2 Lost Legacy

by Annette Dashofy

  Why had Tom been so evasive when she’d questioned her mom about the whole thing? Tom, who was always open and above board. Tom, who defended her against her mother’s nonsense.

  What could he possibly be hiding from Zoe? Did he know what really happened between her great uncles all those years ago?

  Could he have been involved in some small way?

  Zoe struck the steering wheel with the flat of her hand. No. Tom would never have a part in anything so dark. But he was hiding something. That much she knew.

  And now so did Pete. He hadn’t been fooling her one bit. Maybe it was all those poker games, but as much as he’d tried to cover it, she’d seen the flash of excitement in his eyes when she’d mentioned Tom and Engle’s friendship. He was no doubt wondering why she hadn’t mentioned it before.

  Now she and Pete were both keeping secrets from one another.

  After two loops around the blocks nearest the courthouse turned up nothing in the way of empty spots spacious enough to accommodate a three-quarter ton pickup, Zoe headed to the lot she’d left a couple of hours ago. She fed the meter and hiked three blocks to the ancient stone courthouse.

  She climbed the wide stone steps and entered through massive burnished oak doors. A uniformed guard watched as she deposited her wallet, phone, and keys in a plastic bin and stepped through the metal detector. The guard gave her a satisfied nod, and she reclaimed her stuff.

  Inside the grand concourse, a pair of sweeping marble staircases mirrored each other. As it did every time she stood in this spot, her gaze followed the stairs up to the second level where the courtrooms were housed.

  But she wasn’t headed up today. Trudging down into the dungeon-like labyrinth of offices, archives, and storage areas, she anticipated her upcoming confrontation with the gatekeeper to the old records room. She pictured a skeletal old woman with white hair and whiter skin. Probably wore dark-framed reading glasses hanging from her bony neck on a tarnished chain.

  Zoe made her way down a musty hallway to a tiny gray metal desk next to a door labeled “Archives and Records.” Instead of her imagined gray-haired lady, the man who sat behind the desk struck her as looking more like former Pittsburgh Steeler Hines Ward. Without the smile.

  “Hi.” She extended a hand. “I’m Zoe Chambers with the coroner’s office. I need to look at some records from an old case.”

  The Hines Ward-lookalike’s security badge stated that he was actually Devon Wilkins. He gave her hand a brief, crushing squeeze, but showed no sign of being impressed by her title. “I need ID.”

  She handed over her driver’s license.

  His eyes flickered down to it then back to her face. “Your department ID.”

  Apparently the Department of Transportation wasn’t good enough for him. “Department?”

  He gave a weary sigh. “I either need your credentials from the Coroner’s Office or something from the police department giving you access to the evidence.”

  Zoe plastered her best smile on her face. “Look, Mr. Wilkins, Franklin Marshall just approved me today. I don’t have my credentials yet.” She suspected she wouldn’t see anything like that until after she’d satisfied Franklin’s demands about autopsy attendance.

  Wilkins shook his head. “Sorry.”

  “Couldn’t you call Franklin? He’ll verify I’m legit.”

  The clerk fixed her with a wordless stare.

  “Fine.” Zoe pulled out her cell phone. If Wilkins wouldn’t place the call, she would.

  At the same time she noticed the total lack of bars, the clerk gave a self-satisfied grunt. “There’s no signal down here.”

  Wonderful. She stuffed the phone back in her purse and eyed the door. The information she wanted—needed—was so close. Only a couple of inches of solid wood and happy-go-lucky Mr. Wilkins stood in her way.

  She retraced her steps to the airy courthouse concourse where her cell phone revealed five lovely bars, and she punched in Franklin Marshall’s phone number.

  Ten minutes later, she stood inside the archived evidence room, having bartered her way into a full half-dozen autopsies. Maybe she’d find a way to get used to the smell.

