Sighs Matter (18 page)

Watching his eyes, she pushed the covers away and rose to her knees, reaching for the hem of her nightgown. Slowly, she inched it up her body, and off. In the moonlight, she saw his mouth twitch, among other things.

“You’re right,” she murmured. “We don’t have to do anything. But I think—”

He had her in his arms, his mouth on hers, before she could finish the sentence. She eased onto the mattress as he settled between her thighs. He ran his hands over her breasts, and she kicked the covers down and off the bed, leaving only their limbs to tangle.

Taylor’s kisses were deep and hot, just as she remembered. His tongue slid against her own, his hands moved around to grasp her bare bottom, pulling her against his erection.

By the time the first kiss was over, she was panting. So was he.

He trailed his wet tongue across her nipple, and his name formed on her lips. His rough hand slipped between her legs to rub and tease her, and even the most remote thoughts in her brain evaporated into a veil of pleasure.

Nuzzling her neck, he cupped her breasts, then lowered his head for another taste. He licked and suckled, teasing her nipples into taut peaks.

Claire felt like she was floating on a cloud of sensation. She nearly gasped at his every touch; her skin warmed in the wake of his gliding fingers.

Nudging her thighs farther apart, he moved so the tip of his erection pressed against her, taunting her, setting whorls of desire up through every part of her body.

Beneath her palms, his skin was damp and his whole body seemed to tremble. Sensing his deep need for release, not to mention her own, against his open mouth, she whispered, “Don’t wait on my account.”

Waving his arm over the edge of the bed, he shoved his hand into his jeans pocket, and pulled out the packet. Tearing it open, he sheathed himself, and with one smooth thrust, he was inside her, leaving her sighing with pleasure.

“Claire . . .” he murmured against her neck, softly repeating her name as he thrust into her until his breath was spent, and all she could hear was the rhythmic rasp of his shallow breathing.

He kept his movements slow, torturous, making her silently beg for him to get on with it. But he held back, knowing just where to touch her, how hard, how soft, when to kiss her, when to pull back, bringing her to a near frenzy of need. Curling her legs around his, she brought him closer, tighter until . . .

When her orgasm hit, she writhed and bucked under him, sighing his name, feeling the release in every muscle, every bone. Her head fell back and she let herself go, let herself feel, let herself fall.

Two more thrusts, and another, and Taylor came, rocking the bed as his orgasm overtook him.

They lay there together, arms and legs entangled, pounding heart to pounding heart, and smiled into each other’s eyes. Leaning forward, he kissed her on the mouth, and his eyes went serious. “Thank you.”

She wanted to say it, too, but her throat tightened, closing around the words until they died away. What in the hell was the matter with her? She wasn’t going to cry, was she?

Taylor wound his arms around her, rolling until she was on top of him. Against her breastbone, she could feel the rapid beating of his heart.

“Hey, you’re heavy,” he chuckled, tucking a stray lock of her hair behind her ear.

“Am not,” she said, sliding off him to cuddle against his side. She raised her hand and ran a fingertip along his bottom lip. “You kiss good. And everything.”

He quirked a grin. “Yeah?”

“You must have practiced on thousands of women to perfect your technique.”

Averting his eyes, he grumbled, “Not so many as you might think.”

Right. With looks like his, he’d probably had too many girlfriends to count. He’d played sports in high school and college. No doubt, he’d had cheerleaders and pom-pom girls and every female in student government hot for him.

Claire looked more closely. Was he blushing? He
was
. She felt her heart give a little tug.

“Okay, like what, a thousand?” she chided.

He grunted.

“More?”

He scowled.

“Okay, less than a thousand,” she purred. “Five hundred?”

“Five hundred?” He snorted. “I needed to eat and sleep, too, you know.”

“Well, then, two hundred?”

He shook his head, avoiding her eyes.

“One hundred?”

Nothing.

“Fifty?”

He closed his eyes and turned his head away.

