Sighs Matter (2 page)

“Been too busy.”

Betsy looked like she wanted to expand on the topic, but wisely kept chewing. Swallowing, she eyed the candy dish again and plucked another victim from the bowl. “Okay. Different subject. How’s Aunt Sadie?”

Claire leaned back against the cushy softness of the couch. “I haven’t seen much of her since she got engaged to old Mortie.”

Betsy blinked. “Aunt Sadie’s getting married? At her age? What is she now, a hundred?”

“Very funny. I swear, though, she acts like a teenager sometimes.” Claire shook her head. “I hope I have that kind of . . .
enthusiasm
for the opposite sex when I’m sixty-five.”

Claire thought for a moment about her aunt, a woman who had shelved a fabulous career to be both mom and dad to her and her twin brother, Zach, when their parents had died within a year of each other.

“So who’s her boyfriend?” Betsy asked. “Did he used to be in showbiz, too?” She put the bowl down. “I need water. All this chocolate’s making me thirsty.”

“I’ll get you some. Stay put.”

When Claire returned from the kitchen, glass of water in hand, she said, “Mortie isn’t an actor. He runs a thriving business.” Handing the glass to Betsy, she said slowly, “Maybe
thriving
isn’t the right word.”

“Aunt Sadie’s engaged to a ne’er-do-well?” Betsy said. “How long—”

“No,” Claire interrupted. “No, he’s enormously successful. What I meant was, he’s uh, well, he’s a . . . now, don’t laugh. He’s a funeral director. Mortimer’s Mortuary. You know, down on Taft.”

Betsy’s blond brows shot up to her hairline. Then, quirking her lips, she said, “
That
Mortimer? Aunt Sadie’s engaged to a
mortician
?” She snorted a laugh, then covered her mouth. Solemnly, she mumbled, “I hear that’s a serious undertaking.”

“I should
never
had told you.”

“Mortimer’s is very popular. People are just dying to get in.”

Claire flattened her mouth. “You can stop now.”

“Marrying into the family, he’ll get free medical care, right? So he can come to you if he starts . . . coffin.”

“Not another word, I swear—”

“Competition’s pretty stiff, I bet.” She grinned broadly. “Speaking of sex.”

Claire laughed. “We were not speaking of sex!”

“Well if we weren’t, we should have been. So.” She slid a calculated look at Claire. “Heard anything from Taylor?”

Claire stopped laughing and clamped her mouth shut.

Undeterred, Betsy said dryly, “You remember my husband’s brother, don’t you? Tall guy, athletic, dark hair, blue eyes, hunky, sexy, available, and interested in
you
?”

“Vaguely,” Claire murmured.

“Claire . . .”

“Betsy . . .” Claire scowled. “I knew it was only a matter of time before you got around to Taylor. Yes, he is attractive, and as hunky as they come.”

“Any sentence that contains the words
hunky
and
come
has my approval.”

“For a woman in such an advanced state of pregnancy, you sure have a one-track mind.”

“Honey, have you seen my husband?” She fanned her face with one hand. “
Hello
. If you had a husband like Soldier, you’d have a one-track mind, too.” Slapping her own cheek, she widened her eyes as though something had just occurred to her.

“Oh, wait. You could have a husband like mine if you got involved with his brother.” She slapped her cheek again. “Oh, wait. You did get involved with his brother, but you chickened out.”

“You can stop slapping yourself now. Your eyes are starting to cross.” Resting her head against the back of the sofa, she groused, “I’m not blind, for God’s sake. Taylor is handsome, not to mention—”

“—Smart, funny, compassionate, responsible, sweet,” Betsy finished for her. “Yeah. I can see why you can’t stand him. When was the last time you had sex?”

“Like I said, I’ve been very busy.”

“There is no
too busy for sex
, my dear,” Betsy corrected. “What you haven’t done is make time for finding a
partner
. I know for a fact that men come on to you constantly. You’ve
got
to be horny as hell.” Taking a breath, she said softly, “What’s wrong?”

