by Debra Webb
“I did. After I saw what had been done to Mrs. Clark, I called Audrey to find out if she knew anything more about his visit.”
This was wrong, wrong, wrong. “Chief, you’re not thinking that he had anything to do with this?”
He held her gaze for a moment before saying, “I’m only thinking that he might have felt compelled to visit her. Which could explain all those boxes pulled down from the top shelf in her closet. If he visited her and she was still alive, I need to know if she mentioned anyone else who planned to come by or if he saw a vehicle parked on the street.”
Reasonable, Halle decided. “I got his voice mail when I called just now. If he hasn’t left yet, I’m assuming he’ll show up at your office.”
“When you were in Nashville, I’m sure you were at homicide scenes from time to time.”
She nodded. “Lots of times.”
“I’d like you to see something.”
Adrenaline lit in her veins, whether fueled by anticipation or dread, she couldn’t say. “All right.”
As they moved through the house, she saw the crime scene technician. He and Eileen must have parked on the street because she hadn’t noticed their cars in the driveway. Then again, she had been focused on getting into the house. Perhaps she simply hadn’t been looking.
The odor of blood was stronger as they neared Mrs. Clark’s bedroom. Andy’s room was at the end of the hall. The family bathroom was on the left, along with another bedroom that Nancy had used for a sewing room.
The bed linens were covered in blood. More blood was spattered on the carpet. Halle kept the idea that this was Mrs. Clark’s blood pushed aside. She focused on the details of the room. Gold drapes pulled tightly closed. Bedside table on each side of the bed. Lamps with beige shades adorned with gold fringe sat on the tables. A dresser stood on the wall next to the closet door. Beyond the bed on the far side of the room near the windows were boxes stacked on the floor. Three medium-sized boxes, the kind used for moving. The tape had been cut and the lids pulled open.
“Try not to step in the blood.”
Halle followed him, careful of the crimson stains on the beige carpet.
The first thing she noticed about the boxes was a baby blanket lying on the top of whatever was inside one. The blanket was blue with a monogramed A in a lighter blue. Andy’s baby blanket.
Brannigan pulled a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket and handed them to her. “Have a look at that box, the one closest to the bed, if you would.”
Halle tugged on the gloves and moved closer to the boxes. The first box, the one with the baby blanket, appeared to be filled with stuffed animals and other toys. The next one had neatly folded clothes. Boy clothes. Andy’s clothes. The ones he wore before he vanished.
The third box held another, smaller box. Halle reached inside the smaller box. Photographs. She shuffled through the loose photos. Most were of Andy. Others included Nancy and Andrew. And sure enough, there were photos with Sparky, too. She lifted the smaller box from the larger one and set it atop one of the others. Beneath that smaller box was yet another box; this one was really small and nestled amid more clothes.
She reached for the much smaller box and opened it. It was more like a gift box made for a scarf or perfume set. Inside were more photos.
Her heart stumbled.
There were photos of Andy. But not seven-year-old or younger Andy. These were Andy when he was older. Like ten and twelve. Fifteen...twenty. Halle’s mouth went bone-dry. The fully grown Andy... Liam.
No question. He wore another tee that sported the logo of the Hart family winery.
How was this possible? “Why would she have these?”
Brannigan’s voice dragged her attention from the disturbing contents of the box.
“I don’t know.” A realization suddenly expanded through her mind, stealing her breath. Could Mrs. Clark have been the one to mail him the article?
If she knew where Andy was, why didn’t she do something? Why didn’t she tell Halle during the interview?
“We need to speak to Liam Hart,” Brannigan said.
Halle shook her head. “But he insists he’s never been here before.”
Not possible. She understood this without a single doubt. He was Andy. He had to be. There simply was no other alternative. He either truly didn’t know or he was hiding the truth for some reason. Perhaps protecting someone he had grown to love in his new life.
“He may not have been here,” Brannigan offered, “but Mrs. Clark has either been to see him or had someone watching him.”
This made no sense whatsoever.
She stared at the blood on the bed. What in the world had Mrs. Clark not told her?
* * *
LIAM PICKED UP his bag, took one last look around the room and headed for the door. He’d made it across the parking lot and into his rental car before curiosity got the better of him and he listened to Halle’s voice mail.
He’d been in the shower when she called. He’d told himself it didn’t matter what she had to say, but somehow it did. He wasn’t sure how just yet, but there was this feeling—this annoying little voice—that wouldn’t turn loose. It nagged at him like an errant weed choking at one of his grape vines, a weed that just wouldn’t be thwarted.
He set the phone to speaker and hit Play. Her voice sounded strained, uncertain, worried. Nothing like the confident reporter he’d met.
The chief of police wanted to meet with him.
What? Why would Liam meet with anyone here, much less the chief of police? Did the people in this town want to solve this cold case so badly that they were grasping at straws? Surely that urgency didn’t extend to the chief of police.
The little nagging voice that would not be silenced nudged him.
He blew out a big breath. The last thing he wanted was for trouble from Winchester to follow him back to California. Claire would be upset and Penelope would be hurt that he’d even come here like this. He had plenty of time before his 3 p.m. flight. He might as well get this meeting or whatever the hell it was over with.
