Lilacs for Laura Read online

  ****

  Sleep eluded Laura. She tossed and turned, then finally went downstairs seeking the distraction of television. Pepe LePew chased after that poor black cat. Even cartoons replayed the scene with Jake over and over in her mind. She flipped the channel as Daisy climbed into her lap.

  A Corvette commercial reminded her of Brett. Click again. A cop show—she didn’t think so. Click. Murder She Wrote . Give me a break. I’m sorry I didn’t go to church. Click. One last attempt with the movie channel. Antonio Sabato, Jr. He was Brett with brown eyes. Please. She snapped the TV off.

  Sapphire eyes swirled through her mind. She wanted to erase the pain she’d brought into them. How could she throw away the best thing in her life? Her future was uncertain, but one thing she knew for sure. She loved Brett. And he loved her.

  But she’d treated him the way Alton Moyer had treated her. And Ronny Tillman before him. She’d tossed him aside like yesterday’s fries. Once hot and salty, her relationship with Brett had turned cold and tasteless. And it was her fault.

  Alton and Ronny had chosen another woman over her. Someone they could have their way with. Men had to get their own way.

  But she’d wanted her own way too. Hadn’t she planned to manipulate Brett into staying by renting him the cottage? And hadn’t she wanted to seduce him that night on Rachel’s sofa? When she’d thought he’d returned, she’d stretched and posed...

  Only it was Jake who’d walked in.

  She was no better than Alton or Ronny. Maybe she hadn’t chosen another man over Brett, but she’d chosen her family, her business, her hometown. What was wrong with her? How could she choose a town over the love of her life?

  She’d turned him away and now she needed him more than ever. She needed someone to confide in. Someone she could trust.

  She’d been afraid to trust Brett, but at this point, he was the only one she could trust.

  Then she heard the sirens.

  ****

  Chief Hunter huffed and puffed as he thundered toward Brett. “You say you found Santos?” he blurted breathlessly.

  “Yes. Down at the creek. He’s dead all right, but he didn’t drown. Someone shot him.” Brett still couldn’t believe it. Was Laura guilty? Had he done the right thing calling the police? Maybe he should have found her first. Where was she?

  His temper had gotten the best of him and it was too late now.

  The chief winced. “Two murders in Crystal Falls. I can’t believe it.” He shook his head sadly.

  Sirens moaned from the distance. A red glow rose over the hill. Another black and white crested the rise, followed closely by an ambulance. They barreled into the drive. The police car squelched its engine behind the chief’s car, but the ambulance plowed through the yard and halted at the tree line.

  “Act like they own the place,” the chief growled.

  A young deputy pranced to Hunter’s side like an obedient puppy. “What’s the scoop, Chief?” He twitched with anticipation.

  “You take the report, Warren.” Hunter shoved a pad of paper at him. “I’ll check out the scene before those numbskulls destroy any evidence.” He rushed off in a huff, yelling to the paramedics, “Now wait right there!”

  Clearly agitated, Deputy Warren set the large pad on the hood of his car, pen poised as he addressed Brett. “Name and address, sir?” He looked toward the woods with longing.

  “Brett Mitchell. 3000 Rose Hill Drive. Right here,” he pointed to the cottage.

  “What were you doing when you found the body?”

  Brett explained, and the deputy wrote furiously, asking only the most pertinent questions.

  As they neared the end of the form, Laura appeared, running across the lawn from the farmhouse next door. A combination of relief and anger washed over Brett. Thank God she was all right. But could he trust her? Anger resurfaced. Distracted, he watched Warren’s scribbling and tried to concentrate on his story.

  “Yes, I heard three shots last night,” his voice quavered. Glancing at Laura as she approached, he spoke confidentially to the officer. “Two shots, one right after another, and the third a short while later.”

  Warren jotted it down.

  “Brett! What happened?” Laura cried, stopping breathlessly beside them. Jittery, she clutched her jacket around her.

  “Just a moment, miss,” the deputy said curtly. Handing Brett a pen, he said, “Sign here.” Warren pointed to an X at the bottom of his report.

  Unable to read Warren’s hieroglyphics, Brett hoped the report was accurate. He signed the bottom with some reservation.

