by Maggie Wells
“The Larkins’ place,” she said, pinpointing the house he meant on her internal map.
He nodded. “His daughter rented it to me. He moved to a place in Florida to be closer to her.”
She nodded but refused to be distracted by the details. She could get the scoop on the high school’s longtime PE teacher later. “Your house. Twenty minutes,” she agreed. “And be prepared to spill, because I’m not particularly good at waiting for what I want.”
Without another glance, she backed out of the door and forced herself to break into a trot. She’d run for exactly nineteen minutes and forty-six seconds when she hooked a sharp left off the sidewalk and onto the brick walkway leading to the freshly painted front door of the house Ben Kinsella now called home.
More than once, she’d herded Jeff up these porch steps, a bulging trick-or-treat bag bumping against her leg. Mrs. Larkin made the world’s most delicious popcorn balls every year. She felt a pang of sadness as she realized that even in Pine Bluff, people probably didn’t hand out homemade treats anymore.
Ben opened the door the second her foot hit the top step. Sleep deprived and freaked out about what he might tell her, she had to blink twice at the man framed in the doorway. Unlike any of the Larkins, his head nearly touched the top of the door frame.
“Hey,” he said, his voice creaking as he held the screen door open wide in invitation.
She stepped into the dimly lit entry and peered up at him. “Who was it?”
He shook his head, then gently closed the door behind her, cocooning them in the small space. “I think you’d better sit down.”
“Who was it?”
“I’m told you were acquainted with the victim.” He drew out his notebook but didn’t bother opening it. “The victim’s name was Beaufort Abernathy.”
Marlee gasped, then pressed her lips together to ward off the hot prickle of tears clogging her throat. “Bo,” she managed at last.
“Yes.” He fidgeted with the still-unopened notebook. “I’m told the two of you used to date?”
She stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment. “Date?”
This time, he flipped open the cover on the tiny pad, but his eyes never dropped to the page. “Yes.”
“We, uh,” she stammered, the fog of shock lifting. “Yeah. In high school. We, um, we went to prom.” She scowled when she realized he wasn’t taking any of this information down. As a matter of fact, he wasn’t even holding a pen. “I take it you knew all this already,” she ventured.
“Yes.”
His succinct answer made goose bumps rise on her skin, but she refused to lead her own interrogation.
“His wife mentioned you.”
“Wife?”
“Kayla Abernathy,” he supplied.
She searched her memory. “I don’t think I’m familiar with anyone named Kayla.”
“She said she was behind you in school.”
“Okay,” Marlee responded, drawing the word out encouragingly.
“She also says it’s your fault he’s dead.”
Marlee recoiled. “My fault?” She shook her head. “How—why would she...? Wait, Mrs. Brewster said something about a suicide. Did Bo Abernathy shoot himself?”
Ben nodded solemnly. “Single gunshot wound at close range. Weapon at the scene. No sign of a struggle or anything indicating anyone else was there.” He hesitated. “Wait, no. I take that back. There was lots of evidence of other people being on the scene, but most of it could be attributed to the construction.” A shadow of a smile ghosted across his lips, but it didn’t have the oomph to reach his tired eyes. “Let’s say the Prescott County deputies were, uh, enthusiastic when they reached the scene.” He jerked his head toward the living room. “Come in. I need to sit, or I’ll fall over.”
Marlee followed him to the floral-print sofa she’d lay odds came with the house. “So, how could it be my fault?”
“Mrs. Abernathy claims the two of you were having an affair.”
Her jaw actually dropped. “An affair?” she parroted.
He nodded, his expression somber. “She says he’s been talking about you ever since you came back to town.”
“Oh, my God,” she breathed. “The texts? Do you think they were from Bo?”
“Can’t say for certain until we can get a look at the computer and cell phone,” he hedged.
“Damn. Bo Abernathy.” She gave her head a rueful shake. “I’ve only spoken to him once since I’ve been back. It was at...”
She trailed off, and he leaned in. “It was at...” he prompted.
She pressed the tips of her fingers to her lips. “Clint’s visitation.”
Without prompting, she gave him a brief overview of her relationship with Bo in high school, the last time she’d seen him before she left for college and the hellos they’d exchanged at the funeral home.
Ben nodded, then closed the notebook again, apparently satisfied with her answer. “I’ll need to take a statement from you regarding, uh, your whereabouts last night.”
“My whereabouts?” she asked distractedly. “You know where I was. I was with you at the lake one night, and the next I drove my mother to a meeting.”
He sighed heavily. “Yes, and now our trip to the lake will be part of the records. I’ll ask Lori to take it so there’s no conflict of interest.” His expression grave, he met her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
She straightened her shoulders. “Why are you sorry? I’m not ashamed to be with you, Ben.”
“I know, but...” He shot her a baleful look. “I don’t want to open you up to any gossip.”
“Gossip?” She gave a short, bitter laugh. “You know small towns guzzle gossip like gasoline. The talk about me started the day I was born and likely won’t die until I do. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
“I know, but with everything else.” He made a circling motion with his hand. “I’m sorry. I understand the text thing has been weighing on you, and hopefully we’ll have some answers for that. And I have to tell you, I’m coming around to the way you are thinking about these deaths more and more, but I’ve been up all day and all night and I am beat.”
