Every Move She Makes (4 page)

“What?”

“Over at the garage,” Roy said. “Briley Joe gave Reed a job. He said wouldn’t nobody else in town give Reed a job. I can’t hardly wait to see Reed again. He’s supposed to start work today. I’ll bet he’ll call me Roy Boy. Sure will be good to have a buddy again.”

Roy carried the light fixture with him as he left Ella’s office. She stared at the metal ladder he’d left behind. In the years since Roy had been working at the courthouse, Ella had found him to be a remarkably good judge of character. It was as if he had some strange sixth sense that allowed him a special insight into human nature. How was it that he could be so wrong about Reed Conway? The man was a murderer. He’d been tried and convicted. Her father had been the prosecuting district attorney, and there hadn’t been a doubt in Webb Porter’s mind that Reed Conway had viciously slit his stepfather’s throat. Even his own mother had been forced to testify that she’d witnessed a brutal fight between a drunken Junior and a furious Reed. Junior Blalock had tried to rape Regina Conway, who’d been only eleven at the time. If Reed had killed Junior while defending his sister, he wouldn’t have been prosecuted for murder, but Reed had caught the man later, after the fact, while Junior had been unconscious. Reed had cut his throat from ear to ear.

I want to wrap my hands around your soft white neck and then move them down your bare shoulders and over your sweet breasts
.

Ella shook her head to dislodge the memory, to erase the words that were forever etched in her mind. Words Reed had written to her from prison. Two love letters that had been both frightening and titillating to the sixteen-year-old Ella. Harassing letters that had infuriated her father and prompted him to take legal action to end Reed’s letter writing.

She hoped she could avoid seeing Reed Conway. But what if her father was right and the man sought her out? Heaven help him if he did threaten or harass her in any way. Webb Porter would have the man’s head on a platter.

Reed woke slowly, languidly, lying facedown, the smell of cheap perfume on his pillow. He opened his eyes and glanced at the other side of the bed.
Empty
. He listened.
Silence
. Where was Ivy? When he lifted his head to look at the alarm clock on the bedside table, he saw the note propped up against the lamp.

Gone to work. Last night was great. Let’s do it again soon
. She’d underlined
soon
three times.

Reed grinned. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so good. Ivy was an all-right kind of woman. She’d been understanding about his lack of patience and expertise. Hell, he was rusty at sex. In the pen, he’d warned off potential rapists. It had helped that he’d been big and surly even as a teenager. And those first few years, he hadn’t given a damn about how much trouble he got into or whether he killed somebody protecting himself. For the past fifteen years, he’d found his sexual pleasure in the palm of his own hand. Fucking a woman beat the hell out of just dreaming about fucking one.

Reed climbed out of bed and stalked off to the bathroom. He peered at himself in the mirror over the sink. His eyes were bloodshot and he badly needed a shave. And he had a silly grin on his face. The grin of a man who’d spent the night screwing a most obliging woman. Ivy wasn’t the girl of his dreams, but she’d been mighty accommodating.

He pawed his chin, testing the scratchiness of his beard stubble. Ivy hadn’t complained about the stubble. She hadn’t complained about anything. Any other woman would have kicked his butt out of her bed and demanded that he shave. He’d just bet that Ella Porter didn’t let a man even kiss her unless he was clean-shaven. Ella Porter, Webb’s darling daughter. He’d barely known the girl. Other than seeing her a few times over the years at the Carlisle house, their paths had never crossed. So why was it that she’d been the girl he had thought about while he was in prison? Why was it that she’d been the fantasy of more than one wet dream? Was it because he’d written her those damn crude love letters? The only reason he’d written them was because he’d known they’d piss off Webb. Fifteen years ago, he’d have done just about anything to hurt Webb. And he’d found out right quick that the best way to get to the high-and-mighty Mr. Porter was through his beloved little girl.

