by Nora Roberts
She stood in front of a canvas, feet planted, body braced. More like a prizefighter going into round three, Caroline thought, than an artist. Dwayne was sprawled in the porch rocker, a tumbler full of Wild Turkey in his hand and the mild smile of an affable drunk on his face.
“ ’Lo, Caroline.” He gestured with the glass in greeting. “Whatcha got there?”
Caroline set Useless down and he immediately streaked off to sniff the bushes Buster had marked. “My dog. Good evening, Miss Lulu.”
She grunted, dabbed a little paint on the canvas. “My grandmammy ran a pair of Yankee deserters off her plantation in 1863.”
Caroline inclined her head. She’d come prepared. “My grandmother’s grandfather lost a leg at Antietam pushing General Burnside’s troops off the stone bridge.”
Lulu pursed her lisp and considered. “And when would that have been?”
“September 17, 1862.” Caroline smiled and blessed her grandmother’s carefully documented family Bible. “His name was Silas Henry Sweeney.”
“Sweeney, Sweeney. Seems to me there were some Sweeney cousins on my husband’s side—that’d be my second husband, Maxwell Breezeport.” Lulu squinted her eyes at Caroline and liked what she saw. The girl was fresh as a new quart of cream. And there was a sharp, stubborn look in her eyes, in the set of her chin, that Lulu approved of wholeheartedly.
The Yankee blood was probably diluted anyway, Lulu decided, and besides, it was time Tucker settled down.
“You come down here to sashay around Tucker, have you?”
“Certainly not.” But Caroline found it impossible to take offense. “I have come to speak with him, though. If he’s here.”
“Oh, he’s around right enough.” Lulu studied her palette, then plunged her brush into a pool of virulent green. “Come on up here on the porch, girl, don’t be standing down there gawking at me while I’m working. Dwayne, where’s that brother of yours? Can’t you see this girl’s come to seduce him?”
“I have not come—” Caroline broke off and backed up a foot when Lulu leaned over to sniff at her.
“Pretty cagey not wearing perfume.” Lulu shook the dripping brush at her. “When a man’s used to women tarting themselves up, he’ll fall flat for the smell of pure soap and water.”
Caroline cocked a brow. “Is that so?”
“You know it’s so. You don’t get to be … how the hell old am I, Dwayne?”
“I think it’s eighty-four, Cousin Lulu.”
“Eighty-four? Eighty-four?” Paint dripped on her shoes. “You’re drunk as a polecat, Dwayne. No southern lady would ever reach the miserable age of eighty-four. It ain’t seemly.”
Dwayne considered his whiskey. He was well on the way to being sloshed, but he wasn’t stupid. “Sixty-eight,” he decided. “What I meant to say was sixty-eight.”
“That’s better.” Lulu smudged paint on her cheek. “A dignified age. You go on in, Yankee, work your wiles on that poor, hapless boy. Just so you know I’m on to you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Unable to resist, she took a peek at the painting. It was Dwayne, cocked back in the rocker, clutching a hugely proportioned glass of whiskey. The style was somewhere between Picasso and the caricatures for Mad magazine. Dwayne’s face was green, his eyes cracked with broken red lines. Poking up from his head were long purple donkey’s ears.
“Ah, an interesting concept,” Caroline commented.
“My daddy always said anybody who drinks for a living’s bound to make an ass of himself.”
Caroline looked from the portrait to the artist. In that single silent exchange she realized that Cousin Lulu wasn’t as crazy as she pretended to be. “I wonder what reason anyone would have for choosing to drink for a living.”
“For some, life’s reason enough. Dwayne, where’s that brother of yours? This girl’s waiting and I can’t paint with her breathing down my neck.”
“Back in the library.” He took a comfortable swallow of whiskey. “Just go on in, Caroline. Third door down on the right of the hall.”
Caroline stepped in. The house was so quiet, it immediately crushed her urge to call out and announce herself. The light had that mellow golden quality she associated with museums, but the silence was more like that of a lady’s elaborate boudoir while the mistress was drowsing.
