by Dawn Atkins
Stymied, she checked the drawers for a Rolodex or datebook that might have the insurance agency information. She found nothing but unopened office supplies. She turned on the computer, but it was password protected.
Beneath the desk, she saw a phone charger plugged into a power strip. At least there was that. She attached the cord to her father’s flip phone and activated it.
On the screen was a text message from Faye the day of the accident.
Nothing changes. Let it go.
Tara’s heart raced. Here was a clue. What had her father been doing that Faye wanted him to stop? Or had she been discouraged that he’d failed to make a change? She had no idea. Her father had not replied to the text. She checked his voice mail. There were no messages, new or old.
She really needed to check Faye’s phone. Where was it? In her office? She’d look when she went to Wharton on Wednesday. It might have fallen out in the car during the crash. When they located the car, she’d check.
First, she find the number of the insurance adjuster. She’d have to ask her mother when she woke up. Rachel had been sleeping a lot—drugging herself to escape her grief and worry about Faye. Tara would try to talk to her mother more, share the sadness somehow. That had to help, didn’t it?
“You into his liquor again?” Judith leaned against the doorjamb, her arms folded, a half smile on her face. “Stay away from the guns this time.”
Tara winced. Judith was referring to a party Tara had held when her parents were out of town. She’d been fourteen. Her friends had wasted two bottles of pricey brandy, ignorantly mixing it with Hawaiian Punch. The worst thing was that a guy had opened the gun cabinet and taken out her great-grandfather’s custom-made shotgun—her father’s prized possession, which he never used. The parts are irreplaceable, he’d told her once, when she asked why he never took it skeet shooting.
The guy hadn’t put it back and her father, upon returning, had found the gun lying around. He’d gone white with rage. She’d been scared he would hit her. She’d always been a little afraid of the man.
“No guns, I swear,” she said now. “And I haven’t touched the Pinch.” Judith leaned against the doorjamb. She rarely stood still long enough for a conversation. “If you want a drink, I’ll fix it for you.”
“No, thanks. What are you doing in here anyway?”
“Looking for the insurance agent’s number, but the files are missing. Looks like the drawer’s been pried open. You know how that happened?”
“Don’t look at me. I only dust and vacuum. This was your father’s kingdom. He might have mislaid the key and cracked it open himself. He was not patient with household objects. He snapped off the nozzle on the first espresso machine your mother bought.”
“It’s odd the files are gone.”
“He probably took them to the office. He never really worked here. Whenever I looked in, he was reading.”
Tara supposed that was possible, considering the unopened office supplies.
“Your mother asked Joseph to make all those calls—to the lawyer about the will and the insurance people. She was too shook up herself.”
Interesting. “Was Joseph in here? Would he have taken the files?”
“Don’t know. He came and got some clothes. It’s possible.”
She would ask him for the agent’s number and mention the files—see how he reacted. Maybe this was why he’d acted so fidgety. He’d nosed through the files. Why would he take them? To hide something he thought was there?
Judith started to leave.
“How do you think Mom is holding up?” Tara asked.
“She’s doing her best.”
“She seems so brittle.”
“It takes a lot out of her to put on a face for you.”
“Why would she do that?”
“She thinks she has to be strong for you.”
“She doesn’t. I’ll talk to her.”
“Don’t you dare say a word. Leave her her pride. She’d have my head if she knew I said anything.”
“I want to help. What can I do?”
“Then lend a hand on this big charity dinner she’s trying to set up. It’s a lot of work and she’s trying to do it all. Doesn’t want her friends to think she’s suffering.”
“I’ll do that. Great. Thanks for the tip.”
“I think she dreads Thursday at the lawyer’s.”
“Going over the will? Is she worried about money?”
“It’s not that. Your father’s a good provider. It’ll be real then. That he’s gone forever. That’s what I think anyway.”
“You’re a good friend to her,” Tara said, risking Judith’s displeasure over her mushy remark.
“When you run a person’s house, you have to be civil.” She sniffed.
