Deadly Ties: Sequel to Blood Ties

By Janice Ryan Hall

This sequel to Blood Ties finds Taylor Walker awaiting the trial of the nemesis who tried to kill her. Her love life gets complicated by the arrival of a Cuban-American architect—who may have strangled his pregnant fiancée in Miami. A crime wave strikes the tiny panhandle town of Walker, Fla., where the crimes are somehow tied to Taylor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483534190

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Prologue

Taylor wasn’t sure if the noise was rain slamming into the window pane or blood banging bongo beats in her ears. She’d been in a deep sleep, beyond dreams. Something woke her. A noise. One that didn’t belong. She looked around in confusion. For a few seconds she didn’t know where she was. She glanced to the left. Jeremy wasn’t in bed. She felt the place where he should have been. Cold. She shook her head to clear it: All the air had been sucked out of the room; she lay gasping like a beached fish.

She was at her mother’s old house! Jeremy was out of town. She frowned. Still, the noise she’d heard was one she shouldn’t have. It sounded like it was coming from the front of the house. Daddy’s—the judge’s, she corrected herself—office. Had she set the alarm? It was so automatic she was sure she had. When she tried to remember, fear paralyzed the rational part of her brain.

Technically she shouldn’t be in this house because her mother was selling it—or trying to: Too many bad memories attached to the judge. Rita Walker had left it fully furnished in hopes of luring potential buyers. But the house had sat on the market for nearly a year; her mother moved out after Lawrence Walker died last August, and here it was nearly June. Aside from a few ghouls who moseyed over to gawk at the place where Judge Walker had lived—and died—there were no actual bites. Not even the slightest nibble.

And, as luck would have it, the place Taylor and Jeremy were renting had just been sold. The rental market was nonexistent. There was no way Taylor was moving back into her former home, which now housed the Cornelius Walker Foundation. Rita offered to let Taylor stay in her old place. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Now it seemed like a bad dream. More like a nightmare. One from which she couldn’t seem to awaken.

Taylor squinted at the clock on the bedside table: 3:13. The wee hours weren’t historically a time for wonderful things to happen. She cursed. She’d bought a gun—nice little 9 mil Glock—after last summer’s crime wave. But it was in her purse. Her eyes darted around the semi-darkness for her cell. A vision of it floated mockingly before her: squatting in the bottom of her purse (next to her pistol), which rested on a bar stool in the breakfast room. She cursed again.

The rain pounded harder as Taylor strained to hear sounds that might signal an intruder. For a moment she pondered dashing out the patio door onto the lanai and beating feet to a neighbor’s house. She was fixing to spring out of bed when the thought hit her: What if there was more than one intruder? Maybe they lurked outside serving as lookouts; they could be armed! Her fear-numbed brain didn’t consider the absurdity of that notion. The back yard wouldn’t be a place for lurking bad guys. The front yard provided a much better vantage point for a lookout.

She knew she had to do something; staying put wasn’t an option. She had no intention of being waxed in bed should the bad guys wander into the guest suite. There was no way to slip unnoticed into the breakfast room. Maybe there was a small army already in the house. Before last summer Taylor would’ve been confident she could handle intruders. Nearly six feet tall and athletic, she was fearless. That changed after her brutal attack.

She could tiptoe into the bathroom and lock herself in. But the bad guy(s) might break down the door and nail her, anyway. She briefly considered throwing water on the floor, turning on the blow dryer and tossing it into the puddle to shock the bad guy(s) long enough to leap over the puddle and dash to safety (after conking ’em on the head with the plunger). She discarded that idea.

Then it dawned on her the bed was high enough to slip under. Bless her mother for buying an old-fashioned canopy bed with a skirt! Taylor glanced at the clock as she eased herself to the floor: 3:15. It seemed a few lifetimes had passed in the two minutes since she’d been awakened. As she scrunched against the wall, a new thought occurred: If someone dashed into the guest bedroom and saw the unmade bed, what if they touched the sheet and realized it was still warm? Damn! Too late now. She couldn’t risk inching from her hiding place to yank up the comforter. Too dangerous.

Taylor hadn’t realized she’d fallen asleep. Her eyes flew open. Her heart raced at the light flooding the room. Were they using floodlights to ferret her out of hiding? Her mouth was so dry she couldn’t even spit. She forced herself to take deep, calming breaths. As she tried to move, she discovered she had a full body cramp from lying contorted under the bed. She carefully stretched full length, wiggled her toes and peered under the bed skirt, blinking at the brightness. It wasn’t floodlights: It was the sun. She listened for sounds that shouldn’t be there. The house was quiet as a tomb; that analogy made her chuckle mirthlessly.

