David hadn't proposed to June Cleaver. He didn't expect gourmet meals or lifetime-guaranteed maid service. It had taken far too long to comprehend that wasn't what "wife" meant to Hannah, either.
The only security and stability she'd even knownfinancial and emotionalshe'd provided for herself. She'd loved her alcoholic mother and Caroline Garvey had loved her, but had taught Hannah by example that dependence was a trap.
Valhalla Springs was her safety net. An income separate from David's was merely a token of it. Here, she'd remain Hannah Garvey, resident operations manager, who happened to be the sheriff's wife. Marry him, move to his house and take some marginally fulfilling job in Sanity, and Hannah would be Mrs. Sheriff, who also worked at XYZ, Inc.
The distinction was semantic and a trifle sexist for anyone other than a grown-up little girl whose sibling rivals were Jim Beam and Mom's boyfriend of the night. A grown-up little girl who joked about a childhood belief that the John Doe beside Father's name on her birth certificate meant she was somehow related to Bambi.
David splayed his hands on the vanity. He told his mirror image, "You can't make Hannah feel safe. Her mother yanked the net out from under her, time and time again. If you love her, sell out to Luke and leave her be."
A knuckle-rap sealed the deal. Someday, they'd find a place together. In the meantime, the cottage had all a man could ever need: Hannah, four walls, indoor plumbing and a roof. He'd convince her of it, as soon as a statewide APB on two homicide suspects wasn't threatening to yank him away at any minute.
"Problem solved," he said as he strode into the breakfast room. "I found the sweats you borrowed the morning you spilled maple syrup on your jeans."
Hannah jumped, turned, pulled her mouth into a smile. "Gee, and here I was, picturing you walking around in your underwear."
He hoped not, judging by the scowl she'd been aiming at the floor. "Oh, you were, huh?" He hooked a thumb in the elastic waistband. "I will, if you will."
The ornery grin she slanted had him wishing he'd crawled into bed with her, then kissed her awake. "I'll get back to you on that," she said. "When I'm wearing some."
David tripped over Malcolm's tail. A couple of yards to the left, Rambo was stretched out on the rug, as though his name was embroidered on it.
He stared at the rottweiler and the lamb, stifling an urge to go outside and see if the lake had parted in the middle. "I thought bringing Rambo here was worth a try. No way did I expect him to make himself at home."
"Thanks for warning me that the Terminator was patrolling the breakfast room," Hannah said.
"Plan A was to hang up my clothes, then bed down Rambo in the pickup for the night. Plan B started with kissing you."
"B was definitely better," she said, then repeated the little chat she'd had with his dog and its results. "I think Malcolm thinks I talked Rambo to death."
David grinned as he sat down at the bar. "Whatever works."
"How wise of you to leave it at that." She motioned at the cabinets. "Tonight's specials are crunchy, smooth or frosted corn flakes."
"Okay."
Entrées decided, the beverage choices were cola or lemon-lime soda, orange juice, wine, water or her last can of beer.
"Milk," David said.
She groaned like a waitperson who'd already iterated a restaurant's no-substitutions rule. "Not unless you want dry cereal."
David smirked. "I'll have juice."
Hannah nodded. "Now that we're clear on what we don't have to eat, you vent about the Beauford case, because that's mostly why you're here, and I'll scrounge for snacks."
"I missed you, is why I'm here."
"Bull." A butcher knife that always made David nervous halved an apple in one stroke, which was why it made him nervous. "You called and said you'd be working too late to come over." Whack, a half split to a quarter. "I couldn't sleep." She shrugged. "Okay, I fell asleep, but I was sort of waiting up for you, anyway, with my eyes closed." Whack. "So whatever changed after you called was lousy enough for you to go home, get your pickup, a clean uniform and your dog, and drive all the way here to talk."
"Saying I missed you wasn't bull," David insisted. The butcher knife dismembered a stalk of celery. "But yeah, shortly after I called you, the investigation hit the skids."
While he explained, Hannah set their food on the breakfast bar and slid onto the stool beside him. "Sounds like a dead giveaway to meno pun intended. If Kimmie Sue and Rocco aren't guilty, why would they skip town?"
David dunked an apple slice in the chunky peanut butter. "Why'd they go to the house for a walk-through, before they skipped?"
"We've discussed answering questions with questions, Sheriff. I won."
"That's all we've got, sugar, and mine was an extension of yours. If they are guilty, why didn't they skip the walk-through, too? Marlin pushed, but he'd have agreed to wait until morning if Kimmie Sue had pushed back."
Hannah scooped smooth peanut butter with a celery stick and licked it like an ice cream cone. David was dumbstruck with vegetable envy. "In the movies," she said, "the bad guys always return to the scene of the crime."
"They've been known to," he allowed. "That's why us good guys take scene photos of gawkers standing behind the tape line."
"But my guess is, if Kimmie Sue and Rocco were in it together, they went to the house to find out what you and Marlin knew."
David tore his eyes away from the X-rated peanut-butter show and focused on the food in front of him. He sniffed the milk carton's spout, then checked the expiration dateyesterday, it now being a couple of hours past Thursday. The milk smelled like Tuesday noon.
