“Quit sulking,” Spencer told Tess as he drove along the interstate, heading for the Mississippi prison where her father had spent the last twenty-five years of his life.

“I’m not sulking. I just don’t understand why you insisted on coming with me. I don’t need a chaperon or a bodyguard. I have been inside a prison before, you know.”

“I’m sure you have. But I’m not here as a chaperon or a bodyguard. I’m here to help you get some answers.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, Spencer, I’m an investigative reporter. I know how to get answers.”

“I know you do,” Spencer told her, and bit back a grin. She’d pitched a fit when he’d shown up that morning, insisting on accompanying her to the prison where her father had been incarcerated. “But getting those answers may not be as easy as you think.”

“Would you stop treating me like I’m some kind of…cream puff? I know how to conduct an interview and find out what I need.”

“Oh, don’t go getting your panties in a wad, Tess. There’s no chance I’d mistake you for a cream puff. But you’re not dealing with a bunch of politically correct socialites down here. You’re dealing with die-hard, Confederate-flag-waving Southerners who will see you as a Yankee not to be trusted.”

“And you think you can do better?” she challenged.

“Sure,” he said confidently. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a homegrown boy. I’m one of them and I can be trusted. Unlike a Yankee like you!”

Also by METSY HINGLE

FLASHPOINT

BEHIND THE MASK

THE WAGER

Deadline
Metsy Hingle

www.mirabooks.co.uk

In memory of my beloved aunt Doris Hingle, whose love lives on in the hearts of all who knew her.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

While writing this book, I relied on both the technical and emotional support of many people to bring it to fruition. Without them, I would have been lost. My heartfelt thanks go out to the following people for their help in bringing life to Deadline:

Valerie Gray, my editor and friend at MIRA Books, whose insight and help truly make me a better writer.

Dianne Moggy, Editorial Director of MIRA Books, for her trust in me and support.

Karen Solem, my agent, for her unending support.

The amazing MIRA staff, who continue to astound me with their support.

Sandra Brown, my dear friend, for her friendship, love and for allowing me to bounce my story ideas off her.

Hailey North, my dear friend and fellow writer, for her friendship, support and e-mails.

Bill Capo, TV investigative reporter for Channel 4 News in New Orleans, for his friendship and support, and for answering my questions about the inner workings of the newsroom.

Marilyn Shoemaker, my fan and researcher, for digging out all those tiny details that helped me create the town of Grady, Mississippi.

Bill Greenleaf, press communications specialist with the Mississippi Department of Corrections, for answering all my questions about the inner workings of the state prison systems.

A special thank-you goes to my children and family, whose love and support enable me to spin my tales of love, hope and happily-ever-after.

And, as always, to my husband, Jim, who is my love, my family and all things to me.

Dear Reader,

Thank you so much for picking up a copy of Deadline. I hope you find it to be a real page-turner, and that it keeps you on the edge of your seat.

If this is the first time you’ve read any of my work, I do hope you enjoy it. For those of you who are familiar with my books, you won’t be surprised to find that Deadline is set in the South. This time I’ve moved the setting from my hometown of New Orleans to my neighboring state of Mississippi in the fictional town of Grady.

As always, one of the greatest joys for me as a writer is hearing from readers, and I’d love to hear from you. Your comments, opinions and feedback on my books mean a great deal to me. So please keep those letters, cards and e-mails coming.

In fact, as a special thank-you I’ve created two gifts for you—a commemorative bookmark for Deadline and a recipe card for the mint julep that’s mentioned in the story. While supplies last, I’d be happy to send both the bookmark and the recipe to each reader who writes and requests them. Simply either write or e-mail me and say that you’d like one of my commemorative Deadline bookmarks and the mint julep recipe used in Deadline.

Until next time, happy reading!

Metsy Hingle

P.O. Box 3224

Covington, LA

U.S.A. 70433

www.metsyhingle.com

Contents

Prologue

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

Chapter Twenty-Three

Prologue

“It wasn’t a suicide.”

Skimming over her notes for Channel Seven TV’s noon news report, Tess Abbott barely registered the caller’s comment. Instead, she shifted the telephone to her other ear and underlined the alarming statistics that she’d uncovered in her investigation on plastic surgery being performed on teenage girls.

“Did you hear what I said? It wasn’t a suicide,” the woman repeated, her Southern drawl even more pronounced. “He was murdered.”

Suddenly Tess jerked her gaze away from her notes and gave her full attention to the caller. “Who was murdered?”

“Jody Burns.”

Every muscle, every nerve in Tess’s body went still at the mention of her father’s name. Two months ago when the news broke about her father’s suicide in prison, the media had been all over the story—especially the tabloid bottom-feeders. They’d come out of the woodwork, dogging her at the news station, pestering her grandfather at the Capitol. They’d even staked out her apartment on the outskirts of Washington, D.C., in an effort to get some reaction from her. As an investigative TV reporter, she had understood the media’s frenzy over the story. After all, the death of the man who had killed the only child of the powerful senator from Mississippi twenty-five years earlier was news in itself. Coupled with her grandfather’s outspoken views on stronger penalties for criminals, the suicide of Jody Burns was all the more newsworthy. While the reporter in her had understood the hunger for a juicy story, the child in her who had lost both her parents that long-ago night had resented the intrusions. She resented it even more now, she realized, her jaw tightening, because she’d thought all the hoopla over Jody Burns’s suicide was finally behind her. “Listen, I don’t know who you’re working for and the truth is, I really don’t care. But I’ll tell you the same thing I tell everyone else. No comment.”

“But—”

“And unless you want me to file harassment charges against you and whatever outfit you’re working for,” Tess barged ahead, “don’t call me again. Ever.”

“Wait! Please, don’t hang up! I’m not a reporter. I swear it!”

There was just enough desperation in the woman’s voice to pique Tess’s interest. She hesitated a second, then said, “All right. Then who are you and why are you calling me?”

“I am…was a friend of your father’s,” the woman corrected. “And I’m calling you because Jody didn’t kill himself like they said. They murdered him and made it look like a suicide to keep him quiet.”

Tess squeezed her eyes shut a moment, fighting back the images that flashed through her mind—images of herself awakening from a bad dream, of entering the den and seeing the father she adored kneeling over her mother’s body, covered in her blood. Shaking off the memory, she said, “How Jody Burns died is of no concern to me.”

“But he was your father.”

“He ceased being my father the night he killed my mother,” Tess informed her, making her voice as cool as her heart for the man she’d once called “daddy.”

“But he didn’t kill her.”

Tess started to tell the woman that she was wasting her time, that Jody Burns was no innocent. After all, she should know, Tess reasoned, since she was the one who’d found him still holding the bookend in his hand that he’d used to smash in her mother’s skull. But before she could get the words out, a knock sounded at her office door.

“Hey, Tess,” Jerry Wilson said, sticking his head inside the door. “You’re up in fifteen.”

“I’ll be right there.” When the door closed behind him, she said, “I have to go.”

“But what about your father? Don’t you want justice for him?”

“Some would say he got the justice he deserved—even if it came twenty-five years late,” Tess countered, recalling her grandfather’s words when they had first learned of Burns’s death.

“Then they would be wrong,” the woman insisted. “Jody Burns didn’t belong in that prison. He was not the one who killed your mother.”

“A jury thought otherwise.”

“The jury was wrong. And your father was going to prove it, too. That’s why he was killed and it was made to look like a suicide.”

Jerry tapped at the door again. “Tess.”

“Coming,” she said.

Regretting that she’d allowed the conversation to even get started, and aware that she needed to get to the set, Tess said, “Listen, I have to go.”

“That’s it? Aren’t you going to do anything?”

“No.”

“I would have thought you would want justice.”

“I’m all for justice. But there’s nothing I can do.” Softening, she said, “Listen, if you really believe what you’ve told me, then you should contact the police.”

“The police! They’re the last ones I can go to. Oh, God, this was a mistake. I never should have called you.”

“Wait!” Tess had been an investigative reporter long enough to recognize panic in the woman’s voice. “What do you mean you can’t go to the police?”

“Because I can’t risk it. If he was to find out that I knew…No, I can’t take that chance.”

Oh, what she wouldn’t have given to see the woman’s face, Tess thought, to be able to look into her eyes, read her. “Listen, if you’re in some kind of trouble—”

“I’m not. At least not yet. But if he finds out that I know and that I called you, God knows what’ll happen to me.”

Tess could practically taste the woman’s fear. “If who finds out? Tell me who it is that you’re afraid of.”

“I can’t. I’ve already said too much.”

“Then tell me who you are, how to reach you,” Tess said. “I’ll help you.”

“The only way you can help me is if you finish what your father started. Don’t let him get away with murder again.”

“Again?” Tess repeated.

“God, don’t you understand? The person who had Jody killed is the same one who killed your mother. And unless you do something, he’ll get away with it this time, too.”

But before Tess could demand more information, the connection was severed and a dial tone buzzed in her ear.

Chapter One

“Good afternoon. This is David Rabinowitz with the noon report for Channel Seven News. At the top of our news is this morning’s emergency landing of an American Airlines 747 at Reagan International Airport following reports that a bomb was on board.”

Veronica “Ronnie” Hill sat back in her chair in the control room at Channel Seven News and studied the studio monitors. As the show’s producer for the past ten years, she watched the broadcast with a critical eye. The new anchor was a good choice, she decided, satisfied with his delivery. While his boy-next-door good looks would certainly appeal to the female viewers, the fact that he’d reported sports for a rival network would draw in the male viewers. All in all, they were counting on seeing a jump in the ratings with the new guy on board.

“To give us an update on the situation, we’ll go live to Reagan International Airport where Tess Abbott is standing by,” David said.

Ronnie frowned when it took an extra two seconds for the monitors to do a split screen. Then the screens split in two with a view of David seated at the studio news desk on the left, and a view of Tess standing outside the airport complex on the right. But it was Tess on whom Ronnie focused. She made a dramatic image, Ronnie thought, with her booted feet planted firmly on the ground. An early-October wind whipped her mocha suede skirt against her legs and her dark hair swirled about her face and shoulders. Behind her, crash trucks zoomed by, followed by a swarm of military vehicles and more cars with flashing lights. To her left a jumbo jet bearing the American Airlines logo sat idle and detached from the jetty. Hordes of personnel flocked around the plane.

“Tess, this is David in the Channel Seven studio. Can you give us an update of what’s going on out there at the airport?”

“Well, David, as was reported earlier, an American Airlines flight that was en route to La Guardia Airport in New York made an emergency landing here at Reagan International around nine-fifteen this morning after a passenger on the plane informed a member of the airline’s flight crew that there was a bomb aboard the aircraft,” Tess began her report.

“All right, go to a full screen of Tess,” Ronnie whispered.

As though the cameraman could hear her, the monitor switched to a full-screen view and zoomed in on Tess. Holding the microphone in front of her, she ignored the noise and activity behind her and looked directly into the camera. “My sources tell me that it appears that the bomb threat was a hoax. No bomb or any explosives were found on board the plane. I’m also told that the passenger has since confessed to being despondent, having recently broken up with his girlfriend. He now says he claimed to have a bomb on board in order to get his estranged girlfriend’s attention.”

“That’s some attention getter,” David remarked.

“Unfortunately, it’s probably going to get him the wrong kind of attention,” Tess replied. She pushed the hair that blew across her face out of her eyes. Without missing a beat, she continued. “Because the federal authorities now have him in custody and will be charging him.”

“Do we know who the guy is?” David asked.

“The authorities haven’t released his name yet,” Tess said, her voice strong and sure above the scream of the wind and the noise around her. “But according to an unnamed source, the person in custody is a thirty-two-year-old male who boarded the flight in Virginia.”

“What’s it like there inside the airport, Tess?” David asked.

“I’d call it controlled chaos, David. As a safety precaution, two of the terminals were vacated before the American flight landed, and all incoming and departing flights were suspended.”

“There must be a lot of unhappy travelers, not to mention some crazed ticket-counter agents,” David commented.

“Well, as I said, it’s chaos, but it’s controlled. In addition to the displaced passengers from the American flight that was deplaned, we have a lot of passengers whose scheduled flights have been suspended. So there are a lot of people waiting inside the terminal,” Tess explained with a nod of her head to the airport complex. “And they’re unsure if, or when, they’ll be able to continue with their travels.”

“Are tempers running high?” David asked.

“Surprisingly, no. Most of the people that I spoke with were concerned, but very understanding. I think the feeling is that they would rather be safe than sorry.”

