CHAPTER TWO

As planned, Beth headed for the local library to pore over old newspapers dating from around the time of Lorilee’s disappearance. The first few articles reflected the town’s certainty that foul play had been involved, but the tone gradually changed over subsequent weeks.

And that was putting it lightly. The town of Brubaker had turned on Lorilee like a mob of Puritans on a suspected witch.

Letters to the editor suggested she’d run away with a handsome stranger, and others hinted at drug use, prostitution, and alcoholism—just Beth’s luck. Of course, the articles had remained vague about Lorilee’s continuing absence, but the editor’s willingness to run that kind of defamation at all intrigued Beth. The catalyst for the attacks was, apparently, an article about a typewritten letter received by Lorilee’s father, postmarked London—allegedly from Lorilee herself. In the letter, she claimed to have left voluntarily to start a new life. After that, the town decided she was a hussy.

Right. As if no small-town wife had ever strayed from her husband.

Beth rolled her tight shoulders. Her mental picture of Lorilee Brubaker-Malone was confusing at best. She ran another search on her name and came up with earlier articles about Lorilee’s contributions to the community over the years.

Interesting…

Leaning closer to the monitor, Beth tucked a wayward curl behind her ear and squinted. An article published two months prior to Lorilee’s disappearance called her “Brubaker’s guardian angel.” Beth leaned back, crossing her denim-clad legs and rubbing her chin.

“Who are you, Lorilee?” she whispered.

“Were. Past tense,” a strong male voice corrected from behind her. “Who were you, Lorilee?”

Beth sucked in a breath and snapped her head around to face the intruder. A familiar intruder. Tall, dark, handsome, and blue-green eyed, her Good Samaritan from the highway stood there with one eyebrow arched, thumbs hooked through his belt loops, the kind of rugged tanned features that made most women drool.

Even though Beth wasn’t most women, she still had to admit he was a fine male specimen. She swallowed hard, poised to stand. “You know Lorilee Brubaker-Malone?”

“Knew her.” He shifted his weight and lifted his chin a notch. “Past tense.”

Of course. Her knight in shining armor had to be none other than Ty Malone—the dearly departed’s beneficiary. Small world. Beth rose and thrust out her hand. “I’m Beth Dearborn. Avery Mutual sent me. And you are…?” She feigned ignorance.

“Ty Malone.” He eyed her hand for a moment, then took it in a firm but brief handshake. “You’re the woman with the flat tire.”

Beth nodded. His straightforward manner and strong handshake surprised her. Most Southern men took her hand like a snotty lace hanky. She sometimes used her height to intimidate people, but Malone stood a full head taller. Not many men made her feel small, let alone insignificant, and she wasn’t about to let this one get to her, even if he did pack one hell of a sexual wallop.

“Thanks again. I ordered a new tire at Gooch’s.”

He hesitated a beat, his expression wary. Suspicious. “I guess you’re here about the claim.”

“Yes, I’m the investigator assigned to the case. I’ll bet you wish now you hadn’t changed my tire.”

His expression softened. “Look, I just want this nightmare over with. It’s time to let Lorilee rest in peace.”

“We want a resolution, too, Mr. Malone,” she said with complete sincerity. “But when we have a claim this large and no body or witness to the alleged death, we have to investigate.” She shrugged. “It’s standard procedure. You aren’t being singled out for any reason.”

He narrowed his gaze, then gave an emphatic nod. “Fair enough. Guess I’d be curious, too, given the circumstances.”

“Since we all want this over with, I’m sure you won’t have any objections to answering a few questions.”

One corner of his sensuous mouth slanted upward. “What do you want to know?” he asked, his voice smooth and rough at the same time.

A shiver skated along the surface of her skin. Beth remembered the sexual heat that had erupted between them out on the highway. It had not been onesided. She glanced at her watch. “Is there somewhere else we can talk?”

“Diner down the street,” he said, inclining his head toward the door.

A man of few words. That suited Beth, since she was eager to settle this case and leave town. She crossed her arms and smiled. “I have a better idea.”

“Oh?”

“We both want to resolve this investigation quickly, Mr. Malone,” she said steadily. “Let’s just cut to the chase.”

