When they reached the parking lot at Merritt Square, Allie realized it was almost midnight. The normalcy of the place seemed eerie. She expected blue lights or crime scene tape, some indication of the chaos that ensued a few hours before, but the place looked abandoned. The soda lights spaced around the area gave the black asphalt an unearthly glow. Her eyes were drawn to the spot where Joe fell, and she thought she saw a dark stain on the ground that might have been blood. Or oil. Or maybe she’d lost it.
She retrieved her car and made it back to her house without incident. Somehow, her escort picked up another police cruiser on the way. They wound their way through the neighborhood like some kind of law enforcement parade with Allie as the drum major, and she wondered what her sun-worshiper neighbor thought this time. She was glad no one could see her clothes—blood on her sweater from shoulder to waist, her brand new pink jeans reduced to future cleaning rags.
Once home, the cops ordered her to wait outside in her car until Barry and Erin searched every inch of her house. Another officer stayed with her, not speaking, just hovering. You would have thought she was the target instead of Joe. The thought brought her up short. Could she have been the target? She shook her head. She couldn’t deal with that right now.
Allie thanked the officers and felt relief when they left. Spook took one look at her and scooted behind the couch. She didn’t blame him. If she were smaller, she might have joined him. She wanted desperately to get out of her bloodstained clothes and into a hot shower, but as she started pulling off her sweater, she heard a knock on the door. She yanked her sweater down and stormed back into the living room. Enough. She’d had the night from hell, and now they wouldn’t leave her alone. She could see the outline of the officer through the jalousies, the shape of his hat, the bump on his hip that was his gun. She flung open the door and gasped. She shoved past the officer at the door. Another officer held Marc face down in her front yard, holding Marc’s arm up behind him at an angle that looked painful and shining a flashlight in his face.
“Marc!”
“You know him, ma’am?” the officer on her doorstep asked.
Allie was across the yard in an instant. “Oh, Marc, I’m so sorry. What are you doing here?”
He looked up at Allie, his face expressionless until he saw her sweater. Then, he knocked the cop away like a pesky fly and stood. “What happened? Are you all right?”
Allie looked from one officer to the other. “I’m sorry. It’s all right. He’s a friend of mine.”
Judging from the look they gave him, they didn’t consider Marc a friend of theirs. She took his hand before they could arrest him for assaulting an officer and pulled him into the house. The minute they were inside, she locked the door. Marc grabbed her and spun her around. “What happened? Is that blood on you?”
Half a dozen smartass answers made their way through her mind before she came up with something suitable. “It’s not mine. Not most of it.”
“What happened?” he demanded again.
Allie looked him up and down. He wore his usual jeans—sand-crusted now from his scuffle in the yard. Grass stains streaked his sweatshirt and his hair fell in his eyes. He looked ridiculously endearing, which was the only reason she told him anything at all. As it was, she gave him the Reader’s Digest condensed version. When he pressed for details, she got stubborn. “First, I have to take a shower. Why don’t you make us some coffee?”
She left him standing in the living room, staring after her with questions radiating off him like gamma rays. She had a few questions of her own, like why he was back a day early and what he’d found out, but all that could wait. She had her priorities.
She stood in the shower until the hot water was only a memory, and then took stock of her injuries, such as they were. Skinned knees. She’d had a lot worse as a kid, but they hurt more now. She dabbed on some peroxide her aunt always kept in the medicine cabinet and declared them treated. The heels of both hands were raw. Not much she could do about those, so she repeated the peroxide routine, biting her lip against the sting and feeling like a wimp. The scrape on her chin bothered her most, and it didn’t even hurt. But it looked like it should hurt.
Back in the bedroom, she pulled on a nightshirt and a pair of sweatpants, tossing her ruined clothes in the trash can. She’d never wear them again. She ran a brush through her towel-dried hair and let it hang loose. Then, she looked around. The smell of fresh-brewed coffee finally brought her out of the bedroom. She didn’t want to tell Marc all that happened. She didn’t want to relive those terrifying moments in the parking lot, the fog-shrouded hours in the emergency room, but she owed it to him. His concern was genuine—and she wanted that coffee.
