Chapter Eleven

A week after the summer carnival, Marlie had forgotten the odd exchange with Tate in the shadowed field outside the high school. So busy, it was somewhat unsettling to discover she hadn’t thought of him much at all in the past week. Only five or six times a day, maximum.

As she opened the door to reveal an irritable, rumpled county sheriff, that odd, little encounter came rushing back to her mind.

“What in the world…?”

Brushing past a wide-eyed Marlie, Tate stomped into the tiny kitchen and turned to face her. “Have you found a place in Lexington?”

“Lexington?” she repeated, her smooth brow furrowing. “No. I’m not moving to Lexington.”

Tate’s eyes closed and the tension left his body.

“I’m moving to Frankfort.”

His eyes flew open and he stood ramrod straight. “Frankfort?” he repeated, studying her face.

“Yes. I’m making an offer on a house tomorrow. I’ve already got a job lined up and—”

“No.”

Marlie’s eyes went cold. Slowly, carefully, she said, “Excuse me?”

“No.” Tate advanced on her, cornering her against the door. “I’m sorry, Marlie. But there’s no way you can leave here.”

“I fail to see why not,” she said, her voice quivering just slightly. Her eyes darted across his face and her thoughts stumbled to a stop at the look in his eyes. She’d seen a look like that before, a look full of heat and promise and need. One full of love. The looks she so envied between Jazz and Anne-Marie.

Slowly, Tate traced the line of her face with his hand as he spoke in an offhand manner. “I always thought I had plenty of time. You weren’t going anywhere and you never went out with anybody.” Long fingers buried themselves in her hair, joined by his other hand as he lowered his head, brushed his mouth across hers gently.

“Looks like I don’t have as much time as I thought.” Then, using his hold on her hair, Tate angled Marlie’s face up and covered her mouth. Sweet, he thought, nibbling at her mouth until her lips parted on a shuddering sigh. As he steeped himself in the taste of her, Tate eased her slim body up until she was pressed against him.

“Kiss me back, Marlie,” he whispered, dragging his mouth to her ear. Reaching between them, he laid his hand on her chest, felt the rapid pounding of her heart under his hand. “Haven’t you ever wondered?”

Oh, my. Her head falling back, all coherent thought gone, Marlie decided that she was dreaming. There was no way on earth that she was standing here, in this tiny kitchen, with Tate kissing her.

When his mouth covered hers a second time, Marlie trembled. At first, she stood there passively, hands clenching tightly at her sides, but need and curiosity overtook her. Rising on her toes, she returned his kiss, shy and quick. Her tongue darted out to taste him before withdrawing. Pulling back, Marlie stared up at him. Those warm, brown eyes weren’t warm anymore. They were hot.

Rising on her toes again, she pressed her mouth back to his, nibbling delicately at his lip before tentatively exploring within. His hands fisted in her hair as he pressed her back against the door, his large body leaning into hers.

“Don’t go to Frankfort, Marlie,” Tate whispered, pulling away and staring into her eyes. Everything he’d always dreamed of seeing was there. The love he had felt for her almost his entire life was returned in hers, along with nerves and disbelief.

Cupping her face with his hand, Tate rained butterfly kisses over her cheeks and eyes before homing in on her mouth for a sweet, innocent kiss. Moments later, Marlie turned her head aside. She had to know. She was dreaming and asking him would shatter the dream and she would wake up and go on with her life, without Tate, as always.

“Why?”

A slow smile spread across his face as he eased her back against him. “Because I’d hate living in Frankfort and so would you. This is your home. Our home.”

Voice quavering, Marlie said, “Nobody said anything about you moving to Frankfort.”

Her breath left her in a startled rush as Tate swung her up in his arms, carrying her to the table. Lowering himself into the rickety chair, Tate settled Marlie against him, telling her, “I wouldn’t have much choice in the matter, Marlie. I’ll go where you go.”

Okay. I’ll wake up any minute now, Marlie thought.

But she wasn’t dreaming. No dream could be this vivid. And even as much as she loved him, hungered for him, needed him, Marlie wouldn’t dare dream something like this. He was so far out of her reach; a fish flying was more likely.

Tate lowered his head to hers and bussed her mouth with his as a tear welled up and spilled over. “I love you. I have for as long as I can remember. There’s only been you, Marlie.”

 

 

Marlie smiled nervously at Ella as she poured her a glass of wine; it was a pretty, deep red color that caught the light. Raising it to her lips, she sipped tentatively, and then more boldly as a riot of flavors burst on her tongue. “Oh, my. This is wonderful, Mrs. McNeil.”

“Ella,” she corrected, raising her own glass. Swirling, sipping, approving, she then lowered the wine glass back to the table. “After all, we’re going to be family.” She smiled at her son as he strolled through the door. “So hard to believe, you getting married.”

Tate paused by her chair and brushed her smooth cheek with his mouth before going to Marlie and lowering himself to her side. “It’s not hard for me,” he said, raising Marlie’s hand to his lips. “I’ve been planning it from the first time I saw her, Mama.”

“Since you were all of five years old, hmm? And Marlie was maybe three?” Ella asked, amused.

Seriously, Tate said, “That sounds about right.” Nibbling at her knuckles, he added, “That’s why we’re having a short engagement. Been waiting too long as it is.”

Marlie’s cheeks colored and she pulled her hand away, casting Ella a glance. Could this really be happening? she wondered, raising the wine once more. Over the rim of the glass, Tate’s eyes met hers, full of warmth and promises. Yes. It’s real.

