Could I Have This Dance? (58 page)

She stroked his chin and kissed him back. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?

He looked away, toward the ocean.

“This has been one of the worst days of my life, Brett.”

“Mine, too.”

She kissed him again and laid her head on his chest. “Well?”

“Will you come in?”

“I can’t.”

“But you just asked me to invite you.”

“No, I didn’t. I just asked you if you were going to invite me.”

Brett sighed.

“I just wanted to know if you were the kind of guy who would take advantage of a girl in mourning.”

He smiled. “Maybe.”

They exited the truck and walked over to a blue Mercedes.

He handed her the keys. “It’s old, but it runs great.”

She kissed him and left, wanting so badly to erase the pain of the day by resting in his arms, and knowing that was the very reason she needed to flee. She drove back the beach road toward Lafayette, pulling over on the straight stretch near Smithland Shoals Lighthouse. The shoulder was soft, so she left two wheels on the road edge, then jumped out to investigate. On the road, she saw skid marks leading up to the point of impact with the end of the guardrail.

That didn’t make sense. If Clay was asleep, he wouldn’t have braked. Unless he woke up just before running off the road?

And if this was a suicide, why would he try to slow down?

She shook her head. Things didn’t line up, and an eerie dread began to claw at her stomach lining.

She stepped over the guardrail and took a few steps in the tall grass before she saw her car. It was upside down, a good fifteen feet below her, sandwiched between two rocks. Slowly, she climbed down the bank. She wouldn’t have light much longer. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but her own curiosity and a sense of anxiety pushed her forward. The back bumper was dented, the trunk smashed, and the left rear tire flat. Could a blowout have caused this? The car was old. She should have kept it up better. Maybe it was all her fault.

The driver’s door was open, cocked at an unnatural angle, with the top of the window frame buried in sandy clay. Her heart quickened. The sand was deep red. Clay’s blood.

She knelt on the ground and looked into the car through the driver’s side door opening. The interior was in disarray. The windshield was smashed, and the roof crushed onto the seat back. She picked up a pair of twisted sunglasses, her own, and pulled her keys from the ignition. She was backing out of the wreckage when the glint of pink caught her eye.
Her cell phone! It was wedged between the dash and the shattered windshield. She carefully brushed away the broken glass and lifted the phone from its resting place. It was still on. That struck her as odd, as she always kept the phone off to save the battery, so it would be available to answer pages if she needed it. She pressed the redial feature and immediately the last call was displayed: 911.

Could Clay have been making a call?

He certainly couldn’t have made it after the wreck. His head injury would have prevented that.

But maybe something prompted him to call before the accident.

The thought hung in her mind like a thick fog which refused to lift. Skid marks. A 911 call from her phone. Was Clay afraid?

She thought through the events of the evening of Clay’s death. She’d been through the deposition, stopped at the church, fled the parking lot with Roger Jones in pursuit …

It was dark at the time of the accident. Maybe Roger Jones was waiting, watching her house, and when he saw her car leave, he started to follow.

She scrambled to her feet and stared at the twisted metal in front of her. There was a phone call to her house just before Clay left. Clay picked it up and told her no one was there. She touched her hand to her throat, aghast at her thoughts.
Someone thought I was in this car.

She scrambled up the bank, clutching her car phone. She jogged the last few feet to the Mercedes, jumped in, and locked the door. She attempted to calm her racing thoughts. Her brother was dead. Roger Jones had been chasing her earlier in the day. Could he have been following Clay and scared him enough that Clay ran off the road? Or worse, could he have forced him off?

Claire started the Mercedes and pressed the accelerator, making a sharp U-turn on the beach road. She was too frightened to go home. Roger Jones must have snapped. There was no way she could stay at home with him watching. And the thought of spending another night in the hospital seemed crazy.

There was only one respite for Claire in this situation. She’d have to return to Brett’s.

Chapter Forty-One

B
rett opened the screen door wearing only a pair of Nike running shorts and holding a can of beer. “Claire?”

“We need to talk.” She pushed past him, pausing briefly to admire his build. “I think Clay was murdered.”

