Hour Game Part 30

They reached King's car.

"I'm going to walk over to Eddie's studio," said Mich.e.l.le.

"I'm going to find Sally and see if she'll be a little more cooperative than her employer. I'll join you at Eddie's after I'm done."

"What do you think Sally will tell you?"

"I'm tired of getting stonewalled on this case," he said, biting out the words. "So she better have ad.a.m.n good explanation of why she was praying in front of Junior's grave." good explanation of why she was praying in front of Junior's grave."

"Sean King, did you know you're very s.e.xy when you get mad?"

"So they tell me," King said as he marched off to corral the young horsewoman.

CHAPTER 57.

KING SAW A HORSE AND RIDERcoming toward him. However, it was Savannah, not Sally, astride a large gelding with two white-mottled forelegs.

She pulled up next to him and dismounted. She wore jeans, riding boots and a corduroy jacket.

"Beautiful day for a ride," he said.

"I can saddle you a mount."

"I haven't ridden in a while."

"Come on, it's like riding a bike."

He motioned to his jacket and dress slacks. "I'm not really dressed for it. How about a rain check?"

"Okay, sure," she said, obviously doubtful he'd ever cash in.

"I'm not just saying that, Savannah. I mean it."

"Okay. Are you here to see my mother?"

"Already did. Unfortunately, it was a short interview."

Savannah couldn't suppress a smile. "And you're surprised?"

"No, I guess I'm an optimist." He looked around. "Have you seen Sally?"

"She's in the stables over there," Savannah said, pointing over King's left shoulder. "Why?"

"Just wondering."

She looked at him suspiciously but then shrugged. "Thanks for spending some time with me after the funeral."

"It was my pleasure. I know how tough things have been for you."

"I think they're going to get tougher. That FBI agent was here again."

"Chip Bailey? What did he want?"

"He wanted to know where I was when Daddy was killed."

"That's a pretty standard question. And what did you tell him?"

"That I was at home in my room. No one saw me, at least that I know of. I guess I fell asleep, because I didn't hear my mother come in. I didn't even find out Daddy had died until the following morning."

"I'm surprised she didn't come and get you when she got the call."

"My bedroom's on the second floor, all the way at the other end of the house from hers. And I've, well, I've been going out nights and not getting back until late. She might have thought I was out and didn't bother to check."

"I see. You don't want to burn the midnight oil too much; it's bad for your complexion."

"I figure I might as well do it while I have the energy. I have a lot of years to be dull and boring."

"I don't think anyone would ever describe you in those terms. Made any decisions for the future?"

"I got a job offer from a big petrochemical company to be a field engineer. The a.s.signment is overseas. I'm thinking about it."

"Well, you'd be, without a doubt, the prettiest field engineer anyone's ever seen."

"You keep talking that way, I might start to think you have intentions."

"I don't think I could keep up with you."

"You might surprise yourself, Mr. King."

As Savannah rode off, King's gaze followed her. He'd forgotten her particular talent: chemical engineering. And she, like many others in this bizarre case, had no alibi for the time her father was killed. And yet that was only one death and one killer. What was the other murderer doing right now? Seeking to add to his list of victims?

He found Sally in the stables mucking the stalls.

She leaned on her shovel and wiped the sweat off her brow.

"I see Savannah's back to riding," said King.

She looked at her shovel. "Never seen her doing this part of the job, though."

King decided to get right down to it. "I saw you at the funeral."

"Mr. Battle had a lot of friends. There sure were tons of people there."

"No, I meant Junior Deaver's funeral."

Sally froze. "Junior Deaver?" she said cautiously.

"Unless you have an identical twin, you were praying over his grave."

Sally started mucking again while King studied her.

"You can tell me or the FBI, it's up to you."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Sean. Why would I be praying over Junior's grave? Like I told you, I hardly knew the man."

"That's what I came here to ask you, because you obviouslydid know him." know him."

"Well, you're wrong."

"Are you sure you want to do it this way?"

"I've got a lot of work to get done today."

"Fine, it's your call. Do you know a good lawyer?"

Sally stopped shoveling and looked at him fearfully. "What would I need with a lawyer? I haven't done anything wrong."

