Private Investigations

Ignoring him, she headed for her car under the oaks. He was still nipping at her heels.

“Look, grits, slow down long enough to hear me—”

This time she stopped, rounding on him so swiftly he almost collided with her. “What did you just call me?”

He backed up a safe distance away from her, his hands raised in mock innocence. “Hey, it’s a compliment. Grits is one of my favorite foods. Really.”

“Is it? Well, that’s one Southern dish I can do without.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing. With a little honey on top, it’s downright irresistible.” There went those eyebrows again, registering something far too suggestive.

“I’ll bet.”

Swinging away from him, she went on to her car. It was no longer alone under the oaks. McFarland’s car was parked beside it. And wouldn’t you know it would be a sleek, cream-colored convertible just reeking of success, making her own old red Escort look all the more inadequate by comparison.

Well, so what? It was dependable enough to take her out of here and away from McFarland, providing she could find the keys. Naturally, she couldn’t. She had to stand there digging through all the junk in her bag while McFarland caught up with her. Trapped. Forced to listen to him as he leaned his rangy, tempting frame against the side of her car.

“Got a proposition for you, grits. Oh, you’re gonna love it.”

He spoke in a lazy, deep-voiced drawl, the country-boy variety. She suspected it wasn’t altogether genuine and wondered how many women had been dumb enough to fall for it.

“What I was thinking,” he went on, “is that you and I could work together on this case.”

Now that took her attention away from her frantic search for the car keys. Boy, did it ever! She lifted her head and stared at him, not believing what she was hearing. Somebody here had just lost his mind, and she didn’t think it was her.

“I can see by the way that sweet little nose of yours is twitching that you’re just a tad upset by the notion. But think about it. Even if we do have separate clients, we’re after the same thing, aren’t we? The truth behind Laura Hollister’s murder. So why not join forces and share our efforts? Make sense?”

“About as much sense as a cottonmouth getting cozy with a bunny rabbit.” As she went on staring at him, Christy realized there was something intense behind this casual offer of his. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Well, sure.”

“It’s never going to happen, McFarland. And why would an exalted P.I. like you, want it to happen when you know how I feel about you? Which, in case you’ve been wondering, isn’t good. Besides—and correct me if I’m wrong—your opinion of me and my agency is—” She broke off with another sudden realization. “Oh, I get it. I’m a direct pipeline to the chief suspect. You want easy access to any privileged information my client might share with me. And that’s about as underhanded as slipping a pair of twenties to Brenda Bornowski’s best friend.”

“Why, when I’d be sharing anything Monica Claiborne knows with you?”

“I’ll collect my own information, thank you. And move aside so I can get out of here.” She had found her car keys, and now all she wanted was to put Dallas McFarland behind her. Far behind her.

“Sure you won’t reconsider?” He stepped away from the Escort. “It would be an opportunity for you to work with an experienced P.I. Just think of how much you could learn.”

There was one thing she had to say about this man, Christy thought, opening her car door and sliding in behind the wheel. He didn’t lack ego or tenacity. As she fumbled with her seat belt, he poked his head through the open window of the driver’s door.

“Okay, so you’re going to solve this murder all on your own. But did you ever stop to think, grits, that the cops might be right and that Glenn Hollister did kill his wife?”

She turned the key in the ignition, started the car, and resisted the temptation to raise the window with his head in it. “Glenn is a decent, caring man, incapable of murder, and I’m going to prove that!”

“We’re sensitive about ol’ Glenn, are we? Interesting.”

Christy angrily tugged at the brim of her baseball cap and shoved the gear stick into Drive. Dallas McFarland leapt back from the window just in time to save himself from being decapitated as she sped away from the oak grove.

On the first half of the drive back to New Orleans, Christy fumed. On the second half she cooled down and thought about McFarland’s reasons for wanting to work with her. And by the time she reached the city, she decided there was something wrong with those reasons. They weren’t good enough. So what was he really after?

When she got back to the office and told Denise all about it, the woman agreed that McFarland’s proposal didn’t make sense. “Yeah, what’s a hotshot P.I. like him need with you?”

“Thank you, Denise.”

“Well, sure is funny.”

