by Kat Martin
Florence tossed her dishrag into the sink and wiped her hands on the terry-cloth apron around her waist. “I haven’t seen Mr. Beau in nearly a year. I don’t know why they were fighting this time, but it always seemed to happen when they were together.”
“Did they have an argument the last time you saw him? Is that the reason Beau hasn’t been back?”
Flo shrugged. “Always it happens. I remember that time it had something to do with tires, a plant Mr. Cain wanted to build a few miles from Iron Springs.” It was the next town over and the county seat.
“What happened?”
“Mr. Beau found out the senator intended to stop the plant from going in. They argued something awful. I could hear them clear through the walls. Mr. Beau never came back. Not until this week.”
Cassidy wanted to know what father and son had been arguing about this time. So far Beau had been cooperative. She hoped that continued. A memory arose of him striding out of the guest house in that long-legged, easy gait of his, the muscles in his back moving beneath his dark blue T-shirt, his jeans hugging a round, very nice behind.
She wondered when he’d be moving into the house, wondered when she would see him again, then wished she could make herself stop wondering.
“Is there anything you can think of that might help us figure out who killed the senator?”
Flo’s eyes welled with tears. She brushed at a drop that slipped onto her cheek. “Lots of people came to see him. Some came in the evenings after I went home. I would find dirty dishes in the study in the morning. I wish I could help you, but there is nothing that I know.”
Cassidy finished her coffee, but the conversation was pretty much over. From the house, she drove into Pleasant Hill, curious what the locals would say about the senator and his son. On Main Street in front of Big Value Hardware, she saw a parking spot and pulled her car into the angled space.
Along a row of false-fronted brick buildings, a little dress shop named Marley’s Boutique sat between Tina’s Treasures—a thrift shop—and the Pink Blossom flower and gift shop, which also sold baby clothes. At the end of the block, Pleasant Hill Drugs had dark green canvas awnings over the front windows.
She started with the drugstore, wandering in, picking up a tube of lipstick that looked appealing, chatting with the teenage girl at the checkout counter, who was more interested in texting than talking to customers. No help there.
The thrift shop next door yielded nothing. Pushing through the door of the boutique, ringing the bell above the door, she stepped inside and a slender woman in her thirties with a cap of light brown hair sailed toward her, a wide smile on her face.
“Hi, I’m Marley. What can I help ya’ll with this fine mornin’?”
“I’m looking for something to wear out to dinner, nothing too fancy, you know? Something nice enough to wear in Pleasant Hill, but not overly expensive.”
“I think we can help you with that.” Marley drew her over to the dress rack. “I haven’t seen you before. Are you new to the area?”
“Yes, I am.” Cassidy sighed. “Unfortunately, I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying. I just started a job working for Senator Reese a few days before he was killed.”
“Oh, my, such a tragedy. Do the police have any suspects? Any idea who might have done it?” She rolled heavily lashed blue eyes. “There’s all kinds of rumors floatin’ round. I’m sure you can imagine.”
Cassidy smiled at the woman. A real Chatty Cathy. “No suspects yet, I’m afraid.”
“I heard Beau was the one who found him. Why, there’s talk he might even have been the one who killed him. Crime of passion and all that—you know, what with the letter opener and all. You don’t suppose that could be true, do you? I mean, everyone in town likes Beau, but then the two of them did fight like cats and dogs.”
Marley slapped a hand over her mouth as she realized how much she’d been talking. “Here I am, rattlin’ on and on, and you just wantin’ to find a dress.”
“Oh, no, I’m enjoying the conversation. I don’t really know anyone in town yet and I just feel so bad about what happened.” She leaned closer. “You really think Beau might have done it?”
