A Deep and Dark December

by Beth Yarnall

  “Don’t be too tough on your old man. It’s been hard on him, giving up his job.”

  “I know.”

  He did know. Pop had taken the loss of his job hard. Seeing his once strong, able-bodied father angry and frustrated by the betrayal of his body was difficult. Ham had always been larger than life, filling up the room with his presence. The shrunken, defeated man who came home from the hospital just a few short weeks ago was nearly unrecognizable.

  Graham found his father studying a spot on the ground near the back of the garage. “If Mom knew you were here, she’d kill me.”

  Ham glanced up. “So don’t tell her.” He looked older in the dying light, thinner, frailer.

  “I’m sure she, like half the town, already knows.” He came up alongside his dad and stared down at the ground. “Find something?”

  “Nah. Just trying to get a picture in my head of what happened.” Ham shoved his hands into the pockets of his trench coat. “Greg was a friend of yours, right?” He continued without waiting for a response. “Heard he’d been through some tough times lately, losing his job and such. Heard his house had been bought up by that new investment company—Calendar something or other.”

  “Kavender Investments.”

  “Right. Right. I take it that’s why that December girl was here.”

  “Her company bought Greg’s house. She came here to make sure he’d moved out.” And found a hell of a lot more than she’d bargained for. Graham frowned over that.

  “She say what happened?”

  “Only that Mrs. Lasiter was dead when she got here. Why don’t we go in, get out of this rain?”

  “Sure. Sure.” Ham led the way to the little covered back porch. He stopped on the top step, peering through the window at the scene in the kitchen. “Murder/suicide. What a shame.”

  “Who says it's murder/suicide?”

  “From the looks of it, is all. But then I’m guessing you’ve seen more of this than I have.”

  “More than I should have.”

  “Some might tease that you brought it with you from L.A.” Ham reached for the doorknob.

  “Don’t! Damn it, Pop. You shouldn’t touch anything without gloves on. You shouldn’t even be here.”

  Ham snatched his hand away. He quickly cloaked his hurt in anger, drawing up to his full size, which wasn’t as intimidating as it used to be. “I may be just a country cop to you, but there were never any murder/suicides on my watch.”

  “Pop, I—”

  “Stuff it.” Leaning in, Ham lowered his voice. “I know what you think of me, of this town. Five generations of Dorans have been sheriff here.” He jabbed a finger at his chest, right over the heart that had cost him his job, his health. “That means something to me.” He poked his son in the chest, over his healthy heart. “And it should mean something to you, too.”

  “I never said it didn’t.”

  “You didn’t have to. It’s written all over you.” He looked pointedly at Graham’s beard.

  “I’ll do the job.”

  For however long he was here. His stay in San Rey was supposed to have been temporary, but between his father’s failing health and his mother’s forgetfulness—for lack of a better word—there was more than enough to tie him up in this town longer than he’d intended. The next thing he knew, he’d been elected sheriff. Elected was stretching it. The mayor had appointed him. His dad had a heavy hand in that. At the time, he didn’t want to let his old man down and agreed to step in temporarily until his brother Adam came home or they found someone else for the job. Someone like Pax.

  The need to get the hell out of San Rey pulled at him. Not that there was anything left in L.A. He’d pretty much burned through whatever peace he’d found there. He could start over someplace else. San Diego, maybe. The bigger the city, the easier to blend in. Some place where everyone and their mother didn’t know everything about him. Somewhere it didn’t matter whose son he was. Where generations didn’t stand on his shoulders, expecting him to be someone he wasn’t.

  Graham handed his dad a pair of latex gloves. “Here. Put these on if you’re going to stick around. And I know you will.”

  Ham snapped the gloves on. “Like it or not, the town is depending on you. I’m depending on you. There are worse places to live, worse things you could do with your life, you know.”

  He went into the house, leaving Graham alone on the porch with his resentment and frustration. Guilt was there, too, along with the five-generation deep responsibility his father had instilled in him. He’d do the job, damn it. As long as he was sheriff, he’d do the job.

