Blackberry Summer (28 page)

Mary Ella looked lovely, although she still had dark shadows under her eyes and a few more strands of silver in her hair, reflecting the twinkling lights overhead.

She wore a satiny blue dress he thought he remembered from the big birthday party a few years ago the family threw at Lila’s place in Malibu for her and her twin sister, Rose. Lila was divorced and a hotshot businesswoman in California, while Rose had married a successful dermatologist and moved to Utah several years ago, where the population was young and the skin apparently lousy.

“It’s a lovely night following a beautiful day,” Mary Ella said.

“How could it not be lovely when I get to dance with the prettiest girl in Hope’s Crossing?” he said, earning only an eye roll in response.

“It’s true,” he protested. “You’ve still got it, you know.”

She smiled a little, her fingers tightening in his. “You’re very sweet to say so, son.”

“I’m serious, Mom.” It seemed a night for questions somehow. Anything to distract him from mooning over Claire. Every time he turned around, she seemed to be directly in his line of vision. She was exquisite in a backless black cocktail dress that set off her lush curves.

As he turned his mother on the dance floor, he caught sight of Claire near the dais being set up for the auction, straightening the cloth on the table, for
heaven’s sake. As if no one else in the room could take care of that detail.

All evening, she had been in perpetual motion. He wondered if she’d had a chance to get off her walking cast for even five measly minutes. He would have liked to grab her and make her sit down somewhere for a breather, but had to remind himself Claire’s typical overexertions were none of his damn business.

He jerked his attention away and focused on his dance partner. “Ma, why didn’t you ever marry again after Dad left? You had to have had offers.”

He rarely brought up that dark time in their lives after James McKnight left. He would rather forget the whole thing, even though, like a bad patch of stink-weed, it permeated every part of their lives.

Mary Ella looked surprised at the question. “Not as many as all that, but yes, I had a few chances.”

“Why not take one?”

“I could ask the same of you. You’re thirty-three years old, Riley. Don’t you think it’s time you stopped acting like you’re still in a fraternity somewhere?”

He didn’t miss her abrupt change of subject. It was a tactic he employed often when interrogating a subject, but he was no more immune to it than the dumbest criminal.

“Unfair,” he said automatically. “I’ve been in Hope’s Crossing two months now and I haven’t dated anyone.”

“Claire doesn’t count?”

He missed a step and barely avoided stomping on his mother’s foot. “How did you… I’m not dating Claire.”

“Too late. You’re not as slick as you think you are. I’ve seen the way you look at her.”

“You’re imagining things, you crazy old bat,” he said with what he hoped was a casual grin. If he made a joke, maybe she wouldn’t notice the heat he could feel rising up his neck. “You must need your bifocals checked.”

She pinched the back of his neck.

“Ow!”

“That’s for being disrespectful to your mother.” She pinched him again. “And that’s for whatever you did to hurt our Claire.”

“Who says I did anything?”

“I say. You’re the reason she’s got that lost look in her eyes these days, aren’t you? Drat you, James Riley. What were you thinking? Claire isn’t one of your stupid California bimbos.”

“I know that. Believe me, I know,” he said in a low voice.

His mother stared at him, eyes narrowed. He tried to look away, but she must have seen something in his eyes because she stopped moving, just stood stock-still right there on the dance floor.

She gripped his face in her hand and looked into his eyes and he couldn’t look away, although he was grimly aware all the misery eating away his insides must be right there for the world to see.

“You’re in love with her. Oh, sweet heavens.”

“No,” he said quickly and pulled his face away. “So are we done dancing? The music is not quite over.”

He should have just pulled a double shift, as he’d wanted to. That had been his master plan, but Katherine
Thorne had basically ordered him here to make an appearance. Did the half hour he had been here already cover any political obligation he might have?

“What did you do to her?” his mother asked, a voice loud enough they were starting to draw attention.

“Nothing,” he insisted. “Absolutely nothing. Can we talk about this another time?”

