A Time to Keep (19 page)

“Yes, Gwendolyn Paulette Taylor, it hurts.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You're lucky you're injured or I'd give you a knuckle sandwich.” She pushed her fist close to his nose. “I've warned you about using my government name.”

He lifted his eyebrow. “And, I've told you about threatening a peace officer.”

She shuddered noticeably. “Ooo-wee. I'm scared. You're not going anywhere or arresting anyone with that well-done wing.”

Shiloh stared numbly at Gwen before he threw back his head and howled. Seconds later, her laughter joined his, and they laughed until tears rolled down their faces.

Gwen sobered first. “Do you think you can make it downstairs for breakfast or would you prefer eating in bed?”

His gaze softened, his eyes devouring her whole. “I'll eat in bed if you'll join me.”

A wave of heat swept over her face. “I can't. Not with your family downstairs,” she whispered.

“Maybe after they leave.”

It took a moment for Gwen to interpret his double meaning. “I don't think you're up to doing too much with that arm. Once
the doctor says you're okay to return to duty I'll take you up on your offer.”

Smiling, Shiloh leaned closer to her. “Does that mean you're going to become my roommate?”

“No,” she whispered. “It means I won't feel guilty for taking advantage of you.”

His expressive eyebrows shot up. “I don't mind if you take advantage of me as long as it feels good.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “If I'm going downstairs, then I'm going to need my clothes, darling.”

Gwen left the bed and went over to the closet. When she returned she found Shiloh with his eyes closed, cradling his left arm in his right hand. He'd lied to her. He was in pain—lots of pain.

“Where are the pills, Shiloh?”

He opened his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“Jimmie told your mother that the doctor at the hospital gave you something for pain.”

He closed his eyes again. “Jimmie shouldn't be running off at the mouth.”

Resting her hands on her hips, Gwen moved closer. “Where are you hiding them?”

Shifting slightly, he reached for his slacks and pulled a small white envelope from the pocket. She took the envelope, reading the printed instructions: take one tablet by mouth every four hours as needed. She was certain it had been more than four hours since he had the last one.

“I'll be back with some water,” she said over her shoulder as she headed to the bathroom. A minute later she handed him a cup. “Open your mouth.”

Shiloh frowned. “Damn, darling. You could've said please.”

She thrust her face close to his. “I'm not feeling too diplomatic right about now, because I'm not impressed with acts
of machismo. There's nothing wrong with admitting that you're in pain.”

Shiloh took the pill from her hand and placed it on the tip of his tongue. He swallowed it and washed it down with the water. “Better?” he drawled sarcastically.

Gwen flashed a facetious grin. “Yes, darling. Should I send your mother up to help you wash?”

He rolled his eyes at her. “I believe I can manage without her assistance.”

Gwen touched his shoulder. “I'll wait until you're finished. Then I'll help you downstairs.”

Not waiting for Shiloh to accept or reject her offer, she sat on the side of the bed to wait.

* * *

Gwen sat across the table from Shiloh, watching as he became less and less animated.

“When do you have to go back to the doctor?” Moriah asked him.

“Tuesday morning.”

“I'll take you.”

He shook his head as he tried focusing on Gwen's face. The drugging effects of the narcotic had kicked in. “I don't want you to take off from work.”

“School ends next week, and I don't believe I'm going to lose my job if I take a day off to accompany my son to the doctor.”

“Let it go, Mama,” Ian warned softly in French, as he picked up a forkful of poached eggs with hollandaise sauce.

Moriah's gaze shifted from Shiloh to Gwen, then back to Shiloh. She'd missed what should've been so obvious. Even though he'd spoken to her he couldn't take his eyes off Gwen. She was familiar with Shiloh's expression because she'd been the recipient of the same adoring look from her late husband.
There was no doubt that her son had fallen in love with Gwendolyn Taylor.

Shiloh's head bobbed up and down before he pushed back his chair. “You good folks are going to have to excuse me, but I'm going to hang out on the back porch. Please give me an hour, then I'll be ready to go home.”

