Wednesday's Child

He was doing it again, he realized. Dwelling on those few awkward minutes they’d been thrown together last night. It had been a long time since he’d been this conscious of a woman. Actually, Susan Chandler was the first woman he had reacted to this way since he’d been wounded.

Just horny, he assured himself, his mouth relaxing into a grin. And a good sign. An indication of returning normality.

In truth, she was a damn fine-looking woman. He should be worried if he wasn’t aware of her sexually—and therefore aware of how long it had been since he’d been with a woman.

There was another sound from upstairs, one he couldn’t quite identify. Head cocked, he listened with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation, but again there were no voices.

He dropped the towel, running his left hand across the top of his hair as if to groom it. Then, balancing on his right leg, he pulled his sweatpants up over the gym shorts he wore.

He could smell the biscuits as he climbed the basement stairs, his muscles still trembling from the routine. The area where he’d set up his equipment had at one time served as cold storage for things like apples and potatoes. It was always ten or fifteen degrees cooler than the rest of the house.

Lorena’s age and the steepness of the stone steps prevented her from using it anymore. Since he’d been here, the basement under the kitchen had become his domain. One he would probably retreat to more often than before if their guest spent many more nights in the house, he acknowledged.

He opened the door at the top of the stairs and stepped into the light and warmth of the kitchen. His great-aunt was standing at the stove, brushing melted butter over the tops of the biscuits she had just taken out of the oven.

“Morning,” she said without turning. Whatever frailties of aging she suffered from, Lorena’s hearing was excellent.

Despite his belief their guest wouldn’t be up yet, Jeb took time to check out the small table that stood before one of the windows. It was set, as usual, with only two places. Relief he couldn’t quite explain washed over him in a flood.

“Those smell good.” He limped over to kiss Lorena’s cheek.

“I thought this morning we’d have some of that home-cured ham Isaac brought with the eggs yesterday rather than bacon. You can’t get ham like this at the store.”

Several slices of it lay sizzling in a cast-iron skillet, its scent mingling with that of the biscuits. Underlying both was the inviting smell of coffee, which perked gently on the back of the stove. In the months he’d lived here, he had become accustomed to having it prepared this way, so that he’d finally packed away the electric coffeemaker he’d brought with him.

Using a hot pad, he picked up the pot and poured a stream of black coffee into his mug, which Lorena had already set out on the counter by the stove. He stood sipping it, watching as his aunt broke eggs into the same pan from which she’d just taken the steaming slices of ham. The bits that had stuck to the bottom were churned into the eggs as she scrambled them.

“You go on and sit down,” she ordered as she did every morning. “Drink your coffee in peace.”

They had come to an unspoken understanding shortly after he’d arrived, one that satisfied them both. Lorena had desperately wanted to wait on him. At mealtimes he let her. She would bring the platter over when everything was ready, and then she would sit down opposite him, bowing her head as she invoked the Lord to bless their food.

The first few weeks he had waited through her prayer, eyes defiantly open. After a while he’d given in to her devotion and his own upbringing, bowing his head now as a matter of course.

Carrying his coffee, he made his way to the sunlit table. It was going to be another warm day, despite the calendar.

For some reason, that reminded him of Susan Chandler. Maybe it was the memory of her crushed-linen skirt. Or the sleeveless silk blouse she had worn with it. Or how damp tendrils of hair had curled at her temples and against the back of her neck.

“I thought I’d go into town,” Lorena said right beside him, startling him out of those memories. She set the platter of eggs, ham and biscuits down and then slipped into her place. “I can’t feed a guest what we eat.”

“Why not?” he asked, putting a biscuit onto his plate.

“Not fancy enough. That was one thing the bed-and-breakfast association told me. Folks that pay good money to stay in a home expect something special when it comes to food.”

