Cherished Secrets

by C. B. Clark

  Life as a single mother hadn’t been easy. She’d coped the first, difficult year alone in the big city with the fistful of cash Leland had shoved in her hand when she opened the car door and announced she was leaving.

  She’d struggled to survive at first, finding work at a fast food restaurant until the baby was born. Placing Bonnie in a subsidized day care facility, she worked during the day and went to school at night, earning her high school diploma. Next, she’d taken a secretarial course and found a position as an administrative assistant with an established real estate firm. Now she had a nice apartment in an attractive area of Seattle. Most importantly, she had Bonnie.

  Maybe she’d been wrong not to tell Declan he had a daughter, but she made her choice long ago. The past couldn’t be undone. How could she explain to Bonnie her long-dead father had come back to life?

  She couldn’t tell Declan he had a daughter, but she could try and do something to help make up for her deception. If she found Skye’s murderer and proved Declan’s innocence, it might ease the burden of guilt weighing her down.

  Declan wouldn’t like her helping him. He’d made his feelings more than clear. Too damn bad. She was doing this for Bonnie, not him.

  Chapter 12

  Declan opened the door to Rosie’s Café and stepped into the stifling heat of the small restaurant. Diners, eager for Rosie’s famous Tuesday night special of homemade pierogies and Polish sausages, turned and stared. Conversation ceased and all gazes followed him as he threaded his way through the tables to where Jessup Caruthers sat alone at a table in the back corner.

  “Sorry I’m late.” Declan slid into the booth across from the burly investigator.

  “No problem. I’ve been enjoying the food.” Caruthers pointed at the empty plate before him. “It’s not bad, not bad at all. You should try the sausages. They’re the best I’ve tasted in years.”

  Declan’s stomach churned at the overpowering aroma of fried onions and grease. The last thing he wanted was food. “What have you found?”

  Caruthers glanced around the crowded diner and nodded his chin at a nearby table where two young men and their dates made no secret of their eavesdropping. “Are you sure you want to do this here?”

  Declan eyed the two couples. Sliding out of the booth, he strode over to their table, a phony smile pasted on his face. “Hey, how you doin’?” He almost chuckled when their faces paled.

  The bigger guy sputtered and choked on a sip of beer.

  The other man drew his girlfriend closer as if protecting her from Declan.

  Anger burned deep in Declan’s gut. “Do y’all have nothin’ to talk about?” He laid on a thick Texas drawl. “You’re mighty interested in me and my friend over there.”

  The dark-haired woman whimpered, her hand covering her mouth.

  “Hey, man, we don’t want any trouble.” The big guy’s last word ended on a squeak.

  Declan nodded. “Good. Then we’ll be fine, won’t we? You’ll mind your business, and I’ll mind mine.” He stared at each of them until they met his gaze.

  Their heads bobbed in unison.

  “Y’all have yourselves a nice evening.” He turned and walked back to his booth and sat down. Damn. Putting them in their place felt good. Damn good.

  Caruthers pulled a face. “It’s been hard for you, hasn’t it? All these years with a cloud of guilt hanging over your head.”

  “Small towns can be a bitch.” And then some. “Even if you’re officially cleared of all suspicion, the taint of having been a suspect stays with you. Guilt’s like a bad odor. It clings to you. People have to accept you’re innocent, but they never really believe you’re clean.” He took a deep breath. “So, what do you have?”

  The P.I. opened a leather briefcase on the seat beside him. He removed two pieces of legal-sized paper and placed them on the table in front of Declan.

  Declan scanned first one page and then the other, his heart sinking with each word. When he finished, he met Caruthers’ gaze. “What the hell? I thought you told me you had some new evidence. I already know what’s in here. Hell, half the town knows this.”

  “Take it easy. Give me a minute to explain.”

  Declan sucked in a steadying breath, fighting to overcome his crushing disappointment. “I’m paying you good money, and this is what you bring me?” He crumpled the papers in his hand. “This is useless.”

  “The report’s only preliminary.” Caruthers placed a hand on Declan’s arm. “Hear me out.”

