The Southern Comfort Prequel Trilogy Box Set

by Lisa Clark O'Neill

  “How are you feeling?” he asked, more seriously.

  “If you know any voodoo spells or rain dances or anything else that might compel this baby to come out, I’d really appreciate you sharing them.”

  Jack slid a quick glance toward his mother. “I’ve heard that sex can prompt the onset of labor.”

  “Jack!” his mom repeated, this time on a groan. “You were never, ever to mention that again.”

  “What did I miss?” Jillian said, dividing a look between them.

  “When I was pregnant with James,” Addison referred to Jack’s youngest brother, looking pained, “he was very stubborn about wanting to stay put. I was overdue by more than a week, and I was absolutely miserable. The boys’ father and I were having a conversation – a private conversation.” She shot daggers at Jack with her glare “and he suggested that we… try what we’d done when Jack – who was even more stubborn than James – refused to leave the womb. This one,” she jerked a thumb over her shoulder “was listening at the door.”

  “Purely by accident,” Jack said. “I was what, thirteen? The very last thing I wanted was yet another reminder that my parents have sex. Four younger brothers were quite enough.”

  Jillian laughed, and Jack smiled before turning his attention to the other member of the party, who’d been strangely silent up to this point. “Katie,” Jack said, acknowledging Jillian’s best friend and the owner and chef of Parker’s on the Park, where Jack had spent a considerable portion of last night. “Nice to see you again.”

  Katie’s scowl said it was anything but. With her petite stature, short brown curls and freckles, she looked even more like she came from Candyland than Jillian currently did. But her dark eyes dripped venom. “You had to do it, didn’t you?”

  Jack’s expression went bland. “Do what?”

  “My bartender.”

  Jack scratched his cheek. He should have known that word would get back to Katie. She might resemble a storybook character, but she didn’t miss a trick. “I believe I hear an alcoholic beverage calling my name.”

  Beating a hasty retreat, Jack waved at both Jesse and their father, who were manning the grill on the opposite side of the brick patio. His brother Justin was a surgical resident in Charleston, so they didn’t see him all that much, and his youngest brother – the infamously stubborn James – was still in college. He was probably drunk on a beach somewhere. That meant the house should be empty. Jack could retrieve the bourbon from Jordan’s hiding spot in peace.

  He passed through the sunny, farmhouse style kitchen, appreciating the looks of the food sitting out on the counters – he was pretty sure that was his mother’s potato salad in the biggest bowl – if not the décor. Red and white checked curtains hung in the window, and a ceramic rooster cookie jar stared at him from the counter. Jack had been slightly horrified when, the last time he was here, he’d discovered that it crowed each time you opened the lid.

  Jack’s tastes tended more toward the streamlined elegance of modern industrial than the homespun, and he couldn’t imagine why any sane human being would want a jar that yelled at you every time you wanted a damn cookie. But then Jack had always regarded his incredibly down to earth brother a bit like a beloved, but confusing, alien species.

  Striding down the hall, he located Jesse’s study. Now this was a room he could get behind. The slightly scarred wood paneling was original to the house, and Jesse had furnished the room with deep leather chairs and humidors and a trophy Marlin that he’d caught on a fishing trip to the keys. It was a man’s room, evoking the image of Ernest Hemingway sitting at the desk banging away at a vintage typewriter. You could practically smell the testosterone.

  Jack started to step into the room and then realized he wasn’t alone.

  “Hello.” The slightly accented greeting came from the man who was sprawled in the chair in the corner, sipping a glass of the whiskey that Jack had come to retrieve. “My knees,” he said by way of explanation. “They pain me sometimes. The alcohol helps dull it.”

  “I’m sure it does.” Jack studied Alexei Markov, Jillian’s brother. A former professional ballet dancer in his native Russia, he’d been attacked a year and a half ago by a vicious psychopath who bore him a serious grudge. The man had broken Alexei’s legs, threatened Jillian’s life, and shot Jesse – the FBI agent in charge of the case – in the shoulder before Jillian shot and killed him. Multiple surgeries had repaired the bones in Alexei’s legs, but Jack imagined they would give him trouble for the rest of his life. “Probably doesn’t do a damn bit of good dulling the anger, though.”

