Weddings Can Be Murder (28 page)

“Go see Joe while you’re out.” Katie started for the door.

“Go see Carl while you’re out.” Les rolled back over.

Just hearing his name had pain gnawing at her ankles. She ignored it. It would go away. Eventually. Just like the fierce grief of losing her family had faded. She just needed to keep going. Rays always kept going.

Katie got almost to her car, then went back and grabbed her wedding book. If she didn’t take too long at the art store, she might go see if she could get her deposits back.

He drove by the house but didn’t let himself stop. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t take her. Not now. It was too soon. Too soon. Too soon.

His head started throbbing. He was almost out of pain medicine. Would the doctor give him more?

Then he heard it. Distantly, but he heard it. Laughing. No, he couldn’t handle the laughing now. It had to go away.

He pulled over and parked. And let himself rock. Her house was down the street. Maybe he would walk by. Just walk by. Maybe peek in her window. Maybe seeing her
would be enough to stop the headache from coming back and keep the laughter away.

Katie spent hours at the art store, debating between cherry red and apple red paint. Things like that were important to an artist. And she was an artist. Maybe not a great artist, but if an elephant could do it, then…Her heart went straight to Carl, and then went straight to pain.

Afterward, she stopped by the gallery and had a late lunch with Lola. In spite of the constant ache lodged inside her soul, it felt good to be busy.

After lunch, Katie sort of mentioned to Lola her desire to be an artist. Okay, it was more like a blurted confession. “I’m an artist. Please, don’t fire me.”

“Fire you,
chica
? Did you honestly think I didn’t know?”

“Well, yes. Seeing as I never told you,” Katie said.

“Ah,
Dios
, only an artist can understand art like you do. I figured you’d come out of the closet someday.”

“But I suck at it, Lola. I had a few shows and—”

“Painting is like sex.” Lola compared everything to sex. She loved sex. “Sometimes it is great. And sometimes it is all about faking it and avoiding the wet spot. You show me some of your work, and I will show you your talent.”

“What if all I do is fake it and avoid the wet spots?”

“You keep faking it until it’s real,” Lola said.

They hugged, and before Katie left the gallery, she tried to call Les. The call went to her answering machine. “Hi, Les,” Katie said. “Just thought I’d remind you to go see Joe.”

On the way home, Katie almost stopped by Grimes Photography, but at the last minute she decided to go home and start painting. She turned on her car’s heater. While it wasn’t that cold, the chill in the air reminded Katie of another cold day. A day she’d been locked in the dark with a man who had stolen her heart.

It also looked as if another storm had its claws into
Houston. Why else would it be almost dark at three in the afternoon?

When she pulled in front of her home, the lights beckoned from her windows—and not a warm beckoning, either.
Relax
, she told herself,
Les must already be here
—and thought,
Good
, not wanting to face an empty house. Knowing the killer had been in her house ruined the warm, cozy feeling of coming home.

Katie walked into the entryway and called Les’s name. Nothing. No answer. The central heat kicked on and groaned. That was it, tomorrow she was calling someone out to fix it.

“Les?” She stepped into the living room. Nothing. Katie took off to her bedroom. She stood in the door looking at the unmade bed. Normally Les at least pulled the covers up.

Katie picked up her bedroom phone. The beeping told her she had messages. But she dialed Les’s cell again.

It rang. Then Katie heard the ring in her house. She walked into the bathroom, and on the floor, beside a wet towel, was Les’s cell phone. Why would Les leave her phone on the floor?

Katie swirled around. “Les?”

She got no response, so she hung up and dialed to get her messages, hoping one was from Les. One hangup. Then Katie’s heart skipped a beat when right before it disconnected she could swear she heard music. Wedding music. But that couldn’t be. They’d caught the killer. So, she pushed that crazy thought away.

The next message sang in Katie’s ear. “Hey,” Les said. “I know I left your place a mess. Woke up late, left my phone, and have just barely avoided being fingerprinted and tossed in the slammer. I’ll explain later.”

Buck Hades walked into his son’s house. The flicker of the TV lit up the dark space, and the sound of feminine squeals bounced around the room. “Carl?” The room went dark and silent.