“By all means.”

“Avery Mutual’s records indicate you still live at the same address you did at the time of your wife’s disappearance.”

“True.” He folded his arms across his abdomen, and Beth wondered if he realized he was mimicking her. “And?”

She dropped her arms to her sides. “I need to look around your house, since that’s the last place anyone saw Mrs. Malone.”

Furrows appeared on his brow. “I don’t want the kids upset by this.” He removed his straw cowboy hat. “They’ve already lost their mother. That’s bad enough.”

Beth glanced at her watch again. “What time do they come home?”

“Not until four today.”

“That gives us most of the afternoon.” Beth grabbed her notes and backpack from the table. “Lead the way.”

A grin split his handsome face and her breath hitched. The transformation from cynic to charmer caught her off guard. Mr. Sex Appeal from the highway had returned with some to spare. She had to struggle for her composure. This guy had more mood swings than Jekyll and Hyde. She had to watch more than her back around him.

“Does that grin mean yes?” she finally asked.

He nodded and swung toward the door. “Let’s get on with this.”

“Good. We’re on the same side here.” Beth followed him down the staircase and outside. The sky had turned a leaden shade.

He paused on the stone steps leading to the sidewalk and faced her. “That remains to be seen, Miss Dearborn.”

“Ms. Dearborn, or just Dearborn.” She flashed a smug smile. “We both want the truth. Right?”

He pinned her with a steely stare. “Yep.”

“Then we’re on the same side.”

“My truck’s right there.” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Normally she preferred the independence driving her own car afforded, but the way it had been running—and without a spare—she didn’t want to risk it. Beth followed him down the steps and opened the passenger door, amazed to find a Southern man who didn’t race ahead to do it for her. Should she be insulted?

Get a grip, Dearborn.

The powerful engine rumbled to life and he backed out of the parking space. “I don’t know what you expect to find at the house,” he said quietly, tugging the brim of his hat lower over his brow. “Sheriff never found anything.”

“Maybe nothing.” Beth gazed at the passing countryside. “Then again, maybe he missed something.”

“It’s been seven years.” He shot her a sidelong glance. “We’ve cleaned a time or two.”

He’s nervous. Beth made a mental note to keep an eye on Ty Malone. Actually, it was damned hard not to keep an eye on him. He looked good enough to eat.

Too long without some good, old-fashioned, bonecrunching sex. She let her gaze drift downward to where his belt buckle rested above slim hips and other very male equipment. Yep, and long is the operative word here. Heat flashed through regions of her body that should have been disengaged during business hours. Beth drew a deep breath and dragged her gaze away from the rippling muscles in his forearms as he steered the truck away from town.

She needed to maintain her perspective, and his good looks were distracting. “Why are you so convinced your wife is dead, Mr. Malone?”

He peered at her again from beneath the brim of his hat. “I know she’s dead.”

“Ah, yes, that’s right.” Beth remembered his comments when he’d first confronted her. “You believe she’s dead. Why?”

“Like I said, I don’t believe she’s dead.” He kept his gaze straight ahead. “I know she’s dead.”

“You saw her die?”

He cleared his throat. “No.”

“Then why do you insist your wife is dead?”

He slowed the truck, turned onto a dirt road, and stopped. Draping both large hands over the steering wheel, he half turned to face her. With the tip of his finger, he tilted his hat back off his brow, again revealing those incredible eyes. “I know, because Lorilee never would’ve left her babies. Anyone who really knew her will tell you that.”

“Anyone?” From what she’d read in the newspaper, Beth wasn’t so sure. She made a few more mental notes about Malone. Stubborn as hell. However, she had to admire his conviction. Or was it acting? “Without proof, it’s still just your belief, Mr. Malone,” she said steadily. “What we need are facts.”

Or a body…

“Facts like that bogus letter her father got?”

“Now that you mention it.” Beth smothered her grin. He’d played right into that one.

“Lorilee didn’t write that letter.” Malone’s voice was flat.

“Who did?”

“I don’t know.” He faced her, and his expression seemed sincere. “But I do know this—”

“What?”

“Whoever wrote that letter knows what happened to my wife.”

