Still Waters (14 page)

“Come on, sugar,” she said wearily, abandoning half her Snickers bar on the night table. “We've got us a circus to go to.”

THE COURTROOM WAS STANDING ROOM ONLY. LORRAINE
Worth stood guard at the door beside Kenny Spencer, checking press credentials with an eagle eye and turning away curious civilians, of which there were many. The hallway was lined with Still Creek residents eager for news or perhaps a glimpse of a suspect. They stood in knots of three and four, casting eager, expectant looks at every stranger who walked by.

Elizabeth imagined the room had changed little since the 1800s. Soft blue plaster rose up from a skirt of rich walnut wainscoting, fine lines and cracks in the walls denoting age like a matron's wrinkles. Stern men from other eras stared down at the crowd from heavy, ornate gilt frames. Old globe lights hung from a ceiling where ancient fans made a feeble attempt to stir the stuffy air. The Tyler County courtroom didn't look any more ready for the intrusion of the modern world than did the town of Still Creek itself with its quaint Victorian architecture and Amish buggies trudging the streets.

At the front of the room a podium bristling with microphones had been set up directly in front of the judge's bench. The prosecutor's table had been pulled forward to flank it and provided room for three people, their places marked with hand-lettered placards made from folded pieces of poster board—Sheriff Jantzen, Agent Yeager, Deputy Kaufman. Only the end chair was taken. Mark Kaufman sat behind the table, cracking his knuckles and looking like a man with a fear of public speaking waiting to address the U.N. He caught Elizabeth's eye and flashed her a wave and a nervous smile.

Lights and cameras crowded around the front of the room in a veritable forest of high technology. There was a general din of excitement as reporters, eager for something to do, grilled one another while they waited for the festivities to begin. Elizabeth and Jolynn slipped into seats at the back of the room just as Dane walked in at the front.

The noise level rose like a wave rolling into shore as the reporters caught sight of him coming out of judge's chambers. Questions were tossed out in the hope of getting something out of him other than the official statement. He ignored them.

The town VIPs had been given seats in the jury box and Charlie Wilder, the mayor, and Bidy Masters, head of the town council, popped up out of their chairs as Dane walked by them. He checked his stride and turned reluctantly to face the pair.

Charlie was plump and jovial, the kind of man people enjoyed voting for. He owned Hardware Hank's and ran sales continuously, which helped endear him to people as well as keeping him from going under. The sales were often on items people had little use for, like Veg-O-Matics and Epilady hair removal devices, but as long as there was a sale on something, folks were more inclined to shop in town than drive to Rochester for cheaper prices at the big discount stores.

Nobody enjoyed voting for Bidy, a thin, sour-faced man with stooping, hollow shoulders that, coupled with his long, somber face, gave him the appearance of a vulture. But hardly anyone wanted to run for the town council, let alone be the head of it, and Bidy was conscientious and business-minded if not pleasant. Horse and Buggy Days had been his idea—not as a festival that would give locals an opportunity to have fun and relax, but as a tourist attraction that would draw in money from outside the community. He had a shrewd head for the tourist industry, and it was a sure bet he wasn't going to see murder as a long-term boost to the economy.

“Dane, can we have a word?” Charlie asked, leaning his belly against the rail of the jury box.

Bidy leaned in close too, beady eyes fastened hard on Dane's face. “We're wondering how soon you might have this wrapped up.”

“The press conference? Shouldn't take more than half an hour.”

“No, no,” Charlie said. “This murder business. We heard there was a suspect at large. Have you got him yet?”

“No.”

“Well, can you give us a time frame here, Dane?” The mayor gave one of his belly-jiggling chuckles that were calculated to soften edges regardless of the topic. He probably could have announced to the whole town he was a devoted neo-Nazi and everyone would think it was just fine as long as Charlie was laughing and smiling. “Are we looking at a day? Two?”

Dane tried to stretch his threadbare patience a little further, but couldn't quite manage to cover his sarcasm. “If you mean, will we have him before the Miss Horse and Buggy Days pageant begins, the answer is—we'll do our level best.”

Charlie had the grace to blush. Bidy narrowed his eyes and worked his thin mouth like a toothless hag sucking on her gums.

