Authors: Nora Roberts
So asshole or not, the client was king. If Blake wanted to know all there was to know—especially the dirt—on one Abigail Lowery, Roland would find out all there was to know. The same for Brooks Gleason, Bickford’s police chief, and according to the client, Lowery’s lover.
The client claimed the two in question, along with the Conroys—the owners of the hotel with the very nice view and amenities—had set up his son in order to extort money. Blake fervently, and loudly, denied his boy had caused the extensive damage to the hotel’s premier suite as claimed, nor had he assaulted Russell Conroy, nor had he pulled a knife on the chief of police.
Roland, nobody’s fool, fervently but quietly believed the butt pimple had done all that and more. But he’d do his job, earn his salary. And pay his bills.
He checked his camera gear, his recorder, his notebook and lock picks. Then called his wife on his cell phone to let her know he’d arrived safe and sound.
He told her he wished she were there and meant it. The room boasted a king four-poster. Pregnancy turned Jen into a sexual dynamo.
As he packed up for his first walk about town, he promised himself
he’d make a return trip, with Jen, after the baby came, and her parents were still dazzled enough to take on three kids for a long weekend.
He shouldered the camera bag, hung the Nikon around his neck on a strap decorated with peace signs. Wearing cargo shorts, Rockports and an R.E.M. T-shirt, he slipped on sunglasses, checked himself out in the mirror.
He hadn’t shaved that morning, deliberately, and thought the scruff added to the look. He liked pulled-on personas and, given the choice, kept them fairly close to his own. Natural, easy.
He considered himself to be a personable guy. He could talk to anyone about anything, as vital a tool as his computer. He wasn’t bad-looking, he thought, as he added a Greenpeace ball cap to his ensemble.
Though he was starting to worry about male pattern baldness. His brother, only two years older than Roland’s thirty-four, already showed a fist-sized patch of bare scalp at the crown of his head.
He thought fleetingly of picking up some Rogaine—why not try preemptive measures—as he walked out of his room.
He’d wrangled a room on the top floor, though the reservation clerk had offered another, due to construction noise. But he’d brushed off the warning and inconvenience. This way, he should be able to get a look at the suite the client’s son hadn’t trashed, if you believed first-class assholes.
He strolled down the hall, noted the door, firmly shut, a sign apologizing for the inconvenience due to unexpected repairs. The noise, somewhat muffled, sounded more like demo than repair.
He’d check it out later, when the crew and staff weren’t around.
For now, he took the stairs down, since he was also mildly concerned about encroaching middle-age paunch, and walked outside into the heat.
Pretty little town, he thought. Jen would like it—the shops, the art. He’d pick up something for her and the kids, including the as yet unnamed and unknown surprise, before he left.
Plenty of tourists, he noted. A guy with a camera blended right in. He made use of it, taking a few shots of the hotel, zooming in on the windows of the suite in question, with their curtains tightly shut.
He had a good eye for a picture. He thought when the time came to retire from private investigating, he’d try photography as a working hobby. He wandered, framed in, shot. An interesting window, a close-up of flowers in a half whiskey barrel. To the casual eye he’d look like someone meandering, without specific destination.
But he had the salient addresses in his head. Lowery’s place would require a drive, but he could walk past the police chief’s apartment, and the house where his parents still lived. Just getting a feel for the place, the people, Roland thought and spent some time studying the windows of Brooks Gleason’s apartment above a busy diner.
Shades up, he noted. Nothing to see here. He wandered around the back, took some pictures of flowerpots as he studied the rear entrance.
Decent locks but nothing major, should he feel the need to do a little snooping inside. He’d avoid that, if possible.
With the town map in his hand, courtesy of the hotel, he strolled down the sidewalk.
And stopped, absolutely charmed and bedazzled by the mural house. He checked the address, and confirmed it was indeed the residence of the police chief’s parents. Information already gathered told him the mother was an artist, the father a high school teacher.
He had to assume the woman with the rainbow kerchief over her hair currently standing on scaffolding in paint-splattered bib overalls was the subject’s mother.
Leashed to the base of the scaffolding, a puppy curled in the shade and snoozed.
As much for his own interest as the job, Roland took a few pictures, moved closer. When he got to the edge of the yard, the puppy woke in a yappy frenzy.
