by Brenda Novak
“She says you killed your stepfather.”
He seemed unaffected. “A lot of people say that.”
“She’s claiming you admitted it to her.” Allie clasped her hands together, knowing, if he was innocent, how terrible Beth Ann’s words must feel. “She just signed a statement to that effect,” she added gently.
Allie had thought he’d get angry and holler, as he had about the pregnancy that might or might not be real. But he just stared at her—or, more accurately, stared through her.
“I didn’t confess anything,” he told her at last.
“That doesn’t mean you’re innocent of the murder,” she said, to gauge his reaction.
His chest lifted and fell again. “It doesn’t prove the opposite, either.”
Allie’s question hadn’t rattled him into revealing more than he wanted to. She could tell by his response that he already knew Beth Ann’s statement wasn’t as incriminating as his enemies would like to think. So she played it straight. “What’s really going on? Is she out to get you?”
“Of course. And she’s not the only one.”
“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” she said. “Fortunately, I intend to discover the truth.”
He picked up the picture of Whitney, which she kept on her desk. “What I’ve heard is true, then?”
“What have you heard?”
“That you’re determined to find out what happened to my missing stepfather.”
She waited until he looked back at her to answer. “Madeline has requested my help. We’ve known each other since high school, socialized a bit in the past. I’d like to bring her some closure, if I can.”
He returned the photograph to her desk. “Madeline still believes her father is alive.”
“What do you believe?” she asked.
“I believe nineteen years is a long time. It won’t be easy to find anything.”
Was that wishful thinking on his part? Or was he merely stating a fact? “I’ve solved older cases.”
“I’m guessing those cases had some forensic evidence. There is no evidence here. Plenty of other people have tried to find it and failed, including your father.”
“I have tools the police didn’t possess back then.”
“That’s hopeful,” he said, but the slight twist to his mouth made Allie wonder if he was being sarcastic.
“If your stepfather’s dead, wouldn’t you like to see his killer brought to justice?” she asked.
The expression on his face gave nothing away. “I’m all for justice,” he said, his voice completely deadpan.
“What are you doing, waking me up so early? It’s barely seven!”
Only five foot two—but with a bustline to rival Dolly Parton’s—Clay’s mother hid behind the door of her little duplex, which she’d recently begun to redecorate. It was becoming so cluttered with new rugs and furniture, paintings and knickknacks, Clay couldn’t help worrying that others would soon suspect what he already knew. Irene obviously wasn’t buying such expensive items with the money she made working at the dress shop. She told everyone she’d gotten a raise, but even an idiot would guess she couldn’t be making that much.
“Considering I get up at four most mornings—” and that he hadn’t slept at all last night “—I don’t feel too sorry for you,” he said. Especially because he knew she wasn’t really grumbling about being dragged out of bed. She hated anyone to catch her before she could “get her face on,” as she put it. Even him. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen his mother without the thick mascara she wore on her lashes and the deep red lipstick she put on her lips. “Are you going to let me in or not?”
“Of course.” She tightened her bathrobe, then patted her dark hair, which she usually backcombed, before stepping to the side. “What’s gotten into you, anyway? What’s wrong?”
He barely fit inside the cluttered room. Since he’d last been over a month ago, his mother had acquired a new leather couch, two lamps, a big-screen TV and some sort of fancy tea cart.
“Tell me you quit seeing him,” he said the moment she closed the door.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she responded, but she wouldn’t look him in the eye.
The gardenia scent of her perfume lingered as she headed straight to the kitchen, which had been remodeled so that it opened directly into the living room. “Would you like some coffee? I have the most delicious blend.”
Gourmet coffee. Allie’s father was sure taking care of her. “Do you realize what you’re doing?” he asked in amazement, following her. “Do you know what you’re risking?”
“Stop it,” she replied. “I’m living, like everyone else.”
She was living, all right—in denial. Most of the time, her unwillingness to acknowledge what had happened to Barker was harmless enough. As long as Clay was around to take care of her and his sisters, he figured everything would be okay. He wanted them to be happy…and to forget. That was why he stayed on the farm. That was why he diligently guarded any evidence to be found there. So they could have the kind of life he wanted for them. But if Irene refused to listen, all his efforts could soon be for nothing. “Allie McCormick is working on Lee’s disappearance,” he told her.
She revealed no visible sign of distress. “Not officially.”
“That doesn’t matter. She used to be a cold case detective. She’s trained in forensics.”
“I know.” She continued to make coffee. “She’s an excellent police officer, just like her father.”
The proud note in his mother’s voice made Clay’s jaw drop. “What?”
“Grace told me all about her,” she said. “But don’t worry. Allie’s been through a painful divorce. She’s lonely and bored, so it’s natural that she’d want to poke around a bit. What else is there for a crack detective to do in a one-horse town like this? She’ll grow bored with it eventually.”
“Bored,” he repeated, unbelieving.
“It’s Madeline who’s egging her on, you know.”
“Allie’s not just toying with this case, Mother. Unless I completely misread her, and I don’t think I did, she’s serious about locating your husband—or what’s left of him. That doesn’t concern you?”
