Barefoot in the Sun (Barefoot Bay)

by Roxanne St Claire

  Fitzgerald shook his head and sighed. “There’s never been another serious suspect.”

  “There’s never been any hard evidence.”

  “And you’re basing that on what knowledge, Doctor?” Fitzgerald demanded. “Talking to her about it or reading ancient news accounts?”

  The latter, but he was undeterred. “I won’t let anyone near her for at least a week.”

  “We can end this very, very quickly, Dr. Bradbury,” the other said. “We don’t even have to talk to her. The FBI has DNA evidence and wants to compare it to Ms. Tamarin. We need access to her to get a clean sample.”

  “You want DNA? I have vials of her blood. It’s yours. Moreover, I have mitochondrial DNA, which, if you do a little studying, you’ll discover that you can match with zero doubt and quite quickly, too. In a matter of hours, not weeks.”

  The agent shook his head. “We need to verify that it’s her blood, not a random vial from some local health clinic.”

  Ire whipped up Oliver’s spine. “You may go to my clinic and examine the vials that were taken during a transfusion today. You may stand at the door and watch the nurse take any sample for DNA testing. But you may not talk to her.”

  “Why not?” he asked. “Why can’t I at least question her?”

  “She’s eighty-four and battling for her life,” Oliver told him. “And I might add that if she wins that battle, she may save hundreds, even thousands, of others. But not if she collapses under the stress of this investigation.”

  Fitzgerald sat back and crossed his arms, unrelenting. “I’ll get a warrant.”

  “She’s sound asleep. She can’t tell you anything.”

  “But I can.”

  Both men turned at the sound of Zoe’s voice as she stepped around the entryway wall into the living room. Her hair wind whipped, her cheeks chapped, her eyes bright from tears or fear, she walked into the room and managed to avoid eye contact with Oliver.

  But he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  “How’d you get down here so fast?” Oliver asked.

  “I’m that good,” she shot back, her attention on the FBI agent. “And the driver broke land speed records. I’m Zoe, er…” She reached out her hand as he stood. “Bridget Lessington.”

  “Special Agent Nick Fitzgerald.” The man gave her enough of a once-over to really irk, but Oliver stood slowly, waiting for the introduction to be complete before he walked over to Zoe.

  Finally, she looked at him, and the hurt in her eyes punched a lot harder than Fitzgerald’s smart-ass attitude. “How is she?” Zoe whispered.

  “She’s good. She’s sleeping, and I’d like to keep it that way.” Oliver nodded to the other man. “Special Agent Fitzgerald has other ideas.”

  “I don’t want to hurt your…friend, Ms. Lessington.”

  She closed her eyes for a quick second in reaction to the name. “Please call me Zoe. And she’s my great-aunt, even if that’s not what some piece of paper says. What do you want from her?”

  “An interview,” Fitzgerald said. “What do you know about the murder, miss?”

  She brushed a hair off her face. “I didn’t know she had a son until a few days ago. She’s never mentioned him.”

  “All those years of living together and she never mentioned she had a son? Don’t you find that odd?”

  Zoe didn’t answer, but worked to swallow.

  “She never mentioned her trial?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “She never mentioned her life in Pennsylvania?”

  “Rarely.”

  “She never mentioned her marriage to Matthew Harold Hobarth?”

  “Not once.”

  “She never—”

  Oliver shot between them. “That’s enough.”

  But Zoe’s eyes were wide, along with her mouth. “What was his name?”

  “Hobarth. Matthew Harold, but he goes by—”

  She grabbed his arm. “Goes by? He’s alive?”

  “Barely, but yes.”

  “Have you talked to him?” Zoe and Oliver asked the question in perfect unison, each taking a small step closer to the other.

  The FBI agent shook his head, shutting them down. “First of all, he can’t talk. He suffered a stroke in an assisted-living facility outside of Columbus. I met with him before coming down in a failed effort to get more details about Patricia’s relationship with her son and really get a better handle on her motive. To be honest, Harry isn’t going to live out the month.”