Reed took a quick shower, then reluctantly put on the clothes he’d worn the night before. He bundled his briefs into a wad and stuffed them in his jeans back pocket. Before leaving Ivy’s apartment, he checked for her phone number and memorized it. He just might ask her for a repeat of last night’s highly satisfactory performance.

He showed up at Conway’s Garage two hours late for his first morning on the job. But Briley Joe just grinned at him and patted him on the back.

“Ain’t nothing like good pussy, is there? I’ll bet Ivy taught you a trick or two, didn’t she? As I recall, the lady knows how to please.”

“She sure as hell pleased me.”

“She’s not first-class, but you had to start somewhere. You can work off some of your frustration with her and then move on to something better.”

“Is that your subtle way of trying to tell me that you’ve got something better?” Reed knew Briley Joe was the sort who liked to brag about his sexual conquests. In that sense, his cousin was as immature as he’d been at eighteen.

“Yeah, I’m getting some from one of the classiest broads in town. If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“So, tell me and let me be duly impressed.”

“Talking kind of fancy, aren’t you? You haven’t let that college degree you earned in the pen go to your head, have you?”

“That college degree didn’t do me a damn bit of good getting a job on the outside, did it?” It stuck in his craw that the only job he could get was as a grease monkey in his cousin’s garage. Reed clamped his hand down on Briley Joe’s shoulder and grinned. “So who’s this classy broad you’re screwing?”

“Cybil Carlisle.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Yep. I’m getting all I want from Jeff Henry Carlisle’s wife. Can you believe it? And I’m here to tell you that she’s one wild woman.”

“You’re playing a dangerous game, cuz,” Reed said. “If Jeff Henry ever finds out, you’re as good as dead.”

“That Pillsbury Doughboy wouldn’t dirty his lily white hands on me.”

“You’re right about that, but he wouldn’t think twice about hiring somebody to beat the shit out of you, and if that didn’t stop you fooling around with his wife—”

“Nobody knows. You’re the only person I’ve told. She warned me that if I opened my big mouth about her to anybody, she’d cut me off.”

“Damn it, man, she’s Webb Porter’s sister-in-law. She was a
Walker
before she got married. Her family’s been one of the ruling clans in this state for the past two hundred years. Why would she risk her reputation and your life to have an affair with you?”

“Because Cybil Carlisle likes to walk on the wild side. And I can tell you that there’s nothing better than a lady who wants to get down and dirty with a bad boy. You ought to try it sometime. Maybe with that niece of hers. I’ll bet Miss Ella Porter has never forgotten those hot letters you wrote her.”

“I’d like to forget those letters, and I’m sure she has forgotten them. From what my mother tells me, Judge Porter is good woman—a real lady. If I even said hello to her, she’d run scared.”

“You won’t know until you give it a try. Who knows, she might not run.”

“Ella was never my type. And God knows I wasn’t her type back then, and I’m sure as hell not her type now.”

“Okay, so the judge doesn’t crank your motor. She’s not the only class act in town. Look around. I’m sure you’ll find somebody who suits you.”

“I’ll stick with Ivy and her type for the time being,” Reed said. “A good, uncomplicated fuck is all I want from a woman right now. My main focus is on finding out exactly who killed Junior Blalock and let me take the fall. Mark Leamon believes in me and he’s going to help me try to prove my innocence.”

“You ever think that Aunt Judy might have done it?”

“No! Mama would never have let me go to prison for a crime she’d committed.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. Aunt Judy would do just about anything for you and Regina.” When Briley Joe removed his ball cap and scratched his head, curly brown locks fell across his forehead. The rest of his shoulder-length hair had been pulled back into a short ponytail. “Man, where can you start? The police didn’t find no evidence against anybody but you. And we know you didn’t kill Junior. So who did? Who else besides you, Aunt Judy, and Regina had a reason to want to see Junior dead?”

“I don’t know for sure,” Reed said. “But I’ve made out a list of possible suspects, and Webb Porter’s name is at the top of that list.”

