Where the Heart Leads (8 page)

The door to Sissy's office was closed, so maybe he could take a couple of minutes off to kick back and relax a little.

But before he could even pull out his chair, his phone buzzed, and Sissy—who'd apparently returned from lunch after all—announced that Chief Hruska was waiting to see him.

Rafe pushed away from his desk. What was going on? This sounded serious. Cousin Merv usually got in touch with him by phone.

He opened the door to the outer office. Mervin was standing by Sissy's desk.

“Let's go inside,” he said, swiveling a meaningful look at Sissy, who was well known for passing along whatever she heard. “This is confidential police business.”

What the hell? Rafe's mind raced through every deal he'd been involved in lately. Had Josie Apodaca's damn tarot cards told her to back out of their agreement?

He ushered his cousin into his office and closed the door firmly, then leaned back against the edge of his desk.

Mervin grabbed the extra chair and sat down on it backward.

“Keep this under your hat for now, but Rick Cabot, who's handled our pathology for the past hundred years, is retiring, and the city council is hiring a woman out of Houston, a real live forensic pathologist, to replace him. I interviewed her, and she told me the first thing she wanted to do was to go over old cases, especially those I've had second thoughts about.” Mervin cleared his throat. “You know I've never been happy with Cabot's ruling on Beth's death, so I'm going to hand the file over to the new gal on the block.”

Rafe couldn't remember how to breathe. It was like all the air had been sucked out of the room.

This was even worse than he'd imagined. His ears were ringing so loudly that if Mervin was saying anything else, he couldn't hear it. He reached out to the edge of the desk behind him to keep from falling down.

“I understand.”

But he didn't. He'd finally made his peace with God about Beth's death. It had been an accident, a crazy freak accident, and neither he nor anyone else could have prevented it. And now…

Mervin stood up to go. “It'll probably be a while before we know anything, but I wanted to keep you in the loop. It might be that nothing will come of it, but you're my cousin, and I wanted to let you know what was happening before anything hits the grapevine.”

Mervin closed the door behind him as he left, and Rafe didn't open it again till it was time to pick Delilah up from her Monday afternoon playdate with Cousin Sharon's twins.

His heart broke as he listened to Delilah, buckled into her car seat behind him, talk about finger painting in preschool this morning, then playing dollies with Sharon's girls in the afternoon. She was so happy, so innocent. He'd told her that Mommy was in heaven, but never gone into details. What could a four-year-old understand?

And now the whole town would be talking about how Beth had died, and Delilah was bound to hear some of it. There was no way he could protect her from all the grisly details, from learning that her mother hadn't just one day floated to a heaven of unending sunshine, but been killed in her own front yard while she was tending her winter flowers.

Rafe walked into the auditorium a few minutes after the appointed time and took a seat in the back row against the wall.

A painful chapter in his life had cracked open, and the theater was his choice of sanctuary. It was a place of true love and happily ever after, where problems were solved with a song and a dance and no one ever reopened a case that had been long closed—or a wound that had begun to heal.

He looked down toward the stage and noticed that Moira was having an intense conversation with the Fontaines. Whatever she was talking about with the sisters, they were happy about it, bobbing their heads like fishing corks.
Smart girl.
Xandra and Fleurette had a major case of paranoia, but they were damn good at their jobs.

Suddenly she looked up, gave him a quick nod, then turned her attention back to the black-clad danseuses

Fire flashed through him.

He dropped his eyes and checked out what was going on down front. There was no escaping the fact that the battle lines had already been drawn. The Athertons had claimed the left side of the auditorium, with Vashti sitting on the piano bench while Carmen, holding her violin bow like an unsheathed rapier, stood guard beside her. The Fontaines' forces had taken possession of the front row seats on the right side of the auditorium. Fleurette was on one side of Xandra, and Desdemona Benton, Xandra's prize student, sat on the other side, with Desdemona's brother and Buck Overton, her muscular boyfriend, completing the row.

Rafe steepled his fingers and speculated about Desdemona's romance.

Following in the footsteps of his older brother, Buck Overton had been a star halfback for Eisenhower Consolidated last year and was now taking courses at the community college in Waco. Dolph Sr. had spread it round that Buck was dating an interior design major who'd been a Cotton Palace debutante, but everyone in Bosque Bend knew he was hanging after Desdemona Benton. Maybe because she was as graceful as a doe and looked like a young Diana Ross. Maybe to irritate his father, who'd walked out on First Baptist years ago when it started welcoming nonwhites into the fold.

Rafe turned his head as his brother scooted down the row toward him.

