Night Moves: Dream Man/After the Night (29 page)

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Monica’s hands were shaking as she opened the door to Alex’s office and smiled at Andrea. She managed to keep her voice steady and cheerful, though, as she said, “I hope he’s in. I was in town, and thought of something I wanted to ask him.”

“It’s your lucky day,” Andrea said, smiling. She had known Monica since babyhood. “He came in about five minutes ago. He’s washing up, but he’ll be out in a minute. Go on in and have a seat.”

Washing up, of course, was a polite way of saying he was in the bathroom. It was what Mama would say, Monica thought, if she alluded to a bathroom at all. In thirty-two years, she couldn’t remember her mother in any way acknowledging the real function of a toilet. Physical reality had to be hidden if possible, and ignored if not. Try as she might, Monica couldn’t imagine her mother having sex, though she and Gray were proof that it had happened at least twice. And as for visiting an obstetrician, and the indignity of having a baby—the wonder was that Mama hadn’t locked Daddy out of the bedroom after Gray was born, rather than go through that again.

Monica avoided the leather sofa and walked over to the window, to look out at the courthouse square. The fresh blooms of spring were rapidly giving way to the lush, heavy foliage of full summer. Time moved relentlessly onward, the earth and plants going through their cycles oblivious to the puny humans who were so caught up in their own grandeur that they thought they affected everything.

Alex entered the room, smiling as he saw her. “What brings you here today?” He’d had dinner with them the night before, so any business would have been discussed then.

Monica looked at that lean, good-looking face, the kind gray eyes, and her throat went dry. She had been trying for a week to work up enough courage to talk to him. She had actually made it as far as his office, but now her voice had failed her.

He frowned at the misery in her dark eyes. “What is it, dear?” he asked softly, closing the door and coming over to take her hand.

She sucked in a deep breath. Sometimes she thought she was crazy, that those times with Alex existed only in her imagination. There was never any hint of it in his eyes, or his manner, when they were together during normal times. He was just Alex, as he had always been, a sturdy shoulder to
lean on, quietly stepping in to take on as much of the weight as he could, until she and Gray had been able to manage. It really was as if those furtive moments existed between two other people, between Daddy and Mama, coming together in borrowed flesh.

This was
Alex
, she reminded herself. He wouldn’t leave. His love and support didn’t depend on whether or not she slept with him. She had been a convenience for him, that was all, an outlet for his pent-up emotions.

That was what logic told her. Emotionally, however, she was terrified. One father had already left her, his love for her not strong enough to hold him against the lure of screwing Renee Devlin. She couldn’t bear it if she lost Alex, too.

But then there was Michael. Sweet, sexy Michael. If she didn’t seize her chance now, she might lose
him
forever, and of the choice between the two men, there was no choice at all. Michael was her heart, the very blood moving through her body.

“Monica?” Alex prodded, gray eyes darkening with worry.

She gulped. She had to tell him. She closed her eyes and blurted it out. “I’m going to marry Michael McFane.”

There was silence for a moment, and she squeezed her eyes tighter, waiting with dread. But the seconds ticked past, and still Alex didn’t say anything, and finally the stress became so acute that she couldn’t stand it any longer and opened her eyes.

He was smiling at her, fond exasperation on his face. “Congratulations,” he said, then chuckled. “What did you expect me to say?”

Stunned, she stared at him. “I—I don’t know.”

“I’m happy for you, dear. Neither you nor Gray have shown any inclination to get married, and I’ve worried about that. The sheriff is a good, steady man.”

She wet her lips. “Mama won’t like it.”

He paused, considering that for a moment. “Probably not, but don’t let that stop you. You deserve happiness, Monica.”

“I don’t want to upset her.”

“There are some things she needs to face, and some things
she shouldn’t have to. In this case, marry Michael, and be as happy as possible. Believe me, this won’t upset her half as much as hearing about Faith Devlin.”

Faith Devlin? Monica blinked. “What about her?” Since Mama already knew the woman had moved back to Prescott, Alex’s statement didn’t make sense.

“Gray hasn’t told you?” He seemed surprised.

“Evidently not. Told me what?”

He sighed. “She’s been asking questions around town—about Guy. Personal questions. If she isn’t stopped, she’ll stir everything up again, and that will hurt Noelle far more than your marriage.”

Monica felt as if she’d been slapped. Faith Devlin was asking around town about her father? The very thought outraged her. Wasn’t it enough that her slut of a mother had taken her daddy away, and she’d never seen him again? Her face flushed with anger. “What sort of questions has she been asking? My God, what business is it of hers?”

“Personal questions, what sort of person he was, things like that. She came here yesterday, because she’d heard I was Guy’s best friend. Talking to me is one thing, but Gray found out this morning that she’d been pestering Ed Morgan with questions, too.”

“She’s been asking
Ed Morgan
about Daddy?” Monica cried. “The man’s the biggest gossip in town!”

“Gray took care of it,” Alex said soothingly, and patted her hand. “You know Gray. He had Ed stuttering and back-stepping within ten seconds.”

Gray in a temper
was
a fearsome sight, with those dark eyes turning so cold and deadly. She couldn’t imagine Ed Morgan withstanding him for even ten seconds. The notion entertained her for a brief moment, but then was pushed aside by her indignation at Faith Devlin’s gall.

“I understand her curiosity,” Alex said, “but as I told Gray, it could be disastrous for your mother to find out.”

