by Debra Dixon
As the door shut, he gave Ms. Poag his full attention. “What can we do for you, ma’am?”
“I’m not here for me.” She opened her suitcase-size purse and pulled out a fresh, folded newspaper clipping. “But since you asked, you can stop the witch-hunt tactics.”
“Excuse me?” Beau had no idea to what the woman was referring. His newspaper was still on his car seat, forgotten in his haste to work the new angle on Maggie’s situation. So he leaned forward to take the clipping. She didn’t wait for him to read it.
“I don’t suppose you cared how this article was going to affect Maggie St. John, did you?”
“This is about Maggie?” His eyes locked on the inflammatory headline. Lord, it must have been a slow news day. The reporter had contacted him yesterday in one of the world’s shortest phone interviews.
“Oh!” Her huff leaked disapproval, if not outright disbelief. “As if you don’t know exactly what that article says. Are you trying to drive her over the edge?”
Beau’s head whipped up. “Are you saying that she’s close to snapping? Burned-out like Bennett claims?”
“N-no.” She backpedaled quickly, trying to cover, but the stutter blew her credibility. “What I’m saying is that you are purposely trying to upset her. She didn’t have anything to do with that closet fire, and you know it. If you don’t, you should hand in that badge and let them get someone with a brain in here.”
While she ranted, he scanned the article. When they were both finished, he set the clipping down on his desk. “Who are you? To Maggie, I mean.”
“The closest thing she’s got to a family. I’ve known her since she was a kid. So I thought it was time I said something before you destroy her with your little game. I don’t like what this is doing to her.”
Beau clearly heard the implied, What you are doing to her.
Instead of taking offense, Beau straightened and reassessed Ms. Poag in light of the gold mine she had just dropped in his lap. She could insinuate anything she wanted as long as she talked. Finally he had someone who’d known Maggie since well before she entered nursing school. He had history. He was going to work Carolyn for everything he could get. So he chose his words carefully, keeping his tone level.
“I don’t like this article either, but I don’t print the news, Ms. Poag. What I told the reporter was standard procedure in this department. We never confirm or deny suspect status until an arrest has been made.” He leaned back in his chair and held up a hand to stall her retort. “And before you chop my head off and serve it up on a platter, you should consider that if I’d wanted to hurt Maggie, I could have told them a lot more than this.”
“Like what? About the lie detector test? I’m surprised you didn’t.”
“No.” Beau played his trump card. “I could have told them about the foster homes. About the other fire. You know how the press loves to dig up dirt from the past.”
“She told you about Sarah’s fire?” Her eyes were wide; her expression stunned.
Bingo. He’d zeroed in and nailed the target. Yet he didn’t betray a flicker of his elation. Finessing information required a steady delivery.
“She’s only told me bits and pieces so far,” he said.
Judging from Carolyn Poag’s reaction, the generic statement was well chosen. She seemed to deflate, as if accepting the unacceptable and trying to rearrange the universe as she knew it into a new pattern. So Beau ventured further out on the limb. “Her guilt’s the problem, I think.”
She rolled her eyes in disgust. “Imagine that. The first foster home that would keep her practically burnt down, Mr. Grayson. With Sarah Alastair, whom Maggie adored like a big sister, still in it. It doesn’t matter that the fire was accidental. Maggie got out alive. And Sarah didn’t. Who can blame her if the emotional backwash swamps her sometimes? That doesn’t mean she started that damn hospital fire.”
“I think it’s more complicated than that.”
“I think—” She broke off as the intercom flared to life.
Russell was five minutes early. “You got a visitor, Beau.”
Beau glanced out at the bull pen. Russell’s interruption wasn’t early; this wasn’t a ploy to get rid of the Poag woman. Maggie had finally arrived. Her arms were crossed tightly against her midriff. Her scrubs were a cheerful robin’s-egg-blue, but there was no smile for Russell. Or for him. Distance couldn’t blunt the waves of anger rolling off Maggie.
