Coldhearted

by Beverly Barton

  Nic and Barbara Jean exchanged knowing glances, then they burst into laughter.

  Barbara Jean squeezed Nic’s hand. “She shares a past with them, our men. And there’s nothing we can do to change that. But their love for her is no threat to either of us. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” Nic tapped her head. “In here, I know.” She laid her hand over her heart. “It’s in here that I’m having a problem.”

  “Then we’ll just have to work on—”

  Nic’s cell phone rang, interrupting Barbara Jean mid-sentence.

  Nic pulled the phone from her blouse pocket. “Excuse me.”

  “Sure. Go ahead and take the call. We can talk later if you want to.”

  “I’ll probably need to.” Nic flipped open the phone, noted the caller ID and said, “Hi, Rick, what’s up?”

  “I want to run something past you,” he said.

  “Shoot.” Nic opened the French doors leading to the patio and walked outside.

  “I need some information that’s going to be tricky to get hold of.”

  “Info about the Daniel Price case, I assume?”

  “Yeah. Actually, it’s personal information about Jordan.”

  “What kind of personal information? I thought we had dug up just about all her old skeletons.”

  “I need to find out if Jordan has ever been under psychiatric care or if she’s ever had a nervous breakdown or suffered any type of mental problem.”

  “Hmm…Interesting. Why do you think she might have—?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s just say that I’m playing a hunch. Since I started working this case, I haven’t been able to get a handle on Jordan. It finally hit me that she’s like two different women.”

  “You’re not saying you think Jordan Price has multiple personalities, are you?”

  “No, no,” Rick said. “None of that bullshit. But how normal is it for a woman to not shed a tear when she has a miscarriage and then to carry on as if she’s perfectly all right?”

  “I don’t know, but maybe it’s just Jordan’s way of dealing with such a devastating loss.”

  “To my knowledge, she hasn’t cried once since she buried Dan Price. The strange thing is that half the time she acts like a normal, caring person, but the other part of the time, it’s as if she’s little more than a robot.”

  “Getting access to a person’s medical records is difficult,” Nic said. “And illegal without their permission.”

  “So, you’re saying—”

  “I’m saying that I won’t authorize doing anything illegal, but Griff might.”

  “Before we go that route—into the illegal zone—do you think Claire might know anything about Jordan’s mental history?”

  “Ah, so that’s why you called me and not Griffin.” Nic laughed. “Sure, I’ll call Claire and see what she knows. Give me a couple of hours and I’ll get back to you.”

  “Nic?”

  “Yes?”

  “Before you hang up, I thought you should know that I’m going to move out of Price Manor and into The Priceville Inn where the other Powell agents are staying.”

  “Any special reason you’re moving out?”

  “Let’s just say that I was getting a little too personally involved with the case.”

  “With Jordan Price?” Nic asked.

  “Something like that.”

  “Want me to pull you off this assignment?”

  “No, I need to see this thing through to the end.”

  “Okay. I’ll call Claire and get back to you.”

  “Thanks, Nic.”

  Jordan was spending the morning resting, mostly to pacify Darlene and Roselynne, who had been hovering over her as if she were a helpless invalid ever since she came home from the hospital. Darlene had brought her breakfast upstairs on a tray and sat with her until she’d eaten a little of everything on her plate.

  “You have to rebuild your strength, dear,” Darlene had told her.

  Now, half an hour after Jordan had persuaded Darlene to leave her alone, Roselynne and Tammy breezed in. Tammy carried a bouquet of spring flowers, no doubt picked from the gardens here at Price Manor. While Tammy put the flowers in a vase, Roselynne plumped Jordan’s pillows and straightened the covers.

  “You’re looking much better today. You have more color in your cheeks.” Roselynne kissed Jordan on the forehead and patted her shoulder. “It’ll take time, but you’ll get over this.” She lowered her voice so that only Jordan could hear. “None of you children ever knew this, but I had a miscarriage only a few months after your daddy and I got married. It broke our hearts.”

  Jordan hadn’t known, had never even suspected that her stepmother had been pregnant. Was that the reason her father had married Roselynne, because she’d been carrying his child? If so, that certainly explained a lot of things.

  After placing the bouquet on the nightstand to Jordan’s right, Tammy sat down on the side of the bed. “Mama says you’re going to be just fine and one day you’ll get married again and have us another baby.”

  “Tammy!” Roselynne scolded.

  Tammy’s eyes flooded with tears. “What—what did I do wrong?”

  Jordan grasped Tammy’s hand. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” She glanced up at her stepmother. “Really, Roselynne, it’s all right.”

  Roselynne shook her head and grunted. “When will I learn to keep my big mouth shut? I was just thinking out loud when I said that about your getting married again. I should know better than to do that around our Tammy.”

  “Then Mama was right?” Tammy asked. “You will have us another baby someday, won’t you? We really were looking forward to having a baby to love. I had started knitting her a little sweater.”

  Roselynne’s brow wrinkled. “Tammy, sweetie, maybe we should go and let Jordan rest now.”

  Jordan hugged Tammy, who hopped off the bed and, smiling brightly, waltzed out of the room. Roselynne followed, but paused at the door.

