Between a Book and a Hard Place (19 page)

Which was precisely why Noah wanted to get some food into his mother. Nadine claimed she was never hungry, but he suspected her quest to stay a size two might have something to do with her disinterest in nourishment. He'd told her many times that there were more calories in one of her giant martinis than in a grilled chicken breast with a baked potato and vegetables.

“Well, I'm hungry,” Noah lied. He was still full from lunch, but he was willing to perjure himself if it would get his mother to eat. “How about you have another
small
drink while I'm cooking?”

“That would be nice.” Nadine adjusted her watch so the diamond-encrusted dial was centered on her wrist, then looked at Noah from under her eyelashes. “I always have such a better appetite when you and I dine together. Maybe we could do it more often.”

“Maybe.” Noah felt a tug of guilt. His mother was lonely, and although she liked her health aide, Janson wasn't family or even a friend.

“I'll keep you company while you prepare our meal.” Nadine rose from her chair, picked up her empty glass, and followed him inside.

Noah watched through the doorway to the dining room as his mother poured herself a martini from the pitcher sitting on the bar cart against the sidewall. Then, balancing the full glass, Nadine
joined him in the kitchen and perched on a stool at the granite counter.

Biting his tongue to keep from commenting on the size of his mother's
small
drink, Noah took six eggs from the fridge and placed them in warm tap water. While the eggs came to room temperature, he found a skillet and heated it over medium-high heat.

As he worked, Noah kept an eye on his mother. He'd managed the minefield of one difficult subject—the alien invasion—but he still had to maneuver her into discussing his ancestor's Civil War experience. Normally, Nadine loved to talk about either her family's brave officers or her husband's great-great-great-grandfather, the Confederate hero, but the information Noah needed wouldn't be as easy to get from her. She'd never willingly disclose any dishonorable acts Colonel Underwood might have committed.

Once the pan was hot, Noah added the butter, and when it melted, he swirled it around the surface of the frying pan. As he cracked the warmed eggs into a bowl, added salt and blended with a fork, he rehearsed how he was going to introduce the topic.

Finally, Noah commented, “I saw Miss Ophelia this afternoon. She mentioned that you had some papers from my great-great-great-great-grandfather's service. I would love to read them.”

“They're not very interesting.” Nadine looked away from Noah's gaze. “Mostly lists of supplies and men, and who was assigned where.”

“Still.” Noah poured the eggs into the center of the pan and stirred them with a rubber spatula. “I'd like to know more about my history so that when I have children I can tell them about it.”

“Children,” Nadine said sharply. “I hope you
aren't counting on Devereaux for that. She seemed fairly enamored with that U.S. Marshal.”

“Dev hasn't made up her mind yet.” Although Noah's stomach clenched, he kept his expression neutral. “But I'm sure she'll choose me.”

“Not if there's a God in heaven,” Nadine muttered, then took a sip of her drink.

Ignoring his mother's comment, Noah lifted the pan and tilted it until the excess liquid was under the cooked part of the eggs. “So, do you have those papers handy? I'd like to take them with me tonight.”

“I don't think that's a good idea.” Nadine played with the stem of her glass.

“Why is that?” Noah used the spatula to loosen the omelet's edge.

“The thing is”—Nadine gave a high-pitched, mirthless laugh—“there might be some unflattering material in those documents, and I wouldn't want you to think any less of your heritage because of something you might misinterpret or fail to understand in context.”

“I promise to keep an open mind.” Noah wondered what his mother had been hiding all these years. Seeing Nadine's lips tighten, he knew she was about to refuse, so he brought out the big guns. “After all, I am the last male Underwood. It's time for me to assume the family mantle of responsibility. It's not as if I'll share the information with anyone.”

He mentally crossed his fingers. Finding a man's killer was more important than keeping a secret about something that had happened more than a hundred and fifty years ago. And if it had nothing to do with Benedict's death, Noah trusted Dev to keep the information confidential.

As if reading his mind, Nadine narrowed her
eyes and said, “This has something to do with that awful man's murder, doesn't it?”

