Leave It to Cleavage (27 page)

“Hello, darling.” Gran smiled as Miranda pushed her cart up next to her grandmother’s. “I’m so glad to see you out.” She stopped in front of the bakery case, and Miranda stopped with her. “Oh, just smell those cinnamon buns. Why don’t we take some to the cottage and . . .”

“Gran, I’m not here for baked goods. I need you to tell me exactly what you were doing at . . .”

Gran picked up a wax bag, opened the case, and used the tongs to slip the buns in. Out of the corner of her eye, Miranda spotted Blake and Gus. She didn’t think they’d noticed her and Gran yet, but they were only two aisles over and closing in fast.

Taking the bakery bag out of Gran’s hands, Miranda set it down on the display table. “Let’s not fuss with any of this,” she said as she grabbed the handle of Gran’s cart and began to push toward the next aisle. “Let’s go to the Dogwood and get a slice of pie instead.”

Miranda navigated both carts around the end cap and down the next aisle, intent on staying out of sight. “Or we could go to Hyram’s for coffee and a piece of cake.”

“Darling, what are you . . .” Gran began but Miranda pushed faster, desperate to get away before the Summers men caught up with them. She moved as quickly as she could without actually dragging Gran’s feet off the floor.

“Miranda, what on earth are you doing?”

What she was doing was sprinting toward the front of the store so that they could abandon their carts and make their getaway.

Gus’s voice carried over from the next aisle and Miranda slammed to a halt. Putting a finger to her lips to warn her grandmother, she peeked around the end and held her breath while Blake and Gus finished and split off to their left.

“Gran,” she whispered as she crouched next to the Cap’n Crunch, “the Summerses are here, and Blake wants to question me. But first I need to know what you—”

“You’re
hiding
from Blake?”

“I’m not . . . hiding. I’m just”—she straightened and moved them forward again—“delaying the questioning until you assure me you had nothing to do with Tom’s—”

“Me? Why, I thought . . .”

Miranda tried to listen to Gran while looking over her shoulder and pushing forward at the same time. The crash of metal and the jolt of impact were apparently God’s way of telling her she wasn’t that great a multitasker.

Blake Summers looked down at his dented grocery cart and at the cans that now covered the floor, then back up at Miranda. “I’m trying real hard not to make any obvious comments about women drivers.”

Gus grinned. And so did Gran. Miranda was too stunned to speak.

“I don’t think I’ve ever written a ticket in the grocery store before, but I’m pretty sure we’ve got speeding.” Blake’s tone was incredibly dry. “And probably reckless endangerment.”

Miranda closed her eyes, tried counting to ten, opened them. “I’m sorry,” she said. “We were in a hurry and I wanted to check out.”

Blake’s gaze dropped to her and Gran’s empty carts.

“But since we’re all okay, I’m, uh, going to have to go.” She was babbling but she didn’t care. She had to get out of there now. “I’ve got an, um, important, uh, weigh-in at, uh, Weight Watchers.” She swallowed. “Gran, would you ask Mr. Tyndale to send me a bill for the damage? I’ve really got to go.”

With a parting nod to Blake and Gus, she leaned close to her grandmother and whispered in her ear, “I’m coming by first thing tomorrow morning. I’ll expect you to be home.” She looked her grandmother straight in the eye. “And I’ll expect you to be alone.”

Early the next morning Miranda drove to the cottage and found Gran on her knees in the dirt. She was digging holes and had a flat of red-and-white geraniums next to her. Miranda knelt on the grass and began to remove the flowers from the flat, loosening the soil around the roots as her grandmother had taught her when she was a child, handing them over to be inserted in each small hole. “I found Tom’s clothes in your trunk, Gran.”

Her grandmother placed a geranium in its newly dug hole and gently patted the topsoil around it. Miranda handed her another plant and waited. “We definitely need to talk.”

Gran shook her head. “I forgot they were in there. Can you believe it? I’m starting to get old.” She stuck her hand out for another plant, but Miranda didn’t pass one over.

“I don’t think you’re old enough to cop an insanity plea, if that’s where you’re going with this. And I hope to God you don’t need one.” She set the plant back in the flat. “Why didn’t you tell me you were up there that night?”

