Jan Coffey Suspense Box Set: Three Complete Novel Box Set: Trust Me Once, Twice Burned, Fourth Victim

by Jan Coffey

  He’d never been concerned about Heather’s safety in Stonybrook before. But now he found himself as alert as a prison guard at riot time.

  “It’s ten of six now. I’ll stay until eight o’clock, but that’s my limit.” Without waiting for him, Léa pushed open her door and tried to get out. “I really have work to do.”

  “Stubborn, aren’t we.” He jumped out and came around to help her. She had already taken a couple of steps on the sidewalk before he reached her. But Mick saw her wobble, and he looped an arm around her waist and pulled her against him. “Not too fast.”

  For a long minute she remained nestled against him. Her arms had naturally wrapped around his middle, and her cheek was pressed against his chest. Mick felt her need. She just wanted to be held, and this whipped up in him a whole new blend of sensations.

  Suddenly, she pulled back. “I…I’m sorry. I must have stood up too fast.”

  A deep blush spread on her cheeks. He didn’t remove his arm from around her waist. Heather appeared on Léa’s porch and came across the lawn toward them. She had a duffel bag draped over one shoulder and something in her other hand.

  “Is this all of your things?” he asked.

  Léa didn’t answer. Mick looked down and found her face had turned ashen in the morning light. She was staring at Heather’s hand.

