by Sharon Sala
Sarah’s hands were shaking as she clutched the box to her chest.
“Thank you, Mr. Weatherly.”
“You’re welcome, child,” he said, then dusted his hands down the front of his overcoat and nodded to Tony. “I’ll be running along now. Take care, and I’m sure everything is going to work out. Truth, like cream, always rises to the top, you know.”
Tony looked at Sarah, who seemed on the verge of tears again.
“Been a hell of a day, hasn’t it, kid?”
She lifted her chin. “Better than I expected,” she muttered. “I’m ready to go home if you are.”
“You bet,” Tony said.
Minutes later they were headed out of town. Sarah sat buckled in her seat belt, holding the box in her lap as if it were a bomb.
Nine
“I’ll get the groceries. You go on in,” Tony said as he unlocked the door.
Gratefully, Sarah hurried inside, carrying the box up the stairs and into her room. She dropped it on the bed and then stepped back, staring at the brown paper wrapping and the dusty string with which it was bound, wondering what other ghosts she would find inside. It had been excruciating to sit in front of the sheriff and go through the pitiful remnants that had been with her father’s body. Would this be any easier? She didn’t think so. There was no way of knowing what personal bits of his life he’d kept at work, but whatever they were, it was going to hurt to see them.
Instead of opening the box immediately, Sarah backed away and began taking off her coat. She hung it up, then headed to the bathroom and busied herself in there for almost five minutes before she ran out of things to do. When she came out, the box was still on her bed. It was a small box. Certainly not of a size to hold anything of much importance, and still she hesitated. The longer she stood, the weaker her knees became. She’d gone through life keeping her emotions to herself, but this, on top of everything else she’d endured during the past few days, was about to take her down.
Just as she was contemplating calling her aunt Lorett, Tony appeared in her doorway. She looked up at him, unaware that every emotion she was feeling was there on her face for him to see.
Whatever Tony had meant to say was forgotten. He’d stood by for days, watching Sarah suffering alone, staying at arm’s length because that was what she wanted. But no more.
He moved. Within seconds, Sarah was in his arms. He bent his head, brushing the side of her cheek with his mouth. When she stiffened, he cupped her cheeks and tilted her chin, making her face him.
“Don’t fight me, Sarah. Please, don’t fight me now. You may not need this, but I damn sure do.”
Sarah saw his mouth coming closer—felt the warmth of his breath on her face—and gave herself up to the inevitable.
Tony’s lips were firm and warm, pressing gently, then insistently, against her mouth. His arms enfolded her, pulling her close against his body. She felt him shudder, heard him groan beneath his breath, and knew that she, too, was losing control. But instead of pushing him away, she slid her arms around his waist and clutched at the back of his sweater with both hands, trying to pull him closer.
Suddenly he tore his mouth away from her lips, lifted her off her feet and laid her down on the bed. Her soft cry of passion was lost in the shuffle of body against body.
Tony’s heart was racing, his body yearning for a joining with the woman beneath him, and even so, he wouldn’t take advantage of her vulnerability. Not this way. Not until she gave him the word. He paused in the act of undoing her blouse and kissed the hollow at the base of her throat before leaning back on one elbow for a perfect view of her face.
Her skin was flushed and damp, her eyelids fluttering softly as she teetered on the brink of promised ecstasy. He traced the shape of her lips, feeling the satiny softness of her skin. When she suddenly opened her mouth and drew the tip of his finger between her teeth, his eyes narrowed dangerously.
“Sarah…sweet God, woman, I’m not made of steel. If you want this to stop, you’re going to have to say so now.”
Sarah shivered beneath his dark, all-knowing gaze, aware that with one move, he could take her to heaven, but then what?
“Silk…?”
He nuzzled the side of her neck. “What, baby? Say it and it’s yours.”
“I know what I want…but, God help me, I’m afraid.”
“Of me?”
She winced. The shock on his face was her doing, but how to explain?