She winced as she made circles with her head; tiny neck bones cracked like pistol shots in her ears. She cocked her head, listening for strange sounds. All she heard was the icemaker’s clunk! She took a deep breath and rolled out from under the bed. Taylor squinted at the clock: 7:14. She wondered if she should grab her gun. Maybe the bad guys had fallen asleep like those home invasions where burglars made themselves at home after burgling—eating and drinking till they passed out, stolen goods scattered at their feet.

She slipped into the breakfast room and drew the pistol from her purse. She felt a little foolish creeping around the house in a short lavender nightie, brandishing a loaded gun like Barney Fife in drag. Hopefully, no one would see her. If they did—and fell to the floor laughing—she could nail ’em.

Although Taylor was still a little shaken about the early-morning events, she had plenty to do. Al Mason’s trial was coming up June 11th: three days before Flag Day. Taylor smiled grimly at the irony.

Jeremy wouldn’t talk about the trial because he didn’t want to taint the case. In fact Taylor knew nothing about the drug-running part of it, only that Mason had been moving drugs across Florida, Georgia and Alabama. Killing Sharon? Taylor wasn’t sure what evidence—if any—linked Mason to her death. The only other person Mason’d confessed in front of—her ex, Cam—was turning into worm bait. And she wasn’t quite sure how Deputy Conway’s and her kidnapping figured into the equation.

Taylor didn’t care which charges nailed that slimy son of a bitch’s ass to the wall. She wanted him locked up for a long, long time. Long enough that he couldn’t harm her family again. She recalled her sense of relief when she realized he was the judge’s son. Therefore, he was not related to her. At all.

She shook her head to clear it of Al Mason and the awful memories of her near-death experience. To prove she wasn’t crazy, she checked the alarm system. It was set as she knew it would be. She yawned and popped a few more neck bones as she passed the judge’s office.

Taylor glanced into the judge’s office. Everything seemed to be in its place. Nobody was there, and there were no signs anyone had been. She eyed at the picture over the safe and stopped. It was a little off kilter. Maybe the Realtor had bumped into it when she showed the place. Taylor ambled over to straighten it. Her mother had taken everything out of the safe; it hadn’t been used since the judge died.

So it never occurred to Taylor to see if something had been put into the safe.

Chapter 1

When her cell phone rang that mid-October morning seven months ago, Taylor’s first impulse had been to let it go into voicemail. The number popped up as Out of Area. But, with an 850 area code, it could’ve been one of her former associates in Tallahassee. She was sitting in the Cornelius Walker Foundation office, checking email.

Hello?

Is this Ms. Campbell? The voice was velvet over steel wool.

Walker, Taylor replied. Who’s calling?

Addison Vaught. The caller sounded a little smug, as if Taylor should know who he was.

I’m sorry. I can’t quite place you. Did we work together in Tally?

A small chuckle. We’ve never met. My firm is, ah, representing Al Mason and—

I have nothing to say to you. Why are you calling me? Taylor felt a small ball of bile form and snake its way through her gut. She wanted to click off the phone but couldn’t force herself to. Later she realized it was like watching a speeding, out-of-control car you knew was going to crash into a brick wall: You wanted to look away, but there was a weird, hypnotic fascination in viewing the inevitable.

Vaught cleared his throat. Mr. Mason instructed me to.

Why?

The chuckle again. You’re all business, aren’t you? No time for pleasantries, get to the point. I like that. My firm is defending—

Damn it! You’ve already said that!

Vaught’s voice turned cold. "Here’s the bottom line, honey: The government has frozen Mr. Mason’s assets. He needs you to cover our expenses—"

You’re shitting me! Taylor blurted. "That son of a bitch tried to kill me!"

He said you might think that—

"‘Think’ it, hell! I was there! He wasn’t subtle about it. I was merely a ‘problem’ to get rid of."

Mr. Mason was leaving Walker and only intended to delay you to gather his belongings—

"He told Cam to kill me."

Vaught made a clucking sound. "Ms. Walker, at the time Mr. Mason thought you were his half-sister. Why would he kill family?"

Because he’s an evil, soulless bastard, Taylor thought. She said nothing.

"Well? Mr. Mason’s never killed anyone, much less blood relations."

Taylor noted with detachment that her hands were shaking at the memory of Mason’s gleeful boast to Cam of having killed Cam’s lover. She struggled to keep her voice even. "Whatever he may have told you, it’s a damn lie. He planned to kill me and the deputy who stumbled onto his property. He bragged to my husband about killing his lover."

I’m sorry you feel that way. You’re not going to help his defense?

Hell, no! Taylor snorted. I wouldn’t pay a penny to help that son of a bitch!

