Protecting Peggy Page 13

  “You’re right.”

  “I’ll put on some clothes and drive out to check the shed where I saw him before,” Blake said. “I’ll scope out a couple of other places on the ranch, too. While I’m doing that, why don’t you drop by Ruby’s to see if anyone has spotted O’Connell?”

  Rory arched a brow while the car’s engine idled and the wipers slapped rain from the windshield. “Ruby’s?”

  Blake chuckled. “This is your night to visit the town’s hot spots, Sinclair. First Jake’s, now Ruby’s.”

  “Is Ruby’s another dive?”

  “Bite your tongue. Ruby’s is more like the heartbeat of Prosperino. It’s a café on Main Street, across from City Hall. It’s the place where the locals go to exchange news. Some people call that gossip. Here’s a tip—Ruby’s meat loaf is out of this world.”

  “It’s a little late for meat loaf.”

  “Then try some of Ruby’s cherry pie. It’s almost as good as Peggy’s. Almost, but not quite.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” Scowling, Rory clicked off his cell phone. He was trying his damnedest to keep his mind on Charlie O’Connell and off his landlady—who he could be ravishing this very moment if his conscience hadn’t gotten in the way.

  “Hell.”

  By the time Rory turned onto Main Street the rain fell in sheets, obscuring the café’s wide-pane front windows in a watery blur. Only a few cars angled in the parking spots in front. Peggy’s station wagon wasn’t one of them.

  He parked his car, then shouldered open the door against the wind and the rain. As he dashed to the sidewalk, he wondered how many more times he was destined to get wet that night.

  Inside the café, the air was ripe with good, rich scents and the clatter of dishes. A long, Formica counter with the requisite stools stretched along one wall. A three-tiered stand holding homemade pies sat on one end of the counter. Tables and chairs of a serviceable metal dotted the yellowed linoleum floor. Booths covered in red vinyl lined two walls.

  Rory shoved his fingers through his damp hair while his gaze swept over the smattering of customers. His chin rose when he spotted Michael Longstreet sitting with another man in a booth at the rear of the café.

  “Mayor,” Rory said when he reached the booth.

  “Sinclair.” Longstreet, clad in a starched white shirt and jeans, returned Rory’s handshake, then gestured at his companion, a solidly built man with a linebacker’s shoulders. “Joe Colton, meet Rory Sinclair.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Colton.” Rory’s first impression of the former U.S. Senator and corporate magnate was one of vitality and health and well-channeled power. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “Call me Joe, and take a load off,” he said, sliding over on the bench seat to make room. The patriarch of the Colton family had a tanned, square-jawed face softened by kind blue eyes. He wore a thick sweater a shade darker than his eyes, and khaki pants. When he lifted his head, the overhead lights picked up the threads of gray in his dark hair. “You’re the chemist working for Blake Fallon, right?”

  “That’s right.” Rory pulled off his leather jacket, hung it on the back of an empty chair, then slid in beside Joe. “The mayor’s making my job a lot easier by loaning me his Bonanza so I can run tests at a lab in San Francisco.”

  Michael shrugged, his sun-streaked brown hair skimming his shirt collar. “If you weren’t flying her, she’d be on the ground all the time. With all that’s going on, I haven’t had a chance to think about flying.”

  “In case that changes, I’m not planning to take her up tomorrow,” Rory said. “The tests I’m running right now take forty-eight hours for results to come back. I won’t need to fly to San Francisco until the day after tomorrow.”

  “Fine. The plane’s yours for as long as you need it.”

  A middle-aged waitress with expansive hips and brown hair teased into a beehive appeared beside the booth. Order pad in one hand, she nodded at Rory. “Get you something, sugar?”

  “Coffee.”

  Joe leaned in. “Is this your first visit to Ruby’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “You should try her cherry pie.”

  Michael smiled. “Joe, he’s staying at Peggy’s place.”

  Joe raised an eyebrow. “Oh, well, in that case you’re probably getting your fill of Peggy’s desserts. Nobody can top ’em. Not even Ruby.”