“What?”

She picked up a shirt from the back of a kitchen chair and threw it at Brett. “Do you mind putting this on before we talk?”

He frowned.

“It’s a compliment,” she responded with a smile. “I’ll get distracted.”

“I think you’ve flipped. I told you Clay ran off the road.”

“But it was dark. Is it possible that you didn’t see everything?”

Claire explained her findings at the accident scene and recounted two possible scenarios. Either Clay was in more trouble with the law than she realized, and he’d fled Virginia for reasons other than just to avoid his trial, and someone really wanted him to be quiet, or someone mistook Clay for Claire, and was trying to harm her.

“Claire, be reasonable. None of this makes sense. Who would want to harm you?”

“Roger Jones. You should have seen him at the deposition. He left in a huff, swearing that the truth would come out. Then he followed me out of that church. He scares me, Brett.” Her voice began to break.

Brett opened his arms. “Come here,” he coaxed, and enveloped her in his arms.

He rocked her for a moment, moving together in the kitchen as a slow pendulum. She laid her head against his chest and looked out the window over the sink. Outside, the sky had changed into brilliant orange and purple hues. The night would arrive soon. It was a night Claire didn’t want to face alone.

“Claire,” he spoke softly. “I think you’re reading too much into this.”

“It’s an intuition thing, Brett. Something doesn’t feel right.”

“I was there, Claire. I made the 911 call from your car phone.”

“You made the call?” She lifted her head and pushed him to arm’s length. She felt her cheeks flush.

He nodded.

“I feel so stupid.”

“Give yourself a break, kid. You’re under a lot of stress. It’s easy to jump to conclusions.” He pulled her close again and she slipped her hands around beneath his unbuttoned shirt.

“Duh!” she said, making fun of herself. “I could only think of Roger Jones trying to come after me again.” She lowered her forehead to his chest.

She took a deep breath and allowed her fear to melt away again, feeling slightly humiliated at her hasty conclusions, but relieved nonetheless. She tugged at his chest hairs with her lips.

He responded by lowering his face to hers for a long kiss. Claire could detect his excitement.

“I’d better go,” she gasped.

“Do you have to?”

She nodded. “I’m going to Stoney Creek tomorrow with my parents. Dr. Rogers has graciously granted me my last week of vacation to bury my brother.”

“Nice guy.” He paused and kissed her again. “I wish you’d stay. I’ll fix dinner.”

She felt her resolve weakening, but she knew she’d regret it if she stayed. “Brett, it’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just, well, Clay …”

“It’s not the right time.”

She nodded. He understood. He pressed her against his bare chest one last time and reluctantly let her step away.

It was definitely going to be difficult to remain pure in a relationship with Brett. There seemed to be so much chemistry between them, and she hadn’t really discussed her desire to wait until marriage for sex.

Whetting her appetite with John was definitely a bad idea. Falling the first time was tough. Falling this time would be so easy.

She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “I’ll call you.” She smiled, feeling foolish again. “I think I’ll be okay now. Maybe I just needed a hug.”

He walked her to his Mercedes, where they said good-bye. Claire left, relieved of the anxiety which grew from her hasty conclusions, but aware that her soul was not completely at rest.

In a few minutes, she passed the accident site again. The road was definitely full of crisscrossing tire marks. A chill lifted the hairs on her neck. “Come on, girl,” she whispered. “Don’t start with that again.”

Ramsey Plank reclined in his favorite chair attempting to dissolve the day’s stress in his favorite Kentucky bourbon. Fourteen-hour days in the office had destroyed his marriage but provided a life filled with creature comforts he didn’t have time to enjoy. So this routine, a drink or three, sitting in his plush office overlooking the night skyline above Lafayette, punctuated his lonely life and provided a brief oasis in a Sahara of legal sand.

His phone was ringing, an event he ignored after hours. His clients would have to call during daylight hours to expect him to pay prompt attention.

