The Profiler's Daughter (Sky Stone Thriller Series) (50 page)

“His talent with a Bowie knife, I suppose. I once watched Bo Manville win a throwing contest against a grown man when he was seven years old. There was something unnatural about the boy.”

“Why didn’t you go to Sheriff Kelly?”

“Olivia’s lapdog?” Wooten snorted. “She got him elected. She owned him.”

“What about the Tempest police?”

“She was on the Board of Trustees. She hand-picked the Chief of Police. Just as she hand-picked me. Lord Acton’s observation is rather fitting, don’t you agree? Absolute power corrupts absolutely.” Wooten removed his glasses and folded them. “Olivia Porter has a rare talent for cruelty. She inflicts pain and feeds like a vampire. There’s never enough to satisfy, of course. I suppose that’s why she takes such good care of me.”

“She pays your bills? She pays for Pink Bud?”

Wooten nodded. “My benefactress. Had she killed me, it would have been a great kindness. Some things are worse than death.”

“I’m leaving for Boston tomorrow. I’m staying at the Deadwood.” Sky wrote her room number on a business card. “This is where I’ll be until then. In case you think of anything else.” She pressed the card into his hand. “One more question, Doctor. Were you ever a morphine addict?”

“Never.”

The sunroom door burst open and Archibald Tibbits rushed in.

“You must leave this facility at once.” Tibbits mopped nervously at his brow with a handkerchief. “And do not bother to return until your relationship with Doctor Wooten has been verified by our staff.”

“Mr. Tibbits,” Sky palmed her phone and stood. “I’m so glad you’re here. I’m afraid Uncle Reggie got into my bag while I was in the little girl’s room. The scamp snagged my airplane liquor.” Sky held up the empty Chivas miniatures. “Check him out. Make sure he’s okay.”

Wooten slipped Sky’s business card into his shirt pocket and flashed Tibbits a defiant glare. “I never felt better!”

Sky leaned down and kissed his gaunt cheek.

Then she adjusted the brim of her hat and left Pink Bud nursing home under the vigilant eye of Archibald Tibbits.

All roads seemed to lead to Raleigh Porter Medical Center.

Sky followed the ubiquitous blue hospital signs through the streets of Tempest until she came to the dun colored buildings. She put the Impala in park and watched the hive-like activity of white lab coats and green scrubs scurrying from building to building through the stifling heat. Fronted by twin octagonal high rises, Raleigh Porter would have looked right at home in Boston’s Longwood medical area.

How long, Sky wondered, had it taken Porter Manville to drop the southern accent when he’d arrived at Harvard as a freshman? She remembered a sweet kid from Louisville, one of her Psych 101 students, teased unmercifully in class by the other students over his Kentucky drawl. “Y’all aren’t any smarter up north,” he’d confided to Sky during office hours one September afternoon. “You just talk faster and louder.” Still, by the end of the fall semester, the Kentucky drawl was gone.

Sky fished Aunt Olivia’s letter from her backpack and studied the lilies on the elaborate Florentine liner. She pulled the letter out and reread the final paragraph with fresh eyes.

… It is lonely in this big house and I am haunted by the specter of death. I hope eternally that you might relent and visit. Dear boy, I have come to regret the things I said in anger so many years ago. My sister tried her best, but I spoiled you and I take full blame. You are all I have. We are two of a kind, Bo. Surely you feel the connection. There is something I must tell you before I die. Please come home. All is forgiven –

The letter dropped to Sky’s lap.

Porter Manville killed Savannah Lane and his aunt covered up the murder. Did Olivia Porter banish her nephew thirty years ago as a way of protecting him? Were those the words she’d said in anger?

A bead of sweat trickled down Sky’s face and dripped on the letter. She put the Impala in gear and headed for the Deadwood Hotel.

It was nearly six by the time Sky pulled into the Deadwood parking lot. She put the hat on and grabbed the boutique bags, backpack, and Burberry satchel. Navigating the revolving door was tricky and she nearly collided with a bellboy in the lobby.

“Miss Stone?” The pale blue shirt of his uniform was stained with sweat. “Someone is waiting for you in the lounge, ma’am. I’ll be happy to take those bags to your room.”

Butch, she thought. The cowboy was early, they’d agreed to dinner at eight. And she was a mess.

“You’re smiling,” the bellboy observed.

“Am I?” Sky handed him the bags and backpack and a twenty dollar bill.