  Graham headed into the house after his father, stopping on the threshold to take in the scene from this view. Deidre lay nearest the door. The old Formica dining set Greg’s parents had back when Graham hung around was one of the few pieces of furniture still in the house. A purse sat on the floor near the chair closest to the door. A stack of papers had been placed at the head of the table. He stepped over Deidre’s legs, careful to avoid the blood pooled around her body.

  She’d been shot in the stomach and the bloody marks on the floor made it look as though she’d tried to crawl toward something—the backdoor or her purse?—before the blood loss had probably made her too weak. So why was she laying face up? Had the killer rolled her over? Or Greg? Or less likely, Erin?

  Deidre had been pretty. Greg hadn’t mentioned her or their troubles when they’d run into each other last week. But then Graham hadn’t given much time to his old friend. He regretted that now. He should’ve gotten that beer Greg had offered, touched base with him. Graham wondered what they’d been like as a couple. What had happened for them to end up as they were now?

  He scanned the document at the top of the stack. Divorce papers. No surprise. Their break up was the talk of the town. San Rey was nothing if not a hot bed of rumor and gossip. Nothing happened in this town that every single citizen didn’t know about. That was one of the reasons he’d left, wanting to go someplace where no one knew him, his family, and his screw ups. But the anonymity he’d found in L.A. didn’t shield him from making new mistakes.

  With gloved fingers, he lifted a couple of papers by the edge, quickly reading through the settlement negotiations. Deidre had signed them. Greg hadn’t. Was that why she’d come here, to get his signature? He made note of the name of Deidre’s attorney. He’d follow up with him. Greg’s family might know something about the couple and the terms of their divorce if the lawyer wouldn’t talk.

  Graham bent and took a cursory look at the contents of Deidre’s purse. There was the usual female junk—a wallet, some lip stuff, keys, a mirror, brush, a couple of receipts, and a prescription bottle of Na-tabs. Whatever that was.

  From his crouched level, Graham studied the layout of the room and the position of the bodies. Near the backdoor he noticed some dirt. No, sawdust.

  “Got something?” Pax leaned against the doorframe between the kitchen and living room, a little less green than he’d been before.

  “Yeah.” Graham stood. “Sawdust by the backdoor. Make sure the team sees that. And don’t lean against the jam. I want this scene as undisturbed as possible. That includes any DNA or outside material that may be on our clothing. Does anything here strike you as odd?”

  Pax straightened away from the door. To his credit, he didn’t seem annoyed at being corrected by someone younger with less years on the force than him. Someone who had essentially stepped over him to take the position as sheriff.

  “In what way?” Pax asked.

  “Why would Greg wait until Erin came in to shoot himself?”

  “He’d been busted? Didn’t want to go to jail?”

  “Maybe.” He stepped back over to Pax’s side of the room, examining the scene from this new angle. “But Erin said she had to find a key in the pot to let herself in. Greg could have just taken off through the back door, then come in after Erin found the body.”

  “I see what you’re saying,” Pax said. He might not have
the same crime scene experience as Graham, but Pax was a sharp guy. He would’ve worked through all this on his own if he’d been the one to talk with Erin. “If he came in after Erin,” Pax continued, “he’d throw suspicion off of himself and onto an anonymous someone else. Sweet Jesus. This means we’ve got our self a real murderer. In San Rey.”

  “Maybe.”

  “But you just said—”

  “I’m asking questions. Working through the possibilities.”

  Ham walked up behind Pax and clapped him on the shoulder. “I told you he was good.”

  “It’s a good thing he’s sheriff,” Pax responded. “None of the rest of us has any experience with a scene like this.”

  Pax didn’t catch the way Ham’s gaze dropped or the way his lips pressed down at the corners, but Graham did. His father didn’t like being lumped in with the rest of them.

  “Let’s get out of here.” Graham motioned for them to move ahead of him. “The less people through here, the better.”