“A shame about Jarrold,” Charlie said, tossing in the sentiment in an attempt to look less mercenary.

Dane tipped his head and moved away from the pair, stepping around a light stand and through the gate that led to the spectator seating, where the esteemed members of the press were shouting at him, hands raised like frenzied bidders at the stock exchange. Christ, he hated reporters.

Elizabeth watched him bear down on her. Whatever had transpired since he had dropped her off at Jolynn's had not improved his humor. His mouth was set in a grim line, his eyes fierce beneath ominously lowered brows. He cut in at her row, stepping around people. Bending down, he closed a hand around her upper arm, his face no more than inches from hers.

“I want you closer to me,” he said in a low voice.

An instinctive thrill rushed through her. Elizabeth steeled herself against it and forced a cocky smile. “Really, darlin',” she whispered, “don't you think you ought to see to this press conference first? What will people say?”

Nothing they're not saying already, Dane thought, his jaw tightening as he bit back the words. He had overheard the secretarial scuttlebutt at the water cooler on his way in and had nearly taken Tina Odegard's head off for gossiping on taxpayers' time. He told himself he didn't need his staff spreading rumors, but there had been something more to his anger that he didn't care to examine too closely, something vaguely proprietary that had risen up at the snide suggestion that Elizabeth had been sexually involved with Jarrold Jarvis.

“I'm sure you'll manage to incite a riot,” he said sardonically. “I want you where I can have you yanked out of here if things get out of hand.”

Any retort she might have made was lost as he hauled her up out of her chair and ushered her toward the front of the room. Heat rose in her cheeks as she heard her name ripple through the crowd. They stopped at the front row and Dane fixed a reporter from the Rochester
Post-Bulletin
with a steely glare.

“This seat is reserved,” he growled.

The man started to protest as he shuffled through his notes, but then he looked up and swallowed his words in one gulp. Murmuring apologetically, he slid from the seat and motioned Elizabeth into it. She gave him a wan smile, then shot a glare at Dane.

“Thank you
so
much for making a spectacle of me,” she hissed under her breath.

Dane flashed his teeth. “Oh, I can't take any credit for that,” he whispered. “Thank whoever dressed you.”

She plucked at a rhinestone button. “The way I see it, my being in Jolynn's best Christmas blouse is your fault.”

“Yeah, well, I'll be glad to help you out of it later if you ask me real nice.”

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes, not liking the warmth spreading through her any more than she liked the man who was causing it. “I'll ask you to go take a flying leap.”

“Sorry, no time.” He scanned the crowd, squinting as camera flashes went off around them, finally locking on Bret Yeager as the BCA agent trundled in a side door wearing his usual air of distraction and juggling an armload of papers. “Enjoy the show, Miss Stuart.” He flashed her one last mocking smile. “I'd say you've got the best seat in the house, but I wouldn't want you to get a big head.”

“Jerk,” Elizabeth grumbled as he walked away. She plunked down on the commandeered spot and dug her reporter's notebook out of her purse as Dane stepped up to the podium and addressed the crowd.

He read his statement with eloquence and authority, and Elizabeth caught herself thinking about the comment Jolynn had made earlier. There were plenty of professional athletes who made a beeline from the field of play to the silver screen—or at least the TV screen. She wondered why he hadn't. Lord knew he had the looks and the voice.

“Probably won't take direction,” she muttered to herself, doodling little footballs on her notepad.

Yeager moved to the mike as Dane finished. The agent carried a messy sheaf of papers, which he plunked down on the stand, then promptly ignored. He was six feet tall and stocky, and most resembled an unmade bed. His tie was crooked and a little spike of sandy hair stuck straight up from the crown of his head. He expanded on procedure for a few minutes, talked about lab techniques, then opened the floor for questions, but Elizabeth wasn't listening. She was too busy wondering about the wife who had dumped Dane after his career had ended. Had he left L.A. because of her or in spite of her?

“. . . Mrs. Stuart?”

The mention of her name snapped her back to the matter at hand. She looked around sharply, like a student in class who had been called on while daydreaming. It seemed as if every eye in the place were trained on her, waiting, watching, homing in with sharp scrutiny. She shifted in her chair, turning to the man next to her.

