Another Man's Treasure

by Anna Kittrell

  They kissed as if sharing the same breath, bodies moving in unison, hungrily consuming one another. They made love urgently, as if to right wrongs, stop time, halt the earth’s spinning. In an explosion that left them both gasping, they clung to each other, shaking, heat rushing from their bodies.

  Charis gazed at her dazzling surroundings. The golden sun lowering in the sky, golden leaves in the trees, golden flecks in Deason’s eyes. It was all so beautiful.

  “I love you, Charis.”

  “I love you too,” she answered, heart swelling, teeth rattling.

  He smiled. “Let’s get you dried off.” He helped her to the shore, draped the quilt around her shoulders. Kinko whimpered, straining against the leash. Deason untied her and let her run ahead of them on the path.

  They approached a few moments later, chuckling to find her nosing through the picnic basket.

  Charis plucked their clothing from the tree branch, handed Deason his pants. “At least no one stole our clothes when we were skinny dipping. I remember Lita saying that actually happened to her once.”

  “So, how is Lita? Is she still staying at your place?” He pulled on his jeans.

  “No. She fell back into her old ways. It really breaks my heart, how she has all of her self-worth tied up in men’s opinions.” Charis fastened her bra then tugged the sweater over her head. “I was so afraid of turning out like her. After divorcing Vic I convinced myself I didn’t need a man in my life. I did fine, too, until you came along.” She buttoned her jeans and stepped closer.

  “Hey, wait a minute, now.”

  “Let me finish,” she said, running her fingers through his damp hair. “Until you came along and made me feel beautiful and real. When I’m with you, I’m okay with who I am. I don’t feel like I have to change.”

  He wrapped his arms around her. “You’d better not change. You’re amazing just the way you are.”

  Chapter Nine

  “We need to talk.”

  Charis winced, swallowing a lump the size of a ball cactus. How dare Wendell speak to her in that tone. Needles pricked her throat, roughing her voice. “About what.” It didn’t come out like a question.

  “About what?” He looked at the ceiling and chuckled, shaking his head. Charis wanted to slap him. “Well…about this, of course.” He held up the notebook she’d been writing in at the kitchen table. The one she’d left there less than five minutes ago when she’d tiptoed to the living room to check on Mr. B. What was Wendell doing, showing up unannounced, anyway? She started to ask him but thought better of it since it was, technically, his house.

  “Yes, Wendell, that’s my notebook. Whatever’s inside it is my business. Give it back.” She held out her hand, willing it not to tremble.

  But it did tremble and Wendell saw it, his murky eyes snapped to her unsteady fingertips. “Normally, I’d have to agree, but not this time. This time I must intervene.”

  Her nostrils flared, accommodating her thickening breath. She wished to god she’d waited until her feet were planted under her own kitchen table before writing her confession. Deason’s preliminary hearing, currently underway, had her brain running pointlessly—hamster on a wheel—in an endless loop of what-ifs. Needing a diversion, she’d flipped to the center of the notebook that she normally wrote Wendell’s phone messages in, and drafted the confession of Vic’s murder.

  Thorough, convincing, enthralling. Some of her best work, if she did say so. But what good did it do her now, trapped between Wendell’s big fat nosy fingers?

  She opened her mouth then shut it, reminding herself to stay cool…calm…collected. If she lost her head, she’d very likely lose Mr. B as well. Wendell’s paranoia had driven him to the edge. She knew he wasn’t above using Mr. B against her in order to get what he wanted. She lowered her hand to one of the kitchen chairs.

  “Go ahead, sit down.” Wendell nodded, pulling the chair out for her then settling himself into Mr. B’s chair, notebook securely in hand.

  “What do you want?” She realized it might take more than her shredding the confession to appease his already delusional thoughts.

  “I want to know why you’d do such a thing.”

  Pondering how to answer, Charis looked out the window. The overcast sky matched her mood. She turned her gaze to the lawn, where she’d first met Deason.

  “It’s that stinking trash man, isn’t it?” Wendell raised his voice and his fist, slamming it against the table.

