“I'm sorry, but they would be worse off if there were no more trees out there to cut.”
“Joseph and my boys, they're careful. They leave the seed trees standing, just like Mr. Reid's daddy always used to say. They know how to notch a tree so it falls without tearing up everything left behind. They're good woodsmen — Joseph's daddy and granddaddy worked on logging crews back before there was such a thing as a chain saw. They know their jobs depend on taking care of the woods.”
“And what about the wildlife? The best time for cutting trees is the worse time for nesting birds.”
“They watch out for owl and woodpecker nests, and cut around them. Sometimes they make a mistake, and they hate that. It's sad, but these things are all through life.”
Cammie met the housekeeper's soft, dark eyes. “Sometimes these things get to be more than people — and trees and animals — can stand any longer. Then something has to be done.”
“The Good Lord knows that's true,” Lizbeth said with a shake of her head. “But if good-hearted folks would just get together, they could work it out. Don't you think?”
“It would be nice if they could,” Cammie said with a wry smile. “It would be more than nice, it would be wonderful. But not everybody has a good heart.”
“Now that's the living truth, and I can't deny it.”
The housekeeper had made her point, and did not try to keep Cammie any longer. As Cammie went on her way, however, the woman's words stayed with her. That personal glimpse into the problems of others was disturbing. It was one thing to know of such things in general, something else to come face-to-face with them.
Sympathy, in a case like this, was counterproductive. She couldn't let it affect her, any more than she could turn coward because not everyone approved of what she was doing. Knowing that didn't make it any easier to dismiss.
As usual, she found more than she needed at the garden center. She bought a half-dozen flats of impatiens, also a pink mandevilla vine for the gazebo and a pair of rose-colored hibiscus to go on either side of the back steps. It was growing dark by the time she pulled into her driveway again with her haul.
Persephone had left a plain dinner of a pot of fresh vegetable soup and a pan of corn bread. Cammie ate early. She wasn't really hungry, but knew she should eat; she'd skipped lunch without thinking about it.
She was putting her dishes in the dishwasher when the knock came. She turned on the porch light and glanced out around the door curtain before she opened the back door. The sheriff stood there, heavy and solid in the dimness.
“Sorry to bother you, Cammie,” Bud Deerfield said, touching a finger to his hat brim. “We had a call about a man being seen sneaking around the house here.”
“Tonight?” Her voice was blank with surprise.
“Just a few minutes ago. I was close by when the report came in, thought I'd check it out.”
Reid, of course. Or was it? She had thought he was too skilled to allow himself to be seen. It could be Keith again, in which case she might yet be grateful for the concern of nosy neighbors.
She stepped back, setting the door wide for her cousin to enter. “I'll be glad for you to look, but I haven't seen or heard a thing.”
“Count yourself lucky.” Bud wiped his feet on the mat with a deliberate gesture and stepped inside. He moved ahead of her down the hall, talking as he went. “Seems there's been a rash of prowlers in this neighborhood lately. At least three different widow women have been making life miserable for us, seeing men coming and going at all hours. It's mostly in their own yards, though.”
“Have you managed to find anybody?” Cammie frowned at his broad back as she followed him.
“Not so far. I'd have said it was this business with the Baylor girl has the widows upset, except it started before that happened.” He stepped into the living room, glanced around, then turned back toward the sun room.
“You think there's a connection?”
“Who knows?” His voice echoed back to her with a hollow sound as he made the circle from the sun room through the doorway leading out into the hall again. Passing her, he continued toward the front of the house once more. He swung around the newel post of the staircase and started up.
He found nothing, though he looked through closets and bathrooms, and, to be on the safe side, got down on his knees and peered under the beds. He went outside then, suggesting that she lock the door behind him and be sure and check her windows when he had gone. She saw him circling the house, skirting the edge of the lawn where it met the woods, poking his head into the gazebo and the garage.
Ten minutes later he was back at the door. Just because it had been a dry-water run didn't mean there was nobody around, he told her. All she had to do if she heard anything was give a holler. He'd have somebody out there again before she could get her foot back.
She waited until he was out of sight down the drive. Crossing her arms over her chest, clasping her elbows, she walked back down the hall. Standing in the foyer at the foot of the stairs, she called, “All right. You can come out now.”
Nothing. She felt a little foolish, but that made no difference if she was really alone. Some instinct told her she was not. And she didn't know which was more disturbing, the unbidden knowledge or the implication that she was so attuned to Reid that she could sense his presence. She turned slowly around where she stood, listening for sounds from upstairs, staring into dim corners.
“Reid?”
He materialized from out of the sun room, a shadow emerging from shadows. His footsteps were noiseless on the old floorboards, his movements easy yet alert. He stopped six feet away from her and stood waiting, poised.
She swallowed on the sudden tightness in her throat that she hadn't known was there. “How long have you been here?”
“Long enough.” The words were laconic. “I was coming to see you when the sheriff drove up and I saw you let him in the house. I thought I'd check into it before I showed myself.”
