Unspoken Fear

by Hunter Morgan

  "Terrible tragedy, just terrible." Cora turned to the door. "Alice! Alice, is the tea coming?" Her voice reached an impatient crescendo by the end of the sentence.

  "Coming," called a voice from inside, followed by a clatter that sounded like a glass hitting a countertop.

  "As part of the investigation," Delilah continued, this time with less patience, "we're taking an inventory of various tools purchased in Stephen Kill in the last few months."

  The screen door opened and Alice Crupp appeared, a tray with a pitcher and four glasses filled with ice balanced in her hands. She apparently bought her clothes from the same store and had her hair permed in the same beauty salon as the Watkins sisters. They could have been triplets.

  "Nice to see you, Chief Calloway, Sergeant Swift." She nodded shyly as she set the tray on a small table beside Cora's chair. "Would you care for iced tea?"

  "Of course they'll have tea. That's why I had you bring tea out, Alice dear." She glanced up at Snowden. "Would you care for a little snack, Chief Calloway? Some zucchini bread? Chocolate chip cookies, maybe."

  "No, thank you," Delilah said firmly. "Now, if we could just ask you a few questions, Miss Watkins—"

  "Please, call me Cora, Miss Cora." She watched as Alice poured the tea. "Everyone does, don't they, Chief Calloway?"

  "We're questioning everyone who purchased a certain type of tool," Delilah forged on. "Now, just a little background information first. You work as the church secretary for Father Hailey, is that not correct?"

  "Part time, now. Just part time. I told him you'd be stopping by this morning, so I just thought I'd go in this afternoon. There's so little for me to do these days, you know. What with that new fancy computer." She raised both hands. "I'm just at a loss with that thing. I told Father Hailey that he would just have to start doing the monthly newsletter himself."

  "Your name came up as having made a purchase at Burton's Hardware. Let's see..." Delilah pretended to check her notes, although she already knew when the item had been purchased.

  "Come, come, Alice, the officers don't have all day."

  Alice, having poured tea into each of the four glasses, set the pitcher with the orange butterflies on the table, picked up the tray, and offered it to Cora. Delilah leaned one way, then the other, trying to see around the middle-aged woman's rump as she served Snowden next, then Clara.

  "Do you recall making a purchase at Burton's, ma'am?"

  Alice moved in front of Delilah, offering the last glass of iced tea, her gaze darting to Cora and then back to Delilah.

  No longer seeing an expedient option, Delilah accepted the tea, mumbled a thank-you, and then set the glass on the floor beside her chair. "Ma'am, do you recall making this purchase?" she repeated.

  "Thank you, Alice." Cora smiled, shifting her gaze back to Delilah. "I don't believe I do, Deputy. You know, Harry Newton's older than I am. I asked him what he thought he was doing, trying to pretend to be able to run that fancy computer that's supposed to be a cash register. I liked it better the old way, myself. When we were growing up, Clara and I, Daddy would send us to Burton's for a dime's worth of seeds or a twist of twine, and it would go on our account. Daddy would pay at the end of the month, or when he got to it."

  Delilah watched Cora sip her tea, a little amazed. "You don't recall buying a hatchet at Burton's Hardware?"

  Delilah looked to Snowden, not certain how, at this point, to proceed. She hadn't expected someone to deny a purchase recorded by the store. Certainly not an old lady. "Are you certain you don't remember buying a hatchet?"

  "No, I don't. I don't remember any such thing. And I certainly would, wouldn't I? I may be of a certain age, but I'm not dotty yet, young lady."

  "Thank you so much for cooperating." Snowden had politely drank a little of the tea before setting it down beside his chair where he left it when he rose.

  "That's all the questions you have for me?" Cora got up from the chair, glass still in hand. "But I thought you'd have more questions... about Skeeter Newton. I've known him his whole life, you know. Knew he was a bad seed from the beginning—we all knew, didn't we, Clara?"

  "We all knew," the look-alike repeated.

  "I just feel so sorry for Harry and Flora. I was telling them only yesterday," Cora went on. "We stopped by just before supper, just to check in, to see if there was anything we could do. Clara and I stop or call every night. It's just so tragic."

