The Gunny & The Jazz Singer (Birchwood Falls #1) (11 page)

"You don't need to do that."

"Do you have a handyman on
call?"

She rolled her eyes. "No."

"Well then let me help you."

"But you've done so much
already." Then she blushed.

"Yeah."

"I mean—"

"Listen." He took her
hands in his. "I want to fix the door for you. We'll talk about everything
else later. Okay?"

She took a deep breath. "Okay.
Yeah. Thank you, Marc, for everything." Her cheeks turned even redder than
they'd been.

Amused but frustrated, he helped
her put some of her belongings to rights. He did the heavy work, lifting
furniture that had been turned over. They mostly worked in silence, but once in
awhile she sniffled and blew her nose.

"I'll have to replace much of
this. I don't have insurance."

"It's not all ruined."

"No, but the house is a
rental. The furniture isn't mine."

"I'm sorry, darlin'."

She turned and stalked into the
kitchen.

This mess infuriated him. If Butch
did it, he'd make him suffer.

"Honey," he yelled into
the kitchen where he could hear her banging pots and pans. "Get dressed
and go to work. I've got some things I have to do today but I'll get that lock
fixed."

She marched into the living room
looking gorgeous even with little sleep and soggy eyes. "I've got to sing
tonight."

"Can you do it? You look
pretty ragged."

"I have to." She waved
her hand. "The show must go on, you know."

"Come back to my house later
and take a nap then. I'll get back as soon as I can."

"Oh, no…" She backed up,
shaking her head.

"Phoebe, please do it. I need
to know you're okay." He took her in his arms and cradled her head against
his shoulder. "What happened to you last night was for shit."

She looked up at him, heat filling
her eyes. "Not all of it."

He covered her lips with his but
kept it gentle. "I'm trying to keep my sanity, sweetheart. You've been
through hell. I can make you forget about it, but that would be taking unfair
advantage."

She slumped against him, nodding.

"Why don't you call the store
and say you can't go in?"

"No. I'll just come home
early."

"And go to my house?"

After a moment she finally agreed. "Okay,
you win."

That was good enough for him, so he
stalked back to his own house, showered, shaved, and headed out to the coroner's
office hoping they'd discovered the whereabouts of the blood test results.

***

"Mr. Rahn, I'm sorry, but they're
missing. The log shows the file was checked out to the police department two
years ago but never signed back in."

"Is that usual?" He tried
to keep his temper in check.

"No, but having a signature on
file keeps the chain of custody straight."

"What's the name? Can I see
it?" He peered at the handwriting. It looked obviously obscured, just a
scrawl, impossible to make out a name. He had his suspicions but certainly
wouldn't voice them here. He couldn't be sure of the coroner's loyalties or who
his friends were. The Wilcox name stretched all over town, even more now than
it had eight years ago.

After being assured fairly
reasonably he'd get no more information here, he decided his next move would be
another branch of the city government—the prosecuting attorney's office.

Much to his surprise when he
called, he was transferred to Moira Logan, Phoebe's friend from the nightclub.
He asked if they could meet somewhere besides the courthouse, not wanting Butch
to have a clue as to what he was up to. Ollie's was the least likely place for
Butch to see them, and Moira agreed to meet him there when they opened at noon.

Having bought new locks for Phoebe
and still having some time to kill, he decided to drive out to his old stomping
grounds, B Falls High School. Myriad emotions and memories assailed him as he
walked through the front doors.

At the time, he couldn't wait to
get out of there. He hadn't expected the tightening of his stomach at first,
seeing the empty halls, smelling the unmistakable scents of frying meat for
beef-burger day, the stink of well-worn socks and gym shoes.

His eyes welled up at the memories
of fun days before the accident turned his life upside down. He'd hated
everything about the town after that. In his grief, he hadn't been able to
distinguish between good times and the pain he'd been in.

He resented every laugh of his
friends, every pitying smile of teachers and coaches. He didn't want their
sympathy. He wanted his parents and his life back. He'd made a new life for
himself now, had run away from B Falls to do it, but he still wanted his
parents back.

The bell rang, as sharp and loud as
he'd remembered it. Kids burst from classrooms. He backed to the wall to watch
them, and they acted remarkably like he and his classmates had. Jabbering
quickly to each other as if they weren't able to impart information or couldn't
flirt enough at that moment, all would be lost. His mind went back, and it felt
like he'd never left.

He heard his name called.

"Rahn?"

