Something About Sophie (14 page)

“I know people believe what they want to believe. And I know that sometimes we make up stuff to rationalize what we don't understand—like things that hurt. But I truly don't remember ever feeling or thinking that her putting me up for adoption was anything but a gift from her to me.” She offered a soft laugh. “Maybe that's how my mom explained it when I was young or something but that doesn't matter, either. It's how I've always felt.

“And now . . . knowing she needed a guardian, for whatever reason, I feel like maybe it was that person's gift, too. He was careful to bring in a good man like Arthur Cubeck to help him—he cared about me. And that nondisclosure thing he signed? Something tells me it wasn't just to protect my birth mother—it protects me, too.” She looked from the lawyer to Drew. “I'm being too simple and naïve, aren't I? Boringly detached and objective, right?”

“Not at all.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of kind and empathetic,” Drew said, looking more impressed than she thought she deserved. “But if that's not doing it for you, how's the fact that your instincts have been tested recently—profoundly—and have proven to be spot on? You know I believe in going with your gut, and if that's what yours is telling you then I'd bet good money that you're right. How you feel is how you feel. You don't need to explain yourself to anyone. And you don't need to make any decisions right this second.”

T
hey suspended any further discussion of Arthur Cubeck and her birth mother when Drew closed the office door.

A few minutes later they were on a slow meander through the long narrow hole-in-the-wall type bar that is Miller's on the downtown mall. She challenged him to a game of pool while they waited for their lunch order. Though Drew dominated the game—despite his gallant offers to tie one hand behind his back or, if she preferred, hand drop her balls in the pockets for her—she saved her ego by fending off defeat with an extensive selection of wily trash talk until their food arrived and they were forced to call a tie before it all got cold.

They sat at a small table on the brick walkway outside, hardly aware of the pedestrian traffic browsing the shops along the tree-lined shopping mall. They talked about music and movies and summer vacations. Later, he was patient while she window shopped, and she let him buy her ice cream so he wouldn't have to eat his alone on the way back to his car.

It was too nice a day for the air-conditioning. They'd lowered the car windows and let the wind blow across their cheeks and kink the curls in Sophie's hair. The air was thick with the scent of moist soil, sun-warmed trees, and honeysuckle. The silence between them as comfortable as it was cozy and intimate—until something caught Drew's attention.

He had slowed down rapidly on the highway and took a sloping gravel road off into cool shade and thick green undergrowth.

“Where are we going?” she had asked, bemused by the grin on his face when he told her it was a surprise. She laughed. “You don't think I've had enough surprises lately?”

“This is a good one. You'll like it.”

And who would not? He pulled to the side of the dirt road, took her hand when she got out, and led her carefully between the trees to the creek. There was a short drop down to the edge, which he took first, then turned with his arms out to help her. She hugged him with gratitude for his thoughtfulness and then kissed him because . . . well, because she liked kissing him.

“What a lovely, peaceful place.” she said, standing barefoot, up to her calves in a shallow, slow moving stream that snaked loose and lazy through the wooded area. The water was so languid she could see the rocky bottom. “Coming in?”

He shook his head, seemingly content to enjoy her enjoyment. “No.” He found a rock to perch on. “This one is called South River. It starts from a spring a few miles south of here and flows north all the way to the Atlantic Ocean.”

She chuckled to herself and wagged her head. “Geographically, I understand why some rivers flow north but the one I can never wrap my mind around is Niagara Falls . . . flowing north. I always picture it flowing up, backwards, like it's rewinding. This is someone's property, isn't it? Think we'll run into an angry farmer with a shotgun?”

“I can't even imagine a farmer who'd get angry seeing a beautiful woman cooling her feet in his stream.”

That dollop of pure maple syrup sent blood rushing to her cheeks. “And this one runs all the way to the ocean, huh?”

“Mm. Until it reaches the North River—clever names, don't you think? They become the South Fork of the Shenandoah River.” He pointed upriver. “The South Fork is about a hundred miles long and joins the North Fork in a town called Front Royal and then
they
become the Shenandoah River.” He bent his fingers slightly. “It flows another fifty or so miles and dumps into the Potomac in West Virginia somewhere and then
it
empties into the Chesapeake Bay and flows out to sea.” His hand came to rest on his knee as he finished his mental journey.

“It's cool but not freezing. Perfect.” She stood on the rock-strewn bottom and wiggled her toes in the silt and clay, the water barely grazing the hem of her sundress. She looked up at him. “Thank you for this.”

He shook his head, suddenly ill at ease—as if it were too small a thing to be thanked for.

