Miss Lizzy's Legacy (6 page)

“Yeah, well, she called and asked me to, instead. Has a migraine, she said.” He stopped in front of the door Callie had passed the night before on her way to the Blue Bell. The smudge of her handprint where she'd cleared a spot to peek inside still appeared on its glass.

Judd stabbed the key into the door's lock and gave it a twist. “But understand—” he tossed over his shoulder “—I'm only doing this as a favor to her. If it were up to me, you wouldn't get near the place.”

“I certainly didn't think you would do anything to help me,” Callie replied in an equally snide voice.

The door opened with a screech of rusty hinges, and curiosity displaced irritation as she peered past Judd into the shadowed opening. No music drifted down to tease her and no shadows danced on the landing above, yet a chill chased down her spine, just as it had the night before when she'd stood before this same door.

She hugged her purse tightly against her breasts, unable to take that first step inside. “Do you believe in ghosts?” she murmured in a low voice.

Judd cut her a glance full of impatience. “No. Why?”

“Last night when I walked past here, I thought I heard music and voices coming from up there,” she said with a nod toward the staircase that led to the second floor.

“Probably just the wind.”

Callie stared up the steep flight of stairs and tried to convince herself he was probably right. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she eased past him.

“Watch your step,” he called from behind her. “I'll hit the lights.”

At the top of the stairs, she stopped and waited. She stole a glance around, half expecting to see people dancing in the waning afternoon light. Instead, she found boxes, furniture, trunks and an assortment of junk stacked in odd-shaped piles around the room and shoved up against its walls. A fine layer of dust covered every surface while cobwebs draped the corners, giving everything a neglected, haunted look.

The lights came on and seconds later she heard the scrape of Judd's boots on the staircase behind her. The combination gave her the courage to wander farther into the room. “What is all this?” she asked as she dusted off a box lid and lifted it to peer inside.

“Junk. Some of it my parents inherited when they bought the building years ago. Some of it's family mementos and the rest belongs to the historical society. People are all the time donating stuff and mom has it hauled up here until she or one of the other members has time to go through it.”

Callie wove her way through the piles until she noticed the unusual number of doors opening off the main area. “What was this place?”

“For years, nothing. Originally it was a whorehouse.”

“A whorehouse,” she repeated incredulous. Goose bumps popped up on her arms as she remembered hearing the woman's voice the night before, the voice that had called down for her to “Come on up and join us.” She forced a laugh as she walked from door to door, peering into rooms only large enough to hold a bed. “Are you sure it still isn't used for that purpose?”

“Not that I'm aware of.” Judd watched her from the center of the room, his eyes narrowed in suspicion, his arms folded across his chest. “And what do you plan to do up here?”

Callie ducked into an open doorway. “Set up a temporary studio,” she said in a muffled voice.

“Studio? For what?”

She reappeared, wearing a smudge of dirt on her cheek. “Sculpting.”

Judd snorted. “Sculpting? I thought you were here to trace your family history.”

“That, too. But it looks like I'm going to be here longer than I expected, and I have a project I need to work on.” She returned to the center of the room and turned in a slow circle, studying the afternoon light. “I'll probably do most of my work early in the mornings and evenings,” she murmured half to herself.

With that in mind, she strolled toward the corner room which faced the street. The room contained two sets of windows, one facing south and one east. She folded her arms beneath her breasts, smiling her satisfaction. “Perfect.” She turned to find Judd had followed her into the room. “How much is the rent?”

“By the hour?” he asked, lifting a brow.

Callie smothered a laugh. “By the month.”

“A hundred dollars.”

“I'll take it.”

* * *

Judd tossed the check onto his mother's lap. “Here's the rent money.”

Molly laid aside her needlepoint to pick up the check, smiling. “Good. I was hoping she'd take it.”

Judd flopped down on the couch and stretched his feet out, eyeing his mother suspiciously. “I thought you had a migraine?”

Molly pretended to study the check, avoiding her son's gaze. “I did, but it's much better now, thank you.”

