Midnight In The Garden Of Good And Evie (19 page)

Evie’s butt was nestled snuggly in his crotch, her smooth back pressed against his chest. He frowned as anger heated his blood.

Even with the room still veiled in shadows, he could see the deep purple of the contusion on her shoulder, evidence of her near fatal fall in the barn. Silently, he renewed his vow to get the SOB who’d done it to her.

Her injuries were part of the reason he hadn’t made love to her last night as much as he’d wanted to, part of the reason he was both sated and yet hungry for more of her.

The honeysuckle scent of her hair blended with the musky aroma of sex, flaring his nostrils like a wolf scenting his mate. He inhaled deeply, then bared his teeth and tenderly bit her unbruised shoulder. Ending
the attack with a kiss, he found himself enthralled once more by the incredible softness of her skin.

She stirred and released a long, satisfied sigh, and he grinned smugl
y to himself. He knew he was re
sponsible for it, and he wanted to waken her so he could be responsible for her making it two or three dozen more times.

Lifting his head, he checked the clock. Goddammit. They had to get a move on if they were going to get to Olympia before noon. Never in his life had duty and his personal agenda collided so irritatingly, but lying here with Evie in his arms was worth every bit of angst his brain could dish out.

Her breathing changed. He knew the second she came awake.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” he whispered in her ear. She turned in his arms, bringing their bodies close. He felt the tight points of her nipples against his chest.

“My breath,” she said, without moving her lips. “I want to kiss you,
but…
”

He laughed. “You can’t have morning breath if you haven’t been asleep,” he said, and kissed her. But the simple kiss immediately turned hot and urgent as Evie shoved him back against the pillows and thrust her tongue inside his mouth, sliding her open hand down his belly to wrap her fingers around him.

When they were spent, they lay together, panting, recovering, touching here and there, slowly sliding their legs against each other’s. With the leisurely drag of a finger, th
e warm press of a palm, they ex
plored each other’s bodies. Evie laid her head on his chest and listened to his heart; he placed his hand on
the soft curve of her neck and measured the beat of her pulse. They kissed tenderly, caressed constantly, laughed and giggled and shared.

The sun had risen enough to catch the edges of the furniture, the ornately cut rim of the mirror, the handle of an antique water pitcher. On the nightstand, Max had emptied his pockets the night before. In the center of the cluster of everyday coins, keys, and his pocketknife, the singular coin he always carried glinted in the morning light like a beacon.

Evie reached over him and picked it up. “This is beautiful,” she said, awed by the image on the metal disk. “It’s not quite round, is it? And it’s heavy for its size.”

“It was my mother’s,” he said, scooting up behind her. The mattress dipped as he spooned around her warm body.

“It’s lovely,” she said, turning it in her fingers. “I’ll bet this coin has a story.”

“It’s my good-luck piece,” he said, his voice still a bit rough from sleep, or lack of it. “It’s more than that, actually. It’s hard to describe. My mother found it on a dig one summer in Britain. Turns out, that same day she found she was pregnant with me. She gave it to me when I turned sixteen and told me she hoped it brought me as m
uch luck as it had brought her.
”

“Is it Roman?”

“Probably. Dates from about 10 B.C.” Even though he’d never shared the story of the coin with any other woman, save for Melissa, the words formed themselves, and he found himself wanting to tell Evie all about it. All about everything.

“It must be very valuable,” she said.

“Only to me. Monetarily, it’s probably worth about fifty bucks, but it’s the only thing of hers I have that meant something to the both of us. Carrying it around,” he said with a shrug that was more casual that he felt, “sort of takes me back to when I was a little kid and she first told me about it. Maybe because I was different back then. Innocent, I guess. Before I realized what a bastard my father could be and how I was turning out just like him.”

She shifted toward him, confusion on her face. “Why do you say that?”

Soft!
His father’s often repeated words rang in his ears like a bad tune that stayed with you.
Letting yourself love a woman makes a man soft. Weakens you. Don’t be
an ass, Max. Take, but only give back what you can afford. Don’t be stupid.

Max lowered his head until his forehead touched hers.

“Max? What’s wrong?”

