Murder in the Smokies

chapter Nine



“We may have a chance at a warrant.”

Ivy nearly ran off on the shoulder as she left the main highway onto Vesper Road. “You’re kidding.”

Antoine’s voice sounded jubilant over the cell phone’s hands-free speaker. “I have a friend on the Maryville force. Seems he’s got the chief’s ear, and once I told him about the cases and why we think Davenport Trucking might be peripherally involved, he convinced the chief to call a judge friend of his. He’s supposed to call me back in the morning with the judge’s response. He’s asking for a list of names covering rentals from two weeks before the first murder to the present—that should be all we need, don’t you think?”

It was better than she’d hoped for when she left the office with Antoine still making calls. “It should be.”

“He’s not going to bother the judge before morning, so go home and get some rest. You look like hell.”

“You’re such a flatterer, Antoine.”

She pushed the call end button and slowed as she approached the turn into her driveway. To her surprise, Sutton’s truck was parked next to the house. Since she hadn’t heard from him since leaving Davenport Trucking, she’d figured he’d found somewhere else to stay for the night.

He was sitting on her front porch, a six-pack of Corona beer on the step beside him. Only one was missing from the pack, she saw as she walked slowly up the path to the steps. It dangled from the fingers of his left hand, still half-full. So unless he’d already been through another six-pack, at least he wasn’t drunk.

But he looked as if he wanted to be.

“You didn’t call,” she murmured as he lifted his smoldering gaze to meet hers.

“I wasn’t sure I was going to come back here.”

“But here you are.”

He lifted the bottle to his mouth and took a swig. “Yeah. Here I am.”

She dropped onto the porch step next to him. He reached into the six-pack and brought out a bottle. “Want one?”

She was tempted, but she had a feeling at least one of them should stay completely sober tonight. “No, thanks.”

He shrugged and put the bottle down beside him. “I saw my father.”

“Yeah?”

“Why didn’t you warn me he’d had a stroke?”

His words gave her a start. “You didn’t know?”

Haunted eyes lifted to meet hers. “No.”

“I figured you knew.” She had seen Cleve Calhoun only a couple of times since his stroke, once at a Knoxville hospital when she was there to check on an assault victim and, more recently, when Seth Hammond had taken him to the local clinic for his flu shot while she was there getting a sprained ankle treated. Seeing Cleve Calhoun, one of the most alive men she’d ever encountered, wheelchair bound and mute had come as a jolt to her system. “You must have been really shocked to see him that way.”

He took another drink. “Understatement.”

“Nobody tried to contact you when he had the stroke?” If she’d had any idea he’d been left in the dark, she’d have tried to track him down herself.

“Seth did, but I didn’t take his calls.” He sounded bitter, but she had a feeling he was blaming himself more than Seth.

“Still, he should have kept trying to contact you.”

Sutton paused with the beer bottle halfway to his mouth. “I didn’t exactly give him any reason to think I cared.”

“Of course you care. He’s your father.” As frustrated as she could get with her mother’s foolish choices, Ivy still loved her and wanted the best for her. And she knew how hard Sutton had struggled with his conflicted feelings back when they were little more than kids. “How is he?”

“Stubborn. Foolish.” Sutton put the bottle down beside him and put his head in his hands, his elbows propped on his knees. “I don’t even know what I feel, to tell you the truth. Horrified to see him that way? Relieved that he’s Seth’s problem and not mine?”

“Sutton—”

“I’m a real piece of work, aren’t I?” He looked up at the rising moon, his face bathed in cool light. He was smiling, but there was no humor in the expression, making it look like a twisted grimace. “Relieved that I don’t have to deal with my cripple of a father.”

“Your feelings about him are complicated. They always have been—”

“Stop it!” He whipped his head around to look at her, making her flinch. “Stop trying to justify my selfishness.”

She pressed her lips flat, anger flaring in her chest. She pushed to her feet. “Fine. Drink yourself stupid. I’m going inside.”

“Wait.” He reached out and caught her leg, his hand closing around her calf. Heat burned through the fabric of her cotton trousers to brand her flesh.

His fingers slid slowly upward, making her heart skip a beat.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was a caress. “I didn’t mean to snap.”

Oh, God. His fingers had stopped climbing, but they hadn’t stopped moving, drawing circles across the crease behind her knee. He looked up at her, his eyes combustive. She felt her body catch fire in response, heat flooding her from her breasts to her sex.

