I Think I Love You (35 page)

"I wasn't trying to frame you—I just didn't think I'd be able to get my gun downstairs without someone seeing me." Mica looked at the sheriff. "I wanted to kill him, but I didn't; I swear. And I don't know what happened to the revolver."

"Was your daddy around when you left that gun on the porch?"

"He was in the house."

"Was he still here when it went missing?"

She hesitated, then shook her head. She looked at Cissy. "I'm sorry, Mom. I didn't want to make things worse for Daddy."

Justine studied them morosely—they hadn't seen worse yet.

All eyes swung in her direction, and she tasted filter on her next drag. She stubbed it out and exhaled. "I wanted to go after Dean, too, but I was more worried about Daddy. Around midnight, I took a flashlight and climbed down the trellis, then walked through the woods to the shop. Daddy's car wasn't there, but Dean's was, and he was sitting in it. I assumed he was waiting for Mica. I was so angry for what he'd done, I was going to hit him, kick him—something. I thought he was sleeping." Her vision blurred as her eyes filled with tears.

"I opened the door, and he fell out, dead. Shot. And my gun fell out on the ground, too." She wiped her eyes. "I panicked—I thought Daddy or Mica had killed him, and I didn't know what to do. All that trash was sitting out for the dump, and I saw the wardrobe. It seemed perfect—I could get rid of the body and maybe no one would be the wiser." She laughed, hysterically. "I know it was a crazy scheme, but I wasn't about to let Dean take any more of my family away." She sniffed mightily, then exhaled. "I had an awful time getting him in that damn wardrobe. His arms and legs—" She choked. "But I did it. Then I drove down by Dilly Creek and tossed the gun. I drove back and pulled off the side of the road and left the keys, hoping someone would steal the car. I wiped it down thinking I'd get rid of my fingerprints and Daddy's or Mica's, too; then I walked back and climbed the trellis to my bedroom."

She breathed into steepled hands. "Would've worked, too, if Regina and Mitchell hadn't found the body." She gave them a tight smile. Regina's face was wet with tears. "What I did was wrong, Sheriff, but I did
not
kill Dean, and I know the polygraph bears me out on that account."

The look on his face said it did.

She stood. "So, are you going to arrest me?"

"I could," he said. "Messing with a corpse. Tampering with evidence."

Cissy was bawling like a calf.

Lawrence stood. "Can't you do something, Hank? She wasn't thinking straight—she was trying to protect John."

The sheriff sighed. "The point is, Justine, taking you into protective custody might be the safest thing for everyone until we can find that Crane woman."

She put her hand to an ache in her temple and nodded. "Okay. Can I pack a bag?"

"Look at her, Hank," Lawrence said. "She's been to a funeral, was nearly blown sky-high, and now all this. She needs to eat and get a good night's sleep in her own bed. Why don't I drive her down myself first thing in the morning? My security guard will keep an eye on things around here tonight."

"And I'd stay," Pete offered.

The sheriff worked his mouth back and forth, then nodded. "Okay. First thing in the morning."

Justine rose and gave her uncle a grateful smile and her mother a comforting hug. "I'm sorry, Mom. I know this looks bad for John."

Cissy hugged her back. "John is responsible for his own actions. You have to think of your own safety, your own future."

She blinked back tears. What future? "I think I'll call it a night." She looked around the room—Cissy had Uncle Lawrence, Regina had Pete
and
Mitchell, Mica had Everett, and once again, the cheese stood alone.

Regina stood. "Justine—"

"Not now, Regina. I'd like to be alone."

She escaped and climbed the stairs to her room. She closed the window and pressed her nose to the glass, comforted by the sight of Lawrence's security guard patrolling. Then Pete appeared and shook hands with the man. She was safe.

Once the tears started falling, she couldn't stop them. Dean had wanted to
kill
her. She had squandered the prime of her life loving a man who not only didn't love her but also was willing to kill her for... what? Regina and Mitchell seemed to think he was onto some kind of big moneymaking deal, blackmail or insurance or something. She couldn't care less what his motivations mig
ht
have been. She accepted the fact that he was a liar and a cheat but the boy she'd fallen in love with when she was seventeen was no murderer. She would have thought herself capable of murder before she would have attributed it to Dean.

Her head felt light and fuzzy with sensory overload.

A week ago she'd been on top of the world. Now she was scraping bottom. She glanced toward the chest where the nutmeg was stashed. If ever there was a time for a dreamless night's sleep, it was tonight.

Chapter 29

DON'T overdose on love.

Mica handed Everett a cup of coffee. "I still can't believe you're here."

His smile put a kink in her chest. "I couldn't bear the thought of you being alone. And now that I realize everything you've been going through, I wish I'd come sooner."

"My family is one big mess, isn't it? I'm worried sick about my dad—I'm just so afraid he might've... I can't even say it. I could see how he would be angry enough to kill Dean, but if John did something like that, he's the kind of man who would drive to the jail and turn himself in. That's why I'm so afraid. I'm sorry, I don't mean to drag you into this."

He sipped the coffee and set down the cup. "I'm sad about your father, Mica, and it's tragic that Dean died so young, but I was never a fan of Dean's, and I won't miss him." He clasped her fingers. "But I know you will. How are you feeling physically?"

