As he rounded the corner, I felt a wave of impatience at the sight of my escort—eighty years old if he was a day—and started worrying that I’d need to borrow a wheelchair just to get the two of us to our destination.
Byron, my designated sherpa, was reed-thin, with near translucent skin and a dandelion fluff of grey hair wafting atop his head. I had visions of blowing on it and making a wish, but he moved off with such a brisk pace that I quickly realized I’d need to save my breath for the trek. Condescending forbearance immediately gave way to embarrassment as Byron bulleted forward. His long, lopey strides propelled him at such a rate that I found it necessary to shift erratically between speedwalking and jogging in order to keep him in sight. Neither pace was one that I could sustain for any length of time without passing out. I found myself grateful that we were heading to an area where I could be quickly attended to following the coronary I was certain was imminent.
We arrived at the surgical waiting area a brisk thirteen minutes later. Byron had acquired a slight pinkish hue on his cheeks. I, on the other hand, had sweat rings the size of dinner plates under my arms and a face that burned from the inside out with surprisingly copious amounts of sweat streaming off it. I bent over at the waist, willing oxygen past dry, brittle lips and praying that the people would think the rasping, wheezing sound was the air conditioner. Since it was early October, that was doubtful.
There might be something to this you-need-to-quit-smoking idea, after all.
As soon as the dots in front of my eyes receded, I found Diana and dropped next to her.
She barely registered my presence. I reached for her hand and sat quietly. I had tons of questions, but I had the feeling we would be here a while. There was time.
After several minutes, she sighed, then slowly turned to look at me. “He was going to call you,” she said.
For some reason, my heart thudded heavily. Maybe it was the blank expression coating her face. “Was he?” I said softly.
She nodded. “He didn’t remember a lot of what happened. During the attack, you know? The guys have been asking him and asking him. The doctor says sometimes after a trauma the brain just cancels stuff out. The accident, what happened right after, all of that stuff. Just gone, you know?”
I nodded.
“But, of course, all of his cop friends are trying to find out what happened. Who did this? Why? They’ve been coming in and out, talking to Del, trying to get him to remember. And Bill Stanwick’s been going through his papers. I let him go through Del’s desk at home and everything.”
She was still staring at me, trying to read something on my face. My hands started sweating and I let go of her hand, wiping my palms on my jeans.
“Diana, what’s going on? What are you asking me?”
She looked uncomfortable, her kind eyes filling with pain. Not one who enjoyed confrontation, she’d nevertheless mothered too many for too long to dance around the subject.
“Bill said the only thing they could find that didn’t make sense was a bunch of notes about that lady you worked with. The one who fell down the stairs at Devlin House? Del’s been pulling files on a bunch of women from there. Women who died, Bill says. He came in this morning while I was at the grocery store to talk to Del. In fact, he was just leaving when I came to get Del.”
“What does, um, Del think?” I asked, stumbling over Blodgett’s given name.
“He wouldn’t talk about it. Not with me, anyway. But five minutes after Bill leaves, Del gets his undies in a bunch saying he’s got to get home. We were already going home. The doctor was going to stop in and see him before lunch and then we were going to get Del released and go home. All of a sudden, Del’s got to leave right away. Can’t even see the doctor. Can’t wait to get checked out.”
She turned her face away then, but I’d been watching her expressions change as she’d talked. From blank to hurt and bewildered to accusatory. I reached for her hand again, but she pulled it away.
“Diana,” I said. “Are you saying that Blodgett was attacked because of something he was doing for me?”
She whipped her eyes back to mine. “Are you saying he wasn’t?”
“I don’t know, Diana. I really don’t. He was just looking up records for me. I never thought it was connected with …” My voice trailed off as I realized I was lying. I had wondered. Diana heard the uncertainty, too.
“You’ve known about this ever since Del was hurt and you never said anything?”
“Diana—”
“I’d like you to leave right now.”
“But I really didn’t—”
“I mean it, Letty. You need to leave.”
