by Rita Herron
Harrison took a deep breath before he responded. “I came here as soon as I could. I don’t know how word leaked. It shouldn’t have.”
“Well, it did.” His mother pushed her bangs off her forehead with a smile. The fact that the hair found at the crime scene was short and brown didn’t escape him. His mother’s hair was short and brown.
Lucas lifted his drink glass in a gesture of offering. “Fix you one and then we’ll toast.”
“What are we toasting?” Harrison asked gruffly.
“That Waylon Granger is dead,” his mother said. “Tumbleweed is better off without him.”
Harrison’s patience was wearing thin. It had been a long damn day. “How can you say that, Mother? Granger was a crappy father, but we don’t have proof he did anything else.” Honey’s face flashed in his mind. She didn’t deserve any of this.
His mother patted his shoulder. “You always were the diplomat, Harrison. But we know, at least I know, that that damned man hurt our Chrissy.”
Harrison glanced at his brothers to see if they were in agreement. Lucas sipped his drink, his expression neutral. Dexter slipped an arm around their mother as if to offer support. Brayden poured himself another drink, then fixed Harrison one and offered it to him.
Harrison took it, struggling to think of a way to defuse the situation. And how to subtly ask his family when they’d last seen Granger.
He sipped the whiskey, grateful for the warmth sliding down his throat. “Do any of you have evidence to prove that Granger did something to our sister?”
“Not yet,” Lucas said.
Dexter cleared his throat. “I talked to Waylon’s neighbors but no one remembered seeing Chrissy that night. They couldn’t say he was at home all night, either.”
“When did you talk to them?” Harrison asked.
“As soon as I got my PI license. But three of the families who lived in that neighborhood had already moved.”
Brayden’s look turned dark. “Have you found anything to incriminate him?”
Harrison bit his tongue. He didn’t want to reveal what he’d found or learned; not yet. People would convict Granger—and he wanted the truth, not a vigilante situation.
But his family deserved answers.
“Let’s sit down and eat before dinner gets cold.” His mother ushered them to their usual chairs and for a few minutes, the discussion was put on hold as they served themselves from the platters of roast beef, potatoes and gravy and green beans.
Although Harrison wanted to gulp down his whiskey, he forced himself to eat instead. He still had work to do.
“How did Granger die?” Dexter asked as he forked up a bite of roast.
Harrison studied his family, searching for any sign that one of them already knew the truth. Emotions strained everyone’s faces, as if just mentioning Granger’s name stirred up the horrid memories of the night Chrissy disappeared.
His mother had been near hysterical when she and his father arrived home from their party and discovered Brayden and Chrissy weren’t home.
Harrison had felt sick to his stomach—it was his fault they’d sneaked out. His fault they’d been at the bluff because they’d followed him.
Brayden had raced in on his bike with his ankle swollen, ready to fuss at Chrissy for not sending help, then realized she hadn’t made it back to their house. Fear had ignited tempers, and a lot of screaming and yelling had ensued.
His parents had frantically called Chrissy’s best friends but both of them had been home in bed and hadn’t seen or talked to Chrissy.
His mother dropped her fork with a clatter. “What aren’t you telling us, Harrison?”
His brothers stopped chewing and stared at him as if they, too, realized there was more to the story. Damn.
Harrison took another swig of his whiskey. “Granger didn’t die of natural causes.”
“What?” His mother gasped.
His brothers gave him questioning looks. “What’s going on?” Dexter asked.
Harrison swallowed hard. “He was murdered.”
His mother clamped her teeth over her bottom lip, then lifted her glass of wine. “Well, he got what he deserved.”
Harrison agreed with her. But he still had to find out who killed the man. A silent prayer formed on his lips that his family had nothing to do with it.
* * *
HONEY SLIPPED INTO a booth, hoping to avoid attention. A teenager wearing tattered jeans and a denim shirt appeared, an order pad in her hands. Black square glasses framed a thin, pale face. A sadness radiated from the girl as if she had problems bigger than a teenager should.
Honey felt a kinship with her. At fifteen she’d worked at the Dairy Barn to make money so she could leave town. Did this girl have problems like she’d had? Did she have any family who cared about her?
Had Cora hired her because she wanted to help?
“What can I get you?”
Her name tag read Sonya. “A turkey sandwich and a bowl of that vegetable soup.”
“Sure. What do you want to drink?”
Wine would be nice but the diner didn’t serve it. “Just water. Oh, and a cup of coffee. Decaf, please.” She didn’t need caffeine to keep her awake tonight. It would be hard enough to sleep in her father’s house anyway.
The girl nodded then made her way to the counter and dropped off Honey’s order. She returned a minute later with the coffee and water.
Honey stirred sugar into her mug then sipped it, her gaze scanning the room. Two older couples sat having coffee and pie while a group of teens chowed on burgers and fries at a table near the door.
Three gray-haired women were huddled around a table beside her sipping tea.
“Did you hear that Waylon Granger died at the bluff?” the curly-haired woman with glasses said.
The other two women’s faces expressed surprise.