Ian rose with him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Steady there, big brother.” Three pairs of eyes were fixed on the tall, broad-shouldered brothers as they made their way out of the kitchen.

Gwen pulled her gaze from Shiloh's retreating figure to find Moriah watching her. She lowered her head and pretended interest in the food on her plate. What, she wondered, had Shiloh's mother read into his recuperating under her roof? Did she believe they were a couple when they weren't?

She and Shiloh were friends, and friends were expected to look out for each other in their time of need.

G
wen walked into the building housing the offices of the
Teche Tribune
half an hour before she was scheduled to begin work. As agreed upon with Nash McGraw, she would work Tuesday and Wednesday. She planned to do her interviewing on Tuesday, and revise and submit her copy to Nash before four o'clock Wednesday. Ads and copy for the weekly were submitted to a local printer Thursday for Friday publication. Nash said the residents of St. Martin and the surrounding parishes looked forward to the
Tribune
for their weekend reading. The weekly, with its distinctive hometown flavor, was a refreshing alternative to the New Orleans-based
Times-Picayune.

She wanted to talk to Nash about an unsolved murder that had captured her interest once she began going through the back issues. Her need to uncover information on Gwendolyn Pickering was overshadowed by the 1964 murder of a high school prom queen.

Nash's gleaming silver head came up when she rapped lightly on his open door. “Good morning,” she said cheerfully.

The editor's blue eyes widened as if he hadn't expected to see her. “Good morning, Gwendolyn. I'm glad you're here early because I want to talk to you about that car accident that everyone in the parish has been talking about.” He beckoned her closer. “Come in and sit down.”

Nash watched Gwendolyn Taylor as she walked into his office. He'd thought himself blessed when Shiloh had come to him with her name and mentioned that she was looking for part-time employment. Within minutes of searching her name through the Internet, he knew he'd struck the mother lode. Gwendolyn had written hundreds of articles, many of them syndicated in other papers throughout the country.

During her interview, he felt she'd presented herself well. She was confident without being pretentious. She'd come to the interview wearing a business suit that would've been appropriate for a board meeting or an after-work dinner encounter. Today she wore a pair of black linen slacks and a delicate sky-blue linen shirt over a matching tank top, and despite her big-city sophistication she exuded a down-home style, which was certain to put those she interviewed completely at ease.

“I'd like you to get as much information as you can regarding this horrific incident.”
Horrific
had come out in three distinctive syllables. “First I want you to interview Jimmie Jameson, who's now filling in for Shiloh. Get what information you can from Shiloh, who was the first one on the scene, and the arresting officer. Then I need you to talk to anyone at the D.A.'s office to find out what they're charging that boy with.

“And, if you're lucky I want you to talk to the boy's folks.” Nash handed Gwen a piece of paper with the names and address of Willis Benton's parents. “It might be a little difficult
because Mr. Benton's lawyer has cautioned him against speaking directly to the press.”

“Why?”

“Abraham Benton is a Washington lobbyist who prefers keeping a low profile.”

Gwen opened her purse and removed a pad and pencil. “What's his lawyer's name?” She wrote down the information Nash gave her. “Let me see what I can uncover before we put out this week's edition.”

Nash rose to his feet at the same time she stood up. “Did you see your desk when you came in?”

She went still, momentarily surprised with this disclosure because she thought she would be working from home. “No, I didn't.”

Rounding his cluttered desk, Nash cupped her elbow. “Come, let me show you where you'll be working.”

He led her down a hallway and opened the door to an office next to the advertising manager. The space was small and overlooked the front of the two-story building. French doors opened out to a grillwork-enclosed balcony.

A desk, desk lamp, workstation with a computer, printer and fax machine, two two-drawer file cabinets and a well-worn cordovan-brown love seat completed what would become her home away from home for the two days she spent at the paper's offices.

Nash turned a small wood plaque over on the desk. “Welcome aboard.”

Gwen's smile was dazzling. The plaque read: Gwendolyn Taylor, Editor, Crime Desk. “I suppose it's too late to back out now.”