On the other hand, Christy decided, they were probably assigning dark motives where none existed. And what did it matter, anyway, since she wouldn’t be working with McFarland? No sir, she worked alone and starting tomorrow she was going to be much too busy helping Glenn to worry about anyone else.

However, at this moment, it was a little hard to concentrate on Glenn and her feelings for him with the memory of Dallas McFarland’s hot eyes haunting her. And that was another thing. How could green eyes be hot? She didn’t know, but his were.

THE OFFICE SUITE of the McFarland Detective Agency was located in a high-rise overlooking the Mississippi. Dallas’s private office, as classy as his cream-colored convertible, had floor-to-ceiling windows that commanded a sweeping view of the New Orleans harbor, one of the busiest in the country with its barges, tugs and freighters.

At this moment, with a flaming sunset gilding the river and its traffic, the scene was particularly impressive. Dallas paid no attention to it. Tilted back in his comfortable chair, he occupied himself with something far more absorbing. His yo-yo.

Dallas was very good with the instrument, able to execute intricate loops that had been the envy of every kid on his block. Hell, he could make the thing actually sing when he tried. Right now, though, he was simply sending it out and back at a horizontal angle, an activity that permitted him to think. Unfortunately, whenever his frustration was considerable and he shot the yo-yo too far, it left marks in the designer wall covering.

That covering was taking a real beating this evening. The subject of his thoughts was Christy Hawke. Or, to be more accurate, how Christy Hawke had felt when she’d been plastered against him up there in that attic this afternoon.

Good. That’s how she’d felt. Damn good, with those luscious little breasts of hers squeezed against his chest, that honey-blond hair all fragrant under his nose. The crazy thing was, he’d never thought of her before as anything but a small nuisance in a baseball cap and running shoes. Never found her remotely alluring. But up there in that attic, he’d just about lost all self-control.

So how smart was it that he wanted to hook up with her, place himself in a situation where he would be close to her on a daily basis? Not smart at all. He didn’t need that kind of distraction.

The yo-yo in his hand flew out and back, out and back.

On the other hand, he did need what she was in a position to offer him. Needed it badly. Yeah, no choice about it. So all right, he would just have to resist temptation while he worked with her. He could do that. He could also live with the guilt of what amounted to using her. Couldn’t he? Hell, he had to. There was no way he could reveal this secret that was eating him up inside.

The yo-yo bounced off the wall. He refused to see that as a sign of any dangerous emotion. But, just as a precaution, he rewound it and laid it aside.

Of course, she had no intention of working with him. None whatever. But Dallas had the solution to that. Not that it was something he wanted to do. She’d call him conniving, blow that baseball cap right off the top of her head. No choice about it.

Swinging around in his chair, he reached for the telephone on his desk.

CHRISTY WAS grabbing a quick breakfast in her apartment the next morning when Denise hollered to her from the office below.

“Girlfriend, you up there?”

Bowl of corn flakes in hand, she went to the top of the stairs. “I’m here. What is it?”

Denise stood at the bottom of the flight, hands planted on her ample hips. “You got you a surprise waiting down here. Want me to send it on up, or are you comin’ down?”

“A delivery?”

“Uh, sorta.”

“I’ll be right down.”

What now? she wondered, not certain that she cared for the ambiguous tone in Denise’s voice. Spooning up the last mouthful of corn flakes, she dumped the bowl in the sink, snatched up her bag and flew down the stairs. As it turned out, straight into the outstretched arms of Denise’s surprise.

“Pop!”

Christy was the only member of her family who shared her father’s diminutive height. But what Casey Hawke lacked in size, he made up for in strength. She was reminded of that when he folded her in a hug that crushed her shoulder bag into her ribs.

When she was finally released, he demanded, “How are you, baby?” And before she could answer him, he turned to Denise. “How is she, Denise?”

“Got herself a case.”

“Yeah, I heard about that.”

How had he heard? What was he doing here? “Pop, what are you doing here?”

“On my way to help Roark with a client,” he said, referring to one of Christy’s brothers. “Didn’t your mother mention that when you called?”

