Retribution (23 page)

“You will find I have very few needs.” She smoothed the folds of her tailored gray slacks. “When I travel, I usually stay at hotels, but I heard of your place from a mutual friend, and decided to stay here instead. I believe I made the right decision.”

Bill's cell phone rang and he looked at the caller ID. “It's Sandra. The exterminator must be there. I'm headed over to her place, but Trina, if you need anything, give me a call.” His footsteps echoed down the hall.

“Bugs?” Mrs. Blackwell moved her snakeskin expensive-shod feet under the chair.

“Sandra's a good family friend, and she has ants in a tree
at her place
,” Trina explained. “Nothing to worry about.”

Mrs. Blackwell seemed right at home as the center of attention.

Lillian stared at the woman, feeling she had seen her before but where? The woman wore a scent that seemed familiar also, and then she remembered. Granny used to wear the same fragrance. She couldn't remember the name of it, but it had clung to her grandma like a second skin, no matter the time of day, as though imbedded in her pores.

The memory sent a bubble of pleasure into her throat. Granny had been her father's mother, and, in spite of her father's insistence that she be called Grandmother, the moniker of Granny had stuck. Granny liked it; her eyes had always sparkled with mischief whenever her son corrected the girls. Granny had died of a heart attack when Lillian was ten, and she still missed her tremendously.

Nadine Blackwell had to be someone special if she still used that same old perfume loved by Granny, so why the unexpected tension that seemed to have draped across her neck since coming into the parlor?

“Nadine,” Lillian asked. “Where in Pennsylvania are you from? I'm having a hard time placing your accent.”

The wrinkles on Nadine's neck jiggled as she chuckled, just like Granny's had. “You know how it is in Pennsylvania. We are the melting pot of the melting pot.” She fluttered her hand over her head, and the light caught her diamonds, creating rainbows across the wall. “You have the Midwestern folk, and the mountain folk, and the easterners, and then those who commute to D.C. I'm sure,” she said with a wink, “we even have some Clevelanders living somewhere in the state. Over time all these dialects blended together until you get what I call the Pennsylvanian smoothie.” Her smile felt warm and friendly, grandmotherly.

Lillian rotated her neck against the tightness.

“As I told you on the phone,” Nadine said, turning to Trina, “I won't be around much. I have meetings to attend during the day, and then business dinners in the evenings.” She turned to Lillian. “I'm a buyer for a large department store. They're starting a new line, highlighting products from different regions of the country. I'm here interviewing various local artists and businesses. Right now, much of what I do is hush-hush, you understand, so I won't share much of my work. And now if you will excuse me,” she rose from her chair and handed Trina her glass, “I have my first meeting this evening and need to prepare.”

Lillian carried the tray to the kitchen.

Ted stood by the sink pretending he had been there all along. “So, what's the official report?” he asked.

“Well,” Lillian said. “She's different. Grandmotherly, but not like Sandra.”

Ted made a snorting sound. “No doubt she can pay her bill.”

“No doubt.” The woman was just another in a long line of guests since Lillian had arrived. Nothing different from all the others. So why did she feel one moment as if the woman was her grandmother in another body, and then in the next breath a storm was just over the horizon? Maybe it had nothing to do with Nadine Blackwell at all, just the coincidence of timing. Again she sought a memory of why the woman looked familiar but nothing surfaced. She shook her head as she helped Ted wash the glasses.

18

Lillian rubbed the small of her back. “Joe was my last.”

“I'm done, too,” replied Margaret. “A lot of men with coughs tonight. It'll only get worse as the weather gets colder.”

Someone cleared his throat from the doorway.

Lillian turned, expecting to see one of the homeless men. “Paul!” She hated the excited thrum of her heart.

He seemed to fill the opening, and now, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, he looked more handsome than she remembered. The reason she had avoided him for the past several weeks played in her mind. He was a cop. But it had been weeks since she had discovered the gas cans.

Apparently, whoever had planted them had moved on to other games.