The thin lady in a blue knit pantsuit leaned over the table, eyes wide. “Really?”
The curly-haired woman clinked her spoon on her teacup. “He sure did. My grandson was up there and found him. Waylon fell over that ridge.”
The third lady clacked her teeth. “Wonder what he was doing up there?”
“Probably drunk,” the thin lady said.
“He was always drunk,” the curly-haired one whispered. “Such a sorry excuse for a man.”
The third lady pushed her pie plate away, the pie half-eaten. “You know the Hawks always thought he killed their little girl, Chrissy?”
Honey averted her face so she didn’t have to look at the women, but their voices reached her anyway.
“I heard that, too,” the curly-haired one said. “He did have a temper.”
“He sure did. I always felt sorry for that girl of his. No wonder she left town.”
“I thought she left because she was pregnant.”
“Could have been.”
Honey sank down in the booth, hoping no one recognized her.
“I figured the Hawks ran her off,” the woman continued. “I heard Ava saying that Granger’s girl was white trash.”
“If you ask me, Ava shouldn’t have been pointing a finger.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the night their little girl went missing, the Hawks were at a party for the mayor.” She paused dramatically. “Steven accused Ava of having an affair.”
The other women gasped. “What?”
“No.”
“They were talking about Chrissy, too. Made me think that she wasn’t Steven’s baby.”
“What did Ava say?”
“I don’t know. They left in a huff.”
Honey tensed. She despised gossip because she’d borne the brunt of it.
But what if the Hawks’ marriage hadn’t been
perfect like everyone thought? What if Ava Hawk had had an affair?
What if Chrissy wasn’t Steven Hawk’s child?
Chapter Six
Honey’s head reeled. Harrison’s father had left the family and town a few months after the investigation into Chrissy’s disappearance went cold.
Rumors surfaced then that he had something to do with his daughter’s disappearance. Others whispered that he’d left because the tragedy of losing his daughter had broken his heart.
She drummed her fingers on the table. Now she wondered—had he left because his wife had cheated on him?
The waitress appeared with her soup and sandwich, and Honey thanked her, then dug in. She hadn’t realized she was so hungry but hadn’t eaten since breakfast and was starved.
The women stood, gathering their purses and hats, and Honey sank lower in the booth, angling her face away from them in case they recognized her. The woman in the blue knit pantsuit paused and peered at her, but Honey looked down at her phone to avoid eye contact.
The bell on the door tinkled as it opened and they left, then a tall woman with sharp features entered, a big guy with an awkward gait beside her holding her hand. One of his eyes looked blurry, his mouth twitched and he made an odd, high-pitched sound.
“Let’s sit in that booth, Elden,” the woman said.
Honey straightened. Elden?
She’d known him. Elden Lynch was three years older than she was and mentally challenged. She’d felt sorry for him because the kids at school made fun of him. Worse, some of the parents had been afraid of him and had warned their children away from him. Not that he was mean or violent.
In fact, he was sweet and childlike and just wanted to make friends.
He shuffled past, rocking his head back and forth. It was him, the boy she’d known.
Honey was tempted to say something, but his mother glared at her.
Mrs. Lynch ushered him into a chair. “Stay put, Elden.”
The big woman stepped over to Honey’s booth. “I heard you were back in town.”
Honey tensed at the vehemence in her tone.
“I don’t know if you’re staying around here,” Mrs. Lynch continued, “but if you are, keep away from my son. He doesn’t need any trouble.”
“I’m not here to cause trouble,” Honey said, her voice firm. “I—”
“Then get your sorry daddy buried and leave town,” Mrs. Lynch barked. “Tumbleweed is better off without any of you Grangers.”
Hurt and anger bled through Honey. She wanted to defend her father and herself.
But an image of that yellow ribbon taunted her, and she kept her mouth shut.
When word about that surfaced, people would definitely condemn her father.
It shouldn’t bother her. He had been a sorry drunk.
Elden’s mother didn’t have to worry about her staying. She’d leave as soon as possible.
* * *
“MOTHER,” HARRISON SAID, measuring his words carefully, “I wouldn’t go around telling everyone how glad you are that Waylon Granger is dead.”
She gave him a sharp look. “Why not? I am glad he’s dead.”
“He was murdered,” Harrison said, hoping to drive home his point. “That means there has to be an investigation.”
Brayden’s lawyer instincts quickly kicked in. “He’s warning you not to incriminate yourself, Mother.”
She finished her wine then set the glass on the table with an eyebrow raise. “And you’re the sheriff so you’re going to find out who killed him?”
Harrison nodded. “That’s the way it works.”
“How was he murdered?” Dexter asked.
Harrison wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I don’t have an official statement from the ME, but it appears he was struck on the back of the head with a rock, then pushed over the edge of the ridge.”
Other than his mother’s eyes widening slightly, she showed no reaction.
“You find any forensics?” Lucas asked.
Harrison maintained a neutral expression. “I found a rock that might be the one that struck him. It’s at the lab now, being tested.”
“Anything else?” Brayden asked.
“CSI found a button in the bushes and a short brown hair that was caught on Granger.”
