DEAD CERTAIN

by Carla Cassidy

  She believed him, and the more she'd thought about the two cases, the more she couldn't help but think that somehow, someway they had to be connected. "So, what does all of this have to do with Clay's frustration?" she asked.

  "At the time of my father's murder, of course their house was gone over by the police, but once the crime-scene people were done with it, I locked it up and it's been locked up ever since. I just thought maybe Clay would like to get inside and see if the original officers overlooked something."

  Savannah's pulse rate increased at the thought. Was it possible Clay could find something in Riley's parents' home that might help them figure out what had happened to their parents? Something that might point to the whereabouts of their mother?

  "You wouldn't mind us going inside?" she asked.

  "Not if it would help."

  She frowned thoughtfully. "Why don't we tentatively plan to meet around four tomorrow afternoon and I'll talk to Clay about it tonight."

  "Sounds good to me."

  "And if for some reason that time won't work for Clay, I'll call you back."

  "Whatever works for the two of you will be fine with me. You've got the address. Do you need directions?"

  "No, we should be able to find it without any problems."

  "Then I'll see you tomorrow at four."

  She told herself the excitement she felt was all about being able to reprocess a crime scene that might yield some information. She told herself it had nothing to do with the fact that she was going to see Riley again.

  That evening, after getting off duty, she drove directly from the station to her brother's house. Clay lived on the outskirts of Cherokee Corners, in a small ranch house that was isolated from its neighbors by miles of dusty earth.

  Silhouetted against the setting sun were several old, no-longer-working oil pumps. They resembled bigheaded insects crouching in the dust.

  Clay's car was out front so she knew he was home. She knocked on the front door, then pushed it open. "Clay?"

  "In the kitchen," his deep voice replied.

  She walked through the sterile living room, the room decorated with more lab equipment than actual furniture. She found her brother seated at the kitchen table, a handful of reports spread out before him.

  "What are you looking at?" She sat across from him at the table.

  "Preliminary lab reports of the forensic findings from Mom and Dad's." He didn't look up from the paper he held in his hand.

  Savannah raised an eyebrow in surprise. "How did you get them?"

  "Jesse brought them to me." Jesse Sampson was one of the three crime-scene investigators for the county.

  "If Glen finds out you have those Jesse could get fired," she observed.

  He looked up, his eyes the darkness of a cold, moonless night. "I don't intend to tell Glen … do you?"

  "Of course not."

  Clay threw the paper down on the table and took a long drink from a bottle of beer. "It doesn't matter anyway. So far the tests have yielded nothing to point to a suspect."

  "Have you eaten anything today?" she asked, noting the empty beer bottles that peeked out of the nearly overflowing trash can.

  "I'm not hungry."

  "You have to eat." She got up from the table and walked over to the refrigerator. She opened it up, unsurprised to see a variety of bottles of chemicals, solvents and items she didn't recognize but had nothing to do with foodstuff. She also spied a package of bologna and some slices of cheese.

  "How about you eat a sandwich and I talk to you about something that might or might not interest you."

  "What are you talking about?"

  . She waited until he was eating before telling him about Riley and the crime that had happened two years before. Clay listened intently, his dark gaze giving away nothing of his inner thoughts.

  Although he was her brother, she'd always found him an enigma, impossible to read, difficult to know. Oh, she knew he loved her and Breanna and their mother and father … at least as much as he was capable of loving.

  "So, what do you think?" she asked after she'd told him about the pending meeting with Riley the next day.

  "I think it sounds like a waste of time," he said flatly. "I mean, what's the point? The scene was processed a long time ago."

  "But you're the best, Clay. If the original officers missed anything, you'll find it. You always find things nobody else does. What if the two cases are linked? What if you go to Riley's parents' house and do a little work and you find out what happened there? What happened to Mom and Dad?"

  He reached across the table, grabbed her hand and squeezed. His eyes held the dark pain of a tortured soul. "We fought, you know. The last time I saw Mom, we had a terrible fight."

  "About what?" Savannah asked.

  "It doesn't matter what the fight was about … but I keep thinking, what if I never get a chance to apologize … to tell her that I love her." He released his hold on her hand, but she grabbed it once again.

  "You will get a chance to apologize," she said fervently. "And you'll get a chance to tell her how much you love her. She's just missing, Clay. If it were anything else, we'd know. If she was really gone, surely we'd feel it in our hearts."

  "You don't really believe that, do you?" This time he pulled his hand away and wrapped it around his beer bottle.

  "I believe she's still alive." An ache pierced Savannah's heart as she thought of her mother. "I don't know. Maybe we wouldn't know if she was gone, but Alyssa would."

  Clay finished his beer and tossed the bottle into the garbage. "Okay, I'll process the old crime scene and see if it yields any clues." His jaw clenched for a moment. "At least it will be better than sitting around here waiting for Dad to wake up, waiting for any news."

  "Good." Savannah stood, leaned over and kissed her brother on the forehead. "Why don't I meet you here about three tomorrow afternoon. We can drive to Sycamore Ridge together."

  "All right," he agreed, and for the first time since that night of horror at her parents' home she saw life flicker in his eyes.

