A Breath Away

by Rita Herron

  He scrubbed a hand over his face. He sure as hell hadn’t slept. Dammit, had Violet known about her father and kept silent?

  Was that the real reason she hadn’t returned before now?

  * * *

  VIOLET STUMBLED FROM BED, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, and groped for the afghan, pulling it around her shoulders. She could have sworn she’d heard someone knocking on the door.

  A quick glance at the clock made her grimace. Six-thirty. She hadn’t fallen asleep until five. Even then, that woman’s cries had reverberated inside her head, tormenting her.

  The pounding grew louder. Who would come out here this early? Who even knew she was here? Grady…

  “Violet, I know you’re in there.” His gruff voice resonated with impatience. “You might as well open up.”

  “Just a minute.” Pushing her hair from her eyes, she rushed to the door and opened it. “What are you doing here so early?”

  He dangled a piece of paper in front of her. “Search warrant.”

  She frowned but reluctantly stepped aside. Grady strode in, his big presence filling the small den. Still half-asleep, she found her body tingling traitorously, imagining he’d come for another reason.

  Another officer followed on his heels, his gaze skimming over Violet. His attitude said he’d seen the ugly side of life and survived it. Maybe even liked it.

  “Deputy Logan.” The man tipped a headful of wavy brown hair in greeting, although his taut mouth was unsmiling. And she couldn’t see his eyes; they were hidden behind Ray-Bans. They were probably as black as his mood, she guessed, clutching the afghan tighter around her shoulders.

  “Go get dressed,” Grady growled. “We’ll start in the den and kitchen.”

  Violet simply stared at him. She didn’t take orders from anyone. “Excuse me?”

  “I said put some clothes on.” His icy gaze locked with hers. Any trace of the compassionate boy she’d once known had disappeared.

  Heat suddenly blazed her cheeks. Anger at the fact that he had come on a crusade against her father followed. “I…I don’t know what you’re looking for, Grady, but you won’t find it.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “You haven’t tampered with evidence, have you?”

  Violet’s fingers dug into her arms. “Of course not.”

  Suspicion flared in his eyes. “Did you know your father killed Darlene?”

  Her lungs tightened at the accusation.

  “Is that the reason he sent you away?” A strained heartbeat passed. “Did your grandmother know and keep quiet about it all these years?”

  His cold tone cut through her like a knife. She staggered backward, then turned and ran to the bedroom to change.

  * * *

  GRADY BRACED HIMSELF for the onslaught of guilt that attacked him at Violet’s shocked reaction.

  “Playing bad cop?”

  He glared at his deputy. “I was just doing my job.” And trying to find out the truth.

  Or were you trying to hurt her because you hate yourself for being attracted to her? For reminding you of Darlene every time you look at her?

  “You going to charge her with accessory?”

  Grady pivoted on his booted feet. “She was only eight when Darlene died.”

  “But she could have come forward since.”

  He nodded. He had entertained the idea. And he would charge Violet if he discovered she’d lied.

  “Let’s verify Baker’s confession. Look for a handwritten note or bill so we can compare writing samples. Then we’ll discuss strategies.”

  “Right.” Logan grunted. “Although she’s almost pretty enough to make a man forget the law.”

  Grady’s jaw tightened. He might not want Violet, but he sure as heck didn’t like the lascivious way Logan had looked at her. “Stay away from her,” he warned. “A good cop never gets involved with a potential suspect. And he never forgets the law.”

  Logan’s mouth twitched as if he was about to argue. Then he seemed to think better of it, turned and went to work.

  Grady dismissed the odd reaction. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could get away from Violet. Then he could forget that he’d almost agreed with Logan.

  But not at the cost of letting Darlene’s killer get away.

  * * *

  VIOLET TREMBLED INSIDE. She would never forget the look of accusation in Grady’s eyes.

  It had been the same piercing look he’d given her twenty years ago when he’d stood outside her bedroom, waiting for her to tell them where to find Darlene.

