Murder in the Smokies (9 page)

“Amelia Sanderson I knew. She worked in the office until her death. I also knew Coral Vines from growing up, remember? Ah, maybe you didn’t. She was younger than us and by the time she came to high school, you were already halfway out of town. The women at the office talked about her all the time. Apparently she went off the deep end straight into a bottle after her husband got killed in combat in Afghanistan.” Seth’s eyes narrowed slightly as he lifted his gaze to meet Sutton’s, a hint of awareness in his green eyes. He would know that Sutton had joined the army. That it was likely he’d traveled overseas, to Iraq or Afghanistan or any number of hot spots where the United States had stationed forces.

But Sutton didn’t want his admiration or pity or whatever it was those sharp green eyes were trying to say to him. “How old were they?”

The question seemed to surprise Seth. “Um, I don’t know about Amelia—probably around our age. Maybe a year or two younger. She lived in Bitterwood. Everybody who’s been killed so far did, even though they’re working in Maryville.”

That was interesting, too, Sutton thought. “And Coral Vines?”

“Late twenties. She was three years behind us in school.”

So Marjorie Kenner was the outlier. Interesting.

There was a clattering noise from the back of the house. Seth jumped to action, beating Sutton to his father’s bedroom by a couple of steps.

The remote control lay on the floor in front of the television, the plastic casing holding the batteries popped open and the batteries lying a few feet away, still rolling.

Cleve made an odd grunting noise, waving his good hand at his empty plate. Seth started laughing as he bent to pick up the remote. Sutton saw his father was smiling, too, looking almost like his old, charming self.

“He’d already eaten the carrots,” Seth explained. “So when it came time to throw something at the litigants—”

“Never were good at impulse control, were you, Cleve?” Sutton stopped one of the rolling batteries with his foot and bent to pick it up. He crossed to sit on the bed beside his father. “I know you think you have all the answers, old man. But you can do better than this.” He waved his hand at his father’s wheelchair. “Maybe you’ll never be what you were before. But maybe that’s good, you ever think of that?”

Seth cleared his throat but didn’t say anything.

“I get the feeling you only respond to tough love, so I’m going to lay a little on you here.” Sutton put his hand on the arm of the wheelchair. “You never were much for a boy to be proud of. You made your living by tricking people out of their hard-earned money, and you never seemed to have a bit of remorse about doing it. So maybe you ought to look at this as God’s way of slapping you upside the head and telling you to do better.”

Cleve’s eyes flashed with anger, but he didn’t look away.

“Seth tells me he’s gone legit. And it didn’t take a stroke to do it.” He gave the wheelchair arm a little shake, making his father’s body shake with it. “He also tells me you aren’t doing what the therapists are telling you to do to get better. Is that another scam? You’ve figured out how to get the government to support you for the rest of your life without your having to lift a finger?”

“Sutton—”

Cleve growled something that sounded oddly like the word “rich.” Sutton looked at Seth for interpretation and found Seth staring at Cleve, a look of surprise and delight on his face.

“You old coot! You
can
talk if you put your mind to it.” He slanted a look at Sutton. “Or if someone pisses you off enough.”

“What did he mean by ‘rich’?”

“I believe what he was telling you was that he doesn’t need the government—or you—takin’ care of him,” Seth answered with half a smile. “He was good at more than just convincing otherwise smart people to hand money to him, you see. He was also good at investing.”

Sutton looked from Seth to his father. Cleve gazed back at him, his hazel eyes, so like Sutton’s own, glittering with triumph. “How much?”

“About five million, give or take a few hundred thousand.”

Sutton stared in shocked dismay. “Ill-gotten gains, you old bastard.”

Cleve looked unrepentant.

“I’m not sure it’s all ill-gotten,” Seth said quietly. “Some of the things your daddy did weren’t exactly illegal.”

“Just immoral.”

“No doubt. But there’s millionaires all over the world you could say that about.” Seth held out his hand for the battery Sutton had picked up. Sutton handed it over and Seth reassembled the remote. He passed it back to Cleve. “You don’t have to like it, Sutton. It just is what it is. The feds and the local cops know about it and can’t make a legal claim to take it away from him. And since it keeps him from sucking the government coffers dry, nobody’s raising much of a stink.”

“Who’s administering his money?”

“I am.” Seth met Sutton’s gaze without flinching.

