As Good As Dead (Griffin Powell Book 4)

by Beverly Barton

  Going through the selection of CDs stacked beside the entertainment center, she found that it was comprised of mostly older country hits. She didn’t care much for country music and doubted seriously if Dodd did. As she continued perusing the stack, her gaze stopped on one particular CD that stood out from the rest. The Romantic Piano. She removed it from the stack, opened it and inserted it in the player. When she heard the soft, sweet strains of Schuman’s “Dreaming,” she sighed.

  Only moments after she relaxed on the sofa, she heard a car outside. Her heartbeat accelerated. Forcing herself not to jump up and run to the door, she rose from the sofa and walked slowly toward the entrance. By the time she reached the door, she heard footsteps on the porch. She took a deep breath and opened the door.

  Dodd Keefer was an elegantly handsome man, his grayish-brown hair neatly styled, his attire a sports coat, dress slacks and lightweight turtleneck sweater. He paused the moment he saw her and smiled. His sparkling blue eyes devoured her. A tingle of some sort fluttered in her belly. Suddenly she felt like a young girl meeting secretly with her first beau.

  He held up a bottle of wine. “I brought champagne. Dom Perignon. It’s been chilled, but we might want to—”

  Reba boldly grasped his free hand and tugged, urging him toward her. Lowering his hand holding the bottle to his side, he stepped over the threshold and eased the door closed behind him. Acting purely on instinct, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him fully on the mouth. He responded instantly, returning the kiss with gentle force. A feeling of pure euphoria filled her body, unlike anything she’d experienced in ages.

  Dodd ended the kiss somewhat reluctantly. Reba gazed up at him. He smiled.

  “I’ve been wanting to do that for a very long time,” she admitted, then took a step back, putting some space between them.

  “So have I.” He studied her for a moment. “This isn’t something we have to rush. I’ll be perfectly content this evening to sit here in front of the fire with you and drink champagne, listen to music and talk.”

  She nodded. “I’d like that very much.” He’s a rare man, she thought, a man who understood that she wasn’t quite ready to make that big step into a full-fledged affair.

  “And perhaps you’ll allow me to kiss you again.”

  “I’ll be disappointed if you don’t kiss me. Several more times.”

  Reve found herself at Genny Sloan’s kitchen sink removing the shells from a dozen boiled eggs. If her Chattanooga friends could see her now, they’d be shocked. Reve Sorrell doing a menial task! She had rolled up the sleeves of her silk blouse and donned a white apron her hostess had provided, then had listened carefully as Genny explained how to prepare deviled eggs. It had seemed simple enough, but she was having more than a little difficulty. Some of the eggs shed their shells without a problem, but some shells stuck as if they were glued on, and the only way to remove them was to tear the egg apart.

  “I’m afraid I’m not very good at this.” Holding one of the tattered eggs in her hand, Reve glanced across the kitchen to Genny, who was lifting pieces of fried chicken from the heavy iron skillet filled with hot grease.

  “Oh, you’re doing fine,” Genny told her. “The whites that mess up, just save for Drudwyn. That dog loves eggs. And put the yolks with the other ones. I always like to have more yolks than whites. It makes for overflowing deviled eggs.”

  Reve forced a smile. She felt as out of place here in this old mountain farmhouse helping prepare dinner as Genny and Jazzy would probably feel at one of her elaborate dinner parties. And it’s not dinner here in Cherokee County, she reminded herself. These people call the evening meal supper.

  These people? Watch out, Reve, your snobbery is showing again. These people are two very kind women who have done their best to make you feel as if you fit in. Since that crazy “reading” Genny had done a couple of hours ago, both Genny and Jazzy had bent over backward to soothe Reve’s ragged nerves. Considering how she’d reacted to Genny’s dire prediction that both she and Jazzy were in grave danger, Reve supposed she was lucky they hadn’t asked her to leave and never come back. She had jumped up from her chair in the corner of the darkened bedroom and screamed for them to stop.

