Читать книгу Vows of Silence - Debra Webb - Страница 11

Gloria Ashland had always been one of the town’s beautiful people. Time hadn’t changed that. Lacy glared, welcoming smile plastered in place, at the woman for a long moment before stepping back and allowing her and her friend entrance into Melinda’s home. The idea that Senator Ashland had been asked to run on the Democratic ticket for the vice presidency in next year’s election was downright scary.

“Where’s Melinda?” Gloria asked sharply, skimming Lacy and immediately flashing disapproval.

“She’s in the family room.”

Gloria headed in that direction, a flurry of Gucci and Dolce & Gabbana. What a bitch, Lacy fumed. Well, giving Mrs. Ashland grace, Lacy released a weary sigh. The woman had just been forced to relive the loss of her son all over again. Lacy’s lips tightened into a grim line. But then, Gloria Ashland had always been a bitch, even when her son was very much alive.

“I’m Renae Rossman. You remember me, don’t you, Lacy? I served as mistress of ceremonies at your debutante ball.”

Lacy closed the door behind the woman who had just spoken. Fifteen or so years younger than Gloria, Renae was even more striking than Lacy remembered. And she remembered her all right. A former Miss Alabama, Renae had married Wes Rossman when she was only twenty-one. The rumor was that she had dropped out of college and married so abruptly because she was pregnant, but nine months later that rumor remained unproved. Only about ten at the time, Lacy could remember wondering why such a pretty lady, blond haired, blue eyed, and built like a runway model, would marry such an old man. Wes was at least twenty years older than Renae. Eventually Lacy had come to understand that he was a very rich man, and money talked. He was connected as well. He’d served as the senator’s campaign manager in his every political race. Their ties ran deep.

Turning to face the woman, Lacy affected her most charming smile. “Why, of course, I remember you, Mrs. Rossman.” She offered her hand.

Renae clasped Lacy’s hand briefly but firmly. “Call me Renae. The ‘Mrs.’ always makes me feel old. You’re looking well.” Remorse flickered in her eyes. “I regret these circumstances have brought us together again.”

Again?

Lacy supposed she was referring to the memorial service the Ashlands had held for Charles shortly after he was officially pronounced dead. Lacy, Kira and Cassidy had surrounded Melinda then, as well, providing an insulating barrier between her and the harsh reality of their own actions. A shiver raced through her at the memory.

“So do I.” Lacy turned away from the beauty queen’s scrutiny and hurried to the family room. She’d left Melinda alone too long with Gloria. Cassidy would not approve. With good reason, Lacy chastised herself. Melinda was vulnerable right now.

“You know I only have the child’s best interest at heart,” Gloria was saying as Lacy and Renae entered the room. She sat alone on the sofa, her back ramrod straight as she perched on the very edge. “She and Chuckie mean the world to the senator and I.”

Melinda stood behind a wing chair opposite the sofa. She gripped the back of the chair, her fingers digging into the elegant brocade, whether for support or protection, Lacy couldn’t be sure.

“I know you mean well,” Melinda offered, her voice trembling. “But I would prefer Chelsea be with me. I’m her mother. She needs to be with me.”

You tell her, Lacy cheered silently.

Gloria sighed dramatically, then pressed her handkerchief to her flushed cheek. “Tell her, Renae, about the reporters.”

Lacy went on instant alert.

Renae sat down on the sofa next to Gloria and took her hand in hers in a comforting gesture. “They’ve gathered at the courthouse,” she explained quietly.

The woman’s voice oozed Southern charm. Lacy could hear her Miss Alabama acceptance speech now, all warm and chock-full of false humility. There was something oddly unsettling about the woman, something Lacy couldn’t quite put her finger on. Renae’s words filtered through her distracted focus and Lacy went as cold as ice.

“What do you mean?” The question came from her, but Lacy didn’t remember forming the words.

