Shameless (The Contemporary Collection) (24 page)

“Lizbeth told me you came by the house,” he said, propping against the counter with his hands in his pockets. “You could have saved yourself a trip. I was coming over anyway.”

She barely glanced at him. “I couldn't remember to hand over the robe when you were around.”

“That's encouraging,” he said with a smile, then added, “actually, I thought maybe there was something special you wanted to talk about.”

She paused in wiping the countertop. “Such as?”

Irritation crossed his face as he said, “I don't know, Cammie. Any number of things: Keith, the mill, the missing papers, anything and everything that's on your mind. Or nothing at all, if you just wanted to see me. Hell, I can be optimistic every now and then.”

“I wouldn't advise it,” she said, the corners of her lips firm.

He lifted a hand to rake it through his hair. “All right, what is it now? What have I done, or not done, to put you in a snit?”

“Nothing,” she answered shortly, if without truth.

“No? Then why is it that every time we see each other, we have to start all over from scratch?”

She swung to face him. “What did you expect, that I would fling myself into your arms? Drag you into bed?”

“It would have been a nice change.”

“Forget it.”

“But I would settle for a welcome kiss.”

There was a firmness behind the steady light in his eyes that disturbed her. She said, “I'm not sure you're welcome.”

“Too bad. I'm here, with or without.”

“Why?” she demanded. “Why, when you know I don't want you?”

His smile was grim. “I am nothing if not constant.”

There was in the inflection of his words, and in their deliberate choice, a hint of meaning she could not quite grasp. Nor was she certain she wanted to.

She watched him with measuring eyes, remembering the moment in the early hours of the morning when she'd wakened in his arms. She had been lying tucked into the curve of his body, with her back to his chest. He hadn't been asleep, might never have slept at all. He lay with one arm holding her firmly against him and the fingers of his other hand in her hair. He was carefully straightening the silken mass, drawing it strand by strand across the pillow.

She'd felt so protected in that moment, so incredibly content. There had been a rightness in it like nothing she'd ever known. She had wanted to lie like that, unmoving, for the rest of her life.

It wasn't going to happen; he had as good as told her he was incapable of it. What choice did she have except to believe him? And wasn't that for the best, anyway, when it seemed that in her foolish fancies she had turned him into something he'd never been, something he could never be at all?

A considering look settled over his face. He said quietly, “You may not have wanted to talk to me, but there's something I wanted to say to you. If I could show you a way we both could come out ahead on the mill expansion, would you at least think about it?”

“Certainly,” she said in chill tones. “I'm not unreasonable.”

A muscle stood out in his jaw, but he went on without direct comment. “It's entirely possible to insert clauses in the purchase contract of the mill that would guarantee environmental controls. The Swedes could reject the terms, but I think they're anxious enough to establish a presence in this part of the country that they'll agree. It was always my intention to include certain safeguards. If you would like to add your input, others could be drafted. That's supposing I retain ownership. If it passes to you, then you'll do as you please. But it would still be a way to protect what's important to you while benefiting the community at the same time.”

Her gaze was wide as she considered his suggestion. Abruptly, she turned away. “What do I know about contractual clauses?”

“More than most, I expect, or you can at least learn. A lawyer would be required for the finer touches, of course.”

“Of course,” she echoed before she turned back to him. “Why are you doing this? And why has it taken so long for you to come up with it?”

“I'm doing it because — because it makes sense. As for the rest, I wanted to talk to the Swedes, find out for myself how committed they were to the deal before I started making problems.”

She laughed without amusement. “Meaning that if anything goes wrong with the contract negotiations, you can always snatch the clauses back out again for the sake of the money.”

“I'll fight for the things you believe in,” he answered without flinching, “but no, I won't jeopardize this town and the jobs of the people who live here for the sake of a few birds.”

He seemed so sincere, so right, so trustworthy. Yet he'd been seen with Janet Baylor on the day she disappeared. Both things could not be right.

She opened her mouth to ask for an explanation. At that moment Reid frowned, coming erect. Following his gaze, she saw through the window the flash of headlights sweeping over the side garden. It came from a car turning into the drive.

