Shameless (The Contemporary Collection) (23 page)

No. Cammie couldn't believe it; she wouldn't think such things.

“Cammie? You still there, dear? I didn't mean to upset you.”

“What did you mean to do, then?” She heard the anger in her voice, but couldn't help it.

“Jack felt you had to know the truth. It wouldn't do, he said, for you to be taken in by this man. I mean, you know what Reid Sayers is — the family he comes from. And he's been gone from here so long, has turned into such an outsider. You hear such odd tales — there's no way of knowing what he might do. You must not forget that.”

“I doubt that's possible.” Even if she managed it, there would always be somebody to remind her.

“Maybe I should send your uncle over to talk to you. You know, he's had disappointments and pain himself. His trial by fire in Vietnam, when the Good Lord tested him for the ministry, gave him a special understanding for the troubles that come to us all. He spends long hours, day and night sometimes, giving aid and comfort to people.”

Cammie had heard about her uncle's call to the Church and his devotion to duty many times. “There's nothing to face, Aunt Sara. I appreciate the information, but you don't need to worry about me.”

The tone of her voice signaled an end to the conversation. Her aunt accepted it without argument. “Well, then, I won't keep you. You let us hear from you, now, let us know you're all right. And come to see us.”

Cammie agreed, issuing an invitation of her own that was as empty as the one she had received. Then she hung up.

The sighting was a mistake, it had to be. Or else a vicious rumor circulated by someone with an overactive imagination. Janet Baylor may have met a man — nothing was more likely — but that didn't mean the man was Reid.

Anyway, he'd told her point-blank he had nothing to do with Janet's disappearance. Hadn't he?

She couldn't quite remember his exact words. It was possible he'd only led her to suppose he had no connection.

No, it couldn't be. He wouldn't do something that underhanded.

Or would he?

What did she know about him, really? Going to bed with a man didn't guarantee insight into his character.

And yet, where else was a person so completely himself. If you couldn't judge someone by the degree of thoughtfulness and tender concern displayed in the act of love, then how was it ever possible to know what he was like inside?

She was so disturbed that she couldn't concentrate, couldn't settle in to any task. She needed to unpack her overnight bag, but couldn't bring herself to look at the clothes and nightgown she'd scarcely worn. Persephone had made a grocery list, but the last thing Cammie wanted was to go shopping. She thought of driving to the antique shop, but there seemed no point if she was going to be useless when she got there.

Working among her flowers had a way of calming her. She picked up a pair of well-worn gardening gloves and a set of clippers on her way out of the house.

She spent an hour or so in the yard, cutting bouquets of azaleas for the house while pruning them at the same time, fertilizing the camellias and pulling winter grass from the annual beds. The day was warm and pleasant. It was time to begin setting out summer bedding plants. She decided to see what the local garden center had available.

Cammie went inside for her purse. Heading out again, she noticed Reid's robe, which she'd worn home from the Fort days ago. Persephone had laundered it and left it lying on a hall table, ready for her to return to its owner. She could drop it off as she went; it would only be a little out of her way.

Reid wasn't at home but should be back in a little while, the housekeeper said. Lizbeth offered coffee and cake, if Cammie cared to wait, but Cammie refused, explaining where she was headed as she passed the robe over.

“I've been wondering where this thing got off to; it was Mr. Reid's favorite, rag that it is,” Lizbeth said. The tall, brown woman, her hair in a coronet of braids, smoothed the soft flannel with long, graceful fingers.

“I didn't realize—”

“Now don't you worry. He knew where to go looking for it, I expect, if he'd wanted it that bad.”

Cammie could only agree, accepting in resignation that Lizbeth was fully aware of what was going on. She made her excuses and turned to go.

“About this mill business, Mrs. Hutton…” The housekeeper's voice trailed away, as if she was uncertain of the wisdom of speaking.

Cammie swung back, searching the other woman's face, which was creased concern. “Yes? What is it?”

“I've been wishing I could talk to you about it. Mr. Reid is worrying and worrying, trying to do the right thing — which isn't always as easy as some folks make out. His daddy, you know, taught him early to look on all sides of a thing, and he's trying, but he's got this pain inside him, this worry about what's best for folk.”

“Yes, I know,” Cammie said in encouragement as Lizbeth paused.

“See, he knows my man Joseph and my oldest two boys depend on wood hauling for a living — they got two pulpwood trucks between them. My youngest, Ty, now, he's making his career in the Air Force, so he's all right. But the others got to cut wood while the sun shines, 'cause it's a real trick to get it out of the woods during the winter when it rains so. The way things stand now, the mill can't always take what they cut during the summer, so it cuts into their pay. Oh, they make enough to live, long as I do my part, but they can't build much of a nest egg to carry over the bad times. The only way they're ever gonna get ahead is if the mill gets bigger, so it uses more wood. They're proud not to be on the welfare; they feel like men. But it's sad not to see much future down the road.”

“I'm sorry, but they would be worse off if there were no more trees out there to cut.”

“Joseph and my boys, they're careful. They leave the seed trees standing, just like Mr. Reid's daddy always used to say. They know how to notch a tree so it falls without tearing up everything left behind. They're good woodsmen — Joseph's daddy and granddaddy worked on logging crews back before there was such a thing as a chain saw. They know their jobs depend on taking care of the woods.”

“And what about the wildlife? The best time for cutting trees is the worse time for nesting birds.”

“They watch out for owl and woodpecker nests, and cut around them. Sometimes they make a mistake, and they hate that. It's sad, but these things are all through life.”

Cammie met the housekeeper's soft, dark eyes. “Sometimes these things get to be more than people — and trees and animals — can stand any longer. Then something has to be done.”