She studied the water around her. “Fish? Creepy wet things? I'm okay if I can see them but not if they sneak up on me.” She grimaced.

His eyes lit with mischief. “I don't know about fish—the water might be too shallow, but there are plenty of bugs, so it's hard to tell. However, creepy wet things. . . .” He grinned—her smile drooped. “No, of course not.”

But once she relaxed again, he added, “Well, probably not. You can never tell about creepy wet things.” He plucked his invisible pen from the air and began to write on his hand. “Not okay if creepy wet things sneak up on her.” He laughed when she kicked water at him, being careful not to get his clothes wet.

Though he'd said nothing about it, she suspected he was staying dry because he still had to go to work; that he'd rearranged his entire day to take her to Charlottesville so she wouldn't be alone to hear what Daniel Biggs had to say and that this little river interlude was an impulse and just for her pleasure—a distraction, a kindness to show he cared.

A distraction. Her mind followed the ramshackle path back to the reason for it, and she sighed. When she looked up, she found him watching her in concern and smiled as she started toward him. “I bet I haven't mentioned to you yet how beautiful I think your eyes are.”

His gaze, warm with an unmistakable heat, made her insides pitch with elation. He casually extended his hand to support her over the slippery bank, and then used his grip to guide her between his legs to sit on his knee, her toes still dipped in the water.

She put her hands on his cheeks and saw that while his gaze was calm and compassionate, the contours of his face showed tiny lines of stress fanning the outer edges of his lovely eyes, like so many little tributaries pouring tension into tranquil pools. She placed her thumbs over them, damming them, because she knew the anxiety was for her. She kissed him.

His arms encircled her—easy, effortlessly—as if it was already a long-practiced habit to him. He shared the touch of his lips, the taste of his mouth, and the breath of his life with her and she wallowed in it.

She smiled at the dazed look in his eyes when he opened them and wondered how she could make time stand still for them. Then abruptly, she recalled, “I also forgot to mention, I ran into Billy the other day after Hollis and I met with Mr. Metzer.” She smoothed her thumbs across his high strong cheekbones and lowered her hands to his shoulders for more balance. “He apologized again.”

Drew nodded. “I know.”

“You know?”

“Mm.” He seemed more interested in etching her face into his memory than his brother's activities. “My mother called me. She said Billy stopped by the house and asked her questions about life in Clearfield twenty-seven years ago. Women who died in childbirth, girls being sent off to live with relatives for months at a time, unwed mothers being stoned in the streets . . . anything she could recall. She wanted to know if I knew what was behind his behavior and I said he was probably trying to help you. I figured that if he was being a pain in the ass you'd have told me, but I called him anyway. Is that a scar?” He touched the outer edge of her right eyebrow. “How'd you get it?”

“If I tell you, are you going to put it in your book?”

He grinned. “Yes.”

She sighed, happily defeated. “I ran into the back porch on my tricycle and hit my head on the handrail.”

“How old were you?”

“Seventeen.” His laugh echoed through the trees. “Three, I think. I don't remember it.”

“Any others?”

She raised her elbow and had to look around for the evidence of an old injury. “Soccer. When I was eleven. Group collision.”

Smiling, he raised it to his lips and kissed it. Then he looked at her. “He hadn't unearthed anything when I talked to him.”

“And I haven't talked to him since he offered to help. But now . . . I don't know. I don't think he'd find anything. If my birth mother's guardian went to all the trouble to sign a nondisclosure, I can't imagine them leaving any other evidence around for us to find.”

“Maybe not, but this is Billy we're talking about. If there is anything out there, he'll find it.”

“He said he liked a good mystery.”

“No, he doesn't. He hates them. It makes him crazy if he thinks someone's hiding something from him, and he can be as tenacious as a warped door until he finds out what it is.” He chuckled as he recalled. “He cried at his birthday party once because one of his friends gave him a Power Rangers puzzle and Mother made him stay with his guests until they'd all gone home before he could start putting it together. Anytime we wanted to get to him, all we had to do was pretend to have a secret.”

She scoffed. “I used to wish I had a brother or a sister, but I've just as often been glad I didn't. Horrible creatures. And in that case, I'm even happier Billy offered to help. I was curious about something Jesse told me about Mrs. Weims—that she'd noticed her husband behaving
oddly
after the murder.
Oddly
seems different than sad and grieving, doesn't it? I thought maybe she'd talk more readily to Billy than to me.” She made a face. “He offered to be my inside man and I'm glad I have him.”

“Me, too.” He buzzed her lips with his and smiled. “Is there any way I can help? Anything you want me to do?”

