She Can Tell (30 page)

“Do either of you want tea?” Mrs. Holloway asked.

“No, ma’am,” Mike and Pete answered in unison.

“Then, I’ll leave you to it.” Mrs. Holloway left the room.

Mike took the seat next to Rachel. “I have to tell you that I’ve been suspended. Lieutenant Winters is taking over your case.”

Clearly uncomfortable, Pete elected to stand behind one of the ladder-back chairs. “Miss Parker.”

Rachel looked up, her face bleak as she nodded her acknowledgement.

Pete continued. “Will’s bail hasn’t been processed yet. He didn’t leave the bees in your mailbox.”

“What about Troy?” Her voice was distant.

“I don’t think it was him either. I called over to the store. A dozen people can place him there all morning. Not just his family. Regular folks.”

“Oh.” She sipped her drink.

At Pete’s glance, Mike jumped in. “Let’s talk about your stalker. How many people know you’re allergic to bees?”

“I have no idea.”

“David?” Mike asked.

She shrugged. “Probably. I’ve been allergic since I was a kid, and his family lived next door to mine.”

“How about Blake Webb?”

“Definitely.”

Her quick answer gave Mike a quick jolt of jealousy. She and Blake had been tight. Blake knew personal things about her. Things Mike didn’t know. “Cristan Rojas?”

“Unlikely.” She wrinkled her nose. “I barely know the man.”

But that didn’t mean that Rojas hadn’t made it his business to learn everything about Rachel. That’s what stalkers did.

“Is there anyone else who could hold a grudge against you?”

“No.” Of course, she’d said that before and look what had happened. Mike switched tack. “Does the name Harry Boyle ring any bells?”

“Maybe.” Rachel’s brow wrinkled as she concentrated. “It sounds familiar, but I’m not sure from where.”

“Harry Boyle was a carpenter.”

“Why should I know his name?”

“Because I think the skeleton in your basement is Harry Boyle, and he used to work for your father.”

Rachel paled. “I don’t understand.”

“I didn’t get a chance to read the entire file, but Harry Boyle worked as a carpenter for Parker Construction. In 1987, his house burned down and Harry disappeared.”

“Do you know how he died?” Her voiced dropped to a whisper.

“No, but unless he crawled into that room, rolled himself in a plastic tarp, and sealed the entrance from the outside, Harry was murdered.”

Phyllis Holloway watched the Buick pull out of her driveway. The sedan hadn’t even cleared the stones before she reached for her address book. Her finger slid down the alphabetical index along the edge of the book. She flipped to the letter W. Whelan. Nancy Whelan. Phyllis ran the Presbyterian Women’s Circle. Nancy was her counterpart at the Catholic church. The two teamed up occasionally to run a joint food bank or coat collection. Nancy was everything a body could want in a charity drive partner: efficient, organized, and ruthlessly determined. She could squeeze a donation from the tightest of wads. She was a veritable jackhammer to iron-fisted wallets. Between her job as the police chief’s secretary and her church activities, Nancy knew every bit of dirt ever shoveled by every family in town.

Rural folks were a churchgoing lot. Between Nancy and Phyllis, they had the ears of three-quarters of the small town residents, not to mention one pastor and two priests. Fred Collins was going to regret firing Michael, as would the rest of the council members.

The phone rang only once before being answered.

“Phyllis, I was just going to call you,” Nancy said. “We need to do something about Fred and Vince.”

“We certainly do,” Phyllis agreed. “We can’t let him get away with this. What did you have in mind?”

“Why am I going with you again?” Not that Rachel minded. She felt safe with Mike in a way she couldn’t explain. The episode with the bees had freaked her out more than she’d wanted to admit. Trying to kill her with insects was creepy to the tenth power. Her stalker knew everything about her, things that only someone close to her would know. Goose bumps broke out on her arms, and she wished she’d worn a warmer jacket. Her hoodie wasn’t cutting it against the falling temperature.

“Because your place is off-limits until those bees are gone, I have no idea who is trying to hurt you, and Pete doesn’t have the personnel to put a guard on you twenty-four-seven.” Mike opened the passenger door to the Buick.

“Oh.” Rachel slid into the seat, and Mike shut the door.

After a brief exchange with Lieutenant Winters, Mike got behind the wheel. “Frankly, you’re a hazard to everyone around you.”

“Don’t you feel scared to be with me?”

He started the engine. “I’m more scared to let you out of my sight.”

She tried to stop it, but her insides went all mushy.

“I think there’s less of a chance someone will try to kill you while you’re with me,” he said, dryly.

He had a point.

“Where are we going?”

“My place. Pete is going to drop off a copy of Harry Boyle’s file later, and I need to arrange a car. My secretary will need hers back, and mine isn’t currently running.”

“Why don’t we pick up my truck?”

“It might be best to use a vehicle no one recognizes.”

Ignoring her raised eyebrow, he took a back road into town. He made a couple of turns and pulled up in front of a neat one-story brick house After getting out to open the overhead door, Mike pulled the car in and closed the garage behind it. Even with an old convertible disassembled on one side on the concrete slab, his garage was neat. Engine parts were lined up on blue tarps. Tools hung on pegboards. They walked through a laundry room into a living and dining room combo. A small country oak pedestal table and four chairs occupied the area next to the kitchen. A flat-screen TV and a pair of huge leather recliners took up most of the remaining space.

Mike stripped off his jacket and tossed it onto a coat tree in the corner. He stopped and glanced around, as if just realizing the Spartan state of his home. “I don’t spend much time here.”

