Queen (35 page)

The only thing that told him people lived in this godforsaken hole were the wispy strips of smoke that drifted skyward from the stovepipes and chimneys.

A thin crust of ice broke beneath his feet. The water below soaked his shoes as he got out of the car and started into the gas station for information.

"Shit," he muttered, and looked down at the rim of mud surrounding his favorite Cole-Haans. And then he looked closer and feared that his profanity had been accurate in another way. He could smell the odor from here.

He dug a handkerchief out of his pocket, cleaned his shoes as best he could, and then tossed the handkerchief into a garbage can as he passed. This wasn't a promising start to a trip he hadn't wanted to take, and he knew he had only himself and his greed to blame. If he wasn't always in debt up to his ears, he wouldn't have to take every piddle-ass job that came his way. And trying to dig up dirt—and, in some cases, shit—on people who seemed to be minding their own businesses would be a thing of the past.

He walked into the gas station and an hour later came away with more than he'd hoped for. He had all kinds of unverifiable information on the Houston family, which was no longer in residence.

He stared up at the hillside beyond the gas station, peering through the thick stand of pines to the cemetery to which the attendant had alluded. According to the man inside, the only member of the Houston family still residing in the town was six feet under, mixing his bones with the vein of coal that was the foundation of Cradle Creek.

He got into his car and drove in the direction of Whitelaw's Bar. According to the attendant, Morton Whitelaw would be the authority on the gambler and his daughters. The entire time they'd lived in Cradle Creek, they had lived next door to his bar.

"She should like this," Wally muttered, thinking of Lenore Whittier's glee in learning that Queen Houston came from a less than ostentatious background. "Next door to a bar… across the street from whores. Hell, she'll have a heyday."

He turned the corner and saw a string of red blinking lights strung across a sign over a porch: Whitelaw's Bar.

He'd found it. Now all he needed was some verification of what the man in the station had said, and he'd be out of here before dark. If he hurried, he thought he could just about make Knoxville and then catch an early morning flight out tomorrow. If not, his only option would be sleeping in his car. And while he'd done it before, it had not been in the middle of winter, so far back in the hills, in a town that looked like something out of a Stephen King movie.

From the looks of the town, people starved to death here on a daily basis. How a gambler had made a living in a place like this amazed him. And then he thought back to what the man in the station had said and realized that Johnny Houston, like all the other residents of Cradle Creek, had not profited but simply survived.

He opened the door and walked into the bar. His first instinct upon entering was to hold his breath. But that would have been impossible, so he opted for a cigarette, although he was trying to quit. Inhaling nicotine suddenly seemed a whole lot healthier than breathing in what was inside this place.

Wally's first question elicited a response he hadn't expected from the owner of the bar.

"You want to know about the Houstons?" Morton Whitelaw smiled. He'd known his chance would come to pay Johnny Houston's daughters back for the misery they'd caused him. "How bad… and how much?"

Wally grimaced and started digging into his pocket. He should have known he would come across one of these kind here. In his business there were always people ready to talk if it was worth their while.

"This much and all you know."

Wally slapped five twenties across the bar and then held them beneath his fingers, staring intently into the man's pasty face until he received a nod of compliance. Only then did he move back, and when he did, he blinked at the way Morton Whitelaw grabbed the money without further negotiation.

Whitelaw began to talk, and time slipped by quickly. Before Wally was aware, the sun had begun its descent toward the treetops.

"I've got to be going," he said, putting his notebook into his pocket and settling his hat tighter onto his head. "Thanks for your information, Mr. Whitelaw."

Morton nodded. "It was my pleasure," he said, and smiled through a mouthful of stained, crooked teeth.

Wally shuddered. He knew his own limitations, but in this place, during the long afternoon, he'd seen himself elevated to the status of something between a gentleman and socially correct.

He almost ran for his car, then slid behind the wheel and locked the door. For the first time since he'd begun working for Lenore Whittier, he had sympathy for her victim. How any woman had grown up intact in a place like this was beyond him.

Why Johnny Houston's daughters hadn't wound up across the street working at the whorehouse that Whitelaw was quick to point out, amazed Wally. And it had been patently obvious that while Whitelaw talked a good story, he hadn't gotten anywhere with any of the sisters. The bitterness of rejection was obvious to one who'd experienced it… and Wally Morrow was a master at being rejected.

Morton Whitelaw might wish… and he might dream… but he'd never screwed one of the gambler's daughters, and Wally had known it from the start. He'd seen Queen Houston, and he knew women. She'd have sooner slit her own throat than sleep with a man like
Morton Whitelaw. Not for anything or anyone.

Now the problem remained, did Wally relay what he thought or what he'd been told? None of his information was verifiable; it was all word of mouth. He sighed and shifted into gear, heading out of Cradle Creek with the sun fading fast. It played hell with business when conscience got in the way.

Allen Whittier was furious over what he'd just discovered by accident. Lenore had paid a disgusting amount of money to a private investigation firm. He didn't have to ask her why. He knew his wife too well to hope that it was simply because she might suspect him of having an affair. She was meddling, and he knew good and well it had to do with their grandsons.