  Pressing her hands to her temples, she battled another onslaught of tears. She would not cry now. No, she wouldn’t give Grady the satisfaction of watching her crumble. Besides, she’d cried a river of tears the past two days, and it hadn’t helped. She had to be strong.

  After all, she’d expected Grady to blame her for Darlene’s death because she’d begged her friend to come over that day. But she’d never imagined he’d believe she would protect the killer.

  So why was she defending her father?

  Because if he had evil inside him, then maybe she did, too…. Maybe he had been right about her. Maybe that evil was the reason she’d heard the woman’s cry.

  Confused, Violet yanked on shorts, a T-shirt and sandals, then dragged a brush through her hair and scrubbed her teeth. The itch to run from this house and her father’s mess gnawed at her, but she couldn’t run away. Not without knowing the truth.

  But what if Grady found something in the house? And why hadn’t she thought to look around last night after he’d left?

  You were too shaken by coming home again. And by everything that’s happened.

  Steeling herself against Grady’s anger, she went to the kitchen to brew coffee. The deputy was searching the den, while Grady was examining the pizza box, his eyebrows furrowed.

  “The answer to your question is no, Grady. That confession note was a complete surprise.”

  He glanced up, a flicker of regret simmering in his dark eyes before his mask slid back into place. “Did you and your father keep in touch?”

  “We haven’t spoken in years.”

  He nodded curtly, then scribbled some notes in a small notepad.

  “Can I clean up this mess now and make some coffee?”

  “Let me dust for fingerprints first.”

  She stared at him, wondering where the kind boy she’d once known had gone. Had he died the same day Darlene had?

  Well, she refused to stand here and watch him tear apart her house. She stalked out onto the front porch, more questions assailing her. If her father had killed Darlene twenty years ago and had brought her to the house, which Violet knew hadn’t happened, any evidence would be long gone. So why fingerprint the kitchen if he thought her father had committed suicide?

  What exactly was Grady looking for?

  * * *

  GRADY WINCED AT THE SOUND of the screen door slamming, then frowned when Violet’s car tore down the graveled drive. As much as she might not want to face the fact that her father was a murderer, he had to know the truth.

  She’d claimed she wanted that, too. But would she be able to handle it?

  Would he, if he discovered his own father had something to do with Baker’s death?

  Logan whistled as he scavenged through the desk in the den, bringing Grady out of his reverie with the location of a bill for signature comparison. Other than that, Baker’s house offered little in the way of clues, except the fact that Jed had been as depressed and lackadaisical about life as his own father. The two of them seemed so much alike that they should have been friends instead of enemies. But something had torn them apart.

  Secrets. What were they?

  Grady checked the refrigerator, logging the contents, then scanned the sink and counter. The uneaten pizza in its box, full six-pack of beer and the want ads on the counter disturbed him. Why would a man buy food and beer and job-hunt right before he killed himself?

  It didn’t make sense.

&n
bsp; He copied down the number of the pizza place. He’d check and see what time and day Baker had bought it. That, along with the M.E.’s report on the time of death, might help him piece together the chain of events that had led to Baker’s trip to Briar Ridge.

  Other details bothered Grady. Why would Baker go to the mountains to kill himself instead of doing it at home? If guilt had triggered the suicide, why wouldn’t he have returned to the scene of the crime to take his life?

  “Not much in here but some old magazines.” Logan gestured toward the desk. “Oh, and there’s a couple of photo albums of his daughter. Thought she told you they weren’t close.”

  “She did. Said they hadn’t spoken in years.”

  “That’s strange.” Logan pointed to three scrapbooks. “There’s all kinds of pictures of Violet growing up.”

  Grady frowned. Had Violet lied to him about not staying in touch with her father?

  * * *

  NEEDING A REFUGE from Grady Monroe and her past, Violet drove into town and parked in front of the Rosebud Café. Without sleep, she desperately had to have caffeine and food.

