Midnight In The Garden Of Good And Evie

by Marianne Stillings

  She stirred and released a long, satisfied sigh, and he grinned smugly to himself. He knew he was responsible for it, and he wanted to waken her so he could be responsible for her making it two or three dozen more times.

  Lifting his head, he checked the clock. Goddammit. They had to get a move on if they were going to get to Olympia before noon. Never in his life had duty and his personal agenda collided so irritatingly, but lying here with Evie in his arms was worth every bit of angst his brain could dish out.

  Her breathing changed. He knew the second she came awake.

  “Hey, sleepyhead,” he whispered in her ear. She turned in his arms, bringing their bodies close. He felt the tight points of her nipples against his chest.

  “My breath,” she said, without moving her lips. “I want to kiss you, but…”

  He laughed. “You can’t have morning breath if you haven’t been asleep,” he said, and kissed her. But the simple kiss immediately turned hot and urgent as Evie shoved him back against the pillows and thrust her tongue inside his mouth, sliding her open hand down his belly to wrap her fingers around him.

  When they were spent, they lay together, panting, recovering, touching here and there, slowly sliding their legs against each other’s. With the leisurely drag of a finger, the warm press of a palm, they explored each other’s bodies. Evie laid her head on his chest and listened to his heart; he placed his hand on the soft curve of her neck and measured the beat of her pulse. They kissed tenderly, caressed constantly, laughed and giggled and shared.

  The sun had risen enough to catch the edges of the furniture, the ornately cut rim of the mirror, the handle of an antique water pitcher. On the nightstand, Max had emptied his pockets the night before. In the center of the cluster of everyday coins, keys, and his pocketknife, the singular coin he always carried glinted in the morning light like a beacon.

  Evie reached over him and picked it up. “This is beautiful,” she said, awed by the image on the metal disk. “It’s not quite round, is it? And it’s heavy for its size.”

  “It was my mother’s,” he said, scooting up behind her. The mattress dipped as he spooned around her warm body.

  “It’s lovely,” she said, turning it in her fingers. “I’ll bet this coin has a story.”

  “It’s my good-luck piece,” he said, his voice still a bit rough from sleep, or lack of it. “It’s more than that, actually. It’s hard to describe. My mother found it on a dig one summer in Britain. Turns out, that same day she found she was pregnant with me. She gave it to me when I turned sixteen and told me she hoped it brought me as much luck as it had brought her.”

  “Is it Roman?”

  “Probably. Dates from about 10 B.C.” Even though he’d never shared the story of the coin with any other woman, save for Melissa, the words formed themselves, and he found himself wanting to tell Evie all about it. All about everything.

  “It must be very valuable,” she said.

  “Only to me. Monetarily, it’s probably worth about fifty bucks, but it’s the only thing of hers I have that meant something to the both of us. Carrying it around,” he said with a shrug that was more casual that he felt, “sort of takes me back to when I was a little kid and she first told me about it. Maybe because I was different back then. Innocent, I guess. Before I realized what a bastard my father could be and how I was turning out just like him.”

  She shifted toward him, confusion on her face. “Why do you say that?”

  Soft! His father’s often repeated words rang in his ears like a bad tune that stayed with you. Letting yourself love a woman makes a man soft. Weakens you. Don’t be an ass, Max. Take, but only give back what you can afford. Don’t be stupid.

  Max lowered his head until his forehead touched hers.

  “Max? What’s wrong?”

  He debated, then decided. “My father didn’t like women,” he said. “He raised me to believe that women were made for men to use, but that caring for a woman made a man an idiot.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  He raised his head and locked gazes with her. “No, you don’t. You couldn’t. Even I didn’t see it for years, and I lived with him. He was every stereotypical cop you’ve ever seen. Dark glasses, swagger, locked jaw, attitude. And when he came home, he didn’t turn it off. But I worshiped him. I wanted to be just like him. I am just like him.”

  She nodded, and it cut him that she didn’t disagree, couldn’t disagree. After all, he’d given her no reason to.

