The Marquesa's Necklace (Oak Grove Mysteries Book 1) (8 page)

I really hated giving the necklace back to him, but it was far too expensive for me to accept. He got his reward anyway. When we undressed each other before tumbling into bed, he asked me to leave it on, and I did, but took it off before I fell asleep. I suppose he returned the necklace, but I never asked him and he never mentioned it again.

With cell phones everywhere these days, it would have been easy for someone to have snapped a shot of us unnoticed. I don’t remember anyone taking pictures that night, but from the looks on our faces, Jake and I were oblivious to anyone but each other. Jake told me he loved me for the first time during supper. A few weeks later, the cops busted us for suspected drug trafficking.

I knew where the picture came from, and that if I looked I wouldn’t find him. My ghost had struck again. How does a ghost get his hands on a picture taken over a year ago? For that matter, how does a ghost give someone fresh flowers? And what did he know that I didn’t?

*****

I’d changed my mind about having company for supper, but couldn’t figure out a graceful way to tell Freddie. I needed to pump him for information anyway, and over supper would be a good time to do it. He hadn’t been keeping me up to date with what the department had found out about the various incidents. “Still under investigation” was his usual put-off. I hoped the homemade beef stew and pinot noir would loosen his tongue enough to let something slip. If not, a chocolate cake waited for me at the town’s best bakery. And if all those failed, I might have to bring out the big guns.

“Ready for some more?” I asked, in my most cheerful voice when he put his spoon down into the newly-emptied bowl. I swear, I almost sparkled I was so bright. I noticed his wine glass was three-quarters empty, and topped it off without him asking. I tallied up what he had drunk so far—I didn’t want him so tipsy I would be forced to let him spend the night.

He put one hand over his bowl and the other on his stomach. “No, no more. It was delicious, but I’m stuffed.”

“Then we’ll wait a bit before I cut into the Double Chocolate Cherry Drizzle cake.” I scooped up his dish and mine, walked over and piled them in the sink. It’s depressing to talk over dirty plates. I smiled as he took another drink of his wine. So far my plan was going according to schedule. We hadn’t talked about work yet, but I was waiting for an opening.

He stretched and leaned back in his chair so far it seemed he’d tip over, but he straightened up at the last possible second. I picked up my glass and walked the short distance to front room, sitting it down on one of the coasters on my coffee table. When I sat on the loveseat and patted the empty spot, he grinned and followed my lead, yawning as he sat down.

“Long day at the office?” I asked innocently.

“Yeah, the meth head that attacked you started going into withdrawal during questioning today. We didn’t get much out of him.” He ran his fingers down the side of my face and traced a line to where it met my turquoise necklace. “Still can’t figure why someone would hire him to steal this,” he added, hooking one finger under it.

For some reason, his gentle touch made me shiver, and I leaned against him. As I hoped, the change in position made him shift as well, and he put one arm around me. “I talked to Gary down at the pawn shop today and he said there isn’t anything special about it.”

Freddie frowned. “Maybe you ought to put it in your safe deposit box or something until we figure out what’s going on. I’d be glad to take you to your bank tomorrow.”

“That’s sweet of you.” I snuggled a little closer to him. “But I don’t want to stop wearing it. It’s almost a part of me.” I reached for my glass and took a sip, enjoying the hint of cherry. It would go well with the cake later. “Did anything ever come back on the note left in my door?”

“Nope, clean as a whistle. Except for your prints—and mine.”

That’s right, he wasn’t wearing gloves when I gave it to him. “And the break in?”

“Clean. Not a print to be found except yours.”

“And the car?”

He sighed, and pulled me closer. “Crime lab isn’t sure. It might have been a leak in the fuel line, but the car burnt bad enough they can’t be sure. That alone points to something beyond simple mechanical failure.”

I shivered again, and this time I knew why. I could have been in George when he exploded. “So who’s responsible?”