“Convenient.”

Cleve grumbled something that sounded profane. Seth’s lips twitched.

“I guess you’ve got everything under control, then, don’t you, Seth?” The urge to get out of there, to leave the toxic past and confounding present behind him, was more than Sutton could resist. “I wanted to know what you were up to. I guess now I do.” He turned and walked out of the room, wishing he had never come here.

Seth caught up with him at the front door. “Wait.”

Sutton whipped around to face him, his fists clenching with a rush of unexpected rage. “What?”

“There’s one other thing I was pondering telling you, but I didn’t want you to get the wrong impression. But since you clearly can’t think any less of me than you already do, what the hell? A month ago, an acquaintance of mine approached me outside a bar in Maryville to ask me if I wanted to make a quick twenty grand.”

Sutton frowned, not sure where Seth was going with this story. “And?”

“Turns out, he wanted me to kill someone.”

Chapter Nine

“We may have a chance at a warrant.”

Ivy nearly ran off on the shoulder as she left the main highway onto Vesper Road. “You’re kidding.”

Antoine’s voice sounded jubilant over the cell phone’s hands-free speaker. “I have a friend on the Maryville force. Seems he’s got the chief’s ear, and once I told him about the cases and why we think Davenport Trucking might be peripherally involved, he convinced the chief to call a judge friend of his. He’s supposed to call me back in the morning with the judge’s response. He’s asking for a list of names covering rentals from two weeks before the first murder to the present—that should be all we need, don’t you think?”

It was better than she’d hoped for when she left the office with Antoine still making calls. “It should be.”

“He’s not going to bother the judge before morning, so go home and get some rest. You look like hell.”

“You’re such a flatterer, Antoine.”

She pushed the call end button and slowed as she approached the turn into her driveway. To her surprise, Sutton’s truck was parked next to the house. Since she hadn’t heard from him since leaving Davenport Trucking, she’d figured he’d found somewhere else to stay for the night.

He was sitting on her front porch, a six-pack of Corona beer on the step beside him. Only one was missing from the pack, she saw as she walked slowly up the path to the steps. It dangled from the fingers of his left hand, still half-full. So unless he’d already been through another six-pack, at least he wasn’t drunk.

But he looked as if he wanted to be.

“You didn’t call,” she murmured as he lifted his smoldering gaze to meet hers.

“I wasn’t sure I was going to come back here.”

“But here you are.”

He lifted the bottle to his mouth and took a swig. “Yeah. Here I am.”

She dropped onto the porch step next to him. He reached into the six-pack and brought out a bottle. “Want one?”

She was tempted, but she had a feeling at least one of them should stay completely sober tonight. “No, thanks.”

He shrugged and put the bottle down beside him. “I saw my father.”

“Yeah?”

“Why didn’t you warn me he’d had a stroke?”

His words gave her a start. “You didn’t know?”

Haunted eyes lifted to meet hers. “No.”

“I figured you knew.” She had seen Cleve Calhoun only a couple of times since his stroke, once at a Knoxville hospital when she was there to check on an assault victim and, more recently, when Seth Hammond had taken him to the local clinic for his flu shot while she was there getting a sprained ankle treated. Seeing Cleve Calhoun, one of the most alive men she’d ever encountered, wheelchair bound and mute had come as a jolt to her system. “You must have been really shocked to see him that way.”

He took another drink. “Understatement.”

“Nobody tried to contact you when he had the stroke?” If she’d had any idea he’d been left in the dark, she’d have tried to track him down herself.

“Seth did, but I didn’t take his calls.” He sounded bitter, but she had a feeling he was blaming himself more than Seth.

“Still, he should have kept trying to contact you.”

Sutton paused with the beer bottle halfway to his mouth. “I didn’t exactly give him any reason to think I cared.”

“Of course you care. He’s your father.” As frustrated as she could get with her mother’s foolish choices, Ivy still loved her and wanted the best for her. And she knew how hard Sutton had struggled with his conflicted feelings back when they were little more than kids. “How is he?”

“Stubborn. Foolish.” Sutton put the bottle down beside him and put his head in his hands, his elbows propped on his knees. “I don’t even know what I feel, to tell you the truth. Horrified to see him that way? Relieved that he’s Seth’s problem and not mine?”

