An Absence of Motive Read online

  Since her mother enjoyed trips to Atlanta to shop and visit, Marlee hadn’t come home to Pine Bluff often since she left for college. Now that she was back, she saw the town with fresh eyes. New ornamental lamps dotted the walking path at Parson’s Creek. The awning over Brewster’s was still bakery-box pink, but this one appeared to be new. It hadn’t yet been faded by the sun. She noted the cool weather annuals planted in Lane’s Antiques’s window boxes. They’d have to be replaced with petunias or geraniums soon, she mused as she reached for the door handle. Summer in southern Georgia was no place for pansies.

  The lights flashed on the black Suburban her father drove, startling her from her thoughts. Another change. Since when did her father bother locking his car? When she’d lived in Pine Bluff, she used to leave her ignition key under the floor mat of her Mustang. No one would dare to mess with anything belonging to a Masters. Marlee didn’t think she’d ever used the key fob until she moved to Atlanta to go to school.

  “Get in already.” Her father barked the terse order from the other side of his monstrous SUV.

  Marlee bristled but did as she was told. Hoisting herself onto the buttery leather seat, she kept her gaze averted. She couldn’t let him see how she truly felt about his orders. Or how much she loathed herself for following them. She loved her father, but she didn’t always like him much.

  She’d been plotting her escape since the day they buried her brother. Their father had stood stiff as a statue, uncrying, unblinking, as they laid Jeff to rest. Her mother had been a wreck, crumpling into herself on one of the white wooden folding chairs provided by the funeral home. She’d watched, tears streaming from her eyes, as Jeff’s casket was lowered into his grave. But her father showed no signs of grief or weakness, even though he’d only allowed the immediate family at the graveside service.

  Now here she was. Summoned home again by news of a death. She needed to get away. Had to figure out a plan to break free from Masters County and everything lying in wait for her. A life she never wanted was closing in around her, and she had to find a way to wriggle off her father’s hook.

  A mere female, she’d been granted a good deal more leeway than her younger brother. After all, she wasn’t the scion. She wasn’t supposed to run the family’s timber-and-pulp business. She was extraneous, as far as her father was concerned. As long as Jeff was alive and she didn’t do anything to make it impossible for her mama to show her face at First Baptist on Sundays, she could do as she pleased. She was brainy enough to graduate at the top of her class and score a spot at Emory University School of Law. Henry assumed once she passed the Georgia bar, she’d come home and serve as her brother’s legal counsel and adviser. That was what they’d told him she would do.

  Diploma in hand, she’d hunkered down and immersed herself in preparing for the bar exam. But Jeff’s death had blown all their plans to smithereens. She’d thought her father wouldn’t notice her staying in Atlanta. She’d hoped he’d had his hands full enough with the business and Mama to keep him off her back for a while. But nothing got past Henry Masters.

  “Your mother wants you to go with her to visit Eleanor Young this afternoon.” It was a command, not an invitation. “I’d appreciate it if you could encourage her to keep her wits about her until after y’all get home.”

  Marlee opened her mouth to protest but clamped it shut and forced herself to swallow her rebellion. She had to play it cool. Be a Masters.

  “Fine,” she said tightly.

  He cast a sidelong glance at the pantsuit she wore and wrinkled his nose. “You’ll want to change into something more...appropriate.”

  She glanced down at the tailored coordinates she’d chosen so carefully. This was her interview suit. She’d thought it would be her lucky interview suit after she had alterations made. She’d had a meeting lined up at one of Atlanta’s hottest law firms. Then her father had called to tell her about Clint’s death and ordered her to come home.

  “This is perfectly appropriate,” she said in a quiet voice, trying to keep the rage bubbling inside of her to a low, rolling boil.

  “It’s unflattering, ill-fitting,” her father said bluntly. “What an actor would think an attorney wears.” With another sideways glance, he smirked. “You are an attorney, aren’t you? You didn’t fib about sittin’ for the bar exam and all, did you, Miss Marlee?”