Last night he’d managed to get himself lost finding his way to the boulevard. Seemed ridiculous in a town this small but it had happened, even with GPS. In view of Halle’s call this morning, that turned out to be a good thing. He had passed City Hall while driving around and around the town square until he made the proper turn. Winchester’s town square was somewhat like a big city roundabout but not as easily maneuvered—at least not for a stranger.
He turned left out of the parking lot, heading for downtown Winchester. He’d barely slept at all. He’d dreamed of a little girl with crazy red curls in a wedding dress. Her smile and those sparkling green eyes had mesmerized him. Or had it been Andy Clark in the dream? The kid looked so damned much like him it was difficult to say one way or another.
He shook off the frustrating notion. Being in this place, spending time with the reporter, it had all somehow managed to put strange ideas in his head. Why was that? Why was he susceptible to these bizarre feelings? He couldn’t remember a time in his life that he ever doubted who he was or from where he’d come.
Why now? Was this some sort of early midlife crisis?
A delayed reflex to his father’s death?
Or maybe he was just losing it. Stress could do that, right? Shelly had a valid point. He’d been working seven days a week for months. Maybe he did need a real vacation.
As soon as he got back home, he and Claire were going to have a long talk about the future and putting themselves first from time to time.
He parked at City Hall and climbed out of the rental. Two slots away he spotted Halle’s car. She was here already. Good. At least he would know someone in the room.
Wait, did he really know her?
For all he knew, this could be all her fault. The ruthless journalist who wanted to get the st
ory regardless of the price to others. But that wasn’t her way. He’d read a good deal about her. Yeah, it was stuff on the internet, but he hadn’t read anything to suggest she was that sort of heartless reporter. She certainly could have saved her career had she chosen to lie and throw her sources under the bus during those last two big assignments. Instead, she had refused and her career had crashed and burned. If anything, someone else had set out to screw her over.
But she’d let it go. Came home and started over.
Maybe she was a nice person.
He entered the lobby and came immediately face-to-face with a security checkpoint. A cold, hard reality of today’s world.
“Keys, phone and anything else in your pockets goes in the tray,” the uniformed officer told him as he approached. “Belt, too, if you’re wearing one.”
“No belt,” Liam assured him. Keys, phone, a couple of quarters went into the tray.
“Very good, sir. Just step through the metal detector and you’re all done.”
Liam walked through without setting off any buzzers. He collected his stuff and asked, “Where can I find the chief’s office?”
The officer gave him directions and Liam started that way. The City Hall was a piece of vintage architecture from the early part of the last century. The soft soles of his sneakers were soundless on the marble floor. He pushed through the double doors sporting the Winchester Police Department logo and walked to the receptionist’s desk.
“Mr. Hart?”
Apparently they were waiting for him. “Yes.”
“This way, sir.”
She escorted him to a conference room. Two men and Halle sat around the table. All, including Halle, stood as he entered the room. The receptionist turned to him and asked if he needed anything to drink. Water? Coffee?
“No, thanks.” His full attention was on the three already in the room.
“Liam,” Halle said, “this is Chief of Police William Brannigan.” She gestured to the man on her left, then to the one on her right. “And this is Detective Clarence Lincoln. Gentlemen, this is Liam Hart of Napa, California.”
Both men shook his hand. Brannigan gestured to an empty chair. “Have a seat, Mr. Hart, and we’ll go over the reason I asked you to stop by.”
It was nine already. As long as he was out of here by noon he had no problem listening to whatever the two men had to say.
When they’d all settled, Brannigan placed a photo on the table. The woman pictured was older, maybe seventy or so.
“Have you ever met this woman?”
Liam shook his head. “I haven’t, no.”
From the same folder he’d pulled the first photo, he pulled a second, placed it on top of the first. “What about this woman?”
His gaze rested on the woman’s face. She looked to be forty or so. Blond hair, gray eyes. His gut tightened. She looked vaguely familiar. But he couldn’t say he’d ever met her before.
“Sorry.” He turned his hands up. “I don’t know her, either.”
Halle looked from Liam to Brannigan.
“What’s this about?” He suddenly felt edgy, his nerves raw. His patience thinning.
“This woman—” Brannigan tapped the second photo “—is the same as the first. Nancy Clark, Andy Clark’s mother.”
Liam blinked, unsure of what to say or do at first. Then he shook his head. “I don’t mean to be rude, but why are you showing these photos to me? Whatever Miss Lane has suggested, I am not Andy Clark.”
Brannigan nodded once. “That may be so,” he said. “But you arrived in Winchester yesterday afternoon. Spent some time with Miss Lane and her family. Then you went to the hotel. Is that right?”
What the hell? “Of course it’s right.” He looked to Halle. “She drove me to my car at the newspaper. I drove from there to the hotel. I stayed all night. Left the hotel and drove here.” He avoided looking at Halle, focused on Brannigan instead. He asked again, “What is this about?”
“Nancy Clark lived next door to Halle and her family.”