  One corner of Alexei’s mouth lifted. “You are blunt. I appreciate that about you. And no, I have found other, more productive ways to channel that.”

  “Jesse said you were working as a translator for the Bureau.”

  “He has been very good to help me. And he is very good to my sister.” Alexei took another glass from the tray on the table beside him, poured three fingers of whiskey before handing it to Jack. “He is a good man.”

  “Yes he is,” Jack agreed, sipping the drink. “We balance each other out.”

  One corner of the other man’s mouth lifted in a slight smile. “You consider yourself the black sheep. This, I understand.”

  Alexei had been considered the bad boy of the international ballet community, living his life by his own rules. Those rules landed him in bed with organized criminals, but Alexei had eventually drawn the line when he witnessed their brutality firsthand. He’d done what he could to right that wrong, although he hadn’t used traditional channels to do so. Many would consider him guilty by association.

  Jack, perhaps because of his profession, but more likely because he’d always been one who tended to color outside the lines, found Alexei more worthy of his respect than many of the so-called upstanding citizens he knew.

  “There you are,” said a voice behind him, and Jack turned to see Jesse bracing his hand on the doorframe as he leaned into the room. Tall and dark – as were all of his brothers – Jesse, like Jordan, bore their mother’s shockingly blue eyes.

  Those eyes at the moment looked pained.

  “The juicer?”

  “Dad just went to get it out of the car,” Jesse agreed. “Mom promised she wouldn’t let him bring it, but apparently he hid it in the trunk. He’s talking about juicing the potato salad.”

  “That’s blasphemy.”

  “I’ll give you twenty bucks to go out there and talk him down.”

  “Something this important? I’ll do it for free.”

  “There’s a first.” Jesse lobbed a smirk at Jack before leaning further into the room to address Alexei. “You okay?”

  “Right as… what is the saying? Rain. Which makes little sense.”

  “Not much about the English language does,” Jesse agreed. “Especially when the lawyers start interpreting it.”

  “Keep it up,” Jack called over his shoulder as he walked toward the front door in search of their father. The whiskey would have to wait. “And I’ll tell dad to add spinach to your potato salad slush.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  DETECTIVE Phil Donaldson walked down the upstairs hall of Caitlin Cavanaugh’s rowhome, careful to avoid the taped off areas where her heel had bled on the wood as she’d fled from her bedroom. The blood typing their forensic techs had done determined that much of her story to be true. She’d stepped on the knife that had been lying on the floor near the doorway. Her blood matched that on the floorboards and stair treads, and was one of two types found on the knife. The rest of the blood spilled in the bedroom matched the victim.

  But for what must have been a terribly violent struggle, Ms. Cavanaugh appeared remarkably unscathed.

  They’d have to wait for both the rape kit and the autopsy report to see what was what, but something wasn’t adding up.

  Because he’d been tasked with interviewing Ms. Cavanaugh at the hospital, he’d missed examining the scene before the body was removed. He preferred eye
balling things for himself rather than reading reports or getting second-hand opinions. The bedroom suite had already been photographed and diagrammed and dusted, the linens bagged and ready to take to the lab. The floor vacuumed for trace fiber and hair evidence.

  Phil wished he could have seen the scene in its original state, but he’d have to settle for what he could get.

  The shade on the lamp near the door was crooked. It was the first thing he noticed from his position in the doorway, probably because he was expecting the bloodstain on the floorboards, and so it wasn’t shocking.

  A lot of blood. The man must have lain there, bleeding out, for a while.

  Considering the amount of blood, though, Phil thought there would be considerably more spatter. Stabbing was a messy business, particularly if you were involved in a frantic struggle. Which, if you were a lone, frightened woman trying to defend yourself from an intruder, seemed like it should be the case.

