Hometown Girl

by Margaret Watson

  “He said he didn’t do it and I believe him.”

  The firefighter shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the first time a kid came home from the bonfire at school and started one of his own.”

  He trudged off, leaving the pile of logs smoking on the lawn. She tightened her arm around Nick’s shoulders. “I don’t think for a moment that you did this.”

  “He’s a jerk,” Nick answered. “Why would I set my own house on fire?”

  “Exactly.” She kept her arm around Nick, and he leaned closer as they stood there, watching the smoke curling off the logs and drifting across the yard.

  Multiple doors slammed in front of the house, and the fire truck rumbled away. A few moments later, Tucker ran into the backyard.

  “Are you guys all right?” he asked.

  Nick slid out from beneath her arm. “Someone tried to set our house on fire,” he said, gesturing at the smoldering pile of logs.

  “What?” Tucker grabbed Nick’s shoulders, looked over at Claire. “Are you hurt?”

  “Nah,” Nick said, shrugging. “Aunt Claire and I almost had it out by the time the firefighters got here. Jerks.”

  “They asked me if Nick might have started the fire,” Claire explained in response to Tucker’s questioning look.

  Tucker scanned Nick quickly, then let him go and turned to her. His face tightened when he saw her hands. “You said you weren’t hurt.”

  “I’m not.”

  He turned her hands over, his touch featherlight. Blood smeared her palms and she stared at them, bewildered. “I must have torn off the scabs when we dragged the hose over here. I didn’t feel a thing.”

  “You’re bleeding, Aunt Claire,” Nick said, staring at her hands.

  “It’s not a big deal,” she said, curling her fingers into her palms.

  “We need to get her cleaned up, Nick. Do you know where all the first-aid stuff is?” Tucker asked.

  “Yeah, I think so.” He seemed to stand taller, and Claire silently blessed Tucker for deferring to him. All Tucker’s instincts, she was beginning to realize, demanded that he protect and defend.

  But he was remarkably sensitive to Nick, a boy whose own sense of belonging, of being needed, was heartbreakingly fragile right now.

  Nick ran ahead of them and clattered up the stairs. When she and Tucker reached the brightly lit kitchen, Tucker cupped his hands around her face.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” he murmured, raw fear in his eyes.

  “I’m fine. Really. Nick found the fire and called me in time.”

  “God,” he said, laying his forehead on hers. “I was terrified when Judy Johnson called and told me the fire trucks were here.”

  His breath feathered on her cheek, and his hands were warm against her face. Suddenly shaky with delayed reaction, she leaned against his solid strength and wrapped her arms around his waist. “I didn’t have time to be scared,” she whispered. “But I’m glad you’re here now.”

  “I’m staying the night,” he said. “In case whoever started the fire comes back.”

  Pleasure rippled through her. Almost as quickly, reason reared its head. “We can’t do that,” she whispered. “Not with Nick in the house.”

  He raised his head, his eyes darkening to indigo. “I didn’t mean I’d be spending the night in your bed,” he murmured. “Although that’s where I want to be.”

  “Me, too,” she whispered.

  Nick came running down the stairs, and Tucker stepped away from her. “I’ll take a rain check on that,” he said, his eyes full of seductive promise.

  He smoothed one finger down her throat, caught the edge of her T-shirt and gave it a playful tug. She caught her breath, and his eyes darkened even further as he let his gaze linger on her breasts.

  He’d moved away from her by the time Nick rushed into the kitchen. “I didn’t know what we’d need, so I brought everything I could find.”

  Tucker looked at the armful of bandages, ointments and bottles. “Good Lord, Kendall. You’ve got enough stuff here to patch up the whole football team.”

  He gave Nick’s shoulder a light punch. “That was thinking ahead. I guess you know your aunt pretty well. She’s going to fight us like a wildcat, probably ruin a bunch of that stuff.” He winked at Nick, and her nephew grinned back at him. “You want to hold her down, or should I?”

