by Karen Rose
Chapter 3
St. Pete, Wednesday, February 24, 5:30 p.m.
“Daddy.” Megan’s voice lifted over the quiet strains of Bach. The sober music suited his mood. “The phone’s for you.”
Christopher opened one eye and looked at his daughter standing in the doorway of his study, still wearing the black dress she’d worn to Darrell’s funeral. She was a good girl, he thought, pride mixing with the sadness that hadn’t given him a moment’s peace in a week. She’d stood by him today, her hand in his, even though at thirteen she’d started pulling away from such public displays of affection.
“Can you take a message, honey?”
Her brown curls bounced as she shook her head. “It’s that private detective again. He’s called four times since yesterday afternoon. Maybe you should just talk to him so he’ll go away.”
Christopher pushed out of his easy chair with a sigh of extreme irritation. “Him again? I’ll take it in here.” He switched off the stereo and picked up the phone at his desk, turning the ringer back on. He’d turned it off to have some peace and quiet, but it didn’t look like he was going to find either. “This is Christopher Walker,” he said briskly.
“Dr. Walker, my name is Richard Snowden.”
“And you’re a private investigator,” Christopher responded impatiently, pulling his tie off. “You’ve called me five times, harassed my daughter, my staff, and my boss’s secretary.” They’d told him so today, at Darrell’s funeral.
“I didn’t harass your boss’s secretary or your staff, Dr. Walker,” Snowden said mildly. “I merely asked them if your biography listed your hometown and high school.”
Suspicion prickled at the back of Christopher’s neck. “Can you please state your business, sir? Because this is really not a good time.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Walker. I understand condolences are in order. I’m sorry for the loss of your student.”
“Thank you,” Christopher said tightly. This guy knew about Darrell. The press had been everywhere—outside his office, his gym, even outside the church during the funeral, looking for information about the investigation, which so far hadn’t turned up any leads on Darrell’s death. For two days Christopher had been looking over his shoulder, expecting Detective Harris to jump out from behind a palm tree and arrest him, and his nerves were fried. “Look, if you’re a reporter, you can go—”
“I’m not a reporter, Dr. Walker. I’ll make this brief. I’ve been retained by one of your former high school classmates to locate you.”
Christopher almost laughed. “High school?” After the dark events of the day, even the notion of looking up old classmates seemed annoyingly ludicrous. “You’re kidding.”
“No, sir, I’m very serious. Dr. Townsend has been quite anxious to speak to you.”
Christopher frowned. “You must have the wrong Walker, Mr. Snowden, because I don’t remember anybody named Townsend in my graduating class.”
“She was Wilson then. Emma Wilson.”
It was as if he’d been nailed in the gut by a sledgehammer. Christopher felt his breath leave his chest in a painful huff and he lowered himself into the chair behind his desk, his knees like jelly. “Emma Wilson?” Emma Wilson who’d owned every teenaged dream and fantasy? Emma Wilson who’d laughed and argued and brightened every day of his high school existence until one day he’d gotten the nerve to immortalize his feelings in one very ill-advised letter?
Emma Wilson who’d told him she didn’t feel about him as he’d felt about her? Without words of course. She’d ignored his letter, acted like it had never happened. Like you told her to, he thought. But still . . . It had been the most traumatic event of his life. Until Mona, that was. Compared to Mona, Emma had been a mere amateur in the pain department. “Did you say Emma Wilson?”
“I did.”
“What does she want?” His heart was beating harder now.
“She wants to talk to you. Face to face if that’s possible.”
The thought of seeing Emma again made his mouth actually water. It’s pathetic, he thought. Worse than Pavlov’s damn dogs. But it was the reaction he’d had every time Emma Wilson had entered a room, all five-feet-two curvy inches of her. He’d drooled enough over Emma through high school to fill a damn swimming pool.
“Where is she now?”
“Dr. Townsend lives in Cincinnati, but she said she’d be more than willing to meet you in St. Pete. She doesn’t want to inconvenience you, just talk to you.”
