For the Love of Jazz (21 page)

* * *

The following morning, she sat behind Larry Muldoon’s desk, feet propped on the corner, hands folded on her flat belly. Even though inside she was churning with anger and grief, her face was calm and composed. After all, a lady never let people see she was upset.

Idly, she studied her candy-apple red nail polish. When the door swung open, she saw Muldoon come through out of the corner of her eye, but she made no move to acknowledge him.

He came to a halt in front of his desk. “Don’t you have patients to see, Doc?” he asked after she finally turned her head and met his eyes.

She smiled serenely. “I took a personal day. I had a few things that needed to be addressed.” Flicking her watch a glance, she figured she had just a minute or so to kill before Tate strolled through the door. “How has life been treating you, Larry? You look a bit peaked there.”

“You mind if I ask what you’re doing at my desk?” he demanded, his eyes darting here and there, checking the contents of the desktop.

“I was waiting for you,” she replied. “Don’t worry. I haven’t touched your possessions. What I was looking for was in the archives, records open to the public, you know.” As she spoke, the door swung open a second time and Tate came sauntering through, sipping from a steaming Styrofoam cup. He paused when he saw her, and grinned at her when she waved.

“My, what a lovely surprise,” he drawled, approaching the desk. “How’d you get so lucky to have a pretty lady like that waiting for you, Muldoon?”

Ignoring Tate, Larry turned his beady eyes back to Anne-Marie.

“I found some interesting reading, Tate,” she said, pulling a slim file from her black briefcase. Flipping it open, she removed two sets of documents and handed one to Tate. The other, she threw in Muldoon’s direction.

“That case is closed,” Muldoon rasped, inching backward.

“No case is ever permanently closed, Muldoon,” she said, waiting and watching as Tate’s eyes narrowed.

“You’ve been reading about that crash,” Tate murmured, flicking through the small stack of papers. When he came across the post-mortem, he paused. Raising his eyes to her, he said, “This couldn’t have been easy for you. Why do it?”

“I had some questions I needed answers for,” she said evenly. “Read that report, Tate.”

She knew the exact moment he figured out why she was here. Slowly, he shuffled the papers back in the original order. Then Tate raised his head, face blank, eyes shuttered as he focused on Muldoon.

“I got to get out on patrol,” Larry mumbled, starting to turn away.

“I don’t think so. Don’t move a single step, Deputy.”

“I got work to do, and you two are interfering,” he snapped, jerking a thumb in Anne-Marie’s direction. “What in hell’s it matter anyway? The boy’s been dead years now.”

“Maybe you should read the reports, Deputy,” Tate said, holding out the copy that Larry had ignored. “It is interesting reading, that’s for certain. According to this, that boy died from wounds he would have received had he been driving. But you say you pulled Jazz out from behind the wheel, worried that the car was going to catch fire, dragged him a safe distance, and found Alex laying there, already dead.”

“That’s the way it happened,” Larry mumbled, dashing a hand across his forehead.

Even though inside she quivered with rage and grief, Anne-Marie smiled serenely and said, “I wonder what an outside investigator would think of that story, Larry. One without your prejudices, one without your hate, one who isn’t afraid of you simply because your last name is Muldoon. Wonder what a jury would have to say about incriminating an innocent boy.”

“You can’t do that,” he rasped, shooting Tate a desperate look. “Look, the boy’s dead. Dead is dead, ain’t it? And hell, McNeil never said otherwise. Of course he was driving.”

“PTS, post traumatic stress syndrome. He blocked it out, Larry,” Anne-Marie replied, raising her shoulders in a negligent shrug. Slowly, she uncurled her body out of the chair, stretching like a cat after a long nap in the sun. “I hope you know a good lawyer.”

Larry opened his mouth but his words were blocked out when the door opened and Ella called out, “Why, Doc Kincade. What on earth are you doing here?”

Even as she spoke, all hell broke loose. A stray cat came trotting in through the open door, followed by a mangy-looking mutt who spotted the cat and grinned with manic canine delight. With a petrified meow, the cat took off and the dog went in pursuit, knocking Ella off her feet and onto her backside. Behind her was Darla, juggling an obscenely tall stack of records on their way to filing cabinets.

Paper flying, dog yapping, the two older ladies tittering with amusement and embarrassment, Larry retreated quietly, his eyes on the sheriff. Anne-Marie looked up from Ella’s side just in time to see him bolt through the side exit door. He paused only long enough to level hate-filled eyes on her and Tate.