“Any idea how long before flights will be under way again?”

“The last report I received said that all flights were still suspended, but…just a moment, David.”

While Tess pressed her free hand against her headset and listened, Ronnie studied the young woman she’d worked with for the past three years. Despite her initial misgivings when Tess had been hired, the girl had proven herself to be more than just another pretty face. She was bright, hardworking and easy to get along with—something that Ronnie couldn’t say about all of the reporters under her direction, or even the news anchors for that matter. No, Tess Abbott was a good one, she mused. While very little impressed her in this business, Tess had. Somehow the girl had managed to keep her cool and do a good job even during the circus atmosphere following her father’s suicide and her grandfather’s appearances on Capitol Hill. Never once had she brought anything personal into the newsroom. In short, Tess was a real pro. That’s why seeing the shadows under Tess’s eyes now, and remembering her distracted demeanor all week at work worried her. Something was wrong.

“David, I’ve just been told that the airport has been cleared for incoming flights again,” Tess reported. “And all other flights will resume within the hour. It’s suggested that anyone who is either meeting an incoming flight, or scheduled to fly out this afternoon, check with the airlines first for updated arrival and departure times.”

“Thanks, Tess.”

She nodded. “Reporting live from Reagan International Airport in Washington, D.C., for Channel Seven News, this is Tess Abbott.”

The screen switched from Tess back to David in the studio. “In other news today, the president addresses the nation tonight. Among the key topics will be the nation’s economy.”

Tuning out the rest of the news report, Ronnie drummed her fingers on her desk and considered the best way to approach Tess. She liked the girl, considered her a friend. And because she did, she needed to get Tess to open up and tell her what was wrong so they could fix it. Never very good at mind games, Ronnie picked up the phone and dialed Tess’s cell phone.

“Tess Abbott,” she answered on the third ring.

“Tess, it’s Ronnie.”

“Hi, Ronnie. Hang on a sec, will you?” she said. “Eddie, I’m going to head over to the theater to do the interview with that playwright. I’ll just meet you there.”

“Do I have time to grab some lunch?” the cameraman asked.

“As long as it’s a quick one,” Tess replied. “Okay, sorry about that, Ronnie. What’s up?”

“Tell Eddie to take a long lunch and see if you can push your interview back a couple of hours,” Ronnie instructed.

“Why?” Tess asked, her voice wary.

“Because you and I are having lunch. I’ll meet you at Vincent’s in thirty minutes.”

“What’s going on, Ronnie?” Tess demanded suspiciously.

“That’s what I intend to find out.”

And before Tess could argue, Ronnie hung up the phone. After making a quick stop in her office for her car keys and purse and to advise her assistant where she’d be, Ronnie headed out of the station, intent on getting some answers.

“All right, Ronnie,” Tess said once the two of them had been seated at a table and placed their orders. “What are we doing here?”

Ronnie reached for the basket of crackers on the table. “Well, since all I had for breakfast was coffee and a bagel, I’m hoping we’re about to have lunch because I’m starved.”

Tess eyed her skeptically. “You and I both know that you don’t ‘do’ lunch without a reason, Veronica Hill. And if you think that by feeding me you’ll be able to convince me to pull another weekend shift as news anchor, I’ll save you the trouble. The answer is no.”

“My, my, you are a suspicious one,” Ronnie said as she began to butter a cracker. She glanced up, looked across the table at her from behind the tortoiseshell-framed glasses. “As it so happens, the weekend news shifts are covered.”

“All right. I’ll bite. What are we doing here then?”

“I’m your producer. Can’t I ask you to lunch once in a while?”

“You can, but you don’t. Not without a reason,” Tess told her.

Ronnie sighed. “Sometimes I think you know me a little too well.”

“It works both ways. That’s why we make a good team. So why don’t you tell me just what it is you want.”

“I want to know what’s bothering you.”

“Nothing’s bothering me,” she replied. Yet even as she made the statement, Tess knew it wasn’t true. She’d been bothered a lot lately. First by the anonymous phone call claiming Jody Burns’s death hadn’t been a suicide. And now by the response from the Mississippi prison system after she’d made some inquiries about his death. According to the medical examiner and the review board’s reports, Jody Burns had been greatly depressed the week prior to his death—which in itself seemed odd since he was up for parole. But, following an investigation, his death had been ruled a suicide due to strangulation by hanging in his cell.

The waitress arrived and served Tess her minestrone soup and Ronnie her green salad. Once she was gone, Ronnie said, “Then explain to me why you look like you haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in a week?”

“Gee, thanks, Ronnie. I think you look nice, too.”

“Oh, don’t get all pissy on me,” Ronnie told her as she dragged the strip of lettuce through the side of creamy Italian dressing. She paused, glanced up and met Tess’s gaze. “On your worst day, you look better than most of us do after a week at a health spa. Now quit pretending you’re insulted and tell me what’s wrong.”

“I told you, nothing is wrong.”

The waitress who’d taken their orders stopped at the table again and topped off their ice water. She eyed Tess curiously from beneath lashes thick with blue mascara. “Excuse me, but aren’t you that news lady? The one from Channel Seven who does those investigative reports?”

“No, that’s her sister,” Ronnie offered before Tess could respond.

“Oh,” the waitress replied, her expression falling. “I guess that explains the resemblance.”

Tess bit the inside of her cheek at the fib. She didn’t kid herself. Unlike some of the reporters on the show, she never for a moment believed herself to be a celebrity simply because she appeared on television to report on a story. And although it didn’t happen with great frequency, she was occasionally recognized.

“People confuse them all the time,” Ronnie told the girl. “But Tammy here is actually Tess Abbott’s older sister.”

“Well, now that you mention it, I can see that you look older than the lady on the news. But your sister’s good. I liked her report on the plastic surgery stuff.”

“Thank you. I’ll tell her,” Tess managed to say.

“You do that. Your orders should be up in a minute. Can I get you anything else?” she asked over the din of voices.

“No, thanks. I’m fine,” Tess said.

“Me, too,” Ronnie echoed.

“That wasn’t very nice,” Tess admonished once the waitress had moved on to the next table.

Ronnie shrugged. “If you’d told her the truth, we’d have had half the people in this place craning their necks and stopping by the table to chat with you.”

“I’d think that would make you happy. You’re the one always looking for ways to pump up the station’s ratings. The truth is, I’m surprised you didn’t get her to swear she’d tell everyone to tune in to the show tonight.”

“I considered it,” Ronnie advised her. “But if I had, we wouldn’t have been able to finish our little chat. Now, are you going to tell me why you’ve got circles under your eyes that look like they belong to a raccoon? Or am I going to have to torture you to get the truth?”

She’d probably do it, too, Tess thought. Despite her small stature, the feisty redhead in the chic navy suit had the heart and soul of an army drill sergeant. One of the first things she’d learned about the producer was that the woman didn’t know the meaning of the word no. Still, she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to share with Ronnie, or anyone, the reason behind her sleepless nights. Instead, she said, “If I’m looking tired, it’s probably because you’ve been working me too hard.”

Ronnie waved aside her comment. “You’re an investigative reporter. You’re supposed to work hard. It’s in your contract.”

“Funny, I don’t recall seeing that particular clause.”

“Oh it’s there all right, buried in the fine print.”

Tess lifted her eyebrow skeptically as she added more sugar to her tea.

“Trust me, the boys in black make sure it’s standard in everyone’s contract,” Ronnie explained, referring to the top brass at Channel Seven News.

She could almost believe it, Tess thought. She had covered as many stories during the past few months as she had for the entire previous year. The primary reason was that they’d been short staffed after losing a veteran reporter to a news station on the West Coast, and another reporter had been placed on doctor-ordered bed rest for the remainder of her pregnancy. As a result, Tess had been forced to pull double and sometimes triple duty working as the station’s investigative reporter, society reporter and occasionally filling in as news anchor.

“Just be glad you’re not a producer. Producers have to sign the thing in blood,” Ronnie claimed before taking another bite of her salad.

“In that case, I’ll stick to reporting.”

“Smart girl. It’s probably what I should have done. If I had, I wouldn’t be sitting here trying to find out why my top reporter looks like hell and has been moping all week.”

Ignoring the accusation, Tess said, “You love working in that pressure cooker and you know it.”

Ronnie curved her lips into a smile. “True. But if I’d known it was going to take over my life so completely, I would’ve at least held out for more money. A word to the wise, kiddo. If Stefanovich ever shows up at your desk singing your praises and dangling a fancy title at you, run. Otherwise, he’ll reel you in like a fish. And before you know it, you’ll be working eighteen-hour days and making the same money you did as a reporter.”

“I’ll be sure to remember that.” The truth was, she hadn’t really minded the extra workload during the past few months. Work had kept her too busy to think much about Jody Burns’s death or the ending of her year-long romance with Jonathan Parker. But now with David in the news-anchor spot and Angela due back Monday from her maternity leave, her days weren’t nearly so busy, Tess admitted. Neither were her evenings now that Jonathan was out of the picture. As a result she no longer dashed out of the station to attend some event, or dragged herself home late at night to crawl into bed and collapse. No, now she lay awake at night and thought. And the one thing she couldn’t stop thinking about was that phone call she’d received and the woman’s claim that Jody Burns’s death had been murder. Mostly, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the woman’s claim that someone other than Jody Burns had killed her mother.

“Earth to Tess.”

Tess yanked her attention back to Ronnie. “Sorry. Did you say something?”

“You’re really starting to worry me, kiddo. That’s the second time you’ve zoned out on me since we got here.”

Tess set her soupspoon aside and sighed. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m just tired. I haven’t been sleeping well lately.”

“That’s obvious,” Ronnie reminded her. “This trouble sleeping wouldn’t have anything to do with Johnny, would it?”

“No,” Tess replied, not bothering to remind Ronnie, again, how much Jonathan detested being called Johnny. She’d long suspected that Ronnie only called him that because she disliked the man and wanted to irritate him. “As I told you at the time, we ended our relationship amicably. He and I are still friends.”

“Uh-huh.” Ronnie reached for her glass of tea and took a sip. “So he didn’t come by the station yesterday to try to get you to change your mind about marrying him?”

“No. He didn’t. If you must know, he came by to pick up the key he’d given me to his apartment.”

“Any second thoughts about turning down his proposal?”

“None,” Tess assured her. “You were right. Jonathan and I were all wrong for each other. I just can’t believe it took me so long to see it.”

She patted Tess’s hand. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. We all make mistakes—especially when it comes to men.”

“Easy for you to say. I dated the man for nearly a year and not until I was faced with the prospect of marrying him did I realize that he and I would never work. You, on the other hand, knew it almost from the start.”

Ronnie smiled—the smile of a woman who had lived nearly fifty years and was wiser for it. “That’s because I wasn’t emotionally invested in the relationship. You were. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s that when it comes to the male species, women don’t always see things clearly—especially if our emotions are involved.”

But she should have seen it, Tess thought. Yet, despite the fact that she enjoyed Jonathan’s company and being with him was easy, there had been no real passion between them. It wasn’t until he’d surprised her with an engagement ring for her birthday that she’d been forced to face the truth. She didn’t love him. At least not in the way you should love someone you married. “That still doesn’t make it right. It was unfair of me to lead him on the way I did.”

“Come on, Tess. Johnny’s a big boy. I don’t recall you holding a gun to the man’s head and forcing him to go out with you.”

“I know. But it was still embarrassing for him. He’d told his family and friends, even my grandparents, that he was giving me the ring. They were all expecting an engagement announcement, not a breakup.”

“So he was embarrassed,” Ronnie conceded. “From what I saw of him yesterday, he didn’t appear to be suffering from a broken heart.”

It was true, Tess admitted. Her refusal had appeared to bruise Jonathan’s ego far more than his heart.

“He’ll get over it,” Ronnie assured her.

Tess had no doubt that he would. Jonathan knew what he wanted—a dutiful wife whose dreams and desires mirrored his own—which was to see himself in the White House someday. But that woman wasn’t her. It could never be her because she had her own dreams, her own desires, and she had no intention of abandoning them. Nor did she want to be with a man who would expect her to do so. “Still, I can’t help wishing I hadn’t let things reach that point.”

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe the reason you let things reach that point was because you knew it’s what the senator wanted?”

“It wasn’t my grandfather’s mistake. It was mine.” Although the senator had introduced her to Jonathan and hadn’t hidden the fact that he’d welcome the up-and-coming attorney as a grandson-in-law, he hadn’t forced her to go out with the man. “As you pointed out, no one held a gun to his head and forced him to go out with me.”