Beth held his gaze for several seconds. He was either completely convinced his wife was dead, or a damned good actor.

“Did you have her signature analyzed?”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “No.”

“Why wasn’t it analyzed by the authorities?”

Malone remained silent for several moments. “Her father wanted to let it drop. The letter was mailed to him. Not me.”

“Where’s the letter now?” Beth asked, determined to have a look at that crucial piece of evidence.

“Sheriff has it.”

“Then he must’ve had it analyzed.”

He snorted. “Don’t be so sure.”

Convincing. She wished the man weren’t so attractive, and especially that she hadn’t reacted to him so carnally earlier today. Of course, she hadn’t known who he was then. Still…

He dropped the truck into gear again and drove. “The house is just over yonder.”

“Good.” They crested the hill and Beth held her breath. The house was pristine white against a backdrop of green so lush it looked as if an artist had painted the setting. “Nice.”

Malone pointed toward the house as he continued to steer the truck closer. “Lorilee’s great-great-grandfather built it after the War Between the States.”

Beth rolled her eyes. No true Southerner would ever refer to it as the Civil War. More often than not, she heard it called the War of Northern Aggression. Sheesh.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Her grandfather built a more modern home over that ridge, and that’s where her father and stepmother still live.” Malone’s sigh drew Beth’s gaze back to his impressive profile. “Lorilee wanted to live here, so we bought the place from her father. Lord, it was a dump when we first got married.”

Making more mental notes, Beth tried to concentrate on information, rather than the man himself—not an easy task. “So you and your wife fixed it up?”

“Right, though it was a lot more fix than up at first.” His expression hardened again as he brought the truck to a stop in front of the house. “She called it…”

“What, Mr. Malone?” Beth watched that same muscle in his jaw clench and release several times as he stared at the house. “What did she call it?”

He opened the door and climbed out; Beth did the same. Staring at her from over the hood, he said, “She called it her castle.”

His pain was clear, but that didn’t prove anything. Even the guilty could feel and show genuine pain. “Well, let’s open the drawbridge and have a look around.”

After a curt nod, he headed for the massive wraparound porch and turned the knob. The door swung open easily.

Another old building. Full of lingering memories, lingering…spirits?

A ball of lead settled in her gut, and her palms turned clammy. The world was full of old buildings. She had a job to do.

Buck up, Dearborn. She braced herself and followed him to the door.

Something stopped her at the threshold. Her belly churned and this morning’s egg-and-muffin sandwich turned on her. That would teach her to skip lunch and live on coffee all day—a bad habit remaining from her detective days.

“Come on in and look your fill,” Malone invited.

Beth gritted her teeth and stepped through the door. A powerful sensation gripped her. Fear. Gut-wrenching terror. Her throat tightened. Sweat trickled between her breasts. She couldn’t breathe. She had to get away. They were hurting her.

They who? What the hell? She’d felt this before. Was it happening again? No, it couldn’t be. Her gift was gone. It had to be. She was safe now. But then an icy chill swept through her. She’d let down her guard—grown too confident and allowed this crack in her armor. She wouldn’t let it come back.

A moment later, the creepy sensation vanished completely. Had it been her imagination? Maybe it really was nothing more than an empty stomach compounded by the long drive, and that would be the end of it.

“Where do you want to start?” He dropped his hat on a table near the door.

Beth shook her head and walked slowly through the entryway. The sensation she’d detected at the door returned for a fleeting moment, then passed. It definitely hadn’t been strong enough for her to call it one of her empathic experiences. She breathed a tentative sigh of relief, though niggling doubts still lurked in the back of her mind. Sucking in her breath, she faced Ty Malone, pinning him with her gaze.

“What is it?” He took a step toward her, his expression a tentative blend of wariness and concern. “You look kinda puny.”

“Mr. Malone…,” Beth began, hoping her worries were unfounded. “Has anyone ever…died in this house?”

The investigator swayed and Ty reached out to grab her arm. All the color had drained from her face. “You okay?”

“No. I’m not.” Beth Dearborn shivered and looked up to meet his gaze, her expressive hazel eyes wide. Pleading. “Just answer me. Please? Has anyone ever died in this house?”

