The Rebel's Return (10 page)

As the evening wore on, Maddie could sense exhaustion claiming Dylan. His broad shoulders slumped, his eyelids drooped occasionally, and she noticed he kept looking at his watch. She suspected
that he hadn't slept more than a few hours each night since the judge's murder. And today, Dylan had gone through a lengthy funeral, then buried his father and spent the past three hours being a host. It was time for her to graciously rid the house of the stragglers, who were still drinking and reminiscing.

Fifteen minutes later Maddie waved goodbye to the string quartet as she ushered them out the back door. Only the catering staff remained to clean up.

Turning to Racine Borden, the caterer, Maddie said, “Thank you. Everything was lovely. Just perfect.” Then she added, “I'd like a fresh pot of decaf coffee brought to the study, please. And when y'all finish up, just lock the back door on your way out.”

“Yes, Ms. Delarue. And thank you for using Borden Catering.”

As she entered the living room, Maddie found Dylan removing his jacket. “The caterers are finishing up and should be out of here soon. Until then, why don't we go sit down in the study? I've asked Ms. Borden to bring us some decaf coffee.”

Dylan whipped off his tie and undid the top two buttons on his shirt. “That sounds like a good idea. I'm dead on my feet.”

Maddie slipped her arm through his and walked him down the hall and into the study. “This has been a long day. You look beat.” She led him to an old, overstuffed sofa. “Sit and relax.”

He did as she requested and sat, leaned his head
against the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. “God, I'm tired.”

“You haven't been sleeping, have you?” Maddie sat beside him.

He lifted his eyelids and gave her a sidelong glance. “I can't begin to tell you how many times since Dad's murder that I've dreamed about his body floating in the pond. And like most dreams, they've been surreal and all mixed up. I keep hearing laughter. And seeing fingers pointing. And twice—” he swallowed hard “—twice I've dreamed that the townsfolk lynched me. Strung me up at the courthouse.”

“Oh, Dylan.” Scooting closer, she grabbed his hand. “No rational person would believe you killed your father.”

He squeezed her hand, then let go and rubbed his forehead. Apparently overcome with frustration, he slammed his fist down on his thigh. “I didn't kill my dad, but maybe I could have done something to have prevented his murder.”

“What do you think you could have done?” She recognized the emotion that rode him so hard—guilt. After her father died, she'd felt guilty, but had eventually come to realize that it was a common reaction among family and close friends when a person died. In the weeks and months after Jock Delarue's death, she had thought of all the things she wished she'd said and done while he was alive. No doubt Dylan was now experiencing that same sense of regret.

“If I hadn't let so many years go by before I came home, then I'd have been here for him when he needed me. If we'd had a long-standing father-and-son relationship, I'd have known if somebody was threatening him. He would have told me if he was in trouble.”

“It's only natural to wish you could have done something that would have changed things.”

“Is it?” He turned to Maddie, his gaze locking with hers. “You have no idea how guilty I feel. I keep thinking that it's all my fault, that if I'd been a better son…” Dylan's voice cracked. He jerked around, putting his back to her.

Oh, God, help him, Maddie prayed. He's hurting in the worst way possible. When she laid her hand on his back, he tensed.

Dylan cleared his throat. “Why don't you go on home? You've got to be exhausted, too.”

“I don't want to leave you alone.”

He snorted. “Why? Do you think I'll fall apart without you?”

“No, of course not. It's just that—”

He whirled around, tension and anger etched on his features. “Look, Red, I've had about as much as I can stand of your sympathy. Stop hovering over me. You're driving me nuts.”

Maddie felt as if he'd slapped her. She stared at him, her gaze questioning his unkind comments.

Racine Borden knocked, then opened the study door
and brought in a silver coffee service and placed the tray on the desk by the windows. “Here's the coffee you requested. We're almost finished and will be leaving shortly.”

“Thank you,” Maddie said, then rose from the sofa, walked over to the desk and poured herself a cup of coffee.

The minute the caterer left the room, Maddie asked, “Would you like some?”

“No. I don't want any coffee. I want to be left alone.”

She glanced down at the china cup she held in her hand. “Do you mind if I drink this before I leave?”

“Hell, Maddie, just go, will you? Fix yourself some damn coffee at home.”

What was wrong with him? she asked herself. Why all of a sudden had he turned on her, venting his frustration and rage directly at her? Think about it, Maddie. He almost broke down and cried in front of you just a few minutes ago. He's let you get too close, let you see his vulnerability, something most men hate with a passion. He wants to warn you off before he loses control. The last thing on earth a man like Dylan Bridges would want was for someone to see him in a moment of weakness.

“I'll go.” She placed the cup and saucer on the silver tray. “I realize you'll be just fine without me.” Turn the tables on him, she told herself. Let him know that you're the one in need right now. Let him show
you his strength. “But I'm not so sure how well I'll do without you.”

