Midnight In The Garden Of Good And Evie

by Marianne Stillings

  “How it looks?” she snapped. “Him, I would expect to accuse me, but you?”

  “I’m not accusing you,” Max nearly yelled. “But the fact you may be Heyworth’s daughter and heir could raise a few eyebrows. It gives you about thirty million reasons for murder.”

  Her mouth flattened. “Do you think I killed him?”

  “No, I absolutely do not think you killed him.”

  “Then why are you taking his side?” she said with a nod in McKennitt’s direction. “Why are you defending him and not me?”

  “Goddammit, Evie, I’m not taking his side. And you need defending about as much as a Marine with a bazooka.”

  They locked gazes and stood toe-to-toe while Evie’s cheeks flushed. She lowered her lashes.

  “Sorry. I guess I’m a little touchy this morning. I don’t know what came over me.”

  Maybe she didn’t know, but he did. He’d made love to her, and they’d shared a special night together, and she felt betrayed that he didn’t immediately jump to her defense. What she didn’t realize was, she didn’t need defending. Only evidence would convict Heyworth’s killer, and since Evie hadn’t killed the old man, there was nothing that could implicate her in his murder.

  Max watched her for a moment, then said, “A simple DNA test would have proven whether Thomas was your father, Evie. Why didn’t you ever have one done?”

  “Because I never came right out and asked him to, that’s why. I should have, but I was afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?” McKennitt’s voice interrupted, but not ungently.

  “I wanted Thomas to be my father,” she said roughly. “Maybe I needed for him to be. If I’d gone to him and forced him to do the test, and found out he wasn’t my father after all, that would have meant my real father was probably some one-night stand my mother couldn’t even remember. I just couldn’t accept that.”

  Max heard the pain in her voice and wanted to take hold of her and comfort her, ease the burden from her shoulders and onto his own. But he couldn’t. Not with McKennitt watching their every move. He’d already seen too much.

  “I guess that makes me a coward,” she said shakily, “but I just couldn’t face the possibility that somebody other than Thomas was my father.” She shook her head slowly. “Not knowing seemed so much safer. That way, I could pretend. I never thought it would go unresolved forever. I honestly thought one day we’d have that conversation, cross that bridge. But time passed and then… well, now it’s too late.”

  “Unfortunately,” McKennitt said, “it doesn’t matter, in terms of motive, if Heyworth was your father or not. If you believed him to be, that’s damaging enough right there.”

  Her brow furrowed and she looked up at him. “Detective McKennitt, do you really think I killed Thomas Heyworth?”

  He gave her a soft smile. “No, ma’am. I don’t. I am concerned, though, that somebody else perceived you were Heyworth’s heir and had a problem with it.”

  She cut a quick glance to Max, then back to the detective. “Who?”

  “I can’t say just now, but we are following other leads. Please don’t speak to anyone about the case except for Detective Galloway here. That’s all I can share with you for now.”

  McKennitt checked his watch, then shoved his notebook back in his pocket. “Thanks for your time, Ms. Randall. Walk me out to the boat, will you, Galloway?”

  When the two men reached the runabout, Edmunds was already in it, starting up the motor.

  McKennitt stopped and turned to Max. With his hands in his pockets and a scowl on his face, he lowered his voice and said, “You mind telling me what’s going on here, Galloway? Just what in God’s name do you think you’re doing?”

  “What in the hell are you babbling about?”

  “Look,” McKennitt said quietly, so the butler couldn’t hear. “Believe me when I say I’m totally sympathetic, but you’ve obviously allowed yourself to become personally involved in this case.”

  “I am personally involved,” Max shot back. “I was invited to participate, remember?” Shifting his weight, he crossed his arms over his chest. “We’re on the heels of the fourth clue. With any luck, we’ll get to the seventh before anyone else. I’m hoping like hell Heyworth left something in that clue we can use.”

  “You and me both. We’ve been watching and waiting, but so far our guy hasn’t done anything provocative. If he killed Ziwicki—and we think he did—the son of a bitch snuck his way around our surveillance.” He blew out a long breath. “How’s Darling doing?”

