I Think I Love You (38 page)

He took a slow drink. "I'm thinking that if the sheriff and his son were involved in Lyla's or Dean's death, they're not all of a sudden going to start playing by the rules." He took another drink. "Your father needs an attorney, and I'd feel a lot better if he was moved to another holding facility."

Regina felt heavy with dread that they weren't out of the woods just yet. Mitchell was right.

"Lawrence can help," Cissy said. "I'll call him."

"Why don't I drive out to his place?" Regina offered. "Then we can ride down to the sheriff's office together. Mitchell, would you mind taking Mom by the hospital first, then meeting us at the sheriff's?"

"Fine," he said, but he was preoccupied, his mind spinning a thousand miles a minute, she knew.

She gave him a grateful smile. "I'll take Sam with me so you won't have to leave him in the car."

Sam was glad to get out of the house and acclimated rather quickly to the compact passenger seat of her rental car. He poked his nose out the six-inch gap she'd allowed in the window and let his tongue flap in the wind. He was good, quiet company. She turned the radio on low and allowed her mind to run rampant. When the details of Lyla's murder and Dean's murder began to intermingle and muddy her thoughts, she reminded herself that at least her father was alive and well, and all else paled in comparison.

Something the radio announcer said caught her attention, so she turned up the volume.

"Kirby, age forty-one, was a lifetime resident of Monroeville. His remains were discovered Saturday in a wooded area two miles from Tipton Road, near Macken, but the coroner said Kirby probably died Wednesday or Thursday. His death has been ruled a hunting accident."

A chill went through her—Stan Kirby was dead. It seemed too coincidental that he had been associating with Dean and they had died only hours apart. Had the third man—Covey—offed both of the men to claim the "jackpot" for himself? And Kirby's body had been found only miles from Mr. Calvin's place. Things only got curiouser and curiouser, but surely this new wrinkle would bode well for proving John's innocence.

When Lyla had been alive, she and Uncle Lawrence had lived in a home within the city limits to maintain his eligibility to hold city office. They also had owned a hobby farm outside the city to satisfy Lawrence's passion for outdoor sports. After Lyla's death and after Lawrence was elected a U.S. representative, he'd sold the house in town and built a log cabin on his piece of wild land. But since he spent most of his time in D.C., Regina hadn't had many occasions to visit his home, although she fondly remembered a picnic and a hayride he'd given for the entire town to celebrate some political milestone.

The gravel road leading to the farm was winding and bumpy but passable. She drove slowly and rolled down the windows so she and Sam could enjoy the scenery—thick green hay sticking through the split-rail fences lining either side of the road, patches of goldenrod, apples trees heavy with yellow fruit. Sam barked at something, probably a rabbit or other varmint. She laughed and patted his head. After a couple of more curves, Lawrence's log home came into view. It had been built from a kit in a matter of weeks, she remembered her father saying. Two stories with a two-sided porch, and a sunroom off the back. The driveway went up to the house but petered out into wild grass, which flanked either side of the sidewalk. The ungroomed yard seemed to fit the picturesque backdrop of towering pines and kingly oaks. She pulled in next to Lawrence's Lincoln and stepped out Sam promptly jumped out and ran in the direction they'd come, toward a twitching bush. She turned in appreciative circles as she made her way up to Lawrence's front door. It was a beautiful spot.

She knocked on the door loudly in case he was in his office. After a few minutes, she knocked again, and this time the door opened. She wasn't accustomed to seeing him in casual clothes—jeans and a short-sleeve plaid shirt.

"Hi, Uncle Lawrence."

He peered at her over his reading glasses. "Regina—what brings you out this way? Not bad news, I hope."

"Just the opposite—John's home."

Her uncle seemed truly shocked. "When?"

"This morning. He's been in a rehab clinic all this time—he didn't even know that Dean was dead. Isn't that wonderful?"

Her uncle was still scratching his head. "A clinic, huh? Yeah, that's great."

"He said he wasn't allowed to make phone calls for the first few days, and since his treatment was confidential, even if someone on the staff saw his picture on the news, they couldn't have turned him in."

"Right. Well, come in, come in."

She glanced back but didn't see Sam.

"Are you alone?"

"Yes." She stepped inside. "I came to ask yet another favor, Uncle Lawrence."

"Anything in my power, dear."

She followed him through the house to the screened-in sunroom that he'd turned into his office. "Mitchell is convinced that the sheriff isn't on the up-and-up."

"I know—he informed me the other day that he suspected the sheriff might have had something to do with Lyla's death."

His voice was so sad, she felt chagrined. "I'm sorry that all this is being rehashed—I can't imagine how painful it must be for you."

"I'm a survivor," he said, as he'd said many times before. Now she wondered how many times his stoic philosophy masked a deeper pain.

"Well, the point is, Mitchell thinks it would be a good idea to have Dad moved to another holding facility until his alibi can be confirmed."

Lawrence motioned for her to sit in a rocking chair.

"Good breeze coming in through the screen door."

She claimed the chair and nudged the rocker into motion.

He leaned on the front of his desk and pulled up his leg for a good scratch above his western boots. "Damn chiggers." He rummaged around for his pipe and tobacco. "This Cooke fellow is mighty free with his opinions."

His scratch gave her a sense of déjà vu, but she shook it off. "Yes, he's opinionated, but he's been very helpful. Like you," she added hastily.

He smiled as he tamped the tobacco into the bowl of the pipe. Her nostrils flared as the scent of the rum-flavored leaf traveled on the light breeze. "Yes, I've tried to be helpful to Cissy. Helpful to all the women in my life." He reached for a matchbook to light his pipe.

