Every Move She Makes - Beverly Barton

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Cybil Carlisle likes to walk on the wild side. And I can tell you that there’s nothing better than a lady who wants to get down and dirty with a bad boy. You ought to try it sometime. Maybe with that niece of hers. I’ll bet Miss Ella Porter has never forgotten those hot letters you wrote her.”

      “I’d like to forget those letters, and I’m sure she has forgotten them. From what my mother tells me, Judge Porter is good woman—a real lady. If I even said hello to her, she’d run scared.”

      “You won’t know until you give it a try. Who knows, she might not run.”

      “Ella was never my type. And God knows I wasn’t her type back then, and I’m sure as hell not her type now.”

      “Okay, so the judge doesn’t crank your motor. She’s not the only class act in town. Look around. I’m sure you’ll find somebody who suits you.”

      “I’ll stick with Ivy and her type for the time being,” Reed said. “A good, uncomplicated fuck is all I want from a woman right now. My main focus is on finding out exactly who killed Junior Blalock and let me take the fall. Mark Leamon believes in me and he’s going to help me try to prove my innocence.”

      “You ever think that Aunt Judy might have done it?”

      “No! Mama would never have let me go to prison for a crime she’d committed.”

      “Yeah, you’re probably right. Aunt Judy would do just about anything for you and Regina.” When Briley Joe removed his ball cap and scratched his head, curly brown locks fell across his forehead. The rest of his shoulder-length hair had been pulled back into a short ponytail. “Man, where can you start? The police didn’t find no evidence against anybody but you. And we know you didn’t kill Junior. So who did? Who else besides you, Aunt Judy, and Regina had a reason to want to see Junior dead?”

      “I don’t know for sure,” Reed said. “But I’ve made out a list of possible suspects, and Webb Porter’s name is at the top of that list.”

      Chapter 4

      Ella removed her robe, hung it in the closet, and collapsed happily in the swivel desk chair. What a day! Presiding over a case fraught with emotion always got to her. She tried to not allow her own personal feelings on the matter affect her, but she found that she was only human and couldn’t completely divorce herself from her own sensitivity on certain issues. Had Clyde Kilpatrick committed suicide, or had his death been a tragic accident? The insurance company said suicide. The family said accident. From today’s evidence, she had reached a tentative decision. But would the jury come to the same conclusion that she had? Even though it meant Clyde’s two children would not see a dime of his insurance money, the facts plainly showed that the man had killed himself. He’d left a note forgiving his wife for her infidelity, but also stating that he didn’t want to live without her. The damning evidence had come from the ballistics expert, who had explained the trajectory of the bullet that entered Clyde’s body, saying that it was highly unlikely, if not impossible, for an accident to have been the cause.

      Ella kicked off her two-inch gray heels, wriggled her toes, and lifted her stocking feet up to rest on her desk. The heel of her foot accidently brushed against a white envelope, sending it sailing off the desk and onto the floor. Grunting, she leaned over and picked up the legal-size envelope. Her name was typed across the front. Only her name. Eleanor Porter. Odd, she didn’t remember this particular bit of correspondence being on her desk earlier today. She’d eaten lunch at her desk around twelve-thirty—a salad she’d ordered from the Oakwood Bar and Grill across the street from the courthouse.

      She flipped the letter over and noticed it was still sealed. Undoubtedly someone had hand-delivered the message. But who? Kelly had already left for the day, so she couldn’t ask her until tomorrow. Ella pulled a brass letter opener from the pencil holder that was part of the gold-monogrammed leather desk set Uncle Jeff Henry had given her when she’d been elected circuit judge last year. After slicing open the envelope, she reached inside and pulled out the single-page missive. She unfolded the white stationery and read.

      Ella, sweet Ella, I dream of you at night and wake in a cold sweat. Aroused and wanting you. Desperately. You were meant to be mine. I have made plans for us. Delicious plans. Long, hot nights together. Naked. Going at each other like a couple of wild animals. Monkey fucking. You can’t even begin to imagine all the things I want to do to you. All the things I long for you to do to me. When the time is right, I’ll come for you. I will not allow anyone to stand between us. Not ever again. I’ll make you turn against your evil family. When you choose me, it will break your father’s heart. And that is only the beginning of my revenge.

      Ella swallowed hard. Dear God! Who would have sent her such a thing?

      The letter was typewritten. Actually, it looked as if it had been composed on a computer and printed from a laser printer. There were several laser printers at the courthouse and one at the public library. And several copy shops provided laser printers for use by their customers. Unless there were fingerprints on the envelope or the plain white paper, there was probably no way to trace the letter.

      Was this a prank? Dan Gilmore certainly hadn’t penned the heated love letter. Did she have a secret admirer out there somewhere? Was someone stalking her, watching her without her being aware of his presence? A chill raced up her spine. She’d heard of women being stalked by ex-lovers or ex-husbands, and celebrities being harassed by crazed fans. But she had no “ex” anything. And she certainly wasn’t famous. However, she was a well-known figure in the community, in all of Bryant County for that matter.

      Ella Porter, you aren’t the type of woman that men become obsessed with and you know it. No one would ever…Oh, dear Lord, no! Years ago, Reed Conway had written her two letters very similar to this one. Until her father had seen to it that he couldn’t send any more. And Reed Conway had been released from prison yesterday. Was it possible that he had written her this crude love letter? Yes, of course it was possible. If the man still blamed her father for his imprisonment, then he might be trying to get to her father through her. He’d done it once before; why not now?

      Daddy would be furious. He would confront Reed and accuse him of harassing her. Even though she couldn’t be sure the letter had come from Reed, there would be no doubt in her father’s mind. He would condemn Reed without benefit of hard evidence. The police would be called in and the story might leak to the media, and her mother would find out and become terribly upset. Ella could well remember the hullabaloo that went on in the Porter household when Reed had written to her from prison. She didn’t want a repeat of those nerve-racking days.

      The letter can’t hurt you, she reminded herself. It’s only a bunch of words. If Reed had written it, he had done it solely to get a rise out of Webb Porter. If she didn’t show anyone the letter, then Reed wouldn’t have accomplished his goal. Surely, if he realized she had ignored the silly piece of trash, he wouldn’t bother writing another.

      Ella removed a key chain from her pocket and unlocked the bottom drawer of her desk. After pulling out the drawer, she lifted and opened her gray leather purse, then stuffed the letter back into the envelope. She slid the envelope into her purse behind her wallet and closed her purse. The best thing to do was forget about the message and hope that would be the end of it. But she wouldn’t destroy the letter. Not yet.

      She didn’t want to involve her father or the local authorities unless it was absolutely necessary. She wasn’t a sixteen-year-old innocent. She was a grown woman, a thirty-year-old circuit court judge. She could certainly handle this situation without help. She would find Reed Conway and confront him with the letter, then warn him that if he knew what was good for him, he’d leave her alone.

      Jeff Henry Carlisle sipped tea from a Moss Rose Havi-land china cup. The silver tea service that Judy Conway had placed on his intricately carved mahogany desk in the study had been in his family for six generations. The desk itself had come overland from Virginia and then down the Tennessee River to Alabama before the War Between the States, as a wedding present for one of his ancestresses. Of all the fine rooms in his home, he thought he loved this one best. His own private domain,

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