by Dee Holmes
Hunt didn’t think about what he was doing, he simply acted. She was clutching him as if he were some barrier against the lonely pain of the night. A pain he understood all too well. He couldn’t leave her to deal with it alone.
He eased her back down, but she grabbed at him again.
“Easy, easy…I’m not leaving you….” He pulled the covers up and tucked them securely around her. Then he pulled up the cushioned side chair and settled into it, stretching his legs out. A tiny voice inside him reminded him that this kind of growing attachment to her was exactly what he’d tried to avoid. But no way could he have left her alone to cry.
She burrowed into the covers. “Thank…you for…staying,” she murmured, her voice drifting off.
Hunt didn’t move from the chair, and within seconds she had fallen into a sound sleep.
Hunt didn’t. He lay awake, watching Molly and watching dawn break on the horizon.
Here he was with Molly—where he didn’t want to be—and yet…The hell of it was that he couldn’t remember ever feeling this content and at peace with himself.
CHAPTER FIVE
“DAD, THANKS FOR offering, but there’s nothing you can do here,” Molly said to Leo McCulloch.
It was late the following morning and Molly had called her parents to tell them what had happened.
Her parents were involved in foster care with some handicapped children, and Molly knew that for them to come to Woodbriar to be with her would be a strain. It wasn’t as if Vern had been their son. Their recent trip to Alaska had been their first vacation in five years, and it would be a hardship for the kids if they were to suddenly leave.
“Your mother and I don’t think you should go through this alone,” her father was saying.
“I’m not really alone. My best friend, Denise, is here, and her brother has been just great.”
“What about funeral arrangements?”
“I made them this morning. The Fernwood Funeral Home is handling things.”
“You sound very together, honey. I hope you’re not in shock.”
“I think I’m numb. But doing these things has helped me not to focus so closely on losing Vern.”
“Looking back now, we should have taken Vern….”
“Please don’t. You and Mom did what you thought was best. Vern did, too. He knew you would be a wonderful family for me, and you were.”
Her father sniffled, then coughed to cover his breaking emotions. Her mother took the line. “I really think we should come and be with you, Molly.”
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll call you right after the funeral so you’ll know I’m all right.”
“But, darling…”
“I’ll be in touch,” she said firmly. “I love you both.”
After she hung up, she looked over her notes from her talk with the funeral director. He’d been properly sympathetic and not pushy when she said she wanted a simple casket and a graveside service at the cemetery. Since she had no idea who her brother’s friends were, she notified the Fernwood Gazette with a sketchy obituary. The obits editor assured her it would be printed the following day so that Vern’s friends and acquaintances would know of his passing.
The services were set for Friday—three days from now, which gave Molly time to drive to Fernwood to attempt to locate Vern’s ex-wife and his son. She’d checked his wallet and found only a small amount of cash, a driver’s license and a four-leaf clover. Immediately her eyes misted. She had one that Vern had found for her; she’d pressed it in an old volume of Uncle Wiggly that she’d loved as a child. Finding this one gave her a good feeling about those nineteen years of separation. Vern had kept a four-leaf clover as a reminder of her, of the few good times when they had searched for clovers in a park near their parents’ home. She sighed and put the lucky clover into an envelope, then placed it in her purse.
There was nothing else in his wallet. No credit cards or pictures or business cards. It was as if he didn’t want anyone to know anything about him. It struck her as odd, given that his work involved contact with clients, but since she was dealing with a long gap in their relationship, she knew nothing of her brother’s personal habits. With her phone calls completed, there remained only the task of packing up Vein’s things.
That would be difficult. Her adult memories of him were limited to yesterday. There were his clothes and toiletry items and a soft leather attache case, which no doubt held the prospectuses of the companies he’d said he was researching for his clients.
Vern had told her he was an investment analyst; that sounded interesting and important, and Molly had wanted to hear more than the vague explanations her brother had tossed out before changing the subject.
She fervently wished that Hunt was here, and hoped she hadn’t scared him away forever. She’d awakened at eight-thirty feeling surprisingly rested, considering she’d had so little sleep. When she’d smelled coffee and then heard footsteps approaching her bedroom, she’d assumed they were Hunt’s. Momentary disappointment gripped her when Denise appeared in her doorway, but she was glad for her friend’s support, and Hunt had already done more than she had any right to expect.
Molly was still evaluating the twists and turns of circumstances since her brother’s unexpected death. Hunt’s presence and support had helped her immeasurably. Her only regret now was that she’d probably embarrassed him into never wanting to be alone with her again. No doubt he feared she’d try to cling to him this morning and expect him to become her major source of emotional support
Now she took a deep breath and vowed she would act like a grown-up and not a blubbering basket case. Poor Hunt. Probably right this minute he was wondering how to avoid her.
Dressed in dark blue cotton slacks and a lightweight ecru sweater with tiny appliquéd pink roses at the neckline, Molly lifted her mug of coffee and sipped the hot liquid. The doorbell rang, but when Molly started for it, Denise appeared and waved her away.
Muted conversation was followed by the sound of the door closing. Denise reappeared, a casserole in her hands, the warm smell of chicken and mushrooms drifting into the room. “I’m running out of space in the refrigerator.”