“There’s nothing more special than what you fix every day,” Jeb said, smiling up at her. The crease between her brows smoothed with the compliment. “I mean it, Lorena. You serve Mrs. Chandler what you serve me, and I guarantee you she’ll be happy as a pig in mud.” His great-aunt wouldn’t have put up with the usual description in that phrase. “Besides, she isn’t a guest in the strictest sense of the word. I don’t think she expects you to go out of your way to cater to her every whim.”

“She certainly does not.”

Hearing Susan Chandler’s voice produced a jolt of sheer physical reaction. Jeb raised his eyes to find her standing in the door of the kitchen. She was dressed less formally today in a pair of brown knit slacks and a brown-and-white striped top.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” she said apologetically. “I smelled the coffee and hoped there might be enough for me.”

“Of course you’re not intruding.” Lorena pushed her chair back to stand. “You come right over here and sit down. The eggs are still hot. I’ll pour you a fresh cup of coffee.”

“I can’t take your place,” Susan protested.

“Yes, ma’am, you sure can. I just sit here to keep Jeb company. I ate a while ago.”

It was a lie. And since he was already dreading the unpleasant meal this was apt to turn into if their guest did sit down opposite him, Jeb was tempted to call his great-aunt on it, despite knowing how much that would embarrass her.

“You go on, now,” Lorena urged, starting toward the stove where coffee still occasionally perked up into the glass button on top of the pot, although it had been removed from the burner.

“I don’t normally eat breakfast.”

Still hesitating in the doorway, Susan seemed no more eager to join him at the table than he was to have her there. In spite of his own sense of dread, Jeb was suddenly—and bitterly—conscious of the probable reason for her reluctance.

“Have a biscuit,” Lorena went on, oblivious to the tension between them. “I made that apple butter myself. Or if you’d rather have it, there’s peach preserves in the icebox. I always put the other out because that’s what Jeb likes…”

The sentence trailed as she poured a stream of steaming coffee into a cup she took from the cabinet. Finally the lack of a response made the old woman turn to face her guest, brows raised questioningly.

Jeb looked down at the breakfast he had been anticipating only minutes before. He knew he would have a hard time forcing a bite of it through the angry tightness in his throat. And that was a reaction he again couldn’t quite explain.

“Apple butter’s fine,” Susan said, bringing his gaze up.

She had started toward the chair Lorena had deserted. Her eyes touched on his for the first time this morning. Again, the same heat of sexual awareness he’d felt last night roiled through his lower body, tightening his groin.

As if she were conscious of what had just happened, Susan quickly looked away, her gaze fastening on Lorena. The old woman crossed the kitchen and set the cup at the side of the plate she had intended to eat from herself.

“There now,” she said, beaming at Susan and then at him.

For an instant, Jeb wondered if his great-aunt could possibly be matchmaking. Even Lorena, die-hard romantic that she was, must realize any effort in that direction would be highly inappropriate. Although, according to the local paper, the body they’d found in the river had been there for years, that man had been Susan Chandler’s husband.

She was again looking at him, he realized, obviously as uncomfortable with the situation as he was, but for far different reasons. Angered by that as well, he mockingly inclined his head toward his aunt’s empty chair. Susan’s eyes held his a heartbeat before, lips tight, she slipped into it.

She picked up the linen napkin and unfolded it across her lap. Lorena dipped eggs onto her plate and then a slice of ham from the platter. When she reached toward the covered basket of hot biscuits, Susan again attempted to protest.

“I’m really not very hungry.”

Jeb had tried the same argument when he’d first arrived. It was probable that the first bite of Lorena’s cooking would convince her, as it had him, that she was mistaken.

“And a biscuit,” Lorena said, continuing to draw the basket closer. “Jeb, if you’ll pass that apple butter…”

He obeyed, watching as his great-aunt placed the apple-shaped glass dish near Susan’s plate.

“Now then,” Lorena said again, stepping back, her hands crossed in front of her apron as if she had performed some sleight of hand and was waiting for her audience to respond with the proper amount of awe.

Susan looked as if she wasn’t sure what had just happened. She took a breath, deep enough that it lifted her shoulders. Then she put a biscuit on her plate, split it deftly, and began filling it with the apple butter. She glanced up, finding his eyes on her.

