Dark Water (4 page)

Before she could answer, he was gone, quietly closing the door behind him. Sarah sat for a moment without moving, wondering how a life as ordinary as hers had been could get screwed up so fast. The moment she thought it, she groaned. How could she be so self-absorbed as to feel sorry for the upheaval in her life? At least she was still alive, which was more than her father could say.

“Oh, Daddy…I'm so sorry for doubting you,” she whispered, and then rolled over on her side and curled up in a little ball. “But I'll find out who did this to you. I promise.”

Then she closed her eyes and sighed, intending to rest for just a moment. Within a minute, she was asleep.

 

Almost an hour had passed before Tony made his way back to Sarah's room. The door was slightly ajar as he started to knock, and then he looked past the door into the room and saw that she'd fallen asleep. Quietly he carried her bags into the room and set them down at the foot of the bed. He glanced up at her as he straightened, then frowned. He knew he should leave, but still he lingered, letting his gaze touch her in a way he dared not.

She was nothing like the shy ten-year-old he remembered, watching him mowing her daddy's yard when she thought he wasn't looking. She'd been all legs and arms, with long dark hair and braces. Rarely had she smiled, and looking back on it now, he supposed it was because of the braces on her teeth. But they were gone, and that skinny little girl had certainly filled out in all the right places. As he watched, her eyebrows suddenly knitted and her lower lip trembled. When a single tear slid out from beneath her eyelid, he looked away, knowing she would not appreciate him witnessing her weakness.

He took a deep breath and then shook off the guilt as he picked up a quilt from a nearby chair. Shaking it loose, he covered her, resisting the urge to tuck her in. As the cover settled over her, she shifted slightly, then subconsciously snuggled beneath its weight.

Sarah. Pretty Sarah Jane. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this uneasy, but her vow to find her father's killer had tied his gut in knots. This little trip that he'd made was turning into something far more involved than he'd expected. Yes, he could be the congenial host and stay long enough to make sure Sarah was familiar with his home and then leave her to her own defenses. But congeniality wasn't going to solve her problems, and he didn't have it in him to abandon her. Thanks to a streak of chivalry he hadn't known he possessed, he was already thinking about how to put himself between her and danger, but to do that, he had plans that needed to be changed.

 

The Coffee Cup was busier than normal. Most days Sophie Thomas's little shop was a gathering place for retirees and the occasional clerk on break from the supermarket across the street. But ever since they'd pulled Franklin Whitman's body from the lake, customers were wall to wall. Seating was at a premium, and many wound up leaning against the walls and standing in corners, unwilling to miss even a snippet of gossip regarding the ongoing investigation. The crush of customers was making it difficult for her to serve the seated customers promptly, but she was moving as fast as her short little legs would take her.

Sophie had moved to Marmet ten years earlier after a nasty divorce. She'd taken her settlement, purchased the building that now housed The Coffee Cup and promptly gained twenty-six pounds. Her ex liked his women slim, and since she'd dumped him, she was also getting rid of every manipulating thing he'd done to her. Now here she was, weaving her ample little butt between crowded tables, serving coffee and homemade muffins while the gossip flew fast and furious. Sophie had no preconceived opinions about the incident one way or the other. And while she was sorry that the boom in her business was because a man had been murdered, she wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. She filled the tray with her last order and headed for the table in the corner, where four of Marmet society's finest had gathered to catch up on the latest news.

“Here you go, Moira,” Sophie said, and served Moira Blake's double decaf latte, along with a sugar-free blueberry muffin.

“Smells wonderful…as usual,” Moira said, and reached for a packet of artificial sweetener.

Annabeth Harold laid a napkin in her lap as Sophie set her soft drink and coffee cake in front of her. Not only was she the oldest of the four women, but since Moira's retirement a couple of years ago, she was the only one who still worked for a living.

