In the Dead of Winter (an Emma Cassidy Mystery Book 5)

by Karen Chester

  “I wonder if his family will take him back to San Diego to be buried.” Becky still looked stricken, her fingers twisting the sugar sachet this way and that. “I wonder if he had any family. He never mentioned any to me.”

  “Maybe he had a big fight with them,” Abigail speculated. “Maybe that’s why he came to Greenville to make a fresh start.”

  Becky cast a worried frown at the waitress. “I must say you have an active imagination, Abby.”

  “It’s those true crime magazines she’s always reading,” Oscar said with a grimace. “They give her bad ideas.” Rising to his feet, the cook beckoned to the waitress. “Come on, Abigail. We should get on with our work. You can make up stories about Wayne Goddard later.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Abigail obliged, and the cook and waitress gathered up the piles of dirty dishes and disappeared into the kitchen, the young woman still talking.

  “I’m glad Oscar and Abigail work so well together,” Becky said, gazing after her two employees. “They’re both a little, well, different, shall we say.”

  “Which is probably why you took them in,” Emma said. “Let’s face it. You have a penchant for taking in strays.”

  “I know how hard it can be starting over in a new town. Both Abigail and Oscar didn’t know anyone when they arrived. Oscar especially seems to find it hard to fit in. He’s so reserved and shy. I felt sorry for him, which is why I offered him a part-time job in the first place. Thank God he was here to take over when Jorge suddenly left right—and just when the whole kitchen had been redone too! He’s a steady influence on Abigail, too, and she brings him out of his shell. Now Abigail is the complete opposite of him. She’s so outgoing, but at times melodramatic.”

  “She’s young and impressionable,” Emma remarked. “How old is she?”

  “Twenty-five, according to my employment records.”

  So not exactly young in age, but she did have a certain naivety about her, which probably drew out Becky’s protective nature.

  “Well, you seem to be a big influence on her, too. She looks up to you.”

  “Like a mother figure. Now that makes me feel old.” Becky groaned before a look of guilt came over her. “Oh dear, why am I complaining about my age when Wayne will never see the sun rise again?”

  Emma squeezed Becky’s hand in sympathy, noting how deeply this death was affecting her friend. Had Becky harbored a soft spot for Wayne Goddard? Hard to believe, but who was she to judge?

  A muffled ringing sounded from Emma’s tote bag slung over the back of her seat. Her cell phone. She felt around inside the capacious bag, but the phone remained elusive, hidden among the paraphernalia that accumulated in her purse despite her best intentions. With a huff, she began to pull items out and pile them on the table. Keys, notebook, pens, coin purse, wallet, makeup bag… ah ha, cell phone! But just as she went to answer it, the ringing stopped.

  “Isn’t that what always happens? Your phone rings, you hunt around for it, and just when you find it, the caller hangs up.” Frowning, she tapped on her phone to see whose call she had missed. “It’s Alvin. I hope there isn’t another crisis.”

  She was about to press the call button when something alerted her, making her look up. It must have been Becky’s stillness because her friend was sitting there looking frozen, her gaze pinned on the wallet on the table. The wallet Rowena had found. Emma had completely forgotten about it, plunking it on the table together with all her other belongings from the tote bag.

  The plain leather wallet lay open with the small photo of the child showing in the plastic pocket. Becky leaned forward, pointing at the picture.

  “Where did you get this?” she whispered. She lifted frightened eyes to Emma. “Where?”

  The hiss in her voice made Emma break out in goose bumps. Something was terribly wrong.

  Chapter Seven

  Becky pressed trembling fingers to her mouth. “He used to take me to the park,” she said, her voice quavering. “On weekends when my mom was working. He’d push me on the swings and buy me ice cream. ‘Don’t tell your mom I got you the double scoop,’ he used to say. ‘Or she’ll blame me for you not finishing your dinner.’ Everyone thought he was such a good dad, and he could be, when he wanted to.” She let out a sigh.