“Sutton—”

He rose to his feet with unexpected grace, lithe and sinuous like a cat on the prowl. Suddenly he was towering over her, his face cast in half shadow. Moonlight bathed the other side of his face, painting him in cool blue tones like a sculpture.

His hand trailed up her arm, his calloused fingers seeming to shoot sparks along her nerve endings. “I look at you,” he murmured in a low tone, “and I still see a shadow of that dark-eyed kid who used to watch me when she thought I wasn’t looking. I wonder now, what were you thinking?”

She couldn’t tell him that she’d thought he was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, a wild buck kicking against the constraints of his small-town captivity. Part of her had known he’d have to run free, sooner or later, but another part had prayed he’d grow content with his confinement, so she would never have to see him go.

“My mama told me you were nothing but trouble,” she said, her voice coming out in a hoarse whisper. “She always said, ‘Calhouns will break your heart.’”

He looked thoughtful. “Do you think she knew from experience?”

“Your daddy always was a charming old cuss, and you know how my mama is. Always looking for something.”

He brushed away a piece of hair that had fallen out of her ponytail and into her face, tucking it behind her ear. “I’m not drunk, Ivy.” His finger trailed along the curve of her jaw, making her shiver. “I just want you to know that.”

She had trouble finding her voice. “Why’s that?”

He bent toward her. “Because I’m going to kiss you now,” he whispered, sending her sluggish brain into a tailspin. Before she could regain her equilibrium, his mouth was hot and soft against hers, more seductive than demanding. But the effect was the same—fire raging out of control in her blood, molten heat pooling low in her belly and every nerve ending in her body on alert, aching for the brush of his skin against hers.

Not even in her most vivid adolescent dreams had she imagined how easily she could be conquered by his touch. No last-ditch effort to keep her head, no defiant last stand, just complete, eager surrender. When he snaked his arms around her waist, tugging her flush to his hard body, she melted into him, her hands driving through his crisp, dark hair to pull him even closer.

He tasted like Corona and sex, his tongue sliding over hers, demanding a response. She gave it to him, moving her hands under the hem of his T-shirt until her fingertips dug into the heated velvet of his back. She traced the valleys and ridges of his muscles, thrilling at the sound of his low groan in response. She wasn’t sure when or how they moved, but suddenly her back flattened against the rough clapboard wall next to the front door and Sutton grabbed her hips, lifting her until she was pinned against the front of her house, her thighs cradling his narrow hips.

The ridge of his erection pressed into her through the layers of cotton and denim that stood between them, teasing her sex until a long, fierce shudder rocked through her.

“I want you,” he breathed against her throat just before he nipped at the tendon, making her moan.

She wanted him, too. More than she’d thought was possible. Far more than was wise. She put her hands between their bodies and stroked him boldly through his jeans, satisfaction swamping her as he released a helpless groan. “You like that?”

He caught her hand and twined his fingers with hers, guiding her hand away from his erection. “Slow down. Let’s just slow this down.”

She didn’t want slow. She wanted fast and fierce, so she didn’t have time to think. “Don’t give me a chance—”

He drew his head back so he could look into her eyes. His hands, well on their way to a thorough examination of the curves of her breast, went still, leaving her restless with need. “Don’t give you a chance to what?”

She shook her head, reaching for his belt. “Doesn’t matter.”

He caught her hands, stopping her. “A chance to say no?”

She felt the change in him, the sudden return of control. Steel in his backbone, determination glittering in his eyes—he was no longer an animal caught up in the thrall of lust but a man with complete mastery of even his most primal desires.

Damn it.

She pulled her hands away from him and slid away, finding her unsteady feet. “I don’t want to say no.”

“But you should?”

She leaned against the frame of the front door, pressing her forehead to the cool wood. “Sex complicates everything.”

He didn’t argue. “I’ll find somewhere else to stay.”

She shook her head. “No.” At his pained look, she added, “At least, not until I talk to you about something.”

* * *

ONE OF THE MOST USEFUL things his time in the Army Special Forces had taught Sutton was how to control himself in any situation. Granted, his steely mastery of his body usually translated to remaining utterly still in the most uncomfortable of positions and locations in order to get the advantage over an enemy. But he’d also learned how to discipline his other, more primal urges.

Unfortunately, not even a decade in the Special Forces had equipped him to control the hunger to finish what he and Ivy had started on her front porch.

Once inside, she’d kept a careful distance from him, puttering around the kitchen while he waited at the breakfast nook table for her to finish putting together sandwiches for their dinner. He’d offered to help but she’d warned him off with a desperate look and a wave of her hands, so he’d settled at the table and kept his hands to himself.

