Murder in the Smokies (5 page)

“Maybe someone figured he had a damn good reason to take a shot at him.” Johnny’s sharp eyes met hers with the hint of a smile in their crinkled corners. He put an adhesive bandage over the cut on her cheek. “My cousin Arlen lost a big chunk of change on one of old Cleve’s land deals about a decade ago, and he hasn’t ever really recovered, financially or otherwise. I reckon Arlen might want to take a shot or two at old Cleve, if he could still afford a rifle.”

“So you think that was someone trying to send a message to my daddy through me?” Sutton’s slow, amused drawl drew Ivy’s gaze. He stood in the open doorway of the interrogation room where John had taken her to patch up her scratch. Someone had seen to his wound as well, applying a small, round bandage to the nick on his jaw.

“You tell me,” John replied. “Who do
you
think shot at you?”

“I’m not sure.” Sutton walked into the room at an unhurried pace. He studied John’s first-aid handiwork through narrowed eyes before lifting his gaze to meet Ivy’s. He smiled slightly, and once again, those smoldering hazel eyes made her gut twist into a hot, tight knot. “Any luck locating the shooter?”

“We found a few slugs stuck in trees up on the mountain, but looks like he policed his brass. We didn’t find any spent shells. Or any sign of the shooter himself.”

Sutton didn’t look surprised. “So, are we free to go?”

Johnny put his hand on Ivy’s shoulder. She dragged her gaze from Sutton’s and looked at her old friend. “You sure you’re okay to drive?” he asked.

She gave him a look that made him grin. “I’m fine to drive.”

“I reckon y’all are free to go, then.” He let go of her shoulder. “You might want to avoid meeting anonymous strangers at the top of Clingmans Dome in the future,” he added as he walked them out to where they’d parked their vehicles. He bent and gave Ivy a quick kiss on her forehead. “That goes for you, too, Hawk.” He walked them as far as the door leading to the parking lot and waved goodbye as they headed toward their vehicles.

“Boyfriend?” Sutton’s tone was soft and bone-dry.

“Old church camp buddy,” she answered, turning to look at him. The rain had stopped for the time being, though the heavy clouds overhead suggested the storm wasn’t yet over. But her clothes were still damp through, and the cold wind blowing across the parking lot made her shiver.

Sutton pushed a strand of hair away from her face. “You should get yourself home and get warm and dried out before you catch cold.”

“I don’t think you should stay at the motel again tonight,” she said before she had finished forming the thought.

His eyebrows notched upward.

“The man with the rifle knows where you’re staying,” she explained. “What makes you think he’s not lying in wait for you at the motel?”

He gave her a thoughtful look. “I guess nothing. It’s a possibility.”

“Do you have somewhere else you can stay? Maybe with Cleve?”

He shook his head. “Not going to happen.”

She couldn’t believe what she was about to suggest. Hadn’t she just admitted to John that she didn’t really know a damned thing about what Sutton Calhoun had become after he left Bitterwood? All she knew was the jumble of stories that passed around town like wildfire, and half of those were pure fantasy, in her experience.

But she said the words anyway. “So come stay at my house.”

His eyes narrowed. “I thought your boss told you to stay clear of me.”

“He said not to let you near my investigation,” she admitted. “But you’ve already blown past that stop sign. And besides, I’m not letting him dictate what I do or who I see on my own time.” The words came out sounding more like a challenge than she’d intended.

The look he gave her set fire to her toes. The rush of heat spread upward until she felt as if her whole body were on fire.

“Okay,” he said.

Oh, hell.

Chapter Five

“I don’t rightly remember what he looked like.” The Stay and Save night clerk, a skinny young man in his early twenties who looked as if he might be a little stoned, answered Sutton’s question with a wrinkled brow, as if trying to remember what had happened less than twenty-four hours earlier was too much of a mental strain.

Hell, it probably was.

“And you’re sure it was a man who left the message?” Sutton glanced at Ivy, whose expression shifted at his question. Apparently she’d been making the same assumption he had, that the gunman in the woods was a man. But assumptions could be wrong.

