A Time to Keep

by Rochelle Alers

  Shiloh’s head bobbed up and down before he pushed back his chair. “You good folks are going to have to excuse me, but I’m going to hang out on the back porch. Please give me an hour, then I’ll be ready to go home.”

  Ian rose with him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Steady there, big brother.” Three pairs of eyes were fixed on the tall, broad-shouldered brothers as they made their way out of the kitchen.

  Gwen pulled her gaze from Shiloh’s retreating figure to find Moriah watching her. She lowered her head and pretended interest in the food on her plate. What, she wondered, had Shiloh’s mother read into his recuperating under her roof? Did she believe they were a couple when they weren’t?

  She and Shiloh were friends, and friends were expected to look out for each other in their time of need.

  CHAPTER 11

  Gwen walked into the building housing the offices of the Teche Tribune half an hour before she was scheduled to begin work. As agreed upon with Nash McGraw, she would work Tuesday and Wednesday. She planned to do her interviewing on Tuesday, and revise and submit her copy to Nash before four o’clock Wednesday. Ads and copy for the weekly were submitted to a local printer Thursday for Friday publication. Nash said the residents of St. Martin and the surrounding parishes looked forward to the Tribune for their weekend reading. The weekly, with its distinctive hometown flavor, was a refreshing alternative to the New Orleans-based Times-Picayune.

  She wanted to talk to Nash about an unsolved murder that had captured her interest once she began going through the back issues. Her need to uncover information on Gwendolyn Pickering was overshadowed by the 1964 murder of a high school prom queen.

  Nash’s gleaming silver head came up when she rapped lightly on his open door. “Good morning,” she said cheerfully.

  The editor’s blue eyes widened as if he hadn’t expected to see her. “Good morning, Gwendolyn. I’m glad you’re here early because I want to talk to you about that car accident that everyone in the parish has been talking about.” He beckoned her closer. “Come in and sit down.”

  Nash watched Gwendolyn Taylor as she walked into his office. He’d thought himself blessed when Shiloh had come to him with her name and mentioned that she was looking for part-time employment. Within minutes of searching her name through the Internet, he knew he’d struck the mother lode. Gwendolyn had written hundreds of articles, many of them syndicated in other papers throughout the country.

  During her interview, he felt she’d presented herself well. She was confident without being pretentious. She’d come to the interview wearing a business suit that would’ve been appropriate for a board meeting or an after-work dinner encounter. Today she wore a pair of black linen slacks and a delicate sky-blue linen shirt over a matching tank top, and despite her big-city sophistication she exuded a down-home style, which was certain to put those she interviewed completely at ease.

  “I’d like you to get as much information as you can regarding this horrific incident.” Horrific had come out in three distinctive syllables. “First I want you to interview Jimmie Jameson, who’s now filling in for Shiloh. Get what information you can from Shiloh, who was the first one on the scene, and the arresting officer. Then I need you to talk to anyone at the D.A.’s office to find out what they’re charging that boy with.

  “And, if you’re lucky I want you to talk to the boy’s folks.” Nash handed Gwen a piece of paper with the names and address of Willis Benton’s parents. “It might be a little difficult because Mr. Benton’s lawyer has cautioned him against speaking directly to the press.”

  “Why?”

  “Abraham Benton is a Washington lobbyist who prefers keeping a low profile.”

  Gwen opened her purse and removed a pad and pencil. “What’s his lawyer’s name?” She wrote down the information Nash gave her. “Let me see what I can uncover before we put out this week’s edition.”

  Nash rose to his feet at the same time she stood up. “Did you see your desk when you came in?”

  She went still, momentarily surprised with this disclosure because she thought she would be working from home. “No, I didn’t.”

  Rounding his cluttered desk, Nash cupped her elbow. “Come, let me show you where you’ll be working.”

  He led her down a hallway and opened the door to an office next to the advertising manager. The space was small and overlooked the front of the two-story building. French doors opened out to a grillwork-enclosed balcony.

