by Kylie Brant
Since he was already studying the report in his hand, it was a moment before he realized the deputy was still standing in the doorway.
“Uh…” Roland’s throat bobbed nervously at Cage’s quizzical gaze. “Would you mind if I went over it with you, Sheriff? Fisher’s not in today, and I’m kinda interested, this being my first murder and all. I mean…” Dull flags of color rose in his freckled cheeks. “The first murder in the parish, that is. What I meant was, in recent times…”
Cage took pity on the man. “No, I don’t mind.” DuPrey was one of his more inexperienced deputies, but he’d been riding with Fisher when the call had come in about the body. From the eagerness Roland showed pulling up a chair next to his, one would never guess that he’d lost the contents of his stomach in the nearby weeds when he’d seen the victim. Cage didn’t hold the reaction of the man against him. Death like that should shock and disgust people. When it ceased to do so, one would have to wonder just how fine a line separated the savage soul who’d commit such an atrocity from those who hunted him.
Cage began to flip through the pages. “Let’s hit the highlights, shall we? Cause of death—ligature strangulation. We knew that.” He paused to reread another sentence on the page. When Roland looked up at him, he said slowly, “The marks on her neck indicate that she was choked unconscious several times, then resuscitated.”
“Why would he do that?” Roland blurted out, then hunched his shoulders when Cage looked at him.
“Power. He got off on having total control over her, prolonging his pleasure.” He’d seen those telltale marks, guessed their significance. It had been the cuts and abrasions on the victim’s knees and shins, however, that continued to puzzle him. His gaze returned to the report in his hand. “Ligature marks found on her wrists and ankles…garden-variety clothesline used. Again, nothing new.” He flipped a page, read silently, then said, “There was evidence of rape but no samples left by the offender. Damn!”
Disappointment laced DuPrey’s words. “Looks like he was lucky.”
Luck like that was rare, Cage knew. He felt his stomach clench and grind. Flipping through the pages, he skimmed rapidly. Other than the lack of physical evidence revealed, the report didn’t appear to have much more information than the preliminary one the coroner had given them. And some lab work, according to an attached note, still wasn’t completed.
“By the time the witness had discovered the body, the victim had been dead four-to-six hours.” Out of the corner of his eye Cage saw Roland gape and swing his head toward him, but his gaze remained trained on the report. Janice Reilly had been discovered about 8:00 a.m. That would put her approximate time of death somewhere between 2:00 and 4:00 a.m.
“That’s exactly what you said that morning. I thought the coroner would be able to pinpoint it closer than that.”
Cage shook his head. “Time of death is tougher to figure than most people think. I was just making an educated guess from the body’s temperature, the stage of rigor mortis and…” He shot a look at DuPrey, unwilling to chance a replay of the man’s reaction to his earlier explanation of forensic entomology.
But the deputy had already made the connection. “It was the insects, right?”
Cage considered him closely, but, although his face was pale beneath the freckles, he looked steady enough. “Like I told you, they can act as a clock when it comes to time of death. And from the lack of bleeding from the wound in the victim’s hand, it was easy to determine she was dead when it was inflicted.”
From the look on DuPrey’s face it was obvious he failed to see the significance of the fact. Cage began to wish he’d saved that cigar. He was back full circle to the million-dollar questions: Had the site outside of Charity been selected at random? Or did it hold some special significance for the killer?
Becky Jane Hawkins set a bowl of Saturday’s special on the table in front of Zoey. The Stew ’N Brew didn’t run to the healthier menu choices. Most of their selections featured deep-fat-fried entrées dripping with gravy. But their gumbo, Zoey had quickly learned, was out of this world.
“How’s it goin’, Miss Prescott?” Becky Jane tarried a moment beside Zoey’s booth.
“Just fine, Becky, thanks.” She picked up her spoon, but the waitress still lingered.
