Vulnerable (Morgans of Nashville 4)

Tears spilled down her face. “Ah, no. Poor Dalton. He must be absolutely devastated. He hung the moon on that boy.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She balled her hands into tiny fists. “How did she die?”

He wanted to keep several details of the case quiet until he had a little more time. As much as he wanted to tell Mrs. Reed, he said only, “We’re still running tests. But as soon as I know, I’ll tell you.”

She raised a trembling chin. “Thank you.”

“I’m not sure if you’re aware, but Amber Ryder is back in Nashville.”

The older woman’s eyes brightened with an odd happiness he did not expect. “How’s Amber doing? Last time, the police had just about everyone in this town put that poor girl through the wringer.”

“She’s doing fine. What do you know about Amber?” Jake asked.

She knitted long, pale fingers together and settled them in her lap. “She was smart as a whip. Not as smart as Bethany, but smart. She helped Bethany from time to time with the kids at school. Bethany was smart in so many ways, but her social skills were lacking.” She glanced down at her hands. Carefully, she unfurled her fingers and stretched them out. Pink manicured nails glistened in the soft light. “Amber was such a great kid. My Bethany was a great kid.”

“Amber was hoping to get scholarship money to attend college.”

“She had applied to several Texas schools and the counselor said she had a very good chance. She was very excited.”

“It sounds like you knew her well.”

“She was in my house all the time. She was my Bethany’s friend and needed an adult female to nurture her. I know her mother loved her. But she had her own issues, so I was happy to look after her.”

“How did she and Amber become friends? From what you said, they don’t strike me as a likely pair.”

“Bethany needed someone to show her how to be a teenager. How to fit into a school like St. Vincent. It’s one thing to be given money to attend, another to navigate the waters. Amber needed a family to look out for her. It was natural for me to fold her into our family.” A ragged breath caught in her throat. “Amber was always so polite and nice when she was here. I used to joke that she was too skinny. And I was always feeding her. Every time she was here she said thank you. Not all kids are that polite, but she was.” Dark eyes filled with fresh tears. “After all this time, it’s still Amber looking out for Bethany.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. Reed shook her head. “I know she wasn’t popular after what happened in the woods, but my husband and I never lost sight of the fact that she was just a child herself. We both think if she came from a different side of town, she’d have been treated better.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You said she’s in town. Where is she now?” Mrs. Reed asked. “She’s not staying with her mother?”

“Why would her mother be a problem?” Jake asked.

“Tracy’s not a bad woman, but as I suggested, she found motherhood constrictive. If she were more attuned to Amber, that girl could have had such a different life. Amber Ryder was smart enough to do anything she wanted, but Tracy didn’t care much.”

“Was there anyone that could have wanted to hurt the girls or Mike?”

“I’ve had five years to think about that, and I have the same answer I did then.” She raised her watery gaze to Jake. “I don’t know of anyone who would hurt her.”

CHAPTER NINE

Wednesday, October 4, 11:15 P.M.

When Jake parked in front of the small bar in the west end of Nashville, his third coffee consumed, his second wind kicked into play and chased away the fatigue that burrowed into his skull. Juiced like this, he could keep going most of the night.

The bar where Tracy Ryder worked was housed in what had been a one-story home with a large front porch, tin roof, and floor-to-ceiling windows. Small round tables with their patrons crowded the porch and main room inside.

He got out of his car, jangling his keys in his hand as he followed the small slate path to the front steps. Guitar music blended with a rusty male voice and the hum of a dozen conversations. He shrugged his shoulders, easing his right elbow back until it butted against his gun.

A few patrons on the front porch stopped in mid conversation to glance his way as if they understood this call was business and not pleasure.

His dark hair, slicked back, accentuated his square face and the beard covered his strong chin. Cowboy boots didn’t quite offset the crisp white shirt, the dark tie, or the swagger practiced by every boy on the streets of South Boston. Most didn’t know which side of the law he preferred until he showed his badge.

Let ’em wonder.

Boots thudding hard on the pocked pine floor, he pushed through the front-screened door. In the corner to his right sat a guitar player, his gaze focused on his callused fingers plucking out-of-tune guitar strings. The guy, a younger version of Willie Nelson, tied back his long hair with a piece of rawhide and wore his beard thick and scraggly. Though his jeans looked tattered, Jake would bet there was a fancy designer label on the waistband.

Jake paused, as the singer crooned and found himself listening for sharp notes or dropped keys. He never paid close attention to the honky-tonk musicians until he first heard Georgia sing. Onstage, her guard relaxed and she leaned into the mic greedily, even desperately, smiling as if she knew a very important secret. She poured heart and soul into the melody and when she reached for the high notes, everyone in the room noticed.

A short blond gal with cutoff jeans, a peasant top barely covering full breasts, pink hoop earrings, and red cowboy boots stopped as he scanned the room. She balanced a tray holding four beers, grinning as her pale blue eyes studied him. “Can I help you, doll? You’re looking a little lost to me.”

“I’m looking for Tracy Ryder.”

The waitress shook her head slowly. “She’s not your type.”

He grinned. “And how would you know what my type is?”

She winked. “I can read people, sugar. I can spot couples who are made for each other in a heartbeat. I can also call it when a couple isn’t meant to be.”

“And Tracy and I don’t have the magic?”

“No, sugar.” She moistened her glossy lips. “But I think you and I might be able to make some real special magic.”

He leaned toward her a fraction with a slight smile. “That so?”

“Yeah.” Her eyes narrowed as she caught her bottom lip in her teeth. “Where are you from, baby? Got to be up north. New York?”

“Close, but not quite. Boston. I’m a Southie.”

Her gaze cataloged him. “Yeah, you’re not a Southern boy.”

“That’s a bad thing?” Even seven years in Nashville had not upgraded his outlier status.

“Not at all. We welcome all kinds in Nashville, especially your type.”

“Good to know.” He liked this woman. A year ago he’d have taken her to his bed. Now, he found himself comparing her to a particular redhead and found her lacking. “And Tracy is where?”

She moistened her lips as she pulled a pen from her pocket and scrawled her number with a heart on a napkin, which she handed to him. “Out back. Having a smoke.”

Grinning, he carefully folded the napkin. “Thanks, doll.”

“You gonna call me?”

One or two words would seal the deal. Still, he shook his head. “Not tonight, doll.”

“Doesn’t have to be tonight, sugar.”

He made a show of tucking the napkin in his pocket. “Maybe some other time.”

He wove through the crowded room and pushed through the swinging doors leading to a kitchen filled with the scents of fried chicken, hush puppies, and sweet potato pie. Out the screened back door, he surveyed a parking lot filled with cars. He spotted a woman standing over by a tall oak tree, leaning and drawing heavily on a cigarette. Reed thin and short, her bejeweled jeans hugged her narrow hips. Blond shoulder-length hair was fa

shioned into a shag and heavy dark blue eye makeup accentuated crow’s feet. She looked like an older, harder version of Amber.

He moved slowly and easily, wanting this to be a nice friendly conversation. He did not want to stir the pot . . . yet.

“Ms. Ryder?”

“Ms. Ryder?”

Whereas Amber had the healthful glow of youth, too many cigarettes and too much booze had leached away Tracy’s vitality, leaving her looking brittle.

She raised the cigarette to her lips and puffed. “That’s right. What do you want?”

He held up his badge. “Detective Jake Bishop. I’m with the Nashville Police Department.”

She stared at the large full moon in the sky and then took another pull on her cigarette. Slowly, she let out the smoke, allowing it to curl around her. “This about Amber?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I heard you found a body at the park. You coming to blame that one on my girl, too?”