Cavanaugh's Surrender (13 page)

His smile was amused—and damn annoying—as he said, “But I do.”

Destiny sighed. Arguing with this man was like willingly banging her head against a wall—and just about as satisfying. Deciding to ignore him, she went back to carefully scanning each and every page.

She’d almost gone through the whole thin book when she saw it. A section that hadn’t absorbed water from the leaking refrigerator.

And there was writing on it.

Every inch of her became alert as she squinted at the dry pages. There were still words missing, words that probably had gotten a little wet and then faded away when the paper dried. But she could make out a name. Just barely.

Her eyes widened. “Drake Simmons.”

Because watching her turn pages threatened to put him to sleep, Logan had begun a second survey throughout the kitchen, going through spice jars at random, looking beneath the sink. The sound of her hushed voice had him looking up.

“What did you say?”

Beckoning him over, she waited until he was beside her and then she pointed to the top of the page that had caught her attention. She ran the tip of her finger beneath a line. “It looks like she wrote down ‘Drake Simmons.’”

For a second, he couldn’t recall where he’d seen the name before. And then it came to him. That was the last name on the list of contributors that Mrs. Ruben had given them.

Glancing over Destiny’s shoulder at the copybook on the counter, he could make out the name—now that she’d said it. But nothing else, either before the name or after it, was even remotely clear.

Logan raised his eyes to hers. His were far less exhilarated than hers.

“Is she just mentioning that she has an appointment to see him, or did she make this notation because they had a date?” he asked.

Destiny shook her head. “I can’t make out anything that would tell us,” she said haplessly.

“When she kept a diary, was it just to chronicle who she had a crush on, or was it like a miniautobiography?” he asked her.

Destiny wished with all her heart it was the former but she had to be honest.

“More like the latter. Paula liked rereading sections of it to see where her head was at at a particular time. I got the impression that her diary wasn’t just to record the way she felt about things—or any one person. It was the sum total of her day-to-day activities.”

“Great,” he muttered. Then, curious, he asked, “Did you keep a diary like your sister?”

She shook her head. “I was too busy—and much too tired at the end of the day to come up with the energy to write. Why?” she asked.

Logan lifted his shoulders in a careless shrug, turning into the personification of innocence right in front of her eyes.

“No reason,” he assured her. “Just curious.”

Her gut told her that there was more to it than that, but it was safer all around not to push the subject. Maybe if she didn’t, it would fade away.

Just like the effects of his kiss.

Yeah, good luck with that,
she mocked herself. Because right now, she could still feel his lips on hers, and it was doing one hell of a number on the rest of her.

Destiny made a mental note not to let it happen again.

* * *

Having gleaned every single shred of information possible from her sister’s body, the medical examiner released Paula’s remains to her the next day. The doctor, a grandfatherly type who looked as if he was more suited to donning a Santa Claus costume and gathering small children onto his knee than meticulously dissecting bodies and then sewing them together again, looked at Destiny with kindness in his eyes. He was accustomed to working with her looking over his shoulder and asking questions, not having her as the deceased’s next of kin. It made for a very awkward, uncomfortable situation.

“I’m really very, very sorry for your loss, Destiny,” Raymond Mathews said in a low, sympathetic voice, his Deep South upbringing weaving itself around every syllable. “Doesn’t seem like nearly enough to say, but I am.”

She did her best to smile as she nodded her head. “Thank you,” she murmured.

This was such an unnatural position for her to be in. She was ordinarily on the clinical end of things, not the emotional end. She felt guilty and angry and incredibly sad as she viewed her sister’s reconstructed body.

The stitching, she noted, was exceptionally neat and small. Dr. Matthews had taken extra care to try to call as little attention as possible to the fact that her sister had been autopsied, and she appreciated it. Appreciated, too, though she had no idea how to express it, that rather than continue the investigation on his own while she was busy, Logan seemed to have opted to accompany her down to the M.E.’s terrain to reclaim her sister.

Logan watched her now, for the moment fading into the shadows. He’d sensed, despite her claims to the contrary and insisting that she was “fine,” that Destiny could really use someone to lean on.

He was also fairly certain that his father’s chief assistant was far too stubborn to admit as much. His suspicions were validated when, after telling him that he didn’t need to do this, he saw a flicker of gratitude in her sky-blue eyes.

Which was why he also “tagged along,” a silent but strong presence, when she went to make final arrangements at the funeral home.

* * *

Edward Michaels, the director of Michaels & Sons, the funeral home that Sean had referred her to, appeared momentarily surprised when she said that she didn’t want the typical three-day viewing period for her sister.

“I want the funeral to take place tomorrow, so just do what you have to do to get my sister ready,” she told the man.

“Why are you in such a hurry?” Logan commented in a low voice, meant only for her ears.

“I’m not,” she bit off impatiently, then reined in her temper.

This wasn’t Logan’s fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault—except for whoever had done this to Paula. She had to remember to keep her anger focused in the right direction and not let it flare the way it had been these past few days. She couldn’t allow her normally even temper to be all over the map like this.

She lifted her shoulders in an indifferent shrug, letting them drop again. “She’s dead. I don’t want people staring at her.”

Destiny couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so drained. Maybe never. The moment the medical examiner had released Paula’s body to be transported, she’d gotten on the phone and called every number Paula had listed in her cell phone. She informed each and every one of the more than one hundred people of Paula’s death, listened to their words of shock and condolences, then quietly told each person on the other end of her phone where and when the funeral services would be held.

Exhausted, she’d gone directly to the funeral home from there. Her shadow had insisted on accompanying her despite her protests. She was secretly grateful he had. She wasn’t all that sure she was up to driving back to the precinct again.

And then, out of the blue, she thought of something.

Logan saw the startled expression on her face and automatically turned around. He expected to see someone walking into the chapel-quiet room.