“Not of you, of what you’ll do to my self-control. If I lose that, I don’t think I’ll be able to finish what I came to do.”
He stopped, his hopes plummeting while his body still pulsed. As much as he wanted her, he understood.
“It’s okay, Sarah…it’s okay. We just went too fast.”
Then he buried his face in the curve of her neck and stifled a groan. Whether she knew it or not, she’d said the magic word. He could bear anything but causing her fear.
“Lord help me,” he muttered, levering himself up and away, then rolled off the bed and left her room without looking back.
Sarah had asked for this, and yet the moment Tony left her alone on the bed, she couldn’t believe he was gone. She felt chilled and empty, yearning for a fulfillment that wasn’t going to happen. When she rolled over on her stomach and looked up, she realized the box Harmon Weatherly had given her was still there, pushed up to the headboard and half-buried beneath a mound of pillows. Angry with herself and her cowardice, she grabbed the box and set it on the bedside table. Yesterday she hadn’t even known it existed. It could damn well wait a while longer to be opened. Right now, she needed to make amends with Tony before it was too late.
She crawled off the bed and ran down the hall to his room, but the door was closed. Inside, she could hear the sound of running water and knew he was probably in the shower—and a cold one at that. Her shoulders slumped as she turned away.
“Well, so much for that big idea,” she muttered, and took herself down the stairs before she did something completely foolish, like joining him.
Annabeth Harold was fussing with a doily beneath a bowl of nuts she’d just placed on the sideboard. It was Tuesday night and her turn to host their weekly card game, and she was pulling out all the stops. The doily was hand-crocheted—one of her great-grandmother’s hand-me-downs that had gone into her hope chest when she was sixteen. It was a bit yellowed with age, but the workmanship was exquisite, and she liked to show it off. Tiny Bartlett always noticed such things, and Annabeth was just prideful enough to want it seen.
She dusted off the front of her dress, then inspected her manicure, although neither was in need of the attention. Next she glanced up into the mirror, making sure her hair was in place and her collar was lying flat. The girls would start arriving at any moment and she didn’t want to be caught looking as if she had fussed. The key to proper fashion was to look good without appearing as if it had taken all day to get that way.
Just as she started to the kitchen, the doorbell rang. Pivoting sharply, she strode purposefully into the foyer, remembering to smile as she opened the door. It was Marcia Farrell, looking as elegant as always.
“Marcia, do come in from this awful chill.”
Marcia shrugged out of her coat and hung it on the hall tree, as she’d done so many times before, then sniffed the air in appreciation.
“Mmm, Annabeth, something smells yummy. I do hope you’ve made some of your famous sausage cheese balls. I adore them.”
Annabeth smiled primly. “Yes, actually, I did. I was on my way into the kitchen to take them out of the oven.”
Marcia waved her away, smiling gaily. “Then don’t let me stop you. I’ll make myself at home until the others arrive.”
“The television is on, although I haven’t paid much attention to the programming. Have a seat near the fireplace, and I’ll be back in a jiff.”
She started to leave, then paused. “If the others arrive while I’m out in the kitchen, let them in, will you?”
/> “Sure thing,” Marcia said, and headed for the living room in haste, anxious to claim the best chair nearest the fire.
A short while later, both Tiny Bartlett and Moira Blake had made their appearance and Annabeth was on her way into the living room with a tray of snacks when she heard the women gasp and then squeal. At the same time, Tiny yelled, “Annabeth! Annabeth! Get in here fast!”
Annabeth dashed into the living room, only slightly disgruntled that her planned appearance had been dashed, and set the tray down on the sideboard.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. When Tiny waved her toward the TV, she hurried to where the trio had gathered around the television set.
“Look! It’s that Whitman girl…she’s on TV. Oh! That looks like Dewey Francis in that passing car,” Tiny squealed. “My word! I do believe he’s gone and traded that Cadillac off after all.”
