Dark Water (9 page)

“Count on it,” Tony said, and led the way through the trees.

 

Sarah was quiet all through dinner, answering only when spoken to and picking at her food. As much as Tony relished her presence, he didn't want her here like this. He would much rather have back the slightly belligerent woman she'd been. Finally he could stand it no longer. If he had to pick a fight with her to get a reaction, then so be it.

“Don't like my cooking?” he asked.

Sarah looked up, then down at her plate.

“Guess I'm not hungry,” she said, and laid down her fork.

“Are you mad at me?” Tony asked.

“No! Of course not,” she said. “You've been nothing but kind.”

Kind? Tony sighed. He wanted her to think of him as more than that.

“Then what's wrong?”

“Aunt Lorett called.”

“Is everything okay back home?”

Sarah frowned, wondering what he was going to think, then blurted it out, not caring what he thought.

“She told me to leave. She said I wasn't safe here.”

Tony's stomach knotted. Last month he would have laughed at someone believing in psychics, but now he didn't know what he believed. All he knew was that he wanted Sarah to be safe.

“What did you tell her?” Tony asked.

Sarah looked up. “What do you think I told her?”

“That you weren't going anywhere.”

Sarah arched an eyebrow and almost smiled. “Well…I'm thinking you know me better than I thought.”

“But you're scared, aren't you, Sarah?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “A little. I know enough about Aunt Lorett not to doubt her, but I also know I won't tuck tail and run again. I can't.” A muscle jerked in her jaw as she stared into Tony's face. “Do you understand?”

As much as he hated to agree with her, he nodded.

“Yes, I think I do.”

Then Sarah grinned. “Besides, as long as I stick with you, I'll be fine. Aunt Lorett said so.”

“Jesus,” Tony muttered, while trying to absorb the fact that a psychic had pronounced him some sort of protector. “So what happens if I fail?”

Sarah's smile widened. “Oh…nothing much. She's fond of hexes…and there are always her favorite curses. But they rarely last past a generation or two. You might be screwed, but your descendants should be fine.”

He glared. “You're loving this, aren't you?”

“For a smart man, you're pretty gullible about this voodoo stuff.”

“Not really. My grandmother was Sicilian. There's a story in our family about her putting a curse on a man who cheated her husband out of a lot of money.”

Sarah leaned forward, curious as to the climax of the story.

“So what happened to the man?”

“Well…the story goes that she cursed his manhood, saying he would never be able to, uh, how can I say this without offending propriety?”

“Just say it,” Sarah urged.

Tony grinned. “Yeah, okay. The curse was that he would never ‘get it up' again, and that his name would die with him.”

“Wow! That's cold. Did it work?”

“Don't know. This was all before I was born. However, I do know that there were no people in the neighborhood with that last name when I was growing up.”

Sarah smirked. “They probably moved. If I was a man who'd just had his balls cursed, I would have lit out for parts unknown.”

Her bawdy answer surprised and then delighted him. God, but he liked her spirit. His grin widened.

“You're probably right. However, you can see why I grew up with a healthy respect for curses.” Then he leaned across the table and covered her hand with his. “And I
will
take care of you, Sarah. Even if you don't need it, I need to do it, okay?”

She stared at him intently, acknowledging the concern on his face and wondering why it wasn't enough.

“Yes, sure, I understand. You're paying my father back, and I appreciate it.”

His smile faded. “It's not just about your father anymore, and you know it, or you're not as smart as I thought you were,” he said shortly, then got up from the table and began carrying the dirty dishes to the sink, leaving Sarah with a whole lot more to think about than an anonymous trespasser.

 

“Twenty years and you couldn't stay dead. Damn you, Frank Whitman, why couldn't you stay dead?”

The killer scrubbed at the mud tracks on the kitchen floor while stewing about the latest turn of events. It was bad enough that Whitman's body had been found, because that meant the case was reopened. But to have Whitman's daughter mouthing off to the world that she wouldn't rest until her father's killer was brought to justice just made everything worse. If she weren't here, the case would eventually fizzle from lack of evidence, but there was no telling what would happen now.

