Skewed Page 4

  “Yes, sweetie?” came Grady’s strong voice, the one that sent tingles down the spines of the women at his campaign stops, and probably accounted for eighty percent of his volunteers being female. Combined with his long, lean frame, confident stance, and ability to connect with folks in any walk of life, it was amazing he wasn’t already president. The few people who might think him phony were converted upon meeting him in person. He knew this, of course, and it was one of the reasons he made endless personal appearances, including the one at Field Diner a year and a half ago, where he’d ordered scrambled eggs and fruit.

  “Have you or we or anyone figured out how it’s all going to work?” Bridget said, her Southern accent as pronounced as her dimples. “This whole you-get-elected-and-then-introduce-the-world-to-the-woman-who-just-had-your-twins thing?”

  “Well, there’s a couple ways to finagle it. Sam and I discussed it yesterday, as a matter of fact.”

  Bridget cringed. She didn’t like Sam Kowalczyk, and she sure didn’t like being another tool in his substantial bag of tricks when it came to getting candidates positioned—Sam’s favorite word. We’ve got to position Grady better with the middle class. Let’s see if we can’t improve Grady’s position with the old folks; they vote, you know.

  “And just how does Sam intend to position me?” Bridget said. “Hopefully nowhere near him.”

  Grady poked his head out of the bathroom, a thick layer of shaving cream smeared across his jutting jaw, the razor small in his strong hands. At least Grady didn’t deceive the agriculture community; he really had spent summers on a farm and had sweated hard for every one of those taut muscles. Bridget enjoyed the fleeting thought that she’d never get tired of looking at that body, and if she did, she might as well roll over and die.

  “I don’t know everything he’s got up his sleeve,” Grady said as he broke into a smile at the sight of her wrapped in the sheets. “But I’ve got a few ideas about positioning you right now.”

  She pulled the sheets up and grinned, her pageant-winning lips curling upward. “Stop that. I’ve got to get to work, and you need to get me back to town with enough time to change into my uniform. You know how you like a girl in uniform.”

  Grady ducked back into the bathroom but reappeared a moment later with his shaving cream wiped off. In a few long strides he was back in bed, cuddled up next to her, smelling of spice and wholesomeness. He wrapped one arm behind her neck and slipped the other beneath her back, then lowered his face to within inches of hers. She knew she’d succumb to whatever he wanted next—and that it’d be pure pleasure. His kisses were an unfathomable combination of soft but intense, gentle yet lustful, and they were only the start. Any additional activity between the two of them would make her late for her shift; still, she made no effort to escape his embrace, his lips, his unspoken demands.

  “I hate that you’re still working,” he said, pulling back to see her face. “I don’t like you being on your feet all day. Let’s tell everyone about the babies—about us—today. Right now.” He brushed his lips against hers. “We’ll start with the bellhop.”

  Bridget, smiling yet resolute, pulled at the ample dark hairs on his chest. “Much as I like the adorable hat on that hop, the word is mum.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s the one thing you promised—to keep our secret—and Grady McLemore does not go back on his word.”

  “I don’t, but I want the world to know how much I love you and how excited I am about the twins.”

  “Well, I refuse to live the rest of my days being the person responsible for you losing an election. We just need to smooth out the rough parts, like transitioning to a relationship after you’re sworn in.”

  “Sam thinks we should make it look like I adopted them after falling in love with the stunning, single mom struggling to make ends meet. ‘She charmed the socks off this lonely, hardworking man,’ I’d say.”

  “Just the socks, eh? You think that would work?”

  He opened his mouth slightly and leaned down to kiss her full lips. “I can make anything work. You know that.”

  “I’d have to think about it. I mean, I want the kids to know you’re their real daddy.”

  “Then I’ll make that work.” He scooped up her leg until it was slung across his hip. Bridget could feel him wanting more. She wondered if she’d be able to convince her horrid manager that she’d gotten a flat on the way to work.

  Lying back, sometime later, Bridget felt fulfilled beyond expectations. A perfect ending to a stolen night—and morning.

