Playing Dead in Dixie Page 17

  Peering through the gloom beyond the porch, she stifled a cough as cool night air filled her smoke-irritated lungs. If breathing was going to be such a struggle, she hoped she wouldn't have to walk far before she found a ride out of town.

  She'd made it to the first step of the porch when the creak of wood behind her stopped her in her tracks. The hair on her neck rose like hackles.

  She heard footsteps, slow and deliberate. One step. Two steps. Moving closer, closing the distance as she stood paralyzed with terror.

  Warmth slid over her, around her, as certain as a touch. She felt the heat of another body at her back. Her heart clutched.

  Then came the voice, raspy hard.

  "Going somewhere, Lottie?"

  Chapter Twelve

  The first thing Carly registered was that the voice belonged to Wes Hollingsworth. Relief swamped her in a warm flood, nearly buckling her knees.

  Until she realized he'd called her by her real name.

  She turned slowly, her heart tumbling into the queasy pit of her stomach. In the darkness, she could make out only the large, broad silhouette of him. She was glad for it. Right now, the last thing she wanted to see was the accusation in Wes Hollingsworth's dark eyes. "How did you figure it out?"

  "It's called police work. I should have done it weeks ago." His voice was tight with controlled anger. "Lottie's short for Carlotta, I presume?"

  She nodded, then realized he probably couldn't see the gesture. "Yes. Carlotta Marie Sandano. Most people call me Lottie. I tried to change my name to Carly when I started high school, but it never stuck." She was babbling, she knew, but at least she hadn't started sobbing like a big baby again.

  "You worked at the Palais Royale Casino and Resort."

  She blinked. He had done his homework. "Yes."

  "That's where you caught the bus. Why?"

  She took a deep breath. So, apparently he didn't know the whole story. That was good. She still had some wiggle room. "I told you. I just needed to get out of town."

  Wes made a low, growling noise deep in his throat. "Don't you think it's past time you stopped being so damned vague? I know your name. I haven't even started looking deeper into your past, but I will. Am I going to like what I find, Lottie?"

  "Don't call me that. My name is Carly." Tears spilled down her cheeks. She batted them away with her knuckles, angry at her show of weakness. "Why can't you just leave it alone?"

  To her surprise, he touched her cheek, his fingers trembling as they traced the wetness. His thumb brushed over her lower lip. "Why can't you tell me the truth, Carly? If you're in trouble, I can help you."

  Her throat ached with tears. God, if it were only that easy. She'd love to slide into the comfort and protection of Wes's arms, let him guard her from Dominick Manning, from Agent Phillips and his crusade to take down her crooked boss no matter what the cost—including her life. But even the thought of putting Wes's life at risk to save her own was too painful to contemplate.

  If something happened to the Stricklands or anyone in this town because of her, it would haunt her for the rest of her life. But if something happened to Wes, she'd never be able to live through it.

  "Just let me go," she whispered through gritted teeth. "Don't ask any more questions. Just turn around and walk away. I'll be out of town before morning comes and you can forget all about the last few weeks."

  He slid his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her close, his breath warm against her cheek. "I can't do that."

  Her heart fluttered as his mouth slanted across hers, relentless and demanding. She tried to pull away, tried to turn her head, but her body refused to respond. Her lips opened under his, drinking from the well of his passion. She slaked her ravenous need for him with each brush of tongues, filled herself with his breath as her body arched and ached beneath the tender slide of his fingers on her flesh.

  He withdrew his mouth from hers, eliciting a soft groan of need. His lips brushed against the curve of her ear. "Why did you leave New Jersey?"

  She didn't want to lie to him. Of all people, Wes had earned the right to hear the truth from her.

  But the truth wouldn't set her free. Not this time.

  It would only get them all killed.

  So she told him the story she knew he really wanted to hear.