“She’s going to kill me,” Carolyn Poag whispered as she followed his gaze.
“No. I believe she’s here to kill me, but you can watch.” He pressed the button. “Send her in, Russell. She knows Ms. Poag.”
Beau stood up, bracing himself—feet slightly apart, hands on his hips. The way Maggie approached his office reminded him of a fighter pilot coming in low and hard. When she entered, she didn’t bother to close the door behind her. Beau thought she probably hadn’t absorbed her friend’s presence yet because her gaze never strayed from his as she delivered her payload. Straight to his gut.
“You low-life bastard. You got me fired. I hope you’re happy.”
“Oh, my God!” Carolyn said. “They fired you because of the article?”
As the voice registered in Maggie’s brain, she turned. Her mouth fell open. “Carolyn?”
“Don’t be mad. I had to come.” Carolyn sounded like a mother caught meddling. “Somebody had to tell them you couldn’t have done this. I can’t believe they fired you because of the article. I just can’t believe that. I’m so sorry, honey. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. It wasn’t the article.” She shifted her gaze to Beau. “They fired me because of last night. The old barn next door to my house had the bad manners to burn down.”
“What?” Carolyn gasped. “You didn’t call me. You didn’t say anything. Are you okay?”
“Carolyn, I’m fine.” Maggie dragged her attention back to the other woman. The rest of her comments came out in short machine-gunlike bursts as if she could only trust herself with a few words at a time. “I love you. Go away. I’ll tell you everything later, but right now, Mr. Grayson and I have to talk. Alone.”
“Are you really okay?” Carolyn asked again, and this time her tone alerted Beau to the undercurrent of understanding between the women. Carolyn was obviously aware of Maggie’s panic attacks and just as aware of what was causing them.
“I really am fine,” Maggie assured her. “Just go open the shop. I can handle this.”
Carolyn adjusted her grip on the huge handbag, shot him a warning look corrosive enough to peel paint off a Chevy, and gave Maggie a brief hug of support. Without a word, Maggie waited for her to clear the threshold and then slammed the door. The old Venetian blind cord on the windowpane of the door gave out, and the blind rattled down to cover the glass.
Funny, Beau thought, he knew just how that cord felt. Every time he was alone with Maggie, he felt stretched tight, ready to snap. One of these days he would, and it wouldn’t matter what baggage they had between them.
“Why don’t you flip the rest of the blinds while you’re at it, Maggie?”
Her chest rose and fell deeply, and her voice shook. “You smug son of a bitch.”
Beau didn’t flinch. He’d been called worse.
“So far, Maggie, we’ve confirmed that I don’t know who my daddy is and that my mama was hell on wheels.” He loosened his tie and settled his hands back on his hips. “Both those statements are fairly accurate by the way. Now, do you want to get to the point or do you just want to keep maligning my family tree? If that’s the case, I’ve got a funny uncle you could really do a number on. Man wore his pants backward before it was fashionable.”
Pain and betrayal edged out the hot anger in her eyes. That was a good sign. A man couldn’t reason with anger; anger wanted only to lash out. Pain, on the other hand, wanted to know why. Pain would listen.
“Your choice, Maggie May. Are we going to do this the hard way?”
“Don’t we always?” S
he tossed her purse in one of the chairs and flipped the vertical blinds. When she swung around, she asked the question she’d come to ask. “Why did you call Bennett? I asked you what was going to happen, and you said, ‘Nothing.’ Right there in my kitchen. I trusted you. Why’d you lie, Beau?”
NINE
Maggie realized losing her job had made her angry, but there would be other jobs, other hospitals. What Beau had done to her hurt a lot more. He lied. And that cut her pride, because she’d believed him. Everything about Beau had promised he was a man of his word. He wore integrity like a second skin. When he said nothing would happen because of the barn fire, she had trusted him.
What a fool. The advertising had suckered her in again. Nothing was ever as good as the advertising. How many times did she have to learn that lesson?