Had she? Christy didn’t think so, but she kind of remembered Moura starting to tell her something about her father when she had to hang up on her. “Pop, this isn’t San Antonio.”

“Right, but I couldn’t get a direct flight.”

#8220;So you’re just here between planes?”

“That’s all.”

“Uh-oh,” Denise mumbled ominously.

Christy didn’t think she trusted her father’s explanation either. “Have you had breakfast?”

“On the flight down. I could stand to stretch my legs though, before I grab a cab back to the airport.”

He wanted to talk. He could have done that over the phone. This was beginning to sound more serious by the moment. “Let’s go, Pop.”

They left the office and crossed the courtyard, passing in the carriageway the side window of St. Leger’s Antiques. Her friend, Alistair St. Leger, was arranging a display of snuff boxes and waved to her. Out on the street, carriages conducted tourists through the Quarter, and around Jackson Square, where Christy and her father ended up strolling, street artists set up their wares for the day. It was Christy’s adopted city and she loved it all, even its seedier aspects, but her father’s presence had her fearing she might be forced to say goodbye to it.

“All right, Pop, let’s have it.”

He wasn’t gentle with her about it. Where business was concerned, he never was. “Your lease on the office comes up for renewal in ten days. We’re not going to pick it up, Christy. The agency can’t afford to carry you anymore.”

She stopped and turned her head to look at him. He had dark hair, liberally streaked with gray and a pair of blue eyes that at the moment were uncompromising. Beloved daughter or not, he was shutting her down. He was the senior member of the Hawke Detective Agency, who got tough whenever it was necessary. It was how Hawke’s had been able to survive and prosper all these years.

Christy understood that even while she hated it.

“I’m sorry, baby. Maybe you just weren’t meant to be a P.I. Anyway, it isn’t as though you don’t have a career waiting for you.”

Teaching. He meant she could come back home and go into the classroom. Never. Not without a fight. “Pop, I have a case. Let me solve it. Let me prove to you that I am a good P.I.”

She started to tell him about it, but he held up his hand. “I know all about Glenn Hollister and what you’re trying to do for him. I heard it last night.”

Christy had another bad feeling. Very bad. “How? Who?”

“Our competitor, Dallas McFarland, phoned me.”

“Why, that sneaky, low-down excuse for a—”

“Calm down, baby, and hear me out. McFarland had a proposition. Yes, I know. He already offered it to you and you turned it down. Well, I don’t share your biases about the man. I listened to it and in the end, your mother and I decided it made good sense. McFarland is a seasoned investigator and it’s going to take that kind of successful track record to save Glenn Hollister.”

“Oh, Pop,” she pleaded, “don’t say it. Please don’t say it.”

But he did. “Look, your mother and I agree that you have the kind of talent necessary to be a P.I. What you don’t have is the know-how that comes either from experience or learning, and since you weren’t willing to leave New Orleans to come home to us for that training—Anyway, here’s the deal. You join forces with McFarland, who’ll be kind of a mentor to you on this case and if before the ten days are up, the two of you, working together, have cracked the thing…well, then maybe Hawke’s will be interested, after all, in picking up that lease for you.”

“But that’s blackmail!” Dallas McFarland’s rotten blackmail. And why, why was he going to these extreme lengths to get her?

“Yes, baby, it kind of is. But you need a success and McFarland has what it takes to help you get it. Besides…”

A sly smile had appeared at the corners of her father’s mouth. “What?” she demanded.

“You might get close enough to learn just how he’s managed to steal all those clients from us.”

Yes, she thought, there was that.

“What do you say, baby?”

Christy drew a slow, deep breath meant to steady herself. But with that breath came all the tantalizing aromas of New Orleans—the tang of the nearby river, the perfume of its flowers, the old, mossy smells of its damp earth, the odors of its famous cooking. They were all blended together on the warm, lazy air, and they made her ache inside, as did the sight of St. Louis Cathedral rising so majestically from the edge of the square where they stood. She couldn’t bear to surrender them.

“All right, Pop, I accept your ultimatum. It stinks, but I accept it.”

The crinkles deepened at the corners of Casey’s eyes. “Don’t think of it as an ultimatum, baby. Think of it as a challenge.”