Just not this time, apparently. “Definitely a man,” the clerk said with a firm nod. “I remember the voice was deep. Definitely a guy. But, see, I was filling out some paperwork that’s due at the end of this week, and it’s really complicated, so I didn’t take time to look up to see his face. I just jotted down what he told me to and then got back to my paperwork.”

Damned inconvenient, Sutton thought. “Could you tell anything from his voice? His ethnicity or where he might be from?”

The clerk squinted, as if trying to remember was hard. “I don’t remember any accent, so I guess that probably means he’s from somewhere around these parts. I think he was white. I guess he could have been Cherokee, since we get some of those around here sometimes, too. Pretty sure he wasn’t black.” He looked up at Sutton, his forehead smoothing out. “Yeah, he wasn’t black. I kinda saw him out of the corner of my eye, and I think I’d have noticed whether he was black or white.”

“Do you remember if he was tall? Short? Heavy or thin?”

“Kinda tall,” the clerk answered after a moment of thought. “He blocked out some of the light in the doorway, so he must have been tall. I’d say average build. Not fat, not skinny. Really, though, that’s all I remember.” He looked up at Sutton with a hint of pleading, as if asking them not to make him put his brain to use any more tonight.

Ivy took mercy on him. “If you remember anything else about the person who left the note for Mr. Calhoun, please give me a call at the police station.” She stepped forward and handed the clerk her card. “Thanks for your help.”

With a gesture of her head toward Sutton, she headed out of the office.

He followed her out to where they’d parked the Jeep and the Ranger. He’d already grabbed his things from the room while she’d stood guard outside, looking like a tiny soldier with her gun hanging from the holster at her side. His bags were stowed away on the bench seat of his truck.

He was already beginning to regret saying yes to Ivy’s rash offer of a place to stay. If he found himself lusting after her in the middle of a bullet-flying ambush, what chance did he have to be on his best behavior holed up with her in a cozy little house for a few days? And he was probably putting her job in jeopardy as well just by being there.

But the Stay and Save was the only motel in Bitterwood. There was a bed-and-breakfast on the other side of town, but he’d checked. It was booked through the next week. The next-closest place to stay was almost all the way to Maryville—not that long a drive, really, but conducting his investigation from a town over would be a pain in the neck.

Maybe he should suck up his courage and see if Cleve would put him up for a few days. He’d lived with his father for eighteen years. What were a few more days?

“I’m kind of glad you’re going to be staying with me,” Ivy said as he opened the driver’s door of the truck. In the harsh lighting of the motel parking lot, her small face was cast in chiaroscuro, her eyes hidden by inky shadows, making it impossible for him to read her expression.

“Why’s that?” he asked.

“Easier to keep an eye on you,” she said with a half smile. Her tone of voice reminded him of his lingering impression of the girl who’d been his friend all those years ago—feisty, surprising and brutally honest.

He followed the taillights of her Jeep to a small house on Vesper Road, a winding road that led through the woods at the base of Smoky Ridge. In the beams of their headlights, he got an impression of a neat, well-kept house with pale gray exterior paint and bright yellow trim.

Smiling at the quirky juxtaposition of subdued and vibrant, he wondered if she’d been the one to choose the paint colors. It seemed to suit her own contradictions, the interplay of control and impulse that had driven her to follow him all the way to Clingmans Dome that evening.

Maybe she hadn’t changed all that much over the years. The odd, thoughtful girl who’d become his sounding board and loyal champion when they were little more than kids had been a mass of contradictions as well, both fiercely brave and painfully shy, whip-smart and endearingly naive.

God, he’d missed her like crazy those first few lonely days away from Bitterwood and everything he’d ever known.

Behind her house, the looming, dark contours of Smoky Ridge towered over the valley below like a silent, ancient sentry. As children, he and Ivy had both lived on that mountain. She, like he, had played among the firs and spruce, explored the natural caves and climbed the soaring ridges until they could see for miles and miles around them.

