Chapter 10.

S hea danced around the kitchen in her bare feet as she prepared a late breakfast, feeling oddly content.

It had taken her half the night, a few tears and more than a few hotly whispered threats directed toward Nick's favorite body parts, but the truth had finally dawned on her about three in the morning. She chastised herself for not seeing it right away.

Some tough guy Taggert was, she thought with a fond smile. He'd probably swear there wasn't an ounce of gentleman in him, but he was wrong.

A soft knock interrupted her song, and she peeked through the kitchen window to see Maude, resplendent in pale blue and yellow and the requisite pearls, nervously bouncing on the b.a.l.l.s of her feet outside the door. Shea admitted her with a bright "Good morning."

"Almost good afternoon," Maude said as she closed the kitchen door behind her. But not before surrept.i.tiously glancing down the driveway and to the woods at the rear of the property. Searching for coppers, no doubt. And then she glanced at the sizzling ham on the stove, and her eyebrows shot up.

"We had a late night," Shea explained, turning down the music and taking her biscuits from the oven.

"I can imagine," Maude said with a smug smile. "Anyway, I came to tell you that the police chief doesn't know a thing. He's aware of the kidnapping, of course, and on the lookout for you two, but I don't think he even realizes that you're Irene's niece."

"That's good."

"I didn't actually talk to the police chief, but I did have a nice long conversation with a civilian volunteer. T.J. Thayer. He adores my lemon pound cake, too, and he dearly loves to talk business. He'd very much like to be a cop, but I don't think he'll ever make it. He's a nice boy," Maude said, leaning in to share this tidbit in a lowered voice. "But not the brightest crayon in the box, if you get my drift."

"Especially not when you're plying him with lemon pound cake," Shea added with a grin.

"Every man has his weakness," Maude revealed with a wise nod of her head.

Shea wondered, just for a moment, what Nick's weakness was.

"I brought you a couple of things," Maude said, all-business again. She opened her huge handbag and handed Shea yet another cell phone. "If you need to make another call, use this one. I borrowed it from the chief's aunt, Miss Caroline. I told her mine was on the fritz and I was afraid to get on the road without a cell phone. In case of emergencies, you know."

"The police chief's Aunt Caroline," Shea repeated as she took the phone.

"Tomorrow I'll bring you another one. That ought to keep the coppers on their toes." She flashed a girlish grin and shrugged her shoulders.

"You're having way too much fun with this," Shea observed.

"I haven't had this much fun in ages."

"I don't want to get you in trouble."

Maude winked at her. "You won't." She removed another item from her bag, a sloppily folded paper. "And there are a few items of interest in the Selma morning paper," she said with a sigh. "You'd better check it out."

With a flourish, Maude produced more cookies. Devil's food with chocolate icing and colored sprinkles, and sugar cookies in the shape of an a.s.sortment of guns and badges. She'd found the old cookie cutters in her pantry and thought them appropriate for the occasion.

Maude left after delivering the supplies, taking her own cell phone with her and leaving Miss Caroline's in its place. Shea decided Maude had been watching way too much Matlock.

She unfolded the paper, read the pertinent article on the front page and slapped it on the counter with a muttered curse. She shouldn't be surprised.

Alone again, Shea turned the music back up and danced while she placed the biscuits on one side of a large plate and took the ham out of the skillet and piled it on the other side. Okay, this was a complication, but it wasn't an unexpected one. She turned around, ready to run upstairs and wake Nick, but she found him standing in the doorway. Watching intently.

"Playing at being a Supreme?" he asked lowly and coldly.

"No," she answered, not quite ready to smile at him. "A Vandella."

He raised his eyebrows in a silent question.

"You know, Martha Reeves and the Vandellas. For years it was my greatest ambition to be a doo-wop girl."

"A doo-wop girl."

She carried the plate toward him. "You know, doo-wop, doo-wah, slinky sequined gowns, very high heels, the occasional hip thrust." She suppressed the urge to demonstrate. Not yet. "Unfortunately, I can't sing. I can't even doo-wop properly."

"Seems to me like you were doing fine," he said as he looked her up and down.

