At first Maddie couldn’t move, couldn’t think, could barely breathe. Carl Bridges was dead? Murdered? No, it wasn’t possible. Harvey had to be wrong. It couldn’t be Carl. Not now when Dylan had just returned to Mission Creek to rebuild a relationship with his father.
Dylan! Oh, God, Dylan!
Turning quickly, Maddie moved toward Dylan, who stood stiffly, a dazed expression on his face. Was he in shock? she wondered. Then abruptly, as if he’d suddenly understood what Harvey had said, as if reality had broken through the veil of disbelief, Dylan ran out of the ballroom.
“Have you called the police?” Justin Wainwright, the local sheriff who’d been attending tonight’s gala, questioned Harvey.
“I did that immediately,” Harvey replied, then motioned toward the door by which Dylan had just left. “Wasn’t that Carl Bridges’ prodigal son running out of here? Sheriff, you might want to catch him before he gets away.”
“I’m sure Dylan isn’t running away,” Maddie said. “He probably wants to see for himself that his father is dead.”
“With their past history I’d say that Dylan Bridges should be a prime suspect.” Harvey puffed out his rotund chest. “The whole town knows that father and son haven’t spoken to each other in years.”
Maddie glowered at the roly-poly manager. “Why don’t you shut up, Harvey? You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Hart O’Brien, who was a detective on the Mission Creek police force, stepped forward. “Let’s not panic, folks. And let’s not start pointing fingers. Until officers on duty show up, I guess I’ll be taking charge of this situation.”
Maddie had to find Dylan, had to go to him and help him if she could. While speculations of who might have killed Carl and why surfaced in the crowd, several of the men made their way downstairs. Maddie rushed past the men, disregarding the sounds of her mother’s hysterical voice and Joan calling her name. She’d deal with her mother later, and she knew Joan was simply concerned about her.
When Maddie reached the lobby, she saw two Lone Star Country Club security guards holding Dylan back, away from the pond. Emotion clogged Maddie’s throat. Oh, Dylan…Dylan. Forcing her trembling legs to move, she hurried outside, across the circular drive and toward the small crowd of people who had congregated around the pond. Some were club members, others employees.
“Let me go!” Dylan struggled with the guards. “That’s my father in there. Please, for God’s sake, let me go to him.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” one of the guards—Curt Dodd—said. “But our orders are to keep the crime scene secure until the police arrive.”
Maddie came up behind the guards. “Curt, please release Mr. Bridges. He’s simply upset about his father. I’m sure you can understand what he’s feeling right now.”
“Are you going to stay put?” Curt asked Dylan.
Dylan nodded, and Curt released him.
Maddie eased over to Dylan’s side and laid her hand on his shoulder. He snapped his head around and looked at her, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.
“It’s him, Maddie,” Dylan said. “That’s my father lying there in that pond and they won’t let me go to him.”
Maddie ventured a glance, then winced when she saw Judge Bridges’ body floating face-up in the pond. He wore slacks and a short-sleeved shirt that had probably been blue, but was now stained a vivid red. There was blood all over the upper part of his torso, and the water surrounding him showed evidence of where his life’s blood had drained from him and tinted the pond a deadly red.
“Who’d want to kill my dad?”
Maddie thought Dylan sounded like a little boy, and hearing that vulnerability made her want to wrap her arms around him and offer him comfort. But before she could act on her instincts, Hart O’Brien walked past them and took a look at the murder scene.
“The chief’s on his way over here now,” Hart said. “I’m afraid no one can leave until we’ve questioned each person here tonight.”
“You might as well start with the most likely suspect,” Harvey Small shouted. “Ask Dylan Bridges to account for every minute of his time tonight. He most certainly wasn’t at the party the entire evening.”
“Why don’t you keep quiet, Harvey?” Justin Wainwright said. “I think Hart and I can handle things without your assistance or interference.”
“Well, I’m just stating the obvious.” Harvey huffed. “Everybody in and around Mission Creek knows that Dylan Bridges hated his father because the judge didn’t do anything to stop him from being sent to a reform center. Maybe he came back to Mission Creek for revenge.”
Maddie slipped away from Dylan’s side and marched over to Harvey. She spoke softly, keeping a mild expression on her face. “If you say one more word about Dylan Bridges, I will personally see to it that you’re fired from the club. And I’ll make sure no one in Texas will ever give you another job. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Small?”
Harvey swallowed. He narrowed his gaze and pursed his lips. “You have no right to—”
Maddie grabbed his arm. “You do not want to make an enemy of me.”
Harvey tensed. Maddie released his arm. He stepped away from her and kept his mouth shut.
