At Risk (18 page)

Don’t forget to send money. Bren, Mary & I got tickets to a folk concert on the Burn for next weekend. Taking the bus. Staying with Bren at her grandfather’s cottage on cliffs overlooking Atlantic. Will take camera. Leaving tomorrow. Back Sunday. Will call then. Please be nice to Daddy. It won’t kill you to co-sign his whatever. Hugs. Katie the Peacemaker

Liz frowned. Katie was not known for her letters home. On the phone, she could talk for hours, but snail mail was rare and e-mails minimal. And the repeated requests on Russell’s behalf meant that Russell was playing dirty pool, trying to use Katie to get his loan.

“Damn you,” Liz muttered.

“Excuse me?” The waitress stood, mouth gaping, beside the table.

“Sorry,” Liz said. “Not you. Ex-husband.” She threw too large a tip on the table, closed her laptop, and walked to the cashier’s station to pay her check.

When she reached the car, Liz opened the laptop again and read the rest of her mail. Michael wanted to know if she was free for target practice at one o’-clock or tomorrow morning. She wrote back, accepting for this afternoon. The messages from work weren’t urgent. She skipped over Jack’s e-mails and opened the last one.

Russell, now apparently calling himself “Reliable 3981,” had nothing to say about Katie. Instead, he repeated his request for her to co-sign the loan and promised to repay her for two years’ back child support
if and when
his
no-lose
deal panned out. Liz deleted the message and opened one of Jack’s.

The first was a cartoon of a fisherman stranded on a deserted island, making sweet talk to a seagull. The second was six lines of very bad poetry telling her how much he missed her, and the last was an invitation to join him for a late supper on his boat. She smiled, punched in his number on her cell phone, and countered with an invitation for spaghetti dinner at the farm.

“Eight sharp,” she said.

“No can do. Can we make it nine?” Jack asked.

“Nine it is. Don’t be late. I hate reheated bread.”

“Scout’s honor. I’ll be there at nine.”

Sure
, Liz thought as Jack broke the connection,
but you were never a Boy Scout.

“You’ve got to hold the gun perfectly still,” Michael said.

Liz fired off two more shots that hit the target but missed the bull’s-eye by more than a foot. “What did you say?” she asked, easing off her ear protectors.

“I said, you’ve got to hold your hand steady. You did better yesterday.”

“Yesterday I wasn’t this mad. Those idiots at the court told me I don’t have enough evidence to convict Cameron of trespassing. Without a witness, I can’t prove he was on my land. Otherwise, it’s my word against his and a waste of everyone’s time. I tried to tell the clerk about the funeral flowers, the rowboat, and the dead fox, but he said that if I didn’t see Cameron do those things, I couldn’t charge him with them. If I insisted, I could sign a warrant against him for trespassing, but he didn’t know when it would be scheduled on the docket, and the judge would throw it out when it did get there.”

“So you’re going to let Whitaker get away with it?”

“No, I’m going to talk to Tarkington, the detective in charge of Tracy’s investigation. I think he should be aware of what’s been happening.”

“I agree. Nathan’s a good man. I remember him from when he first came on the force. Nathan’s smart and pays attention to details. He never rushes a case.”

“I called him but got his voice mail. I asked him to call me back. I said it was urgent.”

“If he doesn’t get back to you by Friday, try again.”

Liz nibbled at her lower lip. “Amelia DeLaurier’s burglar alarm went off the other night. It’s possible that Cameron could be trying to frighten her as well.”

“Do you want me to handle him?”

“No. He’s a jerk, and now that I know he’s the one doing all this stuff, I can handle him.” She pursed her lips, pulled the headset back in place and fired the remaining shots in the weapon.

Her results were less than admirable.

“Be patient,” Michael said, taking the weapon and checking to make certain that it was empty. “Do you feel confident enough to take the gun home with you? I can arrange a license for you to carry it.”

“No.” Liz wiped her hands on her jeans. “Not yet. I hate handguns. I hate the stink of gunpowder, and the sound. I suppose I’m just a nonviolent person.”

Michael motioned for her to step back out of the way, then reloaded the revolver and sank every shot into the black center of the target. Otto lay beside Michael’s chair, but the dog never blinked an eye. “Nothing wrong with the gun,” Michael said. “Keep practicing.”