She began to have doubts that anyone was there at all. She caught herself tiptoeing down the hall.
The door to the library was shut tight. As she put her hand up to knock, she pictured Tucker inside. Stretched out on the most comfortable flat, cushioned surface, hands cocked behind his head, legs crossed at the ankles. He would, of course, be taking his early evening, post-afternoon, pre-bedtime nap.
She rapped softly and got no answer. With a shrug, she turned the knob and nudged the door open. She’d just wake him up, she told herself. She had things to tell him and the least he could do was stay awake long enough to listen. Because while he was busy sleeping away his life, things were …
But he wasn’t on the curvy love seat under the west window. Nor was he sprawled in the wing chair facing the stone fireplace. Frowning, Caroline turned a circle, taking a curious scan of the walls of books, an excellent Georgia O’Keeffe, and a dainty Louis XV side table.
And saw him behind a sturdy oak desk, bent over a pile of papers and books, with his fingers skimming casually—no, she realized—skillfully over the keyboard of a sleek little office computer.
“Tucker?” There was a world of surprise in the single word. He answered with a grunt, typed in some more data, then glanced up. The distraction on his face cleared instantly.
“Well, hey, Caroline. You’re the most welcome thing I’ve seen all day.”
“What are you doing?”
“Just running some figures.” He pushed back from the desk to stand, looking lean and lazy in a T-shirt and chinos. “Nothing that can’t wait. Why don’t we go on out on the back porch, sit, and watch the sun set?”
“It won’t set for two hours or more.”
He smiled. “I’ve got time.”
She shook her head, evading him when he came around the desk to reach for her. Holding him off with one hand, she moved closer to the desk to see what he’d been up to.
There were ledgers, printouts with columns of figures, invoices, receipts. Eyes narrowed, Caroline ran her finger over files.
LAUNDROMAT, CHAT ’N CHEW, HARDWARE, GOOSENECK UNIT 1, ROOMING HOUSE, TRAILER PARK.
There was a pile of paperwork about cotton—seed, pesticide, fertilizer, market prices, trucking companies. Another pile consisted of various prospectus folders and stock reports.
Dragging a hand through her hair, Caroline stepped back. “You’re working.”
“In a manner of speaking. Are you going to let me kiss you or not?”
She only waved him off, trying to think it through. “Bookkeeping. You’re keeping books.”
He grinned. “Honey, it’s against the law only if you keep two sets. Which my granddaddy did, successfully, for twenty-five years. So I guess it’s more accurate to say it’s against the law only if you get caught keeping two sets, which he never did and lived to his dying day as a pillar of this community.” He sat on the-edge of the desk. “If you don’t want to sit on the porch and neck awhile, what can I do for you?”
“You use a computer.”
“Well now, I admit I was prejudiced about it at first. But these damn little things save buckets of time once you get the hang of them. I’m all for that.”
“Do you do all of this?”
“All of what?”
“This!” Frustrated, she grabbed up a pile of papers and shook them at him. “Do you keep all these records, these books? Do you run all of these businesses?”
He stroked a hand over his chin thoughtfully. Then he punched a few buttons, and the monitor winked off. “Mostly they run themselves. I just add the figures.”
“You’re a fraud.” She slapped the papers down again. “All that lazy-sout
hern-wastrel routine—I’d rather sleep than sit. It’s just a front!”
“What you see is what there is,” he corrected her, amused by the way she was pacing around the room. “It just seems to me that you have a different definition of lazy up north than we do down here. Down here we call it relaxed.” He gave her a pained look. “Honey, I sure wish you’d learn to relax. The way you stir up the air in here is tiring me out.”
“Every time I think I’ve got a handle on you, you shift. Like a virus.” She turned back. “You’re a businessman”
“I don’t think that description suits me, Caro. Now, when I think of a businessman, I think of somebody like that Donald Trump or Lee Iacocca. All those fancy suits, messy divorces, and bleeding ulcers. Of course, there’s Jed Larsson, and he wears a suit only on Sunday as a rule, been married to his Jolette as long as I can remember. But he does suffer from some bad heartburn.”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“No, I was getting around to it. You could say I oversee some ventures now and again. And since I have a gift for figures, it doesn’t take much effort.”
