Mercy (13 page)

“You came here to fish.”

“Yeah, and I will fish. Now can we go get a cold drink?”

She nodded, pulled the door closed behind them, and headed for the car.

“Cooper told me you sounded scared on the phone.”

“I was scared . . . so scared I’ve been jumping at shadows.” She stopped to smile. “My imagination’s playing tricks on me.”

“How so?”

“I thought someone was in my house last night . . . while I was sleeping. I heard a noise and I got up and went through the whole house, but there wasn’t anyone hiding in a corner or under my bed. It could have been John Paul. He drops by at odd times.”

“It wasn’t your brother, though?”

“I can’t be certain. He might have left before I called out to him. It was probably just a bad dream, or the house was making a settling noise. I even thought someone might have been at my desk. It’s in the library just off the living room,” she explained.

“Why do you think that?”

“The phone is always in the upper right-hand corner of my desk . . . it’s kind of an obsession of mine to keep the center of my desk clear so I can work, but when I went downstairs this morning, the first thing I noticed was the phone. It had been moved.”

“Anything else?”

“I’ve had this creepy feeling that someone’s been following me.” She shook her head at the absurd idea. “How paranoid is that?”

T
heo didn’t tell her she was paranoid, and he didn’t laugh. Unfortunately, his expression on the way to her house wasn’t giving her any hints as to what was going through his mind.

“Is that it?” he asked, nodding at the house on the curve of the road.

“Yes,” she said, temporarily distracted. “I have the only house on the entire block.”

He grinned. “FYI. Your house is on a dirt road, not a block.”

“By Bowen’s standards, this is a block.”

The setting was incredibly beautiful. There were at least a dozen big trees surrounding her lot. The wood-framed house had a wide columned porch and three dormers jutting from the roof. There was water about a hundred yards beyond. As he pulled into the drive, he could see more trees growing crookedly out of the bayou.

“Do you get many snakes around here?”

“Some.”

“In the house?”

“No.”

He sighed with relief. “I hate snakes.”

“I don’t know too many people who like them.”

He nodded and then followed her up the sidewalk to the front steps. Michelle had a thing for flowers, he noticed. There were flowers in the window planters on either side of the door and more around the porch in big clay pots with ivy spilling over.

She unlocked the front door and led the way inside. Theo put his bag down in the entry next to an old chest and glanced around. By all appearances the house had been painstakingly restored. The hardwood floors and moldings were beautifully finished to a soft luster, and the walls were painted a pale buttery yellow. Theo detected the aroma of fresh varnish. He propped his fishing pole against a wall and closed the door behind him. When he locked the deadbolt, he saw how flimsy it was. He opened the door again, squatted down, and examined the lock closely, looking for signs of tampering. There weren’t any visible scratches, but she needed to replace it very soon.

He stepped into the foyer. To the left was a small dining room furnished with dark mahogany table and chairs and a beautifully crafted sideboard on the wall facing the windows. The color was in the rug. It was a deep, bright red with splashes of yellow and black.

To the right of the entrance was the living room. An overstuffed beige sofa faced two easy chairs in front of the stone hearth. A trunk sat on another colorful rug in front of the sofa, and on top of the makeshift coffee table were stacks of books. At the back of the living room were French doors, and he could see the desk beyond.

“The house is really a big square,” she said. “You can walk from the dining room into the kitchen and breakfast room, cross the back hall into my office, and then walk through those French doors into the living room. There aren’t any dead ends in this house and I like that.”

“Where are the bedrooms?”

“The stairs are in the back hallway next to the laundry, and I’ve got two bedrooms upstairs. They’re big, but the floors and the walls still need to be refinished. I’m taking it a room at a time. We’ll have to share the bathroom if you don’t mind,” she added. “Or you can use the bath on this floor, but there’s a washer and dryer in there. When I’m finished remodeling, there will be two separate rooms.”

Michelle’s house was furnished simply, yet everything was tasteful and uncluttered, a reflection, he decided, of the woman who lived there.

“Is that a Maitland-Smith?” he asked as he walked into the dining room to get a closer look at the table.

“You know furniture manufacturers?”

