Circle of Influence (A Zoe Chambers Mystery) (5 page)

FOUR

The scream jolted Pete into full alert. “Stay back,” he barked at Logan. Two strides carried him to the door. He fingered his sidearm, ready to snap it free from the holster. With the other hand, he edged aside the curtain hanging on the door’s window. Outside, two women knelt in the snow at the end of the sidewalk. Zoe had her arms around Rose. He relaxed his stance.

“What is it?” Logan asked.

Pete signaled him with a raised closed fist, but then remembered the kid didn’t know what that meant. “Stay here. Keep an eye on the coffee.” He snatched his coat from the back of the chair where he’d draped it and stepped out onto the porch.

Zoe looked up at him, panic in her eyes. Rose had collapsed, and Zoe was all that kept her from going face-down in the snow. Pete approached them, thinking Rose had passed out, but her keening told him otherwise. He dropped to his knees beside them.

“I should have let you break the news,” Zoe whispered. Her face was damp with tears.

“Yes. You should have,” he said, but kept his voice gentle. She didn’t need to be chastised right now.

He scooped Rose up in his arms and carried her back to the house with Zoe trudging behind him.

What the hell was the kid going to do when he saw his mother in hysterics? So much for keeping everything low key. But to Pete’s surprise, Rose thumped him on the shoulder when they reached the stoop.

“Put me down. I can’t have my kids seeing me like this.”

Atta girl, Rose
. He lowered her to her feet, and she straightened to her full height, which barely reached five feet.

She swiped her arm across her face and sniffed a couple of times. “Was it a traffic accident? What happened to him?”

“We’re not sure what happened just yet. I need you to answer some questions for me.”

Rose gave him a quick scowl. “Are you sure it was Ted? Maybe there’s been some mistake.”

He squeezed her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Rose. There’s no mistake.”

She looked past him to Zoe. He didn’t break eye contact with her to see Zoe’s reaction, but she obviously backed him up. Rose’s shoulders slumped. “I have to talk to my kids.”

As they stepped into the kitchen, Logan launched out of his chair and caught his mother by her arms. “Mom, what’s going on? No one will tell me anything.”

“In a minute. Where’s your sister?”

“Upstairs asleep.”

Rose eyed Pete. “If it’s all right with you, I’d like a few minutes alone with them.”

“Absolutely. Take all the time you need.”

She led her son into the darkened living room, and they disappeared down the hall.

Pete turned to face Zoe. Her face was streaked with tear-smudged mascara, and she hugged herself as if she were still out in the blizzard.

“Now what?” she said.

“Now we have coffee. It’s going to be a long night.”

They sat across from each other at the kitchen table for almost a half an hour, nursing their respective mugs of caffeine and not saying a word. Finally Rose shuffled into the room followed by Logan, and the Goth daughter…what was her name? Madison? Addison? Allison? Yes, that was it. Allison.

“Okay, Pete,” Rose said, “I want to know exactly what happened.”

“Is there someplace we can talk alone?”

He left Zoe in the kitchen with the kids and followed Rose down the hall to a small home office. Not much larger than a walk-in closet, the room contained two desks, two chairs, and two laptops. Shelves over one of them held assorted fire department memorabilia. That would be Ted’s. The other desk was cluttered with real estate flyers. Pete had noticed Rose’s name on several property for sale signs around the area.

Sinking into one of the chairs, she covered her face with her hands.

Pete removed his notebook and pen from his coat pocket. “I know this is lousy timing, but I need to ask you a few questions.”

She dropped her hands into her lap. “First, I need to know what happened. Was it a car accident or not?”

“I’m hoping you can help me figure out the answer to that.” He went through the usual questions, and she responded without hesitation. The last time she’d seen Ted was when they parted company after the supervisors’ meeting around a quarter after eight. He was still pretty steamed and said he was going home. She was going to check on her mom who’d been ill.

“You were there all evening?”

“Yeah. Mom’s flu seems worse. I was afraid she’d be too weak to get to the phone to call me if she needed help.”

“Did Ted know you were staying?”

“I called the house, but got the machine. I figured Ted was in the shower.”

“What time was that?”

“I dunno. About nine-thirty, I guess.” Rose’s voice broke into a sob. “What’s this all got to do with what happened to Ted?”

All of her answers would be easy enough to confirm. Time to shift to the difficult questions. “I need you to think hard about this,” Pete said. “Is there any reason at all that Ted would be driving Jerry McBirney’s car?”

Rose blanched. “What?”

He waited for her to process his question.

“What the hell does Jerry McBirney have to do with this?” Her eyes shifted from Pete to the empty chair at Ted’s desk and back to Pete. “Did they get into a fight? Did—did Jerry kill—”

“We don’t know what happened yet. The car, Rose. Can you think of why Ted might be driving it?”

“No!”

“Did he have access to McBirney’s keys?”

“
No!
Pete. What the hell is going on?”

Zoe sat in Ted and Rose’s living room in one of the camel-back chairs. She had offered to make hot chocolate or even coffee for the kids, but was met with sullen rejection.

