Lost Legacy (A Zoe Chambers Mystery Book 2) (17 page)

Stunned, Zoe leaned back against the boxes behind her. “Who asked you?”

“Guess.”

Her mind swept through the possibilities, and it didn’t take long. “Pete?”

“Uh-huh. He’s got me looking at two old cases—your dad’s crash and those two brothers who died in the same barn where James Engle hung himself. They were related to you, too, weren’t they?”

“They were my mom’s uncles.” So Pete was giving some credence to her suspicions after all. “Did you find anything?”

“Not yet. I just got here when I heard someone dragging a ladder around. Decided to see who else was spending a lovely summer day locked in this dungeon.” Baronick motioned to the box in front of her. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

Zoe drew a breath, blew it out, and lifted the lid. She and Baronick leaned forward to peer inside.

A folder lay at the bottom. Nothing else.

She reached in and removed it. “That’s it?”

“So it seems.” Baronick took the folder from her and flipped it open.

Zoe scooted around so she could read over his shoulder. “What’s it say?”

He frowned. Thumbed through several pages. Then flipped them back again. “Not very damned much. We’ve got an accident report.” He let his finger trail down the page as he read. “Ran off the road by a drunk driver. The car caught fire. Vance Township Volunteer Fire Department responded.” He paused. “Whoa. Here’s something interesting.”

“What?”

“The driver of the other car was Carl Loomis. The guy who was raising a fuss at the James Engle farm on Friday.”

“I know.”

Baronick turned to look at her. “How?”

“Warren Froats told Pete. Pete told me.”

“Froats.” The detective blew a quick raspberry. “That old bag of wind.”

Zoe snorted. “Don’t hold back, Detective. Tell me what you
really
think of him.”

Baronick shook the accident report at her. “See this? It’s typical Warren Froats. Granted, I never worked with the man. He retired before my time. But whenever I have to look up information on an old case that he handled, it’s like this. Nothing. The man hated details. I don’t know how the DA ever won a case on the reports he wrote.”

“What else is there?”

Baronick flipped to another page. “Here’s your coroner’s report.”

Zoe snatched it from him. As she scanned the page, her hopes for answers melted into her shoes.

“It says cause of death was smoke inhalation. Method of death is listed as accidental.” She flipped the page over, but the back was blank. She pointed at the folder in the detective’s hands. “Where are the autopsy results?”

He thumbed through the remaining pages. “There’s nothing here. Oh, wait. Look.” He pointed at a faded notation on a sheet of lined notepaper. “It says no autopsy was performed at the request of the family.”

Zoe choked. “That’s crazy. It wouldn’t matter if the family didn’t want an autopsy. On a case like this, it would be done anyway.”

He shrugged. “Sure.
Now
. Things were different back then, I guess. Maybe the old coroner was as incompetent as Froats.”

“But how did they come up with a determination of smoke inhalation if there wasn’t an autopsy? I don’t suppose there’re any lab results in that folder, are there?”

He scanned the few pages and shook his head.

“Toxicology reports?”

“Nope.”

Zoe’s mind spun. Instead of answers, the box only contained more questions. “Is this incompetence? Or a cover-up?”

Baronick frowned. “You lost me. Cover-up?”

She studied the detective’s face. Would he think she was crazy, too? Biting her lip, she decided to chance it. “You saw the letter Engle wrote to my mother, right?”

“The one the crime scene guys found crumpled under his couch? Yeah.”

“It said my father didn’t die in that crash.”

Baronick didn’t reply, so she continued. “I think my father’s still alive. I think he faked his death.”

Instead of laughing, Baronick rubbed his jaw. Frowned at the folder, the sparse reports, then at her. “Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know. But the only person I’ve found who actually says he saw my dad’s body was Warren Froats.”

“And you know what I think of him.”

“What if Dad isn’t dead? What if he and Froats made up the story about him being burnt in the crash so the casket would stay closed? Dad would know my mom wouldn’t want to see that. They could have set the car on fire to fit their story.”

Baronick wasn’t looking at her like she was nuts. He wasn’t looking at her like she was poor, delusional Zoe, either.

“But when I tell all this to Pete, he brings up one question I can’t answer.”

“Which is?”

“Why would Dad do that to Mom and me? How could he just disappear and let us think he was dead all these years?”

Baronick closed the folder and set it back inside the box. “I think I may know the answer to that one.”

“I can’t believe I let you coerce me into being your chauffeur,” Sylvia muttered.

Pete fumbled for the lever to slide back the passenger seat in her white Ford Escort. “Don’t bullshit me. You love any chance to pick up some new local gossip.”

“But you won’t let me share any of it. Police business.” She huffed. “What good is gossip if a body has to keep it to herself?”

