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  “I could very well be wrong,” Beth said. “But you’ll turn him against Project Justice by telling him.”

  Mitch seemed to be weighing her words.

  “You should listen to her, Mitchell,” his mother said, proving that even when she appeared to be minding her own business, she was listening intently.

  “I want to see him,” Mitch said. “I won’t tell him what you think. Maybe I can figure out why he was acting weird this morning. I’ll ask him about the scratches. Maybe there’s a logical explanation.”

  Beth thought about arguing. But Mitch was the classic immovable object, and she was nothing like an irresistible force. “I’ll go with you,” she said in a voice that she hoped made it sound like a done deal.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  AMAZINGLY, HE NODDED. Maybe she was getting better at standing up to men. Or maybe, deep inside, she knew that with Mitch, she didn’t have to be afraid. His words were sinking in—he wasn’t the same as Vince, or his father. Yes, he hung on to anger he should have let go a long time ago. But he didn’t channel that anger into hurting innocent people.

  “He wasn’t actually on duty today,” Beth explained. “He was dressed in civilian clothes. He said he had to get home because he’d promised Linda he would help her in the garden.”

  “Good. I’d rather talk to him without his cop buddies all around him.”

  “Why don’t you take them this peach cobbler?” Myra suggested. “It’ll give you a good excuse to stop by. I bought a whole lot of peaches on sale yesterday, so I overbaked. I was going to freeze the extra.”

  “That’s a great idea, Myra,” Beth said.

  Minutes later they were in the El Camino, roaring out of the driveway and down the dirt road, raising rooster tails of dust behind them. Tension between them was thick as cold syrup.

  “I might have overreacted about the cage-fighting thing,” she said carefully.

  He shook his head. “You have every right to be furious with me. It’s better if you stay mad at me.”

  “Better for whom?” No one had ever confused her the way this man did. Just when she thought she would be placating him, saying something that would make him happy, he changed his stance.

  “For you.”

  “You don’t know what’s better for me.” She rolled down her window to get some air into the car, now that they were off the dirt road. “I’m a big girl, and I can make my own choices. Right now, I’m choosing to overlook my personal abhorrence for violence and agree that there’s nothing morally wrong with the sport you’ve chosen to participate in.”

  “But—”

  “Violence is violence. And being around it is not for me.”

  He glanced over, looking startled. How could her stance surprise him, given everything he knew about her, everything she’d said to him on the porch?

  “Does that mean you don’t want to be friends with me?”

  Friends? She hadn’t even thought about their friendship, she’d been so focused on their more personal, intimate relationship. She didn’t have a ready answer.

  “It would be nice if somebody visited me in prison,” he said. “I’ll be the most popular guy in Huntsville if a Project Justice evidence analyst shows up on visiting day.”

  “Don’t joke about that, okay?” At least he was back to joking. That was the Mitch she knew…knew and loved, dammit. She vaguely recalled that she’d blurted out something about loving him during their argument on Myra’s front porch. How stupid could she be?

  “Humor is one way of coping. I’ve developed lots of ways.”

  Beth didn’t have an answer for that. She understood coping mechanisms. After the climactic end of her relationship with Vince, she’d done a lot of crying and sounding off in therapy. But men usually didn’t feel comfortable with that option. They had to channel their pain and hostility some other way.

  She was still trying to wrap her mind around the whole fighting thing.

  Before long they were cruising through a nice section of Coot’s Bayou where the houses stood on large lots with mature trees bright green with new spring leaves.

  “How does Dwayne afford to live in such a nice area on a cop’s salary?” Beth asked.

  “He inherited his mom’s house. She died young. Actually, my dad probably was the original owner. He made pretty good money working at the refinery before his drinking lost him his job.”

  “It must have been sad watching him decline. I was starting to see that in Vince—he was drinking too much, angry too much. He’d skip work sometimes when he was hungover. But before all that…he was a good guy, you know?”

  “There’s no way I can picture my dad as ever being a ‘good guy.’ I never saw him when he wasn’t drunk, mean or both.”

