2 Lost Legacy

by Annette Dashofy

  Zoe didn’t move. Disappointment settled over her like the dusk settling over the valley.

  Pete tossed his keys to Nate. “Go ahead and take it back to my place. I’ll catch a ride home with Zoe.”

  “You sure?”

  Pete caught Zoe’s eye. “Yeah. I want to introduce her to Warren Froats.”

  “You’re going to wait until he comes home?”

  “Yep.”

  “Whatever you say.” Nate gave her a nod. “Goodnight, Zoe.”

  “’Night.”

  Pete stood next to the open truck door as his officer drove his SUV away. Then he motioned to Zoe. “You coming?”

  “But no one’s home.”

  “He’s home.” Pete slammed the door.

  She looked around, wondering what Pete knew or saw that she didn’t. But she jumped out of the cab and rushed to catch up with him as he swept along on his crutches toward the house. Damn, he was getting good with those things.

  “How do you know?” she demanded.

  Pete tipped his head toward a patchwork-colored Ford pickup. “His truck’s here.” Pete stopped at the base of the porch steps and bellowed. “Froats.”

  “Down here!” The throaty reply carried on the sultry evening air from somewhere in the shadowy woods.

  Zoe glanced at Pete’s cast. “Do you want me to go find him?”

  Without responding to her, Pete shouted, “Froats. Get your ass up here.”

  The only answer was the rush of the nearby stream. But in a few moments, a twig snapped and leaves rustled. Zoe caught sight of movement in the woods.

  A tall, rotund figure in waders strode toward them, a fishing pole in one hand, a minnow bucket in the other.

  “Pistol Pete Adams? What are you doing back out here?” Froats pulled up short. “And who’s this you brought with you?”

  Zoe remembered the previous police chief as an imposing uniformed figure with close-cut hair. The scraggy mountain man with longish hair and a beard bore little resemblance to the picture in her mind.

  “Warren Froats, this is Zoe Chambers,” Pete said.

  Froats moved closer, eyeing her. “Don’t I know you?”

  She extended her hand. “Yes, sir. I work on the ambulance. I was pretty new when you were still chief, but we responded to a few calls together.”

  He grunted. Switched the fishing pole to his left hand and wiped his right one on his shirt before taking hers. “I’ll have to take your word for that. But it’s your name that’s ringing a bell for me. Chambers. Zoe Chambers.” He held onto her hand while he squinted at her and frowned. Finally his eyes widened. “Traffic accident. Must’ve been...what...twenty-five years ago? Fellow’s name was...Gary. Gary Chambers.”

  Zoe’s pulse raced. “Twenty-seven years. He was my—”

  “Father,” Froats finished for her. “You were the little girl with the big eyes. Never shed a tear, though.”

  She hadn’t? She remembered such devastating sadness that she’d thought she’d have cried for weeks. Months. “You remember the accident?”

  He snorted and released her hand. “It was a bad one. You don’t forget those. Never seen a body as badly burned as that.”

  Zoe felt the air leave her like a deflating balloon. “You saw the body?”

  “I was at the accident scene. Of course I saw the body.” He shook his head. “Damned shame. About as ugly a thing as I hope to ever lay eyes on. All charred.”

  She swallowed hard against a wave of nausea and thought of the closed casket.

  Pete cleared his throat. “Zoe, why don’t you give Warren and me a few minutes alone?”

  He thought she couldn’t handle hearing the truth. Well, he was wrong. “No. I’m fine.” She fixed her gaze on the former chief. “How was the ID made?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “If the body was so badly burned, I gather identification must have been a challenge.”

  Froats rubbed his jaw. “Well, it’s true a visual ID was out of the question. And the body was too burnt to lift fingerprints from him. As I recall, identification was made from personal effects. He was wearing his wedding band and a watch your mother had given him as a gift.”

  “That’s it? What about dental records?”

  “Probably.”

  “Probably?”