Finally the killer stood, giving the floor a judgmental glance, then pronounced it clean. It was a damn shame that Sarah Whitman wasn't as easy to get rid of as the mud, but living the past twenty years in a private purgatory had a way of hardening the kindest of hearts. Sarah Whitman still had a chance to save herself, even though she didn't know it. All she had to do was claim her father's bones and get the hell out of Marmet, and she would be fine. Then the killer's hands curled into fists.

But mess with me and you die.

 

Ron Gallagher turned his head sideways as he peered in the mirror, taking a last swipe at a streak of remaining lather from his morning shave, then washed and dried his face before splashing on aftershave. He was a particular man by nature, but this morning was different. Sarah Whitman would be coming into the office to view the articles they'd taken from her father's body. He had little hope of her being able to tell him anything new, but it had to be done just the same.

He neatly parted, then combed his hair carefully before giving it a light spritz of hair spray. If the men in the department knew he was going to so much trouble with his appearance, he would never hear the end of it, but Sarah Whitman got under his skin. He knew she would never see him as anything but a short, middle-aged man who'd been part of the hell of her past, but he couldn't help himself. He wanted her approval almost as much as he needed her forgiveness. Maybe then he could forgive himself for standing by and doing nothing while the good people of Marmet had crucified her and her mother.

Giving his thinning hair one last pat, he buckled on his gun belt, holstered his service revolver and left the house, grabbing his hat and coat as he went. No need giving himself a case of hat head until after Sarah Whitman's visit.

 

Sarah dressed carefully, choosing her clothes as if for a job interview instead of what was really going to happen. She had to be strong. Breaking down wasn't even a consideration. Not in front of the good citizens of Marmet. But it was going to be difficult to see her father's possessions—to touch that which had survived him and remember exactly what she'd lost.

She applied a thin coat of lipstick, then shook the hair away from her face and carefully eyed her appearance. Black slacks. Black turtleneck. Red-and-black plaid jacket. Neat but assertive. That was the look she was going for. She checked her shoes, then bent and rubbed at a scuff mark on one toe just as Tony knocked on her door.

“Coming,” she called, and grabbed her coat and purse from the bed.

Tony's eyes widened appreciatively as Sarah opened the door.

“Nice,” he said softly, and offered her an elbow.

“Do I look like I might kick some butt?” she asked.

He grinned. “Oh yes…at the very least some butt kicking.”

“Maybe more?”

“Don't press your luck,” he said. “Let's go. We don't want to keep the sheriff waiting.”

S
arah's nerves were on edge as they drove into town. Her aunt's warnings were never far from her thoughts. Was she putting herself at needless risk by staying in a place she wasn't welcome? As they stopped at an intersection, waiting for the light to change, someone waved at them from a nearby yard.

“Who was that?” Sarah asked, eyeing the elderly woman, who had resumed her task of raking leaves.

“Mrs. Sheffield. She used to be the librarian, remember?”

Sarah stared, trying to put that face on the tall, stately redhead she remembered.

“But she's so old.”

“Time did not stand still when you left,” Tony said. “Everyone and everything is twenty years older now. Mrs. Sheffield's husband died several years back. One of her sisters came to live with her a couple of years ago because she was afraid to live alone.”

The light changed and Tony drove on past. Sarah leaned back in the seat. For several blocks more she said nothing. It wasn't until they were pulling up to the sheriff's department that she spoke.

“Tony?”

“Yes?”

“Am I tilting at windmills?”

Tony killed the engine and pocketed the keys as he turned to look at her. For the first time since her arrival, he saw defeat on her face.

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe I should be satisfied with the fact that my father was found. Maybe I should just bury him beside my mother and go home.”

“And not dwell on who killed him? Is that what you mean?”

She shrugged. “I'll always dwell on that,” she said softly. “But what was I thinking when I said I wouldn't leave until his name was cleared? It's been twenty years, for God's sake. People have moved away. People have died. Whatever clues might have been left during the initial crime are certainly gone. Who's to say the real criminal is even still living?” She slumped against the door and momentarily closed her eyes. “No matter how sincere my intentions, I can't fix this, can I?”

Tony reached across the seat and took her by the hand.

“Sarah.”

She couldn't bear to see the sympathy in his eyes for fear that she would finally break down.

“Sarah…look at me.”

She sighed, then lifted her head.

“Why did you really come to Marmet?”

“To claim my father's remains, of course.”

“And…?”

For several moments, Sarah was silent. Tony waited, knowing that eventually she would find her own truth.

