When Night Falls (3 page)

She crushed the note in her hand.
Lauren
.

The blood was still on her hands, the terrifying memory of that night. Uma moved through the house that Billy had stripped, trying not to remember how happy Lauren had been when they’d first bought it, how hard she’d worked, stripping cabinets, painting…

The master bedroom was large and freshly cleaned. A king-size bed, the only piece of furniture in the room, stood unmade. The scent of lemon cleaner came from the bathroom as she passed.

The second bedroom had a broken window, plastic stapled over the glass. It was dirty and empty, but the third bedroom, the tiniest room where Lauren had ached to place her baby’s crib…

Billy said we should wait for children until we can better afford them…

When Uma saw the clutter carelessly stacked at one end of the room, she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. This was all that was left of Lauren—a haphazard dumping of the lovely person she had been. Unable to move, Uma felt her throat tighten and her eyes burn with tears; she leaned against the wall, her arms around herself. She squeezed her lids closed to seal away that terrible night, and yet it came back—shattering her once more. She couldn’t open her eyes when she sensed Mitchell had come to stand beside her.

“I know how much she meant to you,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry about your baby and about Lauren.”

“They never found out who shot Lauren.” She swallowed roughly, tears too close to breaking free. Automatically, she reached for Lauren’s rumpled, discarded clothing and began folding, placing the neat stack on an old chair. A moment ago they were all girls, planning marriages and babies, and now—“Would you mind if I didn’t collect all this now? I will, but not just yet. I can’t bear—”

“It’s fine where it is. I’ll clean the room and straighten things a bit. Here’s a key—you can come when you want.” He took a key from his pocket.

She clasped the key in her fist and knew that he understood she would need time and strength to deal with all that remained of Lauren. “Thank you.”

“Uma?”

She tried to shake herself free of the tears. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry about that—what happened that day in the hospital room. I’m sorry I grabbed you. I’ve always regretted that.”

She shook her head, looking up at him. “I know. I know how difficult it was for you back then. You were just a boy, and in so much pain. You’d just lost your father and your home.”

Mitchell moved away from her, his jaw hard and uncompromising. “I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s in the past, Mitchell. Please don’t think about it…but if I had Billy Howard in my sights now, I’d never forget how he just tossed Lauren’s life into one unloved pile. I’m so angry now. I’d better go. But first, let me help you make your bed. Two people can do the work quicker and you look so tired. Your wife will be, too. When is she coming?”

“I’m not married. I was. It didn’t work out.” Mitchell’s light brown eyes were shadowed and steady upon her. “Billy told me about you and Everett.”

“Yes. We’re still friends. We had a child together. That doesn’t go away.” Uma smiled briefly; Everett had had other ideas, and she’d tried at first. It wasn’t a matter of forgiveness for his affair after their baby had died and she sank into depression; it was that they just didn’t fit anymore. And she felt as if something inside her had died with her baby. She didn’t feel like a woman any longer; she felt empty, filling the days with her father and friends, her work.

She smiled at Mitchell. “Let’s go make your bed. Billy sold
the washer and dryer and you don’t look as if you’d mind sleeping on a board tonight, let alone brand new bedding that hasn’t been washed.”

“I wouldn’t,” he said grimly, and Uma remembered how harshly he had grown up. Fred Warren hadn’t liked spending money on household goods. He’d used every penny on the land, on the horses he had raised and broken and sold, trying to stretch the feed and grain bill with that of pasture seed, and veterinarian bills—and in the end, Fred spent what extra money he had on alcohol.

In the large master bedroom, Mitchell worked on the opposite side of the bed, placing the mattress pad on it and then the sheets. He was efficient and awkward, glancing at her as she neatly fitted the corners, and she knew that homemaking wasn’t a usual task for him. She ran a hand across the smooth brown blanket and fluffed the pillows. “When are the rest of your things coming?”

“This is it. I thought I’d add whatever I needed as I went along.”