  A desk, desk lamp, workstation with a computer, printer and fax machine, two two-drawer file cabinets and a well-worn cordovan-brown love seat completed what would become her home away from home for the two days she spent at the paper’s offices.

  Nash turned a small wood plaque over on the desk. “Welcome aboard.”

  Gwen’s smile was dazzling. The plaque read: Gwendolyn Taylor, Editor, Crime Desk. “I suppose it’s too late to back out now.”

  “If you try I’ll sue you for breach of a verbal contract.”

  She shook her head slowly. “Shame on you, Nash. I can’t believe a respected journalist of your caliber would have to resort to threats and intimidation to maintain his staff.”

  The editor flushed beneath his deep tan. “People resort to desperate measures during desperate times.” Nash’s eyes were cold despite the smile curving his mouth.

  Gwen looped the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. “That sounds like my cue to hit the bricks and get my story.”

  * * *

  “Thank you, Deputy Jameson, for agreeing to meet with me. I promise not to take up too much of your time.”

  Jimmie Jameson’s expression did not change when Gwendolyn Taylor was shown into his office. Now he knew why Shiloh was so taken with her. The profusion of black curls falling around her flawless face, large sparkling eyes, and her warm, inviting smile were captivating.

  He extended his hand. “I hope I can be of some assistance to you.”

  Gwen shook the acting sheriff’s hand. She’d done her homework on James Jameson. It was rumored that the former FBI special agent was certain to be elected sheriff in the next election.

  “Please sit down, Miss Taylor.”

  “Thank you.”

  Gwen placed a pocket-sized recorder on Acting Sheriff James Jameson’s desk before she sat down and pulled out a small notebook with the questions she wanted to ask regarding the accident that placed Shiloh on medical leave. She’d come to the station house as Gwendolyn Taylor, crime reporter for the Teche Tribune.

  Her head came up and she met the stare of the stocky man with a shaved head. His full, unlined face made it difficult to pinpoint his exact age.

  “What can you tell me about the automobile accident that occurred late Saturday afternoon that resulted in the loss of life for a family of four?”

  Jimmie focused on a photograph on a facing wall to bring his emotions under control. He was a husband, father and son and his heart ached when he had to inform the deceased’s next-of-kin of the tragedy.

  “Willis Raymond Benton has been charged with vehicular homicide and reckless endangerment in the deaths of Barry Edmondson, thirty-six, his wife, Selma, thirty-two, and their four-year-old twin daughters, Naomi and Ruth.”

  “Why reckless endangerment?” Gwen asked.

  “Mr. Benton’s blood alcohol was twice the state’s legal limit, and a subsequent toxicology report indicated a substantial amount of crystal meth. He became a suicide bomber the moment he got behind the wheel of his car.”

  “Has he been arraigned?”

  Jimmie nodded. “Yes.”

  “Has he been denied bail?” she asked.

  A look of hardness glittered in the deputy’s eyes. “No. The district attorney’s office asked he be remanded without bail, but Benton’s attorney argued that this is his first offense, and that he isn’t a flight risk.”

  “He’s out on bail?”

  Jimmie nodded. “His daddy posted a two-million-dollar bond. If Willis had been other than some fat c
at lobbyist kid he would never see the light of day.”

  Gwen leaned forward. “Are you telling me that you expect him to beat the charge?”

  “Charges,” Jimmie said, correcting her.

  “Okay,” she conceded. “Charges.”

  Jimmie gave Gwen a long, penetrating look. The tape recorder was running, and he didn’t want to say anything to compromise himself or the sheriff’s office. “We arrest, not prosecute, Miss Taylor. I suggest you ask Keith Nichols that question.”

  She remembered the A.D.A. she’d met at the Outlaw. “Has Mr. Nichols been assigned the case?”

  “I believe he has.”

  Gwen checked off her next question. “Can you give me any details of the accident?”

  “I can only tell you what I witnessed once I arrived on the scene. If you want a more detailed eyewitness account, then you’re going to have to talk to Sheriff Harper.”

  She closed her pad and stopped the tape recorder, putting both in her handbag. “Thank you, Deputy Jameson. You’ve been very helpful.”