She nodded. “I didn’t sleep well either.”
“Did it have something to do with why you called me?”
She started to tell him about her run-in with Will Thomason but stammered to a stop. “It’ll keep.”
He stared at her, his gaze intense. “Are you sure? I’m not trying to put you off.” He held her hand, and she’d swear she felt her bones melt away. “I’m so damn tired.”
“I understand.”
“We need to talk,” he said, lowering her hand with a squeeze and a wistful sigh. “We have to talk about ugly things, and I hate it. I don’t want to talk to you about this stuff.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
She couldn’t help herself. One of them was going to have to give voice to this attraction between them, and she wanted him to speak first. She could no longer play it cool with this man. She wanted to discover exactly what he wanted from her. Then she wanted to find a way to give it to him.
When she looked into his eyes again, he looked so vulnerable, so raw, it scared her. “Anything other than death.”
She nodded as they stood. “Get some rest. Maybe we can meet for lunch and fill each other in?”
“Great.” His voice cracked with exhaustion.
Then the world caught fire.
He kissed her. Not an accidental brush or a friendly peck but a full-on kiss. His lips were soft but firm. He slid one big hand into her hair, tangling his fingers in the strands caught up in her ponytail and pulling hard enough to extract a soft moan. His other hand found her hip as she wrapped her arms around his waist, clutching at the hard ridges of muscle bracketing his spine. She angled her head, hoping for a better fit, but as qu
ickly as it started, it stopped.
Ben released her so quickly, she stumbled back a step. She touched her fingertips to her tingling lips.
“I’m sorry.”
His apology came out rough and ragged. The heat in his eyes told her he was lying. He wasn’t sorry. Neither was she. But she couldn’t resist baiting him to see if she could make him own it.
“Are you?”
“I shouldn’t have.”
Her heart fluttered in protest, but she kept her voice steady. “No?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I—” He broke off, running his palm over his hair. She was the one who’d been mussed, but he kept smoothing those close-cropped curls.
She ached to knock his hand away and smooth them herself. Instead, she took her fingers from her lips and pressed them to his mouth. “I wanted you to kiss me.”
“I know, but—”
He spoke the protest against her fingers. She laughed and lowered her hand. “Stop with the buts,” she ordered. “As a matter of fact, as an attorney, I would advise you to stop speaking altogether. You’re sleep-deprived. Crazy, horrible things are happening all around us. But there’s nothing you can say to erase that kiss.”
“I don’t want to erase—”
She pressed her fingertips to his lips again. When his shoulders sagged in capitulation, she pulled her hand down to uncover those warm, delicious lips and cradled his chin in her hand as she rose up to kiss him again. He sighed against her mouth, then gathered her snug against him once more.
This time, she broke the kiss, tipping her head down until she felt his fast, shallow breaths stirring her hair. She sighed happily when he pressed a tender kiss to the top of her head.
“Get some sleep,” she said, grasping his strong arms as she pried herself away. “I have to get home and get ready for work.”
* * *
MARLEE PULLED THE cardigan she’d carried with her into the Wingate Law Firm close around her as she stared down at the open folder in front of her. She’d shivered the previous day away in her silk blouse and pencil skirt. She’d felt much better about today’s outfit. The skirt was fuller and longer than its predecessor. Cut in an A-line silhouette, it was at once flattering but more concealing. She’d paired it with a lightweight summer sweater and matching cardigan. Each time the vent above the table whirred to life, she congratulated herself on her forethought.
Dora, Wendell’s longtime secretary, poked her head around the door and flaunted her mind-reading skills. “He leaves for court over in Prescott County in ten minutes,” she said in a hush. “I gave the thermostat a bump. Hang in there.”
Marlee beamed her gratitude. “You’re a saint.”
Dora rolled her eyes. “I’ve been freezing my whatsis off for nearly thirty years,” she said dryly. “I have a space heater under my desk and a blanket in the bottom file cabinet if you start seeing icicles hanging off the end of your nose.”
“I’m good for now. Thank you.”
The moment the older woman pulled the door closed, Marlee refocused on the fat file in front of her. To anyone not used to digging through miles of legalese, the work would have seemed tedious, but she found it fascinating.
The endless stream of documents exchanged between attorneys representing two or more parties were nothing more than the movement of legal chess pieces. A proposal, an answer. Counterproposals, demands, refusal, injunctions and subpoenas. These were all small moves made in the course of a larger game. Each party had an objective in mind. Legal wrangling boiled down to what was essentially a footrace run with words.
Her father had been receiving offers for property on Sawtooth Lake for decades. Developer after developer came to him with ever-growing pots of money. Over the years, he’d also fended off the end-around moves made by people hoping to claim that land owned by the Masters family actually belonged to the great state of Georgia. Henry had come out on top each time, thanks in large part to Wendell Wingate’s seemingly limitless patience.
Wendell never thrust when he could parry. He raised sidestepping to an art form and wielded a deft hand at drafting motions designed to set his opponents scrambling. The more she read through the files, the greater her respect for her new mentor. She didn’t doubt he’d make a fair-minded and highly influential judge.
