McGrath opened the door. He looked casual, too. A snug t–shirt showed off his ripped biceps and six pack. How could I not notice?
I smiled at him.
He smiled at me.
"Sam. Good to see you." His place, well–kept on the inside, too, boasted overstuffed couches and an outsized log coffee table. An accompanying chair made the front room feel full and cozy. The mantle over the fireplace held a carved wooden mallard and a canvasback. The place shouted, "Put your feet up and relax."
"How are you?" he asked. "You look beat."
I shook my head. "I don’t think a guardian has been selected for her boys yet."
"Any leads?"
"I spoke with my friend, Lori Hathaway, and she’s looking for a suitable family. In the meantime, I’m guessing Grandma is the natural custodian."
I stepped over to the mantel and traced my fingers across the smooth pine of the mallard’s wing. "Did you do the carvings?" I asked, hoping to lighten the mood for a bit before we got into the nitty–gritty of the case.
"As a matter of fact, I did."
"They’re fabulous."
"Thanks." McGrath’s grin illuminated the place. "I took up wood–working to keep from drinking to excess. A hazard of the profession."
"I’ve heard that." I took a seat on the sofa as McGrath headed out to the kitchen to grab cold beers.
"I like it here," I said, hushing my voice, alarm bells going off at the comfort I felt at being in his home.
"Me, too. I bought it for myself after the divorce. I didn’t need much, but I wanted a spot on the water. It’s a great place to come home to, and it’s low maintenance with the pines. The view’s good for my blood pressure, too."
"I love my place for the same reasons. I can hide on my front porch, watch the kids, but have some privacy at the same time."
"Gotta love privacy. Like today. When I came home for lunch, I saw you and your friend tip your canoe, but you couldn’t see me," McGrath called from the kitchen.
I laughed. "Not fair."
"Fair has nothing to do with it. Living here often provides me with free entertainment."
"Glad to have humored you," I joked.
McGrath handed me a beer, took a long pull on his before he placed the bottle on the table, and settled in beside me. He turned to face me.
"Listen, we need to talk," he said, looking serious and cop–like.
I studied him, eyes wide.
"No, no, it’s nothing like that."
I waited.
"I did some looking into this other Stitsill guy. I’ve tried to get more information about his death. It’s tough to do."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, someone doesn’t want us to know what happened."
"Too bad you didn’t save that attorney’s number. Too bad Rosie died before she shared his information with me."
"You’re saying this because you think you’ve seen the impostor?" he asked.
"Can we move past this? I did see the guy."
"You may be right." McGrath nodded. "When I tried to pull up the coroner’s report, there was nothing there. The paperwork has disappeared. When I first looked into this case, it was a challenge to find the death record. Remember I told you it had been handled by the state because it occurred at the crossroads where the four cities come together? Right at River Drive and North Street?" McGrath asked.
I nodded.
"Well, at the time, I thought it might have been a little unusual, but I didn’t dwell on it. In a case where the state comes in, the lead officer from the state is the investigator. He’s assigned a local detective, but the other local cops are dismissed. If the case had been handled by the locals, the cops would have secured the scene, a detective would have been called, and he would have been the lead investigator."
"What you’re saying is, if the state handled it, there’d be fewer people involved, a cover up would be easier, or if they didn’t want news of the death getting out, whoever showed up at the scene could control it."
"That’s part of it. I’m still not sure that’s what’s going on, but you’ve got my attention."
McGrath stopped for another swallow of his brew, and I did the same. Our conversation was disquieting. All of my suspicions about this Stitsill impostor were true. He’d killed someone, faked his own death. He’d stolen Jon’s identity. He was still alive. And he’d killed Rosie.
"Maybe the guy’s a hired gun," I suggested.
McGrath chuckled. "What have you been reading?"
