11

April

One of these people shaking her hand and murmuring their condolences killed her husband. Of that, Alison was sure. She was also certain beyond rhyme or reason the murderer was the woman in the photo she’d found last October.

How long ago that seemed, like another lifetime ago. When Hilary Munro, TAP President, had suggested planting a memorial oak to Frank, she’d almost refused to attend the ceremony held on the lawn at Weathersby. This was the first time since Frank’s murder she’d set foot on Weathersby property. She’d been busy trying to sort through the financial and legal mess Frank had left for her to deal with.

Paying the bills by selling the Piper Cub to Frank’s pilot buddy, Dennis, had temporarily given her the time and space she needed to help her children begin the healing process. But that grace period had ended. It was time to get a job and move on with life. She was also sick of the pointed, accusing looks from the neighbors and living in limbo. Frank’s murder investigation had grown cold despite Mike’s best efforts. He’d long ago gone on to other more pressing investigations. But his presence in their lives had gradually increased over time, not lessened.

The thought of Mike Barefoot brought a blush to her cheeks. She schooled her features into the mask of calm she’d learned to wear early on in her marriage to Frank. And today was about Frank. Not for impossible dreams that could never come true.

Dreams of starting her own landscape design business. Dreams of the warm shelter of strong arms, arms that resembled one police detec—

Bill Lawrence, dragging Linda behind him, barreled his way toward her under the new apple-green foliage of the oaks where Hilary had insisted she hold court. Grimacing, she allowed herself to be enfolded in the immense bear hug that threatened to snuff the life out of her.

Trying not to shudder, she endured Linda’s red-lipped society air kiss on both cheeks that, oh, so conveniently, never quite touched the recipient’s face. She’d been distressed to see Claire drawn into Zoe and Heather’s shallow circle of friends at school this year. Like mother, like daughters. Linda scanned the crowd over her shoulder, searching for someone more important to talk to.

“So sorry for your loss,” boomed Bill.

Her eardrum throbbed.

“We miss old Frank at golf. Never found another player like him to fill our foursome.” He touched his knotted silk tie.

She reached out, snagging Bill’s coat sleeve. “I understand you both served together on the Weathersby restoration project.”

Bill, a big guy, tugged at his shirt cuff before abandoning the attempt as awkward. His eyes flicked away, evasive. “So?”

“What capacity do you and Linda fill as members of the board?”

In a blitzkrieg move, Linda yanked her husband’s sleeve free, glaring daggers at her. “Bill is the treasurer, and I serve as the fundraising chairperson.” She fluffed the ends of her bottle blonde hair, resembling a preening bird. “We, like Frank, are proud to serve at Weathersby for the greater good of Raleigh by preserving our proud Southern heritage.”

Our proud Southern heritage?

The Lawrences transplanted from California five years ago. Alison resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

“Let us know if you and the children need anything, you hear now?” Bill and Linda beat a hasty retreat.

Where had they been six months ago?

Hilary stumbled up behind them. “It’s not much but we on the board wanted to honor Frank’s faithful service to Weathersby.” The former beauty queen, with her over-the-top brunette bouffant heavy on the teasing and hairspray, sometimes resembled a near-sighted raccoon sporting too much black eyeliner and makeup.

Short, chubby Hilary was everything the Lawrences were not. She gazed at Alison with those dog-like brown eyes of hers, sincere in her concern. A slight crease between Hilary’s carefully tweezed eyebrows marred the usual sunny disposition for which Hilary was renowned.

However, the friendly exterior Hilary portrayed to the world seemed designed to keep at bay a lonely marriage to a neglectful high-powered attorney and a nest now empty of children. Nearing the half-century mark, Hilary threw herself into all kinds of charity projects to fill the long hours of her days and nights.

“Are you and the children okay for . . .” Hilary, leaning in closer, whispered, “for money?” A question Hilary had repeatedly asked over the winter months. Hilary had taken the time to help Alison fill out insurance claim forms. She’d personally rented a condo at Carolina Beach during Thanksgiving so Alison and the children could retreat from the television reporters camped out on her street, dodge the creditors pounding night and day upon her door, and find some space to breathe.