After putting her father in a cab, she went back to her office. “Call McFarland,” she instructed Denise. “Tell him I’ll meet him on the street outside the Claiborne and Hollister houses. He can talk to Monica while I interview Glenn. One hour and if he isn’t there the deal is off.”

Denise had one of her all-knowing looks.

“Don’t say it,” Christy warned her. “Not one word.”

Denise didn’t, but it didn’t help. The idea of Dallas McFarland as her salvation was infuriating.

THE TWO HOMES were situated side by side in the heart of the Garden District. Built by some eccentric Claiborne ancestor after the family had recovered its fortunes, they were something of a curiosity. Not just because they were identical, which they were, in nearly every respect, but because of their architecture. They were in the style known as Steamboat Gothic.

And you didn’t have to wonder what that meant, Christy thought. Their galleries, embellished with elaborate scroll-work, were more like the decks of floating palaces than porches, while the cupolas crowning their roofs resembled wheelhouses.

Christy never passed them without slowing down for a look, partly because she’d known that Glenn and his wife occupied one of the houses, and that Laura’s sister lived in the other. This morning, however, her attention was directed elsewhere.

He was already there, his cream-colored convertible parked at the curb in the shade of a glossy-leafed magnolia. If he was conscious of her arrival when she pulled up behind his vehicle, he was much too occupied to be interested in it. He’d left his car and was standing at the low wrought iron fence that framed both properties. There was an odd intensity in his manner, in the way he was so completely absorbed with the Hollister house, his eyes searching the windows.

What was he looking for? Christy wondered. What did he expect to see? And what was she doing sitting here at the wheel of her Escort watching him?

But the answer to that one was obvious, much as she hated to acknowledge it. She was admiring him, that’s what she was blatantly doing. And, worse luck, there was a lot to admire.

McFarland’s long, lean figure was clad in a trim, light gray business suit that accentuated the breadth of his shoulders. And wouldn’t you know, she’d be dressed in her regulation knee-length shorts and baseball cap. Oh, they were going to make quite a team all right, a real contrast in styles.

As a concession to the warmth of the morning, however, he did have the jacket off and slung over one shoulder, the knot of his tie loosened, the sleeves of his deep blue shirt turned back over a pair of strongly corded forearms. Unfortunately, the effect wasn’t as casual as it was downright sexy. Drat. Working with this guy was going to be even harder than she’d figured.

Tugging grimly at the brim of her cap, Christy left her car and joined him at the fence. He turned his head, favoring her with one of his cocky grins.

“So, grits, what’s your take on your new partner?”

So he had been aware that she was checking him out. Great. “We are not partners,” she informed him brusquely. “Not even remotely are we partners. This is a temporary arrangement, McFarland, and when it’s ended—which can’t be soon enough for me—we go our separate ways.”

“Right. Anything else?”

“Oh, yeah. Rules.”

One of those dark, aggressive eyebrows lifted. “Rules?”

“Rules. And either you agree to them, or I walk.”

“Listening.”

Christy used the spikes on the top of the iron fence to count them off. “First, we split down the middle all fees and expenses. I don’t care what Monica Claiborne is paying you, it gets equally divided between us. Second, we share all information. No holding back and if I find out you have any hidden agendas—”

“Such as?”

“Just don’t have them.” She jabbed at the next spike. “Third, and this is very important, we stick to business. All business. No more touchy-feely stuff like up in that attic.”

“Ow, that’s a sharp one, grits. Painful.”

He didn’t know how painful. Those lethal green eyes of his were reminding her, all over again, of that brief, breathless intimacy they’d shared. Made it tough to concentrate on delivering her rules.

“And that’s another thing. I want you to stop calling me grits.”

“Well, now, see, that one might be a little difficult. It’s kind of gotten inside my head.”

“Then get it out.”

“Does it qualify as a spike?” Her expression must have warned him that her aggravation was at a dangerous level, because he added a hasty, “I’ll try. Is that all?”

“For now.”

“Then shall we go to work?”

She watched him roll down his sleeves, button them, tighten his tie, slip into his jacket. And she wondered why she should be so annoyed that he was making himself gorgeous for Monica Claiborne?