When he’d left here years ago, he’d been certain nothing in these hills had the power to draw him back. Not even Ivy. Even a few days ago, when Jesse Cooper had assigned him to work with Stephen Billings on the investigation into his sister’s murder, Sutton hadn’t believed there was anything about Bitterwood that could speak to him anymore.

But he’d been wrong. The land itself was a potent reminder that there had been beauty among the ruins of his childhood. Happiness that even misery hadn’t destroyed.

And there had been Ivy Hawkins, who’d understood him without having to be told what he was feeling. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed having someone in his life he could trust that way.

Ivy parked the Jeep in the driveway, leaving room for him to pull up parallel with her. She waited on the driveway for him to get out of the truck, greeting him with an oddly anxious smile.

“This is it.” She looked at the house and back at him.

“I like it,” he said truthfully.

Her pleased look made his chest ache a little. “It’s not very big, but I have a spare room with a fold-out bed you can use. Are you hungry? I’m starving.” She started down the walkway to the house at a brisk clip, forcing him to move quickly to catch up at the door.

Inside, the house was surprisingly cozy for a place belonging to an unmarried cop who lived alone. The front door opened into a small den decorated in warm shades of brown, green and amber. Despite the almost utilitarian lines of the furnishings, feminine touches surprised the eye here and there—a pair of lacy throw pillows in a deep shade of crimson tossed on each end of the brown leather sofa, a dreamy impressionist landscape hanging over the river-stone hearth, a pair of fuzzy yellow slippers lying at the foot of the overstuffed armchair near the window.

He felt Ivy’s gaze on his face, as if she was waiting for his reaction. He looked at her and smiled just to see her smile back at him. “I like it inside, too. It feels like a home.”

Her cheeks went pink as she bent to pick up a magazine that lay open on the coffee table. He caught a glimpse of a colorful garden on the front of the magazine before she deposited it into a wood rack by the sofa, where it joined a small pile of other magazines. “I’m not sure I spend enough time here for it to really feel like a home,” she admitted, unbuckling her shoulder holster as she crossed to a tall, four-drawer chest standing near an open archway that seemed to lead into a hall. She withdrew the Smith & Wesson from the holster, unlocked a drawer that contained a gun case and locked the pistol inside.

“You don’t keep a gun nearby at all times?” Sutton’s own pistol felt like an appendage to him. He’d learned never to get caught without it. Fortunately, Tennessee honored his Alabama concealed carry license. He wouldn’t have wanted to come back to Bitterwood unarmed.

The Calhouns had made too many enemies over the past few generations for him to walk around unprotected.

“That’s my work-issued sidearm,” she answered with a little grin that made his gut clench with pure male hunger. She unlocked the second drawer down and pulled out another case. Inside lay a compact Glock 26. She checked the chamber and the magazine, then held it up to show Sutton. “This is my personal weapon.”

She put the Glock in an unattached ankle holster. “You hungry?”

“Yeah, but mostly I’m cold and wet,” he admitted. “I could use a shower and change of clothes before food.”

Her gaze lifted slowly to meet his, mysteries roiling in those dark brown eyes. “There’s a bathroom down the hall.” She pointed him in the right direction. “The spare room is right next to that. It’s a little cluttered but the fold-out sofa is pretty comfortable. I’ll get you some sheets when you’re ready to bunk down.”

By the time he had showered and changed into warmer clothes, Ivy had somehow managed to do the same, for when he found her in the kitchen, looking through her pantry, her hair was twisted into a towel turban. The jeans were gone, replaced by a pair of black yoga pants under a long-sleeved UT-Chattanooga T-shirt. She smelled like green apples.

“I’m thinking a cup of nice hot soup and maybe a grilled cheese sandwich?” She looked over her shoulder at him for his input.

“Sounds great,” he agreed. “I could make the sandwiches while you heat up the soup. Just point me to a pan.”

They worked in efficient silence for the next few moments, and as the rumbling of his stomach began to overcome the hot-and-bothered feeling he’d gotten at the sight and smell of a freshly showered Ivy Hawkins, Sutton began to think he might be able to handle all this forced togetherness after all.

