Emily and the Stranger (30 page)

And what would Emily do for the man she loved? For starters, she had forgiven him. She had mended his broken life, given him a reason to live and taught him the true meaning of love. But the one thing she couldn't do for him was believe him when he told her he loved her.

"Hey, Mitchell," Earl Tatum, Mitch's foreman, called out to him.

"Yeah?"

"A guy named Rod Simmons left a message for you. He wants you to stop by his apartment when you get off from work—" Tatum scanned a ripped piece of notepaper he held in his hand "—number A-7, Greenbriar Apartments."

"Did he say anything else?"

"Yeah. That's why I'm delivering the message myself instead of sending it by one of the men," Tatum told Mitch. "This Simmons guy said to tell you that he's found out who was behind the break-ins at Emily Jordan's house and he thinks you two ought to talk."

Mitch mumbled a crude curse. Simmons had found out who had hired the teenagers to break into Emily's house? How the hell had he found out? Unless he'd been the one responsible. Maybe that was it. Maybe Simmons wanted to confess.

"Thanks, Earl."

Mitch checked his wristwatch.
Four o'clock
. He wondered what Earl Tatum would think if he asked to get off early today after taking off all of yesterday morning. He needed to talk to Rod Simmons as soon as possible and get to the bottom of this new development Could it be that Simmons actually wanted to confess to him? Or had someone else made the call? If that was the case, then this could be a setup.

"Hey, Earl, what's the chance of my leaving early?" Mitch asked.

Earl Tatum frowned, wrinkling his weathered forehead and deepening the lines around his eyes. "Go on. Get out of here."

Grinning at his foreman, Mitch waved goodbye. Before going to Simmons's apartment, he had to make one small detour. He needed a weapon. Just in case. And he knew just where to get a gun.

* * *

Emily left Nikki in charge of the Paint Box, as she customarily did when she taught classes away from the store. Teaching a watercolor class for kids, ages eight to fifteen, at the Fine Arts Museum of the South in
Langan
Park
in
Mobile
, was a work of love for Emily. Hannah McLain had been a benefactor of the museum, donating a thousand dollars annually, and Emily herself was an associate, donating two hundred and fifty each year.

The children were set up with their Pentel watercolor kits, their medium-sized brushes and real watercolor paper. Emily insisted no substitutes be used. The class consisted of twelve boys and girls of various ages.

She had seen genuine potential in two of the students, especially a thirteen-year-old girl named Kristy Springer.

Emily stood beside Kristy's easel, watching while the young girl studied the painting she'd begun in class two weeks ago.

"You're trying too hard to capture every detail," Emily said. "Remember what I told you during the first lesson about choosing the particular qualities that you're most interested in."

"I love the colors, Ms.
Jordan
." Kristy frowned at her creation, then glanced up at Emily. "I want to capture all those bright, glowing colors."

"Then forget detail. Work the subject broadly. You started out well by working wet-in-wet. Now add crisp definition where it's needed. That way you'll have a combination of soft and hard edges."

A hand went up across the room, near the entrance doorway. Nodding to the student, Emily noticed the door opening and wondered who would be interrupting her class.

"I'll check back with you in a few minutes," Emily told Kristy. "Keith needs my immediate attention."

When Emily glanced over at Keith, she saw Brenda Harden, one of the museum's secretaries, motion to her. Emily walked between the rows of easels and eager students, making her way as quickly as possible to Brenda.

"Is something wrong?" Emily asked.

"You have a phone call," Brenda said. "I wouldn't have disturbed you, but he said it was an emergency."

"I'll be right there." Emily turned back to her class. "Y'all continue working. I'll be back in just a few minutes."

She rushed out of the classroom, down the hall and into Brenda's office. She lifted the receiver off the desk and put it to her ear.

"Yes, hello. This is Emily Jordan." She took several deep breaths, praying this wasn't bad news.

"Emily." She didn't recognize the voice, but it had the same muffled quality as the voice of her secret admirer. But that wasn't possible. Rod would never make another "mystery" call to her again.

"Yes." Her heartbeat accelerated.

"Rod Simmons has confessed to hiring those boys to break into your house. He called Mitchell Hayden and admitted it to him. Now Hayden is on his way to Simmons's apartment."

A slight hesitation. An odd little snicker.

"If I were you, I'd stop Hayden before he harms Simmons. You wouldn't want to see your lover in prison for murder, would you?"

"Who is this?" Emily demanded. "How do you know—"

The dial tone hummed in Emily's ear.

"Emily, what's wrong?" Brenda asked.

"I need to make a phone call and check on something" was Emily's only reply.

With tense fingers, she quickly punched the numbers.

"Banning Construction," the man answered.

"I need to speak to Mitch Hay—to Ray Mitchell, immediately. It's an emergency."

"I'm sorry, lady, but Mitch isn't here. He had to take off early this afternoon on some personal business."

Emily's heart caught in her throat. "Do you … do you know where he went?"

"No, ma'am, can't say that I do."

"Thank you." Emily hung up the phone. There was only one thing she could do. She had to find Mitch—find him and stop him before he saw Rod.

* * *

Mitch dismounted, hung his helmet on the Harley and scanned the first-floor apartment doors. Opening one saddlebag, he removed the 9 mm he had "borrowed" from Zed's apartment. It had been fairly simple to get in, using the key Zed had given him when he'd stayed there the first couple of weeks he'd been in the Gulf area. He had no intention of using the weapon he'd taken from Zed's gun collection, but he wasn't fool enough to walk in unarmed on a man who claimed he knew who was responsible for the break-ins at Emily's house. The same man who had confessed that he'd been Emily's secret admirer. For all Mitch knew, this could be a setup. Maybe Rod Simmons was behind everything. Maybe he'd asked to see Mitch, intending to eliminate his competition. Mitch shoved the handgun's muzzle under the waistband of his jeans, the grip resting against his side.

