Confessions (18 page)

Trace felt foolish and relieved at the same time. “In that case, I'm glad to have been of service. Any time you need a booster, just let me know.”

Her laughter was quick and appreciative. “I'll dial 911.”

“I'll see you at my office tomorrow morning, then,” he said, even as he reminded himself that back in Dallas, he never would have permitted civilians this much access to a case.

“Before noon,” she agreed. After all, how long could it take to legally inform Alan what everyone already knew—that he was now the proud owner of a century-old ranch?

Promising to latch the door behind him, she stood in the open doorway and watched Trace walk back down the hall to the elevator.

For a moment, just before the elevator door shut, Mariah was tempted to call him back. But having nothing left to say, she resisted the impulse.

Trace returned to his office and was studying the crime scene photos when his intercom buzzed.

“It's Fredericka Palmer,” Jill announced.

He slipped the photos into his top desk drawer. “Send her in.”

The Realtor entered the room surrounded by a cloud of perfume designed to hit a man straight in the groin. Her black silk suit revealed an enticing shadowing of breast and her stiletto high heels were more suited to a city hooker than a rural real-estate agent. Then again, he reminded himself, Fredericka Palmer was no typical rural real-estate agent.

“Hello, Sheriff.” Somehow, her tone and her smile managed to make the usual greeting sound like a sexual invitation.

From the day he'd met her, the woman had made it obvious that she wouldn't be adverse to a more intimate relationship. Although he'd yet to take her up on her not-so-veiled offers, that hadn't kept her from continuing to try.

He stood up. “Afternoon, Ms. Palmer.”

“Please.” A soft sigh escaped pouting lips. “I keep telling you, Trace, it's Freddi.”

She sat down in the visitor's chair and crossed her legs, displaying a flash of lacy black garter. Above the tops of the jet nylons, her thighs were porcelain pale. The contrast, Trace admitted in spite of his best efforts to remain unmoved, was more than a little appealing.

Trace sat down as well.

“I was sorry we didn't have a chance to speak at the funeral supper,” she said.

“I wasn't exactly there in a social capacity,” he reminded her.

“Actually, what I need to discuss with you is business. I'm afraid I might have bad news.” She paused. For effect, Trace thought. “The Worths are considering putting their house up for sale.” Trace was currently renting the house in question.

“I see.” Trace figured it was a good thing he'd never gotten around to unpacking everything.

“I warned you about the possibility when you agreed to that month-to-month lease,” she reminded him. “Instead of buying something of your own.”

Trace shrugged. “That you did,” he agreed easily.

He'd resisted the agent's attempt to sell him a home when he'd first arrived in town because he hadn't known if he'd find Whiskey River to his liking. And although lately he'd begun to feel as if he were settling in, finding someplace new to live was the least of his worries right now.

She tapped a scarlet finger thoughtfully against a white front tooth, drawing attention to her wide mouth. “You know, Sheriff, my development company is about to break ground on a new golf course community. We expect it to be quite popular. This is a golden opportunity to get in before the prices escalate.”

“I'll think about it.”

“Do you play golf?”

“Never had the time to learn.” Nor the bucks to join one of Dallas's exclusive country clubs.

“You should.” She crossed her legs again. “I've always believed that we should play as hard as we work.”

“That's not a bad philosophy,” he agreed mildly, hav
ing a very good idea of what game Fredericka was playing right now. “So, when do I have to move out?”

“Oh, no time soon.” She waved away the potential problem with a crimson-tipped hand. “I just thought I should keep you apprised as to the possibility.” Her smiling face turned worried. “There is another thing.”

“What's that?”

“There's some concern, what with this terrible thing that's happened to Laura, along with the attempt on the senator's life, that there might not be sufficient security for the Fourth of July rally. The Cow Belles are hosting our annual barbecue and I'd hate for anything to happen.”

“I've assigned all my deputies to the rally and I plan to be there as well. In addition, DPS is loaning us what officers they can spare from highway patrol.”

“I'm so glad to hear that.” Her deep sigh of relief drew his gaze once again to her lush breasts, just as she'd planned.

As she leaned toward him, giving him an unrestricted view of her cleavage, it crossed Trace's mind that Fredericka had all the tenacity—both professionally and personally—of an aluminum-siding salesman.

“You've no idea what a relief it is to be able to assure the girls that you'll have things well in hand.” She stood up.

“We do our best.”

