Lawful Engagement - Linda O Johnston

by Intrigue Romance

  Cara shut her eyes for a moment. “Yeah. It was pretty bad. And I can’t even try to put it behind me since I’m still working on the story.”

  The research was frustrating. Her attempts that morning to set up interviews had been pretty fruitless. The most productive call she’d made was to Lindsey Wellington, at the Four Aces Ranch. From her, Cara learned that Wanda, the receptionist who’d answered the Lambert firm phone, was a relatively recent hire and one of the few people remaining till the doors were closed.

  To make sure the morning wasn’t a waste, Cara went to the County Recorder’s office to look up Ranger Corporation’s land holdings. She’d found some interesting things, but not as much as she’d hoped to.

  Not enough to impress Mitch Steele and shore up their tenuous collaboration.

  “Can’t the Gazette put someone else on the story?” Della reached for the rosé she had ordered with one of her pampered hands. Cara knew she spent hours in nail salons, and her slender fingers were tipped with perfectly manicured pink nails that matched the shade of lipstick marking her wineglass.

  “I’m sure any reporter would be glad for a hand in this story,” Cara said. “Even Beau is putting his own two cents’ worth in.” Darn him. And he’d been avoiding her, so she hadn’t even been able to chew him out about it yet. “But this one is mine.”

  “Are you sure you can be objective?” Della leaned back while her steak sandwich was placed in front of her. Cara had ordered the same thing that day, forgoing her usual salad. If she had to eat in the same place, at least she didn’t have to eat the same thing.

  “As objective as Shotgun Sally,” Cara responded to Della as soon as the waitress was gone once more.

  “Well, she wasn’t very objective,” Della said. “Especially after she found her poor, slain sister. But even other times, when she went undercover to do her exposés of dance halls and—”

  This was what Cara had intended. The subject was changed to one she delighted in delving into, especially with Della: Sally and her delicious escapades. Real escapades embellished by time.

  There weren’t many women like Sally, though there’d been a few. Nellie Bly, for example, whose name was actually Elizabeth Cochran. She’d been a crusading newspaper reporter on the Pittsburgh Dispatch and Pulitzer’s New York World in the late 1800s, had dressed like a seamstress to do her story on the outrageous conditions in the garment industry. She’d even gone around the world in eighty days to match the Jules Verne story.

  Sally had done all her crusading here, in northeast Texas. That was why her legends were local.

  And Cara had come to love every one of them. Especially the ones that said Sally had a lawman lover….

  But not like that one. With a start, Cara realized that, as she was lulled practically into a hypnotic state listening to Della pontificate on a favorite Sally story, she’d been staring toward the restaurant door—and Sheriff Ben Wilson had just walked in. His eyes locked with hers, and she was dismayed when he stalked through the crowded tables right toward her. His short-sleeved khaki uniform was rumpled. And he looked angry.

  “Ms. Hamilton.” He didn’t even acknowledge she was with someone else. “Your car’s going to be towed in about—” he glanced at his bony wrist and the outsize watch that clung to it “—two minutes.”

  She looked at her own watch. “Thanks for the warning, Sheriff, but I’ve got another half hour on the meter.”

  “Not anymore. That part of the street has been marked as a temporary no-parking zone.”

  “That part of the street, or just my parking space?”

  She didn’t like the cadaverously thin man’s evil grin. “It don’t matter.”

  “Does this have something to do with the article in the Gazette this morning?” she asked. “If it does, talk to Beau Jennings. He—”

  “I’m talking to you. Like I talked to your new boyfriend Deputy Steele about opening his mouth around nosy reporters.”

  Uh-oh. Talk about alliances splitting apart. The idea of having Mitch so angry that he’d never even talk to her again, let alone share information, splashed sorrow through her. But she refused to let that happen because of extraneous stuff.

  She turned from the sheriff long enough to take a sip of water. Fortunately, she hadn’t joined Della in a glass of wine. She needed her head clear.

  As she drank, she caught Della’s worried expression and tossed her a brief, reassuring smile—wishing she felt reassured, too. Then she looked back up at the angry man near the table—but not before she noticed fascinated stares of restaurant patrons aimed at them.

