Читать книгу On Dean's Watch - Linda Winstead Jones - Страница 8

Someone was watching her house. Reva came to a surprised halt, her heart stuttering as she realized what she saw before her.

A man she didn’t recognize stood close to the massive trunk of an old oak tree, motionless, his eyes and his unwavering attention on her little cottage. She’d left the kitchen light burning, so it probably looked to him as if someone was home.

All was quiet up and down Magnolia Street. It wasn’t yet nine o’clock, but dark had fallen a while ago, shrouding the old houses and thick-limbed trees in quiet night. Sporadically placed street lamps, porch lamps and the light glowing from the windows of homes cast illumination here and there. But Reva had found herself walking in more dark than light. She knew the way well, so the dark was not a problem. But then, she didn’t usually see strangers on her way home.

If not for the moonlight, she wouldn’t be able to see the man at all. He was almost hidden in shadow, there beneath the oak tree.

If he was lost in shadow, so was she.

She’d walked home from Tewanda Hardy’s after dropping off Cooper at his friend Terrance’s, where he was spending the night. It was such a pretty spring evening, much too nice to be driving the mile or so to the Hardy house and then home again. When Cooper had said he was ready to go, Reva had pulled on her Tennessee Titans cap, stepped into her walking shoes and hit the sidewalk.

Good thing she’d decided to walk. She never would have discovered the man spying on her cottage if she hadn’t cut through the yard of the main house. She would have walked into her cottage without knowing someone was watching.

For a moment Reva stood very still and studied the man. Even though he was where he shouldn’t be, she didn’t feel threatened. He was wearing a suit, for goodness’ sake, and definitely didn’t look like any burglar she’d ever seen. He didn’t look around to see if anyone might be watching, didn’t display any signs of nervousness. Instinctively she knew he wasn’t a threat to her. Indecision bubbled inside her, making her stomach clench. Her instincts had failed her before. She really shouldn’t start trusting them now.

While she watched, he backed away from the tree, did a quick about-face and walked off.

And straight toward her.

Reva had a couple of choices, but she needed to make her decision now. Run. Hide. Confront.

The man who’d been watching her house jerked his head around to stare in her direction. Okay, too late for hiding. He had long legs; she couldn’t outrun him. All her neighbors were elderly. Screaming for help would eventually get the sheriff here, but would not do her any good in the coming minutes.

Reva searched the ground quickly, her eyes landing on a three-foot tree limb that had been trimmed from the Bradford pear but not yet taken to the street for pickup. She stepped to the side, dropped down and grabbed the limb, then stood and prepared herself for confrontation, the only choice she had left.

“Hi,” he said, his voice calm and even.

Reva relaxed, but she did not drop the branch. “Hi. What the hell are you doing skulking around the neighborhood?” She didn’t want to point out that she’d caught him watching her house.

“I’m not…” He hesitated. “Was I skulking?” His face was mostly in shadow still, but she could see his reaction. A reluctant half smile transformed his hard face. “I can see how it might’ve looked that way. I’m renting a room across the street. Just got in an hour or so ago, and I wanted to have a look around.” He moved forward and offered a hand. “My name’s Dean Sinclair.”

Reva stepped back. Maybe he was telling the truth, maybe not. She wasn’t about to drop the tree limb and shake his hand, even if he did sound normal and reasonable, and was dressed in a suit, dress shirt and tie. She wasn’t going to give him her name, either.

As she retreated, he came to a halt. His half smile faded. “You’re not going to hit me with that stick, are you?” There was a hint, just a very slight trace, of something dark in that question. The gut instinct she rarely trusted made her glad she hadn’t dropped her makeshift weapon.

Crime in Somerset was practically nonexistent, unless you counted littering and the occasional offense of loitering. And trespassing, Reva thought as she narrowed her eyes. Not exactly a heinous crime, but still, something about this man set her teeth on edge. The fact that she’d caught him spying on her house didn’t help matters any.

“Not if you don’t give me a reason to,” she answered.

Casual as you please, the man crossed his arms. So why was she so sure there was nothing at all casual about this man?

“There are some great old houses in this neighborhood,” he said, his voice soft and deep. “I was just walking around, checking them out. I’m interested in nineteenth-century architecture.”

