Confessions

by JoAnn Ross

  Next he wrote in the names of Laura's husband, her lover, her lover's scorned girlfriend and her husband's possible mistress. Then, although he still didn't think it possible, he added Matthew Swann's name.

  Fletcher's political campaign would not be helped by a divorce and it would undoubtedly be fatally destroyed if it was discovered that he'd been having an affair with his chief of staff. As a widower, however, he'd gain the sympathy vote.

  As for Heather, perhaps she'd simply gotten tired of promises that didn't look as if they'd come true and decided to take matters into her own hands and solve the problem of her boss's marriage once and for all. Since it was obvious she enjoyed her power as the senator's chief of staff, he could easily envision her imagining herself by Fletcher's side in the Oval office—working as a team, like Bill and Hillary.

  Garvey, who to some might seem the logical choice to have murdered Laura Fletcher, appeared to have nothing to gain by killing the woman he professed to love. And everything to lose.

  And if he'd murdered Laura in a fit of passionate rage— perhaps she'd told him that she wasn't going to get a divorce, after all—wouldn't he have more likely done it earlier, while they'd been alone in the house after making love? Why would he risk leaving, then returning, when he knew her husband was expected?

  There was another thing that didn't quite fit about Garvey, Trace concluded as he took a long drink of the bitter coffee that had been sitting on the burner too long. If he had shot the senator, Trace had the feeling that the cowboy—who was known to be an expert marksman—would have made certain the wounds were fatal.

  The same, Trace felt, was true for Patti Greene. Although he wasn't going to write her off, his instincts told him that she'd been telling the truth. Of course, he considered, with Laura out of the picture, Garvey was suddenly eligible again. And for a young woman struggling to make it on her own, murder could seem to be the answer. He'd certainly seen people killed for a lot less.

  As for Swann, Trace didn't believe the rancher capable of murdering his daughter, no matter how angry he was about her affair. But he could have returned home from Santa Fe and inadvertently set things into motion.

  The problem with each of these scenarios, Trace considered, was that they involved a second party. If the senator had killed his wife, then wounded himself to deflect suspicion, he still would've needed someone to remove the guns from the house. Heather Martin seemed willing to do just about anything for her boss. Would she agree to being an accomplice in murder? How about if it meant eventually becoming First Lady?

  On the other hand, if Fletcher's story was true about two armed intruders, then the other suspects would have had to find a killer for hire. From what he'd seen of Patti and Garvey, he doubted that was their style. Besides, Patti Greene didn't have the money to pay for a hit. And Garvey didn't appear all that flush, either.

  Trace stared at the chart, as if the answer to his dilemma would suddenly magically appear on the yellow lined paper. When it didn't, he flipped the page and divided the paper into two columns entitled Sex and Money.

  Beneath the column headed Sex, he listed Laura, Fletcher, Garvey, Patti and Heather, linking the various couples together.

  Under Money, he wrote a single question: Who would profit from Laura Swann Fletcher's death? Again he listed Fletcher. And Garvey. Clint Garvey's ranch didn't begin to equal the land Laura had inherited from her maternal grandmother. There were also rumors of Garvey having a bit of bad luck playing the cattle futures market.

  He needed to find Garvey, Trace told himself yet again. And, he decided, it wouldn't hurt to get a look at Laura Fletcher's will. She was a wealthy woman, far wealthier than her husband. It would be interesting to learn who stood to inherit her family fortune.

  Maggie answered the knock on her suite door. Instead of the room service waiter she'd been expecting, she found a woman whose face she probably would have recognized even if it didn't routinely appear on the glossy pages of Town and Country.

  "Freddi." She managed a smile for her elder daughter's best friend. "It's good to see you."

  "Oh, Maggie." Fredericka took both Maggie's hands in hers. "I only wish it was under different circumstances." Tears welled up in her eyes. "I've been trying to get hold of Mariah ever since I heard, but she's never in."