Dr. Townsend? He wondered what kind of doctor she was, medical or Ph.D. Either way he was proud of her. Good girl, Em. “Why didn’t she call me herself?”
“She didn’t want to put you on the spot. She thought if you didn’t want to see her you’d find it easier to say so to me than to her. And she didn’t want to cause any trouble if you were married.”
Christopher swallowed. Hard. “I’m not.”
“I know. She wouldn’t let me contact you until I’d made sure of that. What should I tell Dr. Townsend? Would you be willing to meet with her?”
Yes. Yes. Yes. Christopher drew a breath, made himself slow down. “I’m not sure yet. Is she married?”
“She’s a widow.”
Hello. A jolt of pleasure rushed through him, followed quickly by shame. Her husband was dead. That was no reason for celebration. “Why does she want to talk to me? Now, after all this time?” It doesn’t matter, idiot. Just say yes.
“That she wouldn’t say. Well? What should I tell her?”
“Where and when was she thinking?”
“She was thinking you could choose a restaurant. Name a time and place and she’ll fly down to meet you.”
“Just like that? She’s going to hop on a plane just like that?”
“Dr. Walker, do you want to meet with Dr. Townsend or not?”
Christopher sighed. Of course I do. “Tell her to meet me at Crabby Bill’s on St. Pete Beach. It’s a fairly well-known restaurant, so she shouldn’t have any trouble finding it.”
“Crabby Bill’s. And what day and time, Dr. Walker?”
“Saturday night? Seven?”
“I’ll tell her. She’ll meet you there.”
It was . . . surreal, Christopher thought as he hung up the phone. And the timing . . . On one hand it couldn’t have been better. On the other, it couldn’t have been worse.
“Daddy?” He turned to find Megan wearing a frown. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine, honey. That didn’t have anything to do with Darrell or the trouble at school.” He was unwilling to tell his daughter about Emma Wilson’s visit. He’d purposely stayed alone since his divorce. It had been so hard on Megan, he hadn’t wanted to add to the disruption in her life with a parade of girlfriends. So his love life had remained unfulfilled for three years. As had his sex life.
But Emma was coming. He gritted his teeth against a sudden surge of need. Don’t be a fool. They’d have dinner. They’d talk. And she’d go home to Cincinnati, her curiosity appeased. And he would remain a single dad, which was his most important priority anyway. He put his arm around Megan’s shoulders and sniffed. “What smells so good? Did you cook dinner?”
“If I did, it wouldn’t smell so good. Uncle Jerry brought a bucket of KFC. Come on, Dad, sit down and eat.”
As Megan’s godfather, Jerry had been “Uncle” since she’d learned how to talk. What a huge help he’d been in planning the funeral. Darrell had been one of Jerry’s physics students, so he’d known him, although not as well as Christopher had. That Jerry brought food was a typically thoughtful gesture. “That was nice of him. Let’s go before he eats it all.” He found Jerry standing at the kitchen window, staring at the channel that flowed past the end of Christopher’s back yard on its way to Tampa Bay. “Jerry?”
Jerry turned, a drumstick in one hand. The sadness in his eyes disappeared a
s he forced a smile for their benefit. “I got twenty pieces. You can eat it tomorrow, too.”
Christopher moved the bucket to the table while Megan pulled down plates and glasses. “Sit, Jerry. You look as tired as I feel.”
Jerry sat with a sigh. “How is Darrell’s mother?”
“About like you’d think. Some people from her church brought casseroles and cakes, so the boys won’t go hungry, but without Darrell’s salary . . . I don’t know what they’re going to do.”
Then in a moment that he knew he’d always remember, his daughter bit at her lower lip, then shrugged. “I have a little of my own in savings, Daddy, almost fourteen hundred dollars. Give it to Mrs. Roberts.”
Christopher sat still, pursing his lips against the sudden rise of emotion, prouder than he’d ever been. “You were saving that money for a car, Megan.”
“I won’t be able to drive for three years anyway. That gives me time to save more.”
