"If he knew mother's body had been cremated, why didn't
he tell me himself this afternoon?"
"My guess would be that he didn't want a scene on his
hands."
"Yes," she murmured distractedly, "he doesn't like
messes. He told me so." She looked at him without expression.
"He sent you to do his dirty work. Messes don't bother
you."
Reede, declining to comment, pulled on his gloves and
replaced his hat. "You've had a jolt. Are you going to be
okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
Her blue eyes were filled with tears and her mouth trembled
slightly. She clasped her hands at her waist, as though forcibly
holding herself together. That's when he had wanted to put
his arms around her and hold her close, wet hair, damp towel,
bathrobe, bare toes, and all.
That's when he had moved forward and, before he even
realized what he was doing, forcibly pulled her arms out to
her sides. She had resisted, as though wanting to cover a
bleeding wound.
Before she reconstructed that barrier, he slid his arms
around her and pulled her against him. She was dewy and
warm and fragrant, fragile in her grief. She seemed to wilt
against him. Her arms dangled listlessly at her sides.
"Oh, God, please don't make me go through this," she
had whispered, and he had felt her breasts tremble. She rolled
her head toward him, until her face was making an impression
on his chest and he could feel her tears through his clothes.
He had angled his head to secure hers against him. The
towel wrapping her hair unwound and fell to the floor. Her
hair was damp and fragrant against his face.
He told himself now that he hadn't kissed it, but he knew
his lips had brushed her hair and then her temple, and rested
there.
At that point, a severe case of lust had seized him, and it
had been so powerful it was a wonder to him now that he
hadn't acted on it.
Instead he had left, feeling like crap for having to tell her
something like that and then slinking out like a snake. Staying
with her had been out of the question. His desire to hold her
hadn't been nobly inspired, and he didn't try to kid himself
into believing it was. He'd wanted gratification. He had
wanted to cover that hurting, courageous smile with hot, hard
kisses.
He swore to his dashboard now as he drove the Blazer
down the highway, heading in the opposite direction from
home. Sleet froze on the windshield before the wipers could
whisk it off. He was driving too fast for the weather
conditions--the pavement was like an ice rink--but he kept
going.
He was too old for this. What the hell was he doing entertaining
sexual fantasies? He hadn't consciously done that
since he and Junior had jerked off while drooling over centerfolds. Yet, at no time in recent memory had his fantasies
been so vivid.
Completely forgetting who Alex was, he had envisioned
his hands parting that white bathrobe and finding underneath
it smooth, ivory flesh; hard, pink nipples; soft, auburn hair.
Her thighs would be soft, and between them she would be
creamy.
Cursing, he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. She
wasn't just any woman who happened to be eighteen years
younger than himself. She was Celina's daughter, and he was
old enough to be her daddy, for crissake. He wasn't, but he
could have been. He very well could have been. Knowing
that made his stomach feel a little queasy, but it did nothing
to decrease the thick hard-on now testing the durability of
his fly.
He wheeled the truck into the deserted parking lot, cut the
engine, and bounded up the steps to the door. He tried it,
and when he discovered it was locked, pounded on it with
his gloved fists.
Eventually, the door was opened by a woman as broad-breasted
as a pigeon. She was wearing a long, white satin
peignoir that might have looked bridal had there not been a
black cigarette anchored in the corner of her lips. In her arms
she was holding an apricot-colored cat. She was stroking his
luxurious fur with an idle hand. Woman and cat glared at
Reede.
"What the hell are you doing here?" she demanded.
"Why do most men come here, Nora Gail?" Rudely, he
brushed past her and went inside. If he'd been anybody else,
he would have been shot right between the eyes with the
pistol she kept hidden in the gaiter belt she always wore.
"Obviously, you haven't noticed. Business was so slow
tonight, we closed early."
"Since when has that mattered to you and me?"
"Since you started taking advantage. Like now."
"Don't give me any lip tonight." He was already at the
top of the stairs, heading toward her private room. "I don't
want conversation. I don't want to be entertained. I just want
to be screwed, okay?"
Propping her fist on a generous and shapely hip, the madam's
voice dripped sarcasm as she called up to him, "Do I
have time to put the cat out first?"