  “It was twenty-five—twenty-seven—years ago. I don’t remember every detail.”

  Exasperated, Zoe looked to Pete, who gave her a nod. “We’ll check the records back at the station.”

  “Why all the questions about your father’s accident?” Froats asked.

  She opened her mouth to tell him about the note, but Pete cut her off. “Her mother’s in town for a visit, and it’s stirred up some conversation.”

  Froats grunted. “I see.”

  That made one of them. “Is there anything else you can tell me about the crash?” Zoe asked.

  “Nothing you probably don’t already know.”

  “That’s just it. I don’t know much of anything. My mother would never talk about it.”

  He made a growling sound in his throat and tipped his head toward his porch. “All right. Let’s sit down.”

  Zoe followed Froats up the steps then turned back to Pete, who leaned on the railing at the bottom. “Do you need a hand?”

  “I’m fine here.”

  Poor Pete. His foot had to be throbbing, and here she was, dragging him around on her own private investigation.

  Froats set his fishing gear on a battered table. “Can I get you something to drink? A beer maybe? Or a can of pop?”

  “No, thanks.” She lowered to perch on the edge of a battered lawn chair. “What can you tell me about the wreck?”

  The former chief dropped into a second chair. “Let me think. Well, it happened out in the game lands about a mile or so from Parson’s Roadhouse. You know that windy road?”

  She did. Intimately. “That much I do know.” The exact bend in the road was burned into her memory, giving her chills every time she drove past it.

  “Your dad’s car was run off the road by a drunk driver. The drunk slammed into a tree and wasn’t hurt too bad. But your father veered to miss him and went over a hill. Must’ve ruptured the gas tank. The whole car was incinerated.”

  Zoe cringed at the mental picture. The thought of her dad trapped in a car, plunging over a hillside, bursting into flame. She clutched the arm of the lawn chair, bracing against a fog of vertigo. “What was the COD?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Did he die of injuries sustained in the collision? Or...” Or was he burned alive?

  “I’m afraid I don’t know.” Froats’ voice was soft, as if he understood what she couldn’t bring herself to ask. “You’d have to check with the coroner’s office about that.”

  She swallowed a hard, dry lump in her throat. “I will. Thanks.”

  “I’m not sure what else I can tell you.”

  Zoe didn’t know what else to ask either. “Thanks for your time.” She stood and moved toward the steps.

  Pete held up one finger. “Warren, the other driver...the drunk?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you remember his name?”

  “Sure do. He was the town lush back in those days. Picked him up for drunk-and-disorderly at least three or four times a month. It’s a damned shame it took something like that crash to sober him up, but to the best of my knowledge he hasn’t had a drop since.”

  “His name?” Pete said.

  “Loomis. Carl Loomis.”

  Thirteen

  According to Zoe’s watch, it wasn’t yet seven-thirty in the morning when she approached Pete’s door, but sweat already tickled down her back. With the humidity, she half expected to sprout gills at any
moment.

  As she stepped onto the concrete slab porch, the door swung open, and Sylvia stepped out. “I’m sorry, Pete,” she was saying. “But there’s just no way I can watch him today. Good morning, Zoe.”

  “Morning, Sylvia.”

  Pete stood in the doorway, wearing jeans and a t-shirt and braced on his crutches. Lines creased his forehead. “Thanks anyway.”

  Sylvia paused next to Zoe. “What are you going to do?”

  “Take him with us, I suppose. Nothing else I can do.”

  “Harry?” Zoe whispered to Sylvia.

  “Yeah,” she replied, her voice low. “It was a rough night.”

  “It’s been two rough nights,” Pete corrected.

  Sylvia shook her head. “Nothing wrong with his hearing,” she said to Zoe.

  “I can read lips,” he muttered.

  “I had my back to you,” Sylvia snapped over her shoulder. Then she leaned close to Zoe’s ear and spoke softly enough that Pete couldn’t possibly hear. “I hope you’re up to this. No woman should have to put up with two Adams men at the same time.”

