Unspoken (20 page)
Authors: Lisa Jackson
Tags: #Contemporary, #General, #Romance, #Romantic Suspense Fiction, #Suspense, #Fiction, #Texas
“—I worry about her, you know,” the Judge was saying. “Shelby’s obsessed right now and has the notion that everyone’s against her.”
“Are they not?” Lydia asked.
“Of course not.” Red Cole snorted his disbelief. “Just keep an eye on her while I’m away.”
“She is a grown woman.”
“I know, I know, but Ross McCallum’s back in town.”
“Dios, ”
Lydia said. “That man, he is ...
el diablo. ”
Lydia said. “That man, he is ...
el diablo. ”
“You bet he is. Satan incarnate.” He paused a second and Shelby strained to hear. “My daughter picked one helluva time to show up again.”
“I think it is for the best,” Lydia said softly. “And you, Judge, you need to tell her the truth.”
“Do I?”
Shelby’s fingers tightened over the files—what did Lydia and the Judge know that she didn’t? Her heart was drumming so loudly that she could barely make out the conversation. She leaned over the rail and could see the toes of her father’s boots.
“Sί
It is only fair. There have been too many secrets in this family.”
It is only fair. There have been too many secrets in this family.”
Amen, Shelby thought. She’d have to talk to Lydia.
“Really. Shelby has the right to know,” Lydia said emphatically.
So the housekeeper—a woman as much like a mother as any Shelby had known—obviously knew more than she did about her own family. A deep pang of betrayal burned through Shelby’s heart. She’d always suspected her father of manipulating her life, but not Lydia, not the woman who had cradled her when she’d been scared, bandaged her scraped knees, and dispensed unwanted advice about friends and school and life as if Shelby had been a daughter to her. Now, it seemed, Lydia wasn’t trustworthy. So who could Shelby trust? Not her father. Nor Lydia.
Nevada’s rugged image raced through her mind.
Oh, Shelby, are you foolish enough to think you can trust him?
“Look, Lydia, I’m doin’ my best, tryin’ to keep my daughter safe, and that’s the bottom line here.” Red Cole’s voice was thoughtful and then, as if Lydia had raised a disbelieving eyebrow or somehow indicated she didn’t believe him, added, “Really. Damn it, I know it’s time to come clean about some things, but it’s not easy to have to open up your own closet doors and let the skeletons come dancin’ out. Oh, hell’s bells, I will. In time. My own time.”
Lydia’s snort of disbelief said it all.
What skeletons?
“I’ll be at the ranch this afternoon, so don’t worry about me for lunch.”
“You will eat there?” she said and there was gentle reproach in her voice, undercurrents of a conversation Shelby didn’t understand.
“I’ll pick up something.”
“But the doctor said—”
Doctor? What doctor? Certainly not Pritchart. Was the Judge sick?
She’d never considered her father anything but healthy, hale and bullheaded.
She’d never considered her father anything but healthy, hale and bullheaded.
“I’ll handle it, Lydia,” he snapped, irritated. “It don’t matter a whole helluva lot anyway.”
Oh, Lord, what did that mean?
How sick was he?
How sick was he?
His uneven tread became louder and Shelby, lest she be caught with the incriminating folders, dashed noiselessly up the remaining stairs to her room. Once there, she closed her bedroom door, slipped the files between her mattress and box springs and lay down on the bed as if she’d fallen asleep, just in case her father opened her door. He didn’t.
Heart thudding, a thousand questions whirling through her mind, Shelby listened as his footsteps retreated down the hallway to the wing where the master suite was housed. She let out her breath, then, impatiently staring at the ceiling where, above the slow-moving paddle fan, a fly was buzzing, she waited until she heard the door to his room open again and then his heavy, uneven tread as he climbed down the back staircase.
As soon as she was certain he wasn’t returning, she pulled out the manila folders and nestled into her favorite chair—the overstuffed seat where once her mother had held her and read nursery rhymes to her.
But she wouldn’t think of Jasmine Cole just yet, or how she died. There was time enough for remembering faded images of the woman who had borne her, a woman she’d barely had the chance to know.
She concentrated on the job at hand and opened the first file, labeled with her daughter’s name. It was disappointingly thin, holding only the birth certificate and death certificate.
Disappointment seeped through her bones. Tears burned the back of her eyes. She’d seen copies of these documents more times than she wanted to count.
What did you expect?
her frustrated mind nagged.