“So I take it the senator isn’t giving you grief for breaking up with golden boy?”

“He’s not happy about it, but he’s accepted it,” Tess replied. And she hoped that was true. Her grandfather had been furious with her over her decision to end things with Jonathan. If there was one thing she’d learned in the years since she’d come to D.C. as a four-year-old to live with him and her grandmother, it was that her grandfather did not like it when things didn’t go according to his plan—be it on Capitol Hill or in his family. Her turning down Jonathan’s proposal was not part of his plan. But marrying the man was not part of her own plan.

“So no more schemes by the senator to throw you and Johnny together?”

“I made it clear to my grandfather that I’m not going to change my mind,” Tess informed her. The final straw had occurred ten days ago when she’d arrived for her weekly dinner with her grandparents and had been advised that Jonathan would be joining them. Her grandmother had been clearly distressed by the senator’s announcement, but Tess had been furious with him for, once again, trying to run her life. As a result, she had left the restaurant, leaving him to explain her absence to Jonathan.

“I can imagine how that went over. I got the impression at that charity dinner last month that the senator had earmarked Johnny boy as his future grandson-in-law.”

“He may have, but it wasn’t his decision to make. It was mine, which is what I told him.” The day after the scene in the restaurant, she’d threatened to sever all contact with her grandfather if he continued to interfere in her personal life.

Ronnie arched one perfectly groomed eyebrow. “And what was the senator’s response to that?”

“Let’s just say, he wasn’t thrilled with my decision.” The truth was, she and her grandfather had barely spoken since that night. “And I’d really like to drop the subject.”

“Sure,” Ronnie told her as she slathered butter on another cracker. She paused, looked up at Tess. “So if it’s not the senator or Johnny causing you to lose your beauty sleep, what or who is?”

“Ronnie,” Tess said, making no attempt to hide her exasperation.

“Two chicken specials,” the waitress declared and Tess was grateful for the interruption. After the young woman removed the salad plate, she placed the plate of grilled chicken with a rice pilaf in front of Ronnie. She paused at the sight of Tess’s soup, which had barely been touched. “Something wrong with the soup?”

“No. It’s fine, but I’ve had enough. You can take it,” Tess told her.

She added the soup plate and cup to her tray and promptly served Tess her own plate of chicken. “You ladies let me know if you need anything else,” the woman declared and hustled off in the direction of the kitchen.

“This looks good,” Tess said as she picked up her fork.

“If that’s your subtle way of ignoring my question, you should know me well enough by now to realize that I’m not going to stop hounding you until you tell me what’s wrong.” When she said nothing, Ronnie asked, “Is it work, Tess? I know sticking you with Kip on that last assignment wasn’t fair, but I didn’t have a choice. The jerk’s uncle wields a lot of power around here.”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with work. It’s personal.”

Ronnie paused, and a concerned look came into her hazel eyes. “All right, Tess. I’ll back off. But as your friend, I have to tell you that I’m worried about you. I’ve never seen you this stressed out before—not even when all that crap was going on about your father’s suicide. Just so you know, if you need to talk, I’m here.”

“Thanks, Ronnie. I appreciate it.” Yet Tess wasn’t at all sure she wanted to share with anyone the thoughts that had been running through her head since she’d received that phone call. But mostly, she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to voice aloud what had been really troubling her—the idea that perhaps someone other than Jody Burns might have been responsible for her mother’s murder.

Chapter Two

“I’m so glad you called,” Elizabeth Abbott said that Saturday morning when she greeted Tess at the front door of the elder Abbotts’ town house. “I do hate it so when you and your grandfather are at odds.”

“I know, Grams,” Tess said as she returned her hug. She drew back a fraction. “And I’m sorry that you’re the one who always gets caught in the cross fire.”

Her grandmother reached up and brushed the hair back from Tess’s face. “Don’t worry about me, dear. I’m a lot stronger than you think.”

“I’ve never doubted your strength,” Tess told her and she meant it. Her grandmother was a strong woman in her own way, having handled the loss of her only child, battled breast cancer and remained married to a strong-willed man like Senator Theodore Abbott for more than fifty years. “But sometimes I don’t understand how you can put up with Grandfather when he gets in one of his moods.”

“By one of his moods, I take you mean his being out of sorts because things haven’t gone as he planned?” her grandmother asked, a twinkle in her blue eyes as the two of them headed toward the breakfast room.

“Yes,” Tess replied. In truth, out of sorts was a mild description. Her grandfather was dictatorial and often nasty when he failed to get his way. She took a seat at the glass-and-rattan table where colorful place mats had been laid out with coffee cups and sterling.

“It’s called marriage, dear. When you marry someone you take them—warts and all.” She poured Tess a cup of coffee. “He’s a good man, Tess. He’s done some remarkable things in his life. And he only wants what’s best for you.”

“I know, Grams. But that doesn’t give him the right to try to manipulate me and decide who I should marry.”

Her grandmother took a seat at the table next to her. “He just doesn’t want you to make a mistake.”

“You mean the way my mother did?” Tess asked. “Maybe marrying Jody Burns was a mistake in Grandfather’s eyes. But it was her choice. Not his. And whomever I marry, it’s going to be my choice, not grandfather’s.”

“You’re so stubborn and righteous. Even more so than your mother was.” Her grandmother sighed. “Sometimes, I wonder if things would have turned out differently if you and your mother had taken after me more instead of your grandfather.”

With the morning light spilling in from the window across her grandmother’s face, Tess noted the lines bracketing her eyes. The tasteful short coif of hair that had once been blond had given way to a lovely silver. Despite her seventy-plus years, Elizabeth Abbott’s skin remained smooth, her face lovely. “You’re stubborn in your own quiet way, Grams.”

“Yes, I suppose I am,” she conceded. She reached over and patted Tess’s hand. “So, are you going to tell me why you needed to talk to your grandfather and me?”

Tess was tempted to tell her grandmother, to confide in her all the questions that had been running through her head since receiving that phone call and the decision she’d finally reached. “I think maybe it’ll be better if I talk to the two of you together. When will Grandfather be home?”

“He had an early golf game with Senator Wilke. I expect him home any minute now.”

Any minute turned out to be nearly an hour later. And when her grandfather entered the breakfast room, the entire house seemed more alive. “Tess, I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” her grandfather said gruffly, and Tess knew from his tone that he was still miffed at her over walking out on him at dinner more than a week ago.

“Tess called after you left this morning and asked if she could come by, Theo,” her grandmother explained as she poured her husband a cup of coffee before resuming her own seat.

A big man with a head of thick silver hair and skin darkened by hours spent golfing, her grandfather remained a formidable man even at the age of seventy-five. Ignoring the coffee, he popped a stick of the cinnamon-flavored gum that he favored inside his mouth. A onetime smoker, Theodore Abbott had kicked the habit some twenty-seven years ago, but he had taken to chewing gum. Since then, he was never without a packet of gum stuffed inside one of his pockets. Taking the silver foil from the gum, he proceeded to tie it into a knot. It was a ritual that she had watched her grandfather perform thousands of times. After a moment, he said, “If you’ve come to apologize for your rude behavior last week at dinner, you should know that I’m still quite upset with you, young lady. Your grandmother and I brought you up to behave better. You also owe Jonathan an apology.”

“Jonathan and I have already spoken, Grandfather.”

He pitched the knotted wrapper beside his coffee cup and sat back in his chair. “I’m pleased to hear that,” he said, sounding somewhat mollified.

“Don’t be, because I haven’t changed my mind about marrying him and I didn’t come here to apologize for walking out on your little setup at the restaurant to get us back together.”

He scowled. “Then why are you here?” he demanded.

“To let you know that I’m planning to ask the station for some time off.”

“Why, I think that’s an excellent idea, Tess,” her grandmother said, cutting the tension that permeated the air. “I was just telling your grandfather that you’ve been working too hard. It’ll do you good to take a little vacation.”

“Your grandmother’s right. Perhaps a few weeks’ rest will improve your disposition.”

“I won’t be taking a vacation. But I will be traveling to Mississippi. I’ve been in touch with the prison where Jody Burns died. I’m not sure his death was a suicide. I intend to look into it and his murder trial.”

Her grandfather slapped his hand down on the table, rattling the coffee cups and silver. “You will do no such thing. I forbid it!”

“I wasn’t asking for your permission, Grandfather.” Tess stood. “I just wanted to let you both know where I’ll be so you don’t worry about me.”

“You expect us not to worry when it’s obvious that you’ve lost your mind?” her grandfather fired back.

“Calm down, Theo,” her grandmother soothed. “Remember what the doctor said about your blood pressure.”

“To hell with my blood pressure,” he shouted. His face turned bright red. “I would think you’d be glad that the man was dead. Need I remind you that he killed your mother? That you were the one who found him over her bloody body holding the weapon in his hand?”

Tess heard her grandmother’s gasp, saw the horror register on the older woman’s face. Tess looked back at her furious grandfather. “I was four years old. A child,” she reminded him. She had never seen Jody Burns following his conviction, and had long ago written him off as her father. But since that phone call, claiming his death hadn’t been a suicide and that someone else had been responsible for her mother’s murder, she had been plagued with questions. More importantly, she had begun to question her own memories of what had happened that night. “What if I was wrong about what I saw?”

“You weren’t wrong. He killed her,” her grandfather insisted.

“That’s what I intend to find out.”

And despite her grandfather’s angry protests and her grandmother’s dismay, Tess was determined to do just that.

“Okay, Tess, I need you to give me that sign-off again,” the sound engineer told her in the news studio the next day as she completed the edits on the piece she’d done on a local playwright.

“Reporting on ‘What’s New in Entertainment This Week’ for Channel Seven News, this is Tess Abbott.”

“That should do it,” the engineer advised her.

“Looks good. The guys upstairs are gonna like this one,” the cameraman told her.

“Let’s hope you’re right, Bobby,” she replied with a smile. She couldn’t help noticing Ronnie watching her, that worried look in her eyes again. It was a look she’d seen several times since their talk over lunch last week. She could only hope that telling Ronnie about her plans would go smoothly.

And there was no time like the present, Tess decided as she unclipped the microphone from her jacket. Dodging the booms of the cameras and lights, she sidestepped the trail of cables that snaked across the small studio where they’d been taping. She started over toward Ronnie, who was tossing out directions to the assignment editor, production assistant and technician.

Without even taking a breath, she turned her attention to the news anchor. “David, we’re going to lead with the story on the three-alarm fire downtown and move the president’s speech to second,” Ronnie instructed him while she continued to scribble notes that she handed off to her assistant. “We should be able to run Tess’s piece on the playwright near the end of the news hour, right after the weather.”

“Got it,” the news anchor replied. “I’ve reworked the copy some on the lead-in story, punched it up a bit.”

“Let me take a look,” Ronnie said and took the script from him.

Tess stood back and waited for Ronnie to finish. But in typical Ronnie Hill fashion she multitasked, flicking a glance up at her even as she scanned the script changes. “This looks fine. Go with it,” she said as she handed him back the script.

When the anchor left, Tess moved closer. “When you’ve got a few minutes, Ronnie, I’d like to speak with you.”

If she was surprised by the request, Ronnie gave no indication. “Now’s good for me. Why don’t we go to my office.”

Tess followed the other woman down the hall to the place where Ronnie spent the majority of her time. The room was a reflection of Ronnie—neat but lived in, and a testament to how busy she was. The mahogany desk was covered with stacks of papers, videotapes, folders and two phones. One wall was filled with framed awards and certificates interspersed with photographs—Ronnie with D.C.’s governor, Ronnie with a Hollywood celebrity, Ronnie receiving an award from the station’s president, Ronnie with the White House press secretary. Another wall was dominated by three television sets and another with an eclectic mix of watercolors that included a Monet copy and an abstract by a local artist. Still another wall featured a huge write-on calendar that was filled with information. Beside it was a graph charting the station’s ratings. A ficus tree added a splash of green in one corner and a potted marigold-colored mum brightened a corner table.

Evidently Ronnie read something in Tess’s expression because she paused at her desk and buzzed through on the intercom. “Patsy, I’d like you to hold my calls for the next thirty minutes.”

“Sure thing, Ronnie,” the assistant replied.

“Why don’t we sit over there,” Ronnie suggested, indicating the sitting area where a small navy couch and two covered chairs had been positioned around a coffee table that sported a hardcover picture book of Washington monuments, an art book and issues of the New York Times, the Washington Post and USA Today.