And the woman looked down. She tipped her head. “Help you?”
“I’m sorry to interrupt. I was just walking around, and … this is just amazing. Did you paint all of this?”
“I did. Visiting?”
“I’m spending a few days in town. I’m a photographer, and I’m taking a few weeks in the Ozarks. I want to put a show together.”
“You won’t lack for subject matter around here. All right, Plato, I’m coming.”
She climbed down nimbly, unclipped the dog, who instantly raced over to sniff at Roland. “Good dog.” He hunkered down to give the dog a rub. “I guess I woke him up.”
“He’s a fierce guard dog, as you can see. Sunny O’Hara,” she added, offering a hand dotted with paint.
“Roland Babbett. Would it be all right if I took some pictures of the house? It’s wonderful.”
“You go ahead. Where are you from, Roland?”
“Little Rock.”
“My son lived there some years. He was a police detective. Brooks Gleason.”
“Can’t say I know the name, but I try to stay out of trouble.”
She grinned along with him. “That’s good, because he’s chief of police here now.”
“It feels like a nice town. I hope he doesn’t stay too busy.”
“Oh, well, there’s always this and that. Where are you staying?”
“I’m splurging, since I’ll do a lot of camping on the second part of this trip. I’m at the Inn of the Ozarks.”
“Couldn’t do better; it’s one of the brightest jewels in Bickford’s treasure box. We had some trouble there a few days ago, as it happens. Town troublemaker and a couple of his minions tore up the Ozarks Suite.”
“Is that what it is? I’m on that floor, and they told me there’d be some noise. Repairs going on.”
“A lot of them. You may want to get yourself on another floor.”
“Oh, I don’t mind it. I can sleep through anything.” Casual and
friendly, he let his camera dangle by its strap. “I’m sorry to hear about the trouble, though. It’s a really beautiful hotel. The architecture, the furnishings. It has the feel of a family home—with benefits. Why’d they tear it up?”
“Some people just like to break things, I guess.”
“That’s a shame. I guess even nice little towns have troublemakers. I’ll try to steer clear of him while I’m here.”
“He’s in jail, and likely to be there awhile. You’ll find most people who live here are friendly. We depend on tourists, and artists like yourself. That’s a serious camera you’ve got there.”
“My baby.” He tapped it. He really wanted the pictures, nearly as much as the information she so breezily passed on. “I still do film now and then, but digital’s my primary choice.”
“If you get anything you want to sell, you can take it into Shop Street Gallery. They buy a lot of local photography.”
“I appreciate the tip. A couple sales’ll keep me in hot dogs and beans for the next few weeks.”
He chatted with her for a few more minutes, then walked back toward the center of town. If Sunny O’Hara was anything to go by, Roland thought, the client wasn’t going to be pleased with the report.
He headed for the diner. Diners and waitresses were usually good information sources. He chose a booth with a good view of the comings and goings, set his camera carefully on the tabletop.
He was tempted to take a picture of the waitress—he really did love saturating himself in the persona, and she had a good, interesting face.
“Coffee, please.”
“How about some pie to go with it? Cherry’s especially good today.”
“Cherry pie?” He thought of encroaching middle-age paunch. So he’d do fifty extra crunches tonight. “I don’t think I can say no.”
“Warmed up? Vanilla-bean ice cream?”
Okay, seventy-five extra crunches. “Yes, ma’am. I don’t know anybody
strong enough to say no to that. If it’s as good as it sounds, I’m going to be in here every day while I’m in town.”
“It is. Visiting?” she said, in nearly the same easy tone as Sunny.
He gave her the same cover, even showed her a few pictures he’d taken of the mural house.
“You never know what she’ll paint on it next. Those are right nice pictures, too.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll put your order in.”
He doctored his coffee while he waited, studied his guidebook like a good tourist. She brought back a generous wedge of pie with ice cream gently melting on the laced crust. “Sounds good, looks good.” Roland forked off a bite. “Tastes even better. Thanks, Kim.”
“You enjoy, now.” She glanced over, and so did he, as Brooks walked in. “Hey there, Chief.” When she gestured to the booth directly in front of him, Roland decided to double her tip.
