I Think I Love You (20 page)

DO prepare for inevitable setbacks in your relationship,

such as sex.

"You look swell," Pete said through the screen door. A toothpick bobbed in the corner of his mouth.

Regina smiled, glad she'd settled on the pink sundress. "Thanks. I'll be right out—let me grab my purse." Inviting him around to the back porch to chat with her family would have been the polite thing to do, but she didn't want to make a big deal out of their "date." Just as she retrieved her purse from the table, Justine appeared at the end of the hallway, cooling her neck with a paper fan on a stick. Since the walk yesterday, they had spoken very little.

"I heard a car—oh. Are you going somewhere?"

"To dinner."

"With the junk man?"

"No, with Pete Shadowen."

Her eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Because he asked me." And it would be a relief to escape the tension radiating throughout the house.

Justine walked closer. "Let sleeping dogs lie, Regina."

Regina noticed her sister's green eyes looked suspiciously glazed—was she on something? "You don't have anything to worry about, Justine."

The fan resumed its rhythmic movement. "I hope not." She turned and walked away with the mild threat hanging in the humid air.

Regina's eyes stung, and her decision to reveal the truth to Pete was once again turned on end.
"The most difficult option is usually the right one."

A headache had begun its ascent when she returned to the entrance. "I'm ready."

Pete seemed nervous, scratching and fidgeting as he held open the door for her. He wore what appeared to be his khaki deputy uniform, minus the accoutrements.

"Sorry, I'm on call this evening because of the Heritage Days. But you know how quiet it is around here." He took out the toothpick and laughed. "Having Mica and Justine back is town is the biggest thing that's happened in a while."

Her smile went a little flat.

He blanched and used the toothpick as a pointer. "Mica is such a celebrity, and it isn't often that we're on the lookout for a fugitive."

"Right. Did you find that hunter who was using us for target practice?"

He made a rueful noise and scratched below the waist. "No, but I asked the Hendersons to keep an eye out, and I posted No Hunting signs all over that area."

Her feet faltered a bit at the sight of the police cruiser, but she walked on, thinking her assistant, Jill, simply would not believe this date.

Pete held open the passenger side door. "I'm not used to having someone ride up front with me."

She slid into the seat and stared at the handcuffs dangling from the rear-view mirror. She was starting to have a bad feeling about this.

Pete opened the door and climbed in, looking happy enough for both of them. "Thought we'd go to the Crab Hut, if that works for you."

There were only a handful of local eateries to choose from, and crab was perfectly filling. "Sure. Do you still have your yellow VW Rabbit?"

"No, I sold it a couple of years ago. That was one great car, though." He sucked on the toothpick. "Yeah, that car saw some good times."

She had the feeling they were both thinking of Tobi Evans.

"Is she remarried?" Regina asked him.

"No," he said thoughtfully.

Five minutes in, and she had him fantasizing about another woman. That had to be some kind of record. Granted, though, she hadn't left him many memories to pine over.

They had to cruise town once just to make sure everything was contained before going to dinner. The streets of Monroeville were hopping, filled with gleaming sports cars filled with gleaming teenagers. Trucks were a favored mode of transportation, too, and Pete reported that neon-colored motorcycles, known as crotch rockets, were becoming all the rage. The girls looked impossibly thin and half-dressed; the boys, buff and tattooed. She felt positively retro by the time Pete backed into a parking place at the Crab Hut.

The Crab Hut was also hopping, and a bit pungent. Beach music played over the speakers, with an occasional country song thrown in to keep the locals happy. They decided to sit on the patio and split a bucket of crab legs. She ordered a beer; he ordered iced tea since he was on call. His screeching radio went on the table between them.

"Man, it's hot," he said, wiping at his forehead with his paper napkin.

"I forget about the heat," she said. "It always surprises me when I come home."

"You look good in a sweat," he observed, taking in her cleavage.

"Um, thank you." She shifted on the metal chair and decided to do it before she lost her nerve—tell him off the record that she alone had witnessed Lyla's murder and get his advice on how to proceed. It was the only way she could assuage her conscience and still protect her sisters. "Listen, Pete, I'd like to talk to you about something that goes way back."

