Читать книгу If Looks Could Kill - BEVERLY BARTON, Beverly Barton - Страница 11

Chapter 5

The Cherokee Country Club was just barely within the city limits of Cherokee Pointe. The two-story frame Federal- style house had once been home to a wealthy banker who’d lost a fortune in the Crash of 1929 and shot himself in one of the upstairs bedrooms. His widow had taken her children and returned home to Mississippi several years later, letting the house go for back taxes. Farlan MacKinnon’s father had purchased the house and surrounding twenty acres for a song. He’d been a young husband with a wife growing increasingly unhappy living with her in-laws, so he’d packed up his wife and two young sons and moved into the old Watley house in 1936. Farlan supposed that was the reason he felt so at home here, because he’d lived in this house as a boy, before he’d been shipped off to military school in Chattanooga.

When, over forty years ago, the most prominent citizens m the county had decided they needed a country club, Farlan had offered this house, which by then had been empty for a good many years, except for a few odds and ends of furniture his mother had left when she’d run off. Farlan had been eighteen at the time of his mother’s great escape and had been preparing to enter college that fall. Moonshiners used to run rampant in the hills making illegal whisky, and that summer the federal agents had swarmed the county in search of stills. He remembered Agent Rogers—a robust, devil-may-care bachelor who’d set local feminine hearts aflutter. But never had he imagined that the woman who could capture Agent Rogers’s heart would be Farlan’s forty-year-old mother. Helene MacKinnon had run away with her lover, leaving behind her two sons and their heartbroken father. Farlan never saw his mother again, although he did attend her funeral in Baltimore many years later, where he’d met his young half-sister.

Water under the bridge. The past should stay in the past, he’d told himself countless times. He could no more change anything that happened in the past than he could stem the tide of the Tennessee River, although the Tennessee Valley Authority had done their best to control the raging river with their numerous dams.

A man shouldn’t look back, Farlan reminded himself. But it was hard not to think about what might have been, especially when a man’s present life was less than satisfactory. He supposed there were others worse off and knew he should count his blessings. The only problem was, his blessings were few. Being filthy rich was, he supposed, a blessing. But when had it ever brought him happiness? In their youths, he and Jim Upton had both offered sweet Melva Mae everything money could buy and she’d turned them both down flat. She’d married a penniless quarter-breed and lived happily ever after. He supposed he’d come out of that ill- fated love triangle far better than old Jim Upton because Jimmy had been madly in love with Melva Mae and never did quite get over losing her.

Farlan, on the other hand, had fallen deeply in love again—with the prettiest little Atlanta debutante who’d ever come out. Veda Parnell had taken his breath away the first moment he laid eyes on her. They dated less than six months before he proposed, but at first she’d been reluctant to accept and leave the social whirl of Atlanta behind. Eventually he’d won her over and they married, but she never seemed really happy. Having her younger half-brother move to Cherokee Pointe when he finished law school had helped her finally adjust to life in the small mountain town. But the young, vibrant girl he’d married soon disappeared and was replaced by a melancholy woman he’d never been able to please.

He wasn’t sure when he’d come to realize that something wasn’t quite right about Veda. Looking back, he supposed he could have figured it out sooner if he hadn’t been so besotted with her.

Cyrus, the waiter who had worked at the country club since it opened and had before that been a groom at the MacKinnon stables, entered the library. His appearance interrupted Farlan’s less than pleasant thoughts about his wife. This room in the old Watley home—Farlan’s favorite at the club—housed the Watley family’s books as well as numerous additions club members had made over the years.

“Judge Keefer and Mr. Fennel have arrived, sir,” Cyrus said.

“Show them in,” Farlan replied. “And as soon as my son and Mr. Truman complete their game, send them on in.” Brian and the county’s Democratic district attorney, Wade Truman, played golf together almost every Saturday afternoon. Farlan liked young Truman and had hopes of helping put the boy in the governor’s mansion when the time was right.

“Yes, sir. Will that be all?”

