Back Where She Belongs

by Dawn Atkins

  “Hang on,” he said softly. “I’m asking a question. That doesn’t make me your enemy.” She’d always been that way. If you disagreed with her, she assumed you were against her. She had to reject you first. The defense mechanism reminded him of his father and he was pretty tired of handling his father’s defensiveness.

  She blew out a breath. “Okay. Sorry. Fallon made it sound like he was going to falsify his report to protect my family’s name. Would he do that?”

  “He considers himself the town’s guardian, that’s for sure.”

  “I don’t want his protection. I want the truth.” She grabbed one of the phones from the ground. “Look at this picture.” Clicking a button, she extended the display to him. “It’s blurry, but see the swerve marks? They’re way back from the crash spot. The brakes must have failed or someone plowed into the car from behind.”

  That seemed an extreme conclusion to him.

  “He won’t even say where the car is now so we can check the brakes. He was the first on the scene. What a coincidence. He missed poker that night...supposedly he was going for flu medicine for his sick wife when his cop instincts kicked in and he saw the bent rail. Do you believe that?”

  Her eyes were frantic, her words spilling out. “Plus, he’s been hitting on my mom, sending her gift baskets. She’s grateful to him, like he’s her hero. It’s so creepy. I can’t believe she would cheat on my dad. But Fallon’s hanging around, whispering in her ear.”

  She stiffened suddenly, shifted to look at him full-on. “Maybe Fallon hit the car! No wonder he’s covering up.”

  “Hang on, Tara. Let’s back up some.”

  “Back up? You don’t believe me?”

  “You just accused the chief of police of a hit-and-run or, hell, murder. You don’t think that’s extreme?”

  She opened her mouth to argue, but then she seemed to pull herself together. “You think this sounds crazy, huh? Maybe it does.”

  He was impressed that she’d backed off, thought it through. That was new.

  “I need to tell you everything, I guess.” She held out a palm. “Mint, please?”

  He pulled out the tin and shook three onto her palm.

  “Three? I have three-mint breath?” She smiled faintly and sucked on the candies, her lips and tongue moving in a way that distracted him. He looked away.

  “So, here’s what I know so far...”

  She told him about Joseph Banes, his odd reactions to the accident, the arguments the man had had with Faye and Abbott, the dispute between Faye and her father, possible financial troubles at Wharton, the violent actions of the former factory manager, as well as why it had been strange for Faye to be at Vito’s and driving her father’s car. She finished with a blow-by-blow of her conversation with Fallon, including a quickie lecture on the theory of microexpressions.

  “Something’s not right,” she said finally. “Can you see that?”

  “There are odd aspects to this, yes. But just because you don’t know the explanation doesn’t mean there isn’t one. What is it doctors say about diagnosis? When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras. Mostly what you’re telling me is that it feels wrong to you.”

  “For your information, I get paid a lot of money for my feelings. My instincts are what my clients value most.”

  “I don’t doubt that, Tara. I know you want to make sense of this tragedy, but—”

  “You think I’m wrong. You’re placating me. Tell me this. If Bill Fallon is so innocent, why isn’t he asking the questions I am? Why isn’t he doing his job? That’s required, isn’t it, even in this corrupt little town?”

  The insult irked him. “Bill Fallon is lazy and he’s got a big ego, but I doubt calling him incompetent, corrupt and a liar did much to advance your cause.”

  She winced. “No. That was bad. I lost my temper. But Wharton P.D. is not the only law enforcement agency that can look into this. If he won’t do his job, I’ll contact the state police or the county sheriff’s office.”

  “And they’ll likely defer to Fallon. Law enforcement entities are territorial. They have to coexist with each other.”

  “So I have to find proof that he bungled the case. That means I need to do some preliminary work myself. Take pictures, gather the broken car parts, find out where the car is, get a mechanic to test the brakes and look over the engine.” Her eyes still gleamed with emotion, but her voice steadied as she outlined her plan.