A true friend. Alison had discovered who her real friends were. Not the society matrons or her tennis foursome. But Val and Stephen, Hilary, and Robert Kendall. Her garden mentor at Weathersby, Polly Grimes. The people at Redeemer.

And don’t forget Mike Barefoot, too.

As if she could. She’d tried.

She wiped suddenly moist palms down the sides of her white linen dress. She dragged her attention back to Hilary.

And at that moment, a terrifying idea entered into Alison’s head. Fighting feelings of guilt for taking advantage of her friend’s kind nature, she threw a quick glance over her shoulder to see if anyone was standing close enough to eavesdrop. “Actually, Hilary, now that you mention it, I’m embarrassed about it, but I . . .”

Alison flushed. “I appreciate all your help this past year, but it’s time I made a new start for myself and my family.” She took a deep breath. “Is there perhaps some position for which I could be hired at Weathersby?”

She’d said it, the thought that tugged at her mind in the wee hours of the night. A chance to clear her name and bring Frank’s killer to justice.

Hilary’s eyes rounded. “Don’t you worry, my dear. I will not allow you or your children to drown in this economic cesspool of fear.”

Her talent had been dramatic presentations in the beauty pageants.

Hilary jutted her chin. “As President of TAP, I can assure you in the course of our restoration there is much that could be accomplished by an educated, organized, and creative person such as yourself.”

“I’m not—”

Hilary shushed her, one carmine-tipped finger against Alison’s lips. “You leave it to me, dear heart. It will be handled. I must speak to someone first though.” She craned her stout neck about, searching. “I will be in touch. Aha!” She strode off like a great white hunter tracking his quarry on safari.

Professor Dandridge and Ivy appeared, her hand outstretched toward Alison. She winced as Ivy’s bony fingers wrapped around her wrist.

“I’m so sorry, Alison.” Ivy’s voice hitched. “When I think of how awful it must be for your children to lose their father in such a way . . .” She glanced at Henry. “We married too late in life to have children, but what a comfort they must be to you now, a link with Frank that nothing—not even death—can ever sever.” Pain streaked across Ivy’s face. “I’ve asked the board to consider setting up a scholarship in Frank’s memory for your children.”

Alison swallowed, blinking away the sudden moisture in her eyes. “Why, Ivy . . . I don’t know what to say.” Just when you had Ivy pegged as obsessive-compulsive over all things Weathersby, she surprised you with an unexpected kindness.

“Th-thank you.” Her voice wobbled. Who knew the manic Ivy had a soft spot for children? But her claws dug into Alison’s flesh. Alison tried tugging free.

Henry grabbed hold of Ivy’s hand. “Ivy’s passionate about her Weathersby family.” He pried his wife’s fingers loose from Alison’s arm. “Not so tight, my dear.”

Passionate? Odd choice of words.

Alison rubbed at the marks Ivy left on her wrist. “I didn’t realize Ivy worked so closely with Frank.”

Ivy Dandridge and Frank? Alison toyed with a new thought. Ivy, not Natalie, the woman scorned? Henry, the outraged, cuckolded husband killing the rival for his beloved wife’s affections?

Na-a-ah.

Maybe Mike was right. Maybe she did read too many Gothic whodunits. The scholarship would be a godsend and one she wasn’t too proud to accept.

Ivy straightened, a hurt look appearing in her agate green eyes. Henry put a protective arm around her shoulders. “Ivy, like me, has endured a lot of loss in her life. She’s very tenderhearted and considers everyone at Weathersby her extended family.” Ivy huddled against him, sheltering in the crook of his arm.

A stab of jealousy, of which she quickly repented, raced across Alison’s heart. The lonely evenings after the children had gone to bed flashed through her mind. Was it God’s will for her life to be lived alone? At this point, she reckoned the only way to move on might be to bring closure to Frank’s memory by apprehending his killer.

Robert had made no secret of his admiration for her. She’d yet to take him up on his weekly invitations to dinner. Mike Barefoot, however, hung around the house a lot, but most of his attention appeared directed at her children.

As the Dandridges prepared to move on their way, Hilary rushed forward, her ruffled orchid purple caftan fluttering in her locomotive wake. With both arms outstretched, she captured the Dandridges, forcing them to remain in place. Ivy’s lip curled.

