Key to Love

by Judy Ann Davis

  “Am I late?” he asked with a worried frown.

  “No, I’m starved.” She buckled her belt. “I thought we’d tackle some Italian food if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure, why not?” His shoulders heaved in indifference.

  She waited until he drove to the end of the lane, out of sight from the house, before she unbuckled her seat belt and shimmied out of her jacket. When she began to unbutton her blouse, she saw Jack Morrison watching her warily out of the corner of his eye.

  “Now wait a second, Elise,” he choked out. The car swerved as he pulled onto the highway. “Don’t you think we should wait until after we eat?”

  “Just drive, Jack! Be quiet and don’t say anything to tick me off tonight. I’ve run out of places to hide the bodies.” She yanked the blouse from her jeans and shrugged free, shoving the tank top back behind her belt. Then she grabbed her jacket and slipped it on. “I’ll be damned if I’m wearing what everyone thinks is appropriate for little Lizzie Springer.”

  “Big brothers giving you a hard time, huh?”

  “Something like that.” She repositioned herself in the bucket seat and ignored his chuckles.

  “It looks like a party at your house.”

  “Fritz is into the sauce again. Spaghetti, I mean.”

  “That boy could always cook up a storm.”

  “Yes, he could,” she agreed. Although the real storm, she thought, was inside the Springer residence and had no connection to spaghetti sauce.

  “Whose new silver Vette?”

  She started to say hers, then changed her mind. “I’m leasing it.” It wasn’t the truth, but it wasn’t a lie either. It was a trade off in the world of reality, she rationalized. Her showroom designs for the use of the car.

  ****

  After they finished their meal at G’s Wood Grill and after Jack Morrison had given a blow-by-blow account of the last ten years of his life, the only valuable piece of information Elise had gleaned from the dinner date was the pasta and shrimp alfredo was the best in the area. When Jack suggested they hit the casino, she countered with Two Horses. He seemed reluctant at first, telling her it was a four-star dive, but she persisted until he finally relented.

  She understood his uneasiness as soon as they entered the smoky, crowded interior. Decked out in a Death Valley theme, the hangout held everything from cactuses to cattle skulls, obviously all plastic renditions. The bar’s motley group of patrons consisted of bikers in black leathers with chain wallets and colorful tattoos, second-shift factory workers with no homing instincts, and young couples either fond of the kaleidoscopic atmosphere or in love with the western two-step.

  A lengthy search led them to a table for four in the far back of the bar room, away from the vibrating dance floor and the band wearing Stetson hats and snakeskin boots and blaring out heartbreak music on steel guitars.

  Elise looked around curiously in hopes of locating Clarisse.

  “I told you this was a fiasco,” Jack grumbled and signaled to a cocktail server to no avail.

  Across the room, two men ambled toward them. The taller one, wearing a brown leather bomber jacket, had a pleasant smile. His friend beside him, in a blue plaid shirt and engineer boots, grinned openly.

  The leather-jacketed man spoke. “Mind if we share these seats? The place seems to have filled up fast tonight.”

  Jack straightened in his seat and glowered. “Yes, I mind. Find your own damn table.”

  Both men’s eyes narrowed and they glanced at each other, frowns on their faces.

  “No, no, of course not.” Elise felt her pulse skitter and motioned to the vacant chairs. This was the wrong place to aggravate anyone, she thought. “Come on, Jack, the place is standing room only. We have two vacant chairs.”

  The two men, obviously regulars, slumped down. They were barely seated when a server moved instantly toward them.

  “I’m Nick and this is J.B.,” the man in the jacket said. He looked up and winked at the waitress at his elbow. “Two Michelobs for us and put whatever the lady and her gent want on our tab.”

  “Whisky and water,” Jack said.

  “Just ginger ale for the moment.” Elise glanced at Nick. “Thanks.”

  He smiled. “Come on, you don’t have to be polite. I’m buying.”

  “No, actually I just had a glass of wine with my meal, and I need to let the system change gears.” She smiled.

  “Like switching from high test to regular or vice versa,” J.B. commented. “Know what you mean.”

