At that moment Glen Cleberg arrived on the scene. Savannah shoved the business card back into her purse, then got out of the car to greet her boss.
"How you doing, Savannah?" he asked with uncharacteristic kindness.
When Glen had become chief a year ago, he'd seemed to be afraid that the James siblings wouldn't honor his authority after serving under their father. He'd been harder on them than on any of the other officers and it had taken several months before they had all adjusted.
"I'm fine … eager to get this over with."
He frowned. "Maybe I should have had Clay do it … but I was afraid he'd look at the scene professionally rather than as a family member."
"He probably would have," Savannah admitted. Clay was consumed by his work as a crime-scene investigator. She suspected if somebody cut him he wouldn't bleed blood, but would bleed some kind of chemical solution used in his lab to look for clues.
We tried not to make a mess, but you know some things can't be helped," Glen said as he handed her a pair of latex gloves.
"You don't have to explain that to me." She pulled on the gloves, surprised by the dread that she felt concerning entering the home where she'd been raised by loving parents.
Glen drew a deep breath. "Let's get on with it, then." He unlocked the front door and together they stepped into the large living room.
Savannah drew in a breath as she saw the blood. It stained her father's chair, dotted the ceiling overhead and had dried on the television screen in front of the chair. She knew enough about blood-spatter evidence to realize her father had received a tremendous blow.
She struggled to find the emotional detachment to get her through this, trying to think of it as an unidentified victim's blood instead of her father's.
Fingerprint dust was everywhere and swatches of carpeting had been cut and removed. Her father's chair faced away from the front door. It would have been easy for anyone to ease into the house and hit him over the head.
"Let me guess, no sign of forced entry," she said. "My parents kept their door open and unlocked until they went to bed." Emotion threatened to choke her. She swallowed hard against it. "It would never have entered their minds to be afraid here, to think they should lock up the doors and windows."
She drew a deep breath and looked around the room carefully. "Nothing seems to be missing in here. If it was a robbery attempt, you'd think they would have taken the stereo or computer equipment."
Glen didn't quite meet her gaze, and with a stunning jolt she realized he believed her mother had done this. He wasn't seriously entertaining the thought that it had been a botched robbery or anything else.
"Glen, I know my parents fought. Everyone knew they fought. They fought loud and often in public. They were both stubborn and passionate, but they were madly in love. You know my mother isn't capable of something like this."
His gaze still didn't meet hers. "Savannah, we can only go where the evidence takes us, and until we find your mother, she's our top suspect in this case."
Knowing he thought it and hearing him say it aloud were two different things. She swallowed the vehement protest rising to her lips, aware that whatever she said would make no difference.
From the living room they entered the kitchen, which was neat and clean and showed no evidence that anything or anyone unusual had been in the room. The only thing out of place was a pie that sat on the countertop, along with a knife and a plate. Her father loved his pies, and Rita baked them often for her husband.
The next two bedrooms yielded nothing unusual. Nothing appeared to have been touched or disturbed in any way.
As they entered her parents' bedroom, a small gasp escaped her lips. Here it was obvious something had happened. The closet door stood agape, and it was evident clothes were missing. The dresser drawers were open, clothing spilling out onto the floor as if somebody had rummaged through them quickly.
She walked to the closet and looked on the floor, where three suitcases in successive sizes had always stood side by side. Now there were only two. The middle size was missing.
She stared at the spot where the suitcase had stood, trying to make sense of its absence, but it made no sense. In all their years of marriage her parents had never taken trips separately.
It would have been extremely out of character for Rita to pack a bag and go anywhere without her husband. Just as it would be extremely out of character for her to harm the man she loved.
Clothes were missing … several sundresses, slacks and summer blouses. Empty hangers hung on the rod and littered the floor, as if items had been forcefully pulled off them. A check of the dresser drawers showed missing lingerie, sleepwear and other personal items.
She became aware of the ticking of the schoolhouse clock that hung on the wall, stared at the beautiful dark-blue floral bedspread that covered the bed.
What had happened here? She looked at Glen, whose face was absolutely devoid of expression. "I don't care how it looks. I'll never believe my mother had anything to do with my father's injuries."
"But you have to admit, it looks bad."
Savannah's heart ached as she acknowledged his words with a curt nod. Yes, it looked bad. It looked very bad. If her father didn't survive, then her mother would be wanted for murder. Either possibility was devastating.
They finished the walk-through and left the house. She'd hoped to find some sign of an intruder, some clue that somebody else was responsible for her father's condition. But she'd seen nothing to help prove her mother's innocence. And where was her mother?
She remained in her car long after Glen had pulled away, trying to piece together possible scenarios that might explain the absence of her mother's personal items, the missing suitcase. But nothing plausible fit.
So, what happened now? Where did they go from here? She dug into her purse to find her car keys and suddenly remembered that Riley Frazier hadn't just handed her a business card the night before. He'd handed her something else, as well.
Digging in her purse, she finally found the sheet of paper that had been thrust into her palm by the handsome stranger. She opened it.