THEY MET AGAIN by their parked cars to share the information they had gathered in their separate interviews.

“This could take a while,” Dallas said. “We might as well sit while we talk. Your car or mine?”

Christy wasn’t certain that she cared to get comfortable with him in either car. She preferred a neutral ground for their exchange. Where? The clang of an approaching trolley on nearby St. Charles Avenue provided the answer.

“How do you feel about streetcars?”

“Streetcars are good.”

“Then let’s ride one.”

They reached the corner in time to board the old, olive-green car that served one of the last lines of its kind. Paying their fares, they squeezed into a slatted seat.

Dallas barely gave her a chance to get settled before he wanted to know, “And how is ol’ Glenn holding up?”

The sarcasm in his tone whenever he referred to Glenn irritated her. He obviously considered him capable of his wife’s murder, which was not exactly the best way to represent your client. All right, so strictly speaking Glenn was her client, but still…

“He’s just dandy. Or would be, if he didn’t have a murder charge staring him in the face.”

“There’s a little girl, isn’t there? She okay?”

“I didn’t see Daisy, but I imagine someone is taking good care of her.”

Dallas fell silent as the trolley rumbled on through the Garden District with its classic mansions. His face was impassive and she wondered what he was thinking. Before she could ask, he had another question for her.

“And Hollister has no idea who might have wanted his wife dead?”

“Not a clue.”

“What about Laura’s car? It must have been parked somewhere near the old plantation house. If Glenn followed her out to Resurrection, why didn’t he see it, know that she must still be there? Did you ask him about that?”

“Of course I asked him. He said it was there, that the police had found it parked out of sight behind this tangle of shrubbery. But since Glenn had no reason to suppose she might have hidden it or to check out the cemetery either, he assumed she wasn’t there, after all, and he left.”

“In an agitated state. Why, if he never saw her?”

“He was upset about their marriage,” Christy explained. “He’d been upset for some time. He’d counted on having it out with her about their problems and was angry that she wasn’t available.”

“Seems a funny thing to do, going out there like that on the chance she’d be there. Why not wait until she got home to talk to her about it?”

“It was one of those spur of the moment things. An I’ve-had-it-and-I’m-going-to-settle-it-right-now emotion. We’ve all had them.”

“Yeah, but a couple of hikers didn’t see us tearing away from the scene and a teenager out hunting rabbits the next morning didn’t find our wife with her head bashed in.” Aware of Christy glaring at him, Dallas offered a quick, “Hey, I’m just playing devil’s advocate here, trying to look at all the angles. I’m not condemning the guy. I know that his marriage was in trouble. Monica told me that.”

“I hope she also told you that her sister had gotten very strange these past few months. Glenn said Laura had become withdrawn and wouldn’t talk about it. Something was going on with her and I’m thinking it could have been another man, that she was meeting him at Resurrection, which would explain why she was out there so much and didn’t come home some nights.”

“That would be a handy solution. Laura cheating on ol’ Glenn and her secret lover doing her in.” Dallas shook his head. “Except it doesn’t work. And not because Laura Hollister wasn’t the type to have an affair. She just wouldn’t have been troubled about it.”

“How do you know what type she was? Oh, Monica, I suppose. And would you please stop crowding me?”

Christy had grown increasingly aware of his disarming closeness. He was pressed so tightly against her that she could feel the heat of his solid body, smell the scent of his soap. His nearness was making her slightly woozy.

“Can’t help it. In case you haven’t noticed, these seats aren’t exactly generous.”

“Do you have to have your arm there?” It was draped along the back of the seat, not exactly around her but close enough to be threateningly cozy. She was beginning to realize the trolley hadn’t been a safe choice.

“Nowhere else to put it,” he said with an innocence she was learning not to trust. “And it’s not about sex. It’s about money.”

“Huh?”

He chuckled. “Pay attention. The Hollister marriage. Money was the problem there. Laura liked to spend it, particularly on jewelry, and her husband earned a teacher’s salary. Monica said they argued about that all the time.”

“But there should have been plenty. Glenn told me that, though Monica controlled the sisters’ inheritance, she doled out a generous monthly allowance to Laura.”