The McKenna Legacy Trilogy

by Patricia Rosemoor

  "This is Skelly McKenna," the woman began, “and I'm Rosalind Van Straaten. I believe you knew my grandmother. Lily Lang."

  Since there was no point in being anything but truthful, he said, “You look like her."

  "So I've been told."

  "Not that I knew her well." He faced the lout whose visage was nearly as familiar. “McKenna...Skelly McKenna...hmm, where...I have it! You're on that afternoon news magazine show, aren't you?"

  "The Whole Story. You also know my father, Raymond McKenna."

  Now that took him by surprise. “You're Ray's boy? Well, now." Walt's mind spun wondering how he could use that information to his advantage. Ray McKenna had never quite warmed up to him, but they were connected by the same political party. That counted for something. “You give your daddy my best."

  "I'll do that. And I hope you can do something for me, as well." The reporter glanced at Lily's granddaughter. “I mean for us."

  "Name it."

  "Roz is a little upset with me because I did a follow-up story on her grandmother's escape from prison."

  "Follow-up?" So the reporter was keeping his inquisition low-key. Two could play the same game. “But that had to be some twenty-odd years ago."

  "Thirty this week," Rosalind said.

  Though he didn't appreciate being corrected, Walt gave her a rueful smile. “The years do get away from a person."

  "Roz doesn't think Lily killed Frank Sullivan. “And with a casual shrug, McKenna added,” I promised I would take this weekend to ask around, see if I could dig up anything that justifies her position."

  He said this like he was only playing at investigating to pacify the woman – because he wanted her? – but Walt wasn't so sure he believed that. As he well knew from decades of personal experience, reporters could be as crafty as politicians when it came to winning.

  He steepled his fingers and stared down the other man. “And how does that involve me?"

  "You worked for Sullivan. We thought you might remember some of his colleagues...and adversaries. Anyone with a grudge. Or a reason to be jealous."

  "Thirty years is nearly half a lifetime."

  "But a man was murdered," Rosalind reminded him, as if he could ever forget. “Surely you must have had some speculations of your own at the time."

  "An ambitious man always makes enemies. Frank was no exception. But murder as a solution to political disagreement? If that were the case, I would hate to think of how many times I might have been killed over the years."

  "Whatever you say stays with us," the reporter promised. “I protect my sources."

  As if tabloid reporters had integrity. But determined to seem agreeable and cooperative, Walt frowned and struck a thoughtful pose.

  "I do remember a couple of men who didn't like Frank for one reason or another. State Representative Richard Hardy, God rest his soul, was very ambitious, and always in Frank's shadow. And John Melling was relieved of a prestigious appointment after an investigation by a committee Frank headed. Melling made some vague threats when he left Springfield, but no one took him seriously."

  McKenna was busy scribbling in a small notebook. “This Melling, is he still alive?"

  "As far as I know."

  "Where can we find him?"

  Yearning to know what was in that little black book, especially any entries specifically about him, Walt had to force his attention on the conversation. “I believe Melling was originally from Rockford, but I'm afraid he's someone I've had no reason to keep up with."

  "If we don't succeed here," the woman told the reporter, “on the way back to Chicago, we can stop in Rockford to track down John Melling."

  Why couldn't the two of them go on a wild goose chase and get out of his hair now? Walt wondered, seething inside. Why had they chosen to open this Pandora's Box even as the gubernatorial race was gearing up? He was in the spotlight nearly every moment, for God's sake. He didn't need to deal with any more damage control.

  Rosalind leaned forward. “How well did you know Frank Sullivan personally?"

  "Frank was more than a dozen years older and a whole lot more sophisticated than I was way back then. We didn't run in the same social circles."

  "You mean with my grandmother."

  "I meant anyone with money."

  "Then you wouldn't know whether or not he had any personal enemies?"

  "Other than your grandfather?"

  Rosalind blanched and fell back into her chair. That shut her up. And it brought out McKenna's protective instincts, Walt noticed. The reporter slipped a hand over hers and gave it a squeeze. A friendly squeeze? Or something more intimate? He made a mental to note to remember that.

