by Laurie Paige
“In town. Colby drove me in for the final night of the logging competition. We stayed for the concert.”
“Was your sister with you?”
Louise shook her head. “She said she had things to do. I assumed she meant for the festival, but now I realize she must have been meeting someone.” Her eyes filled with tears again. “Her killer.”
A silence ensued. Chelsea felt the heaviness that thoughts of death imposed on the living. She also concluded that Louise Holmes hadn’t murdered her sister.
“Can you think of anyone who had any type of quarrel with Miss Martel over the past few years?” she asked as gently as she could. “Sometimes people carry a grudge a long time. It festers, then erupts if an opportunity presents itself.”
Louise shook her head. “Colby asked me the same. I’ve thought and thought on it. Harriet didn’t make close friends, but she didn’t make enemies, either. I know for a fact she helped people.”
“In what way? At the library or personally?” Chelsea continued her line of questioning.
“Well, personally. She was something of a feminist—”
Holt gave a surprised snort at that.
“She was,” insisted the sister. “She thought women should be able to support themselves, even if they were married. They shouldn’t depend solely on men to take care of them. She said that was why a lot of women were trapped in bad marriages. They had nowhere to go and no confidence in themselves. She thought that was terrible.”
“So you think there were women in town that she helped? Did she mention any names?”
Louise shook her head at Chelsea’s probing. “I don’t know anyone specifically, only that she was upset on behalf of some woman whose husband was a bastard, to use her term. Harriet rarely used strong language,” the sister said with an apologetic glance at Holt.
When further questioning elicited no new information, Chelsea thanked the older woman for her cooperation. She and Holt started across the lawn.
“Do you think you’ll catch him?” Louise called out.
Chelsea, noting the anxious expression and grieving manner, hadn’t the heart to discourage her hopes. “I’m sure the culprit will be found.”
“Ha,” Holt said under his breath and held the door open for Chelsea to climb in.
In the police SUV on the way back to town, Chelsea spoke, “We have another suspect.”
“Yeah? Who’s the first one?”
“The lover,” Chelsea murmured, her thoughts converging as she studied the facts. “There could have been an estranged husband.”
“Harriet wasn’t married.” Holt was clearly impatient with this line of reasoning.
Chelsea ignored him. “I mean, what if Harriet helped someone, an abused wife who came to the library seeking refuge, and helped her get away…gave her the money to leave town…and the husband found out. He’d blame Harriet for his wife leaving him. Maybe he came to her house and demanded to know where his wife was. Naturally Harriet wouldn’t tell him.”
“She’d probably give him a lecture about doing right and insist that he attend an anger management class,” Holt said. “Harriet didn’t mince words when she was angry.”
“That’s probably what set her murderer off. She wouldn’t back down and give in to his demands.” Chelsea thought some more, then came back to the lover and father of the unborn child. “Did Harriet stop seeing her sister because of the demands of the committee work or those of the mysterious boyfriend?”
“The boyfriend,” Holt said without hesitation.
Chelsea squinted against the brightness of the afternoon sun. “It’s a rare person who keeps every part of her life secret. You know what I mean?”
“No.”
“Even the most reticent person confides in someone—a friend, a family member, a priest. Has that been checked out? Did Harriet go to church? Did she belong to any clubs?”
“The American Library Association,” Holt said dryly. “She went to church over in Whitehorn. We checked that out. She hadn’t attended in several months.” He exhaled in an exasperated huff. “She was the exception that proves the rule. She confided in no one, neither family nor friend.”
“Or foe?” Chelsea suggested. “She told her lover. It infuriated him.”
Holt hit the steering wheel in frustration. “Who the hell is he?”
Pierce smacked the arm of the deck chair with an open palm. “Who the hell could it be? This town is too nosy for anyone to hide an affair for long. Someone had to have suspected something.”
Chelsea nodded absently, her thoughts on the conversation with Louise Holmes and her conclusion about the reclusive librarian having more than one enemy. She’d just informed Pierce of this new twist, but added that she was still betting on the boyfriend.
“After all,” he continued, his tone changing, “it’s already all over town that you and Holt Tanner are a hot item.”
“What?”
“That got your attention,” he said in satisfaction.
“Holt and I are working on the case. Doesn’t everyone know that by now?”
“Apparently you seemed pretty intimate at the diner during lunch. Later you were seen going out of town in Holt’s truck, then you returned over an hour later and spent the rest of the afternoon in his office…behind closed doors, or so it’s rumored.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. We went to see the victim’s sister. Does everyone think we were out parked like a couple of kids sneaking off to lovers’ lane? Honestly, small towns are a pain.” She glowered darkly at Pierce.
He grinned lazily. “I like to see you with your dander up. Your eyes flash and your lips get all pouty with disapproval. Your cheeks become charmingly pink.”
She gave him a glare that should have shut him up.
He laughed softly, with an edge of cynicism. “I would be jealous—”
“Jealous,” she said incredulously. “Of what?”
“Of Holt. Except I know how dedicated you are to your career,” he finished.