  Jimmie stared at the profusion of curls that reminded him of a cluster of black grapes. “What I’m going to say to you is off the record.”

  Unconsciously, Gwen’s brown furrowed. When she’d covered the crime desk for the Gazette she’d gotten more information from police personnel off the record than on. She wasn’t certain what it was but apparently they sensed they could trust her with facts they hadn’t made known to other reporters. And they were right to trust her because she never leaked information or revealed her sources.

  “Okay,” she said in a quiet voice.

  “Willie Ray Benton will never step foot inside a prison.”

  Her lips parting in surprise, Gwen stared at the deputy. “Why would you say that? After all, he’s responsible for killing four people. And if Sheriff Harper hadn’t delivered Mrs. Edmondson’s baby, the count would be five. Didn’t you say he tested positive for alcohol and meth?”

  “The facts are inconclusive as to whether he was drinking and using drugs, but Bram Benton wields a lot of political power in Louisiana. Last year he was responsible for pork barrel appropriations totaling more than a billion dollars. There aren’t too many folk willing to incur Abraham Benton’s wrath or the loss of funds he throws their way if they send his boy to prison.”

  Jury tampering. The two words jarred Gwen with the same intensity as a sharp instrument colliding with the soft tissue under her fingernail. If Jimmie Jameson suspected what she thought, then it would be up to the district attorney’s office to request a change of venue to a district where most of the citizens weren’t aware of Benton’s political influence. But where, she wondered.

  Gathering her large leather handbag, she stood up. “I’ll think about what you’ve just told me off the record.”

  Jimmie pushed back his chair, his expression tight, solemn. “I’ll walk you out.”

  Gwen offered him her hand. “Thank you, Deputy Jameson.”

  A hint of a smile softened his firm mouth. “You’re welcome, Miss Taylor.”

  He walked her through the station house, ignoring the curious stares from those who made up the SMPD and several civilian employees. Gwendolyn Taylor was new to the parish, but after her byline appeared in the Tribune everyone would come to know her as the paper’s crime reporter and the current owner of Bon Temps.

  Gwen walked to her car in the parking lot adjacent to the building housing the SMPD, and using a remote device unlocked the doors. She slipped behind the wheel, but did not turn on the ignition. She had to make two calls and two visits before returning to the newspaper office.

  Retrieving her cell phone, she scrolled through the directory for the number she’d programmed before leaving the Tribune. She pushed the talk button, then waited.

  “St. Martin Parish District Attorney’s office.”

  She smiled when she heard the slight inflection peculiar to the region. Even though it had been more than two hundred years since the Acadians were exiled to southern Louisiana, when they said about it sounded like a boot.

  “I’m Gwendolyn Taylor, and I’d like to speak to A.D.A. Nichols.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Taylor, but Mr. Nichols is in court.”

  “May I leave a message for him?”

  “Yes. I’ll put you through to his voice mail.”

  Gwen left her name, cell phone number and the reason for her call. She pressed the End button, then dialed Shiloh’s cell phone. She smiled as she waited for him to answer.

  He’d left Bon Temps Sunday afternoon then called her from his brother’s house that evening. He said he preferred staying with Ian and Natalee because Moriah tended to treat his injury as if he were an ICU patient.

  Monday was the official observation of Memorial Day, and Natalee invited her to celebrate the holiday with the Harpers, but she’d declined. It was the first time since relocating that she felt like an alien in her own country. She was fifteen hundred miles away from her family and she missed her mother, father and her cousins. It took her a while to diagnose the feeling of abandonment and isolation as homesickness.

  A telephone call from her mother had become the highlight of the day. They’d talked for hours, Gwen disclosing what she’d uncovered about her mother’s favorite aunt. Paulette Taylor confessed that she’d wanted to become an actress like her aunt. However, Gwendolyn Pickering had strongly cautioned her niece about the pitfalls of the profession, and suggested the young girl consider a career in education. Now, at sixty-three, Paulette Taylor had two more years before she retired as a high school principal.