She pushed past him and placed the plate of ham and biscuits on the dining room table. "I've been thinking," she said as she returned to the kitchen for two cups of coffee and two small plates. "What about Winkler's wife?"

"Polly?" Nick shook his head as he made his way to the table. "No way. I never heard her raise her voice or complain in any way. She was always quiet, always taking whatever Winkler dished out."

"In public," Shea said, taking a seat across from Nick. "You have no idea what their private life was like."

"That's true, but she always struck me as being very meek."

They piled their plates high, and Shea added sugar to her coffee. They both did a great job of ignoring what had happened yesterday as they began to eat, but the tension built gradually and steadily. Finally, Nick lifted his head to stare at her.

"Why are you still here? I half expected to wake up this morning and find you gone."

Shea cast him a weak smile. "I thought about it," she admitted. "For about ten minutes. But I've got your number, Nick Taggert, and I never quit. We're in this together, like it or not."

"What if I don't like?" he asked tersely.

"Too bad," she snapped.

He shook his head. "My leg is stronger. I'm doing well. I'm ready to go back to Huntsville and finish this. Alone."

"No," Shea said, popping a small piece of biscuit into her mouth.

Nick raised his eyebrows. "No?"

"I've come this far and I'm not turning back."

She could look into his eyes and tell he was thinking of ways to dump her, to continue without her help. "We're in this together, Taggert," she repeated. Leaving the chair, she made her way calmly to the kitchen, retrieved the newspaper and tossed it on the table, where it landed beside Nick's coffee.

"You can read the details for yourself," she said calmly, "but the gist of it is the state trooper finally made the connection. He identified me and the truck, and even though he didn't see your face, he naturally a.s.sumes you were the man in the front seat."

Nick glanced at the article and cursed.

"Sorry, but it looks like you're stuck with me until this is over, Taggert. Like it or not."

* * * It didn't matter how strong he got, how quickly he recovered. There was no way he could walk away and leave Shea to handle the firestorm on her own.

Nick did another push-up on the parlor floor. He tried not to think about the trial any more than he had to, but in his mind he could still hear the jury foreman reading the verdict. Guilty. Panic had swept through his body, and he'd known the only way to prove himself innocent was to find the real killer himself. Running had seemed like the right thing to do at the time.

He regretted that impulsive move now. Not because he wished to be back in the Madison County Jail, not because he trusted anyone else to clear his name. But because he'd dragged Shea into this mess and he didn't see any easy way out for her.

She was feeling domestic today. She'd taken his jeans and checkered shirt and underwear to wash, and given him a pair of her uncle's shorts and one of Lenny's T-shirts to wear while she did the laundry. The khaki shorts were too big, and were held up with a narrow leather belt, but the white cotton T-shirt had shrunk so it fit well.

He'd draped the T-shirt over the sofa while he exercised, knowing that in his condition he'd work up a sweat quickly. As he pushed his body to the limit, he thought about Shea. Listened to her puttering through the old house.

Their clothes were in the washer, she'd been cleaning the kitchen and she'd used the last can of tuna to make a ca.s.serole that was bubbling in the oven. She'd gathered together all her notes, the map he'd drawn of the cul-de-sac, and the borrowed cell phone, placing it in a neat pile on the dining room table.

He hadn't said a word, but she knew it was almost time to go, and she was getting ready. Cleaning up, using the last of their supplies, gathering what they'd need for the trip.

Back to Huntsville, he imagined. He wouldn't make Shea live on the run, and those were his only two choices. Run, or return and get about the business he'd set himself to when he'd escaped. Finding Gary Winkler's killer.

Shea suspected Lauren, but Nick had thought that impossible. Until he'd learned that she and Norman were involved. How long had that been going on? She also suspected Polly, but Nick couldn't see the timid woman cracking her husband's head with a baseball bat and then coldly pinning the murder on someone else.

What about the men Winkler worked with? He had not been a popular guy, and had been downright unscrupulous. His other neighbors? Shea's friend, the P.I.'s wife, hadn't found anything incriminating there, but more than ten months had pa.s.sed since the murder. Any evidence was now going to be tough to find.

Maybe impossible.

"Enough," Shea's soft voice called from the doorway between the parlor and the dining room. "You're going to hurt yourself."