  The action reminded her of Vic. Nightmares disguised as memories flooded her mind and she bolted from the chair. “Now you listen here, Wen—”

  “I’m sorry…I’m sorry. Please, sit back down. It won’t happen again.” He pushed his glasses up by the nosepiece, paused to rub his fingertip between his eyebrows for a moment.

  She sat, glaring at him, fury throbbing behind her eyes like hate’s heartbeat.

  “I don’t know why I’m concerned, anyway. I mean, do you really believe the authorities are going to look twice at a confession scrawled on a sheet of notebook paper?” Wendell asked, eyelids at half-mast, expressing his disdain.

  “So you think my confession is inadequate? Should I polish it up a little, make it look more professional?” She called his bluff, refusing to be intimidated by him.

  Wendell sighed. “I can see you won’t be dissuaded. I just can’t believe you’d do something like this.” His voice was little more than a whisper. “Confessing to a murder you didn’t commit. Charis, do you realize what could happen?”

  “I’ve thought it over. Besides, how do you know I didn’t kill him? I had every reason to.”

  He reached for her hand, covering it with his on the table. “I know you, Charis.”

  She yanked her hand from him, cradled it against her chest.

  His lips curved into a slow grin. “Oh, I know you so well. Certainly better than you’d like to imagine.”

  “Apparently not as good as you think you do. I killed Vic Locke. And I’m turning myself in.” She wanted to beg Wendell not to stick Mr. B in a nursing home if she went to jail. But she held her tongue, terrified if she exposed her fears he’d use them against her—maybe put Mr. B in a home just for spite.

  Wendell nodded. “Hmmm. Interesting.” A smirk played on his dry lips.

  “Yes, I guess it is.” Charis shifted, annoyed at his I know something you don’t mannerisms.

  “What would you say if I told you that your garbage man has been spending a suspicious amount of time with his ex-wife lately? Frequenting her place of employment as well as that seedy little apartment she calls home.”

  The furious drumbeat behind Charis’s eyes stilled, the silence deafening as she searched Wendell’s smug features.

  “You think I’m lying. And for what purpose?”

  “Jealousy?” The word echoed in the empty chasm of her head.

  Wendell chuckled. “Yes, yes, of course. I’m jealous. Of a murdering trash man with no future.” The chuckle ended with a high-pitched hum. “No, Charis. As much as you’d like to think envy is my motive, it’s simply not. I care about you and so does my father. I’m telling you about McKindle’s jaunts with his tramp of an ex-wife because I’m concerned for your well-being. I don’t want to see you pining away—confessing to murder, no less—over some two-timing snake.”

  “And just where are you getting your information? What, did you have your ear against Mrs. Smith’s wall while she was yacking to her busy-body sister?” Charis twisted her face into a scowl, wishing looks could kill.

  “If only this was harmless gossip,” he sighed. “It hurts me to tell you this, but I saw them with my own eyes on more than one occasion. And that was only on the days I happened to be in town. No telling how many countless rendezvous they’ve shared.”

  Blood, packed with ice, slushed through her veins. She wouldn’t let him see her cry—but she wasn’t above pretending. She dropped her head to her hands, peeked through her fingers.

  “I’m so sorry, Charis,” he cooed, s
etting the notebook on the table as he rose and stepped toward her then stood behind her chair, kneading her shoulders. “It’s best you know.”

  Charis coiled internally then struck, lunging across the table for the abandoned notebook, jerking it from his reach. She shoved it into the waistband of her scrubs. “Go after it, lose a hand,” she assured him, her gaze steady.

  Wendell’s fingers twitched then relaxed at his side.

  Charis slammed through the screen door, swallowing tears all the way to her car. For the first time, she hadn’t kissed Mr. B’s forehead and told him goodbye.

  She’d really done it this time. So much for persuading Wendell to hire Daphne as Mr. B’s caregiver. The heartfelt plea she’d envisioned herself delivering to Wendell through the Plexiglas pane would never happen now. She’d consider herself lucky if he ever let her see Mr. B again, let alone have anything to do with his care. The thought made her sick to her stomach.

  Damn Wendell. From the tiny seed of doubt he planted, shoots already surfaced, cracking through the fertile soil of her clouded mind. She slid the notebook from her waistband, tossed it on the seat then backed from the driveway. At least he’d parked the Audi at the curb instead of boxing her in.

