Southern Comforts (31 page)

The sheriff was a tall man, about six foot four, she'd guess. He was wearing dark glasses which precluded her from seeing his eyes, and his lips were grimly set.

“Good mornin', ma'am.” He tipped his hat. His gray hair was short, styled in a military cut. “I expect you're Miz Cassidy.”

“That's right. And you're—?”

“Joe Burke, ma'am. Sheriff of Raintree county.”

“What can I help you with this morning, Sheriff?”

“I'm here to see Cash, ma'am. If he's around.”

“Of course he is.” For some reason there was something
in his tone that had her suddenly feeling uneasy. Assuring herself that it was just a lack of sleep, she shook the feeling off. “I'll go get him.”

“That's not necessary,” a deep voice behind her said. Chelsea turned around and viewed Cash standing in the doorway to the veranda. “Mornin' Joe.”

“Cash. I need to ask you some questions.”

“Come on in.” His expression was bland. His voice mild. But Chelsea, who'd come to know him well, sensed an undercurrent.

They all went into the kitchen, where she poured the men coffee. “If you want me to leave you two alone—”

“That'd be real nice, darlin',” Cash said.

“I'd like you to stay,” the sheriff said at the same time.

The tension in the room was suddenly so thick she could have cut it with one of Roxanne's kitchen cleavers. Her puzzled gaze went from Cash's implacable face to the sheriff's grim one, then back to Cash. Growing increasingly uncomfortable, Chelsea sat down at the table.

For the first five minutes the questions focused solely on Belle Terre. Yes, the wiring was to code. Yes, they'd passed all the inspections, gotten all the required green tags. No, there wouldn't have been any workman at the scene that time of night, which meant that the fire couldn't have been started by a welder's torch as was so often the case. Or a cigarette.

“Would you be surprised to learn that the fire marshall found evidence of flammable liquid at the scene?”

“Not really,” Cash said.

“Any special reason?”

“We've ruled out causes of accidental fires. I suppose that leaves arson.”

“That's what the fire marshall was thinking. His first thought is that Waggoner might have torched the place.
Since you'd canned his ass— Sorry for the language, Miz Cassidy,” the sheriff said with a quick glance toward Chelsea.

She nodded and managed a faint smile.

“Anyway, the word among the crew is that you ran him off the job.”

“He was a menace. And a criminal.”

“A paroled one. Who'd done his time.”

“You know as well as I do that doesn't mean squat these days. What with all the prison overcrowding, they probably released the son of a bitch to make room for a check bouncer.”

The sheriff didn't deny the possibility. Instead, he rubbed his jaw and looked out the window. “You knocked down the slave cabins.”

“Thought it was time,” Cash said.

“I reckon so.” The older man looked around the kitchen. “You've done all right for yourself, Cash. A fancy Italian sports car, that bass boat with all the high-tech gadgets—”

“Is there a point to this, Sheriff?”

His voice had regained that edge Chelsea had heard earlier. And, she noted, this time he'd referred to the other man by his title, and not his first name.

Chelsea was not the only one who'd caught the challenge in Cash's tone. Joe Burke's square jaw jutted out. “I was just wondering why you'd be willin' to risk it all by killing a no-account drifter like George Waggoner.”

When Chelsea gasped, Cash put his hand under the table and squeezed her knee in a reassuring gesture. “I was under the impression Waggoner died in the fire. A fire he probably set for revenge.”

“That's what the fire marshall thought at first,” Burke allowed. “But that was before the coroner discovered his
head had been bashed in. The way we figure it, the fire was set to destroy the evidence.”

“I suppose that makes sense. But what makes me a suspect?”

“How about the little matter of you threatening to kill the guy?”

“Good point,” Cash allowed.

“And there's something else. A white pickup truck was seen on the river road, headed this way about the time of the fire. You want to tell me what you were doing about midnight?”

“He was with me,” Chelsea said before Cash could answer. “In bed.”

The sheriff's eyes narrowed. “All night?”

“Yes.” She forced a smile she was a very long way from feeling. “Believe me, Sheriff, when a woman receives a proposal from the man she loves, she's not likely to let him get away. Until she clinches the deal.”

Burke took that in. “Well.” He rubbed his chin again.

Checkmate,
Chelsea thought.

“I guess that's just about all I wanted to ask you, Cash. Miz Cassidy.”

He stood up. Cash and Chelsea accompanied him to the door, then stood on the veranda, arms wrapped around each other's waists, watching him walk back toward the white squad car.

“Oh, Cash, one more thing,” he said, stopping just as he was about to fold his long length back into the driver's seat. “Don't be planning any trips out of town for a while. Until we get this case settled.”

