Where There's Smoke (31 page)

More than Janellen and Key guessed, as long as Lara Mallory Porter remained in Eden Pass, she posed a serious threat to them and to all they held sacred.

Jody hadn't yet figured out the doctor's reason for moving here.

However, she knew with the same certainty that the sun rose in the east that it was for more than to accept Clark's legacy.
 
Unless she wanted something more, she would have turned that clinic for a quick profit and never set foot in Tackett territory.
 
She was here for a reason.

Jody dreaded learning what it was, but must before either she or one of her children walked into a trap laid by Lara Porter.

She, Jody Tackett, had come from poverty and married the richest man around.
 
She hadn't remained at the helm of an independent oil company for years, hadn't become a woman to be feared and revered, by sitting on her ass trying to figure out other people's motives.
 
She acted first, before they were given a chance.
 
A rattler struck before he was stepped on.

Jody remained awake for a long time, smoking and plotting.
 
By the time she'd smoked her last cigarette down to the filter, she had formulated her next move.

Darcy lowered her car windows.
 
The wind punished her hairdo, but it would blow away the odor of tobacco smoke that she'd absorbed in the bar.
 
That might make Fergus suspicious.
 
Smoking wasn't allowed in the nursing home where her mother resided.
 
Visits to the expensive facility provided her excellent excuses to go out at night.

She'd been going out more frequently than usual because her ego needed boosting.
 
Thanks to Mr.
 
Key Tackett, her self-esteem was shaky.

Knowing that she'd been dumped gnawed at Darcy, eating away at her self-confidence like a vicious rat.
 
That's why she wasn't having any fun lately.
 
She couldn't concentrate on any other man and wouldn't until she'd repaid Key for slinging this shit on her.

She hadn't even had the satisfaction of showing him how little she cared.
 
Oddly, he hadn't been hanging out at the popular watering holes.
 
The word around town was that he was flying a lot, chartering flights for clients from Dallas to Little Rock and as far south as Corpus Christi.
 
But he couldn't be flying all night every night.

Where was he going in between jobs?
 
How was he spending his free time?

With another woman?
 
She hadn't heard any scuttlebutt, and surely she would have.
 
His name hadn't been linked to any local woman except for .

Darcy reacted as though she'd been slapped.
 
"But that's impossible," she protested out loud.

Key Tackett and Dr. Mallory?
 
Their names had been linked when they'd flown that kid to Tyler, but that sure as hell hadn't been a lark.

On the other hand, the doctor was a renowned man-eater.
 
She'd been carrying on with her lover right under her husband's nose.
 
Even Darcy had more morals and better sense than to do that.

Some men, however, liked a woman with the spirit of adventure.

It added spiciness and suspense.
 
James Bond didn't fuck shrinking violets, did he?

She gripped the steering wheel tighter.
 
If Key was having a secret affair with his brother's mistress, Darcy would make certain that everybody in East Texas heard about it.
 
By the time she got through spreading tales, he'd be a laughingstock.
 
Taking Clark's leftovers?

Ha!
 
That would serve the bastard right.

But the rumors should contain at least a grain of truth or the laugh would be on her.
 
How could she make certain that he was sleeping with Lara Mallory?
 
She'd never even met the doctor.
 
Lara Mallory would see right through any friendly overtures.
 
She was no fool.

How could she get close to Lara Mallory without putting her on guard?

It warranted some thought, but she was confident that she'd think of a way.

Arriving home, she let herself into the house, tiptoeing and moving around in the dark to keep from waking Fergus and Heather, who were asleep upstairs.
 
She didn't want to account for the lateness of the hour unless absolutely necessary.
 
She hated lying to her husband and avoided doing so whenever possible.

Moving past the door to the family room, she noticed that the television set had been left on.
 
She went in to turn it off.
 
As she rounded the leather sofa, two startled people leaped up.
 
There were exclamations of surprise as they grappled for loose articles of clothing.

Darcy switched on the lamp, took in the situation at a glance, and angrily demanded to know-although she already did-"Iust what the hell is going on here?"
 
l'he pastor of the First Baptist Church commended Letty's soul to the Lord and said a final amen over the small white casket.

Marion Leonard's keening cry echoed across the windswept cemetery, raising goose bumps on all who heard it.
 
Jack Leonard was silent, but tears rolled down his gaunt, pale cheeks as he pulled his grieving wife away from their daughter's coffin.
 
It was a heartrending scene that deserved privacy.
 
Mourners began to disperse.

Lara had kept to the fringes of the crowd, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.
 
As she turned to leave, the white-hot flash of a hightech camera exploded near her face.
 
Instinctively she threw up her arm for protection.
 
The first blinding flash was followed by another, then a third.

"Mrs. Porter, will you comment on the Leonards' malpractice suit against you?"

