Killer Love (34 page)

I gritted my teeth, determined not to engage in a war of words with him. “That’s enough, Patrick.”

He came closer, ducking his head, staring into my face. “We all got it, ya know.” His eyes became even more unfocused, the pupils almost disappearing in the yellowish-blue orbs. “Yer daddy killed his. I chose to anesthe...anesthe...” He frowned, brushing his hands along his shirt pocket as if he’d tucked the elusive word inside there. He blew out a breath and said, “...to numb mine. How do you make yours go away, Issy? How do
you
push back the crazy?”

I’d always regarded Patrick with a sort of pitying dislike. But at that moment, I hated him. Hated his weakness, his greed, his deluded sense of entitlement. But mostly, I hated his words, because I’d wondered that myself.

I had escaped, had been moderately successful and well adjusted, content. But the death of my parents had brought me back and now I didn’t believe I’d ever really been free of it. It was as if I’d been on a boat, sailing over the waters of my family’s madness. My father’s desperate, tragic act had been my iceberg, and now I was punctured and being sucked into insane waters.

Patrick looked at me, his eyebrows raised as if for my answer, but I didn’t respond. Instead, I took out my cell phone and dialed Rodney Sandford.

“Ah, shit, whatchyadoin?” Patrick whined. “Calling the sonofabitchin cab? Screw that, I’m leaving.”

“You’re not driving,” I said.

“The hell I’m not. It’s not like you give a damn what happens to me.”

“It’s not you I’m worried—” I stopped as Rodney answered the phone, saying to him, “It’s Isabelle.”

His heavy sigh came over the line. “Be there in a few.”

We’d been through this so many times, more words were not necessary.

Patrick whirled toward his truck, but forgot to move his feet and nearly toppled to the ground. He righted himself and mumbled, “I can drive my own damned self.”

“You will not. I don’t care what you do to yourself, but I won’t be responsible for you killing someone else. You’re not leaving.”

Without turning around, he waved a hand back at me in a ‘go away’ gesture and lurched for the truck.

I followed.

“I said you’re not leaving. You can either ride with the cab or the cops.” I held up my cell phone to substantiate my threat.

By now, he had the driver’s door open. He looked back at me, then away. He stared off for a moment then sighed, bowed his head, and dropped onto the seat, his feet still hanging out to the ground, waiting, defeated.

****

After Rodney and I loaded Patrick into the cab, and the two of them drove off, I spent the rest of the evening puttering around my house, a two-bedroom log cabin I’d purchased after selling the family home. I didn’t want to live in the house where I’d grown up. It was too big and held too many memories.

My current abode suited me much better. It was rustic and cozy with its hardwood floors, hand-woven rugs, and comfy, overstuffed furniture. The house sat among towering pines and oak trees, and came with a detached shop I’d turned into a studio, which was where I should be right now. I should be completing the handbags for the fall festival coming up. I made purses for a living, and I intended to donate twenty of them to the festival, for which all proceeds would go to the children’s hospital.

In California, I’d had a boutique where I sold the purses, but since moving to Jessup, I’d begun taking orders online. The purses I made were customized to buyers’ specifications. If they chose to do so, they could send me items and I’d incorporate them into the design. People sent things like concert tickets, locks of hair, photos, baby shoes, etc, although once I’d received a used condom. I’d declined that particular sale.

I currently had an order for a special handbag that I’d almost completed. The customer, Tamra, had sent me a tie, along with a heart-wrenching letter. Her father had died tragically in a plane crash, and the tie had been his favorite. He’d worn it on his wedding day, and again on the day each of his six children had been born. She and her siblings wanted the purse to give to their mother for Christmas. I’d basically completed it and was in the process of embedding the gray and black tie into the soft leather, after which, I would seal it over with a plastic protector.

It wouldn’t take me long to finish it if I’d just get started, and I could also work on the festival purses. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Patrick. I was antsy and restless. I didn’t do my best work under these conditions.

A little before ten, I slipped on my ‘Kiss Me I’m Irish’ nightshirt, knowing already I wouldn’t be able to sleep. Not without some help.

