Low Pressure (45 page)

“You’re a lefty.” He motioned down to the hand clutching his lighter. “After you described the crime scene the other day, I checked, just to make sure. You might have seen your sister dead, but you didn’t kill her. Whoever struck the blow to the back of her head was right-handed.”

The tension inside her chest began to lessen. She was virtually breathless with relief. “You’re positive?”

He dropped his cigarette to the terrace and ground it out. “I still don’t know who killed your sister, but I know who
didn’t
.”

He took his lighter from her, abruptly turned, and walked away. Bellamy struck out after him, but had taken only a few steps when one of her father’s oldest friends stepped out of the bar and addressed her. She had no choice but to speak to him.

While the man was expressing his sympathy, Dale Moody once again disappeared.

Dent didn’t go through the receiving line. He entered the club through another door and then blended into the crowd as well as he could. He didn’t eat, didn’t drink, didn’t talk to anyone, and maintained his distance from the family, although he kept Bellamy within sight when at all possible. If she noticed him, she gave no indication of it.

She looked tired, beleaguered, bereaved. And gorgeous in a tragic heroine sort of way. Black suited her. Even the shadows beneath her eyes had a certain delicate appeal.

When the receiving line disbanded, he followed her as far as the double-door entrance into the bar. He didn’t go in, but saw her sitting at a table with Steven. He loitered in the hallway, and the next time he drifted past, he saw her leaving the bar by way of a terrace door.

Seeing his opportunity to talk to her alone, Dent ducked out the nearest exit, circled the swimming pool, and rounded the corner of the building, which brought him to a shaded terrace where she was in conversation with an elderly man, who was pressing her hand between his.

As soon as he left her, and before she could reenter the bar, Dent spoke her name. He feared she might hightail it when she saw him. She didn’t. She waited for him to come to her.

Up close, he could see that her eyes looked weepy. She could have stood a good meal or two. Always slender, she now looked fragile. After several moments of simply staring, he asked the question that had been torturing him for days.

“Why didn’t you call me?”

Her father, the person she’d said she loved most in the world, had died. But she hadn’t even called to tell him. He was surprised by how much that had hurt. She hadn’t responded to his dozens of voice-mail messages, either. He would have thought . . . Hell, he didn’t know what he thought. Or what to think now, because she still hadn’t said anything.

“I had to hear it from Gall,” he said, “who’d caught it on the news. Why didn’t you call to tell me as soon as you got word?”

“We hadn’t parted on the best of terms.”

“But your dad died.” He stated it like the settling point of an argument, as if nothing else need be said.

“Why would I bother you with that?”

“
Bother
me?” He stared at her with bewilderment for several moments, then turned his head away and looked out across the panorama of the golf course. “Wow. That speaks volumes, doesn’t it? It says a lot about your opinion of me. Turns out you’re even more like the Lystons than they are.”

After a time, he turned his head back to her and looked into her eyes. Then he sniffed with disdain, brushed past her, and entered the bar through the terrace door. He shot a glance toward the table where Steven was sitting with William. They were absorbed in conversation.

Olivia was standing with a group of well-dressed men and women of her ilk. She appeared to be listening to what one of the silver-haired gentlemen was saying, but there was an absent look in her eyes.

Dent thought about staying and ordering a drink for himself. His presence would spoil their party, make the situation awkward, and he was feeling just ornery enough to do it. He even checked to see if there were any vacant stools at the bar. And that was when he saw him.

Jerry.

He was seated at the bar, hunched over a beer. But his gaze was fixed on Bellamy as she entered through the terrace door, looking upset, blotting her eyes with a tissue.

Jerry quickly reached for something beneath the bar.

All this registered with Dent in a nanosecond. He processed the potentially dangerous situation and reacted with immediacy, only one thought in mind: Protect Bellamy.

“Hey!” he shouted.

Jerry did as everyone in the bar did. His surprised gaze swung to Dent and, seeing that he was the person being addressed, he froze. But for less than a heartbeat. Then he bolted.

Dent charged after him. Jerry ran like the devil was after him. In his haste, he didn’t see his way completely clear of the double doorway. He crashed into one panel of it, breaking several panes of glass and splintering the wood frame.

Women screamed. Men scurried aside.

Jerry, in a stumbling run, tried to get away, but Dent caught him by the collar, dragged him back into the bar, and slammed him face first against the wall. The man cried out in fear and pain as Dent crowded in behind him.

“What’s your story,
Jerry
?”

“Let him go!”

Dent paid no heed to the shout coming from someone in the room. He wanted an explanation from the man who’d tracked Bellamy from New York to Texas. “What were you reaching for under the bar?”

“A b-b-book,” Jerry stuttered.

“Dent.” Bellamy was at his elbow, trying to pull him off the man. “It’s nothing. He did have a book. See, it’s right here. It was under his barstool.”

Dent blinked the copy of
Low Pressure
into focus. Gradually, he backed away from the man. Jerry turned in the narrow space. He was bleeding from several cuts from the broken door panes. His nose was also dripping blood from being smashed into the wall.

Dent placed the heel of his hand over Jerry’s sternum, keeping him pinned to the wall by stiff-arming. “Why have you been following her?”

Jerry’s eyes bulged with fear. His lips were moving but he couldn’t articulate a word.

“Let him go.”

Dent recognized the voice as the one who’d spoken before. He turned his head in the direction from which it had come, and there stood Steven.

He motioned for Dent to remove his hand from the man’s chest. “He’s been following Bellamy because I paid him to.”

Dent looked at Steven with disbelief. Then he turned to Bellamy, who stood there beside her stepmother, both of them frozen and mute and staring at him with horror.

He dropped his hand, and Jerry slumped to the floor. Dent made a gesture of supreme disgust that encompassed everyone in the room. “You people suck.”

