The Next Right Thing (Harlequin Superromance) (24 page)

He laughed, the sound dark and gruff. “Doubt it. For sake of argument, let’s say somebody posts her bail, she gets out of jail, then skips the country to this unknown place in Puerto Vallarta. Her lawyer would be obligated to tell the court that address—or anywhere else she might be hiding.”

“Wonder how much time she’ll get behind bars.”

“With her criminal history? Probably ten calendars.”

They stared into each other’s eyes for a prolonged moment. Cammie felt as though the physical space between herself and the screen dissolved, as though Marc were right here in front of her. She could almost reach up and sweep that chestnut curl off his forehead....

“Great work, Cammie. Your initiative and ability to hang in during tough investigations always produces phenomenal, case-changing results. We’ve had our differences, but you didn’t let them minimize your skills. You’re a great investigator.”

“Thanks,” she whispered.

“I need to end this connection,” Marc said, “and call the Denver P.D.”

“Absolutely, it’s just...” She hesitated. “Maybe we should discuss one last thing.”

“Yes?”

“I mentioned this before, but...Laura isn’t pregnant.”

He blew out a lungful of air. “It’s for the best. If she had been, I would have fought like hell for full custody, but I’d likely have lost. Would probably have ended up with shared custody. Even if a mother goes to prison, it doesn’t terminate her rights. And Laura’s not fit to be a mother.”

He sounded strong, resolved, but she knew differently. He’d lost a piece of his heart, but he’d never admit it. To anyone other than himself, anyway.

She straightened, forced herself to smile. “Goodbye, and best of luck tomorr—”

“You know what, Cammie?” he said, the question tumbling out with such force, she was momentarily taken aback.

“What?”

“We’re a great team.”

“You’re right. We were a great lawyer-investigator team. That will never change. Yeah, and...if you ever need to hire a P.I. in Vegas, give me a call. Goodbye and best of luck to you—”

“I meant more than that,” he said, leaning closer to the screen. “There’s still so much between us.”

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she had the insight that people who stick to the lines don’t mesh well with those who can’t be contained by them. At the same time, another thought fought its way to semiconscious status. Maybe she could change gears, be a different kind of woman, a different type of P.I. More willing to walk the line, not take chances, follow the rules even if they didn’t make sense.

No. Not her style.

“And maybe,” she said softly, “there’s been too much between us.”

She thought about saying goodbye, but she’d already said it twice. Sometimes the best way to end things was simply to end them.

She hit the end button.

The screen went blank.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

F
OUR
WEEKS
AND
as many days later, Cammie drove home after wrapping up another study-monitor gig at Dignity House. The school year was coming to an end for most of the girls, so she’d been leaning on them to study harder for their final exams. Rather than fight it, the girls were hitting the books. Even Takira, who’d replaced her Dinki Mini enthusiasm with the goal to become a teacher.

Cammie’s phone chirped. She put it on speaker and answered.

“Hi, Cammie. Eddie Huttner.”

Eddie was her attorney, Uncle Frankie’s pal, who was representing the arson-police-assault case against her. Although he handled her GPS case at no charge as a favor to Frankie, this time he was charging by the hour because this new case was more complex. As a courtesy, he’d reduced his fees by a third, which left her paying two-twenty an hour. She figured she’d have him paid off before the world ended in 2016.

“Hi, Eddie.”

“I have bad news and good news. Let’s get the bad out of the way first.”

“Let’s.”

“I tried to talk the D.A. into reducing the felony arson charge to a misdemeanor burning garbage in public.”

“But I had nothing to do with fire, Eddie. I didn’t even have a match on me.”

“That’s not the point. A complicitor aids another to commit a crime and you, Cammie, were an accomplice by interfering with the officer’s ability to stop the real arson on the tractor.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Yes, well, welcome to my side of law and order. Anyway, I told the D.A. that you’re willing to not dispute the other three misdemeanors. As you and I have discussed, if the felony charge is reduced to a misdo, it doesn’t matter if you get convicted on one or all four misdemeanors, you can still be relicensed as a P.I. But the good state of Nevada will not issue a license to a P.I. if that person has even one felony conviction, so it hurts us to walk into that hearing with that felony charge hanging over your head.”

“But the D.A. refused to reduce it to a misdo.”

“That’s right.”

“So what’s the good news? Your cell-phone plan provides free calls this time of day?”

“Grumpy, are we?”

“And tired and hungry. But I apologize. You’re trying to help me.”

“Which brings us to the good news. This should cheer you up. I think we can get creative here and fashion a win-win situation.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’m going to call the D.A. again and propose the following—three misdemeanor guilty pleas and a
deferred
prosecution to the felony. The latter entails a hundred hours community service and you keep your nose clean for six months. After that, the felony charge is dismissed.”

“Meaning it disappears?”

“As in poof, like magic.”

Her grumpy mood went poof, too. “Which means that in six months, I can be relicensed?”

