Web of Smoke (6 page)

“Go upstairs and go to sleep, Christie. You’ll think of something to say in the morning.”

More uncertain than ever, Christie followed his orders.

Chapter Six

Melanie Blackwell had been standing at the front counter when DC Porter first walked through the door of the Palm Valley Christian Preschool. He was of average height, lean and hard, with blond hair brushing his brow in a windblown fashion. He flashed a smile that nearly stopped her heart.

He had a way about him. A way of making a moment stand still. Making a space of time so vivid that it could be recalled in an instant, complete with scent and sound.

At least that’s how it had been for her. The rest of that day Melanie replayed in her mind that first sight of him. She remembered how his cologne had drifted across the counter with the hot breeze and tantalized her with thoughts of warm skin, seasoned with a peculiar musk. She remembered how the sunshine had dappled his hair with glowing golden tints and how he moved with an animal grace even his slight limp couldn’t disguise. He’d seemed both lovely and terrifying as he approached her while the sweet sounds of children’s voices raised in song drifted down the hushed hallway.

She’d remember it all, just like it was happening again. It was the most distinct memory she’d ever have.

Later that night, it would also become the last memory she’d ever have.

As the front door closed behind DC Porter on the final morning of Melanie Blackwell’s short life, she’d seen his sparkling gaze dance to the multicolored, finger-painted blobs that decorated every inch of the lobby. He’d looked both paternal and sexy at the same time and Melanie felt quivery and sick, like a bowl of hot jelly, as she watched him. She had to remind herself that he was probably married.

DC had tilted his head, giving Melanie that riveting smile again. He put his elbows on the counter and looked right into her eyes.

It took every ounce of control that she possessed to ask, “May I help you?” without stuttering, gasping, or drooling.

“Why, yes, ma’am.”

His hand reached across the counter to shake. Placing her palm against his, chills shot down her spine. His grin seemed knowing.

“My name is DC Johnson and I would like to inquire about enrolling my son Tommy in your school,” he said.

Married. Just as she’d thought.

“I’d be happy to help you with that, Mr. Johnson. How old is Tommy?”

“He’s three, ma’am.”

“That’s just fine.” Glad to have something to do with her hands, she jotted Tommy’s name and age down on a notepad. “Please, come into my office.”

She walked around the counter and led him through a door that opened off the reception area. She paused just inside, allowing him to go first. He seemed to study the room with intent interest as he entered.

Large white cinder blocks showcased a vast assortment of crayon drawings, cutout pumpkins, crooked Santas, and unidentifiable splotches of color. Melanie called it her wall of fame and she took great pride in her display. Each year she cleared the wall for fresh works, but at home, in a scrapbook, she kept her dearest prints pressed between the pages.

On one side of the room, plastic shelves held neatly stacked toys. Tot-sized chairs huddled around a bookshelf crammed full of giant picture and coloring books, fairy tales, and nursery rhymes. Windows on two walls caught the scarce afternoon breeze and chased it across the green indoor-outdoor carpet to the far corner, where her “office” squatted as if in apology. A relic of a desk, cleared of all but a black lamp and beige telephone with a rotary dial, faced off two green vinyl straight-backed chairs. Giant decal flowers sprouted from the front and sides of both the desk and an ancient metal filing cabinet that stood guard nearby.

The relic between them, they both sat.

Suddenly nervous to be alone with him, Melanie started talking right away. “I assume Tommy is potty trained?’’

DC gave her a broad smile and wink. “Trained him myself.”

“Yourself?”

“My wife passed when he was born. I’ve raised the little guy as best I could.”

A widower.

“That’s quite an accomplishment,” she said, trying not to smile.

“You aren’t a-kidding.”

His chuckle gave way to an awkward silence that held a few moments hostage. Wishing for something witty to say, she stared at her hands clasped on the desk. She felt his gaze touch her face like the softest of feathers. How did he do that?

Flushing, she cleared her throat and launched into her standard monologue.