  Tomorrow, she thought as she drove home minutes later. Tomorrow she'd see Riley, and perhaps tomorrow they'd get some answers.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  «^»

  Riley sat in the driveway of his parents' home, dreading the moment when he would enter it again. A hundred times in the past two years he'd dreamed of going inside to find his mother and father seated at the card table in the living room, stewing over their latest, intricate jigsaw puzzle.

  He knew that particular scenario would never happen, that his father was never coming back from the grave. But he did still hope that one day his mother would return from wherever she'd been with a logical explanation for her absence.

  He hadn't been parked in the driveway for long when the car interior grew too hot. He got out and walked to the porch and sat on the stoop. Although he dreaded going into the house, he was looking forward to seeing her again.

  Savannah. He wasn't sure why she'd lodged in his brain the way she had, from the moment he'd met her. Even now if he closed his eyes and focused he could smell the scent of her, visualize the rich darkness of her short hair, the beauty of that smile he'd seen in the photographs.

  Over the past couple of days he'd tried to tell himself that what he felt was a crazy infatuation, that his life had been so isolated for so long that of course he would be attracted to a woman as pretty as Savannah.

  But, no matter how he tried to convince himself that it was simply a passing infatuation, he couldn't. He'd never been the kind of man given to flights of fancy where women were concerned. It took far more than a pretty face or a killer body to pique his interest. And he couldn't make himself believe that his only interest in her was as a companion victim.

  He saw the white panel van approaching and stood. He recognized that kind of van. One just like it had pulled in front of this house on the night of his father's murder. He just hadn't expected Clay and Savannah to
arrive in such a vehicle. But it was them, and they pulled into the driveway and got out.

  For a brief moment Riley drank in the sight of Savannah. The white shorts she wore not only showed off the length and shapeliness of her legs, but also complemented her cinnamon-bronze skin tones.

  Her blouse was sleeveless and red, tied at her slender waist and opened at the neck to expose delicate collarbones. White strappy sandals adorned her feet, and her toenails were painted scarlet red.

  He forced his attention away from her and to the man who accompanied her. It was the same man he'd suspected was her sibling the night he'd seen them together at her parents' home.

  "Hi, I'm Riley Frazier," he said, and held out a hand.

  "Clay. Clay James."

  His handshake was strong and lasted only a moment. He nodded curtly, then rounded the back of the van and opened the doors.

  "Clay isn't real good with people," Savannah said as if to apologize for her brother's brusqueness.

  "He seemed fine to me," Riley replied. "How are you doing?"

  She shrugged. "I'm as okay as I can be under the circumstances. We're still waiting for Dad to regain consciousness and hoping he can tell us what happened." She looked toward the house. "Are you sure you're okay with this?"

  He glanced at the house and felt every muscle in his body tense at the prospect of going inside. He looked back at her and forced a smile. "I'm as okay as I can be under the circumstances."

  She flashed him a smile that shored up his strength, made him believe he could face going back into the scene of his father's murder if it helped her in any way.

  "Are we going to do this or what?" Clay peered around the back of the van at the two of them.

  Savannah touched Riley's arm and gestured for him to follow her to the back of the van. Once there Clay handed each of them gloves and plastic booties. "I don't know how much good this will do," he said. "But we might as well try not to contaminate anything that might be left inside."

  Clay grabbed two steel suitcases, then the three of them walked to the front door. Riley was surprised to see his hand shake slightly as he reached out to unlock it. He hoped neither Savannah nor Clay had noticed.

  He opened the door, noticing immediately that the air smelled musty … like a house that had been closed up for far too long. He was almost grateful for the foreign scent. The house no longer smelled like home.

  Clay followed him in and set the two suitcases down on the foyer floor. As he bent down to open them, Savannah entered the house.

  Riley drew a deep breath and stepped into the living room. Here the aftermath of murder still lingered. Fingerprint dust remained on the furniture, blood still stained the carpet around where his father's chair had been. The chair itself had been taken away by the police on the night of the murder.

  Riley had believed his muscles were already taut, but now he felt them tighten even more. He needed to be strong. He wanted to be strong. He couldn't think about the last time he'd been in this room, when his father's body had been sprawled on the floor, the back of his head a bloody mass of tissue and brain matter.

  He jumped as Savannah touched his arm. He turned to look at her, hoping she didn't feel, couldn't see how close he was to shattering into a million pieces.

  "It's the natural way of things that children bury their parents, but not like this," he said. "No child, no matter how old, should have to go through something like this."

  "I know," she said softly. "Unfortunately, as a homicide detective I see this all too often."

  He turned to look at her. "How do you get through the days?"

  "I remind myself that I'm doing something good, that maybe with my work, a murderer will be taken off the streets and put behind bars for the rest of their lives."

  "That's what I want to happen to the person who killed my dad. I'm not a vengeful man, but in this case I make an exception."

  She nodded. "I know exactly how you feel."

  "If you don't mind, Riley, I'd like to do a complete walk-through of the house before I really get down to business," Clay said.