Hannah flinched. "I should have done that when I took it out of the fridge." The saucer of apples migrated closer. "All yours. Eat 'em before they turn brown."
"I'll share. I'm not that hungry, anyhow."
"No, thanks. After that dream I had, I'm off apples for a while." She took a cracker and bit off a corner. "I get the feeling you don't believe Mrs. Beauford's daughter is involved in her death."
By her tone, forbidden fruit and homicide were linked. How evaded him, so he said, "I don't want to believe Kimmie Sue's involved, but maybe she's a better actress than we think."
"Either way, if Jarek is the killer, she's a major liability." Hannah munched the rest of the cracker. "What if she didn't leave town with him, and he took her? Even if she didn't conspire in the murder, she'll suspect him eventually. Process of elimination, if nothing else."
Hannah's instincts and an analytical, logical mind had attracted David from the start. Not that he was blind to her womanly curves and bottomless brown eyes. Much as she professed to despise her long, curly-wavy hair, he loved to touch it, bury his face in it, see it tousled and tangled on her pillow while she slept.
Hannah Marie Garvey wasn't as tough as she wanted people to believe, more beautiful and sexy than she ever would admit, and a lot smarter than David, but thought the reverse was true. Stay on his toes, and he might fool her for the rest of his life.
He said, "The more time that passes without a stop on Jarek's vehicle, the more worried I am about Kimmie Sue's continued good health."
"So you do think he's involved." She'd dunked another celery stalk when David wasn't looking. Now he was coaching himself: breathe in, breathe out.
"They're, uh, they're both persons of interest." And at the moment, not a fraction as interesting as what your tongue's doing
"I love it when you cop-talk." Her teeth severed the celery like Ginzu knives. "From what you've told me, I think Kimmie Sue's visit was a surprise. Mothers dream their daughters will hook up with captains of industry, not guys named Rocco."
She paused to dispense with the celery. "Since guys named Rocco already have a lot to overcome and usually for good reason, he decided to rip off his never-to-be mother-in-law. He cased the house on the sly, dropped off Kimmie Sue to shop or something and was tossing the place when Bev came home."
Hannah spread her hands. "At that poin
t, he had two choices."
David nodded, wincing inwardly. Once that decision was made, if Bev hadn't been wearing her murder weapon, the killer would have used whatever else was handy. A recent homicide downstate involved a drug dealer who bludgeoned a deadbeat customer to death with a tree stump.
"Rocco grabbed his loot," Hannah said, "picked up Kimmie Sue and left town. They made it to Joplin before the storms forced them to stop. I assume Kimmie Sue isn't a morning person, or they'd have been halfway across Oklahoma when Marlin reached her on her cell phone."
She sat back and crossed her arms. "If Kimmie Sue" She rolled her eyes. "Jeez, what were her parents thinking? If they'd had a boy, they'd have probably named him Rocco."
David chuckled and Hannah continued. "Whatever. Kim Beauford couldn't have known it was Marlinall your phones block the name and number on Caller ID. Rocco had to bring her back, but just because they checked into the Wishing Well doesn't mean he unpacked the Jeep. KimmieKimmight not have realized they were blowing town after the walk-through, until Rocco blew past the city limits."
David shook his head in amazement. "Not bad, Detective Garvey. If constituents wouldn't accuse me of nepotism, I might be tempted to put you on the department payroll."
"Then I'm right?"
"Well, that remains to be seen. I will say, you and Marlin think a lot alike."
She made a face, as though uncertain whether she'd been complimented or insulted. Comparisons with the chief of detectives had that effect on people.
"Same as I told Luke, all we can do is hang tight until those two and their vehicle are located."
Hannah tensed. A cracker she'd intended to slip to Malcolm the Mooch disintegrated in her hand. Glancing down at him, she stammered, "N-New rule, Malc. No more table food."
The mutt glared at David, as though he was a bad influence. He'd tried to be, with zero success. Table scraps in the dogs' bowls, not hand-fed on the sly, was David's house rule, not Hannah's.
The poor dumb dog whimpered and nudged Hannah's elbow with his nose, his heart obviously as broken as the cracker she was brushing off on a napkin. David said, "How new is this rule?"
"I, uh, pretty much since you were changing clothes." Still leaning forward, still chafing her hands over the napkin, she inquired, "So, you talked to Luke recently?"
David sensed a change, aside from subject matter and the peculiar edge in Hannah's voice. Guilt about cutting off Malcolm's stealth panhandling, he supposed. "Luke called the house as I was leaving to come out here. He is not happy with me, but he'll just have to get over it."
Hannah sat back. She pushed her hair behind an ear, flipped it free again, then sighed. "It was a crazy idea, I guess. Totally inappropriate."
"Exactly what I said, right before I told him flat-out no."
"You did?" Her eyes widened, then narrowed. "When was this?"
"About a month ago, when Luke brought it up."
"Oh, yeah? And in all this time, you never said a word to me about it."
Confused, David said, "Why would I?"
She shot back, "Why wouldn't you?" A mirthless chuckle, then, "I already know the answer, but c'mon. Fess up."