Hart bent over the edge of the pond and inspected the body, then reached down and touched it. Dylan took a tentative step toward the pond. When Curt Dodd made a move to grab Dylan, Hart held up his hand and signaled for the security guard to leave Dylan alone.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Bridges,” Hart said. “But it looks like your father took a couple of bullets in the chest.” Then Hart spoke to Justin, but his voice carried on the nighttime air. “From what I could make out, I’d say the shooting happened fairly recently. Rigor mortis hasn’t set in yet and the body isn’t cold.”
“I hear sirens now,” Justin said. “I imagine that’s the chief. Why don’t I get everybody back inside before he gets here? You’ll have your hands full out here.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Hart said.
Dylan refused to go. “I want to stay,” he said.
“All right,” Hart replied. “But back away from the pond. Mr. Bridges, do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm the judge?”
Dylan shook his head. “I have no idea. My father and I have been out of touch for years…until recently.”
“Then what Harvey Small said about you is true?”
“The part about my past history with my father is true,” Dylan admitted. “But believe me, I didn’t do this. I’d never—” Dylan’s voice cracked.
Maddie rushed to him, clutched his arm and said to Hart, “When Dylan left the party tonight, I was with him. We went for a drive. So, you see, he has an alibi…if he needs one.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Hart looked down at his feet. “Were you with Mr. Bridges the entire time he was absent from the party?”
“Yes, I—” Maddie had been willing to lie for Dylan.
“No, she wasn’t,” Dylan said. “I was alone for about fifteen minutes.” His gaze met Maddie’s and she saw great sadness in his eyes. “When Maddie…Ms. Delarue and I returned from our drive, I took a walk around the club and got a little fresh air before I went back to the ballroom.”
“Did anyone see you?” Hart asked.
“As far as I know, not a soul.”
A maroon Chevy Blazer pulled to a screeching halt in the country club’s circular drive. Chief of Police Burl Terry jumped out and came barreling toward the pond, two officers scurrying behind him like eager-to-please puppies. Following the massive arrests in the Mission Creek police department several months ago, Terry, a straight-arrow, bulldog cop from Houston, had been hired to take over Ben Stone’s position, after the corrupt chief had been killed.
Terry started barking orders as he marched around the pond. A police photographer snapped photo after photo.
When the ambulance arrived a few minutes later, Hart came over to Maddie. “Why don’t you take Mr. Bridges inside and get him a cup of coffee?”
“All right.” But when Maddie tugged on Dylan’s arm, he balked.
“I want my father’s killer found,” Dylan said.
“Then we want the same thing,” Hart replied. “Once we finish up out here, I’m sure the chief will want you to come downtown with us. Just to answer a few questions. You might know something that can help us.”
Dylan shrugged. “You don’t have to tell me not to leave town. I’m not going anywhere until the person who murdered my father is found and brought to justice.” Dylan jerked away from Maddie. “I appreciate your trying to help me, but you don’t want to get involved with a bad boy like me. Not again. Ironic, isn’t it, that every time you hook up with me, you wind up being questioned by the police?”
“Dylan, I—”
“Run, honey. Run like hell before you get dragged into this mess with me.”
She stared at him, not knowing what to say or do, but when she heard her mother’s voice crying out her name, she turned and walked across the driveway. The last thing Dylan needed was having to listen to Nadine Delarue’s rantings. When she approached her mother, who was being restrained by Joan O’Brien, Maddie gave her friend an appreciative glance, then faced Nadine’s displeasure.
“What do you mean defending that young hoodlum?” Nadine shouted. “He’s done more than steal a car this time. He’s murdered his father.”
“You’re hysterical, Mother. I don’t know who killed Judge Bridges, but I do know that Dylan didn’t.” Maddie lowered her voice to a whisper as she grasped her mother’s arm. “So will you, please, quiet down and stop voicing idiotic suppositions.”
“Idiotic…?” Nadine sputtered. “I thought you’d wised up about men, but it seems you’re as naive about that Bridges boy as you were when you were sixteen.”
“As soon as Hart tells us it’s all right to leave, I’m going to take you home,” Maddie said. “It’s been a trying night for all of us and I’m sure we should—”
Nadine glanced over Maddie’s shoulder and gasped. “Oh, God.”
“What is it?” Maddie turned around just in time to see the medics zipping Carl Bridges into a body bag. “Oh.” She sought Dylan in the crowd and found him standing beside Justin Wainwright, who laid his hand on Dylan’s shoulder and said something to him. Knowing Justin as she did, she felt certain that whatever he’d said had been spoken with kindness.
An hour and a half later, Dylan drove off in his Porsche and the police told everyone that they could leave the country club. Hart walked over to where Joan waited with Maddie, each in turn soothing Nadine’s overwrought nerves.
“Maddie, would you mind giving Joan a lift home?” Hart asked. “I’m going to head on down to the station.”
