Gar shook hands with Max, then patted Jolie’s shoulder. “Be careful, you two.”
The minute Sandy and Gar were out of earshot, Max grabbed Jolie’s arm and jerked her to her feet.
“What the—”
“The call that just came in on my cell phone—that was Hugh Pearce, the private investigator I hired,” Max told her. “He’s found Aaron Bendall.”
Chapter 22
Max hired a private plane to take them straight from Sumarville to Key West. They left after breakfast the next morning and arrived in the Keys before lunchtime. They had agreed to share their news with Theron and Yvonne and no one else, letting Yvonne explain to the family only that they’d gone out of town together as part of their ongoing investigation. It wasn’t that they distrusted anyone at Belle Rose, but if somebody accidently let it slip that they were on their way to Key West to question Aaron Bendall, that information could easily find its way to Roscoe Wells.
The hot tropical sun, the humidity, and the ocean breeze welcomed them to Key West. A rental car awaited them, along with directions to their hotel, an inn in the heart of Key West’s historic “Old Town” district. The manager, a thin, hollow-cheeked, leather-brown man of indiscernible age, greeted them graciously; and it quickly became apparent to Jolie that he knew who Maximillian Devereaux was. Or at the very least, Mr. Fritz knew how wealthy Max was.
“Your suite is ready, Mr. Devereaux. If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to let us know immediately. I’m at your service twenty-four hours a day.”
The decor of their two bedroom suite was Caribbean with rattan and bamboo furniture, the walls pastel shades of green, yellow, and blue. Paintings of local scenes hung on the walls, probably done by Key West artists. Bouquets of lush tropical flowers resided on every table. Everything worked to create a cool, serene, vacation-perfect atmosphere. Only they weren’t here to lounge on the beach or scuba dive or rent a catamaran.
The bellhop deposited Max’s bag in the bedroom to the left and hers in the room to the right. By the time Jolie had visually inspected her bedroom and opened the doors leading to the balcony, laced in gingerbread trim befitting the Victorian structure, waiters were bringing in lunch and setting it up on a white linen-covered table in the lounge between the two bedrooms.
“Just something light,” Mr. Fritz said, motioning the waiters away. “Fruit salad, Key Lime bread, grilled shrimp, and a bottle of Chablis.”
Jolie checked the wine. A 1999 Francois Raveneau Chablis Montee de Tonnerre. Only the best for Max Devereaux. Mr. Fritz personally uncorked the bottle of grand gru Chablis.
“Thank you.” Max shook hands with the manager. “And I’ll need directions to get from here to Maloney’s Marina. After lunch, Ms. Royale and I plan to visit a friend who keeps his cruiser docked there.”
“The marina is very easy to find and only minutes from here. I will jot down the directions for you and have them waiting at the front desk.” Mr. Fritz all but bowed as he left the suite.
Jolie eyed the delectable lunch items. Max lifted the bottle of Chablis and filled two crystal flutes.
“We could have gone straight to the marina,” Jolie said.
“You barely touched your breakfast,” Max told her. “And it could be quite some time before we eat dinner, so I thought it best for us to have a light lunch before we go in search of Mr. Bendall.”
“When we find him, what are the odds that he’ll tell us anything?” Jolie allowed Max to seat her, then she lifted the white linen napkin from the table and spread it across her lap.
“If our assumptions are correct and someone, probably Roscoe Wells, paid off the former sheriff, then I’d say it’s possible that, for the right price, he’ll tell us whatever we want to know.”
“You’re saying we’ll have to pay him for information.” Jolie lifted her fork, speared a piece of fruit and lifted it to her mouth.
“Oh, we’ll have to pay him all right,” Max said. “The only question is how much.”
An hour later, Max parked the rental car at Maloney’s Marina; then he and Jolie got out and began their search for the Mississippi Magnolia, a small cruiser, where Aaron Bendall reportedly lived. A wide variety of yachts, ranging from top-of-the-line beauties that would sleep a dozen to cruisers that bunked two, lined up in the slips along the pier.
