The Smoky Mountain Mist

by Paula Graves

  “And trusting a man like Seth Hammond is even crazier.”

  “He was very kind to me. He’s taken some risks to help me out,” she defended Seth, wondering why she was bothering. Paul would look at the evidence and assume the worst. Seth had tried to warn her that’s how it would be. To anyone on the outside, all the evidence would seem to point to Seth’s playing games with her. If she hadn’t spent the past few days getting to know Seth intimately, she might concur.

  Intellectually, she could see the warning signs, but she couldn’t connect them to the Seth Hammond she knew. He had been nothing but kind to her, even when telling her a few hard truths. He’d been genuinely remorseful about the ways he’d hurt people in the past. He’d told her the truth when a lie would have served him better.

  “Why would someone do all of this to you?” Paul asked her.

  “I think it must have something to do with Davenport Trucking. Or, more specifically, my job there.”

  Paul’s brow furrowed. “In what possible way?”

  “Paul, what do you know about my father’s will?”

  He shrugged. “Only what scuttlebutt at the office says. Your father wanted you to be CEO when he died, and so you will be.”

  “Have you ever heard anyone speculating about what might happen if I weren’t able to take the job?”

  “Not that, exactly.” Paul pressed his mouth into a thin line. “I guess people are wondering why you’d want the job. You always loved being a librarian. I think some people thought George was being unfair to ask you to take over his dream by leaving your own dream behind.”

  She’d felt the same way, at first. And felt a hell of a lot of guilt about it, considering her father’s deteriorating condition. “I need them to realize I’m doing this job because I want to, not because I feel obligated to.”

  “Is that really how you feel?” Paul looked unconvinced.

  “At least for the next few years.”

  “And then?”

  “And then we’ll see.” She had a feeling she’d go back to the library sooner or later. But not before she was certain her father’s legacy was in the best hands possible. She owed her father’s memory that much.

  He was silent for a long moment. “It would be easier on you if you stepped down.”

  “I’m not going to let someone scare me away from a job I’ve decided to do.” She lifted her chin.

  “You really think these murders are about you?”

  “I know it sounds crazy.”

  “It sounds narcissistic,” he said.

  “It’s neither. It’s just what the evidence is pointing to. You think I want to believe people have been murdered to get to me? Believe me, I don’t.”

  “But you’ve been listening to Seth Hammond. He’s not exactly the most reliable of tale-tellers. What if he’s playing his own game with you?”

  “I’ve thought about that.” She’d thought about it a lot, especially over the past hour, testing her faith in him against the logic her father had taught her. “I just don’t see what he gets out of it.”

  “Do you know how he used to make a living?”

  “He was a con man.”

  “He was a particular kind of con man. He preyed on vulnerable women. Convinced them that he wanted them, that he loved them. That they should trust him. He bilked them, and then he was gone.”

  She didn’t answer, knowing he wasn’t telling her anything that Seth would deny.

  “You’re not falling for him, are you?”

  “I know what he is,” she answered. Her cell phone rang. She dug it from her pocket and saw an unfamiliar local number.

  Was it Seth? He might be stuck at the police station, using his one phone call to get in touch with her. She punched the button and answered the call.

  It wasn’t Seth. It was a police officer. “Ms. Davenport, this is Jerry Polito with the Bitterwood Police Department. Detective Antoine Parsons asked me to check on you, see if you’re okay there by yourself.”

  “I’m not by myself, Officer,” she answered with a look at Paul. “My stepbrother is here.”

  “Good.” The policeman sounded relieved. “Detective Parsons suggested you might want to have someone stay with you, given all that’s been happening to you.”

  “Thank you.” She hung up and turned to Paul. “The police. They were concerned about having left me here alone.”

  “You’re not alone.” Paul put his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll stick around tonight, okay?”

  He had stayed there plenty of times during his mother’s marriage to her father, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d prefer to be alone than to have Paul stick around for the night. Maybe it was as simple as wanting to be free from scrutiny or unwelcome pity for a while.

  And, if she was being honest with herself, she was hoping Seth would be released soon and come back to finish what they’d started that morning.

  God, she needed to talk to him. She needed to hear his voice, to make sure he was okay.

  “Why don’t I make you some tea?” Paul suggested, nudging her toward the kitchen. “You still have some of that honey chamomile stuff you and my mom like so much?”

  “I think so.” She followed him into the warm room at the back of the house, trying not to remember the time she’d spent in there with Seth just that morning.

  But the kitchen was no worse than the den, where she’d begun her earnest seduction of the most dangerous man she knew. Or the hallway, where they’d kissed up against the wall for a long, breathless moment before finding their way to the bedroom.

  Even after her shower, she’d imagined she could still smell him on herself, a rich, musky male scent that made her toes curl and her heart pound. She wanted him there with her. Where he belonged. If he walked through the front door that very minute, she knew she’d tell Paul to go home and leave her alone with Seth. To hell with what Paul thought about it.

  To hell with what anyone thought.