  Declan closed his eyes and breathed. After a minute, he opened them. “Okay, you have five minutes to convince me you’re worth your fee.”

  Caruthers nodded. “Fair enough. I talked to the sheriff and the County judge.” He paused. “You must have done a real number on Leland Winters’ niece back in high school. He’s pissed right off at you.”

  Declan grimaced. “It’s a long story.”

  “I’ve studied all the files pertaining to the case, and I examined the coroner’s report,” Caruthers continued. “Skye Lawrence was brutally beaten and strangled to death.” He dug in his briefcase, drew out a manila folder, and placed it on the table. “This is a copy of the coroner’s report.”

  Declan’s hand trembled as he opened the file. He examined the photo on the top of a small stack of papers and swallowed back vomit. He slammed the file shut. Too late. The image of Skye’s beaten and bloodied body was seared onto his retinas. What sort of monster would cause another person so much pain? The people in this town thought he was the monster. He met Caruthers’ gaze. “My God. I had no idea.”

  “The attack was brutal, all right. The wounds inflicted on her body are some of the worst I’ve seen. The killer was enraged. He wanted her to suffer.”

  Declan struggled to swallow.

  “The killer knew her.” Caruthers sounded certain. “This attack was personal.”

  Declan’s hand shook as he slid the file folder across the table. “Who could do this to another human being?”

  “I don’t know. Not yet. But I intend to find out. One thing about small towns—we know all the suspects.”

  “You think someone in Cooper’s Ridge hurt her?”

  Caruthers tapped a thick, callused finger on the file folder. “This was an act of passion. The killer knew her. I’d stake my reputation on that.”

  Declan gulped, at a loss for words, but then a thought occurred to him. “This explains why the police were so certain I killed her. Doesn’t it?”

  “Yep, there you were.” Caruthers pointed at Declan. “The perfect suspect. You knew her. You were strong enough to inflict a lot of damage. You were known to have a temper, and your ex-girlfriend’s evidence puts you at the crime scene around the time Skye was murdered.” He shrugged. “You had means, motive, and opportunity.” He shaped his hand into a gun and pointed at Declan. “Bang! You’re guilty.”

  “But I explained everything to the sheriff. I took Skye to the party, but like a jerk, I ignored her. I was so torn up about breaking up with Carrie Ann, all I wanted was to get drunk and forget. Skye didn’t like being ignored, so she took off.” Declan ran his hands over his face, trying to erase the haunting images. “I don’t know where she went. All I know is she was beside me one minute, and the next she was gone. I figured she’d found someone to take her home. I wasn’t good company, and I sure as hell couldn’t drive, not after what I drank.”

  “The police didn’t believe you.” Caruthers sounded matter-of-fact. “They were so busy trying to pin the crime on you they didn’t look at anyone else. Their lack of due diligence was a technicality, but their sloppy work opened the door for us to push to have the cold case re-examined.”

  “Do they have another suspect?”

  “Not yet, but the fact their investigation was so biased was enough to force them to take another look at the case.”

  “What good does all this do me if we can’t find the murderer?”

  “We will, but it’s gonna take some time. You have to trust me
on this.”

  Declan rubbed his burning eyes. “It’s been twelve years. I don’t know how much longer I can live with this hanging over my head.”

  Caruthers placed his hand on Declan’s arm and squeezed. “We will find the murderer, Declan. I promise you, I won’t give up until we do.”

  Their gazes met and Declan nodded. A tendril of hope unfurled inside him. For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t alone.

  “One more thing, something the police kept back from the public,” Caruthers said. “The killer strangled her with her scarf.”

  The air whooshed out of Declan. He stared at Caruthers, his heart pounding so hard he feared it would explode. He scanned the room and winced. He and Jessup were the center of attention. With a shaking hand, he withdrew the plastic bag containing the scrap of cloth from his pocket, and shielding it with his hand, he slid the bag across the table. “Don’t let anyone see. I found this today.”

  Caruthers’ eyes narrowed. “What is it?”