“You mean, beyond all you've done already? More than going to the lawyer's office with me? Including this—bringing me here?” She sighed in satisfaction, and in yearning. She moved her hands to cradle the back of his head as she leaned forward. “Maybe just one other thing.”

A gut-clutching sparkle lit his eyes before he closed them to accept her kiss. Her mouth opened over his, hungry and demanding, teasing and coaxing at once—he retaliated in kind.

The soft gurgle of the stream and the sounds of birds rustling in the bushes joined the gentle rhythm of the leaves brushing against each other in the trees until it began to sound like background music. Hands strayed. Breaths became labored. Drew's phone rang.

He groaned deep in his throat and when she would have pulled away, he persuaded her against it—repeatedly—while he removed his cell from his pocket to identify the caller over her right shoulder.

“Speaking of the devil. It's Jesse.” He smiled, sent her to voicemail, and nibbled on Sophie's lower lip to get her full attention again.

But not three minutes later it rang again.

Slowly, reluctantly the kisses tapered off and they sighed.

“We should probably get back anyway,” she said, grateful for his assistance as she left his lap and picked her way across the rough, slippery rocks to get her flip-flops.

“Hey, Jess.”

Hearing the fondness and patience in his voice, Sophie glanced at him. He smiled and winked at her and then his expression flagged. He looked away and then back to Sophie deeply distressed.

“Hold up, Jesse. Who? Jesus. Is he dead?”

Sophie could feel her heart all of a sudden beating so slow and so hard she thought it was stopping.

“Did he see who it was?”

“Who? Is it Mike? Is he hurt?” Drew shook his head. “Maury Weims?”

Another shake and he said, “Lonny Campbell.”

“What?”

“Someone attacked him.”

“The nice old man from the gas station?”

He nodded. “We're on our way back,” he said to Jesse—using the same words and his brow to ask Sophie. “No, she agrees. We'll be home soon. Is Mike there?” He listened, and frowned anew. “Go up to the Levy's. They might know more.” He sighed. “I wish I could tell you, Jesse. I don't understand it, either.”

Chapter Ten

D
rew terminated the call and looked over at Sophie. Every muscle in her body was demanding an explanation.

He gave it as they worked their way up the slope and back to the car. “It happened last night. He was taking the trash out to the Dumpster behind the station and someone shocked him with a hotshot, a cattle prod, from behind. He went down but managed to knock them over as well; staggered to his feet somehow, lunged and got shocked again. Hit his head on the Dumpster, but Jesse said he saw the person run off before he passed out. One of his guys found him early this morning.”

“So he saw who did it?”

He shook his head. “Dressed all in black with a ski mask, he said.”

“Do they think it's the same person who killed Cliff Palmeroy?”

Again, he shook his head—he didn't know.

They were back in Drew's car and heading south in a matter of minutes—and minutes after that she was backhanding uninvited and wholly humiliating tears from her cheeks.

Women of
flint
don't cry until
after
all the crimes have been solved.

“Why is this happening?” She tried to sound angry but came off woefully confused. “I can't even pretend anymore that all this doesn't have something to do with me. It isn't coincidence. First, it's that icky Palmeroy guy following me around. And Maury Weims—he was hostile when he saw me at the drugstore. Hostile. Jesse said it wasn't personal but it was, I swear. I mean, I know when someone's not happy to see me. He wasn't and he's missing. And now Lonny, although . . .”

“What?”

“Lonny was nice, and he liked me. There's no pattern here. Except for me. Everyone I talk to or have any sort of contact with is either dead, missing, or injured or—Oh, God! Give me your phone. Quick.”

He did, even before he thought to ask, “Why? Who are you calling?”

“Everyone,” she said, busy fingering through his menu. “Jesse and Mike need police protection. I have Hollis on my phone. I'll call him next. He should be all right in Austin, but you never know so I'll give him a heads up. Ava and your mother, too—maybe they could leave town for a while, visit your sister in South Carolina.” She stopped and looked at him. “And Billy. Oh, why did I agree to let him help? And Daniel Biggs—we need one of those no-information things he was talking about. Some's better than none.” Her attention shifted back to his contact list. “Who else? I don't know who to call first. I didn't want to worry Daddy, but now I have to in case he's in danger, too, and— Oh, my God!” Her hands trembled as she turned to him. “
You!
You have to go, too. I knew this was too good to be true. I have
the worst
luck with men! I've never actually gotten one killed before—even though a couple of them had it coming—but you don't and I sure don't want you to end up dead. Or missing, because I have this sick feeling in my stomach that Maury Weims is as dead as Cliff Palmeroy and I didn't know either one of them. Not like I know you—we kissed!”