  His condescending use of what was once a beloved childhood nickname fanned the flame under her anger. Her ears grew hot and prickly. A flush crept up her neck and into her cheeks. She resisted the urge to press her hands to her scalding face. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  “I can show you my registration papers when we get back to the house. I brought my diploma with me too, since you couldn’t be bothered to come to my graduation.”

  He dismissed her hurt with a wave of his hand. “I told you your mama wasn’t up for the trip.”

  She disengaged. There was no sense in arguing. The man believed he was the law, both in the family and in the whole county. Dealing with an ego the size of his was akin to running headlong into a brick wall—repeatedly. One she’d been butting up against her whole life. And he and her mother were a pair. For better and for worse. Looking out the window as they cruised through town, she couldn’t resist prodding him.

  “You don’t seem to care much for the new sheriff,” she said, striving for casual observation.

  “He’s fine. I hired him, didn’t I?”

  She stifled a huff at the defensiveness in his response. Henry Masters considered himself an expert strategist, and he hated any implication he might possibly be ruled by a stray emotion.

  “Besides, it doesn’t matter if I like him or not. The man has a job to do, and as the head of the town council, it’s my responsibility to make sure he does.”

  Responsibility. Duty. Legacy. Those were three of her father’s favorite words. And now... Now he wanted her to do her duty to the Masters family legacy and pay a condolence call to the mother of the boy who was once Jeff’s best friend. Her stomach tightened into a knot.

  “I need you to go with your mother to represent the family, Marlee. I can’t send Carolee alone.” He cast a meaningful look in her direction. “Maybe you can ask your mama to help you pick out something to wear. That would make her happy.”

  He spoke in a low, cajoling tone—the same tenor she’d fallen for repeatedly when she was a child. When a simple request from him could make her strive to do better. But she wasn’t a young girl desperate for her daddy’s approval anymore. And nothing short of Jeff’s resurrection would make her mother happy.

  * * *

  MARLEE PASSED THE afternoon grasping a sweating glass of iced tea and watching her mother and Eleanor Young sit huddled together, clasping hands and crying. She’d been pretty teary herself, but when she pulled a fresh handkerchief from her mother’s handbag, she’d spotted a silver flask tucked inside. The sight stirred fresh worry that her mother’s emotions might be fueled by something other than pure grief. Marlee just hoped that the friends and neighbors coming to pay call were too focused on Mrs. Young to notice that Carolee Masters was listing ever so slightly to the left.

  Townspeople came and went, passing in and out of the Youngs’ once-chic, but now truly shabby, parlor in a steady stream. The visitors greeted each other in passing, but no one lingered. They reminded Marlee of relay racers anxious to pass the baton.

  Her mother touched a hand-embroidered handkerchief to the corners of her eyes. It came away damp but unmarred by mascara or makeup. Marlee realized with a jolt that sometime in the months since Jeff’s death, her mother had morphed her mourning into a kind of performance art.

  She studied the two women, the more analytical part of Marlee’s brain comparing and contrasting. Eleanor Young was a mess. She alternately sobbed and sniffled. Her face was pale but blotchy from crying. If she’d started the day wearing any kind of cosmetics, they w
ere long gone. Tendrils of curling brown hair escaped the clip worn at the nape of her neck. Marlee had been stunned by the streaks of silver visible at the crown of her hair. Going gray gracefully was simply not done in these parts. Rinker’s Drugstore kept Clairol Light Auburn 6R specifically for the county’s oldest resident, Miss Louisa Shelby. But Eleanor Young seemed to be flouting convention with at least three inches’ growth.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Young?”

  The request was spoken in a voice so deep and resonant it sliced through the hum of murmured conversation. Marlee looked up to find Sheriff Ben Kinsella standing on the threshold, wearing a freshly pressed uniform and carrying his broad-brimmed hat in his hands. She took in his height and wide shoulders along with a sharp, short breath. The man was impressive.

  He noticed her then and gave a nod of acknowledgment. “Ms. Masters.”

