Virtue Falls (21 page)

“Lots.”

She slid down in the seat and looked out the window at the passing scenery. “Good.”

Garik concentrated on his driving; on this stretch of road, the asphalt was crumpled like a starched shirt after a tough day of work. When they reached a smooth stretch, he said, “I will say, I thought the Banner case was predicated on the assumption that your father was guilty.” Which, speaking as an FBI agent, Garik totally comprehended, not that he would ever admit that to the public, and most certainly not to Elizabeth.

“You’re saying Foster did do sloppy police work? That the case was not well investigated?” She sounded hopeful again.

“I wouldn’t say that. At the time of the crime, law enforcement didn’t have the technology we have now, especially not a small, remote town like Virtue Falls.” Especially not if Foster was out to make his name. “Before and after the trial, the evidence, the testimonies, the verdict was typed up, then copied and sent around to the various agencies. A dozen years ago, somebody, probably some gofer with a thousand pages and fifteen minutes, scanned and uploaded it to the Internet. Lots of room for neglect and error, not to mention lots of smeared print. So I’d have to get up close and personal with the evidence before I could say anything for sure.” And as soon as he could, he intended to.

He pulled out his cell phone, glanced at it, and silently cursed. No reception. If it was working, he could set it up as a router to access the Internet … but Elizabeth’s phone had worked. “Do you still have reception?” he asked.

She pulled it out of her toolbox. “No. It’s dead. But it worked this morning. I didn’t think when I called Margaret, but the call went through.”

Okay. Elizabeth was doing better. Not so tense. Not so pale. She was going to be okay.

Then she asked the question Garik dreaded. “What
did
happen to get you thrown out of the FBI?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Garik pulled into the resort parking lot. He parked next to the front door, and put his truck in gear.

Elizabeth started to snap at him, to ask whether it was the same old, same old, where she talked and he didn’t.

Then she glanced at him.

He looked bad. His complexion was pale. His jaw was locked so tight it looked as if it might shatter. He turned off the motor and looked straight out the windshield. And he answered her. Sort of. “I haven’t been thrown out. When I can pass the psychological test, I can rejoin the force.”

“What precipitated the, um … what incident…?” For the first time, Elizabeth appreciated how carefully Garik had had to tread with her when discussing her mother’s murder. Because she was trying to be sensitive here, and she didn’t quite know what words to use.

Garik understood. “I lost my temper.”

She had never in the two years that they had been married seen him lose control … except in bed. “Because?” she asked faintly.

“Exactly what we were discussing earlier. I turned into my father.” He smiled the kind of smile that looked as if he was chewing razor blades. “I deserve to be on probation. And I can never go back to the work, because I now realize that my father’s always there, inside me, waiting to spring out, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“What did you do?”

He looked at her, and those green-and-gold eyes revealed ice and anguish.

Never had she expected to pity Garik. She pitied him now, and reached for him, to kiss him, to comfort him. “Everybody loses their temper. I do, and I mean, look at Margaret! She’s as Irish as they come. It doesn’t mean you’re going to kill somebody, or hurt somebody.”

“I already did.”

“You hurt somebody?” He hadn’t killed anybody. She would have heard about that.

“He deserved it.” Garik clenched his fists. “And I’d do it again if it would change”—he shook his head—“anything.”

“You’re one of the good guys, Garik. If you hurt someone, I know you did it to right a wrong.” She took his hand, smoothed out his fingers, and petted them until he relaxed. “You’re one of the good guys,” she said again, “and I trust you to never hurt me. Does that mean anything?”

He closed his eyes as if pain stabbed at him.

Then he opened them, and looked toward the porch. “There’s Margaret,” he said.

Elizabeth dropped his hand.

As if he couldn’t get away from her fast enough, he swung out of the truck. “Margaret! How did you get downstairs?”

Elizabeth opened her door and slowly got out.

Margaret pushed her walker toward the edge of the porch. “With enough staff and a great deal of determination.” She offered Elizabeth a shaking hand. “My dear, I heard … what happened. How are you?”

Elizabeth walked up the stairs, and took her hand. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?” Margaret searched Elizabeth’s face. “You look dreadful.”