* * *

A week later, Tate called off the APB put out on Larry Muldoon. Sometime Friday night, somebody had driven his cruiser into the tiny parking lot of the station house and left it there.

They also left Larry’s body in the trunk, a bullet neatly planted in the back of his head. Two unrelated deaths a few weeks after an attempted murder had the good folks of Briarwood, Kentucky, nervous. Of course, poor Maribeth Park’s death had been a tragic accident, brought on by her wild lifestyle.

Muldoon’s funeral was attended by only four people. Tate, standing in for the station, Anne-Marie and Jazz and Marlie Jo Muldoon. Sunlight streamed down on the pitiful crowd as the minister spoke his final words over the hole in the ground.

When it was over, an unheard sigh of relief escaped them all.

In less than ten minutes, Marlie was alone at the gravesite, staring at the coffin with dry eyes. The scar on the back of her hand itched and she rubbed at it, remembering the part Larry had played. He’d held her still while Beau had ground his smoldering cigarette out against her tender flesh. Her brothers had laughed while a nine-year-old Marlie screamed in pain, their father smiling meanly as he watched.

How many times had those two hurt her? Stolen what little money she earned on her own? Trashed any little treasure she managed to get her hands on? She had been six years old the time they had drowned her kitten, right in front of her.

It was a wonder Marlie made it to adulthood with her sanity relatively intact. Now they were all gone. Just Marlie and her crazy momma left.

She stared into the dark hole and breathed deeply. “I’d like to wish you Godspeed, brother,” she said quietly. “I’d like to be able to express some regret over this, but I can’t. You made so many enemies, this was bound to happen.”

Raising her hand, she rubbed her index finger over the scar. “It’s a wonder I never did it, though. After all you and Beau and Daddy did to me and Momma.”

Shifting her purse, she smoothed her skirt with one hand as she held the other over the grave. Her fingers loosened and a single, white rose drifted down to rest on the coffin. “If you see Daddy or Brother down there, don’t bother giving them my regards.”

Chapter Nine

“Jazz, I had to be sure,” Anne-Marie repeated, keeping her voice calm and level, despite the surging emotions within her.

“You should have come to me the minute the thought even entered your head,” Jazz snapped, turning away, staring out the window. “Damn it, Annie. He could have hurt you. Hell, most likely that’s why he shot your daddy.”

Lowering her head, Anne-Marie peered at her nails, a nervous habit. Studying the polish, flamingo pink this week, she carefully said, “I don’t think Larry Muldoon did it. He doesn’t have the guts or the brains.”

“He had a motive.”

“Every KKK member had a motive for killing Martin Luther King, Jr.,” Anne replied dryly. “Motive doesn’t mean jack if you don’t have the brain power. Come on, Jazz, you know as well as I do, Larry Muldoon couldn’t think his way out of a wet paper bag if he had a map and a blowtorch.”

She drew her knees up under her, facing Jazz’s angry eyes squarely. “This doesn’t really have anything to do with Larry, does it? You are mad at me because I didn’t come to you first, instead of looking for myself.”

“I’ve spent the last sixteen years thinking I killed my best friend, Anne-Marie.”

“Exactly. I didn’t want to give you false hope if I was wrong. Why can’t you understand that?”

“You knew why I came back here. I had to find this out for myself.”

Anne blew out a disgusted breath, rising to her feet. She walked over to the window, staring out into the night. “Jazz, if I was wrong, it would have torn you apart. I didn’t want to do that. I had to be sure.”

“You didn’t trust me.”

“Oh, that’s crap,” Anne snapped, whirling around, glaring at him. Eyes flashing, she marched up to him and poked her index finger into his chest. “In my heart, I never believed you’d been driving. I wasn’t doing it to check up on you.”

“So you go to my cousin, instead of me.”

“He’s the sheriff. And for that matter, I didn’t go to Tate. I bearded the lion in his den, which just happened to be where Tate works.” Staring at him, into those simmering, brown eyes, Anne threw up her hands. “I give up. You want to be mad at me for this, you go right ahead. But I don’t have to hang around.” Snatching her purse and keys from the table, she stomped away.

With an arched brow, Jazz watched as she stormed to the door. “This is your house,” he mildly reminded her.

Whirling around, face flushed, Anne said, “Then you get out of it. I don’t want to put up with you while you are in this kind of mood.”