“Have you any idea what sort of wedding dress you would like?” Ella asked, a faraway smile on her face. “I always dreamed of helping plan a wedding.”

“I’d be more than grateful for any help you can give me,” Marlie offered shyly. “I have no clue how to begin.”

Settling back in his chair, Tate snagged Marlie’s wineglass and drank half of it while his mother and fiancée talked of silk and lace. After a few moments, Marlie’s face lost its stiffness and she became more animated. She was so beautiful. And his.

Mine, he thought again, his fingers curling around the delicate stem of the glass.

“Just think, this time next week, we’ll be at Jazz and Anne-Marie’s wedding,” Ella mused. “You’d think it was spring, with all these weddings going on.”

“I saw her dress,” Marlie said. “She looked so beautiful. Pure white, lace and pearls.”

Ella’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully as Marlie described the dress. “I’ve seen something similar to that in Lexington.”

Flushing, Marlie laughed and shook her head. “That’s not for me. I want something simple. Ivory, I think.”

“Wise choice,” Ella decided after a moment. “Nothing too fussy. Understated elegance, that’s what we need for you. Perhaps we could go looking…?”

“Oh, I’d love that. But Mama…” Marlie said quietly, a little worried.

Ella smiled. “She’ll go, too. We’ll make a day of it. How about the weekend after next?”

Tate’s thoughts drifted away as they spoke, his contentment fading as his mind focused on the case. Who had killed Larry Muldoon? Mind spinning, he offered occasional ‘hmms’ and ‘uh-huhs’ as he laid it out piece by piece in his mind.

“…your hair?”

His eyes flew up from the wineglass he had been studying without seeing it. Reaching out, he brushed his hand down Marlie’s silvery blonde locks. “I’d like it down,” he said quietly, twining a thick ribbon of hair around his finger. “You’ve got the most beautiful hair.”

As her future daughter-in-law flushed and flirted shyly with Tate, Ella settled back in her seat with a smile on her face.

 

 

Jazz stumbled up the steps, his arm thrown across Tate’s shoulders for balance. “How come there’s so many stairs?” he mumbled. “I coulda swore there were only three of them earlier.”

“There’s only three now, cuz,” Tate replied, half-dragging Jazz’s body up those three stairs. “Damn it, Jazz. Lose some weight.”

His drunken laugh ended abruptly as he banged his elbow on the doorjamb when Tate let go to dig out his keys. “Bastard,” he mumbled, nursing his stinging elbow and glaring at the shadow of his cousin.

“Sue me,” Tate offered, jamming the key in the lock and turning it. “Now quiet down or you’ll wake up Mabel and Mariah.”

“Not my fault ya’ll wanted to throw some hokey party,” Jazz said as he stumbled through the door. “Six more days, Tate. And she’s all mine.”

Shooting his cousin an amused glance, Tate said, “Hell, she’s always been yours. She—”

The drunken cloud faded from Jazz’s mind as he laid one hand on the banister. The silence echoed in his ears, unbelievably loud. Something was wrong…

He looked up, his eyes focusing halfway up the staircase to a single bloody red swipe that marred the soft yellow paint. A thick silence filled the house and Jazz could swear he heard his own heart stop.

Tate grew aware of it just as Jazz did, reaching inside his jacket for his gun. “Get out,” he said flatly. “Call dispatch.”

“Hell I will,” Jazz said, shaking his head and scrubbing his hands over his face. “My home, Tate.” He tore off up the stairs at a run, Tate’s muttered curse and booted feet close behind.

Throwing open the door, he lunged for Mariah’s bedside. “She’s fine,” Tate said low, gripping his arm from behind as Mariah’s soft, gentle snores filled the room. “Will you stay here?”

“Where’s Mabel?” he asked quietly. “She would have met us at the door. I know her.”

“Stay with Mariah. What if he’s still here?” Tate ordered, his voice full of authority as he reached for the phone. In a quiet voice, he issued orders before turning and studying Jazz. He still stood there, staring down at the sleeping body of his daughter.

As they watched, her face puckered in a frown and she mumbled something before flopping over on her side, dislodging her little, ragdoll. Cherries went tumbling to the floor.

The head of the doll was missing, replaced by a gaping hole that spilled white, cotton stuffing. Slowly, Jazz lowered himself to his knees and lifted the beheaded doll. “Find Mabel, Tate. Find her now.”

Tate didn’t have to look far.

Sturdy, old Mabel, her smooth, brown face was still and cold. Frozen in an expression of pure shock as she lay on her back in the bathroom just down the hall from Mariah’s room. By her outstretched hand was the missing doll head.

Tate’s eyes fastened on the little piece of metal protruding from the doll’s head. Then his eyes locked on the nail gun lying by the door. Finally, he turned and focused on the macabre sight of Mabel Winslow laying in a sprawl in the middle of the floor, her eyes rolled up, as if trying to see the nail that shot into her skull.

Blood and gore splattered the bathtub behind her from where she had fallen and hit the tub with her head.

Pausing, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. And then he backed out of the bathroom. “Jazz, I’d advise you to call Anne-Marie to come get Mariah.”

 

 

The whole town was silent, nervous. People shot each other suspicious looks and glanced over their shoulders often.

Instead of a wedding, the rainy Saturday had a funeral scheduled. Ayeisha Winslow dabbed at her streaming eyes with a handkerchief, staring at the headstone inscribed with her mama’s name. There was no body. The body couldn’t be released yet, but Ayeisha had gone ahead with the funeral without the body.