He knew he should add that Beth Ann’s accusations wouldn’t help matters. After last night, Allie had to be more curious about him and the case than ever. But he’d been stupid to allow himself to fall into the mess his relationship with Beth Ann had become, and he was ashamed to have put his mother and sisters at risk.
Irene turned her back to him while she sealed the small package of gourmet coffee. “Why should anything Allie does concern me?” she asked. “What happened was in another lifetime. Like I’ve told Grace over and over, that’s all behind us now. Why won’t anyone let me forget and enjoy what’s left of my life?”
“You’re happy settling for a married man?” he asked. “A man who can only see you on the sly? Who can’t acknowledge you in public?”
“He treats me better than any man ever has!” she spat, her eyes sparking in a rare display of temper. “Look at this lovely robe he gave me. Look at this place. Finally, I’m in love with someone who loves me back, someone who knows how to treat a woman.”
Clay hated the guilt that welled up inside him when he thought of his mother being satisfied with so little. It was largely his fault she’d gone through what she had during the past two decades. If only he’d done as she’d told him that night and stayed home with Grace and Molly. But he’d been sixteen years old—too innocent to conceive of the possibilities, too young to understand the threat his mother had begun to sense. “Mom, it’d ruin him if anyone found out about the two of you. He’s the chief of police, for God’s sake!”
“No one’s going to find out.”
“You don’t know that. How long do you think you can sneak around before someone begins to suspect? To watch you more closely? Grace and I guessed the truth, didn’t we?”
“Did you tel
l Molly?”
“No.” Fortunately, his youngest sister had moved away when she went to college and never returned to Stillwater. They heard from her often—she also came to visit two or three times a year—but more than any of them, she’d managed to put the past behind her.
“Well, even if you didn’t tell her, I bet Grace did,” she said.
Clay knew that was true. Somehow, though, they’d been able to keep it from Madeline. “You have to give him up. We have enough to hide already.”
“I’m not seeing him anymore,” she said in a sulky voice.
He wanted to let it go at that and hope for the best. But with Allie nosing around, he needed more of a commitment. “If you haven’t left him yet, make sure you do.”
“Easy for you to say,” she grumbled.
“Not as easy as you think. Anyway, consider the people who’ll be hurt if you don’t. I know you care about that.”
Irene slammed the cupboard shut. “It’s okay if I’m the one who’s hurt?”
“He’s married! You don’t have any real claim on him!”
“It’s not as if I planned for this. It just…happened. Sometimes marriages fall apart.”
“As far as we know, his marriage is fine. It’s his libido that’s leading him into trouble.”
“Stop it!” she cried. “Stop treating me like I’m a tramp!”
He wanted to tell her to quit acting like one. But he couldn’t be that disrespectful. Besides, he could almost understand why she’d fallen for Chief McCormick. Both the men she’d married had mistreated her. But Dale was a kind man who lavished her with gifts and attention.
“Mom, if Allie finds out, she’ll be determined to prove that we’re responsible for Reverend Barker’s murder. What better revenge would there be?”
The scent of coffee filled the room. “Dale and I haven’t been together since Allie came back,” she grumbled.
Clay studied her, wondering if that was true. Judging from her expression, he decided it probably was. “That’s good. But you’re planning to be with him as soon as you get the chance, right?”
“No.”
He didn’t believe her. Without a definite breakup, he knew a relationship like theirs could go on for years. “You’ve got to tell him you can’t see him anymore.”
Tears welled up in Irene’s eyes as she came toward him. Seeing her cry made Clay wish he could tell her everything would be okay. But he couldn’t. If Chief McCormick left his wife for Irene, the whole town would be out to get her. They’d never liked her much to begin with—thanks to Reverend Barker. He’d isolated her right from the start by refusing to let her go anywhere except church events. He’d also taken every opportunity to imply that he’d made a mistake when he married her, that he was now saddled with a wife who was too flighty, lazy, vain—a cross for him to bear. Occasionally, he’d even criticized her in subtle, demeaning ways from the pulpit. And his parishioners had bought every word. After all, he’d had a history in this place—land, family, friends and the illusion of purity. Irene had had nothing, except the hope of a better life.
A hope the man behind the pious mask had quickly dashed.
But no one else knew that man. Not like the Montgomerys did.
“I’m sorry,” Clay said softly. “You don’t have a choice. Not really. You know that, don’t you?”
She swiped at the tears spilling down her cheeks. “Yes.”
3
“Mommy…Mommy…”
Her daughter’s voice and small hand, jiggling her shoulder, came to Allie as if through a fog, waking her that afternoon. She was still tired—she’d gone to bed only five hours earlier, after getting Whitney off to school—but she struggled to open her eyes. She wanted to be available to her child as much as possible. That was why she’d moved back to Stillwater, taken a cut in pay and accepted the night shift.
“Who’s this?” Whitney asked.
Squinting to see clearly in the light filtering through a crack in the blinds, Allie focused on the object her daughter was trying to show her. “What do you have there, sweetheart?”
“It’s a picture,” she said, confusion etching a frown on her soft, round face.
“Of who?”
“A man.”
