A Younger Woman

by Wendy Rosnau

  “I think he knew something because Blu said Brodie had no doubt heard the shot and would know things had gone to hell. Then, once I was on the Nightwing, and I told him what happened and where Blu said I should go, he didn’t argue. He didn’t want to leave me, but he also seemed anxious to find Blu. Almost as if he knew where he might be, or maybe he was just as worried as I was.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I don’t, for sure. Brodie was upset about my arm, but he seemed more together that night. Almost like he had half expected something to go wrong and had known what to do just in case.”

  “He wasn’t drinking, then?”

  “No. He does enjoy his liquor, but he wasn’t drinking that night.”

  Ry didn’t say it, but he wondered if Hewitt was more mixed up in this than he first figured. He was supposed to be Blu’s friend, Margo’s love interest. Was Brodie sincere, or did he have an agenda all his own?”

  “You said you came here by cab? Now you say Brodie brought you. Which is it?”

  “Brodie brought me.”

  “Then he went back to Algiers to search for Blu?”

  “Yes.”

  Ry shook his head. “I still can’t believe he just left you with a bullet hole in your arm.”

  “We were both worried about Blu,” she snapped. “I knew I would be fine. The wound wasn’t serious. He knew that, too. Don’t you dare find fault with Brodie.”

  Ry didn’t want to rile her. A defensive Margo would likely stop talking. They were making progress. He didn’t need her getting stubborn on him and clamming up. “So why do you suppose Blu wanted the photos?”

  “I have no idea.” She lowered her eyes and stared at her hands folded in her lap. “I love my brother, but I’m not a fool, Ry. I know he gambles to keep the cash flow moving. I know he’s done some other things, too. Things some people would condemn him for.” She glared at him, letting Ry know she thought he was one of the “some people.”

  “I know he walks a narrow line, baby.”

  “He would never kill a cop, Ry. He wouldn’t go that far for a buck!”

  “No, I don’t think he would, either. But he’s worked for men that are capable of doing that and more.” Ry wasn’t sure just how much to tell Margo, how much she would accept from him. He didn’t need to drive a deeper wedge between them, it was already halfway to hell. But maybe the truth was the only way to reach her. “Margo, listen—”

  “I know what you’re going to say. Don’t bother.”

  “I have to. Blu might be your brother, but I know for a fact that he’s also hired muscle for at least one loan shark in town. Patch Pollaro pays Blu to keep his clients honest and on time. There might be others, too.”

  He saw her physically stiffen, then she looked away. “I thought it was something like that. I’ve seen his hands, his knuckles are often bruised and swollen. I’ve asked him about it a few times. He blamed it on working on the boats.”

  “I’m not condemning him, Margo.”

  “Aren’t you?” She locked eyes with him. “You’ve always disliked my brother.”

  “We’ve had our differences,” Ry agreed, “but I’ve never gone after him. Honest, baby, I don’t want him on the wrong side in this.”

  “Sure, and I’m supposed to believe that.”

  Ry stood, knowing anything he said to vindicate himself right now would be useless. He took her earlier stance at the window. “Could be Blu saw something he shouldn’t have. Could be he’s a victim in this.”

  “You don’t really believe that.”

  No, he didn’t, but there was a small chance. He glanced over his shoulder to see that she was on her feet waiting for him to vindicate her brother. “Blu, a victim, seems highly unlikely. Your brother is damn resourceful. But stranger things have happened.”

  “And Brodie? Where do you think he is right now?”

  The worry in her eyes, in her voice, was to be expected, but Ry found himself turning jealous, anyway. “Pike said Brodie was staying on the Nightwing. We found blood on deck and evidence of a struggle.”

  “Blood on the Nightwing! Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “Because you didn’t give me a chance. My guess is it’s blood from the dead guy we pulled from the river, but the lab will make that call. I had the Nightwing impounded for that reason. I’m thinking whoever is hunting Blu boarded the Nightwing last night with the intention of getting some answers from Brodie. They fought, and Brodie blew the man’s head off.”

  “No way! Brodie wouldn’t kill anyone.”

  “Not even to save himself?”