Pictures? The names of Elizabeth’s adoptive parents? Report cards from a school she’d attended? Her first awkward attempts at finger painting? What?
her frustrated mind nagged.
Pictures? The names of Elizabeth’s adoptive parents? Report cards from a school she’d attended? Her first awkward attempts at finger painting? What?
Shelby bit hard on her lip and told herself to forge on. This was just a small obstacle and if her first attempts at finding the truth through burglary hadn’t worked, she’d try something else.
She opened the second file, the one labeled
Smith, Nevada.
It held a sheaf of papers, and Shelby thumbed each item feeling as if she were trespassing on private property. Nevada Evans Smith’s birth certificate, medical documents, school and Army records were included, along with his juvenile history and a private investigator’s report about him and his parents—his drunk of a father and runaway mother.
Smith, Nevada.
It held a sheaf of papers, and Shelby thumbed each item feeling as if she were trespassing on private property. Nevada Evans Smith’s birth certificate, medical documents, school and Army records were included, along with his juvenile history and a private investigator’s report about him and his parents—his drunk of a father and runaway mother.
Shelby felt a shiver of apprehension as she sifted through the pages. She glanced over her shoulder, as if she expected Nevada to appear and catch her snooping into his private life, but that was silly. Of course she was alone in the room, and as the big blades of the paddle fan rotated over her head and the fly bounced against the window, she settled back in her chair and started to read about a man she’d once loved but had barely known, the man whom she believed to be the father of her only child.
Absently she rapped on the top of a nearby table for good luck, though surely Nevada was Elizabeth’s father; he just had to be. She wouldn’t even consider the other possibility. The third me—the one with her name scratched boldly across the tab—she saved for last.
Caleb Swaggert looked like death warmed over,
Katrina thought as she paused at the doorway to his hospital room and the clipped staccato beat from her high heels no longer echoed through the hallways of Our Lady Of Sorrows Hospital. Without checking with any of the staff, she marched into the geezer’s hospital room and acted as if she belonged there.
Katrina thought as she paused at the doorway to his hospital room and the clipped staccato beat from her high heels no longer echoed through the hallways of Our Lady Of Sorrows Hospital. Without checking with any of the staff, she marched into the geezer’s hospital room and acted as if she belonged there.
Skeleton-thin, his skin pasty and hanging without much flesh to support it, his hair reduced to a few gray tufts, Caleb lay on a hospital bed with sterile metal rails ensuring that he stayed put. His eyes, so brown they appeared nearly black, were sunken into deep sockets. They stared without blinking at a television from which some televangelist was preaching ardently about the wages of sin.
Tubes and wires were attached to various parts of his body, and he appeared less than half a step from the grave. But his poor health and sorry condition weren’t surprising. She’d expected as much. It was the proliferation of religious icons strewn around the room that gave her pause. Three new Bibles on a table near his bed, dozens of pictures of Jesus and the Virgin Mary tacked to the wall, statuettes of Christ gathered on the windowsill and on a table holding not only his comb, a box of Kleenex, a water glass, electric razor and box of surgical gloves, but also a miniature nativity scene, though Christmas was half a year away.
The devil sure wasn’t gonna get a toehold in here.
In a way, it was spooky.
As for Swaggert, he was as close to death’s door as anyone could get without actually crossing the threshold. If she wanted an interview, and she did, then she’d better get cracking before the grim reaper came to collect her interviewee, and the indicator on the old coot’s heart monitor became a flat line.
“Mr. Swaggert?” she said, startling him. He jumped, the monitor over his head went crazy for a second, and he turned his gaunt face in her direction. “I’m Katrina Nedelesky.” As if she were approaching a skittish colt, she moved slowly toward his bed.
Like this ancient guy is gonna bolt.
Somehow she forced a smile she hoped looked a lot more genuine than it felt. “Remember? From
Lone Star
Magazine.”
Like this ancient guy is gonna bolt.
Somehow she forced a smile she hoped looked a lot more genuine than it felt. “Remember? From
Lone Star
Magazine.”
His balding, spotted pate creased with wrinkles for a second before a hint of understanding crossed his features.
“Did you get the contract I sent you?” she asked, edging closer to the bed and trying not to show that she felt nothing but revulsion at the sight of his bony body. She really didn’t expect him to remember much. This guy was way too far gone. But she did hope beyond hope that his memory was sharp enough to recall what happened the night Ramón Estevan was shot and killed.
