by Pamela Tracy
“I have a bad feeling,” Heather said. “I keep going over all I know and concluding that my parents left Sarasota Falls because of me. But that doesn’t make sense. My father had a great job. My mother had family. You say that Debbie, her mom and her stepdad are great people. You don’t run from great people unless you’ve got something to hide.”
The clock struck seven. The sound was loud, dramatic, jarring. It was all Heather could do to not stand up, pace, run from his house.
He, of course, seemed to be feeling none of those things, and asked pragmatically, “Do you think they moved a lot because they were running, hiding, or both?”
“I wish I knew. That they were living under assumed names just floors me.”
“We don’t know why they ran yet. Give it time. Maybe they just wanted to be vagabonds. Some people are like that. Used to be, you had the West to settle in, make a cabin in the middle of nowhere all by yourself. Then, there were the hobos who rode the rails—”
“Oh, pahleeese. My dad wanted a home so badly that we went to every open house within miles of where we lived. He’d stand in somebody else’s backyard and imagine where he could put a workshop.”
“That’s not unusual.”
“It is when you actually own a home, a home with a backyard big enough for a dozen workshops.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“It was the second thing I needed to bring up. When you picked me up because you thought I was Rachel, I was actually heading out to the farmhouse just past the Turner place. The one you and Albert talked about, saying the Ramseys had lived there, and the Welborn man you keep hoping to find.”
“Why were you heading there?”
“Because I own it. My dad, who always dreamed of owning a home, owned it. I have the deed. It’s in Raymond Tillbury’s name. And, my lawyer said that my parents have been collecting rent on it for more than twenty-five years. I checked my bank statement when I got off work. I wanted to know how much I had because maybe I should be thinking about getting an apartment. I about fell over. I had an eight-hundred-dollar deposit. Took me a moment to recognize the description. It was the rent money from the farm.”
“From Richard Welborn.”
“I guess. And maybe from the Ramseys before that.”
A shadow covered his face, but only for a moment. “That’s great. If you’re the owner, we can figure out a way to get in. Maybe I can figure out not only why he’s paying rent for a place he’s not living at, but where he is. And—” his eyes lit up “—maybe there’s something there that could lead us to Rachel.”
Heather stared for a moment, feeling somehow displaced, slightly affronted. He didn’t understand. Her dad had owned a home, a dream home. Why hadn’t they lived in Sarasota Falls?
To her chagrin, she expected Tom to understand—to care—because, well, because she trusted him. She was sharing with him how much and how fast her world kept changing. She’d made a huge mistake. She’d thought he was on her side.
And he was thinking about Rachel Ramsey.
Not Heather Graves.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
HE’D DONE SOMETHING WRONG. He wasn’t quite sure what, and unfortunately it had been a while since he’d cared about someone else’s thoughts and feelings. He was rusty in the compassion department. And he’d lost her.
He remained on the couch, waiting for her to say something. Trying to think of something to say himself. Nothing came, so he said, “I need to change out of my uniform. Give me a minute.”
She nodded, moving down to the floor to sit by the cat, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.
Funny, he’d never noticed how noisy the hum of his heater was. He thought about turning on the television, but by the time he found something she might be interested in, he could be changed. Heck, he’d only need five minutes, so why was he worrying about it?
He put on a pair of jeans and a gray T-shirt before slipping into tennis shoes. When he finished, he headed back to her and asked, “You ready?”
“Didn’t take you long.”
“Never does.”
It had gotten chillier and the wind had picked up. “I usually walk there,” he said, “but if you’re cold—”
“How far away do they live?”
“Four blocks.”
“A walk sounds good.” She dug her hands into her sweater pockets and fell in step beside him, hurrying a bit because his legs were so much longer. He offered to slow down, but she told him it was too cold for that.
Lieutenant Lucas Stilwater lived in a house almost identical to his except it was decorated for Halloween, and it had a lot more than a porch light blazing. The front door was open, never mind the cold, and laughter billowed out.
Beside him, Heather’s steps faltered.
“You’ll be fine,” he told her. “Debbie’s the easiest person in the world to get along with. Believe me. She puts up with Lucas. She’s a saint.”
He marched up the stairs, with her right behind him. Her steps might falter, but she wasn’t the kind to give up. He liked that.
“Hey.” Lucas welcomed them. “Come on in. Debbie’s grumbling about the spaghetti noodles being mushy.”
“I like mushy,” Tom said. “That’s how my spaghetti turns out every time.”
“Yes, but you warm it up from a can.”
“Got that right.”
He let Heather go ahead of him. Her blond ponytail swung back and forth, just under his nose. She stopped in the middle of the living room, staring at a portrait of Lucas, Debbie and their three kids.
“Come in. Come in.” Debbie came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Lucas tells me that I might be able to help with a case you’re working on.”
“We hope so,” Tom said.
Heather turned, looking at the portrait, then at Debbie, and then back at the portrait.
“It’s time to replace that one. We’ve got two little grandchildren. They should be in the picture.”
“You have a lovely family.” Heather stepped closer to the portrait, almost touching it.
