I Think I Love You Page 19

  “Justine?”

  The doorknob rattled frantically. Mica saw rather than heard it, because her eardrums had surely been ruptured. She covered her clanging ears with her hands, relieved that the blast seemed to have dazed Justine enough to loosen her hold on the gun.

  The door burst open and Mitchell Cooke charged in, followed by Regina. “What’s going on?” Regina demanded.

  “She tried to kill me,” Dean said, scrambling to his feet.

  Mitchell approached Justine cautiously, then took the gun from her shaking hands. She was crying.

  “What did you do to her?” Regina asked Dean.

  “Nothing,” Dean said, holding up his hands. “She wanted me here. Look at her—she was waiting for me, for God’s sake.”

  Justine choked on a sob and turned her back. She tugged on the rings, but they were stuck, frustrating her further. Mica’s heart went out to her.

  “I’ll show Mr. Haviland out,” Mitchell said, then shoved Dean toward the door. He held the gun by the trigger guard but gave the impression that he’d use it if he had to.

  John limped down the hall toward them, followed by Cissy. “We heard a shot.”

  “Everyone’s fine,” Mitchell said. “Justine’s gun misfired.”

  A kind half-truth.

  John fisted his hands in the front of Dean’s black T-shirt. “I told you to never come back here.”

  “You’re pissed off at the wrong person,” Dean said with an insolent smile. “It’s your daughters who can’t get enough of what I got.” He looked back to where they stood in the bedroom. “All three of them, right Blue Eyes?”

  John popped him in the jaw, and although Mitchell restrained Dean, Dean didn’t attempt to retaliate; he only laughed.

  Blue Eyes? Mica squinted—Regina was the only one with blue eyes. The implication of his words hit her and she gasped.

  She and Justine turned to look at Regina and, to Mica’s dismay, found her wearing a guilty flush.

  Chapter 20

  If the relationship isn’t working, DO kill it quickly.

  Regina emerged from the footpath into the clearing around the antiques shop, both perplexed and relieved to find no cars in the parking lot. After leaving their house last night, her father had probably gone to a bar to get blitzed. No doubt he was parked on the side of the road somewhere sleeping it off. Mitchell either hadn’t yet arrived or didn’t plan to after witnessing another chapter in the Metcalf Family Guidebook to Broken Families.

  She could write that book, all right, but who would want to read it?

  She sighed, quelling tears that had hovered just below the surface since last night’s nightmare of an incident. Justine in her jilted-bride garb with a smoking gun, Mica screaming about the communicable diseases that Dean had given her, Dean bragging that he had all three sisters wrapped around his finger.

  An overstatement of gigantic proportions, at least where she was concerned, even though his words had stirred the guilt that she’d carried around for years. She’d known Dean was a cheating cad before the wedding. She was a sophomore in college, home on Christmas break, when he’d cornered her under a spray of mistletoe hanging in the shop. Over the years she’d become accustomed to Dean’s flirting and teasing, but this time his hands had gone beyond platonic patting, and his mouth, beyond a brotherly buss.

  “I’ve been dying to kiss you for years,” he’d murmured. “Really kiss you.”

  She’d made a bad split-second decision, based on remnants of the hormonal crush of a fourteen-year-old and the ridiculous justification that they were, after all, standing under mistletoe. So she’d kissed him back, and liked it. He had crushed her against him to let her know where his intentions lay. And she hated to think what might have happened if her father hadn’t suddenly appeared.

  Regina closed her eyes—she would never forget the look on John’s face. The accusation, the shame, that she would betray her own sister. But his disappointment in her had been nothing compared to her disappointment in herself. For the remainder of the holiday break, her father had avoided her, and she had avoided Justine. When Dean had sought her out again, she had threatened to tell Justine if he didn’t stop.

  “You won’t tell,” he’d said with infuriating confidence. “Because you wouldn’t dare cause trouble, Regina.”