“Yes. After a day of work, I’m always dirty. But even for me, this is extreme.” Elizabeth touched her hair. She looked at the grubby gauze that wrapped her wounded hand. “I should go wash.”

“Do that, then come down to the dining room. The staff is preparing a wonderful meal for us.” Margaret watched Elizabeth go inside, then turned to Garik. “How is she really?”

“In shock. But holding it together. She always does.”

“Early life training never goes away.” Margaret had dressed for a special occasion, in a gray dress, diamond earrings, and her jade bead necklace. She snapped her fingers at him. “Knock that dirt off before you step inside my inn.”

He started kicking his shoes against the steps, whacking the back of his pants with his hands. Most of the mud disintegrated into dust. But some of it clung, thick and black, on his back and in his hair.

Margaret shook her head. “Come on, then. I won’t even ask what the two of you were doing to get plastered in mud.”

“Better if you don’t.”

Margaret led the way into the resort. “Has Elizabeth remembered … anything?”

“Not about the murder. She’s certainly remembered what it’s like to be the center of attention.” He followed. “How did you hear?”

“Harold was in Virtue Falls, distributing the supplies you brought, and someone saw you and Elizabeth go in the sheriff’s office, and come out with the escort.” Margaret had that sneer she wore when people made her angry. “Within minutes the news was all over town that Misty’s body had been found.”

He remembered the middle-aged, gray-haired dumpling of a grandmother who worked at the sheriff’s office. She always wore a kindly smile while she spread the news of who was in trouble and why. “That secretary of Foster’s, right? What’s her name?”

“Mona. Mona Coleman of Coleman Wood Products.” Margaret’s tone made it quite clear what she thought of Mona and her products. “And yes, she is the Virtue Falls broadcasting system.”

“I remember her from before.” From when he was a teen delinquent, he meant. “I hated her then, too.”

“Not that everybody in town wouldn’t have gossiped anyway, but I’m sure the news made a welcome change of topic from the earthquake.” Margaret walked toward the kitchen. “I hope for Elizabeth’s sake there’s closure in finding her mother’s body.”

“And a rough couple of weeks while everyone rehashes the time Charles Banner killed his wife with the scissors.” A big chunk of mud fell out of his hair and landed on Margaret’s antique Persian rug.

She sighed. “You’d better go shower.”

“Long shower? Short shower? How’s the water situation?”

“The well is fine, the pump is working, the cistern’s full, but I’m worried about propane, so don’t linger.”

He started up the stairs.

“And, um, Garik?”

He recognized that tone of voice. Warily he turned back.

“Wait a little before you go into the bathroom that you’re sharing.”

It took him a moment to realize what Margaret had done. “You put both Elizabeth and me in the Pacific Suite?”

“Why not?” Margaret leaned hard on the walker and looked up at him. “There are two bedrooms, one on either side of the living room.”

“Heaven knows there are no other suites free in the resort.”

Margaret laughed.

“You are a wicked old matchmaker,” he said.

“A man and his wife should be together.”

No use reminding Margaret they were divorced. She did not believe in divorce. “Until this is over, I’m going to stick close to Elizabeth,” he told her.

“For a start, that will do very well,” she said.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Garik stepped into his room.

One door led into the connecting sitting room. Another led into the connecting bathroom. In there, he could hear water running, and he spared a moment to remember better times, when he would have stripped down and strolled in, and joined Elizabeth in the shower, and helped her wash … and made love to her … and helped her wash again.

She had said she equated him with an active sex life.

He was glad to hear that, because today, despite being furious that she’d returned to the canyon while aftershocks still rattled the area, he’d leaped on her.

He hadn’t seen her in over a year, and within five minutes, he’d rolled her body underneath his and considered—no, not considered—had been
driven
to kiss her, to take her, there in the mud. No matter that the earth was unsteady beneath them and a tsunami could at any moment sweep in off the ocean.

Those geological forces were primitive, powerful, inexorable.

So was his need for her.