“Pour up some of my best bourbon for Dodd and Max.” Farlan swirled the liquor in the glass he held. “And make sure no one else disturbs us.”

Cyrus nodded, then discreetly disappeared, leaving the pocket doors open. Max entered first, a big grin on his round, full face. Maxwell Fennel was Farlan’s first cousin, once removed. Max’s grandmother had been Farlan’s mother’s elder sister. Always dapper in his three-piece suits, Max considered himself somewhat of a ladies’ man, even at the age of fifty-nine. He kept his hair dyed dark brown, and Farlan suspected he’d had a few nips and tucks to keep his face from succumbing to the ravages of time.

“Glad you set the meeting up for this afternoon,” Max said, a mischievous twinkle in his hazel eyes. “I have an engagement with a mighty fine young lady tonight.”

“Not too young, I hope,” Dodd Keefer said as he followed Max into the library. “You wouldn’t want your penchant for sweet young things to mar your sterling reputation, now would you?”

Max’s smile dissolved into a solemn frown. “Why do you insist on bringing up that one indiscretion? It was years ago. And the girl told me she was eighteen.”

“A married man should be faithful to his wife and not out chasing young girls.” Dodd glared at Max.

“Something you learned from experience,” Max shot back without blinking an eye.

Cyrus appeared in the doorway, a tray of drinks in his hand. Farlan cleared his throat, cautioning his guests to watch what they said, then motioned for Cyrus to enter.

“Is this some of that fine bourbon I’m so fond of?” Max asked as he lifted his glass from the silver tray Cyrus carried.

“Yes, sir.” Cyrus offered Dodd the other glass.

“Thank you.” Dodd lifted the crystal tumbler and took a sip of the corn mash whiskey.

Farlan studied his brother-in-law, a tall, slender, elegant gentleman. Dodd was now, as he’d been for many years, Farlan’s best friend. It never ceased to amaze him how different he was from his older half-sister. As different as daylight is from dark, Dodd shared none of Veda’s mental and emotional problems. He was highly intelligent, soft spoken and easy to get along with. Farlan had always liked him. Physically, Dodd and Veda shared the same pensive blue eyes—the color inherited from the mother they shared— but Dodd’s once sandy hair was now a multi-colored brown and gray mix. At sixty-four, Dodd lived alone and had since his wife’s death ten years ago.

“Have a seat and we’ll get started.” Farlan motioned to two tufted leather chairs flanking the fireplace. “Brian and Wade will join us when they finish their game.”

After the two men sat, Farlan eased down on the overstuffed couch that faced them. He took a final swig of his liquor and set the glass atop a coaster on the sofa table behind him.

“Well, don’t keep us on pins and needles. What’s this meeting about?” Max lifted his glass to his lips.

“Politics. Our sheriff, our DA and our two circuit court judges are all Democrats, but we’ve still got a damn Republican mayor,” Farlan reminded them. “I want us to get a jump start on the next mayoral election by finding ourselves a suitable candidate before the first of the year. We want to spend time building him up, letting the folks in Cherokee Pointe know there’s a better man for the job than Big Jim’s man, Jerry Lee Todd.”

“You got somebody in mind, Farlan?” Dodd gazed down into his glass as if studying its contents.

“A few names come to mind. But the reason for this meeting is so we can put our heads together and see if the same name keeps coming up. If it does, we’ll know we’ve got the right man.”

“What about George Wyatt?” Max asked.

“He’s better off left on the city council,” Dodd said. “My recommendation is Joe Duffy. He’s a good age—forty—and he’s married with two children. He attends church every Sunday, and since he has a thriving feed and seed business, he wouldn’t be put off by the pittance we’re able to pay our mayor.”

Farlan nodded. “That’s one of the names that keeps popping up in my mind.” Farlan turned to Max. “Do you know of any dirt in his past that might jump up and bite him in the ass during a campaign?”

