Dark Water

by Sharon Sala

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “So let’s go.”

  Moments later they were out of the car and entering the sheriff’s office. The woman behind the desk looked up as they entered.

  “I’m Sarah Whitman. I have an appointment with the sheriff.”

  The woman smiled at Sarah as she stood and went to greet her.

  “Sarah…it’s good to see you again,” she said.

  Sarah frowned. “Do I know you?”

  “I am…or rather, I was Margaret Thomason. I sat three desks in front of you in school. My name is Bishop now. Barney Bishop and I got married after I graduated high school.”

  Sarah smiled back, surprised by the genuineness of the woman’s greeting. “Margaret! Yes, I remember you, and I remember Barney, too.”

  Margaret giggled. “He’s changed for the better, trust me.”

  “So he’s given up throwing spitballs, has he?”

  “As I remember, that happened sometime around the sixth or seventh grade…when he started liking girls.”

  Tony grinned. “That’ll do it every time.”

  Margaret eyed the tall, handsome man with Sarah Whitman. Silk DeMarco was something of a legend in Marmet. Talk about the town bad boy making good—he’d done that and more, and managed to stay single in the process. She knew women who once wouldn’t have given him the time of day who would now give their last dollar to date him.

  “Silk…it’s been a while since you’ve been in Marmet,” she said, and tried not to giggle again. It was hardly befitting a married woman and mother of three.

  “Is the sheriff in?” Sarah asked.

  Margaret suddenly remembered why they were there and pulled herself together.

  “Yes. I’m sorry for going on about myself. He’s expecting you. Follow me.”

  She paused at a doorway at the end of the hall, knocked once and then opened it.

  “Ron, Sarah Whitman is here.”

  Ron Gallagher stood abruptly and circled the desk, urging them to come in.

  Margaret put her hand on Sarah’s arm and smiled shyly.

  “It was nice to see you again.”

  A bit of the tension in Sarah’s belly began to ease.

  “Thank you, Margaret.”

  “For what?” the other woman asked.

  “For making me feel welcome,” Sarah said, then entered the office and took a seat beside Tony.

  She cast a quick glance at his profile, absently eyeing the sensual cut of his lips and the strength in his jaw. Before she could look away, he caught her staring. A look passed between them that made Sarah’s toes curl inside her shoes. Disgusted with herself for being so weak where this man was concerned, she tore her gaze away and fixed her attention on the sheriff.

  Ron fiddled with a couple of paper clips as he rested his elbows on the surface of his desk, waiting for them to settle. He saw the exchange between DeMarco and Sarah and sighed, reminding himself that it was time to give up the daydreams. Not only was he too old and too short, Sarah Whitman was way out of his league.

  “So, Miss Whitman, I trust you’ve recovered from your fright of yesterday.”

  Sarah fixed the sheriff with a cool, studied stare.

  “As I told you yesterday, I wasn’t scared, and considering the circumstances, I’m fine. I would like to see the items you found on my father’s body now.”

  Ron unlocked a drawer in his desk and pulled out a large brown envelope. His hands felt all thumbs as he tried to undo the metal clasp. Finally it came open, and he slid the contents onto the surface of his desk.

  “I’m afraid not much survived. Twenty years underwater does a lot of damage.”

  Sarah clenched her jaw to keep from saying something she might later regret and reached for the first thing she saw, which was her father’s wallet.

  “Easy,” Gallagher cautioned. “The leather is pretty fragile and there’s nothing that survived except his driver’s license, which was laminated.”

  Sarah’s fingers trembled as she unfolded the flap and, for the first time in twenty years, looked at her father’s face.

  “Oh God…oh, Daddy,” Sarah whispered, and then touched the buckled plastic with the tip of her finger.

  Tony leaned over and, without speaking, slid his arm around Sarah’s shoulders. For a brief moment she rested against him, and then she straightened, eyed the faded picture of a sandy-haired smiling man one more time, and laid the wallet aside.

