Without finishing her breakfast, she set her fork and napkin aside, snatched up her briefcase and hurried out to the parking lot. She would stick to her agenda: meet with Agnes this morning, talk to others at the picnic this afternoon, then lock herself in her room with a good book until her interview with the hospital staff on Tuesday.
Then she'd get the hell back to Tallahassee. She could handle the rest of the investigation from there—reports to write, doctors to consult, computer checks to run.
And she wouldn't, not once, think of Jack Forrester in a personal manner or worry about the impact her investigation might have on his career.
The sight of her sister's beige, mud-free Mercedes parked in the garage brought her up short. He'd towed the car out of the mud in the middle of the night and hosed it off for her. Then he'd tossed pebbles at her bedroom window, climbed up onto her balcony and made sweet, hot love to her until dawn.
She unlocked the driver's door, slid in behind the wheel and wilted against the leather seat. How could she possibly carry on as if last night hadn't happened? Whether she liked it or not, he had touched her deeply. He'd incited a powerful need within her that hadn't entirely subsided. And he'd made her remember how much she'd always cared about him.
She'd always cared. Deeply.
As a friend, she told herself. Nothing more than a friend.
Even so, she'd been fooling herself to think that she could run this investigation impartially. But if she didn't follow through with this case in an ethical, professional manner, how could she face herself, her employees, Meg, Grant or the Tallahassee business community?
After a long, inwardly chaotic moment, Callie reached a compromise: she'd search for the truth and nothing but the truth. She'd call Meg with that decision tonight. If Meg didn't like it, she could replace her with another investigator. Either way, Callie would gather no fuel for innuendo to sully Jack's name or prejudice a jury. She'd hand Meg no weapons to use against him, unless the truth itself turned out to be a weapon. If that proved to be the case, he'd brought the problems on himself.
She could live with that. Couldn't she?
* * *
"I hope our neighbors won't be as rude to you as they've been to me. Sally Babcock called to say she didn't appreciate having to answer questions about her gumbo." Agnes Tierney tightened her mauve-painted lips in indignation as she chopped olives at her kitchen work island. "And at Mr. Johnson's vegetable stand, Wanda Scaggs told me I should be ashamed for saying ugly things about Doc Forrester. Then Mr. Johnson himself snubbed me cold."
"Are you sure you want to go to the picnic today, Agnes?" asked Callie, watching the celebrated sculptress sprinkle the olives into a large bowl of Middle Eastern potato salad.
"Dear me, yes! Bob will be there. And my bridge club. They know this lawsuit is Grant's doing." She leaned over the bowl of salad to confide, "I believe this lawsuit is important to Grant because of a real estate deal. He's out with an agent right now, trying to set up the purchase of property near the end of the Point. He wants to build high-rise rental condos."
Callie stared at her in dismay. Unspoiled wilderness stretched for fifty miles in all directions from their small, Gulf Coast peninsula. Only a few dozen homes shared the lush landscape and pristine beaches. She hated to think of rental condos here and the development that would follow. "What does the real estate deal have to do with the lawsuit?"
"Jack owns the most important piece of land—the beach property. Without it, Grant can't swing the deal." Agnes's bracelets jangled on her wrist as she mashed garlic through a press. "I believe Grant wants to force him into selling."
Callie struggled to suppress her outrage. So Grant had more of a motive to exploit the situation than merely an adversarial relationship with Jack. He intended to use the unfortunate series of events to force Jack into a business deal. "Agnes, if you don't want to sue Jack, why are you?"
"I can't defy Grant!" she exclaimed with an anxious stare. "He hates to be crossed."
Callie bit her lip to stop from uttering advice that might prove unwise. From what she'd learned about Grant, he probably would cause Agnes too many problems if she defied him. Now more than ever, she wanted to get to the bottom of Agnes's mysterious malady last July. "Do you believe that Jack's injection caused your hallucinations?"
The willowy redheaded sculptress shrugged and poured lemon juice into the potato salad. "I suppose so. I'd never had hallucinations before, and haven't had them since."
"If the injection hadn't caused them, would you want to know what had?"
