by Karen Harper
He cleared his throat and said, “Sorry for some of the things I said recently. I’m really missing you and Lexi. If you think it might be a good idea, I’ll inquire about openings or postings for Canadian or Caribbean routes—not be gone so much for so long. I hope your work there is going okay, that you’ve figured out for Nick who the murderer is by now. You won your last court case, and I know you’ll win this one.”
On a roll, he didn’t want the connection to die and plunged on, “I’d like us to consider that family trip to Disney. If Darcy, Steve and their two want to go, that’s fine, but I hope you’ll spare me some private time. I’m flying back in about eighteen hours and can’t wait to see you—both of you. Call me back if you can, but otherwise, see you soon. And speaking of seeing things, I’m taking a good look at myself because I know I’m to blame for a lot of what went wrong with us. Okay—soon. Hope everything’s okay.”
He talked so long that her phone beeped to tell him message time was over. Again, he thought she might be listening and then ended the call, which worried him. He’d fought telling her he realized he still loved her, wanted her back. Better to say that in person—work up to it with good behavior, so to speak. Besides, she was the one who was good with words, with talking, psyching people out, so his actions would have to speak louder than that.
26
Nick had never seen a more chaotic scene than when Bronco took him and Claire back to the Shadowlawn river landing. Emerging through the gloom of mist and rain dripping off the trees, a small crowd of people surged forward.
Police patrolled. Nick saw several guns drawn and pointed at them before he held up his hands and shouted, “It’s all right! I found them but they came back on their own.”
He’d had to put off comforting Claire for her ordeal. With this audience, he couldn’t scold or hold her, either. She’d screwed things up big-time, but he was so thankful she was unharmed. It had upset him even more to see a big, blurred footprint on the back of the shirt she wore over a sleeveless tee. Although they were all soaked and cold from a breeze that had sprung up, he’d told her to take off the shirt so the police wouldn’t see the footprint.
The two of them had managed to put on a calm and steady show for Bronco, as if all this was no big deal. Now Nick almost panicked that the nervous man would just speed away, but he nosed the airboat into the muddy bank.
Flashlight beams stabbed through the graying gloom. A guy who must be a police cameraman snapped pictures, blasting his flash at them. Thank God nearby Palatka wasn’t a big city or they’d have a media mess here, too.
Afraid Bronco would bolt, Nick kept hold of his arm and put his other around Claire, who was shaking, however calm she appeared. He was impressed with her again. The girl had guts.
Two officers stepped forward, one with handcuffs, obviously waiting to apprehend Bronco. Worse, Sheriff Goodrich stood there, legs spread, with his Glock drawn.
“You can put the guns away,” Nick called out to him. “There’s been a misunderstanding. It was an argument, not a kidnapping. I jumped the gun and hope you won’t.”
“Is this your idea of one big damn joke, Markwood?” the sheriff demanded as everyone pressed forward. “This whole thing reeks to high heaven! This man’s under arrest, and you’re lucky you’re not, too.”
“I’m Bronco Gates’s pro tem lawyer. He’ll be glad to answer questions, but you need to ask Claire Britten here if she wants to press charges.”
“No. No, I don’t,” she said. “Bronco and I had an argument, then a talk. Everything’s settled.”
“Like hell it is,” Goodrich insisted, but he gestured for his men to holster their pistols, then put his away, too.
Nick could tell Claire almost wavered on her feet. He couldn’t let her be taken away for questioning, even if they did take Bronco. Nick noticed Jasmine was here. She came up and stood on Nick’s other side as the three of them climbed out of the airboat onto the riverbank, slippery from the rain. He steadied Claire again. Suddenly Win Jackson appeared from the back of the small crowd.
“I can tell you it looked bad but it wasn’t,” Win told the sheriff. “I’m the one drove Nick upstream so he could check on them, but everything turned out calm and quiet.”
Silently, Nick blessed Win. He surely hadn’t seen that, but he was trying to back them up. “Let’s hear more from the so-called victim,” Win said with a nod at Claire.
“I know you, don’t I?” the sheriff interrupted, swinging around to face Win.
“Dr. Winston Jackson, photographer from St. Augustine. I’m working here to memorialize Shadowlawn as a historic site in your area. There will be a book, articles, photos. You know, this would be a great site for you to kick off your campaign if you run for office, and I could photograph it, beginning to end. Jasmine Montgomery Stanton and I could set that up for you.”
Despite his frustration, Nick almost burst out laughing. That ploy was so blatant, so ludicrous—and so damned welcome. Goodrich didn’t reply but he nodded as if all that was his due. Again Nick was grateful to Win for stepping in to help. He’d made it back fast through the rain and growing fog. Better yet, he had a camera trained on the sheriff as if to counteract the police department cameraman.
“This isn’t going to be washed away by the rain and this swollen river,” Goodrich muttered. “Everybody inside. I need statements.”
As they trailed toward the mansion, Nick wished he hadn’t claimed to represent Bronco, but he’d get him another lawyer fast. No way he could defend Jasmine and Bronco, too. The sheriff’s questioning would have to eventually get to Francine’s death. Could what had set Bronco off today be related to that? God forgive him, at first he’d hoped Bronco was guilty of harming Francine but now he had to see this through, get him some pro bono help.
