Wakefield College 01 - Where It May Lead (18 page)

A smile played with her mouth. “How long since you’ve been
swimming?”

“I go to the lake most summers.” Frenchman Lake was deep and
heart-stoppingly cold, but swimming out to the floating dock could be
exhilarating in the heat of July or August. He could make it okay, and at the
lake no one paid attention to swimming form.

“Oh, good.” She lay back and floated, her legs splayed and her
arms spread wide. She was still watching him, and—damn it—he was suddenly,
excruciatingly aroused. He wanted her on his bed in exactly that pose—minus the
red swimsuit, however good it looked on her.

In self-defense, he made himself push forward and start
swimming. Floating wasn’t an option. Maybe he had too much muscle, he didn’t
know, but he tended to sink like a rock if he wasn’t in motion. So he turned his
arms over, kicked hard, held his breath and—to his mild surprise—crashed into
the other end of the pool before he ran out of air.

He grabbed hold, blinked chlorine-laden water from his eyes,
and saw Madison’s last couple of clean strokes before she reached his side and
grinned at him.

“You’re not that bad. Except...did you breathe?”

“Never was very good at that part.”

She only laughed at him, but not in a way that made him feel as
if she was making fun of him. Instead, she teased him until he chased her back
and forth half a dozen times, talked him into cannonballing off the diving
board, and played shark to his dumb, slow-moving human act. There was no way in
hell he could catch her if she didn’t let him. Water, he thought, was her
element.

A couple of times he looked up to see the student lifeguard
watching them with an expression of disbelief. Apparently swimmers at McKenna
Sports Center swam dutiful laps rather than playing in the water. When Troy
finally did end up with an armful of wet, slippery woman in his arms, he
thought,
Bet you’re jealous now,
and planted a brief
kiss on her mouth.

“Can we go have dinner now?” he asked hopefully.

She chuckled. “You sound like a kid. Are we there
yet?
” She had the whine down pat. “Come on, didn’t you
have fun?”

“Yeah,” he said with a laugh. “I did. You know, it’s still warm
enough we could go to the lake this weekend. Take lunch.”

Her utterly glorious smile rewarded the suggestion. “I would
love to do that. And yes, Detective Troyer, we can get out now and go to
dinner.”

At the side of the pool, he gestured her ahead of him. “Ladies
first.”

The red suit looked even better wet. The action of climbing the
ladder did amazing things to Madison’s figure. So amazing, Troy had to swim one
more lap before he could get out and appear decent with his trunks clinging all
too obviously to
his
body.

In the men’s locker room, he heard voices at the other end, but
was alone when he took a quick shower, toweled himself dry and dressed. Madison
would take longer, he assumed. She had to put on a bra, after all, and would be
bound to dry her hair, right?

Troy checked messages on his phone and found three. One was
from a friend and fellow cop wondering if he wanted to go for a hike that
weekend, and the other two were both from Wakefield College alums who had been
fingered as possible blackmail victims.

The second of the two was from Senator Gordon Haywood. No
over-the-top bonhomie in his voice, not the way he’d exuded it as he wooed
classmates and potential future presidential voters—or while he was giving
thought to climbing right into Madison’s cleavage. Nope, he sounded tense and
hushed.

“I can’t imagine what questions you imagine I can answer for
you, Detective, but please call in the evening when I’m at home. I’m too busy
during the day.” That was it.

He was definitely nervous, which pleased Troy more than it
should.
Can’t be prejudiced just because I don’t like
him.
But he couldn’t help indulging in a brief, wistful fantasy of
arresting the self-righteous senator for the long-ago murder. Possibly fun, he
thought, but unlikely. Although...if Haywood had had political aspirations even
back then, he would have had more to lose than most students if King had caught
him in a peccadillo.

Food for thought.

Troy strolled out of the locker room and was joined only a
minute later by Madison.

“What’s with that expression on your face?”

“Suspicious woman.”

“You look too pleased with yourself.”

Troy laughed and kissed her, despite the presence of several
other people in the corridor. “Maybe I’m just happy to be with you.”

She wrinkled her nose. “It wasn’t that kind of pleased.”

