Roadkill (Double Barrel Mysteries Book 1)

by Barbara Ellen Brink

  “Time of death?”

  “Um, let me see. Coroner said between two and three p.m.”

  Blake drew a heavy breath and released it, resting his forehead against the window where he stood looking out at Lake Superior. There was still enough time for his father to run down Clara that morning, drive home, and fall into a sea of quilt-ridden depression. End result: taking the coward’s way out.

  “There’s something else though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He had a gash on the back of his head. The police found blood inside the house on the edge of an end table and on the floor. There was no sign of breaking and entering or robbery, so they assumed he had an accident, then got in his vehicle to go to the hospital and ended up passing out with the motor running.”

  Blake swallowed hard. An accident. Not suicide.

  “You still there, buddy?” Don sounded a little anxious. “This must be really freaky to hear about over the phone. I know you told me a long time ago that you didn’t talk to your dad, but still. It’s got to be like…”

  “Don. Shut up.” The familiar repartee between partners made it easier to focus. He asked the question even though he already knew it wouldn’t change anything. “Clara Booth’s time of death?”

  “Between 7:30 and 8:00 that morning. Approximate. She was out in the cold for a while, so…” Blake heard voices in the background. “I better go. Class is over. Selena will be tracking me down.”

  “Thanks, Don. I owe you one.”

  “You owe me more than that. When you coming home?”

  “I’ll let you know.” He ended the call and slipped the phone in his pocket.

  He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Just when he thought things were starting to make sense. He could almost understand if his father was filled with remorse after running down Clara, and ended his life like the weak bully he was. But an accident? A gash on the back of the head? That added yet another strange aspect to the scenario. Hard to believe, but not impossible, or the police wouldn’t have closed the case.

  Considering the empty bottles on the ground where Clara’s killer sat waiting, it was possible he was falling down drunk by the time of the hit-and-run. If so, how did he make it home in one piece? Maybe he didn’t. Did the police think to check for reported accidents in the nearby vicinity that morning?

  His gaze moved over the deserted beach and rested on the boathouse. Charred and blackened sections of wood stretched from the burned out door up to the roof, and around the side like fingers grasping for more. They’d been lucky that the fireboat was available and nearby. A few more minutes, and the whole thing would have been up in flame. Not that it would have been any great loss, but…

  He narrowed his gaze. Maybe that was the plan all along. Not to terrorize them into backing down in their investigation, or force Alice to accept new property lines, but to burn down the thing that stood in their way. The boathouse wasn’t there when the deed was written. Maybe Farley wanted to find something hidden there a hundred years ago.

  Blake turned away from the window, rubbing his hands over his face. What was keeping Shelby? She was already gone when he came up after breakfast; had snuck out like she was up to something. He noticed the journals disappeared along with her. Why did she take the journals to Luanne’s? He suspected she was keeping something from him again in order to protect him.

  When was she going to learn to let him do the protecting? After all, he’d been the homicide detective. Whatever it was, he could handle it. He wasn’t going to fall apart or fall down drunk, like her father. She could rely on him. Lean on him. Trust him. He just had to make her see it.

  He slipped his phone out to call, when the door opened and she was back. He would never admit she was anything other than a wonderful actress, but he could tell by the way she adjusted the bag on her shoulder and gave him that too bright smile that she was worried about something. Something that would affect him.

  “How was Luanne?” He took the bag and helped her off with her jacket. She kept her eyes on the bag as if it contained a nest of vipers, and she was worried he might reach in and get bit. He set it on the bed.

  “She’s fine. Working hard, as usual.” She rubbed the backs of her arms.

  Blake moved behind her, holding her close, and kissed the side of her neck. “Chilled?”

  “A little.” She pulled away and sat on the edge of the bed, one hand resting protectively on the top of her bag. “The heater in your Bronco isn’t working very well.”

  “Guess I’ll have them take a look at that too when it goes in for replacement windows.”

  She nodded.