  "Any other thoughts?" the reporter asked him in a tight voice.

  His own patience stretched, Walt spread his hands and shrugged. And when his interrogators rose, he took his first deep breath since the cross examination had begun.

  "Thank you for your cooperation," Rosalind said. “Please call me if you think of anything else that might be helpful."

  "Of course, my dear." A brilliant idea striking him, Walt let them get to the door before he said, “Wait a minute. I do remember something else." He gazed at Skelly McKenna. “Professional privilege?"

  "You've got it."

  "Frank did have an ongoing dispute with a local businessman over zoning."

  "Someone who still lives in the Galena area?"

  "Indeed. His name is..." Walt paused for dramatic effect, so he would seem torn about revealing the man's identity. Having done the bastard a big favor, he never had felt that he'd received equal compensation in return. “His name is Anthony Cavillo."

  STILL STINGING FROM THE COMMENT about her grandfather, Rosalind waited until they were well away from Rogowski's office before asking, “So what do you think?"

  "That we're on the right trail."

  "What about Walt Rogowski himself? Do you suppose he knows anything he didn't tell us?"

  "Hard to say. He's real slick."

  "I didn't like him, either."

  Skelly gave her a surprised look. “At least we agree on something."

  She hadn't thought they'd disagreed on much since he'd consented to help her. Their squabbles basically reflected their continuing struggle for authority rather than on how to proceed or what to think about whom.

  "I assume we're agreed that we need to get to Cavillo as soon as possible," she said.

  "Okay. So we agree on two things."

  Rosalind spotted a store that had a public telephone. “I'm going to find out if the car is ready."

  When she picked up her pace, Skelly said, “You're limping again."

  So she was. “But not badly."

  "Not yet."

  He put a hand on her arm to slow her, reminding Rosalind of the way he'd touched her in the politician's office. Her pulse quickened. Either Skelly was protecting her...soothing her...or seeing to her hurts.

  She stopped dead in her tracks.

  What kind of a business relationship was that?

  Though she'd tried her best to put it out of mind, she recalled the way she'd gotten to her bedroom the night before. “Are you going to carry me up those stairs, too?" she asked, indicating the ones built into the hill.

  "Depends on how badly you want me to." Skelly's wicked grin dimpled his cheek.

  Ignoring the thrill that shot straight through her, she tartly answered, “Depends on how much you irritate me in the next few minutes."

  Skelly snorted and their gazes met. Rosalind realized she was grinning idiotically. Worse, her heart was thumping for absolutely no reason...that was...no reason other than her locking wits with a man who'd wormed his way through her defenses. She was finding it difficult to remember they'd ever been adversaries.

  "Here." He shoved his hand into his jacket pocket and whipped out his cellular phone. “Make that call."

  A nearby bench was available, so Rosalind took a seat and punched in the number. Jarvis answered. To her disappointment, h
e told her the Thunderbird wouldn't be ready for a couple of hours. The kid he'd sent to Dubuque to fetch a part was only on his way back now. Discouraged at being stopped cold for the moment – they'd been on a roll so far – she shared the bad news with Skelly.

  "So we'll have lunch, then hang around Lang House."

  Unable to think of a better proposal, she contented herself with choosing the place to eat. Barely an hour later, when Skelly suggested they call a taxi, she insisted on walking. A course she soon came to regret. Though she negotiated the steep staircase with care, barely feeling a dull ache in her foot, the ache eventually turned into an annoying twinge.

  Which Skelly observed. “You really are limping."

  Exhausted both by the climb and the soaring mid-day heat, she conceded her mistake. “I guess a taxi would have been the thing."

  Skelly removed his jacket and hooked the garment over one shoulder. Perspiration glued his silk T-shirt to his chest. He might have been half-naked, Rosalind thought, mesmerized.

  "Maybe you'll listen to me next time."

  Expression intent, he shifted the jacket into one arm and came at her as if he meant to scoop her up in his arms and carry her uphill. She reacted by instinct, placing a hand square against his damp, hot chest.