“It gets better. The hearing’s in two weeks. If the D.A. accepts this deal, you would be immediately eligible to be relicensed.”

“Eddie, you’re the bomb.”

“We just got rid of the arson, no more exploding devices, please.”

They ended the call, and she drove on, feeling happier than she had in days, weeks. Didn’t solve all her problems, but Eddie’s idea offered hope.

She parked Phil and headed inside her uncle’s house. Rich scents of fried meatballs and garlic hit her as soon as she opened the door. Maybe the Italians had written great love songs, even sung a lot of them, but their real romance took place in the kitchen.

She tossed her purse on the couch, toed off her Keds and headed into the kitchen. A handwritten note lay on the dining room table.

I’m at Del’s tonight. Food’s for you, so eat!

XO.

P.S. There’s spumoni in the fridge.

She grabbed a plate and filled it with several meatballs, a wedge of fresh bread and marinated tomatoes. Grabbing a fork, she ambled out to the patio to watch the sunset and eat dinner.

Sitting in the lounge chair was like falling into a soft cloud—she was that tired. Occasional passing breezes brought scents of jasmine and roses. Over the brick wall, she looked toward the northwest sky, wondering what strange events people were imagining tonight along the Extraterrestrial Highway. Her uncle had once told her it was a long, boring stretch of road in the middle of nowhere. Part of her wished her life had been like that road these past few months—boring, no distractions, the end in sight. Even if the end was the same thread of asphalt on the horizon, at least you knew what to expect.

Her cell phone rang.

She set down her plate and tugged the device loose from her pocket. The caller ID displayed a phone number she didn’t recognize, although the area code was familiar. Somewhere in Massachusetts or Rhode Island?

She answered. “Hello?”

“Cammie? It’s Emily.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah.”

After a moment of odd silence, Cammie said, “Well, I’m glad to know that.”

“Well, there’s a little problem,” Emily admitted.

“What is it?”

“It’s my granddad’s parole hearing.”

“It’s still on, right? June 6, next week as I recall.”

“Yeah.”

Cammie waited for what felt like a small eternity for Emily to say more. In the sky, the first star twinkled to life.

“My dad,” the girl finally said, “is nervous.”

“All good lawyers are nervous before a trial or hearing. I’ve never trusted an attorney who doesn’t get a little nervous.”

“This one’s different, though. It’s about saving Granddad.”

And finally having the father-son relationship that had slipped past both of them. But Cammie would never say that to Emily, although the girl may have already figured it out.

“Your granddad has done the time, made his restitution, shown humility for his acts. No court would withhold his freedom at this point.”

In the following silence, several billy owls started their ghostly warbling, their rising trills like probing questions.

“The D.A. is Berto Martinez,” Emily said quietly.

Back when she’d worked at Hamilton & Hamilton, Cammie had investigated a dozen or more cases in which Marc went up against Berto in the courtroom. Although many prosecutors had their eye on an eventual private practice where they could make the bucks, Berto had his eye on a political career, which made him a dangerous animal. He liked to sniff out corruption and crime and make examples of people, the kind of examples that splashed in sensationalist headlines and hot breaking-news stories. In the office, she and Marc referred to him as “Berto the Bastard” for his conniving, self-serving ways.

And now Harlan would be the latest opportunity for Berto the Bastard to be a hero. She still followed Colorado news. Harlan’s case was well-timed, as Berto’s name was being bandied about as the next Denver district attorney, which was only a four-year term away from being a gubernatorial candidate.

“I see,” Cammie said quietly.

“Daddy didn’t tell me about Berto. My mom did.”

Nice. Just want a child needed to hear—confusing, stressful things about a court case that decided whether or not her grandfather would be allowed his freedom.

“I need to ask you a favor. It’s a big one, but it really, really means a lot to me.”

“What is it, Emily?”

“I’m flying out to be with Daddy at the hearing. At first he didn’t want me to come, but I begged him. Especially after my mother told me about Berto Martinez. I think I can help by testifying about my grandfather. Young girl on the stand talking about how her granddad helped her through the loss of her parents’ marriage? I figured it’d be a compelling statement about his good character.”

“You certainly understand the value of witness testimony. Did you want me to help you prepare?”

“No. I want you to be there.”

For a moment, Cammie couldn’t catch her breath. It felt as though someone had coiled ropes around her chest and pulled tight.

“I know you and Daddy aren’t...together...but you and I are, right?”

“We are,” Cammie said, finding her voice.

“I’ll feel stronger on the stand if I look out in the audience and see you there.”

It didn’t matter what had transpired between her and Marc, this was about being there for Emily, for the girl’s chance to bring together part of her family.

“I’ll be there.”

After ending the call, Cammie finished her dinner. In the distance, somewhere beyond the Extraterrestrial Highway, lightning flashed, accompanied by the faraway grumble of thunder. A muffled, indistinct storm that was a world away from her overhead blue skies and wisps of clouds. She’d heard on the news the storm would never reach Vegas, instead travelling south to Arizona.