  I wouldn’t know. Rory eased out a breath. Thinking about the gorgeous, sexy woman he had left—untouched!—at the inn had him rubbing a hand over his face. He looked at the waitress. “I’ll pass on dessert. Bring me coffee. Black.”

  “Sure thing, sugar.”

  He waited to get down to business until the woman settled the steaming cup in front of him, then refilled Joe’s and Michael’s cups.

  “Charlie O’Connell, the EPA inspector, had car trouble earlier today. He borrowed Peggy’s station wagon to go to a meeting. He was due back at the inn hours ago, but hasn’t made it yet. She hasn’t heard from him. Have either of you seen him?”

  Joe pursed his lips. “Our paths haven’t crossed for a couple of days. How about you, Michael?”

  “I haven’t seen him today. Where was this meeting?”

  “That’s one of the problems—no one knows. O’Connell didn’t tell Peggy where the meeting was, or who it was with. All he told her was that he had a good chance of getting some answers to what it is that contaminated the water on Hopechest Ranch.”

  Michael whistled softly. “We could use those answers. We need those answers.”

  “That’s right,” Joe agreed. “We can’t do much about stopping the contamination, and preventing it from happening again, until we find out what the hell got into the water. And how the hell it got there.”

  “I know,” Rory said. “I’m hoping to have some answers for you soon.”

  Joe raised a hand. “I’m not hammering at you, son. I know getting results from a lab takes time. It’s just that all those kids out at Hopechest Ranch haven’t had a lot of breaks in their lives. They need one now.”

  A dim beeping had Michael pulling the pager off of his belt. His mouth tightened as he read the display. “Great. Just what I need to end the day.”

  “Problem?” Joe asked.

  “Homer Wentworth wants me to call him.”

  Joe ducked his head. “Glad you’re the mayor and not me,” he murmured into his coffee.

  Michael looked at Rory. “Have you met Homer?”

  “No.”

  “Lucky you. He’s the town’s malcontent. A bitter old man who doesn’t like Hopechest and what he calls those good-for-nothing-kids who live there. He comes to every city council meeting just to carp over each dollar that’s spent.” Michael paused, his mouth curving into a wry grin. “Too bad Suzanne’s not here. I’d have her call the old goat.”

  “Suzanne?” Rory thought of the woman whom Peggy had said delivered the packet of toxicology reports to the inn. “The same Suzanne who works for Blake at Hopechest?”

  “Right, Suzanne Jorgenson,” Michael replied. “She attends all the city council meetings, too. Whenever Homer starts complaining about Hopechest, Suzanne jumps right in the middle of him. It’s a pleasure to sit back and watch her duke it out verbally with Homer. The woman packs a punch.”

  Rory noted the look of frank admiration that had settled in Michael’s eyes when he spoke of Suzanne Jorgenson. Something there, Rory decided. Something that encompassed more than just city business.

  “Guess I’ll go back to my office and give Homer a call.” The mayor slid out of the booth, clipped his pager back onto his belt. “Wish me luck.”

  “You’ve got it,” Joe said.

  Rory rose, shook Michael’s hand. “Good luck. And thanks again for the use of your Bonanza.”

  “No problem. Good luck with those tests.”

  “I’ll let you know as soon as I get some answers.”

  As the mayor strode away, Rory slid his hands into the pockets of his slacks and shifted his
thoughts to Blake Fallon. To the guilt Blake felt over his father trying to kill Joe Colton. To the dread Blake felt at the prospect someone had contaminated the water on Hopechest Ranch as an attempt to revenge what Emmett Fallon had done. Now that he’d met Joe Colton, Rory figured this was a good time to start making up to Blake for his having taken their friendship for granted for so many years.

  He met Joe’s gaze. “Do you have time for another cup of coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  Rory motioned for the waitress, then slid into the side of the booth Michael had vacated. After their cups were refilled, he said, “Mr. Colton—Joe—I don’t just work for Blake, I’m a friend of his, too.”

  “That so?”

  “Yes. We roomed together in college.” Rory’s mouth curved. “Raised a lot of hell together. Over the past years Blake and I lost touch. That’s my fault. I’m not exactly an expert at maintaining ties. I never felt the need to do that. Lately I’ve started thinking that isn’t the best thing a person can do. I plan to keep in touch with Blake from now on.”