“Ivy! I’m so glad I caught you,” Hilary panted, trying to regain her breath from her ungainly sprint among the oaks. “I had a quick impromptu meeting with the other board members. And . . .” She paused for dramatic effect.

Alison winced with a dread foreboding of what forces she might have unwittingly released.

“Ivy’s assistant, fourth one this year, left our employ last week.”

Henry stiffened. “Ivy’s drive and vivacity,” in an endearing attempt to defend his wife from the implied criticism, “are often misunderstood. Not everyone is able to keep up with the greatness of her vision.”

Ivy flashed Henry a fond glance.

Hilary kept her gaze focused on Alison. “Anyway, how fortunate the timing of events. Orchestrated, one might say.”

“Please.” Ivy fidgeted. “Before bedtime, Hilary.”

Hilary pursed her lips before adding, “We’ve hired Alison as your new personal assistant.”

Ivy’s eyes widened. Alison rocked back on her heels.

What on earth had she gotten herself into now?

Val rounded on Alison. “What on earth possessed you to do such a stupid thing?”

Bristling, Alison slammed the coffee mugs onto the granite countertop. “Stupid?” she repeated in a dangerous voice.

“What else would you call it, since you believe one of those loony people is also the murderer of your husband?”

“Exactly.”

She measured the beans into the grinder, pressed the button, and counted to ten. The rich, sensual aroma of Kona coffee filled the air. Mike and Claire would be back from Claire’s driving lesson any minute now.

“The police are at a dead end. I can do things they can’t.”

“Like get killed?”

“Just stop with the negativity. I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” Val set out the saucers and spoons. “Did you stop and think about the ramifications of what could happen if you stick your nose in too deeply?”

Gritting her teeth, Alison tore into the cookie tin. “If you’re going to say pray, I’ve done nothing but pray over our situation. I need this job, and I need to bring closure for the children and myself. I start work on Monday morning.”

“I know it’s not been easy living with the suspicions hanging over your head. I’m just not sure this is the right direction for you to take in easing your grief and clearing your name.”

She gave Val a quick hug. She hated it when they fought. “I mean to see Frank’s murderer brought to justice before I’m arrested for the crime.” Clutching the cookie plate, she marched into the dining room.

Val followed her out of the kitchen. “Justice? Or revenge?”

“Whatever it takes.” She set the plate onto the table with a clink of china. “I’m going to make it happen if it’s the last thing I do.”

Val corralled her against the curved mahogany edge of the Duncan Phyfe table. “Why, Alison? So Claire and Justin can lose their mother and father just like you did?”

She shoved Val back, and they glared at each other, faces red, chests heaving.

“That’s not fair! I’d never do what Dot did to me.”

Val closed her eyes. “I’m sorry, Alison. You know I only want what is best for you and the kids. I get too protective and my mouth runs ahead of my brain.”

She swallowed and managed a tiny smile. “Yeah, that mouth was always way bigger than that pea-sized thing you call a brain.”

Val laughed. “Forgiven?”

“As if—to quote Claire.”

Val’s voice brightened. “Let’s talk about your love life.”

Flushing, she twisted the damask napkin around her fingers, stalling at Val’s abrupt change of topic. “Love life? What love life? I have good friends. Nothing more.”

Val smirked. “I’d say from the look on both men’s faces when you walk into a room they’d like to change that to something else.”

Alison gripped the back of a chair. “That’s the problem. One of them is safe and the other . . .”

“The other is like stepping off a cliff into nothingness.” Val returned to the kitchen to grab her purse off the counter. “You got to take a chance and jump, if you ever want to fly.”

She shot Val a surprised look. “You could always read my thoughts. Spooky. And irritating.”

“Don’t ever play poker, dear friend. You’ve got a face that gives away your hand every time. God is in control, and what will be will be.” Val giggled. “I’m starting to sound like Doris Day, aren’t I?”

She smiled. “Doris who? Claire would say.” She sighed. “But that kind of dangerous didn’t work out so well for me and Frank.”

“Mike’s nothing like Frank. Not where it counts.”

“He’s not a believer, Val.”

