Reclaim My Life (6 page)

“Introduced me to?” That wasn’t what had happened, but why try to debate the issue? To be fair, there had been just the one time, when they had invited Ian’s manager as Elizabeth’s dinner date. “You were matchmaking, and he didn’t appreciate it any more than I did.”

Sunny pouted. “You both made that clear, which is why I’ve given up my quest for finding you Mr. Right.”

“We care about you, Elizabeth. We just want to see you as happy with someone as Sunny and I are. We didn’t mean to meddle.”

Chagrined, she apologized. “I overreacted when you said the sheriff was coming. I just figured—”

Sunny snorted. “In any event, I wouldn’t try to set you up with Wilson Drake. He’s hardly your type, Liz.”

Elizabeth bit back a “why not?” and stayed quiet. She didn’t have to ask. Wilson Drake wouldn’t be interested in chubby, dowdy Elizabeth Stevens, no matter how much he flirted with her. He flirted with any woman, even those double his age. So why did Sunny’s remark rankle?

“He wants to talk to me about Cat Hodges, not that I’m much help. Kris knew her best, I think.”

“He interviewed me this afternoon. I get the impression he’s desperate for any clues.”

“Yeah, and I doubt they’ll catch whoever did it.”

Ian frowned at Sunny. “Why do you say that?”

“Because crimes against women are never given the focus and attention of crimes against men. It’s just sexism at work.”

“You’re always singing that song, and it’s not true.” Ian grabbed another slice of the garlic bread. “This sheriff may surprise you.”

“Maybe. Frankly, I hope he does catch the guy. Who’s to say he won’t strike again?”

Sunny’s words burned into Elizabeth’s mind. She feared that he
would strike
again, and next time
she
could be the victim.

While Ian and Sunny chatted about what movies to order from Netflix, Elizabeth rushed to finish her pasta. She pushed aside her wine to keep a clear head. Her nerves atwitter at the mere thought of Wilson Drake, she
so
didn’t want a third encounter with the sheriff today. Nor did she relish driving home alone after dark.

Wil had to turn on his headlights by the time he turned off County Road 471 and idled through the entrance to Drake Oaks, the family homestead. His grandparents had bequeathed the estate to his dad, who now lived in the main house alone except for the visiting nurses. Wil had chosen to live at Drake Oaks but in a bungalow on the river. Once his parents’ starter home, it was the type of house a realtor would advertise as a handyman’s special. Wil aptly referred to it as either Work Haven or Money Pit.

His interview with Sunny Davis hadn’t taken long since she corroborated what he’d heard from Kris Knight and Elizabeth Stevens. Of the three friends, Sunny claimed to be closest to Elizabeth. He wondered a bit about their friendship, since they didn’t seem to have a lot in common. Maybe it was her Northern accent or her heavy-handed makeup, but Sunny seemed too pretentious.

She lacked Elizabeth’s down-to-earth naturalness.

Pulling to a stop outside his father’s house, he hesitated, fatigue settling in bone-deep. Usually, he looked forward to checking on his dad before heading home. How strange to think of his sixty-five-year-old father as an old man when he was almost twenty years younger than Gabe Reesor. But Gabe hadn’t suffered a crippling stroke. Maybe Wil was exhausted, but he wasn’t too tired to give his dad a few minutes of his time.

He climbed out of the Jeep, then headed up the steps to the front porch. A matching second-story porch had been screened in above it, enabling folks to enjoy the view of the river without gnats and those annoying love bugs. Because of Dad’s confinement to a wheelchair, he no longer enjoyed that porch or anything else on the upper floors of the house. Wil had installed a ramp so his father could leave the house, but as far as Wil knew he rarely used it.

Wil stepped inside the foyer and called out, “Dad?”

Sophie trotted into the hall to greet him, tail wagging and nails tapping against the hardwood floor. Wil bent down and hugged the golden retriever’s head, playfully scratching her behind both ears.

“In the den.” Dad’s voice was softer since the stroke that had paralyzed the left side of his body. Fortunately, speech therapy had restored his speaking skills, if not his volume.