  “I found this letter just inside the door. It has your name on it.”

  ~~~~

  The crotch of the oversized pants practically reached the boy’s knees. The black T-shirt he was wearing under the unbuttoned sport shirt had Luzer emblazoned across the chest. He’d left his old van running and now leaned against the passenger door.

  Bob Slater balanced the wallet on his knee with his partially paralyzed left hand and took out a fifty-dollar bill. “Does th-this cover it, T-T. J.?”

  “Sure, for last night’s work.” T.J. stuffed the money in his front pocket and moved around the front of the van to the driver’s side. “Send up a flare when you need me again.”

  Bob watched the teenager get inside the old van and drive around the circular gravel drive. As the vehicle disappeared beyond the gate, the retired banker glanced over his shoulder at the house. He directed his electric-powered chair down the walk toward the back yard.

  The morning had been startlingly clear, more like September than June. The dew that had glistened on the finely manicured lawns had evaporated an hour ago, and the sun was high.

  He stopped on the brick paved patio. The river, brown from the mud that had washed in with the storms, was still running high beyond the lawns and the gardens and the carefully placed groves of trees. Tomorrow it would be running clear, and the smooth rocks now hidden would be breaking the surface, channeling the waters, creating movement and life. Solid, unmoving…and yet potent, still.

  He drove his chair to the edge of the bricks and considered taking the chair across the lawn to the river walk. It would be good to go down there, to feel the fresh, cooler air from the water on his face. As he pressed the control knob, he heard the door from the kitchen slide open behind him.

  He stopped.

  “Who was the kid on front?”

  Bob turned his chair around. Stephanie was already puffing away at a cigarette as she walked across the patio. Last night’s make-up was still smudged around her eyes and she was wrapped in a green Japanese-print robe.

  He’d bought that robe for her years ago. She used to look stunning in it, especially when she wore it with nothing underneath. It’d been a long time since he thought about sex. Even longer since he’d thought about sex with her.

  “L-lives in the n-neighborhood.” He touched the bag of newspapers that was hanging from the side of his wheelchair. “G-gets me these. You know th-that.”

  The little jerk of her head was more acknowledgement that he’d spoken than agreement, but Bob had no interest in pursuing that subject.

  “I called Rich this morning.” She threw the cigarette into a planter at the edge of the brickwork, and reached in her robe pocket for another one. “I told him about Léa being in town.”

  Her eyes glittered with hate as she lit the cigarette.

  “He said he’s taking care of things. He said she’ll be leaving…very, very soon.”

  Chapter 12

  “You have the choice of sharing this bathroom with Heather, or you can share mine. But that means you have to walk through my bedroom.”

  Standing in the narrow doorway of the decoratively tiled bathroom, Léa felt the heat of Mick’s body behind her. She looked up at him. He hadn’t had a chance to shave yet this morning, and she was fascinated by the blondish growth on his chin, and by her urge to touch the stubble.

  “I’m only staying for a couple of hours. I might not need to use a bathroom.”

  “Well, I know you are not supposed to get those sutures wet, but a long bath will do you a load of good.” His gaze traveled down the front of her wrinkled and stained dress before meeting hers. “I can run the water and help you undress.”

  With everything on her mind, it was almost shocking how her body reacted to him. It was as if a violin string, running from her brain to somewhere deep in her stomach, had been plucked, and the vibration was humming throughout her body.

  “I think I can manage it myself.” She bit back her smile. “But thanks for the offer.”

  A couple of steps back up the hall, directly opposite Heather’s room, was the guest bedroom. A set of old-fashioned twin beds covered with colorful quilts were set against each wall. A braided carpet and a rocking chair in one corner gave the place a sense of hominess. The single window looked out on a vegetable garden in the next door neighbor’s yard.

  “You’ll have to share this with Max.”

  As if proving his master’s point, the dog appeared and pushed his way between them. He settled comfortably on the rug. Léa looked past Mick for any sign of Heather. The teenager had volunteered to take Max out for a walk when they’d first arrived.

  Mick put the duffel bag on one of the beds and showed her where the linen closet was. “You can sleep, but I’ll have to wake you up every so often to check for—”

  “Drowsiness, nausea…I remember the instructions, Doctor Conklin.” She leaned against the door jamb. “I’m tougher than the average patient. Really, you don’t have to fuss over me.”

  “But I want to.”

  Léa’s breath hitched in her chest when his hand touched her face.

  “Even if it is only for a couple of hours, I think it’s about time you let someone else take care of you for a change.”

  Stunned and speechless, she stared into his blue eyes. A knot rose in her throat at the sincerity she saw there. The letter she was clutching in her hand slipped between her fingers and dropped onto the hardwood floor.

  Mick reached down and picked it up. Smiling, he held it out to her. “I’ll have your breakfast—raisin French toast with applesauce—ready when you come down.”

  Did he say ‘come down’ or ‘calm down’? she thought as he turned away. This light-headedness she was feeling, she knew, had nothing to do with the blow to the head she’d taken last night. It was Mick Conklin, pure and simple. It was impossible to tear her gaze away from his back as he disappeared down the stairs.

  The feel of the letter in her hand, though, was a slap of reality.

  Léa walked into the guest bedroom and started to close the door. Looking at Max, she left the door partially open to give him a chance to get out if he wanted to go. The dog seemed perfectly contented, curled up on the floor.