“The Good Lord knows that's true,” Lizbeth said with a shake of her head. “But if good-hearted folks would just get together, they could work it out. Don't you think?”

“It would be nice if they could,” Cammie said with a wry smile. “It would be more than nice, it would be wonderful. But not everybody has a good heart.”

“Now that's the living truth, and I can't deny it.”

The housekeeper had made her point, and did not try to keep Cammie any longer. As Cammie went on her way, however, the woman's words stayed with her. That personal glimpse into the problems of others was disturbing. It was one thing to know of such things in general, something else to come face-to-face with them.

Sympathy, in a case like this, was counterproductive. She couldn't let it affect her, any more than she could turn coward because not everyone approved of what she was doing. Knowing that didn't make it any easier to dismiss.

As usual, she found more than she needed at the garden center. She bought a half-dozen flats of impatiens, also a pink mandevilla vine for the gazebo and a pair of rose-colored hibiscus to go on either side of the back steps. It was growing dark by the time she pulled into her driveway again with her haul.

Persephone had left a plain dinner of a pot of fresh vegetable soup and a pan of corn bread. Cammie ate early. She wasn't really hungry, but knew she should eat; she'd skipped lunch without thinking about it.

She was putting her dishes in the dishwasher when the knock came. She turned on the porch light and glanced out around the door curtain before she opened the back door. The sheriff stood there, heavy and solid in the dimness.

“Sorry to bother you, Cammie,” Bud Deerfield said, touching a finger to his hat brim. “We had a call about a man being seen sneaking around the house here.”

“Tonight?” Her voice was blank with surprise.

“Just a few minutes ago. I was close by when the report came in, thought I'd check it out.”

Reid, of course. Or was it? She had thought he was too skilled to allow himself to be seen. It could be Keith again, in which case she might yet be grateful for the concern of nosy neighbors.

She stepped back, setting the door wide for her cousin to enter. “I'll be glad for you to look, but I haven't seen or heard a thing.”

“Count yourself lucky.” Bud wiped his feet on the mat with a deliberate gesture and stepped inside. He moved ahead of her down the hall, talking as he went. “Seems there's been a rash of prowlers in this neighborhood lately. At least three different widow women have been making life miserable for us, seeing men coming and going at all hours. It's mostly in their own yards, though.”

“Have you managed to find anybody?” Cammie frowned at his broad back as she followed him.

“Not so far. I'd have said it was this business with the Baylor girl has the widows upset, except it started before that happened.” He stepped into the living room, glanced around, then turned back toward the sun room.

“You think there's a connection?”

“Who knows?” His voice echoed back to her with a hollow sound as he made the circle from the sun room through the doorway leading out into the hall again. Passing her, he continued toward the front of the house once more. He swung around the newel post of the staircase and started up.

He found nothing, though he looked through closets and bathrooms, and, to be on the safe side, got down on his knees and peered under the beds. He went outside then, suggesting that she lock the door behind him and be sure and check her windows when he had gone. She saw him circling the house, skirting the edge of the lawn where it met the woods, poking his head into the gazebo and the garage.

Ten minutes later he was back at the door. Just because it had been a dry-water run didn't mean there was nobody around, he told her. All she had to do if she heard anything was give a holler. He'd have somebody out there again before she could get her foot back.

She waited until he was out of sight down the drive. Crossing her arms over her chest, clasping her elbows, she walked back down the hall. Standing in the foyer at the foot of the stairs, she called, “All right. You can come out now.”

Nothing. She felt a little foolish, but that made no difference if she was really alone. Some instinct told her she was not. And she didn't know which was more disturbing, the unbidden knowledge or the implication that she was so attuned to Reid that she could sense his presence. She turned slowly around where she stood, listening for sounds from upstairs, staring into dim corners.

“Reid?”

He materialized from out of the sun room, a shadow emerging from shadows. His footsteps were noiseless on the old floorboards, his movements easy yet alert. He stopped six feet away from her and stood waiting, poised.

She swallowed on the sudden tightness in her throat that she hadn't known was there. “How long have you been here?”

“Long enough.” The words were laconic. “I was coming to see you when the sheriff drove up and I saw you let him in the house. I thought I'd check into it before I showed myself.”

“How did you — why didn't Bud see you?”

“You two were making enough racket to cover the retreat of a regular platoon. All I had to do was stay a room or two ahead of you.”

“But if you could do that, then—”

“There's nobody else in here with us, take my word for it.” He smiled a little as he spoke, though the humor quickly faded. “And whoever your neighbors may have seen outside, it wasn't me.”

“Are you sure? I don't mean to doubt your word, but anybody can make a misstep.”

“Missteps and mistakes get you killed where I've been these last few years,” he said flatly.

If it hadn't been Reid out there, then who was it? Not Keith, surely; not after the night before. However, there was that other figure she thought she saw last week. She'd almost convinced herself it was Keith that time, but had never been entirely sure.

At least she could accept that Reid was telling the truth. There was no reason for him to lie, after all. It wasn't like the disappearance of Janet Baylor. There was reason and more for that.

His eyes, resting on her troubled face, were dark blue and trenchant. “What is it? More of my past sins coming back to haunt me?”

The urge to tell him what her aunt had said, and hear what he had to say in defense, was strong. Instead she said, “Have there been so many?”

“A few.” His face was somber as he gazed down at her. “Though if it's gory details you want, you'll have to try somewhere else.”

“No, thanks,” she said in clipped tones.

Turning from him, she moved back down the hall and into the kitchen. He hesitated, then trailed after her, but she paid scant attention. In the back of her mind she was trying to decide what she was going to do about tonight.