  As soon as the drinks arrived, the men took a few sips and left to scout the place for willing dance partners. Afraid she’d never have a free moment alone with Jack Morrison, Elise turned to face him. She had hoped to worm the information she needed out of him, but decided on the direct approach instead.

  “Tell me, Jack, does it look like Dad and I will be able to provide a foster home for Todd?”

  He frowned into his glass. “I don’t think a custody case will surface any too soon, if that’s what you want to hear.”

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “With the number of people jumping in and claiming their undying love and devotion for the kid, it will take a while to sort things out unless someone comes up with some concrete evidence about Mike Fisher’s intentions.”

  “Like a will?” She slid her gaze to him and offered him a worried look she didn’t have to invent. “Be a sport, Jack, I have nothing in this. Just tell me who the key players are.”

  “I could lose my job.”

  “Dad and I are going to lose the kid, Jack, and eventually, the whole pathetic cast will have to step on stage and make an appearance.”

  Jack Morrison heaved a sigh in agreement. “You already know two. The third one is the kid’s grandfather.”

  Grandfather! Lucas’s father? Jack’s revelation made her stomach do a war dance. She felt the color drain from her face. The man had deserted his own sons, so why on earth would he want to be saddled with a grandson? She shifted in her seat and took a sip of ginger ale, willing her hands to be steady. The money. Of course, it had to be for the insurance money.

  Her head was still spinning from the news when Nick and J.B. sauntered back to the table.

  “Hey, they’re playing a Texas two-step,” Nick said. “Want to dance?”

  Elise forced a smile and shook her head. “Sorry, I don’t know how.”

  “There’s nothing to it. Right, J.B?” He held out a strong, tanned hand.

  One quick glance at Jack and Elise knew his temper, aggravated by the alcohol, was on short fuse status. The men had not only invaded his space, but now they were hitting on his date.

  “Jack can show me,” she said. “Thanks anyhow.”

  “Where are you from?” Nick asked. He buckled down into his seat.

  “Scranton, but now San Francisco.”

  “Ah, you’re kidding, right? A West Coast gal now? Then you really have to let us cowboy clones show you how to take a spin around the floor. Tell you what, I’ll buy you and your date another round if you give it a whirl.” He smiled and signaled the waitress.

  There was something oddly disturbing about the man. Maybe it was the coaxing grin, the glint in his eye, or maybe it was just her gut instinct, but Elise knew there was more than what visibly showed. Somehow, he looked familiar, all too familiar. She glanced over at Jack. His eyes were getting hazy from the bottle of wine he had consumed at supper and now the whiskey. She was afraid she’d be driving him home. “Sounds like a plan. You game, Jack? Another drink?”

  Jack shoved his empty glass away and took a sip from the second one the waitress set in front of him. “You want to dance? Go dance. I’d be a fool to pass up good whiskey,” he said with a slur and waved his hand toward the dance floor. “Go ahead, give it a shot.”

  Minutes later, she was fumbling her way across the floor and enjoying the gentle, coaxing advice from Nick who appeared to be an excellent dancer.

  “I assume you’re a regular,�
� she said. “Do you know a waitress called Clarisse?”

  He twirled her effortlessly in the opposite direction and tossed his head to the right. “See the blonde waitress in the corner who’s talking to the table of bikers? That’s Clarisse.”

  Elise watched the hard-edged dishwater blonde throw back her head and laugh. Even from where they danced, Elise could tell Clarisse Cramer Fisher was in her element. She wore a fringed leather mini skirt with a low-cut blouse. A horde of turquoise bracelets wound up her slim wrists. She laughed lustfully with a solidly built man with meaty wrists and leaned forward to offer him a better view of her cleavage, probably in hopes of attaining a generous tip.

  Could this woman, Elise asked herself, really become the legal guardian of Todd? How had all this come about? Why would Clarisse, who knew nothing about children, want custody of a four year old? Her thoughts were a blend of red-hot fury and ice-cold bewilderment as she allowed herself to be shuffled about the floor.

