Deadly Competition (Without a Trace)

by Roxanne Rustand

  Flustered, the man ran his hand through his thinning hair. “West—she wanted to go west, I think.”

  “You think?”

  “No—maybe south. Down New Orleans way.”

  Dean fought the urge to wrap his hands around the man’s scrawny neck. “Maybe,” he said with lethal calm, “you could be a little more specific.”

  “I—” sweat beaded on the ticket clerk’s forehead “—I think she wanted a ticket for New Orleans but didn’t have enough cash. Close, but not enough. I’d say that would put her somewhere in southeast Louisiana, but I swear I don’t remember.” He pulled out a map, unfolded it and drew a circle with his forefinger over the area just north of New Orleans. “Prob’ly here.”

  Dean slapped a personal business card down on the counter. “If you remember anything else, call me. Day or night. This gal is on the run, and she’s wanted for murder. Got it?” He slid a fifty across the counter. “If I find out that you’re covering for her, you can bet I’ll be back.”

  “I—I don’t even know her,” the man protested, licking his lips. “Why would I do that?”

  Dean gave him a long, hard stare, then rocked back on his heels, satisfied. Despite the threat, the guy hadn’t wavered. Which meant that Dean now knew which direction to go, and soon, Katherine would be very, very sorry that she’d dared to run off.

  How could she not realize that she had no choice—that he owned her, body and soul?

  FOUR

  Mandy wrapped her arms around herself and shivered as she stared out at the predawn darkness. Darkness that could hide anyone who wanted to lie in wait for her.

  Loomis was a small, nondescript town. Dean would never think of her choosing a place like this, far away from the ostentatious show of wealth that her father had orchestrated for his family until the day he died. No symphonies here. No Chicago country clubs with thirty-thousand-a-year fees that kept out what he termed “the riffraff,” as if he hadn’t come from those same roots.

  And definitely, there were no maids to clean or cooks to craft exquisite meals that would be eaten in silence and candlelight at the polished African mahogany table in a dining room meant for thirty, though it had been just the two of them for the past fifteen years.

  Past luxuries which now presented a dilemma that no cookbook or homemaking magazine could resolve fast enough. She had to prepare breakfast and lunch for just herself and Sarah, but Clint came home for supper, and during her first two weeks here she’d managed only a few passable casseroles. Grilled pork chops that inexplicably remained raw in the center while they charred on the outside. Chicken that ended up dry and tough.

  Bless him, Clint hadn’t said a word, other than to murmur an apology about the “cantankerous stove,” but she knew better and suspected that he did, too.

  She turned back to the counter and gave the gooey gray mass of dough—which hadn’t raised even a millimeter in the last hour—a poke with a spoon, then sighed and dumped in more flour. Sarah had said something about Clint loving “caramelly rolls” yesterday, and it had seemed like a good plan then: surprise the boss with a favorite treat to stay on his good side. Job security.

  But after tiptoeing into his kitchen during the wee hours and spending an hour scouring cookbooks in search of a recipe for which she could find all the ingredients, then laboriously measuring and stirring them together, the kitchen looked like a war zone and the project still appeared to be a lost cause.

  At the sound of footsteps coming down the hall, she backhanded flour from her cheek and prepared a breezy smile. “Good morning. You’re up early.”

  “You are, too. I didn’t hear you arrive.” He walked in dressed in khakis and a soft blue oxford shirt, his dark hair damp and curling from his morning shower. She felt her heart start a silly little dance and hoped he didn’t pick up on her reaction to him.

  He eyed the mixing bowl with interest. “Coffee cake?”

  “Rolls. Except they don’t seem to be turning out very well, and I’m about to give up.” She shot an uneasy glance at him. “Sarah said you liked these, so I hoped they would be a nice surprise.”

  Bracing his hands on the counter, he leaned over the cookbook and scanned the ingredients. “Eggs?”

  “Yep.”

  “Sugar?”

  “Check.”

  “Looks like you got the flour. Yeast?”