“How did you — why didn't Bud see you?”
“You two were making enough racket to cover the retreat of a regular platoon. All I had to do was stay a room or two ahead of you.”
“But if you could do that, then—”
“There's nobody else in here with us, take my word for it.” He smiled a little as he spoke, though the humor quickly faded. “And whoever your neighbors may have seen outside, it wasn't me.”
“Are you sure? I don't mean to doubt your word, but anybody can make a misstep.”
“Missteps and mistakes get you killed where I've been these last few years,” he said flatly.
If it hadn't been Reid out there, then who was it? Not Keith, surely; not after the night before. However, there was that other figure she thought she saw last week. She'd almost convinced herself it was Keith that time, but had never been entirely sure.
At least she could accept that Reid was telling the truth. There was no reason for him to lie, after all. It wasn't like the disappearance of Janet Baylor. There was reason and more for that.
His eyes, resting on her troubled face, were dark blue and trenchant. “What is it? More of my past sins coming back to haunt me?”
The urge to tell him what her aunt had said, and hear what he had to say in defense, was strong. Instead she said, “Have there been so many?”
“A few.” His face was somber as he gazed down at her. “Though if it's gory details you want, you'll have to try somewhere else.”
“No, thanks,” she said in clipped tones.
Turning from him, she moved back down the hall and into the kitchen. He hesitated, then trailed after her, but she paid scant attention. In the back of her mind she was trying to decide what she was going to do about tonight.
“Lizbeth told me you came by the house,” he said, propping against the counter with his hands in his pockets. “You could have saved yourself a trip. I was coming over anyway.”
She barely glanced at him. “I couldn't remember to hand over the robe whe
n you were around.”
“That's encouraging,” he said with a smile, then added, “actually, I thought maybe there was something special you wanted to talk about.”
She paused in wiping the countertop. “Such as?”
Irritation crossed his face as he said, “I don't know, Cammie. Any number of things: Keith, the mill, the missing papers, anything and everything that's on your mind. Or nothing at all, if you just wanted to see me. Hell, I can be optimistic every now and then.”
“I wouldn't advise it,” she said, the corners of her lips firm.
He lifted a hand to rake it through his hair. “All right, what is it now? What have I done, or not done, to put you in a snit?”
“Nothing,” she answered shortly, if without truth.
“No? Then why is it that every time we see each other, we have to start all over from scratch?”
She swung to face him. “What did you expect, that I would fling myself into your arms? Drag you into bed?”
“It would have been a nice change.”
“Forget it.”
“But I would settle for a welcome kiss.”
There was a firmness behind the steady light in his eyes that disturbed her. She said, “I'm not sure you're welcome.”
“Too bad. I'm here, with or without.”
“Why?” she demanded. “Why, when you know I don't want you?”
His smile was grim. “I am nothing if not constant.”
There was in the inflection of his words, and in their deliberate choice, a hint of meaning she could not quite grasp. Nor was she certain she wanted to.
She watched him with measuring eyes, remembering the moment in the early hours of the morning when she'd wakened in his arms. She had been lying tucked into the curve of his body, with her back to his chest. He hadn't been asleep, might never have slept at all. He lay with one arm holding her firmly against him and the fingers of his other hand in her hair. He was carefully straightening the silken mass, drawing it strand by strand across the pillow.
She'd felt so protected in that moment, so incredibly content. There had been a rightness in it like nothing she'd ever known. She had wanted to lie like that, unmoving, for the rest of her life.
It wasn't going to happen; he had as good as told her he was incapable of it. What choice did she have except to believe him? And wasn't that for the best, anyway, when it seemed that in her foolish fancies she had turned him into something he'd never been, something he could never be at all?
A considering look settled over his face. He said quietly, “You may not have wanted to talk to me, but there's something I wanted to say to you. If I could show you a way we both could come out ahead on the mill expansion, would you at least think about it?”
“Certainly,” she said in chill tones. “I'm not unreasonable.”
A muscle stood out in his jaw, but he went on without direct comment. “It's entirely possible to insert clauses in the purchase contract of the mill that would guarantee environmental controls. The Swedes could reject the terms, but I think they're anxious enough to establish a presence in this part of the country that they'll agree. It was always my intention to include certain safeguards. If you would like to add your input, others could be drafted. That's supposing I retain ownership. If it passes to you, then you'll do as you please. But it would still be a way to protect what's important to you while benefiting the community at the same time.”
Her gaze was wide as she considered his suggestion. Abruptly, she turned away. “What do I know about contractual clauses?”
“More than most, I expect, or you can at least learn. A lawyer would be required for the finer touches, of course.”
“Of course,” she echoed before she turned back to him. “Why are you doing this? And why has it taken so long for you to come up with it?”
“I'm doing it because — because it makes sense. As for the rest, I wanted to talk to the Swedes, find out for myself how committed they were to the deal before I started making problems.”
