A Light in the Dark (Taylor's Bend, #3)

by Elisabeth Rose

  A Light in the Dark

  Elisabeth Rose

  romance.com.au/escapepublishing/

  A Light in the Dark

  Elisabeth Rose

  Can a dream hold the answer to a violent crime … and bring two people together?

  Since the deaths of her father and stepmother nine months before, Mia Petros has suffered a terrifying recurring dream which implies that their deaths were not a murder-suicide at the hands of her father—as the police decided—but a double murder.

  In Taylor’s Bend to clear and sell her father’s house, Mia, driven to breaking point by the dream and unnerved by the simmering resentment her appearance has aroused, is determined not to leave the bleak midwinter town until she has answers.

  Local newspaper editor Arlo McGuiness, an ex-investigative journalist avoiding his own troubled past, is intrigued by the mystery and by Mia, especially when she tells him about her dream. His old, familiar urge to find the truth is awakened. But his probing engenders trouble—nasty comments are followed by malicious acts, and before long Arlo and Mia face escalating violence, their lives in danger.

  About the author

  Multi-published romance writer ELISABETH ROSE lives very happily in Canberra with her musician husband. Travel is a big part of their lives now the family has left home. Elisabeth’s original training was in clarinet performance but she was also a tai chi instructor for twenty-five years. An avid reader, her preference is for a happy ending regardless of genre and is most annoyed if a main character dies or leaves—unless of course, it’s the villain.

  Acknowledgements

  My general knowledge is often outweighed by my story ideas, sometimes so much so that facts demand a complete rethink of the plot. In this book I was lucky and was able to dovetail my fact finding with the development of the idea. For that I owe a big thank you to Jo from the local gun club. She was understandably a little wary when I contacted her for information on purchasing and owning guns and ammunition but was ultimately very helpful with the details. As usual I drew on the vast brains trust of RWA members for other information, particularly on running a small-town newspaper. Thanks to Maya Linnell and Courtney Stove. Thank you to my editor Nicola Robinson whose suggestions for ruthlessly cutting several thousand words and a character made this a much tighter, more focused story.

  As always to Colin, Carla, Nick and Paige

  Contents

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Every time it was the same.

  Weary from the long drive, ready for a welcoming family, a meal and a glass of wine, she hurried through the drizzle, dragging her suitcase up the path to her father’s house. The porch light clicked on as she reached the steps and a familiar, lovely stained glass panel in the front door sent a jewel-like glow across the wooden verandah.

  Mildly puzzled she raised her hand but before she could ring the bell, a scream followed by a loud, sharp, crack of sound froze her in place. Her heart beat a frenzied tattoo. A gunshot? Moments later another crack sounded then another and another, more and more in a deafening crescendo of noise. She turned and ran, breath sobbing in her throat, the hairs on her neck prickling, her mind a tornado of uncomprehending fear.

  Crouched behind a car in the wet, dark street she fumbled for her phone with clammy fingers. Footsteps sounded, the rustle of bushes, movement caught her eye in the shadows next door. She tried to stand up and call out but her legs were weak, wobbly, and the operator answered, distracting her.

  That’s when she woke. Every time. The dream wrenching her from sleep with a pounding heart, tears wet on her cheeks and the sound of gunshots ringing in her ears.

  ***

  On a Tuesday morning nine months after the funerals of Glenda and Tony Petros, Arlo McGuinness, owner and editor of the local paper, learned Tony’s daughter, Mia, had returned to Taylor’s Bend. Curious, sensing a story—human interest, sensitive and respectful of the two popular locals, but seeking more personal family secrets that could point to the so far elusive motive for the tragedy— he pulled on his old green anorak against the misty rain and sauntered the few blocks to the house she’d recently inherited, an unassuming white weatherboard cottage a block back from the main street in the centre of town.

  Arlo paused before going in, to study the property. She was at home. A dark grey hatchback stood in the carport attached to the house. A straggly wisteria, always unattractive in winter with its dry, leafless branches, did a good job of smothering the poles and roof of said carport. The garden needed weeding, the roses pruning, and a couple of dripping, overgrown shrubs along the driveway would scrape the duco, but she’d only been there a few days and it wouldn’t have been an easy situation for anyone. Still, the woman had returned of her own free will. She didn’t have to do that and she must have sensed the ambivalence in the community.

  His jaw tightened. He’d only set eyes on her twice, at the funerals. Separate ones. Glenda’s, standing room only in the old stone church of St Marks. Tony’s, small and low key, at the crematorium in Wagga. First impressions of the bereaved daughter—tall, dark-haired, unemotional and conservatively dressed in a straight, navy blue skirt and matching jacket. No tears for a murdered stepmother and a murdering father. Blank-faced and tight lipped in her acceptance of condolences from the shocked townspeople.

  He strode up the path to the door, knocked twice, his knuckles striking the green painted wood in a peremptory demand for access. A small black symbol caught his eye on the frame. A pair of roughly painted crossed swords. What was that about?