As she passed the phone on the counter, she put down the plates and checked her messages. Sutton heard her mother’s voice on the recorder. “Birdy, give me a call. I need to talk to you about something.” Ivy erased the message and picked up the plates again.

He smiled at her mother’s use of the nickname “Birdy.” “She still calls you Birdy?”

“Yeah.” She smiled, though there was a hint of a grimace in it. “And Antoine calls me Hawk, did you notice that? I’m apparently destined for bird-related nicknames.”

He supposed “Birdy” had fit her when she was a small, brown, quiet little thing, but he agreed with Antoine on this one. She was more raptor than wren these days.

“Don’t you need to call her back?” he asked as she set his sandwich in front of him, making no move toward the phone.

“I’ll call her later.” She sat down across from him.

“So, what did you want to tell me?”

She pushed her sandwich around the paper plate. “When I was at Davenport today, I saw something interesting.” She told him about the truck in the self-cleaning bay and how she thought it might connect to the murders.

Even a discussion of mobile abattoirs couldn’t cool his lust completely, but at least it gave his one-track mind a detour to work through. “You think the killer’s using a rented truck as his own personal butcher’s shop?”

Ivy looked at him briefly, little more than a glancing blow of her gaze before she looked away. “We’re hoping we’ll get a warrant in the morning and then we can start questioning people.”

“I have some news for you, too.” He paused, he realized with a hint of guilt, because he knew it would force her to look at him again. He missed having that brown-eyed gaze lock with his, all serious intensity and singular focus. He was beginning to kick himself for being noble instead of selfish. If he’d kept his mouth shut, he’d probably be buried inside her right now, having the best sex of his whole damned life.

It would have been amazing. He could tell that from the fireworks going off inside him with the slightest brush of her fingers on his skin. And they had history, too, a connection that even fourteen years apart hadn’t been able to completely sever.

She turned her gaze toward him, a slow, wary sidelong glance that lingered when he remained silent. She finally broke the quiet standoff with an impatient “What?”

“Somebody tried to hire Seth Hammond for a contract murder.”

Her mouth formed a silent O.

“Yeah, that was about my reaction, too.”

“Who?”

“He wouldn’t tell me. He says the guy was a middleman, tried to subcontract him to do the killing and split the money with him. Seth says he’s positive the other guy chickened out and he doesn’t want to sic the cops on him for making a dumb mistake.”

“Seth’s sympathy for the criminal element is touching.” Her tone was flat and dry.

“I asked if the guy knew who’d tried to hire him. Apparently the contact was all done by phone, and the guy who tried to subcontract never got a name. And he didn’t recognize the voice.”

“Odd.” She looked away and asked, “What makes you think any of this is connected to the murders?”

“The timing, for one. Seth said the man approached him about three weeks before the first murder.”

“But how does that track with the style of these murders? These don’t look like contract killings.”

“Seth was told he should make them look like accidents or something else, anything but a hit.”

She stopped with her sandwich halfway to her mouth. “Really.”

“I was thinking, making them look like serial murders might be a way to throw the cops off what was really going on.”

She finished taking a bite of sandwich, chewing slowly, a thoughtful look on her face.

He was officially in serious trouble, he thought, watching her eat and feeling the slow, steady burn of desire roiling just under the fragile surface of his control. If he couldn’t get his mind off sex while watching her chew a turkey sandwich and talk about serial murders—

“Let’s say this theory is right.” She set her half-eaten sandwich on her plate and looked at him with such intensity he felt the lid on his libido rattling from the pressure. “If these four victims were hired murders, who wanted them dead? And why?”

He took a drink of beer to wash down a bite of sandwich. “I’ve been thinking about that ever since Seth told me what he knew. Finding that answer isn’t really that much different than figuring out who a serial killer might be, is it? It’s all about the victim.”

“And two of the four worked at Davenport Trucking.”

“Actually, three,” Sutton corrected. “April Billings worked there part-time shortly before she was murdered.”

“Are you sure?”

“That’s what Seth Hammond said.”

“Hmm. Mr. Davenport didn’t mention that. Of course, I didn’t ask. I got sidetracked by seeing the truck being cleaned out in the washing bay.”

“So three of the four are connected to the trucking company.”

“Marjorie Kenner’s body was released by the medical examiner this afternoon. The funeral is tomorrow afternoon.” Ivy’s brow creased in thought. “The day of the murder, Antoine and I canvassed the whole area looking for any potential witnesses, but her house is so far from any of her neighbors, we had no luck. And all of them swear there’s nobody in the world who’d want her dead.”