  “Question for you,” Grady said. “How should I pronounce Caulfield when I’m in town? The locals seem picky about it and now that I’ve opened a campaign office there, I want to get it right.”

  “I’ll tell you my system.”

  “I knew you’d have one,” he said, tickling her.

  “It depends on the depth of your roots. If both sets of grandparents dropped out of high school there, married as teens, and never traveled more than fifty miles in any direction, then it’s Cough-eld, emphasis on the first syllable, kind of like scaffold but with a cough. If you’re the first generation born and bred there, and you never lived more than a stone’s throw from your birthplace, it’s Caw-field. But if you’re passing through, or worse yet, seeking us out because we were mentioned as a quaint town in a glossy magazine, then it’s Call-field, and we’ll just point you in the direction of the giant twine ball attraction so you can snap a whimsical photo.”

  Grady tried out the options. “What about a guy seeking votes, born a hundred miles away, but who plans to raise a family there with a beautiful woman?”

  The image made Bridget’s dimples pucker. “Go with Caw-field. Folks’ll give you some leeway.”

  “You mind if Sam drives you back to Caw-field, then?” Grady said as he sprang out of bed.

  Frown lines cut into Bridget’s forehead. “Matter of fact, I do. Why can’t you take me? I was looking forward to the ride together.”

  “He’s got me scheduled with a 4-H club and a hunting group. Didn’t know about it until yesterday, but I’ll try to come by the diner tonight.” He enveloped her with his dark eyes. “Maybe you can serve me.”

  Bridget’s mood had shifted and there would be no winning her back. “You should have told me. I don’t like being alone in a car with a man who has the charm of a wolverine and the beady eyes to match.”

  Grady chuckled. “Sam adores you. He just has trouble showing it. Why don’t you flirt with him in the car, tell him what a nice snout he has?”

  Bridget swung her legs out of the bed. As Grady returned to the bathroom, she threw on the thick white robe provided by the Aberdeen Hotel. She’d never worn anything so heavy yet so soft. With her finger, she traced the outline of the robe’s golden A monogram above her right breast. But even this little perk couldn’t squelch her ire over having to spend time alone with Sam Kowalczyk. And then she spotted the engraved, brass key chain for the suite. It was worth more than her daddy made in an entire insurance commission. She’d show Grady for not driving her home. He could answer for the missing key and pay out of his own pocket—and she could savor a bit of twisted delight in his not even knowing he’d been had. It wasn’t her usual style, but she dropped the key chain, complete with key, into her robe pocket, then opened and drank an expensive Perrier while Grady finished up in the bathroom.

  When he came out, Bridget approached him and stroked his face. He’d done a perfect job of shaving. Smooth as ever. She let a single finger traverse down his face all the way to his naked stomach, just to tease him before disappearing into the shower. And when he pulled her close and kissed her, as she knew he would, her free hand slipped into her robe pocket, slid out the key chain, and dropped it into her makeup kit. Goodness, she deserved a memento.

  CHAPTER 6

  The dark, fragrant wood that comprised Sophie Andricola’s log cab
in had to be a hundred years old and, like the enormous red oaks framing it, gave off a living, breathing vibe. The sixty-foot-tall sentries seemed to be judging my worthiness to intrude upon their master, but before they could render a verdict, the garishly dressed Sophie Andricola opened the front door and stared at her uninvited guest with neither judgment nor question.

  The garnet gemstone piercing her brow was new, as was the tattooed snake slithering up her neck and vanishing behind her left ear. Should I assume it was feasting upon her brain? I forced my eyes away, but they drifted back, lured by the spell the serpent had cast.

  “Hi, Ms. Andricola, I tried to call in advance, but no answer and no voice mail.”

  “Janie Perkins,” Sophie said in a warm voice with a Canadian lilt. “Welcome.”