  “He treated my mother badly but I either didn’t see it or was too stupid to realize it. I’m only just now beginning to see how I mistakenly idolized the wrong parent.” He swallowed. “I, uh, I want you to understand something about me, Evie. I need you to.”

  “Okay.” Her eyes were worried as she placed her warm palm against his neck. Gently, she urged, “You can tell me.”

  “I did a bad thing,” he confessed, unable to look her in the eye. “When my mother left my father to marry Heyworth, I condemned her for it—and Heyworth—when it was my father I probably should have condemned. I had been conditioned for years to think women were simply to be used, that one was just like the next. My mother tried to tell me, to warn me, but I didn’t listen. I was naive and arrogant, and stayed locked into that kind of thinking for a very long time. I was a know-it-all punk with an attitude.” He blew out a harsh breath. Softly, he said, “I wish I could have told her…”

  “Oh, Max,” Evie whispered. “You were so very young then. You’re older now, wiser. It’s unfortunate your mother died before you had a chance to work it out with her, but I’m sure she wouldn’t be happy if she knew you were filled with guilt and remorse.”

  He shrugged.

  She tilted her head and seemed to consider him. “If she was as good a mother as you say, as lovely a woman, then she knew, Max. She understood without you having to tell her. She undoubtedly forgave you the minute the words were out of your mouth. I don’t think she went to her grave hating or blaming you.”

  “Maybe not,” he growled. “But I’ve got enough hate and blame for the both of us.”

  “I’m sure you do,” she soothed, “but it won’t do you any good to keep carrying it. Do you think she would want that for you? She was your mother. She loved you.”

  He moved away from her and sat up, pulling the sheet over his lap. “We need to get going. It’s a long drive to Olympia.”

  “Olympia isn’t going anywhere,” she said, sitting facing him. “Tell me more. Did you love your father?”

  “No. Yes. No. I mean, I did, and then I didn’t.”

  “That’s unusual,” she quipped dryly. “I’ll bet you’re the only person on earth who’s ever had mixed emotions about a parent.”

  He grunted a laugh, reached over and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, then tugged on her earlobe.

  “I don’t want to talk about my dad right now,” he said. And he didn’t dare talk about his growing feelings for her. They were new, fragile, and he was afraid if he scared her, the developing bond between them would be broken, and the thought of that happening bothered him a lot.

  “There’s more,” he said. “I, uh, I was married. Her name was Melissa. I treated her like shit and she left me.”

  Examining her fingertips for a moment, Evie lifted her head and said, “Did you love her?”

  He sat forward, bending to place his elbows on his knees. “I thought so at the time.” Pausing, he shook his head. “Yes. Yes, I loved her.” And he had, and to deny it would be to deny what Melissa had given him, or had tried to.

  “I’m afraid I was still operating under the Rules of Relationships as written by Martin Galloway. When she’d finally had enough and left, my father gave me the mother of all I Told You So lectures. He even slapped me. He convinced me Melissa’s leaving had only been a matter of time and that I’d been a fool to waste any emotion on her. I bought it. I was hurting, and I bought it.”

  “Of course you did,” she said gently. “Your father had warned
you to never love a woman, and you went against his wishes, which says a lot about your needs, no matter how you’ve tried to deny them. You probably punished yourself doubly for it—once for defying him, failing him, in a way, and another time for losing Melissa. Your father set it up so you couldn’t win, Max, no matter what you did.”

  He reached over and took her hand between his, curling her fingers over his palm. “You must hear confessions all the time,” he teased. “Little boys probably want to crawl up on your lap and tell you their life stories.”

  Evie stuck out her lower lip. “True,” she said. “The good news is, most of them are only eleven or twelve, so it’s a pretty short story.”

  As Max tugged on her hand to pull her back into his arms, there was a knock at the door, then a muffled, “Pardon, sir. Detective Galloway?”

  Evie wrapped a blanket around her body and tiptoed to the bathroom door, closing it softly behind her. Clutching the sheet around his hips, Max opened his door a couple of inches. “Yes, Edmunds?”

