Della agreed, though Malcolm could tell she wasn’t happy about it. Then again Della was usually happiest if she were the one running the show. As it was, they took their conversation to the library, and Della followed with a tray carrying four crystal bowls filled not with cake, but with her famous chocolate cobbler.
Much to his embarrassment, Roxanne and Truman settled down on the chintz sofa and immediately started to go through the photo albums of his youth.
“Malcolm.” Della handed him a dessert and distributed another two to the others.
He looked to the woman who was for all intents and purposes his stepmother. “You’re not going to participate in this, are you?” He nodded pointedly toward Truman and Roxanne.
Della smiled and set down the tray. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”
Malcolm said his thanks as Della made herself comfortable in one of the over-large armchairs and picked up her yarn and crochet needle. Lord, what was with the southern women and their yarn hobbies? Miss Beulah was always knitting something for one craft show or another, and Della was always making afghans and such for the underprivileged.
He took in the soft sherbet colors of the fuzzy yarn she was using. “Is that a baby blanket?” He asked the question before completely thinking it through. Of course it was a baby blanket. Did that mean she was pregnant after all? As much as he wanted the baby to be Truman’s, his doubts were growing, as was his acceptance that she really was pregnant.
Della hesitated, a startled look passing over her features before she smoothed it away. “Oh, yes. Yes, of course. For charity. You know. Blankets for Babies.” She gave a nervous sounding chuckle. “Are you going to eat your dessert?”
Malcolm didn’t want the sweet, but made a token attempt at eating it. He was a gracious guest and would never want to hurt Della’s feelings. What he really wanted was a scotch. God, he’d drunk more since he’d met Roxanne than he had the whole summer combined. Between murder, funerals, and possible pregnancy …
He took two bites of the warm gooey concoction to satisfy Della, then discreetly put it aside when she was busy counting stitches. His back to her, he poured himself a finger of whiskey.
He wasn’t exactly embarrassed by his youth. He supposed he was no more a geek than the average teenager, but it felt more than a little strange to be sharing that part of his life with Roxanne. After all, tomorrow, she would be gone. He drained the whiskey to kill the ache that had settled in his stomach. Or did it only make it worse? At least it gave him more to think about than Della and the baby blanket.
“Ohmigod,” Roxanne said, smiling up at him from over the top of the tome. She had her dessert cup in one hand and a spoon in the other. Chocolate and compromising pictures of him. She was getting way too much pleasure from this. Once they went home, he was going to make her pay. And for the incident under the dining table as well. Yes, she had a lot to atone for. “That’s you?”
Malcolm leaned over the book to examine the picture she pointed to. He was about five at the time and so closely resembled Opie Taylor that he hoped no one associated with his campaign ever got a hold of the snapshot. It was too blatantly Americana not to be included in his run for office. Striped shirt, blue jeans, bright red hair, and freckles. Behind him in the picture stood his mother and father. Malcolm Beauregard Daniels III or Beau, as he was known to his friends, was a dark haired version of Malcolm the fourth. Elizabeth Daniels was blonde and had a smile so sweet it melted hearts all the way to runner up for Miss America. There were days even now when Malcolm could close his eyes and still smell her perfume. Many nights after their deaths he had come down to this very room and pored over these pages doing everything in his power to keep their memory alive in his mind and heart. He had studied every nuance of their faces trying to find himself there as if that were the secret to keeping his parents with him always.
“And this was him on Halloween. What year was that?” Truman tapped a finger against the plastic covered page. In the picture Malcolm wore a powdered wig, blue velvet jacket, and waistcoat. In one hand he held a bag that declared “Trick or Treat for Unicef.”
“I’d just turned eight.” Right before his parents had died.
Roxanne looked up at him, her oh-so blue eyes incredulous. “You were eight, and you dressed up like George Washington for Halloween?”
“I was Thomas Jefferson.”
She snorted. “That matters.”
Malcolm shrugged. “They wanted me to be president.”
“And you’re going to make all of their dreams come true?”