I stood, torn between respecting her wishes and wanting, more than anything, to fix this. “I’m sorry, Diana. I really am.”
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
I didn’t think I could handle returning to work, so I called Lisa and told her I wouldn’t be back in. I’d tossed the words “family emergency” as I’d headed out the door earlier, so she knew there was something going on. She’d reschedule my clients, making the appropriate apologies and such.
I felt like I’d been slammed in the gut with a sledge hammer. It didn’t matter that Blodgett was a seasoned cop or that, as a detective, he was sure to have more enemies than kernels on a corn cob. Diana’s eyes—the disappointment in them—haunted me.
Once I made it to the car I ran a self-check: I didn’t feel like drinking. I was pretty sure I didn’t, anyway. I definitely wanted a cigarette. Nothing new there. But that itchy, restlessness that blossomed from the seed of guilt that had been planted didn’t bode well. It was still mid-morning, but I headed for sanctuary.
There was also a stale cigarette funk that persisted despite the HP & Me club going non-smoking earlier in the year. My itch kicked up a notch. In the past, if I couldn’t drink, I could always smoke, and cigarettes were proving more difficult than booze.
The club was deserted, a highly unusual event. I waited around for a few minutes in case somebody wandered in for a cup of coffee, but I was feeling too restless to stay long. I either needed a meeting, a cigarette, or a distraction.
Moments later, I jumped in my car heading out of town toward farmland and long stretches of woodland. Heading north.
To Marshall’s cabin.
As a distraction, there was none better. All I had to do was allow the memory to surface of that dark, still evening where we’d lain entwined on his couch, firelight dancing like fingers over bare skin, heat chasing away the chill. I shivered just thinking about it. A small question of whether I could find his cabin teased the edges of my concentration, but despite the intervening months, I found it.
His driveway, a half-mile long dirt road, would be difficult to plow in the winter. Turning in, I slowed. Thoughts of being snowed in with my former boss made me smile. And wiggle a little, too.
But for now, autumn leaves crunched under the tires and the sharp cracks of snapping twigs brought my focus back to the present. I slowed the car even more as the reality of what I was doing shoved my lust-inspired impulse sharply to the side.
This was so stupid.
I’d reached the curve, bringing the cabin into view. If I tried to back out now, I’d literally have to back out, driving in reverse. Frankly, the odds were that I’d end up in the ditch, which wasn’t likely to ease my embarrassment. That’s what I told myself.
Besides, the sight of the cabin as it came in to view made my heart thump wildly. I’d once called it “enchanted,” and it still lived up to that. I was surprised it hadn’t sold, but then, the entire housing market had crashed. Riverfront property was at the wrong end of the price range for someone looking for a quick sale. Several weeks ago, I’d looked up the listing online, just out of curiosity. Marshall had priced the cabin high, at a pre-recession rate, a tactic sure to stall a quick sale. I’d hoped it meant he was ambivalent about truly leaving.
His Saab was parked in its usual place. I noted the Wisconsin license plates still
affixed to it and smiled. More ambivalence? I parked next to it and did a quick, girl-check of makeup, hair, and attire. More office casual than sex kitten, but it would have to do. I spritzed a little perfume from the travel bottle I kept in my console—a girl never knew when she’d need to smell good—and pushed the door open.
Pine and wood smoke and crispness, if crispness had a smell, filled my nostrils, making me wish I hadn’t spritzed. Nothing could compete with the scent of Wisconsin woods.
Walking up to the cabin, my heart thudded heavily against my rib cage. Images of Marshall streaked like shooting stars across my mind. I knocked, hoping he was wearing the red flannel jacket. And jeans. Faded, frayed, tight jeans.
He wasn’t.
She was, however.
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
Tall, statuesque, blond, and beautiful—this bitch was made for hating. I got started on that right away.
