by Lisa Jackson
But still she’d come running. And she was nervous.
“I need to talk to you girls.”
“Girls? Plural?” She lifted an eyebrow. This was news. Worrisome news.
“Claire and Tessa will be here shortly.”
“Why? What’s going on?” A prick of guilt pierced her brain. What if he were dying? Struggling against disease? But as she stared down at the robust man in the oxblood recliner, she dismissed her concerns. His face was tanned, his blue eyes clear as a June morning as they looked at her above half-glasses that sat on the end of his nose. His hair, thick and always coarse, was no longer brown, but peppered with gray that lightened perceptibly at his temples. Aside from a thickening of his waist, he appeared as healthy as ever. And just as untrustworthy.
Twin car engines whined. Tires crunched on old gravel. Doors slammed in unison.
Dutch’s smile was tight. “Your sisters.”
He was right. In a clatter of footsteps and a murmur of hushed voices, Miranda’s two siblings entered the house and, soon thereafter, the living room. Claire, tall and thin, with reddish-brown hair clipped away from her face, jeans and a cotton sweater, looked anxious, as if she’d lost more weight. Tessa, the youngest and always the most daring, wore a cocky smile. Her tangled blond hair was spiked and way beyond sun-bleached. A long voile dress—dark purple that was sheer enough to show off her legs when she walked in front of the light—billowed around her. Suede boots decorated with beads encased her feet and climbed halfway up her calves. Around her right forearm a band of barbed wire had been permanently tattooed or burned into her skin. A dozen earrings glittered along one ear.
“Randa!” Claire’s smile was filled with relief, Tessa’s suddenly more guarded.
Hugging her sister close, Claire whispered, “What’s up?”
“Beats me,” Miranda mouthed back.
Claire, nervous to the point that she hadn’t been able to eat, rubbed the chill from her arms. The last few days had been torture. She wondered about Sean and Samantha—tucked in a tiny motel room in a town even smaller than the one they’d left in Colorado. Worried, she glanced at her watch and hoped to God that whatever Dutch had planned wouldn’t take long.
“How are the kids?” Randa asked, as Tessa paced the perimeter of the room.
If I only knew. “As well as can be expected, considering.” Claire had never been much of a liar. “To tell you the truth, it’s been hell. Paul was involved—”
“It’ll be all right,” Miranda said. Just like Randa. Always in charge. Always cool. Always soothing troubled waters.
“I hope so.” Claire pushed her hair away from her face. “Sean isn’t crazy about moving away from his friends.”
Tessa snorted. “He’ll get over it. I did.”
“Did you?” Dutch snapped the recliner up and climbed to his feet. He didn’t so much as lift a finger to touch his daughters. Theirs had not been a demonstrative family; the girls hadn’t hugged or brushed a kiss across his cheek in more than a decade. Which was just fine with Claire. “Now that you’re all here, we may as well get down to business,” he said, motioning toward a portable cart laden with unopened bottles. “The bar is stocked if you’re thirsty, and there’s some sort of tray in the kitchen—fruit, cheese, smoked salmon, and crackers, that kind of nonsense.”
No one took a step toward the swinging doors that led out of the room.
“This place gives me the creeps,” Tessa announced, eyeing the paneled walls now barren of any decoration. Their mother’s artwork, so liberally sprinkled throughout the house while they were growing up, had disappeared. And the heads of wild beasts—cougar, buffalo, antelope, wolf, and bear—so proudly displayed in bygone years, must have migrated upstairs to the attic or been sold. No snarling animal dared gaze through glass eyes from these old walls any longer.
Impatience marred Dutch’s expression. “The lodge gives you the creeps?” he growled. “Hell, Tessa, you grew up here.”
“Don’t remind me.” She flopped onto the couch, dropped a huge leather purse into her lap, and scrounged around for a pack of cigarettes.
“If you’re not going to have a drink or some food, you may as well sit down.” Dutch waved his other daughters into chairs, and Claire reminded herself that she wasn’t a girl of ten getting a lecture. She was a full-grown woman, an adult, with a life of her own, in shambles though it might be. “You probably want to know why I asked you all to come here.”