  “A piece of Skye’s scarf.”

  The investigator’s mouth tightened. He slipped the bag onto his lap and examined it beneath the cover of the table. His gaze met Declan’s. “How do you know?”

  “She wore it prom night. The scarf was new, and she couldn’t keep her hands off it. Her constant fussing drove me nuts.”

  Caruthers turned the bag over exposing the faded, rust-colored smear. “Looks like blood.”

  Declan nodded.

  “Where did you find this?”

  “In the old barn at the Rankin Farm.”

  Caruthers’ forehead furrowed, his dark eyebrows forming a deep vee above his crooked nose. “You’d better start talking. And your story better be damned good.”

  “I know how this looks, but two days ago I received a text. The person who texted said he’d meet me at the farm. He had proof I was innocent. I was on my way out to the farm when—” Declan stopped, not wanting to rehash his encounter with Carrie Ann on the dark and muddy road. “Anyway, I didn’t get there, but he texted me again and said he’d left something for me to find. I drove out there today and found that.” He nodded at the bag in Caruthers’ hand.

  Caruthers heaved a breath and smoothed the palm of his large hand over his short spikes of graying hair. “Not smart, Declan. Not smart at all. You should have called me. I’d be able to state we found the scarf together.”

  “I made a mistake. Going out there was stupid, but when I received the text, I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted to find a clue to the murderer.”

  The P.I. rubbed his face, the scratch of stubble loud even in the noisy restaurant. “Tell me exactly where you found the scarf.”

  Declan explained how he’d searched the barn until he’d found the scrap of cloth hidden at the back of an old horse stall, behind the pile of bricks.

  “Please tell me you used gloves when you touched the cloth.”

  Declan nodded.

  “Well, that’s one thing, I suppose.” Caruthers shook his head. “This doesn’t look good. You’re the prime suspect, and you’re in possession of the murder weapon.”

  “I’m turning the scarf into the sheriff as soon as we’re done here. I wanted to run it by you first.” A pulsing pain throbbed behind Declan’s eyes.

  Caruthers rubbed his face again. “Okay, let’s think here. We have to assume the person who texted you was the killer. No one else would have known about the scarf.”

  “I don’t understand. Why did the killer take part of her scarf?”

  “It happens. Sometimes murderers keep mementoes of their victims.”

  “But why leave it for me to find?” The pounding in Declan’s head revved up another notch. He rubbed his eyes to ease the painful pressure. “That’s the part I don’t get. Why me?”

  “I don’t know. Either he wants to further implicate you in the murder, or he wants you to find him.”

  “Why would he want to get caught? Now? After all these years?”

  Caruthers shrugged. “I’ve heard of stranger scenarios. Guilt can be an awful burden. Whatever his reason, there’s a positive angle to this.”

  “Positive angle? Seriously?”

  “The killer feels threatened. You being back in town triggered something and made him act after all this time. He’ll make a mistake, and when he does, we’ll get him.”

  Declan pointed at the plastic bag in the investigator’s big hands. “What do we do now?”

  “I’ll take this to the authorities. They’ll have their experts examine the cloth, and we’ll see if this stain really is blood, and if so, whose blood.” He regarded Declan. “You’d better be prepared for them to interrogate you. They’ll want to know exactly where you found this, who told you to look for it, all the details. And they won’t be gentle.”

  Declan nodded.

  “Stick to the truth, and you should be okay. I don’t think this is enough to arrest you.” Opening his briefcase, he slid in the bag.

  The truth. Declan bit back a snort. He’d told the truth twelve years ago, and look what being honest had achieved—a night in the local jail and the disgust and anger of every man, woman, and child in this damn town.

  “One thing puzzles me.” Caruthers placed his hands on the table and spread his big-knuckled fingers wide. “I’ve never understood why you went back to the farm the night Skye Lawrence disappeared.”

  “I’ve been through all this with you.”

  “Tell me again.”

