Wanted Woman Read online

  “Would you please get Miss Desiree up, ma’am,” he said in his best Rhett Butler imitation when the housekeeper answered the front door of the house a few minutes later. “It’s the law come a calling.” He flashed his credentials.

  The German housekeeper didn’t get the accent or the humor, what little there was. Nor did she look the least bit concerned. It wasn’t as if this was the first time a uniformed officer had come to the door looking for Desiree.

  “She is indisposed.”

  Jesse laughed. “She’s still in bed. If I have to come back it will be with a warrant for her arrest.”

  “I’ll take care of this,” said a female voice from the cool darkness of the house. Daisy stepped from the shadows. She was close to fifty and still a very attractive woman. It seemed as if the years she’d spent in seclusion after Angela’s kidnapping had made her more reserved, less haughty. Her dark hair had been recently highlighted with blond streaks and cut to the nape of her neck so that it floated nicely around her pretty face.

  But Jesse would always see her as he had at the age of nine, a goddess with long dark hair and a lush body, riding bareback through the tall grass behind his house, smelling of fancy flowers and what he later realized was sex.

  “Hello, Jesse. Can I offer you some coffee? Or perhaps a glass of iced tea? Zinnia just made some.”

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Dennison.” He supposed it was natural he was disposed not to like the woman even if he had never spoken more than two words to her before. “I need to see Desiree.”

  “I’m sure she’s still in bed. Please. Call me Daisy.”

  “I’m going to have to insist you get her up, Mrs. Dennison.”

  Daisy’s back stiffened. So did her features. “It’s that important?”

  “Yes, ma’am, it is.”

  She sighed. “Very well. If you’d care to wait in there.” She pointed toward a small sitting room, the walls lined with books. “I’ll go get her.” Her look said Desiree would not be happy about this.

  Too bad. He was a hell of a lot less happy about this than the princess of the house.

  It was a good forty-five minutes later before Desiree made an appearance. Jesse had reacquainted himself with several classics in the small library by the time she burst into the room.

  Her scent preceded her. She smelled of jasmine, her hair still wet from her shower, her face perfectly made-up. She was wearing all white, a blouse that floated over her curves and white Capri pants that set off her sun-bed tanned legs. She gave him her come-hither look, but being seductive came as easily as breathing for Desiree.

  “Jesse,” she cooed. “You really should call a girl before you drop by so she can be presentable.”

  He was struck by the color of her eyes. But it wasn’t just the eyes, he realized.

  She moved past him, darting to plant a kiss on his cheek and brushing one of her full breasts against his arm as she did.

  He found his voice. “This is not a social occasion and you know it.”

  She turned to smile at him. Desiree Dennison had found that she possessed a power over men and she loved it.

  “I’m here on sheriff’s department business,” he said. “I witnessed an accident last night on the highway by my place. I saw you hit a motorcyclist when you pulled out from Maple Creek Road.”

  She drew back, gave him a get-real look, then lied right to his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Where were you at three in the morning, after the bars closed?”

  A brow shot up. “In bed.”

  “Anyone’s bed I know who can give you an alibi?”

  She pouted. “In my own bed, alone.”

  He shook his head. “Give me your car keys.”

  “What?”

  “Your car keys. Now.”

  “I’ll have to go upstairs and get them.” Her cheeks flamed with obvious anger as if the walk was more than she was up to this morning. Or maybe it was being caught.

  “I’ll wait.”

  She turned her back on him to buzz the housekeeper on the intercom. “Get me some juice,” she snapped. “Orange juice. A large glass.” Then she left the room.

  He half expected to hear the sports car engine roar to life, but Desiree was too used to getting out of scrapes to make a run for it. Daddy always bailed her out. Only Daddy couldn’t even make bail himself right now. And maybe Mommy was over Desiree’s shenanigans.

  But it was Daisy who returned with the car keys.

  “If you had told me why you were here, I could have saved you the trouble of waking Desiree. I was driving my daughter’s car last night.”