“Not me. I know why.” Tessa shook out a cigarette and lit up. She shot a stream of smoke from the corner of her mouth. “This is some kind of power trip.” Leaning back on the couch, she flung one arm over the soft cushions. “It always is with you.”
Claire inwardly cringed. Why did Tessa make everything a battle? From the day she’d been born, she’d challenged her parents. Didn’t she notice the wash of color ride up her father’s neck and stain his cheeks, the sharpening of his gaze?
“This time, Tessa, you might be right,” he conceded with a wide, well-practiced grin; the same smile Claire had witnessed as a child whenever he had come home and told his wife about his most recent deal, a scheme that was certain to make him millions, a business venture that would put that bastard Taggert in his place. Dutch took a sip of his drink. “I’ve been approached to run for governor come the next election.”
The news settled quietly.
No one said a word.
Smoke curled to the ceiling from the cigarette momentarily forgotten in Tessa’s hand.
Claire could barely breathe. An election? Complete with staff, reporters, and voters examining every minute of Dutch’s life—his children’s lives? Prying into any rumor, any bit of gossip? Oh, no, not now . . .
“This has been coming for quite a while. Several people want me to run and are willing to back me. I’ve only held off because . . . well, frankly, I’m not sure what I’m up against—not my opponent, you understand, but what kind of a toll an election will take on the family, on you girls, on your mother, and on me. But that’s not really what’s stopping me. It’s the scandal that worries me.”
Miranda, perched stiffly in an overstuffed chair asked, “What scandal?”
Claire swallowed hard and focused on her older sister. Don’t do this! She shook her head slightly, barely moving, just enough to get Miranda’s attention and silently beg her not to push the issue. Clearing her throat, Tessa stared off into the distance, as if looking through the sun-glazed windows, but was, Claire suspected, lost in her own memories—her own private hell.
Dutch sighed. “You know what scandal,” he said. “Look, I’m not lily-white myself—got a few skeletons in my own closet, but nothing like the one you girls have been hiding for the last sixteen years.”
Claire’s blood turned to ice. So this was it. Her palms began to sweat.
Dutch settled back into his chair and tented his fingers under his chin. “Like it or not, the whole sordid mess is going to come out. Besides, I have personal enemies who will do anything in their power to see that I fail in my run for governor: enemies like Weston Taggert. There’s another problem. His name is Kane Moran—you all probably remember him.” He didn’t wait for an answer, but Claire’s heart already pumping fast, began an irregular cadence fed by fear. Kane? What could he have to do with anything? This was getting worse by the minute.
“Anyway, Mr. Moran is kind of a drifter, used to live around here as a kid. His dad was a mean son of a bitch who worked for me a long time ago and had an accident that put him in a wheelchair. The kid scraped by somehow, became a hotshot freelance journalist who’s been all over the world, reporting on hot spots. He quit that kind of work last year after he was wounded and nearly killed in Bosnia, I think it was. So he’s back.”
“Here?” Claire asked, barely breathing.
“Now he’s taken it upon himself to become a—” he waved impatiently. “Well, I’d call him a novelist because sure as I’m standing here he’s going to be creating fiction, but he seems to
deem our family important enough to write about. His book is gonna be one of those unauthorized exposé types.”
“On us?” Miranda clarified.
“Well, yes, but specifically on the death of Harley Taggert.”
Claire nearly swooned. She gripped the back of the couch for support. Thunder pounded in her ears.
Dutch’s face lost all trace of humor. Lines of strain gouged the skin around his eyes as he settled back into his recliner. “So I don’t want to be caught off guard, if you know what I mean. I’ve got to know what I’m up against here.”
Don’t lose it, Claire. Not now. Not after all these years. She swallowed hard. “I—we—don’t know what you’re talking about.” She forced her gaze to meet her father’s steadily even though inside she was withering like a vine deprived of water. Silently she cursed herself for never having learned the art of lying, a characteristic that would have come in handy over the years.
Dutch rubbed his chin. “I wish to God I could believe you, but I can’t.”
Here it comes. Claire braced herself, met her father’s condemning stare, and forced herself to breathe.
Dutch gazed at each of his daughters in turn, as if looking long and hard enough, he could crack through the veneer of their innocence and see the ugly truth. “I want to know what happened on the night the Taggert kid died.”