She dropped down on the love seat and scowled at him. “You’re not wasting your life.”
“I always figured I was enjoying it.” He walked over to join her. “But if it’ll make you happy, I could give wasting it a try.”
“Oh, just shut up a minute. I’m trying to think.” She folded her arms across her chest. Hapless? she thought. Wasn’t that what Lulu had called him? What a joke. The man knew exactly what he was doing, and he’d obviously been doing it his own way, in his own time, for years. Hadn’t she seen it herself? The way he could give you that sleepy-eyed grin one minute, then drill right into your brain with a look the next?
“The other day, before that business with Bonny, did you say that you and Dwayne worked in the fields?”
“We’ve been known to.”
“And you once mentioned that Dwayne had a degree he didn’t use. But you didn’t say if you had one.”
“Can’t say I actually graduated. I never could get the hang of sliding through school like Dwayne did. I studied some business management and accounting, though.” He smiled easily. “Didn’t take much thought to figure out it’s more comfortable behind a desk than sweating in a cotton field. Want me to dig up my college yearbook?”
She only hissed out a breath. “I can’t believe I actually came over here to protect you.”
“Protect me?” He slid an arm around her shoulders so he could sniff at her hair. “Sugar, that’s awful sweet of you. God, you smell good. Better than cherry pie cooling on the windowsill.”
“It’s soap,” she said between her teeth. “Just soap.”
“It makes me crazy.” He began to nuzzle her neck. “Dead crazy. ’Specially this spot right here.”
She shivered as he nipped under her jaw. “I came here to talk to you, Tucker, not to … oh.” Her words trailed off as he began doing sneaky, seductive things behind her ear.
“You go ahead and talk,” he invited her. “I don’t mind a bit.”
“If you’d just stop that.”
“Okay.” He switched from her ear back to her neck. “Go ahead.”
As her better judgment began to dim, she tilted her head back to give him more access. “Matthew Burns came by.” She felt his lips pause, his muscles tense, then gradually, gradually, relax again.
“I can’t say as that surprises me. He’s had his eye on you. A blind man on a galloping horse could see that.”
“It had nothing to do with … It wasn’t personal.” The hell with her fuzzy brain, Caroline decided, and turned her lips to meet Tucker’s. She let out a quiet sigh as he pleasured them both with slow, nibbling kisses. “He was warning me off you.”
“Hmmm. Much to my frustration, you haven’t been on me yet.”
“No, he was talking about the case. The murder.” A light flashed on in her brain and she jolted back. “The murder,” she repeated, then stared down open-mouthed at her gaping blouse. “What are you doing?”
He had to take a steadying breath. “I was just working on getting your clothes off. Seems I’ve been working on that for some time now.” He sat back again, studying her. “And it looks like it’s going to get put off again.”
She fumbled her buttons back into place. “I’ll let you know when I want to be undressed.”
“Caroline, you were letting me know just fine. Until you started thinking again.” To douse some of the fire, he got up to fix a drink. “Want one?” He gestured with the decanter.
“No.”
“Well, I do.” He poured two fingers of whiskey.
She lifted her chin, “You can be just as annoyed as you like, but—”
“Annoyed?” His eyes flashed to hers before he lifted the glass. “Sugar, that’s a mighty mild word for what you work in me. I’ve never had a woman stir my juices with less effort than you.”
“I came here to warn you, not to stir anything.”
“My point exactly.” He finished off his drink, thought about having another, and opted for half a cigarette instead. “Who’s Luis?”
Her mouth opened and closed twice before she managed to speak. “I beg your pardon?”
“No, you don’t. You just don’t want to answer me. Susie mentioned that there was somebody named Luis you were pissed at.” He scowled down at the stub he was smoking. “Hell of a stupid name.”
“Tucker’s so much more dignified.”
He relaxed enough to grin. “Depends on where you’re standing, I expect. Who is he, Caro?”
“Somebody I’m pissed at,” she said lightly. “Now, if you’d like to hear what I’ve come to—”
“Did he hurt you?”
