A Shred of Truth

  “Hey, that’s better than a red bullet,” Diesel said.

  “Not bad so far, huh?”

  Within a few weeks, thousands would be spreading the rumor that one of the founders of the Ku Klux Klan, Civil War general Nathan Bedford Forrest, had been the product of a tryst between his dirt-poor white mother and a strapping young slave from a nearby plantation. The KKK’S secrecy would only muddy the waters regarding his bloodline.

  “Think we’ve got a winner,” I said.

  “Bones better give me an A.”

  “I’ll warn him to grade wisely,” I kidded.

  “He’s a blow-hard. This is between him and me.”

  Diesel’s intensity sounded an alarm in my head, but I saw no need to get involved. It was his life to lead, and I had my own blow-hard to warn off, with our introduction fast approaching.

  Cheekwood Botanical Gardens would close in less than an hour, which meant most of the Saturday visitors were wrapping up their self-guided tours of the massive estate. I paid the fee at the gate and drove the long approach between the brick pillars, past the Pineapple Room Restaurant and the greenhouse, to the museum’s parking lot.

  Was the freak watching? Did he know my Honda Civic?

  I parked in the shade of an elm tree. Keeping my arms low, I double-checked the safety on my Desert Eagle before shoving it into my jeans, where it’d go unnoticed beneath my black T-shirt and the untucked button-down.

  A dangerous combination, me and guns, I’m well aware. My heart pounded as I climbed from the car, and I cautioned myself to keep cool.

  “Ready or not.”

  The tranquil scenery lent a hand at calming my senses. Slopes of grass swept beneath Japanese maples and curled around terraced gardens, providing bright green contrast to tulips, violas, and pink and yellow trillium. From the herb garden, spicy whiffs mixed with the fragrance of roses, while bubbling fountains enhanced the serenity.

  I’d done some quick reading at the Cheekwood Web site, gotten some history and an idea of our rendezvous point. Fewer surprises the better, right?

  Annually, the estate draws over 130,000 visitors with its trails, gardens, and statuary. Totaling thirty thousand square feet, the original Cheek Mansion displays European and American art, a collection of Worcester porcelain, and rotating temporary exhibits.

  While the Cheeks may not be familiar to most Americans, the source of their fortune is: In the 1920s, Joel Cheek developed a blend of coffee that was served in Nashville’s premier hotel, the Maxwell House. Postum, now known as General Foods, bought the business from him for forty million dollars, enabling the family’s purchase of this vast woodland on the west side of town.

  Forty mil. And here I was, trying to pay off loans at my espresso shop.

  I surveyed the rolling hills that surrounded the mansion and narrowed in on the massive structure. If this confrontation resulted in any damage, the Cheek family and their art foundation could afford the repairs.

  I checked the museum’s rows of windows as I made my way along the curved drive. Was AX already up there? The gun—fully loaded with ten rounds in the clip, one in the chamber—poked into my stomach with each step. Overhead, clouds had formed a cast-iron lid over the Cumberland Basin, and the day’s heat simmered.

  Cautious steps carried me through the entry into a two-story foyer, where an English mantel clock showed I was a few minutes early.

  My cell rang. It was the number at Black’s.

  “Hello?”

  “Aramis. Diesel here. Guess who’s standing at the counter.”

  “Listen, can I call you back? I’m in the middle of something.”

  “It’s Professor Bones. In the flesh. Get it?”

  “Ha, ha.”

  “Says he needs to talk to you. You must’ve missed class one too many times. Here he is.”

  I sighed and waited.

  “Hello, Mr. Black.”

  “Professor Newmann?”

  “You know, as we speak I’m indulging in one of your famed white mochas.”

  “Glad you like it.”

  “Of course, this’ll play no part in your final grade.”

  “Sure.” I followed the foyer staircase to the second-floor landing. “Professor, not to be rude, but I’ve got a meeting in five minutes.”