She lifted her brows. “You have a whole house to fill. Try the secondhand store. You’ll need some furniture, like a living room chair and maybe a television set. There isn’t that much to do in Madrid. Do you have a job?”

“I thought I’d see what turned up.”

“I’ll help you, if you want. I could ask around.”

“I thought I’d take my time and get the feel of things.”

She could never jump into a life away from what she knew. She wondered how many times Mitchell had had to adjust to a new town, a new life. “I—please don’t answer this, if you’re uncomfortable with it, but did you ever find out who nailed the barn and the house door shut the night your father died?”

Though Mitchell’s expression didn’t change, she could feel him sinking inside himself, a darkness enveloping him. “Someone who thought I was involved with his wife—I
wasn’t. The man is dead now. He had a heart attack soon after that night…end of story. You were the only one who believed that my family hadn’t set the fire to get insurance money.”

“Lauren believed in you, and Shelly, and I think one of the deputies did, too. He was your father’s friend. You remember Lonny? He’s the police chief now.”

Mitchell nodded and studied her in that quiet, gauging way. “Would you like to see the rest of the house—the kitchen?”

Uma hadn’t been in the house since her last coffee with Lauren. She placed her hand over her heart. “Yes, I would. I’ve already seen the other rooms. Billy wasn’t much on home maintenance or cleanliness. Poor Lauren spoiled him. She managed the real estate office and did most of the work there, too.”

The kitchen was ruined, cabinet doors hanging off their hinges as though torn by an enraged hand, burned spots on the Formica counter top, ugly marks on the carpet. The stainless steel stove that Lauren had loved and cleaned meticulously was filthy. The sight made Uma feel nauseated. “I’d better go.”

“Uma?” Mitchell’s voice was deep and gentle.

She fought the tears burning her lids and then angrily brushed them away. “I miss Lauren. She was a part of my life, a good part, and now she’s gone—murdered right there in front of me on an ordinary summer night. I saw his face. Even without license plates, I could identify that car. And they haven’t found him. How can that be? How can a murderer drive by and shoot her? What had she done?”

Uma picked up the embroidered tea towel she had brought to cover the casserole and dabbed her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to go. Thank you for calling me about Lauren’s things. I’ll take care of them, but just not now.”

When Mitchell said nothing, but only stared at the scarred linoleum floor, Uma knew that the past still held him. She reached to touch his arm and the muscle there hardened immediately. “Please don’t worry about that time so long ago. You were just a boy in pain. I understood.”

He smiled tightly, briefly. “It shouldn’t have happened. Not to you.”

She couldn’t resist smoothing that rough, hard cheek gently, and sensed the power that he held in check, the darkness lurking around him. “Be good to yourself, Mitchell.”

The answer came with a scowl and his hand gripping her wrist, pushing her hand away. “You think I deserve that, do you?”

“Yes, I do.” But Uma’s thoughts were with Lauren, and she had to get out of the house. She tried not to run as she hurried into the hot, honeysuckle-scented night. When she turned to glance back, Mitchell stood enveloped by the porch’s shadows and the cat sat beside him, gently flicking his tail.

A
fter Uma had gone, a moth circled the ceiling light, and Mitchell watched it as he thought of the woman she had become.

Still compassionate and considerate. Still the same thick waving hair, a rich mink brown that gleamed with reddish highlights as if it had trapped the warmth of the sun. He’d gripped it in his fist all those years ago and the silky feel had remained, haunting him. Or was it the sweetness, the honesty he’d held for just that moment, and in his pain, wanted to destroy?

He’d known Uma forever, the forbidden girl from the right side of uptown. Perfect. Complete. She’d always been strong in herself, sensitive to others, and poised. The first anger he’d seen in her was just now, when she thought of Lauren’s death. Then her dislike of Billy was right there on the edge, smoldering in those smoky gray eyes.

A woman’s passion was there, controlled and simmering.

How long ago was it that he’d felt as deeply?

He didn’t want Uma touching him. He didn’t want that longing inside him to lean into her gentle touch. He didn’t want her pity.