“My aunt and I were wondering how long you plan to be in town, Mrs. Chandler.”

Not only did he really want to know the answer to that, Jeb also knew the question would constitute polite conversation in Lorena’s eyes. Never let it be said that he hadn’t done his part to make their guest feel welcome, he thought dryly.

“I’m not sure. I suppose it depends on how long it takes for certain things to happen.”

Like getting the autopsy results? Or the accident report? If they even did one of those for something like this.

“Like what?” Lorena asked, her eyes bright with curiosity.

“Lorena,” he warned softly.

“Did I say something wrong, dear? Don’t mind me. I’m just a nosey old woman who never knows when to keep her mouth shut.”

“It’s all right. I want the medical examiner’s report, of course, but…Actually, I need to stay until I can find out what Richard was doing here.”

“In Linton?”

Susan nodded, looking from one of them to the other.

“You don’t know?” Jeb asked.

“I have no idea. I can’t imagine why he would come somewhere like this—” She stopped, conscious of how that must sound. “I don’t mean to be insulting. It’s just that Richard was very much a big-city person. He’d take the freeway even if a local route were much quicker. It was just the way he was.”

“Maybe he was visiting someone,” Lorena suggested.

“If so, I need to find out who. As far as I know, he didn’t know anyone around here.”

What the hell difference could it make why he was here? Jeb wondered. The guy had been dead for seven years.

“In the circumstances,” he said aloud, “I understand your being curious about what brought him to Linton, but…” He lifted his hands, the right still holding a biscuit, in a gesture that questioned why it could possibly matter.

“He took my baby with him that morning.”

Into the river? If that’s what she meant, her phrasing was macabre. It also didn’t make any sense, he realized quickly. The papers had mentioned only one body.

“When he left home,” Susan clarified, as if sensing his confusion. “I was out of town for the weekend, and Richard was keeping Emma. When I got back, they were both gone.”

“And you think he brought her down here?” Lorena’s tone expressed her puzzlement.

“I don’t know. All I know is the authorities have been looking for her for seven years. I’ve questioned everyone either of us ever knew. No one saw them after that weekend. So if she was with Richard…”

Then she must also have been with him when the car went off the entrance to the bridge. Jeb looked down at the cooling breakfast on his plate, trying to imagine how a mother could deal with something like that.

“Her body should have been in the car,” she went on after a moment. “And apparently, it wasn’t. So…it’s possible she’s still alive. Maybe even right here in Linton.”

It was understandable that she didn’t want to accept the death of her daughter. But after this length of time, and especially after her husband’s body had been found, it must be very hard to cling to any kind of hope.

“And you think you’ll be able to find her?” Despite Jeb’s attempt to keep the skepticism out of his question, it obviously came through.

“All I want right now,” Susan said, her voice steadier, “is to know whether or not she was with him when he got to Linton. I just want to talk to someone here who saw them.”

Without a body, maybe a witness that the child was in the car with her father would help her find closure. There didn’t seem to be any other way for that to happen now, given the time that had passed and the ultimate destination of the river.

“I can’t imagine that coming to Linton was in Richard’s plans when he left that weekend,” she went on. “Something—or someone—sent him here. If I can figure out what that was…”

The soft voice faltered. Jeb looked up to find that she was looking at him. Hoping he could supply some kind of answer? He couldn’t. After all this time, there probably was no answer.

“Truck stop, maybe,” Lorena offered. “Maybe somebody there sent him into town.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he had car trouble. Maybe he needed a part for the car.”

Susan nodded as if that made sense. Maybe it did, but to Jeb there was something wrong with his aunt helping her with this hopeless quest. It was also macabre, just as he’d thought before.

The reality, whether either of them wanted to accept it or not, was that her daughter’s body had probably been washed downriver by the current. All the other what-ifs Susan Chandler wanted to consider seemed to him only attempts to deny the inevitable. A denial he didn’t intend to be a party to.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, pushing up from the table.