He brought the pot and mugs into the living room. Allie curled up on the other end of the sofa and took the cup he handed her, taking a moment to sip her coffee. Marc didn’t prod. Maybe the man had potential after all. “I went to the movies with Joe and Sheryl,” she said finally. She told him about hearing a car backfire, only it was a gunshot. About the chaos in the parking lot. The endless wait in the emergency room. Marc listened in silence. At some point during her recitation, his arm found its way around her shoulders, and she gravitated toward his warmth like a newborn pup to its mother’s soft belly. She clutched her coffee cup, ignoring the pain in her hands. “I don’t know why anyone would want to shoot Joe.” Marc had an odd look on his face, but he didn’t say anything.
Allie found herself telling him about her trip to the newspaper, about Myrna’s big mouth, which was a good thing when she talked to Allie but not such a good thing when she blabbed to Rupert Cornelius. She told him about her visit with the sheriff—his suspicion and general hostility.
“Odum hadn’t shown him the photograph?” he asked.
“I don’t think so. He acted like it was the first time he’d seen it.”
Marc’s face displayed a kaleidoscope of emotion while she talked, but in the end, he only grunted. “Busy couple of days.”
“Too busy,” she said flatly, pouring them each more coffee. “How about you? What did you find out?”
“A lot more than I expected.” He settled back on the sofa. “Odum was down in West Palm Beach investigating Eve Cornelius’ death not long after it happened.”
“Joe?”
Marc nodded. “He identified himself to the cops there. I guess he thought it would get him more information. He found out where she spent the evening before she died.” He placed his coffee cup on the table. “Apparently, she got sloppy drunk at a bar called The Rum Runner.” He looked at Allie. “I talked to the bartender there. Probably the owner. He said Eve picked up some guy named Buster who wasn’t known for his ethics.”
“Did the police question this Buster guy?”
“I don’t think anyone mentioned Buster to them.”
“Then, how did Joe—”
Marc grimaced. “Probably the same way I did.” He rubbed his fingers together. “Amazing how many doors money will open. And mouths. Anyway, no one seemed to know where this Buster came from. He showed up at the bar one day and kept coming back. The bartender said he knew for a fact that the guy did drugs and that he made himself available to women for a fee. Good-looking dude, he said. A couple of people thought they might have seen Eve getting on her boat with him.”
“No one told the police that?”
“According to Curtis—the bartender—they weren’t the kind of people who willingly told the police anything. They said she stumbled out of there drunk, but she was laughing, so they blew it off. Then this Buster came back a few days later high as a kite, saying he’d made some quick bucks. Easy as one two three, he said. Then, not long after that, Joe Odum came down to investigate, and the guy vanished.”
Allie stiffened. “You aren’t suggesting Joe did something to him?”
He met her eyes and held them. “I’m not suggesting anything,” he said evenly. “I’m telling you what the bartender told me.”
She stared at him for
a long moment before turning away. “So Joe must have suspected Eve’s death wasn’t an accident.”
“He suspected something. Whatever it was—whatever he found out—he apparently didn’t share it with anyone.”
Allie gritted her teeth. “Maybe he didn’t find out anything.”
“Maybe.”
They sat in an uneasy silence, Allie holding herself back. She wanted to yell at Marc that Joe was innocent and order him from her house because she knew deep in her bones Joe hadn’t killed anyone, but she didn’t know why Joe was down there, nor could she explain where the gigolo went after Joe talked to him. The pieces didn’t fit together to form any kind of pattern.
Allie looked at Marc. “Did you check out whether the sheriff and Rupert were really together?”
He smiled a patient smile. “I was a little busy.”