Marley glanced around. “Like I said, him and his daddy never did get along. There’s lots of speculation. Winnie Barker, over to the library, said it coulda had somethin’ to do with Missy Kessler, her comin’ up pregnant and all, and no one knowin’ who’s the daddy. Missy’s only just turned nineteen, you see, and such a sweet little thing. Lollie Tilford down at the flower shop said she saw Beau and Missy sittin’ together in the café the day before the murder. Lollie overheard Beau sayin’ something to her about money. Missy’s mama was there with them—Josie? She owns the café, you see.”
“I think I’m beginning to.”
“Well, Beau’s got all that money, and last year when he was coaching Little League out at the baseball diamond, I saw him without his shirt—oh, that man has the most glorious muscles ever—not to mention the sexiest blue eyes of any man alive on this earth. If Beau paid her the slightest attention, poor Missy woulda been toast.”
Cassidy tried to block the images those words created but instead her mind conjured fantasies of Beau in bed with her, his naked body pressing her down in the mattress, those incredible blue eyes gazing down at her as they made love. Furious with herself, she told herself that stories linking Beau to a pregnant young girl were nothing but gossip, not something he would actually do.
Marley seemed to get her second wind. “Why, there was a time, you know, if Beau Reese had asked, half the women in Pleasant Hill woulda dropped their panties for him.” She took Cassidy’s hand and started along the rack. “Now let’s find you that dress.”
An hour later, her mind spinning with local gossip on every subject from the mayor’s drinking habits to the principal’s affair with the president of the PTA, Cassidy left with a couple of casual tops and a little black cocktail dress with a short, floaty skirt that was inexpensive and didn’t look half bad.
Determined to find out more about Missy Kessler and the remote possibility that Beau was the father of her unborn child, she headed for the Pleasant Hill Café.
Sitting in a pink vinyl booth sipping a Diet Coke gave her time to watch the young woman with the enormous belly waiting on customers seated at the counter. Missy Kessler wasn’t beautiful, but with her long blond hair and blue eyes, she had a certain appeal. When Cassidy finished her Coke and walked up to pay the bill, she gave the girl a friendly smile. “You’re Missy, right?”
Missy returned the smile shyly. “Yes, that’s right.”
“I’m Cassidy Jones. I was working for Senator Reese before he was killed. Beau mentioned you.”
The girl’s face turned paper white. She swayed like a blow-up clown on paper feet. “He . . . he did?”
Cassidy resisted the urge to reach out and steady her. “Yes, he did. You’re . . . umm . . . friends . . . aren’t you?”
Missy didn’t miss the implication. Her chin wobbled an instant before her lips firmed. She rang up the check and gave Cassidy her change. “Excuse me. I have to get back to work.”
As Cassidy took the money, guilt swept over her. The last thing she wanted was to cause the girl more pain. But she had a job to do, a killer to find, and to do that she needed information.
Leaving a double tip on the counter, she headed out the door, satisfied she had accomplished what she’d come for. She had met Missy Kessler and seen her reaction to the mention of Beau’s name. Clearly they knew each other and it wasn’t just a casual acquaintance. Add to that, he had been seen with her at the café, been overheard talking to her about money.
The hard truth was—there was every chance Beau Reese was the baby’s father.
By the time she got into her car and drove back to the guest house, Cassidy was quietly seething. If Beau and his dad had been fighting about the girl, the argument could well have gotten out of hand. The letter opener must have been right on top of the desk.
Had the senator’s accusations sent his son into a violent rage? Had he picked up the letter opener and stabbed it into his father’s heart?
Cassidy paced the living room of the guest house, her thoughts in turmoil. She remembered the articles about Beau, the way he’d turned his life around after a rocky start, his philanthropy, his support for troubled teens. She thought about the attraction that seemed to grow every time she was with him.
Was the image she had built completely false? Was he a cold-blooded killer? She told herself to stay calm, do her job, behave like a professional. It wasn’t her place to condemn Beau Reese for taking advantage of a naïve teenage girl.
When Beau knocked on her door, she reminded herself that aside from discovering his guilt or innocence, what he did was none of her business.