Max shook his head. “Not that I know of, and I’ve known Joe since he was born. He’s lived here all his life, except for four years away at UT, University of Tennessee, that is. And he married a local girl, Emily Patrick.”

“So, are you saying you’d okay Duffy for our choice as a mayoral candidate?” Farlan asked.

“I suppose so.”

“Good. But before we make a definite decision, I want to hear what Brian and Wade have to say. They’re closer to Duffy’s age and probably know him better than any of us.” Farlan relaxed into the comfort of the familiar old sofa, crossing his legs and motioning for Cyrus to bring him another drink.

By the time Brian and Wade joined the older men in the library, they’d each polished off their third bourbon and even Dodd Keefer’s usually soft voice was a little louder than normal. They had discussed various subjects of interest to three wealthy, successful men, albeit neither Max nor Dodd possessed the sizable fortune Farlan did. As the afternoon wore on, they’d laughed and talked and enjoyed their whiskey. For the life of him Farlan couldn’t remember who’d brought up the subject of the article in this morning’s Knoxville News-Sentinel about the prostitute’s body being dragged out of the river near Loudon. But he figured it must have been Max, who had a tendency to talk too much, a quality shared by many in his profession.

“Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.” Dodd downed the last drops of his third drink.

“Do you mean to say you think it’s all right for someone to murder prostitutes?” Max asked, rather indignantly.

“No, of course not.” Dodd’s olive complexion splotched with pink. “I spoke without thinking.” Dodd stood, set his whiskey glass aside and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the massive front lawn.

“I hear it’s going to frost tonight.” Farlan quickly changed the subject, hoping to ease Dodd’s discomfort. His brother- in-law was a sensitive, emotional man. A good man.

An apologetic look crossed Max’s face. He glanced from Dodd, who stood with his back to them, to Farlan, then nodded agreeably. “Yes, sir, cold weather is just around the corner.”

Farlan studied Dodd’s drooping shoulders, his bowed head. If they were alone, he’d bring up that old taboo subject that haunted them both; and they would discuss it again, as they occasionally did when the burden of guilt and regret overcame them. But they weren’t alone and that shameful part of their pasts wasn’t something they ever discussed with anyone else, not even Max, whom they both trusted implicitly. That particular time in their lives was something Farlan would rather forget. And usually he was able to keep it buried deep inside, but occasionally he wondered if he should have done things differently. If he had, would his life now be better or worse?

Apparently sensing he’d inadvertently upset Dodd, Max began talking about this and that, doing his best to lighten the mood. Maxwell presented a jovial face to the world, even to family and friends. Farlan knew Max as few others did, knew the demons that plagued him.

“What are you jabbering about, Max?” Brian asked teasingly as he and Wade walked in, both ruddy-cheeked from having played a round of golf in the crisp October weather.

“Did I hear someone say something about another prostitute being found in the Tennessee River?” Wade inquired.

Farlan looked at the young man and thought not for the first time that the boy was too damned good-looking. Too pretty to be a man. “The prostitute’s murder was just something Max mentioned in passing. We’ve been shooting the bull for a couple of hours waiting on you boys to show up.”

Wade meandered over toward the windows where Dodd still stood with his back to the room. “How are you, Judge?”

“Well enough,” Dodd replied in a quiet, stilted voice.

“What did you mean when you said another prostitute?” Max asked. “Has there been more than one murdered?”

Wade turned around and faced the others. “Several in the past couple of years. All in the eastern part of the state, all the bodies dumped into the river. One was as recent as six months ago. That body was recovered downstream from Watts Barr. I believe I took note of a similar case for the first time only a couple of years ago, and if I recall correctly, there have been four cases with practically the same MO.”

“And that MO would be?” Brian asked as he turned to accept a glass of bourbon from Cyrus, who’d just offered him a drink.

Dodd whirled around, his eyes overly bright, his facial features drawn. “If y’all will excuse me, I’m not feeling well.”

“Do you need me to drive you home?” Farlan asked.

