by Gina Wilkins
She spoke calmly. “Jerry and I didn’t ‘break up.’ We weren’t involved in that way. You make us sound like your high-school friends who go steady.”
“He’s mad at you because you’ve been hanging out with Cordero, isn’t he?”
Sharon was beginning to resent this line of interrogation from her brother, especially so soon after Jerry’s cross-examination. “This really isn’t any of your business.”
“I heard you took him with you when you went looking at cars today.”
“How in the world—”
“Why did you do that? Didn’t you know everyone would talk about it?”
“I don’t see anything wrong with taking a friend shopping with me.”
“It makes you look like you’re chasing the guy.”
“Brad!”
“Jimbo says you can’t trust a guy like that. Traveling from place to place, never sticking around. Hitting on women wherever he goes, looking for an easy—”
“Jimbo doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” she snapped. “And, frankly, neither do you.”
“I know the guys are all making fun of you. They think you’re stupid to fall for a jerk like that. They told me if I don’t talk some sense into you, he’s going to make a fool of you. You’ll end up like Connie Moser if somebody doesn’t stop you.”
Sharon had to roll her eyes at that. Connie Moser was a sixteen-year-old single mother who’d become pregnant after a summer fling with a boy her own age who’d come to Honoria from Saint Louis to visit his grandparents. She hardly saw a correlation. “Give me credit for a little more sense than that, will you, Brad? You’re being ridiculous. Mac and I are both adults. Why shouldn’t we go out if we want?”
“You already have a boyfriend. Jerry.”
“Jerry is not my boyfriend.” She found herself raising her voice in frustration, and realized she was coming close to getting into an undignified shouting match with her maddening younger brother. She took a deep breath to steady herself. “I’m not asking your permission to date Mac.”
“So how come I have to ask your permission to do anything?”
“Because, whether you like it or not, I’m the adult in charge in this household, at least until Mom comes home. I’ve tried to be fair and I’ve tried to cut you a great deal of slack, but when it comes down to it, the final decisions—and the responsibility—are mine. Frankly, I don’t consider it an ideal situation, either, but Mom asked us this favor and we both agreed to it, so we’re going to uphold our end of the deal.”
“But—”
“You have neither the right nor the responsibility to ‘talk sense into me’ about anything I do. I don’t have to seek your approval, and I have no interest whatever in Jimbo’s opinion. Have I made myself very clear?”
Sullenly refusing to answer, Brad only nodded, looking down at his feet.
“Go upstairs and wash up. Dinner will be ready in half an hour, and then we’ll need to leave for church. I’m sure you remember that you have youth group tonight.”
He looked as though he wanted to argue, but he didn’t. For one thing, he probably knew he’d pushed her too far. And for another, she knew he enjoyed his youth group meetings, though he wasn’t in the mood to admit that—or anything else—to her now. He swiveled and left the room, his steps much heavier than they needed to be.
She waited until he was out of sight and then sagged against the counter, her anger dissipating and leaving her shaky. How on earth had she ended up in this situation? What had made her think she could handle this? Her mother had made it sound so simple—just keep an eye out for Brad for a few weeks, make sure he didn’t get into trouble and take care of the house until Lucy returned. No problem, right?
Wrong. Sharon could feel the whole arrangement beginning to crumble around her and she wasn’t at all sure what to do about it. Brad was changing. Openly challenging her in a way he’d never done before. Maybe it was only natural for a boy his age, or maybe it was something more serious than that—how was she to know?
She wished again that Bobbie and Caleb McBride were in town.
Maybe she could talk to Wade Davenport. His son was a teenager and seemed so well adjusted. Maybe the police chief could offer some suggestion. Or what about one of the other men in Brad’s life? His baseball coach. His tennis instructor. Officer Dodson, who seemed to have the boys’ respect even though he kept a close eye on them. Would any of them know what to do?
For some reason, she found herself wanting to talk to Mac, though he didn’t have a teenager and didn’t even know Brad, really. She thought just hearing his voice would make her feel better—and that realization worried her almost as much as Brad’s tantrum had.
MAC WAS GETTING into the habit of eating dinner at Cora’s Café. He wasn’t the only regular, and it wasn’t hard to understand why the place was so popular. The food was good. There was a different blue plate special every day, so he didn’t get bored with the menu. And then there were Cora’s pies…
Loneliness wasn’t a problem during his meals, either. Cora’s longtime employee, Mindy Hooper, was jovial, dry-witted and naturally talkative. She made a point to stop by his table and visit whenever she had a few moments. Her manner toward him wasn’t flirtatious. Though she couldn’t have been more than forty, she treated him in an almost maternal fashion—the same way she behaved toward most of the other customers.
Although Mac had only been in town for a couple of weeks, she already seemed to consider him a local, having learned his choice of dinner beverage, his favorite salad dressing, the way he drank his coffee, and that he liked every flavor of pie except strawberry. It was nice to be so easily accepted by someone who took what she knew about him at face value without being overwhelmed by curiosity to learn more.