  But there was no spray pattern on the pale blue wall, which was only a few feet from the edge of the bed. He’d have to wait to see what the autopsy revealed, but most of the blood seemed to have ended up pooling beneath the victim.

  Interesting.

  Stepping carefully, Phil leaned over, peering through the top of the lampshade. The base of the lightbulb was still in place, but the glass had clearly broken.

  He glanced around at his feet. The floor was clear. Either the lightbulb had broken at another time, or the forensic techs had already bagged the evidence. But since the lamp had been returned to the table on which it sat, Phil thought that was a piece of critical information.

  “Sims!” he bellowed.

  The forensic tech in question called up the stairs. “What?”

  “Could you come here for a second?”

  He heard the other man grumbling as he climbed the stairs, but ignored it. He didn’t particularly care if many of the people he worked with regarded him as a pain in the ass. He was here to do a job, not be chummy.

  “What?” Sims repeated once he reached the doorway, sweating slightly from the exertion. The younger man could stand to lose about fifty pounds.

  “Was this lamp like this when you got here?”

  “Meaning was it on the table? Yes.” He looked offended. “You think I moved evidence?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time someone bumped into something and knocked it over at a crime scene. Or moved evidence, for that matter. Was there broken glass on the floor?”

  “Yes,” the other man repeated, his tone now snide. “And it’s been photographed, diagrammed and bagged. Should I have waited for your go ahead, Your Highness?”

  Phil ignored that, instead studying the lamp base. It appeared heavy, made from a dark metal. At first he didn’t see the residue of bi-chromatic powder that indicated it had been dusted. Since bi-chromatic powder showed up light on dark surfaces, any latent prints should appear white.

  He straightened and looked at Sims. “There were no prints on this?”

  “Not a one.”

  Phil’s eyebrows drew together. If the lamp had been knocked over previously and then wiped down, one would think that the person doing the cleaning would have also picked up the broken glass and replaced the bulb. If it had been knocked over last night, perhaps during the struggle, it seemed strange that there weren’t any prints.

  “Thanks,” Phil said to Sims, and the other man grunted before heading back out.

  Pondering the issue of the lamp, Phil stood with his hands on his hips. An open book and a mostly empty glass of water sat on the table, which was next to a chair he guessed was used for reading. If that lamp were knocked over during a struggle, then one would certainly expect the water to have been spilled as well.

  He walked around the bed to examine the walk-in closet and connecting bathroom. Nothing stood out to him immediately in either place, except to note that both were very tidy.

  Phil left the room, making a mental list of questions for Ms. Cavanaugh. He bypassed the stairs, following the hall toward the second bedroom, which clearly functioned as an office. This room was carpeted, so Phil double checked the paper covers on his shoes to make sure he hadn’t accidentally picked up any blood before he entered. He didn’t want to contaminate the scene any more than he had to.

  Satisfied, he stepped into the room. This was where Caitlin Cavanaugh lived, he decided. The master bedroom, despite the mess left behind from both the fatal struggle that took place there and the investigative process that followed, appeared almost obsessively neat. No piles of clothes or dirty dishes or makeup strewn all over the bathroom countertop.

  Phil had both a wife and a teenaged daughter. He knew about makeup on bathroom countertops.

  And though he hadn’t checked out the lower level yet, he’d bet it was equally tidy. Organized people tended to be organized consistently – with the exception, sometimes, of the one area where they really lost themselves in whatever it was that they did.

  Writing, if he remembered correctly. Ms. Cavanaugh did some sort of writing. And judging by the stacks of books and pads of paper and colored sticky notes, the various food wrappers in the trashcan, not to mention the empty mug proclaiming I Turn Coffee Into Books, she probably did most of it in this room.

  Phil looked at the darkened screen of the laptop. He’d love to fire it up and see just what sort of information was on there, but he was extremely conscious of the fact that pretty little Caitlin wasn’t under arrest, or even officially a suspect at this point. Unless or until they discovered a reason to question her story.