  The deputy snatched the pad out from under him and tossed it into the police car. Locking the door, he said with authority, “Stay here at the house. Do not leave the premises until we give you permission. We may have more questions later. Do not return to the crime scene.”

  Then he sprinted through the yard and disappeared into the woods. Brett stared after him, dumbfounded.

  “Crime scene?” Laura squeaked warily.

  Brett watched her eyes turn fearful and pleading. The guilt in her face betrayed her. Her words roared through his mind with unstoppable force. “I can’t leave now!”

  ****

  Fear swelled to a great knot in Laura’s belly, consuming her. The sudden suspicion in Brett’s eyes sent a chill quivering through her. She wrapped her jacket tighter and hugged herself, but felt no comfort in it. Whatever happened, she couldn’t let the cops know about those wire cutters.

  Where was Jake and why had he called the cops? She’d done everything he asked.

  Brett’s face darkened as charcoal clouds drifted over the sun. Dark stubble covered his twitching jaw. “I think you know what happened,” he accused. “Why don’t you explain it to me?”

  The anger in his voice made her heart leap to her throat. Over the enormous lump, she whimpered, “What do you mean?” But he obviously didn’t buy her feigned innocence. What had Jake done? Did Mr. Gallagher find him?

  Narrowing his eyes, Brett said, “You gave him my shirt.”

  Eyes wide, she sucked in a breath. “You saw Jake.”

  “Did you shoot him?” he blurted.

  “He was shot?” she croaked with bulging eyes. Who shot him? No one knew he was alive! But how could Brett think it was her?

  He huffed impatiently.

  “I didn’t shoot him!” She cringed at the defensiveness in her tone. More steadily, she asked, “Is he finally dead?”

  “Finally dead?” His eyes glared cold and dark into hers. “We attended his funeral last week!” He jabbed a finger at her. “And you went along with it, knowing he didn’t drown.”

  Taken aback, she whimpered, “I didn’t know then.” Her defensiveness returned with a vengeance, and she couldn’t control it. Her bandana whipped in the gathering wind.

  As she felt the anger in Brett’s scrutiny, it was all she could do not to turn and run. But she gritted her teeth and stared back with all the sincerity she could muster. “I’m telling the truth. I thought he was dead too.”

  “Just when did you find him alive?” His voice softened, ever so slightly. His dimple appeared, and then vanished.

  “Yesterday morning. At the creek.” She stared at the waving grass. How could he believe she’d killed him?

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” His anger turned to exasperation.

  “We had a fight, remember?” She glared into his puzzled face. “You’re leaving me.” Oh, why did she have to say that?

  He worked his jaw, but didn’t refute her. His features fell. “Why didn’t you call the cops?”

  “I was afraid,” she admitted with a voice as shaky as the trees in the gusting wind.

  “Of Jake?” His eyes hardened.

  She nodded. “He threatened Rachel.” She withheld the details, afraid to even voice them with police in the vicinity. Unwilling to incriminate her sister, Laura figured Rachel was safest if no one knew. So much for trusting Brett.

  “What was he gonna do?” Uncertain
ty flickered in his eyes.

  “Frame her.” Her voice cracked.

  The wind caught her bandana. She grabbed her head, and winced at the pain.

  “Did he hurt you?” Brett sounded mortified.

  She nodded. “I’ll be okay. He knocked me down on the path. My head hit a stone.” Her heart wrenched at his concern.

  “Did he touch you?” His eyes rounded with horror.

  Laura swallowed. She held his stricken gaze. “He didn’t rape me, if that’s what you mean.”

  “What’d he do?” Brett’s nostrils flared, puffing like a mad bull.

  Laura squeezed her eyes shut against the memory. “He knocked me down,” she choked. Every pore in her body tensed. She drew a deep breath. “He held me down until I agreed to keep silent and bring him liquor.” She said it in one breath. Then she opened her eyes but couldn’t look at him.

  He pounded a fist on the fender of the police car. With force that rocked his balance, he kicked a tire. Stepping back to catch himself, he quaked and fumed.

