Almost Perfect (3 page)

“He
wasn't
carrying any ID,” she corrected absently. She had the stranger's card in her pocket. She hadn't even looked at it. Why would he not carry ID or a car registration? Because he was a lamebrained yuppie who thought he was above the rules.

“He's still out cold,” Gene said worriedly. “Reckon he'll die?”

She narrowed her eyes and pinned him in place. “What did you do to him?”

Gene shrugged nervously. His T-shirt had a tear in the armhole seam where he'd stretched too far and burst open the worn threads. “I didn' do
nothin'
,” he said belligerently.

“Eugene Watkins, there's no sense lying to me, because I'll find out anyway.” She had Gene and his sister half convinced she
was
a witch, but only because she knew how to find out things and their mother had too many problems to try.

“Well, Blackie mighta got into the car with him.” He hung his head. “And the peacocks, well, they got kinda stirred.”

Blackie, the black snake—one of Gene's and Matty's many exotic pets. Cleo rolled her eyes and tried not to imagine what the friendly snake would have done in a Jag. There weren't many places a snake could wrap around in a car. And the peacocks! She winced and nailed Gene with a glare. “If you hurt those birds, I'll pull every kinky curl out of your head, do you understand?”

“Yes'm. But they ain't hurt. Just riled a little.”

Shootfire, heck, and darn. She'd taken anger management classes. She knew better than to take the boy's head off. She even understood why the brat had done what he had done—had she been thirteen, she would have protected her privacy the same way.

“The guy's unconscious and the sheriff doesn't know who he is?” she asked to distract herself from Gene's depredations. How would anyone notify the yuppie's next of kin? What if he needed surgery? A man driving a Jag was bound to have anxious, wealthy family somewhere.
Damn.

“Yes'm. I'm real sorry, Cleo. I won't do it again. I didn't mean for nothin' bad to happen. I was just playin'.”

“I know, kid, but you're getting too old to play those kinds of games. You know better. He would have gone away and left us alone when he got bored. Go get Marta out of the back. I'd better go over to the clinic.”

She sure the heck wasn't going to the sheriff, but the clinic, she might handle. As Gene took his guilty expression to the storeroom to fetch her clerk, Cleo removed her carpenter's apron and stashed it beneath the counter. She hated getting involved. Maybe the guy had regained consciousness by now and could tell them who he was. Or the sheriff had traced his license tag.

Her visitor had been an arrogant jerk, but he hadn't deserved Gene's dirty trick. The counselor had said she had to learn to accept responsibility. The counselor was a dipshit, but she knew he was right about this one.

Cleo checked her pocket to make certain the card was still there, told Marta where she was going, and headed down the bucolic town street shaded from the September sun by live oaks and Spanish moss. Glancing up at the antique four-sided clock in the courthouse steeple, she saw she'd missed lunch again. The clock chimes hadn't rung since World War II, from all reports. The town citizens weren't particularly concerned, but the clock's gradual slowing of time had caused a number of jokes. Maybe now that the weather was cooler, she and Ed could climb back up there and take another look, provided he wasn't down at the bar talking about the German U-boat he'd seen from the tower during the war. Ed had a little drinking problem.

She adored this town. It was as far from the filthy city apartments of her childhood as she could get. L.A. to rural South Carolina, quite a leap, but the right one for her. She was comfortable here.

All she had to do was stay clean and responsible, keep the feds off her case until her parole expired, and she
would become a model citizen. Sort of. She had learned the hard way that the local hardware store was the heartbeat of the community, and high visibility made her twitchy. For Matty to grow up here, she had to fit in, and that wouldn't happen if anyone learned of her background. Keeping a low profile and avoiding gossip was a tough act to maintain in a small town. She didn't go near the Chamber of Commerce's chatty little get-togethers, but she dealt with customers, paid her dues, contributed to charity, and did whatever else money could do. She figured that ought to be enough to encourage a business that had no competition.

She had her store and her house and her life and Matty, and she'd learned to survive very nicely here.

Except Matty was hardly ever home. And Gene and his sister needed a sober adult in their lives, and she had apparently been nominated. Life certainly took ironic twists.

What if the stranger wanted to file a complaint? How would she keep him away from Gene? The thought of taking the blame on herself caused a brief spurt of panic. The sheriff would trace her prior record, call the feds, and before she knew what hit her, Social Services would be carting Matty off, and everyone would shun the store in horror, and she'd be out on the street again. No way.

There had to be a more reasonable method of settling this, although trying to imagine settling a wrecked antique Jag was a large hurdle to handle. And if the yuppie moron really was seriously injured … She wouldn't consider that. Maybe she could bribe him with the rental of the beach house.

Like she really needed that turkey cluttering up her life.

But better than being sued for everything she owned, or both her and Gene going to jail.

Cursing over impossible choices, she shoved open the
clinic door. A blast of air-conditioning smacked her in the face. The nearest hospital was over an hour away, so the town furnished this hole in the wall with a few beds, a nurse, and some paramedics as a stopgap. The place was scrupulously clean, but small. The instant she walked in, she could hear voices rising from the back.

“I tell you, a
snake
! The monster could have swallowed Texas, and it was crawling up my leg! And then, feathers—
splash
—everywhere! After the witch and the skeleton, I swear to you …”

Uh-oh. Sounds as if the yuppie moron was recovering. They didn't need her. She'd just mosey along out of here—

“Hallucinating,” a stage whisper carried over the descriptive yelling. “We'd better send him on to Charleston.”

“Well, we've had reports of other pranks out there. If he ain't been drinking, might orter look into it. His car was pretty much totaled.”

