Shakespeare's Christmas (Lily Bard #3)

He whispered my name in my ear. I smoothed his hair, tangled and loose, back from his face. I ran my fingers over the stubble on his chin. There were words in my mouth that I would not say. I clamped my teeth over them and continued to touch him. That stupid, fragile, ludicrous swelling in my chest had to remain contained.

His hands were occupied, too, and after a few minutes we made love again, not as frantically. There was nothing I wanted so much as to stay in that sorry motel bed, as long as Jack was in it.

I was dressing (again) after another quick shower. "What are you going to do next?" I asked, hearing the reluctance in my voice.

"Find out which of the little girls had seen Dr. LeMay recently."

"I figured that had something to do with it. After all, the homeless man was in jail when Meredith Osborn was killed."

"She wasn't beaten like the doctor and his nurse." Jack had been brushing his hair back into its ponytail. Now he gave me a curious look. He was wearing a long-sleeved polo shirt striped rust and brown, and the scar that ran down his cheek to his jaw seemed whiter in contrast. He ran a belt through the loops on his khakis. "Might have been a different killer."

"Umhum," I said skeptically. "All of a sudden, Bartley is full of brutal murders. And you're trying to find a missing child. This is just coincidence."

He gave me the look that I'd learned meant he was up to something: It was a sideways look, a quick flash of the eyes, to gauge my mood.

"The homeless man's name is Christopher Darby Sims."

"OK, I'll bite. How'd you know that?"

"I have a connection here at the police department."

I wondered uneasily if this was one of those good ole boy things, or if Jack meant he'd bribed a cop. Or perhaps both.

"So, can this connection look through the doctor's records?"

"I can't ask that much. I'm feeling my way. Are you still squeamish about frogs?" Jack asked, a little smile turning up the corners of his mouth.

"Chandler McAdoo."

Jack lifted a corner of the curtain, peered out at the bleak day and the depressing motel court. "I stopped by the police station yesterday. Once I mentioned your name and hinted pretty strongly that we were tight, Chandler began to talk to me. He's given me some fascinating stories about your teen years." He tried not to grin too broadly.

As long as Chandler hadn't told him about the later years. "I can't even remember what I was like then," I said. And I was speaking the literal truth. "I can remember some of the things we got up to," I said, smiling a little, tentatively. "But I can't for the life of me recall what I felt. Too much water under the bridge, I guess." It was like I could see a silent movie of my life without hearing sound or feeling emotion. I shrugged. What was gone, was gone.

"I'm memorizing some stories," Jack warned me. "And when you least expect it..."

I tightened my shoelaces, still smiling, and kissed Jack good-bye. "Call me when you know something or want me to do something," I told him. I felt the smile slide right off my mouth. "I want this over."

Jack nodded. "I do, too," he said, his voice even. "And then I never want to see Teresa and Simon Macklesby again."

I looked up at him, reading his face. I touched his cheek with my fingers. "You can do this," I said.

"Yeah, I should be able to," he told me, his voice bleak and empty.

"What's your program for the morning?" I asked.

"I'm helping Dill put a floor in his attic."

"What?"

"I just happened to be in the pharmacy yesterday afternoon and we were talking, and he told me that was what he was going to be doing this morning, no matter how cold it was. He wanted to get the job finished before the wedding. So I said I didn't have anything to do since you were wrapped up in wedding plans, and I'd be glad to lend him a hand."

"And ask him a few questions while you're at it?"

"Possibly." Jack smiled at me, that charming smile that coaxed so much information out of citizens.

I drove home, trying to think my way through a maze.

My family was up, Varena shaky but much better. They'd had a conference while I was gone and made up their minds to go through with the wedding no matter what. I was glad I'd missed that one, glad the decision had been made without me. If Varena had postponed her wedding, it would have made the time frame easier, but I had a concern I hadn't shared with Jack.

I was afraid - if the murderer of Dr. LeMay, Mrs. Armstrong, and Meredith Osborn was the same person - that this criminal was getting frantic. And a person frantically trying to conceal a crime was likely to kill the strongest link between him and the crime.

In this case, that would be Summer Dawn Macklesby.

On one level, it didn't seem likely that whoever'd gone to such extreme lengths to conceal the original crime - the abduction - would even consider killing the girl. But on another level, it seemed obvious, even likely.

I knew nothing that could help solve this crime. What did I know how to do? I knew how to clean and how to fight.

I also knew where people were most likely to hide things. Cleaning had certainly taught me that. Objects could be mislaid anywhere (though I had a mental list of places I checked first, when employers asked me to keep my eyes open for some missing item) but hidden... that was a different matter.

So? I asked myself sarcastically. How was that going to help?

"Could you, sweetheart?" my mother was saying.

"What?" I asked, my voice sharp and quick. She'd startled me.

"I'm sorry," my mother said, her voice making it clear I should be saying that to her. "I asked if you would mind going over to Varena's place and finishing her packing?"

I wasn't sure why I was being asked to do this. Was Varena too scared to be there by herself? And it wasn't supposed to bother me? But maybe I'd been woolgathering while they'd spelled it out.

Varena certainly looked as if she needed sleep and a holiday. And this, right before the happiest time of her life.

"Of course," I said. "What about the wedding dress?"

"Oh, my heavens!" Mother exclaimed. "We've got to get that out right away!" Mother's pale face flushed. Somehow, the wedding dress was at risk in that apartment. Galvanized by this sudden urgency, Mother shooed me into my car and bundled herself up in record time.

She followed me over to Varena's and took the dress home personally, carrying it from the cottage to the car as though it were the crown and scepter of royalty.

I was left alone in Varena's place, an oddly unsettling feeling. It was like surreptitiously going through her drawers. I shrugged. I was here to do a job. That thought was very normal, very steadying, after all we'd seen lately.