Tess chose one of the overstuffed chairs. Clasping her hands together, she wondered exactly where to begin. She opted to just be direct, “Ronnie, I—”

“Wait,” Ronnie said, holding up her hand. “If you’re here to bitch at me for sticking you with Kip on that school-bus story next week, let me tell you right now that it wasn’t my idea. The word came down from Stefanovich himself. According to him, we’re not giving his nephew enough camera time. Of course, I couldn’t tell him the little prick is an idiot and doesn’t know one end of the microphone from the other.”

Tess almost laughed at Ronnie’s frustration with the station manager’s nephew whom they had been asked to hire during the summer. An aspiring television reporter with a communications degree, Kip Edwards was pleasant enough and eager to be a part of the news team. Unfortunately, the man was a total klutz who could—and had—wiped out hours of work by just walking across a room. Whenever he was assigned to a story, the engineers safeguarded their equipment and the reporters their persons. Kip also came up short in the personality department—a fact that was apparent whenever he was on camera. As a result, no one was eager to work with him, and Ronnie was stuck with the unpleasant task of using him.

“Anyway, Stefanovich asked for a copy of the assignments and decided Kip should do the piece with you. I’m sorry, kiddo. My hands are tied. I’m afraid you’re stuck with him on this one.”

“I understand. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. I need some time off. There’s something personal that I need to take care of.”

Ronnie seemed to relax a bit. She sat back on the couch, some of the stiffness leaving her shoulders. “Well, I don’t see where that should be any problem. David seems to be working out fine, and now that Angela’s back from her baby break, I can probably clear you for a few days at the end of next week.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to need more than a few days. Actually, a lot more.”

Ronnie narrowed her eyes. “How much more?”

“I’ve got a month of vacation time and sick leave due. I’d like to take it.”

“A month!” Ronnie whipped off her tortoiseshell glasses, pitched them to the table. “You’ve got to be kidding! You can’t honestly expect me to approve a month’s vacation for you. Not even the anchors get that much time off all at once.”

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

“No. Absolutely not.” Ronnie stood up and began pacing about the room. “It’s out of the question. You’re my best reporter. I can’t have you taking off for a month.”

“It’s not impossible,” Tess argued. “You said yourself that David’s on board now and Angela’s back from maternity leave. So you’re fully staffed again.”

“We won’t be fully staffed if you’re out.”

“You’ve also got Kip,” Tess pointed out.

Ronnie glared at her and sat down again. “You’re not helping your case here, kiddo.” She shook her head. “No. There’s no way I can spare you for a month. A week maybe, but not a month.”

“Then I quit.”

“You can’t quit. You have a contract.”

“My contract’s up for renewal at the end of next month. I’ll ask the GM to release me early,” Tess told her, hating that it had come to this. She liked her job, liked Ronnie and the people she worked with, but she had to find out the truth. And to do that she was going to need time to go back to Mississippi. She stood. “I’m sorry, Ronnie.”

“Oh, stop with the dramatics and sit down.” Once Tess had done so, Ronnie said, “Now tell me what in the hell is going on and why you’re threatening to quit on me.”

“I don’t want to quit,” Tess told her. “But there’s something I have to do, something personal, and I need the time off to do it.”

“That’s it? That’s all the explanation you’re going to give me?”

“I told you. It’s personal.”

Ronnie leveled a “give me a break” look at her.

Tess sighed. “It has to do with my mother, about when she died. And about my father’s suicide,” Tess said finally.

“So that’s what’s been bothering you,” Ronnie said, and Tess suspected the remark was more to Ronnie herself. “Which I suppose is understandable. I mean, it hasn’t been all that long since that stuff happened with your father. I’m sure that whole suicide thing brought up some bad memories for you.”

“Yes.”

“But, kiddo, instead of taking off you should be keeping busy, and trying to put all that stuff out of your mind.”

“I can’t,” Tess told her.

Ronnie narrowed her eyes. “Wait a minute,” she said. “Have those dirtbags from the tabloids been hounding you again? Because if they have—”

“No. You know how this business is, everyone’s moved on to the next scandal and forgotten all about me and my family.”

“I would hope so,” Ronnie told her. “You poor kid. All that mess, then breaking up with Johnny and me loading you down with work. No wonder you’ve been having trouble sleeping. It’s a miracle that you haven’t been having nightmares.”

But there had been no nightmares. At least not in a very long time. That hadn’t always been the case. For months after her mother had been murdered, she did wake up screaming, unable to get the image of her father kneeling over her mother’s body, blood on his hands and shirt, the bloody bookend in his hand, out of her mind. But with time, the nightmares had grown fewer, the memories less sharp. Thanks in large measure to the psychologists her grandparents had insisted she see when she first came to live with them in D.C. Also, it had helped that she’d been so close to her grandmother, a bond that had only strengthened when she had feared she might lose the older woman to cancer. Thank heavens Grams had beaten the disease. But in those months and the years that followed they had clung to each other.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Then they talked about it. Tess began by telling Ronnie about the phone call she’d received claiming that Jody Burns’s death hadn’t been a suicide. She told her about her own inquiries at the prison, about the questions that had been running through her mind since then. Questions that she found she could no longer ignore.

“I don’t know, Tess. It all sounds pretty far-fetched to me, you getting a call out of the blue like that. I’d be willing to bet that woman was a reporter working for one of those supermarket rags. She probably told you that garbage hoping to get a story out of you,” Ronnie reasoned.

“I thought so, too, at first. But the more I’ve thought about it, the more convinced I am that she was on the level. I can tell you for certain that her accent was real.”

“A lot of people can fake a Southern accent,” Ronnie pointed out.

Tess shook her head. “My grandparents are from Mississippi and I’ve met enough people from there over the years to recognize a Mississippi drawl when I hear one. Hers was genuine.”

“That still doesn’t mean she was legit. You and I both know it wouldn’t be the first time a tabloid has used an out-of-state stringer to pull a fast one in order to nail a story.”

“I know. But my gut tells me she was telling the truth.” Tess recalled the fear she’d heard in the woman’s voice when she’d mentioned calling the police. “She wasn’t acting, Ronnie. She was genuinely afraid.”

“Of what? You said the report from the prison ruled your father’s death a suicide.”

“I know what it said. But after talking to that official at the prison and reading the report, I don’t know, something just doesn’t feel right.”

“Is that the reporter in you talking, or the child who’s lost her father?”

“Probably a little of both,” Tess admitted. “All I know is that if the woman was telling the truth and Jody Burns was murdered, then I have to ask myself why. And why try to make it look like a suicide?”

“You’re making some pretty big leaps on the basis of one anonymous phone call, don’t you think?”

“Maybe. But what if she was telling the truth? What if he didn’t hang himself in that cell? What if someone else did it for him? Think about it, Ronnie. He was coming up for parole in a few weeks and he stood a good chance of being released. So why, after all these years, would he decide to kill himself? Why now, when he was so close to gaining his freedom? It just doesn’t make any sense.”

“Neither does murder,” Ronnie pointed out. “Yet people keep on committing it.”

“There’s also the woman’s claim that Jody Burns wasn’t the one who murdered my mother,” Tess reminded her.

“Tess, I’m sorry. But you seem to be forgetting one very important fact.”

“What?”

Ronnie stared into her eyes. “You were the one who told the police that he killed your mother.”

What Ronnie said was true. And her accounts of finding her father over her mother’s dead body had been recounted in the press again when the report of her father’s suicide had hit the airwaves. “I was four years old at the time,” Tess defended. She dragged a hand through her hair. “I was a child. A child who woke up because I heard loud voices and a woman’s scream, then stumbled out of bed and found my father kneeling over her body. But I never saw him actually hit her with the bookend. I just assumed that he did it because he was the only one there,” Tess argued. “Suppose I was wrong? What if he didn’t kill her? What if he came in and found her dead, just the way he claimed?”

“I don’t know, Tess.”

Tess read the pity in Ronnie’s face. “You think I’m wrong, don’t you? That this is all some Freudian thing that’s going on inside my head where I’m having to deal with my mother’s murder again because my father is dead now.”

“You know me better than that. I don’t buy into all that psychobabble stuff. So don’t go putting words in my mouth.”

It was true. When she had done a story on how up-bringing factored into the problems of today’s young adults, Ronnie had been the first to scoff at the notion of blaming the parents for everything that went wrong in a person’s life. “Then what do you think?”

“Exactly what I said. That you shouldn’t jump to any conclusions based on a single phone conversation with a stranger.” Ronnie sighed. “Look. You said yourself you had no contact with the man, not even a letter or a phone call from him for over twenty-five years. How could you possibly know what his state of mind was—whether he was suicidal or not?”

“You’re right. I don’t know. And that’s why I want to go to Mississippi, so I can find out the truth.”

“As your friend, I’m telling you I think your going there is a mistake.

“But, as your producer, I say if you need to, take a few days off, go see the people at the prison and satisfy yourself that your father’s death was a suicide. Then put it behind you and come back to work.”

“It’s not just the people at the prison I want to see. That’s why I need more time off.” She wasn’t sure how much more she would be able to learn from the prison staff. “I want to talk to the people who were involved in my father’s case—the prosecutor, the witnesses who testified against him at his trial and the attorney who handled his defense. If my father did find some evidence that could prove he was innocent the way the woman claimed, the chances are he contacted his attorney.”

“Tess, I don’t know what you hope to accomplish, but I can tell you right now no judge is going to reopen a twenty-five-year-old murder case based on an anonymous phone call.”

Ronnie was right. The claims made in an anonymous phone call and her own gut feelings weren’t evidence. “I’m an investigative reporter, remember? I know how to look through things, dig up information. I can find the truth.”

“And suppose what you find out is that your father really did kill your mother and that he really did commit suicide? Will you be able to accept that?”

“I’m not looking for redemption for my father or myself, Ronnie. I just need to know if I’ve spent the better part of my life hating and blaming the wrong person for my mother’s death.”

“And if you did?”

“Then I want to see the person who was responsible pay for stealing both of my parents from me.” She met Ronnie’s gaze. “Will you help me? Will you give me the time off?”

“I can’t approve a month’s leave for you,” Ronnie told her. “But I may be able to explain your absence if you’re on special assignment. Of course, that means you’re going to have to come up with something damn good when you get back or it’s going to be both of our butts on the line.”

“I don’t want to get you in trouble,” Tess told her, touched by the woman’s gesture.

Ronnie waved the comment aside. “I’ve been in trouble before.”

“Suppose I actually make my investigation the special assignment?” Tess offered as an idea began to form in her mind. “What if I do a piece on prisons and suicides, one man’s road down that path?”

“It’s a good idea, but you could do that right here. Just pick a prison close to home. No trips to Mississippi. No extended time away from the station.”

“What if I were to give them a story with a personal angle? What if I give them Jody Burns’s story?”

“I’ll admit that story would be an easier sell because of who you are, and who your grandfather is. There’s been a lot of viewer interest since the senator’s press conference following the man’s suicide and his push for tougher penalties on criminals. It could certainly be a ratings winner for the station. But what about you, kiddo? Do you want to open yourself up to that?”

“No. But it would be an easy way for me to explain my interest in my mother’s murder and the trial. And it might even open a few doors.”

“What about the senator? What will he say?”

“I’ve already told him.”

“And?”

“Let’s just say I wouldn’t be surprised to find out he’s having a new will drawn up as we speak.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Worse,” Tess admitted, recalling how furious her grandfather had been when she’d left yesterday. To have his granddaughter turn the cameras on the man responsible for killing his only child and possibly even garnering sympathy for Jody Burns infuriated her grandfather even more. “I wouldn’t put it past him to try to stop me by going to the board of directors,” Tess admitted. She didn’t doubt for a moment her grandfather would seek out the station’s board members to prevent her from working on the story. “That’s why I’ll need the station to hold firm on me doing the report. Do you think Stefanovich will go along with that?”

“Are you kidding? If he thinks it would mean a jump in ratings, he’d defy the pope.”

“So it’s okay? I can have the time off?”

“Let’s get a few specials in the can and then you’re officially away on special assignment.”

Tess jumped up, hugged her friend. “Thanks, Ronnie. I won’t let you down.”

“Don’t worry about letting me down, kiddo. Just take care of business and get your rear end back to D.C.”

“I will,” Tess promised and started for the door.

“Tess?”

She paused, glanced back at Ronnie, noted the worry was back in her hazel eyes. “Yes?”

“Be careful.”

“You got that column finished yet, Reed?”

