Guilty Pleasures

by Stella Cameron

  “Let’s go in the house.”

  Polly dug her heels into the thick layer of wet pine needles that covered the earth. She shrugged away from Nasty’s arm. When he moved, she raised the flashlight and trained the beam on the fallen figure. Thick, dark hair curled despite rain and mud. Even at a distance she knew the face. Sightless eyes aimed in her direction. The slack mouth hung open, and a ghastly neck wound gaped above a blood-soaked shirt and jacket.

  “Oh, no.” She pushed Nasty’s restraining arm aside. “Oh no, Sam. You didn’t deserve this.”

  “No,” Nasty said. “No, I don’t think he did. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Get someone,” she told them. “I’ll stay with him.”

  Roman said, “I’ll go. Be right back.”

  Polly forced herself to look away from the horrible wound in Sam’s neck. “Who would do that to him?”

  “We’re going to find that out,” Nasty told her. “I want you to go with Roman. I’ll stay and wait for the cops.”

  As he spoke, he replaced his knife in a sheath on his left forearm.

  Twenty-five

  “Rain messes with the blood and stuff,” the sheriff said, talking to Roman as the two came into Rose’s kitchen.

  Nasty watched Polly’s face, her downcast eyes. He’d been watching her since they’d finally returned to the house. Dawn showed signs of breaking, although the downpour continued. Polly had worked hard to avoid looking at Nasty.

  Sheriff Bullock was a short, wiry man with the ready tongue of kindly, small-town law. He remembered Roman from his previous time in Past Peak. Once he’d discovered that Dusty and Nasty had also been SEALs, the investigation had become an endeavor among friends.

  “Lucky we could get a medical examiner up here so quickly,” Bullock said. “Not much happens around here. Clancy Depew’s our coroner. He’s a dairy farmer. Good guy for most of what we need, but not for that.” He jabbed a blunt thumb over his shoulder.

  “That was Sam Dodge,” Polly said coldly, but without spirit. “He wasn’t much of a person, really, but he was a person.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Bullock said, rolling onto his toes. “Old friend of yours, you said.”

  “Not exactly. We knew each other a long time ago.”

  “Addict then, too, was he? The M.E. mentioned tracks in the guy’s arms. Old and new. A mess of tracks. I reckon it was something to do with that. Probably killed because he owed money. The M.E. said he thinks the victim was unconscious when they used the knife on him.”

  Polly sucked in a breath.

  Nasty couldn’t believe the man would spill information that way. He was grateful Bobby was still in bed, and that Rose and Nellie had been easily persuaded to return to their rooms.

  Too bad Polly refused to budge, even after she’d been told she wouldn’t be needed again for a while.

  “How about some tea?” Dusty got up from a chair near Polly’s and went to fill a kettle. “I bet Rose has got some of that nice herbal stuff here somewhere.”

  Nice herbal stuff? The last Nasty recalled, Dusty considered tea “swill.”

  “Hit over the head, he was,” Bullock said, leafing through his notebook. “Dragged off into the trees before they slit his throat.”

  Polly let her head hang forward. She sat with her knees drawn up, her heels on the rungs of the chair.

  And she thought he’d taken his knife to that piece of garbage. Nasty pinched the bridge of his nose and felt Roman’s sharp eyes on him.

  “They’re taking the body away,” Roman said when Nasty looked at him. “The property’s been cordoned off. There’s another team out there. They think our man made his way to the southern edge of the estate, then to the road. Probably had a vehicle parked beside the main highway.”

  “How did Sam get here?” Polly asked.

  They’d already been over this. “We don’t know yet,” Nasty said quietly. “His car hasn’t turned up.”

  Sheriff Bullock put his notebook in a breast pocket. “I need to go into the office and make some calls. When Rose wakes up tell her not to worry. We’ll take care of everything for her.”

  Dusty said, “Thanks,” as he rummaged through cupboards for his herbal tea.