  "His name was Dominick Manning. He was stalking me." It wasn't a complete lie; Manning had hit on her a few times during the time she'd worked at the Palais Royale. And trying to hunt her down and kill her to keep her from testifying was a form of stalking, wasn't it? "The cops couldn't do anything about it, so I got out before he killed me."

  Wes was silent long enough that she feared he wasn't buying it. But finally he ran his hand gently up and down her back, touching his lips to her temple. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks, relief mingling with shame at the deceit.

  "Okay," he murmured against her hair, "I can protect you."

  She drew away from him, drowning in guilt. "I can't stay here and talk to the arson investigator. Don't you see? He'll ask too many questions. I'll have to tell him my real name."

  He stroked her hair, speaking in a low, soothing tone. "I can ask him to be discreet."

  His gentle touch was a fiery brand, scorching her. She couldn't bear his tenderness. It burned soul deep.

  Miserable with shame, she pulled away from him. "Can't you run the investigation? You could do all the questioning."

  "I can't. Floyd is family. As long as he's a possible suspect, it's a conflict of interest for me."

  Carly slumped against the stone pillar holding up the roof of the porch. "Then I can't stay here."

  "Maybe you can." Wes sat on the low stone wall that partially enclosed the porch. "If we can prove that Floyd wasn't involved in the fire, I won't have any conflict of interest. I can take charge of the case. The insurance company and the arson investigators will have to come through me."

  "If we can prove fraud."

  He caught her hand, gave it a squeeze. "How long will it take to prove or disprove fraud?"

  "If I work at it full time, two or three days." A niggle of hope tormented her. She tried to tamp it down. Even if Wes's idea worked, it was little more than a temporary reprieve. She'd have to leave Bangor sooner or later.

  As long as Dominick Manning wanted her out of the way, nobody around her would be safe.

  "Okay, you've got two days." Wes patted the top of the porch wall beside him. "But sit down here a minute. There are gonna be some ground rules."

  Carly sat next to him. Though she took care not to touch him, his warmth drifted over her, chasing away the early morning chill. "What kind of ground rules?"

  "First, most important, no more lies."

  Impossible rule. But she'd be as honest as she dared. "Okay. Second?"

  "We stay in touch at all times. You've got my cell number and my office number. I'm going to check in with you every hour or two. If you don't hear from me within a two hour period, you check in with me."

  "I'm under house arrest?"

  He softened the stern tone of his voice. "It's as much for your sake as for mine."

  Because he thought she was afraid of a stalker. She swallowed a lump of guilt. "All right. Next?"

  He paused for a long moment. When he didn't continue immediately, she at him, watched the growing glow of morning light rim his strong profile.

  He turned his head and looked at her, his expression serious. His eyes were dark and midnight deep. "Third, you're moving in with me."

  FLOYD HAD TAKEN THE NEWS about the store better than Wes would have, working through the hows and whys quickly to get to the crux of the matter—what needed to be done to get the store up and running as quickly as possible. He'd listened to Wes's explanation about the books, expressing his displeasure at being left out of the loop in one terse sentence, then agreed that Carly could continue her examination of the files.

  Of course, what choice did he have? If Carly couldn't prove someone had been defrau
ding the hardware store, Floyd was going to be in a world of hurt.

  The news that Carly was moving in with Wes hadn't gone over quite as well. Despite assurances that the move was for the sake of convenience, so that Carly could examine the books without the distractions she'd find at the Strickland's house, his aunt and uncle had looked at the two of them as if they'd announced they were going to start having sex in the public square and charging admission.

  "They think I'm a tramp," Carly moaned from the front seat of Wes's pick-up truck as he drove her to his house a little before noon on Tuesday.

  "Lucky you. Apparently they think I'm still a virgin."

  She gave a short bark of laughter.

  "I've got to put some time in at the office this afternoon, so you're going to be on your own. I suggest you get right to work." He pulled onto his street. "Do you really think you can figure things out in two days?"

