A Breath Away

by Rita Herron

  “Didn’t he have any friends?”

  Grady shrugged. “I didn’t keep tabs on him, Violet.”

  She reached for the door handle, wondering why he was being so evasive. Or was he just angry because his tidy case against her father was no longer neat?

  She clutched his arm, not quite ready to be alone again. “You’ll let me know what you find out?”

  He slowly turned to search her face, the memories of Darlene a lifeline between them. Their eyes connected. Emotions, heat, the need for comfort rippled between them. And there was more, that simmering, burning chemistry that drew her to him like a moth to a flame. But if she gave in to this need, she might never let him go.

  “I’ll let you know,” he said gruffly.

  “Thanks.” She climbed out and walked up the path to her father’s old house, contemplating what she would do with it when she returned to Savannah. The mere thought brought a small surge of relief, but also a pang of sadness. She would never see Grady again. Never have a chance to experience the hunger that she saw in his eyes.

  More lonely than ever, she opened the door and went inside. Knowing her father hadn’t killed himself would offer a small measure of comfort to her grandmother. But Violet couldn’t relay the news that he’d been murdered without upsetting her, too.

  She’d hold off a little longer. Until Grady had found out who had killed him.

  This afternoon, she had to plan a funeral. Maybe someone at the funeral home would know something more about her dad.

  * * *

  GRADY ENTERED THE STATION a few minutes later. The blinds were closed, and his deputy was sitting in the shadows.

  Logan glanced up from the telephone, then ended the conversation. “Yeah, I’ll make sure someone’s there for extra security.”

  “What was that all about?”

  “TV crew’s going to be here to tape the tent revival tonight, that televangelist Billy Lee Bilkins.” He frowned. “They’re worried folks may be so excited they’ll get out of hand.”

  “That guy puts on a show, all right. I imagine he’ll draw a crowd.”

  “He’s a damn lunatic, if you ask me,” Logan said. “Those televangelists just con people out of money.”

  Grady agreed halfheartedly, although the deputy seemed a little adamant, even moodier than usual.

  “What did the M.E. say about Baker?” Logan asked.

  Grady dropped the file in front of him. “Baker didn’t kill himself. He was murdered. Most likely at home, then he was dumped at Briar Ridge to make it look like a suicide.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “I wish to hell I was.”

  Logan skimmed the contents. Seconds later, he cocked his head. “Do you have any idea who the perp is?”

  “Not yet.” The only person he could think of was his old man. And Grady wasn’t ready to share that information.

  Logan stood. “You could ask his daughter. Isn’t she supposed to be psychic or something?”

  Grady didn’t know what to believe anymore. “She claims she doesn’t know anything about her father.”

  “But she had some weird connection to your sister?”

  “That’s what she says.” And dammit, after today, he was beginning to think it might be possible.

  The phone rang, and Logan snagged it. Angling away from Grady, he lowered his voice. Seconds later, he stalked to the back room, looking sullen. What was eating at him? Grady had half a mind to follow and ask him, but the work on his desk took priority over Logan’s foul temper.

  He turned his attention to the Fed Ex folder—the lab reports he’d requested. He’d had the coroner take hand prints from Baker so they could compare them to the marks found on Darlene’s neck. It was a long shot but it might prove something. He opened the envelope and removed the contents, then read the report. Baker’s hands were all wrong. Granted, it had been twenty years, but the man’s size hadn’t changed much.

  Which meant he hadn’t killed Darlene.

  Back to square one.

  Logan stormed back in, took his seat and shredded a pencil in the sharpener. Remembering Violet’s comment about the bone whistle, Grady searched the file on Darlene’s murder but saw no mention of a piece of bone beside her body. There also had been no note, which, so far, was a trademark for this new serial killer. And Darlene had been found at the bottom of a well, not on the steps of a church.