Marcia Farrell had come a long way from the station of her birth. In high school she'd been known as the girl who was an easy lay; then she'd gone away to college and come back a young widow with a child who was now grown and living in Paris. Of course no one believed she'd ever been married, but she was accepted back into the community as if she'd never left. On her twenty-fourth birthday, she claimed to have inherited a great sum of money, and from that day on, she'd used it to assure herself a place in the upper echelons of Marmet society.

As Sophie served her, Marcia shifted her mink coat to the back of her chair and leaned away from Sophie's tray, as if unwilling to be touched by someone in such a menial position.

Tiny Bartlett sat directly across from her, perched on the edge of her chair as if readying for flight. Tiny's father owned one of the largest paper mills in the area and she'd never wanted for anything—except her father's approval. He'd wanted a son and had never forgiven her for being a girl. Out of spite and frustration, she'd married the son of the town drunk, who'd surprised them all by becoming an upstanding citizen and making her a mother three times over. But with her children away at college, Tiny always seemed to be at loose ends.

Tiny took a sip of her herbal tea and then leaned forward so that her voice did not carry to the next table, although the action was unnecessary. The noise level in the room was already close to a dull roar. She could barely hear what her friends were saying, never mind what was being said at the next table. Nevertheless, she dived right into the favorite topic of conversation, arching her painted-on eyebrows and pursing her lips.

“Did you hear the latest?” she asked.

“Hear what?” Marcia asked.

“She's back!”

“Who?” Moira asked.

“Sarah Whitman.”

Moira's eyes widened as her expression softened. “Poor little Sarah. It's a shame that the children must suffer the sins of the father.”

“But what if Franklin Whitman didn't commit the sins everyone said he committed?” Tiny asked.

Marcia frowned. “Of course he did. Don't be silly.”

Moira shrugged. “He certainly didn't lock himself in that awful box, though.”

Marcia yanked her napkin from the table and thrust it into her lap with an angry motion. Her daddy had been with the State Police twenty years ago and one of the investigating officers. Any rumor that her daddy had been wrong didn't go over well with her.

“He was probably betrayed by his cohorts, but that doesn't mean he was innocent.”

Annabeth waved her hand across the table, as if to clear the air.

“Stop it right now,” she demanded. “You're ruining our lunch with this ugly talk. I don't want to hear another word on such a distasteful subject.”

Tiny pouted and then mumbled something beneath her breath as she picked up her fork and began crumbling her muffin.

“What did you say?” Annabeth asked.

Tiny was normally not one to make waves. “I said the subject is not nearly as ugly to us as it probably is to Sarah Whitman.” When no one argued, she felt compelled to add, “It wasn't our fathers who were murdered. I just feel sorry for her is all.”

Marcia sniffed. Annabeth frowned in disapproval. Moira smiled and patted Tiny's hand.

“You have a gentle heart, Tiny dear. It becomes you.”

Tiny beamed.

“Pass the sugar,” Marcia asked, and deftly changed the subject.

 

Sarah woke abruptly. Disoriented and a little bit frightened, she bolted from the bed and started for the door, then saw her bags on the floor. Immediately she remembered where she was and how she'd come to be there, then sat back down on the side of the bed with a groan. Tunneling her fingers through her hair, she massaged the ache at the back of her neck and then looked around for her shoes. She found them on the other side of the bed, where she'd kicked them off earlier, and put them back on. Remembering the look in Tony DeMarco's eyes made her nervous. He made her feel vulnerable in a way she hadn't felt in years.

She unpacked quickly and then ran a brush through her hair, thought about reapplying her makeup, and decided against it. The last thing she wanted was to give that man the idea that she was trying to impress him.

A short while later she made her way downstairs, only to find a note on the kitchen counter telling her to help herself to a snack and that they would go out to dinner when he got back. Torn between being peeved that he'd left her alone and glad not to have to face him just yet, she took him at his word and headed for the refrigerator. After choosing a bunch of grapes and a bottle of sparkling water, she went outside. Trying to ignore the obvious presence of the lake, she chose to admire the turning leaves, instead, and as she did, she noticed the roof of a very large house across the lake. It was partially concealed by distance and trees, but one thing about it was impossible to miss: it was red.

