A Table By the Window (46 page)

“You hardheaded girl!” Carley groaned.

When she was able to corral her racing thoughts a few seconds later, she went to her desk for her phone number list. Let Melvin Kimball rant! Perhaps Brooke had not yet arrived, and he still had a moral responsibility to keep his daughter from acting so foolishly.

Eight unanswered rings later, she hung up and changed into jeans and a sweatshirt and fleece jacket. She had a loafer on her left foot when she thought of her black suede boots in the back of her closet. They were more dressy than practical with the two-inch heels, but gave her a measure of security, just in case some water moccasins had not gotten the word about hibernating.

As she pulled out of the driveway, she wondered whether she should have telephoned the police. But what if Dale had not yet left for his conference? Even if he had, Garland or Marti would be sure to tell him about Brooke's little caper. How would she explain it?

Well, Brooke wanted to drag a chain around your pond because she believes you killed Tracy and Rick Bryant
.

The red truck was not in the Kimball driveway. How in the world had Brooke conned her father and Mildred into this? But how else would she have gotten the canoe over to the pond? Carley struck the steering wheel with the heel of her hand. Maybe Brooke needed to see a psychiatrist.
Obsessive-compulsive disorder
. Wasn't that the term?

The red truck was not parked at Dale's gate. Only a blue bicycle, leaning against a post. Carley honked her horn five times in a row, then another five before getting out of the car. She heard only wind sifting through pine branches, the tapping of a woodpecker, the
jeee!
of a wood duck.

She cupped both hands to her mouth. “BROOKE!”

It would not occur to a person like Mildred Tanner to glance back and notice a man holding a bag of ice, as she unloaded from her cart a box of donuts, twelve-pack of cream soda, pound package of bologna, some sort of crayon-yellow cheese, loaf of white bread, giant size bag of barbecue potato chips, and copy of
National Enquirer
. Dale glared at the back of her perfectly coifed hair and then shrugged when cashier Anna Erwin sent him a helpless smile.

“Hey, Miss Mildred! Where's Brooke?”

Neal Henderson, bagging Mildred's combination of trans-fats and preservatives, artificial dyes and gossip, was all smiles until the woman shrilled, “The ig-nert girl woke me up at six, lookin' for the box with the blow-up boat! Then she took off with it on her bike! She's up to some mis-cheef, likely as not!”

“Brooke's not ig-nert,” the boy said, face flooded with hurt. “She's my friend.”

“Well,
you
don't have to put up with her foolishness. Gonna be a nurse? She's more'n likely to kill somebody, give 'em the wrong pill.”

“Honey,” Anna said to the crestfallen boy, “Run and tell your momma I'm gettin' low on quarters.”

The burning in the pit of Dale's chest had raced up to his face.
Just put the ice back and leave
.

But on second thought, it might be best to continue as planned. At least until he got behind the wheel of the patrol car and could think.

“Sorry about that, Chief Dale,” Anna said when he finally placed the ice on the belt.

He forced a smile, realizing the flush he could feel in his cheeks could be explained by Mildred's inconsiderateness, his haste to get on the road. “That's okay. I don't guess she had deodorant in that cart, did she?”

“Shame on you, Chief,” Anna scolded, but with a smile, and scanned the ice. “That'll be ninety-four cents.”

“Don't worry about the change,” Dale said, handing her a dollar. “I've got to get on to a meeting up in Jackson.”

For once, Dale was glad the Hendersons had built their grocery on the town's outskirts. It was a simple matter to continue down Highway 42 and take the long way up Black Creek Road. Traffic was light, no school buses on a Saturday, most folks just now stirring. Even if he crossed paths with someone who recognized him, he could say that Mildred's comments had caused him to wonder if Brooke Kimball was in danger paddling around on his pond.

If he happened to pull her body from the water, there was not a soul in Tallulah who would assume he did anything less than try to save her.