Fool, fool, fool. Because she was hoping, even now, that Beau had an explanation. He had been quiet so long, she thought he might be considering whether or not to throw her out of his office. The easiest way to avoid questions you didn’t want to answer was to get rid of the person doing the asking. That particular philosophy had worked well for Bennett so far. Maybe Beau had taken notes from the doctor.
The silence was uncomfortable and orchestrated. He studied her the way once-a-year museum goers studied abstract art—not really understanding it but fascinated by the complexity. Maggie was about to break the unbearable stillness when he finally answered her question.
“I didn’t lie to you, Maggie, and I didn’t call Bennett. He called me.”
“Oh, right! He just called you up out of the blue and said, ‘Hi, how ya doin’ and has Maggie burned down anything else this week?’ And you felt compelled to share.”
“No,” Beau ground out. “This conversation’s going to take a long time with you taking potshots at everything I say. I don’t want to do this the hard way, but I guess we’re going to.”
He came around the desk, kicked a chair to an angle and stared at her until she got the message. When she sat down, his grim expression eased the tiniest bit, and he leaned back against the desk, positioning himself squarely in front of her.
“Pay attention, Maggie. I’m only going to say this once. Bennett called me before eight o’clock. I just happened to be here early because by the time I got home there wasn’t much sleep left in the night …”
He paused for an apology, insinuating she should feel guilty. She did feel guilty, but she’d be damned if she’d apologize for asking him to do his job. So she forced herself to return his expectant gaze and said nothing.
“Okay,” he continued. “At least you’re listening. When Bennett called, he asked only one question. If I hadn’t answered it for him, he would have found someone else. He wanted to know if the barn beside your house had burned last night.”
“What?” She was out of the chair instantly. “And you didn’t go arrest him? What more proof do you need that he set me up?”
He laughed at her suggestion. “Jesus, Maggie, I have less evidence to arrest Bennett than I have to arrest you.”
“Think about it! Bennett just happens to call you about the barn fire this morning. How’d he know about it? It happened too late to make the paper, probably wouldn’t have anyway. There were no news cameras there. It was just an old barn, for crying out loud.”
As she talked the logic seemed so inescapable; she couldn’t believe that she had to explain it to him. She moved closer so she could see his eyes, see if he was getting the point she was trying to make. “So how did he find out about the barn unless you told him or I told him? Huh? Either the person he hired to burn the barn told him or he set the fire himself. How else could he know?”
His expression didn’t change. She hadn’t convinced him of a thing. Maggie felt her excitement drain away, felt the awful certainty that nothing she could say or do would stop the tornado of damning coincidence that swirled around her. Beau was about to punch holes in her neat conclusions, and once he did, she’d be the prime suspect again—a disgruntled nurse out for revenge.
For the first time, Maggie began to be afraid of more than the memories. She began to fear the future, began to wonder how much evidence was enough. How much coincidence was too much? She began to wonder if she knew any good lawyers, and if she could afford them without a job.
“I’m sorry, Maggie,” Beau said softly. “I know you want this fire to be Bennett’s fault, but I can’t decide guilt based on one phone call. He could have found out a hundred ways.”
“How?” she shot back. “Give me a ‘how’ that makes more sense than my version.”
“Simple. One of the firefighters from last night could have seen the article in the newspaper this morning and called his favorite board member—Bennett.”
“How could they know Bennett?” she objected.
“Volunteer fire crews are a mixed bag of society, Maggie. Politicians, business owners, plant workers, accountants, the butcher, you name it. One of them could have been Bennett’s golf buddy for all we know.”
“No, I don’t think—”
“Shh. Don’t think. It’s my turn now. You asked.” Beau ticked off the other possibilities. “One of your neighbors could have read the newspaper, driven by, put two and two together, and called Bennett. Your last name’s on the mailbox. Or the man who owned the barn could have called Bennett. People know your doc’s on the Cloister board. He’s in the society and charity news all the time. Most people call the board member whose name they can remember. Anyone could have called him.”