Michael’s outdoor firing range was as safe as any the professionals used. The straw-backed targets stood in front of an earthen bank six feet high and ten feet across. The handicapped-accessible concrete pad and walkway made it easy for Michael to practice his sport.

“I didn’t thank you for getting rid of that rowboat for me,” she said.

“No problem. I just towed the thing downriver and anchored it in my marsh. As leaky as it is, the rowboat will sink in a few days, and make a good habitat for crabs.”

“You didn’t leave the traps in there, did you?”

He chuckled. “No, I didn’t. They went to the landfill. You didn’t want them, did you?”

She knelt beside Otto and fished a dog biscuit from her pocket. “You know better than that.” The German shepherd daintily accepted the treat.

“If it was up to you, he’d be as fat as I am,” Michael teased.

“You? I don’t think you have an ounce of fat on your body.” Michael’s legs were as hard and tanned as his muscular arms. Liz knew he spent hours working out every day, and in good weather he often rowed or biked for miles. Michael owned a three-wheeled racer, especially adapted for his handicap.

Maybe she should forget Jack, Liz thought as she and Michael headed back toward the house and a pitcher of iced tea. If she said the word, she knew that Michael would ask her to marry her. And why not? They were best friends, with so much in common.

Liz couldn’t ignore that they were sexually attracted to each other. She’d never asked him the details about his paralysis, but they’d gotten into some heavy petting once, and she’d learned that he was entirely capable of an erection. Their sex life might be different from most couples’, but she had no doubt that it would be rewarding.

As if reading her mind, Michael stopped and glanced up at her. “I’m thinking of driving up the coast to Maine and Canada this summer. Birding there is spectacular. Would you like to come along?”

“Maybe,” she answered. “When?”

“July. I’m planning on at least three weeks. What do you say? With Katie staying in Ireland, you’ve got the summer on your own.”

“Let me think about it, Michael,” she said.

“Not too long. I want to make reservations.”

“I’m not certain I can afford that long a vacation. I—”

“No,” he said, taking her hand. “I’m inviting you. I’ll pay for everything. All you have to do is ride shotgun for the cripple.”

She leaned and hugged him. “Don’t say that. You know I hate it when you talk like that.” She blinked back tears. “I’ll think about it, I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he said as he held open the kitchen door for her.

“I love you,” she said. “I really do.”

“ ‘Ah, but how does she love him?’ the man asks,” he replied with a chuckle. “Brotherly, or something more . . .”

Definitely not brotherly, Liz thought, but what it was, she had to figure out. “I take the Fifth,” she protested.

“You can run, but you can’t hide. I want an answer by June first. Got it?”

“Affirmative, Captain,” she answered with a smile. “I hear you loud and clear.”

Liz threw basil and chopped garlic into the sauce, stirred, and turned the gas flame as low as it would go. She always made spaghetti sauce from scratch. When tomatoes were in season, she used fresh ones, but this was May and those available in the grocery store were as expensive as gold and tasted like the packing boxes they were shipped in.

She cooked sauce in a heavy copper pot that had been passed down from her great-grandmother Clarke and only God knew how many more greats. The pot was far bigger than Liz needed, but it was a fixture in the old kitchen, resting when not in use in a place of honor on top of a built-in, countertop-high wooden cupboard. Above the kettle were open shelves, as nicked and scarred by the passing years as the other woodwork in the kitchen. Once painted yellow, the bull pine had achieved a dark patina that Liz thought perfectly matched the faded redbrick floor.

Neither the kitchen nor the copper pot found favor with Amelia, but the spacious old room with exposed beams and deep fireplace suited Liz fine. When she’d married Russell, they shared a new apartment on the third floor just outside of Wilmington. The kitchen had been all electric, tiny, and equipped with the latest appliances. The dishwasher was the only thing she missed here at the farm. Washing dishes had never been a favorite chore, and in every apartment or condo she’d occupied after the divorce, the first thing she asked was whether there was a dishwasher. Here, dishes were washed and usually air dried in the fifty-inch, double granite sink under the casement windows that overlooked the water.