“What can I tell you about PalmValley? It’s a loving and safe environment for your son. Our classes have a maximum of eight children, which is below the twelve allowed by the State of California. All of our employees are licensed, except the kitchen staff, of course. We provide a hot lunch after prayer and two healthy snacks a day. The children are offered a variety of stimulating activities including music time, game time, and, of course, story time. Where is your son now, Mr. Johnson?”

He leaned forward, resting his wrists on his knees. His tanned hands dangled between, fingertips lightly touching. She found herself staring at them, as if mesmerized by their rhythmic action.

“Tommy’s with his grandma in South Carolina. I’ll be moving him out West next month. I wish it were sooner, though. I miss him a fair bit.”

“It’s hard to be away from them.”

“You got kids?”

“I have lots of kids,” she said.

“I mean, of your own.”

She shook her head. “Not yet.”

“How come?”

She shifted in her seat. “For starters, I’m not married.”

“You aren’t married?
Why, ma’am, are the boys blind out here or are you just picky?”

It was blatant flattery, but looking into those crystal clear eyes, she felt a pleased smile spread across her face. He hadn’t even seemed to notice her flat chest. She took another deep breath and another shot at composure.

“Would you like a tour before we get to the paperwork?’’

He gave her an unexpectedly excited smile.

“Why, yes ma’am, I would.”

She held the door for him and beamed back his infectious grin. Guiding him down the hallway, she showed him the classrooms, the lunchroom, the fire escapes. Leaning over her shoulder, he peered intently through the square windows centered in each door. His heat burned through her clothes and touched her skin. He had a strange odor under the mask of his cologne. Different, but not offensive.

By the time he followed her back to her office, all of her senses were tuned just to him.

Taking her seat again, she asked, “So, Mr. Johnson, what do you think?”

“I think you’ve got a fine little establishment, ma’am.”

“Good. I’m sure Tommy will be very happy here. Let’s get to that paperwork so we can get him enrolled. It just so happens we’ll have an opening next month,” she said. “But it won’t last long. We stay full here.”

When he didn’t answer right away she looked up from her search for a pen to catch his gaze traveling over the gunmetal gray cabinet on her right. A questioning frown wrinkled his forehead.

Pausing, she followed his fixed look over her shoulder and back again. As if caught in an embarrassing blunder, his gaze snapped to her face and the frown vanished like a fleeting wisp of smoke. He coughed softly into his palm.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Johnson?”

“No, ma’am. Quite the contrary. I was just admiring the way you cheered up your cabinet with them flowers. What were you saying?”

“I was just explaining that I’ll need emergency information and a deposit to hold Tommy’s place for next month.”

“To tell the truth, Melanie—may I call you Melanie? I’m not anywhere near settled yet. Fact is, I’m still living in a hotel, eating food I have to unwrap first.” His hand muffled another cough. “I’d be happy to put down a deposit, though, if cash’s all right. I haven’t got my bank picked out yet. I’ll fill out your papers when I bring Tommy in.”

“Of course. That’ll be just fine, Mr. John—”

“Please, call me DC.”

He grinned another blush out of her. Breaking free of his mesmerizing gaze, she bent to her bottom desk drawer and removed a small receipt book. “I’ll need fifty dollars and cash is fine. I’ll give you a receipt. Should I make this to DC Johnson or is DC a nickname?”

“No ma’am. That’s my name,” he answered, passing his money across the desk to her.

“Really? But what does DC stand for?”

“Why, for Devoted Christian. ‘Course there’s some that say the Devil’s Choirboy is closer to the truth.” He winked. “But I don’t pay them any attention.”

“That’s quite a range of opinion,” she said, casting a flirtatious look his way and intercepting another stare at the cabinet. Piqued, she tried harder. “Which description best suits you, I wonder?”

“I imagine you’ll have to make up your own mind about that, ma’am.”

A slow heat rose from the tips of her toes, traveling with dizzying speed to her face. On sensory overload, she tried to keep focused on the conversation at hand.

“Do you have any questions about the school, DC?”

Casually, he crossed his legs. “I assume the children are never left alone?”

“That’s right. Never. You won’t have to worry about Tommy’s safety here, DC. Safety is our number one rule.”

Cough.
“How about when they’re napping?”

