by Dawn Atkins
It’s how she copes. She sees it as her job.
Tara was getting better at accepting people for who they were, good and bad, she thought. That was a tiny point of pride amid her mistakes. Besides, in the lawyer’s office just now, she’d learned something about her father that had touched her deeply, opened her up to new realizations.
Tara took her sister’s hand, the orange nail polish gleaming. “We went over Dad’s will today. I wish you’d been there.”
Tara had been surprised to learn how little money her family had. “Dad sold all his stocks to invest in the company. Did you know that? He was worried, wasn’t he? You all were.”
She pressed Faye’s hand to her own cheek. “Mom will be okay. She owns the house, free and clear. There’s the life insurance, of course. The car accident settlement is likely to be huge, too.” Her mother had sat like a soldier, barely speaking, the entire meeting. Only her hands twisting in her lap showed her distress.
“You and Mom own the company,” Tara said to Faye. The ownership was to be divided evenly between and among Rachel Ann Kingsley Wharton and any Wharton child who has made a valuable contribution to the success of Wharton Electronics. The lawyer had apologized to Tara, saying he had invited her father to update his will numerous times, but that her father had declined.
“No money for me, Faye, but that’s how I wanted it.” She put Faye’s hand back down. “Did he know you wanted to hire me? Would he have wanted that? He kept my card. At least I have that.”
And there was something else. Something that made her grin. “He gave you the ship bottles, of course, but you won’t believe what he gave me. His library. All those books. He noticed that I was a big reader, too. I can’t believe that. And...the antique shotgun. The one he wouldn’t use for fear it might break? He must have known I’d learned to shoot. The guy who owned the range must have told him.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Can you believe that? You probably can. You were always generous with him. But I can’t. And I just wish he’d said one word to me. About my business. About my interests. Hell, about my marksmanship.” One kind word would have meant so much to her.
That’s not his way. She didn’t need Faye to tell her that.
Her parents were her parents. She could write them off or she could accept them as they were. She’d decided to accept them, warts and all.
And her father had gifted her with two of his most valuable possessions. There was always that card in his wallet, too. That had to be enough.
Her cell phone rang. She saw it was Dylan.
“The Tesla’s at Roadrunner Wrecking on the outskirts of Tucson,” he said without even saying hello.
Her mind switched gears instantly. “How’d you find out?”
“I had my secretary pull up the bill from the yard where Wharton P.D. tows vehicles and called on the off chance they would know where the car had gone from there. Turns out it’s still on the lot. Your insurance company has a contract with them.”
“Great detective work, Dylan. Thank you.” At last they could get somewhere.
“So, I’m on my way there right now with Tony Carmichael and—”
“I’ll meet you there. I’m at the hospital with Faye, so I’m close,” she said, her nerves jumping at the prospect.
“The car will be smashed up. It might be...gory.”
“I need to be there.”
“I can’t talk you out of it?”
“Not a chance.”
He sighed. “You know I had to try.”
“I know you did.”
“I’m bringing a camera to take stills and video of the car and Tony’s comments.”
“Good idea. We can study it later or show it to Fallon or any experts we deal with.” And if the scene was too much for Tara, she’d be able to look at the stills and footage when she felt braver. “We make a good team, Dylan.”
“Yeah...”
“When I’m not stomping out of restaurants and calling you a sellout.”
“Nobody’s perfect.”
She smiled. It reassured her that they could get past their arguments more easily. That wouldn’t be the case if they were sleeping together, she knew. They would be too tense with each other, weighing every word for a double meaning, a change in feeling. Something.
With the address in the GPS, Roadrunner Wrecking was a snap to find and in a half hour, she met Dylan and Tony Carmichael at the high chain-link fence that marked the entrance to the salvage yard. Tony was a stocky man in overalls and a Grateful Dead T-shirt, a long blond ponytail pulled back by a do-rag of the American flag. Dylan introduced them and Tara shook his rough palm with her nerve-clammy one. “We appreciate you taking time for this,” she said. “We’ll pay you, of course.”
