Under Suspicion

As she dabbed at the spot, it came up easily. “Is anyone here?” Shona called, feeling a twinge of unease.

The stain looked like blood.

“Dad?” she called more loudly as she rushed through the kitchen. She saw another splotch of red by the stairs.

Following one droplet after another, Shona climbed to the second floor. In the dim light she saw a dark form splayed at the head of the stairs.

“Dad!” She rushed to him and fell to her knees at his side.

Blood streaked down his face from his nose and caked his thick gray hair. He opened his eyes and tried to speak.

Shona pulled her cell phone from her pocket and called 9-1-1.

“Please hurry,” she said to the dispatcher over the telephone. “My father is in bad shape.”

As the voice reassured her that help would be there soon, she wanted to scream. Soon might be too late.

HANNAH ALEXANDER

is the pseudonym of husband-and-wife writing team Cheryl and Mel Hodde (pronounced “Hoddee”). When they first met, Mel had just begun his new job as an E.R. doctor in Cheryl’s hometown, and Cheryl was working on a novel. Cheryl’s matchmaking pastor set them up on an unexpected blind date at a local restaurant. Surprised by the sneak attack, Cheryl blurted the first thing that occurred to her, “You’re a doctor? Could you help me paralyze someone?” Mel was shocked. “Only temporarily, of course,” she explained when she saw his expression. “And only fictitiously. I’m writing a novel.”

They began brainstorming immediately. Eighteen months later they were married, and the novels they set in fictitious Ozark towns began to sell. The first novel of the series, Hideaway, published in the Steeple Hill Women’s Fiction program, won the prestigious Christy Award for Best Romance in 2004.

Under Suspicion

Hannah Alexander

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Trust in the Lord with all your heart

and do not lean on your own understanding.

In all your ways acknowledge Him,

and He will make your paths straight.

—Proverbs 3:5–6

Many thanks to Lorene Cook for living a life of love and giving that constantly inspires us. Thanks to Harry Styron, attorney-at-law, for supplying vital personal and professional information for this story. Thanks, as always, to Joan Marlow Golan and our other wonderful editors for gently helping us bring this story to life. Thanks to Nancy Moser, Till Fell, Colleen and Dave Coble, Stephanie and Dan Higgins, Rene Gutteridge, Judy Miller and Deborah Raney for the great brainstorm session. Thanks to Barbara Warren, Jackie Bolton and Bonnie Schmidt for your valuable input.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

ONE

It’s time to get a new life.

Shona Tremaine tapped the brake and turned into the curving, tree-lined drive that led to her father’s mansion. For now, it was home to her, but a break was coming soon.

She needed to distance herself from the cutting edge of Dad’s politics as a state senator in Jefferson City, Missouri. That edge was serrated, and she had allowed it to slice right down the middle of her marriage—and everything else in her life.

Two weeks ago had been the final straw, and her showdown with her father in the Capitol Building had been loud and public. How could she have let that happen? She knew better, but she’d been so furious with Dad for breaking a promise to his constituents that for once she couldn’t help herself.

When she and Geoff separated last year, it had made sense to her to move into her old bedroom suite in Dad’s massive home. She spent a lot of time in his office in that house, working on his behalf. So now, she was not only grieving the loss of her marriage, but also her home, as well as the increasingly unethical choices Dad had been making lately—of which she saw too much from her front-row seat here at the mansion.

As her father’s top aide/personal assistant, Shona topped the senator’s short list of confidants, for Kemper MacDonald trusted few people in this town—or even in the whole state of Missouri.

Instead of pulling into the five-car garage in back of the mansion, she parked her white Cadillac Escalade beneath the willow trees in the front drive. She and Dad were to be guests this evening at a dinner hosted by the Citizens for a Drug Free Missouri.

