Homecoming (25 page)

“Have you decided what you’re going to do with the property?”

“You know I can’t sell until next June.”

“You might not be able to sell it, but you can rent it.”

She shook her head in the dimly lit bedroom. “No, Tyler. I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

Turning over, she tried to make out his features. “I’m not ready to let it go. I used to love going to Grandma’s. Everything good from my childhood came from that house.”

Tyler kissed her forehead. “You’re going to have to let it go sometime.”

“I know. But not now.”

“How are you coming with your research?”

“Good.”

“Just good?”

“Good is good, Tyler.”

There was a swollen silence, then his soft drawling voice. “Have you told your editor that you’re not coming back?”

“No.”

“What are you waiting for?”

“This is only the beginning of August. I have until the end of September before my leave expires.”

“Our marriage is not a trial run, Dana.”

“I know that, Tyler.”

“Then why do I feel as if at the end of September it’s going to end?”

His voice was void of emotion, and that bothered Dana more than if he’d barked at her. “I can’t help how you feel.”

“Do you even care how I feel?”

“Of course I care, Tyler.”

“Do you really care?”

“Yes, I do!”

“I don’t believe you, Dana!”

She moved away to the edge of the mattress. “It sounds as if you have a personal problem, Dr. Cole.” Sitting up, she swung her legs over the side of the bed.

Moving quickly, Tyler snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her back into the middle of the bed. “My problem is I’ve spoiled you.”

Turning, she pounced on him with the speed of a cat. “And you’re delusional,” she breathed out against his mouth.

He went completely still, staring up at her, her hair falling over her forehead. At that moment she reminded him of a cat. There was enough light coming from a tiny lamp on a table in the sitting room to make out her eyes shining like polished amber.

“I do spoil you, Dana.” He brushed his mouth over hers, nibbling on her lower lip. “The only thing I can’t do for you is breathe,” he crooned deep in his throat.

“You don’t spoil me,” she retorted, refusing to acknowledge his declaration. “It’s I who spoil you. I keep house for you—”

“A house you don’t have to clean,” he said, cutting her off, “because someone comes in and cleans twice a week.”

“I cook your meals.”

He nodded. “Granted you do prepare dinner.”

“And I warm your bed.”

He chuckled. “That you do. Don’t forget the garden.”

Her face burned when she recalled their passionate encounter in the garden. “Don’t forget that I strip for you, too.”

“How can I forget your striptease?”

“I did promise to strip for you again, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did. I’m still waiting, Mrs. Cole.”

Wrinkling her nose, she kissed the side of his strong neck. “You’re going to have to wait a little longer.” Tyler groaned in her ear, his teeth catching her lobe and nibbling it.

She longed to tell him what she’d expected for several days. Her period was late—five days late.

Sliding gracefully off her husband’s body, she lay on her side, her splayed fingers resting on her flat belly. Although her leave of absence was no longer an issue, she knew carrying a child would impact greatly on her efforts to clear her family’s name.

Each legal pad was filled with notes from a corresponding notebook, and the notes she’d gleaned from the notebooks would be entered into a database she’d created to analyze Eugene Payton’s observations. She wasn’t certain how he’d done it, but the attorney had used a cryptogram, using the alphabet, to record direct testimony. It had taken her two days before she was able to decode his secret language.

It wasn’t what was said during the trial as much as what hadn’t been said or asked. There were instances during testimony and cross-examination when she found it difficult to differentiate between the prosecutors and her father’s defense attorney.

Two names jumped out at her over and over: the defense attorney, Sylvester Wilson, and Peter Gillespie, the medical examiner from the coroner’s office.

Tyler’s moist breath swept over her shoulders. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yes.”

And she was. She wasn’t sick; in fact, she felt wonderful. What she wanted to tell her husband was there was more than a fifty-percent probability he was going to become a father.

Twenty-five

Dana left the house minutes after Tyler, stopping to fill up her car before heading for Jackson, Mississippi. She’d called Sylvester Wilson, identifying herself. He’d hesitated for several seconds, then asked if he could help her. She’d told him that she wanted to talk to him about Harry Nichols’s trial. The soft-spoken attorney had agreed to meet with her following morning at ten-thirty. He’d insisted she not be late because he had a lunch meeting with the governor.

She maneuvered into a parking space in the back of a modern two-story brick building. The number of luxury cars in the lot indicated the lawyer either had a very lucrative practice or well-heeled clients.

A legal assistant showed her to an office filled with exquisite reproductions, informing her Mr. Wilson would meet her as soon as he completed a telephone call.