Reid lifted a brow in inquiry. Cammie shook her head; she was expecting no one.

The knock, when it sounded, was at the back. It was Bud Deerfield again.

It crossed Cammie's mind to wonder, as she pulled open the door, if someone might have seen Reid entering the house and called the police. An instant later she dismissed it. There was no point in being paranoid.

“Heavens, Bud, what now?” She was acutely aware that Reid had remained out of sight, hovering just inside the kitchen.

The look on the sheriff's face was troubled, and he took off his broad-brimmed felt hat, turning it around and around in his hands. “Cammie, I hate like hell to be the one to have to tell you this.”

“What is it?” She stepped forward, the better to see his craggy face. The silver star pinned on his shirtfront winked in the dim light that beamed out onto the porch.

“It's Keith, honey.”

“Is he hurt?”

“More than that. He's gone, honey. They just found him back in the game reserve. Coroner says it happened sometime this afternoon.”

She drew a quick, shocked breath before she said, “A car accident?”

Bud shook his head. “He was shot, a .357 magnum. They found it beside him.”

“He didn't — It wasn't… suicide?” The disturbance in her mind seemed to have so many causes, to come from so many questions and fears that it short-circuited her responses, leaving her numb.

Her cousin's face closed in and his manner suddenly became official. “No way. It was murder, pure and simple.”

CAMMIE STOOD WITH HER HAND ON THE DOORKNOB
after Bud had gone. He'd wanted to find someone to stay with her, or else arrange some kind of sedative for her. She told him neither were necessary. Regardless, she felt odd, disoriented. She couldn't think what she should do.

Her first impulse was to go to Keith's mother's house. Her father-in-law had been dead some years, but she generally got along well with her mother-in-law — and knew the older woman would take this hard. Yet, it was possible that her own presence would seem an intrusion now, and a painful reminder of things best forgotten.

Keith, shot. It seemed such a foreign thing to happen in staid, ordinary Greenley.

Murdered. Keith. And Janet Baylor had disappeared.

What was happening here? The town had always had its share of Saturday night disturbances, family disputes, tragic accidents, and acts of desperation over fatal illnesses. But nothing like this.

Shot. In the game reserve.

She swung from the door and walked down the hall to the stairs. Mounting them, she moved into her bedroom and crossed to the bedside table. She opened the top drawer where she had put away the pistol she'd threatened Keith with so short a time ago, the .357 magnum Reid had returned to her.

It was gone. Of course.

Reid had followed her out of the kitchen, his footsteps quiet and even as he paced behind her. Now he leaned one shoulder against the door frame, watching her. She lifted her head to meet his gaze across the room.

His voice had a fretted edge as he said, “No, I didn't take it.”

She hadn't thought it. Or had she? Without conscious intent, she said, “Where were you this afternoon?”

“Scouting timber,” he said in a flashing reply. “And where else did you go besides the Fort and the garden center?”

Suspicion. It was an ugly thing. And a double-edged weapon.

She looked away from him abruptly, lowering her gaze. She pushed the drawer shut again and turned toward the center of the room. Stopping there in indecision, she clasped her hands across her waist and hugged her elbows against the chill inside her.

Reid watched her for long moments. Finally, he spoke in soft consideration. “Even if you did it, something I find hard to accept, I wouldn't blame you. I would assume, after seeing Keith hit you, that you had your reasons.”

She looked up, and her startled gaze was snared and held by the clear expression in his eyes. Her voice a little hoarse, she said, “You might have had your reasons, too.”

“For which you absolve me?” He tilted his head, his features intent.

“I'm not sure.”

“No,” he said in acceptance. “Unlike you, I can have no claim to extenuating circumstances. For me, there would be no excuse.”

“And what if your reasons had more to do with what you thought I needed than your own motives?”

“You think I might have killed him for your sake?” His eyes narrowed slightly at the corners as he asked it.

“It seems possible.”

The quiet gathered around them, hovering, as they watched each other. Then he inclined his head in abrupt agreement. “I might have at that, if I'd known you wanted it.”

Truth. She knew it when she heard it. But was it whole or only partial? Had he, or hadn't he?