“You can actually see the details of that architecture better by daylight,” Reva said sharply.

“Like I said, I just arrived in town.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “I couldn’t wait to have a look around. Do you live close by?”

“No,” she said. “I’m just walking around in the dark admiring the architecture.”

That response got another half smile out of the stranger. Dean whatever. He definitely didn’t look like a criminal, but he didn’t exactly look harmless, either. Beneath that suit he was physically fit. She could tell by the way he walked, the way he held himself. There was no softness about him, unless you counted the voice that was slightly touched with a Southern accent.

Reva was always wary of the opposite sex, especially men like this one. This Dean fellow was hard, cocky and not where he should be. Architecture my ass.

“I’m leaving,” he said, taking a step back. “I would say it was nice to meet you, but you never did tell me your name.” He paused, but she did not fill in the blanks for him. “And I can’t see your face,” he added, dipping his head to one side as if that might help. “Not with that cap shadowing it. But if I ever see an overly suspicious woman walking down the street carrying a big stick, I’ll be sure to say hello.”

Reva hefted the limb in her hand, making sure her grip was firm. Was he flirting with her? Impossible. She decided not to respond at all.

“Sorry if I gave you a fright,” Dean said.

“You didn’t give me a fright,” Reva insisted.

Dean nodded, apparently not believing her for a moment. Could he hear her heart thudding all the way over there? Or did he detect the tremor in her voice?

“I guess I should save my examination of the town for daytime hours from now on. I didn’t know they rolled up the sidewalks so early here.”

“Now you know,” Reva said sharply.

“Good night, ma’am,” he said with a tip of his head and a quick turnabout. Reva watched as he walked across the yard, across the street and directly to Evelyn Fister’s front door. She glanced down the side driveway of the three-story house where Dean claimed he was staying and caught sight of the rear end of a strange car parked there.

Okay, so maybe he’d been telling the truth. Maybe.

She carried the Bradford pear limb with her as she walked toward home.

Stakeouts were not Dean Sinclair’s favorite part of the job. Sitting for hours, days, sometimes weeks waiting for something to happen was a tedious but necessary part of being a deputy U.S. marshal. Despite a good night’s sleep, this stakeout was already getting on his nerves, and he and his partner, Alan Penner, had only been in Somerset, Tennessee—population 2,352—for thirteen hours.

Alan, who’d been on duty while Dean slept, stood up as Dean exited his bedroom of their rented apartment. He was obviously tired after more than six hours at his post. Once thin and wiry, lately Alan had been sporting a paunch, evidence that his wife was determined to keep him well fed. A couple of years older than Dean, his dark hair showing a few new gray hairs at the temple, Alan was still on the green side of forty. By a few months.

Their new residence wasn’t actually an apartment; they’d rented the entire third floor of a house that had been built about 1820. Everything squeaked, squealed and needed to be painted. Still, the place had a kind of quaint charm.

The main room on the third floor had been referred to by their landlady as “the upstairs parlor.” The furnishings were older than the ancient landlady herself, and a few of the upholstered pieces had a distinctly musty odor. But it was clean and as close to Miss Reva’s, the restaurant across the street, as they were going to get.

There were two bedrooms, one on each side of the parlor, a bathroom down the hallway, and rooms they would not need or use across the way.

Stretching and turning away from the telescope situated on a tripod near the lace-curtain-covered window, Alan twisted his thin lips. “One person has entered the house this morning.”

“Already?” It wasn’t yet 8:00 a.m., and the restaurant situated in the old house across the street didn’t serve lunch until one.

“Yeah. She didn’t look at all like Pinchon, though. She was maybe five feet tall, white-haired, weighed about eighty pounds, and she’s probably ninety-three years old.” Alan yawned and shuffled toward his own room for a few hours’ sleep.

The lens on the telescope Alan had been manning was aimed unerringly at the antebellum house on the other side of the street and one house down. Dean sat in a chair before that telescope, his gaze trained on the large white house. The subject of this stakeout, one Reva Macklin, actually lived in the guest house behind the structure, which had been converted into a popular restaurant. They could only get a partial view of the guest house from this vantage point. The north side porch of the main house and a couple of trees, in full leaf in an overly warm May, got in their way.