“Hiya, bro. You look down. Bad day?”

“A lot of things happening.”

Travis folded down a seat. “I'm with ya, bro. Rocky's mother called me this evening before I left the house. She wants us to give her a lump-sum payment for the house, which I told her she's not gonna get. Theda doesn't realize she's gonna need a place to come back to if—
when
—loverboy dumps her for the next fat chicken to cross the road.”

”What's she want it for?”

“Boyfriend wants to buy a boat, supposedly so they can sail off into the sunset together.” Travis shrugged. “I can't out and out tell Rocky that I think boyfriend knows a sucker when he sees one.”

Micaela Atherton hurried down the far aisle to join her mother and sister at the piano, and Travis leapt to his feet. “Gotta go. See you later.”

Rafe watched in disbelief as his brother followed Micaela down to the Atherton stronghold. If Travis was going to run around on Rocky, at least he could be more subtle about it.

There was a stir down front as Moira picked up a list and started calling roll. Her dark voice carried to every corner of the cavernous auditorium as she repeated names, checked them off, then repeated them again, enunciating carefully.

After passing out the updated version of the script, she took her place behind the lectern. Her eyes flitted to the back of the auditorium, as if making sure he was still there.

God, she was as aware of him as he was of her.

As soon as the audience flutter quieted down, Moira introduced herself with a brief personal biography that Rafe thought was more interesting in what it didn't say than what it did.

She touched on Nancy Clancy, Twinky Applejack, and her robotic life with Johnny Blue, then mentioned UCLA, but totally omitted any mention of her life with Colin Sanger. Instead, she lowered her eyes and said in a soft tone that she was a widow.

Rafe raised a sardonic eyebrow.

All in all, it was a charming, modest presentation. But his gut told him it was also an act. But maybe his gut was wrong. Maybe he was just imagining things. After all, as Colin Sanger's wife, Moira must have lived the kind of life every woman dreams of—hobnobbing with statesmen and celebrities, visiting exotic locales, being on the arm of
People
magazine's most handsome man three years running, being in his bed…

God, maybe that was why she went hot and cold on him. Sanger must have been the consummate lover, and there was no way a Texas cowboy could compare to him.

On the other hand, he reminded himself, Sanger was no longer in the competition.

Moira called on the cast members individually and asked them to tell her a little about themselves, their theatrical experience, and what their dream role would be.

Finally, it was his turn. Moira's lips curved with humor. “And you, sir, you at the back, will you please introduce yourself?”

The room rolled with laughter. Everyone in the auditorium knew he'd taken her to Good Times the day after she came to town. Probably half of them also knew they'd had lunch together at Six-Shooter Junction today and—judging by the murmur—were busy telling the other half.

He stood up and twitched an eyebrow at her. “My name's Rafe McAllister, I've got a ranch outside of town, and I've been active in the theater guild for three years now. My dream role would be Billy Bigelow in
Carousel
, but”—he growled down to his lowest register—“I can't reach the high notes.”

The laughter was even louder this time, and Moira joined in, then stepped forward and let her voice take on an authoritative edge.

“First of all, I want all of you to turn off any handheld devices you have and pack them away.”

One of the teenagers, Stu Schlossnagel, Rafe thought, raised his hand. “But Ms. Farrar—I need my tablet to take notes on what you're saying.”

Moira gave him a beatific smile. “Stu, you'll
remember
what I say. You are an
actor
.” Rafe gave her points. Stu was testing her, but she'd reinforced her authority without humiliating him. And she'd given everyone else something to think about too—in fact, she'd made playacting sound like a divine calling.

“The ban on cell phones, tablets, or any other handheld devices applies to all rehearsals and performances—backstage and also in the greenroom. You don't want to miss a cue or”—she smiled to indicate a one-liner was coming—“have any annoying beeps or buzzes interrupting tender love scenes.”

Her audience tittered knowingly.

“I myself, however, will always be carrying a cell phone, so when you get home, please give my number to your family. Tell them to text me if there is an emergency. I promise I will contact you immediately. Every single one of you is vital to the performance, and it will be the poorer for your absence, but you and your family are more important than any show.”

Rafe was impressed. Moira understood that her community theater actors were volunteers, real people with real lives.

“Also, there will be no alcoholic beverages, no smoking of any kind, and no drugs anywhere on the premises. No excuses, no second chances. Filming can be held up while a Hollywood star recovers from an injury or goes through rehab, but a stage show doesn't have that latitude. Once that curtain opens”—she made a sweeping gesture toward the new grand drape that he'd moved heaven and earth to persuade the museum board to invest in—“the show must go on.”

