Dark Water

by Sharon Sala

  She ran a brush through her hair as she stepped into her shoes. When she turned to toss the brush on the vanity, she felt the waistband on her slacks suddenly give. Running her hand along the band, she grimaced when the button fell away in her hand.

  “Rats,” she muttered, and headed for the closet to get her sewing basket. Sewing the button back on was faster than a complete change of clothes.

  Slipping her pants down toward her knees, she sat down on the side of the bed, twisted the waistband toward her and began sewing the errant button back on her slacks. She was just tying off the knot when her phone began to ring. She glanced up at the clock and decided to let the answering machine pick it up, then changed her mind and answered on the third ring.

  “Hello,” she answered.

  “Sarah Whitman?”

  Sarah stifled a gasp. It had been twenty years since she’d heard an accent like this, and the memories it evoked made her sick.

  “Yes, this is Sarah Whitman.”

  “Miss Whitman…my name is Ron Gallagher. I’m Sheriff of Somerset County, Maine.”

  Sarah stared down at the floor, noticing a small scuff on the seam of her left shoe, and took a deep breath. She kept trying to answer, but the bile in the back of her throat made speech momentarily impossible.

  “Miss Whitman…are you still there?”

  She shuddered, then wiped a shaky hand across her face.

  “Yes. I’m sorry. Why have you called?”

  “Franklin Whitman was your father, was he not?”

  The palms of her hands were suddenly sweaty. She felt herself coming undone. This wasn’t fair. It was over. It was supposed to be over.

  “Can’t you leave me alone?” she asked, unaware that the tone of her voice had risen to that of a child.

  Ron Gallagher frowned. He’d been a rookie when the Whitman scandal had hit Marmet, but small towns were slow to forgive and forget. What had happened to the Whitman family as a result of Franklin Whitman’s thievery and deceit was a crime in itself.

  “I’m very sorry, Miss Whitman, but it’s my duty to inform you that, two days ago, we recovered your father’s body from Flagstaff Lake.”

  It was the last thing Sarah had expected him to say. Her father had been vice president of Marmet National Bank for ten years—a well-respected member of the community and the most wonderful parent a ten-year-old girl could have. And then he’d robbed the bank, run off with a million dollars in unmarked bills, and left her and her mother to shoulder the blame. It had ruined their lives and, ultimately, killed her mother. If it hadn’t been for her mother’s best friend, Lorett, Sarah would have wound up a ward of the state. Now they were trying to make her feel sorry for the man who had caused them such pain.

  “What do you want me to do about it?” she snapped.

  “Miss Whitman…I don’t think you understand,” the sheriff said.

  “What’s to understand?” Sarah snapped. “I would think you’d be happy you found him. What does surprise me is that he ever came back to the scene of the crime.”

  Ron Gallagher sighed. What he was about to tell her had already caused a big ruckus in Marmet, but there was no way to deny the truth.

  “That’s just it,” he said. “It doesn’t look as if he ever left.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Some divers found his body locked inside an old metal footlocker. There were still some bits and pieces of his clothing in the locker…some leather that didn’t rot…his wallet…shoes and the like. According to the old police report we had on what he was wearing when he disappeared, we’re leaning toward the theory that he was still wearing the same clothes when he was put in the locker and dropped in the lake.”

  Sarah’s vision blurred. Her voice started to shake.

  “What are you saying?”

  “That your father was murdered…possibly by an accomplice who decided to keep the money for himself.”

  Sarah stood up slowly. She heard the words, but they were not making sense. All these years she’d assumed her daddy had been living it up in some faraway land on the money he’d stolen, when in truth he’d been rotting in a box at the bottom of a lake.

  “No,” she said.

  Gallagher frowned, misunderstanding her response. “I’m sorry, Miss Whitman, but it is your father. We’ve made a positive ID from dental records.”

  “No,” she repeated, “it’s not that.” Then she took a deep breath. “Twenty years ago the authorities said he stole that money and got away. Mother and I were treated as lepers in our own home. The law never quit blaming us. The innuendos were horrible…insinuations that we would soon leave and join him in spending his ill-gotten gains. My mother killed herself because of you people, and now you’re telling me you were wrong about him getting away.” Her voice grew louder as her convictions grew stronger. “So if you were wrong about that, then you could be wrong about everything else. What if he didn’t take the money? What if he was nothing but the Judas goat for the real thief?”

  “I know it’s a possibility, but right now we’re—”

  “When can I get my father’s remains?”

  Her anger was obvious, and under the circumstances, he couldn’t blame her.

  “The coroner is backlogged, but as soon as he’s able to start on the investigation, I’ll—”

  “Never mind,” Sarah said sharply. “I’ll be there as soon as I can get a flight.”

  “But, Miss Whitman, there isn’t—”

  Sarah hung up in his ear.

  Two

  The Chicago windchill was below freezing as Tony DeMarco stepped out of the cab. Hunching his shoulders against the cold, he headed for the front doors of the bank. The renovations on his newest acquisition were almost finished, and he needed to move some money in his accounts to pay off the contractor.