Her eyes locked with his. In them she saw patience, compassion, and, unexpectedly, a quiet, steady strength. “Yes.”
“I’d like to promise I wouldn’t, but I don’t guess I can do that.”
Something shifted inside her. A door she’d thought she’d locked tight was creeping open. “I don’t want promises,” she said almost desperately.
“I’ve never been one for giving them. Dangerous things, promises.” He frowned down at his cigarette, then crushed it out. “But I do care about you. I guess you could say I’m about neck-deep in caring about you.”
“I think—I’m not ready …” She rose and wished she had something to do with her hands. “I care about you, too, Tucker. And that’s where it has to stop. I came here because I care about you, and I wanted you to know that Matthew Burns is looking for a way to prove you killed Edda Lou Hatinger.”
“He’s going to have to look pretty hard.” Still watching her, Tucker slipped his hands in his pockets. “I didn’t kill Edda Lou, Caroline.”
“I know that. I might not understand you, but I know that. Matthew’s looking for the connection between Arnette, Francie, and Edda Lou, and you’re the front runner. He also dropped some hints about Toby, and that concerns me. I know these are the nineties, but it’s still rural Mississippi, and racial tensions …” She shrugged.
“Most people around here have a lot of respect for Toby and Winnie. There aren’t that many around like the Hatingers or the Bonny boys.”
“But there are some. I don’t want to see anything happen to Toby or his family.” She took a step forward. “More, I don’t want to see anything happen to you.”
“Then I’ll have to see to it that you don’t.” He reached out to lift her chin, his eyes sharp and steady. “You’ve got a headache.” Gently he rubbed at the faint line of stress between her brows. “I don’t like to think I had a part in bringing that on.”
“It’s not you.” As always, she felt a trace of embarrassment at the weakness she associated with pain. “It’s the situation. Not you.”
“Then we’re not going to think about the situation. We’re going to go sit out on the porch and watch for that sunset.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “And you don’t even have to neck with me. Unless you
want to.”
That made her smile, which was what he’d intended. “What about your work?”
“Honey.” He slipped an arm around her waist to lead her out. “There’s one sure thing about work. It doesn’t go anywhere.”
So they sat on the porch, talking idly of the weather, of Marvella’s wedding, of young Jim’s progress on the violin. And while the sun drifted lower in the sky, bleeding red over the horizon, while the frisky puppy tried to convince the aging Buster to play, while the Statler Brothers gave way to the Oak Ridge Boys, neither of them noticed the quick wink of light glazing off the lens of a pair of dented binoculars.
Austin held them to his eyes in taut hands. He watched, his mouth moving silently in fervent and deadly prayer, his mind twisting deeper into madness, and two Police Specials shoved in the waistband of his Sunday trousers.
When Cy reached the culvert the next morning, his father was waiting. He grabbed the boy by the shirt while he peered out at the white morning light.
“You didn’t tell anybody? I’ll know if you lie.”
“No, Daddy.” It was the same question, the same answer each morning. “I swear I didn’t. I brought you some chicken, and a sausage biscuit.”
Austin snatched the paper sack. “You bring the rest?”
“Yes sir.” Cy handed over the plastic container of water, hoping his father would be content with that. Knowing he wouldn’t.
Austin unscrewed the top and took three long swallows before swiping his hand across his mouth. “The rest.”
Cy’s hands shook. His throat was too full of fear to allow any words through. He unbuckled the leather holder from his belt and held out the hunting knife.
“Daddy, there’s police still out by the house, but they got rid of the roadblocks on Route One. You could get clean over to Arkansas if you wanted.”
“Anxious to see me gone, boy?” Lips peeled back in a grin, Austin unsheathed the knife. It caught the funnel of light and shone.
“No, sir, I was just—”
“Oh, you’d like me to run, wouldn’t you?” He turned the blade, drawing Cy’s terrified eyes to the gleam. “You’d like me to go, leave your way clear to sin and debauchery. To buddying up with niggers and kissing Mr. Tucker Longstreet’s rosy ass.”