Spencer Reed glanced up from his computer screen at his desk at the Clarion-Ledger in Jackson, Mississippi, and stared at the scowling face of his editor, Hank Weston. “If you and everyone else would quit yammering at me, I’d have it finished by now.”

“I must have been out of my mind to have agreed to let you do a special series in addition to your regular column,” Hank complained.

“You agreed because you knew a series on ‘The Road to the Governor’s Mansion’ would be a ratings winner for the newspaper.”

“Yeah, but I forgot how damn close you always cut your deadlines. It’s a wonder the pressmen don’t have bleeding ulcers like me.”

“They don’t get paid enough bucks to get ulcers,” Spencer pointed out as he continued typing.

“I don’t get paid enough to have ulcers either,” Hank said. “But thanks to you, I’ve got ’em.”

“You’re a born worrywart, Hank. You know that?”

“Can you blame me?” the editor countered. “Do you realize that if you don’t turn that thing in within the hour we’re going to have an empty spot in the newspaper?”

“Hank, have I ever missed a deadline?”

“No,” Hank admitted. “But you’ve come damn close.”

“But I’ve never missed one. And I’m not going to miss this one either. Not unless you keep standing there and bellyaching at me. Now, shut the door and let me work.”

“I should have listened to my mother and become a doctor,” Hank muttered as he turned away, yanking the door closed behind him.

Once the door closed, Spencer went back to work. As a freelancer for the newspaper, he didn’t keep regular office hours and more often than not he just e-mailed in his biweekly column, “The Political Beat,” which was now being circulated in forty-three newspapers across the country. But the Clarion-Ledger remained his home base. So he tried to show his face around the place every week or so. Doing so this afternoon had proven to be a mistake he decided as the phone at his desk rang. Spencer snatched up the receiver. “Spencer Reed,” he barked out.

“You disappoint me, Mr. Reed. I had expected some mention of Everett Caine’s misdeeds to be in your last column.” The voice was soft with a marked Southern accent.

Spencer sat back in his chair and focused his attention on the anonymous female caller who had contacted him before, claiming to have information about shady dealings by gubernatorial candidate and current lieutenant governor Everett Caine. “Since you won’t tell me who you are, I can’t very well report your claims as fact and open myself and the newspaper up to a libel suit.”

“Did you check out the information I gave you? About that murder case Caine worked on as an A.D.A. in Grady, Mississippi?”

“I checked it out. The Burns murder trial was twenty-five years ago. He prosecuted the man responsible for killing Senator Abbott’s daughter. The case made him a real hero and launched his political career.”

“I’m aware of the facts, Mr. Reed,” she told him.

“Then you’ll also know there was nothing in any of the accounts that I read that even remotely suggested that the trial was fixed.”

“It was,” the woman insisted. “If you’d bothered to talk to the people involved, you would know that.”

“Were you involved? Is that how you know?” Spencer asked her.

“I know because I know Everett Caine. He went to great lengths to make sure the evidence suited his needs.”

“How do you know?” he pressed her.

“Because leopards don’t change their spots. He was a liar and a cheat back then. And he’s still a liar and a cheat.”

“Hey, I agree with you,” Spencer admitted. “Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to prove it. For my own personal reasons I’d like nothing better than to see Caine lose the election next month. But my hands are tied unless you can give me something concrete to go on. Can you?”

There was a pause. “I can’t. But there is someone who might be able to help you.”

“Who?”

“Tess Abbott. She’s the daughter of Jody Burns.”

“I know who she is,” he said, remembering that after the first call from the mystery woman, he had dug up what he could find on the old murder case. Tess Abbott, née Tess Burns, had been a child at the time of her mother’s death and it had been the girl’s testimony that had helped to convict her father. Her grandparents, Senator Theodore Abbott, and his wife, had become her guardians following the trial. From what he had been able to find out, Tess Abbott was now a TV investigative reporter in D.C. “What makes you think she can help?”

“It’s my understanding that she’s here in Mississippi asking questions about her father’s suicide and her mother’s murder. Talk to her, Mr. Reed. She knows who really killed Melanie Burns.”

“How could she know? She was only a kid—”

But suddenly the line went dead.

Frustrated, Spencer slammed down the receiver and glanced at the clock, turning his attention back to his column. Fifteen minutes later he’d finished the piece, e-mailed it to his boss and printed himself a hard copy. He then picked up the phone and dialed a number in Grady.

“Hello,” a sultry Southern female voice answered.

“Mary Lee, darling, it’s Spencer Reed. How’s the most beautiful girl in Grady doing these days?”

“Why, I’m just fine, sugar,” she told him, and he chuckled because he could easily imagine the little sexpot preening.

“Glad to hear that. You still dating that quarterback at Ole Miss?”

“Donny graduated two years ago. He’s an accountant at his daddy’s CPA firm now,” she told him.

“And he still hasn’t married you yet?” he teased.

“Oh, he’s asked. I just haven’t accepted yet.”

“Poor fellow. You ought to put him out of his misery, Mary Lee.”

“Maybe I will,” she told him.

“Listen, darling, you still working at that bed-and-breakfast, aren’t you?”

“Three days a week,” she told him.

“So if anyone new were to show up in Grady, you’d pretty much know it. Wouldn’t you?”

“Sugar, things in this town are so boring that a visit from the FedEx man is big news.”

“I guess that means there aren’t any strangers in town then?”

“Other than a few tourists and some folks who are in for Miss Opal’s ninetieth birthday, no one worth mentioning. Who is it you’re interested in?”

“A woman by the name of Abbott. Tess Abbott.”

“Never heard of her,” Mary Lee informed him.

“Do me a favor then. If she shows up, give me a call, will you?”

“You got it, sugar.”

Chapter Three

Tess continued driving along the Mississippi interstate in the fog toward Grady. Lord, but she was tired, she thought. That last week at work had been a killer. She’d not only had her normal workload, but she’d taped a slew of segments to be aired during her absence. The only good thing about being so busy was that she hadn’t had time to dwell on the fact that her grandfather was no longer speaking to her, and that her grandmother was seriously distressed. The strain had been there on her grandmother’s face when Tess had left the town house the previous Saturday, and she’d heard it again in her voice when she’d called her from the D.C. airport yesterday morning.

She groaned as she thought of yesterday. Things had gone downhill beginning with that call. Then her flight from D.C. to New Orleans had been delayed because of equipment problems. After being forced to take a later flight to the Big Easy, she’d also had to reschedule her flight from New Orleans to Jackson, Mississippi, only to find that the car she had originally reserved was no longer available. As a result she’d had to settle for a Ford Mustang when what she had wanted was a larger, more comfortable car.

Then, because of her late arrival, she ended up spending the night at a hotel in Jackson and driving out to the state prison that morning. She’d spent the better part of the day wading through the red tape at the prison in her efforts to get information about Jody Burns. Granted, she hadn’t exactly been up front with the prison personnel about who she was, or why she wanted the information. But she’d stuck as closely to the truth as she could, explaining that she was doing a story about prison suicides and that she wanted to follow the history of Jody Burns and his journey from citizen to criminal, his life behind bars and how it led to his own suicide. But other than a few facts, figures and standard statements, she’d come away with very little. Her attempts to contact both the former prosecutor, Everett Caine, and her father’s defense attorney, Beau Clayton, had also proved futile. She’d even wondered if the roadblocks she’d encountered were courtesy of her grandfather, then decided that she might be just a little bit paranoid. As an investigative reporter she knew that she seldom got what she wanted on the first try.

If she were superstitious and believed in omens, she’d be on her way back to the airport now instead of traveling on the interstate after nine o’clock on a Saturday evening feeling exhausted and hungry. She couldn’t help wondering, yet again, if her decision to come to Mississippi and dig up the past had been a mistake.

At the sound of her cell phone ringing, Tess reached for her bag and retrieved the instrument. “Hello.”

“Hi, kiddo. How’s Mississippi?”

“Hi, Ronnie,” Tess said, pleased to hear the sound of her producer’s voice. “At the moment I’m on the interstate heading to Grady, so Mississippi consists of a stretch of concrete and glimpses of pine trees. How are things up there?”

“They’ve been better.”

Tess tensed. “Something wrong?”

“Nothing I can’t handle. But I thought you should know the senator gave me an earful this afternoon. He is one unhappy man, and my guess is he’s going to put a call in to Stefanovich.”

“I’m sorry, Ronnie.”

“Like I said, it’s nothing I can’t handle. How’s it going on your end?”

“Not exactly the way I’d hoped. I hit a brick wall at the prison and I haven’t had any luck reaching the prosecutor or defense attorney yet. But you know me, the more obstacles I hit, the harder I go at it.”

“That’s the mark of a good reporter.”

“Or at least a stubborn one,” Tess replied. “Either way, I’m not giving up yet. I’m going to Grady now to do some digging there, and then I’ll try the prison and lawyers again.”

“You sure it’s worth all this effort?”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I mean, once I got past the senator’s angry bark and him ordering me to call you off this assignment, I listened to all his reasons for not wanting you to go nosing around in the past. And the truth is, a lot of it made sense. Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?”

“No.” Which was the truth. She wasn’t sure. And more than once during the past week remembering how much she’d upset not only her grandfather, but her grandmother, she had wondered the same thing. “But whether it’s the right thing to do or not, it’s something I have to do, Ronnie. I need to find out the truth and whether Jody Burns really did kill my mother.”

“Then what? Will knowing be enough?”

“I don’t know. But it’s a start.”

“All right, kiddo. But if someone else was responsible and they made your father’s death look like a suicide, they aren’t going to like you nosing around. So you watch your back.”

“Don’t worry, I will,” she promised.

“You’d better. I gotta run. Make sure you stay in touch, kiddo.”

“I will. ’Night, Ronnie.”

After she ended the call, Tess felt more alone than ever. Despite what she’d told Ronnie, she couldn’t help wondering if she had made a mistake by coming to Mississippi. While she wanted the truth, and was prepared to deal with whatever she did discover, she hadn’t given a lot of thought to how her investigation would affect her grandparents—in particular her grandmother. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt either of them. Yet, didn’t they deserve to know the truth, too? she asked herself.

Deciding she was too tired and hungry to think straight, Tess stared at the exit signs. What should have been a three-hour drive from Jackson to Grady had turned into four-plus hours because she had left in the middle of rush-hour traffic. And based on the exit number, she still had a good half hour to go before she reached the exit to the Magnolia Guesthouse.

So when she spotted the sign indicating gas and rest-rooms at the next exit, Tess flicked on her turn signal. She’d stop, refuel and grab something to eat, she told herself as she took the dark winding off-ramp from the interstate that turned into a blacktopped country road. She stopped at the end of the exit, looked both ways and noted the light to her left had turned red. She had just pressed on the accelerator when a beat-up old pickup ran the light. Tess gasped as she slammed her foot on the brake. The pickup sped by, narrowly missing her car.

“So much for Southern manners,” she muttered before starting on her way. Five minutes later when she pulled the Mustang up to the gas pumps at the Quick Stop, Tess thought she spied the old pickup parked in front of the store. She considered going over and giving the owner a piece of her mind. And doing so, she reasoned, was not the way to start off her stay in Grady.

Lester De Roach saw the little red Ford Mustang pull up to the gas pump as he shut off his old truck at Bobby Ed’s Quick Stop. Some rich bitch using her daddy’s car, he figured, and chuckled to himself because he’d probably scared the hell out of her back there at the interstate.

Served her right, he thought. She probably didn’t know the first thing about what it was like to have to work for a living. Unlike himself who had been working his whole damn life. Climbing out of the truck, he ignored the Mustang and its driver and headed inside the convenience store to grab a six-pack of beer.

“How ya doing, Mr. Lester?” the kid behind the counter called out.

Lester ignored him and went straight to the cooler at the back of the store. He eyed the six-pack of beer in the cooler, and debated whether or not to spend the extra buck and buy his brewskies cold. He wiped the back of his oil-stained hand across his mouth, barely noticing the dry, cracked skin that never lost the scent of car grease, or the stiffness of the whiskers on a chin that hadn’t seen a razor in days. He’d spent the past seven hours locked up in J.W.’s garage working on a busted engine for that penny-pinching slavedriver. He hadn’t finished it yet. But he was close. And hell, he deserved a cold drink for all his hard work, not warm-as-piss beer. But he also needed to eat, Lester reminded himself. That’s the only way he’d been able to get that skinflint J.W. to give him an advance on his pay—by telling him if he didn’t eat, he wouldn’t be able to work.

