Murder in the Smokies - By Paula Graves Page 0,42

had cool blue eyes, fair skin dusted with freckles and long, straight hair the color of honey in sunlight. She was tall, towering over Ivy, but there was a fragility to her that made Sutton want to find her a chair before she collapsed.

“Not often,” Ivy answered, her tone gentle, as if she, too, realized Rachel Davenport was someone with whom she had to tread lightly. “Did you know the other women through their work at your father’s company?”

She nodded, her gaze lengthening, as if to take in the rest of the cemetery. “They’re all here. I guess that’s to be expected in a town this small, huh?”

She really did look as if she was going to fall down any moment, Sutton thought with alarm. He exchanged a look with Ivy, and she stepped forward, laying her hand on Rachel’s arm. “Do you have a ride home?”

Rachel looked at Ivy as if she’d asked a strange question. “I have my car here.”

Ivy glanced at Sutton again.

“I’m not going to break,” Rachel said, fire in her voice. Color rose in her cheeks, driving out the paleness. “I’m fine.”

Her irritation seemed to have strengthened the steel in her spine, for she looked stronger already. Ivy took her hand away from the woman’s arm and gave Sutton a shrugging look.

“I could use a cup of coffee before I get back to my normal day,” he said. “Would you ladies like to join me?”

Rachel and Ivy both gave him similarly disbelieving looks, as if to ask, Is that the best you can do?

“Look, if you want to interrogate me or something,” Rachel said, directing her words to Ivy, “just say so. I’ll happily cooperate, though I’m not sure what I can add.”

“I really could use a cup of coffee,” Sutton said. “How about we grab a cup at Ledbetter’s and you can tell us all about your friends?”

A murmured request from Ivy to Maisey Ledbetter got them a corner booth at the diner, well away from the other afternoon patrons. Ivy slid onto the booth bench next to Sutton, the heat of her body against his generating a pleasant but bearable buzz of sexual awareness. Rachel Davenport sat opposite them, her slim hands worrying the small plastic container of sugar and sweetener packets.

“I feel like a jinx,” she murmured, her gaze focused on the movement of her fingers. “Everyone around me dies.”

“Your father’s sick, isn’t he?” Ivy asked.

Sutton looked at her. She slanted a glance his way as if to ask him to back her up with whatever she said. He settled back, letting her take the lead.

“Liver cancer. Inoperable. They’re hoping the chemo might give him more time, but I think he’s given up hope.” Rachel’s lower lip trembled, but she brought it under control. Sutton realized he’d underestimated her. She looked fragile, and clearly she was struggling with a hellish amount of personal stress and grief, but she was stronger than she looked.

“What about your mother?”

“She died when I was fifteen.”

Damn, Sutton thought. No wonder she felt like a jinx.

“I bet Marjorie Kenner stepped in for you then. A maternal figure in your life.”

Rachel’s gaze flicked upward, meeting Ivy’s. “I’d never really thought of it that way, but, yeah. I guess she did.”

“Amelia and Coral were around your age,” Ivy said. “Did you socialize with them?”

“Amelia was my best friend from college. We bonded over our love of old movies,” Rachel said with a faint smile. “We used to go to that revival theater in Knoxville on weekends when they were showing the old romantic comedies. Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn, Irene Dunn, Myrna Loy—” She looked back at her hands. “We were supposed to go the weekend she died.”

“What about Coral?” Sutton asked.

“Coral was a mess.” Rachel’s voice darkened with regret. “She just couldn’t get past losing Derek. I tried to make sure she had something to eat and that she didn’t drink herself to death. I was so afraid she’d give up and do something terrible to herself. I just never thought she’d go the way she did.”

Four victims, Sutton thought. They’d thought Davenport Trucking might be the connection. But that was only half the answer.

The real connection seemed to be Rachel Davenport herself.

“Do you have any enemies?” he asked aloud.

Two sets of eyes snapped up to look at him. “Enemies?” Rachel asked, sounding confused.

Beside him, Ivy closed her hand over his knee, her grip strong. “Of your family,” she said. “Since three of the victims worked for your father.”

Sutton took