Liz hummed as she dropped sliced mushrooms and a pinch of cinnamon into the spaghetti sauce. Stainless-steel state-of-the-art dishwasher or not, she wouldn’t trade her kitchen for Amelia’s modern one. And she wouldn’t swap Clarke’s Purchase for any house she’d ever seen. With all its sloping floors and creaking stairs, this was home. She wasn’t about to let trash like Cameron Whitaker or Wayne Boyd run her off her farm.

For the first time, she thought about what it would be like to have another child. Katie hadn’t been able to grow up here, and she was almost on her own anyway. Chances were, she’d never come home to live in the old house. And if Katie didn’t, who would?

But Jack had told her that he was sterile.

Liz took a clean spoon, dipped it in the sauce, and blew it cool. A little more pepper, she thought. She’d have at least four quarts when it was done. Thank God for freezers. She’d freeze what was left and think about having some of her students over for spaghetti before finals. They could relax, stuff themselves, and go over a few points she wanted them to remember.

A baby? Was she totally out of her mind?

Jack couldn’t father a child, but maybe Michael could . . .

What was she thinking? Had the shock of Tracy’s murder affected her sanity? But Sydney’s adopted twins weren’t two yet, and Sydney was only three years younger than she was. It wasn’t as though she were a senior citizen. Clarke women reached puberty late and kept their ability to have children until nearly fifty. She had at least four, maybe six or seven years of fertility left, but she’d never expected to hear that biological clock ticking again.

“I’ve been inhaling oregano,” Liz muttered to Heidi. “I skipped lunch and I must be light-headed. It’s temporary insanity. A plate of spaghetti, and the thought will never darken my head again.” She stirred the sauce with a long-handled wooden spoon and began to sing a shameless ditty her father had taught her when she was little.

Shadows of twilight stretched across the back yard, but the sweet scent of wisteria and the brassy scolding of a Carolina wren drifted through the open window. Liz leaned on the granite sink and let the last remnants of tension drain out of her neck and shoulders. She stood there for several minutes, feeling at peace for the first time since Tracy’s death.

. . . Until her reverie was broken by the phone.

She considered running upstairs to check Caller ID or just letting voice mail pick up, but she thought it might be Jack. He’d said not to expect him until nine, but she took the chance and answered.

“Liz!”

Russell. She almost hung up without speaking to him, but her temper got the best of her. “Do I have to change my number to get you to stop calling?” she asked.

“Liz, please. Listen to me. I really need—”

“I don’t care what you
really
need. I am not going to help you. What do I have to say to make you understand? No, Russell. There is nothing you could say that would influence my decision. For Katie’s sake, can’t we be civilized about this?”

Russell’s voice was thick. He’d been drinking and was about to burst into tears. His nose always ran when he cried, and thoughts of it were more than Liz wanted to consider. “Please, Liz. You don’t understand. This is—”

“This is good-bye, Russell. And if you call me again, I’ll start leaving sheep heads in your mailbox or calling your creditors and telling them to blacklist your name.” She hung the phone up, spent two minutes obsessing about what a pest her ex was, and began to set the table.

“We will not allow Russell Montgomery to ruin our evening, will we?” she said to Muffin, the cat, who sat on a step halfway up the back stairs glaring at the German shepherd. “Russell and Cameron and Wayne Boyd will all have a special corner in hell, and we will not give them the dignity of any more consideration.”

When the napkins were folded, candles arranged in their pewter holders, and the salad prepared, Liz put a bottle of wine in the refrigerator to cool and arranged the fresh flowers she’d bought at Sam’s Club in a blue granite-ware pitcher.

She’d showered when she’d come home from Michael’s, but she needed to put on some makeup and find something special to wear. She was looking forward to dinner, but even more to what was inevitable afterward. This time, she and Jack would make love in her bed, on clean sheets, with no worry about privacy or time constraints.

A night of good food, laughter, cool wine, and hot sex was exactly what the doctor ordered. Everything else could wait until tomorrow.

Tiffany turned the key again. This time, the motor didn’t make that
ee-ee-ee
sound—meaning the battery was as dead as a used condom. “Damn! Damn!” She slammed the wheel of her 1987 land barge with her fist. “Damn piece of shit!” She winced as the nail on her right index finger snapped off at the quick.