He gave her a curt nod. “Ten years from now.” Funny, but before he met Roxanne a ten-year plan seemed like tomorrow. Now it seemed like a lifetime away.
“Sixth grade graduation,” Truman declared.
Malcolm groaned. Now there was picture for his opponent.
“Let me see.” Roxanne set her empty bowl aside and peered down at the picture. She looked back up at him and grinned. “You were so cute.”
It was Malcolm’s turn to snort. In the picture he was twelve and too far away from both manhood and boy-dom to be anything other than awkward.
“And this is you and Miss Elizabeth,” Roxanne said to Truman, running a finger over the protected photograph.
“Yes,” Truman replied.
“The three of you look so sweet together. Malcolm was lucky to have you.”
Now there was something they could agree on. There was no telling where he would have ended up had it not been for Truman and Elizabeth Silverstone. They had taken him in and kept his father’s dream for Malcolm to have a career in politics alive to this day.
“Why didn’t you have children of your own?”
“Roxanne!” Malcolm admonished.
“I’m sorry. That was too personal. I just meant that you seemed to be such good parents to Malcolm it was a shame you didn’t have any children of your own.”
Truman’s eyes clouded over, like a nighttime sky before a summer rain. “We always wanted to have children. But I had the mumps when I was twenty-four or twenty-five.” He shook his head. “It’s been so long ago, the actual year has lost its importance. Anyway, having the mumps when you’re older is no joke. I lost a year of law school and the ability to father a child.”
“That’s terrible,” Roxanne said.
“How come I never knew this?” Malcolm asked. Then Roxanne’s accusation curled through his thoughts. If she were right and Della was pregnant, then Truman’s admission just blew Malcolm’s Cary Grant Theory right out of the water. And that left one possible father for Della’s baby. Which meant—nothing. He wasn’t sure Della was pregnant. All he had was Roxanne’s word and …. His stomach clenched.
Truman shrugged. “It never came up. We were ready to try adoption when Beau and Lizzie died. So we got Malcolm instead. He needed us, and we needed him. I think it worked out quite well.”
“Excuse me.” Della tossed the half-finished baby blanket onto the chair behind her, and hurried from the room. An admission of guilt? Should he go after her? Talk to her? He shook his head. There would be time enough for that tomorrow.
Roxanne laughed and Malcolm closed his eyes over the latest Horror of the Photo Album. His prom picture. Amanda was at his side looking so young and pretty in a frothy pink dress, traditional orchid corsage around her wrist. That part wasn’t so bad. She was a petite blond thing, more like his mother than he really cared to admit. She would have probably followed the footsteps of Elizabeth Daniels all the way to America’s top pageant, if he hadn’t married her before she could.
What was bad was that Roxanne was laughing at the ruffles on his pink tuxedo shirt and her infectious giggles had sent Truman into gales himself.
Malcolm pushed his glasses up and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He didn’t bother to explain that he was dressed in the current style of that year’s vogue formal wear. They already knew that. But damn if they were having too much fun at his expense.
&nbs
p; Then even quicker than it started, their laughter ceased.
Malcolm opened his eyes to see Della standing in the doorway of the library, Truman’s stacked barrel shotgun in her hands and a strange light burning hazel fire in her eyes.
Roxanne and Truman were on their feet in seconds.
Della raised the large gun and propped it to her shoulder. “Don’t move.”
Despite the quaver in her voice, the trio froze.
“Della, dear, what are you doing?”
“I can’t do it anymore.” Silent tears trailed down her face leaving watery black lines of mascara on her pale cheeks. “How could you betray me this way?” The last word ended with a small hiccup, then a sob.
“Did you forget your medicine today?” Truman’s voice was gentle and soothing as if he were speaking to a simpleton or a small child. “Why don’t you put the gun down?”
“How could you lie to me?” Her voice changed, grew stronger, angrier. Malcolm weighed their options. Della had yet to say anything to anyone other than Truman. Should Malcolm try to distract her? Damn, he just didn’t know. Della wasn’t trained with weapons, but they were too close to each other for it to matter. Whatever she shot at in the room, she would hit. He just had to make sure she didn’t fire—even accidentally.