“No need for that,” Dodd replied. “I’ll just go to the men’s room and throw a little cold water in my face, then I’ll see if Cyrus can rustle me up a bite to eat. I skipped lunch. I’m sure that’s the problem.”

Poor Dodd. Brilliant man, but far too sensitive. People said that combination made him an excellent judge.

Once Dodd left the room, Farlan motioned for Wade and Brian to sit. “As much as y’all find the gruesome murders of several young women fascinating, let’s set aside the gossip and get down to business.”

Brian shrugged. “And that business would be?”

“Choosing a new Democratic candidate for mayor.”

“Joe Duffy,” Wade and Brian said practically simultaneously.

Chuckling, Farlan eyed Max, who nodded. It would seem this meeting was over before it began. By unanimous agreement, they had their candidate. All that remained was putting the idea into Duffy’s head and promising him not only Farlan’s full support, but the backing of MacKinnon Media.

Genny sensed Reve Sorrell’s uneasiness and did all she could to make the woman feel comfortable. Although Reve had eventually drunk a cup of tea and eaten a slice of cake, she still seemed tense, as if she were afraid of something. What was she so afraid of? The moment the question came to Genny’s mind, the answer appeared seconds later. The wealthy and powerful Ms. Sorrell was afraid of being taken advantage of, afraid of being used. She believed that anyone professing to possess a sixth sense had to be a fake. Was that what vast wealth had done to her? Made her distrust everyone? How sad, Genny thought, and decided at that very moment to make this lonely woman her friend.

“I’d love for y’all to stay for supper,” Genny said, while the threesome sat around the kitchen table, their crumb- dappled plates and empty, tea-stained cups sitting in front of them. “And I will not take no for an answer.” Not giving Reve a chance to refuse, she turned to Jazzy. “Call Caleb and tell him to grab a ride in from town with Dallas.”

“That’s a wonderful idea.” Jazzy lifted her small red- leather shoulder bag from where she’d hung it on the back of her chair. “I’ll call him right now. This supper will give Reve a chance to get better acquainted with the most important people in my life.”

“I’m not sure—” Reve looked like an animal caught in a trap, her brown eyes wide open and filled with uncertainty.

“As I said, I won’t take no for an answer.” Genny scooted back her chair. “Have you ever done any cooking, Reve?”

“No, not really,” she replied. “When I was a child, I occasionally watched our cook when she prepared dinner. And sometimes she allowed me to help her frost a cake or bake cookies.”

“Well, I intend to put you and Jazzy to work helping me fix tonight’s supper. Nothing fancy. Just some fried chicken, fried potatoes, butter beans, cornbread and deviled eggs.” Genny eyed the glass-domed cake plate sitting atop an antique sideboard at the far end of the room. “We still have plenty of cake left for dessert. And I froze a half gallon of homemade vanilla ice cream the last time we made some, so there should be more than enough for a couple of scoops each.”

Jazzy punched in Caleb’s cell number and while the phone rang, she asked Genny, “Will we have time for you to give us a reading before we start supper?”

“I really don’t want to participate in any kind of reading,” Reve said.

Jazzy frowned, but quickly recovered from the disappointment. “Okay, then, just give me a reading. Reve can be an observer.”

“If you’re sure that’s what you want.” Genny didn’t often give readings, only under special circumstances and for special people. She had learned that most people only thought they wanted to delve into the supernatural realm, and when confronted by predications they didn’t like, they wanted to shoot the messenger.

“I’m sure it’s what I want.” Jazzy slid back her chair, stood and gathered up their empty plates, stacked them and put them in the sink at the same time Genny picked up their cups. “Do we need to go into Granny Butler’s room the way we did the last time?”

“I’d prefer to do it there. I always feel closer to Granny and her powers in her old room.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Genny caught a glimpse of Reve’s furrowed brow, her wrinkled nose, her pursed lips. The expression of skepticism and disapproval. “Give me a couple of minutes to prepare, then you two come on up.” She looked right at Reve. “I know you don’t believe, but come upstairs anyway. Consider it an adventure. Or perhaps a learning experience.”

