Malcolm probably wouldn’t believe her about Della anyway. But she had seen the evidence. Roxanne knew that not only was she going to be able to prove her innocence, she was sitting on top of the story of her career. A prominent family like the Silverstones involved in murder.
She fished around in her handbag for her cell phone, but the little screen on the cover was blank. Dead. She located Miss Beulah’s phone and lifted the receiver. Dial tone! Hooray! She punched in the number that would connect her to her editor, making a mental note to leave her absent hostess some money to cover the expense. She got his machine again. “Newland, it’s me. I know you’re probably livid about the festival, but I promise it’ll be worth it. There’s a big story here. Ever heard of Truman Silverstone?” In true dramatic journalist form, she cut her words short and hung up. That ought to stir him up.
Roxanne stretched the kinks out of her back, feeling a twinge of guilt at the thought of pinning the murder on Truman Silverstone. Hadn’t Malcolm said that Truman was his guardian? She couldn’t let that fact bother her. It was just another reason why it could never be between them. He might find her attractive now, but how would he feel when she sent Silverstone to prison for murder in the first?
And she had an ace in the hole that Malcolm didn’t know about. Tomorrow she would do a little more investigating on her own, and she would find irrefutable proof that Jamie Valentine was the father of Della Silverstone’s unborn child.
• • •
Malcolm opened the door to his apartment, trying to figure out precisely when the day had taken such a drastic turn for the worst. As best he could figure, it was the exact moment he’d laid eyes on Roxanne Ackerman.
He slipped out of his ruined shirt and debated on whether or not to toss it in the trash or try to explain why it had blood stains on it to Calvin at the dry cleaners. He wadded it up and pitched it in the trash. Not that what happened tonight would be kept a secret. Everyone in town would know tomorrow before lunch. Gossip spread easily through Jefferson County, but Malcolm had never had a problem with his private life leaking out to the press. The small country town had always been a safe haven for him, a place where he could relax. A place where he could kick his shoes off and be himself. But not anymore. Not since Roxanne Ackerman.
He flipped on the light switch in his bathroom and slowly undressed, his ribs aching with his every move. She was probably up there right now, laptop going full blast as she emailed all the details of his altercation with Eric Cameron to anyone with a web address. He knew what type of people worked for I Spy. They were hard-edged and vicious and stopped at nothing to get their story.
He turned on the shower and stepped beneath the soothing spray. Somehow, Roxanne didn’t seem as dedicated to her job as most in the profession were. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking, or perhaps it was that nearly horrified look he’d seen on her face when Miss Kitty had waddled into the room. He couldn’t decide if the situation was funny or sad. He hadn’t thought to ask Roxanne if she liked cats—not that it would have mattered—but he had a gut feeling there was more to it than that. Something devastating and tragic that had her running for answers.
Get a grip on yourself, Daniels. She might be the hottest thing to cross the county line in a long time and the first woman in even longer to garner his immediate interest, but that didn’t mean she needed him to protect her or even analyze her actions.
He closed his eyes as the water sluiced over him. But damn if she wasn’t the sexiest thing he’d seen in a month of Sundays. Just thinking about her made him hard.
Evidently the part of him that wanted Roxanne in his bed hadn’t found what happened to the parts of him that connected with Eric’s right hook or the fact that he was all but engaged to another woman. That was a sobering thought.
Just why aren’t you officially engaged? his internal voice asked again.
They’d been busy, he rationalized. Weddings like the one that they’d have take a long, long time to plan. He had his official campaign start. She had her career to think about. Their lack of an official date had nothing to do with how well-suited they were for each other. They were perfect together. They’d just been busy, that was all. But soon, next year at the latest.
Malcolm turned off the water and stepped out of the tub. As for this insane attraction he had for his client: it’d been too long since he’d had a woman in his bed. Way too long.
He toweled himself dry, taking great care not to overexert his tired, sore muscles. His almost-fiancé had been out of town for several weeks. He’d been in Nashville for the last few months. He and Lila hadn’t been intimate in—he had to stop and think—three, maybe four months. They just needed some alone time. That was all.