David's mouth opened, then closed. A mental review of the previous thirty seconds didn't clarify a damned thing.
"Because I said no. Hell, I even spelled it. Then I forgot about it, till Luke pestered me on the phone again tonight."
Her face flushed as red as the apple peels. Clenching her teeth, she repeated, "You turned him down. A month ago."
"Of course I did. Even without Bev's murder taking priority, I can't think of a dumber way to waste a Friday night."
Slowly, Hannah tipped her head. The gears turning inside were visible. She said, "What are you talking about?" at the same time David said, "Why are you so ticked off all of a sudden?"
Their eyes met and held. "You first," he said.
"Uh-uh. You started it."
Started what? David blew out a breath. "Luke wanted me to help judge a toddler's beauty contest tomorrow night to get out the mom vote. I said no, and forgot about it. I didn't know till he called tonight that he'd signed me up for it, anyway. I told him to take a flying leap off a water tower and pray Jesus he landed on that concrete head of his."
Braced for a chapter and verse on whatever sin he'd committed, he gestured, Your turn.
Her color having returned to near-normal, she said, "Get out the mom vote, huh? Sheesh. The winner's maybe. All the losers' mothers wouldn't have been real fond of you." She glanced at the microwave clock, gasped, "Ye gods, will you look at the time?" and hopped off the bar stool.
"Hey." David grabbed a fistful of her Bulls jersey before it got away. "Aren't you forgetting something?"
Bowing back into his arms, she traced a fingertip down his cheek and trailed it along his jaw, his neck, the band of his undershirt. "No. I'm remembering what tends to happen after we've had a snack talked awhile relaxed "
Her touch, the look in her eyes, and that low, sultry voice had an immediate effect. "We, uh, clean up the mess we made of the kitchen?"
"Sometimes."
"Make sure the doors are locked, then douse the lights?"
"Usually."
"Snuggle up in bed and drift off to sleep?"
"That, too." Hannah brushed her lips against his. "Eventually." The tip of her tongue flicked out, tasting sweet and hot and peanut-buttery. The images it conjured scrolled through David's memory, heightening his arousal.
Lost in her kiss, he was vaguely aware of her twisting in his arms, pulling them both upward, then to the floor. Her hair tumbling over his face smelled like crushed strawberries and he cupped her breast, feeling it swell at his touch. Her mouth never leaving his, she skimmed her hand across his chest, his belly, delving deeper, then her fingers closed around him, stroking, driving him out of his mind.
Falling back, panting, David struggled for control, missing her mouth on his, groaning as her tongue licked up the length of him and her lips parted to take him. The primal pounding ache for release near the breaking point, he freed himself and rolled her on her back.
He tugged off her pajama pants, then his sweats, eager to give, to feel her trembling rise to tremors.
Shuddering, she cried out, "Now, now," and when he slid inside her, the world exploded in bright, blinding white light, then faded to black.
* * *
An annoying clattering sound woke Davidit was his pager vibrating like a wind-up toy on the nightstand. In the dusty gray light seeping in through the windows, he squinted at the glowing LED screen, grunted, then turned it right side up. The blurry numerals gradually coalesced into Marlin Andrik's phone extension at the Outhouse. A digital ASAP message, not a hit-the-gas-and-haul-ass one.
David slid from the bed, careful not to disturb Hannah, and clueless as to how or when they'd gotten there. He was naked from the waist down, a mite weak in the knees, and the left one had a bruise as big as a Kennedy half dollar.
If he was any happier, satisfied, and in love with the most amazing woman the Lord ever created, he'd just flap his wings and fly back to town.
After gathering the clothes he'd worn and those he'd brought with him the night before, he kissed Hannah's sleep-warm brow. He'd grab a quick shower at his house and trade the pickup for his county car.
In the breakfast room, Rambo and Malcolm had their noses pressed to the French doors, united in the urgent need to pee before their bladders burst.
"Quiet," David whispered, then let them out. A combined two hundred pounds scrambling across a wooden plank deck was anything but. He backtracked to peek in at Hannah. Grinning, he allowed that a hydrogen bomb in the backyard wouldn't rouse her for another hour or three.
He retrieved his sweatpants from the floor and pulled them on. Operating a motor vehicle barefoot was a misdemeanor. Wearing boots with sweats ought to be a felony. He folded Hannah's discarded pj bottoms on a bar stool, then loaded the coffeemaker and set it to start the brew cycle at e
ight.
David was giving the counters a swipe with the dishrag, when he paused and looked toward the bedroom.
"Not that I'm complaining," he said softly, as though Hannah were standing there, "but best as I can recall, you never did tell me what tripped that redheaded temper of yours last night."
9
In Realtor parlance, a neighborhood described as established often pertains to houses built when a spacious closet was an arm-span wide, and families whiled away summer evenings on the front porch, not in front of the TV.
Apart from its lifetime-guaranteed siding, the green AstroTurf glued to the porch, and a new storm door, the house where Chlorine Moody lived hadn't changed much in the decades since World War II.
Halfway to Half Way Page 11
