Weak Flesh (6 page)

Meghan hesitated, not liking to approach the Carvers with the Nolans there. She held no rancor toward Mrs. Nolan, who was a tiny bird of a woman, so frail in appearance she hardly seemed capable of walking without her husband's assistance.

But Mr. Nolan was another matter. Meghan had no rationale for her feelings, but whenever Nolan looked her way, she felt a chill as if a chip of ice lodged in her neck had trickled down her spine as it melted.

A foolish notion she'd once hinted at to Nell, but her friend had laughed merrily as if the comment were a huge joke. Nell often kept company with Emily, Mr. Nolan's stepdaughter, and was young enough at heart to enjoy playing games with the eight-year-old girl. Nell had been a great help to Mrs. Nolan, who often took to her bed for days with the slightest discomfort or ailment.

"Mrs. Carver," Meghan said warmly, pressing her hands onto one of the woman's, "I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do?"

Her father and Reverend Jolly, who was anything but jovial with his dour face and puritanical demeanor, approached the five of them, Mrs. Jolly trailing limply behind. He addressed Mr. Nolan and ignored the women.

"Good day, Mr. Nolan, good day, so good of you to visit the poor Carvers in their bereavement. Visiting the poor in spirit, isn't that what the scripture admonishes us to do?"

Meghan clenched her teeth. She cared even less for Reverend Jolly than Mr. Nolan, and wondered briefly if she was perhaps slightly too critical of human nature. She quickly cast the thought aside.

Jolly fawned over the wealthy members of his congregation and quite ignored the less monetarily fortunate ones. Tradesmen, self-made men, and dirt-poor families were apparently the lesser of God's children in the Reverend's eyes.

Meghan felt the pressure of her father's fingers on her arm, a warning to control what he termed the black Irish temper inherited from her mother. Since Elizabeth Bailey had died when Meg was merely four, she could neither confirm nor deny her father's assertion. However, she suspected her strong opinions and quickness of temperament came from her father who'd reared her alone these nineteen years.

Meghan made herself relax. "Good afternoon, Reverend Jolly," she said sweetly, drawing his attention to her. "How is the work of shepherding the Lord's flock coming along?"

"A joyful burden, Miss Bailey, a joyful burden." The Reverend's eyes slid over her and drew Meg's attention to the right where she saw Marshal Gage step from the foyer.

He'd surely heard her remark. Did she detect a quirk at the corner of his mouth? His cool gray eyes, the color of the Carolina sky during the onset of a hurricane, locked with hers, but revealed nothing of his thoughts.

In a quick flash she had a memory of one terrible fall when the Carolina coast was beset with numerous tropical storms. She saw herself at eight, young enough to be terrified of the howling wind and the ugly cyclonic rains, huddled on the empty porch. Saw Tucker, youthful and impossibly handsome, reach out to rescue her like a shining knight.

That was the year she'd become slavishly devoted to Gage. Then he'd left for West Point, he'd certainly forgotten all about the plain, skinny girl he'd saved, and she'd put every thought of Tucker Gage aside.

Well, almost, she amended silently.

Ignoring the eye contact with Gage, Meghan pulled Mabel Carver aside. "I'm so sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Carver."

The bereaved mother's eyes were puffy above high cheek bones and a fine, straight nose. Clearly Nell had gotten her golden looks from Mrs. Carver, although the mother was now a pale imitation of the beauty her daughter had been.

"It's no bother, dear." Mrs. Carver daubed at the tip of her red nose. "What can I do for you?"

Meghan hated lying of any kind, but she considered this particular deceit a necessary one, the proverbial ox in the mire. "I wonder if I might look around Nell's bedroom?"

At the woman's startled look, Meghan hurried on, "I believe I left a pair of gloves there the last time I visited. I wouldn't bother you, but they belonged to my mother."

She bit her lip and glanced downward, unable to sustain eye contact in the face of such a blatant falsehood, especially one which involved her poor, dead mother.

To insure the authenticity of her prevarication, Meghan carried in her purse an extra pair of gloves which were old enough to give credence to the lie. She intended to claim she'd found them in Nell's room. What good luck!