Sarah stared out the window, at the businesses and the streets. Some of them were familiar, as were the faces of people. The longer she looked, the more she understood what Tony was trying to get her to say. Finally she turned to him.

“They were wrong, you know.”

“About what?” Tony asked.

“They shouldn't have treated us so badly.”

Tony nodded. “You're right, honey. They shouldn't have done that.”

“They made me feel guilty, like I'd done something wrong, too, but I didn't know how to make it right.” She took a deep breath, unaware that her voice was starting to shake. “No matter how successful I've become, there's a part of me that still keeps trying to overcome the stigma of being Franklin Whitman's daughter. Then I found out he wasn't the thief everyone made him out to be, and I felt a new kind of guilt that I'd believed, like everyone else in Marmet, that he was guilty. I thought if I cleared his name it would make me okay.”

“You're already okay,” Tony said.

“On one level, I've always known that, but I need these people to look me in the face and admit that they were wrong. I know it won't bring my parents back, but it's the only thing I can do for them now.”

“So you want revenge?”

“No. Retribution. I want retribution.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

For a moment all Sarah could do was stare at Tony's face. The expression in his beautiful dark eyes was urging her to trust him. The muscle jerking at the side of his jaw gave an intensity to his words.

“Nothing,” she said.

“So let's go.”

Moments later they were out of the car and entering the sheriff's office. The woman behind the desk looked up as they entered.

“I'm Sarah Whitman. I have an appointment with the sheriff.”

The woman smiled at Sarah as she stood and went to greet her.

“Sarah…it's good to see you again,” she said.

Sarah frowned. “Do I know you?”

“I am…or rather, I
was
Margaret Thomason. I sat three desks in front of you in school. My name is Bishop now. Barney Bishop and I got married after I graduated high school.”

Sarah smiled back, surprised by the genuineness of the woman's greeting. “Margaret! Yes, I remember you, and I remember Barney, too.”

Margaret giggled. “He's changed for the better, trust me.”

“So he's given up throwing spitballs, has he?”

“As I remember, that happened sometime around the sixth or seventh grade…when he started liking girls.”

Tony grinned. “That'll do it every time.”

Margaret eyed the tall, handsome man with Sarah Whitman. Silk DeMarco was something of a legend in Marmet. Talk about the town bad boy making good—he'd done that and more, and managed to stay single in the process. She knew women who once wouldn't have given him the time of day who would now give their last dollar to date him.

“Silk…it's been a while since you've been in Marmet,” she said, and tried not to giggle again. It was hardly befitting a married woman and mother of three.

“Is the sheriff in?” Sarah asked.

Margaret suddenly remembered why they were there and pulled herself together.

“Yes. I'm sorry for going on about myself. He's expecting you. Follow me.”

She paused at a doorway at the end of the hall, knocked once and then opened it.

“Ron, Sarah Whitman is here.”

Ron Gallagher stood abruptly and circled the desk, urging them to come in.

Margaret put her hand on Sarah's arm and smiled shyly.

“It was nice to see you again.”

A bit of the tension in Sarah's belly began to ease.

“Thank you, Margaret.”

“For what?” the other woman asked.

“For making me feel welcome,” Sarah said, then entered the office and took a seat beside Tony.

She cast a quick glance at his profile, absently eyeing the sensual cut of his lips and the strength in his jaw. Before she could look away, he caught her staring. A look passed between them that made Sarah's toes curl inside her shoes. Disgusted with herself for being so weak where this man was concerned, she tore her gaze away and fixed her attention on the sheriff.

Ron fiddled with a couple of paper clips as he rested his elbows on the surface of his desk, waiting for them to settle. He saw the exchange between DeMarco and Sarah and sighed, reminding himself that it was time to give up the daydreams. Not only was he too old and too short, Sarah Whitman was way out of his league.

“So, Miss Whitman, I trust you've recovered from your fright of yesterday.”

Sarah fixed the sheriff with a cool, studied stare.

“As I told you yesterday, I wasn't scared, and considering the circumstances, I'm fine. I would like to see the items you found on my father's body now.”

Ron unlocked a drawer in his desk and pulled out a large brown envelope. His hands felt all thumbs as he tried to undo the metal clasp. Finally it came open, and he slid the contents onto the surface of his desk.