Vaught sighed. "You leave him no choice, Ms. Walker."

What do you mean?

"He’s going to contest Judge Walker’s will for his share of the estate. Mr. Mason’s a legitimate heir. You’re not. A pause. I’m surprised you took your maiden name. You’re not a Walker."

Taylor could taste the bile now. Although the judge had left Taylor a sizeable chunk, the bulk of his estate had gone to her mother. She wasn’t going to share that with Vaught; she felt sure he already knew what the will contained. She took a deep breath. "The judge signed the will a month before he died. He knew about Mason but didn’t put him in the will. That should tell Mister Mason something."

Maybe there was another will.

His lawyer would’ve mentioned it.

He may not have known about it. Regardless, we feel certain Mr. Mason has a case.

He didn’t leave anything to his other son! Taylor blurted. "And he’d known him a hell of a lot longer."

What ‘other son’?

Taylor realized she’d said too much. Nobody, she mumbled.

Without warning Vaught changed the subject. You should reconsider. Plan B is his grandparents’ inheritance.

Taylor shivered. What inheritance?

"The one you got. Under false pretenses of course. I believe it read something to the effect of ‘To our only grandchild.’ You’re not even related to the Walkers."

Before she could stop herself, Taylor said, "But it named me, and I was raised a Walker!"

A wry chuckle. "You’re not a Walker and that’s a fact."

They cared for me as their own! We were close.

They didn’t know about Mr. Mason. They never knew he existed. Look, Vaught’s voice was impatient. We can dredge up all this old stuff, which would probably devastate your poor, grieving mother, hmmm? Or you can help Mr. Mason.

This is extortion! I could report you to the bar.

"On what grounds, Ms. Walker? You’re the one who’s lived a lie. You’re the one who should be careful what hornets’ nest she pokes with a stick."

"I just found out I’m not the judge’s daughter. So I don’t—"

"Oh, Taylor, I’m not talking about that. The chuckle again. No, it’s the sex with a minor that could get you disbarred on a felony rap. Not to mention face serious prison time. So you’d better watch what you say. And be advised: Mr. Mason can be a very patient man."

Taylor suddenly imagined an elephant squatting on her chest; she wondered if this was what a heart attack felt like. Before she could reply, the line clicked softly in her ear. She jammed the phone in her pocket as she studied her still-shaking hands.

She didn’t know who to call: She and Jeremy had just started dating and rented a house together. He was tying up loose ends with DEA in Tally; Taylor didn’t want to bother him with this shit. Likewise she didn’t want to alarm her mother or Aunt Joan about the disturbing call. She reasoned if she told Sheriff Mike Monahan—her father—he’d be sure to tell her mother.

She went through her whole mental Rolodex before she realized who she needed to call: Abby Morton, her go-to lawyer for her not-needed divorce from Cam and the Julius Perry fiasco. And her friend. Taylor finally had a new-found friend in Walker, one that hadn’t been intimidated by Judge Lawrence Walker. If anyone could help, it’d be Abby.

Before Taylor could pick up the phone, Joan Walker sailed through the front door. Taylor was amazed at the transformation in her ex-aunt since she’d met Wallace: Her blue eyes sparkled and her hair was no longer the color of straw; blond highlights burnished it. Instead of the bun she’d worn all her life, Joan’s hair was cut shorter and framed her face. Most of all she seemed content.

Good morning, Joan said. Anything going on today?

No, Taylor lied, squinting at the computer. Nothing on the calendar. She looked up at Joan and smiled brightly.

Good. Time you took a break. When Taylor started to protest, Joan held up a hand. Not that I don’t appreciate what you’ve done to get this foundation going. But you’ve been working too hard. Let’s do lunch in Pensacola.

Why?

Someone I want you to meet.

Aunt Joan, you know I’ve already got a boyfriend, and—

Joan poked Taylor’s arm. "Not that kind of ‘someone,’ you little twit. Grab your stuff and let’s go. We have a reservation at 11, and I need to make a couple of stops on the way."

That’s it? You’re not gonna tell me anything else?

Joan shook her head smugly. Nope. Don’t want to spoil the surprise. C’mon.

OK. But we need to take my car. She held up the keys. You can drive if you want.

Taylor checked the office and noted everything was in its place. As they walked out the door, the phone call flew from Taylor’s mind.

Joan chatted all the way to Pensacola, mostly stuff about her upcoming wedding to Wallace Sanford. Taylor yawned. She loved her Aunt Joan but wished she’d shut up sometimes.

Then we plan to— Joan turned and looked at Taylor. You’re not listening, are you?

I was, Taylor said, a little defensively. You were talking about your wedding.

Joan shook her head. That was 10 minutes ago! Something on your mind?