“Just coffee.”
“You ain’t heard about the cherry pie à la mode. I got it on good authority nobody can say no.” She sent Roland a wink as she spoke, and he toasted her with a forkful.
“It’d be wasted on me right now. Lawyers.”
“Well, sweetie, that calls for two scoops of vanilla-bean on the pie.”
“Next time. I just came in for a decent cup of coffee, and some breathing room to review my notes.”
“All right, then. Blake’s lawyers?” she asked, as she poured the coffee.
“New ones. Harry got the ax, and between you and me, I think he’s doing a dance of joy at the firing. Blake hired on a firm from up north.”
“Yankee lawyers?” Kim’s mouth twisted in derision. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“Armani suits and Louis Vuitton briefcases, at least according to the paralegal Big John Simpson’s got doing research on the case. They’ve got
motions on top of motions. Want a change of venue for one thing. The judge doesn’t like them, so that’s something.”
“Want to get him away from here, away from where people know what a nasty piece of work that Blake boy is.”
“Can’t say I blame them. But here or on Pluto, fact’s fact. The trouble is facts aren’t always enough in a courtroom.”
On one step back she slapped both fists on her hips. “You don’t think he’ll get off? Not after what he did.”
“I’m not going to think it, because if he gets out of this whistling, the next time, I know in my gut, he’s likely to kill somebody.”
“Well, my Jesus, Brooks.”
“Sorry.” Brooks rubbed at his tired eyes. “I should’ve taken my crappy mood to my office.”
“You sit right there and have your coffee, and you don’t let all this weigh on you.” She leaned down, kissed the top of his head. “You did your job, and everybody knows it. You can’t do more than your job.”
“Feels like I ought to. Anyway … just the coffee.”
“You holler if you want anything else.” Shaking her head, she walked away, topping off Roland’s coffee as she went.
Roland sat, mulling. Nothing the cop said struck him as false. He despised the “nasty piece of work” himself. But as the wise and wonderful Kim had said, you couldn’t do more than your job.
His was to find anything that might tip the scales in the client’s favor.
He nearly choked on his pie when the vision walked in.
He knew small southern towns could produce some beauties, and in his personal opinion, southern women had a way of nurturing that beauty like hothouse roses. Maybe it was the weather, the air, the chance to wear all those thin summer dresses like the one the vision wore now. Maybe it was the slower pace or some secret mothers passed to daughters.
Whatever it was, it worked.
He loved his wife, and had never in their twelve years together—ten-plus with rings on the finger—strayed. But a man was entitled to a
little fantasy now and then when possibly the sexiest woman ever created sashayed into his line of sight.
She hip-swayed right up to Gleason’s booth, slid in, like melted butter on warm toast.
“Not a good time, Sylbie.”
In Roland’s world, it was always a good time for Sylbie.
“I just have a question. I’m not going to try to get you back or anything like that. I learned my lesson back in March.”
“I appreciate that, but it’s a bad time right here and now.”
“You look tense and tired and out of sorts. I’m sorry about that. We were friends once.”
When he didn’t speak, she looked away, let out a breath that had her delectable breasts rising, falling.
“I guess we weren’t friends, and maybe that’s my fault. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since I humiliated myself for your benefit.”
“Let’s not go there.”
“It’s easy for you to say, since you weren’t the one standing there naked.”
Roland felt himself going hard, and mentally apologized to his wife.
“It was a mistake, and some of it’s on me for not talking it out with you. You’re sorry. I’m sorry. Let’s forget it.”
“I can’t forget it until I know.”
“Know what?”
“Why her and not me? That’s all. I need to know why you want to be with Abigail Lowery—everybody knows you are—and you don’t want to be with me.”
Roland wanted to know, too, and not just for the client. He’d seen Lowery’s photo, and she was attractive, sure. Pretty, maybe even beautiful in a quiet sort of way. But next to the stupendous Sylbie? She was no cherry pie à la mode.
“I don’t know how to tell you.”
“Just tell me the truth. Is she better in bed than me?”
“Jesus Christ.”
“That’s the wrong thing to ask.” On an impatient gesture, she pushed back a glorious fall of hair. “I wasn’t going to ask, even though I wonder. Just give me something, will you, that I can understand?”