The den, located at the back of the first floor behind the dining room, had been converted to a multipurpose room for his father. Once an outspoken Foster County commissioner, successful businessman, and community leader, Harold Drake had deteriorated into a pale recluse. His hair, once as red and thick as Sam’s and Taylor’s, had thinned and grayed. His waist had thickened, his legs shriveled.

A hospital bed in the far corner of the paneled room hid a portable potty chair for those times when he couldn’t make it to the bathroom near the kitchen. Stripped of carpets, the cedar plank floor bore scars from the wheels of his wheelchair. A small round table with two chairs borrowed from the dining room suite provided the only other seating area. An entertainment center took up most of the wall opposite the bed. The forty-two inch plasma television occupied most of his waking hours but was muted on The Weather Channel.

“How’s it going, Dad?” Wil perched on the edge of one of the chairs. Sophie went to the throw rug in front of the television, made a circle, then plopped down.

“That tropical depression off the coast of Africa is headed this way.” Dad gestured with his one working arm toward the television. “They say it’s well-organized.”

“It’s that time of year.” But Wil didn’t want to talk about the weather. “How do you feel today?”

“Hungry.” Dad wore a clean pair of pajamas. In the past few months, he’d made progress in dressing himself, although it still was a slow struggle. He’d given up zippered flies and gone with elasticized waistbands. “Glad you’re here,” he said. “Let’s eat something.”

Wil chuckled. “Sure, what do you want me to fix?”

“See if Hazel has any of that frozen shrimp in the freezer. She knows I like that.”

Dad’s love affair with deep-fried shrimp most likely had contributed to the stroke. For at least twenty-five years, the doctors in Lake City had cautioned him about his cholesterol numbers at every checkup. But Wil saw no point in lecturing him now. His father had too few pleasures in life. Besides, he needed Wil to be a son, not a nursemaid. Too bad Sam hadn’t learned that lesson.

“Come on into the kitchen, and we can talk while I cook.” Wil left the den before Dad could protest, forcing him to wheel his chair out of the room and across the back hall. Sophie followed, collapsing on the mat in front of the back door.

“I heard about that girl’s murder. You got any leads?”

Wil pulled out the box of breaded frozen shrimp and gave a weary sigh. “I don’t want to talk about the case, Dad.”

“Hey, who am I going to tell?”

He closed the freezer door and faced his father. “It’s not that—”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Yes, of course, I trust you.” Wil returned his attention to his cooking and searched the lower cabinets until he found the electric Fry Baby. He filled it with two cups of peanut oil and plugged it in to heat while he tried to figure out whether his father was angry or hurt—the last thing Wil intended, in either case. “I’ll tell you what I’ve learned so far.”

While he set the table, Wil related everything, from the condition of Cathleen Hodges’s body to his interviews with her friends. He explained what his deputies were doing, and what precious little FDLE had collected for testing. With a lot of luck, the medical examiner would find forensic evidence on the body.

“What about her car?”

“We’ve posted an APB for the vehicle. Tomorrow, I’m going to search the victim’s home and office for clues to her contacts, appointments, or anything that might be worth following. Until the medical examiner in Jacksonville gives me time of death, I can’t check for alibis. For now, I’m spinning my wheels and getting nowhere.”

“So the murder victim was last seen having dinner with three other women. Any of them suspicious?”

“Not in the least. They met weekly to socialize, but I’m not certain they knew each other well. All three seem shocked by the death of their friend. They remember her mentioning an abusive boyfriend in her past, which is why I want to go through her personal belongings tomorrow. I need to follow up on that lead.”

“You’re a smart detective. Follow your instincts.”

Smart detective?
“Gee, Dad, that sounded almost like an endorsement.”

“Don’t get sassy with me—”

“Come on. Don’t pretend you weren’t disappointed with my going into law enforcement.” Wil lowered the shrimp into the hot oil and set the timer. “Or does holding public office make it more respectable now?”

