Dark Water (11 page)

“Hey, Sheriff, phone call for you on one.”

“Okay, thanks,” Ron called, and picked up the phone.

“Sheriff Gallagher.”

“Ron…Paul Sorenson, here. Have you seen the evening news?”

“No. I just got back into the office. There was an accident on the logging road up north. Why?”

“That Whitman woman is making waves. What are you going to do about it?”

Ron frowned. “What do you mean?”

Sorenson was almost sputtering. “She's threatening the people of Marmet, that's what I mean. Her vow to find her father's killer makes it appear as if we've knowingly been harboring criminals. I want it stopped.”

Ron's first instinct had been to tell Sorenson to mind his own business. However, he took a deep breath, giving himself time to temper his words.

“Look, Paul, last time I checked, there was a clause in our national constitution that gives us freedom of speech, so unless she's slandering someone, she's perfectly free to say what she chooses. As for finding her father's killer, I intend to do just that. Someone did kill him. And someone's gotten away with it for more than twenty years. I'm thinking it's about time some justice is due that family.”

Sorenson flushed. He didn't like to be thwarted.

“You make too many waves about this business and you'll find it damned hard to get yourself reelected next spring.”

Now Ron was really ticked. “Is that a threat?”

Sorenson blustered through what should have been an apology. “Of course not. Why would I feel the need to threaten you?”

“That's just what I was wondering,” Ron said. “And since we're talking, I'll let you know ahead of time that I will be investigating anyone whose position has improved noticeably in the last twenty years.”

Sorenson's heart skipped a beat. “What the hell do you mean?”

“I would think it's obvious,” Ron said. “Since it's quite clear that Frank Whitman didn't spend the missing million, someone else did.”

“You can't be accusing me?”

“I'm not accusing anyone…yet.”

Stunned that his phone call had backfired, Paul Sorenson hung up without another word. He stood at the desk, staring about the room and thinking of the elegance of his home and all that he had accumulated. His eyes narrowed angrily, giving his face a porcine appearance as he contemplated what he'd just been told. He hadn't sacrificed all these years just to have it taken away, and certainly not by some woman who didn't matter in the grand scheme of things. But she knew things about him that no one else did. Something had to give.

 

Tony picked up another chunk of wood and put it on the chopping block, then reached for the ax. The wood had been curing since last fall and was properly seasoned enough to burn in his fireplace, but he'd neglected to split it. Now he was glad he had something to do to get him out of the house.

The jarring thud of steel against solid wood ricocheted from his hands to his shoulders, then down to his toes. It had been months since he'd given himself such a vigorous workout, and it still might not be enough to make him forget how close he'd come to making love to Sarah. Not that he wanted to forget. But for Tony, when a woman said no, that was the end of that, no matter what he wanted.

He continued to chop, splitting the firewood and then stacking it aside, and made himself focus on the woodsy scent of newly split logs, thinking how great it would be to sit by a nice fire. Then his mind wandered. Maybe he would open a bottle of wine, get some cheese and crackers and…and Sarah? Where had she come from? She wasn't supposed to be in this fantasy. Not unless he wanted to spend the night in another cold shower.

“Hell's bells.”

He gave the ax one last swing, splitting the wood on the block into halves, then stacking it with the rest. Once he was through, he carried the ax back to the small storage shed next to his house and hung it on the wall.

It wasn't until he came out of the shed that he realized how weary he was. But it was a good kind of tired. The satisfaction of knowing that what he'd done would provide heat for his home. Even though there was central heat and air in the house, there was something satisfyingly primal about man making fire to keep himself warm.

Pausing at the woodpile, he loaded himself down with an armload of split wood, then started toward the house. To his surprise, Sarah met him at the back door, holding it open for him as he shouldered his way inside.

“Thanks.” He smiled. “I knew there was a reason I'd invited you here.”

His teasing was the last thing she expected, but it alleviated the tension between them. She closed the door as he passed through, then turned in time to watch him exit the kitchen. As he did, she couldn't help but notice the corded muscles in his back and the sexy swagger of his hips. Granted, he was carrying an armload of firewood, which accounted for the play of muscles, but it did not account for his long legs and slim hips. And she had no one to blame but herself for the dull ache in the pit of her stomach. If she hadn't been such a coward, they would have had mad, passionate sex. And it would have been nothing but sex. She wasn't falling for him. She couldn't. She shouldn't. To fall in love with Silk DeMarco would be committing emotional suicide. He would be a marvelous lover, of that she had no doubt, but then what? There was too much going on in her life for her to open herself up to that kind of pain.

