by Sharon Sala
Only now and again did Marsha Benton cross his mind, and when she did, it was without guilt. What had occurred between them was unfortunate, but he felt as if he’d handled a sticky situation successfully. He had no fears that he would be connected to her disappearance, or that she would be found. He believed that, as surely as he knew his name. He believed it because he knew how the system worked. She was an orphan, unmarried, unattached. He was Mark Presley, a mover and shaker.
Satisfied that his world was back in order, he pocketed the gift and strutted out of the jewelry store. The sun was bright, and the reflection coming off the snow-packed streets was almost blinding. But the weather was clear and the skiing perfect. The evenings at the lodge were successful from a professional perspective, too. He’d already acquired two new customers over hot buttered rum, as well as met a half-dozen men whose only jobs in life were investing their inherited millions as they saw fit.
He strode down the sidewalks, admiring the elegant window decorations and the holiday music being piped out into the streets. Tahoe was a haven for those who had, rather than the have nots. Fitting in gave him a great sense of pride.
“Hello there, Mr. Presley,” someone called.
Mark turned and waved at the middle-aged woman in après ski gear sweeping off the steps at the front of her store.
“Hello yourself,” he called back, and moved with a jauntier step.
Being recognized was as important to Mark as being in charge. By the time he got to the hotel, he was positively beaming.
Penny had left him a message that she’d gone to the spa for a massage, then a shampoo and styling. He glanced at his watch. Plenty of time for a drink down at the bar. He took the little package from the jewelry store and hid it in his sock drawer, then headed for the lobby.
Cat had been going through the info Wilson had sent. She’d made lists upon lists, separating information, then sorting it together, trying to make it fit—wishing for a neon sign with an “x marks the spot” to show where Mimi might be. She’d looked at the stuff for so long that, in her mind, it was all running together.
She wondered if this was the way caged animals felt—able to see freedom but unable to attain it. Between getting sick, then being iced in, she’d been stuck in her apartment for almost a week. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, but she’d never felt less like celebrating.
She was something of a cynic, although she knew what the holidays were supposed to be all about. Mimi, however, had been over the moon about doing all the right things—helping to serve Christmas dinner at the Salvation Army, going to the neighborhood church to see the children’s Christmas pageant—everything she thought “real” families did.
But she and Mimi had always been the outsiders. They didn’t have family to go home to, so there were no family dinners. They didn’t have husbands or children, so Cat found no reason or joy in putting up decorations. But Mimi did. She read the Christmas story from the Bible every year, then insisted they open their presents to each other at the same time. Cat freely admitted that if Mimi hadn’t insisted on the tradition, she never would have bothered with the holiday at all.
Yet now Cat was so despondent that she wished she could sleep through the entire holiday. Being iced in and knowing Mimi was out there somewhere was like being in a never-ending horror story. Cat’s need for revenge was at the point of making her sick. She needed to see justice done. Someone needed to pay for what they’d done, but the weather wasn’t cooperating, and while she was fuming, Christmas arrived.
Cat woke up in tears on Christmas Day. She was so despondent that it hurt to draw breath, and her head had been aching for hours. Still, it was nothing to the ache in her heart. She had been pacing the floor since daybreak and was on the verge of screaming when her doorbell rang.
She was so startled by the sound that she stumbled and almost fell on her way to answer. With most of her neighbors also iced in, she was guessing it was someone coming to borrow something. She was willing to share anything she had except toilet paper. If the weather didn’t let up, that was going to become a precious commodity.
She opened the door.
It was Wilson, wearing a red and white fuzzy Santa Claus hat.
“Well? Aren’t you going to ask me in?”
Cat felt her face turn red, and then she heard herself stuttering.
“Yes, well…I didn’t expect—”
He held a piece of mistletoe over her head, kissed her square on the mouth, then took himself inside and closed the door.
She was still frowning when he handed her the mistletoe.
“Want to reciprocate?”
She tossed it in the trash.
He grinned.
“There’s coffee,” she said.
“Is that an invitation to drink a cup, or were you just giving me the lowdown on what you’ve accomplished today?”
Cat glared. “You’re a smart ass, aren’t you, McKay?”
His smile spread. “I’ve been accused of it now and then.”
She wasn’t buying into the frivolity. “So do you want some coffee or not?”
“Yes, please,” he said, took off his hat and coat, and hung them on the hall tree, then followed her to the kitchen.
He felt a little awkward about being here. He wanted to help her. He’d offered to help her. But there was a part of him that wondered if he was doing it for the right reasons. Somewhere around three o’clock this morning, he’d realized he’d been thinking about sex—with Catherine Dupree.
He’d tried to shame himself out of the notion, aware that she tolerated him only because she needed help. Trouble was, she was driving him crazy. He thought that if they just did it, then he could get it off his mind. But at the same time, it made him feel like a heel, knowing that, if given the chance, he would take it without a conscious thought that he might be catching her at a weak moment.
