LOVE, LIES and LEGACIES

Read excerpt for Love, Lies and Legacies by Irene Estep

Chapter One

An explosion forced air from her lungs. She reached out, groped blindly, tried to catch the faceless body as it flew past her. She sensed it was someone she knew. Someone very precious and dear to her. Someone she couldn't bear to see harmed...

Pulled awake by the feeling of helplessness, Maggie Youngson stared into the darkness of her bedroom. Was her recurring dream a subconscious effort to reenact her late husband's accident? Or did it have a broader, more subtle meaning. Her psychology professor might interpret it as symbolic of her feelings of inability to protect a loved one. Who?

Her deceased parents? Her late husband?...Jenny?

Maggie flung back the covers and slid her feet off the side of the bed. Then she remembered her five-year-old daughter was spending the night with her Auntie Claire.

She sank back onto the pillow and glanced at the digital readout on her bedside clock. Two more hours before she could carry out her mission. Her heartbeat accelerated, aftereffects of the nightmare or prospects of her unknown future. Maybe both.

It was a cinch she wasn't going to get any more rest at this rate, and she was going to need all the energy she could muster for what she had to do. She flipped onto her side and stared at the telephone. A voice inside her urged, "Call him."

With shaking hands, she reached for the receiver and punched in the number she'd committed to memory.

"Hello...Hello," said the deep voice at the other end of the line.

She couldn't blame him for being angry. It was a rotten thing to do, waking him in the middle of the night just so she could hear his voice, a voice that brought her a feeling of peace and tranquility. But it was the only way she could go back to sleep and not be revisited with the awful dream. At least, it had worked all the other times she'd tried it.

* * *

Parker Wilson stared at the receiver for a moment then hung up. He should get caller ID, he thought, so he could catch the joker who kept disturbing his rest. Not that he'd slept much in the months since his accident, anyway. In the early morning hours his leg muscles tended to knot up.

He sat on the side of his bed, nursed his head with one hand and massaged the tight muscles in his left thigh with the other. He didn't know which was worse, the cramping in his injured leg or the steady pounding in his head.

Stiffly, he lifted himself off the mattress. Unless he got up and exercised the leg, he'd get no relief from the persistent cramping. He glanced into the dresser mirror opposite the bed and decided a little exercise couldn't hurt the extra weight around the midsection he'd picked up lately, either.

He might have to give up the beer. At the moment, that didn't seem like much of a sacrifice. The weight inside his head started bouncing around, a steady reminder of how foolish his overindulgence the night before had been.

It seemed all the booze in the world couldn't keep him out for more than four or five hours at a time. He should know he'd spent lots of time in the past several months either thinking or drinking.

He snatched a pair of sweatpants and T-shirt with ATF printed across the back from the bureau drawer, pulled them on and limped his way down the narrow hallway of what he now called home.

It wasn't much, a twelve-by-forty house trailer provided for the groundskeeper. He was the groundskeeper and general do-flunky at Wilson's Nursery and Landscaping at the moment. Not that he did much in the way of maintenance around the place, but his father seemed to think it important Parker have some sort of title.

He knew Grady used the poor-me-I-need-help routine to get him off the thinking-drinking cycle, but Parker had already figured out he didn't want to make a career out of the horticultural business. His constitution wouldn't allow him to be a full-time drunk either.

And with a bum leg, he wouldn't be going back to his old job with the Division of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms anytime soon. Maybe never. The near death experience he'd suffered on his last assignment had left him a crippled old man, a hollow shell of the robust figured he'd been a year ago.

The doctors told him to take it easy after leaving the hospital. He supposed he'd taken that sage advice too literally and for too long. He'd spent most of his waking hours sitting around eating junk food and sipping beer until his father barged into his domain over a week ago and demanded Parker get off his lazy duff and help him out. Seems the idle life of groundskeeper Parker had been handling was no longer enough for his father anymore. "We're overwhelmed with holiday orders," he'd said. "Shawn and some of the workers are out with the flu, and you can sit on your butt and pot plants, if nothing else."

Guilt more than his father's demands pulled Parker off the couch and into the workforce. Shawn usually managed things for Parker's father. Funny how long his brother-in-law's bout of flu had lasted. Almost two weeks had gone by and still Shawn hadn't shown any signs of improvement.

In spite of his suspicions there might be a conspiracy going on in his family, Parker had been doing a whole lot more than potting plants. He'd worked long hours to help keep things running on an even keel until his brother-in-law could get back on his feet.

Parker finger-combed his dark hair and dug the coffee carafe out of the pile of dirty dishes in the sink. After getting the coffee pot going and downing two aspirins, he stepped outside into the crisp morning air. He would work out the kinks and aches in his body by walking one turn around the grounds before daybreak. It was a routine he'd only recently begun, and one he found invigorating.

He took his time this morning, thinking about how he was going to break the news to his father that he wasn't going to work at the nursery much longer. Cass had been the one who'd pushed him into making plans, tentative as they may be, for his future. After he'd moved into the trailer to gain some privacy from his bullying family--a useless move, apparently--she'd barged in and presented him with an application for a private investigator's license.