Taylor had been mentally replaying Vaught’s phone call. Just tired I guess.

You looked like you were a million miles away. Joan narrowed her eyes. You’ve lost weight.

"Only 20 pounds! And I needed to lose it. I’m trying to get back in shape." She tossed her long auburn hair, not mentioning she’d been finding clumps of it in her hairbrush.

Joan snorted. What kind of shape would that be? A toothpick? You’re beginning to look like the poster child for anorexia—only not that good. She glanced at Taylor. Still having those nightmares?

Yeah. Taylor rubbed her hazel eyes. Can’t seem to get ‘em to stop.

Have you seen anyone?

I’m sure they’ll go away. She sighed. In time.

Joan turned to look at Taylor again. After what you’ve been through? She shook her head. Maybe you need something to knock you out so you don’t dream at all.

Aunt Joan! You know I don’t even use aspirin! No way am I gonna take drugs!

"I’m not saying take drugs forever, silly goose. Joan took her right hand off the steering wheel and touched Taylor’s cheek. Those bags under your eyes look like they could take you all the way to Denmark and back. You’re not sleeping, are you?"

"I’m sleeping enough! I’m not taking drugs!"

"With all that’s happened, couldn’t hurt to get something for a good night’s sleep."

Taylor waved a hand. That’s in the past, Auntie. I’ve put it behind me. Mason’s gonna be locked up for a long, long time. All the other bad guys are dead.

Joan’s face stiffened.

I’m sorry, Aunt Joan. I know the judge was your brother, but I’m not sorry he’s dead.

Joan reached over to pat Taylor’s arm. "I’m not sorry, either, dear. It was just such a shock, the way he died. I’m glad your mother’s finally happy. She deserves it after putting up with his shit all these years. She shook her head. Rita’s a better woman than I am. I certainly couldn’t have lived with Lawrence, knowing all he’d done—and what he was capable of."

Taylor shivered. I’m glad he’s not my father. I’ve had all these awful feelings about him for years and—

Joan touched Taylor’s arm again. You don’t need to say anything else, dear. Believe me I’ve had the same feelings. The world’s certainly a better place without him in it.

Taylor changed the subject; she was getting too close to telling her aunt about the phone call. Are you moving to Texas with Wallace? she blurted.

Joan laughed; it was more of a snort. "See? You weren’t listening! You didn’t hear me say I’d never be around his bratty, spoiled offspring? Nope, he’s moving here."

But your place is too small for—

He said he’s got a hankerin’ for a bigger place. So I’m selling mine, and we’re moving next door to the foundation.

Taylor stared at Joan, mouth wide open. Really? Where?

Bernie McNabb’s. You didn’t hear me say that?

Taylor shook her head slowly.

Ol’ Bern’s finally lost it. Moving into a nursing home in Pensacola Monday, the drooling, doddering fool. Wallace contacted the Realtor, and we’re signing the papers in a couple of weeks. She glanced at Taylor. Money’s going into Bernie’s account.

Something tickled the back of Taylor’s mind about Bernie McNabb, but she couldn’t quite place it. She shook her head and it came to her. What about Al Mason? she asked. Isn’t he technically Crabby McNabb’s grandson?

Joan took a deep breath. Yes. I doubt he’ll be returning to Walker for the foreseeable future. She shrugged. We’re not worried about it. Wallace wanted to be on the river.

You could have the foundation headquarters. Taylor shuddered. I’m never living there again.

"Wallace liked the McNabb property; the greenhouse is fantastic and it’s got plenty of room for our combined menagerie. I don’t think either of us wanted to be in the old Walker place—or I would’ve brought it up. Joan pulled into a parking slot and turned off the engine. Here we are."

The Fish House. Taylor loved the food but hoped they weren’t dining on the Deck. It still wasn’t cool enough outside, even in so-called fall.

Joan read Taylor’s expression and laughed. We’re eating inside by the aquarium if that suits your royal highness.

Taylor grinned. Was I that obvious?

Like a damn beacon.

They climbed the wooden stairs. Joan spoke to the host, who waved them inside. There she is, Joan said, pointing to a slim woman with shoulder-length glossy black hair who stood at the bar. She raised her voice. Carmen, we’re here.

The woman turned. Taylor loomed a couple of inches over Carmen and saw she was about her age, barely south of 30. Warm brown eyes surveyed Taylor as if Carmen were assessing her as well. Carmen wore a beige suit with scarlet pumps and matching purse. Taylor noted she wore a Rolex on her wrist and diamond studs in her ears, single piercing. No rings. No tats. No other obvious piercings. Carmen cleared her throat and thrust her right hand at Taylor, Carmen Arroyo. You must be Taylor. She nodded at Joan. Your aunt told me about you. Her voice was surprisingly strong.