The shower turned off. He considered the fact that if he imagined her getting out, drying herself, gathering her clothes, and heading into her bedroom, it would be another long night alone with a spectacular erection. Then he imagined the whole scene anyway, because imagining Elizabeth nude was one of his favorite pastimes, exceeded only by getting Elizabeth nude and having great sex with Elizabeth … anytime, anywhere.

The jeans and T-shirt he’d worn to travel had been washed and laid out on his bed. He said a silent thank-you to the resort staff, waited until he heard the bathroom door open and close, and headed in.

The Pacific was one of Margaret’s luxury suites. He would have never been placed in here if the resort was full … but Margaret must have seen the earthquake as a gift from God, for she’d certainly acted quickly and decisively to throw him together with his ex-wife. It had worked out well, though, because after their discovery today, Elizabeth shouldn’t be alone.

The bathroom sported an enormous tub and shower done in waves of blue tile, the work of a local artist who had made her name working on the remodel of the inn. The resort’s signature bergamot and cinnamon soap scented the lingering steam, and he saw Elizabeth had tried to clean up her trail of dried mud with her used towels.

He stripped off his clothes, adding a fair amount of mud to the floor. He showered quickly, dressed in his jeans and T-shirt, and headed downstairs. Sticking his head in the kitchen, he saw Harold speaking to the chef. “Thought you’d want to know—Elizabeth and I dropped mud like breadcrumbs all the way up to the Pacific Suite, and we made a mess of that bathroom.”

Harold gave him a thumbs-up and went back to discussing how to transport the huge baked hams and pans of baked macaroni and cheese to the homeless shelter in town.

Garik stopped outside the library door and looked; Margaret sat in the high-backed, comfortable chair, Elizabeth on the broad, low couch. Both were sipping Irish whiskey on ice and chatting.

Elizabeth looked better, less pale and shocky, but still remote.

Margaret had a square-jawed, determined expression that boded ill for anyone who dared make Elizabeth miserable.

Seeing them together made him feel good, in a way he hadn’t felt since Elizabeth had first told him she wanted a divorce. No, even before that—when he realized he’d managed to screw up his marriage, and didn’t know how to fix it.

When he was a kid, Margaret had saved his life, probably literally.

As an adult, Elizabeth had lavished him with love.

They were the pillars of his life.

Not his job. Not the FBI.

Margaret and Elizabeth.

Somewhere along the line, he’d forgotten that, and he’d damned near killed himself over shit that didn’t matter. Yes, he was a good agent, but he could move into a less stressful form of law enforcement, live a slower pace, be closer to Margaret and Elizabeth …

He was in control of his life. As they faced the events of the next days, that was something to remember.

Elizabeth turned her head, her white-blond hair like a halo around her head. She caught sight of him; her blue eyes widened, and she smiled as if the sight of him gave her pleasure.

And that gave
him
pleasure.

“Boyo! Come in here.” Margaret rattled her ice. “It’s been a hell of a week, and I need a refill.”

He strolled in. “Trust you to sacrifice some of your ice for the cause.”

“It’s a good cause.” Margaret’s Irish accent came on strong.

He refreshed her drink.

Elizabeth shook her head and covered her glass.

He poured himself a red wine.

“One of the few bottles in the wine cellar that didn’t break,” Margaret told him darkly. “Thank you for using a stemless wine glass. If the earth’s going to move again, we don’t need red wine spilled on my antique rug.”

Garik seated himself on the couch beside Elizabeth. He sipped the wine. “It’s good. Of course it should be—it’s a zinfandel from the Di Luca winery.” He grinned wickedly at Margaret.

“I wouldn’t know,” she said haughtily. “I don’t drink their wines.”

Elizabeth swirled her glass and stared as if fascinated by the mix of icy water and whiskey.

Margaret looked to him in appeal.

So Garik addressed the elephant in the room. “Margaret, I always respect your opinions, especially about people. What do you remember about the Banner case, and Charles and Misty Banner?”

Margaret’s jaw dropped.

Elizabeth straightened, and her eyes kindled with interest. “Yes, Margaret, what do you remember? I’ve always wondered how the murder looked to the people who knew my parents. Were you surprised?”