  “Tara, I don’t know if—”

  “I’m not done,” she said. “Fallon mentioned accident reconstruction engineers. If I have to, I’ll pay for one of them to look at the crash. I’ll do whatever it takes to get the truth. You know I mean that.”

  “I do.” Hearing her talk, feeling her pain and frustration, he knew he couldn’t let her fight this fight alone. “So, how can I help?”

  She stared at him, clearly surprised. “You’ll help me?”

  “Before you call out the cavalry or spend a fortune on experts, let’s see what you and I can find on our own.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I told Bill to cooperate with you. I am his boss. He won’t bend over backward, but he’ll give you something—his notes, his report, answers to your questions. When you locate the car, I can ask my mechanic to examine the engine for you if you’d like.”

  “Will he know what to look for?”

  “He should. Tony Carmichael is the best in town for hybrids and electrics. Auto Angels is his shop. The place just past the skating rink? I think he works on your dad’s vehicles, too.”

  “That’d be great, Dylan. Really.” She sighed. “It means a lot to have some help.” Relief softened her features and erased some of her despair, and he realized he’d do all he could to help her. Her pain was his pain. Still.

  “So will you do me a favor?” Dylan asked. “Next time, bring me in before you start swinging?”

  She winced. “I know. I shouldn’t have blown up at him. Being back in Wharton is not good for me. I slide back into how I was...my old habits.”

  “I think I know what you mean,” he said, thinking that she’d had something like that effect on him.

  “You’re doing it, too? Sliding back?”

  He nodded.

  “Yeah. We do go back, don’t we?” She smiled, a flicker of the heat from that moment on the terrace. “We have history.”

  Again he had the urge to put his arms around her, pull her close, breathe her in and go from there. But that wouldn’t help either of them. “Ancient history,” he said. The best they could manage would be to be friends. He and Candee had managed that, after all.

  “Yeah,” she said, but he thought she looked sad about that.

  “You have all you need here?”

  “For now. I’ll come back with a camera and a tape measure to record the distance from the swerve and how far the car traveled.”

  “How about I do that?” He wanted to save her another visit to this terrible place. “I’ll get Bill to send someone out to collect the broken car parts that seem relevant, as well.”

  “That would be great,” Tara said. “Ask to see the photos he took. They’d be better because they’d be before the tow truck tore up the scene.”

  “I’ll ask.” Did Dylan think anything would come of this? Probably not, but Tara had a point about small-town shortcuts. Fallon had clearly been lax. He doubted there were photos. One of Fallon’s budget requests had been for a new camera.

  He followed her up the slope to the highway and they stood together, catching their breath from the climb.

  “Can I buy you lunch?” she said. “We could go to Ruby’s.” They’d spent a lot of time at the bar and grill when they were in high school.

  “I can’t today. Town council meets over lunch.”

  “Oh. Sure.” She looked so disappointed, he had to offer an alternative.

  “How about you come to my place tomorrow night for supper? Say seven? I’ve got a recipe for beer-butt chicken I want to try.”

&
nbsp; “Beer...butt? Sounds gross.” She scrunched her nose, but he could tell the invitation had pleased her.

  “It’s not. You prop a chicken over an open can of beer on the grill. Comes out savory and moist, I promise.” Candee had served it to him and given him the recipe the last time they’d slipped.

  “Sounds fun. I’d love to come,” she said, her smile wide and open. “Thanks again.” She lurched forward, as if to hug him, then thought better of it and gave him an awkward wave before turning to her car.

  They seemed to have agreed to leave the past in the past. That was good. Mature. Sensible. Still, watching her walk to her car, he realized he looked forward to having her in his house, just the two of them, at night.

  What the hell was he up to?

  Maybe he hadn’t grown up much, after all.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  TARA DROVE HOME, shaken by what she’d seen at the crash site—the smashed and torn trees, the scattered car parts, the dried pool of blood, her poor sister’s shoe. Her throat still burned from bile, despite the soothing mints Dylan had given her. Her head throbbed and her eyes stung.

