Coldhearted

by Beverly Barton

  The Powell guards opened the gates and Rick waved at them as he entered. If it were possible to avoid seeing Jordan this morning, it would make things easier all the way around. Not that he couldn’t handle seeing her, but they were both better off spending some time apart. Physical attraction could be a tricky thing.

  After parking his Jeep near the garage, he got out and walked to the cottage where Roselynne Harris lived. He had phoned her an hour ago and made an appointment, telling her only that he wanted to speak to her about a way she could help Jordan.

  “You name it,” she had said. “Anything on God’s green earth I can do for that girl, I’ll do.”

  Rick had no more than raised his fist to knock on the door, when Tammy yanked it open and stood there staring up at him.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  She bounded out the door. He stepped aside to give her ample space to get by him.

  “I’m going to sit out here in the swing and wait for Jordan,” Tammy said. “We’re going for a walk together while you and Mama talk.”

  “I see. That’s nice. You and Jordan are great friends, aren’t you?”

  “We’re more than friends, silly. We’re sisters.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Mr. Carson?” Roselynne called from the doorway. “Come on in.”

  He entered the living room, a warm, welcoming area filled with a mix of antique and new furniture and decorated in a style that he’d call homey.

  “Would you care for some coffee?” she asked. “I just put on a fresh pot.”

  “No, thanks, nothing for me.”

  “Well, sit down and take a load off.”

  He sat on the sofa. Roselynne sat beside him. He noticed that despite the early hour—eight-fifteen—she had already applied a thick layer of makeup, fixed her hair, and put on a pair of skin-tight jeans and a low-cut, knit sweater. Two pairs of large gold hoops dangled from her ears.

  “I appreciate your agreeing to talk to me this morning.”

  “You said there was something I could do to help Jordan. I told you that I’d do anything I could to help her. Just name it.”

  “I’m sure you would.” When Rick turned to face her, he realized she was right there, less than a foot away from him. He eased down to the end of the sofa, all the while smiling as he said, “You know what’s being said about Jordan, that quite a few men in her life have met untimely deaths.”

  “It’s a tragedy, but that’s all it is,” Roselynne said. “That girl could no more kill somebody than I could.”

  “We need to try to prove just that—that she didn’t kill anyone. And we can start by proving that she didn’t kill her father, that he actually did die of a heart attack.”

  “Well, of course, he did. My Wayne was a chubby-chubby. Cute as a button, mind you, but roly-poly. That man loved fried food and I cooked him what he liked. And it didn’t help that he smoked like a chimney. I quit smoking after Wayne died. I didn’t want to drop dead before I turned fifty the way he did.”

  “Very wise decision, Mrs. Harris.”

  “Well, what exactly can I do to help you prove for sure and certain that Wayne died of a heart attack?”

  “You can give us permission to have his body exhumed,” Rick said, wishing there had been a gentler, less direct way of saying it.

  “What?”

  “The Powell agency can have an independent autopsy done to corroborate the cause of death stated on Mr. Harris’s death certificate.”

  “You want to dig Wayne up and cut him open?”

  “Everything would be done in a respectful manner and—”

  Roselynne jumped up. “No. Absolutely not!”

  Rick stood. “Mrs. Harris—”

  “I said no. I’m not going to let anybody dig up my Wayne and cut him up in little pieces. He had a heart attack. The doctor said so. Nobody killed him. Certainly not Jordan.”

  “I believe that,” Rick said. “But an autopsy should be able to prove the cause of death beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  “No, no…” She shook her head. “It’s just not right to dig a person up after all these years. It’s indecent, that’s what it is.”

  The screendoor swung open and Tammy entered, her eyes wide, her small hands clenched like talons. “Don’t you upset my mama. Leave her alone.”

  “Tammy, honey, it’s all right. Mr. Carson didn’t mean to upset me.”

  “I’m sorry, the last thing I wanted to do was upset anyone,” Rick said.

  “I think maybe you’d better go,” Roselynne told him. “I’m sorry I can’t help you, but I honestly don’t think Jordan would expect me to agree to such a thing.”