  Declan hated thinking of that night, but if the slightest chance existed they’d find who murdered Skye, he’d rehash the painful memories again and again until he was blue in the face. He took a deep breath and began. “It was the after-party on prom night. We were all standing around a bonfire. Everyone was having a good time, talking, dancing, making out. Most of us were drinking or smoking weed. You know what those high school parties were like.”

  “But this wasn’t a typical party. Not for you.”

  Declan shook his head. “I didn’t drink, not ever. I still don’t. I saw what booze did to my old man. No way was I going to turn out like him. But I was so torn up over Carrie Ann, when someone offered me a bottle of whiskey it was as if something came over me. I couldn’t get enough of the stuff.” He met Caruthers’ gaze. “Turns out, I’m not so different from dear old Dad after all.”

  “Where was Skye at this point?”

  Declan shrugged. “All I wanted was to get plastered and forget Carrie Ann. Skye got pissed off and left.”

  “What time was this?”

  “I don’t know, eleven o’clock, maybe closer to eleven-thirty. All I remember is looking up, and she was gone.” He scrubbed his hands through his hair. No matter how many times he recounted the events of that terrible night, it never got any easier. Each retelling brought back the overwhelming burden of guilt. “If I hadn’t been such a jerk, if I’d gone after her, she’d be alive today.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  Declan swiped a hand over his eyes. “No, I didn’t. What sort of man lets a woman wander off alone in the dark miles from anywhere? Who does something like that?”

  Silence hung heavy over the table. The rattle of dishes and the voices of the other diners seemed muted.

  Declan grabbed Caruthers’ untouched water glass and drained the water.

  “You were a kid.” Caruthers shook his head. “You made a stupid mistake. We all make mistakes. What you do about them is what counts.”

  “It’s my fault she’s dead.”

  “So do something. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and find her murderer.”

  Declan sagged against the seat back. Caruthers’ words were like fists pounding, driving the air out of him. “I’m trying. What else can I do?”

  “For starters, keep talking. Tell me exactly what happened next.”

  The pain in his head now a screaming crescendo, Declan swiped his arm over his damp forehead. “I guess I passed out because the next thing I knew, Sheldon Dubrowski was shaking me, telling me it was
time to leave. I was so drunk I hadn’t noticed almost everyone else had left. Only the hardcore drinkers and stoners were still hanging around. I searched for Skye. She wasn’t there.” He met Caruthers’ gaze. “I figured she’d caught a ride home with someone else.”

  “Okay. Your friend woke you up.” Caruthers’ voice was calm and steady, his face expressionless, giving no hint of what he thought of Declan’s actions. “What did you do next?”

  “I was too drunk to drive, so I left my truck and caught a ride to town with Sheldon. He drove me home.”

  “But you went back out to the farm again. Why?”

  Declan rubbed his eyes. Would this God-awful pounding never end? “I don’t know. It was stupid.”

  “Go on.”

  “I woke up in bed after an hour or so, one thought on my mind—find Carrie Ann. I had to tell her I was sorry. I wanted to beg her to give me another chance, to take me back.” He picked up the saltshaker on the table and rolled the small glass bottle in his hand, watching the salt crystals slide from one side of the container to the other. “I walked over to her place. The lights were off, but I knew she hadn’t gone to Prom, so she had to be home. I knocked on the door, but Vivian wouldn’t let me in. I told her I wouldn’t leave until I saw Carrie Ann, but she threatened to call the sheriff.”

  He wiped his brow. “I knew she’d never let me near Carrie Ann. The old battleax was thrilled we’d broken up. She’d have done anything to keep us apart.”

  He swallowed, his throat dry, desperate for more water. “I caught a ride out to the farm. I wanted to get my truck and drive around until I cooled down and figured out a way to get Carrie Ann to forgive me.”

  “You don’t remember who gave you the ride?”

  Declan shook his head. “I was too drunk. I’d filched a bottle of rum from my old man’s stash and begun to work on it.” He shrugged. “I was so pissed I’m amazed I could still walk. The rest of the night’s a blank.” Self-loathing filled him. That night he’d proved he was a typical McAllister. Give him booze, and he turned into an animal. People around him ended up hurt…or dead.