The Pediatrician's Personal Protector Page 7

  When she turned around, her cheeks were shiny and pink, and her eyes, though rimmed with red, were bright. “Please accept my apology,” she said evenly. “This has been a difficult couple of days.”

  Reilly started to tell her that difficult was a mild word for all she’d been through, but he saved his breath. She already knew that.

  “Let’s go,” he said. “You’ll want to take a shower and freshen up before dinner.”

  “I’m not really hungry. I’ll probably just ask Ella for a sandwich or—”

  “I’m taking you out to dinner. You could use a little relief from all the stress and pain of the past few days.”

  “No, I shouldn’t. I ought to go back to the hospital—”

  “Hey,” he interrupted, placing his fingers lightly against her lips. “You don’t get a vote. You’re going to dinner with me and that’s final. Oh, and I hope you have something casual, because you wouldn’t want to ruin your fancy designer pants on the rough wooden seats.”

  “I don’t feel like going out.”

  He put his hand in the small of her back and ushered her out the front door of her father’s house. When he turned to lock the door, her purse bumped heavily against his arm.

  “Damn,” he said. “What’ve you got in there? A .38?” As soon as he said the words, a rush of apprehension washed over him. “Tell me you don’t have a gun.”

  “I don’t have a gun,” she responded.

  “How do women walk around with that much stuff hanging off their arms?”

  “We’re stronger than you think,” she said, her mood lightening marginally, although he didn’t miss the way her arm tightened around her bag.

  Reilly got her settled in the passenger seat of his car and got in on the driver’s side and started the engine.

  “By the way, Doc,” he said offhandedly. “Don’t run off without me again. Remember, there’s somebody out there that wants you dead.”

  SEVERAL HOURS LATER, Christy sighed and crumpled the paper towel before tossing it atop the growing pile on the scarred wooden table. “I’m stuffed. I’d forgotten how good boiled crawfish are.”

  Across from her Reilly grinned, causing sparks to fly from the brightest blue eyes she’d ever seen. She couldn’t stop her own mouth from turning up in response.

  “That’s what you get for running off to Boston,” he said, and turned up his mug of beer.

  She smiled and shrugged, not letting herself slide back into self-recrimination for leaving her father and sister behind. Reilly had been right. She needed a respite from the stress and grief and guilt. Shrugging again, she commented, “Clams are good too, you know.”

  He grimaced in mock distaste. “Ugh. Bottom feeders.”

  “Oh, as opposed to mudbugs?” The nickname for crawfish had come from the crustacean’s habit of burrowing into the thick mud of the bayou.

  “Mmm,” was Reilly’s only comment as he popped the head off another crawfish and expertly peeled it and popped the savory bit into his mouth. “Have some more.”

  “No. I’m really stuffed.” She sat back and sipped at her beer, making a face. Beer wasn’t her favorite, but Reilly promised her it was perfect with crawfish. It wasn’t.

  He pulled the bowl of warm lemon-scented water toward them and dipped his fingers, then wiped them off with a clean paper towel.

  She did the same. “This is nice.”

  “Beau’s is a really high-class catfish shack.”

  Christy’s mood darkened immediately. “Didn’t I see a sign for Henri LaRue Road on the way here?” She’d tried to ignore it at the time, but his mention of the name of the restaurant reminded her.

  Reilly’s face went solemn. He nodded. “I’m sorry. Maybe I should have taken you someplace else.”

  “Don’t try to snow me, Officer. Henri LaRue Road is where my father tried to kill Nicole Beckham. Did you think I would miss that fact? You chose this place on purpose.”

  “I didn’t, but—” He angled his head without finishing his sentence.

  He didn’t need to. What he didn’t say rang loud and clear. “But there aren’t many places around here that don’t have something to do with my father’s crimes.”

  “Christy, I—”

  She held up a hand. “Just don’t. I can deal with it. I have to, until I can get through here and get back to Boston.” She turned her palm up in a helpless gesture. “Mandeville, Chef Voleur, Covington, even way out here past Madisonville. My dad really got around, didn’t he?”

