A Time to Keep (32 page)

She'd also suspected that maybe she could've been pregnant, but dismissed that notion when her menses came on time. Again, it was scant, but it wasn't the first time her menstrual cycle went a little awry. She was due for her annual gyn exam at the end of October, and she planned to ask Natalee for a referral.

Gwen didn't get to see as much of her sister-in-law as she would've liked because of the jewelry designer's busy schedule. At a moment's notice she would fly off to Los Angeles, New York, Miami or Europe to confer with her select group of clients who'd commissioned her to design a new bauble. Her name had been touted as a designer on the move and one to watch when she collaborated with Danish jewelry house Georg Jensen.

“Aren't you ready to come to bed?”

Gwen's head came up and she turned to find Shiloh standing under the entrance to the room they'd set up as an office. Her gaze lingered on his face rather than his bare chest and the white drawstring pajama pants riding low on his hips. Cocoa, who'd fallen asleep next to her chair got up when she heard his voice, and trotted over to Shiloh.

“Not yet.”

“What are you working on?”

“Nothing that would interest you.”

Shiloh's expression did not change. It'd been three weeks since the incident at the station house, and it was apparent Gwen wasn't going to let go of her anger because he'd banished her.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he glared at her. “Why don't you let me be the judge of that.”

Gwen turned back to the photographs in the yearbook. “Wasn't it you that said we would keep our personal life separate from our careers?”

His eyebrow lifted. “Yes, I did. But right now we don't have a personal life, Gwen.”

She closed her eyes for several seconds. “And I don't have a career,” she countered.

“You have a career. You're working for the
Tribune.
”

She swiveled on the chair, her gaze filled with resentment. “That may be true, but I'm doing the work of an intern, not someone with their own byline. I may as well not be working.”

“Why don't you quit?”

“And do what?” she spat out.

“Aren't you involved with the Genteel Magnolia Society and the book you're going to write for them?” Once she'd become a member of the group she'd told him about the book.

“We don't meet during the summer months.”

The seconds ticked off as they stared at each other. Shiloh was the first to break the impasse. “I have to turn in now because I'm scheduled to work a four-to-noon tomorrow.”

Gwen nodded, but as he turned to leave she said, “What year did your mother graduate from high school?”

Shiloh halted his retreat, but did not turn around. “1964. Why?”

“Did she go to St. Martin Parish High School?”

Lines furrowing his smooth forehead, Shiloh turned and stared at his wife. “No. She went to a parochial school. Why the interest in my mother?”

“I came across an article about a girl who was murdered a week before she was scheduled to graduate from the high school.”

“What about her?”

“The Shelby Carruthers case was closed two months after her decomposing body was discovered in a shallow grave with a single gunshot to the back of her head. I read the coroner
's report which stated she was shot with a .22. What bothers me is that no one in forty-two years has tried to find out who murdered her. And another thing that bothers me is that if a search had been conducted when she didn't come home or when her mother reported her missing, couldn't a search dog have found her body?”

Shiloh entered the room and sat down in an office chair near the antique desk where photocopied articles about the unsolved murder littered the surface.

“Let it go, darling.”

She ignored the first endearment he'd uttered since the tense confrontation in the stationhouse. “Why is it everyone's telling me to let it go?”

“What do you mean everyone?”

“Nash McGraw told me the same thing. And now I'm beginning to wonder why.”

“The answer is an easy one.”

“Please, pray tell me why, Shiloh.”

Shiloh stared at the curls that looked as if Gwen had combed them with her fingers. He curled his hands into tight fists to keep from touching her. He'd thought about reversing his decision just to have his wife back to the way it was before the Wesley Gibson incident. But whenever he recalled his reaction to hearing the gunshot and knowing that Gwen could possibly be in the line of fire he refused to relent.

“That was another time. People were in another place.”

“What aren't you telling me, Shiloh?”

“You're going to have to talk to people who were alive back then.”

“Like who?” she said softly, her eyes narrowing.