  "Don't even think about it," she warned. “You'll regret the hernia by the time we get to the front steps, and then you'll be blaming me for the demise of your manhood. It's only another block. I'll survive."

  "Hey, you're the boss," he said with a straight face.

  Feeling his heart palpating against her palm, not to mention the wet heat of exertion, she snatched her hand away, grumbling, “Remember that."

  Grateful when they reached the grounds, Rosalind noticed no cars sat in the parking area. Grandfather and Aunt Hilary were both out for the day. She limped up the walkway, hobbled up the steps and threw herself into one of the flower-cushioned wicker porch chairs. Skelly tossed his jacket onto another chair, grabbed a third, twirled it around and sat facing her.

  This time, a bit self-conscious beneath his gaze, she was the one to draw off her shoe and sock. Her ankle and foot weren't even half as puffy as they had been the night before. Carefully, she tested them, rotating and stretching. Barely a twinge.

  "Not too bad."

  "Let me see."

  On alert when Skelly reached for her leg, she stiffened. He lightly grasped her calf and ankle and guided her resisting foot into his lap.

  "Roz, loosen up."

  How could she when warning signals were going off inside her head. “This is as loose as I get."

  Glancing at her through thick black lashes, he murmured, “Now why don't I believe that?"

  Rosalind grew even more flustered as his hand slid beneath her pants' leg toward her calf. The thrill of his touch didn't stop there, but kept traveling all the way up her leg. She failed to ignore the sensation. He gently massaged her calf muscles, and ever-so-slowly worked his way down to the heel of her foot.

  "That's not where it hurts," she finally protested. Though he was creating an ache of a very different kind in her, it wouldn't do to elaborate.

  Repeating the disturbing maneuver, he asked, “Haven't you ever had a massage before?"

  "Of course. I'm opening a day spa in two weeks, for heaven's sake." Though she hadn't give her business a thought since she'd left Chicago. “I'm personally familiar with all the services we're going to offer."

  "Then you should know how important it is to relax the muscles around the injured area first."

  Theory was one thing, practice another. She wasn't relaxing at all. Now he was working on her heel. Squeezing. Pressing. Making her antsy.

  Trying to sound natural, she asked, “What makes you such an expert?"

  "My sister Aileen is a massage therapist. She taught me some of her tricks."

  "And I'll bet you take every available opportunity to use them."

  "If I can be of help...” He shrugged modestly and attended to her arch. “I remember that time last year when Ursula foolishly miscalculated the difficulty of a jump and banged herself all the way down..."

  Down where? Rosalind wondered. Some ski slope? Visions of Ursula the bikinied ski-bunny intruded.

  "No broken bones or anything," Skelly continued. His thumbs were probing the ball of her foot now – her weakness. “But it would have been a miracle if she'd come out of the accident unscathed."

  Part of her was turning into a lump of putty in his hands...while the sane part had every intention of putting an end to his subtle manipulation. Somehow, she couldn't manage getting up and running into the house as she'd like.

  Trying to retain a cool facade, she forced herself to say, “And you ministered to poor Ursula's needs."

  "Of course. I laid her out on the table and went over her entire body, inch by inch. Her spine. The back of her neck. Her limbs."

  Imagining him doing the same to her, Rosalind squirmed in her chair. “I get the picture."

  "She especially liked it when I worked on her toes."

  He demonstrated, one toe at a time, gently squeezing the tips and working his way down. Then he advanced along the sides of her foot toward her ankle. Finally, he arrived at the injured area, but when he touched her, the twinges were all pleasurable ones.

  "Ursula was so pleased that she flipped onto her back and offered me her tummy."

  An image she didn't want to conjure. “Don't hold your breath," she muttered.

  Though each stroke was seducing her into an altered state of mind.

  Rosalind felt as if Skelly were making love to her in full view of anyone who might pass by. Embarrassed as she might be, she was also glued to her chair.

  "Yep, you should have heard her purr in appreciation."