  His voice was reedy, breathy, like a woodwind instrument barely holding its tune. “I stopped in, hoping to speak with you in person. It could wait until Monday evening, I suppose, but the classroom setting’s never ideal for one-on-one discussion.”

  “Am I supposed to know what this is about?”

  Tension filled the silence. “Excuse me,” Newmann said at last. “Listening ears, you understand.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Were Desmond to know what I have to share with you, it might only increase the pressure on him to achieve scholastic excellence.” He paused again. “I’ve received threats from his father.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m half inclined to report it to the university’s president.”

  “You should. But why’re you telling me?”

  “Because Mr. Hillcrest mentioned your name as well. Apparently he blames you and your brother for his son’s struggles.”

  “I’ve never even met Diesel’s dad. And what’s my brother got to do with it?”

  “You’re welcome to ask. He’s just now come through the door.”

  “There? At my shop?”

  Scratching on the other end. Some whispering. “Howdy,” Johnny Ray said. I sighed in relief. “Sorry I didn’t get back to you earlier, kid. Been in the studio. You oughta hear this new track we’re layin’ down.”

  “Did you get my message? I’ve been … you know …”

  “Worried about me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Still in one piece. My Palm Pilot slid under the bench in my truck. That thing’s nothing but a distraction.”

  “Did Detective Meade swing by?” I scanned the museum’s foyer, feeling as if I was being watched.

  “Yeah, but I was recording. I think they told him to come back later.”

  “He was looking for details about last night. I’m thinking maybe you should lie low for a while.”

  “Not gonna happen. With my tour kickin’ off next week, this was just some free advertising. My publicist sent out a press release: ‘A Cutting-Edge Artist.’ ”

  “That’s sick and wrong.”

  “Hey, we’re already getting calls from CMT and Access Hollywood.”

  “Happy for you. But you make me a promise this time.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Stay put, and don’t leave the shop till I get back.”

  “Nice to know you care, but you’re talkin’ to a hungry man here.”

  “Grab whatever you like. It’s on me.” I saw a figure flit through a doorway on the second floor. “Do me a favor. I’ve got to go, but call Sammie. See if she knows anything about that redhead last night.”

  “Good thinkin’. She knows just about everyone in this town.”

  “I’m worried about her. She hasn’t called me back.”

  “That’s not like Sammie. Is this about that urgent call she got at the park last night?”

  “Yes yes. Call her for me. Gotta go.”

  “You wouldn’t be getting into more trouble now, little brother? You promised.”

  “Back as soon as possible.”

  I snapped the phone shut and looked up at the mantel clock: 3:59 p.m. One minute to showdown. An elderly woman stood nearby, a museum volunteer with kind eyes and powdered cheeks. Behind her, a large-bellied security guard was making his rounds. After asking for the Fabergé exhibit and being given the option of an elevator or the sweeping staircase, I felt my .40-caliber gun jostle against my skin with the ascent of each stone step.

  Time to do this.

  I was armed, feeling justified and vindictive.

  Nothing prepared me, though, for the sight of the person turned away and slightly bent
at the waist, hands clasped behind the back, eyes gazing at a Fabergé imperial egg. The slender frame made me hesitate, but the face reflected in the glass case caused me some real confusion.

  6

  Felicia?”

  My former girlfriend straightened and swiveled toward me. We hadn’t seen each other since Portland, and volatile emotion whipped through my chest. What was she doing here, this woman who’d left me for another man? Had she sent the e-mail?

  A part of me wanted to throw out hurtful words and head back the way I’d come. Another wanted to pull her into an embrace and keep her close, bury my nose in that shiny blond hair the way I used to do.

  I stood riveted to the hardwood.

  “Aramis, you look good.”

  “What’re you doing here? You live in Nashville now?”

  “Just visiting for a few days actually.” She tilted her head back, looked at me from beneath her straw hat tied with a yellow ribbon. Her knee-length spring dress was circled by a white belt matching her gloves. “I was hoping to see you.”

