Deadly Intent (21 page)

Abbie remembered reading about it. Irene had insisted on sending a card, in care of Jude Tilly’s publicist, but like all the other correspondence she had sent, it had remained unanswered. “Yes, I did.”

“Abbie?” Rose put the card down. “About the funeral. I don’t really know what to do or where to go. I was wondering if you could come with me, help me pick out...you know...a casket.” As she said the word, a small sob caught in her throat.

Thrown by the unexpected request and the sadness in Rose’s eyes, Abbie searched for the right words. But what could she say to this grieving woman, all alone in a strange town, burdened with the saddest task of all—burying a loved one.

“Me?” It was all she could come up with.

“Liz can’t come down just yet and you’re Ian’s only other relative, so I thought...” She pressed another tissue to her eyes, unaware that all that crying had ruined her makeup and given her racoon eyes. If anything, she looked even more vulnerable than she had before.

Abbie found herself nodding. “I’ll be glad to go with you. Rose. Just tell me when.”

Rose sighed with relief. “Would tomorrow morning be all right?” she asked hopefully. “Detective Ryan said I could have the body back by then.”

She would have to make a few changes in her schedule,

Abbie thought, and ask Claudia to take Ben to baseball practice, but it could be done. “Could we start early?”

“The earlier the better.” Rose gave her a shaky smile.

“I’ll pick you up at eight-thirty, then.”

“Thank you, Abbie. Thank you so much.” After a slight hesitation, Rose hugged her again. This time Abbie returned the embrace.

“Hello, Marion.” Abbie set her purse on the kitchen counter where Marion was mixing a pitcher of iced tea. “How’s Mom today?”

Marion beamed. “See for yourself.” Abbie followed her gaze and understood why Marion was so cheerful. Irene sat in the living room, perfectly groomed, flipping through the pages of Good Housekeeping.

“She’s only had one tiny outburst and that was because she misplaced her reading glasses.”

“She’s been misplacing her glasses ever since I can remember.”

Marion chuckled. “That’s what I told her.” She set the pitcher on a tray. “Can I bring you some iced tea, too?”

“I’d love some, Marion. Thank you.”

Abbie strode into the living room. “Hi, Mom.”

Irene looked up, her smile bright, her eyes clear. ‘ ‘Abbie, darling, I didn’t hear you.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you. You seemed so absorbed.” She sat beside her on the sofa and peeked over her shoulder. “Brownies?” she said when she saw the recipe Irene had circled. “Those wouldn’t be for Ben, by any chance?”

“You know they are.”

“Make plenty. I like them, too.”

Irene studied her for a moment. “Are you all right, honey? You look a little frazzled.”

Abbie ran her fingers through her hair. “Do I?”

“And you’re pale. Are you working too hard again? And not sleeping enough?”

Abbie laughed. “Probably, but didn’t you used to tell me when I was growing up, there could be no success without sacrifice?”

“Did I really?” Irene’s beautiful eyes filled with mirth. “I must have sounded like a preacher.”

“No, just a caring mother.”

“And you are stalling, young lady.”

“Yes, I am.” Abbie folded her hands on her lap. “I have disturbing news, about Ian.” She hesitated, all too aware that the wrong word could send her mother into one of her moods. But how many ways were there to say someone had died? “Something happened to him.”

Irene’s smile quickly faded. “You mean...he’s been hurt?”

“It’s worse than that. He’s dead, Mom.”

Irene’s hands flew to her mouth and her eyes filled up. “Oh, no. When did that happen? How?”

She told her, using the same gentle tone she had used with Ben, glad that this time there was no sign of panic in her mother’s eyes, no confusion—just sadness.

When Abbie was finished, Irene fell back against the cushions. “That poor boy. I prayed he’d find the right path someday, but how could he, when his own father had already given up on him?” She put the magazine aside. “Do they know who did such a terrible thing?”

“Not yet. But the police are investigating.” She took her mother’s hand in hers. “The detective in charge of the case is John Ryan. He was at the restaurant earlier, questioning me.”

A look of mild alarm shadowed Irene’s eyes. “Why? What do you have to do with Ian’s murder?”

More than I’d like to, Abbie thought. “Nothing.” She avoided looking directly into her mother’s eyes. “But Detective Ryan is trying to put together a complete profile on Ian. He says it will help his investigation.”

“But you hardly knew him. If this Detective Ryan wants information, why doesn’t he talk to Ian’s girlfriend? What did you say her name was?”

“Rose. He did talk to her, Mom. She was very helpful.”

Irene’s keen eyes kept studying her. “Does she know who might have killed Ian? In a town where he doesn’t know a soul?”

“No. She’s just as puzzled as I am.”

“Is she nice?”

Abbie smiled. “As a matter of fact, she’s very nice, not quite what I imagined, but nice.”

“And you said Liz is making all the arrangements?”

“She’s asked me to help. I said I’d do it.”

“That was nice of you, honey.” She was silent for a moment before adding, “I’d like to go to the funeral, Abbie. Ian and I were never close, and I did find his visit here a little suspicious, but nonetheless, I’d like to pay my last respects. It’s only right.”