He was a damn fine mechanic—the best one in Grady. Hell, he was probably the best damn mechanic in the whole State of Mississippi. He’d just run into some hard times. Wasn’t his fault that bitch Loretta he’d been married to had robbed him blind and bankrupted his mechanic shop, then run out on him. And it wasn’t his fault that he’d banged himself up in that car wreck and had taken to drink and drugs to ease the pain. He’d kicked the drugs and the drink, but not before he’d gotten the bad rap of being a drunk.

Well, he weren’t no damn drunk. He was a top-rate mechanic and he deserved to be working for himself, not for the likes of a prick like J.W. Hell, J.W. wouldn’t even own the garage if it weren’t for his shyster of an old man who had been robbing folks in these parts for years by jacking up the rates on work at that old service station of his. Maybe if his own old man hadn’t cut out on him, his sister and momma like he’d done, he’d have known better than to trust that bitch Loretta with the books. Well, he’d know better next time. Sooner or later, his luck was going to turn. He was due a break and he’d catch one. And when he did, he was going to get his old shop back and then he’d tell J.W. what he could do with his job because he’d be working for himself again. Yes, that’s just what he was going to do, Lester assured himself. Just as soon as he got on his feet again, he was going to show them. He would show them all.

But right now. Right now, he needed a drink.

“You finding everything okay back there, Mr. Lester?” the Smith boy called out from the front of the store.

“Yeah,” he snarled in response. Lucky little bastard, he thought, glancing in the direction of Bobby Ed and Mabel Smith’s snot-nosed grandkid. The punk had it made. He got to work weekends at his grandparents’ convenience store and gas station. According to Mabel, the boy was smart as a whip and would be graduating from Ole Mississippi come springtime, then going on to law school. In the meantime, he didn’t need to worry about working for dickheads like J.W. just to pay his rent or buy himself a couple of beers.

Just didn’t seem fair, Lester decided. It seemed that pricks like J.W. and the Smith boy got all the breaks while hardworking decent folks like him had to bust their asses. But then, it was easy to get breaks when you had money. Both J.W.’s old man and the Smith boy’s family had plenty. While he had never had a pot to piss in—except for that one time, back when he and Jody Burns had been friends.

At the thought of Jody, his old friend in prison all those years, and hearing about how he’d hanged himself, Lester’s legs went weak.

“Why are you doing this to me, Les?” Jody’s words echoed in his head. “Please, tell them the truth!”

Bells sounded at the front door of the store, signaling another customer had entered the Quick Stop. Lester tried to shake off the memory, unsure of where it had come from in the first place.

Don’t think about Jody. What’s done is done.

Lester swiped his hand down his face, tried to make that image of Jody swinging from a rope in the jail cell go away. No point in thinking about Jody now, he told himself. It was too late to change the past. Yanking open the cooler door, he grabbed the six-pack of cold beer. His stomach grumbled, reminding him he hadn’t had any food that day. So he snatched a bag of chips from the rack beside the cooler and then began making his way up the aisle.

Damn, but he needed a drink. That’s all that was wrong with him.

“Will that be cash or charge, ma’am?” the Smith kid asked the tall brunette woman at the counter.

“Credit card,” she said and handed over the piece of plastic.

Impatient for a drink and still shaken by the memories of Jody, Lester wrestled one of the beers free from the plastic loops that held them together. He popped the lid, and the hiss had the Smith kid looking his way. Ignoring the disapproving look the boy shot at him, he drained half the can in one swallow. The cold brew hit his empty belly like an icy fist and he sighed with pleasure. While he waited for the chick to finish so he could check out, he took another swig. He could feel the beginning of a buzz. Already he was feeling better. Except for the two beers he’d had when he went home for lunch, he hadn’t had a thing in his belly all day. By the time he got home and finished off the six-pack, he wouldn’t be thinking about the likes of Jody Burns or anyone else that night.

“Here’s your receipt, ma’am.”

“Thank you,” she said and stuffed the receipt and credit card into her purse. “Could you tell me how to get to the Magnolia Guesthouse from here?” she asked the Smith boy.

“Sure thing, ma’am. When you pull out of the parking lot, go down the road to the first light,” the kid explained, gesturing toward the highway. “That road’ll put you back on the main drag. Once you get on it, go down past three lights and then take the first street on your left. You’ll be on Magnolia Lane then. The Magnolia Guesthouse is the big white house. You can’t miss it. Enjoy your visit.”

“Thanks,” she said and turned around.

And as she did so Lester dropped the half-empty can of beer and chips, spilling the liquid on his grease-stained work clothes before it fell to the tile floor with a thud. The rest of the six-pack hit the floor with a crash, breaking free of the plastic loops and rolling in several directions.

“Mr. Lester, you okay?”

Lester’s hands began to shake. Instantly sober, he felt something damp and cold on the front of his pants, and wasn’t sure if it was the beer or if he’d pissed himself. Either way, he didn’t care.

“Sir, are you all right?” Tess asked him.

Unable to move, Lester felt the blood drain from his head as he stared at her face.

“Mr. Lester?” The Smith boy came from around the counter.

“Sir, are you ill?” Tess asked and started to step toward him.

“Stay back. Stay away from me,” Lester warned as he shrank back and stared at the face of a dead woman.

“Mr. Lester, what in the devil has gotten into you?” The fresh-faced young man who’d waited on her had come out from behind the counter. Although the boy was only of average height, he was built like a football player and had placed himself between the disheveled-looking guy and her.

Tess didn’t feel in any real danger and didn’t know what to make of the man’s outburst. She’d watched him exit the beat-up pickup truck that nearly hit her when she’d exited the interstate. When she’d spotted him at the back of the store eyeing the beer in the cooler she decided not to bother confronting him. Last year she had done a feature for the news station on alcoholism and the senior citizen. So she recognized the signs. The unsteady hands, the restlessness, the total focus on that next drink. She knew from her interviews that the urge for a drink was a daily battle, one that never went away. Judging by the man’s demeanor, she assumed that he had been struck by that urge tonight. And given his appearance, she’d concluded that he’d either just come off a drinking binge or was about to start one.

Seeing him up close now only reaffirmed her suspicions. The stench of beer and perspiration on him was strong. He was dressed in a set of standard garage-issue workman’s clothes that she suspected had once been navy, but were now faded with wear, axle grease and sweat. The beer he’d spilled left a new set of stains to compete with the engine grime on his clothes. His black work boots were scuffed and dull, stained with what she assumed was engine oil. The man’s hair was mostly gray and looked as if it hadn’t been shampooed or combed in days. His face was thin, his lips chapped, his skin pasty. Surprisingly, his teeth were white. Several days’ growth of salt-and-pepper whiskers covered a weak chin line and a jaw that had gone soft. But it was the man’s bloodshot brown eyes that surprised her most. She’d expected to see despair, hopelessness, maybe even regret. Instead, what she saw was fear.

“I mean it. I don’t know why you come back, but you stay away from me,” the man yelled at her. “Stay away,” he shouted again, staggering backward as though terrified, until he crashed into a display of two-liter sodas. The plastic bottles went tumbling to the ground.

“Look out,” the clerk warned and grabbed the man by the arm to stop him from falling to the floor.

One of the two-liter bottles came barreling toward her like a bowling pin hit by a ball and Tess jumped, dropping her purse and keys in the process.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” the boy asked, glancing back in her direction.

“I’m fine,” Tess assured him as she stooped down and retrieved her purse and keys. She still didn’t know what to make of the man’s reaction to her. Was it possible that he thought she was her mother? From old family pictures Tess knew that she resembled her mother. She had the same almond-shaped gray eyes, the same strong cheekbones and pointed jaw. But she had her father’s straight dark hair, not her mother’s honey-blond curls. And her lips were fuller, her nose a shade longer. Still she supposed it was possible that the man had mistaken her for her mother.

“You okay now, Mr. Lester?” the clerk asked, having turned his attention back to the older man he was holding upright.

But Lester didn’t respond. He simply continued to stare at her face through dark, terror-filled eyes.

“Mr. Lester?” the boy repeated. “Are you all right?”

Finally, he jerked his gaze back to the young man. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. Let go of me,” he said, shrugging off the boy’s hold.

“You don’t look okay to me,” the young man insisted. “You want me to call Doc Howell for you?”

“I said I’m okay, you little twerp,” Lester spat out. He looked around as though only now realizing the mess he had made. “I didn’t mean to knock over the sodas.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the clerk told him. “Maybe you should just go on home now.”

“I need to get my beer first,” Lester told him and, stooping down, he began gathering up the fallen beer cans.

“Maybe you should just forget about that beer,” the boy said.

Lester glared up at the young man from his position on the floor, where he had three cans of beer gathered against his chest. “I ain’t leaving here without my beer.”

The young man hesitated. He looked over at Tess for a second as though he was unsure whether or not to challenge Lester. Tess shook her head, not wanting the younger man to get into a situation with someone who didn’t seem stable.

“I tell you what,” the boy said as he picked up the bag of chips. “I need to clean up that beer that spilled and pick up those drink bottles before somebody comes in here and slips and hurts themselves. So why don’t you just take your beer and chips and go on home now. You can pay for them the next time you come in the store.”

“Suit yourself.” Lester grabbed the bag of chips from him, hugged them to his chest with the beer, then scrambled toward the exit. When he reached the door, he paused and looked over at her once more, holding her gaze for long seconds.

And there it was again, Tess thought. The terror. The man was terrified of her.

Then he shoved through the door, sending the overhead bells clanging in the silence as he disappeared outside into the night.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t know what got into old Lester tonight. He drinks some, but he’s usually harmless. That’s the first time I ever saw him get all crazy like that. I guess he’d had one too many for him to go off on you like that.”

“Don’t worry about it. There was no harm done,” Tess assured him. She picked up the plastic bottle that had fallen closest to her. Walking over, she handed it to the young man who was restacking the soda display.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Just out of curiosity, who is he?”

“His name’s Lester De Roach. He works off and on as a mechanic at a garage in town. According to my grandpa, Lester really knows his way around a car’s engine when he isn’t drinking.” The young man, who had continued to restructure the display of bottles, paused and scratched his head, ruffling the thick brown hair. “Funny thing is, I didn’t think he was drunk when he came in here. I mean, he looked like he was hungover, but not drunk. Otherwise, I would have sent him on his way and not let him get anywhere near the beer case.”

Sure, he had smelled of beer, but when he’d looked at her, his eyes had been as clear as glass—not dulled by the effects of alcohol. No, for some reason, she had spooked him. And the only thing she could think of was that he had thought she was her mother—Melanie Burns. She could understand his being shocked, even a little frightened at the prospect of seeing someone he thought was dead. But terrified? It didn’t make sense. “He seemed more scared than drunk to me,” she told him.

“He did, didn’t he?”

“Either way, I’m not sure he should be behind the wheel of a vehicle. You might want to alert the local police that his driving might be impaired. I would hate to see him cause an accident.” Like the one she’d almost had with him, she added silently.

“It’s sheriff in these parts, ma’am,” he corrected. “And I’ll give him a call. Sorry again about him carrying on like that.”

“As I said, no harm done.”

“Thanks for being so understanding,” he said. “I wouldn’t want you to have a poor impression of Grady because of Mr. Lester. Most of the folks here are really nice, friendly people.”

“I’m sure they are.”

The bells on the front door sounded and in came a pretty blonde wearing tight-fitting jeans and a sweatshirt with Ole Miss emblazoned across the front. She sashayed over toward them. “Hi there, Bobby. Ma’am,” she said with a nod of her head to acknowledge Tess. “Gee, what happened in here?”

“We had a little accident,” Bobby informed her. “Don’t forget your candy bar, ma’am.”

Tess scooped the chocolate bar off the counter and dropped it in her bag. “Then she started for the store’s exit, leaving the two young people alone.

“Enjoy your visit in Grady,” Bobby called out to her retreating back.

“Need some help cleaning up?” the girl offered, but Tess didn’t hear Bobby’s reply as she pushed open the door and headed out into the parking lot. Outside, the air had turned a bit cooler, and Tess hugged her arms to herself, glad that she’d worn the heavy sweater. Quickly she made her way over to the gas pumps where she’d left the rental car. After unlocking the door with the keyless remote, she slid behind the wheel and immediately relocked the doors. She started up the engine, then took a moment to reset the mileage gauge and fasten her seat belt before putting the Mustang into gear.

Recalling the directions the clerk had given her, Tess drove to the edge of the parking lot. When she reached the road, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Pausing, she glanced back in the rearview mirror at the parking lot. She saw no one. But as she pulled out onto the main road, she continued to look in her rearview mirror, unable to shake the feeling that someone was watching her.

