A Shadow on the Ground (11 page)

“I resent that.” Bert poured himself another fingerful of wine and downed it. “You’re just like you’re father. So righteous. So bloody principled. You make me sick. My money put you through college. It paid for your son’s life. You have no right to judge me.”

“I have every right. You’re someone my son loves and looks up to. I can't have him worshipping a man who takes advantage of decent people when they're down.”

“Yes, but...
murder
?” Bert sputtered. “I'm not capable of murder.”

“I’m beginning to think you're capable of anything. After Suzanne died, you took us in and gave Jeremy a place to heal. I'll always be grateful for that. But from this moment on, I cannot—I
will
not let my son live under your roof.”

“You’re going to move out? You don’t have a pot to piss in. You can't afford to move out.”

“Watch me.”

Bert slammed the wineglass on the barrel, shattering the stem. “Why, you ungrateful little shit. If I hadn't promised your father on his deathbed I'd look out for you, I would've kicked you out of this family years ago. You're unreliable and self-centered, and the most irresponsible person I've ever known. If I hadn't paid for Jeremy's medical bills when he was born, that boy would be dead now.”

“And you've never let me forget it.”

“I ought to sue for custody. I may not be the moral compass you think I should to be, but at least I've always been in Jeremy’s corner. Which is more than I can say for you. You've always done what you wanted, when you wanted, and to blazes with everyone else. If Suzanne hadn't pulled out in front of a truck and forced you to be a father to that boy, you'd still be working fourteen hour days for peanuts.”

“I don't call running my own company—”

“Your own company?” Bert laughed. “Oh, right. You have a job resuscitating small businesses that can’t afford to pay you. Unbelievable.”

“At least I’m doing it on my own.”

“On your own.” Bert flicked a shard of broken glass onto the floor. “Where do you think you got the startup money for In the Black?”

“Oh, God,” Gage whispered. “Please. No.”

“That money came from me. For reasons I can’t begin to fathom, Suzanne wanted you back, so she and her father put their heads together and found you a new career. Suzanne begged me to help you. And I could never say no to Suzanne.”

Heat seared across the back of Gage’s neck. Betrayal shot through his heart like a barb. For one dizzying second, he thought he might throw up. “So, that’s how it is,” he said. “Well, don't worry, Bert. You'll get your money back with interest. I won’t be obligated to you for anything ever again. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got packing to do.”

“Where are you going? What are you going to tell the boy?”

“Where I'm going is none of your damned business.” Gage held the old man's gaze without backing down. “But I’ll tell you what I’m going to tell Jeremy, Bert. I'm telling him the truth.”

Gage turned and walked out of the winery. He grabbed a few empty boxes as he passed the storage room, then ducked through the breezeway and went into the house.

Tell Jeremy the truth.
About Bert? Or about himself?

He dragged the large canvas bag out from under the bed and unzipped it with a flourish. He started grabbing clothes and tossing them in—clean, dirty, it didn’t matter. All he wanted was get as far away from Bert as possible.

He raked rolls of antacids and change off the top of the dresser into his duffle bag, then glanced up and caught sight of himself in the mirror. The look on his face startled him. What was it? Liberation? Relief? More regret than he could handle? Did he even know who he was anymore? He’d been angry and empty for years. But when had he lost his soul?

Who was he to judge Bert? He was lying to everyone—Jeremy, Morgan, Tyson. Himself. He’d shaken hands with Tyson, a man he respected, and promised he would recover a stolen flag to help save the agency. Christ, did everything he came in contact with need saving? But the second he’d seen Morgan’s name in the file, reason and logic had ceased to exist. He didn’t care what consequences he might have to face or stopped to question if it would all be worth it. All he cared about was the fact that the gods, for whatever reason, had decided to lift the veil and show him a way back to her.

Taking Tyson’s money, no matter how much he needed it, was beginning to feel like the biggest mistake of his life. Bigger than trusting a functioning bipolar alcoholic with his little boy. Bigger than the day he had hung up the phone and resigned himself to the fact that Morgan Maguire was lost to him forever. He’d lost his edge. But he didn’t care. The moment he looked into Morgan’s eyes again, the deepest part of his heart knew that stolen or not, he could never go through with the recovery, and if he bailed, Tyson would take the job away from him and send in the B team.

