Falling Hard and Fast (3 page)

His eyes went flinty and his mouth flattened. “And the way I figure it, the victim wasn't killed anywhere around here. The parish was just used as her final resting place.”

S
urprise kept Zoey silent. She'd known that the murder victim had been a stranger to the area, of course. But the talk yesterday in town had all dealt with the rumors surrounding the way Janice Reilly had died and the discovery of her body.

“You hadn't heard.” Cage felt a measure of resignation. Although he'd emphasized the fact to the local paper, that piece of news couldn't compete with the sensational details regarding the parish's most shocking happening in the last generation.

“No.”

He gave a mental sigh, thinking of the work his office still had ahead of them. Soothing the fears of an edgy citizenry was difficult in the best of circumstances. It was an uphill battle when pitted against the very human fondness for gossip.

He narrowed his gaze at the woman before him, and tried not to notice the way the sultry heat had moistened the velvet line of her jaw. “Janice Reilly lived and worked in
Baton Rouge, some fifty miles from here. We know she went to work that day, bought a few groceries, had dinner alone, and then dressed to go out.”

When he didn't continue, Zoey prompted, “Dressed to go out where? Whom did she meet?”

“It would appear that she met her killer, Miss Prescott.” There was no mistaking the chill in his voice, and she had a sudden image of the treatment the news crews must have gotten when they approached the sheriff's department. It didn't stop her from asking, “How do you know she wasn't killed here? Why do you think the murderer would go to the risk of transporting her body elsewhere?”

Since it looked like he wouldn't be leaving anytime soon, Cage took a step backward and propped himself against one of the rounded porch posts. He'd always been a great believer in conserving energy. “There weren't signs of the crime anywhere in the vicinity.” Deliberately he added, “The savage treatment she received would have left a great deal of evidence. Her killer had a sadistic bent.”

He watched her blink, then swallow hard. But there was none of the horrified fascination that he'd seen on the faces of some of the townspeople, none of the zealous greed displayed by the reporters. Instead there was shock, tempered by compassion. Her reaction moved him more than it should have.

“So the killer traveled back roads until he found a secluded place far away from the actual scene of the crime.” She tilted her head, her eyes alight with interest and intelligence. “But he didn't just dump the body there, did he? I understand she was tied to that old oak tree by the river.”

He didn't respond to that; didn't intend to. The information he'd given her so far was nothing that hadn't been made public already. It couldn't compete with the grisly facts about the arrangement of the body—facts he was sure the town was still buzzing about. The victim's hand had been nailed to the bark in a macabre greeting for the un
fortunate soul who would discover her—in this instance, a teenage boy who'd decided to play hooky and go fishing.

Instead he appeared to change subjects seamlessly. “St. Augustine parish dates back to before the war.” With a sudden flash of amusement she realized he was talking about pre-Civil War days. He reached absently into his shirt pocket and withdrew a slim cigar. Running it through his fingers appreciatively, he made no move to light it. “Most of its residents can trace their ancestry to the settlers of the parish and beyond.”

Something inside her made her ask, “Including you?”

His fingers hesitated an infinitesimal moment. “My family took great pride in being directly descended from some of the founding fathers. Most of the residents make their living farming, trapping or fishing, unless they work in the paper mill outside of town.”

With the earlier steel absent from his words, he sounded like an old-timer in a rocking chair, preparing to render a lengthy lesson on local history for the benefit of ignorant youngsters. Zoey tucked away the recognition of how easily he seemed to switch from laid-back charmer to grave Southern sheriff. It was a curiosity to be pondered at a later date. “What does all that have to do with the murder of Janice Reilly?”

His smile was as slow and easy as the lazy waters of the Atchafalaya. “Are all Chicagoans as impatient as you?”

“Are all Southerners as reluctant to get to the point?” she countered. In the next instant it occurred to her that she'd never told the ladies in the grocery store that Chicago was her home.