  His cop instincts told him she was hiding something and to wrest it out of her by any means necessary. But that wouldn’t work with Shelby. She needed to know he’d be okay with the truth, that he could handle it, before she would ‘fess up. He decided to go first.

  “I spoke with Don while you were out.” He pulled the chair out from the desk and turned it around. “My father died from carbon monoxide poisoning. According to the police report, he appeared to have hit his head real hard, then managed to get in his truck, start it, and pass out.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “Truth be told, I was leaning toward suicide with a side of guilt. But I should have known better. He was too full of himself to feel remorse.”

  “You don’t still think he killed Clara?”

  “I don’t know what to think. He had time to drive back and knock himself out, but…”

  “…you don’t believe in coincidence,” she offered with a soft smile.

  “In a nutshell.”

  “If he hit his head that hard after he’d been drinking, I wonder how he managed to get up and out to his car?”

  Blake shot up from the chair, and grabbed Shelby by the shoulders. “That’s it!”

  “What are you…?”

  “I’m calling Don,” he said, dialing even as he spoke. He waited long seconds until his partner picked up.

  “Dude! I just talked to you. Miss me that much? I’m trying to eat lunch here with my pretty lady.”

  “One question.”

  “Yeah?”

  “What kind of vehicle did my father drive?”

  Shelby stared at him with her mouth slightly open. She clutched the bag to her side as though convinced he wasn’t ready to read whatever she’d found in those journals. He flashed her a confident smile.

  Don muffled the phone for a second, saying something to Selena before getting back on the line. “Look, I know hearing about your father’s death is hard, but you need to let it go, buddy. He died like eighteen months ago.”

  “Just answer the question!”

  “I don’t memorize these facts, you know. I’m pulling it up on my laptop. Okay, here it is. Police report says it was a 1998 Buick LeSabre. Is that it? ‘Cause I’d really like to finish my grilled chicken salad.”

  Blake laughed out loud. “You’re the man, Donny! Enjoy your salad.” He tossed the phone onto the bed and pulled Shelby to her feet. “You have just changed everything.” He kissed her long and hard, pressing her close, his fingers in her hair. When he pulled back, she looked at him like he’d lost his mind.

  “You’re crazy, but I like that about you.” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What did I change?”

  “My dad always drove a pickup truck when I was a kid. Always. Most men around here do. Instead of acting like a cop and working with facts, I assumed.” He paced to the door of the bathroom and back, picking up steam and talking with his hands. “He died in his car. He didn’t own a pickup. That trumps every coincidence! It means he couldn’t have been the one to run down Clara. And you helped me see that.”

  She grabbed his arm and stopped him in his tracks. “I’m glad your father had nothing to do with Clara’s murder, but there are other things about your family – things Clara wrote down – that you should know.”

  “My family?

  She
gave Blake the journals and letter, and left him sitting at the desk poring over the passages she’d marked with slips of paper between pages.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Blake knocked on the door and stood back, hands thrust in the pockets of his dark blue suit coat. He’d told Shelby he put on the suit because his leather jacket was ruined in the fire, and he didn’t have another coat along, but it was a lie. He’d dressed up for a woman who refused to acknowledge him as her grandson for over thirty years. As if what he wore would make any difference at all. He’d been invited into this home a total of three times, and each time she’d watched him come and go, never once giving any indication she cared or that he belonged.

  Instead of the maid, his grandmother opened the door. As though she’d been expecting him. She wore a deep burgundy dress, with a high collar and long sleeves edged in lace. Pearl earrings and a wedding band were her only adornments, and her steel gray hair was pulled up and loosely arranged to frame her face. Even her mouth, touched with pale mauve lipstick, seemed softer today. He thought he detected a slight curve to her lips as she stepped back to let him in.

  “I wondered when you would make the connections.”

  Evelyn Jones took him into her office and shut the door. She slipped into the chair behind the desk, and regarded him across the expanse of the room for a full minute before inviting him to sit down. Even though he’d come on his own initiative, Blake felt like he had been called to the principal’s office.

