Men Made in America Mega-Bundle

by Gayle Wilson, Marie Ferrarella, Jennifer Greene, Annette Broadrick, Judith Arnold, Rita Herron, Anne Stuart, Diana Palmer, Elizabeth Bevarly, Patricia Rosemoor, Emilie Richards

  No, it was all wrong.

  She tried to picture a Christmas tree in the den and the smell of cinnamon or gingerbread, but her vision became foggy with images of blood and the sounds of her parents’ screaming. Then she heard her own voice as a child’s. She was crying and begging her parents not to die, not to leave her. The memory shook her to the core, and she began to shiver.

  Darn it, why couldn’t she at least remember some happy memories. Surely their family had had some.

  Opening her eyes, she gripped the counter and saw Nathan watching her. “Are you all right?”

  She simply nodded, too stunned by the vivid memory to speak. She stared through the broken glass of the back window and spotted a swing. It seemed vaguely familiar, but once again no details registered. Gathering her courage, she walked down the hall. A room to the left—a room to the right. Which one had been hers?

  She caught a glimpse of blue and rose wallpaper. It seemed familiar. Then she remembered the wrapping paper on the gift that had been sent to her office and how she’d reacted to it. This room must have been hers. And the person who’d sent her the music box had known.

  She heard Nathan’s shallow breathing behind her and felt grateful he was there, grateful also that he wasn’t pushing her to talk. She sidestepped a section of the wall where vandals had painted obscenities. Her finger traced the small rosebuds, and she smiled as she noticed a child’s drawing on a small pink bulletin board. It was obviously supposed to be the sun, but if she’d drawn it, she must have gotten carried away with the orange marker, for it looked more like a giant pumpkin. Then she realized that she didn’t know if she’d drawn it or if another child had given it to her.

  Anger filled her. By forgetting that night and blocking out her childhood, she’d lost some treasured memories as well as the bad. She had to get them back. Spurred on by determination, she studied the white French Provincial furniture and tried to imagine herself as a child curled up in the bed asleep. She picked up a worn brown teddy bear and pressed it to her chest. Had this been her favorite bear? If so, why hadn’t her grandmother taken it with them? She studied the bear’s floppy ears and the place where a button was missing, hoping it would conjure up a familiar image. But her mind refused to focus, and her head started to pound. She rubbed her temple and felt Nathan’s gentle hands massage her shoulders.

  “Don’t push it. You’ll remember when you’re ready.”

  “No.” Veronica let anger drive her. “It’s time. I just need to concentrate.”

  She pushed past him and examined the small box of toys: a broken doll, chalkboard, cards, blocks, puzzles and a sketch pad. She opened the pad and gasped in surprise. The first few pictures vaguely resembled the good witch in The Wizard of Oz and oddly, she’d scrawled her mother’s name above them. She’d named her father the Wizard. A childhood drawing of a nasty-looking witch filled several pages.

  She’d labeled a stick picture of a man “Eli.” To her surprise, the picture had been colored over with black crayon.

  Why would she have done that?

  “I wonder if you drew those before or after the murder,” Nathan said. “And I wonder why the police didn’t take them.”

  “It must have been before,” Veronica said. “Grandma said she never brought me back here afterward. I don’t understand why I would color over Eli.”

  “Hmm, interesting. Maybe you didn’t. Another child could have done it. You know how kids are.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Veronica said, although a strange feeling came over her. It was as if she knew she had drawn the pictures. The dark, dank air in the room closed in around her, and she noticed a shadow rise above her from the window frame as the last remnants of the sun slipped away.

  She turned the page of the sketch pad, and fear completely clogged her throat. Someone had drawn a picture of a little girl kneeling over a woman’s and a man’s bodies, and the little girl had a bloody knife raised above her.

  WHEN NATHAN SAW Veronica’s face pale at the sight of the picture, he decided he had to get her out of there. Slowly, he tried to ease her fingertips from the sketch pad. “Come on, darling, let’s go.”

  Veronica shook her head, her eyes glazed.

  “You’ve seen enough today. We can always come back.”