  Zoe’s eyes narrowed at the news, but Oliver moved in, putting a hand on her shoulder to ask the question burning in him. “Did you happen to get his DNA for testing while you were there?”

  “No, Dr. Bradbury,” Fitzgerald said, taking note of the protective stance and flicking an interested eyebrow. “Mr. Hobarth’s alibi is ironclad and was never at issue during the trial, so don’t even go there.”

  “I’ll go wherever I want,” Zoe shot back. “Including to Ohio to clear my aunt’s name.”

  “Ms. Lessington, she is not your aunt.” All warmth was gone from the man’s eyes as he met Zoe’s gaze. “And you are not an investigator. I suggest you cooperate as fully as possible, as our investigation shows you have long gone past ‘victim’ in this case.”

  Oliver stepped forward. “I think it’s time you leave.”

  “Why?”

  “She doesn’t have a lawyer present.” Oliver ushered him to the door. “I’ll call my clinic and if you go there right now, they will arrange for you to get the DNA sample from Ms. Hobarth. You can verify it, take it, test it, and compare it to whatever you have.”

  “And then—”

  “And then,” Zoe said, cutting him off. “You can clear her.”

  He gave her a long look, then nodded. “We’ll see about that.”

  Oliver walked him to the door, watched him drive away, and returned to the living room to find Zoe madly dialing a cell phone.

  “Who are you calling?” he asked.

  “Slade Garrison.”

  “The sheriff? How do you think he can help you?”

  She smiled. “I think I can help him.” She held up a finger and talked into the phone. “Slade? Zoe Tamarin. Wanna get married?”

  Oliver almost fell over.

  Oliver nodded throughout Zoe’s conversation with Slade, obviously not the least bit surprised as he listened to her arrange a meeting at the Naples sheriff’s office so she could break the case wide open for the young deputy.

  When she disconnected, they stared at each other for a beat and she waited for the inevitable litany of questions. Why didn’t you tell me about her son last night? What are you hiding? Is Pasha a murderer?

  “Her ex-husband killed the child,” he said instead.

  Relief rocked her. “How do you know that?”

  “She told me.”

  She stood speechless.

  “The same way she told you,” he explained. “She told me to find Matthew. She didn’t mean the son, she meant the father.”

  “They’re both Matthew,” she finished. “But the newspaper said M. Harold Hobarth, so I figured he went by his middle name.”

  “Whatever he went by, that’s who she’s been running from, Zoe, not the FBI or police.”

  She stabbed her fingers through her hair, every follicle tingling with frustration. “God, if I’d known this earlier, I wouldn’t have wasted the day in a balloon, running away.”

  Oliver reached for her hand. “Stop running, Zoe.”

  “I should have that tattooed on my arm.”

  “You should have it tattooed on your heart.” He pulled her closer, looking so deeply into her eyes the intensity rocked her. “I’ll be happy to do the work.”

  “You forgive me for not telling you last night?”

  “Yes, but why didn’t you?”

  “The treatment was today and I thought…” Her voice faded, the idiocy of that decision so clear in today’s light.

  “You thought I’d screw up som
ehow?” She could hear the hurt in his tone.

  “I underestimated you,” she said softly. “My bad.”

  “Yes, you are bad.” He eased her closer to kiss her forehead. “Let’s talk in the car. And you can tell me why this information is going to get Slade married. I’m assuming not to you.”

  She just smiled.

  On the way to Naples, she shared the conversation between Slade and Gloria, and they discussed all they’d been able to glean about Matthew Harold Hobarth from the news accounts.

  “He’s crazy rich,” Zoe said, remembering a detail about him being on a Greek yacht during the trial. “Could she have been blackmailing him all these years and that’s how we’ve had cash? But what about his ‘ironclad’ alibi?”

  “You answered that with your first statement. Crazy rich can buy alibis. I doubt she’s a blackmailer, but think about what drives your aunt.”