  "If we have any more questions, we'll call, ma'am." On her way to the steps, Delilah passed Alice, who stood back to the screen door, with the tray in her hand. Their gazes met for just a split second but there was something in her eyes that caught Delilah's attention. Alice seemed to want to speak, but something held her back.

  Delilah waited until Snowden had pulled the car away from the curb before she said anything. "Did you see the way Alice looked at me?"

  "Looked at you?"

  "She knows something about Cora, something about the hatchet, something about something."

  "That certainly narrows down the field, Deputy. I was discussing the other day with the city council our need to have at least one in-house detective on the force. If they can find the money, I had a mind to suggest you for the position. Deductions like she knows something about something will certainly sway the city council into hiring its first female police detective."

  Delilah didn't know if she wanted to hug him or kick him. Police detective? When she was a little girl, she'd always wanted to be Sherlock Holmes, or maybe Maddie Hayes, the investigator on Moonlighting, that old show with Bruce Willis. But he was teasing, making fun of her, so she couldn't tell how serious he was. "You really think I'd make a good detective?"

  "I think you would, Deputy."

  "Stop calling me that. You're not funny." She glanced out the window, unable to resist grinning. "You want to grab a sandwich at the diner before we head out to the Gibson place?"

  "Sounds good to me. I need to get the taste of that iced tea out of my mouth."

  She glanced back at him, trying to hide her amusement. "Not good?"

  "Worse than the zucchini bread."

  * * *

  Delilah watched Noah Gibson set down a wooden case of green wine bottles and wipe the sweat from his brow with the heel of his hand. He didn't appear nervous as they approached from the car Snowden had parked behind the Volvo in the garage, but he did look pissed. When they'd pulled into the driveway, he must have heard the sound of the tires on the loose oyster shells. He stepped out of the barn, glanced in their direction, and then turned and went back inside.

  He was cleaning out the large barn that stood closest to the house and appeared to be original to the property. An area around the door was stacked high with assorted junk; some items she recognized, like the wine bottles and some kind of wooden kegs, and others she had no clue what they were, but guessed they were all used in the process of making wine.

  Word at the diner was that Noah Gibson had decided to begin making wine again, as his parents had before their deaths. Some were taking bets as to how long it would be before he tied one on. Delilah didn't honestly see what one had to do with the other, but she hadn't spoken up the morning she had heard the gossip, while waiting on a fried scrapple sandwich and coffee. She was still considered an outsider by most people in the town so she kept her mouth shut. It was amazing the things a person heard when she was an insignificant fly on the wall.

  "Noah," Snowden said as they approached him.

  "Snowden. Sergeant." Noah nodded to one and then the other as he adjusted the brim of his faded ball cap.

  "Mr. Gibson, we're here to—"

  "I know why you're here." He scowled at Snowden. "I didn't know Skeeter Newton, and I never counseled him. He wasn't the churchgoing kind, but then I suppose your investigation has already shown that."

  "What about anyone in his family?" Delilah questioned, figuring if he was willing to talk, she might as well ask. If she didn't, Snowden would. When she'd told him about her conversa
tion with Mrs. Newton the day before, on the ride to the vineyard, he'd seemed a little smug.

  "Who I counseled is none of your business, Sergeant."

  "It is if it's related to our investigation," Delilah countered.

  Noah turned to Snowden, which pissed her off. "We've been through this before. For ethical reasons, I'm not discussing any private discussions I might have had with my parishioners."

  "You will if we get a court order."

  He turned back to Delilah, amazingly calm. "So get one."

  She was beginning to think she might have misjudged Noah Gibson. In her mind, she had seen him as the fallen priest, a broken man, but this was not a broken man who stood before them. This was a confident, strong-minded man, determined to stick to what he saw as his ethical or moral obligations. She also saw something defiant in his eyes; it was that defiance that worried her.

  "I'd like to speak to Mrs. Gibson. Is she here?"

  "What about?"

  The porch door of the farmhouse slapped closed. "Noah?"