That said, he climbed into the car, shut the door and started the engine.

“I can't believe this,” Chelsea said they watched him drive away.

“That makes two of us.” His voice was as gritty as the gravel river road. “What the hell did you think you were doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know damn well what I mean.” His fingers curled around her upper arms. “Why did you lie to him?”

“I didn't lie. Not exactly.”

“You said I was in bed with you.”

“You were. And believe me, darling, I have the marks to prove it.”

“Hell.” Momentarily sidetracked, he looked down at the faint bruises on her arms. “I'm sorry.”

“I'm not. And wait until you see your back,” she advised.

“You don't have any idea what you're getting into. We both know I left here last night.”

“To drive around. To think out an architectural problem.”

“That's what I told you. But how do you know I was telling the truth?”

“Simple. You once told me that you'd never lie to me.”

“Maybe I was lying when I said that.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake.” Her exasperated breath feathered her curly bangs. “If you possibly think that I could ever, in this lifetime or any other, believe you capable of cold-blooded murder, even of a loathsome man like George Waggoner, than you're not nearly as intelligent as I know you are.

“I love you, Cash. And I'd do anything for you.”

“Even go to prison as an accessory to murder?”

She gave him a long look. “Did you kill him?”

“Of course not.”

“There. See? I can't be an accessory to anything. Because the only thing you're guilty of is being fatally sexy.” She
wrapped her arms around his neck. “Now that we've settled that, how about taking a shower with me? We've both got smoke in our hair and it's driving me crazy.”

“You want crazy?” Abandoning the lecture about legal jurisprudence, putting aside his fears that Joe Burke was going to be back with a warrant for his arrest, Cash scooped her off her feet and carried her into the shower, where they spent a very long time driving each other to the edge of madness. And beyond.

H
er brain fogged with shock, and the tranquilizer she'd taken, Roxanne dragged herself up the stairs, intending to wash her face and clear her mind.

Although it was morning, the drawn drapes caused the room to be as dark as midnight. Roxanne flicked the wall switch, turning on the Tiffany lamp, bathing the room in the soft, flattering glow created by stained glass shading a pink lightbulb.

She paused for a moment, drinking in the sight and scent of this signature perfect, ultrafeminine room.

The bed, discovered at a Charlotte, North Carolina estate sale, was truly a wonder: a towering mahogany pineapple four-poster draped in diaphanous clouds of white netting, covered with snowy Irish lace and piled high with cutwork pillows of her own design. She'd been going to take it with her to Belle Terre. Roxanne groaned as the vision of Belle Terre engulfed in flames flashed yet again through her mind, as it had on the drive back from the plantation house, over and over, like a scene from some late-night cable horror film.

It was as if she were there, watching it again. So caught up was she in the devastating memory, she never heard the footfalls approach behind her. Did not see the chunk of yellow southern pine descending toward her head.

Never heard the thud, like a hammer striking a ripe melon.

A black veil drifted over Roxanne's delphinium blue eyes as she fell, slack, face forward, onto the floral needlepoint rug.

 

Chelsea and Cash were eating breakfast when the phone rang. “Yeah?” Cash growled without preamble. When he heard the cultured voice on the other end of the line, he closed his eyes and sighed.
Great, Beaudine,
he blasted himself mentally.
That's just goddamn great.

“It's your mother.”

“My mother?” Chelsea stared at the receiver he was holding out to her as if it were a rattler, poised to strike. “Oh, hell,” she murmured, her own sigh as deep and resigned as his.

“Hello, Mother,” she said in a feigned cheery tone as Cash left the house, going out to pace the veranda. “How did you find me?”

“I called at the inn,” Deidre said. “The man who answered the phone suggested I try you at this number. He was very helpful.”

“Jeb is that,” Chelsea agreed.

“So, that's his name? Jeb?”

“That's right.” Surely her mother didn't call just to chat? “Jeb Townely. He owns the inn.”

“He's quite charming.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Is there a Mrs. Townely?”

“No. He's single.” She waited.

Deidre did not disappoint. “I don't suppose—”

“No, mother. I have no intention of getting romantically involved with Jeb Townely. No matter how charming he is.”

“Well.” Deidre half laughed, half sighed. “You can't blame a mother for trying.”

Actually, she could, but Chelsea wasn't in the mood for an argument right now. “Was there some special reason you called, mother?”

“Well, of course. I saw the terrible news about Roxanne Scarbrough's house and was worried about you.”

“It made the news? So soon?”