"Of course. I'd never falsely accuse a neighbor." She raised her slightly jowled chin, which set her dangling amethyst earrings into motion. "Not even Grant can stop me from apologizing if I've been wrong."
Remembering Grant's attempts to divert Agnes from prattling on about his ex-wives, Callie believed her. "Do you mind if I try to rule out other factors that might have caused them?"
"Oh, please do!" With a nervous glance at the doorway, she cautioned, "But if Grant comes home, you'll have to be discreet. He won't like you snooping around."
Callie spent the next hour questioning Agnes about her activities on that July day. Callie then took samples of the plants in the herb garden—from which Agnes had made herbal tea—and catalogued her stock of exotic spices. She even copied down the names of medication in the bathroom cabinet.
When she'd gathered all she could, she plugged her laptop's modem into a phone jack and sent the data to her assistant. She would send the herb and spice samples to the lab for analysis.
"I hope I haven't made you think poorly of Grant," Agnes said, removing the bibbed, red-and-purple print apron that had been protecting her long, dandelion-yellow kimono. "He's basically a good person." She tossed the apron aside and sat down at the table with Callie. "He just needs a wife who won't be afraid to stand up to him. That's why I think you'd be perfect. You have an aura of strength about you."
"Thanks, but I'm not in the market for a husband."
"Your feelings aren't hurt that Grant hasn't asked you to go to the picnic with him, are they? He's been too busy with this real estate deal to think about much else. I doubt if he'd go to the picnic at all if it weren't for the neighbors he wants to speak with. He has his eye on their land, too. So many projects in the works! He's hugely successful in business," she said with a touch of pride. "He'd make a fine husband for you."
Callie firmly guided the subject back to the July picnic. "If there was no shrimp in Sally's gumbo, why do you suppose you had an allergic reaction?"
"If the shrimp wasn't in the gumbo, it had to be in something else. I tasted shrimp."
Callie asked her to recall every dish she'd sampled.
After compiling a list, she slipped her notes into her briefcase and rose to leave. "Until we know what caused your reaction, you'd better be careful about what you eat at today's picnic."
"I'll only eat the food I bring," Agnes assured her. "Grant probably won't come to the picnic until later, but would you like to accompany Bob and me? We'll play bridge."
"Thanks, Agnes, but I plan to stay busy with my questioning, and I may leave early, so I'll need my car."
"Oh, take some time off for fun. Eat, drink and be merry. And don't let your feelings get hurt if people are rude. Everyone's been so touchy about this lawsuit lately!"
* * *
Callie felt the disapproval of the community as she walked from the hot, sunny parking lot toward the shady picnic area that overlooked the beach. Though she recognized many of the adults clustered around food-laden picnic tables and sizzling grills, no one smiled, waved or greeted her. Some stared. Some glanced away. Some leaned to mutter into another's ear.
The community had clearly closed its ranks against her. She'd expected as much. Both the sheriff and Agnes had warned her. She hadn't realized, though, how heavily the rejection would weigh on her heart.
What was the old saying … something about never being able to go home again? Funny. Th
e beaches, the dunes, the water, the marina with its boats, the pavilion with its bandstand, all looked so much the same as when she'd belonged here.
She wanted to drive away, before the heaviness grew any more oppressive. But she couldn't leave without asking the women if they'd put shrimp in their dishes last July, or if anyone remembered anything that might prove remotely helpful in figuring out the true cause of Agnes's hallucinations.
Callie paused at the edge of the social hubbub, keeping her chin resolutely level and her expression pleasant.
Despite her dread of facing Jack in public, she wondered if he had arrived yet. She didn't see him or his family anywhere. She also didn't see any of the friends she'd considered her "gang"—Jimbo, Robbie or Frankie.
She did, however, notice Agnes in her yellow kimono seated at a table near the pavilion. A white-haired, dignified gentleman and three elderly ladies sat with her, playing cards. Callie started toward them, hoping to station herself near friendly territory before infiltrating the hostile crowd.