"No, I'm not." Looking at her would hurt, lying to her again would hurt. Physical pain he could handle.

"Dinner will be ready soon. I made a ca.s.serole, and Maude brought over a pan of lemon squares."

Nick stopped, pushed himself up one more time and then scooted into a sitting position on the hardwood floor. He made himself glance up at her with emotionless eyes.

"I've been thinking," he said. "About that state trooper."

Shea crossed her arms over her chest and shifted her feet. She looked defiant, as if she knew what was coming and had already decided that she didn't like it.

"Were there cameras in the store?"

"I don't think so. At least. I didn't see any."

"Did the trooper get the license plate off the truck?"

She shook her head. "Apparently not. If he did, they're keeping it out of the paper. Besides, he was parked in front of us, not behind. I never saw him circle around to check the plates."

His heart had d.a.m.n near come through his chest when he'd seen that article this morning, the article that implicated Shea, that made her an accessory.

"Then it's your word against his."

Her expression didn't change, but for a slight hardening of the eyes. "So you want me to lie?"

"Yes." He rose slowly. His leg was better, if a little weak, and thanks to Lenny's leftover antibiotic and Shea's careful cleaning, there had been no infection.

"No."

He ignored her. "I'm going to drop you off in Huntsville, in a day or two, and you're going to tell the police that you were held hostage the entire time."

"I'm not going to lie-" she began.

"Yes, you are," he said, taking the white T-shirt from the sofa and pulling it over his head.

"I won't let them believe that you kidnapped me and kept me hostage all this time."

"It doesn't matter what they think of me, Shea," he said, losing his patience. "I'm already in a world of trouble. A little more won't hurt."

"Besides," she said stubbornly, "I'm not leaving you until we find out who killed Winkler."

He walked toward her, past her when she stepped aside. "Then I guess I'll have to leave you," he said flatly.

She opened her mouth to protest, but said nothing.

* * * The dishes were done, their clothes were clean and what was left of Maude's lemon squares were wrapped and sitting on the counter. Nick had gone to his room, to Carol's lavender room, right after dinner. He hadn't so much as glanced at Shea as he'd eaten, and he hadn't eaten much. When she'd asked him if he liked her tuna ca.s.serole, he'd said it was okay. His lack of enthusiasm had been underwhelming.

He had finished off the meal with a sugar cookie shaped like a western-style revolver, and Shea had munched on a sheriff's star.

Upstairs, all was silent. Maybe Nick was already gone, she thought as she climbed the steps with the notebook and her purse in her hand. Maybe he'd climbed out of the window and deserted her.

She tossed the notebook and her purse, with the newly borrowed cell phone in it, onto her own bed.

There was a little bit of summer light left in the sky. Maybe she could look over her notes again, see if anything new came to her, something she'd missed before. She was too wound up to sleep, and she still didn't dare light a lamp that could be seen from the street.

The door to Carol's room was closed, and beyond, all was silent. In a day or two she and Nick would be gone, and if he was determined to dump her, she'd be hard-pressed to stop him. She had to sleep; she couldn't stay at his heels twenty-four hours a day.

She didn't doubt that he wanted what was best for her. The problem was, she was mightily tired of men deciding what she should and should not do.

Leaving her belongings on the neatly made bed, she crossed the hall and knocked softly on the door. No answer. She tried the k.n.o.b, found it unlocked and took a deep breath for courage before entering the room where Nick slept.

Only he wasn't asleep. Wearing nothing but a newly washed pair of boxer shorts, he was lying on his back, hands behind his head, eyes on the door. On her.

"What do you want?" he snapped.

There was just enough light for her to see that his eyes were hard, his mouth thinned. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

"You never asked me," she said, her voice low. What if she was wrong?

"I never asked you what?" His voice was hard, less than kind. Why did he have to make this so difficult for her?

"You never asked me how I got to be twenty-five and still a virgin."

This time his entire body tensed. He tried to cover his response by sitting up, leaning against the headboard and glaring at her. "That's none of my business."

"I think it is."

She gathered every bit of courage she possessed and crossed the room, noting as she neared Nick that his eyes were not completely cold, that his fingers twitched as if he were as nervous as she.