Grave Danger (38 page)

She forced herself to read the rest. Angela’s last entry was dated August 19, 1979, two days before her disappearance. She said she’d ended her affair with Dan. In spite of his affairs, she loved Jack and wouldn’t leave him.

Was it possible Angela’s search for the will had nothing to do with her death? Had Dan killed her after she dumped him? Dan could easily have gotten the Clovis point found in Angela’s hands. He would have quickly recognized the signs that he was digging through an archaeological site. He would know exactly how to make bones look like a prehistoric burial.

But Dan had approved the scope of work. He’d outlined the methodology and leaned on Jack to pay for the ground penetrating radar. It wouldn’t make sense for him to do that if he’d killed her. She returned to the only logical conclusion. Jack and Dan were innocent. Angela was killed because she was looking for Millie’s will.

She closed the journal and wondered how Jack had reacted after reading about Angela’s affair and then finding out he needed a permit from Dan Parker or he wouldn’t be able to build the Cultural Center in her honor. What an ugly tangled mess. Even messier than Libby’s life.

The more she thought about it, the more she understood one fundamental truth: for all his faults, Jack had loved Angela. The Cultural Center was his private way of showing his love. But it came far, far too late.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-
O
NE

L
IBBY WAS APPREHENSIVE
about returning to the restaurant she’d dined at the night her troubles started, but in Coho there weren’t many choices. She suspected the Thorpe Hotel restaurant with its walled booths would be too private for the showy evening Jason wanted.

He was already seated when she arrived. He greeted her warmly, clasping her hands and kissing her cheek, smiling his most polished smile. The show was on. She hoped she was up to her part.

“Relax,” he whispered in her ear.

She was grateful for his help. Hopefully he wouldn’t guess her true reason for being nervous. She had to pick his brain for information about his mother and the mill without letting him know about the will.

They ordered drinks and chatted of inconsequential things. She was surprised by his even manner. His murdered mother had just been found and his father could face prosecution for the crime, but he sat there exuding calmness, serenity, and a frank sexuality that women inherently responded to. Libby included.

She found herself wondering whether he would have been a wiser choice over Mark. He, at least, seemed to trust her. Then she reminded herself she didn’t trust him.

There was also the fact that she had been drawn to Mark with an intensity she’d never felt before. Pursuing Jason instead of Mark would have been like ignoring the laws of gravity in an attempt to fly.

Her first true test of the evening came when Mark entered the restaurant. With a date. Libby recognized Heather, the waitress from the tavern, who beamed from ear to ear as she followed the hostess to their table.

Libby understood for the first time how stiflingly small Coho was. Her salad turned to sawdust. Jason must’ve seen the cracks in her composure. He glanced up and exchanged nods with Mark. Mark stared at her for a moment and then followed the hostess to his table.

Jason grabbed her hand and gave her fingers a squeeze without missing a beat in the conversation. “The division of the mill isn’t complicated. My great-grandmother left each of her four children a quarter share of TL&L. When the mill unionized, concessions were granted. A few changes made. Five percent of the profit was supposed to go to the union, with the understanding that the employees would work harder if they could reap the rewards. Each of Millie’s four children gave up one point two five percent of the company to equal five percent. In the end, three percent went to the union and two percent ended up going to the lawyer who brokered the deal.” He held up a hand. “Please. No lawyer jokes. I’ve heard them all.”

She smiled and tried to look amused, as though she wasn’t aware that Mark was on a date in another part of the restaurant.

Jason leaned forward and said softly, “You’re doing great.” Then he leaned back and continued. “The lawyer, Eli Banks, will get his two percent of the proceeds when we sell TL&L. The union will still get three percent, even though there’s no longer a local chapter. I inherited from my grandfather Billy twenty-three point seven five percent. Laura, Earl, and James each have the same amount.”

The lawyer was still alive. Of all her suspects, he was the only one she was certain had knowledge of the will. “Does the lawyer still live in Coho?”

“You don’t know,” he said, surprised. “Eli Banks is your next-door neighbor, the one who claims to have seen you with gas cans on your back porch.”

M
ARK’S EVENING DIDN’T START WELL
. He’d entered the restaurant with Heather and immediately saw Libby and Jason together, while Heather chatted happily with the hostess, making it clear they were friends. He glanced at the reservation sheet as the hostess grabbed the menus. Caruthers/Maitland was written next to seven o’clock.

Heather had pushed for this evening out and now he knew he’d been set up—she’d wanted him to see Libby and Jason together. The hostess led them to a two-seat table, and Heather grabbed the one with the back to Libby. Mark would be forced to stare at her and Jason throughout the meal.

After the hostess left, Mark frowned at his companion. “You knew they’d be here.”