The body.

Oh, God. Mama.

“You’ll find who killed my mama, Sheriff McNeil,” she said softly to the man standing next to her. He stood there, quiet and somber, his hat in his hands and his head bowed. When she spoke, he looked up from the headstone and nodded. “I will find him, Ayeisha. I promise.”

Though the minister had spoken his final words some time back, people still crowded around the headstone, out of respect, shock, grief and curiosity. Mabel Winslow had been a fixture in this town, much like Betsy Crane.

Softly, he said once more, “I’ll find him, Ayeisha.”

Nodding once, her proud chin went up in the air. “I’ll hold you to that.” Across the grass, she met the tearful gaze of Betsy Crane. Her silly, red hair was covered by a wide-brimmed hat draped with black netting. It didn’t surprise Ayeisha to see tears in those eyes. Querulous bigot that Betsy was, Betsy had, in her own weird way, really liked Mabel, liked arguing with her, liked insulting her, liked pretending to dislike her.

Mabel had known, as did Ayeisha.

A tear spilled out of her eyes, trickled down her cheek as she moved across the wet grass to the headstone. Laying her hand on it, she closed her eyes. “Mama, Tate’s gonna find who did this. I promise.”

 

 

Anne-Marie stood in the Winslow kitchen side by side with Marlie, slicing a loaf of fresh-baked bread. “I just don’t understand it,” she whispered. “Who could kill Mabel? And why?”

“I don’t know.” Marlie’s voice was husky and thick with tears. “It just doesn’t make any sense.”

Casting a look over her shoulder, Anne-Marie studied Jazz’s averted profile. “He’s blaming himself. He keeps trying to pull away from me. I think he’s trying to protect me. Whoever did this, did it to get to him.”

Quietly, making sure nobody could overhear, Marlie murmured, “Tate’s stumped. There are no prints, no connection, really, other than Jazz.”

Anne-Marie’s reply cut off as Ella entered the room, looking ten years older. Marlie went to Ella and hugged her. “It’s going to be okay, Ella. Tate will find out who did it.”

Reaching up, Ella stroked her carefully tinted hair. “She just did my hair last week,” she whispered, stricken. “We went to school together. She was too young…

“It just doesn’t make any sense. What in the world is happening to Briarwood, Marlie?” Ella asked, turning away, staring out into the miserable rain.

 

 

Three weeks passed, three terror-filled, endless weeks. No evidence, no suspects. Nothing. The silence hadn’t lulled anybody into thinking it was over. Instead, people became jumpier and meaner and just plain dangerous. Tate raised his head, staring into the cells across the room from his desk. All three were full.

That simply didn’t happen in Briarwood, Friday night or not.

The thin, early morning light shone through the windows as the three drunks continued sleeping it off. The damage done at the bar had been light, this time. But one man was in the hospital after Bobby Mason had broken his hand.

Tempers were flying high, fear filled every face Tate saw, and there was no end in sight.

God, he wanted this over.

He wanted to marry Marlie, take her to bed, and wake up wrapped around her, no thoughts on his mind save for making love to her again.

Instead, the weddings, both his and Jazz’s, had been postponed.

“What am I missing?” he asked himself, locking his hands behind his neck and staring down at the reports on his desk.

With a sour laugh, Tate admitted there wasn’t much to miss. No evidence. No hairs. No fibers. The nail gun had come from Jazz’s toolbox out in the garage. The only prints were his. And, thank God, Jazz had a good alibi for that night.

When the phone rang, Tate reached for it automatically. “McNeil here.”

“Tate.”

The fear in Marlie’s voice had him on his feet. “What’s wrong?”

“Tate…I need you to come out here.”

“What’s wrong?” he demanded, the fear filling his gut making him ill.

“Please come.”

And the line went dead. He slammed it down and was out of the station house in seconds.

When he arrived at Marlie’s, he found her sitting in her twin bed, surrounded by locks of pale blonde hair. Her beautiful hair had been hacked away, in some places leaving it hardly longer than an inch. As her eyes met his, he saw they brimmed with confusion and terror. They were oddly dazed, the pupils were wide, not contracted at all when he lifted the shade, letting light flood the room.

“Somebody cut my hair,” she whispered, reaching up one hand to touch her scalp. “I was sleeping and they just cut it off.”

“Honey.” It was hard to remember he had to be a cop now, hard to remember he had a job to do, when it was his woman sitting there, her eyes filled with fear and confusion.

“I called Anne-Marie,” she whispered softly, her voice singsong. “I don’t know why.”

“What in the hell…?”

Tate’s eyes turned to see Anne-Marie standing in the doorway. It shook him to discover he hadn’t even heard her drive up. “Somebody is going to pay for this,” he said, rising, lifting Marlie’s shaking form in his arms.

“Mama?” Marlie asked, lifting her shorn head from Tate’s shoulder. “Is Mama okay?”

“I’m sure she is,” Anne-Marie said quietly. “I’ll go check on her.”

Tate settled in the living room after making his call to Darla. Anne-Marie found him there, rocking Marlie back and forth while the young woman whimpered in his arms.

“Tate.”

He jerked his head around at Anne-Marie’s voice, feeling the color drain from his face. Please, God, no.

“Naomi’s not there,” Anne-Marie whispered quietly, casting Marlie a troubled glance. “Not anywhere.”