  “If that’s what happened, where is he now?”

  She began to worry her lip, and it was all Ry could do to stand there and watch her concern for another man. For a long time he had watched Hewitt come and go at the Toucan, but he had never wanted to believe the rumors. They were just friends, he’d told himself, that was it.

  Don’t be jealous, he warned himself. Don’t let those feelings get in the way. Not now.

  “Hewitt could be on the run,” he suggested. “Or maybe he’s hooked up with Blu. Take your pick. It could have happened ten different ways. The dead guy might not even be a part of this. He could have been dumped.”

  He watched her bury her face in her hands. “I can’t stand this waiting. We have to do something.”

  “We are. And if you want to help, tell me everything again, just like it happened. Take it from when you heard the shots and raced to the pier. Go through it step by step. Maybe there’s something more you’ve forgotten.”

  “I don’t like remembering that night. I heard shots, saw the man Blu was talking to drop over dead, and I ran.”

  “To the pier.”

  The outrage in his voice set her off. “Yes. Yes, to the pier! That’s where Blu was, and that’s where I wanted to be at that moment.”

  Ry still had a hard time imagining Margo racing onto that pier. The gun that had taken Mickey out had been an AK-47, for God’s sake. She could have died so easily. Every time he thought about it, his stomach knotted.

  “Before I got to him, he went down,” she was saying. “I thought he was dead, and I… He started cussing then, and when I heard it I was so happy. I started to run toward him again, and that’s when he saw me and started yelling, ordering me to jump off the pier into the water. I heard another shot, then another. I don’t remember much after I was hit. Blu hauled me over the dead cop and covered me with his own body. That’s when my ribs were bruised. He checked my arm to see how bad I was hit, then gave me the key. I was in the water swimming for the Nightwing minutes later. And Blu—”

  She started to cry. “I don’t remember him letting go of my hand. I heard more shots. Splashing. I think he drew them away from me to give me time to get away. The river was so black and so cold.”

  Again Ry could picture her running on the pier with bullets flying, could envision the moment she was shot, her swimming the river alone in the dead of night. The whole scene made him feel as if his insides were being ripped out of him through a pinhole. He gritted his teeth, wanted to go to her, to pull her into his arms and hold her. He wanted to promise her that nothing like that would ever happen again.

  But it would be a false promise, Ry realized. Yes, he could try his best to keep her safe, happy, but he wasn’t God. And that’s what Clide had been telling him for two years—Life has no guarantees, he’d said at least once a week. It’s not fair, or always pretty. We live each day the best we can. The reward is sharing those days with someone special.

  “I have to do something,” she said suddenly. “Maybe if you used me as bait in some way. Maybe if I went back to my apartment and they showed up and—”

  “No! I don’t even know who these people are, but I damn sure know what they’re capable of. Using you as bait is out of the question. You’re here with Jackson during the day and me at night until this case it solved.” Ry ended the discussion by standing. As he walked past her, he said, “I�
��m going downstairs to fix us a late supper.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You need food.”

  “I need Blu!”

  Ry swore but kept moving to the door. “Well I’m the only one here right now, baby, so you’re going to have to settle for less, I guess.”

  He had just stepped into the hall when he heard a knock at the back door. He stopped dead in his tracks and glanced back at Margo. Sure she had heard the knock, too, he brought his finger to his lips to silence her.

  The knock came again.

  Ry moved quickly. He crossed the room, snared Margo by the arm and ushered her to the bed.

  “What are you doing?”

  “That’s not Jackson. He wouldn’t knock. Until I know who it is, I want you up here out of sight.” He released her, then said, “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to lock you up.”

  “Lock me up? What does that mean?”

  He pulled his handcuffs from his pocket. “Understand, I need to know that you’re going to be here when I get back. The way things stand between us, you giving me your word just doesn’t seem like enough.”

  “Can you blame me?”

  “No, that’s why this is necessary.”

  “You’re going to handcuff me to…to the bedpost?”