"Just putting two and two together. Look, I believe he staged his own death. Rosie confirmed that some thick–necked guys showed up on her doorstep a few times, so I’m thinking mob. There were two goons at the funeral. They sat directly in front of me. The other possibility is a government employee, like a CIA contractor. I’ve heard the government has guys like this on the payroll. Perhaps a hit man who does the odd job for them. Someone untraceable. Remember, we know that he was in Botswana. And apparently he fled without warning. People looked for him for quite some time," I finished breathlessly.
McGrath’s turn to look wide–eyed.
"Then," I continued, "there’s Rosie’s report of the murders in Mexico right before they came to the States."
"I looked into that," McGrath admitted. "The crimes are frighteningly similar. You may be on to something."
He nodded as he met my gaze. "I can tell you’ve done some serious thinking about this, and you may be right. There are too many missing puzzle pieces. I’ve also looked into the documentation on the death certificate, but not much of it checks out. Even the informant post–death has disappeared. She claimed to be his daughter, but there’s no trace of her. Anywhere."
"Rosie said her husband had fathered four daughters in Canada before he went to Botswana. His daughters are adults now."
McGrath’s brow creased. "I’ll continue to check into the Botswana connection and try to locate the daughters."
"From what I’ve discovered, the Peace Corps keeps a pretty tight leash on their people. If Rosie’s husband worked for them, someone might be able to trace him. I also still have the name and phone number of the man from Botswana who called me."
"Can you get that information to me?" McGrath asked.
"What if someone is deliberately blocking your efforts to find information? Do we want to draw attention from the wrong people?"
"We? You sure you’re a teacher? You have undercover instincts. And you seem to have decided we’re a team." He cocked his head and smiled at me, eyes twinkling.
I laughed. "As a teacher and a mom, it’s my job to be alert and aware. I’m also inquisitive by nature. Plus, the possibility of getting into trouble doesn’t always occur to me when I’m in the thick of things."
"Promise me you’ll be careful." McGrath brushed my arm with his fingertips.
"You showed me how to shoot a gun," I reminded him.
"You need a little more practice," he teased.
"Why? Because I shot the ceiling a couple of times? You’re right, though, about needing practice. I can’t afford the extra fifteen bucks each time I goof up."
McGrath stood. "I’ve got some chicken marinating. How ‘bout I throw it on the grill for us?"
"Sounds great. I’m famished."
McGrath headed toward the kitchen.
"Any word on the water?"
"It’ll be a day. Two at the most," he said as he entered the kitchen.
Not much reason to hurry now. Made sense that Stitsill had fled the city by now. With Rosie dead, and his mission accomplished, why linger? He’d most certainly discovered the money had been moved. I heard the sliding door and went in search of McGrath.
I joined him out on the back deck. I inhaled deeply of the soothing aroma of pine needles that blanketed the back forty of his lot. The fire pit cast a warm glow on the table and sling back chairs that faced the woods. I settled into one of the chairs while he flipped the chicken on the grill. He brought out a hand–carved wooden
bowl, full of fresh greens and dressed in an olive oil and lemon mix. Then, he added plates, napkins, and silver to the table, topping it off with two wine glasses and a bottle of Chardonnay. The fragrance of the pines and the charcoaled chicken intoxicated my senses.
"Smells delicious."
"There’s some fresh bread in on the kitchen counter, if you’d like that."
"I’m a total carb freak. Of course, I’d like bread. I’ll get it." I pushed myself up out of the sling back chair and made my way past McGrath, brushing against his back as I squeezed by.
I found the bread, sliced it, and placed it in a napkin–lined dish. McGrath met me as I came out the door. I exchanged the bread for a glass of wine, noticing the flickering flame from the candle on the table.
"Thanks." I smiled. "It’s wonderful out here."
"If you listen, you can hear the river run."
We both quieted and listened. A squirrel chattered in the pines, and water burbled over the rocks.
I joined McGrath at the table a few minutes later.
I stood at a crossroads. We were having way too much fun. I knew that the momentum of the evening could take us to places I probably would regret the next morning, despite who might be boffing my husband in Japan. I waged an internal battle. No definitive result, though. What would be the harm in light–hearted flirting? A lot of potential harm, my brain shouted. My emotions, however, seemed headed down a different path.