Abbie nodded. Although she had hoped there would be no contact between her mother and Liz, especially since she didn’t know how much Ian had told his sister, the request didn’t surprise her. From the very beginning, Irene had treated Liz and Ian like her own children, shielding them from Patrick’s drunken outbursts, even covering for them so they wouldn’t get in trouble. Abbie had no idea if Irene remembered the incident with the letter, but either way she had no intention of bringing it up. Or Ian’s more recent extortion plan. She had made that decision the night Dennis Marjolis had laid out the cold facts for her. With any luck, Ian had taken his accusations to his grave, and that’s where they would stay.Twenty-Two

John stood under the hot, powerful shower spray, unable to decide what bothered him most—knowing that Abbie DiAngelo had lied to him, or that he couldn’t get her out of his mind.

The cop in him wanted to believe the former, but who the hell was he kidding? In the last twenty-four hours, he had behaved like a complete idiot. Dialing Abbie’s restaurant and then hanging up at the first ring because he couldn’t think of an excuse for the call. Or driving around Palmer Square in the hope of catching a glimpse of her. Or logging on to Campagne’s Web site to see what else he could learn from the enigmatic Ms. DiAngelo. He had even caught himself fantasizing about her, wondering if her skin was as soft as it looked, or if she tasted as good as she smelled. Teenager stuff. Ridiculous stuff a sensible, grownup man ought to be ashamed of.

But the truth was, he couldn’t remember the last time a woman had affected him that way.

Not that he hadn’t had his share of good times with members of the opposite sex. On the contrary. Thanks to his well-meaning pals at PTPD, there had been a steady flow of blind dates over the last two years, some interesting, if not promising, others downright scary. Why was it that so many women felt that cops were lost souls who needed saving?

John loved his job. In fact, he had almost alienated his entire family when he chose law enforcement over a career in the military, as had all the previous Ryan men. So when a woman expressed regret that a mind such as his was being wasted and that he ought to do something a little more gratifying, like heading a corporation or running for office, he had no qualms about ending the relationship, often before it even began.

His friends had nicknamed him Picky John. But they were wrong. It wasn’t that he was picky. He just didn’t like anyone putting down what he did for a living. No matter how smart and beautiful the woman was.

So why, to use Tina’s words, was he so damn smitten with Abbie DiAngelo? Other than what Jordan had told him, he didn’t know anything about her, except perhaps that she wasn’t a very good liar. As soon as she had walked into her office, he had realized that the woman he was looking at was different from the one who had greeted him in the dining room earlier. Her complexion had been a shade paler, her breathing irregular, and a few minutes into the conversation, a sheen of perspiration had appeared on her forehead.

But in spite of that, there was something exciting about her, an energy, an undercurrent he found both startling and seductive. Foolishly, he found himself wishing someone else was investigating Ian McGregor’s murder.

He poured a capful of shampoo into the palm of his hand, then rubbed it vigorously onto his head. As he scrubbed, he tried to concentrate on the possible whereabouts of Arturo Garcia, since, at the moment, the man was his prime suspect.

He only succeeded in bringing Abbie DiAngelo into sharper focus.

Combing his fingers through his hair, he pushed the wet

strands from his face. What the hell was he doing? Had he been sleeping alone so long he was now having erotic thoughts about a woman he hardly knew?

Was that all it was, then? Lust? If so, he could handle it. It was the other aspect of attraction that scared the hell out of him—the falling-in-love part. The big L, as Tina liked to call it, followed by the big C—commitment.

Half muttering to himself, he dried off, tucked the towel around his waist, and padded to the kitchen for a much needed cup of coffee.

He’d find a way to see Abbie DiAngelo again, but until then he couldn’t lose sight of another equally important part of this puzzle—Liz Tilly. Maybe sister number two would be more forthcoming with what she knew than sister number one.

To Abbie’s surprise, Rose had remained stoic and collected during their visit to Patterson’s Funeral Home. After selecting a modest casket and making the proper arrangements for the funeral director to pick up Ian’s body from the morgue, Rose settled the bill and agreed to bring back a suit in which to bury him.

“Did Ian have a suit?” Abbie asked as they walked out of the white stucco building.

“No.” Rose’s cheeks colored. “I only said that because I was too embarrassed to admit he didn’t. I don’t think Ian has ever owned a suit in his life.”

“Did you go through his things? There may be something suitable.”

Rose shook her head. “He only had the few pieces I bought him before we left Toledo—jeans, a couple of shirts and sneakers.” She took out her wallet and counted the few bills in it. “I have enough to buy him a pair of pants, a shirt and shoes.”

“Didn’t you say Liz was paying for everything?”

“Not everything. She only sent me money for the casket and the cemetery plot. I told her I’d take care of the rest.” She looked up, a worried expression on her face. “Would fifty dollars do it? For the clothes?”

Abbie squeezed her arm. “I know just the place. Come on.”

Half an hour later, they walked out of Carlton’s, a discount store on Route 206, with a pair of navy pants, a white shirt, a navy tie and a pair of black loafers. At the cash register, as Rose had started to take her wallet out, Abbie had told her to put her money away, and paid for the purchases herself. “It’s a small contribution,” she had told her. “Please let me do it.”

The gesture had surprised her more than it had surprised Rose, and the thought that Ian was about to be buried in clothes she had paid for seemed so ludicrous, she wondered if she had lost her mind. But Ian wasn’t the reason she had picked up the tab, she reminded herself. Rose was.

From the department store they drove to Hillside Cemetery to choose a small plot and then to Abbie’s church where Reverend Barfield had agreed to perform a short graveside service.

As Abbie drove Rose back to the motel, she was tempted to ask her if she had come across a letter written by her mother years ago, while going through Ian’s things. If Ian had had the letter with him, as he claimed, then it must be there, at the motel. It couldn’t have been on his person at the time he was killed or Detective Ryan would have said something.