She smiled. “So I hear.” She was almost out the door when another thought occurred to her. “By the way, that was quite impressive, the way you rescued Mariah today. You reminded me of Lochinvar. Or Sir Galahad.”

Trace was getting a little tired of the shining armor comparisons.

“Did Mariah tell you that she may be staying on in Whiskey River?” Freddi asked conversationally.

“I don't believe it came up.” It sure as hell hadn't.

“She called me last week from L.A. to set up a meeting. She was behaving rather strangely, even for her.”

“Strangely?”

“Secretive. She asked me not to tell anyone about her call. Or the meeting. Even Laura. Naturally, that piqued my curiosity.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then, a few days later, when I first saw her in the lodge, she told me she had to cancel, which was a surprise, of course, but when I heard about what happened to Laura, I understood. Obviously, Mariah isn't in any shape to even think about negotiating a realty contract. Especially since she must be feeling so horribly guilty.”

“Guilty?”

Fredericka flushed, as if realizing she'd gone too far. “It's nothing. Really.” She managed a weak laugh. “Sometimes I really do talk too much.”

He gave her his hard cop stare. “What would Mariah have to feel guilty about?” His tone was mild, even friendly. But his eyes had turned to flint.

“Well, you have to understand that Laura and I were best friends forever.” She was obviously flustered. A sheen of perspiration glistened on the creamy flesh framed by the jet collar of her funeral suit. “And although I've tried to understand Mariah, I never approved of the way she treated her sister. Who'd always tried to make up for their mother's desertion,” she said with a flash of hot loyalty.

“I was under the impression they'd reconciled their differences.”

“So Mariah says.”

“It isn't true?”

“Well, of course, Laura was never one to hold a grudge. Laura,” she assured him, repeating what he'd al
ready heard innumerable times over the past three days, “was a saint.

“Mariah, unfortunately, was the opposite side of the coin. She always resented Laura for being their father's favorite, never minding that Mariah's own rebellion kept her in constant trouble with Matthew. As for her feelings about her sister's marriage…”

She bit her lip and looked away. “I'm sorry, I've already said too much.”

“Your best friend is lying dead six feet under,” Trace pointed out, his unpleasant description designed to keep her talking. “I'd think you'd want to do whatever you could to make certain justice is done.”

“Well, of course I do, but…” Her voice dropped off and her kohl-lined eyes widened. “Surely you don't suspect Mariah—”

“Tell me what you were going to say,” he suggested.

Fredericka was chewing nervously on a fingernail. Her expressive eyes were darting around the room like frightened birds. “It's just that I've been thinking lately, about Laura and Clint?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, what if the rumors were true? What if Laura really was going to leave Alan and marry her high school sweetheart?” The Realtor shook her head and sighed. “Laura and Alan had their problems,” she admitted reluctantly. “But what marriage doesn't? And especially such a high-powered, high-profile one.

“Anyway, I was thinking about Mariah, and how, if Laura had told her about their problems, it would have given Mariah the upper hand in their relationship.”

She gave Trace a long, knowing look. “The term sibling rivalry could have been coined about Mariah's feelings toward her older sister,” she said. “Ask anyone. Anyway—” she shrugged her silk clad shoulders “—if
Mariah found out that not only was Laura going to finally find happiness with Clint, but was going to have his baby too, the balance would have shifted.”

Her thoughtful frown slowly metamorphosed into a faint, embarrassed smile. “Listen to me,” she said. “I sound as silly as Mariah. Perhaps I should try my hand at writing TV scripts.”

“You don't sound silly,” Trace assured her. “Although I get the feeling Mariah Swann isn't one of your favorite people.”

“It's not that I dislike her. Not really. But, hell, Trace, you have to understand. I loved Laura from the time we were children. We were like sisters. Mariah forced a lot of people to take sides a long time ago. And it's not that easy to suddenly switch loyalties.”

“I can understand that.”

Freddi sighed again. “Oh, well, if Mariah is intending to stay in Whiskey River, one thing's for certain.”

“What's that?”

“She'll definitely bring some excitement to this dusty old burg.”

With that she was gone, leaving a cloud of perfume behind.

Trace sat back down behind his desk and pulled out the legal pad. In his business, he couldn't allow himself to ignore any possible lead. Even if it was one he didn't want to consider.

That being the case, he reluctantly added Mariah to his suspect list.