Which was why Dean had ventured out last night, only to get caught by a local woman armed with a big stick. He smiled at the memory. All he’d been able to see well were her legs, and she’d had great legs. Shapely, long and smooth.

He’d seen her legs and heard her voice, and those two things alone had been enough to stay with him through the night. Long legs and a slightly husky voice that had crept under his skin from the moment she’d asked him what the hell he was doing skulking around in the dark.

“Think he’ll show up here?” Alan asked with another yawn.

Dean dismissed his dreams of a woman he would probably never see again. He was here on business, and his business was fugitive apprehension.

Eddie Pinchon had been serving a life sentence before escaping from prison in Florida two days ago. A quick glance at Pinchon’s record showed that the man was capable of anything and everything. He was violent, occasionally smart, greedy and a little bit crazy. He could appear to be perfectly normal one moment, then do something no sane man would even think of. Killing a man who’d double-crossed him on a drug deal in the middle of a fast-food restaurant while dozens of people watched was definitely crazy.

Dean glanced at the picture they’d pinned to the wall by the window. The eight-year-old snapshot had been blown up several times, so the texture was grainy. Still, it was more than clear enough. Reva Macklin had been Eddie’s girl for almost two years before his arrest. In the only picture they’d been able to find, she was smiling widely, obviously happy. At nineteen she’d been a bleached blonde, wore too many earrings in one ear, too much makeup and a blouse cut low enough to advertise her natural attributes. She was definitely not Dean’s type; she was one step away from being downright tacky. But in spite of all those things, she was quite pretty. Beautiful, in a rare kind of way that couldn’t be completely hidden by her too-blond hair and her too-red lips. Yeah, Pinchon would come here. Reva Macklin wasn’t the kind of woman a man like Eddie left behind without a second thought.

There were other agents working on this case, keeping an eye on Pinchon’s family and acquaintances. Most of them were in Virginia and North Carolina, where Eddie had spent much of his life. Maybe the escapee would be foolish enough to go see his mother, or his cousin and business partner, or his drinking buddies. Then again, maybe not. He had to know the authorities would be watching and waiting. But could he turn his back on a woman like this one?

“Yeah,” Dean said softly. “He’ll be here.”

Alan didn’t immediately retire to his room, but leaned against the doorjamb and sighed. “Connie hates these things.”

Connie was wife number two for Alan, and it looked as if they were going to make things work. They’d been married six years, had two kids—a boy and a girl—and Connie was all Alan talked about when they were away from home. After a few days Dean got damned tired of hearing about Connie and the kiddies. Alan was so happy these days, so domestic. Every now and then, Alan’s domestic bliss got downright annoying.

“What about what’s-her-name?” Alan asked brightly. “The brunette. Penny, Patty, Pansy—”

“Patsy,” Dean said sharply.

“Patsy,” Alan said, as if he hadn’t remembered the name of Dean’s latest love interest all along. “Is she ticked off? Again?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Dean’s voice remained flat. “I haven’t seen her in three months.” And they hadn’t had much of a relationship for at least three months before the final break.

There was a moment of telling silence. “Thank God,” Alan finally said with a long, expelled breath of relief. “She was such a…well, I hate to use the word bitch, but really, what other word is there? I’m glad you finally got smart and dumped her. All she ever did was complain. You’re never home, you’re home too much, we can’t make any plans—” Alan stopped speaking abruptly. “Wait a minute. Three months. You dumped her three months ago and you didn’t tell me?”

Dean continued to study the house across the street. “Actually she dumped me.” Not that he’d cared by that point. Their relationship, if you could call it that, hadn’t been good for a very long time.

“Ouch,” Alan said softly.

“Don’t you need to get some sleep?” Dean asked, anxious to let this tired subject go.

“In a minute.” Alan moved closer, his steps surprisingly soft on a tightly woven rug. “You know what your problem is?”

Dean sighed. “No, but I imagine you’re going to tell me.”

“You’re all about the job,” Alan said in a kind voice.

“So are you.”

“Not anymore.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Alan shake his head. “I love the job. I don’t want to do anything else, ever. But not knowing how to leave it behind at the end of the day cost me my first marriage. These days, when I go home, I leave the job outside the door. If I didn’t, I would have found myself tossed out of marriage number two years ago.”

