Eight Classic Nora Roberts Romantic Suspense Novels

by Nora Roberts

  He grinned at her. “Well, welcome home, Slim.”

  Chapter 4

  “So how the hell are you, Clare?”

  They were sitting on the front porch steps drinking two of the lukewarm Becks that Clare had picked up during her meanderings through Pennsylvania. Relaxed, she moved her shoulders as she tipped the bottle back. The beer and the cool night eased the driving kinks.

  “I’m pretty good.” She leveled her gaze to the badge on his shirt. Her eyes glowed with humor. “Sheriff.”

  Cam stretched out his booted feet, then crossed them. “I take it Blair didn’t mention I’d moved into Parker’s old job.”

  “Nope.” She sipped again, then gestured with the bottle. “Brothers never tell their sisters the interesting gossip. It’s the law.”

  “I’ll write that down.”

  “So where is Parker? Spinning in his grave because it killed him to see you sitting in his chair?”

  “Florida.” He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered her one. “Took off his badge, packed up, and headed south.” When he flicked on his lighter, Clare leaned over and touched the tip of her cigarette to the flame. In the glow they studied each other’s faces.

  “Just like that?” she said, expelling smoke.

  “Yeah. I heard about the job and decided to give it a shot.”

  “You were living in D.C., right?”

  “That’s right.”

  Clare leaned back against the stair rail, her eyes amused and measuring. “A cop. I always figured Blair was pulling my chain. Who would have figured Cameron ‘Wild Man’ Rafferty on the side of law and order?”

  “I always liked to do the unexpected.” His eyes stayed on hers as he lifted his bottle and drank. “You look good, Slim. Real good.”

  She wrinkled her nose at the old nickname. While it didn’t carry the same sting as some of the others—Beanpole, String, Gnat Ass—that had clung to her during her youth, it did remind her of the days when she had stuffed her woefully underfilled bra with tissues and consumed gallons of Weight-On.

  “You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

  “The last time I saw you you were what? Fifteen, sixteen?”

  The autumn after her father had died, she thought.

  “About.”

  “You grew up nice.” During their brief wrestling match inside, he’d noticed that while she was still on the skinny side she’d rounded out here and there. Despite the changes, she was still Blair Kimball’s sister, and Cam couldn’t resist teasing her. “You’re painting or something, right?”

  “I sculpt.” She flipped her cigarette away. It was one of her pet peeves that so many people thought all artists were painters.

  “Yeah, I knew it was some arty type thing up in New York. Blair mentioned it. So do you sell stuff—like birdbaths?”

  Miffed, she studied his bland smile. “I said I was an artist.”

  “Yeah.” All innocence, he sipped his beer while crickets chorused around them. “This guy I knew was really good at making birdbaths. He used to make this one with a fish on it—a carp, I think—and the water would come out the carp’s mouth and fill the bowl.”

  “Oh, I see. Class work.”

  “You bet. He sold a bundle of them.”

  “Good for him. I don’t work in concrete.” She couldn’t help it—it irked her that he wouldn’t have heard of her work or seen her name. “I guess you guys don’t get People or Newsweek around here.”

  “Get Soldier of Fortune,” he said, tongue in cheek. “That’s real popular.” He watched her take another chug of beer. Her mouth, and he still remembered her mouth, was full and wide. Yeah, she’d grown up nice all right. Who would have thought that shy and skinny Clare Kimball would turn into the long, sexy woman sitting across from him. “Heard you were married.”

  “For a while.” She shrugged off the memory. “Didn’t work out. How about you?”

  “No. Never made it. Came close once.” He thought of Mary Ellen with a trace of sweet regret. “I guess some of us do better single file.” He drained the beer and set the empty bottle on the step between them.

  “Want another?”

  “No, thanks. Wouldn’t do to have one of my own deputies pick me up DWI. How’s your mother?”

  “She got married,” Clare said flatly.

  “No kidding? When?”

  “Couple of months ago.” Restless, she shifted and stared out at the dark, empty street. “How about your parents, do they still have the farm?”

