Читать книгу Frame-Up - Jill Elizabeth Nelson - Страница 12

THREE

Lying flat in the cushy bed, Laurel stared into the dark. The wind wailed around the corner of the cabin, raging against denied entrance. No wonder people’s minds could slip when trapped in a storm. The constant drone tweaked every nerve.

If she could relax, maybe she could sleep. Laurel rolled over onto her side. She’d dozed off for a while after they’d first turned in, but the reprieve from consciousness had been short-lived. No way would she get another wink tonight, despite the luxury of silken sheets and a down-filled pillow.

That poor woman—murdered! What of Ms. Eldon’s family—her parents? As a mother, Laurel could imagine the pain of learning about the loss of a daughter to foul play. How awful for them! What would she do if she lost Caroline?

Caroline.

The name sighed through Laurel’s thoughts. The friction between them continued and had perhaps escalated. Why had Caroline never told her that she craved home-cooked meals—or that anything her mother made might be better off in the trash?

So cooking wasn’t Laurel’s strong suit. She’d be the first to admit it, and the shortcoming hadn’t bothered her much. Until now. Caroline’s casual remark, comparing her abilities to those of a total stranger, had cut to the quick. Why had Caroline bonded with this suspected murderer with such ease when she could hardly offer her mother a civil word?

Laurel could resent David for his charming ways that seemed to have mesmerized her daughter, but surely she wasn’t that petty. The pleasant atmosphere he’d gone out of his way to provide deserved high marks. His efforts went beyond simply being charming. Given his apparent prayer before the meal and his song repertoire, he might even be a fellow believer in Christ. Why did that idea dismay her rather than comfort her? Maybe because Christ-follower and murderer were two roles that didn’t reconcile.

What was she to believe about this man? Perhaps the best she could do was to strive to withhold judgment. His guilt or innocence wasn’t her concern, after all. She had more pressing worries.

When the sheriff arrived, what was going to happen to Caroline and her? How could she protect her daughter?

God, have mercy!

If that was the best prayer she could offer, she was a pitiful specimen. She couldn’t seem to muster so much as a mustard seed of faith to mix with pleas for help and guidance. How long had she been so dry spiritually?

Too long. The answer echoed in her mind.

From the tossing and turning on the other side of the bed, apparently Caroline wasn’t sleeping either. In fact, the girl seemed to be doing her best to maintain the greatest distance possible from her mother. Not a difficult task in this king-size bed.

“Do you believe I might have done it?”

The whispered question electrified the darkness.

“Done what?”

“You know.”

Laurel’s heart wept. “Why would you ask such a thing, honey?”

“You answered my question with a question. I guess that gives me my answer.”

“No, sweetheart. I never suspected you for a minute.”

Caroline snorted. “Yeah, but I’ll bet you had to analyze the situation for at least fifty-nine seconds before you made up your mind what you were going to believe. You never accept anyone or anything at face value.”

Laurel caught her breath. Was this how Caroline viewed her mother’s carefully cultivated caution and prudence? How could Laurel correct that perception? The solution to that problem would have to wait. Caroline needed reassurance right now.

“I know you, baby girl. There’s nothing in you capable of doing...whatever was done to Ms. Eldon.”

Her daughter sighed. “But you think I’m manifesting deep-seated abandonment issues.” Caroline bracketed the last half of her sentence in a tone that mimicked Laurel’s dictation voice following a professional counseling session.

The accusing words jabbed at Laurel, but she firmed her insides. “We had this discussion in the car. Are you saying there’s no possibility that Emily’s leaving hasn’t opened up some emotional scar tissue that you didn’t realize was there?”

“I don’t know, Mom.” The words emerged as a miserable whine. “I’m going to try to get some sleep.” The girl rolled over, presenting her back to her mother.

Laurel swallowed a foul lump in her throat. What fine-sounding psychobabble had she spouted? Such statements sounded wise and understanding during her public talks, but in the wee hours of the morning in this demented situation, they fell flat. Had her mission and ministry amounted to no more than empty air?

A noise grabbed Laurel’s attention. Was that the front door closing? She hadn’t heard their host leave his bedroom up the hall from theirs. The barest waft of chilly air moved through the room, and the hairs on her arms stood to attention.

David or an intruder? How would the latter be possible in the middle of the night in this storm? Laurel sat up.

“Do you hear someone in the living room?”

Caroline yawned but didn’t stir. “Must be Mr. Greene. He padded past here a little while ago. Probably can’t sleep either.”

“Oh.” Lame, but Laurel had no better response to offer. She hadn’t heard the earlier movement, no doubt because she’d been so lost in fretting that other sounds hadn’t penetrated.

“I think I’ll get a glass of water.”

“K.”