  “If you’re mad about the reference in the paper to the possibility that one of your deputies dated Nancy Wilks, Sheriff, I learned that information from a source I won’t reveal, not from anyone in your department. But does the deputy’s relationship with Ms. Wilks have anything to do with that matter I mentioned when I was in your offices day before yesterday?”

  She would be discreet, since slinging as-yet-unproved accusations at the sheriff wasn’t a good idea. Mostly, though, she intended to do an exclusive story on why the Sheriff’s Department slipped up in the first two murder investigations as soon as she knew, and could substantiate, the answer. No sense really riling Ben Wilson sooner than necessary.

  Her discretion apparently made no difference to him, though. He grabbed her arm. “Come with me, Ms. Hamilton.”

  She raised her eyebrows and smiled sweetly, though her heart raced. “Are you arresting me, Sheriff?” She tried to draw her arm away. He only squeezed tighter, hurting her.

  “No, he’s not,” said a familiar, deep and very welcome voice from behind him.

  As the sheriff pivoted to see who dared to contradict him, he released her. Behind him, Cara glimpsed Mitch.

  “Your car was being towed, Ms. Hamilton,” Mitch said. “Sheriff Wilson was just being kind enough to warn you.”

  “No!” Cara stood and grabbed her purse off her chair. “He’s the one who set it up.”

  “Don’t press your luck,” Mitch told her. “I told the tow truck driver to come back in an hour. I trust you’ll be done by then. If not, he’ll move your car for you.”

  Cara could only imagine the furious glare that Ben Wilson must have sent Mitch’s way. Mitch’s handsome face stayed impassive, but something flashed in his deep-golden eyes.

  “I don’t recall assigning you to traffic control, Steele,” Ben hissed. “But maybe that’s where you’ll be from now on.”

  Oh, shoot. Bad enough for her to lose Mitch’s confidence, but she didn’t want to be the cause of him getting demoted, too.

  She gently tapped Ben Wilson on the shoulder. “Sheriff, I’m sorry. I’ll go move my car. And as to the other thing—”

  He turned to look at her, his complexion red with anger. “I told you before to watch your step, Ms. Hamilton. I won’t warn you again.” He again pivoted and began making his way through the restaurant.

  Cara half expected Mitch to trail placatingly in his wake. Instead, the good-looking lawman bent down. “Like I said on the phone before, Ms. Hamilton, we need to talk.” His tone brooked no contradiction. Fine. She wanted to talk to him, too. But not here or now.

  “Sure. Later this afternoon. And if I can do anything to help smooth things over for you with the sheriff, then—”

  “You’ve done enough.” With a final warning glare, he turned and headed for the door.

  Cara didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until it came out in a deep, frustrated sigh.

  “What was that all about?” Della asked.

  She deserved an explanation. After all, her lunch had been spoiled by a big, ugly, embarrassing scene. “I’ve been trying to cooperate with the Sheriff’s Department as I do my research about Nancy’s death, but it hasn’t been easy.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.” Della must have restored her lipstick, for her mouth was a soft shade of pink as it widened in a smile.

  “What do you mean?”

/>   “That Deputy Steele is very easy…on the eyes.”

  Cara laughed. “I can’t argue with that. It’s his abrasive personality that makes things tough.”

  “Maybe.” Della’s expression looked speculative, turning serious. “I really think you should reconsider doing this story, Cara. It seems dangerous. And to have even the sheriff against you—”

  “I’ll be fine.” To change the subject again, Cara returned to the topic they’d met to discuss. “Let’s get back to Sally. I’ve never been sure where her family’s land was. You know, where she hid out while being stalked after her sister was killed in her place? Before she went undercover on McJanuary’s ranch?” It was of interest to her. But the only reason she’d thought of it now was her foray through county records that morning.

  Della’s face resumed its pinched, professorial look as she pondered the question. “I don’t actually know, but I’ll look it up and tell you what I find.”