“If you try I'll sue you for breach of a verbal contract.”

She shook her head slowly. “Shame on you, Nash. I can't
believe a respected journalist of your caliber would have to resort to threats and intimidation to maintain his staff.”

The editor flushed beneath his deep tan. “People resort to desperate measures during desperate times.” Nash's eyes were cold despite the smile curving his mouth.

Gwen looped the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. “That sounds like my cue to hit the bricks and get my story.”

* * *

“Thank you, Deputy Jameson, for agreeing to meet with me. I promise not to take up too much of your time.”

Jimmie Jameson's expression did not change when Gwendolyn Taylor was shown into his office. Now he knew why Shiloh was so taken with her. The profusion of black curls falling around her flawless face, large sparkling eyes, and her warm, inviting smile were captivating.

He extended his hand. “I hope I can be of some assistance to you.”

Gwen shook the acting sheriff's hand. She'd done her homework on James Jameson. It was rumored that the former FBI special agent was certain to be elected sheriff in the next election.

“Please sit down, Miss Taylor.”

“Thank you.”

Gwen placed a pocket-sized recorder on Acting Sheriff James Jameson's desk before she sat down and pulled out a small notebook with the questions she wanted to ask regarding the accident that placed Shiloh on medical leave. She'd come to the station house as Gwendolyn Taylor, crime reporter for the
Teche Tribune.

Her head came up and she met the stare of the stocky man with a shaved head. His full, unlined face made it difficult to pinpoint his exact age.

“What can you tell me about the automobile accident that
occurred late Saturday afternoon that resulted in the loss of life for a family of four?”

Jimmie focused on a photograph on a facing wall to bring his emotions under control. He was a husband, father and son and his heart ached when he had to inform the deceased's next-of-kin of the tragedy.

“Willis Raymond Benton has been charged with vehicular homicide and reckless endangerment in the deaths of Barry Edmondson, thirty-six, his wife, Selma, thirty-two, and their four-year-old twin daughters, Naomi and Ruth.”

“Why reckless endangerment?” Gwen asked.

“Mr. Benton's blood alcohol was twice the state's legal limit, and a subsequent toxicology report indicated a substantial amount of crystal meth. He became a suicide bomber the moment he got behind the wheel of his car.”

“Has he been arraigned?”

Jimmie nodded. “Yes.”

“Has he been denied bail?” she asked.

A look of hardness glittered in the deputy's eyes. “No. The district attorney's office asked he be remanded without bail, but Benton's attorney argued that this is his first offense, and that he isn't a flight risk.”

“He's out on bail?”

Jimmie nodded. “His daddy posted a two-million-dollar bond. If Willis had been other than some fat cat lobbyist kid he would never see the light of day.”

Gwen leaned forward. “Are you telling me that you expect him to beat the charge?”

“Charges,” Jimmie said, correcting her.

“Okay,” she conceded. “Charges.”

Jimmie gave Gwen a long, penetrating look. The tape recorder was running, and he didn't want to say anything to compromise himself or the sheriff's office. “We arrest, not
prosecute, Miss Taylor. I suggest you ask Keith Nichols that question.”

She remembered the A.D.A. she'd met at the Outlaw. “Has Mr. Nichols been assigned the case?”

“I believe he has.”

Gwen checked off her next question. “Can you give me any details of the accident?”

“I can only tell you what I witnessed once I arrived on the scene. If you want a more detailed eyewitness account, then you're going to have to talk to Sheriff Harper.”

She closed her pad and stopped the tape recorder, putting both in her handbag. “Thank you, Deputy Jameson. You've been very helpful.”

Jimmie stared at the profusion of curls that reminded him of a cluster of black grapes. “What I'm going to say to you is off the record.”

Unconsciously, Gwen's brown furrowed. When she'd covered the crime desk for the
Gazette
she'd gotten more information from police personnel off the record than on. She wasn't certain what it was but apparently they sensed they could trust her with facts they hadn't made known to other reporters. And they were right to trust her because she never leaked information or revealed her sources.