Lost Legacy (A Zoe Chambers Mystery Book 2) (9 page)

His ankle burned like someone was driving red-hot spikes into it. He clung to the tree trunk, sorting the pain from the anger and struggled to keep his breath even. “What witness?”

“You mean you don’t know?” Froats said. “It was James Engle.”

Eight

With her two tabbies observing from the back of the sleeper sofa, Zoe folded her bed into itself and wedged the cushions into place.

Overhead, muffled conversation mingled with footsteps and the occasional screech of furniture being moved. Zoe sighed. Her mother apparently didn’t agree with the bedroom arrangement.

This was not the time to argue about it, though. Her mind was stuck on last night at Pete’s. And that letter.

She retrieved her purse from behind the couch and removed the folded note from a side pocket. Heavy footfalls descending her staircase interrupted before she could open the letter. Not that it mattered. The words were burned into her brain. She’d read the thing at least twenty times since Pete had first shown it to her.

Mrs. Jackson, your husband did not die in that car crash.

What did that mean? Zoe slipped the paper into her hip pocket as the door at the foot of the staircase opened.

“Good morning, Sweet Pea.”

The sight of her stepfather brought her up short.

Tom Jackson wore a black and gray pinstriped suit, a charcoal shirt, and a navy blue tie. With his six-foot-plus frame and his distinguished salt-and-pepper hair and mustache, he could have stepped from the pages of
GQ
.

“Wow,” Zoe said. “You look great. Where are you going?”

He tipped his head and eyed her. “It’s Sunday. Your mother and I were hoping you’d come to church with us.”

Oh.

“Um. Well, I can’t. I have stalls to clean and a riding lesson to teach at eleven.”

“Kimberly’s not going to be happy.”

Zoe sighed. “Tom, in case you haven’t noticed, Mother isn’t happy with me most of the time.”

“I know. That’s why I hoped you’d agree to join us. It would be nice to have one day without a squabble.”

Mrs. Jackson, your husband did not die in that car crash.

She touched her pocket containing the letter. Fat chance.

The
clip, clip, clip
of high heeled shoes echoed from the staircase, punctuated with a disgusted squeal. Kimberly appeared at the bottom, swiping madly at her bangs. “Good heavens, Zoe. Spiderwebs. Couldn’t you dust this creepy staircase once in a while?”

“I could, but it would mess up my Halloween decorations. I’ve started early.”

Kimberly primped her blonde hair and smoothed her charcoal jacket. Zoe wondered for a moment if they had intentionally color-coordinated their attire. But only for a moment. Of course they had. Or at least, her mother had.

“Why aren’t you dressed?” she demanded.

Zoe glanced down at her own Sunday outfit. Blue jeans and a faded Monongahela County EMS t-shirt. “I am dressed.”

“Not for church, you aren’t.”

She opened her mouth to give the same reply she’d given Tom, but changed her mind. Mother wouldn’t care if the little Rankin girl missed her lesson on her favorite pony.

Zoe slipped the note from her pocket. “I want to talk to you about something.”

Kimberly spun on her four-inch heels and swaggered toward the kitchen. “It’ll have to wait until after church. I hope you have coffee made.”

Zoe followed her. “There’s a fresh pot ready.” The necessity of coffee was one thing she and her mother agreed on. “And we can talk while you have a cup.”

“No, we can’t. Because you’ll be getting dressed.” Kimberly snatched a mug from the cabinet and the pot from the Mr. Coffee machine.

Zoe unfolded the paper. “Did you receive a letter from James Engle?”

Cradling the mug in her manicured hands, Kimberly inhaled the steam. “A letter from James? Heavens no.” She took a sip. Her nose wrinkled. “What kind of coffee is this?”

“It’s my own blend. I mix light roast with French vanilla.”

“Ick.” Kimberly dumped the brew down the sink. “Don’t you have any Italian roast?”

So much for agreeing on coffee. “Sorry. Look, Mom, I need to ask you about this letter.”

Kimberly opened another cabinet, scowling at the contents. “I don’t know what letter you’re talking about, dear.” Not finding what she was seeking, she moved to another cabinet.

“This letter.” Zoe thrust the paper in front of her mother’s face.

“What’s this?” Kimberly took the letter and squinted at it.

“Yes, what is that?” Tom asked from the doorway.

“It’s a copy of a note the crime scene guys found at James Engle’s house after he died.”

Tom moved to his wife’s side. “How did you get it?” he asked.

“Pete—Chief Adams gave it to me.”

Kimberly stretched her arm in front of her, tipping her head back. “I can’t read this. They made the font too damned small. What’s it say?”

Tom took the paper from her. Kimberly returned to rummaging through Zoe’s kitchen cabinets.

“It says that Dad might not be dead.”

The bluntness of Zoe’s words had the desired effect.

Tom choked. Kimberly whirled so fast she had to catch herself against the counter to keep from falling off her heels. “What?”

Tom clenched the paper in his fist. “That’s not what this says.”

Kimberly snatched the letter from her husband. “Give me your reading glasses.” She snapped her fingers at him.