"I just had another thought. A year or so ago, Rosie changed her older son’s surname to Stitsill. I thought it odd at the time. Why would anyone change their kid’s name to the name of a man who wasn’t their father, wasn’t alive, and had once tried to kill them? It didn’t make sense then, and it still doesn’t. No matter how I spin it, I can’t get from here to there. Then, Rosie comes up with cancer not long after."
McGrath leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, chin parked on his fist. "Why would it matter? Do you think he tried to kill her with this ‘heavy water’ after she changed the older kid’s name?"
"I sometimes wonder. I’ve come up with a couple of scenarios. The one that makes the most sense is that Rosie changed Emilio’s last name and applied for Social Security benefits. Maybe she was greedy, couldn’t figure out how to turn around that cash her husband had left behind, or perhaps she sensed that she might die and wanted to protect her sons. Maybe she just wanted to cash in on her loser husband. Who knows? Then, the house of cards begins to topple. Either he’s alerted, or someone who has an interest in him is alerted."
"What if she knew she had cancer at the time she changed Emilio’s last name?" McGrath asked. "Maybe she waited to divulge that information until after she’d lined up her ducks."
I thought about it. McGrath had a point. I locked eyes with him and nodded.
McGrath leaned back in his chair and settled into thinking mode. His brow furrowed. I felt even more attracted to him, and I realized I needed to leave before I got into trouble. Big trouble. Huge trouble.
After a long moment, he glanced my way. "I’m most concerned about your safety. Right now, no one seems interested in you. I’d like to keep it that way." McGrath patted my arm as he grabbed the plates from the table and signaled a move inside. The chilly evening breeze made the timing just right. I gathered several items, joining him in the kitchen. We rinsed and stacked the dishes. He brewed a pot of coffee. Once I nestled into the corner of the massive couch, McGrath delivered a mug of steaming coffee. I blew gently across the surface and took a sip, contemplating my comfort in this man’s company. He took a seat on the couch, absently resting his hand on my knee.
"You don’t think I’m in danger, right?" I asked, not moving and barely breathing. His hand stayed put.
"Not at the moment, but things can change."
"I’ll get you that Botswana number." I shifted, placed my coffee mug on the table, and stood. "Meanwhile, I need to leave."
He nodded, his eyes revealing an array of emotions he opted not to voice.
I made a clean exit, drove with caution, and pulled into my driveway without incident—well, other than the necessary dwelling on McGrath.
Chapter Thirty–Five
I DIDN’T FIND Rex in his doggie bed. I’d left his garage dog door unlocked so that he could come and go as he pleased, but it was way past his bedtime. I hoped he hadn’t decided to run off in search of Jon tonight. I parked my purse on the bench in the garage and went to find him. He didn’t respond to my summons, so I turned on the back light above his dog door. The flood light illuminated a night already ablaze with a full moon.
I walked out into the yard, collecting sticks that had fallen during last night’s gully–washer. A habit of mine, cleaning up messes. No matter what time, what place, what mess, I cleaned it up. Some people called it enabling. I called it a bad habit.
"Rex, where are you, buddy? C’mon, Rex. Mom’s tired, and it’s time for bed."
Not a yip or a bark. No sign at all of him. I dropped the sticks and twigs onto the pile next to our bonfire pit, turned, circled around in the direction of the woods, and called again.
"Rex, c’mon. Bedtime." More insistent this time.
No answer.
"Rex?"
Deeper in the woods, faint light trickled through the leaves. My gaze initially caught water pooled in the ravine running through the trees, then traveled lower to the ground. His fur glimmered in the moonlight, at first glistening, reflecting the light, so that I didn’t recognize him. Shiny golden light. Rex, lying on his side, his form still.
I ran to him and crouched, placing my hand on his warm coat. "Rex, buddy, what’s wrong? What’s the matter?" Still breathing, but forced and shallow.