“I’m not ready to leave.”

“I am not ready to have you belittle me for this. What, did I hurt your pride or something? Did you want to come back to town, guns blazing, to clear your name?” she demanded, throwing her purse and keys to the yellow and white striped couch.

Yes
.

Watching her, Jazz decided that was the whole problem right there. She had done what he had wanted to do, and in no time flat. Before he had even figured out how he had to get started, she had asked all the right questions, looked in all the right places, and boom, problem solved.

She’d hit a nerve, Anne-Marie realized. She planted her hands on her hips and studied him with cool eyes. “That’s it, isn’t it?” she asked levelly. When he looked away, she said, “I’ve got a brain, Jazz. And I have my own sense of honor. Did it ever occur to you that I felt I owed you this, for what you’ve suffered?”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“That’s not how I see it.”

Turning back to her, Jazz asked woodenly, “So is that what the past few weeks have been about? You trying to make it up to me? I wouldn’t take money or anything, so you provided free bed-warming services?”

Her hands fell slackly to her sides, mouth open in a silent ‘o’, eyes going dark with surprised hurt. Roughly, she whispered, “Damn you, Jazz.” Tears rose in her eyes before she blinked them away. Face pale, hands shaking, Anne-Marie turned away. “Get out.”

“Anne—”

“Get out,” she hissed, whirling around to face him. “If that’s your opinion of me, then get out.”

Reaching for her, bitter regret burning through him, Jazz whispered, “I’m sorry, Annie. I shouldn’t have said that.”

She evaded his hands, raising her own to ward him off. “If you hadn’t thought it, you wouldn’t have said it. Apparently, these past few weeks haven’t meant the same thing to you that they meant to me. We’ve nothing more to say to each other.”

“Annie—”

“Get out!” she shouted, pulling back and turning on her heel. Tears spilling over, she tore up the stairs and threw herself on the bed.

* * *

Vindication didn’t feel as good as it should have, Jazz was discovering. Not only was Anne-Marie still avoiding him after more than a week, he couldn’t go anywhere without being hailed down for a twenty minutes conversation.

Walking down the street was a chore. People he hardly knew and people he did know and disliked, all stopped him to chat, overly friendly and contrite. Jazz stood woodenly, staring into space while Betsy Crane went on and on about how she sensed something was wrong, you know?

Finally, he glanced at his bare wrist. “Oh, look at the time,” Jazz drawled. “I’m supposed to meet my cousin in just a few minutes.” He took off down the sidewalk at a fast walk, his jaw clenched.

“Jazz.”

His rapid stride slowed, and then stopped. Looking in the doorway of Greene County Cardiology, he met the dark green eyes of Desmond Kincade. Eyes that were sad and very tired. Eyes so like Anne-Marie’s, it hurt him to even look at them.

“Doc Kincade,” he greeted, linking his hands behind his back to keep from fidgeting.

“I’ve been wanting to speak with you,” Desmond said, reaching into his pocket for a cigar. He gestured with it and gave a half-hearted smile. “You won’t go telling Anne-Marie now, will you?”

With a negligent shrug of his shoulders, Jazz remained silent, waiting.

“Oh, that’s right. You two haven’t been speaking much of late, have you?”

When Jazz didn’t answer, Desmond sighed. “Why don’t you come inside a bit?”

The refusal that leaped to the tip of his tongue wouldn’t come out. After so many years of listening to, obeying and respecting Desmond Kincade, Jazz simply couldn’t turn his back on the man. He followed him up the stairs, through the waiting room, down a hall into an office done in blues and grays.

Desmond took his seat behind his desk, shoving a pile of charts to the side. With an absent frown, he jotted something on a sticky note and put it on the front of a particularly fat chart.

“I came in to check on a few things. A colleague of mine has been handling my patients.” His emerald green eyes met Jazz’s over the tops of his glasses. “Did Anne-Marie tell you I’m selling the practice?”

“Ah, no. No, she didn’t.”

“Yes. Dr. Moss is taking over in the fall. Grew up about forty miles away from here and wanted to come home to set up his own practice. I took care of him, oh, say about thirty-five years ago. He had a Tetratrology of Fallot, a nasty mess his heart was. Back then, it was a considered a miracle if the child made it. His mother, now…she says I was her miracle. But I don’t see it that way. He was mine. They all were, in every way, their own little miracles. The boy says I was his inspiration.