“Sutton—”

“I’m a real piece of work, aren’t I?” He looked up at the rising moon, his face bathed in cool light. He was smiling, but there was no humor in the expression, making it look like a twisted grimace. “Relieved that I don’t have to deal with my cripple of a father.”

“Your feelings about him are complicated. They always have been—”

“Stop it!” He whipped his head around to look at her, making her flinch. “Stop trying to justify my selfishness.”

She pressed her lips flat, anger flaring in her chest. She pushed to her feet. “Fine. Drink yourself stupid. I’m going inside.”

“Wait.” He reached out and caught her leg, his hand closing around her calf. Heat burned through the fabric of her cotton trousers to brand her flesh.

His fingers slid slowly upward, making her heart skip a beat.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was a caress. “I didn’t mean to snap.”

Oh, God. His fingers had stopped climbing, but they hadn’t stopped moving, drawing circles across the crease behind her knee. He looked up at her, his eyes combustive. She felt her body catch fire in response, heat flooding her from her breasts to her sex.

“Sutton—”

He rose to his feet with unexpected grace, lithe and sinuous like a cat on the prowl. Suddenly he was towering over her, his face cast in half shadow. Moonlight bathed the other side of his face, painting him in cool blue tones like a sculpture.

His hand trailed up her arm, his calloused fingers seeming to shoot sparks along her nerve endings. “I look at you,” he murmured in a low tone, “and I still see a shadow of that dark-eyed kid who used to watch me when she thought I wasn’t looking. I wonder now, what were you thinking?”

She couldn’t tell him that she’d thought he was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, a wild buck kicking against the constraints of his small-town captivity. Part of her had known he’d have to run free, sooner or later, but another part had prayed he’d grow content with his confinement, so she would never have to see him go.

“My mama told me you were nothing but trouble,” she said, her voice coming out in a hoarse whisper. “She always said, ‘Calhouns will break your heart.’”

He looked thoughtful. “Do you think she knew from experience?”

“Your daddy always was a charming old cuss, and you know how my mama is. Always looking for something.”

He brushed away a piece of hair that had fallen out of her ponytail and into her face, tucking it behind her ear. “I’m not drunk, Ivy.” His finger trailed along the curve of her jaw, making her shiver. “I just want you to know that.”

She had trouble finding her voice. “Why’s that?”

He bent toward her. “Because I’m going to kiss you now,” he whispered, sending her sluggish brain into a tailspin. Before she could regain her equilibrium, his mouth was hot and soft against hers, more seductive than demanding. But the effect was the same—fire raging out of control in her blood, molten heat pooling low in her belly and every nerve ending in her body on alert, aching for the brush of his skin against hers.

Not even in her most vivid adolescent dreams had she imagined how easily she could be conquered by his touch. No last-ditch effort to keep her head, no defiant last stand, just complete, eager surrender. When he snaked his arms around her waist, tugging her flush to his hard body, she melted into him, her hands driving through his crisp, dark hair to pull him even closer.

He tasted like Corona and sex, his tongue sliding over hers, demanding a response. She gave it to him, moving her hands under the hem of his T-shirt until her fingertips dug into the heated velvet of his back. She traced the valleys and ridges of his muscles, thrilling at the sound of his low groan in response. She wasn’t sure when or how they moved, but suddenly her back flattened against the rough clapboard wall next to the front door and Sutton grabbed her hips, lifting her until she was pinned against the front of her house, her thighs cradling his narrow hips.

The ridge of his erection pressed into her through the layers of cotton and denim that stood between them, teasing her sex until a long, fierce shudder rocked through her.

“I want you,” he breathed against her throat just before he nipped at the tendon, making her moan.

She wanted him, too. More than she’d thought was possible. Far more than was wise. She put her hands between their bodies and stroked him boldly through his jeans, satisfaction swamping her as he released a helpless groan. “You like that?”

He caught her hand and twined his fingers with hers, guiding her hand away from his erection. “Slow down. Let’s just slow this down.”

She didn’t want slow. She wanted fast and fierce, so she didn’t have time to think. “Don’t give me a chance—”

He drew his head back so he could look into her eyes. His hands, well on their way to a thorough examination of the curves of her breast, went still, leaving her restless with need. “Don’t give you a chance to what?”

She shook her head, reaching for his belt. “Doesn’t matter.”

He caught her hands, stopping her. “A chance to say no?”