  She shook her head vehemently and her lower lip trembled, but her voice sounded amazingly strong when she spoke. “No, I have to see something.”

  “What?” Was she remembering?

  Her eyes still dark, her face as pale as the faded walls, she pulled away from him and turned to cross the hall. Immediately Nathan realized she was going to her parents’ bedroom. The room where they had died.

  Sweat beaded on his forehead as he watched her enter the room. She stared at the simple maple double bed. The mattress and boxspring were missing, but the chalk lines the police had used to mark where her parents had died still remained on the floor. Although the lines were faint and marred with dust, the outline was clear.

  She inched toward the bed, touched the worn lime green chenille bedspread piled on the end of the frame, then blew the dust from one of her parents’ pictures. A small smile spread on her face at the sight of her dad and mother holding her. The idyllic expressions on their faces made it clear they loved her.

  “Dr. Baits said my father was disappointed I didn’t look like him,” Veronica whispered. “I think I might have his chin.”

  Nathan took the photograph. He couldn’t see the resemblance, but then he never had been one to notice things like that with families. He sensed it was important he confirm her thoughts so he smiled. “Yeah. Maybe you do.”

  She pivoted, her gaze moving to the faded shag carpet where the chalk marks served as an aching reminder of the tragedy that had taken place in the house. “Look at those pictures of them together. You can’t make me believe they killed themselves,” Veronica said quietly.

  He had to agree. Domestic violence was common, but Veronica’s father had been an educated man, a pillar of the society. And the glow on his wife’s face was evidently one of admiration and love for her husband.

  A lace doily covered the dressertop, its yellowed edges frayed. Veronica wiped a thin layer of dust from an antique music box that sat on top of it. He was amazed there was anything left in the room. In some cities, vandals would have robbed the place or the homeless would have moved right in. The neighbor who’d kept an eye on the place must have done a good job.

  Veronica opened the box and paused, the look on her face strange when it started playing “Love Is a Many-splendored Thing.” Then she pulled out a small pin, and Nathan moved closer. It was a pin like the one the lady in the flower shop had mentioned, exactly like the one Veronica owned. Where had it come from? Veronica said there were only a few like it in the world.

  “Can I take this and have it fingerprinted?” he asked.

  Veronica nodded, still dazed. Then she surprised him by moving over to the chalk marks and kneeling beside them. “This is where they found me,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. “I was right beside them.”

  A sudden chill swept through the air and the lacy curtains ruffled. The sky had darkened and Nathan wondered if a thunderstorm was on its way. He pulled the curtain back and peered outside. One of the window panes had been broken, and the wind whistled eerily through the jagged glass. In the distance he thought he saw a dark car skid around the curve. Had someone been following them?

  When he glanced back, Veronica was staring at her hands, her face ashen. Then she brought her hands to her head and pressed them against her temples. He raced to her and encircled her with his arms. “Veronica, come on, let’s go.”

  “My head hurts,” she whispered. “I want to remember, but I can’t.”

  “Shh, it’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not,” she said. She raised her face to look at him, and the pain and agony in her eyes made his chest ache. “I have to remember. I have to.”

  “You will, sweetheart.”
He started to pull her into a standing position, but she groaned and pressed her hands tighter over her head.

  “Make it stop. Please make it stop.” She closed her eyes and rocked herself back and forth in his arms. Nathan gritted his teeth. He didn’t care if she remembered or not. He couldn’t stand to watch her suffer. Sweeping her up into his arms, he carried her to the car.

  Once they arrived at her apartment, Nathan helped Veronica change into a nightshirt, gave her two painkillers and tucked her into bed.

  “Stay with me,” she said softly. Her eyes were closed, her face etched with fatigue, and although Nathan knew he should be working on her case, he couldn’t resist her simple plea. He lay down beside her and pulled her into his arms. “Go to sleep, sweetheart. It’s been a long day.”

  Veronica nodded. “I wish I’d remembered more.”