  “I imagine that will make him happy.”

  “I hope so. When I arrived in Prosperino, I didn’t know anything about what Blake had been through the past couple of months.”

  “You’re talking about his dad, right? About Emmett trying to kill me. Twice.”

  “Yes.” Rory sipped his coffee. “In college, whenever Blake talked about how you and your wife took him in for foster care, I always got the feeling he thought you walked on water.”

  “Blake got a rough deal with Emmett jumping from one marriage to the next. Meredith and I happened to be there when Blake needed a stable home environment. We had the means to give him one, so we did.”

  “According to Blake, you did that same thing for a lot of kids.”

  Joe smiled. “Once Meredith and I got started, we didn’t want to stop.”

  “Blake also mentioned that you and Mrs. Colton are paying the medical expenses for everyone who drank contaminated water.”

  Joe raised a shoulder. “All those kids, the Hopechest staff are innocent victims. They deserve the best medical care available. It makes Meredith and myself feel good that we can give it to them.”

  “I know Blake appreciates all you’re doing. And all you’ve done for him. I also know he’s wondering if someone purposely contaminated the water on Hopechest as an act of revenge against him.”

  “Revenge?” Joe’s dark brows slid together. “What sort of revenge?”

  “Emmett Fallon tried to kill you. He’s locked in San Quentin, so no one can get to him. Blake’s out in the open at Hopechest. A target, so to speak.”

  “Good God.” Joe’s eyes widened in dawning dismay. “You think this whole thing is about revenge? That someone’s gone after Blake because of what Emmett did to me?”

  “I think it’s possible. So does Blake.”

  “Christ, that never occurred to me.”

  “It’s a theory at this point. I just don’t think we should discount any scenario until we know for sure what contaminated the water and how it got there.”

  “I agree.”

  Rory didn’t want to mention the list of names Blake had compiled of people who would be in a position to benefit if he lost his job at Hopechest. Or those who might be inclined to seek revenge for Emmett Fallon’s attempts on the life of Prosperino’s favorite citizen.

  Rory knew that a lot of Joe Colton’s friends and family were on that second list. So far, the background checks the FBI had run on those individuals had come back clear. He couldn’t find anyone who’d had chemical or biological training in the past and might know how to contaminate a water well. No former army medics. No one who had worked for a doctor, veterinarian or pharmaceutical company. No one who even looked suspicious.

  Rory shifted his gaze back to Joe. “I’m telling you this because Blake is already dealing with a lot of guilt over what Emmett did to you. If it turns out someone contaminated the water on Hopechest to get back at Blake, and innocent kids have suffered because of that, he’ll take on even more guilt. I just thought you should know.”

  “I appreciate that.” Joe’s mouth tightened. “I’ll talk to Blake tomorrow, make sure he understands that I don’t hold him accountable for what Emmett did.” His eyes darkened to a cobalt blue. “If it turns out someone used me as an excuse to contaminate that water, they’re going to have to deal with me. I’ll see to it personally they have hell to pay.”

  “It will be a pleasure to watch.”

  Joe paused, his gaze assessing. “Seems to me, you’re a lot better friend to Blake than you think you are.”

  “I could have done better over the years. A lot better.”

  “If you’re trying to make amends, you’ve started out on the right track.” Joe glanced at his watch. “It’s getting late. I’d better get home to Meredith. And you’re probably ready to get back to Honeywell House.”

  As they climbed out of the booth, Rory thought about the hours he would spend there, lying in bed, thinking about Peggy. Wanting her.

  He shook hands with Joe. “I think I’ll drive around awhile and see if I have any luck finding O’Connell. I can use the fresh air.”

  After he left Ruby’s diner, Rory drove through the dark, rolling California countryside that bordered Prosperino. Five miles out of town, his cell phone rang. It was Blake, checking in to advise he had found no sign of O’Connell or of Peggy’s station wagon anywhere on Hopechest Ranch. On impulse, Rory steered his car north on the coastal highway. By then, the rain had moved out across the ocean; he rolled down his window and listened to the angry, churning surf beat against the cliffs while cool, salty air flowed around him.