He debated, then decided. “My father didn’t
like
women,” he said. “He raised me to believe that women were made for men to use, but that caring for a woman made a man an idiot.”

“Oh. I see.”

He raised his head and locked gazes with her. “No, you don’t. You cou
ldn’t. Even I didn’t see it for
years, and I lived with him. He was every stereotypical cop you’ve ever seen. Dark glasses, swagger,
locked jaw, attitude. And when he came home, he didn’t turn it off. B
ut I worshiped him. I wanted to
be just like him. I
am
just like him.
”

She nodded, and it cut him that she didn’t disagree, couldn’t disagree. After all, he’d given her no reason to.

“He treated my mother badly but I either didn’t see it or was too stupid to realize it. I’m only just now beginning to see how I mistakenly idolized the wrong parent.” He swallowed. “I, uh, I want you to understand something about me, Evie. I need you to.”

“Okay.” Her eyes were worried as she placed her warm palm against his neck. Gently, she urged, “You can tell me.”

“I did a bad thing,” he confessed, unable to look her in the eye. “When my mother left my father to marry Heyworth, I condemned her for it—and Heyworth—when it was my father I probably should have condemned. I had been conditioned for years to think women were simply to be used, that one was just like the next. My mother tried to tell me, to warn me, but I didn’t listen. I was naive and arrogant, and stayed locked into that kind of thinking for a very long time. I was a know-it-all punk with an attitude.” He blew out a harsh breath. Softly, he said, “I wish I could have told her
…
”

“Oh, Max,” Evie whispered. “You were so very young then. You’re older now, wiser. It’s unfortunate your mother died before you had a chance to work it out with her, but I’m sure she wouldn’t be happy if she knew you were filled with guilt and remorse.”

He shrugged.

She tilted her head and seemed to consider him. “If she was as good a mother as you say, as lovely a woman, then she knew, Max. She understood without you having to tell her. She undoubtedly forgave
you the minute the words were out of your mouth. I don’t think she w
ent to her grave hating or blam
ing you.”

“Maybe not,” he growled. “But I’ve got enough hat
e and blame for the both of us.
”

“I’m sure you do,” she soothed, “but it won’t do you any good to keep carrying it. Do you think she would want that for you? She was your mother. She loved you.”

He moved away from her and sat up, pulling the sheet over his lap. “We need to get going. It’s a long drive to Olympia.”

“Olympia isn’t going anywhere,” she said, sitting facing him. “Tell me more. Did you love your father?”

“No. Yes. No. I mean, I did, and then I didn’t.”

“That’s unusual,” she quipped dryly. “I’ll bet you’re the only person on earth who’s ever had mixed emotions about a parent.”

He grunted a laugh, reached over and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, then tugged on her earlobe.

“I don’t want to talk about my dad right now,” he said. And he didn’t d
are talk about his growing feel
ings for her. They were new, fragile, and he was afraid if he scared her, the developing bond between them would be broken, and the thought of that happening bothered him a lot.

“There’s more,” he said. “I, uh, I was married. Her name was Melissa. I treated her like shit and she left me.”

Examining her fingertips for a moment, Evie lifted her head and said, “Did you love her?”

He sat forward, bending to place his elbows on his knees. “I thought so at the time.” Pausing, he shook his head. “Yes. Yes, I loved her.” And he had, and to deny it would be to deny what Melissa had given him, or had tried to.

“
I’
m afraid I was still operating under the Rules of Relationships as written by Martin Galloway. When she’d finally had enough and left, my father gave me the mother of all I Told You So lectures. He even slapped me. He convinced me Melissa’s leaving had only been a matter of time and that I’d been a fool to waste any emotion on her. I bought it. I was hurting, and I bought it.”

“Of course you did,” she said gently. “Your father had warned you to never love a woman, and you went against his wishes, which says a lot about your needs, no matter how you’ve tried to deny them. You probably punished yourself doubly for it—once for defying him, failing him, in a way, and another time for losing Melissa. Your father set it up so you couldn’t win, Max, no matter what you did.”

He reached over and took her hand between his, curling her fingers over his palm. “You must hear confessions all the time,” he teased. “Little boys probably want to crawl up on your lap and tell you their life stories.”