  “It’s a start,” he said, stroking her back to calm her. “Just relax.” He talked softly and continued to stroke her until she fell asleep. For a long moment, he watched her sleep, reveling in her beauty and quiet strength. She was dealing with past demons he could hardly imagine. Her eyelashes fluttered and she jerked in her sleep. He stroked her again and curled his fingers in her hair, once again soothing her until she stilled. Finally, when he was sure she was sound asleep, he eased off the bed and went into her den to use the phone.

  After dialing his partner, he relaxed on the sofa with a beer and contemplated the things he’d learned from the Pritchards and the former police chief while he waited for Ford to get to the phone. Could Eli’s mother or Gerald possibly be responsible for everything that happened to Veronica—her parents’ deaths, the threats, the attack, the music box, the crushed flowers? But if they had killed her parents and didn’t want her to remember, why send her things that might trigger that memory?

  Unless…unless they thought she was unstable and might become so distraught she’d take her own life.

  He certainly didn’t like that line of thinking.

  “Dawson, Ford here.”

  “Yeah. What did you find out on the Falk woman?”

  “No relation to anyone who lived in Oakland in the seventies. Can’t find any connection or motive as to why she’d want to hurt the Miller woman.”

  Nathan had to agree, but still she’d had access to Veronica’s keys. “Maybe someone paid for her help.”

  “That’s a possibility,” Ford said. “She sure took a cut in pay when she quit prostituting.”

  “Yeah,” Nathan said, wondering if Gerald or Alma Jones could have paid her to help.

  “I’m meeting her at Richard’s. Maybe she’ll open up over a few drinks.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Nathan said. “How about the hypodermic I dropped off? Any prints?”

  Ford paused. “Only one.”

  Nathan swallowed hard. “Veronica’s?”

  “Nope.”

  “So she didn’t lie. She hadn’t given herself the shot.”

  “She could have wiped them off.”

  Nathan sighed in disgust. “You’re still determined to make her out as a crazy woman, aren’t you?”

  Ford laughed. “I’m looking at all angles. Remember, I’m not the one thinking with my hormones.”

  “Shut up,” Nathan growled. “Now, tell me whose prints you did find.”

  “They weren’t registered.”

  “Damn.” Nathan rubbed his face in frustration. Every time he thought he had evidence, it turned out to be incomplete. Then he remembered Eli’s party the next night. He would escort Veronica and find some way to get Gerald and Alma Jones’s fingerprints. “Well, keep it on file. Maybe we’ll find a match.”

  “All right.” Ford hesitated. “And what have you learned—other than Ms. Miller’s bra size?”

  Nathan cursed vehemently.

  Ford laughed. “Settle down, man.”

  Nathan reined in his temper and gave Ford the details about his visit with Scroggins and what he’d learned from the Pritchard family about Gerald. Then he briefly described Veronica’s visit to her homestead.

  “I think you’re barking up the wrong tree if you’re looking at Gerald Jones. He’s done nothing but good for this town,” Ford said. “Everybody’s got a few ghosts in their closet. It doesn’t make them killers.”

  Nathan bit his lip. “You may be right. But if he isn’t involved, we have to find out who is. And I damn well intend to do it, with or without your help.” He hung up the phone and cursed Ford. After talking with him, Nathan felt as if he’d made no progress at all.

  A low moan came from the bedroom and he realized Veronica must be having a nightmare. Slowly, he opened the door and saw her tossing from side to side, her eyelashes fluttering as she clutched the covers with her fingernails. He took off his shirt and jeans and beeper and stretched out beside her, then pulled her into his arms. He wanted this whole ordeal to be over for her, yet he still didn’t know what would happen between the two of them once it ended.

  Would she go back to Florida or to Ron Cox? Would she realize she’d only been drawn to him because of the danger? He was, after all, a cop. And cops made lousy husbands. He had a dangerous job, a profession many women weren’t able to accept. Would Veronica be able to tolerate his crazy hours and the fact that when he left every day, they would both have to face the fact that he might not come home at night?

  He knew he could. He would live each moment with her as if it might be their last. With that thought on his mind, he drew her next to him, and closed his eyes.