“You mean a lot to my mother, Judith,” she said. “And I’m grateful to you for that. And for all you do for us.”
Judith had bought fruit and yogurt for Tara’s breakfast, even though she’d claimed that no decent person would call that a meal. She’d made Tara’s bed when she forgot. She’d even bought the jasmine incense Tara used to burn as a teenager to hide the smell of cigarettes.
“That’s just sickening,” Judith said. “You act like I’ve dying or about to quit. I’m not, so stop.”
“Sorry. Can’t help myself.”
“You never could. And it got you in a lot of hot water.”
She sighed. “I remember.”
Judith considered her for a moment. “For all the misery you caused, I have to say I wish my girl had some of your gumption.”
“Ruthie?” Tara hadn’t known Judith’s daughter, since she was closer to Faye’s age than Tara’s.
“Yeah. She’s a great cook. She’s over at Ruby’s. Some friends asked her to go in on a food truck in Tucson. She’s got no money to invest. Her share would be as cook. She turned them down. Afraid to leave home.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I pushed her, but she won’t listen. I’m just a mom. What do I know?”
“It’s hard to see someone waste their talent. I know that.” In Wharton, it happened all the time. People shrank to fit the smallness of the place.
“When you go to Ruby’s, order her goat and nopalitos empanadas. You’ll see God.”
“Definitely. Thanks. I won’t be here for supper, by the way.” She was headed to Vito’s to ask about her sister.
“You sure? It’s fried chicken livers and twice-baked potatoes.”
Her stomach churned at the prospect. “Thanks anyway.”
“More for me,” she said with a sniff, then seemed to think better of her tone. “I’ll save you a plate.”
An hour later, after she’d talked to the manager, bartender and two waitresses at Vito’s, Tara looked over the menu, still nowhere. No one had noticed Faye, so she must have met her father in the parking lot or slipped upstairs unnoticed.
When the birthday song rang out from a nearby table, she looked over. There were balloons floating above a girl’s chair, a pile of gift bags beside her.
Tara smiled, remembering a birthday party she’d had here when she was young. You got a free entrée and dessert on your birthday.
When the song ended, a man stood. She recognized him as Jim Crowley, who owned the grocery store and was one of her father’s poker buddies.
He headed for the restrooms. Here was her chance to talk to him. She made her way to the hallway and pretended to talk on her cell phone until he stepped out. “Mr. Crowley?” she said breathlessly.
“Tara.” He went instantly on alert. “How are you?”
“I’m fine.” She shifted so she subtly blocked his path. “I was just wondering, since you were at the poker game with my father, was he acting, I don’t know, unusual in any way?”
“It was a regular poker night. That’s all I can tell you.” He looked past her into the dining room, clearly wanting to leave.
“Was he drinking? Did he seem upset?”
“You
r father was himself. The game was the game. I’m sorry for your loss.” His mouth was a tight line, closed against her. Why was he so guarded? “I’m here for my niece’s birthday, so if you’ll excuse me.”
Then it dawned on her. “Bill Fallon called you, didn’t he?”
He paused, considered that, then leveled his gaze at her. “Bill Fallon does a good job for the citizens of this town. He doesn’t owe you one more word. Your father would not want you upsetting your mother with wild accusations.” Anger flared in his eyes. “But then I guess other people’s feelings don’t mean much to you, do they?” He meant the grocery store protest she’d organized over unfair wages and hours. She’d been inspired by a unit on labor unions in her history class and organized a march with picket signs.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have a family I care about.”
That stung. “I care about my family. I care that lies are being told about them. My father was your friend.”
“Yes, he was. And he would not want this. For once in your life, respect his wishes.” He walked past her.
She stood there, her cheeks hot, stinging as if he’d slapped her. This town. These people. So smug, so judgmental, so closed off, so infuriating.
She walked back to her table, aware that eyes followed her. When she glanced at Crowley’s table, Mrs. Crowley was glaring at her.
