Remote Consequences (6 page)

I turned the doorknob and pushed the door open. Pickles trotted into the darkness. I flipped on the switch, and the bedside lamp responded with a soft glow. Pickles placed his front paws on the foot of the bed and then, with some effort, managed to vault the lower half of his heavy frame onto it.

As if all his remaining energy for the day had been spent, he stretched out along the foot of the bed on a multicolored afghan and yawned a big, drool-producing yawn.

No one had been in this room since the funeral. I'd closed it off after I'd chosen the dress for Aunt Patty. I could have slept in here at any time, but it seemed like an invasion. This was Patty's room.

Stepping farther into the room, I caught a whiff of gardenias. It was Patty's signature scent. I missed her so much. Over the years, she'd been more like a mother than an aunt to me, and the only mother figure that Paget had ever known. Our parents had died when Paget was just a baby, but I was nearly twelve when it happened. Their deaths had spiraled my world out of control. Aunt Patty, my father's sister, had moved home to Millbrook from her life in Las Vegas and we'd moved in with her. I'd become reclusive, a bookworm, and hadn't spoken for over a year.

I didn't like to think about that year. Parts of it were clear in my mind while others drifted in and out of my memory like unwelcomed spirits. I'd been at school when it happened, but Paget had been in the truck with them. It was my father's work truck, and they had taken it to Paget's doctor's appointment because it was snowing and he didn't think Stella would be a good choice for the bad weather. The only day that year that it had snowed, in fact. On their way home, they'd been hit by a semi-truck that'd lost control on an icy bridge. Icy weather was a rarity in the Deep South, but there it was…just the wrong moment on the wrong day. Paget had survived the crash, but I'd struggled to survive the aftermath.

I shuddered at the recollection and then shook it from my memory like shaking the wrinkles out of a sheet. Now, I sat at Patty's three-mirrored dresser and studied her silver hairbrush and comb set. It had been passed down from Patty's mother—my grandmother, whom I'd never met. It was the only other link I had to my dad's side of the family—besides his car.

Turning away from the mirror and the past for the moment, I looked back at Pickles. He was already snoozing. The deep, rumbling snore sounded like an invitation to join him in slumber land.

I tiptoed to the bed and peeled back the covers. I slid my legs underneath and scooted down into the floral-scented cocoon. It was almost like hugging Aunty Patty. I closed my eyes. If Patty were here right now, what would she tell me to do about Paget?

I knew the answer, but I was too tired to admit it tonight. As I drifted off to sleep, I recalled the headline of the article that my mystery man had left for me. How it connected to the body I'd found today, I wasn't sure. But I was sure that I was dead tired and sleep was beckoning.

*  *  *

A knock on the door awoke me from a sound sleep. The digital clock confirmed that it was six thirty in the morning. I peered over the covers at Pickles, and he raised his head to peer back but made no effort to leave his comfy spot. I couldn't blame him.

Another knock on the door.

What was it about early-morning visitors around here? Did no one sleep past sunrise anymore?

I shuffled out of my warm cocoon and back into the now too-cold morning air of the house. I snagged Patty's rose-patterned housecoat from the back of the door and pulled it on as I headed to the kitchen.

I opened the door, and there stood my mystery man holding two to-go coffee cups and a bag that was emitting sensuous smells, like bacon and sausage.

"Oops."

I'd forgotten to set an alarm, and I'd left my cell phone in the bathroom. Obviously, I'd missed our early a.m. breakfast meeting, and obviously he'd tracked me down at home anyway.

He smiled. "Nice robe."

I returned the smile with some trepidation and motioned for him to enter. The idea did cross my mind that I was admitting a complete stranger into my home. As he entered, I stealthily made my way to the counter and removed a rolling pin from the ceramic utensil holder. I moved it behind my back as I turned around with a look of utter innocence and nonchalance.

It was an unsettling feeling, having him show up like this, but I kind of wanted to trust him. I wasn't sure why, but I did.

His compliment had made me aware of the old-lady-style floral housecoat I was wearing. It came complete with a zippered front. My hair was probably very interesting about right now, as I'd had fallen asleep with it semi-wet. Probably looked a bit like Einstein's hair on a good day.