  Sometime during the wee hours of the morning, the telephone jangled, waking him from a deep, warm sleep. Nathan jumped and reached for it, his mind instantly alert in case it was another threat to Veronica. She bolted upright and hugged the covers to her chest, her eyes wide in the moonlight.

  He waited for the caller to speak. “Hello. Hello, this is Lieutenant Stevens. Is someone there?”

  Lieutenant Stevens—how had he known where to find him?

  His already-agitated voice grew louder. “Hello, I’m looking for Detective Dawson. Ms. Miller—”

  “Lieutenant, I’m here.”

  “I’m not going to ask what in the hell you’re doing,” Stevens said. “But you need to get down here.”

  “Why?” Nathan asked, reaching for his jeans.

  “Your partner, Ford.” When Stevens paused, Nathan lost his breath. Your partner—the words reverberated over and over in his head. Nathan felt dizzy as déjà vu struck him. No. It couldn’t be happening again.

  “What happened?” he finally choked out.

  Stevens sighed. “I hate to tell you this, Dawson. But Ford’s dead.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nathan felt his windpipe close. “What? How?”

  “Ran his car off a cliff,” Stevens said. “Happened a couple of hours ago.”

  “Damn.” Nathan scrubbed his hand over his face and glanced at Veronica.

  She looked frightened to death. “What’s wrong?” she whispered.

  Nathan shook his head, self-recriminations exploding in his mind. It was his fault. He shouldn’t have been here in bed with Veronica. He should have been working with Ford.

  “Any sign of foul play?” Nathan asked.

  “Not yet, but we’ve got a team going over the car right now. Thought you might want to be in on it.”

  “Hell, yeah.”

  “Do you know what Ford was up to tonight? Were you two working on something?”

  Nathan stared at Veronica, his chest clenching painfully. “He was supposed to meet a woman named Falk tonight,” he said. “Around ten at Richard’s Bar and Grill.”

  Stevens mumbled something under his breath. “I’ll check it out, but it looks like he was on his way when he had the wreck. I don’t think he ever made it to the bar.”

  Veronica clasped his hand. He squeezed her fingers, guilt fogging his mind.

  “Who is this Falk woman, anyway?” Stevens asked.

  Nathan paused, reluctant to say anything in front of Vero
nica. She had enough to deal with. But then again, she was involved. She had to know. “She’s Veronica Miller’s secretary. I asked Ford to check her out because she had access to Ms. Miller’s keys.”

  Veronica’s eyes clouded with confusion.

  “I see. And you think Ford’s accident might be related?”

  “It’s possible,” Nathan said.

  “I’ll see if we can locate Ms. Falk.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Nathan lowered the phone and turned to Veronica. The shock in her eyes made his stomach churn.

  “What happened? What about Louise?”

  Nathan took her hands in his, trying to ignore his own turbulent emotions. “My partner had an appointment with her tonight.”

  The expression on her face turned to horror. “Did something happen to Louise?”

  Nathan shook his head slowly. “No. Ford never made it to see her. He had an accident.”

  “Is…he all right?”

  He shook his head again, unable to speak. Veronica wrapped her arms around him, but he couldn’t accept her comfort. He didn’t deserve it. His first partner, Rick, had died because he believed in a woman. Ford had died doing legwork for him because he believed in Veronica—because he was in bed with her.

  “Nathan?”

  Her soft voice barely penetrated the coldness around him. He had to find the truth now. Not just for Veronica. But for Ford, the partner he hadn’t liked, the partner who hadn’t believed him, the partner who’d died because of him. Hadn’t he learned that police work and personal relationships didn’t go together?

  It certainly cast suspicion on Louise Falk, but like Ford said, what possible motive could she have to hurt Veronica?

  “I have to go.” Nathan pulled away and stood, then reached for his shirt.

  Veronica’s eyes shimmered with hurt. She’d had a terrible night, and he felt like a heel for leaving her, but he couldn’t stay here—not when Ford lay dead, and the person who’d been tormenting Veronica was still on the loose.