  Reilly looked down at the crumpled paper towel in his hands, then back up at her. “Why did you go to your dad’s house?”

  Christy felt heat rising from her neck. She took another drink of beer, hoping to quench the fire before it turned her cheeks red. “I told you. I was looking for his reading glasses.”

  “No, you weren’t.”

  It was irritating how well he could read her. Of course the reading glasses excuse was pretty lame. She could have said a lot of things that would have sounded more plausible. Insurance information. Checkbook. Even underwear.

  She couldn’t look at Reilly. Damn him and his blue eyes.

  “Okay. I felt like I needed an excuse. I just needed to see the house.”

  He was silent for a moment. “Did it help?”

  Christy gave a short laugh. “I don’t know. I grew up there. It was just my dad and my sister and me after my mother died. We were—” Her voice gave out. She cleared her throat and tried again. “We were a family. I wanted to see if the house felt the same.”

  All of that was true, and she could see in Reilly’s softening gaze that he believed her—maybe even somehow understood. But it was hard to hold his clear blue gaze, because she was still lying.

  Sure, she’d wanted to see the house. But what she wasn’t telling him was that she’d wanted to see what was in Autumn’s secret hiding place before someone else did. Who knew what was going to happen to the house, now that her father would be spending the rest of his life in jail—if he got out of the hospital alive.

  If there was any clue to who killed her sister, it would be found in the items she’d pulled from Autumn’s closet. Even now, anticipation and fear burned through her. The box was right there beside her, in her purse. She set her jaw and willed herself not to look toward it.

  “You ready to go?” Reilly asked.

  Christy nodded as she dampened one more towel in the lemon water and cleaned her fingers before picking up her heavy purse.

  Reilly guided her through the restaurant and out to his car. Once they were on their way, he said, “How are you dealing with the cast on your wrist?”

  Christy looked at it. The edges near her fingers were already becoming grubby. “It’s a pain, to tell you the truth. And look how dirty it’s getting already.”

  “What about your wrist. Does it hurt a lot?”

  She shook her head. “Not too much. Only if I twist it.” She glanced over at Reilly. “I can’t thank you enough for the bright pink cast though. It goes with everything.”

  Reilly laughed. “Wasn’t me. I think the EMTs were a little irritated at you bossing them around.”

  “I’m a physician. I knew what I was talking about.”

  “And they knew what they were doing. You did get a black eye.”

  Christy opened her mouth to retort again, then paused, gingerly touching the bruise on her forehead. “Okay. Maybe I deserved a pink cast.”

  The rest of the drive back to the B&B was pleasant. Reilly talked about mundane things. How the Saints were doing this year, who was slated to appear at Tipitina’s on New Year’s Eve. His good-natured banter put her at ease and made her feel like an ordinary person out for a nice evening. It was the first time she’d felt normal since she’d arrived back in Louisiana.

  She glanced at Reilly sidelong. Again, as when they were eating the po’ boy sandwiches, he seemed at ease and comfortable. An ordinary guy on an ordinary date.

  It was hard to picture him as a wealthy hei
r to an infamous fortune.

  She needed to believe he was as honorable and caring as he seemed.

  When he pulled into the parking lot at the B&B and shut off the engine, she turned to him.

  “Reilly, you understand why I had to see the house, don’t you?”

  He met her gaze. “Sure. It was natural. Illegal, but natural.” He sent her a smile.

  “No,” she said, placing her fingers on his forearm. “I mean you really knew. You understood. I could tell.” She paused. “Or at least I thought I could.” She pulled her hand away. “Okay, sorry. Never mind. I didn’t—”

  “No, you’re right,” Reilly said. “When Ryker and I were six, my dad told us that my grandfather was murdered in my grandmother’s house. We’d been there before, but after he told us, I couldn’t wait to go see it. It was the same place, the same dark halls and countless rooms where we played and ran, but it was different too. I’ll never forget how it felt. It was as if—” He stopped and sent her a sheepish glance.