Alex was unable to sleep, so she was awake when the
telephone rang. It still alarmed her because of the hour. Instead
of turning on the nightstand lamp, she groped in the
darkness for the receiver and brought it to her ear. "Hello,"
she croaked, her voice hoarse from crying earlier. "Hello,"
she repeated.
"Hidy, Miz Gaither."
Her heart raced with excitement, but she said crossly,
"You again? I hope you're ready to talk, since you woke me
from a sound sleep." She'd learned from Greg that reluctant
witnesses were often more prone to talk when you diminished
the importance of what they might have to say.
"Don't go gettin' hoity-toity with me, little lady. I know
sumpthin' you want to know. Bad."
"Such as?"
"Such as who did in yore mama."
Alex concentrated on regulating her breathing. "I think
you're bluffing."
"I ain't."
"Then, tell me. Who was it?"
"You think I'm stupid, lady? You think Lambert ain't
bugged yore telephone?''
"You've seen too many movies.'' All the same, she looked
suspiciously at the receiver she held in her hand.
"You know where the Last Chance is?"
"I'll find it."
"Tomorrow evenin'." He specified a time.
"How'll I know you?"
"I'll know you."
Before she could say anything else, he hung up. Alex sat
on the edge of the bed for a moment, staring into the darkness.
She recalled Reede's warning about getting hurt. Her imaginative
mind conjured up all the horrible things that could
happen to a woman alone. By the time she lay back down,
her palms were sweating and sleep was even more elusive.
Thirteen
"You'll never guess what she's up to now."
Purcell County's sheriff lifted the steaming coffee mug to
his lips, blew into it, and sipped. It scorched his tongue. He
didn't care. He needed a fix of caffeine in the worst way.
' 'Who are we talking about?'' he asked the deputy who was
standing in the doorway of his private office, wearing a goofy
grin that annoyed the hell out of him. He didn't like guessing
games, and he was especially in no mood for one this morning.
The deputy jerked his head in the direction of the other
side of the building. "Our resident prosecutor with the baby
blues, perky tits, and the legs that go on forever." He kissed
the air with a noisy, juicy smack of his lips.
Reede slowly lowered his feet from the corner of his desk.
His eyes glittered with a frigid light. "Are you referring to
Miss Gaither?"
The deputy didn't have an overabundance of gray matter,
but he knew when he'd gone too far. "Uh, yeah. I mean,
yes, sir."
"Well?" Reede demanded darkly.
"That funeral parlor man, Mr. Davis, well, sir, he just
called, raisin' Cain on account of her. She's over there now
going through his files and all."
"What?"
"Yes, sir, that's what he said, Sheriff Lambert. He's good
and pissed off because--"
"Call him back and tell him I'm on my way." Reede was
already reaching for his coat. If the deputy hadn't sidestepped
quickly, he'd have been ran down as Reede rushed through the door.
He was impervious to the inclement weather that had kept
schools and most businesses closed. They could handle snow,
but an inch-thick sheet of ice covering everything was another
matter. Unfortunately, the sheriffs office never closed.
Mr. Davis met him at the door, anxiously wringing his
hands. "I've been in business for over thirty years and nothing
like this--nothing, Sheriff Lambert--has ever happened to
me before. I've had caskets disappear. I've been robbed. I
even had--"
"Where is she?" Reede barked, cutting short the funeral
director's litany.
The man pointed. Reede stamped toward the closed door
and wrenched it open. Alex, seated behind a desk, looked up
expectantly. "Just what the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Good morning, Sheriff."
"Answer my question." Reede slammed the door and
strode into the room. "I've got a hysterical undertaker on my
hands because of you, lady. How'd you get here, anyway?"
"I drove."
"You can't drive in this."
"I did."
"What is all this?" With an angry swipe of his hand, he
indicated the files strewn across the desk.
"Mr. Davis's records for the year my mother was killed.
He gave me permission to sort through them."
"You coerced him."
"I did no such thing."
"Intimidated him, then. Did he ask to see your search
warrant?"
"No."
"Do you have one?"
"No. But I can get one."
"Not without probable cause."