Buck cut the corner and saw his son sitting on the sofa, in the dark with two dogs, the remote in his hand. Buck glanced at the TV fading from just being switched off.

“What’re you watching?” Buck asked.

“Nothing.” Carl’s reply came too fast, and his look took Buck back twenty years to when he’d first caught his son watching porn. Buck hit the light switch. On the table were a couple of open DVD cases. Buck frowned. It wasn’t the porn that bothered Buck, it was the misery stamped all over his son’s expression.

“You make about as much sense as a perfumed fart,” Buck said. “You’ve got a sexy, sweet woman who’s half-crazy for you, and you’d rather watch porn than have the real thing.”

Buck tossed the white envelope in his son’s lap. “That’s my wedding announcement. And like it or not, I expect you to be there.” He started out.

“Dad?” His son’s deep voice stopped Buck.

“Yeah?” He looked back.

“If this wedding is what you want, I’m happy for you.”

Buck let out a deep breath. “That means a lot, son. Now, what about Katie? What are you going to do about her? You’re an idiot to let her go.”

“I’m trying to figure that out right now.”

Buck cut his eyes back to the dark television. “Well, I don’t think watching skin flicks is going to do it.”

Les walked up to Joe’s door and popped one of the breath mints that had almost gotten her carted off to jail into her mouth. Then again, it may have been the hemorrhoid pads that had really ticked the cops off. As she knocked, her heart hammered in her chest.

Her heart had been hammering all day. First, when she’d woken up an hour late to meet her mom and Mimi to go shopping. And again, when she’d almost been arrested leaving Wal-Mart because Mimi had managed to drop a pack of breath mints, hemorrhoid-soothing Tucks pads, and some vaginal lubricant with warming qualities in Les’s purse while security guards watched.

Nevertheless, here Les was, to say good-bye to Joe—to say,
Can you give me a month to get my head screwed on right
and then maybe we can enjoy the vaginal lubricant my
grandma picked up for me?

She knocked again. No answer. “Well, fudge.” Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be. She turned to leave when she spotted the flowerpot and recalled Katie telling her about the key. The idea of being there when Joe walked in didn’t appeal to her, but maybe she could just go in and write him a note. A note was better than trying to say this on the phone.

Unlocking the door, she dropped her purse on the sofa. The sofa where she’d almost had wild, wonderful sex with Joe.

She looked around for a pen and paper. Did Joe have an office? She started down the hall when…

“Oh, damn!” The shower was going.

She swung around, grabbed her purse, and had colored herself gone when her heart started hammering again.

What was she doing? Running?

Les Grayson didn’t run. Not anymore. Isn’t that what she’d promised herself?

Catching her breath, she dropped her purse back on the sofa. She’d wait. Wait until he got out to talk to him. Yeah. Wait.

She sat down on the sofa. The memory of his mouth on her breasts had her tightening her thighs. Then another memory made a grand entrance: Joe stepping into the shower. Naked. Wonderfully naked.

The idea hit. It was crazy. Didn’t make a bit of sense. Which was why she wasn’t going to do it. So, why was she stripping off her blouse?

She kicked off her shoes before she got to the hall. Her bra fluttered down at his bedroom door, her pink panties slipped off her thighs as she arrived at the bathroom. She peeked in, and behind the shower curtain she could see his shadow. Her heart did a lap around her chest cavity.

Reaching up, she pulled the chain over her head and laid it on the bathroom counter. Right then, she felt more naked than she had in eighteen months. She almost turned around and ran. But she heard Joe whistle. The man whistled while he showered? What else did he do? She wanted to discover all the little things about him. Did he sleep on his side or his back? Did he drink juice in the mornings? Or just coffee?

She counted to three, then tiptoed to the shower. Pulling the curtain back, she peered inside. He had his back to her, shampoo in his dark hair. Her attention followed a stream of soapy water down his back to his well-shaped ass. His tight, sexy ass.

“Do you mind some company?” She stepped inside.

“Shit!” He swung around. Shampoo-laden suds ran
down his face and into his eyes. He froze. The steam rose around them.