“But if it was a contract killing, maybe the motive isn’t obvious.”

“Right. Maybe we’ve been asking all the wrong questions.”

* * *

SUTTON AND HIS SIX-PACK of Corona had left soon after dinner. Ivy knew she should have been glad to see him go, along with the reckless temptation he posed, but the house felt empty with him gone. Which was stupid, since she’d lived happily alone since she was twenty-two years old, with absolutely no desire to have her peaceful existence invaded by another human being.

But she’d never considered the possibility that Sutton Calhoun might come back to Bitterwood. He’d always been a game changer for her.

He couldn’t tell her where he planned to stay, and she wasn’t sure he hadn’t just parked off the side of the road and spent the night in his truck, but when she arrived at Padgett Memorial Gardens for Marjorie Kenner’s funeral the next morning, Sutton was there already, looking freshly showered and shaved and wearing an appropriately conservative charcoal suit and black tie.

He caught her eye as she entered the cemetery chapel, and she slid onto the pew beside him. “Where’d you find to stay?”

“Maisey Ledbetter took pity on me and gave me a room over the diner.” He smiled slightly. “Free biscuits and gravy for breakfast.”

“And they say your daddy is the con man,” she murmured, slanting a look at him.

“Any word on the warrant yet?”

Ugh. She’d almost forgotten. “Apparently the judge didn’t think our conjecture constituted probable cause.” Antoine had called her early that morning with the bad news. “He’s willing to reconsider if we can bring him something new.”

“So we’ll just have to find something new.” He fell silent, leaving Ivy searching for something to say in response. But it was taking all her willpower, especially with his body so close, so warm and solid beside her, not to think about the night before, the way his hands had moved over her flesh, sure and possessive, as if marking her with his brand.

Apparently, his mind was traveling similar territory, for his next words came out low and seductive. “I didn’t want to leave last night.”

She closed her eyes against the assault on her senses. “I know.”

He shook his head. “I didn’t think it would be so hard. Being here in Bitterwood, I mean.”

“Maybe you left more unfinished business than you realized.”

He didn’t answer, and the opportunity for further conversation was lost as the minister of the local Methodist church entered the chapel, signaling the beginning of the funeral service.

The crowd was larger than Ivy had anticipated, although she supposed it made sense. A combination of nostalgia—Marjorie Kenner had been a four-year fixture in the lives of any person who’d attended the local high school during her twenty-year tenure as librarian there—and morbid curiosity had probably brought most of them here.

Most of the faces were familiar, though she didn’t recognize some of the mourners who sat in the pews set aside for family and close friends. She made a mental note to make contact after the graveside service and introduce herself.

Unfortunately, Captain Rayburn beat her to it. He made his way to the inner circle of mourners as soon as the graveside service was over, shooting Ivy a disapproving look as he spotted Sutton standing beside her.

“Your captain seems unhappy,” Sutton murmured.

“He told me to stay away from you.”

“I thought he just told you not to share investigation secrets with me.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not doing so hot with that, either.” She let her gaze drift across the rest of the mourners now dispersing from the cemetery. One woman in particular caught Ivy’s attention, primarily because she had moved away from the rest of the crowd and now stood in front of another grave, one Ivy recognized from a previous funeral vigil only two weeks earlier.

She started moving toward the woman, her curiosity fully piqued.

Sutton fell in step with her. “What is it?”

She nodded toward the woman, who was tall and slim and dressed in a conservative blue suit. “I don’t know who that is, but she just left Marjorie Kenner’s funeral to visit Coral Vines’s grave.”

The woman looked up as they approached, her brow furrowed. Sadness darkened her red-rimmed blue eyes. “Can I help you?”

Ivy flashed her shield. “I’m Detective Hawkins with the Bitterwood Police Department. Were you a friend of Marjorie Kenner?”

“She was my neighbor when I was a little girl.” Her lips curved slightly. “We bonded over a love of books and stayed in touch ever since. I can’t believe she’s gone.”

Ivy nodded at the simple gravestone in front of the woman. “You knew Coral Vines, too?”

“Yes.” The word came out in a gusty breath. “She worked for my father for a while. We became friends until—”

“Your father?” Sutton asked. “Who’s your father?”

She gave him a wary look, as if she suddenly realized this was more than just a friendly conversation. “George Davenport. Coral worked at our trucking company in Maryville.”