“Now Uncle is calling you with updates?”
“He’s…concerned. And that tabloid hasn’t helped matters. We’re not just talking about your reputation, there’s your family and Mead’s campaign to consider.”
I started down the porch steps and gripped the handrail to keep from slipping as Darien’s caustic reminder hung in the air like a noose.
Gossip had shaped my life and many of the choices I’d made, and now here I was, dealing with its specter again. How could I not understand my family’s concerns? They’d been drilled into me from birth. Since Trace’s parole, Aunt Hesta, Bradford mediatrix extraordinaire, had swept the ‘unpleasantry’ beneath the proverbial rug. Uncle Sears and the others had followed suit.
The only holdout was Cousin Mead who talked nonstop about my ‘stupid lapse in judgment.’
And Darien agreed. “Let this go before it snowballs, babe.”
“Someone used me to destroy his family.” I picked my way down the icy footpath. “Now they’re after anyone who helps him.”
“You think I would’ve prosecuted him if I wasn’t convinced he did it? You should know better. And a jury agreed with me.”
“Are you saying twelve people can’t be wrong?” I asked.
“Are you saying they are?”
That was the problem. I didn’t know what I was saying.
“Okay, how’s this?” Darien offered. “Since we’re throwing everything in but the kitchen sink, I guess you have an explanation for the con Dawson killed.”
Trace had allegedly murdered an inmate, but I didn’t want to believe it. “Since when are rumors facts?”
“The guy’s name was Nyle Weathers, and my contacts are sure Dawson killed him. They just didn’t have the evidence to prove it. No weapon was ever found. Some say Amber Pugliese stashed it for him. They did an investigation, but nothing ever came of it.”
This was bad, but I wouldn’t concede. “Is that all?”
“Isn’t that enough? He’s a psychopath and you’ve got no reason to feel guilty. You’re Catholic. Go say a few Hail Marys and be done with it.”
I stalked to my car, ice patches be damned. “The sarcasm doesn’t help.”
“I’m just telling it like it is. You know, the facts? Those annoying little things you take issue with?”
“Here’s a fact.” I caught my balance when I almost slipped. “Mother hurt me, but I didn’t remember the abuse. Until now.”
“Even if she beat you, it doesn’t absolve that murdering piece of sh—” He mumbled beneath his breath. “I’m not getting into this with you again. Can we change the subject?”
My call waiting beeped before I could answer him. “Hold on.” I punched a button to switch over. “Shannon Bradford.”
“This is Jane Younger. Valene Campbell’s granddaughter.” A dramatic pause preceded her snippy, “I’m returning your calls.”
I rested my hip against my car door. “Yes, Ms.—”
“I don’t like repeating myself,” she continued, her tone icy. “But my grandmother can’t speak with you. Now or ever.”
SLAM.
Incredulous, I glared at the receiver, muttering a curse as I clicked back over to Darien.
“Hi,” I said tightly.
“Did something happen?”
“Mrs. Campbell’s granddaughter all but told me to go screw myself.” I scowled. “Something’s going on, and if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you couldn’t care less.”
Darien sighed. “Shannon, can we stop this? Please? Our wedding’s in four months and all we ever do is quarrel.”
He had a point, but then, most of our arguments stemmed from his absence. “Are you sure you can’t make the luncheon?”
I’d been planning Auntie and Uncle’s anniversary for months. They were like parents to me; parents who were dangerously close to divorce. I’d hoped this gala would remind them that their thirty-six years together were worth fighting for. Speaking of which, whoever had given The Dirty Dish that bogus engagement party tip, had probably confused it with this one.
“Honey,” Darien said, his tone firm. “I already told you I can’t make it. But as soon as this trial winds down—”
“Fine. Can you fax me the letter?” I wrenched my car door open and plopped down sideways, legs out. “I’d like to review it before I leave for the realtors seminar.”
Static crackled for a few seconds, and when he spoke, I could feel his reluctance. “I’ll send it tonight. But I can’t concentrate if I’m worrying about you. Stay away from Dawson.”
That was so far from okay, it wasn’t funny. “But Darien—”
“No buts. Promise me.”
If I told him I planned to track Trace down as soon as I got back, he’d worry. So what else could I do but lie?
CHAPTER SIX
Poison
TRACE
____________________________
The dream began as it always did.
From a bona fide memory.
I was in Lilith’s room. A canopy bed smothered with pillows centered the white marble floor. Mirrors adorned the walls and porcelain sculptures crowded the shelves. It was like stepping into a cloud. “Come Live With Me,” a sixties song she liked to play, hummed in the background. The sound led me to her boudoir.
She was sitting at a vanity table, dragging a brush through her glossy black hair. A glass, a crystal carafe of wine, and a vase spilling over with purple calla lilies were among the many perfume bottles before her. From her glazed eyes, she was obviously pickled. Even so, she still rated a ten.
The sheer black negligee she wore left nothing to the imagination. At forty-one, the ex-beauty queen gave women half her age a run for their money. God had blessed her with flawless skin, a long, graceful neck, tilted eyes like wet jade, and a body that could breathe life into a dead man.
Lilith glanced at me through the mirror when I filled the doorway. She tossed her brush to the side and poured herself another generous drink. The woman had barely drained her glass before she’d tipped the carafe again.
“What can I do for you, Mister Dawson?”
“Um, Cook said you wanted to see me before I left.”
She stared back at me for an awkward eternity, then… “You ever been in love?”
I raised both brows in surprise. “Ah, no, ma’am.”
“Good for you. People toss the word around so much, they cheapen the sentiment.” The golden wine licked the rim after she set her glass aside with the grace of a toddler. She frowned into the mirror. “God, I hate getting old.”
I shifted from one foot to the other. This was getting awkward. “Um, ma’am, can you, ah—can you tell me what you needed? Cholly’s going away party is tonight and—” My eyes widened when she cupped her breasts.
“Gravity wasn’t a problem,” she said this to the left one as she weighed and squeezed it. “A little lift-tuck and voila! Boobs you can bounce a quarter off.” She grabbed her glass. “It’s the things you don’t expect that get you. Some call it a mid-life crisis, but I call it death.” She burst out laughing, yet her eyes stayed haunted. “Did you know I’m eligible for the Silver Star Plan?” She seemed surprised by my bewildered expression. “Surely you’ve seen that tacky Life Trust insurance commercial? The one with the old couple walking into the sunset with their stupid dog?”
I gave my head a faint shake.
“The annoying thing comes on at 2 a.m. every damn night. Like this is something I want to think about before I go to bed.” She rolled her eyes. “They’ve lumped me in with the mummies. I’m in the forty to eighty-five range. That’s the Silver Star Plan.” She studied her reflection. “Do you think I’m beautiful?”