A Time to Keep (23 page)

* * *

Gwen placed the final revised copy of her column in the wire basket on Nash's desk. She'd transcribed her interviews with
Jimmie Jameson and Shiloh, edited her first draft, then using a blue pencil tightened phrases, then read it aloud for clarity.

“How is it?” Nash McGraw asked as he entered his office.

Gwen turned and smiled at him. “Good.” Her smile faded quickly. “It would've been better if I'd been able to talk to A.D.A. Nichols before this week's deadline.” It was four in the afternoon and there wasn't a wrinkle in his custom-made shirt. She suspected that he'd gone home and changed.

He gestured to the chair next to his desk. “Please sit.” He waited for Gwen to sit before he sat. “Even if you'd gotten a statement from him I wouldn't have run it until next week.”

A slight frown creased her smooth forehead. “Why?”

“It's been a long time since a crime of this magnitude has affected the residents of this parish. And the fact that the defendant is the son of a political power broker is what sells papers because of the controversy.”

A scowl crossed Gwen's face. “There shouldn't be any controversy. The boy was pumped up on drugs and alcohol, and then got behind the wheel of a car, which in his hands became a dangerous weapon.”

Nash went completely still, his laser blue-gray eyes boring into her. “What happened to impartiality? We're journalists, Miss Taylor, and that means we don't take sides.”

Annoyance gripped Gwen as she schooled her expression not to reveal what she was feeling at that moment. Choosing her words carefully, she said in a quiet tone, “I'm more than aware of not permitting my personal feelings to come into play when reporting the facts. However, I'm going to say off the record that I hope Willis Raymond Benton gets the maximum sentence for what he did.”

A hint of a smile touched Nash's mouth. “You and more than half the parish feel the same way. But, the fact remains that the boy is entitled to a fair trial.”

Gwen wanted to scream at Nash about fairness. Did Bram Benton's son think of that before he started drinking and drugging? Didn't someone or something tell him it was wrong to try to drive while under the influence?

Not wanting to engage in a verbal confrontation with her boss, she decided to change the subject. “I've been going over some back issues, and there is an unsolved murder case that intrigues me.”

Nash angled his head as he laced his fingers together. “Which one?”

“The 1964 prom queen murder.” The editor's only reaction was the whitening of his knuckles when he tightened his grip. “I can't believe,” Gwen continued, “that the police closed the case two months after she went missing.” The extremely popular coed's badly decomposed nude body had been found in a shallow grave with a single gunshot to the back of her head. There were no suspects and the gun used in the murder was never recovered.

Swiveling on his chair, Nash stared out the window. “They couldn't find any evidence linking anyone to Shelby Carruthers' murder.”

“I'd like to research the case.”

“Let it go, Miss Taylor.”

Gwen watched her boss. There was no expression on his face. “Are you saying don't or I shouldn't?”

Nash turned back to glare at her, meeting her implacable challenging stare. “I have no say in what you do when you're not working on
Tribune
business, but I suggest that you let sleeping dogs lie.”

Her nerves tensed immediately. What she hadn't expected was for Nash to warn her. If she were still the crime reporter at the
Gazette
the editor would've jumped at the opportunity to make headline news by solving a cold case.

Irritated by his critical tone, she said, “I'll take your warning under advisement.” She glanced at her watch. “If you don't need me for anything else, I'm going to leave now or I'll be late for my appointment with Keith Nichols.”

“Go,” Nash said, waving a manicured hand in dismissal.

Gwen walked out of the editor's office and into her own. She shut down her computer, turned off the desk lamp, and closed the door.

She waved to Nash's niece, Lisa McGraw. “I'll see you Tuesday.”

The high school junior glanced up. She came to the paper's office after classes to proofread for her uncle's paper. It was apparent the journalistic bug had bitten another generation of McGraws. Lisa had been elected to take over the position of editor-in-chief of the
Bayou Sentinel,
the high school newspaper, a position Nash had held forty years ago.

The redhead smiled. “Later, Miss Taylor.”

