by Sandra Brown
He shed his clothes, dropping them in the hamper in the bathroom, which Lupe’s niece would empty the next time she came. He probably owned more underwear and socks than any man he knew. It wasn’t an extravagance; it just kept him from having to do laundry frequently. His wardrobe consisted of jeans and shirts, mostly. Having several of each done up at the dry cleaner’s every week kept him decently clothed.
While he brushed his teeth at the bathroom sink, he surveyed his image in the mirror. He needed a haircut. He usually did. There were a few more gray hairs in his sideburns than the last time he’d looked. When had those cropped up?
He suddenly realized how lined his face had become. Anchoring the toothbrush in the corner of his mouth, he leaned across the sink and peered at his reflection at close range. His face was full of cracks and crevices.
In plain English, he looked old.
Too old? For what? More to the point, too old for whom?
The name that sprang to mind greatly disturbed him.
He spat and rinsed out his mouth, but avoided looking at himself again before he turned out the cruelly revealing overhead light. There was no need to set an alarm. He was always up by sunrise. He never overslept.
The sheets were frigid. He pulled the covers to his chin and waited for heat to find his naked body. It was at moments like this, when the night was the darkest and coldest and most solitary, that he wished Celina hadn’t ruined him for other relationships. At any other time, he was glad he wasn’t a sucker for emotions.
At times like this, he secretly wished that he’d married. Even sleeping next to the warm body of a woman you didn’t particularly love, or who’d gone to fat months after the wedding, or who had let you down, or who harped about the shortage of money and the long hours you worked, would be better than sleeping alone.
Then again, maybe not. Who the hell knew? He would never know because of Celina. He hadn’t loved her when she died, not in the way he’d loved her most of his life up until then.
He had begun to wonder if their love could outlast their youth, if it was real and substantial, or merely the best substitute they had for other deficiencies in their lives. He would always have loved her as a friend, but he had doubted that their mutual dependence was a healthy foundation for a life together.
Perhaps Celina had sensed his reservations, and that had been one of the reasons she’d felt the need to leave for a while. They had never discussed it. He would never know, but he suspected it.
Months before she left for El Paso that summer, he had been questioning the durability of their childhood romance. If his feelings for her changed with maturity, how the hell was he going to handle the breakup? He had still been in a muddle about it when she had died, and it had left him wary of forming any future relationships.
He would never let himself get that entwined with another human being. It was deadly, having that kind of focus on another person, especially a woman.
Years ago, he’d sworn to take what women could expediently give him, chiefly sex, but never to cultivate tenderness toward one again. He would certainly never come close to loving one.
But the short-term affairs had become too complicated. Invariably, the woman developed an emotional attachment that he couldn’t reciprocate. That’s when he’d started relying on Nora Gail for physical gratification. Now, that had soured. Sex with her was routine and meaningless, and lately, he was having a hard time keeping his boredom from showing.
Dealing with a woman on any level demanded a much higher price than he was willing to pay.
Still, even as he lay there mentally reciting his creed of eternal detachment, he found himself thinking about her.
At this advanced stage of his life, he’d started daydreaming like a sap. She occupied more of his thoughts than he would have ever thought possible. At the edges of these thoughts was an emotion very akin to tenderness, nudging its way into his consciousness.
Nipping at the heels of it, however, was always pain: the pain of knowing who she was and how irrevocably her conception had altered his life, of knowing how decrepit he must appear to a woman her age, of seeing her kiss Junior.
“Dammit.”
He groaned into the darkness and covered his eyes with his forearms as his mind tricked him into witnessing it again. It had produced such an attack of jealousy, it had frightened him. His fury had been volcanic. It was a wonder he hadn’t erupted from the roof of the Blazer.
How the hell had it happened? Why had he let her get to him when absolutely nothing could come of it, except to widen the gulf between him and Junior that had been created by her mother?
A relationship—the word alone made him shudder—between him and Alex was out of the question, so why did it bother him to know that to a smart, savvy career woman like Alex, he must look like a hick, and an old one, at that?
He and Celina had had everything in common, but she’d been unattainable, so how the hell did he imagine there was common ground on which he and Alex could meet?
One other small point, he thought wryly. Celina’s murder. Alex would never understand about that.
None of that sound reasoning, however, kept him from wanting her. An influx of heat surged through his body now, and with it, desire. He wanted to smell her. He wanted to feel her hair against his cheek, his chest, his belly. Imagining her lips and tongue against his skin cost him precious breath, but the lack of sufficient air was worth the image. He wanted to taste her again and tug on her nipple with his mouth.
He whispered her name in the darkness and focused on that instant when he had slipped his hand into the cup of her bra and caressed forbidden flesh. He was consumed by the fire of his imagination. It burned brightly and fiercely.
Eventually, it dimmed. When it did, he was left feeling empty and alone in the cold, dark, lonely house.
Chapter 33
“Good morning, Wanda Gail.”
Fergus Plummet’s wife fell back a step. “What’d you call me?”
“Wanda Gail,” Alex repeated with a gentle smile. “That’s your name, isn’t it? You’re one of the Burton triplets, informally known as the Gail sisters.”
