Obsession (Southern Comfort) (36 page)

Of course, Justin was forced to admit that he’d been less than discreet himself
quite recently while borrowing James’ truck.  He should probably feel badly about that, but he just couldn’t seem to find it in him.  Remembering the look on Kathleen’s face as she’d climaxed, and then when she’d followed it up by telling him she loved him?  Justin grinned. 

Totally worth it.

Tossing the underwear onto a chair – no way did he want them on the table – he’d leave them for James to dispose of. 

Or maybe add to his collection, although Justin didn’t particularly want to think about that
. 

Deciding that he wanted coffee instead of something cold, Justin measured out enough beans for a half a pot.  While that was brewing, he
looked around, spotted the mountain of mail.  Sighing, he walked to the table.  Might as well get it over with.

Bill.  Bill.  A letter from the attorney he’d consulted regarding the harassment claim Mandy had filed against him.  His stomach sank.  Her death – likely by suicide – would not only undermine the claim, but possibly was grounds for it to be dismissed altogether.  He supposed he should feel better about that than he did.

He didn’t.  After that initial sliver of relief, he only felt sad and sick that things had come to this.  He was predisposed to save lives, not contribute in any way to the loss of one.

Not his fault, logic reminded him.

But still, he couldn’t help but feel sorry.

The coffee pot gurgled, and Justin filled a cup, splashed in creamer.  He’d just taken his first sip when the
back door opened.

“Hey.” James punched in the code to stop the high pitched warning
, reset the alarm.  Justin eyed him over the rim of his mug.

“Any particular reason you’re dressed like a cat burglar?”

“Black makes my hips look slim.”

Glancing at the hips in question – slim, with or without the black – Justin shook his head.  “I don’t even want to know.”

“Probably not.  Is that fresh coffee I smell?”

Knowing when a topic was closed, Justin returned to the table, sat.  “Just made it.
  Help yourself.”

James poured himself a cup, loaded it with sugar before joining him.  Then he stared at the
seat of the chair he pulled out.  “I thought Kathleen was incommunicado.”

“She is.”

“Well then,” James said.  “Maybe I won’t be the last son standing after all.”

Justin looked up from the letter he’d been reading.  “Oh.” He saw where James was looking.  “Yeah.  I found those in my coat pocket today.  If you’re going to keep souvenirs, maybe you can store them in your own clothing.”

“Not my souvenir,” James said.  “I’ve never seen them before.”

Justin sat the letter on the table.  “I’m not going to give you a hard time about it.”

“That’s nice, but it doesn’t change the fact that I didn’t put them in your pocket.  Sadly, I haven’t had any close encounters with female lingerie recently.  Nor did I borrow your coat.”

Justin frowned at the underwear.  “That’s weird.” His brow furrowed.  “I wonder how they got there.”

“Under other circumstances, I’d be punching your arm, making innuendos and ribald suggestions, but given recent events, I fail to find this amusing.”

Justin looked up.  James’ jaw was set, his face like granite.
  “You think this is connected?” He studied the underwear again.  Then his own jaw set.  Mandy was dead, but her cohorts were alive.  And he wouldn’t put it past them to attempt to set him up for something.  Perhaps the panties were meant to be proof that he, what, sexually harassed nurses? 

“Maybe they’re trying to keep the harassment claim alive.”

“What?”

“Mandy’s friends,” he explained.  “Let’s just say that I am not their favorite person at the moment.”

James went to a cabinet, pulled out a plastic Ziploc bag. 

“What are you doing?”

“Preserving the evidence,” James told him as he dropped the panties in and zipped them up.

Justin rubbed at the headache that was starting
behind his eyes.  “This is getting ridiculous.”

“Open your mail,” James said.  “I’ll deal with this.”

Justin watched his brother disappear down the hall, shook his head to clear it.  He wasn’t sure what James thought he was going to do, but the truth was that he was worn too thin to worry about it just now.  His attorney believed that the evidence was on his side, so whatever Mandy’s friends were up to, they were just going to make themselves look worse. 