“Most of the guys think it has to be someone associated with Hennessey.” He took his arm off my shoulders, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, and stared at something I couldn’t see. “But I’m not so sure. He got you mixed up in his illegal activities, but I can’t see him wanting to hurt you. You aren’t the reason he’s in jail.”

No, I’m not. And if Freddie could have proven his case, I would be in jail now too. The reminder made me wonder what the hell I was doing.

It must have triggered some bad memories for Freddie too, because he abruptly set his glass down and stood. “I should head home,” he said.

“We haven’t had the cake yet,” I protested halfheartedly as I stood as well.

“It’ll keep for a day, won’t it? I can come back tomorrow night. We can eat it then.” He leaned over to kiss me, a task made more difficult because I had just lifted my wine glass to take another sip.

Even with all the practicing we’d been doing, his kisses didn’t make my toes curl or send desire shooting through my body. Too bad, because although he was no Jake, he was a good-looking guy. “Good night, Freddie,” I said when we reached a stopping point.

He pulled away from me just enough to study my eyes and nodded. The perfect hostess, I walked with him to the door—it took all of five steps. As he stepped outside, he turned and looked at me one more time. “Good night, Angel,” he said and dropped one soft kiss on my forehead before starting down the stairs. He paused about three stairs down. “Close your door and lock it,” he added.

I blew him a kiss, closed the door, and turned the lock. It struck me as I carried both of our wine glasses to the kitchen to wash. I refilled mine, collapsed into the easy chair and emptied the whole thing in one big gulp.

Jake used to call me “Angel.”

Deep down, I believed Jake got a raw deal. He was no more into drug trafficking than I was. Sure, he smoked pot on occasion, but a lot of folks do. I don’t, but the drug laws in this country needed to be changed, and it didn’t bother me when he lit up a joint. Just like it didn’t bother him that I wouldn’t join him. If he used the harder stuff, he never did it around me.

When they arrested us, he only had about half an ounce of pot on him. High-quality stuff, they said, high THC content and all, but how they stretched that into intent to distribute, I didn’t understand. And evidently, the jury didn’t either, because they found both of us not guilty on those charges.

But Jake fought like a madman when they tried to put cuffs on him. I lost count of how many cops it took to finally subdue him. Two of them needed to go to the emergency room afterward. The Taser finally took him down, and not the first shot either.

No doubt he was strong. I loved to run my hands along those muscles, and watch his reaction. But he was always gentle with me and I was never afraid of him. I would be now.

The police—including Freddie—tried to get me to testify against Jake. Offered to drop the charges against me if I would rat him out. But I couldn’t—there wasn’t anything I could tell them. Even after spending a weekend locked up waiting for my bail hearing I wouldn’t turn on him. They resorted to showing me pictures of Jake with other women to try and make me hate him. Not in Oak Grove, of course, but in other places he’d been. I didn’t ask how the local police got those pictures. I may not love Jake anymore, but I don’t hate him either. He might have been using me as a cover for whatever illegal activities he was involved in, yet he always treated me right when we were together.

And yes, I’m sure he was doing something illegal. Plenty of evidence was introduced at his trial to prove his real estate company was a sham. Which is too bad, because when he showed me the house here he planned to restore, he was truly excited about it. He had good ideas for the remodel too. Where his money came from, the investigators were never able to determine. I don’t want to know anymore.

*****

Most of Friday was spent in a fog. I didn’t leave for the library until after lunch, and browsed the fiction stacks for romance books all afternoon. Every now and then, I need to escape with a good “trashy” novel. I didn’t even stake a claim on a table.

I kept expecting to run into my ghost but fiction is on the third floor. Each time I walked under an air-conditioning vent and got a blast of cold air, I looked around for him. Maybe I hoped to get another rose, or to actually talk to him and ask him about the picture. But he didn’t show, not even when I hung around the second floor on my way down to the front desk to check out.

When Freddie stopped by that night, I was in a bad mood again. He came back for the cake, or that was his story anyway. I put on a smile and played hostess. We made do with coffee to go with the cake, because the wine was all gone.

