She stared at the sofa where he’d concealed the gun. “You brought that on the plane?”
“It was in my luggage.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“Not if I declared the gun and my luggage was locked.” No need to tell her he hadn’t declared it. He had feared drawing attention that would cause the ticket clerk to remember them if questioned.
She crossed the room and placed her hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to sleep on the sofa.”
He issued up a silent prayer for strength and removed her hand. If he made love to her now, sending her away to safety later would be too hard. “We can’t let anything distract us. If we lower our guard for one minute, we might give the killer the opportunity he needs.”
Besides, if he yielded to his yearning, he would never get her out of his mind—and a killer might know his thoughts. The more he could focus on something besides Tyler, the better.
Hurt joined bewilderment in her eyes. “I thought you agreed I was safe, away from your mountain.”
He hardened his heart against her. “Assumptions, like desire, could get you killed.”
JARED AWOKE WITH a soreness in his neck and a disposition to match. Sleep had been almost impossible with temptation only a few feet away. He’d spent restless hours during the night, watching the gentle rise and fall of her breasts, the seductive curve of her hip beneath the covers, the flutter of thick eyelashes against her rosy cheeks as she dreamed. Hell, even his murderous nightmares would have been less torturous than battling his longing for her.
With relief that the agonizing night had finally ended, he tossed back the blanket, gathered fresh clothes from his suitcase, and went into the bathroom to shower.
Twenty minutes later, dressed and shaved, he entered the bedroom to find Tyler sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed in front of a huge breakfast tray. She had donned a crimson velour robe and brushed her hair, which lay like an ebony cloud on her shoulders.
She poured aromatic coffee from a silver pot and handed him a cup. “There’s orange juice, too, cranberry muffins, and this morning’s Boston Globe. ”
“Anything in it about us?” He carried his coffee to the sofa.
“Nothing. Guess we’re small potatoes in the big scheme of things.” She grinned, broke off a piece of muffin, and popped it into her mouth. “Want some?”
He was starving, but not for food. He diverted his eyes to the morning’s headlines. “We’ll head for Roseland Nursing Home right after breakfast.”
She shook her head. “I called while you were in the shower. Visiting hours don’t begin until afternoon. What do you suggest we do in the meantime?”
He groaned inwardly, knowing all too well how he would like to spend the morning. He surveyed the rumpled covers of the wide bed, but he clamped a lid on his longing and steered his thoughts to the killer. “We can investigate the allegations that Pete Stanwick killed his wife.”
She paused with a piece of muffin halfway to her lips. “Do you think he did?”
He shrugged. “He may have had reason to kill his wife, but Veronica Molinsky and Evelyn Granger? According to my dreams, they were all killed by the same man, and Stanwick doesn’t appear to have a motive.”
She dusted crumbs from her hands and climbed off the bed. “Maybe the local police can tell us something.”
“Yeah—” he couldn’t keep the sarcasm from his tone “—maybe the local police can lock us up for extradition to Florida.”
Undeterred, Tyler approached, leaned forward and planted a feathery kiss on his forehead. “Then it’s a good thing you brought along your researcher. A town this size has to have a local paper and a library.”
He used every ounce of willpower to restrain himself, but if his lack of response bothered her, she didn’t show it. After gathering her clothes, she disappeared into the bathroom, leaving him alone to wrestle with his conscience and his heart.
DUST MOTES DANCED in the sunlight streaming through the Palladian windows of the library reference room. Tyler flipped through bound back issues of the Village Crier, searching for articles on Mary Stanwick’s murder. Across the room, Jared sat at a microfiche viewer, reading old stories of Ozzie Anderson’s crimes.
At the turn of a page, a headline jumped out at her: Detective Resigns in Wake of Wife’s Murder. The grainy photograph was indecipherable, especially with Stanwick’s uniform cap pulled low over his eyes. Reading quickly, she scribbled additions to her notes.