“Only inasmuch as hearing about his research has piqued my interest.” Noah hadn't lied this much to his mother since he was a teenager.

“You know, Mr. Benedict visited me, asking about those same papers.”

“Uh-huh.” Noah couldn't remember if his mother had told him about the guy stopping by or if it had been Dev who'd shared that information, so he kept his response noncommittal.

“Initially, he was charming. He even offered to make drinks for us.” Nadine smiled reminiscently. “He mixed the best cosmopolitan that I've ever tasted.”

“Then what happened?” Noah minced a couple of slices of ham for the omelet.

“At first he was really upset when I refused to let him see the Civil War papers, but then he made us another cocktail and we chatted about other things.”

“So he just gave up?” Noah added cheese and meat to the omelet.

“Well . . .” Nadine refused to meet her son's eyes. “I must have dozed off, because when I woke up later that evening, Mr. Benedict was gone.”

“Janson wasn't here?” Noah wanted to scream at his mother about her drinking, but he knew it would do no good. He needed to have her doctor talk to her. She might listen to her physician, but certainly not her son.

“I'd given Beckham the night off,” Nadine answered. “I had planned to go to the country club dinner dance, but Mr. Benedict delayed my departure.”

“Was anything missing?”

“No.” Nadine pressed her hand to her chest. “I was worried Mr. Benedict might have stolen the documents he wanted while I slept, but they were still here.” She sighed. “It did look as if the contents of the file might have been gone through, but nothing was missing. I checked the inventory.”

“Speaking of those papers, as I mentioned, I'd like to see them.” Noah figured that Dev's stepfather had photographed the documents. Nadine would have had to be out for hours for the man to read them, and Benedict wouldn't have risked Janson returning early or his hostess waking sooner than expected.

“Customarily”—Nadine toyed with the pearls around her neck—“the male heir gets the journals and the trust fund on his fortieth birthday. It was felt that at that point a man would be mature enough to handle the confidential information in the diaries.”

“I recall the trust-fund age restriction when Dad's will was read, but I don't remember about the papers.”

“That part isn't in writing. It's a tradition.” Nadine tossed down the rest of her martini, then leaned forward and said, “But since it means so much to you, I'll make an exception.” She sighed again. “I may be sorry, but I'll give you the box.”

“It'll be fine, Mom,” Noah reassured her. He folded the omelet, cut it in half, and slid it onto two dishes.

“I hope so.” Nadine's tone was querulous. “Just remember your duty is to the family, not to a woman who may or may not love you.”

While his mother fetched the documents, Noah carried their supper out to the patio table. When his mother joined him, she silently handed him a carton containing bulging accordion folders. As they ate, he
noticed that her attitude toward him had subtly changed. She seemed almost apprehensive, which wasn't like her at all.

Just as Noah and his mother finished their meal—at least Noah had eaten; Nadine had pushed the food around her plate—Janson returned. The aide offered to clean up and do the dishes, so Noah stood and said good-bye to his mother.

As he reached for the box, Nadine grabbed his wrist, her nails biting into his skin, and said, “I really wish you wouldn't do this.”

“You worry entirely too much about the past and what others will think.” Noah freed his hand. “Most folks don't judge people's worth by their ancestors' behavior.”

“You have no idea how hard I've worked to keep the Underwood name one that people admire in this town,” Nadine snapped. “Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a television show that I want to watch on the History Channel, and it comes on in a few minutes.”

“Sure.” Noah kissed his mother on the cheek, then teased her, “Are you sure it isn't
The Bachelor
or one of those other reality shows?”

“Certainly not.” Nadine pinned him with a cold glare. “I only watch educational programs. Otherwise, I spend my lonely evenings reading important literature.”

Noah swallowed a chuckle. The only novels in his mother's house were the ones in his father's office, and the last time he'd been in there, the books were exactly as his dad had left them.

Before Noah could leave, Nadine clutched his arm and warned, “Think twice before you decide some woman is worth flushing everything the Underwoods stand for down the toilet.”

As Noah walked away, he wondered just how rotten the family skeleton would be.