Mrs. Plummet had answered her door with a dishrag in her hands. Shocked by Alex’s knowledge of her past, she took a quick little breath. Her eyes darted about the yard, as though looking for artillery backing Alex up.
“May I come in?”
Alex didn’t wait for permission, but used the other woman’s astonishment to step inside and close the front door. She had discovered Mrs. Plummet’s identity quite by accident while idly perusing the pages of the yearbooks over her morning coffee. After glancing past it a hundred times, the classroom picture had suddenly leaped off the page. She’d thought her eyes were deceiving her until she verified the name in the margin. Wanda Gail Burton.
Hardly able to contain her excitement, she’d consulted the telephone directory for the address and driven straight to the parsonage. She had parked well down the block and hadn’t approached the house until Fergus had driven away in his car.
The two women stood face-to-face in the dim hallway. Alex was curious. Wanda Gail Plummet was clearly afraid.
“I shouldn’t be talking to you,” she whispered nervously.
“Why? Because your husband warned you against it?” Alex asked softly. “I don’t mean to cause you any trouble. Let’s sit down.”
Assuming the role of hostess, Alex led Wanda Gail into the drabbest, most unattractive room she had ever been in. There wasn’t a single spot of color or gaiety. There were no plants, no pictures—other than one of a bleeding, crucified Christ—no books or magazines. There was nothing to relieve the cheerless atmosphere that pervaded the house. Alex had seen three thin, dejected-looking children leave with their father. She and Wanda Gail were alone.
They sat side by side on a tacky, threadbare sofa that reflected the overall penury of the house. Wanda Gail was wringing the damp towel between her hands. Her face was working with anxiety. She was obv
iously scared to death, either of Alex, or of her husband’s reprisal should he find out she had been in their home.
Alex tried to reassure her by calmly stating, “I just want to talk to you. I accidentally discovered that your name was Wanda Gail Burton.”
“Not anymore. Not since I found Jesus.”
“Tell me about that. When was it?”
“The summer after I graduated. A bunch of us—”
“Your sisters?”
She nodded. “And some friends. We all piled into somebody’s car and drove to Midland. We were looking for fun,” she said, casting her eyes downward. “We saw this big tent set up in a cow pasture on the outskirts of town. There was a revival going on. We thought we’d go, see what it was about. We went on a lark, you know, to poke fun at the people and to laugh at the gospel.”
She made a grimace of remorse. “It all seemed real funny, ’cause we’d been drinking and smoking pot somebody had brought back from Eagle Pass.” She folded her hands together and offered up a brief prayer of repentance.
“What happened? Did you have a religious experience that night?”
She confirmed Alex’s guess by briskly nodding her head. “There was this young preacher there. After the singing and praying, he took the microphone.” Her eyes assumed a dreamy aspect as she was transported back. “I don’t even remember what he preached on. His voice alone put me in a trance. I remember feeling his energy pouring through me. I couldn’t take my eyes off him.”
Her vision cleared. “The others had had enough and wanted to leave. I told them to go on and pick me up later. I wanted to stay. When he was finished preaching, I went down to the altar with dozens of others. He laid his hands on my head and prayed for my deliverance from sin.” Misty-eyed, she announced, “I gave my heart to Jesus and to Fergus Plummet that same night.”
“How soon after that were you married?”
“Two days.”
Alex didn’t know a delicate way to approach her next question. Out of deference to the woman’s Christian conversion, she addressed her by her married name. “Mrs. Plummet, you and your sisters…” She paused, wet her lips. “I’ve heard…”
“I know what you’ve heard. We were harlots.”
Alex didn’t approve of her harsh, condemning estimation of herself and tried to soften it. “I know that you dated a lot of men.”
Wanda began to twist the towel again. “I confessed all my transgressions to Fergus. He forgave me, just like God did. He embraced me in love, in spite of my wickedness.”
Alex had a more jaundiced opinion of the preacher’s largess. He had probably wanted a wife who felt privileged that he had so unselfishly forgiven her, one who would consider his grace equal to God’s.
God forgot sins; Alex doubted that Fergus Plummet did. He probably kept scrupulous accounts of transgressions and used Wanda Gail’s past as a tool to keep her under his thumb. He surely made her life miserable with constant reminders of how lucky she was to have his forgiveness.
It was apparent, however, that whatever had happened to Wanda Gail in that revival tent had been profound and irreversible. Her decision that night to create a different life for herself had withstood twenty-five years. For that, she had earned Alex’s admiration.
“Two of the boys you dated in high school were Reede Lambert and Junior Minton.”
“Yes,” Wanda said with a reflective smile, “they were the two best-looking, most popular boys in school. All the girls wanted to date them.”
“Including Stacey Wallace?”
“The only boy she could ever see was Junior Minton. It was kind of pitiful, you know, because Stacey was so crazy about him and he was stuck on Celina.”
“And Celina belonged to Reede.”
“Well, sure. Reede was, and still is, basically good. He didn’t treat me and my sisters like trash, even though that’s what we were. He was always nice about… well, you know, whenever he took us out. He always said thank you afterward.”
Alex smiled sickly.
