Killer Love (36 page)

I walked him to the porch, watching him duck as he went out into the rain and got into his cruiser. I heard the engine turn over and sputter. He tried again, and again, but no luck. Apparently, he still hadn’t gotten it fixed.

In a few seconds, the car door opened, and Hutch ran through the rain back to the house.

“Won’t start, dammit. I’ll have to call for a ride.”

I shook my head. “No one should try to come out here with the rain like it is.” I pointed out the door at the drive, which had started to swell with water. “The road leading here is bad, too. They might not even make it up here.”

“Ah, hell.”

“You can stay,” I said, then wondered why I’d said it. “Maybe tomorrow it will clear up and you can get your car started. It’s not so bad in the daylight.”

He studied me silently for a moment, and suddenly the air between us was palpable with implication. “Sometimes it starts randomly,” he finally said. “I’ll keep trying. And I’m not afraid of the road.”

Maybe not, but I could tell, he was afraid to stay here with me.

Chapter Three

Hutch hung his hat and rain slicker on hooks out on the porch and followed me inside.

He sat at one end of the couch, while I sat at the other, my feet drawn up under me, clutching a throw pillow to my chest. The curtains were pulled back, and I watched as the rain beat against the windows. A huge burst of thunder rattled the cabin.

“It doesn’t bother you?” Hutch asked. “The storm doesn’t scare you?”

I pulled my attention back to him and shook my head. “I like storms. They make me feel alive.” I smiled. “When I was small, my father would take me driving in them, I’d stare, fascinated, out the window as jagged lighting ripped through the sky and the car vibrated with the force of the thunder.”

He laughed. “Sounds a little odd.”

“It was one of those memories of my father that I cherish. Before I knew he was...” I stopped, feeling a lump form in my throat. I swallowed and said, “Tell me about my father. About those last months before he died.” I’d heard rumors about the peculiar things he’d done, but I didn’t know details, facts.

Hutch looked away, then back at me. “I don’t think you really want to hear about that.”

“I do. People around town act like, at any moment, I’m going to pounce on them and infect them with my lunacy. I need to understand what he did, what made people so afraid of my family.”

My father’s mother had also been mentally unbalanced. When I was a toddler, she was committed to an asylum and was there until she died fifteen years ago. But, as far as I knew, she was never dangerous. Not like my dad had been at the end.

Hutch blew a burst of air out through pursed lips. He sighed, then said, “Did you know about the time Daniel pulled a gun on the Smith’s dog because he thought the dog was mocking him?”

I almost laughed, but it really wasn’t funny. “No. God, I had no idea. What happened?”

“A neighbor called me and no one, including the dog, was injured. I put your father in jail for a few hours. His doctor checked him out. He seemed to be okay and I let him go.”

“He should have been in some kind of facility. I had no idea. The times I was here to visit...” I stopped, feeling guilty. I had only visited every year or two. “I never saw any of that.”

“Your mother didn’t want him hospitalized, and the doctor said he’d be fine as long as he took his medication. I don’t know if he stopped taking it, but the episodes continued.”

“What else?”

“There was the time when the Franklins woke to find him going through their medicine cabinet in the middle of the night. When they confronted him, he said he was counting their ibuprofen, because he was sure they’d stolen some of his.”

“Good grief. No wonder people are afraid of me.” I shook my head. “You know something? I’m afraid, too.”

“Why? You’re not...”

“No. But he wasn’t either, at first.” I shuddered. “I mean, how would I know? He probably thought he was fine, too.”

“You’re fine, Izzy. Don’t worry about that, okay?”

I studied his concerned face, his warm eyes, and I nodded. “It’s all so hard to make sense of. Hard to sort out. I loved my parents dearly, both of them. When it first happened, I hated my father. Or at least, felt like I should hate him. But I also missed him and I loved him and I couldn’t really hate him. Then I felt like I was being disloyal to my mother because I
didn't
hate him. I wasn’t sure how to feel, what was right, you know?”

“I can’t say I know how you feel, but I understand what you're saying.”

“If it happened to you, do you think you could hate your father?”

“I’m don’t know. I don’t think anyone can say for sure unless they’ve been through the same thing.”