The fact that he used the past tense put Liam on alert.
“Around midnight last night she was murdered.”
Liam couldn’t speak. He thought of several things to say. I hate to hear this but I didn’t know her. My condolences to the family. None of those words would rise from his tongue. His throat seemed to be closing and his stomach churned. He remembered Halle’s words from last night, about Mrs. Clark being ill, and didn’t he want to see her.
“Whoever broke into her house was knowledgeable in breaking and entering without leaving any evidence behind. The perpetrator walked into her bedroom and cut her throat, leaving her alone to bleed out and die.”
Sweat formed on Liam’s skin. “Robbery?” he managed to ask, his voice sounding unnatural. His mouth and throat were dry.
Brannigan shook his head. “Nothing was taken.”
“We believe,” the detective on the other side of the table spoke for the first time, “her murder was related to the article that brought you here.”
Liam scrubbed a hand over his mouth. He felt sick. Really sick. “Where is your—” he stood, his chair rolling back, bumping into another “—bathroom?”
“To the left,” Brannigan said. “Fourth door on the right.”
Liam rushed out of the room. His body shook so hard it was difficult to walk straight. He shoved through the door marked Men and went to the sink. He braced his hands on the cold porcelain and stared at his reflection. His gut roiled mercilessly. Turning on the faucet, he splashed cold water on his face.
Didn’t help.
Bile burned in his throat.
He hurried to the nearest stall and vomited the hot sourness from his gut.
Hands braced on his knees, he took a minute to stop gagging, no matter that there was nothing in his stomach beyond the coffee and bitterness that had already spewed out of him.
“What the hell?” he muttered.
He flushed the toilet and went back to the sink to wash his face again. He cupped a hand and caught water to rinse his mouth, then used a paper towel to wipe the newly formed sweat from his face.
“Pull it together, man,” he said to his reflection. None of this had anything to do with him. He was just overtired, stressed, and he’d let all that speculation Halle tossed at him get under his skin.
Deep breath and he was ready to get this done so he could get out of here.
Back in the conference room, the three waited. If they’d talked about him while he was gone, they didn’t let on now.
“How about a bottle of water?” Lincoln asked. Rather than wait for an answer, he reached across the table and sat one in front of Liam as if he comprehended exactly what had transpired in the men’s room.
Liam didn’t trust himself to drink a drop for fear it would spew out of him again.
“Just so we’re clear,” Brannigan said. “We’re not accusing you of anything, Mr. Hart. We’ve already spoken to management at your hotel. You checked in at ten and didn’t leave your room until, as you stated, you came here this morning.”
This was ludicrous. “Are you saying I was a suspect?”
“Yes,” Lincoln answered for him. “The article goes viral. Stranger comes to town. The missing child’s mother—his only living parent—is murdered. We wouldn’t be very good at our jobs if we hadn’t suspected you.”
Liam nodded. Made some sort of bizarre sense, he supposed. “Is there something else you wanted to talk about? If not, I’d like to be on my way.”
“You’re free to leave whenever you wish, Mr. Hart.” Brannigan shrugged. “I have no legal grounds to hold you here.”
Liam readied to stand. He wanted out of here. The sooner the better.
“But,” Brannigan continued, halting his rise from the table, “we believe you’re the key. It would mean a great deal
to me personally if you would stay a few days and help us figure out what happened.”
Liam shook his head. “How can I possibly help you?”
His heart was pounding again, sweat beading to the point of sliding down his skin. Maybe he had food poisoning. No offense to Halle’s mom but something was wrong with him and he hadn’t eaten since having dinner with the Lanes.
“I honestly don’t know,” Brannigan admitted. “Maybe you can’t. But Detective Lincoln and I believe someone thinks you can. The story on Andy appeared in the paper. You’re sent a copy of it from an anonymous source. You come to town. Mrs. Clark is murdered. We think there’s a connection between all this.”
How the hell could he just walk away from that?
He couldn’t.
Chapter Seven
NOW
Halle didn’t really have an appetite. Lunch was more or less a way to pass the time until the evidence tech was finished at Mrs. Clark’s house. Chief Brannigan had given her permission to look through the house, as well as the boxes in the bedroom, for any useful information. Halle’s mother, Judith, was the executor of Mrs. Clark’s will and since the poor lady had no other family, it would be up to Halle’s family to pack up her home.
Unless they proved that Liam was Andy. Then the property would go to him. Substantiating his true identity would change everything. If only Mrs. Clark had lived to meet him.
Halle’s gaze landed on the man across the table from her in the small café near the center of town. She’d suggested he join her after the tense meeting with the police chief. Still dazed, he’d agreed, but she suspected only because he simply didn’t know what else to do.
He was still in denial. No matter that the woman’s death—a woman he insisted he had never met—had shaken him to the core. He’d gone pale when the chief told him the news. He’d rushed to the men’s room. Somewhere deep inside him, memories obviously had stirred. Possibly he hadn’t understood his reaction or perhaps refused to accept it for what it was, but it meant something far more than he wanted to see just now.
The tiny fragments of evidence were slowly coming together.