The woman looked downright terrified. “It’s an old house.” He shrugged, struggling to remember this woman wasn’t an ordinary damsel in distress. She was—could be—the enemy. “No telling what happened here in the hundred years before we got here.”

She shook her head and drew a deep breath, her efforts to regain control visible in her eyes and the set of her mouth. “It’s gone.”

It? “What’s gone?”

She managed a weak smile and shrugged off his supporting hand, then shoved hers through her thick mane of dark curls, freeing them completely from the elastic band that had tried and failed to restrain them. “Nothing.” Swinging toward a painting near the archway that led to the parlor, Dearborn made it clear the subject was closed.

What the hell? This woman’s problems were none of his business. All he cared about was putting an end to a nightmare that had festered far too long.

“Nice painting.”

“Lorilee’s work.” Ty stepped closer to the watercolor his wife had painted of this house and the valley surrounding it. “She liked to paint.”

“It’s good.” Dearborn tilted her head to one side as if memorizing the texture and colors of the painting. After a moment, she removed a pad and pencil from her backpack and scratched a few lines.

Ty studied the woman’s profile. What the hell was she thinking now? “Something wrong with the fact that Lorilee liked to paint?” What significance could an insurance investigator find in a simple watercolor a woman had painted of a home she’d loved?

“Wrong?” The investigator shoved her hair back from her face again, the expression in her eyes unreadable. “Just making notes, Malone. Investigating. It’s my job. Remember?”

“How could I forget?” At least she was back to her normal prickly self now. He released a slow breath. “Where do you want to start?”

“One room at a time.” She paused, then jabbed her pencil toward the back of the house. “Kitchen that way?”

“Yeah.” The back door slammed, and he inclined his head toward the sound. “But based on that, I suspect Pearl’s in there and fixin’ supper.”

“Pearl?”

“Housekeeper, nanny, cook, lifesaver.”

“Ah.” Beth smiled—really smiled—and the transformation from suspicious hard-ass to open beauty was like a sharp right hook. Damn. Don’t notice, Malone. Insurance investigators aren’t supposed to be pretty.

The kitchen door swung open. “Cecil James Montgomery, if that’s your sorry hide sneakin’ back here for another one of them quickies, I’ve got a news bulletin for—”

Pearl froze, her short plump body framed in the doorway, her mouth gaping in a perfect circle. “Ty, well…” She patted her kinky white hair and groaned. “And you have company, too. Now, don’t that just beat all? Pardon me, ma’am.”

Beth stepped forward and thrust out her hand. “Beth Dearborn. Avery Mutual.”

Pearl’s momentary embarrassment fled as rapidly as it had appeared. “You’re from the insurance company about Lorilee.” It wasn’t a question. She shook Beth’s hand, but it was a halfhearted effort at best. Her dark gaze met Ty’s over Beth’s shoulder. “And…?”

“Ms. Dearborn is here to investigate Lorilee’s death,” Ty explained. “She wanted to see the last place anyone saw her alive.”

“Well, I reckon that would be here.” Pearl took a step back and lifted her chin, her expression fierce. “My Lorilee didn’t run off, Ms. Dearborn. She’s dead, pure and simple as that. And it’s time—way past time—for her to rest in peace.”

Several seconds of silence stretched between the two women. They were testing each other. One thing Ty knew for sure, these two were more-than-worthy adversaries.

Maybe—just maybe—between them, they would learn what happened to Lorilee once and for all. Why he believed an insurance investigator might bother with the details of his wife’s death, he didn’t know. Foolishness, maybe. But his gut said otherwise.

“My job is to find the truth, Mrs…?” Beth broke the silence first.

“Montgomery. Pearl Montgomery.”

“Mrs. Montgomery.” Beth’s pencil scribbled more notes across her pad of paper. “How long have you worked for the Malones?”

Pearl’s full lips pulled into a tight, thin line. “I’ve been with Lorilee’s family since before she was born.”

Ty moved close to Pearl and placed a supportive hand on the African-American woman’s shoulder. “Pearl raised Lorilee after her mother died.”

