A Killing in the Hills - By Julia Keller Page 0,40
place, every ancient, crumbling inch of it. On the outside, she loved every mustard-colored stone and every crooked line of mud-hued mortar that anchored those stones, and she loved the gray slate roof that cost a bloody fortune to maintain. Inside, she loved every solid plaster wall and every strip of crown molding and every inch of the wide-planked, wooden-pegged floors.
At this moment, she had a single goal. It was a simple one. She wanted to lower herself forthwith into the big broken-down armchair in her living room. An itchy dampness bloomed under each arm. She was thinking about how good it was going to feel to shuck off her shoes and close her eyes.
Bell froze.
The front door hung open a good inch and a half. Her weariness vanished. Instantly alert once more, a cold panic swept over her. Maybe the lunatic who’d tried to kill her on the mountain had beaten her home – and now waited inside, ready to finish the job.
She pushed warily at the heavy door, wincing at the tortured, coffinlike shriek. She was ready for anything.
‘Carla?’ she called out. ‘Carla? Sweetie?’
Two figures suddenly appeared in the foyer, one short and one tall.
The short one was Carla. The tall one was Sam Elkins. Her ex-husband.
He smiled. Bell didn’t.
‘Heard you pull in,’ he said. His smile widened. He specialized in smiles.
Oh, fabulous. Her fatigue returned in a steep gray wave, almost knocking her over. What a weekend. My daughter witnesses a massacre. Some crazy bastard just about runs me off the road. And now my ex-husband shows up unannounced.
It’s the freakin’ trifecta.
13
Damn, he looked good. She had to admit it.
She gave Sam Elkins the once-over, not letting her gaze linger too long, because she knew he’d get a kick out of it, and that wasn’t the kind of kick she wanted to administer.
‘Jesus, Bell,’ he said. He had a headlong, hectoring way of talking, as if he were always in the midst of a speech on the floor of the U.S. Senate. ‘Three people gunned down in the middle of town? What the hell’s happening to this place? And what are you and Sheriff Andy doing about it?’
That was his permanent joke, the old reliable. Acker’s Gap was Mayberry. Nick Fogelsong was slow-moving Andy Taylor, hands in his pockets, whistling a little tune while the bad guys robbed banks and snatched old ladies’ purses.
It wasn’t funny the first time Sam said it. Hadn’t grown any more amusing since.
The three of them moved into the living room. Sam was commandeering the space as well as the conversation, just like always. He and Carla sat down on the couch. He’d edged in front of Bell to claim the spot. Everything was a contest with Sam.
Bell didn’t care. Let him win. She didn’t want the couch, anyway. Just as she’d planned, she fell into the big overstuffed chair in the corner, dumping her briefcase and her sweater on the first horizontal surfaces she passed on the way. Settled herself in the mushy-soft cushions with a delicious little wiggle of her backside. Only two things would’ve made the moment any better:
The presence of a cold Rolling Rock on the little table beside her, its green glass side pebbled with beautiful condensation.
And the absence of her ex-husband.
‘We called you yesterday, Sam,’ Bell said. ‘Carla’s fine. Fine then, fine now.’
She didn’t want to tell him about the wild ride down the mountain. She knew he would use it as yet another chance to slam West Virginia. Knew what he’d say: Must’ve been some drunk hillbilly. Stupid reckless redneck. Told ya so. Besides, she was used to keeping secrets. It was second nature.
‘Appreciated that,’ Sam declared, ‘but I needed to check on my little girl. Well worth the trip.’ He hooked an arm around Carla’s narrow shoulders. ‘Can’t imagine what it was like. Being so close to that kind of thing. You’re brave, sweetie. I’m proud of you.’
Bell watched him give their daughter a hug. She wished it weren’t so, but her ex-husband really did look good. He was dressed in a buff-colored V-neck pullover and sleek cuffed khakis and soft tasseled loafers, a vivid contrast to her sweat-matted blouse and rumpled trousers. It was Sam’s casual look. The fact that he even had a look – that he spent so much time fussing over his clothes these days, primarily to appear as if he hadn’t fussed at all – was strange. It was a measure of how much he had changed.