The solid clunk of wood on brick as Tony laid the logs near the fireplace broke her out of her reverie and sent her back to the stove to stir the pot of gumbo she had been cooking. The warm, familiar scents of shrimp, sausage and okra bubbling in the gumbo made her homesick for New Orleans. She turned the fire down under the pot and was in the act of setting the table when Tony came back in the room.

He stood in the doorway, drawn to the intensity of her expression. If she made love with as much passion as she cooked, she would be…

“Hell,” he muttered.

Sarah spun. “I'm sorry. Did you say something to me?”

He sighed. “No. Just talking to myself.” Then he made himself smile. “I never intended for you to play chef for us, but something certainly smells good.”

Sarah shrugged. “I like to cook. It calms me.”

He tugged playfully at a strand of hair that had fallen across her forehead, then gently smoothed it back in place.

“Do I have time to shower?”

“Again?” The moment she said it, she stifled a groan. “I mean…”

“It's okay, Sarah. Forget it.” He pointed to the gumbo simmering on the stove. “I won't be long. Keep it hot.” He winked, grinned and then left.

The moment he was gone, Sarah groaned.
Forget it? Not likely. Keep it hot? Good Lord…if I get any hotter I'll burst into flames.

Frustrated with herself and the situation in general, she resumed setting the table, then put some bread in the oven. Tony should be back by the time it was done. They would eat. They would chitchat. They would pretend they were nothing but old acquaintances. And for the short term of the lie, Sarah might be able to convince herself that she wasn't in over her head, both with the murder of her father and the man in whose house she was staying.

After that, it was up to her room to open the box. Harmon Weatherly had saved it all these years. It was past time to make some sort of peace with herself. Maybe the answers as to how to do that were inside.

“D
o you have a pocketknife?” Sarah asked, as she crawled on the bed and pulled the box between her legs.

Tony thrust his hand into his pants pocket, pulled out a knife, then sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Look out,” he warned before extending the knife toward her. With a flick of a button, the blade suddenly snapped open.

Sarah's eyes widened as she watched him slide it beneath the dusty string and lift. The string fell away like melting butter.

“That's impressive. Aren't switchblades illegal?”

He grinned. “A little holdover from my youth. I don't travel through airports with it, I assure you.”

“That makes me feel so much better,” she muttered, then focused on the package she was holding.

“Sarah.”

“What?”

“It will be all right.”

She sighed. “You must think I'm such a coward.”

“On the contrary,” he said gently. “You're one of the bravest women I've ever known. Now tear off that paper and let's get down to business. Who knows? There might be a clue as to what really happened to your father.”

She frowned. “I hadn't thought of that. But surely the police would already have gone through his things in their attempts to find him and get back the money?”

“But they were looking for one thing. We're looking for another.”

“You're right!” She ripped off the paper and cast it aside. “Here goes nothing,” she said, and lifted the lid.

 

It was a jumble of things that had obviously been dropped into the box without rhyme or reason. A framed picture lay on top, the surface so dusty it was difficult to see the photo beneath.

“Here, let me,” Tony said, and wiped the glass with his handkerchief before handing it back. “We can clean it better later. At least now you can see what it is.”

Sarah nodded, then turned it faceup. Immediately a knot formed in the back of her throat, but she willed herself not to cry.

“It's our family picture. We had it taken the Christmas before and sent it out with our Christmas cards.” She touched the twenty-year-old image of her face, trying to remember what it felt like to be nine. “I loved that green dress. It was the first time I'd worn velvet. I felt so grown-up.”

She put the picture aside and reached for the next item.

“Oh no,” she whispered.

“What?” Tony asked.

She held up an oddly shaped dish. “It's an ashtray. I made it in Bible school one summer.” Her voice was shaking as she set it aside, too. “Lord…Daddy didn't even smoke. What was I thinking?”

Tony touched the side of her cheek with the back of his hand.