“Yeah, well, you’re a saint.”

“No, you’re the saint, buddy-boy,” Alan countered. “You have a real Boy Scout complex. Save the world, save the family, take care of everybody and his brother. And all the while, you do everything by the book. Didn’t you ever ask yourself what about me? What about my needs?”

Dean glanced at his partner. “Have you been watching Oprah again?”

Alan blushed. “Just a little. And that new psychologist she has on every week is a pretty smart guy.”

“Go to bed.” Dean returned his attention to the telescope, listening to Alan’s retreating footsteps. It was going to be a long damn stakeout if his partner insisted on dissecting Dean’s personal life along the way.

A woman rounded the antebellum house across the street, her stride slow and easy, and Dean shifted the telescope in her direction. For a split second her face was hidden by a low-lying limb, the leaves dancing this way and that in a soft morning breeze. All he could see was the swish of a full yellow skirt that hung well below her knees, the gentle swing of an arm. And then, two steps later, Dean saw her clearly.

At first glance, he was certain this woman was not Reva Macklin. Her hair was a soft dark blond and had been pulled back into a thick ponytail. Her dress was loose-fitting and simple. She wore little, if any, makeup. But he focused on the face, on the shape of her nose and the curve of her cheek, and with an unexpected thump of his heart he realized this was her. She’d grown up since the picture on the wall had been taken, and she’d discovered a touch of class along the way. She was not what he’d expected, but the woman walking through the grass with a serene expression on her face was definitely Reva Macklin.

She had changed remarkably, but she remained beautiful. Had she always been graceful, or was that new? It was impossible to tell from a photograph if she had always carried herself this way. A photograph only revealed so much. Reva Macklin was more than beautiful. She carried herself with elegance and possessed a femininity that might make any man’s mouth water.

Yeah, sooner or later Eddie Pinchon would show up in Somerset, Tennessee. Dean and Alan would be waiting.

The kitchen was in chaos as usual, but it was the kind of organized chaos Reva was accustomed to.

Most of her employees were older women. Tewanda Hardy was in her thirties, and Nicole Smith—a kindergarten teacher who only worked summers and Saturdays—wasn’t yet twenty-five, but the others were of another generation. They were gray-haired, spry and between the ages of sixty-one and seventy-two. Some of them helped with the cooking, others served as hostesses. A few worked only one day a week, others worked four or five. They all thrived on doing what they did best: cooking, cleaning and telling old friends and tourists tall tales of life in this small Southern town and of the exciting battle that took place just outside the city limits—in 1863.

“Did you hear?” Miss Frances said as she worked the biscuit dough. “Evelyn has rented her apartment to two men from out of state. They come from Georgia, I believe she said.”

Reva’s ears perked up as she recalled the man she’d met last night.

“Really?” Miss Edna said as she peeled an apple that would become part of a huge pot of stewed apples she’d prepare later this morning. “Are they tourists?”

“Evelyn wasn’t sure,” Frances said in a lowered voice. “The gentlemen wouldn’t say exactly why they’d come to town.” She pursed her lips in disapproval. “We have so few tourists who actually stay here in Somerset, especially in the spring. Though there is that nice couple who comes here every fall to watch the leaves turn. Most tourists prefer the hotel out on the highway or one of the isolated cabins, especially the younger folks. It’s very odd, if you ask me. I can’t believe Evelyn would rent rooms in her house to strangers who won’t even tell her why they’re here.”

“Well,” Edna said, leaning in close but not lowering her voice, “she does need the money. And she sleeps with her daddy’s shotgun beside her bed and she knows how to use it, so I feel sure she’s safe.”

Gossip was another pastime Reva’s employees enjoyed. And two strangers in Somerset? This was definitely juicy gossip. Reva decided not to tell them she’d met one of the strangers last night. It would too soon become a part of the gossip, and she preferred to keep a low profile, when possible.

“Perhaps we should have a word with the gentlemen this afternoon,” Frances suggested. “Just to be sure everything’s on the up-and-up.”

Reva smiled as she cleaned and chopped the okra in front of her. No matter who or what Dean and his friend were, she had to feel a little bit sorry for them.

