by Diana Palmer
He smiled down at her, his dark eyes soft and full of strange lights. When he finished, he cuddled her close and shared a cup of coffee with her. Neither of them spoke. Words weren’t even necessary. She felt safe. She felt…loved.
Later, the limousine took them to the funeral home where Rachel’s cremated remains were already interred in an ornate bronze urn. The limousine took them from there to the airport, where Stuart’s pilot was waiting to fly them home in the Learjet.
It was like a beginning. He held hands with her on the jet. When they loaded her few possessions into his car, which had been left parked at the airport, he held her hand as he drove toward her boarding house.
She didn’t question it. The feeling was too new, too precious. She was afraid that words might shatter it.
He pulled up in front of Mrs. Brown’s house and cut the engine. He helped her out first, then he carried her suitcase and her bags of quilts and photo albums up onto the porch for her. He sat Rachel’s urn care fully beside the suitcase.
It was dark. Mrs. Brown hadn’t left on the porch light.
“Are you going to be all right?” he asked gently, holding her by the shoulders.
“Yes. My head’s fine, now. Stuart,” she added slowly, “thank you, for all you’ve done.”
“It was nothing,” he replied. “If you hear from that drug-dealing boy friend of Rachel’s, you call me. Okay?”
She nodded. “I will.”
“And if you remember anything about where that journal might be, call me.”
“I’ll do that.”
He lifted his hand to her face and traced her soft cheek. “We didn’t get to do anything about those jewels, but I promise you I’ll get in touch with the man in a day or so and arrange to get them back to him. If you’re sure that’s what you want.”
“It’s what’s right,” she countered quietly. “Rachel had no scruples. I do.”
He smiled. “Yes, I know.”
She didn’t want him to leave. She’d gotten used to being with him, almost intimately, in the past couple of days. Tonight she’d sleep alone. If her headache came back, she’d have to take aspirin and pray for sleep, because he wouldn’t be there.
“Don’t look like that, or I won’t be able to leave you,” he said suddenly, his jaw tautening. “I don’t want to go home alone, either.”
Her soft expulsion of breath was audible.
“Blind little woman,” he whispered tenderly, and bent his head. He lifted her completely against his hard body while he kissed her. It took a long time, and when he finally let her down, she shivered with the overwhelming desire he’d kindled in her.
A sudden flash of lightning lit up the sky, followed by a crash of thunder. She jumped. “You be careful going home,” she said firmly.
He smiled. “Wear a raincoat if it’s still raining in the morning when you go to work,” he countered.
She smiled back. Rain was blowing onto the porch, getting them both wet. Neither was wearing a raincoat.
“Go inside,” he said, giving her a gentle push toward the door. “I’ll phone you tomorrow.”
“Okay. Good night.”
“Sleep tight,” he replied, and winked at her.
She watched him from the open door, after she’d put all her things inside, including the urn with Rachel’s ashes. It was as if her life was just now beginning.
Mrs. Brown had gone to bed. Apparently, so had Lita. Ivy moved all her things into her room and placed Rachel’s ashes on the mantel. The next day, she was going to see about having them interred in the cemetery next to their father.
She lay awake for a long time, thinking about her new relationship with Stuart. She hoped his attitude meant that they had a shared future ahead. She wished for it with all her heart.
The next day, she remembered that she’d put Rachel’s diary in her purse. So before she started her rounds of clients, she took it out and read it. What she’d thought was an ordinary recitation of events turned out to be something quite different. There were names, phone numbers and other numbers that seemed more like map coordinates than anything else.
She read them over and over, and grew even more puzzled. Then she pulled out the letter Rachel had received from a San Antonio law firm. It was dynamite. The letter referenced certain materials she’d put in a safe-deposit box in Jacobsville, to be opened if anything unexpected happened to her. The attorneys wrote to remind her that she hadn’t for warded them the key.
