Screaming To Be Solved Page 7

  He’d have to think on that later. Right now, she stared at him with puzzlement.

  “What are you muttering?”

  “Only things you wouldn’t want to hear about your admiringly wealthy and happy client.”

  “Oh I didn’t say anything about admiring him.” She flipped the light switch on in the work space, secured the curtain back with a clip on the wall. “He’s slime for sure. But you’re right about the wealthy part. And that’ll help me move from here,” she gestured out to the store’s showroom, “to there.” She pointed to an unidentified somewhere that was apparently bigger and better than the current home of E.M. Vaughn.

  “Has he done something to you?” Grant felt his shoulders tense and tried to let the knots loosen. Easy boy. This is your work, not your relationship.

  “Not really. Well, no. Why?”

  “I’d be careful. That’s all. Money doesn’t give a man class. I can tell you he missed the boat on that ride.”

  “There’s something we can agree on. He looks at me like I’m a piece of meat dangling from a hook. Once I get cooked real nice, he’ll be ready to eat. It gives me the willies.” She made a disgusted face and waved it off.

  “Anyway, this is my space, obviously.” She walked further into the room. “All my tools.” She put a petite hand to a large pail atop a slanted, flat topped desk, filled with pens, colored pencils and erasers. “Other things I need for drawing.” She gestured to a shelf, meticulously organized and filled with stacks of colored paper, varying sizes of easels tucked in cubby holes, and tablets and pads of sketch paper.

  “It’s great in here, Marx,” he said, looking around the space.

  “Thank you,” she replied after a moment’s hesitation. “I like it, but that’s just me. And it’s possible that I’m biased.” She sent a thoughtful look his way and closed the curtain. “Funny you called me Marx. Only Evan and Liz ever say that.”

  He shrugged. “I guess it just fit.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  ELEVEN

  When they finally settled down for coffee, it was well past nine. The sun had nearly set, leaving Marxie to put lamps and candles aglow throughout the room.

  After discussing her business more, how she got it off the ground (money from Evan’s department and life insurance had thankfully covered the bulk of overhead), what clientele was like, her plans for the future to move into a new building and hire full-time help eventually, her thoughts circled around to the day’s earlier events.

  She stared into the hot liquid, hoping some answers might just pop out of it. She didn’t want to bring up what happened hours ago. The casual, ordinary conversation tonight had calmed her, made her forget, or at least want to forget, the earlier trauma. So much of the time she didn’t feel ordinary, didn’t feel like her life was anything like other twenty-seven-year-old women; it was nice to soak up normalcy sometimes.

  After seeing nothing but little swirls of oil glaze around the top of the tan liquid, Marxie looked up and found Grant’s eyes searching her. Take away the callous appearance the life of a detective inevitably put on a body, the challenging stare, hard eyes and usually grim line of the mouth, and he truly was a handsome man.

  The closely cropped hair—about two or three inches from being completely shaved—was a style she could tell he kept out of convenience, not necessity. Long hours, hard work, and a hot Georgia sun no doubt kept him from what could be a lush head of hair. But something about the short, spiky strands was attractive. They offset the deep eyes, made the strong jaw more prominent, the dimple in his left cheek more evident. The lips that rarely curved into a smile were thick and lush with a muted, deep blush coloring. His olive skin complimented his dark eyes, made him mysterious, almost dangerous. But when she looked into those eyes, when, on the off chance the lips did form a smile, she saw no danger. Only charm and sincerity and a careful, steady strength.

  Realizing she had probably been staring at him like Rick Williams gaped at her, she laughed nervously and looked into the coffee again, wishing for a thick cloak to smother the embarrassment that crept over her face. “Well, enough about me,” she started a conversation she hoped he’d pick up. “What about you?”

  He smiled and put her at ease again. “You already know what there is. Besides, your line of work is more interesting to hear about than mine.”

