Beverly Barton 3 Book Bundle

by Beverly Barton

  “That was the clincher—the job offer. Money talks, doesn’t it, Mr. Powell?”

  “Is that why you dislike me so much—because I’m rich?”

  Nic grunted. “I dislike the fact that you use your money to get what you want.”

  “No, that’s not it. You dislike me, not my money and power.”

  “Off the record, just between the two of us?” She eyed him hostilely.

  “Off the record, tell me exactly what you think.”

  “I think you are an annoying, know-it-all, arrogant bastard.” Griff chuckled. “And, off the record, Nicole Baxter, you’re a self-righteous, irritating bitch.”

  She simply stared at him for a full minute, then smiled. Her smile took him by surprise. There was something damned appealing about her when she smiled.

  “When Barbara Jean is ready to work with a sketch artist—” Nic said.

  “I’ll call you.”

  “Before or after you hire your own sketch artist?”

  “After,” he admitted. “Of course, if you were willing to share with me the way I share with you, it wouldn’t be necessary.”

  “You know it’s against the rules.”

  “And you never break the rules?”

  “No. Never.”

  Griff leaned down so that they were eye to eye and whispered, “Never say never, honey.”

  Ruddy had rented a late model Chevrolet, something inconspicuous so that hopefully no one would remember either him or his car. And he’d dressed in a pair of jeans, a plaid shirt, and a quilted jacket he’d bought at Wal-Mart. He hoped he looked like an average Joe.

  He needed to learn the reason why there had been no recent updates in the local or national news about the vicious attack on Gale Ann Cain; so he had decided the best thing he could do was find out for himself by coming to Williamstown. Incognito.

  Where better to pick up local gossip than the town’s Waffle House? When he’d parked outside, he’d seen a police car and hesitated coming inside. But after reminding himself that he had nothing to fear from the local lawmen, he entered the greasy spoon as if he were just a regular guy passing through town. As luck would have it, he managed to find a booth directly behind the two patrolmen who were eating a late dinner.

  A tall, skinny waitress with chopped-off blond hair, streaked with purple and pink, refilled the two cops’ coffee cups, then stopped at his table.

  “Want coffee?” She eyed his overturned cup.

  He quickly righted the cup, smiled at her, and said, “Yes, please.”

  After filling the cup to the rim, she said, “Do you know what you want?”

  “Uh …” He glanced around and saw the menu was on the table. “What would you recommend?” He smiled at the girl whose name tag read Tammy.

  “Depends. Do you want breakfast, a sandwich, or a regular dinner?”

  “Breakfast. Maybe bacon and eggs.”

  “Sure thing. Toast, too? Wheat or white?”

  “White.”

  “Scrambled eggs?”

  He nodded.

  When she left to place his order, he added creamer and sugar to the dark coffee as he listened to the roaring hum of human voices mingling with the clatter of dishes and meal preparation. No doubt the food here would be horrible, nowhere close to his usual standards, but if he could pick up even a tidbit of local gossip about the recent murder, it would be well worth him having to go slumming.

  The two policemen were discussing basketball, something Ruddy knew absolutely nothing about. He had always hated sports. Physical Education had been his least favorite subject in Hobart Military School.

  The waitress returned to the booth where the policemen sat, two dinner plates in her hands. She placed the hot meals in front of the cops, but instead of leaving, she lingered, apparently flirting with the one she called Mike.

  “So, has it been a quiet night?” she asked.

  “Yeah, pretty quiet,” Mike replied.

  “Folks aren’t getting out much since that Cain woman was attacked,” the other cop said.

  Smiling to himself, Ruddy picked up the coffee mug.

  “Wasn’t that just awful?” Tammy said. “You know, a Licensed Practical Nurse from over at Williamstown General was in here yesterday, and she said she heard the guy chopped off Gale Ann Cain’s feet. Is that true?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Mike said. “That’s stuff we aren’t supposed to discuss with civilians.”

  “I understand. I just think it’s odd that since Chief Mahoney made a statement a couple of days ago, there hasn’t been another word about it on the local TV or in the paper. If that nurse hadn’t told us any different, we wouldn’t know the Cain woman was still alive.”