  Ry followed her gaze. “The bedpost… Good idea.” Quickly he clamped the handcuff on her wrist, then around the bedpost. “I won’t be long,” he promised, then hurried toward the door. Halfway there he stopped, then hurried back, pulled the navy satin pillow from beneath the covers and shredded it. Using a strip of satin, he gagged her. “No noise,” he said by way of justifying his actions, then hurried to answer the persistent knocking at the back door.

  Chapter 9

  Ry heard another knock as he stepped into the kitchen. He retrieved his second .38 Special, the one he kept stashed in the bread saver, then opened the door and shoved the gun into the face of Rose duFray.

  Rose promptly gasped and nearly backed off the veranda. “My Lord!”

  “Sorry,” Ry swore, and lowered the gun.

  “Gracious, Ryland. If that’s how you greet all your guests, it’s a wonder you have any company at all.”

  Ry stuffed the gun into the waistband of his jeans. “I thought you were someone else. I thought you were… Ah—never mind what I thought. What can I do for you, Mrs. duFray?”

  “I know it’s late, and I apologize for that. I just didn’t know who else to turn to, Ryland. Do you mind if I come in for a minute?”

  Rose didn’t give Ry a chance to answer. She nudged past him and entered his kitchen, her gaze taking in the layout with keen interest. “My, this is sure something. So much room, and so bright. You must like yellow. I haven’t seen so much of one color in a single room ever. Look there, you’ve even got a yellow sink.”

  Ry looked around the room, his gaze falling on all the yellow. Pretty much everything that was available in the color yellow was in this room. Besides the bedroom, he spent the most time in this room. He supposed to someone who didn’t understand his motivation, the room looked like a lemonade factory on Sunshine Boulevard. But there was a reason, a good reason why the room and everything in it was yellow—it was Margo’s favorite color.

  She was saying, “You could fit my entire kitchen and living room in here. Maybe my bathroom, too.” She turned back and looked at Ry with a dozen questions brimming in her eyes. “Do you live here alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “All this for one person?” She looked at him with one raised gray brow. “Most men want things simple. Especially if they live alone and work as much as you do. Do you entertain a lot?”

  “No.”

  “Your family visit often?”

  “No. My folks don’t like to travel much, and my only brother keeps pretty busy on the ranch in Texas.”

  She studied the clean floor. “You got a…housekeeper?”

  Ry grinned. Rose duFray wasn’t thinking housekeeper at all, what she really wanted to know was if he had a female companion. He said, “Yes I do. She comes in once a week.”

  “Once a week, that’s it?” She glanced toward the living room as if curious to see the rest of the house. Ry had no intention of giving her a guided tour. What would he say once they climbed the stairs and he opened his bedroom door? ‘Oh, and this is the master bedroom, Mrs. duFray, and that there is your daughter gagged and chained to my bed. The colors in the room complement Margo’s hair and eyes, don’t you think?’

  Ry shuddered at the thought. Hell, he could exchange gunfire in a damn shoot-out or run down a psycho, and yet Margo’s mother could make him tongue-tied within a matter of seconds.

  He looked toward the living room half expecting Margo to come through the door, dragging the bedpost behind her. The vision was as unkind as the bedroom tour and it spurred him into action. Ry caught Rose’s arm before she made herself too comfortable. “Why don’t we sit outside? The house is stuffy tonight.”

  “Nonsense, it feels fine.” She glanced down at his hand on her arm, and Ry quickly withdrew it. He watched her amble to the table and ease her slim body onto a chair. Cradling her handbag in her lap, she boldly assessed his appearance. “You look tired, Ryland. You need more sleep.”

  Sleep. Yes, he could use some sleep. In the past two days he’d had less than six hours. “Can I get you something? Lemonade, iced tea?”

  “No, nothing, thank you.”

  Ry sat across from her and took inventory of Margo’s mother. She looked the same as always, dressed in a serviceable skirt and lightweight blouse. Her style was as simple and straightforward as her mannerisms, and yet it couldn’t and didn’t hide her natural beauty. In her midfifties, Rose had survived the loss of her husband and the bills and burdens Carl had left behind. She was a hard worker with a mountain of faith in her children.