She walked to the door, then paused and glanced over her shoulder. “I guess wanting to stay here with you was selfish on my part. I dread going home to my big, empty condo. I'm not quite as strong as you are. I hate being alone when I'm so sad and unhappy and—”

“Drink your coffee before you go,” he said.

“No. I…no, thanks. I'll be all right. I'm used to being alone. It's just that for tonight, I'd hoped—”

While Maddie watched in astonishment, Dylan rose from the sofa and lunged across the room. She held her breath as he grabbed her, then she sighed when he pulled her into his arms. She leaned against him as his embrace surrounded her and he pressed his cheek against hers.

“I'm sorry, honey. I wasn't thinking about anybody except myself.”

She slipped her arms around his waist and rested her head on his chest. He stroked her back soothingly. Bless him, he was comforting her. He was the one in charge now, the strong, commanding male.

“Come on back.” He led her to the sofa, seated her and then went to the desk and picked up her cup and saucer. “Here you go, Red. Drink your coffee.” After handing her coffee to her, he returned to the desk and prepared himself a cup. “We had a nice crowd here tonight, didn't we? I was surprised that so
many people showed up. I figured they'd stay away in droves. Maybe everybody in town doesn't think I killed my father.”

“No one thinks that,” she said, knowing her statement was a little white lie. But what did it matter as long as it made Dylan feel better?

They sat together on the sofa for hours and drank the decaf coffee and talked, both making sure the conversation never became too personal and didn't delve too deeply into Dylan's emotions. Sometime before midnight, they both fell asleep sitting together in the study. At two, Maddie woke and realized she was cuddled up against Dylan, her head on his shoulder. She stood, stretched and gazed down at him. He stirred, but didn't wake, then he slumped over so that his head touched the arm rest. Maddie lifted his long legs and placed them on the sofa. When she removed his shoes, he murmured something unintelligible. She lifted a large knit afghan from the back of the sofa and draped it over Dylan.

“Thanks for needing me,” she whispered as she leaned down to kiss his cheek. “And thanks for not seeing through my little ploy.”

Leaving him sleeping soundly, Maddie let herself out and headed home in the wee hours of the warm August morning.

I
n her home office, Maddie gathered her files together and placed them in her briefcase. The annual Labor Day barbeque at the country club was only a couple of weeks away and there was still a great deal to do. Thankfully, Alicia had turned out to be a godsend. The young woman was, without a doubt, the best assistant Maddie had ever had. And this past week having a topnotch assistant had been vital, freeing Maddie several afternoons to go off with Dylan in their continuing efforts to unearth information that might lead them to Carl Bridges' murderer.

So far, they'd come up with nothing that put them any closer to solving the crime. True to his word, Hart had kept them posted on the police investigation, which seemed to be going nowhere. And with each passing day, Dylan became more disheartened. But the more hopeless things seemed, the more determined he became not to stop searching, despite Hart's cautions to let the police handle the matter.

As she walked through the living room, Maddie deposited her briefcase and purse on the mahogany table in the foyer, then headed straight toward the deli
cious aroma coming from the kitchen. Anticipating Thelma's homemade cinnamon rolls, Maddie swung open the door and followed the spicy scent. Thelma emptied a pan of freshly baked rolls onto a plate in the center of the oval, oak table.

“Good morning.” Maddie sniffed, sighed and pulled out a chair. “To what do I owe the honor of being served cinnamon rolls this morning?”

Thelma dumped the hot pan in the sink, then poured a cup of gourmet coffee into a ceramic mug and placed it on the paisley placemat in front of Maddie. “You said that as if I never prepare fresh-baked rolls for you.”

“You don't.” Before Thelma could defend herself, Maddie added, “And it's because I've asked you not to. Your pies and cakes are delicious, too, but so tempting.” Maddie patted her round hips. “Every extra bite of sugar goes right here. It's the curse of all short, curvy women.”

“Humph.” Thelma surveyed Maddie's figure. “You're built like a goddess and you know it.”

Maddie grinned. Thelma was always good for her ego, just like a mother should be. Everyone else's mother except her own. Nadine tended to notice whenever Maddie gained a pound and never missed an opportunity to tell her.

“How's Dylan?” Thelma asked.

“He's fine. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. I've kind of been expecting to see him here for breakfast one morning.”

Maddie's mouth dropped open. “Ah, I see. You actually baked these cinnamon rolls for Dylan.”

Thelma shrugged. “Well, you two have been more or less attached at the hip since he came back to town, and you've been gallivanting all over the place with him since the judge's funeral. I figured that sooner or later he'd spend the night here.”

“I don't usually hop into bed with a man after seeing him for only two weeks.” Maddie lifted her mug and sipped the coffee, then reached over and pinched off a bite from one of the hot rolls.

