Deadline

Spencer sat back in his chair, considered what he’d written and wished he could make the people see Everett Caine for what he was—a lying, self-serving politician who used people and tossed them aside. People like Jenny.

That familiar ache in his chest started again at the thought of sweet, innocent Jenny. Jenny Wyatt—the girl who had been his friend and practically a kid sister to him, but who had died before she’d even had a chance to live. Dead before her twenty-second birthday because she’d gotten mixed up with the likes of Everett Caine.

His cell phone rang again and this time Spencer snatched it up instead of letting it go to voice mail. “Yeah,” he snapped.

“Now, sugar, is that any way to answer the phone?”

Spencer paused, glanced at the caller ID feature, noted the number was the Magnolia Guesthouse in Grady. He smiled. “Well, now, Mary Lee, if I’d known it was you calling, darling, I would have been a lot nicer.”

“I bet,” she said with a sniff. “I haven’t seen you in ages, Spence.”

Spencer didn’t have to see Mary Lee to know that the sexy little blonde was pouting. The woman was flat-out gorgeous and she was used to men tripping over themselves whenever she batted those baby-blue eyes of hers at them. He had neither the desire nor the inclination to be one of those men. “Darling, I’ve been working. I thought I told you that when we talked the other day.”

“But I miss you,” Mary Lee cooed.

Spencer laughed. “From what my momma tells me, Shane Russell’s been giving old Donny a real run for his money. You didn’t mention that when I called you.”

“I didn’t see any reason to mention it,” she informed him. “Besides, I was happy to hear from you—even if you did only call me for a favor.”

“Darling, you know I like hearing that sweet voice of yours.”

“Then prove it and come pay me a visit.”

Not about to go that route, he said, “And just when would you manage to see me if I did come down? From what my momma tells me, you’re being wined and dined by those two fine gentlemen seven nights a week.”

“Your momma’s exaggerating,” she said.

“You mean Shane hasn’t been sending you flowers from my momma’s shop every day for two weeks now?”

“Well…”

“My momma said she’s having to get roses from Jackson because she’s gone through all her local suppliers filling Shane’s orders to you.”

Mary Lee giggled. “It is kinda sweet, isn’t it? Shane is such a nice boy.”

Spencer winced. “Darling, no male over the age of twelve likes being referred to as a boy and sending a woman flowers every day isn’t sweet. It’s serious. The man’s obviously in love with you.”

Mary Lee sighed. “I suppose he is.”

“Let’s not forget poor old Donny either. From what I remember, that fella’s got it bad for you, too. Darling, you need to put those two men out of their misery and marry one of them.”

“I just might do that,” she informed him. “That is unless a certain newspaperman gives me a reason not to.”

“Mary Lee,” he began, a warning note in his voice because he didn’t like the direction of the conversation.

“Come on, Spence, haven’t you ever wondered what it would be like if you and I got together?”

“Sure I have, darling. I’m a man, aren’t I?” He laughed. “But you know as well as I do that it would never work. Aside from the fact that I’m too old for you—”

“You’re only ten years older than me,” she protested.

Ignoring her, he repeated, “Aside from the fact that I’m too old for you, the two of us as a couple would never work. We’re too much alike. We both like getting our own way too much. You’d want to be out partying and I’d want to chase down a story. We’d end up breaking each other’s hearts and ruining a good friendship. You wouldn’t want to see that happen, now, would you?”

“No,” she conceded. “I suppose you’re right. We probably wouldn’t work.”

“We wouldn’t. But if I thought we had even a snowball’s chance in hell, I’d be first in line knocking on your door,” he said, stretching the fib to ease her bruised ego.

“Well, I guess I’ll just have to satisfy myself with us being friends.”

“That’s my girl. And as much as I love talking to you, darling, I’ve got a deadline staring me in the face. So I need to get back to work.”

“Wait,” Mary Lee said. “For a minute there I almost forgot why I called you. Remember you asked me to let you know if a woman named Abbott showed up here in Grady?”