There was a moment of awed silence, then thunderous applause, even from Stu. Rafe grinned. His little soldier had them in the palm of her hand. She was that good.

Moira dipped her head in modest acknowledgment and settled into a conversational tone. “Each of you has received a copy of the new script. Pen Swaim has sharpened some of the dialogue, and I asked Vashti to extend the children's dance numbers. Which reminds me—if you have kids in the show, we need to see them here in the auditorium at six thirty tomorrow. Miss Xandra and Miss Fleurette”—a nod and a smile in their direction—“have graciously agreed to rehearse the children in their studio on Tuesday and Friday evenings.

“Mrs. Atherton and I will attend these sessions, which means the adult rehearsals on those nights will not begin until eight. Later on, of course, we will need to integrate the children into the rest of the show.”

Moira looked at her notes again.

“We have just five weeks to shape up this play, but I want us to learn the songs and get the concept down pat before we add in the choreography. So let's get started. Everyone up onstage! We'll be starting with ‘Street Song.'”

She gave her audience a blinding smile. “I'll just sit back and enjoy.”

M
oira took a deep breath and sank back into her chair. The performance pressure was off her. Vashti could handle the next hour or so.

She looked at the cast list again and identified each person by name and vocal parts. The altos and basses stayed with Vashti while the sopranos and tenors off to the boardroom with Carmen and Micaela. An hour later, Vashti asked Billie Joe to bring everyone back into the auditorium so she could hear the full chorus. The fourth time through, Moira called it a day.

Vashti would have kept the chorus there all night if it had been up to her.

Several cast members came over before they left to give Moira a personal welcome to Bosque Bend, take selfies with her, and express belated condolences regarding Colin's death. As always, she told herself they meant well, fixed a sad smile on her face, and said, “Thank you. I miss him still.”

And, as always, her throat caught on the lie.

She hated being such a hypocrite, but there wasn't any other choice.

Rafe eased himself off the apron of the stage. “Tired?”

“Drained.” She always was after a performance, and this had been an important one.

“You did great—kept your cool with Stu, turned the Fontaines up sweet, and gave Vashti the rein she needed without letting her take over the show.”

“Thanks.” Moira gathered up the leftover scripts and reached for her portfolio. “Once I started talking, I really got into the swing of it. It was like an opening night—the Moira Miranda Farrar show.” She let her shoulders slump. “But now I feel like a deflated balloon.”

Rafe put a supportive arm around her as they walked up the aisle. “Lean on me.”

She moved closer to him. She wished she could lean on him in other ways too. She wished she could tell him about Colin. But no, that was her one allegiance left to the king of Hollywood—that she would never tell. Anyone. She pushed the self-locking door closed, and they walked down the stairs, out of the museum, and across the street. A floodlight illuminated the other end of the parking lot, where two male figures lounged against the light pole.

Moira clicked her car door, but before she could open it, Rafe's arms enfolded her. Day and night disappeared. Her good sense flew out the window, and she molded herself to him all the way down.

His tongue traced the outline of her lips, and her heart skipped a beat. Then he kissed her, gently, as if she were something rare and wonderful. His kiss deepened and she melted into his arms. This could go somewhere, and she was ready for it.

Kissy squeals emanated from the other end of the parking lot, and Rafe pulled away from her. “Stay here. I think I know one of those guys.”

He walked toward the floodlight. The shorter one seemed jumpy, ready to run, but the tall, muscular one took a drag on his cigarette, looked in their direction, and held his ground.

Rafe's hair blazed fire as he stepped into the bright light, and his deep, vibrant voice rang out like a death knell. “Sammy Schuler, isn't it? Grady's son?”

The kid's head jerked in recognition, his bravado disappeared, and he couldn't talk fast enough. “Yes, sir, Cousin Rafe, sir. Didn't mean nothin', sir. Just funnin'. Didn't realize it was you, sir.” Moira moved in closer. She had to be in on this.

Rafe's voice softened. “Sammy, you out here every night?”

“Yes, sir. Me and some of the guys—we sorta hang here.” He shrugged. “Nothin' else to do.”

Rafe took Moira's hand and drew her forward. “Sammy, Ms. Farrar here is my friend, but I can't be at the museum midweek so I want you to keep an eye on her. If she ever comes out of that door alone, you walk her to her car. Agreed?”

The teen's chest swelled with relief and responsibility. “You can depend on me, Cousin Rafe.”

