Aftermath Read online

  I pushed my fingers through my hair and blew out a frosty breath, embarrassed and upset with myself. The tantrum definitely had made me look bad in his eyes. Wanting to sound tough, though, I quipped, “I figured you wouldn’t hold my tirade against me if some madman ran out with a knife.”

  “No, I reckon I wouldn’t. Not even if it was a crazy woman with a screwdriver.” He shifted, and I hoped he wanted to give my shoulders a comforting hug—I needed it. Instead, he said, “I’ve gotta get back to the station. After I log the photos, I’ll add to the report for your rental car company. I hope you went for the insurance coverage—the damage claim keeps going up.”

  I glanced at my watch. It was nearly 10:00. “Oh shit, I’m supposed to be at David’s in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Who?”

  “David Stark.”

  He scowled. “What business do you have with him?”

  Again I remembered Tim’s “this will be interesting” comment. It turned out he hadn’t been jerking my chain. “Saving the world,” I replied, “or at least our little part of it. Do you know how to get out there?”

  “Yeah, I suppose I do.”

  “By the time I find the code to open the garage door and the keys to one of my father’s cars, I’m going to be way too late.” I gave him my helpless look, which had been working on boys since I was fifteen.

  He sighed and said, “Come on, I’ll drive you.”

  “Can we put on the lights and siren?”

  “No.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Mercifully, Cade could drive fast when he wanted to. He still looked easygoing and unhurried behind the wheel, but he revved up the Chevy and had us through town and on the highway in no time.

  I wanted to repair his opinion of me as much as possible, so I asked questions to give him a chance to talk about himself. A man always felt better about the woman he was with when encouraged to do a little bragging. However, he played the humble sphinx, just like Tim had. What was it with these Graylee guys?

  Over the next ten minutes I only learned that he’d grown up nearby in Thomasville, close to the Florida border, his parents and siblings still lived down there, and he’d played football, baseball, and basketball in high school but none of them while at the University of Georgia.

  “Wow,” I said, “a three-sport man. I bet the girls loved you.”

  “Maybe some did for a while.” He shrugged as we shot past an eighteen-wheeler and returned to the right lane. “They set their sights on better men when they went off to college.”

  “Don’t you mean better athletes?”

  “I meant what I said.” The edge was back—I needed to remember he didn’t like words being put in his mouth. “I was an average student and not as good in sports as I thought I was, once I got a taste of real competition. Just a good ol’ boy with delusions of grandeur, getting his butt kicked during tryouts.” Another shrug, another big rig left in our wake as he went even faster. “I wasn’t much fun to be around.” Then he laughed at himself. “As if I’m the life of the party now.”

  Taking a risk, I murmured, “I think you’re fine.”

  A glance my way, a hard swallow. Maybe I was back in the game. Checking the dashboard clock—10:09—I asked, “Did you graduate?”

  “Yeah, a business degree, marketing major, like a million others. Did some jobs I hated and wasn’t much good at.”

  “What made you want to get into law enforcement?”

  “My uncle on my daddy’s side is a Statie, meaning he’s a trooper in the state patrol. He’d suggested it.”

  I waited but he didn’t say anything more, so I decided to get down to it. “Ever been married?”

  “Once, about fifteen years ago. My business career and marriage sort of tanked at the same time.” He glanced at my hands, possibly to reassure himself he hadn’t overlooked a ring. “You?”

  “Close but no cigar.”

  “Anybody waiting for you back in the big city?”

  “Oh, countless anybodies. Hearts broke all over the five boroughs when I left. In Jersey, too.”

  “I’ll bet.” He said it in that deadpan voice, not a trace of sarcasm. No telltale smile when I checked his expression.

  I realized how much I was trying to start something with him. Those old fears of being alone and unwanted urged me to keep pushing. He was far from the urbane, sophisticated guy I usually gravitated toward—plus we’d been born in the same decade—but there was a deep calmness about him I found comforting. If I could avoid having another meltdown, I thought we might progress to a dinner date that night. And then a drink at his place. No way did I want to sleep at my father’s house with the “MURDER” stalker still on the loose.

