Especially considering what he was about to propose.
“I’ll accompany you to your party, posing as your new boyfriend. We can say we met because I was the one who exonerated you and it went from there.” He spoke the words with a slight sense of anticipation, capped with guilt. It was a solid plan. All bodies of law enforcement used undercover ops because they worked. “That way I can move about freely, asking questions, getting to know people, without tipping anyone off to the fact that I’m investigating them. The ruse is believable in that we can say we met during your time in prison, with the crown jewel being the truth that I’m the one who won you your freedom. We can say that we’ve spent most of the past two days together.”
“If we do that, people will figure out that I’m staying with you.”
It wasn’t ideal. But... “They don’t have to know you’re here. You could be in a safe house that I have access to. And, just to reassure you, this place has security at the ground floor, no one can get in the building without a pass, and there are monitored security cameras on every elevator, so anyone attempting to get to you would be seen getting up to my door, which is a hell of a lot safer than your place. And you won’t ever be here alone. If I have to go out, someone else will come over to guard the door.”
He added, “It’s important that you don’t go to that party alone. And I don’t want to miss this golden opportunity to get a look at everyone in your sphere all at once.”
She hadn’t balked about the boyfriend part yet. He sat ready to defend the cover.
“Okay.” She took the wind out of his sails. But she didn’t seem happy about the idea.
“What’s bothering you?” He’d been ready to go to bat for his plan. He could still do so. He knew it was the right thing to do. Professionally, anyway. His instincts in that arena rarely steered him wrong.
“Fritz claimed that I was unfaithful to him, and now, two days out of prison, which I went into even before his funeral, I’m showing up with a new boyfriend?”
Maybe he hadn’t considered every avenue...having missed one he wouldn’t have considered even if he’d had a week to work on the plan. Everleigh’s sensibilities. Her reputation...
“We can say that I’ve insisted that you stay someplace safe, and you aren’t telling anyone where it is, if they ask, because the GGPD chose the place and asked you not to disclose it.”
“And we’ve just started seeing each other...when you asked me out to celebrate getting out of prison,” she said slowly.
“Or you invited me out to dinner as a thank-you for my great sleuthing...”
She gave him a full grin then, for the first time since they’d entered his home.
And Clarke felt his world start to spin on a dangerous axis.
Chapter 6
Everleigh was still sitting in Clarke’s office, worrying about the advisability of pretending that he was her boyfriend, even as she acknowledged that his plan was solid, when his phone rang. Troy calling, as it turned out, letting Clarke know that her house was no longer a crime scene.
“He advises that we head back over there, let you get things put away, and thus have a better chance to tell if anything’s missing,” Clarke told her, standing up and reaching for the coat he’d had on earlier. He’d thrown it over the arm of the couch along the wall, rather than hanging it on the standing rack right by the door.
Something she’d already noted. She liked his laid-back nature, his lack of rigidity—unlike Fritz, who’d been so adamant that all routines were in place for good reason and deviation from them would cause chaos, which led to a less healthy lifestyle.
Ha! Screwing around had obviously been routine for the real Fritz Emerson and had definitely not been good for his health. Assuming that Clarke was right and one of Fritz’s mistresses was his murderer.
“He’d like you to get things put back in their normal places, so you’ll know if something’s been moved, and then the department’s going to set up some security cameras inside the house. Ransacking a house because you’re angry is one thing, but with you thinking someone’s been in and out of your house...we need to have full-time surveillance going. To know what’s going on.”
“Could be whoever was there was there to kill me and just chickened out.” She’d been kind of thinking that all morning.
Until he shook his head. “Doesn’t make sense. This is probably the same person who murdered your husband in that same house by bashing his head in with a paperweight. More likely, the perp is looking for something. And if they didn’t find it this morning, chances are, they’ll be back.”
His words made her shiver. Not in a good way.
And she hoped whoever was after something had found it. Or would just ask for it. There was nothing in that house that was worth more to her than her safety and freedom. And she was determined never to lose those again.
* * *
Clarke helped where he could at Everleigh’s house. Not one to stand around idly, or to be good with little to do, he busied himself with straightening and organizing, so that Everleigh could come behind him and put things away where they belonged. He’d established straight-out with Everleigh that he would stay close to her. The police had just cleared out. He knew there was no one else in the house. But that didn’t mean someone couldn’t come in. Most particularly since she’d had the feeling someone had been in the house the night before.
Everleigh didn’t argue.
They tackled the kitchen first and worked as though they’d been on the job together for years, not like they were inventing it as they went along.
She was completely quiet at first. He left her to her thoughts. Wondered a bit about what kind of memories she’d made in the house. And how much of what she was touching reminded her of her deceased husband.
