Candy Apple Dead (28 page)

He was sitting, hunch-shouldered, at the end of the bar looking like one sorry piece of humanity. His hair was sticking out in all the wrong places, and stubble darkened his cheeks and chin. I hitched myself onto the stool beside his and made eye contact, which wasn’t easy considering how he was sitting. “Where in the hell have you been?”

“Around.”

“Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in?” He blurted a laugh, and his bloodshot eyes voluntarily lifted to meet mine. “Do I know how much trouble I’m in? Hell, yeah. And you don’t know the half of it, Abs.”

I’d seen Wyatt drunk before, but I’d never seen him like this, and I don’t mind telling you that I was worried. I wondered when he’d changed clothes last, and I would have bet the deed to Divinity that his last shower was nothing but a dim memory. “What’s going on,” I demanded. “And don’t play games with me this time. You’re in deep. The police have been looking for you all week.”

“ ’Cuz they think I did it.”

“Yeah. Because they think you did it. I’ve been busting my butt trying to prove that you’re innocent, but you’re not making it easy for me.” His shoulders sagged, but that only made me angrier. I had a week’s worth of complaining to do. I hadn’t even gotten a good start. “What in the hell were you doing at Man About Town the night of the fire?”

“I wasn’t there,” he protested.

“I saw you.”

“But I wasn’t
there
.” He held back a belch and sucked down about half of the beer in front of him. “I was just picking somebody up.”

You’ve gotta say one thing for my brother. He knows how to deliver the unexpected. “You were picking somebody up? Who?”

“I don’t want to say.”

“How long were you with this person?”

“Most of the night.”

“Well, then whoever it was can give you an alibi.”

He snorted a laugh. “Yeah. Great. Trouble is, I don’t want it.”

“What?”
I lunged off my stool and grabbed him. His head seemed a little loose on his neck, but his eyes stayed focused. “What do you mean you don’t want it? How could you not want an alibi?”

He shrugged away from me. “Just what I said. I don’t want it.”

“But that’s insane, Wyatt. An alibi could prove that you didn’t murder Brandon.”

“I’ll get off.”

“You know a miracle worker? Because I don’t. You were there the night of the fire. You fought with him the day of the murder. Your wife was involved with him—maybe not sexually, but involved. You’ve been hiding for more than a week, and God only knows what
real
evidence Jawarski has on you. You’d better grab that alibi and hang onto it with both hands all the way to an attorney’s office.”

He shook his head again and stood. “Not gonna happen.” He tossed a twenty onto the bar and walked away. Just like that.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so angry with him in all my life. He wasn’t making any sense. Why would an innocent person refuse an alibi? Because he was protecting someone else?

Still seething, I watched Wyatt shove through the door and into the parking lot. Nope, I didn’t think he was protecting anyone. So then why was he being so obstinate? What other reason could there possibly be?

I knew the answer to that the instant the question formed, and I was off the stool and across the floor like a shot. He was already in his truck and backing out by the time I got outside. I climbed onto the fender and threw myself across the hood, trusting that he wasn’t drunk enough to drive away with me on there.

“Dammit, Abby, get off.” He jammed on the brakes and nearly sent me flying.

I grabbed the windshield wipers and held on—barely.

Swearing again, he ground the truck into gear, turned off the ignition, and came out of the cab after me. I scampered off before he could throw me off. “Who was she?”

His step faltered, only for a heartbeat, but long enough to let me know I was right. “Who
was
she?” I demanded again. “And don’t even bother trying to lie because I can see the truth in your eyes. You were with another woman.”

“Abby—”

That was the wrong thing to say. I launched myself at him like a crazy woman, pounding his chest when I could get close enough, swinging wildly when I couldn’t. Tears filled my eyes and burned my throat. “You cheated on Elizabeth? With who? Who is she?”

Across the parking lot, Max shot to his feet and started barking. I couldn’t worry about him, though. I could only think about releasing the frustration and disappointment burning inside of me.

Wyatt ducked and wove, dodging most of blows I aimed at him, but that was all right. I landed enough to satisfy me. I’ve never been able to win a fight with him, and this was no exception. He caught my wrists and held my arms apart.

I used my feet instead. “How could you do this?” I shouted, planting a well-placed kick to the shin. “How could you do this to Elizabeth? How could you do this to your kids?” I didn’t ask, but my heart was screaming,
How could you do this to me?

“Knock it off, Abby!” He shoved me against the truck and held me there. I thrashed as hard as I could, trying to get away, but I’m no match for him. “Stop. Okay?”

I hurt everywhere. I couldn’t tell whether the pain was physical or emotional. It just hurt. But somehow Wyatt managed to make eye contact with me, and the misery I saw reflected there finally broke through. I stopped kicking.

My pulse pounded in my ears, my breath burned my lungs. I could hear Wyatt panting and, in the distance, Max’s frantic barking. Dimly, I was aware of someone leaving the bar. Of murmured conversation and hurried footsteps. Some part of me still cared whether Wyatt went to prison, so I tried to look as if everything was hunky-dory.

“Let. Go. Of. Me,” I said between gasps.

“Not if you’re going to take after me again.”

I shoved against him, but he didn’t budge. “Wyatt. Move. I need to make sure the dog doesn’t kill you.”

He eyed me skeptically, but he slowly released me. I heard a car door closing. Then another, and I decided we were probably safe.

Rolling my wrists to restore the circulation, I started away. “Maybe I should let him do it,” I called back over my shoulder. “Someone as stupid as you are doesn’t deserve to live.”

He trailed after me. “Look, I screwed up. I know that.”

“Oh, but you had
such
a good reason, right?”

