2 Lost Legacy

by Annette Dashofy

  Pete bit back a grin in spite of himself. “How about you play silent cop and let me do all the talking. It is my job, after all.”

  Harry scowled at him. “Anybody ever tell you that you’re no fun at all?”

  “All the time.”

  Pete cut the ignition, and they climbed out of the vehicle.

  “You again,” Wilford Engle muttered when he opened the door. He eyed Harry. “Who’s he?”

  Pete made the introductions, and Harry extended a hand. Engle glowered at it for a moment then took it without much enthusiasm.

  “Mind if we come in?” Pete asked.

  “I do. But I don’t expect that makes much difference to you.” Engle stepped back, and Pete followed Harry inside.

  As hot and miserable as it was outside, the interior of the house was worse. None of the windows were open. The blinds shuttered the room against the sun, but no fans circulated the stagnant air. The place reeked of old chewing tobacco and dust.

  Engle didn’t invite either of them to sit, but Harry sank into an easy chair.

  Pete leaned against the same wall as yesterday, keeping his weight off his bad ankle, and pulled his notebook from his pocket. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “I didn’t figure you were here to see how I was holding up.” Engle gave a disdainful sniff. “What do you want to know that I haven’t told you already?”

  “When was the last time you were over at your brother’s place?”

  “Tuesday. I told you before. I took him to his doctor’s appointment.”

  Pete made a small production of squinting thoughtfully at his notes. “And this doctor’s appointment was with his oncologist?”

  “Oncalla-who?”

  “Oncologist. The specialist treating him for his cancer.”

  Engle stared at Pete as if he had sprouted a second head. “He wasn’t seeing no specialist. I took him to Dr. Weinstein in Brunswick. I told you that yesterday. That’s who I always took him to.”

  “Is there any particular reason why your brother wasn’t being treated by a specialist?”

  Engle’s gaze shifted toward the sofa, and Pete suspected he would prefer to sit down. “I guess Dr. Weinstein didn’t see no need for it.” Engle’s voice developed a quiver of doubt.

  “So, if your brother was only seeing a general practitioner, why pick one that was fifteen miles away in Brunswick? Why not go to Dr. McCarrell in Philipsburg? That’s who you see, isn’t it?”

  Pete braced for a tirade from the old farmer about poking into his business. In truth, Pete was only guessing about McCarrell. But while the man might come across as a folksy country doctor, without a court order, he’d flat out refused to comment on whether or not he ever treated either Engle, citing doctor-patient confidentiality laws. Pete hoped that Wilford was like virtually every other Vance Township resident over the age of sixty and chose the doctor who had been in the area for decades.

  The tirade never came.

  “Well, yeah. I do go to old Dr. McCarrell,” Engle said, his voice soft. “So did Jim before the illness.”

  “Then why did he switch to Dr. Weinstein?”

  “Because Weinstein’s younger, I suppose. Knows more about treating lung cancer.”

  “Did you go in to see the doctor with your brother?”

  “Why should I?” The vitriol was back in Wilford Engle’s voice. “Jim was a grown man. He didn’t need me holding his hand.”

  “Did you ever talk to the doctor? Maybe have a family meeting to determine a course of treatment?”

  “I’m telling you, there wasn’t no need for it. Jim might’ve been dying of lung cancer, but there wasn’t nothing wrong with his mind. He took care of his own affairs.”

  Pete glanced at Harry, who was staring across the room, his face a blank mask.

  “Why the blazes are you asking all these questions about Jim’s doctor?” Engle said.

  Pete forced his thoughts away from the cruel irony of James Engle’s sound mind and body—save for the suicide—juxtaposed against Harry’s Alzheimer’s-riddled brain. It was time to get to the crux of the matter. “Mr. Engle, who told you Jim had lung cancer?”

  “Jim, of course.” The old man frowned in puzzlement. “What difference does that make?”

  Pete tapped his pen against his lips. Either Wilford Engle was an Oscar-worthy actor, or he had no clue about the true state of his brother’s health. Pete’s instincts told him it was the latter. “Because the autopsy on your brother showed no signs of cancer. Lung or otherwise.”

  “What?” Spittle flew from the old man’s lips as he sputtered. “What are you talking about? Didn’t really have cancer? Of course he had cancer.”

