“The church is having a public supper next week. A fundraiser to help you financially. I’m hoping you can make it.”
Ace walked up behind them. “Of course, we’ll be there, Reverend. How kind of the church to do this for Brenna.”
“I don’t think—”
“It’ll do you good, Brenna,” Ace interrupted. “You need to get out and be around people who care.”
The Reverend nodded. “Yes, I agree with Mr. Bear. Let the community wrap you in their arms. Take the comfort they offer you.”
“Is it a potluck supper?” Ace asked.
Reverend Marston’s brow wrinkled in a frown as if he found the question a bit odd. “No. It’ll be catered from Ellsworth. The church funds will cover the catering. Of course, there’ll be a charge for the meal. All money collected will go to Brenna.”
“You’re too kind,” Ace said, taking the reverend’s arm and leading him to his car. “What time is the supper? We’ll be there.”
Their voices trailed off. Fuming, Brenna stalked to the barn and was taking out her frustration mucking stalls when Ace showed up.
“How dare you accept an invitation on my behalf? I’m not going.”
“You’ll go if I have to carry you. What better way to observe possible suspects? The whole town will show up if for no other reason than to see how you’re holding up or for a chance to get a look at me, the wayward Indian.”
“And we dare to eat the food because…”
“Because it’s coming from Ellsworth. I made sure—tactfully, of course—that no one other than the reverend knows the name of the caterer. He made the arrangements himself. Baked beans, ham, coleslaw and homemade bread. I’d steer clear of the coleslaw if I were you, though. Easier to mess with that.”
Brenna glared at him. When he didn’t look away, she dropped her gaze and walked out of the barn. She hightailed it to her bedroom and slammed the door. By the time she flopped on her bed, her heart beat fast enough to take away her breath. She gulped several mouthfuls of air. Sobs tore from her throat with the ferocity of an old steam locomotive.
Chapter Nineteen
Ace shifted in his seat while he waited at the end of Gar’s driveway for backup. He’d finally got the break he’d been hoping for. A recent call from Byron pointed to John Gar as the drug mastermind. Byron had tracked all of the man’s trips to the Middle East and surrounding areas for the past six months.
Gar spent half his life in the air. The fact that he owned a private jet added more fuel to the suspicions.
Getting around airport security in the regions he traveled would be a piece of cake for someone with Gar’s wealth. Security personnel would be more than willing to look the other way with the monetary incentive Gar could afford.
FBI and DEA agents had been in place with a warrant to inspect Gar’s cargo when he landed in Bangor this morning. Whether preplanned or he’d somehow gotten wind of what waited at the airport, Gar changed his flight plan at the last minute and landed at a private air strip farther north. There’d not been enough time or manpower to meet the jet when it landed.
At least after reviewing the facts, a judge had granted a warrant to search Gar’s jet, as well as his home, along with a warrant to bring him and his wife in for questioning. Right now, federal agents were crawling over every square inch of the jet, looking for evidence.
Ace tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. Come on. Let’s get this over with. The other mystery remained unsolved. Nothing had come to light to make him believe that Gar was the one after Brenna.
He turned on the radio then flipped it off. His heart was heavy enough without listening to Merle Haggard wail about lost love. As soon as his work here was done, he’d concentrate on convincing Brenna to forgive him. They belonged together. Always had and always would.
Now that she knew about Kayden, they could work through the pain of the past together. Kayden needed both her parents—living together as a family. No child should be torn between a mother and father. He just had to convince Brenna. He damn well intended to fight for as long as it took.
Having Brenna back in his life was the greatest gift he’d ever been given. It had been bad enough losing her the first time, even though he’d allowed his anger and hurt to convince him it had been for the best. Should he lose her again, he’d be haunted for the rest of his life.
He squelched the little voice reminding him of the difficulties they faced. Life would change with Brenna joining the family. What if Kayden resented having a mother thrust on her as she neared her teenage years? What if Brenna couldn’t accept his mother as part of the family? What if he, himself, couldn’t handle the sudden change? Enough of the what-if’s. He’d keep a positive attitude that the situation would resolve itself.