“The neighbors have been so thoughtful,” Molly commented.
“Yes, they have. That was Mrs. Oxwill. She said her brother-in-law once worked for a funeral home and if you needed any advice…Well, you know how she is. She has a relative for every emergency.”
Molly nodded. “She means well.”
Denise took the dish to the kitchen and then returned with her own coffee. She peered at Molly with a mother-hen expression. “I wish you’d come out to the kitchen and let me fix you something to eat. Someone sent a yummy apple coffee cake.”
“I’m fine, Denise.” She was sure the huge, raw lump in her chest would never allow food to pass.
“Except for your parents, I could have done all that calling for you. That was one of the reasons Hunt wanted me to come over.”
“And I appreciate your offering, but I had to do it myself. I knew so little about Vern that it seems the least I could do was make the final arrangements.” Molly took one last sip of her coffee and then put the mug aside.
Denise said, “I made your bed and straightened up the kitchen. Your brother’s things…”
“Yes, I have to take care of them.”
“Hunt said he’d do it.”
“He did?” Molly was surprised. Not at the offer but that Hunt would even want to come near her after what had happened. He’d made it clear he had no personal interest in her; surely he had no obligation beyond what he’d already done.
“Didn’t he tell you that?” Denise asked
“Well, no…Or maybe he did and I don’t remember.”
Denise nodded in understanding. “That’s not surprising. You’ve been through a lot in the past twelve hours.”
“Is that all it is? My God, it feels like fifty.”
“You poor thing,” Denise said sympathetically.
“
You know, there’s a part of me that wants to clutch every item that belonged to Vern and another part that wants to bury my head and pretend none of this ever happened.” Molly took a tissue from her slacks pocket and dabbed her eyes. “Hunt has been wonderful. Staying at the hospital with me, and then when I had that terrible dream…” She remembered the aftermath all too vividly. “I think I embarrassed him.”
“Embarrassed Hunt? Why would you think that?”
“He slept in a chair right beside the bed. He must have been uncomfortable, and I’m sure it was the last thing he wanted to do.”
Denise, who’d just raised her mug, steadied the tipping container. “He slept in the bedroom with you?”
“I had this awful dream about when Vern and I were separated.” She gave Denise a capsule version of what she’d told Hunt. “I was adopted and he wasn’t.”
Denise immediately put her arm around Molly. “Good heavens, no wonder you’re feeling such a huge void. Not seeing him for nineteen years and then this…”
Molly nodded. “Anyway, I guess I must have cried out in my sleep. I don’t remember much except that Hunt came in. I didn’t want to let go of him. His being there was like some safety barrier.”
Denise was staring, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape. “I’m stunned. Since Kristin died, Hunt hasn’t had any involvement with a woman. Well, not one that wasn’t, uh, strictly physical.”
Molly grinned. “Sex but no heart.”
Denise’s eyes widened. “Why, yes. What a precise way to put it.”
“I’m not sure his heart was in it last night beyond feeling pity for me.” For an instant, she realized she didn’t want pity, she wanted something more, something she couldn’t quite define.
“Did he say anything this morning?”
She shook her head.
“Maybe you dreamed it, Molly.”
“No, he was comforting and it meant a lot to me. A hundred times more than it meant to him.”
Denise tapped her forefinger against her mouth. In a reflective tone, she said, “Hmm. This is very interesting.”
“That’s the kind of comment that could mean anything.”
“Yes, it could, couldn’t it? It could indeed.” LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Hunt returned.
Denise sized him up, her eyes twinkling mischievously. She got a raised eyebrow in response. Molly observed this, and a pang of longing gripped her. They were obviously as close as siblings should be; they had the kind of relationship she’d never had with her brother, and now never would.
Denise extracted a promise from Molly that she would call if she needed anything. Once the front door closed and she and Hunt were alone, Molly felt suddenly tense and too warm. Somehow the closeness that had been created earlier now felt awkward.
The weather had turned rainy after a cloudy morning and the apartment took on an intimacy she’d never felt before. Hunt wore tan slacks and a rainspattered yellow pullover that emphasized his muscular, tanned arms; the same arms that had gently held her at the hospital.
Molly clasped her hands and cleared her throat, determined not to dwell on wanting something more than Hunt could offer.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” she said, her voice hushed.
“I wanted to see how you were doing, and report that my AC is purring like a tomcat with a basket full of mice.”
Molly smiled. “Then Gary kept his word.”
“Of course with the rain, I don’t need it, but that’s the way these things go, don’t they? I’ll return your fan after the rain stops.”
“No rush.”
He stood a few feet from her; the room was large and airy, yet Molly felt his dominance. Silence stretched between them. From outside came the faroff blare of a car stereo and the scent of cooking apples. Molly struggled with a caky taste in her mouth that made her wish she had a glass of water. She swallowed and licked her lips, daring to meet Hunt’s gaze. When she did, he showed no response that could be construed in any way other than patient sympathy.
Finally Molly said, “Denise said you would help me with Vern’s things. Is your offer still good?”