  She hadn’t dared to open the letter outside for fear of getting Mick and his daughter more involved than they already were. Heather probably had her reasons for not admitting anything, but Léa was sure that the teenager had been in the carriage house last night.

  She was also fairly certain that it was because of Heather that she was alive now.

  Léa sat down on the edge of one of the beds and stared at the typed address. The envelope w
as not stamped. Some time between the hour she’d gone out to her car to spend the night, and this morning, when she’d come back from the hospital, someone had slipped this letter through the mail slot of her front door.

  She opened it. There was a single typed sheet inside.

  Ten o’clock Monday morning sit on the bench by the Main Street entrance to the park. You’ll meet Marilyn’s Hate Club. They will all be there.

  Léa turned the page over. Nothing else.

  There was a soft knock on the door, and Heather poked her purple head in. Léa immediately folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope.

  “I’m up. I’m fine. No dizzy spells.”

  “Well, that’s not good. You are supposed to be down and not feeling so good. That way I can go get my dad.”

  Max went to the door to greet the teenager.

  “Did he put you up to this?”

  “No way. I thought of it all on my own.”

  Léa tucked the letter in an outside pocket of the duffel bag. “Well, in spite of what everyone else wants, I am way too wound up to lie down. Come on in.”

  Heather gave a noncommittal shrug, but then walked in anyway and stretched out on one elbow on the bed across the way.

  “I—”

  “I’m—”

  They both started talking at the same time, and they both stopped at the same moment. Léa laughed. “Okay, you first.”

  Max was resting his large head on the bed in front of Heather. The girl looked down at the dog, scratched his ears, and stroked his muzzle for a minute. Finally, she looked up and met Léa’s gaze before looking away.

  “I was really scared.” Her blue eyes were identical to Mick’s. “I thought you were dead.”

  Léa had to suppress the urge to go to her. She didn’t want Heather to stop talking.

  “I…well, it wasn’t just the attack, though that was when I started screaming. It was the blood. I thought this was it. The end. Some creep just deciding to end it all for you. And not just you. All these other people who must be counting on you. People like your brother.” She dashed a tear from her face. “Seeing you like that made me realize that I couldn’t even imagine what…would happen…if someone hurt my dad. I don’t know what I’d do.”

  “I’m sure your father feels the same way,” Léa spoke softly. “I mean, if something were to happen to you.”

  Heather didn’t say anything and Léa let the silence build for a couple of minutes before she spoke again.

  “I know that a lot of us, at one time or another in our lives, think of death as an answer to problems. The sad thing is that it isn’t an answer. It only shifts our problems to someone else. To those who survive. I know about that.”

  “I guess you would,” Heather said quietly.

  “But then, a thing like this…attack…this accident just reminds us how fragile life is, how permanent death is, and how much love we have inside of us to give.”

  Heather’s cheeks showed red beneath the makeup. She glanced at the door, looking ready to run.

  “And in my ripe old age, I’ve discovered there’s such a big difference between reality and romanticizing.”

  The teenager turned her gaze on Léa. “What do you mean?”

  Léa looked around the room. She wanted to gain the teenager’s trust, not put her on the spot. Most of all, she didn’t want to be the cause of her sinking again into her previous gloom. A church bell rang somewhere in the distance.

  “What I am trying to say is that we are surrounded with romantic images of death in our culture.”

  “Oh, you mean like rock and roll. That was before my time.”

  Léa smiled and shook her head. “No. I’m talking about other things that are around us day to day. Like religion. When I was a kid and went to Sunday school, we were taught that crucifixion was a gift, sort of. Jesus loved us so he died. And it’s true across the board with most religions. Some Muslims and even some Christians still believe in self-flagellation as a way of purifying their souls. Others believe dying in battle will send them to heaven.” The church bell continued to ring. Léa glanced at the window and gave a broken laugh. “But I am not talking against religion on a Sunday morning. All of those religions also welcome life. What I am getting at is that romanticizing death is everywhere—in books, music, movies. I can’t even count how many different versions of Romeo and Juliet I’ve seen over the years.”

  Heather’s attention seemed to be focused on the dog, but Léa knew she was listening to every word.

  “I didn’t mean to give a sermon. But what I am getting at has to do with my own life. With my own family. Actually, with Ted’s situation.” She once again had the teenager’s attention. “A jury out there found him guilty of killing his own family. But I believe he didn’t do it. And I also believe that his continuing silence…his depression…his lack of wanting to fight for his innocence…it’s all part of a father’s grief over losing those he loved. To me, that’s the reality of death and what it does to those who are left behind.”

  “There is nothing romantic in that.”

  “You’re right.”

  Léa wiped her cold palms on the quilt. There was a lot more that she wanted to say. If Heather had seriously been thinking of ending her life, then she needed a lot of support and counseling. This was all conjecture, though, and Léa didn’t want to press her and have the teenager retreat into her shell.

  Léa smiled up at her. “What I was about to say was thank you. Thank you for being out there. I know you saved my life.”

  The teenager’s blush got deeper, and she stood up. “I guess I better let you sleep or something.”

  Léa noticed that Heather didn’t deny being out there. “I think I might try to take a shower or bath instead. I must smell like a hospital room.”

  “Actually, you look worse than you smell.”

  Léa stood up, too. “Are you always this honest?”

  “Only with people I like.”

  She started for the door.

  “By the way—” Heather paused by the door. “I’d tell if I saw who did this to you.”

  “I know.” Léa nodded and watched the girl and the dog disappear into the hall.

