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Kim was intrigued in spite of herself. “I’ve heard of people taking home stray dogs, but stray shrubs?” She glanced across at the rambling two—story house next door, impressive with its red—tile roof and carved balustrades—very upscale for all that it was a rental. The yard had long ago been turned into a neatly maintained rock-and-cactus garden. “You wouldn’t have a place to put it over there. The owner doesn’t like mess.”
He nodded. “I’d already guessed as much. When I signed the lease, she threatened a lawsuit if I spill anything on the carpets.”
Kim hesitated, but then she spoke. “The owner also happens to be my mother-in-law.”
“She mentioned that, too.”
Nobody could accuse Michael Turner of being loquacious. If he was curious about anything, he didn’t let on. Kim suddenly felt a discontent she couldn’t explain, and she jabbed her shovel into the ground again.
“For eight years, I’ve looked at this damn bush,” she muttered. “That’s about to change.”
He didn’t answer. With seemingly little effort, he managed to walk over to her and relieve her of the shovel. Kim felt a stirring of unease. Yes, there was an aura of power to this Michael Turner, as if he was accustomed to taking what he wanted.
She’d known, of course, that Sophie had been looking to rent the house next door. The last tenants had been a pleasant older couple, but they’d moved out more than a month ago. Her new neighbor, this Michael Turner, started digging around the shrub, every motion efficient and methodical. No show of brawn here; he was just getting the job done. Kim suspected he was the type of person who’d always get the job done, whatever it happened to be. As he worked, his dark hair curled a little over his forehead. The way it refused to stay properly in place implied a certain unruliness.
Silently she cursed Sophie for renting to this man and his son. Of course, she’d been cursing her mother—inlaw for one reason or another these eight long years. Why should that change even now?
Kim felt a bitter sensation inside. She couldn’t let herself think about Stan and all the rest of it. She couldn’t let her anger out, that was for sure. Because if she ever started to let it out, who knew where she’d end up?
Meanwhile, this stranger was digging up a bush in her front yard.
“It was therapy,” Kim said.
Michael Turner glanced at her, although he kept on working. It was remarkable how much progress he’d made in just a few minutes.
“Digging up the damn bush was therapeutic!”
He glanced at her again, his dark eyes unreadable. And then, silently, he handed the shovel back to her.
“Thanks for your help,” she said.
He gave another faint smile. “Why say it if you don’t mean it?”
“Something to do with being polite.” She worked the shovel into the ground.
“Forget polite,” he said. “You’re not very good at it, anyway.”
Kim wished she could start over with the man, maybe something on the line of “Hello, neighborgoodbye.” She dumped a shovelful of dirt beside her.
“Funny, but my mother-in-law has a similar complaint about me. Says I’m not nearly well mannered enough.”
“Do you listen to her?”
Once again Kim couldn’t detect any humor in his expression, just that hardness she’d already sensed. Michael Turner, a man of stony edges.
“Mr. Turner,” she said, “it’s been nice getting acquainted, but—”
“You’re pretending to be polite again.”
She’d scarcely met the man, but already he chafed at her nerves. It almost seemed as if he was doing it deliberately, to get a reaction from her. Kim wielded her shovel more forcefully.
“Not very many people rent in this neighborhood,” she said. “Everyone here likes to think of themselves as the silk—stocking type. Pride of ownership, the whole bit. Pretty snobbish, unfortunately—”
“Why don’t you come right out and ask what I’m doing here?” he suggested. The mildness in his tone sounded deceptive.
“Hey, nobody’s too sure I belong in this neighborhood,” Kim said. “I’ve lived here eight years, and they still don’t know whether to accept me or not. But that’s beside the point. I’m just saying you seem more like the home—owner type yourself.”
“Really.”
“Yes, really.” She was lying. For all that he was a father, Michael Turner didn’t look like the kind of person who would settle down behind a white picket fence. He had a watchfulness about him, like someone who always had to be on his guard, someone who perhaps wouldn’t stay in any one place for very long. Certain details about him she couldn’t seem to fit anywhere, such as that he was home in the middle of a weekday. Other men on this street worked long hours as lawyers or business executives to afford the life—style of the neighborhood.
“Okay,” Kim said, giving in with a sigh. “What are your credentials, Mr. Turner? What’s your. line of work?”
He paused just a second before answering. “I’m a writer.”
He didn’t look like a writer, Kim thought. It seemed too tame an occupation for him.
“What kind of writer?”
Again the slightest pause. “Mystery.”
That made sense, anyway. “Well,” Kim said inadequately. “Sounds.interesting. Not that I’m trying to be polite.”
He remained inscrutable. “As long as we’re swapping credentials, it’s your turn.”