Jerry cleared his throat, his eyes moist. “And who says America’s teenagers are selfish? Chris, I’ve got some rainy day cash set aside. You can have that, too.”
“Maybe we can have a fundraiser,” Megan said, excitement lifting her voice for the first time in days. “All the students can help. Tanya and Ian and Nate. And we can call the students that graduated last year and the year before. I know they’ll want to help.”
“I’ve got a friend at the University TV station,” Jerry said. “He can help you get the word out.”
Megan beamed. “That’s great. We can do a car wash and a raffle.”
Christopher sat back and listened to her plan, but the car washes and raffles began to run together and his mind began to wander. To Saturday night. Emma was coming.
* * *
St. Pete, Thursday, February 25, 2:00 a.m.
“You fucked up.”
He closed his eyes, his stomach liquid and queasy. “I know.” They’d kill him now. Maybe it would be for the best. He’d never be able to live with what he’d done.
“You said they’d think it was an accident.”
“I thought they would.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
He stiffened when a rope was pulled tight around his throat. Then loosened, left to lie on his shoulders, taunting him. “If you’re going to kill me, then do it, for God’s sake.”
The rope tightened, leaving just enough space for him to take a labored breath. “I’ll kill you when and if I’m ready. Now I want information. There’s a private detective asking questions about Walker. Why?”
“I don’t know.” The rope tightened and he gave in to reflex and tried to pull it away from his throat, tried to free even a millimeter for breath to flow. “I swear it!” The rope loosened and he drew a gasping breath. “Dammit.”
“Find out why. For now, all roads lead to you. If you’re caught, you take the fall. And if you even consider revealing an iota of the nature of our relationship . . .” The rope jerked tight, then loosened once again. “These ropes come in all sizes.”
Fear iced his heart. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I think you’ll keep your mouth shut, because you’re smart. If you don’t, you’ll watch the people you care about die one by one. This isn’t a game. We’re serious. We will not be caught, no matter what. Do you understand?”
He nodded, trembling so hard he could barely stand. The rope was yanked from his throat, leaving a strip of red, raw skin. He dropped to his hands and knees and heard the gravel crunch as the footsteps moved away. Then like the cowardly dog he was, he threw up.
Chapter 4
St. Pete Beach, Saturday, February 27, 6:45 p.m.
Emma shivered. It had been a beautiful day, the warmth welcome after the snow in Cincinnati. But the air cooled quickly as she watched the sun set from the wide balcony outside Crabby Bill’s bar. She pulled on the jacket that went with the dress she’d agonized over for hours. Was it too dressy? She didn’t want to look too dressy. She didn’t want him to get the idea that she’d come to take him up on his seventeen-year-old offer. Was it too casual? She didn’t want that either, didn’t want him to think that this apology was something she just did because she had nothing better to do.
Emma drew a breath and huffed it out on a laugh. She was compulsing, as usual. He’d probably come in khaki pants and a polo shirt like everybody else here. They’d have a relaxed dinner, she’d humble herself in apology, then she’d go home to Cincinnati, her conscience appeased. He’d return to the life he’d built here. He was divorced with a daughter. That’s all she knew. That’s all she’d allowed the PI to tell her.
“Emma?” said a voice she’d recognize if she lived to be a hundred.
It was him. Slowly turning, she caught her first glimpse of him and was glad she’d worn the dress, because he stood behind her in a dark suit with a garishly bright orange tie with green palm trees. She braced her back against the balcony railing and herself for whatever reaction she’d see in his face, praying it wouldn’t be hostility or disdain. She lifted her gaze higher until she’d locked on those blue eyes she remembered so well. When he was young, they’d flash with anger, crinkle with humor, widen with surprise when he learned something new. Now, tiny crow’s feet marked the corners, but the color was still that same vibrant blue. They stared at one another, then the crow’s feet became crinkles as the corners of his mouth tipped up in welcome.
“You look the same,” he said and she rolled her eyes.