  She’d hated him for being right—she wouldn’t burst Justine’s bubble of happiness. So she’d believed Dean’s excuse that he’d slipped because he was feeling pressured to set a date for the wedding, and she’d returned to school. And, from that point on, had endeavored not to be alone with Dean.

  And because she’d kept her cowardly mouth shut, look at how their lives had unfolded.

  Even if you’d told her, Justine wouldn’t have believed you, her mind whispered.

  Maybe not, but at least when Justine read that thoughtless note pinned to her wedding gown, she would’ve had some forewarning; she wouldn’t have looked as if she’d been hit by a truck.

  God, what a horrific day that had been—Regina had awakened with a heavy heart, fearing that Justine was making a big mistake by marrying Dean but feeling powerless to stop it. She had offered to go with Justine early to the church to get ready—Mica wanted to sleep in and come later with their parents. When John and Cissy had shown up alone, Regina had the first niggling that something was wrong. And when Dean’s best man had shown up alone, her suspicions compounded. She’d seen the looks Mica had cast in Dean’s direction when she thought no one was looking—Regina recognized those looks from her own misplaced fantasies about Dean, the man they’d grown up idolizing. Still, she had naively worried that Dean and Mica had spent the night drinking and had overslept. Even in her worst nightmare, she hadn’t imagined that they’d skipped town together. When Justine had collapsed in her arms, she’d been so angry at herself, she could barely face her sister and, in hindsight, hadn’t been nearly as supportive as she could’ve been.

  A car drove by on the road in front of the antiques shop, breaking into her troubled thoughts. She shook herself, reminded of her wide-eyed resolve during the night to focus on the things she could control, such as finishing the appraisal work with Mitchell.

  And Mitchell… she groaned. What a mess that had turned out to be. As he himself had pointed out, she had terrible taste in men.

  The items designated for the dump were sitting on the ground by the back door—decrepit pieces of furniture, industrial-sized bags of trash, rolls of ruined carpet. A brown squirrel poked its twitching head out of one of the bags, and she smiled for what felt like the first time in days. They would all get through this—the alternative was unthinkable.

  She unlocked the back door and entered, flipping on lights. The place was starting to look a little forlorn in its orderliness, everything stacked together and lined up, instead of the usual welcoming sprawl. They had made remarkable progress in a short time. She looked around and sighed—in a few weeks, M&G Antiquities would be gone, and so would M&G, Metcalf and Gilbert. Her parents, as a result of the story about the girls’ witnessing Lyla’s murder, and the disturbance over Dean, had grown even farther apart. The few times they were together, they exchanged furtive whispers and hateful glares, as if they blamed each other for what was happening. Regina hadn’t had time to think of a way to get them together, to get them talking and remembering how much they needed each other.

  She picked up a handful of what, in her estimation, were the saddest of all antiques—vintage photographs, most of them portraits of one type or another. Sepia-toned shots of stiff, unsmiling people who were undoubtedly related to one another. She laughed wryly—they looked so unhappy, they had to be related to one another. It was sad, this mishmash of pictures, because the families had apparently died out, the photographs sold in estate sales for—she looked on the back of a portrait of three somber-faced girls, circa 1900—twenty-five cents. Destined to become souvenirs for conversation pieces, or craft supplies for decoupaging end tables.

  She looked i
nto the bright eyes of the three chubby-cheeked girls. Matching dresses and mountains of banana curls. More than likely, they were all deceased now. “What did you do with your lives?” she murmured. “Did you grow up to do terrible things to each other?”

  “Talking to yourself is not a good sign,” Mitchell said.

  She turned to see him spanning the doorway and blushed. “I wasn’t talking to myself—I was talking to them.” She held up the picture.

  “Oh, well, in that case, pardon the interruption.”

  Sam scampered over and registered his hello. Mitchell followed, looking tentative. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to work today.”

