Screaming To Be Solved Page 4

  “Oh, me?” Eyes wide, she straightened and stopped sketching.

  Rick laughed, a boisterous, faux sound she had heard some of the paralegals refer to as “the client laugh.” His eyes sparkled with male approval at her fumbling, and no doubt, flushed cheeks. It gave her an uneasy feeling, as if she’d just eaten something too greasy and would live to regret it later.

  She’d seen that approval in men’s eyes enough times to know how to deal with it, namely how to dodge it.

  She bent discreetly, gathering her measuring tape and briefcase leaning against a worn sofa. “Sorry, I was distracted. Just finishing out some ideas, giving you more options in case our earlier visions for the offices need to be tweaked or you’ve discovered, since having some time to think, aren’t to your liking.”

  She crossed the room, sat on a dated, purely ugly maroon-covered chair. Uncomfortable too, she noted, as something hard rooted into her thigh. “Here’s a more refined version of the plans we discussed at our last meeting.” She leaned, pushed a sketch of the main conference room and several smaller ones to the center of John’s desk.

  “Here’s the main meeting area,” she pointed with a sharp pencil to the vibrant drawing in the center of the paper, “and the other conference rooms, plus entryways and restrooms,” she gestured to the surrounding sketches, pointing each one out. “The colors here are a true to life representation of what you’ll see in the finished product.” She bent, pulled her briefcase to her lap and produced several samples of paint and flooring squares in varying colors and textures. “These are the samples you narrowed down from the choices I brought last meeting. Per your request, I’ve chosen what I think will best compliment your budget and your goal of modernizing with elegance and class.”

  She held her breath and let her mind fidget nervously—she wouldn’t let her hands, that would show the client she wasn’t confident in her decisions—while the two men glanced over the sketches, inspected the samples she’d chosen.

  Since giving them both outlines of the redesign discussed at the Fee Proposal, she hadn’t heard any objections, so she assumed they’d be moving on with their initial plans. Both men only had rough sketches though, pencil drawings she’d hastily completed while they waited. The ones they were looking at now were hours of work, loads of detail, and a realistic view of what the end result would be. She prayed they’d approve. Doing it all over was literally starting from scratch.

  Most in her field relied heavily on computers, offered 3D designs, flashier digital images—and she would too eventually—but in the beginning stages, Marxie preferred drawing out her designs, putting the creativity and colors on paper.

  John spoke first with his usual cheer. “Well, Ms. Vaughn, I think it’ll be just great. Looks like a nice change to me, although it will be strange to lose the furnishings that have been here since I got married three decades ago.” He eyed the chair she occupied.

  “Just what I had in mind.” She laughed and crossed her legs to avoid the protruding chair piece.

  “For once, my partner is right.” Rick propped a heel up on his opposite knee, leaned back, and eyed her. “You’ve outdone yourself.” He smiled with a mischievous gleam, letting his eyes trail down while John continued to inspect the lighting photos she’d produced.

  Were it any other situation, Marxie probably would’ve commented that the look he was attempting to give—the one where he thought her a slab of meat he would soon eat with pleasure—though possibly attractive to other women, disgusted her. But, since this one account was providing her with half of what most decorators in the area made in a year, she kept her mouth shut, set it in a thin line and tugged her periwinkle dress even further down her legs.

  She wished now she’d worn pants. But it was so hot, and the dress was modest and she was a professional. Neither constituted having to deal with wandering eyes and meat-eating looks. One more glance to Rick’s narrowed gaze and now slightly open mouth told her she was indeed wrong, she was having to deal with it.

  Ugh. She shuddered under his stare and wished his hungry eyes away.

  These moments were the one’s she’d enjoyed going home and telling Evan about. He wasn’t the jealous type, but certainly didn’t mind talking about what he could do as a cop, if he weren’t an upstanding guy and better than the jerk who catcalled or eyed his wife, to men who hit on her. Mostly, he’d laugh and pick her up in one big swoop, tell her what a lucky man he was to have a woman everyone else wanted, then promptly go show her that she was all his by doing incredible things to her body.