Even as his pen formed the letters, he found himself recalling with vivid clarity the power and passion of their shared kiss.

The kiss had been a mistake. But worth it.

Some inner instinct warned him that nothing about Mariah Swann was simple. She was the kind of woman who
could strip away a man's hard-won self-control, layer by layer, until nothing was left but raw, unprotected emotion.

Always mindful that as sheriff, jumping to conclusions could make for some very embarrassing public landings, Trace reminded himself that there were any number of reasons Mariah could have wanted to talk with the Realtor. And only one of those reasons would point to her guilt.

Still, the thought that Mariah could be a murderer was definitely not a pleasant one. But even worse was the thought that he might be willing to compromise his case because he was hot for her.

Back when he'd been a rookie cop, patrolling Dallas streets, he'd been offered bribes to overlook speeding tickets. Later, while working Vice, a sleazebag cocaine dealer he'd arrested—and who ultimately walked when the evidence mysteriously disappeared from the police property room—had offered him a quarter of a million dollars for tipping him off the next time the cops planned to make a bust.

Over the years, Trace had had innumerable offers to look the other way.

In none of those instances had his integrity ever been put to the test as it was right now.

Trace cursed and closed his eyes in a mute prayer for strength. He wasn't used to wanting anything or anyone so badly. Mariah's heated, unrestrained response to his kiss had told him he could have her.

But at what cost?

T
he reading of the will was conducted in Thatcher Reardon's office. There had been a Reardon serving as Swann legal counsel since the two families had first arrived in Whiskey River over a century ago. Having never been one to buck tradition—with the exception of her love for Clint Garvey—no one was surprised that Laura had chosen Thatcher to draft her will.

Mariah could not keep her attention on the reading. So many thoughts were tumbling around in her mind that she was having trouble concentrating on any one of them.

Foremost, of course, was her reason for being here today. Although it was beginning to sink in that Laura was really, truly dead, there were fleeting instances when she'd open her mouth to say something to her sister, then belatedly realize that the image that had flickered in front of her mind's eye was no more substantial than the mirage that shimmered just out of reach on the bubbling-hot black asphalt of the interstate every summer.

Her second concern was for Maggie, who hadn't returned to the lodge until nearly midnight. When Mariah,
exhausted and sick with worry, had angrily confronted the limo driver for not driving her mother directly home from the ranch after the funeral supper, a drunken Maggie had lost her temper and slapped her daughter hard. Right on her cheek.

It was the first time her mother had ever struck her and during those suspended seconds afterward, when the three of them—Mariah, Maggie and the driver—seemed frozen in place, Mariah had felt like a wounded seven-year-old.

The feeling, not pleasant, lingered this morning, along with continuing concern and not a little resentment. Maggie's life was her own, Mariah had told herself during the sleepless predawn hours. What her mother did was her own business; Mariah wasn't responsible for her behavior.

Which worked real nifty in theory. Unfortunately, although Maggie McKenna would never win the Mother Of The Year award, she was the only real family Mariah had left. And, despite Maggie's flaws, which were as bold and dramatic as the woman herself, Mariah loved her mother. Dearly.

The third problem that had kept sleep at bay and continued to nudge at her concentration this morning was Trace Callahan. Mariah had spent the past ten years in California, where people tended to tell everything about their intimate lives at the drop of a cocktail napkin. In contrast, the sheriff was an intensely private person.

Which was, Mariah mused as the lawyer droned through the usual preliminary bequeathals—two thousand dollars to the man who shoed Laura's horses, five thousand to her housekeeper, fifteen hundred to someone named Marty, who kept her driveway clear of snow in the winter—something else they had in common. If she'd been keeping track. Which she most definitely wasn't.

A buzz of excited conversation drew her attention back to the attorney and Mariah belatedly realized that everyone
in the room, with the exception of Thatcher, was staring at her.

Her father's face was the color of a sun-ripened beefsteak tomato. A furious fire burned in his gaze and an angry blue vein pounded at his temple.

In contrast, although Maggie's eyes were still hidden by the sunglasses she had not taken off when they'd entered the suite of offices, Mariah thought she detected a ghost of a smile hovering at the corner of her mother's full lips.

Alan's expression was schooled to one of polite surprise, but there was some hidden emotion lurking deep in his eyes that sent a frisson up her spine.