If he could buy more time until he gained her trust, he might be able to tell her the truth. If he could wait until she got to know him again, the best part of him, the part that could make her believe his intentions were true and honorable. Then maybe, just maybe, that little speck of trust would be enough to sustain him when the apple butter hit the fan.

Chapter 6

Opal pursed her carefully lipsticked mouth and frowned. “You might as well stop wearing a hole in the floor and sit down, missy. Pacing back and forth like an alley cat in heat won't get you in that room any sooner.”

“I can't help it,” Morgan said. “We've been here over an hour.” She sat beside Opal on the wooden bench and pulled her denim jacket closer around her. Early morning light streamed through the glass door, shimmering across an arc of greasy handprints and dirt.

“Why can’t you be more patient? You’ve always been antsy, never patient like your brother. Why don’t you look at those pictures on the wanted posters? See if you know anybody.” She peered over the rims of the half-glasses she kept perched on her nose. “Or you could tell me what Bert Kirkland's nephew was doing at the farm last night. And why somebody shot out the windshield of his car.”

Morgan glanced at her sideways. “I think the Riverbirch grapevine has just broken its own record.”

“Still, I’d like to know.”

Every ounce of resentment Morgan forced herself to keep in check when she was around Opal rose in her throat. In Morgan’s opinion, Opal had lost the right to know what went on at the farm the day she pulled more than her fair share out of the estate and left her step-grandchildren scrambling to hang on to their heritage.

Sheriff Stallard opened the door.

Morgan jumped up. “What’s going on? Where's Sean? Can I see him?”

“Calm down,” the sheriff said. “We’ve finished questioning him, and we're transferring him to the police station in Cherokee Bluff. We're not equipped to handle a murder investigation here unless it’s somebody's hog getting creamed by a neighbor's tractor.”

Opal pushed herself off the bench and wagged a bent arthritic finger in the sheriff's face. “Are you charging him with Harlan's murder? Is that what you're doing?”

“Does he have a lawyer?” Morgan asked.

“Not yet,” the sheriff said. “He's waived his Miranda rights. They'll hold him at the jail until they charge him.”

“
Hold him?
” Opal cried.
“Charge him?
You've known that boy since he was in grade school. He didn't kill anyone. He’s as sweet as pie. You're making a big mistake, Teresa, and everyone in this town knows it.”

At seventy-seven, Opal Maguire could be a formidable woman if the spirit moved her. Her fine, closely cropped red curls had long since turned white. A swath of baby pink scalp cut its way across the side of her head like a crooked road. Her eyes, once a bright cornflower blue, had dulled beneath the cloudy film of cataracts. For some reason, she considered herself Riverbirch royalty, and had enjoyed spending her husband’s money like a drunken sailor on shore leave. Now that he was dead, she was still spending it.

“I want to see Sean,” Morgan said.

“Honey, we're not supposed to—”

“For God’s sake, Teresa, he's her
twin
,” Opal said, as if that were all the explanation anyone could ever need.

“All right.” Sheriff Stallard sighed and nodded to the door across the hall. “Five minutes. Not a second more.”

Morgan pushed her way into the room. Sean sat at a long table, holding his head in his hands. He glanced up when she closed the door behind her.

“How'd you get in?” he asked.

“Opal played the twin card.”

“Works every time.”

“How's your hangover?”

“Oh, is that what this is? I thought somebody backed over me with a threshing machine.” His bloodshot eyes filled with tears. “Harlan’s dead, Morgan. I can't believe he’s gone. I keep thinking I should call him, and tell him what’s happened. But he isn’t there.”

“I know.”

“I’m gonna miss him so much—walking around the farm, whistling a tune wherever he went.” Sean smiled and shook his head. “The man liked to whistle.”

“Yes, he did.”

“I can’t believe somebody killed him. Who could’ve killed Harlan? They think I did it.”

She pulled out a chair and sat opposite him. “Sean, where were you yesterday? You said you were going to look for pickers, then last night you said you followed Harlan home.”

Sean clasped and unclasped his hands. He rubbed his knuckles against the fine brown stubble along his chin. “Harlan promised he'd have pickers at the orchard by yesterday morning.”

