Still Waters (24 page)

“They've got a suspect for Jarvis's murder,” she said, dropping her gaze to her son. “But then, you've heard all about that, now, haven't you?”

Trace looked away, the muscles in his jaw working. He jammed his hands at the waist of his jeans and sighed the sigh of the oppressed teenager. “Why don't you just go ahead and do it?” he challenged.

“Do what?”

“Bitch me out and get it over with.”

Elizabeth pressed her lips together and tamped down the urge to do just that. She didn't want to fight with him, really, she didn't. Beneath the urge to rail at him and shake him and scream out all her frustration, what she really wanted was to hold him to her and take them both back to some point in the past before everything had started to go wrong between them. Back before Atlanta, before Brock and all his money, back to San Antonio, where they had come as close as they ever had to living a normal life. She wanted to go back to a time when he had still been sweet and trusting, and she had felt in control, the all-knowing, all-powerful mama, able to heal hurts and hug away tears. It seemed the years had taken away whatever power she had had or Trace had imagined she had had. He was sixteen now, nearly half her age, and perfectly able to see she wasn't anything but mortal and couldn't fix things with a kiss.

“Trace, I can't hear about you giving out an alibi for Carney Fox and not be upset about it,” she said. “He's a suspect in a murder investigation.”

“Yeah, well, he didn't do it.”

“You know that for a fact?”

He glanced away, dodging her question, dodging her gaze. Lightning flashed as bright as a spotlight on his face, illuminating what he didn't want her to see—the brooding look, the secrets. Elizabeth felt her heart sink, and a mother's panic seized her by the throat and squeezed. She descended the steps and rushed toward him, driven by a need that threatened to overwhelm her. Trace started to turn away, but she caught him by the arm with her left hand and held on, her fingers biting into firm young muscle.

“Answer me, dammit!” she snapped, raising her voice to be heard above the gathering storm. “Do you know he didn't kill Jarrold Jarvis? Were you there?”

Trace jerked away, wrenching his arm free and rubbing at it, scowling. “He didn't do it. We were playing basketball.”

It was the same line he had fed Dane, and Elizabeth imagined Dane had heard the same flatness, the same ring of falseness she was hearing now. He was lying. Good God in heaven, he was lying about a possible murderer. Her son, her baby, the child she had held in her arms and dreamed such dreams for. Thunder cracked overhead and another flash of lightning cast everything in sharp, eerie relief, like a scene from an old Hitchcock movie, turning those dreams into a nightmare. The child had grown into someone she didn't know, couldn't reach; the baby was a face in her mind, a small voice calling to her from the end of a long, dark tunnel.

“Dammit, Trace!” she sobbed as the rain began to fall. “Tell me the truth!”

But he just looked at her, silent, drawing into himself, pulling his cloak of adolescent isolationism around himself like a force field. The rain streaked down across the lenses of his glasses and turned his T-shirt transparent in big splotches.

“I'm going to bed,” he said, backing away, his voice soft between the rumbles from heaven.

Elizabeth was rooted to the spot, the rain pouring down over her, drenching her, beating against her skin like a thousand fingers. She watched him disappear into the dark house, panic tearing at her inside, clawing to get out. She wanted to run after him, to grab him, to scream, but it wouldn't do any good. She couldn't reach him—not emotionally, not the way she wanted to, needed to—and she couldn't stand the idea of trying, only to fail. Tonight of all nights, she didn't have the strength for it.

So she stood in the rain, crying, the water pelting against her face like rocks, the weight of it dragging at her skirt. She stood until the strength drained out of her legs, then she sank to the ground and sat there, her hair hanging in wet ropes around her face, the Desert Eagle tucked against her as she hugged herself and rocked and wished with all her heart that this was just a nightmare instead of her life.

THIRTEEN

T
HE SMELL OF CARAMEL ROLLS TURNED THE WARM AIR
in the kitchen buttery and sweet. Dane shouldered open the door and shuffled in, bleary-eyed, the tails of his black polo shirt hanging outside his jeans. It was after seven. He had overslept and was irritated with himself because of it. It was irrational to think he should be able to function in top form on little or no rest while the burden of a murder investigation weighed down on him, but he caught himself thinking it just the same. Great Dane, the hero, the gridiron god, possessed of superhuman strength and character. He gave a bitter half laugh as he poured himself a cup of Mrs. Cranston's strong black coffee.