Rachel shrugged. “At least you don’t need duct tape to hold your floor down.”

His phone buzzed. He flipped his thumb across the screen, scrolling through messages. “Sean will drop a car here at three, and Pete will drop the file around then too. What time is it?”

“One.” She paced his small living room. Her stomach growled. “Sorry. I missed lunch.”

“I haven’t shopped this week, but I can probably scrounge up some food.” He went into the kitchen. The room was too small for a table, but he had a counter with stools tucked under the overhang. The cabinets were oak, the appliances
low-end plain vanilla. Outdated, but compared to the butt-ugly stuff her house was sporting, his kitchen was a
House Beautiful
spread.

“I’m not particular about food.” She bypassed the stools and followed him in. The muscles of his broad back shifted under his snug navy T-shirt, stirring up a hunger that food alone wouldn’t satisfy.

“No kidding.” He lit a burner under a skillet and started pulling stuff out of the fridge. A carton of free-range brown chicken eggs. Organic low-fat cheese. A package of frozen something and a loaf of whole wheat bread came out of the freezer. The frozen stuff was green.

“Is that spinach?”

“Yes. Don’t look at it like that. It’s good for you. Spinach contains vitamins and iron.”

“So does a Pop-Tart, and it’s not green or slimy.”

He added olive oil to the skillet and threw in a handful of the spinach. While the frozen stuff spat, he broke eggs one-handed, then whipped them with practiced efficiency. The eggs went in with an impressive sizzle. He let them bubble while he grated cheese and popped four slices of bread in the toaster. Damn. It actually smelled good.

He did some fancy shaking and rolling with the pan, then added the cheese. A quick flip of a spatula turned out one large and perfect semicircle, which he divided in half. Two slices of toast went on each plate. “Glasses are in there. Help yourself to something from the fridge.”

Rachel opened the cabinet. “Let’s see, do you take your antacid on the rocks or neat?”

“One cabinet over.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?” She found the glasses and filled them both with organic milk, skim no less. Ewww. At least he had regular butter.

Mike grabbed forks, and they sat down at the table. “It’s nothing.”

“You have enough of that white gunk to reglaze a swimming pool.”

Mike sighed. “Eat your omelet.”

She forked some up to her nose and sniffed it suspiciously. Smelled OK. She took an investigative nibble.

“Oh, for crying out loud, just eat.” He covered her hand with his and pushed the egg concoction into her mouth. The eggs were fluffy and the cheese gooey. No slime.

“It’s good.” She generously buttered a piece of toast and crunched through it. The whole grain bit wasn’t her thing, but she was starving. With enough butter, she could disguise the cardboard-like texture. She scooped more butter for slice number two.

“Don’t sound so surprised.” Mike took a bite. “Oh my God, are you finished already?”

Rachel washed down the second piece of toast with milk. “What? I liked it. Can I have more toast?”

Mike shook his head. “Sure. There’s peanut butter, if you want it.”

Of course it was that natural junk with the disgusting oily layer on the top. Rachel stirred it with a grimace. Didn’t look any more appetizing. She screwed the top back on without tasting it. There were limits. “Do you eat like this all the time?”

“I try.”

“Why?” Rooting in the fridge, she found strawberry preserves. All natural, but edible. “Can I eat this?”

“Go ahead.” He forked eggs onto his dry toast. Gross. “Habit. I was a wrestler in college. Played some football too. You can’t fuel athletic performance on Pop-Tarts. Real food gives you more energy. Except for lately, I’m usually pretty
particular about my diet. You should try it out on a regular basis.”

“Baby steps.” Rachel ate her preserve sandwich. Not as good as a Pop-Tart, but she’d survive. When in Rome and all that. “What now?”

“Now we wait.”

Unable to sit still, she loaded the dishwasher while he washed the skillet. The tiny kitchen made for very close proximity. Their hips brushed. His thigh bumped into hers. She closed the dishwasher and turned around. His chest was only a few inches away from her nose. And damn, he smelled good. Good enough to make all her girly parts tingle. That aftershave was making her think of interesting ways to pass the next hour or so.

“I have plenty of energy.”

His blue eyes intensified and darkened. “Is that so?”

He was so much bigger than her that he blocked the light from the overhead fixture. She placed one hand on the center of his chest, right over his heart. The thud of its steady beat drew her closer. Rachel stepped forward, until only a few millimeters separated their bodies. The warm and solid muscles beneath her palm made her want to strip the shirt from his body and wrap herself around him. Skin to skin would be blistering.

He covered her hand with his. “We shouldn’t.”

He was probably right, but she was tired of holding back. Could he really be just an impulse? Her desire for him never abated. She suspected he felt the same way. Despite his protest, the baby blue of his eyes had gone all intense and sexy.

Even guilt wasn’t enough to stop the pulse point throbbing between her legs. Was she a terrible person for wanting him regardless of the cost? One time. Just once. She’d
get him out of her system and be able to move on. “You got fired because of me?”

“Suspended. But it wasn’t because of you. You were a convenient excuse. Vince is up to something. I just haven’t figured out what it is yet. Or if it’s tied to your stalker.”

“You will.” She moved toward him, closing the gap between their bodies. Her forefinger traced the neckline of his T-shirt.

“You cloud my judgment.”

“Do I?”

“I can’t think straight when you touch me.”

“Good.” She didn’t want to think. She didn’t want to remember that someone had just tried to kill her or why she shouldn’t act on the empty ache deep in her belly. She wanted to feel. She wanted the heat that was under her palm infused through her whole body.