Dark Water (10 page)

Ron nodded. “Miss Whitman, if there's anything further we can do for you, please let us know.”

Sarah lifted her chin. “You want to help? Find the person who put my father at the bottom of Flagstaff Lake.”

“I would like nothing better,” Gallagher said.

“Why do I feel like there's a ‘but' in there?” Sarah asked.

Unwilling to be cast as the uncaring monster in this mess, the sheriff pointed to the open file on his desk.

“This is everything I have on the case, and there's not one shred of evidence in there that leads us to anyone but your father. He was the last person in the bank the weekend the money went missing. It was Monday before it was discovered, and by then he was gone. Every employee showed up for work that day but him.”

“And that's because he was already at the bottom of the lake,” Sarah snapped, and took a deep breath, knowing she was on the verge of screaming. She leaned forward, putting the flats of both hands on his desk. “He didn't put himself there, did he, Sheriff?”

It was all Gallagher could manage to meet her gaze, but it was the least he could do.

“No, ma'am, he did not.”

“So you people dropped the ball.”

Gallagher frowned slightly. He didn't like to think that they'd been so wrong.

“Looks that way,” he muttered.

“I need to know if you're going to do the right thing,” Sarah asked.

This time Gallagher made no attempt to hide his displeasure.

“I always do the right thing, Miss Whitman. I don't always get the results I want, but I always do the right thing. I was just a rookie back then, but we pursued a theft in the best way we knew how and investigated the only suspect we had as thoroughly as possible.”

“Tell me something,” Sarah said.

“Anything I can.”

“Did you ever look at anyone else as a suspect?”

Gallagher hesitated, then sighed. He couldn't lie. Not to her.

“Not to my knowledge.”

“So what are you going to do about it?”

“I'm already doing something,” he said.

“What?”

“I've reopened the investigation. If we uncover any new leads, you'll be the first to know.”

Sarah made no move to hide her contempt.

“Another case of…don't call us, we'll call you. Right, Sheriff?”

Tony slid a hand beneath Sarah's elbow.

“Sarah.”

“What?”

Tony cupped the back of her head. “He's trying.”

At his touch, Sarah shuddered, then dropped her head. When she looked back up, her eyes were shimmering with unshed tears.

“I know,” she said, then turned to Gallagher. “I'm sorry. It's just been so hard to—”

Ron put his hand on Sarah's arm. “You do not owe me an apology. In fact, it's more the reverse. Just give me time, Sarah. I'll do what it takes, even if it means pissing off every fine citizen in town.”

The notion of that happening was too comical to ignore.

“If you do, I hope I'm around to see it happen,” she said. “Now I'll get out of your hair and leave you to the business of stirring up ghosts.”

“Yes, ma'am, that's what I'll be doing,” Ron said, and closed the door to his office behind them as they left.

Sarah waved goodbye to Margaret, who was on the phone, and was reaching for the doorknob when she heard Tony curse beneath his breath. Surprised, she turned around to face him.

“What?” she asked.

“Out there,” he said, pointing through the window to the street. “Looks like a news crew found you again.”

Sarah flinched, and for a moment thought about trying to escape out the back; anger sparked.

“Good,” she said. “I'm ready for them now.”

“Are you sure?” Tony asked. “You can wait here while I tell Gallagher. We'll get rid of them for you.”

“No. There are things that need to be said. Maybe then they'll leave me alone.”

Tony's eyes narrowed, but he resisted the urge to argue and opened the door.

Almost immediately, the crew swarmed up to the door. Three cameras were aimed her way, while a half-dozen reporters thrust their mikes in her face.

“Miss Whitman! Miss Whitman! What can you tell us about your father? Do you think he was killed by his accomplices? Are you bitter about—”

Tony stepped between Sarah and the crowd.

“Back off!” he said sharply. “Miss Whitman will not be answering any questions, but she has a statement to make.”

“Who are you?” one of them asked. “Are you her lawyer?”

