Chill Factor (38 page)

“Who invited him?” he demanded.

“J. Claude attended Bill’s funeral—I knew he’d want to be here for Edna’s.” Dixie turned to study Marty’s face. “It didn’t take long to figure out that Derry Hager was the friend you went to see those times you supposedly flew back to Dallas.”

He reddened belligerently. “You didn’t invite Derry, too. Tell me you didn’t!”

“It would’ve been rude not to, Marty.” As she spoke, Dixie saw Amy at the front door admitting Derry and Felicia Hager.

Despite his anger, Marty’s entire body seemed to relax as he watched Derry. Dixie had seen that same response in him when they were both teenagers and Derry Hager was a young adult. A sexy young adult. Dixie’d had a brief crush on Derry herself. Very brief. She’d never liked the way he manipulated people. Now she wondered if half the world’s population was manipulating the other half in some manner.

“You can see why he’d never agree to be my alibi.” Marty’s gaze was on Felicia Hager now.

Hager-Cross Preschool owned six child-care centers in Houston, Dallas, and San Antonio. J. Claude had founded the business. Derry Hager and Felicia Cross, the couple who operated it, were married, childless, and thought to be the best news for preschoolers since
Sesame Street.
Even a whisper of homosexuality could destroy the school’s reputation.

“I can see why Derry would
hesitate
to be your alibi. But if you two are as close as I believe you are—”

Marty shook his head. “You’re wrong about inviting them here. After I dropped the bomb that Christmas, Dad avoided J. Claude, blamed him for ‘letting it happen.’ I tried to tell Dad that Derry’s father didn’t know—and still doesn’t know. But I don’t believe Dad and J. Claude ever spoke again.”

“They would have, if your father had lived past his anger.” Dixie’d never seen two better friends so different in personality. Bill Pine had left his military regimentation far behind
when he left the army, but not J. Claude. His demand for rigid discipline had alienated his son and sent his wife to divorce court.

Even now, Derry Hager merely nodded stiffly at his father. No trace of closeness. J. Claude’s manner with Felicia was friendly but formal, barely softening when his daughter-in-law kissed his cheek.

“Does Derry’s wife know?” Dixie asked.

“No. Felicia assumes he has an occasional affair, but she’d leave him in an instant if she knew the truth.”

“And he’s willing to let you go to jail to protect his lie?”

Marty sighed. “You just don’t understand.”

“I’m trying. And while we’re on the subject of truth—” From her pocket she tugged a small thin box that she’d pilfered from Amy’s gift-wrap supply, figuring a bag would smudge any fingerprints on the brass disk. She removed the lid. “How did this get into your mother’s casket?”

“What is it?”

“You don’t know?”

“Why should I?” He reached for the box.

Dixie lifted the coin by its edges to show him the engraving.

Marty shook his head, and seemed sincerely puzzled. She reminded herself he’d had plenty of experience with deception.

“Maybe it’s nothing.” Closing the box, she slid it back into her pocket as Amy approached.

“Marty, you won’t believe who’s here!” Amy scooped him away to greet the Hagers.

J. Claude had collected a circle of attentive listeners. He could always command an audience, Dixie recalled.

She meandered toward the bar. Parker’s Cadillac hadn’t been among the cars when she arrived, and she hadn’t seen him come in before she went to help Carl with drinks. It wasn’t like Parker to be late. Helping herself to a glass of chardonnay, she found herself standing near Terrence Jackson, who was carrying on a spirited conversation with Carl. Dixie overheard such words as “on-line investing” and “maximize your leverage.”

Jessica Love had been a no-show, with no apology. But
Lonnie Gray and his flawlessly decorated receptionist huddled in an obviously intimate conversation that suggested Lonnie wasn’t the fey gay he pretended to be.

Picturing the brown-haired woman wearing big sunglasses and carrying money bags, Dixie ambled casually within eavesdropping distance.

“You have to do this for me, Lonnie,” the woman crooned in a voice as smooth as the fabric stretched over her ripe curves. “Look at me, I’m a walking advertisement for Artistry. And we’ll meet women on this cruise with tubs of money. All you have to do is—”

“I know what to do,” Lonnie replied, without a hint of the drama he conveyed at the spa. “But do you
appreciate
what I do for you, sweetheart?”

