Erica Spindler (14 page)

A
very left The Guesthouse. She angled across the square, making her way through the already thick throng of Spring Fest attendees. Though the festival ran from Friday evening through Sunday, Saturday's crowds were always the thickest. The smell of deep-fried crawfish pies and spicy shrimp étouffé floated on the morning air. Vendors preparing for the day laughed and called to one another.

Avery paid them little attention, instead reviewing the things she
knew
to be true. Her father was dead of an apparent suicide. An anonymous caller had threatened her, claiming her father had gotten what he deserved. That she would, too. A woman named Elaine St. Claire had been found murdered in the alley behind Walton Street. None of the official agencies that had investigated her father's death had found anything to suggest it had been other than a suicide.

And she was no longer alone in her belief that her father had been murdered. Gwen Lancaster believed it, too.

Great. A conspiracy-theorist nutcase fell in line with her
.

Reassuring
.

She would start with the facts, the place every good
journalist began. Those facts would lead to others, which would either confirm or allay her suspicions. Hunter and the Elaine St. Claire murder seemed a good first step.

Avery stepped off the square onto Main Street, heading toward Johnson Avenue. It would be fruitless to approach Matt or Buddy; they were lawmen, they'd tell her nothing more than what was reported in the most recent issue of the
Gazette
.

But Hunter had been there. He'd discovered the body. Had been privy to Matt's and Buddy's reactions, he'd no doubt overheard some of their conversation at the scene.

She acknowledged excitement. A quickening of the blood that told her she was onto something, a high she experienced whenever she hit on the real thing—a powerhouse story with the ability to affect real change.

What change would this story precipitate if true?

Avery reached Johnson and turned down it. Moments later, she reached Hunter's law office. Peering through the window she saw the room was empty, so she went around to the alley entrance.

Hunter appeared at the door before she could knock. Sarah stood at his side. From inside she heard the whimpering of puppies.

He pushed open the screen door. She saw he was dressed in a T-shirt and running shorts.

“I was hoping we could talk,” she said.

“About?” he asked, not looking at her. He clipped the lead onto Sarah's collar.

“About…stuff.”

He met her eyes. “Stuff? Big-city journalists always use such technical words?”

“Smart-ass.”

“Sarah and I are going for a run.”

“I'll join you.”

He skimmed his gaze over her. Unlike him, she had
dressed for comfort—not exercise. She had, however, worn her athletic shoes. “Sorry. But this is our time.”

“Our time? You and the dog's?”

“That's right. Haven't you heard the one about dog being man's best friend?”

“If you want an apology,” she said, frustrated, “you've got it.”

“For what?”

“Our argument.”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “Seems to me that was a two-way street.” He looked down at Sarah. “What do you think, girl? Can she keep up with us?”

As if she understood her master's question, the dog looked up at her. Avery returned the dog's baleful stare. “Come on, Sarah, give me a little credit. We girls have to stick together.”

She seemed to nod, then swung her gaze to Hunter. He laughed. “No fair, you pulled the girl-solidarity thing on me.”

Avery laughed. “Why not? It worked, didn't it?”

He stepped through the door, turned and locked it, then began to stretch.

“Where are we going?”

“Tiller's farm.”

Tiller's farm was a forty-acre spread just east of Cypress Springs. Now used to raise mostly feeder cattle, the land had been in the Tiller family forever and old Sam Tiller refused to sell even an acre. Cypress Springs had built up around him. In retrospect, Tiller's refusal to budge had been one of the factors that had helped keep Cypress Springs small and pastoral.

Three miles. There. And back
.

Not good
.

Hunter glanced over at her. His lips lifted in amusement. “Want to back out now?”

“Not at all,” she lied. “Just worried about that shotgun
of his.” Sam Tiller had not been happy when he'd discovered the shady, spring-fed pond on his property had become an oasis for Cypress Springs teenagers.

Buddy had dragged him in on a number of occasions for firing at the kids. Never mind that it'd only been buckshot and that the kids had been trespassing—shooting at teenagers was against the law.