  “Not according to the coroner. Your brother’s lungs were healthy.”

  “You’re a goddamn liar.” Engle trembled. His face flushed a vivid crimson.

  Harry snapped out of his daze and leapt to his feet. Damn, he was nimble for an old guy. “Pete’s as honest as the day is long.”

  Engle ignored him. “What kind of con are you trying to pull on me, you goddamned cop?”

  Harry clenched his fists and took a step toward Engle. “Who do you think you are, talking to my boy that way?”

  Pete pushed away from the wall and caught his father’s arm. “Cool it, Pop,” he whispered.

  A muscle twitched under the skin of Engle’s jaw. “You think you’ll rattle me, and I’ll go to pieces? Confess to something I didn’t do? I know how you stinking cops operate. Well, it won’t work. ‘Cause I didn’t do nothing. My brother had cancer. He killed himself because he didn’t want to become a burden.”

  Even in the dim light, Pete spotted tears welling in the old man’s eyes. There was something else there, too. Engle shifted his gaze downward as his brows drew into a wrinkled peak. Then slowly, he appeared to cave in on himself.

  Pete released Harry and jumped to catch Engle before he hit the floor for the second time in two days. This time, Pete managed to keep his balance and not go down with him, even though sharp pains shot up his leg when he put full weight on his ankle.

  “Careful there,” Pete said, easing Engle onto the sofa.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, brushing Pete away. Engle rubbed the day-old stubble on his chin and stared at the floor in front of him. His breath came hard and loud, but when he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. “Jim didn’t have cancer? But—why? I don’t understand.”

  Pete gave Engle a moment to process the reality of the situation before asking, “Can you think of any reason your brother would lie about being sick?”

  The tears were gone. Engle’s eyes once again turned dark and cold, his jaw set. “No.” He met Pete’s gaze. “And I want you to leave. Now. I got nothing else to say to you.”

  “Okay.” Pete knew the old man had given him all he intended to for the day. He’d have to get answers elsewhere. “If you think of anything that might help explain—”

  “If I think of anything, you’ll be the last person I call. Get out.”

  Pete turned to find Harry standing where he’d left him, a perplexed look on his face. “Come on, Pop. Let’s go home.”

  Harry eyed Pete, glanced at Engle, and then around the room. “Yeah. Let’s go. This place gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

  Zoe wondered if Saturday with Kimberly and Tom would ever end. Lunch at the Dog Den had been the disaster she’d predicted. Kimberly, flaunting an oversized necklace and earrings and attired in a bright pink tank top and shorts, told the waitress they should change their menu to include healthier, more nutritious fare. The woman gave Kimberly a look to suggest she should get back on her spaceship and return to her home planet. Sooner rather than later. So while Zoe and Tom dined on footlong hot dogs smothered in chili and onions with sides of greasy fried caulifl
ower, Kimberly sipped a can of diet ginger ale.

  Lunch was followed by an afternoon of Kimberly’s complaints regarding the lack of decent shopping or cultural amenities within the township even after all the years she’d been away. The abundance of cattle, horses, and bars held little appeal for her.

  By late afternoon, Zoe was all too happy to give Tom a list of eateries in Brunswick that might suit Kimberly’s delicate palate and pack them off in their rental car for a romantic dinner. Zoe climbed into her two-tone—three-tone if she counted the rust—Chevy pickup and headed for Dillard. She picked up a case of Pepsi at the beer distributor before circling through town to Pete’s place. His Vance Township Police Department SUV sat alone in the driveway. Good. With any luck, she was the first to arrive at the poker game and could talk with him alone. What would he think about her discovery that James Engle had inherited that farm from the Miller brothers when it should have gone to her grandmother? Had the autopsy confirmed Engle’s manner of death as suicide or something else?

  “Hello?” she called through the screen door. A TV blared from the interior of the house.

  Pete appeared and waved her in. “You’re early.”

  “I know. Mom and Tom left for an evening in Brunswick, and I wanted to get out of the house before they changed their mind.”

  Pete gave a terse laugh and took the Pepsi from her arms, carrying it to the kitchen counter. His usual commanding stride seemed a little uneven.

  “What happened? Are you limping?”

  “No,” he said, a growl in his voice.