Guilty, Taylor said, smiling. Carmen had a firm grip. She contrasted Carmen’s perfectly manicured scarlet nails with her ragged, bitten cuticles and inwardly grimaced.

Joan made shooing motions. We can get acquainted at the table, ladies. Let’s eat; I’m starving.

Carmen picked up a glass of white wine and winked at Taylor. Has she always been this pushy?

Taylor winked back. Absolutely. She takes charge of everyone and everything! She’s such a bossy bitch!

Joan turned and grinned at them. "I am not bossy!"

The server pulled out chairs and the trio sat. You having Grits à Ya Ya? Joan asked of the Fish House signature dish: grilled shrimp and a bunch of other good groceries piled onto smoked Gouda grits.

Taylor shook her head. She tried to glare but it slid into a smile. "Nah. Might have if you’d told me we were doing lunch today. I’m not that hungry. I’ll probably go with a salad. She motioned at her jeans and tee. Might’ve dressed up if I’d known we were doing lunch."

Glass of wine? I’m buying? Joan prodded.

Too much to do today. Plain ol’ sweet tea for me.

Joan rolled her eyes. See? She pointed to Taylor in mock disgust. "She works too hard, always thinking about the job. I’ll join you in a glass of Chardonnay, Carmen."

Taylor turned to Carmen. "Joan’s told you all about me, but I’m afraid she didn’t clue me in on you. Or why we’re meeting."

Carmen took a sip of wine and nodded. Fair enough. I’ve lived here all my life. Father was a Navy pilot. This was his final assignment. Four older brothers. I’m the youngest. Four ‘stair steps’—then 9 years later, surprise! Here I am. My specialty’s PR. She glanced at Joan. You want to cut to the chase?

The server set down Joan’s wine glass. Joan took a sip and nodded. Carmen’s far too modest. She was named one of Pensacola’s ‘30 under 30’ to watch. She’s been involved with political campaigns and Fortune 500 corporations. She paused and glanced at Taylor. I want to bring her on board with the foundation.

Taylor started to say something, but Carmen held up a hand. "You’ve done a super job getting the foundation up and running. I graduated top of my class at UF by the way."

See? Joan said, pointing her wine glass at Taylor. Y’all have something in common! I told her you were top of your class!

Taylor pasted on a smile and took a deep breath. That’s great, Aunt Joan, but—

With my communication degree and PR background, I can take it to the next level, Carmen said, holding up her wine glass in a mock toast.

Taylor looked from Carmen to her aunt. She felt betrayed Joan had put her in charge of the foundation, yet went behind her back to woo Carmen. It must have shown in her face.

Joan put a hand on Taylor’s arm. "You’ve got a great network started to reach out to abused, abandoned and exploited kids. But we need to do more," she said.

I wish you’d discussed it with me first, Taylor said crossly.

You’ve been through a lot, Taylor. I understand that. I also understand throwing yourself so completely in your job to make the bad stuff go away, Carmen said, looking Taylor in the eye.

"How can you possibly understand what I’ve been through?" Taylor demanded. She hated her voice shook.

Because, Carmen replied quietly. My father was a monster. No one saw that part of him. He was ‘an officer and a gentleman,’ she said, bitterness creeping into her voice. No one believed he began molesting me when I was 8 and continued till I went off to college. Daddy dearest took me for an abortion at 15 after he knocked me up. If I dared raise my voice to him, he beat me. She snorted. I never knew if my mother was blind and deaf—or just stupid.

Taylor opened her mouth, but Carmen held up her left hand and shook a crooked pinky at her. This is one of my more visible scars. It never set right after he bent it all the way back to ‘teach me a lesson.’ The mental scars are still there. I have nightmares about him coming back for me even though he died three years ago. And, no, none of this is on my C. V. Her face was impassive, but her eyes glittered like onyx chips.

I’m so sorry, Taylor whispered.

The server set their food on the table. Joan signaled for two more glasses of wine, placed her napkin on her lap and waved a hand over the food. Let’s eat. We can finish this discussion over coffee. She scooped up grits and speared a shrimp. Mmmmm! Delish, as usual.

They ate in silence, each contemplating ghosts of the past. Taylor felt an intense sorrow—and an unexpected kinship—for the woman sitting across from her. Still, she wondered why the foundation needed a PR expert. What did Aunt Joan have up her sleeve now?

When the server presented the check, Joan snatched it up despite protests from Taylor and Carmen. I invited y’all to lunch. What kind of hostess would let guests pick up the bill? Joan tsked.