But he was really worried about Claire. She’d have to hold herself together at least long enough to give her statement. He wasn’t worried she’d say something wrong, but that she’d collapse.
“Jasmine, can you get Claire some dry clothes and help her out?” he asked. “Something to eat—a hair dryer. You know what I mean.”
“Yes, of course. Can I take her upstairs for a few minutes, sheriff?”
“Come right back down. This isn’t over yet, not by a long shot on my watch.”
As Jasmine led Claire away, wishing he was going with her, Nick realized he was shaking, too.
* * *
Jasmine’s long skirt and peasant-type top were too big on her—even the slippers—but Claire didn’t care. She was safe. Nick seemed not to be mad, but then seemed was a big word for a Certified Fraud Examiner.
When she saw the back of her wet shirt still had the faint outline of a muddy shoe on it, she washed it out with some liquid soap next to the basin in the upstairs bathroom. So she’d stooped to this, she told herself with a sniff, trying not to cry: destroying evidence, slanting the truth. As much as she wanted to help Nick, to be with Nick, she just wanted to go home.
Ignoring the hair blower, she toweled her hair partly dry, though she looked like a specter of herself in the mirror. This bathroom was near Jasmine’s bedroom. It must have been shared with Rosalynn’s bedroom, so it was probably the one where Francine had kept and taken her fatal dose of Propranolol.
Then a thought hit her hard. Her own meds! Had someone found her purse she’d dropped outside or had it washed into the river in the rain? She needed her day pill and, soon, in her exhaustion, her double night dose—and sleep. She shouldn’t carry all those meds with her, but she was afraid to leave the pills and bottle in her hotel room. Who knew if the maid would think it was drugs, which actually it was—drugs she couldn’t stay sane without.
She hung her wet blouse over a towel rack and braced herself with both hands on the basin, staring at herself in the mirror. She was getting goofy, crazy. She wanted to hide, hide
in Nick’s arms like she did after they escaped from his car in the water. She washed her face again, blew her nose and went out into the hall where Jasmine was waiting.
When they were downstairs, before they could join everyone in the parlor—an officer stood guard at the entry—Neil appeared. “I’ve made a cup of tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich for you,” he told her. With a nod, Jasmine went on into the parlor, but Claire saw he’d put a tray on the dining room table. “Let them wait,” he told her. “Jasmine asked me to feed you, and Nick Markwood’s handling things right now. He’s telling Bronco which questions he can answer.”
“Oh, Neil, thank you. Can you sit here a minute, too?” she asked, almost collapsing into the chair he scooted closer to the table for her. “You haven’t heard anyone say they found my purse, have you? My phone and meds are in it,” she told him, intentionally omitting mention of the diary.
“Sorry. Maybe the police have it. If it has any interview notes in it, they probably think all that’s their property now and could try to use it against Jasmine in court.”
She didn’t think she could have ruined things much more for Nick, but what if Neil was right about that? Even though Heck had the final write-ups, she did have notes in the purse that could compromise everything. And, without her meds, she could have one of those waking, horrid nightmares which would make this real-life one pale by comparison.
But she could not pass up the chance to interview Neil now, again. His museum, his masks—had he been the one who tried to scare them en route from Naples? Did he wear his helpful concern like a mask to disguise the face of a killer, one who’d harmed Francine and maybe even Lola?
Neil sat—almost perched as if he would flee—across from her. “Thank God you’re all right, and Bronco, too,” he said, gripping his fingers tightly together but twiddling his thumbs as if he were bored, without a care in the world. “But she can’t keep him on here. He’s a loose cannon to say the least. And who knows if he isn’t really guilty? You’ve seen him up close and personal, as they say, how he can snap. Go ahead,” he urged. “Eat something.”
The hot soup helped some, but she still felt light-headed. Cold, too, but she was warmed by the thought Nick had done everything to look for her. Yet strike while the iron is hot, one of her favorite professors had always said when he taught interview techniques at the university.
“So you do think Bronco could have harmed Lola?” she asked.
“Can’t put it past him. Can you, after all this?”
He looked smug. She didn’t want to have to answer that. “Not to change the subject,” she went on, “but do you believe in the ghost here, the one that’s so important to Bronco?”
“Not really, but I get why he did—or wanted to. It gave him ties to the place, made him feel important.”
How astute that comment was impressed her. Neil was clever. He’d matched her assessment of Bronco exactly. “We’re all like that a bit, aren’t we?” she asked as she took a big bite of the grilled cheese. It had some kind of sharp mustard in it.
“I suppose so. In my case, my museum, you mean?”
She nodded and took a drink of the glass of milk on the tray. “I hear you have some theatrical masks, too. You should put those on display.”
“I intend to. Did Bronco tell you that?”
“Win mentioned it. Look, Neil, tomorrow’s probably my last day here before going home. Could you show the masks to Nick and me before I leave?”
“I don’t really have them on display. I just showed Win so that he’d help me promote my museum.” His voice rose. His posture stiffened.
