That Boy From Trash Town (7 page)

Chapter 5

W
hitney pulled to the side of the street, put the Jaguar in park, then spread a street map out on the passenger seat. She had been to Dallas plenty of times, but someone else—a taxi driver or a friend—had always been in the driver's seat. And she was pretty sure she had never been to this part of town. There wasn't a shop or restaurant for miles.

Glancing up, she checked the street sign down the block, then returned her gaze to the map, her fingers moving across the fine lines. She was five blocks from Quintan Street. Five blocks. She was almost there.

The night she left San Antonio, Whitney had thought only of finding her father. Getting her questions answered. Seeing his wonderful face again, and having his arms around her. But now that she had had time to think, doubts were beginning to set in. What if Lloyd Grant had walked out on his family of his own free will? What if he had simply decided he didn't want Anne or Whitney anymore.

She had to admit the possibility made sense. Had abandonment been the case, Anne would have been shamed by desertion; she would have been disgraced in the eyes of the world. Her world. Being widowed was eminently more respectable than being dumped.

If Lloyd had left because he no longer loved them, he might not want to be reminded of the family he left behind. He might resent Whitney for intruding. And there was always the chance that he had a new family, one that knew nothing about his old one. Did she have the right to disrupt the lives of innocent people?

Putting the map aside, she closed her eyes and leaned forward, resting her head against the steering wheel. She didn't want anyone to be hurt by her sudden appearance, but neither could she leave without learning the truth.

She would simply have to proceed with care. She wouldn't rush in, telling all and sundry that she was searching for her father. If Lloyd Grant was still at the address on Quintan Street, Whitney would watch and listen until she knew for sure what was going on in his life.

And only then would she decide what to do next, she told herself as she put the Jaguar in gear and pulled away from the curb.

The house at 1132 Quintan Street had a wide porch, supported by pillars that were half brick, half square wooden posts. The tiny yard held a few thin shrubs, but there were no trees, no flowers. It was a no-frills kind of place, and there was an impersonal feel to it. Even before Whitney saw the small faded sign with Rooms printed with a green marker, she knew that this wasn't a private home.

She drove past the house three times before she realized the people on the street were staring at the white Jaguar, and her stupidity made her groan. Of course they were staring. It was a decent neighborhood, clean and uncluttered, but parked in most of the driveways were neat little economy cars or dependable old Chevrolets.

Not a Mercedes or BMW or Jaguar in sight, she thought as she turned the corner and headed back toward her hotel.

Twenty-four hours later, the Jaguar her uncle had given her in her first year at S.M.U. was in storage and Whitney was the proud owner of a '72 Buick.

And that wasn't the only change that had taken place. When she parked the Buick in front of the boarding house and stepped out, Whitney wore faded jeans and an oversized man's work shirt, an ensemble that had always made Anne Grant cringe. Her mother wouldn't see anything funny in the fact that Whitney was finally dressed appropriately.

Her knock on the front door of the boarding house was answered by a gruff-voiced, gruff-faced woman in her late fifties.

"Better come on in," Mrs. Skinner said when Whitney asked about a room. The woman seemed nice but abrupt.

"I don't have any vacancies, but I have a friend who lets rooms, too. Wait here for a minute white I write down the address," she said, already on her way out of the small entrance hall.

"I particularly wanted a room here," Whitney said, panicking for no good reason. When the woman paused, Whitney moistened her lips and added, "You see, this place was recommended by a friend.. .a friend of my father's. A man named Lloyd Grant."

Mrs. Skinner shook her head, then paused to adjust a hairpin. "No, no one called Grant lives here. There was a man last year. Couldn't stand him, something about the way he was always clearing his throat. What was his name? No, it was Greer. I sure can't remember a Grant." She turned away again. "I'll get that address for you." And she was gone before Whitney could stop her.

"Lloyd ain't lived here for four or five years at least."

Startled, Whitney whirled around and saw an elderly man making his way slowly down the stairs.

"What did you say?" she asked as the blood began to pound in her ears.

"I said old Lloyd hasn't lived here for quite a while now," the man said, speaking loud and slow as though he suspected her of being hard-of-hearing.

Whitney swallowed around the lump in her throat and wiped her damp hands on her jeans. "I wonder—I wonder if it was the same man. His... his wife was a tall, dark woman."

The-old man shook his head. "Naw, couldn't have been him. Lloyd was an old bachelor like me. Still is as far as I know. Least, he didn't say anything about a wife when I saw him last month."

"You saw him? Where was that?"

When Whitney saw the old man's features close up, she realized the questions had been too urgent, too sharp.