“No worries, doll. I handled a legal problem for him, he gave Sarah and I carte blanche to visit anytime. Could even skinny-dip if we wanted.”

She ignored the reference to a mercilessly hot August night when they had done just that. Hunter had promised not to look. She had believed him.

Then caught him staring.

“Ready?”

As she would ever be
. “You bet.”

They set off, the three of them, the pace relaxed. Warming up. Avery managed to keep up easily at first. Soon, however, she had to press to keep up, even though Hunter paced himself to accommodate her shorter legs.

After three-quarters of a mile, Avery was sweating. Out of breath. Her blue jeans and cotton blouse clung uncomfortably to her damp skin, twisting slightly, restricting her movement.

She'd give her kingdom for a pair of shorts and a sports bra, she decided, yanking her shirt from the waistband of her jeans as she ran. She unbuttoned the cuffs and rolled up the sleeves.

He glanced back. “You okay?”

“Fine,” she managed to say, furious at herself. For her own pigheadedness. And for allowing herself to get so out of shape. In the past few months she had gone from a daily run to managing to fit one in once a week. Between that and the difference in their strides, she was hurting.

By the halfway point, however, her endorphins kicked
in and the discomfort eased. Hunter drew ahead; she didn't try to keep up. Instead, she luxuriated in the pure pleasure of being outdoors, lungs, heart and muscles working in tandem.

“Meet me at the pond,” he called over his shoulder.

She indicated she would, then watched as he pulled away.

When she arrived, Hunter was waiting for her, Sarah panting at his side. The way Avery figured it, she'd been about six minutes behind him.

He passed her a water bottle. “I'd forgotten that about you.”

“What?” She accepted the bottle and took a long swallow.

“How determined you are.”

She took another swallow, then handed the bottle back. “You mean pigheaded.”

“Sometimes.” His mouth twitched. “Personally, I believe determination is an admirable trait.”

Sarah stood and wandered down to the pond. Avery watched longingly as she waded in for a drink. The water looked delicious.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Take a dip. It's spring fed.”

“In your dreams, Stevens.”

“I didn't say skinny-dip. You, Ms. Chauvin, have a dirty mind.”

“Actually, I don't think I'm the one with the dirty mind.” She stood and crossed to the water's edge. Kneeling, she splashed water on her face, soaking her shirt in the process.

She glanced down at the now-transparent fabric. So much for modesty. Hell with it, she decided, unbuttoning the clinging fabric.

“Don't look,” she ordered, glancing at him over her shoulder.

He rested back on an elbow. “Depends on what I'm going to miss.”

“Hunter,” she warned, narrowing her eyes at his cheesy smile.

“All right. No peeking, Scout's honor.”

She waited until he had dutifully turned his head, then peeled off her blouse.

“Very pretty.”

She whirled around, wet blouse to her chest. “You looked.”

“Of course I did.” He laughed. “Can't stop a bird dog from hunting.”

“Or a snake from striking.”

He laid back, hands folded behind his head and gazed up at the blue sky. “Your honor's safe, doll. Most bathing suits reveal more than that bra, pretty as it is.”

He had a point. She soaked her blouse in the chilly water, then draped the dripping fabric across her shoulders. The water sluiced over her shoulders and breasts, leaving trails of goose bumps in their wake.

She made her way back to where he rested. To his credit, he didn't look at her.

“What did you want to talk to me about?”

She hesitated, reluctant to ruin the warm, relaxed mood with talk of murder, then asked anyway. “Wondered if you could tell me anything about the St. Claire murder.”

He didn't act surprised by her question. “What do you want to know?”

“The
Gazette
didn't say how she died.”

“It's pretty grim.”

“I think I can take it.”

He tilted his face toward hers. “A sharp object was repeatedly inserted into her vaginal canal. Tore her insides to shreds. She bled to death.”

Avery hugged herself, suddenly cold. “Who was she?”

