“And it lasted, what, one summer?” Tom said. “It was pretty bad, from what I’ve heard. Local people trying to be actors. My dad said it was so amateurish that audiences laughed all the way through it.”
“Well, okay,” Joanna conceded. “That wasn’t a good example, but that was one of Cam’s first projects. He did some very worthwhile things after that.”
“The antipoverty program didn’t last, though,” Tom pointed out. “He lost his official status as an advocate for the poor.”
“Yeah, that was a disappointment. The local politicians thought at first that the program was just going to bring money into the county and pay for a few public works projects. They didn’t like it one bit when they realized federal money was being used to stir up the poor. They wanted the program shut down, and they finally succeeded.”
“So Cam was out of a job.”
Joanna nodded. “They had to live on what Meredith was making at the paper, and I don’t think it was more than minimum wage. But Cam got himself elected to the county board from Rocky Branch District, and he went right on working to help low income people. Until that courthouse crowd found a way to get him off the board.”
“They redrew the districts, didn’t they? So all the low income voters wouldn’t be so concentrated?”
“Right. It was such a damned crooked, self-serving thing to do, and they were so blatant about it. And the courts supported them, for pity’s sake. Cam really took that hard. It was just a lucky coincidence that Kip Hardison wanted to sell the paper and retire. They got the money to buy it from Meredith’s aunt, and Cam threw himself into it heart and soul.”
“Why didn’t you help him keep the paper alive?”
Joanna spread her empty hands. “I couldn’t. I run this place month to month, and there’s never much left over. The rent I get from Rachel is my mad money, if you want to know the truth.”
Tom intended to get to the question of Meredith and Scotty’s relationship, but first he asked, “Why did Meredith dislike Karen so much?”
For a second Joanna seemed thrown by the change of topic. Then she shrugged. “Karen went after Cam for a while, way back then. She didn’t care about him, it was just a game to her. She was bored to death here, and she was just amusing herself. I doubt she even remembers any of that now. But poor Meredith took it very seriously at the time.”
“Did the two women see each other while Karen was here this week?”
“No. I suggested we all get together over dinner to reminisce, but neither of them wanted to.”
“Okay,” Tom said. “Tell me, how long was Meredith involved with Scotty Ragsdale?”
Joanna winced. “Oh, lord. Who’d you hear that from?”
“How much do you know about it?”
She glanced away, twisted a stray wisp of hair around one finger, crossed her legs and uncrossed them. “They were friends for a long time, that’s all I know.”
Tom raised his eyebrows skeptically.
“It is all I’m certain of,” Joanna protested. “How should I know what other people do in their private lives?”
“Meredith confided in you, didn’t she?”
“Not as much as you seem to think.” Joanna sat forward, her expression earnest and pleading. “Look. When Scotty’s sister Denise died—it was awful, the poor girl froze to death outdoors in the snow. I wasn’t here when it happened, I was back home in Kentucky making plans for my wedding, but I heard all about it. Scotty was just devastated, but his parents didn’t have time for him, they were too caught up in their own grief. Meredith sort of took him under her wing. She became a substitute big sister, I guess you could say.”
“What did Cam think of their friendship?” Tom asked.
Joanna shrugged. “He certainly didn’t see Scotty as a rival, if that’s what you’re getting at. Cam was sure of Meredith.”
“Was Meredith sure of Cam? Were there any other women in the picture? Anybody who might have been jealous or might have a jealous husband?”
“If he ever cheated on Meredith, I never heard even a whisper about it. I know she was worried about that before they got married, and she told him she wouldn’t marry him unless he took a vow to always be faithful to her. And he did. He loved her, you know. I never knew anything about Cam’s background, but I got the feeling Meredith was different from any girl he’d ever known. She was refined, cultured. Sensitive. He admired that.”
If Meredith’s description of Cam’s family was accurate, Tom could understand his attraction to a girl like Meredith. “Now, let’s get back to Scotty.”
