2 Death Makes the Cut (31 page)

“No. You sit down.”

The hand holding the knife had stopped shaking. He’d reached a decision, and he was not going to be deterred by any words of mine.

I kept talking anyway. “Let the girl go.”

“Do what I say, or I’ll kill her right now,” he countered.

I flashed McKenzie one frantic look. From her position on the stage floor, Nancy Wales let out a loud snorting groan that made us all jump. For an instant, the blade of the knife wavered, and McKenzie acted at last. Striking his arm away from her throat, she dropped to the floor, her sudden dead weight wrenching her loose from the hand that gripped her shoulder. Roland staggered, caught off balance.

I raised Kyla’s purse and shot him in the chest.

Chapter 21

RECOUPING AND REGROUPING

Roland Wilding died on the stage he’d loved. He was dead before he hit the boards, the neat little round from the Glock stopping his heart on its way through, leaving only an expression of startled wonder in his blue eyes before the light went out of them forever. He even managed to collapse gracefully, the long wicked knife dropping from his fingers to clatter harmlessly to the floor. In all it was not the worst ending he might have expected, and if he could have done it in front of Michael Dupre, he might almost have been content.

The cavalry arrived only moments too late, Colin bursting in just ahead of a SWAT team and followed closely by a platoon of patrol officers, emergency technicians, and firemen. He’d been wonderful and wonderfully efficient, but I didn’t have more than two words with him before official forces swept us apart, leaving him to handle the new unattended death and me to somehow answer for it.

The next few days passed in a mind-numbing blur of bureaucratic procedure; I probably would have spent them rotting in jail if it hadn’t been for the tireless efforts of two unexpected advocates. McKenzie Mills’s mother turned out to be one of the top divorce attorneys in the state. After she heard what had happened on the stage, she used every connection she had to obtain the services of a top-notch criminal defense lawyer for me. And, though it burned worse than a fat man’s hemorrhoids to admit it, my ex-husband Mike Karawski came through for me and swooped in like a weasel-faced avenging angel to turn the avalanche of media coverage in my favor. I didn’t even mind knowing that he did it only to protect his own reputation and to advance his tough-on-crime political platform. I spent the next two weeks on some kind of unofficial administrative suspension, at first hiding at Kyla’s place to avoid the constant phone calls and media visitors, and then when the worst was past, eventually moving back home.

My own role preyed on my mind less than I feared. If I awoke crying in the middle of the night, I let my tears spill unheeded into the short black curls of my sleepy and bewildered poodle and never told another soul. In the end Roland had left me no choice at all. For McKenzie Mills, for Nancy Wales, and for myself, I’d done the best and only thing I could have done. I had to content myself with that.

The tennis kids came to visit me a week later. McKenzie Mills, bearing a huge armful of flowers, Brittany Smith carrying a box of Godiva chocolates, and Dillon Andrews and Eric Richards both looking shy and uncertain as though they’d never seen me before. I was glad to see them and told them so.

“So how is practice going?” I asked, realizing to my shame that I hadn’t given a thought to what they were doing in my absence.

Dillon rolled his eyes. “You’ve got to come back soon, Coach J. They’ve let Mr. Jones loose on us.”

So Ed Jones had finally got his heart’s desire, I thought, surprised at feeling an unwarranted pang of jealousy at the thought of him trying to take over my team.

“Yeah,” said Eric with the expression of someone catching a whiff of dog poo. “He tried to get me to change my grip, my stance, and my racquet. He had me so messed up for a few days I couldn’t hit a backhand to save my life.”

Brittany chimed in, “And he’s so grumpy. He’s always yelling at us. We weren’t even allowed to talk on the courts for the first week. You have to come back.”

I was outraged on their behalf. “Have you complained to anyone about him? Maybe Principal Gonzales?”

“Eric did better than that,” said Dillon with a grin, bumping Eric with his elbow.

Eric reddened and grinned at me sheepishly. “I told my dad.”

“It was awesome, Coach J,” said McKenzie, looking at Eric with adoring eyes, which boded well for his chances of having a date for homecoming. “Eric’s dad made Mr. Jones cry.”

I shouldn’t have laughed, but I did.