Being the efficient, pushy broad she was, Cassandra had it all filled out and ready to sign. How did you say no to a sister who bugged the hell out of you until you relented and gave her what she wanted? He smiled, remembering he'd managed to sidestep her yesterday when she'd tried to set him up with a phony case. She was appeased somewhat when he explained he was already working on another case, a slight stretch, but the job was in the works, anyway.

The downside of the whole PI thing: His father wasn't going to take his new career choice well.

Parker ambled between several rows of potted plants that covered the back twenty acres of Wilson's Nursery and up-righted some pots that had been knocked over by the wind. His father had built the nursery from scratch, and it was one of the biggest and best horticulture businesses in the state of Florida.

Parker hoped he would be half as successful in his new venture. Finding a classic car--his very first case--that had been missing for the last ten years wasn't going to be easy. To make matters more mysterious, his client insisted on remaining anonymous, working with him through a former cohort of Parker's.

As he arrived back at the trailer, the whitish tint over the horizon gave a hint of the Florida sunshine the day would bring. He poured himself a cup of hot coffee and was sipping gingerly when the phone rang again.

This time a familiar female voice came on the line. "Parker, have you got your television on?"

"Cassandra Leanne? Do you know what time it is?"

"Why? Don't you have a clock?"

"Cute, Sis. Real cute. Did you call here a couple hours ago? If so, I don't appreciate your perverted sense of humor."

"You must be kidding. Get up in the middle of the night when Jamie's sleeping peacefully just to goad you? I wouldn't have called now, except I saw your lights on and figured you were up. I just saw something on the early news that I thought you should know about. Channel nine. Got to go now, Jamie's crying to be fed."

"Uh-huh. Shawn feeling any better?"

"Still a little feverish," she said.

Parker thought he heard his brother-in-law in the background emitting a muffled snort. "Feverish, my ass."

"Channel nine," Cass repeated and hung up.

Why was his sister being so insistent he turn the TV on at this ungodly hour? Christmas was coming up soon. She probably wanted him to see some advertisement or other for children's toys, since she'd often complained about the sort of presents he'd picked out for his nephew and niece in the past. What the heck was wrong with a pocket wrench and bottle of French perfume? Parker wondered. The kids loved it. A newborn baby might be a challenge though. He couldn't remember what he'd given the twins when they were that age.

He picked up the remote control and switched on the TV, flipping through the channels. Since he knew most of the lines from It's A Wonderful Life by heart, he'd lowered the volume to a crooning level last night, one not detrimental to nodding off on the couch should the beer do its job. He must have built up some sort of immunity to alcohol, because getting drunk enough to pass out was becoming more and more difficult.

Channel nine. Waiting for the next commercial, he watched the dour-faced newscaster's lips move as she pointed across a four-lane road to a familiar building. When Parker saw people exiting the front of the structure, he almost dropped his coffee cup.

The camera zoomed in on Maggie Youngson's face. Not the sweet, smiling face he remembered from two years ago, but the face of a frightened, disturbed young woman. Apparently Cass hadn't seen this part of the broadcast, or she'd have really been upset. The two women had become pretty tight after he'd departed for what turned out to be his final undercover assignment.

On camera, Maggie was being led from Star's Restaurant by a police officer. Parker fumbled with the volume control, turning it up so he could hear.

"Maggie Youngson apparently found the body of the restaurant owner, Starlene Davis, early this morning," the anchorwoman said. "Details are unavailable at this time, but a spokesman for the police department said the death is suspicious. He said Mrs. Youngson is being taken in for questioning. It's unclear why she was in the restaurant at such an early hour..."

"She worked there, you nitwits." Parker pushed the off button on the TV and slammed his cup down on the kitchen counter. He ran his fingers through his hair as he paced the small floor space. Maybe Cass hadn't been trying to set him up with a fake case after all.

Why would they take Maggie downtown to question her unless they suspected her of the crime? How much of what Cass told him yesterday in the nursery had been true? Moreover, how many other people knew about the alleged affair between Maggie's late husband and Starlene Davis?

"Damn, damn, damn." He rubbed the back of his neck and his fingers came in contact with the patch of tender skin, scar tissue that was a constant reminder of his failures. He jerked off the T-shirt and went in search of something more concealing. He found a black turtleneck and pulled it on, exchanged the sweatpants for a pair of faded blue jeans, then rushed back to the kitchen when the phone rang again.

Knowing who his caller would be this time, he lifted the receiver and said, "I'm on it."

"You'd better be!" His sister's demand quavered with worry.

"Cass," he said before she could hang up, "that thing about Maggie's husband and Starlene Davis...that wasn't just made up for my benefit, was it?"

"For heaven's sake, is that why you refused to take her case?" Her tone softened, "Parker, you've got to stop seeing subterfuge in everything that comes your way via family. Maggie's my best friend, but you should know you'd be the last person in the world she'd ask for help if I hadn't browbeat her into it. Now go get her out of this mess and I'll forgive you," she ordered, then hung up.

Parker jerked open the end kitchen drawer and took out the brand new PI license and identification badge. His sister was good at browbeating people, including him.

He eyed the Beretta and hesitated. Maggie hated guns, he remembered.

A weapon might not be needed in his new profession, but he'd carried for so long, he would feel naked without one. He picked up the automatic and checked the clip. He'd have to leave it in the truck, anyway. It wouldn't be allowed past the metal detection gates at police headquarters.