He relented and told her he’d had a couple of messages from
people he’d been trying to reach about the King murder. “One’s been especially
elusive.” He held open the outer door and let Madison go ahead of him.

“Can you tell me who?”

This was a conversation he’d been avoiding having. He was well
aware he had told her too much in the beginning stages of the investigation. He
wanted to talk it all out with her, but he’d been keeping the names to
himself.

“I’d better not say.” He steered her toward the street where
he’d parked his SUV and unlocked the doors.

“I suppose I understand,” she said, then gave a heavy sigh.
Half theatrical, half not, he suspected.

Once they were both seat-belted in the Tahoe and he was turning
the key in the ignition, he said, “They’re both people who may have been
additional blackmail victims.”

“There were a couple of stuffed shirts at that reunion I
wouldn’t mind finding out had feet of clay.”

Troy shot her a startled look. Good God, had her mind leaped to
the estimable Senator Haywood? He carefully composed his face to give nothing
away if she mentioned the guy.

Instead she asked where they were eating.

“How about my place? I have a couple of chicken breasts I could
grill.” Having had an optimistic moment, he’d left them marinating in the
refrigerator. The glass-half-empty part of him figured he had dinner ready to
cook tomorrow night if she shied away from setting foot in his lair.

Her expression was a little surprised, a little wary, but she
nodded. “If you’re sure you want to cook.”

“I want.” After a glance over his shoulder, he accelerated away
from the curb. “I’m only renting,” he said after a minute.

“A house?”

“Town house. One of those places out on Narbonne.” French
Canadian trappers had left their legacy on Frenchman Lake in other ways than the
obvious. The nearby creeks, mountains, canyons and streets had a confusing mix
of English, Nez Perce and French names.

“You didn’t want to buy?”

“I guess I was hedging my bets,” he admitted. “I liked the idea
of coming home, but, hell, I might’ve gotten so crazy bored, six months later
I’d be ready to run screaming back to the big city.”

“And yet, two years later—or is it three?—you’re still
here.”

“Yeah.” Momentarily, he brooded. Truth was, he hadn’t at any
time thought,
I guess I’m staying. Maybe I should buy a
house.
The town house was okay, familiar. It served his needs. He
hadn’t needed a real home.
Because I had one,
he was
surprised to realize.
Until Dad died.

Since then... He hadn’t thought about it. Hadn’t cared. A man
alone didn’t tend to nest, not the way women did.

Now all he wanted was to pack up his things and move into
Madison’s cozy house. It already felt more like home than his place did. He’d
even noted with interest that she had a good-sized shed in her backyard, plenty
big enough to become a ceramic studio.

The drive was short, as pretty much any drive in Frenchman Lake
was. Madison gazed with interest at the stretch of two-story town houses, each
painted a distinctive color. Each had a single car garage in front and a patio
in back screened by six-foot fencing on each side. The tiny yards, front and
back, had been landscaped with bark and shrubs when he moved in. Someone came
around and renewed the bark each spring. Troy cringed a little at how sterile
his place looked compared to hers.

He parked in the driveway and let them both in the front door.
The interior was one room wide—bottom floor had living room, dining area and,
open to it, kitchen. Tucked under the stairs was a powder room. Translation:
toilet and sink, with barely enough room to pull up your pants. Upstairs were
two regular-sized bedrooms, a smaller one that was a home office, one bath,
laundry room. The layout had more than a passing resemblance to the shotgun
houses in New Orleans.

Troy winced again as Madison looked around with open interest,
taking in his only decent furniture: a big leather sofa and leather recliner.
Her gaze paused on the cheap bookshelves and even cheaper TV stand. He had one
nice picture, a big framed photo of an autumnal forest scene, given to him by a
girlfriend. He was ashamed that he couldn’t remember which one.

“Very bachelor,” Madison pronounced.

“I’m afraid so. No dirty socks or empty beer cans lying around,
though,” he pointed out.

“True enough.” She smiled at him. “Did you clean up for
me?”