The Mississippi Magnolia turned out to be a twin-engine, midpriced cruiser that slept four, which would have cost at least a hundred and fifty thousand. Not too shabby for a retired sheriff from Desmond County, Mississippi. A large heavyset man, with a scraggly gray beard, wearing a faded red baseball cap, a loose-fitting floral shirt and baggy cutoff jeans stood on deck.
“Aaron Bendall?” Max called.
The man turned, looked at them and grinned, then threw up his hand and waved. “Well, as I live and breathe, if it’s not Max Devereaux and Jolie Royale.” He motioned to them. “Come on board. I’ve been expecting y’all.”
Theron closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep, knowing it was the only way he could get his mother, Aunt Clarice, and Amy to stop hovering over him. The minute the threesome tiptoed out of the bedroom, he breathed a sigh of relief. Not that he didn’t enjoy having three women waiting on him hand and foot, but enough was enough. After his release from the hospital this morning, his mother had insisted he stay at her house until he was fully recovered, and considering the fact that he could do little more than feed himself and use a wheelchair to get to the bathroom, he didn’t argue with her. But he thought he’d lose his mind if any one of them asked him again if he needed anything.
With the bedroom door half-closed, he could make out most of what they were saying.
“I’m going to run on, Mrs. Carter,” Amy said. “I’ll be back tonight.”
“You come for supper,” Yvonne told her.
“It’ll be after seven,” Amy explained.
“Whenever you get here will be fine,” Yvonne said. “Just your being around seems to cheer Theron a lot.”
The front door closed quietly, then the roar of a car’s engine told him that Amy had started her Mustang.
“She’s such a sweet young woman,” Clarice said. “And you can tell she’s just crazy about our Theron.”
“I think he’s fond of her, too.” Yvonne sighed. “Nothing would make me happier than to see him married to a fine girl like Amy. It’s high time I had me some grandchildren.”
“Oh, wouldn’t that be wonderful. Babies at Belle Rose again.”
Theron closed his eyes, letting the drone of his mother’s and aunt’s voices lull him into a semiconcious state. It would take some getting used to, this notion that his mother was a half sister to Clarice Desmond, that his grandfather had been a white man, the descendant of slave owners. As he let his mind wander back to his childhood, he managed to bring to the surface a vague memory of his grandmother, Sadie Fuqua. She’d been a slender, small-boned woman, with fine features and large black eyes. He remembered her singing to him. He couldn’t recall the tune, but he could feel the laughter inside him bubbling up from the memory. Mr. Sam Desmond had died before Theron was born, but he’d seen the portrait of him in the front parlor at Belle Rose. A large commanding man, with brown hair and bright hazel eyes.
Theron sighed and let his mind continue wandering through his childhood. Fuzzy, hazy thoughts. Lethargy claimed him. And moment by moment he drifted off into a light sleep.
Later in the day, Theron woke, rousing slowly, languidly. He could hear his mother’s voice. She was speaking quietly to someone. Was Aunt Clarice still here? He gazed out the window and noted that the sun was shining, which meant it was still daytime, then he glanced at the clock on the bedside table. He chuckled to himself. He’d slept only an hour. Using the techniques the physical therapist had taught him, Theron managed to maneuver himself out of bed and into his wheelchair. Someone had closed the bedroom door while he slept; that’s why he couldn’t make out what his mother was saying or to whom. After opening the door, h
e eased the chair from the bedroom and into the narrow hallway. His mother stood in the middle of the living room, the telephone to her ear.
“Yes, this is Yvonne Carter.”
He wheeled closer, intending to let his mother know he was awake and up, but before he caught her attention, her next words froze him in place.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she said. “But you should fear me.”
Who the hell is she talking to? Theron wondered.
“You’re wrong if you think I won’t do whatever is necessary to keep my son safe. I can’t prove that you hired someone to kill him, but I promise you this—if anyone tries to hurt him again, Clarice and I will go to the sheriff and press charges against you.”