“You said you were too old to have children. I thought you were just trying to be gracious.” She sniffed loudly. The 20 gauge trembled in her hands—from the weight or anxiety Malcolm didn’t know. “You never told me you had the mumps. Why didn’t you tell me?” She started to cry again.
“It was so long ago—”
“All I’ve ever wanted was a baby. That’s all I ever wanted.”
Malcolm tore his eyes from Della and caught Roxanne’s attention. She motioned with her eyes toward the phone as if to ask should I make a break for it?
He gave a small shake of his head. It was too risky. The gun was loaded and although it could only hold two shells at a time, the round that would spew forth from the barrel at this short distance would run right through her in a heartbeat.
Then do something, her eyes seemed to say.
“I didn’t want to,” Della continued, tears streaking down her face. She took one hand from the polished wooden stock and wiped her nose against the sleeve of her ivory colored blouse.
In that split-second Malcolm mentally calculated the odds of pouncing on her when she only had one arm supporting the heavy shotgun, but then the opportunity was gone and both hands were back in place.
“You didn’t want to what?” Truman asked.
Malcolm felt so helpless, they were only about ten feet from him, but Roxanne and Truman stood together, and he apart from them. If Della decided to start shooting …. Maybe if he drew her attention to him, then Roxanne could ease toward the phone—
“I didn’t want to kill Jamie Valentine.”
The words dropped in the room like an oxygen-sucking bomb.
“You killed Jamie Valentine?”
Truman said the words, but they could have belonged to any of them.
“I didn’t want to. I had to. He wouldn’t leave. I just needed him to leave. But he found out about the baby. He said he was going to tell you about our affair. I couldn’t let him do that.”
“I see.”
To Malcolm’s surprise, Truman’s words were measured but held no hint of shock, as if he had known all along about both the affair and the resulting child.
“I’m sorry, Roxanne. I never meant for you to be charged with murder. I was going to throw the gun in the river, but I was afraid with the lack of rain, it would be found. So I put it in your car instead. I thought you’d be halfway back to Chicago before it was found. And even then, I never thought it would be traced back to the death of a drifter in Tennessee.”
“Della.” At the sound of her name, she jerked toward Malcolm. “What are you going to do with that gun?”
“W-what I have to do.”
“Tell me, Della, say the words.”
“I-I’m going to kill Truman.” She turned her attention back to the man he had called father more years than he had his own.
“Della, look at me.”
She did as he asked, the shotgun wobbling in her grasp.
“Della, you can’t ki—you can’t shoot Truman. You love him.”
“I know, but—”
“No buts.” He took a step closer to her. Roxanne inched toward the phone on the desk a good four feet away. He mentally willed her to be still and not try any heroics. Della was not stable, she was not thinking clearly. She could shoot and hit Roxanne just as easily as him or Truman. Damn it, Roxanne, don’t do anything stupid. “You cannot shoot Truman.”
“I have to. How can he love me now? Now that he knows what I’ve done?” Tears tumbled down her cheeks. “Everything’s ruined.”
“Della.” Malcolm took another baby step toward her, trying to keep her calm, trying to get close enough to disarm her. Her body was shaking; her voice had a quaver. She was desperate and that in turn made her dangerous, but he didn’t think she really wanted to kill anyone. At least he hoped she didn’t. “Think about it. Be smart. There are only two shells in that weapon. There are three of us. You can’t kill all of us. You can’t kill Truman. Put down the gun.”
Her arms started to tremble, and a small sob escaped her.
Malcolm took three large steps, and he was in front of her. With almost no effort at all he pulled the weapon from her grasp. He was shaking with relief as she fell to the floor at his feet, a heap of sobbing female. Then Truman staggered backward and collapsed onto the sofa.