Her own smile faded as she looked long and hard at him. She tried to remember things he’d said about his ex-wife, things Betsy and Soldier had mentioned about her, but nothing was making sense.

“Twenty?” she said on a half laugh.

He slipped his arms from around her and sat up. Raising his knees, he crossed his arms over them and leaned forward, resting his chin in his forearm. “Keep going,” he said quietly.

Claire rose slowly, yanking the quilt from the floor and covering herself with it.

“Fewer than twenty?” she smiled. “Wow, you must be very select—”

The truth smacked her in the face, halting her words, her thoughts. Her mind tried to wrap itself around reality, but it was a tight and uncomfortable fit.

Watching him carefully, she whispered, “One.”

He shrugged. With a dry laugh, he said, “In the last year, I’ve doubled the score. How many men can say that?”

Claire’s heart crimped into a tiny ball, and her mind raced. But before she could apologize for intruding so thoughtlessly into his personal life, he spoke.

“I met Paula when we were both fifteen. She was my first. We got married right out of high school.” His low voice held no inflection whatsoever. “I was faithful. She wasn’t. When I met you, the ink wasn’t even dry on the divorce papers yet.”

Claire swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth. “And the night of your brother’s wedding,” she whispered, her voice choked with tears. “That was . . . I was only the second . . .”

Reaching for him, she put her fingertips on his bare shoulder, then scooted nearer until her body curved around his back.

The stubble on his jaw made a rasping sound as he scratched it with his thumb. “Paula slept around. She told me it was because I wasn’t . . . enough . . . to satisfy her. After she and I separated, my brother told me I should cut loose, have a few flings, get her out of my system. But then I met you.”

On his shoulder, her hand began to tremble. “Taylor. Since we . . . have you . . . have there been . . .”

He turned his head and looked straight at her. “No.”

Tears slicked her face now, and she wiped them away.

“Me, too,” she said, unable to keep the tears from her voice. “Since the wedding, there hasn’t been anyone. Whenever I got close, I somehow couldn’t . . . you were . . . I—I couldn’t forget . . .”

She stared at her fingers, gone all blurry though her tears. “I’m so
sorry
. . . that morning, for leaving you like that. What you must have thought . . . oh, God. I’m so sorry . . .”

He turned and pulled her to him. She wrapped her arms around his neck as tightly as she could, burying her face against his chest, and let out a long sob.

“Oh, Taylor,” she cried softly, her tears salty on her lips. “That night . . . I . . . my dearest friend married your brother. The look in their eyes as they spoke their vows. I’ve never seen two people more in love. I wanted that, wanted a piece of that somehow.”

Taylor nodded and placed a soft kiss in her hair, but said nothing.

“The music,” she went on. “The sweet romance of it all. The champagne toasts and happiness that permeated the place. Then I was in your arms and we were dancing and I felt like I’d found heaven on earth. I wanted to be with you in every possible way. I wanted to make love with you so I could take and keep a part of you, of that night with me forever.”

Still, Taylor said nothing.

Dabbing her eyes with the quilt, she said, “I know it was probably silly and foolish and all one big deceitful fantasy, but it’s what I wanted. And I was rewarded. That night with you was more than I could have ever hoped for. You were everything I’d ever dreamed of.” She closed her eyes, afraid to look at him. “Then the night was over and reality set in and the music stopped playing and the romance had turned to truth and the truth was, I had to leave. Leave it all behind. Leave you behind. I didn’t want to. But I didn’t know how to tell you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything.”

“Hey,” he soothed. “I understand now. It’s okay.”

She pulled away and looked into his eyes. “No, it’s not. I was afraid of you, and I ran. You were, you
are
an awesome lover. What you do to me. How you make me feel. And to think you thought that I thought . . .”

“Think nothing of it.” He chuckled. “I must have inherited the monogamous gene from one of my parents. I just haven’t ever wanted flings. If I hadn’t met you when I did, I probably would have caved. In fact, I probably would have caved as often as I could. A man has needs, after all.” He slid her a sly grin.

