by Meryl Sawyer
He shoved his bare feet into his boots, then walked back into the bedroom. Claire was still facedown on the bed.
“I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me,” he told her.
“No one can help me. No one.” Her voice was shaky, yet determined. “Just go away. Leave me alone.”
Zach left without saying good-bye. He drove home through the dark, lonely night, more discouraged than he could remember. Why did he let Claire do this to him? When was he going to learn his lesson? Claire Holt was a crazy-maker. One second she was passionately making love to him, the next she had freaked out.
Weird. Too weird for him. Screw it.
But he was still thinking about her, remembering how she’d looked as she’d straddled him, her wild blond hair falling across her bare breasts, her eyes dilated, her lips parted. He’d had plenty of women over the years, but not one of them could compare to her.
The tune of an old song played in his head, expressing his feelings in a way he never could have. He couldn’t recall the exact words. Something about being crazy for cryin’ and crazy for lyin’ and crazy for loving you. Yeah, that was him, all right. He was crazy about Claire, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
“Stay away from her. That’s the answer.”
He turned down the single-lane gravel road leading to his house and gunned the engine. He was so exhausted that he couldn’t think clearly, which accounted for why he couldn’t get his mind off Claire. With a little sleep, he could concentrate on Morrell’s murder and the mysterious circumstances of Max Bassinger’s death. He wouldn’t have time to think about Claire Holt.
He pulled into his drive and the headlights picked up Yeager’s car in front of his house, the way it had been last night. Great! What now? He took his time parking the car. The whole damn town wanted him to fail. The last thing he needed was another problem.
“What’s going on?” he called as soon as he was out of the car.
Yeager came down the steps to meet him. He waved his hand in front of his nose. “Christ! What happened to you? Last time I smelled anything like you—”
“Can it. Are you here on business, or to talk about the way I smell?”
Yeager grinned, and Zach resisted the urge to slug him. “We’ve got a break in the Bassinger case.”
“Yes!” Zach threw up his hand for a high five before he even knew what the news was. “Yes!”
Yeager slapped his hand, saying, “A maid working out at Casa del Sol told me that Bassinger often opened his safe with Seth Ramsey in the room. Wanna bet Ramsey knows the combination?”
Zach had never trusted the cocky little prick, and this confirmed his suspicions. It was all he could do not to throw his head back and let loose with a belly laugh. “You’re damn straight Ramsey knows the combination. He and that bimbo took something out of the safe or altered a document or something.”
“It was more than finding ‘poor, poor Murray’ that took up their time.”
Zach gazed out at the meadow for a moment, barely noticing the summer breeze sloughing gently down from the mountains and ruffling the grass. “Bassinger was a major sleaze, fer sure, but I give him credit for being a good businessman. His office is in Dallas, and he has a legion of attorneys there. I’ll bet one of them has the combination to the safe and a list of its contents.”
“Great minds think alike,” Yeager agreed. “We need to act fast before Ramsey or the Trent woman know what we’re up to. You go to Dallas and see what you can find there. I’m flying out tonight with the body. I’m going to speed it through the system to get a better fix on the time and cause of death.”
“I’m outta here just as soon as I pack a bag,” Zach said.
“Not a word to anyone about where you’re going,” cautioned Yeager.
“No problem. No one gives a damn where I go, or what I do.”
Twenty-nine
It was after eleven when Claire walked into her gallery. Suzi was already there, rearranging what inventory they had left. Claire barely managed to say good morning. She’d been trying to reach Zach, but he hadn’t returned her calls. Could she blame him? Of course not. Last night, she’d lost it, falling apart in such an embarrassing way that heat rose to her face every time she thought about it.
What had happened to her? She’d spent the night analyzing her reactions. Everything about the way she had been dealing with Zachary Coulter had been … bizarre. And none of it was his fault; it was hers. She had a deep-seated psychological problem that had been brought to the forefront by seeing her reflection in the mirror.