  Gallagher pushed the ring of keys closer to her and, as he did, felt as if he was the outsider at a funeral home, intruding on a family viewing.

  Breath caught at the back of Sarah’s throat as she saw the key ring. “Number One Dad.” She’d given it to him for Father’s Day the same year he’d disappeared. She picked it up and turned to show Tony, only to find that no words would come.

  “I see it, honey,” he said softly. “Did you give it to your dad?”

  She nodded.

  “He was always real proud of you. Used to tell me how smart you were. Did you know that?”

  “No.”

  It was a small, quiet word, but one that held a world of pain.

  “Well, he did. Every time I mowed your yard, he had a new story to tell about you.”

  Sarah inhaled slowly, savoring the knowledge that she had mattered.

  The sheriff was curious about some of the keys and wanted to ask Sarah about them.

  “Miss Whitman, I was wondering if—”

  “Please, call me Sarah,” she said.

  Gallagher nodded and smiled. “Sarah…about the keys on the ring. Can you identify any of them?”

  As Sarah fingered the keys, a slight frown creased her forehead. She’d been so young, but maybe…

  “This one opened the front door to our house. I remember because I had one just like it that I wore on a chain around my neck.”

  Gallagher marked the key with a piece of tape and made a note in a file he’d opened on his desk.

  “What about these?” he asked.

  “Car keys, I think,” Sarah said. “They belong to a Ford, and we had a Ford. And these…” She fingered a pair of small, odd-shaped keys. “There were drawers in Daddy’s desk that locked. I’m guessing these were the keys that went to those locks.”

  “What about that one?” Gallagher asked, pointing to the last one to be identified.

  Sarah’s frown deepened as she traced the shape of the long, flat key, trying to remember if she’d ever seen it before.

  “Looks like a safety-deposit key to me,” Tony said.

  Gallagher’s eyes widened at the thought. “You know, you might be right,” he said.

  Sarah laid the keys back on the desk. “I wouldn’t know about that, although I’m sure my parents had one, and obviously it was at the bank where Daddy worked.”

  Gallagher picked up the keys. “I’ll check it out, although if there was a safety-deposit box at the bank, I’m guessing that when the money went missing, it was probably opened.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. My mother didn’t exactly cooperate with the investigation,” Sarah said.

  “They would have gotten a court order for a search,” Gallagher said.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Sarah said. “I was only ten.” Then she picked up a coin from the small pile on the desk and turned it over. It was a 1973 dime.

  “Old money,” she said.

  “Not then it wasn’t,” Tony said.

  Sarah stared at the dime for a few moments and then laid it back down on the desk. Suddenly the idea of rehashing any more of her father’s life with the sheriff seemed obscene. After all, he’d been part of the problem. How could she expect him to be part of the solution she now sought?

  “Is this all of it?” Sarah asked.

  Gallagher nodded.

  “Do you have any more you can tell me about when my father’s remains will be released?”

  “They tell me about a week, maybe more. They’re pretty backed up at the coroner’s office, and this is
n’t—”

  Gallagher stopped, but it was too late to undo the damage. Sarah’s expression had already gone cold.

  “What you started to say was, this isn’t a case with a high priority, right? If there’s nothing else you need from me, I will be leaving now.”

  Caught off guard by her abrupt dismissal, Gallagher stood abruptly, searching for something he could say that would make this all right. Nothing came to mind.

  Tony didn’t comment, but he’d seen the jut of her chin and knew she was serious. He reached for Ron’s hand and shook it as he, too, stood along with Sarah, who was already putting on her coat.

  “Ron, you know where to reach us if you have any other questions.”

  Ron nodded. “Miss Whitman, if there’s anything further we can do for you, please let us know.”

  Sarah lifted her chin. “You want to help? Find the person who put my father at the bottom of Flagstaff Lake.”

  “I would like nothing better,” Gallagher said.

  “Why do I feel like there’s a ‘but’ in there?” Sarah asked.

  Unwilling to be cast as the uncaring monster in this mess, the sheriff pointed to the open file on his desk.