Turning his head, he spotted Mike
Banning headed toward him. Another wave of déjà vu. It was almost too much, but
he wasn't ready to cry uncle yet.

"Mike." They shook hands.

"Checking on your old haunts?"

"Guess so. It doesn't seem to
have changed does it?"

Mike laughed. "Not much. Why
don't you come into my room for a few minutes and meet some of the kids. I can
brag that I know the famous Marc Rahn of the winning touchdown of the last game
of the season…"

Marc held up his hand. "Don't
build me up like that. They'll never believe it. And how would they know about
that game?"

"Marc, every year the football
players are treated to that story."

"By the coaches?"

"And by me." Mike clapped
him on the shoulder. "Come on. Raise my standing here."

"I don't think this'll do it,
but I'm game."

Half an hour later, the awe clear
in the boys' eyes, he took his leave. A side trip to the auditorium to see the
WPA murals brought back another rush of memories. He'd spent many an hour in
assemblies daydreaming over those paintings. He certainly hadn't understood
their history and importance at the time.

Why had he feared returning to B
Falls all these years? There was a cathartic aspect to it he hadn't planned on.
The last several months of his youth had been the most painful of his life but
the many years before had been the best anyone could have asked for.

***

He'd finally accepted the fact that
B Falls couldn't hurt him anymore. The one task he hadn't been sure he could do
had become doable. Stopping at the florist shop, he picked up a spray of
gardenias and headed across the square to the church and the cemetery behind
it.

His heart beat fast as he
approached his parents' graves. The white marble stone gleamed in the sunlight.
His folks were together in death just as they'd been in life. There was some
comfort in that. Crouching, he placed the white flowers at the base of the
stone.

"Mom, you loved gardenias. You
told me so many times that you carried them at your wedding. I bet you thought
I wasn't listening." His voice lowered, his throat closing. "I
was."

The crack of a twig broke into his
thoughts, and he realized someone might be near. This was a private moment. No
one else should see it. "I miss you guys so much," he whispered.

***

"Ms. Logan. Thanks for meeting
me here." She was a gorgeous redhead, and he could have been interested if
he hadn't met Phoebe Barnes first.

"Call me Moira, Marc."
She sat where he indicated at a table near the back corner of the bar.

Mrs. Banning served them coffee,
chatted for a minute, then left them alone.

"What can I help you with?"

Marc got right to the point. "Eight
years ago my parents were killed in a car accident."

"I knew that. I'm sorry,"
Moira murmured.

"Thanks. The story was that my
dad must have been drunk and drove into the river. I've never wanted to believe
it, and now I don't. There was no reason for Dad to go off the road. Yeah, it
was late, but the streets were dry. We hadn't had snow yet, so the roads weren't
slippery. My dad wouldn't have driven drunk, and if he'd been iffy my mom
wouldn't have let him. There was damage to the front and right side of the car.
It was thought to be caused by hitting the rocks in the river."

"But you don't think so?"

"I think they were forced off
the road."

She took a sip of coffee. "But
you have no proof?"

"No. I came back on leave to
find out what happened. Butch Wilcox gave me a copy of the police file. The
blood test results were missing."

"The coroner's office?"

"Missing."

"Really?" Her eyes
narrowed beneath auburn eyebrows, her suspicions obviously aroused.

"They were checked out to the
police department. The signature on the sign-out log is incomprehensible.
Supposedly Butch gave me everything the police had…"

"Minus blood results."

Marc nodded. "I've talked to a
friend of my parents who had a store next door to theirs. He was bought out by
Harold Wilcox. An offer was made to my dad right before he was killed."

"Why was Wilcox buying the
stores?"

"You know his resort?"

She nodded.

"Well, that's where our store
was located."

"Oh."

"Right. You see where I'm
heading with this?"

"Do you suspect Mr. Wilcox of
having something to do with your parents' deaths? Or of the police covering it
up?"

"Certainly not at the time but
now that I've come back to town and found out that Wilcox has all that land now
for his resort, combined with the fact that Butch can't find the complete file,
I can't help but be suspicious. I have too many questions."

"What do you know about Butch
Wilcox?"

"I went to high school with
him. We were buddies on the football team but not really good friends. He wasn't
exactly the nicest guy in school, but this is big-time supposition. I sure don't
want to accuse him, but I want to know what happened with my folks."

"And you're sure your dad
couldn't have been impaired?"