As she placed a kiss on the corner of his mouth, his cell phone bleeped to life, and he cursed.

“Sorry,” he said to her, reaching for his pants. “McKennitt.” His spine straightened and his eyes narrowed as he listened intently to whatever the caller had to say. “I can be there in fifteen.”

“What?” she asked as he ended the call.

Placing a soft kiss on her mouth, he said. “Gotta go to work. Get dressed. You’re coming with me.”

Coroner
Jogging partner.

Taylor pulled his truck to a halt amid a PHPD patrol car, an aid unit, and the coroner’s van. On the opposite side of the narrow street, a small crowd of curious neighbors huddled and whispered like children in a library.

Yellow tape surrounded the perimeter of the property, identifying the house as the place where death lived. He knew that, even after the tape was removed, the survivors and neighbors would never view the home in the same way again.

Switching off the ignition, he turned to Claire, “Stay in the truck unless I send for you. Winslow said the husband’s pretty shaken up. I might need you to take a look at him.”

Claire nodded.

Leaning forward, he kissed her. “This may take a while.”

“Go do what you have to do,” she said softly. “I’ll be fine.”

Taylor met Officer Sam Winslow at the open front door of the post–World War II clapboard house. Marigolds had been planted around the perimeter, their yellow faces shiny and bright against the backdrop of death.

“What have we got?” As he spoke, he reached into his jacket pocket for his notepad.

Winslow frowned. “Vic’s name is Mindy Ketterer. The husband, one Joseph Ketterer, found her about two hours ago. Caucasian female, age forty-two. Appears to have slipped in the tub, hit her head on the tile. Water was still running when the husband got home. Bathroom floor’s flooded, living room carpet’s soaked. Nobody else was home at the time. Very little blood.”

Mindy Ketterer. Taylor knew the name, knew the woman was an employee of the mortuary, and was Mortie’s personal secretary. Alarm bells went off inside his head and the back of his neck felt itchy.

Their whistle-blower had been an anonymous female, and now Mortimer’s secretary had had a fatal accident.

More bells, a few whistles, and a quiet
oh, shit
sounded inside his head.

Taylor lifted his eyes to meet Winslow’s. “She slipped? I’m homicide. Why’d you call me in?”

Winslow’s mouth quirked into an edgy smile and one eye narrowed. “Yeah, well,” he said with a shrug. “Seemed like a straightforward accident at first, but I don’t know. I’ve just got a feeling about this one. Wanted a pro to take a look at the scene before we wrap things up.”

“Where’s the husband?”

“The kitchen’s already been photographed and dusted, so we put him in there for now. He’s in pretty bad shape.”

“What’s your gut tell you. Did he do it?”

Winslow rubbed his nose. “My gut tells me no, but that could be just because I missed dinner.”

Taylor made some notes. “The coroner have any ideas on time of death?”

With a nod, Winslow said, “Maybe four hours. She got another call, but said to tell you the body lying in the water made pinpointing time of death a little iffier. Said you’ll get her report tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Sam,” Taylor said before making his way down the hall. Two aides worked just outside the bathroom door, carefully strapping Mindy Ketterer’s mortal remains to the stretcher.

Taylor nodded to them, then unzipped the body bag. Closing it again, he turned and peered into the small bathroom where a woman’s life had come to an abrupt end.

Commode with a frou-frou pink cover on it, tub with shower, small window, open. Overhead light on. White tile floor saturated with water. Blue fingerprint powder smeared the tub and cabinets like bruises on pale flesh.

A pink floral shower curtain had been ripped from its rings as though somebody had made a grab for it. It lay like a vinyl shroud across the wet tile floor. A smear of blood on the porcelain sink indicated where Mrs. Ketterer might have hit her head. Another smear stained the oval rug in front of the commode where her body had come to rest.

Taylor viewed the scene with detachment. Not a lot of blood. Death must have been almost immediate.

He spent the next fifteen minutes looking around. Things seemed to be consistent with an accidental death, but damn if something just wasn’t right. Maybe talking to the husband would help.

