Home Before Dark (14 page)

“Jessie Ryder,” said Blair, talking in a suburban Dallas drawl as she opened the trunk of the Cadillac. “And Luz. Lord, but the two of you have hardly changed at all. I swear, you need a theme song to start playing when the two of you show up together.”

“The Good, the Bad and the Surgically Enhanced,” Jessie suggested.

“Surely not.” Blair lifted a perfect brow.

“Not yet, anyway,” Jessie said.

“And not on my budget,” Luz said.

Blair hugged Jessie and then Luz. She had been their mentor years earlier, for under the homecoming queen exterior lay a keen intelligence—and a Ph.D. in mass communications. “God, it's been a grandaddy coon's age.” She waved at the wide-eyed boys clustered on the porch. “Yours?” she asked Luz.

“My bundles of joy.”

“And your daughter?”

“She's going to be all right,” Luz said. “She's the lucky one.”

“I heard. Hon, I'm so relieved for you.”

Luz stepped back. “I'll let the two of you get to work.”

“Ready?” Blair asked Jessie.

“I think so.”

“I love your work, by the way. I've seen it here and there over the years.”

Jessie put her camera bag in the trunk, noting that it was cluttered with clippings, e-mail printouts, a banker's box stuffed with files. “You've seen my work?”

“Nope, just saying that,” Blair admitted without the least
twinge of guilt. She took out a card of gum squares, popped one out of the back and put it in her mouth. “Nicorette?”

“No, thanks.”

With a shrug, Blair popped a second piece into her mouth. “One of my major food groups these days. So are you ready?”

Jessie nodded, trying to ignore the flurry of nerves in her gut. This was another assignment, nothing more. She'd photographed the wonders of the world. Shooting a man and his daughter would be a cakewalk.

“So anyway,” Blair said, cracking her gum, “I've heard you're the best there is.”

Jessie laughed as she got in the passenger side. “I've heard the same about you.”

“Good to know. This ought to be fun, anyway.” As she eased her car up the drive and turned onto the main road, she said, “Pretty around here.” She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. The nails of her right hand were perfectly manicured and painted an aggressive, shiny red. On her left hand, the nails had been bitten to the quick.

She flexed her hands on the steering wheel. “Quitting smoking is hell.”

“Yeah. I've done it a few times myself,” Jessie admitted. “How long have you been working on this story? You didn't tell me much except to say it's local and human interest.”

“I've been after him for over a year. He was a big holdout. They all are, claiming to want to protect their dignity and privacy. But those are commodities that can be bought for the right amount of money. This guy held out longer than most. I was almost going to have to go with an account given by a third party who talked to the press in the first place, but he finally decided to cooperate.”

“Sounds complicated. Most of my subjects aren't in a position to negotiate.”

“What are your subjects?”

“Asian rain forests. Coral reefs in the South Pacific.”

“How long were you out of the country?”

“I was overseas fifteen years.”

Blair gave a low whistle. “So you probably haven't heard about the Matlock case.” She eased the car onto Springside Way, heading toward the south end of Eagle Lake.

“Not really.”

Blair cracked her gum and flashed a grin. “Boy howdy. Are you in for a treat.”

She turned down a driveway leading to the Matlock place. The rambling house sat low into the brow of the bank sloping down to the lake. A sizable boathouse sagged into the water. A newly built dock projected out into the lake like a straight blade. Moored to one side was the green-and-white floatplane.

“I usually like to schedule the interview and photo shoot separately,” Blair said, “but this one was hard to pin down. Pain in the ass, actually. So we'll get it all done today and then get out of his hair.”

She parked in the shade of an overgrown crape myrtle and got out. A little terrier sprang from the bushes like a stone from a slingshot, yapping for all he was worth. The dog was followed by an older man, small of stature, with leathery skin and calm brown eyes. He shushed the dog in Spanish and nodded to Blair.

“You must be Mr. Garza,” Blair said. “Mr. Garza, my photographer, Jessie Ryder.”

The man greeted her with an unhurried but perfunctory nod of his graying head. “He is down in the shop, fixing a motor.”

