by J. S. Marlo
The heat of her body seeped through her nightgown. Seeking the texture of her skin, he ran both hands over her back, pushing the fabric up with each stroke. Her fingers drifted down his chest and migrated around his waist, skimming along the edge of his boxers. Soft curves pressed against him, igniting a blaze inside his body. She arched into him and moaned. Easing the kiss, he gently lowered her onto the bed and leaned over her.
“Blythe…” Her soft murmur fueled his passion. He loved her. He loved her with all his heart and he wanted to show her how much.
Through narrow lids, he gazed at her. The same desire devouring his soul shone in her beautiful green eyes. “I love you, Riley. Would it betray Oliver’s memory if—” Her knee sensuously rubbed against his thigh, wreaking havoc with his mind. “If we…”
Underneath him, every muscle in her body coiled, and her eyes grew wider. “Is that your phone?”
“My what?” From the next room, his cell rang, loud and disturbing. “Oh…” Not impressed by the untimely interruption, but relieved the call had caused her reaction, not him, he rolled onto his side and groaned. “It’s probably Beth worrying about us.” No one else would dare call him in the middle of the night. “My phone is on the kitchen counter. Would you answer, please? She’s bound to give more credence to your reassurance than mine.”
“You want me to talk to her? Won’t she find it weird I’m still in your apartment?”
“No, she won’t.” Beth had guessed he was in love with Riley, or she wouldn’t have given her his keys. “Feel free to tell her she’s disturbing us.”
A nice shade of red spread to her cheeks as she slid off his bed. “I don’t think so.”
Intent on eavesdropping on the conversation, he followed her into the kitchen where she picked up his phone.
“Hello—Beth?” A frown appeared on her forehead as she handed him the handset. “They hung up.”
“Who was it?” Not that he cared much about the mysterious caller.
“There was no one there. Can you recall the number?”
The screen showed unavailable. Suspecting a wrong number, he tossed the cell on the counter. “It must not have been important.” The interruption pushed out of his mind, he encircled her waist with his arms. In her yellow nightie, with its row of buttons running from the valley of her breasts to her thighs, she looked as stunning as the evening she’d worn the emerald gown. “You’re beautiful.” Spellbound by the glow in her eyes, he undid the first button, exposing a patch of creamy skin. Her hands caressed his chest, and she made no attempt to stop his exploration. He pulled her closer. Her lips were soft and inviting, but as he teased her with a feathery kiss, he felt her tense in his arms. A ring reverberated in the room, the ring of her cell phone.
“I need to answer,” she whispered against his mouth.
He hated phones, but the vexing sound couldn’t be ignored, not when it could be one of the kids calling her. Reluctantly, he released her. Her purse was on a bar stool, within reach of her hand. She dug inside for her phone and answered. “Hello? Piper?”
Piper? As in Hunter’s girlfriend?
“Slow down, Piper. What fire?” A dark shadow crossed her eyes, and he feared for her son. “Are you okay?” Color drained from her face. “Don’t worry. I’ll be there soon.”
The phone slipped from her hand and hit the floor.
“Riley?” He drew her close to his chest and gently stroked her back. “What happened? Is Hunter all right?”
“The ranch is burning. I need to go home.”
***
Janice exited the nurses’ coffee room on her floor as the door of the stairwell leading into the extended care wing closed on a shadow. Wondering who had shown up for such a late night visit, she perused the visitor logbook and wasn’t surprised to see Mr. Huxley’s name.
According to the entry, he’d stayed fifteen minutes and left—she glanced at her watch—two minutes ago. Yes, she’d missed him.
She might as well go check on his wife in case he’d ruffled the sheets or the pillow. No one in the hospital wanted to deal with another complaint from the awful in-laws.
Mr. Huxley was a decent man. When most men would have walked away, he’d stuck by his wife’s side. It wasn’t fair the pretty thing was brain dead.
She entered the room and turned on the light.
