CAPTURED INNOCENCE (17 page)

             
“Thanks.” He gulped three of the white tablets and chased them down with the water.

             
“Let me look at your head.”

             
Conley turned, allowing her access to the gash at the base of his skull. He exhaled in a hiss as her fingers probed.

             
“You need stitches.”

             
“Forget it. Just clean it with a rag. I’ll be fine. It’s not the first time I’ve been beaten over the head. Probably won’t be the last.” He groaned and fell back onto the bed.

             
Jo retrieved a snow white wash cloth from under the bathroom sink and soaked it with hot water. After wringing out the excess, she perched on the side of the bed. “Roll over.”

             
“You’re killing me.”

             
“Stop whining.”

             
He rolled over and clutched one of the pillows beneath him. The muscles in his back quivered as she wiped at the wound. Once finished, she patted him between the shoulder blades and rose.

             
“I’m getting dressed. I can’t sleep.” She ducked back into the closet.

             
“Guess I won’t sleep either. Were they surprised about our attacker?”

             
“No. Not in the slightest.” She poked her head around the door jamb. “My father kind of acted like it…maybe, but I don’t think he was.” She ducked back into the closet and pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater.

             
The baseball bat poked out from under a pair of discarded pants. Jo’s breath hitched as she bent to pick it up. A small trace of blood and blond hair stuck to one side. She thought of fingerprints and quickly dropped it, grimacing. She’d take it to the police station later. Not that it would matter much.

             
The warm, comforting smell of fresh roasted coffee greeted her and Conley before they entered the kitchen. She placed a hand on his arm, stepped through the arched doorway into the kitchen—and froze. Blake smiled at her from the table where he sat sipping coffee with her parents.

             
“Heard you had an intruder.” He lifted the steaming mug to his smiling mouth. “Or was it a little domestic dispute?”

             
Conley chose a chair across the table from Blake and sat. He leaned his elbow on the tabletop and supported his head in his hand. “A lover’s spat, actually.”

             
Blake’s eyes darkened and a flush rose in his cheeks. He swiveled his head and focused his gaze on Jo. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and stood her ground. She wouldn’t cower for him anymore.

             
“Just a misunderstanding,” she said, standing behind Conley. She placed her hands on his shoulders and kneaded the taut muscles. “But we’ve made up.”

             
Coffee sloshed over the top of Blake’s mug as his hand shook. He crashed the mug down on the table, cracking the porcelain. A bead of coffee leaked through, hanging on to the side of the mug. Blake stood. “Well, I’ve got a busy day ahead of me.” He avoided Jo’s eyes, directing his words to her parents. “I’ll talk to you later.”

             
“I’ll walk you out.” Harold rose from his chair. Throwing a warning look toward his daughter, he followed Blake out the door.

             
She took the chair he vacated and reached for her own cup of coffee. She pulled the mug to her nose and breathed in the aroma. She closed her eyes with the pleasure of it.

             
“Changed your story, didn’t you?” Sylvia’s chair scraped across the marble floor.

             
“You didn’t believe me.” Jo opened her eyes.

             
“It’s only that…” Her mother was interrupted by the maid’s arrival. The young lady carried a small cardboard box.

             
“This is for Mrs. Hook,” the girl said, keeping her eyes down.

             
“For me?” Jo took the box and shook it.

             
“Don’t.” Conley roused enough to take the box from her. “Step back.” He sniffed the box and set it carefully on the table.

             
“Why? What are you afraid of?”

             
“It could be anything. With this group of nutcases, who knows?” He withdrew a small folding knife from his pocket and cut through the tape holding the top flaps closed.

Jo pressed close, leaning around
his shoulder. Inside the box sat a small, rectangular box of the type jewelers’ used for necklaces.

Withdrawing it, Conley removed the lid
. Jo gasped. Inside, nestled on white tissue paper with a red bow tied around the stub, was a severed finger. Complete with a red sculptured fingernail.

              “He’s still alive, you imbecile.” Blake slammed the phone into its cradle, missed, and slammed it again. He grabbed the glass paperweight from his desk and hurled it through the plate glass window of his office. He snatched a brass lamp and sent it flying after the paperweight. Figurines and books were tossed with increasing fury through the shattered window.

             
Blake stood in the middle of the room, breathless, hands clenched into fists at his side. His eyes burned. He scanned the walls. There was nothing left small enough to throw. The phone rang, and he lifted the phone receiver.

             
“You’re growing careless, Blake. Killing Hook couldn’t have been any easier. We handed him to you.”

             
“I hired someone. Next time I’ll do it myself.” He fell into his chair.

             
“Uhmmhmm.” The clicking of a ballpoint pen sounded in Blake’s ear.

             
“I will.” His stomach churned. Acid rose into his esophagus.

             
“You’re obsessed with ...”

             
“She’s my wife!” Blake spun around in his chair and stared out the shattered window. A sparrow landed on the windowsill. Blake held the phone in place on his shoulder. Positioning his fingers in the shape of a gun, he pointed them at the bird.