She was telling herself not to overreact as she walked to the door and pulled it open, warning herself to hold on to her temper—the instant before she drew back her hand and slapped his handsome face.
Chapter Seven
Beau’s arm flew up in surprise but it was too late to block the blow. His cheek stung and anger tightened every muscle in his body. As she stood in front of him, Cassidy’s dark eyes flashed with fury.
Beau gritted his teeth to control his temper and took a step forward, forcing her back into the living room.
He slammed the door behind him. “Why the hell did you just hit me? And your reason better be good.”
She didn’t back down, didn’t show a trace of fear. Instead her pretty mouth curved in a hard-edged smile. “I know why you came to Pleasant Hill.”
“Is that right? Well, don’t keep me guessing.”
“That girl, Missy Kessler. She’s pregnant.”
He nodded. “Very pregnant. So what? How is that any business of yours?”
“It’s motive, Beau. Missy’s just a kid. You took advantage and got her pregnant. When you came over that day, you and your father started fighting about it. The fight got out of hand and in a fit of rage, you picked up the letter opener and stabbed him to death.”
He closed his eyes, trying to block the terrible image of his father on the floor, his chest soaked in blood. “That’s what you think happened?”
Her expression didn’t change. “Isn’t it?”
“My father had already been stabbed when I walked into the study. But you’re right, we did have a fight about the baby—the day before he died. And it wasn’t about my being the father. Missy’s baby is my half sister. My father is her dad.”
Silence fell in the room. The blood drained from Cassidy’s face. “Oh, my God.”
“I got him to agree to give Josie Kessler full custody so she and her daughter could raise the child together.”
“You . . . you offered to give her money,” she said. “You wanted to help her.”
“That’s right. I told Josie I’d pay the expenses, make sure the child and her mom were taken care of properly. I came back to the house the next day to get the custody papers signed. Missy didn’t want anyone to know, so I kept quiet about it. I guess it’s too late for that now.”
Cassidy bit her lip. Her eyes were dark with regret, but there was something more. She reached up and gently set her palm over the red mark on his cheek. “I’m so sorry, Beau. I’ve never done anything like that before. I don’t know what happened.”
He caught her wrist, holding her hand in place against his cheek, feeling the soft throb of her pulse beneath his fingers. “Maybe you were starting to like me, maybe even trust me. Then you heard about Missy and you thought I’d let you down.” He let go of her wrist and she eased her hand away, but her eyes remained on his. “I didn’t kill my father, Cassidy. And if you trust me, I won’t let you down.”
She stared at him a few seconds more, then turned and walked over to the window. Sunlight glinted on her thick dark curls and he noticed the fine ruby strands running through them. His cheek still stung where she had slapped him. She was passionate and beautiful and in that moment, he realized how much he wanted her.
She turned to face him. “It won’t matter to the police. It’s still motive, Beau. You and your father could still have been fighting about the baby. You could have gotten so angry you picked up the letter opener and killed him.”
Beau started shaking his head. “I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill my father.”
Cassidy walked back to him, stood right in front of him. “I believe you. Over the years, I’ve learned to trust my instincts. I should have done that this time. I won’t jump to conclusions again.” And then she did something completely unexpected. She went up on her toes and pressed a soft kiss on his lips.
Heat burned through him. Lust hit him so hard his whole body tightened. He reached for her but Cassidy stepped away.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I let my attraction to you cloud my judgment. I won’t do it again.”
It took all his control not to cross the distance between them and haul her into his arms. His hand fisted as he fought for control. “I want you,” he said. “I have since the moment I saw you in my father’s study. That day, I did the same thing you did—I misjudged the situation because of the attraction I felt for you. Now that we’ve cleared the air, we can—”
“No.” She shook her head, shifting those dark curls around her shoulders, making him ache to grab a fistful and drag her mouth back to his for a deeper, far different kind of kiss.
“That isn’t going to happen, Beau. We need to stay focused. I’m not sure you realize the trouble you’re in. So far you’re the primary suspect. Until we find the real killer, that isn’t going to change.”