  Christy swallowed. “As if evil had taken over? As if it were haunted by the ghosts of the dead?”

  Reilly didn’t say anything, but he reached out and took her hand. He squeezed it gently. “I’m sorry, Christy. Nobody can possibly know what you’re going through, but I’d like to help in any way I can.”

  His eyes were soft and intense at the same time—a mesmerizing combination. At that moment, she felt as if he could see straight through to her soul.

  “Why?” she whispered.

  For a long moment he didn’t answer. His gaze slid from hers and drifted down to her lips and back up. Was he going to kiss her? A tiny thrill erupted under her breastbone.

  Did she want him to?

  He met her gaze again. “I don’t know,” he muttered, sounding genuinely bewildered. He blinked, then straightened. “Because that’s what knights in shining armor do, I guess.” His eyes twinkled as he got out of the car and came around to open the passenger door.

  He walked her to the door of the B&B. “So what’s on your schedule for tomorrow?” he asked.

  Christy thought about the box, the twenties and the button in her purse. “Nothing. I’m probably going to sleep in and go see Dad in the afternoon. I can catch a taxi.”

  To her surprise, Reilly nodded. “If you can, that would be great. I’ve got a few things I need to catch up on.”

  “Reilly, you don’t have to keep spending your time—”

  He touched her lips with his forefinger, a gesture that she was coming to expect whenever she protested. Coming to expect—and look forward to.

  “I know I don’t have to. But I’m committed now. You asked me to find your sister’s killer. I intend to do that.”

  “I thought you were your brother when I said that.”

  He took a step closer and leveled that intense gaze on her. “But you don’t now.”

  Her mouth went dry. He was so close she could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek. “No. I don’t now.”

  He leaned forward and brushed his lips across the curve of her jaw, then turned and headed down the steps back to his car.

  Shocked, Christy stood there and stared at his back until he got to his car. He turned around and nodded at her with a grin, then got behind the wheel. He cranked the engine, but the car didn’t move until she had gone inside the B&B and closed the door.

  “No,” she whispered to herself. “You’re definitely not your brother.”

  CHRISTY CLOSED THE DOOR to her room and quickly changed into her pajamas and a robe. Then she sat down on her bed and pulled Autumn’s treasures out of her purse.

  For a long time, she did nothing but sit and stare at them. The box. The twenties. The tissue-wrapped button.

  She looked at the box. It was small and square, the kind of box a bracelet or compact might come in, with a textured white surface barely visible under the wrinkled, crooked strips of duct tape. The loose corners of the tape were coated with dust and cobwebs.

  Christy got a pair of fingernail scissors from her makeup kit and carefully cut the tape all the way around the edge of the box lid, then with a fearful intake of breath, she opened it.

  A folded, crumpled sheet of lined paper, perforated at the top as if it were torn from a small spiral notepad, was the first thing she saw. She lifted it out with the point of the scissors, wishing she had a pair of surgical gloves. If she showed the contents of the box to Reilly—and she wasn’t sure she ever would—she didn’t want to destroy any evidence.

  Under the piece of paper was a small, white plastic bag filled with white powder.

  “Oh, my God, no!” she breathed. “Damn it, Tum-tum. Why would you—” She stopped. There was no answer to that question. Her baby sister was dead.

  Christy knew what she was looking at. Illegal drugs. What kind, she had no idea, but she’d seen enough television to know what little bags filled with white powder meant. She didn’t want to take the chance of puncturing the plastic bag, so she set the scissors down and picked it up by its edge with her fingernails.

  On the underside of the bag was a mark. It was smudged, but it looked like a curved M or W or 3, depending on which way she turned the bag. And below it was a number, also smudged. Christy didn’t even try to decipher it.

  The bottom of the little box was dusted with granules of white powder—and there was something else. A tiny plastic rectangle.