Other guests were members of the Drug Task Force, including State Representative Paul Forester, one of Dad’s dearest friends, an old hunting buddy. Paul—who had dropped out of medical school thirty years ago—had a son who had been in a medical residency program with Shona’s younger sister Karah Lee. For a while, the two fathers had hoped there might be a romance between their children. It never happened. But to Shona, the Foresters would always be like family.

Also attending was another of Dad’s old friends, State Representative Linda Plinkett. Shona suspected her father had been fraternizing with Linda quite often in the past months, until very recently. Missouri politics was a tight, if often uneasy, community.

Tonight would be interesting, Shona mused, since Dad and Linda had barely spoken to one another in the past two weeks. They’d even been avoiding eye contact when in the same room. In fact, Shona had noticed this sudden coolness soon after her own fight with Dad.

Very curious, indeed.

As Shona stepped from her SUV into the cooling air this Friday evening, mature oaks, maples and majestic broadleaf pines whispered to her on the breeze. May had always been one of her favorite months, and this one promised to be particularly fine. She wished she had time to appreciate it properly.

She ascended the wide steps to the verandah, unable to resist a glance toward the state capitol building to the west, its white dome turning pink-and-gold in the glow of the setting sun. Below, the Missouri River meandered with lazy abandon in its journey toward the Mississippi.

She’d always loved this city. For many years she had loved her job, working with her father and her husband to serve the residents of Missouri.

As time passed, however, she and Geoff had both realized that Dad was losing the ideals with which he had begun his career. His professional ethics had gone the way of his personal morals.

Why should she have been surprised?

Last year was the lowest point, when Geoff gave Dad a letter of resignation and asked Shona to do the same. She’d felt forced to choose between her husband and her father. And she’d made the wrong choice.

Geoff was strong and confident, needing help from no one. Dad, on the other hand, had always needed her. She’d felt that if anyone could keep her father on solid ethical ground, it would be her.

How wrong could a woman be?

Lately, more and more, she’d been experiencing the sting of loss. Could her relationship with Geoff be rectified before the divorce was final? She had been the one to file in the first place. She’d left Geoff, spurred by her anger at his defection and his ultimatum that she do the same.

Geoff had landed on his feet after resigning as Dad’s top aide. With his background and degree in communications, he was now a reporter and anchor for the six-o’clock news on Jefferson City’s Channel 6.

Shona seldom missed the news these days, and yet she found it painful to watch. It just made her miss her husband more, and realize her loss more sharply.

Tonight, after the dinner, she would have a talk with Dad about her need to be independent from him. She would officially resign and offer to help him find her replacement, but after that, who knew?

She hated to leave politics altogether, though that was essentially what she would be doing. Dad was the one who had mentored her, grooming her to run for his Senate office when he made his bid for the governorship.

She only knew she needed out before the compromises she made at Dad’s behest destroyed the final foundations of her character. Since the fight, she and Dad had barely communicated unless it was about work. Dad didn’t seem angry with her, just very preoccupied.

She pressed her electronic key into the plate at the side of the front door and waited for the sequence of numbers to be translated into the main computer that controlled security. The door slid open and she entered, glancing at her watch. There would barely be time to shower, change and slide into the new creation of burgundy silk she had purchased last week for this dinner.

First, she would find Dad and remind him of what he was to wear tonight—the understated dark gray Armani suit, with a fit that hinted at the power behind the facade. Whenever he was in public, he wanted to dress the part, although he had little fashion sense, much like Karah Lee, his younger daughter.

Halfway across the formal dining room en route to the kitchen, Shona spotted something on the floor. It looked as if someone had spilled some of the dark red paint that a crew had been using for a touch-up job on the garage.

She winced at the thought of her father’s reaction when he saw it. Kemper MacDonald had never had a lot of patience with mistakes or messes.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds, had Friday afternoons off, so Shona didn’t call out. She pushed through the swinging doors into the kitchen to get a paper towel to clean the mess.

Her father was probably upstairs in his suite, showering.

She dabbed at the spot. It came up easily. It was obviously fresh. Examining the paper towel more closely, she felt a twinge of unease. She sniffed it. Not paint. Not catsup. Was that a coppery scent?