An hour later, stiff-necked, with her nostrils itching from dust, Tyler closed the volume and returned it to its cubbyhole in the periodicals section. At the same time, Jared completed his notes from the microfiche and shoved himself to his feet. The legs of his chair screeched in the unnatural silence.
“Shh,” the librarian hissed. She was a little prune of a woman with white hair, safe behind the fortress of the massive oak circulation desk.
Jared threw an apologetic smile at the tiny tyrant, took Tyler’s elbow, and led her quickly out into the cool spring air, heavy with the fragrance of lilacs.
“Do they teach that in library school?” He steered her toward a bench in the town square beneath the statue of a local patriot in the Revolutionary War.
“How to take notes?” she asked.
“Uh-uh. That withering stare and shushing noise that turns strong men’s blood to ice water and their knees to mush.”
She smiled, glad to see his sense of humor had returned. His uncharacteristic surliness at breakfast had bewildered her, until she’d realized he probably hadn’t slept well on the sofa. Now, however, an engaging smile lifted a corner of his mouth and his eyes twinkled.
“You must have found something useful,” she suggested.
He expelled an enormous sigh and extracted his notebook from his pocket. “Nothing that points to our killer. There’s a touching story from four years ago about Ozzie Anderson’s son’s frantic last-ditch efforts to save his father from execution. Arnie was only six years old when his father was arrested, and he spent most of his adult years trying to free his old man.”
“Does that make Arnie a suspect?”
“Maybe. The papers listed his address, so we’ll check him out before we visit Witek. What did you find?”
She unfolded her notes. “Pretty much what Stanwick’s son told us. Circumstantial evidence points to Pete in Mary’s death—a history of quarrels, a weapon similar to Pete’s, Pete’s lack of an alibi at the time of the killing. But the district attorney refused to press charges, claiming they wouldn’t stick in court.”
“Was Pete fired from the department?”
She could almost see the wheels turning behind his intense hazel eyes. “Not exactly. ‘Encouraged to resign’ is the phrase the paper used.”
Jared stretched and rubbed the back of his neck. “Which brings us back to where we started. Maybe Sam Witek can shed some light on all this. But first, we’ll pay Arnie Anderson a visit. The family farm is just outside town.”
In the cushy confines of the limo, Tyler giggled. “Enrico is going to wonder what kind of honeymoon we’re on.”
Jared smiled, making her wish the honeymoon was real. “At what I’m paying him, he could drive us in circles and not ask questions.”
She gazed out through a cloud of dust. “This road isn’t even paved.”
“We’ll tell him we’re hunting antiques. As I remember, you’re something of an expert.”
She remembered the Roseville vase, stuffed among the clothes in her suitcase, and the kind woman, now dead, who had sold it to her. She shivered in the climate-controlled atmosphere.
The car slowed and stopped in front of a run-down farmhouse. Gangly bushes of lavender lilacs bloomed on either side of the front steps, the only spots of color against the weathered boards of the ancient two-story structure. The farmhouse had been battered by the elements until no trace of paint remained. A screen door sagged on its hinges, its bottom panel torn and ragged. Verdant lilac leaves provide
d the only green in the dirt yard, populated by a few scraggly hens and an aged rooster.
The screen door banged, and a heavy woman in a shapeless cotton dress, both as colorless as the house, took a stance on the top step with her pudgy hands on her hips. As they approached, she tugged an old sweater across her ample bosom.
“Mrs. Anderson?” Jared asked.
She nodded, and her double chin trembled. “If you folks are from that damn publisher, I done told him I want no part of no book. Ozzie’s dead and gone, and I got peace for the first time in my life. Leave him buried.”
“We’re not from any publisher, Mrs. Anderson,” Jared assured her.
The fat woman eyed the limousine with suspicion. “Then what do you want with me?”
“Actually,” Tyler replied, “we’re looking for your son.”
Comprehension lighted Mrs. Anderson’s squinting eyes. “Collection agency, eh? You folks must do all right to drive such a fancy rig.”