“Uh…I was wondering…”
Zoey’s spoon made a quiet clink against the stoneware as she set it down and looked up at the girl quizzically. With a self-conscious gesture, the waitress smoothed her blond hair, which owed its styling to big bangs and a heavy layer of lacquer. Then she blurted out, “What’s Chicago like?”
Her lips curved, Zoey replied, “It’s big, noisy. And very crowded.”
Becky wiped her hands down the apron covering her pink uniform, hemmed up a good four inches shorter than those of the other waitresses in order to show off her slender legs. She threw a quick peek over her shoulder, but Ethel, the owner, was nowhere in sight. Returning her attention to Zoey, she asked, “Why would you leave it to come to Charity?” Genuine puzzlement shone in her eyes.
Zoey couldn’t have offered the girl an explanation had she wanted to. Certainly she’d never before experienced this compulsion to change locales to write one of her novels. But when she’d heard of a murder shocking a sleepy Louisiana town, the inspiration for her next book had struck suddenly. She’d hoped to maintain that intensity by moving to Charity for a time, and her idea seemed sound. Although her novels of murder and mayhem were fiction, this current one owed its flavour to Charity itself.
Her smiled turned wry. No, she couldn’t explain that to Becky Jane. She barely understood it herself. “I needed a change,” she said simply.
It was plain her answer hadn’t satisfied the girl. “That’s the same thing Cage—I mean, Sheriff Gauthier—said when he came back from New Orleans. I guess I’ll never understand people.”
Her words captured Zoey’s interest. “Sheriff Gauthier used to live in New Orleans?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am.” The fervor in the girl’s voice alerted Zoey to the fact that the young woman had more than a slight crush on Cage. “He was on the police force there. And not just as an officer, but as a detective. Isn’t that just the most romantic thing?”
“Terribly.”
Apparently Becky missed the wryness of the other woman’s tone. “He returned when his mama got sick, but after she died he stayed on. I still can’t figure why. When I get a little money saved I’m heading out of here on the next bus, and I’ll only come back for visits. I’m going to New York, or Hollywood or maybe even Vegas.”
Zoey eyed her with amusement. “I’m sure that will make the young man in the uniform who comes in here for lunch most days very unhappy.”
“Who? Oh, shoot, you mean Tommy Lee?” Becky tossed her head. Not a strand of her heavily sprayed hair moved. “He’s kinda cute, I guess. But I’m not about to get serious about anyone when I’m fixin’ to leave and all. It just wouldn’t be right.”
“I need some coffee over here, Becky Jane,” a farmer in overalls and a cap called across the diner.
“Keep your shirt on,” she retorted. With a shrug and a cheeky smile she said, “Well, I best get back to work. I’d like to talk to you sometime, if that’s okay. About your life in Chicago.”
“Sure. Anytime.”
Watching the girl move away, Zoey wondered if she’d ever been that young, that impatient to experience life. For her, adulthood had arrived early. She had no thrilling tales to share with Becky Jane about a glamorous life in a big city. Duty, responsibility—those were things she understood. They’d pushed her to grow up faster than most. When she took the time to consider it, she felt no regret. Given the opportunity, she’d make the same choices for her siblings. But glamour and excitement… Her lips curved ruefully and she returned her attention to her lunch. Excitement was something she’d never looked for in her life. And had never once missed.
She didn’t bother looking up when the door opened to admit a new customer, bu
t the instant murmur of voices, which gradually rose to crescendo level, had her raising her head. She stifled a groan of dismay. To the delight of nearly every female in the place, the sheriff of St. Augustine parish had just made an appearance.
“Heard you had some trouble out at your place, Sheriff.” This from the farmer at the counter.
Cage walked over and gave the man a friendly thump on the shoulder. “Oh, nothing too serious, Cy. Just some boys with more sand than sense. Got the lot of them cooling their heels in jail cells.”
Ethel came bustling out of the kitchen and regarded him, her fists propped on her bony hips. “I heard tell Doc Barnes had to sew you up, boy. What in the Sam blazes are you doin’ back on the job today?”