The terrible thing was, the answer made no difference to the swift and primitive gratification that radiated through her. She stifled it the instant she recognized what it was, but she could only deny it. What kind of woman was she that she could be pleased by a man's willingness to kill for her? She did not dare think.

She said quietly, “It would have been easier for you than for most.”

“Easier to accomplish,” he said. “Harder to overcome the well-learned reluctance.”

She watched him, watched the play of vulnerability and self-hatred across his features, and knew abruptly that he had just let her see a part of himself that he kept hidden from all others. It was not that she had destroyed his defenses, she thought, but rather that he'd deliberately lowered them for her, for reasons that she did not dare begin to guess.

“Then if you are guilty,” she said in quiet acceptance, “I must share it.”

“Only,” he said, “if you'll let me share whatever guilt might be yours.”

Mutual suspicion, mutual lack of belief, mutual willingness to look the other way. Stalemate. Why did it hurt so much?

Reid's face changed and he took a step toward her. “There's something you should know — something happened between me and Keith at the mill.”

“I know already,” she said hastily, turning away from him. “It — It makes no difference. I would really rather not talk about it anymore, if you don't mind. And I would like to be by myself tonight.”

He paused, and there was concentration in his silence, as if he was listening to echoes of meaning in the sound of her voice, which even she could not hear. Or weighing consequences and inclinations she could not name.

Finally, he said, “Sleep, then, if you can. Wipe it all from your mind. Don't think of anything at all. There's no point in disturbing yourself over things that can no longer be helped.”

“You speak from experience with violent death?”

A shadow of weariness darkened his voice. “What else?”

She did not hear him leave, but when she turned a moment later, he was gone.

The funeral was held two days later. It might have been sooner if not for the delay necessary for the autopsy.

Keith's family was anxious to have the services completed in order to put an end to the sensationalism. The calls and visits of the morbidly curious had been incessant. The throngs circling around the funeral home had grown larger hourly. At least four newspapers had called for permission to be present at the services.

The information came from the usual source, common gossip, and Cammie was not sure how reliable it might be. She debated over whether to attend the funeral because of it, however; the last thing she wanted was to be cornered for a comment from the widow. In the end she couldn't fight duty and tradition. Besides, to stay away would cause more comment than appearing, and she felt she owed some gesture toward the years she and Keith had been together.

It was nearly as hard to decide what to wear. The black of widow's weeds might seem a mockery, but to wear color could look too much like a lack of respect or even a celebration. She settled finally on a suit of dove-gray with a white silk blouse, and hoped it would be ordinary enough to escape notice.

A funeral in Greenley was rather like a formal social event. The deceased lay in state in the parlor of the funeral home before the services began, with close relatives in attendance to receive those who came to pay their last respects. Close bodily contact in the way of brief hugs and comforting pats along with soft words of sympathy were extended. Tears and lamentations were silent, though there was a plentiful supply of tissues ready. The number and variety of the floral offerings were seen as a measure of the standing of the one being honored, and much attention was paid to the heft and decoration of the casket.

The service for Keith was marked by a selection of his mother's favorite gospel songs. A brief eulogy was followed by a sermon, one so fervent it seemed an invitation for converts might be extended at any moment.

Cammie deliberately came late to the services to avoid having to mingle and talk. She could not evade the photographer who stepped in front of her as she left the chapel, however, nor could she get away from the hard stares turned in her direction, or the whispers. Keeping her face as impassive as possible, she endured the attention, hoping it would soon be over.

It wasn't. She saw the reason why when the cortege wound its way to the cemetery. Reid's Jeep Cherokee was parked near the fence gate. It was to be expected, of course; the Huttons and the Sayers had been business associates for long years, and he had known Keith in school. He had at least had the sense to avoid the main service, putting in an appearance only for the graveside rites.

Reid was nearby in the crowd as everyone gathered near the mound of raw earth and the fake grass carpet under the canopy. He did not approach her, for which she was grateful. Still, there was a narrow aisle left open between the two of them, and the buzz of comment had the sound of hovering blowflies.