He pulled on a pair of plaid boxers and a clean white T-shirt and made his way into the kitchen. He’d hoped the shower would take a little of the pain away from Cameron’s last punch, but it wasn’t enough. He found the pills that Dr. Seager had given him and swallowed two of them, hoping that along with the pain they could take away this crazy hankering he had for a certain blue-eyed reporter.
Just a few more days, he thought as he turned off the lights and made his way into his bedroom. He had to keep reminding himself that in just a few more days she would be exonerated and back on her way to Chicago where she belonged. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about her digging up imaginary dirt and presenting it to the world as truth.
His eyes grew heavy from the medication, and he slipped off into a deep dreamless sleep. And finally, for the first time since he’d met her, Roxanne Ackerman didn’t dominate his thoughts.
Chapter Seven
Lila McCreedy glared at her little pink cell phone and willed it to ring, but the blessed thing just sat there collecting dust. She knew Malcolm was home. She’d heard him come in. She had heard him talking to Miss Gertie. And given the message he had left her earlier, he should have called her back by now. But he hadn’t. She was losing him. She didn’t know how she knew, she just did. Sure as the world.
She heaved a heavy sigh and dragged herself into the kitchen. She hated nights like these. Miss Gertie had gone back downstairs. Malcolm was there too, so close but out of reach. Here she sat. Alone. And afraid. Not of burglars or terrorists, but something much, much worse. Her birthday. In exactly forty-two days she would be thirty. Forty-one if she didn’t count today.
Thirty. God, it hurt just thinking that number. Thirty sounded so mature, so put together, so life-on-track. So everything Lila wasn’t. She was about to hit a milestone, and her career was winding to an end. Yesterday, she had found the start of crow’s feet around her eyes. The lines at the sides her mouth had gotten deeper in the last year, the skin on her neck just not as firm as it had once been. And after the modeling was done, she wasn’t sure what she was going to do with herself. Not everyone could be Heidi Klum.
She opened the freezer and rummaged around until she found what she was looking for. Nights like these called for drastic measures. She grabbed a spoon and headed back to the couch. She would be spending the rest of tonight with her two best friends in situations like these. Ben and Jerry. With yet another sigh, she pulled the lid off the half-eaten emergency pint of Super New York Fudge Chunk. She would have to do an extra half hour on the elliptical machine tomorrow in order to burn off the unnecessary fat and calories, but right now she needed food for her soul. She dug out a bite of the chocolate ice cream with a big hunk of white chocolate in the middle and once again glared at the phone.
The Jefferson County grapevine—Rita at One-Eyed Jack’s to Bobbie Sue at the Rexall to the Olsen twins at the B & B to Miss Gertie downstairs—had already told her that Malcolm had gotten into a fight with Eric Cameron over some Yankee reporter. But he had told Lila that he was tied up with a client. The Olsen twins had also told Miss Gertie that this Yankee was none other than Jamie Valentine’s murderer. Not that they believed that for a second, because they had seen her for themselves with Malcolm at the funeral parlor.
&
nbsp; The melodic ring tone filled the air, and Lila nearly fell in her haste to get the phone. She checked the caller ID and swiped the screen.
“Hello, Miss Gertie.”
“I just wanted to let you know that Pablo and I got home okay, Miss Lila.” The woman was old enough to be her great-grandmother, and she referred to Lila as “Miss,” the typical southern title of respect regardless of marital status.
Lila smiled. “Glad to hear it.”
“By the by, dear, are you planning to attend the former governor’s birthday party tomorrow night?”
Miss Gertie knew darned well that she was. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”
“That’s good to hear, Miss Lila, ’cause my great-nephew is coming up from Hattiesburg, and I have a special feeling about the two of you.”
Lila rolled her eyes. “Miss Gertie, you know I always go with Malcolm.”
“Yes, but Elliot is such a special boy.”
“I’m sure he is, Miss Gertie.”
“Did I mention he’s a doctor?”
About a million times. “Once or twice.”