He removed them from his suit pocket and handed them over. On Kimberly, the dark rims looked comical. Not the least bit stylish. Nor did she appear to care. As she read, the color drained from her face. “Where did you say they found this?”

“In James Engle’s house,” Zoe said. “The original was crumpled up under a sofa or chair or something.”

Tom rubbed his chin. “Obviously, Jim never mailed it.”

Kimberly turned to her husband. “But why even write it?” She shook the paper. “This makes no sense.”

“Could it be true?” Zoe asked. “Could Dad still be alive?”

“That’s not what it says,” Tom repeated.

“It says he didn’t die in that crash.”

Neither Tom nor Kimberly replied.

Zoe caught her mother’s arm and squeezed. “The casket was closed. I never saw Dad’s body. Did you?”

Kimberly stared at the letter. Just as Zoe had done last night. “No. I didn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to...to see Gary like that.”

“Like how? Dead?”

Tom touched Zoe’s shoulder. “Stop it.”

She pulled away from him, releasing her mother’s arm as well. Pressure boiled behind Zoe’s eyes. “Stop what? I need to know. This is my dad we’re talking about.”

“He’s dead.” Tom’s voice was soft.

“Is he?” Zoe snapped. “Everyone told me he was dead. But part of me never really believed it.”

“Because you didn’t want to believe it,” Tom said. “Not because it wasn’t true.”

Zoe turned her back to him and was stunned to see tears in Kimberly’s eyes. “Mom, if you didn’t see his body either—”

“I couldn’t. I wasn’t strong enough.” Kimberly met Zoe’s gaze. “He’d been burnt in the crash.”

Zoe’s stomach did a slow roll. “Burnt?” This was news to her. She’d been told he was badly injured. But no mention of having been burnt.

“Beyond recognition, they said.” Kimberly set the letter down and removed Tom’s glasses. “I didn’t want to see him like that. To remember him...
like that
. And I certainly wasn’t going to let you see his body in that condition either. You had nightmares as it was.”

“Who were ‘they’?” Zoe demanded.

Kimberly blinked. “What?”

“Who told you he was burned beyond recognition?”

Kimberly squinted into space. “I don’t remember. The people at the funeral home, I suppose.”

Tom took the letter back from his wife, but didn’t look at it. “It was a difficult time for your mother, Zoe.”

“Did
you
see his body?”

“No.” Tom placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I didn’t have to. He died in that car crash. No letter is going to change facts no matter how much you want them to.”

He was right about one thing. Zoe wanted the facts as she’d known them to be wrong. For almost three decades, she’d missed her dad. She’d suffered a void in her soul. There had been no closure for her. No sense of finality. Just a hole. And now she understood why. “But you didn’t see a body. None of us did.”

“Someone did,” Kimberly said.

“Who?”

“The funeral director. The coroner. The police at the scene of the wreck.” Kimberly took Zoe’s hands in hers. “I know you loved your dad. He adored you, too. But you need to stop this silliness. I have no idea why James wrote that letter. Gary is dead.”

Zoe pulled away. Her eyes blurred. Funeral director. Coroner. Police. Of course there had been witnesses to her father’s death. Officials who could confirm it.

Crap.

She took the letter from Tom. Reread it.

Mrs. Jackson, your husband did not die in that car crash.

Zoe drew a deep breath, and her vision cleared. Or there were officials out there who could confirm her father had
not
died that night. Her mind raced with names, faces, questions. Who had been coroner twenty-seven years ago? Franklin could help with that. And Pete was talking with the old chief that very morning. She met her mother’s teary eyes. “Who was the funeral director who worked on Dad?”

Kimberly sighed and shook her head. “Oh, Zoe.”

Tom grabbed Zoe and spun her to face him. The usual jolly grin was gone, replaced by an unyielding glare. “I’m telling you to stop this. Your mother doesn’t need to relive that night any more than you do. It’s over. Wishing your dad alive won’t do anything except break your heart all over again.”

“I can’t stop it. Not until I know for sure.” She met his stern gaze with her own stubborn, determined one. “Who was the funeral director?”

Tom gave an exasperated growl, but turned to Kimberly with raised eyebrows.

Before she could answer, the phone rang.

“You’d better get that,” Kimberly said.

“The machine will pick up.”

It rang again.

“It was so long ago.” Kimberly touched fingertips to her forehead as though willing the memory from some long forgotten corner of her mind.

“Okay,” Zoe said. “What funeral home?”

The phone rang again.

“Oh, that’s easy. There was only one in Philipsburg back then. What was the name of it, Tom?”

The answering machine cut off the fourth ring.

Tom shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“I do,” Zoe said. She’d been there last winter when her friend, Ted Bassi, had been killed.

The incoming message blasted from the machine in the other room. “Damn it, Zoe, where are you?” Pete’s voice demanded. “Call my cell phone as soon as you get this. I’m in the hospital.”

Driving to Brunswick Hospital wasn’t Zoe’s preferred method of avoiding church attendance with Tom and her mother. Thankfully, Patsy had answered her phone and agreed to pinch hit at the riding lesson.