  “You can hold her down,” Nick said happily. “I’ll fix her hands.”

  “Yeah, give me the tough job,” Tucker said. He pulled out a chair, sat down and eased her onto his lap. When Nick turned away to set up his supplies on the kitchen counter, Tucker picked up her hand and kissed it.

  His erection pressed heavily into her backside, and she drew in a sharp breath. Watching Nick, she slid off Tucker’s lap. “I’m too heavy for you,” she said, her voice breathless.

  “Yeah, you’re an armful, all right,” he said, sliding out from beneath her and moving to stand behind her chair. “You about ready there, Nick?”

  “Yeah,” Nick answered. He turned around and bent over her hands. His touch was surprisingly gentle as he washed away the blood and applied ointment and bandages.

  “Thanks, Nick. Nice job,” she said, standing up and kissing his cheek. “With hands like those, you ought to be a doctor.”

  Nick flushed. “Yeah, right.”

  “Someone should stay down here tonight, make sure whoever did this doesn’t come back,” Tucker said.

  Before he could offer to stay, Nick nodded. “I’ll sleep in the living room.”

  She didn’t want her nephew staying down here if there was a chance the person who started the fire would be back. She opened her mouth to tell him so, then stopped.

  Nick needed to do this. She saw it in his eyes. He needed to be the one to protect her, to protect his house. “All right,” she said slowly. “But keep the phone close by. If you hear anything, you call the police.”

  “I’ll get my blankets and pillow,” Nick said, bounding up the stairs again.

  As soon as he’d disappeared, Claire leaned into Tucker. “Thanks for coming over to check on us,” she said.

  “It was my pleasure.” His eyes gleamed as he bent his head, took her mouth.

  Need swept through her, making her tremble. When he stepped back, she was shaking all over.

  “I’ll see you soon, Claire.” He smiled as he stepped out the door, stuck his head back inside. “And I will be cashing in that rain check.”

  THE NEXT MORNING, Claire stared down at the charred pile of logs so perilously close to the porch, wondering who had started the fire.

  Had it really been kids coming home from the bonfire? A chill ran down her spine.

  She desperately wanted to believe it was kids.

  She didn’t think it was.

  It was past time to talk to Chief Broderick.

  Hurrying to the phone, she confirmed he was in the office, then got in her car and drove downtown. In minutes she was standing in his office.

  “Have a seat, Ms. Kendall,” he said.

  “Please, call me Claire.”

  “Claire. Thanks for stopping by. I heard about the fire last night.”

  Claire clasped her hands together in her lap. “The firefighters think it was one of the high school kids who started it. I’m not so sure.”

  “Was it your nephew?” he asked.

  “No! I’m sure it wasn’t Nick.”

  Seth Broderick eased back in his chair. “He’s had a lot to deal with. Sometimes good kids do stupid things when they’re overwhelmed.”

  “Nick didn’t do it,” she said. “I’m sure of it.”

  “Okay. You know him better than I do. I’ll send an officer over to take a look, ask some questions.”

  “Thank you.” She pressed her fingers together more tightly. “Have you found anything else in your investigation of Janice’s death?”

  “I have, as a matter of fact.” He sat up straight in his chair, all business. “I got the phone records I requested fo
r your sister’s house. In the weeks before she died, she’d had a number of phone calls. All of them were either from her office or from friends of hers. The friends all have what appear to be solid alibis for the time she died.”

  “What about right before she left the house that night? Nick said she got a phone call.”

  Seth nodded. “It was from city hall.”

  “Who was it from?” She leaned forward.

  “That’s what’s interesting. It was from her own office.”

  “Her own office? But she was at home when she got the call.”

  “Exactly. Whoever called used the phone on her desk.”

  A cold chill rippled over Claire. “Why would someone do that?”

  “My guess is, they didn’t want anyone to know who made the call.”

  “Did you get my message about her car?”