Kim realized she’d forgotten to shovel, so she got to it again. “I don’t have any credentials—unless you count my marrying into the Bennett clan. Not that the Bennetts count that in my favor.” She didn’t want to talk anymore. She just wanted this wretched bush out of her life. She toiled away, exposing the roots. They looked stunted, shriveled, as if they hadn’t found enough nourishment in the dry Arizona soil. Kim almost started to feel sorry for the bush, and that worried her. She’d always hated it—why change her mind now?
She was hoping Michael Turner would simply turn and walk away; surely she’d made it clear she wasn’t one for cheery conversation. But he just stood there, observing her as if he couldn’t believe this was how she handled a shovel. Kim was annoyed, yet she also felt something else—a skittering awareness along her spine. She didn’t think she could ever relax around a person like Michael Turner. She certainly wasn’t relaxing now.
The heat of the sun pressed down on her, and his gaze pressed on her, too. At last she stopped attacking the bush and stared back at him in exasperation.
“Let me guess,” she said. “You’re going to remind me that I’m doing it all wrong.”
His expression was serious. “I just wondered if it was working—the therapy part.”
“No. It’s not.” She jabbed the shovel into the ground and kicked it, stubbing her toe. She held in an expressive oath. So much for sneakers. Next time she worked in the yard, it had better be boots.
Michael Turner came over next to her, just as he had before, and took the shovel.
“Maybe it’s time for a different tactic,” he said.
His nearness was disconcerting. Not that it lasted long, though. He moved a few steps away and resumed his own shoveling.
“I was doing just fine—” Kim began.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “I’d say you were digging at more than this bush. Something’s obviously bothering you. Maybe you should figure out what it is before you really hurt yourself.”
His confident attitude was irritating, but what could he possibly know about her? “I’m not trying to get out my aggressions, if that’s what you think,” she protested. “It’s not like that at all.”
“Something’s got you riled up.” He continued deepening the trench around the bush. Kim frowned at him, wondering why she felt the need to justify herself to this man. But then she just let him dig. She sat down on the low adobe wall that surrounded her yard, pulling off her gloves and smoothing the damp hair away from her face. Boots weren’t the only equipment she needed. A gardening hat might be in order, the floppy straw variety. Kim was learning as she went along. After Stan, it was all learning.
Again the anger stirred inside her, unpredictable and treacherous. Taking another deep breath, she centered her gaze on Michael Turner. He seemed comfortable working, in spite of the heat. He’d rolled up his shirt sleeves, his arms the natural tan of someone who didn’t fear the sun.
“Shouldn’t you be off writing a scene or whatever?” she asked.
“It’ll keep.”
She ran her hand over the rough surface of the wall. “What’s it about? Your latest mystery, I mean.”
He stopped shoveling for a minute, his dark eyes on Kim. “A woman,” he said.
She wished his gaze wasn’t so intent. “That’s not saying much. What kind of woman? Who is she?” Michael studied Kim for a long moment. “She has brown hair. Not just brown—there’s some blond mixed in. Gold—brown, I’d say. And blue eyes…very blue. She likes wearing T—shirts and khaki shorts.”
Kim stiffened. She didn’t have to be a genius to realize Michael Turner had just described her. “Amusing,” she said after a short pause. “But now tell me what your heroine really looks like.”
“I did tell you.” He went back to shoveling.
Kim thought about the way he’d looked at her just now—so analytically, yet with a spice of masculine appreciation. There’d been something else in his gaze, too, something she couldn’t define. It sent a disturbing ripple through her.
“You can’t just do that,” she said.
“Do what?” He went on working imperturbably.
“You can’t make your heroine look like. me.”
He glanced at her. “You make it sound as if you have a patent on gold—brown hair and blue eyes. And freckles.”
Immediately she felt self—conscious. “There aren’t that many freckles.”
“What’s wrong with freckles?” he asked in a reasonable tone.
Somehow they’d gotten offtrack here. “Mr. Turner, you must be a peculiar sort of author. You’re writing about some woman, and you don’t even know what she looks like.”
“I just described her. That should do.” He sounded oddly grudging, as if he didn’t want his heroine to give him too much trouble. By now he’d dug all the way around the bush. He began rocking it back and forth, chopping at the roots underneath with the tip of the shovel until eventually it came free of the ground. As he pulled it up, Kim saw the dirt clotted to the sickly roots.
“It needs to be put out of its misery,” she said. “There’s no point in trying to save it.”
“Lost causes are my specialty,” he remarked sourly.
The whole situation seemed absurd to Kim. She’d just wanted to get rid of the damn evergreen. Now, because of Michael Turner, she felt guilty, as if she hadn’t given the bush a fair chance.
“Mr. Turner,” she began, and then stopped herself. She didn’t even know what she had to say to the man.
“Gardening is supposed to be therapeutic,” he told her. “I don’t think you have the hang of it yet, but if you need any tips…I’ll be around.” He started back toward his own yard, only to stop. “Don’t worry about your window. I’ll take care of it. Andy and I will take care of it,” he revised. Then he did walk away, carrying the bush with him, its tufty green pom—poms wagging pathetically in the air.
