And that’s exactly where I found him when I stepped out of the sweltering heat and a swarm of no-see-ums and into his massive, frigid man cave.
“Top of the afternoon, Ms. Tutie,” he called out, not taking his eyes off the television.
Apparently, he had trouble recalling the name they’d put on my birth certificate, because he seldom used it unless something was wrong. Tutie was the latest in a long succession of nicknames that came from the vast, unknown frontiers of my daddy’s brain. It wasn’t just me. When all was right in his world, he rarely called anyone by their actual name.
I hugged his neck, careful not to muss his hair. He looked much younger than his fifty-two years and was quite vain. There wasn’t a single gray hair in his sandy blond head, which was the exact same color as mine before Phoebe got ahold of me.
“Hey, Daddy. How’re you feeling? Mamma’s afraid your blood pressure’s up.”
“The whistle pigs got into your mamma’s bulbs again last night,” he said, eyes still glued to the stock ticker.
Stella Maris had a thriving herd of wild hogs. In the aftermath of a hurricane back in the 1800s, most of the livestock wandered the island until fences and barns were repaired or rebuilt. This particular gang of hogs was never apprehended. Daddy called them whistle pigs. Don’t ask me why. I was pretty sure that whistle pig was technically another name for a woodchuck, but Daddy never was much troubled by technicalities. Anyway, as far as I knew, no one had ever heard one of the hogs whistle.
They were mostly harmless, but they liked to snack on in flowerbeds and vegetable gardens, which made them unpopular. It wasn’t clear to me from his response whether the hogs had Daddy’s blood pressure up, or if it was something on the stock ticker.
“Those things are a menace.” The idea of hogs running loose always bothered me. I harbored the suspicion one of them might attack somebody, although I’d never heard such a thing happening.
The town council had discussed at length what to do about them, but no consensus was reached. The island’s matriarchs were too tenderhearted to hear tell of the hogs being exterminated, and the swine were wily enough to evade efforts at rounding them up.
“Computer’s acting up again,” Daddy said.
“That’s what Mamma said. Let me take a look.” I sat down at his desk and moved the mouse to kill the screen saver. I opened a web page. “Do you want all these toolbars on here?”
“Toolbars?”
“All these things at the top.”
“I don’t know how those things got on there. Get rid of ’em, why don’t you?”
I updated his virus protection, scanned the computer, and removed the excess toolbars. “I’m going to change the password on your email account.”
“Write the new one down for me.”
“I’m taping it right where the old one was, inside your top drawer. I’ve underlined the letters you need to capitalize.”
He stared at me for a minute. I could see his eyes dancing with mischief, though he didn’t throw the game by grinning. He looked away. “Stocks are in the toilet.”
“Daddy, when’s the last time you had a physical?”
“A physical?” He looked at me like he’d taken a bite of something spoiled.
I sighed. “Listen. If you want to keep on tormenting Mamma with such nonsense as pornography blasts to the church, dragging me over here to fix self-inflicted computer problems, and selling junk, to a ripe old age, we’ve got to keep you healthy.”
“That was no such thing as pornography. Is that what your mamma said?”
Chumley woofed in Daddy’s defense.
“Well, Mamma’s definition of pornography might be different from yours. Whatever it was, I’m sure it was hilarious. That’s not my point.”
“Well, state your business, Ms. Tutie.”
“I’m going to make you an appointment for a physical.”
“I am not going to sit and listen while Warren Harper jaws at me about exercise and fried foods.”
“No, I don’t think you should see Warren Harper.”
“Why not? What’s wrong with Warren Harper?”
Warren Harper treated many of the island residents, of all ages. That was the problem. He was a generalist. Daddy would see that as a criticism.
I sighed, closed my eyes for a second, then popped them open and gave Daddy a big smile. “There’s nothing wrong with Warren Harper, Daddy. But, you’ve been friends a long time. I just thought it might be easier to talk about personal matters with someone who isn’t one of your poker buddies.”
“Hunh.”
“I’m going to make you an appointment with an internist in Charleston. You can get all your tests run while you’re there.”
“Tests? What tests?”
“You know, lab work, EKG, colonoscopy.”
“Are you trying to run my blood pressure up?”
“Of course not. Why on earth would you say such a thing?”
“’Swhat it sounds like. Here you are trying to give me a heart attack. Talking about letting some stranger stick a—”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Everyone past a certain age has those tests done. Everyone who wants to keep on living. I’ll let you know when your appointment is.”
“Make yourself a doctor’s appointment if you want to.”
“I see a doctor, regularly.”
“I guess that’s your business.” He turned back to watch the television.
A stray thought crossed my mind. “How long have you known Warren Harper?”
“All his life. Why?”
“How well do you know Elenore?”
Daddy snorted. “I can’t imagine what he was thinking when he married her. Strange woman. She’s from Summerville, if I remember right. She was running around with some man from there while she was married to Warren. Left ’im and those poor little children.” He shook his head in disgust.