Other diners occasionally stopped by Mac’s table to greet him—people he’d met through the renovation project, some he’d encountered in other places such as the post office and hardware store, and a few friendly folks who just wanted to stop and introduce themselves. Although he wasn’t particularly interested in making friends in Honoria—he had no plan to return once he’d accomplished his personal and professional goals—he made a point to respond to the greetings pleasantly enough. There was no reason to be impolite, he figured.
Pleasantly full and in a pretty good mood Thursday evening, he left the café and headed for his truck, which he had parked nearby. He would rather have spent the evening with Sharon, of course, but he figured they both needed some time apart. The hours they’d spent car shopping the day before had been very pleasant—almost too nice, as far as he was concerned. He hadn’t learned anything new about the McBrides—in fact, he’d hardly given them a passing thought. And it bothered him that his growing desire for Sharon was beginning to interfere with his purpose for being in this town.
He’d come too far in this quest to let it go now. He couldn’t allow Sharon—or anyone else—to get in his way of finding the truth. Once he had his answers, it would be entirely up to him to decide what to do with them. He had told himself he didn’t really care who got hurt when the truth came out. As badly as he’d been hurt during his lifetime, he deserved to have his payback.
But being around Sharon made him question his actions and his motives. Made him begin to wonder if some things were more important than revenge.
He definitely needed some time away from her.
Lost in his thoughts of Sharon, it took him a moment to notice the deep gouge that ran down the driver’s side of his truck. It was a long, ugly scratch that ran from fender to fender, cutting through the black paint to reveal the gray metal beneath. Deliberately inflicted—most likely with a nail, a knife or some equally sharp object. It had not been there when he’d parked the truck barely forty-five minutes earlier.
Whoever had done this had known exactly what sort of damage he was doing. And who he was doing it to. Mac had no doubt that nearly everyone in this nosy little town recognized his truck by now.
La
st time he’d been in Honoria, he’d rented two different dark, nondescript cars, hoping he could learn something about the McBrides without calling attention to himself. Of course, he hadn’t realized then just how little actually went by without notice in this town, how the slightest change from the ordinary was cause for suspicion. He’d almost been accused of stalking Annie Stewart, when it had actually been Trent McBride he’d been observing. It had taken some glib talking on his part to get him out of that one, having to convince Trent that he had been looking to hire him for the renovation team, not keeping an eye on him or his girlfriend.
On this trip, he’d driven his own functional black pickup with its distinctive markings and chrome accessories. And now it had been deliberately targeted…
Hearing running footsteps, he whirled just in time to see someone disappear around a corner down the street. Someone who’d probably been hiding in an alley or behind another vehicle when Mac went past.
Someone who very strongly resembled Brad Henderson.
“Dammit,” he muttered and whipped his cell phone out of his pocket. He punched in Sharon’s number. She answered on the second ring.
“Where’s your brother?” he asked without bothering to identify himself.
She sounded puzzled. “He has a ball game this evening, but he’s having dinner first with the rest of his team. Why?”
“Where are they having dinner?”
“Probably at the new soda shop on Maple Street. They all like the burgers and shakes there. What’s this all about, Mac?”
The soda shop was only a few blocks away from Cora’s Café. There was no doubt that Brad could easily have walked the distance. He might even have had someone with him; just because Mac had seen only one boy didn’t mean there hadn’t been more who’d slipped away unnoticed. “My mistake,” he said to Sharon. “I thought I saw Brad, but I must have been wrong.”
She didn’t buy his glib explanation. “Mac?”
“Don’t worry about it, okay? Sorry I disturbed you.”
“But—”
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow. G’night, Sharon.” He closed the phone and slipped it back into his pocket, trying to determine his next move.
“What happened here?”
Mac turned, and recognized the man who had spoken as one of the police officers he’d met the night Sharon had been run off the road. Dolan? Dobbins? Dodson, he remembered. “Evening, Officer.”
The other man, who looked to be about Mac’s age, closed the door of the aging SUV he’d just climbed out of. “I’m on my way to dinner at Cora’s, but I see you’ve got a problem here. Anything I can do?”
Mac glanced at the gouge and shook his head, irritated all over again. “No, thanks.”
“You’ll be wanting to make a police report, I imagine. That scratch looks like it was put there on purpose. Have you already made yourself some enemies in town, Mr. Cordero?”
“Not as far as I know. There’s no need for you to make a report, Officer. I can handle this.”
“Now, don’t you go trying to handle trouble like this on your own. I know you were once a big-city detective, but me and Wade are the law around here.”
It was all Mac could do not to grimace. Was the guy trying to sound like a bad movie stereotype of a Southern-hick cop? If so, he was doing a hell of a good job. “I said I’ll take care of it, Officer. But thanks for the advice.”
Dodson shrugged. “Suit yourself. Guess I’ll go have my dinner, then.”
“The coconut pie is especially good this evening,” Mac said genially.
“I’ll keep that in mind. See you around.”
Mac nodded and opened the driver’s door of his truck. Whoever had inflicted the damage was long gone now, of course, probably safely among the rest of the ball team and ready to swear he—or they—had never left the group. But Mac had no intention of letting it go that easily. He wanted to have a few words with Sharon Henderson’s kid brother. And the boy had better listen, if he knew what was good for him.