  “Like the lighting, too.” John’s charming drawl brought her back to the desk full of plans. “Good choice. Simple. Not much fuss.”

  “Also what I was going for,” she smiled politely. Mr. Monroe understood her designs so well. She liked him. Things about him reminded her of her father: sweet, charming, southern gentleman. “I thought you and Mr. Williams would value some male characteristics in your space. The recessed and aged bronze lighting fixtures will do that. Also, the conference room will be washed in that beautiful, deep green and even though the rest of the walls are going to be a golden rose color, it’ll be deep as well and complimented by more neutral décor. Overall, it says comfort, class and elegance in a serious but approachable business.

  “Plus, we still have your offices to discuss and finalize plans for. They’ll be more your taste than anything—the place you can show more of your personality but still keep a flow throughout.”

  Rick had gotten up while she spoke and now stood by the bar, pouring an amber color liquid from a glass capped bottle. “Drink, Ms. Vaughn?”

  She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

  “John?”

  “I don’t drink midday. You know that. Neither should you.”

  “As you can see, Ms. Vaughn,” he grinned her way, held up an almost full glass, “I’m the more fun of the two.”

  Marxie smiled modestly and chose to stay on task. “Did you have a chance to look at the lighting, Mr. Williams?”

  “Like it. Echo what John said.” Rick turned and raised a glass in salute to his partner. “Funny how in the matter of law we butt heads savagely, old pal, but when it comes to décor, we agree like dogs in heat.” Yes, she despised him. “Or,” he laughed as he took a gulp of liquor, “it may be our wise choice in hiring E.M. Vaughn for our style needs that’s kept us like-minded.”

  “Rick, stop flirting with the poor woman,” John sighed. “She’s here to do business.” Shocked, Marxie suppressed a giggle and a fist-pump while yelling, Yes, and pressed her lips together instead.

  Cursing John under his breath, Rick smiled pleasantly, poured the rest of his drink down the sink and came to gather the stack of papers he’d entered with. “Excuse me, Ms. Vaughn, I’m due in court in half an hour. I’ll be in touch to schedule a meeting for the changes in my office.”

  Without a word to John, he breezed out the door as regally as he’d arrived.

  Unable to help herself, Marxie leaned forward. “Really, twenty years together?”

  John stopped riffling through the book of furniture Marxie had brought him to review and smiled up at her. “Hard to believe isn’t it? Sometimes I can’t believe it myself. But he’s a good lawyer. And oftentimes good lawyers aren’t good men . . . comes with the territory. I don’t like it sometimes. Well, I don’t really like it most times, but hey, that’s life. He brings in business and keeps it. He’s hardworking and honest, ‘least I think so.” John winked. “And it’s life.”

  As Marxie left him to make his selections and finish her measurements, she thought John Monroe was certainly on to something—life doesn’t always give you what you like. But you have to deal with it.

  She was going to deal with it. She’d gone to work, tried to be normal, kept appointments, returned calls and emails, all delaying what she knew must be done. Shock and denial had subsided enough to stick her in the murky depths of what Chief Raines had warned against—downright, ugly fear. The first step
was admitting it, now she had to deal with it.

  We fear because we don’t have answers.

  The chief had certainly not given her the answers she needed, and honestly, had she thought he could? Deep down, she had to ask herself if she had gone to him just looking for someone to squelch that mounting fear.

  She’d known he wouldn’t be able to supply her with details, at least current ones. She’d known before he told her that since Evan was found in Savannah, the department there would take on the case, they’d have the meat of the information. Sure, they’d ask questions, poke around Pembroke’s PD, make them feel involved, but they wouldn’t hand over any facts they didn’t want to. In her experience as a cop’s wife, law enforcement was strange that way—very territorial of their area and work. Sometimes on a big case—lots of news coverage, a child involved, a grisly homicide—they’d work together quite nice, but for the most part, each department worked for themselves, for their place. And no one liked to be told what to do by anyone else.