 

 

With a jerk, Tate pulled down the yellow police tape and stood aside as Jazz unlocked the door.

“What are we looking for?” Jazz asked as he entered the house.

I don’t want to be here, he thought, staring at the red smear on the wall. It was Mabel’s blood and brain matter, smeared there by her killer to torment Jazz.

“I really don’t know,” Tate responded, shaking his head, walking around the living room. “There has got to be something.”

“How is Marlie?”

“Holding up. Laura fixed her hair and…”

“You don’t give a damn about her hair,” Jazz interrupted when Tate’s voice trailed off. “I can’t make any sense of it. Why cut her hair off? Why let her mama go off wandering around alone? The woman’s lucky she ain’t dead somewhere.”

“I know. It’s got Marlie all torn up inside. I just can’t figure out how they connect to you.”

“Neither can I.” Turning away, Jazz studied the painting that Mariah had picked out at a flea market. In the glass, he could dimly see Tate’s reflection as he wandered the room.

“This just doesn’t make any sense.”

Mumbling, pacing back and forth over the floor, Tate said, “There’s a connection here somewhere. I know it. We’re probably looking right at it.”

It took two days for them to find Mrs. Muldoon, and then she ended up in the hospital for dehydration and exposure. Tate got nothing from her. From the looks of her, she had done nothing more than wander around, until she was seen by a passing truck driver. The trucker had recognized her from a picture in the local paper when he stopped at the small park where Naomi had stopped to splash in the water like a child.

A few more days…she would have likely died. Her mind was too far gone to remember things like food and water, even the basics of shelter.

The killer had most likely known that.

 

 

“Anne, I can go home. I’m fine,” Marlie insisted, following Anne-Marie down the hall, a frown creasing her face.

Turning on her heel, Anne-Marie studied that pale face dispassionately and decided, “The hell you are.”

Determined, Marlie said, “I am not going to spend the rest of my life hiding because some nut snuck up on me while I was sleeping and cut my hair.”

“He could have cut more than that,” Anne-Marie said, jamming her arms into the sleeves of her jacket.

“Don’t you think I know that?” Marlie asked quietly, arms held stiffly at her sides, hands clenched into fists. “Don’t you think I’ve had nightmares about that? My God, I wake up expecting to find my throat slit.”

The sheer terror in Marlie’s voice slowed Anne-Marie’s steps. One hand resting on the newel post, Anne-Marie stared straight ahead. It wasn’t a stretch of the imagination, not by any means. The worse thing was that it was nowhere near being over. “All the more reason for you not to be alone,” she finally said, turning to study the face of her new friend.

“If he wants me bad enough, he’s going to get me, regardless of where I am. I can’t spend my life hiding because of this. My God, you and Jazz put your wedding off. Because of this,” she said, frowning, reaching up to touch her shorn cap of hair.

“Marlie. Stay here. Please,” Anne-Marie said tiredly. Dragging a hand over her neat braid, she sighed. Studying her face in the decorative mirror, she shook her head. “You and your mom are safer here with me and Dad.”

“We’ve been here three weeks already. We can’t stay here indefinitely. I want to plan my wedding. I want to dance at yours. Are we going to let this end our lives?”

“They’ll find out who is doing this,” Anne-Marie responded.

“And if they don’t? It’s been months since it all started. And Tate, God help him, still doesn’t have a clue who did it”

“Don’t have much faith in your man, do you, Marlie?”

“I have complete faith in him. But I don’t want to put my life on hold, waiting for him to finish this. Anne-Marie, I need to go back to my own house.”

“Not yet.”

“Anne-Marie—”

“Please, just a bit longer. Something’s going to happen soon, I know it.”

 

 

One hand on the wheel, Anne-Marie hissed out an irritated breath while she rooted through her bag for her cell phone. “Damn it!” she muttered, smacking her hand against the console before upending the bag and sifting through the contents.

It wasn’t there. Where in the hell had she put it? Gee, Jazz was going to roast her alive. She’d promised she wouldn’t leave the house without the cell phone.

She glanced at the clock on the dash. It had only been a few minutes since she took the call from the new nurse at the hospital. “Five minutes. It’ll just take me five minutes to go back—

“Damnation!” she shouted, jerking the wheel to the side and slamming on the brakes. The impact was expected. She’d been going too fast to stop completely. Still, when she hit the huge, old oak, her brain ceased to function for a moment, just out of shock.

She teetered for a brief moment at the top of the hill, the passenger’s side wedged up against the tree. With a grinding noise of metal on metal, the car careened the rest of the way down the embankment, settling nose first into the creek. She had only a moment to be thankful it hadn’t been a wet summer before the shock settled and blackness closed in around her.

The gray mist was receding when a familiar voice spoke from just outside the car door, a few feet away on the bank.

“You really should learn to slow down a bit, Anne-Marie. Be more careful.”

 

 

“What do you mean, there’s no emergency?” Jazz repeated, his voice rising. Hand clenched tightly around the phone, he said through gritted teeth, “Marlie was here when the new nurse called and said she hadn’t been able to reach Jake Hart and there was an emergency.”

“I’m sorry,” the unit secretary said. “I don’t know what new nurse you’re talking about. There aren’t any new nurses here. And there’s been no emergency today for any of Dr. Kincaid’s or Dr. Hart’s patients.”

“No emergency.” Slamming down the receiver, he turned on Marlie. “What time was the phone call?”

“Three thirty,” she whispered, her face bloodless. “There’s no emergency. No new nurse.”