Taylor chugged the rest of her tea and Carmen finished her wine. Just a sec, Carmen said as they rose to leave. Let me give you my card. She dug in her purse and pulled out a slim gold case. She handed Taylor an embossed card, their fingers touching lightly. Call me any time. I’m at your service, she purred.

Chapter 2

What did you think of Carmen? Joan asked as they got in the car.

Taylor shrugged. Seems OK. But I don’t understand why you didn’t bring it up before now. She couldn’t keep a hint of petulance out of her voice.

To be honest I wasn’t sure how you’d react. Joan turned and grinned at Taylor. She hadn’t started the car. Figured there was less of a chance you’d throw a hissy fit in public.

Taylor started to respond, but Joan held up a hand. "I know this was your baby. You’ve done great in getting it off the ground and—"

Taylor waved an arm. "You’ve already said that. If you’re trying to blow sunshine up my ass, vary the pitch a little."

"Don’t be so prickly. I get it. But I think it’s time we take the foundation to the next level. "

As Taylor buckled her seat belt, she realized Joan was parroting Carmen’s catch phrase. She wondered what the next level was and why her aunt felt this sudden urge to head there. But she didn’t say anything. Her feelings were more than a little ruffled.

Taylor? I’m sorry I went behind your back.

Taylor started. Had Joan read her mind or was it showing on her face? "It’s OK. Really. I’ll get over it. She does know we’re a nonprofit, right? No one’s taking any money. Not me, not you, not board members."

Relax. She’s doing this pro bono. Joan shuddered. "You heard her story. She wants to make damn sure other kids are safe."

Taylor took a deep breath. Guess I’m on board with it. What do you want me to do?

Go over everything with her—financials, board members, potential donors. The whole enchilada as they say.

You didn’t give her any of that?

Joan turned and smiled at Taylor. Despite my bravado, I wasn’t sure if you’d blow a gasket over my little surprise. If you did, I was planning to graciously decline her offer.

As Joan pulled out of the parking space, they noticed Carmen standing by a silver two-door Mercedes, flagging them down as the convertible top snicked back in place. Joan pulled over and rolled down her window. Something wrong?

Carmen tapped her foot. Damn thing won’t start. She glanced at her watch. I’ve got a meeting at City Hall in five.

Joan jerked her head to the back seat. Hop in. We can get you there.

Carmen studied the HHR. This isn’t your car, Joan? I know you’ve got better taste!

It’s mine, Taylor said. Need to take it by the dealer.

To get it painted I hope? Carmen teased.

Get in. Have you called anyone? Taylor asked.

Carmen eased into the back seat and slammed the door. Yeah. But they can’t get here for half an hour. She blew air out her cheeks. I told them to tow it to the dealer.

There’s a Mercedes dealer in Pensacola? Taylor asked, turning to look at Carmen.

Mobile. She chuckled mirthlessly. "Not my problem. Still under warranty. I bet it doesn’t even have a thou on it."

Joan looked in the rearview mirror. Have you had any problems before?

None. I barely drove it off the lot. Still has that new-car smell. She smiled at Joan’s reflection. My oldest brother, Jorge, threatened to fart on the seats to break it in.

Joan and Taylor laughed. Oh, no, he dih-in’t! Taylor said.

Yeah. He’s a real funny guy, that one. I told Jorge if he did, he’d damn well better buy me a new car. She snorted. He told me he’d buy me a ‘No va.’

A Nova? Isn’t that a Chevy? Joan asked, looking at Carmen in the mirror.

Taylor had gotten the joke. No, Auntie. She giggled. In Spanish ‘no va’ means it doesn’t go. She smiled in the rearview mirror at Carmen. Isn’t that why sales bombed in Latin America?

Yep. Classic marketing faux pas, Carmen agreed. Someone hadn’t done their homework when they rolled out that turkey.

Homework. Taylor realized she didn’t know much about Carmen except what she’d hinted at during lunch. As they dropped her off at City Hall and waved bye, Taylor pondered what questions she should ask Joan about their new-found PR wunderkind. But as Joan chattered all the way home, there was never an opening for Taylor to ask anything.

Joan picked up her car at the foundation and waved as she eased down the street. Taylor stared at the house built in 1878 that was now on the historical register. Cornelius Walker, who built the house, was no relation to her. Just as it wasn’t her great-great-grandparents who founded the town on the Appanachee River a century and a half ago. She shared no heritage with Gus Walker or any of his descendants, including Joan, who was gracious enough to let Taylor continue calling her aunt.

Addison Vaught’s taunting words echoed in her mind: She ditched Cam’s last name, but why the hell had she gone back to her maiden name? She convinced herself it was because her whole identity was wrapped up in that lie. Even though she knew Mike was her actual father, she wasn’t comfortable with being a Monahan. Yet. She also told herself the Walker was a temporary fix, a Band-aid at most.