“No big deal. It’s a beautiful machine. I serviced her a couple weeks ago. I’d like to see how she held up under pressure.”
“Let’s go take a look,” Dylan said. He picked up a wheeled cart, probably to look at the undercarriage, and Tony grabbed a toolbox and a jack. They met the manager in his tiny office and the guy led them to a cement slab with several wrecked cars. “Adjuster did his thing,” he said. “I expected demo orders by now, but that’s the insurance company’s call. They pay us either way. That’s it.” He pointed at a dark blue vehicle. “You need me, I’m in my office.”
Tara gasped at the battered car. She refused to picture how it had gotten that way. She was determined to be brave.
Tony pried up the hood, bracing it open with the crowbar. Tara and Dylan joined him, Dylan holding the camera, running video, she assumed.
The engine was surprisingly clean, though much of it was bent and crumpled. “Looks pretty jammed up,” Tony said. “Not sure how much I can see without a cutting torch and major equipment.”
“Really?” Tara asked, disappointed.
“The radiator’s been shoved into the block,” Tony said, banging on the metal with a wrench, “so I can’t get at the pistons.” He tapped the lid of a crunched-up black box behind the battery. She saw the edge of a label as bright as the nail polish she’d used on Faye. “The controls are electronic. I’d need to check the programming to see if it fouled up or shorted out.”
“We’re looking for anything that might have malfunctioned or been tampered with,” Tara said, finding it hard to speak.
“Brakes, drive train, steering,” Dylan said.
“I’ll do what I can,” Tony said. He turned to look through his toolbox. Tara and Dylan stepped back and surveyed the car. What remained of the windshield was a mosaic of shattered safety glass. The other windows had only pebbled chunks remaining. The dented driver’s door hung from its hinges. “How could anyone have survived?” she said. She felt dizzy and inhaled quickly, but oxygen seemed to elude her.
“You sure you want to be here?” Dylan asked.
She nodded, but she couldn’t face the interior yet. “Let’s check the back bumper for dents.” If she kept moving, she’d do better.
They found part of the bumper missing, the rest crushed. Both taillights were broken. “They must have been hit from behind. Something tore that bumper apart. And look at the dent.”
“The damage could have happened when it tumbled downhill.”
“But a collision would explain the speed when the car hit the barrier.” She knelt to look closer and saw scrapes of pale-blue paint. “Take pictures of this,” she said, excited by the find. “This could be from the car that hit them.”
Dylan dropped to a crouch and snapped shots. “It could be the primer under the Tesla’s topcoat, too.”
“We need to see the missing piece of bumper. It would have more paint scrapes. I hope it didn’t fall off when the car got towed. If it was at the crash site, Fallon should have it in evidence.”
“I’ll see what he’s got,” Dylan said.
“He parks at town hall, right? Could you check his car for dents or scrapes? I know you don’t think he did anything, but he was at the scene....”
>
“He drives his cruiser for personal use. Police cars get pretty beat-up.” He looked at her face. “I’ll check,” he said finally.
“Thanks.” He’d meant it when he said he’d help, even when he didn’t agree with her. She felt a surge of gratitude.
The trunk latch had been sprung. Dylan helped her try to lift it. With a shriek of metal against metal, it rose. She smelled sweet pickles. Then she saw the trunk was scattered with the contents of a plastic sack from Crowley’s. Cans, tortilla chips, a jar of olives, a broken jar of salsa and two broken bottles. She turned over a piece with a label. Pinch. Her father’s brand of scotch. “This is why the car smelled of liquor,” she said. “No one was drunk. He bought whiskey at the store.”
“It’s a possibility, certainly,” Dylan said. Dylan kept holding back on agreeing with any of her conclusions. She knew he thought she was overstating things and assuming the worst. He was helping her. That was enough.
They checked the photos Dylan had taken, making sure they were in focus and well lit. Their gazes met and held.