“Well, I don’t understand her curiosity!” Monica cried. God, it took so little to bring it all back, the sense of loss, and of being lost, and the suffocating pain. Hatred swelled within her. She pulled her hand free, and turned away. “Gray shut up Ed Morgan, but what’s he doing about
her?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I know you don’t agree, but when she first moved back, I was all for leaving her alone. What happened wasn’t her fault, and she deserves the right to live where she wants. That was something Noelle should have faced, and made the best of. This is different. This is deliberate, and it’s something that
is
her fault.”

“Gray will take care of it,” Monica said. “He has to.”

“I don’t know if he can.”

“Of course he can! There are a lot of things he could do.”

“Then let me put it another way. I don’t think he can be that drastic with Faith, considering how he feels about her. Wake up, Monica!” he admonished. “Pay attention to your brother. He’s attracted to her. Nothing about this is easy for him.”

Monica felt the blood drain out of her face, leaving it stiff. Gray was . . .
attracted
to that woman? No. God couldn’t be that cruel. He wouldn’t make her live through that nightmare again.

Unable to say anything else, she warded off Alex with an outstretched hand, unable to cope with the sympathy she could see in his eyes. Hurriedly she left his office, and it wasn’t until she reached the street that she realized she hadn’t told him she couldn’t be with him anymore.

It would kill Mama if Gray took up with Renee Devlin’s daughter. The gossip would be so vicious, she would never be able to lift her head again. Monica gave a bitter little laugh. And to think she’d been worried what Mama would think about Michael McFane!

Thirteen

M
r. Pleasant’s office was located on the top floor of a two-story building. Faith climbed the stairs, hoping against hope that she would find him there, that his telephone had been out of service, that he would be all right. A malfunctioning telephone wasn’t much of a possibility, because if he hadn’t been able to call out, he would have known about it and simply gone to another phone. Surely, too, he would have noticed if there were no incoming calls. Maybe he’d taken another case, and forgotten about her.

She doubted Francis P. Pleasant ever forgot anything.

His office was the first door on the left. The upper half of the door was glass, but the interior blinds had been closed, preventing her from seeing inside. The day she had met him, the blinds had been open. She tried to open the door and found it locked. Not really expecting a response, she knocked, and put her ear against the glass. The room beyond was silent.

There was a mail slot in the door. Faith pushed the little flap open, and angled her head to look inside. Her view was extremely limited, but she could see the mail, quite a lot of it, scattered across the floor.

He wasn’t here, and the amount of his mail indicated that he hadn’t been here in several days.

Growing more worried by the minute, Faith walked down the hall to the next door. According to the lettering on the door, she was at the law office of Houston H. Manges. She could hear the clatter of a typewriter and voices, so she opened the door and entered.

Houston H. Manges’s environs were small and cramped, with file cabinets crammed into every available space. She was in the reception area, populated by a tiny white-haired woman and three rubber plants, one of which had reached gargantuan size. The room beyond, which she could see through the open door, was about the same size, with floor-to-ceiling books. A heavyset man lounged behind a battered desk, and he was talking to a client who sat in one of the two cracked imitation leather chairs positioned in front of the desk. All that was visible of the client was the back of his head.

The tiny woman looked up and smiled in question, but made no move to close the door and give her employer and his client any privacy. Faith gave a mental shrug and approached.

“I’m a client of Mr. Pleasant, next door,” she said. “I’ve been trying to reach him for several days and can’t seem to locate him. Do you happen to have any idea where he is?”

“Why, no,” the tiny woman said. “He left about a week ago to go to this little town up close to Mississippi, I don’t remember the name. Perkins, something like that. I assumed he was still there.”

“No, he left there the next day. He has a bad heart, and I’m worried about him.”

“Oh, dear.” The small face took on a distressed look. “I never thought about his heart. I knew, of course. His wife, Virginia—we used to have lunch together, it was so sad when she died—told me about his trouble. It was really bad, she said. I never thought to check on him.” She reached immediately for the phone index, and flipped through it until she came to the
P
s. “I’ll try his home phone. It’s unlisted, you know. He didn’t like business intruding on his private life.”

Faith knew. She had called information, trying to get the
number. It was her lack of success that had spurred her to drive down and try to find him.

After a minute the little lady hung up the phone. “There’s no answer. Oh, dear. I
am
worried now. It isn’t like Francis not to let someone know where he is.”

“I’m going to call all the hospitals,” Faith said decisively. “May I borrow your telephone?”

“Of course, honey. We have two lines, so people will still be able to get through. If a call comes in, though, I’ll need you to hang up so I can answer it.”

Thanking God for southern hospitality, Faith accepted the New Orleans directory and flipped to the listing of hospitals. There were more than she had expected. Starting at the top, she began dialing.

Thirty minutes and three interruptions for incoming calls later, she hung up in defeat. Mr. Pleasant wasn’t a patient in any of the local hospitals. If he had taken ill while driving back from Prescott, he could be in a hospital somewhere else, but where?

Or something could have happened to him. It was a possibility she didn’t want to consider, but one she had to accept. If Guy Rouillard had been murdered, and Mr. Pleasant had been asking questions that made someone uncomfortable . . . She felt sick at the thought. If anything had happened to that sweet old man, it would be her fault for involving him. It wasn’t as if she’d had anything to go on, other than Renee’s statement that Guy hadn’t been with her at all, that she hadn’t seen him since that night twelve years ago.