But there was no one in it but the two of them. The director was still there, but he was just about to slip out of the room.

“What’s the matter?” Logan asked her.

“I just realized that I’m going to have to hold a reception for the people who attend the funeral, aren’t I? They’re going to want to eat afterward.” She closed her eyes, as if searching for strength. She wasn’t given to hosting even intimate get-togethers over dinner, much less something on such a large scale.

Logan smiled. He might not be able to help her deal with the pain, but here at least he could provide her with the kind of help she needed.

“Don’t worry,” he assured her. “I can handle the reception for you.”

Destiny looked at him, slightly bewildered. What was he saying? That he’d direct all the attending mourners to the local fast-food/take-out restaurant for her?

“You?” she echoed, waiting for him to explain further.

“Well, not me directly,” he qualified with a laugh. Boiling eggs was a challenge for him. But it was all about networking and knowing where to turn. “But I can get this covered for you,” he promised.

This new, enlarged family of his was turning out to be very handy. All he had to do in this case was call Andrew Cavanaugh. He was fairly certain he didn’t even have to give the man all the particulars of the situation. The man’s abilities to pull meals together—be they for four people or four hundred—were all but legendary.

On top of that, according to what his father told him, the former chief of police thoroughly enjoyed doing it. He’d heard that there was none better when it came to having everything ready at the same time as well as
on
time.

“You’re telling me you have access to a fairy godmother?” she quipped. To her, holding a last-minute reception—and pulling it off with some amount of success—was in the realm of magic.

Logan grinned at her. She was beginning to find that grin more and more unsettling—as well as annoyingly appealing.

“Almost.”

“With their own cooking show?” she added, because as far as she was concerned, it would take a professional to pull this off. Everyone she called to tell them about Paula had sincerely promised to be there. Her sister’s friends and coworkers were that affected by the news of her death.

“Even better,” Logan told her. He paused for dramatic effect, though for the life of him he wouldn’t have been able to say why helping her out both amused and pleased him as much as it did. “This is my father’s brother’s specialty. From what I’m told, you just have to tell him approximately how many people to expect and he’ll take it from there.”

Though she still found it hard to accept such effortless generosity, it was a tremendous relief.

“I’m not sure,” she confessed. “Two hundred, two hundred and fifty.” And if they all brought someone with them, that would make the number all but unmanageable.

Who was she kidding? If she were doing this, feeding four people would be unmanageable to her.

But Logan appeared completely unshaken by the fluctuating response. Instead, he merely nodded and said, “Hence the word
approximate
. Don’t worry, ‘Uncle’ Andrew can handle it. The man loves a challenge, and from what I’ve heard he’s never had a single occasion where he’s run out of food or had to turn someone away. He’s close to a miracle worker,” he added without any fanfare.

There was just one small problem. “But he doesn’t know me.”

“Maybe not, but he knows me and I know you—as does my dad.” His eyes held hers. He could see another protest coming. It was obvious that the woman didn’t like to be beholden to anyone. “Let me do this one thing for you,” he said softly.

Damn it, there went her pulse again. At the most inopportune time, she thought in unbridled annoyance. What
was
it about Logan Cavanaugh that messed so badly with her inner peace?

“Okay,” she heard herself saying. “If you think he won’t mind—”

“He won’t.”

“—I’d really appreciate it,” she concluded.

He was on his cell phone, calling his father, before she’d uttered the last word.

Chapter 10

D
estiny stood off to the side of the living room, looking around at all the people here and throughout the first floor and the backyard. Earlier, they’d filled the small church beyond its capacity.

She’d had no idea that Paula had touched so many people. Her sister had certainly come a long way from the angry, rebellious teenager who insisted on arguing with her over everything at every turn. Paula had obviously gotten it together far better than she had, Destiny thought with no small pride. God knew she didn’t know this many people.

The people she’d called to notify about her sister’s funeral service had obviously called other people, and the small church where the service was held had gone from full to standing room only.

There, again, Logan had surprised her by coming through for her. Although both she and Paula had had religious instructions as children, they’d drifted away from attending Sunday services or being part of any church in Aurora. She knew Paula would have wanted someone officiating over her funeral, and the thought of leaving it up to the funeral director hadn’t really been what she’d wanted to do.

“How about my uncle Adam?” Logan had asked her when she’d told him the problem.

“What about your uncle Adam?” she’d said. She hadn’t even known Logan
had
an uncle Adam, but that was obviously no longer the question. Why was he volunteering the man?

As it turned out, Father Adam Cavelli belonged to Logan’s first family—the relatives he and his siblings had grown up believing were his father’s brothers and sisters. Father Adam was a priest at St. Jude, a small, fifty-year-old church located on the far side of Aurora. When the hospital mix-up between his father and the real Sean Cavelli had come to light, the priest had made it clear that he was still their uncle, still loved them just the same as he had when they had been “the bratty Cavellis, driving saints crazy,” and nothing would change that. He’d told them that he would continue to be available to them anytime, day or night.

It was when Logan told her that his uncle could take care of her sister’s funeral service that she’d stared at her new partner in utter, fascinated disbelief.

“My God, Logan, you Cavanaughs are like one-stop shopping. Police protection, legal counsel, dinner and last rites—it’s all taken care of in one neat little package. Unbelievable!”

“You might not want to say ‘dinner’ and ‘last rites’ in the same breath if you’re talking around Uncle Andrew,” Logan had advised. “He might not find it amusing.”

Flustered, she’d murmured, “Right.” There was no way she wanted to take a chance on insulting Andrew Cavanaugh, even accidentally.

So, thanks to Logan’s efforts and, she was certain, in no small way Sean’s input, she had both the funeral services and the reception that immediately followed all taken care of. That left her with very little to do—except to grieve.