Chapter Four

Lester stood in the dark behind the Quick Stop where he’d parked his truck and watched the little red Mustang drive away. Once she was gone, he debated about what to do. Still shaken, he decided he needed to make a phone call.

But not there at the Quick Stop, he reasoned. Too many eyes and ears in that place. Damn cell phones he thought, as he opened the door to his truck. Everybody and his brother had one of the blasted things these days. Everybody but him. Hell, he didn’t even have a regular phone anymore—not since the greedy phone company had disconnected the thing when he hadn’t paid the bill. He needed a pay phone. Trouble was, there weren’t nearly as many places to find one these days. Then he remembered the one in that old vacant shopping strip a few miles from his place. Hopping in his truck, Lester headed toward home.

Twenty minutes later he dropped a quarter into the coin slot and punched in the number he had committed to memory—a number he had been warned never to call unless it was an emergency. Seeing a dead woman come back to life was an emergency in his books.

As the phone started to ring, he drained the last of the beer in the can, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He dropped the empty can to the ground and crushed the aluminum beneath his work boot. But the beer did little to ease the fear that had knotted like a fist in his stomach since he’d seen the woman in the Quick Stop.

A cool blast of wind whipped through the concrete strip of deserted shops with broken windows and sagging roofs, but Lester barely felt it. He jumped as the sign in front of a burned-out dance studio squeaked from a rusty chain. Growing more on edge by the minute, he gazed over to his truck just to be sure he was still alone. “Come on, come on. Answer the phone,” he demanded as he listened to the phone continue to ring.

Finally, it was picked up. “Hello?”

“Jesus! I thought you’d never answer.”

“Who is this?”

Lester gritted his teeth. “It’s Lester. Lester De Roach,” he spat out, irritated that he’d had to identify himself to the man. Considering what he’d done for him, he’d think the SOB wouldn’t forget his voice so easily. But then, he was always the one who’d come up with the short end of the deal—even all those years ago.

“Didn’t I tell you never to call me,” the man said, his voice cool, angry.

“You said I wasn’t to call unless it was an emergency. Well, it’s a fucking emergency, okay?”

“Hang on a minute,” he ordered, and while Lester waited he heard a door shut. Then he came back on the line. “All right. What’s the emergency?”

“Melanie Burns. She’s alive.”

The man swore. “Listen to me, you drunken fool. Melanie Burns is dead and has been for twenty-five years.”

“And I’m telling you I seen her with my own eyes. She’s come back—just like old lady Burns said she would. She’s come back to make us pay for what we did.”

He swore again. “You stupid piece of shit!” he said furiously. “You did not see Melanie Burns. She’s dead. Understand?”

“But—”

“No buts. Go home and sleep it off and don’t call me again.”

“I’m telling you, I’m not drunk,” he insisted, despite the beers sloshing through his system. “Melanie Burns is here. In Grady. I saw her not thirty minutes ago with my own two eyes at Bobby Ed’s Quick Stop. She was paying for gas. If you don’t believe me, fine. But you better remember, I’m not the only one who lied about what happened that night.”

After a pause, in a somewhat calmer voice, he said, “All right. Start from the beginning and tell me exactly what happened.”

Lester told him. “…then after she paid for the gas and got directions, she turned around. That’s when I saw her face. It was her, I’m telling you. It was Melanie Burns.”

“How much have you had to drink tonight, De Roach?”

“I told you I’m not drunk.”

“How much?” he demanded.

“A few beers,” he lied. “But I’m nowhere near being drunk. I know what I saw. I saw Melanie Burns.”

“Do you hear yourself, De Roach? Do you have any idea how crazy you sound? You’re telling me you saw a woman who’s been dead for twenty-five years.”

“Don’t you think I know how the fuck it sounds?” Lester fired back, feeling scared and confused, but needing the man to believe him. “But I’m telling you, it was her.”

“What you saw was a woman who reminded you of Melanie.”

“It was her I tell you,” Lester insisted. “I looked right into her eyes. They were Melanie’s eyes. There’s no way I’d ever forget those eyes.” Hell, he’d seen them in his nightmares for more years than he wanted to remember.

He paused again. “All right. Tell me what this woman you saw looked like.”

“I told you. She looked like Melanie.”

He released a breath. “Describe her to me, you moron.”

“She was tall, a little on the skinny side. Her hair was darker than it used to be and shorter, but everything else was the same. One thing I’m sure about, she had those same spooky gray eyes.” He bit back a shudder. “You remember those eyes of hers.”

“Yeah, I remember them.” After a moment, he said, “She must be Burns’s kid.”

“Melanie’s kid?” Lester repeated.

“Yeah. Don’t you remember, you moron? Melanie and Jody Burns had a kid, a little girl. She was sleeping in the next room. And when she woke up, she found Jody Burns standing over his wife’s body. It was her testimony that helped put her old man away.”

“Melanie’s daughter,” Lester repeated more to himself than the other man. Relieved that the woman hadn’t been Melanie after all, he slumped against the cold wall. “Christ almighty, I thought for sure it was Melanie. That she was one of those reincarnations and she’d come back to make us pay just like old woman Burns said she would.”

The other man swore again. “How many times do I have to tell you there’s no such thing as ghosts. Only drunks with shit-for-brains believe in all that voodoo crap.”

Lester didn’t argue. But he knew what he knew. He’d heard the stories about Jody Burns’s mother, how she’d lived for a time in New Orleans in the French Quarter. Sin City, his own momma used to call the place because the people there were wicked. They even messed with black magic and stuff.

“De Roach, did you hear me?” he snapped.

“What?” Lester asked, pulling his attention back.

“I asked if you said anything to her.”

“No. I never said nothing to her,” he said. No reason to admit that he’d told her to stay away from him, he decided. After all, it wasn’t like they’d had a real conversation or anything. “I just got my stuff and got out of there as fast as I could. Then I called you.”

“Okay. Good. That’s good. It’s best if she didn’t notice you. She didn’t, did she?”

“No,” he answered quickly. “Like I said, she was paying for gas and getting directions from the kid behind the register.”

“Directions to where?” he demanded.

“I don’t know. I wasn’t paying no attention.”

“Try to remember, De Roach,” he insisted.

Lester thought for a moment, tried to recall what the kid had been saying to her. “She wanted to know how to get to one of those guesthouses.”

“Which guesthouse?”

“I don’t know. One with a name like a flower or a tree or something like that.”

“The Magnolia Guesthouse?”

“Yeah. That’s it. That’s the place. The Magnolia Guesthouse,” Lester told him.

“All right. And you’re sure she didn’t say anything else or ask questions about anyone?”

“I already told you what happened. She paid for her gas, got directions and left. And then I got out of there as fast as I could,” Lester repeated. He jammed his fist into his jacket pocket and his fingers brushed against a slip of paper—a gas receipt. He must have picked it up from the floor at the Quick Stop when he’d had to crawl around and pick up the beers he’d dropped. If he were to tell the guy now that the bitch had dropped it when her purse had fallen, it would only piss him off. He wouldn’t understand how scared he’d been and that he’d grabbed the thing in fear.

“All right. Then I don’t think we have anything to worry about.”

“How can you be sure?” Lester asked, not wanting to admit that he was still afraid. “I mean, if she is Burns’s kid, then she’s come back here for a reason. Maybe she knows what we did and she’s here for revenge and—”

“Would you stop saying that shit?”

“But if she knows—”

“She doesn’t know. Nobody does.” He all but spit out the words. “You got it?”

“Yeah. I got it,” Lester muttered grudgingly. Still, he had to ask, “So we aren’t going to do anything? Just sit around and wait?”

“I’m going to do some checking around, confirm she is the Burns kid and then find out why she’s here. And while I’m doing that, you are going to go home, lay off the booze and keep your damn mouth shut. Understand?”

Lester muttered his favorite four-letter word.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” Lester grumbled.

“So, do you understand me?” he repeated.

“Yeah, yeah, I understand you.” But he sure as hell didn’t appreciate being given orders by the likes of him. Just who in hell did he think he was? If it wasn’t for him, the son of a bitch wouldn’t be where he was. The bastard owed him. They all did. None of them had had the balls to pull off the gig. They had needed him then, he remembered. They still did. And he’d show them, too.

“Then go home and keep your mouth shut. And, De Roach?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t call me anymore.”

“But suppose she finds out that we were there that night?” Lester fired back, the panic building again.

“She won’t.”

“But what if she does? I’m not going to sit around and do nothing if she comes after me.”

“She’s not going to come after you.”

“How do you know?” Lester asked.

“Because I’ll take care of her. In the meantime you need to keep your mouth shut. And don’t call me again.”

Then the line went dead.

Lester stood there listening to the dial tone. “Self-righteous prick. I’ll show you. I’ll show all of you,” he yelled into the receiver before he slammed it down onto the phone hook so hard that it fell off. Not bothering to pick up the receiver that dangled from the aluminum cording like a doll’s arm, Lester stormed away. He stuffed his curled fists into the pockets of his jacket and headed for his truck.

He climbed inside the dirty old pickup, too angry to notice the torn seats, the empty beer cans on the floorboards, the overloaded ashtray or the stench of cigarettes and fast food. He grabbed one of the two remaining beers, popped the top and chugged it down to calm his nerves. When he finished, he threw the can on the floor and then reached for the last one. He opened it, drained half the can, then leaned his head back against the seat. Closing his eyes, he sighed as he felt the buzz start up again.

When he opened his eyes again, he took another swig of beer. Then he pulled the crumpled gas receipt from his pocket and smoothed it out. For a moment, he remembered looking into those spooky gray eyes again and his hand trembled. “Not a ghost,” he reminded himself, shaking off the attack of nerves.

He hit the interior light switch of the truck, but nothing happened. Then he remembered the thing had been out for months. Lester angled the piece of paper near the dashboard so that the overhead light from the parking lot fell on it. Squinting his eyes, he could barely make out the name stamped on the receipt because the inked copy was so faint. “T. Abbott,” he read the name aloud. At least that’s what it looked like to him.

“Abbott,” he repeated as he sat back in his seat and took another swallow of beer to steady his nerves. Why did that name sound familiar? he wondered. But the buzz in his head was getting louder and his limbs were feeling looser. He’d remember later he promised himself, and started up the truck’s engine.

Maybe he’d go by his sister Doreen’s tomorrow. Her kid had a computer. Could find out all kinds of stuff on a computer these days. With a name and credit card number, he could probably even find the bitch’s bra size. Laughing out loud at his own joke, Lester pulled the pickup truck out of the parking lot and onto the road.

Yep, that’s what he’d do. He’d go to Doreen’s and tell her he was hunting for a job out of state. Yeah, she’d buy that. She was always after him to clean up his act and get a good job.

And once he found out who the woman was, he’d call that asshole and rub his arrogant nose in the information. He’d show him. He’d show them all. Lester De Roach wasn’t no fool. He was smart. Just as smart as the rest of them. And just like the last time, he’d be the one who saved all their asses. Only this time they were going to have to pay him for his help.

He put the beer can to his lips and drained what was left in it. Wishing he’d thought to grab an extra six-pack from the Quick Stop since the kid had let him go without paying, he debated going back now, but decided against it. No point in pushing his luck. The kid might ask him to pay for what he’d already drunk. So he continued on and headed for the battered unpaved road that led to his own place.

When he reached it, the tires on the truck hit the deep ruts in the road, jostling him. As something furry dashed across the road to the other side, Lester swerved hard, hit another rut in the road and ran the truck into a tree. “Damn rabbits and coons.” He’d have to get his rifle and go hunting soon or the varmints were going to take over the place.

Putting the truck in Reverse, he sent the tires spinning as he hit the gas pedal, then he jerked the gearshift into forward. In need of another beer, he hit the gas pedal harder and sped toward home. As he did so, he kept thinking about Melanie Burns and those spooky ghost-gray eyes.

Seated at his desk, he hung up the phone and skimmed down the Mississippi government’s Web site, clicking on the bio for Senator Theodore Abbott. Skipping over his political accomplishments, he went straight to the personal data. And there it was, the name Tess Abbott, listed as the granddaughter he and Mrs. Abbott had raised, now working as a TV investigative reporter in Washington, D.C.

After jotting down the station’s name, he exited the site and typed in Washington, D.C., then the station’s name. When the Web site popped up, he scrolled over to the news-staff listing and clicked on the icon marked Tess Abbott. He stared at the smiling female whose image filled the screen.

