“Well, a man is dead,” she said flatly. “Killed—with a family heirloom!”
He started, his reverie fading. “Yes, we all know that. Is something wrong? I need to take a shower.”
He was a fool, of course. She was standing there; he was standing there. He was naked beneath the towel; she wore flimsy pieces of a bikini beneath a terry robe. He had never really fallen out of love, and he’d have to be a hell of a lot older or infirm to fall out of lust.
But that wasn’t the point here.
What was the point?
He didn’t know why she was here. He didn’t want to be used because he was convenient and her world was going to hell.
Yes, I do want to be used! his mind raged.
No.
“Ashley, let me jump in the shower, and I’ll be right with you,” he said. “I suggest you do the same. You wear even river mud well, but I think you’ll be more comfortable without it.”
He stepped back and forced himself to close the door.
His shower was pure torment.
Marty Dean sat at her office desk, studying her phone, and wondering what she could say once she’d reached Jake Mallory. She’d had such a crush on him in high school. His guitar had gained him quite a reputation, and he’d played with some pretty extraordinary bands. Everybody had a crush on Jake! And he’d just gotten better, really. Some of those boys—the big football-hero types—were just downright pudgy now. And Jake? He still had those probing eyes, that sculpted face, those shoulders…. It had been something to see him again. And he had looked right at her—and not given her a thing.
Well, she thought, pouting, he’d come around. He was a man, and she knew how to make a man come around.
Her pout became a frown. But, of course, he was at Donegal Plantation, and he and Ashley Donegal had been quite a thing. If he was sleeping with her again…
Hmm. The promise of an affair might not do it.
Maybe she had to promise that she would promote Donegal Plantation, though she would love it if there were a mystical ghost story involved.
She was still pondering the mode by which she would get him to agree to an interview when the switchboard signaled a call for her.
“Line four,” the operator told her.
“Who is it?”
“Some man who insists you’re going to want what he has to give you,” the operator told her, bored. “Look, I’m not the FBI. I don’t know who he is. You said to send through anything promising—”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it, thanks.”
She picked up the phone.
“Marty?”
The voice was deep, quiet and husky.
“Yes?” she said. “Who is—”
“You want an interview. You want to know what’s really going on. You want to break it free. Well, I’ll do it for you.”
Jake! It had to be Jake. Oh, and he was FBI now, or something governmental, and he was one of the big shots on the case. But he did remember high school, did remember that they’d flirted and teased and that she’d been the hottest thing in his class.
“Oh, you sweetie!” she said. “Thank you, thank you! Can you come in—”
“No, but you can come out,” he said. “I’ll tell you where to leave your car so that it’s not seen. And I’ll tell you the easiest way to get to me. No cameras. This is between you and me. But it will help you get to the truth. I can’t say more—you have to really solve this on your own after what I tell you. But I won’t speak if there’s anyone else there, so come alone. I mean it. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going. I can’t be involved in this when the news gets out.”
“All right, all right. Where should I be? When?”
She listened. She hung up, delighted.
Her secretary stopped her as she headed out for her car. “You have the newscast at eleven, remember?”
“I’ll be back. I’ve got a lead. I’ve got plenty of time. I just need to meet with an informant—a local informant. It pays to be me!”
Marty tore out of her office, mentally planning her speed. How fast could she go without being in danger of the cops stopping her?
Pretty damned fast, she told herself.
Oh, this was it! This was it! The case of a lifetime.
By the time Jake came downstairs, he found that he was the last to do so. The others were arrayed in the roadside parlor, seated in the big wingback chairs by the fire and the massive Duncan Phyfe sofa. Jackson’s hair was still wet, so he had obviously just arrived. Ashley had showered and changed into jeans and a tailored blouse; her damp hair was tied in a queue at her nape.
“The house itself is seldom locked,” Frazier said as Jake entered the room. “We’re a bed-and-breakfast. We have a restaurant, and we’re open to the public. God knows when the rifle was taken. I haven’t been up to that little attic museum space in years.” Frazier glanced over at Ashley. “Have you been up there?”