“Yeah, I do,” he said. “I appreciate fine workmanship. So is it?”

“No, it isn’t a Maitland-Smith. It’s a John Paul.”

He didn’t recognize the name for a second or two; then he realized she was telling him her brother had made the furniture.

“No way your brother did this.”

“Yes, he did.”

“Michelle, this is a work of art.”

He gently stroked the tabletop as though it were a baby’s forehead. Michelle watched him, pleased that he appreciated her brother’s work.

The mahogany wood felt as smooth as polished marble. “Incredible,” Theo whispered. “Look at these great lines.”

He squatted down to look underneath. The legs were ornately carved, and the scrollwork was amazing. It was perfect. Every line was perfect.

“Who taught him how to do this?”

“He’s self-taught.”

“No way.”

She laughed. “My brother’s a perfectionist in some things. He’s certainly talented, isn’t he?”

Theo wasn’t finished examining the set. He stood and picked up one of the chairs. Then he turned it upside down and whistled. “Not a nail or screw in sight. Man, oh, man, what I would give to be able to do work like this. With the right care, this chair will last for centuries.”

“You do carpentry?” She didn’t know why, but the thought of Theo doing anything manual surprised her. It seemed contradictory to what she knew about him.

He glanced at her and saw her surprise. “What?”

“You don’t seem the type to work with your hands.”

“Yeah? What type do I seem?”

She shrugged. “Wall Street . . . custom-made suits . . . servants. You know, big-city boy.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re wrong. I do some of my best work with my hands.” Flashing her a grin, he added, “Want some references?”

The sexual innuendo wasn’t lost on her. “Do I have to lock my bedroom door tonight?”

His expression immediately sombered. “No, I would never intrude on your privacy. Besides . . .”

“Yes?”

He winked at her. “If I play my cards right, you’ll come to me.”

“Are you this brazen with all the women you meet, Mr. Buchanan?”

He laughed. “I don’t know what it is, Michelle. You seem to bring out the devil in me.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Honest,” he said, “I really do like working with my hands. I like building things . . . or at least I used to. I’ll admit, I’m not any good yet.”

“What have you made?”

“My last project was a two-story birdhouse. I built it four years ago, but it was a failure. The birds won’t go near it. I’m starving, Michelle. How about I take you out to dinner.”

“I’d rather stay in tonight,” she said. “If that’s all right with you. You are my houseguest . . .”

“Like it or not?”

“Actually, it’s kind of nice, having a Justice Department attorney under my roof. Maybe you’ll keep the wolves at bay.”

“You’re still going to lock your bedroom door, though, aren’t you?”

It was strange to banter with a good-looking man. And fun, Michelle thought. There really hadn’t been much time for any of that while she was in medical school, and then residency, where all she could think about was getting a nap. Banter was definitely not part of her curriculum.

“The truth is I don’t have a lock on my door,” she told him. “Come with me. I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping, and you can change clothes while I rummage through the refrigerator.”

Theo grabbed his bag and followed her through the dining room into the kitchen. It was a bright, cheerful, country kitchen and twice the size of the dining room. In the breakfast nook were an old oak table and four paint-splattered folding chairs. There were three double-hung windows above the old enamel sink, overlooking the screened porch and the back lot. Her yard was long and narrow, and in the distance he could see a dock jutting into the murky water beyond. An aluminum outboard boat was tethered to one of the posts.

“Do you fish off that dock?”

“Sometimes,” she said. “But I like my dad’s dock better. I catch more fish there.”

There were three doors off the back hallway. One led to the screened porch, another opened to a freshly painted bathroom, and the third led to the garage. “There’s another bathroom at the top of the stairs. Your bedroom is on the left.”

Theo didn’t immediately go upstairs. He dropped his bag on the steps, checked the back door lock, shaking his head because it was so weak a ten-year-old could have gotten it open. Then he looked at the windows on the first floor. When he returned to the kitchen, he said, “Anyone could have climbed in your windows. Not one of them was locked.”

“I know,” she admitted. “I’ll keep them locked from now on.”

“I’m not trying to frighten you,” he said, “but as far as the vandalism —”

“Would you mind waiting until after we eat? It’s been a stressful day.”