He should have comforted her, said the right words about Lauren, but he couldn’t. He didn’t know how. His emotions were locked inside him.

She didn’t blame him for his attack all those years ago. How could she not?

The telephone rang, and after he answered, a man’s muffled voice asked, “Mitchell Warren?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“We don’t want you here.” Another silence, and the caller hung up. Mitchell replaced the receiver slowly; he’d expected as much, his arrival certain to stir Madrid’s gossip. The voice was metallic and smooth and sexless, as if it had been electronically manufactured.

He walked out into the garden, now overgrown and littered with broken limbs. A woman had once loved it, and now the white picket fence needed painting and repair. Roses bloomed amid the weeds—Mitchell stopped, surprised to see Uma in the garden.

Framed by the moonlight dappling through the oak tree, Uma stood, head bowed. Her hands were stretched out over the roses, not touching them. Her face was pale, eyes huge in the shadows as she turned to him. “I loved her so. These roses are from my grandmother’s garden. They’re Hansa…with that clove scent, they’re typical of the Rugosas, and in the fall the hips are large and orange-red. In my garden, her grandmother’s Russelliana is climbing on a trellis. We shared the roses, sometimes going to old homesteads and collecting starts—all of us, Lauren, myself, Pearl, and Shelly. Pearl wasn’t that enthusiastic, but she came along to be with us. And Shelly really doesn’t have time to tend a garden now, or the energy. Poor Lauren’s are so overgrown.”

Her voice was only a soft whisper in the night, her hand drifting across a tumble of tiny white roses in a half barrel. “Lauren would make sachets from the petals and from the lavender buds, and she’d make soap, too. She’d let Dozer
come cut rose hips for his winter teas. I couldn’t bear to come here…we’ve always been together. And now we’re not.”

She pushed the old swing tied to a sturdy oak branch. “She kept this here for the neighborhood children and loved to watch them play.”

Mitchell understood the necessity of closure. She needed to reckon with Lauren’s murder as badly as he needed to resolve his past, separating Fred’s bitterness from him.

Her cheeks were silvery with tears, which she impatiently scrubbed away. She looked at her hands, studying them. “I’d better go. Goodnight.”

“Uma?”

“Yes?”

“I’ll prune the bushes.” It was the least he could do, though the offer surprised him.

“Do you know how?”

Her tone was listless as she continued to study her hands, turning the palms upward. What was it that she saw in those slender, graceful fingers, those soft palms?

He’d trained himself to gauge people in business, to stay away from emotional entanglements. Yet he’d offered. Mitchell frowned slightly, uncomfortable with whatever she stirred within him. “I’ll learn.”

“Be careful of the thorns. The plants should be fed—manure tea, if you want, or something commercial, and a spray for insects who love to feast on them. Until tonight, I couldn’t bear to come here to tend them. In another month or so, they’ll be beautiful.”

She scrubbed whatever she saw on her hands away, and slid into the darkness. She crossed the shadows on the sidewalk, just as she had crossed his thoughts through the years.

A cloud passed across the moon and Mitchell thought briefly about her marriage, the man’s name she’d kept. Everett Thornton would have suited her, a man with the right kind of background. What went wrong?

In the still night and among the budding fragrant roses, Mitchell’s parents’ raging battles echoed; they stalked him while a slight breeze riffled the tops of the trees, whispering in the leaves. His mother had pleaded, his father cursed bitterly. And then Grace Warren had gone to her young sons, begging them to come with her. Their father’s taunts had snagged their fierce pride and they’d chosen to stay.

Mitchell didn’t want to think about the woman who was his mother. He didn’t want to open the letters she’d sent through the years.

Blaming it on his dark mood, the homecoming that wasn’t sweet, Mitchell tore away a rotting white trellis and tossed it into a fragrant, rambling bed of blooms.

Small town welcoming
, he thought, as inside the house, he filled a paper plate with the casserole and dished out another smaller helping for the cat, who had followed him inside. Crumpled beside the dish was the tea towel that Uma had used to wipe her tears.