Marc looked down, sighed, and
grudgingly admitted, "No. I can't be one-hundred-percent sure, but I knew
my parents. Dad was more responsible than that, and if he'd been drunk, my
mother would never have let him drive."

Moira nodded, putting her pen down
on her legal pad. "Harold Wilcox is a pretty big guy in this town, but
personally I can't say much good about Butch." Then she stood. "Okay.
Let me make some calls, ask some questions, and get back to you. I may end up
just confirming that the information is missing though."

Marc stood and reached over the
table to shake her hand. "Anything that can help clear this up for me.
Thank you, Moira."

"No problem. And by the way,
are you going to Marietty's tonight?" She cocked her head and smiled. "Phoebe
is on again."

"She's good, isn't she?"
In every way.
He wasn't sure he hid a
covert smile. "I'll definitely show up."

"Good." Moira nodded
again. "I'm sure we'll see you there. Davy and I are ardent fans. Oh, and
do you remember Cindy Logan? From high school?"

He thought for a minute. "Short,
redhead, cheerleader?"

"Yup. That's Cindy."

"Sure, I remember her. She's
your sister?"

"Yes. She's married now with
two kids."

"Really? Someone from town?"

"No. She met him in college,
and they live in Des Moines."

He laughed. "I'll bet those
kids are cute if they're anything like her. Cindy was a nice girl. Tell her I
said hi next time you talk to her."

"I sure will. Well, I'll see
what info I can find on Wilcox and let you know."

"By the way, did Phoebe call
you?"

"No, why?"

"Her house was vandalized last
night."

Moira paled. "Is she all
right? Was she there? Was she hurt?"

"No, we came home afterwards.
The cops came and investigated, then she spent the night at my house."

"Oh."

The look in Moira's bugged-out eyes
was so funny. "She's all right." He could read the meaning in that "oh,"
but he wasn't going to kiss and tell.

"I'll try to call her as soon
as possible."

"Good. And thanks, Moira. I'll
probably see you tonight." With that, they left Ollie's and went their
separate ways.

Chapter Eleven

Phoebe tried to enter her house
when she got home from work but found that someone—Marc—had changed the locks
on the front and back doors. Problem was that she didn't have the new keys.

"Shit," she muttered
exhaustedly. She just wanted to climb into her bed, pull the covers up over her
head, and go to sleep. The night before had been so strange with its ups and
downs, highs and lows.

Her skin crawled at the memory of
the ruined furniture. The rental house came furnished. Now she'd have to pay to
replace it all, since she didn't have insurance. She closed her eyes,
struggling to control the fear and anger at being the target of this vandal.
Could it really have been done by Butch? Is
he that crazy?

"Phoebe."

She whirled at the soft, husky
voice. Marc stood at the bottom of her porch steps.

"You look dead-tired, honey.
Come over with me and take a nap."

She gave him a wary look. He was
sweet and protective which was wonderful coming from a man like him—gorgeous,
nice, hunky, and a great kisser. And nothing like Butch Wilcox.

But she had plans for her future
and her career that didn't include getting caught up in a serious romance. Not even
heavy-duty sex or any talk of commitment. Nothing more than mild flirtation and
the understanding that she might leave at any moment for New York or Hollywood.

"Hey." He held his palms
up in surrender. "You can just nap, nothing more."

She lifted her brows at his
innocent smile, even warier of him now.

"I mean it. I think you know
what I want, but I'm not such an evil guy that I'd take advantage of you."

He looked earnest and extremely
sexy at the same time. She was so tempted, but she was also pooped. Tears
trembled in her eyes.

He put an arm around her and
steered her across the street to his house. "I'm putting you to bed. I'll
stay in the living room, I promise. You'll sleep and feel better for your
performance tonight."

She wasn't so sure she could fall
asleep that well, but after he made sure she was comfortable she closed her
eyes.

When she opened them again it was
dusky in the bedroom. It wasn't her bedroom, but she knew where she was. Low
voices, probably from the TV, sounded from the living room. She rolled to her
side and punched the pillow for comfort, not ready to get up. She sniffed. Was
that the aroma of tomato sauce? Her stomach rumbled.

A quick glance at the clock told
her she still had a couple hours before her set. So she used the bathroom and
headed toward the kitchen, still in the wrinkled clothes she'd gone to work in
that morning.

Marc stood at the stove stirring a
pot with a long wooden spoon. She gazed in amusement at the towel tucked into
the front waistband of his jeans.

