Bobbie’s fingers twitched. Did they still lynch people in small towns and get away with it?
“Remember how I told you murder was coming our way.” Eugenia shook her finger at Marjorie’s reflection. “Didn’t I say that just the other day, Marjorie?”
“We really must tell the sheriff. What with Jimbo’s murder and all, he might not even have heard about the Saskatoon girl.”
Patsy flapped a hand. “Brax knows everything. Let’s not get carried away here.” Finally, Patsy found the voice of reason.
Eugenia was beyond hearing it. “The sheriff’s busy. Perhaps we should form a citizen’s committee to pay Nick Angel a call.”
Bobbie’s breath stuck in her throat as she had a sudden vision of Eugenia Meade carrying Nick’s head on a pike. She couldn’t swallow past the lump, couldn’t drag in much-needed air. God, she didn’t do well in hair salons. They gave her panic attacks. Listening to these crazy women, a big panic hurtled straight toward her.
“Bobbie, honey, are you all right?” Katie’s voice came from far, far away.
“Connie, hand me that cell phone out of my purse, would you? I’m calling the sheriff right away to report this.”
Eugenia Meade wouldn’t really call the sheriff over something as ridiculous as Rubbermaid and a padlock. Oh yes, she would, taking the little instrument from Connie’s hand. And Eugenia’s call might be Brax’s probable cause to search Nick’s house. He’d find the shovel. Oh my God. What was Bobbie to do?
Katie filed and buffed, buffed and filed. Musical notes tinkled from Eugenia’s cell phone, then, “Oh damn, what’s that number?” She punched in another number. “Celeste, I’ve forgotten the sheriff’s number. Can you look it up for me?”
“Sweetie, are you having a heart attack or something? You don’t look well.”
Bobbie ignored Katie’s insistent tapping on the back of her hand. Nick hadn’t kidnapped any little girl. He was with her Tuesday night. She looked at Patsy, Marjorie, and Eugenia as if through a fish-eye lens, the edges of the image all blurred. Everyone knew she’d been to the Rowdy Tavern with Nick, and they’d ostracized her in less than twenty-four hours.
They’d stone her if they knew she’d slept with him. She’d never belong. They’d never believe her claim that Warren was innocent. The real murderer would go free. The sky would fall in. She’d have to go back to San Francisco, back to her boss, Mr. Winkleman, and beg.
But at least Brax wouldn’t have a reason to go snooping around Nick’s house.
She’d always played the good little wife for Warren. He’d left her anyway. Being the good little girl for these people, denying Nick, denying their affair, pretending she was dating Brax, none of it guaranteed Cottonmouth wouldn’t desert her, too. There was only one right thing to do. And doing the right thing was all she’d have to hang onto when everything was over.
“Put that phone down, Mrs. Meade.”
Bobbie didn’t remembering standing. The babble ceased abruptly, only the whir of mechanical devices remained. Then even the three dryers shut down as everyone leaned in to stare, and listen.
She opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Just like that other day in that other salon. Only this time, everyone was listening, everyone was noticing, everyone was waiting. Her knees started to crumple.
She blurted it out before her legs gave beneath her. “Nick Angel didn’t kidnap that little girl Tuesday night.”
“How do you know?” Eugenia drilled her with a look.
Who said never let them see you sweat? Like a pack of hyenas, they’d jump her if she showed the slightest weakness. “Nick was with me Tuesday night.”
Eugenia smirked and started punching in numbers. “She was stolen out of her room in the dead of night.”
“I said he was with me.” She stared Eugenia down. “And I meant he was with me all night.”
Someone gasped. Patsy covered her mouth in horror. Marjorie Holmes slumped in her chair as if she’d fainted. Bobbie’s fate in this town was sealed.
But Eugenia Meade had to put her phone back in her purse.
* * * * *
There was something wrong with Bobbie. She wouldn’t meet his eye. And she wasn’t opening the cottage door wide enough to let him in.
“Just thought you’d want to hear about my conversation with Cookie today.” That had been Nick’s excuse for coming over tonight.
She opened the door a full twelve inches, still not enough for him to get through unless he shoved his way in.