  Fifteen years ago he’d come to Chicago with a dream and little else. But determination, hard work and some backing from his uncle, Salvatore DeMarco, had soon set him on the path to making his fortune. It had taken eight years to build his reputation as a raconteur, but the time had been worth it. His first nightclub, Silk, was such a resounding success that he was about to open a counterpart downtown on Lakeshore Drive.

  He strode into the bank with his head high and his shoulders back. His thick black hair was slightly windblown, his dark brown eyes focused on the man at the president’s office across the room. He moved with the assurance of a man who was comfortable in his own skin, oblivious to the admiring female looks he was getting.

  “Good morning, Charlotte. I need to talk to Dabney. Is he busy?”

  A wide smile spread across the secretary’s face as she looked up.

  “Mr. DeMarco! How nice to see you.”

  “Silk! Come in! Come in!” the bank officer called.

  Since his club had become so popular, many people called him by the nickname he’d had since he was in his teens. Now he answered to it as readily as he did to his own. He did as he was bidden, giving the secretary a quick smile as he passed her desk.

  Within the hour, he had finished his business and was back in a cab on his way to his apartment overlooking Lake Michigan. Despite the years he’d lived in Chicago, there were times, like now, when he missed the deep woods of his home state. The view from his apartment was spectacular, but it had never come close to autumn in Maine. He missed the variegated colors of New England in the fall, and the walks he used to take through the woods as a child. Just thinking about the crunch of leaves underfoot and the scent of wood smoke from neighboring fireplaces made him homesick.

  Five years ago he’d built a vacation home on the shores of Flagstaff Lake, near Marmet where he’d grown up, but since then, he had only been there twice. This year, however, he had promised himself some time away from the job. Even though Chicago had been largely responsible for the fortune he had amassed, it would be great to get out of the city, if only for a while.

  A few minutes later the cab driver pulled up to the curb in f
ront of his apartment. Silk handed the driver a twenty-dollar bill for a nine-dollar ride and got out of the cab without bothering to wait for change. His life was on such a smooth track that he felt generous. The cabby was still smiling as Tony disappeared into the building. A couple of minutes later he was unlocking the door to his penthouse apartment. After shrugging out of his coat, he hung it on the coatrack in the hall, paused to pick a stray bit of thread from the cashmere fabric and then moved toward the kitchen. After the chill outside, a cup of hot coffee sounded good.

  In the midst of preparations, his phone rang. He reached for it without thinking to look at the caller ID, but smiled when he recognized the voice on the other end of the line.

  “Hey, Silk…long time no see,” the man said.

  “Hey back at you, Web. It’s been a while. What on earth are you up to?”

  Webster Davidson signed his name on a contract his secretary shoved in front of him and then waved her away with a signal to hold all his calls.

  “Staying busy…you know how it is.”

  “Still building houses?”

  “Some, although my latest project is a mall.”

  “Better you than me,” Tony said.

  “That sounds suspiciously like negative thinking…something I never thought I’d hear from the infamous Anthony DeMarco.”

  “Oh…so I’m infamous, am I?”

  “Well…maybe not so much anymore. Not since you went legit.”

  Tony laughed aloud. “Hell, Web. I was always legit. Just better looking than you.”

  Web chuckled. “No argument there,” he said. “But talking about my beer gut and thinning hair is not why I called.”

  “So what’s up?” Tony asked.

  “Franklin Whitman.”

  Tony frowned. It had been years since he’d heard the name, but he remembered all too well the shock of what Franklin Whitman had done. Not only had he stolen a million dollars from the bank where he’d worked, he’d abandoned his family, as well. It was so unlike the man he’d known that, at the time, Tony had been stunned by the revelation.

  “What about Whitman? Did they finally find him?”

  “Oh yeah,” Web said. “Or at least what was left of him.”

  The skin on the back of Tony’s neck suddenly crawled.

  “What do you mean…what’s left of him?”

  “A couple days ago a car went into Flagstaff Lake. Some divers from county search and rescue were searching the lake for a body when one of them found this metal trunk. When they opened it, they found what turned out to be Whitman’s remains.”

  “Jesus.” Then Tony remembered the little girl who used to watch him mow her daddy’s yard. Only she wouldn’t be so little anymore. “Whitman’s daughter. Has she been notified?”

  “That’s what I heard. My sister’s husband is a deputy with the Somerset County Sheriff’s Department. Someone said she was coming in tomorrow to claim her father’s remains.”

  “Alone?”

  “Hell, Silk, I don’t know. All I heard was that she’d been living in New Orleans, and that when the sheriff called her she got mad…real mad.”

  Tony sighed. “Thanks for calling, Web. I appreciate it.”

  “Yeah, no problem,” Web said. “I just thought you’d want to know. I remember you liked Whitman.”

  “Yes, I liked him.”

  “So…I guess I’d better get back to work. If you’re ever up this way, give me a call.”

  The line went dead. Tony hung up, then poured some of the coffee that had just brewed into a mug and carried it into the living room. He took a careful sip as he sank down into his favorite chair, then sighed and let his thoughts drift back into the past.