The chorus of concerned questions that rose from all the females in the diner would be enough to embarrass most men half to death. Jessamine Walter, the owner and operator of the Beauty Mark, reached Cage first, sliding off her stool and rushing over to run her hand up and down his arm. “Are you hurt bad? Is there anything I can do for you?”
Normally, he would have milked the sympathy for all it was worth, but he’d seen the dark-colored car parked out front. It hadn’t taken any of the deductive skills that had once earned him the rank of detective to make the presumption that Zoey was inside.
A quick scan of the diner showed her sitting in the corner booth, rolling her eyes at the crowd of women cooing over him. He smiled at Jessamine—bravely, he thought. “I’m fine. There wasn’t even much left for Doc Barnes to do last night after Miss Prescott finished fixing me up.” As if on cue, the women swiveled to stare at Zoey, who’d gone completely and utterly still. Inclining his head, he said, “If you’ll excuse me, ladies.”
It seemed to Zoey that all eyes in the diner were fixed in their direction as Cage walked over to her booth and slid in across from her. Beaming that easygoing, megawatt grin, he said, “Hey. How’s the gumbo today?”
All her defenses clicked into place. Restraint. Command. Control. The words repeated in her head like a mantra. Those were the qualities she’d possessed in abundance before the debacle with Alan. She’d since methodically reassembled that Zoey Prescott, brick by brick. And damned if she was going to crumble in the face of—unbidden, her memory supplied her with a mental replay—slow hands, a clever mouth and exquisite sensation.
Abruptly, she dropped her spoon with a clatter. “Hard to say. I just lost my appetite.”
He reached over and snitched one of the packages of crackers Becky had served with the soup. “Now that’s a darn shame. Ethel makes the best gumbo in these parts. She’s going to be right put out if you don’t manage to eat more than that.”
“I know how she feels. I’m feeling a little put out myself.”
Pure wicked fire gleamed in his gray eyes, ruining the effect of the angelic expression he wore. “With me? What have I done?”
“I’ve no interest in becoming the next item of gossip in Charity by having you link our names.” Nodding in the direction of the women still openly staring at them, she added, “I have a feeling that any woman seen with you is open to speculation.” She added deliberately, “I don’t like being the object of speculation.”
He’d just bet she didn’t. Zoey Prescott was too serious and much too private to allow someone close enough to discover just exactly what made her tick. Carefully, he shifted his weight in the booth, avoiding contact with the back of the seat. The problem was, he was finding himself just about fascinated with the idea of exploring what was inside the woman; and that was cause for concern. Although he’d never begrudged a woman who wanted to be persuaded, he wasn’t one to waste his time where Not Interested signs were so clearly posted.
At least, he never had been before.
A corner of his mouth kicked up, slow and engaging. “You didn’t expect me to ignore what you did for me, now did you? I couldn’t do that, not even last night, when I was near delirious with pain.”
Because her lips threatened to twitch, she firmed them. “Well, ‘delirious,’ at any rate.”
He propped his elbows on the table and leaned closer. “My back feels some better today, but it probably wouldn’t hurt any to have someone take a look at it. Make sure it’s healing okay.”
Her eyebrows rose at his blatant flirtation. “Maybe you should get a volunteer from your fan club over there. I believe they’re already signing donor cards for you.”
Letting loose a laugh that had all eyes zeroing in on the two of them once again, he picked up her hand and sent his thumb skimming across her knuckles. “You’re mean, Zoey. I don’t know when I started finding that quality attractive in a woman.”
She snatched her hand away. “Believe me, I can get a lot meaner.”
His dimples deepened. “Since you’re only armed with a spoon this time, I figure I’ll take my chances.”