  He stared at her, not bothering to take the keys she held out to him. “You were the one up Maple Creek Road? You realize that’s the local make-out spot?”

  She smiled. “Is it? I’m afraid I was only turning around. I took Desiree’s car because I felt like having the top down. I pulled into the turnoff at Maple Creek Road. I didn’t see the biker. I know I should have reported it at once.”

  “Or maybe stopped to see if the biker wasn’t killed.”

  Daisy blanched. “Is he all right?”

  Jesse didn’t correct her on the rider’s gender. “Yeah.”

  Her expression said she expected charges to be filed, probably a lawsuit by the biker, maybe even her own arrest, but she was ready. Like her daughter, she’d always come away from scrapes unscathed. Except for the loss of her youngest daughter, Angela, when Desiree was two.

  “Are you sure you want to take the rap for your daughter?” Jesse asked, holding her gaze. “I know Desiree was driving the car. I saw her.”

  “Really? You were making out on Maple Creek Road last night, deputy?” Daisy asked.

  He smiled. “No, I was standing on the deck of my cabin. I can see the highway from there.”

  “From your house?” Daisy repeated. “From that distance and in the dark you are absolutely sure it was Desiree behind the wheel?”

  “Yes.”

  “How is that possible when I was the one driving her car?” Daisy asked.

  He knew exactly what she was saying. He could call her a liar and press this. It would be his word against hers. He might be wearing a deputy’s uniform but she would be more credible—even after the shoot-out in her pool house. Maybe more so because she had come off as the victim. Plus she would hire the best attorney money could buy.

  “Look, the worst that will happen is Desiree will lose her driver’s license,” he said patiently. “And you know that’s probably the best thing that could happen, getting her off the streets for a while. Next time she might kill someone. Or herself. And there will be a next time.”

  “I told you I was the one—”

  “I know what you told me,” Jesse interrupted. “You also told me that Wade was the one who shot my brother but it was your gun and your hand over Wade’s when the shots were fired.”

  Daisy’s gaze turned to granite. “I’m sorry about Mitch. I was only trying to defend myself.”

  Or make sure Wade was out of her life—and without the money, the house, the business. Jesse fought to hold his temper in check. “Isn’t that the same thing Wade said when he killed Bud Farnsworth?”

  She flinched imperceptibly. The former production manager at Dennison Ducks had pretty much confessed to kidnapping baby Angela from her crib twenty-seven years ago. Unfortunately, Bud never had the chance to implicate the person believed to have masterminded the kidnapping—or tell anyone what he’d done with Angela.

  According to Charity, who’d been there, Bud had been trying to say something when Wade shot and killed him. Wade’s defense was that he was protecting Charity and Daisy.

  “In two months time, you’ve been involved in two shootings,” Jesse pointed out.

  “I was shot myself by Mr. Farnsworth, you might recall,” Daisy said. “And almost killed by my estranged husband. In my emotional state is it any wonder I didn’t see that motorcycle last night let alone that I panick
ed and foolishly didn’t stop?”

  He had to laugh. She would play whatever card it took to get herself out of this—and damned if she wouldn’t walk.

  “Are you going to arrest me?” she asked. “If so I’d like to call my lawyer.”

  “You can call your lawyer from the sheriff’s office,” Jesse said. “Sure you don’t want to rethink what you’re doing, Mrs. Dennison?”

  She hesitated but only for a moment, then held out her wrists to be handcuffed.

  It was a temptation. “I don’t think that will be necessary as long as you promise to come along without any trouble.”

  She smiled and walked to the intercom. “I’ll be back shortly, Desiree.”

  Desiree didn’t come back downstairs. Not even when Zinnia showed up with a large glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

  CHARITY CHECKED to make sure Mitch had fallen asleep before she let Aunt Florie in the front door and took her aside.

  “Don’t try to force anything with tofu in it on him, all right?” Charity whispered so as to not disturb Mitch who was snoring softly in his recliner. “Or zucchini.”