When Claire didn’t respond, Betsy shook her head and sent her a look of sympathy. “You know, both Soldier and I thought you and Taylor really had something good going. You two are perfect for each other. Listen, I care about you. I want you to be happy. You really think it’s over between you and Taylor?” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “Avoiding him is not the same thing as being over him, Claire. I think you still have feelings for him. I can see it in your eyes when you talk about him. I think he still has the hots for you, too, and—”

“Great,” Claire laughed. “He can look me up on hot-docs-dot-com.”

Betsy arched a brow. “You know, I’ll bet they have one for detectives . . .”

Claire grinned. “Hot-dicks-dot-com?”

“Sounds like a porn site.”

“I’m leaving now.” Claire laughed. Grabbing her purse, she pulled out her car keys. “Look, I’m ready to get married, and as soon as some nice guy comes along, I’ll walk down the aisle, and then make a baby or two. But it won’t be with Taylor.”

“And nothing could ever happen to change your mind.”

Claire flattened her mouth. “Nothing.”

Behind the wheel of Aunt Sadie’s ancient pickup—the windows down to let in a cooling breeze—Claire tried to relax, but her conversation with Betsy had stirred up all kinds of memories, emotions, and worst of all, desires—for Taylor.

Letting a sigh past her lips, she thought of what Betsy had said, how certain Betsy was that Taylor was a match for her in every way. But sometimes people who seemed meant-to-be had insurmountable barriers between them others simply couldn’t comprehend.

The truth was, Detective Taylor Sean McKennitt might not be right for her, but he was impossible to forget.

She glanced at her watch. A little after ten. Stopping for dinner and gas had put her a bit behind schedule, but there really was no rush. This late on a Friday evening, Seattle traffic should be doable. With any luck, she’d be home by eleven.

As she turned another corner, she bit her bottom lip, remembering, and cursing Taylor’s rotten hide for being so damn unforgettable.

Another bend in the road. She downshifted to ease the truck around it, and realized what she’d done.

Damn his hide again. She’d been so preoccupied with her thoughts, she’d missed the on ramp to I–5. Now she was stuck on a service road until it met up with the highway.

A big truck or SUV or something had come up behind her, and she reached to adjust the rearview mirror. Shifting gears, she slowed to make another of the many hairpin turns along the narrow country road.

On the straightaway, she noticed the guy had moved closer. What was he trying to do, pressure her to increase her speed? These hills were too winding for her to risk going any faster. A missed turn could send her into a gully, or right off a cliff.

She kept her speed even, but the guy behind her inched up.

“Back off, will you,” she growled under her breath, trying to get a look at the driver in her mirror, but it was impossible to see anything beyond the glare of his headlights.

She blew out a breath. Probably some teenager in a mad rush to get somewhere. Downshifting, she gripped the wheel and concentrated.

Another glance told her he’d crept closer still. His high beams filled the cab, too bright, hurting her eyes.

“What a total
jerk
.”

Her jaw snapped shut as he lurched forward, tapping her bumper.

What in the hell was he
doing
?

She looked for a place to pull off and let him go by, but the road had been virtually chiseled out of the mountainside and turnouts were few.

He tapped her bumper again. Her heart pounding, she lowered her head and kept her eyes on the road. She would not let this creep make her speed, but maybe a little space between them would be a really good idea. She pressed on the accelerator.

But he rammed her once more, shoving her ahead of him as he laid on the horn. The blare was shocking, invasive, filling her head with noise until she found it hard to think. She wanted to cover her ears, roll up the windows, but she didn’t dare let go of the wheel for fear of what he might do next.

Shifting into second, she tried to slow down, but he was right on her bumper, pushing her around the next bend too fast—way too fast.

Hysteria thickened her mind, but she fought it, fought for control, fought to comprehend what was happening.

He slammed into her harder. He was deliberately trying to run her off the road, and if she didn’t do something . . .

She threw it into first and stomped on the brake. Tires squealed as the smell of burning rubber filled her nose. The rear end of the old pickup skittered to the side, but did not slow. The momentum and force of the vehicle behind her continued propelling her down the hill.

The blast of his horn made her head ache. Her knuckles hurt from gripping the wheel. The core of her body was one tight coil.

Her headlights reached out as if to showcase the disaster that lay ahead. And there it was—the turn too sharp to make.

Claire felt the tires lose their hold on the road as the truck rocketed across the oncoming lane. She clung to the wheel and cranked it as hard as she could to keep from plunging over the edge of the road into the black ravine below.