Ella removed her robe, hung it in the closet, and collapsed happily in the swivel desk chair. What a day! Presiding over a case fraught with emotion always got to her. She tried to not allow her own personal feelings on the matter affect her, but she found that she was only human and couldn’t completely divorce herself from her own sensitivity on certain issues. Had Clyde Kilpatrick committed suicide, or had his death been a tragic accident? The insurance company said suicide. The family said accident. From today’s evidence, she had reached a tentative decision. But would the jury come to the same conclusion that she had? Even though it meant Clyde’s two children would not see a dime of his insurance money, the facts plainly showed that the man had killed himself. He’d left a note forgiving his wife for her infidelity, but also stating that he didn’t want to live without her. The damning evidence had come from the ballistics expert, who had explained the trajectory of the bullet that entered Clyde’s body, saying that it was highly unlikely, if not impossible, for an accident to have been the cause.

Ella kicked off her two-inch gray heels, wriggled her toes, and lifted her stocking feet up to rest on her desk. The heel of her foot accidently brushed against a white envelope, sending it sailing off the desk and onto the floor. Grunting, she leaned over and picked up the legal-size envelope. Her name was typed across the front. Only her name. Eleanor Porter. Odd, she didn’t remember this particular bit of correspondence being on her desk earlier today. She’d eaten lunch at her desk around twelve-thirty—a salad she’d ordered from the Oakwood Bar and Grill across the street from the courthouse.

She flipped the letter over and noticed it was still sealed. Undoubtedly someone had hand-delivered the message. But who? Kelly had already left for the day, so she couldn’t ask her until tomorrow. Ella pulled a brass letter opener from the pencil holder that was part of the gold-monogrammed leather desk set Uncle Jeff Henry had given her when she’d been elected circuit judge last year. After slicing open the envelope, she reached inside and pulled out the single-page missive. She unfolded the white stationery and read.

Ella swallowed hard. Dear God! Who would have sent her such a thing?

The letter was typewritten. Actually, it looked as if it had been composed on a computer and printed from a laser printer. There were several laser printers at the courthouse and one at the public library. And several copy shops provided laser printers for use by their customers. Unless there were fingerprints on the envelope or the plain white paper, there was probably no way to trace the letter.

Was this a prank? Dan Gilmore certainly hadn’t penned the heated love letter. Did she have a secret admirer out there somewhere? Was someone stalking her, watching her without her being aware of his presence? A chill raced up her spine. She’d heard of women being stalked by ex-lovers or ex-husbands, and celebrities being harassed by crazed fans. But she had no “ex” anything. And she certainly wasn’t famous. However, she was a well-known figure in the community, in all of Bryant County for that matter.

Ella Porter, you aren’t the type of woman that men become obsessed with and you know it. No one would ever…Oh, dear Lord, no!
Years ago, Reed Conway had written her two letters very similar to this one. Until her father had seen to it that he couldn’t send any more. And Reed Conway had been released from prison yesterday. Was it possible that he had written her this crude love letter? Yes, of course it was possible. If the man still blamed her father for his imprisonment, then he might be trying to get to her father through her. He’d done it once before; why not now?

Daddy would be furious. He would confront Reed and accuse him of harassing her. Even though she couldn’t be sure the letter had come from Reed, there would be no doubt in her father’s mind. He would condemn Reed without benefit of hard evidence. The police would be called in and the story might leak to the media, and her mother would find out and become terribly upset. Ella could well remember the hullabaloo that went on in the Porter household when Reed had written to her from prison. She didn’t want a repeat of those nerve-racking days.

The letter can’t hurt you
, she reminded herself.
It’s only a bunch of words
. If Reed had written it, he had done it solely to get a rise out of Webb Porter. If she didn’t show anyone the letter, then Reed wouldn’t have accomplished his goal. Surely, if he realized she had ignored the silly piece of trash, he wouldn’t bother writing another.