Softening her lips into a smile, she said, "Maybe I was mistaken about the wife. I mean, I never actually met her. It might be the same man. The thing is, Mr.... You see, I'd really like to get in touch with Mr. Grant."

"What for?"

Oh, yes, he was definitely suspicious, she told herself ruefully.

Perspiration had gathered in her palms again, but as she nervously tangled her hands in the bottom of her shirt, she maintained the smile.

"I—I owe him money," she said, searching desperately for a plausible excuse. Everyone understood about an honorable debt. "He was kind enough to lend me some money several years ago, and now that I'm doing better, I'd like to repay him. Do you know where he's living now?"

He shook his head. "That sounds like Lloyd and I'd sure like to help him out, but he didn't say a word about where he's staying. I ran into him over to Rick's Pub out on Rale Street. I think Lloyd's a regular there, but it's not my kind of place," the old man muttered. "Too noisy. My nephew took me there for a beer. He's young enough to put up with that loud music. Rock and roll, you know. Now, Westler's up town is more my speed. They have good old country music, and all my buddies go there. Especially on—"

"Thank you, sir," Whitney said, already turning to pull the door open. "Would you tell Mrs. Skinner I don't need that address after all and thank her for me?" The last words were thrown over her shoulder.

Whitney's hands were shaking on the steering wheel as she pulled away from the curb. As soon as she was out of sight of the boarding house, as soon as she turned off Quintan Street, she pulled over to the side of the street and slumped forward.

Her father was still alive.

Whitney's one big fear, a fear she had hidden somewhere in the back of her mind, was that Lloyd Grant had died since writing those letters to her mother. That she would have to face his death all over again.

But he was still alive. And there was no new family to disrupt. She could find him, making herself known to him, without worrying about the other people in his life.

Tonight she would go to Rick's Pub on Rale Street and start asking— She broke off the thought as another occurred to her. She already accepted the possibility that her father had walked out because he was tired of having a family. But if she started asking questions and word got back to him, he might disappear again.

She couldn't take that chance. Although it went against the grain, she would have to be patient. She wouldn't mention his name to anyone. The old man at the boarding house said Lloyd Grant was a regular at Rick's, so Whitney would also become a regular. She would listen and watch, and sooner or later she would find him.

The decision made, she put the car in gear, waited for a station wagon to pass, then pulled out.

Whitney didn't look forward to going back to the hotel. The room was too empty, too lonely, and she would have to fight herself to keep from calling Dean. She needed to talk to him. And although she wanted to tell him about everything she'd learned, about the detective work she'd done, she knew it would be enough just to hear his voice.

It wouldn't be the first time in the past two days that Whitney had fought the urge to call Dean. She'd said goodbye to him on a hilltop, but she was discovering that goodbye was only a word. And one little word couldn't cancel out the habits of a lifetime. She was in the habit of thinking of him. She was in the habit of sharing her thoughts and feelings with him.

She was in the habit of loving him.

It would get better, she told herself. It had to. As soon as she found her father, she wouldn't feel so alone. She would have something other than Dean to think about

And someday she would probably get used to the pain of losing him.

* * *

Dean threw the heavy book down on his desk and rose abruptly to his feet. He hadn't seen Whitney in four days; she was even refusing to take his calls. Every time he telephoned Sweet House, Anne Grant would tell him, in her stiffly polite voice, that her daughter was indisposed and couldn't possibly come to the phone.

"Stubborn idiot," he muttered.

He had never been so exasperated with her. And although he hated to admit it, he had never been so worried, either. Dean had been so sure she wouldn't stay angry with him. But now, since he couldn't talk to her, he didn't know if she was simply sulking or genuinely hurt.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he walked to the window that looked out over the backyard, his gaze lingering on the flowers she had planted there.

He missed her, he admitted reluctantly. Whitney had been a part of his life for so long. A big part of his life. When he grew angry with the legal system-something that happened often—or when he became too deeply involved in a case, Whitney was always there to take his mind off his problems. Somehow, at some point in the past, he had come to depend on her.

As he leaned his forehead against the glass, he tried to figure out why he felt so uneasy. It wasn't as though he was in the habit of seeing Whitney every day. They had been separated plenty of times—when she was in college, and when the Harcourts, en masse, went traveling. Several times a year they would take off for parts unknown to mingle with other wealthy, traveling folk.

Why, then, did Dean feel that this separation was different? Why did he feel as though there was an emotional as well as physical distance between them?

When the doorbell rang Dean turned away from the window and frowned. It couldn't be Whitney. She never bothered with ringing the bell. Since the house had become his, she always just walked in.