She wore fashionably faded jeans and a close-fitted, honey-hued sweater, the kind that looks like she’d skinned a kitten. I could tell the faded jeans were a calculated design detail, produced in a factory and not because she felt at home in them. Didn’t matter though. She had enough confidence to feel at home anywhere.
“May I help you?” Southern accent, warm and sugary.
I couldn’t answer. My voice was blocked by a clotting mixture of jealousy and humiliation.
Her smile twitched a notch wider. I sensed she wasn’t trying to be mean, but was amused at my bumbling. She looked past me to where my car was parked. For some reason, I followed her gaze. She was probably looking for a delivery van. I just looked stupid.
“Is Marshall here?” I finally managed.
“He sure is. Who shall I say is calling?” Looking relieved that I’d managed to join the conversation, she opened the door a bit wider. The bits I could see of the cabin behind her looked exactly the way it had in the dreams I’d been having nightly. Except Marshall wasn’t lying naked on the leather couch. Can’t have everything, I guess.
“I used to work with him. I’ll just, um, give him a call later. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Her turn to fall silent. Although barely discernible, her river-blue eyes narrowed just the slightest, teeniest bit. She was looking at me differently now, eyes taking in details, categorizing rapidly. Subtly rescinding her previous welcome, she eased the door back to her side.
“You must be Letty,” she said.
“Yup.” Yup? Did I seriously just say yup to this southern peach princess? I cleared my throat. “Listen, could you just let Marshall know that I need to talk to him about an ethics investigation on a file? There are some questions coming up about it.”
I turned away.
“Maybe you should leave your number,” she said.
I looked back and we locked eyes. I smiled. “That won’t be necessary,” I said. “He’s got it.”
The door clicked firmly shut before I’d even cleared the first stair.
Marshall wouldn’t have caught up to me if I hadn’t had to pull over and throw up in the ditch—a behavior, since getting sober, that I hadn’t expected to experience again. When I saw the Saab’s grill growing larger and larger in my rear view mirror, I briefly considered a Dairy State reenactment of a “Duke’s of Hazzard” back roads chase scene, but with my luck a buck would choose that moment to ornament my hood. Instead, I pulled over and popped a mint.
Our car doors slammed in unison. I walked to the back of my car and leaned up against the trunk, attempting to disguise my shaking knees with nonchalant indifference. Mentally, my brain was hopping as wildly as a sugared-up squirrel, but I latched onto my “ethics file” excuse with grim determination.
As he walked up, I took a flash glance inventory: faded jeans—the real kind—and a soft blue denim shirt. His “casual” didn’t come from a factory. He took a stance directly in front of me, not saying anything. Just stood there, too close, trying to catch my eyes with his. Not likely. I already knew the dangers lurking in his dark brown eyes.
“Lisa found one of Regina’s old files—Bettina Reyes?—and we’ve got some questions about it. It looks like some therapist has been up to some hanky-panky with his client’s wife. I’ve met with the wife and she refuses to tell—”
“Letty, I’m sorry.”
“Is this a confession? I’m a mandated reporter, you know. I’m obligated by law to report sexual and physical abuse.”
“Letty—”
“Frankly, I always wondered why you took off so fast but I guess it makes sense if you were running away from your mistakes.” I wanted to bite my tongue off. I’d meant to be a smartass, but bringing up mistakes reiterated his belief that our relationship was one of them. I hurried on. “At least, I can stop having nightmares about Bob prancing naked through the clinic.”
“Wait. What? Bob?”
“Never mind. If you’re the one who’s been shagging Regina’s client, then Bob’s off the hook.”
“Letty, stop. I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about, but if it has to do with seeing Bob naked, I don’t want to. We need to talk.”
Weary, I dropped the pretense, wrapping my arms around my center. I told myself it was chilly. “No, we don’t. There’s nothing to say.”
He sighed deeply enough to rattle the leaves lining the ditch next to us. He kept tilting his head, trying to catch my eyes. Finally, he reached out, grabbed my wrist and tugged me over to his car.
“Get in.”
“Whoa.” I pulled my arm away. “I’m not going back there.”