“Thanks. We'll find him there.”

As they headed down the steep bank, Blair muttered,
“Great. He's probably a mess, and he knew we were coming today.”

“It might be fine,” Jessie said, trying to sound reassuring. “Sometimes you can get a lot more out of a person when he's doing something routine. My sister says he's a hunk.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Outside the workshop, Blair paused to refresh her lipstick. She offered the tube of scarlet to Jessie, who shook her head. Then Blair knocked, although the door was ajar.

“Mr. Matlock? Dusty,” she called in her best debutante voice.

“Come in.” He spoke over his shoulder, remaining bent over something on the workbench, which gave them an unparalleled view of a flawless male butt.

The workshop smelled of motor oil and sunlight streaming through the windows, and held the heat of the day already in its grip. A small oscillating fan blew its quiet breath across the benches and tools. The man straightened with unhurried grace, and stood still, backlit by the glare from the windows.

Inside Jessie, awareness sprang to life. The fall of light created a lyrical precision of line and form, etching that image indelibly in her mind. He had dark hair laid in the sort of thick waves a woman's fingers itched to plunge into. In scuffed work boots, he stood over six feet tall. He wore a pair of jeans and a plain T-shirt, plastered to his torso by sweat.

His arms were brawny with hard-worked muscles, his stomach flat as the top of a six-pack. His eyes, Jessie saw when he stepped into the light, were bluer than Eagle Lake at its deepest point.

Damn. She wished she had borrowed that lipstick after all.

Dusty had tried his best to forget that the woman from the magazine was coming. He was already regretting his decision to let her do the story. Now her Cadillac was parked in the drive, and here she was, in all her overpriced glory. Blair LaBorde, a big-haired, hungry-eyed woman, had been the bane of his existence ever since hearing about Amber's unusual birth. She had the harsh brilliance of a cut and polished gem, and ten years earlier she could have passed for one of the models in the ads of her glossy magazine.

But it was the assistant rather than Miss LaBorde who caught his attention. Even wearing an elaborate fly-fishing vest and standing amid the small motors, blades of all sizes, power tools and spiderwebs, she wasn't merely pretty. She had the sort of face you saw on movie posters thirty feet across. Yet at the same time, she looked familiar. And up close, he could see an unexpected grace that softened the perfection of her face, giving her a humanity that made him stare at her longer than politeness allowed.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us,” Blair said, giv
ing him no time to examine his reaction to her companion. “This is Jessie Ryder,” she added. “She's the best we have—you won't be disappointed.”

“The best what?” He kept studying the woman named Jessie, and recognition nudged at him again. “Have we met?”

“I'm visiting my sister, Luz Benning. She lives across the lake. You know her husband, Ian.”

Now it came back to him. The lost traveler on the road, the woman on the dock. His gaze slipped over her, and she shifted away as though avoiding an uninvited advance. Yet, perversely, her edginess drew him.

“Lots of folks mistake Jessie for Luz,” LaBorde explained.

“I don't make that kind of mistake.” Then he felt guilty about his brusqueness, given what the Bennings were going through. “Dustin Matlock,” he said, wiping his hand on a greasy rust-colored rag and then holding it out.

“Good to meet you,” she said, apparently pretending not to see the hand.

“I'm sorry as can be about what happened to your sister's kid. Is she going to be okay?”

“Yes. We're all relieved about that. I'm sure Ian will call you when he gets a chance. Thank you for getting him to the hospital in the middle of the night.”

Nice voice, he thought. Texas and something else, something a little exotic.

“I'm glad the girl's not hurt,” he said. Ian Benning was a client, possibly a friend. Ian's kid had to be all right, Dusty told himself, feeling a little light-headed with relief. Otherwise his sister-in-law wouldn't be here, working. “Tell Ian I asked.”

