Читать книгу Scene of the Crime: Return to Mystic Lake - Carla Cassidy - Страница 9

Chapter Four

He couldn’t get the vision of her smile, the sound of her laughter, out of his head. Something about Marjorie Clinton was getting under his skin, Jackson thought as he paid the pizza delivery boy an hour later.

He carried the box to the table and chairs that sat in front of the windows in the motel room. His laptop was open to a file labeled Mystic Lake/Kansas City.

While they had awaited the food delivery, the two of them had sat side by side as he fed into the file the bits and pieces of information they had attained so far in the case.

He’d tried not to notice how shiny her hair was beneath the lamp that hung from the ceiling over the center of the table. He’d tried not to draw in the sweet scent of her that made him think of tangled sheets and slick bodies.

The pizza was a compromise. His half was spicy pepperoni and sausage, and hers was mushroom and green pepper. It was just an indication to him that they were complete opposites and he had no business thinking about what she would look like naked, how her lips would taste or if he could evoke any passion that might be hidden beneath her emotional walls.

Surely these thoughts were only because they were in a relatively intimate setting and there was no question that he was physically attracted to her.

She looked relaxed for the first time since they’d met. Her blouse was unbuttoned at the top, revealing her delicate collarbone, and her body appeared to hold none of the tension of the day.

“So, tomorrow we check out the names we have of people from Mystic Lake,” she said as he opened the box and handed her several napkins. She leaned closer to him to look at his computer screen. “Jimmy Tanner, Raymond Chandler and Natalie Redwing—we should be able to have those interviews finished by noon, and maybe one of them will give us more information.”

“We also need to check back in with Deputy Black and maybe interview some of the other deputies who worked with Cole.” He waited until she took a piece of the pie and then he grabbed a piece for himself. “It’s possible that somebody who worked for Cole didn’t have his back.”

Marjorie frowned thoughtfully. “We might reinterview John Merriweather again to see if he’s thought of anything new.”

“He’s still at the top of my suspect list,” Jackson replied and then bit into the slice he had folded in half.

“I’m anxious to talk to Jimmy Tanner and Raymond Chandler to see how well they can corroborate Jeff’s poker game alibi for Friday night,” she replied.

“He seems so obvious as a suspect,” Jackson replied, sorry when she leaned back in her chair and put some distance between them. “He didn’t make any bones about the fact that he doesn’t like the sheriff.”

“Sometimes it’s the most obvious suspect that turns out to be the perp.” She wiped her mouth with the napkin and for the next few minutes they fell into silence as they devoured the pizza.

He liked watching her. She had the kind of expressive face that let him know when her thoughts were happy or somber. He found himself wishing he knew what was going through her mind.

He chided himself irritably. Marjorie wasn’t a player. She was with him now because she was assigned to work this case with him, and when the case was over she’d probably never think of him again.

And that was the way it was supposed to be, he reminded himself. He glanced up to find her impossibly green eyes locked with his. “You’ve gotten very quiet,” she said. “What are you thinking about?”

“I’m wondering why you don’t have some boyfriend ticked off because you’re working with an irresistible, handsome devil like me.”

She tossed the last of a piece of crust into the box and wiped her mouth once again. “I don’t have a boyfriend because I don’t want a boyfriend. I’m perfectly comfortable alone.” She hesitated a moment and her eyes deepened in hue. “I had enough scheming stepfathers in my life to be done with the idea of relationships or marriage for the rest of my life.”

“What do you mean by scheming stepfathers?”

She hesitated, as if weighing how much of herself she was willing to give to him. “When my father died, he left my mother a very wealthy woman, wealthy enough and lonely enough that she was easy pickings for smooth-talking con men to take advantage of.”

She worried her napkin in her lap as Jackson’s pizza suddenly sat heavily in his stomach. “It took three husbands to swindle her out of her last dime and leave her broke and alone.” She shrugged. “I’m not much inclined to share anything with anyone after that experience.”

“I’m sorry,” Jackson said, knowing it was inadequate and also recognizing that if she ever found out about his own father, she’d hate Jackson and would never believe that he wasn’t a chip off the old block.

“It’s not your fault, and I have Mom settled in a nice apartment, surrounded by beautiful furnishings so she can feel like she’s still living a bit of the good life.”

“And what has that done for your lifestyle?” he asked.

Once again she shrugged. “I don’t require much. I’ve managed to get myself a little two-bedroom house that’s just right for me.”

Although she didn’t say it, although she didn’t even intimate it, Jackson knew she must be making personal sacrifices to keep her mother happy. An unexpected pain ripped through his heart, along with a lot of guilt he knew he didn’t deserve but hadn’t been able to shake from his psyche for years.

“You know you shouldn’t judge all men by what happened to your mother,” he said.

“I don’t. I’m a cautious woman, Jackson. I just don’t take chances, not in my job as an FBI agent and not in my personal life.”

“Being too cautious can close you off from important experiences,” he replied.

“I recognize that and I’m okay with it. My life is just the way I like it—predictable and without chaos.”

“And love equals chaos to you?” He raised a dark eyebrow.

“Not necessarily.” She gave a small, dry laugh. “What are you doing? Trying to be my life coach? You, who has never met a woman he didn’t like, who probably changes girlfriends as often as you change your shirt? You’ve already told me you aren’t the marrying kind, so why is it any different for me not to be the marrying kind?”