“Maybe one of them will come calling on Reva,” Edna said with a sly smile. “Evelyn said they were handsome young men, though one of them has a bit of a potbelly. Nothing horrible, like that rascal Rafer Johnson,” she added quickly. “Just a healthy sign that he’s been eating.”

“He’s probably married,” Frances observed wisely.

Edna scoffed, “Then why would he move to town in the company of another man?”

The two older women’s eyes met, and they were silent for a long moment. “You don’t think…” Frances said in a soft voice.

“Surely not,” Edna said, and then she pursed her lips.

“Two attractive men, living together, suspiciously silent about why they’re here and who they are…”

“When did they arrive?” Reva asked, knowing the answer. If Dean had been telling the truth, that is.

“Last night,” Frances said.

Reva laughed. “Why don’t we give them a chance to settle in and meet everyone before we make any rash judgments?”

“She’s right, of course,” Edna agreed. “And there is the possibility that the one who doesn’t have a potbelly might come calling on Reva.”

“No, thank you,” Reva said sharply. Men like Dean didn’t come calling, and even if they did, he wasn’t her type. She didn’t have a type!

“Would you prefer the man with the potbelly?” Frances asked. “Is that why you won’t date Sheriff Andrews? I know he’s asked for permission to call on you several times, and you always refuse. I had no idea you were looking for a man with a little more meat on his bones. Sheriff Andrews is not a small man, by any means, but he’s certainly not soft in any way. If you’d like, we can keep taking him food at the station until he grows a nice little round tummy of his own—”

Reva laughed. “No! Please, no. Why can’t you ladies just accept the fact that I don’t want any man to come calling on me?”

“It’s not natural,” Frances said.

“I wish I had a man.” Edna sighed. “I miss having someone to talk to in the evening, since my John passed away.”

“I miss the sex,” Frances confided.

“Well,” Edna said with a wicked smile, “your Billy Joe never was much for conversation.”

The two women laughed, and Reva quietly excused herself from the kitchen.

The women who worked for her had changed all her notions about growing older. They had fun, they enjoyed life. Oh, they battled arthritis and they moved more slowly than they used to, but they embraced life and enjoyed every minute.

But try as they might, they had not changed her mind about men. Pot belly or no, Reva was finished with the opposite sex. She didn’t need a man, didn’t want one, which was why she’d sent every small-town Romeo packing during her three years in Somerset.

She leaned against the wall in the hallway just outside the kitchen, wiped her hands on her apron and closed her eyes. Would they ever give up their efforts as matchmakers? Her life was good now. Settled. She was content. She didn’t want to go back, not a single step. Since she had horrible luck with men, she was better off without one. A man would turn everything upside down, and as for love, there was no such thing. She’d believed herself in love once, but it had been as elusive and fragile as a soap bubble. And when that bubble had burst, she’d been terribly lost.

Never again. Absolutely, positively, never.

Edna and Frances continued to share their suppositions about the men who’d rented a space across the street. As their ideas grew more and more outrageous, Reva almost felt sorry for the newcomers.

He didn’t like this; he didn’t like it at all.

The cars had begun arriving before noon. They parked on the street in the shade of ancient trees, as well as in a gravel parking lot on the far side of the house.

Miss Reva’s was more popular than he’d imagined.

People milled about in the yard, studied the flowers, rocked and swung on the wide front porch. They came and they kept coming. He couldn’t see the side parking lot nearly well enough to suit him. Eddie Pinchon could drive up to the side door and Dean wouldn’t see a thing.

At fifteen minutes to one, as the crowd continued to grow, Dean made up his mind. He grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the chair and pulled it on. No one else at Miss Reva’s was so formally dressed, which meant he’d stick out like a sore thumb, but he couldn’t conceal his pistol if he left the jacket behind.

He didn’t run, but his trip down two flights of stairs was fast. He was ready to make his escape, but his landlady, Mrs. Evelyn Fister, stepped into his path without so much as batting an eyelash. He had to put on the brakes to keep from mowing her down.

“Mr. Sinclair,” she said sweetly, “where are you off to this afternoon?”

“I thought I’d grab a bite to eat,” he said, moving to step around her.