  “Yes, we’ve already gone to Bakersfield and picked it up.” Seth twirled a pencil on his desk as he watched her. “I saw the paint in the dents you talked about, and we’re having it tested.” He paused, as if weighing how much to tell her. “The city of Monroe cars are all painted red. I’m beginning to think your nephew may be right. Maybe your sister did have some help driving into the lake.”

  “My God.” Claire leaned back in her chair, shaken, staring at the chief of police. “I didn’t really believe Nick, you know. I just wanted to reassure him.”

  “I never underestimate gut feelings. Your nephew was pretty adamant.”

  “What next?” Claire asked.

  “I’ve been talking to people over at city hall. I haven’t worked through all of them yet, but I will.”

  Claire’s chill deepened. “I was over there last week,” she whispered. “I talked to Annamae Shelton. She was going to ask around to see if anyone remembered anything unusual.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “That night, I went to the lake, to see the place where Janice went off the road. It was raining, just like it was the night Janice died. I’m not even sure why I went there.” She shivered. “A car swerved onto the shoulder of the road and almost hit me. I had to jump over the guardrail and I fell down the slope.”

  “What?” Seth bounced forward in his chair, his eyes hard and intent. “Did you report this?”

  “No. I assumed it was just an accident.”

  “And then someone started a fire in your backyard last night,” he said slowly.

  “I think they’re connected.”

  “If your house burned down, you’d have to leave Monroe, and that would be the end of the questions. It was quite a coincidence that the car ran you off the road right after you’d been talking to Annamae. I’m not much of a believer in coincidence.”

  “You think Annamae has something to do with this?” she asked, incredulous.

  “I haven’t ruled anyone out.” He smiled, his mouth a grim line. “I can’t see Annamae trying to run you down, but she’s the biggest gossip in Monroe. Everyone in city hall would have known about your questions fifteen minutes after you left.”

  “What should I do?” Claire asked.

  “Nothing. This is a police investigation now and you need to stay out of our way.” He stood up. “Your job is to keep your nephew safe. Fifteen-year-old boys are impulsive and reckless. Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

  “I’ll try,” she said, shaken.

  Seth’s expression became gentle. “I know you will.”

  “Thank you,” she said as she stood up and shook the police chief’s hand. “Thank you for taking me seriously.”

  His hand tightened on hers. “I told you things are different now in Monroe,” he said quietly. “I meant it.”

  “I can see that,” Claire said.

  Over the past weeks, she’d let down her guard. She’d allowed herself to become entangled in the fabric of Monroe. Now she felt like an outsider again.

  As she drove home, she studied everyone she saw, wondering if one of them was hiding a deadly secret. Had one of them killed her sister?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE SETTING SUN WASHED downtown Monroe in gold as Claire walked to the garden center. In spite of her fears, she was determined not to hide in her house.

  As she passed the tobacco shop, the door opened and Andrea Vernon stepped in front of her.

  “Hi, Andrea,” she said. “I haven’t seen you lately.”

  Andrea clutched a bag to her chest and looked away from Claire. “I’ve been busy at work,” she said. “I don’t get into town very often.”

  “How are you doing?” Claire asked.

  “Fine.” Andrea gave her a tight smile. “Just fine.”

  The young woman still hadn’t looked at Claire, and a sick feeling rose up inside her. “Andrea, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Why would you think anything’s wrong?” Andrea’s voice sounded brittle, as if each word would shatter if it hit the ground.

  Claire moved around Andrea and studied her face. “You’re wearing an awful lot of makeup for a trip to the tobacco store,” she said softly.

  Andrea turned her head away. “I like makeup.”

  “I used to wear a lot of makeup, too,” Claire said, laying her hand on Andrea’s arm. The other woman flinched, but Claire didn’t let go. “Is that Roger’s favorite brand of pipe tobacco?” she asked, nodding at Andrea’s bag.