  Ruddy’s hand shook so badly that coffee sloshed out of the cup and onto his fingers. He set the cup down and wiped his hand off with a paper napkin, all the while hoping no one had noticed.

  “Not anymore, she isn’t,” Mike said.

  “She died?” The waitress gasped.

  “Hush up, Mike. You shouldn’t be telling Tammy anything about the case.”

  “It’s not a secret,” Mike said. “The chief will be making an announcement sometime tonight.”

  Ruddy’s heart stopped for a split second. Gale Ann Cain had lived? How was that possible? She should have bled to death rather quickly. Unless the person who had found her had gotten to her damn fast and somehow managed to keep her alive.

  But what difference did any of that make now? The woman was dead.

  Ruddy picked up his cup and took a sip of the bitter coffee. “I hope she was able to give the police a description of the guy before she died,” Tammy said.

  Mike lowered his voice to a soft whisper. “Keep this strictly to yourself, Tammy.” The waitress nodded, her eyes bright with anticipation. “The Cain woman wasn’t able to ID her attacker, but they say her sister saw him and might be able to give the FBI a description.”

  Ruddy strangled on the god-awful coffee. Of all the local gossip he had hoped to overhear, he’d never expected this tidbit of information. The sister? Ruddy’s mind whirled, trying to make sense of what he’d just overheard. Then it hit him. Had the sister been the woman in the wheelchair, the woman who had caught a glimpse of him as he left Gale Ann’s apartment building?

  Chapter 6

  Sonya Todd had been born and raised in Tupelo, Mississippi, so it was only natural that once she received a degree from the University of Mississippi, she would return home. It was what everyone had expected, including Sonya. But what should have been a quick and easy route from college graduation to a teaching position at her old alma mater, Tupelo High School, had instead been a long, disappointing ten-year struggle to achieve an impossible dream. She often wondered how different her life might have turned out if she hadn’t won the title of Miss Magnolia. Would she have forsaken her dream of becoming a teacher to pursue a career as a concert violinist?

  What was that old saying about hindsight being twenty-twenty? All the “if onlys” in the world wouldn’t change a damn thing. She would never be twenty-two again. Never know that feeling of being on top of the world. But at this stage of her life, she felt lucky to have been given a second chance and she appreciated what she had now.

  Being the band director at Tupelo High for the past two years, Sonya went to work each day with a positive attitude and a grateful heart. She was finally back home where she belonged, living only a couple of miles from her parents and in the same county as her two older brothers, their wives, and children. And for the first time since her divorce from Tom Harding, she was seriously dating.

  Sonya glanced over at Tupelo High’s baseball coach, Paul Dryer, and smiled. Like she, Paul was divorced, no children and at thirty-nine, he was ready to settle down. Sonya, too, was ready for a long-term commitment, even remarriage one of these days. She wanted kids, too, and it wasn’t as if being thirty-five meant she had to rush into motherhood. Women past forty were giving birth to first babies every day, weren’t they?


  “The jazz band is fantastic,” Paul said as he turned his vintage Mustang into Sonya’s driveway. “They sounded downright professional at tonight’s concert.”

  “I’ve got a bunch of really talented kids in that band. I expect each of my seniors to win scholarships.”

  “They all love you, you know. They want you to be proud of them.”

  When Paul killed the engine, he turned to Sonya, a hopeful look in his soulful hazel eyes. As she gazed at him there in the semidarkness, with light from the nearby streetlight casting shadows across his smooth-shaven face, she thought what a nice face he had. Not handsome. Not really good-looking at all. Nothing to remind her of Tom Harding, who’d been far too handsome. No, Paul was nothing like her ex-husband.

  Paul was a giant-size teddy bear, with thinning brown hair, hound-dog cheeks, and a pair of big, broad shoulders she could always lean on. He was, without a doubt, one of the good guys. Like her dad. Like her brothers, Charlie and Brady.