Logan had changed into baggy jeans and a sweatshirt. He paced the floor in his bare feet with one fist pressed to his mouth, attempting to tough it out, fighting tears that he was too old to shed. She longed to hug the boy she’d known his entire life and tell him everything would be okay. But she knew it wouldn’t.

Slumped on the couch, Allison sat catty-corner from Zoe. Still wearing her pale blue pajamas, the girl was doing a great impersonation of a zombie. How was a fifteen-year-old supposed to react to the shock of losing her dad? Allison apparently chose to internalize her grief.

Zoe moved closer to Allison. What should she do? Pull her into a hug? Try to get her to talk? Try to get her mind off this terrible night?

She opted for the latter. “Hey, kiddo. You haven’t called me to go riding in a while.”

Without looking at her, Allison shrugged.

Zoe reached out to place a hand on her knee, but Allison pulled away, withdrawing into the seated equivalent of the fetal position.

Zoe sighed. She’d always been so close to these kids. Watching them grow into happy, feisty teens had been a blessing. Watching them agonize over Ted’s death was torture.

The sound of footsteps coming from the hall drew her attention. Rose, looking as if she’d aged twenty years, followed Pete into the living room.

“You stay with them,” Pete told Zoe. “I’m going to the station to talk to Sylvia.”

“Grandma?” Logan stopped his pacing. “I should go with you.”

“Thanks, but you’re needed here.” Pete clapped him on the arm. “Take care of your mother and your sister.” He brushed passed Zoe, through the kitchen, and was gone.

“Mom?” Logan’s strained tone snapped Zoe’s attention away from Pete’s back disappearing through the door.

Rose gripped the back of one of the living room chairs so tight, her knuckles went white. She tipped forward and Zoe thought she would tumble face first onto the floor, but Logan caught her. Sobs racked Rose’s thin frame and she collapsed against him. Logan towered head and shoulders above his mother, but when his face twisted in despair, he reminded Zoe of the nine-year-old boy whose puppy had slipped its leash and been hit by a car so many years before.

Tears warmed Zoe’s cheeks, too. She looked at Allison who had at least lifted her eyes and was watching the scene, though her face remained emotionless.

Stop fighting it, little one, Zoe wanted to say. You don’t need to be tough for us.

“He’s gone?” Rose hiccupped. “Zoe? Tell me it’s not true.”

Zoe crossed the room and drew mother and son into her embrace. “I wish I could,” she whispered into Rose’s hair. “I really wish I could.”

The snow had finally stopped by the time Pete parked next to the station’s front door and checked the dashboard clock. Three fifty-four.

Bells on the door jingled, announcing his return. Sylvia popped up behind the half wall, her faded blue eyes glazed with concern. “Well, it’s about time. What the hell’s been going on? Why wouldn’t you tell me over the phone? I was afraid something had happened to you.”

“I’m fine.” Pete ran several possible versions of the upcoming conversation through his mind. “Come into my office. I need to talk to you about something.”

She squinted at him. “What about?”

“Just come into my damned office already.” Without waiting for more questions from her, he passed her door and hoped she would follow.

She did. Sylvia took a seat facing his desk and leaned her forearms on its edge.

Pete sunk into his well-worn chair. He met her curious gaze for a moment before looking away.

“All right, Pete. What’s up? You get into trouble for not throwing my old ass into lock-up?”

“Nothing like that. But I’m afraid I have some bad news. It’s about Ted.”

“What about Ted? Oh, God. He beat the crap out of Jerry McBirney, didn’t he? I knew something like this was going to happen. That boy has got a temper—”

Pete reached over and put a hand on her arm. “Sylvia. That call about the car stuck in the game lands? There was a body inside. It was Ted.”

The room grew quiet. Sylvia’s mouth hung open. Her gaze slid from Pete to the desktop. “I don’t think I heard you right. You mean Ted was on the fire crew at the scene.”

“No, Sylvia. I mean Ted was the victim.”

For several moments, the only sound in the office was the soft tick of the clock on the wall, counting off seconds. When she spoke, her words were little more than a squeak. “He’s dead?”

“Yes.”

Pete didn’t notice her breathing. She slumped against the back of the chair.

“Sylvia?”

She blinked. And choked back a moan. “That son-of-a-bitch McBirney,” she said, her voice low and deliberate. “That son-of-a-bitch killed my boy.”

By eight o’clock in the morning, the sun was shimmering across a blinding white landscape. Bone weary, Zoe slipped on her sunglasses as she climbed into her battered Chevy pickup truck outside the ambulance garage, where Pete had dropped her off after taking Sylvia back to the house to watch over what was left of the Bassi family.

Zoe was glad there hadn’t been any more calls in those last few hours before the daylight guys came staggering in to relieve her, Earl, and the four other members of her shift. Not that she’d gotten any sleep. She’d lain on the lumpy mattress and stared at the underside of the bunk above her, Ted’s ghastly gray face fixed to the inside of her eyelids every time she ventured to close them.