“No.” Snatching the phone back up, Jazz dialed Tate’s cell phone.

“She’s been gone four hours,” Jazz said testily after Tate told him to calm down. “She’s not at the hospital. Not at her house. I call her cell phone and get a damned ‘out of area’ message. He’s got her, Tate.”

“I’m heading out,” Tate said. “Stay with Marlie—”

“The hell I will. That’s my woman out there…” The heated anger in Jazz’s voice died away as he turned to study Marlie Muldoon, standing a few feet away with her arm around her mother, tiny and fragile. “Damn it, Tate.”

“Go find my daughter,” a soft voice said from the doorway.

“Sir, I can’t leave Marlie alone here.”

“It’s not Marlie he wants,” Desmond said. “It never was. All of this has revolved around you, Jazz.” As he spoke, he reached down, just out of Jazz’s sight, lifting the heavy, well-oiled shotgun Jazz had always seen hanging above the desk in Desmond’s study. “Besides, boy. I ain’t exactly helpless.”

 

 

It was a wonder he saw it, driving as fast as he was. But that flash of red, all but hidden from sight by trees and brush, caught Jazz’s eyes as he sped down the lane. Slamming the car into reverse, he backed up until he caught the glimpse of red again. But it wasn’t the red paint that caught his eye this time.

It was the torn and mangled bushes, the tree with huge patches of bark missing, the pale under-skin of the tree married with black streaks and flecks of red paint and metal.

“Jesus,” he whispered as he fought his way through the tangled undergrowth.

It was Anne-Marie’s beloved Mustang, the body torn and mangled, all but buried in the deep creek bed that ran just inside the tree line. Only a breath of the trunk was visible from the roadside. Half submerged in the water, it sat empty.

“Anne-Marie!” he shouted, frantically searching the banks with his eyes after a quick glance inside the car confirmed it to be empty. “Anne-Marie!”

Splashing his way across the shallow, drought-depleted creek, Jazz’s frantic search came to an abrupt halt.

There, lying on the pebble-strewn bank was Anne-Marie’s pearl necklace.

 

 

Tate stood in the silent living room of his house, the house he’d grown up in—the “For Sale” sign out front next to another sign announcing an “Open House” every Sunday from one to three.

His hand closed convulsively around his cell phone and he lowered his lids, blocking out the room and the pictures on the walls. They hadn’t found Anne-Marie. A rain had blown up shortly after dusk and washed away the scent before they had time to utilize the dogs.

Returning home only to refuel and change out of his mud and rain-stiffened uniform, he had come to an empty house.

Now, opening his eyes, staring at the pictures on the wall, the missing piece of the puzzle finally fell into place.

 

 

Jazz rubbed his gritty eyes once more before reaching for the thick brew that passed as coffee on the days Darla wasn’t there to brew it. Knocking it back, grimacing at the taste, he willed the phone to ring. Willed the door to open to one of the searchers carrying Anne-Marie.

But when the door did open, it revealed his cousin. The odd, blank expression in Tate’s eyes had cold chills running down his spine. Oh, God, no, he prayed silently as he rose once more.

“Anne-Marie? Have they found her?” Jazz was almost afraid to ask, and at the same time, afraid not to.

“I think I know where she is,” Tate said, his voice flat, his eyes cold. “Come on. We don’t have much time.”

“Where is she?” Jazz asked, lunging for Tate and seizing him by the collar of his shirt. “Who has her?”

Tate’s hands reached up, closing over Jazz’s wrists. But he did little more than hold on as he stared into the face so like his own. “My mother,” he said flatly.

 

 

Staring into those calm, gray eyes, seeing no remorse, seeing no regret, seeing no emotion at all, was the most frightening experience of Anne-Marie’s life. Her mind was still befuddled, still trying to grasp the idea that Ella McNeil was the one responsible for all this.

Ella McNeil.

Nearly twenty-four hours had passed since she’d crashed into the tree, twenty-four hours since she had, at gunpoint, climbed from the mangled wreck of her car. Ella had been waiting for her, looking cool and chic in a silk, khaki camp shirt and jodhpurs.

“Aren’t you going to ask why?” Ella asked, cocking her head, her honey blonde hair falling around her shoulders. She sat across from Anne-Marie, one leg crossed over the other while she sipped from a tin cup of tea.

“Does it really matter?” Anne-Marie asked. “If I’m going to die, knowing why won’t bring me back.”

With a shrug of her shoulders, Ella said, “Most people would want to know why. I imagine I would.”

“I already know the gist of it,” Anne-Marie responded. She flexed her arms again, straining against the steel cuffs on her wrists. “I’m going to die because you are a certified lunatic.”

“Now, darling, I’m not crazy,” Ella said, her tinkling laugh sounding in the air.

“You’re right,” Anne agreed. “You’re freaking psychotic.”

“I’m sure you think so.” A cool smile crossed Ella’s face, chilling Anne-Marie clear through. Sipping from her tea, she lifted her shoulders in an elegant, casual shrug. “And I suppose I can’t blame you for thinking so. I must say, though, Anne-Marie, I thought you were too smart to fall in love with a man like Jasper McNeil.”

“What kind of man is that?”

Ella merely gave her a long silent look. Setting the cup aside, she rose, smoothing her slim-fitting khakis down as she moved across the wooden floor to look out the window. “I’d intended you for Tate, you know. You had no right to give yourself to Jazz.”

“Excuse me?” Anne-Marie asked, her voice frosty. “I really don’t see how you had any say in the matter.”