  Think about Dylan.

  Dylan was on her side. Thank God. The idea sent relief pouring through her like massage oil over sore muscles. There would be dinner tomorrow night, too. The thought gave her a little thrill.

  What are you doing? Teasing yourself? Teasing him?

  There was no point resurrecting the past, and they both knew it. She associated Dylan with suffocating in Wharton. She’d done all she could to escape. She wasn’t about to be dragged back. Dylan was helping her with the investigation. As a friend. Period.

  Something he said stuck with her: Asking a question doesn’t make me your enemy. Was he right? Did she expect him to oppose her?

  Probably. He was part of the town, after all. He’d chosen to manage it, for God’s sake. He loved the place she hated. Wharton was her enemy. All her training in accepting many viewpoints and interpretations didn’t seem to be able to overcome her feelings about this place and her past here.

  At home, she climbed into a scalding bath in the whirlpool tub and thought about the case. Being in Wharton had dampened her instincts, but Dylan was wrong about the zebras. People were lying, hiding things and evading her questions. What she needed was solid evidence. Prickling neck hairs wouldn’t convince Dylan or the authorities.

  Her only hope of success would be to treat the investigation like a job. She would gather data, ask questions and listen carefully to the answers, then analyze the results for clusters, divergence, patterns and repetitions. She would be neutral and professional.

  She would do the same with Dylan. She sighed, ducking under the water, letting the bubbles roar in her ears.

  The sexual attraction was a problem. But she was mature enough to handle that. There was that pesky feeling of being safe and cared about and understood.

  You’re lonely. That’s all.

  Busy with her career, Tara had set aside her social life. She’d handle that when she got back to Phoenix. Lonely people took rash actions, like jumping into bed with a memory.

  Now she knew. Now she would be prepared. Whew.

  She made a mental list of what she had to do: locate the Tesla, check her father’s phone for messages or calls that night, figure out a way to talk to his poker buddies, go to Vito’s to see if anyone saw or spoke with Faye that night.

  When she pushed to the surface, her phone was buzzing. She got out of the tub, grabbed a towel and picked up the phone from the hamper lid. “Hello?”

  “Harold McAlister, Tara. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you, Dr. McAlister. I appreciate that. You’ve taken care of all of us over the years.” Even her father, now that she thought about it.

  He assured her that Faye was getting the best of care and that her neurologist was top-notch. Tara thanked him, then eased into her real questions. “Faye was taking medicine for anxiety and depression.” She named the pills. “Could they have had any effect on her driving?”

  The doctor was silent for a few seconds. “I’m not the prescribing physician, Tara. I couldn’t—”

  “Hypothetically. How about that?”

  More silence. “If used as prescribed, they shouldn’t interfere with normal activities, but there could be other factors—”

  “Like if she’d been drinking?” Tara threw in. “You’re not supposed to mix those meds with alcohol, I know. It’s important to be sure she hadn’t been drinking that night. Don’t you agree?”

  The doctor didn’t speak, so she rushed on. “You could look at her hospital chart, right, and check that?”

  When he finally spoke, the words seemed to be dragged from him. “Even if I could arrange to see her records, I couldn’t discuss it with you because of—”

  “Patient privacy laws. I know. But there are rumors that she was drunk, Dr. McAlister. I can’t let that stand.”

  He blew out a breath. “I can’t help you. I’m sorry. The law is quite strict. However, a family as prominent as yours surely has endured gossip over the years. You know your sister. She is a smart, responsible woman. Trust what you know about her and ignore the rest. That’s my advice.”

  Her heart sank. He’d say the same thing about her father’s chart, she knew, so she thanked him and hung up, no better off than before.

  Tara dressed and made a few client calls. She’d asked her old boss to be her backup with current clients while she was in Wharton, so that would relieve some of the pressure, though she would have to scramble to make up for lost income when she returned. That was a worry for down the line.