“I'm afraid not much survived. Twenty years underwater does a lot of damage.”

Sarah clenched her jaw to keep from saying something she might later regret and reached for the first thing she saw, which was her father's wallet.

“Easy,” Gallagher cautioned. “The leather is pretty fragile and there's nothing that survived except his driver's license, which was laminated.”

Sarah's fingers trembled as she unfolded the flap and, for the first time in twenty years, looked at her father's face.

“Oh God…oh, Daddy,” Sarah whispered, and then touched the buckled plastic with the tip of her finger.

Tony leaned over and, without speaking, slid his arm around Sarah's shoulders. For a brief moment she rested against him, and then she straightened, eyed the faded picture of a sandy-haired smiling man one more time, and laid the wallet aside.

Gallagher pushed the ring of keys closer to her and, as he did, felt as if he was the outsider at a funeral home, intruding on a family viewing.

Breath caught at the back of Sarah's throat as she saw the key ring. “Number One Dad.” She'd given it to him for Father's Day the same year he'd disappeared. She picked it up and turned to show Tony, only to find that no words would come.

“I see it, honey,” he said softly. “Did you give it to your dad?”

She nodded.

“He was always real proud of you. Used to tell me how smart you were. Did you know that?”

“No.”

It was a small, quiet word, but one that held a world of pain.

“Well, he did. Every time I mowed your yard, he had a new story to tell about you.”

Sarah inhaled slowly, savoring the knowledge that she had mattered.

The sheriff was curious about some of the keys and wanted to ask Sarah about them.

“Miss Whitman, I was wondering if—”

“Please, call me Sarah,” she said.

Gallagher nodded and smiled. “Sarah…about the keys on the ring. Can you identify any of them?”

As Sarah fingered the keys, a slight frown creased her forehead. She'd been so young, but maybe…

“This one opened the front door to our house. I remember because I had one just like it that I wore on a chain around my neck.”

Gallagher marked the key with a piece of tape and made a note in a file he'd opened on his desk.

“What about these?” he asked.

“Car keys, I think,” Sarah said. “They belong to a Ford, and we had a Ford. And these…” She fingered a pair of small, odd-shaped keys. “There were drawers in Daddy's desk that locked. I'm guessing these were the keys that went to those locks.”

“What about that one?” Gallagher asked, pointing to the last one to be identified.

Sarah's frown deepened as she traced the shape of the long, flat key, trying to remember if she'd ever seen it before.

“Looks like a safety-deposit key to me,” Tony said.

Gallagher's eyes widened at the thought. “You know, you might be right,” he said.

Sarah laid the keys back on the desk. “I wouldn't know about that, although I'm sure my parents had one, and obviously it was at the bank where Daddy worked.”

Gallagher picked up the keys. “I'll check it out, although if there was a safety-deposit box at the bank, I'm guessing that when the money went missing, it was probably opened.”

“Maybe, maybe not. My mother didn't exactly cooperate with the investigation,” Sarah said.

“They would have gotten a court order for a search,” Gallagher said.

“I wouldn't know,” Sarah said. “I was only ten.” Then she picked up a coin from the small pile on the desk and turned it over. It was a 1973 dime.

“Old money,” she said.

“Not then it wasn't,” Tony said.

Sarah stared at the dime for a few moments and then laid it back down on the desk. Suddenly the idea of rehashing any more of her father's life with the sheriff seemed obscene. After all, he'd been part of the problem. How could she expect him to be part of the solution she now sought?

“Is this all of it?” Sarah asked.

Gallagher nodded.

“Do you have any more you can tell me about when my father's remains will be released?”

“They tell me about a week, maybe more. They're pretty backed up at the coroner's office, and this isn't—”

Gallagher stopped, but it was too late to undo the damage. Sarah's expression had already gone cold.

“What you started to say was, this isn't a case with a high priority, right? If there's nothing else you need from me, I will be leaving now.”

Caught off guard by her abrupt dismissal, Gallagher stood abruptly, searching for something he could say that would make this all right. Nothing came to mind.

Tony didn't comment, but he'd seen the jut of her chin and knew she was serious. He reached for Ron's hand and shook it as he, too, stood along with Sarah, who was already putting on her coat.

“Ron, you know where to reach us if you have any other questions.”