  Jarred by his outrage, she clutched her jacket closer. Her senses zoned in on the cold gale until she could taste the chill. She forced her eyes to look up at him.

  Torture and anguish filled the shadows of Brett’s face. “I could have helped you.”

  She hugged herself tightly. “I couldn’t tell anyone. I had to protect Rachel.” She’d put her family first. Again.

  Drawing his brows together, Brett studied her for a long moment. Was he thinking what she was thinking? Without argument, he seemed to be letting it all sink in.

  “What about the shirt?” he finally asked.

  Tears filled her eyes. “I’m sorry. He demanded liquor and food, and a shirt Daddy wouldn’t miss.”

  The clouds thickened above them, and she wasn’t prepared for his next question.

  “What happened out there?”

  Stressed beyond her limit, she burst into tears. Her story spilled out between sobs—Jake’s attack, giving him the cider, food, and paint shirt, buying tequila, shooting at coons.

  “You only shot twice?” he asked.

  “Yes. Then I showered and went to bed,” she concluded, spent and raw with emotion. “Jake was alive. I heard him laugh.”

  Brett stared at her without a word, his dark hair whipping wildly across his face. His expression held bewilderment, shock, and distrust. Somehow he sensed she wasn’t telling everything. Worst of all, his eyes held a deep, deep hurt.

  “I’m sorry, Brett.” She twirled a strand of hair.

  “I’m sorry too,” he stated matter-of-factly. “You know I would have helped you. But you didn’t want my help.”

  His visible pain pierced her. Did he really expect her to lean on him that much? Did he love her more than she realized?

  “Brett—” What had she done? What had she thrown away? She reached for him, not knowing what else to do or say.

  He angrily backed away. “If you didn’t shoot him, who did?” His words and expression chilled her more than the cold wind.

  “I don’t know!” she wailed. Her mind raced, hit on a clue. “Maybe Layla’s father,” she said tentatively. “I saw him out there yesterday.”

  Brett glared at her. “What have you been up to?”

  Shocked at his reproof, her insides froze. Unable to stand his perusal, she turned to face the woods. “I saw him out the window, that’s all. He was behind Calvin’s orchard.”

  Brett’s humpf didn’t assure her he was convinced. There was more to the story and he knew it.

  Tears blurred her vision, but someone moved up the creek bank. She swiped the tears away.

  Deputy Warren appeared carrying a large yellow bundle. “Finally something happens in this town and I have to wrap tape,” he grumbled loudly. Dejectedly, he wound a yellow barrier around several trees until the entire creek bank was sectioned off with the words, Police Line—Do Not Cross.

  A sudden gust rained down icy drizzle as the ramifications dawned on her. Jake was dead, at last. Shot to death in her back yard. She stood frozen as her mind reeled. The deputy’s words haunted her. We may have more questions later . Her silence led Brett to distrust her. The police would suspect her too. Mr. Gallagher must have done it. But Brett thought she did.

  Feeling dizzy, she gripped her forehead and her eyes glazed over. She began to sway, but warm hands steadied her.

  “Come inside,” Brett demanded.

  He led her into his kitchen and filled the teakettle. They sat in silence, watching rain pelt the window and waiting for water to boil. A car pulled in the driveway with Bloomfield County Coroner written on the side. An older man climbed out with an umbrella and proceeded toward the woods.

  The teakettle began a long, slow whistle. Brett made tea. They sipped without speaking, listening to the hissing steam of the kettle and pounding rain on the roof. Likewise, Brett’s anger steamed, and Laura’s heart pounded with dread and fear.

  After a torturous eternity, two white-shirted men appeared at the tree line. Her heart stopped when she saw the sheet-covered stretcher they carried through pelting rain.

  Jake was really dead. Rachel would never forgive her.

  Deputy Warren opened the ambulance door and the coroner walked to his car under the safety of his umbrella. Chief Hunter made a beeline for the house. Brett stood to watch him come.

  The hefty chief jogged through the downpour. His belly jostled like Santa’s bowl full of jelly. One hand held his hat on as the other stuck out awkwardly for balance. Laura thought how funny he looked but couldn’t crack a smile.