  “Check.” She nodded confidently, then felt her smile slip as she pulled open the microwave door and found the glass measuring cup inside, just where she’d left it. “I was…um…warming up water for the yeast. Is it too late?” Expecting an irritable retort, she felt herself automatically tense.

  The vertical dimples bracketing his mouth deepened when he looked up at her. “I think so.”

  “I—I’m sorry.”

  He gave her an odd look. “No big deal. I usually just make some coffee at my office. I really appreciate you trying, though. It was—thoughtful.” He pulled a loaf of whole wheat bread out of the bread box. “I need to leave in a few minutes, but maybe you and Sarah would like some cinnamon toast when she wakes up?”

  “Good idea.”

  Their eyes connected for a long moment. She suppressed a shiver when she read something unexpected in his—curiosity, a hint of attraction?

  He abruptly cleared his throat and glanced at his watch. “Maybe we can all meet for lunch? Sarah might enjoy that.”

  During the past days, Mandy had focused on the little girl. On keeping the living room and kitchen tidy, and on trying to come up with something edible for each supper. She’d also focused on avoiding Clint as much as she could.

  Proximity meant conversation.

  Conversation meant the potential for questions.

  And even casual questions could dig a little too deep, demanding answers she didn’t dare give…though spinning lies would only get her in deeper trouble, because she was the worst liar on the planet.

  Coupled with her uneasiness about spending time downtown, meeting for lunch was the last thing she wanted to do. But how could she refuse?

  “I…of course. Whatever you say.”

  Lifting his set of truck keys from the rack by the back door, he started to leave but then turned back. “You’re doing fine,” he said with a smile. “Relax.”

  Relax? The concept was too foreign to even imagine, but she managed an awkward laugh. “Thanks.”

  He was a solid man. A good and caring man—the kind she’d always hoped to meet someday. Even his smile touched her in some deep, indefinable way, making her wish she could get to know him better. How ironic was it that she’d now met someone like him while she was in danger and on the run, and couldn’t possibly stay?

  She waited until she heard the sound of his truck rumbling toward the highway, then she sank into one of the kitchen chairs and rested her forehead against her folded arms on the table.

  And wondered if it would do any good to pray.

  Cradling a cup of coffee from Bitsy’s Diner in one hand, Clint turned off County Road 23 into the driveway of his construction firm. After taking his usual swing past the outbuildings, he parked next to the two-story, white clapboard house that he’d remodeled for the Herald Construction Company business office.

  Clint should have been thinking through a problem at work, but during the drive he found it was Mandy who filled his thoughts. Images of her lovely smile. The sound of her sweet laughter. Her quick flashes of humor, and her gentleness with Sarah.

  The past four months had been so hard. Now he found himself humming under his breath and looking forward to going home each day.

  He chuckled, remembering the last disastrous supper she’d made and her earnest, crestfallen expression when she’d pulled those petrified brownies out of the oven.

  But as he stepped out of his truck, he reluctantly shoved those thoughts aside. He had no business being attracted to Mandy Erick or anyone else.

  Interest in a mysterious woman who was working for him and lived on his property smacked
of impropriety, with potential for all sorts of problems. But worse—what about Sarah? None of Clint’s relationships had ever led to happily-ever-after bliss. If he became involved with Mandy and Mandy grew attached to Sarah as well, the poor child might eventually have to deal with the loss of yet another mother figure in her life. And how unfair was that?

  Plus there was still something about Mandy—something he didn’t quite trust, no matter how much attraction he felt.

  He scanned the buildings once more, then started for the big, four-square house that served as his main office. Last year, he’d remodeled the front parlor into a reception area and the largest, main-floor bedroom into a sleek, attractive office space, while the small galley kitchen served as a break room and an additional main-floor bedroom was now a conference room for discussing building plans with clients.

  It offered a perfect setup for his construction business—affordable and pleasant, with plenty of room to grow.

  His thoughts were interrupted when a St. Tammany Parish patrol car pulled in, and he felt his heart tumble as both hope and dread settled into the pit of his stomach. He swallowed hard. “News?”