  Shiloh’s drawling voice coming through the tiny earpiece captured her attention. “Harper. Leave a message.”

  Gwen lifted her eyebrows. His voice mail message was so impersonal. “Sheriff Harper, this is Gwendolyn Taylor, from the Tribune. Please call me when you get this message. I’d like to interview you for this week’s Blotter. Thank you.”

  * * *

  Shiloh left the doctor’s office and activated his cell phone. The nurse had applied a soothing salve and covered his forearm with a breathable bandage. His prognosis was good: he could expect to return to full duty in two to three weeks.

  The dermatologist had offered to write another prescription for pain because the one he’d been taking elicited hallucinations despite not being a hallucinogenic. The opiate-derivative induced dreams filled with images of Gwen and babies. He didn’t want another prescription; he just didn’t want to experience the disturbing images.

  He had two voice-mail messages. The first was from Jimmie who informed him that the DEA agent was in place at the Outlaw, and that he could expect a call from a very pretty reporter from the Tribune.

  Shiloh smiled when he recognized the number of the second caller. His smile vanished quickly when he heard her voice with the distinctive Bostonian intonation. She’d identified herself as Gwendolyn Taylor. She’d reverted to being Miss Taylor, the haughty young woman who’d refused to get out of her car because she feared becoming gator bait.

  He planned to return Miss Taylor’s call, but only after he filed the prescription for the soothing salve that would speed the burn’s healing process.

  It was apparent she wanted to talk business, and what he wanted to talk to her about was anything but business.

  * * *

  Gwen slowed and stopped at the gatehouse to the private community. A uniformed guard slid back the window to his air-cooled space. She smiled. “Gwendolyn Taylor. Mr. Harper is expecting me.”

  The guard typed her name into an electronic device, waiting until her name appeared on a monitor. He pressed a button, and a wooden arm lifted. “Stay to your right, Miss Taylor. Mr. Harper’s residence is the last on the right.”

  She nodded. “Thank you.”

  Gwen wanted to tell the man that she knew where she was going. It hadn’t been two weeks since Shiloh brought her to his home yet it seemed more time had passed. So much had happened since the fateful night he’d come to her rescue
when she’d driven into the ditch.

  She wanted Shiloh not only to want her, but also to need her for more than a slacking of sexual frustration. He’d promised her honesty, respect and trust. What he hadn’t promised was love. At thirty-four she’d been engaged, had more than her share of blind dates, and the two physical liaisons she preferred to forget. However, none of the men in her past elicited the physical longing she felt whenever she and Shiloh Harper occupied the same space.

  Although gentle and soft-spoken, he oozed the coiled menace of a panther, and she’d come to believe she was attracted to him because of the latent danger. Why was it that most good girls found themselves drawn to bad boys?

  The very object of her erotic musings stood on the porch waiting for her. He wore a black tank top and pair of faded, tattered jeans that rode low on his slim hips, jeans that should’ve been discarded a long time ago. The dressing on his left arm was clearly visible as he crossed his arms over his chest.

  Gwen forced a smile as her pulse quickened. He appeared taller, more muscled, and virile, and the stubble on his jaw made her breath catch in her chest. Had she made a mistake, she asked herself, coming to his house to interview him when she should’ve asked him to come to the newspaper’s office?

  Pull it together, girl, she told herself as she parked behind Shiloh’s Mustang and cut off the engine. She couldn’t afford to fall apart because he looked good enough to eat. By the time she removed the key he’d moved off the porch and come over to open her door.

  Wrapping his uninjured arm around her waist, Shiloh pulled Gwen close to his chest. “Hey, you.”

  She smiled up at him. “Hey, yourself.”

  Lowering his head, he kissed her. He increased the pressure until her lips parted under his tender onslaught. “I’ve missed you.”

  A warming snaked through Gwen, settling in her middle. “Don’t be silly, Shiloh. It’s only been two days.”

  His gold-green eyes searched her face. “That’s two days too long.” His fingers tightened at her waist. “Come in out of the heat.” It wasn’t officially summer, but the heat, coupled with the humidity was oppressive.