  Attraction flared hot in the pit of Marlee’s stomach, and the sensation made her jostle tea onto her hand. Her cheeks burned as she fumbled for her paper napkin. Had he been this handsome when they were introduced? She must have been too peeved about being hauled down to the station by her father to notice. But how could any woman with breath in her body not notice a man like him?

  Dark hair curled close to his head. He was clean-shaven—a fact she appreciated, as it allowed her to map the planes of his face. Tawny skin stretched taut over high cheekbones and a jaw so square he could have been a cartoon hero. But there was nothing flat or two-dimensional about this man. Even standing still in a stuffy parlor, Ben Kinsella personified the word dynamic. He appeared to be tightly coiled. Ready to spring into action. Desire snaked through her, moving as stealthily as smoke.

  He directed his full attention to the distraught woman on the worn velvet settee. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Mrs. Young, but I’d promised to call as soon as I had news from the coroner,” he said, his voice low and sympathetic.

  Her mother and Mrs. Young looked up at the same time. They wore matching expressions of apprehensive hope. Marlee had to marvel at the resiliency of the human spirit. What good news could they possibly expect from him? Clint was dead. So was Jeff. The sheriff’s presence certainly enhanced the room, but nothing truly good could come from this visit.

  “Yes, Sheriff?” Eleanor prompted in a tremulous voice as she started to rise.

  “No, no,” he said, waving her back into her seat as he strode into the room. “Please, don’t get up.”

  A handful of curious residents had followed him into the Young house. Marlee spotted Trudy Skyler, the woman who ran the local paper, lurking behind Mr. Jensen, the middle school math teacher. But her attention was drawn back to the sheriff.

  He stood towering over the settee for a moment, then lowered himself to one knee in order to look Mrs. Young directly in the eye. Something about the gesture tugged Marlee out of her wayward thoughts. Wetting her lips, she leaned forward on her chair, drawn to Ben Kinsella by more than that invisible thread of attraction.

  “Mrs. Young, I wanted to come to tell you I’ve spoken to the coroner.” Marlee saw his gaze shift to her mother and back. “He is not going to refer the case to the medical examiner’s office. Your son’s body will be released immediately and the case closed.”

  Someone behind the sheriff gasped, but Marlee couldn’t see who it was. She only heard a woman whisper, “I told you. It’s just like Carolee’s boy.”

  Sheriff Kinsella continued, “Mel Schuler asked me to assure you he’d take care of Clint. He said if you would go down to the funeral home in the morning, he’d like to go over all the arrangements with you.”

  The moment Sheriff Kinsella spoke her son’s name, Eleanor Young broke down in big, gulping sobs and collapsed against Marlee’s mother, hardly noticing Carolee Masters was better equipped to accept comfort than to dole it out.

  “I am truly sorry for your loss, Mrs. Young,” he concluded, his voice lower and gravelly.

  Marlee watched in helpless horror as her own mother, having far more experience in playing the part of the bereaved, offered the sheriff a limp hand to shake. “Thank you so much for taking the time to come yourself, Sheriff. I’m sure Eleanor appreciates all your efforts.”

  “It’s the least I could do, ma’am,” he replied. “I truly am sorry.”

  “Thank you,” Carolee said, bowing her head as she extracted her hand. “So kind of you to say. You’re new to our town, Sheriff. Do come to the house one night for supper,” she instructed with a faint upward tilt of her lips. “We’d be pleased to have you.”

  Marlee rose as the sheriff did, her fascinated stare fixed on her mother. Apparently, it wasn’t possible to drown a lifetime of grace and poise in vodka. Glancing over the sheriff’s shoulder, she was relieved to note the soul-shaking sobs emanating from the parlor had driven the gossips from the foyer. The implication of what he’d said, of the coroner’s ruling on Clint’s death, weighed heavy on her heart. She needed to be certain she understood him correctly.