She shook her head. “Sally Mayfield, one of our housekeepers, last did a dusting up there three or four weeks ago, I think. Sally would have noticed if something had been gone, and she would have told me. So I’d say that it had to have been taken within the last three weeks.”
“When were most of the reenactors here last? They still meet ahead of time, right? And what about Civil War roundtables? Frazier, you used to have them here now and then,” Jake said. He heard the front door open as he was speaking; Cliff had arrived to join them. He glanced over at Jackson for a silent communication.
Cliff remained a prime suspect. They needed to keep a close eye on him.
Ashley didn’t want to believe it. He didn’t, either. Cliff had always been around when he’d been younger; he’d always been strong and steady and decent, and he loved Donegal Plantation, just as he’d always loved the family.
Frazier was thoughtful. “Yes, of course. I’m not sure of the date of the most recent.”
“We had a meeting out in the barn about two and half weeks ago. The out-of-towners weren’t here, but the rest of us were,” Cliff volunteered.
“Everyone?” Jackson asked.
“Every one of the locals except for John Ashton,” Cliff said. “He had a tour group in the city that he had to take out himself. Some bigwigs from the tourist board. And obviously, out of our group, I have continual access to the house. And I suppose I have the physical ability to have done all of it, while, no offense, Frazier, I don’t see you committing this crime at your age, and I sure as hell don’t begin to see Ashley or Beth committing it. I wish I knew how to clear myself, because no matter what you all say or how you act, I know damned well I have to remain a prime suspect.”
“You even have motive,” Jackson said pleasantly.
“Yes, I should own the house. But…”
“But?” Angela asked gently.
“Whoever did this might want the whole place to fall apart. Let’s face it, if the place is tainted by a recent murder and a killer who isn’t caught, people could be afraid to come. I’d never want to do that,” Cliff said.
“We all survive because of Donegal Plantation—well, except for Beth, who could get a great job anywhere,” Ashley said. “But Cliff is right. There’s no reason for him to want to lower the value on this place. Besides, Cliff doesn’t even have to wait for Frazier and me to die—he owns a piece of the land, and he has a lifetime lease on his apartment in the stables.”
“Bitterness,” Jake said. “I mean, if we’re looking for motive. Let’s face it, this whole thing is sick. Cliff, you’re the outsider. You were the product of an illicit affair, historically speaking.”
“Two illicit affairs, really,” Cliff said. He never took a seat; he stood there and shrugged sheepishly. “I can’t prove anything, but I’ll answer any question you may have. Obviously, I didn’t stash a body in the stables—they were searched. Of course, I could have stashed the drugged body of our friend in my apartment and joined the group. I would have had to have been terribly crafty, though, since the place was teeming with people, and the entrance to my apartment is easily visible from the grounds.”
“And how did you return the body, then—by the river?” Jake asked him.
“You might have done that to throw off suspicion,” Angela told him.
“I might have,” Cliff agreed. “Except that I didn’t. I’m going to feed the horses,” he said, then, “But I’m available to you anytime—I won’t be leaving the property.” He smiled. “See you all at dinner?”
“We’re having crab cakes. My best!” Beth assured him.
When Cliff left, there was an uncomfortable moment of silence in the room.
“I don’t think—” Ashley began.
“None of us wants to think, but we have to weigh all the factors, eliminate the impossible and start looking at the possible,” Jackson said to her gently. “Sometimes a killer wants to inject himself into the investigation.”
“Cliff isn’t—”
“It’s not impossible, Ashley,” Jackson said.
“It is impossible,” she said stubbornly. “Cliff is part of the family.”
“In the old days, brothers would kill brothers to be king,” Jackson said.
“Look, Ashley,” Jake said, leaning toward her. “Hopefully we’ll be able to clear Cliff soon.”
“So, we’re all careful. We all stick together, and we keep doors locked. Agreed?” Jackson asked. “I’ve got Will and Whitney on their way out here now with some new equipment, and Jenna is interviewing Justin Binder and his family in the city. I’m going to pay a call on Ramsay Clayton—I believe he’s still in residence at his old family home down the road—and have a talk with him. There are still a couple of uniformed officers outside, but I think part of the team should always be at the house. Jake and Angela?”