He paced the floor in his den, considering his options. He could confront Lenore and make her confess. He could ignore what he'd learned and let whatever happened happen, just as he'd done for years. Or… he could wrap his hands around her nipped-and-tucked neck and squeeze.

He shuddered, realizing that the latter thought had seemed all too enticing, and made a beeline for the wet bar in the corner of the room. He poured a stiff shot of bourbon and splashed the
liquid down his throat. It was only after he'd swallowed and the liquor hit bottom that the tears shot to his eyes. And by that time Allen could tell himself that it was the booze and not emotion that had made them appear.

His eyes narrowed. One last glance at the two cancelled checks on the desk, along with the bourbon, reinforced what he'd decided to do. He picked them up and headed out of the den. This time his wife had gone too far.

Lenore was outside, fussing with the gardener, kibitzing with the pool man, and generally minding everyone's business but her own. She saw Allen come out through the patio door and stop as he looked her way. Even from this distance she could see the angry set of his shoulders and the way he stared with eyelids barely open. Her stomach turned. She hated it when he tried to assert his masculinity.

"Lenore!"

She frowned. He hadn't shouted at her in years. In fact, she couldn't remember his having raised his voice at her ever. She wanted to ignore him, but something about his stance told her it would be better to get this over with than to let it simmer, whatever it was. She gave the pool man a parting shot and made her way toward the house, mincing through the newly mown grass as if she were a debutante instead of a dowager.

"Allen."

The tone of her voice usually sufficed to quell whatever moment of manhood he felt and send him back where he belonged. Today it didn't work.

"What the hell are these?"

He waved the cancelled checks beneath her nose. Even though she was minus her glasses and one of the checks was upside down, she knew what he'd found.

Her face flushed and then went pale. It was all Allen needed to see.

"You conniving bitch."

The lack of emotion in his voice frightened her more than any shouting he might have done.

"How dare you?" she sputtered, trying to regain her place by taking an offensive attitude.

"No, Lenore. How dare you? Don't you love our grandchildren? Why do you persist in tormenting their lives and their father in such a manner? There's nothing in the world wrong with Cody Bonner. I daresay the reason you don't approve of him is that he won't let you control him. And that's what you hate most, isn't it?"

"I won't be talked to like this," Lenore said, and then looked around in dismay. She'd reduced herself to having a shouting match in clear sight of the people who worked for her. It wasn't to be borne.

She pushed past her husband, intent on taking their disagreement indoors. But he reached out and grabbed her arm, stopping her progress and spinning her around until they were nose to nose, their breath mixing more in that moment than their bodies had done in the past ten years.

"You not only will listen, you will obey me," he said.

Lenore gasped as his breath hissed across her cheeks. "I won't be ordered about like a mere hired hand, and you'd be well warned, Allen Whittier! And furthermore, I've done what I've done precisely because I love our grandchildren. I don't want them put in harm's way."

"You think you'll make them happy by scaring the hell out of them? Maybe you don't remember the looks on their faces during the last court trial, but I do. Cody Bonner is an honorable and upstanding man. He's a fine father."

"But that woman he's taken into his employ is not!" Her ire rose along with her voice. "She's not fit to be under the same roof with our grandsons, and I can prove it!"

"How? By some sleazeball private eye you picked from the Yellow Pages?"

She flushed again, and he realized that his barb had hit home. "You did, didn't you? Pick him from the Yellow Pages, I mean. My God! How stupid and naive can you get? And I'd like to know what's so wrong with Queen Houston. She seems like a fine woman to me, and she's very good to the boys. What else could you hope for?"

"She's trash… nothing more than poor white trash. I won't have my grandsons subjected to her kind."

"Since when does money have anything to do with morals? I seem to remember that your father had a disgusting overabundance of the former and absolutely none of the latter."

The sound of the slap ricocheted within the shocked silence that hung between them. Lenore looked down with surprise at the red imprint on the palm of her hand and the matching one across Allen's face.

He smiled. It was a slow, threatening sort of smile that made her take a step backward in reflex.

"Oh, don't worry," he said. "I won't lower myself to responding to that, Lenore. But what I am going to do is call Cody first thing tomorrow and apologize."

"You can't," she said. "I've already booked us a flight. I thought we'd go out and see firsthand if the boys are being properly cared for. I won't sleep a wink until I see for myself. Trust me, Allen. The report was appalling."

"No, Lenore. Your behavior is what's appalling. And rest assured we'll go. That will only give me opportunity to tell him face to face what I intended to say over the phone."

He turned and walked away, the imprint of her hand still burning across his cheek, and realized that he'd never felt better in his life.

Lenore gasped. This would never do. She hadn't planned for Allen to find out. And she certainly didn't want Cody to hear an apology before he heard what she had to say first.

Refusing to think about what the pool man was thinking, and hoping that the gardener had been too far away to hear, Lenore went into the house without looking back. It would be easier to face them next time if she didn't know for certain that they'd heard.

Besides, she had better things to do than worry about hired hands. She had bags to pack and a plane to catch… and a woman's life to ruin.