As he passed Winslow on the way back, he said, “Dr. Hunter is out in my truck, Sam. Would you escort her to the kitchen in a few minutes? Just make sure she doesn’t touch anything.”

Taylor found Joe Ketterer sitting slouched at the kitchen table holding a half-empty glass of water.

“Mr. Ketterer?”

The deceased’s husband appeared to be a man of middle years, balding, whose beverage of choice was most likely beer, judging from the roundness of his belly. He wore a blue-and-black plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, over a white undershirt. At the mention of his name, he raised his head but only stared vacantly into Taylor’s eyes.

“Mr. Ketterer,” Taylor repeated in a low voice. “I’m Detective McKennitt. Can we talk for a couple of minutes?”

Joe nodded. His tired eyes seemed to beg Taylor to be brief, beg for this all to end, for it all to be a huge mistake.

Taking the chair across the square oak table from the man, he said, “Things been okay between you and Mindy lately, Joe?”

Joe took a drink of water from the glass. “Okay?” he asked slowly, as though he were trying to recall what the term meant. “Sure.”

“Did she seem nervous or upset about anything?”

“Not really.”

“Can you think of anyone who’d want to hurt her?”

Joe’s head reared up. “Hurt Min? No way. She is . . . she w-was a sweet woman. You ever know a sweet woman, Detective?”

Taylor nodded.

Joe took another drink, then set the glass down as though it were made of crystal so delicate, it might shatter if he wasn’t careful. Running his finger around the rim, he said, “She did seem a little preoccupied lately, but she didn’t say nothing. I just figured maybe it was her job, or, well, the other thing. She always gets kind of skittish just before she gets her . . . uh, her period, see. When we was first married, I didn’t understand how all that stuff worked. But Mindy and me, we been married a long time now. Long time.”

He looked away from Taylor to stare into the glass. “You get used to a woman’s ups and downs, and it’s okay, see, ’cause you know she’s getting used to all your crap, too. You learn to cut each other a little slack. You know how it is.”

“Yeah,” Taylor said quietly. “I know how it is.”

Joe picked up the glass, then set it down again, keeping his thick fingers wrapped around it. Without warning, a sob escaped his throat and he blinked hard several times. Looking into Taylor’s eyes, he said, “Mindy, she’s a fine wife. Caring. Real smart. We got a couple of kids. This is gonna hit ’em hard. Man, yeah. This, this is gonna . . . Min and me, we been together a long time. I tell you that already?”

“Yes, sir.”

Joe nodded, then swiped his knuckles along his jaw. “Women like Mindy, they don’t just die like this, do they, Detective? I mean, I kiss her good-bye this morning, and she makes some smart-ass remark about how I left my socks and underwear on the bedroom floor and didn’t I know where the laundry basket was after all these years, and I go off to work thinking, yeah, yeah, I’ll pick ’em up when I get home, if it’ll make her happy.”

Another sob worked its way to the surface and he pinched his eyes closed. “Min and me, we been together a long time. Once I seen her, you know, back in the day, she was the only one, you know? You married, Detective?”

“I was.”

Joe seemed to not hear him. Nodding absently, he said, “I go out for a beer after work with some of the guys, and I get home, and there’s water on everything, and I’m mad because I think the main’s broke or something, and this is gonna cost me a shitload. Min’s car is in the driveway, so I’m calling for her, pissed as hell. Then I go into the bathroom . . .”

He looked up at Taylor, his brown eyes rimmed with red, his mouth an open wound on his face. “I don’t want to remember her like that. You know? I don’t want to remember her like
that
!” His bottom lip quivered as another deep sob escaped.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Ketterer,” Taylor said. “I have to ask you . . . had Mindy said anything about her employer, John Mortimer? Was she having any kind of trouble with him? Did she ever complain about him?”

“N-no,” Joe said. “I didn’t like the guy, and I thought Min working for an undertaker was kind of creepy, but it’s a living, ya know? She liked him well enough, I guess.”