  She nodded. "I'm leaning toward some sort of shell fraud. I'm going to check invoices against the inventory list I made last week. If there are invoices for products we don't have on our shelves or didn't have in the stock room, I'll be able to tell pretty quickly, I think. Then I'll have a clear idea what invoices are dummies."

  Wes pulled into his driveway and parked. He went around to the back of the truck and grabbed one of the boxes he and Floyd had packed full of the ledgers and files from the hardware store. Carly slung the strap of her bag over one shoulder and picked up another one of the boxes.

  Wes led the way to his front door, juggling the box to get to his keys. As they entered, Nate greeted them with a few low barks, his tail wagging with as much excitement as a fifteen-year-old blood hound could muster. Wes put the box of files on the dining room table and shuffled the dog out the back door to do his business.

  Carly put her own box of files on the table next to his. "Can I use this table?" she asked as he came back into the dining room. "I'll need to spread out, sort the files into categories so I can find what I need as I go."

  The dining room table, a long, rectangular antique of polished oak built by his great-grandfather on his mother's side, was plenty big enough to do the job. "Yeah, this'll work." He headed back out to the truck for another box.

  Carly followed him. She took the box he handed her, peering at him through eyes narrowed to slits against the bright midday sun. "I think your neighbors are watching us."

  He managed a slight smile. "By tonight, everyone in town will think we're living in sin."

  "Are we?" She smiled, but her tone of voice was serious.

  He realized what she was really asking. Would she be sharing his bed tonight?

  He turned back to the stack of boxes in the bed of the truck, trying to shut out the flood of images that silent question evoked. He had a spare room; nothing fancy, just a bed and a small chest of drawers. He'd figured she'd sleep there for the next two nights.

  He shouldn't even be considering anything else.

  To start with, he wasn't sure he believed her story about a stalker. It was a cliche; a pretty woman, afraid of a stalker, runs to a new town. Hides her identity, even from people she cared about. It was a movie of the week plot, for Pete's sake.

  But thousands of women went through the ordeal alone because of skeptical cops just like him. Too damned many of them ended up dead. He knew the stats.

  Carly wouldn't be one of them. At least, not for the next two days. After that, he might not be able to protect her. She'd been ready to leave town just few hours ago, despite the mess she was leaving behind.

  Once she cleared Floyd's name, what would keep her here?

  "I guess we don't have to decide that now," Carly murmured, already moving toward the house.

  Swallowing hard, he picked up another box and followed her up the walkway.

  CARLY RUBBED HER EYES and glanced at the clock. Two-forty five. She'd been sifting through the files for nearly two hours, and all she'd accomplished was sorting them into proper piles. She'd stacked the ledger books on the far end of the dining room table and sorted the invoices by date. Once that was done, she subdivided them into individual vendors.

  Now she was sorting through the sales records, wishing she hadn't been such a braggart. There was no way she'd be able to struggle through all these files by herself in two days. She'd be lucky to finish up in two weeks.

  She needed help.

  Nibbling her lip, she glanced at the cordless phone lying on the table to her left, a crazy idea forming.

  J.B. Hollingsworth had been Floyd's bookkeeper for years before his stroke. And he didn't need to be able to use his right hand to help her sort through the invoices, looking for discrepancies. It would give the old coot something useful to do. Wouldn't it?

  Carly reached for the phone. Surely Wes had his father's number programmed in here somewhere. She punched the menu button and figured her way through Wes's saved numbers until she found the one for "Dad." Pressing the code, she hit enter and waited for J.B. to answer.

  VIC BAXTER DIDN'T EVEN bother to say hello when Wes answered the phone. "I don't know who this Lottie Sandano is, but there's an FBI agent Atlantic City who's real interested in finding her body."

  Wes leaned back in his desk chair, his stomach tightening with dread. "FBI"

  "That's who added the name to our list," Vic said. "A guy named Phillips, out of the Atlantic City Resident Agency."

  "Any idea why he wants to find her?"

  "Well, I checked. She's not on any most wanted list. Doesn't seem like the whole FBI is looking for her. Just this agent."