  She had to see Deason. Not to tell him about Wendell’s allegations—she’d never stoop so low as to make him defend himself against such ludicrous claims. She just wanted to see him to prove to her muddled brain that what they shared truly existed, that it was real and worth fighting for. She needed to know their love outweighed the risk she fully intended to take.

  She pulled into the courthouse parking lot. He’d promised to call when the preliminary hearing ended. Instead, she’d surprise him by waiting in her car, meeting him with open arms on the courthouse steps when he emerged.

  She tilted the rearview mirror down and dabbed at her eyes with the inside of her sleeve. Shame on her for letting Wendell get her so worked up. She had to stay strong for Deason. He needed her support. The hearing was important. It would direct Deason and his attorney on how to proceed toward the dreaded trial that no one wanted to think about. In the hearing, the judge would set a trial date. Of course, if things worked out the way she’d planned, the spotlight should swing away from Deason and land on her before that date arrived.

  The hair she twisted around her finger mimicked her tightly wound nerves. A glance at the dashboard clock made her feel a little better. Ten fifteen. Deason’s lawyer predicted the hearing to last about an hour. It started at nine o’clock, so it should be adjourning soon. Hopefully she wouldn’t have long to wait…and think.

  She caressed the pale skin on her finger where her ring used to rest, remembering why independence was once such a priority in her life. Days like this, when a big truckload of love-induced insecurity backed up and dumped.

  Her heart turned acrobat, flipping inside her ribs as her gaze on the courthouse doors sharpened. She noticed a tiny gap, as if someone rested an arm against it. Charis’s fingers twitched on the handle, she yanked the car open as the gap widened between the front doors.

  She spotted Deason in the doorway. The smile invading her face felt good, like stretching out a stiff muscle. Moisture collected in the outer corners of her eyes and her smile grew, cheeks rising higher—then falling, melting like taffy in the sun. Tears of joy turned to sorrow as Deason held the door open for Gabriella, placed an arm around her shoulders and walked her down the courthouse steps.

  ****

  Deason very possibly could have pushed Gabriella down the steep courthouse steps rather than help her negotiate them. The preliminary hearing had been a nightmare because of her refusal to disclose Trips’s real name to the prosecutor, to Attorney Crowley or Judge Baker. She’d wailed and sobbed so much, Deason actually found himself missing the cold, unflappable demeanor he’d so despised. At least that Gabriella would have ratted out the miserable son of a bitch responsible for killing Vic and pinning it on him.

  He looked at Gabby as they descended the stairs. Mascara-stained tears streaked her grayish skin. Skin that used to be warm caramel. Her unwashed hair was matted and her clothes were a rumpled mess. He supposed seeing a man killed in cold blood could do that to a person. If it wasn’t for his life hanging in the balance of her testimony, he’d feel sorry for her. As it was, he felt little more than the urge to shake some sense into her.

  The trial was slated for November the twelfth. One month and four days from now. The speediest trial Crowley said he’d ever heard of in this county. Judge Baker said he wanted to wrap things up before the Thanksgiving holiday, meaning he didn’t foresee any bumps in the road and expected the trial to run smooth as silk. For some reason the prediction kinked a knot in Deason’s gut. The knot twisted into a noose when Crowley informed Deason that Gabriella would be dismissed as a witness if she didn’t pull herself together and give up the alleged murderer’s name. She wasn’t helping his case. She was hurting it.

  Deason planted a foot on the walkway, arm still encircling Gabby, guiding her down the last concrete step. Both of their heads jerked toward the howl of Skid Row’s Eighteen and Life blaring above the rumble of a car engine.

  “Jag.” Deason raised his chin toward the approaching Trans Am.

  “Think he’d give me a ride home?” Gabriella hitched between sobs.

  Jagger lurched to a halt in front of them, eyebrows down in an unmistakable scowl of disapproval. “What’s all this?” he growled, gaze directed at Gabriella.

  “I’ll explain everything later. In the meantime, do you mind if we give her a ride home?”

  Gabby rubbed skeletal hands over her face then wiped them on the thin fabric of her wrinkled miniskirt.