  Zoe covered her mouth, feigning a yawn to hide her smile.

  Sylvia fluttered a hand over her head as she ambled away. “Good luck.”

  Pete held open the door for Zoe as she stepped inside.

  Harry sat at the kitchen table with a heaping bowl of Cheerios in front of him. “Good morning, Sunshine,” he called to her with a grin.

  “Eat your breakfast, Pop,” Pete said. “We have to get going.”

  “Going? Where to?”

  Pete sighed, and Zoe wondered how many times he’d already answered the question. “You’re going with me to work today.”

  “Good. I like playing cops and robbers.”

  Zoe met Pete’s gaze. Dark circles shadowed his tired eyes. “Are you all right?”

  He snorted. “Yeah, I’m terrific. Any word on your landlord?”

  “Nothing this morning yet. Mom and Tom didn’t get home until around midnight. According to them, Mr. Kroll has a closed head injury in addition to the gunshot wound. Doctors are gonna do surgery on him today to remove the bullet.” She pointed to Pete’s foot. “And what about you?”

  “I told you I’m fine.”

  “Uh-huh. That cast is only supposed to be temporary, right? Shouldn’t you make an appointment with an orthopedist?”

  “Have you been comparing notes with Sylvia?” He maneuvered a clumsy turn away from her and crutched into the living room. “Damned coddling females.”

  Behind her, Harry burst into gruff laughter. “Now you know how I feel with your sister always fussing over me.”

  Zoe grinned and followed Pete, but he stopped before heading into the hallway at the far end of the room and raised one finger. “Stay there and keep an eye on him while I get dressed.”

  “Okay.” Yesterday’s frantic search for Harry flashed through her mind. Obviously, it stuck in Pete’s, too. “I’m a little surprised you want me to drive you around again today. I figured you’d have Seth or Kevin be your chauffeur.”

  “Seth’s already getting overtime pay to be on patrol while I’m laid up.” Pete hobbled out of sight, but called over his shoulder, “You work cheap.”

  She laughed. “You mean you’re not placing me on the police payroll?”

  “No,” he said from the other room.

  “Well, crap. So what’s our itinerary?”

  “First stop is the doctor who treated James Engle.”

  “He’s in Brunswick, right?”

  “Yep.”

  Zoe mulled over the possibilities. She should have no problem convincing Pete to swing by the hospital and check on Mr. Kroll’s status. And if they were already at the hospital, she might be able to catch Franklin at the morgue or in his office across the street. Another thought occurred to her. “You didn’t say much last night after we left Warren Froats. What did you think about Carl Loomis?”

  A loud thud reverberated through the house followed by some choice swear words from Pete.

  Zoe started toward the hall. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Dropped my damned crutches.”

  “Oh.” She backed up until she could see Harry through the arched doorway. He was still happily munching his cereal. “Does it seem odd to you that Carl Loomis turns out to be the man who supposedly ran my dad off the road?”

  Silence greeted her question. “Pete?”

  “Give me a minute to get dressed, will ya?”

  She sighed. Fine. She returned to the kitchen and sank into a chair next to Harry. “How’re you this morning?”

  “I’m great.” He tilted his bowl to corral the last of his Cheerios into his spoon. “Want some cereal?”

  Zoe smiled. “No, thanks.”

  Having no luck with the utensil, he set it down and picked up the bowl. Bringing it to his lips, he slurped the last of his breakfast, finishing with a contented sigh. “Are you joining us today?” he asked as pushed the bowl to the center of the table.

  “I’m going to drive. Pete hurt his foot.”

  “I know. Guess what else I know.” Harry winked at her. “You’re Zoe.”

  “Yes, I am. I’m glad you remembered.”

  “Me, too. I’m lousy with names. Always have been, but it’s getting worse. Old age sucks.”

  Zoe snorted.

  “I know something else, too.” He shook a finger at her. “My boy’s kind of sweet on you.”

