Weak Flesh (23 page)

"Come now, Meghan. We've been friends a long time. Tell me, when have I ever beaten you?"

She laughed shakily.

He herded her back to the sofa and pushed her down gently, poured water from a carafe, and thrust the glass in her hand as he sat beside her. Close, too close, she thought, and felt her insides tremble as she gulped at the water as if she were parched.

"Now what's this terrible thing you've done?"

Meghan reached into her pocket and withdrew the piece of paper, handed it to him without a word.

"Another dance card?" He smiled and scanned the message.

The smile faded to puzzlement, then annoyance. "Where did you get this? Who wrote it? What does it mean?"

The words shot from his mouth like bullets and she shrank back. "I don't know," she protested. "I didn't read it."

"Who gave it to you?" His voice was as heavy and solid as a tombstone.

"I found it last night. Late last night." She twisted her fingers in her lap. "This morning, early, actually."

"Where?"

"Un – under the door to your room – at the boarding house. Someone pushed it under the door to your room. I'm so sorry, Gage."

Then she covered her face and burst into tears.

Chapter 25

Gage put his arm around Meghan and waited for the storm of weeping to subside. He wouldn't venture a guess about how she found the temerity to visit his boarding house – Good God, did she say late at night?

He inhaled sharply. What a mess the two of them were. She, worried he'd chastise her for stealing his message, and well, there was that small transgression. He, only concerned that she'd tell her father he kissed her.

Or she kissed him, as she seemed to think.

The pathos of the situation was ridiculous.

But this second note was another matter.

In large black letters was scrawled, "The sins of the father are visited upon the children. Look to the unnatural father."

Bea Miller's intimations about Harold Carver had rattled Gage. In spite of the father's confession, he hadn't acted on his impulses. Was Carver a truly lecherous man, then? Gage couldn't say, but the evil in a man's heart should indict him, shouldn't it? Not in the law's eyes, but surely in God's.

However, this note pointed toward something more than Carver admitted to. It reiterated the father's presumed guilt and implied that Nell had borne the burden of her father's sins. Or did it refer to something else entirely? And who might benefit by directing Gage toward the father, whether accurately or falsely?

Gage stuffed a handkerchief in Meghan's hand. "Here," he said pragmatically. "Mop your face. We have a lot of work to accomplish."

"We?" she asked hopefully.

He nodded absently and continued to stare at the note. He didn't notice Meghan was reading around his shoulder until he heard her soft gasp.

"Damn it, Bailey! This is not the kind of message meant for a woman's eyes." He crumpled the note and stuffed it into his pocket.

"That's nonsense and you know it," she said without rancor. "It refers to Mr. Carver, doesn't it?" Her voice was low and troubled. "Someone is telling you that Mr. Carver and – and his daughter, that he and Nell – that they – "

"Yes," he growled more harshly than he'd intended, "and this is the second such note thrust under my door. In addition, the first one left a Biblical reference –
Leviticus 18:17."

He watched her probe her memory for the quotation. Bailey knew her Bible well.

"That passage explains – unclean sexual activities."

Not being as versed in his Bible as she was, he'd looked it up in Mrs. Church's Bible. "Yes," he said simply, staring hard at her. "Incest."

The ugly word fouled the air between them.

"Do you think it's possible," Gage asked slowly, "that Carver slept with his own daughter?"

#

Sharpe had known the little bitch would be a problem from the moment he met her. In his experience women were always more trouble than the brief pleasure he got from their bodies. Much better to fuck them and leave them. Which is what he should've done with Ellen Carver.

Now he'd have to clean up after the mess of what she'd caused him. If only she hadn't been so smug in her teasing, hadn't been so sure he dangled on her string like all the other men who used her admittedly luscious body.

Aaron Sharpe wasn't one of those
boys.
And Nell had learned that soon enough, hadn't she? When it came to the test, he'd proved his mettle. His father would've been proud, he thought.

He clamped the cigar between his teeth, nearly breaking off the end. Still, it angered him. He'd had a good ... arrangement in Tuscarora until he'd allowed Nell to tempt him. Allowed her to sidle that overly ripe body against his and give him unlimited permission to use it.

