Another Man's Treasure

by Anna Kittrell

  “I’ll be damned,” Deason muttered, noting Wendell’s car in the drive. “No sign of her.” He unbuckled his seatbelt and grabbed the door handle. “Maybe Wendell knows where she’s at.”

  “Hate to do this to you, bro, but you ain’t got time to get out of the car. Daph’s waitin’ for me. She ain’t happy if I’m late, if you get my drift. Your girl probably just ran to the store or somethin’. I’ll ask Daph if she’s talked to her.” Jagger spun from the curb and swung a U-turn. “I’ll drop you off at my place on the way. Got your key?”

  Deason patted his front pocket. “Yeah, it’s here.”

  A few minutes later, Jagger rolled to a stop in front of his small house. “She’ll call.” He winked as Deason slammed the car door.

  ****

  “Hello?” Charis answered, putting on her brightest, you didn’t wake me, voice.

  “You were sleeping,” Daphne accused through the phone.

  “No I wasn’t. I’m wide awake, watching TV.”

  “Is that so? I just happen to be standing on your front porch. Your house is dark as an Oklahoma liquor store on Sunday.”

  “What time—” Charis rolled toward the nightstand and looked at the clock. Almost midnight.

  “How come your car’s not in the drive?” Daphne demanded.

  Her car. “Oh. Yeah. I parked beside the back alley when I got home this afternoon. I wanted to take a nap without being disturbed.”

  “My ass. You hid it there to worry the hell out of Deason and I want to know why.”

  “Worried? Last time I checked, he didn’t know I existed. I was parked twenty feet from the man and he didn’t even see me. Couldn’t pry his eyes—or his arms—off of her long enough to notice.” Charis snapped her mouth shut, angry for blurting her guts out. Angry at Deason for driving her to it.

  “Let me in.” Charis heard a light knock on the front door. “Please.”

  She slid from the bed and padded to the door, shoving the phone in her pocket. Her neck was stiff, her scrubs wrinkled from sleep. She ran her fingertips across the puffy skin under her eyes.

  “You look like crap.” Daphne barged in.

  “Thanks,” Charis said, Kink at her heels. “Good to see you too.”

  Daphne smirked, in stride to the coffee pot. She dumped in Folgers, added water. “What happened?” she asked, pulling a kitchen chair out for Charis then sitting across from her.

  Charis swallowed the tears marching up her throat. “I—I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Yes you do. Let it out.”

  She shook her head, pressing her hands to her lips, Daphne’s face blurring behind a wash of tears. Daphne reached across the table, taking her hand.

  With a loud sob, the dam broke, spilling her heart, rushing Daphne to the bathroom for Kleenex and a wet washrag. “How. Could. He.” The words hitched out, rocking her body with each syllable. God, she hated what she’d been reduced to. A weak, needy, codependent excuse for a woman. She rubbed her finger, longing for the wings she’d sacrificed for Deason’s freedom.

  “How could he what, Charis? What’s wrong?”

  “He’s seeing his ex-wife. Gabriella. The woman he supposedly can’t stand.”

  Daphne’s green eyes flashed. “For his sake, I hope you’re lying.”

  Charis widened her gaze. “Do I look like I’m lying? I saw them together this afternoon on the courthouse steps. He was…holding her…helping her down the stairs. She kissed his cheek.”

  “Funny, Jagger didn’t mention that part. He just said when he picked up Deason from the courthouse, they couldn’t find you. Said Deason was worried sick something had happened.”

  “Something happened all right. Gabriella.”

  Charis fought back a second jag of hysterics. She wondered how the preliminary hearing turned out, wondered why she even cared. She wondered how, at a time like this, she could possibly think of submitting a signed confession to get Deason off the hook.

  But she was considering it, the weight of the decision pulling her brain into her chest, making it impossible to distinguish her head from her heart.

  “There has to be an explanation.” Daphne handed her a tissue. “Blow,” she ordered. “On the bright side, at least now I don’t have to worry about you following through with that harebrained confession scheme.”

  Charis dropped her gaze.

  “No. Don’t tell me you’re still thinking about it. Swear to god, Charis, I’m beginning to think Mr. Barnaby’s rubbed off on you.”