  Her cheeks warmed.

  “And I have a pretty good idea the feeling’s mutual.”

  She stared at her hands on the table. Chewed her lip.

  “Well?” Harry nudged her. “Am I right?”

  Zoe considered admitting her feelings to him. After all, he’d probably forget all about the conversation within the next few minutes. Then again, he seemed to be quite lucid at the moment.

  “Well?” he asked again.

  “Well what?” Pete swung around the corner into the kitchen.

  “Nothing,” Zoe said.

  Harry gave her an ornery grin. “I’m right. I knew it.”

  Pete looked at his dad. Then at her. He raised an eyebrow.

  She jumped to her feet. “Are you ready to get going?”

  Harry slammed both palms down on the table. “I sure am. Let’s go. This is gonna be fun.”

  Fun. According to Harry, spending the day together investigating a suicide that may or may not be a homicide ranked right up there with a day at Kennywood Park. But all Pete could think about was the half-dozen calls he’d placed last night and this morning to Nadine, all of which went to voicemail.

  Zoe drove Pete’s township SUV with Harry riding shotgun. Pete had claimed the backseat so he could put his throbbing foot up. But he hadn’t counted on the hard plastic being so uncomfortable. It wasn’t often he’d been delegated to the rear seat, usually reserved for prisoners. In fact, this was a first. And, he decided, his last.

  “You never said what you thought about Carl Loomis,” Zoe said. “Should we question him again?”

  We? “I don’t imagine it would do any good. Warren said Loomis had no memory of the accident. He’d blacked out.”

  “But maybe he’s remembered something since then. I bet no one’s asked him about it in years.”

  “I thought you’d let go of this thing about your dad after Warren told you he saw the body with his own eyes.” At least, Pete had hoped she would.

  “He saw a body burnt beyond recognition. What if it wasn’t really my dad?”

  “Zoe...” Pete let his exasperation creep into his voice.

  “What’s this all about?” Harry asked.

  “Nothing,” Pete replied.

  “My dad supposedly died in
a car crash twenty-seven years ago,” Zoe said. She proceeded to fill Harry in on all the details, from the closed casket, to the cryptic note found in James Engle’s house, to suspecting her father was still alive.

  Pete listened as he watched houses, barns, trees, and underbrush whiz past his window. In his heart, he understood Zoe’s longing to have her dad back. Hell, he wanted his own dad back, and Harry was sitting in the same vehicle with them. In Pete’s head, the whole scenario reeked of conspiracy-theory craziness.

  In his gut, something felt off about the whole thing, but he wished Zoe would leave it alone. Let him quietly ask some questions. Do some digging. Then he could report to her what he found, if he found anything. And if he didn’t...Well, she wouldn’t have to experience that loss all over again.

  “We definitely need to ask this Carl Loomis fellow some questions,” Harry declared when Zoe finished her tale.

  There was that we thing again. “But not today,” Pete said. “Today I am investigating James Engle’s death and Marvin Kroll’s shooting.”

  Harry turned in his seat to scowl at Pete. “You’re not being very helpful to this young lady.”

  They hit a pothole, and Pete’s foot bounced on the unforgiving hard plastic seat. He gritted his teeth against the pain. “We—I—have a job to do and two active cases to solve.”

  “But my dad’s supposed death may be tied to them,” Zoe said. “After all, that note was written by one of the victims. Not to mention it was found in his house.”

  “Yeah.” Harry sounded like a belligerent child.

  Great. Now he had the two of them hounding him about a very cold case that probably wasn’t a case at all.

  Zoe slowed the vehicle as they approached the traffic light on the edge of Brunswick. “Maybe we could swing by Loomis’ place on our way back to Dillard.”

  Harry nodded in agreement. “That’s a great idea.”

  Pete dropped his head against the glass of the backseat door. “I doubt we’ll have time. Once I finish interviewing Dr. Weinstein, we should stop at the hospital and check on your landlord.”

  “Okay.”