“You saw Cookie?” A frown creased her forehead, and her lips thinned.
For a minute, he thought she’d have another go at him about his ill-fated relationship with the woman of her nightmares. Instead, she hugged the door, her desire to take Cookie down winning out over jealousy.
She fired a litany of questions at him. “What’d she do? What’d she say? Where’d you see her? Did she look guilty?”
That was Bobbie, everything at once. Her enthusiasm, no matter what the subject, was another of the things that drew him to her. “Let me in, and I’ll tell you.”
Her eyes fell to his shirt front. He’d put on one free of stains just for her. “I was just getting ready to go out,” she said.
Shit. She’d gone and done it, gotten herself a date with Brax. “That’s a bad idea. Brax is slippery, you might not even know you’re telling him something he can use against you.” Which was true and better than simply saying, I don’t want you going out with him.
“I have to.” She bit her lip. “There are forces conspiring against you. I have to find out what the sheriff’s thinking.”
“Forces conspiring against me?” He almost laughed, until he noted the tense line of her lip. “Isn’t that a bit melodramatic?” But he liked the fact that she worried about him.
She tipped her head to one side and put a hand up along the door. She’d had her nails done, a spicy shade that reminded him of red-hot chili peppers. He wanted those nails scoring his back.
“When was the last time there was a lynching in this town?”
He did laugh then, but a kink ran through it. “There’s never been a lynching.”
She stuck her tongue between her teeth. “Let’s just say I’m trying to keep it that way. Now tell me about Cookie.”
He didn’t. Yet. “Where are you going with Brax?”
“Umm.” She looked at the scratches in the old hardwood floor. “I don’t know. I forgot to ask.”
No woman forgot to ask. They had to coordinate their clothing with their destination. This could be in his favor; then again, it might not be. Depended on if she’d forgotten because she was so excited to be out with Brax or because it didn’t matter to her. “I was just curious. Cookie did the fake grief thing with aplomb.”
“You mean runny mascara, eyes and nose?”
“Yeah. Silk hankie, too. I went to her house.”
“Ooh, and she let you in?”
“She didn’t have the nerve to turn me away. She was scared.”
“Good job. Did you push her buttons?”
Christ, the excitement in her eyes and threaded through her voice got him hot. “She was quivering with fear when I left. I wouldn’t be surprised if she calls Warren to make sure he hasn’t turned against her.”
Her lips parted. He thought about the really nice things those lips were capable of. “You’re amazing.”
Yes, he certainly was. And he wanted to amaze her right now, in her bed, on the carpet, in the kitchen, anywhere. “If she doesn’t incriminate herself that way, I figure she’ll be back at my house trying to plant more evidence.” He shined his fingernails on his shirt. “I let her think I’d found the shovel and gotten rid of it. She’ll figure she’s got to get me with something else.”
The excitement buoying Bobbie up seemed to die a quick unnatural death. “I heard you were observed buying a lock.”
He raised his gaze heavenward. “Can’t I even take a piss around here without people noticing?”
“A
pee, maybe, buying a lock, no.” She chewed on a nail, risking her fresh manicure. “Do you think Brax can get a search warrant if he finds out about the lock?”
He stared down at her, looking for any telltale signs of a nervous breakdown. She really was acting weird. “No.”
“You have to get rid of the shovel.”
“I can’t do that. First of all, I might get caught with it while I’m transporting it. And second, it’s evidence. When we find out who really did it, Brax is going to need the weapon.”
Emotion brimmed in her eyes, fear, pain, despair. “Do you really think we can find out who did it?”
“Of course.” He sounded a hell of a lot more confident than he felt. But suddenly, he wanted to be the big tough hero. For her. “Let me in, Bobbie.” He meant it in more ways than one.
Shit. This thing might be getting way too serious.
“I told you, I have to go out.”
“With Brax.” He kept the tone light when what he really wanted was to smash something. “This is not a good idea.”
“I won’t tell him anything I shouldn’t.” She zipped her lips. “In fact, I won’t even open my mouth.” Christ, now why’d she have to say that and bring all sorts of openmouthed images to mind? “I’ll let him do all the talking,” she swore.