  That turned into the segue that Cara had hoped for; once again they were back to dissecting Sally tales.

  Even though her own thoughts swirled. What was she going to do about the sheriff’s anger? She wouldn’t stop trying to figure out what Deputy Hurley Zeller dating Nancy Wilks had to do with her murder or the others—if there even was a connection. But how on earth could she get back into Mitch’s good graces? She needed his cooperation if she wanted her story to be perfect.

  And she couldn’t help wondering if, deep down inside, there were other reasons she wanted Mitch not to despise her. Della was right. Mitch was very easy on the eyes.

  “And of course,” Della was saying, “Sally couldn’t trust anyone after her sister was killed. Not even her lawman lover.”

  Chapter Eight

  Back in her office, later that afternoon after a stop at the county recorder’s office, Cara was excited to find she’d received an e-mail from Kelly McGovern Lansing—though why one of her dearest friends was sending e-mails from her Hawaiian honeymoon escaped Cara. “I saw in the news about you finding Nancy Wilks,” the message read. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” Cara responded. “I’ll give you details about what’s going on with me if you’ll do the same.” Cara pictured her tall, aristocratic, blond friend’s amused reaction. After all she and her new husband, Wade, had gone through in solving the murder of Kelly’s brother, Andrew, they had really needed this time alone. Cara ended her e-mail. “Hope you’re having fun.” Grinning wickedly, she pushed the send button. And paused.

  Fun? Right about now, she wondered what the word meant.

  With a sigh she studied both lists she’d started to compile in separate computer files. One was a to-do list of steps to make sure her research on all the murders, including Andrew’s, was comprehensive enough. The more she thought about what to look into, the more detailed it grew, like a flowchart used for computer programs: If X says one thing, then interview Y. If X refuses to talk, then…

  What complicated matters further was that she intended to share her information with Mitch. He was still mad at her for sharing the info about Deputy Zeller with Beau. Maybe he was right. She’d told Beau not to run with it, but she couldn’t control what her boss did with the news. She’d finally caught Beau in his office, when she’d first come in. She had begun to scold him, but he’d pulled rank on her. Made it clear he would pull her off the story altogether if she gave him too hard a time about his editorial decisions. She’d had to back off—for now.

  But she couldn’t back off from sharing with Mitch. In fact, asking for his help would be a deliberate attempt to smooth over their bumpy relationship.

  Relationship? Hah! Didn’t she just wish…?

  No. Just because she found him to be one heck of a hunk didn’t mean the ill-tempered, single-minded deputy could be equated with Shotgun Sally’s lawman lover. No matter how tempting the idea.

  Still, just the act of sharing her thoughts would, she hoped, demonstrate her sincerity. Maybe get them back on the right track. But that would come later. For now she would focus on the other list: her would-be enemies—people to eliminate from suspicion in the attack on her yesterday. Then she could put this inventory aside and commit her concentration to the other, more important matters.

  Reaching for the phone amid the clutter on her desk, she called O’Hallihan Contracting. Unfortunately, Shem O’Hallihan, owner and chief director of substandard building materials, wasn’t there. Whoever answered the phone claimed he’d been out of town all week.

  That seemed to eliminate him as a suspect in trying to run Cara down, but seemed was the operative word. She wanted to talk to him, confirm where he was at the critical time. And to read from his expression and body language whether he’d hired someone else to do the dirty work.

  That would have to wait until he officially returned to town. Cara gave her name and asked to have Mr. O’Hallihan return her call—not that she expected him to do so. Hanging up, she made detailed notes of questions and suspicions in her computer file.

  Then it was time for further calls. A couple more people she’d slurred by telling the truth in recent exposés were unavailable, too. She had little success in learning when they’d be around.

  To her surprise, she reached her fourth subject, Jackson Felmington, right away. More surprising was that the odometer-adjusting car dealer had heard of her own misadventure. “I wondered when I’d hear from you, Ms. Hamilton.” He spoke as smoothly as…well, a used-car salesman.

  “Really? Why is that?”