I shrugged. "Thanks. Is that bacon I smell?"

Pickles let out a resounding bark at my question. I saw he'd made his way to the kitchen to inspect our visitor and offer me protection. Oh, who was I fooling? He had smelled the food and had come running. He was no dummy.

"Your dog?" the international man of mystery inquired.

"No, he belongs to my sister. His name is Pickles, or as I like to call him, Señor Drool. I would introduce you, but I'm not privy to your name."

He ignored my question and began to set the Styrofoam boxes of food out on the kitchen table in a precise manner, folding napkins and arranging the plastic utensils as if preparing for a formal dinner party. I watched and caught myself admiring his muscled arms, which bulged from the sleeves of a pressed white golf shirt. As he reached across the table to set down my coffee cup, I thought I caught a hint of a tattoo on his left bicep, but the sleeve covered it before I could make out the design.

My eyes moved down his back to note his crisp khaki trousers fit snugly in all the right places. He turned, and I redirected my eyes upward to a more appropriate vantage point. But he'd caught me checking him out. Thank goodness he had the manners not to point it out.

Nonetheless, I clenched the robe a little tighter as a blush crept up my cheeks. Dang Irish heritage—it was impossible to hide a blush on this fair skin. It wasn't like me to be embarrassed, but this whole scene playing out before me was beyond odd. Of course, what in my life wasn't odd these days?

"Shall we?"

He pulled out a chair for me, and I took a seat. Pickles moved to me and placed his heavy head on my thigh. His eyes twitched up at me with immense longing. I pushed the rolling pin between my legs. At least I had some sort of weapon handy in case he was bribing me with food just so that he could distract me before he murdered me. What if he
was
the murderer?

I swallowed back my nerves as I opened the box of food and gasped with surprise.

It was loaded with scrambled eggs, home fries covered with cheese, crisp bacon, long links of sausage, and a huge buttered biscuit. It was…perfect.

I hand-fed Pickles a piece of bacon and then sliced up a link of sausage and placed it on a napkin. I slid it to the floor, and he made quick work of it.

I looked up at my guest and found he was watching me under hooded eyes.

"Aren't you going to eat?" I asked as I scooped mounds of peppered eggs into my mouth. I'd never been one to act shy around guys when it came to eating. Hated it when girls acted all silly about not wanting to eat when they went on dates. I'd never ordered "just a salad"—ever. No one would ever call me a cheap date.

"Have you had a chance to read the article I gave you?"

I nodded in sync with my munching mandible. "I did read through it, but I'm sorry to say that I don't understand how this explains anything."

He nodded and reached across the table to where I'd left the article next to my bag and scooted it toward me.

I took this to mean he wanted me to read it again here and now. Well, he had brought me a breakfast to die for. I guessed I could take a moment to scan the article.

It was a faded newspaper clipping. The paper was the local
Main Street Mile
—named this because the most happening part of town was located in a one-mile stretch that ran between Smoke Pit Barbeque Grill and City Hall. The date in the top right corner was a decade ago. In fact, it was the summer after I'd left for college—when I'd spent a summer working as a waitress to save money for the books and food that my scholarship wouldn't cover. Of course, that was only the beginning of how hard I'd had to work to put myself through medical school—something I was still paying for even though I wasn't currently attending. And the fact that I was right back to the blue-collar world, even with all those expensive student loans looming, didn't escape me.

The article's title was "Search for Local Man Called Off." I scanned over the text. It was about one of the men in the Brooks family. The Brooks were the other founding family of Millbrook. Douglas Mills IV and Cyrus Brooks had been best friends once upon a time. They'd grown up in nearby Prattville, but had aspirations to create their own town—which they did successfully in 1977 when Millbrook was established. But even long before that time, the two families had been close allies since multiple generations earlier when they'd fought side by side in the War of Northern Aggression—better known to most as the Civil War. They'd been members of the local encampment known as the Prattville Dragoons. In the end, the South may not have come out on top, but both families had survived and subsequently built their families into a "local empire" when Douglas and Cy put Millbrook on the map.