Chapter Twenty
“I told you, son, I’m fine. There’s no need for all of this.” Truman motioned from the gurney where he reclined toward the medics, ambulance driver, and Doc Seager all standing around the library. Malcolm had called each of them in his terrified haze that Truman had suffered a heart attack. Roxanne couldn’t blame him. She had been concerned about that exact same thing. “It’s just my knee,” Truman explained. “I’m going to have to have the damned thing replaced one day.”
“You gave us all a scare,” Roxanne said, not that frightening any of them would have been a difficult task. Her nerves were shot. Her legs didn’t seem capable of holding her any longer so she simply sat on the sofa and gathered her wits. It wasn’t every day you had a gigantic shotgun pointed at you by a crazed murderess.
The Harlows had already come and gone, taking Della with them. Since the jail was out of commission and Lester’s basement out of the question for a distraught pregnant woman, Deputy Dennis was driving her to Jackson to await further charges.
“I didn’t think we should take any unnecessary chances,” Malcolm explained. “You aren’t as young as you used to be.”
Truman snorted. “Neither are you. You want an EKG?”
A small chuckle escaped Malcolm. “I just might need one. I swear that took ten years off my life.”
Roxanne agreed. It was a harrowing experience. Big gun, close range. Pretty scary. She shivered. But it was all over now. She supposed the bright side of the evening was now the charges against her would be dropped without question.
“Are you okay?” Malcolm crouched in front of her, smoothing his warm palms down her arms.
“I will be.” She gave him her bravest of smiles. “But I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep tonight.”
Malcolm nodded as if he were going to have trouble closing his eyes as well. “Why don’t you go on back to the house? I’m going to stay here with Truman.”
“No,” Roxanne and Truman said in unison.
“You don’t have to stay here on my account, son. I’ll be just fine.”
Malcolm shook his head. “I don’t think you should be alone tonight.”
“Maybe none of us should,” Truman said with an elegant shrug. “It’s been quite an eventful evening.”
Malcolm seemed to accept that. He turned back to Roxanne. “You can stay in a guest room. Della—” he faltered
as he said her name “—usually keeps the blue room ready, just in case. I’ll stay in the room across from the master suite.”
Truman looked from Malcolm to her, his eyes so wise, sad and knowing. “Any fool can see what’s happening between the two of you. Stay in the blue room together. Find your comfort when you can.”
“But I’ve got an election coming up and—”
“There’s more to life than elections, my boy. It’s time you learned that.”
“I just don’t think—” Malcolm started.
“Then don’t.” Truman’s tone was pure authority.
Roxanne looked at Truman and blinked. Was this his crazy way of pushing the two of them together? Still she couldn’t find the words to protest. Tomorrow morning there would be nothing left to keep her in Jefferson County. She would leave. Go back to Chicago. Never see Malcolm B. Daniels IV again. Heaven help her, but she just needed one more piece of him to last a lifetime. “Are you sure?” Her words were almost a whisper.
Truman winked. “I may be old, girl, but I ain’t dead. Now get these doctors and such out of here, and let’s try to regain some normalcy.”
• • •
“Are you awake?”
Malcolm’s breath stirred the hair around her ear. They lay together in the full bed in the blue room so aptly named for the monochromatic color scheme. Blue walls, blue counterpane, blue sheets. Only the white carpet supplied any relief.
“Yes,” she whispered in return. They were spooned together in a comforting, familiar embrace. Another night, under different circumstances they would have been all over each other. But not tonight. This time it was only about warmth and breathing and simply sharing the night with another human being.
“You were right about Della.”
“But I was wrong about Truman.”
She sensed rather than felt him shrug behind her. “I think he knew about the affair.”
Roxanne agreed. “He didn’t even bat an eye over the pregnancy. Do you suppose he was just going to pretend the baby was his?”
“Knowing Truman the way I do, yes. That’s just the kind of man he is. He could overlook an affair—that occurred for whatever reason—for the sake of a child. His ailment happened so long ago, old Doc Seager probably didn’t even know about it. It would have been easy to cover up the truth.”
Southern Hospitality (Hot Southern Nights) Page 27