“Oh, Tom, please don’t ask me about that again.” Joanna’s voice cracked, and she hesitated, letting her gaze roam over the photos of champion horses on the walls. “He was crazy about Meredith. Anybody could see that. He would have done anything for her. And he despised Cam. Do you think the frustration got to be too much for him and he finally broke? Did Scotty kill them both?”
Chapter Seventeen
When Tom walked into Rachel’s cottage a few minutes after leaving Joanna, he felt as if he were coming home. Cicero the parrot squawked his crazy cry for help and flew over to land on Tom’s shoulder, Frank issued one of his rusty-hinge meows and rubbed against Tom’s leg, and Rachel greeted him with a kiss.
If he could come home to Rachel every evening, Tom thought, he’d have everything he wanted out of life.
Holding her with an arm around her waist, he said, “What’s up? You know, all you have to do is invite me, you don’t have to lure me out here with mysterious promises.”
Rachel wriggled out of his embrace. “Let’s sit down and talk. After I divest you of the shoulder ornament.”
“I don’t mind Cicero.” Tom turned his head toward the parrot and got a bite on the nose, Cicero’s version of a kiss. “Ow!”
Rachel laughed. “Still don’t mind him? Cicero, go back.” The parrot resisted as he always did, treading on Tom’s shoulder and uttering a stream of protesting squeaks. She said more firmly, “Cicero, go back.” He flapped away, returning to the top of his big cage by a window.
They were settling on the couch, Frank between them, when Holly stuck her head out of the kitchen. She grinned at Tom, her mood obviously improved since the day before. “Hey, Captain. You want somethin’ to eat or drink?”
“Thanks, Holly, but I can’t stay long.”
“Well, if you change your mind, let me know.” She disappeared into the kitchen again.
“Now, finally,” Tom said to Rachel. “What’s this vital information you’ve got for me?”
She smoothed her auburn hair back behind her ears the way she often did when she was getting serious. “I went to see Lloyd Wilson this afternoon—”
“What? Why?”
“Because his dogs are my patients. One of them has asthma, and I wanted to make sure she wasn’t affected by the smoke from the fire next door.”
“Rachel. Come on now. If the dog was sick, wouldn’t he call you? Why did you go out there?”
Instead of answering the question, she said, “Lloyd told me he heard a gunshot yesterday morning. He thought it was up on the mountain, but it could have been next door.”
Tom frowned. “He didn’t say anything to me about hearing gunfire.”
“That’s why I wanted to tell you. Was Meredith Taylor shot?”
He ignored the question. “Did Wilson say what time he heard it?”
“Between ten and ten-thirty. Tom, Ben was at home then. Holly and I were with him.”
“So this is all about constructing an alibi for Ben Hern.”
Indignation brought a pink flush to her cheeks. “It’s about finding out the truth.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do. That’s my job. I don’t need an amateur going around questioning witnesses. You’ll do more harm than good.”
“Will you talk to Lloyd about it? You can’t ignore this.”
“Yes, I’ll talk to him.” Tom got
to his feet. “He gets things mixed up, though. He can’t keep track of time. He also has a long history of bad blood with the Taylors. He might have his own reasons to create confusion about the facts.”
Rachel rose and faced him. “Well, if you think Lloyd killed them, Ben’s in the clear, right?”
“Aw, for god’s sake.”
“Go back to work.” Rachel waved a hand. “I won’t take up any more of your time with my silly theories.”
“Rachel—” But her face was a closed door. “Fine. I’ll go back to work.”
Tom patted Frank’s head and left.
***
“Help! Help! Save me! Save me!”
Rachel jerked upright in bed, startled awake by the parrot’s cries from downstairs. The luminous face on her bedside clock read 12:10. Why was Cicero making such a racket?
She threw back the covers, swung her feet to the floor and pushed them into her slippers.
“Help! Help! Save me! Save me!”
Rachel stopped cold. Cicero cried out that way only when someone other than she and Holly came into the house.