  “Sheriff,” she called as he pivoted to leave. “Does this mean—”

  She pressed a hand to her neck, hoping to calm her own racing pulse. Grabbing his arm, she propelled him away from the weeping women on the couch and toward the now-empty foyer. When they stopped near the Youngs’ front door, she couldn’t quite bring herself to relinquish her hold on his solid bicep. The man felt strong. Sturdy. Secure. All the things she hadn’t felt since her brother died.

  Marlee looked up to find him gazing down at her searchingly, his brown eyes dark with sympathy. He covered her hand with his, and her pulse leaped. She looked into his eyes, wondering if he even realized he’d done it. Surely, the gesture was meant to comfort and nothing more. She couldn’t stand there and let a total stranger hold her hand, no matter how good it felt. Could he feel how fast her heart was beating?

  “Ms. Masters? Can I help you?”

  She forced herself to slide her hand from his grasp. Marlee didn’t want sympathy. She wanted to get out of there. More than anything, she wanted to be anywhere other than where she was, about to ask what she had to ask. Drawing a shaky breath, she forced the question out in a rush.

  “Does this mean Mr. Schuler believes Clint took his own life?”

  Her gaze dropped to the badge affixed to Ben Kinsella’s uniform tunic as he drew in a deep breath, then reluctantly let it go. “It means we could find no evidence to make us think anyone other than the victim was involved in the shooting.”

  His careful phrasing snagged her interest. Her eyes widened with the dawning realization the new sheriff had found something about Clint’s death puzzling. “‘No evidence,’” she repeated. Sheriff Walker had said something similar when he’d talked to her family about Jeff.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he confirmed.

  His use of the word ma’am made Marlee flinch, but she refrained from saying anything about it. After all, she was the daughter of the town’s most prominent citizen. She’d been called “miss” and “ma’am” and treated with deference her entire life. Even if she hadn’t done a thing to deserve it.

  Sheriff Kinsella looked as itchy and uncomfortable as she felt, but still he stayed, waiting for her to speak her piece with infinite patience.

  She averted her gaze to the fine mesh of the screen door. One push and the lucky man would be free to go. Would she ever be? Drawing a shaky breath, she fell back on the lessons learned in a lifetime of training.

  “Thank you for coming by, Sheriff. Shall I pass the message along to my father?”

  He hesitated, and she saw his cheeks darken with a flush. “Thank you, but no,” he said, donning his hat with a touch too much force, then adjusting the brim to ride low over his eyes. “I’ve already spoken to him.”

  The screen door slapped against the old wood casing, punctuating their conversation. Marlee’s estimation of the new sheriff in town clicked up a couple notches. The man was clearly tuned in to who rul
ed the roost in Masters County.

  “Why, yes, of course you have,” she said to his retreating back, her fingers tangling in the slim gold chain she wore at her throat as she watched the handsome man stride away from the house. With a tired sigh, she stepped back and closed the heavy front door. The grieving Mrs. Young would not be receiving any more callers.

  Chapter Three

  “It wouldn’t kill Patti Cummings to go a week or two between visits to the Curl Up and Dye,” a woman behind him whispered loudly. “I swear, I can hear her hair calling out for a deep conditioning all the way across the room.”

  “Now, Susie,” another woman’s voice cautioned, suppressing laughter.

  “I’m only sayin’ the bleach is turnin’ her hair to straw.”

  Ben tuned out, mentally filing the conversation under “idle gossip” in his mind. He eyed the woman currently condoling with Mrs. Young and cringed internally. The Susie lady hadn’t been entirely wrong in her assessment. Patti Cummings had hair the color and presumed texture of sun-bleached wheat.

  Biting back the urge to chuckle, he attempted to blend into the back wall of the funeral parlor’s viewing room. Of course, he knew trying not to stand out in Pine Bluff was a silly notion. Sure, there were plenty of people of color in the area. They’d tried to welcome him to their churches and socials. But it was hard for folks to get past the sheriff’s badge on his uniform shirt. His profession, coupled with the fact that he was city born and raised, made people uncomfortable. Particularly here, where the sweeps made by federal law enforcement had impacted so many families.