“We’re not from a collection agency,” Jared said. “I’m doing research on capital punishment, and I’d like to talk with Arnie about his experience with the appeals board.”
Her skeptical expression deepened. “Well, if you find him, you let me know. He took off for Alaska, looking for work, right after his daddy died. I ain’t seen or heard from him since.”
She turned on her heel with remarkable quickness for a woman her size and disappeared into the decaying farmhouse, slamming the screen door behind her.
Jared grimaced. “That was a colossal waste of time.”
Tyler considered the depressing farmhouse. “Just think of it as sight-seeing.”
AFTER LUNCH AT A LOCAL mom-and-pop restaurant that served thick, juicy hamburgers with all the trimmings, Jared directed Enrico to drive across town to Roseland Nursing Home.
The low brick structure with barred windows and bedraggled lawns squelched Tyler’s feeling of well-being. The bed of sickly rosebushes that gave the place its name did nothing to ease the bleak atmosphere.
“Looks more like a penal colony than a rest home,” she observed.
Jared’s expression of distaste indicated he shared her opinion. “The sooner we’re out of here, the better.”
The atmosphere deteriorated further when they stepped through the front doors. The bare green walls and yellowed linoleum seemed clean enough, but the overpowering stench of disinfectant assaulted Tyler’s nostrils.
“We’re here to see Sam Witek,” Jared announced to a burly male attendant behind the reception desk.
The orderly shoved a clipboard toward them with a sign-in sheet, and Jared wrote Mr. and Mrs. B. Simpson. Tyler suppressed a smile and whispered in his ear, “If you tire of Simpson, we can always resort to Beavis and Butthead.”
Her smile faded as they headed down a corridor toward Room 122. Patients hailed them, some calling them by unfamiliar names.
With relief, she followed Jared into Sam Witek’s room, wondering if the man’s reason had degenerated with his body, but alert black eyes in a withered face confronted them from his pillow.
Jared introduced himself and Tyler, and Witek waved with a feeble gesture toward chairs beside the bed.
“It’s good to have visitors,” he wheezed. “Most folks avoid this place. What can I do for you?”
“I’m sorry about your sister Evelyn,” Tyler said.
Tears filled Witek’s eyes. “My kid sister…and me so wasted, I can’t even attend her funeral.”
“We’re looking for Evelyn’s killer,” Jared said, “and we’re hoping you can help us.”
“Me?” Witek’s question dissolved into a racking cough. “I’m not much help to anyone these days.”
Tyler placed her hand over Witek’s. “You’ve done some great detective work in your day, Mr. Witek. We could use your expertise.”
While Jared filled Witek in on the three murdered women, Tyler surveyed the room. A green oxygen tank sat close to the bed with a mask dangling from its regulator. Between that and Witek’s labored breathing, she guessed he suffered from some type of respiratory illness. On the wall above his bed hung a silver crucifix, and framed family pictures, including a smiling photograph of Evelyn Granger. A few mystery novels and a thick picture album filled a shelf below the window.
“These three women are connected somehow,” Jared concluded. “If you help us determine how, maybe we can find this man before he kills again.”
Witek lay pale against his pillow. “Ozzie Anderson,” he said. “His case was the only one of Pete’s and mine that Larry Molinsky prosecuted. Ozzie has to be the connection.”
“But Ozzie’s dead,” she said.
Witek reached for the oxygen mask and inhaled deeply. “You don’t know these men like I do, miss. Once they’re locked away with no hope of reprieve, they’re consumed by the desire for revenge.”
Jared nodded. “Wanting revenge is understandable, but attaining it after they’re dead—”
“They make friends in the Big House,” Witek said, “with guys whose souls are as twisted as their own.”
“Are you suggesting Anderson convinced another inmate to carry out his revenge killing for him?” she asked.
Breathless, Witek nodded. “It’s possible.”
Tyler shook her head. “But why would the killer go after your sister and not you?”
Witek mustered an ironic smile. “Killing me wouldn’t be revenge, it would be a favor.”