“The table’s set in the kitchen. Come on, I’ve salad and garlic bread and the works.” Debbie rubbed her hands together. “We’re all excited that Tom’s bringing someone over.”
“It’s related to a case, honey,” Lucas said. “I told you that.”
Debbie smiled, disbelief in her eyes. “Sure.”
Tom nudged Heather and together they both followed Debbie into the kitchen. Lucas got busy getting their drink orders and showing them where to sit. Once the food was on the table and their plates filled, Lucas said, “So, I told Debbie all about Tom arresting you. She laughed.”
“Honest mistake,” Tom said. “Look at her.”
“I would have pulled her over, too, except she’s shorter than Rachel.”
“Debbie was Rachel’s second-grade teacher. She used to bring her home for meals. Darn principal made her stop. It’s a shame that the fear of being sued is stronger than the recognition that a child needs a friend.”
“I’ve read up on Rachel Ramsey,” Heather said. “She did have a hard life.”
Soon the back-and-forth conversation was all about Rachel and her mother. There were a few things Tom didn’t know, like Diane arriving in town driving an old Studebaker, but most he did know, like Rachel shoplifting just to have food to eat.
“So,” Debbie said, motioning to Lucas to clear the plates, “how is it I can help you?”
Heather stood to lend a hand, but Tom said, “I’ll do it.”
The two men were quick. Good thing was they got to stay in the kitchen so they could hear every word.
Heather cleared her throat. “We had supper with the Turners on Monday evening.”
“I already heard
that, too. And you’ve been at the restaurant with Tom two times already. Some people are saying that you knew him before you moved here. But that doesn’t make sense because then he would never have pulled you over.”
“We just met, believe me. And us both being at the Turners at the same time was a fluke. A good one, it turns out. Because I learned quite a few things.”
Tom watched Heather change seats so she was sitting next to Debbie. She pulled out her cell phone and brought up a picture. One he’d already seen. She stood with her parents, probably just a few years ago.
“Oh...” Debbie’s voice grew soft, speculative. “The woman behind you looks familiar. Is that your mother?”
“Yes.”
Lucas stood behind Debbie and frowned. “Looks a lot like you, dear.”
Debbie reached for the glass of water in front of her and then took a long drink, looking at Heather instead of the cell phone.
Heather put her cellphone on the table, faceup so the picture was still visible. “My mom’s name was Melanie Graves, but she and my dad passed away a little over a month ago. When I met with the lawyer and went through her and my dad’s belongings and history, I found out that her real name was Sarah Lewis.”
Debbie put down the now empty glass. “No, that couldn’t be.” Debbie looked at Lucas. “No, Sarah and her husband, Dale—Dale Walker—are at an air force base in Greenland. It’s remote, and her husband’s field is so specialized that...”
“Honey, you’ve always wondered.” Lucas’s voice was soft but firm.
Her fingers shaking, Debbie picked up Heather’s phone and scrolled through the photos. “No, your mom is just someone who resembles my sister. I’ve got pictures, too.” She pushed away from the table, still shaking a bit, and looked like she was fleeing Heather, rather than fetching photos.
“Lucas, I’m sorry—” Tom began.
“Don’t,” Lucas said, in a voice Tom had never heard. Lucas was the jovial officer. He always saw the glass half-full. He was the police officer who usually dealt with children. He was the one who best talked down a teenager, high on meth, who thought he was a superhero and the entire police force mere mortals.
“Don’t,” Lucas said again. “This is not something you should have sprung on us. You should have spoken to me first. Let me prepare Debbie. I don’t believe the story, but you’re here saying that Heather’s mom might be Diane’s little sister and she’s dead.”
“I wasn’t sure there was anything to tell.”
“Yes, Chief Riley,” Lucas snarled, “you were sure. I’ve never seen you act unless you were sure—at least until this past week.”
“It’s my fault,” Heather said. “I wanted to come here alone and talk to you and Debbie, and Chief Riley—”
“Tom.”
“Volunteered to come along. I made him promise not to do anything without me. He kept that promise.”
Debbie returned, three albums in her arms. “Sarah rarely uses email. Their Wi-Fi is spotty on a good day. I just tried to call her. There’s only one service carrier there. It rang and rang. She’s sent things through the mail, and believe me sometimes it was months before we received them. They’re blocked by ice nine months of the year and go about four months without daylight. I never thought my shy sister would wind up being the most adventurous of all.”
She flipped open the first album. “This is Sarah standing next to her husband.”
Even from a few steps away, Tom recognized that the two people were Heather’s mom, Sarah Lewis, and Heather’s dad, only he was in uniform, short-haired and wearing a hat that covered a good deal of his face. There were five pages of photos, all with the same background: a cold, white place.
In contrast, given what Heather had shared with him, Melanie and Bill Graves, in their roles as her parents, were at swim meets, on camping trips, at Disneyland.
“He should be ready to retire soon,” Debbie said. “He’s career air force. They’ve only been back for a visit a couple of times since they married. Never on Christmas. Maybe they’ll come here first. Mom would sure like that. They were thinking about settling in Hawaii.”
