The Lover. BEVERLY BARTONЧитать онлайн книгу.
grandchildren. Thomasina hoped that someday she would marry a fine man and bring her own children into the clan. But for now, she liked her life just as it was.
But she didn’t love her life and hadn’t ever since she and Ron Hensley had broken up about six months ago. She’d gotten a little more involved in their relationship than he had and when she’d made the mistake of becoming possessive, he’d backed off so quickly it had made her head spin. Her heart had been broken and she’d gone into a mild depression for about two months; then she had looked around and realized there were a lot of other men out there—better men than Ron. One man in particular had caught her eye—Brandon Kelley, the art director here at the junior college. He wasn’t an Adams County native, wasn’t even an Alabama native, and had come to work at the junior college only last year. She didn’t know a great deal about him, only the basic facts. He was thirty-eight, divorced, no children, and had come to Alabama from North Carolina.
Once he started teaching at the junior college, enrollment in art classes doubled, and seventy-five percent of his students were female. But who could blame the students for drooling over the guy. He was simply to die for. Chocolate brown eyes, curly brown hair with a touch of gray at the temples and worn just a tad too long. He was handsome in a Greek god sort of way. Thomasina had to admit that she was as infatuated with Dr. Kelley as any of his young students.
After sitting down at her desk, Thomasina pulled out the right-side bottom drawer and placed her handbag inside, then leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She had less than fifteen minutes to relax before the start of her first afternoon class and she had found that a quick, ten-minute power nap usually refreshed her and gave her the energy boost she needed to keep her going until the end of the day. But today, for some reason, she couldn’t seem to drift off into that semi-asleep state. Her mind kept whirling with thoughts—thoughts about Dr. Brandon Kelley. Her older sister, Amanda, had told her to ask the guy for a date, and she’d been trying to build up her courage to do just that. After all, what was the worst that could happen? He’d say no. And if he did? No big deal. She’d at least know where she stood with him and could move on to someone who was actually interested in her.
Thomasina opened her eyes, grumbled to herself and gave up on getting her daily afternoon power nap. As her gaze traveled over her desktop, she noticed a square white envelope lying in the middle of a textbook she’d put there before leaving for lunch. She stared at the envelope for half a minute, then picked it up and turned it over to the front. Her name—Thomasina—had been printed in bold letters in black ink. Her heart did a nervous rat-a-tat-tat.
The envelope had not been sealed, but the flap had been tucked neatly beneath the V-shaped back opening. She slid the flap up, and with forefinger and thumb eased the one-page note out of the envelope.
Thomasina took a deep breath, then unfolded the paper, which had been pressed in half, and read the brief message.
I worship you from afar, my beautiful Thomasina.
With her heart fluttering and her pulse racing, she gasped. It was a love letter, of sorts. A succinct message from an admirer. But who? One of her students? Possibly. After all, she was rather attractive and had dealt with male students making passes at her on several occasions.
She read the note again; the words were written in bold print and with black ink. But what student could have written something so utterly romantic? None she knew of. It was something a man would have written, not a boy. A worldly man, with the heart of a poet. Or an artist?
What if Brandon Kelley had written it? What if this was his way of wooing her?
Thomasina held the note to her breast and smiled.
After just one bite of the peach cobbler, Jim understood why Bernie and the others had raved about it. Without a doubt, it was the best he’d ever eaten—even better than his mother’s, and she’d been a great cook. If he ate many lunches like the one he’d eaten today, he’d either have to work out more or he’d wind up putting on ten pounds his first month in Adams County.
“Amy’s going to want to have you over for dinner one night,” Jerry Dale said. “She’ll be calling you. She’s a wonderful little cook.”
How did he get out of such a gracious invitation? “That’s awfully nice of—”
Jerry Dale laughed. “Nothing nice about it. That wife of mine is a matchmaker. She’ll probably invite one of her unmarried friends to dinner the same night. Just warning you ahead of time. And she won’t take no for an answer.”
Jim swallowed. “I don’t suppose there’s some courteous way to say no thanks, is there?”
“Not with my Amy. She’s a little velvet steamroller.”
“When Amy calls you, why don’t you suggest that you come for dinner one evening when your son is visiting,” Bernie said. “Tell Amy you’d like Kevin to meet some of the kids here in Adams Landing and he could start with Anna Leigh and J.D.”
Jim released a silent sigh. Once again, his boss had come to his rescue. Was that just her nature? he wondered. Was she the caretaker type who was always looking out for others?
Suddenly Ron Hensley’s cell phone rang—a distinct, loud ring, no catchy tune. He eased the phone from the belt clip, hit the ON button and said, “Lieutenant Hensley.”
Jim studied the deputy’s facial expressions and figured something was wrong, bad wrong, before Hensley said, “Goddamn it. Who found her? I see. Yeah, we’ll be out there as soon as we can. Just don’t let anybody touch anything and keep them as far away from the crime scene as possible.”
The minute Hensley finished his conversation, Bernie asked, “What was that about?”
“Earl Wheeler found a woman’s body lying in the middle of a dirt road leading into one of his soybean fields,” Hensley said. “That was John. He’s on his way to the scene now.”
“Any idea who—” Bernie didn’t get her sentence finished.
“Earl told John that he’s pretty sure the woman is Stephanie Preston. Said she looked like the woman in the newspaper and on TV who’s been missing for a couple of weeks.”
When they arrived at the crime scene, a small crowd had already formed along the roadside and the rutted lane leading into farmer Earl Wheeler’s soybean fields. Jim had seen this happen all too often, thanks to citizens in possession of police scanners. Although several deputies had beaten them there and were doing their best to keep the spectators at bay, Lieutenant Downs was sweating profusely, apparently concerned about keeping the scene secured.
“Look at them,” Hensley said. “Swarming like maggots. Why is it that people are so damn fascinated by murder and mayhem?”
Neither Jim nor Bernie replied since the deputy’s question was obviously rhetorical.
Bernie parked her Jeep just short of the yellow tape marking the scene, opened the driver’s door and hopped out, with Hensley on her heels. She gave the bystanders a hard glare and ordered everyone to keep their distance, then met Downs as he came toward her. Jim, who’d been sitting in the backseat, didn’t rush, allowing the sheriff to take the lead. After all, when it came time to speak to the press, she’d be the one to take the heat. And when the case was solved, it was her right to take most, if not all, the glory. As the new chief investigator, this should be his case, but he wasn’t about to inform either the sheriff or Hensley of that fact.
After he got out of the Jeep, he stood back, surveying the scene. Bernie paused after speaking to Downs and looked at Jim. She motioned to him with a wave of her hand. He nodded, and then joined the others at the edge of the yellow tape.
“It’s Stephanie Preston,” Bernie said. “John called Morris Claunch, our county coroner, and he should be here any minute now. He’ll be able to give us some basic info, but it seems