As ambitious young men, they'd created the small but charming Millbrook. But while the original duo may have fought side by side, somewhere along the line, the families became bitter enemies. For as long as I had known of them, they were rivals in just about everything. From who had the biggest house, to who had the best lawn, to who had the best athlete in their family, to who had the most beautiful debutante daughter. Most of the Brooks had gone on to serve in high political offices for the state and had spread out and away from Millbrook, but a few remained. Mostly the Mills family had remained to run the town.

I finished the article and looked up to find my mystery man still watching me. I took another bite of eggs and munched on the end of a slice of bacon.

"Okay. I read it." I mouthed the words around the cholesterol-coated sticks of delight I was polishing off at record speed.

He studied me closely for another minute. Then he finally spoke. "That man in the article, Caden Brooks."

I nodded. I hadn't known the man and wasn't sure what this had to do with anything.

"I believe he's the man you found in the freezer yesterday."

I nearly choked on a sausage link and covered my mouth with a napkin as my eyes watered. The ever-helpful mystery man reached over and smacked me on the back a few times, and I shook my head.

Geez.

He was stronger than crap, and he was beating me to death with his helpfulness. I waved him off and took a sip of coffee from the cup he'd provided. With all the choking and back smacking, I lost my grip on the rolling pin, and it clattered to the floor then rolled across the kitchen. Our eyes followed its journey until it came to a stop after bumping into Pickles' water bowl.

His knowing grin took me off guard, and I was slightly embarrassed, but shrugged. "Look, I don't know you. A girl has to protect herself by whatever means necessary."

His grin turned up a notch. "What were you going to do? Bake me to death?"

I bit my lip to keep from smiling, and tried to get back to the business at hand. "Okay. Why do you think that the body I found was this Caden Brooks? The article says he was a known skirt chaser and probably ran off with one of his conquests."

Mystery man sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. "He didn't run off. He was murdered. He and Dougie Mills hated each other, and Caden Brooks had submitted his paperwork of intent to run for mayor just one month before he disappeared."

I certainly hadn't heard anything about that. And usually if it was news in Millbrook, everyone heard. A big campaign between the Mills and Brooks for control of the city would have been big stuff. Of course, I'd had my own stuff going on then. Ty's face sprang to mind, but I erased it immediately.

"How do you know about all this? No one has ever had the guts to run against Dougie Mills in my lifetime."

Mystery Man watched me closely as he said, "Because Brooks told me the night before he disappeared."

"He told you?"

He nodded, opened the box of food in front of him, and scooped up a portion of eggs on his fork.

I stared at him, waiting for him to continue. When he didn't, I reached out and stopped his hand. It was midway between the plate and his mouth, and bits of egg spilled back into the container as I held his wrist.

His eyes met mine.

"Why did he tell
you
?"

"'Cause I'm his son."

It is no secret that is known to three. –Irish Proverb

I finished my questionably healthy breakfast and my questionably safe visit with Mystery Man, who'd now identified himself as Colin Brooks—a member of one of Millbrook's founding families. I'd wanted to continue our conversation, but he'd disappeared while I'd been busy filling Pickles' bowl with Colin's leftover breakfast. Unfortunately for Señor Drool, no food remained in my box.

I'd been surprised at his hasty retreat, and how he'd seemed to vanish into thin air was anybody's guess. But I didn't have time to ponder his skills further, 'cause after a rapid teeth-brushing effort and a change into clean jeans and a fresh tank top, I had to zip off in Stella once again as the daily grind awaited.

I barely had time to stop in for a quick check on Paget before I was due back at work for yet another glee-inducing shift with Flicks Vision.

Despite the early-morning hour, there was no chill to be had as I guided my red missile through town with the top down. Hair blowing in the breeze, I tried to clear my mind from the clutter of thoughts by tuning in to the local radio station, but apparently music had been replaced by the yakking of "Married in The Morning with Mick and Matty." Since when did Millbrook have a morning talk show? And who really cared about what those two mumble-heads had done last night?