  “ ‘Dabney James’ is keeping an eye on the secretary, and Edmunds is joined at the hip with the psychic. We’re a happy bunch, but the sooner we get something on our guy, the better I’ll feel about Evie’s safety.”

  “Evie.”

  “Yeah, Evie. Want to make something of it?” There was silence between the two men for a moment, then McKennitt blew out a rough laugh.

  “Look,” he said, “it’s not like I don’t know what you’re going through. Before Betsy was my wife, she was a stalking victim.”

  “You married a woman you met on a case and you’re warning me off?”

  “It was different. I met her before I was on the case.”

  “If this were my case,” Max said, “I wouldn’t even consider becoming involved with her. I do understand professional ethics, and, contrary to popular belief, I abide by them. However, I’m not only a suspect myself, I’m an invitee to the game. I’m helping you out, but officially I’m a nonentity. So when it comes to Evie, keep your trap shut.”

  McKennitt glanced toward the waiting boat then back at Max. “Okay, then. I’m outta here. We’re pregnant and I promised I’d stop by the store on the way home and get Betsy some orange juice.”

  “Pregnant? Congratulations, buddy.”

  McKennitt snorted, then a huge grin spread across his face. “Yeah. It’s great. She sure wants to eat some weird stuff, though. Yesterday it was barbecued ribs, sauerkraut, and marzipan.”

  As the detective was boarding the runabout, Max said, “So, uh, how do you like being married?”

  “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Funny thing, though, about committing to a woman for the rest of your life, especially a woman like Betsy.” He lifted his shoulder in a shrug. “You get this protective thing going. I don’t know how to describe it. I only know that if anybody ever hurt her, I’d rip the guy’s balls off and stuff them down his throat. I never saw myself married, but now that I am, it’s, uh, well hell, it’s everything.”

  Max shoved his hands in his pockets but didn’t respond.

  As seagulls squawked and wheeled overhead, McKennitt said, “Evie Randall’s a pretty woman.” Then he grinned again. “Watch out for them cute ones, pal. One false move and you just might wind up living happily ever after.”

  By the time Max pulled into his own driveway in Olympia, he was ready to explode. Turning off the ignition, he quickly got out of the car and moved around to the passenger side. When Evie opened her door, he reached in and pulled her straight into his arms. Then he kissed the hell out of her.

  “What was that for?” she said breathlessly.

  “That was for being so adorable.”

  “No, really,” she said seriously. “What was it for?” He detected a glint in her eye, so he kissed her again.

  When he pulled away this time, she was laughing, and he said, “Actually, it was for being so adorable, and for being so smart.”

  Smacking him on the shoulder with her doubled fist, she said, “Well, it sure took you long enough to realize it.”

  He tugged her a little closer. “Yeah, well, I’m kind of slow sometimes.”

  Her blue eyes went dreamy. Lifting herself on her toes, her mouth came to within a kiss of his lips.

  “Be slow now,” she whispered, then touched his bottom lip with her tongue.

  Desire shot through him like the blast of a flamethrower. He kissed her again, very s
lowly, and very thoroughly. As he ended the kiss, out of the corner of his eye he saw a curtain flutter in the window of the house across the street.

  “We have witnesses,” he said. “We’d better go inside before they start sending out wedding invitations.”

  Evie glanced around. “They must have seen you bringing home hot babes before now.”

  “No,” he said. “They never have. When you’re a police officer, you are subject to close scrutiny by everyone you meet. Your neighbors watch you constantly to make sure you’re being good, whatever that may mean to them. Bringing home a string of hot babes would be detrimental to my image in the community.”

  She scowled. “That hardly seems fair.”

  “It isn’t fair. It’s just the way it is. That’s one of the reasons the divorce rate for law enforcement officers is so high. Your private life is rarely really private, and that can be tough on a marriage.”

  “Then why did you kiss me? If you hadn’t, your neighbors would have assumed I was no more than your stunning second cousin from Podunk.”

