He laughed. “The guy likes psychics and he looks down his nose at P.I.s?” He groaned. “This is going to be bad,” he said grimly. “Small town, witches, hostile police department—just great.”
She didn’t look at him, but he saw her lips tighten. He could have bitten his tongue. He hadn’t meant to be so offensive; he had just spoken without thinking, filled with a sense of dread. Brad had sounded crazy on the phone. He was coming undone, and he badly needed help. The only person up there who seemed to believe him was a beat cop named O’Reilly. The detectives—presumably including Rowenna’s friend—were all treating him with suspicion, even hostility.
But that was the way it was. When a woman was dead or missing and there was no obvious suspect, suspicion fell on the husband. It was natural, a matter of statistics. Brad was a cop, and he knew that. He and Jeremy had found the bodies of too many wives and girlfriends who had been weighted and tossed overboard by the men who supposedly loved them. It was simple mathematics that told the cops to suspect the husband when his wife disappeared. Especially when he was the last one to have seen her.
“Are you going up there?” she asked him.
“Yeah.” He nodded. “Sorry,” he added, his tone stiff. He owed her that apology, but it was hard to give.
“Joe Brentwood is a good man,” she told him.
“I’m sure he is.”
“I’m serious. If you work with him, he’ll work with you.”
He had a sense she was making a promise she wasn’t sure would be kept—not surprising, given the way most cops responded to what they saw as civilian intervention. But all he said was “I hope so.”
She fell silent. The atmosphere was strained. He fished in his mind for something to say, but nothing came to him. Strange, they had talked nonstop earlier today. He had discussed Brad’s situation at length, and she had been filled with information, which he had been ready to listen to. But now…
Then, she had been leaving. Going home. He hadn’t expected ever to see her again, to have to fight his response to her again.
Now, he was following her. Was that the difference, creating this distance that crouched between them?
The drive to the plantation seemed to be taking forever.
She turned to him. “Joe Brentwood was almost my father-in-law,” she said suddenly, as if she’d made a decision and was going to follow through, no matter what. “I was engaged to his son, Jonathan, who was killed three years ago in a helicopter crash overseas. He was military. Joe and I are still very good friends, so don’t go thinking he’s some weirdo or isn’t everything in the world a good cop should be. He isn’t a wiccan, but he couldn’t care less what religion others choose to practice, as long as they’re law-abiding. He respects his fellow human beings, again, unless they break the law.”
He was startled by her sudden attack, because though the words had been evenly spoken, it had clearly been an attack nonetheless.
“Sorry,” he said again, feeling defensive.
“He respects his fellow human beings—so long as they’re not private investigators?” he found himself asking.
She sighed in aggravation, and he decided maybe silence was better than conversation after all.
At last they reached the Flynn plantation. As he stared up at the big white house, he felt a surge of pleasure and pride. Life was ironic. Aidan had been the one who wanted to sell the place rather than get involved in the heavy responsibility of restoring it. But it was Aidan who lived in it now, with Kendall. They had turned the derelict manor into a masterpiece of beauty.
The house stood proudly now, a fresh coat of paint gracing her fine lines. They had preserved history, and, in the community theater, they had created something new and wonderful, as well.
As they drew closer, he noticed a poster over by the barn, announcing a Thanksgiving show featuring area schoolchildren. He had seen Kendall at work; she managed to involve every child. His elder brother, Aidan, had been known as the skeptical hard-ass of their trio. He’d lost his first wife to a car accident, and it had been as if anything optimistic in him had died as well. Kendall had changed all that. She was energy and faith in motion, and he was grateful for her.
He just wished she’d told him more about Rowenna.
As he parked in the graceful, curving front drive and they got out of the car, Kendall came out the front door, smiling. “Hey!” She gave Rowenna a hug and a kiss on the cheek, then did the same with him. “Thanks for picking up Rowenna,” she said. “Aidan is out in the barn office. He wants a couple of horses now, did he tell you that?” She smiled, shaking her head. “I guess it won’t be hard to add a small stable, since we’re using the old barn for the theater. Rowenna, come on in. We’re just about ready for dinner. Jambalaya for your last New Orleans meal for a while.”