Exposure (11 page)

Emma's brown eyes flared with outrage, but she struggled to tamp down her defensiveness. It was a legitimate question. "Elvis, I honest-to-God don't know what I think at this point, okay?" She hiked Gracie higher up in her hold and ran a hand wearily through her wavy hair. All her limbs felt leaden. "Please. Let me give this some thought," she requested. "And I really do need to talk to . . ." She tilted her chin at Gracie significantly. "Alone. The minute I know something concrete though, cher, I'll call you. I promise."

He studied them both for a moment, the child who was so quiescent in her mother's arms, the woman whose characteristic passion was notably subdued as she looked back at him with tired, apathetic eyes. He nodded decisively. "Yeah, all right."

All the starch left Emma's spine. "Thank you," she said. Then, fervently, "God, Elvis, merci beaucoup for everything" Unexpected tears welled up in her eyes, and she determinedly blinkcd them away. She reached a hand out to grip his warm forearm. "I honestly don't know how I would have gotten through this afternoon without you," she admitted tremulously.

"Just doin' my job, ma'am." Knowing a reciprocal display of emotion would probably kick the last slat out from under her shakily shored-up poise, he kept his tone deliberately light to give her a chance to pull herself back together.

Which she did with the pluck he'd come to expect from her. "Well, if that's true," she ultimately said, "then this town is luckier than it can possibly know to have such a dedicated professional at its service." She squeezed the arm beneath her hand and then stood on tiptoe to impulsively plant a brief, hard kiss on his mouth. "Thank you."

She was almost through the back door when Elvis' voice halted her. "Emma."

Stroking Gracie's back with her free hand, she turned to face him.

"If you really want to thank me," he began, and then had to bite back the raunchy suggestion that flashed through his mind. He cleared his throat. "Please," he said aloud. "Don't talk about the particulars of this afternoon until we know exactly what's going on, okay?" He saw her open her mouth and rushed on before she could utter what he feared would be a refusal. "Listen, I know everyone's going to want to know where Gracie was found, but for now could you just say the Mackeys found her and let it go at that? Please."

"All right." Emma nodded her head decisively. "For now."

"That's all I'm asking. Thank you."

She nodded again. Then she melted through the doorway and closed the door behind her.

Elvis was back out at Sam and Clare's house fifteen minutes after he'd left Emma, knocking on the door. "We need to talk," he said as soon as Clare opened it.

She stood back and held the door open, then trailed him as he strode past her into the living room. Sam walked in from the kitchen, a bottle of nonalcoholic beer in his hand. "Hey," he said neutrally. "Wanna Clausthaler?"

Elvis looked at his friend's unsmiling face. "Yeah. That'd be good."

Sam was back with one in only moments. Clare sat stiffly upright on the couch while he handed Elvis the condensation-dappled bottle. Then he took a seat on the cushions next to her.

Elvis took a pull, then lowered the bottle and regarded Clare solemnly. "I'd like to hear what you have to say about today's events," he said. "Start from when Gracie showed up, and tell me everything you can remember."

"She wasn't lying, Elvis; if that's what you're thinkin'. And she's not delusional, either." Sam's tone was flat, his expression set; and his body language suggested a preparedness to argue his wife's innocence into the night if necessary.

Clare's head swung around and she looked at him in openmouthed surprise.

"Did I suggest either of those things, Sam?" In contrast to his friend's rigid posture, the belligerent crossing of arms over his chest, Elvis sat forward with his forearms propped on his thighs, his beer bottle dangling between his spread legs.

"You're here, aren'tcha? Why aren't you at the boarding house cross-examining the brat?"

"Sam!" Clare admonished, astounded at his attack. "That's enough, now. Please. Don't call her that."

"Jesus, Sam," Elvis said in wonderment, "she's three years old. What do you suggest I do, get out the bright lights and rubber hose?"