What she was really after, of course, was a clue. Any kind would do. But she must find something that would give proof to her confidence that Nell did not drown accidentally.

Someone killed her friend Nell.
Meghan was certain of it.

#

Gage scrutinized the visitors scattered about the room. He'd intended only to inform the Carvers that Nell's body was now at the funeral home ready for burial. When he'd pulled his gig by the field, however, he'd seen several carriages and a single automobile waiting by the side of the road, and become curious to see who came to offer condolences to the Carvers.

The group of condolers was small. Dr. Bailey and his daughter. Mr. and Mrs. Nolan, a local banker. The Reverend Jolly and his wife. The veterinarian and his wife. While Gage stood in the foyer gazing toward the buffet laid out beneath the window, another couple came in, young people, a man and a woman, whom he did not know.

He caught a glimpse of Meghan Bailey. Meddling again, no doubt, even though by virtue of Nell Carver's close friend, Bailey had every right to be here. Her mutinous stare told him she was likely clashing with Reverend Jolly, a man for whom she had the fiercest disregard.

Still, Bailey possessed an uncanny intuition about people and he might do well to pay attention to her opinions. After all, she'd had been born and raised for most of her life in Tuscarora, while he'd left for many years before returning last year to take the position of town marshal, a rather uncontested win for an elected position. The former law enforcement officer had died in office and apparently no one else wanted the job.

Gage smiled thinly and stepped up to the circle of people near the library. From the corner of his eye he observed Bailey speak in low tones to Mrs. Carver and wondered what the devil she was up to as she ascended the stairs, leaving Mrs. Carver on the bottom step.

#

"What the devil are you doing in here?" Mr. Carver's voice boomed from the doorway of Nell's bedroom on the second level. Meghan jumped and nearly dropped the crystal bird she'd picked up from the night table near the large, four-poster bed.

"Mr. Carver! You startled me." She wracked her brain furiously trying to recall her reason for being in Nell's bedroom, but the lie had fled her mind.

Her mouth went dry. Although she liked him well enough, she'd always been a little afraid of Mr. Carver. Large, barrel shaped, and thick of limb, he'd seemed like a giant troll to her when she was a girl and played with Nell at the Carver residence.

Two years younger than her, Nell had long ago hinted at something earthy and decadent about her father, but Meghan had passed it over as the fanciful chatter of a nine-year-old girl. Clearly her father adored her. He showered her shamelessly with baubles and gifts for no reason at all, often slighting Susan and the two younger daughters in his devotion to Nell.

Carver's face turned a mottled red as he advanced toward Meghan. "Put that down!" Outrage clouded his voice and he advanced another step toward her. "Why are you here in Ellen's room?"

"Harold, don't berate the poor girl." Mrs. Carver peered suddenly around the doorjamb. "Meghan left an article of clothing here the last time she visited and I gave her permission to search for it." She frowned vaguely. "A scarf or something, wasn't it, dear?"

"Gloves," Meghan said quickly.

Suddenly Tucker Gage's calm, practical voice drew everyone's attention to the hallway where he stood at the top of the staircase. "What's going on? Why is everyone congregating upstairs?"

Carver glared at each of them in turn. "Nothing's going on," he said shortly and stormed off down the stairs.

Mrs. Carver shook her head, a sad smile on her face. "He's distraught," she explained and waved both her hands toward Gage in a beckoning gesture. "Meghan's looking for her mother's gloves. Perhaps you can assist her, Marshal Gage."

With another forlorn smile, she whirled around and followed her husband down the hall.

Several awkward moments passed while Gage pierced Meghan with those serious gray eyes, now as cool as the wintry day outside. She felt as if she were eight again, not in need of rescue from the hurricane storm this time, but caught in some child's naughtiness.

"Do I need to ask?" Gage drawled shrewdly.

Chapter 7

"I don't know what you mean," Meghan huffed. "I'm simply looking for a pair of gloves I left here before ... before Nell died."

"Try again, Bailey," he suggested without rancor. "You don't have a pair of gloves belonging to your mother."

"Don't call me ... " She sighed, sank onto the edge of the bed, and returned the crystal bird to its proper place. "Oh, all right. I'm looking for a clue."