Evie stuck out her lower lip. “True,” she said. “The good news is, most of them are only eleven or twelve, so it’s a pretty short story.”

As Max tugged on her hand to pull her back into his arms, there was
a knock at the door, then a muf
fled, “Pardon, sir. Detective Galloway?”

Evie wrapped a blanket around her body and tiptoed to the bathroom door, closing it softly behind her. Clutching the sheet around his hips, Max opened his door a couple of inches. “Yes, Edmunds?”

The butler’s hands were clasped in front of
him,
a look of distress on his face. “Detective McKennitt is here to see you, sir. There seems to have been another murder.”

Chapter 19

D
ear
D
iary:

Thomas is
s
o wonderful
to me, and h
e came to
g
et me and everything when Mom
died,
and
h
e treats me
just like he's
m
y father. And
I’v
e been thinking. Maybe
h
e is my father, my
real
-father! This morning
I
asked
h
im about it, but
h
e cou
ghed and said I needed to
finish my homework and
f
eed the llamas.
His
response made me even more curious. If Thomas is my father, why would it be a secret?

E
van
g
eline—age 12

D
etective McKennitt was as Evie remembered him, tall, good-looking, and charming, too. But unlike Max’s mesmerizing green-hazel eyes, McKennitt’s were a startling blue. In his early thirties, the detective’s athletic physique was complimented by a well-tailored charcoal suit. As he scribbled in a
small notebook, his left hand moved over the page, causing his thick gold wedding band to toss off a glint of early morning sunlight.

Hunky as McKennitt was, Evie thought, he was hardly an effective detective. It had been nearly two months since Thomas had been killed, and the police still had nothing. Thomas Heyworth had been a famous, wealthy man. She would have thought they’d put somebody
better
on the case.

Looking up from his note pad, McKennitt smiled and said, “Galloway. Ms. Randall. Nice seeing you again.”

“Do you know yet who killed Thomas?” Evie all but snapped as she t
ook a chair in front of the mas
sive fireplace in the library. “I’ve called at least a dozen times over the last few weeks, and they continue to tell me you’re working on it but have no new leads.”

McKennitt presented her with a relaxed grin, but his eyes grew serious. “I know you’re anxious, Ms. Randall. We’re following up on all leads as we get them, but it’s true
, there haven’t been any new de
velopments worth mentioning. I’m sure something will break very soon.”

“Edmunds said something about another murder,” Max said. “Who was it?”

McKennitt set his notebook on the carved oak mantel. Pushing back the edges of his jacket, he slid his hands into his pockets.

“Let me begin by stating a few facts,” he said. “Heyworth owned a registered Smith
&
Wesson .357 revolver, but a search of the house after his murder turned up nothing. The bullet that killed
him was also a .357. Same gun? It’s likely, but until we secure the weapon, we won’t know. However, as luck would have it, the bullet dug out of the doorway of Tavvy’s Tavern is
also
a .357 and matches the one that killed Heyworth.”

“Well, what do you know,” Max said. “Our killer does get around.”

Evie’s brain went a bit numb. “The same person who killed Thomas is trying to kill me?” She shook her head, leaning forward in the chair. “Why? I just don’t see—”

McKennitt held up a hand. “You haven’t heard the best part. Late last night a couple of kids looking for a secluded rendezvous practically tripped over a dead guy. One Sam Ziwicki, a suspected contract killer. Guess what caliber bullet they dug out of the deceased, and guess what other two it matches?”

Max went silent for a moment as he walked over to the large bookcase on the interior wall. Running the tip of his finger over the dusty titles, he said, “So, Heyworth is killed by a hired gun, maybe Sam Ziwicki, while everyone connected with the estate has a solid alibi. Then, three attempts are made on Evie’s life, one involving the same gun. Sam again, or is there more than one person on active duty here?” Turning to McKennitt, he said, “Any word on the boat that rammed us?”

McKennitt shook his head. “The harbor patrol salvaged as much of the runabout as they could find. We’ve got a team going over it, looking for particles of fiberglass or paint, something that will give us a lead.”

Max roamed over to one of the bay windows.

“What about the two guys that pulled me out of the drink? They see anything?”

“According to the witnesses, the pilot aimed right for you. And, there were no running lights.”

