He Loves Lucy

by Ann Yost

  Flynn eyed her, curiously. “Anything wrong?”

  She forced a laugh.

  “Nah. You know how it is with texting. Some of my friends just have too much time on their hands.”

  ****

  Frustration ate at Jake.

  He’d always faced problems head on but he’d never run into a problem like Lucy before. Goddammit, he was trying to do the right thing but she was refusing to cooperate. By Wednesday he found himself dropping by the Excelsior’s office.

  “Lucy’s not here, Sheriff,” Ed told him. “She took off with a freelance photographer. They went up to Bangor to interview the Widow Packer.”

  Jake frowned. “Dammit, Ed, she shouldn’t be involved in this. It’s a murder investigation.”

  The editor raised his eyebrows.

  “Lucy’s not a kid,” he pointed out. “I know you rescued her from the snowstorm but don’t make anything out of that. She’s growing up. Hell, I trust her to cover the biggest story we’ve had in twenty years.”

  “It’s dangerous.”

  Ed shrugged. “Danger’s part of life. She’ll be careful. Contrary to common belief, she’s got a head on her shoulders.” The editor’s eyes narrowed on his face. “Or is there more to this than meets the eye?”

  Jake was horrified to feel heat in his cheeks.

  “Can’t say as I blame you,” Ed said, with a chuckle. “There’s somethin’ damned appealing about that girl. A kind of innocence.”

  Jake winced.

  Stiles made a choked sound which probably meant that he’d correctly deduced what had happened in the Littlejohns’ cabin.

  “Take care you don’t hurt her, Sheriff. She sounds tough but she’s got a tender heart.”

  At the moment, Jake just wanted to shake that tender heart right out of her. He barely restrained himself from slamming the office door. He sent her an irritated text, which she didn’t bother to answer. Furious, he jumped into the Blazer and headed for Bangor.

  ****

  Clothes make the man. And so does the car.

  Lucy knew instantly that the mauve sports car belonged, not to the late developer but to his attorney. She knew it from the mauve tie that Claude Moore wore with his silver-gray, hand-tailored suit.

  Moore appeared to be in his late fifties. Slender and several inches under six feet, he wore his thinning silver hair neatly trimmed. His tortoise-shell retro glasses gave him the air of a 1930s dandy or maybe it was the white collar on his mauve-and-white striped shirt.

  Moore had to be an anachronism in a part of the world where dressing up meant wearing a Patriots sweatshirt and cords. His polished manners matched his elegant clothing.

  The attorney greeted Lucy and Flynn and ushered them into the high-ceilinged foyer with its massive crystal chandelier and through a wide corridor filled with paintings that looked like authentic grand masters. Finally they reached a set of double doors that opened into a drawing room decorated with plush sofas, brocade drapes and velvet-flocked wallpaper. The room was almost as large as the Eden High School auditorium.

  The lady reclining on the antique crimson loveseat had platinum hair that formed a mushroom cloud above her head then cascaded down her body, rippling over mountainous breasts but carefully arranged so as not to obscure her deep décolletage. Her black widow’s weeds consisted of a pair of satin lounging pajamas that clung, lovingly to her truly awe-inspiring curves. Paula Packer had “trophy-wife” written all over her. Turquoise eyes between spider-length black lashes peered briefly at Lucy then settled on Flynn.

  “I hope you don’t mind if Flynn takes some candid shots while we speak,”

  “Not at all,” Paula said, keeping her eyes on the young male. Flynn shivered. Lucy glanced at his suddenly flushed face.

  Paula Packer fluttered her eyelashes and stretched her collagen-enhanced lips into a cat-that-ate-the-cream smile.

  “Be my guest,” she murmured in a smoky voice.

  Flynn didn’t move. Lucy suspected he couldn’t move. She spoke his name.

  “Huh.” He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the vision on the loveseat. He reminded Lucy of a fly stuck in amber.

  “You can start shooting anytime.”

  “Oh, um, yeah.” Flynn lifted the digital camera out of his satchel and started clicking. Paula lit up like a Christmas tree. She arched a bit, giving the photographer an excellent view of her majestic chest and probably a hard on.