“We need to look at the interior,” she said shakily.
“I can do it. You can take a walk.”
“I need to see for myself,” she said.
“Right.” He braced her with a hand to her back and they headed for the driver’s side of the car. She locked her mind into fact-finding mode, not allowing horror or panic to interfere with the examination of the car.
Inside, side and front airbags sagged and a white dust coated every surface. “The powder’s from the airbags,” Dylan explained. There was no blood visible. Whew.
She noticed the placement of the seats. “The driver’s seat is too far back for Faye’s short legs. Dad must have been driving.”
“The EMTs might have moved the seat to get the driver out.”
“But both of them were outside the car, according to Fallon.” She pictured the ragged pool of dark soil where her father’s blood must have mingled with Faye’s, and where she’d found Faye’s missing shoe. Her vision swirled.
“Tara?” Dylan reached for her.
“I’m all right.” She shifted her gaze to the passenger seat. “Less foot room there. See.” Then she caught sight of a few strands of fiber hanging from the broken safety glass still in the window. She looked closer, squinted. Not fiber. Hair. Dark, curly hair. Faye’s hair. Tara gulped and stepped back, bumping into Dylan, turning toward him. “It’s Faye’s hair,” she gasped. “It’s caught in the passenger window. She wasn’t driving. There’s the proof.” Her stomach churned and she tasted bile. She refused to throw up again. “Think I’ll take that walk. Get pictures.” She stumbled off, blindly weaving among the broken vehicles stacked and scattered throughout the salvage yard, taking deep breaths, forcing her stomach to settle down.
Tara had walked a long way before she felt normal again. When she returned, Tony was rolling out from under the car. He handed up Dylan’s camera, then got to his feet.
“Brake lines look okay,” he said, wiping his hands on a red rag. “Oil pan’s dented from striking the railing, I would guess.”
“Can you tell if the brakes were slammed?” Tara asked. “There were no skid marks on the highway near the rail.”
“No way to tell. Discs are smooth, pads fine. The mechanism’s functional. Hang on.” He looked in the driver’s side. “Emergency brake’s on. There should have been skid marks.”
She hadn’t noticed the emergency brake. Thank God Tony was here.
“So the emergency brake didn’t hold?” Dylan asked.
“The parts look fine. Something overrode the brakes. The accelerator might have jammed. Some circuitry went haywire.”
“Or they got hit from behind,” Tara said. “Could that explain it?”
“Don’t know the physics on that. I could check the circuitry in my shop. Do more with the engine, too. Be good to check for any recalls on the car.”
“We’ll get it towed to your place,” she said. “Would that work?”
“It should.” Tony nodded, then left them to gather his tools.
“You were right about Tony. He’s good,” she said to Dylan. “We’re finally getting somewhere. We can talk it over tonight. Want to grab supper?”
“Sorry. I’ve got a meeting, Tara.”
“Oh, sure.”
“I need to convince the town council to annex more land on the outskirts of town. It’ll mean taxes to fund utilities. I’ve got the votes even without the mayor, but the more support the better off we’ll be.”
“You don’t have to explain it to me. I know you’re busy.” She was surprised at how disappointed she was.
Dylan frowned. “I’m busy, yeah. Maybe too busy. What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Not much. Getting the car towed. Visiting Faye. Making calls for Mom’s charity banquet. Some client work. Waiting for Joseph to hire me.”
“Sounds like a busy morning. Could you free up the afternoon? I’ve got an idea. I’ll pick you up at one. Wear jeans and athletic shoes.”
“What are we doing?” Her heart lifted with delight.
“Trust me.”
“I almost do.”
Sadness shadowed Dylan’s smile. Trust between them was a fragile thing. Maybe it always would be.
CHAPTER TWELVE
DYLAN PRESSED THE call button on the Wharton gate. Tara had sounded so bereft when he couldn’t have dinner with her that he’d taken off a half day to make it up to her. He hadn’t realized how much of his free time had been tied up in meetings. He deserved a life, too, he realized.
