Oh, dear. The bad guy he was after? Hadn’t Vivien said something about them catching that man? Why hadn’t Maggie paid closer attention? Maybe this was one of his unsavory partners, come to kill…someone.
“Try calling him,” she said. “I can’t help you.”
“I did and his phone’s disconnected. This is the address he gave the FBI.”
Her heart jumped.The FBI?Now what did they want? The house? The deed? Her head on a platter? Hadn’t she given them enough?
“Why do you need him?” she asked, her fingers tightening on the coffee cup as he came closer, almost to the first-level patio.
“I understand he’s been digging for information on Arthur Wylie and Roger Lawson.”
She nearly dropped her coffee.
For at least three heartbeats, he stared up at her, silent and expressionless. Then his eyes shuttered.
“Wild guess, but you gotta be either Maggie or Jo Ellen. Based on what I know—which is a lot—I’m going with Maggie. Roger said you were, uh, spunky. Artie said his wife was a softy. Lady, you aren’t soft.”
She managed to swallow. “Who are you?”
“My name’s James Hill, retired FBI. I headed up the Biloxi CCSG and put a man named Cotton Ramsey in jail.” He shifted from one foot to the other, holding her gaze. “I think I have the information you want. And you have a thirty-year-old dry cleaning stub that I’ve been looking for.”
Her legs wobbled like she was on that boat after all. In fact, right then, she wished she’d gone and could throwherselfin the water.
“So, can we talk?” He spread out his arms in a gesture of surrender. “I’m not carrying anything but answers to the questions your pal Peter’s been asking.”
Answers. Was there anything she wanted more?
“I’ll be right down,” she croaked.
“Bring that dry cleaning stub, please.”
Feeling shaky, she darted upstairs to her room and opened the small box that held her rings, retrieving the tiny card with the perforated edge.
Once again, she had to give Jo Ellen props for having the nerve to take this from the bank. It might be the price they had to pay for answers.
As she shoved it in her pocket, she wished she also had a gun hidden somewhere but, sadly, that was not the case.
So, she took a deep breath and went all the way down to the ground-floor level, coming face to face with the man standing next to the pool like he had every right to be there.
He was tall, lanky, and pushing eighty. But then, so was she.
She lifted her chin and met his direct gaze.
“Am I right?” he asked. “Magnolia Lawson?”
She considered offering her hand, but thought better of it. Instead, she nodded and crossed her arms over her chest. “Yes.”
“The spunky one.” He grinned, reaching into his pocket for a wallet he flipped open. “As I said, James Hill, retired FBI. Don’t get me wrong, Roger always had nice things to say about you. Can we sit down?”
She studied the badge, then nodded, happy for the excuse not to stand there and vibrate with nerves in front of the man.
“First of all,” he said after they both sat, “I never got to give you my condolences, Mrs. Lawson. Roger’s death was untimelyand unexpected.” He let out a sigh. “Sadly, I was working hard to get him out within the next few months. The minute Cotton Ramsey and his crew were behind bars, your husband would have been home free.” He gave a tight smile. “Guess God had other plans and I’m sure Roger is up there waiting for you.”
She just stared at him, trying—and failing—to understand what he was talking about.
But all she could really think was that this man, this James Hill, was one of the few people on Earth who’d ever implied her white-collar criminal of a husband was inheaven.
Instantly, she liked him.