“Whoa. Okay.” Calm and sensible, Drew watched his rearview mirror and Sophie at the same time as he crossed traffic to the outside lane and slowed to a stop on the shoulder. He put the car in park but didn't turn it off. When he turned to look at her more closely, his expression wasn't very sympathetic. “Listen to me. I get that this whole thing has been confusing and weird and that it's frightening for you. And I can see where you might assume it has something to do with you. I do. But whether it does or not, none of it is your fault. And who knows? There's still a chance that everything that's gone down could have just as easily happened if you'd never come to town. Maybe Cliff was a pervert and God knows the town has vandals. We don't know. And when we get to the bottom of it, if it does have something to do with you, you
still
don't get to claim responsibility for it. You haven't done anything to deserve it. Frankly, I never would have guessed you were so egotistical.”

“Egotistical?”
She was momentarily stunned. “I am not being egotistical. I'm being logical and . . . and pragmatic. You said yourself that I have good instincts and my good instincts are screaming that I'm involved somehow.”

“Now? You can hear them screaming
now
?”

“What? No! What. Like now I'm egotistical
and
insane? Stop it. What the hell is your problem?”

“My problem? I'm not the one hearing screams and taking credit for things that I haven't earned.”

“Neither am I!”

“Oh good,” he said on a gust of relief. “You had me worried. I have
the worst
luck with women. Finding one I'm crazy about isn't easy, you know, and if she turns out to be totally nuts it could really
, really
screw up the rest of my life.”

“What?”

“I said: Oh good. You had me worried. I have—”

“No. The other part.”

He grinned—and she realized that she'd just witnessed his version of slapping a hysterical woman's face. And, okay, she had been a little nuts there for a few seconds but . . . he was crazy about her?

The swoosh of the cars and trucks passing by only a few feet away seemed distant and dreamlike—his voice was a deep, soft rumble in the quiet of the car. “Which other part?”

“The part about
you
being crazy.”

“Me?”

“About a woman?”

“Did you think I was talking about you?”

If she didn't, she knew now by the teasing light in his eyes. She squinted and gave him her best scary-teacher stare. He chuckled in the face of danger, undaunted.

“I confess. I do think you're pretty adorable.” He used his left thumb to rub a surplus tear off her cheek; looked entirely inclined to kiss her, then sobered. “I hate that you're caught up in all this—digging up the past, what's happening in town. One or the other would be hard enough, but together it must feel overwhelming.”

A vague impression grew clearer. It must have shown on her face.

“What?” he asked. He leaned back, as if being too close to her made it harder to think. “What are you thinking?”

She shook her head. “Nothing really. Just a half-thought. We should get back to Jesse. She'll worry.”

“She'll be fine and it won't make any difference if we're there or not. What are you thinking? Talk to me.”

She wondered if this might be more therapy for a hysterical woman, but his tone was compelling—and she didn't care if was. Thinking out loud might help.

“What if . . . what if someone's trying to frame me? The sheriff already has his suspicions. It could happen.”

“No, it couldn't. You have alibis and there's no proof. No motive.”

“But what if they plant evidence or do something else? What if it works?” He opened his mouth to protest again. “Just
what if
. . . . What if it worked? What would anyone have to gain from sending me to jail? I don't have anything—certainly nothing someone else would want. I can't say for certain that I've never hurt anyone, but it was never intentional and it certainly wouldn't justify this sort of revenge. And even if it did . . . why here, why now all of a sudden? The only thing I can think of that's changed for me since I got here is that I have BelleEllen now.”

An unfamiliar emotion rippled across his features. “I can't think of Hollis as—”

“No. Don't think of Hollis. Don't think of him doing anything to hurt me. He cares about me. He wanted me to be his sister. He did. As much as I wanted to be. Besides, I'm giving it back to him. As soon as he'll let me or I figure out how. I don't want BelleEllen. He
knows
it. It's not him.” She hesitated. “Those Florida cousins. . . . The big one? Richard Hollister. He was furious. And he seemed like the kind of guy who'd bite the heads off live chickens for sport.”

“And the farm would go to him if anything happened to you,” Drew said, a hopeful ah-ha in his voice. She squinted. “No? So Hollis would get it.”

“I don't know. But it wasn't Hollis. I'm sure of it.” She crossed her arms mutinously across her belly and stared out the windshield, thinking. And just as Drew—still caught up in the possibilities—reached out to put the car back in gear to drive on, she stalled him with her hand and another thought.