  “But did you ever wonder what turned him into a mean drunk? Was his father a mean drunk? Vince lost his job and had to take another job at a lower pay scale. It ate at him. That was what started him down the self-destructive—”

  “Beth, I don’t know and I don’t care. He’s dead, I never knew his father or anything about him. I don’t want to understand what made him such an SOB.”

  “But if you understood, maybe you wouldn’t hate him so much. Maybe you wouldn’t be so angry.” She knew she was overstepping. Vince hadn’t reacted well when she’d tried to get him to talk about feelings and such. But when she saw someone in pain—even if he thought he was “dealing” with it—she couldn’t help herself.

  “You can’t make excuses for him.”

  “I’m not. Really I’m not. I just don’t want you to hurt anymore. Forgiveness is one way to stop hurting.”

  She expected an angry comeback. Or sarcasm. Or at least a joke. But Mitch just looked at her. “Have you forgiven Vince? The last time I asked you that, you couldn’t answer.”

  She paused. She’d always thought she’d forgiven him, but had she really? If she was going to confront Mitch about this, she owed him a completely honest answer.

  She pictured Vince’s face, twisted in anger, and waited for the sharp pinch of pain. But it wasn’t so bad. What she felt more than anything was regret that she’d allowed him to control her long after he was out of her life.

  “Maybe not completely,” she finally said. “I still hate what he did to me, and I’d be the first one in line to put him in jail to prevent him from hurting some other woman. But I’m not nearly as angry as I was. By holding on to my anger like a security blanket, I let him hurt me over and over and over again. It feels good to loosen my grip on those memories.” She took a deep breath, certain she spoke the truth. “I’m making progress, at least.”

  “You’re a better person than me.”

  The discussion ended, because Mitch pulled into the driveway of a brown, brick ranch house, circa 1970s. It wasn’t the biggest house on the block, but the structure and the yard were immaculate. The grass was an emerald carpet, and azaleas blossomed in pink profusion all along the front of the house and the brick walkway.

  “Try to give me some time alone with Dwayne, okay?” Mitch said. “You and Linda can do the girl bonding thing. Make lemonade with her or something. Maybe Dwayne will be more open with me.”

  “All right. Just don’t provoke him, okay? What if he really is a murderer? He has guns. We don’t.”

  “He’s also a cop. He’s not going to shoot us in his own house, not in front of his wife. Not when my mother knows where we are, and my GPS cuff telegraphs my location every minute of every day.”

  “Good point.”

  They mounted the two steps to the front porch and rang the bell. Something small and yappy barked at them, and Mitch chuckled. “I never figured Dwayne to have an ankle-biter dog. He always said those little dogs don’t even make for good roadkill.”

  Though the dog barked and barked, no one came to the door.

  “Maybe they’re in the backyard,” Beth said. “Dwayne did mention something about gardening.”

  They walked around to the side of the house and met up with
a chain-link gate, locked.

  “Hey, Dwayne!” Mitch yelled, sounding less than cordial. “You back there?”

  Beth thought she heard the murmur of voices, but the breeze hummed through the tall trees just then, so she wasn’t sure. “We come bearing gifts,” Beth added, so they would understand it was a social call.

  “I’m gonna go see if they’re back there.” Mitch grabbed on to the top of the fence, obviously intending to vault it, but Beth grabbed his arm and stopped him just in time, bobbling the cobbler and nearly dropping it.

  “No. That’s technically breaking and entering. Or at least trespassing. Don’t give anyone a reason to— Oh, hi, Dwayne! Myra sent us over with a cobbler.”

  Dwayne had just rounded the corner of the house, looking perplexed. At the mention of dessert, however, his guarded expression changed to one of curiosity. “Peach?”

  “Mmm-hmm. Isn’t it nice how we can get fresh peaches all year round? She said the store had a sale and she bought more than she can eat.”

  “Linda?” Dwayne called over his shoulder. “Mitch and Beth are here and they brought dessert.” He pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked the padlock that secured the gate.