She found herself ambivalent about her ties with the town itself: What was the point of staying here despite its charming small-town vibe? Like the rest of the Florida panhandle, Walker was laid-back, unhurried. Water oaks and live oaks lined broad boulevards. In the paper company-owned forests surrounding the town, pines grew tall and straight. A state park formed the town’s eastern boundary.

A booming lumber town after the Civil War, the long-abandoned mill was built on the river. The only bridge into Walker was a couple miles west of the rediscovered downtown area. It wasn’t a high bridge: just tall enough for a timber-stacked barge to ease down the river. Most development was on the river’s south side, thanks to those privately held forests. Within five miles the river began its slow, lazy curve to Pensacola Bay to the southwest.

As Taylor shuffled inside, she remembered she needed to call Abby. She glanced at her watch. Nearly 3. Her cell needed a charge; she plugged it in and picked up the foundation phone.

Abby? Can you come over after work? Need to run something by you.

There was a slight hesitation on the other end. I’d planned to go out tonight. Will it take long?

Not sure.

You paying me?

Of course! Taylor said.

Guess I could mosey on by, Abby drawled. Foundation?

No, home. What’re you drinking?

Nada. I’m picking up Sam for dinner.

What time d’ya think you’ll be by? Got a few things to do. Should be home in an hour.

That’ll work. See ya then.

Taylor kept wine in the foundation fridge and was tempted to grab a glass as she crunched numbers. But she reasoned she’d get done quicker sober. So she plodded along, pulling together data. Board members had just been elected and Joan hoped to have the first meeting before Thanksgiving. She pulled Carmen’s card from her purse and entered the info into the database. She opened the middle desk drawer and tossed in the card. She’d file it later.

The clock on her PC said 3:45 and Taylor was done for the day. She powered down the computer, grabbed her purse and set the alarm. When she got to the driveway, she cursed; she’d left her phone on the charger.

The foundation phone was ringing as she punched in the alarm code and dashed through the door.

Hello? she said, panting.

No one was on the other end. She cradled the phone and stared at the blinking red light on the answering machine. The number was local but she didn’t recognize it. She played back the call. There wasn’t a message, only a click at the end. She decided it was probably a sales pitch. She had about 10 sales or crank calls a day. She’d been meaning to get the foundation number onto the Do Not Call list but it hadn’t been a top priority.

Taylor shrugged and headed to the door. As she was about to turn on the alarm, she stopped: She hadn’t grabbed her phone from the charger. Damn, good thing you DIDN’T have wine with lunch or at work, girl, she thought, shaking her head. She jammed the phone in her jean pocket without looking at it. She was going to be late meeting Abby.

When she got to her rental home, Abby was sitting behind the wheel of her infrared XLR Roadster, tapping coral nails on the steering wheel. As Taylor eased out of her car, Abby pointed to her watch. "You’re late, girlfriend. Time is money and the clock started 10 minutes ago."

I’m sorry, Taylor apologized. She didn’t go into all the non-drama about forgetting her cell and the missed call. C’mon in.

Abby hopped out and poked Taylor in the arm. What’s up? You didn’t even bite about charging you for 10 minutes. She grinned. It was only five. She ran fingers through her close-cropped Afro. Her skin was the color of Starbucks coffee beans, her eyes a shade lighter.

I’m not going into all the crap that happened today. Taylor held up a hand and grinned at Abby. I can’t afford it and you’d miss your date completely.

Maybe I will have a glass of Chardonnay—no, make it Pinot Grigio, Abby amended as she plopped into an oversized brown leather chair. God, I hate this shit. Nearly as tall as Taylor, her legs still dangled from the massive chair. Uncomfortable as hell.

"Yeah, I know. Jeremy promised to put it in his area once we build the new house. She grinned at Abby. What could I do? Boy didn’t have much in his apartment and he really likes the shit. Just a sec. Wine on the way."

Taylor set a tray with two glasses and a wine chiller on the coffee table. She handed Abby a glass and perched on the equally awkward brown leather sofa. She sipped her wine. Y’know, I’d never say it to Jeremy, but this stuff is the color of horse shit.

Abby raised her glass and laughed. I’ll drink to that. Although I would’ve said dog shit. She pretended to sniff the air. Yup, definitely pit bull. She set her glass on the end table. You didn’t call to talk about shit samples. What’s on your mind?

Taylor took a huge gulp of wine and started coughing. You OK? Abby asked.

F-f-fine, Taylor sputtered. Went down the wrong way, she croaked, setting down her glass.