Judd sucked in his cheeks as he watched his mother's face redden. She'd always been a lousy liar. “I'm sure it is,” he muttered. “Why didn't you tell her the place was originally a whorehouse?”

Molly folded the check and slipped it into her pocket. “I didn't think it necessary.”

“Not even when you consider the fact that her great-grandfather's mother was the madam?”

Molly's features softened in sympathy. “I thought the poor girl had suffered enough surprises for one day.”

Judd threw up his hands. “Terrific! Now we have the great-great-granddaughter of Miss Lizzy, Guthrie's most famous madam, renting one of the old girl's rooms, and she doesn't even know it.”

Molly looked down her nose at Judd. “Don't be disrespectful. Miss Lizzy was a fine, upstanding woman. Besides,” she said with a sniff, “you said you didn't believe Callie was a descendant of Miss Lizzy's, anyway.”

“Hell, I don't know what to think. Now she says she's an artist and she's going to use the space upstairs as a temporary studio while she's here.”

“Maybe she is an artist.”

“Yeah, and I'm an elephant trainer.” Judd folded his arms across his chest. “And I suppose you're going to leave it up to me to tell her the truth?”

“Only when you think the time is right, dear.” Suddenly Molly's eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. “That's it!” she cried. She rocketed from her chair, dropping her needlepoint to the floor while she made a beeline for an old rolltop desk, heaped high with stacks of paper. “I knew I recognized her name.” She dug through the pile and came up with a brochure. “Callie Benson.” She crossed the room and waved the brochure under her son's nose. “And you thought she was a reporter.” She made a
tsking
sound with her tongue and tossed the brochure onto his lap. “She's an artist. A brilliant one, I might add. And now you've probably insulted her with your crazy suspicions.”

Judd picked up the brochure and flipped through it while his mother paced in front of him, continuing her chastisement of him for his rudeness. He knew, given time, she'd wind down. She always did. While he waited for that to happen, he entertained himself by reading the brochure.

The pamphlet consisted of about seven pages, filled front and back with pictures of sculptures. The last page was the one that caught his attention, though. For on it was a picture of Callie, stooped over a mound of clay with the beginnings of a face appearing beneath her mud-slickened hands. If not for the picture, he could have ignored the brochure and her claim to be an artist as just one more lie.

“And I think you owe the woman an apology, at the very least.”

An apology? Judd closed his eyes and hauled in a long breath, thinking an apology wouldn't even come close. Especially considering the way he'd treated her in her hotel room the night before. Maybe instead of offering an apology, he ought to just lie down and let her stomp on him for a while. Maybe then, she'd consider them even.

* * *

Callie sat on the floor of her hotel room with copies of magazine articles and newspaper clippings scattered all around her. Prudy, as always, had come through for her, faxing every word that had been written about Judd Barker over the last three years. Callie had scanned the reports monitoring his career climb, highlighted in yellow pertinent facts about him and stacked them to the side. The one thing that puzzled her was that he seemed to have given it all up. The career, the money, the fame. As far as she could tell, he hadn't cut a record or made a public appearance since the trial. Odd, but then he was an odd man, she thought.

The articles concerning the alleged rape and subsequent trial remained in front of her. She chewed the pen's plastic top as she glanced over the papers spread in front of her. The headlines that heralded his arrest were bold and front page.

The captions alone were enough to convict a man—if they were to be believed—and the photographs accompanying them, damning. Judd pictured leaning over the edge of a stage, kissing a woman. Judd grinning from ear to ear standing backstage surrounded by screaming fans, all of whom were female. Judd caught unaware in a bar, a lusty smile on his lips while his eyes were closed, his arms wrapped around a woman's waist while they danced cheek to cheek, groin to grinding groin.

“Disgusting,” she muttered, yet picked the picture up to study it closer. He was wearing his black hat. Naturally. The brim was pulled low over his forehead, but not far enough to hide his face. The woman had poured herself over him like water and by the expression on Judd's face, he didn't seem to mind getting wet. In fact, his nose was buried in her hair and his lips a breath away from her ear.

