Lost Legacy (A Zoe Chambers Mystery Book 2) (3 page)

Baronick held up his badge. “May we come in?”

“No.”

Pete studied Engle. With the rain gone, both the heat and humidity were on the rise. In spite of it, Engle wore a long-sleeved cotton shirt from which bony wrists and hands protruded. Stained denim coveralls made for a much heavier man hung on his frail frame. But the man’s dark eyes suggested steel forged by years of hard work and hard living. Wilford Engle took no bull from anyone. Ever.

“Sir.” Pete softened his voice. “We’re here about your brother.”

Engle blinked. “My brother? Jim?”

“I’m sorry to have to tell you, Mr. Engle,” Baronick said, “but your brother is dead.”

Engle’s shoulders shifted downward, as did his gaze. “Well, that’s it then. I knew it was coming. Just thought we had a little more time is all. Thank you, officers, for letting me know.” He stepped back, his hand on the door, ready to close it.

Pete blocked the door open with his foot. “I’m afraid Detective Baronick didn’t make himself clear. Your brother didn’t die of natural causes.”

Engle stiffened. “He didn’t?”

“No, sir. His body was found this afternoon hanging in his barn.”

Engle’s face might have lost its color if it’d had any. The old man’s knees buckled, and he slammed sideways into the doorjamb. Pete grabbed for him, but the awkward angle threw Pete off balance. His foot caught on an uneven board, and his ankle rolled as Engle dragged both of them to the porch floor, Pete on the bottom. For a bag of bones, the old guy was damned heavy.

“Mr. Engle? Are you all right?” Baronick knelt beside them.

Engle moaned. “Yeah.” He squirmed, grinding a sharp elbow into Pete’s sternum. “Help me up, goddammit.”

Baronick grabbed an arm, and Pete pushed from underneath. Groaning, the old man struggled to his feet. But not before stepping on the ankle Pete had twisted. He bit back a yelp of his own and hoisted himself up as Baronick helped Engle into the house.

The old man shuffled to a faded, battered sofa and flopped onto it. “I’m sorry about that.” He rubbed the shoulder that had impacted against the doorjamb. “I take these spells.”

Pete’s ankle screamed when he put weight on it, but he gritted his teeth against the pain. “We need to ask you a few questions.”

“I guess I got a few of my own,” Engle said. “You sure it was my brother?”

“Carl Loomis gave us a preliminary identification,” Pete said.

“Pre-what?”

Baronick jumped in. “Preliminary. The coroner will confirm the ID with dental records or fingerprints. But Mr. Loomis was certain it was him.”

“Well, Carl would know.” Engle frowned at his hands in his lap. “Hanged, you say?”

“Yes, sir.” Baronick pulled his notebook from his shirt pocket. “I searched your brother’s house.”

Engle’s eyes darkened. “You had no right—”

“I found his suicide letter.”

Engle choked. “You what?”

“Found a letter. It was handwritten. Lying on the kitchen table.”

The old man shifted on the sofa. His mouth worked as though forming words, but no sound came until he said, “I don’t believe it. Where is this letter? I want to see it.”

“I’m sorry. It’s evidence.”

“Evidence?” Engle’s voice went up an octave. “Can’t you tell me what it said?”

“Yes, sir. I copied it word for word.” Baronick looked down at his notes and read, “I’ve done things in my life I’m not proud of. Now the good Lord is punishing me with this disease. I deserve every excruciating minute of torture it brings. But I pray my death will offer some light to the darkness. Forgive me. This is the only way. Goodbye, brother.”

Engle’s hands trembled. “I can’t believe he went and done it.”

“Excuse me?” Baronick said.

Engle’s eyes narrowed on the detective. “I want you to stay out of my brother’s house.”

“We can’t do that.” Pete straightened, ignoring the flames licking his ankle. “Until the coroner tells us otherwise, we consider his house a crime scene.”

The old man glared at him and gave a grunt.

“When was the last time you saw your brother?” Pete asked.

“What’s today? Friday? Must have been...oh, Tuesday. I drove him to a doctor’s appointment in Brunswick.”

“And what doctor was that?”

“Dr. Weinstein. In the old National Trust Bank Building on Main Street.”