  “This is total insanity and I want no part of it!” After yelling this, she had run from the room, leaving Jazzy to deal with Genny, who had either fainted or had done a great job of acting as if she had. As skeptical as Reve was about Genny’s sixth-sense abilities, she didn’t think the woman was a fake. Maybe sometime in Genny’s childhood, her crazy old witch woman grandmother had convinced her she was psychic. It seemed obvious that Genny truly believed she was gifted.

  Later on, the two women had found her outside on the porch. Neither mentioned the “reading” or Reve’s outburst. Instead, Genny suggested she give Reve a tour of her greenhouses, which turned out to be a rather interesting excursion. It seemed that Genny owned a successful local nursery and specialized in herbs she also sold by mail order.

  As soon as Jazzy removed a skillet of cornbread from the oven and turned it out onto a brown earthenware plate, she came over and eased the hot skillet down into the soapy water on the left side of the double sink. The minute the skillet hit the water, it emitted a sizzling sound.

  “Need some help?” Jazzy asked Reve.

  “Yes, I’m afraid I do.”

  “Looks like you’ve managed to keep about six of the whites intact.” Jazzy lifted a tray from the counter and set it down to Reve’s right. “Clean your hands and then arrange the whites on the tray in a circle. While you do that, I’ll prepare the yolks.”

  Reve sighed with relief. “Thanks.”

  Jazzy patted her on the back. “It’s okay. Really. You’re just new to this kind of stuff. Any time I try something new, I feel as if I’m all thumbs.”

  Before Jazzy could take over, a phone rang. Reve knew instantly from the musical ring that it wasn’t her cell phone or Genny’s residential line.

  “That’s mine.” Jazzy wiped her hands on her apron, then grabbed her purse from the back of the kitchen chair and retrieved her cell phone. “Hello.” Jazzy’s eyes widened in surprise. “I’m doing just fine, Miss Reba. How are you?”

  Genny stopped dead still and looked inquiringly at Jazzy, who shrugged and grinned. Genny eased up beside Reve and whispered, “That’s Caleb’s grandmother. She’s always hated Jazzy. I can’t imagine why she’s calling her.”

  “Lunch tomorrow?” Jazzy asked. “I—yes, I suppose so. Hold on just a sec, will you?” Jazzy looked at Reve. “Miss Reba has invited us to Sunday dinner. What do you say? Want to go?”

  Not really, Reve thought, but when she noted the hopeful expression on Jazzy’s face, she replied, “Yes, certainly, if you’d like to go.”

  “Miss Reba, we’ll be there.” Jazzy sucked in a deep breath and slowly released it. “And thank you.”

  The minute she hit the off button on her phone, Jazzy whirled around, grabbed Reve and hugged her. Reve stiffened. She was unaccustomed to physical displays of emotion. Her parents had been kind and caring, but neither of them had been the type to shower hugs and kisses on anyone, not even their only child.

  “Hot damn!” Jazzy released Reve and danced jubilantly around the room. “I guess hell has done froze over, gals. Miss Reba not only was civil to me, she honest-to-God invited me to Sunday dinner.”

  The sound of a dog’s friendly barks alerted them that someone was outside several minutes before they heard tromping on the back porch. The kitchen door swung open, and a huge wolf-looking dog came barreling in, followed by Caleb McCord and Dallas Sloan. The dog came straight to Reve and sniffed her. Oddly enough, she wasn’t afraid of him, even though she’d never owned a pet. When he finished sniffing, the dog lifted his head and stared at her with golden eyes.

  “I believe Drudwyn likes you,” Genny said. “You should take that as a compliment. He’s usually a very good judge of character.”

  Chief Sloan slid his arm around his wife’s waist, leaned d
own and kissed her on the mouth. Reve glanced away, somehow feeling as if she was a voyeur. Her line of vision just happened to turn to Jazzy, who was in the middle of an equally loving exchange with Caleb. Reve’s cheeks burned with an embarrassing blush.

  Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself, you have nothing to be embarrassed about and you know it. If people chose to make spectacles of themselves, she was hardly to blame. Not once had she ever seen her parents kiss each other. They considered such public displays of affection vulgar and low class.

  With shaky hands, Reve placed the halved boiled egg whites in a circle on the plate, deliberately avoiding making eye contact with anyone else in the room.

