Retribution (10 page)

“Did you call Paul?”

He sniffed and tossed the damp towel into the waste basket. “No need to involve the police. The man wasn't hurt, but he did a good acting job for Lillian's sake.” He pulled his face into tight lines as he looked at Ted. “You saw her; she's really shook up.”

The women's voices flowed softly from the den.

“Lillian seems to have gotten over her fear of your wife.”

“She explained the next morning. She had a child who died. Seeing Trina pregnant, and after the long trip and being tired…I guess she overreacted.”

“And you buy that story?”

Ted stared at him. “Why shouldn't I?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “It just hits me as strange. She overreacts to seeing Trina, and now she overreacts to this guy jumping out in front of her. Like Bill said, ‘something ain't right.'” He forced a laugh. “I commend you, brother, for opening your home like this. I don't think I could sleep at night if strangers were sleeping under my roof, and my wife was pregnant and all. But then, that's the business you're in, isn't it?”

Ted's eyebrows knit together. “Do you really think she'd hurt Trina?”

“Who, Lillian? Heck no. Don't listen to me. It's been a tough day.” Roger turned and let himself out the back door, struggling to keep the spring from his step. The unexpected event had only helped him meet his goal. He had been there when she needed him, and he mentally patted himself on the back.

Now the next step, getting her alone.

9

Roger wiped a smudge of toothpaste from the corner of his mouth. Self-satisfaction oozed from his pores as he peered in the bathroom mirror. He had hit a home run last night with Lillian. Fate had thrown the man in front of her car. And as an added benefit to a glorious night, Ted had doubt growing in his gut. There was no one Ted loved more than his wife. And Bill already had questions about Lillian. Life couldn't be better.

He straightened his tie and imagined Ted finding excuses to be in the house rather than out in his shop when Lillian was home. And if Ted looked hard enough, he would find something suspicious about her.

What had Lillian told them after he left? Gloating, he imagined praise and gratitude for his rescue. As the coffee slowly leak into the carafe, he envisioned shielded glances directed toward Lillian as the men, over the rims of their cups, tried to catch a glimpse of her murderous heart.

Glancing at the clock, he gulped the hot coffee and placed his cup in the dishwasher. Why not visit Ted and Trina before heading to work? He locked the door behind him.

The barb of guilt, still shiny in its newness, snagged his conscious. Clenching his jaw, he focused on the goal. Justice must be served, and sometimes the innocent had to play a role. Anger bubbled to the surface as he gripped the steering wheel, and he embraced the familiar feeling. No one deserved a second chance more than he. He dwelled on the anger, massaged it, and rolled it in his mind like putty to be shaped and formed at will. And as though having a will of its own, the anger seeped into his veins and coalesced in his heart, where it fed the darkness.

He parked his car along the curb a block from the bed and breakfast and watched until Lillian pulled out of the drive and headed toward Pocket Road, her chosen route to the university. He didn't want to see her; the information he sought was best coming from the couple themselves. Too bad Bill had already left for work.

As he walked through the back door, Trina entered the kitchen carrying an empty tray. “Hey, Roger.”

Ted, mouth full, nodded a welcome.

“More guests?” Roger asked.

“Came yesterday. Nice couple from Texas.” Trina placed the tray by the sink and lowered herself into a chair at the table.

The space seemed changed, different somehow.

Instantly on alert, he stiffened but quickly realized he had never been to the house in the morning. The early sun streamed by the red gingham curtains and highlighted the room. In the natural light, the fresh paint on the old cupboards gleamed. The original wood floor glowed with mellow age.

The tension drained from him, replaced with a homey sense of comfort. He could live in a room like this. He slammed his mind against the sentimentality. What was wrong with him lately?

“Want a banana muffin?” Trina asked. “Coffee's on the counter.”

The muffins smelled good. Maybe that had been part of his gut reaction to the room. “I don't wake up to home bakes like this at my house,” he said, settling at the table.