  The door opened abruptly, she must have been close, or even watching his approach from behind the white net curtains in the front room. Dark brown hair pulled away from her narrow, unsmiling face gave her a mediaeval look—a woman from an old painting. Not particularly pretty, enigmatic and withdrawn. Curiously attractive. Something about her father in the set of the mouth and nose. Greek heritage evident in the smooth, olive toned skin and brown eyes. Thirties? No rings on her fingers but small gold hoops in her ears. A cream sweater and charcoal slacks. Compact figure tending towards solid. Shorter than he remembered. Wearing flat shoes.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  No sign of recognition in those dark eyes, but why would there be? She wouldn’t remember one reporter from the many clamouring for information like baby magpies squawking for worms.

  ‘I’m Arlo McGuinness,’ he continued. ‘From Round the Bend. It’s the local—’

  ‘I know who you are.’ A surprisingly low pitched and melodic voice. Sexy. In the circumstances, the spontaneous reaction shocked him. She waited for him to speak, her unwavering gaze and his inner turmoil making the words stumble and fall from his mouth in spite of his years of interview experience. He’d lost his edge.

  ‘I’ve come to see how you’re doing. If you need help.’

  ‘Have you?’ A cynical element to the tone.

  ‘Is that so unlikely?’

  ‘Yes.’

 
‘Okay.’ He tried a tiny smile which gained nothing in response. ‘I realise you might think that, but it’s true. I’m a neighbour. I also wanted to talk to you.’ He was back on track now, his well-honed professionalism kicking in. How many interviews had he done with people unwilling to talk? Hundreds. How many had discovered they really did want to tell what they knew, give their opinion? More than you’d think.

  An eyebrow lofted sceptically. ‘How close a neighbour?’

  ‘A block or so. I have a flat behind the office just off the main street. Opposite the doctor. May I come in?’

  ‘What do you want to talk about?’ She must know the answer to that.

  ‘I’d like to hear about your father. Your impressions of him growing up. What you think about what he did.’

  He thought she was going to close the door in his face but, surprisingly, she didn’t. She stepped aside, upright and reserved and he went in, careful not to brush against her as he passed, not to reignite that flare of attraction. The house was chilly with a closed up, slightly mouldy smell. He hoped she might have led him through to the kitchen where it happened, but she gestured to the left, a sitting room. Photos sat on a cabinet. The family in happy times.

  ‘Sit down.’ It sounded like an order, abrupt and coldly polite. ‘Would you like tea?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ He sat on the red couch. It was new when he visited last year to interview Glenda about a charity drive she was organising. Her favourite colour, she’d said, with that lovely warm smile. This woman wouldn’t choose red anything. Her colour was neutral.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Firstly, why have you come back?’ He pulled out his notebook and pen. Old style notes. His preference. Georgia always laughed at him, the dinosaur.

  ‘I need to do something about the house. It’s been empty for nine months while the coronial inquiry was on. Probate only just came through.’

  He nodded. ‘I understand. What about you? Are you planning to stay long?’

  She hesitated and for the briefest of moments uncertainty tinged with unease flashed across her face.

  ‘I’m not sure. Not permanently.’

  ‘Depends on the welcome you get?’

  ‘No, not really. I know some people hate my father for what he did. I can’t help that. Others don’t.’ The last sentence sounded more hopeful than anything.

  ‘Glenda grew up here and was very popular. Have you spoken to her parents yet?’

  ‘No. I’m not sure if I should.’

  ‘They’ll know you’re here.’

  She nodded. ‘Everyone knows everything in this town, Dad said.’

  Small towns could be like that. Or not. No-one knew Tony would shoot his wife then himself. The shockwaves went deep.

  ‘It must be difficult for you, coming to the house.’

  ‘I’m managing. I never lived here.’

  ‘It still must be hard doing this by yourself with no siblings to help.’

  ‘I’ve always been alone.’ She refocused and leaned forward slightly and her eyes bored into his. ‘If you’ve come here to find some reason Dad did what he did you won’t find it. I don’t know anything. I hadn’t seen them for just over a year and before that, once or twice before the wedding and once after, when they came to Sydney.’

  ‘I know. I’d like to balance the equation a bit. Everyone knows everything about Glenda and her family but Tony was a relative newcomer to town. Two years isn’t a long time to be married and they hadn’t known each other more than a year prior to the wedding. That alone is interesting.’

  ‘Are you saying she married someone she didn’t know? He did too. He moved here, started a new life and was very happy.’

  She relaxed back into her chair, studying him with the inscrutable expression of an assessor.

  ‘I haven’t come here to fight with you, or blame you,’ he said. ‘I’m interested.’

  ‘What did you do before you came here?’ she asked.

  He took the abrupt change of subject as acceptance of his comment. He gave her the response he gave everyone. The one no-one questioned because the focus fell where he wanted it to.