  She gave a little laugh. “What else am I supposed to do? Spend the day with my loving sisters?”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “Maybe I should, since no blood has been spilled yet.”

  He pursed his mouth. “How was it after I left?”

  “Not good. Justine now thinks that I, too, was having an affair with Dean behind her back.”

  One of his dark brows rose. “And you weren’t?”

  “No.” She rubbed the back of her neck, and her shoulders fell. “But he did make a pass at me, and I should’ve told her.”

  He whistled low. “That Dean guy seems like a real piece of work.”

  “That’s an understatement. I could kill him for what he’s done to my family.”

  “From what I saw last night, you’d have to take a number.”

  She sighed. “I hope we’ve seen the last of Dean Haviland.” She started to return the photo of the little girls to the shoe box, then turned to Mitchell and held it up. “First sale of the day.”

  “I’ll take care of you right over here, ma’am.” He walked behind the counter and she reached into her purse for change.

  He squinted at the photo. “Cute. Anyone you know?”

  “Not personally, but they’re sisters, so we have something in common.”

  He handed back her change. “Every family has its story.”

  She pretended to rummage in her purse. “And what’s yours?”

  “Nothing too dramatic.” He lifted his shoulders in a slow shrug. “I studied law, and so did my younger brother. We wound up opposing each other on a case and let it affect our relationship. Stupid, really. I got out.”

  “You could have moved.”

  “Yes, I could have, but then, that wasn’t the point, was it?”

  “And what was the point?”

  He looked uncomfortable philosophizing about his own situation. “I didn’t want to be part of something that I would choose over my own family.”

  She frowned. “That’s being a little hard on yourself, don’t you think?”

  Another shrug, averted gaze.

  “Who won?”

  He looked up. “What?”

  “The case between you and your brother—who won?”

  “He did.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh, what?”

  “Just ‘oh.’ I’m doubly sorry now to have dragged you into this Bracken hearing. I’d hate to be the cause of more trouble between you and your brother.”

  He walked out from behind the glass counter and picked up her hand. “You have enough on your mind without worrying about me.”

  She swallowed against the desire pulling at her, then pulled back her hand. “Yes, you’re right.” She needed to keep a level head, which seemed more difficult when he was in her proximity.

  “Regina, I’d like to help you through this.”

  She frowned. “Why?”

  “Does there have to be an ulterior motive?”

  “In my experience, yes.”

  “Well, you haven’t experienced me.”

  She crossed her arms. “Funny, but I think I have. Twice.”

  He straightened. “Funny, I don’t remember you complaining at the time.”

  A loud horn sounded outside.

  “That’ll be the truck from the dump,” he said.

  She set down her purse and moved toward the back door. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “You’ll need my help.”

  “I don’t need your help,” she said over her shoulder, but he followed her anyway, muttering under his breath. She got it now—he was like some kind of TV superhero who moved around the country under the guise of appraising junk to patch up people’s pathetic lives. Hadn’t he realized that her family was like an old dike? When one hole was filled, another leak developed elsewhere. She was running out of fingers and toes to plug the holes, but she didn’t need his help. She couldn’t, because he would be moving on in a few days.

  Outside, the big ugly truck was already backed up to the heap of rubbish. Two men, one hefty guy and the other a runt, were surveying the goods.

  “All this go?” the big guy said.

  “Yes,” she and Mitchell said at the same time.

  “Gonna cost extra ‘cause it’s such a big load. Cash on the barrelhead.”

  “That’s fine,” they said in unison.

  She glared at Mitchell, then signaled the men to begin loading.

  Sam ran into the trash and started barking. He’d undoubtedly found that squirrel to torment.

  “Big pieces first,” the hefty guy said, lowering the enormous tailgate.

  While the men loaded the relic of a refrigerator, she tried to distract Sam from his make-believe hunt, but he wouldn’t let up. A couple of broken beds went in next. By the time they approached the hacked-up wardrobe, Mitchell had lost his patience with the dog. “That’s enough, Sam!”