Shoving the drawer closed, he grabbed his truck keys off the counter.

He didn't like the idea of working for Maggie, but it seemed inevitable now.

* * *

With a visitor's badge and familiarity, Parker worked his way through the maze of officers and desks. He glanced over the arrestees being processed. Maggie wasn't among them, which was a relief. At least they hadn't charged her with anything...yet. He spotted her brother-in-law pacing a nearby waiting area.

"Parker," Ryce Knight called as he approached. "I'm glad you're here. They won't let me see Maggie. I convinced Claire to stay home with Jenny, but if I don't have something to report to her soon, she's liable to come down here. I don't want her getting overwrought about this, Parker. Claire's pregnant, you know."

Ryce drew his shoulders back proudly as if he'd invented the fertilization procedure himself. Parker figured the only thing that kept the man from grinning ear to ear was anxiety over his sister-in-law's current situation.

He pushed back the sudden rush of envy. "Congratulations."

They had known each other for a few years, but Parker's assignments had created time and distance that kept him from sharing a closer relationship with Knight. He thought he knew where he could find Maggie and said, "Go home and tell Claire to hold tight. I'll get her sister out of here as soon as possible."

Ryce's drawn expression eased, and they shook hands. "Thanks, Parker."

"Don't mention it. Jenny doesn't know what's going on, does she?" Parker hoped not. Maggie's five-year-old daughter was too young to understand what was happening, but old enough to realize it was bad.

"Maggie came in last evening, and Jenny was already asleep in our spare bedroom, so I talked her into letting her spend the night. When she didn't come get Jenny this morning, Claire told her that her mother was called in to work unexpectedly."

"Good. I'll have her home in no time." Nothing like making rash promises your first day on the job, he thought.

He glanced into the office of the captain of the violent crimes division. It was empty. There was only one other place Maggie might be. He made his way toward the rear of the building.

"Come in," the man in the dimly lit room said when Parker tapped lightly and cracked open the door.

He stepped quietly into the observation room, nodding a hello to the officer who'd cooperated with him in the past on investigations of mutual interest. Captain Bigley stood before the plate glass that covered a large portion of one wall. He was around fifty, a big, brawny type of only fair intelligence, but tenacious. If he suspected Maggie of murder, he'd dog her until she broke.

Parker had been in the observation room on several occasions when he'd needed to ID criminals involved in cases of interest to ATF, but seeing Maggie on the other side of the one-way mirror caused a tightness in his gut he hadn't previously experienced.

She was alone in the room. Blond hair falling forward, her elbows on the table, she rested her head in her hands. Was she crying? God, he hoped not.

Would Maggie kill to protect someone she loved? The words sat on his tongue like pepper sauce too hot to swallow, but he was wise enough not to spit them out until he had all the facts. "What's the score?"

"With all Mrs. Youngson has told us so far," Bigley said, "we should probably book her for first degree murder."

"She wouldn't harm a fly," Parker said, unable to remain neutral, facts or not.

"Maybe." Captain Bigley's shiny pate swiveled. He was a couple of inches shorter than Parker, so he had to look up as he squinted and focused on him. "What's your interest in this case, Wilson?"

"She's a client."

"A client?" Bigley cocked one brow. In contrast to white fuzz bordering his head, his brows were dark and bushy.

Parker flipped open his wallet and flashed his brand new badge and ID.

Bigley leaned forward as if trying to focus, then croaked with disdain, "Christ, Wilson, I heard about your accident, but private investigator?"

"Gotta make a living."

The captain snorted. "You get disability insurance."

Parker knew PIs were only a notch above bounty hunters in most lawmen's eyes.

"If you'd checked with me, I might have found something for you in the department."

"Much obliged to you, Captain, but I'm not much good at pencil pushing." He might have gone back to ATF if that had been the case. In Parker's way of thinking, being tied to a desk job would be a worse fate than working in his father's nursery.

"We do everything on computers these days," the captain said snidely, then turned back toward the one-way glass when the officer in charge, followed by his partner, walked into the interrogation room with three Styrofoam cups of coffee.

Parker recognized the ranking detective. James Manning was a fish-faced man with a piranha attitude. As he sat one of the cups down in front of Maggie, he leaned unnecessarily close to her. Her nose twitched and Parker remembered the man's heavy-handed use of a musty scented cologne.

"Moldy Manning," the other officers called him behind his back.

His partner, a barrel-chested man with matching crew cut and gray three-piece suit was twice Manning's size, but kowtowed to him like a sheepdog to a shepherd.

"Start the tape, Everett," Manning ordered.

The younger detective fiddled with the tape recorder sitting in the middle of the table. After Everett recorded the date, time, and name of the subject being questioned, Manning took over.

"Now, let me restate what you told us so far, Maggie, and you can verify if it's correct or not. You said you were the last one to leave the restaurant last night?"

"I told you, I wanted to speak to Ms. Davis alone, but I didn't get a chance because she said she had another engagement."

"And you believed her and let it go at that?"

"I heard someone outside her office door, so I knew she was telling the truth."

"You can describe this person then."

"No, I never got a look at him...or her. Whoever it was ducked into the kitchen before I came out of her office. I left by way of the lobby, so I never saw who it was."