  “But he also had a violent and unpredictable temper. Mom and I never knew when he would snap. It always came out of the blue. I remember one time, we were all in the kitchen. My mom was doing the ironing, Dad was reading a newspaper at the table, and I was sitting opposite him trying to do my homework. I was stuck on a math problem, and I was sucking on my pencil. Suddenly, without any warning, he smacked that pencil out of my mouth and roared at me to stop that godawful noise. I was so scared I bit my tongue. I hid behind my mom while he ripped up my homework and kicked the ironing board over, and then he stomped out of the house, still yelling at us. I just remember my mom whispering to me, ‘It’s okay, baby, it’s okay.’ But I knew it wasn’t.”

  Emma glanced down at her lap to see her fingernails digging into her palms, the pain barely registering in her brain. Her whole body was rigid with tension, her mind blank as she absorbed Becky’s story. They were in Emma’s small but comfortable office above Lulu’s Salon with the door firmly shut, Emma perched on the armchair, Becky collapsed on the couch.

  After seeing the wallet in the diner, Becky had requested they go to Emma’s office, and there, in a shaky voice, she had revealed that the owner of the wallet, Kieran O’Reilly, was her father, and that she hadn’t seen or heard from him since she was ten years old, when he had been jailed for killing her mom, Leah, and her mom’s lover.

  Becky continued, “My mom used to tell me that things would get better when we found a better place to rent, or when ‘Daddy got a new job’, or even when spring came around. She was an optimist, my mother, and I think she even believed in those fairytales she told me. I wanted to believe, I really did, but I had this dreadful feeling that none of her dreams would ever come true. Poor Leah. She was doomed from the day she met my dad.”

  Grief etched across Becky’s face, bringing out the lines of her bone structure. Moved, Emma reached over and touched her knee. “You don’t have to do this,” she said, wanting to stem her friend’s anguish.

  Becky swiped a finger beneath her eyes. “No, I want to. I’ve tried to keep a lid on it for so long. Sometimes it’s got the better of me, especially during the holidays. And as the years have rolled by, it’s become worse, not better. I’ve bottled everything up inside me for so long that it’s choking me. I need to get this out. I need to say what happened, however horrible.”

  Emma nodded, her heart going out to her friend.

  Becky picked up the faded photo from the wallet, a picture of herself as a toddler, she’d revealed. She stared at it for several seconds, then dropped it back on the coffee table.

  “I never knew he kept any photos of me. Someone, the prison chaplain perhaps, must have gotten it for him. To be honest, I don’t have much memory of the first two years after my mom died. The day it happened, I remember a police woman coming to my school and taking me away, and then a stranger telling me something bad had happened to my mom, and I knew straight away that my father had hurt her. Everything was a blur after that. I was put into foster care. I don’t think I ever went back home, not even to pick up clothes or books. I guess because it was the scene of the crime, and they—the authorities—didn’t want to traumatize me.”

  “Why foster care?” Emma gently asked. “Didn’t you have relatives or family friends?”

  “Not really. Both my parents were only children. I think my mom had a cousin in Florida, but we never visited her. We moved around a lot, I think because my dad could never keep a job for long. Mom took whatever work came her way. She couldn’t afford to be too fussy. We moved to Santé Fe when I was ten. My mom’s last job was working the night shift in a twenty-four-hour convenience store. That’s where she met Thomas Roberts. He was a young ER doctor working at the n
earby hospital. There must have been something unique about him for her to take notice. She was extraordinarily beautiful, my mother, but she never paid any attention to the compliments she received. She was totally faithful to my dad, until Thomas Roberts came along. He must have been someone special for my mom to fall in love with. I’m glad she found some happiness with him, however brief. I’m glad her life wasn’t completely without joy.” A haunted smile flitted over Becky’s face for a moment before it fell away.

  “My dad came home and discovered them together. He used a kitchen knife. Apparently, photos of the murder scene were so horrific that several jury members were sick at the trial. He was found guilty of second-degree murder and sentenced to thirty years, fifteen for each murder count.” Becky’s voice shook. Swallowing, she looked at Emma, her eyes filled with what seemed like trepidation. “So there you have it. I’m not who you think I am. My mother was unfaithful, and my father is a double murderer, which makes me…” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I d-don’t know what that makes me.”