The salt trucks were out, and while the roads weren’t entirely clear, at least they were sloppy rather than slick. No sooner had Zoe pulled onto Phillipsburg’s narrow Main Street than a car passed going the other way, splashing brownish, salty slush on her windshield. She cursed to herself for forgetting to fill the washer fluid reservoir and hoped she had enough to make it home.

Ten minutes later, when she pulled into the farm lane, she realized she didn’t remember a thing about the trip. Her mind kept replaying the events from last night. Ted’s body. Logan looking like a little boy trying to be a man. Allison withdrawing into herself, pushing her emotions into an unreachable cubby. And Rose, pale and in shock, then hysterical after Pete disclosed the details of where Ted’s body had been found. He was her entire life. They were what all married couples should be—a team in every way. How would Rose get along without him?

Zoe was glad to see the farm lane had been plowed. She didn’t feel like fighting with the transfer case to shift her twenty-year-old truck into four-wheel-drive. She braked as she approached the huge old white farmhouse, then opted to continue on to the barn.

The house—circa 1850s—boasted a wide center hall and staircase that split it in two. She rented one half—two rooms and a kitchen downstairs, a bedroom and bath upstairs—from Mr. and Mrs. Kroll, who were well into retirement age. When Zoe had approached them about the ad offering a portion of their house for rent as well as a stall for her horse, the timing had been perfect. They offered her both at a discount if she agreed to manage the barn. Considering her small-town paramedic’s income barely covered the cost of gas for her truck and food for her and her critters, the deal was perfect. She made up the difference by giving riding lessons. Some months she even made enough for extravagances. Like clothes.

She trudged through the snow from her truck to the big barn—the new one with an indoor riding arena lined by stalls on two sides. Massive double doors on both ends were currently closed against the bitter wind. She slipped in through the standard-sized one facing the driveway.

Soft nickers greeted her. One of the boarders must have fed the horses or the whinnies would’ve been much more insistent. When she checked the dry-erase whiteboard on the wall by the feed and tack room, as predicted, Patsy Greene had left a note stating that she’d fed them an hour earlier. Patsy also noted that her horse, Jazzel, was to be kept in. The vet would be there late morning to check on the mare’s mysterious lameness.

The familiar sounds of horses shuffling in their stalls, eager to be released and smells of warm manure mingling with hay and wood shavings should have soothed Zoe. But instead, the barn’s peacefulness felt bizarre to her. How could the world just go on as if nothing had happened? Her body was stuck doing routine chores while her mind raced. She needed to do something. But what?

She checked her watch. Pete would be on his way to Jerry McBirney’s house by now. Damn. She wanted to be there when Pete questioned that bastard. She wanted it so bad, she ached. But Pete had forbidden it. Claimed she might say or do something that would jeopardize any case he built against McBirney.

What annoyed her the most was that he was probably right. She preferred to think she could restrain herself when facing the man likely responsible for Ted’s death—and so much more. But if she was honest with herself, she wasn’t so sure she could hold back her anger.

George, the school pony, nudged her over his stall door, rousting her from her thoughts. Smiling, Zoe rubbed his furry ears. She decided to leave the pony in his stall next to Jazzel’s to keep the fidgety Arabian mare company. After tossing both of them an extra flake of hay, Zoe put a shoulder into the huge sliding back door that opened into the pasture. It rebelled, then released with a loud, metallic grumble. Starting at the first stall, she unlatched and opened each one, stepping out of the way as the horses charged out and into the snow. Several immediately dropped and rolled in the white powder. One gave an impromptu bucking demonstration. The older ones simply ambled off, nose to the ground, sniffing out bits of grass beneath the snow.

The last horse she released to the outdoors was her own twelve-year-old Quarter Horse gelding, Windstar. He pawed at the stall door as she approached.

“Patience, Windy,” she said, sliding the latch.

He snorted in response.

“Whoa.” She used her firm, no-nonsense voice.

As if understanding the trouble he would be in if he misbehaved, he stood motionless, but alert, when Zoe opened the door.

She stepped to one side. “Okay.” 

He half-crouched and launched from the stall as if it were a starting gate, kicking up his heels as he charged across the empty arena and out of the barn.

Zoe followed him at a more subdued pace.

She checked her watch again. Ten whole minutes had passed. Pete was probably talking to McBirney. Rose was probably making phone calls.

There had to be something she could do. Franklin Marshall and Doc Abercrombie, the forensic pathologist, would perform the autopsy later today. She considered driving back into Brunswick for it, but no way did she want to watch Doc cutting into Ted. She should just finish her morning chores and get some sleep. Later there would be stalls to clean, water buckets to fill. Mundane daily tasks took no vacation because of a tragic thing like the death of a friend.

As she reached the door, her cell phone chirped. The name Logan appeared on the small screen..

“Aunt Zoe?” The teenager’s voice trembled. “I need your help. I think I’ve done something really bad.”