“You don't usually hop into bed with a man after seeing him for two years,” Thelma countered. “But Dylan Bridges is different. He's not like all the other men who've paraded in and out of your life.”

“Yes, he is different. Dylan and I are friends.”

“Friends and lovers.”

Maddie huffed. “We are not lovers.”

“Not yet, but it's only a matter of time. You're falling in love with that man and there's no need for you to deny it.”

“I'm not. I—I like Dylan a lot, but I don't intend to let myself fall in love with him. He and I agree that we're both lousy at relationships. But we need each other right now. As friends.”

“Just be sure that when y'all finally get around to making love, that you use the proper protection.”
Thelma separated one of the rolls from the others, placed it on a small plate and set it in front of Maddie, then handed her a fork. “You could wind up pregnant and unmarried. That's probably what happened to little baby Lena's mama.”

“My goodness, Thelma, I'm thirty-three, not sixteen. I do know how to prevent pregnancy and protect myself from disease.”

“Speaking of little Lena—”

“Ah-ha!” Maddie pointed her fork at Thelma. “You're dying to tell me some bit of juicy gossip you've collected from that grapevine of busybody housekeepers and maids that seems to have more news than the
Clarion.
”

“We have inquiring minds and we're all interested in our fellow man, which is our Christian duty.”

Maddie grinned, then sliced off a piece of gooey roll and lifted it to her mouth. Gossip was to Thelma what breathing was to other humans; without it, she'd die.

“Do you or do you not want to hear the news?”

Chewing and enjoying, Maddie nodded.

“Well, the private eye that the golf foursome who found Baby Lena hired—I think his name is Aston—found out from the blood tests that little Lena has something called thalassemia.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Maddie ate another bite of cinnamon roll.

“In case you don't know, it's some funny type of
anemia that's common to people of Mediterranean descent. And that means either the child's mama or daddy is Mediterranean. Maybe Italian. What do you think about that?”

“I think it's very interesting.”

“If Lena belongs to one of those Mercados or that Del Brio man or some of that bunch, then she's better off staying with Flynt and Josie Carson for the rest of her life.” Thelma poured herself a mug of coffee and sat across from Maddie. “And if Dylan keeps sniffing around the wrong Italians, trying to find out if Carl Bridges' murder was mob related, then he could wind up in big trouble—or maybe dead like the judge.”

“How did you know that Dylan has been—Forget I asked. Of course you'd know. I'm surprised that the police haven't come to you for help, considering your network of domestic spies.”

Thelma laughed, a boisterous cackle that projected loudly through the condo. “I was going to share some more news, but since you're being so snippy, I just might not tell you.”

Maddie gazed pleadingly across the table at Thelma. “I wasn't being snippy. I was paying you a compliment.”

“A backhanded compliment if I ever heard one.”

“Ah, come on, Thelma, give. You don't want me to be the last to know the latest gossip, do you?”

“Well, I suppose not.” Thelma sipped her coffee, eyed Maddie over the rim of the mug, then sighed
dramatically and said, “Another of the prime daddy candidates has been eliminated by the DNA tests.”

“Which one?”

“Dr. Michael O'Day,” Thelma said. “But I hear they're doing more testing before they officially eliminate Tyler Murdoch. Personally, I don't think he's the daddy either.”

“Are you by any chance taking odds on who the father is?”

“It's just speculation, but rumor has it that the other prime candidates are wondering if maybe Luke Callaghan is the proud papa. And you know that nobody's seen hide nor hair of Luke lately.”

“Gee, Thelma, I'm glad that Dylan and I only have a murder mystery to solve and not a paternity puzzle to figure out.”

“Could be there's a connection between the two.” Thelma lifted her brows and widened her eyes in a what-do-you-think-of-that gesture.

“You're the second person who's suggested that the judge's death might somehow be linked to Baby Lena.” Maddie leaned forward and looked directly at her housekeeper. “What could the connection possibly be?”

“That I don't know.” Thelma finished off her coffee, scooted back her chair and stood. “Might not be any connection. But then again, who knows?”

Maddie opened her mouth to reply, but before she got out the first word, the phone rang.

Thelma hopped up and lifted the receiver from the wall base. “Ms. Delarue's residence.” Pause. “Yeah, sure thing. She's here.” Thelma held out the receiver. “It's Dylan.”

Maddie jumped up out of the chair, licked the tips of her fingers, then grabbed the phone. When Thelma grinned at Maddie, she made a face at her housekeeper.

“Hello,” Maddie said.

“Hi, Red. Any chance you can take off from work around lunchtime and give me a couple of hours?”

“Sure. I can manage a long lunch break today.” Actually, she couldn't, not with all the work she'd pushed aside in the past week. But if Dylan needed her, wanted her, she was not going to let him down. Once again, she'd ask Alicia to take over. Maddie had made a mental note to give Alicia a bonus from her private account. “So, what's up?”