"I see. A clandestine affair." Manning rolled his eyes, something the recorder couldn't pick up and Maggie may have missed, but it was obvious to Parker the detective didn't believe a word she was saying.

"So, you said you'd found out about this affair...excuse me, alleged affair for the first time yesterday morning. Why didn't you confront Ms. Davis about it then?"

"I did, but she-she was on her way out and wouldn't discuss it with me at the time. I had an afternoon class at UCF, then the dinner shift to get through...." Maggie's words trailed off, as if she could see the incongruity of her statements. On the one hand she was very upset about what she'd learned, yet she didn't press the issue until much later that evening. It left plenty of time for premeditation. Parker suspected it was a point Manning wanted to make on record.

In the midst of her busy day, she'd found time to call her best friend and cry on her shoulder, yet didn't find time to track down Davis and press her for an explanation. He could just imagine where Manning would go with that information, and he hoped Maggie remained silent on the specifics of how she'd spent her day.

Thankfully, Manning seemed too enraptured by what he'd already written down, to try to extract new information. He flipped through several more note pages, then said, "Hmm, that's right, you're studying for.... Oh, yes, a degree in hotel/restaurant management. I guess keeping your job at Star's Restaurant was pretty important to you then."

"Not that important," Maggie said, weakly.

She should have a lawyer present, Parker thought, to keep her from digging her hole any deeper. Knowing Maggie she probably agreed to answer their questions without one, thinking she didn't have anything to hide. Little did she know how the most innocent of actions could often be interpreted the wrong way by a jaded officer of the law, or one too lazy to look for other suspects when a perfectly good one with motive was sitting before him. "I see, so you talked briefly with Ms. Davis around eleven," the detective continued, referring to his notes, "then drove straight home."

"No, I-I drove around a little first."

"Drove around? Kind of dangerous for a woman driving around alone at that time of the night, isn't it?"

"I didn't think about it at the time. I--"

"I know. You were upset because Starlene Davis confirmed your suspicions about her and your late husband."

When Maggie didn't answer, he flipped pages in his notepad again and switched gears. "You arrived at the restaurant around five a.m., to give notice you were quitting?"

"Yes, I didn't want to stay on, knowing--"

"Knowing, Maggie. A moment ago, you used the term alleged."

Maggie bit her lower lip. Instead of allowing Manning to bait her to anger, she remained quiet. Parker knew it wasn't a planned maneuver. Maggie never faced confrontation when it could be avoided. That was probably the reason she didn't pressure her employer for one the day before.

"So," Manning picked up where he'd left off, "you went to the restaurant around five-thirty, hoping to catch Miss Davis alone and give your notice. Instead, you found her hanging from the open beams in the front lobby and immediately called 911."

"That's correct." Maggie's voice was barely above a whisper.

"You're real pretty for a murderer, Maggie." Manning inhaled deeply as if sniffing her hair. His partner chuckled. Parker curled his fingers into tight fists. Detective Manning was the sort of person who made you want to rearrange his nose every time he opened his mouth. They'd had several run-ins over the years.

"I didn't kill her." Maggie sounded doleful and undisturbed by the backhanded compliment, which made Parker suspect it wasn't the first time this morning that Manning had made the allegation.

"Five o'clock, that's a rather odd hour to be at the restaurant, isn't it?" Manning's brow knitted together as if he were truly puzzled.

"Not so terribly early," Maggie said. "The breakfast crew comes in around five-thirty."

"But didn't you say..." Manning made a production out of searching his inside coat pocket. He took out a small notepad, flipped it open, and tapped the page. "Yes, you said you weren't scheduled to work this morning."

He pulled out the chair beside her and lifted one shiny tasseled loafer onto the seat. Propping an elbow on his knee, Manning leaned in close to her, practically breathing down her neck.

His cocky stance made it difficult for Maggie to look him in the eye without seeming to cower away from him. Parker knew Manning expected her to maintain her submissive posture. He silently applauded her decision to lift her gaze toward the mirror instead. Parker felt as if she were staring directly at him.

Back erect, face forward, she waited for Manning to catch her eye in the mirror before answering. Her blue eyes were clear as a summer sky. She wasn't crying, Parker noted with relief.

"I wasn't scheduled to work, but I had typed a new menu Star--Miss Davis wanted. She was anxious to get it printed up before the new chef came in on Monday. I couldn't sleep so I decided to take it to her this morning. I wanted to talk to her again, anyway."

"About the hanky-panky that went on between her and your late husband?"

"What she claimed went on," Maggie said defensively.

"I understand why you might have been hurt over such a revelation, Ms. Youngson," Detective Everett, said sympathetically.

"Hurt? You got angry as hell, didn't you?" Manning bellowed. They sounded like bad actors in a good cop, bad cop routine.

"I was a little upset, but--"

"A little upset," Manning mocked. "Upset enough to want Starlene Davis dead. You wanted her dead and you stood by and watched your accomplice get the deed done. You either seduced or hired..."

Manning went on to give a theoretical rendition of how Maggie and an unnamed accomplice killed her boss.

"What the hell is he talking about?" Parker asked.

"The victim," Captain Bigley explained, "was found hanging from a rope tied to the lobby chandelier. The stress marks on the neck seemed consistent with that of a natural hanging, and there was no evidence of the hands being tied. We'll have to wait for the autopsy to find out if the victim was drugged. At first, it looked like a typical suicide."