  “Maybe. It’s definitely more upbeat.” She paused, took a sip of coffee to soothe an aching in her throat. “Grant, how do you do what you do? I mean, I just don’t understand how you see what you do everyday and still go on. It’s awful. Horrible.”

  He stared at her intently, then after a moment, he spoke. “I was thinking that earlier today, actually. How I’ve become immune to it I guess. When you saw your husband, obviously it was a shock for you, it was horrible. And I think even if it hadn’t been him, you still would’ve had a similar—maybe not as severe—but a similar reaction. Me, it really doesn’t phase me. I hate to admit it, but it’s true.”

  “Then why keep doing it?”

  He shrugged. “It’s who I am. And some part of me is still deeply affected. It may not be when I see them lying there in the morgue. But it’s their lives, their memories that pull me. When I dig through old cases, see a photo of a young woman, ravaged by death, she’s just another body to inspect, another case to solve. But when I flip the page and there she is in glossy color, smiling with bright eyes, ready for what the future holds, that’s when it hits me. That’s when the case becomes mine.

  “I guess the best way to put it is I get down right angry that one human being could take that hope and light in someone’s eyes away from them.” He put a hand to the back of his neck, rubbed at a spot while he steadied the flare of temper. He looked back to Marxie who stared at him, intrigued by his words. “It’s the living that pull me into it and the dead that keeping me searching. Sounds odd I’m sure, but they sort of scream to me, for lack of a better word, from the grave. Their murders scream to be solved. The mounds of files and evidence, the photos, the possibilities, they invade my dreams, my thoughts . . . my life really, until I help them and find out who took that future they dreamed of away from them.” He sighed now, as if uncomfortable with all he’d just revealed. “Needless to say, I understand about dreams. And how they can haunt you.”

  ”You’re remarkable.” She said immediately. Then thinking, she fumbled, sat her coffee on the table in front of her and cleared her throat. “What I mean is your work is remarkable. Your dedication and loyalty to these people is admirable. I’m sure so many families are grateful, so many lives are at least given some closure from your commitment.”

  The grim line turned up ever so slightly. “That’s the plan anyway. Some are grateful, those are the good days. But some of the time, you just can’t solve ‘em, you can’t find enough info, don’t have enough leads to do anything useful. That’s when it hurts the worst.” He rose from the chair, helped himself to another mug of coffee from the pot in the kitchen. “I’ve never officially closed a case that hasn’t been solved. I can’t bring myself to do it and give up on it. But some of them are cold, even in the cold case division if that makes any sense.”

  She nodded and hoped to God Evan’s case didn’t become one of those unsolvable mysteries. “I guess being on the other end of it, at least in the last few days, I haven’t thought of it from your point of view. I’ve been so involved in my own pain, tortured with my own questions, I haven’t thought to answer yours or give you any help. I’ve just been like everyone else . . . wanting closure. Is that bad?”

  He came back to the living room, and since her legs were draped over two cushions of the couch, he chose the remaining cushion and eased down. For a brief moment, unease washed over her, but his eyes caught hers, kept their attention, and she strangely felt a deep sense of trust and comfort.

  “No. It’s normal for you to want answers. I want them too. I wish I had more to give you. But Lawson won’t have anything official for another day or
two.”

  She sighed, shifted her feet and tucked them under her.

  “Cold?” he asked, stretching to reach the blanket draped over the back of the sofa.

  “What’s with you and blankets?” she laughed.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning the first time you were here you covered me in one and now you’re offering again.”

  For the first time since meeting him, she saw what she might peg as embarrassment cross his face. “I wondered if you’d noticed that. Thought you did. Seemed to perk up when it happened. Started asking questions then.”

  She raised a brow. “So you did that for my benefit?”

  Finally he smiled. It was restrained, but she was counting it anyway. “Yes. On both occasions.”