If you hadn’t tried to do a beer pong on this fine wine, wouldn’t’ve happened, Abby said. She took a dainty sip, holding out her little finger. See? This is the way us ladies drink wine!

Taylor nodded, thinking of Carmen’s bent pinky. Mason’s lawyer called this morning, Taylor blurted.

Abby plopped down her glass and stared at Taylor. "Say what?"

Taylor recounted the conversation for Abby, who shook her head. "Girlfriend, this does not sound good," Abby muttered.

"What was I supposed to do? Give the bastard money for a get-out-of-jail-free card?"

Abby sipped wine, examining Taylor over the rim. I don’t like this.

"You think there is another will?" Taylor asked.

I don’t know. But he can definitely stir up shit about the judge’s will. She grimaced. "And your presumed grandparents’ wills."

What should I do? Taylor asked.

Abby plunked down her glass and unpretzeled herself from the chair. Right now? Nothing. Let the son of a bitch show his hand.

You think I should tell anyone else? Mike? Mom? Jeremy?

Abby had her hand on the doorknob. She turned and shook her head. Why worry them? What can they do? Let me see what I can find out.

Taylor walked to the door and hugged Abby. Thanks. I appreciate it.

Huh! Abby snorted. "You really appreciated it, you’d pay off my damn toy!" she said, winking as she nodded at her car.

Chapter 3

That’s odd, Sheriff Mike Monahan said as he hung up, his dark brown eyes puzzled. Mike and Taylor were the same height. Mike wore his salt-and-pepper hair in a no-nonsense military cut and was tan and muscular.

What, dear? Rita Walker asked, handing him a Heineken in an icy mug. Rather than a poofy froth, Rita now wore her blonde hair in a pixie cut, which emphasized hazel eyes. Several inches shorter than Mike, they seemed to fit together perfectly.

He nodded at the phone. Taylor’s not answering at the foundation. Tried her cell. Not answering it either.

Did you try her home phone?

Not yet.

Well, Rita prodded. Did you leave a message?

"Guess I should have. Mike frowned. Bet she didn’t recognize the new number. Did you tell her we were moving?"

Yes, but it slipped my mind we’d have to get a new number. She has both our cell numbers. Why didn’t you call on yours?

Mike pulled Rita onto his lap and hugged her. "Guess it slipped my mind."

She kissed him. Oh? What distracted you?

You, you sexy vixen!

Want to go back to bed? she teased.

Mike gently pushed Rita off his lap. Can’t. Kevin’s coming over for a quick confab. He nodded at the mug. Shouldn’t be drinking. Boy takes his job damn seriously. I’m not setting a good example.

Rita frowned. Does it involve Taylor? Is that why you’re trying to reach her?

I don’t know. Gabby got a weird call at the station half hour ago. Unfortunately it wasn’t recorded.

What do you mean ‘weird’? Rita brushed invisible lint from the front of her slacks.

Mike shook his head. I can’t put my finger on it. Gabby thought it was a man. Lotta noise in the background and he mumbled. Said someone was gonna get killed. Then the line went dead.

You think it’s Taylor?

Hell, could be anybody. Could’ve been a crank call. God knows we get enough of ’em. He shook his head and swigged beer. But with all Taylor’s drama, I’m betting it’s got something to do with her. He set the mug on the end table.

Rita looked around the living room as if searching for answers. What’s the plan?

The plan? Mike’s lips set in an unsmiling thin line. The plan is to get her boyfriend back ASAP. The foundation’s got an alarm system. So does their house. But Jeremy needs to keep an eye on her.

Rita tsked. "You know Taylor’s not going to like that, dear. Meddling in her life."

You got any better options? He ran a hand over his hair. "Send her off to an ‘undisclosed location’? How would she be safer there? She needs to be here. Thank God our town’s full of nosy neighbors. Anyone who sees strangers will report ’em."

What if, Rita began slowly. It’s one of our neighbors who’s involved?

Mike shook his head. Babe, we can’t address every possible scenario. But Kevin and I can come up with some kinda system to keep tabs on her.

Rita bit her lower lip. Mike, she’s not going to like it.

Doesn’t matter. My job is to keep my daughter safe.

They both started as the doorbell rang. Rita moved to answer the door, but Mike slipped past her and held up both hands to block her. "OK. Security 101, future sheriff’s wife: Do not throw open the door without checking first to see who it is." Mike pointed to the peephole.

Sorry. Rita said meekly. Habit I guess.

Mike snorted. Habit that could get your ass waxed.

Rita peeked through the peephole. It’s Kevin. Want me to start dinner so y’all can plan?

Yes, please. Mike threw open the door and waved Sgt. Kevin Conway inside.