Eric said, “The best part is that my dad went to Principal Gonzales and told him to get you back.”

I was astonished. “He did?”

Four heads nodded in unison.

“He thinks you have guts,” said Eric.

Dillon added, “And after that, all our parents e-mailed or called. We want you back.”

I was pleased and deeply moved. “Well, I want to come back, so as soon as everything is settled, I will.”

If the administration would let me, I thought glumly. I had no idea whether I would be allowed to keep my job, much less the coaching position.

Trying to shake off that thought, I asked, “So what else is going on?”

“We have a new theater teacher,” said McKenzie. “She’s really young and pretty, and she has a ton of new ideas. But
Moulin Rouge
was canceled. Ms. Clark says that Mr. Wilding didn’t have the right to turn the movie into a play. We could actually have been in big legal trouble for performing it.”

“Well, that’s a shame in a way, but it’s probably for the best.”

“Definitely,” said McKenzie with a shudder. “I don’t ever want to think about that story again as long as I live.”

I looked at her with concern. “I hope you won’t let this sour you permanently on theater. You really do have an amazing voice, McKenzie.”

She glanced down shyly, turning pink. “I didn’t know you’d ever heard me.”

I smiled. “I popped my head in once during a rehearsal,” I said, recalling the way poor Laura had crowed with delight at the scene. “You have a serious talent. The worst thing you could do is let something like this get in your way.”

“We’ll see. Maybe. I don’t know if I can go back in the theater.”

“I’ll go with you,” I said, hoping that I’d be allowed to make good on that. “We’ll go together.”

“I’ll go with you, too,” offered Eric hesitantly. “If you want. If that would be okay.”

“Yeah, we’ll all go,” said Dillon enthusiastically. “Make a party out of it. Set the demons to rest once and for all.”

I was pretty sure this wasn’t what Eric had in mind, but it wasn’t such a bad idea. Strength in numbers, and from the look of things Eric would have plenty of opportunities to spend time alone with McKenzie. The kids stayed a little longer, chatting and devouring the contents of my snack cupboard like biblical locusts going through a wheat field. Then they were gone, leaving me feeling both cheered and oddly bereft. I wanted my job back.

*   *   *

I called Alan the day after the shooting and asked him to postpone his visit. He’d been reluctant, gallantly wanting to rush to my side, but he finally agreed after I told him I was planning to stay with Kyla. However, he insisted on coming the next weekend, and, like the kids, arrived bearing chocolates and flowers.

Opening the door and seeing the warm light in his eyes, I was glad I’d forced myself to make an effort for his sake, fixing my hair with care and putting on a sundress instead of my usual jeans. The sight of his face reminded me of the times we’d shared, of how nice he was, and how very good-looking. But I no longer knew what to say to him, and he must have felt the same because we greeted each other like strangers, and I found myself using the flowers as an excuse to move away from him rather than fly into his arms. He would have been an idiot not to sense it, and Alan had never been an idiot. He sat on the couch and waited for me to join him, showing no surprise at all when I took the chair opposite instead of snuggling in beside him as I once would have done.

We talked for a long while, or rather I talked, telling him about all that had happened as far as I knew it, up to and including my current legal woes and status in limbo.

I ended by saying, “I honestly don’t know what will happen next. So far, my lawyer doesn’t think they will prosecute me, but I don’t have confirmation of that. And I don’t know what’s going to happen with my job. It might be that they’re just waiting to see whether the charges are dropped or not, or they might be trying to figure out how best to fire me. I just don’t know.”

He sighed, leaning forward on the couch, arms resting on his knees, hands clasped almost as though in prayer.

“Would you be hurt if I told you that I almost wish they would let you go?” he asked.

“Why?” I asked, taken aback and indeed feeling somewhat hurt.

He lifted his eyes to mine at last, a flash of green from beneath long lashes. “Because then you might consider coming to Dallas,” he said simply.

My lips parted but I could think of nothing to say.

“With me. I want you to come to Dallas and live with me. We could even get married,” he offered, then quickly added, “or not. Whatever you want. However you want to work it. Live near me, live with me, marry me. Whatever you want to do. I don’t want to lose you, Jocelyn.”

The last sentence was almost a cry, more heartfelt than he could have intended, but though he paled, he continued to hold my gaze.