He leveled his gaze toward the reporter. “No. Now, do you want to hear what she has to say, or do I call the sheriff out here?”

They retreated but kept their cameras trained on Sarah's face as she stepped forward.

“As of today, the coroner has not released my father's remains, but I have been assured by the authorities that the case regarding the crime for which my father was blamed has been reopened. It's obvious to me that he was a scapegoat for the real thief, who not only got away with a million dollars but thinks he has gotten away with murder.” Then she leaned forward, fixing her gaze on the bank of cameras. “No matter where I am, I will not rest until my father's name is cleared and his murderer has been brought to justice. Twenty years ago, the good people of this town crucified me and my family. When the truth is revealed, I expect, at the least, an apology.”

They started shouting questions to Sarah, but once again Tony intervened.

“That's all. Now please excuse us,” he said, and took Sarah by the arm and led her to his car. “Hurry and get in,” he said, as he opened the door.

Sarah paused and looked up. “No, Tony. I'm not running. Not ever again.”

He started to argue, then nodded. “You're calling the shots, kiddo,” he said softly. “Is there anything else you want to do while we're in town?”

“Can we go to the supermarket? There are a few things I need to buy.”

“Honey…today you can do any damn thing you want.”

She smiled primly and settled herself in the seat as Tony circled the car and slid behind the wheel. Moments later they were pulling away from the curb and heading downtown to Marmet's one and only grocery store.

Half an hour later, they exited, each carrying a bag of groceries. Tony popped the trunk and was taking the bag from Sarah's arms to put inside when they realized someone was approaching them from behind.

Sarah turned around, half expecting more reporters, only to see a tall, elderly man with a small box in his arms.

“Sarah Jane…is that you?” he asked.

“Mr. Weatherly?”

Harmon Weatherly beamed. “You recognized me! It's been so long, I wasn't certain you would even remember me, my dear. How have you been?”

“I've been fine, Mr. Weatherly, and of course I would recognize you. You were the best teller in the bank. Daddy always said so.”

The old man's smile tilted sideways, but only for a moment.

“I admired your father very much,” he said. “He was always very fair. You don't often find that quality in men anymore.”

“Thank you,” Sarah said. “You don't know how much I appreciate you telling me this.”

Harmon nodded, then glanced at Tony, as if trying to place him.

“Do I know you, sir?” he asked.

“Anthony DeMarco,” Tony said, and held out his hand.

Harmon's eyebrows rose above his glasses as recognition dawned.

“I know you. You're Sylvester DeMarco's son, aren't you?”

Tony caught himself wanting to flinch. He had spent years trying to live down his upbringing, and now, in one sentence, this old man had put him right back in that hopeless niche.

“Yes, I am,” Tony said.

“Knew him well,” the old man said. “Your mother, too. Sorry to hear of their passing.”

Tony managed to nod his thanks while concealing his shock. Not once in his entire life had his parents been mentioned without a derogatory comment. He didn't know whether to hug the old man or just keep quiet.

“Where do you live now?” Harmon asked.

“Chicago.”

Harmon nodded. “Been there once. Didn't like it. It's too flat.”

Tony grinned. “Yes, sir, compared to Maine, it certainly is.”

“Well, then, it's been a pleasure to see you again,” he said, then turned to Sarah and held out the box. “I tried to give this to your mother about a week after your father disappeared, but she wouldn't let me in the house. Now I suppose it belongs to you.”

“What is it?” Sarah asked, as he set the box in her hands.

His white, bushy eyebrows met above his nose as he frowned.

“A day or so after your father disappeared, our loan officer, Sonny Romfield, was killed in a car accident just outside town. It was a terrible tragedy. Left a wife and two little kids behind. Anyway, I was given the job of cleaning out his desk, as well as your father's. I gave Mrs. Romfield the contents of Sonny's desk and tried to do the same for your mother, but she wouldn't answer the door. I thought I would give it to her later, after some of the hubbub died down, but then she…uh…passed away, too, and well…I just put it away. When I heard you'd come back to Marmet, I remembered the box. I can't say much about what's in it. I sealed it that day and haven't looked since, but it's yours, just the same.”

