I Think I Love You Page 16

  Mitchell laughed and lifted his head. “Sam, that’s enough.” The dog fell silent. “He thinks you’re hurting me,” he murmured against her neck, then carefully rolled onto his back. “Although I can’t be sure I didn’t strain something.”

  She laughed, relieved at his ease. And why not—it was just sex, after all, a summer fling. Hormones and high temperatures.

  He found her hand on the bed between them. “Stay the night.”

  She closed her eyes in the semidarkness—his offer was soooooo tempting. “No, I should get back so no one will think… I mean, so no one will worry.”

  He rolled onto his side and picked up a strand of her hair. “I guess I wouldn’t want Deputy Pete to get the credit for putting color in your cheeks.”

  She smiled. “Well, no one said I had to go right away.”

  His laugh was low and throaty. “I’m not as young as I used to be. Give me about ten minutes.” He sighed and pulled her hand onto his stomach. “You were going to tell your story to Pete tonight, weren’t you?”

  She hesitated, but the cloak of darkness and the touch of his big hand made her feel safe. “Something like that.”

  “I wondered if you were with him when you saw whatever you saw, but then I remembered when he told you about the hearing. He was completely unaware of your reaction.” He squeezed her hand. “You were with your sisters, weren’t you?”

  She swallowed audibly. “Why would you think that?”

  “Because you protect them.”

  How could a man who made his living in the junk business be so insightful? “Even though my family is in shambles, they mean everything to me.”

  “I’d just hate to see you compromise your principles for your sisters’ sake.”

  She tried to find shapes in the shadows on the ceiling. “You don’t know what it’s like to love your siblings so much that you’d give up just about anything for their happiness.”

  “I have some idea.”

  He used his thumb to make circles on her palm—why did that strike her as intimate?

  “By the way, if you decide you need an attorney, let me know.”

  She’d forgotten his brother lived near Charlotte. She didn’t think the situation would get to that point, but she didn’t want to drag out the subject. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He pulled her over to face him. “And your ten minutes are up.”

  Chapter 17

  DON’T trust a man farther than you can blow—er, throw him.

  Regina had forgotten what good sex could do for a person’s disposition—she winced slightly as she descended the stairs—and for a person’s muscle tone. She’d slept in and decided to have breakfast with her sisters before going off to face Mitchell in morning-after mode. She’d waited for regret to settle in for her lapse last night, but truly, the only thing she regretted was that she only had a few more days off work to… exercise.

  From her purse she retrieved her cell phone and sat on the bottom step to call her office. Jill answered on the second ring.

  “Miss me?” Regina asked.

  “Boy, oh boy—it’s been dull around here without you. I hope you’re having a good time down there.”

  Regina smiled. “Things are fine.”

  “Any old flames flickering around?”

  She laughed. “No.”

  “How about new ones?”

  Regina twirled a hank of hair at her ear, feeling like a co-ed. “I’ll have to get back to you on that one.”

  “No way—you met someone? What does he look like?”

  “Think Brad Pitt meets Harrison Ford.”

  “I’m going to kill myself. What does he do for a living?”

  “He appraises antiques.”

  Pause. “Oh. That’s… different. Maybe he can write a book for us.”

  “How’s my African violet?”

  “I’ve been giving it coffee, just like you said.”

  “And?”

  “And it’s not dead. Will you be back in the office Monday?”

  “Actually, something has come up that might delay my return by a few days.”

  “Does this have anything to do with the junk man?”

  Only indirectly. She was going to talk to Mitchell today about consulting with his brother regarding the best way for her to divulge the information she had on the Bracken case. She’d say that she alone had witnessed the murder and seen the murder weapon—partial perjury was better than not telling at all, she’d decided. Then she’d explain about the letter opener on the Internet auction site, and she would have done her civic duty.

  “Are you there?”

  “Yeah. Um, no, it doesn’t have anything to do with… him. It’s family business.”

  “Okay, I’ll let Gene know. By the way, have you had a chance to talk to your sister about a quote for the Laura Thomas book?”

  She winced. “I completely forgot. Actually, Mica is here—a surprise visit. I’ll ask her today.”

  “Great. The Betteringly manuscript came in, and the Jarvis proposal for the next parenting book.”

  “Good. By the way, I am getting some work done—I brought a manuscript from the slush pile with me that might turn out to be something.”

  “We like to hear that.”

  “And I need for you to give Gene a heads-up in the staff meeting today. My uncle Lawrence Gilbert is in town—”

  “The politician? He’s your uncle?”

  “Yes. If he wins the North Carolina Senate race this fall, he said he’d consider bypassing offers from other houses to do his memoirs with us if I work on the project.” Who knew—the Bracken hearing might turn out to be an interesting footnote.

  “Gene will wet his pants.”

  “And on that note, I’ll let you go. I’ll check in with you again later in the week, when I know more about my schedule.”

  Regina disconnected the call and sighed, feeling better just knowing she’d made a decision. She considered talking to her Uncle Lawrence first but held out hope that the leads she provided would turn out to be nothing. If the judge determined that her testimony wouldn’t influence the hearing arguments either way, the entire incident could be moot. But at least she could sleep at nights.