“The news of—” she moistened her lips and swallowed “—the discovery has apparently garnered the attention of the media, local and state. There are at least a dozen reporters hanging around the chief of police’s office. As soon as they’ve exhausted their efforts there, they’ll come here.” Her focus shifted from Melinda to Lacy and back. “I don’t think Chief Summers will be able to stop them. This story has too many possible ramifications with Charles, Senior, having just been asked to run for vice president.”

Damn. Lacy hadn’t even considered the media circus that would no doubt descend as soon as the news reached the right ears.

“God, I hadn’t thought of that.” Melinda stared at the back of the chair she clutched. “It’ll be a nightmare—even worse than before.”

Lacy moved to her friend’s side. The damned chair was probably the only thing keeping her fully vertical at the moment.

“Then you see that I’m right,” Gloria offered, her eyes shining with self-satisfaction. “With the security we have at home there’s no way a reporter is going to get near Chelsea if she’s with us.”

Melinda nodded her surrender.

“Why don’t we go up and pack those bags?” Lacy suggested softly. Even she could see the justification in the move. Melinda nodded again, and with her leaning heavily on Lacy, the two walked slowly toward the hall.

“Chelsea’s going to be fine,” Lacy assured her. “You know Gloria will take good care of her.” She laughed drily. “She’ll probably spoil her outrageously.”

Melinda paused at the bottom of the stairs. “What if they won’t give up, Lace? What if they keep digging until—”

Lacy shook her head firmly, hoping to convey the certainty of her words. “They won’t.”

Rick studied the mass of paperwork before him. He had cleared his desk and then spread the Ashland file so that he could review it all at once.

“I’m gone, boss.”

Rick scrubbed a hand over his stubbled chin as he glanced up at his deputy. Brad Brewer, his right-hand man, leaned through the open door. He looked like hell. Rick knew, without the aid of a mirror, that he looked just as beat. Neither of them had bothered to go home last night and the lack of sleep was catching up on them.

“Yeah, Brewer, thanks for hanging in here with me.” It was nearing midnight. Everyone had left hours ago, except the two of them.

“In the morning I’ll stay on the Birmingham office until I get that preliminary forensics report for you.”

Rick nodded though he imagined that the senator had already pressed for a speedy turnaround. “Thanks, Brewer. See you in the morning.”

The deputy’s steps echoed down the empty hall, then faded as he exited the Law Enforcement Center. Rick blew out a breath of frustration and exhaustion and turned his attention back to the puzzle before him.

Dozens of interviews had been conducted with friends, work associates and family members when Ashland first went missing ten years ago. Rick scowled at the stack of neatly typed reports. Preston Taylor, the chief of police in Ashland for as long as Rick could remember until retiring six years ago, had personally performed each interview. The guy wouldn’t let anyone else work on the case, not even a deputy as eager and ambitious as Rick. Taylor had insisted that he was the only man with the finesse to do right by the town’s most prominent family.

Rick had to admit that Taylor had been thorough if nothing else. Bank records, phone records, appointment book—it was all there. Every step Ashland had taken for a month before his disappearance was recreated in the neat stacks of investigative reports. There had been no evidence of foul play. No indication that Ashland had felt any pressure or unusual stress prior to his disappearance. His finances were in excellent condition and the future only looked brighter for the lucky jerk. He had more friends than you could stir with a stick. And, apparently, plenty of female company besides the little wife.

Any of the women with whom he’d been involved could have put those bullets in him out of sheer jealousy, but only one woman had anything to gain by his death.

Melinda Ashland.

Rick picked up the most damning report and reviewed Taylor’s notes. About a year before his death, Charles and Melinda had taken out multimillion dollar life-insurance policies. It wasn’t as if they weren’t already heavily insured, but the additional policy had left Melinda Ashland a very, very rich woman by anyone’s standards. The required wait hadn’t been a problem, either, since there were plenty of assets without the insurance money. All that added up to serious motivation.

