Cold Comfort (25 page)

"I'll drop you off at your place and call the Crab Pot out on the highway." He checked his watch. "Laura
—
that's Laura McClellan, the owner
—
might still be there. I'll pick up something while you clean up and pack."

* * *

Back in their cottage, Claire changed to her own clothes and made a pot of coffee while Riley showered and dressed. He called her into his bedroom, where she found him sitting on the side of the bed, rubbing his forehead.

"Will you put some more of Chester's ointment on my arm? I got the front, but I can't reach the back." He held out a small tin of yellowy grease.

"Why didn't you tell Mason it came from a gunshot?" She sighed, resigned to using the evil-smelling stuff. She knelt on the bed and tilted the lampshade to see the back of his shoulder. "Riley! It's a ragged hole." She leaned around to face him. "You've
got
to see a doctor. It's much worse than the front."

"It's just the exit point. It's clean and this stuff will work. I'll have it checked when we get back to Williamsburg. I'm not spending the night in a hospital discussing a gunshot wound with everybody and his brother."

"If Orson Welles were to announce the Martians have landed, I'd tell him he's too late
—
they've already taken over." She waved her hands wildly. "I sell Christmas ornaments
—
I bake cookies, for heaven's sake. How could this be happening to me? I'm surrounded by lunatics."

"All the world's queer, lass, but thee and me, and even thee's a little queer." He grabbed her with his good arm and kissed her, then laughed out loud. "You did look pretty bad when Chester found us. I guess he never heard of that swamp creature from a few years ago or he'd have shot us both."

Riley's cheery tone was certainly at odds with his appearance
—
Chester's hooch, she guessed. Her eyes watered when she sniffed the bottle. Whatever was in it, she didn't want to know. Sitting back and shaking her head, she rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. "God, I don't know what I did, but it must have been really terrible. If you'll just tell me, I swear I'll never do it again." She snatched a pillow and whacked Riley's good arm.

A knock at the cottage door interrupted them.

"Food." Riley grabbed his shirt and started out.

"Stay here." Claire sighed. "I'll let him in and then put the dog salve on you. You can cover it up before you come out."

"Hurry. I'm starving."

The smell of food must have been too much for him. He couldn't wait. She'd hardly greeted the deputy when Riley came out of the bedroom, his shirt buttoned wrong.

He picked up the sketch of Joey Fortunato he'd left on the counter earlier. "Will you give this to Killian in the morning? This is the guy who attacked Claire and I'd bet he was questioning MaryDell Baker in the nursing home. I think it's good enough for the staff to identify."

Claire leaned over to see. "That's him."

"Thanks, Riley." Snead folded it and slipped it in his pocket. "I'd sure like to catch the bas—the guy who killed doc." The deputy waved at several containers on the counter. "Here you go. Laura sent she-crab soup and crab cakes
—
the best low-country food you'll ever find. People come from miles away for it.
National Geographic
even wrote up the Crab Pot in a story."

After the first bite of crab cake, Claire believed it. The tender flakes melted on her tongue. Pure heaven.

Riley finished his and looked hopefully at hers.

"Don't even think about it." she said. "I'm not sharing." Love might be blind, but it didn't have to be stupid. She glanced at him, at the lumpy bandage under his sleeve. Someone also needed to stay strong and carry the other one through a cold swamp. She shook her head and handed him the soup container. He drained it.

* * *

Claire and Riley took Claire's rental and followed Mason Snead to his office to reserve a room in Georgetown. Riley, after an extended Internet search on the police computer, reserved a room at the Hampton Inn in Georgetown
—
he refused to stay anyplace that didn't advertise in-room coffeemakers, and he wanted something large and anonymous. Claire wanted a bed. Sagging in the wooden chair in Mason's office, she drifted while he talked.

"Nonsmoking. And make sure the coffee pot's ready to go." He yawned, inspiring a matching yawn from Claire. "Yes, Mr. and Mrs. William Burg."

Snead, standing by the window, snickered. His skeptical gaze swept over Riley; he turned to Claire. "You okay to drive?"

"Yes. The caffeine will keep me going a while longer."

After they thanked the young officer and drove away, Claire spared Riley a quick glance. "I don't think Officer Snead wanted to see you drive out of here, knowing what you drank at Chester's."

"Yeah, I got the message. Chester saved my life. He had everything
—
pain killer, medicine, and a dry blanket
—
except food."

"I'd like to do something for him. Do you think he'd take money?"

"Not from us. Send him some cookies."

In the dim interior light, she saw him smile. "What does that mean?"

"I showed him my ID and told him I could put a couple of hundred dollars on my expense account, made him give me a receipt for 'services rendered.' He didn't mind taking wet money from the government. I think he got a kick out of it."

"I'd like to see your ID myself. Is it real?"

"Of course it's real. Do you think I'd carry fake federal identification?"

She wasn't sure he'd answered her question, but she was too tired to care. She shook her head and rolled her shoulders, fighting the need to sleep. "Your job is to keep me awake till we get to Georgetown."

At midnight she parked at the Hampton Inn, and Mr. and Mrs. William Burg checked in. Riley gave them his credit card and ID. The clerk didn't question the disparity in names.

Claire dropped her bag by the door of their room. Riley, gray-faced and unsteady on his feet, did the same and collapsed on the nearest bed. He fell instantly asleep. She tugged off his shoes and belt and rolled him under the cover. Looking down at him, she longed to curl up beside him.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
She resolved to distance herself.

* * *

A groan wakened her. She opened one eye. A thin shaft of light angled across the bed. She traced it to a small opening between the drapes and peeked out to reddish morning light. Where was she? The groan sounded again. Riley—his shoulder must be bothering him. She pushed herself to a sitting position and squinted at the other bed. He might need a doctor.
My god, he carried me through a swamp with a hole in his shoulder.
Panicked, she reached out and turned on the light between the two beds, shielding her eyes.
Oh
. She ached in places she never knew existed. Poor Riley. He must feel terrible.