Callie's fingers tightened on the picture, creating a crease across the dancing couple. A slow warmth spread through her abdomen. She remembered only too well how it felt to be held by him, the muscles in his arms rippling as they wrapped around her, his breath warming the skin at her throat.

She remembered his kiss, too. The feel of his lips pressed against hers, his taste. Like forbidden sex, she remembered. Wild and dark and passionate. Though she wanted to, she knew she would never forget.

A knock sounded at the door.

Her thoughts mired in memories of the man pictured before her, she called absently, “Who is it?”

“Judd Barker,” came the muffled reply.

Callie's eyes widened, and she dropped the picture as if it had come to life in her hands. Quickly, she began scraping up the scattered papers. “What do you want?” she asked, stalling for time.

“I need to talk to you.”

“What about?”

“Could you open the door?”

Grimacing, Callie lifted the bedspread and shoved the clippings between it and the sheets, then smoothed her hands to cover the conspicuous lumps. Straightening her clothes, she hurried to the door and opened it.

Slightly breathless, she looked up at him, hoping she didn't look as guilty as she felt. “Yes?”

He pulled off his hat and held it at his waist. “Mind if I come in?”

“I was just about to—”

“What I have to say won't take but a minute.” Without waiting for permission, he strolled past her.

Frowning at his back, Callie closed the door. With Judd inside, the room seemed to shrink to at least half its size. She knotted her fingers, then unknotted them to gesture to a chair. “Would you like to sit down?”

He turned, slowly working the hat by its brim between his hands. “No, I'd rather stand, if you don't mind, and take my punishment like a man.”

Callie stared, her forehead wrinkling in confusion. “What punishment?”

A sheepish grin chipped one corner of his mouth. “I hope nothing more serious than a tongue lashing, although my mother's already done a pretty good job with that.” He dipped his head to stare at his hat, then lifted his gaze just enough to peer at her over his eyebrows. “Seems as if I owe you an apology. A big one.”

Callie folded her arms at her breasts. “Oh?” she said, arching a brow.

“Yeah. I thought you were some sleazy reporter who'd tracked me down to write a story about me.”

“And what made you think that?”

“The cameras in your car.”

“What made you change your mind?”

“My mother. She showed me a brochure of yours. Some showing of yours in Dallas. Had pictures of your work and all.”

Callie knew the one he spoke of. The showing had been less than a month ago and brochures had been mailed out to art dealers and patrons all over the country.

“As a result,” she replied, “you've decided to believe that I'm in Guthrie only to trace my family?”

“The pictures seem real enough.”

Callie narrowed her eyes at him. “You still doubt my intentions, though, don't you?”

When he didn't reply, she puckered her lips in a knowing frown. “I thought so.”

Judd shifted uncomfortably under her steady perusal, not at all sure he was going to get the forgiveness he'd come for. In need of something to fill the silence until she softened a little, he offered, “Mom said you weren't leaving town until you found out the truth about the grave.”

Callie started to sit down on the bed, remembered the papers she'd stuffed there and carefully skirted it. “That's my plan.”

“Why is this so all-fired important?”

She wasn't sure how she could explain the importance or even why she should try, but for some reason she felt compelled to do just that. Opening a dresser drawer, she pulled out a thick leather album bound by a faded gold cord. “This belongs to my great-grandfather.”

She flipped open the book and pointed to the first page, then held it out for Judd. “That is a picture of the Sawyer family. The young woman on the left is Mary Elizabeth. When she was nineteen, she ran away from home with a man her family didn't approve of and they disowned her. Approximately eight months after she left, the Sawyers received a telegram notifying them that their daughter had died in childbirth but that her baby had lived. Arrangements were made for the baby to be delivered to the Sawyers in St. Louis. They traveled there by train, picked up the baby and took him to their home in Boston and raised him.”