“Mind telling us what the doctor said?” Baronick asked.

“He said Jim was dying. What the blazes do you think he said?” Engle pulled a bandana from his hip pocket. “Moron,” he muttered into the fabric before blowing his nose.

“Did your brother give you any hint he intended to commit suicide?”

The old man grew pensive and leaned back, sinking into the sofa. “Yes.” Engle’s gaze shifted to the window. “I didn’t believe he’d really do it, though.”

“Is it possible that someone killed your brother and made it look like suicide?”

The old man sputtered. “Are you out of your mind? Who would go to the trouble to kill a man who’s only got a couple of weeks to live? No one, that’s who. Moron.”

Pete cleared his throat.

He’d have preferred to be armed with more information before questioning the old farmer, but he wanted to see the man’s reaction. “There’s something else I’d like to know about.”

Engle gave an exasperated sigh.

“I’ve been told your brother wasn’t the first person to die in that old barn.”

Engle gave Pete a hard, cold stare. “Yeah? So? Farming’s a dangerous way to make a living.”

“But the case I’m speaking of wasn’t a farming accident.” At least he didn’t think it was.

“I suppose you’re talking about the Miller brothers.”

Pete waited for Engle to continue.

“That was a long time ago. One brother killed the other, then killed himself. It was over a woman as I recall.”

Baronick scribbled furiously in his notebook. “What woman?”

“I don’t know. Ain’t like I was their—whatcha call it—social secretary.”

“I understand one of the men was found hanged,” Pete said.

Engle’s eye twitched. “Could be. It was a long time ago.”

“Does it seem odd to you that a man hanged himself in your brother’s barn all those years ago and now your own brother’s done the same thing?”

The grizzled farmer stood up with a grunt, his joints cracking. “No, I don’t think it’s odd. It’s just what it is. A coincidence. We’re done here. I got things to do. Like plan a funeral.”

“Coincidence,” Pete said through clenched teeth as he and Baronick made their way toward his SUV in Wilford Engle’s driveway. He’d have parked closer if he’d known he’d be walking on a busted-up ankle. But he refused to limp. “I hate coincidences.”

“Me, too.” The detective slapped his notebook against his palm. “Do you believe him?”

Pete looked back toward the house. Engle stood at the screen door watching their departure. “No. He’s hiding something.”

“Yeah. He sure didn’t like that I was snooping around in his brother’s house. Makes me believe I need to do a little more digging out there. And what was that about another hanging in that barn?”

“Just something I heard today.” Pete slid behind the wheel, relieved to be off his feet at last. “I think I need to find out a little more about our local history.”

And he knew just the person to ask.

Three

Zoe was right about one thing. Carl Loomis hadn’t been the only farmer racing to get his hay in ahead of the rain last night.

Two wagons overloaded with fresh green bales stood in the center of the indoor riding ring at the Kroll farm. She breathed in the fragrant aroma—perfume to a farm girl. Then again, she enjoyed the earthy tang of fresh horse manure, too.

Although the farm currently boasted fifteen boarders, Patsy Greene was one of the rare few willing to jump in and help with the barn chores, and the only one who offered to help with the hay. Patsy had almost ten years on her, but Zoe often commented that Patsy acted more like a twenty-something than a forty-something.

They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, gazing up at the mountain of work. “What time does your folks’ flight get in?” Patsy asked.

“A little after ten.” Zoe checked her watch. Seven a.m.

“Guess we’d better get busy.” Patsy nudged her with an elbow, grabbed a manure fork, and headed toward one of the two dozen stalls that ran along both sides of the arena.

Zoe selected another fork from the feed room and entered the stall next to the one Patsy was mucking. “Thanks for the help. I’d never get done in time to leave for the airport on my own. And with the hay to unload this afternoon, I’ll have enough to keep me busy.”

“No problem. How’s Mrs. Kroll doing?”

“Pretty good. She’s still in remission.”

In addition to her duties as a Monongahela County paramedic and one of Franklin Marshall’s deputy coroners, Zoe also managed the Kroll farm. She’d needed a place to board her Quarter Horse gelding. When Mrs. Kroll was diagnosed with leukemia, she and her husband—both well into their seventies—needed someone to keep the horse operation running while they dealt with her health issues. They’d been a perfect match. Zoe took over the riding and boarding facility in exchange for a stall for Windstar and half of the huge nineteenth century farmhouse for her and her cats. She picked up a little extra spending money by giving riding lessons on occasion.

