Dead Giveaway (12 page)

She shrugged. "It wasn't hard. I got his social security number from the trucking company where he worked when you were a boy and performed some databank magic."

It was too late. Now Clay's hands were tied.

"What did he have to say?" he asked, fearing the worst.

"I haven't talked to him yet. He wasn't home when I called, so I left a message with his wife."

His wife...
Clay wished those two words didn't turn his stomach. He told himself they shouldn't. He wasn't a needy little boy anymore; he was thirty-four years old. But the pain was still there. "Do you know if he has other children?"

"No. But I can tell you what he does for a living."

Clay hesitated, but curiosity ended up getting the better of him. "What?"

"He's a pilot. Flies fishermen to remote lakes and streams."

I've got a lot of life yet to live, a lot of places to see....

"Makes sense, I guess," he muttered.

"What makes sense?"

"Nothing."

She put a comforting hand on his arm. "I'm sorry."

Embarrassed that he'd given away his true feelings, he shook her off. "My father doesn't matter to me."

The moon lit one side of her face as she studied him. "You expect me to believe that?"

He slung an arm over the steering wheel in the most careless pose he could summon. "You don't?"

"Not for a minute."

Clay wasn't sure how to respond. Most people took him at his word. But he was quickly finding that Allie wasn't like most people. She knew he might be involved in a murder, was moving forward with an investigation that would include him at some point, and yet she treated him fairly. Innocent until proven guilty. She hadn't automatically assumed the worst the other night, although the situation couldn't have reflected favorably on him--or Beth Ann, either. And, earlier at the pool hall, she hadn't let Joe intimidate her into avoiding him.

She was trying to give him the benefit of every doubt, reserving judgment, relying on facts instead of prejudice.

In a way, he appreciated her generosity; in another way, he resented it. Because now he had something to lose.

"It's been a long time since he was part of my life," he said, trying to suggest that what he felt about Lucas was unimportant.

"I can get a few more details about him when he calls me, if you want," she offered. "I could even give you his number."

"No." He pulled to the side of the road in front of her house. The porch light on Chief 53

Brenda Novak

McCormick's long brick rambler glowed yellow across the sloping lawn, but the rest of the house was dark. The cars in the driveway, and the knowledge that Allie's parents were asleep inside, made him feel sixteen again, as if he were dropping off a date.

"Maybe he misses you, too, Clay," she said.

"He couldn't miss me too badly, could he?"

She didn't respond, so he continued, "Anyway, as far as I'm concerned, he's no longer my father. I certainly don't want anyone to engineer some sort of reunion."

She nodded. "Okay. Let me know if you change your mind."

Clay almost asked her not to talk to Lucas if he called. But now that she'd already left a message, he feared that pressing the issue would only raise Allie's suspicions. Why had his mother given the man who'd triggered all the terrible events of the past a chance to destroy their future, as well?

Clay wanted to be angry with Irene, but if Lucas had called
him,
he might've been tempted to reveal just as much. Lucas could win anyone's confidence. His problem was that he couldn't live up to the promises he made.

And that might prove true once again.

"Good night," Clay said as Allie opened the door to climb out.

Her lips curved in a sympathetic smile. "It's his loss, Clay."

"Don't."

Her eyes widened. "Don't what?"

"Pity me." He turned to look at her. "Love me or hate me. But don't pity me."

She rubbed her arms. She hadn't brought a coat. "Interesting choice," she said and shut the door.

"How'd it go last night?"

Allie's mother sat beside her father at the breakfast table, drinking a cup of coffee. Evelyn was wearing a bathrobe and slippers, but Dale was dressed in the clothes he wore to mow the lawn.

His reading glasses were perched on the end of his nose and he was skimming the newspaper while doing his best to ignore Whitney, who kept yelling, "Jump in!" and tossing her Barbies into the kitchen sink.

"Aren't you going to answer your mother?" he asked when Allie didn't say anything.