“So it was no accident,” said Max.

“Nope.”

“You get a description of the boat?”

“Said it was too far away from them, and because of the storm, details were hard to make out. Big, though. White or gray, maybe light blue.”

Moving away from the window, Max came to stand a few feet from Evie’s chair. “Evie,” he said thoughtfully. “Where did you find Heyworth’s body?”

“What? Oh, uh, right over there, near where you were standing before, by the big bookcase.”

“Did you hear the shot?”

“No. But I was busy with the llamas, and the wind was blowing hard from the north. If I did hear it, I may have dismissed it.”

“When you got to the library,” he said, “tell me what you saw. Was there anything odd about the room? Did you notice anything out of place or different? Anything unusual?”

Evie put her hand to her forehead. So many images to sort through. So much had happened in the last two months, but not so much that she couldn’t recall every second of that horrible afternoon.

“I came into the house and headed directly to the library.”

“Why did you come here?”

She gave a small shrug. “Looking for a book.
Thomas was due back later in the evening, so I was surprised when
…
you know. When I saw him lying on the floor.”

She swallowed and tried to maintain her composure, but it was hard. Thinking about that day, talking about it. It was still so fresh.

“You okay?”

When she nodded, Max said, “What happened then?”

“Well, I walked in, and there he was, just lying there on his back, st-staring. There was blood on his forehead.” She softened her voice. “Only a little.” She’d known the moment she saw him that he was dead, but she hadn’t wanted to believe it. Her brain had not been a
ble to absorb such a harsh real
ity. Rushing to him, she’d kneeled at his side, not knowing what to do, what to think.

“If anything was unusual or out of place,” she said quietly, “I didn’t notice. I couldn’t take my eyes off Thomas
…”
She tangled her fingers in her lap and frowned. “I—I think I must have gone into some kind of shock. I was checking for a pulse when Edmunds came in with a tray of iced tea. He’s the one who contacted the authorities.”

“The autopsy stated Heyworth probably hadn’t been dead for more than a hour, maybe two, before you found him, yet nobody claims to have heard a shot. You didn’t see anybody running out of the house?
”

“No.”

“Where was everyone that day?”

“Um, Edmunds and Lorna were down at the
dock, going over a maintenance list for the Hatteras. The Stanleys had gone home. The Stanleys,” she explained, “don’t live on the island. Mrs. Stanley is the day cook, so, after dinner, they go back to the mainland. They have their own boat and pretty much come and go on their own schedule. Whenever Thomas threw a party, he hired caterers.”

Max ran his fingers through his hair and frowned. “I’ve been trying to talk to Stanley,” he said to McKennitt, “but he’s apparently a hard man to pin down. Mrs. Stanley says he’s around, but I haven’t seen him.”

“Come to think of it,” Evie offered, “I haven’t seen him for a coupl
e of days myself. That’s not re
ally unusual, though. It’s a big island and he’s often off somewhere trimming or raking or mowing or repairing, or in town picking up supplies.”

Max and Detective McKennitt exchanged another meaningful glance.

“Ms. Randall,” the detective said quietly. “Until she died, I understand you had just the one parent, your mother. What do you know about your father?”

“I had one. It’s a biological necessity.” Her heart rate increased, her palms dampened. She felt suddenly defensive, but wasn’t sure why.

“Did your mother ever talk about him?”

She pressed her lips together and let a moment or two pass while she decided exactly what she wanted to say. Finally, “She told me she was married to a man named Randall, but he left before I was born. He was most likely my father. However,” she said, working to keep her voice calm, “ever since she died and Thomas came to get me, I’ve wondered whether
he was my real father. There were times I was almost certain he was, but he never said.” Her throat tightened. “And if I am his daughter, that makes me his sole heir.”

“It does,” McKennitt said. “In law enforcement, we have a name for that kind of thing. It’s called motive.”

M
ax watched Evie’s cheeks pale. “What? You think I
…
I didn’t kill Thomas!”