The sheriff. Shit. Shoot. Double-d bad word, as Maya always said. She didn't need the sheriff snooping around. There was no telling what kind of ordinances or laws or who knows what she'd broken, and if he found out how Gene and his sister were living … She wouldn't let that happen, upon penalty of death. Those kids did not deserve the fate the sheriff would unthinkingly assign them.

Straightening her shoulders beneath the checked flannel shirt, fighting an unreasonable panic bubbling up from the murky depths of her past, Cleo shoved her half glasses up her nose and tried to look respectable as she invaded the back room.

She didn't know why all Southern sheriffs seemed to be massive men with big bellies, but the town's man with a badge didn't disappoint. He sported a bristly straight mustache to make up for his receding hairline, and turned an unfriendly gaze to Cleo. But then, she'd never seen a law official with a friendly gaze.

The dark-haired, dark-eyed man lying in the bed with a bandage taped to his high brow was still yammering about witches and skeletons and feathers, but the instant he spotted her, his long-lashed eyes narrowed. “There she is. Tell him I'm not crazy,” he demanded.

He was even cuter in one of those horrid blue hospital gowns. Cleo had a weakness for the lean, hungry Cassius types, although this one didn't look as if he'd starved anytime in the near past. His shoulders bulged interestingly as he lifted his nearly six-foot frame up on one elbow. She didn't want to do this. She really didn't. Her only hope was that he'd take one look at the run-down shack and flee in the opposite direction. She'd concentrate on the power of positive thinking.

She quit looking at sin and turned to the nurse instead. Recognizing the petite redhead as a customer, Cleo marginally relaxed and pulled the business card from her pocket. “He is crazy,” she said with all solemnity, “but that's his natural disposition and not a result of the accident. He's considering renting my beach house, which proves my point. If he's all right, I can take him there.” Maybe that would keep The Jerk from getting ideas about lawsuits.

The patient in the bed cast her a disbelieving glance. Well, at least she'd shut him up.

The nurse passed the card to the sheriff. “There's some possibility of concussion, and he's been raving since he woke. I don't know …”

“I'm not raving! I tell you, there was a snake three feet long—” he shouted furiously.

“Jared McCloud?” The sheriff read the card aloud. “Cartoonist?” He lifted his balding head and stared. “
The
Jared McCloud? The guy who does
Scapegrace
?”

The man in the bed waved his hand impatiently and
glared at Cleo. “Tell him. Tell him there was a witch and a skeleton. Then maybe he'll believe the snake.”

“A witch, a skeleton, three clowns, and a Prince Charming,” she agreed soberly. “It was a very grand affair.”
Scapegrace?
This jerk wrote the comic strip about the teenage nerd? She couldn't believe he'd ever been a nerd in his life. She crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows at his glower.

“Hell, I'd be honored to take you wherever you like, Mr. McCloud.” The sheriff intruded on their staring match. “My kids fight to see who gets to your strip first. He ready to travel, Dixie?”

Cleo cursed a mental blue streak. Now look what the rat had done. He'd have the sheriff out there inspecting her premises, and she sure as hell didn't need that. She'd just sacrificed her privacy to spring him out of here—for nothing.

Eyes widening as if he'd read her mind,
The
Jared McCloud suddenly grinned like a devil about to claim a soul. His eyes practically danced as he inspected her as if she were some kind of alien from outer space. She ought to walk out of here and burn the beach house before he got anywhere near it. Any man in his right senses would be so mad at her right now, he could spit.

Boy, she was going to make Gene pay for this.

The Jerk wrapped the bedsheet around him and swung his legs over the side of the cot. His thick sable hair fell forward over the bandage, and his bare toes stuck out from beneath the sheet. He had strong, slender feet and toes, adorned with a dusting of silky hair.

Cleo couldn't believe she was staring at his feet. Had it been that long since she'd seen a man's feet? She jerked her head up again.

“I need to check out of my hotel, Sheriff. Miss Alyssum
and I haven't had time to make the final arrangements on the house, so maybe I'd best go with her.”

Cleo tried not to exhale too sharply or look too closely to see how the law officer took that. Experience had taught her to keep a large canyon between herself and the authorities.

“Well, if I can be of any assistance while you're here, son, you just call on me. Maybe you can come out to the school sometime, talk to the kids. They'd get a real kick out of that.” The sheriff turned and nodded politely to Cleo. “Miss Alyssum, it's a pleasure to see you. Take good care of the boy.”

“The boy” winked at her behind the sheriff's back, then returned to the immediate subject. “What about my car, Sheriff?”

“Looks like it's a goner, son. When you get your billfold from your hotel room, stop by the office so I can file a report for your insurance. Shame, a car like that.”

An antique Jag. Cleo shuddered. The thing probably cost seven fortunes. And Gene had destroyed it, nearly taking its owner out with it. She supposed she owed The Jerk, but she didn't have to like it. Gene was in for a lot of window washing.

The
Jared McCloud grimaced, then looked at the nurse expectantly. “May I have my clothes, please? It looks as if I'll be relying on Miss Alyssum's hospitality a great deal more than I expected.”

Like her car, her house, her life … Cleo understood blackmail when she heard it. Not deigning to acknowledge his implied threat, she backed toward the door. “Sheriff, why don't you take him to the hotel while I check in at the store. Drop him off there when you're done with him.” The very best defense was a strong offense, her daddy had told her long ago.

And she could be amazingly offensive when the notion took her.

Jared glanced at the stone-faced example of the fairer sex in the driver's seat. Every once in a while, when he was exceptionally lucky, he ran across a truly clever, creative female mind like this one, a puzzle meant for solving, and his anticipation soared. His new landlady's small, pointed chin practically strained to clamp her teeth tight on her anger. He didn't know what she was angry about, but she'd get over it. In his business, it never paid to take life seriously, and the anger of women was a fleeting thing, he'd learned.