“There isn’t any evidence, Cassidy. There never will be because I didn’t do it.”
“You’re on their radar. You had method and opportunity. The police will find out about Missy and that’ll give you motive. We need to find the killer. We have to if you’re going to clear your name.”
Since she was right, he didn’t argue. But now he had two objectives. One was to find the man who had murdered his dad. The other was far more personal. It had nothing to do with murder and everything to do with Cassidy Jones.
* * *
Malcolm Vaughn leaned back in the chair behind the desk in his office as the door opened and the visitor he’d been expecting walked in.
Clifford Jennings smiled, lifting the edges of a closely trimmed blond mustache that did nothing for his pale complexion. “The letter opener was a stroke of genius. According to my information, the cops have nothing—no prints, no DNA, nothing. And their only suspect is Beaumont Reese.”
Mal steepled his fingers, not bothering to get up from his chair or offer to shake hands. “That’s why you hire a professional. It might be expensive but you get what you pay for.”
“I couldn’t agree more. We may have a problem, though.”
One of Mal’s brown eyebrows went up. “You’re talking about Reese?”
“Reese has the money, but it’s the woman I’m worried about. Cassidy Jones is a private investigator and word is she’s way better than good. You remember that serial killer down in Houston—the Night Watchman? The credit for his arrest went to a bounty hunter in her office named Jason Maddox, but Jones was the tracer. She’s the one who actually tracked the guy down.”
Mal just shrugged. “Even a blind pig finds an acorn once in a while.”
“Yeah? You remember Oliver Graves, the guy who ran that hedge-fund pyramid scheme in Dallas? One of his investors got wind of what was going on and hired Jones to prove it. She compiled enough evidence to get the feds involved. Graves is currently serving fifteen to twenty in a Texas state prison.”
Malcolm straightened in his chair, not liking the news but sure he could handle any problems that might come up. “We’ll keep an eye on both of them. If it looks like the woman’s getting too close, we’ll do something about it. An accident of some sort wouldn’t be hard to arrange.”
“What about Reese?”
He shrugged. “Reese is a businessma
n and a world-class playboy. He and his old man weren’t even close. Eventually, he’ll get tired of the drama and move on. And there’s always a chance the DA will decide to prosecute. We can nudge things in that direction if we have to. Defending himself against a murder charge ought to keep Reese busy and out of our hair.”
Jennings nodded. “All right. If anything comes up, I’ll let you know.” Turning, he walked out of the office.
As soon as the door closed, Mal took out the disposable phone he kept in the bottom desk drawer and punched in a number.
“There’s no need for concern,” he said. “Everything has been taken care of exactly as you wished.”
On the other end of the phone, the connection ended and the line went dead. Just like Senator Reese.
* * *
Later that same day, Beau moved into one of the guest rooms in the main house. His boyhood bedroom had long ago been painted and redecorated. His parents had never been the sentimental type. Avoiding the study, he set up his laptop on the desk in the room, surprised to find it more difficult to be in the house than he had imagined.
He hadn’t expected to feel the weight of depression settle over him, hadn’t expected the dark memories of his childhood to hover in the silence inside the house. The past seemed to hang like dust in the air, making it hard to breathe.
As a boy, he had escaped the house every chance he’d gotten, had left for good as soon as he’d turned eighteen. His parents had been glad to be rid of him, one less obstacle in their drive for success, both socially and politically, as well as financially.
Beau hated to admit he had inherited a lot of that same drive. He loved his work and he loved his successes. But he also valued his friends and the people who worked for him, and he tried to give back to the community for the satisfying life he lived.
Once he had wanted a wife and family, but that time was past. He’d been deeply in love with his college sweetheart, Sarah Mills. In some ways he had never completely recovered from Sarah’s death or the torturous year they had spent together while she fought a losing battle with cancer. Even now, thirteen years later, the thought of a wife and children with anyone else seemed incomprehensible.