Deadline (13 page)

Her head tipped back. Taking that as encouragement, his kisses on her neck became more fervent. By the time they reached her ear, there was intent behind them, and she responded. Tension escaped her on a sigh. Her body settled, ever so slightly shifting closer to him. Tentatively she placed her hands on his shoulders.

He eased his head back and looked into her eyes. “I’m not him, Amelia. I’m not like him. I swear to you, I’m not. I have it under control.”

“I’m not afraid you’ll lose control.” Her voice was low and husky, and he wished it was something he could touch, stroke, taste. “I’m afraid I will.”

With a rasped curse, he cupped her head between his hands and claimed a kiss that was unapologetically deep from the start. There was no buildup to the intimacy, because he’d been thinking about making love to her mouth from the moment he saw her in the courtroom.

She didn’t shy away, but kissed him back in kind, with heat, her fingers alternately kneading his shoulders and tugging handfuls of his hair. Her unrestraint was as much a surprise as it was a delight.

He lowered her back onto the bed, where the kiss grew hungrier. As their mouths feasted on each other, he angled his body above hers. The sheet had become displaced, so there was nothing between the sensitized tip of his erection and her soft pajama bottoms. The contact caused a low groan to vibrate in his throat.

Amelia rubbed against him seductively, each movement sweetly feminine and small but breath stealing. He wasn’t as subtle. His hands roved selfishly and impatiently, greedy for the feel of her skin. He pushed his hand into the loose waistband of her pajama bottoms and caressed the curve of her hip. In response, her thighs shifted, separated. He fit himself into the notch.

When the doorbell rang, he was in such a fog of lust that it didn’t at first register with him what it was. When it rang a second time, they jerked apart and stared at each other, breathing loudly, sharing incredulity over someone’s ill timing. Blistering the walls of the room with a scorching curse, he rolled off her.

She scrambled off the bed and yanked her clothing back into place. “It must be Stef.”

“Or Bernie.” He snatched his gym shorts from the chair beside the bed and pulled them on. “I invited him for breakfast, but, Christ, it’s barely dawn.”

He went to the window that overlooked the front of the house, expecting to see a familiar person below. He didn’t. When he turned back to Amelia, she must have read the foreboding in his expression, because her hand moved to the base of her throat.

“What?”

“It’s the police.”

Q
uickly, she checked on the boys, but they had slept through the ringing of the doorbell. By the time she got downstairs, Dawson was admitting a uniformed officer and a man in plainclothes into the house and saying to them, “She’s here.”

They introduced themselves as deputies from the Chatham County Sheriff’s Office in Savannah. Saint Nelda’s Island didn’t have a police force of its own. To Amelia’s knowledge, there had never been a need for one.

The uniformed man was young, so cleanly shaven that his cheeks were abraded. The tops of his ears turned red when he looked beyond Dawson’s bare torso and took in her dishevelment.

It was clear to her that he was the junior official of the pair, probably serving as a chauffeur to the other man, who introduced himself as Deputy Tucker, a detective for the sheriff’s office. He was potbellied, ruddy-faced, and all-business.

Amelia asked him why he was looking for her.

He took a small spiral notebook from the pocket of his rain jacket. “Do you own a car with Georgia license plate number…” He flipped open the notebook and read out the characters of her license plate.

She confirmed that that was her car.

“Are you acquainted with a young woman named Stephanie Elaine DeMarco?”

“She’s my children’s nanny. Is something…Has she been involved in an accident?”

“No, ma’am. I’m sorry to have to tell you that Miss DeMarco was found dead this morning.”

Her knees gave way. Dawson and the uniformed deputy both reached for her, but Dawson got to her first. He supported her as he backed her into the nearest chair, where she sank down onto the seat. “Dead?” she wheezed. “Stef is dead?”

“My condolences, ma’am.”

Madly, she wondered if she was dreaming. Or if someone was playing a vicious practical joke. Or if a dreadful mistake had been made, a mix-up of identities, perhaps. It happened, not often, but she’d read about such instances. Anything was possible except that vibrant, healthy, funny Stef was
dead
. Her mind refused to accept it. “There must be some mistake.”

Tucker said, “A purse containing her identification was found on the passenger seat of your car. Her body was discovered just a few yards away.”

“Discovered by whom?” Dawson asked. “Where?”

“In the parking lot behind the café. Kid who works the kitchen at Mickey’s was taking out trash, noticed the car and wondered what it was doing there that time of morning. Then he saw the body behind the Dumpster. When my partner and I got to the island, we were told she worked for you. Your numbers were programmed into the cell phone found inside her purse. We’ve been trying to reach you.”

“I haven’t checked my phone this morning, but the last time I did, I didn’t have service. I’ve been here since late last evening. I left Stef a note so she’d know where we were when she got home.” Her voice cracked with emotion and she stifled a sob.