  While the man standing guard had been nothing like what she’d expected, the room itself was closer to what she’d pictured. Enormous. Old. Dark. But there must have been a dehumidifier or air purifier running somewhere, because there was none of the mustiness she imagined.

  Gray steel shelving units reached to the high ceiling, stacked with boxes—case numbers, names, and dates scrawled on the ends facing out. Zoe wandered through the cavernous space, scanning the years for a date that was engraved forever on her heart.

  After exploring up one row and down the next, she finally found the year she’d been searching for. When she spotted the box labeled with CHAMBERS and the date her dad had died—allegedly—a chill embraced her.

  The thing was too high to reach. Zoe jogged down the row to retrieve a step ladder leaning against the shelves. Her sneakers made only a faint squeak against the concrete floor, but the ladder clattered and scraped as she dragged it back to the box. She clanked it down and climbed to the fourth rung in order to reach her prize. Balancing precariously on her tiptoes, she stretched and maneuvered two other boxes stacked on top of the one she wanted. For a moment, she imagined dropping the whole stack, evidence scattering everywhere, and that unsmiling Hines Ward-lookalike tossing her ass out into the maze of underground hallways.

  Forcing her breath to slow, she eased the box marked CHAMBERS out from under the others, letting them slide gently down into the vacated space. Then she hugged the container against her side as she backed down the ladder.

  Zoe dropped to the concrete floor, her legs crossed yoga style, and set the box in front of her. Biting her lip, she eased the lid up.

  A voice behind her nearly jerked her heart out through her chest. “And just what do you think you’re doing?”

  Sixteen

  Pete leaned back in his chair and propped his foot on the desk. Why the hell hadn’t he filled the prescription for pain killers the ER doctor had sent home with him? His entire leg throbbed, from his knee to his toes. He raked through the top drawer and found a bottle of Motrin. Dumped four of them into his palm and swallowed them dry. A quick check of the label revealed that they were almost a year past expiration.

  He tossed the bottle back in the drawer and turned his focus back to his notes.

  Tom Jackson. Pete hated the doubts he was having about the man who had raised Zoe. But how many coincidences was he supposed to ignore?

  Tom Jackson had been one of the first on scene when Kroll had been shot. Pete double checked his notes. Patsy Greene had stated she found the victim and phoned the house. She reported that Tom Jackson arrived a few minutes later and tried to stop the bleeding, never leaving Kroll’s side until after the ambulance arrived.

  Jackson had lied about knowing James Engle. Not only was Jackson friends with the late James Engle, he was also friends with the late Gary Chambers. Zoe’s dad.

  But Jackson had Zoe as an alibi for Engle’s homicide. She’d picked him and her mother up at the airport the morning after Engle’s body had been discovered.

  Even so, if Pete could connect Jackson to the Miller murder/suicide, he’d make a clean sweep of tying the man to every case, current or cold, that Pete was investigating.

  An annoying chime from the front of the station signaled that someone had entered. Some chatter and the cackle of boisterous laughter drifted back to him. A moment later, Sylvia appeared in his doorway.

  “As a member of the township board of supervisors, I must voice my disapproval of your choice of how to spend our taxpayers’ dollars.” She ambled into his office and eased into a chair across from him.

  Pete shrugged. “So what else is new?”

  Sy
lvia ignored the comment and continued to chastise him. “You’re using our police secretary to babysit Harry—”

  “Harry would loathe that you think he needs to be babysat. Nancy is entertaining him.”

  “On township time, may I point out. Plus here you sit when you’re supposed to be on sick leave. We’re already paying Seth overtime to take your shifts while you’re gimped up.”

  Pete picked up a pen and flung it at her. It missed—as was his intention—and smacked the wall behind her. “I’m here on my own time.”

  “And throwing things at a poor defenseless old woman.” Sylvia clutched at her ample chest and put on a better pouty face than any two-year-old.

  “Poor defenseless old woman, my ass. What do you know about Tom Jackson?”