"Are you trying to blind me?"

The surly voice startled her. "Riley? Are you all right?"

"No. Turn off that light. Is the coffee ready?"

"What coffee? Did you already make it?"

"Make it? I can't move. Would you turn off the damn light?"

"No. Riley, I asked if you're all right." To her ears, he sounded cross, not feverish. Her tender concern dwindled.

"No, dammit."

"No, you're not Riley, or no, you're not all right?" She was feeling a little perverse herself. She recalled her decision to stay away from him. The man could fend for himself.

"Damnation. I've died and gone to hell."

Claire pushed back the covers and stood. Every movement was an effort. She staggered toward the bathroom.

"I hope you're going to make the coffee." He sat up, holding his head with both hands.

"Certainly," she said in her sweetest tone. "Poor man." Snatching up the remote from the TV, she punched Power and Volume. "Why don't you enjoy the morning news while it brews?"

"Aarrrgh!" He dived for the remote. "Are you trying to kill me?"

She dashed into the bathroom and slammed the door.

"You," he said outside the door, "have a sadistic streak."

"I," she said with smug satisfaction, "did not consume half a gallon of wood alcohol last night."

His footsteps, punctuated by unintelligible mutterings, receded.

She yanked a handful of tissues out of the box and blew her nose several times. The coffee beckoned. She made it only because
she
wanted some. Facing the mirror at last, she gasped at the creature who faced her. Claire scanned the unfamiliar woman. She'd slept in her clothes and it showed. Her nose rivaled Rudolph's, her snarled hair hung down one side of her face
—
her face! Swelling reduced her eyes to slits, a couple of angry red scratches marked her left cheek, and to complete the picture, she sneezed violently.

Sinking onto the toilet seat, she covered her face with her hands and listened to the coffee drip. Yesterday's revelations flashed through her mind. Tears filled her eyes. She deliberately turned her mind to Mistletoe, called up an image of the store. She wondered if Mary had enough cookies.

"Claire." Riley's heavy fist rapped on the door.

She started, opened her eyes.

"There's only one bathroom in here," he said. "What are you doing? If you've gone back to sleep—"

"Quit whining." She yawned and blinked. The coffee was done. Maybe she had slept. "I'm coming." She blew her nose again and poured coffee into a plastic cup. Clutching the precious liquid to her breast, she opened the door. "It's all yours."

"Good morning to you, too, Ms. Hyde." He stepped back, studying her. "I hope that coffee improves your disposition. Otherwise, Miss Manners will revoke your good citizen award."

Riley showered quickly and came out with wet hair, a towel tucked around his waist. He'd covered the wound in his shoulder with more salve—at least the front side—and tied a makeshift bandage from the supplies Chester gave him
—
probably the remains of the sheet. "Let's get some breakfast. I'll make some calls while you get ready. Jocko can pick us up at the airport, and I'll call someone to check out Greenville for us. I have a friend there. If we need to, we can go ourselves. Later."

She relented and took the salve, carefully patted it around the hole in the back of his shoulder. It did seem to be improving. Adjusting the bandage, she said to his broad back, "I really wanted to see Tammy again, and the house where I was born, where my mother died."

He turned and pulled her into his arms, kissed her swollen eyes. "I'll bring you back. I promise."

All her resolve melted. She was lost.

* * *

While Riley stared out the coffee shop window at the overcast sky, sipping his third cup of coffee, Claire buttered a biscuit. "I didn't expect them to find us here."

"I think the nursing home weasel tipped them. Fortunato probably left him a cash deposit and a number to call if anyone showed up."

"It just doesn't make sense. Why now?"

"Something happened to trigger the interest in you," he said. "Your existence may be a threat, but I can't see how. Whoever hired Fortunato doesn't know his— No rational person would deal with that two-bit thug. So I'm betting you're in someone's way."

He checked her plate for leftovers; his own was clean. Seeing him, she put her hand protectively over her biscuit. She felt better, but not that much. He could order more. Riley recovered in a disgustingly short time. Her head and body still protested last night's swamp trek.

"There's a time factor too," he went on. "Someone's in a hurry. Your father is probably somewhere in his sixties or seventies, so he should have a good many years left. Why now? If, in thirty-something years, he's never contacted you, then he either didn't know about you or didn't care. What would have changed?" He swirled the coffee in his cup, thinking aloud. "Was there much publicity about Blanche's death?"

"Not much. Only a local article about her teaching for so long, but it wasn't of any interest outside Williamsburg."

"Did the same lawyer handle all her legal affairs? Did she have a will?"

"Yes, Brent Littlejohn. She had a will. He took care of everything." She loaded her biscuit with strawberry jam and took a bite. "We've known them forever."

She thought a minute. "What about the
Southern Living
article? Could that be it?"

"Unlikely. It came out months ago, and you and Mistletoe were identified. Why wait until now?"

"I don't know. That's just the only publicity I can think of." Her head hurt and a sneeze tickled her nose. She wanted to sleep and let this all go away.

"Let's go back to the room. I need to check with Killian and call the rental company about the Tahoe. I'll get someone to take care of your Ford." He checked the sky through the window. "Overcast. Supposed to storm later. Jocko said he'd be here by noon."

"You've spent the whole morning on the phone. Did you find out anything about Greenville?"

"Yes. I got in touch with John Gerrard, a reporter who lives there. He's going to see what he can find on Caroline and Blanche. He'll get back to me, probably tomorrow." He signaled the waitress for a coffee to go. "He won't publish anything. It isn't news. Yet."