Trouble with the Law
By Tatiana March
Resplendence Publishing, LLC
http://www.resplendencepublishing.com
Resplendence Publishing, LLC
P.O. Box 992
Edgewater, Florida, 32132
Trouble with the Law
Copyright © 2009, Tatiana March
Edited by Courtney Hoffman
Cover art by Chel Hickerty
Electronic format ISBN: 978-1-60735-091-0
Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Electronic release: November 2009
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places or occurrences, is purely coincidental.
To Courtney and Tiffany, my wonderful editors who helped to make this a better book.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
About the Author
Chapter One
Justine Whitmore crouched down and tipped the contents of her satin evening bag over the gravel ground. Just to make sure, she ran her hands over the spilled clutter.
No luck.
In the darkness, her fingers closed over a credit card, a few coins, a lipstick—but no room key.
She peered at her gold watch, her face furrowed with concern. Half past two in the morning. Not the best time to go pounding on the door of a sedate country inn.
As she rose to her feet, her eyes fell on a wooden bench by the wall beneath a wisteria. The sweet scent of flowers filled the balmy air. In the sky, a golden August moon hung like a giant lantern, casting a glow over the house and the parking lot.
In her silver Mercury sedan, a half empty bottle of champagne stood wedged in a bucket of ice. Sandra had shoved it at her as compensation for not being able to drink the wedding toasts because she had to drive.
A slow smile replaced Justine’s scowl of frustration.
She could sit outside, and while away the hours until someone woke.
* * * *
Justine shivered on the bench, sipping her third glass of champagne. The night air had turned cool, and she needed to pee. Above her, the dark windows stared down like a row of unseeing eyes.
Bouncing up to her feet, she surveyed the gables and turrets. A sturdy trellis with creepers covered the wall, and a thick drainpipe ran down from the gutter. And wasn’t that her room right at the top, with the window she’d left ajar to combat the muggy August heat?
Swaying on her heels, Justine suppressed a champagne-fueled hiccup. She teetered in for a closer inspection. All she needed was to climb up, then step across and flop in over the sill. Piece of cake for someone who at college had rock climbed to grade five point seven on the difficulty scale.
Kicking off her flimsy sandals, she slithered out of her dress and folded it over the bench. She’d splurged on a slinky Dior, a consolation prize for once again being a wedding guest instead of the bride. No way would she risk ripping a garment worth two thousand bucks. Unclipping her gold watch, she hid it under the dress, together with her car keys and satin evening bag.
Then she blew into her palms and attacked the trellis.
Piece of cake, just as she’d expected. She jerked the window wide and flopped inside with a thud. The ledge scraped her shins as she tumbled through. Wincing with pain, she scampered to her feet and inspected the damage. Drops of blood trickled from the cuts, and her silk stockings were torn, but at least her garter belt and lace panties remained intact. She adjusted her bra, and groped her way to the bedside lamp.
Her hand butted against a large object. As she fumbled along the lumpy contours, a scream pierced the darkness. Justine froze. She prepared to move again, but the bedside light snapped on, illuminating the room with a yellow glow.
“What in heaven’s name?” A grouchy male voice muttered out the words of complaint, and a frail figure clad in striped flannel bolted up on the bed.
The screaming grew louder.
Confused, Justine retreated to the window. “I’m sorry,” she said, and another hiccup escaped her chest. “I think I’ve got the wrong room.”
“It’s all right, Clara.” The man in striped pajamas reached out to pat the mountain of flesh next to him. “The lady’s got the wrong room.”
The bedspread sailed to the floor, and an enormous woman wearing a long frilly nightgown clambered to her feet. “Hussy!” she cried. “Harlot!” She stepped forward to block the man’s view.
Justine surveyed the scene, and although she knew that her reaction was like tossing gunpowder into flames, she couldn’t help herself. She clutched her sides and burst into peals of laughter.
“Call the police,” the woman said. “I’ll restrain the harlot if she tries to flee.”
The man flickered a glance between them, then shrugged his narrow shoulders and reached for the telephone on the nightstand.
Justine opened her mouth to protest, but when she caught the determined scowl on the woman’s face, she slunk into the corner. She was too tired to argue. She’d curl up on the floor and sleep until the police arrived to rescue her.
* * * *
Did the police always arrive so quickly in small towns? Justine wondered as a car crunched to a halt on the gravel drive. Footsteps clattered up the stairs, and a knock sounded at the door.
“Mrs. Harper?” A slight young man in a khaki uniform stepped into the room.
Puzzled, Justine stared at the officer. She’d listened to the man in the striped pajamas making the call, and she couldn’t recall him mentioning his name, only the room number.
“This tramp broke in and made advances toward my husband,” the woman said with an extravagant waddle of her double chin.
“I didn’t—” Justine began, but the young officer silenced her with an upheld hand.
“Hussy! Harlot!” the woman screeched.