  But still, Violet seemed so sure about that bone whistle. Perhaps the rescue team had missed something. Maybe there had been a piece of bone but they hadn’t recognized it as anything significant. After all, the incompetent Tate had been in charge of the case. Or it could still be there.

  No, Grady was grasping. And after twenty years, the bone would probably have disintegrated or been buried so deep in the muddy bottom of the well, they’d never find it or be able to trace it back to Darlene. He checked the crime scene photos again, but didn’t spot the bone sliver.

  Frustrated, he booted up the computer, then accessed the police database to see if anything new had been posted about the serial killings, or if any recent murders might have occurred similar to Baker’s. The FBI profiler had posted an initial report, so he skimmed it, the Native American phrase and religious implications troubling him. Wheeler and his father instantly came to mind, and then Reverend Billy Lee Bilkins. Hmm. Any woman would trust them if they approached.

  A lot of Tennessee communities had Native American residents. Crow’s Landing certainly had a few of its own. The Longhorse family, for one.

  Joseph. The man had always seemed intense, angry, bitter toward the Caucasians. Not that he hadn’t had a right. In fact, he’d hated Grady growing up, although Grady hadn’t understood the reason. He assumed it was because he was from the wealthy side of the tracks, that Joseph associated Grady with the other snobby kids who’d teased him. Had he hated Darlene back then? Had she somehow shunned him and made him angry enough to kill her?

  “Pin peyeh obe,” Grady murmured, thinking about the phrase.

  “Look toward the mountain,” Logan said.

  He snapped his head around. “What?” He hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud. “How do you know what it means?”

  Logan shrugged, not quite meeting his eyes. “My great-great-grandfather was part Cherokee,” he admitted.

  Grady studied Logan’s features. Now that he looked, he could see traces of a Native American heritage. Logan was dark-skinned. He had high cheekbones. Dark eyes.

  Logan chuckled without humor. “In fact, my old man named me Logan because it means friend of the white man.”

  Grady’s mind cataloged the knowledge. Logan had been in trouble before, but his records were sealed. He seemed particularly antagonistic about the televangelist. And he had secrets. Maybe Grady needed to find out more about his deputy and his past.

  He’d definitely check out Joseph Longhorse, too. Then he’d question Mayor Tate and see what he remembered about Darlene’s case.

  After that, he’d confront his father.

  * * *

  NERVOUS ADRENALINE HAD kicked in, after Violet visited the funeral home and chose her father’s casket, so she went home and cleaned her father’s house from top to bottom. She’d even gone to the dollar store, found slip-covers for the furniture and bought a new set of kitchen curtains. Anything to liven up the place. She’d have to ask her grandmother what she wanted to do with it. Maybe they’d sell it.

  The low hum of elevator music drifted toward her as she reentered the funeral home later. Moving on shaky legs toward the room where her father lay, she tried to prepare herself. She’d imagined seeing her father a million times over the years, but a raw ache clawed her insides at the sight of him stretched out in the casket.

  His brown hair had thinned, his skin had turned a yellowish tint—probably from drinking too much—and wrinkles had softened his angular jaw. Age spots marred the once smooth surface of his crossed hands. When she hadn’t found a suit in the closet, the funeral director had offer
ed to have the church send one over.

  “He looks at peace now,” Melvin Pearce, the funeral director, said as he moved up beside her. “Finally at peace.”

  Maybe he was, but she certainly wasn’t. How could he have died and left things unresolved between them? Why had he never contacted her? Tears pricked her eyelids, but she blinked to stem them. She refused to cry over a man who’d virtually abandoned her.

  But she was helpless to stop the memories from bombarding her. When she was four, washing her father’s old pickup truck together. Having a battle with the water hose. When she was six, sitting on his lap. He’d never been one to listen to music, but he’d loved one particular song back then. What was it called? “The Men in My Little Girl’s Life.” He’d hugged her and she’d thought he’d always be the only man in her life….

  Then she’d met Darlene and their friendship had changed everything.