“But I thought Finch—”

“Not the regular ones. Harlan found some itinerants driving across Barkerstown Bridge on their way to Kentucky to look for work. They said they’d pick for us, but then they never showed up. I asked Harlan what happened, and he didn't know what I was talking about.”

“Harlan’s mind was slipping. He hadn't been himself lately. You know that.”

Sean rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, then shot her a panicked look. “The Rome Beauties are going soft. We cleared most of the windfall apples off the ground Wednesday, but the trees are still full. If we don't get them down soon, we'll lose the first crop. And if we lose that, we'll lose everything.”

“According to Finch, we're going to lose everything anyway.”

Sean’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve talked to him?”

“Finch and some guy named Mendoza came to the house yesterday to see if we were ready to cave. They thought things might have changed now that Harlan is—”

“Dead?”

She reached across the table and touched his arm. “Sean, you've got to tell me what happened so I can help you.”

He leaned back in the aluminum chair and wrapped his arms around his waist. His bloodshot eyes glistened.

“Sean?” she prodded.

“I had forgotten my cell phone and come back for it, even though it never does much good around here. Harlan was getting ready to leave, but he looked...I don’t know…weird. So I got worried and followed him home. He was all over the road. I thought he was gonna take out the Jenkins’ fence. When he got out of the car, his nose was gushing blood. I knew he was taking a blood thinner. He was always complaining about how tired it made him feel, how afraid he was of cutting himself. So, I went inside with him. While he was in the bathroom, I noticed the orchard account folder lying on the table beside the computer. I opened it, and two copies of the August spreadsheet fell out. I thought it was odd there were two, so I picked them up and compared them. The numbers didn't match.”

“What do you mean?”

“They were different. One spreadsheet showed the orchard making a profit. The other looked like we were completely in the red.”

A loud knock rattled the door.

“Two more minutes!” Morgan shouted. “What else?
Hurry
.”

“I asked him for an explanation, but he walked out the back door like he hadn’t heard me. I followed him down the path to the slaughterhouse, and he started acting strange.”

“Define strange.”

“He'd wobble back and forth, then stop and hold his stomach. He told me to leave, and when I said no, he turned on me. Said I was a terrible person and a big disappointment to him. He said I'd ruined Maguire Orchard.”

“You haven't ruined the orchard. It's not your fault the honeybees are trickling back. It's not your fault a creep like Lawrence Finch will do anything to get his hands on our land.”

Two more raps on the door.

“Just a
minute!
” Morgan yelled. “That woman is beginning to get on my nerves. Go on. What did you do then?”

“I left. I tried to call Ethan to tell him his dad was acting crazy, but I couldn’t get a signal. Then I got in the car and headed toward Cherokee Bluff, but before I got to the bridge, I met Finch and Mendoza driving toward me. They almost ran me off the road.”

“What about your knife? How did it get in the slaughterhouse?”

“I don't know.” He rubbed his temples with his fingers, hard, as if he were trying to push an explanation into his head. “I just...don’t...know.” The bewildered look in his eyes frightened her. She’d never seen him so lost and afraid. Not even the night their parents had left for a drive on their anniversary and never come back.

Sheriff Stallard opened the door. “Okay, that’s it. Time to go, Sean.”

Sean grabbed Morgan’s arm. “The man from In the Black is coming over today. You have to meet with him.”

“Sean, I don’t think—”

“
Please
, Morgan. Harlan and I both believe he may be the only person who can help us turn things around. You have to be there. You have to let him help us.” His gaze pleaded with her. “Promise me you’ll see him. Promise you’ll be nice to him.”

“Okay, little brother. I'll be nice to him.”

Sean managed a weak smile. “Only four minutes older, and you're still lording it over me.”

“Damn straight.”

He put his arms around her. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For never thinking for one second I might be guilty.”

Morgan hugged him tight. “Hang in there,” she whispered.

“I will. I’m the half-full twin, remember?”

“You’re going to need more on your side than luck.”

“Stop being so pessimistic. It’s like living with Eeyore.” He grinned, and just like that, he was the old Sean again, the Sean who saw a silver lining behind every dark cloud. “Don’t worry. If we have faith in the truth, everything will be fine. I believe that.”