“My mother and a number of the Genteel Magnolias.”

She wavered, trying to understand the man she'd married. In one breath he'd warned her not to get involved in the cold case,
then his mood changed abruptly when he offered information that could possibly give her a lead in the decades-old murder.

A smile softened her mouth. “Thank you, Shiloh.”

His gaze fixed on her mouth, he leaned over and kissed her. “You're welcome.”

Gwen stared at the man she loved beyond description. She wanted to forget that as a newlywed she hadn't felt very married, that she'd missed the passion, the intimacy she'd experienced with her husband.

“Don't go up. Not yet,” she urged softly.

The gold in Shiloh's eyes disappeared, leaving them a deep green brimming with tenderness, understanding and a gentle passion. He ran a forefinger down the length of her short nose. “Why?”

A mysterious smile lifted the corners of her lush mouth. “Give me a few minutes to put the desk in order, and I'll go with you.”

Shiloh's laid-back body language belied the anxiety knotting his stomach muscles. He didn't want to get his hopes too high, but he prayed he would get his wife back. He wouldn't rush her, would follow her lead, but he'd missed her, missed her despite the fact they shared a bed. He watched intently as she placed a number of typed pages into a folder before slipping them into a monogrammed leather case.

Reaching over, he turned off a desk lamp, and swept her up in his arms as a soft gasp escaped her. “Have you weighed yourself lately?”

Gwen gasped again. “No, I haven't. Why are you asking?”

Shiloh climbed the staircase as Cocoa sat at the bottom, watching their retreat. The tiny puppy still hadn't learned to navigate the staircase.

“You're putting on weight.”

She closed her eyes and rested her head on his shoulder. “I don't know why, because I'm not eating that much.”

Burying his face in the scented strands brushing his cheek, Shiloh concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other. He entered their bedroom, placing Gwen on the bed. Slowly, methodically he removed her T-shirt and shorts, leaving her bikini panties. His gaze lingered on her breasts as he went through the motion of untying the drawstring to his pajama pants. He pushed them down his hips and stepped out of them. Less than a minute had elapsed when he slipped into bed, turned off the bedside lamp, and gently pulled his wife to him. She'd didn't struggle or protest, melting against his side.

It was a truce, a very fragile one, and an unspoken promise to return to the way it had been and would be again.

* * *

Two days after Shiloh suggested to Gwen that she talk to his mother she uncovered something that she'd gone over countless times. She'd compiled a listing of the names of the school's student body, then cross-referenced them with clubs that Shelby belonged to. There was one name that came up time and time again: Nash McGraw. The future publisher of the
Teche Tribune
had been a classmate of Shelby Carruthers and had joined every club of which Shelby was a member.

Positioning the desk lamp, she peered at the pictures featuring the various school clubs. Sure enough, Nash was in every photo with Shelby. There were only a few shots where he'd remained in the background, but in many he was in the foreground with Shelby.

There was one photograph that held her rapt attention, and because the yearbook pictures were grainy and in black-and-white, some of the images weren't as sharp then as they would've been with the current cutting-edge technology.

She flipped back to the group photograph of the graduating
class for 1963, then to the upcoming class for 1965. There were only thirteen dark faces in 1963, twenty-six in 1964, and fifty-two in the class of 1965. It appeared as if Louisiana had lagged behind some other southern states in integrating their public schools. Gwen opened and closed the drawers in the desk, searching for a magnifying glass.

Reaching for the telephone, she dialed Shiloh's number at the station house. A clerk answered the call and put her through as soon as she identified herself.

“Hey, you.”

She smiled. “Hey, yourself. I need to ask a favor of you.”

“Ask away, beautiful.”

“I need you to stop and pick up a magnifying glass.”

“Why would you need a magnifying glass?”

“I can't explain on the phone. Please, darling, pick one up for me.”

His laugh flowed through the earpiece. “You know I can't deny you anything. I'll bring it home on my dinner hour.”