"Okay, shoot." He got a goofy grin on his face, as if he expected her to say she regretted not letting him go to third base when they were dating in high school and she was back to make it up to him. She stared at the toothpick and had second thoughts. Maybe she wasn't ready to report the incident... yet. Maybe she simply needed to run it by an objective party to see if she sounded certifiable.

She glanced around them at the crowded tables, looking for... she didn't know what. The answer? A revelation? All she saw were couples and families sucking crab legs...

And Mitchell Cooke. He was strolling toward them, wearing a
Jeopardy
game show T-shirt and a thousand-watt smile. Her blood pressure skyrocketed.

He sidled up to their table. "Hi there."

"Hello," she murmured, and not pleasantly.

"It's Peter, isn't it?" Mitchell said to the other man.

"Pete, actually."

Mitchell clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm Mitchell."

"I remember." Pete looked befuddled.

"I just came out to get some dinner and a beer," Mitchell said. "But it sucks eating by yourself."

Regina poked her tongue into her cheek. "I would ask you to join us, but—"

"Are you sure you don't mind?" He pulled up a chair between them, forcing Pete to scoot farther around the table. "Wow, lucky I saw you guys sitting here."

"Yeah," Pete said. "Lucky. We already placed our order."

"I'll just add mine when the waitress comes back." He tipped up his beer bottle for a swig. "Were you two waxing nostalgic about proms and first kisses?" He laughed at his own wit.

She wanted to crack something of his with her crab leg tool.

Pete's radio belched static; then a woman's voice said his name. "I need to check in on the car radio," he said, talking to Regina but looking at Mitchell. "I'll be right back."

She waited until he was out of sight before turning on Mitchell. "You followed us!"

He was the picture of calm innocence. "That's not true. There aren't that many places in town to eat, and I had a hankering for legs." He tilted his head and scrutinized hers. "Nice dress."

"Is your MO to exasperate a woman into your bed?"

"Is it working?"

"Not even."

"Look, we were getting somewhere today before Mr. Calvin arrived and your dad put in an appearance. I think we owe it to ourselves to play it out. Pete will understand."

"Drink your beer, then get lost."

He sighed his acquiescence.

She noticed an absence at her crotch that seemed unusual when Mitchell was around. "Where's your dog?"

"I left him in the hotel room with the air-conditioning and a big pillow." He wagged his eyebrows.

She ignored him and swallowed a mouthful of beer. To her relief, Pete returned, but as soon as she looked at his face, she knew their date was over.

"Tractor trailer carrying paint turned over on the connector. I'm sorry, but I'll have to take you home."

"No injuries, I hope?"

"No, apparently just orange paint as far as the eye can see."

"I'll take Regina home," Mitchell told him.

"That won't be necessary," Pete said.

"But she hasn't even had dinner."

"We'll get it to go."

"Guys? I'm sitting right here."

They looked at her.

"What do you want to do?" Pete asked.

She drank from her beer. Well, she didn't want to have dinner with Mitchell, but compared to going home to spend the evening with her sisters, he was the lesser of two evils. "I'll stay, Pete. We'll do this again sometime."

He nodded morosely and left.

Mitchell gave her a wry smile. "It would've been much simpler if you'd just said yes when I first asked you to dinner. But I'm not complaining." He rubbed his hands together. "So, what am I having to eat?"

"We're splitting a bucket of crab legs."

"Sounds great."

She pointed to his shirt. "You're a fan of
Jeopardy?"

"No. But I was a contestant ages ago."

She was slightly impressed. "Did you win?"

"Sure."

Of course. "I take it the Final
Jeopardy
question wasn't about Joe DiMaggio?"

He angled his beer bottle at her. "I was testing you with that All-Star Game remark. If you hadn't passed, I wouldn't be here."

She smirked. "I don't peg you as being quite that discriminating."

"Oh, but I am."