Ella removed a key chain from her pocket and unlocked the bottom drawer of her desk. After pulling out the drawer, she lifted and opened her gray leather purse, then stuffed the letter back into the envelope. She slid the envelope into her purse behind her wallet and closed her purse. The best thing to do was forget about the message and hope that would be the end of it. But she wouldn’t destroy the letter. Not yet.

She didn’t want to involve her father or the local authorities unless it was absolutely necessary. She wasn’t a sixteen-year-old innocent. She was a grown woman, a thirty-year-old circuit court judge. She could certainly handle this situation without help. She would find Reed Conway and confront him with the letter, then warn him that if he knew what was good for him, he’d leave her alone.

Jeff Henry Carlisle sipped tea from a Moss Rose Havi-land china cup. The silver tea service that Judy Conway had placed on his intricately carved mahogany desk in the study had been in his family for six generations. The desk itself had come overland from Virginia and then down the Tennessee River to Alabama before the War Between the States, as a wedding present for one of his ancestresses. Of all the fine rooms in his home, he thought he loved this one best. His own private domain, filled with beloved treasures, both family heirlooms and items he had acquired at estate sales and out-of-the-way antique shops. There were even a few items he had picked up on his and Cybil’s trips to Europe. Unfortunately, his wife didn’t give two hoots about the things that were precious to him. “A bunch of old junk,” she’d once said of the priceless antiques that adorned each of the twelve rooms in their home. All the rooms, that is, except her bedroom. She had decorated that room in a garish nineteen-twenties art deco style that made him feel nauseated every time he entered her private quarters.

His wife might physically resemble her older sister, but that was where the similarities ended. Carolyn was a lady, through and through. Genteel, in the way Jeff Henry’s mother had been. A gentleman never used a curse word in her presence, because it would shock and offend her. Carolyn was a fragile flower to be cherished and protected from the harsh realities of the world. Ah, dear, sweet Carolyn. He had loved her madly when they’d been young, but she had thought of him only as a friend. She had wanted no one but Webb Porter. And what Carolyn wanted, Carolyn got. Who could deny such a woman anything?

He supposed that, in a way, he was still in love with Carolyn. But it was a pure love, untainted by anything physical. His love for her was a noble thing, much like that of the knights of old for their fair damsels. Carolyn was a part of his heart. That would have to be enough. She was devoted to Webb and would never leave him.

Jeff Henry sighed as he picked up one of Judy’s homemade oatmeal cookies. He knew he shouldn’t be nibbling, but he’d smelled the cookies baking when he passed the kitchen a half hour ago. In the past few years, he’d acquired a bit of a paunch, but a few extra pounds didn’t hurt a man’s appearance the way it did a woman’s. Some people might consider him vain, but he wasn’t. He simply prided himself on his appearance. Cybil told him that his factitiousness drove her crazy.

Well, truth be told, everything about his wife drove him crazy. It hadn’t always been that way. Not in the beginning. When they had first married, she’d tried to please him. He’d been convinced that she actually cared for him.

“I did my best to be like Carolyn,” she’d told him. “I knew I wasn’t your first choice. I tried, damn it. I tried so hard, but it was never enough. I’m not Carolyn and you’ve never let me forget it.”

He’d made a serious mistake marrying Cybil, but he dealt with things the best he could. He turned a blind eye to her indiscretions. At least she had tried to be discreet about her numerous affairs; he was thankful for that much. The Carlisles didn’t believe in divorce. There had never been a divorce in the family, and he most certainly had no intention of breaking that tradition. Perhaps once he would have considered it, if Carolyn had been free. Poor Carolyn, married to a man who didn’t deserve her, a man who made a mockery of their marriage. But she was happy in her delusional state, and he would do anything—absolutely anything—to make sure nothing and no one ever ruined that happiness for her.

“Mr. Carlisle?” A woman’s voice broke into his thoughts.

He glanced at the open pocket doors leading into the hallway and saw Judy Conway standing there. An attractive woman, if you liked the sexual, earthy type. “Yes, what is it?”