Moira had turned Darth Vader off so she could sleep late in the morning, but she hadn't thought to turn off her cell, and it was buzzing like a hive of angry bees.

She reached out to grab it from her bed stand, hit Talk, then lost her grip on the phone and knocked it off onto the floor. Scooting to the edge of her bed, she picked it up and stared at the caller ID.

The number was local—Rafe? The phone buzzed again.

“Hello?”

A lilting voice answered her. “Oh my God, hon—you sound awful. Are you sick? This is Rocky, and I just called a second ago, and it sounded like something terrible had happened. Do you need help? Do you need me to come over to the house and take care of you?”

Take care of her? How sweet can you get. Is this what Texans were like?

“Thanks, Rocky, but I always sound like a frog right when I wake up in the morning, and that crashing sound was me fumbling for the phone.”

“I woke you up? Oh, hon—I'm so sorry!”

Moira swallowed to clear her throat. “No problem. Uh—everyone okay at the ranch?”

Is Rafe okay?

Rocky laughed. “As far as I know—and believe me, I know more than anyone else. After all, I'm the only live-in hand. Listen, hon, the reason I called was that I wanted to see if I could take you and Astrid out to lunch at Calico Cat today. I've got to go into town to pick up a load of salt blocks at the feed store so I thought it would be a chance for the three of us to get together.”

“I'd love to, and I know Astrid would too, but she won't be home till about one thirty. Could we do Starbucks instead, maybe two o'clock?”

“No prob, hon. In fact, that will work better for me too. Gives me time to check out the bulls before I drive in to town. We've added in a new boy, and I want to be sure he's not giving the older guys any lip.”

“Uh—okay.” Too much information when she was still half asleep. “I'll wake up for real now and see you at Starbucks this afternoon.”

Two lunch invitations in two days. Either Bosque Bend was a very friendly town or she was a very welcome commodity. She hoped it was a little of each.

Rocky stood up when Moira and Astrid came in the door and waved them to the table. Apparently she'd finished her ranch shopping early because she already had an orange plastic cup and a glazed doughnut in front of her.

She was dressed for her role again, Moira noticed, in a yoked shirt, Dale Evans divided skirt, and turquoise-colored cowboy boots. A soft suede jacket with fringed sleeves hung on the back of her chair.

Moira and Astrid placed their orders, waited at the counter for them to be prepared, then walked over to join Rocky. Astrid seized Rocky's hand as soon as they sat down and examined her nails. “Purple and blue with a football across the middle. What's it all about?”

Rocky laughed. “It's the Generals, the Eisenhower Consolidated Generals—my high school team. We're replaying Waco in bi-district this year.” Rocky laughed. “Waco and Eisenhower Consolidated are traditional enemies, so everyone in town is excited about it.” She raised her hand like she was shaking a pom-pom. “Go, Generals!”

Rocky laughed again and took a sip of what Moira recognized as Starbucks' featured Halloween concoction, then made a sour face at the cup. “Guess I'm the reckless type,” she said. “I'll try anything once—or even twice.”

She laughed and took another sip, then glanced around impishly and dropped her voice to a semi-whisper. “And not just Halloween drinks. I tried a lot of things in high school. I was really naughty. All the boys in Eisenhower Consolidated were after me, and I liked them too.” She twiddled the plastic stick in the lid of her drink and sighed. “High school. Those were fun times.” She gave her guests a sly-faced look. “Y'all know what I mean.”

Moira nodded and smiled, but no, she really had no idea what Rocky meant. Astrid might—she'd gone to public school, although Moira knew her sister hadn't made many friends and rarely dated—but she herself had never been to a brick-and-mortar school. Instead, she'd been educated between takes by a series of earnest, conscientious studio tutors who spent most of the class time marveling at her total recall.

Big deal. Memorization had been her job.

What she'd yearned for—hungered for—was contact with kids her own age—real kids, not underage actors. For better or worse, she wished she'd had Rocky's kind of experience. What would it be like to be part of a classroom? To go out to recess rather than out to auditions? To have a best friend that she shared all her secrets with? To have a crush on the cutest boy in class rather than an actor who'd been cast as your boyfriend, but who broke your heart by ignoring you off set?

God, Rocky must have been the live wire of her group—wickedly funny, always laughing. A real entertainer.

Rocky took a third swallow of her drink and stuck out her tongue. “Three strikes and it's out. I don't think I'm gonna try this one any time soon. It tastes like Enid McAllister's eggnog.” She pushed the cup away and laughed, a musical trill up the scale. “You've never lived till you've had to make a toast with it on Christmas Eve. Enid's a dear and I adore her, but I wish she'd destroy whatever 4-H bulletin she got that recipe from.”