Gran looked up, her gaze steady. “Maybe I should be asking you the same question. There are a lot of things we haven’t discussed.”

They were so intent on each other that they didn’t hear the car drive up or the slam of a car door. Their first clue that they weren’t alone was the black boot tips that came to a stop at the edge of the flower bed.

Still kneeling, their gazes traveled up the pant legs to the face of the man who towered above them. Miranda’s heart slid somewhere down near the pit of her stomach.

“Ladies.” Blake Summers tipped his hat, then crouched down across from them. “Planting flowers, are we?”

Miranda’s brain went into warp speed but all that came out was, “Yes, geraniums.” Gran did the smarter thing and remained silent.

“Beautiful.” He was looking at Miranda. “But tricky. Not as obvious as they appear on the outside. Not always forthcoming.”

Miranda swallowed and waited. Gran, too, kept her silence.

“Well,” Blake said. “I have a few questions that need answering. And I’m thinking I’d like to ask them down at the station.”

Gran stood, brushing off her knees as she straightened. “I’ll just go get my wallet and keys and meet you down—”

“No, I want to talk to Miranda first. Alone. She can come with me. Why don’t you come by in about an hour?”

“But I don’t . . .” Miranda stood, too, her mind racing.

Gran looked Blake right in the eye, and she appeared a lot calmer than Miranda felt. “Should I be calling an attorney?”

Blake actually seemed to think about that one, which did not bode well for the line of questioning. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

Miranda placed herself between Blake and Gran, trampling a couple of geraniums on the way. He looked tall and serious and coplike, not at all like the man who’d laid a velvet cape under her and made love to her on the stairs. “You can’t just show up here and ‘take me down to the station for questioning.’” She lowered her voice in an imitation of a TV cop.

“Actually,” he said, folding his forearms across his chest, “I can.”

Miranda shot Gran a look. “Why don’t I just come down with Gran? We can . . .” She was frantic to talk to her grandmother before she had to talk to Blake.

“Nope.” He took her gently by the elbow and steered her toward the waiting jeep, and she offered a small prayer of thankfulness that he hadn’t felt the need to shove her in the back of the cruiser like a criminal.

Miranda looked out the passenger window as they pulled away. Gran stood with her gardening tools clutched to her chest and a thoughtful expression on her face. Miranda sincerely hoped Gran wasn’t planning to reveal all without revealing it all to Miranda first.

The new police station wasn’t exactly a hubbub of activity. In fact, on a Saturday morning it was downright quiet. Miranda’s heart thudded in her chest as she followed Blake through the empty reception area to an office at the back. His shoulders were broad, and right now they were completely rigid. She was too nervous to appreciate his back view. When he motioned her to the chair across from his desk, he didn’t crack a smile.

She’d been hauled into the police station and the chief of police had seen her naked. The thoughts had nothing to do with each other, but were equally disturbing. A picture of her Gran being led away in chains was more disturbing still.

“Are you allowed to plead the fifth in a chief of police’s office?”

“No.”

God, she wished she’d studied law instead of business. She was scared for Gran, and unsure of her ground. A deep knot of hurt and anger lodged itself in her chest. How could he look at her so dispassionately? “Are you accusing me of having something to do with Tom’s death?”

“I’m not
accusing
you of anything, Miranda. I’m looking for answers, and I need you to provide them. Today. We know
how
Tom died, but we don’t know
why
. And I’m not signing off on this case until I understand what happened that night.”

She tried to push back the hurt; tried to figure out how in the world to proceed. Maybe he’d ask her things she wouldn’t have a problem answering. Maybe none of his questions would implicate her grandmother, and she could just come clean. So that he would stop looking at her like she was some speck of dust on the wall.

“Did your husband ask you for a divorce?”

Miranda blinked, surprised. This wasn’t at all what she’d been expecting, but at least she could answer honestly. “No.”

“Did you know your husband liked to dress up in women’s underclothes?”

“No.”

He shot her a look.

“Well, not until recently.”

“And you found out, when?”

She swallowed. “The night he left—when I accidentally found the pictures.”

“Of?”