“No, I guess they can’t.” I smiled grimly. “But it doesn’t seem to stop the people in town from talking, from judging.”

“Don’t pay any attention to them. You know how people like to gossip.”

“Yes, but have you seen the way they look at me? They’re actually
afraid
. I just can’t figure out why I haven’t left. Why I’m still here.”

“I don’t know either, but I’m glad you are.”

I didn’t respond, was afraid to respond. I didn’t want those old feelings brewing again between us. Or did I? Maybe I wanted them to, but I was afraid to let them.

“You know, I think maybe the reason I’ve stayed is because I feel guilty for leaving in the first place. If I’d been here, it wouldn’t have happened. I know staying here now doesn’t help. It
did
happen. Maybe I think of it as some kind of penance.”

“You have no reason to feel guilty. You couldn’t have stopped it. And, if you’d been here...” He sucked in a deep breath and said, “He might have killed you, too.”

“I’ve thought about that. I want to believe he wouldn’t have hurt me. He was my daddy. But, who knows? I know he was mentally ill. But supposedly, he killed my mother because she cheated on him. I don’t even know if that’s true. Do you know? Was my mother having an affair?”

“I don’t know for sure. It was just gossip and I seldom believe gossip. It’s possible, but it’s also possible it was just part of your dad’s increasing delusion and paranoia.”

“Yeah, seems like there was a lot of that.”

He leveled me with a steady gaze. “You’ve been through a lot lately. I can’t believe how you’ve dealt with it all. I’m sure sometimes you feel like you’ve reached your breaking point.”

I shrugged. “I manage.” I gave him a chagrined look. “I bet you thought I
had
reached it the morning you came out after the break-in. I was a mess.”

“You certainly seemed distraught. I mean, it would be upsetting to anyone, but you seemed so...sad,” he finished quietly.

I took a deep breath. “Yes, I was crushed.” I explained about Tamra’s purse. “It’s my fault. She lost her dad, and now, thanks to me, she lost something precious of his that she can never get back.”

“It’s not your fault.” He reached out and placed a hand over mine where it rested on the pillow.

I looked at his hand, but didn’t pull away. “That’s what she said, but I feel responsible. She entrusted it to me, and I should’ve protected it. Sometimes, I just feel like everything I touch turns into...” I thought of Deanna’s words, “...into a mess. Like I’m just a great big mess.”

“Hey,” he said softly. When I didn’t look up, he hooked a finger under my chin and lifted my head until I met his gaze. “You’re not a mess.” His eyes dropped to my mouth, and he brushed the pad of his thumb over my lower lip. Little tremors of desire shook through me. He raised his eyes back to mine, imprisoning me with their intensity. His voice gruff, he said, “You’re perfectly... incredibly...” He shook his head and ended on a husky sigh, “...perfect.”

His eyes, a warm, molten shimmer of silver lava, never left my face. He slid his fingers gently along my jawbone and brushed my hair back from my cheek, letting his touch trail down the side of my neck. My breath caught and I couldn’t move. The only thing in motion was the steady thump of my heart.

Kiss me, please
, I silently begged, and for a moment, I thought he would. He leaned closer, his gaze still trapping mine. My throat went dry, and I was mesmerized by his mouth, so close to mine, his touch...so warm...so...

A flash of lightening lit the room, immediately followed by a deafening crash of thunder that rattled the windows. I jumped, giving a startled shriek and his touch fell away. I laughed, a breathless, nervous sound. “Wow! That was close.”

He looked at me a moment longer, then his gaze slid away, and he gave a curt nod. “Yeah, too close.” He stood abruptly and headed for the door. “I’m going to try the car again.”

“I meant what I said earlier,” I told him as he took hold of the doorknob. “If it doesn’t start, you could just stay here for the night.”

He went still for a few seconds before slowly turning to face me. He narrowed his eyes, looking at me as he’d probably looked at my father while he held the pistol to the poor dog’s head. “It’ll start,” he said, and it sounded more like a prayer than a statement.

It didn’t start. Not with the first attempt. But this time, he stayed out in the car between tries. The engine caught on the third effort, some thirty minutes later.

I went to the window, lifting my hand in a wave as he drove off. I thought maybe he didn’t see me, because he didn’t wave back.