His cell rang and he answered it before the first ring ended. “Bear here.”
Chris sounded disgruntled. “It ain’t gonna work, Ace.”
He sighed. “What’s happened? You’ve been there for less than an hour.”
“She’s hostile. I spend my time going from room to room just to stay out of her way.”
“Ignore her. Just don’t let her out of your sight. I’ll be back soon and talk with her.” Even as he said the words, Ace knew that arguing with Brenna wouldn’t change a damn thing. He had to keep faith that she’d see the light. If she didn’t, then he’d sit her down and pound some sense into her.
“Right. That will make my life more miserable than it already is. She talked to the vet on the phone. I think he’s coming by for supper, not that I’ll be invited. She told me I had to make my own meals.”
“Buck up, Chris. Things could be worse.”
Ace ended the call when three cars approached. A state trooper’s cruiser, a white sheriff’s car and a dark sedan like all feds drive. Looked like Uncle Sam didn’t want any screw ups.
Ace adjusted the gun tucked in his shoulder holster. They’d have the warrant. It was time to get the show on the road.
He met the group at the walkway. No one had much to say as they followed the brick pathway to the front porch. Ace pressed the doorbell.
“Ring again,” one of the federal agents said when no one responded. “Maybe they’re in another part of the house.”
A second try got the same results. Green Venetian blinds were closed on all four large windows overlooking the porch.
“I’ll go around back,” said Sheriff O’Connell. “Must be another door.”
Ace scanned the yard. The BMW Grace had driven the other day and a black Suburban were parked in the driveway. Even though the doors of the four-car garage were closed, the two vehicles were parked in such a way that nothing except a riding lawn mower could have squeezed by them. He had a strong feeling the Gars were in the house and not answering the door.
Huffing and puffing, Sheriff Connolly charged around the corner of house, the spare tire of extra flesh on his middle jiggling. “Quick. Out here. You won’t believe this.”
Ace braced one hand on the porch railing, swung his body over to and land with a soft thud on the lawn. The sheriff stood looking in a window. “What is it?”
“Take a look. They’re dead. Woman’s on the couch, man on the floor.”
Four long strides put Ace next to the sheriff. Through the glass he saw Grace Gar slumped on the couch. One might think she was taking a nap if not for the small hole in her forehead with streaks of blood on her face. John Gar lay face down, perhaps six feet away from the couch. Blood pooled under his forehead, and a small caliber automatic handgun, lay under his right hand. Murder/suicide? Possible. Ace had his doubts.
“Call forensics.” He continued to study the room. “Tell them to get here pronto. We’ll go in, but until they get here, no one touch a damn thing. I want to do this strictly by the book.”
Kicking in the door was something done in movies. He patiently waited until one of the troopers retrieved a lock-picking device from his vehicle.
Within minutes, the door sprang open. Single file
, the men entered in a ready-to-shoot mode. All was quiet in the living room. “Make sure the rest of the house is empty. Be prepared for anything. And remember, keep the scene clean.”
The dwelling was empty except for the two dead bodies. Ten minutes later, Ace clasped his hands behind his head and rubbed his scalp with his thumbs. A dull ache had taken deep root and no amount of massage gave him any relief. He left the house and returned to his truck for the aspirin he always kept in the glove compartment. As he pulled out the bottle, Brenna’s necklace slipped to the floor. He scooped it up and once again thought about the significance of her tossing it in the bushes.
Truth was, he had no one to blame but himself. He should have told her the moment he’d discovered she believed their child had died at birth. He could make excuses until he turned blue, and it wouldn’t change a damn thing. He’d screwed up. Tossing two of the white pills in his mouth, he washed them down with a swig of bottled water. He leaned back and closed his eyes, waiting for the medical examiner and forensics to arrive.
Brenna bit the end of her pen as she reread what she’d just written.