  “Most of it.” Even after all these years, he couldn’t think of his stepfather as a parent. Biff Stokey had never and would never replace the father Cam had lost at the tender age of ten. “They had a couple of bad years and sold off some acreage. Could have been worse. Old man Hawbaker had to sell off his whole place. They subdivided it and planted modulars instead of corn and hay.”

  Clare brooded into the last of her beer. “It’s funny, when I was driving through town I kept thinking nothing had changed.” She glanced back up. “I guess I didn’t look close enough.”

  “We still have Martha’s, the market, Dopper’s Woods, and Crazy Annie.”

  “Crazy Annie? Does she still carry a burlap sack and scout the roadside for junk?”

  “Every day. She must be sixty now. Strong as an ox even if she does have a few loose boards in the attic.”

  “The kids used to tease her.”

  “Still do.”

  “You gave her rides on your motorcycle.”

  “I liked her.” He stretched once, lazily, then unfolded himself to stand at the base of the steps. Looking at her now, with the dark house brooding behind her, he thought she seemed lonely and a little sad. “I’ve got to get on. Are you going to be all right here?”

  “Sure, why not?” She knew he was thinking of the attic room where her father had taken his final drink and final leap. “I’ve got a sleeping bag, some groceries, and the better part of a six-pack of beer. That’ll do me fine until I locate a couple of tables, a lamp, a bed.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You’re staying?”

  It wasn’t precisely a welcome she heard in his voice. She stood and kept to the stairs where she was a head taller than he. “Yes, I’m staying. At least for a few months. Is that a problem, Sheriff?”

  “No—not for me.” He rocked back on his heels, wondering why she looked so edgily defiant with the gingerbread veranda at her back. “I guess I figured you were passing through or opening the place up for new tenants.”

  “You thought wrong. I’m opening it up for me.”

  “Why?”

  She reached down and gathered up both empty bottles by the neck. “I could have asked you the same question.

  But I didn’t.”

  “No, you didn’t.” He glanced at the house behind her, big and empty and whispering with memories. “I guess you’ve got your reasons.” He smiled at her again. “See you around, Slim.”

  She waited until he got in his car and pulled away. Reasons she had, Clare brooded. She just wasn’t completely certain what they were. Turning, she carried the bottles into the empty house.

  By two o’clock the next afternoon, everyone in town knew that Clare Kimball was back. They talked about it over the counter in the post office, as sales were rung up in the market, while ham sandwiches and bean soup were consumed in Martha’s Diner. The fact that the Kimball girl was back in town, back in the house on the corner of Oak Leaf Lane, touched off new gossip and speculation on the life and death of Jack Kimball.

  “Sold me my house,” Oscar Roody said as he slurped up soup. “Gave me a fair deal, too. Alice, how ’bout some more coffee down here?”

  “That wife of his had one fine pair of legs.” Less Gladhill leered, pushing back on the counter stool to get a load of Alice’s. “Mighty fine pair. Never could figure why the man took to drinking when he had such a spiffy wife.”

  “Irish.” Oscar pounded a fist on his chest and brought up a rumbling belch. “They gotta drin
k—it’s in the blood. That girl of his is some kind of artist. Probably drinks like a fish too, and smokes drugs.” He shook his head and slurped some more. He figured it was drugs, plain and simple, that was screwing up the country he’d fought for in Korea. Drugs and homos. “She was a nice girl once,” he added, already condemning her for her choice of career. “Skinny as a rail and funny-looking, but a nice little girl. Was her who found Jack dead.”

  “Musta been a messy sight,” Less put in.

  “Oh, it was.” Oscar nodded wisely, as if he’d been on the scene at the moment of impact. “Cracked his head clean open, blood everywhere where he’d stuck himself on that pile of garden stakes. Went right clean through him, you know. Speared him like a trout.” Bean soup dripped on his grizzled chin before he swiped at it. “Don’t think they ever got the blood all the way out of them flagstones.”

  “Haven’t you two got anything better to talk about?” Alice Crampton topped off their coffee cups.

  “You went to school with her, didn’t you, Alice?” Kicking back in the stool, Less took out a pack of Drum and began to roll a cigarette with his stained and clever mechanic’s fingers. A few flakes of tobacco drifted down to his khaki work pants as he let his gaze perch like a hungry bird on Alice’s breasts.