  The chief hopped over a stream of runoff. He slid on the wet grass and landed on his rear with a mighty splash. His hat flew off in the wind. The big man struggled to stand and wiped water from his brow. Chasing his hat, he slipped and swayed before retrieving the cap from a puddle.

  Nervous laughter jittered in her chest. Brett shook his head. The dimple appeared, but he didn’t smile.

  The moment of comic relief evaporated when the drenched chief reached the doorstep with an angry scowl. Brett opened the door. Roaring wind sent it crashing against the wall, filling the kitchen with icy rain.

  As the chief stomped inside, a clap of thunder boomed. Laura startled, and then froze. Lightning streaked across the sky behind the chief, shadowing him in the doorway like a scene in a bad horror movie. He slammed the door. His angry profile glowed in red lights as the ambulance drove through the yard.

  Water dripped from his pant legs onto the tile like a ticking time bomb. She was done for. He thought she did it too. He rotated his saturated hat in his hands.

  “Have a seat, sir.” Brett became animated, motioning to a chair. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “No, thank you.” The blustery chief was all business. Each footstep squished as he moved toward the table and sat with a splat. He shivered despite a stoic attempt to be still.

  Insides churning, Laura shivered too. Her heart hammered.

  “Jake assaulted Laura,” Brett blurted.

  She stared at him in horror. How could he blurt that out after she’d trusted him with the whole story? Well, most of it. Thank God she didn’t tell him about the wire cutters.

  “Why wasn’t a report filed?” Chief Hunter bristled. “Jake Santos was a wanted man.”

  She winced. A sudden knock made her jump. Brett opened the door, hanging onto it this time. Deputy Warren entered with a fresh blast of cold wind. He trudged to a seat next to his boss.

  Laura held her breath as the chief scrutinized them for a long moment. Frozen to the chair, her mind blanked. Slowly his expression changed from anger to despair.

  “We need to record your statements for the investigation,” he announced. “Any information you have about Mr. Santos’ activities could help us find the murderer.” They didn’t think it was her?

  Warren pulled a small tape recorder from inside his jacket and pushed a button on the side before setting it on the table. She stared at the whirring machine with dread poo
ling in her gut. She felt them reading her, but there was no way to stop the involuntary emotion.

  “Can somebody tell me why Jake’s shirt says Brett ?”

  “I gave it to him,” Laura piped up. “Brett had nothing to do with it.” She couldn’t let them think he was involved. She’d hurt him enough already.

  “Then, Mr. Mitchell, we have your statement. Can you leave us alone, please?” Hunter asked. Brett blinked hard and walked down the hall.

  “Tell us everything you know.” Chief Hunter’s gentle voice boomed like thunder in the electrically-charged room. “Let the authorities determine what’s pertinent to the case.”

  Cupping her hands around a cooled mug, she rehashed the story as her stomach churned. She withheld Jake’s threat of evidence. She didn’t know if it was true. The policemen hung on her every word. Their ears perked at mention of the shotgun.

  “Where’d you get the gun?” Hunter asked.

  “It’s Daddy’s shotgun. I never intended to shoot Jake—I only wanted him to keep his distance.”

  “A shotgun,” the chief repeated. “So you took it with you when you met him?”

  “Yes,” she admitted, continuing the story. Their eyes widened when she told them about the coons.

  “Are you a good shot?”

  “No.” Suddenly realizing the implication, she stared at them with one hand covering her mouth. “I couldn’t have shot him. He wasn’t there—only raccoons—”

  “How many shots did you fire?”

  “Two,” she replied.

  The men stared at her. “Are you sure?” Chief Hunter asked.

  “Yes,” she answered. “I only fired twice.”

  “Where’s the gun now?” the chief asked.

  Her eyes bugged out. “At...at my house.”

  “We’ll need to take it in for tests.”

  Speechless, she stared at him. Twirling hair around a finger, she felt his suspicion. He knew she was withholding information. Despite recent practice, she was a horrible liar.

  “You’ve put us in a very difficult situation, Miss James. Of course, you know Mr. Santos was involved in the death of a young woman. Had we brought him in alive, he would have been tried for vehicular homicide.” He paused uneasily. “Concealing evidence of a felony is a serious offense.”