He looked up at the house. Impressive, if out of place in the desert. Mount Vernon, Arizona, was what Tara used to call it.
“What?” The voice from the speaker was Judith’s, the Wharton’s gruff housekeeper.
“Dylan Ryland for Tara.”
The gate swung open and he drove through. He had to ring the doorbell twice before someone answered the door. It was Tara, a toothbrush in her hand, foam on her lips. “Sorry,” she said. “Judith, for God’s sake, why didn’t you get the door?”
“I’m busy here,” Judith grumbled, passing by with a laundry basket.
“Just need to spit and run a brush through my hair.” She dashed for the stairs, taking them two at a time. He couldn’t help but watch her butt. The jeans were criminally tight.
“Ahem.” Judith jabbed a thumb toward the sitting room. He went there, a chastised teenager again. He’d been waiting a few minutes when someone came around the corner. He expected Tara, but it was her mother. “Dylan Ryland. What brings you here?”
“He came for me,” Tara said, popping into the room. “Am I dressed right?” She wore a gray jersey shirt that hung slightly off her shoulders, jeans and lightweight hiking shoes. With her hair pulled back, her face free of makeup, she looked great. “Perfect.”
“For a homeless woman,” her mother said. “But that makes you a matched set.” She looked him over in his worn jeans, faded Wharton Raiders T-shirt and scuffed Timberlands. “What are you two up to?”
“Dylan has something planned,” Tara said, her eyes lit with pleasure. Rachel’s eyebrows lifted. She clearly thought something was going on between them. He knew the gossip had flown after their fight at Ruby’s. Candee had called him early this morning after a friend told her. Victor Lansing had joked that he appreciated the sacrifices Dylan was willing to make to solve the Wharton problem.
He was grateful Tara hadn’t taken him up on his dare about the kiss, though he’d been certain she wouldn’t, not in the Wharton fishbowl. He still wasn’t sure why he’d said that, why his heart had flipped at the prospect, why for a few seconds there he didn’t care who knew they still had feelings for each other.
“Have you eaten, Mom?” Tara asked.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You can’t skip meals. You know that.”
“What have we come to when Tara thinks she has to look after me?” Rachel said to him. “It’s a lost cause, but may
be that’s the appeal.”
“I asked Judith to make you some chamomile tea,” Tara said.
“You two go have your homeless fun.”
Dylan was surprised to see the affection on Rachel’s face when she looked at her daughter.
They left and got into the car.
“I have news,” Tara said as he pulled onto the highway. “This morning at the hospital, Joseph said he wants to hire me as a consultant.”
“How did you manage that?”
“I did my homework, convinced people who had influence with Joseph that hiring me would be smart. Legally it would be a hedge against litigation regarding fiduciary duty and oversight.”
“That’s a mouthful.”
“That’s what I thought, but the legal argument was Joseph’s tipping point. So, he warns me that he will not tolerate group hugs or feel-good mission statements, then he asks me to start on Monday.”
“That was fast. Will he cooperate with you?”
“I think so. I told him I would be his eyes and ears, that my role was to calm the waters, reduce conflict and uncertainty. That seemed to relieve him. He really needs a buffer between him and people.”
“Sounds like you’ll do that for him.”
“Yeah. In fact, he got choked up. He told me that Faye had been like that with employees and that he missed her, that it’s been hard to be at Wharton without her. I was very touched.”
“If you got Joe Banes to open up, you’re a miracle worker.”
“Not really. It’s all smoke and mirrors.”
“I doubt that.”
She looked out the window for a few seconds, then back at him. “You’re right. I mock myself because what I do sometimes scares me. I charge a fortune and clients expect miracles. So far I’ve delivered, but it’s a high-wire act. I have to get the vibe, connect with the true leaders, deduce the unspoken conflicts, coax people to trust each other, and there are a dozen ways it can all fall apart at any time.”