Those poor little children were a couple years behind me in school, and they’d made out just fine. Warren had remarried, and Lauren Beauthorpe Harper was a natural mother. “Elenore still lives here, though.”
“She moved back a couple times. Never stayed long as far as I know. Kids won’t have much to do with her. Who could blame ’em?”
“She was around enough for me to know who she was when I saw her.”
“Where did you see her?”
“She’s working for a client.”
“Hunh.”
I hugged him bye. “I’ve got to go, Daddy. Try to stay out of trouble. I’ll see you Sunday.”
“I’m not going to see any damn doctor.”
Oh, yes, indeed he would. “Love you, Daddy.”
THIRTEEN
Nate padded in from the hall as I was adding the white wine to the chicken. He sniffed the air. “Mmm…olive oil and garlic.”
“How was your day?” I smiled up at him.
He came up behind me, wrapped two muscled arms around me, and kissed my neck. “Good,” he said. “Getting better.”
“Did you locate Jim Davis?”
He nuzzled the spot just below my ear. “Yes, I located our friend, Mr. Davis. But he can wait a bit.”
I leaned into him. He felt solid, substantial. He smelled like soap and hot-blooded man. “I could keep this warm,” I said.
“We can reheat it.” He let go of me with his right hand long enough to flip the gas off.
“Just let me put it away…”
He nibbled my left ear.
Something melted and flowed inside me, while a shiver danced up my spine. I rested the wooden spoon next to the saucepan, then reached behind me and combed my fingers into his hair.
With the palms of his hands, he stroked my breasts in feather-light circles. I closed my eyes
and arched my back, straining to press my chest against his hands.
Teasing, he pulled his palms away just enough to keep his caress just a whisper against my shirt.
Hungry for him, I let go of his hair, dropped my arms, and twisted towards him. He took my hands in his and stopped me, held me facing away from him. Then he lifted me and moved us in one quick motion away from the stove to the island. He placed my hands on the countertop and held them there, leaning over me to run his lower lip down one side of my neck and up the other. Every cell of me tingled.
He lifted his right hand and mine followed, reaching for any part of him. But he grasped my fingers and guided my hand back to the island. “Play nice, now,” he whispered.
Oh, dear heaven, how nice I wanted to be to him.
He removed both his hands. With great effort, I kept mine on the counter.
He ran his fingertips from the tops of my thighs, slowly, up my sides, and to my breasts. He lingered there for a moment, making me gasp. Then, he slipped his hands underneath my tank and unhooked my bra. He pulled the shirt over my head, then released one arm at a time, replacing each hand in turn to the table. Finally, he slid down my capris, guided my legs free, and placed the ball of each foot on the floor with a squeeze indicating the foot should stay where he’d planted it.
I was standing in the kitchen in black silk-and-lace boy-shorts, bent slightly over the black granite island, on tiptoes. He was still fully clothed in jeans and a T-shirt. I was completely vulnerable and all-powerful.
I felt his lips on my ankle and gripped the table. He took his time, kissing his way up my left leg, then down my right. He lifted my right foot and stepped it out, spreading my knees apart. My hips gyrated in slow circles.
He reached around me and splayed his hands over my stomach. Gently, he pulled my bottom back against his jeans. I could feel the heat rising through the denim and lace. He kissed the spot between my shoulder blades. I rubbed against him and made a noise that was part moan, part whine.
“Are you getting impatient?” he asked.
“Yes,” I hissed.
“No need to hurry, now,” he said. “I want to savor you.”
In answer, I ground against him more insistently.
He moved his hands slowly across my hips and cupped my bottom. I slowed the rhythm my hips danced to, pressing my bottom against his hands longer each rotation. He stoked me ever-so-lightly through the silk.
“I want to feel your touch,” I whimpered. “Let’s lose the lace.”
“Soon,” he whispered in my ear.
“Nate.”
“Yes, Slugger,” he murmured in my ear.
“Make love to me,” I demanded.
“But I am.”
An hour and a shower later we lingered at the kitchen table over Tuscan chicken and a bottle of Merry Edwards pinot noir. I rolled the stem of my glass through my fingers and watched the candlelight filtered through the wine. Waves broke on sand and sang softly outside the window.
“So how was your day?” Nate asked.
“Aside from Daddy’s pornography-related emergency earlier, it was productive.” I laughed as I told him about my visit to the barn.
Nate looked vexed. “I don’t understand your daddy, or why your mamma puts up with him. He has to be a smart guy—he had a successful career selling industrial what, valves and such?”
“That’s right.”
“So why does he play this dumb, good-ole-boy routine?”
“Because it gets him what he wants. I went running over there, didn’t I?”
“Why can’t he just call, like normal fathers, and ask you to come by when you get a chance?”
I shrugged, thinking Nate really didn’t want to talk about normal fathers. His was no poster boy. “It’s who Daddy is. At his age, he’s not likely to change. The rest of my day was interesting.” I told Nate about Calista’s security system, and how it failed to engage that morning.
He set his fork down. “It’s a cinch this high-end security system comes with a staff of ex-Marine body guards for their high-end clientele. Why would she need to hire you for protection?”