  “So what did you want to talk about?” Ry asked, prepared to make this as quick as possible.

  “It’s Margo,” Rose confessed. “She called me this morning. We talked only a few minutes. That was all right, she’s busy, you know. But later I remembered I hadn’t told her about my doctor’s appointment tomorrow. Margo insists on knowing every little detail, so I tried to call her back. She was staying with a friend, so she said, but when I called Angie—her friend—she said Margo wasn’t there. In fact, she claimed she hadn’t seen my daughter in days. I called the Toucan and talked to that nice Mr. Bichon. He said Margo was still sick, and she had planned to take a few more days off. Now neither story makes any sense, Ryland. I went to Margo’s apartment, and she didn’t answer the door.”

  “I’m sure there’s a simple explanation, Mrs. duFray.”

  She eyed Ry with a look that made him feel like she was trying to see inside his head. “And just what would that be, Ryland? Margo said she was helping out a friend, and the friend doesn’t know it. Does this make sense to you?”

  No, it didn’t make sense, but Ry didn’t think the truth was going to make sense to Rose, either. Or help out her blood pressure.

  “She didn’t sound sick on the phone. Mr. Bichon said she was sick.” Rose paused. “Maybe a little tired, now that I think on it, but I would have known if my daughter was sick. I would have heard it in her voice.” She frowned. “My Margo doesn’t lie, Ryland, so my gut tells me there’s cause for alarm. Am I right?”

  As far as Rose knew, he and Margo were still estranged. She probably didn’t even know about the evenings he spent at the Toucan. If he was too eager to help, Rose might get suspicious. “Mrs. duFray, I don’t know that I can answer that. Margo and I haven’t—”

  “Spoken in some time. Yes, I know.” She reached out and patted his arm. “I know this is a little awkward for you, Ryland. Actually, if I could have found Blu this wouldn’t have been necessary. He was my first choice naturally, only when I went down to the dock his boat was gone. Brodie’s nowhere to be found, either. I tell you, Ryland, if I didn’t know better, I’d say something strange is going on. And after th
at poor soul was pulled from the river this morning… Well, I just need to hear my daughter’s voice.”

  “I’m sure Margo’s fine, Mrs. duFray. Blu, too.” Ry glanced toward the living room. When he looked back, Rose said, “Have I interrupted something? You seem a little nervous. I know it’s late. I just assumed you were alone, but then that’s an old woman’s way of thinking, isn’t it? You’re too young to be spending your nights with Mickey Spillane.” She chuckled at her own wit.

  “No, I’m alone. I was just…I was doing some work in the study. Ah, a case. I was going over a case file and I…” God, Ry thought, he was stammering like a thief caught with the goods in his back pocket. No, the goods weren’t in his back pocket, he reminded himself, but chained to his bedpost.

  “You’re such a nice boy, Ryland.” Another pat on the arm. “I always thought you and Margo made such a good-looking couple. Well, never mind what I thought. What’s important is what you thought. You and Margo, that is.” She went silent for a moment, then said, “It was just so quick, you changing your mind.”

  “I never meant to hurt her,” Ry said, sure the words were too little too late.

  “I never believed what Pike said about you taking advantage of my Margo. I want you to know that, Ryland. Margo knew full well what could happen with an older man.” Rose sighed. “Well, there’s no sense crying over boiled-dry stew. I like Brodie well enough. I just don’t see any sparks there, but…”

  The silence that followed turned uncomfortably potent. Ry stood, in hopes that Rose would take the hint. But just as she came to her feet, a loud crash echoed from overhead. “What in heaven’s name was that?”

  “Nothing to worry about.” Ry nearly bit his tongue off hurrying to explain. “I’m baby-sitting the neighbor’s…ah, cat. She must have knocked something over upstairs.”

  Ry watched Rose set down her handbag on the table. “Get the broom, Ryland. I’ll give you a hand before I go.”

  “No! Ah, I mean… It’s not necessary. I’ll clean it up.” Ry swung her handbag off the table and nearly took Rose’s head off in the process. His hand on her back, he steered her to the door. “I’m used to housework. A little broken glass is nothing.”