  “Deason doesn’t deserve to go to prison for a crime he didn’t commit. I still care about his future, even if I don’t have a stake in it. I’ll plead guilty, avoid a jury trial and get off with a slap on the wrist. Like I told you before, if Deason gets convicted he could spend the rest of his life in prison.”

  Daphne glared. “This might come as a shock to you, Charis, but this is not The Burning Bed, and you are not Farrah Fawcett. There’s no guarantee you’ll get off. You have no idea what will happen inside that courthouse when you confess to Vic’s murder. If you go through with this, you’ll find yourself a whole lot surprised and a whole lot sorry. Don’t do it.”

  Charis looked at Kinko, sleeping at her feet, forgotten tennis ball by her side. The dog needed another haircut. The night she’d spent with Deason, grooming Kink’s coat and talking, flooded her memory. That night she’d told him about her life with Vic, and how she’d melted down her wedding ring. Later, Deason had kissed her for the first time.

  “Charis Locke, I’m not leaving until you promise me you won’t submit that confession.”

  “It’s too late. I’ve already made up my mind.” Charis rose and kissed Daphne’s round cheek. “And there’re blankets in the closet of the spare bedroom,” she said, calling Daphne’s bluff. “Goodnight, Daph. Thank you for listening. I really do feel much better.” She tucked Kinko into the crook of her arm and padded toward the bedroom.

  “Sweet dreams, Farrah,” Daphne sighed, pushing up from the table.

  ****

  “Deason. What brings you here?” Wendell offered a tight lipped smile.

  “Hey, Wendell. Can I come in for a few minutes?”

  Wendell raised an eyebrow at Jagger’s Trans Am, idling curbside. “Sure. Come on in.” He stepped back, held the screen open for Deason. “I’ve just been doing a little packing, getting ready for the business trip I’m taking in the morning.”

  Deason turned to wave at Jagger, recognizing the I don’t know what the hell you’re doing—but whatever gaze he knew so well. Jagger pulled away.

  “We’ll need to keep our voices down, Father’s napping.”

  “Don’t worry, I don’t intend on yelling,” Deason said, his joke falling flat.

  “So, what’s the nature of your visit, Mr. McKindle?” Wendell asked, scooting two kitchen chairs from the table.

  Deason sat, remembering why Wendell Barnaby was one of his least favorite people. High on smugness, low on personality. He’d been that way as long as Deason could remember. “Right. Sorry. I just stopped by to see if you’d heard from Charis lately. I can’t catch her at home and my calls don’t seem to be getting through.”

  “I spoke with her this morning. She was doing fine…at least pretending to be. God only knows what turmoil she’s really going through.”

  Deason frowned. “Turmoil?”

  “Grief. Anguish. Woe. Call it whatever you’d like, it all boils down the same. Charis is suffering.” His gaze swept to Deason. “Come on now, Deason, what do you take me for? Charis told me all about the little scheme the two of you cooked up.”

  “What scheme?”

  Wendell chuckled. “Okay, okay, have it your way. If you want to play dumb, I’ll humor you. The little plan you devised in order to keep yourself out of hot water. It is a clever idea, I’ll give you that, but it will never work. I’ll make sure of it.”

  Deason inhaled and exhaled through flared nostrils, tired of his double talk. “Cut to the chase, Wendell.�
��

  “You really don’t know?” Wendell adjusted his glasses, sharpening his gaze. “But if you’re not in on it, that would mean the whole thing was Charis’s idea.”

  Unable to take anymore, Deason bolted from the kitchen chair. “I’ve had enough of your bullshit. Sorry to interrupt your day. I’ll find out what’s bothering her myself.”

  “Deason, wait. Sit down. Please.” Wendell gestured toward the empty chair. “My apologies. It’s just that I’m having a hard time…processing.”

  Deason hesitated then sat, leveling his gaze on Wendell. “Processing what?”

  “The fact that Charis is planning to submit a signed confession to the sheriff’s office, taking responsibility for the murder of Victor Locke. And that she apparently came up with the idea on her own, without coercion.”

  “That’s a damn lie.” Deason again bolted from the chair, this time stomping through the kitchen and slamming through the screen.