  “I suppose I should call you grandmother,” he said, settling into a chair.

  “Certainly not.” She clasped well-manicured hands on the desktop. Even they looked younger than her eighty-three years would indicate. But then she’d had maids and housekeepers her entire life, so he doubted they had ever come in contact with work or dishwater. “That’s premature. You haven’t proven your mettle to me yet. I already have a worthless son, I don’t need a quitter grandson to take care of as well.”

  “What the…?”

  “Bad language is not allowed in this house. It is a poor substitution for a lack of vocabulary.”

  “Is that why the maid is mute? It must be hard to get servants around here who don’t swear like sailors, huh?”

  Her lips twitched as though a smile was trying to get out, but she remained on point. “You quit the police force, didn’t you? I spoke with your superior. He said you could have stayed on but you chose to leave. Why is that?”

  “You don’t have any right to ask me that.”

  “I have every right,” she said, tipping her chin up as though to look down her nose at him all the better. “I paid for your education.”

  “My mother’s estate paid for my...” He detected a hint of knife-twisting in her eyes. His grip tightened on the arms of the chair. This is how she worked. She made sure you felt indebted to her, and then yanked the choke chain. Why did he ever think he could have a relationship with this woman? He released a calming breath. Because Jack had fallen in love with her, so there must have been some redeeming quality there… once upon a time. “How did you manage it?”

  “It doesn’t matter. What matters is why you’re here now.”

  “I’m here now because I read the Dear John letter you sent to Jack when he was fighting in Vietnam.” He slipped it out of his breast pocket and held it for her to see.

  “Where did you get that?” Her expression hardened and there was a slight tremor in her voice. She reached out as though expecting him to relinquish it willingly into her hand.

  He ignored her, seeking a glimpse of humanity behind that cool exterior, and slipped it back in his pocket. After all, it belonged to Jack. “It doesn’t matter,” he said repeating her words back to her. “It matters why you sent it.”

  “How dare you?” She put her palms flat on the desk and slowly pushed up, her back arched like a cat about to pounce. “You have no business reading…”

  “I dare because I’m your grandson. Whether you acknowledge me or not. ” He stood up too. “I don’t want anything from you other than the truth. I came back because I had memories of people from my hometown, who cared about each other and for me. They weren’t blood relatives, but they were family. My family. They still are. I don’t need you in my life, Evelyn Jones. I’ve managed to get along quite well without a grandmother.” He thought he detected a glint of moisture in her eyes. “But I’d like to get to know you if you’re willing to let down that steel wall you’ve forged around yourself. Let me know.”

  He went to the door and opened it. Like magic, the maid was suddenly there to usher him out the front entrance. Climbing into his truck, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as though eyes were watching, but he didn’t look back. He flipped the radio on to an oldies Rock station, cranked the volume, and drove away singing along with the Steve Miller Band. Time keeps on slipping, slipping, slipping, into the future…

  <<>>

  Shelby greeted him with open arms when he stepped through the door to their room. She helped him off with his suit jacket and hung it back in the closet, then sat on the bed watching him change into jeans and a hooded sweatshirt.

  “Luanne called,” she said, getting up to brush his hair back into place after he stuck his head through the neck of the sweatshirt. “She said Ronnie stopped in for coffee this afternoon and told her he’d seen Jack.”

  “Where?”

  “Under the boardwalk, close to the bait shop.”

  “Did you tell her I want to talk to him, to call me if he stops at the café?”

  “Of course.” She put her arms around his neck. “But I’m pretty sure she already knows that.”

  He had no idea what to say to the man. Maybe thank you would be enough. He might not have known Jack as his grandfather, but Jack always treated him like a grandson. “I should go look for him.”

  “Can I come too?”

  He grinned. “I wouldn’t leave home without you.”

