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Authors: Carolyn McSparren

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He sighed. “I am a nice guy, and at the rate I’m going I’ll be crazier than Vollmer before this is over.”

“I didn’t make him crazy.”

“I doubt that. Maybe you better tell me about the two of you before I have to sit down with him this afternoon.”

She pointedly sat in the wing chair, not on the sofa. He poured himself another cup of coffee, picked up Elmo—a poor substitute—and sat on the couch opposite. He shrugged. “See? Space.”

“Danny says he’s been sober for six months.”

“You believe him?”

Taylor shrugged and drew a shivery little breath. “The last Sunday I saw him he came out here for brunch. We’d planned to maybe take in a movie. Instead he showed up drunk and belligerent. He’d just arrested a man who’d raped and murdered his three-year-old daughter and buried her body in the backyard.”

“God.”

“I tried to be sympathetic. He didn’t want that. We ended up in a big fight and he slapped me.”

Nick wasn’t surprised. He’d recognized the violence in Danny just as he recognized it in himself.

Taylor continued, “I grew up thinking daddies were supposed to whop their children with leather belts. I swore I’d never have an abusive relationship. The only time my husband Paul hit me, I told him that if he ever did it again, I’d call the newspapers, the police and his boss—not necessarily in that order. I must have scared him badly, because he decided psychological abuse was safer. It didn’t leave telltale bruises and isn’t, so far as I know, illegal.”

“Still hurts.”

“Sometimes worse.” Taylor shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Even Danny doesn’t know.” She looked down at her hands.

Nick waited without moving, almost without breathing.

“I finally saw a divorce lawyer. When I told Paul, he flipped, not because he cherished our marriage, but because it would hurt his precious career.”

Her head dropped back against the wing chair and she closed her eyes. Nick saw a tear squeeze out between her lashes and slide down her temple to land in her ear.

“He got control of himself finally, and started being really lovey-dovey. Apologized for the umpteenth time. Said he’d go into counseling. Then he said he’d go get us a pizza and a bottle of wine, the way he used to when we were first married.”

“Would you have stayed?”

Taylor heaved a sigh. “I honestly don’t know. He could be so sweet when he wanted to be... Anyway, he didn’t have any cash, so he stopped at an ATM on the way. Three teenagers shot him. He died on the spot.” She shook her head. “He’d taken out twenty dollars. That’s what his life was worth to them.”

“So when Danny hit you that Sunday?”

“Same old, same old. I thought after Paul died that I had quit trying to be Daddy’s perfect little girl, and here I was afraid all over again.”

“Is this...” Nick waved his hand at the masculine room “—a better fit?”

“Absolutely. But Daddy’s little girl is still lurking inside me, telling me that if I’m sweet and pretty, Prince Charming will make me happy, and give me multiple orgasms and an unlimited charge account at Neiman Marcus.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

“M
EL SAID I HAVE TO FOLLOW YOU to Rounders,” Taylor said. She stood on the front porch of her cabin with her hands on her hips, car keys clutched in her fist. “I do as I’m told.”

“When it suits you,” Nick added. “All right, but not to Rounders. I left my truck at Max’s when I picked up the bike.”

Nick climbed aboard the Harley and stamped the starter. After three tries the engine exploded into raucous life with a couple of thuds and bangs for good measure.

“Wait for me at the gate,” Taylor yelled over the noise. Nick nodded, dropped his visor and drove slowly down the lane and across the ford.

She kept close to Nick, and watched for cars following, or suspicious parked vehicles by the side of the road. She had no idea what to do if she actually spotted a possible sniper. Knock Nick off his bike, probably, on the theory that a busted shoulder or kneecap was preferable to a high-caliber rifle bullet through the brain.

He rode well. He balanced the several hundred pounds of Harley between his thighs as casually as if it were a Schwinn. She envied him the sheer freedom of flying around curves in a welter of noise.

It was harder to keep close to Nick in city traffic. Once she wound up beside him at a traffic light. He smiled over at her, and she found her heart doing flops and her fingers tightening on the wheel. She’d recognized the danger in that smile the instant she met him. Now it seemed all too knowing.

At Max’s, she waited in her truck while he put his bike away. He came over to her and leaned into the car. “I want to check on Max. See where he was last night. Want to come?”

She shook her head. “I’ll wait here.”

He nodded, and went to bang on the door. After what seemed an interminable time, Max came to the door. He was wearing pajamas and a robe and was still unshaven. He exchanged a few words with Nick, and then, somewhat preemptorily, Taylor thought, shut the door on him with barely a glance at her.

Nick came over. “Says he went out for some beer. He does that sometimes—” He shrugged. “Now that, I can believe, especially when that damn house of his feels too big and too empty. You planning to follow me to Rounders?”