The interviews with Nigel Canton, Ashland’s business partner, garnered Rick’s attention next. The co-owned investment firm had made both men wealthy in their own rights. Ashland and Canton had signed an agreement giving the surviving partner first dibs on the business over any heirs of the deceased. The price was a meager ten percent of the firm’s worth. Friends of the two men—and clients of the firm—had attested to the growing animosity between the men in the final months of Charles’s life. Especially where Canton’s wife was concerned.

The fact of the matter was, Rick mused, both Nigel Canton and Melinda Ashland had a great deal to gain from Charles’s death. But staring that undeniable fact right back in the face was the indisputable reality that there wasn’t a shred of evidence that either of them was involved. To seal that fate, both had alibis. Not necessarily airtight alibis, but alibis all the same. Hell, Melinda had been a patient in the hospital at the time. He supposed there was always the slim chance she had slipped out when no one was looking.

Yeah, right. That’s not slim, Summers, that’s frigging anorexic. Even though one nurse’s statement indicated she’d found her room empty at some point that afternoon, Taylor hadn’t put much stock in that idea since mobile patients often walked the floors of the hospital.

There was Melinda’s brother Kyle Tidwell. He’d hated Charles, for what he’d done to his sister but, according to the reports, his alibi had also been airtight. Then there was the senator. Though he loved his son, Charles, Junior had been a major embarrassment to him.

Another frown inched its way across Rick’s forehead. There was that other little nagging detail of the one-hundred-thousand-dollar withdrawal Charles made the day he disappeared. He’d liquidated a couple of CDs and withdrew the money in cash. A suitcase and some of his clothes had been missing. Every indication at the time, Rick had to admit, was that Ashland had simply skipped town. But now they knew differently. Rick rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. What the hell had happened to that money? Ashland hadn’t been a gambler, and he didn’t have a drug problem.

He was a drinker and a womanizer. And somehow he’d pissed off somebody badly enough to get himself killed.

The forensics boys from Birmingham had arrived today to go over the Mercedes. But Rick wasn’t expecting them to find anything. He’d already had a look himself. No murder weapon, no nothing. Except a couple of slugs and the bare skeletal remains of a man wrapped in a nondescript beige shower curtain in the trunk. Any fingerprints or trace evidence would have been damaged if not completely washed away by the years in the water.

Rick wondered if a man like Ashland, one who’d been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, had suffered any regrets in his final moments before violence stole his existence. Rick studied the glossy photograph of Charles Ashland, Junior, taken ten years ago with his young family. Judging by the cocky grin on the man’s face, he probably hadn’t known the meaning of the word remorse, much less felt the emotion.

Rick tossed the photo aside and pushed away from his desk. He needed sleep. He turned off the light to his office and strode down the long corridor that led to the exit. As far as Rick was concerned there was nothing in Ashland’s file that was going to give him any answers. If there had been, Taylor would have solved this case ten years ago. Rick knew where the hidden secrets lay.

The image of Lacy Oliver zoomed into high-definition focus in his exhausted mind. Lacy and her friends knew something. Whether they were protecting someone or merely hiding some seemingly insignificant detail—they knew something.

Rick had every intention of finding out what it was.

And he knew just the route to take to get what he wanted.

Lacy jerked awake at the sound of a knock at the front door. She straightened, and the book she’d been reading fell to the floor. She blinked and struggled to get her bearings. She was at her parents’ house. After leaving Melinda’s, she’d come home and forced herself to read in hopes of falling asleep. Another knock echoed down the entry hall. Lacy got to her feet and started in that direction.

Had her parents cut their two weeks in Bermuda short? She shook her head. That didn’t make sense. They wouldn’t knock, they’d use their key. Lacy combed her fingers through her hair and then tightened the sash of her robe. She licked her dry lips and drew in a deep breath.

Maybe it was Kira. She might be feeling in need of some company.

A third knock rattled the hinges, startling Lacy although she’d known the sound would come again before she could reach the door. Whoever was out there was certainly impatient, she thought irritably. Tiptoeing, she checked the peephole. Lacy stumbled back at what she saw.

Rick Summers.