  “If I could give you what you deserved, I’d pick you out a man worthy of you, somebody who’d love you the way you should be loved. And I’d wish you a good marriage and a bunch of children. Maybe someday.”

  Before Jordan could even think of a reply, Roselynne left. The last thing on Jordan’s mind was remarrying and having children. She had tried marriage twice and both had ended in tragedy. As for a child…Her hand automatically went straight to her stomach. Her baby was gone. Devon’s baby. Odd how she hadn’t really thought of her child as Devon’s. She supposed in her heart, she had thought of the child only as hers, even though she would have shared her son or daughter with both Dan and Devon.

  She had been so preoccupied with herself and the investigation into Jane Anne’s murder that she really hadn’t given Devon the support he needed. He, too, had lost a child directly on the heels of losing Dan. Instead of allowing self-pity to overtake her, she should be concentrating on helping Devon.

  Absorbed in her thoughts, Jordan barely heard the soft rap on her door.

  “Jordan, may I come in?” Rene asked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Rene cracked the door, peered inside and smiled. “Are you sure?”

  Jordan tossed back the covers and slid to the edge of the bed, then motioned to Rene. “Absolutely sure. I’m going crazy cooped up in here.”

  Rene carried a stack of envelopes in her hand. “Morning mail. I thought you could look through it and decide what you wanted to open yourself and what you want me to take care of.”

  “Give me five minutes for a quick shower.” Jordan stood, slid her feet into her house shoes, and walked toward the bathroom. “We’ll stay here and not go downstairs so that Darlene and Roselynne will leave me alone.”

  “They’re worried about you. That’s why they’re smothering you with attention.”

  “I know, but they shouldn’t be so concerned. I’m going to be just fine.”

  “Sure you are,” Rene said. “But you know, honey, no one would
blame you if you fell apart. Just this once.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Jordan and Rene sat in the side chairs flanking the tea table in Jordan’s sitting room. Rene had poured them coffee from the silver pot left on Jordan’s breakfast tray and they were ready to start going through the mail. After Dan’s death, she had been flooded with sympathy cards and letters and even now a few still trickled in. Rene took care of most of her correspondence, but she usually went through the mail first, choosing what to handle personally.

  “Have you talked to Rick Carson this morning?” Rene asked.

  “No, why?” Jordan noted a hint of concern in her assistant’s voice.

  “Then he didn’t tell you that he’s moving into town, did he? He’s going to stay at the Priceville Inn where the other Powell agents are staying.”

  Where Rick stayed, where he spent his nights, shouldn’t matter to her. But it did. Why had he decided to leave Price Manor so suddenly? And why hadn’t he come to her and explained?

  “No, he didn’t tell me.”

  “Look, I wouldn’t know either except I ran into him as he was leaving, suitcase in hand.”

  “What did he say? Did he give you an explanation or—”

  “Nope. He just said if you asked about him, to tell you he’d be in touch.”

  “I see.”

  “Damn men! Every last one of them. They’re nothing but big, hairy, horny apes, the whole lot.”

  Jordan laughed. That was one of the things she loved about her friend. Rene could always make her laugh.

  “You like him, don’t you?” Rene asked.

  “I’ve known him a week. I met him for the first time at Dan’s funeral. He thinks I may have killed both of my husbands and my fiancé. I have no reason to like him.”

  “I’m talking about that other kind of liking. The kind that has nothing to do with the length of time you’ve known someone or the reasons why you should or shouldn’t like them. I’m talking about hormones. Rick Carson lights your fire.”

  “If that’s your none too subtle way of saying you think I’m physically attracted to him, then if I’m completely honest, I’d have to say yes, I suppose I am. And I hate it. I don’t want those feelings. Not ever again. And especially not now. Not when my life is in utter chaos.”

  “If it’ll make you feel any better, you should know that I think he feels the same way. He’s attracted to you and doesn’t want to be. Despite what he might tell you, I believe that’s the reason he’s moving out of Price Manor.”

  “Then he’s done the right thing for the right reasons. Rick has to know that for us, it’s definitely a matter of the wrong time, wrong place, wrong everything.” Jordan tapped the three-inch stack of mail. “Let’s get started on these.”

  She flipped through the envelopes quickly, sorting them into three stacks: trash, Rene, and handle personally. So far, she had only one that she would have to deal with herself. An invitation of some sort.

  Jordan stopped halfway through the stack and stared at the plain white envelope. The address had been hand printed, in pencil. No return address. Postmarked Priceville, Georgia.

  “Something interesting?” Rene asked.

  “Take a look at this.” She handed the envelope to Rene.

  “Hmm…Looks almost like a child’s handwriting, doesn’t it? Want me to open it?”

  “No, I’ll do it.” Jordan’s hand trembled as she took the envelope from Rene and ripped it open with her silver letter opener.

  Why her heartbeat had accelerated and her palms were suddenly moist, she didn’t know. As if guided by a sixth sense that forewarned her, Jordan carefully removed the single sheet of nondescript white lined notebook paper and unfolded it. The message had been written in pencil in the same childlike printing.