  She heard laughter from the kitchen, and the sound buoyed her spirits. If there was a silver lining to the black cloud that hovered over the Metcalf family, it was the burgeoning reconciliation of her sisters. She pushed herself up, dusted off her jeans, and walked into the middle of a story Justine was telling.

  “—and then Mica said, ‘Senior prank, sir.’” Justine doubled over laughing, and Mica and Cissy slapped the table in their mirth.

  Regina smiled at their silliness and dropped a crumpet into the toaster. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” Cissy said.

  “You were out late,” Mica accused, as if she weren’t allowed to have fun.

  Justine handed her a glass of juice. “And I could have sworn that a blue van dropped you off in the wee hours instead of a deputy cruiser.”

  Regina maintained a placid smile. “Mitchell ran into us at the crab place, then Pete had to leave on a call, so Mitchell”—she waved vaguely—“brought me home.”

  Justine nodded. “Uh-huh. And exactly how many times did he ‘bring you home’?”

  They all laughed, and Regina decided she rather liked being the center of their girl talk. Justine and Mica had always been so much more outgoing, the family table conversations typically revolved around their social lives.

  “Where are your glasses?”

  On Mitchell’s nightstand. “It’s so hot, I decided not to wear them today.”

  No one believed her.

  Cissy shook her finger. “A man who looks that good isn’t about to stick around.”

  Apparently her mother thought she couldn’t handle the ramifications of the “do something rash” advice. Regina buttered her crumpet and took a bite. “I don’t expect him to.”

  “Men are snakes,
” Cissy declared, then teared up.

  Guilt sliced through her over engaging in a summer fling while her mother and father were headed for Splitsville. “When was the last time you and Daddy talked?”

  Cissy blew her nose. “Nothing left to talk about. I just want things to be settled quickly.” She shook her finger again, and Regina realized why Justine had developed that finger-wagging habit. “Don’t distract that young man from his work—after he appraises everything at the shop, he still has to come here and go through the house. I need him more than you do.”

  “Okay, Mother, I won’t distract him.” She checked her watch—ten-thirty. She was looking forward to seeing him—was that a bad sign?

  The doorbell rang and her first thought was that he’d come after her. When that fantasy fizzled, she decided it was probably her father. Justine, however—dressed to kill in a tight new outfit—made a bee-line for the door.

  “Guess she’s not worried about the Crane woman anymore,” Regina muttered into her juice. “Any news on that front?” she asked Mica.

  “Status quo.”

  She sat down next to Mica. “Sis, I know this is asking a lot, but would you be willing to lend a cover quote to a book by a hairstylist author of ours?”

  Mica averted her gaze and stammered excuses until Regina touched her arm.

  “You’re busy—maybe another time.” While Mica looked relieved, Regina looked for another topic of conversation, quelling hurt feelings; Mica didn’t owe her anything. “Have you talked to Dean?”

  “No.” Mica’s hand strayed to the bruise around her eye that was fading.

  Regina set her jaw. She could murder Dean for what he’d done to her family—no wonder her father felt so remorseful about allowing the man in the vicinity of his daughters. She wanted to reach out to Mica, but her sister was so standoffish. “Mica—”

  “Regina, Mica,” Justine said from the hallway. There was a note of alarm in her voice.

  They looked at each other and walked to the door, with their mother trailing. On the other side of the secured screen door stood a tall, slender man in a suit, mopping his forehead. Justine was as white as his handkerchief.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Are you Regina and Mica Metcalf?” the man asked.

  “Yes, I’m Regina. Who are you?”

  “My name is Byron Kendall. I’m an attorney with the firm representing Elmore Bracken.”

  Her knees weakened. “What does this have to do with us?”

  “With all three of you actually. Our office received a tip early this morning that the three of you witnessed the murder of Lyla Gilbert twenty years ago and might be able to provide testimony that could help our client.”

  “What?” Cissy shrieked. “That’s insane—get off our property.”

  “This is a law enforcement matter, ma’am.”

  “Mother,” Regina said, “let me handle this.”

  “You little do-gooder,” Justine murmured behind Regina’s ear. “I knew you couldn’t keep quiet.”

  She sent a silencing glare to her big-mouth sister. “Mr.—I’m sorry, what did you say your name is?”

  “Kendall.”

  “Mr. Kendall, tell me more about this ‘tip’ you received.”

  “It was an anonymous phone call to our office, and the details were credible enough to warrant an investigation.”

  She ignored Justine’s huff. “What exactly do you want from us?”

  “Just to answer a few questions.”

  “And if we decline?”

  He pointed over his shoulder. “Then I get the sheriff involved.”

  She looked past him to where Pete Shadowen stood at the top of the steps. He gave her a stone-faced nod—no doubt a little sore over her staying to have dinner with Mitchell last night.

  Her heart thudded in her ears, and she grabbed onto the doorknob for support. “Can we do this here?”

  “Fine with me.”

  “Do we need to have our own attorney present?”

  “That’s at your discretion.”

  “But we don’t have an attorney,” Mica said.

