Shadowed Paradise (37 page)

“
This is outrageous . . .”

“
It’s okay, Claire,” Brad said, tucking
her against his side when she seemed ready to go toe-to-toe with
Guthrie. “You’re absolutely right. But so are they. If Bill
Jeffries wants to talk to me, that’s fine. I need some details on
this thing, and I might as well get them first hand. I owe Diane
that much. She may have been a pain in the ass, but she didn’t
deserve to die.”

Brad gave Claire a hug. “Go on now and finish
closing up. You’ll probably have to come and pick me up later.
Sorry about that.” He summoned a smile, placed a swift kiss on her
mouth, and was gone, the two detectives slouching unhappily in his
wake.

From the window Claire watched as Brad got
into the back seat of the unmarked car while the deputy stood by.
His hand, she noticed, was resting lightly on his holster.

Very slowly she slid the window shut and
snapped the latch in place.

“
You’re an asshole, Bill.” Brad leaned
back in his chair, eyeing Sheriff Jeffries with a mix of disgust
and boredom. “If I wanted Diane dead, I sure as hell could have
found a way that wouldn’t have landed me in your office the next
day.”

“
I doubt it,” the Sheriff countered.
“No matter how she died, you’re the one with the most motive.
Everyone knows she was driving you nuts . . . and then there was
that scene with your wife in Phil’s office. Really bad, I hear. I
bet you freaked big time.”

“
What scene?”

“
Whaddya mean, what scene?” Tom Rausch
burst out from his seat beside his partner in the sheriff’s
spacious office. “I swear the whole town’s heard how Diane came
into T & T and told your new girlfriend to go to hell. Phil had
to have her thrown out. Bodily.”

“
When was this?”

“
Your wife’s last day at T & T,”
the sheriff told him. “You trying to tell me you didn’t know about
it?”

“
Hell, no. No, I didn’t know about it,”
Brad clarified.

It was Guthrie’s turn. “Lake kept calling
you, sending you gifts. You told her to get off your back, sent the
gifts back? Right?”

“
True, but I didn’t kill
her.”

“
All right, let’s back up a bit,”
Jeffries interjected. “You admit Lake harassed you, but you claim
you didn’t know she attacked your new girlfriend?”

“
Right.”

“
Guess everyone was afraid to tell you.
Knew what a temper you have.” The sheriff leaned back in his chair,
eyes slitted, fingers tapping the shining surface of his
desk.

“
So I’ve got a temper.” Brad’s gaze was
clear and cold.

“
And Diane Lake wouldn’t be the first
person you’ve strangled.”

“
Fuck you, Jeffries!” Brad came out of
his chair so fast the detectives were left clutching air. He
towered over the sheriff, eyes blazing. “And I suppose you got to
be sheriff because you never shot somebody in the line of duty,” he
ground out, emphasizing each syllable. His muscles tensed as the
two detectives got a grip on him at last. The sneer on his face
said their hold would last just as long as he chose to let
it.

The sheriff waved his detectives off. They
stepped away but did not sit down. “I was elected,” rumbled Bill
Jeffries, who had not moved back so much as an inch. “I didn’t
shoot my way into the job.”

Brad leaned forward, palms flat on the
sheriff’s desk. “You know damn well I didn’t leave my bride on my
wedding night to go off and whack my ex-girlfriend. You’ve done
your duty, now let’s get on with it. Diane may have been a pain in
the ass, but I’m royally pissed that somebody’s killed her. Face
facts, Bill. The woman must have slept with half the county. You
ought to have a suspect list a mile long.”

“
You’re still at the top,” Jeffries
asserted. He shuffled some papers on his desk, waved Brad back into
his chair. “Temper runs in the family, I hear, although Garrett
hides it better than you do. Word is, he was pushing her pretty
hard too. Warning her off. A nice little wedding present,
maybe?”

Brad leaned back in his chair, keeping a firm
grip on his temper. “Stop sniffing up the family tree, Bill. None
of us is weak enough to have to kill Diane to get rid of her.”

