Lost Legacy (A Zoe Chambers Mystery Book 2) (4 page)

However, Tom Jackson, tall and still ruggedly handsome even though well into his sixties, strode across the room to her without hesitation. “Hiya, Sweet Pea,” he said. A big grin beneath his graying mustache kicked up a ripple of creases that Zoe remembered as dimples.

“Hey, Tom.” She surrendered to being caught up in a bear hug that lifted her off her feet. A rush of affection for the man who had been her late father’s dearest friend, and who had stepped in to raise the distraught eight year old and comfort the grieving widow, swept through her.

He set her down and planted a kiss on her cheek. “It’s good to see you, Zoe.”

She brushed some transferred dirt from his blue polo shirt. “You, too. But what are you two doing here? I thought I was supposed to pick you up at ten.”

Kimberly clasped her hands in front of her as if afraid to touch anything. Especially Zoe. “We caught an earlier flight and decided to rent a car. We didn’t want you to have to drive us everywhere, after all.”

Zoe kept her relief to herself.

“So this is where you live?” Kimberly did a slow pivot, taking in the room.

Zoe imagined her mother’s thoughts as she inspected the furniture. The lumpy couch, the set of worn easy chairs—one of which was currently occupied by a pair of sleepy orange tabbies—and the wobbly end table had come with the house. The small dining table and chairs were products of a shopping trip to IKEA. Other odds and ends had been garage sale and flea market finds. Any other day, Zoe loved the lived-in atmosphere. Comfortable chic, she called it. But through her mother’s eyes, she realized it could also be considered dilapidated and cheap. “Be it ever so humble—”

“It’s charming,” Tom said, giving his wife a look that said
be nice
.

“Where will we be sleeping?” Kimberly leaned a little to peer into the other downstairs room without moving her feet.

“Not there. That’s my office. You can have my bedroom on the second floor.” Zoe reached for a pair of the suitcases stacked at the foot of the stairs.

Tom intercepted her. “I’ll get those. And we really don’t want to put you out of your own bed.”

Zoe caught the look her mother gave him. Clearly, displacing Zoe didn’t bother Kimberly.

“It’s okay.” Zoe motioned to the lumpy couch. “That’s a sleeper sofa. It’s pretty comfortable, actually.” If you liked having springs poking you in the back. “I don’t mind. Really.”

“See.” Kimberly smiled at her husband. “She doesn’t mind. And goodness knows there isn’t a decent hotel within twenty miles of this place.”

A hotel. Now there was a thought. Zoe made a mental note for their next visit.

Then again, if history were any indicator, that wouldn’t happen for another ten years or so.

Tom tucked a bag under each arm, plus caught the handles of the other two, one in each hand. “Lead the way, Sweet Pea.”

“Oh, Tom, you don’t have to take them all in one trip,” Kimberly said. “Let Zoe carry some.”

“
You
could take one,” Zoe said to her mother, knowing full well
that
wasn’t going to happen.

Kimberly looked appalled at the suggestion.

“I can handle them,” Tom said.

“I’ll help.” Zoe wrestled two of the bags from him and started up the stairs. When the house had been a single-family unit, Zoe’s staircase had been the back one. It was enclosed, narrow, and steep. Tom followed and the clop of Kimberly’s high heels indicated she was bringing up the rear.

“Oh, dear,” Kimberly said. “Spider webs. And it’s so dark. You should put more lights in here.”

Zoe suppressed a string of sarcastic remarks. “Yes, Mom.”

The
thump thump thump
of a miniature stampede mingled with a shriek, as Jade and Merlin, the two cats, raced up the stairs brushing past their ankles.

The top of the stairs opened into Zoe’s bedroom. “I’ve cleared a couple of drawers for you. And there’s space in the armoire.” She’d moved a bunch of her things into the office downstairs.

The cats had taken possession of the double bed, daring the interlopers to make them move.

Tom dumped their bags on the floor. “I’m sorry we’re putting you out.” He crossed to the window and looked toward the view of the barn and rolling pastures. “Wow. No wonder you like it here.”

Kimberly tested the mattress’s firmness with her fingertips, while keeping an eye on the felines. “I didn’t realize you had such a small bed. And these cats won’t have the run of the place the whole time we’re here, will they?”