  “I kissed you because not kissing you was killing me,” he said. “And now we’re going into the house. I think it’s only fair to warn you, I may kiss you in there, too.”

  “God,” she muttered under her breath as she locked gazes with him. “I hope so.” Louder, she said, “Have you figured out yet where the clue is? And have you also figured out how it got into your house?”

  Unlocking the back door of his neat little two-story, post-WWII brick and clapboard home, he sent her a satisfied grin.

  “Yes, I have,” he said. “And, yes, I have.”

  Chapter 20

  Dear Diary:

  I have her picture in my room now. My mom. It was in the junk they sent to Thomas from the last house we lived in, where, you know, she died. She was so beautiful. The picture was taken when I was a baby, because she’s holding me in a pink blanket and smiling. Her hair is long and shiny and red. Just like the desk I have in my room at Mayhem. Edmunds says it's cherry wood, and it’s the exact same color as her hair. I miss my mom a lot. I often cry for her. I think I always will.

  Evangeline—age 12

  So, hunky Max Galloway never brought women home, thought Evie as she looked around his place. He didn’t want the neighbors to get the wrong idea. But he’d brought her home, and had even kissed her out there in the driveway. Twice. Why? To, what, give the neighbors the right idea? Did he maybe like her more than he’d let on? Or had he simply gotten to the point where he didn’t care what the neighbors thought?

  As soon as they’d entered his house, Max had run upstairs, leaving her to wander through the kitchen and living room, absorbing what she could of his estrogen-free sanctum sanctorum. He had good taste in furnishings and artwork, and didn’t seem at all anal about cleanliness. The place was neat, but not fastidious, comfortable without being sloppy, masculine without animal heads on the walls and gun racks over the mantel and empty beer cans strewn about on sticky-paged issues of Playboy.

  She walked to the large coffee table and recalled him telling her that he’d made it. It appeared to be constructed of oak, and was inlaid in a herringbone design using lighter and darker woods, and it was gorgeous. Running her finger along the top, she marveled at the smoothness of the wood, so finely crafted she couldn’t even feel the seams in the design. It was almost like touching silk.

  In the middle of the coffee table sat a chess set, the one he’d made, certainly. She picked up one of the pieces, the white queen, so beautifully carved it nearly took her breath away. The lines of all the pieces were elegant, almost lyrical, and Evie felt her heart teeter on a very high precipice.

  A man who could create such beauty with his mind and his hands had to be a man of deep feelings. She held the queen closer to study her face; the lady was smiling.

  Setting the queen down, she looked around the spacious room.

  Next to the fireplace stood an enormous bookcase, heavy with volumes on every possible subject, as well as a few classics and a best-seller or two. But what drew her attention most was the photograph.

  Max’s mother had been such a pretty woman, possessed of a generous smile and sparkling eyes. Those dark good looks had been handed down to both her children, who stood in front of her, grinning proudly, each holding some ancient artifact in their short, grubby fingers.

  Back at Mayhem, a portrait of this same woman hung in Thomas’s room, but the woman captured in oils appeared much changed from this one. Not just older, but weary, and quite fragile. Evie assumed she died within months of its being painted.

  She touched the photo on the shelf. Max couldn’t have been more than ten. He’d been a rugged, sturdy little guy. Would his own sons look like this? she wondered. Impish grin, wide, hazel eyes bright with pride and awe, tanned little arms stretched out to show off his prize. Her heart tossed in an extra beat at the thought.

  Next to him, his sister, devoid of her two front teeth, and perhaps a year or two younger, had inherited her mother’s elegant bones. She was smiling like she’d just won a million bucks.

  “That was taken on a dig one summer in New Mexico.”

  Evie turned to see Max standing at the foot of the stairs, an enormous cardboard box in his arms. As he set it on the coffee table, he said, “Frankie and I found some pottery shards. It was the first time I’d actually dug up anything, and I was so excited, it was like I’d just discovered King Tut’s lost tomb. Practically wet my pants.”