“I’m a guest,” Justine explained wearily. “I got into the wrong room by mistake.”
“Let’s clear this up in the office downstairs.” The officer smoothed his mousy hair in a resigned gesture. “The landlord is already awake.”
“Fine,” Justine agreed.
“I’m coming with you,” the matron said firmly, and they trooped down the stairs.
Justine rushed to speak first. “I’m in room seven. Reserved by Sandra Clements. I’m here for her wedding.”
The lanky man behind the counter raked his fingers through his disheveled hair and bent down to inspect the guest ledger. “I have Mr. and Mrs. Simmons in room seven.”
“I know,” Justine said with a sigh, realizing the added complication. “I was booked into the motel on Route 54. Mr. and Mrs. Simmons have their little boy with them. When they heard the motel has a pool, they asked to switch. Although they had already picked up the key, they hadn’t settled in. I took their key and dumped my stuff in the room on my way to the reception. I planned to explain in the morning, but I lost the key. Rather than ring the doorbell and wake up everyone, I tried to get in through the window.”
Mrs. Harper threw the uniformed young man a withering look. “If you believe that the taxpayers aren’t getting the police service they’re paying for.
”
“I guess we’d better clear this up at the station.” The officer reached out to take Justine’s arm.
She whirled to him. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“The taxpayers expect the law to be upheld,” Mrs. Harper declared.
“Are you arresting me?” Justine demanded as the young officer marched her down the stairs.
“No.” He propelled her along. “I’m requesting that you come with me to the station so we can clear this up without interference from Mrs. Harper.”
“You can’t possibly think I’m a hooker.” She craned to look at him over her shoulder. “My clothes and my car are outside. I’ll show you my ID, and you can make a few phone calls.”
“Where?” He stopped on the porch and surveyed the front drive.
Justine flinched as she realized how it might look. If she took him to the bench where she had left her clothes, the baby-faced cop would see the empty bottle of champagne and might think she’d been drinking and driving.
She snapped her mouth shut, and flopped on the back seat of the patrol car with a mutinous expression on her face.
Chapter Two
Justine huddled in a plastic chair opposite the scuffed desk, hugging her arms around her body for warmth. She stared at the calendar on the wall. Someone had already turned the page to September, where a red circle marked the last Saturday of the month.
Her body tensed as she heard the door open and close behind her.
The young officer who’d hauled her in entered with light footsteps. He’d kept silent during the drive, but she had noticed his cautious glances. Once or twice he’d opened his mouth, clearly intending to speak, but had closed it again without saying a word. On their arrival at the low redbrick building bearing a sign for county administration and law enforcement, he’d ushered her down a corridor, and had left her waiting in an office with Sheriff Taylor stenciled over the glass door.
“Are you cold?” the officer asked as he circled the desk to face her.
Justine gave him a silent nod.
He strode out again, and returned clutching a shabby raincoat. He offered it to her, averting his gaze from her flimsy underwear and torn silk stockings. Justine glowered at him, her face twisted in disgust at the filthy garment. The man shrugged his shoulders, and tossed the raincoat on top of an open cardboard box crammed with manila folders.
“I want to make a phone call,” Justine said, keeping her voice even.
“It’s almost four in the morning.”
“I know.” She gestured at the clock on the wall.
“Who do you want to call? Husband? Boyfriend?”
“If I’m a hooker, I’d be calling my pimp.”
The officer expelled a resigned sigh. “I can explain.”
“You can save your explanations to my lawyer,” Justine told him. “I want to exercise my right to a telephone call.” Her eyes narrowed. “And believe me, Sheriff Taylor, once I’ve spoken to my lawyer, the heat under your backside is going to get so scorching that you’ll never sit comfortably again.”
The young man rose. “I’m not Sheriff Taylor. I’m Deputy Mickelson.”
Justine watched in silence as he stalked out to join another deputy engrossed in paperwork at an untidy desk. The pair huddled together, whispering, casting wary looks in her direction. Straining her ears, she could make out a few snippets of conversation.
The Sheriff will have your ass… Screwed up… The Harper woman… Didn’t know what else to do.
A few minutes later, the older deputy marched into the office. His stomach strained over his belt, giving him a slovenly look. A worried frown lined his tired face. “Ma’am, I think we can clear up the situation real easy, if you just allow me to explain—”
“Lawyer,” Justine snapped, as if talking to a dog. “Phone call.” She clamped her mouth shut and fixed her attention on the wall calendar, refusing to engage in further conversation.
Eventually the deputy gave up and strode out. From the corner of her eye, she saw him pick a telephone, punch a button on the keypad, and speak a few hesitant words into the receiver.
Fifteen minutes later, Justine remained huddled in the plastic chair, shivering with cold, and she accepted that it might have been wiser to allow the deputies an opportunity to explain. She unfolded her legs, intending to get up, but an abrupt slam echoing down the corridor halted her. As she craned her neck to look through the glass door, she saw a broad shouldered man storming across the floor.