He watched her gaze narrow at the realization that he'd done some checking of his own, and admired the way temper darkened her eyes. With more than a hint of regret, he replaced the cigar in his pocket. “My point, Miss Prescott, is that this is an old parish, and a settled one. Most of the families have been living here for years. People don't move around much and they aren't used to big-city problems.
They leave their doors unlocked and the keys in their cars.” That unthinking level of trust had been shaken, and Cage felt a fresh burn of anger. When he'd been a detective for the New Orleans Police Department he'd encountered murder and death all too often. But murder and death didn't belong in Charity.

She slipped the tips of her fingers into the pockets of her cutoffs, pulling them tighter across her hips. “So you're saying that life is simple in St. Augustine parish, and that's the way you want to keep it. Your goal is to return everything to normal and let folks get back to their safe worlds.”

He nodded approvingly. “That's about it.”

“I think you're doing them a disservice. It's not unreasonable for people to be on their guard.” She waited a beat before adding deliberately, “Unless you can guarantee the residents that the killer won't strike again.”

“There aren't any guarantees in this life.” He was in a position to know that all too well. “But this isn't a Z. L. Prescott novel.”

The note in his voice might have been derision. Her gaze streaked to his. She could see nothing but humor glinting in his eyes. She decided in the next instant that it was as insulting as the emotion she'd expected to see there.

“Unlike some of your plots, there isn't a conspiracy involved here, a sinister family secret or a mad relative with a sharp ax living in a crawl space. Janice Reilly's death was tragic and senseless. But it doesn't mean our citizens are at risk.” He raised a hand to halt the questions poised on her lips. “I'm not at liberty to give you details. But what we've learned so far leads us to believe that she was probably killed far away from Charity.”

He let the post take more of his weight and slipped his hands into his pockets, surveying her expression. The lady was a tough sell. She was too smart, too…distrustful, to take anybody's word at face value. He wondered what had happened to her to make her so unwilling to believe in another. And he wondered if she realized that her no-nonsense words
were robbed of their effect when uttered in that smoky voice of hers.

“I guess the real reason I'm here is to ask you a favor, Miss Prescott.” He indulged himself by watching interest and wariness war in her eyes, and betting on which would win.

“What kind of favor?” It was caution threading through the words, and he gave himself a mental pat on the back for his accurate prediction.

“Just that you help my department do a little damage control. If you hear talk about the murder in town, change the subject. Or better yet, you could bring up the information about the murder occurring somewhere else. Yeah,” he mused aloud. “That would be real helpful to the department.”

The man was as transparent as glass. “Would I need to be deputized for these duties?” The flash of those masculine dimples sent her pulse into a fast skitter, proving that Alan had only dulled her response to men, not killed it. Under the circumstances, it wasn't a realization that gave her any pleasure.

“No, ma'am.”

She watched with more interest than she would admit as he raked a careless hand through the thick blond hair at his nape, which had a tendency to curl in the humidity.

Then that trademark smile bumped up in wattage. “But it sure would be helpful to the department, Miss Prescott. And you'd have my appreciation.”

“Your appreciation notwithstanding,” she answered wryly, “I think I'll pass.”

He nodded, as if her words didn't surprise him. “Okay. It's not really your job, after all. My men and I will keep spreading the word ourselves.” He pushed away from the porch post. “Don't be surprised if people are less willing to talk to you in a few days. About the murder, that is. It won't be anything personal, you understand.” Turning, he started down her steps.

She regarded his wide shoulders blankly for a moment before saying, “Wait. What's that supposed to mean?”

He faced her again, propped a foot on the first step. “Just that I was serious about calming fears in the parish. You've refused to help us out, but other folks won't. I've known most of these people all my life. When I ask some of them to refrain from talking about the murder anymore, they'll agree.”

