Lost Legacy (A Zoe Chambers Mystery Book 2) (8 page)

Seven

Pete stared at the pair of queens and pair of threes he held in his hand. Drawing one lousy card hadn’t helped him a bit. The TV blaring from the living room helped even less.

Sylvia, Yancy, Earl, and Seth sat around the dining table. Zoe had offered to skip the game and keep Harry company.

“You playing or what?” Yancy asked him. “It’ll cost you two bucks.”

Pete studied the faces around him. Earl and Yancy had folded. Sylvia kept a steady eye on Pete. The woman had the best poker face of the bunch. Hard to tell what she was holding. Seth, on the other hand, broke out in a sweat every time he bluffed. Right now he was biting back a smile while fidgeting in his chair.

“I’m out.” Pete tossed his cards down, leaned back in his chair, and allowed Sylvia and Seth to battle for the pot.

Meanwhile, Zoe was in the other room, babysitting Harry.

Damn it. Pete hated dumping his problems on his friends. Especially Zoe. He’d cringed at the look on her face when she’d recognized Harry’s illness. Pity. She’d felt
pity
. For Harry, who would’ve detested anyone thinking of him as pathetic. And for Pete, for being stuck with a father who couldn’t remember shit.

Plus, there was that embarrassing little exchange with Harry insisting that Pete ask Zoe out. Little did his dad know how much he longed to do just that. But she’d already turned him down, insisting she valued their friendship too much to risk it. She had a point. He’d made a lousy husband to his ex-wife. Now he realized what a lousy son and brother he was as well.
Friend
was about the best he could muster.

And how was Zoe going to react to the letter? Pete had made a copy of the crumpled note Baronick had found under James Engle’s couch. He’d contemplated taking it directly to Zoe’s mother. But the case was old. The note probably didn’t mean a thing. He’d never met Kimberly Chambers Jackson. How would she respond to something like this? No, he’d show the copy to Zoe first and let her decide how to deal with her mother.

“Hey. You in?” Sylvia thumped him on the arm. “Ante up, bud.”

Pete blinked. Seth was raking in his winnings, a victorious smile on his young face. Never mind that he was still down five bucks for the evening. The kid needed to work on containing himself. 

Pete glanced over his shoulder at the clock on the wall. Eight-thirty. Poor Zoe had been sitting in there, watching TV with Harry for over an hour. “Deal me out of this hand.” His ankle throbbed, but he fought to ignore the pain as he entered the living room.

The TV was tuned to some sort of dance competition. But Harry and Zoe weren’t sitting back and watching it as Pete had expected. Harry perched on the edge of the sofa, his face etched with tension. Zoe had her back turned to Pete, but he noticed her hand on Harry’s arm.

“What’s going on in here?” Pete kept his voice light.

Harry sprung to his feet. Zoe rose slower and turned toward Pete. Her lips were pressed into a troubled frown, her eyes communicating volumes without saying a word.

“Where’s Nadine?” Harry demanded. “I want to go home.”

“Nadine’s out of town. You’re staying with me for a few weeks. Remember?” Pete winced at his own words. Hell, no, Harry didn’t remember. That was the problem.

Harry squinted at Pete. Then his face softened. “Pete? Is that you? What are you doing here?”

Pete sighed. “I live here, Pop. How about I show you to your room and get you ready for bed.”

Harry looked around, obviously confused. His eyes settled on Zoe. “Who are you?”

“I’m Zoe.” Her voice sounded tired, but patient.

Pete wondered how many times she’d answered that question during the course of the evening. He took his father’s elbow. “Come on, Pop.”

“Okay.”

As Pete turned his dad toward the hallway at the back of the house, he felt Zoe’s fingers brush his arm. He met her gaze for a moment and wasn’t sure which stung most. The vacant look in his dad’s eyes. Or the look of sympathy in hers.

“You’ve done your time,” Pete told her. “Go play some poker.” 

Pete finally settled Harry into the guest room after considerable arguing. Had the raised voices been heard all the way out in the dining room? Pete hoped not.

He left his father’s room door ajar and the hall light on. As he hobbled through the living room, the absence of poker player chatter struck him as a bad sign. Sure enough, the dining room and kitchen were empty, except for Zoe, who looked up from a game of solitaire.