King took the shovel from her and set it aside. Then he drew very close, backing Sally up to one of the horse stall gates. "Let me make this as clear as I can. If you knowingly have material information about either Junior Deaver's murder or the burglary and you fail to come forward to the authorities, that's a crime punishable by imprisonment. And if you're charged with that crime, you're going to need a lawyer. If you don't have one, I can recommend several good ones."

Sally looked like she was a second away from bursting into tears.

"I don't know anything, Sean, I don't!" she wailed.

"Then you have absolutely nothing to worry about. But if you're lying to me, you could go to prison." He handed her back the shovel. "And while they don't have horses there, they do have lots of s.h.i.+t. Of the human variety," he added.

He pulled out one of his business cards and stuck it in the sweatband of her hat. "So when you think it through and realize I'm right, call me. I can help."

As he walked off, Sally took out the card and looked at it, an expression of helplessness on her features.

CHAPTER 58.

EDDIE'S STUDIO WAS IN A TWO-STORYconverted barn in the rear of the carriage house property. Mich.e.l.le walked in the side door and called out, "Eddie?"

The place had been substantially remodeled inside. There were windows running along the second story and a skylight to give necessary illumination to the artist; worktables, easels and buckets of paintbrushes and other tools were neatly arranged. Large and small canvases in various stages of completion hung on the walls. The smells of oils and turpentine were heavy in the air. Stairs went up to a second-floor landing, where there appeared to be a small windowless room with a door.

"Eddie?" she called out again as she examined some of the works on the wall. The portraits and landscapes were done with meticulous attention to detail. There was one almost finished scene of a Civil War battle that, to Mich.e.l.le's admittedly inexperienced eye, should have been hanging in a museum.

On another wall were a number of objects neatly hung and labeled. They appeared to be a.s.sorted memorabilia from Eddie's reenactment hobby.

She turned when she heard feet clattering down the stairs. Eddie had on an artist's smock, the front of which was smeared with blue paint, and his hair was charmingly disheveled. Under his arm he was carrying what looked to be a small canvas. It was covered with a cloth.

"Hey, I was just finis.h.i.+ng something up," he said.

Mich.e.l.le pointed to the paintings. "I'm no expert, but I never expected to see this level of work."

He waved off her comment, but his smile betrayed how much it had pleased him. "Technically, I'm right up there, I think. But the really great artists have something-I don't think anyone can really quantify it-that I don't. But that's okay. I'm happy with what I do have, and so are my clients." He took the piece he was carrying and set it up on an empty easel but did not uncover it.

"So, any luck with Mom?"

"When your mother doesn't want to do something, you might as well try moving a mountain. But we'll keep trying. What is it?"

Eddie had turned to her with a broad smile. "Okay, close your eyes."

"What?"

"Just close your eyes."

Mich.e.l.le hesitated and then did as he asked.

"Okay, now open them."

When she did, she was staring at herself, at least a version of herself on the canvas, wearing the ball gown from the reenactment. Mich.e.l.le approached the canvas and studied it closely before turning to Eddie in amazement.

"That's why I wanted the Polaroid of you," he explained.

"It's beautiful. How did you do it so fast?"

"Worked on it all night. With the proper motivation a person can accomplish anything. But it doesn't do you justice, Mich.e.l.le, it really doesn't." He wrapped it up with brown paper and masking tape. "You can take it with you."

"But why did you paint me?"

"You spent all day watching me play soldier, it was the least I could do."

"I enjoyed watching; it wasn't a burden."

"I still appreciate it."

She touched the wrapped painting. "And I appreciate this."

She gave him a hug and was surprised at how tightly he squeezed her; how strong he was. And she squeezed back. For one long moment their bodies were compressed together. He smelled of paint and sweat and something else, something intensely male. Her hands lightly traced the hard muscles of his back and shoulders. She didn't want to let go, but she finally drew back from him, her gaze downcast.

He cupped his hand under her chin and raised it. "Look, I know this is probably getting a little awkward for you. I'm not throwing myself at you. You're not going to wake up tomorrow and find a new car in your driveway. But-"

"Eddie-," she began, but he held up his hand.

"But it's just nice to have a friend is what I'm saying."