Don’t panic. It’s your imagination. Dad has always teased you about your vivid imagination. She tossed the paper towel in the trash as she rushed through the kitchen, suddenly noticing another splotch of red by the back door.

Following one droplet after another, she turned left into Dad’s home office. In the dim light of the setting sun, she saw a human form—a man—splayed on the floor, faceup, between a corner of the desk and the French windows. A stain of blood fanned out from beneath his head.

Shona’s breath stopped.

“Dad!” She rushed to him and fell to her knees at his side. “Dad?”

Blood streaked down his face, running from his nose, pooling in his thick, silvery hair. His eyes came open as if with great effort, and he tried to speak. Blood speckled his teeth.

Shona forced herself not to cry out. “Dad, hold on. I’ll call for help.” She reached for the cordless desk phone. It wasn’t in its cradle. Dad must have tried to call for help and dropped it somewhere. She pulled her cell phone from her purse and punched in 911.

“Shot…” her father murmured, his voice a hushed croak.

“What do you mean? Did someone shoot you?”

He grimaced, more blood dribbling down his chin. “Get away from…Geoff….”

The dispatcher came on the line, and Shona asked for an ambulance. “My father is badly injured. He says he’s been shot.” As the dispatcher asked for more information, Dad grabbed her by the arm. His sleeve slid back, and she saw a hideous bruise on his forearm, black and swollen. Shot? He looked as if he’d been beaten.

“Hang on, Dad. Help’s coming.”

“You need your little one…get…away…” His eyes glazed over and his face fell slack.

“No. Dad, stay with me!”

More blood trickled down his face from his nose. His head fell sideways, and she saw a huge bruise on the side of his face. His whole body was hemorrhaging.

She felt for a pulse at his carotid artery. His heart was still beating, and his warm breath touched her face when she leaned close.

“Please,” she said to the dispatcher over the telephone. “My father is in bad shape. Tell them to hurry.”

As the voice reassured her that help would be there soon, Shona wanted to scream. Soon might be too late.

TWO

Geoff Tremaine faced the camera and read the final words of the evening newscast from the telepromter. His image would continue to be present for a few moments in homes throughout the central Missouri viewing area. It was a concept to which he still had not grown completely accustomed, and he tended to avoid watching himself on television.

He said good-night and held his smile until the lights dimmed.

Once, the camera crew had continued filming after the director told them to cut, and Geoff’s coanchor had made a snide comment about the governor. That coanchor no longer had a job with this station. Competition was fierce in the broadcasting business; deadly mistakes were not tolerated.

Because of the competition, Geoff considered himself fortunate to be an anchor after working full-time at Channel 6 for only a year. He tried to convince himself that his split with Kemper MacDonald had not been the reason he’d landed the job, but sometimes he wondered. Most television stations preferred younger talent. Though thirty-eight wasn’t exactly over the hill, television cameras did tend to emphasize age.

He knew he had established himself here; he now carried his own weight. Nonetheless, he had always suspected that his initial employment with this station had come about because the director, Wendy Phillips, had long held animosity toward Kemper MacDonald.

His coworkers had implied she might have had other reasons, as well. Tall and statuesque, with a strong will and the ability to lead a diverse news team, Wendy usually got what she wanted. She had never made a secret of the fact that she found him attractive.

Geoff loosened his tie and shrugged out of his sport coat before opening the door to his dressing room. The lights on the set were hot, and one of the challenges during the show was to keep perspiration to a minimum.

Before he could step through the door, a familiar contralto called to him from the hallway.

“Heads up, Tremaine. We need you on a scene.”

He turned to see Wendy quick-stepping toward him, her face slightly flushed with that familiar, excited look she got when a good story landed in her lap. Wendy was considered beautiful by most standards, with her slightly tilted dark eyes and fiery highlights in her golden brown hair. Geoff had always kept her at arm’s length, even more so in the past few weeks.