  The butler’s hands were clasped in front of him, a look of distress on his face. “Detective McKennitt is here to see you, sir. There seems to have been another murder.”

  Chapter 19

  Dear Diary:

  Thomas is so wonderful to me, and he came to get me and everything when Mom died, and he treats me just like he's my father. And I’ve been thinking. Maybe he is my father, my real-father! This morning I asked him about it, but he coughed and said I needed to finish my homework and feed the llamas. His response made me even more curious. If Thomas is my father, why would it be a secret?

  Evangeline—age 12

  Detective McKennitt was as Evie remembered him, tall, good-looking, and charming, too. But unlike Max’s mesmerizing green-hazel eyes, McKennitt’s were a startling blue. In his early thirties, the detective’s athletic physique was complimented by a well-tailored charcoal suit. As he scribbled in a small notebook, his left hand moved over the page, causing his thick gold wedding band to toss off a glint of early morning sunlight.

  Hunky as McKennitt was, Evie thought, he was hardly an effective detective. It had been nearly two months since Thomas had been killed, and the police still had nothing. Thomas Heyworth had been a famous, wealthy man. She would have thought they’d put somebody better on the case.

  Looking up from his note pad, McKennitt smiled and said, “Galloway. Ms. Randall. Nice seeing you again.”

  “Do you know yet who killed Thomas?” Evie all but snapped as she took a chair in front of the massive fireplace in the library. “I’ve called at least a dozen times over the last few weeks, and they continue to tell me you’re working on it but have no new leads.”

  McKennitt presented her with a relaxed grin, but his eyes grew serious. “I know you’re anxious, Ms. Randall. We’re following up on all leads as we get them, but it’s true, there haven’t been any new developments worth mentioning. I’m sure something will break very soon.”

  “Edmunds said something about another murder,” Max said. “Who was it?”

  McKennitt set his notebook on the carved oak mantel. Pushing back the edges of his jacket, he slid his hands into his pockets.

  “Let me begin by stating a few facts,” he said. “Heyworth owned a registered Smith & Wesson .357 revolver, but a search of the house after his murder turned up nothing. The bullet that killed him was also a .357. Same gun? It’s likely, but until we secure the weapon, we won’t know. However, as luck would have it, the bullet dug out of the doorway of Tavvy’s Tavern is also a .357 and matches the one that killed Heyworth.”

  “Well, what do you know,” Max said. “Our killer does get around.”

  Evie’s brain went a bit numb. “The same person who killed Thomas is trying to kill me?” She shook her head, leaning forward in the chair. “Why? I just don’t see—”

  McKennitt held up a hand. “You haven’t heard the best part. Late last night a couple of kids looking for a secluded rendezvous practically tripped over a dead guy. One Sam Ziwicki, a suspected contract killer. Guess what caliber bullet they dug out of the deceased, and guess what other two it matches?”

  Max went silent for a moment as he walked over to the large bookcase on the interior wall. Running the tip of his finger over the dusty titles, he said, “So, Heyworth is killed by a hired gun, maybe Sam Ziwicki, while everyone connected with the estate has a solid alibi. Then, three attempts are made on Evie’s life, one involving the same gun. Sam again, or is there more than one person on active duty here?” Turning to McKennitt, he said, “Any word on the boat that rammed us?”

  McKennitt shook his head. “The harbor patrol salvaged as much of the runabout as they could find. We’ve got a team going over it, looking for particles of fiberglass or paint, something that will give us a lead.”

  Max roamed over to one of the bay windows.

  “What about the two guys that pulled me out of the drink? They see anything?”

  “According to the witnesses, the pilot aimed right for you. And, there were no running lights.”

  “So it was no accident,” said Max.

  “Nope.”

  “You get a description of the boat?”

  “Said it was too far away from them, and because of the storm, details were hard to make out. Big, though. White or gray, maybe light blue.”

  Moving away from the window, Max came to stand a few feet from Evie’s chair. “Evie,” he said thoughtfully. “Where did you find Heyworth’s body?”