“Thanks, my love.”

“You're welcome.”

Gwen ended the call and let out an audible sigh. There were a few photographs she wanted to give a closer look.

But first she had to decide what she would prepare for dinner. She'd teased Lauren about settling into her role as mother and housewife as easily as a duckling took to water, but she'd confessed to her cousin that she also loved being married and looked forward to becoming a mother.

* * *

The pages of the 1964 St. Martin Parish High School yearbook were littered with yellow Post-its. One in particular held a red check. Gwen held the magnifying instrument over Nash's image, her heart thundering like the hooves of a racehorse.

She squinted, and then pulled back to get a better perspective of what she'd recognized as a handgun tucked into the waistband of Nash McGraw's slacks under a jacket. But on the other hand it was the expression on Nash's face, and not the gun, that caused her breath to catch in her throat.

Nash wasn't looking at the photographer, but at a black male student who'd captured the adoring gaze of no other than Shelby Carruthers.

“Shiloh?”

“Yes.”

“Come look at this, please.”

“Can't it wait until I finish typing?”

“I don't think so.”

Shiloh saved what he'd typed into his computer, then crossed the room and leaned over Gwen's shoulder. “What do you have?”

She pointed to one photograph before handing him the glass. “Look at this one and tell me what you see.”

Shiloh read the picture caption. “Nash McGraw, Shelby Carruthers and Jason Jefferson.”

“No, Shiloh. Take a closer look at Nash.”

His eyes narrowed. “He's carrying a gun.”

“Can you tell the caliber?”

Shiloh angled his head. “No. Why?”

“Shelby Carruthers was shot with a small-caliber handgun. The ballistics report Jimmie gave me verified the bullet that killed her was a .22.”

Hunkering next to her chair, Shiloh gave his wife a long, penetrating stare. “What are you
not
saying?”

“I think Nash McGraw murdered Shelby Carruthers.”

Shiloh sat on the carpeted floor and eased Gwen down on his lap. He looped an arm around her waist. “You can't go around accusing someone of murder without evidence.”

Gwen shifted until she faced her husband. “I don't have any evidence—at least not yet, but I do have a theory.”

“Theories are for scientific experiments, darling.”

“I went over every photograph in the yearbook, and he's in every photograph someone took of Shelby. If he'd done now what he did then it would've been called stalking.”

“They were classmates, Gwen.”

“True. But he joined every club she belonged to. I spoke to Dahlia Townsend this morning, and she told me that Nash used to follow Shelby around like a lovesick puppy. That confirms my theory about his stalking. Dahlia also told me that Nash and his father argued constantly. Nash wanted to go to UCLA because Shelby had applied to go there. The elder McGraw wanted Nash to attend Loyola, his alma mater, graduate, and eventually take over running the newspaper.”

Pressing her forehead to Shiloh's, she kissed the end of his nose. “I need your help, Shiloh. I want you to get a warrant to search Nash's house for the gun. I'm certain he didn't throw it away because if it'd been found, then it might have been traced back to him.”

Shiloh wrapped his arms around Gwen's body, holding her protectively to his heart. “You're getting ahead of yourself, Lois Lane. First of all, no judge will issue a warrant based on your theories. And secondly, Nash McGraw is a descendant of one of the parish's prominent families.

“He's been married to the same woman for more than thirty-five years. He's a father, grandfather, and despite his neutrality as a newspaper publisher he wields a lot of political clout. And I'm willing to bet that he if decides to run for public office he'd win.”

Gwen shook her head. “I don't know what it is, but my woman's intuition tells me that Nash had something to do with that girl's death.”

A low rumbling sound came from Shiloh's chest when he laughed. “Does your intuition tell you what your husband has planned for his wife for their day off together?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes, tomorrow.”

She kissed his chin. “Whatever you have planned will have to wait because your girls have doctors' appointments. Cocoa has a vet appointment at ten and I'm going to the gynecologist at two.” Gwen had decided not to wait until October for an annual exam.