Dawson took over the explanation. “Practically the whole island lost power last night. This house has an emergency generator. I invited Ms. Nolan and her two young sons to ride out the storm here.”

“You own this house?”

“I rented it for the Labor Day weekend.”

“Are you Dawson Scott?”

“That’s right.”

“Mickey mentioned you. Where’re you from, Mr. Scott?”

“Alexandria, Virginia.”

He moved to the table where his laptop sat and took a business card from the pocket of a brown leather messenger bag. He handed it to the deputy, who studied it thoroughly before placing it in his pocket. “Did you know the girl?”

“I met her a few days ago, along with Ms. Nolan’s family.”

At the sound of her name, Amelia raised her head and realized that she’d been following their conversation with only half an ear. Her mind was still trying to process the inconceivable. “You said Stef was ‘found dead’ near the car. Was she struck by lightning?”

Tucker divided a glance between her and Dawson, but addressed his answer to her. “We’re in the process of conducting a full investigation.”

“But you know what killed her, so why don’t you just tell us?”

It was clear that Dawson’s impertinence was an affront to Tucker, but Dawson stared him down until he relented. “She suffered a head wound. She might have been struck from behind by debris carried by the strong winds, but foul played hasn’t been ruled out.”

Amelia couldn’t speak at all, leaving Dawson to say the unthinkable out loud. “You mean she could have been murdered?”

“The ME will make a determination as to the manner of death.”

For several moments following that, no one said anything. Then Amelia asked, “Where is she now?”

“Miss DeMarco’s body is being transported to the morgue in Savannah.”

“Have her parents been notified?”

“They’re on their way from Kansas, but since they have to make a couple of connections, they aren’t expected to arrive until midafternoon.”

“How did they take the news? Never mind,” she said before Tucker could answer. “I know how they must have taken it.” She exhaled a long, sad sigh.

At the sound of footsteps on the porch, Dawson moved to the door and looked through a flanking window. “It’s Bernie.” He opened the door just as Bernie, arriving for breakfast, was raising his hand to knock. He was carrying a basket of citrus fruit. His face was creased with worry.

“What’s a sheriff’s car doing here?”

Dawson stood aside and motioned him in. He nodded to the young deputy, looked Tucker up and down, then his gaze moved to Amelia, and, seeing her tears, he asked, “What’s happened?”

She took a deep breath. “It’s Stef.” She told him as much as she could before emotion made speech impossible. At that point, Dawson finished imparting the terrible news.

Bernie’s mouth worked to form words, but he achieved none. Finally he was able to say, “She was a sweet young lady.”

Amelia hugged herself. “I feel responsible.”

“You’re not,” Dawson said brusquely.

“She was on an errand for me.”

“Don’t do that to yourself.”

She nodded, as though agreeing, but for as long as she lived, she would regret letting Stef go out into the storm on a mission that should have been hers.

Bernie asked, “Where are the boys?”

“They’re still sleeping.” Shakily, she stood up. “I’d better go wake them.”

“I’ll go up with you,” Dawson said. “Telling them won’t be easy.”

“I’m not going to tell them. Not right now. But I want to leave for Savannah as soon as we can. I want to be there with Stef at the…” Because of the images it conjured, she couldn’t bring herself to say the word
morgue
. “I want to be there when her parents arrive.”

“I’ll take you.” Dawson closed his hand around her elbow and together they turned toward the stairs.

“Uh, actually, Mr. Scott, I’d like you to ride with me back to the village.” The three of them looked at Deputy Tucker, who squared his shoulders and took a step toward Dawson. “Besides coming out here to inform Ms. Nolan of her nanny’s death, I was coming after you.”

“What for?”

The deputy gave Dawson a sly smile. “You’re leaving it to me to tell them?”

Dawson didn’t answer, not even when Amelia turned to him and spoke his name softly, with inquiry. “Tell us what?”

His jaw remained tightly clenched.

Tucker said, “Seems he was the last person seen talking to Miss DeMarco.”

Her mind in turmoil, Amelia switched onto autopilot. When she woke the boys, they were grumpy and out of sorts, especially when they learned that Dawson wasn’t there.

Along with Bernie, they trooped back to her house. The electricity was still out, so she fed the children a breakfast of cold Pop-Tarts and the oranges that Bernie had contributed. She herself couldn’t stomach the thought of food.

While her neighbor supervised the kids’ meal, she went upstairs and gave herself a cold sponge bath in the sink of the semidark bathroom. Once she was dressed, she summoned the boys up to change their clothes.

Hunter complained about the shirt she chose for him. “Not that one, Mom.”

“You can’t wear one of your beach shirts. We’re going to Savannah. You’ll be visiting Mr. and Mrs. Metcalf today.”

“Who’s that?”

“You know, the director of the museum. You like him. Remember, he does duck calls?”

With cell service restored, she’d been able to contact George. After learning of her emergency, he and his wife had agreed to watch the children for as long as she needed them to.