“That you loved him?”

She looked up, her vision blurring with tears. “I did, didn't I?” Her jaw clenched as her mind jumped back twenty years. “Then why did I think my daddy was a thief? I should have known better.”

“You were a kid, Sarah. You can't blame yourself for reacting to what was being said. Hell…I was six years older, and even though I had a hard time believing what everyone was saying, truth was, all the evidence pointed to him.”

“I guess you're right.”

“Of course I am,” Tony teased. “I'm a man.”

She managed a small smile. “Thanks, I needed that.”

“That's me…the original ‘got what you need' man. How else do you think I came by the nickname?”

This time Sarah laughed. “You're impossible, aren't you?”

“No way, baby. I'm easy. Any time you want proof, just call for Silk and I'll be there.”

Sarah rolled her eyes, aware that he was doing all he could to lighten the moment for her. Still, as she dug through the box, she couldn't let go of what he'd said. One of these days she just might take him up on the challenge.

She found another picture, a much smaller one in a little china frame, and realized it was a school picture.

“Fifth grade. The last one I had taken before everything was ruined,” she said, and set it on top of the growing pile.

It was interesting and touching and sometimes downright sad to see the bits and pieces of what had mattered to her father, knowing that he'd cared so much for his little family that he'd taken mementos of them with him to his job.

The last thing in the box was an old-style Daily Glance desk calendar, one with a page for every day.

“Daddy's desk calendar,” she said, as she set it between her legs.

She began to leaf through it, and as she did, she wondered why it hadn't been taken into evidence when he disappeared.

“Tony, look. This has a notation of every appointment and meeting Daddy had up until the day he disappeared. I wonder why the authorities didn't take this into evidence?”

“Who knows?” Tony said. “Looking back, I'd guess they immediately branded him the thief and were too busy trying to find out where he'd gone to worry about what he'd done before he left. Besides, this is such a small town, it would have been all but impossible to hide secrets for long. They may have looked at it and decided it meant nothing.”

“But…” Then Sarah hushed. Tony was right. There was no use second-guessing what had been done before. It was what needed to be done now that mattered.

Curiously she thumbed through the pages, and as she did, she realized she'd known nothing about this part of her father's life. He'd just been Daddy to her. He lived with them, took care of them. He went to work at the bank every morning and came home every evening. Beyond that, she'd known nothing. It gave her an odd sense of loneliness, as if she'd only just now realized that her father had lived a life beyond that of being her daddy.

It wasn't until she was more than halfway through the calendar that she realized there was a common notation. Every other Wednesday at 1:00 p.m. there was a notation that simply said “Moose.” Believing it had to do with meeting at the Moose Lodge to which he belonged, she thought nothing of it. Thumbing through the rest of the pages, she found nothing else that was even slightly notable and began to repack the box when she suddenly remembered that those meetings had always been at night.

“Tony, look at this,” she said, and showed him the dates. “Every other Wednesday there's this note that says Moose—1:00 p.m. At first, I thought it was his lodge meetings, but I just remembered those were at night.”

Tony thumbed through the pages, frowning as he did. Then he handed the calendar back to Sarah without answering.

“So what do you think?” she asked.

“Do you really want to know?”

“Of course. It's past time to be worrying about any hidden skeletons in the family closet. I'm more concerned about the one they pulled out of the lake.”

“Well, for starters, I think you need to show it to Gallagher. He seems to be serious about pursuing a new investigation, so it's only fair that he knows about this stuff, right?”

“You're right. I'll take it to him in the morning.”

“What do you think about hiring a private investigator?”

Sarah's eyes widened, and she sat up straight. “I think it's a good idea.” Then she frowned. “But I've never used one before. How do you find a reputable—”

“I have one on retainer,” Tony said.

“You keep a P.I. on retainer? I thought you ran a nightclub?”

“I do.”

“Do I want to know why you need a private investigator?”

He grinned. “I have other business interests, too.”

She frowned. “Are they legal?”

He laughed, and then, before he thought, leaned over and kissed her lightly on the lips.

“Hell yes, Sarah Jane. They're legal, and so am I. I'm just careful, that's all.”