  Next, she needed to call the insurance agent. Her mother was napping so she couldn’t ask her for the name and number. Tara decided to look through her father’s files, since he handled all the bills anyway. Plus, his phone cord would likely be in his study.

  Stepping into her father’s sanctuary, Tara caught her breath at the familiar scent—her father’s pungent aftershave and the hot-metal smell of the factory floor. It was like he’d just left the room.

  She braced against the stomach punch of sadness, closing her eyes until it passed. When she opened them, she saw first the floor-to-ceiling shelves full of her father’s books on history, philosophy, science and technology.

  She pictured the shelves in the sleek new condo she’d purchased five months ago. Her books were the one personal element. She had tons of nonfiction like her father, though she preferred biography, sociology and psychology to his hard science choices. Also, she liked fiction—especially stories of transformation and redemption.

  Behind her father’s massive antique desk was an impressive shelf of ships in bottles. Faye had helped him build them, Tara remembered. As a little girl, Tara had memories of playing on the floor with LEGO while her father and Faye worked with tweezers and string and glue, talking softly, heads close.

  Feeling left out, Tara had once tried to help, but she’d messed up the sails using too much glue and her father had snapped at her, sending her to her room.

  Faye came later to console her. She promised their father would forgive Tara, though it would take time. When you love someone you forgive them, she’d said, as if it were as automatic as breathing. It was to Faye. Whatever capacity Tara did have for love had come from her sister.

  Her father’s study was a man’s room, for sure, painted hunter green, dark wood everywhere, a wet bar, guns in a display case.

  She went to sit in the leather chair, which squeaked in complaint. Like the desk, and the Tiffany lamp she clicked on, it had been passed down from his grandfather, who’d had it shipped from Ohio when he’d founded Wharton Electronics in 1950.

  The new Mac computer looked incongruous, surrounded by so many antiques. Her grandfather’s fountain pen lay beside the sleek mouse.

  On the wall to her left was a sepia-toned photo of the Wharton foundry in Ohio, the source of the family’s wealth. Beside it was a large oil portrait of three generations of
Wharton men. Where were the women? In the background, of course, managing the households, hosting gatherings, leading charity drives, all in service to the powerful men they’d married.

  Her mother had a college degree, though she’d never used it in the workplace. She’d met Abbott at the college bar where she worked to support herself at the state college. She’d come from a working-class family of seven children, which seemed to shame her, since she rarely spoke of them and never visited.

  Tara couldn’t imagine living in a man’s shadow like her mother did, glorying in the role. Had her parents ever been in love? Maybe in the early years. Tara hoped so. A loveless marriage seemed so bleak. Would Tara ever marry? It seemed impossible at times. Marriage required faith and trust. The whole idea of love made her uneasy. She didn’t understand it. She might not be capable of it. That thought made her ache, like ice on a sensitive tooth.

  There were two books on the desk—probably the last two books he’d read. The Selfish Gene, by Richard Dawkins, and a more scientific-looking book about genetics. Shifting them to one side, she noticed a photo under the glass that protected the desk’s surface. It was her favorite picture of her father. He and Sean Ryland grinned at each other over the Wharton assembly line, where they held up the jet engine part they’d built together. They looked so young, so excited, like the future before them would be forever bright.

  It hadn’t turned out that way for Dylan’s father when his business failed. Had her father exploited him, paid too little for his company? She didn’t want to believe that. He’d bailed out a friend, risked money that could have gone down the drain. Besides, the feud was over, thanks to Dylan. No matter what Dylan might have done in the larger world, that was a remarkable feat. He’d healed a decade-long wound between two old friends. And he’d managed it before her father was killed.

  Tara reached for the file drawer, where she expected to find insurance papers, then saw deep gouges around the lock. The drawer had been pried open. She pulled it open quickly. It was empty inside save for some loose paper clips, a restaurant receipt, a blank message slip and a business card for Randall Scott, ESQ. Where were the files? Had her mother taken them out? Why? Very odd.