****

The next morning, I loaded the purses to be sold at the festival into my jeep and drove into town. When I pulled into the parking lot of the fairgrounds, Liza was getting out of her black Audi. She waved exuberantly and rushed over to me, almost before I was completely in the space.

She gave me a warm smile. “Hi, Isabelle. I’m so glad you’re here.” She wore a stylish, mocha-colored pantsuit with a silky white blouse. She looked beautiful, as always.

“I just came to drop the purses off,” I said, climbing out of the jeep with the Dillard’s bag in my hand.

“I heard about your uncle. I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

I shook my head. “No. Thank you, though.”

The funeral would be held in Texas, where Patrick lived during his marriage. His ex-wife was taking his body back once the medical examiner released it. I wouldn’t even have to make an appearance and suffer the awkward condolences. “Could you take the purses in for me?”

“I can, but why don’t you stay for the festival? You could help me in the funnel cake booth.”

Oh, sounds like ever so much fun,
I thought peevishly, but said,
“
That’s nice, but I really shouldn’t.”

The loud roar of a motor drowned out her response, and I turned to the source. Brandon had rolled into the parking lot, driving a souped-up red Camaro. He had his window down, and he pulled up beside us, grinning. “Hey, Isabelle. You’re looking good.”

Deanna sat in the passenger seat, glaring at me. I ignored her and smiled at Brandon. “How are you?”

“Fine, but not as fine as you are.” His boyish attempt at flirtation made me feel a little uneasy...and flattered.

“We need to go, Brandon,” Deanna’s churlish voice cut in.

“See you inside?” he asked me.

“I’m afraid I’m just dropping something off. You have fun, though.”

As they drove away, Deanna shot me one last glower, her eyes holding a wealth of hatred.

I tried to shrug it off and turned to Liza. “Listen, I need to go. Can you take these in for me?” I held up the shopping bag.

She nodded. “Sure, if I can’t talk you into staying.”

“Thanks.” I handed her the purses and climbed back into the jeep.

Driving away, I couldn’t get the image of Deanna’s expression out of my mind. The other people in town generally regarded me with scorn and wariness. Deanna’s feelings seemed to go deeper, were more intense, more personal, somehow. There was something there, something dark and angry.

But was it enough to make her kill?

****

A few days after the festival, I flipped on the small television in my kitchen while I drank my coffee and made cinnamon toast.

I liked listening to the local news, even though it’s not normally very exciting. It also isn’t very upsetting. Although there was an occasional serious crime, most of the news involved drunk and disorderlies, social events, city council reports, things of that nature. Of course, a year ago there had been the murder/suicide.
That
had been big news. It had stayed on the front page and led the evening newscast for several days.

But, other than that, not a lot of newsworthy incidents in Jessup. That’s why, when I heard ‘house fire’ and ‘Liza Loomis’, it caught my attention.

Since cinnamon toast burns after about eight seconds under the broiler, I had to take it out before I could turn up the television and concentrate on the report. By then, it was pretty much over. All I’d caught was that Liza had escaped with minor injures, and that Sheriff Rick Hutchings said his department was investigating it as a possible arson.

Arson?
What was happening around here? In a town that probably had no more than one malicious crime a year, we’d had a vandalism, a murder, and now a suspicious house fire where a woman had been injured, could have been killed, all within the span of a week. For that reason alone, they almost had to be related, but otherwise, it seemed highly unlikely.

I believed Patrick had broken into my studio, but to think someone killed him because of it was preposterous. And Liza’s home burning? As far as I knew, she shared no link with Patrick other than living in a place where he was the resident town drunk. The entire population of Jessup shared that link. So, what? Why all these bizarre occurrences lately?

I felt I should call and check on Liza. After all, she’d been so nice after Patrick’s death. Yesterday, she’d stopped by with a plant. But, I didn’t know where to call. I didn’t have her cell phone number. If she were in the hospital, they wouldn’t give me any information, although they would most likely ring her room. But after what she’d been through, if she were still in the hospital, I didn’t want to disturb her. Brandon might know the status of her condition since his sister and Liza were best friends, but I didn’t want to risk encouraging his crush, provided he was even working at the store right now, which was the only way I knew to reach him.