“Of course not. Just … get in. You’re shivering.”
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
I knew as soon as I settled into the seat that I’d made a tactical error. The car was too comfortable, too intimate. It felt like we were in a time capsule, shut off from the world. Plus it smelled like leather and Marshall—two scents I’d fantasized combining in various, naughty ways. Sitting there, I thought of a couple more.
He started the car, turned the heater on, and swiveled to face me. This close, it was harder to avoid eye contact, another disadvantage. I settled for staring at his shoulder. It was a nice shoulder, but unlike nice butts, I’ve been known to resist shoulders.
“Letty,” he said. “There were so many times I wanted to tell you. It just … it never seemed like the right time.”
My stomach did a slow roll, spreading heat throughout my body. Times? So many times? Plural? We hadn’t been together plural times since his return so that could only mean he was talking about before he’d left.
“What are you talking about?” Now that I wanted eye contact, his dipped away. “Marshall? How long have you been seeing her?”
“Look,” he said, “it’s complicated.”
I almost threw up again. “That is such a cliche. I cannot believe you would pull that rancid old line out. What’s complicated? Either you were seeing her and chasing me or not. See how simple that is? Now which is it?”
“I wasn’t seeing her. We’re married.”
Literally. Could. Not. Speak. Even when I was drunk I’d never messed with a married man. Not that I could remember anyway.
“Letty.” He reached for my hand. I slapped it away. “Letty, look, we’re married, but not really. I mean, we were getting divorced. I came here to Wisconsin when the director position opened, and Bobbi was going to follow as soon as she closed out her job. But she never did, and after all those months I realized she wasn’t going to. She came up with all kinds of excuses, but the bottom line is she wanted to transfer to California and I hate California. Anyway, there was no way the marriage was going anywhere. In fact, once I started seeing you, I got all the papers in order and I was just waiting for her to sign. I really wanted to tell you, but there was so much going on. I mean, come on. You were being stalked. People were dying. I wanted to be there for you, but I didn’t want to add to the chaos.”
My eyes widened so big I was afraid they were going to pop out and roll to the floor. “So, wait a mi
nute. Are you saying you kept your marital status a secret for me? Really? For me? That’s a load of bullshit and you know it. If you wanted to be there for me, fine. That’s awesome. But you weren’t just there for me. You were, you know”—I waved my hands over my body—”there for me.”
He grinned sheepishly, but I wasn’t trying to be funny and it pissed me off even more.
“So, okay. What’s she doing here now? I thought you ran away to your brother’s in Wyoming. Was that a lie, too?”
Well, that wiped the grin off his face. Got a little red, too. “I didn’t lie. I did stay with Allan for a while. Okay, technically I was still married, but Bobbi and I were through. It was dead long before you came along. We just hadn’t stamped it DOA yet.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Why is she camping out in your cabin? Are you reconciling? ‘Cause she sure looked settled in and cozy when I got there.”
“We had some legal stuff that she had to sign for the realtor. Since we aren’t legally divorced … Well, anyway, she’s going to quit claim her ownership of the cabin, and I’m doing the same for the house in Colorado. Even trade, pretty much. And then she’s free to go to California, and I’m just … free.”
“That’s not the vibe I got when we were talking at the door. She acted like she still had a claim, and not just on the cabin.”
Emotions struggled across his face. My heart hurt. I turned away, propping my elbow on the window, staring out at the countryside. My breath created little puffs on the chilly glass. There was still something between them. Maybe something as ephemeral as the steam my lungs created against the window glass, but something.
“Why did you let me think I was the problem? That I was the one responsible for the problems between us?” I asked.
“When I left, it was because of what happened here, not because of her. You want to call it running away, fine. Maybe it was. But let’s face it, Letty, you let yourself get involved in a bad situation and—”
“I what? I let myself get involved? Are you kidding me? I was being stalked. I was attacked. I didn’t ask for—”
Whittaker 02 The One We Love Page 15