High Noon (31 page)

“It's right enough. Sometimes the right thing changes, so you have to do what's right for now.”

 

She thought about that after she showed him where he could sleep, after digging up a spare toothbrush and making sure the towels were fresh and plentiful.

The right thing changed, that was true. And sometimes what you thought was right ended up being a wrong turn but a necessary one. She wasn't sure if Duncan was the right thing or a wrong turn, but she'd fallen in love with him.

Had probably stubbed her toe on that the first time she'd seen him, then tripped a little when she'd sat in the pub, laughing with him and enjoying the music. Another little stumble here, a loss of balance there, and the fall was inevitable.

Now, she supposed, she had to figure out what the right thing was, and how to do it. For now.

 

A big perk to waking up the lone guy in a household of women, Duncan decided, was the big, home-cooked breakfast. It didn't suck to be fussed over, either, like the newly crowned prince of Femaleland while he enjoyed coffee and freshly squeezed orange juice.

Ava managed the morning stove, and by his gauge that was the general routine. But due to manly company, Essie set out what he figured were the good dishes, with coordinating linen napkins.

Essie fussed, filling a fancy sugar bowl and creamer, pouring freshly squeezed juice into a sparkling pitcher, rounding up a little squat bottle of zinnias. He could only assume, as the tasks had her all but bouncing around the kitchen, she was having as good a time as he was.

“Now don't pester Duncan, Carly. He hasn't even finished his first cup of coffee yet.”

“Great coffee,” Duncan said.

“How come I'm not having cereal?” Carly wanted to know.

“Because Ava's making omelets. But you can have cereal if that's what you want.”

“I don't care.”

Duncan gave Carly a poke in the ribs. Despite the pout, she looked pretty as a picture in a ruffly yellow shirt and blue pants. “Hard day at the office coming up?”

She rolled her eyes in his direction. “I go to
school.
And we have to take an arithmetic test today. I don't see why we have to multiply and divide all the time. It's just numbers. They don't
do
anything.”

“You don't like numbers? I love numbers. Numbers are a thing of beauty.”

Carly sniffed. “I don't need numbers. I'm going to be an actress. Or a personal shopper.”

“Well, if you're an actress how are you going to count your lines?”

Duncan considered earning a second eye roll a badge of honor.

“Anybody can count.”

“Only with the beauty of numbers. Then you have to figure out how much you're going to make—so you can buy that house in Malibu—after you pay your agent her percentage, and pay your bodyguards so the paparazzi don't hound you. You got to have yourself an entourage, kid, and do the math so you can call up that personal shopper when it's time for the Oscars.”

Carly considered. “Maybe I'll just
be
the personal shopper. Then I only have to know about clothes. I
know
about clothes already.”

“What's your commission?”

This time he got a frown instead of an eye roll. “I don't know what that is.”

“It's how much you make when you sell Jennifer Aniston that vintage Chanel gown. You get a cut of what it costs. So say it costs five thousand, and you get ten percent. Plus, she needs shoes, and a purse thing. So what's your commission? Gotta do the math.”

Her eyes narrowed now. “I get something every time they buy something? I get money, every time?”

“Pretty sure that's how it works.”

Interest lit her face and banished the pout. “I don't know how to do percent.”

“I do. Got paper?”

When Phoebe walked in, her family was circled around the table. Creamy omelets, fancy strips of Ava's masterful French toast, crisp bacon invited healthy appetites to tuck right in.

Duncan ate with his left hand while Carly, her chair scooted up beside his, leaned over his rapidly scribbling right.

“She needs earrings! She has to have earrings, too.”

“Okay. How much for the ear dangles?”

“A million dollars!”

“You're the Satan of personal shoppers.” He flicked a glance up, smiled. “Morning.”

“Mama! We're doing percent, so I can figure out how much I'll make when I'm a personal shopper. I already made six thousand dollars on commission.”

“Jennifer Aniston's up for an Oscar,” Ava explained. “She needs to be outfitted, of course.”

“Of course.”

“And needs ensembles for various appearances.”

Phoebe walked around to read the list Duncan had going. “Jen's on quite the spree.”

“Numbers are fun.”

Phoebe gaped at her daughter. “I think I've walked into a parallel universe, one where numbers are fun and there's omelets on Tuesday mornings.”

“Sit right down,” Essie told her. “We've kept yours warm in the oven.”