“Yes, ma’am. A beautiful smile, if you don’t mind my saying.” He pointed to the lounge. “Go straight past the bar, the farthest booth.”

Sky slipped into the lobby restroom and checked her reflection in the mirror.

The linen dress was tediously conventional, nothing she’d ever choose under normal circumstances. But the hat seemed to compensate. Pushed far back on her head, the wide brim created a halo of gold around her face, as though she’d stepped out of a Renaissance fresco.

And the bellboy was right. She
was
smiling.

The lounge was dim and it took Sky’s eyes a moment to adjust: dark wood, lots of red leather, the murmur of a jazz piano. Three suits roosted on bar stools arguing football with the bartender. The men paused to stare as Sky passed.

The far booth was one of those circular designs meant for privacy and Sky’s step quickened. She peeked around the high back, expecting to see the blonde cowboy.

“Sit down, Miss Stone.” A woman stared at her with heavily lidded eyes. A shock of white hair swept from a creased forehead and she had cheek bones like cut glass. The family resemblance was striking.

Sky removed the hat and slipped into the booth. “Olivia Porter?”

The old woman jerked her head in silent assent and jammed a Marlboro between thin lips. She flicked a turquoise-studded Ronson, drew hard, and flashed a newspaper at Sky with her free hand. A huge emerald ring circled her bony index finger.

“The way my nephew is looking at you?” Olivia Porter jabbed at the
Boston Globe
society shot taken at Carnivale. “I thought to myself, Bo has finally found himself a mate. A real beauty, too. And smart! A doctor of philosophy.” She spoke a throaty, cigarette-raw drawl. “I thought to myself, Bo is ready to settle down. Maybe come back home.” She tossed the paper on the table, scattering cigarette ashes everywhere. “True, you are a Yankee. Can’t be helped. But a Yankee with breeding. An honest-to-God Boston blueblood.”

Sky said nothing. Behind the old woman’s southern cadence she sensed the watchfulness of a predator.

“The Winthrops are mighty fish in a mighty pond. Senators and governors and merchants of the earth.” Olivia Porter stubbed the cigarette out and lit another. “You got five centuries of privilege behind you and a long life ahead. But me?” She shrugged matter-of-factly. “I’m comin’ to the end. Bo is all I have. I watch out for him.”

“I think I understand,” Sky said. “It’s about family, it’s only natural. You spoiled him. Like the Steinway piano.” Sky took a gamble. “Or the red Cadillac convertible.”

Hope flickered in the old woman’s eyes. “Bo told you about that Cadillac?”

“Yes,” Sky lied. “He told me how he liked to put the top down and drive like a maniac through town with his buddies.”

“He dearly loved that Caddy. Bo was always such a wild child.” Olivia Porter offered Sky an indulgent grin. “I never could deny him anything.”

“And yet Bo never calls, or writes, or visits.” Sky leaned forward. “Why is that? Why does Bo hate you so much?”

The grin dissolved. Olivia Porter tossed the Marlboros and Ronson into a handbag. “My spies tell me you’ve been sniffin’ around Pink Bud, bothering Reggie Wooten. Why, he’s nothin’ but an old junky with Alzheimer’s.” Her eyes narrowed and she offered Sky a nasty smile. “And the merchants of the earth shall weep and mourn over her.”

What did that even mean?

Sky grabbed the hat and slid wordlessly out of the booth, wanting, suddenly, to be very far away from Olivia Porter.

“That’s right. Run away, little blueblood. But never forget,” the old woman flashed a business card. It was the one Sky had given Reggie Wooten at Pink Bud. “You may be a big fish in Boston but you’re swimming in
my
pond now.”

Sky peered out her hotel room window and closed the curtains on the blistering sun. Spooked by the conversation with Olivia Porter and exhausted by the relentless heat, she stripped down and took a cold shower.

By the time she’d wrapped herself in a one-size-fits-all hotel robe and slugged down a bottle of Perrier from the mini bar, she’d caught a second wind.

She unzipped the backpack and upended the contents on the bed. The yearbooks tumbled out, along with the 7 For All Mankind jeans, pink camisole, cut-offs, red halter, brass knuckles, yellow flip-flops, the small packet of newspapers tied with red string, and the dime store bag of walnut goodies.

Sky slipped the information gleaned from the Tempest library into a large mailing envelope and snagged some Oreos from the hospitality cabinet. She sat cross legged on the king sized bed and put the stack of old newspapers on her lap.

With great care, she untied the red bow.