She held her breath and listened. A moment passed in silence. Then she heard Cicero’s cry again, followed by a loud crash downstairs. Frank’s furry body brushed against her arm as he slid off the bed to hide underneath.
With trembling fingers Rachel found the lamp base and slid her hand upwards along cool ceramic to the switch. The sudden glare made her blink. She grabbed her cell phone from the bedside table and pressed the 911 button.
A young, high-pitched female voice answered. “Mason County 911. What is your emer—”
“Somebody’s in my house!” Rachel whispered. “Somebody broke in, they’re downstairs.”
“Ma’am, what is your name and where are you loca—”
“The McKendrick farm. I’m Rachel Goddard. In the house at the end of the farm road. Hurry! Get somebody out here.”
“Yes, ma’am. Now don’t hang up.”
Rachel heard the dispatcher contacting a patrol car, repeating the information. She held the phone away from her ear, trying to quiet her own harsh breath, listening for sounds from downstairs. Nothing.
“Ma’am? Are you there?”
Rachel brought the receiver back to her ear. “Yes, yes, I’m here.”
“A deputy’s on the way. He’s close by, it’ll just be a few minutes. Are you in a safe place?”
“The bedroom.”
She heard footsteps downstairs.
“All right, ma’am, don’t you leave that room,” the dispatcher ordered, sounding like a stern child. “You lock the door and stay right where you are.”
The bedroom door—it was standing open so Frank could come and go during the night. Rachel propelled herself off the bed, shut the door as quietly as she could. No lock on it. What now? Something to block it.
From downstairs came another crash, the sound of breaking glass.
Cicero squawked, no words, just a scream of fear.
Heavy footfalls. Somebody running through the house.
“Call Tom,” Rachel gasped into the phone. “Call Captain Bridger.”
“I’m calling Captain Bridger right now,” the dispatcher said. “You stay on the line, you hear? Don’t you hang up.”
Rachel waited for an eternity, listening, hearing nothing. Was Holly awake, terrified and defenseless in the next room? If he comes up here—
“Somebody lives with me,” Rachel whispered to the dispatcher. “I have to go warn her.”
“No! No, ma’am, don’t you leave—”
Rachel dropped her hand to her side, reducing the dispatcher’s protests to a distant whine.
She opened the bedroom door, quietly, slowly, and came face to face with Holly.
They both yelped. Rachel grabbed Holly’s arm, pulled her into the bedroom, closed the door.
“Ma’am?” the dispatcher called. “Ma’am, are you okay? What happened?”
“I heard something,” Holly said, her eyes wide. “It woke me up. I smelled—”
“Shh, hush,” Rachel whispered. “I called the police.”
Holly shook her head. “Listen to me! I smelled gas in the hall, real strong. It’s comin’ from downstairs.”
“Oh my god. Open the windows!”
Rachel shoved one window up while Holly pushed the other open. Warm, humid night air billowed into the room.
Cicero. The thought of her parrot blotted out everything else. Rachel hurried to the door. “The gas will kill Cicero. I have to get him—”
“No!” Holly caught Rachel’s arm and held on. “You’re not goin’ down there! You’ll get yourself killed.”
“If there’s gas downstairs, he—whoever —he can’t be down there breathing it. And I heard somebody running a minute ago. He ran out, he’s gone.”
“You don’t know that for sure,” Holly said. “Captain Bridger’ll kill me if I let you go down there.”
“Listen!” Rachel heard a siren, distant but rapidly drawing closer. She pulled her arm from Holly’s grasp. “I’m going downstairs.”
“Just wait for the deputies.”
“Cicero could be dead by then. Roll up the bedspread and block the bottom of the door to keep the gas out.”
When Rachel stepped into the hall, the rotten-onion odor of natural gas filled her nostrils and brought on a wave of nausea.
She felt her way down the stairs. He’s gone, she told herself. It’s safe. He’s gone. Her nightgown was drenched in sweat, but she felt icy cold.
At the bottom of the steps she reached around for the light switch, afraid she would see the intruder standing in front of her. She flipped the switch. The living room was empty.