Marcia frowned. “Good grief, Tiny, Dewey’s new car is not what’s important!”
“Hush,” Moira said. “Let’s hear what Sarah Whitman is saying.”
“It can’t be anything good,” Annabeth said. “She’s very bitter, you know.”
Moira’s eyes saddened. “Can you blame her?”
No one wanted to admit that Sarah Whitman had any grounds for complaint, so they listened in silence, their focus centering on Sarah as she mentioned waiting for her father’s remains to be released. Marcia shuddered and leaned back against her chair. She didn’t like to think about dying. It was so…final.
But it wasn’t until they heard Sarah say she would not give up until her father’s killer was brought to justice that all four women gasped, then stared at each other with their mouths agape.
“Can you believe that?” Marcia asked. “What does she think she is…some hotshot detective? I can’t believe they actually aired that. It makes it sound like we’re harboring a murderer in our midst.”
Moira sat silently, remembering Franklin Whitman. He’d been a nice man to work for and so crazy about his family. What had happened to that family was a shame. Conscience bade her at least speak up on his behalf, whether she agreed with Sarah Whitman’s behavior or not.
“Well,” Moira said, “Frank obviously did not put himself in that horrible trunk and throw himself into Flagstaff Lake.”
There was a moment of shocked silence, and Annabeth’s face reddened.
“That’s beside the point!”
“Not to Franklin it wasn’t,” Moira muttered.
Annabeth pointed toward the television and Sarah’s face, as if she could make herself heard through the TV.
“I don’t like it! I don’t like it at all. This will do nothing but dredge up things better left alone.”
“It’s too late,” Tiny moaned. “Everything is going to be just awful again. I certainly hope that Sarah Whitman isn’t crazy like her mother. I mean…killing herself and all. What was she thinking? Certainly not about her child.”
Annabeth’s nose wrinkled in disapproval. “She was always unstable. I remember when her daughter was born, she took to her bed for almost a month.”
Considering the fact that Marcia’s aunt had been a nurse at the hospital, she felt obliged to explain.
“Well, in all fairness, Catherine had a very rough delivery, as I recall. She was in labor for over twenty-four hours, and then they finally performed a C-section to deliver the baby, that’s why she was so long in healing.”
Annabeth frowned. She didn’t like being corrected. “Still, she wasn’t from here. Lord only knows what she was into before Franklin met her. She grew up down South in Louisiana, you know. And remember the black woman who came and took Sarah Whitman away? Land’s sake, can you imagine giving your child to a woman like that to raise?”
“I didn’t see anyone else offering,” Moira said briefly, and then turned off the television, hoping to change the subject.
Tiny helped her by squealing, “Are those your famous sausage balls I smell?”
Annabeth smiled and moved toward the sideboard, where she’d set down the tray.
“Among other things,” she said. “Please, help yourselves.”
“Goody,” Tiny said. “I’m starving.”
“Take your plates to the card table,” Annabeth said. “There’s plenty of room to snack while we play.”
A few minutes later the four women were deep into a rousing game of poker while discussing the merits of sharp cheddar cheese as opposed to mild.
They laughed, and they played cards as always, but this time there was an underlying threat to their lives that had not been there before. The orderly existence that gave Marmet its charm had been disturbed in a mighty way. As the self-appointed pillars of Marmet society, they felt obliged to put it to rights, only not tonight. Tonight belonged to sausage balls, fellowship and drawing a good straight.
The Marmet matrons weren’t the only residents who’d taken umbrage at Sarah Whitman’s interview. Paul Sorenson had been enjoying a quiet evening at home before the fire, absently listening to the evening news while reading his mail. The day had been busier than usual, and he was heartily glad that it was nearly over. Today had been meeting day for the board of directors, and it had gone quite well; then he’d come home, had a nice dinner and settled down by the fire. But after hearing the Whitman interview, his good nature was gone.