"What makes you think it wasn't?" Parker asked.

"The chair, supposedly used to stand on while putting the noose around her neck, is what gave it away. When stood upright, it was about three inches short of reaching the bottom of the victim's feet."

Parker wondered who'd been clever enough to check that little detail. Certainly not Manning. The captain confirmed his suspicions.

"The medical examiner and crime scene unit also made calculations of the weight and height of the victim at the scene. I think unless Mrs. Youngson is a lot stronger than she looks, she might have had a hard time strong-arming the larger woman into position, even if the victim were drugged."

"She wouldn't have stood by idly and watched someone else do it, either," Parker argued.

"I'm a little dubious as well," Bigley said, "but Detective Manning--"

"To hell with Manning. Is she under arrest?"

"Well, except for a possible motive, which, at the moment, we don't know--"

Parker snatched open the connecting door to the interrogation room. The look of relief on Maggie's face tempted him to pick her up and carry her out in his arms. Instead he gestured over his shoulder and barked out, "Let's go, Maggie."

"What? The hell you say," Manning sputtered and dropped his foot off the chair. His gaze slid to his captain following Parker into the room. "She's not going anywhere just yet."

"Either you book her, or I'm taking my client out of here. She's not answering any more questions without a lawyer present."

"She waived her rights to a lawyer," Manning fumed.

"Well, I'm un-waiving them." Parker took her by the arm and practically lifted her up from the chair. All the way down the corridor to the outer offices, he heard Manning protesting Maggie's leaving to his superior officer.

* * *

"You can let go of my arm now, Parker," Maggie said as she stumbled down the last step at the front of the police department.

"Sorry." Parker released her arm, and she suddenly missed his touch and wished she hadn't complained. With measured steps he strolled over to the street crossing.

Maggie cast a discreet look over his backside. For some reason she had an uncanny desire to check out Parker's physique. Probably because she hadn't had a good look at him since before his accident.

When the interrogation room door had burst open, a medieval warrior stepping out of some time warp couldn't have surprised her more. In fact, Parker sometimes reminded her of some of the medieval warriors she'd read about in romance stories. He'd had that same feral gleam in his eyes when he took up her defense. His tight black jeans and black turtleneck added ambiance to his dashing and dangerous appearance.

He hadn't changed much in two years. The grooves that crisscrossed his brows, the dark circles under his eyes, and the specks of gray beginning to show around his temples weren't there before. But, they in no way detracted from his rugged good looks. Still six feet of sinewy strength and raw sensuality. He seemed a little thicker through the shoulders and waist, but it only made him appear more powerful. And except for the slight limp, one would never guess he'd been injured.

"I'm parked across the street," he said, when she lingered near the steps. After she caught up, the light changed and they walked side by side toward the parking lot beneath Interstate 4. She noted that he moved away when her arm brushed against his.

"I really appreciate what you did back there," she said.

"You're not out of the woods yet," he responded gruffly.

"You don't believe I killed Starlene, do you?" Maggie held her breath for his answer.

"I know you didn't kill her, but considering you had a good motive, it may be difficult to convince the police otherwise."

She got a whiff of his clean scent as he reached around her and wrenched open the passenger door of his pickup. The combination of light sandalwood and Parker's unique manly essence was much more pleasant than the odor left in Detective Manning's wake. For some reason the man reeked of a fish-like essence. "They can't prove something that isn't true."

"Haven't you ever heard of miscarriage of justice? It happens all the time."

Cass had talked to Parker about investigating the alleged affair between Starlene and her late husband. She said he'd flat out refused. To everyone else it might seem irrelevant since Starlene and Sam were both dead, but what woman could rest easy with the image of her husband making love to another woman? "You said I was your client, Parker. Does that mean you've changed your mind about taking my case?"

"Your husband's dead, Maggie. So is his lover--"

"Alleged lover," she corrected. If she didn't know Parker better, she might have mistaken a faint spark of jealousy in his dark brown eyes.

"Explosives are my specialty, not sifting through a dead man's dirty laundry."

She winced, but she wasn't going to be deterred by his poor attitude. This was too important to her. "I'll help you," she said and slid into the passenger seat.

She thought he said, "God forbid," as he slammed the door.

Maggie felt reasonably satisfied that Parker had agreed to take her case and wouldn't go back on his word, even if he did find the job distasteful. He was right though. She wasn't out of the woods as far as her employer's murder went. Who else had a stronger motive?

Parker got behind the steering wheel and, as if reading her thoughts, asked, "Can you think of anyone who would have had a reason to want your boss dead?"

She could think of several who didn't particularly like Starlene, but enough to kill her? "No one that I know of."

He turned the key in the ignition and shot her an honest to goodness smile as he backed out of the parking space. Her heart did a quick somersault. His sense of humor, however, seemed a long way from being restored to what she'd gotten accustomed to a couple of years ago. His injuries seemed to go a good deal deeper than just a hurt limb.

"We both know you didn't do it," he said, "so there must be someone else."

"Thanks, Parker," she said softly.

He just grunted again and drove up the entrance ramp into Interstate 4 traffic.

"What makes you so sure I didn't do it?"

"It's only logical. You don't have the stamina necessary to hang someone twice your size from an overhead beam."