A pillow covered Mrs. Huxley’s face.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Seated in the first row of the plane with his arm behind Riley’s back, Blythe pulled her closer to him.
He’d bought two first-class tickets, the only seats left available on the two-hour flight leaving at 5:15 a.m., and insisted on going with her. Letting her deal with the disaster alone hadn’t been an option.
Asleep against his shoulder, with her fist gripping his shirt, she twitched and shivered. He couldn’t see the images occupying her subconscious, but he guessed they revolved around fire.
“A blanket, sir?”
He accepted a dark-blue blanket from the flight attendant. Unfolded, the blanket was large enough to cover both of them.
Shielded from prying eyes, he slipped his hand under her top and caressed her bare back. The short passionate interlude in his apartment had erased the line between friendship and love, and there would be no backtracking. The intimate touch visibly evened out her breathing. He leaned his cheek against her hair and closed his eyes.
When he awoke, the blanket had slipped onto his lap, and snuggled in his arms, Riley was playing with a button on his shirt.
“No undressing me,” he teased, gazing down at her. “The flight attendant may get the wrong idea.”
She tilted her head in his direction, and he was pleased to see a rosy tinge coloring her pale cheeks. “How long have you and Claire been married?”
“Seventeen years.” Pleasant memories of the life they’d shared together fleeted across his mind. Claire had been his best friend, his wife, and his lover. “She was the only woman in my life, Shamrock.”
Through the gap in his shirt, her fingers brushed his bare skin, tantalizing his senses. “Would you introduce her to me someday?”
The strange request baffled him at first, but then he remembered his own curiosity toward her husband. “Did Oliver ever tell you he met Claire?” Her brows arched over her lovely eyes as she shook her head. “The day you were shot, he came into Claire’s room. We talked for a while. He was a good man, and he loved you very much.” Moistened by tears, her eyes shone a brighter shade of green. “Next time I go visit Claire, would you come with me?”
“I’d like that.”
He placed a tender kiss on her forehead.
Through the intercom, the flight attendant instructed the passengers to prepare for landing.
***
A police officer, young enough to be fresh from the academy, guarded the door of Mrs. Huxley’s hospital room. “Good morning, sir. The deceased is in there, and the nurse who found her is in the lounge at the end of the hallway.”
Jackson thanked him with a nod of the head then entered the crime scene.
“Morning, Jackson.” Bent over the body of the dead woman, the coroner examined her arms. “Glad to know I wasn’t the only one dragged from his bed.”
“My wife wasn’t too impressed by the call.” At the best of times, his wife hated to be awoken before dawn. “So, Dave? What have we got?”
Way back when they were still young and in shape, Dave and he had played on the same hockey team in university. Over the years, Dave hadn’t put on as much weight as Jackson, but he’d lost his hair, except for a thinning silver crown.
“Suffocation. Time of death occurred between three and 4 a.m. The nurse found a pillow stuffed over her head. I’m guessing it’s your murder weapon. I’ll know more after the autopsy.”
As far as Jackson was concerned, the murder weapon was embedded in the woman’s brain. “I also want the bullet in her head.”
“You’ll get it. By the way, I found this in the folds
of her nightgown.” The coroner picked up a torn piece of paper from the night table and held it between the tips of his index finger and his thumb. “It looks like some sort of receipt.”
Jackson removed an evidence bag from his pocket and slid the paper inside. “Do you carry a magnifying glass?”
“Aren’t we demanding tonight?” He pointed at the handbag near the leg of the hospital bed. “There should be one in my kit. Help yourself.”
Through the lens of a magnifying glass he found in Dave’s kit, Jackson examined the torn piece of paper. “Exquisite Creations and…something.” The blue ink had faded, and the last word was illegible.
“Sounds like the place in Roverside where my wife bought her dress for her sister’s wedding. I remember that night—a landlady on the east side was found dead in a staircase, and I had to case the scene in my tuxedo.” He shook his head wryly at the memory. “I must confess I preferred that to spending the evening dancing around like a clumsy penguin.”