  Switching over to safe small talk, to let the chemistry between us percolate, I asked, “How much farther is it?”

  “A few miles,” he said, and then added, “So, exactly what are you up to with Stark?”

  Suspicion, jealousy, maybe something more. Fear? Interesting. Possibly he saw David as a romantic rival, given the author’s wealth and his reputation as a sort of redneck playboy. Hoping to reassure Cade, I replied in a light tone, “Like I told you, I want to talk to him about philanthropy. I think we could do a lot of good for Graylee and the whole area.” I watched his face as I said, “You keep calling him by his last name—don’t you like him?”

  The chief gave away nothing. “He’s okay, I guess. How’d you manage to wrangle an invitation?”

  “I can be very persuasive when I want something.” Nothing wrong with stoking that jealousy and fear of a rival. Hopefully that would keep him from hesitating later on. I took out the Admit One card from my purse. “He said he has ‘an absolute she-wolf’ for a gatekeeper.”

  He grunted. “That she is.”

  “Oh, did you try getting past her one time?”

  “No, I’m not exactly a fan of Stark…can’t say I like his books. But Bebe and I, um, have had some interaction.” He didn’t elaborate, adding one more mystery to the pile I wanted to unravel.

  The police chief signaled, braked hard, and turned us onto an unmarked drive. We followed a winding path through a dense grove of leaf-bare oaks and tall pines and then emerged in a clearing.

  If my father’s house was the solid, hulking hunting lodge of a man’s man, David Stark’s estate was the hodge-podge sprawl of an eccentric genius. The central portion, a Craftsman bungalow with Mission-period accents, looked the oldest. From both sides, and probably the back, other styles had taken shape.

  A wing on the right echoed Dad’s stone manor, while one on the left would’ve looked at home on Cape Cod. Maybe living in solitude with an ever-growing fortune meant he could experiment without caring what other people thought. His novels reflected the same attitude, never giving his fans the same kind of scare from book to book.

  The driveway curled behind the house, presumably ending at a garage, but Cade parked near a walkway of multicolored glass bricks that led to the front door. He’d gotten me there with a minute to spare.

  “I really appreciate this,” I said, giving his thick bicep a squeeze through the leather jacket. “I know I’m getting in the way of a hundred important things you need to do. You want to come in?”

  He tapped the dash-mounted laptop. “I can work from here.”

  “Hiding from that nasty old she-wolf?” I teased.

  Cade gave me a tight smile and busied himself with his computer. I closed the passenger door much more civilly than earlier and went up the walk. Catching my reflection in the narrow, Mission-style sidelights that flanked the front door, I finger-combed my hair. The cowlick rebelled as usual. After a fruitless search for a doorbell, I rapped on the cold wood. No response from within.

  I squinted through the column of wavy leaded glass and knocked harder, stinging my knuckles. Finally, a person-sized blur of red appeared, a
nd the door unlocked and opened.

  The she-wolf was drop-dead gorgeous, only a few years older than me, and somewhat familiar. Creamy skin with a light spray of freckles across her cheeks and nose, violet-blue eyes, and a classic heart-shaped face. Red, red lips, tumbles of wavy auburn hair, and a scarlet dress that her bust distended dramatically. She wasn’t heavyset—the woman’s waist was smaller than mine—but “curvy” didn’t begin to describe her. I couldn’t help but wonder about Cade’s “interactions” with her, and, of course, what she did with David Stark all day, every day, out here in the secluded woods. It was a wonder he got any writing done.

  Her familiarity turned to recognition when she said with an Irish brogue, “Right on time, Ms. Wright.” The name Cade had referenced now fell into place. It was impossible to believe she’d aged two decades since I’d seen her on TV—if anything, the faint lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth made her more beautiful than when she was the twenty-something star of a few sitcoms in the 1990s.

