“She might change her mind, but not if you don’t send that damn check,” Antoinette was saying. “Or are you spending all your money on Selena these days?”
She knew better. He hadn’t been with their neighbor since that night two years ago, when he’d been too drunk to stop himself from accepting the kindness Selena had offered him. It was just that he didn’t appear to be in enough agony right now, so Antoinette was revising her tactics.
Why couldn’t she see that the animosity between them was hurting Maria more than anything that had or hadn’t happened in the past? Why did it have to be this way? They could let bygones be bygones for Maria’s sake, couldn’t they?
He’d asked her to do that, again and again. But it was no use. Antoinette refused to cooperate—and now he didn’t have any influence with Maria, either.
“Hunter?” she said when he didn’t take the bait.
He hung up because there was nothing more to say.
Chapter Eighteen
Hunter knew Irene Montgomery was home—he’d heard movement when he rang the bell, felt the scrutiny of someone on the other side of the peephole—but he had to knock several times before she answered. She finally opened the door, but only an inch or two.
“What do you want?” she asked, staring out at him.
Hunter summoned his most engaging smile. “I’m Hunter Solozano.”
“I know who you are.” She looked him up and down. “Why are you here?”
Rain dripped down the back of his neck. He wanted to move closer, so he’d be sheltered by the eaves. But he was trying not to crowd Irene; Madeline’s stepmother was nervous enough already. “I was in the neighborhood.”
“Where’s Madeline?”
“At her own place. She had a little…incident last night.”
“Incident?” she echoed suspiciously.
“Yes. That’s partly why I want to talk to you. Someone broke into her house.”
The door suddenly flew open. “What? Is she okay?”
“She’s upset and confused, but physically she’s fine.”
“Come in.” Stepping back, she waved him past her.
He had to turn sideways in order to fit through the cluster of furnishings. The place was spotless, but stuffed with knickknacks, decorations and furniture. Beyond the usual couch, chair, television and coffee table, Hunter saw a velvet chaise, a cabinet full of collectibles, a stool that sported fringe all the way around, an old-fashioned teacart with hand-blown glass and delicate china, several inlaid accent tables and two Victorian lamps. All in one small living room. And the upholstery was a sort of dusky pink.
“Nice,” he said vaguely, because he couldn’t find anything specific to admire. It was just that the moment seemed to call for a polite remark and he didn’t know what else to say when confronted with so much pink and gold.
Irene’s tastes definitely ran toward the ornate and feminine, even in her personal appearance. Dressed in a tailored turquoise blouse with turquoise jewelry, a pair of skin-tight jeans that had sequins down the front, and high heels that matched her shirt, she still had a good figure. Like Grace, she also had pretty blue eyes and dark hair, which she’d piled on top of her head, leaving a few tendrils curling around her face.
He couldn’t imagine anyone like Madeline’s stepmother marrying a conservative preacher, especially one who seemed as strict in his beliefs as Barker—his ostensible beliefs, anyway. She had “sex kitten” written all over her.
“Was it Mike?” she asked.
Now that the door was shut, he could scarcely breathe for the strength of her perfume. Evidently, she applied scent as liberally as she did makeup. “We don’t know. Whoever it was got away.”
“What happened?”
“Madeline heard someone in the house. When she called out to him, he ran out.”
The color had drained from beneath the heavy powder on Irene’s face. “Did he take anything?”
“A box of your husband’s things.”
She steadied herself with a hand on the back of the sofa. “But why?”
“That’s what I was hoping you could tell me.”
“If they were the ones Clay packed up when he dismantled the office, there was nothing in them but sermons and personal effects, none of which had value to anyone but Madeline. Other daughters would probably have tossed some of it. But not Madeline. She saves everything.”
She waved at the living room. “I have too much stuff myself. But none of it’s old. I want to purge. She wants to save.”
“Maybe it’s because so much in her life has slipped away from her.”
“And I can’t rid myself of the past no matter how hard I try,” she muttered.
He couldn’t help liking Irene. She seemed nice, almost childlike. “Speaking of the past, I want to ask a few questions about your husband, if you don’t mind.”
The wariness instantly reappeared. “I’ve already answered every conceivable question.”
“I might have some new ones.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it.” She glanced at the window.
“Are you expecting someone?” he asked.
She ignored this and moved toward the kitchen. “Can I make you a cup of coffee?”
“No, thanks. This’ll only take a minute. I—”
“Madeline’s not returning my calls,” she interrupted, stopping her retreat.
He would’ve thought she was dodging him, but the concern in her eyes was real.
For Madeline’s sake, he tried to reassure her. “She hasn’t had a chance. She’s been busy since I came to town.”
“Too busy to call her mother?”
“She’s struggling with the fact that you don’t want me here, and that she’s the one who brought me.”
The frankness of his response begged equal candor. And she didn’t disappoint him. “How can she expect me to be happy about it?”
“She doesn’t. She’s just in a tough spot, caught between the love and loyalty she feels for you and the love and loyalty she feels for her father.”
“We’re all in a tough spot,” Irene said. “And life never seems to get any easier. Believe me, I’ve seen it all.”
Was she talking about the heartbreak of having a husband abandon her? The fear of nearly losing her children to the state? The dubious reception she’d received when she moved to Stillwater? The lack of acceptance, and the judgment and skepticism that had followed her ever since? Or the murder of a man she’d found out was molesting her daughter?