  They moved into the living room. Curtains pulled tight over the windows caved the room, making it difficult to navigate now that the sun was almost down. Graham pulled a flashlight off his belt and switched it on.

  “I can hit the lights,” Pax said.

  “No. No one touches anything. The lab guys will bring in their own lights. Pop, why don’t you hang out on the porch? I want Pax to go with me to take a look at the other rooms.”

  “Sure.” Ham moved to the front door, his shoulders hunched and hard.

  Graham knew his dad felt put out to pasture, but he wasn’t a cop anymore. He was supposed to be taking care of himself, not unnecessarily stressing himself. Besides, this wasn’t kids stealing candy bars from Lucky’s or making sure Billy Dean got home after drinking himself under a bar. This was murder. The scene was complicated and ugly. There was so much more going on here than the small town sheriff deputies were prepared for. He doubted if most of them had even seen a dead body before.

  “How about I stop by when I’m finished if it’s not too late?” Graham offered Ham in consolation to get him to go home and rest. “Run a few things past you, get your take on things?”

  Ham gave a firm nod, his stiffness easing. “Sounds good. Your mother made coffee cake this morning. I’ll save you a piece, make us some herb tea.” He said the last as though the words were bitter. Losing his coffee had been nearly as difficult as losing his job.

  “Only if you spike it.”

  “Only if you don’t tell your mother.”

  “Tell her what?” Graham watched his father turn up the collar on his trench coat and go out the door with a backwards wave.

  “That was a good thing you did,” Pax said so only Graham could hear.

  Graham shook off the compliment. Having his dad around complicated things. He couldn’t be Ham Doran’s son and sheriff. His men had already shown deference toward their ex-sheriff. He didn’t want to have to compete with his father for the deputies’ loyalty while working his friend’s case.

  “Let’s take a look at the other rooms.” Graham started out with Pax following.

  They edged down a short hall to a bedroom. The room Greg had shared with his brother and where Graham had slept on the floor during sleepovers. Graham swept the beam of his flashlight around the room. Old memories competed with the new emptiness of the space. The only furniture in the room was an upright dresser that had seen better days. The drawers stood open, gap toothed and forgotten. They’d been cleaned out, but Graham ran the light over them top and bottom as best he could without disturbing them, remembering how Greg liked to tape things to the bottom to hide them from his brother. Nothing.

  They moved on down the hall to the only bathroom. It, too, had been stripped. Its bare bones exposed, the scent of baths and showers long since gone. All that remained was the slight stench of mildew and neglect.

  The last room was the largest, the master bedroom. Graham could still remember the smell of Greg’s mother’s perfume. It hung in the stale air—another ghost of better times. This room stood empty except for a handful of orphaned hangers in the closet.

  He had so many memories of better times spent here with Greg. The house was small, but it had sheltered the Lasiters for years. There was nothing left here but the carcass of a home, picked clean of its warmth and spirit.

  “I think we’re done,” Graham said.

  “Yeah,” Pax replied on a heavy exhale.

  They made their way back to the living room. Pax went outside while Graham took a moment to wander around the largest room of the house. He could almost smell the chocolate chip cookies Mrs. Lasiter would have waiting when they came home from school and hear Mr. Lasiter yell for them to be quiet while he watched his show. Memories of time spent here with Greg floated in and out with the reality that the Lasiters would only ever be that now—a memory.

  He paced the room, ending up back at the front door, having achieved nothing except a raw ache in his belly. He stopped on his way outside to examine the front door. The key stood out proud from the lock. He hit it with the beam of the flashlight, noting what appeared to be particles of soil stuck to it, confirming what Erin had told him. Stepping out on the porch, he found the pot Erin must have pulled it from. Soil topped the rim and some of it had spilled over onto the deck of the porch.

  Erin.

  He caught her watching him from the back of his cruiser. She looked pissed. And cold. He cursed himself for leaving her out here all this time, then chuckled under his breath as he imagined all the ways she’d probably been cursing him. He checked in with Pax and told him to have the crime scene guys photograph and enter the key in the door as evidence. He rattled off a few more instructions, conscious of Erin’s gaze boring into the back of his head.

