Mr. Write (Sweetwater) (42 page)

“You’ve got me.”  She squeezed his hand.  “Why don’t we walk outside.”

HE
looked lost, Sarah thought, as they walked aimlessly over the engraved bricks used to pave the path and courtyard. 
The Thomas Hawkins Family.  In Loving Memory of Julia Christner.  Brady, Our Angel.

Just words.  But for someone, a tragedy.

Dawn was just beginning to paint the sky with slim, rosy fingers.  It had been nearly three when Mason had knocked on her front door.  Politely, she thought now.  Apologetic.  Even with blood matting his gilded hair, he’d somehow managed both manners and charm.

And the look on Tucker’s face was one she wouldn’t soon forget.  He’d been convinced it was Jonas
up to one of his tricks, went out the back door, circled around.  When he’d found Mason, bleeding on the porch, he’d gone whiter than Mason himself.

It had to hit home, she knew.  Having so recently lost his mother to a traumatic brain injury.  And as Tucker wasn’t one to let people into his life very easily, she understood that Mason was the next thing to a brother.

“He’s in good hands,” she told him
, and watched doubt chase worry across his face.  “I know it’s not quite the same caliber of hospital you’re used to dealing with in New York, but it has a well-trained staff, a… I guess you could call it a laudable reputation.  Your grandfather donated a pretty big chunk for the surgery wing.”

Tucker snorted.  “He’s just a hell of a guy, isn’t he?”  He lifted his head, looked around.  “Is this the same medical complex your father was talking about?”

“Mmm.  That office building over there.”

Before Tucker could respond, Will came striding up the
shadowed path.  His blue uniform shirt was pressed, but the bottoms of the worn jeans he’d pulled on in lieu of trousers were a little muddy.

Tucker braced, and Sarah gave his hand a squeeze.

“What the hell are you doing to catch this asshole?” he demanded.

“My job.”  Will’s voice was mild, but his eyes – despite the shadows – were
sharp.  “I’m going to need you to take a look at the scene, see if anything is missing.”

“Somebody boosting my laptop is the least of my worries right now.”

Will nodded toward the wrought iron benches in the courtyard.  “You want to sit down while we go over this?”

“No.”

“Okay.  Your laptop’s still there.  Your printer.  Could be, with Mason surprising the perp, he or she panicked, left empty-handed.  Could be they were looking for something a little more specific.  Your desk was riffled.  You keep anything important there?”

“Like what?”

“Cash, financial documents, passwords or pins.  The number of your offshore bank account.”

“I don’t have an offshore bank account.”

Will flicked a glance at the lightening sky.  “Red dawn.  Looks like we might have yet another storm in store for us later. The screen on that window was cut,” he told Tucker “and from the shoeprints on the ground – for which we need to thank all this rain – it looks like whoever broke into your place shimmied up the tree.  Now, there were plenty of windows on the ground floor that would be easier to access – and a number of them were even open.”

“Too damn hot to leave the windows closed.”

“You got that right.  Air conditioning is a beautiful thing.  So are alarm systems, come to that.  Or a nice dog that barks its head off.”

“You’re saying this is somehow my fault?”

“Hell no.  I’m saying criminals are a pain in this ass, especially when it’s too damn hot to leave the windows closed.  But my point would be: why didn’t that pain-in-the-ass criminal enter your place through one of the easier to reach, open windows?  It says to me that maybe that criminal was targeting that room, specifically.  That maybe he knows the layout of your house, knows you use that room as an office.  Maybe they had a reason – or even a hunch – causing them to believe there might be something in that office of particular value.”

“
I have my agency agreement, some contracts in the top drawer.  But unless they were looking to plagiarize one of my old manuscripts and sell it – and I wish them luck with that – there’s nothing in there of any real value.”  But he swore under his breath.  “You think this has something to do with the fact that I’m a Pettigrew?  That some… local yokel believes I’d be stupid enough to leave – if I had any – great big bundles of cash just lying around in my desk?”

“That’s one theory.  And God knows criminals are often indeed stupid.
Of course, sometimes they’re just lucky.  Take, for instance, the old newspaper clipping my officers found beneath your desk.”

Sarah shot a glance at Tucker, but his face was completely stone. 
Not even a flicker of reaction.  She’d bet he was a killer at the poker table.

“Newspaper clipping?”

“About the arson that took the original library down.  A shame, as it was a charming building with one of the best views of the river in Sweetwater.  ‘Course, I was only a little kid at the time, but I do remember Josie hauling me over there so I could look at the Hardy Boys mysteries.  Couldn’t read but about every fourth word, but I sure did like the idea of amateur boy detectives.  Guess they helped jumpstart my career, you could say.  The real authorities never did catch the person responsible for the fire, or the death of the man who was trapped inside.  Lucky for that arsonist the Hardys weren’t on the case.”

Tucker stared.  Then despite his earlier protestation, walked over to one of the benches and dropped down.  And laughed, without a shred of mirth whatsoever.

“Tucker?” Sarah said.

But he only shook his head.

“I have to admit,” Will continued, “that I found it interesting you had an actual clipping of that article, seeing as how it was published almost thirty years ago.  Usually, when people are doing research and whatnot, they just head for the microfiche.  Like you did a few weeks back.”

“Can people fart in Sweetwater without you knowing about it?”

“Only if they’re downwind.”

This time, Tucker’s huff held a trace of amusement.  Until he rubbed at the line which had formed between his eyes. 
“Did you find a note, a handwritten note on paper with little flowers on it?”

“Can’t say that I know the answer to that right off hand, as there were a number of papers scattered
around.  Looks like whoever broke in knocked over your trashcan.”