  All three turned to see Rachel Gibson hurry across the cut grass, calling over her shoulder to her daughter who'd followed her onto the porch. Mallory Gibson was wearing a purple rain slicker, hood up, despite the heat of the day and the lack of precipitation. Her feet were bare. "Go back inside with Mrs. Santori, bubble butt. I'll be in, in a minute."

  The little girl reminded Delilah of her nieces. She reminded her how much she missed them.

  "What's going on?" Rachel Gibson asked, tension in her voice.

  Delilah couldn't help but look at Snowden, look to see how he reacted to her. His face remained stony. If he still felt anything for the ex-priest's ex-wife, he wasn't showing it. "We have a few questions for you, Mrs. Gibson."

  "You don't have to answer them," Noah said.

  Rachel glanced at him, then back at Delilah. Delilah couldn't tell what she was thinking.

  "Did you purchase a machete, Mrs. Gibson?"

  "Who says she did?" Noah pulled his ball cap off. "Is that how Skeeter Newton was murdered? Someone cut off his hands with a machete? You think I bought a machete, went to his home, and cut his hands off, leaving him to bleed to death?"

  Delilah ignored him. "Records at Burton's Hardware store indicate, Mrs. Gibson, that you purchased a machete two weeks ago." She let a silence fall between them. "You want to show us the machete?"

  Rachel Gibson stood there for a moment, hands at her sides, and then shrugged and walked away, indicating they should follow.

  "This is absurd, Snowden, and you know it is." Noah stalked off after Rachel, and Delilah and Snowden followed.

  "What, you think Rachel killed Skeeter? Or are you thinking she went to the hardware store to buy the machete for me so I could do it? Is that it?" He shook his ball cap at Snowden. "You know, every moment that you waste harassing me is a moment lost finding out who did kill them."

  Rachel led them across the yard to the garage they had parked in front of. Inside, it was cooler. It was a typical detached garage—car, a lawn tractor, a kid's tricycle, a wagon. On the right-hand wall, out of reach of small hands, were various tools and farm implements hanging on the wall—hammers, levels, an axe, pruning shears, a hatchet. Delilah began to quickly take a mental inventory.

  "You know what," Rachel said, turning around suddenly. "No, no, you can't see the machete purchased at Burton's Hardware. You want to see it, you get a court order." She stepped toward them, partially blocking Delilah's view.

  "Rachel, please," Snowden said calmly. "Do you realize how this looks?"

  "I don't care how it looks. I resent you making assumptions about me or my family, Snowden," Rachel said, emotion in her voice. "You know, this comes close to police harassment."

  "No one's being harassed here, Mrs. Gibson," Delilah defended. "We've been making calls on folks all day, simply tracking down certain tools purchased in the town in a certain time frame."

  "You have to have a court order to make me show you the machete I bought, don't you? Doesn't she?" Rachel asked, turning to Snowden.

  She was pretty. Slender, a sleek dirty-blond ponytail, and expressive green eyes. Eyes that right now showed a fury lurking just beneath the barely polite surface.

  "Rachel, we're just doing our jobs," Snowden responded patiently. "Conducting a thorough investigation. The Newtons deserve our best, as do the Leager and the Rehak families."

  "You're right, I'm sorry." Rachel slid the hand on her hip into her back pocket. "It's just that..." She glanced back at Noah, then at Snowden again. "It's just hard, Snowden. People seem to see Noah as someone he isn't, and now I suppose it's beginning to rub off on me. You know, he's paid his dues. Noah's stopped drinking, he attends AA, and... and we're trying to put our lives back together."

  "Could we just see the machete, Rachel?" Snowden hooked his thumbs in his gun belt. "It would make things easier."

  Delilah watched as Noah caught Rachel's hand and squeezed it. She didn't look at him. "No, Snowden. I'm sorry, but it's a matter of principle. You'll have to get a warrant."

  Delilah looked to Snowden, then back at Noah. "Guess we're done here, then, at least for now," she said coolly. "Have a nice day."

  Noah and Rachel stood hand in hand in silence until they watched the back of the police cruiser disappear down the driveway. Only then did he turn to her. "You all right?"

  She squeezed his hand. "Yes. No. Noah, I fully intended to hand over the damned machete, but it's not here."

  "Not here? What do you mean?"