Phoebe checked her watch. “I guess I've got time to force down a few bites. Numbers are fun,” she repeated as she sat on the other side of her daughter. “How come they weren't fun when I made little bunnies and kittens out of them to show you how they multiplied?”

“Numbers are more fun when they're money.”

Phoebe picked up her coffee, shook her head. “Mind yourself with this one, Duncan. She's a gold digger.”

“She picks up a couple more clients like Jen here, she's going to be supporting me. Look how pretty you are in the morning. Even prettier than Ava's omelets—which is going some. I expect there isn't a man in Savannah with a better view than I've got here in this kitchen.”

Phoebe's brows winged up. “What did you put in his omelet, Ava?”

“Whatever it was, I'll make sure it goes in every time.”

 

He ate cold cereal straight out of the box and washed it down with bitter black coffee. He hadn't shaved that morning. He hadn't showered. He knew he was standing on the slippery edge of a bout of depression.

He wanted the anger back. The anger and the purpose. They could get lost in that blue pit of depression, he knew. He'd lost them before.

There was medication, duly prescribed. But he preferred the speed he'd bought from a friend of a friend. Still, he knew the uppers were a bad choice. He could do the rash and the reckless with that heady juice rushing through him.

He'd already done the reckless, hadn't he? Plugging that idiot rabbit was one thing. But he should've saved it—a few days in the freezer, then he could've dumped it on Phoebe anytime in the dead of night.

He'd nearly gotten caught by rushing it. But he'd been so pissed off!

She wasn't taking the heat for Johnson. Not from the department, not from the press, not from the public. The stupid fucker's mother had made Phoebe her new best friend. And that maudlin, that
pitiful
statement outside the funeral home played over and over on the news, on the talk shows.

Made that fumbling bitch look like Mother fucking Teresa instead of the ambitious, grasping, stumbling cunt she was.

He'd let the anger take over—always a mistake. He'd let it rule so he'd driven straight to her house, tossed the corpse up. He'd meant it to land on the veranda but his hand had been shaking with rage, and his aim was short.

He'd nearly gone after it, had started to, when light spilled out of the house next door.

He could see himself—humiliated even now—hiding in the bushes while that crazy bitch walked out with her ugly excuse for a dog.

And he knew, he
knew
she walked that dog right at dusk, every single night. He knew, but he hadn't used the knowledge. He'd only used the anger.

And what if that crazy woman or her ugly excuse for a dog had seen him? It wasn't time for that yet.

He'd actually imagined killing them both. Snapping necks like celery stalks and leaving
them
on Phoebe's front steps.

But it wasn't the time.

He had a plan. A plan and a purpose. An
agenda.

Now the rage was gone, and the purpose was blurred with a damning sense of failure. He'd wasted his time on that Posse asshole. Taken a stupid risk and wasted bullets.

It meant nothing.

He looked around his workshop and nearly wept with despair. None of it meant anything. He'd lost what mattered, and she'd lost nothing.

Now he was reduced to leaving dead animals on her doorstep.

He should've killed the crazy old woman and her dog, he decided. Coulda, shoulda. That would've made a statement.

He took out one of the little black pills, studied it. Just one, he thought. Just one to give him back some juice.

Because it was time to make a statement. Time to stop screwing around and kick it all up a notch.

Johnson hadn't put a hitch in her step. Something else—or somebody else—would.

 

“Twenty-two caliber.” The criminalist, a skinny guy named Ottis, held the slug up with gloved fingers. “You gonna kill da wabbit, this is plenty hot enough.”

“Single shot?”

“Yeah.” Ottis frowned at Phoebe. “Do you want me to run it through ballistics? Ah, do any trace on the…vic?”

“Actually, I would. If someone's playing a prank, I'm not laughing. And I think it's more than that. So anything you can tell me about the bunny or the bullet would be helpful.”

“Sure, no problem. I'll get back to you.”

She went back to her office and wrote up an official incident report. Then she took a copy out to Sykes's desk, filled him in.

“Do you want me to go have a conversation with Arnie?”

“No, at least not yet. I'd like you to pull a few lines, if you can. Find out how he's handling the security job, get a sense of his routine. See if you can find out if he's been spending any time in my neighborhood. He's got a mouth,” Phoebe added. “If he's messing with me, he's probably bragged about it to someone. Someone he drinks with or works with.”

“I'll poke around.”

“Thanks. Thank you, Bull.”

Best she could do, Phoebe decided. But not all she could do.

