Night Moves

by Nora Roberts

  get some shoes on, if we’re going to town.”

  “I’m not going to town, and you’re not staying here.”

  He moved so quickly she was caught completely off guard. His hands closed over both her arms. “I’m not letting you stay here alone until we know exactly what’s going on.”

  “I’ve told you before I can take care of myself.”

  “Maybe you can, but we’re not putting it to the test right now. I’m staying.”

  She gave him a long stare. The truth was, she didn’t want to be alone. The truth was, she wanted him, perhaps too much for her own good. Yet he was the one insisting, she thought as her temper began to cool. Since he was insisting, perhaps he cared more than he was willing to admit. Maybe it was time she took a gamble on that.

  “If I let you stay …” she began.

  “I am staying.”

  “If I let you stay,” she repeated coolly, “you have to cook dinner tonight.”

  He lifted a brow, and the grip on her arms relaxed slightly. “After sampling your cooking, you won’t get any argument.”

  Refusing to be insulted, she nodded. “Fine. I’ll get my shoes.”

  “Later.” Before she knew what he was up to, they were tumbling back onto the sofa. “We’ve got all day.”

  Chapter Ten

  Maggie considered it ironic that she’d just begun to become accustomed to living alone and she was no longer living alone. Cliff made the transition unobtrusively. No fuss, no bother. A brisk, rather subtle sense of organization seemed to be a part of his makeup. She’d always respected organized people—from a safe distance.

  He left early each morning, long before she considered it decent for a person to be out of his bed. He was quiet and efficient and never woke her. Occasionally, when she groped her way downstairs later in the morning, she’d find a scrawled note next to the coffeepot.

  “Phone was off the hook again,” it might say. Or “Milk’s low. I’ll pick some up.”

  Not exactly love letters, Maggie thought wryly. A man like Cliff wouldn’t put his feelings down on paper the way she was compelled to. It was just one more area of opposition between them.

  In any case, Maggie wasn’t certain Cliff had any feelings about her other than impatience and an occasional bout of intolerance. Though there were times she suspected she touched some of his softer edges, he didn’t act much like a lover. He brought her no flowers, but she remembered he’d planted a willow tree. He gave her no smooth, clever phrases, but she remembered the look she’d sometimes catch in his eyes. He wasn’t a poet, he wasn’t a romantic, but that look, that one long, intense look, said more than most women ever heard.

  Perhaps, despite both of them, she was beginning to understand him. The more she understood, the more difficult it became to control a steadily growing love. He wasn’t a man whose emotions could be pushed or channeled. She was a woman who, once her feelings were touched, ran with them in whatever direction they went.

  Though she’d lived in the house outside of Morganville for only a month, Maggie understood a few basics of small-town life. Whatever she did became common knowledge almost before she’d done it. Whatever it was she did would draw a variety of opinions that would lead to a general consensus. There were a few key people whose opinion could sway that consensus. Cliff, she knew, was one of them, if he chose to bother. Stan Agee and the postmistress were others. It didn’t take her long to discover that Bog was another whose opinion was sought and carefully weighed.

  The politics in Morganville might’ve been on a smaller scale than those in southern California’s music industry, but Maggie saw that they ran in the same vein. In L.A., however, she’d been second-generation royalty, while here she was an outsider. An outsider, she knew, whose notoriety could be either scorned or accepted. To date, she’d been fortunate, because most of the key people had decided to accept. Thinking of small, close-knit towns, she realized she’d taken a chance on that acceptance by living with Cliff.

  Not living with, Maggie corrected as she spread adhesive on her newly stripped bathroom floor. He wasn’t living with her; he was staying with her. There was a world of difference between the two. He hadn’t moved in, bag and baggage, nor had there been any discussion about the length of his stay. It was, she decided, a bit like having a guest whom you didn’t feel obligated to entertain or impress.

  Unnecessarily, and through his own choice, he’d opted to be her bodyguard. And at night, when the sun went down and the woods were quiet, her body was his. He accepted her passion, her hungers and desires. Perhaps, just perhaps, one day he might accept her emotions, which raged just as hot, and just as high. First he had to come to understand her as she was beginning to understand him. Without that, and the respect that went with it, emotions and desires would wither and die.

  Maggie set the next square of tile into position, then sat back to judge the outcome. The stone-patterned ceramic was rustic and would leave her free to use an infinite range of color combinations. She wanted nothing in her home to be too restricted or regimented, just as she wanted to do most of the changes and improvements herself.

  Looking at the six pieces of tile she’d installed, Maggie nodded. She was becoming quite handy these days. Though her pansies had never recovered, they were her only major failure.

  Pleased and ready for more, Maggie debated whether to mix up another batch of adhesive or to start the next wall of paper in her bedroom. There was only a wall and a half left to cover, she remembered; then it would be time to make a decision on curtains. Priscillas, cafés, Cape Cods … Nothing monumental, most people would say, she mused, but then she’d always left such things up to decorators before. Now, if something didn’t work, she had no one to blame but herself.