  "I mean it's not here." She led him by the hand back into the garage, pointing above his head at the wall.

  Noah stared at the empty place where it should have been. "I left it there, after we came back from the hedgerow, before we went to the picnic that Saturday," he said. "I haven't had a chance to get back to clearing that brush. I haven't used it since."

  She studied the wall as if she could somehow conjure up the machete if she stared hard enough. "You're sure you didn't use it again, and maybe you just don't remember?"

  "I'm sure I don't remember using it."

  She looked at him for a moment and then, on impulse, threw her arms around him. "Noah, listen to me." She smoothed his cheek with the palm of her hand, gazing into his dark, troubled eyes. "Don't worry about this. It's around here somewhere, and I bought the stupid machete, not you."

  "But maybe they'll try to implicate you."

  "That's ridiculous." She looked at him for a moment and then caught his cheeks with the palms of her hands. "Listen to me. I know what you're thinking. The blackouts. Time you can't account for. But you didn't kill Skeeter and you didn't kill the others either. Do you hear me? I know you didn't do it."

  His smile was sad as he reached out to stroke her hair. "Thank you," he whispered. "I need that right now. I need you to believe in me, to help me believe in myself."

  Rachel felt her chest tighten. She let her eyes drift shut and she met his mouth halfway. His kiss was gentle, a kiss of apology, of deep regret but also a kiss of yearning. All too soon, he pulled away.

  She rubbed her lips together, savoring his taste. "What do you think we should do about the machete?" she whispered. A million thoughts were tumbling in her head. What was she doing? Why had she kissed him? Where did she think this could go? Where did she want it to go? But there wasn't time to think about that now. What mattered was the safety of her family, of those she loved, and she knew, as God was her witness, that she still loved Noah. Or maybe she was just falling in love with him again.

  "I think we need to stay calm."

  He stroked her hair again and she felt her eyelids flutter. Forty years old and a man was making her weak kneed.

  "And then," Noah said, holding her gaze with his. "I think I need to have a look in Mattie's room."

  Chapter 25

  Delilah was waiting in the dark on her tiny porch when Snowden jogged up her street. It was almost eleven. The night air was heavy and humid, and it smelled like rain. "I was beginni
ng to think you weren't coming," she said.

  He walked in a tight circle on the sidewalk in front of the steps. "I shouldn't have," he panted.

  She smiled. "Come on in before someone sees you." She took a quick look up and down the street; it was a good thing her neighbors were early to bed, early to rise.

  He followed her into the kitchen. She got him a glass of water and pushed it into his hand. There was still a thin sheen of sweat across his forehead, but his breathing was coming back to normal.

  She watched him walk in a circle around the kitchen, sipping the water. Tonight, he wore navy running shorts and a plain gray tank that showed off his beautiful dark skin and the corded muscles of his shoulders and biceps.

  She decided she could use a glass of cold water herself. She went back to the dish cabinet. "I called Alice Crupp this afternoon after we got back to the station."

  He turned to her, halting. "And?"

  Delilah leaned against the refrigerator, filling her glass from the dispenser. She'd taken more care with her evening attire than usual. She was wearing a pair of her brother's plaid boxers, but tonight she'd chosen a T-shirt that was clean and without any tears or stains. She'd brushed her hair and her teeth too. "Alice is the one who bought the hatchet, not Cora... at Cora's request. That's why she looked at me so funny this morning. The hatchet was put on the Watkins' sisters' account, but it was actually Alice who went into the store and made the purchase."

  "You're kidding." He knitted his dark brows. "Why didn't Cora just say so this morning?"

  She rested her hip against the refrigerator, sipping her water. "Gets better. I called Miss Cora and asked her that very question. Know what she said?" She waited a moment, not really expecting a question from Snowden. "She hemmed and hawed, and then she said she'd had Alice buy it for the priest."

  "Noah?"

  She shook her head. "Father Hailey."

  "I'll be damned." He looked away, studying the pattern on her kitchen floor.

  "I'll be double-damned," Delilah echoed. "I asked Miss Cora why she hadn't just come out and told us she'd sent Alice to buy the hatchet when we asked about it." She shrugged. "All she said was that it had slipped her mind."