He hoped.  And though he really didn’t want to start an all-out war, he’d defend himself by whatever means necessary
, if he had to.  He’d worked too hard for too long to build his professional reputation, and he’d be damned if he let a couple of very petty women with an axe to grind ruin it.

Sipping his coffee –
to which he now considered adding a shot of whiskey – Justin pulled another envelope toward him.  He opened it, found a small silver rectangle inside.  When he flipped it over, the printed words said: 
A gift for you
.

He stared at it in confusion.

Pulling the discarded envelope back toward him, he checked the return address.  No name, just a local post office box number. It wasn’t one he recognized. 

The stamp bore a
fat pink heart.

“Late for Christmas, early for Valentine’s Day, and definitely not my birthday,” he muttered.  Normally, he’d put something like this in his mental
well, that’s random
file before tossing the envelope and its contents in the circular one, but given the way things had been going lately, he laid them both on the table.

Where he eyed them like particularly unpleasant bugs.

“What now?” James said as he walked back into the kitchen and noticed Justin’s expression.

Justin nodded toward the silver rectangle.  “What do you make of this?”

James leaned over his shoulder to get a better look.  “Where’s the gift?”

“No idea.”  Justin flipped through the rest of the mail, coming up empty.  “Nothing here.”
  Then, recalling the ornament that had been left on the porch, he walked through the living room, checked out the windows.  “Nothing out front, either.”

James frowned
from his position in the doorway, then went back into the kitchen and opened the same cabinet.

“More evidence collection,
Sherlock?”

“Poke fun all you want.  I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

Justin watched the little piece of cardboard and the envelope disappear into the plastic bag.  Whatever the “gift” might be, he had a strong suspicion he wasn’t going to like it. 

“Yeah,” he finally said, sighing.  “Me, too.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

SHELLEY
Kinson pulled the ponytail holder from her hair, shaking her curls free as she strode toward her car.  She’d worked a double shift today, and her feet wept with every squeak of her sneakers.  At least the boss had let her leave a little early.  And she’d scored a front row parking space when she’d arrived that morning, so thank God for small favors.  Murphy’s was so packed tonight that the lot looked like a demolition derby.  And when she reached her car, she was furious to find an SUV blocking her in.

Hands on hips, she stared at it, wondering what kind of fool parked
behind
someone and then went about their business.  And she didn’t have time to be tracking said fool down.  Natasha was finally out of the hospital, and Shelley planned for them to have a little talk.  Their living arrangement had grown a little… strained recently, and it was time to clear the air.

And if they couldn’t clear the air, well then, it might also be time for them to make other arrangements.

But first she needed to get out of the stupid parking lot.

“Sorry, sorry,” a deep voice called out from behind her.
  “I ran in for two seconds, I swear.” He held up a bag from the pharmacy next door.  “Thought I could get in and out before anybody noticed.”

He smiled as he came closer, a really great smile in his lean, dark face, and Shelley’s irritation lessened just a little.  He looked familiar, but she couldn’t place him.

“No problem.  I just got out of work a few minutes ago.”

“Murphy’s?” he said, nodding toward her T-shirt.  “Good food.”

So he was a customer, then.  That’s probably where she’d seen him.  “Must be,” she agreed, “considering half of Charleston is in there right now eating.”

“Which is why I couldn’t find a spot,” he agreed.  “It’s crazy.  You’d think they were giving
stuff away.”

He was cute, seriously cute, but Shelley didn’t have a lot of time for chitchat.  “If you wouldn’t mind…?”

“Oh, sorry.”  That smile flashed again.  “You’d probably like for me to move my car.  I’ll just…” he trailed off, looked at her front bumper.  She’d backed into the spot – the easier to pull out in case the parking lot was crowded – so the front of her car faced his truck.

“Hey, looks like
you had a little accident.”

