“But I don’t know how he would have known things like the nurses’ schedule, or where those stairs even were,” she confided. “You’d have to have some connection to the hospital to know about that.”
A knowing look crossed his face.
“If they hadn’t fired me, I could have answered that for you,” he said. “Mrs. Randall Anderson has been on the board of directors at Savannah Memorial for fifteen years. She is very involved in hospital activities. I’d say it’s more than likely that Peyton Anderson was a volunteer at the hospital when he was in high school.” He waved a finger at her. “Got to get those volunteer credits if you want to get into a good college.”
Harper stared at him. “Is that true?”
He tilted his glass at her. “Check it yourself. She’ll be on the hospital website.”
For some reason, this wasn’t good news. Harper took it like a gut punch.
“He really did it. Peyton Anderson killed Naomi Scott, didn’t he?”
Dells held up a cautioning hand. “Hold on, now. There are still holes in your theory big enough to drive a truck through. For one thing, even if he did stab himself, how did he get from the hospital to downtown? Did someone help him?”
“That’s the part I’m stuck on, too,” she conceded. “Now I guess I’ll never know.”
He looked at her as if she’d disappointed him.
“You can’t let this go just because I’m out, McClain. You know it’s a good story. You’re really on to something here.”
“Yes, I am.” She took a long drink. “And Charlton will never run it.”
“No, no, no.” Dells leaned across the table toward her, his voice passionate. “Come on. He can’t get away with this. That girl—she deserves better.”
That girl.
Harper thought of Naomi working at the bar. Her beautiful face. A smile that could light up a room. She thought of Wilson Shepherd’s lonely Garden City house. And Jerrod Scott’s bloodshot eyes.
“Naomi,” she said. “Her name was Naomi Scott.”
“And what are you going to do for her?” Dells challenged her.
“I can’t help her. I can’t help anyone, now.” Harper slid down in her seat. “Charlton’s going to reassign me to quilting bees or debutante balls.”
“And you’re going to take that? That doesn’t sound like the Harper McClain I know.”
Maybe it was the whiskey, but, suddenly, Harper wanted to fight Charlton.
“I don’t know what to do,” she admitted. “How do I make her run this?”
“You have to find another way to get the word out.” He said it flatly.
“How?”
“That Josh Leonard at Channel 5, he’s always looking for a good story.” He swung his glass gently, sending the amber liquid inside in a slow circle. “Does he know what you’ve learned?
“Maybe it’s time to share.”
35
It was after three when they left the bar. The street outside had that deep, late-night hush.
Harper had lost count of how many drinks she’d had. She welcomed the numbness it brought—she was no longer anxious about her future at the paper, sad about Luke, or worried about what would happen if Dells was permanently out.
In fact, she wasn’t worried about a thing, except falling down.
When she walked through the door, the sidewalk swayed beneath her feet as if blown by a light breeze, and she stumbled against Dells, who grabbed her before she could fall.
“Whoopsy daisy,” he said. “Beware of the sidewalk. It’s meaner than it looks.”
“I like whiskey,” Harper informed him solemnly. “But not this much whiskey.”
“Tsk,” he chided. “Don’t be small-minded.”
He seemed to have a limitless ability to drink alcohol. Each drink just seemed to make him more charming.
He made a sweeping gesture at the empty street, as if it held a coach and horses only he could see.
“Now. Where would you like to go?”
“Home,” Harper said, without hesitation.
The thought of her soft bed with its cool sheets seemed almost desperately attractive.
Then a problem occurred to her. “Oh wait. My car’s at the newspaper.”
Frowning at the unfamiliar buildings in front of her, she tried and failed to turn a circle before giving up, and looked at Dells, who still held on to her firmly.
“Where’s the newspaper?”
“Oh no you don’t.” He shook his finger at her. “You can’t drive. Look at the state of you.”
He waved his hand up and down in front of her.
Confused, Harper looked down at her black pants and simple top.
“What’s wrong with me?”
“I’ve called a taxi,” he announced, not answering the question. “It will take you home. I think the driver will be sober.”
Dells was still holding her up. She was too drunk to think about whether this was appropriate. All she knew was that his arm was warm across the small of her back, and his shoulder was sturdy against hers. She let herself lean against him.
“Where is it?” she asked.
“Where’s what?”
She yawned. “The taxi.”
“Right in front of you.” He held out one hand just as a yellow cab pulled up.
“That’s magic,” Harper whispered.
Dells walked her to the car, opening the back door.
“In you go.”
She climbed in more easily than she’d expected—sitting down, it seemed, was simpler at this point than standing up.
“Where we going?” The driver glanced over his shoulder at them, experienced eyes assessing the intoxicated pair with clear caution.
“I don’t know. Where do you live?” Dells asked, turning to Harper.
“East Jones Street.” She hiccupped unexpectedly, and clapped a hand over her mouth. “Excuse me.”
For some reason, Dells found this funny.
“Jones Street first,” he told the driver. “Then East Gaston after that.”
