“I need to make a few calls before I can quit for the day.” He took Roxanne’s arm and led her across the street. It wasn’t like there was much traffic on the worn brick road. In fact, she would bet his was the only car that had been on the street the entire day.
As if to belie her thoughts, a brand-spanking new, cherry-red Corvette pulled up and parked a couple of spaces ahead of the Mercedes. So much for her theories. A blue-haired lady wearing a hot pink tracksuit and Reebok walking shoes spryly hopped out of the driver’s side. On the opposite side of the car her mirror image emerged—same blue-rinsed hair, same pink tracksuit, same Reebok shoes.
The two ladies shot Daniels a quick wave, then headed across the street arm in arm. Roxanne couldn’t help but stare. The pair had to be in their late eighties if they were a day. It was unusual to see adult twins who dressed alike, much less ones dressed alike and driving a sports car. Even more interesting, the pair was headed into the Fulton Family Funeral Home which so conveniently sat two doors down from her attorney’s office. And according to his file, the very place where Jamie Valentine’s body had been taken for burial.
The Fulton Family Funeral Home was a beige brick building with a low flat roof. To Roxanne it looked like a large cardboard box with windows and shrubs. Not the place she would want to spend her final days on earth.
“They’re something, aren’t they?”
“I beg your pardon?” Roxanne was having a hard time concentrating on his words. She was too busy trying to figure out a way to give him the slip and get in to see Valentine. She had made many a dash across busy four lane Chicago streets. This small town road, barely big enough for two cars to pass at the same time, would be a piece of cake. Escaping the man at her side might prove to be a little more challenging though. Perhaps she should just make a run for it.
“The Olsen twins,” he prompted.
The three words immediately captured Roxanne’s reporter-attention. “Mary Kate and Ashley?” She looked around, out of shock more than thinking she would actually see the famous duo.
“Imogene and Beatrice.” He nodded toward the identically-clad, elderly twins who had reached the glass doors of the funeral home.
“They’re something all right,” Roxanne muttered, her chance for escape gone.
“This way.” Daniels gripped her elbow to direct her toward his office.
Roxanne resisted. “Let’s go in there.” She nodded her head toward the funeral home and veered to the right.
“Let’s don’t and tell everybody we did.” Malcolm tugged on her arm a little harder, pulling her back to the left and half-dragging her across the street.
“Aren’t you the least bit curious?”
“About what?”
“Jamie Valentine.”
“No.”
“You’re really not? Not at all?”
“Not at all.” He let go of her arm long enough to fish a set of keys out of his pants pocket. Two doors down, the Jefferson County Olsen twins disappeared inside the building.
“The biggest murder case this town has ever seen, and you’re not the least bit curious?”
He didn’t bother to answer.
Roxanne got one last look at the boring, beige building before he forcibly escorted her into the office.
The cool air blowing out of a small window unit was barely enough to counter the Tennessee heat, but it was better than nothing. His office was just what she expected—pale tan walls, shiny green plants, and large leather furniture. It was open, bright, and oh-so conservative.
“What’s up there?” she asked, pointing to the polished wooden stairs.
“A conference room and my law library.”
Roxanne nodded as Daniels settled down behind his desk. He popped open his briefcase, then dug out a couple of files.
She turned from inspecting his diploma from Vanderbilt as he picked up the phone that was sitting on top of his desk. “It doesn’t work, you know.”
With a small sigh, he reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved his cell.
“Don’t you have a secretary?”
“Barbara is only here part-time.”
“A part-time secretary? Don’t you need her more than that?” Pierce’s secretary worked nearly sixty hours a week.
“No, I’m only here part time.”
“A part-time attorney?” She made a face.
Whoever Daniels was calling must have answered. “Hold, please,” he said into the tiny phone, then covered the mouthpiece. “Is that a problem? If so I can turn your file over to Jefferson County’s other lawyer. He’s full-time.”
“How old is he?” Roxanne asked.
“Two hundred and fifty.”
“No thanks.”
She wasn’t sure, but she thought her conservative counsel hid a grin before he turned his attention back to his phone conversation.
She half-listened as he talked to the manager of the gas station where she had refueled Wednesday night. She wandered around his small office examining the few personal effects he had on display. One item in particular caught her attention: a campaign sign framed with a newspaper clipping declaring the victory of Malcolm B. Daniels IV in his bid for a seat in the upper house of the Tennessee General Assembly.
“You’re a state senator?”
He frowned at her, an expression that clearly stated, Can’t you see I’m on the phone?
Roxanne shook her head and turned back to his brag wall. So that was why he was a part-time attorney. He probably took care of wills and stuff in between sessions and somehow this interim he got stuck with her and capital murder.
Also among the diplomas and certificates of achievement was a picture of Daniels with an older man with snowy white hair. The pair was standing on a tropical golf course, both smiling and tanned. Each had on the typical polo and khakis favored by golfers the world over, and even in the picture Daniels appeared well put together and well creased. She had a feeling the picture showed her counsel at his most relaxed state, and that wasn’t saying much.
