Under Currents

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Under Currents Page 39

by Nora Roberts

Surprised, Zane paused in pouring the last of the wine. “Brody has a theory?”

  “A couple, and both slide close to both of yours. Mean doesn’t always need a reason, just an opportunity.”

  “Ain’t that the goddamn truth.”

  She looked toward the western hills, the lowering sun that showered them. “I love this place. I know I haven’t lived here long, but I love it, the look, the feel, the people. I know there’s mean under it, because there’s some mean under anywhere. But the mean’s why the Drapers are the next thing to outcasts here.”

  She looked back at Zane, lifted her glass. “We’re going to be all right, Walker. We’ll paint over the mean. We know it’s under there, but we don’t let it win. To prove it, I’m painting my place Tangerine Dream.”

  Zane opened his mouth, closed it, cleared his throat. “Wouldn’t that be orange?”

  “It would, and the door and trim? Tango in Teal. Bold, happy, up-yours-mean type colors. What’re you painting, your office building?”

  “I bought white. A lot of white.”

  “Come on!” She made a dismissive gesture, flicking white away. “You can do better.”

  “It’s a law office, darlin’.”

  She leaned closer. “Is the law boring?”

  “I’m not painting it Tangerine Dream.”

  “I was thinking more Nautical Navy, Mystic Gray for the trim and porch. I’ll show you on my paint fan.”

  “I bought white.”

  “I bet they’ll take it back, exchange it, because white. Take the opportunity mean gave you, Walker, make a statement. I’ll show you,” she said again. “After we take this wine and walk the dog.”

  “White’s classy and classic,” he insisted as they got up, and Zod jumped to his feet as if an alarm had sounded.

  “Yawn.”

  “The painters are starting tomorrow.”

  “And I bet they’d agree with me, if they have any taste.” She took his hand in hers.

  He had a feeling she was leading him to more than dog walking.

  Later, when she showed him her paint fan, as threatened, he saw himself exchanging the damn paint in the morning.

  * * *

  While they walked the dog, the man who’d come to Lakeview and done murder took himself for a walk as well. As he strolled by Zane’s office building, he made a point to stop, to gape.

  “Terrible thing, isn’t it?”

  As he’d hoped, one of the local yokels stopped to chat.

  “Just awful!” He put shock in his voice.

  “You visiting?”

  “I am, yes.”

  “My family lives in Lakeview. I can tell you this isn’t usual.”

  “I should hope not.”

  “Promise.” She smiled at him, a pretty young thing. Maybe he’d make a point to have a taste or two of Pretty Young Thing. Maybe he’d kill her after.

  So many possibilities.

  “And actually, I work there. Law offices. I’m an intern. Gretchen Filbert,” she told him, friendly as a puppy.

  “Drake Bingley. Nice to meet you. But…” He looked back at the smears of paint, calculated how soon the sun would go all the way down, how long it might take to lure Pretty Young Thing. “Aren’t you worried?”

  “I guess I would be, but the man who did it…” He watched her censor herself. “He won’t be back. It’s a nice town, Mr. Bingley. I hope you have a wonderful visit.”

  “Oh, I already am. Say, I wonder if you can tell me the best place to have a good steak, a good glass of wine. I’m in the mood.”

  “Oh, sure.” She beamed at him, into quiet blue eyes behind scholarly wire-framed glasses.

  He knew he looked like a professor, one taking a few summer weeks to work on his novel. He’d spent considerable time cultivating that look—letting his hair grow, adding the professorial (to his mind) goatee.

  He wore faded jeans, Birkenstocks, and an ancient Grateful Dead T-shirt he’d picked up at a flea market.

  He even had the man purse, holding a well-worn paperback copy of The Grapes of Wrath (as if) along with his wallet and false ID, a bandanna, and the 9mm Glock he’d stolen from his brother-in-law’s collection.

  “You can’t go wrong with Grandy’s Grill—just down a couple blocks and across the street.”

  “Sounds good. Say,” he began again, only to be cut off when another pretty young thing ran toward them.