“They have grandsons near your age,” she added as she wrestled the disliked shirt over Hunter’s head. “They’ll be there to play with you.”

“Why can’t we stay here and play with Dawson?”

“Yeah? How come?” Grant whined.

“Because you’ll be playing with new friends today.” She injected false cheer into her tone. “The Metcalfs have a swimming pool, and there was mention of a cookout and s’mores.”

“I’ll bet they’re dorks,” Hunter mumbled.

Grant’s only concern was whether or not the other boys liked cars. “I don’t know,” she replied in exasperation when he asked her for the third time. “Put your shoes on.”

Then, in response to their crestfallen expressions, she gathered them into a group hug and held them tightly. “I’m sorry I’m so cross. I’m not mad at you, I promise. I just have a lot of grown-up things on my mind today. So, please, do as I ask without an argument, okay?”

Sullenly they promised to obey, but they persistently asked about Stef and Dawson’s absence. She realized that her vague answers would pacify them for only so long, and then she would have to tell them why Stef had left without saying good-bye and explain why she wasn’t coming back.

She would have to talk to them about death. Again. They weren’t strangers to it. First their grandfather’s. Then Jeremy’s. Now their nanny’s. It was a lot for their young minds to wrap themselves around. It was almost too much for hers.

Because her car was integral to the investigation, it had been impounded, so Bernie offered to drive them to the ferry dock. She settled the boys in the backseat with a portable DVD player between them and dual headsets.

Once under way, Bernie said, “What do you think happened?”

“I don’t know, Bernie. I really don’t want to talk about it.”

Her mind was still reeling over everything that had transpired since being awakened by Dawson in the throes of a nightmare. His angry rebuke, followed by that tender appeal for forgiveness, then the kiss. His fervency and her oh-so-eager response. The doorbell.

His reaction to the deputy’s bombshell had been stoicism that bordered on surliness. Before they left, Tucker had allowed him to go upstairs to change clothes, accompanied by the uniformed officer. While Dawson was out of earshot, the deputy asked Amelia about the sequence of events that had taken place the night before.

“What time did Mr. Scott arrive at your house?”

“Eight thirty. Nine possibly.”

Bernie chimed in. “That’s right. They stopped at my place. Woke me up, actually. I automatically checked the time. It was eight fifty-two.”

Tucker took notes. He asked Amelia if Dawson had been in the house all night.

“Yes.”

“Can you swear to that?”

“He and I went upstairs around eleven. We parted at the bedroom door where my sons and I were supposed to sleep. I didn’t see him again until shortly before you arrived.” She hoped that neither man detected the heat that rushed to her face. “If he left the house during the night, I was unaware of it.” Realizing why the time line was important, she asked, “How long had Stef been…”

Inferring the question she was unable to ask, Tucker told them that the time of Stef’s death hadn’t been firmly established.

At that point, Dawson had appeared on the stairs, trailed by the young deputy. As he walked to the front door, Dawson had asked, rather sarcastically, if the deputy wanted to handcuff him.

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Scott. This isn’t an arrest. We just want to talk to you.”

“Right.” He’d then turned to look at Amelia, but she had difficulty holding his gaze. She heard him mutter something she didn’t catch, then he pulled open the front door and went out ahead of the two deputies.

Now as Bernie, his hands at ten and two on the steering wheel, dodged flooded areas of the road, she contradicted herself about not wanting to talk about it. “For the past week or so Stef had been seeing someone.”

“Dirk.”

“She told you about him?”

“Not much. He works on boats.”

“I know little more than that. I urged her to invite him to the house, but she seemed reluctant to introduce us. I wish now that I’d pressed her for more information about him, but she was a grown woman. I didn’t feel it was my place to interfere.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

His tone suggested an unspoken footnote. So did the discomfiture in his expression. “Bernie, do you know something that you’re not telling? Whatever it is, you should share it with the authorities.”

He shifted in his seat, glanced into the rearview mirror to make certain the boys weren’t listening, then gave her an uneasy glance. “I saw them together.”

“Her and Dirk?”

Looking miserable, he shook his head.

Her heart began a dull, hard thudding. “Dawson?”

He nodded.

“When?”

He screwed up his face in thought. “Thursday?”

“You must have the day wrong.” She’d caught Dawson spying on Friday, and Stef hadn’t met him until that evening at Mickey’s.

“No, I’m certain it was Thursday, because that was the day I was packing up and my hip started giving me fits.”

Without interrupting him, she listened carefully as he described to her the encounter he’d seen.

When he finished, he paused, and added awkwardly, “It wasn’t anything. Not really. But when I teased her about it later, warning her that he looked too old for her, she just laughed and asked me not to say anything to you about seeing them together.”

“Why did she care if I knew?”

“
She
didn’t. He did. He’d told her not to tell you that they’d met.”