Body of Evidence

by Stella Cameron

  “Your mom’s special,” Emma said. A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, and as she left the town behind, trees beside the road bent before a strong wind. “I like to keep things, too, and I don’t always have a good reason.”

  “Finn likes you.”

  Emma glanced sideways at Aaron. A splotch of red showed high on his cheek. “What makes you think so?” Shame on me.

  “My mom talked to him about you. She said how she likes you, and he said he did, too.”

  Not quite what she’d hoped for, Emma thought, but she didn’t deserve better after her fishing expedition.

  “He hasn’t had girlfriends since he got divorced.”

  None that he’s brought home, anyway, she thought.

  “I don’t think he liked women much after he got out of the service—because of what happened when he was married—but he’s different with you. You’re married, of course, but it’s good if you two can be friends.”

  This time Emma didn’t pursue the subject.

  “Rusty Barnes’s back home,” Aaron said. He put on the defroster. “It’s foggin’ up in here.”

  “How do you know about Rusty?” Emma had hoped the news of his being questioned by the police wouldn’t get out. Too much to expect, she guessed.

  “Finn told me,” Aaron said. “I’m not to tell anyone else, but that doesn’t mean you. I expect you know all about it.”

  “I do know. If we can keep it quiet, the case may get solved without Rusty being dragged in more than he already has been.”

  “Yeah. I don’t repeat what Finn says except to my mom, and now you.”

  Emma knew when she’d received a compliment.

  Aaron was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “My dad’s due in from the rigs. I won’t be comin’ to Finn’s much for a bit.”

  “You’ll be helpin’ your dad, I expect,” Emma said judiciously. “I’m sure the chores pile up at home while he’s gone.”

  “Dad doesn’t do chores. When he comes home he relaxes. He likes Mom and me to stay close, though. But he isn’t around long.”

  Aaron’s attitude toward his father shocked Emma. The boy sounded as if he would be glad when his dad left again.

  She remembered something that had nagged at her. “Aaron, remember all the flowers you delivered after Denise Steen died? The ones to Angela’s house?”

  He sighed hugely. “Oh boy, do I! I’m lucky Fred’s a nice guy or I’d have been fired.”

  She let him go at his own pace.

  “It was a joke, if you can believe that. Pretty mean. None of those people ordered any flowers.” He cleared his throat. “Not even Mayor Lachance. Someone called in and had the numbers of the accounts, so I thought it was okay. Then the bills went out and the calls came in. Geesh, I thought I was toast. Some people paid for the orders anyway, but not all of them.”

  “Fred’s a good man. I get all my flowers from Blossoms.” Of course she did, on an account in Orville’s name.

  The so-called joke was more than mean, it was creepy, but she figured that was the idea. Creepier was the probability that the flowers sent to her had come from the same source.

  “You didn’t recognize who called? Maybe it was a—” She stopped herself from saying “kid.”

  “Maybe it was a kid?” Aaron gave her arm a mock punch. The boy didn’t know his own strength. “It’s okay. I’d have thought the same thing if it hadn’t been a woman.”

  Emma was fresh out of snappy comebacks.

  At Finn’s place, she turned in and drove down the steep driveway. “I don’t see the truck,” she said.

  “I’ve got a key,” Aaron said. “He said he had business to deal with today. Maybe he found that place he’s looking for.” He hopped out and retrieved his bicycle. “Thanks,” he called, walking toward the house, wheeling the bike beside him.

  Emma watched him unlock the front door and go in before she took off for the Balou house. She owed it to her parents to let them know what was going on. Tonight she would put in a call. If she didn’t get through, she would leave a message asking them to get in touch with her.

  The drive from Finn’s house to the Balous took almost exactly ten minutes. Emma checked her watch as she turned in at the driveway.

  Finn’s black truck, complete with canopy and looking massive, stood outside the open garage.

  Walking from the side of the house, wiping mud from his hands with a rag, he saw Emma arrive. “Hello, Emma,” he murmured under his breath. “Finally.” For most of the day he’d worked on putting on siding where the door to the pantry had been. The tiredness he felt was the good, well-worked kind, and it made him think about a long, lazy evening. Although he could wake up fast if there was a good reason.