She was quicker than she looked to be and moved with him, so that she remained between him and the front door. “My kitchen is fully stocked. If there’s anything you can’t find there—”

“I thought I’d eat out,” he interrupted.

She blinked, twice. “Out? Where? There’s a bakery downtown, Louella Vine’s place. The sign out front reads Somerset Bakery and Deli, but everyone calls it Louella’s. She’s a good cook, I suppose, but all you can get there are sweets and sandwiches. Why, you have to drive all the way to the interstate to get anything decent.”

“What about the place across the street?” he asked. And why wasn’t Reva Macklin’s restaurant considered decent?

His landlady laughed. “Sonny, you don’t just drop in at Miss Reva’s. You have to have a reservation. Let’s see, you might be able to get a space for next week. That’s not too long to wait. In the summer and the fall, when the tourists swarm all over the place, you need your reservations at least a week in advance.”

Reservations? Somerset was a one-traffic-light town. It was barely a blip on the radar. Everyone knew everyone else, and you had to have reservations to get into Reva Macklin’s restaurant?

“I can see you’re confused,” Mrs. Fister said with a tight smile.

“A little,” Dean confessed.

“Well,” Mrs. Fister said as she took Dean’s arm and led him onto her own front porch, “it’s rather interesting.” From the porch, they could see the crowd that continued to arrive. The patrons were dressed in various ways. Shorts and T-shirts, colorful sundresses, the occasional prim Sunday dress, jeans and neatly pressed button-up shirts. “When Reva came here a few years back, she was determined to make that old place a success. I’m not sure why she chose Somerset, but I suspect it had something to do with the price of the house. We’re a bit off the beaten path, and real-estate values have been dismal the past thirty years or so.”

“I can imagine.”

“In the first year, Reva managed to build a respectable business. Nothing spectacular, not at first, but the woman does know how to cook.” That last was said with pride from a woman who obviously thought this the greatest compliment. “It was the newspaper article that really got things rolling.”

“Newspaper article.”

“Some hotshot from Nashville came through and ate at Reva’s, and he ended up writing an article about the experience. A few months later, there was the magazine article…Better Homes and Gardens. That was almost two years ago, and since then you can’t get a seat at Miss Reva’s unless you have—”

“A reservation,” Dean finished.

Mrs. Fister consoled him by patting his hand. “You can walk on over there and ask to be put on the waiting list. They do occasionally have a no-show.” She cut him a wary glance. “Not often, but now and then. You might get lucky.”

A quick look around would be enough. If Eddie Pinchon was there, Dean would recognize him. All he needed was a moment or two to eye all the patrons.

Dean walked across the street well aware that his landlady watched. This was why he hated stakeouts in small towns; not that he’d ever participated in a stakeout in a place anywhere near as small as Somerset. It was impossible to hide in a town like this one.

Yet at the same time…it was the perfect place to hide. Was that why Reva Macklin had come here? Was she hiding?

An older woman with her hair in a tight bun greeted him at the door as the couple she’d been speaking to walked into the restaurant. She held a small book in her hand. “Good afternoon, young man. May I have your name?”

Sonny from his landlady and now young man. Dean was beginning to feel like a twelve-year-old. “I don’t have a reservation,” he said.

The woman pursed her mouth and glanced down at her list. “Well, that is a problem. Would you like to make a reservation for next week? I believe we have a seat available on—” her eyes rolled up momentarily as she pondered “—Wednesday and Friday.”

Dean started to tell her to forget it. He could mill around, look at the patrons, watch those who arrived at the side parking lot.

And then the smell hit him.

He took a deep breath. “What is that?”

The lady lifted her pert nose and inhaled. A smile broke over her face. “Fried chicken, stuffed peppers, mashed potatoes and gravy, biscuits, fried okra, fried squash, stewed apples, broccoli and rice, creamed corn, green beans and fudge pie.” She leaned in close. “I made the pies today. And the stewed apples.”

“Next week will be fine,” Dean said as his stomach growled. “Wednesday.”

She turned a few pages in her book and poised her pencil above a new page. “And your name?”

“Dean Sinclair. I’m staying across the street.”

The old woman’s head lifted slowly, her eyes sparkled, and she did not pencil in his reservation for the following Wednesday. “Well, now, isn’t that interesting.”