She turned around and went to the refrigerator. She could hear the stairs squeak as Theo went up. The old iron bed in the guest room had a lumpy mattress, and she knew his feet were going to hang over the rail. She also knew he’d never say a word about any discomfort because he was a gentleman.

She loved his Boston accent. The thought popped into her mind as she was stacking vegetables on the counter, and she immediately pushed it aside. Yes, Boston. A world away. Then she sighed. Theo had come to fish and to return a favor, she decided. He would help sort out this mess she’d gotten into, and then he would go back to Boston.

“End of story.”

“What did you say?”

She flinched. “I was talking to myself.”

He was wearing a pair of old, faded jeans and a gray T-shirt that had definitely seen better days. His white tennis shoes were also gray, and there was a hole in one of the toes. She thought he looked incredibly sexy.

“What’s so funny?”

“You. I expected pressed and creased jeans, I guess,” she said. “I’m kidding,” she quickly added when she saw his frown. “You fit right in . . . except for that gun.”

“I’ll be happy when I can give this sucker back. I don’t like guns, but the authorities back in Boston have asked me to wear it until the furor over my last case dies down.”

“Have you ever had to shoot anyone?”

“No, but I haven’t given up hope,” he said with a sly grin. “May I have that apple?”

He took a bite out of it before she gave him permission. “Damn, I’m hungry. What are you fixing?”

“Grilled fish with vegetables and rice. Is that okay?”

“I don’t know. It sounds a little too healthy for me. I like junk food.”

“Too bad. You’re eating healthy in my house.”

“After dinner, how about we sit down and talk about what’s going on in your life.”

“Like what?”

“Like who in this town wants to screw with you,” he said. “Sorry, I should have said, ‘who has a grudge.’”

“I’ve heard worse,” she said. “I used to have quite a mouth myself,” she boasted. “When I was a little girl. I picked up the colorful language from my brothers. Daddy said I could make a grown man blush, but he nipped that in the bud.”

“How? Soap in your mouth?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that.” She turned on the faucet and began to wash the green onions. “He just told me that every time I used a bad word, my mother cried.”

“So he used guilt.”

“Exactly.”

“Your dad talks about her as though . . .”

“She’s waiting at home for him.”

“Yes.”

She nodded. “Daddy likes to talk things over with her.”

“How’d she die?”

“She had a massive stroke while she was in labor with me. She never recovered, and she eventually died.”

The phone rang, interrupting the conversation. Michelle wiped her hands on a towel and answered. Her father was calling from The Swan. She could hear glasses clinking.

Theo leaned against the counter and finished his apple while he waited for Michelle to tell him what she wanted him to do to help with dinner. His stomach growled in anticipation, and he looked around the kitchen for something to snack on. The woman didn’t keep any junk food around. How could she drink a cold beer without a handful of potato chips? That seemed almost criminal to him.

“Do you mind?” he asked, pointing to the cabinets.

She waved him ahead, and he immediately started searching the shelves for something more to eat. Jake was doing most of the talking on the phone. Every minute or two Michelle would try to get a word in.

“But, Daddy . . . we were just fixing . . . yes, Daddy. I understand. All right. I’ll go right over . . . Why does Theo have to go with me? Honestly, Daddy, the man came here to fish . . . No, I wasn’t arguing. Yes, sir. I’ll call you as soon as we get back.” Then she laughed, and it was such a joyful sound, Theo smiled in reaction. “No, Daddy, I don’t think Theo wants any more of your gumbo.”

After she hung up the phone, she put the fish back in the refrigerator. “Sorry, but dinner’s going to have to wait a little while. Daryl Waterson is having trouble with his hand, and Daddy told him I’d drive over there and look at it. Daryl’s probably just bandaged it too tight again. I’d insist that you stay here and relax, or start dinner for me, but my car’s at The Swan and Daddy thinks you ought to go with me. Do you mind?”

Since he didn’t have any intention of letting Michelle out of his sight until they had had a talk about her situation, he didn’t mind at all. “No problem,” he said. “Daryl’s the big kid’s dad? The teenager who came into the bar looking for me? What was his name?”