  He would leave without going into the house, he told himself. Even if she asked him to.

  Struggling into her big raincoat, she got out of the Lexus and came toward him. His thighs jerked rigid, and his belly. He was in a bad way. “Hi,” he said, so cheerfully he congratulated himself. “I still have to put a coat of paint on the sidin’ I put on back there. Otherwise it’s finished and as tight as it’s ever goin’ to be.”

  “You are so kind,” she said seriously. “Finn, what can I do for you in exchange? I’m good at cleaning. I could clean your house for you.”

  “You could try not to insult me when I do a good turn,” he told her, way more sharply than he’d intended. “Forget I said that. I wanted to do the job for you, okay? I’m not into payback.” He didn’t look into her face for fear she would see what he was really thinking. Finn knew exactly what she could do for him. Men were animals.

  She opened the front door. “In with you,” she said, wincing as lightning crackled. “A hot shower and a good meal will make a new man of you. I dropped Aaron at your place. He said he’s goin’ to work on the attic.”

  Finn grasped at the excuse. “I’d better get down there and give him a hand.”+

  “I think he wants to do it for you,” she said. “The way you wanted to do somethin’ for me. You’re his hero.”

  Was he? Finn wondered. Then he’d better make sure he never did anything to disillusion the boy.

  “Get warm and dry before you go, please,” Emma said, walking into the house. He had to follow to hear what she was saying. “Use my shower. Throw out your clothes, and I’ll pop them in the dryer.”

  Pop them in the dryer. Yes, ma’am, you do that. I know just where I’d like to pop you, sweet Emma: in the shower with me.

  Mentally, he gave up the fight. Why not go with it and enjoy being around her? “Rusty’s out on bail. He’s got a lawyer, but I’m surely hopin’ he won’t need him.”

  “Me, too,” Emma said. She hung up her raincoat and went directly upstairs. He followed and encountered the funny-looking, almost bald white cat on the landing. The critter opened her mouth wide and let out a weak high-pitched meow.

  “Hi, Teddy, love,” Emma said, scooping her up. The cat watched Finn over the boss’s shoulder, and he had to admit the critter, sparse white curls, butterfly ears and all, was cute in an alien way, especially the different-colored eyes.

  Emma went directly into her bedroom, plopped Teddy on the bed and went into the bathroom. Finn stood there feeling like a grubby boy about to be thrown in the bathtub—well, not really like a boy at all, now he thought about it.

  A new, or at least a different, puffy duvet covered the bed. Tasteful sprigs of grass weren’t his thing, but he guessed it looked okay.

  He didn’t feel okay. What the hell was she doing in there?

  “Clean towels, soap, shampoo, toothbrush,” she said, reappearing. “I’ll get my dad’s bathrobe for you.”

  “Don’t bother. I’m not shy. I’ll make do with a towel until my stuff’s dry.”

  “Okay. Take your time.”

  Finn went into the bathroom and considered whether or not he should actually close the door all the way. That seemed kind of prissy or something, so he left it ajar and stripped. He pushed his
clothes around the door and felt Emma take them. “Enjoy,” she said. “Nothing like a hot shower when you’re damp.”

  He didn’t trust himself to answer. Damp? Being damp wasn’t his problem.

  For far longer than was polite, he stayed in the shower, loath to go out wrapped in a towel, warm, and in the mood to be welcomed by an equally warm woman—as long as her name was Emma.

  She liked him.

  He could still remember how she’d felt in his arms.

  When he’d washed himself all over for the third time, he decided he had to quit. Slicking his hair back, he got out of the shower, toweled himself more or less dry and wrapped a huge bathsheet securely around his waist.

  Emma wasn’t in the bedroom.

  Of course she wasn’t, but a man could hope.

  He combed his hair, cleaned his teeth and went softly downstairs in the darkened interior of the house. He heard nothing and walked through, saying Emma’s name in hopes of not startling her.

  From behind a door on the right side of the kitchen Finn heard a washer and dryer operating. He tapped the door and waited. Emma didn’t respond, so he went in.

