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“It isn’t necessary.”
He sensed a tension in her voice that piqued his interest. “You two that close?”
“I love my mother.”
He realized instantly that she hadn’t actually answered his question. This from the woman who had not bothered to spare her tongue when it came to his strained relationship with Rose.
“Do you think she saw the newspaper?” he asked, nodding to the folded copy lying on the seat between them.
“No.”
“She’s not a reader?”
“No.”
“How do you think she’ll take the news about your father?”
“Calmly.”
His only hint that she wasn’t quite as composed as her limited answers implied was the sight of her hand as she played with the strands of wheat-colored hair sculpted around her slender throat. The tremor in her fingers was undeniable.
“You tense?”
“Tense?”
“Nervous? Agitated? Upset?”
She didn’t answer right away. He glanced over once, only to have his eyes fall on the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathed deeply through her slightly parted lips.
“I’m just not sure how Mama will handle the news.”
J.D. gripped the wheel a bit more tightly. “Her long-lost husband is dead. If she loved him, I’m sure she’ll be devastated.”
“What do you mean ‘if she loved him’?” Tory fairly shouted at him.
He saw the spark in her ice blue eyes and was glad to see some of the life come back to her.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, lifting his hands off the wheel in a brief gesture of mock surrender. “I just meant that it’s been, what? Fifteen years? Love and memories fade.”
She turned her head so that he could no longer get a fix on her expression.
“How about you?”
“How about I what?” she answered dully.
“How are you holding up?”
“Are you asking me if I read the newspaper article?” Tory asked, gesturing toward the paper between them.
“Yes.” He realized he was holding his breath, not certain why he had suddenly broached this potentially dangerous subject.
“I don’t believe everything I read in the papers.”
“Smart approach.”
“But,” she said as she turned, “if the police are correct in their early assessment of the case, my father didn’t desert me. He was murdered.”
“They weren’t clear on that point,” J.D. told her.
“One of them stated that there appeared to be a bullet wound in the skull—”
“But that they needed to run tests.”
She scooted closer to the door, as if she wanted as much distance between them as possible.
“I must admit, Tory,” he began in a deliberately soft, nonthreatening tone, “I’m astounded by your composure. If someone told me my father might have been murdered, I think I’d go ballistic.”
“As strange as this may sound, hearing their theory made me feel strangely comforted.”
“How so?”
“Because it means he didn’t choose to walk out of my life. It means he didn’t leave me.”
J.D. hated the effect her soft, almost choked, words were having on his gut. Feeling compassion for this woman was dangerous.
“Turn here,” she said as they approached an exit.
Silently, J.D. followed her instructions for the next several miles. The landscape was little more than swampy grasses and clusters of evergreens. Hardly an ideal sight for a golf and tennis community.
His eyes fixed on a wooden sign about a hundred yards down the road. It swayed gently on the currents of the passing cars, but he could still make out the bold, black print.
“Ashley Villas Convalescent Center?” he read aloud as he pulled into the lot, threw the car into park and killed the engine.
“None other,” she responded, her voice cracking with emotion.
“Your mother lives in a convalescent center?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered as she opened the door and stepped from the car.
Grabbing the folded newspaper, J.D. tucked it under his arm and then jogged to catch up to her. “You could have said something.”
“I did,” she responded without looking at him. “I told you I would have preferred coming alone.”
He inclined his head in respect as he held open one of the center’s shining glass doors.
“Tory!” a male voice bellowed down the otherwise silent corridor. Tory smiled wanely at the dark-haired man sauntering toward her. “I should have guessed I’d run into you here today. Tough thing about your dad.”
He watched as she accepted the huge hand from the man he guessed to be about fifty, though his physique belied his age. His clothes told J.D. two things—first, the guy definitely had bucks; and second, he dressed for the sole purpose of attracting women.
“Cal Matthews,” she said, almost as an afterthought, “This is J.D. Porter.”
The two men shook hands.
Tory continued, “Cal used to work for my dad.”
“Sorry I can’t stay,” Cal cut in, making a point of looking at the Rolex on his wrist, “but you know how it is.”
Tory nodded. J.D. wanted to question her about the guy, when a plump nurse approached
“Poor child,” the large woman with skin the color of chocolate came shuffling forward, her arms held open.
“Hello, Gladys,” she answered before being enfolded in the woman’s ample bosom.
Gladys gave him a once-over that made J.D. feel as if he were back in Sunday school. He didn’t think he’d passed inspection, either—not judging from the wary look on the nurse’s round face.
“I read all about what happened in the paper,” Gladys said, crooking Tory beneath her arm in a purely protective fashion. Her dark eyes continued to assess J.D. “And who is this young man?”
“J.D. Porter,” Tory said. “He’s in Charleston visiting Rose.”
“You told me about him,” Gladys said with a thoughtful nod. “This is the man who’s going to ruin the Tattoo?”
“The same,” Tory admitted without so much as a trace of apology in her expression. “J.D., this is Gladys Halloday, R.N.”