“As we've already discussed, the woman has a knack for getting publicity.” Deidre's voice dripped with scorn. But beneath it, Chelsea thought she detected a note of honest maternal concern. “When the reporter mentioned something about a body being found in the house, I told myself that it couldn't possibly be you, but—”

“I'm fine.”

“You're certain?”

“Absolutely. In fact, I'm better than fine.” She took a deep breath, then plunged headfirst into the dangerous conversational waters. “I'm getting married.”

“To Cash Beaudine.”

“Yes.” The smile warmed her voice and lit up her eyes. “To Cash.”

“Well.” There was a long silence. “I suppose I should have expected something like this, after seeing the two of you together in New York.” There was another lengthy pause. “Does he make you happy, Chelsea?”

“Deliriously.”

“I'm glad. That's all I've ever wanted for you, dear. That you be happy.”

“Thank you, mother.”

Just when Chelsea thought they were making progress, Deidre reverted to type. “Of course, I'd once hoped that Nelson would make you happy.”

“He didn't.”

“So I've come to realize.” Another pause, longer than the others. “Oh, Chelsea.” There was something new in her mother's tone, something Chelsea had never heard before. “I realize I haven't been the type of warm, earthy mother you would have preferred, but I do love you. If you were having problems with Nelson, I would have wanted to know about them. I would have wanted to try to help.”

“You couldn't have done anything.”

“I could have listened.”

“You never did before.” Chelsea cringed inwardly as she realized that she was sounding like a petulant child. “I'm sorry. Maybe you didn't listen because I never gave you a chance.”

“And maybe you didn't give me an opportunity because I never gave you any sign that I cared.” Deidre sighed. “Oh, dear. I really have made a mess of things, haven't I?”

She sounded so honestly contrite, Chelsea found herself wanting to reassure her. “Of course you haven't—”

“You don't have to lie. My mother was the same way. Cold. Remote. Seemingly too busy to take time to listen to a little girl's hopes and dreams. I always swore that when I had a daughter, I would do things differently.”

She sighed. “Obviously, I failed at motherhood. The same way I failed at marriage.”

Chelsea was stunned by the unexpected admission. “You weren't any different from all my friends' mothers.”

“That's exactly my point. Do you know, I used to envy Tillie terribly.”

“Really?” This was another surprising statement in a morning filled with revelations. Chelsea wondered if her
mother had realized that the Lowell housekeeper had often seemed more like a mother to her than her own.

“Because from the stories she told me, she and her children all seemed so close. There were times, when she'd show me the photos of another birthday party, or Christmas, or Labor Day picnic, when I nearly wept. Because her family was the one I'd dreamed of having with your father.”

“Are you saying you loved him?” Chelsea had never known.

“Until the day he died.”

“Yet you divorced him.”

“And have regretted it ever since. Unfortunately, I was too much a product of my upbringing. I couldn't be who he wanted me to be. Who he needed me to be.”

“And who was that?”

“The woman you've become all on your own. An independent woman. A woman brave enough to remain true to her heart. And to go wherever it takes her. Even if the road ahead seems perilous and unfamiliar.”

As she heard the tears thicken her mother's voice, Chelsea felt the moisture stinging behind her own lids.

“Thank you, mother.” After promising to call soon, Chelsea hung up. And as she joined Cash out on the veranda, she realized that by giving her heart to Cash, loving him without reservation, she'd finally been able to open up enough to make the emotional connection with her mother that had eluded her for so many long and lonely years.

 

The house appeared empty when Chelsea finally arrived around noon. Neither Roxanne nor Dorothy's cars were anywhere to be seen. She rang the bell, received no answer and was about to leave when the door opened.

“Oh, hi, Chelsea.” Jo greeted her with her usual perky
smile, as if nothing had happened. “Roxanne wondered if you were going to show up today.”

“I'm sorry. I was delayed.” Chelsea couldn't help the warmth that flowed through her as she thought of how she'd spent the past hour. “Is Roxanne here?”

“I'm afraid not. She had to meet the insurance claims adjuster out at Belle Terre.”

“I'll just go out there, then.”

“Oh, no. That's not necessary,” Jo said quickly. “In fact, Roxanne assured me that she'd be back by lunch. Why don't you come in and wait? LaDonna made some lovely chicken salad sandwiches.”

“I guess that makes the most sense,” Chelsea allowed. “Is Dorothy with Roxanne?”

“No. Her mother's ill today. Roxanne suggested she stay home and take care of Mildred. Since there wasn't anything she could do around here today. What with the fire,” Jo tacked on.

It crossed Chelsea's mind that was unusual behavior for Roxanne. She'd never seen any indication that the life-style expert cared about her employees' personal lives. As for there not being any work, now that the news about the fire at Belle Terre had gotten onto the wire services, the press would begin gathering like vultures. Surely Roxanne would want Dorothy on the scene to run interference?