  Sophie had relocated to the Kingsley suburbs after a controversial case in which she had discerned the guilt of a Royal Canadian Mounted Police officer through his computer history and the symbolic meaning of demonic sculptures in his home. Before she could be called as a witness, though, the officer’s computer had disappeared from the evidence room and her car had been found blown to sharp, hot bits in a deep gulley. After a barrage of negative media coverage and a cold shoulder from her employer, she’d moved to Virginia to start a private consulting business in her strange trifecta of specialties. Clearly, the Canadian officer had been connected and the truth was a little-valued commodity by his superiors.

  “You took the photo with the lemon-pucker shoe,” Sophie said.

  “And you solved a murder,” I replied.

  She smiled, accepting the praise, and I wondered what had happened in this woman’s life that made her hide such stark beauty behind piercings and tattoos while remaining a near recluse in a stand-alone cabin.

  “Won’t you come in?”

  I expected incense, dim lights, and a black cat or two, but instead entered an open, modern home, naturally bright and crowned by a hand-painted ceiling fan showing pastel sunsets. The stone fireplace hogging the entire east wall of the living room boasted intricate etchings on one-third of the stones, while framed photos of cheery people covered a mantelpiece and hung on the walls. Not so different from the home where I was raised.

  “What a lovely place,” I said, failing to hide my surprise. “You’ve made it so . . . welcoming.”

  “Had to. Dark and woeful when I bought it.”

  Given the first impression most people had of Sophie, I grinned, and then felt myself drawn to the fireplace to examine the etchings more closely. The random scratches of the first one gave it a rough-hewn, primitive quality, but upon closer inspection, they proved to be hundreds of tiny, deliberate scores. As my eyes and brain finally coalesced, I pulled back. The etching was a simply drawn man lunging a spear into a prone woman on the ground.

  “Everybody goes to that one first,” Sophie said.

  My eyes widened, but not so she could see. I inspected the next etching. Same style, different death. It showed an enormous vulture careening toward an infant wrapped in a loincloth. Tears spurted from the infant’s eyes, but the extended talons of the predator suggested the tears would soon turn to blood. As my eyes adjusted, I could decipher the etchings more quickly—with no small degree of horror: a woman being burned at the stake; a man hanging upside down from a tree branch while a forked-tongued snake eased down his leg; a pile of dead pigs, eyes open, with a grimacing farmer lording over them.

  I whipped around to my hostess, hoping to catch her raw reaction to a stranger’s appreciation of the art, but I got very little. She stared blankly at the etching in the upper-right corner, that of a toddler reaching up to hold its mother’s hand. No death, no violence. Until I strained my neck and saw a bullet exiting the mother’s chest, a distant look on her face as if she’d already moved to the next dimension, leaving the toddler to fend for itself.

  “They come to me,” she said. “I filter them through simplification and light. Imagine not letting them out.” She grinned unexpectedly. “Can I get you some water? Or tea? I’m afraid I gave up coffee. Too much stimulation.”

  “No, thanks. I’m sorry to bother you like this.”

  “Please.” Sophie gestured toward a sofa with throw pillows sporting bright wildlife scenes. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  I wondered if I could, given the gruesome death scenes lingering nearby. But then I remembered my own job and how I could debate the merits of competing taco trucks while hovering over bodies shredded by rivalry and hatred. I sank into the couch. Sophie made herself comfortable with one leg up on a cushion in order to face me more fully.

  “I’m hoping you can help me with a photo enhancement,” I said.

  “Of course. In relation to an ongoing case?”

  “A rather dated case.”

  I explained the situation and showed her the more revealing photo of my mother’s body, hoping it wouldn’t end up on her fireplace stones.

  She glanced at the image for only a moment, then jerked her head to the window across the room as if a confused bird had slammed into it and riveted her attention. As a glassy look coated her face, I knew there was no bird and I instinctively stayed quiet. Sophie was processing her first impression, allowing her divergent brain quadrants to merge.

  She whipped her head back to the image, her eyes narrowing, her lips parted enough to reveal a tiny blue star on her tongue. I didn’t want to believe it was a tattoo, but I knew it was.