"Much better. Stronger. I have more energy." Then she ruffled her hair ruefully. "The back and neck pain are gone." She sighed and lifted the lid of the shoe box where she had stored the disheveled braid. "I've always heard rumors that my hair is insured—is that true?"

He fingered the end of the braid. "Yes and no. The insurance is actually a life-insurance policy that the client has in case something happens to you."

"In case I die?"

He nodded. "Or are disfigured or disabled in some way. It's standard when a company sinks all its advertising dollars into one face."

Her heart sank. "So what will happen to my career?"

Everett sighed and squeezed her hand. "Well, we could always go with extensions using your real hair, but it wouldn't be the same. To be honest, Mica, the marketing director for Tara was already on the fence over the missed shoots. This could be the excuse she needs to cancel the contract altogether."

She was tempted to lash out at Justine for jeopardizing her career, but deep down she knew that her own cruel behavior years ago had triggered her sister's retaliation. In truth, the loss of her hair, even the loss of her livelihood, was superficial compared to what she'd taken from Justine.

"You're still a lovely woman," he said. "Even without the hair."

She patted his hand gratefully. "My face is too old to compete with fifteen-year-old skin."

"Maybe we can find a company that skews to a slightly older customer." Then he angled his head. "I'll think of something. I have over five years invested in you."

The oven timer went off, and she reached for an insulated mitt. "Would you mind if I run one of these croissants up to Justine? She hasn't eaten, and I'd like to check on her."

When she turned around, he was staring at her with the strangest expression.

"Everett?"

He stood. "Do whatever you need to do. I'm going back to my hotel room. I'll call you tomorrow before I leave." He tucked the shoe box under his arm. "I'll take your hair back with me."

She bit down on the inside of her cheek. "Okay, if you think that would be best."

"I do."

Mica put two croissants on a saucer and walked Everett to the door. Pete Shadowen's form was silhouetted in the yard, distinguished by his hat. "I'll call you," Everett said, then dropped a kiss to her temple.

Surprised, she could only nod. Then she closed the door and fairly floated upstairs to Justine's room carrying the tray. She knocked. "Justine, open up; it's Mica. I have warm buttered croissants."

When there was no answer, she turned the knob, but it was locked. "Justine, I'm not going away; you need to eat something."

Thinking maybe she was in the bathroom, Mica went through her own bedroom, but Justine wasn't in the bathroom. She tried the knob and frowned when she found it was also locked. "Justine?" She pressed her ear to the door and heard nothing, so she felt along top of the door-sill until her fingers closed over an ancient skeleton key. She'd just stick her head in—if Justine was sleeping, she'd leave her alone. But if Justine was simply shutting them out, she had something to tell her, something long overdue.

The door unlocked with a faint click. Mica opened it a few inches. "Justine?"

It was only then that she heard a persistent clicking noise. Something wasn't right. Mica flipped on the tight and horror washed over her. The clicking noise was Justine's teeth coining together as her body wracked with convulsions.

Chapter 30

DO hide things in plain view.

"I can't believe this is happening," Regina said for the hundredth time, pacing their little corner of the emergency waiting room. Other people in the waiting room kept their distance, probably because she was still wearing her smoky funeral garb. She was out of tears. Everything that wasn't numb throbbed.

"You're going to wear yourself out," Mitchell said. "Why don't you sit down?"

Because she was afraid she'd collapse onto that shoulder bone he'd offered her the other day. "Who would've thought a person could
overdose
on nutmeg? Why don't I know these things?"

"Because you don't want to know these things."

She stopped pacing. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He spread his hands. "You don't search out deviant ways to entertain yourself, and I suspect you don't have friends who do, either."

"And what's wrong with that?"

"Absolutely nothing. But in return for living a squeaky clean life, you give up a certain amount of street smarts."

"I'm
street-smart. I live in the city, remember? I've seen prostitutes. I carry pepper spray. I know the pressure points that will take a man down."

A smile curved his mouth. "Yes, you do."

She indulged in a stab of pleasure at his intimate reference but refused to publicly acknowledge the thrill. "Just because I'm the only one in the family who doesn't pack heat, doesn't mean I'm not street-smart."

"Pack heat? No more coffee for you. At least until the doctor comes out."

"Where's Mica?"

"I saw her head toward the ladies' room. While we have a few minutes alone, I need to talk to you about a couple of things."

"Okay, talk."

"Will you please sit down? Or at least stand still."

She sat.

He angled his head. "Do you believe Justine's story about finding Dean already dead?"

"I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that she killed him and tried to kill herself tonight." From his expression, she knew she'd hit the nail on the head. "But if she were planning to commit suicide, then why would she lie?"

"Perhaps she wasn't contemplating suicide when she talked to the sheriff."

"If Justine killed Dean, she would never allow John to take the blame."

"Do you believe Mica?"

She hesitated. "Yes."

"Are you certain?"

"I... yes. Could we change the subject, please?"

He steepled his hands under his chin. "That car explosion today took ten years off my life. I'm glad you're okay."

She was glad he was glad. "Thank you for putting out the fire. Sorry about your jacket." She shook her head. "I can't believe that lunatic Lisa Crane was so close and we didn't even know it."