  “He likes my zucchini bread,” Florie said.

  Sure Mitch did. If Charity hadn’t been desperate, she would never have even considered leaving Florie with Mitch, but Wade Dennison’s sister, Lydia Abernathy, had asked her to stop by the antique shop. Charity was dying to know what that was about. Wade and his recent arrest probably. Charity had always suspected Lydia knew a lot more about what went on at her brother’s house than she was telling.

  “And no reading his palm or his tea leaves, got it?” Mitch wouldn’t be happy to wake up to Florie. But Charity’s aunt and all her other screwball relatives came with the marriage package. No wonder Mitch had taken so long to pop the question.

  “Whatever.” Florie smiled. She’d been doing that a lot lately. Ever since Liam Sawyer had become single again. “Just a minute. I don’t know what to wear to the party this weekend.” She whipped two caftans out of her bag, one in swirls of bright colors, the other in splashes of bright colors. “Which do you like best?”

  That was a tough one. They were both garish at best. “I have an idea,” Charity said looking at her aunt. “I think it’s time for a makeover.”

  Florie, now hugging seventy, was the local psychic and ran her business, Madam Florie’s, via e-mail from an old motel on the south end of town. The motel units were now bungalow rentals and Florie did readings out of the office-slash-apartment, as well as on the Internet.

  Whether or not Florie was clairvoyant was debatable. But she definitely played the part. She wore her long dyed red hair wound around her head like a turban, and dressed in bright caftans that mirrored the turquoise eye shadow she wore to highlight her blue eyes. Her fingers were adorned with dozens of rings and her slim wrists jangled with an array of colorful bracelets. She looked like an exotic bird, blinding in its plumage.

  “What’s wrong with the way I look?” Florie asked.

  Charity didn’t have enough time to get into that. “I just think maybe Roz and I could give you a new look for the party.” Roz was Liam Sawyer’s daughter. The party was to celebrate the fact that her best friend Rozalyn was back in town to stay. Also, Charity suspected, to announce Roz’s engagement to Ford Lancaster.

  “A new look?” Florie repeated.

  Charity nodded enthusiastically. “A surprise for Liam.”

  The older woman’s eyes brightened and Charity knew she had her. Florie had been in love with Liam for years.

  “I’ll talk to Roz. Don’t you worry. It’s going to be great,” Charity whispered, backing toward the door. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Don’t forget, nothing funny on Mitch.”

  Florie had that dreamy look on her face, obviously lost in thought about Liam, as she waved from the front porch.

  Charity had to smile as she climbed into her VW Bug. It was nice to know that falling in love had no age limit. She hoped things worked out for her aunt and Liam. Meanwhile, she couldn’t wait to find out what Lydia Abernathy wanted. Lydia only called when something was up.

  AFTER LOCKING UP Daisy Dennison, Jesse drove through town, fighting a bad mood, hoping to see that fancy motorbike he’d rolled into the back of his pickup last night.

  He couldn’t get Maggie—if that was her real name—off his mind. Or the money he’d seen in her saddlebag. But there was no sign of her.

  Back at the office, he whizzed past Sissy, taking the handful of messages she waved at him, as he went by. Sissy, a thirtysomething large woman with an attitude, managed to get in one of her your-name-is-mud looks before he closed the door.

  He sat down behind his brother’s desk, glaring at the computer. After a moment, he looked through the messages. Barking dog, missing trash can, abandoned car, noise complaint. He recognized the names of the people who had called. Constant complainers. All people his brother had to deal with on a daily basis—especially this time of year when the constant rain caused a bad case of cabin fever. Jesse wondered how Mitch did it.

  Dropping the messages on his desk, he stared at the computer. He’d written down the license number from Maggie’s bike last night when he’d hoped she would press charges. Now he hesitated.

  “Sissy?” he said buzzing the clerk.

  “Yeesss?”

  He cringed, only desperation would make him call her in here, but he was about as wild about computers as he was cell phones. “I need help.”