“East Gaston.” Harper tried to picture it. She’d never covered a crime there, but she knew it. “Isn’t that over by Forsyth Park—with all the big houses?”
“Something like that.”
At some point his arm had ended up around her again, and she didn’t mind. She rested her head against his shoulder, and looked up at him.
He did have a nice face—a straight nose, strong jaw (but not too strong). Absurd cheekbones. And he smelled so pleasant—that cool, green cologne he wore. He wasn’t so bad, for an older guy.
“Don’t throw up on me,” he ordered, looking down at her.
“I never throw up,” she assured him, outraged.
“Let’s not make this the first time.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say,” she muttered, straightening.
Chuckling, he pulled her back against his shoulder. She let herself be pulled.
It was a short ride to Jones Street. When they arrived, Harper leaned out the window to help the driver find her house, although he kept telling her he was capable of locating it himself.
“Right there!” she announced excitedly, when it came into view.
Giving them both a weary look, the driver stopped in front of it.
Dells opened the door and climbed out, leaning over to help Harper. Her feet kept getting tangled up as she slid across the backseat. In the end, he lifted her by the shoulders, and then half carried her to the front steps.
“Wait here,” he told the cabdriver, over his shoulder.
“I’m fine,” Harper insisted, although she was secretly glad he held her up.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so drunk. She was too drunk to be ashamed of it, but sober enough to worry about the shame that would follow.
When they reached the door, she dug in her bag for the keys, finding the keyring after some searching, and holding it up triumphantly.
“Women,” Dells informed her,
“need smaller bags.”
“Men need to keep their opinions to themselves,” Harper replied.
Leaning over, she stabbed at the top lock with the key, but for some reason it wouldn’t go in.
“I think the lock’s broken,” she told him.
After a second of this, Dells took the key from her and turned the lock with infuriating ease.
Harper glared at him as he figured her multiple locks out, one after another.
Finally, the door swung open. The alarm beeped.
Dells bowed politely. “Fort Knox awaits you.”
Harper stumbled to the alarm, and held up her wrist to read the number, but her eyes wouldn’t focus on what she’d written there.
The alarm’s warning beeps were coming faster now.
Panicking, she waved her arm at Dells. “What does this say?”
“What does what say?” he asked, bewildered.
“My arm.”
He grabbed her hand, holding her arm still, as she pointed at the code she’d written on her wrist that morning.
He gave her a disbelieving look. “You write it on your arm?”
The beeping was getting louder.
“Type in the number, quick,” she urged, shoving him at the machine. “It’s about to blow.”
Grumbling about security and insanity, he punched in the four digits.
The beeping stopped.
“I don’t think that’s the perfect system.” Dells turned to face her, right as she reached over his shoulder for the light switch.
Their faces were so close she could smell the whiskey on his breath—sweet and intoxicating.
His eyes searched her face, sweeping from her eyes to her lips and back again.
“Oh, no,” he said softly, as if reminding himself of something he already knew. “This would be a terrible idea.”
His words, for some reason, made Harper think of Luke.
Have faith in me.
How could she, though? Why should she? He was the one who dumped her. He was the one who was seeing someone else.
She needed to stop thinking about him. Wanting him. For a while the whiskey had done the trick. But when Dells left it would come back. She knew it would.
Reaching up, she touched his face, her fingertips grazing his cheek—the rough velvet brush of stubble.
“I like terrible ideas,” she whispered.
And then they were kissing. She didn’t know who’d moved first—her or him—but it didn’t matter. His lips were gentle, and unexpectedly soft.
His arms tightened around her, pulling her against the hard flatness of his chest. His suit was silky beneath her fingers as she slid her hands up his back, fingers cautious on the unfamiliar fabric.
She’d never kissed anyone in a suit before. It felt weird—like kissing her accountant.
And yet, she liked the way he touched her—with a firm politeness that was pure Dells. Almost like he was still trying to be businesslike and appropriate while they made out in her hallway.
His tongue touched her lips and they parted for him automatically, she felt his breath catch.
Some part of her wanted to keep kissing him. And to do whatever followed the kissing.
But a nagging voice in her head kept telling her to stop.
Even through the haze of alcohol, she knew Dells was handsome and funny and rich. But he was, at least for now, her boss.
And he wasn’t the one she wanted.
“Hey, wait.”
Carefully, she extricated herself from his hands.
Stepping back, he gave her a questioning look.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t do this. I thought I could, but it turns out I can’t.”
“Is this the instant sobriety of kissing your boss?” His tone was light, but she saw something more complicated in his eyes.
“Something like that.” Harper leaned against the wall, and looked up at him. “And there’s someone else. Or there was. It didn’t work out. But I’m still…”
Unexpectedly, he smiled at her.
“Don’t worry. You don’t owe me an apology or even an explanation. I’m the one who should know better.”
But there were things she wanted to say.
“I think you’re great,” Harper told him. “You’re a good person. And I liked drinking with you. I liked working for you, too. You’re fair. And you’re good at it. I hope you’re not fired. Because it won’t be the same without you.”