She sat back with a harsh sigh. Rachel was involved in something illegal, she just knew it. And she was clearly black mailing someone else. Was it the millionaire whose jewels she’d kept? Or was it her boy friend? Or one of his clients?
She knew immediately that this was too big for her to handle. She phoned Sheriff Hayes Carson and had him come to the boarding house. She met him on the porch, smiling as she invited him into the house and into the kitchen, where she had coffee brewing.
“Thanks for coming so quickly,” she said, sitting down after she’d poured coffee for them both. “I’m in over my head on this stuff. Here. See what you make of it.”
She handed him the journal and the letter from the attorneys in San Antonio that she’d found in Rachel’s apartment. He read them, frowning. “These are GPS coordinates,” he remarked, running his finger along the columns in the diary. “I recognize two of the names, too,” he added. His dark eyes met hers. “They’re deep in the Mexican drug cartel that Cara Dominguez was running until her arrest. One of the Culebra drug cartel named here,” he added, “is Julie Merrill. The other is Willie Carr, the baker you gave the message about flour to.”
She grimaced. “Oh, boy.”
“This information is worth its weight in gold, all by itself. But the key she mentioned is missing,” he continued. “That key is dynamite. Your life could be in danger if any of her associates even think you might have it. We’re talking multimillion dollar drug shipments here.”
“But I don’t know where the key is,” she said miserably. “I looked through all the stuff I got from her apartment. I even checked the quilts to make sure she hadn’t slipped it into the backing.” She shook her head. “I can’t imagine where she might have left it.”
“Was there anything else that you took from the apartment?” he asked.
“Just the jewelry she was hoarding,” she said miserably. “From that elderly millionaire she was involved with. Stuart and I put them in a safe-deposit box in New York City, under his name. He’s arranging to get them back to the man.”
He frowned. “Was there a locket, or any sort of thing a key could be hidden in?”
“No,” she assured him.
He sipped coffee, frowning. “I don’t want to spook you, but isn’t there someone you could move in with until we find that key?”
She would have said Stuart and Merrie only a day before. But Stuart hadn’t called her, as he’d promised he would. She hadn’t heard from Merrie, either. She couldn’t just invite herself to be a house guest under the circumstances.
“No,” she said sadly.
“Okay,” he said with resolution. “I want to know where you are day and night for the next few days. I’m going to get in touch with Alexander Cobb at DEA and talk to our police chief, Cash Grier, as well. We’ll arrange to keep you under surveillance.” He picked up the padded diary. “Will you trust me with this?” he asked.
“Of course.”
His thumb smoothed over the back of it. Suddenly he went still. His eyes went to the diary. He put it on the table and pulled out his pocket knife. Before she could ask what he was doing, he opened the diary with the pages down on the table and slit the fabric of the back. Seconds later, he pulled out a safe-deposit box key.
“Good heavens!” she exclaimed. “How did you…?”
“Sheer luck,” he said. “I felt it under my thumb. I’ll have to contact those attorneys in San Antonio and see what the key fits. I may need you, as next of kin, to authorize me to access it.”
/> “Before I can do that, I’ll need to meet with Blake Kemp,” she replied, “and see about the paper work to get Rachel’s estate—such as it is—into probate.”
“If you’re not busy right now, I’ll drive you over there,” he said. “I’d like to talk to him as well.”
She grinned. “That would be terrific. Thanks.”
Hayes went out onto the porch while she phoned Blake Kemp’s office and found him free if they could make it there within the half hour. She assured his new secretary—he’d only recently married his old secretary Violet and they were expecting a child—that she and Hayes would be right over.
She climbed into the unmarked sheriff’s car with Hayes, cradling the diary and the attorney’s letter with her purse on her lap.
As they pulled out of the driveway, a car that had been sitting parked by the side of the road was quickly started. It pulled onto the road, following slowly behind Hayes Carson’s car.