  When neither of them spoke for several moments, he turned toward her. “Marxie, I do apologize if that incident, or this one, bothered or upset you. I hope you don’t think I’ve been anything other than professional, and that you know I meant all I said in the beginning. This is about Evan and finding out what we’re dealing with here.” He paused and when she did not respond, he continued. “This case started out different than most. And this,” he looked between them, “is quite unorthodox for me, for any member of law enforcement to be honest. But you know that. I want to tell you—”

  The familiar tune of her cell phone ring broke the moment, had her scurrying to the kitchen counter to grab the thin black device.

  She eyed the number, saw it was unfamiliar, pressed Ignore. Since she generally did not answer calls from unknown numbers, she made a habit of inputting all of her clients’ contact information and any other contacts she might need into her phone, so if they were to call, she could field it properly. Obviously, this caller hadn’t made it to her contacts, so she declined. If it was important or they needed her, they’d leave a voicemail.

  Looking back to Grant, she was about to suggest that they part ways for the evening—she was exhausted—when a brisk knock sounded at her door. When Grant’s brows came together with a questioning look, she shrugged, just as curious as he about who it could be, and made her way over to the door.

  “You make a habit of answering unexpected house calls after nine at night?” He asked as she raised on tip-toes to look through the tiny peephole.

  “Don’t usually have them.” She squinted one eye, put the other up to the small circle and this time, it was her brows that came together.

  “Problem?” Grant asked.

  “Depends.”

  “On?”

  “If I mind that there’s a lady at my door with a microphone, a too eager grin and a man with a large camera standing behind her.”

  Grant frowned. “Media.”

  She nodded absently, not prepared to be peppered with the questions she knew were sure to come. Chief Raines had warned her they would hear of the news somehow. He was right. There always was a leak, always someone who wanted to pass along the gossip so they could feel important and needed.

  Grant moved forward. “Want me to get it? Tell ‘em to get lost?”

  “No. No, I can do it. Thank you.”

  She swallowed purposefully, took a deep breath, and for the second time in as many days, opened the door to an unexpected guest delivering the unkindest of pleasantries.

  “Marxie? Are you Marxie Vaughn?”

  The young woman with the hungry question had overly sprayed, perfectly coifed, bright blonde hair and she stood resolutely on Marxie’s Welcome mat at the stoop. Her perky blue eyes were eager with anticipation.

  Marxie let the anticipation fester, drawing out the pause. “Yes. I am.”

  “Ms. Vaughn, do you have any comment on the recent events regarding your deceased husband?”

  “What events would those be, Miss . . .?” Marxie smiled, sugary sweet, now waiting for the reporters response. Ha, doesn’t feel so good when you’re on the other end, does it?

  The woman hesitated slightly, her coral painted lips falling from full sail to half-mast. “Tracey Brown. Channel Six News.”

  “Hi Tracey Brown. Now that the small talk is over, I do have one comment.”

  “Yes?” Tracey’s eyes lit up, she shuffled closer to Marxie, situated her mic perfectly between them, gave a quick gesture for her camera man to move in.

  Marxie looked directly in the cameras lens, squared her shoulders. “I will be making no comment on any situation regarding Officer Evan Vaughn except to say that he was a good officer, an even better husband, and the community lost a great man when he was killed. He would be ashamed that you are hounding and badgering his widow for your entertainment.” Flustered, she gestured as if waving away a mouse. “Go find something good to report on for a change, Tracey. There are many more relevant and important positive things going on out there.”

  Tracey stared blankly for the briefest of moments, then sucked in a breath. “Ms. Vaughn, what do you make of your husband’s body being recovered? Does this involve Chaz Henry?”

  Exasperated, Marxie took one step back and closed the door firmly, right in Tracey Brown’s peppy face.

  She clicked the lock, turned wearily, slumped against the cool metal of the door and slid down it until she reached the floor. Not able to help herself, she began to cry.

  When Grant moved to come closer, she startled. She’d forgotten he was there. The bright light from the camera, the questions, the faux concern from Tracey Brown and a zillion others like her had taken Marxie back. Rewound her to the days of clicks, flashes, courtrooms, unending questions, and just as many unending updates and articles in print, TV and across the Internet. They probed into her feelings, her acceptance, her forgiveness, her life with Evan, her life without Evan.