I counted boxes, moved the ones already full out to my car trunk after labeling them with Varena's black marker. "Martha Stewart, that's me," I muttered and folded out the flaps on another box, placing it by the nearest closet. This was a little double closet with sliding doors in Varena's tiny hall. It held only a few linens and towels. I guessed Varena had already moved the others.

Just as I'd picked up the first handful, trying to restrain myself from shaking the sheets out and refolding them, there was a knock on the door. I looked through Varena's peephole. The knocker was a blond man, small, fair, with red-rimmed blue eyes. He looked mild and sad. I was sure I knew who it was.

"Emory Osborn," he said, when I opened the door. I shook his hand. His was that soft boneless handshake some men give a woman, as though they're scared if they squeeze with all their masculine power they'll break her delicate fingers. It felt like shaking hands with the Pillsbury Dough Boy. This was something Jess O'Shea and Emory Osborn had in common.

"Come in," I said. After all, he owned the cottage.

Emory Osborn stepped over the threshold. The widower was maybe 5' 7", not much taller than I. He was very fair and blue-eyed, handsome on a small scale, and he had the most flawless skin I'd ever seen on a man. Right at the moment, it was pink from the cold.

"I'm sorry for your loss," I told him.

He looked directly at me then. "You were here in the cottage last night?"

"Yes, I was."

"You saw her?"

"Yes."

"She was alive."

I shifted uneasily. "Yes," I told him reluctantly.

"Did she speak?"

"She asked after the children."

"The children?"

"That's all."

His eyes closed, and for one awful moment I thought he was going to cry.

"Have a seat," I said abruptly. I startled him into sitting down in the nearest chair, an armchair that must be Varena's favorite from the way she'd positioned it.

"Let me get you some hot chocolate." I went into the kitchen without waiting for an answer. I knew there would be some since Varena'd offered it to me the night before. There it was, on the counter where she'd set it, along with two mugs. Luckily, the microwave was built-in, so I was able to heat the water in it. I stirred in the powder. It wasn't very good, but it was hot and sweet, and he looked in need of both sugar and warmth.

"Where are the children?" I asked as I put his mug on the small oak table by the chair.

" They're with church members," he said. His voice was rich but not big.

"So, what can I do for you?" It didn't seem that he would say anything else unless I prompted him.

"I wanted to see where she died."

This was very nearly intolerable. "There, on the couch," I said brusquely.

He stared. "There aren't any stains," he told me.

"Varena slung a sheet over it." This was beyond strange. The back of my neck began to prickle. I wasn't going to sit knee to knee with him - I'd been perched on the ottoman that matched the chair - and point out where Meredith's head had been, what spot her feet had touched.

"Before your friend put Meredith down?"

"Yes." I jumped up to pull a fitted sheet from the closet. Giving way to an almost irresistible compulsion, I refolded it, and knew I'd straighten all the rest, too. The hell with Varena's finer feelings.

"And he is - ?"

"My friend." I could hear my voice get flatter and harder.

"You're angry with me, I'm afraid," he said wearily. And sure enough, he was weeping, tears were running down his cheeks. He blotted them automatically with a well-used handkerchief.

"You shouldn't put yourself through this." My tone was still not the one a nice woman would use to a widower. I meant he shouldn't put me through it.

"I feel like God's abandoned me and the kids. I'm heartbroken," and I reflected I'd never actually heard anyone use that word out loud, "and my faith has left me," he finished, without taking a breath. He put his face in his hands.

Oh, man. I didn't want to hear this. I didn't want to be here.

Through the uncurtained window, I saw a car pull in behind mine in the cottage's narrow driveway. Jess O'Shea got out and began his way to the door, his head bowed. A minister - just the person to deal with a lapse of faith and recent bereavement. I opened the door before he had a chance to knock.

"Jess," I said. Even I could hear the naked relief in my voice. "Emory Osborn is here, and he is really, really ..." I stood there, nodding significantly, unable to pin down exactly what Emory Osborn was.

Jess O'Shea seemed to be taking in my drift. He stepped around me and over to the smaller man, claiming my former seat on the ottoman. He took Emory's hands in his.

I tried to block out the two men's voices as I continued the job of packing, despite the feeling I should leave while Emory talked with his minister. But Emory had the option of going to his own house if he wanted complete privacy. If I looked at it practically, he'd known I was here and come in the cottage anyway ...

Jess and Emory were praying together now, the fervent expression on Emory's face the only one I could see. Jess's back was bent and his hands clasped in front of his face. The two fair heads were close together.

Then Dill stepped in, looking at the two men praying, at me folding, trying to keep my eyes to myself. He looked startled and not too happy at this tableau.

All three dads in the same room. Except that one of them was probably not really a father at all but a thief who had stolen his fatherhood.

Dill turned to me, his whole face a question. I shrugged.

"Where's Varena?" he whispered.

"At our folks'," I whispered. "You go over there. You two need to talk about what's going to happen. And aren't you supposed to be meeting Jack at your place?" I gave him a little push with my hand, and he took a step back before he recovered his footing. Possibly I'd pushed a little harder than I'd planned.

After Dill obediently got in his car and left, I finished refolding and found I had packed all the remaining items in the linen closet. I checked the bathroom cabinet. It held only a few things, which I also boxed.

When I turned around, Jess O'Shea was right behind me. My arms tensed immediately and my hands fisted.

"Sorry, did I surprise you?" he asked, with apparent innocence. Yes.

"I think Emory is feeling a little better. We're going over to his house. Thanks for comforting him."

I couldn't recall any comforting I'd done; it must have been in the eye of the comfortee. I made a noncommittal sound.

"I'm so glad you've returned to reconcile with your family," Jess said, all in a rush. "I know this has meant so much to them."