  Rick sensed her presence before he glanced at the doorway again and saw Jordan standing on the other side of the screendoor. Tammy must have sensed that she was there, too, because she turned around and called out Jordan’s name.

  “Is there something wrong?” Jordan asked.

  Tammy opened the screendoor, grabbed Jordan’s hand and dragged her into the living room. “He—” she pointed at Rick “—has upset Mama. He told her he wants to dig up Daddy Wayne and cut him up in little pieces.”

  Jordan’s gaze clashed with Rick’s, her eyes filled with questions.

  Roselynne shook her head. “He asked me for permission to have your daddy’s body exhumed and an autopsy performed. I told him I couldn’t agree to it. You know I can’t.”

  “That’s a bad thing, isn’t it, Jordan?” Tammy looked to her stepsister for agreement. “Digging up dead people is a sin.”

  “Roselynne, see if you can explain to Tammy that nothing bad is going to happen to anyone, that everything is all right.” Jordan didn’t break eye contact with Rick. “We need to talk. Outside.”

  He should have known better than to think this would be easy. Nothing about this case had been simple, easy, or cut-and-dried from day one.

  Once on the porch, Jordan walked out into the yard. He followed her. She glanced at the house and when she saw that Roselynne had closed both the screendoor and the wooden front door, she turned on Rick.

  “What possessed you to ask Roselynne for permission to exhume Daddy’s body?”

  “Nothing sinister, I assure you. If Powell’s could conduct an independent autopsy that corroborated the cause of death stated on your father’s death certificate, and we could do the same with Robby Joe, then that would prove two of the six men you’re suspected of killing were not murdered.”

  “My God! You haven’t approached Darlene about exhuming Robby Joe’s body, have you?”

  “No, not yet,” Rick said.

  “Don’t you dare suggest such a thing to her. Do you hear me? The very thought of exhuming his body would tear Darlene apart. He might have died twelve years ago, but the loss is as much a part of her now as it was then, and she loves—”

  “Are we talking about how Darlene feels or are we talking about how you still feel about Robby Joe?”

  Jordan tensed.

  “Maybe exhuming Robby Joe’s body would not only enable us to prove he died from injuries sustained in a car wreck, but it just might allow you to crawl out of that grave you buried yourself in when he died.”

  She slapped Rick.

  He knew he deserved it. He’d had no right to say such a thing to her, even if he’d meant every word.

  She cried out in shock at what she’d done. “I’m sorry. I—I didn’t mean…” Her voice quavered. “I don’t want to you say anything to Darlene. And please don’t approach Roselynne again. We will not agree to have Daddy’s or Robby Joe’s body exhumed.”

  “You do realize, don’t you, that by being so adamantly opposed to autopsying their bodies, you make it look as if you’re trying to hide something?”

  “What you mean is that you think it makes me look guilty, that people will believe I really did kill my father, whom I loved dearly, and my fiancé, who meant everything to me.”

  “This information goes no further than right here,” Rick told he
r. “It stays between you and me. But I’m telling you that the more proof we have of your innocence in any of the past deaths, the better it will be if you’re charged with Dan’s murder. Cam Hendrix is a great lawyer, but he needs—”

  “Do you think I’m going to be arrested for killing Dan?”

  “I didn’t say that. I just said if.”

  “I thought things were improving. The reporters aren’t setting up tents outside the gates and neither Steve nor any of his deputies have questioned me again. Things seemed to be dying down, so I assumed—”

  “Assume nothing,” he told her. “Prepare for the worst.”

  “Yes, of course, you’re probably right. Past experience has taught me that lesson well. I can’t expect my luck to change now, can I?”

  “I won’t bother your stepmother again and I won’t say anything to Mrs. Wright.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I had planned to speak to you after meeting with each of them this morning,” he told her. “I wanted you to know that I’m going back to Knoxville today. Maleah’s here to act as your personal bodyguard and Holt Keinan will lead the case from here on out.”

  “But why? I need you here.”