When Sylvester Wilson walked into the small conference room, Dana felt a cold chill race over her before she was given the opportunity to view his face. Extending his hand, he offered her his professional grin, one that usually disarmed people immediately.

She rose slowly from the plush armchair and shook the proffered hand. His glossy dark eyes roamed over her body before settling on her face.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Nichols. It is Miss
Nichols, isn’t it?” he asked, glancing at the rings on her left hand.

“Actually it’s Mrs. Dana Cole. I thought if I’d identified myself as Mrs. Cole you wouldn’t have granted me an audience so easily.”

She studied the face of the man who’d been charged with the responsibility for keeping her father out of jail, for proving him innocent beyond a shadow of a doubt. Sylvester Wilson was medium height, probably five-ten, and slightly built. His custom-made suit was cut to fit his slender body. She estimated him to be in his mid-to-late fifties. His coarse hair was close-cropped and sprinkled with silver. His accessories were impeccable, silk tie, handkerchief, and gold monogrammed cufflinks.

“Please sit down, Dana. May I call you Dana?”

She retook her seat, smiling. “Yes, you may.”

Sylvester took a seat opposite her, clasping his hands together on the highly polished surface of the rosewood table. He had to admit that he’d thought Dana Nichols Cole was Alicia Nichols come back to life when he first walked into the room. Her face, hair, body, and voice were the same as the murdered woman. In his family, the girls usually favored their fathers, but with Dana it was the opposite. Dana was Alicia’s clone.

“How can I help you?”

Dana decided to be direct. “I’ve been studying the details of the case you handled on behalf of Harry Nichols, and I have a few questions to ask you.”

He waved a manicured hand. “Ask.”

“Why did you only call one material witness on my father’s behalf? Why did you turn down Eugene Payton’s request to be called as a witness? Why wasn’t Georgia Sutton asked to testify? And why on earth didn’t you permit my father to testify in his own behalf?”

Leaning back on his chair, Sylvester gave Dana a long, penetrating stare. “Mrs. Cole—”

“Dana,” she insisted with a cold smile.

“I’m sorry. Dana, what you don’t understand was the sentiment at the time. Everyone was calling for Dr. Harry Nichols’s head. They were grumbling about how the act was not only heinous, but also cowardice because he’d waited until she was asleep to kill her. A few said it was a crime of passion because he’d blown off her face in a jealous rage. Rumors were circulating that he couldn’t stand other men looking at his wife.”

She gave the lawyer a narrowed glare. “The gossip was coming from people in Hillsboro. Wasn’t the trial held in Greenville?”

He nodded once. “Yes.”

“I’m certain most Greenville residents knew nothing about Dr. Harry Nichols or his wife Alicia. Weren’t all of the jurors from Greenville?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not buying your argument, Mr. Wilson. You did my father great injustice. You accepted his case, knowing you couldn’t win it. Your specialty is litigation, not criminal law. In other words, you handed him the rope he needed to hang himself.

“Did you take the case for the money or for the notoriety? Which one was it? Whether my father was found guilty or innocent, you still got your money.”

Muscles in his jaw throbbed noticeably under his smooth dark-brown skin. “What are you implying, Mrs. Cole?”

Her eyes darkened with rage. “I’m not implying anything. I telling you outright that you were incompetent.”

Sylvester rose gracefully to his feet. “I believe this conversation has come to an end.”

Dana stood up. “You’re right, Mr. Wilson. My father
might not be alive, but I’m going to reopen his case and if it takes every penny that I have, I’m going to make certain you lose your right to practice law in the State of Mississippi.” She offered him a sensual smile. “You can send me a bill for your time.”

Turning on her heel, she walked out of the conference room, leaving Sylvester staring at her straight back. He waited several minutes, and then picked up one of several phones on a side table. He dialed a number, drumming his fingers on the table.

“Guess who came to see me,” he said when he heard a familiar voice. “Dana Nichols. She says she’s now Dana Cole.” A feral smile crossed his face. “Ain’t that nothing?” he remarked, lapsing into dialect. “Now, ain’t she just like her momma. They must have a thing for doctors. She’s planning to open her old man’s case. Hell, yeah, she can request it. There’s no statute of limitation for murder. I suggest you take care of her before she opens a barrel of snakes. The one that escapes just might be poisonous.” He held the receiver to his ear, nodding. “I’ll ask her if she’s willing to do it. If she’s anything like her momma, she’ll probably say yes. I’ll ask her, then get back to you. I know. We don’t have much time.”