  She glanced back at the photo. “You were really cute.” Strolling toward him, she said, “I recognized your mom from the portrait at Mayhem. You have any pictures of your dad?”

  “Nope.” He took out his pocketknife and sliced the tape that held the box closed. Lifting away all four flaps, he stood looking down into the box.

  When he said nothing, she gestured toward it. “Christmas decorations?”

  “Nope.”

  He edged back to sit on the black leather couch and proceeded to carefully remove items from the box. Dropping into the wing chair on the other side of the coffee table, Evie reached forward and lifted one of the flaps, to read the mailing label.

  “Oh my God,” she practically choked. “The Trojan Horse.”

  “Yep.” He took out a sheaf of papers, then an old book, a photograph album, and a couple of tarnished trophies. Setting the items aside, he rummaged around in the box. “I got to thinking,” he said.

  “Well, they say there’s a first time for everything.”

  Ignoring her wit, he said, “There was no way anybody could get into my house without my knowledge, but if you were right, and the clue is here, then there was only one way it could have gotten in, and that’s if I brought it in myself.”

  “And judging from the postmark on this box,” she said, “six months ago the post office delivered it to your doorstep. And you brought it inside.”

  “Exactly.” Max took out a few more things, obviously mementos from his childhood his mother had kept and Thomas had used to disguise his clue. “At the time, I wondered why I was getting all this stuff now, but I just figured somebody at Mayhem had done a little house cleaning and decided to send it to me. I went through it all the day I got it, but I don’t recall anything that could be considered a clue in a treasure hunt.”

  “But six months ago,” she said, “you weren’t looking for one. You were only seeing what Thomas wanted you to see.”

  They sat, peering into the now empty box.

  “Nothing,” he sighed. Shaking his head, he said, “I can’t be wrong about this. It’s the only way… hang on.”

  Evie watched while he reached down into the box and edged his finger under the square piece of cardboard fitted snugly on the bottom. It could have been placed there to add stability and strength for shipping, or…

  “Well, goddamn,” he whispered. “Will you look at that.”

  He lifted the square sheet of cardboard, and there it was. An envelope. Across the front was scrawled, So you fi
nally found it, you stupid son of a bitch.

  “I see it’s addressed to you,” Evie said. Then, as excitement overtook her, she clapped her hands together, “Hurry up. What does it say?”

  Slicing open the envelope, he removed the single sheet of paper and handed it to Evie.

  He paced in front of the fireplace and reread her note. Finally, he crumpled it into a tight ball and tossed it into the flames. She was gone, she’d left him. Taken off with some grease monkey with a better set of shoulders. He'd had her pegged, though. Had known right from the start she wasn't the kind to stick around. But what did he care? One dame was pretty much like another.

  T.E. Heyworth, 1953

  Strike Me, Spare Me

  “Oh, God,” Max groaned. “I remember this one. It was so bad.”

  Evie silently read it again. “Right. This is the one where the villain of the story was a professional bowler who met women at tournaments, then killed them. Bludgeoned them with a bowling pin.”

  Max relaxed back into the buttery leather of the sofa. “I’m sensing a trend here.”

  She laughed and handed back the clue. “I’ll admit, Thomas did have a rather fill-in-the-blanks approach to his plots.”

  “Do you remember where Strike Me, Spare Me takes place?”

  Evie rubbed her eyes, then looked over at him, sitting sprawled on the couch, in jeans and a dark T-shirt, pound for pound the sexiest thing she’d ever been in the same room with, let alone the same bed.

  In a low voice, she said, “Before I answer that, can I ask you a question?”

  His eyes grew serious, maybe even apprehensive. She knew that when a woman who was sleeping with a man said to him, “Can I ask you a question?” the man had to be thinking it was a question he probably didn’t want to hear and was in no way prepared to answer.

  His eyes narrowed on her. “Shoot.”

  “Do you know who killed Thomas?”

  Ha, ha. Fooled you, she thought.

  Something flickered in Max’s eyes, and for a moment it almost looked like disappointment. He pursed his lips and sat forward, placing his elbows on his knees.