  Emma leaped up and sat on the couch next to Becky, wrapping her arm around her shoulders. “You are exactly who you’ve always been. Nothing you’ve told me has changed that. You’re Becky Lundy, and you’re intelligent, kind, generous, patient, and the best friend anyone could have.” She hugged her tighter. “And I won’t have you thinking anything else, you got that?”

  Becky nodded, silently weeping. Her blond curls tumbled around her tear-stained face. How could she even think for a moment that anyone would think less of her because of what her father had done? In fact, it was a miracle that out of such horror Becky should emerge the warm, beautiful soul that she was.

  Emma continued, “I can’t believe you kept this to yourself for so long. It must have been such a burden, and none of it was your doing. You’re the innocent victim in all this, and you’ve suffered more than anyone.” She thought back on the trauma of losing her own mother to cancer almost three years ago. The pain still lingered, but compared to what Becky had experienced, Emma’s was a sweet pain, tempered by the good memories she had of her mother, her father, and their close family life.

  “So you were kept in foster care?” Emma asked, wanting to know everything.

  Becky nodded. “I went through a few foster homes. Most of my foster parents were okay, but I was a bit of a mess, to put it mildly. They sent me to child psychologists, but I don’t remember much. I think I was almost catatonic for some of those years. When I turned eighteen, I was suddenly on my own, and I kind of woke up from my stupor. I cut all ties and left New Mexico, working whatever job I could find. And I changed my name as soon as I could. I never wanted anyone to find out who I really was. I wanted a new name, a new identity. So I became Becky Lundy.”

  “What was your old name?” Emma felt almost shy asking that.

  Her friend took a deep breath. “Sinead O’Reilly,” she said in a hushed tone, as if afraid of disturbing a sleeping ghost. “Heavens, I never thought I’d be saying that name again. I thought I’d left Sinead behind a long, long time ago.” She glanced down at the wallet again, and without warning fresh tears began to slide down her cheeks. “Kieran O’Reilly. I never thought I’d hear his name again. He must be out of prison. He must be here, in Greenville. Oh God, what does he want from me? Why does he want to see me after all this time? Why? Why?” She covered her face with her hands and rocked back and forth, overcome with emotion.

  Appalled by her friend’s distress, Emma gripped Becky’s arm. “Listen to me, Becky,” she said urgently. “I don’t think you need to worry about your father seeing you.”

  The rocking ceased, and Becky cautiously raised her teary eyes. “You…you don’t? But why not?”

  Clasping her hands together, Emma related the whole sorry story about Rowena and how she’d ended up with Kieran O’Reilly’s wallet. When Emma had finished, Becky was sitting up, her back ramrod straight, hands clenched on knees, her eyes twitching in agitation.

  “So he is here,” she muttered, the strain in her voice obvious. “He caught the bus to Greenville with your friend. He’s roaming around somewhere. Why did you tell me not to worry?”

  “Because…because I believe your father and the man who died at the railway crossing on Tuesday night are…” Emma faltered before she forced herself on. “Are the same person.”

  For a while Becky made no reaction. Then she raised a hand over her mouth. “Oh, God, oh…” she whispered, her face screwing up with renewed distress. “I don’t—I don’t know what to say, what to feel. Are you sure it’s him?”

  “Not a hundred percent sure, but it does seem very likely. He was on the same bus as Rowena on Tuesday. She found his wallet. That same night, a man was killed near the railway crossing, leaving behind no sign of identity.”

  Becky’s hand fell to her lap. “The whiskey bottle you found by the tracks.”

  “Yes? What about it?”

  “Rollins Tennessee Whiskey. That was my father’s favorite drink.” Becky clenched her lips together until a white circle ringed her mouth. “When you mentioned that the other night, it gave me such a fright. Like someone had walked over my grave. I dismissed it as a coincidence, but it’s not, is it? He must have been drinking that night, quite a lot from the sound of it. I—I wonder why? I don’t remember him being a heavy drinker.”