"Works for me," Sam retorted. Then he turned to his wife. "Why are you defending her? You put her down in Evan's bed, let her play with his toys. You took care of her. And she turned around and stabbed you in the back for your trouble."

"She's just a little girl, Sammy." Clare rubbed her hand up and down his rigid arm in an attempt to soothe his agitation. "You make her sound like a conniving Lolita. She was confused, that's all."

"Or she was coached," Elvis added, and had the immediate attention of both people. "Or," he said with unsmiling equanimity, "she was telling the truth. Sit down, Sam," he ordered when his friend, fists clenched, surged to his feet. Then he turned his attention to Clare. He looked her squarely in the eyes. "To determine just what the hell did go on here today, I need all the facts. I'd like you to tell me your version of what happened."

"The doorbell rang, about one o'clock I guess it was," Clare said. She kept her eyes level and on Elvis, concentrating on presenting the facts calmly. The last thing she wanted was to come across as wild-eyed and crazy. "Gracie was on my doorstep, and she was all by herself. That surprised me, because I've never seen Emma let her get more than maybe ten or twelve feet away from her before. But there's no mistaking the Sandses' car, Elvis, and it was parked right at the top of the driveway's U, on the bluff side. It was pointed away from the house, toward the drive, and a woman with streaky blond hair like Emma's was in the driver's seat, watching the child in the rearview mirror. Gracie said her maman wanted to know if I could watch her for a few hours, and when I waved at Emma to indicate it was all right, she waved back and drove off."

Elvis had spent years developing radar for when people were lying, and his instincts told him Clare was telling the truth. At least she believed what she was saying.

He had a small problem with her tale, however. Emma had been in his office shortly after one o'clock that afternoon, too soon to have allowed her to get back to town, cover her car, and hightail it over to the sheriff's office— and that was even supposing she had told a flagrant lie, which could too easily be verified, concerning the time she'd spent searching the boarding house and cafe before she'd reported Gracie missing to him. So where did that leave Clare?

If she was delusional then she'd firmly believe every word she was uttering, which would explain her convincing narration. It was possible, he supposed . . . but it didn't feel right. Her descent into such behavior seemed too abrupt, and it didn't fit with what he knew of Clare. So, what did that leave except an even more unlikely scenario?

Christ.

"Did Gracie act strangely while she was here?" he asked.

"No, not really. I think at first it was an adventure for her, and she was excitable. After her nap she was a little anxious for Emma's return, but the truth is, Elvis, I don't think they've been separated very often, so I didn't think much of it. She's really a sweetie, and it doesn't take a lot to entertain her."

Sam snorted and Clare turned to him in exasperation. "For heaven's sake, Sam!" she declared. "I appreciate your defense—believe me, I do—but the way you're acting you'd think that little girl was some Machiavellian schemer plotting my downfall."

"Humph," was all he said, which was a nonanswer at best, but Clare knew him well enough to realize it meant that was exactly what he thought and he wasn't going to change his mind, but neither would he argue with her about it any further. Damn! He could be so incredibly stubborn sometimes.

Incongruously, the thought cheered her up.

The doorbell rang and Clare rose. "I'll get it," she said, grateful for the opportunity to have a second's reprieve from the almost palpable intensity in her living room.

Elvis watched his friend with interest while she went to answer the door. He'd never seen Sam so adamantly opposed to someone so unthreatening as Gracie Sands. He wondered what the story was. There had to be more to it than thinking a child who wasn't even out of babyhood had lied.

They could hear the swish of the front door opening, and then both men sat bolt upright upon hearing Emma Sands say firmly, "Gracie has something she'd like to say to you, Clare. Don't you Gracie?"

Then Gracie spoke, her voice tremulous and full of tears, without its usual happy strength. "I'm sowwy, Miss-us Mackey."

There was a pause, followed by Emma's stern command, "And? Just sayin' you're sorry is not enough, Grace Melina. Go on and tell her the rest."

"I toad a lie," the little girl whispered.