Val rested her hand on Alison’s shoulder. “He and I have had some deep conversations over Sunday lunches about life. And death. He’s seen more than his share of death. He’s not as far off from faith as you think.” She gave Alison a penetrating look. “If that’s even the real reason you hold back.”

“What do you mean by that?” Her tone sounded hotter than she intended.

“I think you know what I mean.” Val darted a quick glance at her watch. “And all I know is, I don’t want to be around when you break your plan to trap Frank’s killer to Mike. He’s going to go ballistic.” She headed for the garage. “Let me know how that works out for you.”

“Coward,” Alison called after her. She was a grown woman. She needed this job, and she wasn’t scared to stand up to Mike Barefoot.

She squared her shoulders. And if all else failed, like all Southern girls, she’d learned in the cradle that a little sweet magnolia went a long way.

At the sound of truck doors slamming, she glanced out the window overlooking the For Sale sign glimmering in the bright glare of the morning. Claire was home.

And Mike. Her heart picked up a beat.

He waggled his fingers at Val as she backed out of the driveway, his casual off-duty T-shirt stretching across his broad shoulders.

Averting her eyes by force of will, Alison slipped her feet into a favorite pair of flip-flops, a paisley coral and brown. After all these months on the market, the house had not yet sold. The delay in selling their home allowed Justin and Claire to continue at Stonebriar High, much to their delight.

Reaching for the brass handle of the door, she realized how thankful she—make that the children—were to have Mike Barefoot in their lives. Claire, the intrepid one, had developed an inexplicable aversion to driving after her dad’s murder. Mike had made it his personal mission to ease her out of her fears and prepare her for the all-important driver’s exam next month.

Not that they could afford a car for Claire. It was all Alison could do to put gas in her own. Money worries cast a pall over the brilliant spring day. She shook her head. Where was her faith?

A new believer, she was still getting the hang of this faith thing. She thought of her Bible tucked into her capacious handbag on the breakfast table, beginning to show the evidence of wear. Taking a deep breath, she flung open the door.

“It wasn’t that bad.” Claire placed her hands on her hips.

Mike, a deathly white, clutched the region of his heart. “Water,” he croaked and reached for the steadying structure of the door frame. “My life flashed—”

Alison laughed. He always made her laugh.

Claire cuffed him on the shoulder with her fist. “He’s exaggerating, Mom. I never went over the speed limit once.” She flipped a long strand of auburn hair, ironed straight this morning, over her shoulder.

Mike swallowed convulsively, his silver eyes wide with fear. “That was the trouble. My dead granny drove faster than that when she was ninety-two. The shame, oh the shame—”

Claire licked her pink-tinted lips and shook her head. “We passed two of his cop friends on St. Mary’s. Officer Ross said to say hello.” She shouldered past her mom in the doorway. “I’m hungry. Lunch started yet?” She laughed at her own joke. “Silly me. Of course not. If it is to be, it’s up to me,” she quoted, heading for the kitchen.

Alison hauled Mike inside the house. “Are you trying to air-condition the whole outdoors? My bill to pay until we move or get foreclosed on.” She winced.

Mike reached toward her face, as if he was about to touch her, but instead ran his hand through his sandy hair till it stood on end and resembled a Mohawk. A sign with him, she’d noted, when he was perturbed. The Mohawk, though not traditional with the Cherokee—she fought the urge to grin—might be a genetic throwback to his larger Native American roots.

“Claire and I stopped off at the grocery—”

She made a face. “You know I don’t like it when you—”

“Miz Monaghan, I was hungry and tired of eating lunch alone, and since you got a child that gets her kicks from feeding people . . .” He coughed and turned away as if ashamed of his admission of vulnerability. “Could use some help bringing in the groceries.”

Once a mountain boy, always a mountain boy. He was not, by any stretch of the imagination, Mr. Manners. Yet, on the upside, he never treated her as the weak, unable-to-cope widow that some irritating—bless their hearts—souls tried to pin on her. For what it was worth, in his mind at least, she was as capable as the next guy.

Hope he still felt that way after she informed him about her new job.

She meandered over to the cab of his truck, her flip-flops slapping against the pavement. She dragged a cardboard box of canned goods across the seat. She grunted at its weight. “Could use a little help here.”