  “Want to come in for some decaf coffee or herbal tea?” Sonya knew that Paul understood she was inviting him in for more than drinks and conversation. They had been dating since the beginning of the school year, but they hadn’t taken their relationship into the bedroom, not once in six months. Her choice. She appreciated the fact that he had been patient and understanding, but how long could she expect him to wait?

  “Are you sure?” Paul asked.

  Smiling, she nodded. “I’m sure.”

  Grinning like an idiot, albeit a sweet idiot, Paul jumped out of the car, raced around the hood and opened the passenger door. Before she knew what was happening, he yanked her out and onto her feet, then planted a wet, sloppy kiss on her mouth.

  Laughing, she pulled away and looked up at the big galoot. “If you don’t want coffee or tea, I have beer. Your favorite brand.”

  “Let’s save the beer for later.” He winked at her, then draped his arm around her shoulders and rushed her toward the porch.

  “Slow down. I can’t keep up with you. Your legs are much longer than mine.”

  Chuckling, Paul stopped, swept her up into his arms and carried her straight to her front door.

  This felt so right. Being with Paul. Loving Paul. Planning a future with Paul.

  He supposed he could wait a little longer, a few more days, even a few more weeks. But time was running out. Less than two months and the game would end. The points were adding up, the last kill worth twenty points.

  A redhead. Damn, what luck!

  Thirty women. All former beauty queens. All still attractive. Blondes, brunettes, and redheads.

  He sighed as memories of his most recent kill replayed in his mind, like a technicolor movie. Red blood. Creamy, soft skin. Rich, royal blue carpet.

  What an utterly delicious game. A brilliant plan from the very beginning. A part of him would hate to see it end. But no game was meant to be played indefinitely. Sooner or later someone had to win. And someone had to lose.

  He had no intention of losing.

  You can’t rest on your laurels. Being overconfident can result in defeat. We can’t have that, can we?

  Time to choose another victim. If he could find another redhead … A blonde would do. Fifteen points would be enough. For now.

  Turning around in the oxblood leather swivel chair at his Jacobean desk, he faced the computer screen and typed in the password that would open a very secret file.

  With a sense of anticipation, he watched as the file opened and the list of twenty names, addresses, and personal information appeared on the nineteen-inch screen. Ten names in all. It had taken endless hours of research to find ten perfect candidates. Such a pity that there wouldn’t be time to kill all of them.

  Pick and choose. Pick and choose.

  Which pretty flower shall I pick today?

  There was only one redhead on the list.

  Save her for later, just in case you need twenty points closer to the end of the game.

  Five brunettes and four blondes.

  A blonde this time. Definitely a blonde.

  Shelly Hall. Ashley Gray. Sonya Todd. Heather Johnson.

  Tapping his index finger against his chin, an amused tilt to his lips, he studied the profiles of each of the four blondes. Then he lifted his finger to the screen and counted off, eeney-meeny-miney-mo.

  Griffin’s plane landed shortly before eleven that evening. As instructed, Sanders had brought the limo and was waiting for them. Griff relied on Sanders in a way he relied on no other human being. He trusted Damar Sanders with his life. He could say that of no other man. Not even his old UT teammate, Jim Norton, or his former friend, Judd Walker. A stint in the belly of hell could unite two men in a way nothing else could.

  “Good evening, ma’am,” Sanders spoke respectfully to Barbara Jean Hughes as Griff stopped her wheelchair at the right rear door.

  “Hello.” Barbara Jean openly stared at Sanders, not an uncommon reaction upon first meeting the extraordinary man.

  “I’m Sanders, ma’am,” he said.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Sanders.”

  “This, of course, is Ms. Hughes,” Griff said.

  “Please, call me Barbara Jean,” she told Sanders.

  He simply nodded.

  “I’ll lift you up and into the car,” Griff said. “And don’t be alarmed. One of my agents, Angie Sterling, is inside the limo. Angie will be one of your private bodyguards while you’re our guest.”