  "She's determined to help the sheriff track down Laura's murderer." Maggie glanced down the hallway, as if looking for someone, sighed and said, "Come in, dear. I'm so glad you dropped by. You knew Laura better than anyone. I need someone to tell me what kind of woman my daughter grew up to be."

  "A wonderful woman," Freddi said firmly as she claimed a corner of the sofa. "She was sweet and loving, and never had a bad word to say about anyone. I have to tell you," she admitted with a rueful smile, "sometimes her unwavering perfection could wear a bit thin on the rest of us poor mortals."

  Maggie remembered the joyful, fun-loving little girl with the contagious laugh she left behind and frowned. "I suppose that came from trying to please her father."

  Freddi's dark head bobbed. "I suspect so. Matthew was always a strict father. But after you left, he turned positively tyrannical."

  "No doubt determined to stamp out whatever amoral proclivities his daughters may have inherited from me," Maggie murmured. Although Mariah had always stubbornly refused to discuss her father, what she hadn't said had spoken volumes. So many, many things to be guilty for, Maggie mused miserably.

  Fredericka had the grace to blush. "Oh, I didn't mean that."

  "Never apologize for telling the truth, Freddi." Maggie lifted her chin and garnered renewed strength. "Tell me about my daughter."

  During the next twenty minutes Maggie learned how hard Laura had tried to meet Matthew's sterling standard. She'd always been the model daughter, earning straight A's in school, being appointed editor of the Rim Rock High School yearbook, winning valedictorian of her class and going on to graduate from Scripps College—one of the only two women's colleges on the West Coast— magna cum laude.

  "I didn't know she was at Scripps." For four years her daughter had been going to school only thirty-five miles east of L.A. Thirty-five miles, and she'd never once broken down and called her mother. "My God, how she must have hated me."

  "It wasn't in Laura to hate anyone," Freddi quickly assured Maggie. "But you have to understand, Matthew had declared you dead to the family and threatened to cut both Laura and Mariah completely out of his life if they ever attempted to contact you. I suppose Laura was afraid to take the risk."

  He would have done it, too, Maggie knew. The cold-hearted son of a bitch! She never should have left her babies under that man's evil roof. But then again, she asked herself sadly, after what had happened on that long-ago fateful night, what choice had she had?

  None, Maggie reminded herself sadly. None at all.

  "Tell me about Clint." She couldn't remember the man, but she did recall his father. All too well. Ancient pain—and additional guilt—caused dual fists to twist her heart in two.

  Freddi frowned. "I have to admire Clint for pulling himself up by the bootstraps, but I never thought he was a proper match for Laura."

  "Did you know if she was having an affair with him?"

  "If she was, she never said anything to me. I also doubt if it was serious. Her marriage with Alan seemed to be a good one. Of course it had its ups and downs, but what marriage doesn't?"

  Having seen the same photos Mariah had, Maggie wondered if the Fletchers had been the idyllic match they'd tried so hard to portray. "Mariah thinks Alan killed Laura."

  Freddi frowned at what she obviously considered an amazing idea. "I doubt if Alan's ever touched a gun in his life. In fact, I remember when I was trying to talk him into joining the Whiskey River Rifle club—to help expand his local political base—and he told me he wouldn't even know how to load a rifle, let alone shoot it."

  She shook her head. "Although I hate to accuse Mariah of ulterior motives, I think her real problem with Alan is that M
atthew treated him like a son, while pretending she didn't exist. The day she left town, she was dead to him."

  Just like his wife. Knowing firsthand exactly how rigid Matthew Swann could be, Maggie sighed. And although she was grateful for Freddi's concern, she found herself wishing her daughter's longtime friend would leave.

  Because she needed a drink. And she needed it now.

  Chapter Nine

  After a great deal of arguing, and not a few out-and-out shouting matches between Matthew and Maggie, it was finally decided that Laura's funeral would be held in Whiskey River.

  "The problem with that," Alan pointed out during a meeting in his hospital room, "is that the church only holds one hundred people."