Spencer went still. He’d called Mary Lee after he’d received that last call from the mystery woman, chiding him for not attacking Caine outright in his column. When she’d claimed that Tess Abbott was in Mississippi asking questions about her father’s suicide and the long-ago murder case handled by Caine, he hadn’t put much faith in it. He’d come to the conclusion that the woman was probably one of Caine’s jilted lovers, but that she wasn’t going to provide him with anything he could use. Even if she had, given the records of the nation’s top politicians, he doubted that documentation of an affair would derail the man’s campaign anyway. He certainly hadn’t put any stock into her claims about the Abbott woman. Still, on the off chance that the lady knew what she was talking about, he’d called Mary Lee. When Mary Lee had told him that no one named Abbott was in Grady, he had written it off as another lead that went nowhere. He certainly hadn’t expected anything to come of it.

“Spence, you go to sleep on me, sugar?”

“Sorry, Mary Lee. Yeah, I remember asking you about her. You said no one by that name had been in Grady.”

“Well, she hadn’t. But she’s here now. And she’s staying right here at Magnolia Guesthouse. She checked in not ten minutes ago.”

“What did she look like?” Spencer asked, wanting to be sure it was the right Tess Abbott, the one whose picture he’d found at the TV news Web site in D.C.

“Tall, dark-haired, late twenties. Nice eyes. Kind of pretty, I guess, if you like your women on the skinny side. She seemed nice enough, but very serious. She didn’t talk much. Not even to Miss Maggie, and Miss Maggie’s so nice, I swear even a mute would talk to her.”

Spencer didn’t bother commenting on Maggie O’Donnell. It wasn’t her he was interested in. “And she registered as Tess Abbott?”

“Sure did. I ran the credit card myself.”

So, Jody Burns’s daughter really was in Grady—which meant the mystery caller had known what she was talking about after all. Maybe she was also right in claiming that Tess Abbott would be able to provide him with the information he needed to take down Everett Caine.

“Don’t I even get a thank-you for spying for you?”

“Thanks, Mary Lee. You’re a real sweetheart,” Spencer told her.

“So who is this Tess Abbott anyway? She an old girlfriend or something?”

Spencer laughed and imagined Mary Lee’s baby blues turning a shade of green. “Hardly, darling. I’ve never even met the woman. She’s just a means to an end, a connection to a story that I’m working on.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that. But then I don’t know why I’m surprised, I mean, she’s really not your type. Seemed a little cool, if you ask me.”

Spencer didn’t comment. From the photo he’d seen of Tess Abbott on her station’s Web site, she’d struck him as cool and sophisticated. He knew the type, had come across them often enough in his thirty-four years—rich, cool beauties who might not mind playing footsies with a journalist, but when it came to getting serious they’d look for somebody at daddy’s stock brokerage firm. Or in Tess Abbott’s case, probably an up-and-coming attorney at some D.C. law firm. Not that it mattered to him one way or another. Like he’d told Mary Lee, Tess Abbott was nothing to him but a means to an end.

“But then as my momma’s always telling me, I shouldn’t go making judgment on a person just because of the way he or she looks, should I?”

“If you did, I’d hate to see what you’d think of me,” Spencer teased.

Mary Lee laughed. “You don’t want to know what I thought about you the first time I saw you.”

“You’re right, I don’t,” Spencer told her. “I owe you one, darling. Next time I’m in Grady, dinner—on me.”

“And just when is that going to be, Spencer Reed?”

“Soon. Real soon,” he promised.

“Well, be forewarned. I fully intend to collect on that dinner.”

“I’ll remember that, darling,” he said, and after thanking her again he ended the call.

Leaning back in his chair, Spencer cupped his hands behind his head and thought about Tess Abbott’s arrival in Grady. He’d reviewed what he could find about her father’s murder trial after the mystery woman’s last call. He’d been surprised to discover that the man’s four-year-old daughter had been allowed to testify against him. Given her age and relationship to the defendant, he would have thought any judge in his right mind would have rejected her as a witness. But then Jody Burns’s dead wife hadn’t been just anyone’s daughter. She’d been the daughter of a U.S. senator, and the little girl in question had been his one and only grandchild. Spencer had come to the conclusion that it had been with Senator Abbott’s approval that the four-year-old had been put on the witness stand. He couldn’t help but wonder if that had been the senator’s idea or Caine’s. Either way, the decision sucked. And if the mystery caller was to be believed, Caine had rigged the trial.

