Nine Lives (11 page)

“Then I'll stay if you'll sleep.”

She didn't answer, but he watched her stretch out, then roll over onto her stomach.

Wilson sat until he saw that she'd finally passed out. Reluctant to leave her, he covered her up with a blanket from the foot of the bed, then sat down in a chair near the window.

Time passed, but he never looked away. By the time she began to stir, he'd memorized ever curve of her face and hair on her head. He knew the pattern of her breathing and the way she slept with her lips slightly apart. When she turned from one side to the other, the scar on her neck was revealed. He couldn't imagine how frightened she must have been as a child, to experience what she had and live through it. It was a wonder she trusted anyone at all. And he suspected that because of all that was happening, the tough facade she kept between herself and the world was crumbling, and it was scaring her to death.

He couldn't imagine what it must be like to be alone in the world, without family or close friends. His own family had been disappointed when he'd called them this morning, but he'd used the weather as an excuse. His parents had been understanding and adamant that he not try to drive home and risk an accident. He hated lying to them, but his heart went out to Catherine Dupree. All he knew was that he couldn't bear to be the next person in her life to let her down.

 

Cat moaned in her sleep. In her dream, she was reaching toward a door, trying to get to it—knowing that Mimi was inside the room. But the harder she stretched, the farther away the door became.

“No, no,” Cat mumbled. “Wait. Come back.”

Wilson roused just as Cat reached out and rolled off the bed.

“Damn it.” He jumped up from the chair and ran to her.

Cat looked up at Wilson, confused as to where she was and why he was there, and then she remembered she'd let him in.

“Lord,” she said, as she struggled to her feet.

“Are you hurt?”

“Just my ego. I can't remember the last time I fell out of bed.”

“You were dreaming,” he said.

Cat shoved her hair back from her face and changed the subject as she got up.

“Is it still sleeting?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She walked to the windows and looked out. The world was covered in inches of ice, with more coming down.

“You know you can't go home.”

Wilson shrugged. “I got here all right.”

“I don't want your death on my conscience, too,” Cat said. “Besides, my sofa makes into a bed.”

Wilson watched her fidgeting. The idea of spending Christmas night with her didn't sound so bad. Finally he relented.

“Go wash your face. I'll be in the kitchen making a fresh pot of coffee and putting that turkey in to cook.”

“I don't have a turkey,” she said.

He grinned. “I know that, but we still have to eat, right?”

“I guess.”

“So…do you mind if I look through your pantry?”

“Knock yourself out,” she said. “Just don't expect miracles.”

He traced the curve of her cheek with his fingertip.

“But, Catherine, it's Christmas. That's what it's all about.”

She turned away from his touch.

“I don't buy all that crap, so don't go getting all mushy on me.”

Wilson frowned. Life really had done a number on her.

“I don't do mush,” he said shortly. “I'll be in the kitchen.”

By the time she joined him, Wilson had the coffee made and, out of curiosity, was glancing through the papers she'd been working on. He looked up as she entered.

“Quite an investigator, aren't you?” he said.

She'd made lists of everything, from what Presley owned to what he spent to where he went. She had checked off phone calls that corresponded with calls Marsha had made and vice versa, and checked times when Marsha had begged off dinner plans that she and Cat had made, as well as the credit card purchases that Mark Presley had made at restaurants and motels. The list was telling.

She also had a printout of the phone calls made from the private number at the Presley home, as well as Mark's personal cell phone number. Calls going in. Calls going out.

A quick count had revealed that Mark Presley had called Marsha at least five times during the week before her disappearance, but there was only one call made to her on the day she disappeared, and none afterward.

When Cat went through Marsha's calls, she had made note of the last call made on her cell. It had been to Cat's home phone.

Another hour passed, during which time Wilson found a package of chicken legs in her freezer and a package of dry uncooked noodles in her pantry. As he cooked, she kept digging through pages, but she couldn't help noticing that the kitchen was beginning to smell good, which in itself was a miracle.

The stewing chicken would soon be done, and when it was, Wilson planned to cook the dry noodles in the broth. He'd also found a can of green beans and a can of peaches. Within another hour, he was going to be able to serve up an entree, a vegetable side dish and dessert.

Catherine was impressed.

Wilson was just hungry.

Cat had been staring at the printouts without success for so long that her eyes were burning. She laid down the last set of papers she'd been studying and rolled her head, then stretched. Wilson was adding salt to the boiling noodles when she leaned her elbows on the table and rested her chin in her hands.

“So, McKay, when did you learn to cook?”

“College. Couldn't afford to eat out. It was cook or starve.” He patted his belly. “I obviously didn't starve.”

Cat eyed his physique carefully. “You look just fine to me,” she said, and then flushed when she realized what she'd said.

He grinned. “Why thank you, ma'am. I didn't think you'd noticed.”

She glared, and it reminded him of the look she'd given him the day they'd met, when she thought he was trying to help her bail jumper get away.

“I didn't notice a damn thing,” Cat muttered, then pointed to the stove. “Your noodles are about to boil over.”

Wilson turned abruptly and slid the pan from the burner.

“Good call,” he said, as he stirred down the boil and adjusted the flame. “Won't be long now,” he said, as he set the pan of green beans on the burner and added some salt and pepper.