It may have been couched in the most genial of terms, but she knew exactly what he was saying. The warning had her angling her chin. “You mean you'll tell people to stop talking to
me.
”

The hurt look that settled over his face was too innocent to be entirely genuine. “Now there you go, taking this personal. I just told you—”

She started down the steps and stopped when they were eye to eye, fighting an urge to seat him in the dirt. When she was pushed, even indirectly, it was her nature to push back. “I heard what you told me,
Sheriff.
And more, I heard what you meant. You're going to use the fact that I'm a stranger in town to get the people to close ranks. Pretty slick. You'll still get exactly what you want.”

Damn. He almost shook his head in admiration. She was as quick as she was pretty, reading him as easily as a dime-store novel. If he didn't have a ironclad aversion to falling too hard, too fast, she'd already have reduced him to a puddle of hormones. His fingers itched for the cigar. Even if he couldn't smoke it, holding it would provide a welcome distraction for his hands.

“Now, don't go thinking folks won't still be neighborly. They'll just be a bit more careful about what they talk to you about.” He hesitated a beat before adding, “But since you're not part of the media, that really won't matter much to you, will it?”

He paused just long enough to watch the simmer in her eyes turn into a smolder, before turning toward his car. He could feel her eyes stabbing his back with every step he
took. As he drove away he reflected on the damn shame of that.

They really were beautiful eyes.

 

Zoey sat in the darkness on the front porch and reveled in the slight breeze flirting with her hair. When the heat in Chicago turned beastly, she'd never thought twice about cranking the air conditioner up to glacial and waiting out the high temperatures in the comfort of her apartment. The humidity in Louisiana made Chicago seem balmy by comparison. Yet here she was, sitting in the dark, taking pleasure in the first cool breath of air to move through the area in days. She supposed it had something to do with small-town living. It wouldn't have been safe to sit outside at night in Chicago, at any rate.

The fact that she felt safe doing so now, here, despite a murder victim recently having been found in the vicinity was a bizarre testimony to the change she'd been undergoing since coming to Charity. It certainly had nothing to do with her faith in a certain underhanded backwoods sheriff.

The thought of Cage Gauthier had her spine straightening in the glider she'd bought at the town's only department store. Since he'd come to her house three days ago she'd seen him from a distance, once in his car driving through town, and another time driving by here. On both occasions he'd waved a greeting she'd ignored. She wasn't over being irritated with the man.

It had quickly become apparent that he'd lost no time doing as he'd warned. Each time she went to town, whether it was to shop or to get something to eat at the quaintly named Stew 'N Brew diner, she witnessed the effects of his handiwork. The residents were still friendly, still curious, but it was tempered with a guardedness that was new. Even the loquacious twins were tight-mouthed about any questions she might put to them regarding the murder, and she cursed Cage Gauthier each time it happened. By using her, he'd managed to accomplish exactly what he'd set out to
do—quell the gossip that kept the fear fresh, the rumors alive. Although on one level she might have admired his ingenuity, on another she damned him for his tactics.

She stretched her legs out in front of her and enjoyed the way the slight breeze molded the short silk nightgown against her skin. Not that there hadn't been a wealth of information shared during each of her trips to town. A newcomer was just too tempting an audience. She'd heard that Edie Hadley's hair color owed more to her gal at the Beauty Mark than to Mother Nature. Ben Whitley was suspected of fooling around with the widowed teacher at the elementary school. And Josie McCall over at the Gas and Go had been divorced three times and was on the lookout for husband number four. Rumor had it that Josie had inherited her daddy's thick head of hair and restless eyes.

Zoey had listened to the litany of information with something akin to horror. The anonymity of big-city living had a few advantages that she'd never before considered. At least she hadn't had to contend with the entire city knowing all the humiliating details of the disaster with Alan. She valued privacy too much to easily understand the way people here swapped personal tidbits about each other's lives with the casual intimacy of lifelong acquaintances. And although the thought of having that beam of gossip directed at her made her shudder, she couldn't deny an unwilling fascination for each new experience in Charity. That same small-town atmosphere was currently blooming in her novel.