At least he
hoped
not, especially in the case of one particular soul.

It was encouraging that he had spoken to Carley at her house just minutes ago. Perhaps his intuition had failed him after all. Maybe Carley
had
simply wanted a pleasant outing. Had it not been the day of their picnic when she first suggested he get a boat?

And was it so outrageous, to think that Tiffany Hogan could have lied about Steve and Carley being together at the Old Grist Mill? If they
were
dating, Steve would have shown himself around town these past several weeks. Dale had kept close tabs on Carley—no trips to Hattiesburg.

For the first time in his life, he was relieved to consider that he may have been wrong. It would have been hard to live with—knowing he had mistakenly consigned the woman he loved to a fiery death.

And
it would have been premeditated, making him a full-blown criminal instead of a man dogged by unfortunate coincidence.

Two unfortunate coincidences, as a matter of fact.

The second had occurred only days after Gwen Stillman's death, as he was attempting to hide the accursed red Mustang. He banged his kneecap making the jump from the dam, but every inch of water lapping up to meet the sun-glinted windows and firethorn-red hood, took more of the load off his shoulders.

And then, the sound of a vehicle speeding up the track, red dust rising through the trees. He had sprinted for all his life, ignoring the fire in his knee, hoping to reach the intruder soon enough to wave him away. But Rick Bryant's battered green Dodge Colt rolled to the edge of the water. The engine died. Even from forty feet and gaining, Dale could hear a male voice through the open window.

“Look! What's that?”

No…
Dale had groaned inside.

Still, Rick had not looked in his direction.

“Rick, let's get out of here!” said a female voice.

Dale could hear the rapid clicking of a solenoid that had failed to engage the old Dodge's starter. His feet pounded the ground. He could explain the Mustang, somehow.

I just got here myself…did you see anyone running away?

Yes, that would work! Had he not destroyed all identification?

His heart sank.
Fingerprints can be taken under water!
Why had he not worn gloves? His footprints would be the only ones on the dam. Even the chief of police could only hide so much evidence, especially in a case that had the whole town enraged.

They'll hang you,
he told himself as he approached the car. Rick's crimson-faced attention was absorbed by the impotent revs of the engine. But then he turned, met Dale's eyes.

The puzzlement in Rick's expression changed rapidly to awareness. And then terror.

“We didn't see nothin, Chief!”

It was that terror, accompanied by the scream from the passenger seat, that pumped Dale with so much horrible adrenaline that he drew his service pistol. He could no more stop himself than fly.

But not all reasoning had vanished. While Rick's hands were fluttering up in surrender, Dale reached in and shot him in the chest so that blood splatter and the bullet would be confined to the upholstery. By now he recognized the screaming woman as Tracy Knight. She was struggling for the door handle. He ran around the front of the car. Never, had he purposely hurt a woman. He
saved
women's lives.

He had had to close his eyes as he pulled the trigger.

One sleepless night later, he had dredged up
some
consolation by reminding himself that the two would not have met with such a tragedy if they had not been fooling around.

And at least
their
suffering was over. His was just beginning. He would have to take his land off the market, be tied to Tallulah for decades, if not forever. He could not leave the land under the protection of gate and “Posted” signs without the intimidation factor of his position. Nor could he have the pond filled in; even if he had a plausible explanation, it would first have to be drained. As for selling the timber, he was not comfortable with the idea of having the pond visible from the road. The trees would have to shield his secret.

And now another domino had fallen. He could see how wrong he had been, to have ignored the accusation in Brooke Kimball's eyes all these years and to have naively allowed himself to think he had won her over after the Brad Travis ordeal. If he had found a way to take care of her years ago, he would be on his way to Jackson with no heavier thought than whether his favorite shirt was clean for his date with Carley tonight.

But then, he was not a cold-blooded killer, he reminded himself. It was only when cornered that he had had to act.

His heart fell at the sight of the blue Ford GL blocking the gate, just inches from a familiar blue bicycle.