  Dwayne was still in his shorts and T-shirt, dirtier than they’d been this morning.

  “Pardon my attire,” Dwayne said as if he’d noticed Beth’s examination. “Working on that honey-do list.”

  When Beth came around the corner and got her first look at the huge backyard, she was awestruck. She’d expected to see a little patch of flowers and maybe some tomato plants and strawberries. But the Bells’ garden was enormous, probably a quarter acre, with neat rows upon rows of small, healthy plants from the nursery. Several more rows had been tilled, and flats of everything from squash to cucumbers to peppers waited in flats to be put into the ground.

  “This is beautiful!” Beth exclaimed. “You must spend an awful lot of time on it.”

  Linda, who wore a wide-brimmed hat tied under her chin, a denim work shirt and pink capris, smiled proudly. “It’s kinda my thing.” She turned her attention to the large glass casserole dish Beth held. “What did Myra send over?”

  “A peach cobbler.”

  “That was so sweet of her. And very nice of you to bring it over. Come on inside, Beth, and I’ll show you around. I’m ready for a break.”

  Well, that was easier than Beth had thought it would be. No need to invent a reason to get Linda away from the menfolk so the brothers could bond. But Beth intended to stay close to a window and keep Mitch and Dwayne within view. No matter what Mitch said, if a killer got cornered he was apt to forget all good sense and do something crazy.

  Now that she was here, though, in this domestic oasis, she had a hard time picturing Dwayne as a killer.

  Linda led Beth up a set of wooden stairs onto a screened-in porch that housed a picnic table and propane grill. “We use this as a mudroom in the spring and summer,” she said, pulling off her gloves, hat and sunglasses and laying them on a bench. She slipped off her pink Crocs. “We don’t wear shoes in the house, if you don’t mind. It saves the carpets like you wouldn’t believe.”

  That was Beth’s cue to take off her shoes. Was Linda the kind of woman who put down carpet runners and clear plastic furniture protectors?

  The door they went through led them into the kitchen, which had that Tuscan look that had been all the rage a couple of years earlier. Everything was warm brick and oiled bronze, with granite counters and a flat cooktop. The refrigerator was behind custom cabinets painted a distressed gold-green, and the floor was hand-scraped cypress planks.

  “I love your kitchen,” Beth said. “Do you cook a lot?”

  “Every day, practically.” Linda tucked the casserole onto a glass shelf. Everything in the refrigerator, Beth noted, was arranged with geometric precision in matching plastic containers, labeled.

  Beth was getting the feeling that Dwayne’s wife was a bit…particular about things, and she had to smile. Raleigh was that way, though perhaps not to this degree. Linda even had a little dog like Raleigh did. The fluffy white thing had met them at the door and was sniffing around Beth’s feet curiously.

  “That’s Oscar. Noisy, but wouldn’t hurt a flea.”

  “Hello, Oscar.” Beth leaned down and let the dog sniff her hand, then scratched him behind his fluffy ears.

  “I’ll just give you a quick tour,” Linda said, assuming Beth would be interested in her decor, as most women would be. And, frankly, Beth was a little curious to see if the rest of the house lived up to the spectacular kitchen.

  She wasn’t disappointed. The floors were covered in cream-colored Berber carpet. Beth didn’t even want to think about how hard that was to keep clean. No wonder Linda didn’t allow shoes indoors, and thank heavens they didn’t have kids.

  The kitchen flowed into a great room that looked like something out of a magazine, right down to the fresh flower arrangements. A den off to the side looked slightly more lived in, but still tidy enough to show off.

  The house had a master suite on one side, and two smaller bedrooms on the other.

  “Ordinarily I wouldn’t show company into the bedroom,” she said, “but I just had the bath redone and I love showing it off.”

  It was, indeed, worth showing off, every surface covered in blood-red tile. The glassed-in shower had two spigots and was plenty big enough for two. There was also a whirlpool tub and a double-sink vanity with a row of black wrought-iron lights.

  “It’s gorgeous,” Beth gushed, though personally she thought it was a tad overdramatic. All that red reminded her of blood and made her sick to her stomach.