  Sophie raised her eyes and found mine in such a direct manner that I felt accused. “I’ll need the day with both photos.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m not. It gets in the way. How can I reach you?”

  With that, we exchanged contact information and Sophie escorted me from the cabin just as my cell phone rang. My brother’s number.

  “Yes, Jack, what is it?”

  “It’s Grandpa Barton. Things have taken a turn for the worse. I’m on my way to the hospital.”

  My heart flipped. Grandpa Barton was my rock, my courage, my everything. “I’ll meet you there.”

  “Uh, you, well, I should probably tell you . . .”

  “Yes, Jack?”

  “I was at an event when I got the call about Grandpa. Some reporters may have gotten wind.”

  May have gotten wind? If I knew anything about my brother, it was his penchant for exploiting situations to his political advantage, no doubt inherited from his alleged father. Wouldn’t surprise me if Jack staged dramatic personal calls at every public appearance so he could look like a sought-after superhero. All he needed was the cape and tights, which, if I remembered correctly, he’d worn for Halloween when we were ten. No doubt he’d gotten a call from the doctor, feigned a mirror-perfected expression of shock and dismay, then turned to his handler while leaning into a live mic. My dear grandfather is in the hospital! The man who raised me after my mom was killed in that Haiku Killer fiasco. Must go!

  Yes, how in the world would those reporters have gotten wind?

  I shoved my phone into my back pocket, as much to hang up on my brother as to force myself not to see Haiku Twins’ grandfather trending on Twitter. Without another conscious thought, I waved down Nicholls and Wexler, who were parked at the end of the road. They pulled up and I hopped in.

  “Can you get me back to the station so I can pick up my car? Grandpa Barton’s not doing well.”

  Nicholls and Wexler both sensed my need for silence. During the drive, we held our own quiet vigil for the only family member I both loved and liked at the moment.

  CHAPTER 7

  Bridget Perkins, 30 Years, 10 Hours Ago

  Bridget Perkins’s eyes shifted from the side mirror to the road ahead. She didn’t want anyone to see Sam Kowalczyk dropping her off at home. Despite Sam’s fondness for the shadows, he had appeared alongside Grady in recent newspaper photos; locals might remember him as Grady’s d
river. At one campaign stop near DC, a sultry woman had been so desperate to get at Grady, she’d tried to bribe her way into the car by offering Sam a menu of sexual favors. To his credit, Sam hadn’t ordered, but he was becoming better known as a conduit to the candidate, and Bridget didn’t need anyone making the connection between her and Grady. Not yet, anyway.

  “Maybe just drop me off here,” she said when they were a mile from her house.

  “This is too far,” Sam said. “Let me get closer.”

  The thought of Sam getting closer in any respect sent shivers through her body. She tried to give him a fair shot, but everything about him repulsed her, from his personality on out. Despite a strong conviction that beauty began and ended on the inside, she found that belief hard to apply to Sam. His ugliness grew like a sunburst from within, bright and blinding by the time it reached his ruddy skin, snub nose, and close-set eyes that formed a horizontal slit of bad intentions beneath too-dark brows. She didn’t appreciate his awkward Polish jokes, either. He told them with no flair and delivered them preemptively to prevent others from doing so first. Bridget felt sure he’d been bullied as a child, and she tried to rustle up some sympathy by concentrating on that aspect of his past.

  “I’m fine here, thanks,” she said.

  “Well, I’ll watch you walk home, then.”

  The way he said it made her squirm. Given the extra sway in her backside with the new weight up front, Sam was undoubtedly smiling like a letch on the inside, more than eager to watch. “Maybe you’re right. Why don’t you drop me off after the next bend?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He cleared his throat, then bucked up the courage to say something. “No need to worry about the license plates, Miss Perkins, if you were concerned about anyone associating this car with Mr. McLemore.”

  “What? No. I never even thought of that.”

  “Because the plates are clean. Can’t be traced to my name or Grady’s.”