Wondering what sort of person would choose a house with a red roof, she popped a grape into her mouth and had started to sit down when she saw an oversize swing hanging from a tree just beyond the deck. Intrigued, she picked a second grape, then left her food on a table as she headed for the swing.

A pair of squirrels scolded her from the branches above as she slid into the seat and pushed off with her toes. The immediate rush of air against the back of her head and then on her face brought back memories of her childhood. She closed her eyes as she swung to and fro, and for a time let go of the pain.

T
ony knew almost immediately when he came back into the house that Sarah was not inside. The solitude of his lake home, which had once been comforting, now just felt empty—even lonely. He went straight to the kitchen and then out to the deck, saw the grapes and bottle of water that she'd left on the table and frowned. Then he heard an odd and repetitive squeak. When he turned and saw her swinging, he relaxed.

He walked to the edge of the deck, his eyes narrowing against the glare of the setting sun, and watched the ebb and flow of her clothing as it was pulled by the breeze. The old swing had been hanging from that particular tree when he'd bought the property. He didn't know how many times, since he'd built this house, he had thought about removing it. Now he was glad he hadn't. Her eyes were closed, her head thrown back to the joy of childhood as the swing took her high in the air.

“Sarah,” he said softly, trying out the sound of her name on his tongue and knowing that, with little effort, she could get very much under his skin.

“Hey you!” he called out.

At the sound of his voice, Sarah's solitary reverie ended with a jerk. Dragging her feet, she brought the swing to a stop and jumped off. The feel of solid ground beneath her shoes was more than a little disconcerting when only moments before she'd been flying.

“I didn't see you there,” she said.

But I saw you.
“No matter. I just arrived. Are you hungry?”

Sarah smiled. “Yes, actually, I am.”

“Want to go out…or I could fire up the grill and put on a couple of steaks?”

“I vote for the steaks,” Sarah said. “At this time, I'm not much in the mood for facing any more of the fine residents of Marmet.”

“How do you like it cooked?”

“Medium rare.”

He grinned his approval. “My kind of woman.”

Sarah's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I would never have pictured you as so easy to please.”

“I'm not,” he said softly, and let his gaze rest on the curve of her mouth. When he saw her cheeks flush, he changed the mood of the moment by adding, “But since you're the culinary expert, why don't you oversee the rest of our meal? The fridge is full. Pick what sounds good to you.” He cupped her elbow and led her into the house.

A short while later Sarah was at the kitchen sink, cleaning a stalk of broccoli and watching Tony through the window. He'd changed into a white sweatshirt and a pair of old, faded jeans, and was looking very domestic as he dodged the smoke from his gas grill.

“Domestic” was not a word she would ever have used in conjunction with Silk DeMarco, but as she watched him deftly adjust the height of the flame and absently wipe his hand on the leg of his jeans, she decided she might be wrong. He looked very competent—and oddly content. She thought of him building this house so far away from Chicago, where all his businesses were located, and wondered why, after he'd become successful, he would want anything to do with this place. The way she remembered it, his family had been considered little more than trash, and yet, when it had come to creating a hideaway from the rat race, he'd chosen the place where he'd grown up.

She stood for a moment, watching the play of muscles beneath his sweatshirt, and caught herself remembering that he had always mowed their yard without his shirt on, remembering how smooth and hard and brown he'd been. To her budding hormones, he'd been the epitome of sexy.

Suddenly she realized he was staring back at her through the window. She spun abruptly, embarrassed at being caught, and moved to the work island in the middle of the room. A bottle of merlot had already been decanted. She slid a pair of wineglasses from the rack above the island, picked up the bottle and joined him on the deck. Determined not to let him get under her skin, she decided to confront the demons of her libido by a simple, friendly gesture.

Tony was still trying to decipher the expression he'd seen on her face when she opened the patio door and came out on the deck.

“It's pretty chilly out here,” he said.