  He had found a long, narrow laundry room. A deep sink faced him. Emma was over a clothes dryer at the far left end. Beside the dryer, hot water ran into the sink, sending steam surging into the low-ceilinged space.

  “Emma?”

  She still didn’t hear him, not that he spoke loudly.

  On bare feet, he went to her over tiles damp with moisture. “Emma?” he said. “Don’t jump.” He placed a hand on her bare back, where her red-and-white striped top rode up from the waist of a flippy red skirt made of a silky material.

  She jumped and straightened to face him. “You scared me.”

  “Sorry,” he said, but he wasn’t.

  He stood very close to her. Emma glanced at his broad naked shoulders and chest—and no lower than the white towel that rested below his navel. “Did the shower make you feel better?”

  “I’m a new man.” Steam on her skin gave it a moist, pink and faintly sparkling glow. “Steam suits you.”

  She inclined her head in question.

  Finn brushed a thumb across her cheek. “You’re all shiny.” Blood pumped too hard through his veins. He slid the tip of his right forefinger over her bottom lip, her chin, beneath her jaw and slowly into her cleavage. Then he held the finger up. “See? Wet.” He put the finger in his mouth.

  Despite the heat, Emma shivered. She spread her hands over his collarbones, stroked his shoulders and down his arms. Finn kept still while she concentrated on his chest, where the rapid beat of his heart met her palm, and he didn’t move even when her touch circled to the middle of his back and returned to stroke his belly. Her thumbs came to rest where the towel met his skin.

  “Do I feel hot?” he asked. “I feel so hot. My skin burns.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  Finn caught her by the waist and sat her on top of the washer. He smiled. “How about you? Is anythin’ too hot for you?”

  She shook her head, and Finn kissed her, eased her lips apart with his tongue, nipping the sensitive skin, touching the sharp edges of her teeth, drawing her tongue into his mouth. He caught at the hem of her cotton top and pulled it up, bared her breasts, slowly parted his mouth from hers and pulled the tank over her head without opening his eyes.

  Finn started at her waist and slid his hand upward until his extended thumbs and fingers rested beneath her breasts. “Lean against me,” he whispered, and she moaned when her nipples met the hair on his chest. Slowly, breathing through her open mouth, she rubbed herself from side to side, exciting her flesh, driving near pain between her legs. Before Finn, she hadn’t known that touching a man could bring such out-of-control passion.

  His penis nudged her leg. Emma pulled the towel loose and took him in her hands. A big, strong man, but a gentle one, with enough control to do the almost inhuman, as he had the other night when he hadn’t pressed her for more than she was ready to give.

  Now she was more than ready to give everything.

  The warm, moist air coated them. He felt slippery in her hands. A single scoot brought her hips to the edge of the washer, and she wrapped her legs around him.

  His own drive warned Finn to slow down. He held Emma’s shoulders and kissed her breasts, slowly, repeatedly, rubbed the flats of his hands up and down her sides, back and forth on her thighs.

  He couldn’t stop now. If she pushed him away…yeah, if she pushed him away, he would make himself stop, but he would die in the process.

  Her breasts were beautiful, round, big on so slender a woman. He’d never thought he cared about size, but he was crazy about the way she looked and felt.

  She crumpled against him, bit his shoulder, tore aside her flimsy panties and guided him inside. He set the rhythm. She took it up. They came together in a rush, a race. Emma slid from where she sat and clung to him with her legs. Finn held her in his arms, thrusting, thrusting, her hips meeting his.

  Orgasm broke, stealing Emma’s reason, throwing her body into spasms.

  Finn let himself go, let the heat and power drain out of him, and locked Emma in his arms for fear he would drop her.

  She sobbed against his neck, let her head fall back and her eyes close.

  He had to lie down.

  Stumbling, Finn carried Emma to the stairs, banged into the walls and the bannisters repeatedly on his way up the steps, and finally fell with her onto the bed.

  “Cher,” he said, gathering her up, kissing her again.

  She reached past him and switched off the bedside lamp.