It was a photocopy of an old newspaper article that had appeared in the Sycamore Ridge News on August 14, two years ago.
Man Murdered … Wife Missing, the headline read. Savannah's heartbeat raced as she read the article that detailed a crime chillingly similar to what appeared to have happened in her parents' house.
The victim's name was Bill Frazier and the woman missing was his wife, Joanna. According to the article a son, Riley, survived Bill Frazier.
What had happened to Riley's mother, Joanna? Had she been found and had she been guilty of the murder of his father?
She needed to talk to Riley Frazier. She needed to find out how things had turned out in this case. And she needed to know what it might have to do with her family's case.
* * *
Chapter 3
«^»
He'd hoped she would call, but he really hadn't been expecting her call so soon. Riley sat in the ice cream parlor tat was the bottom floor of the Redbud Bed and Breakfast in the center square of Cherokee Corners.
He was early. She'd told him to meet her here at seven, and it was only now just a little after six. But he'd decided to come early. He'd ordered a cup of coffee, taken a chair facing the door and now waited for Savannah Tallfeather to join him.
She hadn't mentioned the news clipping in her call, only that she'd like to meet with him. He sipped his coffee, watching the people who came and went as he waited.
The ice cream parlor was a popular place. He wondered if it was always so busy or if Saturday nights brought families out for ice cream. Certainly it was ice cream weather—hot and dry like only Oklahoma could be at this time of year.
The front page of the evening edition of the Cherokee Corners newspaper had been filled with the crime that had taken place the night before at the James ranch. Along with the facts that Thomas James was in critical but stable
condition and Rita Birdsong James was missing, the article also was a tribute to the couple's contributions to the city.
Thomas James had served as chief of police for ten years, and before that had been on the force for twenty years. During his career he'd received a variety of awards, and recognitions of honor.
His wife, Rita Birdsong James, was no less visible in the community. A full-blooded Cherokee, she was the driving force behind the Cherokee Cultural Center. Her goal had been to educate through entertainment and recreations of the Cherokee past and present. Both were described as pillars of the community.
Riley's parents hadn't been community icons to anyone but him. His father had been a simple man, a carpenter, and his mother had been a housewife who loved to crochet. In the evenings they had often worked on jigsaw puzzles together.
Two couples, seemingly very different, and yet they both had suffered a similar fate. The pain he felt when he thought of his parents had lessened somewhat with time, but it certainly hadn't gone away.
The most difficult part was that there had been no closure. Sure, the police had closed the file, branded his mother a murderer on the run. But he knew better. He knew that somewhere the real killer of his father ran free and the fate of his mother had yet to be learned.
He'd just finished his first cup of coffee when Savannah walked in. Her gaze locked with his, and in that instant he felt a connection like none he'd ever felt before.
He saw the confusion, the pain in her eyes, felt it resonate with aching familiarity inside him. He was certain it was the connection of two survivors, of two people whose lives had been turned upside down by violent, senseless crime.
His impulse was to stand and draw her into his arms, hold her tight to take away the chill that he knew wrapped tightly around her heart.
But, of course he didn't act on his impulse. She was a virtual stranger, and the last thing he wanted to do was alienate her right from the get-go. He stood as she approached his table. "Officer Tallfeather," he said in greeting.
"Please, make it Savannah," she said, and waved him back into his chair. "I'll be with you in just a minute." She walked over to the counter and greeted the woman working there. The two hugged and spoke for a minute or two, then Savannah returned to the table and sat across from him. "My cousin," she explained.
Before she could say anything else, her cousin appeared at their table. She placed a coffee mug before Savannah, then filled both Savannah's and Riley's cups.
"Alyssa, this is Riley Frazier," Savannah said. "Riley, my cousin, Alyssa Whitefeather."
Alyssa's eyes were as dark and as filled with pain as Savannah's. "Nice to meet you," she murmured in a soft, low voice.
"Nice to meet you, too," Riley replied. "I'm sorry for the pain your family is experiencing right now."
She nodded, then touched Savannah's shoulder. "Let me know if I can get you anything else."
"Thanks, Alyssa," Savannah said.
Once again Savannah directed her gaze at him as Alyssa left the table. She wrapped her long, slender fingers around the coffee cup as if seeking warmth. "I read the newspaper article you gave me," she began.
"I figured you had when you called."
She took a sip of her coffee. "Tell me about it. Tell me about the night it happened."
Riley leaned back in his chair, for a moment rebelling at the thought of revisiting that horrible night. And yet he'd known she'd want him to tell her about it. He'd known when he'd given her that news clipping that he would have to call up everything about that night.
"Before I tell you what happened to them, let me tell you about my parents … about what kind of people they were."
"All right," she agreed.
"They were quiet people and lived an uncomplicated life. My father was a carpenter, my mother a homemaker. He liked to putter in his garden in his spare time and my mother loved to cook and crochet. In the evenings they'd either watch old movies together or work on jigsaw puzzles that they set up on a card table in the living room."