Was chivalry dead?

He balanced three jugs of milk in his arms. “Don’t tear the upholstery.”

Yep. Dead and buried.

Mike snagged two cookies from the platter, pausing at his lips. “Quite the list of suspects at the memorial ceremony.” He eyed the cookies and cocked an eyebrow at Alison.

She stuck out her tongue. “Not to worry. Chef Claire made those.” She shoved the platter toward him. “All of them. For you.”

He relaxed, settling back into the chair in the dining room. Usually he sat at the kitchen counter and shared a cup of joe—that expensive coffee he was starting to acquire a taste for—with Alison. Kona, she called it.

Not the only thing he’d started acquiring a taste for, either. And after a day chasing down the filth of humanity, her conversation highlighted his week. He shoved both cookies into his mouth,the sound of pots clanging in the kitchen. He’d not been so well-nourished since Granny died.

And he wasn’t just talking about his stomach.

In his quest to find out the truth about this God to whom Alison was so devoted, he’d taken to attending Redeemer every Sunday he wasn’t working a case. But sitting in the back.

Wa-ay in the back.

And, if he was honest, also attending so he could catch a glimpse of Alison.

He realized he was pathetic.

If he played his cards right, he was usually able to wrangle an after-church dinner invite from Claire. Along with the Prescotts.

And Robert Kendall.

He’d forgotten how touchy Alison was about her independence. But if he was going to eat their food every Sunday, he wanted to make sure they had plenty more the rest of the week. He’d become a regular and informed grocery shopper.

What a laugh. On him. God had a strange sense of humor.

But he didn’t want Alison to need him. Needy women weren’t attractive to him.

He didn’t need her or anybody else. Okay, maybe he needed Claire and Justin and his niece, Brooke, in his life to keep him sane and human. The stirrings in his heart during the worship time—Alison called it God-stirrings—maybe he’d add God to that list of what he needed, too. But that’s not what he wanted from Alison.

He wanted her to want him. The way he wanted her. And he wasn’t talking about only the obvious.

Wiping his fingers on the fancy napkin at his plate, he shuffled his feet under the gleaming mahogany table. Kendall was too old for her. Ancient. He had to be pushing fifty-five if he was a day. She said she and Robert were just friends.

Yeah, he had no pride. He’d asked. He could feel the back of his neck redden at the memory.

Friends.

That’s what Mike supposed he was to her. And he thanked God—the one he wasn’t willing to publicly admit to yet—for her friendship. He was realistic enough to know that was probably all he’d ever be to her.

People like Alison from the highly stratified air of Raleigh’s social elite married people like Robert Kendall. Suave, handsome, glib of tongue, socially connected, and rich. She’d never have to worry about paying the bills with Robert. Robert was everything she was looking for—security.

And he was everything Robert Kendall was not. His lack of social accomplishments could fill a book. His bank account almost as empty as Alison’s.

He glanced around. What was with all the high-society touches today? His gut knotted.

Unless she had an announcement to make.

About her and Robert? He inhaled sharply before realizing she was still speaking, giving him a blow-by-blow description of her impressions of her “suspects.”

She gave him a funny look and pushed the cookies at him again. Was he that obvious? “Help yourself to as much as you want.”

If she only knew. He shoved another whole cookie in his mouth to keep from saying things she wasn’t ready to hear. Yet.

“I plan to do more digging . . .” Her eyes fastened on the napkin she twirled in her lap. She took a deep breath. “When I start my new job on Monday as personal assistant to the executive director at Weathersby. I’ll keep you briefed on what I discover.”

Choking, he came out of his chair. It fell against the Persian carpet with a thud. “Now wait a minute.” He sputtered bits of cookie on himself and struggled to swallow the rest.

She’d timed that slingshot well. He’d give her that.

“Didn’t getting shot at teach you anything? The perpetrator doesn’t like you and next time might decide to do more than warn. Killing is always easier the second time around.”

Recoiling, she wrapped her arms around her too-thin body, a shiver ricocheting all the way to her coral-tinted toes. Fear clouded her face.

Unable to resist, he reached over the table and cupped her face in his hand. For a moment, she closed her eyes. Melting into his hand, her lips brushed his palm sending an electric tingle up his arm and to his heart. Her eyes flew open, realization of what she’d done shadowing her face. She drew back.