  “Just checking in.” Sheriff Bradford Reed, never known to be a man who got excited about much except lunch, lumbered out of his cruiser with the deliberation of a man a hundred pounds too heavy and years past retirement.

  A familiar wave of frustration took hold, and Clint had to bite back the words that would only antagonize Reed. “Nothing? No leads yet?”

  Reed studied the storage buildings, garage and old hip-roofed barn, as if expecting Leah to appear. “Shelby still says she caught a glimpse of your sister, but I think that’s hogwash. If she could come back, she would’ve by now—if only for that little scamp of hers.”

  Clint took a steadying breath. “Not if she heard that she was a suspect in multiple murders. Would you?”

  “To clear my name if I knew I was innocent? Faster’n a gator on fresh meat, I would.” Reed’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the buildings a second time, then pinned his gaze on the second floor of the house. “Has she called you? Come by, maybe, needing a place to hole up for a while? She oughta know she’d be treated fair.”

  The wheedling note in Reed’s voice set Clint’s teeth on edge. Fair was certainly the operative word. Reed didn’t expend much energy on his job because he was planning to retire soon. If he ever got a suspect in hand, Clint wondered if the man would even bother to look into any other possibilities.

  “I haven’t heard from her, sheriff. Not even once.”

  Reed’s gaze angled over to search Clint’s face. “You’d surely know ’bout the risk of being an accessory to murder and all…and hidin’ a criminal would compound it. Not that any man in his right mind would want to risk Louisiana hard time. Right?”

  Clint clenched his jaw to hold back a sharp retort.

  In January, the mayor had called in the FBI, since the kidnapping attempt and multiple Loomis murders could possibly fall under their jurisdiction as murder-for-hire. The team of special agents assigned to the case had been sent back to New Orleans after the leads faded away.

  The trail was growing colder and might never be solved, now that it was back in Reed’s hands. He’d been barking up every wrong tree in the county all spring.

  Last month, he’d even focused on sweet Shelby Mason, Leah’s best friend, and that had been beyond belief. The pretty little librarian wouldn’t swat a gnat, much less pull a trigger.

  “Sooner or later, the killer will turn up,” Clint bit out. “But it won’t be my sister, and it won’t be me. Have you got any new leads?”

  Reed shifted uncomfortably. “Since them agents went back to N’Awlins, things have been pretty quiet.”

  “In other words, nothing has been done.”

  The veiled insult went right over Reed’s head. “The case is still open. We can call ’em back in if anything develops.”

  “What about your deputies? My sister is missing. Maybe she’s sick, or hurt. Maybe she’s being held against her will.”

  Reed wore a badge and gun, signifying power and command in the parish, but if he’d ever been a take-charge defender of the law, those days were past. He held out both hands, palms up, as he edged back to his car. “We’re just doing our jobs, son. The Renault family wants answers about Dylan’s death, and I want that case closed, much as anyone.”

  To the point of grasping at straws? Trying to pin the deaths of Leah’s husband and Charla Renault’s son on innocent people? And what about Angelina Loring, who’d been found floating in the bayou with a bullet wound in her back?

  “I look forward to answers, too, sheriff.” Clint reined in his temper, knowing it would do no good to antagonize the man. “I want my sister found, and I want to see her name cleared. There’s no way she could be guilty of anything, and we all know it.”

  “You might feel that way, son. But people can sure surprise you. Why, I remember back in ’72, when that youngest Gallatier boy—”

  “If my sister shot someone and left under her own power, why would she leave a shoe behind? Someone attacked her, Reed. Maybe she was running in fear. Or maybe she was unconscious, and her shoe fell off when someone abducted her. Nothing else makes sense. Right there, you’ve got a big piece of evidence.”

  “If I shot someone, I’d be in a mighty big hurry, too. I wouldn’t be stopping to go back after some ole shoe.”

  Once Reed settled on an idea, he was like a Rottweiler with a favorite bone, and convincing him that other possibilities existed was flat hopeless. “There’s been too much sorrow in this town over the past four months. And right now, a killer is out there, figuring he got away with murder.”