He went to the door and stepped outside. Pico ran across the yard, harassing a mockingbird. Amber toddled along behind him, giggling as Arnufo pretended to chase her. The
baby wore a sagging diaper, a soiled Dallas Cowboys T-shirt and nothing else. Arnufo had planned to get her all dolled up for the reporters, but apparently he was running behind schedule. Amber babbled and hurried over to Dusty, clinging to his leg as she peered at the strangers. He ruffled her hair, brushed the grass with his foot to make sure there weren't any fire ant nests nearby, and then she toddled off.

Jessie Ryder rummaged in the trunk of the Cadillac. A few moments later, she emerged with an elaborate camera, immediately aiming it and snapping a series of shots, accelerated by a whirring motor drive. For several seconds, Dusty felt completely disoriented. Then hunted. Yet even as she worked, she had the strangest effect on him. He had an almost irresistible urge to touch her skin, smell her hair, stay up all night talking to her. It was a strange way to feel about someone who was in the enemy camp. What was it about this one? She shook him, not because she was trying to take his picture but because she made something inside him pay attention to things he hadn't let himself feel in two years.

Interesting, he thought, but he arranged his face in a scowl as he turned to Blair LaBorde. “You didn't tell me this was going to be an ambush.”

“I told you I was bringing a photographer.”

“No, ma'am, you didn't.”

“Well, surprise, then.” She oozed Southern belle charm. “Pictures make up seventy-five percent of our features.”

“I don't read your features.”

“You're giving the world a wonderful story because you're a loving husband and a proud father,” LaBorde persisted. “I'm sure you'll want pictures to—”

“You know goddamn good and well why I'm giving you this interview,” he snapped. “It's because Karen's so-called friend blabbed to your competitor, and I'm setting the record
straight. But you'll excuse me if I don't want pictures of me and Amber plastered all over your rag.”

Blair was unfazed, regarding him with cool self-possession. “Our photo editors are the best in the business, and Jessie Ryder has an international reputation. And, I assure you, I am an excellent journalist.” She failed to flinch at his ferocious expression, and he felt a reluctant admiration for her. “Mr. Matlock, I've faced gang leaders, accused murderers, adulterous evangelists, armed survivalists, you name it. I'm not easily intimidated.” Blair LaBorde was polite, firm. “I'll publish the truth. I can make you that promise, so long as you don't hold out on me.”

Jessie Ryder didn't bother with the politeness. “So what'll it be?”

Damn, thought Dusty, looking at her. There was no denying it. He liked the challenge she offered. And, perversely, he liked her straightforward manner with the camera. She didn't hide in the shadows, invading his privacy with a telephoto lens as the tabloid photographers had back when the story got out.

He hefted the baby onto his hip, and her little fist curled into the sleeve of his sweaty shirt. “I'm going to get cleaned up.”

Blair turned to beam at Jessie. “He likes you.”

“Ah, Blair, you still have such deep insights into the human heart.” Jessie couldn't help staring as Dusty Matlock walked toward the house, faded jeans molding to his hips, the tiny child latched on to him like a limpet.

“It's a gift.”

“You didn't tell me he was camera shy.”

“Honey, there is nothing shy about that man.”

True, thought Jessie. He exuded confidence and something more. Some indefinable sense of her that went beyond mere interest. Her on-again, off-again thing with Simon had given her plenty of opportunity to meet all kinds of men, but already she knew she'd never met one quite like Dusty Matlock. She had blown it completely, taking pictures right out of the gate. But she was unused to subjects that actually had temperaments.

The older man, Arnufo Garza, brought out an Igloo cooler filled with ice and Cokes in small hourglass-shaped bottles. He set the cooler on a weathered redwood picnic table on
the deck. “I hope you don't mind being al fresco while I straighten up the house. We didn't realize you would be taking pictures today.”

“I could come back,” Jessie suggested.

“We would all like that very much. But you should stay. I am sure Dusty will want to get right to it.”

She felt a ripple of warmth that culminated in a blush. She'd never understood why she still had a tendency to blush, after the sort of life she'd lived.

He opened two Cokes, gave one to Blair and held out the other to her. With a slightly unsteady hand, she helped herself to the bottle, its familiar shape reassuring.