  “It’s true,” Wendell called after him, following him out. “I found the confession on the kitchen table, written on notebook paper, signed by her. When I confronted her, she became defensive, but didn’t deny it. She has every intention of turning herself in.”

  Deason dropped to the porch step, head in his hands. Wendell was lying. He had to be. Why would Charis consider something so stupid? “It doesn’t make sense. Why would she—”

  “For you. She’s doing it to save you. The way Charis sees it, she’ll confess to Vic’s murder, play the battered wife card, and get off with little more than a scratch. However, if you are found guilty by a jury. Well, the thought of that is just more than she can bear.” Wendell sat on the step beside him, his spotless leather loafer touching Deason’s work boot. “She’s delusional. Unable to realize she may get far worse than a smack on the hand for her confession. Far, far worse.”

  Deason closed his eyes, rubbed his forehead. What the hell happened? He had to stop her. No way he’d let her go down for this. Even if it meant turning himself in for Vic’s murder. He lifted his head and opened his eyes, stared at the shingled roof across the street then at the clear sky above it. He knew what he had to do. He’d surrender to his attorney before Charis had a chance to confess. He’d change his plea to guilty—who knows, maybe Crowley was right, and he’d get a reduced sentence because of it. Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered now, except stopping Charis from making that phony confession.

  “I wish I could help her, Deason. But what can I do?” Wendell asked softly, resting a hand on Deason’s shoulder. “The answer to that is nothing. There’s nothing I can do to keep that angel of a woman from making that bogus confession. But there is something you can do. You are in the prime position to stop her, Deason. All it will take is the simple changing of your plea from not guilty to guilty. If the case goes to trial, what are the odds of a jury letting you walk free anyway, right? At least this way there’s no chance of Charis getting caught in your net.”

  Wendell confirmed the very thoughts in Deason’s confused head. He couldn’t remember when or why Victor Locke’s death had become his fight. Hell, right now he couldn’t even swear he hadn’t killed Vic with his bare hands. All he knew was, at all cost, he had to save Charis.

  Chapter Ten

  “What’s this I hear about you boinking your ex-wife?” Daphne yelled from the doorway as Jagger pulled into the drive.

  Jagger rolled up the window and climbed from the seat. “Don’t get your panties in a wad. Deason can explain.”

  “He damn well better. I left my best friend in tears last night because of this son of a bitch,” she snarled, glaring at Deason.

  “All right, all right. Simmer down. Let us come in so we can talk it over,” Jagger said.

  Daphne jerked to the side, leaving just enough room for Jagger and Deason to squeeze by.

  Jagger looked around the living room and nodded. “Thanks for cleanin’ the place up, baby.”

  “Save it,” Daphne snapped, lowering onto the sofa beside Deason. “Talk,” she demanded. “And it’d better be good, or else the city of Shaydn might have two murders on its hands.”

  Jagger released a nervous-sounding chuckle and perched on a chair across the room.

  “My ex-wife, Gabriella, knows who killed Vic. She saw the whole thing and agreed to be a witness in my case. I’ve kept quiet about it because she’s a loose cannon. I never know which direction she’s going to aim, and I didn’t want Charis caught in the crossfire. But none of that matters anymore. My attorney’s letting her go because she won’t disclose the name of the killer, only his nickname, Trips. She fears for her life.”

  Daphne abandoned her doggedness and melted into the couch. “Shit.”

  “Yep. I’m up a whole creek full of it, without a paddle.”

  Daphne slowly shook her head as if struggling to absorb the situation. “Charis saw the two of you hugged up together on the courthouse steps. Guess I don’t have to tell you what she thought.”

  “I can imagine what it looked like. Jagger thought the same thing at first.”

  Jagger nodded. “Thought the man had lost his ever-lovin’ mind. That’s what I thought.”

  “Daph, did Charis mention anything to you about confessing to Vic’s murder?”

  She crossed and uncrossed her legs then scrutinized a fingernail.

  “Daphne?”

  She dropped her hand to her lap, meeting his gaze. “She told me about it a few days ago then mentioned it again last night. I tried to talk her out of it, but you know how stubborn she can be. I know I should’ve said something, but I promised not to. And I really didn’t know who to tell anyway. In the back of my mind I kept thinking she wouldn’t really do it.”