Sarah's hands were shaking as she clutched the box to her chest.

“Thank you, Mr. Weatherly.”

“You're welcome, child,” he said, then dusted his hands down the front of his overcoat and nodded to Tony. “I'll be running along now. Take care, and I'm sure everything is going to work out. Truth, like cream, always rises to the top, you know.”

Tony looked at Sarah, who seemed on the verge of tears again.

“Been a hell of a day, hasn't it, kid?”

She lifted her chin. “Better than I expected,” she muttered. “I'm ready to go home if you are.”

“You bet,” Tony said.

Minutes later they were headed out of town. Sarah sat buckled in her seat belt, holding the box in her lap as if it were a bomb.

“I
'll get the groceries. You go on in,” Tony said as he unlocked the door.

Gratefully, Sarah hurried inside, carrying the box up the stairs and into her room. She dropped it on the bed and then stepped back, staring at the brown paper wrapping and the dusty string with which it was bound, wondering what other ghosts she would find inside. It had been excruciating to sit in front of the sheriff and go through the pitiful remnants that had been with her father's body. Would this be any easier? She didn't think so. There was no way of knowing what personal bits of his life he'd kept at work, but whatever they were, it was going to hurt to see them.

Instead of opening the box immediately, Sarah backed away and began taking off her coat. She hung it up, then headed to the bathroom and busied herself in there for almost five minutes before she ran out of things to do. When she came out, the box was still on her bed. It was a small box. Certainly not of a size to hold anything of much importance, and still she hesitated. The longer she stood, the weaker her knees became. She'd gone through life keeping her emotions to herself, but this, on top of everything else she'd endured during the past few days, was about to take her down.

Just as she was contemplating calling her aunt Lorett, Tony appeared in her doorway. She looked up at him, unaware that every emotion she was feeling was there on her face for him to see.

Whatever Tony had meant to say was forgotten. He'd stood by for days, watching Sarah suffering alone, staying at arm's length because that was what she wanted. But no more.

He moved. Within seconds, Sarah was in his arms. He bent his head, brushing the side of her cheek with his mouth. When she stiffened, he cupped her cheeks and tilted her chin, making her face him.

“Don't fight me, Sarah. Please, don't fight me now. You may not need this, but I damn sure do.”

Sarah saw his mouth coming closer—felt the warmth of his breath on her face—and gave herself up to the inevitable.

Tony's lips were firm and warm, pressing gently, then insistently, against her mouth. His arms enfolded her, pulling her close against his body. She felt him shudder, heard him groan beneath his breath, and knew that she, too, was losing control. But instead of pushing him away, she slid her arms around his waist and clutched at the back of his sweater with both hands, trying to pull him closer.

Suddenly he tore his mouth away from her lips, lifted her off her feet and laid her down on the bed. Her soft cry of passion was lost in the shuffle of body against body.

Tony's heart was racing, his body yearning for a joining with the woman beneath him, and even so, he wouldn't take advantage of her vulnerability. Not this way. Not until she gave him the word. He paused in the act of undoing her blouse and kissed the hollow at the base of her throat before leaning back on one elbow for a perfect view of her face.

Her skin was flushed and damp, her eyelids fluttering softly as she teetered on the brink of promised ecstasy. He traced the shape of her lips, feeling the satiny softness of her skin. When she suddenly opened her mouth and drew the tip of his finger between her teeth, his eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Sarah…sweet God, woman, I'm not made of steel. If you want this to stop, you're going to have to say so now.”

Sarah shivered beneath his dark, all-knowing gaze, aware that with one move, he could take her to heaven, but then what?

“Silk…?”

He nuzzled the side of her neck. “What, baby? Say it and it's yours.”

“I know what I want…but, God help me, I'm afraid.”

“Of me?”

She winced. The shock on his face was her doing, but how to explain?

“Not
of
you, of what you'll do to my self-control. If I lose that, I don't think I'll be able to finish what I came to do.”