Conscious of the glances that followed her, she wondered if she'd made a mistake in her choice of apparel. She'd considered wearing her cutoffs, the only shorts she'd packed, but decided against it. Too clearly she remembered Jack's stirring recollections of her cutoffs, and the way he'd run his fingers across her bare thighs. She couldn't bring herself to wear them.
She'd chosen instead a simple white sundress. Casual, but not too casual. She wasn't here for fun and games, and wouldn't dress as if she were. No one else had worn a dress, though. Only shorts, jeans and bathing suits. She felt out of place, and the feeling only added to her sense of isolation.
"Callie Marshall?" At the cold voice, she turned to face a stern woman with a thin, plain countenance, dull brown hair tugged into a tight bun and vertical frown lines around her mouth and between her eyes. "I'm Flora Mulhollen, the school nurse."
"Yes, of course, Miss Mulhollen," Callie greeted warmly. They'd always called her Miss Mole Hole. "How are you?"
She ignored the courteous question. "I heard you're investigating the charge against Doctor Forrester. He saved Agnes's life, and it's a shame he's being slandered."
"I understand your concern. You may be able to help clear his name. Did you attend the Fourth of July picnic?"
The woman pursed her lips, deepening their grooves. "I heard how you tricked Gloria into giving you photos to use against him. Your tricks won't work on me." Stiffly she marched off into the crowd.
Callie resisted the urge to glance around in embarrassment at the people who had been listening. Instead, she forced an amiable smile and struck up a determined conversation with the nearest group. No one there answered her inquiries with more than monosyllables, and when she asked if they'd put shrimp into their dishes last July, they all said they couldn't remember.
Perhaps she'd socialize for a while—break the ice—before she attempted any more questioning.
As she wove her way between picnic tables and clusters of chatting neighbors, an adolescent boy in swim trunks leaped up onto a vacant picnic table. "Look, look!" he shouted, pointing toward the marina. "Doc's bringing in his boat!"
A cheer went up. Children of all ages surged into a lively mob and ran toward the marina as a sleek white yacht motored across the green water toward an open boat slip. Mothers pulled back the smallest children and yelled for the older ones to keep a safe distance from the dock. Fathers sauntered along behind the kids, their own gazes fixed on the approaching pleasure craft.
Callie leaned against an unoccupied picnic table and watched.
The boat backed neatly into the slip. The first person she noticed on board was a petite, deeply tanned blonde, her platinum hair a bouncy shoulder-length, her vivacious smile brilliantly white as she waved from the back deck to the flock of children.
An invisible band tightened painfully around Callie's ribs. Had Jack brought a date to the picnic? Another woman, so soon after their lovemaking last night?
Two men leaped out from the enclosed wheelhouse and tied off the lines. Callie recognized the heftiest man, with his shock of spaghetti-red hair, as Jimbo. The other, who sported a dark ponytail and mustache, looked only vaguely familiar. As he smiled somewhat shyly at the crowd, she identified him as Robbie.
And when the petite blonde rammed a playful fist into Jimbo's massive arm, Callie knew she could be no other than Frankie, the only other female member of their childhood gang.
A tall, majestic, older couple emerged from the wheelhouse. Dr. and Mrs. Forrester. Jack's parents.
Callie's heart gave a painful lurch. She'd spent the happiest part of her childhood with these people. They'd known her better, in many ways, than her own sister or father had.
How would they receive her?
None of her old gang had phoned her since she'd returned, although they must have known she'd been back on the Point. She'd placed a call to Frankie yesterday and left a message on her recorder. Frankie hadn't returned the call.
Callie blamed herself. She hadn't kept in touch with her friends during her twelve-year absence. Why should they welcome her now? Especially when she'd come to investigate Jack, who had always been the unifying force behind their small, ragtag group.
At a sudden tugging on her dress, Callie glanced down to find a pint-size boy with wide blue eyes and thick glasses gazing up at her. His arm, she noticed, was in a cast. "That's Doc's boat," he informed her with the most adorable lisp she'd ever heard. "My mom won't let me go by the dock because I fell in the water last time."
"Oh my."
"If I keep my cast dry, Doc's going to let me drive his boat next weekend."
