Still Waters33

by Tami Hoag

  “Elizabeth.” She turned and looked at him expectantly, and whatever words he had thought might come to him didn’t. Watching Yeager with Jo had stirred something in him. A need to reach out. A loneliness he had ignored for years. A weakness, he thought, crushing it out ruthlessly. “Do you want me to follow you? Make sure you get home all right?”

  Elizabeth almost winced at the sting of disappointment. What did you expect, sugar—a declaration like the one Jolynn got? “No. Thanks. You caught your killer. What could happen?”

  Dane watched her walk away. He didn’t want to need a woman, any woman, but especially not Elizabeth. He didn’t need her poking at him, stirring up doubts about himself or this case or this town—

  No. That wasn’t true. She was making him take a look at himself. It wasn’t her fault if he didn’t like what he saw. She had said he was lazy, that he wanted things neat and easy. He had countered by calling her ambitious and labeling her another Tricia. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Tricia would have found a way to keep her hooks in Brock Stuart, regardless of how many women he went through. Tricia would never have struck out on her own with little money and fewer prospects. She would never have come to a little hole-in-the-wall town like Still Creek or lived in a dump like the Drewes place. She would never have given a shit who killed Jarrold Jarvis so long as it didn’t directly affect her.

  Elizabeth was nothing like his ex-wife. Dane had looked at her and seen what he wanted to see, what was safest, what was easiest . . . That was the truth.

  He had his life arranged to his specifications so there were no disruptions, no demands he didn’t want to handle. He had his job, his position in the community, his farm, his neat, emotionless relationship with Ann Markham. The path of least resistance. As Elizabeth had said. As Amy had said. Christ, he was no better than Rich Cannon, resting on past laurels, skating along on his reputation, expecting life to accommodate his schedule. Elizabeth was right—he wanted Rich to be guilty, just as he had wanted Carney Fox to be guilty, because it would be less trouble for him.

  He descended the steps and walked across the dew-damp grass to where he had left the Bronco, near the emergency entrance. He climbed in, gunned the engine, and drove out onto the street, turning toward the courthouse instead of home. Maybe there were a few more truths he could uncover tonight.

  BOYD SAT ON THE BACK STOOP OF HIS HOUSE WITH HIS head in his hands and half a pint of regurgitated whiskey pooling around his shoes. Kaufman had hauled him out of the paper office, driven him home, and left him with orders to go sleep it off. No charges had been filed against him. Hell, he thought as his stomach clenched and the ache from his balls shot straight up to the core of his brain, if anyone had cause to file charges, it was him. That black-haired bitch had lured him in, teased him, promised him heaven, and delivered a pile driver right up his crotch. There were laws against that kind of thing. He ought to know. He was going to be sheriff—

  Was going to be. Now his future was looking about as good as the puke seeping around his shoes. The Nielsen woman had found the book. Kaufman had blurted out the whole story on the drive across town, blabbing on and on about how Rich Cannon had tried to kill his ex to get his hands on that book. The damn book nobody else would have thought twice about if it hadn’t been for that Stuart bitch.

  Boyd leaned over a little farther, doubling into a fat, stinking ball of misery. Tears came blubbering out, along with another ounce of sour acid from his stomach. He cried and swore and wretched and swore some more as his guts knotted into fists of pain and his balls ached and his head throbbed. His life was over. He would never be sheriff here or anywhere. Jantzen would fire his ass and he’d never get another job anywhere except maybe as some pathetic security guard at a shopping mall or something. It wasn’t fair. He deserved better. He would have had better if it hadn’t been for Elizabeth Stuart.

  TRACE WAS SITTING AT THE KITCHEN TABLE, WAITING FOR her, when Elizabeth finally walked in the back door of her house. He shot up out of his chair, his face a mask of worry. “Are you all right?” he asked, taking two steps toward her, kicking stray shoes out of his path. “You’re never this late.”

  Elizabeth slid her arms around him and gave him a long hug, smiling against his shoulder. “Were you worried about me, sweetheart?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” she said with a weak chuckle. “It’s nice to know somebody cares.” She gave him another squeeze, then pulled back.

  Trace stood with one leg bent and his hands on his slim hips, brows pulling low above the rims of his battered glasses. “What happened? Something happened, didn’t it?”

  “Buy your mama a Coke and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  She let the story pour out as they sat on opposite ends of the sofa with Bruce Hornsby’s distinctly southern piano-playing setting a poignant mood in the background. She omitted most of the Ellstrom fiasco, knowing it would upset Trace. The last thing they needed was him calling out a deputy in order to defend her honor. The tale of Jolynn’s harrowing adventure was enough to keep his eyes wide and his ears tuned in, at any rate.

  “Man,” he breathed at the end of the story. “So Cannon meant to kill Miz Nielsen to cover it all up?”

  Elizabeth nodded and set her glass aside on the cheap fake-cherry end table, where a dozen white rings marked the spots of glasses that had stood there before it. “Thank God Jolynn’s got a head on her shoulders, or she’d be a goner.”