“Your friendly neighborhood bodyguard at your service.” Taylor snapped him a salute.

He grinned and walked over to his truck.

At Rounders he parked in front rather than going down the alley to the loading dock. He opened his door, saw that she hadn’t gotten out of her truck and came over to her. “Coming in?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I’m going back to Oxford to locate friends or relations of the Eberhardts. I also need to talk to the cops about the fire. See whether they’re still treating Eberhardt’s death as an accident.”

“You taking Borman with you?”

“Why would I?”

“Eugene Lewis probably shot at us last night. I don’t want you running into him in Oxford.”

“He’s not likely to shoot at me at high noon on the square.”

“You’re the one who said ‘me detective, you client.’ Me client wants you detective alive and kicking.”

“Me detective wants the same thing.” She glanced at her watch. “You don’t have to talk to Danny this afternoon, you know.”

“I know. While you were in the shower, I called Rico Cabrizzo and asked him to represent me. He’s meeting me. At least now that the paper’s printed Clara’s name, I don’t have to pretend not to know who she was.”

“Watch Danny. He’s single-minded and smart.”

“So’s Rico.”

She continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “And don’t let his patient act fool you. He has a hell of a temper when he’s crossed.”

“I have no intention of crossing him.”

She sighed. “You cross him just by being alive.” She turned on the ignition.

He reached into the truck and laid a hand on her arm. “Look, Taylor, come back here after you go to Oxford, please. Before dark.”

“I was planning to.” She smiled up at him. “I’ll be fine. See you this afternoon. Good luck with Danny.”

For a moment she thought he was going to lean into the car and kiss her. She wanted him to, no matter what she’d said earlier. Instead he reached over and ran his rough index finger down the curve of her jaw. She felt disappointed that apparently he’d decided to take her at her word and let her get on with her job unencumbered by emotional entanglements.

“Anybody ever tell you you’ve got a great jaw?” he said.

“Just like granite.”

“Granite shatters. Don’t put it to the test.”

TAYLOR STOPPED AT THE Chamber of Commerce on the square in Oxford to locate the best mortuary. Five minutes later she walked into the Holcroft-Nevins Mortuary and found that it was handling the funeral arrangements for Clara Eberhardt.

“Lord, wasn’t that a terrible thing? Both of ’em in less than a week. My, my.” The receptionist sat behind an expanse of cherry desk and in front of an arrangement of fresh bronze chrysanthemums and eucalyptus leaves.

From somewhere down the shadowy hall, Taylor heard the strains of an electric organ playing the opening bars of “He Walks With Me.”

“Have they released the body yet?”

“No, ma‘am. S’posed to be here sometime tomorrow or the next day.” The secretary shook her head and set in motion a cap of tight little curls so heavy with henna that they had taken on a greenish tint. “We don’t have the visitation book out yet so you can’t sign you’ve been here and all. You family?”

Taylor shook her head. “Just a friend.”

The receptionist’s eyes narrowed. “You one of them Memphis reporters?”

Taylor smiled. “No. I’m not a reporter. Is any of Mrs. Eberhardt’s family here at the moment?”

The receptionist glanced toward the office doors down the hall opposite the “organ” room. “Why, I do not rightly know.”

Taylor smiled at the secretary and took a seat in one of the tall damask wing chairs in the reception area. If she waited long enough, someone would come out and would have to walk past her.

“You gonna stay?”

Taylor nodded. “It’s been a long drive. I just need to sit down a minute.”

The receptionist reached for the multi-buttoned telephone on her desk, then changed her mind. She pushed her chair back. Taylor smiled innocently.

At that moment the door of the end office opened and a man and woman came out.

Taylor knew instantly that the woman was someone genetically close to Clara—perhaps a younger sister, though not by much. The bone structure was identical, but this woman’s hair was a pale pinky blond, and she dressed with a flair Clara hadn’t shown.

Taylor stood to intercept her. She put on her best smile and stuck out her hand. “Good morning, I’m Taylor Hunt. I’m so sorry about your sister.”

The woman smiled weakly and took her hand.

“Were you a friend, Ms. Hunt?” The woman’s accent was southern but overlaid with something else. Chicago, maybe?

Taylor shook her head. “I’m a private investigator working on her murder.”

The woman blinked and frowned. “What on earth for? Who hired you?”

“I was hired on another matter.” Taylor glanced at the tall thin man standing behind Clara’s sister. He and the receptionist were entirely too avid. “Do you mind if I take five minutes of your time?”

She was sure the woman was going to refuse. But she opened her mouth—probably to say no—and suddenly began to cry. Taylor reached out, and felt the woman grasp her hand.