  That soft knowing chuckle of hers. “Don’t I know it.”

  A minute later she opened the office door and stepped in, hands on hips. “If you want coffee, you get it yourself. Doughnuts, I get ’em every morning anyway so I don’t mind picking up a couple for the sheriff. He liked lemon-filled.”

  “Lemon-filled works for me,” Jesse said.

  “And it would help if you told me where you were going when you left. Better yet,” she said, swinging her head to one side with obvious attitude, “if you bothered to show up in the morning at all. People call wanting to know there is someone in charge and what am I supposed to tell them?”

  “I thought you were in charge,” he said and smiled.

  She mugged a face at him. “You better believe it.”

  He reminded himself that he only had to do this for a couple of months tops and if he could deal with Daisy and Desiree Dennison he could put up with Sissy Walker. As long as he didn’t spend too much time in the office.

  “You know how to run this damned thing?” he said, motioning to the computer.

  She smiled that smug smile of hers. “The Pope wear boxers?”

  He didn’t have a clue. But she hadn’t moved. “Can you show me how to use it?” She still didn’t move. “Please? Pretty please and I buy the doughnuts?”

  A smile burst across her ample face and she sashayed over, shooed him up and planted her wide hips in his chair. “What you want?”

  “Show me how to find out things. Like…how do I track down a name from a license plate number?”

  “What state?”

  “Washington. A motorcycle license.”

  She kicked up an eyebrow and gave him a look but began to tap the keys. He paid attention. He might not like computers, but he was a fast learner and he wasn’t going to call in Sissy every time he needed to look up a plate number.

  “What’s the number?”

  He told her, then watched the screen anxiously to see what she came up with.

  Sissy let out an “uh-huh,” as the name appeared on the screen. “I should have known it would be some broad.”

  “Biker chick,” he corrected, reading the name Margaret Jane Randolph—Maggie—and the address, a better-known wealthy residential area in West Seattle. He hadn’t expected anything less.

  Sissy started to get up.

  “Wait, one more thing. How would I see if there are any priors on her?”

  Sissy gave him that eyebrow thing again but continued typing. “You know how to pick ’em,” she said as an
APB came up for the woman in question.

  Margaret Jane Randolph was wanted for questioning in a murder investigation in West Seattle. Murder? The photo accompanying the APB looked as if it was her mug shot from her driver’s license. Her hair was different but she was obviously the woman he’d picked up off the highway last night. No two women had a face like that even if some of her features might remind him of another woman.

  He swore softly under his breath.

  “Anything else?” Sissy asked sounding disgusted as she pushed herself up and started toward the door.

  “No. Thanks,” he said as he lowered himself into the chair she’d vacated.

  Sissy stopped in the doorway. He glanced up at her. She was shaking her head, giving him the once-over, her gaze halting on his ponytail for a moment.

  “How do I make a printout?” he called after her.

  “Press Print. Some deputy you make,” she said under her breath as she left the room, closing the door behind her.

  He turned back to the screen.

  An instant message box had flashed up, advising any inquiries to be routed to Detective Rupert Blackmore of the West Seattle Police Department. The message was marked urgent and included the detective’s phone number.

  Jesse stared at the message and swore. What the hell? It seemed pretty clear Maggie wasn’t just wanted for questioning. Was it possible she was a suspect in the murder investigation? And where did all the cash fit in? Or did it?

  Jesse got up and walked to the window, telling himself there was no reason to call the detective. No reason to pursue this. She was long gone. Hell, she could be halfway to Mexico by now. Or at least California.

  Outside, it had started to rain again, another gray day. Nothing new there.

  The woman was wanted for questioning in a murder investigation? Damn.

  He went back to the computer, jotted down the detective’s name and number on a piece of scrap paper.

  Then he hit the close key.

  It took a long moment for the screen to clear and as he watched it, he wondered if Detective Rupert Blackmore was at this very moment wondering why someone at the sheriff’s department in Timber Falls, Oregon, was interested in Maggie Randolph.