“You got your harp? Maybe jam a little?”
Nick patted his shirt pocket. “I don’t come to this place without it. Help me check out the sound system. Don’t want it messing up tomorrow night.”
Friday nights some of the regulars had started getting together and jamming. Big Joe on the guitar, a couple of ex-cops on the saxophone and drums, and Nick playing a mean harmonica, mostly as backup but occasionally solo. He flipped on the microphones and slipped into his regular spot beside Big Joe’s guitar. After a few riffs to warm up, he slid into “Walking by Myself.”
Someone wanted to kill her. Probably someone she knew. Taylor couldn’t get the thought out of her mind as she drove west on Highway 72, crossing from Mississippi into Tennessee. The old pickup in front of her belched a plume of exhaust, and she slowed, changing lanes. She hoped Nick’s lead took her to Scott—even if he wasn’t the actual stalker, Scott might hold the key to his identity.
Her phone rang, and she glanced at the ID. Livy.
“Get my profile done?” Livy sounded hopeful.
“A preliminary one. Thought I would drop by your office after I have lunch with Nick Sinclair.”
“Ooh. Where are you meeting him?”
“Blues Espresso.”
“I love that place. Very romantic.”
Taylor could imagine Livy’s eyebrows doing a Groucho Marx. “We’re meeting to discuss his brother. How about we try for two o’clock again today?”
“Call me if you lose track of time.” Livy chuckled. “I know I would.”
“Not going to happen. See you then.”
Ten minutes later she swung off of I-240 onto Poplar. She found the café in a small shopping mall and spied Nick’s red convertible. After parking beside him, she stepped out of the Rav4, smoothing the wrinkles from her white capris, and glanced down at her strapless sandals. Taylor wiggled her hot-pink toes. Hot pink? What had possessed her? She always painted her toenails with a simple white coat.
“God has someone for you.” Her mother’s words popped into Taylor’s mind, and she dismissed them. She wasn’t looking for anyone. Been there, done that. Had the broken heart to prove it. She squared her shoulders and hurried to the door but stopped long enough to check her makeup before she pushed it open.
Toe-tapping music stopped her. She scanned the eatery and found the source at the back of the café—Nick, blowing a harmonica, and a giant of a black man on guitar. She walked closer, drawn by the magic and the man with the mouth harp cupped in his hands.
If she had any sense, she’d fly back through that door and leave the music and memories behind, but it was as though her feet had grown roots, anchoring her to the floor. She closed her eyes as the notes wrapped around her and filled her soul. Soothed a dry ache . . .
When the music stopped, she opened her eyes and stared straight into Nick’s. His pleasure showed itself in the slow grin that started at his mouth and spread to his hazel eyes.
“I didn’t know you were here,” he said, his voice husky.
“I’m early.” The music played on in her head. “I didn’t realize you were so good.”
“You don’t know how good I can be.”
The wicked grin he shot her sent heat rising in her cheeks.
He tapped his harmonica in his hand and turned to the guitar player. “Good set, man. I think the microphones are fine. I want you to meet my friend, Taylor Martin. Taylor, Big Joe Tyson.”
Joe’s hand engulfed Taylor’s. “This is a good man,” he said, nodding toward Nick. “Don’t let anybody tell you any different.”
Taylor laughed. “That’s good to know.”
Nick took her by the arm and escorted her to a table by the window. “Is this okay?”
She nodded and took the seat he pulled out. “I love this atmosphere, but I thought all the blues places were on Beale Street.”
Nick waved his hand toward the pit. “This just sort of evolved. Do you know what you’re hungry for? The menu is on the wall, but I always recommend the shrimp po’boy.”
She was glad he suggested something because her mind hadn’t kicked in yet. “That sounds good. And sweet tea.”
Oh my word. Had she actually said sweet tea? How easy it was to slip into old habits.
Nick gave the college-age waiter their order, then turned to Taylor. “So, how do you like being home?”
“I liked it fine until that package arrived. I really need to talk to your brother. When are you going to tell me about this lead you have?”
A look she couldn’t decipher crossed his face.
“Let’s save business for after we eat.”
“But—”
He held up his finger. “How about for one hour we don’t talk about where Scott is, or that poem, or anything bad.”
Nick was good at slipping in and taking control. Which was fine—she could use an hour without thinking about the threats that hung over her like a guillotine poised to drop. She propped her elbows on the table and crossed her arms. “Okay. One hour.”
“Good. That’ll give you enough time to tell me about your family. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
Her family? Was he just curious, or was it more? “There’s not that much to tell. You know about my mother—she was very pleased with the book, by the way. I do have a brother, and a niece, and an uncle. And that’s about it.”
“Your dad. Did he die?”
“No. Or at least, I don’t think he did.”
The waiter brought their tea, and she focused on the lemon wedge adorning the tall glass, avoiding the question in Nick’s eyes. She squeezed the lemon and dropped it into the tea before turning her attention back to Nick. The question remained. “Okay. He left for a business trip and didn’t come home.”
Nick sat back. “What happened to him?”