A
fter Noah dropped me at my car, I went home and filled Dad in on what we knew so far about Jett Benedict and what leads we were pursuing regarding his murder. Once he was caught up on my investigation, I asked about Captain Sinclair's part in the war.

Dad assured me that as far as he or Gran knew, our ancestor had been firmly on the side of the Confederacy. But since neither he nor any of our more distant relatives had ever been very interested, there was no written history, and any stories had died with Grandpa Sinclair.

When my father said he was taking Birdie and her friend Frieda to the VFW's spaghetti dinner, I was relieved that he was staying away from Mom. Telling him to have a good time, I retreated to my room.

I had half an hour before I had to head back into town, so I stretched out on the bed and checked my cell. There were two missed calls from Jake, but he hadn't left a message.

I dialed his number, but when it went straight to his voice mail, I disconnected. I hated playing telephone tag. Instead, I texted him, asking what was up, and saying that I was busy the rest of the night.

The remaining e-mails, texts, and messages were business related, and after answering inquiries from vendors, bidding on some vintage lingerie that I wanted for my erotic gift baskets, and deleting a lot of spam, I glanced at the clock and saw that I needed to go.

Having volunteered to bring the food, I stopped at the local pizza joint and picked up an unbaked super supreme. I'd ordered an uncooked pie so that we wouldn't have to worry about it getting cold if Poppy was delayed. My dear friend wasn't known for her promptness, and a quarter of an hour late was actually on time for her.

After shelling out nearly thirty bucks for the extra-large and an antipasto salad, I drove to Boone's. He lived near Nadine in the old-money part of town. His neighborhood was full of majestic houses, none of which had been built anytime in the past hundred to hundred and fifty years.

When Boone's parents made it clear to the older Mrs. St. Onge that they preferred their contemporary residence, she had left her grandson her Prairie-style home. Boone adored the place, showering it with both the contents of his bank account and his attention.

He had kept the original building intact, but had enlarged the master bathroom and had annexed one of the adjoining rooms for a walk-in closet. He'd also added a detached garage in the rear, claiming that his Mercedes couldn't possibly sit out during the Missouri winters.

When architectural purists criticized him for the changes he'd made, Boone was quick to point out that while vintage was wonderful, there was no need to go crazy. After all, he loved
Gone with the
Wind
, but he had no desire to live during a period when people bathed only once a week and there was no deodorant.

When I arrived at Boone's, I parked in his narrow driveway. As always, I was the first to get there. One of the reasons I was inevitably early was due to Birdie's influence. She felt tardiness was rude and had made sure I felt guilty if I wasn't wherever I needed to be at least ten minutes before the appointed hour.

But a big part of my motivation was that if Poppy made it to Boone's before me, her humongous Hummer would take up the entire driveway. Then I'd be forced to leave my Z4 on the street, where it would be vulnerable to all the idiot drivers who might sideswipe it.

I had minimal auto insurance and a sky-high deductible, which meant if the car got dented, having it repaired was a luxury I couldn't afford. And call me superficial, but it would crush me to drive a battered vehicle. I know, pride cometh before a fall, but I'd already suffered several falls, so pride was all I had left.

As I got out of my BMW, I gazed at the house. No matter how often I visited Boone, I always stopped to admire the grouping of multipaned windows that were the focal point of the second floor. Boone kept them illuminated, and the result was stunning.

My BFF was waiting for me when I got to the door and ushered me into the foyer. Boone greeted me, then stood back to examine my outfit. I still wore the aqua silk T-shirt and white jeans I'd put on for my lunch date. When he frowned, I peeked in the mirror opposite the coat closet and cringed. My top was a mess.

Smoothing the shirt over my hips, I said, “Guess
I should have changed. I was lying across my bed answering e-mail, and my clothes must have gotten wrinkled.”

Now that I could see my full-length self, I noticed that the silk top hugged my generous curves more tightly than I liked. With a body type more often seen in a Rubens painting than in a fashion magazine, I tended to wear looser clothing. As I was prone to comment, the only thing that should cling was plastic wrap.

As Boone tried to brush out some of the creases, he
tsk
ed. “Girl, don't you ever look at yourself before leaving the house?”