Heather’s eyes widened and she flushed. “No! I—I—”

Everyone lied to cops. Suspects, victims, witnesses: they all had reasons to lie and they all thought they could get away with it. His instinct for lies and truth had been fine-tuned by people far savvier than Heather. “Don’t. I get lied to enough on the job. I’m not in the mood for it on my night off. Tell me who put you up to this.” He spoke quietly so his voice wouldn’t carry beyond their small table.

“No one!” She flushed again when her sharp response caught other diners’ attention, and then continued in a softer voice, “I’m sorry, Mark. Okay, I knew they’d be here, but that’s all there is to it. There’s been talk at the bar. I knew that you and she…I just thought it might be easier for you if you knew she’d already moved on.”

This was the truth. Heather’s face had gone through every shade of red and it was obvious she was a novice at scheming. His anger evaporated as he began to feel sorry for her. “He’s her lawyer, Heather. Just because they’re having dinner together doesn’t mean she’s moved on.” Strange he could say that to Heather when he didn’t believe it himself.

“Oh,” she said, sounding like a deflating balloon. “Do you want to leave?” He guessed she’d passed embarrassment on the way to mortification.

“No.” The weight in his chest lifted. “You need a night out, and so, frankly, do I.”

Her smile blossomed from timid relief to real happiness. At least at the end of the evening there would be no awkward goodnight with Heather waiting for a kiss. Mortification was an effective antidote to infatuation.

L
IBBY’S JAW DROPPED
. Her mind raced. Now she understood why her next-door neighbor had lied. He’d ruined Libby so he could finally receive his payout sixty-two years after he betrayed Millie Thorpe in exchange for two percent of the mill. The man stood to gain two million dollars. But he must be in his nineties and couldn’t be agile enough to be behind the physical attacks. So who else was involved? She looked across the table. Jason was certainly strong enough. “Why would he lie?” she finally asked, feigning ignorance.

“By all accounts, he’s a few bricks short of a stack. I interviewed him today, and I can tell you with complete confidence his testimony won’t ever hold up in court. Which brings me to some good news. The case against you is pretty much dead.” He paused. When she didn’t say anything, he added, “This is the part where you throw your arms around me and shower me with kisses.” He winked at her.

“I’m tempted,” she said, afraid to believe his words could be true.

“Banks’ story changed three times during the interview. He was disoriented. Confused. Tomorrow I’ve got a meeting with the DA. I’m going to ask her not to file based on this and other new evidence. Just before coming here, I dropped off a copy of my findings at the Coho PD. Your case is in the hands of the prosecutor now, but I want Mark to attend the meeting with the DA because I want him to re-open the investigation of your attack.”

“Good luck with that.”

“There is no doubt in my mind that he’ll do what I want after he reviews the evidence. There were more problems with the fingerprint evidence than they would have you believe. Your prints were only on the first piece of tape ripped from the roll that night—the strip that covered your mouth. I did my own test with a roll of the same brand of duct tape. I was surprised at how easily I could get the tape around my wrists two times. But the tape was wrapped around your wrists five times. That was nearly impossible to do and have it remain smooth—like the tape was on you. You would’ve needed to use your mouth, chin, shoulder, neck, or knees. You would have been bound to get some of your own hair or clothing fibers stuck in the tape. Or there would be teeth marks, possibly saliva. None of which was found on the duct tape around your wrists. Plus, because the attacker used your own roll of duct tape, the fingerprints are only circumstantial. You could have used the roll yourself, unwinding a piece longer than necessary, getting your fingerprints on it, then winding the tape back on the unused part of the roll.”

“That makes sense,” she said. Inside she was reeling, thrilled that the evidence against her could be easily countered, but afraid to hope that the threat of standing trial was really gone.

“There’s more. There were several other unmatched sets of fingerprints on the wine bottle used for the Molotov cocktail. The investigator matched your prints but never matched the others. I want those prints run. Your attacker could have taken the bottle from your recycle bin. Whose fingerprints could be on the bottle?”

Libby clearly remembered Mark’s arms surrounding her as he helped her open the bottle of wine the night he’d kissed her the first time. “Mark,” she said.

“I was really hoping you’d say that. If one of those sets of prints are his, then he’s just become a defense witness. This is important because the Molotov cocktail is the strongest evidence they have for attempted arson, and right now that’s the only thing you’ve been charged with.”

She smiled at the idea of Mark being forced to testify on her behalf. “And the other prints? Could they belong to my attacker?”

“It’s more likely they were already there. Any number of people could have touched that bottle before you purchased it. But if we can prove that both yours and Mark’s fingerprints got on the bottle under normal circumstances, then their evidence supporting the arson charge is weak.”

Jason explained how her attacker might have used her Taser and a second one to make it seem she wasn’t Tasered at all. “We’re looking at a carefully premeditated attack. The police don’t have the proof they need to show you weren’t attacked Thursday night. I believe reasonable doubt is on your side.”