Then he stepped over Jerry and stalked out, crunching shards of glass beneath his boots.

The ten-minute drive in the limousine was made in absolute silence.

Bellamy was first inside the house. Helena approached, but Bellamy shook her head, and the housekeeper tactfully withdrew. Bellamy went into the living room, slung her handbag onto an ottoman, and turned to confront the other three as they filed in behind her.

“His name is Simon Dowd,” Steven said even before she could demand an explanation. “He’s a private investigator.”

“Oh my God,” Olivia groaned. “Steven, what in the world—”

Bellamy sliced the air, cutting off anything else her stepmother might say. She wanted only to hear what Steven had to say in his defense. “Why, in the name of God, did you hire a private investigator to follow me? I thought he was a stalker!”

“The whole business was distasteful, I assure you,” he said. “His office is a third-floor walk-up. His desk is a card table. The morning I went to see him, there was a partially eaten bagel—”

“I don’t give a damn about that! Why did you hire him to follow me?”

“For your protection.” His voice had taken on an angry edge that matched hers. “You wrote a book about a true crime but left the ending open to interpretation. Then you started publicizing it, making you a target for anyone involved who had a problem with that.”

“Like who?”

“Like Dent Carter. Who proved less that an hour ago that he’s a thug. Not that that comes as any surprise.”

“Scandalous behavior,” Olivia said in an undertone. “I’ll never be able to hold my head up in the club again.”

Bellamy cried out, “He thought he was protecting me.”

“Naturally you jump to his defense,” Steven said. “He’s acquired those cuts and bruises on his face since I saw you in Atlanta. Who beat him up?”

“Don’t try and change the subject. Tell me why you sicced this . . . this Simon Dowd on me.”

“In your book you all but came out and accused Dale Moody of being a crooked cop. An incompetent one at best. He could have wanted retribution. Even Rupe Collier. Anyway, I became worried for your safety. William will tell you.”

She glanced over at him. He nodded. “His motive was noble. He was terribly concerned about you.”

“So I retained Dowd,” Steven said, bringing her back to him. “His first love is the theater. He fancies himself an actor. He assured me that he would be perfect, that he could play the avid fan. That way, he could stay close to you when you appeared in public. And before you launch into a tirade, let me point out that my hiring him was validated when you told me about the rat, the vandalism done to your house, to Dent’s airplane.”

Olivia looked between the two of them with bewilderment. “What in heaven’s name are you talking about?”

“It doesn’t matter now.” Wearily, Bellamy sat down on the arm of a chair and rubbed her forehead. As she thought back over the last several days, she now understood why Steven hadn’t been all that surprised to see her and Dent when they appeared at Maxey’s. Jerry—Dowd, whatever—had followed them from the park in Georgetown to the Austin airport. He’d given Steven advance warning of their trip to Atlanta.

“Which brings us up to today,” he was saying. “I knew there would be a crowd at the funeral, and that made me nervous for your safety. For the safety of all of us. So I asked Dowd to be there, to watch our backs, and, again, I was justified in doing so. The funeral brought them all out. Moody. Rupe Collier.”

“He was there?” Bellamy asked, raising her head. “I didn’t see him.”

“Seated two rows behind us in the church.”

“And holding court in the country club’s dining room,” Olivia said. “Like he’s a dear friend of our family.”

“Let’s not forget Dent,” Steven said. “You and he are practically joined at the hip these days. I’m surprised you didn’t go charging after him like you were twelve again, pining over your first major crush.”

Bellamy’s cheeks burned as though he’d slapped her. She left her perch on the arm of the chair and walked toward him. “Why do you say things like that?”

“Like what?”

“Hurtful things. Hateful things.”

“Bellamy”—Olivia sighed—“please don’t start something. Not today.”

Ignoring her stepmother’s plea, she kept her gaze fixed on Steven. “What’s wrong with you? When you were younger, you were sensitive to other people’s feelings.”

“I grew up.”

“No, you grew
mean
. Snide and scornful and mean-spirited like the people you once despised.” She shook her head with perplexity. “I don’t understand you. I truly don’t.”

“I never asked you to.”

“But I
want
to.” She reached for his hand. “Steven,” she said with appeal, “I’ve always thought of you as a blood brother. I love you. I want you to love me.”

“We’re no longer children.” He pulled his hand away from hers. “It’s time you grew up, too, and realized that life rarely gives us what we want.”

She searched his eyes, saw how untouchable his heart seemed, and in that moment, she pitied him. Physically he was beautiful, but he was emotionally deformed. The effects of Susan’s abuse had taken a tragic toll on his life.

But by refusing to let it go, he had prevented himself from healing. He’d let his hatred and resentment fester until he’d become critical, cynical, and slow to forgive. He had a mother who loved him with all her heart. He was adored by a patient and devoted partner whose love was visible in every gesture, grand or small. But Steven kept a part of himself separate even from them. He refused to wholly accept their love and to give his in return.

That, Bellamy realized, was the real tragedy.

T
he sun had set and dusk had settled in. The Corvette’s headlights were on when Dent steered it into a parking space, but Bellamy remained unseen until he started up the metal staircase. When he saw her sitting on the landing, he paused for several seconds, then continued climbing the stairs in a steady tread.

He’d hooked his suit jacket on his index finger and was carrying it slung over his shoulder. His necktie had been undone and was lying flat against his chest.

She stood, dusted off her seat, and retrieved her high heels, which had become so uncomfortable she’d taken them off. He didn’t say anything as he stepped around her and continued down the breezeway toward his apartment.

She fell into step behind him. “I hope you don’t mind that I waited for you to get home. I didn’t know when you’d show up. Or if you would come home at all tonight.”