Night Moves

by Nora Roberts

  before you even saw me.”

  He had, and perhaps the resentment had grown since he’d had a taste of her. “Joyce had the right to sell this property whenever, and to whomever, she wanted.”

  Maggie nodded, looking down to where the puppy scrambled in the new dirt. “Is Joyce a cousin, too?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  Lifting her head, Maggie met his impatient look. “I’m just trying to understand small towns. After all, I’m going to be living here.”

  “Then the first thing you should learn is that people don’t like questions. They might volunteer more information than you want to hear, but they don’t like to be asked.”

  Maggie acknowledged this with a lift of a brow. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Rather pleased that she’d annoyed him, Maggie turned to the trooper as he approached.

  “They’re sending out a team.” He glanced from her to Cliff, then over his friend’s shoulder toward the gully. “Probably be here for a while, then take what they find with them.”

  “What then?”

  Bob brought his attention back to Maggie. “Good question.” He shifted his feet as he considered it. “To tell you the truth, I’ve never been in on anything like this before, but my guess would be they’d ship everything off to the medical examiner in Baltimore. He’d have to check the, ah, everything out before they could start an investigation.”

  “Investigation?” she repeated, and felt something tighten in her throat. “What kind of investigation?”

  The trooper ran his thumb and forefinger down his nose. “Well, ma’am, as far as I can see, there’s no reason for anything like that to be buried down in that gully unless—”

  “Unless someone buried it there,” Cliff finished.

  Maggie stared out into the peaceful spread of greening wood across the lane. “I think we could all use some coffee,” she murmured. Without waiting for an acknowledgment, she went back toward the house.

  Bob took off his hat and wiped at the sweat on his forehead. “This is one for the books.”

  Cliff followed his friend’s long look at the woman climbing the rickety front steps. “Which? Her or that?” With one hand he gestured toward the gully.

  “Both.” Bob took out a pack of gum and carefully unwrapped a piece. “First place, what’s a woman like her, a celebrity, doing holed up here in the woods?”

  “Maybe she decided she likes trees.”

  Bob slipped the gum into his mouth. “Must be ten, twelve acres of them here.”

  “Twelve.”

  “Looks to me like she bought more than she bargained for. Holy hell, Cliff, we haven’t had anything like this down in this end of the county since crazy Mel Stickler set those barn fires. Now, in the city—”

  “Taken to the fast pace, have you?”

  Bob knew Cliff well enough to catch both the dig and the humor. “I like some action,” he said easily. “Speaking of which, the lady songwriter smells like heaven.”

  “How’s Carol Ann?”

  Bob grinned at the mention of his wife. “Just fine. Look, Cliff, if a man doesn’t look, and appreciate, he’d better see a doctor. You’re not going to tell me you haven’t noticed just how nice that lady’s put together.”

  “I’ve noticed.” He glanced down at the rock beside him. She’d sat there when he’d kissed her. It wouldn’t take any effort to remember each separate sensation that had run through him in that one moment. “I’m more interested in her land.”

  Bob let out a quick laugh. “If you are, you’ve done a lot of changing since high school. Remember when we used to come up here—those blond twins, the cheerleaders whose parents rented the place for a while? That old Chevy of yours lost its muffler right there on that turn.”

  “I remember.”

  “We had some interesting walks up there in the woods,” Bob reminisced. “They were the prettiest girls in school till their daddy got transferred and they moved away.”

  “Who moved in after that?” Cliff wondered, half to himself. “That old couple from Harrisburg—the Faradays. They were here a long time, until the old man died and she went to live with her kids.” Cliff narrowed his eyes as he tried to remember. “That was a couple months before Morgan ran off the bridge. Nobody’s lived here since.”

  Bob shrugged; then both of them looked toward the gully. “Guess it’s been ten years since anybody lived here.”

  “Ten years,” Cliff repeated. “A long time.”

  They both looked over at the sound of a car. “The investigators,” Bob said, adjusting his hat again. “They’ll take over now.”

  From the corner of the porch, Maggie watched the proceedings. She’d decided that if the police crew needed her, they’d let her know. It appeared to her that they knew their business. She would just be in the way down there, Maggie reasoned as she drank another cup of black coffee.

  She watched them shovel, sift and systematically bag what they’d come for. Maggie told herself that once it was off her property, she’d forget it. It would no longer concern her. She wished she could believe it. What was now being transferred into plastic bags had once been a living being. A man or a woman who’d had thoughts and feelings had lain, alone, only yards from what was now her home. No, she didn’t believe she’d be able to forget that.

  Before it was over, she’d have to know who that person had been, why they had died and why their grave had been on her land. She’d have to have the answers if she were to live in the home she’d chosen. She finished the last swallow of coffee as one of the police crew broke away from the group and came toward the porch. Maggie went to the steps to meet him.