On the other hand, maybe this was her way of showing that she remembered his angry demands for privacy.

It wasn't Whitney.

Anne Grant was the last person Dean would expect to find on his doorstep—she had always made a point of ignoring him if they happened to pass by each other on the street, as though she didn't want to acknowledge the fact that Dean even existed—but here she was, standing on his front porch.

"Mrs, Grant," he said, carefully keeping his expression neutral. "What can I do for you?"

She didn't meet his eyes. She looked around his porch—anywhere but at him—as she fidgeted with the clutch purse she held in gloved hands. "I need to talk to you," she said, her voice characteristically faint.

Opening the door wider, he waved her inside. "Sure. Come in."

After he had shown the woman to an armchair in the living room, he sat down and studied her, waiting for her to tell him what this was all about. Her uneasiness was evident in her posture. Anne Grant had always been stiff around him, but today she was positively rigid.

"You— Your home is charming," she said finally. "You've done a beautiful job of restoration."

"Thank you." He wanted to tell her to either fish or cut bait, but he knew that would make her even more uncomfortable. "How's Whitney? Is she still 'indisposed'?"

Anne immediately dropped her gaze to her hands. "My daughter is the reason I'm here today," she said with obvious reluctance.

Dean was instantly alert. A new element had crept into the woman's vague voice, an element that brought apprehension into the room with them.

"What about Whitney?" Tension gripped the muscles in his neck and shoulders, but he kept his voice calm. "Where is she? Whitney's all right, isn't she? She's not really sick or—"

"She's gone."

For a moment Dean wasn't sure he had heard the soft words correctly. "What the hell are you talking about?" Politeness discarded, his voice was now harsh and abrupt. "What do you mean, she's gone?"

"She left sometime in the middle of the night on Sunday. I knew she was upset, but I didn't expect this. She simply packed her bags and walked out." When her lips trembled slightly, she pursed them and continued. "She didn't even leave a note for me."

Dean stood up, turning away from her as he raked his fingers through his hair. Packed her bags? Walked out? Whitney was gone? Whitney was gone.

"Did she speak to you about our...disagreement?" Anne Grant asked.

He turned back to the woman, his thoughts chaotic. Whitney's mother still wouldn't meet his eyes, but when he didn't answer, she added, "I knew she was on her way to see you when I saw her go through the hedge." Her lips tightened again. "Since she was a little girl, she has always come to you when something upsets her."

How she hated admitting that, he thought, then glanced away from her rigid features.

"She told me nothing."

The words were low and tight with anger, but this time the anger was directed toward himself. Whitney hadn't had the chance to tell him anything. Damn it, he should have known something was wrong with her that day. He should have known something had hurt her.

Dean had spent the past four days pushing the picture of how she looked in his bedroom out of his mind, but now he forcibly called it up.

There had been a wild look in her blue eyes that day, as though she were frightened and confused. It was the same way she had looked on the day he'd found her sitting on the curb so many years ago, only worse. What had happened to her? What had the Harcourts done to her? And why in hell hadn't he at least given her a chance to talk?

"She told me nothing," he repeated wearily.

Mrs. Grant shifted her position slightly. "My daughter found—" She broke off and gave her head a little shake. "Whitney has decided that her father is still alive. As a result—"

"What are you talking about?" he interrupted. "You're not making sense. Your husband drowned in a boating accident almost twenty years ago. Whitney knew that. Why should she suddenly take a notion that he's alive?"

Anne Grant didn't answer. She simply held herself even more stiffly as she stared at a painting hanging on the opposite wall. Then, when the silence had almost become a physical thing between them, Whitney's mother shifted her gaze to her white-gloved hands and said, "Mr. Russell, I came to you because I need your help."

He studied her for a long time, then shook his head in amazement. "You're a real piece of work. Her father is alive, isn't he? And Whitney found out that you've been keeping the truth from her for all these years. Judas Priest, lady, what kind of mother are you?"

Her head bobbed just a little, as though she had taken a blow. "What I did, I did for the best."

"Whose best?" he asked in contempt. "Yours? Certainly not your daughter's." He swung away from her, rage tightening his throat. "You're just like all the other Harcourts. You ignore what you don't want to see. An inconvenient husband?" He gave a short laugh. "Hell, that's easy. Just kill him off. Pretend he doesn't exist...the same way you've always pretended I don't exist."

