T's Trial: A Bone Cold--Alive Novel (8 page)

Fletch hesitated. “Go on in, just in case we’re late. We’ll find you.”

What had he gotten into now?

*  *  *

“Something wrong? You’re watching like a hawk.” T didn’t keep the accusatory tone from his voice as he scraped the last dirty plate into the empty fruit bowl.

Lyla turned from the front window. “Nothing’s wrong. Harrison has set up class on the steps. I was just seeing how he was going about this lesson.”

“And?”

She joined him at the table, shook the napkins onto the cloth Fletch had found in the kitchen linen drawer and gathered the fabric together as T carried the dishes to the sink.

“He seems in instructor-mode.”

T set the dishes down and turned to her as she set the linen on the top of the washer. He placed a hand on his hip. “More power to him if he can teach Fletch anything.”

She stood on the other side of the dishwasher and opened it. “You want to load or make the coffee?”

T considered his options. He doubted his ability at either task. “Why don’t I provide music for you to work by?”

“Clever, but no dice. Why don’t I teach you about the dishwasher? It’s not as subtle as coffee.”

“Anytime you’re ready.” He managed a smile. His first thoughts were on how he was going to make Fletch pay for this insolence. Then she bent to the cabinet below the sink and he caught a whiff of her perfume, the slightest sight of her breasts, the barest touch of her arm on his pants leg. His mind wandered. Maybe the dishes should be hand-washed. She’d have to stand close. He could enjoy this for quite a while. But she pulled back, the box of dish detergent in her hand, and he tried to look uninterested.

“First rule, rinse everything. Our water pressure leaves something to be desired.”

“I noticed in the shower.” He pushed the faucet on and started rinsing, handing her the plates and cups and utensils. She showed him how they loaded best. “What about the leftovers?” He indicated the half-full bowl of macaroni and cheese.

“Cover it and put in the fridge.”

“Cover with what?”

“The plastic wrap—” she pointed around him to the set of drawers to the left of the sink. “Honestly, surely, you are not as helpless as you pretend to be.” She moved around him to the drawer, opened it, and handed him the roll of plastic wrap. “You do it, be good practice. You may not always have someone like Mr. Fletcher to take care of you.”

He glared at her as he whipped off a length of wrap and deftly covered the bowl, sliding it across the small expanse of counter top to where it sat beside the fridge. He put up the wrap and determinedly finished loading the dishwasher, put too much detergent in the cups, almost slammed it shut, and with a vengeance, punched buttons to start it.

Lyla measured the coffee into the gold filter, filled the pot with bottled water and flicked on the brew cycle. “I’m glad you don’t play drums. My appliances would never hold up.”

He turned to her, a lurid, ill-timed remark on his lips. But she was smirking, then shaking her head, a silent apology for her previous sarcasm. It was infectious, and he forgot his rebuttal as he leaned on the counter and laughed with her.

“I’m sorry for the stereotyping,” she said, balancing herself on the counter next to him. They were facing each other, not a yard apart.

Well, at least their cover was doing what it was supposed to do. “It happens.”

“I’m sure, but I know better. And I’m trying to teach Harrison better, but you can tell what an uphill battle that is around here. Dub and his cronies all know how I feel about their lack of political correctness, much less common courtesy.” She crossed her arms in front of her, causing her breasts to rise just the slightest bit.

It was an innocent move but not lost on T. He shifted his weight.

She looked away from him, gazed through the window over the breakfast nook. T followed her gaze, concentrating with her on the lake glittering visibly in the sunset. “It’s just I see you,” she sighed, “and you are so—”

“So what?” This was fascinating, he thought. He wanted an ending to this observation. BCA would eat this conversation up. That is, if he ever got past Fletch and back to normal, whatever that was going to be.

“Well,” she searched for words, “my teenage baby-sitters would call you a gorgeous hunk.” She looked at him at last, her blue eyes widened, asking for forgiveness that this subject was even broached.

“So what am I doing with Fletch?”

“Kinda.”

“There’s lemonade and there’s lemon chiffon pie. And both of them are good, depending on what you’re after.”

She crinkled her brow. “That’s true enough.”

