Aftermath Read online

  “We’re not done discussing my project,” I told him as he helped me into the sleeves. “Or my dad.”

  “Looking forward to it.”

  Me, too, but all I said was, “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Thanks for coming over.” He smiled and gave me a quick hug, which I returned.

  The sudden contact felt nice. I definitely could end my six-month drought that night if I wanted to. David certainly seemed willing, but Cade wasn’t out of the running yet.

  “Better go back to your dungeon now,” I said. “You got your love scene in, so we’re all counting on a 24/7 fright-fest until the end.” Not wanting to give him the last word, I stepped out onto the front walk and closed the door behind me.

  The inside of Cade’s police car was red. A quarter of the interior anyway, specifically the front passenger seat. It wasn’t blood—it was Bebe.

  She was talking to the police chief. Her hand gripped the shoulder of his bomber jacket, as if she were about to pull him into a kiss. Or maybe they had done that already and were coming up for air.

  Not the ambush I’d envisioned. An axe would’ve been preferable.

  CHAPTER 12

  Bebe met my gaze and said something to Cade, her hand dropping from his sleeve. As I approached the car, he turned to glance at me and then looked back at her. She gave him a huge smile—a Hollywood red-carpet stunner—and took her time exiting. Somehow she could even make clambering out of a bucket seat look sexy.

  I said, “Warming it up for me?”

  “Just getting reacquainted with my dear old friend, don’t you know,” she replied, really turning on the brogue. “But I do think you’ll find it quite toasty in there.” She looked me over, maybe searching for clues about how David and I had spent our time together. The woman fought fire with fire; that was for sure.

  “I enjoyed meeting you,” I said, trading places with her at the open passenger door. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon.”

  “Oh, that’d be grand—he gave you another Admit One card then, did he?”

  “The black one,” I said and paused to enjoy the look of surprise on her gorgeous face. “I promise to call first—I don’t want to drop in and interrupt anything.”

  An arctic gust of wind rocked us and swirled our hair. “Certainly,” she said, rubbing her bare arms. “Excuse me now—it’s getting brisk.”

  I rippled my fingers in a little wave and watched her scurry up the walk. Then I slid in beside Cade and closed the door. The fabric beneath me felt as if it had been baking in an oven. I snapped, “Jesus, Chief, turn off the seat warmer.”

  “It’s not on,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

  Bebe did promise that I’d find it “quite toasty” inside. I prodded the cushion and said, “That woman puts out some major body heat. She’s a furnace.”

  “Red hot,” he agreed and then laughed when I shot him a look. “My God, are you jealous of her?”

  I crammed my purse into the scooped-out lumbar section, eased back, and felt a trickle of sweat edge along my hairline while my bottom and shoulders roasted. My temper had heated up, too. “What would I have to be jealous about?” I asked. “You can have all the ‘interactions’ you want, with her or anyone else. I’m just a citizen filing a vandalism complaint.” I cracked the window to let in a little cold air and stared straight ahead.

  He sighed. “Okay, where to now, citizen?”

  “I’ve taken up way too much of your time already.” I jabbed a thumb at his dash-mounted laptop. “You probably weren’t nearly as productive as you hoped to be, what with the distractions.”

  “I got a lot done before Bebe came out, and she was just one distraction.”

  “Just one? Then you weren’t paying close attention.”

  He laughed again and put the car in gear. “Nothing there I hadn’t seen before.” As I sputtered, he added, “Look, we dated for a while, and then she broke it off. I was as surprised as you were that she came out to see me.”

  “I can’t remember touching any of my exes that way. If I ever put my hand on them after a breakup, it was preceded by a decent backswing.”

  Cade chuckled some more as he turned around in the driveway and got us moving down the winding road through the woods. The air blowing through my window chilled my front while Bebe’s residual heat continued to plague my back. Combined with Cade laughing at me, it was a special kind of hell.