His leg had stiffened during the few minutes he’d been sitting, which would make his limp more pronounced. And why the hell should I give a rat’s ass if it does?

“Land’s sake, Jeb. You’ve hardly touched your breakfast.”

“Why don’t you take my place and keep Ms. Chandler company? I’m not really all that hungry this morning.”

“Why don’t I leave instead?” Susan began to rise, but Lorena put her hand on her shoulder.

“Nonsense. You stay right there. We haven’t thought of half the people you ought to talk to. The truck stop on the interstate like I said. The two mechanics in town, of course. And the drugstore. Maybe he needed something for the baby.”

As he crossed the room, Jeb could hear his aunt pull out the chair he’d just vacated to take her place across the table from her guest. He had had too much experience with the brutal finality of death to play this kind of game, however.

Even as he walked away, he knew he was judging both of them too harshly: a mother who wanted to know what had happened to her baby and an old woman who always wanted to right the wrongs of the world. And if what they were doing helped Susan Chandler deal with the loss of her daughter, who was he to begrudge either of them that comfort?

CHAPTER FIVE

“HELL, LADY, I can’t remember who came in here yesterday, and you’re asking me about something that happened seven years ago?”

In response to her inquiry, one of the waitresses had called the owner of the truck stop out of his office. His impatience to get back to whatever he’d been doing was obvious.

Thankfully his attitude was in contrast to most of the people she’d talked to in Linton. They’d all known who she was and why she was here, one benefit of an effective small-town grapevine. Their willingness to help had made the process of asking questions easier than she’d expected. The downside was that none of them remembered seeing Richard.

“He was driving a black SUV,” she said for at least the tenth time today. “There would have been a toddler in the infant seat in the back.”

It was the same information she had given everyone she’d talked to during the last two days. In actuality, it was all she knew. And the part about Emma being with Richard was speculation, of course.

Since the baby hadn’t been in the car when it was found, but the car seat had been, that was the scenario that seemed to make the most sense. At least to her. If Richard had left Emma with someone on his way down here, then surely he would have left the safety seat as well.

“I already told you. Too many people come through here for me to try to remember ’em. The casino regulars maybe. Anybody else…” The owner shrugged, his eyes deliberately moving beyond her to whatever was going on at the crowded counter where Sunday supper was being served.

“He might have had car trouble. Or maybe he asked about a place to spend the night.”

There had to be some reason Richard had turned off the interstate at this exit. The next one was nearer to Pascagoula. And although the new state highway did eventually go into that city, Richard would have had to turn off that road in order to end up at the bridge in Linton. She couldn’t imagine that had been Richard’s plan when he left Atlanta.

Whatever that plan had been. She knew no more now about where he’d been headed than she had the weekend he’d disappeared.

“If that had been what he was asking, I sure as hell wouldn’t have sent him to Linton, now would I?” Realizing how abrupt that sounded, the owner attempted to modify his tone to something approaching compassion. “Look, I’m sorry about your husband. I really am, but I got a business to run here. And it seems to me you’re about seven years too late in trying to figure out how or why he ended up at that bridge.”

After that, there seemed little point in continuing the conversation. Maybe she should value his bluntness. At least he was being honest about the impossibility of what she was asking him to do. If it hadn’t been for Emma…

“Thank you for your time,” she said, choosing to ignore his advice because she had no choice. “If you remember anything that might be helpful, here’s my number.” She handed him one of her business cards with the number of her cell, knowing it would probably end up in the trash as soon as she walked out the door.

She had thought about talking to the waitresses, but neither of them looked as if they were old enough to have been working anywhere seven years ago. Besides, with the Sunday-night crowd, it was apparent they had no time for conversation. Maybe another day when they weren’t so busy.

As she stepped out the front door and into the halogen-lighted parking lot, she realized that while she’d been inside, the rain that had been falling off and on all day had gotten much heavier. Although the day had been warm, there was a definite chill in the night air.