  Until further notice, Pembroke and its staff, including the chief, wouldn’t be privy to any inside information about Evan or the specifics surrounding the discovery of his body.

  She knew someone that would, though.

  Sitting in the steamy SUV with the windows rolled down, praying some of the breeze from the river would make it into town, Marxie clutched her cell phone in one hand, Detective Grant Carter’s card in the other.

  On a deep breath, she steadied her trembling fingers, and dialed.

  “Detective Carter? Hi, Marxie Vaughn. Do you have a minute?”

  EIGHT

  Sitting near the broad window in the narrow booth watching a bird nip at a discarded cigarette butt, Grant reflected that he had expected her call, but not so soon. From the looks of her yesterday he’d pegged at least seventy-two hours for recovery. But in less than twenty-four, she was ready to talk.

  Maybe the snotty friend really was helpful. Lord knew the woman could take charge. She probably forced poor Ms. Vaughn to gulp down some meds, chase them with coffee, and steady herself. If that was the case, she’d crash in another few hours, but at least she was ready for a conversation. By talking with her, he was sure to get some answers of his own.

  He’d already re-checked her alibi for the night Evan was killed, dug in a little further; it still checked out. Not to mention instinct told him she was definitely a victim in all this. So at least he was good on that front. It was easier, friendlier if he didn’t have to approach her as suspect number one.

  But there were still questions to be asked, on both sides of the table he was sure.

  He expected to start at the beginning, recap much of yesterday’s conversation since he would bet she hadn’t absorbed most of the information. And that was just fine with him. He didn’t mind a bit if she forgot some pieces of his visit.

  He was certainly trying to.

  He’d had a moment yesterday. A dumb, out-of-character, moment. He’d come to her place to deliver the news, begin the investigation, ask a few questions . . . not throw a blanket over a shivering female. He was still kicking himself over that one. What had he been thinking?

  Stupid, Grant thought. Stupid, stupid.

  Trouble was, he wasn’t thinking much at all when he’d grabbed that blanket and situated it over her chilled skin. He was distracted by the call, thinking of the coffee, keeping an eye on the hazardous looking friend—the gesture had come by pure instinct.

  Yes, he could admit he had more sympathy than many of the cops he knew, and for good reason, but to place it around her shoulders, secure it around her petite body when her friend was sitting right there to do anything she needed? Really, what was he thinking?

  Maybe he needed a break. He had been working a lot of overtime lately. His caseload was booked far beyond the point of overwhelming. Yet here he was, smack in the middle of the Vaughn case.

  Why?

  You know why. You’re stupid.

  Stupid because the reason was the woman.

  He hated to admit that finally, sitting here in the quaint diner that smelled of grilled hamburgers and sweet milkshakes. Hated to fully surrender that the main reason he took on yet another trying case was because he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the grieving widow on the front page of a two year old edition of The Pembroke Post.

  When Chief Burns called almost a week ago to request his help on a body found in the canal, Grant refused flat out. Everyone knew he was phasing out of the department, getting ready to start his own agency. His commitment remained to closing his current cases and did not extend to taking on new ones. But when word came that the body was a former officer, Burns called again. With the chief’s aggravation and his own conscious tugging, Grant agreed to at least look at the material.

  The minute he unloaded the contents of the thick manila envelope, laid eyes on the paper and the muted, half page colored photo, he was captivated.

  Beauty and pain. Grief and anger. Sorrow and strength. All in one photograph. All captured in one moment, one face.

  He didn’t think he was weird necessarily, just intrigued. The pale, gloriously clear skin; the shadowed but beautiful blue eyes, veiled with tears, hinted with swelling from the distress; the rich locks of hair, reflecting reds and gold’s pretty as the leaves in fall, how could one not be intrigued?

  Seeing her face, looking into the eyes, he felt an extraordinary desire to meet the woman, an even greater desire to find out what happened to the young widow’s late husband.