“Maybe we should stop off at the spa, and I’ll show you my appreciation.” Her red mouth shaped an “O” as her fingers trailed down his leg.

Dixie spotted Vernice Urich conversing intently with Amy. Discussing what? Fornication, weight loss, direct transfer payments? Fortunately, Carl kept a sharp eye on the Royal family accounts. And Carl considered himself too wise an investor to be seduced by Terrence Jackson’s sales techniques—although a little of the Midas touch might push the Royal investments into new growth areas. While Jackson’s aggressive methods for acquiring clients might raise an eyebrow or two among more conservative financial planners, nothing Dixie had found on Jackson suggested he mishandled his clients’ money. And his success certainly spoke well for his persuasive sales techniques.

Persuasion. Seduction. Manipulation.
Dixie glanced at Derry Hager and Vernice Urich and felt surrounded by it. Lonnie Gray and his receptionist moved toward the door. Lonnie’s hand rested on the upper curve of her voluptuous hip.

Dixie saw other guests beginning to leave and decided this might be a perfect time for her to get the hell out, too. Obviously, Parker had decided not to come. Another boat sale?

Marty bumped against her, carrying a glass of what smelled like straight Scotch. The gleam of its effect showed in his eyes.

“Are we planning to work on my case tomorrow?” he asked. “Or do snoops take holidays off?”

“I’m not sure how much more I can do.” She could have the brass disk dusted for fingerprints, and then find someone to run a comparison … but against whose? Marty’s? No better suspect had surfaced yet. HPD could match them against millions of prints on file. “We The People” would cause a few brows to furrow. The right thing was to hand over the disk and Tally’s sketch to Rashly. She’d find herself in trouble for withholding evidence, but she could only die once.

“If you weren’t going to help,” Marty blurted, “then why did you take my case?”

“I agreed to find out about your mother’s lifestyle changes these past months. That’s all. If the entire FBI task force, with their unlimited resources, can’t find this cop killer, what do you expect me to do, Marty? Magic?”

Marty sipped his Scotch. “Maybe I should hire a
real
investigator.”

“A damn good idea. Maybe a willing friend is not what you need.” Dixie pushed past him toward the door, but found herself face-to-face with Parker as Meanstreak started a rendition of “Tennessee Waltz,” one of Edna’s favorites. When had he arrived?

“Perfect timing.” Parker gathered Dixie into a waltz step. “Am I showing my age,” he asked, “when I say I like this music?”

“It’s easier to dance to than rap,” she agreed.

He drew her closer, his mouth brushing the hair at her temple. That spot inside her that always turned to liquid when he came near did its melting routine. She relaxed against his broad chest. The heat from his body and the clean sea-air scent of him triggered provocative memories.

Then he spun her away, and when he drew her back again, left space between them. She looked up into his familiar blue eyes.

“Parker, what’s happening with us?” she asked impulsively.

He raised an eyebrow. “Dancing, aren’t we? And doing a good job of it, I thought.”

She suppressed the urge to stomp on his foot.

He whirled her, then drew her firmly close again. “Have you ever considered traveling around the world?”

“On a boat?”

“Partially. I may have a yacht to deliver down the coast to the Yucatán. Usually, we hire someone to make delivery. But I’m working on another deal in the Caribbean. We could go together.”

“The Caribbean is not exactly ‘around the world.’”

He maneuvered her even closer and murmured in her ear. “Spend a few romantic weeks hopping from island to island, then fly to wherever sounds like fun.”

Anywhere that didn’t include a bail jumper to bring in or a defense attorney who needs a bit of off-the-record investigation.
Parker was never happy staying in one spot for long. And his body language made it clear that this “round the world” excursion would revive the intimacy they’d shared before he became so distant. She loved him so much it was damned tempting. But she couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling he’d been withholding sex as a sort of punishment. Or a carrot.

Now he was telling her,
Come play with me. Forget responsibility and career and family and roots.

Maybe the smidgen of Apache blood that ran through her veins caused the suspicion to infuriate her. She didn’t jump to anyone’s whistle, not even Parker’s. Enticing her one moment with his words and gestures, those soft murmurs in her ear, the sensuous brush of his lips. Then keeping her at a distance. Society had a name for
women
who used such tactics.

The waltz ended. Dixie murmured something about “mingling” and moved away from him. She’d had enough manipulation for one day. She paused near the piano to tell Amy what a fine job she’d done with a difficult project.