Blair rummaged in her bag. “Mr. Garza, could I ask you something?”

He smiled, clearly more at ease about the interview than Matlock. “Of course, senorita.”

Blair took out the digital recorder, no bigger than a pack of cigarettes, and set it on the table. “How long have you worked for Mr. Matlock?”

He calmly regarded the recording device. “On or off the record?”

Blair took a seat in a faded lawn chair. “Your choice.”

“Doesn't matter. I have always wanted to say that. Why do you assume I work for him?”

“Don't you?”

“Why wouldn't you ask how long Dusty has worked for me?”

Blair had the grace to flush, though only for a moment. Then she was all business. “I apologize. So does he work for you?”

“No.” With a twinkle in his eye, he smoothed his neat, salt-and-pepper mustache. He focused on the recorder. “My name is Arnufo Carlos Chavez y Garza. I am sixty-nine years old. I was born in Jalisco, Mexico, and emigrated legally to
el Norte in 1974. My wife died two years ago and I am here because Dusty and Amber need me, because I need to stay busy and because it is pleasant for me.”

“So what was Dusty's state of mind when he lost his wife and gained a daughter?”

“That is a question for him, not me.” He faced the lake, the breeze lifting his steel-colored hair. He turned abruptly, and Jessie realized he'd heard the sound of the opening door before she had.

“Incoming, Arnufo.” Dusty's voice called from inside the house.

“La tengo,”
said Mr. Garza.

The baby waddled purposefully to him, reaching out with chubby hands, a dandelion puff of pale hair framing her cherub's face.

Blair made a sound of dismay. “What the hell is she wearing?”

Jessie suppressed a grin. “I'll bet that's her best dress.” The tiny child looked like a birthday cupcake frosted in pink, the satin overlaid by cheap lace. It was the kind of dress you saw for sale at Fiesta Mart or weekend mercados, the kind a little girl might wear for her first communion, the kind a fond but clueless man might choose.

Arnufo lifted the baby in the air to make her laugh. Instinct alone took hold of Jessie as she raised her camera and snapped away. The motor drive buzzed as she took several tight shots of the pair of them—the kindly older man so focused on the child, and Amber with her head back, enjoying the ride. “Thanks,” Jessie said. “I think we got some good ones there.”

“There is no such thing as a bad picture of a baby, eh? Or a good one of an old man.”

She winked at him. “Tell that to Sean Connery.”

Matlock came out of the house. Jessie noticed that he'd showered in record time. Dark and gleaming curls spilled over
his brow. A fresh denim shirt, open at the throat with sleeves rolled back, brought out the vivid blue of his eyes. On the pocket in machine stitching was a logo with a pair of wings and the moniker Matlock Aviation Services.

Amber squirmed and cooed when she saw him coming. Matlock took the baby, his hands splayed in the froth of lace and satin. With a curiously adult patience, Amber clutched his sleeve and waited for him to have a seat across from Blair. “So let's get going.”

Jessie felt absurdly nervous. “All right.”

He nodded curtly. “Anytime now.”

“Just ignore me. Pretend I'm not here.” She heard herself babbling but couldn't seem to stop. Something about him…the more brusque he was, the more fascinated she became.

He checked her out with unabashed interest. “Yeah,” he said, “I'll ignore you.”

“You won't even know I'm here.”

He set his ankle on the opposite knee and placed Amber in the crook of his knee. She babbled and grabbed for the logo on his pocket.

Blair clicked on the recorder again. “Okay, Dusty. This is your shot. We want your story, start to finish.”

He took a long, deep breath, held it a moment, then let it go. Jessie viewed him through the camera lens and was grateful for the artificial distance between them, because the expression that shadowed his face was so intense she wanted to look away.

He stopped and shut his eyes briefly, and when they opened, he seemed to have gone away somewhere, far away. Then he started to speak. “There was nothing unique or special about Karen and me. We met, we fell in love, we got married. Ran a flight service up in Alaska, and made plans for our first child. Like I said, nothing special at all. Until she died, two months before giving birth to our daughter.”