  * * *

  “PAUL BAILEY HAS a record,” Ivy told Antoine. She spoke too quietly for Seth to hear her from his seat at the interview table, but he’d long ago learned how to read lips. Cleve had pounded into him the importance of equipping himself with all the tools necessary to do a thorough con job.

  Being able to tell what people were discussing while out of earshot was just one of his skills. Another was reading body language. And Ivy Hawkins’s body language screamed anxiety.

  Antoine Parsons looked at the folder Ivy showed him, his brow furrowed. The anxiety seeped from her body into his, setting up a low, uneasy vibration in the room.

  Seth couldn’t stand the wait. “Why did you look at Paul Bailey’s record?”

  Both of the detectives turned to look at him as if they’d forgotten he was still in the room. “We’ve been looking at everyone at Davenport Trucking.” Antoine sounded distracted. “The records from Mississippi just came through. He had some gambling problems when he was working casinos there. It’s how he lost his job—skimming and setting up some cheats for money.”

  Seth sat back in his chair, surprised. He’d never thought of Paul Bailey as a possible suspect. The guy didn’t seem interesting enough to earn suspicion.

  “Even if he has a gambling problem, I’m not sure how taking control of Davenport Trucking could help him,” Ivy answered. “I did some looking into the company back during the murder investigation. The CEO position’s compensation package isn’t all that large. Most of the profits are funneled back into the company. If Paul were to be made CEO, at most his pay would go up a hundred thousand.”

  “That’s a lot of money,” Antoine murmured.

  “It can’t just be about money,” Seth said. “If he’s the guy behind it, he was out there offering twenty grand for the hit. If he’s so money-strapped, ho
w can he pay twenty grand?”

  Ivy and Antoine exchanged looks. “If it’s not about money, what’s it about?”

  “I never said it wasn’t about money. I said it’s not just about money.” Seth stood up from the interview table, bracing himself for one or both of the detectives to tell him to sit back down. But they didn’t, so he continued, “I’ve been trying to figure out why anyone would target Rachel Davenport in the particular way they have, and it’s got to be about Davenport Trucking, right? All the evidence points in that direction.”

  Ivy nodded slowly. “Agreed.”

  “Whoever targeted Rachel didn’t kill her, because killing her creates a different set of events than just getting her out of contention for the job.”

  “What different set of events?” Antoine asked.

  Seth outlined what he’d learned about the triggers that came into play depending on how the CEO job came to be vacated. “If she’s dead, control of the company goes to her uncle Rafe, and he makes all the decisions without input from the trustees. But if she’s merely incapacitated, the trustees make a decision based on recommendations already in place. There’s a list of preapproved candidates for CEO. Paul Bailey, by the way, is one of those preapproved candidates.”

  “Does he know he’s one of the candidates?”

  “Probably. His mama is one of the trustees, and they seem to have a close relationship. Plus, from what Rachel’s told me, Paul hasn’t always been gung ho about working for the company, so I figure there must have been discussions between George Davenport and Paul for the old man to feel okay about including him on that list of candidates.”

  “But if the compensation’s not that much better—” Antoine began.

  “That’s what’s been bugging the hell out of me,” Seth admitted. “But while I was waiting for y’all to get back in here, I started thinking about what the job would entail besides just money. It’s long hours and a lot of stress, because you’ve got dozens of trucks at your command and you’re responsible for where they go, what they haul, what fines have to be paid if you screw things up, what repairs and regular maintenance have to be done, and suddenly it hit me that I needed to stop thinking about it as a businessman and start considering how I might use it if I had criminal intentions.”

  Ivy shot him an amused look. “What a stretch for you.”

  He made a face at her. “If I was criminally inclined these days, there’s a hell of a lot I could do with a fleet of trucks. I could move drugs back and forth. Illegal arms. Hell, I could traffic in people. Sex slaves, illegals, anything and everything. I could haul a dirty bomb from Central America to Washington, D.C., if I had my own fleet of trucks.”

  “I’m glad you don’t,” Antoine murmured.

  “My point is, control of the trucks is control of a lot of potential income. If someone was inclined to use even a tenth of the fleet for illicit purposes—”

  “They could make a fortune,” Ivy finished for him.

  There was a knock on the interview room door. Antoine grimaced at the interruption and went to answer the knock.

  “If Paul Bailey still has a gambling problem, maybe he owes somebody very bad a lot of money,” Ivy said grimly.

  “It could be the mob, the Redneck Mafia, South American money launderers—”

  “Could be anyone who wants to control a fleet of trucks for the small price of forgiving Paul Bailey’s gambling debt,” Ivy said. “Good God.”

  “And he’s there with Rachel right now,” Antoine said from the doorway, his expression dark. A uniformed policeman stood behind him.

  Seth snapped his gaze up. “What?”

  “Jerry just talked to her on the phone. Her stepbrother is there with her. She said he was going to stay there so she wouldn’t be alone.”

  “Damn it!” Seth started toward the door, ready to bowl them both over if they tried to stop him.

  Neither of them did.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The chamomile tea was a little sweet for her taste, but Rachel wasn’t going to complain. After the day she’d just survived, she wasn’t about to be picky when someone gave her a little uncomplicated pampering.