  “I’d like some background on your husband.” Lucy switched on her tape recorder. Paula didn’t seem to hear her. Lucy cleared her throat and raised her voice. “I’d like the readers to see him not just as a victim but as a person, a husband and co-worker.”

  “Mmm,” Paula said. She licked her lips and fluttered her lashes at Flynn. The camera clicked a little faster.

  “Can you tell me about your marriage?”

  “It was a wonderful marriage,” Paula said. Her voice was thick, like warmed honey. She lifted one manicured hand to her cheek revealing a diamond the size of Gibraltar.

  “Ah,” Lucy said. What was she supposed to say? Nice going? “How did you meet?”

  “Someone introduced us.”

  “Someone?”

  Paula’s shiny lips spread to reveal sparkling teeth which reminded Lucy of Jake’s shark woman. “Yes. Someone. I can’t remember who it was.” She paused to reply to Moore who had asked if she’d like to serve tea. Lucy took the opportunity to speak to Flynn.

  “Probably a professional escort service.”

  “Huh?”

  Good grief.

  “I know people think Nate married me for my looks,” Paula said, dismissing Moore with one fluttering hand. “But it wasn’t just that. I can be a lot of fun.”

  “Nate was devoted to you, Paula,” the attorney chimed in. “Everyone knew it.”

  So much for the debonair, man-about-town image. The legal eagle was a suck up. Was he dependent upon Paula to maintain his job? Or had he fallen for her blatant sexuality? Lucy suspected the former.

  “Nate wanted to take me to Africa on safari,” she went on, “but we decided to stay in our little nest for the next year or so.”

  “Nest” wasn’t the term Lucy would have used to describe the Packer mansion but she didn’t argue.

  “Nate didn’t mind,” Paula went on. “He was happy here.” She glanced at the attorney who responded promptly.

  “I knew him for fifty years. Never saw him happier.”

  “Not many people know this, Ms., uh…”

  “Outlaw,” Lucy supplied.

  “Right. I know your brother.” She leaned forward and the fabric of her lounging pajamas strained to control its bounty. “He’s super hot with that dark coloring and the blue eyes.”

  Lucy nodded. “What don’t many people know,” she prompted, trying to get the widow back on track.

  “Oh, that Nate wanted an heir.”

  “Good heavens,” Lucy said, startled into rudeness. Was that why Packer had divorced a wife of more than thirty years and married a much younger woman? Had the developer had a Napoleonic complex?

  Paula did not appear to be offended. Lucy suspected she didn’t much care about women’s reactions.

  “Naturally I was happy to comply. What is more romantic than a man begging you to have his child?”

  Lucy thought a distinction could be made between a man who wanted to create a family with a woman and one who just wanted to leave his biological footprint on the world but she wasn’t here to insult Paula Packer. She was supposed to be gathering material for a story.

  “I can’t think of a thing.”

  A set of chimes produced the first bars of the William Tell overture. Moore excused himself to answer the door.

  “Mrs. Packer,” Lucy said, “can you tell me who your late husband’s beneficiaries are?”

  “Oh, well, Claude’s the money man. You’d have to check with him for the details but I get to keep the house and the cars. And, of course, all the money.”


  What else was there except the house, cars, and money? Lucy tried to analyze the answer but she got distracted when the hair prickled on the back of her neck and her stomach somersaulted. She knew it was Jake even before she spotted the big, blond man or inhaled the familiar scent of strawberry shortcake.

  The Kryptonite eyes met hers and she felt lightheaded even before she got around to admiring the way his khaki uniform shirt outlined his powerful shoulders. She gazed at his flat stomach, remembering the ridged muscles and below that, the thick, smooth evidence of his desire. Her eyelashes fluttered shut and when she opened them, there was a woman on his arm. Literally. Paula had wrapped her long, manicured fingers around his bicep and her huge, virtually unconfined breasts rested on his forearm.

  “Sheriff.” Paula’s voice took on a lower, more husky tone. “How lovely to see you again so soon.”

  So soon?