  “You’re Beatrice McLaren?”

  “I am indeed, and how grand of you to remember my old shows.”

  “Of course—you’re what made them great.”

  “Thanks for that. Please call me Bebe.”

  “Janet.” We shook hands briefly. Mine was unforgivably cold against her warm touch.

  She stepped back so I could enter, and then she looked outside before closing and locking the door. “I see you travel in style,” she said, that voice so lovely she could make a speech on tax policy riveting. “With a police escort no less.” Her face betrayed nothing regarding Cade. Perhaps their interactions hadn’t been of the sort my mind was conjuring. Or maybe she still was a terrific actor.

  “It’s a long story,” I told her and held up David’s Admit One card. “Can I keep this, or do I have to earn each invitation?”

  “I’m afraid it’s the latter. Mr. Stark does so guard his privacy.” Crimson nails plucked the card from my fingertips before she helped me off with my coat and hung it in a closet. “This way, if you please.”

  She led me through the lemon-custard foyer and down a hall with framed photos of David posing with presidents, celebrities, and famous fellow writers, all of whom held up one or two of his hardbacks for the camera. The display reminded me of Abby’s home, but with the great and powerful instead of family and fellow healers. It was a good distraction from Beatrice, whose perfect bubble-butt and elegant stride in high heels made me even more envious. Clumping behind her on the hardwood, I felt as ugly and ungainly as a zombie in snowshoes.

  Before reaching the kitchen at the end of the hall, we turned right and entered a study done up in red-flocked wallpaper, cherry furniture, and cordovan leather. If Bebe weren’t so pale, she would’ve been perfectly camouflaged in there. A fireplace contained a minor inferno that blazed and popped, scenting the air with wood smoke.

  “He should be with us momentarily,” she said, “depending on the mood of his muse. May I get you something to drink while you’re waiting?”

  “Coffee would be great—black, please—but only if you’ll have something with me.”

  “Certainly—I’d love a wee chat.” Pivoting as gracefully as a dancer, she exited.

  It was hard not to hate someone so beautiful, poised, and honey-voiced, but I told myself to give her a chance. Maybe she had terrible table manners or fits of farting or something else that made her more human. Otherwise, if she and Cade were an item, I didn’t stand a chance.

  While I waited for my caffeine injection and for David’s muse to release him, I checked out the study. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on two walls contained hardcovers and paperbacks of David’s novels, each in a dozen or more languages, along with autographed first editions from all of his contemporaries: King, Koontz, Straub, and other greats. I flipped to the title page of a few of these and read the compliments written there:

  To David,

  I wish this one was half as good as your latest. D, the only reason I keep churning out these damn things is so you’ll have the

  illusion of competition. C’mon, Stark, ease up.

  If you set the bar any higher, it’ll decapitate me.

  From the doorway, Bebe said, “Don’t you believe a word of those now. Mr. Stark swears they hate his ‘redneck guts.’” She came forward and bent down to set a tray with two large, tapered mugs on a coffee table, giving me a view of more cleavage than I could’ve mustered with a bustier and hydraulic jacks. I was surprised the momentum didn’t flip her onto her pretty red head.

  Be nice, I reminded myself. It must’ve been hell to haul around those soccer balls. She probably couldn’t see her shoes without looking in a mirror. Bless her heart, as Mom would’ve added.

  I thanked her for the coffee and tasted it. Not as good as Billy’s at the diner, but it would do. We sat in matching leather club chairs, facing each other over the table. Beneath the tray were several large art books devoted to the golden age of horror movies, from Boris Karloff to Christopher Lee. I gestured at them and the bookcases. “Does being surrounded by all this scary stuff ever get to you? I mean, does it make you want to curl up with a trashy romance or watch a funny show like the ones you used to do?”