"You were close to them." Her voice was as unemotional as her beautiful features, but her eyes spoke volumes, radiating with pain. He just didn't know if the pain was for him or for herself or perhaps a combination of both.
"I was their only child and yes, I was close to them." He thought of the nights when his choice had been to go to the local honky-tonk or spend the evening at his parents' house. He'd often chosen his parents' company. "They were good people."
"So, what happened … that night?" The words came from her in hesitation, as if she was sorry to have to ask him such a question.
He raked a hand across his lower jaw and forced himself to go back to that night. "I'd been over to their house that afternoon to show my dad some blueprints of new homes. I had a six-o'clock appointment with clients and so left my folks' place about five-thirty."
He paused to take a drink of his coffee and felt himself plunging back in time, pulled back into the nightmare. "It was after eight when the clients left, and I realized I'd left some of the blueprints at my folks' house, so I drove back there."
On one of the walls of the restaurant was a beautiful painting of a redbud tree in bloom. He stared at the picture as he continued. "The front door was open, which really wasn't unusual. I walked into the living room and my father was on the floor in front of his chair. I knew in an instant he was dead."
Grief, as rich and raw as the moment it had happened, seared through him. He cleared his throat. "I picked up the phone and called for help, then went in search of my mother, certain that I'd find her dead, as well."
"But she wasn't there?" Savannah leaned forward, her eyes more alive than before.
"A suitcase was missing, along with some of her clothing, and she immediately was placed at the top of a very short list of suspects." It was impossible for him to keep the edge of bitterness from his voice as he remembered how he'd fought with the police, begging them to look for another killer. "I was also placed on the top of the list, but only for a brief time."
"Your appointment was your alibi?" she asked.
He nodded. "That and the fact that when I left my parents' place that evening both my mom and dad walked me to my car. One of the neighbors was outside and was able to verify that when I left the house my parents were alive and well."
"That was two years ago. What did you find out about your mother? How does the case stand now?" She flushed, her cinnamon skin turning a deeper shade of red. "I mean, I'm sorry for what happened to your father."
He smiled, hoping by the gesture he let her know there was nothing to apologize for, that he understood the reason for the questions before she offered any sympathy. His smile faded as he continued to look at her.
"My mother has never been found." He didn't mean the words to sound as stark as they had. Her eyes widened with surprise.
"And your father's case?" she asked softly.
"Is officially closed. The local authorities are certain my mother is responsible and probably fled the country."
Once again her fingers curled around her mug. "And what do you think?"
This time it was he who leaned forward and held her gaze intently. "I know my mother had nothing to do with my father's death. I know it with all my heart, with all my soul, and nothing and nobody will ever make me believe otherwise. If there's anything in this world I'm dead certain of, it's that."
He frowned and leaned back in his chair, realizing he'd become loud and had drawn the attention of the other patrons. "Sorry, I didn't mean to get carried away."
"Please, don't apologize," she replied. "I feel exactly the same way about my mother."
There was more life in her eyes now, a flash of determination Riley could easily identify with. "Are they already saying your mother is a suspect?"
"Yeah. At the moment that's what the evidence points to, and the police will follow the evidence." She stared down into her coffee cup for a long moment.
He remained silent, giving her time to de
al with whatever emotions might be reeling through her. She looked utterly vulnerable with her eyes downcast, displaying the long length of her dark lashes.
She had delicate features, a slender neck and small bones. He'd noticed her scent when she'd first sat down, a fragrance that reminded him of spring days and full-blooming flowers.
How long had it been since he'd noticed the smell of a woman? How long since he'd noticed the curve of a slender neck, the delicacy of feminine hands, the thrust of shapely breasts?
It had been since Patsy. Too long. Something long dormant inside him stirred as he sat watching her, smelling her fresh, feminine scent.
Finally she looked up, her eyes the rich brown of deep chocolate. "What do you think happened to your mother, Riley?"
A sharp shaft of pain drove through him, banishing the momentary warmth that had filled him. "I really don't know. Over the past twenty-two months I've come up with hundreds of possibilities, each one more outrageous than the last. She got hit over the head and is wandering around somewhere with no memory of who she is. She became part of the witness-protection program and had to build a new life for herself."
He flashed her a wry grin. "Hell, one night I got desperate enough, drunk enough that I checked to make sure there hadn't been any UFO sightings on the night she disappeared. I thought maybe she'd been sucked up into a spaceship as an example of a human being with a perfect heart and soul."
To his surprise, she reached across the table and placed her hand over his. Her skin was warm. "I'm so sorry for you. It must be horrible—the not knowing." She drew her hand back as if suddenly self-conscious. A fierce determination swept over her features. "But I'm sure my mother is going to turn up anytime now. It's all just been a mistake, a terrible misunderstanding of some sort."
He didn't try to contradict her. He knew how desperately she was clinging to that certainty at the moment. And he hoped she was right. He hoped it all was a terrible misunderstanding and Rita Birdsong James would be found safe and sound and innocent of the charge of attempting to kill her husband.
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