As she put away the groceries, she offered to make them some grilled ham-and-cheese sandwiches for lunch, then to bring the fruits and vegetables to his place. Since he wasn’t good at grocery shopping—he tended to forget about fresh food and let it spoil on his watch—he accepted the offer. But he refused to make anything of the sudden rush of warmth that came at the thought of her being at his place for the next few days.
He’d had houseguests before. Enjoyed having people around.
He didn’t ever get warm and gooey about it.
What was it about this ex-prisoner barmaid that was making him feel this way?
Maybe the way she was talking about what they’d have for dinner. She had some chicken enchilada meal she’d been planning to make to freeze in portions for herself. He hadn’t planned on having her cook for him. Or care for him.
But seeing the way she seemed to lighten up as she talked about the cooking, he readily agreed. He liked enchiladas. And didn’t get home-cooked meals all that often. Still, she was his guest. Partially because the GGPD had screwed up. No way he should be taking advantage...
And then it dawned on him. Cooking would be something she’d have done as a normal part of her day. And normalcy would help her cope.
The thought made him feel less guilty for letting her do such nice things for him.
And the prospect of home-cooked meals could explain his pleasure at the idea of having her around. If he’d only started being drawn to her after she’d offered to cook for him...
Moving from the kitchen to the dining and living rooms after lunch, they made good progress, talking a little more. About music choices as he straightened a collection of CDs that rivaled his own. His younger siblings bought all their music digitally and had gotten him more into the habit as well, but he still liked having the physical copies on hand. Liked having control of what he owned.
And liked that Everleigh also had an appreciation for country music. They’d even both been to a couple of the same concerts in Detroit and Ann Arbor in recent years.
Things got a little more complicated when they moved
to the back half of the house. Without any conversation at all, he avoided her bedroom, and she tended to it alone, while he cleaned up a rather sizable mess of spilled cleaning product in the hallway bathroom just down from her opened door. It was the only overt damage caused in the entire place. The only place where frustration seemed to have gotten the better of the burglar. Because it was the last room he or she was in?
Or was there another reason the bathroom had set them off? Pulling his notepad out of the back pocket of his jeans, he jotted down the questions.
They met up in what was obviously her office. The decor in the room was decidedly feminine, with floral wall art, angels on shelves that hadn’t been touched—another note for his pad.
And masses of piles of books, having been pulled from an entire wall, floor to ceiling, of shelves. His height came in handy there, and as she handed him books, he reorganized them, starting with the top shelf.
Noticing titles, particularly, so that he didn’t notice her so close by, bending over, standing up, that body with those lovely curves moving with such grace. And the floral scent... It wasn’t strong. Not like some perfumes, which tended to gag him sometimes, but more subtle. A breeze on a summer day that caught a waft of a rose garden...
The thought stopped him cold. And then he double-timed the shelving. When had he ever been aware of a summer breeze before? Had he ever even seen a rose garden?
He’d been handed a couple of self-help books. As though she knew how badly he needed them. Just in case, he read the taglines. And then those on the next books, too. Apparently, there was going to be an entire shelf filled with ways to better yourself. Financially—some books written by names he recognized. Emotionally—he’d never heard of the authors. One book in particular, about being an effective person in all walks of life, he’d actually read himself once.
Probably more recently than she had, judging by the wear and tear on her copy. His was less than five years old. He stood there, looking at the book...and at her, quietly working her way through cleaning up another mess in her life that she hadn’t made. She hadn’t said much since they’d begun the task of cleaning up. Hadn’t cried, either. Or showed other signs of distress.
She’d just gone about the business of quietly cleaning up.
“What?” Books in hand ready to give him, Everleigh stood there, frowning. He shelved the books she’d already handed him. Took the next...
Had no idea how to answer her. He wouldn’t lie but his thoughts were definitely not case related.
“You have a problem with self-help books in general or just the effectiveness one?” she asked on the next handoff.
“Are these all yours?” he prevaricated. Not a great response, but the best he could do on the fly. This woman had had him off-kilter since the adrenaline burst with which he’d rescued her that morning and he had to get himself in check.
“Yeah. Fritz’s stuff is mostly still here,” she said, bending for more books. “He moved out a month before his murder, but he got a furnished place and didn’t take much more than clothes and toiletries with him. He still came home to work in his den every day while I was at the bar.” It was the longest conversation she’d offered him since they’d arrived. Because they were almost done? Or was she loosening up some with him around? “But he wasn’t much of a reader.”
“I can’t imagine not reading. All the information out there...” Not to mention the entertainment.
“He said he got the same in podcasts and watching the news...”
He didn’t really want to talk about Fritz Emerson—not unless it led him to knowing who wanted him dead.
“And you still didn’t answer my question,” she said, becoming persistent at the most inopportune time. Books in hand, she didn’t give them to him, just stood there looking over at him. “You had a really odd look on your face. You have something against that book? I mean, I’ve seen your house. Clearly, you’re a reader, too. And that book... I pretty much live by it...”