Mitchell ran his finger over the delicate embroidery, tracing the white thread of the flowers.

In her way, Uma Lawrence Thornton was dangerous to him. He didn’t like the restless softness disturbing him now. Nothing was adding up, or could be logically dissected. Mitchell liked assessments and bottom lines from which to build, but Uma tangled his senses.

On impulse, he picked up the telephone and called Roman. A woman protested sleepily and Roman’s voice was rough and deep in the Las Vegas night.

“It’s Mitchell. Bad timing?”

“What’s wrong?” Roman’s tone changed to alert.

“I’m in Madrid. I bought back the old places—the ranch and the garage—and a house in town.”

“My God. What did you do that for?”

“I had to. Don’t know why. Here’s my phone number and mailing address.” Mitchell smiled. He could almost see Ro
man sitting up in bed, reaching for a pad and pen. In the background a woman groaned sleepily.

Glass shattered and Roman cursed, then muttered, “You’re making a mistake, Mitchell.”

“Could be.” Facing the past was better than the terminal freeze inside him.

“You just walked out of a top job, back to that hick town?”

“Uh-huh. Seemed the right thing to do now, for me.”

After he hung up, Mitchell smoothed the tea towel on the counter.
Was it the right thing to do? Could he find what he needed?

“Mitchell Warren is back?” Shelly turned suddenly to Uma.

“I thought you should know,” Uma replied.

Time seemed to stop as Shelly slowly placed a laundry basket on the kitchen counter of her small, well-kept home.

By nine o’clock that night, Shelly had already cleaned two houses and was picking up after her rebellious teenage daughter, Dani. Dressed in her standard T-shirt and jeans, Shelly was tall and leggy, and moved with the lean grace of a woman who was physically active. Sun had streaked her chestnut hair, tethered in a ponytail. The clean-cut planes of Shelly’s face would age gracefully, her skin gleaming without cosmetics.

“Why? Why is Mitchell back? Why would he
want
to come back?”

Uma searched her thoughts and emotions about Mitchell. She could almost feel the hardness of his jaw now beneath her fingers, the way he tore her hand from him—and she’d ached over the bitter life he’d known, for the life he must have had. “He’s very quiet and watchful. I think he’s lost something, and he needs to find it. There’s a deadly quietness in him that—”

“I wondered why you came tonight. You came to warn me. I haven’t told Dani about her father.”

Uma nodded; Shelly hadn’t told anyone about her daughter’s father, including her own family, who had cast her out. An unmarried teenage mother, she’d kept her baby, supporting them by doing housework. Despite pressure to place her baby out for adoption, Shelly had never wavered beneath the gossip.

“Dani could stand a few facts of life. You shouldn’t be picking up after her.”

“We had a terrible fight. I just found out that she didn’t take her last high school exams. Her high school diploma was not in the folder they presented at graduation. I never knew she wasn’t going to class. She’s out with her friends—if you can call them that.”

Shelly shrugged carelessly, though her daughter’s behavior worried her. “She’s determined to make me pay. She calls herself a ‘bastard child,’ and she’s ruining her life. She’s got the notion that I played wild and free as a teenager. I didn’t. There was only Roman and that one night when he was hurting so.”

“She’s making you feel guilty to have her way. She’s spoiled, Shelly.”

“I know, but I guess I tried to make it up to her—not having a father, the whole town questioning her biological father, my parents not having anything to do with their own granddaughter. My mother is the only one alive now, and in the rest home. She still won’t talk to me.”

“She should. You’re paying for her stay there.”

“I do some special laundry and help out there, and pay when I can. She had Dad’s small pension, but it wasn’t enough. I hurt her deeply when I had Dani. My parents had big plans for me to go to college. Now I clean houses. And guess what? I like it better than my parents’ accounting business and office work, too. I like the movement and the feeling of being satisfied, of looking back and seeing that I’ve accomplished something. Ironing is possibly the best therapy there is.”