“You’ve mentioned my career before. Why is it okay for a man to devote himself to his career, to ignore his family and put his goals ahead of everything else, but not for a woman to do the same? Answer me that.”
“You’re right. I’m out of line with my philosophy about men and women working together and sharing responsibility. Call me old-fashioned.”
“I prefer mule-headed. If responsibility was shared equally, there’d be no problem, but family matters always devolve to the female. Every study shows the woman handling most of the duties in marriage.”
“I’d be willing to share,” he said, his gaze roaming the lake and the vicinity around the deck. He checked his watch. “Time to turn the chicken.”
Chelsea watched him, her mood wary, as he opened the lid on the barbecue grill and turned the chicken breasts over, then basted them with sauce. She’d been surprised to discover dinner being prepared when she’d arrived at the cabin after an afternoon spent in Holt’s office, going over the known facts and trying once more to come up with a face to match them, only this time that of another woman’s estranged husband, someone who had a temper and was known as a wife beater.
Men. It was no wonder more and more women chose not to marry the louts.
“Why don’t I trust this act of neighborly kindness?” she asked aloud while he refreshed their margueritas from a tall pitcher.
He laid a hand over his heart. “I’m crushed at your doubts.” His grin was pure devil and then some. “Actually I’m carrying out orders. Kelly said she’d beat me with a broom if I didn’t treat you nicely.”
“Kelly has dreams of us marrying and me going into partnership with her. Our children would be cousins and play together as best friends, and we’d all live happily ever after.” Chelsea sighed in exasperation.
“Would it be so bad?”
She was startled by the serious tone. He didn’t smile when she met his eyes. “I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “I’ve never thought much
about it.”
After he’d made it clear long ago that he had no interest in a permanent relationship, she’d blocked those ideas from her consciousness. Her dedication to learning all she could about forensic techniques had been commented on more than once during her residency. It was all she’d had to fill the lonely hours of her days and nights.
She turned from his gaze. To the west, the setting sun highlighted the peaks in glorious shades of brilliant red and orange and gold, the result of the usual summer forest fires adding tons of debris to the air.
“Behind every lovely illusion,” she murmured, “lurks a harsh reality. Harriet Martel discovered that in a very painful way.”
“It’s difficult to think of Harriet having romantic illusions,” Pierce admitted, closing the grill and coming to the railing where Chelsea stood. “She seemed to have a stern outlook on life.”
“Everyone has dreams,” she said without taking her eyes from the twilight sky. However, she was aware of his heat as he stood close. Her heartbeat seemed to become louder.
“Have you fulfilled all of yours?”
She inhaled slowly, deeply, then shook her head. I want a child. I’d like to adopt a baby, but that maybe impossible. There’s a long waiting list.”
“What about an older one?”
“I’ve thought about that. Older children often have special needs. I worry that as a single parent I might not have enough time. I’ll have to continue to work.”
“There’s no possibility you could have a baby?”
His chest brushed her shoulder, causing her skin to burn. She moved away unobtrusively. “Actually I could, but it would be the merest luck if everything came together just right and the embryo found a place to attach.”
“Hmm,” was all he said.
She found herself mesmerized by the fathomless darkness of his eyes as he studied her for a long minute. She was aware of each place his gaze paused—her eyes, her lips, her throat, which was suddenly tight and achy.
When he suddenly turned, she was disappointed and relieved at the same time.
“Dinner,” he announced.
She rushed to hand him the platter, then went inside and brought out the pasta salad she’d prepared upon arriving home and discovering what he was doing. As twilight turned into deep dusk, they silently ate and listened to the calls of the night creatures on the summer air.
Chelsea lifted the hair from her neck after finishing the meal. “That was delicious. Thank you for preparing it. I’d already decided against cooking. It’s just too hot.”
“The weatherman says there’s no break in the heat. The fire near Missoula is out of control.”
“Kelly said you had a resort over there. Is it in danger?”
“Not yet, but it could be if any more fires break out.”
“Maybe they’ll get a shower soon.”
Pierce stood. “I hope so. Let’s go inside. The mosquitoes are coming out.”
They took care of the dishes, then settled in front of the television to catch the news. No rain was fore cast for the state, but the fires were contained. That was good. They watched a movie, then she rose to prepare for bed.
Pierce stood, too, and blocked her path. “About that child you want,” he said softly.
A shiver rushed over her like a sudden cold shower.
“I’d be glad to father it.”
She was speechless.
“But there’s a condition.”
“What?” Her voice came out a breathless wheeze.
“Marriage. You would have to agree to marriage if you became pregnant. I don’t believe in having children without providing them with the security of a family.”
“Oh.”
He let her go. “So think on that and let me know.” He walked to the sofa and spread out the sheets and blanket without glancing her way again.
Chapter Eight
Chelsea looked at the clock beside the bed. It was ten minutes later than the last time she looked at it, which was to say, five after twelve. She closed her eyes and ordered them to stay that way.
They did. For another five minutes.
Sighing in disgust, she flung the covers off and swung her legs over the side, searching around with her toes until she found her fuzzy slippers. Heading for the kitchen, she perked up as she remembered the ice cream she’d bought at the grocery when she’d arrived. She hadn’t sampled it yet, and Rocky Road was her favorite flavor.