Laurel slipped from between the sheets and stood on the scatter rug by the bed. She took a step onto the hardwood floor and quickly retreated onto the rug. The cabin definitely didn’t have heated floors. Probably not even a basement, just a crawlspace beneath. Thankfully, electric baseboard heat kept the air in each room tolerably warm. She sucked in a breath and tiptoed quickly up the hall and into the carpeted living area.

The glow from the dying embers in the fireplace revealed that the room was vacant. Had David returned to his bed? How would that be possible? He would have had to walk past her to get back to his end of the hall. She looked toward the front door. His boots were missing. Why would he have gone out into the storm in the middle of the night?

Laurel went to the front window, parted the curtains and peered out. A ghostly wall of white shimmered in the darkness and hid any form or movement. Where was David Greene? Her heart thudded against her ribs as her misspent youth of watching horror movies played gruesome possibilities through her mind. Shivering, she drew back from the window.

“Don’t be silly,” she whispered aloud. But her arms slid around her frame in a tight hug.

What if David’s midnight mission had something to do with the murder? Was he out there satisfying morbid curiosity and messing with things he shouldn’t? Should she throw on her shoes and outerwear and go after him? Yeah, right! as her daughter might say. She’d get two steps away from the porch and be unable to find either the cabin or her car.

She should go get a bottle of water. Her mouth had gone dry as the last pan of brownies she’d tried to bake. But while she was in the kitchen she could acquire a weapon—a knife, a meat mallet—whatever it took to stand between any threat and her daughter. If she was indulging morbid night fancies, she’d be happy to feel foolish in the morning with a defensive weapon under her pillow rather than ignore her inner alarms. She’d ignored those alarms more than once while married to Caroline’s father and lived to regret it.

In fact, she was lucky she’d lived.

Laurel headed for the refrigerator. The bottoms of her feet registered the chill as she left the carpet for the kitchen tile. She flipped on the light rather than risk adding a stubbed toe to cold feet. The kitchen was as tidy as they’d left it. Their host’s excuse for nighttime prowling wasn’t the quest for a snack.

Her gaze scanned the countertops and landed on a wood block bristling with knife handles. Weapons search over. Her hand closed around the handle of the largest one, but a sound at the front door froze her in place.

“Brrr!” someone muttered and feet stomped the floor. David? Probably. But she couldn’t be certain. And even if it was David, did that mean she was safe?

What legitimate purpose could he have for sneaking outside this time of night? She slid the knife from its housing and turned to face their host. If he was a threat, she was ready.

Her knees shook, but she firmed her spine as a parka-clad figure filled the kitchen doorway, face shrouded in a fur-lined hood. Her gaze fell to the items he carried, and her insides went limp.

* * *

Clutching a load of firewood in the crook of one arm and a flashlight in the other hand, David took in the stark fear staring at him from the pallor of Laurel’s face. Then he dropped his gaze to the knife in her fist. His jaw clenched. So his efforts to reassure his guests this evening hadn’t reduced his threat level in her mind.

“Looking for a snack?” he said, forcing his tone as near to natural as he could muster. “There’s some brick cheese in the fridge that might need slicing, but I don’t think you’ll need the butcher knife.”

Her head snapped back as if his words had slapped her. “No—um— No, of course not. I was just...” She lowered the knife to her side, at a loss to finish her sentence.

“Let me put this wood down by the fireplace, and I’ll help make sandwiches. I could use one, too...and a cup of cocoa. It’s freezing out there, and big daddy storm hasn’t let up any.”

“Sounds fine.” She nodded. “I’ll get started on the cocoa.” She moved to the single cup brewer and plucked a K-Cup from the carousel next to it.

David plodded to the fireplace. He knelt and dumped the load of stubby logs into the box on the hearth. He should be angry with her. Furious even. Or at least offended, but the best he could muster was this deep sadness that weighted the pit of his stomach.

He rose and shed his parka, then tossed it onto one of the pair of easy chairs with more force than necessary. Maybe he was a little angry. He exchanged his boots for the house slippers he’d left on the rug by the door and rejoined his guest in the kitchen.

Laurel was standing at the brewer flamingo-style with one foot on the tile and the other pressed against the navy knit of her sweatpants. Unexpectedly, his heart warmed. Was he that starved for domesticity that the sight of a female at the homey chore turned him sappy? The two of them were on little more than speaking terms. Still, the tawny, sleep-tousled hair brushing her shoulders only added to her appeal.

She turned toward him with a pair of steaming mugs in her hands, and he mustered a smile. “Why don’t you take those into the living room, and I’ll make the sandwiches. Your bare feet must be chilled to the bone.”