“Did Pop’s bellowing scare everyone off?”

Zoe motioned toward the clock on the wall. “No.”

Eleven o’clock. How did that happen? Pete sunk into the chair across from her with a groan. His ankle was killing him. “I guess I’m a lousy host.”

One at a time, she flipped the cards face down. “No, you’re not. Did you get your dad settled?”

Pete wiped a hand across his eyes. “Finally.”

“It’s called sundowning.”

“What?”

“Sundowning. A lot of Alzheimer’s patients get...unruly...later in the day.”

Pete recalled Nadine’s words.
And on occasion, he gets rambunctious in the evenings
.

“Plus he’s in an unfamiliar setting,” Zoe said.

“Unfamiliar,” Pete echoed. And whose fault was that? He longed to blame this all on his sister. But as much as it pained him to admit it, Nadine had been right. “How do you know all this?”

Zoe scooped up the cards and tapped the edge of the deck against the table. “Patsy Greene—she boards her horse at the farm? Her mom had Alzheimer’s. I used to help her out sometimes.”

Terrific. Zoe was more help to a friend than he was to his own sister.

“It’s a horrible disease,” Zoe added. “You’ve never mentioned your dad had it. In fact, I don’t remember you ever mentioning your dad at all.”

“He lives with my sister in Pittsburgh. She’s taking a vacation for a few weeks.”

“Caregivers need a break every so often.” Zoe reached across the table and rested a hand on his arm. “It’s great that you’re pitching in to help.”

He eased away from her touch, leaning back in the chair. What would she think if she knew the truth?

“What do you need me to do?” Zoe asked.

“Do?”

“You asked me to stick around after everyone else left. I figured you wanted to ask me to help out with your dad.”

Damn it. The letter. He’d almost forgotten. “Um, actually, no. That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh?” She frowned, but then her eyes widened. “Oh. The autopsy. What did Franklin find out? Was it really a suicide?”

“We don’t know yet. There’s nothing to indicate anyone helped Engle along, but Franklin ruled the manner of death as undetermined.”

“So you’re still investigating?”

“Oh, yeah.” Pete met her eyes. “There’ve been a couple of unexpected developments today.”

“Really? Such as?”

“First, James Engle didn’t have lung cancer.”

Zoe choked. “But—wasn’t that the reason he supposedly killed himself?”

“According to his brother.”

“And Carl Loomis,” she reminded him.

Pete had almost forgotten about the irate farmhand. He made a mental note to add Loomis to his list of interviewees.

She turned the deck over in her hand, cut it, and shuffled. “I talked to my mom about her uncles.”

“And?” Pete slipped the letter from his pocket, but kept it palmed.

“The story goes that their deaths were a murder/suicide.”

“That’s what I heard.”

She shuffled the deck again. “But their wills left the Miller family farm to James Engle instead of their sister...my grandmother. Apparently both wills had been changed a few months before they died.”

“Interesting.” Pete fingered the folded paper. “Still, I have a hard time finding a logical rationale to link a forty-five year-old case to Engle’s hanging.”

Zoe set the deck of cards down on the table. “James Engle and his hanging
are
the links.” 

Pete held up one hand with what he hoped was the same authority he used to stop oncoming traffic. “I didn’t say I’m not going to look into it.”

Her posture softened. “Oh.” She pointed to his other hand. “What’ve you got there?”

“I said there were a
couple
of unexpected developments. The health of Engle’s lungs was only one of them.” He slid the folded paper across the table to her. “This is the other.”

Zoe eyed the note on the table between them. It looked like a standard page of copy paper folded twice. A little rumpled around the edges, the whole thing was slightly rounded from having been in Pete’s hip pocket. She reached for the page and found it warm to her touch. Pete’s body heat. But that look in his eyes? This wasn’t good news.

Bracing herself, she unfolded it and read.

Dear Mrs. Jackson,

I suppose you’re wondering why I would be writing to you now. My days are numbered and I hope to make things right as much as possible while I still can.

As part of that mission, I feel I need to let you know about your husband. Gary was just trying to do what’s right. Mrs. Jackson, your husband did not die in that car crash.

I wish I could tell you more.