  “You’re sure this mystery man is the one who killed Sam?” Polly asked. “Without finding him, or knowing exactly where he came from, or where he went?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am,” Bullock said comfortably, buttoning down his pocket flap. “Roman here saw him. And Mr. Ferrito. He attacked Mr. Ferrito, here. And he left quite a trail through the trees. You know what they say—even if a killer doesn’t bring anything to the scene with him, he leaves something behind afterward.” The sheriff delivered his borrowed wisdom with solemn sincerity.

  Fortunately he couldn’t see how Roman raised his eyes. The man left by the kitchen door, and they listened to the clip of his heels on the path toward the front of the house.

  The kettle boiled. Dusty poured water into four mugs and passed around a floral-scented brew. On any other occasion Nasty would have laughed. He didn’t laugh now, only made himself sip the disgusting stuff.

  “Time you got some shut-eye, Polly,” Dusty said.

  She didn’t answer.

  “Okay,” Roman said. “What’s your best guess, Nasty?”

  “Bogota,” he said shortly. “Dodge got in the way.”

  Polly set her mug carefully on the table. “This man who got away killed Sam. You’re all sure of that?”

  “Yes,” Roman said. He put his mug down, too.

  “Why didn’t he kill you the same way?”

  In other words, she really didn’t believe them. “Because he wants us alive,” Nasty told her. “Actually, it’s me he wants, not anyone else. He got to me first, and made it away after Roman arrived.”

  “The man who called here asked for me.”

  “I don’t think that—”

  “It had to be Sam. He came looking for Bobby and me. Wouldn’t it be a big coincidence for someone else to come on the same night?”

  “Not necessarily,” Dusty said, grimacing into his tea. “Definitely not in this case. We got a good idea what’s going on, and Nasty’s right, Dodge was unlucky. He got in the way.”

  “Tell me what you know, then. The three of you. What you’re not telling that sheriff, or me.”

  Nasty exchanged glances with the other two men. A case could be made for there being no reason not to tell Polly, but they wouldn’t anyway. The habit of keeping information on a must-know basis died hard.

  “You won’t tell me anything,” Polly announced. She gave Nasty’s hands—the dried blood—a long glance. “You ought to wash. I expect you got that on you when you found Sam.”

  “No, he didn’t,” Roman said, so forcefully Nasty stared at him. “Not all of it. You should wash up, Nasty. Looks like the guy left quite a gash there. You need to take better care of those hands, buddy. I’m going to call Phoenix, then see if I can get some sleep before the questions pick up again.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Dusty said, all but rushing to join Roman. “I’ll have a word with Phoenix, too.”

  “Subtle,” Polly said as soon as the other men were gone.

  “What does that mean? Or I should say, what do you mean?”

  “Making excuses to leave us alone.”

  He pulled up a chair and sat down on the opposite side of the table. “You’d have to be a fool not to feel the tension around here. And I’m not talking about anyone’s reaction to Sam Dodge’s murder.” Very deliberately, he laced his fingers on the table in front of him. “You think I’m some sort of monster.”

  She swallowed, and her chin rose. “I don’t know what to think. Sam called here, then came—”

  “It didn’t have to be Sam who called. It could have been the man who killed him.” How could he make her stop looking at him that way without going into minute detail about things he’d rather not say aloud? “It’s perfectly possible that whoever made tha
t call asked for you because he knew you were with me. If he established you were here, he established I was here, too.”

  “He didn’t kill you, though,” she said. Shadows underscored her blue eyes.

  “Because he wants me alive,” Nasty said patiently. “It’s a long story, but if I’m right—and Roman and Dusty think I am, too—then this started in South America when I was shot. I was supposed to be dead, and when I wasn’t, I caused a man named Emilio—a drug lord—to lose credibility. This is the way I’ve pieced it together, and I could be wrong. But tonight a man told me I’d got away once and it wouldn’t happen again—or words to that effect. He could only have been talking about my escape in Bogota.”

  “Why would you be there? I didn’t know our troops did things like that.”

  “You’d be surprised what our troops do,” he told her, unable to keep cynicism out of his voice. “Talk to Dusty and Roman when they’re in a talkative mood. The night you were pushed in the water there were two divers, not one.”

  “Divers?”