  “Good heavens no. I much prefer having my blood curdled than my funny bone—or anything else—tickled. It’s why I went after this job in 2000. My Hollywood agent knew his literary agent and told me Mr. Stark was looking for a new assistant and did any of my out-of-work actor friends want to apply?” She sipped her coffee. “He had no idea I was Mr. Stark’s biggest fan—I jumped at the chance. When he found out, he wanted to box my head off.”

  “Did you miss acting, at least at first?”

  “A bit, but it’s for sure I didn’t miss the lifestyle. Paparazzi stalking you, tabloids calling you fat one week, pregnant the next, and then jilted and then stealing someone else’s man. My ma and da didn’t know what to think. It got so bad I couldn’t go outside unless the studio sent a car for me.”

  “But doesn’t it get lonely out here with just you and David?”

  I’d tried to make the question sound innocent, but she gave me a knowing smile and said, “Sure and now you sound like one of those Hollywood reporters. I’m Mr. Stark’s assistant. I’m also his first reader. And that’s the end of it.” Bebe nodded once in emphasis with her sweetly dimpled chin. Then she asked, “Are you a fan of his books?”

  “You could say that. I’ve only read everything he ever wrote, including the short stories.”

  “Then can you imagine being the very first one to see his manuscripts? And what’s more, he asks for my opinions. He’s changed character names, paragraphs, and whole scenes based on my comments. Why, the ending to Scatter the Remains was my idea! ‘Tis a dream job and no mistake.”

  She sounded so earnest, almost breathless. However, I had to remind myself again she used to be a professional actor. Possibly she was playing me, to undermine my naughty imagination.

  Before I could reply, she said, “Enough about me. Here you are now, a woman of leisure, a fortune fallen into your lap. That must seem like a dream as well.”

  “Or a nightmare, if you think about how that fortune came to me.” I managed to catch myself before I added “soaked in blood.” My smart mouth was primed and ready to let fly, but it didn’t pay to piss off the gatekeeper. Softening my tone, I added, “You’re right, though. I’m lucky to have so many choices now about what to do with my life.”

  “Then why stay in this tiny town and run your da’s businesses?” She snapped her fingers. “No, that’s not what I heard; you want to be ‘a benevolent dictator.’”

  So word indeed had gotten around. I began to protest, but Bebe cut me off, saying, “You didn’t know your da at all, am I right?”

  Warily, I answered, “That’s right—I really can’t remember him.”

  “And I heard he didn’t pay a penn
y of alimony or child support, even though he sat on a pile of money almost as high as Mr. Stark’s.”

  I wondered where she’d heard that particular fact, but I only said, “Right again.”

  “So that man Wallace Landry really did you a great favor, didn’t he? Did the same for all of us, in fact—your da had his boot on Graylee’s neck since long before I got here.”

  I took another drink of coffee to try to get myself under control. Making sure my voice was steady and civil, I said, “It sounds like you’re actually celebrating my father’s death.”

  “Not at all. A tragedy it was and that’s for certain. I’m—” From somewhere nearby, there was the sound of wood sliding on wood, like a chair scuffing across a floor, and then it came again. Before I could look around, Bebe added with a double dose of friendliness, “I’m merely pointing out some good can come from it: you can afford to live anywhere in the world, do anything you want.”

  Close behind my chair, David Stark said in his deep Southern rumble, “But if I recall correctly—” he paused while I jolted and twisted around in my seat “—what you want to do is give that fortune away. Mine as well.” He smiled and put out his hand to shake. “Sorry for the delay. The scene I was writing was just too much fun to abandon.”

  I held his cool, strong fingers for a moment while I recovered and took him in: the iconic narrow glasses, rumpled hair, and salt-and-pepper stubble, as if he’d only made time for writing since he woke up. He’d cloaked his lean torso in a fisherman’s sweater Bebe’s ancestors might’ve knitted. Tight jeans and scuffed loafers completed the picture. Maybe it was just because my heart continued to gallop from him startling me, but I thought he looked delicious. Much better than in the restaurant.