She carried her dishes inside, then headed to her bedroom and picked up the white stick she’d placed next to her bed last night. Maybe she hoped the answer had changed or maybe she needed to look at it again and verify that it was real.

The plus sign confirmed she was pregnant.

So much for 100 percent, foolproof protection. But what she hadn’t expected was her heart not being foolproof. How many times had she said she didn’t want a child, that she’d already done her time as a mother...and yet...

Outside, the billy owl warbled its question, but she didn’t have the answer.

* * *

T
HE
NEXT
MORNING
, Cammie drove to Delilah’s for “a fitting brunch,” as the older woman called it. They were doing a final fitting on the maid of honor’s dress, followed by lunch.

Delilah, dressed in an orange-and-peach caftan with the requisite plunging neckline, opened the door and beamed.

“Hello, my darling maid of honor,” she cooed, wrapping her arms and a cloud of Chanel No. 5 around Cammie. “June 10 is the big day!”

“Uncle Frankie told me. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, darling.”

The older woman’s face was pink and freshly washed. Her champagne hair was pulled back in a knot at the nape of her neck.

“Sorry if I arrived too early.”

“Well, I didn’t get a chance to put my face on or do my hair,” Delilah said, ushering Cammie inside, “but we’re almost family, so it’s okay for you to see the wizardess behind the curtain.” She laughed, her nose twitching like a bunny’s.

A little dog yipped and yapped at their feet.

“Sampson, why don’t you go to your bed? I have company.”

Making a snuffling sound, the little dog trotted off.

“He understood you,” Cammie said, amazed.

“I think he knows the word
bed,
plus it’s where he likes to hang most of the day. He’s twelve years old—elderly by dogs’ standards. He and Trazy get along famously. I’m not sure if he thinks he’s a cat or she thinks she’s a dog, or they’re just raging liberals.” She looped her arm through Cammie’s and steered her through the living room. “So many things have happened recently that Frankie and I were uncomfortable picking a date until we knew for sure that you could be there.”

“Things like the arrest.”

“Well, that and other whatsits...”

Delilah was being considerate not stating those other whatsits, but Cammie knew one of them had to be her whirlwind romance with Marc that had sputtered to an inglorious ending.

Cammie expected to see exotic furnishings, complete with red walls, bearskin rugs and zebra wallpaper in Delilah’s place, but instead found the opposite. The room was peaceful with its overstuffed beige furniture, laminated wood floors and paintings of seascapes. On a fireplace mantel were several photos of Frankie and Delilah, a young man in military uniform and a picture of a much younger Delilah and some guy, both of them smiling at the camera.

“My former husband, Walter, and I lived for years on the Oregon coast,” she explained, seeing Cammie’s interest in one of the paintings. “Most of these were painted by regional artists—their scenes were places we’d visited, so they had a special meaning.” Delilah stopped and looked around the room. “Frankie never minded that I kept these paintings from my former marriage, but then I never minded the mementos of Regina, either. That’s what happens when you get a second chance at love late in life—you understand that each of you brings a history.” She clapped her hands, causing her gold bracelets to jingle. “But now that I’m going to be Mrs. Copello, it’s time to start over. I’ve decided to give away many things, including most of these paintings. If you see one you like, let me know.”

A few minutes later, they stood in Delilah’s crafts room. Workbenches strewn with fabrics, and bookshelves stuffed with boxes, lined the walls. Swatches of cloths lay strewn over a chair. A wall-mounted spice cabinet held jars of glitter.

Trazy lay stretched in a window, asleep, warming in the sun.

“This is her room, and she loves that window.”

“She looks fat and happy.”

“Like her great-auntie Delilah.”

“Now, Del, you’re gorgeous and you know it.” Cammie looked at a computer attached to a device she didn’t recognize. “What’s that?”

“A sewing machine.”

“Duh.”

“It’s all right, dear, I wouldn’t know a GPS device if you planted it on my rump.” She gestured to the computer. “It reads a CD-ROM of patterns and translates them into thread.”

Cammie blinked in surprise. “Cool.”

“I might dress like the seventies, but I’m definitely a state-of-the-art kinda gal.”

“You’d probably rule the world if you had a smartphone.”

“I’ve been thinking of getting one of those. Now, let’s look at your to-die-for dress.” Delilah opened a closet. “Mr. Bergstrom is a bit proprietary with his gowns, but he gave me the go-ahead to make any last-minute adjustments.” She pulled out the red dress that Cammie had tried on at the bridal salon what seemed a lifetime ago. “Isn’t this just divine!”

With some help, Cammie slinked into the dress. At the salon, it had been spray-on tight. Today, it felt even tighter around her middle, to the point that breathing was a sketchy activity. She looked at herself in the full-length mirror, turning this way and that. The wedding was nine days away—her tummy wouldn’t grow that much between now and then, right?