There were two 1964 issues, dated May 5 and November 30.

Sky read carefully through the brittle pages. Church functions, Raleigh Porter Medical Center news, and the upcoming search for a new football coach consumed most of the May issue. Half a dozen articles dealt with various members of the Porter family, including a chatty piece about sisters Olivia Porter and Rachel Porter Manville embarking on a six month tour of the European continent. Rachel’s husband, Drayton Manville, was quoted as saying, ‘I gladly remain on the ranch and leave the ladies to their museums.’

The November issue covered the football team’s disappointing Friday night performance and included a high profile birth announcement: A baby boy, born to Rachel and Drayton Manville, 24 November, in les Baux-de-Provence. According to the article, Rachel discovered she was expecting midway through the sisters’ European tour. Pregnancy complications delayed the transcontinental flight home until after delivery, joyful homecoming arrangements to be announced blah blah blah.

Sky jettisoned the worthless newspapers across the room; the pages spread like crippled butterflies and drifted to the floor.

The burst of energy she’d felt after her shower evaporated, she was overcome with exhaustion. Stretching out on the bed, she closed her eyes and fell into a restless sleep.

Sky woke. It took her a few seconds to remember where she was.

A hotel room.

Texas.

The clock beside her blinked 8:14 but the shades were drawn and Sky wasn’t sure if it was night or morning.

The door rattled. Someone was twisting the knob from the hallway.

Someone was breaking in.

Had she remembered to close the deadbolt?

Adrenaline cascaded through her limbs and Sky was on her feet in an instant.

Grabbing the brass knuckles from the foot of the bed, she darted to the door and peered through the fisheye at a tall blonde man in jeans and a white shirt.

Sky yanked the door open.

Butch Yost, all six feet eight inches of him, ducked inside holding a bouquet of blue flowers in a glass vase. He smelled faintly of soap and freshly washed linen.

“Got worried when you didn’t show at the restaurant. Nursed a beer for about five seconds before I decided to come looking for you.” Butch eyed the brass knuckles on Sky’s hand. “Expecting trouble, sweet thing?”

Sky suddenly felt incredibly self-conscious.

Maybe it was the fact that she was wearing nothing but a bathrobe in the presence of a virtual stranger. An extremely tall, extremely good-looking stranger. In a hotel room.

She felt her face grow hot. “I fell asleep,” she mumbled.

“No harm done.” Butch booted the door shut and set the flowers next to the TV. “I didn’t notice last night, probably ‘cause you were so fixated on those yearbooks. But I see it now, plain as day.”

“See what?”

“You’re shy.” Butch grinned with evident delight. “I mistook it for arrogance. My mistake. I bet you were accused ‘a bein’ stuck up as a kid.”

The cowboy’s accuracy was unnerving. Sky tightened the belt of the one-size-fits-all bathrobe with a resolute tug. “I’m not shy,” she lied, grabbing the black dress from a shopping bag. “It’s this heat.” She dropped the brass knuckles on the bed and slipped into the bathroom to change.

She sounded like a total idiot. And why was her voice so breathy?

The dress was shorter than she’d expected, hitting her mid-thigh. Sky applied
Fetish Pink
lipstick and pulled a brush through her hair.

“Find what you were looking for in these yearbooks?” Butch’s voice boomed from the other side of the door. It was a nice voice, deep and strong. “I’m surprised they let you check ‘em out.”

Sky emerged from the bathroom and changed the subject. “What kind of flowers did you bring me?”

“Bluebonnets. Fresh from the south meadow. We had a miserable winter, cold and rainy. Made for a bumper crop. Not sure how long they’ll last in this heat.” Butch took in Sky’s little black dress. “Long stemmed roses would’ve been more appropriate. Or maybe orchids. I apologize.”

“Don’t you dare. They’re perfect.” Sky cupped mounds of the velvety lapis blooms in both hands. “I’ve never seen bluebonnets before.” She couldn’t help noticing they were the same color as Butch Yost’s eyes.

And the fragrance was heavenly.

“I got two solid acres of ‘em. Come riding with me tomorrow, I’ll show you.”

Sky slipped the Manolo Blahniks on her bare feet. She’d already decided to allow herself one meal without thinking about Nicolette Mercer or Savannah Lane or Porter Manville. Or Olivia Porter, for that matter. She was going to enjoy a glass of wine, maybe even have a slice of peach pie. But she wasn’t sure how she felt about Butch’s offer to go riding.