“Sally just called from the scanner room,” she said, as always stepping slightly too close, invading his personal space. “There’s an ambulance on its way to Kemper MacDonald’s address.”

Geoff stiffened. “Kemper? What happened?”

“They say his daughter called 911.” Wendy’s perfume, with a hint of sweet spice, wafted around her even at the end of a long day. “The senator’s been injured. His daughter reported something about a shooting, so I’m sure the police are already swarming the place.”

Geoff reached back to the rack for his coat and pulled it on again. “Someone shot Kemper? What about Shona? Is she okay?”

“Nothing was said about her, it’s the senator everyone will be concerned about.”

He tossed her a glance over his shoulder. “You do realize we’re talking about my wife.” He heard the chill in his voice, but was unable to warm it, even as Wendy’s eyes narrowed at him. She always demanded respect for her authority, brooking no argument from anyone—except, occasionally, from him. He didn’t exploit his advantage, but he did disagree with her when he felt it was appropriate.

“I thought you were divorced,” she said.

“Separated.” Big difference. At least, to him. “I care very much about what happens to my wife.”

Wendy’s dark gaze slid away from him. “Obviously if she’s the one who called for help, she’s okay. They’re taking Senator MacDonald to Bradley-Cline Hospital. Why don’t you go intercept them?”

“Why Bradley-Cline? St. Mary’s is closer.”

“That isn’t our concern. We have a camera crew out right now, so I’ll send them to meet you there. You know other stations will already be scrambling to get their crews to the hospital, to try to get a statement from the doctor or the daughter or any other family members who might be there.”

“What about the mansion?”

“We’ll be covering that, too. I want you at the hospital.”

“I’m on my way, but I warn you, this is still my family, and I may not be the most unbiased—”

“Just get there.” Her impatience surfaced with her words. “You’ll have an insider’s view that no other station can provide, and the whole region knows about your relationship with Shona. We’ve got the advantage.”

Geoff winced at the eagerness in her voice as he turned to leave.

“Let me know as soon as you find out anything,” Wendy called as he rushed down the hallway. “And take a recorder with you. The hospital won’t allow a camera crew into the ER.”

He grimaced. She was hallucinating if she thought he would stick a tape recorder under his father-in-law’s nose at the hospital and ask him how he felt.

They called that kind of interviewing technique “a Sally” at the station because once, in the field, Channel 6’s reporter, Sally Newton, had held a microphone in the face of a man who was watching his home burn with his wife in it. In the excitement of the moment, Sally had not only betrayed her eagerness for a story, but had neglected to school her face to show proper respect for the man’s agony. She’d smiled pertly for the camera, and the man’s mother had promptly socked her in her pretty mouth.

Sally Newton’s public exposure had been greatly reduced since then.

As soon as Geoff climbed into his truck, he set his cell phone on its cradle and hit Shona’s speed dial.

Shona’s hands shook so badly she could barely hold on to the steering wheel. She was guided only by the flashing lights on the big, boxy ambulance in front of her as it led the way to Bradley-Cline Hospital.

Would Dad even make it there? The blood had been so horrifying…so much of it.

What would cause a person to bleed out like that?

Her cell phone beeped. It was the VIP chime for a high-priority number. Only two people had numbers programmed to that particular tune. One was a passenger in the ambulance ahead of her. This caller could only be Geoff.

With shaking hands, Shona pulled the phone from her pocket, ignoring the hands-free law, and brought the phone to her face. “Geoff?”

“Are you okay?”

The deep timbre of his voice, filled with concern, forged past her controls. Tears sprang to her eyes. The road blurred before her. “I can’t talk right now. Dad’s…something’s wrong with him.”

“A report said he’d been shot. How bad is it?”

“There was no sign of an entry wound.” The paramedics hadn’t wasted a lot of time looking, but if there were a wound, it would have been bleeding. Every orifice in his body seemed to be hemorrhaging, but no bullet wound was evident. “The police are inspecting the mansion.”