  ~~~~

  Like most everything in Stonybrook, the Miller Flower Shop had always been closed on Sundays.

  Tradition notwithstanding, for several years now, Joanna Miller had been insistent on opening the small nursery greenhouse in the back seven days a week during the planting season. She needed it. Not for the money, necessarily—though a few extra dollars never hurt. No, she needed it for herself.

  For Sundays were all Joanna’s. Around seven o’clock, from March to June, she brought her little cash box out of the flower shop, along with the old coffee urn and a tray of pastries, and opened the place. And the customers came. Trickled in, at first. But then, word got around and things improved. Nowadays, business was pretty darn brisk some Sundays.

  Joanna loved it. She took care of customers. She chatted and laughed and visited with friends and neighbors who stopped by for coffee or to just say hi. Sometimes they bought little flats of tomatoes or peppers or herbs or annuals, but Joanna never pushed anyone. It was just a pleasant way for a Stonybrook oddball to spend a pleasant morning.

  As she plugged in the coffee and took the plastic off the tray of pastries this morning, she knew that one of the real pleasures of these Sunday morning was not having to deal with her older sister Gwen looking over her shoulder.

  With a little more money—maybe next year, even—Joanna figured they could replace some of the plastic covered greenhouse with glass, the way it had been originally. Then she could make this vernal tradition a year-round thing.

  But that was all just maybe, for the business was really Gwen’s, and her older sister was already unhappy about what she considered pure extravagance on Joanna’s part.

  They were only twelve years apart, but there were times when Joanna felt Gwen was twice that. She’d felt that way this
morning.

  “It wasn’t the crummy croissants, and you know it,” she murmured to herself.

  It was jealousy. Gwen was ticked off at Joanna because she had a life. She was liked by people in this town. She had a sex life, for God’s sake. She stood with her hands on either end of the pastry tray and stared at the colors of the ivy geranium in the rows of hanging baskets until her frustration began to ebb.

  “You’re winning the battle. Don’t give up.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Joanna was smiling before she even turned to see Andrew Rice. “I didn’t hear your car.”

  “I was out jogging and decided to stop by.”

  He looked at the neat lines of herbs in the planting tables, and Joanna let her gaze linger on the muscular brown legs, on the broad powerful shoulders in the sleeveless shirt.

  “You look wonderful, Andrew. I like that shirt on you.”

  “Thanks.” The quick smile made her heart rate double. He touched his perfectly flat stomach. “I’ve lost ten pounds but have five more to go. It’s getting harder and harder to lose the winter fat.”

  Joanna was disappointed to see him turn his attention to the hanging baskets.

  “I was thinking of sending some flowers to a friend who’s back in town.”

  She moved close to him.

  “These would be nice for a housewarming.” Joanna leaned in front of him to point to a group of planters filled with assorted perennials. Her breast brushed against his arm, and he took a polite step away.

  “It’s not really housewarming. Actually, it’s more like a welcome back.” He gave her a half glance. “It’s for Léa Hardy. I hear she is back and is working on the old house on Poplar Street. I thought she could use some cheering up.”

  “I’m sure. I heard she was back, too.” The stab of envy ran surprisingly deep. “I have some things here that might make an appropriate gift.”

  He followed her to the next row of tables. “Mums? I thought they were fall flowers.”