Actually, he had, but mostly that consisted of running the
vacuum cleaner around and mopping the kitchen floor, something he didn’t often
do. “I’m pretty neat,” he said. He frowned, thinking about it. “I wasn’t as a
kid. I collected stuff. When I was little it was action figures, you know,
whatever toy I was obsessed with. I went through a rocks and minerals phase that
took over until my mother banned them to the garage.”

“Speaking of, where’s the ceramic studio?”

“That would be in the garage. You notice I didn’t park in
there.” He started toward the kitchen. “Let me start the charcoal, and I’ll show
you if you want.”

“I want,” she said softly.

At her echo of what he’d said, Troy gave her a sharp look, but
he couldn’t tell if she’d meant it the way he had.

It only took him a minute to dump some charcoal in the grill
and light it. Then he led the way to the garage.

Because of the lack of windows, he’d added some expensive
lighting as well as heavy-duty wooden shelving units. The kiln sat at the back,
near the door into the house, while he used a large, sturdy table planted by the
garage door to knead the clay, glaze, do any other hand work. The wheel occupied
the middle of the open space.

Delight lit Madison’s face and she immediately began examining
the pieces he’d thrown that were in various stages of completion on the slatted
wooden shelves. Recently thrown and drying were in one area, footed and waiting
to go in the kiln were in another. Fired but not yet glazed, glazed but not yet
fired, and finally the completed pieces that he was satisfied with but hadn’t
yet sold or given away.

“I haven’t done much these past few weeks,” he said, feeling
self-conscious. Much? How about nothing? Zero. Zilch. He’d spent as many
evenings as possible with Madison rather than alone out here concentrating on
his hobby, which he knew full well was more of a stress-buster than a calling to
high art.

“These are amazing.” Madison had reached the finished pieces
and picked up one of a set of cereal-sized bowls. She was delicately stroking
the rim. He’d glazed them in a rich plum color that shaded into royal blue on
the outside. The shape was pretty ordinary, but he’d been pleased with the
glaze—something new he was trying.

“Would you like to have them?” He reached for a box and the
bubble wrap he kept handy.

She gaped at him. “But...you can’t just
give
them to me. Surely you could sell these.”

“Maybe.” He shrugged. “I told you I give away a lot of what I
make. I’m not trying to make this a profession.” He frowned then set back down
the bowl he’d picked up. “I guess the colors don’t go in your kitchen, though,
do they?”

“I want them, anyway.” She snatched up a sheet of bubble wrap.
“You can’t take them back.”

Troy laughed and helped pack the four bowls. “You know,” he
said, “I made a vase that would look great on your kitchen windowsill.” He
turned. “It’s here somewhere.”

“There.” She pounced. Sure enough, she’d spotted the exact
piece he’d been looking for. It was a perfect column with the faintest flare to
the lip, glazed in a dark cherry-red with a hint of a crackle. “Oh, my God,
Troy! It’s gorgeous!”

“And yours.” He took it from her hand, wrapped it, too, and
inserted it in the box beside the bowls.

Madison made him promise not to give her one of his teapots but
begged to see them. He located the ones that were finished but that he hadn’t
yet taken to the gallery downtown. These were more whimsical than his other
work, with lots of curves and glaze jobs that included polka dots and swirls in
bright colors. They were selling as fast as he could turn them out. In fact, the
gallery had left him a message a week or two ago asking for more. While he was
thinking about it, he packed the two and tucked that box under his arm while
Madison carried the one that held her goodies. Her head was swiveling all the
way to the door.

“You ever tried throwing anything on a wheel?” he asked.

“No, I’m not very artistic.” Her forehead puckered, as if she
didn’t like what she was thinking. “I didn’t bother with art classes in high
school or college.”

Both set down their boxes on the kitchen counter. “Who says you
aren’t artistic?” Troy asked. “You’ve got great color combinations in your
house. You’ve created a warm atmosphere with, I don’t know, a good flow. That
tells me you have an eye. If you’d like a lesson or to play around out there,
just let me know.”

She was quiet while he went and checked the coals, then came
back in and got the chicken out of the refrigerator. He popped a couple of
potatoes in the microwave. When he got out a cutting board and started pulling
veggies out of the crisper drawer, Madison offered to help. He set her to work
cutting chunks the right size for skewers, which he planned to grill, as
well.