However, he’d consoled himself with the fact that even though he’d decided to spend the day with her so she wouldn’t be alone, instead of braving the weather and driving home for Christmas, he wouldn’t make a pass. Even he couldn’t stoop so low as to catch her when she was at a weak moment.
“How do you take your coffee?” she asked.
“Black.”
She reached for a cup. He reached over her head and got the cup down himself.
“Don’t fuss. I’ve been here before, remember?”
Cat looked startled; then, slowly, understanding dawned.
“Barely. That’s the sickest I’ve been in years, so I don’t remember a lot of those three days.”
“Pity,” Wilson said. “It was a memorable time for me.”
Cat glanced back at him, uncertain what he meant by that comment, then saw his eyes glittering. He was teasing her.
“You lie,” she said shortly.
Wilson grinned. As much as he would like to tease her about it, this was not the time to bring up the pink butterfly tattoo.
“I never lie. Now, about that coffee,” he said, and filled the cup, sniffing the aroma with appreciation as he let the coffee cool. As he did, he glanced around the kitchen, then back at her. “I don’t smell the traditional turkey or ham cooking. What were you planning to do for Christmas?”
“Nothing,” she said shortly.
“Why not?” Wilson asked.
Cat’s vision suddenly blurred. “Because I always spent Christmas with Mimi…ever since we were teenagers…always with—”
She caught her breath and then looked away.
Wilson gave himself a mental kick in the butt.
“I’m sorry.”
“Why did you come here?”
“Because I like emotional torture.”
“What?”
He sighed. “Nothing. I was just muttering,” he said.
She frowned. “Why are you really here, Wilson?”
“Beats the hell out of me,” he said softly, and resisted the urge to kiss her again, this time without the excuse of mistletoe. “What have
you learned from the stuff I faxed over?”
“It’s hard to say,” she said. “I’ve looked at it so many times that…sorry for the lame analogy, but I think my problem is that I can’t see the forest for the trees.”
“I can imagine,” Wilson said. “You do know that everything I’m gave you was obtained without a search warrant, which means that a lot of the information is a violation of his privacy. If your friend is indeed dead, and if you find her body through information you got here, it’s not going to be admissible in court.”
“I know that,” Cat said. “But if I use this information to find her body and it’s proven that the baby she was carrying is indeed Mark Presley’s child, then doesn’t that give the district attorney enough information to start looking seriously at Presley as the possible killer?”
“Exactly,” Wilson said. “And it would be in your best interests not to go into detail about how you went about finding her, if or when you do.”
“I won’t give you up, if that’s what you’re worrying about,” Cat said, and then, to her horror, she choked on a sob. “Damn it,” she muttered, and swiped away tears. “I can’t believe I’m talking about Mimi’s murder as if I was debating the pros and cons of a pair of shoes.”
She slammed her hand against the wall, then ran from the room. He reached for her and missed, then followed, catching up with her in the hall. He grabbed her by the shoulders first, then turned her around.
Cat wouldn’t look at him as she struggled to pull free.
Wilson didn’t let go.
“Let me go!” she cried, then covered her face with her hands.
Wilson cupped the back of her head as he held her close. The more Cat struggled, the firmer he held her, until, finally, he felt her resistance fade.
“It’s okay to cry.”
All the fight in her stopped. He felt her shoulders beginning to shake. He eased his grip on her arms and then wrapped his own around her.
Her voice was angry and shaking. “Why is it that the people I love most keep dying?”
“I don’t know,” he said softly. “But I’m so sorry it’s happening.”
His empathy was the final straw.
Wilson felt her body give way as she started to sob. He pulled her close, then tightened his grip. Her pain was almost more than he could bear. She clung to him as a drowning person might cling to a life preserver, and he let her, wishing he could make everything okay.
Cat cried until she was sick. She felt out of control, even lost. What if she never found Mimi? What if Mark Presley got away with murder?
Cat’s breakdown was tearing Wilson apart. Finally he picked her up in his arms and carried her into her bedroom, then laid her on the bed.
Cat curled up like a baby, covering her head with her arms.
Wilson sat down beside her, then laid a hand on her shoulder.
“Cat…Catherine…we’ll find her. I’ll help all I can, okay? You don’t have to do this alone.”
“I can’t believe this is happening. How can this be happening?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Bad things happen to good people all the time. That’s what our jobs are all about.”
She shuddered on a sob, then closed her eyes. All the past days of losing sleep were catching up with her.
“I’m so tired.”
“Then sleep,” Wilson said.
“I need to find Mimi.”
“Honey…we can’t do anything until this weather clears. I nearly broke my fool neck just getting here. Sleep while you can.”
“Are you going to stay?” Cat asked.
Wilson felt a kick in the pit of his stomach.
“Maybe…if it’s okay with you.”
There was a brief moment of silence, then she answered. “It’s okay.”
“Then I’ll stay if you’ll sleep.”