Hayes sat in the waiting room while Ivy spoke to Blake Kemp about Rachel’s estate. She didn’t have bank statements or any documentation about her possessions, but the attorney’s letter intimated that they did. He read the letter, frowning.
Blake shook his head. “She was nothing like you,” he said quietly.
“She told Dad that I wasn’t his,” she replied. “Is there a way to find out…?”
“Not his?” he exclaimed. His blue eyes darkened. “For God’s sake, your mother would never have cheated on your father! She worshipped him, despite his bad temper and the way he knocked her around. Besides all that, he’d have killed any man who touched her!”
“Are you sure?” she asked, relieved.
“Yes, I am,” he said flatly. “Rachel got exactly what she deserved, Ivy. She was a horror of a human being. Why in God’s name would she tell a lie like that?”
“Can’t you guess? I can. She wanted everything Dad had when he died. If he thought I wasn’t his blood daughter, why would he want to leave me anything?” she asked sadly.
“How many lives did that woman shatter?” he wondered aloud.
“Quite a few, I expect. Her boy friend was trying to find the journal she kept. He was frantic about it,” she recalled, “but it turned out to be her diary. I gave it to Hayes,” she added. “He says it has some vital information about drug smuggling, of all things.”
“There’s one more thing about Rachel I don’t imagine you know,” he began, his face solemn. “She didn’t just use drugs, Ivy. She sold them, beginning when she was a senior in high school. She always had a direct pipeline to the local drug trade. If she has the documentation mentioned in this letter, it probably names names. That would give Cash Grier a heads-up while he’s trying to shut down the newest drug cartel members locally.”
“That’s what Hayes said,” she replied with a smile. “He thinks it may show the position of some drug caches.”
“I hope it does,” he said. “This little community has gone through some hard times because of drug smuggling. I’d love to see the suppliers shut down.”
“So would I.”
“Don’t worry about the rest of this,” he told her. “I’ll handle it. But I should talk to Stuart York about that jewelry.”
“Yes,” she said, concerned that he hadn’t phoned her yet. She had her cell phone turned on and she’d been checking it all morning to make sure it was working. It was.
“Let’s call Hayes in.” He touched the intercom button and had the receptionist send Hayes down the hall to his office.
Hayes showed him the journal. It really was dynamite. It would be wonderful, Ivy thought, if they could really use it to shut down the drug dealers.
“Rachel’s boy friend knows this journal exists,” Hayes said somberly. “I wouldn’t put it past him to come down here if he thinks Ivy might have it. If Rachel gave her attorneys something damaging about him, and he knows it, he won’t have a lot to lose. No evidence, no case.”
Both men looked at Ivy.
“I can buy a gun,” she began.
“No, you can’t,” Hayes said firmly. “I have an idea, about where you could stay.”
“I can get a motel room…”
“You aren’t thinking of Minette and her brood?” Blake asked hesitantly.
Hayes’s face went taut. “She lives out of town, where anybody coming to the house would be immediately visible, and her ranch manager was a Secret Service agent some years ago.”
“But Merrie York is your best friend,” Blake interrupted, eyeing Ivy. “Surely you could stay with her. Stuart has an ex-fed working for him, too.”
Her face colored. “Merrie lives in San Antonio,” she said. “And I don’t think Stuart’s home…”
“Sure he’s home,” Hayes returned. “I saw him driving by this morning with that debutante from Houston he’s been seeing.”
Ivy felt the life drain out of her. The words kept repeating in her head. Stuart had held her and kissed her and treated her with such tenderness that she thought they were going to be together for life. Instead, the minute they got home from New York, he made a bee-line for his latest conquest. He probably hadn’t given Ivy a second thought. Maybe he even thought of the way he’d taken care of her as an act of mercy.
She closed her eyes. Pain echoed through her nerves.
“Are you all right?” Hayes asked, concerned. They had left the office and were now in the car.
She forced a smile. “I’m fine. Tell me about this Minette.”
He seemed reluctant. “She owns the Jacobsville newspaper. You know that.”
