311 Pelican Court (31 page)

Sheriff Davis cast an exasperated look at the small group.

“Charlotte,” Ben warned, his voice low and uncertain, “don’t give the man any ideas.”

“Sheriff Davis knows how important a health clinic is to our community.”

The lawman nodded. “I do know, and personally I agree with you, but the law is the law.”

“Do you think he’ll handcuff us?” Helen asked, tugging at Charlotte’s sleeve.

Charlotte could see that her friend was wavering. “Of course not,” she assured her.

“Don’t count on it, ladies.” Sheriff Davis released a snap on his belt and brought out a pair of handcuffs. He held them up and dangled them from his fingers for all to see.

Bess gasped and raised her hand to her chest. “I don’t want to be strip-searched.”

“I’m not making any guarantees,” Sheriff Davis said, looking at her as though he had X-ray vision.

Bess shrank back behind Laura.

Charlotte strengthened her resolve and hoisted up her sign once more. She’d come this far and wasn’t about to back down now. Ben and her friends would have to make their own decisions. She’d already made hers.

“Five minutes,” Sheriff Davis informed them. “If you haven’t dispersed in that time, I’m afraid I’ll have to call for backup and you’ll all be arrested for unlawful assembly.”

Charlotte knew what she had to do. She turned to face her dearest friends—Helen, Bess, Laura and the others. She hated the thought of them in a cold, damp cell in the basement of the police station, but there were times a person had to take a stand. “The sheriff states that unless we disperse, we’re headed for the slammer.”

The group cried out in protest.

“We have five minutes. As for me, I’m staying right where
I am. Each one of us should make our own decision.” Having said that, she placed a hand on Bess’s shoulder. “I’ll understand if you don’t want to go to jail.”

Bess considered her words, and then seemed to steel herself mentally. “I’m staying,” she announced, glaring defiantly at the sheriff. “Troy Davis, I remember you cheated on that spelling test. I never should’ve voted for you. You aren’t to be trusted.”

The small group gathered into a tight knot, buzzing with indecision. To her surprise, it was Ben who raised his hands and spoke. “Perhaps we should reconsider.”

A chorus of loud protests instantly followed. Ben looked at Troy Davis and shrugged. “I tried, Officer.”

“Unfortunately, you didn’t try hard enough.” The sheriff glanced down at his watch—five minutes must be up—and then without another word, marched over to his patrol car. He turned his head and spoke into the small transmitter attached to his shoulder. He was making good on his threat, Charlotte realized, and calling for backup.

A few minutes later, two patrol cars rolled into view. Charlotte groaned inwardly.

Olivia wasn’t going to like this one bit.

R
oy McAfee received the long-awaited phone call the second week of April, almost a month after Davis had sent the water bottle found in Maxwell Russell’s car to the county lab for testing. He asked Roy to stop by his office as soon as possible.

Within ten minutes of that call, Roy was headed out the front door of his office.

“Was that Sheriff Davis?” Corrie asked, glancing up from her desk as he breezed past his wife.

Roy nodded and reached for his coat. “Apparently the lab found something.” He’d known they would, and he felt vindicated. Now maybe they could get somewhere with this case.

“The sheriff isn’t exactly the most popular man in town at the moment,” Corrie said as she pointed to the latest edition of
The Cedar Cove Chronicle
.

Roy tried unsuccessfully to disguise a smile. The front page of
The Chronicle
had shown a photograph of a disgruntled Sheriff Davis and two deputies handcuffing a group of senior citizens. Roy would say one thing—this small and lively band of retirees had certainly gotten their message out.

“I can’t help feeling sorry for Davis,” Roy murmured.

“Of course your sympathies would lie with the lawman, but as far as I’m concerned, Mrs. Jefferson and her friends have a good point.”

“There are other ways of getting the city to provide a health clinic without violating the law.”

Roy should know better than to argue with Corrie; as usual, she had an immediate comeback. “The article said Mrs. Jefferson and Mr. Rhodes have done everything by the book and didn’t get anywhere because of the budget cuts. You and I both know what it’s like to ram our heads against City Hall.”

“Sheriff Davis was only doing his job.” Frankly, Roy wouldn’t have wanted to be the one responsible for escorting a group of old people to jail. From what he’d heard, it had been a madhouse, with several of the ladies demanding lawyers and going on about their constitutional rights. Apparently they’d viewed too many
Law & Order
reruns.

“I should’ve known you’d side with your friend,” Corrie said. “How would you feel, though, if that had been your mother or mine?”

He chuckled. “My mother’s been gone for a lot of years and as for yours—”

“Don’t even start, Roy McAfee,” she muttered.

But Roy saw that Corrie was trying not to laugh. On impulse, he walked around her desk and soundly kissed her.

Corrie looked up at him. “What was that for?”

“You’re nothing like your mother.”

“Roy!”

“Sweetheart,” he said, pleading innocence. “I love you.”

Laughing softly, she steered him toward the door.

Roy decided to walk the fifteen minutes to the sheriff’s office. His gut told him they were close to uncovering Russell’s secrets.

