Of course, the world had to intrude, crashing back in like a drunken stranger with the shrill ring of Marshall's cell phone.
"Weathers."
He listened, cocking his head and squinting his eyes almost shut. He too, was trying to salvage the moment, his arm still encircling my waist, his hand stroking my back.
"You're sure?" Weathers barked. His hand tightened, then froze. "See if you can find a more solid link. Any family?" He listened. "All right, I'll take that. You get on this other." He touched a button and slid the phone back into his pocket. The Weathers of a moment ago had vanished. The cop was back and it wasn't good news.
"Is it Vernell?" I asked. I took a step backward, out of his arms, out where I could read him and know.
"Not directly," he said. He drew the words out so that they began to take on the opposite meaning. Directly. Somehow I knew he felt Vernell was involved directly.
"We've got an I.D. on the man in the truck. His name's Nosmo King. You know him?"
I frowned. Why would I know him?
"No. Should I?"
Weathers turned and nodded in the direction of Jack's warehouse. Our moment in the park was over. He meant for us to start walking, and the pace he set was a quick one.
"He's trouble. He's a money man for the Redneck Mafia. You ever hear of them?"
It felt like an accusation instead of a question. His tone and manner had changed, making me wonder what else he knew.
"Why don't you quit running around the barn and tell me what's really going on?"
Weathers cut down the alley that ran up to Jack's warehouse. His unmarked sedan was parked beside a scraggly clump of mimosa trees. He stepped just short of the bumper and looked at me.
"Nosmo's a real predictable guy. He ate breakfast at Tex and Shirley's three days ago, just like he always does. Had two eggs over easy, grits and gravy, dry toast and black coffee. Then, after breakfast, Nosmo did something completely unpredictable: He left the restaurant and disappeared off the face of the earth." Marshall's electric blue eyes darkened. "His breakfast partner that morning was none other than your ex-husband, Vernell."
My head spun and I couldn't put the pieces together. What had Vernell been doing talking to Nosmo King? The possibilities were endless and none of them were good.
"So what happens now?" I asked.
Marshall's hand was on the door handle. He was already thinking three moves ahead. In his mind, he was a million miles away.
"I'm going to see Nosmo's widow," he pronounced calmly, "and then I'm going to find out how Vernell and Mr. King came to hook up."
I thought about the stranger in Vernell's house. Could the Redneck Mafia be looking for Vernell? Was that who the stranger was working for? I shook myself and looked at Weathers. I thought about telling him, but for some reason held back. If the stranger worked for the Redneck Mafia, Weathers would find out sooner than I could. And what did I have to tell him anyway? A dark-haired stranger held a gun on me and then kissed me? And how would I explain not telling Weathers earlier? I needed more proof before I started raising a fuss about someone who could turn out to be perfectly harmless.
My stomach did a little flip, remembering the feel of his lips on mine, the way his eyes had seen right down inside my soul, as if he could read my mind. No, that guy wasn't harmless. It was my Pure T. Stubborn nature that held me back. I would tell Weathers when I was good and ready.
Chapter Eight
My little cottage sits on a small side street between two college campuses. It is over a hundred years old, drafty as your granny's drawers in a hurricane, and totally mine. I parked my ancient Beetle a good two blocks away, behind the YMCA parking lot, and snuck up on my own house.
I looked up and down the street for a motorcycle and saw none, but that didn't mean I wasn't cautious. I slipped down the alley, looked both ways before I crossed my dot of a backyard, then darted up the stairs to the door that opened into my converted sleeping porch-bedroom. I had the door open and was inside the house in seconds, the thrill of victory quickly shattered by the reality of defeat. My bed had been slept in and my house smelled like coffee. Freshly brewed coffee.
"Sheila?" I called softly.
The Shadow stepped into the doorway of my bedroom, one of my coffee mugs in hand, and a huge grin on his face.
"Just like I thought," he said. "Those eyes blackened right up." He sipped his coffee, all the while studying me. "It's not bad, though, what you did with the makeup. From the stage they might not even be able to tell. Guess it's the sunlight, huh? Kind of shows up everything."
I spun around and grabbed the doorknob. My heart thudded against my chest and my palms were sweating.
He didn't move from the doorway. "Have a nice day," he said slowly. "When Sheila gets in I'll tell her you were by."
That got me. I turned back and glared at him. "Get out of my house. I'm calling the police!"
He shook his head. His dark black hair reflected the sunlight that streamed in through my bedroom windows. His eyes twinkled. He was getting just the reaction he wanted. He slouched against the doorjamb, studying me over the rim of his coffee mug. He stopped smiling and the light went out of his eyes.
"Call them," he said. "But if you do, Vernell's a dead man."
"How do I know he isn't dead already?" I said. "Where is he?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "Your guess is as good as mine. I'm just telling you what the others will do if they find him, especially with the police in on it. You get them all wrapped up in this and I'll guaran-damn-tee you that they'll kill him first and ask questions later. You don't want to go calling the police or raising a bunch of senseless hell. You need my help."
"I need your help? I do not need help from you. What I need is to call the cops and get you out of my house!" I tried to look like I meant business, like I wasn't terrified, but he didn't seem to take me seriously.
He half-turned away from me, heading back into my kitchen. "You need all the help you can get. Now, come on," he said, "the coffee's fresh and I was about to rustle up some breakfast. You hungry?"
"No," I lied, sounding for all the world like a surly teenager. I hung back, trying to make up my mind. For some reason, I didn't think he was going to hurt me. You don't cook breakfast for someone you intend to kill-at least that's how I saw it.
"I want you out of my house," I said, moving reluctantly toward the kitchen. "This is breaking and entering, you know."
He chuckled. "As easy to pop as your house is, it oughta be called trick or treat." He laughed again, highly amused with his own cleverness. "How do you take your coffee?"
"Black."
"Figures," he said. "Wouldn't want any cream and sugar to lighten you up."
"Now listen here," I said, "I'm about over this act of yours. You cannot break into someone's house, eat their food, and threaten them without repercussions."
He spun back around and smirked. "Didn't figure you for the type to use uptown, big words. Repercussions, huh? Well, let me tell you something, Vernell's the one facing repercussions. You're just lucky I'm helping you out. I know more about him and the trouble he's in than the cops will ever know."
"You are not helping me out!" I crossed the kitchen floor, took my skillet out of his hand, and shoved him aside. "Move! If anyone cooks here, it's me." He took a step backward and frowned. "And another thing," I said. "I don't break bread with strangers. Who are you? I think you at least owe me that much."
I crossed my arms, holding the skillet against my side. I hadn't ruled out using it for knocking some sense into him, but if he was telling the truth and could help me find Vernell, then I'd be a fool to run him off. I stared at him, trying not to look at his mouth, trying not to remember the way he'd kissed me and the way I'd reacted.