“Welcome to the wonderful world of law enforcement.” He managed to release the seat a couple of clicks, making room for his legs and sighed in relief. Whoever had last sat in this seat must have been a midget. He half turned toward Harry in the backseat. “You doin’ okay, Pop?”

Harry grunted. “Where are we going?”

“Zoe’s house.”

“Who?”

Pete closed his eyes. Here we go again.

“You remember Zoe, don’t you, Harry?” Sylvia called back over her shoulder. “Pete’s girlfriend.”

Pete shot Sylvia his best I’m-going-to-kill-you look.

“Oh, sure,” Harry replied. “She’s a sweetheart.”

“Indeed she is.” Sylvia glanced at Pete. “And she’s going to wring your neck when you show up to question her stepdad about three murders and a shooting.”

“That’s two alleged suicides, a shooting, a traffic fatality, and only
one
murder.”

“Well, that makes a huge difference. She’s still gonna wring your neck.”

“Good thing she’s not my girlfriend then.”

Sylvia muttered something, but the only word Pete comprehended was “idiot.”

“What did you say?” he demanded.

“Nothing. Not a thing.” Sylvia clicked on her turn signal as they approached the farm lane. “Just don’t come crawling to me when you’re old and lonely.”

At the moment his concerns had little to do with getting old. How was Zoe going to take his suspicions? Sylvia might be right about her wringing his neck.

A few minutes later, Pete crutched his way down the hill to the farmhouse’s enclosed back porch. Sylvia and Harry, arm-in-arm and looking very much like a respectable older couple, trailed behind. Pete struggled with the big step onto the porch and hobbled to the door to Zoe’s half of the house. He rapped lightly on the glass window in the door and expected the lace curtain to be brushed aside revealing Zoe’s inquiring face.

Instead, the door swung open to a woman he’d never met before, but the striking blue eyes, blond hair, and incredible body were oddly familiar. This woman might have been a couple of decades older than Zoe, dressed in pristine matching pastels rather than a uniform or jeans, and must have used enough hairspray to keep her “do” in place even in a Florida hurricane, but otherwise the resemblance was striking.

“Kimberly Jackson?” Pete said.

The woman raised a critical eyebrow. “Yes?”

Pete held up his ID and introduced himself. “Is Zoe home?”

Kimberly crossed her arms in front of her and made no move to open the door any further. “No. And I don’t have a clue as to when she’ll be back.”

A weight lifted from Pete’s shoulders. If Zoe was going to strangle him, at least his demise had been given a reprieve. However, he couldn’t help wondering where she’d gone. “How about Mr. Jackson? Is he in?”

“Yes.” Kimberly’s gaze shifted past Pete to his entourage. A flash of recognition crossed her face. “Sylvia,” she said coolly.

“Hello, Kim.” Sylvia’s smile appeared forced. “How long has it been?”

Kimberly ignored the question and still made no move to invite them in.

Pete made a mental note to ask Sylvia about her past relationship with Zoe’s mother. “Mrs. Jackson, I need to ask your husband a few questions.”

Kimberly’s eyes came back to his. He’d been mistaken. They weren’t anything like Zoe’s. The only sparkle in these baby blues was the hard glint of steel. She gave a disgusted sigh and stepped back, opening the door wider. “Tom’s on the front porch.”

Pete hobbled inside with a glance back to make sure Kimberly didn’t slam the door on Sylvia or his father. The look on Sylvia’s face told Pete he needn’t worry.

He started across the space that served as both a living and dining room toward Zoe’s office.

“Wait,” Kimberly called. “I’ll get Tom. You can talk here.”

Pete paused and pivoted on his crutches. He shot a glance at Sylvia. “It’s no problem. I’d rather meet with him out there.”

Sylvia caught Kimberly’s arm. “Why don’t we fix some lemonade for the men?”

Pete bit back a smile. Good old Sylvia had picked up on his silent request. He needed some alone time with Zoe’s stepdad.

Kimberly’s voice shot up an octave. “Lemonade?”

As Sylvia led Kimberly to the kitchen, Pete continued through Zoe’s office. Behind him he heard Sylvia introducing his father to Zoe’s mother. He almost wished he could spy on the conversation going on behind that kitchen door. But he had more important matters to deal with on the front porch.

Seventeen

“Damn it,” Pete said through clenched teeth as he battled his way through the screen door to the front porch. He tried to block it open with one crutch while hopping on his good foot, but the second crutch snagged on the threshold, nearly toppling him onto his face.

Tom Jackson jumped to his rescue, catching the obstinate door and holding it open.

“Thanks,” Pete muttered. He was supposed to be the one tending to his township’s helpless victims, not the one needing assistance. Especially not from Jackson.

Pete thunked across the wood deck and cast a glance at the pair of Adirondacks flanking a table bearing a potted geranium and an open can of Coke. Weighing the aggravation of climbing back out of the low-slung chair versus standing, he opted to lean against the wide wooden porch railing.