Emma had hoped to take Gracie straight to their room without encountering anyone when Elvis had dropped them off, but they'd been spotted going into the back hallway of the boarding house and before she knew it a crowd had surrounded them.

"You found her! Oh, praise be! Where was she?"

Voices asking essentially the same questions overlapped each other. If Emma had been one hundred percent certain she was in possession of all the facts regarding this bizarre and trying day, she might have indulged in a satisfying little fit of self-righteous character assassination. For about ten seconds she was tempted to malign Clare Mackey anyway. It wasn't merely her promise to Elvis that held her back. It was the knowledge there were simply too many unanswered questions.

The press of bodies and the loud voices vying for answers caused Gracie to burrow her head in the crook between Emma's neck and shoulder, and to tighten her hold around her mother's neck. Emma hugged her closer and stroked her daughter's hair. "It's been an emotional day," she said softly, glancing at each person briefly before addressing herself to Ruby. "Please. It's just too complicated to go into right now. Suffice it to say that Gracie is all right."

"And thank God for that," Ruby murmured as she patted the back of Gracie's head. She transferred the contact to Emma's cheek in a fleeting caress. Then her hand dropped to her side and her voice turned brisk. "All right, people, come on now, let's give these girls some air. We'll get all the juicy details later. Bonnie, move back, hon; Bud, get outta the way. Let 'em through."

"Thanks, Ruby." Emma gave her a grateful smile. Then her glance swiftly encompassed everyone.

"Merci to all of you. I know y'all were concerned for us, and I appreciate it." She slipped through the opening Ruby had forged and escaped up the stairs.

Even in the familiar surroundings of their room, Gracie stuck close to her, and the misgivings that had plagued Emma in the car came surging back to the forefront. When she was nearly tripped up for the third time by little arms thrown around her legs, she picked Gracie up and sat down in a chair with the child on her lap. "Did anyone do anything to hurt you this afternoon?" she queried her softly, pushing her daughter's soft blond curls off her forehead.

Gracie shook her head.

"Remember how we talked about bad touches? Did anyone touch you today in any place where they shouldn't have?"

"No."

The breath left Emma's lungs and she sagged where she sat. Oh, thank God. She could deal with just about anything else. "Are you hungry, honey?"

Big brown eyes gazed up into hers. "A yittle bit."

"Well, I'll tell you what. Why don't we drive out to the Dairy Freeze and get a hamburger?" It was Gracie's favorite island eatery in lieu of the woeful lack of a McDonald's. By eating there they'd escape the dinner crowd in the cafe and avoid a lot of well-meaning but impossible-to-answer questions.

Ten minutes later they had cleaned up and snuck down the back stairway. Out in the parking lot. Emma pulled off the Chevy's cover, folded it haphazardly, and threw it in the trunk. She unlocked the passenger door and held it open while Gracie climbed up onto the bench seat and then into her toddler's safety seat. Then she closed the door and walked around to the driver's side. Sliding in, she stuck the keys in the ignition, tossed her purse on the seat, and reached over to hook her daughter's seat belt. It was then that something, which had been tickling her consciousness since the first rush of air had left the car, finally sank in. Midway through the buckle-up procedure her hand slowed and then ultimately stilled.

There was a lingering scent in the air, a perfumelike aroma that clung to the upholstery and teased at Emma's senses. She thought she discerned something familiar about it, something she should recognize, as if it were a scent she had recently smelled. She couldn't for the life of her pin it down, but one thing she did know for certain, it was most definitely not her own scent. She looked at Gracie and saw her shooting guilty glances at her, at the interior of the car, out the windshield.

Emma's hands dropped to her lap and she turned to face her daughter squarely. "All right, Grace Melina," she said in her best I-mean-business tone. "I want to know what the heck has been going on around here today, and I want to know it now!"

Clare looked down at the unhappy little girl standing on her threshold and then at the child's mother. Stepping back, she held the door open wider. "Come in," she said. Sweet relief began to rush through her veins.