Rocky laughed again, and Moira couldn't help but laugh along with her.

She's madcap. Way too young, of course, but I'd love to cast her as Auntie Mame.

Astrid finished off her scone and wiped her fingers on a napkin. “Were you in 4-H like Rafe and Travis?”

Rocky backed off in mock dismay. “Me? No way. I was too busy on the ranch. Pa had me herding cattle. Besides, I've never had a yearning to make my own clothes or paste old photos onto cardboard and hang them in my living room.”

She laughed again, and Moira laughed too. Rocky was so wicked.

She gave Moira a mischievous smile. “Well, enough about me. Tell me, little Nancy Clancy, how are you adjusting to life in the sticks? I hear that Rafe took you to Six-Shooter Junction yesterday and that last night you two stayed late in the dark museum after everyone else had left.”

Moira took an extra second swallowing a bite of croissant. She could say something out of left field, like that she and Rafe had reenacted the love scene from
Pretty Woman
on the back of the baby grand piano, but she smiled and played it safe. “Rafe's been very charming.”

Rocky's expression turned serious, and her blue eyes clouded with concern.

“Be careful, hon. Rafe's my brother-in-law, and I love him to death—but I have to tell you that Rafe's been tomcatting all over town for the past three years and the relationships never last more than a couple of months. He's still hung up on Beth, may she rest in peace.”

“Did you know her?”

“She was my best friend.”

“What was she like?”

Rocky looked into space as if searching through the past. “Beth was one of those golden girls—she had everything. Her parents lived in a big house in the new section of Lynnwood, up on the hill—three-car garage, swimming pool, hot tub, the works. She was smart in school too and had a beautiful singing voice, and of course, she married Rafe.”

“Did she have many friends?”

Rocky nodded and her golden-brown curls shimmered in the overhead light. “Beth was the most popular girl in Eisenhower Consolidated. If she had ever run for cheerleader—which she didn't because her preacher disapproved of the short skirts the cheerleaders wore—she would have been elected by a landslide.” Rocky's voice broke. “I miss her. I really wish she hadn't gone and gotten herself killed.” She managed an apologetic half smile. “Sorry to be such a downer, y'all. I didn't mean to talk about all that.”

It was an awkward moment. Moira painted a smile on her face and searched for a happier topic. “What about you, Rocky? Have you and Travis been married long?”

“Four years.” Rocky looked out from under her lashes and grinned coyly. “We eloped to Waco one weekend. Ma was our only witness.”

“And you've lived at the ranch ever since?”

She nodded. “Yeah, in the foreman's house.” She leaned across the table, and her voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. “I'll tell y'all a secret—I'd be a lot better foreman than Travis is. Rafe should have hired me. I could take care of that panther that's been hanging around in a second.”

Her thumb and forefinger mimicked shooting a pistol. “Yippee-kay-yay-kay-yo!
Pow!
” The women at the next table looked around as Rocky pretended she was blowing smoke off the muzzle of a gun.

“That's how Pa brought me up, to do whatever needed doing. Me and my cousin—he lives in San Saba now—were the only ranch hands Pa had. Herd them, brand them, worm them, cut them—I can do it all.” She laughed. “Yeah, I was a real tomboy till I discovered how much fun boys were.” She winked knowingly. “Boy, howdy, I can tell you I sure was glad when Ma moved into town and I started at Eisenhower Consolidated. A whole school full of hot boys!”

Astrid waved her hand—probably to draw attention to her manicure—tiny pink roses edging one side of a leaf-green background—and broke into the conversation. “Moira said we're living in your old house.”

Rocky nodded. “Yep. Rafe bought it back from Ma when she moved to Florida, and I've still got an extra key somewhere, if you need it.”

“Florida? She's retired?”

Rocky smiled. “Better than that. Ma moved there to be with her soul mate. They're gonna start a boat tour business.” She laughed and held her nose. “No more stinky cowboys for her!

“That reminds me, y'all. I'll tell you a good one on Rafe and Travis when they were in high school.” Her blue eyes sparkled with amusement.

“They were doing the 4-H thing, of course, and each of them had a steer in the stock show. Their pens were across from each other, and they got to feeling way too good while they were mucking the pens out and started swishing cow pat at each other across the aisle. Splattered wet poop all over each other and anyone else who was passing through. Oh my God, they were sliding and rolling around in the stuff and laughing like crazy!”