  “What? Oh, uh, right over there, near where you were standing before, by the big bookcase.”

  “Did you hear the shot?”

  “No. But I was busy with the llamas, and the wind was blowing hard from the north. If I did hear it, I may have dismissed it.”

  “When you got to the library,” he said, “tell me what you saw. Was there anything odd about the room? Did you notice anything out of place or different? Anything unusual?”

  Evie put her hand to her forehead. So many images to sort through. So much had happened in the last two months, but not so much that she couldn’t recall every second of that horrible afternoon.

  “I came into the house and headed directly to the library.”

  “Why did you come here?”

  She gave a small shrug. “Looking for a book. Thomas was due back later in the evening, so I was surprised when… you know. When I saw him lying on the floor.”

  She swallowed and tried to maintain her composure, but it was hard. Thinking about that day, talking about it. It was still so fresh.

  “You okay?”

  When she nodded, Max said, “What happened then?”

  “Well, I walked in, and there he was, just lying there on his back, st-staring. There was blood on his forehead.” She softened her voice. “Only a little.” She’d known the moment she saw him that he was dead, but she hadn’t wanted to believe it. Her brain had not been able to absorb such a harsh reality. Rushing to him, she’d kneeled at his side, not knowing what to do, what to think.

  “If anything was unusual or out of place,” she said quietly, “I didn’t notice. I couldn’t take my eyes off Thomas…” She tangled her fingers in her lap and frowned. “I—I think I must have gone into some kind of shock. I was checking for a pulse when Edmunds came in with a tray of iced tea. He’s the one who contacted the authorities.”

  “The autopsy stated Heyworth probably hadn’t been dead for more than a hour, maybe two, before you found him, yet nobody claims to have heard a shot. You didn’t see anybody running out of the house?”

  “No.”

  “Where was everyone that day?”

  “Um, Edmunds and Lorna were down at the dock, going over a maintenance list for the Hatteras. The Stanleys had gone home. The Stanleys,” she explained, “don’t live on the island. Mrs. Stanley is the day cook, so, after dinner, they go back to the mainland. They have their own boat and pretty much come and go on their own schedule. Whenever Thomas threw a party, he hired caterers.”

/>   Max ran his fingers through his hair and frowned. “I’ve been trying to talk to Stanley,” he said to McKennitt, “but he’s apparently a hard man to pin down. Mrs. Stanley says he’s around, but I haven’t seen him.”

  “Come to think of it,” Evie offered, “I haven’t seen him for a couple of days myself. That’s not really unusual, though. It’s a big island and he’s often off somewhere trimming or raking or mowing or repairing, or in town picking up supplies.”

  Max and Detective McKennitt exchanged another meaningful glance.

  “Ms. Randall,” the detective said quietly. “Until she died, I understand you had just the one parent, your mother. What do you know about your father?”

  “I had one. It’s a biological necessity.” Her heart rate increased, her palms dampened. She felt suddenly defensive, but wasn’t sure why.

  “Did your mother ever talk about him?”

  She pressed her lips together and let a moment or two pass while she decided exactly what she wanted to say. Finally, “She told me she was married to a man named Randall, but he left before I was born. He was most likely my father. However,” she said, working to keep her voice calm, “ever since she died and Thomas came to get me, I’ve wondered whether he was my real father. There were times I was almost certain he was, but he never said.” Her throat tightened. “And if I am his daughter, that makes me his sole heir.”

  “It does,” McKennitt said. “In law enforcement, we have a name for that kind of thing. It’s called motive.”

  Max watched Evie’s cheeks pale. “What? You think I… I didn’t kill Thomas!”

  “Evie,” he interrupted before she gave McKennitt a set-down that would end up with her in handcuffs. If anybody was going to put her in handcuffs, it was going to be him. Tonight, if good fortune smiled down on him, and, hell, even if it didn’t. “Detective McKennitt’s not accusing you, he’s merely stating that some might consider that a strong motive for murder. You have to understand how it looks—”