The opening of the front door interrupted them. Harrison strode in, Fletch in his wake. “We’re continuing our lesson with rods and reels,” the latter explained to them as they marched past, heading for the small room by the garage. Harrison opened the door, the light switched on, and they disappeared inside.

T had turned to watch them. Now they both leaned against the counter, one on either side of the sink. “This is really not like him,” he explained to Lyla. “If he catches a fish, what will he do with it?”

“Eat it. If he doesn’t want to do that, release it. Tell him to come down to the store and get a license tomorrow before he undergoes this big time. You need one, too, if you’re going to be trying a new sport.” She grinned. “I should have brought a couple up. Believe me, Tib likes nothing better than to catch fishermen without licenses.” She cast her eyes upward to him. “Unless it’s to catch them over their limit.”

T was temporarily lost in her eyes. He didn’t have any limits. Never had. He did have a new sport in mind though. Well, okay, an old sport with a new object. He couldn’t remember the last time he had attempted romance sober from start to finish.

What had he gotten himself into now?

*  *  *

Fletch closed the front door and turned to T. He was already seated at the piano, his fingers rolling over the keys, one set of exercises after another. The taillights of the Jeep disappeared down the drive. “What did you think of our first experiment in hosting?”

“Can’t decide if they were just bored or really do go to bed with the chickens. Is it even ten yet?”

“Ten after. See, you were having such a good time, the hours just flew by.”

T started over on Clair de Lune. “At the moment, I’m not sure if I love you or hate you.”

Fletch stood beside the piano. He watched T’s face, the harsh lines gone from it for the first time in years. A little premonition of fear knotted in his stomach. Despite T’s earlier protestations, he’d always had a soft spot for women, and Lyla most definitely fit in that category. “You didn’t make a pass at her, did you?”

“No. She thinks we are very much a couple.” He didn’t look at Fletch, didn’t take his eyes off some spot over the fireplace.

“Good. Last thing we want or need is someone putting two and two together and coming up with you.” He began gathering the dessert plates. There hadn’t been a crumb of homemade strawberry shortcake left. Chalk one up for his culinary talent. T and Harrison had each had two helpings. Someone was going to eat his words and apologize for the nasty remarks about the cuisine before this respite was over. “I don’t suppose you garnered any interesting facts about our landlady?” He would save his own for later.

“No.”

“Did you try?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You’re the one’s so nosy, you ask all the embarrassing questions. What was I supposed to say—is your husband dead? Did your sarcasm kill him?”

“At least you were polite to the kid. Withheld all rude comment about his playing.”

“It wasn’t so bad. I don’t think he has any sort of gift.” He began Moonlight Sonata. “I’d have to hear Mom before I could pass judgment on her.”

Among other things you’d like to pass, Fletch thought. He balanced on the arm of the loveseat. It went beyond his good judgment to suggest what he was about to, but— “I suppose if you behave yourself, you could.” T raised an eyebrow. “Tomorrow, even.”

He quit the music. “I’ll bite. You have my attention.”

“Harrison informed me that Lyla and his piano teacher are performing a special duet tomorrow at church. We’d have to go late, slip in quietly, leave early…”

“You mean let me out of the house? What’s the catch? Do I wear a mask? A brown paper bag over my head?” There was a hushed excitement in his voice, a quality too long missing.

“Well, we made it through the airport anonymously. This seems to be a pretty hick part of the world—”

“I don’t want to sabotage my own coming-out party, but that news rag I bought Thursday was on the stands here. If you say we’re going to go, Fletch, then tomorrow morning I don’t want any second thoughts about what magazines these people read or shows they watch. They know what’s going on in the world.”

Fletch was already contemplating driving though Lost Oaks looking for appropriate mailboxes to surprise T with. He smiled slightly at the possibilities.

“Let’s just hope they don’t know what’s going on in their own backyard.”

Chapter Seven

F
letcher stepped into the kitchen, stepped just as quickly back out. He poked his head through the doorway.

“What’s wrong, Fletch?”

“I’m checking out the possibility that I’ve just gone through the looking-glass.” He stepped back in gingerly. “Let’s see, it’s eight o’clock on Sunday morning, about the time you’re usually going to bed, and the smell of coffee I didn’t brew wakes me up. What do I find? Looks like you’ve had your shower, made the coffee, poured the juice, and burned the toast just right for breakfast. Good Lord, T, there is a domestic side to you. I am astonished. Amazed. Astounded.”