Perfect. Yeah, she’d interrupted a birthday celebration, which was impolite, perhaps, but there was no reason to be hateful.
For once in your life, respect his wishes. Did that mean her father had complained about her to his friends? The idea made her cheeks flame.
So blowing up at Bill Fallon had gotten her shut out of the entire poker group. He’d likely called all the guys to warn them she was on the warpath. Hell, the whole town would likely close rank on her. What if word got back to her mother?
It made her feel ill. Small towns. Small minds.
Except she should have known better. She should have controlled herself in the first place.
Talk to me before you come out swinging. She’d promised Dylan she would. Instead she’d confronted Jim Crowley at a birthday party.
She was dying to leave. Her appetite had fled, but she refused to give the gawkers the satisfaction of seeing her run. When the waiter arrived, she calmly ordered a glass of merlot and pasta marinara, her head high, her face serene.
Jim Crowley was wrong about one thing. Her father would want the truth. And she was going to get it. As long as she had Dylan on her side. She had to make sure he stayed there.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE NEXT NIGHT, Tara parked in front of Dylan’s adobe-style ranch house situated on a huge expanse of manicured cactus and desert plants, and climbed the steps to his porch. Tile mosaics of hummingbirds decorated the twin posts at the top. Was it just coincidence or had he had the mosaics made in honor of the hours they’d spent on Tara’s terrace?
Surely he wasn’t that sentimental.
If he was, it was sweet. Or sad.
Maybe both, which was how she felt about their past.
She shifted the tequila bottle to the other hand, since her palm was so sweaty. She’d taken forever to decide what to wear. Since when had she dithered about clothes? She’d tried a silk top with spaghetti straps and a white denim skirt, but decided the shirt was too clingy, the skirt too short. She didn’t want Dylan to think she was trying to look sexy.
She’d settled on purple silk slacks and a modest white linen blouse—business casual after she’d removed the gold hoop earrings, throwing on an amethyst pendant that didn’t look datelike.
Sheesh. Get a grip. It’s a chicken dinner, for God’s sake. A chicken with beer up its butt, no less. To talk about the investigation.
She’d gathered all the clues to share with him, including the conversation she’d had with Joseph that morning at the hospital when she’d asked for the insurance agent’s number, so she had a serious reason to get together with Dylan. Right? Ignoring the pounding of her heart and the squeak of the tequila bottle against her clammy hands, she rang the bell.
In a few seconds, Dylan opened the door. The sight of his face lifted her heart. His eyes held hers, sexual interest flaring, warming her everywhere, despite her determination to keep the meeting focused on business.
“Come in please.”
She stepped into the entry area, taking in his home—roomy, friendly, neat and full of personal touches. Nails clicked on the sand-colored tile floor and she looked down the hall to see a dog lumbering toward her.
“Oh, my God, is that...Duster?”
“It is.”
Tara had adored the golden retriever. She thought they’d had a special rapport. “He has to be so old now...”
“Fourteen. Yeah.”
“Damn.” Tara dropped to eye level with the dog. He’d put on weight, his muzzle was gray and his eyes cloudy, but it was unmistakably Duster. He rose on his back legs, put his front paws on her shoulder and dipped his nose to touch one of her cheeks, then the other, as she’d taught him. “He remembered European greeting.” She swallowed the lump in her throat.
“He’s deaf and almost blind, but he’d never forget you,” Dylan said softly, his expression full of tenderness.
“Good dog, Duster,” she said, scrubbing his ears the way he used to like, giving herself time to recover, breathing in the familiar doggy smell, while his tail thumped heavily against the floor.
She got to her feet. Being here with Dylan and his dog stirred up old feelings, like dust, making it hard to breathe or even see. It was ridiculous. They’d been teenagers, for God’s sake. You didn’t find your soul mate at seventeen, though she’d been so sure at the time. She’d been so sure about everything back then.
“I’m afraid to ask what you’re thinking,” Dylan said.