“But I’ve never met her,” she pointed out.
He shrugged. “She lives with her aunt and two siblings, a half brother and a half sister. She’s off today because there was a fire in the office and they had to call in a cleaning crew to pick up the mess and deal with the fire damage.”
“Was it an accidental fire?” she asked.
“I don’t know. She’s been running some articles about the drug trade. I warned her that her new ace reporter was going to bring down some heat on the paper, but she wouldn’t listen. The eager-beaver reporter is fresh out of journalism school looking for his first shrunken head to flaunt.”
“If he points a finger at the wrong people, he’ll get her sued.”
“Been there, done that,” he murmured. “She got Kemp to represent her and won the suit. But she’s letting the kid push the wrong people. Sooner or later, there’s going to be a tragedy. I tell her so, but she won’t listen.”
“She’s a crusader,” she mused.
He gave her a tight glare. “She’s showing me that she doesn’t take advice if it comes from my general direction. It may get her killed, in the end.”
“You should find her some protection,” she pointed out. “If she’s trying to shut down the drug lords, you and Cash Grier might thank her for the help.”
“You don’t under stand,” he growled. “She isn’t doing any of us any good. She’s pointing out possible hiding places for the influx of illegal drugs and hammering home that foreign nationals are financing the traffic.”
“They are.”
“Ivy,” he said heavily, “at the same time she’s hammering the drug trade, she’s holding out olive branches to illegal immigrants. She’s making enemies on both sides of the drug issue.”
Ivy’s face softened. “You know Mario Xicara, don’t you?”
He slowed for a turn. His lips thinned. “Yes.”
“And his wife, Dolores, and their four little kids?”
“I know the family.”
“In the village they came from in Guatemala, one man turned in a drug dealer and his whole family was gunned down. To punctuate the threat, they killed six other families as well. Mario escaped with his wife and children, but his parents and grandparents were among the dead, along with their new baby who was in the house when the drug dealer’s minions came in firing.”
“I know that, but…”
“They’re applying for citizens
hip,” she continued. “But now they have to be sent back to Guatemala until they can get temporary papers. The drug dealers are still around their village.”
He grimaced. “There are always two sides to every issue,” he reminded her.
“I know.” She smiled. “But people are more than statistics.”
He gave a turn signal. “I’ll talk to Homeland Security. I know a man who works in ICE,” he said with resignation, naming the enforcement arm of the immigration service.
“Thanks, Hayes.”
“Any other small favors I can do you?” he teased.
“I’ll make a list. Hayes, this isn’t the way to my boarding house,” she announced suddenly, as she realized they were heading out of town in the wrong direction.
“I know. I’ve got an idea.”
CHAPTER TEN
MINETTE RAYNOR was twenty-four. She was managing editor of the weekly Jacobsville Times, the newspaper of Jacobs County. Her mother had inherited the paper from Minette’s grandfather, and she ran it until her death. After that, her father and step mother ran it. He’d died three years previously. Minette had grown up knowing how to sell ads, write copy, set type and paste up copy in the composing room. It was easy for her to step into her parents’ shoes and run the paper. She was tall, slender, dark-eyed and blond, with a scattering of freckles over her nose. Her hair was her most incredible asset. It looked like a thick flow of pale gold that inched down her back almost to her waist. It was much longer than Ivy’s.
From a deceased uncle, she’d inherited a ranch that raised steers for beef, and it was ramrodded by her late father’s wrangler and two part-time cowboys who were students at the local community college. Her great-aunt Sarah lived with her and helped take care of Minette’s half brother, Shane, who was eleven, and her half sister Julie, who was five. Minette’s mother had died when she was ten, and her father had married Dawn Jenkies, a quiet librarian who adored him and Minette. Over their years together, she presented Dane with a son and a daughter, upon whom Minette doted. When Dawn died, and her father soon after of a heart attack, Minette was left to raise the children. It seemed to be a labor of love.