Reaching down, she yanked the handle of the emergency brake. Her tires screamed. Gravel and dirt sputtered and spewed as the truck skidded in a wild semicircle. Her body bending over the wheel, she held on, leaning into the skid, holding her breath.

Her ears rang and her hands shook as the truck jolted to a stop so violently, her head banged hard against the door frame. For a moment, tiny stars burst behind her lids as darkness threatened to envelop her.

The blast of his horn continued, scrambling her brain, making her skin crawl. Then he slammed her again, and she screamed.

The front of the truck slid forward, dipped toward the ravine below, and stopped. Her body strained against the seat belt as she was thrown forward.

The vague sound of tires squealing told her he was backing away. She shifted her body, trying to get a glimpse of him, but he’d doused his lights. All she could see was a square shadow moving slowly away, into the night like an alien creature returning to the void of deepest space. Then the flash of bloodred taillights as he hit the brake before disappearing around the corner.

For a moment, she simply sat there panting, the sound of her own breath like a raspy saw. She sobbed without shedding a tear, and tried to slow her breathing, her thundering heart, her terror.

A wave of dizziness spun her brain in circles and she thought she might be sick. Then she remembered hitting her head. The pain was starting; the dizziness increased.

Keep it together. Don’t pass out. Don’t . . . Don’t . . .

Grasping the steering wheel with trembling fingers, Claire let her damp forehead rest against the backs of her hands as her eyes closed.

In the shadow place of her mind, far, far away, a car door slammed.

Burglary
Fast-food eating establishment.

As Claire roused herself to consciousness, she heard heavy footsteps crunch over gravel, grow louder, come nearer. She pushed away from the steering wheel and turned her head into a beam of light shining directly into her eyes.

Raising her palm, she squinted past it, trying to see.

“Ma’am?” came a deep voice from behind the brilliant aura. “You all right in there?”

He ran the light around the interior of her truck, giving her a respite from the glare. She lowered her hand, and blinked. Impressions filtered into her brain. Tall man. Young. Uniform. Handsome. . . .

“Z-Zach?” Joy lightened her heart for a moment. Then just as quickly, turned to sorrow. It couldn’t be Zach. The realization made her want to cry.

“No, ma’am. Was Zach with you?”

“No.” Her voice was a mere whisper. “S-sorry, Officer. Zach is my brother. You remind me of him.”

The light flicked into the bed of the truck.

“You doing okay? Had anything to drink tonight, ma’am?”

God, her head hurt. It was hard to think, to remember.

“I was run off the road,” she explained. “Somebody in a huge SUV or something purposely shoved me off the road.”

“You get a license number?”

“No.”

“Make or model? Color?”

She shook her head, which hurt like hell to do.

“After he hit me,” she said, “I think he turned off his lights. All I could see were his taillights as he drove away. I’m pretty sure it was an SUV, though. One of the gigantic ones. The taillights were big and square.”

“You sure you’re all right? You look a little woozy.”

“I hit my head. Passed out for . . . What time is it?”

He checked his wristwatch. “Ten forty-five.”

Forcing herself to remember what time it had been when she’d lowered her head to the steering wheel, she had a vague recollection of the clock on the dashboard. There had been a ten, but whether it was followed by a twenty-something or a thirty-something, she couldn’t say.

“Maybe I should call an aid unit,” the officer said.

Her head wasn’t bleeding, the nausea had mostly dissipated, her vision was clear and not blurry, and she could recall most of the events leading up to the accident. If she had a concussion, it was probably not severe.

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “I’m a doctor. Just bumped my head, that’s all. I’m okay.”

“You rest a minute then,” he said, running the beam of his light over the ground around the truck. Moving behind, he must have crouched to examine the rear of the truck, she thought. He stood and finished circling around, ending up back where he started, standing next to her.

“There are some dents in your bumper, but it’s hard to tell if they’re fresh.” A moment of silence passed. “I’ll need to see your license, vehicle registration, and proof of insurance, please.”

Nodding absently, she eased herself around to reach for her purse on the seat beside her. When her fingers met only age-softened upholstery, she slid her hand down and searched the floor in front of the seat. There was something there, but it didn’t feel like her purse.