  Hoping no one in town would recognize her yet, she ducked her head and entered the café. It was like entering a time warp. Nothing had changed. The same earthy adobe and turquoise colors, the warm smell of coffee and biscuits, the same Native American artifacts filled the place.

  Three elderly women sat at a table sipping tea, a hefty man was hunched over a bar stool, scooping up sausage patties from his plate, and two other men she didn’t recognize faced the bar, away from her. She spotted Laney Longhorse behind the counter, her long braid now graying, her skin leathery from the sun. Violet had always been fascinated with the woman. Maybe because she ignored the difference in social status between people instead of dividing them into classes the way the more prominent citizens did. In fact, Violet had felt more at home with the kids from the reservation than she did the white children in town. Except for Darlene.

  She slid into a corner booth and studied the menu, surprised to see the same items Laney had always carried. Thankfully, some things never changed. A fair-haired man in his thirties smiled at her from the booth across from her. She forced a tight smile, then averted her gaze.

  The older woman ambled over to her, her long skirt swishing against her thin legs. “Hi!” Laney said in her Cherokee accent. “Your order, miss?”

  Good. Laney didn’t recognize her. “Coffee. And I’ll have your country breakfast.”

  “Comin’ right up.” Laney studied Violet for a moment, shook her head as if she was trying to place her but couldn’t. Then she sauntered off to get the coffee.

  Violet dialed the nursing home on her cell phone. The nurse assured her that her grandmother had arrived safely, but was in physical therapy. Her sister, Neesie, was there, waiting to visit.

  Determined to avoid eye contact with any of the locals, especially the man who kept watching her, she informed the nurse she’d call again later, then studied the back of the menu. A small inscription described the history of the town’s name. Crow’s Landing had been named after an old Cherokee myth.

  Although eagles were the revered, treasured bird of the Cherokee legends, their feathers used in religious ceremonies, one myth described an Indian boy’s battle with a wicked gambler who could change forms. When put to the test, the boy, Thunder, beat the gambler, who had turned himself to brass. The boy planted the brass in the river and hung crows on each side of a pole to ward off the beavers, so they wouldn’t chip away the brass and free the gambler.

  Violet was pondering the legend when the woman returned. Interesting folklore. The crows were actually protecting the town, not haunting it or looking on, ready to prey.

  Laney placed the coffee and food in front of Violet, her squinty eyes assessing. Violet offered nothing. Not yet—she wasn’t ready. But she wondered if the woman would know the Native American expression from Violet’s vision.

  She thanked Laney and sipped her coffee, then took a few bites of her eggs. A tall man with a shoulder-length, black ponytail bustled in from the back. Joseph Longhorse? All grown up?

  He had always been quiet, moody, angry. But she’d felt a kinship with him. Not a psychic one like she’d shared with Darlene, but they had connected. She’d been called white trash, while Joseph had suffered the cruel prejudices harbored by a few small-minded people in the town. The Barley boys had been especially ruthless, turning Joseph’s Native American name, Strong Legs, into a joke because Joseph had been the shortest kid in the class. Not anymore. Now he was six feet tall, strong and tough. She bet they didn’t mess with him now.

  Laney returned to her table with fresh butter. “You are not an asgi’na, a ghost, are you? No, you are the little Baker girl come back, heh?”

  Violet nodded, aware that a few of the other patrons pivoted to check her out. And some still tensed when Laney used Cherokee words.

  “Yes, ma’am. I came back to bury my father.”

  “Oh, my.” Laney flattened a weathered hand on her cheek. “I’m so sorry. I hadn’t heard of your edata’s passing.”

  The man with the fair hair smiled. Violet leaned toward Laney. “Who is that man, Laney?”

  She cast a look over her shoulder, then grinned. “The new doctor. Dr. Gardener. Handsome, huh?”

  Violet shrugged, wondering why he was staring at her.

  “The young women in town, they are all over him. But he seems to have eyes for you.”

  “I’m not going to be here long enough to get to know anyone,” Violet said, hoping it was true.