He stopped, his hopes plummeting while his body still pulsed. As much as he wanted her, he understood.

“It's okay, Sarah…it's okay. We just went too fast.”

Then he buried his face in the curve of her neck and stifled a groan. Whether she knew it or not, she'd said the magic word. He could bear anything but causing her fear.

“Lord help me,” he muttered, levering himself up and away, then rolled off the bed and left her room without looking back.

Sarah had asked for this, and yet the moment Tony left her alone on the bed, she couldn't believe he was gone. She felt chilled and empty, yearning for a fulfillment that wasn't going to happen. When she rolled over on her stomach and looked up, she realized the box Harmon Weatherly had given her was still there, pushed up to the headboard and half-buried beneath a mound of pillows. Angry with herself and her cowardice, she grabbed the box and set it on the bedside table. Yesterday she hadn't even known it existed. It could damn well wait a while longer to be opened. Right now, she needed to make amends with Tony before it was too late.

She crawled off the bed and ran down the hall to his room, but the door was closed. Inside, she could hear the sound of running water and knew he was probably in the shower—and a cold one at that. Her shoulders slumped as she turned away.

“Well, so much for that big idea,” she muttered, and took herself down the stairs before she did something completely foolish, like joining him.

 

Annabeth Harold was fussing with a doily beneath a bowl of nuts she'd just placed on the sideboard. It was Tuesday night and her turn to host their weekly card game, and she was pulling out all the stops. The doily was hand-crocheted—one of her great-grandmother's hand-me-downs that had gone into her hope chest when she was sixteen. It was a bit yellowed with age, but the workmanship was exquisite, and she liked to show it off. Tiny Bartlett always noticed such things, and Annabeth was just prideful enough to want it seen.

She dusted off the front of her dress, then inspected her manicure, although neither was in need of the attention. Next she glanced up into the mirror, making sure her hair was in place and her collar was lying flat. The girls would start arriving at any moment and she didn't want to be caught looking as if she had fussed. The key to proper fashion was to look good without appearing as if it had taken all day to get that way.

Just as she started to the kitchen, the doorbell rang. Pivoting sharply, she strode purposefully into the foyer, remembering to smile as she opened the door. It was Marcia Farrell, looking as elegant as always.

“Marcia, do come in from this awful chill.”

Marcia shrugged out of her coat and hung it on the hall tree, as she'd done so many times before, then sniffed the air in appreciation.

“Mmm, Annabeth, something smells yummy. I do hope you've made some of your famous sausage cheese balls. I adore them.”

Annabeth smiled primly. “Yes, actually, I did. I was on my way into the kitchen to take them out of the oven.”

Marcia waved her away, smiling gaily. “Then don't let me stop you. I'll make myself at home until the others arrive.”

“The television is on, although I haven't paid much attention to the programming. Have a seat near the fireplace, and I'll be back in a jiff.”

She started to leave, then paused. “If the others arrive while I'm out in the kitchen, let them in, will you?”

“Sure thing,” Marcia said, and headed for the living room in haste, anxious to claim the best chair nearest the fire.

A short while later, both Tiny Bartlett and Moira Blake had made their appearance and Annabeth was on her way into the living room with a tray of snacks when she heard the women gasp and then squeal. At the same time, Tiny yelled, “Annabeth! Annabeth! Get in here fast!”

Annabeth dashed into the living room, only slightly disgruntled that her planned appearance had been dashed, and set the tray down on the sideboard.

“What's wrong?” she asked. When Tiny waved her toward the TV, she hurried to where the trio had gathered around the television set.

“Look! It's that Whitman girl…she's on TV. Oh! That looks like Dewey Francis in that passing car,” Tiny squealed. “My word! I do believe he's gone and traded that Cadillac off after all.”

Marcia frowned. “Good grief, Tiny, Dewey's new car is not what's important!”

“Hush,” Moira said. “Let's hear what Sarah Whitman is saying.”