  “What you need is an agent in charge who hasn’t allowed himself to become personally involved. I can’t be objective when it comes to you, and in the long run, that could hurt you instead of help you.”

  “Oh, I see. So you’re saying that you’re taking yourself off this case permanently. You’re leaving and you won’t be coming back.”

  “I think it’s best, don’t you?”

  She didn’t reply for several minutes and a part of him wanted her to disagree, wanted her to ask him to stay on the job.

  Finally she said, “Yes, I agree. You’ve made the right decision.”

  Chapter 23

  On his return to Knoxville, Rick had hoped Powell’s would send him out of town on a new assignment, but as luck would have it, his turn came up in the rotation of agents at Griffin’s Rest. He figured Nic might have maneuvered the list in order to bring him here, but he hadn’t questioned her judgment. For the past nine days, while on duty at what many referred to as the Powell Compound, he had been included in agency conferences concerning the Price case. The guards at the front gate of the Price estate had been reduced to three, who rotated on eight-hour shifts. Except for an occasional straggler, the reporters had all but disappeared, making life easier for everyone, but especially for Jordan.

  The harassing phone calls and letters had continued almost daily until this past Friday, and then stopped abruptly. But they were no closer to discovering the culprit’s identity than they’d been fourteen days ago. All the letters had been postmarked Priceville and from cell phone records, the calls, too, had come from the Priceville area, transmitted through a tower halfway between the town and Price Manor. And fingerprint analysis of the letters showed no prints other than those expected. Donald Farris’s widow had died three years ago and they’d had no children. His next of kin, a second cousin, had adamantly refused Powell’s request to exhume his body for an autopsy.

  Maleah remained as Jordan’s bodyguard at Ryan and Claire Price’s insistence. If it had been up to Jordan, Maleah would have been dismissed at least a week ago.

  Taking himself off the Price case had been the right thing to do. Even now, with more than a week and hundreds of miles separating them, Rick couldn’t get Jordan off his mind. But he sure as hell was trying to; and keeping busy during the day helped. But at night, she invaded his dreams. Sometimes those dreams turned scary, with Jordan trying to kill him. Other nights, the dreams were erotic, with the two of them making wild, passionate love.

  Rick turned off Highway 129 and headed for the airport. As he pulled his Jeep into the short-term parking area at McGhee Tyson, he checked his watch. He’d made the trip from Griffin’s Rest to Alcoa in record time, which left him about half an hour to wait. Nic had sent him to pick up a lady named Meredith Sinclair, who was flying in from London where she had been staying with the Powells’ friend, Dr. Yvette Meng. Rick had met the gorgeous doctor several times during his years with the Powell Agency and although he knew nothing about Griff’s past, he did know that Dr. Meng had been a part of those ten missing years of Griff’s life, as had Sanders. And he knew something else—Nic didn’t seem overly thrilled about the arrival of their guest. Not that she’d said anything negative, but he’d been around Nic enough since she married Griff to know when she wasn’t happy.

  While he waited, Rick picked up a newspaper and a cup of coffee, settled in and was up to date on world, national, and local news by the time Ms. Sinclair’s plane landed.

  Along with at least a dozen others, he waited for the disembarked passengers to appear in the baggage claims area. He had been told to look for a redhead in her late twenties.

  With a name like Meredith Sinclair, he wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting—a tall, leggy, model-thin beauty maybe—but the only redhead he saw was short, curvy and rather plain. She wore loose-fitting black slacks and matching jacket, with a white blouse, no jewelry that he could see other than a wristwatch, and her thick, curly, carrot-red hair had been pulled away from her face and secured in a bushy ponytail.

  As he approached her, he noted that she wasn’t wearing any makeup, which exposed her pale skin and an abundance of freckles. “Ms. Sinclair?”

  “Yes?” She looked at him, her face expressionless.

  “I’m Rick Carson. I’m from the Powell Agency. Mrs. Powell sent me.” He held out his hand in a cordial greeting.

  “Oh, yes. Thank you, Mr. Carson.” She glanced at his offered hand for half a second, and then ignored it completely.