“Chief Adams.” Jackson reclaimed his seat. “If you’re here to see my daughter, I’m afraid you’ve missed her.”

“I’m not here for Zoe.” Pete propped his crutches against a support pillar and took what he hoped looked like a casual stance. From the set of Jackson’s jaw, Pete knew going head-to-head with this man would offer the same result as running into a brick wall. Better to keep things casual, if that were possible. “I hoped we could talk.”

Jackson studied him. “About what? Because if this is about Mr. Kroll’s shooting yesterday, I’ve already told you everything I know.”

Pete reached into his pocket and eased out his notebook, but didn’t open it. “All right then. What about James Engle?”

Jackson’s right eye narrowed ever so slightly. Otherwise, the man showed no reaction to the name. Pete waited for a response. None came.

Pete hated losing in the game of chicken. But Jackson showed no hint of backing down. So much for staying casual. “You lied to me, Mr. Jackson.”

The man’s eyes never wavered. “Oh?”

Pete flipped open his notebook. “Yesterday I asked if you knew James Engle. You said you didn’t.”

The shift in Jackson’s countenance was subtle. A slight downturn to his lip—a momentary narrowing of his eyes. “I didn’t think my relationship with James Engle had anything to do with Mr. Kroll being shot.”

Pete softened his own expression. “It was a simple question. I never said it was related to the shooting case.”

Jackson picked up his Coke and sipped. Rolling the can between his palms, he said, “Yeah. I
knew
Jim. Past tense. I haven’t seen him in years. Decades.”

“How many decades?”

Jackson stopped toying with the can. “Exactly?”

Pete watched him without answering.

Jackson appeared to be looking back through his past. “Kimberly and I have lived in Florida for close to twenty years. I haven’t seen Jim since before then.”

“How well did you know him?”

Jackson again locked onto Pete’s gaze, and Pete had the distinct feeling the man was trying to read him. “We were close. Once. A long time ago.”

“How long ago?”

Jackson broke the staring match and chuckled. “About a hundred years.”

Pete didn’t share the laugh. “You look good for your age.”

Jackson shifted in the chair, relaxing. “I was a kid. In my twenties. Jim Engle was–more than a friend. He was kind of a father figure to me. But people grow apart. Life gets in the way.” He smiled beneath his mustache. “We haven’t been close for a very long time.”

“Life gets in the way,” Pete echoed back to him. “By
life
, don’t you really mean death? As in the deaths of Denver and Vernon Miller?”

Pete had hoped for a reaction. Instead, Jackson held the faint smile. “Now you’re really stretching, Chief. Is business so slow around these parts that you have to go back forty-some years to find a case to work on?”

Pete crossed his arms and struck a laid-back pose. Or as laid-back as he could with his foot and ankle throbbing. He should have risked the Adirondack chair.

“I don’t like coincidences, Mr. Jackson. James Engle’s body was found hanging in the same barn the Miller brothers died in. Your own wife suspects Engle had something to do with her uncles’ deaths. And rumor has it your falling-out with Engle happened about the same time. That’s too many coincidences to suit me.”

Jackson’s smile had vanished. He seemed ready to go on the offensive, but appeared to swallow whatever argument he’d intended to use. “All right. Yeah. After Denver and Vernon’s deaths, Jim changed. He started drinking. A lot. He shut me out.”

“What do you know about the Millers?”

“Not much.”

Pete wanted to stomp across the porch and grab the man, but knew he’d fall flat on his face. Instead he slammed his hand down on the railing. “Come off it, Jackson. Your so-called
father figure
inherited the farm that should have gone to your wife’s family. Don’t tell me you don’t have some knowledge or insight into what happened.”

“I hate to disappoint you, but I really don’t know more than anyone else who was around back then. The Millers were both involved with the same woman and it got ugly. As for Jim inheriting? He worked damned hard for the brothers. They showed their appreciation by leaving him the farm. That’s
it
.”

For a moment, the only sound was a pair of robins squawking from the pines in the front yard. Pete studied Jackson as he asked his next question. “Who was the woman?”

Jackson remained nearly unreadable. Nearly. “I don’t know.”

Pete kept his own face expressionless in spite of his triumph. Tom Jackson was lying through his teeth. “Okay. As for James. Had you spoken with him?”

Jackson frowned. “I told you. No.”

“You said you hadn’t
seen
him,” Pete corrected. “Did you have any contact at all? Phone call? Email? Letters?”

“Nothing.”

Pete nodded as if he believed that one, too. “What about Gary Chambers?”

Jackson’s eyes darkened. “I haven’t talked to him recently either.”

Now Pete allowed himself to smile. “I would guess not. I didn’t take you for psychic. But you knew him?”

“Of course.”