“You’re the reporter?” he said in a dry voice that was little more than a croak.
“Yes.” She nodded and felt a little better about his lucidity. “You offered me an exclusive about your testimony in the Ross McCallum case.”
“I remember.” Sure enough, his eyes flickered with a spark of recollection. “We have ourselves a deal, don’t we?”
“We sure do.”
“And the money—after I’m gone, it’ll go to my daughter. Celeste. Celeste Hernandez. I sent you her address over ta El Paso.”
“Yes, yes. We’ve been over this.”
About a million times.
“I’ve got Celeste’s name and address on file,” Katrina assured him and felt a little twinge of conscience. Whatever else this old codger had done in his life, he at least felt some latent paternal responsibility.
About a million times.
“I’ve got Celeste’s name and address on file,” Katrina assured him and felt a little twinge of conscience. Whatever else this old codger had done in his life, he at least felt some latent paternal responsibility.
Some people, herself included, weren’t so lucky.
Caleb’s wrinkled face fell in on itself. “I weren’t much of a father to her. Split with her ma before she was born.” So this was his feeble attempt at atonement. Some of Katrina’s respect for the old codger evaporated, but she figured some fatherly interest was better than none, and even if love for a child came late in life, it was better late than never.
“I want half to go to the church—Our Lady of Sorrows, here, and half to Celeste,” Caleb insisted with a dry, cackling laugh. “That is, after ya pay for the pine box they’re gonna put me in.”
“It’s all arranged. In fact, I brought the paperwork with me,” she said, snapping open her briefcase and pulling out a crisp manila envelope. “Your copy. I’ll just leave it here.” She placed it on the table near the miniature baby Jesus in the manger, but Caleb shook his head.
“Put it in the closet, will ya? Might git stole if it’s left out.”
“By who—er, whom?”
“Cain’t never tell,” he said, “but I don’t trust no one, ’ceptin’ our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.”
“Probably a good idea.” She tried to keep the sarcasm out of her voice as she tucked his envelope into a closet where a ragged plaid robe and slippers with holes resided. “I brought a pocket recorder with me,” she said as she closed the closet door, “so let’s get started.”
“Started doing what?” a demanding voice asked.
A heavy-set nurse with thick glasses and short gray hair strode into the room. Her name tag read
Linda Rafkin, RN,
and she looked like a bulldog, all flat features and deep scowl. Katrina suspected Nurse Rafkin gave orders and took no prisoners.
Linda Rafkin, RN,
and she looked like a bulldog, all flat features and deep scowl. Katrina suspected Nurse Rafkin gave orders and took no prisoners.
“This here’s a woman I need to talk to,” Caleb insisted.
Rafkin walked to the bed, checked the IV and glanced up at the monitor before placing a disposable cover on a thermometer and placing it gently in Caleb’s ear.
“I’m Katrina Nedelesky, and Mr. Swaggert and I have an agreement for an interview—”
“Not here in the hospital you don’t.”
“It’s all right,” Caleb interjected. “Let her stay”
“I won’t be a bother.” Katrina wasn’t about to budge.
The nurse frowned. “Mr. Swaggert needs his rest.”
The old man let out a cackling laugh that ended in a coughing fit. “I think I’ll be gettin’ my share,” he said as the nurse took his blood pressure, read the thermometer and checked his pulse. “I’m dyin‘,” he said matter-of-factly, “nothin’ you or any of these damned contraptions can do to change that sorry fact. So y’all git a move on.” He waved her out the door. “The young lady and me, we got us somethin’ to talk ‘bout.”
Rafkin paused, sized Katrina up from behind those thick lenses and scowled. “Thirty minutes,” she finally allowed, tapping a fleshy finger on the dial of her Timex. “I’m keepin’ track.” With that she left in a rustle of panty hose and starch.
“Ignore Nurse Busybody,” Caleb said to Katrina when they were alone except for the images of the Son of God scattered about the room. “And mind that ya close the door. We don’t want no one to hear what I’m about to say.” With feeble fingers, he hit the mute button on the television.
Katrina didn’t argue. She walked to the door, swept the hallway with a practiced glance, saw no one lurking near the door, then shut it firmly. Satisfied that they were alone, she pulled up the one uncomfortable chair in the room, inching it closer to the bed. As she took a seat, she clicked on the recorder and set it carefully between two small statues of kneeling shepherds. “I have a lot of questions,” she said, “mostly about the night Ramón Estevan died.”
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