So his decision stemmed from a logical conclusion rather than faith in her. "I could have hired someone like the detective said."

"How much money do you have?"

"Money?" Maggie wondered if he was worried about his fee. "I'll pay for your services." Someday, somehow, she added silently.

He snorted. "I'm happy to hear it. However, it takes a lot more than a pretty smile to buy a hit man. And I don't think there are many in the business who work on credit."

Another logical deduction. His clear, concise way of sifting though information was why she'd had faith in his ability to help her in the first place. She ignored his surly remark, and secretly hoped her smile would be enough for Parker, for without a job, her credit wouldn't be much good.

Look for Love, Lies and Legacies by Irene Estep in April 2008, available from www.awe-struck.net : Read Reviews

A Regency Romance

Excerpt from Calamity Claresta:

CHAPTER ONE

No stranger to adversity and scandal, Miss Claresta Huntington knew a marriage of convenience--the sort she’d decided to pursue--would involve both. But with only two months to fulfill her obligations, what choice did she have?

“I must find a husband, Nan.”

The robust housekeeper snorted, as was her penchant to do more often than not when expressing disapproval. She pounded life back into the feather pillow Claresta had slept on and said, “'Tis a pity you can't see fit to go about acquiring one in the traditional fashion.”

“Yes, it is a pity,” Claresta mumbled. Sometimes her housekeeper’s honesty took on the form of impertinence.

While her dresser, Lizette, twisted her strawberry blonde hair into a coronet about her head, Claresta contemplated how to go about her mission. For certain she could not go into the dockside taverns alone. She would need Nan to accompany her to find a ne’er-do-well suitable for her purposes. But to get the woman to go along with the plan, Claresta first had to convince her of the necessity to take such a drastic measure. Over the years, she had come to rely on Nan for advice. She was more than a servant. She was family--a distant country cousin on her mother’s side, but still family. Nan wasn’t required to perform the duties of housekeeper, but she insisted she must earn her keep. Since the age of seven, Claresta had had no other mother figure to turn to.

“I have to do what is necessary to keep my inheritance. And, even you must admit that marrying up to salvage my tarnished reputation is no longer a possibility.”

“What of your cousin, Lord Westhaven?” Nan asked as she smoothed down the linen pillowcase.

“That toad-eating imbecile! At Vauxhall the other evening, he called me a sorceress.”

To the first Nan could find no argument, to the latter she said, “Uh-huh.”

“I tell you, he fell into that fountain on his own. I never laid a finger on him.”

Nan lifted her nose as if to emit another disapproving sound. Instead, she said, “Well, you are not to be faulted for having clumsy suitors. Young bucks these days fall into fountains, stumble down stairs, and overturn carriages all the time.” Nan tsked. “And, who could have known Lady Chelsworth’s brother had a bad heart?”

“Enough, Nan.” Claresta didn't like to remember the elderly gentleman's head plopping like a stone into his bowl of soup at Garraway's. She had been able to overlook the unlucky events that had squelched her other marriageable prospects, but none had ended with such finality as that of Sir Pedigrew.

“Well, 'tis none of it your fault,” Nan insisted. “If not for the Morning Post quoting Sir Pedigrew's sister when she called you Calamity Claresta--”

“I said enough, Nan. Now, are you going to help me carry out my scheme to find a husband or not? Edwin said if I caught the lot before they became too deep in their cups, I may find one man in a dozen worth a farthing.”

“I cannot believe your cousin would encourage one of your antics,” Nan mumbled. “He always seemed so much more dependable and levelheaded than his brother.”

Edwin had given her information on the best time of the day to catch a quarry only after she had made it clear she was determined go through with her scheme, with or without anyone’s help. To point out her younger cousin’s better qualities in comparison to that of Lord Westhaven’s would be easy as comparing daylight to dark.

However, if she went off on a tangent of defending Edwin they could be here all day. She signaled the maid to quit fussing over the few strands of her hair that defied confinement and said, “Lay out the yellow gown, Lizette, and then you may go for now.”

After Lizette closed the door behind her, Nan picked up the yellow frock and exchanged it for a gray crepe from the wardrobe.  Then, no doubt, she hoped a guilty conscience would work where disapproval had not. “Mr. Huntington, god rest his weary soul, would not have been pleased by what you’re thinking to do.”

Claresta lifted herself from the dresser chair in a towering passion. “If not for my dear papa's final decree, I should not be in need of a husband to begin with!”                                         

* * *

 Drake Lockwood walked unsteadily down the gangplank. As he stepped onto the London wharf, he was fairly tempted to drop on his shaking knees and kiss the firm, unmoving structure.  He was thankful the crisp morning air kept the combined odors of spices and gutted fish to a bare minimum.

The red-bearded captain of the Black Eagle, walking beside him, chuckled. “Aye, that greenish tint ye've been sporting since we left America is beginning to wan a mite.”

Drake grunted. Just because he was major stockholder in a shipping company didn't mean he liked sailing. He was a land lover at heart in more ways than one. This would be the first time since his father passed away ten years ago that he wouldn't be around to oversee spring planting at Oakcrest.

“Are you sure you want to be settling on English soil permanently, your lordship?”

Drake gave the barrel-chested captain a scathing look. “I've asked you at least a dozen times, Captain Mercer, not to call me that.”