Pete, she remembered suddenly. He'd been scratching himself all during their dinner date and since. The day he'd been parked at the end of their driveway, she'd noticed a rash on his legs—but it wasn't a rash; it was chiggers.

"Have you been hunting?" she asked.

"Nah, no time this trip," he said.

"But you've been in the woods," she said, pointing to his legs.

He looked down, then shrugged. "Probably picked them up in the yard or something." He struck the match and held it over the bowl, drawing on the stem to light the tobacco.

That's when she noticed the matchbook—Tick's Pool Hall. Icy fingers clenched her heart as she tried to reconcile the bits of information. Pete had gotten chiggers the day they'd been shot at, so it wasn't farfetched to assume the lost hunter had gotten them as well. And when she returned from the walk, Uncle Lawrence had been sitting on the porch with Cissy.

Too late, she realized she was staring at the match-book. And that telltale face of hers got her in trouble every time. She knew from the flash of desperation on his face that
he
knew she knew.

She pushed to her feet abruptly. "I really should be going, I barged right in on you." She turned to walk back toward the front door. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him reach for a chunk of pink quartz on his desk—a paperweight, no doubt. But heavy enough for her to see stars when he clunked her on the back of the head.

She cried out but even in her disoriented state, she knew the situation was hopeless. She was alone, with no neighbors for miles around.

"Dammit, Regina," Lawrence said, dragging her across the floor. "You always were a persnickety little thing—you never could leave well enough alone. I didn't want it to come to this; I really didn't. Now I'm going to have to figure out a way for this to look like an accident. Like you fell or something. Dammit!"

Darkness threatened to overcome her, but when she heard the screen door open and close she tried to rouse herself. She managed to flop over onto her belly before he returned, but the effort put spots behind her eyes.

"Sorry to have to do this to you, sweetheart," he said. "I know how you feel about snakes."

She managed to open one eye and shrank in horror. Tangled in the tines of a pitchfork were at least a dozen small snakes. Copperheads, no doubt. Poisonous, absolutely.

Chapter 34

DON'T go down without a fight. Or a least a good cry.

"Was getting ready to burn out the nest," he said. "Never figured on 'em coming in handy."

"Why?" she whispered, and laid her bleeding head on the floor.

"Because you wouldn't keep your mouth shut about that stupid letter opener. God, how that thing has haunted me."

Keep him talking. Buy time to regain your strength.
"You killed Aunt Lyla?"

"Yes, I killed that whore. Sleeping with anything that had a zipper, including that sonofabitch Haviland." He laughed bitterly. "They were in cahoots to bilk your parents, did you know that? Dean was pulling robberies, and she was selling stuff to your folks as 'treasures she'd found during her travels.' She even had the nerve to steal from the store. Bragged about the letter opener she'd taken right out of the case. A whore I could live with, but not a whore who would steal from my own family."

She breathed as deeply as she could to get oxygen to her brain, although her heart practically stopped at the thud of something slithery hitting the floor. One of the baby snakes skittered by, close enough for Regina to catch a whiff of a copperhead's unique scent—similar to the smell of cucumbers.

Regina shuddered. "But... Bracken."

"That convict belonged in jail anyway—no loss. Lyla had just screwed the guy, so his body fluid and stink was all over her. I talked her into going to Lovers' Lane, told her I wanted to make things right. And I did." He grunted. "Everything was fine until you girls started talking. That idiot Dean had been calling me for weeks, saying he had information about a witness to Lyla's murder, and seeing as how a new trial would damage my career, he thought I'd pay big to get rid of the witnesses. He was too goddamn stupid to realize he was talking to the person who'd killed her."

She gasped. "You... killed Dean... too?"

"Had to. Told him I'd meet him at the antiques shop and give him a down payment. When I got there, he wasn't in his car. Figured he was at your house, so I parked down the road and walked back. I heard a shot, so I hid. That Cooke guy tossed Dean out of the house, and Dean drove off. I had to stay put, and next thing I know, Mica is sitting on the porch holding a gun. When she put it down, I decided that killing Dean with one of your daddy's guns would be the smart thing to do—I didn't realize it was Justine's. I had shells with me, so I loaded it, walked back through the woods, and when Dean drove up again to meet me, I shot the little peckerwood. Did everyone a big favor."

Another snake fell to the floor and slithered close before veering off.

"You shot at us... the explosion."

"I was just trying to scare you all into going home that day in the woods. That imbecile Kirby rigged your car. Had to take care of him, too. What a goddamn mess. Would make a hell of a biography, though. Shame you're going to miss out on that."

She was losing consciousness again. "I need help, Uncle Lawrence. Please help me."

"Did you know that baby copperheads are more venomous than adults? Adults conserve their venom when they strike, but a baby doesn't know any better and shoots the full load on the first bite."

He was rambling, had gone over the edge. Her jaw locked in terror. Anything but snakes, please God. She gulped a deep breath and screamed as loud and long as she could.

He tsk-tsked. "You're just getting them riled up."

Another noise invaded her senses. Barking...
Sam.

"Sam!" she yelled. "Help me, Sam!" Gathering all her energy, she rolled. Once, twice, and again, then hit an obstacle. It was all the power she had anyway. Noises converged, then faded. She struggled to stay conscious. Sam's frantic barking mingled with her uncle's bellowing. A crash, a howl of pain—human or animal, she couldn't tell.

She gave in to the blackness and floated for a while. Her family had just started to heal, and she wanted to stick around. And then there was Mitchell, with his grin and his squiggle maneuver. She conjured up his voice.

"Regina?"

"Uhm."

"I'm here."

"Uhm."

Chapter 35