Perfect Timing (12 page)

CHAPTER TEN

Catswallow, Alabama

I
N
MOST
S
OUTHERN
-
SET
MOVIES
AND
ALMOST
ALL
NOVELS
,
THE
COURTHOUSE SAT
opposite the jailhouse. She guessed it was a cliché derived from fact. Isabel parked, on the jailhouse side, hurrying through the light of a tired moon and into the building. A couple of sheriff’s deputies milled about; the same ones who’d corralled Aidan. Not surprisingly, his arraignment was the only activity. She slipped inside the courtroom and stood at the rear in a dark corner. The emergency hearing was already underway. Aidan sat with his back to the courtroom, Isabel deducing that the cranky-looking man tapping a pen against the desk was the DA. Once he started talking you’d never know it was the middle of the night, his accusations against Aidan sharp and succinct. Much of it was legal jargon, but Isabel caught the formal charge: attempted murder in the first degree. A man dressed in rumpled khakis and a polo shirt, as if it were casual Friday, stood next to Aidan. Isabel surmised that he was the court-appointed lawyer. He didn’t exude much confidence as the judge peered at him over bifocal lenses. He asked the lawyer if Aidan had any prior arrests or convictions. In response, the attorney assured the judge of Aidan’s spotless record. Out of all the things going against Aidan, she guessed it was one small thing in his favor. Aidan leaned over, saying something to his lawyer, and the man vehemently shook his head. From there the DA talked about the violence of Aidan’s purported crime, his blatant disregard for human life, his unprovoked attack on Rick Stanton. Isabel literally bit her tongue to keep from launching into a vigorous defense. But it wouldn’t do Aidan any good. They’d lock them both up and throw away the key.

Aidan’s mother sat behind him, shoulders jerking as she sobbed into a wad of tissues. This had to be killing Aidan. It was generally all Stella Roycroft could do to handle the day-to-day stuff. Last winter, Aidan’s truck skidded on a patch of ice and hit a guardrail. He ended up with a mild concussion, but it was Stella who left the hospital with a sedative. It was one reason Aidan didn’t depend on her for much of anything. Isabel was unsure how much help she was going to be.

A few moments later, when the judge actually granted bail, setting the price of freedom at $80,000, she knew exactly how much help—none. Stella Roycroft didn’t have that kind of money, not even the ten percent she would need to post. Aidan turned and said something comforting, her arms thrusting around him as if he was headed to the gallows. Her cries escalated, carrying on about how they should have moved to Boca Raton years ago, that she should have given John Roycroft one more chance. Isabel heard him say, “It’s all right, Mom. Just go home. Everything’s going to be okay.”

The exchange was upsetting from so many angles, not the least of which was that, right now, someone should be comforting him. A guard pried them apart, putting handcuffs back on Aidan. Facing the courtroom he looked around, and Isabel knew he was looking for her. In one fast motion she stepped into the light. She’d been looking at Aidan for a long time. She knew every expression his ridiculously handsome face made. This was new, and she realized that this was fear.

Needing to make a decision fast, Isabel climbed back into the Caddy Escalade, curious as to how much trouble she’d be in if she drove it over the state line and sold it to a wholesaler for cash. It would serve Rick Stanton right. But then she figured if there were a charge for brainwashing, they’d slap that on Aidan too. She thought about Stanton’s money clip, but surely it was locked in the evidence room. There was the twenty-four-hour pawnshop on Beaumont Street, though all hers and Aidan’s possessions combined wouldn’t make a dent in the sum. Isabel knocked her head against the steering wheel. It jarred something loose.
I’m an idiot.
“Thank you, John Roycroft,” she whispered, grateful for a man Aidan never knew. She turned the key, screeching toward the farmhouse and Aidan’s truck.

PAYING AIDAN’S BOND IN CASH MADE THINGS A RELATIVELY EASY PROCESS
. Isabel signed a few papers and handed over $8,000. The desk clerk told her to wait on the other side of the glass partition. She felt as if she hadn’t seen Aidan in weeks. Isabel glanced at the clock; six a.m., surely Carrie would be home soon. She had until then to get Rick’s vehicle and herself back. It didn’t leave much time for the two of them to figure out what came next. The idea of Isabel and Aidan conferring over a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch when Carrie walked in wasn’t terribly plausible.

A buzzer sounded and Aidan walked through the door. He didn’t look bad, just worried, even a wrinkled tux unable to completely dishevel him. Isabel wanted to fall into his arms. But she was unsure if he expected the same, the horrible portion of the night having greater sticking power than any notion of them as a couple. She offered a sympathetic smile, keeping the grand gesture to herself. It proved to be a wise choice when he didn’t even smile back. He walked out of the sheriff’s station, Isabel following. Aidan blinked into the bright light of day. “This way,” she said, motioning toward the Caddy. He stopped, the blink morphing into a wide-eyed look of confusion. “If we get it back in the next twenty minutes, I don’t think they’ll add grand theft auto to your rap sheet.” He got in and they drove toward Fountainhead.

“How long did it take you to remember the money?”

“A few minutes longer than I would have liked. I’m not at my sharpest at four in the morning.” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “The rest is in my purse.”