Gwen returned her friendly smile, when at that moment it was the last thing she felt like doing. Nash had chastised her as if she were an intern, and his warning to
let sleeping dogs lie
set her teeth on edge. Something unknown told her that the man had issued a veiled warning not to get involved. But why? she wondered. Questions fell over themselves in her head, and she hoped someone at the D.A.'s office would be able to provide her with a few answers.

She left her car in the parking space behind the newspaper's office and walked the two blocks to the historic square where the parish courthouse was erected in a quadrangle with the police station and a two-story municipal building.

Gwen saw the blue-and-white-striped awning shading the entrance to Turner Treats. She'd promised Holly Turner she would come to her Sunday social. It was apparent the Genteel Magnolia Society ladies wanted to get into her business, and
she wanted to get into theirs. And because most of them were direct descendants of the original European inhabitants of the parish there was no doubt they would be able to answer many of her questions with regard to Gwendolyn Pickering and Shelby Carruthers.

She opened the door to the melodious chiming of a bell. Turner Treats was small, but elegantly furnished. Its signature striped wallpaper, a white-and-blue-veined marble floor, and pale blue ceiling fans added to the charm of the patisserie. Holly sat at an antique table, taking an order from an elderly woman. Mouthwatering smells permeated the artificially-cooled air as Gwen stared at showcases filled with delicate confections that looked too pretty to eat.

“May I help you?”

Gwen pulled her gaze away from a tray of petit fours to find a young woman in a blue-and-white shirtwaist dress smiling at her. Her complexion matched the rich color of the chocolate covering the many desserts lining the showcase shelves.

A minute on my lips and forever on my hips.
The mantra reminded Gwen that her weakness for chocolate spelled disaster for her full figure. Common sense told her to say no, but she'd found out the hard way that common sense wasn't that common.

The petit fours were labeled: raspberry brandy, orange almond paste, crystallized ginger, coffee and cognac, nougat and amaretto, black forest and rum.

Without regard to the consequences, she said, “Give me one of each in two boxes.” She would give one box to Shiloh and the other to Keith Nichols.

* * *

“Gwendolyn, how nice of you to drop in,” said Holly Turner. She'd recognized Gwendolyn Taylor as soon as she'd walked in, but wanted to conclude her business with Lucinda Wentworth before approaching her.

Gwen offered Holly a friendly smile. “Actually I came in to see you,” she said candidly, “but I couldn't resist your petit fours.”

“The coffee and cognac is Shiloh's favorite.” Holly's arched eyebrows lifted slightly when Gwen stared at her as if she'd spoken a foreign language. “Aren't you going out with him?”

“Who told you?”

Holly waved a slender hand. “Nothing is sacred in St. Martin Parish. I heard someone say that they saw you leaving his house last night.”

“I—” Gwen's explanation died on her lips. She'd gone to Shiloh's house to interview him. What had begun as business had ended not so businesslike, but as a grown woman she had no intention of explaining her comings and goings to others.

“I came by to tell you that I intend to join you and your friends this Sunday.” She'd managed to direct the conversation away from herself.

“Wonderful,” Holly said pressing her palms together. “You can get to my house by going north on Michel Road. As soon as you reach Benoit Lane, make a right. My house is at the end of Benoit. You can't pass it because we look out onto the bayou.”

“What time?”

“Six. We usually conclude by eight-thirty, because the ladies want to be home in time for
Desperate Housewives.
”

Gwen wanted to tell Holly that her genteel ladies were probably more desperate and frustrated than the television characters.

“Should I bring anything?”

“Please no. Just bring yourself.”

“I'd like to place an order for next Saturday.” Gwen had promised Moriah that she would make up their aborted Sunday dinner get-together. She stared at the showcase filled with cakes. “I'd like sweet chestnut and cream squares.”

Holly nodded. “Do you want to pick it up, or have it delivered?”

“I'll pick it up before you close,” she said quickly. There was enough talk about her and Shiloh, and she didn't want to grease the gossip mill by having the chocolate patisserie delivered to Moriah Harper's house.

