Chapter 7

She didn't remember Savannah. That was a big relief. Their paths hadn't crossed since she'd left for college, but she still vividly recalled "Miz Willard's" dislike of all things Legare. The miniature woman in front of her was a sharp contrast to the female powerhouse she'd feared all her life.

Savannah had always thought Joseph Willard was a lot like her dad—bigger than life and a hero to those who didn't know him well. Scratch beneath those likable surfaces and the rot underneath became all too clear.

She nodded. "I'd love to hear the story of how and why he founded TGU. He was quite wealthy?"

Savannah turned a warm, encouraging smile on Helen. "And we still have Nova Cambridge as part of the area's heritage."

Savannah could hardly wait to read them. She opened the letters and snapped pictures of them with her phone. "These are wonderful, Miz Willard."

Helen gasped and put her hand to her neck. "B-but her name is Webster. Are you sure, Deke?"

"She was evicted from her house?"

He sneered. "Your innocent act doesn't fool me, Savannah Legare. You knew exactly what you were doing. The Legares have taken advantage of our family for years. You won't get away with it forever, you know. Your sins will find you out eventually. All of you, especially your father."

***

The dash lights glowed when she switched on the engine. It was only nine, and a plan sprang to life. She could search the warehouse. Maybe she could examine the Willard Treasure room and find a clue as to who had done this. Abernathy's murder had to be tied to the sale of artifacts.

She studied the enormous stone carvings and frescoes torn from the walls of Aztec tombs. Where was that huge one that had been her favorite for so long? He was so ugly she'd felt sympathy and a real connection to him. Oh, there he was, hidden behind boxes. Had someone moved him? She snapped pictures as she walked along the rows past boxes labeled "Assorted Pottery from Building 3" and another row of boxes with the itemized contents labeled.

Maybe it had been her imagination. Or a raccoon. The thought of an animal being in here with her wasn't much of a comfort, and she retraced her steps to the back of the building. Her breath came fast as she strained to hear any movement behind her. Maybe coming here alone hadn't been a good idea.

Something rustled to her right, and somebody struck her on the head. Darkness rushed down to claim her in its folds.

***

The answer popped into his sleep-fogged mind: Savannah.

He grabbed the phone from its charger and took the call. "Hello?"

"Savannah is in the hospital," Jess said without preamble. "She asked me to call you while they take her in for an MRI."

He bolted upright. "What? What happened?"

"Oh. I—I..." His voice trailed off as he fumbled for words. "Is she okay?"

"I hope so. The doctor just walked in. Get down here." She ended the call.

Savannah had to be all right.

Ten minutes later, he was headed south on I-65 with Cody in the back seat. He collected his scattered thoughts as he drove. Savannah's email had offered him a teaching job and a home for the Justice Chamber if he'd represent her. He hadn't responded because he didn't know what to say. He could easily represent her from Birmingham—Little & Associates had clients all over Alabama. A local PI could do the legwork, and Hez could drive down for court hearings and key witness interviews, and he could invite Savannah out for dinner whenever he was in town. Simple—and very different from what Savannah had in mind.

A cold wave of guilt washed over him, settling in an icy lump in his stomach.

Hez pulled into Pelican Harbor just after dawn. He'd called ahead and found a pet boarding place that agreed to take his dog for a few hours, and it only took moments to drop Cody off. Hez turned into the hospital parking lot. Long shadows stretched across the mostly empty asphalt. He parked as close to the entrance as possible and hurried in. Once the front desk verified he was Savannah's husband, a nurse guided him to her room. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the scent of disinfectant lingered in the tiled hallways.

He smiled. "I was just thinking how good you look. You've got first-thing-in-the-morning beauty. How are you doing?"

"That's great! Have you talked to the police?"

"Yes." A shadow crossed her face. "I should have waited for you, shouldn't I? I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it. You're a crime victim this time, not a potential suspect. I'm sure it was fine. What did they say?"

"There weren't any witnesses, and whoever attacked me seemed to know the locations of all the cameras. All the police have is a partial image of the back of someone wearing a gray hoodie. The crime techs are out checking for fingerprints, but they didn't seem optimistic." She hesitated. "Do you think you can help?"

He had, which was a big factor behind his 98percent conviction rate in murder cases. "Yes."

"Did—did you get my email?"

"Oh, good! You'll love Tupelo Grove. It's the perfect place for your clinic."

Her lips flattened. "Oh."

She smiled, but it seemed forced. "You're right. It's for the best this way."