Holding her purse over her head, she made a run for the car, unlocking the driver’s-side door and slipping quickly behind the wheel. She sat for a moment, listening to the rain beat down on the roof of the Toyota, trying to think if there was anything else she could do tonight.

During the two days she’d spent in Linton, she had talked to everyone Lorena had mentioned who might have seen Richard. Then she had followed up on any other possibilities the people she’d talked to had suggested. The owner of the busy truck stop, farther from town, had been the last name on her list.

Not only had she run out of people to ask about Richard and Emma, she was also tired, damp, cold and hungry. The thought of her hostess’s solicitude and the comforts of the room she’d been given offered more temptation than she could resist. She’d done all she could today. She would start again in the morning.

Maybe with Sheriff Adams, she decided. Surely there was some way he could speed up the coroner’s report. How long could an autopsy take, given what she’d been led to believe about the condition of Richard’s body? She shivered, deliberately destroying that unwanted image.

She turned the key in the ignition and then pulled out of the parking lot and onto the narrow two-lane that led back into Linton. There were no streetlights this far out, of course, and with the rain, visibility was poor. Although she had driven the same route this afternoon, she found it was a very different prospect under these conditions.

She concentrated on the centerline, the only marking on the blacktop. She leaned forward, peering over the steering wheel and through the windshield, which was beginning to fog. Keeping her eyes on the road, she felt for the defrost switch with her right hand. After a couple of attempts she located it, and in a matter of seconds, the windows began to clear.

She tried to relax her shoulders, which had tensed with the effort of following the winding, unfamiliar road. The sign just off the interstate had said it was twenty miles into Linton. This afternoon, she hadn’t been conscious of that distance at all. Tonight it seemed as if she had already been traveling forever.

For the first time since she’d left the truck stop, a vehicle approached in the other lane. Either the driver had his high beams on or the headlights reflecting off the wet asphalt made them seem brighter. She squinted to shield her eyes from the glare as she blinked her own lights from low to high a couple of times. The signal had no effect on the oncoming car.

Pickup, she realized as it flew by with a swish of tires. Judging by the way her car responded to the wind force created by its passage, it had been a big one. And making no concession in speed, despite the conditions.

Idiot, she thought before she put the pickup out of her mind, forcing herself to concentrate again on the centerline.

She had gone perhaps two miles when she became aware of headlights in her rearview mirror. She kept her eyes on the car coming up behind her long enough to determine it was traveling at a much higher rate of speed than she was. Obviously someone who was familiar with this road and who would undoubtedly want to pass because of the snail’s pace she was forced to maintain.

Although the line was double, indicating a no-passing zone, she eased as far to the right as she dared, considering there were no markings along the shoulder. She maintained her speed, fighting the urge to accelerate as the headlights behind her loomed larger in her review mirror.

There was a straightaway just ahead. She could see the double yellow lines change to a single one. Under her direction the Toyota hugged the edge of the road, giving the automobile behind her as much room as possible to pass.

As it did, the driver blew his horn. Not a quick honk to warn her he was coming around, but a long sustained blast that grew louder as the vehicle pulled alongside her car and then whipped by with the same noise she’d heard before.

Exactly the same, she realized. Through the rain and darkness, she caught only a glimpse as it sped by, but the size was right. As was the color, either black or a dark blue.

She would have sworn it was the same pickup that had been traveling in the opposite direction only moments before, its headlights on high. She watched until the red of the oval-shaped taillights disappeared around the curve ahead.

Only then did she draw a deep, relieved breath. The first one she’d taken in a while, she realized. Even if it was the same truck, she told herself, there were dozens of explanations. A couple of kids out joyriding. Or maybe the driver had forgotten something and had needed to go back to town for it.

Just because the same vehicle passed her twice on a relatively deserted stretch of highway didn’t mean she should get paranoid. Despite those attempts at self-assurance, she automatically slowed the car. Let whoever is in such a hurry get far ahead. Let him get to Linton long before I do. Let him arrive, take care of his business and get out of my way.