He'd trusted her, seeing in her a kinship. Nell was like him, wild and wanton, game for whatever pleasures the mind could conjure up.

When it came to his wife, he'd been careful. She knew nothing of his interests, his ... proclivities. If she harbored even a speck of suspicion, he'd have to act quickly and decisively. As he'd done before.

For now he enjoyed his status, his reputation in the community. He didn't want to reinvent himself yet again, certainly not by necessity.

Someday, perhaps, but not now.

Nell's silly threats had sounded her death knell, and he freely admitted that dispatching her had both thrilled him – after all, he'd never killed a
woman
before – and saddened him. Nell had been quite inventive in bed and her demise was a personal loss.

Sharpe sighed heavily and looked around the room. Everything had gone so well until the day her body turned up. He'd never thought the Pasquotank would vomit up its deadly secret after so many days.

Now the Marshal and his nosy bitch poked around, asking questions, interrogating suspects even though the coroner's jury clearly pointed the finger at that degenerate James Wade.

He thought of Meghan Bailey's rounded curves and fit muscles, imagined the firmness of her ass and the triangle of coal between her legs. He dropped his hand to his trousers, fumbled with the fastening, and thought about the inventive ways he could kill the busybody school teacher.

#

Not in so many words, perhaps not completely, but Meghan knew by the comfortable way he treated her that he'd accepted her help. Almost as if they'd returned to the easygoing alliance of their youth.

She cheered up a bit. His disappointment in her was far more wounding than his anger.

They waited in the small parlor of the Jolly home. The Reverend was at the rectory and the maid informed them Mrs. Jolly was still abed. The girl was plain and sturdy, and in a show of respect for Gage's position, said she'd ask if ma'am would see them.

"What are you going to say to Mrs. Jolly?" Meghan asked when the girl left the room.

"Specifics – details – of exactly when and how she witnessed this apparent assault," Gage replied, stretching out his legs on the circular rug.

"The two people she saw – coloring, clothing, size. If I question her closely enough she might remember some small item by which to identify them."

Meghan nodded. "Perhaps if we reenacted what she saw, Mrs. Jolly might recall more specifics."

Gage gave her an assessing look, but said nothing. Was he regretting asking her to accompany him? He may have forgiven her actions, but she knew he didn't approve of them.

Some long minutes later Mrs. Jolly entered the room with a flair Meghan had never before seen in the woman. Gage frowned and shot Meghan a questioning look as he rose to greet the Reverend's wife. Out of Mrs. Jolly's eyesight, Meghan shrugged, confused by the woman's flushed cheeks and springy step.

The blush of fever, she wondered, or the bloom of suddenly restored health?

"Do be seated, please," Mrs. Jolly chattered like a bird, waving her bony fingers aimlessly toward the sofa. "Such a lovely winter day, crisp with sunshine."

After ordering refreshments, she leaned forward, her eyes bright and curious. "Now, Marshal Gage, how can I help you?"

Straight to the heart of the matter, Meghan thought. Where had the frail, sick woman she'd visited just yesterday vanished to?

"I'm happy to see that you're feeling better, ma'am," Meghan said before Gage could respond. "Have you recuperated from your illness, then?"

Mrs. Jolly fluttered her hands wildly and protested. "Oh, I wasn't so very ill."

"I beg to differ, Ma'am. You were quite – "

"Miss Bailey tells me that you witnessed a strange occurrence some months ago," Gage interrupted, squashing Meghan's comment on the spot. "Could you elaborate on what you saw at the edge of the Great Swamp?"

"I – I don't know how I can help you," Mrs. Jolly faltered.

"Perhaps you can remember the month? Had winter come or was it still fall?" Gage urged.

Mrs. Jolly sighed as if greatly put upon. "It was a very long time ago."

"Summer then? Or spring?" Meghan said, rather sarcastically. Really, the woman acted as though she had no memory at all. And why did she look so healthy today when yesterday she appeared to be at death's door?

"I suppose so," Mrs. Jolly answered.

"Which? Summer or spring?" Gage asked, the quintessence of patience.