“Get me out of here, please,” the woman whispered.

Taylor led her out and put her into the front seat of the truck.

“I don’t cry in public.” She hunted in her bag, came up with a tissue and blew her nose. “That unctuous man! He was dying to gossip about Clara’s death. God, a murder.” She leaned back against the headrest of the truck and closed her eyes. “Nobody you know gets murdered.”

“These days they do.” Taylor started the truck and drove away. “How about coffee on the square?” She glanced at the woman beside her, whose cheeks were laced with a fine network of tears running down to the grooves on each side of her mouth.

“Please.” The woman sat up and laughed shortly. “I’m sorry to do this to a total stranger. This is the second time I’ve been at that funeral home in a week. It just got to be too much. I’m Estelle Grierson.” Her head dropped back against the seat again. Her hands worked in her lap. Taylor could see her left hand smoothing and re-smoothing the black wool of her skirt as though she wanted to wear away the nap.

“After my father died,” Taylor said, “my family sat around the funeral home for two days telling each other stories about him. We did more laughing than crying. It’s tough not to have anybody to talk to.”

“That’s the problem. There’s nobody left who knew us both.”

Taylor heard the catch in Estelle’s voice.

“There were just the two of you?”

“Estelle and Clara. Names out of the twenties. Clara was a menopause baby and two years later I was a real shock.” Estelle laughed. “Our parents were foot-washing evangelicals. Maybe that’s why we went hog-wild once we got to Ole Miss.”

“I’ve heard a couple of things about Clara at Ole Miss, but not about you.”

“Really?”

“From someone who knew Clara back then.”

Estelle showed little interest.

It was too late for the farmers to be meeting for breakfast and too early for the ladies to be having lunch. The coffee shop was empty. They slid into a booth. Estelle ordered coffee, Taylor, iced tea.

“I just flew back to Willamette on Saturday,” Estelle said as she stirred two packets of artificial sweetener into her coffee. “Clara’s husband was killed in a fire last Tuesday.”

Taylor nodded. “I know.”

“What would a private investigator want with Clara?”

“Not with Clara. My client thinks her husband was also killed.”

Estelle sat up and stared at Taylor. “The police said it was an accident. No. I can’t believe it was anything else. Lord, you should have seen that shop of his. Just waiting to burn down.”

“Tell me about you and Clara at Ole Miss.”

“You think it goes back that far? That’s crazy.”

“Maybe.”

“All right. If it’ll help find the devil who killed her.” Estelle began to cry again. She pulled a paper napkin from the holder on the table and wiped her eyes and nose, then balled it up in her fist. “There’s nothing, really. Neither one of us was a good student. We were having too much fun.”

“My source says Clara was a rebel. Were you involved in the civil rights movement?”

“We weren’t mixed up in anything that noble. Our particular brand of rebellion involved sex and drugs and rock and roll.”

“Drugs?” Taylor repeated.

“Not the hard stuff. Pot, you know. Bell bottoms and ironed hair and parties that started on Friday and wound up Monday afternoon.”

“Did you know any of the men Clara dated?”

“I knew ‘em all. Well, most of ’em anyway.” Estelle sipped her coffee and looked past Taylor into a shadowy past.

“Ever remember a man named Max Beaumont?” Taylor asked.

She shook her head. “What year was he?”

“He was teaching ROTC.”

“Oh,
that
Max. I’d forgotten his name. Lord, he was the most gorgeous man. He was older, had been to Vietnam and all. Married but not working at it. If Clara hadn’t started sleeping with him, I’d have gone after him myself.” She laughed. “Does that sound too awful?”

Taylor smiled back and shook her head.

“’Course, Clara used to say there wasn’t a nickel’s worth of difference between us and those women—we always referred to them as the prissy bitches—at the sorority houses except that we didn’t do it with white gloves on.” She laughed again, but it turned quickly into gulps and then into sobs. She propped her head in her hands. “We didn’t see each other much these last years, what with me being in Chicago and all, but she was all the family I had.”

“I am so sorry. Did you get along with her husband?”

“Helmut? Yes, yes, I did, even though he was ten years older, and I always thought he wasn’t a hundred percent certain whether he ought to be married to a woman at all, if you know what I mean.”

“Why did Clara marry him?”

“Respectability and money. Clara liked living high. And Helmut was about as respectable as you can get. Talk about getting back at the prissy bitches! Helmut sold ’em half the furniture in their fancy houses and had things in his they could never have afforded. The greatest rebels are the ones who long most for respectability, didn’t anybody ever tell you that? I’m married to a CPA.”

“They didn’t have any children, did they?”

“Never wanted any.”

BOOK: Ride a Painted Pony (Superromance)

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