God help us. Sweet, trusting Harley.
“I think one of you girls was involved.”
Claire let out a whimper of protest. “No—”
Dutch loosened his tie, but his gaze was fixed steadily upon his middle daughter. “You were going to marry him, weren’t you?”
“What’s the point of this?” Miranda cut in.
“Shit.” Tessa drew on her cigarette. “I’m not going to sit here and listen to this crap.” Hauling herself to her feet, she grabbed her purse, flung the butt of her Virginia Slims into the fireplace, and started for the door.
“Sit down, Tessa. We’re all in this together.” Dutch’s jaw was rock-hard. “All I’m talking about now is damage control. I was hoping you girls would finally be straight with me, but I suspected you might not be, so I hired someone to help.”
“What?” Miranda froze and Claire saw the fear on her sister’s face. Miranda had worked so hard to protect them all. She’d come up with the story, the lies. Claire swallowed hard. Surely her private father couldn’t have, wouldn’t have brought an outsider in on this . . . oh, God . . . all of her hard-fought plans, all of the desperate nights, all of the tightly wound lies. They would all be found out and then . . . Oh, God, she couldn’t think what would happen if the truth, so dark and murky, would ever see the light of day.
“You did what?” Miranda, ashen faced, demanded of Dutch.
Claire’s head began to thunder again, echoing with a dizzying rush of sound.
“Denver Styles.” He let the name sink in, though it held no meaning for Claire. But Miranda stopped short and for a second a shadow of fear passed behind her eyes. Quickly it disappeared as she seemed to get a grip on herself.
“Styles is a damned good private investigator. He’ll find out what happened sixteen years ago and help me do whatever I have to do to keep it quiet, or at least tone it down.” He reached for his drink. “So you girls have a choice. Either you come clean with me now, or you let Styles dig it up on his own. The first way will be the most painless, believe me.” He swallowed the last of his scotch.
“You’re out of your mind.” Miranda shot to her feet. “The sheriff’s department concluded that Harley Taggert had a boating accident—no foul play, no suicide.”
“’Course they did,” Dutch said, his face mottling in anger. “Didn’t you ever wonder why?”
Claire’s stomach dropped to the floor. She didn’t want to hear this. Not now. Not ever. Harley was gone; nothing could bring him back.
“Suicide? No one would have bought that.” Dutch snorted at the absurdity. “The kid didn’t leave a note and had no history of depression, so, you’re right, the suicide idea didn’t stick.” His lips thinned.
“Didn’t stick?” Claire repeated, suddenly catching a glimmer of what her father was hinting.
“Wait a minute. Are you suggesting that—what?” Miranda’s eyes were wide and she slowly sat down again. “There was foul play and we”—she made a sweeping gesture to include her sisters—“were somehow involved?”
Dutch crossed to the bar and poured himself another drink. “The reason Taggert’s death was ruled an accident was because I paid the sheriff’s department off—a bribe not to investigate a possible homicide.”
“What?” Claire’s voice came out in a rush.
“Don’t start talking like this,” Miranda said.
“Worried?”
“You bet I am.” Miranda, visibly bristling, walked to the windows and balanced her hips on the sill. “Accusations like this could ruin the reputation of the local sheriff’s department.”
“You’re worried about Sheriff McBain losing his job? Hell, he retired, full pension, three years ago.”
“It’s more personal than that, Dad, and you know it. A story like this, linking my name to a . . . what, murder? Is that what you’re really saying? It could jeopardize my career.”
Ice clinked in his glass as he swirled his drink. “Possibly.”
“And what about you? If you’re serious about running for office, this could kill it. If anyone got wind that you tried to fix the Taggert case—”
“I’ll deny it.” Dutch’s eyes blazed. “As for your precious career, it’s already in jeopardy. Something about a botched prosecution of a known rapist?”
Some of the starch seeped out of Miranda. She felt her shoulders sag. Her father was right—at least partially. Bruno Larkin should be behind bars instead of walking free because of testimony that hadn’t held up in court. The woman who had been raped, Ellen Farmer, a shy thirty-year-old who still lived with her parents, never dated, attended church regularly, and believed that sex outside of matrimony was a sin, had committed suicide after the second day of court. Miranda should have seen it coming. Without Ellen’s testimony, the case was dropped, a sweet woman was dead, and Bruno walked. “You’ve made your point.”