She’d obviously found his sore point. So did that mean he had been the one in the scream mask the day they left Naples to come here and was afraid to show it to her? She would be wary of him right now, except for the open door and that officer nearby.
Claire ate more soup, while, despite her exhaustion, her mind raced. Jasmine could have told Neil that Nick and she were coming from Naples. If he was guilty of Francine’s murder, maybe he would have looked up Nick’s or her address and stalked them. Had he tried to stop Francine from selling or donating this place? It might have ruined his hope for some fame with that museum as well as his longtime employment here. However, since Jasmine wanted to keep Shadowlawn, Neil wanted things in her control. Maybe he hadn’t realized what was supposed to look like Francine’s accidental drug overdose would turn into a murder investigation with Jasmine in the crosshairs.
“Neil, I can’t thank you enough for this food,” she said again.
He stood, nervously wiping his hands on his shirt as if they were dirty. “Don’t thank me. Jasmine agreed when Markwood requested it. The power always comes back to Jasmine, so don’t forget that in your reports,” he added and went out.
Now what was that supposed to imply? Suddenly the soup and sandwich tasted strange to Claire. How a mood change could affect her. And, whatever else anyone did here tonight, whatever the demands on her, she had to find who had her purse and get her long-past-due pill.
* * *
Despite her Gypsy look and wild hair, Nick thought Claire looked a lot better when she joined them in the parlor. He’d staked out a corner with Bronco sitting beside him, both facing the sheriff. He’d advised Bronco to answer only the questions he’d cleared, and the guy was doing amazingly well. More than once, Claire had warned him not to think Bronco was as backwoods and dense as he managed to sound.
Nick was surprised the sheriff had let Win stay in the back of the room, but maybe he’d gone for his blatant bribe about publicity and a media-friendly place to announce his candidacy. Nick trusted the sheriff about as far as he could throw him.
“Nick, could I talk to you for a minute?” Claire asked. She remained standing next to the officer in the entry. “Or Sheriff Goodrich, too, has anyone found my purse? I have my cell phone there and some other important things. I’d like to call home.”
“I found it where you left it on the river bench,” Nick told her. “With all that’s going on, I forgot it. I think it’s still in Win’s car.”
“I didn’t notice,” Win said, “but I’ll go check. I’ll be right back.”
“May I go with him, sheriff?” Claire asked. “It won’t take long.”
“Officer Armstrong, you go along with them,” Goodrich ordered. “Then I’ll meet you in a front room, Ms. Britten, and we’ll talk there. And not with Attorney Markwood, who suddenly seems to be everybody’s lawyer. You need protection and counsel, Ms. Britten?”
“Of course not, though I must tell you, as a Certified Forensic Fraud Examiner, I’m used to asking the questions.”
Nick sat back down as she followed Win from the room. As scared as he’d been that she’d be hurt or even killed today, her independent streak that drove him nuts was back in force. Damn, but she was going to mess up this case and she’d already played havoc with his life.
27
Claire had been surprised to find Win in the interview room, sitting quietly at the back. He had a small camera in his hand, not his large one. She felt so grateful to him, like he was on Bronco’s side and helping Nick.
But, besides being desperate to find her purse, she wanted to find out if he’d admit to an affair with Francine that Bronco had mentioned, so that was why she’d asked to go with him. But would he turn against Bronco? Maybe she could imply she’d guessed it from the diary he already knew about.
The officer following them opened the front door and stood there watching. The rain was starting again, so she waited on the covered front veranda as Win went out to his SUV, popped on the lights, opened the doors and searched.
Oh, no, she thought. It must not be there.
She gripped her hands together. She’d missed a Provigil, and was exhausted from last night, not to mention the terror of today. Worse, she really needed her
nighttime double dosage soon. She’d have to take it in Nick’s car on the way back if they had to stay here late—if Win could find her purse. And then, four hours later, she’d need that second dose.
“Got it!” he called to her. He slammed the back door and jogged toward the house.
She could have hugged him! Thank heavens, Nick had found it and kept it safe. The moment they stepped back into the house, she opened the purse and looked inside. Yes! Her meds safe, her notes, the diary here! She’d made such a mess of things today that Nick might never trust her or want to work with her again, but this helped.
“I’ve got to take a pill, Win.”
“Settle your nerves?”
“For my narcolepsy.”
“No kidding? That’s tough. I never knew anyone with that. Do you need some water?”
“I’ve got a glass of milk in the dining room. You know that diary of Francine’s I mentioned?”
“Yeah, saw you reading it. I’d love to include it in the photos—maybe a close-up, inside and out.”
“I’ve been reading it, as I said. Forgive me for asking this, but I get the idea that you and Francine were, maybe briefly, more than friends.”
He glanced back at the police officer still following them, though the man went back to his position at the entry to the parlor. Win followed her into the dining room, leaning against the wall, arms crossed as she gulped down her pill. She wondered if he was going to answer. He looked sad, but not really upset or angry she’d asked.
“Briefly is probably the operative word,” he told her. “It was a weak moment for each of us. Needy. Mutual. Intense. Over.”
“Just a parting of the ways, but not over anything?”
He shrugged. “I thought she should not lose control of this place, but it was her place.”