“I brought something to warm us up,” she said, then handed him a glass and filled it with wine.

He took it without removing his gaze from her face. The dying rays from the setting sun colored her dark hair with fiery tints and gave her complexion an exotic glow. He wanted to touch her hair, to see if it was as hot as it looked. Instead, he lifted his glass.

“To the sunset,” he said softly, and touched his glass to hers.

The clear tinkle of fine crystal echoed between them. Sarah nodded.

“To the sunset,” she repeated, and lifted the glass to her lips. “Mmm, good stuff.”

“That's my motto…nothing but the best,” he said, watching the sunset in the reflection in her eyes.

 

Ron Gallagher sat at his desk, looking at the plastic evidence bag that held the personal belongings they'd found on Franklin Whitman's body. There wasn't much left of the man's life—a body's worth of bones that now resided in the coroner's office, a water-damaged wallet, a ring of keys, a wedding ring, and a watch that had stopped at twenty minutes after one.

Most of the time Ron Gallagher liked being sheriff. In the entire twenty-three years of his career in law enforcement, he could count on one hand the number of times he'd wished he'd gone into another occupation. This was one of them. Just thinking about how cold the trail was on this crime made him sigh with frustration. It had taken his secretary a day and a half just to find the old file on the twenty-year-old bank robbery. To say it had been lacking in evidence would have been putting it mildly. The fact that Franklin Whitman had disappeared the same day as the money was the only fact the authorities had at the time to tie him to the theft. Obviously their theory had been sadly lacking.

Of course, Ron could afford to be generous in not criticizing the procedures of that day and time, because he had something they hadn't—namely, Whitman's body. He couldn't say for certain that Whitman had been completely innocent with regard to the theft, but it was obvious that even if he had been involved, there had been an accomplice, maybe two. Certainly someone had killed Franklin Whitman and locked him in the trunk. Unfortunately, the pitiful remnants in the evidence bag yielded nothing in telling him who that might be. Shoving aside a stack of files, he dumped the contents of the bag onto his desk.

Whitman's wallet was cracked and coming apart, although the leather had survived much better than the stitching that had held it together. The only things that had survived twenty years in the lake were plastic—an American Express credit card, his driver's license, and a card with Whitman's name and blood type. Whatever else had been in there had deteriorated and disappeared.

His gaze moved to the watch. The hands on the face had stopped at twenty minutes after one—indicating either the time of Whitman's death or, more likely, the time he was dumped into the lake. Until he got a report back from the coroner, they couldn't be entirely sure of the cause of death. It was possible that he had drowned, but there was that big crack in his skull. And in the long run, it didn't matter. The fact was that he'd been murdered, by whatever means.

There was only one useful item left that had been with the body—a set of keys on a ring with a red plastic fob with a “Number One Dad” logo. He sighed as he picked up the keys, thinking of the little girl Sarah Whitman had once been. How low her hero had fallen. Or had he? She seemed positive that her father had been a scapegoat for the real thief. Gallagher didn't know what to think except that, as an officer of the law, he had to keep an open mind. Despite public opinion, which was leaning toward the theory that Whitman had been double-crossed by his cronies, Gallagher knew he owed it to Sarah Whitman to be more thorough with the investigation this time around.

He fingered the keys, grimacing at the mud and rust that came away on his fingers. Two of the keys were obviously car keys, and, according to the records from the old file, one had to be a key to the bank. There were four more on the ring. One was most likely a key to his home, and he recognized a post office box key because he had one just like it on his own set of keys. There was another—long and flat, with a faint number on the head. Before he had time to pursue it further, his deputy knocked on his door and then stepped in.

“Sheriff…Mrs. Healey just called. She said Allen is trying to kick in her door again. Schuler is already on his way out there, but I thought you should know.”

Gallagher dumped the evidence back in the bag and tossed it to his deputy. “Lock this in the evidence locker,” he said. “And tell dispatch to let Schuler know I'm his backup.”