Tom spun, a dark scowl on his face. “Kimberly, stop.”

Zoe bit her lip to keep from smiling.

“But—”

“But nothing. This is a lovely old house and your daughter is bending over backward to give you a place to stay. So stop your bitching.”

Pretending she didn’t notice the storm clouds gathering in her mother’s eyes, Zoe set the bags she’d been carrying in the middle of the floor and pointed at the door opposite the staircase. “That’s the bathroom.”

Kimberly cleared her throat. “You mean you’ll have to come through here to use the facilities?”

“Kimberly...” Tom’s voice was a low growl.

“I’ve arranged with the Kroll’s to use their guest bath while you’re here.”

Kimberly’s eyes lit up, the storm clouds gone. “Is it nicer than this one?”

Tom closed his eyes and shook his head.

“It’s only half as big.” Zoe nodded at the door. “Mine has a big claw-foot tub and a shower.”

“Oh. Well. This’ll be fine then.”

Zoe headed for the stairs, but remembered the one thing she wanted to talk to her mother about. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course. Anything.” Kimberly’s body language said otherwise.

“Do you remember the Engle farm?”

Kimberly turned her back to Zoe and popped the latch on one of the suitcases. “You mean the old Miller farm.” It wasn’t a question, but a correction.

“Yeah. I recall you telling me something about your uncles being killed there. What was that all about?”

Tom had been examining the armoire. “This is interesting. Where did you get it?”

“Yard sale,” Zoe said without looking away from her mother’s back. “Mom?”

“My uncles Vernon and Denver Miller owned that farm. They were a couple of bachelors. One morning, they were found dead out in the barn. One was shot, the other hanged.”

“Kimberly, do you want to unpack now?” Tom interrupted. “Maybe you want to lie down and take a nap first.”

Zoe scowled at her stepfather. What was up with him? To her mother, she said, “Wasn’t there a connection to James Engle?”

Kimberly flung the dress she’d been unpacking down on the bed and faced Zoe. “The police said that Uncle Vernon and Uncle Denver fought over a woman and that it was a murder-suicide. But we all knew James Engle was responsible.”

Tom crossed to Zoe and took her by the shoulders. “Your mother’s tired. Can’t this wait until later?”

Funny. Kimberly didn’t look tired to Zoe. “It’ll just take a minute.
Who
thought Engle was responsible? And why?”

“My mother for one. That was our family farm. It should have gone to her in their wills. But for some reason, the wills had been changed a few months before Vernon and Denver died, leaving everything to James Engle.”

Whoa. There was a lot more to the story than Zoe had known. “When did all this happen?”

Kimberly looked to Tom. “How long was it? Forty? Forty-five years ago?”

He sat on the edge of the bed with a sigh. “Closer to forty-five.”

“Why all the interest in family history?” Kimberly asked.

Zoe thought about the gruesome body hanging from the rafters the night before. “James Engle was found hanged in his barn yesterday.”

Kimberly’s eyes widened and she looked at her husband. “Oh my God. Tom? I’m so sorry.”

Sorry? Zoe stared at her mother, then at Tom. “What’s going on?”

Kimberly touched his shoulder and their eyes met. “There was a time when Tom looked up to James almost like a father.”

Four

Pete hobbled across his kitchen to answer the pounding at the door. His damned ankle still hurt like hell. He’d promised Franklin he would be at the morgue by nine. The last thing he needed was company to delay him further.

He swung the door open to find a grandmotherly version of the Pillsbury Dough Boy wearing a pink t-shirt and khaki shorts. Sylvia Bassi, his former police secretary turned township supervisor, didn’t wait for an invitation and bustled inside.

“I got your message,” she said. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

He’d expected her to call him back. Not simply drop in. But he sure wasn’t about to tell
her
that. He closed the door to block out the heat of the morning sun. “Did you hear about James Engle?”

“Yes, I did. Terrible thing. I can’t imagine how much agony he must have been in to end it that way.” She shivered.

Pete took one step on his bad leg, gritting his teeth against the pain, and eased into a chair. “What do you know about the Miller brothers?”

“The Miller brothers? Good heavens, you’re going back a few years.”

“That’s why I called you.”