Back in her office, she wrote up a log, listing the times and dates, the incidents she believed were connected. To these she added her own speculations.

Rat—symbol—snitch, turncoat, deserting sinking ship.

Snake—symbol—evil, sneaky, bringer of ruin to Paradise.

Rabbit—symbol—cowardly, running away.

Might be taking it all too far, psychologically, she mused, but it was better to err on the side of caution than to just err.

Whistling keeps the voice disguised, anonymous. What does the song mean? Do not forsake me. Who was forsaken? Who did or might do the forsaking?

High Noon.
One man standing up against corruption and cowardice (rabbit as cowardice?). Rat as desertion of townspeople. Snake as corruption. Cooper as sheriff (wasn't he? Rent the damn movie), standing alone in the final showdown.

Was it about the movie or just the song? she wondered. She did a search, found the lyrics and printed them out for the file she would make.

High noon was a kind of deadline, wasn't it? Do this by this time or pay the price.

She sat back. And if it was Arnie Meeks harassing her, he wouldn't be thinking about symbols and hidden meanings. It just wasn't his style.

Still, she'd make up the file. And on the way home, she'd hunt up a copy of
High Noon.

Screaming kids
and the lightning-flash mood swings of little girls didn't appear to ruffle Duncan's feathers. In fact, his easy slide through kid world had Phoebe wondering if the man had any feathers to ruffle.

What he did, she noted, was play like a maniac. Whatever it was—video arcade, miniature golf, whack-a-mole, he was
into
it. She liked games as much as the next person, and God knew she'd done her stints at fun centers. But she'd never come out of one, in her memory, without a vague headache, a stomach uneasy from strange combinations of food, and feet that ached like a tooth headed for a root canal.

She had a touch of all three results, and sat herself down on a bench while Duncan took on all challengers in what he called the Champion Round of mini-golf.

Carly was having the time of her life, and the other kids who'd packed along were flocked around him like he was the Pied Piper. And how, Phoebe wondered, did spending hours racing virtual cars or hitting a red ball through the rotating fans of a plastic windmill equal researching an investment possibility?

Loo dropped down beside her. “I should've gotten a manicure. These places wear me out and I
knew
that man would talk me into coming.”

“Phin's looking a little worn himself.”

“Not Phin.” Loo sucked diet soda through a straw. “I know all his tricks by now. Duncan. I know all his, too, but damn that man always gets around me.”

From her vantage point, Phoebe studied him. He'd sat through an elementary school production of
Cinderella
with every appearance of being thoroughly entertained. And had capped that off by insisting on buying the redheaded stepsister an ice cream cone.

Naturally, Carly was crazy about him.

And now he was giving every appearance of being thoroughly entertained by playing mini-golf with a platoon of overexcited children.

“Duncan doesn't look worn at all,” Phoebe observed.

“Probably live here if he could.” Loo slipped her own aching feet out of her sandals. “Look at him, crouched down on that old green carpet eyeballing the hole like he's Tiger Woods in the Playland Open. Kids eating it right up like ice cream sundaes, which I warn you, he'll insist on after this is over.”

Phoebe pressed a hand to her stomach. “Oh God.”

“Won't play real golf. Phin's dragged him out several times, and tells me Duncan says stuff like: ‘Where's the windmill?' or ‘When do we get to the troll bridge?'” She let out her big laugh. “Bruises our Phin's dignity, which is exactly Dunc's purpose.”

Because she could hear Duncan say it, Phoebe smiled. “So he just wanted to come out and play. This investment business is a ruse.”

“Oh no, he's given it serious thought. He'll be working out the pros and cons now.”

Lips pursed, Phoebe studied Duncan as he argued the count of strokes on a hole with Phin. “Yes, I can see that.”

“I mean it.” Loo gave Phoebe a poke. “He's going to have a good ballpark idea how many kids and adults came through the turnstiles today, which areas got the most play, which didn't. You can bet he's asked the kids we brought, and those of complete strangers, what they like. He'll have himself a baseline before we're sick off ice cream sundaes, then he'll go—or won't go—from there.”

“I can't quite fit him into the businessman mold.”

Loo's smile was lit with affection. “He's his own mold.”

“Apparently.”

“Got a nice ass on him, too.”

“Unquestionably.”

“He's got what my mother calls the calf's eyes for you.”

“Does he? It's hard for me to see clearly with all these hearts circling in front of mine. I just wanted a hot affair.” She shifted toward Loo, kept her voice low. “I figured, hell, I deserve one.”