Brushing her comment aside, Ella continued as if Anne-Marie hadn’t even spoken. “And then to fall in love with the man responsible for your brother’s death,” she mused, shaking her head and clucking her tongue.

“Jazz was not responsible,” Anne-Marie said quietly, her voice trembling with rage and fear.

“Oh, posh. Everything the man touches is destroyed or dead. His parents, your brother.”

“My father,” Anne-Marie offered, baring her teeth. “Don’t forget about the friend you shot simply to hurt Jazz. Why do you hate him so much?”

“Because he had everything that should have been Tate’s,” Ella returned simply. Her soft gray eyes grew distant, a bittersweet smile curving her mouth. “I begged his father to leave Delia, begged him not to marry her. He laughed at me, said I was a sweet girl, but it was just a crush.”

Looking back at Anne-Marie, she said, “His brother was a poor replacement. I wanted to make him jealous, make him realize we belonged together. Instead, he told me how happy he was for us. And that Delia was pregnant. It should have been me.”

Those words said, Ella took a deep breath, closed her eyes. The lines around her mouth and eyes faded as the tension left her face. “And everything Jasper gave to Jazz should have been Tate’s. And then after Jasper died, she up and married Beau Muldoon, the simpering, little fool. Oh, you’ll never know how sweet it was to see her come into town with a black eye or split lip.”

Edging closer, Ella leaned down and gave a conspiratorial grin and wink. “Beau was always so certain she’d leave him, that she had another man on the side. And from time to time, I let it slip that I’d seen a strange car in the driveway, or her disappearing inside one of Lem’s motel rooms.”

Understanding dawned in Anne’s eyes, darkening them. Face pale with rage, Anne-Marie whispered, “How did a good man like Tate come from a witch like you?”

The sharp slap across her cheek whipped her head around, hair flying into her eyes. Eyes trained on the floor, she breathed deep, the stinging in her face, the ringing in her ears all fading in comparison to the sickness in her gut.

“You really ought to watch what you say, Dr. Kincaid,” Ella said, rubbing the palm of her hand. “I can either make this short and sweet or long and terrible. It’s your choice.”

 

 

“Doc Kincaid, Mama’s missing.”

Desmond’s head whipped around, his intense gaze pinning Marlie to the wall. “She went to the bathroom. You were with her.”

“She went out the window,” Marlie whispered, her eyes wide with disbelief. “The window. My mama who can barely even climb the stairs without help.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Desmond pressed his fingers to his eyes, frustration and worry eating a hole in his gut. What in the hell did he do? Half the men in the county were out trying to track down his daughter. Who was going to leave that search to come looking for a crazy, old woman who liked to wander off and dress kittens in doll clothes?

“Any idea where she could have gone?” Desmond asked, forcing his voice to stay calm and even.

“No,” Marlie whispered. “Damn it, Doc Kincaid. Anything could happen to her. She just got out of the hospital. Her body is too weak for this!”

“Okay, girl. Here’s what we’re going to do. In my desk, I have a small derringer. It belonged to my wife’s mother and I would have given it to Anne-Marie but she doesn’t care for guns.”

Only the derringer wasn’t there.

Neither were the bullets.

 

 

“You’re out of your ever-loving mind,” Jazz said flatly as he leaped into the off-road jeep.

“I hope to God I am,” Tate murmured. But the sick feeling inside his gut only intensified. He wasn’t wrong.

Siren blaring, Tate sped down the highway, taking a small, dirt access road that led back into the woods behind the lake. “She cut Marlie’s hair,” he said over the noise of the truck tearing through the woods. “I had just said a few days earlier, right in front of…of my mother, how I loved Marlie’s hair. And then it gets hacked off.”

“You’re condemning your mother on that?”

“Mama has a .38 and she knows how to use it. And she wasn’t asleep the night I got the call about Doc Kincaid. I forgot about that. And the look on her face when I told her you had an alibi—Anne-Marie.”

“None of that means shit, Tate. Why would your mother…” His voice trailed off as Tate stopped the vehicle. He recognized the place, the place where he had gone fishing that last time with his father and Tate.

“Mama and Daddy had a fight that night, about me coming with you. Mom didn’t want me to come, said Jasper had no right to spend time with me. It made no sense to me. But Mama grieved more for your daddy than she did for mine. And for the longest time, I thought she hated you.”

Leaping out of the truck, Tate glanced back to Jazz. “Any way I can convince you to stay here?”

“My woman,” Jazz replied softly, heading down the long winding path that would take him to a tiny fishing cabin nearly two miles away.

 

 

“What are you planning on doing to me?” Anne-Marie asked wearily as the sun sank closer to the horizon. “You can’t stay gone forever.”

“Mmm. I’m trying to figure that one out still. Should I kill you and dump your body where somebody will find it? Somebody like Jazz? Should I pin it on him? Or should I just do it here and now, and dump your body in the lake?”

She discussed it casually, like she was trying to decide between a red blazer, or a navy one. Somewhat stupefied and getting weak from hunger and thirst, Anne-Marie stared at her with dazed eyes.

“I could always bring his little girl here and make it look like he was stark raving mad,” Ella whispered, arching an eyebrow as she considered that possibility. “We can’t have Tate wanting to go and raise her once Jazz is in jail, now can we?”

The fog that obscured her brain thickened and her head spun, heart thudding slowly in her chest. Anne-Marie barely even remembered moving but suddenly, she was on her side, a screaming pain in her right shoulder.