  Sylvia blinked. “Zoe’s stepdad?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Sylvia leaned back and fingered her upper lip. “What exactly do you want to know? He grew up around here. Handsome son-of-gun. All the girls chased him when he was a kid. I think he let a few of them catch him, too. At least until he married Zoe’s mom.”

  “What kind of fellow was he? Did he get into trouble?”

  “No more than any of the other local boys.”

  “He was a friend of Gary Chambers?”

  “Oh, yeah. Those two were tight ever since they were kids. As I remember, Tommy was almost as torn up as Kimberly when Gary was killed. It was their mutual grief that drew them together. Plus Tommy felt a sense of responsibility.”

  “Responsibility? Why?”

  “He made Gary some kind of pledge to look after his widow and daughter. Or so I heard.”

  “Before Gary died?”

  “I don’t know. You’d have to ask Tommy.”

  Pete jotted a note. “I might just do that. What about James Engle?”

  “What about him?”

  “Were he and Jackson friends?”

  Sylvia squinted, as if trying to see something in the distance. “Now that you mention it, yes. I think I do remember the two of them hanging around together. Engle was a bit older. I think Tommy looked up to him. Admired him. But after that incident with the Miller boys, Jim and Tommy had some kind of falling out.”

  Pete’s head threatened to explode. Strike four.

  Zoe’s heart pounded like a kettle drum against the inside of her sternum. One hand pressed against her chest to keep everything in there contained. The other clenched in a fist that she longed to connect to her interloper’s nose.

  Detective Wayne Baronick grinned down at her. “Did I scare you?”

  “No,” she snapped. Although she and Baronick crossed paths at the occasional crime scene or traffic collision, her only real contact with the man had been last winter when he’d given her a hard time over a case that hit too close to home. He’d just been doing his job, or so Pete had said. Baronick had in fact severely bent the rules to aid them in their investigation. But she still wasn’t sure about the county detective in spite of his devilish smile.

  “So what are you doing here?” Baronick asked. “And how’d you manage to get past Devon? He’s not easily swayed from his duties.”

  No kidding. “Franklin Marshall promoted me to chief deputy coroner this morning.”

  “Really?” Baronick didn’t sound convinced.

  “Yes, really. Call him if you don’t believe me.”

  “No, no. I believe you. If Devon let you back here, you must be telling the truth.” Baronick hunkered down next to her and tipped his head to read the end of the box. “You’re looking into your dad’s crash.” He narrowed his gaze at her. “You sure Marshall promoted you?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. Of course, he might demote me tomorrow. But for now, he’s given me access to the forensic evidence from old cases.”

  Baronick gave a slow nod. “I see. As it happens, I was asked to look into this case, too.”

  Stunned, Zoe leaned back against the boxes behind her. “Who asked you?”

  “Guess.”

  Her mind swept through the possibilities, and it didn’t take long. “Pete?”

  “Uh-huh. He’s got me looking at two old cases—your dad’s crash and those two brothers who died in the same barn where James Engle hung himself. They were related to you, too, weren’t they?”

  “They were my mom’s uncles.” So Pete was giving some credence to her suspicions after all. “Did you find anything?”

  “Not yet. I just got here when I heard someone dragging a ladder around. Decided to see who else was spending a lovely summer day locked in this dungeon.” Baronick motioned to the box in front of her. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

  Zoe drew a breath, blew it out, and lifted the lid. She and Baronick leaned forward to peer inside.

  A folder lay at the bottom. Nothing else.

  She reached in and removed it. “That’s it?”

  “So it seems.” Baronick took the folder from her and flipped it open.

  Zoe scooted around so she could read over his shoulder. “What’s it say?”

  He frowned. Thumbed through several pages. Then flipped them back again. “Not very damned much. We’ve got an accident report.” He let his finger trail down the page as he read. “Ran off the road by a drunk driver. The car caught fire. Vance Township Volunteer Fire Department responded.” He paused. “Whoa. Here’s something interesting.”