“Maybe she’s afraid of mercenaries. I don’t know. What she needs right now is someone to figure out who wants to hurt her, and why. She hired me for my brains, not my brawn.”
Nate shook his head. “I’d be tempted to think what she needs is a good therapist if it weren’t for her ex-husband showing up here out of the blue.”
“That, and the fake sleeping pills someone left by her bed.”
“Didn’t you say Blake suspected she did that herself, for attention?”
“That’s what he suspects, not what I think.”
“What do you think?”
“Based on the information I have right now, I’d say her ex-husband is possibly in cahoots with her mamma and that fake aunt. They probably found out about the money somehow and now they’re up to their old tricks, trying to convince Calista that her life is a parallel of Marilyn’s.”
“Assuming you’re right, how does that get them what they want—the money?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet. I need to talk to Robert Pearson. He’s her attorney now.”
“That’s odd. Looks like she’d stick with someone who specializes in lottery winners. It’s a niche market.”
“She said she feels safer changing attorneys periodically. Maybe she swaps everyone out. That could explain why she hired me—us—instead of taking her concerns to the security company.”
Nate took a slow sip of wine and lowered his glass. “Well, that fits. And seeing how her fancy system failed to perform properly this morning, maybe that makes her smart.”
“My thoughts exactly. About Jim Davis—I’m assuming if you’d seen him you’d have told me that by now.”
“I called both hotels and asked them to ring his room. He’s registered at the Hampton on the Isle of Palms Connector. Whoever checked him in didn’t enter the make and model of his car or tag number on the registration. And they’d made a typo on the name, which is why I didn’t find him when I scanned their system. He was registered as Kim Davis, who I took to be a woman. The lady at the desk caught it when I called.
“Anyhow, I parked where I could see two of the five doors guests use to enter and waited all afternoon. This Hampton Inn isn’t configured like any I’ve ever seen. I called and asked for his room again right before I came back here. Still no answer. But, I called when I got out of the shower—the first time—and he picked up. I did a ‘sorry, wrong room’ and hung up.”
“I have an appointment with Calista in the morning. If there is a real threat, and we have to assume there is, the only way I can ensure her safety is to stay with her twenty-four seven until we’ve eliminated the threat. But that will seriously impair my ability to investigate. I can take her with me for some things…”
“I can handle the rest. But we need to get into Jim Davis’s room before you go to Calista’s for the duration. That’s a two-person job if we don’t want to get caught.”
“Then we’d better do that tonight.”
“Tommy and Suzanne?”
I grinned. “Okay, but I’m not playing the hysterical female this time. You lose the earring. I’ll check out Davis’s room.”
“Fine by me. I’m secure in my masculinity.” His lips curved, and he sent me a sizzling look from beneath hooded lids.
“Let’s do it.” I returned his gaze with one that made all kinds of promises for later.
FOURTEEN
The parking lot at the Hampton Inn was quiet when we arrived. It was scattered with cars, but their drivers were either inside the hotel or had parked and left the lot. We parked a few spots down from the Camry, and I stood on lookout while Nate attached a GPS tracker under the back driver’s side w
heel well. Now we wouldn’t have to wonder where Jim Davis was at any given moment.
We hopped back into the Explorer and parked just around the front corner of the hotel, out of view from the lobby. I put a Charleston-area tourist map and a few brochures with coupons in an envelope, sealed it, and wrote Jim Davis’s name on the outside. When he received this packet, he likely wouldn’t think anything about it—just that local businesses were advertising.
Dressed in jeans, t-shirt, ball cap, and aviator sunglasses, Nate headed inside to drop off the envelope at the front desk and ask the clerk to see that Jim Davis got it.
I waited in the Explorer. As soon as Nate was on his way, I called the hotel and chatted with the front desk clerk about possibly holding my wedding by their pool. It was after nine on a Thursday and there would be only one person on duty. My job was to keep her busy so she didn’t look at Nate closely and didn’t have time to complete the transaction of looking up Jim Davis’s room number on her computer and calling him. I focused on enunciating my r’s and g’s and keeping my vowels to one syllable so she wouldn’t place my voice later.
Nate climbed into the back seat and flew into a wardrobe change. Moments later, he emerged transformed.
I was prattling on about how I wanted swans in the pool for my wedding, and whether or not chlorine would hurt swans. While the desk clerk was explaining how they’d never had swans in their pool before, and I’d need to speak with the manager in charge of all such as that, I put my hand over the phone and whispered to Nate, “Damn, you clean up good.” I usually only saw Nate in a business suit and tie on court days.
He grinned. “Give me thirty seconds, no longer.”
I waited, then rolled my pink overnight bag across the parking lot while discussing fireworks with the clerk. I’d taken a curling iron to my hair, fluffed it out, and slipped in a headband. In a flowing sundress and sandals, I was hoping for an air of innocence. I told the clerk on the other end of the phone that I’d set up an appointment for me, my mamma, and my soon-to-be mother-in-law to meet with the sales manager and ended the call just before I walked into the lobby.
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