  “From what Wendell says, she has every intention of going through with it. And I have every intention of stopping her.”

  “Just how do you plan on doing that?”

  “By beating her to the punch.” He looked at Daphne then Jagger. “Tomorrow morning I’m turning myself in for Vic’s murder. My attorney has been after me to plead guilty since day one anyway. He tells me it’s the only way to avoid getting sentenced by a jury. And since it doesn’t look like Gabby is ever going to let go of the real killer’s name, it’s the only way.” He turned his gaze back to Daphne. “Please, Daph. Don’t tell Charis.”

  She nodded, then dropped her head to her hands.

  ****

  “Let her in.” A small finger parted the blinds, revealing a slice of Stevie Ray’s freckled face. Keys rattled against the inside of the door. “Hi, Miss Charis.”

  “Good morning Stevie Ray.”

  “Get on over to the bus stop, you’re late.” Daphne stepped up behind the boy, ruffling his hair.

  “Mom! I just combed it.”

  She smoothed his hair down then kissed the top of his head. “Get out of here.” She nudged his behind with her foot on his way out the door. “Kids. I swear…” Daphne trailed off, her gaze falling to the keys in Charis’s outstretched hand.

  “Here are the keys to my place and to Mr. B’s. I’d hoped to convince Wendell of how much he needed you first, before I did this, but I kind of blew it, and then ran out of time. So I’ll leave that part up to you, smooth talker. I’m praying it won’t be a problem.”

  “Yeah, I’m a real silver-tongued minx. I’ll have Wendell eating out of my hand in no time.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Did you ask Jag about letting Kink stay at his place?”

  “He said Deason could keep the dog there until he finds a place to live.” She took the keys from Charis’s palm. “What kind of asshole lets her best friend do this?”

  “Letting your best friend’s soul mate go to prison for a crime he didn’t commit would make you an asshole. Supporting me in this decision makes you a friend.” She hugged her. “A slap on the wrist, Daph. It’s the only way.”

  “So this is it, then? You’re going to turn in your confession now?”

  “I’m stopping by Mr. B’s first, to give him a going
away present. Something to remember me by.” Tears stung her eyes.

  “Mr. B will never forget you. Not a chance. Hey, do you want me to go to the Sherriff’s office with you? I’m sure Ma can handle the store.” Charis followed Daphne’s gaze to Maxine, propped against the wall, dozing on her broom handle.

  “No, really, I’ll be fine. All I need for you to do is not tell a soul—especially not Deason—what I’m up to. And act surprised when you get the call.”

  Something flashed behind Daphne’s eyes and they shimmered. “Get out of here, jailbird, before I lock you up in one of my cages.”

  “Am I the only one who believes in work around here?” Maxine yelled. “All you do is talk, talk, talk all day long. If it weren’t for me, this place would’ve gone belly up years ago.”

  “Put a sock in it Ma, before I flush you down the toilet with that dead goldfish in tank number four.”

  “I love you, Daph.” She opened the door and blew her friend a kiss on the way out.

  Charis slid behind the wheel and adjusted the rearview mirror. She checked her face in the glass, wiping mascara from beneath her eyes before making the drive to Mr. B’s house. She didn’t want him to know she’d been crying.

  “Charis, come in.” Wendell’s lips twisted into a smile around his yellowish teeth. “Father and I missed you yesterday.”

  Charis stepped cautiously into the kitchen. Wendell’s warm greeting caught her off guard. “I—I wasn’t sure I was still welcome here.” She reminded herself to be cool, not to say anything that could lead to a conversation about her confession or Deason’s relationship with Gabriella. She’d just give Mr. B his gift, say goodbye, and go.

  “Welcome? Don’t be ridiculous. This is your home, too.” He hugged her shoulders lightly. “What do you have there?” He eyed the object in her hand.

  “A gift for Mr. B. Where is he?”

  “He’s in the bedroom. He said he wanted to watch the aquarium a little while longer before breakfast. Go on back and see him, if you’d like.”

  Charis stepped through the kitchen and down the hallway to Mr. B’s room. “Knock-knock,” she said softly, tapping on his door.