Gaze averted, color high on her cheeks, she nodded and hustled from the room. Sighing, David dug cold cuts and cheese from the refrigerator. A few minutes later, he laid a plate beside her cocoa on a side table. She’d left the living room light off, but the glow from the kitchen conspired with the fireplace embers to outline her form curled up on the easy chair with her feet under her.

“Here.” He stripped the throw blanket from the back of the couch and laid it across her lap. No word of thanks or eye contact acknowledged his courtesy. What was with this woman? Either she was still petrified of him or her mind was consumed with what lay outside in the trunk of her car. Or maybe a healthy dollop of both. Good thing she had no idea what he’d really been doing outside.

“I’ll stoke the fire,” he said.

A jingle stopped him in the act of turning away. He swiveled toward her. A set of car keys dangled from her fingers.

“I found these on the floor near your parka.”

“Really?”

“They must have fallen out of your pocket.”

“I—I suppose so.”

“What were you doing with them?” Even in the twilight, her gaze skewered him. “And how did you get them?”

Heart thumping, he went to the hearth, knelt and began positioning logs in the fireplace. Better if he answered this with his back to her. His face was likely to give him away. “You dropped them. Remember?”

“Dropped them! I don’t—” Her words halted. “Oh, yes,” she said, tone subdued. “When we found the— When we went outside to get the luggage.”

“That’s right.” With the poker, David prodded the fresh logs into position on the embers. “Guess I must have stuck them into my pocket after I caught them in midair.”

“So your excursion into the storm had nothing to do with the keys that happened to be in your pocket. You went outside for more wood?”

David swallowed against a dry throat. “There’s a box on the porch.”

“We don’t need the fire in the fireplace for heat in the house.”

“True, but a little blaze is nice if you can’t sleep and want to toast your toes and sip cocoa.”

He inserted bits of tinder into the smoldering ashes, and flames began to flicker. If only he could be so successful in calming his guest’s suspicions.

“I can’t argue with that statement.” A soft slurp followed her words.

David rose and turned to find Laurel standing with her keys in one hand and her mug in the other. The blanket had slid onto the floor and lay crumpled at her feet.

“I’ll take this to bed with me.” She raised the mug. “Thanks for making the snack, but I guess I really don’t feel like eating. Enjoy your cozy fire.”

The flatly spoken words hung in the air as her graceful stride carried her from the room. David’s gaze followed her retreat—empty protests, explanations, reassurances locked behind his tongue.

Good thing he’d never aspired to an acting career. He stunk at it. Laurel’s body language communicated that she didn’t believe he’d told her the truth. Well, he had; just not the whole truth. Before he grabbed the wood, he went out to her car first and verified his glimpse of that tattoo on the body. The tat was there, all right. His memory hadn’t played him false.

He picked up the blanket and settled onto the sofa next to his sandwich and cocoa. Frowning, he sipped at his hot beverage, then ran stiff fingers through his hair. The thick mop needed cutting, but a trim hadn’t seemed important before he went on a solo retreat to the mountains. Who could have predicted so many complications to a simple plan?

David set his mug on a side table, leaned forward— elbows on his knees—and gazed into the blossoming fire. What was the meaning behind the nearly identical tattoos on jet-setting Alicia and this middle school biology teacher? Was there a real connection between the dead women, or were the tattoos a coincidence? The questions seared his mind, demanding answers. Where did he start looking for them?

Maybe he should hire another private investigator. This would be his fourth. The notion left a sour taste in his mouth. He’d had nothing but empty promises and bills from every P.I. he’d hired to look into Alicia’s murder. Call him paranoid, but he’d had the sense that even the P.I.s on his payroll had figured him as the culprit. Had they looked very hard to find another explanation? Why would they take him seriously this time? No, he wasn’t going to go that route again.

He could point out the similar tattoos to the police once they arrived and let them follow the lead. His insides shriveled. What was he thinking? Major bad idea. If the police caught wind of the tattoo connection on another dead body in his vicinity, they were as likely to try to pin this second murder on him as to look further for answers.

Before he went to the cops with this similarity between the murder victims, he needed to have some idea how the tattoos might point to a different culprit. He knew he hadn’t killed the high school teacher, so if the murders were connected, then this could be proof that he hadn’t killed Alicia either. He sat up stiff.

Did he dare hope the tats signaled his innocence? Or was he setting himself up for bitter disappointment? At this point, there was no way to tell. He’d have to uncover the significance of the ink markings for himself before he could trust this knowledge to anyone—even the woman who owned the car where the teacher’s body was stowed.

For all he knew, Laurel or her daughter had a hand in the teacher’s death or knew something about it. Either they were innocent victims of a frame-up, or they were devious and culpable. Either way, innocent or diabolical, he needed to keep an eye on those two until the tattoo business was explained.