With Deepest Remorse,

James Engle

What the hell?

A million questions crashed around inside her head, jamming in her throat. When one finally found its way out, her voice was little more than a squeak. “What is this?”

Pete leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his hands folded. “It’s a photocopy of a letter the crime scene guys found crumpled under James Engle’s couch.”

“Crumpled? So he never sent it?”

Pete shrugged. “That’s one possibility.”

She reread the words. “Gary. My dad?”

“So it would seem.”

Vague, distant memories flashed across her mind. Her dad had died when she was only eight. Mental pictures of him were limited to the old, faded photographs she kept in a shoebox in her closet. A tall, handsome fellow with sandy hair and wide smile holding a much younger version of herself. Her father helping her learn to ride a two-wheeler. Leading her on a spotted pony.

Try as she might, she couldn’t conjure up any memories of her own beyond the sense of being deeply loved. And the intense loss of that unconditional devotion cut her like a stainless steel blade, even now, twenty-seven years later.

He’d been killed in a car crash. What did this mean? He
didn’t
die in the car crash? Then how?

Her eyes blurred. She blinked. When her vision cleared, she realized her hands were shaking. She laid the paper on the table, smoothed it with her palms, and read further. “What was Dad trying to do right? Pete?”

He shushed her gently, and she realized her voice had risen. She pressed her trembling fingers against her upper lip.

“It may mean nothing at all.” Pete took her other hand in his. “It’s very possible that this is simply the ravings of a demented mind. He’d told everyone he was sick when he wasn’t. Who knows what motivated him to write this? I was going to ask your mother about it, but I didn’t want to upset her unnecessarily. So I thought I’d show it to you first.”

Zoe looked up from the letter, gaping at Pete. She gave a short laugh that sounded frantic even to her. “You thought you’d upset me instead?”

His lips slanted into a lopsided grin. “I know you. I don’t know your mother.”

She wasn’t sure if it was the warmth of his touch, his easy smile, or his attempt at humor, but the tightness in her chest and neck relaxed. With a clearer head, she read the letter a third time. And this time, only one question—and another potential meaning—shouted inside her mind.

Zoe met Pete’s gaze, seeking answers she knew he didn’t have. “It says he
didn’t die
in that car crash.” She swallowed hard. “Pete, is my dad still alive?”

The road leading into Warren Froats’ place had been named for his family. Froats Lane. It crossed an ancient iron bridge and wound its way along the edge of Buffalo Creek. A canopy of cool, green leaves created a tunnel through which the Sunday morning sun trickled, splashing through Pete’s windshield. He tugged his Vance Township PD ball cap a little lower over his eyes.

He’d only met Froats a handful of times. The former chief had turned into a bit of a recluse after retirement, preferring to stand thigh-high in a river somewhere, casting dry flies to spending time with those he used to serve and protect.

Froats had phoned Pete at six in the morning, stating he had plans for the day. If Pete wanted to talk, it would have to be before nine.

Harry had been restless during the night, but had finally fallen into a sound slumber, evidenced by his wall-shaking snores. Thankfully, Sylvia, also an early bird, agreed to come over to the house and be there when he awoke.

As Pete dodged the ruts in Froats Lane, he fought to keep his mind on the discussion he wanted to hold with his predecessor. But Zoe’s distraught face kept crowding out his mental list of questions.

Was Gary Chambers still alive?

Pete had tried to reason with her. If her father were alive, where had he been all these years? Was he the kind of man who would walk away from his young daughter and never try to contact her?

That question gave Zoe pause. She admitted she didn’t think so. But she refused to focus on any of the other potential meanings to the letter. Or the likely possibility that Engle had either been trying to stir up trouble or had been certifiably nuts.

Damn it. Pete shouldn’t have shown the blasted thing to her. If she insisted on believing her dad was still alive, she was setting herself up for heartbreak. She’d eventually have to face facts. It would be like losing him all over again.

Pete steered his SUV around yet another wide bend in the road. As the road straightened, the trees opened to full sun and a wide clearing. He jammed on the brakes. His tires spewed gravel from the road’s tarred and chipped surface, as he almost skidded past Froats’ driveway. Cutting hard to the right, Pete maneuvered the vehicle across an old wooden bridge, the planks clanking beneath him. Ahead, a single-wide house trailer, sporting a deck larger than the mobile home, nestled in a shady grove of skinny maples.