“It can't be anything good,” Annabeth said. “She's very bitter, you know.”

Moira's eyes saddened. “Can you blame her?”

No one wanted to admit that Sarah Whitman had any grounds for complaint, so they listened in silence, their focus centering on Sarah as she mentioned waiting for her father's remains to be released. Marcia shuddered and leaned back against her chair. She didn't like to think about dying. It was so…final.

But it wasn't until they heard Sarah say she would not give up until her father's killer was brought to justice that all four women gasped, then stared at each other with their mouths agape.

“Can you believe that?” Marcia asked. “What does she think she is…some hotshot detective? I can't believe they actually aired that. It makes it sound like we're harboring a murderer in our midst.”

Moira sat silently, remembering Franklin Whitman. He'd been a nice man to work for and so crazy about his family. What had happened to that family was a shame. Conscience bade her at least speak up on his behalf, whether she agreed with Sarah Whitman's behavior or not.

“Well,” Moira said, “Frank obviously did not put himself in that horrible trunk and throw himself into Flagstaff Lake.”

There was a moment of shocked silence, and Annabeth's face reddened.

“That's beside the point!”

“Not to Franklin it wasn't,” Moira muttered.

Annabeth pointed toward the television and Sarah's face, as if she could make herself heard through the TV.

“I don't like it! I don't like it at all. This will do nothing but dredge up things better left alone.”

“It's too late,” Tiny moaned. “Everything is going to be just awful again. I certainly hope that Sarah Whitman isn't crazy like her mother. I mean…killing herself and all. What was she thinking? Certainly not about her child.”

Annabeth's nose wrinkled in disapproval. “She was always unstable. I remember when her daughter was born, she took to her bed for almost a month.”

Considering the fact that Marcia's aunt had been a nurse at the hospital, she felt obliged to explain.

“Well, in all fairness, Catherine had a very rough delivery, as I recall. She was in labor for over twenty-four hours, and then they finally performed a C-section to deliver the baby, that's why she was so long in healing.”

Annabeth frowned. She didn't like being corrected. “Still, she wasn't from here. Lord only knows what she was into before Franklin met her. She grew up down South in Louisiana, you know. And remember the black woman who came and took Sarah Whitman away? Land's sake, can you imagine giving your child to a woman like that to raise?”

“I didn't see anyone else offering,” Moira said briefly, and then turned off the television, hoping to change the subject.

Tiny helped her by squealing, “Are those your famous sausage balls I smell?”

Annabeth smiled and moved toward the sideboard, where she'd set down the tray.

“Among other things,” she said. “Please, help yourselves.”

“Goody,” Tiny said. “I'm starving.”

“Take your plates to the card table,” Annabeth said. “There's plenty of room to snack while we play.”

A few minutes later the four women were deep into a rousing game of poker while discussing the merits of sharp cheddar cheese as opposed to mild.

They laughed, and they played cards as always, but this time there was an underlying threat to their lives that had not been there before. The orderly existence that gave Marmet its charm had been disturbed in a mighty way. As the self-appointed pillars of Marmet society, they felt obliged to put it to rights, only not tonight. Tonight belonged to sausage balls, fellowship and drawing a good straight.

 

The Marmet matrons weren't the only residents who'd taken umbrage at Sarah Whitman's interview. Paul Sorenson had been enjoying a quiet evening at home before the fire, absently listening to the evening news while reading his mail. The day had been busier than usual, and he was heartily glad that it was nearly over. Today had been meeting day for the board of directors, and it had gone quite well; then he'd come home, had a nice dinner and settled down by the fire. But after hearing the Whitman interview, his good nature was gone.

He tossed the paper aside and got up from his chair with some discomfort, lightly cursing his latest attack of gout as he hobbled to the phone. Normally he didn't meddle in public affairs, limiting his concerns to money rather than politics, but this was different. Sheriff Gallagher was up for reelection next spring. It was time to remind him of that fact.

 

Ron Gallagher was still at the office when the dispatcher yelled at him from the other room.