“Congratulations, darling,” Maggie drawled. There was no mistaking the smile now; she looked like a very satisfied feline who'd just brunched on a very fat canary and had a bowl of freshly churned cream waiting in the wings. “It appears you're in the ranching business.”

She shot her former husband a satisfied look that was obvious even through the darkened lens of her glasses. “Imagine, all that land. Not to mention all those cows. And they're all yours.”

“Mine?” Mariah asked uncomprehendingly. Obviously somewhere after the five-hundred-dollar bequest to the paperboy, she'd missed something significant.

“It appears Laura believed her grandmother's ranch should remain in the Swann family,” Alan revealed. His tone and his expression were mild. His eyes, as they locked on hers, were not.

Mariah shook her head, stunned by this unexpected development. Laura had always been the most sensible, logical person Mariah had ever known. So why on earth would she have done the one thing that made absolutely no sense?

“I don't understand.”

“That makes two of us.” Matthew was on his feet, his broad hands braced on the polished mahogany desk as he glared down at the attorney. “What the hell were you thinking of, Thatcher?” he demanded. “Letting my daughter write a goddamn will like that?”

“It was Laura's ranch,” Thatcher Reardon pointed out calmly. In land, money and political influence, he could claim equality with the man hovering over him, which kept him from being intimidated by Matthew Swann's power. “Just as it was her right to give it to anyone she chose.”

“This is a community-property state, dammit!” Matthew pounded the desk with enough force to shake the green-shaded banker's lamp. “Anything Laura owned belonged to her husband.”

The lawyer straightened the lamp. “Personal inheritances are excluded from community property in Arizona, Matthew. As you no doubt know, considering the way you successfully blocked your wife from making claims on your own holdings.”

“Former wife,” Maggie corrected. In contrast to her ex-husband, she appeared quite at ease with the unexpected events. “And for the record, Mr. Reardon, Matthew didn't block any claim from me in the divorce. Because I never made one in the first place.”

Matthew dragged his attention from the attorney to glower at Maggie. “Only because you knew you couldn't win.”

She lifted her chin. “Because I didn't want anything of yours,” she corrected.

“Not even your own daughters,” he snapped.

Didn't they ever stop? Mariah opened her mouth to beg them to please be quiet, but her brother-in-law beat her to it.

“It's all right, Matthew,” Alan Fletcher assured the
older man. “Whatever Laura wanted is fine with me. I loved my wife, and if it would make her happy to know her sister is living in our home, that's all I need to know.”

His tone was too slick, too polished. Too phony. Mariah was tempted to call him on his obvious lie, then decided she just didn't have the strength to do battle today.

“Thank you, Alan,” she murmured, matching his saccharine tone. “That's very generous of you.”

He nodded and gave her a sad, brave smile. “I hope you'll be as happy as we were in the house, Mariah.” He stood up and held out his hand in a gesture of peacemaking. “I also hope you'll give me a few days to get my personal belongings out.”

“Of course. Take all the time you need.”

“Thank you.” His fingers curled around hers with a bit more strength than necessary, giving Mariah the impression he'd love to put them around her neck. “Heather will inventory my things right after this afternoon's rally,” he promised.

Radiating shock and disapproval, Mariah stiffened and jerked her hand away. “You're actually going through with the rally?”

“All the plans have been made,” he said quietly. “The governor has come up from Phoenix, the national press has been notified, my speech is prepared. But mostly,” he said with absolute certainty, “it's what Laura would have wanted.”

“I'll bet.”

“You haven't been close enough to your sister these past years to realize that she had a dream for America. A dream we hoped to achieve together.”

Mariah heard the speech coming on. He and his mistress were already incorporating his dead wife into his campaign. Mariah was not surprised. But she did feel sick to her stomach.

“If you'll all excuse me,” she said, pushing herself out of the leather chair, “I have to go.”

“Of course,” the lawyer agreed, looking relieved to get the family out of his office before Matthew and Maggie started throwing his priceless collection of Hopi kachina figures at one another. He cleared his throat. “I do have some papers for you to sign—”

“Perhaps tomorrow.” The room was closing in on her. The air was growing thick and heavy. “I'm sorry, but I really am late for an appointment.”

Her head was spinning and her hands had turned clammy. Mariah turned and escaped the suddenly stultifying office on a near run.

 

Trace was driving to his office when he saw Mariah sitting on the concrete steps of the brownstone legal building. Making a U-turn, he pulled up at the curb, parked behind her Cherokee, climbed the steps and sat down beside her.