“Oh, that?” She blew out a breath, annoyed at the memory.  “Yeah
.  Someone backed into me.”

“That sucks,” he said.  “Were you injured?”

She looked at him sideways. “What are you, a lawyer or something?”

“Me?” He chuckled, a low, appealing sound.  “Hell no.
”

“I wasn’t even in the car,” she told him.  “Just came out from work one night
and found it like this.”

He studied the bumper
, frowning.  “That’s the worst,” he finally said.  “If the person who clips you is honest and leaves you a note, no problem, because their insurance covers it.  But if it’s a hit and run, then it’s a
do you or don’t you
thing.  Because you’ve got to consider the deductible, and is it really worth it to file a claim and have your premium go up?” He shook his head.  “Did it happen in this lot?” he speculated. “Probably somebody drunk off their ass, didn’t even realize they hit something.” 

Despite herself, Shelley found herself laughing.  “Has anybody ever told you that you talk a lot?”

“Yeah.”  That smile again.  “Sorry.  I’m Anthony, by the way.”  He tucked the pharmacy bag under his arm, stuck out his hand.

“Shelley,” she said, shaking.

“It’s nice to meet you, Shelley. And I know that this is probably inappropriate, but… could I buy you a drink?”

Shelley laughed again, taken aback. 
“I don’t know…”

“I totally understand.  Random dude blocks you in, talks your arm off, then tries to ply you with alcohol.  I wouldn’t trust me either.”

She really shouldn’t.  And she really did need to get home to talk to Natasha.

“There’s a little place around the corner,”
he pressed.  “Heughan’s?  It’s quiet.  I’m sure you’ve had enough of crowds for one night.  And we could walk there. They’ve got great coffee,” he added. “In case you prefer your beverages nonalcoholic.”

His smile really was fantastic. 

Shelley blew out a breath.  “One cup of coffee,” she agreed. “But you need to move your vehicle, because I’m not walking.  I’ll meet you there.” 

That way if he turned out to be a creep, she’d have her transportation readily available.

“Deal,” he agreed, grinning.  “See you in a few.”

She watched him hustle around to the driver’s side of his truck, appreciating the way he filled out his jeans.

“This is crazy,” she muttered when he waved at her as he pulled out.

But then, given the way her life had been going recently, she guessed that was par for the course.    
   

KATHLEEN
pinched her fingers to the bridge of her nose.

“There’s no evidence,” Mac was saying “no solid evidence, anyway, to indicate it was anything other than suicide.
  An accidental overdose – maybe.  But given the message on the mirror, the lipstick stain found on her fingers.  The fact that as a nurse she absolutely would have known the consequences of mixing Xanax and alcohol…”  He tossed the case file on the desk.  “She killed herself, Kathleen.”

“Where’s the cork?” Kathleen said.

Mac heaved a sigh, his massive lungs creating a small windstorm that rustled papers.  “Hell, I don’t know.  Maybe she put it down the garbage disposal.”

Kathleen knew she was driving her partner crazy, but there were a few unanswered questions that kept her from closing Mandy’s case.
  One of those questions involved the fact that the cork from the wine bottle – the wine in which she’d apparently mixed a fatal dose of Xanax – hadn’t been found in the trash or anywhere else in the apartment.  It was a minor detail, sure, but Kathleen had found that it was the minor details that were often of the greatest significance.

“Why would she put it down the garbage disposal?”

“Because she was out of her mind?”

“Maybe.  But look at the rest of that apartment.  Everything – and I do mean everything – in its place.”  The woman had apparently been borderline obsessive.  “She mixes the drug into the wine, drinks one glass, then pours herself another so that she can carry it into the bath – along with her book – which she plans to read while she wait
s for the drug to take effect.  She tidies up the kitchen, putting everything in its place.  Except for the wine cork.  Which she puts down the garbage disposal.  Then she writes a very unflattering suicide note – in lipstick.  On the otherwise pristine mirror.  And slides into the tub to die.”