“Yes, I’d be glad to,” Maddie replied, then reached out to grasp Hart’s arm. “Dylan Bridges might have been Mission Creek’s rebel bad boy when he was sixteen, but he wasn’t—and he isn’t now—capable of murder. He’d come home to mend fences, to make things right with the judge. He was even considering moving back here to Mission Creek permanently.”
“And just how do you know so much about that man’s personal plans?” Nadine demanded.
Maddie ignored her mother. “Hart, please, as a favor to me, do what you can to make things easier for Dylan when he’s questioned. Remember, the man who was killed here tonight was Dylan’s father.”
Hart patted Maddie’s hand. “If there’s no evidence against Dylan Bridges, then there’s no way we can hold him. And unless something shows up, I’d say he’s in the clear.”
“Mark my word,” Nadine said. “That boy killed his daddy.”
“Mother!” Maddie turned on Nadine, her hands balled into tight fists. Take a deep breath and count to ten, Maddie ordered herself.
“Why don’t y’all head on out now?” Hart said, then leaned over to kiss his wife. “Don’t wait up. I’ll probably be at the station all night.”
As Maddie herded her mother and Joan toward the parking lot where her Mercedes Cabrio was parked, she said a silent prayer for Dylan. God help him and give him the comfort that no one else can.
“So, do I need to call a lawyer?” Dylan asked Chief Terry.
“You’re not being charged with anything,” the chief told him. “At this point, you aren’t even a suspect. But since so many people seem to think you might have had a motive, I thought it best to ask you to come in and clarify a few things for us.”
“Just what do you want clarified?”
“Mostly, we’re curious about your relationship with your father. Why don’t you go with Officer White and answer a few questions for him?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Dylan followed the tall, broad-shouldered officer down the hall and into a quiet room.
“Have a seat,” Officer White said.
Dylan sat.
“I’m Jake White, Mr. Bridges. I’m real sorry about your father. Everyone who knew Judge Bridges liked and respected him.”
“Yeah. My dad was an all right guy.”
“We’ll try not to keep you long. We just need to get some information.”
Jake White sat at the table directly across from Dylan. “What sort of relationship did you have with your father?”
God help me, Dylan prayed. This has to be the worst nightmare of my life. Much worse than getting caught stealing Flynt Carson’s Porsche. And even worse than spending two years in reform school. How was it possible that his father was dead? Who the hell would want to kill a good guy like his dad?
The reality of tonight’s events played around the edges of Dylan’s consciousness. His mind knew the facts. Someone had shot and killed his father. He’d seen his body floating in the pond at the country club. He’d watched while the medics took him away from the crime scene in a body bag. Took him to the morgue. But Dylan’s heart refused to accept the facts. His dad couldn’t be dead. Not now, not when they’d just found each other again after all these years. Four days wasn’t nearly enough time together. Four lousy days being a real father and son. It wasn’t fair that they’d been reunited only to be separated again. This time permanently.
“Mr. Bridges, did you understand the question?” Jake asked.
Dylan nodded, then clenched his jaw in an effort to check his emotions. He blew out a long, got-to-get-control breath. “I hadn’t seen my father in seventeen years. Not until four days ago. We had a falling-out when I was sixteen. I spent two years in the Reform Center for Boys in Amarillo for stealing a car, and when I got out at eighteen, I didn’t come back to Mission Creek. Not until this week.”
“And in all those years, you had no contact with Judge Bridges?”
Dylan shook his head. “My dad was a proud man, and it wasn’t easy for him to admit when he was wrong. I guess I took after him in that way. I’m just as proud and stubborn.”
“Why did you return to Mission Creek?”
“My father called me a little over a week ago. He’d hired a private detective to find me. He asked me to come for a visit. He wanted me to give him a second chance…give us a second chance.”
The outer door opened and Hart O’Brien walked in, a cup of coffee in each hand. “You finished up here?” he asked Jake White.
“Not quite,” Jake said.
Hart handed Dylan a cup filled with hot, black coffee. “Sorry about your father. Judge Bridges was a fine man.”
Sensing a certain level of understanding coming from Detective O’Brien, Dylan said, “I didn’t kill my father. Despite our past differences, I had no motive. All I wanted was a chance to spend time with my dad, for us to rebuild our relationship.”
“I believe you,” Hart said. “But I am going to have to ask you not to leave town. Not for the time being.”
Dylan nodded, then took a sip of coffee. “Like I told you at the country club, I’m not going anywhere, not until my father’s murderer is found and brought to justice. And I can promise you something else, Detective. If the Mission Creek Police Department can’t find the person responsible, I will.”
Maddie entered the living room of her condo. After dropping Joan off at her house, she’d deposited Nadine in Ernesta’s loving care and escaped as quickly as possible. If she hadn’t gotten away from her mother’s endless tirade about her scandalous association with “that Bridges boy,” Maddie would have told her mother to go straight to hell.