  But Phil hadn’t gotten her whole story. Nor had he gotten her verbal consent for a search of her electronics. He’d been encouraged when she hadn’t balked over his mention of her cell phone, and how everything in her house was potential evidence. Rattled as she was, Phil was pretty sure he could have convinced her to agree to let them have a look without a warrant.

  Until Jack Wellington showed up.

  A sour taste filled Phil’s mouth. He hated Wellington. Smug, self-important asshole. But Wellington was not the type of person you wanted to go up against without crossing your T’s and dotting your I’s.

  So the laptop was off limits. For now.

  But the sticky notes in plain sight were fair game.

  Phil squinted as he read the first one. Quicklime produces partial desiccation, and will mummify parts of a corpse. Killer falls for popular urban myth, leaves evidence for cops? A second orange square read: Chlorinated lime has disinfectant qualities which mask the stench of decomposing flesh. Might be better choice.

  “What the hell?”

  Phil drew back in surprise, and then looked at another note beneath the orange ones. This one was bright pink, and written on paper printed with the saying I May Be Left-Handed But I’m Always Right.

  Dinner with Leslie tonight, 8:30, River Street. Do NOT forget!!! A second pink note advised: Wear makeup.

  If she had to remind herself to wear makeup, maybe it wasn’t something she did all that often. It would explain the lack of it in the bathroom.

  So had she decided to wear it last night because she wanted to look nice for dinner? Or maybe because she was trolling for a man?

  She’d said she was new to the area. Maybe she was a little lonelier – or hornier – than she’d wanted to admit.

  Other orange sticky notes bore information that was pretty much gibberish to Phil, stuff about digital formatting and beta readers and search engine optimization, whatever the hell that meant. He gathered that her system was two-tiered, orange notes for work and pink ones for personal reminders. Looking around at her desk he located the pink pad, flipped through it to see if it said anything about dating, or even more helpfully, the man she’d stabbed. But there was nothing, and the imprint on the top paper reflected her admonition to wear makeup. So nothing informative there.

  Phil turned toward the window, where a wooden holder for Scrabble letters sat on the windowsill, catching his eye. The word DUPLICITY was spelled out. />
  Phil’s vocabulary might not be quite as big as that of some writer, but he did know what that meant. Deceitfulness. Appearing one way, but being another. It was a fancy way to call someone a liar.

  Her reasons for displaying that word might be totally innocuous, but Phil nevertheless found it interesting.

  Very interesting.

  Deciding that he’d gleaned as much information as he could for now, Phil headed downstairs. He studied the pattern of blood from her heel on the way down, noting that it skipped a couple steps at the bottom. Like she’d misjudged, or maybe taken a leap. According to what the first responders said, she’d been naked, practically threw herself at her neighbor. Seemed to be in shock. So maybe she really had been scared when she’d woken up and realized what she’d done.

  But why had she done it? Because she’d been defending herself against an intruder? Or because things with the man she’d invited home had gotten out of control.

  Or something else they hadn’t considered?

  “Clark?” Phil called when he reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “Back here!” his partner called.

  Phil rounded the corner, following the narrow hall past the living room. Another forensic tech was working there, so he lifted a hand in acknowledgement before proceeding into the kitchen at the back.

  Jeremy Clark stood with his gloved hands on narrow hips, staring out the window over the sink.

  “Admiring your reflection?”

  Clark glanced over his shoulder, a retiring expression on his movie star face. “Don’t you ever get sick of cracking the same joke?”

  “Not really.”

  “How’d the interview go?”

  “Just peachy.” Because he didn’t want to get sidetracked by that discussion, Phil glanced around. The space wasn’t large, but it was finished out with what, to his untrained eye, appeared to be top quality surfaces and appliances. “What’s one of these rowhomes run? Three hundred grand?”

  “Somewhere in that neighborhood.”

  “Pretty chunk of change for a single woman.”