  “Here I am.”

  “You sound upset.”

  “You cheated on me. Remember how we ended this two years ago?”

  She took a step toward me. “You weren’t the same person I’d fallen in love with. And I lost everything trying to make it work.”

  “And then you left. Didn’t seem you hoped to see me again.”

  Another step. “Maybe I was hasty. You gave me no choice.”

  “Hey, I didn’t tell you to go.”

  She was three feet away now, her cobalt blue eyes studying mine. They were darker than I recalled, more melancholy. “I heard a rumor you’d changed.”

  “From who?”

  “Is it true?” she persisted.

  I looked past her. We seemed to be alone in the exhibit hall, yet the threat of evil still lingered. What were the odds of her being here at this time? No, she had to be connected—maybe even responsible.

  But that couldn’t be.

  During our relationship I’d never seen her swat a fly, much less carve initials into human flesh. As for quoting Bible verses in e-mails, she’d come from an overbearing religious background but never been the Bible-thumping type herself. Far from it.

  “It’s true,” I said. “I have changed.”

  She stood a foot in front of me. “Your response here leaves some doubt.”

  “Got a lot on my mind right now. Don’t know what to think.”

  “Then stop trying so hard. I see that hasn’t changed. You always wanted to analyze everything. Are you still trying to escape all those thoughts beneath that wavy black hair?” In moderate heels, she barely reached my shoulders as she stepped closer and pressed herself against me.

  It felt nice. Soft in all the correct places.

  “You had every right, Felicia.”

  “Hmm?”

  “To leave.” I swallowed and let my arms encircle her waist. “It was easier to be mad at you than accept my own faults.”

  “I made mistakes too.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

  She leaned back. “You’re still bitter, aren’t you?”

  “Why do people keep saying that?”

  Her face turned up, lips parted. Something there worried me, but I brushed it aside.

  “You look nice,” I said.

  “You like it? I dressed up for the steeplechase.”

  “The Iroquois. That was today?”

  “It was magnificent. The horses, the colors … I could feel their hoofs pounding the ground, right up through my legs.”

  If she meant to draw attention to her toned calves, it worked. I envisioned her up on her toes, cheering with the thousands of spectators, the racehorses thundering past the stands.

  The race was held at neighboring Percy Warner Park, named after the first American-bred horse to win the English Derby. In the late 1800s, he’d been the country’s leading sire, stabled at Nashville’s Belle Meade Plantation. The glory days had faded when strict rules against racetrack wagering went into effect.

  “You always were a horse lover,” I said.

  “You remember that? I’m touched.”

  There was a lot I’d tried to forget, but I knew that, as a girl, Felicia had ridden an Appaloosa mare and tacked posters of stallions on her walls. She’d begged more than once to go riding on the beaches, but I’d never made it happen. Too busy with spoons and needles.

  “I was a real loser, wasn’t I? Back in Portland.”

  “You know I still loved you, doll.”

  “Is that why you’re here?”

  Her eyes grew moist, and she looked down.

  “What’s going on, Felicia?”

  Blond tips stroked her collarbones as she shook her head, and I fought the impulse to run my fingers through her hair. I’d come expecting a showdown with a killer, not this reunion in a museum. In a rush, logic pushed back up through my spinning thoughts, shoving my suspicions to the surface.

  “Who put you up to this?” I breathed. “How’d you know I’d be here?”

  “I … It started a few months back.”

  “And?”

  “I saw you on that reality show, and it set me thinking about all the times we’d shared. I guess … well, I wanted to see you again.”

  “So you sent me the e-mail this morning.”

  “E-mail?”

  “Did you … Are you carrying a knife?”

  “No. Gosh, no.”

  I scanned the exhibit area again, then took hold of her slender arms. The image of my brother’s sliced shoulder filled my vision, followed by a descending curtain of red. I slid my fingers down. Stroked her warm skin. Was she the culprit? The question had to be asked, but our years of shared history were all the answer I needed.