“Dad knew her. Party girl. Heavy drinker. Spent a little time in jail.”

Anyone whose actions fell outside what was considered right, moral or neighborly was singled out.

A woman like Elaine St. Claire fit that description. But she was also the kind who put herself in dangerous situations.

“They have any suspects?”

“Just me.”

“Funny.”

“I'm not laughing.” He lay back again, draping an arm across his eyes. “Dad and Matt, in their infinite wisdom, are looking no further than the first to the scene.”

“I find that difficult to believe.”

He shrugged. “Could just be me, still chafing under Matt's interrogation. Wondered where I'd been that day between the hours of four in the afternoon and eight that night.”

“And where were you?”

“Working on the novel. Nobody but Sarah for an alibi.”

She didn't know what to say so she said nothing.

“Why so interested?” he asked.

Good question. How did she answer it
? She decided on bluntness. “You have any doubt my dad killed himself?”

He sat up at that one. Looked at her. “Where did
that
come from?”

Ignoring the question, she tipped her face to the sky, then returned her gaze to his. “You'd become friends. Spent some time with him. Do you have any doubt he took his own life?”

For a long moment, he said nothing. When he spoke, his tone was heavy with regret. “No, Avery. I'm sorry.”

A knot of tears clogged her throat. She pressed on. “Why?”

He looked at her. “Talking about this isn't going to change anyth—”

“Why, Hunter? Tell me.”

“All right.” He sat up. “I hadn't been back in Cypress Springs a week when your dad looked me up. I appreciated it. A lot. He didn't ask too many questions, didn't make me explain why or justify my actions. He did it for me, but I think, for himself, too. He needed somebody to talk to.

“Anyway, it worked for both of us and we started meeting every Friday morning for coffee. Then, one Friday, he didn't show. So I went by the house, found him still in his pajamas. All the blinds drawn. He insisted he had simply overslept, but he was acting…strange. Different.”

“Different? What do you mean?”

“Jumpy, I guess. He didn't look me in the eye. After that, our meetings became sporadic. Our conversations…less comfortable. He began talking a lot about the old days. When your mom was alive and you were home. Never about the future, rarely about the here and now.”

Hunter let out a long breath. “It should have rung a warning bell, but it didn't. I'm sorry,” he said again.

She shook her head, as much in denial of his words as of the tears burning her eyes. “He lost a bedroom slipper that night, on his way out to the garage. The arson investigator told me that.”

He didn't comment and her cheeks heated. “I think that's significant, Hunter. Walking in one shoe isn't natural. The path between the house and garage would have been cold, the stepping stones rough. He would have stopped and slid it back on.”

“Avery,” he said gently, “I hate that he did this, too. I know it hurts. I know—”

“No, you don't know. You
can't
know what I feel.” Tears choked her; she fought them. “On fire, he crawled toward the door. He didn't want to do it, Hunter. He didn't.”

“Avery, hon—” He made a move to take her into his arms and she jumped to her feet. “No,” she said, more to herself than him. “No, I will not cry. No more.”

She hugged herself, staring at the shimmering surface of the pond. In the tree behind her a couple of squirrels played tag. Sarah growled, low in her throat.

“Who would want your dad dead, Avery?” Hunter asked quietly. “Everyone loved him.”

She couldn't take her gaze from the diamond-faceted surface of the water. “Not everyone. I got a call, this woman…she said Dad had gotten what he deserved. That I would, too.”

“Who, Avery? What woman?”

“Don't know.” Cocking her head, she moved toward the water. The surface was broken by a large, odd shadow. “She wouldn't identify herself and I didn't recognize her voice.”

“Has she called again?”

“No.” Avery reached the pond's edge, stopped and frowned.

“Most probably a crank,” he said. “Someone with an ax to grind. Or someone in desperate need of attention. Even Cypress Springs is home to mentally unstable people.”

“What's that?” She glanced over her shoulder at him. He was staring with unabashed admiration at her butt. Her cheeks warmed even as she motioned him to come. “Look.”