She felt the change in him, the sudden return of control. Steel in his backbone, determination glittering in his eyes—he was no longer an animal caught up in the thrall of lust but a man with complete mastery of even his most primal desires.

Damn it.

She pulled her hands away from him and slid away, finding her unsteady feet. “I don’t want to say no.”

“But you should?”

She leaned against the frame of the front door, pressing her forehead to the cool wood. “Sex complicates everything.”

He didn’t argue. “I’ll find somewhere else to stay.”

She shook her head. “No.” At his pained look, she added, “At least, not until I talk to you about something.”

* * *

O
NE
OF
THE
MOST
USEFUL
things his time in the Army Special Forces had taught Sutton was how to control himself in any situation. Granted, his steely mastery of his body usually translated to remaining utterly still in the most uncomfortable of positions and locations in order to get the advantage over an enemy. But he’d also learned how to discipline his other, more primal urges.

Unfortunately, not even a decade in the Special Forces had equipped him to control the hunger to finish what he and Ivy had started on her front porch.

Once inside, she’d kept a careful distance from him, puttering around the kitchen while he waited at the breakfast nook table for her to finish putting together sandwiches for their dinner. He’d offered to help but she’d warned him off with a desperate look and a wave of her hands, so he’d settled at the table and kept his hands to himself.

As she passed the phone on the counter, she put down the plates and checked her messages. Sutton heard her mother’s voice on the recorder. “Birdy, give me a call. I need to talk to you about something.” Ivy erased the message and picked up the plates again.

He smiled at her mother’s use of the nickname “Birdy.” “She still calls you Birdy?”

“Yeah.” She smiled, though there was a hint of a grimace in it. “And Antoine calls me Hawk, did you notice that? I’m apparently destined for bird-related nicknames.”

He supposed “Birdy” had fit her when she was a small, brown, quiet little thing, but he agreed with Antoine on this one. She was more raptor than wren these days.

“Don’t you need to call her back?” he asked as she set his sandwich in front of him, making no move toward the phone.

“I’ll call her later.” She sat down across from him.

“So, what did you want to tell me?”

She pushed her sandwich around the paper plate. “When I was at Davenport today, I saw something interesting.” She told him about the truck in the self-cleaning bay and how she thought it might connect to the murders.

Even a discussion of mobile abattoirs couldn’t cool his lust completely, but at least it gave his one-track mind a detour to work through. “You think the killer’s using a rented truck as his own personal butcher’s shop?”

Ivy looked at him briefly, little more than a glancing blow of her gaze before she looked away. “We’re hoping we’ll get a warrant in the morning and then we can start questioning people.”

“I have some news for you, too.” He paused, he realized with a hint of guilt, because he knew it would force her to look at him again. He missed having that brown-eyed gaze lock with his, all serious intensity and singular focus. He was beginning to kick himself for being noble instead of selfish. If he’d kept his mouth shut, he’d probably be buried inside her right now, having the best sex of his whole damned life.

It would have been amazing. He could tell that from the fireworks going off inside him with the slightest brush of her fingers on his skin. And they had history, too, a connection that even fourteen years apart hadn’t been able to completely sever.

She turned her gaze toward him, a slow, wary sidelong glance that lingered when he remained silent. She finally broke the quiet standoff with an impatient “What?”

“Somebody tried to hire Seth Hammond for a contract murder.”

Her mouth formed a silent O.

“Yeah, that was about my reaction, too.”

“Who?”

“He wouldn’t tell me. He says the guy was a middleman, tried to subcontract him to do the killing and split the money with him. Seth says he’s positive the other guy chickened out and he doesn’t want to sic the cops on him for making a dumb mistake.”

“Seth’s sympathy for the criminal element is touching.” Her tone was flat and dry.

“I asked if the guy knew who’d tried to hire him. Apparently the contact was all done by phone, and the guy who tried to subcontract never got a name. And he didn’t recognize the voice.”

“Odd.” She looked away and asked, “What makes you think any of this is connected to the murders?”

“The timing, for one. Seth said the man approached him about three weeks before the first murder.”

“But how does that track with the style of these murders? These don’t look like contract killings.”

“Seth was told he should make them look like accidents or something else, anything but a hit.”

She stopped with her sandwich halfway to her mouth. “Really.”

“I was thinking, making them look like serial murders might be a way to throw the cops off what was really going on.”