"I'd like to add my apologies to Gracie's," Emma said as they stepped into the foyer. "I should have . . ." Her voice trailed into silence. What? What should she have done? She refused to be a hypocrite. Given the circumstances and the information she'd been given at the time, if she had it to do all over again she would most likely end up making the same mistake. Shrugging, she reiterated with what she knew was wretched inadequacy, "I'm sorry, Clare."

And she was, sincerely. But when it came right down to it, she now had a much, much larger problem on her hands.

Gracie shrank back against her mother's legs, and Emma looked past Clare to see Sam and Elvis walk into the foyer. Clare, following Gracie's stricken glance, looked over her own shoulder, and with a smile turned to face the men. "Gracie and Emma came back to set the record straight," she told them. "Gracie said she didn't tell the whole truth earlier."

Sam glared at the child trying to hide behind her mother's legs. "Somebody oughtta blister your butt for you, little girl," he snapped.

Gracie's already shaky composure dissolved entirely. She was accustomed to people liking her, not snarling and glaring at her as if they'd like nothing better than to turn her over their knees. Now she was in trouble all over the place and this had turned out to be one rotten day altogether. She dissolved into tears.

"Mommy awweady blistooed it!" she sobbed. She didn't understand; what had she done that was so wrong? Well, okay, she shouldn't have done the thing that Maman was always warning her against; but the lady hadn't really been a stranger, and she had only said what she'd been told to say, after all. . . .

"Samuel," Clare remonstrated with gentle disapproval, but Elvis' voice overrode hers.

"Jesus, Sam, why don't you go yank the wings off a couple of butterflies while you're at it," he said in disgust and stooped down in his swift and graceful way to pluck Gracie away from Emma's legs and up onto his prosthesis. As he surged to his feet, her little arms wrapped around his strong neck and she clung, her back moving visibly from the force of her sobs. "Hush, baby," he crooned, cupping his big hand around the back of her head and pressing her face into his neck while he glared at his friend. "It's okay now. Shhh, shhh, shhh, sweetheart. You're okay."

Emma felt a rush of warmth at his quick defense of her daughter, but she couldn't give herself time to savor it. Steeling herself, she turned her attention to Sam, eyeing him coolly. "Perhaps you'd be interested in hearin' why she said what she did, Mistah Mackey," she said neutrally. She truly tried not to let his attitude toward Gracie make her resentful, but it was difficult; she tended to get protective and defensive where her daughter was concerned. Oh, she didn't defend her blindly; she knew her bebe had wreaked a lot of havoc today. She also knew that the real responsibility didn't lie with Gracie.

Sam felt the condemnation of the three adults in the foyer, saw the misery that manifested itself in a tiny girl's pitiful sobs, and was torn between defensiveness and shame.

Shame won. Oh, hell. He was making Gracie the scapegoat for his own guilt He never should have believed, upon first hearing Clare's story that she had lost all perspective and gone out and kidnapped Emma's daughter. It tore him up that only when he'd heard how she had shared bits of Evan with the child had he begun to question his immediate assumption of her guilt. Ramming his fingers through his hair, he looked helplessly at Gracie's shaking back, then transferred his gaze to her mother. "Yeah, I would," he admitted.

Emma took a deep breath and let it out. Very well, then. This was when matters might get a little dicey. "Gracie, tell everyone who took you for a ride in Maman's car today."

Gracie's tears had been abating under the calming comfort of Elvis' warm arms and soothing voice. She gulped the remainder back and sighed a deep, shuddering sigh. "Don't wanna, Maman."

"I know you don't, angel pie, but you have to all the same. You did something bad to Clare today when you lied about her driving you to her house, and she deserves to know why you said what you did. Now tell everybody who brought you here."

Gracie was afraid to look up into the face of the man who was holding her. "Shewiff Elbis' maman,” she said.