“Of course I do.” I narrowed my eyes in mock outrage and retorted, “Just not as often as you. But then again, you're much prettier than I am.”

“True.” Boone took the pizza box and salad container from the small table where I had placed it and led me into the kitchen. “But I prefer the word
handsome
.”

I followed him, biting my thumbnail. It would be tough asking Boone about the ancestor he was so proud of without sounding as if I suspected him of murdering my stepfather. And the last thing I wanted to do was offend one of my oldest and best friends.

Boone had always been there for me. When my father went to prison, my mother abandoned me, and Noah broke up with me, Boone had gathered the shattered pieces of my heart and glued them back together.

I watched Boone place the pizza carton in the refrigerator, and keeping my tone casual, I asked, “How are your folks?” It was lame, but it was the only thing I could think of to say, and I wanted to
wait for Poppy before getting into the evening's real topic. The one that would be so difficult.

“Same old, same old.”

“Still not talking to each other?” I asked.

Although Mr. and Mrs. St. Onge lived in the same house, except for a brief respite during a crisis, they hadn't spoken for years. With the advent of modern technology, they utilized e-mail and texting for all their communication needs. Before that they'd made Boone their messenger.

“As far as I know.” Boone peered into the open fridge and said, “Do you want—”

“Wine?” I interrupted. “Yes, please.”

“How did you know what I was going to ask?” Boone grabbed a bottle.

“Because there comes a time in every day that whatever the question, the answer is wine.”

Boone chuckled, then said, “I'm surprised neither Dr. Dreadful nor Deputy Dawg are joining us tonight. I'd expect both your beaus to want to help you figure out who killed your stepfather.”

“I thought we needed a BFF night.” I hedged, reaching down to pet Boone's cat, Tsar, who had materialized out of nowhere and was rubbing against my calf. “Besides, Jake is busy, and I know you aren't all that fond of Noah.”

“What can I say?” Boone shrugged. “To quote Winston Churchill, Noah has all the virtues I dislike and none of the vices I admire.”

I rolled my eyes, then glanced at the wall clock. “Poppy should be here soon. Maybe you should preheat the oven.”

“Sure. It'll take at least ten minutes.” Boone spun the dial. “I think I heard her Hummer roar to a stop a couple of seconds ago.”

“That would mean she's only eleven minutes late.” I pulled out a wooden slat-back chair from the matching square-leg table and sat down. “I think that just might be a record for her.”

Boone sniggered as he headed toward the foyer and let Poppy in.

Poppy hugged us both, then deposited a bakery box on the table.

Without asking, Boone poured us each a glass of merlot, grabbed a cheese and cracker tray that had been sitting on the counter covered in waxed paper, and said, “Shall we adjourn to the study?”

Poppy nodded, and I got to my feet, following her, Boone, and Tsar into my favorite room of his house. Its large windows were framed in golden brown curtains that brushed the shiny hickory floor, and an assortment of brass lamps were scattered throughout the space. An oak library table behind the sofa held a crystal vase full of fresh alstroemeria accented with pussy willows, and best of all, there were books everywhere.

Poppy and I shared the nutmeg leather couch, and Boone sat on a club chair to our right. No one spoke as we all sipped our wine.

Finally, Boone grabbed a cracker, spread a bit of Camembert on it, and asked, “So what did you two want to talk to me about?”

I opened my mouth, glanced at Poppy, and said, “We told you we want to go over the clues we've gathered about the murder.”

“What else?” Boone fed Tsar a sliver of cheddar and crooned to the cat, “Aunt Dev and Aunt Poppy are up to something.”

Poppy shot me a look, then turning to Boone,
she admonished, “You're always so suspicious. We wouldn't ambush you.”

“Don't give me that malarkey.” Boone adjusted the creases in his khakis. Pointing to Poppy, he said, “
You
didn't hire a bartender just to have a pizza party with me.” He smiled sardonically and gestured at me. “And if we were really only discussing the murder investigation, one or more of your devoted swains would be here.”