“Alan,” I started, but he quickly held up a hand.

“Don’t say no. Just think about it. I know things haven’t been that great the last few months, but it’s the distance, not us.”

At least I knew he’d been feeling the strain, too. “Alan, I…”

He cut me off again. “Really, don’t say no.”

I managed a small laugh at that.

“We need more time. I need more time,” I amended. “And you know I can’t just pick up and move to Dallas, any more than you can move down here.”

“Fine, so we’ll do better. I’ll come every weekend, and we’ll talk more in between. We can arrange a trip together, maybe over your Christmas break, anywhere you want. Anywhere in the world. London, Paris, Tahiti, you name it.”

I finally felt a grin tugging at the corners of my mouth. “You’re trying to bribe me.”

His answering smile lit up his face. “Exactly! Like I said, whatever it takes.”

He leaned across the coffee table, reaching for my hand. After a small hesitation, I reached back, all too aware of his warm presence. He rose, pulling me to my feet, then stepped around the table, moving close to me. His eyes darkened to emerald as he reached up to touch my cheek.

In a spectacular display of bad timing, the doorbell rang.

Alan and I froze, listening in disbelief, only inches from each other’s arms and embrace. I looked past his shoulder to the window, and Alan caressed my hair, gently trying to turn my head and attention back to him. The doorbell rang again, followed by insistent knocking.

With a sigh and an apologetic look, I disengaged myself. Alan said something under his breath that I didn’t quite catch, which was probably just as well. He ran a hand through his chestnut hair, then turned, hands on hips, glaring at the door.

I opened it with a jerk, drawing breath to tell whoever it was to go away, and met the cool blue eyes of Colin Gallagher. He was dressed in his familiar detective clothes—tan slacks, maroon pressed shirt, and tie—but the look he gave me was that of a stranger. I could feel the disapproval flowing off him like an icy wind off a glacier.

As I gaped, he said, “Can I come in?” and pushed past me without waiting for an answer.

“Sure,” I managed, and at least had the presence of mind to close the door. I was definitely going to have to work on my thinking-on-my-feet skills.

Colin faced Alan, stance wide, paper sack in one hand, the other hand on his hip, perilously close to where his gun rested heavy and black in its holster next to his badge. Frowning at this, I wondered if he knew how intimidating he looked, before it dawned on me that was his intention. I turned a disapproving stare on him, then realized neither one of them was paying any attention to me at all.

“Stratton,” Colin said, by way of acknowledging Alan’s presence.

“Still around?” Alan asked. “I thought the case was surely wrapped up by now.”

“Just a few loose ends to tie up with your girlfriend here.”

“Yes, my girlfriend here has had a very difficult time of it. You probably should have called before dropping by.”

I wondered if either of them would notice if I just slipped out the front door and left them to their chest pounding.

I said, “Why don’t you both just sit down? I’ll pour us some iced tea. Or would you rather have a Coke?”

I walked between them, but I wasn’t tall enough to make them break eye contact. They continued to glare at each other over my head.

“I’m sure the officer won’t be staying long enough to need a drink,” said Alan.

“I’d take a tea,” responded Colin. “Sweet. Please,” he added belatedly.

“I know,” I said and flinched at the hurt look in Alan’s eye.

Then I felt annoyed. It was hardly a betrayal to know that another man drank sweet tea. I hoped I wasn’t going to have to knock their heads together like coconuts.

“Both of you, sit down and behave like gentlemen,” I said, the exact words and tone my grandmother had used so often on my brothers popping out without thought.

By the time I returned with the glasses, they had at least withdrawn to opposite sides of the coffee table, although they were perching on the edge of their seats like sprinters on starting blocks. I handed Alan a glass of plain tea, then passed Colin a glass in which the sugar still whirled in little clouds beneath the ice cubes.

Colin accepted the glass, then thrust the brown sack he’d been carrying toward me. “Here, this is for you.”

I took it with a questioning look, feeling its weight, then opened it cautiously. Inside was Coach Fred’s little wooden clock, the key still in the keyhole in the miniature drawer beneath the face. Drawing it out, I turned it to read again the little brass plate on the back with its inscription of friendship and farewell.