I took one of the sleeping pills my doctor had prescribed almost a year ago. I didn’t take them often—which was why I still had some—but there were nights when I knew one would be my only chance at respite. Tonight would be one of those nights.

I slipped between the cool sheets, beneath the thick comforter, and lay on the feather pillow, pulling the covers up to my chin. I felt cocooned, shut off from the world. The narcotics and my comfortable bed worked together like synchronized swimmers. My limbs grew mercifully heavy, relaxed, and my mind drifted closed. My body shut down, and I slept.

Some time later, although I wasn’t sure how much, something jerked me from my slumber.

I lay there, heart thudding, my stomach a flutter of unease, listening for the noise that had awoken me. I knew it had to be something out of the ordinary, or I wouldn’t have been pulled from my state of nocturnal euphoria.

I heard it again and looked at the clock. Four a.m. Damn. What was it? It sounded like someone had dropped something very heavy, or hit something with a hammer...my brain wasn’t functioning well enough to identify the noise.

Then I heard a car door slam and the rev of an engine.

I kicked off the blankets and struggled out of bed, fighting the cotton-headed, lethargic, zombie thing, which was the only drawback to the little white bits of heaven. If I could stay in bed for at least eight hours after taking them, I was fine. If not, I was as muddled and stumbly as Uncle Patrick.

I pulled my fluffy, mint green robe on and grabbed a flashlight. Walking out onto the porch, I swung the beam around my property, stopping when I saw the door to my studio.

It was open.

A tremor of fear buzzed through my veins, but I still stepped out into the night and made my way toward the studio. Halfway there, I realized I didn’t have a weapon. I didn’t own a gun, which suddenly seemed foolish since I lived out here alone, and half the town either feared me or hated me, or both.

I hefted the flashlight in my hand. It was one of those heavy-duty Coleman lanterns and might do in a pinch if the intruder wasn’t much bigger than I—and didn’t have a weapon of his or her own. I gripped the Coleman in both hands and held it in front of me in what I hoped was a threatening manner.

Almost to the studio, I stumbled over something on the ground and I gasped, afraid to look down, afraid it might be a body. But it had been hard. Too hard for a corpse. I shone the flashlight at my feet and gave a nervous, relieved laugh.

A chunk of concrete. The damn walk was cracking so badly, there were places where it was just chunks of loose stone. I’d have to get that replaced before long.

When I reached the studio, I eased the partially open door all the way back and swept the light over the room.

I did it once more because I couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing. The adrenaline kick had erased most of the cobwebs, but my head still felt a little befuddled. Maybe that’s why I had to look a third time before I really grasped the scene.

I didn’t turn on a light, because I didn’t want to view the carnage that closely. Walking slowly forward, I gazed in horror at the handbags I’d worked so hard to create. They were a jumble of slashed leather, almost indistinguishable from one another. Something red, paint, I hoped, was smeared all over them, all over the room. The words ‘Crazy bitch, you’ll get yours’ were written in red on the floor next to the mess.

I’d had fifteen of the twenty purses for the festival complete, and they were in the mangled pile. But the object I focused on was not part of that batch. It was the gift for Tamra’s mother. The whole thing was shredded, the tie in pieces and soaked in red. Ruined.

I dropped to my knees and picked it up, cradling it against my chest as the tears flowed.

I don’t know how long I knelt there, holding the purse, but when I stood, my thighs had gone to sleep and they tingled painfully as feeling returned.

I made my way back to the house, barely noticing the morning dew that dampened the hem of my robe. The sun had just started to rise and the sky was tinged pink with its appearance and the passing of night. It was early. Very early. But when I went inside and found my cell phone, instead of dialing 911, I called Hutch.

Chapter Two

While I waited for Hutch, I took a quick shower, put on jeans and a pink sweater, and pulled my hair back into a ponytail. I brewed a pot of coffee and drank the first mug black, chasing away the last dregs of the sleeping pill.

I heard Hutch drive up when I was on my second cup, this one with cream.

I opened the front door, and my heart did a little stutter when I saw him walk toward me. He wasn’t in uniform, probably because he’d been off duty—and asleep—when I’d called. He wore Wranglers and a camel-colored coat with a sheepskin collar. He was hatless and it occurred to me I hadn’t seen him like that in years. His dark hair was damp, making it look ebony in the morning sun.