  We drove in silence until he got us onto the highway, heading toward Graylee. He asked, “So how’d it go with Stark? Ready to save the world together?”

  “The plans are still on the drawing board, but there was a new development: he invited me to live at his house—at least until you catch the vandal.” I kept my face pointing forward but watched his reaction.

  He kneaded the steering wheel. All he said was, “That was mighty generous of him.”

  “I’m sure he has only my best interests at heart,” I deadpanned. “No way am I going to stay at my dad’s place now, and the motel is kind of a dump.”

  “I’ve got three empty jail cells.”

  “Ha ha. I’d sooner sleep in the backseat of this car.”

  “Cindy Dwyer runs a B&B in town. She’s the go-to person when folks come here for weddings, funerals, and such.” He slapped the wheel. “Nope, scratch that, bad idea. I’ll put you in touch with some widows and empty-nesters who take in boarders.”

  “What’s up with Cindy Dwyer?”

  He chewed the inside of his cheek but finally replied, “She was the one who put up Wallace Landry, so I’m thinking you’ll want to stay someplace else.”

  My booted foot tapped the case file while I recalled his comment the day before about the paperwork offering every detail but “the why.” I wondered if Cindy would have some insights about that missing piece, some bit of random conversation with Landry she forgot to tell the police. “She’ll do,” I said. “Graylee is so small, if I try to avoid everywhere he went I might as well leave town.”

  “You sure?”

  I wanted to tell him to make me a better offer and see where that led, but I was already falling back on old habits—the jealousy and neediness that had infuriated Andy and my other exes so much. It would be easy to scare Cade off before we even got started.

  “Sure I’m sure,” I said. “She’s someone I should meet anyway. If you’ll drop me off at my dad’s house and give me Cindy’s number, I’ll introduce myself, pack up, and head over to her place.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  He didn’t sound particularly pleased about that plan. At first I thought he was hiding something and afraid I’d learn it from Cindy. Then I noticed how long it was taking to return to Graylee. Pretending to work out a kink in my back, I stretched in his direction so I could see the dashboard. According to the speedometer, Cade was keeping the Caprice a good five miles an hour below the speed limit. He was drawing out our time together. Not the most romantic gesture ever, but it was sweet, like a boy dragging his feet while walking his date up to her front door.

  Testing my theory, I asked, “Can I stop by later today to get the updated vandalism report from you, for the rental car company?”

  “Definitely,” he said. “When do you want to come by?”

  Yes, there was that eagerness again. I thought about what I needed to do that day and replied, “How about 4:30 again? That’s becoming our regular time.”

  “Uh, sure, I guess so. 4:30…our time.” He frowned.

  I thought about the luscious smile Bebe had given him. Maybe it signaled “See you later” instead of “Goodbye.” In as casual a tone as I could muster, I said, “If that’s going to bump up against a dinner date with Bebe, I can come by earlier.”

  This produced another head snap. “What?”

  “It looked like you two—y’all—were getting reacquainted, ‘interac
ting’ nicely, so I thought you might be going out later.”

  “But how’d you know she suggested supper?”

  She’d probably suggested way more than that, but I said, “It’s what a woman does when she’s interested in a guy. Or, in her case, re-interested. Graylee might be the last bastion of Southern manners, but surely the women here don’t wait until Sadie Hawkins Day to ask a guy out.”

  “I reckon.” He glanced at the dashboard clock and asked, “How about lunch instead? Give me an hour to take care of some things. You can stop by—or we can meet someplace if you want—at, say, 12:30?”

  There it was: the first-date invitation. However, I didn’t see any advantage to doing lunch if Bebe already planned to do “supper” with Cade and no doubt have him for dessert. Better that I waited to see whether my competition stayed in the picture or was the one-and-done type. “Another time, promise,” I said. “I’ve got lots of stuff piling up. Is 4:30 okay?”

  “Yup.” He signaled and turned us off the highway, heading for town. After a few blocks, he said, “Have you ever carried a gun in your purse?”