  “He’d just got out of prison after thirty years. Anyone would need a drink after that. And besides, he probably needed some Dutch courage before seeing you.”

  Becky shivered, still looking pale. “Imagine if he’d walked into the diner and announced to everyone who he was. I can’t think about it without feeling sick. What would he have said? What would I have done?” She pressed a hand against her stomach. “Oh God, I’m feeling sick already.”

  Emma got up and retrieved a bottle of cold water from her small bar fridge. She opened it and passed it to Becky, who leaned back and took a few small sips.

  “Thanks,” Becky murmured. She set the bottle down and kneaded her forehead. “This is too much to take in. I’m feeling stupefied. Oscar and Abigail must be wondering where I am, but I can’t seem to get my mind to work.”

  “Oh, gosh, don’t worry about Oscar and Abigail. They’ll bumble along without you. You sit here for as long as you like.”

  “Thank you, honey. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  Becky leaned back on the couch and closed her eyes. She looked wiped out, shell-shocked, and Emma felt a surge of guilt. Because she knew Becky’s ordeal was only beginning.

  ***

  Eric Martinez was a bulky man, and he looked a little uncomfortable squashed into Emma’s armchair. Nevertheless, he managed to retain his professionalism as he eyed the two women sitting on the couch opposite him.

  “Okay. So what is so important that I had to be summoned here instead of you two coming to the police station?”

  When Emma had said to Becky that she had to pass the wallet and her suspicions to the police, Becky had fretted about revealing her old identity to another person. Eventually she had agreed that there was no avoiding it, and if she had to tell someone, Martinez was a good choice. “Eric is discreet,” Becky had said. “He won’t blab it to anyone unless he has to.”

  Plus it didn’t hurt that Martinez had a crush on Becky and would therefore go to great lengths to protect her privacy. So Emma had called him and, despite his heavy workload, persuaded him to visit them at her office.

  Emma looked at Becky and gave her an encouraging nod. Better that Martinez got the story from her. Visibly steeling herself, Becky began. Martinez listened in silence. By the end, he was leaning forward, all his attention focused on Becky, his eyes filled with sympathy.

  A few seconds passed as he rubbed a hand over his short buzz cut, whistling softly. “I’m sorry, Becky. This must all be a huge shock to you.”

  Becky had related the events with remarkable levelness, but now her chin trembled slightly, and her hands clutched at the apron she was still w
earing. “I’m still trying to take it all in. I never thought my father would track me down.”

  “He never wrote to you while he was in prison?”

  “I don’t know.” Becky lifted her shoulders. “If he did, I never received anything, and I certainly didn’t write him any letters. I never wanted to see him ever again.”

  Martinez nodded sympathetically. Like a faithful dog’s, his large brown eyes never left Becky, and he seemed to vibrate with an urgency to help her. “Do you know of any specific reason why he might have wanted to see you, given he’d made no contact with you for so many years?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Martinez picked up the wallet and the photo that Becky had shown him. “I’ll have to keep this.”

  “Yes, of course.” Becky rubbed her upper arms. “Take it. I don’t want it.”

  Finally the officer’s gaze swung to Emma. “Where did you find this?”

  “A friend who was visiting found it on the intercity bus,” Emma replied. “She said it was left behind by an old man sitting in front of her when he got off at Greenville. She says she took twenty dollars from it because she was hungry. I thought about replacing the money but figured it might be tampering with evidence. I was going to hand it in at the station this morning, but then…well, the thing with Wayne made me forget.”

  Her grisly discovery seemed to have happened a lot longer than just a few hours ago.

  Martinez was frowning. “The main bus stop is quite a distance from the railway crossing. This wallet might not belong to the man who died there.”

  “Oh, but…it does seem likely, doesn’t it? I mean, he does fit the description of the John Doe. Caucasian, in his seventies, six-feet-one. It has to be him.”

  “We can’t jump to conclusions.” Once more the officer’s gaze was drawn back to Becky. “I’ll follow up with the Santé Fe police, see if we can get dental records or anything else that can help us make a positive ID.”