Theron had never heard his mother speak to someone so fiercely, with such anger and hatred in her voice. His mind whirled with questions, but he tried to quiet his puzzled thoughts so he could eavesdrop on her conversation.
“I’m talking about another crime,” Yvonne said. “One where Clarice and I were the victims.”
Theron’s heart leaped to his throat.
“No, it won’t be your word against mine. It will be your word against my word and Clarice Desmond’s word.”
What the hell was his mother talking about?
“It doesn’t matter that people think Clarice is touched in the head or that I’m just a colored woman with a racial ax to grind. Even if you never serve a day in a jail, do you think any black person would ever vote for you again, if they knew what you did? And quite a few white folks would doubt your innocence. Your political career would be over. And any future hopes you have for Garland would come to an end.”
Garland? Garland Wells? Good God Almighty, his mother was talking to Roscoe Wells. And she knew about something he’d done that could put him in jail, something she and Clarice had witnessed.
“You think long and hard about what I’ve said.” Yvonne slammed the receiver down on an end table by the sofa.
Her hand shook as she removed it from the telephone. Theron wheeled into the living room. When she heard him, his mother gasped, then turned to face him.
“I—I didn’t know you were awake,” she said, her gaze meeting his, her eyes questioning him.
“Who were you talking to?” he asked.
She hesitated, and he wondered if she would lie to him.
“Roscoe Wells,” she replied.
“Why would you talk to that son of a bitch?”
“I called him to warn him.”
“Warn him about what?”
“I told him that if he’d hired those men to kill you, that he’d better not try it again.”
“Why would Roscoe Wells be afraid of you? What do you and Clarice know about him that could put him in jail?”
Yvonne tensed so suddenly and so solidly that she seemed to have turned instantly to stone. Even her breathing slowed.
“Mama?”
No response.
“Answer me.”
Silence.
“I heard you say that it was a crime where you were one of the victims. What the hell did Roscoe Wells do to you?”
“I’ve got to get back up to Belle Rose and start dinner.” Yvonne turned toward the kitchen. “But I need to put on a pot roast for us before I leave. Amy’s coming to eat with us. Do you need anything before I—”
Theron caught up with her, reached out, grabbed her wrist, and said, “Dammit, tell me what he did to you!”
“Please, don’t use bad language when you speak to me.”
“Mama…”
“I’ll send one of the day girls down here to stay with you until I get back. I won’t be gone long.”
“I don’t need anybody,” Theron said. “I’ll be all right alone for a couple of hours.”
“All right. But call me if you need me.”
Yvonne walked off into the kitchen. Theron balled his hands into fists and scrunched his face in a frustrated frown. He knew his mother well enough to realize that she was not going to tell him what he wanted to know. Not now or ever. Not unless and until she wanted to.
He wheeled over to the phone, lifted it and dialed.
“Royale residence.” A voice he didn’t recognize but assumed to be one of the daily maids answered.
“May I speak to Clarice Desmond, please.”
R. J. thrust into Mallory, the tension within him winding tighter and tighter with each lunge. Since he had initiated her into the pleasures of sex, the girl had been wild for it. And he sure as hell wasn’t fool enough to turn her down. When she came, she moaned and groaned and squeezed every ounce of feel-good out of her orgasm. Within seconds, he climaxed.
“Ah, baby.” He grunted as the aftershocks rippled through him.
Mallory lifted her head just enough to bite his neck. “Again,” she murmured. “I want to do it again.”
“Sweet Jesus, Mal, give a guy a few minutes to recover, will you?” He rolled off her and onto his back.
Mallory rose up and over him, then slithered down the side of his body, stopping when her mouth aligned with his penis. “Need some encouragement?”
“You go down on me now and you’ll get a taste of our cum,” he told her.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
He grabbed the back of her head. “Are you playing games with me?”
“No games.”