“The teenagers still go up there,” his mother said, ignoring the comment about the brown hair. “That button could be one of theirs.”
Harrison narrowed his eyes. Was his mother trying to cover for herself? “True. But it was close to the ledge, so we’ll test it for prints.”
She tore a roll in half and buttered it.
“Mother, where were you last night?”
Brayden laid his hand over their mother’s. “You don’t have to answer that.”
“Are you asking as my son or as the sheriff?” his mother said quietly.
Emotions clogged Harrison’s throat at the hurt in his mother’s voice. Her screams the night Chrissy went missing echoed in his head, resurrecting guilt and anguish.
How could he interrogate his own mother after what he’d put her through?
She squeezed Brayden’s hand. “It’s all right, Brayden. Actually I don’t mind answering. I was home all night.”
Brayden’s eyes went dark. “Was anyone here with you, Mother? Anyone who can corroborate your story?”
She stiffened. “It’s not a story, it’s the truth. And no one was here. I had one of my migraines so I took a pill and went to bed early.”
“How about phone calls?” Harrison asked.
She sighed. “Like I said, I took a pill and went to bed early. If the phone rang, I didn’t hear it.”
Harrison raked a hand through his hair. Dammit, he wanted her to have a rock-solid alibi.
“I’m not the only one who disliked Waylon Granger,” his mother said.
“But no one else had a motive to kill him,” Harrison pointed out.
“Harrison,” Lucas cut in, his voice hard. “You’re not accusing Mom of murder, are you?”
Harrison folded his arms. “No, but it’s my job to ask questions and find out the truth.”
“The truth is that the town is better off without that lowlife in it,” his mother said curtly.
“We have no proof that he hurt anyone,” Harrison said, testing the waters to see if one of his family members mentioned the ribbon.
“He hurt his own daughter,” Dexter said. “Everyone in Tumbleweed knew that but no one did anything to help her.”
Dexter was right. Someone should have stepped in and protected Honey.
“That girl wasn’t worth saving,” his mother said. “She was white trash just like her mama.”
“She was only a kid.” A trace of bitterness laced his voice. “She never did anything wrong.”
“My God, you’re defending her.” His mother gave him a lethal look. “She probably lied about that night, Harrison. Chrissy always tried to sneak over and see that girl. I bet she did that night but Honey lied to protect her old man.”
Harrison tossed his napkin on the table. “You were always unfair to her, Mother. And for your information, Honey hasn’t held anything back. She hasn’t defended her father or pointed the finger at anyone over his death.” In fact, she’d given Harrison the ribbon she’d found at her father’s house.
But he refused to share that information. His mother would convict Granger and Honey without any further questions.
His mother’s hand slapped the table. “Oh, my God, she’s back, isn’t she?”
Harrison heaved a breath. “Yes, I had to inform her of her father’s death.”
“So you’ve seen her?” his mother asked, her disappointment palpable.
“Yes,” Harrison said through gritted
teeth. “At the morgue.”
His mother frowned. “She’s not going to stay around, is she?”
“I doubt it,” Harrison said. Why would she want to? The people in Tumbleweed had been brutal to her. “But she has to bury her father.”
“The next time you see her, make her tell you what he did with Chrissy,” his mother said.
Disgust ate at Harrison. He’d felt sorry for his mother after Chrissy went missing and had blamed himself. He’d wanted to see her happy again.
But he didn’t like her much at the moment.
He shoved away from the table. “Thanks for dinner, but I have to go.”
“Ask her,” his mother yelled as he stalked from the room. “Make her tell you, Harrison!”
He slammed the front door as he left. The sound of his mother’s harsh, accusatory voice reverberated in his head, though, as he made it to his SUV.
* * *
THAT SAME SICK feeling she’d had years ago twisted Honey’s stomach. She hadn’t lived in Tumbleweed in nearly two decades, but Mrs. Lynch still remembered her and hated her.
Just because she’d been born on the wrong side of the tracks.
The young waitress stepped up to the Lynches’ table. “Hey, Elden,” the girl said sweetly. “How are you?”
Mrs. Lynch pulled her son closer to her as she glared at the waitress. “He’s fine. Just take our order and leave us alone.”
“Of course,” the waitress said with a pained look. “What would you like?”
Elden made that odd sound again, then his mother ordered for both of them and the waitress disappeared.
Honey had little tolerance for bullies and judgmental people who discriminated against those different than themselves, whether it was race, ethnicity, gender, disabilities or social status.
Agitated, she finished her meal and paid the bill.
No use making a scene and drawing more attention to herself. She didn’t intend to stay in this Podunk place and fight a battle she’d lost years ago.
She doubled the waitress’s tip, then hurried outside to her van. The hair on the back of her neck prickled as she climbed in the driver’s side. Was someone watching her?
She scanned the parking lot. Several teens were hanging out around a black pickup. Two older men huddled near the back door, heads bent, smoke curling from their cigarettes. A motor rumbled from somewhere in the parking lot. A horn honked. Directly across from her, a dark sedan with tinted windows was parked. Its lights flickered on, nearly blinding her.