The late-afternoon sunshine hit the west side of the Greenbriar Apartments' pastel-pink exterior wall. Heat waves shimmered near the surface. A black-lettered sign hung from the metal hinges outside the manager's office. This was a no-frills building, but it seemed neat and clean.

Glancing around, checking things out, Mitch marched along down the sidewalk in front of the ground-level apartments, then stopped outside the door of number A-7. The curtains were drawn. Cursing under his breath, he held his shaky hands out in front of him.

His gut instincts warned him to be careful. Something didn't feel right about this. But what could happen? A kid like Rod Simmons was no match for him, even if the boy had a weapon.

Clenching his teeth so tightly his jaws ached, Mitch drew in a deep breath, then released it slowly. He grasped the knob with one hand and knocked on the door with his other. He swung the door open a few inches.

"Simmons?" Mitch glanced inside the dark room. The sunlight spread a streak of illumination across the living-room floor. "Simmons? You here?"

Mitch took a tentative step inside. Hell, where was Simmons? Mitch checked the small kitchen. Empty. Then he entered the bedroom. No one was there. But from the rumpled bedsheets, scattered beer bottles and clutter of open books on the floor, Mitch surmised that someone had been there earlier.

He walked farther inside the room, flipped on a lamp and glanced around, taking note of everything from floor to ceiling. Smoke spiraled up from a cigarette lying in the ashtray. A bumping thud hit the bathroom door.

"Simmons, is that you?"

A tight knot formed in Mitch's stomach. Slowly, cautiously, he walked silently toward the closed bathroom door. Easing the
9
mm from the waistband of his jeans, he grabbed the doorknob and flung open the bathroom door.

Rod Simmons lay on the floor, bound and gagged with thick, gray duct tape. Thrashing about on the floor and groaning, he stared up at Mitch with pleading eyes.

What the hell! Suddenly Mitch heard a sound at his back. He half turned, then felt the weight of something heavy crash down on his head.

* * *

Emily slammed on her brakes, rocking her LeSabre to a screeching halt. She jumped out, left the door open and ran into the Paint Box. Breathless, her hands trembling, her heart racing, she visually searched the shop.

Nikki stood on a stepladder, placing a wooden carving done by a local artisan on a shelf with several other sculptures. With his arms crossed over his chest, Zed Banning leaned against the wall a few feet away, watching Nikki.

Emily sighed. Relief flooded through her. She didn't know what Zed was doing here, but thank God he was. He could help her stop Mitch from beating the living daylights out of Rod. And Emily had no doubt that if he got his hands on the boy, that's exactly what Mitch would do.

"Em?" Smiling, Nikki glanced over her shoulder. "You're back early."

Emily dashed across the shop and grabbed Zed's arm. "Please, help me. We've got to stop Mitch. I don't know how much of a head start he has, but if we don't hurry, it'll be too late."

Zed followed Emily into her office. Standing in the doorway, he watched while she flipped through her address book.

"Come on. I've got his address now." Emily paused beside Zed, her gaze meeting his.

Zed clutched Emily's shoulders. "Tell me what's wrong."

"I just told you. We've got to stop Mitch!" Emily dropped her tightly balled fists to Zed's chest. "Someone called me while I was in the middle of my class at the art museum. They said that Rod had confessed to the break-ins and that Mitch was on his way to Rod's apartment to—" Emily gulped in large swallows of air. "Come on. Hurry. Please, Zed. Let's go. Now!"

"Em, you're hysterical." Nikki backed down off the ladder. "Who called you?"

'We're wasting time with all these questions." Emily pulled on Zed's arm. "I don't want Mitch to hurt Rod, no matter what Rod's done. And I certainly don't want Mitch to get into trouble."

Zed shook her gently. "Calm down. I'll go with you." Nikki grasped Emily's arm, halting her mad rush out the door. "Mitch isn't going to do anything stupid. He probably just wants to confront Rod. Besides, if you don't know who called you, then how can you be sure what they said is true?"

"I
don't
know for sure," Emily admitted. "But if it is true, Mitch might tear Rod apart. You know how protective he is of me."

"Where's Rod's apartment?" Zed asked.

"Greenbriar Apartments on
Wayland Street
," Emily said.

"Come on, we'll take my car," Zed told her.

* * *

Two police cars blocked the entrance to the Greenbriar Apartments. Emily clutched Nikki's hand as she stared at the flashing lights atop the vehicles. Her breath caught in her throat; her chest constricted painfully.

"Something's wrong," she said.

Emily glanced at Zed, who swerved his Jeep Grand Cherokee up on the sidewalk and into the parking area to the left of the police cars. A young officer strutted toward Zed, hollering at him to move his Jeep.

"Stay put," Zed told Nikki and Emily. "I'll find out what's going on." He got out and met the young policeman. "What's wrong here, Officer?"

"Mister, you'll have to move your Jeep. We've got a homicide here. We don't want anybody interfering with our investigation."

Emily stuck her head out the Jeep window and called to Zed. "Who's been killed? Ask him about—"

"Look, Officer—" Zed noted the youth's name badge. "Officer Monroe, we have a … an acquaintance who lives here and the ladies are understandably worried. Could you just tell me the victim's name?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm not at liberty to release any information at this time."

Emily clutched her hands together in an effort to keep them from trembling.
A homicide. Someone had been murdered.
The victim couldn't be Rod Simmons. Mitch might have beaten him up, but he never would have killed him!

With siren blaring, an ambulance pulled up behind the police cars. Officer Monroe hopped in one of the vehicles and pulled it out of the way, allowing the ambulance to drive into the rectangular-shaped parking area in front of the apartment building. Zed slipped around the other police car and walked toward the manager's office.