  She did not, did not want to deal with this again.

  When Grant knelt beside her, she shook her head. “Nightmare. Two point oh.”

  She knuckled a stubborn tear away, sighed with resignation and frustration. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to cry. I hate to cry in front of people. I’m just a private person, this is a private matter. And that,” she pointed behind her where Tracey probably still stood, salivating for tears or disappointment or another outburst—anything she could use for a sound bite— “that is an invasion of privacy in its least flattering form.”

  “I can go out if you want, make sure they’re gone.”

  “No need. There’ll be more. I’m sure that was who was calling earlier too.”

  The grim line of his mouth somehow seemed to flatten more. “Your friend’ll be here tonight, right?”

  Marxie shook her head. “She’s gone. Out of town.”

  “I was beginning to wonder. ” At her questioning look he actually grinned. “She hadn’t come down to kick me out yet.”

  Marxie caught herself grinning back in spite of herself. “Business trip, New York.”

  “Ah, that explains it. What about your parents?” he asked. “They around, live near?”

  She shook her head. “I mean, yes, they’re near. But I’m not calling them for something like this. It’s just an over-eager reporter, trying to do her job. I overreacted. And I’ve dealt with worse.” She dammed up the tears, patted her face dry. “But right now, it’s just hard. This whole thing is just . . . hard.”

  “Is there anyone else you need me to call—friends, neighbors? I can even get in touch with the stations if you want, tell them to call off their minions for the night.”

  She tried a laugh. “Thanks, but no.” She had people, friends, neighbors, anyone from church would be glad to come, keep her company. But that’s not what she wanted now. She wasn’t sure exactly what she did want, just knew that she didn’t want to talk and rehash everything, be expected to shed tears or share secrets. She just wanted to be.

  And to sleep.

  “I can stay.” His deep voice, unexpected, made her heart jump.

  She turned her head to his.

  “Stay? Here?” Oh yes, he was handsome, she realized as she watched the flickering candles reflected off th
e dark brown eyes. And so very similar to her Evan in his strength and size it almost made her tremble. But that face, the face held a whole new man. While Evan was sunny and bright, with soft features full of smiles and good cheer, Grant was hard and rough, all sharpness and shadows. How could she find both men so appealing? But stay? That was way beyond pushing the bounds of professionalism, it was breaking them all together. And where would he sleep? His large frame was much too big for the couch and she certainly couldn’t send him up to Liz’s room. Liz would kill her.

  She refocused as he nodded, spoke. “I’ll put in a call to Chief Burns, let him know you need someone here. It’d be good to have an eye out, watch the place, keep any more sniffing noses at bay.”

  Oh of course. Stay. Outside. In his car. Keeping watch for her. Of course.

  She hesitated, contemplating, and searched the heart that Evan always told her was pure. “Yes. That might be nice,” she decided.

  She did actually want someone there tonight but had rejected the idea of calling family and friends knowing it meant more questions, more conjecture from those sniffing noses. She could hear it as a six o’clock story now: “Marxie Vaughn, widow of fallen officer Evan Vaughn, has withdrawn to her home, calling on family and close friends to see her though this new and difficult time.”

  “Great.” He stood finally, drew his cell phone from his pants pocket. “I’ll put in a call, get out of your hair.”

  “What about you? Will you be all right out there, to stay up I mean?”

  “Fine. I wouldn’t have a good night’s rest tonight in any case. I’d either have driven all the way back to Isle of Hope, crashing when I got there—leaving me behind in going over some paperwork—or I’d use my already late night as an excuse to work for hours leaving me useless tomorrow. Either way, I’d lose. Plus, you could use someone here. Today wasn’t easy for you.” At that, his voice softened and he leaned in, offered her his hand so she could stand.