“No, I want to know what you did. Did I actually raise my son to be that big of an idiot that he wouldn’t recognize a woman like Claire for the best thing that ever happened to him? Yes, she might be a bit older than your usual ditzes, but that only gives her a depth and maturity. She’s smart, she’s beautiful, she’s compassionate. What else do you need, for heaven’s sake?”

“Ma, please stop. I agree. Claire is wonderful. You don’t think I know that? She’s perfect…and I’m not.”

She stared at him for a long moment, her eyes wide and slightly stricken.

“Riley—”

“Just give it a rest, Ma, okay? Thanks for the dance.”

He walked her to the edge of the dance floor, gave her a brief hug and then walked away before she could say any of the arguments he could see brewing in the green eyes he had inherited.

He had to get out of here. The crowd and the music pressed in on him and he was desperate for fresh air. He headed out the double doors into the lobby of the resort and kept going through the massive carved outside doors.

The cool mountain air was fresh and sweet. No
matter where he eventually ended up, that particular scent—sage and pine and wilderness—would always mean home.

The jazz music was still audible out here, though muted. Riley took a deep breath, wishing suddenly for a cigarette. He hadn’t smoked since his rebellious teens and had no intention of ever starting again, but once in a great while the fierce craving for that nicotine rush hit him like a fist to the gut.

A thin blur of smoke drifted to him. Cigar. An expensive one. Apparently someone else had the same craving.

He turned his head, squinting into the shadows. He saw only a dark shape there and the red glow of the cigar until the other man stepped into the light from the chandelier of entwined elk antlers that hung from the massive log support beam overhead.

“McKnight,” Harry Lange greeted, his voice gruff and the cigar clamped between his teeth.

“Mr. Lange,” he said just as curtly. He wasn’t in the mood to be polite, especially not to the sour bastard who owned half the town, including this resort. He should just keep walking, maybe stroll around the hotel perimeter just to make sure Lange’s security was up to par. He started to take a step, but the other man spoke before he could.

“Big turnout.”

Riley sighed. He couldn’t be rude, much as he would like to. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

Harry harrumphed. “Why? Because I think most of the people in this town have shit for brains?”

Riley couldn’t help his small smile. Was it because
Harry Lange had more money than God that turned him so contrary or had he been that way even before the real estate deals that had cemented his fortune?

“Yeah, something like that. I didn’t think you were generally part of the town social scene.”

Harry puffed his cigar. “Seems like a good cause, a memorial for that dead girl. I figured I might bid on the Sarah Colville painting. I’ve got a couple of hers already. I’d like to add a few more to my collection, but for some reason she refuses to sell me any more, at least not directly. I figure this is a good way to pick one up on the cheap. People around here don’t know quality when it bites them on the ass and I figure I’ve got deeper pockets than anyone else in town. It will probably be a steal.”

Using a benefit auction to hunt for bargains. Definitely sounded like a Harry Lange tactic. The man had turned being unpleasant into an art form. He remembered suddenly that Claire had told him Harry and Mary Ella were carrying on some sort of feud. He could easily picture Lange holding a grudge over anything, no matter how inconsequential, if he were in the mood. But Riley still couldn’t wrap his head around the idea that his mother would ever retaliate in kind.

“The dead girl was one of your sister’s kids, wasn’t she?”

Riley released a heavy breath, picturing Layla, all Goth and attitude.

“Yeah. Maura’s youngest.”

“Maura. She’s the one who married that musician, right?” There seemed to be more than normal curiosity in the other man’s voice, although Riley couldn’t
figure out why Harry Lange would be so interested in his family.

“Yeah. Layla’s father was Chris Parker. The rock star.”

Maura hadn’t had the greatest of luck, men-wise. She was another McKnight who struggled in the relationship department. She’d gotten pregnant with Sage when she was only seventeen, although she’d never revealed the father’s identity. Whoever the son of a bitch was, he’d never stepped forward to support his kid—just another reason Riley had been so determined to marry Lisa Redmond when they found out she was pregnant. He had seen how rough things had been on Maura and on Sage. No way would he have put a kid of his through that.