  Riley was grateful for the all-business tone in Clay's voice. For just a moment he'd felt himself getting far too emotional for comfort. "Fine with me. Why don't we start in the kitchen."

  The walk-through was difficult. In every room there was evidence of lives suspended. In the kitchen a drainer held a rack of clean dishes, a dish towel covering them. His mother had rarely used the electric dishwasher, preferring to hand wash any dishes. She called the time it took her to hand wash dishes her think time.

  In the bathroom a towel hung over the shower door and Riley remembered how much his mother had hated it when his father didn't put his towel in the hamper.

  Both Clay and Savannah remained quiet as he led them through the house. He was grateful for their silence, felt as if it was somehow respectful of the people who had once lived here, loved here.

  Savannah was the first to speak. They entered the bedroom where Riley had grown up, the room that his parents had kept much as it had been when he'd been a teenager. She walked over to the bookcase and looked at the trophies displayed there.

  "A football jock, huh?"

  "I played a little ball," he replied, oddly embarrassed by her peek into his past.

  "Looks like you played pretty well—All-State champion."

  "We had a good team that year. I don't think there's anything in here that can help us."

  "You're probably right," Clay agreed as if sensing his discomfort.

  The master bedroom was the most difficult. Here was the evidence the initial investigators had thought proved that his mother had been responsible for his father's murder. Drawers were open, clothes spilling out as if items had been grabbed hurriedly. Several empty hangers dangled in the closet, some had fallen to the floor.

  There was no denying that it appeared as if somebody had packed in a hurry. "Unless my mother tells me she's responsible for this, I'll never believe she packed up and ran away," he said. "Besides, even if the worst-case scenario is true, that somehow she suffered some kind of temporary insanity and hit my father, she never would have left without her treasure box."

  "Treasure box?" Savannah looked at him curiously.

  He went inside the closet and from the shelf above the clothes removed a wooden container the size of an old-fashioned breadbox. He placed it on the edge of the bed and opened it, aware of Clay and Savannah moving closer to see what the box contained.

  Inside were a number of items—a baby photograph of Riley, the invitation to his parents' wedding, a dried corsage from a long-ago prom. There was also money. Lots of money. "Mom and Dad never took a honeymoon," Riley said. "So, Mom was saving up enough money for them to take one, last year on their anniversary. There's a little over a thousand dollars in here." He looked from Savannah to Clay. "Why would a woman on the run not take this money with her?"

  Savannah and Clay exchanged a look. "You just made me remember something about our mother," Savannah explained. "She had a secret hiding place in her headboard. She kept her good jewelry there along with some cash."

  "Was it taken?" Riley asked.

  "I don't know. I don't think anyone ever checked."

  "Let me know what you find out. I'd be interested to know," Riley replied.

  From the master bedroom they returned to the living room and suddenly Riley needed to get out, get some air. He'd thought he'd be able to handle being inside the house again, but he couldn't. A sharp grief ripped through him with jagged edges that pierced his heart.

  "You do whatever it is you need to do. I'll be out back on the patio," he said. He didn't wait for either of them to reply, but headed outside through the sliding glass doors in the living room.

  The heat of the sun as he sat on one of the deck chairs warmed the chill that had taken possession of him. Two years—for almost two years his mother had been missing.

  He leaned his head back and gulped the air that was filled with the sweet scent o
f roses. The scent came from a dozen rosebushes in the backyard, each one laden with blooming, rich-colored flowers.

  How long before he got some answers? How long would be keep this house just as it was … waiting for the return of a woman who might never return?

  He frowned at this thought. He couldn't think that way. She would come back. Somehow, someway, she'd return. He had to hold on to that thought.

  * * *

  There was nothing Savannah could do to help Clay. First and foremost she wasn't trained in his field, and secondly, her brother had always worked best when left alone.

  She moved to the sliding doors and looked out to where Riley sat with his back to her in a plastic deck chair. She wasn't sure if he needed some time alone or would prefer company.

  She'd seen his anguish with each step they'd taken through the house, had felt his anguish echoing inside of her. He'd given them a stiff upper lip, but his emotions had shown in the slight shake of his hands, his jaw muscles that clenched and unclenched and the pain that radiated from his blue eyes.

  "I'm going outside. Call me if you need me to do anything," she said to her brother. He grunted in reply, his concentration completely focused on his task.

  If Riley needs to be alone, then I'll know it and come back inside, she told herself as she slid the door open and stepped outside.

  She sat in the deck chair right next to his but focused her attention on the lovely roses, giving him an opportunity to compose himself if he needed to. "The roses are gorgeous and smell wonderful," she said.

  "My father planted them about six years ago after my mother complained he never brought her flowers. He said this way every spring and summer day she'd have flowers from him."

  She looked at him then, saw that some of the grim lines that had etched into his face while they'd been inside the house had gone. "I'm sorry, Riley. I'm sorry you had to come here again."

  He smiled, but it was a sad kind of smile. "It was my idea. You didn't force me into it."

  "I know, but still … it has to be hard."

  "I hadn't anticipated it being as hard as it was," he confessed. He drew a deep breath and sat up straighter in the chair. "But, it's nice out here. I've always liked this backyard."