“Oh, well, I guess there will be other single ladies at the party for him to dance with, but if you happen to change your mind … ”
“You’ll be the first to know. G’night, Miss Gertie.”
“Good night.”
Lila hung up, then feeling particularly peevish, turned off the offending pink thing. Now Malcolm couldn’t call even if he wanted to. Served him right.
That gave her the night to regroup and start fresh tomorrow with a new plan of attack.
• • •
An awful pounding in Malcolm’s head woke him the next morning. Thump! Thump! Thump!
Unbearable.
“Malcolm, are you awake? Malcolm!” Thump! Thump!
He rolled to one side of the bed and managed to stand. He winced as he straightened, the bruised muscles of his torso protesting every move.
“Malcolm!”
He staggered to the door of his apartment, toward the awful thump and the familiar voice. God, what time was it? With the way he felt, it had to be early—really early. The sky outside the French windows of his living room was heavy with thick gray clouds that made discerning the time next to impossible. Despite the gloomy skies, he still had to squint to see his way to his front door. He hadn’t quite found his voice—it was too early, and the pain pills Doc Seager had given him the night before were too potent—so he opened the door without a word.
Pain pills. That was why his mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton.
“Thank goodness!” Lila ran her fingers down his cheek. “I’ve been so worried about you.”
Malcolm didn’t answer. He was still busy trying to clean the cobwebs from his brain. He gave her a peck on the cheek in lieu of a greeting and stepped to one side to allow her to enter.
“As if your message wasn’t bad enough … I didn’t hear from you at all last night. Then Rita called me this morning to see if you were all right. She said you got into a fight—” she stopped, her aqua eyes narrowing in on the black sutures on his chin.
“Oh, my God, it’s true.” She took him by the arm and led him toward the sofa.
With the gauzy-effects of the pain pills still fogging his brain, Malcolm didn’t protest as she gently pushed him into the cushions.
“Well,” she said, hands on her hips. “Don’t you have anything to say to me?”
“Good morning.”
She shook her head. “Eric must have hit you harder than you realized. Maybe I should call Dr. Seager.”
He shook his head ever so slightly. “Nothing a cup of coffee won’t cure. Do you have some made?”
“Of course not.”
“No?”
“No.” A pretty little frown lined her forehead.
“Hmmm,” he said. “Why not?” Damn, he really wanted a cup of coffee. Maybe if he had one it would sober him up. “And eggs,” he added. “Eggs would be good.”
“Malcolm, it’s two o’clock.”
“But I just got up,” he protested, scrambling to get his bearings back. Normally he wasn’t such a lightweight when it came to medication. Maybe it was the combination of pain pills, no supper, and beer.
“In the afternoon,” Lila continued.
“Oh, my God.” He was on his feet in a split-second. “Roxanne!”
“Who’s Roxanne?”
“My client.”
“The Yankee.”
“One and the same.”
He rushed out the door, somehow managing to take the steps two at a time until he reached Miss Beulah’s apartment.
Damn! He’d forgotten the key.
He double-timed it down the stairs and back into his apartment. Miss Beulah’s keys were on the occasional table he kept just inside his personal door. He grabbed them and headed back up the stairs, two at a time once again. Only when he reached the door, breathless from the exertion and the pain in his ribs did he realize that all he had to do was knock. Well, that’s all he should need to do if Roxanne was inside the apartment where she was supposed to be. Fat chance.
He used the key and opened the door.
“Roxanne,” he called, but he knew there would be no answer. She was gone. And he knew exactly where she was.
Leaving the door to Miss Beulah’s unlocked, he rushed back down the stairs and passed his almost-fiancée.
“Malcolm, what are you doing?”
“I’ve got to go find her.” In record time he was dressed, stopping only to brush his teeth. The need for coffee was gone. The adrenaline surge from losing Roxanne—again—was more than enough to sober him.
“I need to talk to you.” Lila was standing in his living room, chewing her bottom lip.
“Can’t talk now. We’ll talk tonight.”
“But tonight’s—”
“Lock up before you leave.” He gave her kiss on the forehead and rushed out, only to return seconds later for his car keys.
