Bleeding Through: A Rachel Goddard Mystery (Rachel Goddard Mysteries) (7 page)

The sour odor of beer wafted out on Skeet’s breath. Not drunk, but almost there. “What makes you so sure that I suspect one of you of murder?”

Blake opened his mouth to answer, but Skeet cut him off. “Watch what you say, Dad. He’s trying to trick you. Trying to make you incriminate yourself.”

Skeet, Tom thought wearily, watched too many crime shows on TV. “I’d like to rule out all of you as fast as I can. Help me do that, okay?”

“You ought to be talking to her boyfriend,” Skeet said.

“Or boyfriends,” Maureen put in. “She probably had plenty of them, the way she flirted with everything in pants.”

“When was the last time any of you saw Shelley or talked to her?”

For a moment none of them answered, then Maureen said, “We all went to see her when she was home for Christmas. We thought if we sat down with her, we could talk some sense into her. But she wouldn’t listen.”

“She blew us off.” Skeet paced to the fireplace and back as he spoke. “She acted like she felt sorry for us because we couldn’t see the truth.”

Blake snorted. “She said if we cared about Brian, we’d want his
real
killer caught and punished. Well, my son’s real killer is sitting in prison right now, and he’s gonna stay there if I have anything to say about it.”

“All that girl wanted,” Skeet said, “was to make some kind of name for herself. It was just so damned obvious. She had this idea she was gonna be in the news for freeing an innocent man.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Maureen said, “if she already had her outfit picked out for going on the Today Show.”

“Look at this.” Skeet spun around, strode to the mantel and grabbed a couple of framed photos. He walked back and thrust them in Tom’s face. “This was my brother. This is who Vance Lankford beat to death.”

“Did you know he was about to sign on with a record company in Nashville?” Blake asked. “The rest of us, we always picked and sang at the festivals and the fair, but we were just amateurs, having fun. Brian was different. He had the talent to make it. He was gonna be a star. But now—” He broke off, shaking his head.

Tom looked at the photos Skeet held out. One showed a fresh-faced, grinning Brian Hadley with his guitar slung over his shoulder, his white cowboy hat cocked at an angle. In the other Brian stood at the center of his bandmates, including Skeet, who’d been a teenager then. Something was wrong with that picture, but Skeet pulled both photos away before Tom could figure out what it was.

“Do you have any idea how it made us feel,” Maureen pleaded, “knowing somebody was trying to get Vance Lankford out of jail? Brian was murdered. His little children are growing up without their father. And here was this girl planning to make herself a celebrity by getting his killer out of jail.”

Although Tom thought Shelley’s belief in Lankford’s innocence was misguided and her efforts to free him were a waste of time, he didn’t let that skew his memory of her. The girl the Hadleys were ranting about didn’t sound like the one he’d known. He could mention that her death wouldn’t put an end to the innocence project’s investigation, but he didn’t want to deal with another outburst.

“Right now,” he said, “the Beechers are going through the same thing you’ve been through. Their child has been murdered. My job is to find out who did it.”

None of them answered. Maureen rubbed her hands along her forearms as if feeling a sudden chill. Blake stared at the floor. Skeet replaced the photos on the mantel and stood with his hands fisted at his sides, scowling at Tom.

“Was Christmas the last time any of you saw Shelley?” Tom asked. “That was more than three months ago.”

“Well…” Maureen glanced at her husband beside her, then over at Skeet by the fireplace. “That was the last time all of us together saw her.”

“But you’ve seen her since then separately?”

“I haven’t,” Blake said. “I’ve talked to Dan and Sarah, though. Tried to make them shake some sense into their daughter.”

“Mrs. Hadley?” Tom prompted. “What about you?”

Another round of exchanged glances. The two men’s stubborn expressions gave up nothing, but Maureen wavered and finally said, “I ran into her at the drugstore a couple of times. I tried to talk to her and she wouldn’t listen.”