“When was the last time you saw your mom?” Patsy called from the next stall.

“I drove down to Florida six years ago.” And swore she’d never take on that task again. “They haven’t been up here for probably ten years.”

“To what do you owe the honor of their presence now?”

Zoe sifted sawdust bedding through the tines, keeping the brown lumps of manure on the fork. She had been pondering that question ever since her mother phoned a month ago to announce their visit.

“Well?” Patsy said.

Zoe tossed the manure into the wheelbarrow positioned by the stall door. “I really don’t know.” She wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to, either. Life was never peaceful when Kimberly Chambers Jackson was around. Plus Zoe hated how she always reverted to the age of twelve in her mother’s overpowering presence.

“How long are they gonna be here?”

“I don’t know that either. Probably a week.” A week that would feel like a month.

Patsy poked her head around the corner, a big grin on her face. “If they’re still here on Friday, be sure and bring them to my birthday party. Barbecue and a keg at my house.”

“My folks at your party?” Zoe snorted. “I thought you wanted your birthday to be fun.”

Thirty minutes later, they’d cleaned almost half the stalls. Sweat trickled down Zoe’s forehead, and she wiped it away with the back of her arm. “I thought it was supposed to be cooler today.”

“It is.” Patsy laughed. “Instead of ninety-two, it’s only going to get to eighty-eight.”

“Great.” Zoe would have to grab a quick shower before heading to the airport. Meeting her mother and Tom in her old Chevy pickup was bad enough. If she stank like a farmhand on top of it, her mother would be appalled. Not a good way to start a visit.

Patsy deposited one more forkful of soggy bedding onto the mound in the wheelbarrow. “My turn,” she said, propping the fork against the wall and wheeling the load toward the door and the manure pile. “Hey,” she called over her shoulder. “Here comes Mr. Kroll.”

The throaty rumble of the quad he used to travel between the house and the barn grew louder. Zoe heard him cut the engine and shout a greeting to Patsy before he appeared at the door. “Zoe!” he yelled across the barn. “You have company.”

“What? Who?”

“Your folks. I hope you don’t mind. I let them into your place.”

“My folks?” Crap. “They weren’t supposed to be here for...” She glanced at her watch again. Yes, it was only seven-thirty. “...two-and-a-half more hours.”

“That may be so, but they’re here. Now.”

Patsy returned with the emptied wheelbarrow. “I’ll finish up. You go.”

“Are you sure?” Zoe looked down at her filthy hands and dusty jeans and shirt.

“I’m sure. Go.”

“Want a ride?” Mr. Kroll pointed to his quad.

She’d ridden with Mr. Kroll before and nearly been bounced off into a ditch. “No, thanks. I’ll walk.”

Instead, she jogged. What in the world were her mother and Tom doing here so early? Had she misunderstood their arrival time? And now she was going to greet them, not only late, but looking like she’d been toiling in a barn. Which she had. Much to her mother’s chagrin. Kimberly had never appreciated Zoe’s passion for the outdoors or her love of animals.

Zoe arrived at the small stoop outside her kitchen door and kicked out of her grungy sneakers. She patted the dust from her Wranglers as best she could and slipped inside.

Her kitchen, long and narrow with appliances that would have been considered retro except for the fact they actually were that old, ran along the back side of the house.

In stocking feet, she padded across the floor to the swinging door leading into one of the two huge downstairs rooms she called home. Summoning her courage, she plunged in.

Kimberly Chambers Jackson, wearing a cream suit with some kind of glitter on the lapels and honey blond hair done up in a curly cascade that even a hurricane wouldn’t have budged, spun toward Zoe with a smile that froze into a look of horror.

“Hi, Mom.” Even if Zoe’d had the urge to hug her mother, the thought of transferring sawdust and sweat onto that spotless suit—not to mention Kimberly’s horrified reaction—stopped her cold. Then again, it might be amusing to see Kimberly bolt for the door after only a fifteen minute stay.