  The commotion started somewhere in the opposite corner of the room. First, loud shouting erupted, followed by a boisterous exchange, sprinkled with some colorful oaths, and the scraping of chairs. Suddenly the crash of tables being upended drowned out the lead singer’s impersonation of Clint Black. As if on cue, the band quit playing.

  Heart in her throat, Elise scanned the room long enough to see the entire place rapidly convert itself into an indoor battleground. A chair sailed through the air, along with a volley of beer cans and bottles.

  “Let’s get out of here!” Nick shouted, ducking as a metal napkin holder skimmed his head, landing with a thud and sending paper flying into the air like a flock of startled doves. He pulled her toward a door in the back and out into the darkness of the back parking lot, illuminated by a single halogen light. Behind her, other people rushed from the front exit heading straight for their vehicles. Engines roared and tires squealed as cars and motorcycles peeled from the lot.

  From a crowd of people rushing out the back door, J.B., breathing heavily, pushed his way toward them. “Hell of a night. I heard it started with some bikers in an argument over who had the best machine to ride from here to the coast. What sane person would want to ride their backside for days on only two wheels?”

  Elise’s worried gaze flitted to the door. “I have to find Jack.”

  “No, no way, you can’t go back in there!” Nick gripped her elbow with firm pressure and ushered her toward a corner of the lot. Behind them, the wail of police cars split the air. A local cruiser pulled up to where they stood and Ted Meyer’s hefty body crawled out from behind the wheel.

  “Elise Springer, you’re the last person I’d expect to find in a dump like this.” He lumbered toward her. “You’d better let me take you home. Go sit in my cruiser. The state police are stopping every car as it leaves the lot and passing out DUI’s.”

  “I haven’t been drinking,” Elise said defensively. “I didn’t even drive here, for Pete’s sake. I came with Jack Morrison and I need to find him.”

  “Does he have the white Mercedes?”

  She nodded.

  “I passed it leaving as I came up the road. You’d better get in and let me get you out of here. Pronto.”

  “Never mind, I’ll take her,” Nick spoke up.

  “Listen, buddy,” Ted Meyer’s double chin grew rigid, “butt out, before I find a reason not to like you.”

  With cool calmness, Nick flipped open his wallet and flashed a state police badge. “I said she’s with me, and I’ll drop her off. I have to go out that way anyhow.”

  Red-faced, Ted Meyer stared at Nick, before he gave them both a scathing look and plodded away to the front of the building.

  “But you don’t know where I live.” Elise rubbed her forehead, willing her brain to kick into gear. The light went on. “Whoa, wait a second, you’re one of Cindy Peters’s brothers, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, we’re all dead ringers for each other in some very odd way.”

  Dead ringers, Elise thought. He and Cindy could have been twins. She stiffened. “This was a setup, right?”

  Nick laughed. “Now why would you assume that? Hey, I’m off duty today, but my car needed some work so I borrowed Cindy’s. When she found out I was about to hit the town, she suggested I try some country and western. The band was supposed to be good, but we’ll never know.”

  “Do you know Lucas Fisher?” She sensed he was artfully avoiding the issue. He couldn’t possibly know she’d be at Two Horses unless he, or someone else, followed her from the time she left the house.

  “I knew his brother better.”

  Elise turned to J.B. “I suppose you’re in law enforcement, too?”

  He held up his hands. “Oh, pul-eeze, I value my life. I don’t make it a habit to touch anything loaded with brass, steel, or lead. I’m just a friend who gets a kick out of computers, cars, and country and western music.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lucas sat in a tiny, smoke-filled bar on the east side of Scranton and glanced around the dingy room where vacant, scarred tables with captain’s chairs were more plentiful than the customers, most of whom were huddled around the bar at the front of the room.

  He had not expected the phone call that arrived shortly after Elise left with Jack Morrison, but he was relieved she had not been there. She would have insisted she should be with him, and he figured the fewer people who knew about the meeting soon to take place, the better, although one o’clock in the morning was a hell of a time to meet with someone he loathed since the day he was able to speak his name.