Shelly searched Uma’s face. “If Mitchell is back, then Roman could come, too. The Warren brothers were always close. You’re the only one who knows Roman is Dani’s father. I couldn’t trust anyone else.”

“Maybe Roman should know that he has a daughter.”

Shelly shook her head and slumped into a chair. She slowly studied her work-worn hands. “No. It was just that one night after the Warren ranch was burned and Mitchell was in the hospital. Roman needed someone, anyone. I found him in that old garage on Maloney Street—up there in the old office. He was furious with life, shaking. I didn’t know what he would do, but he touched something inside me. It wasn’t pity or sympathy, or anything like that. I gave myself to him because I wanted to. I wanted to hold and protect him and to love him. I wasn’t expecting promises of forevermore. He isn’t obligated to Dani, or to me. I’m glad he gave her to me. She’s my child, no one else’s.”

Uma took Shelly’s hand, studying the small pattern of burns. “What happened?”

“Grease splatters. Pearl was here, picking up her husband’s shirts, and I’d forgotten to turn off the stove. We were deep into the usual conversation of how good she looks and she assigned my duties with her latest charity. Then there was the usual perfect family talk, how wonderful her daughters are, how special her husband is, how much she paid for her new furniture. If we hadn’t grown up together, I don’t think we’d be friends, but I know how much she suffered from her parents—they were so cold, so demanding. I remember when she came to school, the bruises on her arms, poor little thin arms. And she has been good to us. I seem to be so distracted lately. It’s only a few little grease splatters.”

“You’re tired and you’re worried about Dani. Do you want me to talk with her?”

Shelly shook her head. “My daughter is my problem.”

“You’ve always been stubborn.” Uma crossed her arms. “I
changed her diapers often enough, and I’ve watched you struggle to raise her. I don’t know if I can keep quiet. You don’t deserve what she’s putting you through.”

“Maybe I do.” Shelly studied Uma. “You’re angry about something else. What is it?”

Uma’s fingers bit into her arms and she leaned against the kitchen counter. “Billy. You should see that house. He’s ruined it. And he’s put all of Lauren’s things into one room—just heaped them there, like trash to be tossed. It was bad enough when he sold everything possible, but to just dump her albums and life like that—At least he didn’t throw them away.”

“He always was a disgusting, drooling, zipper-down swine. He exposed himself to me one time, and I couldn’t stop laughing. He was so pathetic. That was the last time he bothered me. I think the only time I ever saw you really angry was when Billy started selling her things. He wasn’t expecting you to light into him, and that was quite the sight to see—you backing him against the wall, your finger shaking in his face while you threatened him with—what was it? ‘An eternal haunting?’ and ‘cursed with erection deficiency’?” Shelly moved to put her arms around Uma, rocking her.

“I got a little carried away. I was furious, or I’d thought of better curses.” Uma leaned her forehead against her friend’s. “He was a real dog. Lauren had no idea he was panting after every woman in town, and making passes at her friends. I don’t care what the sheriff said, in my thoughts, Billy had something to do with her death.”

“Honey,” Shelly crooned, rocking Uma. “We’re going to have to go on without her.”

“I know, but I want her killer found.”

Shelly wrapped her arms tighter around Uma. “That might never happen. We’ll have to live with that.”

“I don’t know that I can let it go. I see that man’s face over and over in my nightmares, the way the world seemed to
stop, and that old car. And I feel Lauren’s blood, sticky on my fingers, how she just crumpled like that, not a sound. I feel her needing me and I can’t do anything about it.”

“She’ll always be with us. Let me know if I can help you with her things. I loved her, too.”

“I’d better go soothe family feathers. Dad is not happy about Mitchell returning to Madrid. Or about me visiting him. He’s going to be even more angry when he learns that I’m going back to sort Lauren’s things. And yes, I’d like you to be there. In a way, I can still feel her there, waiting, as if she can’t rest until her killer is found.”