  “Please, come sit by me.” The widow drew him across the room and onto the crimson sofa. She continued to hold onto his arm, a calculated move, Lucy thought, because she was able to gradually let go of it and let her fingers fall to his thigh.

  The whirring camera had stopped and Flynn’s mesmerized gaze was as admiring as a dog eyeing a juicy steak.

  Lucy glanced at Jake who winked at her.

  “I’m being interviewed,” Paula explained to the man on the sofa beside her. “It’s all very exhausting.” She allowed her head to drop against his shoulder. Her hand started to trail down the plane of his muscular thigh but he scooped it up, set it back in her own lap and released it.

  “I’m sure Lucy is nearly finished,” he said, to Paula.

  Lucy was momentarily speechless and fury swept through her. How dare Jake try to manipulate her interview?

  “Uh, I just have one more question, Mrs. Packer. Did you sign a prenuptial agreement?”

  Paula frowned and Lucy braced herself for an offended response but the widow didn’t seem to mind the question.

  “I believe I did sign a prenup. Claude would know.” She glanced at the attorney who nodded. Then she glanced back at Jake as if he had asked the question. As if he were the source of life. “It seemed like the right thing to do.”

  Lucy’s eyes narrowed on Jake. What would the voters of Eden County think if they could see their sheriff twisted into a pretzel with the sexy widow?

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “I imagine Ms. Outlaw is trying to figure out whether you had a reason to want your husband dead,” Jake drawled. “Inheritance is often a motive.”

  “Not in this case.” The attorney sounded apologetic but firm. “A prenup is set up to protect the parties in the event of divorce. Nate didn’t fear that. His only worry was fertility. Paula’s prenup provides a guarantee that she will inherit all of Nate’s personal holdings in the event of death with the only provision that she was to provide him with a son. Otherwise she gets nothing.”

  Lucy blinked, astonished. “So you inherit nothing?”

  Paula’s smile was filled with triumph.

  “I was fortunate enough to make Nate’s dream come true and I was able to let him know the good news before it was too late.” She rubbed, lightly, against Jake’s arm. “I will deliver his heir on January first.”

  Lucy gaped at her. “January first?”

  “Guaranteed. It’s a scheduled C-section. Going through labor was not part of the bargain.”

  “You already know it’s a boy?”

  “We went the designer route. No point in going through any of this otherwise.” Just for a moment she sounded like the practical soul that she probably was under all the sexy camouflage. “He’s already named, too. Nate Packer, Junior.”

  Lucy was aware of Jake’s gaze on her. Was he thinking about the slim possibility that she could be pregnant? Or was he thinking about her namesake, Lucy, Junior?

  “Congratulations,” she said, finally.

  Paula nodded but her attention was now fully engaged in her own fingers which were playing a version of the Eensie Weensie Spider going up Jake’s arm.

  Lucy did not like the surges of jealousy that ribboned through her body. She’d already turned down his lame proposal. What business was it of hers if Jake wanted to flirt with a murder suspect? Although, she had to admit, she wasn’t certain that Paula was a suspect. Nor was she certain that Jake was flirting. He didn’t seem to mind the attention, though.

  “Mrs. Packer, I do have one more question. Where were you the night of your husband’s death?”

  “Lucy.” Jake’s deep voice held a warning. “You’re not a cop.”

  “Why, Sheriff,” Paula sparkled up at him, “I don’t mind answering. I was right here, Ms. Outlaw. Upstairs in bed. Pregnant ladies need their sleep, you know. Isn’t that right, Claude?”

  “You were here in the house, Paula,” he said, with his precise diction. “The servants can corroborate that.”

  “The servants? Could I talk to them?”

  “I’m afraid they aren’t here today,” Moore responded to the question.

  Jake frowned at her as he stood, dragging Paula, who was still attached to his arm, to her feet. “The interview’s over.”

  Lucy ignored him but she stood, too.

  “Mrs. Packer, before we leave, could we take a few pictures of your lovely home?”