She let her fingers curl around it, cold and smooth and unfamiliar. Bewildered, she lifted it and could only stare. Her jaw dropped.

When the officer eyed the half-empty bottle of whiskey gripped tightly in her fist, his demeanor changed from detached civility to accusation.

“Now, Doc. You told me you hadn’t been drinking.”

“I . . . This . . . I’m . . .”

“You want to step out of the vehicle for me, please.”

“This . . . This isn’t mine,” she stumbled. “I swear . . .” Her voice trailed off as she realized her doors were open, both of them.

“Officer, did you open my doors?”

“No ma’am,” he replied. “They were open when I pulled up. I’d like you to step out of the vehicle, please, and show me some ID.”

“Listen,” she said in a firm voice. “I know this looks bad, but I don’t have my purse. It
was
on the seat, and now it’s gone.”

“Mm-hmm. Okay. Would you kindly step out of the vehicle?” He was still smiling, but his eyes narrowed and his stance shifted. He took a step back to give her room.

As she went to unclasp her seat belt, she realized it had already been undone. She always wore her seat belt fastened. Always. No exceptions, and she never forgot.

What in the hell was going on?

She looked up at the police officer again and took a deep breath. In as steady a voice as she could find, she said, “I’m Dr. Hunter, Claire Hunter. I live in Port Henry and was on my way to Seattle. My seat belt was fastened, I had identification, and this bottle is
not
mine.”

Leaning to the right, she reached in to the open the glove compartment and felt around inside it. When her fingers met only empty space, she turned again to the officer.

“Um . . .”

“Let me guess,” he said without intonation. “You’ve misplaced the vehicle registration and insurance card, too.”

“This is my aunt’s truck,” she explained, “but I’m sure she kept the papers in the glove compartment. I was obviously robbed while I was unconscious.”

That gave her the major creeps. While she’d been blacked out, activity had gone on around her. Somebody had been near her, touched her things, maybe even touched her. He’d unfastened her seat belt. Stolen from her. Incriminated her. She had been vulnerable to . . . anything.

“You sit tight.” The officer sighed, extending his hand, palm up. “Set the bottle on the seat and hand me the keys from the ignition, please.”

She did and he took them and walked to his cruiser, angled in behind the truck. His door was open, allowing her to hear the dispatcher’s droning voice and the various calls.

Around her, the trees were bathed in flashes of blue and red light. A few minutes later, the officer returned to the truck.

“Step out, please, ma’am.” He moved back a little, edging his right hip away. She’d seen her father do that, and Zach, too. Keeping their holstered weapon out of reach in case somebody made a grab for it. Cops always kept a physical distance around them for the sake of safety. Sometimes they kept an emotional one, too.

Gingerly, she got out of the truck, afraid her legs wouldn’t support her. Clinging to the door, she stood and looked up at the officer.

“I was run off the road and robbed. I have not had anything to drink. Not a thing, Officer, uh . . .”

“Darling.”

“Wh-what?”

He glared at her, his blue eyes all but snapping in challenge. “Officer Daniel Darling. Don’t make the mistake of laughing, ma’am.”

“I won’t, Officer . . . Darling.”

He ran the beam over her face and body, holding the light in his left hand at shoulder height as though it were a knife he was about to plunge through her heart.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” he said calmly. “You have no ID, no registration, and there’s an open container in your possession. Now, I’d like to believe your story, but we’re going to have to take a trip down to the station and straighten this mess out.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Not at the moment. You wouldn’t happen to have any outstanding warrants, would you?”

“Absolutely not.”

He smiled, showing deep dimples. “Then you’re probably okay.”

As he spoke into the transmitter on his shoulder, requesting Aunt Sadie’s truck be impounded, he opened the back door of his cruiser and Claire had no choice but to slide in.

At the North Precinct of the Seattle Police Department, Detective Robert Aranca, a middle-aged Hispanic man with wiry gray hair and sharp, seen-it-all black eyes, seemed no more sympathetic.

He’d requested that Claire take a BAC Verifier DataMaster Test, the official drunk test, which she did. And since she had no alcohol in her system, she passed.