  Not the follow-up I expected to the postponement of our first date. “Come again?”

  “I’ve been thinking, whoever did that to your car might not restrict activities to your father’s property. Brady had a couple of pistols—we found a gun safe in his bedroom.” He looked at me and then made another turn. “I know some people at the county probate court and could have a Georgia Weapons License fast-tracked for you, but that’ll mean getting your fingerprints and such. In the meantime, my boys and I will look the other way if you want to conceal and carry.”

  “You’re telling me to start packing heat?”

  He shrugged. “You don’t have anything against guns, do you?”

  “Not unless I think about my dad being shot to death.”

  “And what about his murderer being shot to death?” Cade touched his holster, as if to reassure himself he still was armed. “Doesn’t that balance things out?”

  I pitched my voice low and tried to get his accent right: “I reckon.”

  A smile quirked the corner of his mouth. “Look, I can show you how to shoot if you’ve never done it, and I’ll teach you about gun safety if you’re worried about that.”

  The NYPD detective I’d lived with had taken care of those things, but I was willing to play dumb. Would shooting be part of our first date, or was he now proposing a second date? I imagined us out in the country, facing a kudzu-covered fence topped with old cans and bottles, his body enveloping me from behind as he held my arms out and showed me how to aim and squeeze off shots. A little kinky, but it could lead to some interesting developments.

  “Okay,” I said. “Assuming I can cram a pistol into my overloaded purse.”

  “It’s just until we can get whoever’s messing with your property.”

  “No, you’re right. My mixed martial arts instructor warned me that my brown belt would be no match for a punk with a .22 and a steady hand.”

  He glanced at me when I mentioned the brown belt, maybe with some new respect. “He was right.”

  “She.” That earned another look. “You ever spar?”

  “Not since the police academy.”

  Another fantasy sprang to mind. “Well, I’ll trade you shooting lessons for some moves on the mat. Deal?” When he looked at me, I gave him my best smile. Not in Bebe’s league, but it had the desired effect.

  “Uh, I’m sure Bebe just wants to talk,” he babbled, driving even more slowly. “We haven’t seen each other in a month of Sundays, what with her out there in the country with Stark. It’s not like it’s a real date or nothing.”

  “Maybe for you, but I think she looked pretty serious.”

  “I’ll call her, tell her we can get supper some other time.”

  “Hey, don’t do that on my account. I’ll be out of your hair by 5:00 at the latest.”

  “No, no, this is much more important. There might be some new developments today, maybe find a resolution to our problem. Who knows?”

  I didn’t want Bebe to declare all-out war on me—I already had to watch my back—but now Cade might decide to call it quits before she lured him into dessert. Mission accomplished, I punched his arm and said, “Jeez, go have supper with your old girlfriend. We’ll have lots of chances to go out.”

  “Oh, okay. Good.” He relaxed as he drove us down Main Street, waving at the few pedestrians brave enough to be outside when the forecast called for an impending quarter-inch of snow.

  We turned toward my dad’s house and headed up the glass-smooth road. Cade parked again behind the rental car. Less than two hours had passed, but it felt much longer. Sunshine had melted the frost, erasing one version of the “MURDER” message. I checked Cade; he seemed to be holding his breath, same as me, while we scanned the scene for signs of new damage.

  “Think it’s all right?” I asked him, fingers on the door handle.

  “Let me do a walk-around first.” He climbed out, resettled his equipment belt and holster, and did a loop around the vandalized car and statue. Apparently seeing nothing of interest, he inspected the house, checking the front door and testing the windows as he followed the wrap-around porch out of sight. In a minute, he completed the circuit and gave me a thumbs-up.

  I headed to the rental car trunk to see the threat again, the hateful word scored deep into the black paint. A vivid reminder that, somewhere in town, a sicko was getting his rocks off by scaring me. Suddenly I didn’t feel like flirting anymore.