  The thought rattled through her again like an after-shock, and she wrapped her arms around her knees and held tight against the sensation. She could have lost Jolynn, her best friend. They had done their best to cheer each other on through good times and bad over the past dozen years. Losing her would have left a gaping hole in the fabric of Elizabeth’s life.

  Trace slowly shook his head in wonder and disgust. “How could a man do something like that to a woman he used to love? I couldn’t ever think of hurting Amy—”

  He broke off and stared down at the big foot he had planted on the sofa cushion, blushing at the realization of what he had just admitted. It didn’t seem cool for a man to tell his mother he was in love. And she’d probably think he was goofy or cute or some other equally intolerable thing because he had fallen in love on such short notice. He waited for her to make some embarrassing mother-type remark, but none came and he finally had to look up at her to see what she was thinking.

  Her expression was wistful, almost sad, even though the corners of her mouth were turning up. The lamplight glowed behind her, setting off her hair. She was so pretty. Suddenly he saw her at Amy’s age, at his age, too young to be a mother, carrying him around with her everywhere she went. Somehow, he had never thought of her that way—young, scared, in love. Being a mother had given her instant wisdom in his eyes, had instantly elevated her above having fears or uncertainties. Being a mother had made her infallible to him, but in truth she’d been just a teenager.

  Realizing that brought on a profound rush of love for her. She’d gone through hell to have him and raise him. She deserved so much better than what she was getting out of life. He vowed right then and there to give her something better. He would be a better person, work harder in school, make something of himself so he could give her nice things and make her proud.

  “She’s sweet, your Amy,” she said, reaching out to curl her fingers over his where they rested on top of his sneaker. “Pretty. Sweet. I like her.”

  Trace ducked his head, fighting a ridiculous grin. “She’s awful special,” he said, choking back the flood of adjectives he would have embarrassed himself with. Amy was the sun and the stars and everything kind and good . . . and she was going to be here for only two more weeks. “I don’t guess I’ll get to see much of her—Sheriff Jantzen being so hard against her dating and all.”

  “Oh, you give him a few days, honey,” Elizabeth said, squeezing his fingers. “He doesn’t want to think his baby’s growing up. It makes a parent feel awfully . . . mortal to watch
a child turn into a grown person. It seems to happen so fast. . . .”

  She looked away, drifted off to another place while Bruce Hornsby sang a vivid, strikingly simple line about roads not taken that seemed to capture the essense of life in a handful of words about choices and regrets.

  “Well,” she said, snapping herself back to the present and forcing a smile. “I don’t need to get any older sitting on this lumpy sofa. I’m going up to bed.”

  She uncurled her legs, stood, and stretched, feeling every day, every minute of her thirty-four years. Trace rose too, seeming to tower over her.

  “Good night, Mama,” he murmured, slipping his arms around her for a hug. “I love you.”

  Elizabeth smiled against the instant bloom of tears and hugged him back, remembering the way she had always answered him when he had given her that last good-night hug before curling up with his teddy bear. “Nothing could give me sweeter dreams than that.”

  IT WAS PAST ONE WHEN SHE CLIMBED THE STAIRS. SHE undressed for bed, too tired to do more than leave her clothes where they fell to the floor. She pulled on an oversize man’s T-shirt that fell to the tops of her thighs, in no mood for a silky, sexy nightgown. Exhaustion pulled on her like a G force, weighing down her arms and legs and heart. She wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep, but her mind wasn’t going to let her. It churned and raced with the events of the day, taking her through a replay of all the emotions and stresses she had endured, leaving her feeling raw and exposed.

  She went to the open window and sat down on the sill, leaning her back against the jamb. By the yard light she could see the silhouettes of the outbuildings, her car where she had left it in the yard near the house, the county cruiser parked near the shed. Evidently word of Rich Cannon’s presumed guilt hadn’t spread down through the ranks. No one had bothered to call the guard off her. She hadn’t bothered either. Too tired to argue with a deputy, she had come straight into the house. Let him sit there all night. That was what she paid her taxes for. It was probably Kenny Spencer, and he was probably asleep anyway.

  She raised her jelly glass to her lips and took a sip of scotch. The liquor slid in a smooth warm trail to her stomach, but it didn’t soothe her nerves or take away her heartache. She stared down into the glass and frowned at the Highland’s finest malt. It wasn’t an answer or a panacea. It was just a habit. One she needed to break. She was on her own. She didn’t need a crutch that was more hindrance than help. Maybe she would ship what was left of it back to Brock with a little note—Hope you get cirrhosis.

  She tried to imagine him sitting next to her hospital bed, torn up with concern for her, whispering heartfelt words of love. Never—unless there was a camera trained on him or a reporter within earshot. She could picture Dane sitting there, but it would never happen.

  She tried to turn her mind to the case, but her heart wasn’t in it. Besides, the pieces fit so nicely the way Dane put them together; he was probably right.

  But as she looked out over the countryside, still and silent in the summer night, she felt that same insidious evil lurking that she had felt the night of Jarvis’s murder. A sense of malevolence or madness hanging in the air like smoke. A feeling of eyes focusing on her, drawing that evil into a powerful beam and projecting it at her like a laser as she sat in her window in her underpants and T-shirt. The feeling crept over her flesh like a snake, and she shied away from the window and into the shadows, shaken and thankful for the deputy parked on her lawn.