“Aye, but as the new Earl of Norwood, it’s a title you best get used to, my lord.” Mercer emphasized the title and smiled broadly. “You’ll like as not be addressed as Lord Norwood by these English noddies.”

Drake made no comment to this. Egard for his title had already been made evident to him from his own family. Ever since Druscilla learned of his entitlement, she'd had her heart set on snaring a member of the peerage for her only daughter. Not that he minded much. It was time he repaid his stepmother for her many kindness’ to him over the years. He doubted it would take much more than a season to marry Franny off, anyway. His half-sister was almost as pretty as her mother.

 “I'll look over the Norwood holdings and see what is what before deciding whether to stay on here for good. In any event, by the time the Season ends, Mitch will have reached his majority. I'll need to return to Oakcrest then and tidy up the accounts with him.”

Already he missed the clean scent of freshly plowed ground. It was hard to remember sometimes that Oakcrest belonged to his younger bother. Drake had no little resentment toward his dead father because of it, either.

Lord Norwood. He tumbled the title around in his mind. Mercer was right; he'd have to become accustomed to being addressed in such a manner. As for respect, he'd worked long and hard for that back home. Being a member of the peerage should make things easier here. When his father was alive, he’d made sure nothing came easy to his eldest son.

Drake shook the sudden reminder of his father's hatred from his mind. He thought instead of the vast lands of his own he would soon possess. As he understood it there were over ten thousand acres at Norwood Manor. That was three times the size of Oakcrest. If a thing were possible, Quentin Lockwood would suffer apoplexy from his grave if he knew all Drake had inherited as his descendent.

“Let's hope it is a long Season, yer lordship.” Mercer's eyes twinkled with mischief. “I don't expect your constitution will take another voyage too soon.”

 Inclined to agree, but reluctant to admit his weakness, Drake kept his counsel. He still felt a bit feeble from his continual bout of mal de mer while on the high seas. Making the return trip wasn't something he wanted to dwell on at the moment.

“Well, go on with you now,” Captain Mercer said. “I'll see your trunks get delivered to the Clarendon. I'll be shoving off to Oporto within the hour to pick up them casks of wine you ordered. Should be back here in about a week for that batch of chamomile you insisted I haggle from that green-eared agent this morn'.”

Mercer shook his head. “Can't see as why you'd want to invest in such a missish drink myself. Course, that sample you was carrying around did seem to work wonders on your stomach, didn't it now?”

Drake remained silent, not willing to be baited by the captain's teasing. Instead, he directed his attention toward a street urchin who looked to be no older than six or seven running toward them. Drake withdrew a coin from his waistcoat.

Mercer followed his line of vision and cautioned, “Remember what I told you. London's full of beggars and misfits. You cannot be a bleeding heart for every single one of 'em.”

“Don't worry, Captain. Druscilla made out a whole list of do's and don'ts and I'm sure that charity is listed on the don't side.” Not that he intended to follow every one of his stepmother's suggestions.

 Drake was well known back home for being soft for a sad tale. Ignoring the poor had been the only form of social propriety he'd never understood, or adhered to. And rarely had he regretted helping those in unfortunate circumstance through no fault of their own, especially children.

His stepmother’s list crinkled when Drake patted his right pocket. He also checked his other pocket to assure himself he'd not left the packet of important paperwork behind. He'd need the money draft from his American bank and the introduction to the London solicitor handling the transfer of the Norwood titles and estates inherited from a great-uncle. He’d never known of the late Earl of Norwood since his father had never spoken of his English relatives.

The urchin approached with his hand extended. He wore a threadbare frieze coat, knee breeches, and hole-riddled stockings that left most of his legs exposed to the elements. “Spare a sixpence for a loaf o' bread, gov'ner?” 

Drake's stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't kept down a solid meal in several days. He held a coin just out of the boy's eager reach. “How would you like the chance to earn this, young fellow?”

“Earn?” The ragamuffin glanced at the coin, and his brows beetled into a dubious expression.

Drake thought the poor lad must never have been given the opportunity to work for his keep. “Nothing too strenuous, mind you. Just direct me to a nearby inn. If the place is clean and serves decent fare, there could be another shilling in it for you.”

 The captain cleared his throat. “Lord Norwood, I think you’ll find the food at the Clarendon much more to your liking.”

“Nonsense, Captain. Surely a local would know the best place to breakfast.”  Drake looked around at the fog that, in spite of dawn being more than an hour past, still hung low over the dock area. He didn’t know how far it was to the hotel. And traveling in this thick stew would be slow going at best. “Besides, I need nourishment now.”

A crooked smile split the boy's dirty face. He cast a smug look toward the captain, then boasted loudly, “The Boar Bristle’s the best feed around, yer lordship. I'll take ye there meself.”

“What's your name, lad?” Drake asked.

“Charlie--er, Charles Farrell, m'lord.”

Drake handed over the coin, and the boy bit on it to make sure it was genuine. Then his eyes followed Drake’s hands as he carefully replaced his money pouch inside his left coat pocket.

“You said you would see to my bags, Captain?” Drake asked.

“Aye.” Mercer gave the dock-waif a sidelong glance and endeavored to warn Lord Norwood again. “But do be careful, sir.”