  The search for O’Connell was a dead end. Not a surprise. Rory knew, without his having any idea of the EPA inspector’s destination, that finding the man by chance would take a miracle.

  At three o’clock in the morning, Rory pulled into the lot at the side of Honeywell House. O’Connell’s rental was the only other car there. In the distance, the greenhouse squatted in the inky shadows.

  The deep-seated instinct Rory had always trusted told him that something had happened to the man. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have purposely disappeared. If O’Connell did have his own agenda concerning the water contamination, it made no sense for him to call attention to himself by keeping Peggy’s car past the agreed time. The man wasn’t stupid—he had to know that the cops would be looking for the station wagon by now. On the other hand, if O’Connell was on the up-and-up and got delayed by car trouble or something similar, he would have called and let Peggy know.

  If he was able to call, that is.

  Rory got out of his car and headed up the inn’s cobblestone walk. While he walked, his mind worked, step by meticulous step, to expand the theory he’d formulated over the past hours. Whatever trouble O’Connell had stumbled into, he’d gotten there in Peggy’s station wagon. That connected whatever was going on to Peggy…and Samantha. Rory didn’t feel like standing around, waiting to see if that trouble found its way to Honeywell House.

  He unlocked the front door, stepped into the still, silent foyer. The same lamp that had been lit hours before glowed a weak, welcoming light. As always, the air held the inviting scents of lavender, cinnamon and vanilla. Peggy’s scent.

  His gaze shifted toward the study, lit in silver light and shadows. The fire was out. Peggy no longer curled on the couch. He closed his eyes. Hours had passed since he’d held her, touched her, yet his desire for her had not lessened. With the inn huddled around him like a warm, soft blanket, he realized he felt a kind of wanting he had never before experienced.

  “Get over it,” he muttered.

  Just because he wanted her naked beneath him, shuddering and helpless didn’t mean that was ever going to happen. Especially now, after what he had told her about himself. He was a man with secrets, one who had allowed her to know him only on the surface, one who had no intention of staying after his job was done. He represented e
verything she didn’t want.

  As if to rid himself of the thought, he moved his shoulders with a quick, restless jerk. It was late. He had one round of business to take care of before he went to bed.

  He took the stairs up to his third-floor room, stripped off his leather jacket, tossed it on the bed, then opened his field kit. He retrieved his Polaroid camera and the small, FBI-issued Kel light.

  Silently, he retraced his steps along the lighted hallway and down the staircase to the second floor. As he walked, he slung the Polaroid’s strap over his shoulder, then pulled a credit card from his billfold. The inn was old; the locks were the kind set into the doorknobs instead of more secure dead bolts. When he reached the door that displayed the brass 2, Rory slid the thin plastic card between the door and the jamb. In a matter of seconds, he was inside O’Connell’s dark room where the faint scent of lilacs hung in the air.

  Kade Lummus and Peggy had already checked to make sure O’Connell’s personal property was still there. Rory knew that the cop would have conducted only a cursory search. Since he wasn’t privy to Blake’s suspicions about O’Connell, Lummus had no reason to suspect the man’s extended absence was due to anything other than his being a jerk.

  Rory’s sixth sense told him different.

  He swept the Kel light around the room, its beam throwing his shadow in every direction. His mouth curved when he saw that the room had the same layout as his, which made it easier to get around with only the Kel light’s narrow beam. He moved soundlessly to the window, unlocked it, then eased it up. The room looked out over the parking lot. If O’Connell—or anyone else—drove up, Rory would hear the car’s engine.

  Turning, he crossed to the chest of drawers. Gas-station charge slips, cash-register receipts, a couple of paper clips and a few pennies were scattered across the top. Clamping the Kel light in his mouth like a cigar, he lined up the charge slips, aimed the Polaroid and snapped two pictures in quick succession. The camera’s flash was a sudden, blinding strobe of light in the dark room. He repeated the process with the receipts. Rory knew the locations on the receipts and charge slips would at least give him a starting point at which to backtrack O’Connell’s movements.