Gage frowned at her.
Christ Jesus, would the girl never cease to meddle?
"I thought I made it clear you weren't to get involved in this investigation."

"This may surprise you, Tucker Gage," she said haughtily, "but I don't obey every word you say as if it were a message handed down from Sinai."

God help him.
He took a deep breath and held his temper.

A conspiratorial tone crept into Meghan's voice. "There might be something here in Nell's room that can point to the identity of her killer."

Gage tried to sound stern in the face of Bailey's theatrics. "We haven't ascertained there
was
a killer. Nell probably fell, struck her head, and slipped into the water to drown. I'm sorry to be so blunt, Bailey, but that's likely what happened."

"Maybe," she argued, "but not with certainty. The coroner's report suggests otherwise by naming James Wade."

"How the hell did you hear that?"

She lifted one side of her clever mouth. "I have ways," she answered smugly. "And anyway, you surely don't believe Wade killed Nell."

"Why not?"

"James Wade hasn't the brains God gave a sheep."

"Unlike you, I don't jump to conclusions. I prefer to look at the evidence," Gage retorted.

"Exactly!" Bailey answered triumphantly.

Gage ignored her gloating. Since they were already here, he might as well exploit Bailey's very fine mind. "What specifically are you looking for?"

At her surprised look, he hastened to explain. "I'm not giving my approval."

He looked over his shoulder through the open door. "But since we're both here and no one else is about, we may as well ... what
are
you looking for?"

"If I knew that, I wouldn't have to look, now would I?" She flounced off the bed and rummaged through the night table.

"You do know that I conducted a thorough search of this room the morning after Nell disappeared?" he reminded her.

"Yes, and searched like a man, I imagine," Meg muttered, turning to the top drawer of the bureau and peering into it.

"What does that mean?"

"It means you are a man," she answered in studied patience, "and therefore you looked for items a man would think are important."

Her logic confused him. "And you intend to – to what?"

"Look for something that I know, as a woman, would have significance to Nell."

"Such as?"

"I don't know yet, Gage!" She slammed the drawer shut and moved her way down to the second and the third ones. "If I did, I shouldn't have to prevaricate about being in Nell's room."

Gage approached the giant wardrobe on the opposite wall and opened the light-colored doors to expose a wooden dowel hung with a number of feminine garments. Handkerchiefs, shawls, and other items were stacked on several shelves.

The faint scent of lavender and cedar rose from inside the cabinet, the odor still pungent after these many days. He separated the garments one at a time, although he'd done this during his initial search of Nell's room.

The girl's shoes were lined up on the floor of the wardrobe. He picked up each shoe and turned it over in his hand, examining the soles and thrusting his fingers inside them all the way to the toes. As he knew he would, he found nothing.

Bailey peered around his arm, unable to see over his shoulder. "You're examining the inside of her shoes?" She crunched her face as though such a notion was completely foreign to her.

"Have you never hid something in your shoe?" he asked curiously.

She took the blue slipper from his hands and looked at it with interest.

"No," she said slowly, "I've never thought of that. To hid something in your shoe? That must be something only small boys do, don't you think?"

Gage relaxed enough to laugh, realizing she was likely correct. If boys hid items in their shoes, where then, did girls hide their secret collections? "Do girls have special hiding places?"

"Well, not in their
shoes."
 

"Where would you hide items you wished to keep hidden from the prying eyes of younger siblings?"  

Bailey arched one brow. "As you well know, I'm an only child. I have no such need."

Gage acceded with a short nod. "From your father, then?"

She looked indignant. "Why should I wish to hide anything from Papa?"

"Don't be obtuse, Bailey," he said impatiently. "Obviously Nell kept secrets from her parents and her sisters."

Meghan frowned and pursed her lips, tapping one finger against a mouth he'd never before noticed was naturally rosy and lushly full.

"Yes," she answered slowly, "Nell kept secrets. Even from me." Her face lifted. "A diary?"

"I didn't find one."

"Letters?"

Gage shook his head.

Meghan collapsed into a wing chair upholstered in a soft green silk pattern and stared at the wall over Nell's bed. Gage could see the wheels turning in her brain and sat on the edge of the bed to await her conclusions.