Dad stared at the useless hand lying in his lap. “That was a long time ago.” He raised his chin and glared at Wil. “How long before we eat?”

“Just a few minutes. Sam and I ate earlier at the Hurricane Lantern, but I’ll drink a glass of tea with you.”

“There’s plenty of that in the fridge.”

Sure enough, when Wil opened the refrigerator, he discovered Hazel had filled a gallon dispenser with brewed iced tea. All his father had to do was place his glass on the shelf below it and use the spigot. Most of the first floor was wheelchair accessible and convenient for his father to do as much for himself as possible. He might have been able to fry his own shrimp if he’d been able to reach the countertop.

“So how is Samuel?”

“Opening day for the new school year had him busy, but he says it went well.” Wil used the ice dispenser on the fridge door to fill two tumblers before adding the tea. He set both glasses on the table and turned back to the Fry Baby, then drained the fried shrimp on a paper towel. “What do you want with your shrimp?”

“Whatever’s in the fridge. See if there’s some of Hazel’s slaw left.”

Wil found a Tupperware container of fresh coleslaw and filled a plate that would’ve passed for a platter at the Lantern—if he’d added fries—and placed it in front of his father. Sitting down across the table from Dad, he gestured toward the meal. “Dig in.”

Dad polished off the food within minutes while Wil sipped his tea, barely sweetened, just as he preferred. He resisted wiping his dad’s face or helping him fork the slaw into his mouth. He’d grown accustomed to the mess from his father’s meals and ignored it. Dad wouldn’t appreciate the help, anyway. He took pride in doing for himself. At least the stroke hadn’t totally debilitated him, but it saddened Wil to see his father’s mind, sharp as ever, trapped in a broken body.

“Thanks.” After he finished eating, he one-handedly stacked his dishes and pushed them toward Wil. “Can you rinse these for me? Hazel will have a fit if I don’t load the dishwasher.”

“Sure.” Wil took the dishes to the sink. Sophie trotted over in a hopeful search for scraps, but Dad had cleaned his plate. His appetite had improved since the stroke. Two or three years ago, he’d had to be coaxed and cajoled to take more than a bite. “Anything else I can get for you?”

Dad shook his head. “Keep me posted on this murder. Maybe you can bounce ideas off my hard head.”

Wil smiled at that, then sobered, reading between the lines. His father needed a purpose. For too long he’d felt useless. Maybe he and Wil could help each other. “You know, I do need a confidant, if you’re sure you don’t mind my picking your brain.”

“Slim pickin’s, son, but be my guest.” He patted the grease from his mouth with his napkin, doing a remarkable job of cleaning up with one hand. “If you’re as good a lawman as you are a cook, you’ll figure out this murder in no time.”

His father’s praise caught him off guard. Twice in one evening? “I doubt that, but we’ll see.” He drank the rest of his iced tea, then added the glass to the dishwasher.

“Nonsense. Have you talked to Adam Gillespie yet?”

“Only to run him off the crime scene. It’s not his jurisdiction, Dad.”

His dad snorted. “I’m not talking about Adam Gillespie, chief of police. I’m talking about Adam Gillespie,
Romeo
. Ask him about taking that girl for a boat ride down the Suwannee a couple weeks ago.”

“What girl?”

“You know, the one who got murdered. The vet, Cathleen Hodges.”

The next afternoon, Elizabeth opened the door to her pickup and stepped back. The blast of heat from the interior felt like a gust from her blow dryer set on high. The lenses of her eyeglasses fogged in an instant. She cursed herself for not placing the reflective solar shields on her dash. After suffering her second summer in the sunshine state, she should’ve known better. Shade from the huge live oak bordering the faculty parking area spread toward her truck, but too late to offer relief from the pent-up heat. She tossed her briefcase onto the seat of the cab and locked the door.

Sunny’s high-pitched voice called out her name. “Are you ready?”

Elizabeth cleaned her fogged glasses with the hem of her shirt, then tucked it back into her waistband. “Let’s do it.” She fell into step beside Sunny and headed toward the staff parking lot.