  "You've got a point there, son," Matthew agreed in the low, rambling voice that had once been capable of frightening Mariah.

  "So have a private service," Maggie snapped. "Limit it to family and a selected few close friends."

  "Not that you'd know any of your daughter's friends," Matthew countered. "You haven't bothered to come back to town since you deserted your family twenty-six years ago."

  "For your information, it's been twenty-seven. And every morning of every one of those years, I thanked God I didn't have to look at you across the breakfast table any longer."

  "Hell, you never got up before lunch."

  "Excuse me." Heather Martin bravely stepped into the breach. "Could we please try to stay on the subject?"

  The senatorial aide had ended up playing peacemaker during each of these sessions. Her people management skills were flawless, Mariah admitted reluctantly. And her sorrow regarding Laura's death seemed genuine enough. Under any other circumstances, Mariah decided she might have even ended up liking her.

  The former husband and wife exchanged a blistering look.

  A suspended silence settled over the hospital room.

  "A private service at that ranch isn't such a bad idea," Matthew said finally. "We could keep the press away."

  "Whatever you think, Matt," Alan agreed quickly.

  Despite the painful gravity of the subject, Mariah almost enjoyed watching Alan's bid for nationwide publicity squelched.

  "Perhaps," Heather suggested, "we could have a memorial service later in Washington."

  "For Laura's many D.C. friends," Alan chimed in. "Did I mention that the majority leader offered to pay his respects?"

  Maggie lifted her green eyes toward the ceiling.

  "It's amazing," Mariah ground out, "how you can put aside your grief in order to plot how to use your wife's death to boost your political career."

  Alan gave her a cold stare. "You have no idea what I'm feeling, Mariah. As for my career, Laura was proud of my contribution to our country. She would have wanted me to continue my work in the White House."

  "Spare me the political bullshit, senator."

  Heather deftly jumped into the conversation again, determined to keep the peace. "Of course we'd wait until the press coverage has died down. We wouldn't want any-one to think we were capitalizing on this horrible tragedy."

  "Who could possibly think that?" Mariah said acidly.

  "A Washington memorial service is an excellent idea, young lady," Matthew immediately agreed.

  From the way he'd been fawning over his wounded son-in-law, Mariah had the feeling Alan could have suggested holding the service on the Capitol steps and having it broadcast over CNN and her father would have enthusiastically approved of the plan. In Matthew's eyes, Alan could do no wrong.

  So what else was new?

  By the second day after the murder, even more press hounds had come to town, joining those already camped out in front of the courthouse. Each of the networks' news departments had been calling for exclusive, one-on-one interviews. Trace repeatedly refused, which didn't stop them from trying.

  One woman booker from "Nightline" was proving stubbornly persistent and both Diane Sawyer and Barbara Walters had placed their own calls, throwing Jill into an absolute tizzy and even impressing a reluctant Cora Mae. From the way Mariah was also burning up the telephone lines, probing into his every move, Trace came to the frustrated conclusion that females were definitely the more determined sex.

  As if the weather had conspired to make things more miserable, a high pressure front had settled over the state, bringing monsoon humidity up from the Gulf of California. The stifling heat had everyone testy; J.D., Loftin and Trace had refereed a half dozen domestic disputes and innumerable bar fights in the past eight hours and if it didn't rain soon, Trace worried that Whiskey River would experience its second homicide in a week.

  A lesser, but still aggravating problem was the escalating increase in petty juvenile crimes. With a lack of employment opportunities in this rural county, there were too many teenagers in town this vacation season with too much time on their hands.

  They'd called in false 911 calls, infiltrated their way onto the police band radio, and had set off cherry bombs that started spot fires all over the town.

  Annoyed at the way the investigation had stalled, Trace found himself facing the seventy-two hour rule—an unwritten rule of thumb stating the killer needed to be arrested in the first three days after committing the crime.