"What?" Elvis nearly dropped her. His eyes flashing around to lock his gaze on Emma's, he protested, "That's not possible. My mom was on a flight—"

"Ah, boy, here we go again," Sam muttered in disgust. "Does this kid even know how to tell the truth?"

Emma's control snapped. "Shut up, Sam," she snarled. Then she clamped a lid on her temper, pulling her composure together by sheer force of will. "Come here, bebe," she said softly to Gracie, lifting her out of Elvis' slackened hold. Plunking her on her hip, she looked at Clare, who of the three adults was the only one not regarding her and Gracie with some degree of skepticism or outright disbelief. "Do you think we could go sit down a minute?" she asked. "This is kind of a long story, and I'm exhausted."

"Yes, of course. Come on into the living room." By this point Clare wasn't finding anything too fantastical to believe. She was just happy they knew she wasn't going crazy.

Emma collapsed on the couch and turned Gracie on her lap so the child faced the room. She wrapped her arms around her daughter. Then, dividing her glance coolly between the two men, she said, "I would imagine there are steps that can be taken to check on Gracie's story. For instance, couldn't the airline be queried to see if Nadine was actually on her flight?" With a gentle finger beneath her daughter's chin, Emma tipped Gracie's face up and around until their eyes met. "I want you to tell the sheriff and Mr. and Mrs. Mackey everything that happened this afternoon, cherie. And I'll thank you," she said, leveling a look at Sam. "to reserve your snide comments until she's finished." Turning to Elvis, she demanded, "Do you believe I was involved in Gracie's disappearance today?"

"No," he promptly replied, and Emma relaxed muscles she hadn't even realized she was clenching. "No, I don't," he reiterated. "According to the timetable Clare gave me, that wouldn't have been possible."

Emma faced Sam again. "Then you might want to consider this. Somehow my daughter ended up at your house this afternoon. One way or another, while I was running around town, scared to the very pit of my soul that she'd been harmed or killed, this was her ultimate destination. And she didn't get here by herself."

Sam rolled his shoulders. "Yeah, okay; you're right. I'm sorry."

Emma looked down at Gracie. Gently disengaging her daughter's thumb from her mouth, she said, "Tell them what you told me, cherie."

"Do I haffa?"

"Yes, ma petite ange, you do."

Gracie took a deep breath and let it out in a gusty sigh. "Miss-us Don'lee did this to me at the westawant," she said, and concentrating on getting it just right demonstrated by holding down three fingers with her thumb and crooking the remaining index finger at them in a beckoning manner. Relaxing her concentration, she looked up to see the sheriff and Mrs. Mackey looking at her with interest. Even Mr. Mackey didn't look so angry anymore. Gracie perked up, as there was nothing she enjoyed quite so much as a captive audience. "She sayed Mommy want me to help hoo play a twick." She gave them an innocent smile. "I yike twicks."

"I like tricks, too," Elvis said. "But before we get to that, where were you in the cafe?"

"Undoo the table."

"And where was my mother when she beckoned to you?" His mother. Elvis felt ill. There had to be some mistake here.

"Outside the doe. In that hall."

Elvis took that to mean the hallway that led to the rooms upstairs and the parking lot out back. "What kind of trick did she want you to play, Gracie?"

"We pwetended she was Maman. She dwove Maman's caw and putted on hair yike my Mommy's 'n' evweething. It was funny." She smiled in remembrance, and then recalled, too, the song with the comical words that the lady had sung when they were driving down the road. " 'You ain't nuffin but a hound dawg,' " she said happily.

Elvis' stomach dropped. Convincing as Gracie's story was, until that moment he'd been striving to assure himself that, for whatever reason, she was making it up.

The Elvis Presley lyrics blew that fantasy straight to hell and gone.

Dammit, Mom, just what the hell are you mixed up in? Looking up, he saw that Sam was slowly straightening in his seat. They made eye contact, and Elvis saw the knowledge of Nadine's culpability reflected in Sam's gaze. But, sweet Jesus, why? Why the hell would she do such a thing? She had to have known that eventually she'd be found out. It didn't make a damn bit of sense.