“I'm sure I'm in good hands, Captain Mercer.” Drake winked at the boy. “Very well, Charles Farrell. Lead on.”

 When they arrived at the Boar Bristle Inn, Drake flipped the other coin to the boy. Charlie grabbed it deftly out of mid-air and tested its authenticity as he had the first coin. After shoving the money into his pocket, the boy sniffed the air filled with the scent of fresh baked bread and rubbed his stomach. The child looked more emaciated than Drake did now in his loose fitting cloths. He had lost several pounds during the lengthy sea voyage. “I never did care for dining alone, Charles. I wonder if you'd like to join me?”

“Blimey, if I wouldna, gov'ner, er, ye lordship.” The boy's eyes sparkled, and then he looked downcast and struck his foot against the cobblestones. “But don't rightly see as how I can accept yer kind offer. Not wid me own dear sister going nigh on two days wid nary a bite.”

Drake chuckled. The little urchin was a veritable flimflammer. It reminded him of the days before Druscilla married his father and took him in hand. Feeding two scrawny children would be no strain on his purse. “Fetch her along then and be quick about it.” 

While Drake waited, he contemplated the choices the buxom barmaid rattled off to him in a singsong voice. He ordered a tankard of ale and said he'd wait until his friends joined him.

 As the barmaid placed the tankard in front of him, the door to the inn swung open. The malnourished little girl he'd expected turned out to be a dark headed young miss nearer his sister's age. She stepped cautiously into the room behind Charlie and searched every corner of the room until her eyes landed on Drake, and then she lowered her lashes.

He’d seen courtesans use more subtlety. As the girl moved saucily toward him, he barely held back a chuckle. The child looked more entertaining than provocative.

He stood and waited for the pair to join him. As the young woman came closer, he noticed--with the exception of a few red blotches here and there--her skin held a jaundiced pallor. Obviously, she was recovering from some sort of illness, and he feared his generosity might prove to be as foolhardy as Mercer had hinted.

“This is me sister, Juny,” Charlie said.

“Juny, I’m pleased you could join us.” Drake bowed politely, and the girl’s eyes widened in surprise. He couldn’t help but note the frailty of her body beneath the worn blue dress and knew he did not have the heart to turn them away.

“Pleased to make your acquaintanceship, m’lord.” No gentleman ever did the pretty for Juny. She curtsied in return and attempted another seductive smile as she slid onto the bench beside her brother.

The barmaid backed up a step or two as if she feared whatever ailed the girl might be catching. Drake overcame a similar inclination and took his seat on the opposite side of the table.

 “We'll start with a bowl of porridge and some of that delicious smelling bread,” Drake told the barmaid, sensing the pale thing across from him couldn't handle anything heavier at first.

“Porridge?” Charlie sniffed.

Drake chuckled. He’d forgotten the amount of vittles a boy of Charlie’s age could manage. “Perhaps a rasher of ham and some eggs, also, for my young friend here.”

Charlie beamed with approval. Juny placed her hand suggestively over his lordship’s, then imitated the speech of the fine ladies she'd seen coming from the opera houses late at night. “Thank you, yore lordship.”

Drake smiled ruefully and slid his hand from beneath the girl’s. He gave her a fatherly pat. At first, she looked aghast, then her eyes narrowed. “What will you be wanting in return for this fine breakfast, sir?”

Just then, the barmaid came back with their meal. She sat the girl's bowl down next to Drake's, leaving it to him to slide the steaming concoction in front of Juny. It saddened him to see so much suspicion reflected in her young eyes over such a small kindness. “You can repay me by not letting your food go to waste, young lady. Now eat up and don't fritter away your time asking silly questions.”

 At that, a wide sparkling smile more befitting her age lit up Juny's face. Once again Drake was reminded of his little sister. Except on the few occasions when Franny was in a sulk for not getting her way, she bubbled with happiness. Thankfully, his little sister had never had to go without food or anything else her heart desired.

“You really are a bloomin' gentleman, ain't you?” the girl said, dropping her restrained dialect.

“Did I not tell ye it was so?” Charlie piped around a mouthful of eggs.

After that the two sprites dug into their food with gusto. Apparently the girl's constitution wasn't as delicate as Drake thought. The porridge had quite satisfied his appetite for the moment, but after the girl downed hers, she ate half the rasher of ham, over Charlie's virulent objections.

Drake felt another tug of homesickness as he remembered his own siblings’ frequent quarreling. He settled the argument by ordering another helping, plus more eggs, bread and two tankards of ale to wash it down. All of this the brother and sister gulped as if they'd never had food before.

He was pleased to note the girl's coloring had taken on a much healthier glow by the time she wiped her plate with the last crumb of bread. Then Juny sat staring moon-eyed at Lord Norwood until Charlie kicked her shin beneath the table.

“Ouch!”

“Well, 'tis best we be on our way, right, Juny?”

 Drake puzzled over the beseeching look she gave her brother, but anxious to be about his own business, he pushed back his bench and stood. Bowing graciously, he said, “It was an honor dining in such pleasant company.”

Unexpectedly, Juny threw her arms around Lord Norwood and gave him a fierce hug. He felt uncomfortable by the display of appreciation but could do little but bear it. With a feeble grunt, he acknowledged her “thank you” and patted the girl on the back until she