“She’ll become a believer,” Jazzy said. “Just give her time.”

Genny offered them both an understanding smile, then left them to go upstairs. The moment she entered the semi-dark bedroom, the scent of roses assailed her. Granny had always worn rose-scented powder, and although she’d been gone for a good many years, her scent lingered. Of course there were times, when the scent was very strong the way it was today, that Genny felt her grandmother’s presence.

You’re here, aren’t you? She didn’t expect a reply.

Hurriedly she lit the array of white candles situated throughout the room, then pulled the curtains to darken the room completely, except for the positive light given off by the candles. After arranging two chairs at a small, antique table, she sat in one of the chairs, folded her hands in her lap and waited, her mind settling into a meditative state. Readings were not like visions. During a vision, the images were clearer, sometimes so clear it was as if she were watching them through the lens of a movie camera. But when she did a reading, she seldom received clear pictures. She usually simply felt things, sensed things and sometimes heard a voice inside her head.

While she waited for Jazzy and Reve—she knew that despite her misgivings, Reve would come—Genny concentrated, all her thoughts on the look-alike redheads. Almost immediately she sensed a deep yearning to protect the twins. Protect the babies.

Babies?

Pure white light surrounded Genny. The innocence of newborn babies. Completely void of any evil. Love. Maternal love. A desire to nurture and protect.

Whoever had given birth to the twins had wanted them, loved them and believed she had to protect them. But from what? From whom?

Genny focused on Jazzy and Reve again instead of the mother, willing herself to move forward into the present and out of the past. She couldn’t even be certain that it was the real past she sensed, anymore than she knew for certain it was a past that Jazzy and Reve had shared. But her instincts, which were seldom wrong, told her that the two women were twins and the powerful maternal love she sensed did indeed come from their birth mother.

“Are you ready for us . . . for me?” Jazzy asked.

Genny opened her eyes. Jazzy stood in the doorway, Reve directly behind her.

“Yes, please come in.” She motioned to the chair on the opposite side of the antique table. “Sit here, Jazzy.” She nodded to a rocker in the corner. “You may sit there, Reve.”

Both women did as Genny had instructed. The vibrations from the sisters—the twin sisters—bombarded Genny. Jazzy was eager, hopeful, almost giddy with excitement. On the other hand, Reve was anxious, uncertain, fearful.

Genny laid her hands, palm up, on the table, closed her eyes and repeated the name “Jasmine” several times. By using that one name, she hoped her gift of sight would connect only with that one person.

“Happiness. Love. A rejoicing over good news,” Genny said.

“That means the DNA tests will prove we’re sisters.” Jazzy sneaked a peek at Reve.

“Two who are one. Forever linked. A bond that cannot be severed.” Suddenly the bright, clear light in her mind grew dim, darkened. Gray shadows filled Genny’s consciousness. She tried to will the negative thoughts away, but they persisted. Grew stronger. “Fear. Fear of discovery. Anger.”

“Who’s afraid of being discovered?” Jazzy asked. “Is it Aunt Sally? Has she been lying to me all my life?”

“No, I don’t believe it’s Sally.”

“Then who?”

The gray mist within Genny’s mind turned black. Black swirls of malevolence. “I sense a strong combination of love and hatred, of desire and rage.” Genny tried to see who emitted such powerful emotions, but she could not pin them down, couldn’t even discern if the person was male or female. But she did know—without a doubt—that these disturbing feelings were connected with Jazzy. And with Reve. The twins. “There’s danger. Great danger.”

“Stop. Please, stop. Don’t do this.” Reve jumped up from the rocking chair.

“Who’s in danger?” Jazzy asked. “Reve and me?”

“Yes, both of you. But—Oh, God! Jazzy, I sense the greatest danger for you.” Genny gasped, then slumped over, her head dropping to the table, cushioned by her cupped hands.