"Why did you tell your mama that I brought you to my house, Gracie?" Clare inquired softly.

Gracie squirmed in Emma's lap. This was what had earned her a spanking—or at least she thought it was. It was either for lying or for talking to a stranger. "Miss-us Don'lee say I was s'posta." She checked out Clare's reaction closely. Finding that she didn't seem angry, Gracie continued more confidently, "She say when ennybody ask me, I say Miss-us Mackey dwived me. Haffa say Miss-us Mackey, don' foeget. It's pawta the twick."

Sam surged to his feet and Gracie flinched. Like a direct hit with a rock, it stopped him dead. She was afraid of him. Jesus, Mackey, good going. He'd been a father, for Christ's sake; he knew how impressionable little kids were, how easily manipulated. They just naturally strove to please the adults around them. But that hadn't stopped him from jumping down her throat. Damn Nadine anyhow; she had a lot to answer for.

But she was by no means the only one. He crouched in front of Gracie. Thumb creeping into her mouth, the child pressed her head back against Emma's breasts and regarded him with wary eyes.

"I said some mean things to you," he said solemnly.

"Uh huh." Plainly, she agreed.

"Do you know why?"

Gracie thought about it a minute. "Maman say you was angwy with me 'cause I toad a lie about Miss-us Mackey," she finally replied cautiously.

"Yeah, I was. But I see now that you were just trying to do what you were instructed to do."

Gracie removed her thumb and eyed him with a mixture of suspicion and interest. "What's that mean, instwucted?"

"Coached. Told. You answered the way Nadine—Mrs. Donnelly—told you to answer."

"Oui!" Gracie's head bobbed in emphatic agreement. Somebody finally understood! Everything had been handled quite satisfactorily as far as she was concerned, and she tilted her head back to beam up at Emma. "Eat now, Maman? I'm hungwy."

Emma returned the smile and slid to the edge of the couch, preparatory to rising. "We were on our way to grab a burger," she explained, "when I smelled perfume in my car and knew someone had been in it. After I challenged Gracie over the driver's identity and realized we had falsely accused Clare, we came straight out here instead." She climbed to her feet and swung Gracie onto her hip.

It was over now. All taken care of, the loose ends neatly tied up. The knowledge left her curiously leaden.

Elvis reached out to halt her, placing a hand on her arm. "I still have a lot of unanswered questions, Emma," he said.

It was such a little thing, that touch. It wasn't as if he were kissing her or even slinging an arm around her shoulders in a companionable hug; he was simply detaining her. Considering its impact on her, however he might as well have been making love to her, and it nearly broke her heart.

For she knew what she had to do, and that meant the end of whatever potential lingered between her and Elvis. "I'm sure your questions can wait until after we've eaten, though, can't they?" she managed to say with creditable coolness. How could he argue with hunger? And by the time he expected her back, she and Gracie would have cleaned out their room and traveled miles down the road.

Clare rose to her feet. "Listen, why don't I fix us some dinner right here?" she suggested. "It won't take a moment to throw something together and I think we could all stand to have something on our stomachs."

Emma turned startled eyes on her. "Oh, no, chere, really," she started to protest, but Elvis didn't even look in Clare's direction when he overrode Emma to say, "good idea, Clare. Sam, why don't you give her a hand?" His words drew Emma's attention back to him; the sheer intensity of his will effortlessly kept it there.

Gracie wriggled, wanting to be let down, and Emma used her daughter's action as an excuse to free her arm from Elvis' grip. She stepped back, still aware for several long moments of a lingering warmth where his touch had been. She had to resist a childish urge to rub the spot.

"Gracie," Elvis suddenly said, still refusing to take his eyes off Emma. "Just how did my mother unlock your momma's car? How did she turn on the ignition?"

Gracie's look suggested that was a ridiculous question. But she good-naturedly supplied an answer.

"With a key, of course, silly."