The salesgirl rang up her purchases, putting the boxes in separate bags with corresponding ribbons. Gwen paid for the petit fours, confirmed her order for the following week, and left Turner Treats for the courthouse.

* * *

A uniformed court officer was stationed in the lobby of the century-old building. Gwen placed her oversize satchel with the bags of petit fours on the magnetometer and walked through a security gate without setting off the sensors. She followed the signs directing her to the district attorney's office. Her steps slowed, halting when she saw a series of black-and-white photographs behind a wall of glass. Her gaze raced over the pictures of district attorneys dating back to the mid-nineteenth century. A nameplate identified each by name and the date of their terms. Among the dozens of photographs, there wasn't one woman and only one African-American, Shiloh Harper.

Her pulse quickened when she stared at the enigmatic expression on the face of the man with whom she had fallen in love. The date under Shiloh's tenure read 2004 with a blank space. He was on official leave, and it was apparent he would return at the beginning of the following year.

Gwen opened a door, stepping into a large room separated by a counter; there was a flurry of activity as employees readied themselves to leave for the day.

An elderly woman with champagne-pink hair squinted at her. “Are you Miss Taylor?”

“Yes, I am,” Gwen confirmed.

She pressed a button under the counter, disengaging the lock on a gate. “Mr. Nichols said to send you in when you got here. He's in office number two.”

Gwen walked through the gate and made her way down a hallway to Keith's office. She knocked lightly on the door.

“Come in.”

She opened the door as Keith came to his feet. A wine-colored tie hung loosely from his unbuttoned collar. His short blond hair looked as if he'd combed it with his fingers. Smiling broadly, he adjusted his glasses.

“I got caught up with something that took up most of my afternoon, so I hope you don't mind that I ordered takeout for dinner.” Keith had wanted to take Gwen to a restaurant where they could relax and talk without being interrupted by the telephone or someone walking into his office.

Gwen shook her head. “Of course I don't mind.”

“I ordered a cold antipasto, Caesar salad with grilled Gulf shrimp and marinated asparagus.”

“It sounds delicious. I brought dessert from Turner Treats.” She knew the prosecutor had set aside time in his extremely busy schedule to meet with her.

Keith flashed a set of straight white teeth. “Now, you're talking.” He came around the desk and pulled out a chair at a round table in a corner. “We'll eat, then we'll talk.”

* * *

Two hours after she'd entered the courthouse, Gwen walked back to pick up her car. The prosecutor's office had decided to try Willis Raymond Benton in St. Martin Parish. When she asked Keith about the elder Benton's political influence when it came to selecting an impartial jury, the prosecutor said he was willing to err on the side of public sentiment. Most parish residents were outraged with Willie
Ray because he had yet to issue a public apology, expressing remorse for his actions.

After turning off her tape recorder she'd asked Keith about Shelby Carruthers' unsolved murder, and he promised he would direct a clerk to pull the records of the forty-two-year-old case.

Her pulse quickened when she thought of her sleepover with Shiloh, a sleepover that would extend to more than one night. Retrieving her cell phone, she punched in his number. He answered after the third ring.

“Hello.”

Gwen smiled when his drawling voice came through the tiny earpiece. “Hello back to you.”

“Are you calling to cancel?”

“No. I'm calling to tell you that I'll see you in a couple of hours. I'm going home to change and pack a bag.”

“Good.”

“How's Cocoa?”

“Impossible.”

“What do you mean?”

“She's spoiled rotten.”

“I leave my dog with you for less than a day, and now you tell me that she's spoiled rotten.”

“You can't expect her to adjust to a new environment that quickly.”

Gwen gritted her teeth. “Don't tell me you've been carrying her around. Shiloh Harper,” she practically shouted when encountering silence.

“I can't hear you so well. I think we're breaking up, darling.”

“There's nothing wrong with my cell phone. The only breaking that's going to go on is when I break your neck.”

“You can't threaten a peace officer without reprisals, Miss Taylor.”