Bones and Roses (18 page)

I wrap my fingers around my steaming mug to warm them. I can't seem to shake the chill that had set in earlier, despite the coziness of my kitchen and dry clothes I'd changed into. Not because I'm still afraid of Stan but because I fear he was telling the truth. “You think my life is in danger?”

“I do. The old man may be dead, but it looks like his son is carrying on the family tradition. Either he got wind of the fact that you were asking questions or somebody tipped him off.” I wonder if it was Daniel. Had he unwittingly placed me in the crosshairs? “That's why I'm here. When I heard he drove you home after posting bond, I figured it was my duty to warn you before it was too late.”

“Who told you he posted bond?”

“Desk sergeant at the station.”

I lift an eyebrow at him. “What, you called to make sure I was locked up and no longer a menace to society?”

“I wish.” He rolls his eyes. “I told 'em I was dropping the charges against you.”

“Gee, I'm touched.”

“Well, I don't mind telling you I was mighty glad to see you coming up that walk.” A reluctant smile edges onto his weather-beaten face. “If you're smart, you'll steer clear of Trousdale. Don't make the same mistake as your mom. Let sleeping dogs lie—the mean ones bite.”

“Her only mistake was in thinking she could escape. She should have gone to the press. They're always looking for a juicy story, even if the cops would've blown her off.” I should know; I'd had reporters snapping at my heels after the story broke about my discovering my mother's remains. “If Leon had been under public scrutiny, he wouldn't have dared lay a finger on her.”

“Maybe.” Stan ponders this, his expression darkening.

“Did she make copies of everything she'd found? You know, bank statements, loan documents, correspondence with the insurance company, that kind of thing?”

He gives a lackluster nod. “She had a whole file. It was in a safe deposit box at the bank, but she'd gotten it out to take with us. When I went to look for it after she … after.” He blinks and clears his throat. “It was gone. He must've found it. And destroyed it along with the original documents.”

“I don't doubt it, but from your description it sounds like it was quite the paper trail, so maybe there are still traces of it. Stuff that was overlooked or misfiled, copies he didn't know existed.” I'd worked in a busy office where papers regularly and mysteriously went missing—like all the socks that get “eaten” by clothes dryers—and we're talking about an era when paperless wasn't an option.

“Wouldn't it have been chucked at some point?”

“Not necessarily. I'll bet there's boxes of old files in storage at the Fontana.” Even companies that have gone paperless keep archives of everything that gets filed away in case of an IRS audit and then forgotten about. “Think of it as an archeological dig, a bone here, a potsherd there, and little by little a picture forms. I only need enough of a picture to raise questions. The tabloids aren't scrupulous about fact-checking, you may have noticed. Unless you believe Jennifer Aniston has been pregnant more times than is humanly possible. They'd eat it up. The billionaire who allegedly tried to kill his wife implicated in several other murders? Throw in interviews with the victims' grieving family members and you've got the makings of a media frenzy. Douglas wouldn't dare come near me. The police might even be pressured into opening an investigation.”

Stan remains skeptical. “Even if you're right, you can't just waltz in and start poking around.”

“True,” I agree. “But it just so happens I know someone who has access. Someone who I'm reasonably certain would be only too willing to assist me in getting the goods on Mr. Trousdale.”

“And who would that be?”

“Mrs. Trousdale.”

I tumble into bed after seeing Stan out, only to be rudely awakened a mere five hours later by the alarm clock I only vaguely recall having set before I fell asleep, out of an even more dimly remembered sense of duty. I could easily sleep another eight hours, but I have work to do. I shuffle into the kitchen, where I nuke the dregs from the coffee pot and sit down to make some calls.

The first one is to McGee. We were supposed to meet at the firing range at eight-thirty for another lesson, but in my current, sleep-deprived state I'd probably miss if I were to shoot at a barn door while standing right in front of it. “Sorry it's last minute,” I apologize about having to cancel.

“Your funeral,” he rasps.