"Hi. That smells delicious."

He glanced over his shoulder,
smiled, and said, "Come on. Sit down, and I'll fix you a plate."

She took a place at the kitchen
table. "Are you a good cook?"

"Ha! No. I make one thing.
Here you go." He dramatically presented rotini pasta smothered in tomato
sauce with mushrooms. "This is it. Well I can also grill a burger or
steak." He grabbed a plate for himself and set it down across the table
from her. "Wine? Pop? Beer?"

"Water is fine. I don't drink
before I sing."

"Ice?" He motioned to the
freezer.

"Yeah, thanks." They ate
in silence for a while. It was nice, companionable.

She checked her watch. "I've
got to get to the club."

"I met with Moira today."

"You did? About the break-in?"

"I mentioned it. She was going
to call you."

Her hands fluttered around, her
gaze shifting. "I guess my phone's in my purse. I haven't heard it ring. I've
been pretty distracted. Do they have any clues?"

"Nothing that I know of yet."

"I don't get it. Why were you
talking to her?"

"I'll explain later. You've
got to go."

Torn, she wondered if his meeting
with Moira had something to do with the question about his parents' deaths. But
she wasn't sure she knew him well enough to pry.
Or
if they should become more personally and physically involved.

Yeah,
your career…

***

Being on stage that night at
Marietty's only reconfirmed her career aspirations. She sang, vamped a little
for the crowd, shimmied the fringe on her gown. This was where she belonged.
This was her dream. She knew it every time she took the stage. Never doubted
it. And two sets later, her confidence in herself hadn't disappeared.

After cleaning off her makeup in
the tiny backstage bathroom, she opened the door to join her friends out in the
club. And there was Butch. His bulk seemed magnified, filling the narrow
hallway right outside. His arm rested on the doorframe completely blocking her
way. She jumped back, startled at seeing him so close. All she could eke out
was his name.

"Have you thought over what I
said to you the other night?"

Good
God! What part of, "I will not marry you. Don't call me again," doesn't
he understand?
"I thought I gave you my answer. You know my plans
revolve around my career. I'm not staying in B Falls indefinitely. You've
always known that."

He grabbed her arms, his fingers
digging into her shoulders, and shook her. Gasping, she wrenched her hands up
to ward him off. Before she could say anything, he bent down, his face so close
to hers that his fetid breath made her queasy.

"Listen lady, you'll never
make it in the big-time. You think you're so good and your friends," he
sneered, "just mindlessly encourage you. They're not doing you any favors.
I'm telling you the truth. You're just a small-town singer. You'll never make
it big, so why try?"

"Butch! Let me go. You're hurting
me."

He ignored her and squeezed harder.
"I'll be rich soon. My dad owns so much land in this burg, and I'm going
into business with him. I can give you anything you want. You'd be a fool to
turn me down."

His angry spittle hit her face, but
she couldn't lift her arms to wipe it off. Not only did he have her shoulders
in his grip, he'd pushed her against the rough doorframe. She lifted her foot
to kick him with the sharp point of her stiletto, but was thrown off balance
before she could connect with his shin.

Butch seemed to spin around as if
he were a marionette. Then Marc's broad shoulders stood between her and Butch.
He pushed Butch away, hard enough so he bounced off an adjacent wall. Marc
balled up his fists but didn't throw a punch.

"Rahn, what the…? Who the hell
do you think you are interfering between me and my woman?"

"Your woman or not, you have
no right to manhandle her."

"I'm not his woman!"
Phoebe sputtered, throwing herself at Marc's back to get around him.

"There you go, Wilcox. The lady
said no."

Phoebe pushed her way between the
two men. When Marc lunged toward Butch, she put a hand on his chest to stop
him. "Marc, it's okay."

"It's not okay. He was hurting
you."

"I mean I can manage him now.
Butch, you'd better go. I've given you my answer. I have no plans to marry
anyone. And that's final." She glared at him and at the same time could
feel Marc's heart pump under her palm, could feel his fiery determination to
protect her and punish Butch.

Her own heart thumped sluggishly as
she nervously waited to see if he'd actually leave. Butch was a strange man. In
some ways, he was like a lost little boy who then turned into someone
horrifying. He was always using his father as leverage to entice her to be with
him. Mr. Wilcox and his money were the last things that interested her. Butch
using that to attract her would never work.

Butch lunged toward her. "You'll
be sorry you didn't accept me, Phoebe."