  “You’ll never guess in a million years who called and invited Reve and me to dinner tomorrow,” Jazzy said.

  “My grandmother,” Caleb responded.

  “You did it, didn’t you? Somehow you twisted her arm into—”

  “Didn’t do any arm-twisting,” Caleb said. “I simply told Miss Reba that I loved you and intended to marry you and it would please me greatly if you two could get along.”

  “You actually said that to her?”

  “Sure did. And I mentioned that I’d hate to think she’d force me to choose between the woman I loved and my grandmother because I’d choose the woman I loved.”

  Reve glanced up just in time to see Jazzy throw her arms around Caleb’s neck and kiss him again.

  “You’re the most wonderful man in the world,” Jazzy told him.

  “Then why don’t you accept my proposal? Say you’ll marry me.”

  Jazzy pulled away from him, but held on to both of his hands. With tears misting her eyes, she looked right at him and said, “I’ll marry you.”

  “Glory hallelujah.” Genny clasped her hands together in a prayer-like gesture.

  Reve grew more uncomfortable with each passing minute. She should never have agreed to come here with Jazzy today. It had been a mistake from the very beginning. These people were little more than strangers to her, and yet here she was, not only helping prepare a meal they would soon share, but being privy to a marriage proposal and acceptance.

  These two couples were close friends. She was an outsider who was unaccustomed to feeling out of place. Even if she and Jazzy were twin sisters, she doubted she’d ever be able to fit into Jazzy’s world. No more than Jazzy could fit into hers.

  While the foursome were sharing this happy moment, Reve eased toward the back door. She could hardly escape and go back into town to her rental cabin, considering she’d ridden out here with Jazzy. Besides, none of them would understand why she felt so uncomfortable around them. But she needed a few moments alone, to compose her thoughts. She could step out on the back porch. Just for a couple of minutes. Several deep breaths of cool evening air might do her nerves a world of good. She seriously doubted anyone would miss her, at least not immediately.

  Reaching the door without being noticed, Reve grasped the knob. Just as she opened the door and took her first step, she came face-to-throat with a wide-shouldered man wearing a brown suede jacket. Her heart all but stopped when she lifted her gaze and looked into the slanting green eyes of her worst nightmare—Sheriff Jacob Butler.

  CHAPTER 7

  When his father left the country club to drive home shortly after six, Brian had told him that he wouldn’t be in until late. And when Farlan had asked—hopefully—if he had a date, Brian had smiled and said yes, but that it was a first date and he preferred keeping the lady’s identity to himself in case things didn’t work out between them. It was far from the first lie he’d told his father, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Lying had become second nature to him. Sometimes he thought it easier to fabricate a lie than to tell the truth. Besides, what did his father expect after the example he’d set? Both of Brian’s parents were adept liars and apparently felt little or no guilt when they didn’t tell the truth. He’d been a kid, barely twelve, when he’d discovered that his beloved father, his idol, had feet of clay. And although he’d always adored his mother and, in a way, still did, he’d known since childhood that she was emotionally unstable.

  Here he was, at forty-two, still living with his parents. He’d tried living on his own, during his years away at college and during his brief marriage to Phyllis, but he preferred the family residence in the heart of Cherokee Pointe. The MacKinnon mansion made a statement. It shouted, “The people who live here are rich and powerful and important.” He enjoyed being a MacKinnon, with all that entailed. And someday the entire family fortune would be his and his alone. If his nutty Uncle Wallace outlived Veda and Farlan, he’d have the old man put away somewhere. A nice facility where he’d be taken good care of, but where he’d be out of Brian’s hair. His uncle had been an embarrassment to him all his life, but neither of his parents would hear of institutionalizing him. His father truly loved his only brother, but he suspected his mother’s concern for her brother-in-law was more self-serving. After all, she had to know that on any given day, she, too, might be a candidate for the looney bin.

  His parents had made it perfectly clear to him that they expected him to remarry and sire at least one child, to provide the family with a MacKinnon heir. Although he seriously doubted he could endure the dullness of a monogamous relationship for more than a few months, he realized he needed to get married. A man in his position should have a family. Otherwise, people talked. They wondered about his sexual orientation. And they whispered that maybe his first wife had broken his heart so badly that he could never love again. Some probably even speculated that he’d been too much of a mama’s boy growing up to be able to completely sever her apron strings.