“What’s happening?” a deep voice inquired.
Chelsea whirled from the fridge, a hand going to her heart. She spotted Pierce standing in the doorway between the living room and kitchen. “You scared me,” she accused and turned back to the task at hand. I’m having a dish of ice cream. You want some?”
“Yeah.”
She was supremely aware that he wore jeans, but no shirt or shoes. His torso was bronzed by the sun. Wiry chest hair cast an intriguing shadow across his chest and ended in a dark line leading from his navel and disappearing behind the waistband of the jeans.
She gulped and fixated on getting two bowls from the cabinet, scooping out the ice cream and adding spoons, then setting his portion on the counter nearest him. Taking her treat, she went out on the screened porch and sat on the glider, her feet tucked under her.
Pierce followed and sat in a wicker chair.
“Why isn’t it cold at night?” she murmured, aware of the stillness of the air and the heat that hung over the land even at this late hour. “It’s supposed to be cold in the mountains.”
“Global warming,” was his answer, delivered in a grouchy tone.
She shut up and took a bite of ice cream. It crunched delightfully between her teeth, releasing the flavors of chocolate and nuts and marshmallows.
“What the hell is the crunchy stuff in this ice cream?” he wanted to know.
“Dung beetles.”
A silence followed, then, “Very funny,” he muttered.
“Don’t ask if you don’t want the answer.” Satisfied that she’d scored one for her side, she relaxed and savored each cold, delicious spoonful of the dessert until she’d scraped the bowl clean.
“Here.”
Pierce thrust his half-full bowl into her hands and set hers on the side table. He settled in the glider with her and set it into motion. After the briefest of debates with herself, she shrugged and finished off his bowl, too.
“Ah, that was good. If people had all the ice cream they could eat, the world would be a happy place.”
“Ice cream diplomacy,” he said sardonically. “You should write the president and tell him about it.”
Undaunted by his attitude, she said, “Maybe I will.” She set the empty bowl into the other one, licked the spoon and put it there, too. She checked the corners of her mouth with her tongue.
“You missed a spot,” he told her.
She licked her mouth again. “Where?”
“Here.”
Before she could react, he leaned close and, with the merest flick of his tongue, touched a spot on her chin just below the right corner of her mouth. A fierce sensation ran under her skin, causing her to gasp aloud.
“Pierce,” she started, then couldn’t think of exactly what she wanted to say.
“Kiss me, Chelsea,” he murmured. “I’m hungry for the taste of you.”
“Passion is foolish.” She mentally groaned at how prissy she sounded.
“I know. Indulge me in this,” he requested softly, his breath playing havoc along her cheek as he planted kisses there in barely felt caresses.
For a second she resisted, even as hunger flowed through her in red-hot waves of molten desire. Then her arms closed around his neck and locked into place, refusing to let go.
This was Pierce, her first, sweet, passionate love, the man of her dreams and fantasies.
“I want you,” she said, and laughed at how simple the words were and how easy they were to say.
He stared deeply into her eyes, a question in his. Still smilin
g, she nodded.
“No regrets come morning?” he asked, his voice a husky rumble coming from deep within, its nuances like the earth-shaking murmur of a volcano before it erupted into fiery rivers of liquid rock.
“No regrets,” she assured him.
“Good. I’ve been dying to do this.”
Sliding his hands under her pajama top, he cupped her breasts and held them as if they were the most delicate treasures in all creation.
“You make me feel…special,” she whispered, pressing her face into his shoulder. “Everything seems new and wonderful.”
“It was always this way with us,” he reminded her.
“I loved touching you…feeling the smoothness of your skin, like satin, but warm. Hot,” he corrected, then laughed.
His laughter touched her in ways she couldn’t name. Tenderness washed over her, accompanied by a rainbow of other emotions too deep to identify.
Their kisses filled the void in her to overflowing. She ran her hands over his chest, sides, back, shoulders, into his hair, along his jaw, over his throat.
“Magic,” she said. “You were always magic.”
“Not me. You,” he contradicted. “You’re like a spirit who can appear or disappear at will. I’m never sure if you actually exist or if you’re a moment’s fantasy.”
When he lifted her, she swung her legs across his thighs and settled in his lap, their minds and bodies in tune as if there’d never been a time of separation.
“Get rid of this,” he demanded, bunching the pajama material in his fist.
“Yes.”
The gathered cotton top was quickly tossed aside. He wrapped her in a close embrace. She reveled in the warm contact, the tensile strength of his muscles.
“Not enough,” he said, kissing her a thousand times. “It’s never enough.”
He rocked forward and stood, lifting her into his arms at the same time. Feeling his way through the dark interior of the house, he carried her to the bedroom and laid her down. He paused with his hands on his jeans.
“Stay,” she said.
That was all the invitation he needed. Quickly getting out of the confining denim, he then stripped the pajama bottoms from her, smiling when he saw they were fashioned like men’s boxer shorts. She was all woman, the eternal female…and his.