He tossed the paper aside and got up from his chair with some discomfort, lightly cursing his latest attack of gout as he hobbled to the phone. Normally he didn’t meddle in public affairs, limiting his concerns to money rather than politics, but this was different. Sheriff Gallagher was up for reelection next spring. It was time to remind him of that fact.
Ron Gallagher was still at the office when the dispatcher yelled at him from the other room.
“Hey, Sheriff, phone call for you on one.”
“Okay, thanks,” Ron called, and picked up the phone.
“Sheriff Gallagher.”
“Ron…Paul Sorenson, here. Have you seen the evening news?”
“No. I just got back into the office. There was an accident on the logging road up north. Why?”
“That Whitman woman is making waves. What are you going to do about it?”
Ron frowned. “What do you mean?”
Sorenson was almost sputtering. “She’s threatening the people of Marmet, that’s what I mean. Her vow to find her father’s killer makes it appear as if we’ve knowingly been harboring criminals. I want it stopped.”
Ron’s first instinct had been to tell Sorenson to mind his own business. However, he took a deep breath, giving himself time to temper his words.
“Look, Paul, last time I checked, there was a clause in our national constitution that gives us freedom of speech, so unless she’s slandering someone, she’s perfectly free to say what she chooses. As for finding her father’s killer, I intend to do just that. Someone did kill him. And someone’s gotten away with it for more than twenty years. I’m thinking it’s about time some justice is due that family.”
Sorenson flushed. He didn’t like to be thwarted.
“You make too many waves about this business and you’ll find it damned hard to get yourself reelected next spring.”
Now Ron was really ticked. “Is that a threat?”
Sorenson blustered through what should have been an apology. “Of course not. Why would I feel the need to threaten you?”
“That’s just what I was wondering,” Ron said. “And since we’re talking, I’ll let you know ahead of time that I will be investigating anyone whose position has improved noticeably in the last twenty years.”
Sorenson’s heart skipped a beat. “What the hell do you mean?”
“I would think it’s obvious,” Ron said. “Since it’s quite clear that Frank Whitman didn’t spend the missing million, someone else did.”
“You can’t be accusing me?”
“I’m not accusing anyone…yet.”
Stunned that his phone call had backfired, Paul Sorenson hung up without another wo
rd. He stood at the desk, staring about the room and thinking of the elegance of his home and all that he had accumulated. His eyes narrowed angrily, giving his face a porcine appearance as he contemplated what he’d just been told. He hadn’t sacrificed all these years just to have it taken away, and certainly not by some woman who didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. But she knew things about him that no one else did. Something had to give.
Tony picked up another chunk of wood and put it on the chopping block, then reached for the ax. The wood had been curing since last fall and was properly seasoned enough to burn in his fireplace, but he’d neglected to split it. Now he was glad he had something to do to get him out of the house.
The jarring thud of steel against solid wood ricocheted from his hands to his shoulders, then down to his toes. It had been months since he’d given himself such a vigorous workout, and it still might not be enough to make him forget how close he’d come to making love to Sarah. Not that he wanted to forget. But for Tony, when a woman said no, that was the end of that, no matter what he wanted.
He continued to chop, splitting the firewood and then stacking it aside, and made himself focus on the woodsy scent of newly split logs, thinking how great it would be to sit by a nice fire. Then his mind wandered. Maybe he would open a bottle of wine, get some cheese and crackers and…and Sarah? Where had she come from? She wasn’t supposed to be in this fantasy. Not unless he wanted to spend the night in another cold shower.
“Hell’s bells.”
He gave the ax one last swing, splitting the wood on the block into halves, then stacking it with the rest. Once he was through, he carried the ax back to the small storage shed next to his house and hung it on the wall.
It wasn’t until he came out of the shed that he realized how weary he was. But it was a good kind of tired. The satisfaction of knowing that what he’d done would provide heat for his home. Even though there was central heat and air in the house, there was something satisfyingly primal about man making fire to keep himself warm.