  “Certainly. Claude, could you give the guests the grand tour?” She smiled at Lucy. “Is your name really Lucy? Are people always saying, ‘Lucy, you got some ‘splainin’ to do’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come along, Ms. Outlaw, Mr. Flynn.” Moore gestured toward a door then he waited until Lucy and the photographer had preceded him. She couldn’t help noticing that left Jake alone with the Black Widow. He probably hoped she’d bite him. Lucy wrinkled her nose, realizing she was being ridiculous on so many levels. Lucy might not make it to Jake’s short list but neither would pregnant Paula.

  Probably.

  The trio climbed the wide center hall staircase and Flynn shot photos of the master bedroom’s purple walls, gold-toned fixtures and the massive canopy bed held up with posts carved into the shapes of naked women. Then they descended a back staircase to the large, square kitchen full of gleaming appliances and state-of-the-art equipment worthy of a five-star restaurant.

  “The late Mr. Packer loved his food,” Moore said, by way of explanation. “The first Mrs. Packer was a gourmet chef. Of course she never lived here. The mansion was built six months ago for Nate and Paula.”

  The attorney provided an excellent opening to talk about the victim’s ex and Lucy took it.

  “I understand that the first Mrs. Packer helped her husband found Packer, Inc.”

  “That is correct,” Moore said. He spoke in a calm, deliberative manner as if he carefully considered everything that came out of his mouth. The opposite of herself, Lucy thought, ruefully. “The three of us grew up together. Shirley was intimately involved in Packer, Inc. right up until the divorce.”

  “And you, too?”

  The question bordered on rudeness but Lucy reminded herself she had an excuse. She was, after all, a member of the third estate.

  “Oh, yes. I am still involved, of course, in a somewhat different role.”

  Lucy nodded. It appeared that Moore had taken on the task of guarding Paula Packer’s interests. The question was, why? Had he fallen under her spell? Lucy could detect in him none of the sexual awareness that was so evident in the other males. Was it the money? Loyalty to his lifelong friend? She glanced at the lawyer’s pleasant face and decided that it was probably a combination of the two.

  Moore appeared to read her thoughts.

  “Paula insisted we dissolve the three-way partnership at the time of her marriage and neither Shirley nor I objected. We understood Nate, you see, and we didn’t begrudge him his last chance for immortality.”

  “I find it a little difficult to believe neither of you minded being given the boot.”

  “It wasn’t ‘the boot’,” Claude said. D
id she detect just a whiff of irritability there? “He bought us out. I remained his personal attorney and I will do everything I can for his widow.”

  “And the first Mrs. Packer was equally understanding?”

  “Shirley is not one to wear her heart on her sleeve. Neither does she dwell on regrets. I believe she has adjusted well to her new life.”

  “And you?” Once again Lucy knew her question was impertinent.

  An odd expression flashed in the pale gray eyes.

  “I miss the old days. How could I not? We were partners for more than thirty years. But things change and people must change with them, Ms. Outlaw.”

  It was a logical, reasoned response. The attorney, Lucy thought, was a man who knew when protest was useless.

  They arrived at a corridor that contained three closed doors. As they were about to pass, a uniformed maid stepped out of one of the rooms. She paled, apparently as startled to see them as Lucy was to see her and, after a mumbled apology, she sped down the hall.

  “What’s in there?” Lucy asked the attorney.

  “It’s a trophy room,” Claude said. “Probably best to bypass it. People are often disturbed by the heads.”

  Lucy repressed a shudder. But she had a job to do and there was no time for squeamishness.

  “I’d like to see them,” She said, with a bogus smile.

  Claude seemed to hesitate but, in the end, he didn’t try to change her mind. He unlocked the door and stood aside to let her enter. It took most of her courage to step inside and as soon as she did, her stomach lurched. She’d forgotten Flynn was with them until she heard his horrified whisper.

  “Holy Mother of God.”

  Chapter Seven

  Hundreds of lifeless but, somehow, accusing eyes stared at Lucy and she had to curl her fingers into fists to keep from screaming and/or sprinting back down the corridor.

  Every instinct told her to get away from the room, and the house, pronto and yet there was an equally insistent bell ringing in her head. This room was important. This room could tell her something about Nate Packer, something about why he’d been shot through the heart on the casino site near the rez. Lucy forced herself to step into the heart of the room.