After bidding Witek goodbye, they returned to the hmo and Jared instructed Enrico to drive back to the Birch and Bottle.
“Now we’re making progress.” Jared slipped her arm through his and pulled her closer. “Witek may be on to something. Maybe Anderson persuaded a friend to kill for him.”
Tyler laid her head on Jared’s shoulder, but even his comforting presence couldn’t stanch her questions. “How do we find out who Anderson’s friends were? Mrs. Anderson’s already refused to talk to us.”
Jared’s eyes glinted with excitement. “We ask the warden.”
“YOU HAVE A CALL, Mr. Simpson.” The innkeeper pointed to a telephone alcove in the hallway outside the dining room. “You can take it there if you wish.”
Tyler accepted another cup of after-dinner coffee from the waitress and sat back to wait. When they’d returned to the inn, Jared had placed a call to the warden of the New Jersey State Penitentiary, and as the hour grew late, they’d both feared he wouldn’t return the call until the next day. The postponement gnawed at her. Any delay might mean another death— possibly her own.
After what seemed an hour, but according to the mantel clock had been less than ten minutes, Jared returned.
“Did he give you a lead?” She barely allowed him time to sit.
Jared propped his elbows on the table and raked his fingers through his hair. When he lifted his head, she read the disappointment in his face.
“The warden remembered Ozzie Anderson, all right. Called him the meanest snake in a pit of vipers.”
She leaned forward with excitement. “Then it’s possible Ozzie did persuade another inmate to carry out his revenge killing for him?”
Jared shook his head. “Ozzie’s crimes were so terrible, the other inmates hated him. He spent most of his time in isolation, for his own protection.”
“What about visitors, someone from the outside?”
“For the last five years Ozzie was on death row, he refused all visitors except his family and his lawyer.” Jared signaled the waitress and pointed to his empty coffee cup.
Tyler tried to make sense of the information. “That leaves the lawyer, Mrs. Anderson and Arnie Anderson as suspects.”
“Forget the lawyer. He works for Amnesty International—not exactly the murdering type.”
She remembered the woman at the farmhouse. “And all Mrs. Anderson wants is to be left alone.”
Jared poured cream in his coffee. “That leaves Arnie. But the warden described him as quiet and shy, not eaten up with rage as his father had been.”
“Not to mention that he’s in Alaska.”
Wearily, Jared pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’re missing something. I can feel it.”
She covered his hand with hers, luxuriating in the closeness. “We should pay Sam Witek another visit. With his skill as a detective, maybe he can point out what we’ve overlooked.”
A THUNDERING HERD of elephants could have stampeded through their room during the night, and Jared wouldn’t have heard them. The realization of how soundly he’d slept disturbed him as they headed back toward Roseland after lunch. Some protector he’d been. The only way to guarantee Tyler’s safety was to send her back to her grandmother, which he intended to do as soon as they’d talked with Sam Witek again.
Sam glanced up in surprise when they entered his room. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing you folks again. What did you find out from the warden?”
Sam’s withered face creased in concentration as Jared filled him in on the warden’s revelations.
“We’ve reached a dead end,” Jared concluded, “and hope you can help us.”
Sam pointed a trembling finger at the bookcase. “Hand me that photo album. Maybe some of those old pictures will jog my memory.”
Jared lifted the album from the low bookshelf and set it on the bed next to Sam, who flipped it open.
Tyler watched over Sam’s shoulder, and as he turned the second page, she gasped. Blood drained from her face and her eyes widened in horror as she pointed to the top photograph on the page.
“It’s him.” She forced a strangled whisper between wooden lips.
“Ozzie Anderson?” Sam squinted at the photo through his reading glasses. “It can’t be. I don’t have his picture.”
“No.” Tyler sank into the bedside chair as if her legs would no longer support her. “It’s the man who drove the Blazer.”
Sam extended the photo album to arm’s length, studying the snapshot.
“I don’t understand.” Sam shook his head and struggled to breathe. “That’s Pete Stanwick, taken the year before Mary died.”
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