Zoey gazed at him, allowing herself to wonder for a moment what, if anything, lay beneath that Southern-baked charm and lazy sense of humor. It was pathetically easy to dismiss a small-town Romeo whose ego was reflected in every mirror he passed. It might be harder to rebuff such a man whose mettle ran deeper, stronger. She had no reason to believe that Cage Gauthier was such a man. But still…
She pushed her bowl away. She wasn’t in the market for a man—any man—at this point in her life. Given her incredible lack of success with the opposite sex, she wasn’t sure she ever would be.
“Listen, Mr.—Sheriff….” She moistened her lips and tried not to notice the way his attention immediately honed in on the action. “I’m sure you’re used to dazzling the female population of the parish, but—”
“Are you going to eat that?”
She blinked. “What?”
He motioned to the soup she’d pushed away. “The gumbo. Are you finished with it? Because it sure does seem a shame to let it go to waste.”
“No. I mean, yes. I’m done with it.” She watched, bemused, as he took her answer as an invitation to pull the bowl over and begin to finish it off. Using her spoon.
Momentarily sidetracked, she noted the workings of his strong throat as he swallowed, the look of almost-beatific appreciation that crossed his face at the taste. It occurred to her then that the man was a sensualist, taking more than ordinary pleasure in taste, touch. For an instant the memory of the few moments they’d shared last night, when he’d tasted her, flitted across her mind, and her mouth went abruptly dry.
“You were saying?”
Her gaze bounced to his. “Pardon?”
He took another swallow of soup. “Before I confiscated your lunch, you were saying something.” Because she still looked blank, he said helpfully, “I believe you were telling me I was dazzling.”
His words yanked her back to reality with a jolt. “Not exactly. But I’m sure you’re used to women finding you so.”
“But not you.”
She shook her head. “Not me. Sorry.” She met his gaze squarely. “I won’t be here long, and I’m not the type to indulge in casual relationships.”
Her message was coming in loud and clear, as much from the look in those pretty green eyes as from her words. There was a healthy dose of caution there and a glimmer of desperation. Recognizing both, he kept his voice light. “You are careful. I’ve noticed that about you.”
“Too much so to give in to a momentary attraction.”
He pointed the spoon at her. “You might call that being careful, I guess. If you were the type to skirt all new experiences to avoid risking one that might just knock you on that pretty butt of yours. Other folks might call that cowardice, but I guess it all depends on the point of view you take.”
He tucked the spoon back into the bowl before him and scooped up another taste, pretending not to notice the way her eyes had gone molten.
“‘Cowardice’?” The word was a lethal purr.
“That’s not my perspective, you understand.” He continued eating, talking between swallows. “I’m of the mind that a person does what he or she has
to do to get by. The path they take is their own choosing.”
“Hey, son, where have you been hiding out?”
Zoey was too busy glaring at Cage to bother looking up at the man who had stopped at the table. He was calling her a coward? He was deliberately mistaking fastidiousness for fear. She gave an audible sniff as he slid out of the booth and clapped the other man on the shoulder. No doubt he was unused to having women restrain themselves from throwing themselves at his feet. She refused to respond to his provocative remarks. Once again she’d underestimated him. He was clever enough to see more than most looked for, and low enough to exploit it.
“Why don’t you join us? I was just finishing off Zoey’s lunch for her.” Cage sat down beside her, and with a friendly nudge, urged her to slide across the seat. She did so, to avoid having him on her lap. “I don’t believe you two have been formally introduced. Zoey Prescott, Tanner Beauchamp.” He finished off the remainder of the soup and then dropped the spoon into the bowl. To his friend, he added, “Zoey was just explaining why she finds me resistible.”
A pained expression crossed Tanner’s face. “I know from personal experience that she’s very talented in that area.”
“Cage is a little more difficult to convince than you were,” she said dryly.
“He is persistent.”
“Determined,” Cage corrected, stretching his arms nonchalantly, then letting one hand drop around Zoey’s shoulders. “Tanner and I have been friends since grade school, but he still doesn’t know me half as well as he thinks he does.”