“I prefer to think of my work as improving the property,” J.D. corrected as he offered his hand to the rather imposing woman.
“Change can be good,” Gladys said with a nod of her graying head.
Arms locked, the two women began to move down the hall. J.D. followed, feeling much like an intruder.
The place reminded him more of a hotel than a nursing home. There was no ammonia smell, no hiss of oxygen tanks. The place had carpeting and wallpaper, comfortable chairs and a bulletin board full of scheduled activities.
“There’s Dr. Trimble. He’s been waiting for you,” he heard Gladys say. “He spent a lot of time with your mama this morning.”
J.D. saw a paternalistic look appear in the doctor’s eyes when the man spotted them moving down the hall. It was becoming obvious to J.D. that Tory was a frequent and popular visitor here.
The doctor uttered words of condolence and didn’t bother giving J.D. a second glance. His face was a palette of concerned lines as he took both of Tory’s hands in his.
“I’m afraid I didn’t get any reaction when I told her about Robert.”
“None?”
He watched as the doctor’s expression grew sad. “I’m sorry, Tory. There was nothing.”
“I’d like to see her now.” Tory glanced over her shoulder but didn’t quite meet J.D.’s eyes. “Alone,” she added.
Gladys planted herself in the center of the hallway, her expression all but daring him to try to push past her. J.D. wasn’t about to take on the nurse. He’d learned a long time ago when to back down from confrontation. And this was definitely one of those times. He watched Tory disappear into the last room on the right.
For the next forty minutes, he sat in a small lounge under the watchful eye of his self-appointed guard. J.D. thumbed through the paper, wondering what Tory and her mother were discussing. No reaction at all. The words filtered back through his brain. He finished reading the paper and piled it on the seat next to him. He looked up to find Gladys away from her post.
Feeling restless and a bit intrigued, J.D. got up, telling himself that he was only going to walk far enough to stretch the cramped muscles of his legs.
His walk took him past the lookout station, down to the last door on the right. The door was ajar and he gave a soft push, widening the crack.
He was shocked by what he saw. At first glance, he could have been looking at a child, she was so tiny. Then he saw her face. Tory’s mother couldn’t have weighed more than eighty pounds. The white sheets nearly swallowed her frail, limp body. But it wasn’t her size as much as her face that forced him to suck in a breath. She looked barely older than her daughter. Her pale skin was smooth, nearly devoid of lines. The difference was in the eyes. The woman in bed stared blankly into space, apparently untouched by the things and people around her.
“You would have laughed, Mama.” He heard Tory’s voice and followed it. She was framed by the light from the window, her back to him. “You remember when I was ten and I started to develop? That nasty David Coultraine paid two of his friends to hold my arms while he peeked down my blouse? And I screamed that I’d hate all boys until my dying day?”
She paused, as if awaiting a response that never came.
“After I stopped crying, you told me one day I’d be swooning over boys. Well, you should have seen me last night. I fell right into a man’s waiting arms, just like you said.”
J.D. nearly jumped back when she turned and moved to the bed, sitting on, but barely rumpling, the neatly tucked bed coverings. The woman didn’t move, he noted. She gave no indication that she was even aware that her beautiful daughter sat at her side. J.D. swallowed the lump of emotion in his throat.
“The doctor said he told you about Daddy,” Tory said as she continued her monologue. The pauses, he quickly realized, were the result of a long history of these one-sided conversations.
Tory lifted the woman’s limp hand. Something glittered in the light. J.D. moved closer to pull the object into focus. It was a ring, a copy of the one that the cops had found with the skeleton. From its placement on the lifeless hand, he guessed it was her wedding band.
“He didn’t leave us, Mama. No matter what else, he didn’t run off.”
Tory took the hand to her face and forced it along the side of her cheek, simulating a loving, motherly stroke.
“That day after he left,” Tory began, her voice dropping to a hard-to-hear whisper, “you told me he wasn’t coming back. You sat me on top of the bar and told me that.”
J.D. could easily imagine the scene. He felt it in the twisted knot of his stomach.
“Please, Mama,” she begged, holding the hand to her heart. “Please tell me you didn’t kill him.”
Chapter Four
J.D. backed out of the doorway slowly, soundlessly pulling on the door as he made his exit.
Confusion caused deep lines of concentration to tug at the corners of his mouth. Glancing down the corridor, he spotted Dr. Trimble flipping through a chart near the nurse’s station. J.D. reached him in three purposeful strides.
“Dr. Trimble?”
The man peered at him over the top of his half glasses. His graying eyebrows thinned above his clear brown eyes.
“I’m J. D. Porter,” he said, offering his hand. “I came with Tory.”
The doctor nodded, apparently approving on some unspoken level. “Nice of you to come along. I’m sure today has been particularly difficult for her.”
“Yes,” J.D. agreed quickly.
“Of course, she’d never admit it,” Trimble added with a wry smile. “But I’m sure you already know that about her.”
“Sir?”
“She has this incredible capacity for only focusing on the positive. Heaven help her if she ever loses that defense mechanism.”