  He was angry with himself. How could he have been so careless? He had always considered himself a grounded, calculating businessman who never missed tying up any loose ends or forgetting any details. That he had not taken the time to verify his father’s whereabouts had been a miserable mistake. Until seven hours ago, when he received a call from the garage and learned someone from Alaska had stopped in and was looking for him, he truly believed John Fisher was six feet under. He had not had any contact with him since his stint in the Army when he learned the old man was perilously close to death.

  A tired-looking waitress in a wrinkled black and white uniform approached. “Hey, handsome, what’ll you have?”

  The urge to order a beer was tempting. “Got any iced tea?” he asked.

  “Tea?” She looked at him oddly, raising a harshly plucked eyebrow. “Well, yes sir. Sure. I guess I could round up a glass. Would you like anything to eat?”

  He shook his head. When she turned to leave, he added, “Oh, miss, could you brew it fresh? I’d prefer it strong, laced with lots of sugar, and in a high ball glass over ice, too.” He handed her a fifty-dollar bill.

  “Sure, sure, anything you want, mister.” She smiled wanly and jerked a thumb toward the empty tables. “It’s so slow around here I could hop a boat to China and bring the tea leaves back if you’d like.”

  Lucas pulled out another fifty-dollar bill, sliding it across the table. “When my friend joins me, don’t mention the tea, just ask if I want another round. Keep the change.”

  “You serious, mister?” she asked, brightening. She laughed. “For tips like this my lips are sealed and I can brew you a glass you’ll never forget.”

  Lucas frowned. Never forget? He hoped not. He hated iced tea. He had tried to acquire a taste for it while living in the South. Even the sweet tea served below the Mason-Dixon Line held little appeal, although it was better than the colored water they served up North. However, he needed a clear head since he was driving. After he had opened his dealership and car restoration facility ten years ago in Atlanta, he had seen more than his share of twisted metal, the result of drivers who had downed too many drinks in too few hours.

  The glass of tea arrived barely minutes before John Fisher swaggered through the door. He had aged miserably, Lucas decided, watching him with a guarded hatred he hoped didn’t show. It was evident the man had been drinking. At one time John Fisher had been a fit, muscular man, used to the ha
rsh outdoors and accustomed to scaling monstrous oil rigs. Time and whiskey had rounded his waistline and once-lean face. He swayed unsteadily on his feet as he approached the table.

  “So, my boy, you came.” John Fisher slumped into a seat opposite him and peered at Lucas through bloodshot eyes. “I knew you would. Couldn’t sleep wrestling with the thought your old man might best you?” He signaled to the waitress who hurried over. “Bourbon, straight up. Make it a double. Jim Beam Black, if you got it.” He motioned to the glass Lucas held. “I see you started without me. You must have inherited my Irish drinking gene.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. There isn’t anything we have in common.” Lucas gripped the iced tea glass so tight he prayed it wouldn’t splinter in his palm.

  John Fisher chuckled. “An Irish temper as well.” He took the glass the waitress deposited on the table and took a swallow, smacking his lips. “There’s nothing like smooth, well-aged booze to top off the evening or a good business deal.”

  Lucas leaned back in his seat and took a sip from his glass, feeling the disgusting, sweet liquid slide down his throat. “I had hoped you were dead.”

  “Almost was. I fell from a rig, busted my pelvis and punctured my lungs. I ended up with a plate in the skull and enough damage to buy me out from under that damn monkey business with a settlement and a little disability cash on the side. So, I bought me a little fix-it shop near Fairbanks, but the timing must have been wrong. It didn’t fly.”

  Lucas snorted. It was as clever a way to say he drank the profits as he’d ever heard. “So tell me, what brings you all the way to Scranton?” The bastard had not attended Mike’s funeral nor even sent a lousy bouquet of flowers. Was it possible he hadn’t known until someone notified him about Mike’s estate?

  “I figured it was about time we established some family relationships. I’m not getting any younger.”

  It took all of Lucas’s willpower not to reach across the table, grab his father by his sweaty neck, and squeeze it until his red eyeballs rolled onto the table. “Not with me, you don’t. You gave up your right to family bonding thirty-some years ago, old man.”