  Imagination, probably, she told herself as she set her glass on the nightstand and climbed into bed. Leftover jitters from her encounter with Ellstrom. Paranoia induced by exhaustion and nerves and another missed meal.

  She pulled the sheet up over herself and curled up on her side, trying to ignore the nagging doubt and the scent of Dane Jantzen that clung to her pillow.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  DANE RUBBED A HAND OVER HIS FACE AND BACK through his hair. His eyes felt as though they were dehydrating into something related to prunes. He looked like a bum. He knew because he hadn’t been able to avoid seeing his reflection the last time he’d gone into the men’s room to relieve himself of another gallon of bad coffee. His shirt was rumpled and sweat-stained and the man inside it looked downright dangerous. He needed a shower, a shave, a beer, a meal, and nineteen hours sleep—not necessarily in that order. The only thing he was going to get was another cup of stale coffee.

  The reports from the BCA lab were spread out on the desk in front of him, the initial complaint report number neatly typed at the top, reducing Jarrold Jarvis’s death to eight impersonal digits. He had been over every statement, every angle of every theory. He had read over Jarrold’s black book, the Who’s Who of sleazy deals in state politics. More heads than Jarrold’s were going to roll because of that book. Minnesota was a state of squeaky-clean politics. One whiff of this little pile of shit and voters would be on a rampage. But how exactly the book tied in to Jarvis’s death, Dane was no longer sure. His head felt ready to bust as he started the wheels turning again, trying to sort it all out and coming up with an answer that couldn’t be argued away as being merely the simplest solution.

  Beyond his door he could hear the office coming to life for the day. Even though it was only seven-thirty, people were filing in. The scent of Lorraine’s coffee brewing in the break room drifted in. Already the phones were ringing off the hook, and Dane could imagine the news hounds gathering in a ragged, hungry pack outside the courthouse, lying in wait for him.

  A sharp rap sounded on his door, then it swung open and Lorraine stuck her head in, her eyes widening in motherly alarm behind the lenses of her glasses.

  “My stars, you look like death!” she gasped as she let herself in. She slapped a handful of pink message slips to the bosom of her blue shirtwaist while the other hand carried on efficiently, independently, straightening files, snatching up his coffee mug. “How long have you been here?” She curled her nose at the sludge in the bottom of his cup. “What are you drinking?”

  “I think it’s motor oil.” His weary gaze went to the message slips. “What have you got for me?”

  “Mostly calls from reporters.” She set the cup down on the edge of the desk and sorted through the notes. “A call from the sheriff in Olmsted County. A call from St. Mary’s that says there’s been no change in Rich Cannon’s condition. Three calls from Charlie Wilder about a special session of the town council set for tonight.”

  “Calling me on the carpet,” Dane mumbled, scratching at his morning beard. “Wanting to know if all the lunatics are going to be locked up in time for the parade.”

  “I also have someone on the line about that missing tourist.”

  He looked up, brows drawing together in puzzlement while his brain spun in neutral. “The what? Oh, yeah. Shit. Who’s handling it?”

  “Mark. I think he wants to talk to you—”

  “I don’t have time right now. Have him deal with it. I’m not taking calls from anybody. And lose the rest of that crap—except the message from Olmsted. Leave that here.” Already his gaze was shifting back to the mess on his usually immaculate desk. “And, Lorraine? I’ll be your sex slave for life if you bring me a fresh cup of your coffee.”

  She clucked her tongue at his language, but blushed a bit anyway as she went out into the hall, lifting her nose primly as she passed Yeager.

  “Don’t try to fight it, Lorraine,” he drawled, mouth curling in a lazy grin. “We both know you’re wild about me.”

  She pranced away without comment, and Yeager chuckled as he shuffled wearily into the office. Boozer followed him, nose sniffing the air for a stray scent of food. The dog stuck his head in the wastebasket, rooting down through a ream of crumpled paper, and resurfaced with a half-eaten sandwich.

  “Roast beef on whole wheat,” Yeager commented, slumping down in the visitor’s chair. “Lucky dog.” The Labrador scarfed down the sandwich in two bites, belched, and flopped over on the floor to rest. Yeager turned his
attention to Dane. “Son, you look like hard times on the hoof.”

  “I look like I’m related to you,” Dane said dryly. Yeager was his usual rumpled self, still in the clothes he had worn yesterday. This morning he had an excuse, Dane reminded himself, taking in the agent’s bloodshot eyes and the lines of strain on his square, honest face. “How’s Jolynn?”

  He sighed and rubbed a crick in his neck. “They finally let her go to sleep. I promised I’d bring her a piece of Phyllis’s German chocolate cake for when she wakes up. Thought I’d grab a little breakfast while I was at it. I saw your truck in the lot as I was going by. You want to come?”

  The idea of one of Phyllis’s cholesterol-laden breakfasts had his stomach grumbling, but Dane shook his head. “No, thanks.”

  “What’s all this mess?”

  “I’m going over everything again.”

  The look on Yeager’s face clearly said he thought Dane had gone over the edge. “Why? Our boy is lying in the hospital in Rochester.”