For one night, at least.

“I don’t think they’ll find the shooter,” Ivy said a few minutes later as she poured steaming tomato soup into a couple of mugs. “Do you?”

“Probably not,” he agreed. He handed her a plate holding a crispy grilled cheese sandwich. He still hadn’t quite wrapped his mind around who the shooter could be. He’d been in plenty of dangerous hot spots over the past decade or so, made a few enemies, at least in the abstract. But Special Forces operatives toiled mostly in anonymity.

“Do you know anyone who might want you dead?” Ivy sat at the small breakfast nook table and waved at the opposite chair, inviting him to take a seat. She wrapped her hands around the mug of soup, making a contented noise deep in her throat, undermining Sutton’s earlier confidence that his sleepover at Ivy’s would be easier than expected.

“I was just thinking about that,” he admitted. “I’m sure I did things while I was in the army that might earn me some enemies. But none of them ever knew my real name. I was never captured, never had my story written up in a newspaper. I was the mystery man in the civvies and beard—they probably thought I was CIA rather than Special Forces.”

Ivy’s eyes narrowed slightly at his answer, and he wondered what she was thinking. He’d always been pretty good at reading people’s thoughts in their expressions and their body language, but Ivy Hawkins kept her emotions and thoughts well hidden these days. He wondered how much of that particular talent had come as a natural result of covering up for a sexually promiscuous mother with dangerous taste in men. How many lies had she been forced to tell just to keep the Department of Children’s Services away from her door?

He’d told a few lies like that in his day, especially after his mother died. His growing disdain for his father’s con games had been eclipsed only by the fear of getting sucked into the foster care system. He’d known kids in Bitterwood who’d been pulled onto that particular governmental merry-go-round, and he’d promised himself he’d put up with anything Cleve might do as long as he didn’t have to leave home and go live with strangers.

Of course, the first thing he’d done the second he’d left Bitterwood behind was sign up for the army and spend the next months and years putting his life in the hands of strangers who wore the same uniform he did.

“You don’t think it could have anything to do with the murders, do you?” Ivy asked.

“I don’t see how. Not many people even know I’m back in town, much less that I’m investigating April Billings’s murder.”

“Word flies pretty fast in a small town.” She took a sip of the soup and gave another soft murmur of pleasure that made Sutton’s jeans feel two sizes too tight. Worse, he’d just realized she wasn’t wearing a bra under that snug-fitting T-shirt.

Why the hell couldn’t he get sex off his mind around her?

A faint trilling noise came from somewhere nearby. Ivy sighed and crossed to the table where she’d left her purse. Digging her cell phone from one of the inner pockets, she answered. “Hawkins.”

Another murder? Sutton edged forward in his chair, keeping his eye on Ivy’s face, trying to read her expression.

Her face remained carefully neutral. “Yes, thank you for calling me back tonight. Can you hold for a moment?” She put her hand over the phone speaker and looked at Sutton. “Excuse me. I have to take this call.” She walked into one of the rooms off the living room and closed the door.

He released a slow breath and looked down at his uneaten food, his gut in knots. He’d never let a woman derail him from anything he put his mind to, and he’d been involved with his share of smart, sexy women, in the service and out. So why was Ivy turning him inside out all of a sudden?

She was pretty. Curvy and physically fit. Gutsy to a fault. And she had a bright, inquisitive mind he’d always found appealing, even when they’d been kids. But none of those attributes should have been enough to make a man his age with his experience feel so off-kilter.

He made himself eat his sandwich, washing it down with the cooling soup. Maybe hunger and a lack of sleep were behind his out-of-sorts feeling. It was already after ten, and he hadn’t had any sleep in over twenty-four hours. Since Ivy showed no sign of coming out of her bedroom anytime soon, he decided to find the linen closet himself and make up the fold-out bed without bothering her.

And then he’d do his damnedest to get a good night’s sleep, despite the proximity of Ivy Hawkins’s cotton-clad curves. Hell, he’d slept through firefights before.