Mrs. Cranston straightened away from the oven, redfaced from the heat and the strain of bending her bulk in two. Her small hands were encased in a pair of enormous blue oven mits, and between them stretched a cookie sheet lined with steaming sweet rolls.

“I'll have these iced and ready in no time, Sheriff,” she said, bustling to the table in the center of the light, airy room.

He leaned back against the counter and watched her go about her business setting the rolls on wire racks on the table to cool. She looked made for the scene: plump and grandmotherly, a sunny smile in a sunny yellow kitchen while country music played in the background.

The kitchen door swung open and Amy started into the room, hesitating as she caught sight of him.

“Morning, peanut,” he said, hoping her temper had cooled off during the night. When she met his greeting with nothing more than a stony look, Dane knew he wasn't going to get his wish.

She greeted Mrs. Cranston with notable enthusiasm, slid onto a chair at the table, and plucked up one of the freshly iced rolls to nibble at it.

“Heather asked me to spend the night,” she said without preamble, her gaze locking hard on Dane's. “I told her I'd have to get permission from my father, since I'm just a child.”

Dane pinched the bridge of his nose and bit back a reprimand at her tone. He was being punished for the unpardonable sin of wanting his daughter to remain his daughter. His natural inclination was to fight back. He didn't suffer insubordination lightly in his professional life and seldom encountered it elsewhere. But he held himself in check, a part of him feeling he deserved to be punished, if not for the way he had treated Amy, for the way he had treated Elizabeth.

“Fine,” he said at last.

Amy took another tiny bite of her roll, barely tasting it as she met her father's steady gaze. “She and Aunt Mary are going to Rochester, shopping. They said they'd pick me up at nine.”

“What about our ride?” Dane asked. “I thought I could make some time this afternoon, after the funeral.”

Spite outweighed remorse by a narrow margin. Amy lifted one shoulder in a negligent shrug and looked down at her breakfast so she wouldn't have to see the hurt in her father's eyes.

“We'll just have to make it some other time, I guess,” she said, trying her hardest to sound as though it didn't matter to her in the least, despite the fact that she'd been looking forward to it. Riding was something they had always shared, just the two of them, because her mother wouldn't come within a mile of a horse. She didn't like the idea of anything intruding on that tradition, but she had a point to make, she reminded herself, steeling her resolve against the urge to go across the room and hug him. She was not a little girl anymore, and she would not be treated like one.

She unfolded herself from the kitchen chair, abandoning the half-eaten roll on the table. “I have to go fix my hair,” she said, and made what she thought was a regal exit—head up, shoulders back.

Dane watched her go, feeling his neatly ordered world shifting yet again, and not liking it one bit.

Mrs. Cranston glanced up from icing the last of the caramel rolls, the lines of her face softened by sympathy. “It's not always easy being a grown-up,” she said gently.

“You've got that right, Mrs. Cranston,” he grumbled, setting his coffee mug aside on the counter. “All in all, I'd rather be playing football.”

THE CONSTRUCTION SITE SMELLED OF SAWDUST AND MUD.
The rain-washed trees along the perimeter shook themselves in the early morning breeze. A meadowlark sang a solo somewhere down along the creek. If you weren't looking at what would become the Still Waters resort, Elizabeth reflected, it was a pretty morning. Cool and blue and breezy. Clouds as puffy and ragged-edged as shredded cotton drifted aimlessly above. The sun had come up above a horizon done in watercolor shades. Now it slanted its beams across the field of young corn to the east, enticing it to grow better than “knee-high by the Fourth of July,” as the old farmer's saying went.

Standing there in the beautiful, peaceful quiet, it was hard to believe life could be complicated.

Elizabeth raised her stolen Nikon and took a wide-angle shot of the eastern horizon and the Amishman trudging across a distant field behind a pair of workhorses. It might make a nice picture for the next issue of the
Clarion
. They could do a story about the weather and how it affected both farming and tourism—provided no one was killed in the meantime.