  Jagger raised a bushy eyebrow. “You already look cold, and it’s a long walk to your building. Hop in back.”

  She nodded and slid behind the passenger seat.

  “Buckle up,” Deason commanded, returning the front seat to an upright position then easing into it. He ignored Jagger’s sideways glance as the car roared from the parking lot.

  “I saw Charis. She was pullin’ out of the courthouse lot when I pulled in,” Jagger said, turning down the radio.

  Deason’s pulse reacted. “She left?” he asked, resisting the urge to roll down the window and crane his neck, search the street like a kid looking for Santa.

  “Didn’t see which way she turned.”

  Deason’s mind stumbled in a fog of unease. “Can I borrow your phone for a minute, man?” he asked, no longer having a phone of his own.

  Jagger handed him the cell.

  “Thanks.” He dialed Charis’s number and listened, breath held as it rang repeatedly, eventually going to voice mail. Wanting to tell her about the hearing in person, he ended the call.

  Jagger stopped the car at the curb in front of Gabriella’s apartment building. Deason got out and Gabriella climbed from behind the seat.

  “Thank you. I appreciate it.” Her tears had slowed. “Deason, I’m sorry.” She lowered her eyes and ran a hand through her tangled hair. “I don’t think I can do it.”

  Deason lifted her chin, coaxing her gaze to his. “Gabby. Please. This is my life we’re talking about. I need you to do this. You can’t live under this guy’s thumb forever. Just give me his name and I’ll make sure he doesn’t hurt you. Me and Jag will drive you straight to the police station and get you protection. Or to the bus station and buy you a ticket that will take you far away from this town, away from that lowlife holding you captive. He doesn’t own you, Gabriella. Give me his name and this will all be over.”

  She brought trembling fingers to his face. “I’m sorry.” She kissed his cheek and turned, clipping up the steps to her apartment.

  Deason climbed into the car, ignoring Jagger’s elevated eyebrow.

  “Well?”

  Deason inhaled, expanding his chest to the point of bursting then released a long, ragged breath. “Gabriella knows who’s setting me up for Vic’s murder. She saw everything. The guy’s scaring her into keepin
g her mouth shut—threatening to pin the murder on her, or kill her.”

  “Who is the bastard?” Jag accelerated, fishtailed onto the roadway.

  “She won’t say. Like I said, she’s scared. She calls him ‘Trips,’ but won’t give up his real name.”

  “Trips…Trips…” Jagger rolled the name around, as if trying to place it. “What the hell kind of name is that? Does it stand for somethin’?”

  “I don’t know. I’m telling you, I’ve tried everything to get her to talk. She won’t budge.”

  “Maybe she needs Jaggerized. A few minutes with these hands and she’ll squeal.” Jagger wiggled his calloused fingers. “Course I’ll stop short at doin’ the deed. I respect my woman too much to cross that line.”

  Deason looked heavenward out his window. Jagger was so full of crap. “Anyway, my lawyer’s getting cold feet about using her testimony. He thinks she’s lying. If she takes the stand, the prosecutor will have her for lunch, and the jury won’t have the patience for her blubbering. Her story’s useless if she won’t drop the guy’s name.”

  “How long before the trial?”

  “Judge set it for November twelfth. Said he wanted it wrapped up before Thanksgiving.” Thanksgiving. Seemed just days ago it was summertime. “Hey, swing by Charis’s house. I want to tell her how the hearing went. She’s not answering the phone.”

  “No problem, bro.” Jagger drove toward Charis’s development and turned up the radio. “Nope. Car ain’t here.” He stopped at the curb in front of her house.

  Deason frowned. “Hold on. I’ll be right back.” He slid from the seat and jogged to her door. He knocked, grinning as Kinko’s bark greeted him on the other side. No answer.

  “Don’t know why you’re knockin’, her car’s gone,” Jagger yelled out the window as if Deason hadn’t noticed. “Want me to drive by Barnaby’s?” he asked as Deason slid back into the car.

  “Yeah.”

  “Meetin’ Daphne at the pet shop in ten minutes. We’ve got time for a quick stop.” He pulled from the curb and sped toward West Kentucky Street.