  Christy started to reach for the scissors, but something about the shape of the little white-plastic rectangle caused her to proceed with caution. With the tip of a nail, she lifted the rectangle. She grabbed its corner and took it out of the box. It was a tiny computerized card, like the SIM cards in cell phones.

  Cell phone.

  The police had never found Autumn’s cell phone. They’d assumed the mugger took it. They’d questioned her and her dad about Autumn’s friends, but neither one of them had been able to name a single one. The best Christy had been able to do was to give them the name of Autumn’s best friend from high school, but at the time of Autumn’s death, Laurie Kestler had been at college in Florida.

  Did this SIM card belong to Autumn? It was the kind of thing she’d always kept in her secret hiding place. Her diary, sheets of notepaper on which she’d scribbled the name of her latest crush, cigarettes. If the tiny device held all the numbers Autumn had saved to her phone, it might hold the critical clue to who had killed her.

  Suddenly, Christy’s fingers were shaking so badly she dropped the card. It bounced from the bed onto the floor, right next to her bare foot. She picked it up. One careless move and she could lose it. As she stared at it lying on her palm, she realized what she needed to do.

  She quickly retrieved her cell phone, turned it off and took the back off it. There, peeking out from a slot designed especially for it, was the SIM card for her phone. She started to pry it out with a fingernail, but stopped.

  The card in her phone looked larger than the one she held in her hand. It probably wouldn’t work. Still, she wanted to try it. As each minute passed, she became more convinced that locked inside that tiny card’s even tinier computer chip was the answer to what had happened to her sister.

  No. What if she broke the card, or got it stuck in her phone? She had to wait until she could get to a phone store. But in the meantime, what was she going to do with the card? Put it back in the box? She didn’t want to do that. She didn’t know if the white powder would hurt the card, but she didn’t want to take a chance.

  She glanced around the room. The décor in the room was a jumbled, eclectic mix of Victorian and American country. One of the Victorian touches was an antique writing desk, complete with feather pen and paper intended to look like parchment. Christy tore a strip of paper and wrapped the SIM card in it, then tucked the little package into the corner of her wallet.

  Back at the bed, she stared at the rest of the box’s contents. The bag of powder shone as if it were sprinkled with glitter. She rubbed her face tiredly. What was she going to do with it
? A part of her wished she had left well enough alone.

  Why had she thought it was a good idea to go sneaking into her sister’s room and uncovering her secrets? Yes, she’d probably discovered information that could lead to Autumn’s killer, but in doing so, she’d come into possession of an illegal substance.

  “Damn it, Autumn. How far are you going to go to ruin my life?”

  Chapter Six

  As soon as Christy muttered the words, she knew they were unfair and self-pitying. Autumn had ruined her own life. She didn’t have the power, not even after death, to ruin Christy’s.

  It was Christy’s own fault that she’d gone snooping in her sister’s closet. She could have done the right thing and told Reilly or Deputy Watts about Autumn’s hiding place. If she had, she’d have nothing to worry about now. She wouldn’t be in possession of meth, or heroin, or whatever that white powder was.

  She turned her attention to the piece of folded lined paper that she’d taken out of the box, wondering if she should compound her felony by unfolding it and reading what was on it.

  She looked toward her cell phone. What she should do is call Reilly and tell him what she’d found. Her face burned at the thought of how he’d react.

  Sighing, she turned back to the sheet of paper. She was in too deep already. What could be worse than finding drugs? No. It was never a good idea to think in terms of what could be worse.

  There were countless things that could be worse. The note could contain the phone number of Autumn’s drug connection. Her dealer. A vision swirled through Christy’s head—her calling the number, arranging to meet the person and being shot just like Autumn had been, to protect the killer’s identity.

  Shaking her head at the absurdity of her imagination, Christy decided to unfold the paper. It had been folded twice, so it was a chore to get it unfolded without leaving fingerprints all over it, even when she used the letter opener from the writing desk. But finally it was spread open on the bed.

  Christy stared at the words printed there, her brain in a fog as she tried to make sense of them. It certainly wasn’t a drug connection. At least, she didn’t think it was.