“Skeet? I hear you’ve been to the Beecher house a few times by yourself.”

Skeet kept his head down and suddenly appeared absorbed in the condition of his rough fingertips, rubbing them together, studying them. He was a guitar player like his older brother. Callused fingers came with the instrument.

Tom let the silence draw out. At last Maureen said, “Tell him, for heaven’s sake. He knows already.”

“All right, all right.” Skeet swiped his curly hair off his forehead, then stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets. “I went to see her when she came home.”

“Did you ever go up to see her at college?” Tom asked.

“No,” Skeet said. Too quickly.

“I’ll find out if you did, so you might as well tell me.”

“I told you no, Sherlock.” Sulky. Stubborn. Skeet acted like a kid ten years younger, stuck in a rebellious phase.

“You’re sure about that?” Tom asked.

“Our son’s not a liar,” Blake said. “You got your answer.”

An
answer, anyway. But not the truth. Tom would bet on that.

“Listen to me,” Maureen said, leaning forward, hands clasped in her lap. “The last thing in the world we’d want is for the wrong person to be punished for Brian’s murder. We want his killer punished. And he
is
being punished. He deserved the death penalty, but at least he’ll never get out on parole. I never believed Shelley was going to find anything that would clear a guilty man. How could she? We just wanted her to stop stirring up all those bad memories. We wanted to be left in peace.”

“You can’t seriously believe one of us would kill her over it,” Blake said.

Tom could believe almost anybody was capable of almost any act, and these people had more motive than many killers did. He wouldn’t get anything else out of them while they were together. “Well, thank you for talking to me. I hope you’ll be patient and answer my questions if I need to come back to see you again.” Blake gave a grunt of exasperation, but Tom went on without acknowledging the reaction. “I’ll get this over with as soon as humanly possible.”

Driving away from the house, Tom thought about the naiveté of earnest young people who got hold of a lofty notion and didn’t think twice about bashing everybody over the head with it. It might not have anything to do with Shelley’s murder, but he wanted to know what made her so sure Vance Lankford was innocent. Whatever she’d been up to, she should have been more discreet about it. The victim’s relatives, still trying to accept their loss, had obviously felt she was taunting them with the idea that Lankford might go free. They were angry and hurting, and Tom wouldn’t be surprised to learn that one of them had lashed out at her in an unguarded moment.

Chapter Six

Rachel’s drinking glass slipped from her fingers, bounced off the edge of the bathroom sink and shattered on the floor. Water and glass shards sprayed the tile and her athletic shoes. Sighing, she leaned against the sink. Third time this morning she’d dropped something. Second time she’d broken something. She still had a few drops of milk on her shoes from the cereal bowl incident in the kitchen earlier.

Tom appeared in the bathroom doorway, buttoning his brown uniform shirt. “You’re a nervous wreck. You’re really worried about your sister, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am.”
In more ways than you can imagine.
Rachel turned away, hiding her face from his scrutiny, and yanked a hand towel from the rack. She knelt to clean the floor.

Tom stooped at the same moment, and they bumped heads.

“Sorry,” he said. “You okay?”

Rachel nodded, fighting the urge to throw herself into his arms and pour out her anxiety. She wanted their normal Sunday morning routine, the leisurely breakfast, the shared run over the hills and through the meadows on the farm. But Tom had a murder to investigate and she had Michelle to deal with.
Get a grip, for god’s sake.

Silently Tom collected the pieces of broken glass
and dropped them into the wastebasket while Rachel mopped water off the floor and her shoes with the towel. She dug a bit of soggy bran flake, a remnant of the kitchen accident, out from under a shoe lace.

After tossing the last sliver of glass into the trash, Tom rose. “I doubt I’ll be able to do much, but at least I can give her some advice on how to deal with it.”

If she’ll listen to you. If she’ll even want your advice.
“Thanks,” Rachel said. She stood at the sink and wrung the water out of the towel.