  “Gretch! Sorry, running late. Luca just texted. He and John are already at Ricardo’s, grabbed a booth. Sorry.” Like Gretchen, she gave him an easy smile. “Am I interrupting?”

  “No, just letting Mr. Bingley know where Grandy’s is.”

  “One day I’ve got to get Lucas to take me there for more than a beer and nachos. We gotta book.”

  “Enjoy your steak!” Pretty Young Thing One called back to him as she rushed off with PYT Two.

  Opportunity missed, he thought. For now.

  Maybe next time.

  He continued his stroll, decided he’d go ahead and have that steak. Maybe he’d strike up another conversation, find another pretty young thing.

  Even not too young would do.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Though he wasn’t a hundred percent convinced, Zane exchanged the paint. He worked through the morning while the paint crew covered Clint’s nasty art with primer.

  He had to go through the story—an abbreviated version—with every client, accept their outrage on his behalf before getting to the business at hand.

  He glanced up from his notes when Maureen came in.

  “Your friendly reminder you have to leave for your appointment with Mildred Fissle.”

  “And her cats. I’m gearing up for it, and today’s change in her will.”

  “Her granddaughter in Charlotte sent her flowers for her birthday. So she’s back in. You’ve got two hours clear. Take a long lunch after.”

  “I might do that.”

  “Call Micah or Dave, see if they can meet up with you for lunch.”

  He angled his head. “Worried about me?”

  “I love you, Zane, almost as much as I love my new shoes I got in the Independence Day sale. You know Horace Draper made bail.”

  “He’s not going to come into the Sunshine Diner gunning for me, Maureen.”

  “Do it anyway.”

  “Fine. I tell you, women are running my life.”

  “We’re so good at it. And speaking of that, you should think about getting Gretchen on board for next summer. She’s just right, and when she passes the bar, she’d make you a nice associate.”

  “I thought of it myself, so don’t go all smug thinking it was your idea.”

  She only smiled, smugly. “I took Cubby and Mike out a cold drink a bit ago. Cubby showed me what they’re going to paint. I figured you’d stick with white.”

  “I should’ve, right?”

  “Only if you wanted to be usual and boring, which you were going to because Milly at the hardware told me you bought white, then brought it back when they opened this morning for that nice strong blue and that pretty gray.”

  “Know-it-all,” he said, and began to load his briefcase.

  “Darby nudge you there?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’m giving you credit.” She waited a beat. “For having the good sense to hook up with a woman of vision and taste.”

  “I’ll take it. Now get back to work. I don’t pay you to chat up the boss.”

  Amused, she stepped to him, kissed one cheek, then the other. “Call Micah or Dave—or both. You’ll do that for me, won’t you, honey?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He left by the back to avoid the painters, and texted Micah—and what the hell, Dave—as he circled around for his car.

  After he dealt with Mildred Fissle, her cats, her ever-evolving will, he wanted to drink his lunch. But refrained.

  Since both Dave and Micah were available—he imagined Maureen had told them they’d better be—he decided on a manly lunch of meatloaf under
the bright lights and within the orange walls—Tangerine Dream?—of the diner.

  “Meatloaf, huh?” Micah considered the laminated menu as he gulped down some fizzy lemonade. “Cassie’s making noises about going vegetarian. Ain’t gonna happen. Make it two.”

  “To be young and able to eat the meatloaf special midday. Screw it. Make it three, Bonnie.”

  “Will do. Yours is on the house today, Zane. Show of support.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “Done.” She tapped a sharp finger on his shoulder and left to put the order in.

  “Some bennies from a wad of crap,” Micah said.

  “And it saves me from paying for your lunch as my show.”

  “Hey.” Micah waved a hand. “I’m still here. Just to finish up the wad of crap before we eat? Word is the other Draper boys are coming back for the, you know, funeral. The one’s getting a day pass, under guard, then it’s back in the slammer. The marine’s got bereavement leave or whatever.”

  “Great.”

  “And Stu Hubble showed up at the clinic last night with a busted-up face and a broken arm. Said he fell down the steps, but that’s bogus, man. You know Jed Draper gave him a beatdown.”