  “Why do you say he’s finally at peace?” Violet asked.

  “Did you know my father well?”

  “Not well,” Pearce admitted. “But anyone could see he was miserable. Turned to the bottle after you and your granny left.”

  “He sent us away,” Violet said, the pain cutting through her again. “And he never tried to see me again.”

  Pearce’s balding head reddened. “I’m sorry, I thought it was the other way around.”

  Violet dragged her eyes from her father’s face and stared at him. On her tenth birthday, a day she refused to have a party or celebrate, she had shown her work in her first art show. She hadn’t cared if she’d won or not. She’d just hoped her father would come to see her pictures.

  He hadn’t.

  She’d vowed then to forget her art. To forget him. But her art was therapeutic, and eventually she’d picked up a paintbrush, charcoal and a sketch pad.

  “Is that what he told people?” Violet asked. “That my grandmother and I didn’t want to come back?”

  “No…it’s just that he seemed so lonely all the time. I assumed your grandmother wanted you away from your father’s drinking.”

  Footsteps sounded behind them. “There’s Reverend Wheeler now.” Mr. Pearce went to meet him, then ushered him over and introduced him. The preacher was in his late fifties, with thick, curly dark hair. A younger man who resembled him stood beside him. His son, Ross. A faint memory surfaced—Ross had been nearer Grady’s age. She hadn’t liked him when she was little.

  She didn’t think she did now, although she had no real reason for her snap judgment.

  “Do you have anything special you’d like me to say or incorporate into the service?” Reverend Wheeler asked.

  “Not really.” Violet backed away, wanting to escape both men’s presence. Reverend Wheeler’s scrutinizing gaze made her uneasy. And his son’s intense look was even more nerve-racking.

  “Just something simple,” she said. “Maybe a song or two.”

  “Do you know your father’s favorite hymn?”

  The question took Violet off guard. She didn’t know anything about her father, not even if he’d attended church. “No, just pick something. I…I have to go.”

  She turned and fled, Ross Wheeler’s probing look trailing after her. Something about the man was eerie. Maybe even evil.

  But how would she know? Unless she was evil, too, just like her father had said.

  * * *

  “WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU, Sheriff?”

  Grady ignored the sardonic edge to Mayor Tate’s voice. It was no secret the two men didn’t like each other.

  “I just came from the M.E.’s office. Jed Baker didn’t commit suicide—he was murdered.”

  Tate’s normally calm demeanor shifted slightly, for the briefest second. “And what does that have to do with me?”

  “Nothing really. But I have reason to suspect his murder might be related to my sister’s death twenty years ago.”

  Tate pulled at his chubby chin. “He left a confession, right?”

  “There was a note, but if the suicide note was a fake, the confession might be, too.”

  Tate frowned. “Looks like you’d want to let that case die.”

  “I do,” Grady snapped. “But I want the real killer to pay.”

  “Listen, Monroe, I did everything I could back then to find your sister’s killer. Your daddy knows that.”

  “I’m not saying you didn’t. Just indulge me.”

  Tate drummed his fingers on his desk, which was piled a mile high with papers. “All right. What do you want to know?”

  “You questioned Baker about Darlene’s disappearance?”

  “He had an alibi—it’s in the report.”

  “Was there anything that indicated he might have been lying?”

  Tate scrunched his mouth in thought. “The fact that he kept telling us places to look made me wonder, but Whitey Simms was a good man. There’s no way he’d lie or cover up for a child killer.”

  “You questioned Dwayne Dobbins and his mother?”

  “She swore her boy was with her all night. I never could prove no different.”

  But Mavis Dobbins would lie to protect her son, and they both knew it. “How about Ross Wheeler?”

  Tate frowned. “He was a teenager then. We didn’t question him, although the reverend joined in the search.”

  Grady contemplated that information. “Was he involved with the search the entire time?”