"It was fine," she said. She hoped to minimize the fact that she'd even gone out. She'd asked her mother to babysit so she could do some investigative work. Instead, she'd let loose and simply had fun. She'd rather not analyze why, but she knew it had a lot to do with how she felt when she was around Clay.

"That's it?" Evelyn said. "Just
fine?
"

Allie shrugged, feeling uncomfortable beneath the pointed stare of her father. "Pretty much."

"Where's your car?" he asked solemnly, angling his head to see her more clearly over his glasses.

Her parents had always watched her closely. It came with being the daughter of a cop. But she hadn't expected her father to resume the old watch now that she was thirty-three. "I see you're still on your toes," she said wryly.

"I had some caulking to do in the shed earlier."

"Right." She drummed her fingers on the table. "What time did I get in?"

"Two."

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Brenda Novak

"Two what?"

"Two-thirteen."

She chuckled. "Some things never change."

"But I don't want to go swimming," Whitney said in a high-pitched voice, posing a Barbie on the edge of the sink.

Dale leaned forward.
"Where's your car?"

"It's at the pool hall," she said as indifferently as possible.

"What's it doing there?"

She lowered her voice. "I didn't want to drive."

This explanation met with a moment's silence, enough to tell Allie her parents didn't approve.

"You weren't drunk!" her mother whispered, sounding horrified.

"
Buzzed
would be a better word. But before you start to panic, let me assure you that one night does not constitute a problem."

Evelyn's forehead wrinkled in concern. "I don't understand why you'd drink so much.

Ever."

"I was tired so I took some No-Doz to help me stay awake. It didn't mix well with beer.

That's all."

"And you thought it would?" she asked as if such a flimsy excuse made it even worse.

"At least I didn't try to drive," Allie said, hoping they'd see that as something positive. But they weren't so easy to console.

"Who were you drinking with?" her father asked.

They'd finally arrived at the inevitable question. Allie took a deep breath, because she knew her parents wouldn't like this answer any more than they had the others. "Madeline Barker.

Kirk Vantassel. And Clay."

"Montgomery?" her father bellowed.

Whitney dropped her Barbies and turned to watch the drama unfolding at the table. Allie wanted to tell Dale to calm down, but she had her mouth full and couldn't speak. She'd taken a big spoonful of cereal in an attempt to act nonchalant, as if she expected Evelyn and Dale to react no differently to Clay's name than to the others. But her ploy hadn't worked.

"Tell me it's not true," her mother said.

Allie managed to swallow "It's true."

"I've never known you to be a drinker."

"I'm not."

"Yet the first time you go out with Clay, you come home after two in the morning, drunk."

"Stop it! You--it's not how you're making it sound. I was tired, but Madeline said Clay would be at the pool hall, and I wanted to ask him a few questions about Barker's disappearance.

That's why I took the No-Doz."

"And then you drank on top of it."

"I didn't think a few beers would make any difference. And then..." She stopped because she couldn't explain, at least to their satisfaction, how her interview intentions had so easily turned into pool and dancing. Especially dancing. When she closed her eyes, she could still smell the scent of Clay's cologne and feel the strength of his arms around her, guiding her body in perfect rhythm with his.

Dale set the newspaper aside. "And then?" he encouraged when her words dwindled away.

She figured the less she said, the better. "When I needed a ride home, Clay was kind 55

Brenda Novak

enough to offer."

"You think he was being
nice?
" Dale said.

"Yes."

"Shows how naive you are!"

"How do you know he
wasn't
simply being nice?" she challenged, irritated by the whole Inquisition routine.

"Because I'm familiar with his reputation."

"So am I. Most people in Stillwater keep a list of every mistake he's ever made!"

"Yet you got into his car, knowing he could be dangerous."

Clenching her jaw, Allie began to tap her spoon against the side of her bowl. "If you think he's dangerous, why won't you support me in my investigation? Officially reopen the case? Don't you want to know if he's really the one who murdered Lee Barker?"

Her father rattled his paper as if he had a lot to say but was deliberately holding back.

"Dad?"

"I told you, we have more important issues to worry about," he snapped. "You should spend your time on something that matters."