  Dave shook his head, looked unsurprised. “Blaming Stu Hubble’s ignorant, illogical, and typical of the Drapers. We can hope Jed Draper got it out of his system.”

  “But you don’t think so,” Zane said to Dave.

  “That kind always blames someone else. He’s going to end up behind bars sooner or later. I can hope for sooner.”

  “They gotta know it wasn’t you, bro.”

  “Yeah, they have to know.”

  But they had to know it hadn’t been Stu Hubble either, Zane thought. Then again, Jed Draper would find it a lot harder to give him a beatdown than he had Stu Hubble.

  He didn’t like knowing a part of him looked forward to the attempt.

  * * *

  At the first patter of rain and grumble of thunder, Darby and her crew grabbed up tools and headed for their trucks.

  Patsy Marsh popped out of her back door and gestured.

  “Y’all come on up here, have a seat on the veranda. You’re going to have a glass of tea and some of my pound cake.”

  “You don’t have to trouble,” Darby began, then switched gears. “Did you say ‘pound cake’?”

  “My mama’s secret recipe. All y’all sit, take a load off. This rain isn’t supposed to last.”

  “It’s a fine place to watch a storm rolling,” Ralph said. “Sure do appreciate it.”

  “Saves my Bill from eating more cake than he should.”

  “Can I give you a hand, Miz Marsh?” Hallie scraped off her shoes on the mat.

  “You sure can. And how’s your mama, your grandmama?” Patsy asked as they went inside.

  Darby dropped down on the glider because Ralph had it right. It was a fine place to watch a storm. It whipped the trees, stirred up the water of the lake that went bright with the first slash of lightning.

  And with it, the air blissfully cooled.

  As Ralph took a padded chair, Darby patted the space beside her for Roy. “Doing okay?”

  “Yeah.” Still, he let out a long breath with his eyes on the lake. “Can’t help but think about it. I sure wish they’d catch who did it.”

  “Tell you what I think.” Ralph hunched forward in his chair. “I think Clint got one of his asshole friends, might be his own brother, to go on up and cause trouble at Zane’s place. Drunk and stupid, argued about something. One asshole picks up a rock, smacks the other. Doesn’t mean to kill him, but that deed’s done, so he does the rest to cover. And what else? Whoever did it was likely stupid enough to think the cops’d figure Clint fell in and drowned.”

  Darby said nothing for a moment. She calculated Ralph had used more words in a single minute than he normally did in a full week.

  “That’s what Adele thinks,” Roy put in, “like it was more accident than deliberate. Drunk and stupid.”

  Because although she didn’t agree, the idea seemed to comfort Roy, Darby said nothing.

  “So, you know, anyway…” Roy let out another long breath and the patter of rain turned into buckets, beating the roof of the veranda like war drums. “I’m engaged.”

  “You—” Darby punched his arm. “When?”

  “Asked her last night.”

  “And you wait all damn day to tell us?”

  “Still getting used to it myself.” But it drew a quick head-duck grin out of him. “I didn’t want to ask till I had a ring. What I see is women can be pretty particular about there being a ring, and I didn’t have time to get one. Then yesterday, after … everything, I thought how life’s pretty damn unpredictable, and I had to make a move. So I went out and bought a ring. She seems to like it just fine, so I guess I did okay. I asked her, and she said yes.”

  “What’s this I hear?” Patsy, carrying a fat pitcher full of amber liquid, stepped out with Hallie right behind her with a tray. “Roy Dawson, am I hearing you finally had the good sense to ask that nice girl to marry you?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I did.”

  “Isn’t that fine news?” She set down the pitcher, began to pour tea into the glasses on Hallie’s tray. “I bet your mama’s just tickled.”

  “She sure is.”

  “You set a date?”

  “Well, Adele wants spring, when it’s warm enough to do it outdoors. She and my mama and her mama are already diving into it, so I’m just going along. I might miss a few days,” he said to Darby, “with the wedding and a honeymoon.”