She hiked her purse strap up on her shoulder and cursed the Desert Eagle she had seen fit to tuck into the Gucci bag. The damn thing was as heavy as an anvil, but she wasn't disgusted enough to leave it behind. The phone call had rattled her. It didn't matter how much her brain tried to discount the incident now, in the light of day. It did no good to tell herself she had overreacted. Every time she did, she heard that voice, heard the malevolence in it, felt it touch her like a cold, bony finger. She had crouched by her bed with the pistol until Trace had come home.

She sighed now at the thought of the confrontation they'd had. She hadn't gotten anywhere with him. Not an inch. He had pulled up the drawbridge at the mention of Carney Fox and refused to let her across it. Frustration burned through her. He was hiding something. A half-wit could have seen it. If it had something to do with Carney Fox, and if Carney Fox had something to do with the murder . . .

She jerked around and snapped a series of pictures of the construction site: the office trailer, the rutted parking area, the superstructure.
Still Waters in the Aftermath
she would call this series. She would put it on the front page and give Charlie Wilder a stroke. That would make her popular.

The yellow police tapes had been broken and lay like discarded ribbons in the mud around the spot where Jarvis had met his end. Nothing else marked the place. The blood had washed away the first night during the storm. Still, Elizabeth took a shot of it, then she pointed the camera down toward the creek and snapped off another round of nature photos. She was about to lower the camera when a figure to the west caught her eye. Fiddling with the monstrous lens, she zoomed in.

It looked like Aaron Hauer, though he was too far away for her to make out one Amishman from the next. The set of the shoulders, the tilt of the head, made her think it was him. He was kneeling beneath the shade of a maple tree that stood up the hill from the creek. His head was bowed, his wide-brimmed straw hat in his hands.

The camera clicked and whirred before Elizabeth could catch herself. The man, whoever he was, was praying. She had no business capturing such a private moment on film. Amish people praying wasn't news, and her taking pictures of it made her no better than the tourists who thought they had the right to intrude on the lives of people like Aaron Hauer.

The man stood and settled his hat on his head, then walked away, losing himself in the trees that covered that part of the hillside. Elizabeth lowered her camera and started down the hill toward the creek. Aaron's wife was dead. Maybe she was spending eternity under that maple tree with a view of the creek.

It wasn't morbid fascination that had Elizabeth skidding down the hillside, the legs of her jeans soaking up the moisture that clung to the thick grass, but caring. She liked Aaron. Under the layers of grim, pious duty, there was a man with strengths and vulnerabilities like any man. If she could learn more about him, she could be a better friend to him. To her way of thinking, both of them needed all the friends they could get.

The feet of untold scores of trout fishermen and truants had tramped a path in the tall grass along the bank, but that was the only sign they had left behind. There was no litter. The stream itself ran sluggishly along, bottle-green with dragonflies skimming the surface in search of a waterbug breakfast. In the shallows along the bank, marsh marigolds grew in profusion, bright butter-yellow with velvet-green leaves the size of lily pads. On the opposite bank, a deer stood behind a lacy curtain of weeping willow branches and stared across at Elizabeth with limpid eyes, then turned and glided away, graceful and silent.

What a beautiful place to be laid to rest. So peaceful. So far away from the troubles of the world.

Elizabeth turned from the creek and looked up the hill to the shady spot where the mourner had knelt to pay his respects and say his prayers. Wild violets grew around the base of the tree. Some had been picked and placed in small bouquets on the ground where three stone markers stood side by side, a large one flanked by two smaller. Siri Hauer, Beloved Wife. Ana Hauer, Gemma Hauer, Beloved Daughter, the smaller ones read.

She kneeled beside one little grave. Two tiny birds carved from wood nestled in the grass at the base of the marker. She traced the tip of a finger across one dainty wing and ached for her strange, quiet Amish friend. She had complained to him about her son. At least she still had Trace with her, no matter how distant he seemed, no matter how difficult to reach. Aaron Hauer could touch his daughters only with prayer . . . and violets.