She pulled back from the kiss, but not as quickly as she should have. Her lips were still warm and tingling when he stood up from the bed and took the box from her hands.

“Okay, we've looked at this stuff and the ghosts were nice to you. Nothing too threatening that can't be dealt with, right?”

Too bemused from the kiss to do more than nod, Sarah sat, waiting to see what happened next.

“So let's go toast the sunset from the deck with a glass of wine, what do you say?”

“The sun has already set.”

Tony waved his hand in dismissal. “Details. Details. We can still drink the wine.”

She sat for a moment, then started to grin. He was right. They could still drink the wine.

“If it's not too cool, we could watch the moon rise from the deck,” she offered.

“Get your coat, kid. It's never too cold to watch the moon.”

Sarah's heart felt lighter than it had in days as she followed him out of her room.

 

The killer stood in the dark beneath the trees, watching DeMarco's house. The light had gone out in Sarah Whitman's room, and her progress could be traced by the lights that came on as she and DeMarco moved through the house. When light appeared in the kitchen and she and DeMarco could be seen uncorking wine, it seemed that the long, cold wait would soon be over. The infrared scope on the nearby rifle allowed perfect sight in the dark. Perfect to kill by. Only not in haste. Never in haste. Patience was the killer's best quality, the past twenty years attested to that.

The patio door suddenly opened, and DeMarco and Sarah Whitman came out on the deck. The killer picked up the rifle and lifted it to face height, peering through the night-vision scope for a clearer view of the couple.

DeMarco was looking at Sarah as if he could eat her alive. The killer shifted the scope to Sarah's face. She looked nervous as she sipped at her wine, using a deck chair as a boundary between them. The killer had but a moment of regret. They would make quite a couple. However, playing cupid wasn't what mattered. It was all about protecting secrets.

The killer watched as Sarah turned around, giving a perfect view of her back. With trigger finger tightening, the killer took a deep breath—waiting—waiting—waiting….

 

Tony lifted his wineglass and then pointed upward.

“No moon. What are we going to toast?”

The outline of his features was blurred by the dark, so Sarah sensed more than saw the gleam in his eyes. She looked up at the sky and saw nothing, not even a few scattered stars. She raised her glass, then turned to him.

“To clouds…and old friends…and happy ever afters.”

Tony touched his glass to hers. The clink of crystal to crystal was distinct.

“To clouds,” he said softly, and took a small sip of wine. “And to old friends,” he added, then took another small sip as Sarah followed suit. “And last, but never least…to happy ever afters.”

He touched his glass to hers again. She sighed. So beautiful. He was so stunningly, devastatingly beautiful.

The light from the kitchen was weak, but it was strong enough for Tony to see the wanting in her eyes. Instead of emptying his glass, he set it down and reached for her.

Sarah stepped forward.

The bullet sang past her head and plowed into the outside wall of the house at the same time that they heard the shot.

For a heartbeat they stood frozen, stunned by what they'd just heard, and then Sarah screamed as Tony propelled her downward, pressing her into the wooden deck with the weight of his body. His hands were gripping her hard as he kicked, then rolled, taking them both into the alcove formed by the wet bar next to the house.

Although they were not completely safe, the fact that the shooter could no longer see them gave Tony a brief moment of relief. Still lying on top of Sarah, he thrust a hand through her hair, praying he would not find blood.

“Tell me you're not hit,” he muttered. “Please God, tell me you're not hit.”

“I'm all right,” she whispered, then she shuddered. “Did someone just try to shoot me?”

“No. Someone just tried to kill you. Be still. I need to get my phone out of my pocket.”

“Oh God, oh God,” Sarah said, then started to shake.

Tony made a quick call to the sheriff's office, giving the dispatcher a brief sketch of what had just happened, assuring him at the same time that there was no need for an ambulance, then held her as she started to cry.

A few minutes later the faint but reassuring sound of approaching sirens told them help was on the way.

Sarah couldn't quit shaking, and Tony wouldn't let her go. Even after the arrival of the deputy—and, soon afterward, Gallagher himself—she kept trembling. Tony had wrapped her in a thick blanket and set her before the fire. She'd had one cup of hot coffee and was sipping on a second one as she answered the sheriff's questions. A few minutes later, two of the deputies came back in the house through the kitchen.