Taylor pressed her lips together and swallowed down the knot that jumped into her throat. “He just walked out of our lives. Your music brought back one of the good memories.” She worried a hangnail on her thumb. “Mostly I only have nightmares about him.”
“Are you certain something didn’t happen?”
“Memphis police investigated and concluded he abandoned the family.” Blood seeped from the hangnail, and Taylor dabbed a napkin against it. “I thought he loved us.”
“I know how you feel.”
“You couldn’t.”
“My mother left when I was five. Said she wanted to find herself.”
The grim set of his mouth . . . Yeah, maybe he did know how she felt.
“Can cause attachment issues,” he added.
“Don’t I know it.” Taylor spied Big Joe approaching their table. “Here’s our food.”
Joe set their plates in front of them with a flourish, then set a basket of fries in the middle of the table. “I hope you folks enjoy this.”
“Thank you, man,” Nick said. “You outdid yourself.”
The sandwich, framed by two dill pickle spears, looked delicious but messy. White capris may not have been the best choice. Using her knife, she cut the po’boy into bite-sized pieces, while Nick dug into his.
“This is good,” he said between bites.
Nodding her agreement, she picked up one of the pickles and bit into it, relishing the tangy-sour taste.
“Those attachment issues . . .” He tilted his head toward her. “Is that why you’re not married?”
Taylor almost bit her tongue. “I knew I shouldn’t have agreed with you. And it’s really none of your business.”
His hazel eyes twinkled. “Maybe not, but a beautiful woman like you . . . I just wondered why some guy hadn’t snatched you up. Have you ever considered it? Getting married?”
“Again, none of your business.” He thought she was beautiful?
“I’m sorry, you’re right. I seem to have a knack for asking the wrong questions.”
He did that. She speared a shrimp that had escaped the bun as Michael’s image invaded her thoughts. She sighed. “I was engaged onc
e. He married someone else. Can we drop it now?”
Nick dredged a fry through the ketchup and bit into it. Then he wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Attachment issues, fiancé abandons you, nightmares about your dad . . . ever considered all this is related?”
“Never crossed my mind.”
He had the grace to blush. “Sorry. The mind protects itself, but it doesn’t heal whatever it’s shielding us from. Maybe the nightmares are a sign you need to deal with what your dad did.”
“And you know this, how?”
“Common sense.”
She folded her arms across her chest and waited.
“Okay . . . I had a character that blocked certain memories from her past, and I did a lot of research on the subject.”
“That’s what I thought. You might want to try six years of psychology courses.” She tented her fingers. “Of course I know it’s all related, and after the nightmares started again, I decided to try and find my dad. Made my uncle furious.”
“Why wouldn’t your uncle want to find his brother?”
“He said it would cause another scandal if I rehashed all that ancient history.”
“But you don’t believe that.”
“Jonathan wants to sell some of the farm, something I’m sure my dad would never allow. Besides, my uncle is somewhat of a control freak. I don’t think he’d relish giving up the top-dog spot.”
“Can he sell without your dad’s signature?”
That hadn’t occurred to her. “I’m sure Jonathan can figure out a way.”
“So you dropped your search?”
“No. Just going about it a little differently. I have a friend in the Memphis Police Department helping me.”
“Olivia Reynolds.”
Heat crawled up her neck. “About that . . .”
He held up his hand. “After we finish eating. Remember—nothing unpleasant until then.”
Taylor ducked her head and concentrated on her sandwich.
“This fiancé, was he nuts?”
“I thought no talking about bad stuff.”
“Come on,” Nick said. “That’s just getting to know more about you.”
Taylor crossed her eyes at him, but he only laughed. She picked up the glass of tea and leaned back. “Okay. Michael would tell you he was being practical. Said I didn’t love him. That I never had.” Then she took a long draw of tea, savoring the nectar of the South. She’d forgotten how good it was.
“Was he right?”
Boy, Nick wasn’t letting this go. “Michael knew I wasn’t madly in love with him when he proposed.”
Nick’s eyebrows came together in a frown. “So, why did you say yes when you knew something was missing?”
She wanted to look away, but his gaze held hers. “He said his love was enough for both of us, that he could wait for me to love him the way he loved me. Evidently, he got tired of waiting.” She lifted her chin. “Passion’s not everything.”
“You have to be kidding.” Nick paused with his fork in midair. “It’s one of the three components of love. You know . . .” He held his thumb, then first two fingers up. “Intimacy, commitment, and passion.”
“You’re quoting Sternberg to me now?” She’d studied the famed psychologist’s triangular theory of love her first year in college. Taylor squirmed a little under Nick’s intense scrutiny. “Okay, looking back, I probably just wanted to check another item off my to-do list . . . finish school, get the MRS degree, then start a family. I could have done worse than Michael.”
Nick groaned. “You don’t really believe that. Life’s too short to settle for a marriage that’s not everything it can be.”
Heat infused her cheeks. She didn’t want him to be right. Knew he was.
“I think marriage is important to you, and not just as an item to check off a list. What was the real reason you were willing to marry this Michael?”
“That was the real—” His lifted eyebrows stopped her. “Okay, maybe the part about starting a family was more important than that MRS degree. I happen to believe marriage comes before sleeping together, and a baby should have both a mother and a father.”