“Of him dressed up in Ballantyne’s best-sellers.”

“Did you know your husband was having an affair?”

“Sort of.”

“Did you or didn’t you?”

“Well, when you find a picture of your husband in women’s lingerie with another woman’s hand on his butt, you kind of have to figure she’s not some innocent passerby. But I didn’t officially know he was having an affair, no.” And had hoped she’d never have to.

“So you didn’t have reason to believe he was having an affair with Helen St. James?”

Miranda winced. The man had been doing his homework. “Not exactly.”

“So you
sort
of knew?” His tone was dry and not at all amused.

“I kind of figured it out from her hostility and her, uh, manicure. But it was never actually discussed.”
Because then I would have had to fire her.

It was Blake’s turn to blink.

“And you found the pictures on . . .”

“January eighth, the night I found the note from Tom that said he was leaving. And, uh, a letter that made me think something might be wrong at Ballantyne.” She’d be as helpful as possible, as long as it didn’t implicate Gran.

“January eighth was a pretty big night for you.”

“You could say that.”

“You find pictures of Tom in ladies’ lingerie with another woman, and?”

“A letter,” she filled in obligingly.

“From?”

“Our lender, Fidelity National.”

“Indicating?”

Once again she wished for a law degree, but in the end decided the fraud probably was no longer relevant, since Tom was dead and she’d pledged her assets to guarantee the line of credit. “That there was a possible problem with our receivables.”

“And
then
you found the note from Tom, saying?”

Miranda cleared her throat, embarrassed. “Well, he apologized for some things and told me to ‘Have a nice life.’”

She squirmed in her chair while Blake watched her and waited. She thought she saw a brief flash of sympathy in his eyes, and to her horror her eyes filled with tears and the urge to explain became almost overwhelming. Unloading all the stuff she’d been carrying around would be such a relief; she felt lighter just thinking about it. But she wasn’t Catholic and Blake Summers was no priest.

But maybe she could pull this off, without sending any members of her family to prison. Surely Gran’s involvement was innocent and explainable. She just had to give him enough to make him leave them alone so she could hash this out with Gran.

She averted her gaze and tried to look reluctant. “Somewhere in there my mother called. Because my parents were expecting us for dinner, and when she said my father had seen Tom—” Her mouth clamped shut as she remembered what had happened next. If she told him she’d gone up there, he’d want to know if she’d seen anyone else while she was there, and this would lead to Gran.

She resettled in her seat and folded her hands in her lap. “I’d like to plead the fifth.”

“I told you, you can’t do that.”

“All right, then. No comment.”

“I’m not a reporter, Miranda, I’m a cop. No comment doesn’t cut it.”

“Fine.” The whole confession idea was really stupid anyway. She’d just shut up like she should have from the moment she’d come in here.

They contemplated each other over the desk that separated them. She wanted to believe that the Blake who’d made love to her so beautifully was inside the police chief she was facing. And she really hoped Andie’s doting father was in there, too. She had feelings for this man whether she wanted to or not, damn it, and he was grilling her like a steak.

“So what did you do then? When your mother told you your father had seen Tom—I’m assuming you were going to say up at the lake?”

She remained silent.

“You don’t really expect me to believe you just sat there and did nothing?”

She absolutely was not going to say anything else, no matter what.

“The Miranda Smith
I
know wouldn’t have taken all that without dishing out a little herself. And I happen to have an eyewitness who saw you coming back down that mountain like a—I believe the expression was ‘bat out of hell.’”

Her shoulders slumped. Very tricky, this guy, baiting her that way. But he didn’t know whom he was up against.

“You’ve been lying and covering for months, Miranda. The time has come to tell the truth.”

Miranda narrowed her eyes. In an incredibly childish gesture, which she hoped she’d live to regret, she put two fingers to her lips and pretended to zip them shut. There was nothing in the world he could do that would make her say another word.

Blake sighed and stood. Taking her by the elbow, he led her out of his office and down a hall away from the lobby.

“Where are you taking me?”

“I really hate to do this, Miranda, but you leave me no choice. I’m hoping some time alone to . . . reflect . . . will help you see the advantages of talking.”