  “What?”

  “The driver of the other car was Carl Loomis. The guy who was raising a fuss at the James Engle farm on Friday.”

  “I know.”

  Baronick turned to look at her. “How?”

  “Warren Froats told Pete. Pete told me.”

  “Froats.” The detective blew a quick raspberry. “That old bag of wind.”

  Zoe snorted. “Don’t hold back, Detective. Tell me what you really think of him.”

  Baronick shook the accident report at her. “See this? It’s typical Warren Froats. Granted, I never worked with the man. He retired before my time. But whenever I have to look up information on an old case that he handled, it’s like this. Nothing. The man hated details. I don’t know how the DA ever won a case on the reports he wrote.”

  “What else is there?”

  Baronick flipped to another page. “Here’s your coroner’s report.”

  Zoe snatched it from him. As she scanned the page, her hopes for answers melted into her shoes.

  “It says cause of death was smoke inhalation. Method of death is listed as accidental.” She flipped the page over, but the back was blank. She pointed at the folder in the detective’s hands. “Where are the autopsy results?”

  He thumbed through the remaining pages. “There’s nothing here. Oh, wait. Look.” He pointed at a faded notation on a sheet of lined notepaper. “It says no autopsy was performed at the request of the family.”

  Zoe choked. “That’s crazy. It wouldn’t matter if the family didn’t want an autopsy. On a case like this, it would be done anyway.”

  He shrugged. “Sure. Now. Things were different back then, I guess. Maybe the old coroner was as incompetent as Froats.”

  “But how did they come up with a determination of smoke inhalation if there wasn’t an autopsy? I don’t suppose there’re any lab results in that folder, are there?”

  He scanned the few pages and shook his head.

  “Toxicology reports?”

  “Nope.”

  Zoe’s mind spun. Instead of answers, the box only contained more questions. “Is this incompetence? Or a cover-up?”

  Baronick frowned. “You lost me. Cover-up?”

  She studied the detective’s face. Would he think she was crazy, too? Biting her lip, she decided to chance it. “You saw the letter Engle wrote to my mother, right?”

  “The o
ne the crime scene guys found crumpled under his couch? Yeah.”

  “It said my father didn’t die in that crash.”

  Baronick didn’t reply, so she continued. “I think my father’s still alive. I think he faked his death.”

  Instead of laughing, Baronick rubbed his jaw. Frowned at the folder, the sparse reports, then at her. “Why would he do that?”

  “I don’t know. But the only person I’ve found who actually says he saw my dad’s body was Warren Froats.”

  “And you know what I think of him.”

  “What if Dad isn’t dead? What if he and Froats made up the story about him being burnt in the crash so the casket would stay closed? Dad would know my mom wouldn’t want to see that. They could have set the car on fire to fit their story.”

  Baronick wasn’t looking at her like she was nuts. He wasn’t looking at her like she was poor, delusional Zoe, either.

  “But when I tell all this to Pete, he brings up one question I can’t answer.”

  “Which is?”

  “Why would Dad do that to Mom and me? How could he just disappear and let us think he was dead all these years?”

  Baronick closed the folder and set it back inside the box. “I think I may know the answer to that one.”

  “I can’t believe I let you coerce me into being your chauffeur,” Sylvia muttered.

  Pete fumbled for the lever to slide back the passenger seat in her white Ford Escort. “Don’t bullshit me. You love any chance to pick up some new local gossip.”

  “But you won’t let me share any of it. Police business.” She huffed. “What good is gossip if a body has to keep it to herself?”

  “Welcome to the wonderful world of law enforcement.” He managed to release the seat a couple of clicks, making room for his legs and sighed in relief. Whoever had last sat in this seat must have been a midget. He half turned toward Harry in the backseat. “You doin’ okay, Pop?”

  Harry grunted. “Where are we going?”

  “Zoe’s house.”