I groan. “Don't. Not even in jest. You have no idea what I went through last night.” I tell him the whole, hairy tale, starting with my bungled burglary attempt and subsequent arrest and ending with Stan's shocking revelation. “I'm still trying to wrap my brain around it. Leon Trousdale a serial killer? My God. He was the Deepak Chopra of his day around here. I remember my mom telling me he used to get these huge turnouts whenever he'd give a lecture, complete with groupies. He was like a cross between a rock star and a televangelist.”

“Like Jim Jones. Till his followers drank the Kool-Aid,” McGee intones darkly.

“Leon was every bit as evil, just not on a mass scale. And from what I can see, the apple didn't fall far from the tree with his son. Talk about the father-son duo from hell.”

“Reminds me of when I was a rookie working vice. This one time? We picked up a guy for soliciting along with his sixteen-year-old son. Turned out it was a regular thing with them; every Saturday night they'd go trawling for prostitutes. Heart-warming to see such family togetherness.”

“Ugh. That's disgusting.”

“You were lucky you got home in one piece.” His voice gruff with concern, he asks, “You okay?”

“Yes … no. I'm not, actually, unless you define ‘okay' as having a pulse.” I close my eyes and rub with two fingers where a vein is throbbing in my right temple. “I didn't get to sleep until three in the morning.”

“What are doing up so early?”

“Early bird gets the worm. Except I don't know if I'm the bird or the worm.”

“Well, if you need me, you know where to reach me.” This is the closest we've come to a Disney Family Channel moment. “Meanwhile I'll do some poking around, see what else I can dig up.” Seems I awoke a sleeping bear in enlisting McGee. Once a cop always a cop. And knowing him, I have no doubt he's got something up his sleeve. I just hope it's an ace and not his Glock 9 mm revolver.

I'm hanging up when I hear the soft thump of the cat door. Hercules returning from his pre-dawn prowls. He pads over to me and sinks onto his haunches, tail twitching, looking up at me expectantly. His Royal Highness doesn't like to be kept waiting. “No luck finding any mice, huh?” I give him a scratch behind the ears before getting up to replenish his food and water bowls. He usually has something to show for his hunting expeditions, though I can't say I'm not grateful to be spared the sight of a bloody corpse, if only the small, feathered or furry kind.

My next call is to Ivy. I know it's bad when she doesn't advocate going all vigilante on Douglas but advises caution instead, after I've brought her up to date. “I don't know, Tish. Maybe you should take a step back. For God's sake, the man's a sociopath! And you know what's more dangerous than a sociopath? A stinking rich sociopath. He can afford to hire a hit man. And not just any hit man. I'm talking shady-foreign-government-ex-military.”

“You sound like my brother.” I laugh, but it's a nervous laugh.

Then she says something that scares me even more: “You should call Daniel.”

She must
really
be worried if she'd have me invoking the wrath of my boyfriend, whom she doesn't even like.

“You're right. I should. And I will.” I'm a bad person and even worse girlfriend for waiting this long to return the five, increasingly frantic messages he's left on my voicemail. It's just that I don't need a lecture. Which is exactly what I get when I finally get around to phoning him.

“Jesus, Tish, what were you thinking? You could've been killed! You're lucky you were only arrested.”

“Yes, I'm fine, thank you for asking,” I reply testily.

“Oh, no. You're not putting this on me.” I've never heard him sound so angry. “I have every right to be upset. If you'd listened to me in the first place …”

“I was desperate, okay? I needed answers and I wasn't getting any from Spence.”

“And look where it got you.”

“Fine, I admit it wasn't the smartest move. But would you please hold off on the lecture at least until I've fully woken up and my head stops throbbing?” I rub my temple where it's still pulsing.

“This isn't just about you, you know,” he says in a voice thick with hurt and disappointment. “I was worried sick! You could have had the decency to return my phone calls at the very least. Where I come from, that's not how you treat someone you care about.”

“If you cared about
me
, you wouldn't have thrown me in the lion's den,” I snap. “You knew I didn't trust Douglas. How could you?” I no longer think it was Daniel who, unwittingly, placed me in the crosshairs—more likely it was Genevieve, currying favor with the man she'd hoped to one day call father-in-law—but that doesn't change the fact that he put me at risk. “Look, we were both wrong,” I say in a gentler voice. “And I'm sorry I worried you.”