J. Claude Hager also appeared to be leaving. He stopped at the picture of Edna and Bill Pine that perched between candles on the draped piano. Straightening to military attention, he gave a brief salute to the photograph of his old friend. Then he strode briskly out the door.

Twenty years past retirement but always the commander
, Dixie marveled.
Did people ever really change?

Change.
The stained-glass bauble Parker had given her reflected late-afternoon sunlight into the Mustang. Dixie untied it from the rearview mirror, wiped a drop of moisture from the corner of her eye, and rubbed it over the glass, deepening the colors. She never embraced change easily. Parker had moved out of her house, out of her life, the night before Valentine’s Day, after giving her the card containing this sentiment but before she’d had a chance to open it.
My day begins with your smile, your scent, your touch. Without those I would be cold and dark inside.
Obviously, his sentiment had changed

She opened her glove box and tossed the sunburst inside. Then she tuned the radio to hard, mind-numbing rock music and drove with no particular destination.

The prospect of another solitary evening sat in her stomach like cold split-pea soup. Reaching across to the passenger seat, she retrieved the copy of Mike’s invitation to the May Sundown Ceremony.

“We’ll start with some easy stretches to release the day’s tension,” Mike had said. To arrive before seven-thirty, she wouldn’t
have time to change. Her jeans and camp shirt were casual enough, if not what she’d generally choose for stretching.

At the moment, a “Sundown Ceremony”—whatever the hell that was—sounded perfect. Forget cop killers and gang symbols. Forget an engraved brass disk materializing in the hand of a corpse. Tomorrow, she would decide what to hand over to Rashly. But tonight she would relax, nudge herself out of the damn lovesick rut she’d been wallowing in, and enjoy a totally new experience.

Mike’s expressive face eased into her mind. Dixie smiled. Mike Tesche was personable, thoughtful, amusing—and about twelve percent body fat. Handsome was considerably overrated.

When Parker’s big, gorgeous face imposed itself over Mike’s, Dixie’s center did its quick melt again, and for an agonizing instant she felt like a puppy left out in the cold. But the instant passed. Parker’s grin faded, replaced by Mike’s intelligent green eyes. Tonight, she would take each moment as it came. No expectations. No judgment. No regrets.

On the interstate, she zipped through heavy traffic for Sunday evening, then turned east, into a densely wooded area. Beneath tall Texas pines, scrub oaks, and basswood trees, yaupon grew thick. The two-lane asphalt road wound gently northeast. She watched her odometer until she’d traveled six-point-four miles. A few yards farther along, she spied a gravel side road, the entrance flanked by a pair of stone markers. Each bore a
PRIVATE PROPERTY
sign.

Two miles later she reached a locked iron gate and another sign:
THE WINNING STRETCH HEALTH RETREAT
. Beneath that, in smaller letters:
NO ACCESS AFTER SUNDOWN
. She pushed a white button and spoke into the intercom.

“Dixie Flannigan to see Angela.”

“Hello, Dixie! We’re expecting you!” came a tinny reply.

After a moment, the gate opened and Dixie drove on. Here, the scrub brush had been cleared away and flowering shrubs planted. Finally, she came to a garden wall made of river stone, and behind it, a parking area.

A slate walkway meandered through a lavish garden bursting with color and fragrance and ended at a sprawling multilevel
house of river stone and cedar. The place looked so natural it could’ve been carved out of the landscape. When the front door opened, Dixie recognized the assistant who’d helped Mike lead his class at the women’s center.

“Hi, Dixie. I’m Angela. We’re so glad you could join us.” Wearing a simple white ankle-length jumpsuit, blond hair pulled back with a soft white scarf, she held out her arms in a greeting that was charmingly childlike.

Her effusive welcome reminded Dixie of Amy, who possessed the gift of making the most unwanted stranger feel like an honored guest.

Angela clasped Dixie’s hand in both of her own. “Oh, dear, you’ve had quite a day, haven’t you? I hope you didn’t mind that long drive. Did you have trouble finding us?”

Only the faint laugh lines around her wide brown eyes gave away Angela’s age as over fifty. From her clear, sweet voice and youthful mannerisms Dixie had pegged her at about eighteen. Maybe younger. The contrast was odd.