Her peach complexion turned ruddy as she finally met his eyes. Her anger was out in the open now, and the cast-iron center was exposed. "What did you expect?" she said, her voice hoarse with emotion. "Was I supposed to accept the fact that my daughter—a sweet uncomplicated child—was running with a wild boy from Trash Town? Did you think I would be pleased about that?"

"That was years ago, Mrs. Grant," he said with quiet but equal intensity. "I'm not a boy anymore, and Trash Town no longer exists."

"But you are still you. Oh, I knew what she was doing. I've always known. You were nothing more than a form of rebellion for my daughter. If I had been smart, if I had known it would last, I would have told her I thought you were absolutely wonderful and that I objected to one of the boys she knew who came from a good family. Because if I had done that, Mr. Russell, you can be sure Whitney would have attached herself to him instead.''

Dean didn't want to listen. He tried to tell himself that the woman was speaking out of spite, out of anger, but it was no use. The words twisted through his insides and settled in a hard knot in his stomach.

He had no comeback for her. He didn't want to admit that the same thought had occurred to him years ago.

They continued to stare at each other, matching anger with anger, until Dean had finally had enough. This asinine squabbling was getting them nowhere. It certainly wasn't helping Whitney.

Sweet heaven, she must have been crushed by her mother's betrayal. And his own, he thought, feeling the knot twist tighter. She must have felt as though the world had blown apart around her.

"You said you needed my help," he said, smiling grimly at the irony of her request. Anne Grant despised him, yet she had come to him for help. "I assume you want me to find her. Well, I accept the job. But before I even start looking, I need to know why she left. Was it to get away from you and the Harcourts, or was it to find her father?"

Dean felt a grudging respect for the woman's strength when he saw that she didn't even flinch at the obvious insult.

"She doesn't know where to look," she said after a moment. "I burned all the... Whitney doesn't know where to look," she repeated, her voice and expression growing vague again.

Dean laughed, but there was no amusement in the sound. "Burned all the evidence, did you? I wouldn't count on that stopping Whitney. You apparently don't know your daughter very well, Mrs.' Grant. She's not only sharp-witted, she's one of the most outrageously stubborn people I've ever come across." He shook his head. "No, Whit won't give up easily. She especially doesn't give up on people."

Unless she thinks they're giving up on her, he thought as his own words called up that terrible scene in his bedroom.

Setting his jaw, Dean shook the vision away. He couldn't think of that now.

"She told me that you never talked about your husband," he continued slowly, "so out of respect for you, she didn't mention him at home. But she mentioned him here, Mrs. Grant. I bet I could describe him to you, down to the last detail. And I could tell you, also in detail, how much Whitney loved him. How much she still loves him."

He shook his head. "No, if there was one chance in a million that she could have her father back, she'd take it, no matter what she had to do."

He paused, waiting for Whitney's mother to meet his eyes. When she did, he said, "Where would she look, Mrs. Grant?"

She made a soft noise of protest and shook her head in a helpless movement.

"Where would she look?" he repeated, his voice growing harder. "Come on, lady, if your husband hadn't been killed nineteen years ago in a boating accident, where do you think he would be living right now?"

She dropped her gaze to her hands. At some point she had taken off her gloves, but instead of folding them neatly, she was twisting them between her fingers with agitated little movements.

"Dallas," she whispered at last "Whitney might be in Dallas."

"Dallas," he repeated, finding it both sad and absurd that she still hadn't admitted her husband was alive.

"Please find her, Mr. Russell." Anne Grant rose gracefully to her feet. "Find her and bring her home."

"I'll find her," he said as he walked her to the door. "But I can't force her to come back. Whitney is an adult now. She has to make her own choices."

As soon as he closed the door behind Anne Grant, Dean picked up the telephone and punched in the number of someone he knew in the district attorney's office. He would ask his friend to check to see if Whitney was using her credit cards. That would tell Dean if she was, in fact, in Dallas.

Next he called Boedecker and Kraus and discovered that Whitney had canceled her interview, a fact that bothered him even more than the way she had left. Packing up and leaving in the middle of the night sounded like a whim. But taking the time to call and cancel a job interview sounded more planned, more permanent somehow.

Dean's last call was to his office, "Listen, Sam," he said when his partner came on the line, "I need you to take over for me next week.''

Fifteen minutes later he replaced the receiver and leaned against the wall. He'd told Anne Grant that her daughter was an adult. Dean truly believed that, and he would fight for her right to make her own decisions. But he also knew how vulnerable Whitney was. She had never been totally on her own before, and she wasn't prepared for the real world. She was too innocent, too trusting for her own good, and Dean was scared out of his mind for her.

Sweet heaven, Whitney, he thought, what have you gotten yourself into this time?