"Why don't we ask Madeline if this matters?"

"You have no business with Clay Montgomery." His face turned even redder than when he'd caught her necking on the porch after her junior prom. "You've chosen poorly once. I'm not going to stand by while you do it again."

"Dale," her mother warned, but it was too late. Allie shoved her cereal bowl aside and got up.

"How dare you!"

Gripping the table, he pulled himself to his feet and loomed over her. "I dare because I'm your father!"

Allie refused to let him intimidate her the way he used to. "You wouldn't be treating Danny like this."

"He's a man."

"So? We're all adults, and you're being ridiculous." She glanced between her parents.

"You're making a big deal out of nothing."

"Just stay away from Clay, from all the Montgomerys," he said.

"Mommy? Are you in trouble?" Whitney asked, her eyes round.

Allie glared at her parents. "No. I'm old enough to make my own decisions," she said and stalked out of the room.

56

Brenda Novak

7

C
lay reserved most weekends and weeknights for working on the vintage cars he restored in his barn. It was a solitary occupation, but most of his activities were. He didn't mind being alone.

He took his time with each car and generally enjoyed the change of pace.

Today, however, he hadn't been himself. He felt listless, bored, preoccupied. Again and again, his thoughts drifted to Allie. At first, he tried to convince himself that he was merely searching for the best way to neutralize the threat she posed. Holding his enemy close and all that.

But by midafternoon he was ready to admit that his desires didn't stem from a motivation nearly that subversive. He wasn't strategizing about how to protect himself or his family. For once in his life, he wasn't even thinking about the past.

He wanted to take her to dinner. To go out as though he wasn't harboring any dark secrets, as though he was just like any other man.

After wiping his greasy hands on a towel, he began putting away his tools. There was no point in working on the Jag today; he wasn't making any real progress. He kept staring off into space, remembering the expressions that had flitted across Allie's face the night before, and repeating the same thing:
Forget it. Why would she ever go out with you?

He could think of one very obvious reason: she still wanted to talk about Barker. She'd go if she believed he'd provide her with some detail she didn't already know. But he was reluctant to entice her with such an irresistible hook. He wanted her to go because she wanted to be with him. It was that simple--and that complicated.

"Clay? Where are you?"

Recognizing his sister's voice, he poked his head out of the barn to find Grace standing on the steps of his back porch, her extended stomach clearly defined by her dress. New life. He was fascinated by her pregnancy, loved hearing her talk with so much enthusiasm about the coming baby. Her husband's gaze trailed after her wherever she moved; Heath and Teddy cuddled up to her at every opportunity.

A yearning for the things that really mattered in life grew so strong in Clay that it momentarily stole his breath, and he halted in mid-stride. In the glare of the afternoon sun, which was unseasonably hot for mid-May, he could easily imagine another woman standing where Grace stood now. A woman waiting for him, big with
his
child.

"What's wrong?" she called.

Shaking his head to clear away the silly daydream, he started forward again. He couldn't bring a woman--a wife--to the farm and expect her to fight the same negative sentiments he did, couldn't claim her heart and then leave her husbandless if the truth ever came out.

"Nothing." He shaded his eyes with his hand as he approached. "How's the baby?"

"Fine. Getting big, as you can see. I feel like a moose."

"Don't," he said. "You've never been prettier."

She smiled when he reached her. "You're sincere about that?"

"Would I lie to you?" He offered her a lopsided grin. "Besides, how can I not think you're beautiful? You look just like me."

She gave him a playful slug, then settled into the porch swing.

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Brenda Novak

"Would you like a cold drink?" he asked.

She'd pulled her thick black hair into a ponytail, but several strands fell loose around her face, framing eyes the same blue as his own. "No, thanks. I had a late lunch."

He needed to wash up, but ridding himself of the grease on his hands required heavy-duty soap, a stiff-bristled brush and ten full minutes of scrubbing. Because Grace never stayed at the farm very long, he decided he'd get to see more of her if he waited until she left to start that routine.