Pete pulled next to a red Ford pickup with mismatched white and brown side panels. In lieu of a tailgate, bungee cords stretched across the back of the truck bed. He killed the engine and stepped out.

“Well, if it isn’t Pistol Pete Adams,” came a gruff greeting. Warren Froats reclined in an Adirondack chair, an oversized mug clenched in his equally oversized paw. His yellowed Bass Pro T-shirt strained to contain a barrel chest and beer keg belly. “How the hell are ya?”

Pete’s ankle stung enough to let him know it was still there, but hiding his limp was less of an effort as he climbed the two steps onto the deck. He extended his hand and Froats snatched it without rising. “Good to see you, Warren.”

Froats tipped his head toward a second chair. “How about a cup of coffee?” Without waiting for Pete’s reply, Froats bellowed, “Sally Jo! Bring Chief Adams a cup.”

Pete lowered himself to the edge of the offered seat.

“What brings you out here to my little corner of heaven?”

“I imagine you’ve heard about James Engle.”

Froats face pinched into a frown. “Engle? No. I’ve been on the river. Haven’t heard any news. What about him?”

“He’s dead. A farm worker found him hanging from his barn rafters Friday afternoon.”

The screen door swung open, and a woman wearing a long gray ponytail stepped through it carrying a mug emblazoned with a Pittsburgh Steelers logo. She handed the coffee to Pete who thanked her before she ducked back inside the trailer without a word.

Froats gazed across his front yard toward the creek, his eyes narrowed as if watching something Pete couldn’t see.

“I understand you investigated another hanging in that barn,” Pete said.

Froats made a rumbling noise in his throat. Then he hoisted himself out of the Adirondack chair. “Let’s go for a walk.” He didn’t wait for Pete, but thumped down the steps.

Pete left the mug on the arm of the chair and followed, grateful Froats’ stride was more of a shuffle.

“You think there’s a connection between James Engle’s death and the other case?” Froats asked once they were away from the trailer.

“I doubt it. Just covering all bases. There wasn’t much detail in the reports from back then.”

Froats grunted. “Never did care for paperwork. Let me think.” He stopped, closed his eyes, and rubbed the stubble on his chin. “You’re talking about Vernon Miller. Found hung in his barn. That same barn Engle owns now. Or
did
own, I should say. That was a suicide. Miller, I mean. How about Engle?”

“The coroner isn’t sure yet.”

“The Miller case was pretty cut and dried. Folks who knew ’em said the two brothers were both in love with the same woman. They fought over her. One of them got hold of a gun and killed the other. The remorse was too much for the poor sap and he hung himself.”

“Who was the woman?”

“Ah, hell, I don’t know. Those two boys were no better ’n a pair of tom cats. Both in their forties and never married. Good looking cusses. All the gals acted like they were movie stars or something. We’re talking about back in the days of hippies and free love. Well, they took advantage of the
free
part.”

“What about the gun?”

“Gun?”

“You said Vernon shot his brother. What happened to the gun?”

Froats’ scowl deepened. He waddled away from Pete.

The spongy loam beneath them was punctuated with tree roots and moss-covered rocks. Pete’s ankle didn’t appreciate the irregular terrain, and he picked his way along.

“Never recovered the gun,” Froats mumbled.

Stunned, Pete looked up to catch the former chief’s expression, but Froats had turned his back. Pete stumbled and came down on his bad leg. Hard. Searing pain shot all the way into his hip. He grabbed a tree to steady his balance and let loose a string of expletives. 

Froats wheeled toward him. “You okay?”

“Just great,” Pete said through gritted teeth. “What do you mean you never recovered the gun? How do you know Vernon was the one who pulled the trigger?”

Froats shrugged. “A witness.”

“A witness? Someone saw the fight?”

“No. The bullet dug out of the body was a .38. It oughta still be around in evidence somewhere, by the way. Anyhow, a witness claimed Vernon owned a .38. Also claimed the boys had both been seeing the same woman and argued about her. What the devil’s wrong with you, Pete? You look like you’re about ready to pass out.”