Damn.

What the hell was he doing here at this time of night? She glanced at the old grandfather clock and grimaced. A quarter past midnight. Boy, did he have some nerve showing up at her door in the middle of the night.

A chill raced up her spine and spread across her scalp. What if something had happened to Melinda?

Lacy unlocked the door and jerked it open. Her heart slammed mercilessly against her rib cage. God, please let Melinda be okay. Surely Cassidy would have called…

Her parents! The Bermuda authorities would have contacted the authorities here in the event of an emergency.

“I wouldn’t have stopped at this hour if I hadn’t seen the light.” Rick angled his head in the direction of the living room. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Is something wrong? Has something happened?” she demanded, unable to bear the crushing pressure of not knowing.

Understanding dawned in Rick’s silvery eyes. “No…no, it’s nothing like that. Everything’s fine. I just wanted to talk to you.”

Lacy sagged with relief. Nothing had happened. Thank God. His words suddenly penetrated her haze of euphoria. “Why do you want to talk to me?” Wariness slid over her, making her heart beat fast again. “It’s late.” And she was alone, she didn’t add.

“Do you suppose I could come in?”

Lacy couldn’t speak for a moment. Uncertainty suddenly warred with the almost overwhelming urge to lean into his arms. She remembered all too well how strong they were. He could hold her…make her forget for just a little while.

But he was the chief of police. It was his job to investigate the case of Charles’s murder. This wasn’t a social call.

Lacy hugged herself, suddenly aware of the cool night air against the silk of her robe and her skin. “Can’t it wait till morning?” she asked hesitantly.

His smile was subdued but all charm and persuasion nonetheless. “It could. If you’d rather wait and come into the office around eight, that’d be fine. I just thought we might handle this on a more informal basis.”

Lacy stared up into those steady gray eyes and silently admitted defeat. The same tension and throbbing lust that had plagued them back in high school was there still. She could feel his pull as surely as she could feel her own pulse racing. Steeling herself for whatever was to come, Lacy stepped back and allowed him to enter. Better on her turf than his. Cassidy wouldn’t approve.

“Your folks are away?”

“Yes,” she replied as she closed the door and turned back to him. For one charged moment she allowed herself to take in the complete picture of Rick Summers ten years older. Taller than most men, he was lean and hard. He filled out the pair of faded jeans he wore very nicely. The white, button-up shirt and the loosened tie hanging at his throat set him apart from the average good-looking, small-town guy one might run into in Ashland. But Rick wasn’t just any old average guy. He was the man who had taken her virginity all those years ago in the back seat of his daddy’s Pontiac. And now he was the chief of police investigating Charles’s murder.

“They’re in Bermuda for a couple of weeks,” she answered belatedly, trying her level best not to sound breathless with her heart thundering beneath her sternum.

His gaze slowly washed over her, heating her skin and making her feel restless. “You look good, Lacy.”

The sound of his voice, soft, warm, a little rough from lack of sleep and probably too much coffee and barking orders, curled around her, made her tingle inside. The beard shadowing his jaw only made him look sexier. “We can have a seat in here,” she offered. Her hand shook when she indicated the living room. She tightened her fingers into a fist and led the way.

Rick followed Lacy into her parents’ living room as he had longed to do a million times back in high school. He squashed that line of thinking. They weren’t kids anymore. He had to keep his head on straight here, had to focus.

Dammit. He should not have stopped. She’d been asleep in spite of the light being on. Few people prowled all hours of the night as he did. But it came with the territory. Not all aspects of law enforcement could be accomplished during daylight hours.

He almost groaned at the gentle sway of her hips. When she’d opened the door, she’d looked a little tousled, and a whole lot sexy. Rick had decided a long time ago that Lacy Jane Oliver had been put on this earth to drive him mad with the want of something he could never have. Not completely anyway. And now she was back, reminding him of all he’d lost—not that he’d ever really had her the way he’d wanted her. But that didn’t stop the immediate ache in his loins the instant he’d laid eyes on her at O’Malleys.