“Enough already. Eat. You’ve promised me a Sunday drive and a church concert. I’m holding you to it. I’m about to go stir-crazy.”

Fletch picked up a piece of toast. “Services don’t start till eleven.”

“Surely we can find someplace to see between now and then.”

“Well, there was a little spot Harrison mentioned last night.” He sipped the coffee. Not half bad. “Lost Oaks.”

T raised an eyebrow. “How did that come up?”

“You remember passing it on the way up?”

“Sure. Once you see it, it sticks in your mind.”

“Then we won’t have a problem finding it again.”

T narrowed his eyes. “No. What’s so special about,” he paused, “this place?”

“I’ll tell you when we get there.”

*  *  *

“This is Lost Oaks? You’re sure?” Fletch stood in front of the massive white wrought-iron gates.

“Well, what does the sign say, Fletch?” T balanced half in and half out of the Mercedes. “You wanted Lost Oaks. This is it. Now what’s the mystery?”

“Well, I guess it does make sense.” He walked forward and pushed the gates open. How large a place could it be?

The cemetery was located on the inside of a curve in the road, surrounded by oak trees, making it invisible except for the gates. The graves were well cared for, the paths between them neatly marked. As T followed slowly in the car, Fletch began a systematic search on foot. It would be a new grave, as graves go, but the new and old seemed to be interspersed. Finally, just as he was prepared to tell T what he hunted and wave him off to the other side so they could conduct separate searches, he found it.

T stopped the car and joined Fletch as he stood reading the markers in a small section of the cemetery marked off from the rest by its own short wrought-iron fence. An oak tree dominated one corner, its branches spreading over most of the family plot. Red rose bushes climbed and then cascaded over the back section of fence. It would be a wonderful, shady place for a Sunday picnic, depending on how one felt about the surrounding dozen headstones, some to husband and wife, most singles. Fletch had fixed his gaze on the one belonging to Wesley Walker Lee Junior. His dates of birth and death spanned only twenty-seven years. There were no other words. Next to him was a smaller stone: Hannah Elizabeth Lee, age five years, the date of death the same as her father’s five years before.

“Harrison didn’t tell you they were dead?”

“It was a strange conversation. He said his papa was here at Lost Oaks. And his big sister. That they visited them every Sunday. That Lyla’s mama and grandfather were here and some cousins. He never said dead.” If he’d had a hat, he’d have been twisting the rim. “I feel awful.”

“Curiosity killed the cat, Fletch. I think it just took a big bite out of you, too.”

He continued to stare. “You didn’t know for sure he was dead.”

“Could’ve guessed it. Way she reacted to me having that song. Wonder if he played.” T squatted at the edge of the grave. “They died the same day. Car accident, I suppose.”

“Most logical.” Fletcher uprooted himself and drifted around the plot. “This must be her mother, this her grandfather, grandmother.” He did a mental calculation. “She’d have been in her teens when her mother died.”

“Girl’s jinxed. Maybe we ought to just get out of here. Go back to the Coast.”

“Nice try. No way. I’m getting my money’s worth out of this place—and you.” He turned his head toward T. “Now just a minute. Get out of here? That’s not what you were playing last night. Moonlight Sonata, Clair de Lune. You were teetering on being ‘in love.’”

“Shhh, Fletch. You’re in the presence of her husband.”

“Yeah, right. She’s a widow. Under normal circumstances, she’d be fair game.” He moved to the small gate, his contrite mood now overshadowed by practicality. “Let’s go.”

T followed him out. Normal circumstances, be damned, he thought, as he swung the gate closed and glanced once more at the markers. She was still fair game.

*  *  *

Fletch would not go into church early, insisting they drive around until eleven. T's patience wore thin and he started taking the corners sharply even before they stopped to purchase a paper at the Red-i-Lee. At 10:55, they compromised and parked a block away.

The small church was full, about a hundred people T guessed. Their casual dress of slacks and short-sleeved shirts fit in nicely with the rest of the congregation. These people took their church just as they took the rest of the week, a touch on the laid-back side. Fletch had desperately wanted to sit on the back pew and make an early escape but they found it crowded with teenagers. That would, in no way, be suitable.