“If he had something to do with this – with hurting Mason – I just might kill him.”

“Um.”  S
arah laughed nervously and smiled at Will.  “That might not be the kind of thing you want to say in front of a cop.”

“Sure it is,” Will disagreed, and ambled over to sit companionably across from Tucker.  He stretched his legs out, crossed his ankles.  Folded his hands on his flat stomach. 
“Why don’t you tell me all about it.”

“There you are.”  They all three turned as Allie came scurrying up the path.  “I just talked to Doctor Rashid.  Mason’s been moved to a private room.  She wants to keep him a little longer, for observation.  And
Tucker?  He’s apparently asking for you.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

TUCKER
didn’t bother to use the doorbell beside the pristine white front door of River’s End.  He pounded with his fist.

“All right, all right. 
For heaven’s sake,” he heard Anna Mae mumbling as she opened the door.  “Tucker!”

“Anna Mae.
” He took in her wide blue eyes, the crisp white shirt and neat black trousers of the uniform covering her tiny frame. “Sorry about this.”  Then he simply shifted her aside.  “Where is he?”

“What?  Who?  Your grandfather?”

“If you insist.  Though I prefer to think that my father was stolen from real human beings and therefore passed on no genetic material from Carlton.”

Anna Mae’s
mouth opened and closed.  Then her lips twitched.  “He’s taking his evening brandy in the garden.”

He started to brush past her, then reconsidered. 
“Would you like me to go back out, head around so that he doesn’t give you grief for letting me in the house?  Because I don’t think he’s going to be real happy to see me.”

She gave him a surprisingly arch look.  “If you think I haven’t learned to handle grief after nearly four decades
of working here, then you’re not nearly as bright as I believed.  It’s quicker to head back through the kitchen.”

Charmed, Tucker dropped a hesitant kiss on her papery cheek.  “Thanks.”

“Oh, well now.  You go on.”  She fluttered her birdlike hands at him and blushed.

Tucker strode down the hall, past the museum-quality antiques, the perfect – and perfectly uncomfortable – rooms.  He nodded to a s
tartled young woman who stood at the sink scrubbing pots, with the lingering scent of rosemary and roasted chicken in the air.  “Evening.”

While she gaped, rubber-gloved hands dripping suds, Tucker pushed o
n one of the glass-paned doors that led to a brick path lined with militant rows of flowers.  Some kind of lily, Tucker thought, though they bore no resemblance whatsoever to the wild profusion of color and shape in Sarah’s garden.  These were white, with a few of them showing just the tiniest hint of pink.  They trembled only slightly in the breeze off the water, as if somehow afraid of moving out of line.

“Get a grip,” Tucker told them, and then walked around the corner.

The view hit him like a fist.

“Jesus.”  It was a panorama of marsh and water
, of tidal flats and cord grass.  Of great blue herons stalking through mud, spearing the unlucky fish that would become dinner.  It was a moving picture postcard, complete with a sailboat gliding silently past winding inlets, and the shadowy, secret stands of maritime forest.  

The setting sun hung over the
far shore, a big scoop of sherbet melting orange and pink into the sky.

It was
absolutely stunning.  The only view he’d seen that rivaled it was from the land where the old library had stood.

Tucker
walked on, noted the elaborate plantings – meticulously pruned – the low wall and geometric arrangement of paths that resembled a formal English garden.

At a wrought iron table which faced what Tucker thought might be termed a reflecting pool, Carlton sat, soaking up the beauty.

“Grandfather.”

The old man tur
ned his head.  With eyes as cold and smoky as dry ice, he regarded Tucker over his snifter of brandy.  “Well.  I would offer to kill the fatted calf, but I’m afraid I’ve already enjoyed my dinner.”

Fury bubbled, nice and hot.  “I need a word with you.”

“TRULY,
there’s no need for you to cluck about me like a mother hen.”

Biting back a smile, Sarah otherwise ignored Mason’s peevish tone.
  She took it as a sign that he was feeling better.

“I’ve only just gotten rid of Tucker,” he continued, frowning at the antibiotic and
the pain medication Sarah shook into her palm from the collection of prescription bottles littering his nightstand.  “I didn’t realize it was possible for a fourteen stone man to
hover.”

The white bandage on his head stood out in sharp relief to the flush of annoyance coloring his cheeks.  It was a vast improvement over ghost pale
and gruesomely accented with blood.  “You scared him.”  She handed him a glass of water, the pills.  “It’s only natural that he worry.  He loves you.”

The color kicked up another notch.  “I don’t know about all of that.”

“He loves you,” Sarah repeated as he handed her back the glass.  “You’re the only family – what he would consider family – he has left.”

Mason aimed those
remarkable amber eyes her way.  “Am I?”

She was saved from responding by a deep masculine “Hello?” from downstairs.

“We’re up here, Noah.”

“What’s this?” Mason said when Noah appeared in the bedroom doorway, carrying a large box.

“A token of my affection.  Mason, this is my brother, Noah.”

“We’ve
met.” Noah nodded at Mason over the cardboard.  “How’s the head?”

“Bloody
fantastic.  How’s yours?”

Grinning in male appreciation for the snarky retort, Noah turned his attention to Sarah.  “That window there?”
  

“That’s the one.”

Noah lugged the box over, pulled out some foam packing and a plastic bag, then the main contents.

“Is that… an air conditioner?” Mason’s voice held awe
as he watched Noah get to work.

“Yep.  Figured you’d be cranky enough being cooped up in bed for the next
couple days without the heat making it worse.”

Eyes shining with delight, Mason grabbed Sarah’s hand, covered it in lavish kisses.  “You
’re a treasure.  A goddess.  I shall be your slave unto the end of days.”