  He thought of the child Sarah Whitman had been, remembering the last time he’d seen her—standing at her mother’s grave with tears streaming down her little face. He’d been sixteen years old and uncertain how to comfort a ten-year-old kid, so he’d done nothing and, as a result, had never gotten over the guilt. Franklin Whitman had believed in Tony when no one else in the town of Marmet would give him a chance. His parents had both been drinkers—never holding a job for more than a few months at a time. Anthony DeMarco had run wild in the streets and more or less raised himself. By the time he was a teenager, he had a bad-boy reputation and the good looks to go with it. The nickname Silk had come from his male peers, who were envious of his sexual prowess and his smooth-as-silk manner with the opposite sex. But Silk DeMarco had been a boy on the verge of manhood and had known that being the high school stud wasn’t going to get him out of the depressing lifestyle into which he’d been born. He wanted more for himself.

  It was the summer of his sixteenth year when he strode into the bank where Franklin Whitman worked and asked him for a loan. He wanted to buy a lawn mower to start his own lawn service, knowing full well that even if he got the loan and bought the mower, there was a very good chance that the good people of Marmet might not trust him enough to hire him. To his surprise, Whitman had not only loaned him the money but became his first customer. Before the summer was over, Silk had acquired thirty regular customers and earned over three thousand dollars. It had been the first time he’d tasted success, and it had given him an appetite for more.

  He took another sip of coffee, grunting with satisfaction that it had cooled enough to enjoy. Something splattered against the windows nearby, and he glanced up. It had started to rain. He frowned, wondering what Sarah Whitman looked like now, wondering if she was married. He remembered the way she and her mother had been treated after Whitman’s disappearance. It had driven her mother crazy and ultimately caused her to take her own life. Web had said Sarah was going to Marmet to claim her father’s remains. The thought of her facing that task alone made him sick. He’d let her down once, but not again.

  He stood abruptly and headed for the phone. A few minutes later he was packing to go home.

  Sarah held her breath as the plane touched down. Reluctantly she glanced out the window, imagining she could already smell the salt air, and then quickly looked away, dreading what lay ahead. Her aunt Lorett had offered to come with her, but Sarah had refused, asking her to oversee her restaurant, instead. It had been a feeble excuse, and they both knew it. Sarah had a very competent manager, and Lorett knew nothing about running a restaurant. Both of them knew Sarah needed to do this alone—she had to face the demons that had driven her away.

  Her legs were shaking as she got off the plane. She made her way through the airport to baggage claim on auto pilot, and by the time she got to Rent-A-Car to pick up the keys to the car she’d reserved, she was sick to her stomach.

  Sarah pointed to a display rack behind the clerk. “I need a map of the state, please.”

  The clerk handed her one with the keys to the car.

  “The lot is out this door and to your right,” she said. “Your car should be at the far end of the lot, Row 8.”

  Sarah nodded, shouldered her purse to a more comfortable position, grabbed the handle of her suitcase and headed out the door. A short while later she was in the car and making her way out of the airport. As she steered the car into the traffic moving toward the city, she muttered a hasty prayer.

  “God give me strength,” she said, and melded into the long line of cars.

  For a while she was too involved in making sure she took the right exit and got on the correct highway to think about where she was going. But after she cleared the city and was on the northbound highway, her anxiety returned. She’d only been ten when her world had imploded. There were nights when she still dreamed of waking up and finding her mother’s dead body in the bedroom, lying in a congealing pool of blood. She had vague memories of wrapping her mother’s bloody wrists with towels in a futile effort to stop the blood that had already ceased to flow. Then, because their phone service had been disconnected, she had run next door for help. The ensuing days were nothing but a blur. It wasn’t until her aunt Lorett had come from New Orleans that she’d let herself cry, a
nd then she’d been unable to stop.

  The day after her mother’s funeral, Lorett Boudreaux had helped her pack her clothes, given the authorities a copy of Catherine Whitman’s will stating her wishes that Sarah would now live with her and left town without looking back. The townspeople were so glad to be rid of the duty of dealing with Frank Whitman’s spawn that they’d made little to no fuss about a black woman claiming a white woman’s child. That Lorett Boudreaux had papers signed by Catherine Whitman giving her sole custody of her daughter was enough for them. For the authorities in Marmet, it was a case of out of sight, out of mind.

  Sarah had spent the next twenty years trying to do just that—put it out of her mind. She’d done a pretty good job of it, too, until she’d gotten the phone call from the Somerset County sheriff. Now everything she’d grown up believing had been turned upside down. If her father had been dead all those years, then that meant he hadn’t abandoned them. On the contrary, he’d obviously been murdered, which led to the disintegration of another assumption under which she’d been living. There was every possibility that her father had been the scapegoat for the real thief. It hurt her heart to think she’d so easily believed his guilt. It didn’t matter that she’d only been ten years old. She should have known that the gentle, loving man who’d always read her bedtime stories wouldn’t have done the vile things of which he’d been accused. Now it was too late to tell him she was sorry, but it wasn’t too late to clear his name.