  “One pushed you in and dragged you down. It had to be that way. He didn’t care if you drowned or not as long as I went in after you. Two of them tried to get me in a net.” He didn’t feel like spelling out every detail. “If they’d wanted to kill me, they could have. They didn’t even try. They wanted me alive. You were right when you said the man could have killed me out there tonight, too. But he didn’t, did he? He knocked the gun out of my hand and that’s what did this.” He flexed his right hand and closed his fist, opening a short, deep wound across his knuckles.

  Polly burst into tears. She crossed her arms on the table and buried her face. Her back jerked with each sob.

  Exhausted, Nasty got to his feet and took his chair beside hers. He patted her shoulder, stroked her hair. “You’ve had a rotten time of it, sweetheart. I’m sorry about Sam Dodge. Not because I think he was a good guy underneath it all, but because he was Bobby’s dad, and your boy’s going to take this hard.”

  She kept on crying.

  “And I’m not sorry we’re going to have to confront the fact that you think I’m a killer.”

  A sob caught in her throat, and she raised her head just enough to turn and look at him.

  “You saw me sheathing my knife. You saw blood on my hands. And you decided I’d cut Sam Dodge’s throat. You thought I could do that because I didn’t want him anywhere near you.”

  “I guess I did.”

  “So you don’t know me at all. And you don’t understand that someone can do what they have to do under official orders, but that they have the same standards as any other decent civilian when they aren’t under orders.”

  She shook her head. “I want to understand. You haven’t helped me much. When I was attacked in my own home I needed to talk a lot more about it. You had other things on your mind. You just wanted me to do what you told me.”

  He hadn’t thought of it that way.

  “Why did you wait till now to tell me about the divers? I didn’t see anything. I can’t swim, remember? I was too busy getting used to the idea of drowning. You wouldn’t talk about that, either.”

  “It’s conditioning, Polly. When you spend years keeping things to yourself, you don’t suddenly open up like a gusher every time something happens.”

  She took a paper napkin from a holder on the table and wiped her face. “Crumb, I’m a horrible sight.” She blew her nose and pressed two fingers into her eyes. “All of this is happening. It isn’t over.”

  “No. But it will be.”

  “I was so confused about being pushed into the water. It didn’t seem to fit that Festus would have done it.”

  “He didn’t.”

  “And Festus wasn’t the man out there tonight?”

  The idea was ludicrous. “No. Look at me, please.”

  Polly reached to take his injured hand in both of hers. “Let me get this cleaned up.”

  “Look at me.”

  “I’m sorry.” She raised her eyes slowly. “How could I think you’d be capable of something like that after…?”

  He let her falter.

  “Can you really blame me completely, Xavier?”

  Maybe he couldn’t. “Trust takes a while in the building. Just the way getting used to a complete change in lifestyle takes a while. I want to take however long it needs.”

  She got up and led him to the sink. Warm water stung the wound on his knuckles, and he yelped.

  “It’s got to be cleaned” she said, sounding serious but grinning at the same time. “Grit your teeth. You can do this.”

  He did grit his teeth, and said “How about you?”

  “I can’t do anything but go along with whatever comes. With you.”

  “’Course you can’t.”

  “Don’t start with the pigheaded stuff again.” Blotting the jagged cut with a towel, she looked at him. “How am I going to break this to Bobby?”

  “Carefully.”

  “That’s not helpful.”

  “Sure it is. Bobby never really knew Sam, but he’s canonized him in his mind. It couldn’t be right to drop the entire truth on a seven-year-old.”

  “I can’t pretend Sam isn’t dead.”

  “No. I’m not suggesting you do. But you can say he had an accident and died. You don’t have to pile on all the gory details. Best keep him here for a few days until things blow over. If we don’t, he’ll see it on TV—we wouldn’t be able to stop him.”

  Tapping rattled the back door.

  Nasty stuffed the towel into Polly’s hands and raised a finger to his lips. Taking his gun in hand, he stepped to the door, and said, “Yeah?”

  “Gavin Tucker. I’m looking for Polly Crow. The cops told me to come to this door.”