As the truth of Brad’s words hung in the
silence, the intercom buzzer sounded. Jeffries picked up the phone,
frowned. “Okay, send them in.” His voice had an odd note as he
replaced the receiver. “It would seem the cavalry has arrived. We
are about to be treated to the big guns of the Whitlaw family. That
wedding of yours must have smoothed a lot of troubled waters.”

The door opened, and Garrett Whitlaw held it
back while his father strode into the room with all the momentum of
an avenging angel.

Brad wondered if the officers at the front
desk had had to take away his shotgun.

For several minutes after the patrol car
disappeared behind a stand of tall pines, Claire continued to stare
out the model’s window. It couldn’t be happening again. History
couldn’t repeat itself this cruelly.

No, this time things were different. Jim
Langdon had been guilty. Brad was not. He had been at Amber Run all
day until the wedding and by her side all night. Every minute. And
now, at past five in the afternoon, she had the bleary
sleep-deprived eyes to prove it.

How could she, even for a moment, wonder if
he’d killed Diane Lake? No matter what Brad thought of Diane, he
would never kill her. He could be dangerous, yes, but not out of
control. Well . . . not really. And he had an absolute alibi.
Herself.

Unless Diane died on Friday
night
.

The traditional bachelor party had been
raucous indeed, or so Claire had been told. The entire construction
crew plus a mix of Whitlaws, Tyrees, deputy sheriffs and detectives
had made for a volatile combination. Claire had not seen Brad at
all on Friday night.

He didn’t do it.

He’s a trained killer.

Of course he didn’t do it. Don’t be
absurd.

Claire reached for the phone. Phil Tierney
would have Garrett Whitlaw’s phone number.

Wade Whitlaw came through the door expressing
his opinion of any low-life sheriff who could even suggest his
grandson might be guilty of murder—even if the little piece of tail
probably asked for it. Calusa County’s largest landowner then
proceeded to take the battle to low-down and personal.

“
Gave your father his first job,” he
said to Bill Jeffries. “Snotty kid didn’t know how to find the hind
end of a cow when I put him to work at the tick dip. Wouldn’t have
amounted to shit if I hadn’t taken him out of that cracker shack
where his ma . . .well, never mind that,” Wade wisely amended. “You
just remember, boy, who put a word in the right ear when you wanted
to make detective, and who backed your campaigns, every last damn
one of ‘em. You just lift your eyes off my grandson here and set
your sights on someone else, ’cause there’s no way in hell a
Whitlaw would’ve done such a sloppy job of ridding the world of
that woman, even if she was no better than she should
be.”

“
Watch it, grampa,” Brad deadpanned,
“or you’ll be on the suspect list too.”

“
Hell, at my age I would’ve shot her
and been done with it. I’d be dead of old age before all the
appeals got done.”

“
Look, Bill,” Garrett Whitlaw
interjected with practiced smoothness, “you know you’re barking up
the wrong tree. How about we all go home and take a breather . .
.”

The distinctive ring of a cell phone broke
into Garrett’s diplomatic effort at conciliation. Startled, Brad
unhooked the phone from his belt and answered it. As he listened,
he rose slowly to his feet. “Make sure everything’s locked tight,”
he said into the phone. “Hang on. I’m on my way.”

He snapped off the phone, turned to the
sheriff. “You got a chopper? Claire’s still at the model, afraid to
leave. Says she’s being stalked.”

After speaking with Garrett Whitlaw, Claire
kept telling herself she’d done all she could for Brad at the
moment. Slim comfort. Automatically, she latched the last window,
finished turning out the interior lights, flicked on the outside
spotlights. Brad must be almost to Manatee Bay by now. That was
where the sheriff’s office was, wasn’t it? Twenty, twenty-five
miles. It might as well have been the moon.

Fearing her nerves might have short-circuited
her brain, Claire checked her wallet for the three-digit security
code for the alarm system. On her third day at Amber Run she had
punched in a wrong number when she entered the model in the
morning. The raucous sound of the klaxon had brought every workman
running, scattered the birds, and nearly given Claire a heart
attack. The deputy sheriff who shortly skidded to a halt in the
parking area below had not been sympathetic, warning that a second
false alarm would cost Brad a fifty dollar fine.