She turned back to look at him. He had given into the heat and had removed his suit coat to reveal a miraculously crisp white shirt and the jet black suspenders she had suspected from the first time she had seen him. Three years working at I Spy may not have made her famous, but she was an excellent judge of people.
As Daniels hung up from his first call and dialed in the second, Roxanne formulated her plan. She had managed to dispel the twinge of guilt she felt at the thought of ditching him. As silently as she could, she found a small chair near the door and perched on its edge. The chair was solid wood, hard and straight, more likely the kind of chair that a person used to set things on rather than sit in themselves. Nonetheless, Roxanne settled down and willed herself to be small and quiet. She sat as still as possible, moving only to breathe. Step one: become invisible.
Step two was to wait until his back was turned and—bingo! During the fourth call he made, Daniels opened one of the drawers in his large oak filing cabinet. The minute his back was turned, Roxanne was out the door.
• • •
Malcolm opened the top drawer of his filing cabinet and pretended to search for something. It was one thing to have to share the next few days of his life with a tabloid reporter, it was another to have her know every aspect of his life.
On the other side of his phone connection a voicemail picked up and Lila’s familiar sexy voice stated that she was sorry, but she couldn’t answer her cell right now. Malcolm waited until the beep, then lowered his voice so he wouldn’t be overheard.
“Hey, sweetheart. I know this is short notice, but I can’t make dinner tonight.”
He pulled a file from the drawer hoping to distract Roxanne from his words. His personal life was just one more area of his life he didn’t want to see in newsstand pulp. “I’m tied up with a client. I’ll explain everything in the morning, and I’ll make it up to y—” He turned back around, just as the door to his office swung shut behind said client. �
��Damn!” His calm tone turned into a roar of frustration.
“I gotta go.” He hung up without saying goodbye, rushing out of his office and after his Yankee client.
• • •
All Roxanne needed was a little professional distancing, and she would be just fine. Distance. Keep her distance. She could do this, right? Absolutely.
She reached for the door of the funeral home, then nearly screamed as a strong, warm hand closed around her upper arm.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
She didn’t need to turn around to know Daniels was behind her. She would know his soft drawl anywhere, plus she could see his reflection in the door. Even in the smudged glass she could tell he was not happy.
He pulled her around to face him, his expression demanding.
“I was parched, so I thought I’d come in here and see if they had anything to drink. Woo.” She fanned herself. “It is so hot. Just wanted a drink.”
He smiled, a grim flash of white against his golden, freckled skin. “You’re the worst liar I’ve ever seen.”
“Oh yeah? And what makes you such an authority on liars? Oh, wait. I forgot. You’re an attorney.”
He didn’t have time to respond as a voice sounded behind them. “You going in, Malcolm?”
Daniels’s mouth pulled into a tight line. “After you, Bob.”
Roxanne knew exactly what he was thinking. Bob would go in, and they would leave.
The newcomer pulled open the door and held it open. “Ladies first.” Such a gentleman. Such an unintentional ally.
Roxanne flashed Daniels her dimples and stepped into the funeral home. She wasn’t sure, but she thought her attorney swore under his breath. Faced with no alternative other than making a scene, he followed her inside.
The carpet beneath her boots was the color of dried yellow marigolds. In its day it had surely been a respectful color, but it had long since served its duty. Now it was dull and heavily-trodden with the sad footfalls of Jefferson County mourners.
The walls were no better. Covered with cheap, bleached-pine paneling, they were liberally decorated with religious prints in ornate, gold-painted frames.
“Remind me never to be buried in Jefferson County,” Roxanne muttered, trying to block out the odor of potpourri-masked death and mourning.
“You behave in here, or they’ll never find enough of your body to bury.”
She glanced up at him, but he was smiling politely over her head to the man stationed at the door of a small room. A low table complete with guest registry and a white quill pen sat in front of the man. But most remarkably of all, at least eight people—not counting the Olsen twins—waited for their turn to sign the book and pass through the hallowed doors to view Valentine’s body. The report she had lifted at the sheriff’s office had said he was a drifter. That he hadn’t been in town more than a few months before he was killed. So why was half the town here?
Roxanne nodded toward the man at the door. “If he were to charge admission, the town could afford to fix that pothole in front of the courthouse.”
Daniels shot her a look that clearly said, be quiet, but the damage was already done. Ten pairs of eyes—hard, curious, knowing eyes—turned their attention to her. Evidently the exterminator had wasted no time in spreading the news of Roxanne’s capture and release throughout the town.
“There she is,” a woman in a faded housedress whispered. “The murderer.”
Roxanne turned and met the horrified stare of the elderly lady.
“Murderess,” her companion corrected in a whisper to rival that of a seasoned stage actress.
These ladies either needed new batteries for their hearing aids or they didn’t mind letting that ‘no good murdering Yankee’ know they were talking about her.
Roxanne looked to Daniels to see how he was taking the situation, but he was staring straight ahead.
“Look who she’s with, Josie. And we thought he was such a nice boy.”
A muscle flexed in Daniels’s square jaw, but otherwise he made no move, except to step forward and gain two feet toward signing the guest book. Two feet closer to seeing Jamie Valentine.