  Polly and Nasty looked at each other. Nasty tucked the gun in his waistband and opened the door.

  “Geez, Polly,” Gavin said, sparing Nasty only a brief glance before loping into the kitchen. “Are you okay, babe?”

  “I’m fine. How did you find me?”

  Gavin’s long, pale face showed signs of fatigue and… fear? “I heard it on the early news. Just a snippet about a guy called Sam Dodge being murdered up here.”

  Nasty screwed up his face. “You couldn’t have heard that.”

  “The hell I didn’t.” Pushing back his thin, brown hair, Gavin draped an arm around Polly. “Local sheriff gave sketchy details. That’s what they said. Sketchy. Hah! He did everything but give the address of this place. No problem there, though. Anyone in the studio when Dodge came by yesterday could find out where you are if they want to.”

  Gavin didn’t waste any time explaining himself. Bobby had called Sam Dodge’s cell phone while the man had been at the studio asking questions about Polly. Bobby had told him roughly where Dusty and Nasty had taken him—and Polly.

  “Another reason not to tell Bobby exactly what happened to his father yet,” Nasty said. “He’s sensitive. It wouldn’t take much for him to decide it was his fault.”

  “You sure you’re okay, Polly?” Gavin asked giving her the kind of possessive look that churned Nasty’s insides. “I’m worried about you.”

  “I’m managing. There’s some weird stuff going on, but I’ll get through.”

  There wasn’t a graceful way to tell Polly not to say anything else to Gavin Tucker.

  “I just cannot sleep.” The door to the rest of the house swung open and Rose came into the kitchen. “There’s too much going on here. And now I know what went on out there, I’m beside myself, Nasty. You should be resting that ankle.” She pointed a perfectly manicured nail at his leg.

  “This is my friend, Gavin Tucker,” Polly said. “He’s on the show with me, Rose.”

  Rose, in flame orange silk lounging pajamas, concentrated briefly on Gavin. “Of course he is. He’s the man who paints those wonderful pictures for the rest of you to use as scenery for all your sweet story lessons.”

  The sight of Polly’s openmouthed surprise amused Nasty. “You mea
n to tell me you’ve been watching TV, Rose? And I thought you prided yourself in never wasting time on that nonsense.”

  She flipped a hand at him and scuffed to the refrigerator in gold, backless sandals. Her heavy blond hair curled about her shoulders. “You know perfectly well I only say that because it pleases me to put on airs sometimes. I’ve got a great big television set in my bedroom. In a tasteful cabinet. I watch Polly’s Place every afternoon, and I just love it.” She took a carton of milk from the refrigerator and pointed at Gavin this time. “Have you ever considered painting scenes in people’s houses? I think you should. Of course, they’d have to be very expensive, but they’d be custom art, and they’d be very sought after.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that, ma’am,” Gavin said fascination with Rose quite evident in his brown eyes. “But if you’d like me to paint something for you, I could probably manage that.”

  Nasty rubbed his aching eyes, using the opportunity to hide a grin. Whatever Rose wanted Rose got—she always had.

  “Why, thank you.” Rose’s smile was brilliant. “Did you hear that, you two? The Gavin Tucker is going to paint me a scene right here, in my little old house. I spoke to Phoenix.” Rose had a way of running one subject into another.

  “How is she?”

  “Just fine. And the babies are just fine. But Phoenix is worried about you, Nasty Ferrito. After what Roman told her, she’s real worried.”

  “Maybe hot milk would help you sleep,” Nasty said hastily. Who knew what Rose might have overheard? “I’ll get you a pan.”

  “Don’t you change the subject. Polly, you’re going to have to make sure this boy takes care of himself.”

  The furrows in Gavin’s brow didn’t upset Nasty.

  “I’ll try,” Polly told Rose.

  “I’m glad all of them are out of the SEALs, I can tell you. When I think of all that terrible drug stuff down there in Colombia I could just die, with fright.”

  He must stop her from saying too much “Um, Rose—”

  “Roman told Phoenix he and Nasty think whoever killed that poor man was really looking for Nasty on account of something that happened in Bogota. He did tell you about Bogota, didn’t he?”