The deputy hurried away to follow orders as Ron headed for his car. Allen Healey was a nice man, except when he drank. Unfortunately, he was drunk more often than not. The last time he'd come home in that condition, he'd broken his wife's collarbone and knocked out two of her teeth. Ron had been trying to keep Edith Healey alive long enough to convince her to file charges against the man and leave him, but so far, it hadn't happened.

He hit the lights and siren as he pulled away from the office. For now, the murder of Franklin Whitman had to take a back seat to the troubles of the living.

 

Paul Sorenson got up from the breakfast table and made his way to the sideboard, where he poured himself a second cup of coffee. He'd been born and raised in Maine and, before he'd gotten old, had never paid much attention to the weather. Now it was the focus of his days. For a man who'd once enjoyed all the sports that winter had to offer, he now hated the cold. It made his joints ache, sometimes unbearably. Today was no exception. The weatherman predicted a possibility of rain before the day was out, which meant if the temperature dropped below freezing, it might very well snow.

Leaving his dirty dishes on the table for the day helper to clean up, he took his coffee and the morning paper to the library to enjoy by the fire. As he sat down in the high wing chair, he sighed with relief, slightly disgusted that one of the main joys of his life nowadays was just getting off his feet.

A log in the fireplace snapped and popped, sending a shower of sparks against the fire screen and up the chimney. The familiar sound was comforting as he took a careful sip of the coffee, set it aside and opened the paper.

It wasn't much, as papers go, but reading it kept him up-to-date on who had died and who had gotten arrested. There wasn't much crime in a town the size of Marmet, but as president of the bank, Paul felt it necessary to know who the bad risks were when it came to lending money.

His gaze went straight to the headline, and as he read it, he frowned. It was just more of the same about finding Franklin Whitman's body in the lake.

Twenty years ago, when the robbery had occurred, he'd been a loan officer at the bank, well below Franklin Whitman in both rank and people skills. Paul had coveted Whitman's job with a passion and had spent many sleepless nights plotting ways to elevate himself in the boss's eyes. It hadn't taken long after Whitman disappeared. The bank's reputation had suffered, but he'd taken full advantage of Whitman's betrayal. During the reclamation process, he had worked diligently on his attitude with the public and it had paid off. For the past fifteen years he'd been president of Marmet National Bank, and he had no intention of letting bad memories ruin what he'd worked so hard to rebuild.

He scanned the article, frowning at the slant the journalist had taken on the crime. More and more people were starting to lean toward the theory that Franklin Whitman had been an innocent victim. He didn't like that. That meant the authorities would be digging up old bones, figuratively speaking, and that was the last thing he needed. He thought of Whitman's daughter and wondered where she was, if she was even alive. Twenty years was a long time. Anything could happen, and he was sorry to admit it, but he hoped it had happened to her. She was the last person he ever wanted to see again.

Once, when he'd been in the break room at the bank, his lover had called. He'd been mildly displeased, since anonymity was of the utmost importance to their relationship, but it had also been a boon to his ego. The problem arose during the conversation, when he'd gotten caught up in their repartee and forgotten where he was. He'd laughed aloud, mentioning what he had planned for their next night together, some of which was decidedly risqué. Since he was single, no one would have thought anything about Paul's conversation other than that he was quite a stud. The only problem was, he'd called his lover by name. David.

No one in Marmet even suspected Paul's sexual persuasion. His entire life had been devoted to keeping it a secret. And he had, until that day in the break room when he'd gotten so careless, then looked up and seen Sarah Whitman standing in the door with a cookie in her hand.

“Who's David?” she'd asked, and he'd almost screamed at her to get out.

After that, he had lived in mortal fear that she would reveal him for what he was. He considered it a blessing from God when Whitman had gone missing and, later, the kid had disappeared from the state.

 

Sarah was finishing a bowl of cereal when Tony came into the kitchen. His hair was still damp from his shower, and the blue jeans and sweatshirt he was wearing had seen better days, yet he still looked fashionable, even sexy.