Detective Aranca took her statement in his cluttered office. Between questions, she gazed at framed photos of what were obviously his wife and two young children, while she tried to stay calm.

“Your photo ID checks out,” he said, appearing just as weary as she felt. Leaning back in his chair, he tapped the end of his pen on the desk. “You are who you say you are. Got a little problem with the open container, though, Doc.”

“I was set up.”

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s say everything you told me really happened. You got any enemies?”

“I didn’t think so, but now I’m not sure.”

What if she hadn’t passed out? What if the guy had come back to take her stuff, and she’d opened her eyes, seen him? Would he have killed her? Why would somebody plant incriminating evidence? Had she been selected at random, or was this someone she knew?

It had to be random. It
had
to be some . . . weirdo.

Detective Aranca looked at her paperwork. “The vehicle’s owner is your aunt, one Sadie Lancaster. Why does that name sound familiar?”

Claire took a long, steadying breath. “She used to be an actress.” When Aranca didn’t immediately respond, she said, “She was nominated for an Oscar three times.
Lady Beware
. Um,
Sunset Street
?
Magdalena Mercy
? Her last movie was years ago, but—”

“Oh, right, right, right,” he said, nodding enthusiastically. “Yeah, Sadie Lancaster. Sure, I remember her. Hey, she was big.”

“It was the pictures that got small.”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind.”

“And just where is the famous Sadie Lancaster now?”

“She and her fiancé went away for the weekend to Victoria.”

Aranca’s eyes narrowed. “She got a cell phone?”

Claire wrinkled her nose. “You have to understand, my aunt considers modern technology suspicious. She thinks cell phones are evil, and that aliens use them to control human thought.” When Aranca lifted both his brows, she explained, “She’s from California.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding knowingly. “Listen, is there anybody we can call who can vouch for you, maybe give you a ride home while we check this out?” His voice was gruff, but not unkind. “You told Officer Darling you were on your way to your house here in Seattle. Anybody there who can come and get you?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“What’s your specialty, Doc?”

“Internal medicine,” she said. “But the hospital in Port Henry is small. There’s a lot of overlap.”

He nodded, then leaned forward as though to impart a secret. Softly, he said, “So, Doc, what’s it mean when you got a constant pain right here?” He pointed to the back of his neck. “At the end of the day, it’s just about killing me. The wife, she says it’s stress, but I’m a real laid-back guy. You’re a doc, what do you think it means?”

She smiled. “It means you need to see a physician for a thorough examination.”

He pursed his lips. “Yeah, yeah. Okay. I might just do that.” Rolling his pen between thick fingers, he said, “Look, I don’t feel comfortable just letting you walk out of here, especially without ID and a bump on your head. It’d be a good idea to have a friend or relative drive you to the ER.”

“Really, my head’s fine, and I don’t know anyone who . . .
oh
,” she said suddenly. Relief rushed through her, and she began to relax a little.

“Detective McKennitt,” she said. “Of course. God, where has my brain been? He’s my best friend’s husband, you see. I was their maid of honor. You might know him. He’s still attached to Seattle, but mostly works in Port—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hang on a minute.” Aranca put his hands up in the air, interrupting her outburst. His eyes squinted on her in obvious suspicion. “You know Detective McKennitt?”

“Yes.” What in the world had happened to her mind? Maybe she should stop by the ER after all.

Aranca shook his finger at her. “Okay, Doc. You wait right here.”

As he rose and left his office, Claire glanced at the clock. Twelve-thirty. No wonder she was exhausted and brain dead. She’d been up since dawn, had driven a hundred-plus miles today, and had been in a horrible car accident. Her eyes ached, her body was sore—and she was facing trouble with the law for the first time in her life.

After a few minutes, Detective Aranca returned with what appeared to be a genuine smile on his face.

“Dr. Hunter,” he said, with more punch than when he’d left. “As we say here at the Seattle PD, all’s swell that ends swell. Detective McKennitt is on his way to pick you up. I’m going to release you into his custody, which will make both you and me feel much better.”

Soldier was on his way. Thank God. Relief eased her muscles, and she slumped in the chair. Finally, this ridiculous, wretched nightmare would be over.

“Thank you, Detective,” she said, smiling wearily up into his eyes.