“I like the book.”
“You’ve read it, then?”
“Yeah. It’s on the shelf in my office,” Clarke admitted.
“So, why the look?”
Why wasn’t she giving up?
“Why does it matter?” he asked.
“I don’t know, but it does.”
Everleigh was reasonable. And apparently when she knew something was going on that concerned her, she could also be obstinate.
“The book...it’s practical and full of wisdom for anyone who wants to live their best life...”
He sounded like a...someone who was not him.
“And you have a problem with that?”
“No.” Crossing his arms when she still didn’t give him books, he raised his chin and gave it to her. “I have a problem with the fact that your book is so much older than my copy. You might have come from what some around here call ‘the wrong side of the tracks,’ but you didn’t let that define you. Instead, you took charge and made more out of your life...”
He was saying it all wrong. He knew it as the words came out.
“And you have a problem with that?” she repeated. Her frown was back.
“Of course not.” He bit back more words. “The opposite, in fact. You probably have an older copy because you used the book and its advice to help make a better life for yourself. In contrast, I had a lot of opportunity, and instead of being grateful and taking advantage of that, I squandered away the first ten years of my adulthood and spent the next five earning back the respect I’d lost in the process. I’ve got the book. But I only read it for the first time four and a half years ago.”
As the words escaped him, giving her more than he ever gave anyone, her expression changed. She was still assessing him, but with more curiosity and respect than the earlier frown had portrayed.
The frown probably had been better for his libido. And for their current situation. He needed her to trust him to keep her safe. And to pretend to like him when they went to her mother’s the next night.
Not to respect or actually like him...even if he now respected and liked her.
* * *
She’d saved Fritz’s den for last. Hadn’t been in the room for a month before her husband was killed, and hadn’t been in since, either.
“I have no real idea where things go,” she said, scooping stuff up off the floor...papers, an ashtray she didn’t recognize, a box of cigars, baseball cards. “This was his space, even when our marriage was...well...a marriage,” she amended. At no time had it been healthy.
And how she’d managed to avoid that fact for eighteen years was about to drive her nuts. About as much as the fact that her own parents had thought her capable of murder.
It was like her whole life she’d lived in a little world of her own—until recently. How did she trust herself to know anything now? And if she couldn’t trust herself, how did she trust anyone else?
The only trustworthy person had been Gram, apparently. At least, it seemed that way to Everleigh, as she tried to get the room in shape as quickly as possible so they could get out of there.
The silence started to overwhelm her...the deafening white noise inside turning her inner thoughts into a loudspeaker.
“The more I think about it, the more I realize that Fritz and I had been living separate lives for most of our marriage,” she said aloud, caring more about getting out of her internal hell than exposing herself to Clarke Colton. It wasn’t like this PI was a part of her life, like she’d ever see him again once whoever had tried to kill her was caught.
“It kind of seems that way,” he said, his tone agreeable. Nonjudgmental. “You said he didn’t move much out of the house, but pretty much every room, they all have your touch. Except here.”
Straightening, she turned to look at him righting Fritz’s basketball memorabilia on the shelves allotted to it.
&nb
sp; “How do you know what’s my touch and what’s his?” she asked, curious. And kind of wanting him to be right, too.
“This room is nothing like the rest of the house. And you just told me it was mostly Fritz’s room.”
The answer was so simple. And yet...right, too.
Right under her nose.
Like her failing marriage had been? She and Fritz hadn’t been as close, but she’d told herself marriages had ups and downs. And maybe she’d buried herself in charity work so she didn’t have to see just how far apart they’d grown.
“My guess is that’s why you didn’t know about the cheating,” he continued in the same conversational tone. Hitting a chord deep within her. Batting at the doubts trying to suffocate her ability to think straight. “Because you were living separate lives.”
She stared at him. He’d just been making conversation, but could he be right?
She wanted him to be right. Sort of. Needed the explanation he was handing her.
And yet...why had she stayed?
“I wanted kids,” she said, stuffing fishing tackle back in boxes. “He said he did, too. We tried for years and he seemed as disappointed as I was that we weren’t having any, but kept putting off going for testing, and yet kept saying we should go together. Didn’t do me much good to find out it wasn’t me, if we didn’t know it was him. And if it was me...maybe I didn’t want to know that, either.”
Why in the hell was she bringing that up? Except that...she’d asked the question. Silently, yeah, but...
Some things had been in there too long. Her life was unraveling faster than she could hold on to it and she had to find a way to make sense of enough of it to move forward. To give herself a future.
“I found out six years ago that he’d had a vasectomy shortly after we were married...”
She should have left then.
And still, she’d stayed. She’d made her choice. Vowed to be faithful to it. And that had meant something to her.
Colton's Killer Pursuit Page 6