  “Ma’am.” He nodded to her but, to her relief, didn’t offer his hand. Instead, he took out a badge, flashing the cover up briefly. “I’m Lieutenant Reiker.”

  She thought he looked like a middle-aged accountant and wondered if he carried a gun under his jacket. “Yes, Lieutenant.”

  “We’re just about finished up. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

  “That’s all right.” She gripped her hands together over the cup and wished she could go inside, to her music.

  “I’ve got the trooper’s report, but I wonder if you could tell me how you happened to find the remains.”

  Remains, Maggie thought with a shudder. It seemed a very cold word. For the second time, she related her story of the puppy’s digging. She did so calmly now, without a tremor.

  “You just bought the place?”

  “Yes, I only moved in a few weeks ago.”

  “And you hired Delaney to do some landscaping.”

  “Yes.” She looked down to where Cliff stood talking to another of the team. “The handyman I hired recommended him.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” In a very casual way, the investigator took notes. “Delaney tells me you wanted the gully there dug out for a pond.”

  Maggie moistened her lips. “That’s right.”

  “Nice place for one,” he said conversationally. “I’d like to ask you to hold off on that for a while, though. We might need to come back and take another look around.”

  Maggie’s hands twisted on the empty cup. “All right.”

  “What we’d like to do is block off that area.” He hitched at his belt, then settled one foot on the step above the other. “Some chicken wire,” he said easily, “to keep your dog and any other stray animal from digging around in there.”

  And people, Maggie thought, deciding it didn’t take a genius to read between the lines. Before the day was over, this would be the biggest news flash in the county. She was learning fast. “Do whatever you need to do.”

  “We appreciate the cooperation, Miss Fitzgerald.” He twirled the pen in his fingers, hesitating.

  “Is there something else?”

  “I know it’s a bad time,” he said with a sheepish smile, “but I can’t pass it up. Would you mind signing my pad? I was a big fan of your mother’s, and I guess I know most all of your songs, too.”

  Maggie
laughed. It was far better to laugh. The day had been a series of one ludicrous event after another. “Of course.” She took the offered pad and pen. “Would you like me to say anything special?”

  “Maybe you could just write—to my good friend Harvey.”

  Before she could oblige, she glanced up and caught Cliff’s eyes on her. She saw his lips twist into something between a sneer and a smile. With a silent oath, she signed the pad and handed it back.

  “I don’t know much about this kind of thing,” she began briskly, “but I’d appreciate it if you kept me informed on whatever’s being done.”

  “We’ll have the medical examiner’s report in a few days.” Pocketing his pad, the investigator became solidly professional again. “We’ll all know more then. Thanks for your time, Miss Fitzgerald. We’ll be out of your way as soon as we can.”

  Though she felt Cliff’s gaze still on her, Maggie didn’t look over. Instead, she turned and walked back into the house. Moments later, music could be heard through the open windows.

  Cliff remained where he was, though he’d answered all the questions that he could answer. His thoughts were focused on the sounds coming from the music room. It wasn’t one of her songs, he concluded, but something from the classics, something that required speed, concentration and passion. Therapy, he wondered, frowning up at the window. With a shrug, he started toward his car. It wasn’t his concern if the lady was upset. Hadn’t she told him she’d moved back here to be on her own?

  Turning his head, he saw the investigators preparing to leave. Within moments, he reflected, she’d be alone. The music pouring out of the windows was tense, almost desperate. Swearing, Cliff stuffed his keys back in his pocket and strode toward the steps.

  She didn’t answer his knock. The music played on. Without giving it a second thought, he pushed open the front door. The house vibrated with the storm coming from the piano. Following it into the music room, he watched her from the doorway.

  Her eyes were dark, her head was bent, though he didn’t think she even saw the keys. Talent? There was no denying it, any more than there could be any denying her tension or her vulnerability. Later, he might ask himself why all three made him uncomfortable.

  Perhaps he did want to comfort her, he told himself. He’d do the same for anyone, under the circumstances. She didn’t have to mean anything to him for him to want to offer a diversion. Strays and wounded birds had always been weaknesses of his. Dissatisfied with his own logic, Cliff waited until she’d finished.

  Maggie looked up, startled to see him in the doorway. Damn her nerves, she thought, carefully folding her hands in her lap. “I thought you’d gone.”

  “No. They have.”

  She tossed the hair out of her eyes and hoped she looked composed. “Was there something else?”

  “Yeah.” He walked over to run a finger over the piano keys. No dust, he noted, in a house nearly choked with it. Her work was obviously of first importance.

  When he didn’t elaborate, Maggie frowned. Cliff preferred the impatience he saw in her eyes now. “What?”

  “I had a steak in mind.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  The cool response made his lips curve. Yes, he definitely preferred her this way. “I haven’t eaten.”