She didn’t answer, but he watched her stretch out, then roll over onto her stomach.
Wilson sat until he saw that she’d finally passed out. Reluctant to leave her, he covered her up with a blanket from the foot of the bed, then sat down in a chair near the window.
Time passed, but he never looked away. By the time she began to stir, he’d memorized ever curve of her face and hair on her head. He knew the pattern of her breathing and the way she slept with her lips slightly apart. When she turned from one side to the other, the scar on her neck was revealed. He couldn’t imagine how frightened she must have been as a child, to experience what she had and live through it. It was a wonder she trusted anyone at all. And he suspected that because of all that was happening, the tough facade she kept between herself and the world was crumbling, and it was scaring her to death.
He couldn’t imagine what it must be like to be alone in the world, without family or close friends. His own family had been disappointed when he’d called them this morning, but he’d used the weather as an excuse. His parents had been understanding and adamant that he not try to drive home and risk an accident. He hated lying to them, but his heart went out to Catherine Dupree. All he knew was that he couldn’t bear to be the next person in her life to let her down.
Cat moaned in her sleep. In her dream, she was reaching toward a door, trying to get to it—knowing that Mimi was inside the room. But the harder she stretched, the farther away the door became.
“No, no,” Cat mumbled. “Wait. Come back.”
Wilson roused just as Cat reached out and rolled off the bed.
“Damn it.” He jumped up from the chair and ran to her.
Cat looked up at Wilson, confused as to where she was and why he was there, and then she remembered she’d let him in.
“Lord,” she said, as she struggled to her feet.
“Are you hurt?”
“Just my ego. I can’t remember the last time I fell out of bed.”
“You were dreaming,” he said.
Cat shoved her hair back from her face and changed the subject as she got up.
“Is it still sleeting?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She walked to the windows and looked out. The world was covered in inches of ice, with more coming down.
“You know you can’t go home.”
Wilson shrugged. “I got here all right.”
“I don’t want your death on my conscience, too,” Cat said. “Besides, my sofa makes into a bed.”
Wilson watched her fidgeting. The idea of spending Christmas night with her didn’t sound so bad. Finally he relented.
“Go wash your face. I’ll be in the kitchen making a fresh pot of coffee and putting that turkey in to cook.”
“I don’t have a turkey,” she said.
He grinned. “I know that, but we still have to eat, right?”
“I guess.”
“So…do you mind if I look through your pantry?”
“Knock yourself out,” she said. “Just don’t expect miracles.”
He traced the curve of her cheek with his fingertip.
“But, Catherine, it’s Christmas. That’s what it’s all about.”
She turned away from his touch.
“I don’t buy all that crap, so don’t go getting all mushy on me.”
Wilson frowned. Life really had done a number on her.
“I don’t do mush,” he said shortly. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”
By the time she joined him, Wilson had the coffee made and, out of curiosity, was glancing through the papers she’d been working on. He looked up as she entered.
“Quite an investigator, aren’t you?” he said.
She’d made lists of everything, from what Presley owned to what he spent to where he went. She had checked off phone calls that corresponded with calls Marsha had made and vice versa, and checked times when Marsha had begged off dinner plans that she and Cat had made, as well as the credit card purchases that Mark Presley had made at restaurants and motels. The list was telling.
She also had a printout of the phone calls made from the private number at the P
resley home, as well as Mark’s personal cell phone number. Calls going in. Calls going out.
A quick count had revealed that Mark Presley had called Marsha at least five times during the week before her disappearance, but there was only one call made to her on the day she disappeared, and none afterward.
When Cat went through Marsha’s calls, she had made note of the last call made on her cell. It had been to Cat’s home phone.
Another hour passed, during which time Wilson found a package of chicken legs in her freezer and a package of dry uncooked noodles in her pantry. As he cooked, she kept digging through pages, but she couldn’t help noticing that the kitchen was beginning to smell good, which in itself was a miracle.
The stewing chicken would soon be done, and when it was, Wilson planned to cook the dry noodles in the broth. He’d also found a can of green beans and a can of peaches. Within another hour, he was going to be able to serve up an entree, a vegetable side dish and dessert.
Catherine was impressed.
Wilson was just hungry.
Cat had been staring at the printouts without success for so long that her eyes were burning. She laid down the last set of papers she’d been studying and rolled her head, then stretched. Wilson was adding salt to the boiling noodles when she leaned her elbows on the table and rested her chin in her hands.
“So, McKay, when did you learn to cook?”
“College. Couldn’t afford to eat out. It was cook or starve.” He patted his belly. “I obviously didn’t starve.”
Cat eyed his physique carefully. “You look just fine to me,” she said, and then flushed when she realized what she’d said.
He grinned. “Why thank you, ma’am. I didn’t think you’d noticed.”
She glared, and it reminded him of the look she’d given him the day they’d met, when she thought he was trying to help her bail jumper get away.