She reached for the front of his shirt in a reflexive gesture. She curled her fingers in the material, giving a little tug in frustration. “No. It wasn’t anyone. It was someone. You should have gotten the name. I can’t believe you didn’t ask for a name.”
“Maggie, a rookie knows enough to ask that question. I asked. I asked again. Bennett refused to budge from the story that the call came from a concerned citizen at the crack of dawn this morning.”
“Where does that leave me?”
“Where do you want to be left?”
“Alone.”
“No, you don’t,” he snapped as he grabbed her wrists and pulled her hands away from his shirt. “You’ve been left alone all your life.”
She tried to drag her hands away from him, but Beau tightened his hold and wouldn’t let go. He held her hands between his, his grip like steel. She wasn’t getting away from him, not until he made his point.
“If you had really wanted out of this—to be left alone—you could have explained about the panic attacks and why you failed one of the polygraphs. While you were at it, you could have mentioned Sarah Alastair. You were there, weren’t you? The night Sarah died? That is the reason you failed the polygraph, isn’t it?”
Beau uttered a curse when she winced. He had deliberately exposed a nerve, but he hadn’t expected to cut so deeply. She tried to jerk angrily away from him again, but he held on. If she knocked over the chair—if anything went crashing to the floor—Russell and Jim would use the noise as an excuse to come running. The door wasn’t locked. They were probably already eyeing the blinds, and speculating.
She didn’t need witnesses for this. He didn’t need witnesses for this. Manhandling suspects was frowned upon.
“Maggie, don’t,” he whispered. Some of the tension went out of her, but she wouldn’t look at him. “We don’t need a scene or my men bursting in here.”
Her brow furrowed. Maybe she was trying to collect herself, to weigh her words before she spoke. Beau put her hands on his chest, holding them there until she stopped pulling away.
There were no tears slipping from the edges of her lids. He doubted Maggie cried easily. Regardless, he brushed his thumb across her cheek and let his fingers slide into the short mop of hair to cradle the side of her head. “I’m sorry, Maggie. I didn’t mean to open up an old wound. Not like that.”
Maggie stared at her fingers splayed out on Beau’s chest. She realized it was possible to hate someone and need their stre
ngth all at the same time.
She was so cold on the inside. Fear did that to her. It froze her and made her heartbeat thunder in her ears. None of this would be happening to her if Beau had just left everything alone. Left her alone. Believed her.
But he hadn’t.
Maggie hated Beau because he knew too much. She hated herself because she didn’t know enough, and she never got any closer to the truth. The flashbacks were only fragments of time with no continuity. They were slices of an invisible whole, a worthless kaleidoscope of that day.
Eventually she looked up; she had to. She found the same old Beau—eyes that got her right in her flimsy knees, a haircut that was sliding past “regulation cop” into “bad boy” territory. He’d missed several spots on his jaw with his razor. He was probably too rushed this morning to do a decent job of shaving.
But no, he hadn’t been rushed. He got to the office early. So why not take the time to do the job right? Beau Grayson was a man who tended to the details.
Why would you rush to get to the office, Beau? she wondered suddenly, the idea capturing her attention. Why be careless today? If you didn’t sleep, you had plenty of time to shower and shave.
“You okay?” he asked, breaking into her thoughts. That whisper of his was as raspy as the morning after and sent a twinge of quicksilver low in her belly. His big hands shifted and began to work magic on her back—an apology that kneaded her muscles and warmed her soul.
Maggie didn’t answer right away. Something important was trying to make its way through the disorganized labyrinth that pretended to be her brain. She didn’t have time to listen to her body. Why were you so hot to get to the office, Beau? The question hammered at her, demanding an answer.
While she puzzled it, her brain zigged and zagged, filtering the pieces. An easy explanation was that the barn fire made him want to dig around in her past. That he was rushing to get a head start on the investigation. But there was more to it. If she could just grab on to the thoughts as they zoomed past.