Despite her resolve to resist him, Regina had to admit the man was pulling her chain. His handsome face would be easy enough to dismiss if he were dim-witted or mean-spirited or lascivious. But dammit, his mind was sharp, his interaction with her dad and Mr. Calvin was gentle, and his sexy bantering left her stomach tingling low with promise. Thank goodness their bucket o' crab legs arrived, so she could stop thinking about the magnetism of Mitchell Cooke, former bad boy.

The waitress looked back and forth between them. "Wasn't there another guy sitting here before?"

"He was just holding my place," Mitchell assured her.

They both ordered another beer and started cracking handfuls of bright coral-colored legs—her with the tool, him with his bare hands. Of course.

"So you grew up here?" he asked, dredging a strip of white meat through drawn butter.

She nodded. "I was born here."

"Your parents?"

"Cissy grew up here. John grew up in Virginia."

"How did they meet?"

"Dad went to college with Cissy's brother."

"That would be Lawrence Gilbert?"

"Right."

"What's he like, your uncle?"

"Incredible. He and Cissy were orphaned, and he managed to raise her and himself. Then he won an academic scholarship to the University of Virginia, went into the military, and distinguished himself in Vietnam. Came back to Monroeville and made money in all sorts of little businesses and the stock market, then got involved in local politics."

"He was mayor when his wife was murdered?"

She nodded.

"What's the story there?"

She cracked more legs. "She was stabbed by the pool man after she fired him."

"Bracken?"

"Yes."

"In her house?"

"No."

He looked up.

Regina shifted on her chair. "Lyla was found stabbed in her car at a place the locals call Lovers' Lane."

"A make-out spot?"

"Yeah."

"She was doing the pool guy and he stabbed her?"

"That was the general theory, I believe."

"Were there any witnesses?"

Act naturally.
"It happened in the woods, in a remote location."

"Who found her body?"

"A couple of hunters, I believe."

"Did Bracken confess?"

"No. But he was an ex-con, and he collected knives. He bought several from our shop even though it violated his parole. There was... fluid at the scene."

"Semen?"

She nodded. "It matched Bracken's blood type. Plus he had motive, and means."

"So he stabbed her with a knife?"

She squirmed. "The murder weapon wasn't found."

He chewed thoughtfully.

She busied herself meticulously picking out a ribbon of white meat.

"How old were you when it happened?"

She pretended to think. "About fourteen, I suppose."

"Where is this Lovers' Lane place?"

"Near Armadillo Creek."

"Near your house?"

She shrugged. "I guess so."

A teasing smile came over his face. "Ever been there?"

Regina pointed her cracking tool. "That's none of your business."

He smiled but turned thoughtful again so soon, she grew uneasy. After a drawn-out silence, he leaned forward until their faces were mere inches away. "I enjoy puzzles."

She remained silent, but she had a bad feeling about the direction of the conversation.

"I enjoy linking little disjointed bits of information and putting it all together." He took another drink from his beer. "Let me give you a scenario."

"I don't see what this has to do—"

"Humor me."

She knew the danger of overreacting, so she simply averted her eyes and kept her hands busy.

"The scenario goes like this: A woman is surfing an on-line auction and notices an item that looks like the weapon used in her aunt's murder. She thinks it's a coincidence, so she e-mails the seller, and the item is immediately pulled from the auction. Very suspicious, especially when she realizes it coincides with the convicted man lobbying for a new trial."

The bite of crab went down hard. "Interesting story."

"Uh-huh. Especially when you take into account that the murder weapon wasn't found. So in order for this woman to know what it looked like, she would have had to either witness the murder itself or come upon the scene shortly thereafter."

Heat suffused her face, but she tried to sound casual. "You have an active imagination."

"So my mother always said." He popped another bite into his mouth and took his sweet time chewing it. "But the really confusing part is that knowing the girl, I would've bet that she'd gone straight to her parents, or to the police. So I can only conclude that she was with someone she shouldn't have been with, or doing something she shouldn't have been doing, and didn't want to get into trouble herself." He smiled. "How am I doing?"