  Zoe glanced out the window, following the sharp curve of white as a boat turned and changed its course and cut a new wake through the waters of the Intracoastal. Pasha would look at that and say something like That’s a sign that there’s an unexpected turn coming in our path. “She’s driven by nature’s clues.”

  Oliver shot her a look. “She’s driven by fear.”

  A breath of realization whooshed out of Zoe’s chest. He was right. “She ran, she hid, she changed her name, she stayed under the radar and out of the spotlight and off the grid.”

  “Shitty way to live, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Point taken,” she conceded. “Why is she afraid of an old guy who had a stroke?”

  “He wasn’t old years ago, and, as you well know, some very bad behaviors get so ingrained that they become the way you live.”

  “All right, all right.” She fisted her chest. “You’re hitting home.” But then she relaxed her hand and reached over the console. “I’m so glad you’re here with me,” she admitted. “I wouldn’t want to do this alone.”

  “You don’t have to do anything alone, Zoe.”

  She closed her eyes and let the feelings wash over her, everything mixed together like a waterfall of gratitude and hope and contentment and…love. Wow. This was no half-assed admission that she couldn’t quite form in her mouth.

  She loved him. She loved this man.

  “Here’s the sheriff’s office,” he said, whipping his little sports car into the parking lot and yanking her from lovely realizations. She’d tell him later, she promised herself. The very first minute she could.

  A half hour later, in a brightly lit conference room, Zoe and Oliver held hands under the table, a united front sitting across from Deputy Sheriff Slade Garrison.

  “You were eavesdropping?” Slade asked for the third time, glancing around as if one of his cohorts might have heard.

  “I was walking the beach,” she said. “And I happened to hear you.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “What did you hear?”

  “Enough to know you want to solve this case.” She pointed at the name and information on the table between them. “Go up to Ohio and snag some blood from this guy before he keels over and dies. I’m telling you this will get you the glory and Gloria all in one swoop.”

  He almost smiled at her joke, but shook his head. “I’d need to involve another sheriff’s office, and the FBI wouldn’t like it.”

  “You want the FBI to solve this crime?” Zoe asked.

  “Because that Fitzgerald guy will beat you to it,” Oliver added.

  “How do you know him?” Slade frowned, confused. “When did you meet him?”’

  “He came to my rental villa,” Oliver told him. “Without you. He wants the glory, too, I think, and I doubt he wants to share it with the local sheriff.”

  Under the table Zoe gave his hand a squeeze for the perfect assist.

  “First we have to deal with Patricia Hobarth,” Slade replied. “Once she’s cleared, we can worry about other people who were tangentially involved and had watertight alibis.”

  “But what if you were to preempt the FBI?” Zoe asked. “You’d be a hero.”

  “You’d solve a cold case,” Oliver added.

  “Gloria would be so proud of you.” Zoe narrowed her eyes to make her point. “Charity would talk about it from now until the end of time.”

  He smiled slowly. “You really know how to get a guy, don’t you?”

  Next to her, Oliver snorted softly. “You have no idea.”

  “You’re right,” Slade finally agreed. “I’ll fly up there tomorrow.”

  “Tonight,” Zoe said. “The guy is knocking on death’s door. Don’t miss this opportunity.”

  “I’ll have to talk to my supervisor,” he said, standing up.

  When they left, Zoe still felt buoyant with hope as they walked to the car and drove through Naples. She was waiting for the perfect moment. In the car? Over dinner? Later on, in bed?

  “Shit,” Oliver murmured.

  “What?” She followed his gaze, realizing they were on the street where his office was located, the wide boulevard where, not so long ago, Zoe had found him and begged him for help.

  On the sidewalk outside of the charcoal glass doors of Oliver’s practice two people stood in deep conversation, and Zoe instantly recognized the FBI agent who’d been in Oliver’s living room and… “Is that Attila the Receptionist?”

  “ ’Fraid so.”

  “Why is she talking to him?”

  Before Oliver answered, the redhead handed a file to the agent, who nodded and walked away, getting into his dark FBI-mobile and driving off without seeing them.