Dear Kayden, I can’t tell you how happy I was when your father…
God. She ripped the paper into tiny pieces and threw it on the floor to join the fifty some odd scraps covering the rug. This was impossible. As much as she hated to admit the truth, she needed Ace’s help to bridge the gap between her and Kayden. Without his support, her daughter might never accept a long-lost mother.
And why should she? If she were five or six, perhaps she’d jump into Brenna’s arms. Be thrilled that her mother suddenly appeared out of the blue. But Kayden wasn’t a young child. Soon, she’d become a young woman. One who’d lived twelve years of her life without a mother. Twelve was the age most girls wished their mothers would disappear, not reappear.
She tossed the pen and box of notepaper on the floor and rolled off the bed. She glanced at her reflection in the dresser mirror and groaned. Huge bags sagged under puffy eyes. She’d deserved a good cry, but enough was enough. Self-pity never served a person well.
She grabbed a hairbrush, tackling the snarls and knots in her hair. Once it lay smooth on her shoulders, she hurried to the bathroom to wash her face.
She returned to the bedroom, flopped on the bed and covered her eyes with an ice cold washcloth. Her imagination ran wild with thoughts of what she and Kayden would do once they were together.
Ace’s face kept popping into her mind. Her feelings ran deeper than mere anger. She was hurt and disillusioned. No matter how much she’d loved the man, he’d lied to her. Then continued to live the lie until Myrtle blurted the truth. Had he really planned to tell her the truth? Or was that another fabrication? It didn’t matter because the damage was done. Even so, memories of her love for Ace would ride shotgun with her for the rest of her life.
The phone rang, jarring her from the depressing introspection. She grabbed for the receiver before Chris answered it downstairs. “Hello?”
Silence on the other end made her think someone had a wrong number. She started to hang up when Ace spoke. “Is Chris there?”
“Ah…he’s downstairs. I’ll get him. Ace?”
“Yes? Is something wrong?”
“No. Not at all. I’ve just been thinking.” She waited. At his silence she continued. “You and I need to establish a working relationship. We have to be civil…for Kayden. Just because we’re no longer lovers doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. I want to do what’s best for our daughter. She’d be upset if we were fighting.” Good grief. She’d babbled on like an idiot.
He remained silent for so long, she thought perhaps they’d been disconnected. When he finally spoke, he sounded tired. “In other words, you’ve realized you’ll get nowhere with Kayden without my help.”
Damn. “Something like that,” she muttered. Why should she feel guilty? She wasn’t the bad guy here.
“Like I told you this morning, I’ve got other things on my plate. Your need to meet Kayden takes second place.”
Brenna sensed urgency in his voice. “What’s happened? Something’s wrong. I hear it in your voice.”
His deep sigh came through loud and clear. “John and Grace Gar are dead.”
“What?”
“Yeah. Dead like in they’re no longer breathing. Like they’re lying in their house with bullet holes through their heads.”
For several moments, Brenna felt numb. Before she could collect her thoughts to ask more questions, Ace said, “Sorry, Brenna. It’s been a rough day. I really need to speak to Chris.”
“Hold on. I’ll get him.”
“Brenna?” The urgency in his voice stayed her.
“Yes?”
“Make sure all the doors and windows are locked. Do you understand? Check everything right away.”
Every little hair on her body rose. “I will.”
She tossed the receiver on the bed and hurried to the top of the stairs. “Chris?” She heard a sports announcer on the television yelling something about a touchdown. She jogged down the stairs. “Chris?”
Chris jumped out of the recliner. “What’s the matter?”
“Ace is on the phone. He wants to talk to you.” Without waiting for a response, she ran back upstairs and eyed the white receiver lying on her bed like it was the apple Eve offered to Adam. To resist the temptation to eavesdrop, she hung it up and made the rounds of the upstairs bedrooms, checking the locks on all the windows.
That done, she headed downstairs. As she entered the kitchen, Chris glanced over his shoulder. He stood at the window overlooking the barn. “Ace tell you about the Gars?”