  “Sorry.” Maggie began to straighten her sheet music. “I don’t happen to have one handy.”

  “There’s a place about ten miles out of town.” He took her arm to draw her to her feet. “I have a feeling they’d treat a steak better than you would, anyway.”

  She pulled away, stood her ground and studied him. “We’re going out to dinner?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why?”

  He took her arm again, so that he wouldn’t ask himself the same question. “Because I’m hungry,” Cliff said simply.

  Maggie started to resist, though he didn’t appear to notice. Then it struck her how much she wanted to get out, to get away, just for a little while. Sooner or later, she’d have to be alone in the house, but right then— No, right then, she didn’t want to be alone anywhere.

  He knew, understood, and whatever his approach, Cliff was offering her exactly what she needed.

  Though their thoughts weren’t particularly calm, neither of them spoke as they walked through the door together.

  Chapter Five

  Maggie set aside the next day to complete the title song for the movie score. She made a conscious effort to forget everything that had happened the day before. Everything. She wouldn’t think of what had been buried and unearthed so close to her house, nor would she think of police or investigators or medical examiners.

  In exactly the same way, she refused to think of Cliff, of the one wildly exciting kiss or of the oddly civilized dinner they’d shared. It was difficult to believe that she’d experienced both with the same man.

  Today, she was Maggie Fitzgerald, writer of songs, creator of music. If she thought of only that, was only that, perhaps she could convince herself that everything that had happened yesterday had happened to someone else.

  She knew there were men outside spreading seed, planting. There were shrubs going in, mulch being laid, more brush being cleared. If the landscape timbers she’d seen brought in that morning meant what she thought, construction was about to begin on her retaining wall.

  None of that concerned her. The score demanded to be completed, and she’d complete it. The one form of discipline she understood perfectly was that a job had to be done no matter what went on around you. She’d seen her father direct a movie when his equipment had broken down and his actors had thrown tantrums. She’d known her mother to perform while running a fever. Much of her life might have been lived in a plush, make-believe world, but she’d learned responsibility.

  The score came first today, and the title song would be written. Perhaps she’d even add some clever little aside to C.J. at the end of the tape before she mailed it off.

  It certainly wouldn’t do to mention what was going on in her side yard, Maggie thought as she meticulously copied notes onto staff paper. C.J. wouldn’t be able to find enough antacids in L.A. to handle it for him. Poor man, she mused, he’d been worried about the roof caving in on her. In a totally unexpected way, it certainly had. If he knew there’d been policemen swarming over her land with plastic bags, he’d catch the next plane and drag her back to L.A.

  She wondered if Cliff would’ve dragged her from the house the night before if she hadn’t gone voluntarily. Fortunately, it hadn’t been an issue, because Maggie thought him perfectly capable of it. Yet he’d been the ideal dinner companion. While she hadn’t expected consideration from him, he’d been considerate. She hadn’t expected subtle kindness, but it had been there. Finding both had made it difficult to remember she considered him an unlikable man.

  They hadn’t spoken of what had been found on her property that day, nor had there been any speculation on the whys and hows. They hadn’t discussed his work or hers, but had simply talked.

  Looking back, Maggie couldn’t say precisely what they’d talked about, only that the mood had been easy. So easy, she had almost forgotten the passion they’d pulled from each other in the quiet afternoon sunlight. Almost forgotten. The memory had been there, quietly nagging at her throughout the evening. It had made her blood move a little faster. It had made her wonder if he’d felt it, too.

  Maggie swore and erased the last five notes she’d copied down. C.J. wouldn’t appreciate the fact that she was mixing her bass and tenor. She was doing exactly what she’d promised herself she wouldn’t do, and as she’d known it would, the upheaval of yesterday was affecting her work. Calmly, she took deep breaths until her mind was clear again. The wisest course was to switch the recorder back on to play and start from the beginning. Then the knock on the front door disrupted her thoughts. Quiet country life. She asked herself where she’d ever heard that expression as she went to answer.

  The gun on the man’s hip made her stomach twist. The
little badge pinned to the khaki shirt told her he was the sheriff. When she took her gaze up to his face, she was surprised by his looks. Blond, tanned, with blue eyes fanned by lines that spoke of humor or sun. For a moment, she had the insane notion that C.J. had sent him out from central casting.

  “Miss Fitzgerald?”

  She moistened her lips as she tried to be rational. C.J. worried too much for practical jokes. Besides, the gun looked very, very real. “Yes.”

  “I’m Sheriff Agee. Hope you don’t mind me dropping by.”

  “No.” She tried a polite smile, but found it strained. Guns and badges and official vehicles. Too many police in too short a time, Maggie told herself.

  “If it wouldn’t put you out too much, I’d like to come in and talk to you for a few minutes.”

  It did put her out. She wanted to say it did, then close the