He stepped up on the porch and smiled, looking at me with his sleepy grey eyes. “Are you okay, Izzy-B? What happened?”

The old nickname slipped out effortlessly. He didn’t seem to notice, but I did, and it brought back a flood of memories, a flood of feelings that left me temporarily breathless. For a moment, I couldn’t speak, then I cleared my throat, and stepped back to let him inside.

“I’m fine,” I said, my voice sounding like I’d swallowed sandpaper, in spite of the throat clearing. I led him into the kitchen where his very presence, masculine and imposing, seemed to dominate the room.

I hadn’t been alone with him since I was twenty-one. I thought about our first time, and how he’d kissed me and made love to me, if you could call our anxious, fumbling passion lovemaking. Although the rest had been a little frightening, I’d enjoyed the kissing immensely, and I wondered how much better he’d be at it now with a few years experience under his belt.

I flushed hotly as my mind moved to ‘under his belt.’ But when I once again thought of Tamra’s desecrated purse, I wondered how I was going to tell her that her beloved daddy’s tie had been demolished beyond repair. With that sobering notion, my silly, shallow thoughts fled.

Hutch took his coat off, slung it over the back of a kitchen chair and sat at the table. I poured him a cup of coffee and he took a sip. “What happened?”

On the phone, I’d only said there’d been a break-in. Now, sitting in the chair next to him, I explained exactly what had taken place, the knot lodged in my throat making the process slow and difficult. Once again, I saw the pitiful, revered, mangled tie and the tears burst forth, streaming down my cheeks as a deep, wracking sob tore from me.

“Izzy, honey? What is it? Are you sure you’re okay?” He looked puzzled, as if mere vandals couldn’t possibly cause such sorrow. I couldn’t tell him why. It was too personal, too intimate.

His large, warm hand slipped over mine where it rested on the table. I felt a tingle work its way from his touch up through my arms and into my breasts. I tried to ignore it.

“I’m sorry,” I said miserably. “I should have just called 911 instead of bothering you with this.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m your friend. You can always call me.”

I nodded, withdrawing my hand from his. “Thank you for coming.”

“Tell me what you heard, exactly, that woke you up.” He produced a notebook from his pocket and jotted as I spoke.

“I’m not sure. It was some banging noise I couldn’t identify. Then, I heard a car leave just before I went outside.”

“And this was around four?” I nodded. “And you called me at five-thirty. What were you doing between those times?”

“I went to check it out. I was so upset, I think I just sat there in disbelief.”

His lips compressed, and a muscle ticked in his jaw. “You went to check it out on your own?” He shook his head. “You should have called me, or 911, the moment you saw that the door was open. Going out there on your own was—”

“Crazy?” I finished for him, giving a bitter laugh.

“Don’t do that, Izzy,” he said quietly. “I was going to say dangerous.”

I wiped at my tears and sucked in a breath. “I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted to find out what had happened.”

“Do you have any idea who might have done this?”

“Maybe.”

I told him about Patrick’s visit, watching him closely as I spoke. Hutch was four years older than I and Patrick five years older than him, but they had been friends way back when. I wasn’t sure if they still were, but if so, Hutch wouldn’t like me accusing his buddy.

He nodded, but I couldn’t tell if the information upset him. He put on his coat and slid the notebook in a pocket.

“I’ll see what I can find out. I can’t promise we’ll catch whoever did this, but I swear I’ll do my best.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“I need to go take a look. Want to come?”

I nodded, even though I really didn’t. I led him out to the studio, wrapping my arms tightly around my middle as we surveyed the damage, somehow even more disturbing in the fresh light of morning.

He made some more notes. “I’ll have someone come out and see if they can get fingerprints or evidence of any kind. Don’t touch anything until they’re finished, okay?”

“Okay,” I promised, trying to keep the tears out of my voice.

I walked him to his car and watched him drive away, feeling an odd, unsettling loneliness after he was gone.

****

I stood at the back of the town hall, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. The only reason I’d come to the meeting was because everyone who had something to sell at the festival had to be here to present it to the city council. I didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to be anywhere near this many citizens of Jessup.