  Barbara Jean’s eyes widened in surprise. She gulped softly, then nodded. “Thank you. I—I appreciate everything. I really do. It’s just I never imagined I’d ever be in this position and need a bodyguard. I may be a paraplegic, but I’m not helpless. I have great upper body strength, you know. I manage to live alone and can get in and out of my wheelchair with out assistance. I hold down a job and can take a taxi wherever I need to go.”

  “We hope you won’t need a bodyguard for very long and can return home soon,” Griff said. “But while you do, we’ll keep you so busy that you just might forget you have a guardian angel keeping watch over you.”

  Sanders opened the door. Griff lifted Barbara Jean into his arms and placed her inside the limousine. Griff closed the door; then Sanders folded the wheelchair and put it in the trunk.

  “Are we ready to go?” Sanders asked.

  Griff nodded. “Yes, and when we get inside, lift the privacy window. I have some phone calls to make and I’d rather Ms. Hughes not be bothered.”

  Thirty minutes later, they arrived at what many called the Powell Compound. Actually, the estate, with part of the acreage on Douglas Lake, had a name: Griffin’s Rest.

  Two massive stone arches flanked the locked gates, which Sanders opened electronically from within the limo. Bronze griffins, the mythological beast with the head, forepart, and wings of an eagle and the body, hind legs, and tail of a lion, had been imbedded into the stonework of both arches. The winding paved road from the highway to the house passed through a thickly wooded area before opening up to a lake-front vista. Griffin’s home itself was not enormous, merely ten-thousand square feet and two stories high, but there were other buildings on the property, including a barn, stables, and three guest cottages. He supposed his estate was a compound, of sorts. Without a doubt, it was a secure area, monitored around the clock, both with surveillance equipment and manpower.

  Tonight the gray snow clouds obscured the half-moon, leaving only the limo’s headlights to illuminate the road. Griffin had checked in with Rick Carson and his “friend” in D.C., getting all his ducks in a row before arriving home.

  Home.

  He supposed Griffin’s Rest was as much of a home as a man such as he would ever have. These sprawling acres in northeast Tennessee provided him with privacy, giving him a sanctuary from the world when he chose to leave business and the social scene behind him. As for family—Sanders was his brother, in spirit if not in blood. And during the past few years, he had come to think of Lindsay as his kid sister, although she di
d not—and never could—know the man he truly was.

  As Sanders pulled the limousine up in front of the two-story portico, Griffin glanced into the back and saw that Barbara Jean Hughes had fallen asleep. He made eye contact with Angie, who nodded in understanding. Griffin had instructed Sanders to provide a mild sedative for Angie to place in a thermos of hot tea that she would provide for Ms. Hughes. He wanted his special visitor to rest, to get the first full night’s sleep she’d had in more than forty-eight hours.

  Sanders turned to Griffin. “Ms. Hughes’s room is ready. Do you want me to take her in and put her to bed?”

  “Yes, please,” Griff replied, knowing that Sanders would see to it that one of the staff members took care of the limo. “And make sure Angie understands that she is to keep watch over our guest until she is relieved by another agent in the morning.”

  Griff emerged from the limo and went directly to the front door. He punched in the code, which was changed periodically for security reasons. After opening the double doors, he walked into the foyer, leaving the doors open behind him. Instead of going upstairs and directly to bed, he entered the room on the left, a two-story den, with a rock fireplace large enough that, if he so chose, he could walk right inside it. He went straight to the liquor cabinet, retrieved a crystal tumbler, and a bottle of The Macallan, a vintage single malt whiskey. Taking bottle and glass with him, he went over and placed both on the silver tray that topped the old tea table in front of the forest green leather sofa. He removed his coat, gloves, and scarf, then sat on the sofa and took off his shoes.

  Sighing heavily, he gazed into the blaze glowing in the massive fireplace. His orders were that, in winter, a fire be kept burning in this fireplace day and night. He often slept here on this sofa. That’s one reason, when he had special-ordered it, he had requested a seven-foot length. He had a perfectly fine bed upstairs in his suite. King-size. Egyptian cotton sheets that felt like silk to the touch. But more often than not, he found it impossible to rest in his own bed.