I ran my hands through his fur, searching for an injury with my fingertips like a pianist who knows every key. I knew Rex, all his bumps and lumps. The walnut he carried right between his eyes, the extra pillow on his right hip. Nothing new, no sticky blood, no puncture. I rolled him over. He peered at me, helpless, lost. Hurt.
"C’mon, boy. Tell me. What happened? Can you get up?" I choked out.
Tears warmed my face. Not wanting to leave him but knowing I needed to get help, I raced to the garage, grabbed the flat sled decorated with superheroes figures, and rushed back to his side. He was still breathing, eyes pleading. I lifted his hind legs and slid them onto the sled, then inched his torso over, front legs, neck, and head.
"It’s gonna be okay, Rex, don’t worry. Mom’s gonna get you to the doctor. It’ll only take a minute." I gripped the sled’s tattered rope, wrapped it securely around my hands, and pulled. We were low in the culvert, Rex’s weight growing heavier with each and every step. I tugged and pulled, pulled and tugged. Inch by everlasting inch, it felt like it took forever to haul him up to the garage.
Loading him into the back of the van would be impossible. My eyes swept the garage, falling on the skateboard ramp that Jon and the boys had made. I opened the lift gate, positioned the ramp, and lined up the sled with the ramp.
Adrenaline must have done the trick. Somehow I hauled Rex, still atop the sled, up and into the van. I turned the sled sideways to make sure his paws were tucked in tight, gave the lift gate a firm push, and rushed to the bench for my purse and keys.
"It’s okay, puppy," I told Rex as I backed the van out of the garage. "We’ll have you at the vet in no time."
As I turned the wheel, I caught the glint of metal in my headlights. I paused, puzzled by the sight of an aluminum pie tin tucked to the side of the garage behind my fire bush. I slammed the van into park, hopped out, and moved quickly to examine the metal dish. Blue liquid floated inside. The hair on my arms stood on end. I ran back to the car, hit the remote to open the garage door, and grabbed a Mason jar from the cupboard. I poured the liquid into the jar, sloshing some of it over the edges in my haste. It felt oily. Without a thought, I wiped the residue on my jeans, capped the jar with fumbling hands, and raced back to the driver’s seat, holding the jar between my legs. I hit the button on t
he remote, the door closed, and I floored the accelerator pedal.
Two miles down the road, I sped into the parking lot of the animal hospital. Lights shone despite the closed blinds. I bounded out of the car, up the steps, and into the vestibule, shouting, "I need help!"
"What is it?" Dr. Johnson emerged from the back.
"It’s Rex. I came home and found him in the woods, just lying there, not moving. I have him in the back of the van, but I can’t get him in here by myself. He can’t move."
The doc removed his gloves as he approached me.
"Let’s go out and get him." He patted my back as he guided me out the door. "I’ll have a look."
Johnson had the kindest, roundest face I’d ever seen on a seventy something year old man. Although a bit stooped with age, he still towered over my slight frame. I’d heard once from his wife that he’d gotten the award for least likely to lose his cool in college. That remained his mode of operation. Exactly what I needed.
He kept his arm steady around my shoulders as we hurried to the van. I looked up into his kind deep brown eyes for strength and found it. He opened the lift gate, scooped up Rex, and turned to carry him inside.
"Come with me, Sam. We’ll check him over."
"Wait. I found liquid in the driveway. I put it in a jar. I’ll get it. Maybe you can tell if Rex got into something he shouldn’t have." I trembled violently, unable to rid myself of the looming fear that someone had hurt Rex to get to me.
Doc placed Rex on the stainless steel table, took his stethoscope, and gently examined him. He spoke to him in hushed, reassuring tones. I stood nearby, bawling my eyes out.
I filled in Doc on what I’d found once I calmed down a bit.
"Let me see that jar," Johnson said as he glanced at me. I tried to wipe my tears and blow my nose with one hand while I steadied the Mason jar in my lap with the other.
Rex began to shudder.
"He’s seizing," Johnson said.
Thirty seconds later, Rex’s convulsing stopped and he started to vomit.
Identity Issues (The Samantha Series) Page 18