God, what a night! Her nerves were frayed, her hands trembled, her stomach churned, and she felt as if she were going to start screaming any minute now. Get hold of yourself! Maddie Delarue doesn’t fall apart; she stands strong against all odds.
Unzipping her gown as she made her way upstairs, Maddie recalled tonight’s events—from the moment she caught a glimpse of a handsome stranger emerging from a sleek, black Porsche until the moment Dylan Bridges drove away in that same car, heading for the police station. She flipped on the overhead light as she entered her bedroom suite, a large, luxurious room that looked like something out of the pages of House Beautiful. A room like this was what an expensive San Antonio interior designer, with an unlimited budget, could create.
Maddie removed her three-inch black heels, then shucked off her one-of-a-kind satin gown. Walking around in her underwear, she went into the dressing room carrying the shoes and the dress. Methodically, she placed the shoes on the rack where they belonged and hung the dress on a padded hanger. Then she punched in a code on the security pad by the huge mirror on the back wall. The mirror was attached to a door, which swung open to reveal a wall safe. Maddie dialed the combination and opened the safe. She removed her earrings and bracelets, placed them in their velvet beds inside the safe, then closed first the safe door and then the mirrored door.
She slumped down on the large beige ottoman in the middle of the dressing room. Rope lighting behind the heavy molding spotlighted the vaulted ceiling. Her vision blurred as she stared upward, and her mind swirled with thoughts of Dylan Bridges.
Get that man out of your mind, she told herself. Maybe your mother is right—he’s trouble with a capital T. Always has been, always will be. There was nothing she could do to help Dylan. She couldn’t bring his father back to life. She couldn’t erase the suspicions people had about him. All she could do was say another prayer for him and hope that he’d be all right.
Maddie removed her underwear, then rooted around in her closet until she found a thin cotton gown with spaghetti straps and lace on the bodice and hem. She walked into her enormous bathroom and busied herself with her nightly routine, ending with flossing and brushing her teeth.
Was Dylan still at the police station? she wondered. How long would they question him? Why couldn’t they leave him alone? The poor man had just lost his father.
Memories of her father’s death from a heart attack several years ago drifted through her mind. Was Dylan feeling now what she’d felt then? Losing a parent was one of the most difficult things a person ever faced in this life. And how much more tragic it was for Dylan because he’d missed so many years with his dad. Years that he could never get back. Thank God, she had reconciled with her father long before his death.
Maddie tossed the array of decorative pillows off her bed and onto the nearby beige damask easy chair, then she turned back the dusty lavender down comforter to reveal the dark gold sheets beneath. The elaborately carved Italian Renaissance four-poster dominated the elegant, austere bedchamber. After lying down, she punched the switch by her bed that turned off the lights, then she lay there quietly while her eyes adjusted to the darkness.
Perhaps tomorrow she should call Dylan. Just to offer her condolences. And perhaps she should ask him if he wanted her help in making the funeral arrangements. She’d been totally alone when she’d made arrangements for her father. Oh, there had been half a dozen lawyers and twice that many business associates at her beck and call, all of them offering her assistance. But her mother had been so upset when Jock Delarue died that the doctors had to keep her sedated for days. She’d attended the funeral at First Church in a drug-induced stupor. And Renee had been in such deep mourning over the loss of the man she loved that she’d gladly allowed Maddie to handle everything.
Tossing and turning, Maddie longed for sleep. But sleep wouldn’t come. She fought her king-size pillows and rolled from one side of the enormous bed to the other. Count sheep, she told herself. Chant. Try to clear your mind of all thoughts. But that was easier said than done.
Minutes ticked by, slowly turning into several hours. Hugging one of her big pillows, Maddie lay curled in a semicircle, her knees drawn up to her chest. Still awake and unable to stop thinking about Dylan Bridges, she shot straight up in bed. One glance at the lighted digital clock on her nightstand told her it was two-thirty. Dammit, Maddie, just go ahead and do what you want to do, she told herself. She turned on the bedside lamp, got up and hurried into her dressing room. Rushing around as if time was of the essence, she dressed in jeans, a yellow blouse and a pair of yellow leather sandals.
Ten minutes later, Maddie drove through Mission Creek, a historic midsize town with a distinctive southwestern flair. She passed Mission Creek First Federal, the post office, the library and then the courthouse. She slowed her Mercedes as she eased up Royal Avenue, searching for 1010. There it was! A neat Craftsman house with a picket fence and age-old trees. She pulled her convertible up behind Dylan’s Porsche, got out and walked to the front door.
Dylan Bridges, don’t you dare try to send me away, she said to herself, as her index finger punched the doorbell.