And free of the chair.

Hands still bound behind her back, she rolled to her feet and lunged forward, knocking the taller woman back. In slow motion, Anne-Marie watched as Ella fell backward, arms pinwheeling for balance. Her head struck the rough, wooden floor with a hollow thunk.

Sagging, whimpering out loud from the pain in her arm, Anne-Marie stumbled back, her weight falling against the spindle-legged table. As she teetered and lost her balance, a crash sounded in her head, lights blazing. Just as she slid to the floor, she heard Jazz call out, “Annie.”

 

 

Jazz leaped forward catching Anne-Marie as she dropped toward the floor. A cry tore from her throat and Jazz saw with sickening clarity the angle at which her right arm hung. Swollen and already discolored, her arm hung limply at her side, dislocated at the shoulder joint.

“Oh, God.” Lowering his forehead to hers, Jazz whispered, “It’s all right, Annie. You’re going to be fine.”

“No. She’s not.”

That voice. Turning his head, Jazz stared in numb stupefaction, watching as Ella McNeil staggered to her feet. In her wobbly hand, she held a .38, pointed directly at Anne-Marie’s head.

Curving his body around, shielding her as best he could, Jazz’s eyes dropped to the gun. “Put that away, Ella. Your son’s right behind me.”

“You brought Tate out here?” Ella demanded, the gun rising and focusing on Jazz, right between the eyes.

“He brought me. He knows it’s you, Ella. He figured it out. It’s not going to be easy for a man to lock up his own mother.”

“I’ll handle Tate,” she muttered, starting to pace. She whirled around, the gun raised and locked, once more, on Jazz’s head.

“No, Mama. I’m afraid not.”

Instantly, the lines around her eyes smoothed and the veil of sweet sophistication fell over her eyes. Turning, she smiled at Tate and asked, “Honey, whatever are you doing out here?”

“Put the gun away, Mama,” Tate said, his voice barely above a whisper. Tortured eyes met the gaze of the woman who had birthed and raised him. “I can’t let you hurt Jazz or Anne-Marie.”

“I’ve no intention of hurting them,” Ella promised, gun still trained on Jazz. “If you come much closer, honey, I’ll have to shoot one of them. This is for your own good. He was always interfering and taking what should have been yours. Even Anne-Marie. I intended for her to be yours and look what he did.”

“I don’t want Anne-Marie. I never did. She’s nothing more than a friend.” Keeping his voice level, Tate repeated, “Put the gun down, Mama.”

“You should leave this to me, Tate. I know how to handle this mess.”

“By killing my cousin and my friend? By hacking off Marlie’s hair and scaring her to death? You caused the mess. And you’re going to have to go to jail for it.” His voice roughened. “Why, Mama? Why in the hell did you do this?”

“Because this is what’s best for you. And don’t worry, I won’t be going to jail. Nobody needs to know what happened to them. We can even take care of Mariah.” With a small, pleased smile, Ella focused her eyes on Jazz’s averted head. “Everything will be just fine.”

“I know what’s happened, Mama. I’m the sheriff. Do you think I can ignore the fact that my own mother is a killer? For God’s sake, Mama, put the damned gun down!”

“Don’t you swear at me, Tate. Don’t you ever raise your voice to me,” Ella reprimanded, primly. “I raised you better than that.”

A tiny giggle sounded in the doorway. Slowly, all eyes turned and locked on Naomi Muldoon, her worn, pink nightgown stained to the knees with mud. In one hand, she twirled a set of car keys. In the other, she held a small, deadly derringer that was pointed dead center of Ella’s chest.

“Raised him better than that? You think you can go around and kill whomever you please, but it’s wrong for him to raise his voice or say ‘damn’?” Naomi asked, still laughing. “I wonder if I am the only one who sees some irony in that.”

“Naomi…?”

“Do put the gun down, Ella,” Naomi said calmly, a bright, cheerful smile lighting her face, making her look twenty years younger.

Dumbstruck, Ella merely blinked at Naomi as the woman entered the house. “You’re wondering how I know about this place,” Naomi guessed, pausing by Anne-Marie to brush her fingers against her forehead. She smiled a sweet, gentle smile. “Things will be fine.”

Then she turned her eyes back to Ella. “Oh, I knew about you and Beau. A mother knows those sorts of things. From the beginning, I knew about it. I couldn’t have cared less. As long as he was with you, he wasn’t laying his hands on Delia. Poor girl, she never could figure out why he went from adoring her to beating her, overnight. It took me a while to figure out, though, that you were the one planting stories in his head.”

“Go on home, you crazy bitch,” Ella snapped, face flushed, hands shaking.

Smiling, Naomi said, “It’s amazing, the things you can do and see and notice when people think you’ve lost your marbles, isn’t it? Of course, for a while there, it was touch and go.” Reaching up, she brushed her fingers over the curve of her cheek, remembering the bruises that had faded years earlier. “It’s taken me some time to ground myself again. But with Jackson and Beau gone and Lawrence up and moving away, becoming a deputy…well, things finally started seeming real again. And then my son dies.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ella said calmly, even though her face was pale with rage and her hands shook. “Delia killed Beau.”

“That she did. And he most likely deserved it; he was every bit as cruel as his father was. He would have started beating her sooner or later. You just sped things up.” Her shoulders raised and fell in a helpless shrug. “I don’t know that I could have done anything about it, but I’m ashamed I didn’t try.