“The children are monitored at all times.”

“That’s good. Can’t be too safe these days.”
Cough.

“Were you transferred to San Diego, DC?”

“That’s right. My company transfer—”
Cough, cough.
“Do you think I could have a glass of water, ma’am?”

“Of course,” she said, jumping to her feet. “I’ll be right back.”

DC stayed where he was until the door clicked shut behind her. As her heels tapped the hallway floor, DC bounded out of his chair and raced to the filing cabinet. His heart banging against his ribs, he grabbed the handle of the top drawer and pulled it open. The metal squealed in protest, freezing him to the floor. He shot a look over his shoulder, half expecting her to crash through the door and demand to know what he was doing, but she didn’t.

Adrenaline pulsing through his system, he went back to work.

The filing system was as simplistic as Melanie Blackwell. In seconds his fingers flipped to JORDAN, JESSICA. He yanked out the file and flipped to the emergency information sheet. An old address was marked through and a new one inked in. Bingo.

Jerking his shirttail out of his pants, he shoved the file into his waistband, flush with his back. Turning, he snatched her receipt tablet off her desk, ripped out the carbon and the next few pages and closed the booklet.

Just as her shadow hovered outside the door he skidded to his chair. The papers crinkled against his back when he sat.

“Here you go, DC,” she said, handing him a Dixie cup with Big Bird on the side.

He took the water and drank. “Thank you, ma’am.”

A film of sweat covered his upper lip and he looked pale under his tan. He wiped his face, avoiding her gaze.

“Are you feeling all right, DC?” she asked, concerned.

He waved her off with his hand. “Fine, fine. Allergies.”

She nodded sympathetically and gave him a moment to recover. Moving back behind her desk, she bumped a partially opened file drawer closed with her hip. When she looked up again, the sexy southern gentleman charm had returned.

“Melanie, pardon me if I sound forward, but you mentioned that you weren’t married. I wonder if that might mean you are unattached?”

Could he see her heart leap in her chest? “That’s right.”

“Is that right? These California boys must be crazy to let you run around free. Must be the sun. They raise us smarter in the South. Melanie, I’d like to buy you dinner if I may?”

She hesitated, not wanting to seem too anxious. DC leaned forward.

“Come on, have some pity on a new guy in town. Say yes.”

She had no intention of saying anything else.

“Come on. Say yes. I’m tired of eating alone.”

“Okay, DC. Yes.”

“All right, then. What time is good for you?”

“Most of the time I’m closed up by six-thirty.”

“Six-thirty? I’ll be a bit tied up then. What do you say to a late dinner?” He waited for her nod before continuing. “Eight o’clock okay with you?”

“That sounds fine.”

“Good. Should I pick you up?”

Melanie chewed the corner of her lip, hesitating for one quick second. “That would be all right,” she said and scribbled her address on a piece of paper. “I’m just a couple of blocks from here. Do you want directions?’’

“Naw,” he said, taking her address with a grin and a wink. “I’m getting to where I can find my way around just fine. I’ll see you later tonight, then.”

“That sounds great, DC.”

She stood and walked him to the door. “Oh, DC?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“What
does
DC stand for?”

He leaned so close that she could see the large pores in his skin and feel his breath fan her face. He danced his eyebrows up and down and leered.

“Why it stands for Dangerous Criminal, ma’am. What else?”

Melanie giggled. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

Chapter Seven

He smiled. “Maybe I will tonight.”

Christie woke exhausted. She stretched, alone in a bed she had once shared with Sam. During their brief, turbulent marriage, they had slept, loved, and fought in this very room. Yet this was the first time she’d ever slept here alone. She turned her head and stared at the empty pillow beside her.

The sun, glaring through the heavy drapes, toasted the room uncomfortably. Was it late? She hoped so. It would be easier to face the day if it were already over. She lifted her groggy head and looked at the face of Sam’s ancient alarm.

Noon. Sighing, she dragged herself from bed. As she stumbled to the bathroom, where the faint scent of his soap and cologne lingered, she wondered if Sam was even home. The house seemed too quiet. She’d lived by herself for a while now. She knew what it sounded like.