  What did he care? Let the tongues wag. For now. When he did remarry, that would shut them all up fast enough. And he would get married again. It was just a matter of time. He’d thought he had found the perfect woman to be his wife. Genny Madoc. Lovely beyond words. Gentle and kind. And she’d been a virgin. He’d courted her, turned himself inside out to please her, and yet the minute that burly blond FBI agent had shown up in Cherokee County, Genny had proven herself to be no different from most other women. She’d given her precious innocence to a man unworthy of her, a man who could never have appreciated the priceless gift the way Brian would have.

  Even now the thought of tutoring Genny in the ways to please him aroused him unbearably.

  Brian had driven his Porche this afternoon, not only to impress Wade Truman, but because he had known he’d be picking up a companion for the evening. Ladies—and he used the term loosely—always appreciated riding in an expensive car. He’d never used a local prostitute before and even now, on his way to pick up his “date,” he felt uneasy. What if someone saw him with this woman? How would he ever explain? When the need to be with a woman drove him hard, he usually made a trip to Knoxville, but he’d been assured by Mr. Timmons that the girl he was sending Brian tonight would fulfill all his fantasies. All he required in a woman was that she be agreeable to a little S&M.

  Farlan didn’t want to go home. His life had reached that sad state where he’d rather be anywhere than with his own wife. If the guilt of a long-ago indiscretion hadn’t weighed heavily on his shoulders—a love affair with another woman that had pushed his unstable wife over the edge—he would have sought a divorce twenty years ago. But Veda had never completely recovered from the nervous breakdown she had suffered when she found out about his mistress. She had gone so far as to try to kill herself and threatened to try again if Farlan ever left her. Since then he’d been shackled to her with a ball and chain formed out of guilt and regret.

  Poor Brian had been only twelve at the time Veda tried to commit suicide, and Farlan would never forgive himself for the upheaval he and Veda had created in their son’s young life. After Veda’s botched suicide attempt, Brian had become unruly and occasionally violent. But when Farlan had mentioned seeking psychiatric help for both his wife and his son, Veda had gone berserk, saying she’d rather die than be subjected to such humiliation
for herself and their child. Looking back, Farlan realized that he’d made a mistake by giving in to her threats. But at the time, it had been easier to let Veda have her way. If he could turn back the clock and do everything all over again, he wouldn’t take the easy way out. Not with Veda and Brian. And not with—

  No, don’t even think her name, he told himself. After she went away, you swore to yourself that you wouldn’t go after her. Not ever. And you wouldn’t let her memory drive you mad. But how could a man ever completely forget what it was like to have a woman love him with her whole heart, to light up the moment he walked into a room, to lie in his arms and make him feel like a king?

  Before he knew what he was doing, Farlan parked his Bentley down the street from Jazzy’s Joint, the local honky-tonk. It had been over a year since he’d ventured inside—since Max’s last birthday when he’d asked his buddies to meet him there for an all-male celebration. After parking, Farlan called home on his cell phone and left a message with Abra.

  “Tell Miss Veda that I won’t be home for supper. I’m staying late at the club.”

  What was one more lie between them, after a lifetime of lies?

  The minute he entered Jazzy’s Joint, the roadhouse ambience put him at ease. In this place he wasn’t Farlan MacKinnon, Chairman of the Board of MacKinnon Media. In here, he was just another man looking for a glass of beer and a quiet corner where he could drown his sorrows. Of course, he’d already drowned quite a few sorrows with three glasses of bourbon at the club, but the numbing effect of that liquor had begun to wear off. He needed to renew that languid feeling only alcohol produced.

  Surrounded by loud music and smoky air, Farlan walked up to the bar and ordered. The bartender wasn’t especially busy since this early in the evening there was only a handful of patrons. A couple of guys in the back shooting pool, one sitting at the other end of the bar and another man at a nearby table, nursing a glass of what looked like whiskey.