  ‘I was a freelance investigative journalist. I was away a lot overseas and I picked up a horrible bug that knocked me out for nearly a year. I decided I’d had enough of travel for a while after that so I came to the Bend. I have friends here, Bill and Gina Locke and their son Barnaby, who said the town could do with a newspaper again. And you?’ He already knew what she did. She was an accountant.

  ‘I’m a senior policy manager for a large finance company.’

  ‘I thought you were an accountant,’ he said with a smile. A damn sight more than an accountant. Not that there was anything wrong with accountancy but her job would probably have her dealing with some high-powered people, making her a very experienced negotiator. No push over, in other words.

  ‘That was Dad’s little joke because I work in the finance industry.’ She didn’t smile. ‘He always introduced me as his daughter, the accountant.’

  ‘He must have been very proud of you.’ He paused a beat. ‘Why do you think he did it? The shooting.’

  She looked away then at her hands resting on her lap. ‘The police put it down to depression.’

  Something about the way she spoke made him say, ‘Don’t you think it was?’

  She hesitated. ‘I don’t know. As I said I hadn’t seen him, either of them, for ages.’

  ‘What about your job?’

  ‘I’m on leave.’

  ‘Were you executor for your father?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Glenda’s children for her?’ Son Frank, the younger of the two, was in the navy doing border patrols off the West Australian coast. Daughter Jenny had just graduated and was a primary school teacher in Braidwood. Neither came back to Taylor’s Bend often. Not since Glenda married Tony.

  ‘No, her brother Graham was. Glenda died first so technically Dad inherited.’

  ‘Surely that’s invalid if he murdered her.’

  ‘The coroner decides. In some domestic violence cases the perpetrator wouldn’t have been convicted of murder. It’s a very difficult area, legally. The coroner’s verdict was for reasons unknown.’

  ‘This isn’t a domestic violence situation. Not in the sense that your father was a victim. Of domestic violence, I mean,’ he added. How did she know so much about it?

  ‘How do you know he wasn’t?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t and neither do you or anyone else but I doubt it very much. I knew them both.’

  ‘No, and you’re right. The police ruled that out. He’d been preoccupied and moody in the preceding weeks but in the last week he’d hardly spoken to anyone. No-one knows why he did it. They said sometimes they never find out the motive in a case like this.’

  ‘You sound like a lawyer,’ he said.

  ‘I do have a law degree, Masters. But not criminal law. Tax and superannuation are my areas.’

  He had nothing to say to that. This woman was highly educated, far more so than he was, but as far as life went? Quiet and conscientious summed her up. She’d always do the right thing and she’d take any job very seriously. Did she have fun and laughter in her life? Love?

  She was nothing like the vivacious, caring, spontaneously joyful Glenda. He hadn’t known Tony well but he wasn’t as outgoing although he had a quiet, dry wit. So what had Glenda seen in her new husband? By all accounts husband number one had been a real live wire—until he walked out on her for a younger model six or seven years ago. He was at her funeral flanked by their children, pale and grief-stricken. No sign of the new wife. Barry Greenberg. How long since he’d seen Glenda? Where was he living?

  ‘Where did you grow up?’ he asked.

  ‘In Melbourne first, then, when I was four, we moved to Sydney.’

  ‘What about your mother? What was she like?’ He knew she’d died young in a car accident. The family history had been unearthed at the time of the tragedy bu
t how much was fact and how much fiction he wasn’t sure. He hadn’t been interested in that aspect. He left that to the bigger papers.

  ‘When I started school Mum worked part time in a post office. I don’t remember much about her from that time. She was loving and fun. She sang a lot.’

  ‘What did you father do?’

  ‘Different things. He managed a shoe store in Melbourne and when we went to Sydney he sold real estate. He did well at that. After my mother died—I was six—we moved to a terrace house in Balmain. He never sold it and I live there now.’

  ‘What sort of father was he?’

  ‘Loving, generous. He liked to have people around him, especially women. I had a few ‘aunties’ over the years but they were nice women and kind to me. Most of them stayed friends with him.’

  ‘Do you have any real aunts and uncles? Grandparents?’

  As Mia spoke she came alive. Memories of those happier times lit a spark inside her which animated her body and her face. Why did he think she wasn’t pretty?

  ‘My grandmother died five years ago. She was in a nursing home. My grandfather died earlier, of a stroke. Dad was an only child and so am I. We were never close to Mum’s family.’

  ‘But you and your father weren’t close.’

  A slight crease appeared in the smooth brow then melted away. ‘When I was a child we were. We lived our own lives after I grew up but we understood each other and we had a good relationship. I knew if I needed him he’d come.’

  ‘Did he say there were problems in the marriage?’

  ‘Never. He’d never been happier.’

  ‘But he didn’t ever call on you for help.’

  She shook her head. ‘I wish he had.’

  Arlo opened his mouth to ask more but she stood up suddenly, her eyes luminous with unshed tears. ‘I’m sorry but I can’t answer any more questions right now.’

  He rose as well, shaken by how fragile she looked in that instant, wanting to comfort her. Hug her. ‘Thank you for being so open. I appreciate it. May I call again so we can talk some more?’