The Watcher. BEVERLY BARTON
was watching her, and the sensation gave her the creeps. But she didn’t slow down, didn’t alter her pace one iota. After all, it wasn’t as if she were out here on this walking/jogging trail alone. She had overslept and was running late this morning; otherwise she’d be finished with her three-mile run and be showered and dressed for the day. But Sundays were her day of rest, the only day her hectic schedule allowed her time off, and that would change during basketball season. She didn’t really mind all the hard work—both on the court and off—because her basketball scholarship to University of Tennessee was the only way she could afford college. That or join the army. And since she’d been the star of her high school team, with a natural athletic ability, she preferred playing basketball to running the risk of getting killed or having her limbs blown off in Iraq.
The farther along the trail she ran, the more relaxed she became, and the more certain she was that she had imagined someone peering at her through the bushes. No one in their right mind would try to attack someone on such a wide-open and often-congested trail. She’d seldom run this course without seeing at least half a dozen people. And no one was likely to be staring at her because they were fascinated by her beauty. At six one, big-boned, and with a flat chest, she wasn’t exactly the type who attracted attention from the opposite sex. How often had she wished she’d inherited her body build from her mother instead of her father and his two big, gangling sisters.
Despite being taller than the average man, Aunt Virginia and Aunt Carole had found husbands. And neither aunt was a great beauty. So, there was hope for her. Sooner or later, some six foot six guy would come along and decide he liked his women tall, raw-boned, and plain. But until then, she’d just keep on doing what she did best—playing basketball. And loving every minute of it.
Pudge sat on the front porch in his favorite chair, an old wicker rocker that had belonged to Grandmother Suzette. He had no memory of her because she had died when he was only two. She had drowned in one of the numerous ponds on the thousand-acre estate, her death ruled an accident. But he had once overheard his mother and aunt talking about Suzette, about her being as crazy as a Betsy Bug and how the nutty old woman had killed herself.
Balancing the saucer in his palm, he lifted the cup to his lips and sipped the strong espresso as his gaze traveled over the lush, moist land spread out before him, land that had been in his family for nearly two hundred years. If all was as it should be in the world, he would be the king of a vast empire, with underlings kissing his feet and begging for his favors. But instead, he ruled over land that hadn’t produced a crop in his lifetime and a decaying antebellum mansion that reeked of mildew and pulsated with the ghosts of countless ancestors whose spirits haunted the rooms. He’d never seen a ghost, mind you, but he had felt their presence. Even as a child, he’d known evil spirits resided here at Belle Fleur.
But in the light of day, the sunlight invading every nook and cranny, banishing the shadows, Pudge preferred to dwell on more pleasant thoughts. He would be traveling to Tennessee soon, tomorrow at the latest, to pick up his next quarry. Once he brought her home with him, the fun would begin. She would spend her first night in the basement, just as the others had done. Then the next morning, before Allegra arrived to prepare his breakfast, he would take his prey and release her into the wild.
Just the thought of beginning the game again, of spending three weeks stalking Amber Kirby, then capturing and killing her, excited him. A sensation of pure glee tingled through his whole body.
Ballinger, Arkansas, located south of Little Rock, appeared no different from most small towns comprised of less than ten thousand people. Griff drove up Main Street, which apparently had undergone a recent restoration, in search of the B&B Sanders had booked for Nic and him. He figured they would learn what they could about Kendall Moore today and tomorrow, then head for Stillwater, Texas, late in the day.
“Is that it?” Nic asked, pointing to what appeared to be an old, remodeled hotel right in the middle of town.
“Hmm … Yeah, I believe it is. The Ballinger Hotel.” Griff chuckled. “I suppose, for a little town like this, it was something in its heyday, which was probably 1925.” The two-story building possessed a dark red brick façade, clean lines, and Craftsman-era styling.
“There’s a sign with an arrow,” Nic told him. “PARKING IN THE REAR.”
Griff turned right at the sign and eased their rental Ford Taurus between the two structures until he reached an alleyway that led to the parking lot behind the B&B and a lawyer’s office.
“We’ll check in and leave our luggage, then take a walk over to the police station we saw on our way into town.”
When they got out, Griff removed their suitcases from the trunk, intending to carry them both. But Nic didn’t budge. She held out her hand.
“I’ll take it,” she told him.
“Why?” he asked.
“Why what?”
“Why not let me carry your bag for you?”
“Because you have your own to carry and I’m perfectly capable of carrying my suitcase.”
“Hmm …” What was she trying to prove? That she didn’t want or need a man’s help? Sometime in her past, some guy had done a real number on Nicole Baxter and Griff would lay odds that it hadn’t been her husband.
She twitched her fingers at him. “My suitcase, please.”
“Sure thing.” He handed the case to her.
Side by side, they walked through the alley, around to the sidewalk on Main Street, and up to the hotel’s front entrance. Griff held the door open for her. Let her chew him out for being a gentleman. But his mama had taught him good manners and he wasn’t about to let a lady open her own door.
Surprisingly, Nic said nothing. But she did give him a disapproving sidelong glance. The foyer of the old hotel was small but clean and rather appealing with brown marble floors and oak paneling. A plump, silver-haired woman who was running a feather duster over the framed photographs of the town, circa early twentieth century, that hung on the wall, paused in her chore when she realized she was no longer alone.
“May I help you?”
“I’m Griffin Powell and this is Ms. Baxter,” Griff said. “We booked rooms for tonight.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Check-in isn’t until two, but since y’all are our only guests, it won’t be a problem.” She glanced from Griff to Nic. “I’m Cleo Willoughby. I’m the owner.”
“Now, tell me, dear, do you want rooms with a connecting door or not?”
“Not,” Nic said lightning fast.
Cleo’s brows rose with a hint of speculation and curiosity.
“Ms. Baxter and I are business associates,” Griff said.
“Indeed. And what kind of business are you in, Mr. Powell?”
“I’m a private detective,” he told her, without hesitation. In a town this size, news would travel fast, so there was no point in trying to keep his identity secret.
Cleo smiled broadly. “How very interesting. Can you tell me what brings you to Ballinger?”
“We’re hoping to speak with the police chief about a recent murder,” Griff said.
“Is that right? And is Benny expecting y’all?”
“Benny?” Nic asked.
“Yes, Benny’s the police chief. He’s my nephew. If you’d like, I’ll give him a call and tell him you folks want to talk to him about a murder. I assume it’s Kendall Moore’s murder, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am, it is,” Griff replied. So the police chief was her nephew? Ah, the interwoven relationships of small-town families.
“Well, you two come along and get signed in and I’ll