  “C’mon.” Oliver pulled into a reserved spot next to the building, his jaw set in determination. He walked so fast that Zoe had to practically jog to keep up.

  As he pulled open the doors, they found Johanna at the desk, fishing in her bag. She jerked up with a surprised look when Oliver walked in.

  The offices were dark, clearly deserted for the evening.

  “What did you give him?” Oliver asked.

  She didn’t reply but shifted her icy blue eyes to Zoe. “She’s involved in a crime. I hope you know that.”

  “You’re unemployed. I hope you know that.” He held the door for her. “You can leave now, Johanna.”

  She didn’t even flinch, but scooped up her bag and walked by them, giving Zoe a wide berth lest she pick up a criminal germ or two.

  When the door closed behind her, Oliver snapped one lock and then another.

  “Long overdue,” he murmured.

  “You know what else is long overdue?” Zoe pushed him against the glass and pressed her body up against him. “This.” Up on her toes, she kissed him with everything she had, getting an equally passionate kiss back.

  “You like that I fired her,” he whispered into the kiss.

  “I love it. And…” She inched back to look into his eyes. “I love…”

  He lifted a brow, waiting.

  But the words wouldn’t come out.

  “Aw, Zoe,” he whispered. “You really need to see a doctor about this problem.” He lowered his head and kissed her again, deep and slow.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Oliver kissed Zoe right across the marble floor, tugging up her T-shirt with one hand as he opened the door to the offices with the other; the hallway was even darker than the waiting room.

  “I can enter the sanctuary?” she asked. “I don’t have an appointment.”

  Laughing, he eased her into the wall and pushed his whole body against hers. “This is an emergency. The doctor will definitely see you now.”

  She smiled into his kiss, flattening her hands on his chest and bunching his shirt, pulling it from his trousers. “I’d like to see him, too.” She attacked his mouth with hers, like she was as starving for a taste as he was. “Every inch.”

  He led her down the hall and into his office, locking the door behind him with a crisp and meaningful click even though he was certain everyone was gone by now.

  She glanced
around with a questioning look. “Couch? Wall? Desk? Or from that pretty chandelier?”

  “Yes.”

  Laughing, they came together, kissing while she unbuttoned his shirt and pushed back the sleeves and he made his way under her top to caress every bit of skin beneath. Planting his lips under her jaw, he sucked the salty sheen, then licked his way back to her mouth.

  “You gotta pick your poison, doc,” she whispered. “Fall to the floor?”

  “Not for what I have in mind.” He walked her across the office, knowing that what was on the other side would surprise her. “My favorite patients get special treatment.”

  He opened a door to the tiny studio apartment he’d had finished when he’d first moved to Naples. It was dimly lit by shuttered windows that let the last whispers of dusk reveal a king-sized bed.

  “Well, well, well.” Zoe checked it out as he ushered her straight to the bed. “Doc’s got a secret crib.”

  “When I first moved here I lived in this room.”

  She sighed. “Lonely.”

  It was. And Zoe had no idea how many nights her memory had kept him company. “Convenient.”

  “It is now,” she agreed. They stood together for a moment, suspended before the big fall, heat coiling between them.

  “Here’s my problem, doc,” she whispered. “I can’t say three little words.”

  “That’s a symptom, not the real problem.”

  She closed her eyes in acknowledgment. “No wonder you’re in such demand. You’re so good at diagnosing.”

  “Damn right. We know the problem,” he said. “Now we have to figure out…” He lowered his head and placed his lips on hers with an air-soft kiss, flicking his tongue over her lip. “Why.”

  He added enough pressure to force her mouth open, then he slipped his tongue inside and curled it around hers. “So we need a very careful…” He eased her onto the bed. “Examination.”

  As he stood over her, he rolled up his sleeves, like there was work to be done. Pulling him closer, she finished the last of his shirt buttons and slammed her hands onto his chest with an appreciative moan.

  “When did this problem start?” He lifted her tank top, dragging it over her breasts and sliding it over her head.