“But it’s not Beau I’m talking about. It’s Lawrence. You killed him as surely as you tried to kill Doc Kincaid. Of course,” Naomi mused, walking in slow meandering circles around the room. “I could forgive that, maybe. As much as a mother could forgive such a thing, considering how evil he was. I am having some trouble, though, with what you did to my Marlie. And poor Mabel.”

Naomi paused by Anne-Marie again, watching her intently. Then she raised her head, focusing those misty green eyes on Ella. “Maybe the young doctor doesn’t want or need to know why. But I do. I haven’t been waiting outside all this time for my health, you know. Tell me why, Ella. I need to know.”

“So do I,” Tate said, voice flat.

“For you, Tate. I did it all for you,” Ella said, the gun falling slackly to her side. “He took everything that should have been yours, even Anne-Marie.”

“I never wanted Anne-Marie,” Tate repeated, spreading his hands wide. Dumbly, he stared at the gun he still held in one hand then raised his head to meet his mother’s gaze across the room. “You never even wanted me, did you? I was just something else for you to try to hurt Jazz’s daddy, wasn’t I? And that didn’t work, either.”

“Of course, I wanted you,” Ella insisted, moving closer. “You were the only good thing in my life. Of course, Jasper was supposed to have been your father—”

“My father was a good man,” Tate interrupted, backing away from her. “A damned good one. And you hated him, just like you hated everybody else. You hid it, all this time.”

“I didn’t hide it. But with Jazz gone, you would have been able to take your place in the community, the way you should have in the first place. You would have married Anne-Marie, married into one of the oldest, finest families in Kentucky…” As she spoke, Ella’s face smoothed and her eyes took on a far-off look.

Jazz brushed Anne-Marie’s hair back, kissed her brow, and rose smoothly to his feet, keeping his body between Ella and Anne-Marie. “And then I came back home, and ruined your plans, huh, Ella?”

“You never did amount to anything,” Ella sneered at him. She glared at Jazz, barely aware anybody else was around them. Slowly, she raised her gun, completely unaware of her son shouting, of Anne-Marie’s cry, and Naomi’s movement.

“Mama, don’t!”

But it was too late. Even before the words had left Tate’s mouth, a gunshot ripped through the quiet night. And they were left staring at the lifeless body of Ella McNeil, a tiny, almost neat hole in the soft underside of her chin, a spreading pool of blood seeping from under her head.

“Mama…”

Tate’s eyes closed and he sank to his knees beside her while Jazz eased Anne-Marie back to her feet. Naomi moved closer, one hand resting on his shoulder. “Tortured souls sometimes can only see one way out, Tate. That’s not your fault, but hers.”

Without responding, Tate reached for his cell phone, his eyes full of rage and grief while he dialed out. Woodenly, he spoke into it. “This is McNeil. I’m out at the old Jenson place. I’m gonna need some medics and…”

Blood roared in her ears as Anne-Marie sagged against Jazz. “It’s over, right?” she whispered.

His murmured agreement barely registered before she gave in to the gray that beckoned.

 

 

“He’s not here,” Jazz whispered, reaching up and rubbing at the back of his neck. Staring out at the full sanctuary, he searched uselessly for a face similar to his.

“Tate’s having a hard time right now,” Desmond murmured, even as he searched the crowd for the third time. Sighing, he ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair. “I’ve got to get to Anne-Marie.”

As Desmond moved away from the pulpit, Jazz searched the final crowd of faces that had rushed into the sanctuary. But Tate wasn’t there. “I can’t believe he isn’t going to come,” Jazz muttered, clenching his jaw tight and turning his head away from the door.

When the strains of Ave Maria rang out, Jazz turned his face once more to the doorway, this time looking for his bride. Marlie appeared in the doorway, a smile curving her mouth, almost hiding the sadness in her eyes. Her dress, a deep blue, sleeveless sheath, clung to her willow-slim figure and in her hands, she carried a spray of white and lavender roses.

Then he saw Anne-Marie come around the corner. Her eyes sought his instantly and he felt the tension drain away. In her eyes, he saw a mirror of his own sadness, and a love he had never hoped to have.

She moved to join him at the altar, and all thoughts of time, regrets and Tate fell away as he stared into liquid green eyes.

“I, Jasper Wayne McNeil Jr, take you, Anne-Marie Kincaid, to be my lawful, wedded wife…”

“…and do you, Anne-Marie Kincaid, promise to love and honor him, forsaking all others until death do you part?”

“I do.”

“And do you, Jasper Wayne McNeil Jr, promise to love and honor…”

“…anyone here who knows why these two should not be joined together, let him speak now or forever hold his peace.”

Automatically, Jazz and Anne glanced around before looking back at each other. As Reverend Matthews opened his mouth to conclude the ceremony, Anne-Marie smiled at Jazz.

“Wait.”

Black tuxedo jacket flapping around him, shirt half untucked, Tate sprinted up the aisle. “I was supposed to be the best man,” he panted, coming to a stop and staring at his cousin. “Am I still welcome?”

Staring into that flushed face, into eyes so like his own, Jazz felt the last of the grief drain from him. “Always,” he simply said, holding out his hand.

“Can we make it a double?” he asked, sliding Marlie a sidelong glance.

Tears filled her dark eyes, spilled down her pale cheeks as Tate moved closer. “Am I still welcome?” he asked again, lowering his head until his brow rested against hers.

A smile broke out on her face as she reached up, laid one hand on his cheek.

“Always.”