She laughed without amusement. “Meaning that if anything goes wrong with the contract negotiations, you can always snatch the clauses back out again for the sake of the money.”
“I'll fight for the things you believe in,” he answered without flinching, “but no, I won't jeopardize this town and the jobs of the people who live here for the sake of a few birds.”
He seemed so sincere, so right, so trustworthy. Yet he'd been seen with Janet Baylor on the day she disappeared. Both things could not be right.
She opened her mouth to ask for an explanation. At that moment Reid frowned, coming erect. Following his gaze, she saw through the window the flash of headlights sweeping over the side garden. It came from a car turning into the drive.
Reid lifted a brow in inquiry. Cammie shook her head; she was expecting no one.
The knock, when it sounded, was at the back. It was Bud Deerfield again.
It crossed Cammie's mind to wonder, as she pulled open the door, if someone might have seen Reid entering the house and called the police. An instant later she dismissed it. There was no point in being paranoid.
“Heavens, Bud, what now?” She was acutely aware that Reid had remained out of sight, hovering just inside the kitchen.
The look on the sheriff's face was troubled, and he took off his broad-brimmed felt hat, turning it around and around in his hands. “Cammie, I hate like hell to be the one to have to tell you this.”
“What is it?” She stepped forward, the better to see his craggy face. The silver star pinned on his shirtfront winked in the dim light that beamed out onto the porch.
“It's Keith, honey.”
“Is he hurt?”
“More than that. He's gone, honey. They just found him back in the game reserve. Coroner says it happened sometime this afternoon.”
She drew a quick, shocked breath before she said, “A car accident?”
Bud shook his head. “He was shot, a .357 magnum. They found it beside him.”
“He didn't — It wasn't… suicide?” The disturbance in her mind seemed to have so many causes, to come from so many questions and fears that it short-circuited her responses, leaving her numb.
Her cousin's face closed in and his manner suddenly became official. “No way. It was murder, pure and simple.”
15
CAMMIE STOOD WITH HER HAND ON THE DOORKNOB after Bud had gone. He'd wanted to find someone to stay with her, or else arrange some kind of sedative for her. She told him neither were necessary. Regardless, she felt odd, disoriented. She couldn't think what she should do.
Her first impulse was to go to Keith's mother's house. Her father-in-law had been dead some years, but she generally got along well with her mother-in-law — and knew the older woman would take this hard. Yet, it was possible that her own presence would seem an intrusion now, and a painful reminder of things best forgotten.
Keith, shot. It seemed such a foreign thing to happen in staid, ordinary Greenley.
Murdered. Keith. And Janet Baylor had disappeared.
What was happening here? The town had always had its share of Saturday night disturbances, family disputes, tragic accidents, and acts of desperation over fatal illnesses. But nothing like this.
Shot. In the game reserve.
She swung from the door and walked down the hall to the stairs. Mounting them, she moved into her bedroom and crossed to the bedside table. She opened the top drawer where she had put away the pistol she'd threatened Keith with so short a time ago, the .357 magnum Reid had returned to her.
It was gone. Of course.
Reid had followed her out of the kitchen, his footsteps quiet and even as he paced behind her. Now he leaned one shoulder against the door frame, watching her. She lifted her head to meet his gaze across the room.
His voice had a fretted edge as he said, “No, I didn't take it.”
She hadn't thought it. Or had she? Without conscious intent, she said, “Where were you this afternoon?”
Suspicion. It was an ugly thing. And a double-edged weapon.
She looked away from him abruptly, lowering her gaze. She pushed the drawer shut again and turned toward the center of the room. Stopping there in indecision, she clasped her hands across her waist and hugged her elbows against the chill inside her.
Reid watched her for long moments. Finally, he spoke in soft consideration. “Even if you did it, something I find hard to accept, I wouldn't blame you. I would assume, after seeing Keith hit you, that you had your reasons.”
She looked up, and her startled gaze was snared and held by the clear expression in his eyes. Her voice a little hoarse, she said, “You might have had your reasons, too.”
“For which you absolve me?” He tilted his head, his features intent.
“I'm not sure.”
“No,” he said in acceptance. “Unlike you, I can have no claim to extenuating circumstances. For me, there would be no excuse.”
“And what if your reasons had more to do with what you thought I needed than your own motives?”
“You think I might have killed him for your sake?” His eyes narrowed slightly at the corners as he asked it.
“It seems possible.”
The quiet gathered around them, hovering, as they watched each other. Then he inclined his head in abrupt agreement. “I might have at that, if I'd known you wanted it.”
Truth. She knew it when she heard it. But was it whole or only partial? Had he, or hadn't he?
The terrible thing was, the answer made no difference to the swift and primitive gratification that radiated through her. She stifled it the instant she recognized what it was, but she could only deny it. What kind of woman was she that she could be pleased by a man's willingness to kill for her? She did not dare think.
Shameless (The Contemporary Collection) Page 22