  “A little bird told me you almost had a nasty accident. Something about your stepping in front of a truck that was just minding its own business going down the street. But it missed and you’re still alive. I was so pleased to hear that.” His tone didn’t hint at the sarcasm Cara knew was behind his words.

  Shocked, she hesitated before asking, “And just what little bird told you that?”

  “Sorry, Ms. Hamilton, but I never reveal my sources. Just like you. But if I were you, I’d watch my step and not get too close to the street anymore. Come to think of it, maybe you shouldn’t even go out in public.”

  She stared at his name on the computer screen, picturing the all-American middle-aged man with gray-streaked ginger hair and an ever-present crocodile smile.

  Cara figured he hired all the muscle-bound mechanics he needed to keep his company and its inventory running economically. Too economically, since he got top, new-car prices for automobiles that had been run into the ground.

  Might one of his mechanics, who obviously knew their way around vehicles like old blue pickup trucks, been hired to run her down?

  “Thanks for the good wishes. And exactly why did you think that incident would mean you’d hear from me?”

  “You’ve accused me of every other nasty thing you could think of, in print. I figured you’d try to pin that on me, too.”

  “Should I?”

  A silence. Then, “Just try it, you bit—”

  Shuddering at his suddenly malicious tone, Cara interrupted. “Oh, I will, if I can find any evidence it was you,” she said sweetly. “Tell that anonymous little bird, if it’s not you, that I’ve every intention of learning who it is and exactly how he or she happened to know the details of my ‘accident.’”

  As she hung up, she realized that she’d reached the end of her list without meeting the goal she’d set for herself. In fact, she hadn’t eliminated any suspects from her first list.

  One of the people she’d called might have been the person who’d tried to run her down yesterday. She’d put her money on Jackson Felmington, if he hadn’t made it seem too obvious.

  THOUGH HER CONVERSATION with Felmington had shaken Cara, it did not stop her from carrying out the next action she’d planned for that afternoon.

  Not that Deputy Mitch Steele would approve of this direction any more than the last, but, hey, for now they were enemies, not allies.

  Down the street from the Gazette, she entered the well-lighted yet somberly professional re
ception area of Lambert & Church, as confidently as if it were still a viable law firm and she was a potential client. Except that she could see, by boxes piled in every corner, that it wasn’t “business as usual” at the Lambert firm.

  “May I help you?” The woman behind the desk looked young and harried. Maybe this was Wanda, whom Cara had spoken with earlier.

  “Yes, thanks. I have an appointment with Donald Church.”

  The receptionist’s eyes widened, and she glanced down at her desk. “I…I’m sorry, Ms…. Er, I don’t show any appointments for Mr. Church right now. He didn’t—”

  “Oh, that’s okay, Wanda,” Cara said, taking a chance. “I’ll just go in.” The puzzlement on the girl’s face widened her eyes. Apparently, Cara had guessed right, though the receptionist didn’t know who she was. All the better.

  Cara inhaled. Despite whatever methods had been used to try to eliminate the odor of smoke from the ruined office annex, they hadn’t succeeded. That was where Andrew had been murdered, his body torched in an attempt by Mayor Frank Daniels to hide the murder.

  Poor Andrew…

  Steeling herself, Cara breezed past the reception desk, skirting around stacks of cartons, and headed left when she reached the hall. Since the receptionist didn’t try to correct her, she assumed she’d gone the right way. She hadn’t been in Donald Church’s office for some time.

  Fortunately, the attorneys’ names were listed on plates beside their doors. Cara made a surreptitious thumbs-up when she passed by the office that had been her friend Lindsey Wellington’s, who’d come and gone from the firm in a short time. It had been Andrew’s office when he’d first started working here, back when they’d been engaged. Cara hurried past, trying to ignore those old memories.

  Where was Nancy Wilks’s office? She’d been office manager, so she might just have sat in a cubicle somewhere, or had an inner, windowless room of her own. Had the crime-scene techs checked the space for clues into Nancy’s murder? Cara would have to ask Mitch…if they were still speaking to each other.

  Cara started when someone exited an office right in front of her. And then she smiled. It was Donald Church.