She lifted his semierect penis and sucked several inches inside her mouth, then closed her lips to hold him in place. Her tongue danced over the bulbous tip, laving the most sensitive area. R. J. bucked up, then shoved her head down so she was forced to take him completely. She gagged a couple of times before he began moving in and out of her. When he grew hard again, she stopped. He groaned. She licked him from scrotum to tip, then ran kisses from his navel to his neck.
“Fuck me again,” she told him. “You’re ready.”
“Damn you, Mallory.”
She crawled on top of him, positioned herself in a rider’s mount and leaned forward just enough to give him access to her breasts. They went at it again, like a couple of wild animals. And this time, when they came, Mallory lay quietly on top of him, murmuring his name. Within minutes she fell asleep. He stroked her long black hair and wondered how the hell he’d let himself get so deeply involved with an eighteen-year-old kid.
She was hot and wild. Sweet and funny and full of life. He’d never known anyone like Mallory Royale. She made him feel like he was somebody special. He’d never felt that way, not with anyone else, not ever. And it scared the hell out of him.
Except for the second time they’d had sex, he’d been careful to use a rubber without fail. Until today. She’d told him that she had gone to the doctor and was now on the pill. He had to admit he was glad. Fucking without a rubber was great. But R. J. knew he was skating on thin ice. Mallory was no good-time gal. She might love sex, but she loved him, too. And for the first time in his life, he worried about how the hell he was going to leave a woman without breaking her heart.
“Come on aboard.” Aaron Bendall invited them with a sweep of his meaty hand.
Max followed Jolie across the gangplank and onto the walk-a-round. Bendall lifted a couple of beers from a cooler and held them out to his guests.
“No, thank you.” Jolie shook her head.
Max accepted one of the chilled cans, popped the lid, and took a swig, then focused his gaze on Bendall. “Why were you expecting us?”
“Oh, I’ve got friends all over, and I keep in touch with one or two folks back in Sumarville,” Bendall said. “I was told you two have been asking a lot of questions about me.” He popped the lid on the other beer, then saluted Max with it before downing half the can in one long guzzle. He belched, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You even hired yourself a private dick to find me.”
“It took him awhile,” Max said. “You weren’t an easy man to find.”
“Didn’t want to be found.”
“Why not?” Jolie asked.
Bendall guffawed, a loud boisterous rumble from his chest. “Now, Ms. Royale, there’s no need to play dumb with me. I know that you know there are some pretty important documents missing from the sheriff’s department. Files pertaining to the Belle Rose massacre.”
“Then you did know they were missing?” Jolie glowered at the red-faced, slack-jawed man.
“Of course I knew. Who do you think took them?” Bendall slurped his beer.
“Then you admit you stole those files?” Max lowered his aviator sunglasses just a fraction, enough to allow Bendall to see his eyes.
“Let’s just say I know where the original files are and where copies can be found.” Bendall finished off his beer, crushed the can, and tossed it on top of the cooler.
“What would it take for us to get our hands on the original files?” Max asked.
Bendall tsk-tsked. “The original files wouldn’t come cheap.”
“How much?” Jolie’s heartbeat accelerated.
“The original files are in a safety deposit box and so is one set of the copies. My lawyer’s got the other set.”
“The lady asked you how much.” Max lifted his sunglasses back in place.
“I’ve got me a comfortable life here—a retirement check from the State of Mississippi and a supplemental check every month from an old friend.”
They didn’t really need to ask who that “old friend” was. Who else could it be other than Roscoe Wells?
“Name your price, Bendall.” Max’s voice had a deadly edge.
“A million dollars.” Bendall laughed again, not quite as loud or self-confident and just slightly uncertain.
“I can have that amount wired to me at a local bank by tomorrow morning,” Max said, as if it were pocket change. “Name the bank and the time. I’ll have the money for you, if you have the files for me. And let me warn you that if you try to screw me, it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”
“With a million bucks, I can disappear again. Go farther south.”
What She Doesn't Know Page 27