The instant she’d seen her reflection, she had been thrown back in time to the day years ago when she’d unexpectedly discovered her mother making love to Jake Coulter. Her mother had been on top, her head flung back—exactly the image Claire had seen in the mirror right down to the expression on her own face.
And Zach’s.
The sight had stunned her, siphoning every emotion from her body in an instant. All that was left was the pain she always associated with the image of the two of them making love. She had burst into tears, remembering how shocked she had been at the discovery and how she had run to her father.
The next thing she knew, the mother she adored was stretched out in a coffin, then she’d been cremated, reduced to ashes. Even now, Claire could feel the powdery ashes in her hand, all that had been left of her loving, vibrant mother. Then she tossed the gray dustlike flakes into the air and her mother vanished forever.
Ashes on the wind.
Years of guilt-driven pain followed until time blurred much of what had happened. But one image remained as sharp as the blade of a scalpel. Her mother making love to Jake Coulter.
Last night she and Zach had looked exactly the same, or so it appeared in the dim light of the candles. And she’d fallen apart in a heartbeat. She should have explained the situation to Zach, but words had failed her. Not only was she too overcome by emotion to speak, she had never mentioned to anyone how much she blamed herself for her mother’s death.
Still Zach deserved some sort of an explanation about her behavior.
“Claire,” Angela called, breezing into the gallery, cutting into her thoughts. “Let’s go for coffee. I need to talk to you.”
“I’ll take care of the dogs and help customers,” Suzi offered as Lobo and Lucy trotted toward the back of the gallery.
Down the street at the popular latte bar, Sacred Grounds, they found a table on the patio where flowers bloomed from small pots placed in vintage cowboy boots. Usually the smell of freshly ground coffee and croissants baking cheered Claire as much as aromatherapy. Not today.
“Claire,” Angela said as she placed her double decaf latte on the table, “I came by to thank you. I took your advice and dismantled the studio that I had set up for Paul. Then I went to see him and told him how important he was to me. It wasn’t easy, but I convinced him that I don’t care if he never paints another thing.”
“Good for you.” Claire thought she sounded appropriately enthusiastic, but inwardly she was groaning. What a waste of talent.
“I’m going away with Paul for a week or so. We’re going to join an animal rights group that is inspecting farms where they are collecting urine from mares.”
“Paul told you about his past,” Claire said.
“Everything. I’m with him one hundred percent on this. It’s time someone did something to stop these drug manufacturers from abusing mares.”
“What about your art collection?” Claire asked before she could stop herself.
Angela shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “I want to help Paul. This is important to both of us. I can get back to collecting later.”
Claire sipped her latte, thinking Angela was doing the right thing. Art would always be there, but Paul had special needs. So did Zach. She desperately wanted to talk to him, to explain how she felt. Last night, he’d tried to talk to her, but she hadn’t been in any shape to discuss the situation. Now, would he even wa
nt to talk to her?
Angela touched her arm, and Claire realized several minutes had passed. “What’s bothering you? Do you want to talk about it?”
“You suggested telling my father that I’m seeing Zach Coulter, and I did.”
“Your father was furious, right?”
“That’s an understatement. He disowned me on the spot.”
“It’s the best thing you could have done.”
Claire drank her latte, reluctant to discuss something so intensely personal as sex. Yet her relationship with Zach had her confused. She seemed unable to put it into the proper perspective. Over the years, she’d isolated herself, Claire realized. Angela Townsend was her closest friend, and a person who understood “father” problems.
“I’m terribly concerned about my relationship with Zach,” she began, then stopped. How could she explain this?
Angela leaned closer, encouraging her with a smile. “What do you mean?”
“He brings out something in me … something I’m not sure I understand. When we make love, I want to play rough and I want to be on top.” The words came out in a breathless rush, and Claire expected to feel embarrassed, but Angela didn’t appear to be one bit surprised, making Claire relax. “I’m not like that … at least, I’ve never been this way with a man until now.”