  Cade came over and said, “I’ve asked my second-shift deputy to get out here with a fingerprint kit. You’ll see B.J. this afternoon.”

  He lifted his arms a bit, and I got ready to return his embrace. I needed a little comforting. However, he only stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. He nodded to me, cop to civilian, totally professional and completely unsatisfying.

  CHAPTER 13

  Before he had driven off, Cade consulted his cell phone and copied Cindy Dwyer’s number for me. She answered on the second ring and told me what an honor it would be to host me for as long as I needed. The cost was only forty dollars a night, which was even cheaper than the motel and included breakfast. Despite her breezy tone, I sensed underlying uneasiness and maybe some hostility, too—the Brady Stapleton Effect again—but at least she didn’t say no.

  I took down Cindy’s address and entered her information into my phone. Remembering David’s black card, I also put in his phone number and e-mail.

  Surrounded by repacked luggage in the pillow-orgy bedroom, I wondered what else there was to do before leaving again, maybe for a while. I came up with two items to locate: a gun and the hidden trap door David had mentioned. The latter could wait, but Cade’s idea to arm myself had been a good one.

  The police chief didn’t tell me exactly where Dad had kept his gun safe, but, if it held only pistols, there was a good chance he’d stored it under his bed. Within easy reach, he would’ve thought. I took a few deep breaths and tried not to think about the slaughter that had occurred there as I forced myself to march into the master bedroom.

  After kicking aside some of the larger fragments of the porcelain shade I broke when I had my meltdown during the tour of the house, I planted my boots wide, squatted—very much aware of the white shards and china powder just under my black-wool-clad butt—and peered beneath the bed. On the hardwood floor sat a dark plastic case about the size of a laptop bag.

  The case was heavier than it looked—maybe twenty-five pounds—and had a brand name, logo, and the words “Gun Vault” stamped into the top. Beneath the logo was a chrome lock. After searching among dozens of choices on the massive key ring, I spotted “GV” on a small label. Unless it unlocked a cache of Givenchy haute couture, I figured I’d found the right one.

  Still in my squat, I inserted the key into the lock and pushed
up the lid. Two pistols nestled in gray foam molded around their contours. One gun was black and bulky, with a trademarked laser sight below the barrel; the other one was pocket-sized and chrome-plated. A spare magazine for each gun had its own rectangular cutout in the foam, as did two boxes of .38 caliber bullets. Home defense for the anal retentive.

  During my relationship with the NYPD detective, he’d taught me the basics about guns. I dug out the shiny pistol, surprised by its lightness—just a pound or so. While I weighed it in my hand, I saw a switch above the grip labeled “Safe.” I thumbed it down, which revealed another word stamped into the metal: “Fire.” Before inspecting the gun further, I flicked the safety back on and then double-checked it by aiming the barrel at the side of the mattress. I cringed as I tried to pull the trigger. It didn’t budge.

  Another switch at the bottom of the grip released the rectangular housing for the bullets, which were copper-tipped and stacked to the top. I pushed the magazine back in until the switch clicked. In countless movies and TV shows, they used the phrase “locked and loaded,” but someone always said it after cocking his gun. My pistol didn’t have a hammer, but the top could slide back if I forced it. After a little struggle—the spring mechanism was tight—I slid the U-shape toward my shooting hand and a bullet fell out from the side and bounced on the floor. That meant it had been ready to fire, and now I was short one bullet. Afraid that one shot would make all the difference, I pocketed the spare magazine and put the loose bullet in its place in the foam.

  I pushed the gun vault back under the bed, pocketed my keys, and retreated to the study on the other side of the fireplace. At the desk, I set down the pistol and then dumped the contents of my purse beside it. Tossing out a surprising number of balled tissues, mostly empty cosmetic cases, pen caps with no pens, and other detritus, plus sorting and stacking the rest, gained me enough free space for the firearm and spare ammunition. However, reaching blindly into the purse, there was no way I’d manage a quick-draw.