“Who doesn't?” Loo shifted in turn. “How about some salient details?”

“Maybe some other time. The thing is, I don't know if I can manage what's going on in here.” She pressed a hand to her heart. “I don't know if I have the tools or the room or—”

“Why? You're—”

“Wait.” Phoebe turned her hand palm out now. “You're married, and happily by every sign. You have a pretty little girl and an ugly dog. You have a big family, dual careers that complement each other and exceptional taste in shoes.”

“I do.” Loo pursed her lips at the stacked-heel, copper-toned sandals. “The shoes are the kicker.”

“I'm divorced with a career that pulls me in conflicting directions constantly, and a family I love, but that does the same. My foundation is shaky at best, and what I've built on it takes a lot of time and effort to tend. It's never been just me for a lot of reasons. It can never be just me.”

“You're thinking Duncan can't handle the complications of your life?”

“I'm not sure he'd want to, or why he would. Right now, he's infatuated and intrigued. And the sex, like the shoes, is quite the kicker. But I'm a lot to deal with on a daily basis. And there are things I can't change or adjust. I'm just not in a position to.”

Loo sucked through her straw, considered. “Do you always analyze everything into tiny pieces, and pick out the harder points?”

“Yes. Occupational hazard, I guess. Tough fit, I'd think, for a man who appears to take in the big picture quickly and find the shiny nuggets. I keep trying to…I'd say talk myself down from all this. Step back from the ledge, Phoebe. Your life's good enough, full enough as it is, so accept that. Take that last step, there's no coming back from it, not without a world of hurt.”

“Love as suicide?”

“Maybe it is. Or it's walking out with your hands up in surrender, to take the consequences.”

“Or it's coming out free, instead of staying a hostage.”

“That's a point. I know what I'm doing, have to know what I'm doing just about all the time. It's annoying, and damn disconcerting, not to know what I'm doing with him.”

“Can't tell you. But I think it'd be fun finding out.”

 

Fun was exhausting. Carly gave in to it and sprawled sleeping in the back of Duncan's car on the way home.

“In case she's too zonked to thank you, I can tell you she had a big, bright, red-letter day.”

“Me, too.”

“I noticed. Boys and toys. She's got a whopping crush on you.”

“It's mutual.”

“I noticed that, too. Duncan, I have one favor to ask, and I hope you'll understand why I need to.”

“Sure. You had too many hot dogs and want me to stop for Pepto.”

“I had
one
hot dog, and I have Tums at home. Duncan, seriously. I'm saying—asking, really—that if things between us take a slide, or we get pissed off and each decide the other is the spawn of Satan, if you'll ease away from Carly. Give her time to adjust. This is a crappy thing to bring up after you've given us such a good day, but—”

“You've got—what's his name?—Ralph stuck in your head.”

“Roy,” she corrected. “And, yes, that's part of it. I can't think of anyone less like him than you are.”

“If that's true, you should already know it's a favor you don't have to ask. I know what it's like to be shut out and shut down.”

“You do.” She touched a hand to his arm. “I'm a worrying, overprotective mother.”

“She's lucky to have one.” He aimed a look at her. “Even if you turn out to be the spawn of Satan.”

She wiggled her tired toes as he turned toward the house. “How about coming in, having a cool glass of wine in the courtyard?”

“Exactly what I had in mind.”

 

A week later, Phoebe sat in Duncan's garden. Carly was having a sleepover at her new second best friend Livvy's house, which meant her mama could have the adult version of a sleepover.

They'd had a swim, and made love. They'd had dinner, and made love. Now it was nearly midnight—and it didn't matter!—with her sitting out in a lush garden smelling night-blooming jasmine, a glass of wine in her hand. She wore a flimsy excuse for a robe she'd paid entirely too much money for.

But if a woman couldn't splurge for such an occasion, when could she?

The night hummed, the breeze just balmy enough to cut back the heat while a fat old moon sailed over a sky dashed with stars and smeared with filmy clouds. He'd turned music on so that Bonnie Raitt's Delta-rich voice oozed out of the garden speakers.

Phoebe sipped wine and gave some lazy thought to making love again.

“I feel like I'm on vacation,” she told Duncan.

“I should've put little umbrellas in the drinks.” His voice was as lazy as she felt. “Something with steel drums on the stereo. Except I don't have little umbrellas or any steel-drum CD. No, Jimmy Buffett. It should've been Jimmy Buffett and margaritas.”