  They think you are a killer. We know you are not, don’t we? What do I have to do to prove to them that you’re innocent—kill you, too?

  Jordan stared at the succinct message, her pulse pounding, roaring in her head like a runaway train.

  “Jordan? Jordan, what’s wrong? What is it?”

  Rene’s voice sounded as if it were coming from a great distance. Without saying anything, she handed the letter to Rene, who read it quickly.

  “What the hell is this?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Some nut-job.” She laid the letter on the table. “We need to call Sheriff Corbett.”

  “No,” Jordan said.

  “But you don’t know if this person is a sicko or just a prankster.”

  Jordan got up, dumping the mail off her lap and onto the floor. She found her cell phone lying on her night-stand where she’d put it before going to bed last night. She flipped it open, paused to recall the memorized number, then dialed.

  “Who are you calling?” Rene asked.

  She held up her hand in a please-wait gesture as she listened to the phone ringing.

  “Hello, Jordan,” Rick Carson said.

  “I need you to come back to Price Manor right now.”

  “I take it that Rene told you I’m moving into the Priceville Inn.”

  “Yes, but that’s not why I’m calling. You certainly can stay wherever you want to stay. That’s up to you. But I want you back here immediately. Someone has threatened to kill me.”

  Chapter 17

  “Is this the only threatening letter you’ve received?” Rick asked.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Then I think we can chalk it up to the fact that the loonies were bound to crawl out of the woodwork considering the press coverage since Jane Anne’s murder.”

  Jordan released a relieved breath. “That’s pretty much what Rene said. But I have to admit I was shocked when I read it and…”

  “And what?”

  “And frightened, too.”

  “Unless someone on the estate wrote this letter, you don’t have anything to be afraid of here at home. Or is that what has you so upset—you think someone you know and thought you could trust wrote the letter?”

  “No, of course I don’t think that. Surely you don’t believe—”

  “I know you don’t want to accept the very real possibility that someone close to you and Dan killed him. But facts are facts. It’s looking more and more like Dan was murdered and if you didn’t help him pull the trigger, then who did? Only a certain number of people had access to your home.”

  “You’re asking me to believe that a member of our family killed Dan. I can’t accept that. No one, not even J.C for all his faults, would have harmed Dan.”

  “Believe what you will,” Rick told her. “But right now, you’re the number one suspect, even if the sheriff’s department is referring to you only as a person of interest. Unless you’re willing to take the blame for a murder someone else committed, you’d better accept some hard truths.”

  “I can’t. You’re not only asking me to believe that someone I love and trust murdered Dan, but if they sent that letter—” she glared at the piece of paper Rick held in his hand “—they might actually try to kill me, too.”

  “Whoever wrote the letter seems to believe in your innocence, but they certainly have an odd way of showing it.” Rick waved the letter at her. “Either someone with a limited education wrote this or someone deliberately printed the message and used a pencil and lined paper for a reason.”

  “Rene wanted me to phone Steve Corbett. If someone is actually threatening me, he should know about it.”

  “I’ll tell him if and when I think it’s necessary,” Rick said. “For now, I’ll put the letter and envelope in a plastic bag and keep them with me. There are probably numerous fingerprints on the envelope, but only yours, Rene’s and mine should be on the letter and possibly the person who wrote it. If you get another letter, I’ll send them both to Powell headquarters and our lab can test them. If you don’t receive another one, then we’ll chalk this up to some harmless kook.”

  “All right. We�
��ll hope for the best.” She held out her hand. “Thank you.”

  Rick hesitated, then shook her hand quickly.

  Despite his reassurance, Jordan looked worried. He hated to see her like this, pale and jittery and gazing at him as if he had the answers to all her problems. The vulnerability she projected brought all his protective instincts into play.

  Get out of here before you do something stupid.

  He had moved to the Priceville Inn this morning for a damn good reason, one he shouldn’t forget.

  “I’ll be around for a few more hours, if you need me for anything,” he told her. “When the shift at the front gate changes, I’m giving a couple of the agents a ride back into town.”

  She stared at him with those soulful blue-gray eyes and he got the oddest feeling that she could see right through him, that she knew what he was thinking.

  “Why did you move to the Inn?” she asked.

  “All the other Powell agents are staying there. It seemed the right thing to do. I didn’t want it to look like just because I was heading up the case that I was getting preferential treatment.”

  It was a lie and they both knew it, but she didn’t contradict him.

  “Is there anything new about Jane Anne’s murder?” Jordan asked.

  “No, nothing.”

  “And what about the investigation into Dan’s death?”

  “Like I told you, now that the sheriff’s department has reopened the case, we can assume your husband was murdered.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “The only questions that remain to be answered are who killed the senator and who killed his ex-wife,” Rick said.

  She was making idle chitchat, asking him questions when she already knew the answers. It was obvious that she wanted something from him. His time? His understanding? What exactly?

  Admit it, Carson, you’re as guilty as she is. You’ve been stalling because you want more time with her, even if it’s just a few extra minutes.

  Damn, he was a fool. He and Jordan were deliberately making conversation. Any excuse to stay together just a little while longer. Was her reason the same as his? Hell, what did it matter? This was a lose-lose situation for both of them.