“Liked to have drove him plumb nuts when Celina got married. Then, when she died…” She sighed sympathetically. “He acts kinda mean sometimes now, but down deep, he’s still good.” She averted her head. “I know he doesn’t like Fergus, but he still treated me nice yesterday.”
This woman and Reede were former lovers. Alex looked at her closely. It was impossible to envision Wanda Gail in the throes of ecstasy with any man, but especially with Reede.
Her face retained enough of its former prettiness for Alex to have recognized her picture in the yearbook, but her skin was loose, her throat flabby. The full, teased hairdo she’d been sporting in the class photo had been replaced by the severe and unflattering bun. The eyes that had been dramatically enhanced with cosmetics for the picture wore no makeup at all now. Her waist had thickened to match the dimensions of her bust and hips, which, when she was a teenager, must have been voluptuous.
Wanda Gail looked at least ten years older than her classmates, Reede and Junior—even Stacey. Alex wondered if it had been her previous wild life, or her married life with Plummet that had accelerated her aging process. She would bet on the latter. He couldn’t be much fun to live with. For all his piousness, he brought no joy or love to those around him. To Alex, that’s what one’s faith should be about. Her admiration for this woman was tinged with pity.
It became even more so when Wanda Gail looked up at her and shyly remarked, “You were nice to me, too. I didn’t expect you to be nice, ’cause you’re so fancy and have such pretty things.” She gave Alex’s fur coat and eel handbag a wistful glance.
“Thank you,” she replied. Then, because Wanda Gail seemed stricken with self-consciousness, Alex resumed the questioning. “How did your sisters react to your marriage?”
“Oh, I’m sure they didn’t like it.”
“You don’t know?”
“Fergus thought it would be best if I didn’t mix with them anymore.”
“He separated you from your family?”
“It was for the best,” Wanda said, immediately rising to his defense. “I left my old life. They were part of it. I had to turn my back on them to prove to Jesus that I was forsaking sin.”
Alex chalked up another reason to despise the preacher. He had brainwashed his wife against her family and used her immortal soul as leverage. “Where are your sisters now?”
“Peggy Gail died a few years ago. I read about it in the newspaper. She had cancer,” she said, her face sorrowful.
“What about the other one? Nora Gail?”
Wanda’s lips narrowed with stern disapproval. “She’s still living her sinful ways.”
“Here in town?”
“Oh my, yes.” Again, she clasped her hands beneath her chin and said a quick prayer. “I pray to God that she’ll see the light before it’s too late.”
“She never married?”
“No, she likes men too much, all men. She never wanted one in particular. Maybe Reede Lambert, but he didn’t want anything permanent.”
“She liked him?”
“Very much. They enjoyed each other physically, but it never amounted to love. Maybe they were too much alike. Stubborn. They both have a mean streak, too.”
Alex tried to make the next question sound casual. “Do you know if he still sees her?”
“I expect he does,” she said, folding her arms across her middle and sniffing righteously. “He liked us all, but Nora Gail was always his first choice. I don’t know if they still sleep together, but they’ve gotta stay friends ’cause they know too much about each other. Ever since the night Celina was killed, there’s been—”
“What about it?” Alex interrupted.
“What about what?”
“The night Celina was killed.”
“Reede was with Nora Gail.”
Alex’s heart fluttered. “He was with your sister that night? You’re sure?”
Wanda gave her a puzzled look. “I thought everybody knew that.”
>
Everybody but me, Alex thought bitterly.
She asked Wanda where Nora Gail lived. Reluctantly, Wanda gave her directions to the house. “I’ve never been there, but I know where it is. I don’t think you can miss it.”
Alex thanked her for the information and rose to leave. At the door, Wanda became nervous again. “I don’t think Fergus would like it that I talked to you.”
“He won’t hear about it from me.” Wanda Gail looked reassured until Alex added, “I’d advise him against any more vandalism, and I would appreciate not getting another condemning letter in the mail.”
“Letter?”
She appeared not to have any knowledge of the letter that had been waiting for Alex when she had returned from Austin, but Alex felt sure that she must. “I won’t place you in a position of having to lie for your husband, Mrs. Plummet, but I should warn you that Reede has the letter and considers it a police matter. I feel certain he’d make an arrest if I receive another one.”
She hoped the subtle threat would work. By the time she reached her car, however, her mind had already moved forward to her interview with Reede’s alibi.
The two-story frame structure reminded Alex of the Prohibition-era roadhouses she’d seen in gangster movies. It had no signs out front and was invisible from the highway, but there were several commercial rigs in the parking lot, along with a few pickup trucks, and even a recent-model Cadillac.
The stone sidewalk was bordered with valiant, dusty pansies. A series of steps led up to a deep veranda. There was an old-fashioned pull bell next to the front door. Muted honky-tonk music wafted through the walls, but the windows appeared to have been blacked out; she couldn’t see through them.
The door was answered by a bear of a man with a full, salt-and-pepper beard covering the lower two-thirds of a face as florid as a sirloin steak. He was wearing a white tuxedo shirt and black satin bow tie, over a full white apron. He was also wearing a fearsome, intimidating frown.