Without a parting greeting, Sylvester Wilson hung up. Something had told him twenty-two years ago not to accept the Nichols case, but he had needed the money. He’d had an underage pregnant girlfriend at the time who was threatening to tell his wife about their extramarital affair. The grubby little whore didn’t want the baby, but money. Money he didn’t have. He’d accepted Harry Nichols’s fee, given his girlfriend money for an abortion, and a thousand dollars for her to forget she ever knew him.

However, it was years later that he found out that Thelma hadn’t had the abortion. She’d taken his
money, moved to Chicago, and given birth to a baby girl. One who, she wrote to tell him, looked exactly like him. Thelma lived in Chicago for twenty-two years before she decided to come back to Mississippi.

She came to see him, and he was shocked at how good she still looked. And he had to admit his daughter was quite an eyeful, too. Twana looked like him, but she was her mother’s child. Both of them had hustling in the marrow of their bones.

Tyler sat on a stool at the end of the examining table, adjusting a gooseneck lamp. The young woman was a new patient who’d told the social worker her mother had kicked her out of the house because she couldn’t keep a job. She was twenty-one, a high school dropout, had just gotten out of an abusive relationship, and Tyler would now have to tell her the results from her latest urine sample—she was pregnant!

“Miss Singleton, please move a little toward me, and relax your knees.”

She scooted closer to the edge of the table. Tearing open a prepackaged vaginal speculum, Tyler inserted the instrument, dilating her vaginal canal. He examined her vaginal walls and cervix. His nurse handed him a cotton-tipped applicator, and he gathered a culture for a routine Pap smear. He handed the nurse the applicator and she prepared the slide, which would be sent to an outside lab for testing.

He removed the speculum, applied a lubricating jelly on the examining glove, gently inserting a finger into her vagina. With his other hand, he pressed along the lower portion of her abdomen as Twana moaned softly.

“I’m trying not to hurt you,” Tyler said, offering her a comforting smile. “It’s almost over.” He felt her
ovaries. “One more and we’re done, Miss Singleton. Now I want you to take a deep breath, and then let it out slowly.” Her chest rose and fell under an examining gown at the same time he inserted his middle finger into her rectum and his index finer into her vagina.

“Do you really have to do that, Dr. Cole?”

“Yes, because I need to get a better feel of the back wall of your uterus. I can also check for hemorrhoids and other growths known as polyps.” He extracted his fingers, removing his gloves. “You’re done.” Rounding the table, Tyler patted her shoulder. “The nurse will help you to get dressed, then I’ll see you in my office.”

He was still entering notes in Twana Singleton’s chart when she walked into his office. She was petite and very pretty. A soft curling natural hairstyle was flattering to her perfectly rounded face. Her large brown eyes gave her the appearance of being perpetually surprised. Her attire was totally inappropriate for daytime wear. A skintight skirt, which showed a lot of thigh, and an equally tight tank top were better suited for the clubs many young people favored.

Rising to his feet, he came around his desk. “Please sit down, Miss Singleton.” She took the chair he indicated, crossing her shapely legs.

Tyler sat down opposite Twana, his expression impassive. He’d stopped counting the number of patients who believed they were flirting with him. The fact that he now wore a wedding band apparently was not a deterrent.

“Are you certain you had a period last month, Miss Singleton?”

Her eyes shifted upward as she appeared deep in thought. “I think so.”

“Are you very sure?”

Her tongue darted out, and she ran it over her lower lip in a seductive gesture. “I think so,” she repeated.

“I’m asking you about your period because the results of a urine test indicate you’re pregnant.”

Twana shook her head. “That can’t be true, Dr. Cole.”

“Our test detected the presence of HCG, human chorionic gonadotropin, a hormone found in early pregnancy.”

Twana leaned forward, displaying her large breasts. “Don’t you understand I can’t be pregnant, Dr. Cole? I don’t want to be pregnant.” She jumped up, heading for the door. “I can’t talk about this.”

Tyler was right behind her as she ran down the corridor toward the exit. He caught up with her in the crowded waiting room. “Miss Singleton, please come back.”

Turning, she pointed an airbrushed finger at him, her face contorted in rage. “You stay away from me! I want nothing to do with you!” She spun around on her heel, opened the door, and walked out, slamming the door, so hard the glass rattled.

There was complete silence in the waiting area as all eyes were focused on the tall man with the white lab coat. Tyler looked at his patients, seeing shock and uncertainty in their gazes. It was a full thirty seconds before he turned on his heel and retreated to an examining room.

He saw eight patients that day, but only one stuck in his head—Twana Singleton. He’d had women deny their pregnancies almost up to the time they were ready to deliver. It was apparent Twana would become one of those women.