“How is it coming?”
Wendell stood in the doorway, watching her. “Good,” she said automatically. “I’m fine.” To her surprise, she realized she was telling the truth. She was fine. Tired and worried, but the work helped. The work made sense. “Off to court?”
“I am.” The older man straightened. “This is my last court appearance.”
“On this side of the bench,” she corrected.
“Precisely. The power of positive thinking.”
“When is Simon coming to town?”
“In about a month.” Wendell shifted his briefcase from one hand to the other, clearly anxious to be off. “Gives me time to wrap up some other routine matters I have in progress and get you up to speed on your family’s pending business. Once he gets here, I’ll start campaigning in earnest.”
“If you don’t mind, I may need you to come with me to the sheriff’s office this afternoon. They want a statement regarding where I was last night in conjunction with Bo Abernathy’s death.”
“A statement? From you?” Wendell’s forehead puckered. “I thought they were saying it was self-inflicted.”
“They are, but apparently his wife thinks we were carrying on where we left off in high school.”
His bushy white eyebrows rose. “Were you?”
“I was with Ben Kinsella at the lake one night. My father was home when he dropped me off,” she stated flatly. “I drove my mother to a committee meeting the next night. Plenty of witnesses there.”
He digested her recitation, then nodded. “Should be a quick statement, then.” He checked his watch. “Okay. I’ll meet you here after court. Now, I must go, or I’ll be late for my last day.”
Marlee stared at the door long after he departed. She’d never thought about Wendell campaigning for his seat on the bench. She’d assumed with her father backing him, the seat as their district’s superior court bench would be Wendell’s for the taking. She’d forgotten it wasn’t an appointment but an elected position. No matter who was backing him, Wendell had to put his name on a ballot and hope people voted for him.
Thanking her lucky stars she had no such ambitions, she pulled the next file in the stack she’d collected to her and flipped open the cover, trying not to think about Bo Abernathy and the text messages she suspected he’d sent. Part of her was glad Wendell hadn’t scanned and digitalized most of his old files. Staring at a computer for hours wasn’t her idea of fun. Plus, seeing the facts laid out on paper sometimes made things she may have overlooked jump out at her.
Like the names neatly typed at the bottom of a document setting up a partnership agreement. It was for a consulting firm called White, Pinkman, Schrader and McGill. She snorted, then goggled at it, picking each letter out over and over until there was no question in her mind she was reading them correctly.
The names were too distinctive to be a coincidence. But only one person was likely to understand the subtle reference to a television show. Grabbing her phone, she tapped out a quick text to Ben.
Meet me at the Daisy for lunch when you get up. I have something wild to run past you.
Chapter Twelve
Ben stood outside the Daisy Drive-In, pacing back and forth under the short metal awning shading the old dairy bar’s order and pick-up windows. It was high noon, and nearly all the now speakerless stalls were filled with people grabbing a quick bite in the air-conditioned comfort of their cars. Every now and then, one of the workers bustling behind the counter would slide open the glass on the pick-up window, shout a name or number th
rough the screen or simply wave and point at a particular car. He’d visited less than a handful of times, but the veteran staff had his favorite menu items pegged. He chose to attribute this phenomenon to their skill. It felt homier than knowing the markings on his truck, the uniform he wore and his newness gave him away every time.
“Ben.”
He stopped pacing and pivoted on his heel, stalking off in the direction of her voice, desperate to get to her as soon as possible. His gut was telling him Marlee was right when she labeled what was happening around them murder rather than suicide. If she had an inkling as to what tied them together, the knowledge might place her in danger.
“Hey,” he said, careful not to reach for her as he stopped on the sidewalk in front of her. “Tenders, sandwich or salad?” He scanned the letter-board menu posted high in the center window. “If you want the chicken-fried chicken, you have to come back on Wednesday. Today the special is catfish.”
She elbowed him in the ribs. Darlene, one of the Daisy’s longtime staff, watched the byplay between them with an amused smirk.
“Hey, Miss Darlene,” Marlee cooed, stooping to peer closer at the woman. “How are you? How’s your mama?”
“I’m fine and Mama’s ornery as ever.” Darlene leaned into the screen, her pencil and order pad at the ready. “Cheeseburger and pineapple shake?”
“Yes, ma’am. And throw in some onion rings,” Marlee said cheerfully. “I need to feed the sheriff, stat. We’ve sure been keeping this poor man busy around here, haven’t we?” She gave a pitying shake of her head.
Darlene hummed, then tsked softly. “I promise you, things are usually much quieter around here, Sheriff Ben. These past few years...” She shook her head, a mystified expression on her worry-lined face. “You want a club sandwich and sweet tea, or are you branchin’ out today?” She craned her neck to peer up at him through the tiny square screen.
“I’ll take a cheeseburger too,” he said decisively, peeved to realize he’d fallen into patterns so easily followed. “And sweet tea.”
“I’ll holler for ya,” Darlene promised, then slid the window shut with a thud loud enough to jolt him from his self-chastisement.