  “Oh, my goodness,” Linda said, obviously focused on her own image in the mirror. “I look a fright. Let me freshen up. I’ll just be a minute.”

  “O—” Beth choked on her words as Linda shoved up the sleeves of her shirt to wash her hands. She had four deep, parallel scratches on one forearm.

  Beth’s gaze automatically moved to Linda’s array of cosmetics, neatly organized in a compartmentalized Lucite tray that sat on the counter. Among the lipsticks was a gold-and-copper-striped case, and it was the one Linda reached for. Beth knew before Linda even opened the case that it would be Youthful Coral.

  Linda met Beth’s gaze in the mirror. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, no, nothing. I’ll just, um, wait in the kitchen.” She ducked out of the bathroom, telling herself over and over it meant nothing. Lots of women in town had that lipstick—Myra had said so. But those scratches—undoubtedly made by human fingernails.... No wonder Dwayne had gotten nervous about Larry’s fingernail scrapings. He knew…or suspected…

  No, surely it didn’t mean anything. She was jumping at—

  An arm went around her neck, and Beth found herself in a choke hold with one arm twisted behind her back. “It was the damn lipstick, wasn’t it?”

  Adrenaline surged through Beth, fueling her panic. Her scream came out as a gurgle. She clawed at Linda’s arm with her free hand and flailed her legs, but in bare feet her struggles had no effect at all as Linda dragged her toward the kitchen like a rag doll.

  Once again, she was completely at someone’s mercy.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “WANT SOME HELP WITH THOSE?” Mitch gestured toward the flat of squash plants.

  Dwayne looked as awkward as Mitch suddenly felt. “Yeah, sure. I guess. We have to dig the holes exactly eighteen inches apart, though. If they’re seventeen, or nineteen, I’ll hear about it.”

  “Ah. I do seem to remember Linda liking things a certain way.”

  Dwayne expelled a breath through his teeth. “You don’t know the half of it.”

  They worked in semicompanionable silence for a few minutes, with Dwayne measuring and digging the holes and Mitch coming behind him to drop in the plants.

  “You didn’t come over here just to deliver a cobbler,” Dwayne said.

  “No. Beth said you were a little bit agitated at the autopsy this morning. It b
othered her. A lot. So much that she’s wondering if you had anything to do with Larry’s death.”

  Dwayne went still. “Really.”

  “How’d you get the scratches on your arms?”

  “Huh?” Dwayne looked down at his arms as if seeing the scratches for the first time. “Oh. The roses.” He gestured toward a row of rosebushes along the fence, just starting to bud. “I weeded that bed yesterday. I had nothing to do with Larry Montague’s death.”

  Mitch was relieved to have such an easy explanation. “I guess we’re all jumping at shadows. You’re a lot of things, but I can’t see you murdering someone in cold blood. But something spooked you at the autopsy.”

  “Look, right now it’s just a hunch. Something I need to look into. It’s an open investigation, and I can’t share everything with you.”

  Mitch felt the frustration welling up in him again. “This is my life we’re talking about.”

  “I know. And I promise, if I find out anything I can use to clear you, I will.”

  “Can you at least tell me if they consider me a suspect in Larry’s murder?”

  Dwayne leaned back on his heels and blew out a breath. “Yeah. ’Fraid so. But they’re nowhere near ready to press charges. They figure they got time to develop a case against you, and you’re not going anywhere.”

  “They won’t find any evidence I did it.” Mitch mashed one of the plants into its hole a little more forcefully than necessary, breaking off one of the leaves.

  “Easy with that plant.” Dwayne picked up the broken leaf, dug a little hole with his finger in the soft soil and buried it. “Linda’s OCD. I guess you figured that out. But I love her. She’s had my back for a lot of years.”

  “It’s good to have someone you can count on,” Mitch said, thinking of Beth and wondering if there was any way to fix what was broken there. She already had his back. Even after she’d learned about the cage fighting and tampering with the cuff, she was still looking after his interests.