Angela nodded thoughtfully for a moment, then said, “Do you have any idea why you react this way?”
“I’ve questioned myself a thousand times. At first, I thought I did it to resist the urge to make love to him. You know, to keep history from repeating itself. A Coulter with a Holt woman—again.”
“But now you think it goes deeper than that, don’t you?”
Claire gazed across the small patio, momentarily distracted by noise from the gang of bikers that she’d seen with Bam Stegner yesterday, but he wasn’t with them now. “I suspect there is more to it than not wanting everyone to think we’re exactly like our parents. Emotions are complex, of course. Playing rough is exciting. That’s part of it.”
Angela nodded. “I was into kinky sex myself. And I thought I needed young studs. It was just a way of avoiding emotional attachment.”
Claire thought about her friend’s comment for a moment, then said, “I wonder if that’s what I’m doing. Now that I think about it, I’ve avoided committing myself to any man. When a man got too close, I talked myself out of caring about him.”
“Giving yourself to a man is scary. Believe me, I know.” Angela adjusted the silver cuff bracelet on her wrist. “That’s what happens when you stop fighting, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Claire agreed. “That must be what I’m afraid of. I’m terrified of giving myself to a man, then being hurt.”
Late that afternoon, Claire was working at her desk in the back of the gallery. She’d called the sheriff’s station several times, but Zach still hadn’t returned her calls. Evidently, he was even more upset than she’d anticipated. Tonight she’d go out to his place. He couldn’t—
“Claire, some men are here to see you,” Suzi said, interrupting her thoughts. From her assistant’s concerned expression, Claire knew something was wrong. “They have a search warrant.”
“What?” Claire vaulted out of her chair and stormed around the partition into the gallery.
Chief of Police Ollie Hammond was standing beside Zach’s deputy, T-Bone Jones. The younger man sheepishly handed her a sheet of paper.
“Where’s the sheriff?”
T-Bone opened his mouth to answer, but Ollie spoke first. “Coulter’s out of town on personal business.”
Thank God, he’s not behind this, Claire thought as she scanned the search warrant signed just that morning by Judge Brodkey. The document gave permission to search her home and her gallery for items that might link her to the murder of Duncan Morrell.
“Go ahead and search,” she said, trying to temper her anger. “You won’t find anything, because I didn’t kill Duncan.”
The deputy moved into the gallery, looking from side to side, while Ollie guarded the door, his beefy arms crossed at his chest. Something in his smug half-smile sent a frisson of alarm through Claire. Until this second, she assumed the warrant was some kind of mistake, but Ollie’s smile and the deputy’s deliberate movements frightened her.
Judge Brodkey was one of the most reputable men on the bench. He would never have signed a search warrant unless the authorities had convinced him they had good reason to believe they would discover evidence linking her to the crime. Suddenly, Claire felt shaky but she steeled herself, refusing to give Ollie Hammond the satisfaction of seeing her fall apart.
“If you tell me what it is you’re looking for, maybe I could help.” Amazingly, she sounded normal, but something in her tone must have alerted the dogs. Lucy and Lobo scooted out of the storeroom and came up to her side.
T-Bone turned red as he responded, “Where’s the black and white pottery?”
“The collection from the Acoma Pueblo?” Claire looked at Suzi. “I don’t know what pieces we have left.”
“Just two,” Suzi told her. “They were right by the front door, but I moved them to the back alcove.”
T-Bone headed toward the rear of the gallery and Claire followed, the dogs at her heels. Ahead she saw two pieces of the distinctive black and white pottery on the alcove shelf. The deputy stood in front of the one with a lid and pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket. As soon as they were on, he removed the lid on the larger pot and reached inside.
“Is it there?” Ollie asked from across the room.
“Yeah, it’s right here.” The deputy pulled out something wrapped in white cloth.