  Paul settled into the chair across from her at the kitchen table and sipped his own cup of tea. “I closed off that trapdoor to the attic while the tea was brewing.”

  “Yes, I know. I heard the hammering.” She smiled.

  “Speaking of the attic, I was actually planning to come here today before I talked to Jim Hallifax. Feel up to a little scavenger hunt?”

  She raised her eyebrows over her cup of tea. “Scavenger hunt?”

  “Mother called from Wilmington. She meant to take her wedding album with her to her sister’s place but left it behind. I was planning to carry it with me when I visit her later this week, but I have no idea where she kept the album. She said she thought it might be in the attic?”

  Rachel grimaced at the thought of going up there again. “I’m sure it’s probably in an obvious place.”

  Paul gave her a teasing smile. “Oh, right, you’re scared of high places, aren’t you? Still haven’t outgrown that?”

  “It’s not that, exactly.” She stopped short of telling him what her phobia was really about. Funny, she thought, how she’d been able to share that deep, dark secret with Seth but balked at telling a man who was practically family. “And you’re right. I should have outgrown it by now. Did Diane give you any idea where in the attic it might be?”

  Paul smiled helplessly. “She said something about a box on the top of a bookshelf?”

  Oh great, Rachel thought. A high place within a high place.

  But this was a good test for her to prove, to herself if no one else, that she wasn’t going to let her past define her any longer.

  She put down her cup and pushed to her feet. “Fine. But you’re coming with me to hold the stepladder.”

  * * *

  “I KNEW YOU weren’t involved with this.” Delilah told Seth as they sped along the twists and turns of Copperhead Road, part of a three-vehicle rescue mission. Ivy’s Jeep was in the lead, with Antoine right behind her. Delilah and Seth took up the rear, to his dismay, forced to go only as fast as the vehicles ahead of them.

  “You knew?” He shot her a skeptical look.

  “Okay, I wanted to believe.” She looked apologetic.

  “I’m in this to help Rachel.”

  “I know. I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner.”

  “There was a lot you had to look past first.” He tamped down a potent mixture of frustration and fear as he tried Rachel’s cell phone again. It went directly to voice mail. “Why the hell isn’t she answering?”

  “Did you try the home phone?”

  “Yeah. I get a busy signal.”

  Delilah didn’t respond, but he could tell from the grim set of her jaw that she was worried.

  “I think I love her,” he said, even though he’d meant to say something entirely different.

  Delilah’s gaze flicked toward him. “What?”

  “I think I love Rachel.” He shook his head and corrected himself. “I know I love her.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Why do people keep saying that? You think I’m not capable of loving someone?”

  “I didn’t say that. It’s just—surprising.”

  He slammed his hand against the dashboard. “Can’t we go faster?”

  “These mountain roads are treacherous at normal speeds,” Delilah said. “At high speeds, we could all end up dead, and how’s that going to help Rachel?”

  His heart felt as if it were going to pound right out of his chest. “I shouldn’t have let y’all leave there without her. I should’ve protected her better. Damn it!”

  “When did this happen? This thing with Rachel?”


  He stared at her. “We’re going to talk about my love life in the middle of all this?”

  “You brought it up.”

  “I don’t know,” he growled. “I always thought she was pretty, of course. And I guess when I started suspecting the murders had something to do with Davenport Trucking, I started paying more attention to her.”

  “You suspected a connection all along?”

  “After the second murder, when it was clear that both of the dead women had worked at Davenport, yeah. I did.”

  “This is so crazy. Her stepbrother.”

  “If he’s in debt to the mob or someone connected like that, his life is on the line. He’s already proved he’s willing to kill to stay alive. He’s not going to stop just because his stepsister is next on the list.” He tried to keep his voice calm, but inside he was raging.

  If, God forbid, they arrived too late—

  “Oh, no,” Delilah murmured.

  He looked at her and found her gazing through the windshield ahead, her brow furrowed. He followed her gaze and saw what she had.

  Smoke, rising in a black column over the treetops.

  Something straight ahead was on fire.

  And the only thing straight ahead was Rachel’s house.

  * * *

  THE SLAMMING OF the attic door had caught Rachel by surprise. Already nervous, she’d jumped and whirled at the sound, ready to scold Paul for scaring the wits out of her.

  But Paul wasn’t there.

  “Paul?” She’d been certain he was right behind her on the ladder. She’d felt his footfalls on the rungs below her, making her cling all the more tightly to the ladder as she climbed.

  He hadn’t answered, but she’d heard noise on the other side of the door. Reaching down to push the attic door open again, she’d discovered it wouldn’t budge. “Paul, damn it! This isn’t funny!”

  More sounds of movement had come from below, but Paul hadn’t answered.

  Then she’d smelled it. The pungent odor of gasoline.

  “Paul?”

  She’d heard a faint hiss, then a louder crackling noise on the other side of the door. The smell of smoke mixing with the fuel odor had spurred her into full-blown panic mode.