“Good for you. But shouldn’t love be even more important?”
“Like my daddy’s love?” She lifted her chin. “I don’t believe the kind of love you’re talking about exists. Marriage is nothing more than a union between two people who have a common need and are attracted to each other, and I was attracted to Michael.”
From his look she must have sprouted horns.
“I can’t believe an intelligent woman could buy into that baloney. If you don’t have love, what’s going to sustain you when you hit a rough patch?” He shook his head. “You should be glad Michael realized it wasn’t there.”
A snappy retort came to her lips. And died. She drummed the table with her fingers and willed herself not to cry.
“Taylor, all men aren’t like your father.” Nick placed his hand over hers, stilling it. His touch was warm and rough at the same time. “You’re an incredible woman, confident, smart, beautiful . . .”
Her heart fluttered against her ribs as Nick’s hazel eyes held hers. She could almost believe his words. Even more, she could almost believe Nick cared.
“In fact,” Nick said, “I would—”
“Sir, can I get you anything else?” The waiter plopped the bill beside Nick’s plate.
“We’re fine.” Nick waved the young man away.
Taylor pulled away and leaned back against her chair. She knew he was about to ask her out again, and not just to talk about Scott. But once he got to know the real Taylor, he’d be gone, just like all the others.
“Taylor—”
“Let’s talk about that lead you promised me.”
Nick steadied himself, and that look crossed his face again. Fleeting, but something was definitely going on. Taylor tensed. “Okay, what are you not telling me?”
“I, ah . . .” Nick gripped the table edge. “I found Scott last night.”
“What? Why haven’t you already told me? Have you called Livy?”
“He’s not going anywhere. When I found him, he was so drunk he couldn’t stand. I wanted him sober before anyone talked to him.”
“Okay,” she said, stretching the word out. “Where is he?”
“My house.”
“Your house? And you’re here? Aren’t you afraid he’ll take off again?”
“No. He was so drunk last night, believe me, all he wants is to sleep for at least twelve hours without being disturbed.”
“Are you speaking from the voice of experience?”
“I might know something about it from my younger days. Come on, we’ll go wake him, and you’ll see he’s not this monster you think he is.”
She held up her hand. “First of all, I don’t think he’s a monster. I’m not even sure he’s my stalker. And I’m taking a report to Livy with my professional opinion that Scott isn’t involved in the Ross murder.”
“I never believed he was involved in either one. What changed your mind?”
“He didn’t fit the profile. I didn’t say I’ve completely ruled him out as my stalker, or at least being involved in some way. Just rethinking it a little . . . well, a lot. The thing is, about the time I come up with a reason it’s not Scott—like a stalker wouldn’t use his own credit card to purchase a gift for the person he was stalking—something else pops up. But did you know Scott was involved in another stalking case? One that his attorney, Ethan Trask, resolved?”
“How do you know Ethan? And how did you know he’s Scott’s lawyer?”
“Ethan is a longtime friend of my uncle’s. He said last night Scott is one of his clients, that he administered a trust for him.”
“I can’t believe he discussed one of Scott’s cases with you. He wouldn’t even give me his phone number.”
Even though that had bothered Taylor, she’d excused it because Ethan was close with her family and he’d seemed concerned. She felt the nee
d to defend Ethan’s actions. “He only mentioned it to me because of the photos that came yesterday and what Sheriff Atkins told me when I called him.”
She explained about the message the killer had whispered in Beth Coleman’s ear before he shot her. “The photo I received yesterday was taken at the crime scene.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted to when I first got here, but you were so insistent on eating first. I’m telling you now. I’ve been thinking about it, and the whole thing is too sophisticated for a typical nineteen-year-old, and just like the Ross murder, it doesn’t fit Scott’s profile. That’s the upside.”
“What’s the downside?”
“Scott’s not your typical nineteen-year-old. And every time I reach the point of completely scratching him off my lists of suspects, something holds me back.” She leaned forward. “Maybe you can help me. Tell me who would frame Scott. And since victims almost always have a link with their perpetrator, we probably share that link. Who could it be?”
“I don’t know.” Nick scooted his chair back. “But why don’t we go talk to Scott and see if we can find out?”
16
Nick kept Taylor in his rearview mirror as she followed him. The more he got to know her, the more he wanted to know, even though part of him wanted to run the other way. Especially since his heart did crazy things when he was around her, like beat so hard sometimes he almost couldn’t hear what she said.
Her tough exterior hid a vulnerable core. He’d seen it when he played his harmonica. The music touched her. He saw it again when she talked about the children she wanted. But she was most vulnerable when she talked about her father. He ached to help her find him.
Nick turned onto his street, and a light flashing in the middle of the block caught his eye. He looked closer. Two fire trucks and an ambulance sat like harbingers of doom in front of his house.
He parked on the other side of the ambulance and raced toward his house as firemen emerged from the backyard. Taylor pulled in behind him. A fireman stopped him in the driveway. “Sorry, can’t go any farther.”
He tried to push past him. “This is my house. What’s going on? Where’s my brother?”
Shadows of the Past (Logan Point Book #1): A Novel Page 15