“Meeting over?”

Her elbows were braced on her bent knees, her chin rested in her fists. “Over enough.”

“Feel like talking about it?”

“No.” She sighed. “But you'll find out anyway.” Another sigh. “Laura left the ranch to me.”

He'd been hoping like hell she wouldn't say that. “That must have come as a surprise.”

Immersed in her own turmoiled emotions, Mariah didn't notice how intently Trace was studying her. “That's the understatement of the millennium.”

Knowing the others would be coming out at any time, she looked over him and said, “Could we continue this in your office? I really could use a cup of coffee.”

“Sure.” He stood up, extended his hand, which she
took without hesitation, and helped her to her feet. “Want to drive? Or walk?”

“The walk might clear my head,” she considered. “But I'm not up to running that damn press gauntlet.”

He wasn't all that wild about the idea himself. “How about following me to my place?”

“That depends. Are you inviting me up to see your Wanted Posters?”

He put his arm around her shoulders and began walking toward their trucks. “You bet.”

Trace's Victorian house, which Mariah recognized as being marvelously restored, had all the personality of an anonymous interstate motel room. Were it not for the packing boxes stacked up in the foyer, she would have thought it uninhabited. “We can talk in my office,” Trace said.

The office was an improvement over the rest of what Mariah could see from the front hall. Although definitely lacking any decorative touches, at least it appeared lived in. The floor-to-ceiling shelves were filled with books.

In front of a window was an old rolltop desk and although her Malibu home had been furnished in what her Beverly Hills decorator had called California contemporary, Mariah recognized it as an authentic antique. The top of the desk was distractingly neat. A few pens in a walnut holder, a week-at-a-glance calendar and a yellow legal pad. He'd drawn some type of chart, she saw, trying to read it upside down.

“Is that something to do with Laura's case?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I see it?”

“Sorry.” He closed the desk and locked it. “There are still some aspects of this case that are off-limits to civilians.”

She felt a prick of irritation as she watched him slip the
key into his pocket. He was not a man who trusted easily. Then again, she considered, thinking of all he'd seen, all he'd been through, why should he?

“Afraid I'll rifle your desk, Sheriff?”

“Would you?”

“Probably,” she admitted. “Given the chance. But only because I get the feeling you're holding something back.”

How about the fact that even before she'd inherited twenty thousand acres of prime Arizona real estate plus grazing rights for another hundred, he'd had reason to put her on his suspect list?

“Police prerogative,” he said mildly.

Mariah tried telling herself that she was lucky to have the access to the investigation that she did. Call her greedy, but she wanted more. “I never would have figured you for a by-the-book kind of guy, Callahan.”

“I have my moments.”

Giving up for now, she crossed the room and began examining his bookshelves. The selection was eclectic, ranging from nonfiction to classics to current bestsellers. She pulled a celebrity autobiography from the shelf. The back cover photograph was a twenty-five-year-old publicity still, showing Maggie in a body-clinging flesh-colored beaded gown that made her look as if she were wearing nothing but perfumed and powdered female flesh and a few strategically placed crystal beads.

Her thick hair had been teased into a wild auburn mane; her glossy red lips were erotically parted, showing just a hint of gleaming white teeth and the invitation in her kohl-lined emerald eyes so blatantly sexual it was nearly impossible to look away. She radiated passion the way a branding iron radiated heat.

“You've got Maggie's book.” Although she'd already decided this man was impossible to pigeonhole, there was
no way Mariah would have suspected him of reading ghostwritten Hollywood tell-all autobiographies.

“I bought it in a moment of weakness. Maggie McKenna was my first crush.” Although he'd thought the admission—which he'd never confessed to another living soul—would make her smile, Trace watched Mariah's lips draw into a tight line. Parentheses bracketed either side of her mouth.

“Yours and every other male's in the country, seemingly.”

Her voice was thick with disapproval. Could she actually be jealous? Of her own mother?

“Your mother was the last of the larger-than-life Technicolor stars.”

“So why don't you tell me something I don't know?” She abruptly shoved the book back onto the shelf.

He arched a brow at her sharp tone. Remembering what Fredericka had said about Mariah's strong feelings of rivalry, he hoped like hell that something else was going on here. “Did I hit a nerve?”

“Not at all. And even if you did, my relationship with my mother is none of your business.”

“Isn't it?”