  When Andrea didn’t answer, Claire moved around to face her head-on. “It’s not going to help, Andrea. I used to try and pacify him, too. I’d buy that tobacco for him, or fix his favorite dinner, or rent a movie he wanted to see. It didn’t stop him from hitting me.”

  “I didn’t say he was hitting me!”

  “You don’t have to, Andrea. I was married to him. I know what he is.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Andrea whispered. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

  “Yes, you do.” Claire fumbled in her purse, held out the card she kept there. “This is the shelter I went to. They helped me get away and reclaim my life, and they can do the same for you.”

  Andrea stared at the card, hope and fear battling in her eyes. “What would I do if I left Roger?”

  “Anything you want.” Claire tucked the card into the pocket of Andrea’s sweater. “I went to college and eventually started my own business.”

  Andrea touched her pocket, then let her hands fall to her side. “I’m not smart enough to go to college.”

  “I know Roger told you that, because it’s what he told me, too. He’s lying, Andrea. He doesn’t want you to go to college because then he’ll lose his control over you.” Anger sharpened Claire’s voice and she struggled to rein it in. The last thing Andrea Vernon needed was another angry person telling her what to do.

  Claire saw the indecision and fear in Andrea’s eyes and touched her arm again. “I’ll drive you to the shelter, Andrea. Call me anytime and I’ll pick you up.”

  “I can’t do that,” she whispered, touching her face. “Roger would be even more angry if you helped me.”

  “Then call Seth Broderick. He’ll take you to the shelter.”

  “The police?”

  “Yes, the police. What Roger is doing is a crime.”

  Andrea shoved her hand into her pocket. “I’ll think about it.”

  Claire let her hand drop away from the other woman. “It’s not going to get any better,” she said, her voice gentle. “You know that.”

  “I said I’d think about it.” She raised her voice and shoved past Claire. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  Claire watched as Andrea hurried to her car. Had she pushed Andrea too hard? Had she only alienated the young woman?

  On the other side of the street, Derek Joiner and two women stood on the steps of City Hall, watching. When they caught her eye, they waved and hurried away. One of the women was Annamae Shelton.

  Employees leaving for the day, she thought. Please don’t let Annamae gossip about this, Claire prayed. Everyone in town knew her marriage to Roger had ended badly. So far, the people she’d ta
lked to had been careful not to mention it, but the small-town grapevine would be quick to let Roger know his wife had been talking to his ex-wife.

  She’d done the right thing, she told herself. She couldn’t ignore the abuse. At least Andrea had the card. Maybe she’d gather the courage and strength to use it.

  THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, Claire sat back on her heels and used the back of her hand to push her hair out of her eyes. The mums she’d bought the evening before at the garden center were almost all planted. But she couldn’t enjoy the pungent scent of the flowers or the pleasure of working in the dirt.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about Andrea, couldn’t stop worrying about her. And she couldn’t stop her growing anger at Roger from spilling over, painting everything in her life with its toxic brush.

  No more. Stripping off her gardening gloves, Claire stood up and strode into the house. Picking up the phone, she dialed her attorney’s office.

  “This is Claire Kendall,” she said when the receptionist answered the phone. “Is Paul available?”

  “I’ll check, Ms. Kendall.”

  The music that played while she waited was supposed to be calming. Instead, it just made her tap her foot with impatience. Finally her attorney picked up the phone. “Hello, Claire. What can I do for you?”

  “Hi, Paul. You can tell me what’s going on with Roger Vernon and the man he says is my nephew’s father.”

  “Hold on while I get the file.”

  When he came back on the line, her attorney said, “You haven’t heard anything more from Vernon?”

  “I told him to contact you. I don’t want to deal with him.”

  “I sent him a letter right after I talked to you, asked him for the information he had, as well as the name of your nephew’s father. I haven’t heard back from him.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “Most of the time I’d say no. Delay is one of the favorite tactics of the legal profession.” Claire could hear the grin in his voice. “But since he was the one who came to you, it’s not what I would expect.”