His gaze whispered down her body—over her breasts, down to the blond patch of curls between her legs, then swept past her thighs and didn’t stop until he studied her toenails.

Pink. She’d painted her toenails pink last night.

His gaze snapped back up to her chest. For a second, she took that to mean he was a breast man. But then she knew what he was looking for. Only, it wasn’t there. She’d left it on the counter.

His gaze shot to her eyes, then back to her chest. Okay, maybe he was a breast man.

“We gotta stop meeting like this,” he said.

“I can leave,” she whispered, feeling a tad unsure and sort of hurt that he hadn’t already touched her.

“Now would that be any fun?” He ran a finger over one of her already-tightened nipples.

Definitely a breast man.

“No, it wouldn’t be fun.” She sighed at the desire his touch aroused in her.

“Then how about you stay.” He stepped forward and the spray of water hit her square in the face. He chuckled and she heard him turn around to adjust the showerhead. Her gaze moved down to his naked bottom again. Okay, she’d admit it, her favorite part of a man’s body was his butt.

He turned around. And it wasn’t his tight tush she now admired. His sex was already hard, thick, and pointing upward. And good heavens, if there wasn’t more of that than she needed.

He moved in closer. “Are you really here, or am I dreaming this? Because I’ve pictured this a hundred times in my mind.”

“Pictured what?” she asked.

He smiled. “Pictured you. Naked. In the shower.”

“Fighting you. Squirting shampoo in your eyes,” she teased.

Pushing a lock of hair from her cheek, he pressed his lips to her temple. “Okay, I’ll admit it, that turned me on.”

She pressed her hand on his wet, soapy chest. Slowly, she inched it downward until she held his velvety erection in her fist. She stroked him. Mea sured him. Savored his heat, the power of the hardness. And his deep sounds of plea sure told her he liked it.

His hands cupped her breasts. “You look good wet.”

She stroked him again. “And I thought I might have to wear the Halloween tablecloth and slap you to get you in the mood.”

“You’re going to use that against me, aren’t you?”

“Yep.” She passed her thumb over his throbbing tip.

“Then let me show you what I’m going to use against you,” he said with a moan.

He caught her around the bottom, swooped her off her feet, and pushed her against the shower wall. With one adjustment, his hard shaft found the spot between her legs. He held her. Moving his hips ever so slightly, the round tip of his sex probed inside the folds of hers, teasing, testing.

“You get the picture?” he asked in a tight voice.

“I’m just wondering what you’re waiting for,” she baited.

He jutted his hips up and, in one solid stroke, he filled her.

She gasped. The sudden invasion almost hurt. Almost.

“You okay?” His forehead pressed against hers.

“Oh, yeah.” Her body stretched around him. “I’m going back to Boston day after tomorrow,” she gritted out. She felt him tense. “Only for a month. Then I’m moving back for good.”

He drew out and pushed back in. “I’ll come out on the weekends.”

They began to move faster. She almost told him they
should use the time apart to think, to figure out if this was real, but he felt so good inside her, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to go without this for a month. And damn, it already felt so real. “Okay.”

After Les called to say she wouldn’t be coming back to night, Katie got all her paints out. She was even kind of glad Les wouldn’t be coming home. Tonight, she would paint. She thought about Les and Joe together. Recalled the wispiness in Les’s voice when she’d said, “I’m going to stay over at Joe’s.”

A tickle of something unpleasant touched Katie’s heart. Jealousy? Yes, jealousy. Not because of Joe, but because she wanted that for herself—wanted that with Carl. She pushed the thought away. Because she was a Ray, and Rays didn’t sit around pining over what they couldn’t have.

When she realized she hadn’t bought anything to mix the paint in, she went to her kitchen and found an old cast-iron frying pan and took it back to her study. Then, setting up her easel, she leaned the blank canvas on it and studied it. She didn’t have a clue what to paint.

She ran back into her living room and found a glass vase with one red silk flower. As she started out, she spotted the elephant painting she’d placed on her mantel. She grabbed it for inspiration. “If an elephant can do it, so can I,” she said, remembering Carl telling her that.