“Are you going to let me explain, or are you going to just assume you know everything the way you usually do?”

That brought me around on the balls of my feet, ready for another round. Wyatt has had a chip on his shoulder about that since the day I left for college. Only the sound of a car’s engine starting up a few feet away kept me from lashing out at him again. “I don’t think I know everything,” I said, struggling to remain calm. “But I
do
know that cheating on your wife is
wrong
!”

“And you think I don’t know that?”

“Apparently not.” I couldn’t bear to look at him, so I started walking again. With Wyatt only a step behind me, I rounded the last row of cars separating me from the Jetta. Half of the front bumper hung at an odd angle, and Max was working on tearing the other half from the car. He saw me, but instead of calming down, his barking grew louder and more frantic.

Maybe I should have given him that doggie sedative after all. I sure wasn’t going to attempt it now. I waved Wyatt back, wanting him to get out of Max’s sight. But Max knew he was there. He must have remembered the threat to Brandon.

Wyatt didn’t stay out of sight long. “What’s wrong with him?”

“You are.” I had no idea how to calm Max down without losing a limb. Would he even let me get close to him? I wasn’t brave enough to try.

Wyatt inched closer still, propped his hands on his hips, and rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Get off it, Abby. Dogs don’t judge people.”

“I don’t mean that,” I snapped. “I’m talking about you and Brandon. He must remember you.” There might even have been a little protectiveness for me floating around inside Max’s reaction.

Somewhere in the lot, a car’s lights blinked, on and Max ripped another six inches of bumper from the Jetta. My poor car would never be the same. Frustrated, I backed closer to my lug of a brother. “You owe me a new bumper.”

“Me? Why?”

“This is your fault. If you hadn’t lost your senses, my car would be in one piece. So get out of here, wouldja?”

“And leave you here with that crazy mutt? Nothing doing.”

“You’re going to be a gentleman
now?
” Hoping nobody else had come outside, I shot a glance over my shoulder. People tend to freak out around dogs that seem vicious, and I didn’t want anybody calling Animal Control. The coast was clear, so I let myself ask the burning question. “Why
did
you go after him?”

“After who?”

“Brandon.” I had to shout to make myself heard. “Why did you go barging into Man About Town that day? What
truth
did he know about you that he was going to make public? Was it about your affair?”

Wyatt’s brows knit in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“The day of the fire. Lucas and Chelsea saw you there. They heard Brandon tell you the truth was going to come out.”

“They couldn’t have. I wasn’t anywhere near that place until later that night.”

I groaned in frustration. “Will you please just be honest with me. It’s way past time to stop playing games.”

“No games,” Wyatt shouted, “I wasn’t there.”

How many times had he said that in the past week?

He seemed serious this time, but I didn’t know who to believe. “Lucas told me he saw you.”

“Then Lucas is lying.” All at once, Max fell silent, and Wyatt’s words echoed in the sudden stillness. He lowered his voice and went on. “I’m being straight with you, Abby. I wasn’t there. I was out at Charlie’s until after six.”

“Then why—” Something whispered through the back of my mind, casting doubt. Still restless, the dog paced back and forth in front of the car, and the bumper groaned each time he reached the end of his tether.

I tried to remember exactly what Lucas had said about that day. He and Chelsea had been in the back room, unloading a shipment. He’d talked about what he heard, but had he actually
seen
Wyatt? I didn’t remember him saying so.

“If you weren’t there,” I said uncertainly, “then who was?”

“I don’t know.”

I still didn’t know what to think. Max sank onto his haunches and looked at me with that tell-me-what-comes-next look on his face, and I realized, slowly, that Wyatt was still here, and Max wasn’t going berserk.

With my heart in my throat, I whipped back toward my brother. “Get a little closer,” I said, jerking my head toward the dog.

“What?”

“Move a little closer. See what he does.”

“Are you nuts?”

“No. Trust me. I don’t think it’s you he’s worried about.”

“And you want me to prove that by sticking my head in his mouth?”

“Just move a little closer, but not close enough for him to actually reach you. Just
see,
Wyatt.”

He didn’t look happy about it, but he did what I asked. Max’s ear twitched, but that was the extent of his reaction. But if it wasn’t Wyatt who’d set him off earlier, then who? “What kind of car was that?”

“What car?”

“The one that just left here. Did you see it?”

“I was a little busy.”

“Me, too.” And I could have kicked myself. “Did you notice who was in it?”

Wyatt shook his head. “I wasn’t paying attention. I think it was small, though. And white. I think it was white.”

That was almost no help. There were a million small white cars on the road. “Did you see anyone you know inside the bar earlier?”

Another shake of the head. “A few people who look familiar, maybe, but I don’t know who they were.”

Acting strictly on impulse, I untied Max’s leash and loaded him into the Jetta. Locking the doors, I turned toward the bar, grabbing my brother’s sleeve so I could drag him with me. “Come on,” I said, hoping I knew what I was doing. “We’re going to see who’s not there anymore.”

It was hard to tell what had changed in the time
we’d been outside. I’d been so focused on finding Wyatt, I hadn’t paid that much attention to the crowd when I came in. Crowd’s the wrong word to use, anyway. There were only a handful of people scattered around the cavernous room; you’d think I should be able to remember.

Wyatt walked in wearing a hangdog expression, probably embarrassed at having been chased down by his sister. He muttered something about needing the restroom and loped off toward the back of the building.

The bartender, a tall man in his thirties with jet-black hair and a thick face, eyeballed me as I approached the bar. A toothpick dangled from one corner of his mouth—such a stereotypical image I almost laughed.