Jackson chuckled. Had the roles been reversed, he would have taken up residence in the doghouse for skipping part of the reception. He glanced down at the receipt in his hand, which also showed the partial imprint of a credit card number and some sort of description. “Shimmering emerald…gow?”
“Gown. You need to take your wife out more often.” Dave snapped off his gloves. “Can I take the deceased?” A gurney waited in the room, ready to transport the victim.
“Yes.” Jackson pocketed the receipt. “I’ll call you after I notify the family. Any chance you could schedule the autopsy for this afternoon?”
“You do know she’s not going anywhere, don’t you?”
“The bullet in her head is related to another attempted murder. I want it A.S.A.P. The crime scene unit is on its way.”
A dubious look fleeted across the coroner’s face. “Okay.”
Deep in thought, Jackson left the room and walked down the hospital corridor toward the lounge.
In his career, he’d investigated many cold, calculated murders, but this one ranked high on the disturbing list. A woman in a vegetative state didn’t pose a threat. By all means, Claire Huxley was already dead. Silencing her couldn’t be the killer’s motive. The more he dug into the case, the more he believed Roswell, the stepdad of the abused boy, to be innocent of the attack despite the evidence against him.
The lounge was guarded by another young recruit. Must be Rookie Night at the station. Jackson stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
“I’m Detective Jackson. I’m here to investigate Mrs. Huxley’s death.”
“I’m Dr. Salinski, Claire Huxley’s doctor.” The doctor, a white male wearing an immaculate white coat, discarded an empty paper cup into a garbage can near a coffee machine. “And this is Nurse Janice Medley. She found Mrs. Huxley.”
Nurse Medley, who looked to be from the same graduating year as the rookie behind the door, paced the room like a nervous witness waiting to testify. “I never lost a patient on my watch before.”
From his jacket pocket, Jackson pulled out a notebook and a pen. “Nurse Medley, would you please tell me exactly what happened tonight? You can start at the beginning of your shift.”
“I got here shortly before midnight and made a quick round. Around 2:30 a.m., I made another round. I like to make sure my patients are comfortable. That’s when I noticed Mrs. Huxley’s IV had leaked on to her bed.” Her hands trembled as she rubbed them together. “I changed her nightgown and her sheets. Around 3:15 a.m., I went back into her room to make sure the IV line functioned properly. There was no leak, and Mrs. Huxley was breathing normally. But then, at 3:47 a.m., I heard the stairwell door close as I was coming out of another room.”
To hear the nurse mention a specific time when she’d used estimates until then was peculiar. “At three forty-seven exactly?”
Her head bobbled up and down. “I looked at my watch when I saw Mr. Huxley leave.”
“You saw him?”
“Yes—no—but he did sign in and out.” She stopped near the coffee machine and eyed the paper cups. “Would you like a cup?”
“No, thank you.” Back when he’d been a recruit, the guys had teased him for not drinking coffee. Twenty years later, he still didn’t like the brew. “What do you mean by he signed in?”
“Nurse Medley means the logbook at the nurses’ station. Every time Mr. Huxley comes on the floor late or early, he signs in and out.” His shoulder leaning against the wall, Salinski met his gaze. “He visits his wife every day, Detective. I can assure you he has nothing to do with her death.”
“I didn’t accuse him, Doctor.” On his way out, he’d examine the logbook. “Nurse Medley? What happened after you heard the door?”
She added sugar to her coffee. “I went into Mrs. Huxley’s room, and I found her with—with the pillow over her head. I rushed to her side, removed the pillow, checked for vital signs, called for help…” Visibly shaken, she held her cup with both hands. “That’s when Doctor Salinski walked in.”
“I was making early rounds when I heard the commotion inside Mrs. Huxley’s room.” Salinski had picked up where the rattled nurse left off. “By the time I intervened, she was dead.”
The doctor’s timely arrival was convenient. “What do you mean by intervened? Did you try to revive her?”