“Yeah. Have you checked the windows down here?”
“The ones in the kitchen.” Chris shook his head. “A few weeks ago, if someone had told me that Spruce Harbor would turn into a murder pit, I’d have told them they were crazy.”
Brenna filled the dented stainless steel teakettle with water. “Someone in town sure the hell is crazy. Want a cup of tea?”
Guilt flooded her when Chris’s dark eyes widened in surprise. She’d not spoken a kind word to him since he’d arrived. It wasn’t like her to take out her anger on the innocent.
“Sure.” He offered her a tentative smile. “I’d like that.”
“I hope there’s a movie or something else on TV other than what you’re watching. I don’t like sports.”
His smile widened. “I’ll check it out. After I make sure the rest of windows are locked.”
She glanced at the clock, wishing she hadn’t invited Trent for supper. Making a quick decision, she dialed his number to cancel.
When Chris returned to the kitchen, the smile on his face transformed him from the sullen young man who’d arrived earlier to one with the softest brown eyes Brenna had ever seen. “All’s secure. Tea ready?”
Brenna reined in her scattered thoughts. “Actually, before we settle in front of the TV, the horses need to be fed. And I’d just as soon bring Sheba in the house.”
“Okay. Let’s go. Bring the house key. I want the place locked while we’re in the barn.”
Finally, forensics gave the go-ahead for Ace and the others to enter.
The medical examiner, Hyman Wuerch, looked up from where he knelt on the floor by John Gar’s body. “Didn’t expect to see you again this soon, Bear.”
“What’s your opinion of what happened here?”
The man’s eyes narrowed in speculation. “Same as yours, I imagine.”
Ace frowned. “What makes you think I have one?”
Hyman shrugged. “I could say it was intuition. Fact is, I remember your sharp mind from our last encounter. So,” he said, rocking back on his heels. “Tell me your thoughts.”
Ace chose his words with care. “I’d guess that someone shot Grace in the forehead while she sat unsuspecting on the couch.”
Hyman nodded. “Go on.”
“The killer then turned the gun on John and shot him in the side of the head.”
&nbs
p; “How do you explain the .22 in John’s hand?” Hyman asked.
“A plant to make it look like a murder suicide.”
“About as accurate of a description of what went down here as we’re going to get…unless the killer wants to fill us in.”
“Why are you so sure that he didn’t shoot his wife and put the gun to his own head?” the sheriff asked.
“For one thing, no gun powder on John’s hand. No smudging where the bullet entered either victim. Shot at close range, smudging would be there. There’s tattooing which tells me the gun was at least two feet away if it were a pistol and at least three feet away if it were a rifle. There are no shell casings.”
Ace picked up on the story. “If the killer used a rifle, shot from the doorway and didn’t think about casings, then they should be around the doorjamb or on the porch.”
“Should be, but forensics couldn’t find them.”
The sheriff asked another question. “How can you determine that the killer used a rifle and not a handgun?”
“Not sure we can,” Wuerch admitted. “If they were shot from the doorway, it could have been a .22 handgun with a scope or a rifle. Only prints on the gun near John were his. This,” he pointed to the handgun on the floor, “has not been fired recently.”
Wuerch sighed. “Doesn’t really matter about the casings. It’s difficult to match a .22 shell casing to a particular gun.”
The sheriff was on a roll. “Why are you sure it was a .22?”
“Size of the entry hole. If it had been a large caliber…well, let’s just say it wouldn’t be a pretty scene. That and the bullets didn’t exit. A .22 to the head is often used by the mob. The bullet generally ricochets in the skull causing considerable brain damage, hemorrhage and death, without exiting.”
“So whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing. This is not a crime of passion.”
“Seems that way, Bear.”
“John’s corporate jet landed at around ten o’clock this morning. He couldn’t have made it home before eleven thirty or twelve o’clock. It’s now six. Estimated time of death?”
Bed of Lies Page 18