“I always make good on my offers and my promises.”
She felt lost in the intoxicating blue of his eyes. “I’ve packed up most everything, but one of his bags
is locked. It’s a soft leather attaché case that I think is connected to his business. I know it’s silly, because obviously I have to open it…. It just feels as if I’m invading his privacy. I mean, a lock usually means keep out.”
Hunt nodded. “I know. When I was taking care of Kristin’s things, I came across a small cedar chest that was locked. I knew it contained mementos that were special to her. Going through them felt like I was intruding.”
“Yes, that’s what I mean,” she said, relieved she wasn’t overreacting.
He placed a hand on her back and urged her forward. “Then again, Vern’s attaché case might be locked because he didn’t want to chance losing his papers if it opened accidentally. I lock my briefcase because it’s always so stuffed I’m afraid the latches won’t hold.”
Molly smiled. Hunt managed to make sense out of her chaotic reactions, and for that she was grateful. “You’re probably right.”
As they passed her bedroom, Molly stopped. “I have to say this, Hunt. I told myself I shouldn’t even bring it up, that I should just forget it, but I can’t”
Hunt gave her a puzzled look, and she took a deep breath for courage.
“I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done…staying with me last night.”
He looked decidedly uncomfortable. After a pause that, to Molly, felt like forever, he quickly said, “You’re welcome. Now let’s get this done.”
He tugged her past her bedroom and toward the guest room.
Molly had placed Vern’s repacked suitcase by the door. Braided scatter rugs created a colorful accent to the dark wooden floor and the double bed with a white embroidered spread. A vase of summer flowers sat on a pine dresser. The double set of crank-out windows looked out on the street; they were open a few inches, and a cool, damp breeze eased into the room, chasing through a lingering scent of aftershave.
The attaché case lay exactly where Vern had left it: flat on the floor beside a tan wicker chair with green ivy print cushions.
“I haven’t moved it except to note that it was locked.”
“Let’s have a look.”
Molly stood in the doorway, watching as Hunt lifted the case and placed it on the bed.
Hunt kept his back to her, his body a shield between her and the briefcase. Probably he was overreacting or overplaying this, but he wanted an opportunity to examine the contents. His hopes ran high. He might find the names of Wallace’s cronies, private correspondence, bugging devices or any number of clues to Wallace’s contacts, stuff he would always keep with him because of the damage it could do in the wrong hands.
Yet Hunt acknowledged he was being cautious for another reason. One mob member from a few years
back kept photos—souvenirs, he’d called them—of his bloodied victims. After his arrest, a gruesome photo album was found. Hunt didn’t know enough about Wallace to know what his personal habits were, and since Molly had left the briefcase opening to him, he wasn’t taking any chances.
He glanced over his shoulder to where she waited, her hands locked tightly together in front of her. The urge to sweep her up and carry her away to a place where she’d never be hurt again stunned him with its power. Hunt shook off the feeling as an overreaction.
That’s the problem here, he reminded himself grimly. You know and she doesn’t. But the deeper reasoning was even more damning—the longer he stalled, the longer she would look at him with that sweetness that had found a small opening in his heart.
Get the attaché case opened, get the truth out and get this stalling over with.
“Hunt? If you don’t want to do this…”
“No. It’s okay. Tell you what. While I’m fiddling with this
locking mechanism, would you get me a beer?”
“Sure. In fact, I also have a lot of food, thanks to the thoughtfulness of neighbors. Would you like me to fix you something?”
Food would take her more time. “Yeah, that would be great.”
“I’ll be right back.”
She walked away, and Hunt’s eagerness to get into the attaché case was overwhelming. Just curiosity, he reminded himself sternly. Once a cop, always a cop. Of course. His feelings had nothing to do with Molly.
The closure was a combination of numbers set in four tumblers. He wasted no time in using his pocketknife to deftly slit the leather behind the lock mechanism. He released the side buckles and lifted the lid. Three neatly folded T-shirts greeted him, but when he pulled them away…
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he whispered, genuinely stunned despite his suspicions.
Two-inch packages of bills held by rubber bands neatly lined the bottom. He guessed about ten grand. There, in the center, cushioned by the cash and another undershirt, was a gun. Black metal with a long modified barrel, a silencer and a clip of bullets. Hunt didn’t touch it, although he’d bet there were no prints. The dull sheen and the faint scent of oil made it evident Wallace took good care of the weapon.
Then he spotted a piece of folded paper peeking out from beneath one of the money wraps. Using his pocketknife, Hunt worked the paper free, then lifted it. Again using the knife tip, so as not to add his own fingerprints, he got the folds open.
Looking at the cryptic scrawl, he scowled.
On it was written “827 BOS.”
Just what he wanted, he thought in disgust A dead hit man who wrote himself notes in code.
He stared, trying to decipher a message. BOS was probably short for Boston, but 827 could mean anything from a flight number to part of a phone number, but why only three digits?
“Here’s your beer.”
Hunt whirled around. Lost in his thoughts he hadn’t heard her footsteps. “Dammit, Molly…”
She held the bottle, her eyes wide as she tried to peer around him. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”