  They drove down by the dock and found a parking spot. The waning rays of the late afternoon sun glinted off the side mirror of another vehicle, straight into his eyes. Squinting, he turned around, scanning the parking lot. He thought he saw a man reflected in the mirror, but there was no one there now. He took Shelby’s hand, and they crossed the street to the dock.

  They slid down the embankment to the beach, managing to keep most of the sand out of their tennis shoes. The ground under the dock was littered with trash, but there was no sign of Jack.

  “I told you he wouldn’t be here anymore.” Shelby kicked at an empty soda can. “Are you up for a stroll? We could walk further down the beach. It’s an awfully nice evening.”

  Three seagulls hopped close, fighting over a piece of sandwich near the water’s edge. The biggest one snatched it and flew off, and the other two squawked angrily.

  “Sure. I’ll be all right.” His leg felt pretty good today. He wouldn’t be repeating his jogging session anytime soon, but a walk on the beach might be just the kind of physical therapy needed.

  They were close to the water, following the shoreline, when he glanced up along the bluffs and saw two people walking in the tall sea grass. He pointed. “Is that Fanny?”

  They climbed the sandy bluff, and found Fanny bent over the long grass. She was cutting a handful and tying it in a bundle. She tucked it into one of her many pockets and turned around. “Look who’s here, Jack. Blake and Shelby!” Her smile was genuine, her words warm.

  Jack sat cross-legged on the ground. He tugged at his old felt hat, pulling it closer around his ears. “I miss my long hair. It kept my neck warm,” he said to no one in particular.

  Blake felt such a sense of relief that he dropped down beside him, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Where have you been the last few days? I looked everywhere.”

  Jack and Fanny both stared at him, slack-jawed. Fanny flapped a hand in the air. “You know Jack. He’s here and there and everywhere. Like the wind.”

  “What are you doing?” Shelby thought to ask, sav
ing the situation from becoming more uncomfortable than it already was.

  Fanny waved an arm in an all encompassing arc of lapping shore, waves crashing against rocks, and the long bone-colored sea grass, bent and softly rustling in the wind. “We came for the concert,” she said. “If you sit quiet you can hear all the instruments.”

  Shelby raised her brows.

  “Jack, I’m sorry for interrupting,” Blake said, “but I was wondering if I could buy you both a piece of pie at Luanne’s. Maybe we could catch up. Shelby and I have to get back to the city tomorrow.”

  “I sure do love pie,” Fanny said, with the excitement of a child.

  “Luanne had fresh peach pie cooking when I was there this morning. It smelled so good.”

  “Yum! That’s one of Ginger’s favorites.” Apparently, the cat’s opinion was the clincher. She looked at Jack. “We did attend the concert Saturday night, but if you’re set on tonight’s concert as well…”

  Jack puffed his lips and released a breath like a steam engine, pushing himself to his feet. “The lake is always here, but Luanne’s pie disappears like a ninja.”

  <<>>

  Luanne was so happy to see Jack that she offered free pie to the entire table. He got plenty of funny looks when he sat in the booth. At first, people at other booths stared because they thought he was a stranger, and then they stared when they realized he was the homeless guy usually seen sleeping under the dock or digging through trashcans.

  Jack pretended not to notice. He ate his pie as though no one else existed. Blake was beginning to think there was more to Jack than met the eye. Was it possible that – like his mother Helen – he’d just been acting two degrees off center for the last thirty years?

  He felt a little uncomfortable bringing up questions about family connections with Fanny at the table, but he shouldn’t have been. Apparently, she had known all along that Jack was his grandfather. Luanne got real quiet and stared down at her hands, when he asked about his mom.

  Jack finished his pie and swiped the plate clean with one finger, then licked off the crumbs with a contented sigh. Blake had almost given up hope for a response, when Jack finally said, “Her adopted family name was Williams. Jessica Williams. I found out where she was living a couple years after I was back. She was up in Houghton. Been adopted by Evie’s second cousin. They always wanted children, but couldn’t have any.”