“Malcolm—”
“Tonight, Lila,” he said and headed over to Christ the Redeemer Cemetery and Jamie Valentine’s funeral.
• • •
This must be what the deputy meant by a gully washer, Roxanne thought as she watched the rain pour off the sides of the funeral tent like a miniature Niagara Falls. The flood had started early that morning, tapering off as the mourners gathered at the gravesite before the bottom fell out again. Almost the entire town of Jefferson County was in attendance, leaving many—Roxanne gratefully excluded—literally out in the rain.
Sheriff Harlow and Deputy Dennis stood on the far side of the casket with the other pallbearers. They boasted yellow slickers and stern expressions, their arms folded across their chests as if they had appointed themselves guardians of the dead. From where she stood, Roxanne could see Arely, Miss Gertie, and Rita the waitress from One-Eyed Jack’s. Or rather she could see the back of Arely’s dirty engineer hat, Rita’s bleached blond ponytail, and the space between them where Miss Gertie’s wheelchair was parked. There were several more faces Roxanne recognized and still more that she didn’t. All in all, it appeared that most everyone in Jefferson County had turned out for Valentine’s funeral. Everyone but Della, Truman, and Malcolm.
Last night Malcolm had said no funny business, and she had promised. But so far Roxanne hadn’t found being arrested, spending a night in jail, and attending a funeral the least bit humorous. Though as soon as Malcolm discovered that she had slipped out and begged a ride into town with Miss Gertie, he wouldn’t be far behind.
In the meantime, she had wanted to get a chance to talk with Truman Silverstone. It seemed logical that he would show up and get at least one look at the funeral he’d paid for. She had even tucked her mini-tape recorder into the pocket of her black denim overalls just in case she could persuade him to answer a few questions. But as the funeral drew to its saturated conclusion without Truman, Roxanne’s hopes drowned.
“Amen.” The pastor closed his Bible as the g
athering as a whole murmured the word. The well-wishers were a mixed lot. Some dashed quickly from under the dubious shelter of the leaky tent to the relative dryness of their vehicles, while others, hands in their pockets contemplated the sky and speculated on the chance of the rain stopping anytime this week.
“Excuse me.”
Better late than never. Della Silverstone—white rose clutched to her chest, frosted hair perfect despite the rain, elegantly dressed in widow’s black—brushed her way through the crowd. Roxanne smiled. Her interview had arrived. Or at least, the next best thing.
Roxanne raised up on her tiptoes and started to push her way through the multitude. She caught glimpses of Della over their shoulders and in between their mingling bodies. The blonde held the rose in one hand and even with the human obstructions, Roxanne could tell that a piece of paper had been tied to its stem. It looked like a picture. A vaguely familiar, black and white picture. Like one the doctor gives after a pregnancy ultrasound.
Roxanne pushed harder through the dwindling number of mourners, toward the lone woman at the gravesite. Just then, the crowd parted, and Roxanne could see Della’s every move so very clearly. Della raised the rose to her lips, then dropped it into the grave. She walked away without looking back.
“Mrs. Silverstone!” Roxanne took two steps in her direction. This might be her only chance to get an interview. Or it could be her only chance to find out about the picture. She took two steps back, in the direction of the grave.
“Roxanne!” She was grabbed by her upper arm and spun around.
“Malcolm! You scared me.” She tried to wrench from his grasp. To her left she could see Della climb into the big blue Cadillac. Her interview. Less than six feet to her right was the grave. Her proof?
“I’m going to do more than scare you. What do you mean sneaking out like that?”
“I didn’t sneak out. I just didn’t tell you, that’s all.” She twisted around trying to ignore Malcolm and his presence, his masculine scent mixed with the smell of the rain and of freshly turned earth. He hadn’t shaved and the morning-after stubble made him appear wildly erotic and clashed with his otherwise perfect appearance. Black polo, charcoal gray slacks perfectly creased. And it was Saturday for Pete’s sake. If he had shown up on casual Friday, he would have been overdressed.
Southern Hospitality (Hot Southern Nights) Page 10