“Pete Adams, are you insinuating I’m old?” Sylvia planted her plump fists against her ample hips.

“I would never insinuate such a thing. But you’re the biggest local history buff I know.”

“Bullshit. I
am
old. That’s why I know my history. I lived it. Let me think. The Miller boys were bachelors. Quite the ladies’ men. Handsome devils, the both of them.”

Pete wondered about the faraway twinkle in her eyes as she took a seat at his dining room table.

“It was a tragedy. Rumor has it they got into a fight over a woman.”

“What woman?”

Sylvia opened her mouth. Shut it again. Scowled. “There were rumors galore at the time, of course. But I don’t think anyone ever narrowed it down. Anyhow, apparently Vernie shot Denver. Then, when he realized what he’d done, Vernie hanged himself.” Her eyes widened. “It all happened in that barn. The one from yesterday.”

“That’s why I asked about it. Was there any connection between the Millers and the Engles?”

Sylvia tapped one finger against the table’s surface. “Well, one of the Engle boys worked as a hand on the farm for several years before this all happened. When the wills were read, there was some sort of dust-up because Vernie and Denver left the farm to him instead of their sister and her family.” Sylvia stopped tapping and shook the finger at Pete. “And their sister happens to be Zoe’s grandma.”

“Which Engle? James?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Makes you wonder who will get it now. I met Wilford. He doesn’t look well either.”

“I can’t help you there. I do remember there was an investigation of sorts at the time, although nothing came of it. You should give Warren Froats a call.”

“Froats?” Pete had replaced the old chief of police almost ten years ago. “Was he chief back then?”

“Warren was chief when the dinosaurs walked these hills. He’d probably still be chief if his cardiologist hadn’t put his foot down and insisted he retire.” Sylvia’s face pinched into a scowl. “Good thing, too. Everyone loved Warren, but he wasn’t much of a stickler for details, if you know what I mean. I’m not sure how many cases he solved. Mostly I think he just talked folks into forgetting about them.”

“Yet you think I should speak with him about the investigation into the Miller homicides?”

She shrugged. “I can promise you one thing. If he did find anything, he’ll still remember it. Nothing wrong with the man’s memory.”

“Okay.” Pete added a stop at Froats’ house to his itinerary for the day. After his trip to the morgue.

Sylvia pushed up from her seat with a grunt. “I’d better be going. I imagine you have an autopsy to attend to.”

Pete stood, careful to keep his weight off the bad ankle without being obvious about it.

She paused in front of him. “You never said. Do you think there’s a connection between Jim Engle and the Miller brothers’ deaths?”

“Probably not. I’m just checking all the angles.”

“All right then.” She made a move toward the door and then hesitated. “And what happened to your leg?”

“My leg?” Pete straightened, striking the best invincible pose he could.

“Yes, your leg.” She pointed at his right one. “The one you’re trying hard to pretend doesn’t hurt like the dickens.”

He eyed her, but gave up the charade. “Injured in the line of duty. I’ll be fine.”

“Uh-huh. Get the doctor to look at it. And I don’t mean the pathologist.”

“Yes, Mother,” Pete quipped and then leaned down to plant a kiss on her cheek.

She opened the door to leave. “Oh. You have more company coming.”

Damn it. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Eight-fifteen. He needed to be on the road no later than eight-thirty to be in Brunswick by nine. Whoever was paying him a surprise visit this time had better make it quick.

He looked past Sylvia to see a black sedan parked at the end of his walk. A tall, slender woman wearing her brunette hair in a ponytail was helping an elderly man from the passenger seat.

Realization hit Pete with the force of a baseball bat.

No. Not now.

Sylvia nodded politely to the pair as she ambled down the sidewalk toward her white Ford Escort, showing no signs of recognition. Why would she? She’d never met his sister and father.

“Hello, Pete,” his sister said as the couple approached his door.

“Hey, Sis. Hi, Pop.” Pete tried to keep the
what-the-hell-are-you-doing-here
tone from his voice.

“Son,” Harry Adams said, beaming. He caught Pete in a hug that forced him to put full weight on his bad ankle. The old man mistook the groan as a result of his embrace and laughed, flexing his muscles. “I still work out in the gym, you know.”