The cake was too big for two people and I remembered it didn’t freeze well. I took some of the leftovers down to the boys. Yes, Luke and Joe are much older than me, but that’s what I call them. Not to their faces, of course. It was a quick trip, just downstairs and back up again. They were busy discussing the current installment of their favorite cop show and trying to figure out who done it during the commercial breaks. I didn’t want to stick around and spoil their friendly argument. Besides, I had accidentally gotten some of the frosting on my blouse and wanted to rinse it out.

It seems Freddie didn’t expect me to get back so fast. He wasn’t on the loveseat where I had left him, and I didn’t hear him in the kitchen either. Because the door was closed, I assumed he was using the bathroom. I headed down the hallway towards my bedroom to change into a T-shirt. That way I wouldn’t have to change in front of him.

I wondered why the light in my closet was on as I flipped the switch for the overhead fixture in the bedroom. A quick glance showed two legs sticking out from my closet, and for a moment I had the terrible fantasy that Freddie had passed out on the floor.

Reality was worse.

Chapter Eleven

Freddie backed out of the closet, holding a shoe box tied with a pink ribbon. Inside were the postcards Jake sent me from all over the country. The box had been seized after my arrest, but returned when the prosecutors determined they contained nothing helpful to their case. A picture of the Grand Canyon with “Wish you were here” scrawled on the back isn’t exactly incriminating. I should have thrown them away, but I wasn’t ready. Some small part of me still clung to the memories Jake and I had shared.

Detective Thomason eased from the closet, unaware I watched his every move. At least he had the grace to look ashamed as he stood and saw me standing there, my arms crossed. It didn’t last long.

“Harmony…” he started.

I cut him off as I grabbed the box from his hands and slammed it on the bed. “Get out, Detective,” I said, my face cold and hard. I fought to control the rage boiling inside. I imagined how good it would feel to use him as a practice dummy for a few of the more aggressive self-defense moves, but he carried a gun. I wouldn’t be fast enough to get to it before he did.

His walk of shame between the bedroom and the front door didn’t last long enough to satisfy me. He turned around on the landing, and opened his mouth, but shut it when I shook my head. He walked down two steps, and turned. “Harmony,” he tried again.

I snatched his jacket from the hook by the front door and threw it at him, slamming the door shut behind it. As I stalked towards the kitchen to find something alcoholic to drink, he called “Lock your door, Angel.”

He didn’t break my heart, not really. What he made me was mad. Mad enough that I took off on an impromptu road trip early the next morning. I turned off my cell phone, threw a few clothes in a bag, filled up the tank, and took off, heading for the interstate and wherever the wind blew me. A black car followed me as I left town, but when I steered onto the entry ramp, it kept going straight. I laughed at my paranoia.

The gas pedal begged me to push it to the floor, but I stayed within the speed limit. Dolores is a cop magnet, and I didn’t want hassled. The road west is long and fairly flat, and I operated on auto-pilot much of the time, lulled by the hum of the tires on the pavement.

I spent the night in a small, run-down motel east of Indianapolis, listening to the couple in the next room arguing, and fighting back the urge to gag from the overwhelming stench of stale cigarettes. That and trying to put a major dent in the bottle of cheap rum I bought at the liquor store down the street. I earned the major headache I woke with in the morning.

After opening a window to try to air out the room, I took a couple of aspirin, washing them down with some of the leftover rum, and went back to bed. When I woke at noon, with nothing better to do, I called the front desk and arranged to spend a second night. I ventured out for supper sometime after seven. Not much was open since it was Sunday evening and I made do with a greasy hamburger from a truck stop, and then returned to the motel.

Monday morning, I knew it was time to stop wallowing in misery and get on with living. I tossed my dirty clothes back into my bag, dumped the rest of the rum down the sink, and turned on the TV. I waited until the sparse collection of business travelers checked out and what passed for rush hour in the little rat hole of a town was over.