“I’m leaving for the day,” she said. “Dinner is prepared. The roast and vegetables are in the oven and the salad is in the refrigerator. Will you need anything else before I go?”

“Has Mrs. Carlisle come home?”

“No, sir, she hasn’t.”

“Hmm…”

“I’ll be going now—”

“Yes. Certainly.” He waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “I’m sure you’re eager to go home and spend some time with your son.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I do hope you understand why I couldn’t recommend that any of my friends give Reed a job. I realize you were disappointed when I refused, but in all good conscience—”

“I understand.” The tension in her voice said that although she might understand, she didn’t forgive. “Reed has a job with his cousin Briley Joe.”

“At the garage?”

“Yes. It’s honest work. Not quite what I’d hoped for, considering Reed has a college degree. But it was the only job he could find. No one would help him except family.”

Judy’s gaze didn’t quite meet Jeff Henry’s. Her reluctance to look him directly in the eye bothered him. He liked Judy and had a certain amount of respect for the woman. He thought she had always regarded him highly, and he valued her opinion of him. A man should be respected and liked by his employees. That had been his father’s opinion and his grandfather’s before him. For generations the Carlisles had been benevolent employers.

“Once Reed proves himself, I could be persuaded to reconsider and perhaps help him find more suitable employment. If he stays out of trouble for, let’s say, a year, we’ll discuss my helping him.”

Judy smiled, but the effort seemed false, as if she had forced herself to respond in a positive manner.

“Thank you, Mr. Carlisle. I’m sure Reed will stay out of trouble. He knows how much is at stake.”

“I wish him well. Personally, you know that I always thought he should have been rewarded for killing Junior Blalock instead of having been sent to prison.”

“Reed didn’t kill Junior. He was innocent.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. I’m sure, being his mother, that’s what you’d like to believe.”

Judy laid her clutched fist over her heart. “It’s what I know. In here.”

Jeff Henry cleared his throat. “You have a good night, you hear? I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yes, sir.” She turned and disappeared down the hallway.

Did Judy still truly believe that her son hadn’t killed her second husband? If so, that meant Reed was still professing his innocence. Merciful goodness. Jeff Henry hoped that didn’t mean Reed was going to stir up trouble. It just wouldn’t do for the past to be revisited. If that happened, there was no telling who might wind up getting hurt.

No doubt by now she had found the letter that had been placed on her desk while her secretary had been down the hall on an errand. How had Ella reacted when she’d read the letter? Had she been shocked? Had she known immediately who’d written it? Was she at this very minute showing it to her father?

A self-satisfied smile curled moist lips. Ella was such a predictable creature. She would run to Webb and cry for her daddy’s help.
Some nasty man sent me this vulgar letter. Do something about it immediately
.

Of course, one letter wouldn’t be enough. There would have to be others. And a few untraceable phone calls—some heavy breathing. One step at a time, building slowly to the point when Webb would know his daughter’s life was at stake. It would actually be fun to watch the senator sweat.

Nothing meant more to Webb Porter than his precious daughter. He loved her more than anything on earth. More than he’d ever loved his wife. Far more than any of his mistresses. The easiest way to get Webb’s undivided attention was to harass his only child. And that was all it would be at first—just harassment. But later…

Ella drove past Conway’s garage, which was situated on the corner of West Fifth and Lafayette. Not exactly on her way home, but only a couple of blocks out of her way. She slowed her Jaguar, and with her eyes shaded by sunglasses, she inspected the scene. Two cars were at the pumps, filling up with gas. One of the two large garage doors gaped open to reveal the greasy, cluttered maintenance and repair shop. She caught a glimpse of Briley Joe through the glass front of the building. He was talking to someone she assumed was a customer. Reed’s cousin wore his brown hair shoulder-length and pulled back in a short ponytail. She’d never seen the man wearing anything except jeans, as he did today, and he’d topped off his redneck ensemble with a white T-shirt emblazoned with a colorful emblem of some sort.