“You should be. The upshot is I thought I was smarter at seventeen than I think I am now.”
“Ah, but now you’re wiser. Wise beats smart every time.”
“I hope you’re right.” She didn’t feel very wise at the moment. She felt happy to be near him. She’d been back in Wharton for a week and, if anything, her reactions to him had grown stronger.
“You look sexy as hell. Damn.” He ran his gaze down her figure, making her feel nearly naked, business casual be damned. His compliments had always been sincere, never knee-jerk. He’d made her feel so attractive.
“You, too.” He wore dark jeans and a black-and-gray silk bowling shirt, and looked meltingly hot. This wasn’t a date, but she felt the same thrill—the delicious chance to be alone with him, anticipating brushes and touches and intense looks and maybe more. She held out the bottle of tequila. “For old times’ sake.”
He laughed. “Actually, I bought Mountain Dew and Grey Goose.”
“God. Dew-V-Dews! I forgot about them.”
“Remember Halloween when we had the water balloon fight on Hangman’s Hill?”
“Yeah. I wanted to sneak up on the couples hooking up in cars and you wouldn’t let me.”
“We would have scared the crap out of them. It was Halloween. They’d think they were being attacked by real zombies.”
“I know. That was the point at the time. It was mean of me.” She’d been too angry at everyone. Dylan’s love had softened her. She’d be forever grateful for that.
“So what’s your pleasure?” he asked.
You. Being here with you. “Let’s do the Dew-Vs.”
“You got it. Make yourself at home.” He left for the kitchen. Tara put the tequila bottle on the table and looked around. The great room was done in contemporary Southwest style, one wall painted coffee-brown, another mustard-yellow. The art on the wall included two stylized desert landscapes in vivid earth tones and a large whimsical abstract painting.
Dylan returned with ice-filled crystal tumblers, the yellow drink glowing golden in the warmly lit room. They took sips, watching each other, the ice tinkling merrily. She couldn’t stop grinning. The vodka warmed her stomach, D
ylan’s gaze the rest of her.
“Your home is lovely,” she finally said, turning to survey the room again. Are those paintings originals?”
“Yes. Done by local artists.”
“Supporting the community, huh? Being town manager and all?”
“Wherever I can, sure.” He glanced at her, hesitated, then spoke. “Actually I have my eye on a state grant to establish a co-op gallery, complete with studios. We’ve got quite a few talented artists in town.”
“You’re taking the job seriously, that’s obvious,” she said. “So did you decorate the house or did, uh, your ex-wife?” She felt a nasty twinge. Jealousy, of all things.
She’d felt it back then, too, and it had been horrible. Secretly she’d hoped he would come to NAU sophomore year as he’d promised. Instead he’d gotten engaged. Within a year he’d replaced her with someone he wanted to spend his life with, not just college.
“Me. I bought this place three years ago. Candee and I divorced way back. Eight years.” He glanced away.
“Sore subject?” She shouldn’t be prying, but she couldn’t stop herself.
“Not really. We managed to stay friends.”
“Looked that way at the funeral.” In fact, she thought she’d caught a flash of longing in Candee’s eyes when they’d mouthed their goodbyes. “Friends with benefits?” she teased. What is wrong with you?
Dylan colored.
“Look how red you are. You do sleep with her.” She did not want to know that. Thinking of him making love to Candee, looking at her the way he’d looked at Tara, as if she were the most important thing in his life.
“Not in a while. It’s not a good idea.” He shook his head, clearly embarrassed.
“Maybe not.” Why not? Did one of them want to get back together? Probably Candee. None of her business. If she asked more questions she’d sound as gossipy as the worst Whartonite.
“Anyway, what about you?” he asked, clearly wanting to change the subject. “I would have heard if you’d gotten married. Did you ever come close?”
“Not yet, no. Building a business is tough on the social life. I travel a lot, so there’s that...” That sounded lame. “I’ve dated, had boyfriends. Nothing too heavy. When the time is right...” And when would that be?