The sleepiness Allie had felt a moment ago fell away as she realized her daughter was holding a photo of Clay Montgomery. Allie had brought his file home, hoping to finish her report on last night’s events. Whitney must have been going through the box she used to transfer work back and forth.
“No one you know,” she said in a careless tone.
Her daughter wrinkled up her nose. “Why isn’t he wearing any clothes?”
Allie might’ve smiled at Whitney’s distaste—if she hadn’t been so aware of Clay when she was taking that picture. “He’s wearing pants,” she said.
Whitney still seemed skeptical. “I can’t see them.”
Allie searched the bottom of the photograph for any hint of a denim waistband. “I guess they don’t show up, but they’re there.”
Her daughter continued to stare at Clay. “Why isn’t he smiling?”
“He’s not the type to smile.” Allie remembered the sexy grin he’d given her when she’d asked him to remove his shirt. After you. “At least not very often.” Which was probably a good thing, she added silently. It was almost intoxicating when he did.
“Are you going to put this on the fridge, beside my picture?”
Allie could imagine what her parents would think of having a bare-chested Clay Montgomery facing them every time they reached for a gallon of milk. “No, honey. I only have that because I need it for work.”
Hoping to divert her daughter’s attention from Clay’s photo, Allie asked, “Where’s your grandma?”
“In the kitchen. She’s getting me a snack. She said I shouldn’t bother you, but I wanted to say hi.”
She gave her daughter a big hug. “You can say hello to me anytime.”
As always, Whitney returned the embrace with plenty of enthusiasm. She was so loving that Allie couldn’t believe her ex-husband could feel such animosity for their child, that he could hate being a father. His attitude toward Whitney was completely inexplicable to her. “You’re getting big, aren’t you?”
“I’m not in kindergarten anymore,” she said proudly.
But the distraction didn’t last. As soon as Allie released her, Whitney bent her blond head over Clay’s picture again. “Is this a bad guy?”
Allie didn’t think Clay was a bad guy in the sense that Whitney meant it. But his reputation suggested he wasn’t an innocent, either. There were a lot of questions when it came to the Barker case, questions he hadn’t gone out of his way to answer. “No. I took this picture to show that he doesn’t have any marks on him that would indicate he’d been in a fight.”
“Oh,” she said, as though that cleared up all the confusion.
Fortunately, before Whitney could ask another question about Clay, Allie’s mother’s footsteps sounded in the hall.
When Whitney glanced expectantly toward the door, Allie shoved Clay’s picture between her mattress and box spring. She’d taken that photo and the others to establish the truth, but she knew protecting Clay, even in the interests of truth, wouldn’t be applauded in Stillwater, even in her parents’ home.
“How are you feeling?” Evelyn asked as she stepped into the room.
“Boppo, I asked for cookies,” Whitney complained when she saw that her grandmother carried a plate laden with a sandwich and chips. “I already ate lunch.”
“This is for your mother. Your cookies are out on the counter.”
“Oh!”
Evelyn grinned as Whitney hurried past her, then handed the plate to Allie.
Allie had never dreamed she’d move back in with her parents. Not at thirty-three and with a child of her own. It was humbling, maybe even a little humiliating, to find herself right back where she’d started. No one liked to feel like a failure. But Dale and Evelyn owned a thr
ee-thousand-square-foot single-story rambler on four and a half acres. It didn’t make sense to pay for two households when they had so much room. Especially when living with Grandma and Grandpa meant Whitney could sleep in her own bed while Allie worked. Dale and Evelyn had a guesthouse down the hill, closer to the pond. Allie could’ve taken that—and would if it became necessary—but so far she liked being close to her parents more than she didn’t like it. The last six years of her ten-year marriage had been particularly rough. Living in her own personal hell had made her grateful for their love. “Thanks, Mom.”
“It was no trouble. How was work last night?”
“Interesting.” She kicked off the covers. It was only mid-May, but she could already feel the humidity of summer creeping up on them.
Her mother smiled. “Interesting?” she asked in apparent surprise. “What, did you give out a speeding ticket? Pick up someone for expired tags?”
Evidently her father hadn’t learned about the excitement last night. He hadn’t called Evelyn about it, anyway. Regardless, Allie preferred not to discuss it. She’d heard her mother talk about Clay Montgomery before, knew Evelyn would believe Beth Ann before she’d ever believe Clay, and didn’t want to feel defensive.
“I drove a few folks home from Let the Good Times Roll,” she said—which was true, an hour or so before the call came in from the county dispatcher.
“That’s it?” Evelyn asked.
“Pretty much.” Allie knew she could convince her mother that Clay hadn’t really attacked Beth Ann, that the evidence didn’t support it. But she was uncomfortable with the fact that she’d felt slightly attracted to him and was afraid that, in the process of explaining, she might somehow give that away.
Ironically enough, in a roundabout way, Evelyn brought up the subject of Clay herself. “Are you making any progress on the Barker case?” she asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. Because she was so thin, she had more wrinkles on her face than Dale, Allie’s father, who was ruddy and barrel-chested and looked about ten years younger than his real age. But her mother was still attractive, in a faded-rose sort of way.