At last the graveside ceremony was over. Cammie had declined sitting in the seats reserved for family, but as Keith's mother emerged from under the canvas tent, Cammie moved toward her by instinct.

For a moment the older woman looked through her as if she did not exist. Cammie did not allow her sympathy to falter, nor did she draw back from the swift hug she intended to bestow. She could feel the stiff rejection in her mother-in-law's body, however, and see the baffled anger shining through the tears that welled into the woman's eyes.

“I'm sorry,” Cammie said, since there seemed nothing else that came close to being adequate.

“Are you?” the older woman answered in half-strangled civility. “I find it hard to believe. But I have been meaning to speak to you about any of Keith's things that might still be at your house. I will expect you to send them — home.”

Vona Hutton, Gordon's plump and awkward wife, stood just behind Keith's mother. “That's right,” she said with a self-righteous nod. At the same time, she glanced for approval toward her husband, who stood talking with the minister who had performed the service.

“Yes, of course,” Cammie answered, concentrating her attention on the older woman. There was nothing of Keith's left at Evergreen, she thought, except possibly a few rusty tools, an old bicycle, and odds and ends of discarded auto parts. She would clear out every last screwdriver and corroded spark plug.

“Then we — his brother and I — ask nothing more from you.”

It was a dismissal, a final break. No doubt it was meant to sting.

Cammie said quietly, “Whatever you prefer.”

The other woman turned away with her head held high and her handkerchief clenched in her hand. Vona put her pudgy arm around her mother-in-law, murmuring soothingly. Cammie let them go, and tried not to feel relief.

Someone moved in close at her side then, and she turned, half expecting Reid. It was Fred Mawley.

The lawyer smiled down at her with caressing concern and attentiveness. “I was hoping I might find a minute to talk to you.”

Cammie murmured something appropriate, giving the man only half of her attention. Reid was leaving the cemetery. He joined a group of men, most of them mill personnel, who stood talking off to one side.

“I'd like to schedule an appointment about the will,” Fred Mawley went on. “The sooner we get things started, the better.”

Cammie gave him a glance of dry inquiry as she began to walk in the direction of the cemetery gate. “Don't you think it's a little late now?”

He lifted a brow, then gave an abrupt chuckle. “Not your part of it, Cammie, but Keith's. You're still his beneficiary, you know, since your mutual wills were never canceled, never superseded by other arrangements. His assets come to you — including his share of the paper mill.”

She stopped short, her eyes widened in unbelieving dismay.

Mawley, unnoticing, moved on a half step before he turned back. Quizzical amusement gathered in his face. “I can't believe it never occurred to you.”

“It didn't.” Her lips snapped together as she regained her self-possession.

“Gordon Hutton thought about it. I had a call from him yesterday morning, wanting to know how things stood. It struck me as hilarious really, since he was the one who—” The lawyer stopped, biting off what he'd been about to say.

“Gordon was the one who what?” Cammie asked with care.

Mawley looked self-conscious, though his smile did not falter. “Nothing. Nothing that has any bearing. Anyway, how about discussing things over dinner this evening? I'd like to have plenty of time for the details.”

It was possible this development was part of the Hutton family's resentment toward her. Cammie said, “I don't think there's any real rush.”

“Tomorrow then, or the next day? I'm available at your convenience.”

Beyond his shoulder, she saw Reid leaving. There was a stiffness in the set of his shoulders that troubled her. Telling Fred Mawley that she would call him, she walked quickly away.

She reached the cemetery gate before it occurred to her what Fred had almost let slip about Gordon and the will. It seemed Keith's brother might have had something to do with the delay in restructuring the document with its mutual beneficiary clause. If so, it would be a fine joke. The question was, why would he bother?

She couldn't wait to tell Reid about it. She wanted his reaction, needed to know what thoughts he might have on it. But though she increased her pace in the direction of the parking area, he was gone by the time she reached it.

The disappointment was so strong, her throat swelled with the press of it. Standing there, staring at where his Jeep had been, she realized how strange it was that she'd been so intent on sharing her news with someone she suspected of killing the man they had just buried. It also came to her that Reid might not think her news amusing at all.