Allie chewed her thumbnail. Both the sheriff and Rupert Cornelius had reacted when she showed them the photo. She felt as if someone had socked her in the gut. Marc must have sensed her feelings. “What is it?”
She swallowed hard. “I might be the reason Joe got shot.”
He put his coffee cup on the table. “What do you mean?”
“I showed Rupert Cornelius the picture. I told him Joe took a copy of it. And I showed it to the sheriff.” She drew in a sharp breath, and her eyes widened. “Oh, my God, do you think the sheriff shot Joe?” Then, she shook her head furiously. “No, I don’t think he would have missed.”
“Are you sure Joe was the target?”
Marc said it so softly that it took a moment for his words to register. When they did, all active thought stopped; sounds became muted. Are you sure Joe was the target? Allie tried to recall exactly what happened and in what order. They were crossing the parking lot, talking. She stooped to tighten her sandal just as Joe leaned toward her to say something. She tried to blink away her exhaustion, but it went too deep. “I can’t think,” she told Marc.
“I know you don’t want to—”
“No,” she said. “I can’t think. My brain is fried.”
He must have seen her exhaustion because he reached over and brushed the hair away from her face. “Do you want me to leave?”
The thought of being alone terrified her. “No,” she said, “please stay.”
He pulled her into his arms. “I’m not going anywhere unless you want me to.” She was asleep before he finished the sentence.
Chapter 21
Allie awoke in her bed, aching and disoriented. Remembering the night before only made her feel worse. Sheryl and Joe. Gunshot. Blood everywhere. She groaned. Her knees and hands burned. Her eyes felt gritty, and she fought the urge to close them again. More images filled her head. Marc spread-eagled on the grass. Her telling him all of it. Falling asleep.
She looked around, uncertain how she got to bed. She remembered leaning against Marc on the sofa. Had he carried her into the bedroom? It wouldn’t be the first time he’d carried her, but for the sake of his back, she hoped she’d awakened enough to make it under her own steam. Either way, she had no memory of the transfer. She still wore her nightshirt and sweats, so apparently valet services weren’t part of the package.
She heard the shower and dragged herself out of bed, but only because she needed coffee. Halfway to the kitchen, she realized she wasn’t imagining the smell. Marc had already made it. The man should be nominated for sainthood.
The caffeine did little to wake her, but something about the ritual of getting out of bed and having a cup of coffee helped the day settle into itself, and right now, she would take any help she could get. She fed Spook and carried her coffee to the back door, slipping out with him, so he could do his business. She’d give him a good walk later. She sipped the steaming brew, as last night’s questions played through her mind. They made no more sense than the night before. She smelled Marc’s clean smell before she heard him. “Good morning,” he purred against her neck. Allie turned around. He wore last night’s clothes, his hair still wet from the shower, and he looked a lot more rested than she felt. “Good morning.” He brushed a light kiss across her lips before heading into the kitchen.
It suddenly occurred to Allie that she felt no self-consciousness with this man. She’d crawled out of bed without giving a thought to her hair or what she wore. During her marriage to Garrison, she got out of bed each morning and combed her hair, checked her face for any traces of last night’s mascara. Her appearance at every moment seemed vital, probably because she knew that in Garrison’s mind she never measured up?
With Marc, it was different. She felt comfortable with him. Not because she wasn’t attracted to him. She was, but her attraction lacked the tension that always colored—or discolored—her years with Garrison.
She didn’t realize she was chewing her thumbnail again until Marc reached over and pulled it away. “You’ll gnaw it to the bone if you’re not careful,” he said lightly.
“Habit,” Allie said, drying it on her nightshirt. “A bad one.”
“There are worse.” He motioned toward the door. “Want to sit outside?”
Visions of Joe or Sheryl coming around the house and finding them together filled her mind. “Better not.” She led the way into the living room. She was fed up with having to stay locked inside her house. She wanted this over.