Maura started dating Chris Parker when Sage was three or four, although none of the family had been too sure about the relationship, Riley remembered. At the time, Parker’s rock band was playing weekend gigs at bars and casinos. They’d married, but stayed together just a handful of years, long enough to have Layla, before Parker hit the big time. Maura didn’t talk about it, at least not with him, but Riley had a feeling the guy hadn’t wanted the burden of a family on his climb to the top.

“I haven’t seen your sister around tonight.”

“She didn’t make it,” he said. No way would Maura have been strong enough emotionally for this. She was still lost and grieving and refusing to let anybody try to help.

Harry puffed on his cigar. “I would have thought she’d at least show up to say thank you, what with
everybody going to all this trouble in her kid’s memory.”

He didn’t dislike that many people, but for a brief instant, Riley wanted to reach a hand out and shove that cigar right down Harry Lange’s throat. “She’s…having a rough time,” he managed to say calmly. “Right now she needs to grieve in her own way.”

Harry puffed again. “Do you remember I was there?” he said after a moment. “At the scene? There wasn’t a thing anyone could have done for that girl. She was dead before I even made it to the scene, just a few minutes after the accident. I guess it’s some relief she didn’t suffer.”

Was that Harry’s idea of offering his condolences? It was a damn good thing Maura
hadn’t
come. Riley didn’t think she would necessarily find that a comfort.

“What were you doing out that time of night in the snow when you spied the break-in?” he asked suddenly, a question he’d wondered but never had the chance to ask in all the craziness after.

“Walking my dogs,” Lange said, his voice curt again.

That struck him as both incongruous and rather sad. He knew Lange lived alone in a huge house near here. His wife had died years ago and as far as Riley knew, the man had never remarried. He’d had a son several years older than Riley who’d left town just out of high school and rumor was the two of them had come to blows beforehand.

For all his success, the man had no one except some
dogs to share it, and had become bitter and reclusive in his old age.

No parallels whatsoever to his own life, Riley assured himself.

“We should probably go back in,” he said. “The music has stopped, which means they’ll be starting the auction soon. You’ve got a painting to steal out from everyone else, don’t you?”

The old man tipped his cigar, a look of almost amusement in his eyes. “We’ve got time. They’ll save the good stuff for last. Right now they’re probably getting ready to auction a quilt or a flower arrangement or some other garbage like that. I hear you’re having a bit of trouble with the city council.”

Riley scratched his eyebrow. He should have walked away when he had the chance. “So I hear.”

He probably ought to be a little more upset by the apparent wavering of confidence in him by the people who had hired him. He had no doubt he could easily prove himself to the town in time, but the truth was, he couldn’t bring himself to care much, especially because he was considering leaving anyway. The last two weeks had been hell, living down the street from Claire, driving past her store on patrol, knowing she was so close but impossibly out of reach.

“I think it’s a bunch of hooey, if you want my opinion,” Lange said. “That J. D. Nyman’s a pissy little prick and always has been. Stirring up trouble behind a man’s back. What a pansy.”

The words surprised a smile out of him. “Man’s got a right to his opinion.”

“I guess.” Lange gave him a long, measuring look
before puffing one last time on his cigar stub, then tossing it in the ashtray. “Doesn’t mean his opinion holds a drop of water.”

He didn’t quite know how to respond to that rather flattering, if unspoken, seal of approval.

“For what it’s worth, I’ve got no beef with the job you’ve done since you came here. I was there that night. I saw you back off the chase and shut down your lights when you realized how slick the road had become. I don’t see how anyone can blame you for what happened.”

“I… Thank you.”

“Unlike J. D. Nyman’s, my opinion does matter around here. One of the few benefits of being the richest man in town. People tend to listen when I open my yap. You want me to, I can make it clear to those boneheads on the city council I still think you’re the right man for the job. That should shut them up.”

Riley scrambled for an answer. “Uh, while I appreciate the offer, to tell the truth I’m beginning to think this job might not be the best fit for me after all. Maybe it would be better all the way around if I just saved the city council the trouble and paperwork of firing me.”

Harry’s expression was scathing. “Your mother must be so proud to know she raised her only son to be a quitter, running away like a little girl at the first sign of trouble.”