I started to protest, but the oven buzzed, indicating it was ready, so I jumped to my feet and ran into the kitchen. By the time I got the pizza cooking, set the timer for twenty minutes, and disposed of the cardboard box in the recycle bin outside the back door, I had almost figured out how to bring up the subject of Boone's ancestor.

When I returned to the study, Boone was plying Poppy with liquor and ruthlessly grilling her for information. He had replaced her wine with a martini and was shooting questions at her faster than an Uzi.

Poppy narrowed her eyes and snapped, “Stop it right now, Boone St. Onge.” She fingered her white Giuseppe Zanottis and said, “Your boots may be made for walking, but mine are for kicking ass, and you're about to become my target.”

Deciding to stay out of the debate, I stepped over to the brimming bookcases that covered three of the four walls. Tsar joined me, and we perused the shelves. I ran my fingers across the spines as my two BFFs competed in a battle of wits.

Finally, Poppy took a sip of her drink and said to Boone, “Do you want to keep interrogating me, or should we actually discuss the case?”

“I suppose thumbscrews are out of the question?” Boone pursed his mouth in a pout. “Or how about Chinese water torture?”

I looked at Poppy and said, “Your attitude is contagious.”

“So I've been told.” She smirked. “But I hear that the CDC is looking for a cure.”

I shook my head, took my seat, and said. “Let me summarize what Jake and I learned at the police station, then go from there.” Leaning forward, I made a face. “Basically, the cops are stumped.”

“What did they find at the scene?” Boone sat back in his chair.

“They haven't processed all the trace yet. There was tiny bit of magnesium there, but nothing obvious, like fingerprints or what was used to bash in his skull,” I answered. “Time of death is between twelve thirty and one thirty.”

“Unless my dad is lying,” Poppy sneered. “You know you can't trust him.”

“Jake got most of the information from the dispatcher.” I rolled my eyes. I sure wished Poppy would give the evil-father thing a rest.

“Humph.” Poppy grabbed a cube of Monterey Jack and stuffed it in her mouth.

“What else have you found out?” Boone asked, evidently having decided that he couldn't rush what we had come to discuss.

“The country clubbers oppose the library.” I reached for my glass and was surprised to find it empty. When had I finished my wine?

“All of them?” Poppy raised a brow. “And how did you find that out?”

After explaining about the overheard
conversation and the lack of actual names, I got up and refilled my glass with merlot.

Boone's lawyerly logic appeared. “Hard to pin something like that down, which means it's too vague to be very useful.”

“Unfortunately,” I agreed. Now was the time to ease Boone into the subject of Shadow Bend's possibly-not-so-honorable war heroes. “But Jake's uncle Tony overheard Nadine tell one of her cronies that Jett needed to stop poking his nose in places it didn't belong, so Jake and I went to talk to her about it.”

“Oooh!” Poppy yipped, causing Tsar, who had been sitting at her feet, to run out of the room. “That must have been an interesting visit.”

“Yeah.”
Boone drew out the word. “But I bet she was overjoyed that you were with a handsome guy that wasn't her son.”

“Strangely, not so much.” I shrugged. “I doubt anything I could do would make Nadine Underwood happy. On the other hand, she did talk to us.”

“You blackmailed her into having that conversation by saying you would tell Noah she upset you,” Poppy guessed.

“Hey.” I held up my hands in mock surrender. “It's my parents' lives on the line. I did what I had to do to get Nadine's cooperation.”

“Who cares how you got her to talk?” Boone bounced on his seat. “Just tell us what she had to say before my head explodes.”

While I was happy to see Boone focusing on the case, I knew I was approaching shaky ground and carefully considered how to phrase my description of the interview Jake and I had had with Nadine.

Finally, I said, “It turns out that Jett's research had
to do with Shadow Bend's part in the Civil War.” I turned to Boone and smiled. “But you probably know more about that, since you were so active in bringing him to town and working with him to fund the library.”

“Actually, your stepfather said his research was top secret. He was afraid some other scholar would beat him to it and publish a book before Jett could get his out. I knew it concerned Missouri in the Civil War, but not Shadow Bend in particular.” Boone's expression was puzzled. “I wonder why he didn't mention that.”