"Really?"
He nodded earnestly and held up his cast. "He put this on my arm hisself. And I didn't cry."
Callie resisted the urge to ruffle his sandy-brown hair. "You're very brave."
"Doc says I'm the bravest he ever saw." He climbed up to sit on the table beside where she stood, then glanced toward the commotion at the marina. "There he is! There's Doc! See him?"
Callie's pulse sped up at the sight of a tall, tanned, golden-haired man moving among the people on the back deck of the boat. His deep laughter reached her through a cacophony of merry voices.
She turned away, suddenly desperate for a diversion, any diversion, to keep her occupied until her heart quit its ridiculous pounding.
"Mom, can I help Mrs. Forrester carry her picnic basket?" her newfound little friend called out.
"No, Kyle," replied a woman from another table. "It looks like she's got more help than she needs."
"Hey, there's Zeus!" Kyle exclaimed. "Doc brought his dog." A few playful barks confirmed the statement. "He has an alligator named Alfred, too, you know."
Keeping her back deliberately turned to the happy babble of voices and joyful barking, Callie exclaimed in surprise, "He brought the alligator?"
Kyle stood up on the picnic-table bench and surveyed the scene. "Nope. Don't see him."
Callie murmured her relief, then gazed silently in the opposite direction from the commotion.
Although it would be awkward, she would have to greet her old friends, her seventh-grade teacher and the doctor who had treated her throughout her childhood. Mrs. Forrester had been more than her teacher, of course, and Dr. Forrester more than her doctor. Callie had been a regular visitor at their house. Whether they responded to her with warmth or coldness now, she would have to cordially greet them.
Soon, she told herself. After they'd settled down at a picnic table. Maybe after they'd eaten lunch…
The women setting up a buffet table of potluck dishes were surreptitiously watching her, she realized. From their curious, expectant gazes, she knew they were waiting to witness whatever interaction might take place between the Forresters and her. Any at all, including a lack of interaction, would be gossip worthy.
Perhaps she should take refuge with Agnes, her only ally.
That, however, would be cowardly.
Drawing a fortifying breat
h, she sat down at the picnic table with Kyle. She'd bide her time until she felt the moment was right to wander over to the Forresters and her childhood friends to say a courteous hello.
"So, uh, how did you break your arm, Kyle?" she asked.
He regaled her with the story of his fall from a tree. As she listened, Callie sneaked an occasional glance at Mrs. Forrester and Frankie, who led a procession of boys carrying picnic baskets and coolers to the table directly across an open expanse of grass from where Callie sat.
Had they noticed her? Had they deliberately chosen the table farthest away?
She turned her attention to Kyle's animated description of his fall, complete with the sound of his bone breaking. Callie winced and murmured the appropriate sounds of awe.
The next time she glanced up, Mrs. Forrester and Frankie had spread tablecloths over two tables, while Jimbo, Robbie and old Dr. Forrester stood talking among a jovial group of men.
Jack himself leisurely ambled from the marina with a gaggle of children leaping, skipping and laughing around him. One small boy rode on his broad shoulders, two little girls held his hands, and the lanky adolescent boy who had announced his arrival walked backward in front of him, gesturing in animated conversation.
Jack's German shepherd pranced beside them with a red bandanna around his neck and his thick, black, coppery fur glistening in the September afternoon sunshine.
"Wanna see all the names people wrote on my cast?" Kyle held up his encased forearm proudly. Glad for the distraction, Callie listened as the boy deciphered each scribble.
"Excuse me," piped up a soft voice from beside them. A young girl with long dark braids stood shyly gazing at her. "Are you Miss Callie Marshall?"
A pang of apprehension went through her. "Yes."
"Mrs. Forrester wants to see you." The girl's voice carried enough to seize the attention of every adult around them.
Aware that an audience now watched with blatant interest, Callie nervously glanced across the grassy clearing at the woman who had summoned her. Looking slim, and elegant in a neat beige blouse and summer slacks, Mrs. Forrester stood with her arms folded, her head high and her stern gaze locked on Callie.
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