If he had rigged it, the guilty verdict had paid off in spades for Caine, Spencer thought. With the notoriety of the trial, Caine had quickly moved up the legal ranks from assistant D.A. to D.A., and then he’d made a successful run for lieutenant governor. Now he was only a few weeks away from the election that could make him the state’s next governor.

Unless he found a way to stop him. And right now the only way it seemed he might be able to do that would be to prove that the mystery caller had been right—that Caine had somehow rigged that long-ago trial resulting in a man’s conviction and eventually, his suicide.

The television screen across the room flashed with an image of Caine on the late-night news. Spencer reached for the remote and hit the sound button.

“With the governor’s election less than a month away, both candidates have been busy on the campaign trail,” the news reporter stated. “Lieutenant Governor Caine made an appearance in Oxford, Mississippi, today at his alma mater, Ole Miss, where he was met by thunderous applause.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, fellow Rebels,” the smiling Caine began, referring to the team’s athletic mascot and evoking cheers from the crowd.

“Enjoy it while you can, Caine, because they’re not going to be cheering you much longer,” Spencer muttered. “Soon, real soon, the people of Mississippi are going to know you for the coldhearted, conniving bastard that you really are.”

Because somehow, someway, he intended to expose the real Everett Caine—the man who had used an innocent girl, then tossed her aside like garbage and caused her to take her own life. And while she didn’t know it yet, Tess Abbott was going to help him bring the man down.

When George came strolling back into the room and jumped up beside him, Spencer stroked the cat behind the ears and listened to him purr. Then he went back to the article. After fine-tuning it, he sent it off then set the laptop aside. He reached for the cat, stroked his silky fur. “Looks like I’m going to have to take a trip to visit the folks, fella. How’d you like to spend a few days with Miss Rosie next door?”

As if in answer, George purred even louder.

Spencer laughed at the cat’s reaction to the mention of the elderly widow who kept an eye on his apartment and George whenever he was away. “I thought so. The woman spoils you rotten. Just don’t get used to eating fresh tuna and chicken while I’m gone. Because when I come home, it’s back to the canned stuff. Understand?”

George gave him an indignant look out of his green eyes, then he flicked his tail and hopped off his lap to the floor. Without missing a beat, the cat walked over to the door and waited.

Tess exited the bathroom of the suite of rooms she’d been given and yawned. She shook her head, still surprised to discover a Jacuzzi tub and modern bathroom attached to a room that looked as if it had been designed during the Civil War. Heavens, but the room was beautiful, she thought as she flicked off the bathroom light. She padded on bare feet across the plush carpet to the antique four-poster bed. Running her fingers along one of the ornately carved posts, she stared up at the canopy that spanned the entire length of the bed. It had been done in the same rich blue satin fabric that had been used in both the bedspread and the drapes on the windows. The color scheme had been carried through on the pillows, too.

Glancing around the room, she took in all the little touches—the vase of fresh flowers, the oil paintings, the crystal candlesticks, the old-fashioned miniature frames with black-and-white photos, the intricate design of the fireplace screen. She looked at the fireplace, where logs had been placed in the grate, just waiting for someone to strike a match to the kindling wood. There was something so old world and Southern and inviting about the place.

Tired, but eager to explore a bit more, Tess moved across the room to the window. Kneeling on the chair beneath it, she unlatched the window and pushed open the shutters. The sheers billowed in the breeze. After propping her elbows on the windowsill, Tess lifted her face to the sky. The air was cool and damp against her skin. A strong wind coming from the north blew her hair across her face and Tess brushed the tangles from her eyes. Chilled, she shivered lightly, but continued to let the wind and the night wash over her.

And she listened to the sounds of the night: an owl hooting for its mate, frogs croaking near a pond, a dog barking in the distance. Somewhere, someone played a mournful tune on a harmonica that made her think of another time, another night when the air had been cool and damp like this one. The night her mother had been murdered.

Uncomfortable with the turn of her thoughts, Tess opened her eyes and gazed up at the starless sky. The moon had managed to escape the cloud cover, providing a sliver of light in a sky that was now an inky black. There were no high-rise buildings, no garish neon signs, no billboards here. But there were lots and lots of trees and cottages scattered across the landscape. Below her, Tess could make out some sort of garden with a bench beneath a tree. And there was a pebble path that led away from the house. She promised herself that in the morning she would follow that path and see where it led.