He clenched his jaw, angry at his clumsiness.

Got to go slow. He’d spent the better part of a year watching that always-scared, when’s-the-other-shoe-going-to-drop look fade from her eyes. She needed to make the first move. Not him.

After her abusive marriage to Frank, she’d been like an easily spooked filly. Trusting no one but her God, her children, and Val. He worked hard, one step forward two steps back, an inch at a time, to be included in that circle of strays she gathered around herself and called family.

He was a stray, a castaway from life and love, and he cherished the circle of warmth found only within her orbit. He’d not realized how lonely his existence had become until she’d opened the door and granted access to friendship, belonging, and those kids of hers whom he adored.

Mike let his breath trickle out, the way a balloon released the air inside if only a tiny crevice opened.

Something in the sound brought her attention to his face. He felt her searing, searching look upon his broad face—courtesy of his beloved Cherokee grandfather. She stopped when she reached his eyes.

“Mike?” she whispered. “Try to understand. I owe this to Frank, and before I can start my life over, I have to . . .” Tears welled.

“Don’t cry, honey.” He thrust both hands into his jean pockets to keep himself from touching her. She’d be his undoing.

Already his undoing.

The little-girl-lost bit in her voice wrung his heart. He wished he’d known the bright, suntanned girl from Florida. The one trapped inside the grown-up Alison. Known her before her mother’s downward spiral and her father’s death. Before Frank Monaghan had done his number on her.

Some days, he found it hard not to hate Frank Monaghan.

“We’re partners.” She laid her hand, soft and warm, atop his clenched fist. “I’ll pray and be careful. I’ll keep your cell number on speed dial.”

He hardened his heart. If anything happened to her . . . “It’s not a game.”

A mulish expression crossed her face. She withdrew her hand. “You don’t get to boss me around, Mike Barefoot.”

She stood quickly, her own chair crashing to the floor. Leaning over the platter of cookies, her face inches from his own, she jabbed a finger into his chest. “And you can’t stop me.”

He scowled. “Watch me.”

Their noses almost touched.

Her nostrils flared. “How?”

“I’ll . . . I’ll arrest you.”

A gleam of triumph darted in those Kona-brown eyes he loved. He caught a whiff of her lavender fragrance. He tried not to inhale.

Catching him in the act, she smiled and relaxed, folding her arms across her chest. “I don’t think so.”

He ground his teeth. Of course, she’d be aware of the power she had over him. The power that began in the Garden with Eve—if he remembered his Sunday school lessons.

Blast Eve, Alison Monaghan, and all their kind.

A new tactic was called for. Two could play at this game.

“Please, Miz Monaghan . . .” He turned the full power of his lost little puppy dog look on her, coming around so nothing stood between them.

Alison blinked. Rapidly. Gulped.

Score one for his side.

Alison tucked a strand of hair behind her ears and licked her lips. “When are you going to stop calling me Miz Monaghan?”

When I can start calling you Miz Barefoot.

He sucked in a breath. Turning purple, he coughed. Had he said that out loud? He watched her face.

No, thank God, not this time.

She knelt to right her chair, apparently feeling her question rhetorical. Bending to help her, his fingertips met hers on the lyre back of the chair. Electricity bolted from her hand to his heart.

He stifled a groan. “Can’t keep away from trouble, can you?”

She squeezed his hand and twined her fingers through his. His insides puddled.

“I promise to be careful and keep you in the loop.”

Defeat staring him in the face, he knew when to beat a graceful retreat. “If you get yourself killed, I’ll never forgive you. Keeping you alive—what a lifetime occupation that’s turning out to be.”

Her eyes crinkled, fanning small lines courtesy of her gardening avocation to the outer contours of her face. “Wanna help me transplant some seedlings before lunch?”

Practically love talk coming from a horticulturalist like Alison.

“Sure.”

A sucker born every minute.

Still, she hadn’t let go of his hand. And hope springs eternal.

He was pitiful.

But with her fingers braided through his as she led him out the French doors to the patio, he didn’t care.

Okay, he’d officially lost it. His heart and his good sense.