“I spoke to Dad's attorney, Dennis Barber, and set up a meeting today to go over the will.”

“You want me to go with you,” she said. “I can meet you there at—”

“No, let me pick you up, then afterward we can eat a late lunch together. How does that sound?”

“Sounds great.” She knew that Dylan had been putting off Dennis Barber's request for them to move forward and have the judge's will probated. He'd told her that he wasn't quite ready to face that task. She understood. Even with billions of dollars in Jock De
larue's estate, she'd found it difficult to listen to her father's last will and testament. Reading the will had made her father's death seem more final.

“Pick you up at one,” Dylan said. “And Maddie…thanks.”

The minute Maddie returned the receiver to the wall base, Thelma grinned at her. “Having a long, private lunch with Dylan today, are we?”

“Don't press your luck with me,” Maddie joked. “You could be replaced, you know.”

Thelma laughed. “Not much chance of that. I'm irreplaceable and we both know it.”

Maddie rolled her eyes heavenward. “For your information, I'm going with Dylan to Dennis Barber's office to discuss Judge Bridges' will.”

“That could be good and bad for Dylan.”

“What do you mean? How could it be bad for him?”

“I'd say the judge left Dylan everything and that would be good from one standpoint. But with Dylan being the only beneficiary, that means he'd have a motive for murder.”

“Don't be ridiculous. Who'd believe Dylan would kill his father for money? Dylan has millions and I doubt Judge Bridges did.”

“Dylan's worth millions, huh?” Thelma grinned. “I'd heard he was filthy rich, but now I know for sure.”

“Very clever. You wormed that information out of me as easy as that.” Maddie snapped her fingers.

“I didn't worm anything out of you, missy. Is it my fault that in defending Dylan you just happened to mention how rich he is?”

“The point I was making is that even if Carl Bridges left Dylan everything, the police can't possibly see that as a motive.”

“I agree. But mark my word, rumors will fly once the judge's will is probated.” When Maddie frowned, Thelma said, “There's nothing you can do about it, so stop worrying. People are going to talk. Best thing Dylan can do is ignore them.”

“I hope he doesn't hear any more whispered innuendoes. He's having a difficult enough time dealing with his father's murder without having to endure people's ridiculous speculations.”

“So, you aren't falling in love with Dylan Bridges, huh? Just listen to yourself, Maddie. You're fighting mad and ready to whip the world to protect that man. I'd say, whether you like it or not, you're a goner.”

 

After Dennis Barber read Carl Bridges' will, Dylan sat quietly in the lawyer's office, his solemn gaze riveted to the floor. Dennis cleared his throat. Dylan ignored him. Maddie wanted to tell Dennis not to push Dylan, to give him time to absorb the news that his father had indeed left his entire estate to him. The judge's net worth had been a little more than Maddie
imagined it would be, but well within the norm for a successful circuit judge who had made some wise investments.

“Do you have any questions?” Dennis asked.

Dylan glanced at the lawyer and shook his head.

“Well, then—” Dennis lifted a set of keys from his desk drawer and held them out to Dylan “—here's the keys to your father's safety deposit box at the bank. I've already notified them over at First Federal that I'm turning over the contents of Carl's box to you, as per instructions in his will.”

Dylan rose to his feet, reached out and accepted the keys. “You were Dad's co-signer on the box, right?”

“That's right.”

“Have you taken a look inside the box since Dad's death?”

“I've never looked inside the judge's safety deposit box,” Dennis replied. “I was co-signer for one reason only—so that I could turn the contents over to you.”

“Haven't the police asked about the contents?” Dylan asked.

“They did and I told them that to my knowledge, other than CDs and other such documents, the only thing in the box was another copy of Carl's will and…some personal mementos that had belonged to your mother. Her wedding band and engagement ring and some photographs of her.”

Maddie noted the tension in Dylan. The clenched jaw. The tight lips. The unfocused gaze. It was all she
could do to keep herself from putting her arm around him.

“Detective O'Brien did request that when you opened the safety deposit box, if you found anything—”

“Undoubtedly the police don't think there'll be anything of significance inside,” Dylan said. “Otherwise, they'd have gotten a court order to take a look at the contents.”

“I agree.” Dennis held out his hand to Dylan. “I'll give you a call soon. And in the meantime, if there's anything I can do, don't hesitate to let me know.”

Dylan shook the lawyer's hand. “Thanks.” He glanced at Maddie, then nodded toward the door.

Placing his hand at her elbow, he guided her from the office, down the corridor and to the elevator. With several other occupants already inside, neither Dylan nor Maddie spoke on the elevator's descent to the lobby. But once they were outside and in Dylan's Porsche, Maddie thought surely he would say something. He didn't. Instead he sat there behind the wheel, his eyes glazed as he stared off into nothingness.