             
“And I’ll help you get her back. Focus.” Click.

             
Blake cursed and gawked at the receiver. It occurred to him to yank the phone from the wall. Instead, he placed it very carefully into its cradle and went to stand before the window. He folded his hands behind his back and stared down into the lush lawn below him. Alex played with a soccer ball, kicking it back and forth under the subtle scrutiny of his nanny.

             
Maybe I could expend some of my angry energy on her?
Looking down into the woman’s plain face and rounded figure hidden under layers of nondescript clothing, he shook his head. I’d only have to hire another woman who follows orders and knows how to keep her mouth shut.

###

              The throbbing in his head increased as Conley stared down at the severed finger. “It’s the dead girl’s from last night. It turned up quicker than I thought.”

             
“You knew about this?” Jo stared at him.

             
“Only that she was missing a finger.”

             
Sylvia stood behind him, peering over his shoulder. “Get that thing out of my kitchen.”

             
Eyes widening, Jo leaned against the wall. “What a horrible thing to say. Even for you, Mother. A girl has been murdered.”

             
Sylvia fingered the pearls around her neck. “That…thing won’t help the girl any.”

             
“It’s evidence, Mrs. Woodward. We’ll take it, and the bat upstairs, to the police.”

             
“I’ll get the bat.” Jo pushed away from the wall.

             
Conley watched Jo leave the room before turning to her mother. He stared until Sylvia turned away. Her fingers increased their pace up and down the strand around her neck. “If you know anything about the man who attacked us last night, now is the time to tell me.”

             
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her hand shook as she spooned a bit of sugar into her coffee.

             
“I think you do.” Conley reached for a cup of his own. He poured it full of the still warm coffee.

             
The woman’s face drained of color and her constantly moving hand stilled.

             
“Last night your husband didn’t set the alarm. An intruder entered our room and attacked us. Before that, a young girl was brutally murdered in your garden.” He spooned a teaspoon of sugar into his cup. “You’re mighty calm during all this. Most people would be afraid, nervous, anxious. Pick your adjective.”

             
“What are you insinuating?” Her hoarse voice barely reached across the table.

             
“Nothing.” Conley raised his head and grinned. Planting the palms of his hands on the table, he pushed himself to his feet. “Oh, by the way, you might be interested to know your daughter is remembering…things from her past.”

             
Sylvia’s lips formed an O. Her eyes mimicked the shape. A small gasp of breath escaped her.

             
“It’s gone.” Jo burst into the kitchen and leaned, breathless, against the door frame. “Someone removed the bat from our closet.”

             
Conley turned to Sylvia. Her shoulders relaxed beneath the cashmere sweater she wore.

             
“What bat?” she asked.

             
“The bat someone used to bash Conley with.”

             
“Well, we’ve still got the finger.” Conley tucked the box beneath his arm, took Jo by the elbow, and turned her toward the front door. “Later, Mrs. Woodward. I enjoyed our little chat.” He swiped a sweater from the coat tree in the foyer and handed it to Jo.

             
“Where are we going?” She snatched a set of keys from a small tray and scurried to keep up with him.

             
“The police station.”

             
“Here.” She tossed him the keys. “We’ll take the Mercedes. You drive.”

             
“Great!”

             
Jo punched in the garage door code and stepped back as the door rose. Parked neatly between an SUV and a Rolls Royce sat a black Mercedes.

             
“Sweet.” Conley caressed the car as he walked to the driver’s side door. “What a beautiful car.”

             
“It was…is mine.” Jo’s smile shone across the hood.

             
His grin broadened. “Even sweeter.”

With a feeling of
almost reverence, Conley opened the door and slid inside. Inhaling broadly, he drew in the scent of leather. He passed his hand over the buttery soft skin of the seats. “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

             
Jo giggled, closing the passenger door. “It’s yours.”

             
“What?” His head whipped to face her. His smile faded.

             
“It’s yours. I’m giving it to you.”

             
“I can’t take this.”

             
“Why not? You’re my husband. I can give you anything I want.” Her brows drew together in a scowl.

             
“Jo.” Conley shook his head. “You know we don’t have a typical marriage.”
Although I would love for it to be
. “What applies to others doesn’t apply to us.”

             
She turned in her seat to face him. “You’ve done so much for me. A complete stranger to you. You’ve risked everything for me and my son. This is my thanks. It is
very
small in comparison.” Jo flopped back against the seat and folded her arms across her chest. “Are we going?”

             
Conley sighed and turned the key in the ignition. The engine hummed to life and the smile returned to his face. “Okay, I accept the car. Thank you.” With a huff she settled deeper into the seat.

             
The car purred down the streets of Prestige, and Conley completely forgot his aching head. Occasionally, he’d glance over at Jo, but even her stoic silence couldn’t dampen his mood.

             
The sight of the white box on the dashboard threatened to dispel his feeling of joy, though. He removed it and tucked it out of sight in the glove compartment.  He gave Jo a lopsided grin. She huffed again and turned her head.

             
“I said I was sorry. I love the car, Jo. Why are you mad?”