speak to Ram6n though, of course, he was long dead.
Vianca crossed her slim legs, and Shep tried not to stare at the hem
of white shorts that barely covered her butt. He wondered if she wore panties and what color they were, but sucked a little harder on his wad of chew and forced his eyes to meet hers.
“I’m sorry. I know this has been hard for her and it won’t get much easier in the next couple of weeks. The department’s gonna reopen the investigation into Ramon’s death, and so you might have to deal with investigators and probably the press.”
“Mierda! My father is dead, Señor—er. Deputy Marson. Muerto. No one can bring him back. And sí, it would be good if the bastard who killed him was brought to justice, but”—she shrugged and the towel she’d wound around her head slipped a bit as she leaned her head to one side and pinned him with eyes as black as night and as hot as coats—“it would not bring him back to life.”
“It’s our job,” he said. “I thought you’d like to know.” She pursed her lips, and Shep found himself wondering what it would be like to kiss her—or more. As hot-blooded as she was, she’d probably be a real she-cat in bed. Lord, she was a randy-lookin’ thing, and he felt his crotch tighten just looking at her. She adjusted the towel and her gaze followed a truck lumbering down the street. As she lifted her hands and fiddled with the towel, her blouse gaped a bit and he caught a glimpse of the top of one breast, a warm honey color over a lacy scrap of a red bra. Red—near scarlet. Shep hadn’t seen a red one in years. Lately Peggy Sue had become partial to a white support thing that turned a dingy shade of gray after a few washings. But this—he couldn’t help but stare and the spit dried in his throat.
“Gracias. ” Her voice was cold. Brittle.
His head snapped up, and he found her staring at him. Hard. With those fiery black eyes.
Shep held her stare. No need to try and hide the fact that he found her sexy. She didn’t so much as blink.
He cleared his throat. “I know you were working at the store the night your father was killed.”
“Sí,” she said, suddenly guarded.
“You saw Ross McCallum there.”
A mute nod.
“Who else?”
“I have told this over and over,” she said, “when the investigators first asked questions.” Somewhere down the street a dog began to put up a ruckus.
“I know, but refresh my memory.”
She hesitated, little lines etching her forehead as she thought, “There was his sister, Mary Beth,” she said with a frown, “and, of course, the whore.”
“Ruby Dee.”
“Sí. ” Vianca’s lips curled into a sneer. “Ruby. And Joe Hawk, he was there earlier, much earlier, with ... Nevada Smith.” She looked away.
Bingo! Shep had thought Nevada and his cousin were there, but hadn’t yet looked through the reams of testimony and depositions from McCallum’s trial.
“Badger Collins, Etta Parsons .... Celeste—oh, she is the daughter of Caleb, the drunk.” She snapped her fingers impatiently as she tried to remember. Vianca was on a roll now.
“Swaggert, now Hernandez.”
“Yes, she was there and Manny Dauber and Lucy ... the woman who now works at the White Horse.” Vianca whispered a stream of Spanish as if it would jog her memory.
“Lucy Pride,” Shep supplied, though he knew from the few scrapes Lucy had been in that she had a record and had used more than one alias. Recently, she seemed to have become law-abiding. Hence, he supposed, the name Pride.
“Sí. Pride,” Vianca agreed, chewing on her lower lip as she rolled back the years. “There were so many. Maria Ramirez, and Juan Paditta—and your wife was there, too,” Vianca pointed out and Shep’s jaw clenched tight. It was a shame Peggy Sue’s name was even involved.
“Just pickin’ up some Tylenol for one of the kids,” he said quickly, feeling the need to defend the woman he’d taken as his bride such a long time ago. “Timmy had a headache—the flu, I think.”
Vianca waved off his excuse and damn but she wasn’t right. Half the damned town had been at the convenience store that night; though without a motive or a murder weapon, the investigation would probably stall.
But the name that kept worming into Shep’s brain, that never seemed to go away, was Nevada Smith. He’d worked tirelessly on the Estevan case years ago, insisting that Ross McCallum had offed Ram6n while drunk and arguing about a gambling debt. At the time it had all seemed to fit, especially with the witnesses who had seen Ram6n and Ross arguing heatedly in the parking lot over two thousand dollars. But even ten years ago, Shep’s gut had told him that Nevada was working too hard to pin the murder on McCallum, that there was a personal grudge involved. Maybe that was the ticket—find out what the bad blood between McCallum and Smith was.
He suspected it was about a woman—the princess herself.
Shelby Cole was the source of the trouble, Shep would bet his grandfather’s silver-plated spurs on it. And he was kinda related to Shelby—a cousin once or twice removed—so he had a personal interest.
“Vianca!” a shrill voice cried. Somewhere deep within the house a door slammed. Small scurrying feet scrambled through the house.
Vianca was on her feet as the screen door burst open and a boy of about four barreled through. “Tía V, Tía V, ” he cried, his mop of black hair flying as he flung himself into Vianca’s arms.