  “This is everything I have on the case, and there’s not one shred of evidence in there that leads us to anyone but your father. He was the last person in the bank the weekend the money went missing. It was Monday before it was discovered, and by then he was gone. Every employee showed up for work that day but him.”

  “And that’s because he was already at the bottom of the lake,” Sarah snapped, and took a deep breath, knowing she was on the verge of screaming. She leaned forward, putting the flats of both hands on his desk. “He didn’t put himself there, did he, Sheriff?”

  It was all Gallagher could manage to meet her gaze, but it was the least he could do.

  “No, ma’am, he did not.”

  “So you people dropped the ball.”

  Gallagher frowned slightly. He didn’t like to think that they’d been so wrong.

  “Looks that way,” he muttered.

  “I need to know if you’re going to do the right thing,” Sarah asked.

  This time Gallagher made no attempt to hide his displeasure.

  “I always do the right thing, Miss Whitman. I don’t always get the results I want, but I always do the right thing. I was just a rookie back then, but we pursued a theft in the best way we knew how and investigated the only suspect we had as thoroughly as possible.”

  “Tell me something,” Sarah said.

  “Anything I can.”

  “Did you ever look at anyone else as a suspect?”

  Gallagher hesitated, then sighed. He couldn’t lie. Not to her.

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “So what are you going to do about it?”

  “I’m already doing something,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I’ve reopened the investigation. If we uncover any new leads, you’ll be the first to know.”

  Sarah made no move to hide her contempt.

  “Another case of…don’t call us, we’ll call you. Right, Sheriff?”

  Tony slid a hand beneath Sarah’s elbow.

  “Sarah.”

  “What?”

  Tony cupped the back of her head. “He’s trying.”

  At his touch, Sarah shuddered, then dropped her head. When she looked back up, her eyes were shimmering with unshed tears.

  “I know,” she said, then turned to Gallagher. “I’m sorry. It’s just been so hard to—”

  Ron put his hand on Sarah’s arm. “You do not owe me an apology. In fact, it’s more the reverse. Just give me time, Sarah. I’ll do what it takes, even if it means pissing off every fine citizen in town.”

  The notion of that happening was too comical to ignore.

  “If you do, I hope I’m around to see it happen,” she said. “Now I’ll get out of your hair and leave you to the business of stirring up ghosts.”

  “Yes, ma’am, that’s what I’ll be doing,” Ron said, and closed the door to his office behind them as they left.

  Sarah waved goodbye to Margaret, who was on the phone, and was reaching for the doorknob when she heard Tony curse beneath his breath. Surprised, she turned around to face him.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Out there,” he said, pointing through the window to the street. “Looks like a news crew found you again.”

  Sarah flinched, and for a moment thought about trying to escape out the back; anger sparked.

  “Good,” she said. “I’m ready for them now.”

  “Are you sure?” Tony asked. “You can wait here while I tell Gallagher. We’ll get rid of them for you.”

  “No. There are things that need to be said. Maybe then they’ll leave me alone.”

  Tony’s eyes narrowed, but he resisted the urge to argue and opened the door.

  Almost immediately, the crew swarmed up to the door. Three cameras were aimed her way, while a half-dozen reporters thrust their mikes in her face.

  “Miss Whitman! Miss Whitman! What can you tell us about your father? Do you think he was killed by his accomplices? Are you bitter about—”

  Tony stepped between Sarah and the crowd.

  “Back off!” he said sharply. “Miss Whitman will not be answering any questions, but she has a statement to make.”

  “Who are you?” one of them asked. “Are you her lawyer?”

  He leveled his gaze toward the reporter. “No. Now, do you want to hear what she has to say, or do I call the sheriff out here?”

  They retreated but kept their cameras trained on Sarah’s face as she stepped forward.