  The dog quieted but whined miserably and got underfoot as they leveraged the big piece between the three of them.

  “Christ,” the little guy said on the initial lift. “What’s in this thing?”

  “It’s supposed to be empty,” Mitchell said.

  The little guy stumbled, and the wardrobe rocked forward, toward Regina. She backed up, and Mitchell and the hefty guy saved it from falling, but the doors swung open, snapping the rubber strap meant to hold it closed.

  And out rolled Dean Haviland. Shot through his cheating heart.

  Chapter 21

  DON’T ever relax.

  “Relax,” Mitchell said from where he sat on a bench with the stenciled message property of burl county sheriff’s department.

  Regina stopped pacing and looked down at the end of the hallway where Mica and Justine sat opposite each other, rigid and not speaking. Cissy’d had to be sedated and left at home. John was missing in action. She looked back to Mitchell. “Relax? A dead man rolled out onto my shoes, my entire family is implicated, and you tell me to relax.”

  “I’m just saying it’s not going to help matters if you have a stroke.”

  She covered her mouth to choke back a sob. “What’s going to happen now?”

  “I don’t know. They must want to ask more questions, or they would have let us go.”

  She chewed on a nail. “What did you tell them about last night?”

  He frowned. “The truth.”

  She winced. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  A door opened and a dour-faced Sheriff Hank Shadowen emerged. “Y’all come on in here now.”

  Mica and Justine, both red-eyed and stoic, made their way down the hall in slow motion. They all filed into a meeting room with a rectangular table and comfortable-looking chairs. Out of habit, Mica and Justine situated themselves across from each other. Regina sat next to Mica, across from Mitchell. She wasn’t sure what she expected, but there wasn’t a spotlight or two-way mirror in sight. Just a television, magazine rack, and vending machines.

  Sheriff Shadowen, a big man whose thick head of hair had turned white since she’d last seen him, gestured toward one of the machines. “Can I get y’all something to drink?”

  They declined. He retrieved a can of Dr Pepper for himself and cracked it open as he sat at the end of the table in front of an open file folder. He reviewed the forms with much sighing and grunting, then looked up. “Go
t a real mess on my hands.” His expression was mournful, as if culling their sympathy. “Got a man shot through the chest with a thirty-eight slug. Got another man who threatened the dead man, missing. Got a thirty-eight automatic, given to the deceased by the missing man, in the possession of the missing man’s daughter, who’s been living with the deceased. Got a report of the missing man’s other daughter firing at the deceased last night with a thirty-eight revolver. And I got a missing thirty-eight revolver.” He sighed and took another drink from the can. “Hell of a mess.”

  No one spoke. Mica looked drawn and vacant, her glorious hair pulled back into a long braid. Justine was equally pale and toyed frantically with a cigarette. They’d taken the news of Dean’s death badly.

  The sheriff leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table. “According to your statements, you girls were at your parents’ house from last night until this morning.”

  They all nodded.

  “Do any of you girls know where your daddy is?”

  “No,” they chorused.

  “When was the last time anyone saw him?”

  Mitchell cleared his throat. “I walked with Mr. Metcalf from the house back to the antiques shop last night after the incident at the house. When I drove off, he was going in the back door.”

  The sheriff looked at him. “Cooke, isn’t it?”

  Mitchell nodded.

  “What were you doing at the Metcalf house?”

  “I was at the antiques store with Regina when Haviland stopped by. He said he was on his way to the Metcalf home. Regina was afraid of a confrontation, so she asked me to go with her. John arrived when we were on our way out, so he went with us.”

  The sheriff glanced at her. “Why were you expecting a confrontation?”

  Her heart rate picked up, and she stole a glance at her sisters before answering. “Because Justine hadn’t seen Dean since… he broke their engagement. I thought they might have words.”

  “Sounds to me as if you were gathering reinforcements; you were expecting more than just a shouting match.”