“Whose fault is that?” Trina asked. “The way I see it, you have two choices: get up earlier and do some cooking, or find yourself a wife.”

“Or I could just stop here,” He forced his best smile.

“So, that's why you stopped?” Ted asked. “You smelled muffins half way across town?”

“No, actually I came to check on Lillian.” He looked around as though hunting for the woman. Voices filtered from the dining room and he stared that direction even though he knew she had eaten her breakfast at the family table, not with the guests.

“You just missed her,” Ted stated. “She left for work about five minutes ago, but she seemed back to normal.”

Trina handed Roger a muffin, and he chewed slowly. Ted got lucky with Trina; she could cook. He took a second bite. “She was still shaking when I dropped her off last night. In the car she kept saying how grateful she was…” He took an intentional sip of coffee.

“Poor thing, she's had a really bad start in the south,” Trina said. “Did you know the professor she's replacing was murdered right in her office—the one Lillian has now?”

“Is that right?”

“She didn't know if she wanted to be in that office or ask for a different one, but she's so tough.” Trina shook her head. “Really, she's amazing. She decided to keep the office and see how it goes.”

“It's not like the body's still there,” he said, remembering the slumped form draped over the desk.

Ted set down his cup. “Not too many people would want to have an office where someone had been murdered. I know I wouldn't.”

From across the table, Trina frowned. “Roger, about last night. Paul said you should have called the police.” She drained her juice.

His back stiffened. “How did Paul get involved?”

“He usually stops by after his evening shift.”

His cup clunked as he placed it on the table. Two pairs of eyes stared at him.

“After you left,” Trina said, “Lillian wanted to go back to the shelter and check on the man she hit, but thankfully Paul arrived and convinced her to let him go instead.”

“She didn't hit the man.” He clenched his teeth against his rising anger. “The man jumped out in front of her. The car never touched him, and he refused to go to the hospital.”

“But Paul said you should have called.”

His mind tried to process this unexpected information: Paul had been talking to Lillian. What were the potential ramifications? The muscles around his head tightened and he rubbed his forehead. “So Paul's been here almost every night?”

“It's kind of funny,” Trina mumbled through a mouthful of muffin, “I think he's sweet on her. You know he rescued her when she arrived in town, so now he's got this idea he has to protect her.”

“She doesn't need police protection.”

“Have another muffin,” Trina offered.

“No thanks.” Roger pushed himself from the table. “I probably have people waiting at the office.” He flexed his fingers against the anger that wanted to vent through his fists. In spite of Roger's efforts, Paul had still managed to worm his way into Lillian's life. But that didn't mean she wanted him there. After all, if Paul was assuming the role of protector, the Lillian-of-the-past would never allow that.

But what about this new Lillian? Last night, even though he had played a part in her rescue, had she really needed his help? And had she even appreciated him being there? He dug at an itch under his beard. Sure, she had thanked him, but what had he really done other than drive the car? She had made all the decisions.

Paul had become a threat to his plan. Did he need to deal with the threat, or could he use it to his advantage? This would take some thought, and right now his brain wasn't up to the task.

“I meant to ask you before and forgot,” Trina said, her usual spark resurfacing. “You are planning on coming for supper tonight, aren't you?”

He wrinkled his brow, his mind still envisioning his hands wrapped around Paul's neck. “Our usual Friday night?” he finally mumbled.

“Sandra's coming. And Jimmy. I want them to meet Lillian.”

Trina had invited Lillian? She never invited the bed and breakfast guests to the Friday night family time. He glanced at Ted, but the man stared at him with expressionless eyes. It seemed as though Trina and Lillian were becoming more than landlady and guest. Surely, Ted would kill that relationship.

“Sandra and Jimmy are coming?” Roger mumbled, still trying to process the fact that Trina had invited Lillian.

“She said they would.”