  “You don’t worry about that one bit.”

  “First slice to the groom,” Patsy declared, and passed Roy a dessert plate with a generous wedge of pound cake. “This is fine and happy news, just what we need.”

  A little teary-eyed, she passed out cake. “These young ones, Ralph, they don’t know yet how fast it all goes, how you have to grab onto all the pieces, good and bad, to make the pictures you want to leave behind.”

  “Gotta take the storm with the sunshine, my own mama used to say.”

  “Isn’t that the truth? I like a good storm,” she said quietly. “It washes away the heat and the hard, at least for a little while.”

  And, Darby thought, wouldn’t part of the hard be stepping out on her really pretty veranda, looking out at the lake she loved, and remembering the body pulled out of it?

  As if she’d heard the thought, Patsy turned, smiled brilliantly. “What you’re doing to what was an eyesore and a frustration to me down that slope is the best thing since my mama’s pound cake.”

  “And it’s real good cake, ma’am.” Gabe shoveled in the last bite. “Real good.”

  “Storm’s passing,” Hallie said. “I’ll take these dishes in for you before we go back to work.”

  “Don’t you fuss with that, honey. I believe I’m going to sit out here, enjoy the cool a bit, and watch y’all work.”

  Darby thought about storms, and grabbing all the pieces, about the simple kindness of offering cake as she dug the next hole. The sun broke free, burned bright on the water, and turned the storm-damp air to steam.

  Boats came back to glide, and kids leaped into the lake from a raft, filled the world with laughter and squeals.

  Death didn’t stop life, not for long.

  It was life she thought of as she planted a trio of toothwort she’d chosen almost as much for its name—southern lady—as its foliage and flowers.

  It would bloom early, she thought, start showing its stuff in the winter like a hellebore, then shoot up those sweet flowers at the first whisper of spring.

  “Something on your mind, boss?” Hallie wondered.

  “Just thinking it’s late in the season now, but what a show this will make next year.”

  “It’s pretty now, too.”

  “Yeah, it is, and we’re going to be done here today. But next spring, and the summer that follows, and right into the fall. My oh my, what a job we’ll have
done.”

  She stepped back to check her positioning and, pleased, pulled out her phone to take a couple of shots. Walking down to the river rock Ralph and Roy had spread, she took some from a different angle before glancing out to imagine how it looked from the water.

  She saw a little Sunfish sliding by, a lone man guiding it. Long, sunbaked hair spilled out of his fisherman’s hat; the sun boomeranged off his mirrored sunglasses.

  When he raised a hand in a kind of saluting wave, she felt a quick chill slice through the damp heat. But she lifted a hand in return before turning away.

  “Well, gang.” Odd, her throat felt tight. She unhooked her water bottle, soothed it. “We’re about down to cleanup. Let’s knock her out.”

  She caught herself glancing back, but the little Sunfish had sailed on.

  Laughter had the man going as Bingley nearly capsized.

  Looked right at him and waved! If he’d had his Glock, he could have shot her where she stood—and all the rest of them with her.

  Maybe a couple of those idiot teenagers as well, screaming as they jumped off that stupid raft just to cap it off.

  Maybe shooting her in the head wasn’t his plan, but he just loved knowing he could have.

  Time’s coming, bitch, he thought, with the great good humor of the moment. Time’s coming for you and the asshole lawyer.

  And anybody who got in the way.

  If he’d learned anything since going in, coming out of prison, it was he had a strong appetite for blood.

  The spilling of it.

  * * *

  July moved on with its heat and quick, hard storms. Tourists flocked to Lakeview for their lakeside and hiking holidays. The summer people streamed in and out with murder barely making a ripple on their souvenir shopping.

  Primer covered the ugly on Zane’s building, so people streamed by it as well, and the bold new color began to make its statement.

  While he waited for the other shoe to drop, knowing it would, Zane went on with his life.

  It didn’t surprise him to see Lee driving up on a lazy Saturday morning while he sat on his front veranda researching SUVs on his tablet.

  He set the tablet aside as Lee got out of the car.

 

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