The emergency department’s waiting room was relatively quiet when Zoe bustled through the electronic doors. The chair at the registration desk stood empty, and she drummed her fingers on the sign-in clipboard. Several minutes passed before a thin, dark-haired woman in scrubs appeared.

“Sign in and have a seat,” she said without looking up. “I’ll be right with you.”

Zoe recognized the harried nurse. “Hey, Cindy.”

The woman lifted her head and blinked. “Zoe.” Her gaze took in Zoe’s civilian garb. “I didn’t recognize you. What d’ya need?”

“Pete Adams called me and asked—”

“Oh.” Cindy rolled her eyes. “Say no more. He’s back in eight. Please get him out of here. Leon?” she called to the security guard. “Let her through.”

Zoe thanked her with a grin. The guard punched a code into the keypad next to a door labeled, “Authorized Personnel Only,” and Zoe slipped from the quiet anxiety of the waiting room into the frenetic hubbub of the ER.

Somewhere within the department, someone was wailing. Whether from grief or pain, Zoe couldn’t tell. She hurried around a corner and passed a room where the curtain was drawn, but it didn’t damper the argument going on behind it. Cutting another corner, she dodged a pair of orderlies scurrying from the nurses’ station in the heart of the department. Room eight sat across from the station.

Odd. Not only was the privacy curtain drawn, the sliding glass door was shut.

Zoe opened it a couple of inches. “Pete?” she called softly.

“It’s about time,” came the familiar growl. “Get me out of here.”

She stepped into the room and fingered the curtain. “Are you decent?”

“How the hell can anyone be decent in these goddamn hospital gowns with your ass hanging out?”

Zoe choked back a laugh and slipped through.

True to his word, Pete lay on the bed, wearing a dark scowl and a flimsy gown. Both his head and his legs were elevated, his arms crossed firmly in front of him. His right foot and lower leg were encased in a cast-like splint.

She pointed at it. “What happened?”

His jaw twitched. “I took a bad step. Avulsion fracture, they called it. Said I’ll need to see an orthopedist.” He muttered something else that Zoe couldn’t make out and didn’t think she wanted him to repeat.

“A bad step? Where? And how’d you get here?”

“Out at Warren Froats’ place. He dumped me here and took off.”

Zoe studied Pete. Police Chief Pete Adams. Always in control. Pete, who never took crap from anyone. Pete, who could calm the township’s fears or shut up a pushy newshound with one look. And now here he sat. Helpless. With his ass hanging out of a hospital gown. Unfortunately for her, he was lying on his back.

“Well,” Zoe said. “That was just plain rude of Froats, wasn’t it?”

Pete glared at her. “Are you going to get me out of here or not?”

She bit her lip to keep from laughing. “Okay. Let me ask at the nurse’s station about posting your bail.”

“Ha. Ha.”

She swept the curtain aside, saw the door, and turned back to him. “Why is your door shut?”

His eyes narrowed. “They got tired of me yelling, I guess.”

No amount of lip biting could contain the laugh this time. She ducked out into the hallway before he had a chance to wing an emesis basin at the back of her head.

An hour later, Zoe helped Pete and his new pair of crutches struggle into her truck. She’d had to cut the seam on the right leg of his jeans to fit over the splint. For someone who’d just been sprung from captivity, Pete remained in a foul mood.

Maneuvering the side streets of Brunswick, she risked a glance at her passenger and decided a few questions weren’t likely to irritate him any more than he already was.

“How did your meeting with Warren Froats go?”

He snorted and motioned toward his leg.

Okay, maybe that wasn’t the right question. “Besides that. Was he able to tell you anything about my great uncles?” Or her dad. But one thing at a time.

“Damn sloppy police work,” Pete muttered.

“What?”

“According to Froats, the gun used to shoot Denver Miller was never recovered.”

“How can that be? If Vernon shot Denver and then hanged himself, why wasn’t the gun found with the body?”

Pete grunted.

“So maybe Vernon wasn’t the shooter,” Zoe said, thinking out loud.

Pete shifted in the seat. “I probably shouldn’t tell you the rest of it either.”

She shot a glance at him. “What?”

“The so-called
witness
that claimed the gun belonged to Vernon...”

Zoe guessed before he could say it. “James Engle.”

“Yeah.”

She braked the truck to a stop at a red light while her mind raced on. “Did you get a chance to ask Froats about my father’s car crash or that note?”

“No, I—” A burst of tinny music interrupted him, and he dug his cell phone from his hip pocket.

The light turned green. Zoe steered south onto Route 15 toward Vance Township. Even over the rumble of the Chevy’s engine, she could make out the frantic voice on the other end of Pete’s call.

“Calm down, Sylvia,” he said. “Nate Williamson’s on duty today. His number’s in my Rolodex right there by the phone...Yeah.. Good. Call him and have him start a search. He couldn’t have gone far...I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Your dad?” Zoe asked as Pete closed the phone.

He gave a loud sigh. “Yeah. Harry’s missing.”