Pearl sighed and looked up at him. “She was like the daughter I never had.” She covered Ty’s hand with her own. “And when she married this fine man, I came here to work, and so did that ornery foreman of yours.”

“He couldn’t let you out of his sight.”

Pearl swatted him playfully with her dish towel. “He’d better mind his manners if he knows what’s good for him.”

“So you’ve known Lorilee all her life?” Beth interrupted, still writing.

“Knew,” Ty corrected. “Past tense.”

“Yes, so you said before.”

“And I’ll keep saying.”

The greenish cast in Beth’s hazel eyes sparked to life when she met and held his gaze. He caught his breath. This woman was like a chameleon, constantly changing. He couldn’t read her, and that worried him.

Even knowing who and what she was, he still wanted her as much now as he had back when she’d been nothing more than a sexy, stranded motorist.

Maybe more.

Beth was in deep shit. First, the possible spirit encounter, and now the reminder of her attraction to this man. Between her raw emotions and her rioting hormones, she couldn’t think straight. She mentally shook herself and squared her shoulders, then dragged a hand through her hair.

Back to business, Dearborn. Breathe in, breathe out. Easy does it.

“Would it be possible for you to make some time to talk with me about Lorilee, Mrs. Montgomery?” she asked. “Since you know—knew—her so well?” She quirked her lips at Ty’s arched brow when she changed her tense. Humor them. Whatever it takes.

“Yes, of course.” Pearl glanced nervously in Ty’s direction.

Beth noted Ty’s nod of approval. Pearl might have practically raised Lorilee, but she was still an employee asking permission to speak to the enemy.

“Thanks. I appreciate that. Right now, though, I’d just like to look around the house, if that’s okay.”

“Sure. Fine.” Pearl twisted the dish towel in her hands. “I’ll just get back to my chores.”

“Thanks, Pearl.” Ty kissed the older woman’s cheek. “What’s for supper?”

She rolled her eyes. “Chicken and dumplings.”

“Mmm.”

“Men.” Chuckling, she returned to the kitchen.

Beth tried not to admire the way Ty had handled Pearl Montgomery, but she couldn’t help it. He’d known exactly how to soothe her, exactly how to defuse an awkward situation. Or maybe all this had been staged for the expected insurance investigator. Sooner or later the truth would surface. It always did.

She just hoped that eerie feeling she’d had when they first arrived had been nothing but a long day and a sour stomach. She blew out a long breath and faced Malone.

“Let’s save the kitchen for another time,” she suggested. “I’ve terrorized Pearl enough for today.”

“Fair enough.” Ty’s lips curved and his eyes twinkled. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Damn. Why’d he have to be nice and good looking?

“Parlor’s this way.” A clock chimed twice. “Kids’ll be home in two hours.”

“This won’t take long.” Beth admired his commitment to his children, though all of this could be an act. Lorilee could be waiting for them all to join her in some tropical paradise right now.

Along with her seven-figure insurance settlement.

Beth planned to follow up on the painting angle. Was Lorilee pursuing her interest in art somewhere? Perhaps even selling her work? Could she be traced that way? Beth made a note to contact an art expert she’d worked with a few times back in Chicago.

Antiques coexisted with contemporary comfort in the parlor. She ran her fingertip along the polished cherry of the rolltop desk near the archway. “Nice.”

“Lorilee spent years collecting these pieces,” Malone explained. He stood in the center of the room, thumbs hooked through his belt loops. “We spent a lot of weekends at antique and estate sales.”

Beth waited for him to face her again before she spoke. She wanted—no, needed—to see the expression on his face. Holding her breath, she counted. One, two, three, four…

Finally, he turned, but his expression was bland. Not tortured. He didn’t look like a man still madly in love with his dead wife—or with a wife who could still be alive, for that matter.

And why the hell did knowing that make relief ease through Beth? No, she should consider this evidence. Get with the program, Dearborn. He wasn’t tortured, because he knew his wife was safe and sound somewhere else. Right?

She licked her suddenly dry lips and tried to ignore the quickening of her pulse. There was another possibility she had to consider—one the former homicide detective in her couldn’t completely discount.

Was it possible that Ty Malone wasn’t worried about his wife’s fate because he knew exactly what had happened to her?