Roxanne looked from Daniels to the doorway of the room where Valentine rested. She didn’t want to go into the room where the body was displayed; her plan had only been to mingle among the mourners to see if she could gather any information.
She leaned closer to her attorney, ignoring the clean, soapy scent of his aftershave. “I really don’t want to go in there.” It had been three years since she had been this close to death, and it was bringing back too many memories.
“Then why did you come in here?” he asked out of the corner of his mouth, but made no move to get out of line.
“I wanted to talk to people,” she whispered in return.
“Not a chance.”
“Daniels,” she hissed, but Bob, who had so graciously paved the way for her to get in the funeral home, asked her attorney how he thought the Titans would do this year. Once again, Malcolm B. Daniels IV turned his attention to someone else.
Roxanne scanned the room again. Somebody here had to know something. And one thing was certain: she wouldn’t be able to find out anything useful with Daniels dogging her heels. As much as she really didn’t want to see another dead body, it was inevitable.
She just had to keep her personal feelings from getting in the way. Distance, she repeated to herself as she inched closer to the door. Professional distance. She had faced worse than this. It hadn’t been easy interviewing the Human Pretzel, who, incidentally, was a nudist, but she had done it. And she had managed to survive that story about the dentist ventriloquist. She had even done a bang up job on that eccentric billionaire who owned seven hundred cats. And she had done it all by giving herself professional distance.
The room where Jamie Valentine was on display was packed tighter than a runaway’s suitcase, but word of her arrival at the funeral home had reached inside the small visitation room. Roxanne had no trouble pushing her way to the front of the crush. As she neared where the dead man was laid out, she reminded herself that she was a reporter, trained to remain unbiased and unaffected. She could do this.
The dark wood, brass-trimmed casket looked expensive—more expensive than the state would provide—and was surrounded by numerous sprays of chrysanthemums, many arrangements of carnations and several potted lilies. It wasn’t at all the wake Roxanne had imagined for a lonely, unfortunate drifter. She found herself drawn to this stranger, drawn in by him and the silence of his death.
Closing her eyes tightly, she gathered her courage then peered at James A. Valentine.
The man in the casket was beautiful. That was the only word she had to describe his physical looks. He was in his late twenties with dark wavy hair and a perfectly smooth olive-toned complexion. Even in death his perfectly shaped lips held a sneer of insolence.
He appeared so peaceful and yet so life-like, as if she could reach out and touch him and feel the beat of his heart.
She leaned closer.
Who had killed this man? Who had planted that gun in her car expecting the Yankee to take the rap for murder? Why was she the one blamed?
• • •
The last thing Malcolm wanted to be doing was standing in line at the Fulton Family Funeral Home for his turn to see Jamie Valentine. First of all, he had already paid his respects to the deceased, and secondly he had Roxanne with him. He was so busy trying to keep up appearances that he had been railroaded into letting her come to the funeral home. A wise decision it was not. He should have cut his losses with the constituents and taken her straight home.
Good Lord! What was he going to do with her when he got her to Magnolia Acres? A few thoughts came to mind—none of which fell into the ethical code of behavior between client and counsel, but ran the gamut between strangulation and heavy petting.
He really needed to get himself in check. But he had never before met anyone quite like Roxanne Ackerman. A
fter the four days she had been indentured into his care were over, he would probably never see anyone like her again. Four days. Surely he could make it four measly days.
The loud whispers about the two of them had dwindled, and Malcolm took another step forward. He was almost to the table. He would sign his name, make the token visit, then hustle Roxanne out of the funeral home to … where? He really wasn’t overjoyed with the prospect of having her under his roof for the next few days, but what choice did he have?
He turned toward his beautiful little prisoner, but she was gone. Gone! Damn it, where was she?
A loud murmur spilled from the visitation room. Damn her and her sneaky reporter’s hide!
Malcolm dropped any lingering pretense of decorum and stepped out of line. He hurried into the visitation room just in time to see Roxanne lean over the casket. Way over into the casket. Way, way over the casket. He had to do something before she embarrassed them both.
In three quick strides he was directly behind her. Without a second thought, he grasped her arm and pulled her back against him.
She yelped, obviously startled by his interruption, and jerked away, nearly falling headlong on top of Jamie Valentine’s body. She would have, too, if he had let her go like his stunned brain warned him. The skin beneath his fingers was warm and soft. So warm. So soft.
Ignoring his libido and the many stares, Malcolm propelled her out of the room.
She jerked away from him the moment they set foot in the foyer. “Why did you do that?” Her tone was a whispered hiss, her breathing heavy.
“You were causing a scene.” Malcolm tried to keep his voice calm. Low and calm.
“I was not.” Roxanne’s tone rose.
“People were staring.”
“So you scare the life out of me.” She pressed a palm to her forehead. “That solved everything.”
“Someone had to stop you from climbing into the casket with him!”
The room fell still. Malcolm hadn’t meant to shout, but it was too late. The damage was done. Everyone in the foyer was openly staring at him and his Yankee client.
Southern Hospitality (Hot Southern Nights) Page 5