Hell, he’d had to banish her from his thoughts to get any work at all done tonight. Even then, she’d lingered just beyond conscious thought. Heating his blood, increasing his ache for her on a level over which he had no control.

He was a fool.

And she was a suspect.

Halfway across the living room, she stopped and turned to face him, the gossamer robe outlining her slender body. All that rich, mahogany hair draped her shoulders, whispering against the silk fabric when she moved.

“Would you like coffee?”

Rick swore silently. It irritated the hell out of him that he hadn’t been alone in the room with her for three minutes and already he was falling victim to her beauty, to the need he could never quite vanquish.

“No, thanks. I’ve had too much already.”

Her dark brown eyes registered satisfaction, as if she’d known his answer before he spoke. “Would you like to sit?” she inquired politely, too politely.

There hadn’t been anything polite at all about the way she’d urged him on that night…all those years ago when she’d been his for just one unforgettable moment.

“No, I think I’ll stand,” he said tightly. After all this time, the notion of touching her was still almost more than he could bear. Yet she stood there, watching him, seemingly unaffected, and he couldn’t even pull his thoughts together.

Wariness crept into her watchful eyes at his hesitation. God, he hoped she couldn’t read him that well. “All right then,” she said. “What can I do for you, Chief Summers?”

Chief, not Rick. So that was the way it would be. He almost laughed out loud at his own stupidity for hoping it would be otherwise. Hell, it had always been that way. She waited, perfectly still, her spine rigid, the wall of windows and expensive draperies an elegant backdrop to the sensual picture she made. The filmy white fabric looked stark against her olive skin, displaying a great deal more than it concealed.

“Is this about the investigation?”

He noted the movement of her lips as she spoke. They were full, ripe with color without the aid of cosmetics. He wanted to taste them, to see if the woman was as hot and sweet as the girl had been. Rick licked his lips. “Yeah,” he finally managed to grind out. “I want to run a couple of possibilities past you. Get your take on the scenarios.”

She was nervous now. He could see it in her eyes, her posture. “I’m listening.”

Rick surveyed the room, right then left, taking his time so that her tension would escalate. How often had he imagined how her home looked on the inside? Hell, he’d driven by every single day until she moved away. “Nice place.”

“Thank you.” She tunneled the fingers of her right hand through her hair, pushing the silky stuff away from the face that still haunted his dreams.

Drawing out the wait, he moved to the mantel and studied the photographs of the girl he’d known back in high school. Being an only child, there were plenty to look at. He tried to remember a time when he hadn’t been crazy about Lacy, but as far back as he could recall he had been.

But she hadn’t noticed…except that once.

“You and your friends were visiting when Charles disappeared,” he asked, his voice sounding too harsh after the long moments of silence.

Lacy ordered her heart to slow. She had to stay calm. “You already know the answer to that—you came by the hospital when we were with Melinda.” That’s right, she told herself, think rationally. Don’t let him trick you into saying anything you’ll regret. “You know we’re always there for each other. Not one of us has ever let the others down.”

He shifted from his intent study of the barrage of family photographs, and his penetrating gray gaze collided with hers. “He beat her pretty badly, didn’t he?”

Panic broadsided Lacy. She clenched her jaw to hold back the shudder that followed. “What are you talking about? It was an accident. Melinda fell down the stairs.” That was the story Melinda had told. She’d always covered up her husband’s abuse. Just another aspect of the past that haunted Lacy.

Rick moved toward her, one step, then another. “We both know that’s not the way it happened. He’s dead, why pretend now? I can just imagine how angry it made you—all of you—to find out he’d hurt her that way. Who knows how many other times she’d suffered at his hand.”

Lacy shook her head and held his regard, as difficult as that proved. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

An insanely sexy half smile tilted his full mouth. Dammit, she didn’t want to notice that. Another step disappeared between then. Lacy stiffened in an effort to lock down her responses, but her defenses were no match for the chemistry still volatile between them.