Dutch’s gaze moved to include his other daughters. “Okay, now that we understand each other, let’s get down to it. Which one of you was involved in the Taggert kid’s death?”
“Oh for God’s sake!” Tessa slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “As I said, I’m leaving.”
Just then, the sound of an engine rumbled like damning thunder through the night.
Claire, pale, looked about to keel over. She cast a furtive glance in Miranda’s direction and wiped her palms against the faded fabric of her jeans.
“This Denver Styles,” Miranda said, still shaken. “Has he already been checking around? Has he stopped by my office asking questions?”
Dutch lifted a shoulder. “Don’t know.”
“I don’t appreciate my private life being turned inside out by you or anyone else,” she said, her stomach knotting so painfully she could barely breathe. “There was a time when you could tell us what to do, who to see, where to go, but that’s over, Dad—”
A loud rap interrupted her, and she turned toward the sound.
“Door’s open,” Dutch yelled.
Miranda felt as if a vise were tightening over her lungs as footsteps rang through the hall and a man appeared: a tall, rangy man with wide shoulders, faded jeans, and a cocksure attitude that was evident in his walk. Beard stubble darkened his jaw and sharp cheekbones that hinted at some Native American ancestor slashed upward to eyes that were deep-set and eagle-sharp. In one swift glance, he had probably looked over the three women, sized them up, and pigeonholed each one.
“Denver!” Dutch rolled onto his feet, his hand outstretched.
The hint of a smile touched Styles’s lips as he clasped Dutch’s hand, but there was no warmth in his eyes. “’Bout time you showed up. I’d
like you to meet my daughters.” He motioned to the sisters. “Miranda, Claire, Tessa, this is the man I told you about. He’s going to ask you all some questions and you, girls, are going to tell him the truth.”
Four
Miranda sized the guy up. She’d seen more than her share of lowlifes in her years with the department, and could smell a con man within seconds. This guy, hard-edged and quietly condemning, didn’t have the usual odor, but there was something about him that smacked of insincerity and something else—something even more disturbing. She felt a touch of familiarity, as if she’d seen him before, but she couldn’t place his face, and the feeling disappeared like morning fog touched by the warmth of the sun.
“I think Dad brought you into this on false pretenses,” she said, crossing her legs and clasping her hands on her knee. His eyes flickered for a second to her calf, but his expression didn’t change a bit. So he wasn’t completely impervious. Good. “The story is—”
“I’m not interested in the story, Ms. Holland.” His smile was coldly patient as he leaned a shoulder against the dark timber of the mantel. “I just want the truth.”
Miranda matched his cool attitude with her own. “I’m sure you’ve already read the police reports and newspaper clippings or Dad wouldn’t have hired you.”
His black eyebrows rose a fraction.
A dark, numbing fear settled deep in the pit of her stomach as she repeated the story she’d told over and over again—to the deputies of the sheriff’s department, to the nosiest reporters, to her family and friends. It was forever branded in her memory even though it was a bald-faced lie. She glanced at her sisters; Tessa, blond and belligerent, insolently smoking another cigarette while Claire’s expression was hard to read, her skin pale. “The three of us”—she motioned to her sisters—“were on our way home from the drive-in movie on the other side of Chinook. We’d gone together to see a trilogy of old Clint Eastwood movies. It was late, after midnight. The movies hadn’t started until sunset, which was after nine o’clock, I think. We left before the last picture was over. I was driving and dead tired and . . . I guess I fell asleep at the wheel, I don’t remember skidding off the road, but the next thing I knew, the car was in the lake.” She stared straight into Styles’s disbelieving eyes. He wasn’t buying this—not for a second. Still, she plunged on, stepping deeper into the muck of half-truths and lies. “The impact woke me up and Tessa and Claire were screaming their heads off. Water was filling up the inside of the car and we all had to swim out in the pitch-black . . . it was . . .” She shuddered and her voice became a whisper. “We were lucky, I guess. My car went off the road in only six feet of water, so we were able to help each other out and swim to shore.”