  She simply didn’t have it in her.

  Really? You’ve been a fool before, you know.

  My fingers tightened into cuffs around her wrists. “There’s something you’re not telling me, Felicia.” Twisting her around, I pressed her against the wall and put my mouth close to her ear. Her hair smelled like flowers—or was that only the scent of the gardens outside?—and my rough actions sent a pang of guilt through me. “Cough it up. Just tell me why you showed up here today.”

  “Please, doll, don’t treat me like this.”

  I tried to recall my training in social psych. Had I learned anything about sifting out falsehood from fact? She yelped as I pushed harder. “I want some answers, darlin’. You hear me? The truth. Did you hurt my brother?”

  “Why would you ask such a thing?”

  “You didn’t cut him up last night?”

  She stiffened. “Have I ever hurt anyone?”

  “He was attacked. The letters AX mean anything to you?”

  “Like an ax?”

  “You heard me. Someone told you to come, am I right?”

  She fell silent.

  “Who sent you?”

  “This guy.”

  “What guy?”

  “I can’t say. It wouldn’t have been his real name anyway.”

  “You can’t? Or won’t?”

  “You’re hurting my arm.”

  “Have you seen him? Seen his face?”

  “I … He said his name was Axman. Please, Aramis, you’re hurting me.”

  “What’s he look like? Sound like? Describe him for me.”

  “There’s nothing to say. We talked on the phone. He told me he’d kill me if I didn’t do as he said or went to the cops. I wanted to see you, and at first he made it sound like you and I might work things out. He said he knew you. He sent me cash for my airfare, told me to buy some new clothes and come meet you.”

  “There must’ve been a catch.”

  “You were the catch. He was going to hurt you.”

  “No, that was your job.”

  “I know I left you, but please believe that I never stopped thinking about us.”

  “Blah-de-blah. So what’s this guy want from you?
”

  “I’m supposed to give you this.” Trapped in my grip, she leaned her head forward against the wall. The hat scooted back off her head and onto my chest.

  “Is this a joke?”

  “He taped something inside.” Still captive, she craned around with a pleading look. “You have to obey the instructions if you want to know the truth.”

  “Whatever.”

  I released her to search the hat, telling myself it had nothing to do with the tears. Nothing at all. Not her quivering lip or the memories she sent racing through my head.

  Footsteps clicked down the hall, and I caught a glimpse of the security guard’s polished shoes. A rent-a-cop? Or the real deal? The museum contained a fortune in art, but I’d never heard of a theft occurring here. What would he think of a crying woman pressed against the wall by a swarthy-looking man with tattooed forearms?

  I corralled Felicia into an embrace and planted a long kiss on her mouth.

  Call me quick on my feet. Call me unoriginal. Either way, it worked. Despite our age difference, she’d always been submissive. Even now, her stiffness melted into a willing response, and I discovered the hopes still trapped there, written across her lips like heat-activated ink.

  “Folks.” The guard cleared his throat. “We’ll be closing in fifteen minutes.”

  I disengaged, waved a hand. “Thanks.”

  “We do suggest visitors leave before the gates lock at four thirty.”

  “Okay.”

  “And please,” he said with a frown, “don’t brush against the walls.”

  “Yes sir. I mean, no sir.”

  He walked away with clicking strides toward the next room.

  Felicia put both hands on my chest. “That was nice.”

  “Tasted salty to me.”

  “Oh, quit it. I see through the macho facade.”

  “Macho. That’s me.”

  “You haven’t changed.” She pushed away. “I wanted to believe otherwise. I really did.”

  With the yellow-ribboned hat still in my hand, I watched her march off and wondered if she was right. The impulsive lip lock, the protective sarcasm, and emotional walls. Had I just hidden my old ways behind a wall of good intentions?