Troy Davis appeared to be waiting for him. He gestured to the chair and then shoved a file at him before Roy even had a chance to sit down.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“The toxicology report.”

Roy reached for it and flipped it open. He scanned the first three pages before his eyes landed on flunitrazepam. He raised his eyes to the sheriff’s. “That drug—what is it?”

“Brand name is Rohypnol.”

That was a name Roy recognized. The date-rape drug, as it was commonly called. He’d seen the effects of it during his years on the force. It’d been referred to as “roofies” when it first hit the streets in the early nineties.

Very clever choice, Roy mused as he read over the report. Not the type of drug anyone would typically use to kill a man over fifty. “No wonder it took the lab a month to find it,” he murmured, thinking aloud.

“Whoever killed him dissolved it in the bottled water. It’s tasteless and odorless—and it’s a potent tranquilizer. When it’s given in large doses, the obvious happens.”

Roy knew that, too. A large enough dose would have lethal consequences.

Roy set the file on the sheriff’s desk. “All that confirms is what we’ve both suspected. Russell was murdered.” Unfortunately, the toxicology report didn’t reveal who’d poisoned him or why.

The sheriff relaxed in his chair and steepled his fingers as he rested his hands against his abdomen. He looked directly at Roy. “It could’ve been Beldon. He had opportunity.”

Years of police work and intuition said otherwise. At one point, Roy had had his suspicions. There’d still been a lot of missing facts, and he hadn’t wanted to cloud the issue with emotion. That was the reason he’d felt he couldn’t be
Beldon’s friend. In the time since, Roy had come to like and trust the other man.

Bob claimed not to recognize his old army friend, which left motive in question. But even if he
had
recognized him, that wasn’t cause enough to murder him, in Roy’s opinion. “Frankly, I doubt it.”

Sheriff Davis gave him a hint of a smile. “I don’t see it falling that way myself.”

“Don’t forget, the bottle was in the car.”

“Right.”

That didn’t automatically clear Beldon, but it suggested Russell had brought the water with him.

“Do you think it could’ve been a random killing?” Roy asked. There seemed to be more of them these days.

He could tell that Davis had considered the same idea. “Perhaps, but I think it’s unlikely.”

Roy nodded. Too many factors in this case, including the method used, led him to believe the murder hadn’t been a random anything. Whoever they were dealing with was smart. And vicious.

“I don’t think this was the first attempt on Russell’s life, either,” Roy murmured.

“My thoughts exactly,” the sheriff said. He straightened, leaning toward his desk. “The car accident that killed his wife sounds mighty convenient to me. I read the report, but there’s nothing I can put my finger on. No real evidence.”

The crash had been attributed to driver error. In light of recent events, he wondered. Two of the men who’d been together in the jungle that day were dead and both had died under peculiar circumstances.

“What about Dan Sherman?” Roy asked. “Are you convinced it was suicide?”

The sheriff didn’t hesitate. “No doubt. He left that letter, too.”

Roy didn’t like the route his mind was taking him. Two men were dead, one of them murdered. If Bob wasn’t involved—and both Troy Davis and Roy were sure he wasn’t—then that led Roy to one conclusion.

“Bob Beldon’s in danger,” he said.

Davis sat back. “Funny you should say that.”

“Why?”

“I had the same feeling myself. I went out to talk to him yesterday afternoon.”

A chill went up Roy’s spine.

“I suggested he might want to take an extended vacation while we check this theory out,” the sheriff continued.

“What did he say?”

Troy Davis frowned. “He’s a stubborn man. Bob said he’d done all the running he intended to do. Said anyone who wants to kill him is welcome to try.”

Roy guessed Peggy hadn’t been around for that conversation.

Troy shook his head. “Not only that, he says he
can’t
leave. Jack Griffin asked Bob to be his best man, and Bob intends to do it.”

“When’s the wedding?”

“First week of May.”

Roy mulled that over and nodded. “It’s been over a year since Russell died,” he said. “If nothing’s happened in all this time, then perhaps nothing will.”

“Perhaps,” Troy Davis returned.

But his tone of voice convinced Roy the sheriff didn’t believe it. For that matter, neither did he.

Over the last few months, he’d come to like Bob and Peggy. He’d consider it a personal affront if his friend turned up dead.

Rosie waited anxiously until she heard the rat-a-tat-tat on the apartment door. Leaping up from the sofa, she hurried to answer it. She was halfway across the living room when the door opened and Zach stepped inside.

As if it’d been weeks since she’d last seen him, Rosie flew into his embrace. Zach wrapped his arms around her waist, half lifting her from the floor. Not a second passed before his mouth found hers. Their kisses were deep and urgent, reminiscent of their college days. The spark that had been missing during the last few years of their marriage was back—and bright enough to start a fire.

When Zach set her feet on the carpet again, Rosie’s head was spinning with desire. Forgotten was her intent to discuss so many of the pressing issues that clamored for attention. Instead, all she could think about was the warmth of his touch and the need he created within her.