  Tate hesitated, as if thinking back. “No, he came after the revival ended that night. Led the town members in a prayer.”

  “Did you find anything at the scene that seemed out of the ordinary?”

  “Hell, boy, the whole damn thing was out of the ordinary. It was the only murder we’d ever had.”

  And Grady had been haunted by it since. He reached inside his pocket, craving a cigarette so bad his mouth watered. “I know, but think back. The killer didn’t leave a note, a souvenir of some kind?”

  Tate snapped his fingers. “The only thing we found was a sliver of bone in Darlene’s hand. We figured she picked it up when she was trying to claw her way out of the well.”

  Grady’s blood ran cold. He forgot the cigarette. Darlene had been found holding a sliver of bone just like these recent victims? Maybe the killer had put it there. “Did you keep the piece of bone?”

  “You’ll have to ask your daddy. He was the one who found it.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  VIOLET TOLD HERSELF she was being paranoid about Ross Wheeler, but the man had unsettled her just as Donald Irving, the man she’d briefly dated in Charleston, had. She considered driving over and seeing Laney again, but decided to call and check on her grandmother instead, then drop by Lloyd Driver’s office. The lawyer had left a message that she should come for the reading of her father’s will.

  She dialed the nursing home and spoke to a nurse. “How is she today?”

  “Resting,” the woman assured her. “And she’s beginning to regain mobility in her right arm.”

  “How about her speech?”

  “It hasn’t returned yet, but don’t let that upset you. It takes time for stroke patients to heal. We can’t push her too hard.”

  “I know.” Violet felt suddenly bereft and very much alone. Tomorrow she would bury her father; she couldn’t lose her grandmother, too. “Please tell her that I called, that I love her. I’ll try to get over to see her next week.”

  The nurse assured her she would, and Violet hung up. Maybe by next week she’d know something more definitive.

  She drove past the Redbud Café, then into the town square and checked the addresses. Five minutes later, she was seated in Driver’s office. He was middle-aged, his face parched by the sun, his hair almost completely white. He shook her hand and introduced himself, then got straight to business.

  “The will is pretty self-explanatory, Miss Baker,” he began. He skimmed through the opening paragraphs, then hit the highlights. “Your father left the house to your grandmother.”

  “Good.” Although the place neede
d some work, at least he hadn’t forgotten his own mother. “Did you know my father well, Mr. Driver?”

  “I’m afraid not. We ran in different circles.”

  Right. The price of his suit indicated that.

  “He drew this document up years ago.” He scratched his neck, almost apologetic. “Unfortunately, he didn’t have any investments, not even a checking or savings account, so there’s nothing else there.”

  She wasn’t surprised. But as she returned to the house, she contemplated the fact that her father hadn’t kept a checking account. Had he kept cash in the house? Hidden somewhere, maybe? If so, she could give it to her grandmother.

  Earlier, when she’d been searching for a burial suit, she’d noticed a small metal box in his closet. Curious now, she went to the bedroom, took it off the shelf and noticed the lock had been broken. Probably by Grady and his deputy. Although Grady hadn’t mentioned finding anything.

  Receipts and check stubs filled the box, but it was empty of cash. A small red ribbon lay curled inside.

  Another memory returned—her and Darlene tying ribbons in each other’s hair. Had this red ribbon been hers? Had her father saved it all these years?

  Then a receipt from a local mental hospital caught her attention.

  She studied it, shocked to see the bill was for patient services—for her mother. When had her mom been in a mental institution?

  Her heart pounding, she dug through the box and found other similar receipts, all dated about the same time—when she was two years old. That couldn’t be.

  Her mother had died in childbirth. At least that was what her father had told her.

  She read the receipts again. There had to be a mistake. Maybe the bill was for her grandmother….

  Unable to believe his deception, she phoned the hospital to check the information. Pretending that she wanted to donate money to honor her mother, she asked for verification on the dates and her mother’s name. Seconds later, the clerk confirmed it.