“This is fine. This is perfect. I may never move from this exact spot.” She turned her head to smile at him. “You'll have to start charging me rent.”

“I'll take it out in trade.”

“I'm so glad you didn't want to go anywhere tonight. Clubs, bars, movies. It's so nice to just be.”

“Clubs, bars, movies, they're not going anywhere. It's nice to just kick back.”

“You had a busy week.”

“Ava's a slave driver. Beneath that pretty face is the heart of Simon Legree. I think I looked at every tree and shrub for sale in greater Savannah yesterday. And all those drawings and layouts. Sod. Fountains. Statuary. Birdbaths, feeders, houses. What-all. She doesn't care for the concept of ‘do whatever you like.'”

“She mentioned you took her by an old warehouse the other day. That you're converting it into apartments and shops.”

“Yeah. Thought she'd get some ideas going on that and be too busy to drag me to another nursery. How about we take a sail in the morning? In fact, we can sail over to Savannah.”

“That sounds perfect. Everything's just about perfect.”

“Give me a couple minutes.” He shifted toward her on the wide chaise, then slid a finger down to open the thin robe. “And I'll make it absolutely perfect.”

She didn't have a doubt in the world, not when his mouth found hers, when his hands began to cruise. She reached out blindly until her glass clinked against the table. With her hands free, she tangled her fingers in his hair.

The breeze played along her skin; the music thrummed just under it. When her head fell back so he could run his lips down her throat, there was the white ball of moon overhead.

She moved under him, opened for him so when their mouths met again he slipped inside her. Slow and easy now, loose and lazy. Her eyes stayed open so that she could see herself in his. She felt herself rising and falling, rising and falling, in long, liquid waves of arousal and pleasure. When she spilled over the crest, she was still there, trapped in the blue of his eyes.

Why, she wondered, would she want to be anywhere else?

“One more.” He murmured it, then captured her mouth again, sumptuously. Her heartbeat thickened, her bones softened.

I love you.
The words rose in her throat, ached to be said.

They were good words, Phoebe told herself. Good, strong words that deserved to be said. But perhaps saying them for the first time when still coupled with the man on his garden chaise wasn't the best choice of time and place.

Instead, she framed his face with her hands. “You were right. You made it perfect.”

“Being with you…” He turned his head so his mouth pressed to her palm.

The gesture had her heart taking another stumble. Something fluttered inside her belly. “Being with me?”

His gaze leveled on hers. “Phoebe—”

Her cell phone rang.

“I jinxed it!” She struggled up. “I should
never
have said perfect.” She thought of Carly, her mother, her brother. Snatched up the phone. “Phoebe Mac Namara.” The sound of Dave's voice didn't loosen the knots in her gut until she was certain it wasn't her family.

“Bonaventure? Where?” Without pen, paper or much of anything else, Phoebe took mental notes. “Yes. For me, specifically? I'm on Whitfield Island, at a friend's. I'll be there as soon as I can. All right. Yes, all right. I'll be headed out in five minutes.”

In fact she was already up and hurrying toward the house as she spoke. “Tell him I'm en route. No, no, don't.” She glanced at Duncan as he pushed the door open for her. “I have access to a very fast car, but I'll need a kit. I'll call you back when I'm on the road.”

She clicked off.

“I need to borrow your Porsche.”

“No problem, but it comes with me at the wheel.”

“I can't take you where I'm going.”

“Yes, you can,” he corrected as they ran up the stairs.

“Duncan.” She tossed off her robe as she rushed into his bedroom. “There's a man chained to a grave at Bonaventure Cemetery.” She grabbed clothes. “All he's wearing, apparently, is a vest of explosives.”

“If he's going to blow himself up, I hope he's already got a reservation. Bonaventure's pretty full up.”

“He's the hostage,” she snapped back as she pulled on clothes. “He's claiming to be, and he claims whoever strapped the bomb on him ordered him to call nine-one-one at a specific time, and ask for me by name. If I'm not there by one, whoever's holding the trigger pushes it, and he goes up.”

“Only another reason I'll be driving. You don't know the car, I do—and I know the roads better. I'll get you where you need to be. When's the last time you drove a six-speed?” he demanded when he saw the argument in her eyes.

Phoebe dragged on her shoes, nodded. “You're right. Let's go.”

It made more sense to have him driving the Porsche like a hellhound over the island roads toward the bridge. She had her hands and mind free to contact Dave, to take notes.