After a moment, Aidan’s body wrenched forward, his head turning sharply toward Isabel. “I understand why you did it. Like I said at the farmhouse, I’m an awful coward. You stayed behind in the trailer to do what I couldn’t. Just so we’re clear, I
will
take responsibility for shooting Rick Stanton. I’d never let you . . . It should have been me,” he insisted with warrior determination. “I wanted to confess back there, at the arraignment, but my lawyer said it was suicide. He told me I needed to stay calm until he could arrange a plea bargain. But I am curious; I never heard a gun fire before you came out. Did . . . did you muffle it somehow?” Isabel glanced between Aidan and the road. Then the obvious fell from the sky and through the Caddy Escalade sunroof, smacking her on the head. She screeched onto the side, gravel pinging against the SUV, dust clouding around them. “Here’s how I think we should say it went down,” Aidan said, plotting her alibi. “The simpler, the bet—”

“Aidan,” she said sternly, making sure she had his full attention. “You’ll confess to no such thing because I didn’t shoot Rick Stanton either.” He stopped talking, though his mouth hung wide. “I robbed him, I checked his breathing. I called 911. But I swear to you, I did not shoot him.”

Thoroughly confused drifted to clearly relieved. “Then how . . . ?”

“I have no idea. I haven’t really had time to think about it. Rick’s shooting was as much a surprise to me as it was to you.”

He started to say something else but sighed, nodding absently. “Good. That’s good, Isabel. I didn’t want you to have to live with that. It’s bad enough, everything that did happen.” She pulled back onto the road. “How long do you think it took for that ambulance to arrive?”

“I’m not sure. There was a wreck on Old Station Road. The county only has one ambulance,” she said, knowing this from her mother’s hospital talk. “If it was at the scene of the accident, it probably slowed their response. Why? What are you thinking?”

Aidan’s hands, less swollen but still bruised, scrubbed over his face. “I’m thinking that somebody had enough time and motive to shoot Stanton before that ambulance arrived. The question is, other than me, who wanted that chance?”

And right there, glancing at his ink-stained fingertips, was the mother of all quagmires. Who, other than Aidan, would the police even think to look for? They drove the rest of the way in silence, turning into Fountainhead, bypassing the cutoff to Aidan’s trailer. She knew he didn’t want to go home. Returning the Caddy to the exact place she’d found it, Isabel was relieved to see that her mother’s car wasn’t in its spot either. “Aidan—”

“Yeah, I know. What am I going to do? You wouldn’t think something so great and something so awful could happen in one night.”

Aware of the negatives, she was unable to pinpoint if the something so great was Fitz Landrey, the record executive who promised him a future, or them. For now she thought it best to avoid the subject entirely. “Actually, I was going to say, what are we going to do?” He stared out the open window as a fly buzzed through, summer heat and irritation already mounting. “I . . . couldn’t believe the other things they wanted to charge you with. You know I did everything I could to convince them otherwise, that I’d never . . .”

“Isabel, you don’t have to say it.” He didn’t turn from the window, but his hand reached over, blindly covering hers. “I trust you with my life.”

“I wish . . . I wish it had happened. I wish Stanton had done it, that you hadn’t gotten there before he—” Aidan’s head whipped back, his face incredulous. Staring at him through filmy tears, Isabel was at peace with the notion. “If he had, we’d have all the proof we need.”

Aidan’s body moved toward hers, his hands cupping hard around Isabel’s face. “Do not . . .” He paused. There wasn’t even a twitch to his mouth, his lips pursing so hard. “Do not ever say that or think that again.” She’d never heard his voice make such a sound. “Do you hear me?”

She nodded and he let go, turning his gaze to the tin can horizon. He was so very quiet, though Isabel could feel the scorching anger radiating from him. The rest of the story, the part he didn’t yet know, would send an icy chill up his spine. “Aidan, I have to tell you something else . . . something important.” His head moved slowly, looking at Isabel as if she were about to tell him the whole Fitz Landrey thing was a practical joke. “My mother is pregnant.” She said it fast, like ripping off a Band-Aid. “She’s going to marry Rick Stanton.” A practical joke might have gone over better. There was a fierce wide blink, as though he couldn’t bring it into focus. “I know; it’s, um, weird . . . unbelievable. She said she was going to tell me after the gala. I found out—well, it doesn’t matter how I found out. But she is . . .
pregnant
,” Isabel said, still trying to absorb the fact. “I’ve tried to tell her, Aidan, everything. But because of her . . . her situation, despite anything I’ve said, she believes . . . To tell you the truth, I’m not sure what she believes. Circumstance is demanding that she take Rick’s side.”

“You’ve got to be . . .” But he saw that she wasn’t, slinging his head hard against the seat. “That’s just great. Perfect. Your mother and Stanton can stand arm in arm at my sentencing. How many public officials do you think Stanton will have in his pocket by then? How freakin’ old do you think I’ll be by the time they let me out?”

Isabel wanted desperately to reassure him that none of this would happen, but Aidan had had enough hours to process the facts. He understood Stanton’s influence and his endless connections. It was hopeless. Maybe that was why Isabel said the next thing that popped into her head. “Walk away from it, Aidan. All of it. You didn’t do anything wrong and you still have $2,000. It’s enough to get you out of Catswallow and clear to the other side of the country. It’s not like you don’t have somewhere to go.” It was an outrageous solution, but so was the entire situation. To her amazement, he replied with something even more extreme.

“Only if you come with me.”

“If I what?” She heard him but stalled. A part of Isabel wanted to give her mother another chance. Maybe she’d come home and come to her senses. Glancing down the gravel road, early waves of heat skewed the horizon. It was a predictable effect that she guessed was unavoidable. With only minutes to decide, Isabel debated a choice that would turn a rift into a ravine. “Aidan, I—”

“Come with me, Isabel. There’s no way I’m leaving you here. What’s here for you? Why would you stay? There’s the farmhouse, but this,” he said, motioning toward a sea of manufactured homes, “has never been where you belong. I’m sure as hell not leaving you here to move in with your mother and her new husband.”