"What?"
 
A microphone was thrust against her mouth.
 
She shoved it aside.
 
"I don't know what you're talking about.
 
And my name is Dr.

Mallory."

As the violet spots receded, she saw a horde of reporters blocking her path.
 
She switched directions.
 
The band flocked after her.
 
Some were obviously affiliated with TV stations-their video cameramen trotted along beside them, connected by cables.
 
Others were from newspapers; with them were the still photographers and their despised flashes.

Five years ago, she'd become well acquainted with the accoutrements of mass communication.

What was the media doing here?
 
What did they want with her?

She felt as if her nightmare was being reenacted.

"Please, let me by."

Glancing back, she saw that others attending Letty Leonard's funeral had gathered in clusters and were speaking in hushed but excited voices, gaping at the sideshow.
 
She hadn't created the spectacle but was nevertheless its unwilling star.

"Mrs.
 
Porter-" "My name is Mallory," she insisted.
 
"Dr.
 
Mallory."

"But you were married to the late U.S. Ambassador Randall Porter?"

She hurried across the neatly clipped grass toward the gravel lane where her car was parked in a line of others behind the white hearse and the limousine.

"You're the same Lara Porter who was Senator Tackett's mistress, isn't that right?"

"Please move aside."
 
Reaching her car at last, she fumbled in her handbag for her keys.
 
"Leave me alone."

"What brought you to Eden Pass, Mrs.
 
Porter?"

"It is true that Senator Tackett brought you here before his death?"

"Were you still lovers?"

"What do you know about his accidental drowning, Mrs.
 
Porter?

Was it actually a suicide?"

"Did your negligence cause the Leonard girl's death?"

She had been asked the other questions a thousand times before and had become inured to them.
 
They bounced off the armor of repetition.
 
But the last question brought her around.
 
"What?"
 
Looking directly at the young female reporter who had posed the question, she repeated, "What did you say?"

"Did your negligence cause the embolism that killed Letty Leonard?"

"No!"

"You were the first doctor to attend her."

"That's correct.
 
And I did everything possible to save her arm and her life."

"Apparently the Leonards don't think so or they wouldn't be suing you for medical malpractice."

Had Lara not had experience in masking her reaction to personal and probing questions and verbal salvos, she might have reeled under the impact of this one.
 
Instead she gazed back at the reporter without revealing her inner turmoil.
 
The muscles in her face felt wooden, but she managed to move her lips sufficiently to get out the words.

"I took drastic measures to save Letty Leonard's life.
 
Her parents are well aware of that.
 
I haven't been notified of a pending malpractice suit.
 
That's all I have to say.

Naturally the news hounds didn't accept that as her final word.

As she drove away, they were still aiming lenses and microphones at her, hurling questions like stones.
 
She gripped the steering wheel with sweating hands, keeping her eyes forward, ignoring the curious onlookers as she drove past them.

It was a warm, humid morning, but she hadn't been uncomfortable with the heat until the reporters had resurrected the ugly past.
 
Now her clothes were sticking to her damp skin, her head was pounding, and her heart was beating at an alarming rate.
 
She felt nauseated.

What had initiated all this media attention?
 
Her move to Eden Pass had gone unnoticed; she'd lived in relative anonymity for more than a year.

There had been newer scandals to exploit, more sensational stories to expose, sinners more sinful than she caught sinning.

The story of Lara Porter and Senator Tackett had been buried in the graveyard of dead stories ages ago.

Until this morning.
 
Letty Leonard's death had exhumed her.
 
Once again she was a notorious public figure.

Yet, the story of Letty's accident, tragic as it was, hadn't warranted statewide or national media coverage; only the local press had reported it.
 
Naturally, her name would have been in Letty's medical file, but unless a reporter was very astute, he wouldn't have connected Dr. Lara Mallory of Eden Pass with Lara Porter, Senator Clark Tackett's mistress.

In subsequent stories about Letty's surgery and recovery, she hadn't been mentioned at all, for which she'd been glad.
 
The less publicity she generated, the better.
 
She wouldn't have cared if her name never again appeared in newsprint.
 
But it was going to appear now, with the stigmatizing word malpractice shadowing it.

Through the entire incident with Clark, through the disaster in Montesangre, her proficiency as a physician had never come under fire.

Her reputation as an accomplished doctor had withstood the bombardments to her character.
 
She had clung to that last vestige of pride.

Now, if the Leonards even suggested they might pursue a medical malpractice suit, her work would be placed under a microscope.
 
It would be laid bare and dissected just as her private life had been.

Nothing incriminating would be found, but that didn't matter.
 
The examination itself would create headlines.
 
In the public's mind, being suspect was equivalent to being guilty.

Once again she would become fodder for the news mill.
 
Her floundering practice the only important thing left her would suffer until it was extinct.