“You can’t fool me, Lacy. Charles Ashland, Junior, was a bastard. Admit it.”

He was too close, and coming closer. “Melinda loved him,” Lacy insisted in a firm voice. A tremble vibrated through her, threatening her shaky bravado. “He was a good father.”

“But he was a lousy husband.”

Rick stood toe to toe with her now, his broad chest close enough to lay her cheek there. Lacy lifted her head and unwanted heat roared through her. “I wouldn’t know,” she said, her voice cracking. “I wasn’t married to him.”

Another wicked tilt of his lips. “You won’t win, Lace. I’m not that easygoing good old boy I used to be. I’ve got your number. You and your friends are in this up to your pretty necks. Tell me what you know and I’ll find a way to protect you.”

Fury swept through her, banishing her fear. Lacy crossed her arms over her chest and glared back at him. Protect her. What about the others? “Go to hell, Rick.”

“Now, now, there’s no need to get nasty.” He massaged his beard-darkened chin, the sound rasping over her nerve endings, making her shiver with new awareness despite the anger rising inside her.

“I’m only giving you the opportunity to come clean with me. What are you so afraid of? Charles is dead—he sure as hell can’t hurt you. In my opinion he got what he deserved.”

Something snapped inside Lacy then. “You’re right,” she said, her voice too calm, and so low that she barely recognized it as her own. “He’s dead. And I’m glad he’s dead. I only wish he’d died sooner.” A new surge of fury streaked through her. For the first time in ten years, she felt liberated. “Is that what you wanted to hear, Chief?”

The scant inch of space between them sizzled with heat and visceral desire. Lacy refused to visibly acknowledge it. Instead she stared directly at him, her own eyes purposely void of the emotions whirling inside her. Let him take his best shot. She was tired, physically and mentally. She’d had enough.

He looked away first. “Dammit, Lacy, you can’t go around telling people you wanted him to die.” He swore again then glowered at her, his expression dark with anger and something else she couldn’t readily identify. “That single statement is motive.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” she pressed. “Didn’t you come here tonight to finagle a confession from me?”

He plowed a hand through his short dark hair. “Hell no.” A muscle started to tic in his square jaw. “I came here to get you to come clean with me about what you know. You’re hiding something from me, Lacy, I know it. The four of you have a secret, and I’m damned well going to find out what it is and how it plays into Ashland’s murder.”

He was angry now, almost as angry as she was. “We all signed statements ten years ago as to our whereabouts that day. Check your records, I’m sure you’ll find them.” She spun away. This conversation was over. “It’s late. You should—”

Long fingers curled around her arm and swung her back to face him before she took her second step. His expression was savage, intimidating. A new kind of fear shimmered through her. “I will get the answers I need, Lacy, one way or another.” He yanked her a few inches nearer, his full mouth close. “I won’t stop until I do.”

“Is that a threat?” Hard as she tried not to, she trembled.

He released her abruptly, but that fierce gaze held her a moment longer. “It’s a promise.”

Without looking back, Rick stormed out. She heard the front door close behind him. Lacy brought one shaky hand to her mouth and choked back the sob that swelled in her throat. Oh, God. She had to call Cassidy. He might not have any evidence, but his instincts had hit right on the money. Forcing herself to breathe, breathe deeply, Lacy made her way to the telephone. Before she could pick up the receiver, it rang. She frowned. Her parents? Cassidy?

Fear snaking around her chest once more, she snatched up the receiver. “Hello.” She had to calm down. She closed her eyes and cursed her loss of control.

“Lacy Jane Oliver?”

The slow, barely audible whisper tightened the strong hold of fear clutching at her, paralyzing her. Lacy opened her eyes, then blinked. Her mind raced to identify the strangely terrifying voice, but it was no use. She didn’t recognize it. Couldn’t even tell if it was male or female. “Yes,” she breathed the simple response.

“You should be very, very afraid.”

Adrenaline fired through her veins. “Who is this?”

“I know your secret.”