After several moments of deliberating, the woman said, "It was fall, I believe – yes, fall."

"What time of the day was it? What were you doing at the Swamp?" Meghan shot out the questions like bullets from a rifle until she felt the pressure of Gage's fingers on her arm.

"Can you explain what the two figures looked like? You said a man and a woman were quarrelling or fighting." Gage's voice cajoled, persuaded.

Mrs. Jolly touched her fingers to her temple and closed her eyes. "I – I'm not feeling well. Perhaps I – "

Gage knelt down and took her free hand. "Mrs. Jolly, I know this is distressing for you, but it's very important. Don't you wish to help find poor Nell's attacker?"

She opened her eyes, moist now, and blinked at Gage.

"You told Miss Bailey that you saw two persons. Do you think one of them might've been Nell Carver?"

For several long moments Mrs. Jolly stared silently at Gage, then withdrew her hand and rose. Her spine stiffened as though she'd brought herself under control.

"You see, Marshal, that's the trouble. Regardless of what I may have said to Miss Bailey, I'm not sure I saw anything. I was quite ill last fall, if you remember. Likely I imagined the whole thing. Yes, it was probably an hallucination brought on by the fever."

#

"She's lying," Meghan said flatly as they climbed into the gig.

"She certainly seems to have recovered quickly," Gage commented dryly, amused by the outrage on Meghan's face. "Did Mrs. Jolly happen to tell you previously exactly where she witnessed these two people – who she now claims were figments of her imagination – fighting?"

Her eyes sparkled. "What do you have in mind?"

"I should like to visit the spot, see if there are any clues to be found. If Mrs. Jolly witnessed the altercation, perhaps someone else did too."

"Do you think that's likely?"

Gage shrugged. Searching the edge of the Swamp and questioning the loggers there was probably a waste of his time, but it must be done. "I'd like your company, if you have time and the inclination. You have sharp eyes."

Meghan beamed and smiled so broadly he felt the strength of it dazzle him like the sudden burst of the sun from behind a cloud.

"Mrs. Jolly also claimed Nell didn't visit them frequently right before her disappearance," she reminded him.

"Another issue to confront Reverend Jolly with." He grinned. "I shall look forward to that conversation."

The ride to the outer edges of the Great Swamp passed in conversation about the case, but all the while Gage was violently aware of the nearness of Bailey perched on the wooden seat beside him. Occasionally as the buggy lurched on the rutted road, her body swayed into him and he felt the thrill of her warmth and softness.

Suddenly, apropos of nothing, she asked, "Do you remember when I got caught in the storm?" She angled herself sideways on the seat facing him.

Gage flicked a look at her, but kept his eyes on the road. She didn't need to elaborate. He knew exactly what she meant, but shrugged anyway. "Which one of the dozens of hurricanes on the Carolina coast from June to November do you mean?" he joked.

Her expression was deadly serious. "I thought I was going to die," she murmured, her eyes huge and round and the color of a winter forest. "You saved me."

"How could I forget?" He forced a laugh. "I never did know how you got stuck out in that storm."

She turned forward and refused to meet his eyes. "I think I fell a little in love with you that day."

His heart jerked in his chest, he couldn't catch his breath, and his mouth turned dry as dust. His pulse raced as if he'd run a mile. A girlhood crush, he warned himself, hero worship very natural under the circumstances. It meant nothing to either of them now.

Nothing at all.

Chapter 26

They rode some time in silence while the lush foliage gave way to the marshy land that began the Great Dismal Swamp. Although the Swamp remained undrained in spite of plans to the contrary, evidence of logging activity surrounded them.

"Papa says a thousand runaway slaves hid out here during the War," Bailey commented.

Gage nodded. "Hard living in there. The Swamp shacks are very primitive."

"It's difficult to believe they could've survived at all, especially with slave traders hunting them."

Gage hawed to his horse and circled around a clearing off the road. "The buggy wheels will sink in this muck."

"What do you hope to find here?"

He looked around at the remote mystery of the surrounding acreage, the dark density of the Swamp. "I don't know, Bailey."

"If you didn't expect to find any evidence, why did we make the journey?" She made the comment sound like a challenge.