“I do not.” She studied him as fully as she dared without giving him the wrong idea. “Neither do you. Your curls are all gone.”
He brushed his large hand over his dark close-cut hair self-consciously. “Curls work better on kids.” He came a few steps closer and took a lock of her hair between his thumb and forefinger. “You’re a lot blonder,” he said teasingly, his mouth still bent in that little smile, and the air seemed suddenly thicker.
She made herself chuckle. “Without chemicals, life itself would be impossible,” she said, quoting their old chemistry teacher, then drew in a surprised breath when he grinned. As a young boy he’d been cute, lanky. Awkward. As a grown man he was no longer lanky, but filled out and muscular. Very attractive. But when he grinned . . . Her heart resumed, at a less than steady beat. Dear Lord, that smile was potent. Or perhaps it was the waves and the palm trees and the lanterns bobbing in the warm gulf breeze. Or perhaps it’s just the pathetic wishing of a lonely woman. Maybe Kate was right and she never should have come. Recovering, she tapped her temples. “You’ve acquired some new colors yourself.”
He lifted a broad shoulder. “Gray hair is distinguished on men.”
“Which is so blatantly unfair.”
His chuckle was deep and rich. It was his turn to inspect and he did so with a careful precision that sent her pulse scrambling anew. “Your glasses are gone.”
“Contacts,” she said with a grimace. “Still blind as a bat without them.”
He tilted his head to one side. “And you’re taller.”
“Heels, I’m afraid.”
He was quiet a moment, then his shoulders settled as if he’d been holding them rigid. “It’s good to see you again, Emma.”
“It’s . . .” She cleared her throat. “It’s good to see you, too.”
“I thought we could meet here because it’s easy to find, but you’re dressed for something nicer, I think.”
She smiled up at him. “So are you. But is the food good?”
“Best seafood platter on the beach.”
“And is Bill really crabby?”
He grinned again and her heart thumped. “Nah. Last time I was here it was some couple’s fiftieth anniversary and he treated the whole place to free beer.”
“Now that’s a glowing endorsement,” Emma laughed. “We’re here, Christopher. Let’s just stay here. I didn’t come for the food or the ambiance,
anyway.”
He sobered at that. “Why did you come, Emma? And why the detective?”
Emma sobered as well. “Let’s go grab a seat and get a drink. I may need one.”
And with that she started down the stairs from the bar to the restaurant, leaving him to stare. At the swing of the blonder hair that fit her so well. At the rear of the black dress she wore, which fit even better. He used to love watching Emma taking her turn at the blackboard in high school, the way her round rear sashayed as she conjugated Spanish verbs. She’d only improved with age. He caught up with her and neither said a word as the waitress found them seats and took their drink order.
She wasn’t looking at him now, her eyes fixed on the menu. He took the opportunity to study her the way he’d really wanted to. If anything, she was curvier than she’d been in high school. Regardless, the impact on his body had been exactly the same. One look at those big brown eyes and big round breasts and he’d been rock hard. Her face was the same, no matter what she’d said. Not a single wrinkle marred the skin he’d so often dreamed of caressing. He still did.
The waitress came back with two ice-cold mugs of beer. “You ready to order?”
Emma looked up at her with a smile. “I hear you have the best seafood platter on the beach.”
“We do.”
“That’s what I’ll have then.”
Christopher handed the waitress his menu. “Make that two.” When the waitress was gone, he grabbed his courage and reached across the table and squeezed Emma’s hand. “Now, we’re sitting down and you have your drink. Talk to me, Emma.”
She drew a very deep breath and huffed it upward, sending her bangs flying. “I got married in college,” she said, looking away.
He felt an instant and searing jealousy for the lucky man. “I know.”
“His name was Will Townsend. He was a good man. One of the best I’ve ever known.” She swallowed hard and pursed her lips, still looking away. “A little over a year ago I was in New York on business and I got a phone call. Will had been shot in a convenience store robbery about five miles from where we lived in Cincinnati. He . . . he died on the operating table. Before I was able to get home.”