  “As of today, the coroner has not released my father’s remains, but I have been assured by the authorities that the case regarding the crime for which my father was blamed has been reopened. It’s obvious to me that he was a scapegoat for the real thief, who not only got away with a million dollars but thinks he has gotten away with murder.” Then she leaned forward, fixing her gaze on the bank of cameras. “No matter where I am, I will not rest until my father’s name is cleared and his murderer has been brought to justice. Twenty years ago, the good people of this town crucified me and my family. When the truth is revealed, I expect, at the least, an apology.”

  They started shouting questions to Sarah, but once again Tony intervened.

  “That’s all. Now please excuse us,” he said, and took Sarah by the arm and led her to his car. “Hurry and get in,” he said, as he opened the door.

  Sarah paused and looked up. “No, Tony. I’m not running. Not ever again.”

  He started to argue, then nodded. “You’re calling the shots, kiddo,” he said softly. “Is there anything else you want to do while we’re in town?”

  “Can we go to the supermarket? There are a few things I need to buy.”

  “Honey…today you can do any damn thing you want.”

  She smiled primly and settled herself in the seat as Tony circled the car and slid behind the wheel. Moments later they were pulling away from the curb and heading downtown to Marmet’s one and only grocery store.

  Half an hour later, they exited, each carrying a bag of groceries. Tony popped the trunk and was taking the bag from Sarah’s arms to put inside when they realized someone was approaching them from behind.

  Sarah turned around, half expecting more reporters, only to see a tall, elderly man with a small box in his arms.

  “Sarah Jane…is that you?” he asked.

  “Mr. Weatherly?”

  Harmon Weatherly beamed. “You recognized me! It’s been so long, I wasn’t certain you would even remember me, my dear. How have you been?”

  “I’ve been fine, Mr. Weatherly, and of course I would recognize you. You were the best teller in the bank. Daddy always said so.”

  The old man’s smile tilted sideways, but only for a moment.

  “I admired your father very much,” he said. “He was always very fair. You don’t often find t
hat quality in men anymore.”

  “Thank you,” Sarah said. “You don’t know how much I appreciate you telling me this.”

  Harmon nodded, then glanced at Tony, as if trying to place him.

  “Do I know you, sir?” he asked.

  “Anthony DeMarco,” Tony said, and held out his hand.

  Harmon’s eyebrows rose above his glasses as recognition dawned.

  “I know you. You’re Sylvester DeMarco’s son, aren’t you?”

  Tony caught himself wanting to flinch. He had spent years trying to live down his upbringing, and now, in one sentence, this old man had put him right back in that hopeless niche.

  “Yes, I am,” Tony said.

  “Knew him well,” the old man said. “Your mother, too. Sorry to hear of their passing.”

  Tony managed to nod his thanks while concealing his shock. Not once in his entire life had his parents been mentioned without a derogatory comment. He didn’t know whether to hug the old man or just keep quiet.

  “Where do you live now?” Harmon asked.

  “Chicago.”

  Harmon nodded. “Been there once. Didn’t like it. It’s too flat.”

  Tony grinned. “Yes, sir, compared to Maine, it certainly is.”

  “Well, then, it’s been a pleasure to see you again,” he said, then turned to Sarah and held out the box. “I tried to give this to your mother about a week after your father disappeared, but she wouldn’t let me in the house. Now I suppose it belongs to you.”

  “What is it?” Sarah asked, as he set the box in her hands.

  His white, bushy eyebrows met above his nose as he frowned.

  “A day or so after your father disappeared, our loan officer, Sonny Romfield, was killed in a car accident just outside town. It was a terrible tragedy. Left a wife and two little kids behind. Anyway, I was given the job of cleaning out his desk, as well as your father’s. I gave Mrs. Romfield the contents of Sonny’s desk and tried to do the same for your mother, but she wouldn’t answer the door. I thought I would give it to her later, after some of the hubbub died down, but then she…uh…passed away, too, and well…I just put it away. When I heard you’d come back to Marmet, I remembered the box. I can’t say much about what’s in it. I sealed it that day and haven’t looked since, but it’s yours, just the same.”