She pulled him off his feet and whirled him around as he giggled wildly. Her towel came completely undone and her black hair tumbled past her shoulders in wild curls. “Oh, little Ramón, you are a devil, do you hear me,” she said, kissing his cheeks and tossing the towel onto her recently vacated chair. “A precious little diablo.” Casting a glance at Shep, she explained, “My brother Roberto’s son, and the light of my life.” She nuzzled the boy’s cheek.
Little Ram6n threw back his head and laughed as the door opened again and Aloise Estevan, stoop-shouldered and grayhaired, appeared. Her eyes were haunted and soulless, her once-flawless skin now lined and sallow. Leaning heavily on a metal cane, she looked at Shep, but he was certain she didn’t recognize him—probably didn’t remember too many folks.
Vianca made quick introductions, but to no avail. Aloise muttered something unintelligible under her breath, and Vianca’s expression changed from pure, unfettered glee to despair.
“No, Madre, he is not here. Remember? Padre is ... is gone.” She sent Shep a quick glance, and he got the message.
“I’ll be shovin’ off now,” he said, suddenly in need of a beer.
Aloise kept talking, her face expressionless, her vision centered on a world only she could see. The calico cat reappeared, and Little Ramón slid down his aunt’s slim body to chase after the beast.
Shep tipped his hat. “I’ll be talkin’ with you again.”
“Sí, ” Vianca said. Almost shyly, she offered him a smile that followed him back to his car and all the way home to Peggy Sue’s hot temper and cold bed.
Shelby’s trip to San Antonio was a bust.
So far, Orrin Findley had been no help whatsoever. Of course, Shelby had yet to see the man or even talk to him on the phone. She’d spent two days trying to get into his office, but hadn’t made it past his drill sergeant of a secretary. Now, as she sat at an open-air cafe on the River Walk, watching a sightseeing river barge filled with tourists float down the San Antonio River, she remembered the excuses she’d heard.
“Mr. Findley is out of town.”
“Mr. Findley is in court.”
“Mr. Findley is away from his desk.”
“Mr. Findley is in a meeting.”
The truth was that Mr. Findley was ducking her. Leaning back in a cafe chair as a breeze moved the leaves in the branches overhead, she sipped lemonade and tried to hold on to her rapidly escaping patience. The element of surprise hadn’t helped; Findley had been indisposed at every turn.
In the meantime Shelby hadn’t been idle. She’d checked in with her office in Seattle, making sure that her clients hadn’t suffered. The agent she’d left in charge was more than capable and urged her to “take your time. Everything’s handled.” Shel
by trusted him.
She’d also called Lydia, only to discover that Ben Levinson had finally phoned, but when she’d dialed the number Lydia had given her, an answering machine picked up. In frustration, she’d left the number of her hotel, then walked to the library, where she’d gone through old newspaper clippings on microfiche, reading everything she could about Ross McCallum’s trial. She couldn’t help but think his release from prison was what had prompted someone to write the anonymous letter and send the picture of Elizabeth to her. But who? And why? And where in God’s name was Elizabeth? The knot of tension in her stomach tightened, as it always did when she thought of her daughter and the fact that she was nowhere near finding her.
In desperation, she had even called Nevada, hoping that he’d been in touch with Levinson or had learned something but he, too, had been out. She hadn’t bothered leaving a message with him as she planned to be back in Bad Luck soon. She’d visit him then.
She’d resorted to less honest means to talk to her father’s lawyer. Having overheard his secretary book a lunch for him in a restaurant on the River Walk, only three doors down from this shaded cafe, Shelby had decided to accost him. She’d planted herself in a chair with a view of the entrance to the restaurant in which he was presumably dining with his client. While waiting, she’d drunk three glasses of lemonade.
Findley was supposed to have met with his client at one. It was now pushing three. She checked her watch again, swirled the lemonade in her glass and watched the front door of the establishment. Another ten minutes passed and she thought she’d go mad. The table next to her was vacated for a few minutes. Another couple, obviously in love from the way they linked hands under the table and scooted their chairs close together, sat down and partially blocked her view. Several crows and pigeons, wings flapping, vied for leftover crumbs that had fallen to the cobblestones beneath the tables.
Come on, come on, she thought, glancing over her shoulder and hoping that no one recognized her. Ever since Nevada had told her about the telephone calls when no one answered, she’d been nervous, more on edge than ever.
Finally she saw him emerge—the man whose picture had graced the reception area of his law office. Tall and silverhaired, with darkly tanned skin and a tiny white moustache, Orrin Findley was a beanpole of a man in a Western-cut suit and string tie. He and his client, still engrossed in conversation, sauntered along the river, then up the stairs to the main streets. Shelby left her glass and a few dollars on the table, then followed, trying to keep her quarry in sight without attracting any attention herself as she hurried up the stairs to the higher ground of the main part of town. Findley and the other man parted company at the lawyer’s shiny black Jaguar with vanity plates that read SALAW.