“It smells good,” Cat said.

He decided not to push his luck with her and just accepted the compliment without any more teasing.

“So what's the verdict on all the stuff I sent you? Have you come up with anything interesting?”

“Maybe.”

“Let me see,” he said as he turned the fire off under the cooked pasta; then he dumped the cooked and deboned chicken back into the noodles and broth. He gave the mixture a quick stir, then set it aside before joining her at the table.

“Show me,” he said.

She pushed some papers in front of him.

“Marsha went missing on the fifteenth.”

“Yeah?”

“So I made three lists. One of everything he did on the day before, one on the day she disappeared and one on the day after.”

“Did you find something?”

“Maybe.”

Wilson measured the food on the stove against his hungry belly.

“What say we eat first, since everything's ready? Then you can fill me in on details as we eat.”

“Works for me,” Cat said, and got up to get glasses and silverware as he got down some plates.

Wilson pretended not to notice that her hands were shaking, or that there were tears in her eyes when she set matching Santa and Mrs. Santa salt and pepper shakers on the table. He didn't know that Mimi had given them to Cat years ago, and that, despite the fact that the holes were so small in Santa's head that the pepper would never shake out, they still used them every year.

By the time they sat down, Cat had her emotions back under control.

“This is really good,” she said. “Thank you for cooking.”

Wilson saw the tears in her eyes and tried to make light of the situation.

“Seeing as how I invited myself here with the full knowledge that I was probably going to be stranded, I considered it the least I could do.”

“Yeah…well…thanks anyway.”

“You're welcome.”

The meal passed without much conversation. Cat didn't have any fond memories to reminisce about, and Wilson didn't think it was a good idea to offer any of his own, so they kept the talk geared toward the weather and the Dallas Cowboys football team.

By the time they'd gone through the chicken and noodles and the green beans, Cat was satisfied. Still, she couldn't bring herself to refuse the peaches, since Wilson had gone to all the trouble of opening the can.

“Um, these are really tasty,” she said, as she swallowed the first bite.

He arched an eyebrow. “Not exactly pecan pie, though.”

“Is that what you like?” she asked.

He nodded. “Mom always makes at least four, to make sure we all get enough.”

Cat's expression stilled.

Wilson could have kicked himself the moment the words had come out of his mouth, but it was too late to take back.

“So…why aren't you with your family having dinner?”

He pointed out the window. “Well, Sleeping Beauty, I don't know where you've been the last few days, but I've been stuck in my damned apartment because of all this sleet and ice.”

“You got
here,
” she said accusingly.

“They're outside of Austin, which, as you know, is nowhere close. It would have meant hours driving on dangerous roads. I talked to my parents this morning. Mom would have had a fit if she'd thought I was trying to drive home today.”

“Oh.”

There was a long moment of silence; then Wilson reached across the table and laid his hand on top of Cat's.

“You're right. The peaches are really good.”

She rolled her eyes, then slid her hand out from under his.

“Oh, for Pete's sake, you don't have to baby me. I'm a big girl, remember? I'm sorry about the weather.”

“And I'm sorry about your friend,” he shot back. “Now can we stop this aimless conversation and get back to the damned peaches?”

“Fine by me,” she said, and ate until her bowl was empty.

They both stacked dishes in the sink, put up the leftovers and, as if by a prior agreement, sat right back down at the table and began to go through the papers again. This time, though, Wilson began to really read what she'd done.

At first nothing jumped out at him. An hour passed, then half of another, as they went through the pages together—offering comments about one thing, then vetoing it for another. Despite how badly Cat wanted to find the so-called smoking gun, she hadn't been able to sort much out except names of restaurants or purchases that were most likely Christmas gifts.

“East,” Wilson said, suddenly.

Cat looked up.

“East what?”

“There's a credit card bill for a meal he ate at a barbecue place in East Texas.”

“So?”

Wilson shoved a paper toward her, then pointed at a print-out line about halfway down the page. There was a large listing of oil and gas leases that belonged to the Presley drilling company, and some of them were in the eastern part of the state. Then Wilson pointed to another list and an expenditure made on the day Marsha went missing. Wilson found it difficult to believe that a man as smart as Presley would charge anything that might link him to a place and time that could get him in trouble. However, it could be something as simple as habit. A man like Presley would file an itemized tax return and wouldn't think twice about saving receipts—even the ones he should have thrown away. A habit was a hard thing to break.

“Okay. I see the lease list. But what about The Fire Pit?” Cat asked. “It's just a restaurant, right?”

“Yes, but it's in East Texas—close to this listing of oil and gas leases. That part of the country is pretty heavily wooded. It appears from these records that when he goes up there, he usually travels by helicopter, and he seems to always eat at the same place.”

Cat grabbed the paper. “The date. What's the date on the credit slip?”

Wilson pointed again.

Cat grunted as if she'd just been punched in the gut. It was the fifteenth of December, the day of Marsha's disappearance.

Cat was so tense she was shaking. “Dinner? He killed her, then went and ate barbecue?”

Wilson frowned. “You're jumping the gun again. You still don't know that Presley killed her. You just think it. Remember what the man does for a living. He could have any number of reasons for being in that area.”