  “That’s why I’m still on the case.” Reed eased his bulk behind the steering wheel of the patrol car. “So if you hear from your sister, you’d best call me.”

  Sparing him a brief nod, Clint spun on his heel and headed for the front entrance of the house.

  He’d spent hours calling Leah’s old friends. Months of driving the back roads of the parish and combing the woods and bayou, looking for any sign of her. Praying for just a split-second sighting, the briefest contact, or the faintest clue. Anything to show that she was still alive.

  But the chances diminished with every passing day, and if she did surface, Clint wouldn’t be calling the sheriff anytime soon. Leah was in big trouble. She needed a good lawyer, and she needed strong friends behind her, or she’d be facing charges for crimes he was sure she hadn’t committed.

  Setting his jaw, he strode to the front door of his office building and slammed it, rattling the glass and drawing a startled look from Grace, his office manager.

  “Well, aren’t we testy this mornin’?” Grace drawled, settling into her receptionist’s chair like an elderly hen arranging its feathers. “And here I thought it’d be a nice, quiet day.”

  She’d worked for him over six years now, a rock in every storm…more like a doting aunt than hired help. Not a surprise, given that she’d lived next to his late parents and had known Clint since he was in grade school.

  The good thing was that she was loyal, efficient and straightforward. The bad thing was that she was starting to talk about moving to Florida or Arizona when she reached her Golden Years—and at sixty-eight, she’d already reached them.

  But if she hadn’t noticed, she wouldn’t be hearing the news from him.

  “The sheriff stopped by.”

  “And that was helpful because…”

  “He just wants someone to drop halfway plausible answers in his lap so he can retire without a major case open.” Clint sighed. “He’s back to thinking Leah committed the murders, now that Shelby has been cleared.”

  “He’d do better just to stay behind his desk and save the town gas mileage.” Grace flipped through a stack of phone messages, and then held them out. “Here’s something else to think about for a while.”

  Accepting them, he thumbed through the slips on the way back to his privat
e office. “I don’t want to take any calls for a while, okay?” he called over his shoulder. “I need to catch up on some things.”

  “How’s that pretty little nanny of yours settling in?” she called out after him.

  “Good.”

  “Good?” She appeared at his door before he even reached his desk, an amused expression on her face. “This is Momma Grace you’re talkin’ to, sugar. You can tell me.”

  “Mandy seems nice enough, and Sarah certainly likes her.” He shrugged, hoping she’d buy his casual dismissal. “That’s what counts the most.”

  “Ri-i-i-ght,” Grace drawled. “Then it’s just me who figures she might be the sorta gal who’d make you a good match? I can see there’s a little sparkle in your eyes these days.”

  “You’re dreaming again, Grace.”

  Grace snorted. “Not hardly. It’s ’bout time you got over that snooty little N’Awlins gal from last year.”

  “That took roughly a week, and you know it. “

  “Whatever you say.” Her smile was just a tad smug when she headed back to the front office. “But you need to finally let yourself live a little, then settle down.”

  Grace was wrong.

  Since Leah’s disappearance in January and his guardianship of Sarah, the focus of Clint’s life had been on family. Faith. His search for his sister.

  He’d never spent more time in conversation with God than he had during the past four months. Asking that Leah would be found, alive and well. Praying for guidance, to help Sarah through the upheaval and sorrow of losing both parents—and whatever she’d seen the day of her father’s murder.

  But in the meantime, Clint’s company had taken quite a hit. He’d had to pass up some important contracts and made slower-than-ideal progress on others. Several potential clients had backed out. Because they thought his sister was a killer? Figured he was too distracted by her disappearance…or maybe even thought he’d been her accomplice? Maybe all of the above….

  Ignoring the distant ring of Grace’s phone, he shut the door, settled into his chair and started on the stack of mail she’d left neatly stacked on his desk, next to a pile of bid estimates that could easily keep him busy for the next two days. If he could muster up enough interest and enthusiasm, with so much else on his mind.