“I’M TELLING YOU, Chief, I don’t like that guy. He gives me the creeps.”
Wade studied Gilbert Dodson over steepled fingers. “What is it, exactly, that you find so creepy about him?”
“That attitude of his. All cool and superior. Like he knows something everyone else doesn’t. I’m telling you, Chief, I’d keep looking at him in regard to those break-ins. I’d bet he has something to do with them.”
“You’ve been trying to convince me of that for more than a week now, Gil, but you haven’t brought me any proof.” Wade leaned farther back in his chair, making the springs squeak. “Bring me something I can work with, and I’ll do something about it. But until then…”
He left the rest of the sentence hanging.
Dodson sighed with his usual pessimism. “I’m doing my best, Chief.”
“I’m sure you are, Gil. So go out and do some more of it.”
Nodding heavily, Dodson shuffled out of Wade’s office.
Gilbert seemed convinced Mac Cordero was up to something nefarious, Wade mused, still staring at the empty doorway. His officer’s dislike of the other man was curious—Gilbert usually got along just fine with everyone.
Wade was starting to have more questions than answers—about many things. And it was really getting on his nerves.
Looked as if it was time to pay Mac Cordero another call.
CHAPTER TEN
SHARON LEFT her shop as soon as Tressie returned from her lunch break Friday afternoon. “I’ll be back later,” she said on her way out.
“Enjoy your lunch,” Tressie called after her. “I hope you’ll be sharing it with someone…interesting.”
Since Tressie had been teasing her mercilessly all week about Mac, Sharon let the barb sail by unchallenged. For one thing, she did plan to see Mac while she was gone. She wanted to ask him exactly what he’d meant by that strange phone call last night.
Knowing it would only set Brad off again, she hadn’t mentioned the call to him, but she’d questioned him closely about what he’d done before she’d arrived at the ballpark to watch his game. He’d shrugged carelessly and told her he and the rest of the guys had eaten dinner at the soda shop and then headed for the park to change into their uniforms and warm up. Nothing special, he assured her. Just ask any of his friends.
It bothered her that he hadn’t quite been able to meet her eyes during the conversation.
Mac’s truck was parked outside the Garrett house, along with a few others. She was glad she’d caught him before he left. Now if she could catch him in private for a few minutes to ask him…
She saw the scrape on his truck almost as soon as she got out of her car. Walking slowly toward it, she winced as she studied the long slash of metal, bared where the black paint had been scraped away. While she knew it was possible the damage had been caused by accident, deep inside she knew what had happened. Someone had done this on purpose. A malicious act of vandalism—or an ugly message.
“If you’re here to see me, you almost missed out,” she heard Mac say from behind her. “I was just about to leave for lunch.”
She turned to look at him, motioning toward the truck behind her. “When did this happen?”
“Yesterday evening—while I was having dinner at Cora’s Café.”
“You discovered it just before you called me?”
“Not long before.”
“You thought Brad did this.”
“The possibility crossed my mind,” he said, and there was something in his expression she couldn’t quite interpret.
“Mac, you can’t possibly believe—”
Talking and laughing loudly, two workers Sharon knew emerged from the front door of the house and headed toward the outbuilding where the supplies were kept. On their way past, they called out greetings to her, which she returned with forced patience before looking at Mac again. “You really don’t think…”
“Have you eaten?” he asked.
She frowned. “No.”
>
“I haven’t, either, and I’m starved. Let’s talk about this over lunch, okay?”
“Well, I…”
He opened the driver’s-side door to his pickup. “Let me help you in.”
Since the vehicle was rather high off the ground, she silently accepted his hand for assistance, climbing into the truck and sliding across the bench seat to the passenger’s side. She was glad she’d worn a functional gray pantsuit today rather than the long, straight black skirt she’d almost put on that morning.
She waited only until Mac was behind the wheel with the engine running. “I hope you don’t really think Brad would do something like that to your truck. Or to anyone else’s, for that matter.”
“Do you like barbecue?”
It was obvious he wasn’t going to discuss his truck or his suspicions. Since she couldn’t actually force him to talk about it, she fastened her seat belt and sat back. “Yes, I like barbecue.”
“Someone told me Bud’s Place makes a great pulled-pork sandwich. Sound good to you?”
“The food is fine, but Bud’s Place is strictly a drive-through. There are no dining facilities.”
“So we’ll take the food to my apartment. It isn’t far, and we can talk in private there.”
His apartment. Sharon moistened her lips and twined her fingers together in her lap. It would be best to discuss this in private, she thought. She certainly wouldn’t want anyone to overhear Mac say he suspected her brother of vandalizing his truck. There was no telling how fast that rumor would get around—or how it might be embellished along the way. “All right. We’ll talk at your place.”
If he was particularly pleased or surprised by her agreement, she certainly couldn’t tell.
BUD’S PLACE WAS popular for take-out lunches, so the line of vehicles at the order window was long, even though the lunch rush had passed. Mac ordered two pulled-pork sandwiches with coleslaw, a large order of seasoned fries, two fried peach pies and two large iced teas. The only choice Sharon was given was whether she wanted mild or spicy sauce on her sandwich. She chose mild. Mac ordered spicy.