As she knelt at the window, the scents and sounds continued to wash over her, evoking old memories. Memories that she’d spent most of her life trying to forget. Memories that she knew she would have to face again if she was going to find the answers she sought—find out who was really responsible for killing her mother. Reminding herself that it was the reason she was here, Tess closed the window and turned back to the room.

Still chilled and feeling a little achy, Tess wondered if she was coming down with a bug. Deciding not to take a chance on getting sick, she returned to the bath-room where she retrieved two aspirin from her toiletry bag and washed them down with a glass of water.

When she exited the bathroom again, she spied the case with her laptop, resting beside the night table. It was late, but she could still do some research tonight. And she wanted to see if she could find out anything about Lester De Roach, she reminded herself as she recalled the strange incident at the convenience store earlier.

But she felt so tired, she admitted and yawned again. Giving in to fatigue, she walked over to the bed and climbed in. After switching off the lamp, she crawled beneath the duvet and closed her eyes. Tomorrow she would see what she could find out about De Roach, see if there was any connection between him and her mother, she promised herself while she snuggled into the pillows and waited for sleep to claim her.

As she drifted off to sleep, Tess’s thoughts were filled with her mother. Tossing and turning, Tess dreamed…

Tess dreamed that she heard voices—her mother’s voice. Only it wasn’t her nice, inside voice. It was her angry voice. And she was crying. Just like she had been crying that morning when she had argued with Daddy first about Mommy wanting to get a job and then about them going to Jackson to see Grandma Elizabeth and spending the night at a hotel. Daddy hadn’t wanted her mommy to work. And he hadn’t wanted them to go to Jackson. He had yelled and said that Grandma Elizabeth was not to pay for their hotel. That he would pay for it.

But they hadn’t stayed at the hotel after all. Because of her. She’d gotten sick. So she and Mommy had come home. So why was Daddy still mad? And why was Mommy crying? Tess heard a crash and her mommy screamed. Scared, she hid under the covers and cried. She cried and cried for a really long time. And then she slept.

When she heard her daddy yell again, Tess opened her eyes. She didn’t feel good. Her throat hurt. And she felt hot and thirsty, too hot and thirsty to keep hiding. “Mommy,” she cried. “Mommy.”

But Mommy didn’t come. Mommy always came when she was sick.

Still sobbing, Tess climbed out of bed and opened the door. She ran down the hall from her bedroom. “Mommy, my throat hurts,” she sobbed as she turned the corner and came into the living room.

Tess stopped and stared at her Daddy kneeling on the floor over her mommy, holding the statue from the bookshelf in his hands. “Is Mommy sleeping?” she asked.

But her daddy didn’t answer. He never even looked at her. He dropped the statue and reached for her mother. So Tess moved closer. She touched her daddy’s shoulder. Then she saw it—blood. Lots and lots of blood. On her mommy’s head, on the floor, on the statue, on her daddy.

“Tess,” her Daddy cried out. “Get out of here, baby. Go back to your room, baby. Go now,” he shouted, turning away so that she couldn’t see her mother.

“What’s wrong with Mommy? Why won’t she get up?”

“She’s hurt. Now go to your room.”

“I want my mommy,” she cried.

“Tess, please—”

And then she heard the sirens. The phone began to ring. Fists banged on the door. And the phone kept ringing and ringing…

Startled by the ringing phone, Tess sat up in bed and looked around the unfamiliar room. Then she spied the phone on the night table. She grabbed the receiver. “Hello.”

“Good morning, Ms. Abbott. This is your six-thirty wake-up call.”

“Thank you,” Tess said.

After hanging up the phone, she fell back against the pillows. And once again she questioned her decision to come back to Grady. What if her grandfather had been right? That she should allow the past to remain buried.

She also recalled Ronnie’s question. Would she be able to handle whatever it was that she discovered?

She didn’t know, Tess admitted. But what she did know was that she owed it to her mother, if not to herself, to find out what really happened that night twenty-five years ago.

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