As she set up a still-life display, her thoughts went back to Carl. Would it have killed him to say good-bye? She reached for a brush, and her vision grew cloudy with tears. Okay, maybe this Ray did pine over what she couldn’t have.

He leaned against the window and watched her paint. Watched her cry as she dabbed paint on the canvas. He loved it when they cried. His need to see her had driven him here to night. He wouldn’t take her now. It was too soon. Too soon.

But seeing her helped. Knowing she was waiting for
him. If he squinted his eyes just so, he could pretend her hair was black. Pretend she was Maria.

He remembered.
Do you, Maria, take this man
…She’d laughed. Laughed. Then everyone was laughing. Generally, there was only one way to stop the laughing. He needed to take his bride.

Friday morning, Carl sat up. He’d chosen to watch the DVDs on the sofa because his bed still smelled like Red. Every few hours he’d nod off, but then he’d force himself to watch. Truth was, there wasn’t enough action to keep him interested. But he watched anyway. He had three more DVDs to go.

Taking a deep breath, he dropped his face into his hands. Precious barked at the back door, wanting out.

What the hell was he going to do? He missed Red so much, drawing air into his lungs hurt. He got up, let both Precious and Baby outside, and went back to the sofa and hit
play
. He watched the blonde’s face appear on the screen. Then three other blondes flashed. Then came the redhead. The music started.

He heard his front door open. He snatched up the remote and cut the TV off.

“Hey.” Ben walked into the living room and studied him holding the remote. Then his brother’s gaze went to the empty beer bottles.

“Dad’s right. You’re watching porn and crying in your beer.”

Carl leaned back. “Did you come all this way just to give me a ration of shit, or do you need something?”

“No, I came all this way to check on you.” He dropped into a chair. “You going to be okay?”

“Yeah.” Carl set the remote on the coffee table.

His brother reached for it, but Carl moved quicker and snatched it away.

“Hey, I just thought we’d have a male-bonding experience,” Ben said.

“How about let’s not,” Carl said.

“Why the fuck don’t you just call her?” Ben’s cell phone rang and he answered it. “Hades. Yeah.”

After a long pause, Carl’s brother’s eyes shot to him. The look on Ben’s face set off all kinds of alarms. Carl had only seen that look once, the night Ben had met him at the hospital door and told him his mother had already passed.

Carl shot to his feet. “What is it?”

Carl, with Dr. Pope, stepped into the cold, anesthetic-smelling room. The morgue held no color; everything seemed to be either white or chrome. He waited for the flood of emotion to hit him, but it was as if he’d received a shot of novocaine in his heart. The organ lay behind his chest bone, big, fat, and numb, and he wanted to claw at it as one might chew at one’s lip to make sure it was still there.

The body lay out on the metal table, a white sheet covering it, but he could still make out the feminine form. Then he saw it. The only damn color in the room. A strand of red hair hung over the back of the table. Even it looked dead.

He had loved her. He hadn’t wanted to, but he had.

Dr. Pope moved to the other side of the table. “Such a waste.” He pulled the sheet down. “Is it her?”

Carl forced himself to look at her face. “Yeah. Her name is Amy Bentley.”

“Looks like it’s a clear-cut OD. Needle marks in the arms tell the story. We’ll know more when the tox screens come in.”

Carl closed his eyes. His heart started feeling again. Not love, but regret. And guilt.

“You know,” Dr. Pope spoke, “if I had fifty bucks for every OD victim I’ve seen, I’d be a rich man. Why do they do it to themselves?”

Do it to themselves
. Carl forced himself to look at Amy,
her face so still, so devoid of expression or emotion. So dead.

Right then he remembered begging her not to leave. To stay. To let him help her. She’d refused. He recalled her parting words:
Stop trying to save me, Carl. I’m not your
mother
.

He looked again at the track marks running up her arm and something about seeing them, about seeing the ugly truth, brought some clarity. This wasn’t his fault. Amy had made her choice.

She
had. Not him. It wasn’t his fault. Something started to shift inside him. Then the last bit of numbness faded to just a big pit of understanding, and then some old pains. Right then he heard Amy’s words again.
I’m not
your mother
.