The ringing persisted. His answering machine should have kicked in by now, a fact which prompted his slow rise from his recliner. Sally must have forgotten to set the answering machine. Again.
If she wasn’t so cute, I’d—

His thoughts were cut short as he looked at the flashing light on his phone, indicating the call was coming in on his private line.
Who wants me now?

He picked up the phone. “Ramsey.”

“Ramsey. Franklin Peters here. Sorry to call you so late, but there are a couple of things that have come up. Things I think you should know.”

“Listen, Frank, I’m not really in the mood to listen to your little offers for settlement. I think we both know the jury will think twenty million dollars from the university is a small price to pay for—”

“I didn’t call to discuss a settlement. In fact, maybe a jury trial is exactly what my client would prefer.”

“What?”

“We’re on to your little Stoney Creek insurance scam, Ramsey. And the last time I checked, ethical violations like this are of great interest to the bar. And if I don’t report you, I’ll be considered a party to your little crime.”

“What? You have no right to accuse me of ethical violations! There’s no proof that—”

“Save it for the bar, Ramsey. Your employee, Billy Ray Davis, tried to solicit a case today. You might want to ask him about it.”

“Franklin, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Shut up and listen, Ramsey. I’ll explain it to you. Claire McCall’s brother died this afternoon at Lafayette University Hospital. My client, Claire McCall, was approached by Billy Ray, who offered his condolences in the hospital chapel. He also offered your services. What your little business partner didn’t anticipate was that he’d be recognized by Della McCall as the same man who tried to sell her a bogus health insurance policy.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No judge will allow information you gather under false pretenses to be admissible.”

“We can win this case without it.”

“You might have a chance to try the case, if you still have a license after the bar processes my report of your unethical conduct.”

“Easy, Franklin. We can work this out. You don’t have to report this. I’m sure I can convince the Joneses to settle.” He paused, weighing his words carefully. “Of course, it’s difficult to place a monetary value on the life of a child.”

“Are you suggesting that I not report this in return for an out-of-court settlement?”

“I’m not suggesting anything of the sort. I’m only saying that my clients may be willing to accept a reasonable offer if they are sure that their attorney is happy with the deal.”

“Not reporting a known ethical violation is an ethical violation in and of itself.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong, Franklin. If my associate obtained information under false pretenses, I knew nothing about his tactics. I’m innocent. There is no way to prove that I knew anything about his charade.”

“But now you’re suddenly willing to settle?”

“Perhaps. If you make a reasonable offer to relieve the Jones’s suffering.”

“Save it for the jury, Ramsey. I’ll see you in court. If you haven’t been disbarred by then.”

“You—” Ramsey halted when he heard Franklin slam down the phone.

He cursed and dropped the phone on the desk before pouring himself another drink. It was time to fire Billy Ray. It wouldn’t look good if he kept him on board after finding out about his conduct.

“How could you lie behind my back, Billy?” he whispered, slouching in his recliner again. He allowed himself to smile. “Sorry, Billy.” He chuckled to himself and sipped his bourbon. “I’m not going down over your stupidity.”

Claire slid her clothing along the closet hanging bar and stared at her sparse closet. She had one black party dress, but nothing suitable for a funeral. The thought of shopping for the occasion frustrated her and threatened to uncork the tears she had been holding in since Clay died.

No, she hadn’t been that close to Clay for a long time, but he was her twin brother, a fact which had forged an unbreakable bond between them,
one Clay had leaned on just before his accident by showing up on Claire’s doorstep for a visit. She folded a pair of socks and placed them in the open suitcase on her bed. She turned again to her closet and selected her gray suit, the one she’d used for the depositions. It wasn’t black, but it may have to do. She wasn’t sure there’d be time to shop back in Virginia.

She knelt and chose a pair of navy shoes and paused to look at the poster leaning against the back of her closet. It was a family tree of sorts, an undergraduate project on blood-typing. She traced her finger from her father to her mother to Margo and then to herself. Clay was missing, too chicken to allow Claire to take his blood.

His absence on the family tree struck her as foreboding, a dark prediction of his later absence from their family. She shrugged off the moment as a bizarre coincidence and continued packing.