  Determined not to let Laura Fletcher's murderer or murderers get away, he was rereading the DPS report, comparing it to his notes yet again, trying to unearth something that could solve this damn crime before things got entirely out of hand, when he heard a renewed flurry of activity on the street outside.

  He glanced out the window and viewed a tall man in jeans, a snap-front plaid shirt and a worn fawn Stetson climbing out of a forest green Bronco. Clint Garvey had returned to Whiskey River.

  Trace watched the man run the gauntlet of reporters, his head down, his stride unbroken, as if he were pushing against a gale force wind. Trace knew the feeling well. He buzzed Jill. "When Garvey arrives, show him right in."

  "Clint's back?"

  "Seems to be."

  "Will you want coffee?"

  "Couldn't hurt."

  "I'll put a fresh pot on right away."

  "Thanks."

  "No problem. Ten-four, Sheriff."

  Clint Garvey had the weather-hewn face of a man who'd spent his life outdoors, fighting the elements. His eyes, as blue as a mountain lake, were a startling contrast to his dark complexion.

  "Hello, Clint." Trace stood up from behind his desk. "We've been looking for you."

  "I've been up riding the rim."

  "Looking for strays?"

  "Actually, I was looking for peace." Clint gave him a long direct look. "I read about Laura's—" he swallowed "—I read about it in the paper."

  He obviously could not say the word murder. Or death. Not in regard to this woman he'd loved for so long. The woman, Trace reminded himself, who'd once been his wife.

  "I'm sorry about that, Clint." He gestured toward a chair and sat down behind his desk again.

  "It happened Wednesday night?"

  "Actually, early Thursday morning."

  "Hell." Clint dragged a broad dark hand down his face, slumped down into the chair, stretched his long legs out in front of him and crossed his booted feet at the ankle. He was quiet for a long time.

  Trace waited with the customary patience that had initially been so hard for him to learn. In his misguided youth, he'd been famous for his flash-fire temper.

  When Garvey finally looked up at him, Trace viewed the lowest circles of hell in their blue depths.

  "The paper said you're looking for burglars."

  "That's one avenue of investigation."

  "And I'm another." It was not a question.

  "At this point I'm not ruling out anyone."

  Clint Garvey's mouth drew into a tight horizontal line bracketed by deeply slashed vertical lines. "Including that son of a bitch she was married to?"

  "I told you—"

  "Yeah, yeah." Clint cut him off with a brusque wave of his callused hand. "You're not ruling anyone out." He cursed,
took off his hat and ran his left hand frustratedly through his chestnut hair. "Well, I've got some questions of my own. So how about you ask yours? Then I'll ask mine."

  Back in Dallas, Trace would have been inclined to point out that he was the only individual in the room with the right to ask any questions. But he'd quickly discovered that things were different out here in the sticks. Not only did they move at a slower pace, what worked in the big city wasn't always the right tactic for Whiskey River.

  When he'd first become a detective, a seasoned veteran of twenty-five years on the force had taken him aside and told him that sometimes, in the heat and pressure of an investigation, a cop could get so wrapped up in following procedure, he might lose track of his main objective.

  "Just always keep in mind what you want to achieve, son," the grizzled, cigar-chomping detective had advised. "And you'll do just fine."

  The advice had proven invaluable more times than Trace cared to count. Keeping it in mind now, he reminded himself that while his ultimate goal was to solve Laura Fletcher's murder, his objective at the moment was to get Garvey talking. If that took allowing the suspect a few questions of his own, so be it.

  Besides, he reminded himself, no one said he'd have to answer.

  "Sounds fair enough," he agreed.

  Jill arrived with two mugs of black coffee. Trace thanked her, Clint turned down her offer of sugar or cream and accepted his with a muttered "Thanks." He also refused her offer of the apple bear claws that Iris down at The Branding Iron Cafe had baked fresh that morning.

  "Mind if I tape our conversation?" Trace asked, reaching into the drawer of the desk for the portable recorder.

  "Suit yourself." Clint took a long drink of the steaming black coffee and looked as if he wished it were something stronger.