Marc waited until she was sitting on the sofa, and then took a seat on the chair across from her. She remembered his words from the night before. Unless Joe wasn’t the target. Was she the target? It made as much sense as anything else she’d learned, which was very little. All last night’s questions needed answers, but one ranked at the top of her list: Why would Joe go down to investigate Eve’s death if it was ruled an “accident”? Why would he suspect otherwise? And why did the guy disappear after Joe talked to him? She should ask Joe.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Marc said.
She felt her face flame. She must have spoken aloud. “Just because you don’t like Joe—”
A knock on the front door stopped the tirade before it started. She and Marc stared at each other, united by the threat. She saw the outline of a man, but she didn’t recognize the shape.
Marc vanished into the bedroom without being asked. Allie opened the door an inch and peered out; she thought her heart would stop. Cord Arbutten stood on her doorstep, and he didn’t look friendly. He wore civilian clothes—khakis and an Izod shirt. He still looked every inch the lawman. As much as she wanted to slam and lock the door, it didn’t seem like the best move.
“Allie,” he nodded. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
It didn’t sound like a question. “Of course.”
She stepped back, and he walked in. He gestured toward the sofa, inviting her to sit in her own house. She sat.
He took the chair Marc recently vacated. “I heard about last night,” he said in that impassive voice all cops seem to cultivate. “Want to tell me what happened?”
She didn’t, but could see no way around it. “Joe Odum, Sheryl Levine, and I went to the movies at Merritt Square. When we came out, someone shot Joe.” Her voice nearly broke on the last word. She blinked to stem the tears that threatened.
The sheriff watched her closely. “Any idea who?”
She met his eyes. Was it him? Was he asking to see if she suspected him? “No.”
“Ex-husband?”
Allie sat back in surprise. “I haven’t heard from Garrison since the divorce. He’s still in Europe.”
“You sure about that?”
Was she? “No, but you can call the Embassy in Brussels and ask them. His last name is Marchant.”
“I know his last name.”
Allie shivered. “Garrison has no reason to shoot Joe.”
“Are you sure Odum was the target?”
“Garrison has no reason to shoot me, either.”
That wasn’t true, and the sheriff seemed to sense it. The silence hummed between them.
Finally, the sheriff said, “Stran
ge that it happened right after you came by my office.”
“Yes, it is.”
He sat forward, resting his beefy hands on his knees. “I’d like to ask you a favor, Allie,” he said, his voice almost gentle. “Stay out of this. I don’t know what’s going on here, but whatever it is, it’s none of your affair. It’s police business. I’ve got the editor of the newspaper all over me about it, and one officer has already been wounded. Joe’s a good man. I don’t want to see anything else happen to him, and I don’t want to see anyone else hurt. That includes you.”
His eyes bored into her, laser beams. She swallowed, but didn’t speak.
After a minute, he stood and walked to the door. With his hand on the knob, he stopped. “Let the police take care of this,” he said in the same carefully modulated voice. “You’re welcome here. Lou made no secret that she thought the world of you. I don’t think she’d want to see you putting yourself in danger.” When she said nothing, he let himself out of the house.
Allie gasped, jumping to her feet when Marc came out of the bedroom holding her aunt’s gun. “What in God’s name are you doing? Were you going to shoot the sheriff?”
Marc looked grim. “If I had to.”
She raked her fingers through her hair. “Put that damn thing away. It gives me the willies.”
She sank into the sofa. All the while Cord Arbutten was there, she felt relieved that Marc hid in the other room. Little did she know he was armed and dangerous. Yesterday, assaulting an officer; today, pulling a gun on the sheriff. She feared the man would end up in jail for something before this was over.
He sat across from her, his body language telling her she wouldn’t like what he had to say. “I think the sheriff is right,” he began. “I think you should back away from this. Let them handle it.”
“Handle what? Five murders the police don’t see as related? A possible cover-up?”
“I think you should go until this calms down,” he added when she started to speak. “You could stay at my house in Miami.”
“While you do what?”
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