SOMEONE HAD PITCHED A BRICK THROUGH THE PLATE
glass window of the
Clarion
office. Shattered glass was strewn across the floor. What still clung to the frame of the window hung in pointed shards, like crystal stalactites. The gaping hole had let in the rain and wind, which had left the office looking like the dubious survivor of a hurricane. The old wood floor gleamed with puddles. Leftover copies of the special edition had blown all over. But Elizabeth doubted it was the wind that had dumped boxes of old type all over the floor or smashed the monitor of her computer or ripped to shreds the fuchsia plant she had splurged on to congratulate herself for buying the
Clarion
.

Jolynn, who had found the mess, sat on her desktop because her chair was just so much kindling, her eyes bright with interest as she scanned the scene and calculated the possibilities.

“Could be the work of your caller,” she said, lifting her morning can of Pepsi to her lips.

“Could be,” Elizabeth murmured, peeling a strip of wet paper off the counter and dropping it to the floor. “I hope so. I'd hate to think there's a whole band of crazy people out there waiting to draw a bead on me.”

“Yeah, well, the special edition didn't exactly endear you to a lot of people.”

“They bought it, though, didn't they?” Elizabeth said with disgust.

Jolynn shrugged and swiped her tangled bangs out of her eyes. “I guess it was like driving by an accident. They didn't want to look, but they couldn't help themselves.”

“Hypocrites,” she muttered. “That's what they are.”

“Someone was mad enough to make a statement about it.”

“Yeah, if that was their reason.”

“You think maybe someone was trying to scare you?”

“They managed that, sugar. That's for damn sure.” She hefted her purse up onto the counter. “Maybe somebody was looking for something.”

“Like what?” Jo said on a half laugh. “Our hidden millions? My stash of candy bars?” She reached over the edge of her desk and yanked the top drawer open, breathing an exaggerated sigh of relief as she pulled out a Baby Ruth.

“Like Jarvis's black book,” Elizabeth said, leaning against the counter. “Did you mention it to anyone?”

“No. I've been thinking about who might be in it, but I haven't approached anybody yet. Have you?”

“I mentioned it yesterday,” she said, watching carefully for Jolynn's reaction. “To Rich.”

“Rich? Rich Cannon?” Jolynn gave a hoot of laughter. “You think Rich killed Jarrold? No way!”

“Why not? He stood to gain.”

“He stood to gain more kissing Jarrold's ass. Rich is too lazy and too stupid to run Jarrold's business himself,” she declared. “They had a symbiotic relationship, you know, like those slimy little remora things that suck all the crud off sharks. Jarrold provided Rich with a fat income for a minimum amount of actual work, Rich was Jarrold's trick pony, his pretty front man for the construction business, handsome husband for Susie the Shrill.” She shook her head again as she stripped back the wrapper on her candy bar like a banana peel. “Rich couldn't have killed Jarrold. He wouldn't have the inclination, the guts, or the stomach for it. Take it from me. I've known him too long.”

Elizabeth wasn't convinced. “I don't know, sugar, ass-kissing can get old after a while. Especially if the ass is as fat and ugly as Jarrold's.”

Jolynn scrunched her face up and groaned. “God, what an image. You should be a writer.”

Bret Yeager stuck his head into the office through what had been the window, a laconic smile stretching across his square, honest face as his gaze landed softly on Jolynn. “Morning, ladies,” he drawled. “Can we come in?”

“Lord, honey,” Elizabeth clucked, crunching across the broken glass in her cowboy boots to shoo him back. “Don't be sticking your head in through there! Didn't you see
Ghost?
Tony Goldwyn practically got himself decapitated that way.”

“There's a lot of that going around,” Boyd Ellstrom said flatly as he pulled the door open and swaggered in. Yeager and his dog followed, Yeager whistling softly as he took in the wreckage. The dog sniffed out a dry, clean corner and curled up in a ball to sleep.

Elizabeth darted a look at Ellstrom. He stared back at her, looking just as smug and obnoxious as he had the night he'd walked in on her and Dane. “Yeah, well, I don't want it happening here,” she said.