“You ever consider buying this place from Sandra? She could use the money to raise Jimmy. I heard her son didn't leave her much, once the bills were paid from the car accident.”

Ted stared at him. “I never heard that. Who told you?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I can't remember now. It's just one of those things that you hear and it sticks with you.”

“So what about Friday night?” Trina asked.

Ted locked eyes with Roger. “Paul's coming.”

“Great. Good. Count me in.”

How can I keep Officer Studler from interfering with my plan? Maybe I need to move up my timetable.

~*~

At work, the hours dragged, and his foul mood bled over to his clients, resulting in heated arguments over nothing or, worse still, giving in to their meaningless requests.

The job had been one of desperation. He needed to relocate quickly, and the job at the Housing Authority had popped up on his web-search. Not a job of choice, but one of convenience. The work wasn't hard, but tedious.

The number of families who couldn't afford housing grew every year, while the number of landlords willing to rent their property to a government-subsidized program became disproportionately smaller. As a result, hours were spent trying to stretch resources that long ago stopped meeting the need.

People expected him to be some sort of magician, able to pull miracles out of a hat. He wasn't sure why he tried so hard; it wasn't like he really cared. Like church, its usefulness would soon be over.

Latoya entered his office. “Desmond Brown's here, askin' to see ya. I pulled his file.” She handed Roger a thick manila folder.

Latoya was Roger's success story, if there was such a thing. She had been one of his first clients: homeless, two kids wrapped around her legs, and pregnant. He had found her an apartment and helped her get a job. Over the next eighteen months, she had earned her GED, and attended classes at Florence Darlington Technical College. When his receptionist quit six months ago, Latoya had applied. Devoted to the end, she would protect his back.

The willowy secretary's long nails were painted red today. Not bright cherry red, but a deep red, like blood. How did she react to the sight of blood? Was she a screamer, or a fainter, or did she grab a rag and start cleaning it up? He had a feeling she was well acquainted with grittier things.

“Sir?”

He pulled his attention from her nails to the folder dangling from her hand. Desmond Brown held the title of most detested client. “Tell him to come in.”

Within seconds, the man, built like a bull and just as mean, barreled into the office. Steam almost billowed from the man's nose. Desmond thrust a paper across the desk, ignoring his extended hand.

A verbal fight was building and, as in the past, he regretted the paper-thin walls. Very little money had been spent modifying the historic house from an elegant home to an office complex. Each substantial wall torn down had been replaced by three flimsy ones. Even though fortunate to have his own suite, he shared one of the new walls with the City Planning Department. Of course, he had overheard several heated debates from their side of the wall, too.

“Have a seat, Desmond.” Not removing his gaze from the man, he settled into his chair.

With large palms flat on the desk, Desmond leaned toward him. The man's breath reeked of stale beer and cigarettes. His black eyes became slits. Bulging arms flexed. The bull was preparing to charge. “How can you do this to me?” Desmond yelled. “You gonna put three kids out on the street, just like that?”

Although Desmond intended to intimidate, Roger also knew the underside of life: he had spent most of his years there. Leaning forward and placing his hands on the desk, he mirrored the man across from him. “Desmond, I sent you that certified letter because you are three months behind in your rent.”

Desmond stood upright, his hands at his sides.

Roger did likewise.

“I told you I'm gettin' a new job soon. I'll be able to make it up.”

“That's what you said last month.”

“Well, that job fell through. He promised it to me, and then backed down. I can't control that. I've been lookin' for better work.”

Still standing, Roger fingered the file Latoya had handed him. He knew what was inside.

So did the man on the other side of the desk.

Roger opened the folder and pretended to read. “You still have your job with Takis, right?”

“Yah, but I go home smellin' like stale food. The kids don't like it. They run to the back of the house.”

“Cleaning tables is honest work.”

“But I can do better. They have me workin' split shifts now.”

“That's because you asked for more hours.”

“Because you made me!” The man's glare drilled into his face. “So what you gonna do about this letter?”