“Is there someone with you?”

“No, I was told a detective will join me at the hospital.”

“I’m on my way there now.”

She frowned. Of course, Geoff would have already been informed about it. Breaking news was his business, and there were scanners at the station to get a jump on anything newsworthy. She hadn’t thought about that. The hospital would be crawling with reporters looking for her.

She wasn’t well acquainted with Bradley-Cline. It was the newest, state-of-the-art hospital in the area that had begun to give St. Mary’s and Capitol Region Medical Center some relief for their overworked staffs and overburdened facilities.

“Geoff, don’t make this a public spectacle.”

“You know I’ll do my best to keep any interviews tasteful and gentle.”

She caught her tongue between her teeth. She wasn’t up to this. “Look, I’m barely functioning. You either come to the hospital as a concerned family member, or stay away.”

“Someone will show up anyway. Wouldn’t you rather it be me?”

“Why would I?”

“Because I’ll keep everything off the record that you want off the record, and I won’t misquote you. I wouldn’t be doing this, but Wendy’s pulling rank.”

“If you come to the hospital as a reporter, you’ll be treated as a reporter. You’re not taking advantage of your connection to me in order to build ratings for Wendy Phillips.”

“That isn’t the reason I’m coming.”

“Then leave your job at the door, just as you asked me to do, Geoffrey Tremaine.”

“Shona, I want to be there for you. At the same time, I don’t want someone else approaching you from my station. Reports will be made, one way or the other. I want to give a fair one, for your sake, and for Kemper’s.”

She knew his argument made sense. “Off the record, I don’t know if Dad’s even going to make it to the hospital,” she said. Brake lights flashed ahead. She barely saw them in time to stop. Her tires squealed. Why weren’t they taking her father to the closest hospital? St. Mary’s was excellent.

“I’ll call Karah Lee for you,” Geoff said.

“No,” she snapped. “Stay out of this.”

“You shouldn’t be alone, and your sister deserves to know what’s happening.”

“Why?” Karah Lee had chosen to distance herself from their father from the moment of Mom and Dad’s divorce. Not only had she refused financial assistance from Dad for college, but she had also, in a fit of rebellion that had broken Dad’s heart, taken her mother’s maiden name. She barely knew Dad’s second wife, Irene. To be fair, neither did Shona. The woman had taken little interest in her stepdaughters. And now, Dad and Irene were separated. Shona had no intention of calling her, either.

“This isn’t your affair anymore, Geoff,” Shona said.

“I’m still family. I’ll see you at the hospital in a few minutes,” he said gently. “Meanwhile, I’ll call Karah Lee.”

“Geoff, I don’t—”

He disconnected. She started to toss her cell phone on the seat beside her. Instead, she dialed 911 again.

“Yes, this is Shona Tremaine. I’m currently following the ambulance unit 948 to Bradley-Cline Hospital. I need you to contact that ambulance via private line and redirect them to St. Mary’s. That’s where I want my father taken. It’s closer. Also would you redirect the police to St. Mary’s, on a private line, as well? I don’t want anyone else to know my father’s location.” Not Geoff. Not Karah Lee. Not Irene.

After the dispatcher agreed to do as she asked—sometimes political power had its perks—Shona expressed her thanks, disconnected and tossed the phone onto the seat, focusing on the lights ahead.

Geoff Tremaine could cool his heels at the fancy new hospital. Meanwhile, Dad would have the best of care at a place she trusted. She should have insisted on St. Mary’s from the beginning.

THREE

Karah Lee Fletcher sat in front of the picture window in her lakeside cottage on the edge of Hideaway. She tried hard not to be distracted by the magnificent purples and deep indigoes of the evening sky at late sunset. There was work to be done.

This evening, it was her job to look fascinated by the display of material samples spread out before her on the coffee table. Bored already, she tapped her foot in time with the music her foster daughter had playing on the CD.