“Evie,” he interrupted before she gave McKennitt a set-down that would end up with her in handcuffs. If anybody was going to put her in handcuffs, it was going to be him. Tonight, if good fortune smiled down on him, and, hell, even if it didn’t. “Detective McKennitt’s not accusing you, he’s merely stating that some might consider that a strong motive for murder. You have to understand how it looks—”

“How it
looks
?
”
she snapped.
“Him,
I would expect to accuse me, but
you
?”

“I’m not accusing you,” Max nearly yelled. “But the fact you may be Heyworth’s daughter and heir could raise a few eyebrows. It gives you about thirty million reasons for murder.”

Her mouth flattened. “Do you think I killed him?”

“No, I absolutely do not think you killed him.”

“Then why are you taking
h
is
side?” she said with a nod in McKennitt’s direction. “Why are you defending him and not me?”

“Goddammit, Evie, I’m not taking his side. And you need defending about as much as a Marine with a bazooka.”

They locked gazes and stood toe-to-toe while Evie’s cheeks flushed. She lowered her lashes.

“Sorry. I guess I’m a little touchy this morning. I don’t know what came over me.”

Maybe she didn’t know, but he did. He’d made love to her, and t
hey’d shared a special night to
gether, and she felt betrayed that he didn’t immediately jump to her defense. What she didn’t realize was, she didn’t need defending. Only evidence would convict Heyworth’s killer, and since Evie hadn’t killed the old man, there was nothing that could implicate her in his murder.

Max watched her for a moment, then said, “A simple DNA test would have proven whether Thomas was your father, Evie. Why didn’t you ever have one done?”

“Because I never came right out and asked him to, that’s why. I should have, but I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” McKennitt’s voice interrupted, but not ungently.

“I
wanted
Thomas to be my father,” she said roughly. “Maybe I
needed
for him to be. If I’d gone to him and forced him to do the test, and found out he wasn’t my father after all, that would have meant my real father was probably some one-night stand my mother couldn’t even remember. I just couldn’t accept that.”

Max heard the pain in her voice and wanted to take hold of her and comfort her, ease the burden from her shoulders and onto his own. But he couldn’t. Not with McKennitt watching their every move. He’d already seen too much.

“I guess that makes me a coward,” she said shakily, “but I just couldn’t face the possibility that somebody
other
than Thomas was my father.” She shook her head slowly. “Not knowing seemed so much safer. That way, I could pretend. I never thought it would go unresolved forever. I honestly thought one day we’d have that conversation, cross that bridge
. But time passed and then…
well, now it’s too late.”

“Unfortunately,” McKennitt said, “it doesn’t matter, in terms of motive, if Heyworth was your father or not. If you believed him to be, that’s damaging enough right there.”

Her brow furrowed and she looked up at him. “Detective McKennitt, do you really think I killed Thomas Heyworth?”

He gave her a soft smile. “No, ma’am. I don’t. I am concerned,
though, that somebody else per
ceived you were Heyworth’s heir and had a problem with it.”

She cut a quick glance to Max, then back to the detective. “Who?”

“I can’t say just now, but we are following other leads. Please don’t speak to anyone about the case except for Detective Galloway here. That’s all I can share with you for now.”

McKennitt checked his watch, then shoved his notebook back in his pocket. “Thanks for your time, Ms. Randall. Walk me out to the boat, will you, Galloway?”

When the two men reached the runabout, Edmunds was already in it, starting up the motor.

McKennitt stopped and turned to Max. With his hands in his pockets
and a scowl on his face, he low
ered his voice and said, “You mind telling me what’s going on here, Galloway? Just what in God’s name do you think you’re doing?”

“What in the hell are you babbling about?”

“Look,” McKennitt said quietly, so the butler couldn’t hear. “Believe me when I say I’m totally sympathetic, but you’ve obviously allowed yourself to become personally involved in this case.”

“I
am
personally involved,” Max shot back. “I was invited to participate, remember?” Shifting his weight, he crossed his arms over his chest. “We’re on the heels of the fourth clue. With any luck, we’ll get to the seventh before anyone else. I’m hoping like hell Heyworth left something in that clue we can use.”

“You and me both. We’ve been watching and waiting, but so far our guy hasn’t done anything provocative. If he killed Ziwicki—and we think he did—the son of a bitch snuck his way around our surveillance.” He blew out a long breath. “How’s Darling doing?”