At first, relief flooded through her, but the smell of gas was strong and she had no time to waste. Cicero might already be dead in his cage, under the night cover. Before she faced that possibility, she had to get air into the house.
She rushed across the room, stepping around an end table that lay on its side, avoiding the jagged shards of glass that had been a lamp, the spilled water from a flower vase, the magazines fanned out on the floor like playing cards.
Edging behind Cicero’s cage, she shoved the window up. Now she had to turn off the gas.
She ran into the kitchen. All four burners on the range were turned on and unlit, pouring gas into the air. Rachel grabbed a dish towel from a rack to cover her nose and mouth. Gagging and coughing, she flipped off the burners.
She turned to open the back door and let air in. But the door already stood open a couple of inches.
Rachel backed away. The intruder could still be on the porch. She wouldn’t think about that, wouldn’t let it scare her upstairs to a locked room. She ran back to Cicero. Yanking off the cage cover, she found the small gray parrot lying motionless on the floor of the cage.
“Oh no. No, no, no.” She unlatched the cage and lifted him out. Holding him close, she got the front door locks open and ran outside. She barely heard the siren of the police car coming down the farm road. “Breathe, sweetie, please,” she begged, pacing the yard. “Please, Cicero, please don’t die.”
The limp body twitched and stirred in her hands. His claws groped for something to close around. She gave him one of her fingers.
Sinking to her knees, cradling the bird against her chest, Rachel burst into tears of relief.
Chapter Eighteen
From a quarter mile away on the farm road, Tom saw the flashing lights of police cars, beacons in the ink-black night. An icy fist squeezed his heart.
The 911 dispatcher had wakened him with news of a break-in in progress at Rachel’s house. He’d thrown on jeans, tee shirt, and shoes without socks and hurtled along the empty mountain roads, unable to raise a radio signal and connect with the dispatcher or the Blackwood twins. He didn’t know what he would find when he reached the horse farm.
A pair of Sheriff’s Department cruisers sat outside Rachel’s h
ouse, their light bars splashing red and blue over the three people on the front porch. The two young blond deputies, twins Keith and Kevin Blackwood, stood talking to Holly.
Tom parked and jogged to the house. “Where’s Rachel? Is she all right?”
“She’s upstairs makin’ sure Frank’s okay,” Holly said as Tom mounted the steps to the porch. In her pink robe, her shoulders hunched as if she were cold on this hot night, she looked small and vulnerable.
Kevin Blackwood said, “Somebody got into the house—”
“—and turned on the gas on the kitchen range,” Kevin finished.
“Somebody tried to kill us!” Holly cried. She clamped a hand over her mouth, stifling a sob.
“Hey, hey, take it easy.” Tom patted her shoulder. “You’re safe now.”
Holly sniffed and wiped her eyes with trembling fingers. The poor kid was scared to death.
“Did you get a look at him?” Tom asked.
She shook her head. “We stayed upstairs until he left. I’m sorry.”
The lack of a description would make his job harder, but he sure as hell didn’t want to hear that Rachel or Holly had confronted an intruder. “Don’t apologize. You did the smart thing.”
“We opened all the windows,” Kevin said.
“To let the gas out,” Keith added.
“Good job,” Tom told them. “I’ll talk to Rachel before I go over the scene. Stay out here until I’m done inside.”
He barreled into the house, nothing on his mind except getting to Rachel, but the mess in the living room brought him up short. He guessed that something had startled the intruder enough to make him stumble around in the dark, crashing into furniture. What had he been looking for in the living room? Maybe nothing. Maybe he’d been on his way upstairs to Rachel and Holly.
“Hey, Tommy.”
At the sound of the voice, he jerked his head toward the kitchen doorway. Lindsay stood there, in jeans and a red tee shirt printed with I’m a detective trapped in a CSI’s body.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” Tom demanded.
“I want to help.”
“This is a crime scene. You’ve got no damned business being in here. What kind of story did you use to get past the Blackwoods?”
Broken Places Page 12