  A robust man at the bar swiveled on his stool, then dragged his bulk off and stalked toward her. Violet crouched back in her seat at the sight of his face. She would recognize his beady, unforgiving eyes anywhere.

  Darlene’s father.

  “How dare you show yourself in this town again!” His sharp voice rose, echoing off the tile floors, then he slammed his fist on the table in front of her, rattling the dishes. “Did you know your daddy killed my baby girl?”

  * * *

  GRADY HAD BEEN SURPRISED at the number of photos Baker had of his daughter. He’d also been startled at his own reaction of seeing the homely little girl emerge into a shy teenager. Judging from the smile on her face, she hadn’t recognized her own beauty.

  There had been no pictures of boyfriends, though, prompting his curiosity about Violet’s personal past. An area he shouldn’t be concerned with at all.

  Unfortunately, he and Logan hadn’t turned up anything that would implicate Baker in Darlene’s murder.

  What had he expected? That Baker would have kept a souvenir all these years? Or a hidden file somewhere describing the secrets he shared with Grady’s father?

  Grady glanced in the small bathroom one last time and frowned. The edge of the faded bath mat had shifted, probably caught on one of their boots. Underneath, the flooring was discolored, an unnatural shade lighter than the rest of the linoleum. He squatted down, peeled back the rug and examined it. It looked as if it had been scrubbed with bleach. Nothing else in the house appeared to have been cleaned in ages. Why here?

  He remembered the knot on Baker’s head. He could have gotten it from a fall anywhere. Maybe even here. Grady leaned closer, studying the area for bloodstains.

  The nagging doubts wouldn’t let go, so he retrieved some Luminol from the car and sprayed the flooring. His hunch was right. Traces of blood shone through. He took a couple of samples, hoping he was wrong about the source. Hoping there would be no traces of his father’s DNA in the mix.

  But the argument between his dad and Baker echoed in his head. “Some reporter’s been asking about Violet,” Baker had said. Who was that reporter and why would he want to speak with Violet? And why had Baker been afraid of him?

  Logan finished, then left for the station. Knowing he wouldn’t rest without answers, Grady decided to confront his father one more time. With Baker’s body in the morgue and Violet in town claiming her father’s innocenc
e, it was time Walt Monroe started talking.

  * * *

  A JOLT OF FEAR BOLTED through Violet at the malevolence in Mr. Monroe’s eyes.

  “Did you know your daddy killed my baby girl?” the man bellowed.

  Violet shook her head.

  “Then get the hell out of town.”

  Violet chanced a look at the other patrons, who all sat gawking at the scene, either too stunned by the confrontation to move or too intimidated by Monroe.

  All except Joseph Longhorse.

  The Cherokee’s black eyes flared with contempt, reminding her of his temper. He started toward her—rather, toward Grady’s father.

  But the last thing Violet wanted was to make a scene. She especially didn’t want Laney’s son to suffer at her expense. This was her problem. She’d deal with it.

  “I understand how you feel, Mr. Monroe.”

  “You don’t have any idea how I feel, Miss Baker.” A blood vessel throbbed in his forehead. “So don’t play your little game of innocence with me. It won’t work.”

  “I’m not playing games,” Violet said, hating the quiver in her voice as she stood. “I just came here to bury my father. Then I’m leaving town.”

  “If you know what’s good for you, get him in the ground and get out of here today.”

  Joseph inched toward her, but she threw up a warning hand. Holding her head high, she dug inside her purse, dropped some cash on the table, mouthed a thank-you to Laney, then turned and strode to the door.

  She didn’t breathe easy until she reached the car.

  What had she expected? For Grady’s father to welcome her or act concerned about her feelings? And what about the other people in town? Did they believe her dad was a murderer?

  Part of her wanted to drive straight out of town, but she had to talk to people, find out if anyone had known her father the last few years. Learn everything she could about him and the life he’d led.

  Her resolve intact, she started the car and headed to the cemetery. She had been sent away before Darlene’s funeral. And she’d never returned to visit her friend’s grave.