Damned if De Roach hadn’t been right, he thought. The girl did have Melanie Burns’s eyes. Picking up one of the prepaid cell phones he kept for just this type of occasion, he dialed a private number, which was answered on the second ring.

“Yes?”

“We may have ourselves a little problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

“Another loose end,” he explained. “One that talks too much and could be damaging to you.”

“You assured me that Jody Burns was the only loose end we had to worry about—that when he killed himself this would be over.”

“I thought it would be, but something else has come up. It’s nothing I can’t handle as long as no one starts spilling their guts. I can take care of it for you.”

“How much will it cost me this time?”

“The same as last time.”

The other man swore. “All right. Take care of it.”

“Since it’s so close to home, I’m going to bring in an associate to handle it.” While he hated giving up any of the money and could easily handle the situation himself, he opted to play it safe. That idiot De Roach may have called him from someplace where the number could be traced back to him, and this was no time to take chances. “But don’t worry, it won’t cost you any more.”

“You can afford it with what I’m paying you.”

It was true, he admitted to himself with a smile. The association the two of them had formed all those years ago had afforded him a good life—a life he had no intention of giving up just because De Roach was a loose-lipped drunk.

“Whatever you do, just make sure that you keep my name out of it.”

When the line went dead, he sat back in his chair. Unlocking his desk drawer, he retrieved the small black book he kept hidden in a secret compartment. He dialed another number, safe in the knowledge that the call was routed through an intricate untraceable network system across the country.

“Father Peter.”

The man smiled at the irony. “Father, I have a donation for the church. I’d like you to say a mass for a sick friend.”

“And what is the name of your sick friend, my son?”

“Lester De Roach.” He’d long admired the creativity of the man who made the contracting of a hit sound like a donation to a religious group.

“And did you have a particular mass that you want me to remember him in?” he asked.

“Tomorrow if possible. Or just as soon as you can.”

“Consider it done. I’ll remember him in my morning prayers,” he promised.

“Thank you, Father Peter. I’ll put the donation in the mail to you in the morning.”

“It’s my pleasure to be of service, my son. God be with you.”

He hung up the phone and smiled again. This time tomorrow Lester De Roach would be with God or, more likely, with his counterpart in hell.

Tess braked when she approached the first red light. As she waited for the light to change to green, she opened the candy bar and bit off a chunk. The calorie-laden chocolate was just what she needed to give her the energy to make the rest of the trip.

When the signal flashed green, Tess continued through the next two lights, traveling along rolling hills and quiet streets. The sliver of a moon and the stars that she’d noted before stopping for gas seemed to have ducked behind a blanket of clouds, making the night sky even darker. Unlike the big city, there were no neon signs flashing every few yards, and only an occasional lamppost on a street corner provided light.

Finally, she saw the sign that read Magnolia Lane and flicked on her turn signal. And the moment she turned onto the lane, Tess knew she’d made the right decision in choosing the quaint-sounding guesthouse over the two hotels in town. As she drove down the road toward the main house, she felt as though she’d stepped back in time. There at the end of the road, resting atop a bluff and surrounded by trees, was a picture-perfect Victorian house. Painted all in white, curved brackets framed the inviting front porch. As she drew the car to a stop, Tess noted the cane rockers, also painted white, that dotted the porch. She could easily imagine herself sitting there in the summertime, sipping glasses of lemonade to beat the heat.

She shut off the engine. For several moments, she sat there, staring at the house and taking in the details. Open shutters surrounded the multipaned French-style windows, giving the house an added charm and a sense of protection. She knew a little about architecture, and she recognized the columns that braced the roof of the porch were a Queen Anne design. Exiting the car, Tess continued to admire the house. She noted that the mill-work on the base of the columns featured a cloverleaf theme that had also been adapted for the rafter tails and the post brackets. The white-on-white scheme pulled it all together, giving the building a sense of unity. At the bottom of the porch, white and yellow chrysanthemums had been planted along the border of a white wooden skirt that echoed the same detailing on the house. Five wooden steps led up to the porch, where white flower boxes placed on either side of each window were filled with more lush, yellow chrysanthemums.

Suddenly eager to go inside and see the rest of the place, Tess popped the lock on the trunk of the car and hurried to the rear to gather her bags. With her suitcase and computer travel case in tow, she headed up the stairs and into the guesthouse. It was like walking into someone’s home—someone’s beautiful antebellum home, Tess amended. The floors were made of polished oak. An heirloom rug filled the center of the floor. On it rested an antique table with a cut-glass vase filled with fresh white roses.

“Good evening, ma’am. Welcome to Magnolia Guesthouse,” a lovely blond woman with a sugary accent greeted her from behind the counter. “May I help you?”

With those blue eyes, skin like milk and pretty smile, all the girl needed was a hoopskirt, Tess thought, and she would have been convinced that she had been transported back to the nineteenth century. Shoving aside her foolish thoughts, Tess walked over to the registration desk. “Hello. I’m Tess Abbott,” she said as she set down her bags. Up close, she realized the girl was a little older than she’d thought at first glance, probably in her mid-twenties. Yet she’d ma’amed her as if she was pushing forty instead of someone who had just turned twenty-nine. “I believe you have a reservation for me.”

“Did you say Abbott?”

“Yes, I did,” Tess informed her and thought she’d caught a flicker of recognition on the other woman’s face. But it was gone so quickly, Tess was sure she’d been mistaken.

“Just give me a sec,” the woman said as she punched data into a computer system.

Definitely not the nineteenth century, Tess thought, smiling to herself.

While the girl worked at the computer, Tess used the opportunity to scan the rest of the room. She noted the small silk pillows in rich jewel tones with needlepoint appliqués propped along the back of a settee. A lush green ficus tree sat in one corner. Another table with more roses sat near a window. Her gaze gravitated to the far wall, dominated by a traditional fireplace. A fire burned invitingly in the grate, reminding Tess of the damp chill in the air when she’d gotten out of the car. Her eyes lifted to the painting above the mantel. It was the portrait of a beautiful redheaded woman sitting in a garden that looked very much like the one that she’d seen outside.

“Oh, here you are, Ms. Abbott. It looks like we were expecting you yesterday,” she said in that same slow, sweet voice.

“Yes, I had hoped to arrive yesterday evening. Unfortunately, I was delayed. I did call and leave a message that I’d be arriving a day later than planned.”

“Yes. So you did. It looks like you spoke with Ms. Maggie. She’s the owner of Magnolia Guesthouse. She’s left a note in the system for me to call her when you arrive.” The girl picked up the phone. “If you’ll just give me a sec, I’ll let Ms. Maggie know that you’re here.”

A few moments later, a striking pixie of a woman with a friendly smile came bustling down the hallway. “Ms. Abbot,” she called out and extended her hand. “I’m Maggie O’Donnell. Welcome to Magnolia Guesthouse.”

“Thank you,” Tess told her.

“I realize it’s late and you must be tired, so I won’t keep you. But I wanted to talk to you about your accommodations.”

The woman was right. She was tired, and after the day she’d had and the incident at the convenience store, she didn’t need anything else to go wrong. “Ms. O’Donnell, please don’t tell me there’s a problem with my reservation.”

“The name’s Maggie,” she corrected. “And there’s no problem at all. It’s just that you requested one of the cottages and since you were arriving so late and wouldn’t have a chance to view them this evening, I wanted to suggest that you spend tonight here in the main house. Then tomorrow when it’s light and a bit warmer, I’ll give you a tour of the grounds and show you the cottages. That way you can decide which one you’d like to stay in for the remainder of your visit. Does that sound acceptable to you?”

Tess paused. She’d thought being in a cottage, away from the main house, would afford her more privacy while she investigated. She’d also hoped that she might even do some Internet research tonight on Lester De Roach.

“Of course, if you’d prefer, I can go ahead and put you in one of the cottages tonight.”

“No. You’re right. I would like to look over the cottages tomorrow. So the main house will be fine for tonight. Thank you for suggesting it.”

Maggie smiled at her. And Tess couldn’t help herself. The woman’s energy and friendliness were contagious. “Excellent. Then I’ll leave Mary Lee to get you registered and show you up to your room. Tomorrow morning, you just let me know when you’re ready and I’ll give you that tour I promised.”

“Thank you,” Tess told her, and after giving the girl behind the counter instructions, Maggie disappeared back down the hall.

“Ms. Maggie’s right. You’ll like staying here in the main house. Truth is, I think the rooms here are prettier than the cottages,” Mary Lee said in a whisper, as though she was sharing privileged information. She punched more information into the computer. “Here we go. Now, do you want to put the charges on a credit card or will you be writing a check?”

“Credit card, please.” Tess retrieved her Visa card from her purse and handed it to the girl.

The young woman zipped the piece of plastic through the machine, then handed it back to Tess, along with a receipt. “If you’ll just sign right here.”

Tess signed the receipt and the girl gave her a copy, which she stuffed into her purse.

“You’ll be in the Lady Charlotte Suite tonight,” she explained, handing Tess an old-fashioned door key, the kind that up until now, she’d only seen in old movies. “It’s right up the stairs and the last door at the end of the hall. If you’ll just give me a sec, I’ll help you with your bags.”

“That’s okay, I can handle them,” Tess told her as she hooked her computer bag to the front of her suitcase. “But thanks anyway.”

“Sure thing. Oh, by the way, we serve a country breakfast beginning at seven-thirty in the dining room. You don’t want to miss it.”

“That sounds good. Is it possible for me to get a wake-up call for six-thirty?”

“Of course. And if you need anything in the meantime, just ring down to the front desk. I’ll be here all night.”

“Thank you, Mary Lee,” Tess said, and once again she thought she’d detected something in the way the girl looked at her. An eagerness, almost as if she was bursting with a secret, Tess mused. Dismissing the notion to an overactive imagination brought on by fatigue, Tess headed toward the stairs, eager to set up her laptop and get to work. With any luck, she might just be able to find out who Lester De Roach was and whether or not he’d had any ties to either of her parents.

Chapter Five

“I don’t like this any more than you do, pal,” Spencer told the twelve-pound black-and-white cat he’d named George that sat meowing beside him on the couch in his apartment in Jackson. “But if you want me to keep you in cat food, I’ve got to finish this column. So stop with all the racket so I can think.”

Apparently insulted, George jumped off the couch and headed for the kitchen. Not that he blamed the cat, Spencer admitted. With the governor’s election less than a month away, he’d had his fill of campaign rhetoric, too. He’d also had a bellyful of Everett Caine. Damn, but he didn’t want to see that man get in the governor’s mansion. But Caine had covered his tracks well. Except for a few questionable appointments and the steering of some legal work to his cronies’ law firms, he hadn’t been able to find anything to derail Caine’s bid for the governorship, and to prove, once and for all, what a lying snake in the grass he was.

When his cell phone rang, Spencer ignored it. Instead he went back to staring at the computer screen on his laptop. Deadlines were a bitch, he thought as he looked at the half-finished column. He needed to finish the damn thing and turn it in before Hank had another hissy fit. Not to mention that the other newspapers that carried his column would be none too happy with him if he didn’t deliver the goods for which they were paying him.

Rubbing his face, he pretended not to notice that his face felt as if it belonged to a grizzly bear. He reread what he’d written.

WHAT ARE FRIENDS WORTH?

By Spencer Reed

Associated Press

Or perhaps the question gubernatorial candidate Everett Caine has been asking his friends and business associates is how much is friendship with the man who wants to be the state’s next governor worth to them? Quite a lot it seems if Saturday evening’s fund-raiser at the Ritz-Carlton in Oxford, Mississippi, is any indication. It was there that Lieutenant Governor Caine collected another $1,000,000 for his campaign war chest from two hundred of his closest friends at a $5,000-a-plate black-tie dinner. Let’s hope that for that price steak and lobster were on the menu. What shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone is to learn that three individuals, who each purchased tables of ten at the fund-raiser, have had their names mentioned as part of Caine’s management team if he should win the governor’s race next month.

While Everett Caine and his supporters are quick to point out the candidate’s record of good government, and purport him to be the man to wipe out the good-old-boy network that has long been the bane of Southern politics, this reporter has to disagree. Based on his own track record as a district attorney and lieutenant governor, Everett Caine has surrounded himself with friends who have helped him get into office. Payback? It sure seems like it to me.

Lieutenant Governor Caine claims to be the candidate who will keep his promises, a man who pays his debts. A $1,000,000 dinner is no small favor and we can only wonder how this debt will be paid, and how much it will cost the State of Mississippi and its citizens if Caine wins the governorship….

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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