  Two years ago, he vaguely recalled discussion of a cop over in Bryan County that was killed in the line of duty. Whenever one of their own was taken, it always got around, but Grant had been too absorbed with a break in a decade old case of a four-year-old girl’s murder to pay much attention to the details.

  Now he knew the details. And because of the pain that stained his own past, he felt a connection to Marxie Vaughn and a long-forgotten yearning to make everything right for her again.

  So here he was, sitting in a booth at Clary’s Cafe, gulping a glass of sweet tea, waiting for the beautiful, tragic woman from the photo. He hoped the case and the woman wouldn’t be more than he could handle.

  Marxie pulled into Clary’s overcrowded parking lot and before she could change her mind, grabbed her purse and jumped out of her Explorer.

  She’d considered calling Liz on her way—she knew her friend would cancel her upcoming business trip if Marxie so much as hinted a need—but she’d thought better of it. She was afraid that at times, she’d leaned on Liz too much. She’d allowed her friend to take control too often, pampering and soothing and making things too easy.

  Two years had passed since Evan’s death; Marxie needed to be able to deal with life on her own.

  Tucking her hair behind her ears, she walked under the canopied door and swung it open. She spotted Detective Carter immediately.

  He sat in a booth by a large glass window, the sun shining on his olive skin, catching a day’s worth of dark stubble. He waved, a brisk move of his hand, and bent to continue eating.

  “Hi,” she said as she approached the table and scooted in the long bench.

  “Afternoon.” He took a big bite of a Rueben and the distinct smell of sauerkraut made her stomach turn. She realized she hadn’t eaten all day, or since she’d last seen the detective actually. She wasn’t exactly sure if the queasiness came from hunger or dread.

  “Thanks for meeting me.” She smiled feebly.

  “No problem. I told you I’d be available, and here I am. How you feelin’?”

  ”Fine.”

  “You sure?” he asked, swallowing. “It didn’t look that way when I left you yesterday. You’re a quick recover, though. Look better now.” He smiled, a sincere, almost playful grin that had her heart warming to his kindness and concern. She liked this side of the man much better than the surly detective who gave her grisly facts she’d rather not hear. But she was here for business, and answers. And he was here to do his job. He’
d turn back to surly quick enough.

  She tucked her purse beside her, ordered a coffee when the waitress

  buzzed by. “Sorry about yesterday,” she explained, “it was a bit of a shock.”

  “Understandably so.”

  “But I am better today.” She nodded once, as if trying to convince them both. “I’ve slept, even went to work this morning.”

  “You ate?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “I-I guess not.”

  He scooted his plate across the table, gestured for her to take some fries.

  She waved it away politely. “Thanks, but I’m probably better off without anything.” She laid a hand to her stomach. “A little queasy.”

  He frowned but pulled the lunch back his way.

  “So about yesterday,” she began, putting both hands flat on the table. “I’d like to know more. I kind of rushed you off, or didn’t allow you to stay, rather. I would apologize for my lack of response, but you’ve excused it.”

  “No need to. Hard day. Hard news.”

  She made a sound of agreement and continued. “What else can you tell me, Detective?”

  “First,” he sipped his tea, “no more Detective. I’m your partner in this, your friend. I’m here to help and I’m on your side. You need to think of me that way, so it’s Grant, got it?”

  “Okay. Just Marxie for me then.”

  “Marxie.” He smiled and nodded and she was reminded again what a nice smile he had when he decided to show it. The warmth and charm it exuded were a stark contrast to his dark, strong features. “Well, let’s start at the beginning.”

  He relayed the last few day’s happenings—the body being discovered, SCMPD contacting him, sorting through the initial files and paperwork on the accident—in greater detail than he had in her living room. Or at least she was processing more of it today.

  When he finished she let the information sink in again. She heard the milkshake machines whirring, the fast chatter of women gossiping, the unmistakable dinging of an old cash register ringing up its latest sale. And she heard her mind, humming, asking questions, considering options.