  Regina bit down on the inside of her cheek—not one but two helpful sisters.

  “This is just a preliminary interview,” the man said. “If you tell me anything I think will be of value, I’ll ask you to sign an affidavit. You’ll have time to consult with an attorney before that time.”

  Regina sighed. “Then I guess you’d better come in, Mr. Kendall.”

  *

  Regina watched with trepidation as Byron Kendall flipped back through the pages of notes he’d taken over the past couple of hours. She was completely drained from dealing with Cissy’s tearful outbursts as the story unfolded and from arbitrating Mica and Justine’s squabbling over details. Pete had joined them to take down information about the letter opener she’d seen on the Internet auction site. She provided a copy of the unanswered e-mail message, and from her purse she pulled the old inventory card she’d swiped from her parents’ files.

  “‘Bought from H.S.,’” Mr. Kendall read, then looked at Cissy. “Do you remember who that was?”

  “Hank Shadowen.”

  Incredulity crossed Mr. Kendall’s face. “The sheriff?”

  Her mother nodded. “Hank traded with us on occasion.”

  Surprised at this new wrinkle, Regina glanced at Pete. “Did you ever see the letter opener?”

  Pete clawed at his neck. “No, sorry.”

  Mr. Kendall pursed his thin mouth to hold back a smile. “Guess I’ll have to talk to the sheriff again to let him know the murder weapon once belonged to him.”

  Another brick for building their theory of a police conspiracy, she realized with a sinking heart.

  Pete kept scratching.

  Mr. Kendall looked back to the three of them. “Are you certain that this letter opener was stolen and not sold?”

  Regina nodded. “It disappeared from the display case along with some other items on a day we were supposed to be watching the store. We didn’t want our folks to know it was gone.”

  “What other things were stolen?” Pete asked, taking notes.

  She looked at her sisters. “I remember a gold watch, but that’s all.”

  “A lipstick holder,” Mica said. “It had rhinestones on it, I think.”

  Justine had nothing to add.

  “They were all in the same display case,” Regina explained.

  “A locked display case?” Mr. Kendall asked.

  She wet her lips. “Yes, but—” She gave her mother an apologetic look. “There was a way to get in, if you knew the trick.”

  “And how many people knew the trick?” he asked.

  “We girls knew.” She looked at her sisters and sighed. “And we occasionally used it to open the case in front of customers if we couldn’t find the key.” Actually, she never did that, but she didn’t want to rat out Justine and Mica.

  “So anyone who frequented the store might have known how to get in?”

  “Yes,” she said, then angled her head. “Including Elmore Bracken.”

  He acknowledged the hit, then stood and flipped his notebook closed. “I guess that’ll do it.”

  She stood, too. “Mr. Kendall, about this phone tip you received—was it a man or a woman?”

  “A man, from a number traced to a Monroeville pay phone.”

  Her mind raced. It wasn’t possible that Mitchell… no. What earthly reason could he have to call in a tip?

  “Here’s my business card with my contact information,” Mr. Kendall said. “If you think of anything you’d like to add to your story, even if it’s a detail that seems unimportant, call me immediately.”

  “What happens next?” she asked.

  “I’ll review the information with my colleagues, and we’ll decide if there’s anything here that would help our argument for a new hearing. If so, we’ll be asking for affidavits.” He gave them a flat smile. “I’ll be in touch within a couple of days. Meanwhile
, don’t leave town without letting our office know how to reach you.”

  They followed him to the front door, and Regina scanned his card idly. Law Offices of Rose, Kendall, and… Cooke? Her lungs squeezed painfully. “Mr. Kendall?”

  He turned back.

  “Your partner, would his name happen to be David Cooke?”

  “That’s right, David Cooke—do you know him?”

  Cissy, Mica, and Justine turned accusing eyes her way. She pinched the back of her stupid hand to stem the stupid tears that threatened to gather. “No, but I know his brother.”

  She shoved past them and out the door, then down the steps. She headed toward the footpath through the trees that would take her to the antiques shop. As she pumped her arms and legs, she wiped hot tears. Stupid, stupid, stupid to have trusted the man! As a result of her loose lips and his duplicity, now her sisters were going to be dragged into the fracas with her. She’d wanted to protect them, and now this.

  She trudged through the weeds and pushed past low branches, ignoring the scratches and scrapes. A few minutes later, she broke into the clearing around the shop and ran the rest of the way. She burst into the back door and triggered the chime. Sam appeared from the direction of the showroom and loped toward her.

  “Not now, Sam.”

  She marched into the showroom, grateful that no customers were around to hear what she had to say. Mitchell straightened from a tray of jewelry he was examining with a magnifying glass and smiled wide, the cad.

  “There you are. I wondered if you’d—”

  She punched him in the mouth.

  “Aw!” He covered his jaw with his hand. “What was that for?”

  She punched him in the mouth again.

  “Aw!” He backed up and held out his hand. “Whoa. If this is about last night, I was under the impression that things went rather well.”

  “You smooth-talking sack of shit.” She shook her throbbing hand.

  “Give me another chance, I’ll—”