  “Yeah, I went to school with Clare—and her brother.” Ignoring Less’s glittery eyes, she picked up a damp cloth and began to wipe the counter. “They had brains enough to get out of this town. Clare’s famous. Probably rich, too.”

  “Kimballs always had money.” Oscar pushed back his frayed and battered cap with its lettered ROODY PLUMBING just above the brim. A few of the gray hairs he had left kinked out from below the sides. “Made a bundle on that sonofabitching shopping center. That’s why Jack killed himself.”

  “The police said it was an accident,” Alice reminded him. “And all that stuff happened more than ten years ago. People should forget it.”

  “Nobody forgets gettin’ screwed,” Less said with a wink. “Especially if they was screwed good.” He tapped his cigarette into the thick glass ashtray and imagined putting it to the wide-hipped Alice right there on the lunch counter. “Old Jack Kimball pulled a fast shuffle with that land deal, all right, then he suicided himself.” His mouth left a wet ring at the base of the rolled paper. He spat out a couple more flakes of tobacco that clung to his tongue. “Wonder how the girl feels about staying in the house where her daddy took his last jump. Hey, Bud.” He waved with his cigarette as Bud Hewitt walked into the diner.

  Alice automatically reached for a fresh cup and the pot.

  “No, thanks, Alice, haven’t got time.” Trying to look official, Bud nodded to both men at the counter. “We just got this picture in this morning.” He opened a manila folder. “Name’s Carly Jamison, fifteen-year-old runaway from up in Harrisburg. She’s been missing for about a week. She was spotted hitching south on Fifteen. Either one of you see her on the road, or around town?”

  Both Oscar and Less leaned over the picture of a young, sulky-faced girl with dark, tumbled hair. “Can’t recollect seeing her,” Oscar said finally, and worked out another satisfying belch. “Would’ve if she’d come around here. Can’t hide a new face in this town for long.”

  Bud turned the photo so Alice could get a good look. “She didn’t come in here during my shift. I’ll ask Molly and Reva.”

  “Thanks.” The scent of coffee—and Alice’s perfume—was tempting, but he remembered his duty. “I’ll be showing the picture around. Let me know if you spot her.”

  “Sure will.” Less crushed out his cigarette. “How’s that pretty sister of yours, Bud?” He spat out a flake of tobacco, then licked his lips. “You gonna put in a good word for me?”

  “If I could think of one.”

  This caused Oscar to choke over his coffee and slap his knee. With a good-humored grin, Less turned back to Alice as Bud walked out. “How about a piece of that lemon pie?” He winked, as his fantasies worked back to humping and pumping on Alice amid the bottles of catsup and mustard. “I like mine firm and tart.”

  Across town, Clare was polishing off the last of her supply of Ring-Dings while she turned the two-car garage into a studio. Mouth full of chocolate, she unpacked the fire bricks for her welding table. The ventilation would be good, she thought. Even when she wanted to close the garage doors, she had the rear window. Right now it was propped open with one of her ball-peen hammers.

  She’d piled scrap metal in the corner and had shoved, pushed, and dragged a worktable beside it. She figured it would take her weeks to unpack and organize her tools, so she would work with the chaos she was used to.

  In her own way, she was organized. Clay and stone were on one side of the garage, woodblocks on another. Because her favored medium was metal, this took up the lion’s share of space. The only thing that was missing, she thought, was a good, ear-busting stereo. And she would soon see to that.

  Satisfied, she started across the concrete floor to the open laundry-room door. There was a mall only a half hour away that would supply a range of music equipment, and a pay phone where she could call and arrange for her own telephone service. She’d call Angie, too.

  It was then she saw the group of women, marching like soldiers, Clare thought with a flutter of panic. Up her driveway, two by two. And all carrying covered dishes. Though she told herself it was ridiculous, her mouth went dry at the thought of Emmitsboro’s version of the Welcome Wagon.

  “Why, Clare Kimball.” Streaming in front of the group like a flagship under full sail was a huge blonde in a flowered dress belted in wide lavender plastic. Rolls of fat peeked out from the cuffs of the sleeves and over the tucked waist. She was carrying a plate covered with aluminum foil. “You’ve hardly changed a bit.” The tiny blue eyes blinked in the doughy face. “Has she, Marilou?”