He kissed her. “I’ll be home for dinner, I promise.”

“Tom, wait.” Rachel shook the water off her hands, then wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder. She forced herself to voice a little of what she felt. “I’m so afraid the two of you will hate each other.”

Tom laughed and hugged her. “Is that what’s bothering you? I’ll be on my best behavior, I promise.”

“I know.” Rachel kissed him and let him go.
It’s not your behavior I’m worried about,
she thought as he walked off down the hallway.

How could she explain her conflicted feelings about Michelle, the longing mixed with apprehension, the tenderness that too often gave way to anger? Tom realized that Rachel wanted, needed, to help Michelle, but would he understand if she told him she was afraid to have her sister in their home? Not only because Michelle was bringing trouble with her, but because her presence would dredge up memories Rachel didn’t want to face.

She had told Tom the bare facts about what had happened to her and Michelle as children. He knew about the kidnapping, about Rachel’s privileged but loveless childhood as Judith Goddard’s daughter, her search for her real parents, but for the most part she still kept the door into the past closed to him.
Some things, including Judith’s death and Rachel’s role in it, remained impossible to talk about. Impossible to think about without bringing on a flood of anguish that threatened to destroy her.

Michelle was her only link to the past. If Michelle didn’t exist, Rachel might be able to leave it behind and never look back. But then, if Michelle didn’t exist, none of it would have happened in the first place.

***

Detective Nate Fagan prowled the perimeter of Tom’s office, examining the framed photos while Tom sat at his desk wondering how long the Fairfax County cop, who’d just arrived, would be underfoot. A tall, sharp-nosed man in his forties, Fagan had only a hint of bristly dark hair on his shaved scalp. His black suit, draping a bony frame, made him look like an undertaker.

Fagan paused before a picture
of Tom’s father and older brother Chris in Mason County Sheriff’s Department uniforms. “Family? You all look alike. They still on the job?”

“No,” Tom said. He added with some reluctance, “They both died in an accident a while back.”

Fagan swung around. “Hey, that’s rough. Car accident?”

Tom nodded. Fagan looked expectant, as if waiting for details, but Tom wasn’t going to revisit the night that changed his life just to satisfy the man’s curiosity. Leaning back in his chair, he broke eye contact and swiveled toward the window into the parking lot. A TV van from Roanoke sat out there, and a young female reporter with shoulder-length brown hair stood next to it, talking to a man with a video camera.

“What did you tell them?” Tom asked. “I noticed you talking to them on the way in.”

Fagan followed Tom’s gaze. “The vultures? I said we didn’t have any information for them yet, but they’ll be the very first to know when we do.”

Tom gave a short laugh. Pretty much the same thing he’d told the reporter when she waylaid him. More journalists would be here soon. Dennis Murray had the patience to deal with them, and Tom planned to let the sergeant deliver short updates at broadly spaced intervals.

“The less they know, the better. Until we need them.” Fagan moved on to a photo of Tom in his Richmond PD uniform, standing between his father and brother. Jingling keys in his pants pocket, the detective asked, “Richmond, huh? Why’d you leave?”

“Long story.” One Tom had no intention of telling a stranger. “Can I get some coffee brought in for you?”

“Naw, I’m about maxed out on caffeine for one morning.” Fagan settled in a chair in front of the desk, slumping and crossing an ankle over a knee. “So, is the sheriff coming in today?”

“No,” Tom said. “He’s on sick leave. I’m in charge.”

“And running for the office, huh? I nearly plowed into one of your campaign signs when I took a curve too fast. When’s the election?”

“In the fall. I’ll worry about it when the time comes. Right now all I’m thinking about is this case.”

Fagan scratched a spot on his chin. “By the way, where’s the closest motel? I didn’t notice anything driving in.”

“I wouldn’t recommend the fleabag motels around here,” Tom said. “I know a couple of people who might rent you a room. I’ll have somebody call around and find a place for you to stay.”