“I'm sorry,” she murmured. “Did someone say my name?”

The silence broke abruptly as another voice shouted out a question. “Is it true, Mrs. Stuart, that you not only found the body, but were personally involved with the deceased?”

Elizabeth swung around in confusion, looking to confront the face behind the voice. A burly, bearded man rose from his chair down the row and thrust a tape recorder at her, repeating the question, his voice booming to be heard above the sudden rise of sound. Then another man rose and a flash went off in her face. She shrank back from it, reaching back with a hand to find some support, only to have fingers close on her elbow. She swung around again and more faces loomed in on her, all of them looking wild, mouths moving, voices pouring out in a stream of babble.

Instantly she was back in Atlanta, in the Fulton County courthouse, reporters pressing in on her, shouting at her.

“Is it true you were sleeping with your son's best friend?”

“Is it true you seduced Mr. Stuart's business associates?”

“Can you produce any evidence to substantiate your claims of conspiracy?”

“What about the photographs?”

“What about the videotapes?”

“Mrs. Stuart—!”

“Mrs. Stuart—!”

The sound pounded on her ears as the crowd began to close around her. Elizabeth felt panic rise in her throat, and she jumped to her feet. She desperately needed to escape—anywhere, any way. She dropped her notebook and dove ahead, trying to cut a path between two photographers, shoving them in opposite directions, slapping at their cameras with her hands.

Then her eyes focused on one face in the blur—Dane's. His expression was furious as he shouted at the people around her. Elizabeth didn't hear a word he said. She grabbed the hand he held out to her and let him pull her away from the melee. She stumbled up the steps past the witness stand and into the judge's chambers. The door slammed behind her and she wheeled around, eyes wide, mouth tearing open as she tried to suck in a startled breath.

“Stay here,” he commanded. “I'll be right back.”

He went out into the courtroom before the look of terror on her face could persuade him otherwise. Anger burned through him as he scanned the crowd. The deputies had restored a certain amount of order, herding people back to their seats, but excitement still charged the air. The scent of the kill, he thought bitterly. Fucking reporters. Goddamn fucking reporters.

The noise level died abruptly as he grabbed the podium with both hands and roared a command for quiet into the microphones, his volume setting off a series of feedback shrieks in the amplifiers. One intrepid fool raised a hand to ask a question, but the arm fell like a wilting weed as Dane turned his full attention on the man.

“Miss Stuart has no statement for the media,” he said softly, his voice barely a whisper rasping out of the speakers. Still, it reached every corner of the room, fell on every ear, lifted every neck hair. “Is that understood, ladies and gentlemen of the
esteemed
press?”

Several seconds of silence passed before a reporter from the
Tribune
spoke up. “What about freedom of the press, Sheriff?”

Dane met the man's gaze evenly. “The first amendment doesn't give you the right to harass or coerce statements out of witnesses. If Miss Stuart has anything to say, she'll say it to me and no one else. She is a part of an ongoing murder investigation. Anyone bothering her will have to answer to me. Have I made myself perfectly clear?”

He glanced around the room to find most eyes on their steno pads or electronic equipment. At the table beside him, Kaufman was cracking his knuckles and sweating like a horse. Yeager slumped back in his chair, dark eyes glowing, rubbing a hand across his mouth to hide a grin of unabashed delight.

“This press conference is over,” Dane murmured.

Silence followed him into the judge's chambers. Elizabeth had retreated to a corner near a floor-to-ceiling bookcase that was crammed with dusty leather-bound tomes on jurisprudence. She stood with her back to the wall, one arm banded across her middle, the other fist pressed to her lips.

Dane crossed the shadowed room, head down, eyes on the woman before him. She was nothing but a bundle of trouble, but at the moment he couldn't direct any of his anger at her.

“I—I know you don't like me,” she stammered. “But I'll give you a dollar to forget about that for a minute and put your arms around me.”

He bit back a groan as compassion eclipsed his need to keep his distance from her. No matter what she'd done or who she'd done it with, he couldn't take the thought of her being emotionally hacked to pieces by media mongrels. He put his arms around her gingerly and patted her back, and blatantly ignored the warmth rising in him. Proximity, that's all it was. Proximity and basic human kindness.