  With a laugh, she reached into the box of tiles again, swearing halfheartedly as she scraped her finger against a sharp edge. The price of being your own handyman, Maggie decided, going to the sink to run water over the cut. Maybe it was time to turn in the tiles for wallpaper and paste.

  When the dog began to bark, she knew that either project would have to wait. Resigned, she turned off the tap just as the sound of a car reached her. Going to the tiny latticed window, she watched Lieutenant Reiker pull around the last curve.

  Why was he back? she wondered, frowning. There couldn’t possibly be any more information she could give him. When he didn’t approach the house immediately, Maggie stayed where she was. He walked along the path of flagstone Cliff’s crew had set just that week. When he reached the end, he didn’t turn toward the porch, but looked out over the gully. Slowly, he drew out a cigarette, then lit it with a short wooden match. For several moments he just stood there, smoking and watching the dirt and rocks as if they had the answers he wanted. Then, before she could react, he turned and looked directly up at the window where she stood. Feeling like an idiot, she started down to meet him.

  “Lieutenant.” Maggie went cautiously down the porch steps and onto the sturdy new flagstone.

  “Miss Fitzgerald.” He flipped the cigarette stub into the tangle of brush near the gully. “Your place is coming along. Hard to believe what it looked like a few weeks ago.”

  “Thank you.” He looked so harmless, so pleasant. She wondered if he carried a gun in a shoulder holster under his jacket.

  “Noticed you planted a willow over there.” But he looked at her, not at the gully. “It shouldn’t be much longer before you can have your pond put in.”

  Like Reiker, Maggie didn’t look toward the gully. “Does that mean the investigation’s almost over?”

  Reiker scratched along the side of his jaw. “I don’t know if I’d say that. We’re working on it.”

  She bit back a sigh. “Are you going to search the gully again?”

  “I don’t think it’s going to come to that. We’ve been through it twice now. Thing is—” He stopped, shifting his weight to ease his hip. “I don’t like loose ends. The more we look into this thing, the more we find. It’s hard to t
ie up ends that’ve been dangling for ten years.”

  Was this a social call or an official one? she wondered, trying not to be annoyed. Maggie could remember how embarrassed he’d been when he’d asked for her autograph. At the moment, she didn’t need a fan. “Lieutenant, is there something I can do?”

  “I wondered if you’d had anyone coming around, someone you know, maybe someone you don’t know.”

  “Coming around?”

  “The murder happened here, Miss Fitzgerald, and the more we dig, the more people we find who had reason to kill Morgan. A lot of them still live in town.”

  She folded her arms under her breasts. “If you’re trying to make me uneasy, Lieutenant, you’re doing a good job.”

  “I don’t want to do that, but I don’t want to keep you in the dark, either.” He hesitated, then decided to go with his instincts. “We discovered that Morgan withdrew twenty-five thousand cash from his bank account on the day he disappeared. His car was found, now his body’s been found, but the money’s never showed up.”

  “Twenty-five thousand,” Maggie murmured. A tidy sum, even tidier ten years ago. “You’re telling me you think the money was the motive for murder?”

  “Money’s always a motive for murder, and it’s a loose end. We’re checking a lot of people out, but it takes time. So far, nobody around here’s ever flashed that kind of money.” He started to reach for another cigarette, then apparently changed his mind. “I’ve got a couple of theories …”

  She might’ve smiled if her head wasn’t beginning to ache. “And you’d like to tell me?”

  “Whoever killed Morgan was smart enough to cover his tracks. He might’ve been smart enough to know that coming up with twenty-five thousand dollars wouldn’t go unnoticed in a town like this. Maybe, just maybe, he panicked and got rid of the money. Or maybe he hid it so he could wait a good long time, until any rumors about Morgan had died down; then it’d just be waiting for him.”

  “Ten years is a very long time, Lieutenant.”

  “Some people’re more patient than others.” He shrugged. “It’s just a theory.”

  But it made her think. The attic, and the trunk and the handprint. “The other night—” she began, then stopped.

  “Something happen the other night?” he prompted.

  It was foolish not to tell him, to feel as though, if she did, she would be forging another link in the chain that bound her to everything that had happened. He was, after all, in charge of the investigation. “Well, it seems someone broke in and took something out of a trunk in the attic. I didn’t realize it until days later; then I reported it to Sheriff Agee.”

  “That was the thing to do.” His gaze lifted to the dormer window. “He come up with anything?”

  “Not really. He did find a key. That is, his wife found one somewhere. He came back and opened the trunk, but it was empty.”

  “Would you mind if I had a look myself?”

  She wanted it over, yet it seemed every step she took brought her in deeper. “No, I don’t mind.” Resigned, Maggie turned to lead him into the house. “It seems odd that anyone would hide money in the attic, then wait until someone was living here to claim it.”

  “You bought the place almost as soon as the sign was posted,” Reiker reminded her.

  “But it was nearly a month before I’d moved in.”

  “I heard Mrs. Agee kept quiet about the sale. Her husband didn’t like the idea.”

  “You hear a lot of things, Lieutenant.”

  He gave her the slow, half-embarrassed smile he’d given her when he’d asked for her autograph. “I’m supposed to.”