“Fine.” He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t stop it. And he had to admit this wasn’t about Brax anymore. He would have wanted to smash things no matter who she was going out with. Brax was actually the best of a lot of bad choices. The guy might be a dickhead, but he was still a good cop. “At least I won’t have to worry about your safety.”
She raised a brow, a hitch in her voice. “Why on earth wouldn’t I be safe in Cottonmouth?”
“You’re right. What was I thinking?” Except that Jimbo had been murdered, and Bobbie’s questions had irritated a lot of people. Not that anyone would actually think of hurting her physically just because of a few questions. “Call me when you get home and tell me what you learned.”
Jesus. He was losing it. He wanted her to call him just so he could hear her voice, maybe talk her over into his bed. What the hell was up with that?
* * * * *
Bobbie closed the door and ran into her bedroom for black jeans and a black turtleneck. Sort of a cat burglar outfit, good for reconnaissance, or a little sneaking around. She hoped she wouldn’t get hot and sticky in the high neck. She hadn’t actually lied to Nick. She’d never said she was getting ready to go out with Brax tonight. He’d just assumed. That wasn’t a lie, not really.
She had to find out what Brax was up to. The need burned in her. Especially after Eugenia Meade’s stunt in the Hair Ball. God, she still felt sick about it, the wide maniacal eyes, the curled lips, the angry mumbles. Her career in Cottonmouth was toast, but she still had Nick to worry about. Eugenia couldn’t keep silent long, and if not tonight, by tomorrow, she’d be whispering in Brax’s ear that Bobbie lied about being with Nick on Tuesday. She needed to know what Brax was doing, not just because he refused to take her out tonight, but because he’d been sort of mysterious about it, too.
Bobbie tied the shoelaces on her black tennies, grabbed her keys, and dashed out the door. Brax had given a weird laugh when she’d mentioned him staking out Cookie’s house. She’d try there first.
Nick was now her responsibility. She’d broadcast her commitment to the whole town—telling Eugenia, Marjorie, and Patsy was as good as putting it in the newspaper. She couldn’t let Nick down. Warren would cave sooner or later. Or the case against him would fall apart. Despite Brax’s scoffing at her cop shows, she knew they didn’t prosecute someone for a crime despite a confession unless they could corroborate the story. Warren’s story had no corroboration. Come on, he killed Jimbo because Dennis Crouch didn’t want Warren to steal his business? Get real.
She turned onto Cookie’s lane, the VW purring slowly down the street. Lights were on in the big house, all upstairs, none downstairs. She cruised by twice, got out of her car to search in the darkness, but found sight of neither Brax nor his patrol car.
Her little bug chugged back out onto the main road. She’d passed the sheriff’s department on the way out. Brax’s lights had been off. He was up to something elsewhere, she just knew it. Where could he have gone?
To the right lay Delton Road and the lake. The scene of the crime. Maybe he was there, pouring over evidence yet again. Brax was a thorough guy, wasn’t everyone always saying that?
Five minutes later, she pulled onto the small dirt road. Across the water, lights flickered through the trees, then disappeared as she moved on. Her headlights cut through the night. Gee, it was dark out here. Really dark.
Why did Nick have to make that comment about her being safe? All it did was make her jittery. For no good reason.
Bobbie almost turned the car around, but a flash of light cut through the forest, closer this time. It had to be Brax. Maybe he was giving the lake one more chance to cough up a shovel.
She ignored the little voice in her head telling her how stupid she was, like the teenager in the horror flick climbing those attic stairs in her bikini underwear when everyone knows the maniac is up there with his butcher knife.
It wasn’t quite that bad. No serial killer lurked in the woods. But what about that girl who disappeared? That was in another county. Besides, Bobbie wasn’t a nubile young thing. Serial killers always went for defiling nubile young things.
Still, she wouldn’t get out of the car. And she’d only stay a minute. She’d just see if Brax was there. If he wasn’t, she’d make like a banana and peel.