This may not be as bad as it looks,
he thought, stepping out of the patrol car. Carley must have discovered the girl was missing when his phone call woke her up, and put two and two together. If she had simply come out here to bring Brooke back home, then he could deal with the girl later.

Not too much later, though
.

Carley's keys were in the ignition.

Good girl,
he thought, opening the door.

****

Hope came with the sound of a car roaring up the lane.

Thank you, Father!

But it died just as quickly. The six-foot inflatable boat still rested in the shallow end, where Carley had waded into the soft mud to flip it right-side up.

She'll never be a nurse
. Fresh tears stung her swollen eyes. The back of her throat felt raw. She would never hear Brooke's chirpy good-mornings as her fingers rested on the computer keyboard, or her dishes rattling in the kitchen while relating every detail of the latest
Columbo
.

Why didn't I guess it would come to this?

She heard the car door opening. Footfalls on the ground, racing toward her. “Carley?”

Carley turned and fell into Dale's arms, sobbing. “Can't…find…her, Dale. I think she got caught in the chain! She can't swim!”

“Brooke, you mean?”

“I should have known!”

“Poor baby,” he said into her hair, stroking her back. “But you're going to have to calm down now, help me. What chain? What was she doing here?”

“She thinks…” Carley pulled in a shuddering breath. “
Thought
…her cousin's down there.”

It had to come out now. The situation was too serious for sparing feelings.

Strong arms tightened around her. Carley was too wracked with guilt and grief to take comfort from them.

“Why would she think that?” Dale asked, close to her ear.

“She wouldn't let it go. Thought maybe you…”

The arms loosened, and Carley backed out of them. Grabbing his sleeves, she shouted, “The water's cold! You hear about people reviving! Call for help!”

“I tried the radio on my way here and just got static. But I'll find her!”

He unfastened his belt, dropping holster to the ground, then key chain and wallet. As he was pulling off his left shoe, Carley reached down and scooped up his keys.

“And I'll call from the Kimballs'!”

Four steps toward the patrol car, and then her right arm was grabbed. She was jerked around so violently that her teeth bit her tongue.

He shouted in her face, “I need you here!”

“We have to call, Dale! I'll be back in five minutes! I'll break a window if they're not home!”

But he had her by her other arm. His grip was tightening painfully.

“Oh, Carley…” he groaned.

The bleak resignation creeping into his face terrified her. They could not give up yet!

“
Please,
Dale! We have to try.”

“I
told
you not to take her in!” He shook his head. “If you would have just listened!”

“What are you talking about?”

But he looked away, muttered, “Just come help me.” With an arm around her shoulder, he began leading her down the slope.

“No!” Her sodden boots took unwilling steps. “What are you doing, Dale?”

“Stop fighting me!”

She started dragging her heels through the pine straw, and then mud of the shallow end. “Please!”

“I'm sorry, Carley!” he muttered, crimson-faced, forcing her deeper and deeper into the pond.

The plunge was heart-shocking cold. A hand pushed her head under, causing water to rush into her throat and nostrils. Her lungs burned. Kicking was useless, for she could not gain footing in the soft mud. She clamped both hands around his wrist, but he was much stronger.

And then, the pressure on her head ceased. She found footing and rose in chest-deep water, coughing and shivering and blinking. Dale still held her arm, but his attention was drawn by something over the bank. A squad car was braking to a gentle stop. The door opened, Marti stepped out and squinted in their direction.

“Chief?”

Dale released her, started moving toward the bank where his holster lay.

“No!” Carley screamed, pushing feet against the sloping bottom, following, reaching out for his shoulders in vain. “He tried to kill me! He wouldn't let me get help for Brooke!”

“She's crazy, Marti!” Dale called. They were in waist-deep water now, the gap between them widening. “I'll explain, just let me get out of—”

“He'll kill us both!” Carley cried. “Don't let him get his gun!”