“In the last month or so, did she say anything to you, anything at all about things Mortimer might be doing that could be considered improper? Did she ever mention contacting the police?”

Joe lifted his head, confusion plain to see in his weary eyes. “Like I said, she was nervous, a little more stressed out than usual, but if she thought Mortimer was doing somethin’ under the table, she didn’t say nothin’ to me about it. What’s that got to do with Min falling in the tub and getting herself dead?”

* * *

From the kitchen doorway, Claire silently watched Taylor talk to the victim’s grieving husband, the irony of her position not lost on her.

She stood in the threshold, a nonplace. A few inches of space through which people passed, but seldom lingered, like the stillness between breaths, the silence between heartbeats. Never a destination, simply the passage to whatever waited on the other side.

Or the point of retreat.

She paused there, neither in nor out, emotionally teetering in that safe space between her two worlds. Behind her lay a carefully planned, thoughtfully arranged life. Ahead of her, a man, and everything loving him could bring. Maybe great sorrow . . . maybe great joy.

She could take a step toward that man, toward all he offered with his blue eyes and wry grin, his humor, boyish charm—and the crushing pain she’d feel if she lost him. The choice was hers whether to cross that threshold, go with him, see for herself what could be.

Or she could step back.

She closed her eyes and saw her brother in his wheelchair, her father’s headstone, her mother’s grief-stricken face. Barriers all, to Claire’s happiness.

God, how selfish was that? And disloyal. And disrespectful. If her mother were here, would she encourage Claire to follow her heart, or would she admonish her daughter for being so foolish as to fall in love with a cop?

Yet, even with the barriers between them, Taylor was the one Claire’s mind turned to when she thought of a man capable of filling to the brim the remaining days and years of her life. It was his face she saw when she let herself drift into thoughts of partnership and family and fulfillment.

God knew she’d tried to suppress those thoughts, even as months rolled by without any contact with him. Yet, all it had taken was for him to walk into the room, call her name, and she was hooked all over again.

Claire watched as Taylor spoke in low tones to poor Joe Ketterer, so unexpectedly bereft of his wife, his own life’s partner. And in watching Taylor struggle to help this poor man find some measure of comfort, she realized that, for the last twenty years, she’d been a complete coward. She’d feared a moment like this so much, she’d closed her eyes to any chance of real happiness. How did that old saying go? A coward dies a thousand times, a brave man only once?

She’d already died a thousand times—whenever she thought of her parents, whenever she dwelt on Zach, whenever she read in the newspapers of a police officer’s death. They were invariably young, leaving a wife and small children. And she died another death because she knew exactly how much it hurt.

Taylor.
I’m sorry for your loss
, she heard him say, and the pain in his voice and the shadows in his eyes grabbed her heart in a fierce and powerful grip. And she let it.

Yes, she’d
been
a coward; maybe now it was time to be brave.

She must have made some kind of sound, for Taylor turned his head and looked straight at her. Their eyes met and held. Taking a breath, she waited a heartbeat and stepped through the threshold, into a brand new world.

“Officer Winslow said you wanted to see me.”

Taylor nodded. “Joe,” he said. “This is Dr. Hunter. I thought maybe she could prescribe something for you to help you get some rest tonight.”

Joe lifted his gaze and stared at her.

“Would you like me to do that, Joe?” she said.

His nod was slow. Another hard sob escaped his throat and he looked at Taylor, then back at Claire. Convulsions overtook him as tears washed his face. He brought up a trembling hand to wipe them away.

“That might be good,” he choked. “Min and me, we was together a long time. I tell you that already?”

Sadie put Hitch back in his cage and secured the door.

“. . . Attica! . . . Attica! . . .”

“Shut up, Hitch,” she admonished. “You be a good boy now. You have plenty of food and water, and fresh air wafting in through the window.”

“. . . show me the money! . . .”

“I have some errands to run,” she said, slipping her purse through the crook of her arm. “Claire will be home as soon as she and her handsome young detective are through on that case I told you about last night.”