“It wasn't only that. You lied to me.”

“I didn't. I just …”

“Omitted the truth. Same thing.”

He's right, and I feel bad for hurting him. Besides the fact that I
do
care about him, he's a good guy. He's dedicated his life to cleaning up the ocean and making the world a better place. Whereas all I seem to be doing is making a mess of things. “I'm sorry. I should have told you. I wasn't thinking.”

“No, you weren't,” he agrees. “You weren't thinking about me at all.”

I have nothing to say to that. Because it would only lead to a conversation about our general unsuitability as a couple, which I'm not ready to have. I can only repeat once more that I'm sorry.

My final phone call of the morning is to the “puff,” where I speak with the assistant day supervisor, Candace Arnold. Like the holiday-themed clothing she favors at Christmastime, the registered nurse and grandmother of four is nothing if not cheerful. She assures me my brother is adjusting well and on his best behavior. “Good as gold, bless his heart.” I'm less than reassured. Last time those words were used to describe him, it was only because they had him so doped up, he was a virtual zombie. But I can't think about that right now; I have too much else to worry about.

No sooner do I hang up on Candace than the phone rings. A glance at my caller ID has me smiling when a minute ago I was frowning. The sound of Bradley's voice acts on me like a tonic, reviving my pulse and stirring my bludgeoned senses back to life. “Morning. Did I wake you?”

“Not a chance. A pot of coffee and I'm still dragging.”

“Well, at least you're still in the land of the living.”

“If my vital signs are any indication.”

“That bad, huh?”

“I've had worse nights, but none that didn't involve my getting shitfaced.”

“How about I buy you breakfast and you can tell me all about it?”

“Sounds tempting, but I'm afraid I wouldn't make very good company. I didn't get much sleep last night.”

“All the more reason. You could probably do with some nourishment.”

“Another eight hours of sleep is more like it.”

“Is that an option?”

“I wish. Unfortunately, duty calls.” My properties are like household pets. Leave them unattended for any length of time and you'll be looking at puddles on the floor and other nasty surprises.

“We can grab a bite before work, in that case. I won't take no for an answer.”

I hesitate only a beat. “Meet me at the Bluejay in an hour.” I'm helpless to resist, even as the little voice in my head I've been ignoring lately whispers,
You'll regret this
. How can I look him in the eye, knowing what I know?

I arrive to find the restaurant packed with a line stretching out the door—reminiscent of a Vermont country kitchen with wooden farm tables and white wainscoting, Hoosier cabinets and walls hung with photos of the owner's grandparents' chicken farm, the Bluejay is a cozy alternative to the breezier beach-themed eateries in this town, popular with locals and tourists alike—yet I'm not surprised to see Bradley seated, at one of the window tables no less. He's not the kind of man to cool his heels wherever there's a female to be dazzled into giving him preference, like the cute brunette hostess whose face fell when I walked past her headed for Bradley.

“Hey.” His face lights up, and he stands to greet me.

“Hey.” My heart is pounding. He's more tempting than what's on the menu, savory and sweet rolled into one delicious package, with his bedroom eyes and aura of tangled sheets and passion-filled nights. He's wearing a gray hoodie over a Swiss Army T-shirt, black with the brand logo in red, and jeans that caress him the way I'd like to. His dark curls are still damp from the shower, a reminder of our first, fateful meeting, which, it occurs to me, was a foreshadowing of what was to come. His quick reflexes saved him from being injured when I'd hurled that vase at him, but he won't be able to protect himself from the bombshell about his grandfather when I go public with it.

I slide into the ladder-back chair opposite him. The window next to where we're sitting looks out on the patio that comprises the outdoor seating area, where morning fog lingers and the only creature stirring is a squirrel nibbling an acorn. When I bring my gaze back to Bradley, I find him studying me. “You don't look like someone who's running on empty,” he remarks, smiling.