  Some of Wes's anxiety began to fade. It was possible Carly was a material witness in a case the agent was working. Maybe it involved the stalker she was trying to escape. "Got anything else?"

  "That's it," Vic answered. "Are you ever going to get around to telling me what this is all about? And before you say it, no, I'm not buying the story that you're just trying to find out everything that happened to your cousin."

  "I'll explain everything. Just not right now. Thanks for the help, Vic." Wes hung up the phone before Vic could ask any more questions.

  Okay. An FBI agent was looking for Carly, but it didn't seem to be a manhunt situation. So Carly had seen something in Atlantic City, something criminal. Something to do with the ex-boyfriend?

  He frowned. Actually, she'd never said he was an ex. Wes had just assumed it. That was the usual case with stalkers. Maybe even someone she'd dated no more than once or twice; that was enough for some guys to go off the deep end.

  But she'd said the cops wouldn't listen to her, and that's why she'd run. Had she taken it to the FBI?

  Maybe they were looking for her body because they thought her stalker caused the bus crash.

  Could that be the case? Wes had been over the preliminary NTSB findings five times this afternoon alone, and he'd found nothing that would suggest the bus crash had been any more than an accident caused by a trucker driving a little too fast on a rainy highway.

  He looked at his watch. Four-thirty, he realized with surprise. He hadn't called in to check on Carly since two. For that matter, she hadn't checked in with him, either.

  He grabbed the phone and punched in his home number.

  "Yeah, what do you want?" The low huff of his father's voice caught Wes by surprise.

  "What are you doing there?"

  "Your smart-mouthed girlfriend dragged me over here to do her work for her."

  Wes heard a soft scuffling noise and Carly's voice came on the line. "I needed an extra hand to help me get through these files more quickly," she said, a little out of breath. "Floyd said your father used to do his books for him, so—"

  Wes shook his head in disbelief. "And J.B. agreed to come?"

  "Well, when I suggested he was probably too senile to be of much help—"

  "See what I'm havin' to put up with from her?" J.B. said, apparently bending close to the phone so Wes could hear him.

  "You were supposed to call me if I didn't call you."

  "
Oh, crap, it's already four-thirty? We got a little involved." Carly's voice lightened with excitement. "And we think we've found something."

  Wes sat forward. "Really?"

  "We need to double check some things, but yeah. I think we have definite signs of a shell fraud."

  TRACKING DOWN THE HANDFUL of travelers who'd witnessed the bus crash and the aftermath had taken Agent Jim Phillips a couple of days. Fortunately, the Virginia State Police officers who'd worked the scene had kept good records of the witness statements. Tuesday evening around six, Phillips found a witness who remembered seeing Lottie Sandano at the crash.

  "Yeah, that's the woman I saw." Dr. James Turkett took one look at the photo Phillips showed him and gave a quick nod. "She was trying to administer aid to one of the crash victims. She seemed upset by his condition."

  "Was Ms. Sandano injured?"

  "Not that I could tell. It was late at night and there wasn't a lot of light where we were, so I can't be certain."

  "You said she seemed upset."

  "She was telling him not to leave her. I got the feeling he might have been someone she cared about."

  That made no sense. They knew most of Lottie's associates. None had been on the bus. Maybe she'd arranged for an out of town friend to meet her and help her get away.

  "It's too bad," Dr. Turkett added, shaking his head. "The man didn't make it."

  "You don't happen to know what his name was, do you?"

  "As a matter of fact, I do. I declared him dead, so I had paper work to deal with. His name was Stephen Floyd Strickland. That's Stephen with a 'ph.' He lived in Richmond, but the morgue ended up delivering his body down to his family somewhere in south Georgia. I don't remember the name of the town."

  Phillips jotted down the name. "Did you see what happened to Ms. Sandano?"

  Dr. Turkett shook his head. "I lost track of her once I started working on Mr. Strickland."