“I got off duty an hour ago and stopped at the house. Trina said I could find you here.” His southern drawl flowed over her like thick molasses. He thrust a hand into the pocket of his jeans. “I wondered if you would like to stop for a cup of coffee before you go home.”

Her heart leaped. She wanted to say yes, but could she trust her emotions? Her attraction to him remained strong in spite of Roger's words.
He's a policeman first and foremost.

“Paul, I really need to call it a night.” The words tasted bitter and clung to the back of her mouth. “Tomorrow is a work day, and—”

Margaret cleared her throat. “Ah…why not go for coffee? We finished early. It's only a little after eight.”

She sent Margaret a scowling look. How could she refuse now without looking like a real jerk? Alright, she would go for coffee, but she would weigh every word that came out of her mouth. A thought wiggled into her mind. What if his real interest was not in her, but in seeking information? Two could play that game. At the end of the night, she would know as much as the police about the fires.

“All right, a quick cup of coffee.” She grabbed her purse and followed the smiling Paul to his truck, trying to convince herself her motivation was business, not pleasure. In spite of good intentions, contentment settled over her as she positioned herself in the seat of his vehicle. Being in his truck, being close beside him, felt like a comfortable pair of worn pajamas. Her dad always accused her of attracting the wrong crowd. She imagined his displeasure if he knew her companions included homeless men and a cop. A smile crept across her lips.

Paul drove around the square to C-Bones, one of the few local establishments that remained open after supper. She felt like a princess as he held the door open and led her to a table in the side room. Stucco walls and arched openings between the three dining areas lent the feel of the southwest, except it smelled slightly of fish.

“I've never been here before,” she said, sliding her chair beneath the oilcloth-draped table.

He put an arm across the back of the adjacent chair. “It's just a small place, but the food is good.” He sought her eyes. “You should try it for supper sometime.”

The waitress, a young girl with long hair with too much body approached. “Hey, Paul. What can I get you tonight?” The pretty blonde eyed Lillian. “Do you want something besides coffee? Desert or anything?” She flicked her mane.

“Coffee's fine.”

“Two coffees.” As she sauntered away, pad of paper in hand, she threw another look at Lillian over her shoulder.

The silence made Lillian squirm. Or maybe her discomfort related more to the man across the table. She caught a whiff of his cologne and inhaled deeply, pulling in his fragrance.

“You all right?” Paul's brows were drawn together.

Heat flushed her face as she exhaled. “Sorry, just relaxing after the night's work.” She smiled, hoping her explanation covered her embarrassment. Trying to appear casual, she placed her hands on the table.

His hand started to creep across the space.

She slipped the temptation to her lap, all the while wondering how it would feel to have her hand cradled in his.

“So how are you liking Darlington?”

“It's a nice place. It feels like an old sweater.”

Paul laughed. “I've heard Darlington described a lot of ways, but ‘old sweater' is a first.”

“You know what I mean.” Avoiding his gaze, she looked toward the window but the reflection of his face bounced back at her. She might as well be staring at the man himself. His good looks tugged at her heart as she settled into the warm comfort of simply being with him. It felt so right. Excited shivers ran up and down her spine. She tried to push the emotion out of her mind, after all, she couldn't trust her feelings, but the giddiness remained. What was she doing here? He had the potential to destroy her life. Still, she basked under his soft gaze.

Two cups clanked on the table, the coffee sloshing into the heavy white saucers.

Paul took a long swallow. “I feel like I hardly get to see you anymore.”

“You see me on Friday nights at Ted and Trina's.”

“Not lately.” His brows puckered. “Sometimes you and Roger don't show up.”

Those eyes again. So blue. So caring…unless he was probing.

She had forgotten the real reason she had come for coffee with him in the first place. Her eyes narrowed. She had told Trina not only about the fire that destroyed her family, but also about her history with matches. What if Trina had shared this with Paul? What if he already knew about her past and this pleasant drop-by visit had a deeper hidden agenda than even she first imagined? The coffee soured in her stomach. Could Paul be this deceitful? The thrilling tingle turned to daggers of ice, and she gripped the coffee cup for its warmth.