  Maggie lapsed into silence until they reached the second floor. “The attic’s up here. For what it’s worth, I haven’t found anything missing in the house.”

  “How’d they get in?” he asked as he began to climb the steeper, more narrow staircase.

  “I don’t know,” she mumbled. “I wasn’t locking my doors.”

  “But you are now?” He looked back over his shoulder.

  “Yes, I’m locking them.”

  “Good.” He went directly to the trunk, and, crouching down, studied the lock. The handprint had faded back to dust. “You say Mrs. Agee had the key?”

  “Yes, or one of them. It seems this trunk belonged to the last people who rented the house, an old couple. The woman left it here after her husband died. Apparently there were at least two keys, but Joyce could only find one of them.”

  “Hmm.” Reiker opened the now-unlocked trunk and peered inside, much as he’d peered into the gully. And it, Maggie thought, was just as empty now.

  “Lieutenant, you don’t really think there’s a connection between this and—what you’re investigating?”

  “I don’t like coincidences,” he muttered, echoing Cliff’s earlier statement. “You say the sheriff’s looking into it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll talk to him before I head back. Twenty-five thousand doesn’t take up much room,” he said. “It’s a big trunk.”

  “I don’t understand why anyone would let it sit in one for ten years.”

  “People’re funny.” He straightened, grunting a little with the effort. “Of course, it’s just a theory. Another is that Morgan’s mistress took the money and ran.”

  “His mistress?” Maggie repeated blankly.

  “Alice Delaney,” Reiker said easily. “She’d been having an affair with Morgan for five or six years. Funny how people’ll talk once you get them started.”

  “Delaney?” Maggie said it quietly, hoping she’d heard incorrectly.

  “That’s right. As a matter of fact, it’s her son who’s been doing your landscaping. Coincidences,” he repeated. “This business is full of them.”

  Somehow she managed to remain composed as they walked back downstairs. She spoke politely when he told her again how much he admired her music. Maybe she even smiled when she closed the door on him. When she was alone, Maggie felt her blood turn to ice, then drain.

  Cliff’s mother had been Morgan’s mistress for years; then she’d disappeared, right after his death? Cliff would’ve known. Everyone would’ve known, she thought, and covered her face with both hands. What had she fallen into, and how would she ever get out again?

  Maybe he was going crazy, but Cliff was beginning to think of the long, winding drive up the hill as going home.

  He’d never have believed he could consider the old Morgan place as home. Not with the way he’d always felt about William Morgan. Nor would he have believed the woman who lived there could make him think that way. It seemed a great deal was happening that he could neither stop nor harness. Yet staying with Maggie had been his own choice, just as leaving again would be—when he was ready. From time to time he found he needed to remind himself that he could and would leave again.

  Yet when she laughed, the house was so warm. When she was angry, it was so full of energy. When she sang—when she worked in the music room in the evening, Cliff thought. When the woods were quiet, before the moon had risen, she’d play. She’d sing snatches of words, sentences, phrases, as she composed. Long before she’d finished, he’d find himself in a frenzy of need. He wondered how she worked hour after hour, day after day, with such passion and feeling driving her.

  It was the discipline, Cliff decided. He’d never expected her to be so disciplined about her music. The talent he’d admired all along, but in the few days he’d lived with her, he’d learned that she drove herself hard in the hours she worked.

  A contrast, Cliff decided. It was an implausible contrast to the woman who jumped sporadically from one project to another in that big, dusty house. She left walls half papered, ceilings half painted. There were crates and boxes everywhere, most of which hadn’t been touched. Rolls of supplies were tucked into every corner. He’d say her work on the house was precise, even creative, to the point where she’d leave off for something new.

  She wasn’t like anyone he’d ever known, and he realize
d that somewhere along the way he’d begun to understand her. It had been easier when he could dismiss her as a spoiled Hollywood princess who’d bought a dilapidated country house on a whim or for a publicity stunt. He knew now that she’d bought the house for no other reason than she’d loved it.

  Perhaps she was a bit spoiled. She tended to give orders a little too casually. When she didn’t get her own way, she tended to bristle or to freeze up. Cliff grinned. The same could be said of himself, he admitted.

  To give Maggie her due, she hadn’t run from the trouble or unpleasantness that had begun so shortly after she’d moved in. If he’d seen another woman stick as Maggie was sticking, he’d have said she’d indeed taken root. Cliff still had his doubts. Perhaps he fostered them purposely, because if he believed Maggie Fitzgerald would stay in Morganville, he might have to admit he wanted her to. He might have to admit that coming home every night to a woman who made him laugh and fume and throb wasn’t something he’d give up without a fight.

  He drove the last few yards, then stopped at the edge of the drive. The phlox was blooming on the bank. The new grass was like a green shadow over the soil. Maggie’s petunias were a splash of color.

  They’d both put part of themselves into the land already, he realized. Perhaps that in itself was a bond that would be difficult to break. Even as he stepped out of the truck, he wanted her, just the scent, just the softness of her. There was nothing he could do to change it.