Heart in her mouth, Claire punched the three
numbers and scurried to the front door while the forty-five second
buzzer mocked her. She popped through the front door, shut it, and
paused for a sigh of relief. With the door shut, she now had all
the time in the world to turn the key.

The Toyota was stifling hot, even though
she’d parked it in the shade of the live oak that towered above the
model. She turned the ignition, slid the fan to high. The initial
blast of hot air was swiftly followed by waves of soothing
coolness. Taking deep breaths, Claire closed her eyes, willing
herself to be calm—cool as the air blowing onto her face.

They would let Brad go. They had no reason to
hold him. He’d be calling, asking her to pick him up. Being held
for questioning wasn’t all that bad. She ought to know.

Claire choked back a sob. Oh, dear lord, yes
. . . she knew all about being questioned.

Her eyes flew open. A shadow, a darkness had
just passed between her eyelids and the light. Not the flicker of a
swaying branch but something large and solid.

Yet there was nothing there. Only the giant
oak, several tall pines, two newly planted palms and a leafy border
of oleander. Nerves. Imagination. A cloud passing across the sun,
that’s all. She shifted into reverse, started the half turn that
would take her out of the parking lot. The engine died.

She turned the key, the battery whirred, a
cough and a sputter the only results. Gradually, Claire’s eyes
focused on the fuel gauge that hovered at rock bottom, somewhere
below E. Not possible. She hadn’t driven twenty miles since she’d
filled the tank on Friday.

Okay . . . she could be
mistaken
. Friday was the day before the wedding. Maybe
she only
thought
she filled
the tank. And there was no shiny blue pickup, even if she knew how
to drive it. She and Brad had driven out together in the Toyota.
She was alone. There wasn’t a human being, let alone a gas station
for miles.

Which was why Brad had gotten her a cell
phone.

Claire rummaged frantically through her large
leather carryall. The cell phone had to be there. As she checked
every compartment, the pile on the passenger seat grew—wallet,
checkbook, tissues, calculator, pens, pencils, keys to the model,
keys to the house, more tissues, three lipsticks, compact, comb,
shopping lists, receipts. But no phone.

It was, of course, sitting on her desk where,
nerves ajar, she had left it when she made her determined sprint to
outrun the security system buzzer.

Oh, God . . .

Wearily, appalled by her stupidity, Claire
picked up the keys to the model. She’d have to outrun the damn
alarm again. And call a garage. In Golden Beach at six o’clock on a
Sunday night? Claire groaned.

Shadows were lengthening, reaching out to
touch the car, the parking area, the broad expanse of steps, the
model itself. The distance between the Toyota and the model’s front
door seemed to have doubled. The stairs loomed like some endless
gateway to a House of Escher.

Claire was so tense the keys were biting into
her hand. She opened the car door, determined she was going to
walk, not run. There was no one out there. Nothing to fear.

Thirty seconds later, panting heavily,
she slammed the front door of the model behind her, turned the
deadbolt and sprinted for the security alarm buttons. She punched
in the code. The buzzer came to an abrupt halt. Claire flopped into
her chair, rested her elbows on her desk and buried her face in her
hands. She was definitely certifiable, her imagination running
amok. She’d just sit here until she caught her breath. Until she
decided if she should call a taxi or wait to hear from Brad. She
couldn’t ask Ginny to rescue her. No sense in worrying either her
or Jamie. And they certainly weren’t expecting to hear from
her
. This was her honeymoon, for
heaven’s sake!

Claire gasped as movement caught her
eye. A shadow moved out from the depths beneath the courtyard deck.
Nightmare time, yet there was no mistaking its human shape. Two
legs, two arms, a grostesquerie for a head.
Impossible!
Her imagination had gone into
meltdown. Brad had not been taken away for questioning about Diane
Lake’s murder. The Toyota had not died. She was not locked inside
this house of glass with a monster stalking her outside.

The shadow wasn’t moving now, but simply
standing there, the odd excuse for a head tilted back. Looking up .
. . straight at her.

Oh God, dear God . . .

It was a stocking mask. Nothing but a
stocking mask. Hiding a serial killer? The nut case from the mall?
Were they one and the same? Whatever it was, she knew the shadowed
figure was dangerous. Evil.