  24

  Arm in arm with Mrs. Merryfield, Lobelia Forestier scurried across the parking lot toward Ona’s Out Back. After suffering indignities at the hands of the likes of Billy Meche, this looked like it was turning into a satisfying day after all.

  All she’d done was go to Billy earlier in the afternoon and ask for a progress report on the murder case. He’d told her it was none of her business, if you could believe that. This town wasn’t taking the killing seriously enough, and before they knew it, another poor woman would be raped and murdered. Lobelia made sure her blouse was buttoned to the neck.

  That was another thing. If these youngsters didn’t flaunt themselves, they wouldn’t inflame men’s base instincts. Lobelia had kept herself well covered whenever Mr. Forestier was around, God rest his soul, and he had known he’d better keep it simple and quick.

  “Can you believe it?” Lobelia said. “The mayor’s wife playin’ piano at Ona’s? And Sandy Viator singin’ along? I know what that Sandy said about me behind my back. She said I was a primped old fool. She said it to Rosa Valenti, and I made Rosa tell me so. But now we’ll see who makes fools of themselves.” She looked toward the heavens. “There is a God.”

  Mrs. Merryfield, who was a member of Lobelia’s September Festival Committee, didn’t say a word. Dull thing, Lobelia thought. Didn’t talk for the longest time, then came out with a mean zinger like to cut someone to the bone. And the way she looked! If Lobelia hadn’t needed every pair of hands she could find, she never would have let Mrs. Merryfield on the committee.

  “There’s Rosa and Bob. Now how did she get him to come with her?” They arrived at the restaurant door before Lobelia ran out of her monologue, and Rosa and Bob Valenti caught up with them. You couldn’t count on Rosa to discuss the truth of what went on around here, either. If you said you heard they practiced snake handling at one of those churches out of town, she would likely tell you she’d heard snakes make good pets. Workin’ at the police station made her feel too important, and she went on as if it was a trust not to share what she saw and heard there.

  “Afternoon, Lobelia,” Rosa said. “You, too, Mrs. Merryfield. I guess we’re all here to face the music.” She giggled at her own small joke.

  Mrs. Merryfield opened the door and walked in ahead of the others. Already a crowd had gathered, and Lobelia saw with disgust that some of the lower types who
frequented Out Front—and maybe even Buzz’s—were there.

  Extra tables and chairs had been set up. Lobelia pulled two tables together and crammed as many chairs as possible around them. She left four down and insisted the Valentis sit with her and Mrs. Merryfield, then tipped the other chairs forward, rested their backs on the tables. “This way we don’t have to sit with people we don’t like,” she said, craning her neck to see the old black piano.

  “Just a few more minutes,” she said, looking at her watch. “Will you look at all these people comin’? Must be expectin’ that Vanderburn fella on the piano and maybe—who’s the big soprano? If someone asks to sit here, say the chairs are saved.”

  “Don’t know about the soprano,” Bob Valenti said quickly, too quickly for Lobelia’s liking. He was another one above himself, because he had a bit put away.

  “Who’s that?” Lobelia asked. A fair girl pushed out a long trolley heaped with plates of food, mostly on heating trays. The smell of a good fry started the taste buds watering. “I haven’t seen her before.”

  “That’s Eileen Moggeridge’s cousin,” Rosa said. “Seems a nice little thing. Quiet.”

  Lobelia crossed her arms. “More than you can say about Eileen,” she said. “Well, enough said about that. If you can’t say somethin’ nice, don’t say anythin’ at all, that’s what I was taught.”

  The door opened again, and Lynnette from the nail salon came in with one of the hairdressers, Frances something. They looked around and came toward Lobelia’s table. She straightened her shoulders and said, “Come on, you two. We saved you chairs.” As long as she kept certain people away, she would be able to uphold her office as president of the chamber of commerce. In her position, she had to be careful she didn’t seem to ignore the little people. This pair would help.

  Mrs. Merryfield stood up suddenly. “Eileen! Over here,” she called out with more enthusiasm than Lobelia had heard from the woman, ever. “You and Aaron, and your other friend.”

  Lobelia hunched her shoulders. Mrs. Merryfield liked to stir things up. She knew Lobelia didn’t approve of Eileen Moggeridge.