The first tears pooled in Heather’s eyes. Tom saw them and wanted to take her hands in his, and tell her it would be all right. He’d make sure of it. But he couldn’t make such a promise, and instead of being a hero, he felt helpless.
Heather reached for the purse she’d strung over the back of her chair and drew out an envelope. “My mom always wanted to go to Hawaii. She even had a big jug that she put all her change in saying it was for that special vacation.” She withdrew ten photos and laid them on the table, separating them so they could be easily seen. The first one showed Melanie Graves holding Heather, just a toddler, with Bill behind her.
“That’s Raymond Tillsbury,” Debbie breathed.
Heather tapped one of the larger photos in the album still open on the kitchen table. “So is he.”
* * *
NEVER IN HER life had Heather been involved in an undertaking this emotional. Not even being arrested for something she didn’t do.
Debbie’s red hair curled under a bit, like Heather’s mother’s had. And her hands were the same. It made Heather want to reach out and touch them, see if they felt the same, too.
“No,” Debbie said.
Heather placed one of her photos right next to one of Debbie’s. “Except for Sarah being bundled up in your photo, they’re the same person. Look at the hair, the smile and even the way they hold their shoulders. And now that you’ve seen the photo of my dad, can you not see that Raymond Tillsbury is in both pictures?”
“What do you want?” Lucas asked. “Why are you here?”
“I’m trying to find out why my parents kept their true identity a secret and also if I have any family here.”
“Sarah isn’t Melanie, and Sarah didn’t have any children. She couldn’t.”
Heather sat back. She wanted to be shocked, but she wasn’t. She’d seen the photos of Debbie and Lucas’s daughters. They were all redheaded, tall, like Debbie with a hint of Lucas in their faces. If Heather’s hair had been reddish-blond, maybe she’d have a chance, but nothing made sense. “Why couldn’t she have children?”
“She was diagnosed with endometriosis when she was twelve. By seventeen, she’d had two surgeries. It was a shame, too, because she loved children. Mom said that when it came to running a childcare, Sarah was a natural.”
Lucas added, “She and Dale didn’t want children. Said it would be too hard with his work. But they sent gifts to our kids.”
Tom spoke up for the first time. “Heather’s given me permission to check her mother’s DNA. We wanted to right from the time I picked her up on Saturday. We were hoping to tie her mother to Rachel’s mother.”
“I remember,” Lucas said.
Debbie slapped her hand on the table. “Then why are you here claiming that’s my sister, Sarah—”
“Because of the ID that Heather found in the safe-deposit box. Heather, did you bring it with you?”
Reaching again in her purse, Heather brought out the two driver’s licenses as well as the birth certificates. She handed them to Debbie, who looked at them for a few moments before handing them to Lucas.
“Look real,” Lucas said.
“We showed the photos to Gloria Turner. She thinks Melanie Graves and Sarah Lewis are the same person.”
“Well,” Debbie said, “her eyes are failing.”
Even Lucas frowned, then asked, “You got any more proof?”
“My mom ran childcare in our home from as far back as I can remember. She was saving money for a trip to Hawaii, and she and my dad own the little farm just down from the Turners.”
“The one Richard Welborn rents?” Lucas asked.
“Yes.”
“Where th
e Ramseys used to live?” Debbie joined the conversation. “Sounds to me and—” She looked Heather up and down “Looks to me like the Ramseys are who you’re related to. There’s absolutely no reason for my sister to have a connection to that house. Also, she couldn’t have children. And she’s in Greenland.”
Lucas was nodding.
“I’m getting a headache,” Debbie announced. “If you could just...”
“We’ll go.” Heather stood, gathering the photos and other things and putting them back in her purse. “I’m so sorry that this upset you.”
Debbie didn’t move. Lucas ushered them to the door with a “We’ll talk tomorrow” directed at Tom.
“Well,” Tom said when the door closed behind them, “I was hoping that would go better.”
“Me, too.” Heather adjusted her sweater and stopped beside him on the sidewalk in front of the Stilwaters’s house. The Halloween decorations added to her dark mood. “I don’t blame Debbie, though.”
“It is a lot,” Tom agreed.
“If she believed me, then she’d have to admit her sister is dead. If she doesn’t believe me, then to her, Sarah is still alive.”
Tom put his hand on Heather’s back and took a few steps. Heather faltered, looking over her shoulder at the neat, cozy house. She could only imagine what Debbie was feeling. She’d either gone to bed with a bad headache, the easy way out, or she’d gotten on the computer and emailed her sister and then tried the phone, either calling Sarah again or calling her mom.
Sarah wouldn’t answer, ever.
“Coming?” Tom queried.
“Yes.”
Before she could step up beside him, his phone sounded and he answered, “Riley.”
Almost simultaneously the door to the Stilwater house flew open and Lucas hurried out. “Tom, did Leann just call you?”
Tom held up a hand, stopping Lucas in his tracks, and continued with his phone call. “Oscar, where are you and what time did the accident happen?”
“It’s Richard Welborn,” Lucas sputtered “Leann ran the license plate.”
“What?” both Heather and Tom said.
“It happened at the end of the Turners’ driveway about thirty minutes ago. Oscar caught the call,” Lucas said.