The last bend in the road entered the parking lot. No lights blazed, no cars idled. No Brax. Just a strip of yellow tape in her headlights, stretched between the trees, marking the scene.
Really, for the first time, she thought about Jimbo. Not Warren or Nick, but about big, sweet Jimbo. He’d died out here. She let the car roll to a stop. The little engine rumbled in the otherwise quiet night, the sound almost sacrilegious. She turned the key, killing the motor, and said a prayer into the deep silence that followed. No matter what Jimbo had done, no matter if he had built the minimall and tried to drive out his tenants, he didn’t deserve what had happened to him. He deserved a prayer.
“Amen,” she whispered and reached for the key.
That’s when her door was yanked open. Bobbie didn’t have time to scream before her head seemed to explode into a million splinters of light and pain.
* * * * *
Where the hell was she?
The portable phone lay on the workbench, the windows behind him open so he could hear her car. Nick hadn’t sketched a single line in the four hours he’d been waiting.
He wasn’t jealous; he was worried. All right, so the images assailing his feeble mind were more concerned with Bobbie’s limbs contorting around Brax’s body than with her lying in a bloody heap somewhere. The bloody heap was definitely the worst of the two.
Christ, where was she?
An engine fired far down the street, then faded away. It didn’t sound like a Volkswagen anyway. Maybe he should call Brax. The man had given him his cell number for emergencies. Bobbie’s disappearance was starting to feel like an emergency.
God almighty, he was going crazy. Worse, he liked it in an odd way. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cared about anything, certainly not since his parents died, and maybe not for a long time before that. Worrying about Bobbie was... refreshing.
A loud crash and shattering glass sounded downstairs, then running feet pounded on concrete. Shit, another roadkill. God forbid they’d actually thrown it through his living room window. He took the two flights of stairs two steps at a time.
And skidded to a halt just inside the arch. All that remained of the front window was a gaping hole and a swinging shard of glass still attached to the top sill.
“Godammit.” He sniffed, expecting the smell of decomposing flesh. There was nothing. Except a brick lying in the center of his coffee tab
le.
String secured a piece of white paper around it.
He was getting a really bad feeling.
Picking up the brick, he untied and unfolded the note. Letters cut from a magazine had been glued to the paper.
“If you want to see Bobbie Jones alive again, come to Jimbo’s fishing lodge. Come alone.”
Shit. They had Bobbie.
Chapter Eighteen
Dear God, I know I was stupid, I mean really really stupid, and I’m so sorry about that, but please help me anyway.
Bobbie wasn’t Nick’s warrior princess type, no matter how much she’d tried to pretend, and she didn’t know kickboxing. But unlike a lot of women, she did know when to keep her mouth shut.
With her hands tied behind her back and her waist secured to a hard chair, her numb fingers swelled like cooked sausages. Her head ached like...a son of bitch. They’d hit her with something. Where was she? The only thing she could see, without raising her head—and that she was terrified to do—was a plain plank floor covered by a braided rag rug. Her shoes were missing.
Playing possum, letting them think she was still unconscious, was the only advantage she had. Maybe she’d learn what they planned to do with her, then she’d find a way out. If she didn’t start screaming in sheer terror first. Listening to the argument on the other side of the room, Bobbie didn’t move a muscle.
“Why can’t you just take care of it, Kent?” The Cookie Monster’s whine. God, she really had played Warren for a fool. Bobbie would have liked nothing better than to punch her lights out. She choked back a whimper instead.
“I have to be outside to surprise him while you’re in here keeping an eye on her,” the man said. Kent. Nick’s friend, the one who came to the house? Bobbie suppressed a shudder. “Get with the program, Cookie. We agreed on this already.”
“Can’t you just...get it over with?” Oh my God, what was it? “I’ll leave, then you wait for him. I don’t want to be here.”
“Goddammit, Cookie. The timing is critical. We can’t risk Nick being seen around town after her time of death. Everyone’s got to believe he killed her, then took off. That means he’s got to be here when we do it.”
She's Gotta Be Mine (A sexy, funny mystery/romance, Cottonmouth Book 1) (Cottonmouth Series) Page 26