  Purr?!

  "As in Ursula the cat?"

  "Last time I looked. I was house-sitting for Aileen and took Urs outside for some fresh air. The poor darling got herself up onto a garage roof and came down the wrong way." Skelly's blue eyes twinkled as he innocently asked, “Why? What did you think I was talking about?"

  "Exactly what you wanted me to."

  Straightening in her chair, Rosalind pulled her foot free and glared into his fraudulent expression. At the moment, he was working on innocent. Ursula the ski bunny, indeed. He'd done it to her again, inveigled her with one of his stories. Undoubtedly the other tales, while having some grain of truth, had been twisted to suit his purposes, as well.

  "Charlatan," she muttered under her breath, glad she was finally wise to him. Somehow, she'd find a way to give as good as she got. “I think I'd better get that ice."

  "Need some cooling down, do you?"

  Rosalind repressed the desire to eradicate that smug smile from his lips. “Oh-h-h...get over yourself!"

  She swiped her shoe and sock from the porch floor, popped out of the chair and over to the door. Breaking the close connection gave her a sense of triumph disproportionate to the simple action.

  After glancing at his watch, Skelly followed suit, retrieving his jacket, though he seemed to be heading for the steps rather than the door.

  "We probably have another hour to kill," he said. “Why don't you lie down, get some rest?"

  She realized he didn't mean to come inside. “What about you?"

  "I'm going for a walk."

  "You haven't stretched your legs enough for one day?"

  "I thought about getting a good look at the neighborhood. While it's still light."

  The simply-stated intention held sinister overtones. Hence, her “The door will be locked," came out sounding more like a threat than a point of information.

  Skelly didn't seem to notice. He was already scoping out the area to the north and west. “I can manage the bell." He gave her a distracted smile and indicated the front door. “Well, go ahead. What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn't see you safe inside?"

  Any retort died at his safe. He didn't think she was. Underneath all her bravado, she didn't think she was,
either, Rosalind realized. Then again, neither was he.

  "And who's going to watch over you?" she asked.

  He parted his suit jacket, giving her a glimpse of the cell phone. “I can always dial 9-1-1, ma'am."

  He made her smile. And relax.

  "Don't get lost," she warned anyway.

  But once inside, Rosalind realized the only thing that made her feel truly safe was being near Skelly.

  Chapter Eight

  "A MAN CAN'T EVEN READ his newspaper in peace," Orville Galt grumbled to himself.

  Rising, arthritic fingers hanging onto the section containing the Police Blotter, he opened the door. A sultry summer breeze swept over him. The man on the other side appeared hot and winded, but Orville was glad to be wearing a flannel shirt.

  Squinting over his dime store half-moon glasses at the familiar face, he asked, “Can I help you?"

  "You can if you're Orville Galt, retired sheriff."

  "Don't tell me I won some kinda sweepstakes." He poked his head out the door and peered around. “Nope. No Prize-mobile." Then he inspected the TV tabloid reporter more closely. “And if you're tryin' to sell me brushes, you forgot your sample case."

  "I'm Skelly McKenna from The Whole Truth."

  "Hm, so you are."

  "Could you spare a few minutes to talk to me?"

  "I'll prattle to anyone who'll listen. Keeps me from makin' friends with the walls. C'mon in if you don't mind the mess. Can't afford a cleaning lady more'n once a month and it's darn near that now."

  His place was tired-looking like him, magazines and books stacked on every horizontal surface, but it was home. He closed the door and claimed his La-Z-Boy.

  "Place hasn't been the same since Agatha died." Orville added the newspaper to the growing pile next to his recliner. “Keeping up with chores has never been my strong suit."

  "But I gather law enforcement was."

  "Forty-odd years." With a resigned sigh, he removed the magnifying glasses and set them down on a rickety occasional table. “But that's enough small talk. Sit and let's get down to business."

  Springs squealed in protest and the middle cushion sagged alarmingly when the reporter took the couch. He slid to one side where he hung onto the arm to keep from being swallowed whole.