“No. There’s a clause in her medical file that prevents resuscitation. When she showed no sign of life, I followed protocol and called your office.”
The dispatcher at the station had received the call at 4 a.m., less than fifteen minutes later. Jackson would need to see her medical file. “Did any of you mention the pillow to anyone?”
With the tip of his pen, he singled out each of them. When they shook their heads, he heaved a silent sigh of relief. If they kept their mouths shut, he might be able to contain the details of the murder. “This is an official investigation. I don’t want the circumstances of her death to leak. Is that understood?”
The doctor didn’t nod as readily as the nurse. “I have colleagues, Detective. What do I say if they ask?”
Something in Salinski’s phlegmatic attitude rubbed Jackson the wrong way, and his timely arrival in Mrs. Huxley’s room added to his suspicions. The doctor wouldn’t be the first angel of mercy to take matters in his own hands. “You say the bullet killed her, Doctor, and that she stopped breathing.” As far as he was concerned, it wasn’t a total lie. “By the way, have you ever heard of a store named Exquisite Creations?”
“If you mean Exquisite Creations and Designs in Roverside, yes. It’s a high-end boutique for women. My ex-wife used to spend my paycheck there. Why?”
“Curiosity.”
The nurse had changed the nightgown around 2:30 a.m., and forty-five minutes later, Mrs. Huxley was dead. Whoever lost that receipt in the folds of the fresh nightgown had to have been in the room around the time of her death.
Chapter Thirty-Five
At the foot of the mountain, dusted with a thick layer of gray ashes, lay the charred ruins of her ranch, forever obliterated from the landscape she loved. If not for Blythe’s arms encircling her waist from behind and his chest supporting her back, Riley would have collapsed on the ground and cried until darkness engulfed her.
The fire truck and Ollie’s team stood like a barrier between the other buildings and destruction. Spared by the fire, the stable, the barn, and the garage appeared to have suffered only water damage.
A wrapped bundle tucked under his arm, the fire chief walked with long strides toward her, and he greeted her with a hug. “Hello, Riley. Your boy showed up early this morning.”
Blythe had parked her SUV near Hunter’s Mustang in front of the garage, but she hadn’t seen her son. “Do you know where he went?”
“He and Piper are in the woods, rounding up the horses that escaped.”
Three horses were corralled in the paddock by the stable. The others wouldn’t have ventured far. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“We had a wicke
d thunderstorm last night. Piper told us she was in the stable trying to calm the horses when lighting struck over her head. When she looked outside, the house was on fire. She called us right away, but…” He ran a thick hand into black, greasy hair. “The damn wood was so dry, it flared instantly. By two-thirty, it was over.”
“Two-thirty?” Piper had called her at three, which would have been 2 a.m. mountain time. Half an hour later, her ranch was gone. Rushing to the airport, flying home, driving at dawn after a sleepless night…all had been for nothing. As if he felt her despair, Blythe tightened his arms around her.
“We stayed and kept pumping water until the ashes were cold and the inspector showed up.” If the chief paid any attention to the way Blythe touched her, he didn’t show it.
“So it was an accident, not arson?”
“Oliver rubbed off on you, Riley. The inspector went through the rubble and found no indication the fire was triggered by anything other than lightning. The fire was the result of Mother Nature’s wrath.” A muscle twitched below the chief’s left eye. “Jeff and Carl ventured inside with a hose, but nothing could stop the ravage. All we could do was douse the other buildings to stop them from catching fire.”
His account sank in, and she slowly nodded. Chad had inherited the old ranch from a dead uncle, and he’d joked that if it ever caught fire, the house would burn to the ground before he had time to don his fire suit. Mother Nature had proved him right. Despite her loss, she appreciated the firefighters’ efforts. “Was anyone injured?”
“No, but while he was inside, Jeff took this.” The chief presented her with the bundle wrapped in a towel. “After all you’ve been through, he thought you might need it.”