  “Hardly a bit.” The opinion was whispered by a stick-framed woman with steel-rimmed glasses and hair as silver as the sheet metal in the corner of the garage. With some relief, Clare recognized the thin woman as the town librarian.

  “Hello, Mrs. Negley. It’s nice to see you again.”

  “You never brought back that copy of Rebecca.” Behind her Coke-bottle lenses, her right eye winked. “Thought I’d forget. You remember Min Atherton, the mayor’s wife.”

  Clare didn’t allow her mouth to drop open. Min Atherton had put on a good fifty pounds in the last ten years and was hardly recognizable under the layers of flab. “Of course. Hi.” Awkward, Clare rubbed her grimy hands over the thighs of her grimier jeans and hoped no one would want to shake.

  “We wanted to give you the morning to settle.” Min took over, as was her right as the mayor’s wife—and president of the Ladies Club. “You remember Gladys Finch, Lenore Barlow, Jessie Misner, and Carolanne Gerheart.”

  “Ah …”

  “The girl can’t remember everybody all at once.” Gladys Finch stepped forward and thrust a Tupperware bowl into Clare’s hands. “I taught you in fourth grade—and I remember you well enough. Very tidy handwriting.”

  Nostalgia swam sweetly through Clare’s mind. “You put colored stars on our papers.”

  “When you deserved them. We’ve got enough cakes and cookies here to rot every tooth in your head. Where would you like us to put them?”

  “It’s very nice of you.” Clare gave a helpless glance toward the door that opened into the laundry room, then the kitchen. “We could put them inside. I haven’t really …”

  But her voice trailed off because Min was already sailing through the laundry room, anxious to see what was what.

  “What pretty colors.” Min’s sharp little eyes darted everywhere. Personally, she didn’t see how anyone could keep a dark blue countertop looking clean. She much preferred her white Formica with its little gold flecks. “The last tenants in here weren’t very neighborly—didn’t mix well—and can’t say I’m sorry to see them gone. Flatlanders,” Min said with a derisive sniff that put the absent tenants in their place. “We’re gla
d to have a Kimball back in this house, aren’t we, girls?”

  There was a general murmur of agreement that nearly had Clare shuffling her feet.

  “Well, I appreciate—”

  “I made you up my special Jell-O mold,” Min continued after drawing a breath. “Why don’t I just put it right in the refrigerator for you?”

  Beer, Min thought with a knowing frown after she wrenched open the door. Beer and soda pop and some kind of fancy chip dip. Couldn’t expect any better from a girl who’d been living the high life up in New York City.

  Neighbors, Clare thought as the women talked to her, around her, and through her. She hadn’t had to speak to—or so much as look at—a neighbor in years. After clearing her throat, she tried a smile. “I’m sorry, I haven’t had a chance to go shopping yet. I don’t have any coffee.” Or plates or cups or spoons, she thought.

  “We didn’t come for coffee.” Mrs. Negley patted Clare’s shoulder and smiled her wispy smile. “Just to welcome you home.”

  “That’s so nice of you.” Clare lifted her hands and let them fall. “Really, so nice. I don’t even have a chair to offer you.”

  “Why don’t we help you unpack?” Min was poking around, brutally disappointed at the lack of boxes. “From the size of that moving truck that was here this morning, you must have a mess of things to deal with.”

  “No, actually, that was just my equipment. I didn’t bring any furniture down with me.” Intimidated by the curious eyes fixed on her, Clare stuck her hands in her pockets. It was worse, she decided, than a press interview. “I thought I’d just pick up what I needed as I went along.”

  “Young people.” Min gave a quick, skipping laugh. “Flighty as birds. Now, what would your mama say if she knew you were here without a teaspoon or a seat cushion to your name?”

  Clare yearned for a cigarette. “I imagine she’d tell me to go shopping.”

  “We’ll just get out of your way so you can.” Mrs. Finch rounded up the ladies as competently as she would a group of nine-year-olds. “You just return the dishes when you get around to it, Clare. They’re all labeled.”