  Overlooking her rudeness by not shaking his hand, he said, “If you’ll describe your bags to me, I’ll get them for you.”

  “I have only one bag,” she told him. “It’s a large black suitcase. There’s a bright green circle painted on the center of both sides.”

  He grinned. “I assume the suitcase didn’t come that way.”

  “Oh, no. I added the circles to help for easy identification. I certainly hope the bag hasn’t been lost or misdirected, but the inefficiency at airports these days has become par for the course, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes, I guess it has.”

  When he ventured toward the conveyor belt that was only now beginning to make its slow journey around and back again, Ms. Sinclair followed him.

  “Did you have a good flight?” he asked, simply trying to make conversation.

  “Yes, thank you. I slept on the flight from London. It was quite nice traveling first class.”

  “Nothing but the best for any friend of Griff and Nic Powell.”

  “Oh, I’m not a friend of theirs, Mr. Carson.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe not, but you’re a good friend of their good friend, Dr. Meng. Right?”

  “I wouldn’t say that Dr. Meng and I are good friends. Our relationship is quite complicated and not something I discuss with strangers.”

  Rick was torn between laughing and telling Ms. Sinclair to lighten up, that he didn’t give a rat’s ass what her relationship was with Dr. Meng. All he’d been doing was making an effort to be polite. And he was finding that with her, it was becoming more and more difficult.

  Finally, after the empty conveyor belt made a couple of rounds, a variety of luggage emerged from the chute. A large black suitcase with a green circle painted in the middle was the fourth piece to appear. Rick yanked it off the conveyor belt and set it upright. God, the thing must weigh seventy pounds. What the hell did she have in there? Lead? Gold?

  She reached for the suitcase. “I’ve got it,” he told her.

  “All right. Thank you.”

  “If you’ll follow me,” he said as he lifted the handle and dragged the suitcase behind him.

  Ms. Sinclair didn’t say another word until they left the airport and were on Highway 129. “I’ve never been to Tennessee. Dr. Meng says that it’s quite beautiful
here. I believe she especially likes the mountains and the lakes.”

  Rick nodded, keeping his eye on the road. “Being an old Mississippi boy, I grew up where the land was mostly flat. I remember the first time I saw the Smoky Mountains. I was about seven and I was awestruck.”

  “Is it a long drive to Griffin’s Rest?” she asked.

  “No, not long.”

  He had thought by telling her he was from Mississippi, she might mention where she’d been born and raised. He heard a definite southern drawl in her speech, but he couldn’t imagine anyone from the South never having visited some area of Tennessee since it bordered eight other southern states.

  “I hope it didn’t inconvenience you having to pick me up at the airport so early this morning,” she said.

  “No, ma’am, not at all. It’s just part of my job.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.”

  He briefly cut his eyes in her direction and noted that she sat stiff as a board, her feet flat on the floor and her hands resting in her lap. There was something prim and proper about her, like an old-fashioned schoolmarm or a strict governess. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her about her profession, but why should he feel compelled to carry on a conversation with this odd, somewhat unfriendly lady? If she wanted to talk, he’d talk. If not, that was fine with him.

  Jordan took her morning coffee outside, sat in the swing beneath the canopy of budding trees and sighed with a contentment she hadn’t felt since before Dan died. Her life had returned to something resembling a normal routine, although she hadn’t ventured beyond the gates of the estate. Claire and Ryan had visited several times, bringing little Michael with them. The child was an adorable, auburn-haired, blue-eyed imp, with Ryan’s coloring and Claire’s beauty. His presence at Price Manor was always like a breath of fresh air. Although being with Michael reminded her of what she had recently lost, of the child that wasn’t meant to be, the joy his lively presence brought into their lives far outweighed any sorrow she felt.

  With Rick Carson out of her life and the craziness surrounding the black widow news reports all but stopped now, a semblance of peace had settled over Jordan and everyone at Price Manor. The harassing phone calls and letters had also stopped, as of this past Friday. If not for remaining under Maleah Perdue’s watchful eye, Jordan could almost convince herself that everything was going to be all right.