A suffocating sensation gripped Claire’s throat. Beware the coyote. Tohono’s grim warning popped into her head along with something she’d learned in school. According to Greek mythology the trickster always led you into the woods. Oddly enough, Native Americans had thousands of myths about their own trickster—the coyote.
She’d been led—tricked—into the proverbial woods, believing that Seth had slipped the Roofie into her drink to try to get her into bed. Nothing more. She had stopped worrying about being framed for Duncan’s murder. Obviously, she’d been duped. The deputy removed the white cloth from the gun and dropped the weapon into a plastic evidence bag.
“How’d you know to look in that pot?” she asked.
“An anonymous tip—”
“Shut up,” Ollie cut off the deputy. “Read Ms. Holt her rights.”
“You’re under arrest for the murder of Duncan Morrell. You have the right to remain silent.” The deputy mumbled the rest of the Miranda as Suzi watched, wide-eyed.
“Now wait a minute,” Claire said. “That pot was by the front door for over a week. Anyone could have dropped that gun in there.”
“Possibly, but no one else had a better reason to murder Duncan Morrell than you.” Ollie sounded incredibly pleased with himself—suspiciously so.
The deputy pulled out a pair of handcuffs. “You’re under arrest.”
Lobo bared his fangs and the deputy took a step backward.
“Call off the dog, or I’ll shoot him,” Ollie warned, reaching for his holster.
“I’ll put him in the storeroom,” Claire offered, thankful for an excuse to think. She had to pull Lobo hard before he would come with her. Claire’s first thought was to contact Zach, but he was away somewhere. Her father came to mind, but considering their argument, she decided against it. Angela would be her best bet.
“We’re taking you to the police jail,” Ollie explained when she returned. “The sheriff’s station doesn’t have a separate facility for women. We do.”
That explained Ollie’s presence at what should have been a sheriff’s office raid, but it failed to explain a frightening number of other things. Who would want to frame her? Why had they waited until now when Zach wasn’t here to help?
“Call Angela Townsend,” she told Suzi. “Tell her what happened, and please take care of the dogs.”
“You’re allowed to make one telephone call. That’s it,” a cocksure young policeman informed her as he led her into a small room.
He shut the door behind her, and Claire let her taut shoulders relax as she stood in front of a wall-mounted telephone. She had been in police custody for hours, undergoing the humiliating ritual of being searched, fingerprinted, and photographed. Finally, she’d been issued a Day-Glo orange jumpsuit with PRISONER stenciled across the shoulders in black and taken to a cell.
The wheels of justice being slower than a slug, the process had taken several hours. It was now pitch dark outside. There had been no word from Angela, so Claire assumed they had already left town.
What she needed was a top-notch criminal lawyer. Such a beast did not exist in Taos. Even if a lawyer augmented his practice with other types of lucrative litigation, crime was too rare here to support the type of criminal attorney she needed.
She stared at the chrome dial with no idea of who to call. Graffiti marred the gray wall beside the telephone. A tattered business card read: IN JAIL? NEED BAIL? CALL DALE—KING OF BAIL BONDS.
Money. It would take a lot of money to retain a good lawyer, money she didn’t have. She was certain Angela would lend her the money, but it could be a week or more before she returned.
Her father.
He had the money to hire a lawyer, and he had friends in Santa Fe who could recommend someone. She hated calling him now, when she was in trouble, but she had no choice. If she didn’t get her own attorney, they would turn her over to a public defender. Since Taos was too small for a public defender’s office, cases were assigned pro bono to lawyers in town. With her luck, they’d give Seth Ramsey her case.
Fifteen minutes after she called her father, he appeared at the station. They brought her into the visiting room to see him, and left a guard at the door. She was so glad to see her father that tears sprang to her eyes. He’d always been there for her, and he was now. His love for her was mirrored in his eyes and in the deep grooves of worry etching his brow.
“Oh, Claire, honey.” His voice was broken, and he started to reach across the table for her hand. The guard shook his head, and her father pulled back. “What happened?”