“Don’t you think meeting like this is a little ridiculous?” she murmured.

“Do you?”

“No.” She rose to her tiptoes and kissed him.

Zach kissed her back and all too soon they were in the bedroom—his bedroom. Two days earlier, they’d ended up in hers, and the time before that they hadn’t even made it to a bed.

“We’re supposed to talk,” Rosie reminded him in the aftermath of their lovemaking. Her head rested against his naked shoulder. They were sprawled on top of the bedcovers, with her arm draped across his waist.

“I know, but when I see you the last thing I feel like doing is talking.”

Rosie understood perfectly. She was as hungry for Zach as he was for her.

“Did you tell the kids where you were going?” she asked, a little embarrassed that their children might have guessed they’d turned the apartment into a love nest. Even the old-fashioned term made her wince.

Zach chuckled. “You’re joking, right?”

Rosie sighed and rubbed her cheek against his chest, loving the warm feel of his skin. Closing her eyes, she inhaled Zach’s scent—distinctively his and almost enough to arouse her all over again. “I think it’s important that we talk, though.”

“I do, too,” Zach agreed, “but unfortunately I can’t seem to keep my hands off you.”

Rosie had to admit she liked this resurgence of their love life—liked it a lot. As for wasting their precious time at the apartment in bed, well,
she
didn’t have any complaints.

“The kids aren’t blind, you know,” Zach said as his hand made slow, lazy circles on the small of her back. “They have a fairly good idea who I’m sneaking out to see.”

“Allison said as much,” Rosie told him.

“Okay, so the kids are in favor of our reconciliation,” Zach said, sounding serious, “but are we?”

“How do you mean?”

“Are we ready to get back together?
Should
we? I love you, Rosie, and you love me. I’ve always loved you, but even now I don’t understand how two people who genuinely love each other could let themselves get divorced.”

Rosie nodded. “I made a lot of mistakes,” she said soberly.

“So did I,” Zach was quick to admit. “I don’t want to rehash everything we did wrong, but on the other hand, I’m not willing to ignore what happened and then repeat our mistakes.”

“I feel the same way.” The thought of going through that terrible tension again was intolerable. She couldn’t
live like that, and she knew Zach couldn’t, either. Nor could they inflict this nightmare on their children a second time.

“I’d like to continue teaching,” Rosie said. Her contribution to their problems had to do with the fact that she’d volunteered for absolutely every committee, group, field day and task force that came up. She’d developed a reputation as the consummate volunteer, the woman who couldn’t say no.

Before the divorce, she had commitments and obligations that took her away from the house most days and every night of the week. It had started when Zach was so busy preparing tax returns. She was lonely and looking for a social outlet, a way to be part of the community. Her volunteering had grown into a time-consuming monster that had threatened to destroy her and her family.

“I always wanted to be the perfect wife and mother,” she whispered, saddened by the memory of her failings.

Zach kissed the top of her head. “I know.”

“Then I got so caught up in everything, I wasn’t any kind of mother at all.”

“Hey, I’m not going to listen to you beat yourself up,” Zach said. “Especially when I was doing plenty wrong myself.”

His hold on her tightened slightly. “You didn’t wreck our marriage single-handedly, Rosie. I let my ego replace common sense. You were right about Janice Lamond, but I was too blind to see what she was doing.”

“I was so jealous,” Rosie confessed.

“So was I, especially when you started dating that widower.”

She didn’t know Zach had been jealous. The warm glow it gave her was childish, but she basked in the feeling, anyway. “Like I told you, we only went out that once.”

“I thought it was much more, and it confused the hell out of me.” He laughed softly and continued to stroke her back.
“We were supposed to be divorced, and yet the thought of you going out with another man had me seeing red.”

Rosie loved it. “Well, you can imagine how
I
felt when we were married and I thought you were involved with another woman.
Jealous
doesn’t even begin to describe it.”

“It’s not going to happen again,” he promised her.

“I won’t get caught up in volunteering again, either,” she said. “Maybe the occasional short-term thing, but that’s it. I know how to set boundaries now.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve also discovered that I like teaching—I’d forgotten how much. The hours are great with the kids’ schedules, and when I return at the end of the day, I appreciate my home and family.”

“I’ll help around the house more,” he vowed.

“Good.” That had been another of their problems. Because she was supposed to be a stay-at-home mother, Zach—and the children, too—had come to rely on her to do everything, to fulfill every need, to be the perfect housekeeper, cook, fixer, scheduler, chauffeur and hostess. To be responsible for everything on the domestic front, in other words.

“I can make dinner two nights a week,” Zach told her. “I’ve learned a lot from the cooking channel.”

“I can handle getting dinner ready another three,” she said. Now that Rosie had more time, she’d found out she actually enjoyed cooking.

“Allison’s learned a thing or two about helping out in the kitchen,” Zach said. “I think she’d like being in charge of one dinner a week.”

“That leaves us with only one night open,” she said, thinking that perhaps they could trade off on it.