“When are you headed back to Cleveland for the holidays?” His question interrupted her thoughts before she could develop an escape plan. One thing seemed certain. Paul Studler was trying to hook the fish.

“I'm not going home.” The words scraped against her dry throat. “I was just there for Thanksgiving.” No need to add frustration with her family on top of her other sins or paint her any darker than she believed he already had. “My parents are headed to the Bahamas, and my sister has to work over the holidays.”

No one would be in Cleveland for her, and she had no desire to accompany her parents on vacation or sit alone in Beth's Chicago apartment. Looking across the table at Officer Studler, she wondered if Christmas in Darlington would be any better.

His face brightened. “So you'll be at Ted and Trina's?”

“If they'll let me stay.” His eyes reminded her of those belonging to the neighbor's beagle puppy, all warm and mushy. “I really need to be looking for a different place to live.”

He laughed. “They love you. There won't be any problem letting you stay. I think your bigger problem will be getting them to let you go.”

The waitress returned with refills.

Conversation lagged.

“So how is the police investigation coming for the fires?” She lowered her eyes, watching the soft swirl of steam lift from her cup and float toward the door, which was where she should be headed if she had any sense.

Paul sighed. “We have a few clues.”

In spite of the easy way he said the words, her jaw tightened. Would those clues involve her and her history of fire setting? Acid pushed its way up her throat. “So can we expect an arrest soon?”

“The law's complicated, Lillian. You know that from your work as an attorney. But the pieces of the puzzle are coming together.”

She forced a smile.

“Lillian.” His eyes remained soft, but his mouth hardened. “I know you've been spending time with Roger, but I want you to be careful when you're with him.”

Her breath stuck in her throat. This was the last thing she had expected to hear. Was his motivation jealousy? “Careful around Roger? Why?”

He rubbed his shoulder. “Just be alert, OK. And if you ever need me, all you have to do is call.”

Torn between anger over implying Roger was dangerous, and loving Paul for his concern, she sat with her mouth half open. Paul, the caretaker of women. Then the laugh erupted, nervous and harsh. “You're acting as if you're my dad when I was about to go on my first date. Do you know something about Roger that I don't?” Her heart thudded in her throat as he glanced at his half-empty cup. Had she gotten Roger in trouble for hiding the gas cans? He had never told her what he had done with them. What if someone saw him and reported it to the police?

Paul stared at her long before answering. “He just feels wrong to me.”

She spit out a brittle laugh. “I promise, Dad, I'll be a good girl and never get myself into situations you wouldn't approve of.”

Paul grimaced. “I'm sorry. I was out of line. How about supper tomorrow night to make it up to you?”

“I'm sorry Paul. I can't.”

“A rain check then?”

She focused on the table, wishing Margaret were here to force her to say yes. “I'll think about it.”

~*~

Bill leaned against the stainless steel sinks, dishcloth in his hand.

Sandra turned off the large overhead exhaust fans that helped to keep the heat and humidity tolerable in the confined space.

The swish of mops in the dining room soon stopped, replaced by the clang of metal handles on mop buckets. Half a dozen workers, mostly the older crew, lingered in the kitchen as the last of the men to be sheltered wandered toward the sleeping quarters.

Lillian had asked him once about the men. There were the faithful few, but new faces appeared every week. Some even came a second time before they disappeared. She had asked him where they went, and he had no answer for her. Recently, he felt as much adrift as the men he served. He grabbed a paper towel and wiped the sweat off his face. “Any more dishes lying around?”

“I think that's it,” Sandra said. “Time to head home.” She looked around at the volunteers. “A big thanks to y'all for helping out.”

“Our pleasure.” A man removed his white burlap apron. “It makes me appreciate what I have.”

“I never knew there were so many homeless men in Darlington,” replied a woman about mid-thirties. “I never see them on the streets.”