The newcomer burst into the office, instantly making the room appear smaller. “Miss Whitmore? I’m Sheriff Taylor.”
He paused to close the door and pull the blind over the glass panel before propping one hip over the corner of the desk. His gaze raked her body, but not a single flicker in his expression indicated there was anything unusual in her attire.
Justine stared at Sheriff Taylor. Something heavy settled over her chest, and suddenly she found it difficult to breathe.
Dark stubble shadowed his jaw, and the black hair curled in an uncombed tangle around his face. Sleep softened the rugged features. The sensitive curve of his full mouth belied the angry glint in his eyes.
“Justine Whitmore, Academy House, Locust Street, Philadelphia
?” He rattled out the information, raising a pair of questioning black eyebrows at her.
“Yes…Where— How did you find out who I am?”
Sheriff Taylor reached into the pocket of his khaki shirt and clattered a collection of items onto the desk. Her American Express card, her Elizabeth Arden lipstick, a few coins. He lazily picked up the lipstick, unclipped the cover, and twisted out the color. “Seems a match,” he said, holding up the lipstick, squinting at her.
Justine met his gaze, and suddenly the world faded away. The eyes holding hers were dark green, and amusement glittered beneath the anger. She licked her lips, aware that not a trace of lipstick remained. The corners of the man’s mouth twitched, and suddenly a surge of heat flared on Justine’s face with such intensity she knew she’d blushed scarlet.
“Definitely a match,” Sheriff Taylor said. He lowered his arm and replaced the cap over the lipstick, then set it on the desk with a little clunk.
“I….” Justine stared at the stranger, who by his mere presence had tied her up in knots. “Where did you get my things?”
He responded with an easy shrug. “I passed by Rob Thornton’s guesthouse on the way over and picked them up from the ground.”
Justine nodded, remembering how she’d tipped out the contents of her evening bag in search of the room key. Evidently, she’d forgotten to scoop everything up.
The sheriff contemplated her with idle curiosity. “What brings you so far from home? It’s a three hour drive to Philadelphia.”
“I’m here for a wedding,” Justine explained. “Sandra Clements.”
“Sandra Clements?” The sheriff frowned. “Nobody by that name in Eagle Mountain.”
“She’s from Elkhorn, but it’s such a big wedding there wasn’t enough room at the motel, so the guests have spilled over into the neighboring towns.”
“Elkhorn?” Sheriff Taylor said. “The daughter of Bob Clements? Marrying some city boy who’s made a bundle evicting old ladies so he can knock down the tenements and replace them with high-priced condos?”
“It’s called urban regeneration,” Justine informed him tartly. “And the boy happens to be my boss, Steven Chandler. And he is thirty-seven, which I presume is almost as old as you are.” Pursing her lips, she surveyed the muscular man in front of her. “You can cut the patronizing act. You must be what, forty, forty-five tops?”
“My age is none of your business.” The sheriff stood up and turned his back on her, but Justine saw the smile he was trying to hide. A thrill swept over her. Then she caught her train of thought, and gave her head an angry shake. What was wrong with her? He was just a man, and in the course of her job as the head of public relations for Chandler Developments, she dealt with gorgeous hunks
all the time. Male models who posed for advertising posters, sophisticated urbanites in tune with the latest trends. Men who dressed fashionably and invested time and money in personal grooming. Her eyes drifted over the sheriff’s jeans and khaki shirt, until they homed in on the blunt fingernails reaching up to another uniform shirt that hung from a hook on the wall.
Aha! Sheriff Taylor was a nail-biter. Her lips curved into a satisfied smirk at finding a weakness in his intimidating strength.
“Did my men not offer you anything to wear?” the sheriff asked, turning to her.
Her skin tingled as his eyes lingered over her, and suddenly Justine became acutely aware of her state of undress. She pointed at the raincoat thrown over the box of files. “They did, but what they offered seemed to contain the DNA samples from hundreds of suspects.”
He tossed the khaki shirt at her. “That’s guaranteed clean.”
She picked up the garment that landed in her lap and inspected it gingerly. “How do you know?”
“Because I washed and ironed it myself,” Sheriff Taylor said as he walked back to the desk. “I always wear a clean shirt on Mondays.”
“Today’s Sunday.”
“I know.” He expelled a weary sigh. “My day off.”
Justine felt another blush stinging her cheeks as she quickly slotted her arms into the sleeves. The shirt flapped loose around her, and she rose to her feet to fold the front across her chest. The hem hung halfway down her thighs. A strange heat filled her as she contemplated that the fabric hugging her body had only a few days ago stretched taut over the broad shoulders and muscular arms of Sheriff Taylor.
She looked up as she heard his quick intake of breath.
“Your legs,” the sheriff said. “They’re covered in scratches, and there’s dried blood on your skin. Did my men use force to bring you in?”
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