  By the time he started for his car, she was shaking in outrage… or was she shivering? Damn. He should have turned the heater on for her.

  He pulled the car door open and got in. “Sorry. Didn’t think it would take that long.”

  “Sur-r-r-re.”

  He turned the key and cranked the heater up. “No. Really.”

  “You c-c-could have l-l-least given me a b-b-blanket.”

  “Ah, no. I couldn’t. Evidence transfer and all.”

  She whispered something under her breath and glared out the window.

  “What was that?”

  “Ass-s-s-hole.”

  “How ladylike and dainty you are.”

  “F-f-fuck off.”

  “Original and clever, too. You should be feeling the heat now.”

  Her furious gaze met his in the rearview mirror. “Like you c-c-care.”

  He stretched his arm across the passenger seat so he could look backwards as he reversed the car. “Actually I do. Some evidence can be destroyed or damaged if it’s subjected to frigid temperatures.”

  She made a frustrated noise and kicked the divider that separated the rows of seats.

  He stifled a laugh. “Watch it. I wouldn’t want to have to arrest you for destroying city property.”

  Her flushed cheeks puffed in and out and she shot him the bird with both hands. He shifted his gaze from the rearview mirror to the road, pretending he hadn’t seen her gesture, and resisted the urge to make a crack about how he’d like to take her up on her offer. He drove past the crowd of gawkers as quickly as possible, wanting to shield Erin as much as possible. It was probably a wasted effort. The first arrivals would have filled in the newcomers and so on in a twisted game of small town Telephone.

  “Give me your aunt’s number and I’ll call her so she can meet us at the station with a change of clothes for you.”

  “She already knows-s-s.”

  “You didn’t call her, did you? I should have confiscated your cell phone. I didn’t want you talking to anyone before giving your statement.”

  “I don’t have to call her for her to know.”

  Graham shifted in his seat and adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. He’d never believed the rumor
s about Cerie December being some kind of clairvoyant. Talk like that in a small town was usually that—just talk. People said all kinds of shit to further their own agendas or to be plain old mean. He should know. The town’s opinion of him wasn’t anywhere near accurate. He wasn’t now nor would he ever be the golden boy returned.

  “Give me her number.” He punched it in his cell phone as she rattled it off.

  “Hello, Sheriff.” Erin’s Aunt Cerie answered before the first ring. “How’s your father?”

  “Well, thank you. I’m calling because Erin needs you to—”

  “Bring her a change of clothes. Yes, I know. I’m at the station. Waiting.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Tell her that I’ve brought her a Thermos of tea as well. She’s so cold I’m shivering.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And Graham?”

  “Yes?”

  “I have faith in you.” Cerie hung up before Graham could respond. What the hell did that mean?

  “Told you,” Erin said, her voice stronger.

  Graham thumbed the End button on his phone, unsettled by his conversation with Cerie. Not because of the supposed psychic thing… oh, hell, who was he kidding? The woman was sweet, but that conversation creeped the shit out of him.

  It was the way she’d said her parting remark that threw him. She had faith in him. Did that mean others didn’t? Had she picked up on something he hadn’t? He couldn’t ask her without giving away his own doubts. Had he missed something at the scene? Should he have stayed until the investigators arrived?

  No. He refused to believe that. It was being back in this damned town. He’d never second-guessed himself in L.A. Well, almost never. He’d never let a crazy supposed psychic like Cerie December get to him, that’s for sure. He’d run cases on his own before. Had closed a good portion of them, a better than average portion of them.

  He knew what he was doing, damn it.

  “Mabel would have told her what happened,” Erin said, breaking into his thoughts. “That I was involved. Plus Aunt Cerie took my car this morning because hers is on the fritz so she knew I would’ve walked to Greg’s house from the office. And then the rain came faster and harder than the weather announcer had said it would. Hence the dry clothes.”