He studied her, his blue eyes suddenly serious.
“There’s something I want you to know, too. Just in case I am fired. You’re the best reporter I’ve ever worked with, Harper, and this isn’t the alcohol talking.” His voice was clear and focused, each word steady as a stone. “You are brilliant at what you do, and don’t you ever doubt it. You’re a natural.” He took a step toward her. “I was lucky to get to work with you.”
He reached forward, brushing her cheek with a touch so light Harper could have almost believed she imagined it. She might also have imagined the regret in his eyes.
“Well,” he said, after a second. “I’d better go. The cabdriver’s waiting.”
They exchanged a smile.
“Good night, Harper.” He turned to the door.
“Good night…” She’d been kissing him for five minutes. She couldn’t call him Dells. “… Paul.”
Okay. So that felt weird.
Outside, he turned on the top step to look back at her with sudden insistence.
“Don’t let the Anderson story die,” he told her. “Somehow, you have to get the word out about what happened. Use your police contacts—get them involved. If nothing else, give it all to Josh.” His eyes were dark. “If you don’t, you won’t be able to live with yourself.”
“I will,” she promised.
He nodded, as if her words were enough to satisfy him.
“And that other guy,” he said. “The one you mentioned?” He held her eyes. “Don’t wait too long for him. If he doesn’t appreciate you, he doesn’t deserve you.”
Then he gave her a jaunty salute and headed down the stairs, whistling the Sinatra tune that had been playing when she walked into the bar—“One More for My Baby.”
Seconds later, the taxi disappeared into the darkness.
36
Harper woke late the next morning.
For one brief, blessed moment, she wasn’t sure why her head hurt so much or how she’d come to be sleeping fully clothed on top of the bedsheets.
But as her sun-filled bedroom swam into view, it all came back to her.
“Oh, fuck,” she breathed.
She sat up slowly, hands on her head, which felt like someone was wrenching it in two with cold metal tools.
“Oh hell’s bells. Harper, you imbecile.”
Zuzu, who was draped across the foot of the bed, glanced up at her with cool green eyes.
“I kissed my boss,” Harper informed her, as she swung her feet to the floor. “Top that one, cat.”
The room felt unstable around her, and she had to find her balance before making her way down the hall to the bathroom for ibuprofen.
There, she reached for the medicine cabinet door but her reflection arrested her hand.
Her russet hair kinked and coiled around her. The long day of work and night of booze had left her hazel eyes bloodshot and her skin blotchy.
“You look like an idiot,” she told herself.
She swung open the medicine cabinet door and her face disappeared.
I hope he’s fired, she thought, uncharitably, as she downed the pills with water she cupped in her hands. Oh God. What if he’s not fired?
It wasn’t all on her, of course. They’d both been involved in that kiss. But that didn’t make it any better.
At least it was Sunday—she didn’t have to be back in the office until Tuesday. She had two days to recover. Two days to figure out how to handle things if he and Charlton worked out their differences. Or if they didn’t.
&nb
sp; While she waited for the shower to warm up, she leaned against the wall and tormented herself by remembering the last minutes of the night—the way his lips had felt unfamiliar and curious against hers.
And that it had been quite a memorable kiss.
She was climbing into the shower when it struck her that he’d never once pulled back. If she hadn’t stopped things, there was no indication that he wouldn’t have been happy to go to bed with her.
She wondered if he was waking up somewhere now, swearing. Maybe he was hoping he was fired, too. But she doubted it. He didn’t seem the type to feel bad about kissing her.
After a shower, Harper brewed a pot of strong coffee, and sat at the table with her laptop and phone, forcing down a piece of toast her stomach didn’t want, and coming up with a plan.
Dells was right—she had to get the Anderson story out there.
She could take it to the cops or to Josh at Channel 5. But first she needed to answer those last unanswered questions.
Before Harper could go to Daltrey or Josh with her theory about how Peyton had done it, she needed one person—just one—who’d seen him that night, out of the hospital.
She wasn’t at all sure this was possible. But she had an idea.
Steeling herself, she picked up her phone.
Jerrod Scott answered on the first ring.
“Mr. Scott,” she said. “This is Harper McClain.”
“Oh, hello, Miss. McClain. What can I do for you?”
His voice was so distinctive—formal but warm, as if they’d known each other for years.
“I’ve been looking deeper at your daughter’s case,” Harper said. “I think you might have a point about Peyton Anderson. But I need your help to prove it.”
“Well, thank the Lord.” She heard him take a deep breath. “Tell me what you need.”
Harper explained the very basics.
The missing piece was all about travel. How had Anderson gotten from the hospital to the murder scene and back again, without a car, and without anyone knowing he’d done it?
There were several possibilities. Maybe Anderson had planted his car at the hospital before stabbing himself. If that was the case, she might never be able to prove a thing. But she didn’t think he’d take that risk.
A Beautiful Corpse--A Harper McClain Mystery Page 28