“Wait a second. You know, I barely had any contact with those men. I spent more time with the tech who took my DNA sample the other day. I talked to the little curator in the museum for over an hour. If someone is setting me up, why didn't they pick people I'd spent more time with? More people like Lonny . . . like Ava or Billy, Jesse or Mike, you or your mother? Why not people I actually know, instead of two men who knew each other, but not me?”

He turned toward her again. He took a moment to review the data, readjusted his breakdown of the information, and encouraged her to continue.

“Does it seem like someone might be afraid of what could happen if they had further contact with me? Like if one or both had actually
talked
to me?”

“Like they knew something and whoever's doing this is shutting them up?”

She nodded. “Cliff Palmeroy was following me for some reason. And Maury Weims was . . . cold and unpleasant. Specifically toward me—and I'm not imagining it. He was. He must have had a reason.”

“And Lonny?”

She was thoughtful. “Lonny and I . . . chatted. For several minutes. We talked. And I had my car sent to him. We probably would have talked again. Maybe he knows, too. They might have thought he'd let something slip. And what happened last night might have been a warning.” Wagging her head slowly, she met his gaze. “You're right. It isn't my fault. Someone else is pulling all the strings for their own reasons. But it does have something to do with me.” She paused. “Or even more likely, it has to do with my birth mother. She's what
Arthur
wanted to talk to me about, and my coming is why everything else is happening.”

Gravely, he searched her face, accepted the conviction in it, and kissed her—soft, solid, and sure. He nodded. “Okay. It's as good as any other explanation. We'll run it by the sheriff and see what he thinks.” A quick promissory peck. “We'll figure it out.”

T
hey arrived back at Jesse's to see her red Jeep looking shiny and new at the curb—and the sheriff's brown SUV and two other county cars, grimy with mud and dust, parked in front of the house.

Jesse stood in the dappled sunlight amid the ferns and sweet rose accents on the porch. She wasn't tearing her hair out or screaming hysterically, so it seemed safe to suppose that Mike was well. But she was pale, looked stressed with the nervous flip of one hand in greeting, and her smile was strained: she had more bad news.

“Oh dear,” Sophie muttered, sharing a look of dread with Drew. He set his jaw and went for the door handle. He held the gate open for her and neither of them spoke until they stopped at the bottom of the steps, looking up at their friend.

“I'm sorry, Sophie. They have a warrant. I had to let them in.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders and neck tingled as those muscles loosened and leveled out. “Thank God. I thought someone else was missing or— Have they found Maury Weims yet?” The shrug and short shake of Jesse's head was troubling—very troubling when she had no words to add to it. “How's Lonny? Have you heard anything else? Why would anyone do that to him? Can he have visitors? Do you think he'd mind if I went to see him?”

This time Jesse tipped her head, baffled. “What is it with you and Lonny? He's such a cranky old fart—he's alienated almost everybody in town. The only reason he's still in business is because he can fix anything. Cars, toasters, freezers, lamps. He fixed Adam Bowman's grandfather's pocket watch two years ago. Adam was so grateful, he replaced all the lightbulbs in Lonny's service-and-repair sign, then Lonny went around bitching about the cost of the electricity to turn it on every night—which by the way, he still doesn't do. Ornery old poop.”

This didn't sound like the Lonny she'd met, but her ten-minute acquaintance with him hardly put her in a position to dispute it, except to say, “I caught him in a good mood, I guess. He was nice. I liked him.”

Jesse was clearly perplexed still, but voices from inside the house distracted them all.

“So, they're going through my stuff.” She couldn't remember how full her dirty laundry bag was; wondered if they'd touch all her underwear . . . or made comments.

“And your car.”

An ironic chuckle. “Well, it won't take long. They've already crawled all over my car once and my stuff doesn't fill a whole drawer up there.”

“That's what I said.” She was plainly relieved that her guest wasn't overly upset. “Well, not the number of drawers, of course, but that you brought so little—not even running clothes, so you had to buy some. It didn't seem to matter.”

“Did they say what they were looking for?” Drew asked.

“Incriminating evidence is what the warrant said. So far they've bagged up most of my knives, both of the flathead screwdrivers from the junk drawer, my sewing scissors, and the safety scraper—that thingy with the razor blade inside to get paint off windows? They even took my razor from my bathroom. Ha! I thought they were going to declare a national holiday when they found the X-Acto knife I use to cut away old caulking.”

“They're looking through your things, too?”

“They're looking everywhere. Inside the vents, the basement—even I can't find anything down there. The toilet tank, behind the stove and the frig, and the—”

“They're tearing your house apart?” Sophie glanced at Drew—he tipped his head to say they'd already pitched the frame-up theory and it didn't float.