Kim watched until Michael Turner disappeared around the back of his house, taking the same route Andy had earlier. When she could no longer see him, she surveyed the damage around her: the shattered front window, the gaping hole in her lawn. She wished the two Turner males hadn’t moved in next door. Of course Kim had wished for a lot of things lately—like a divorce, instead of a murdered husband. Not that wishing had done her any good.
She stared at that raw hole left in her once—neat yard. It made her feel regretful, but only for an instant.
Surely the time for regretting—and wishing—was past.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_4a4452ce-49e1-5b66-b677-6698d13dc1bb)
MICHAEL SAT in his Jeep across from the public library. He took a sip from his Coke, but the ice in the cup had melted a long time ago. It was a hot, oppressive afternoon, nothing unusual for a Tucson summer. Idly he glanced at his watch again. Kim Bennett had been in the library for an hour and twenty—two minutes.
Michael considered what he knew about her so far: Kimberly Marie Lambert Bennett, born in Pinetop, Arizona. Her parents had owned a small restaurant, but her mother had died under questionable circumstances when Kim was twenty. Kim had moved to Tucson immediately afterward, taken a secretarial job at Bennett Investing, Inc., and married the boss three months later. Now, at twenty—nine, she was the very wealthy widow of Stanley Evan Bennett.
Those were only the dry, straightforward facts, of course. Michael had always been interested in the less tangible aspects of a case—the thoughts and emotions of a suspect. Those were hidden; you wouldn’t find them on a computer data base or in a file on someone’s desk. You had to speculate, use your imagination, ponder a little. And Michael had definitely been pondering Kim Bennett.
This morning he hadn’t met her exactly the way he’d intended; your son’s pitching a ball through the neigh bor’s window was one of those unforeseen events of parenthood. He’d had no alternative but to follow Andy across the yard and introduce himself. Right away he’d been able to tell that something was bothering the widow Bennett. She’d handled that shovel as if she’d wanted to bury something, not merely dig up a bush. There’d been a haunted look in her eyes. He didn’t need to be a detective to have seen that much.
But the questions still remained unanswered. What was it that made Kim Bennett look tormented? Sorrow, grief over a dead husband? Or was it guilt? Had she killed him, after all?
Michael shifted position, taking another sip of Coke. Wealthy widow…murderer…maybe both. Not to mention loyal patron of the local library. She’d been in there almost an hour and a half now.
Michael pictured her: sun—streaked hair, vivid blue eyes, dusting of freckles across her pretty nose. An attractive woman, Kim Bennett. Very attractive. Maybe even beautiful.
He reminded himself that she was just a case he was working on. He didn’t need to get carried away. Maybe he really could do with more of a social life. Since the divorce, he hadn’t dated a lot. Okay, make that no dating. He was out of practice with women, and maybe that was why Kim Bennett looked so good to him. He sure as hell hoped that was the only reason.
Just then his partner’s van pulled up; she was right on schedule. After a moment Donna climbed out, moving slowly. Her blouse billowed over the bulge of her stomach, and she walked with that telltale waddle of a pregnant woman—as if her back ached and her feet were made of stone. Opening the passenger door of the Jeep, she slid in beside him. She didn’t say anyting, just sat there for a second or two, her hands resting on the swell of her stomach. Then, with a grimace, she reached under her blouse, pulled out a small weighted pillow, alias baby, and tossed it into the back seat. Michael observed her gravely.
“So,” he said, “still haven’t told her, have you?”
Donna gave him a withering glance. “Does it look like I’ve told her?”
He didn’t say anything. Donna let out an explosive sigh.
“What kind of idiot am I, anyway?” she muttered.
Again, silence was the only diplomatic answer. Donna gave another sigh, a heavy one.
“Think about it,” she said. “Is this the act of a rational woman? Pretending to be pregnant for my blasted mother-in-law?”
Michael settled back in his seat. He’d been through this before.
“And for that matter,” Donna said, “what kind of man did I marry? What kind of man, just out of the blue, tells his mother that his wife is expecting when she isn’t?”
Michael almost felt sorry for Brad. The guy was going to pay for this one, big time.
“Okay, so she wants a grandkid. Is that any reason to invent one? Heck, why not just tell her I’m having triplets!”
Michael swirled the Coke in his cup. He sure could’ve used some more ice.
Donna groaned. “For crying out loud, I don’t even know how pregnant I’m supposed to be. Four months? Five months? Three?”
Michael thought it over. “I’d say that pillow is a good five months along.”
Donna scowled at him. “Oh, I could throttle Brad! ‘Mom, guess what, we’re pregnant.’ Hah. What’s this ‘e’ stuff? I don’t see Brad carrying a pillow around in his pants, do you?”