“Don't ask me,” Jo said with a shrug when Chelsea mentioned her concerns. “I just take the pictures. I've given up trying to figure out what makes that woman run.”

“She is a little complex.”

“There's nothing complex about Roxanne. She's a cold, calculating bitch, pure and simple.” Jo's tone was sharp. Remembering the way Roxanne had slapped Jo, Chelsea decided the lingering resentment wasn't so surprising. “But, we had a bad enough night. Let's try to have a better day.”

She led the way into the sunny kitchen decorated with gleaming copper pots and pans that Chelsea suspected had never seen a range top.

“LaDonna makes the best chicken salad,” Jo enthused. “It's the pimento that makes it special. And I love the way she puts the orange juice in the iced tea. It's delicious.”

The chicken salad was as excellent as promised, although Chelsea thought the tea tasted a bit bitter.

“So,” Jo said conversationally, as she cleared the table after their shared lunch, “that's really something about George, isn't it?” Roxanne had still not returned and the housekeeper, Jo had explained, had gone to the market in Savannah to do her monthly shopping.

“About him dying in the fire?”

“Yes.” Jo looked at her curiously. “Unless you know something I don't know.”

“No,” Chelsea hedged, “that's what I meant.”

She was vaguely relieved that Jo didn't seem to know about the murder. Perhaps the sheriff was going to remain discreet until he had the killer behind bars. She certainly hoped so, not even wanting to think of the media circus the press could make of the story. Despite their new and tentative truce, her mother would undoubtedly be less than thrilled to have her daughter's name linked with a homicide suspect.

“He must have gone into the house to set it on fire, to get back at Roxanne for firing him.” Jo mused.

“But it was Cash who fired him,” Chelsea reminded her. A headache was threatening. She rubbed her temples with her fingertips. “Not Roxanne.”

“Well, sure. But he probably wasn't thinking real straight. I mean the guy was the classic alcoholic. He probably managed to kill off most of his gray matter.”

“You've got a point.” Little white dots were swimming
in front of her eyes. Her tongue felt thick, making it difficult to speak.

“Chelsea?”

Jo's voice sounded as if she were underwater. Chelsea tried, with effort, to lift her suddenly heavy head and look at her.

“Is everything okay?” Now the words were drawn out, like an old-fashioned 45 rpm record playing at 33 speed. “You look funny.”

Chelsea opened her mouth to answer, but she couldn't get the words out. Sweat was pouring down her face, dripping onto the white Irish linen tablecloth, which struck her as strange, since she was suddenly freezing. Her teeth began to chatter.

The last thing she remembered was struggling to stand up, desperate to get to the phone to dial 911. But her watery legs wouldn't hold her and she crumpled, surrendering to the darkness.

Chelsea's head felt as if someone had split it in two with an ax and her mouth felt as if she'd been eating cotton balls. Her eyes were filled with grit. She tried to open them, but couldn't. Tried to pry her lids open with her fingers, but someone had tied her wrists together behind her back, rendering her helpless. Her bound wrists had also been lashed to her ankles, she realized through the thick fog clouding her mind. Someone had tied her up like a stuffed pig.

Now all she needed, she decided on a silent, hysterical giggle, was someone to put an apple in her mouth. Then she could be the entree at a Roxanne Scarbrough luau.

The thought amused her. Enough so that she was actually smiling as she drifted off back into the dark, cold nether-world of unconsciousness.

When she roused again, Chelsea realized that she was in a car, being driven over a bumpy, unpaved road.

But where? she wondered groggily.

And why?

Having no answer, she lost consciousness once again.

The next time she woke, she found herself gagged, tied to a chair in a small, rustic room that reminded her of what the inside of Cash's former slave cabins might have looked like.

Her head was pounding and she feared she was going to throw up. She swallowed down the unpleasant taste that bubbled up in her throat and although it took a mighty effort, she managed to turn her head and take in her surroundings.

The floor was dirt, the walls created of some sort of limestone and shells. The roof was tin. Rain pounded down on the tin, sounding like a snare drum. There was a narrow army green cot in a corner of the room. A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling on a black wire.

Roxanne was lying on the floor beside the cot, similarly bound and gagged. Her hair was a filthy blond tangle around her dirty face. She had two black eyes, and there was an ugly gash on the side of her face. She was a mess. But she was, Chelsea saw with relief, still alive. Her blue eyes, as they met Chelsea's were wide with shock and terror. For the first time since meeting her, Chelsea knew exactly how the life-style expert felt.