  Okay. Not a good subject for conversation.

  With Pete’s back to her, the hint of muscles beneath his t-shirt distracted Zoe from her curiosity about the case. Her gaze drifted downward as she indulged in the guilty pleasure of checking out the rather nice shape of his ass. Too bad he didn’t wear his jeans a bit tighter, though. For one brief moment, she flashed back on the one and only kiss they’d shared last winter. She squeezed her eyes closed. Stop it. As sweet as that kiss had been, her chronic bad judgment where men were concerned had sworn her off all romantic involvement. Especially one with a close friend like Pete.

  A peal of familiar laughter from the living room distracted her. “Sounds like Sylvia’s here early, too.” So much for a little alone time.

  He turned to face her. Lines creased his forehead. His jaw was clenched and his lips pressed into a thin line. Zoe had seen him this tense before, but at work. Not on a Saturday poker night. There was something else wrong besides the limp. Before she had a chance to ask him what it was, he motioned for her to follow and led the way into the living room.

  The ancient television in the corner was set to an old episode of Seinfeld. Zoe realized in the years she’d known Pete, she’d never seen him watch TV. Sylvia sat on the couch next to an older gentleman with eyes the same ice blue as Pete’s.

  “Zoe.” Sylvia smiled up at her. “I didn’t hear you come in. Have you met Pete’s dad yet?”

  Pete’s dad? “Uh, no.” Zoe shot a glance at Pete’s pained expression.

  The older man climbed to his feet, a bright smile on his face. Of course. Add twenty-five years or so to Pete and this would be the result.

  Pete made the introductions in a strained voice. “Zoe, this is Harry Adams. Pop, this is Zoe Chambers.”

  She extended a hand, and Harry took it in both of his. “Zoe,” he said. “What a lovely name. Very fitting for a lovely young lady.”

  Over Harry’s shoulder, Zoe caught Sylvia’s raised eyebrows and huge grin. It was shaping up to be an interesting night of poker at the Adams’ house.

  “Care to join us?” Harry motioned at the TV. “I love this show.”

  Pete caught Zoe’s elbow. “I need her help in the kitchen, Pop.”

  “Sure you do, son.” Harry gave a couple of obvious winks in Pete’s direction before reclaiming his spot on the couch.

  Pete let out a low groan as Zoe followed him into the other room. “I didn’t know your father was staying with you,” she said.

  “My sister dropped him off this morning. Unexpectedly.” Pete pressed his fingers into the space between his eyebrows.

  “Headache?”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Oh, I think I do. I’ll trade my mom for your dad in a heartbeat.”

  Pete met her gaze head-on. There was something in his eyes Zoe had never seen before. She couldn’t quite put a name to it. Regret? Maybe. Exhaustion? Definitely. But more than that.

  “Pete? What is it?” she asked.

  He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, someone else knocked at the door.

  “Hey,” Earl Kolter shouted through the screen. “You guys ready to lose your shirts? I’m feeling lucky tonight.”

  “It’s open,” Pete called out. Then he leaned closer to Zoe and whispered in her ear, “Can you stay after everyone else leaves? I need to talk to you.”

  The urgency in his voice, combined with that haunted look on his face, stirred myriad questions in her mind. Something was going on. But what? Was it the case? Or was it this surprise visit from his dad?

  Before Zoe had a chance to respond, he’d already moved toward Earl who was coming through the door with a stack of pizzas. She jumped to grab the top four boxes.

  “I’ve got them,” Pete protested.

  “Yeah, but no matter what you say, you’re limping, and I don’t want to be eating pizza off the floor.”

  “Limping?” Earl scowled at Pete. “What happened?”

  “Nothing. I’m fine.”

  “You know you have the county’s best team of paramedics here in your house right now.” Earl winked at Zoe. “We could check you out.”

  “Doesn’t anyone around here understand simple English? I’m fine.” Without a hint of a limp, Pete crossed to the kitchen and thunked the pizzas down.

  Earl raised a questioning eyebrow at Zoe. She gave him a shrug before carrying the rest of the boxes to the counter.

  The door swung open again, and Vance Township Police Officer Seth Metzger stomped in, toting bulging plastic grocery bags. Fire Chief Bruce Yancy, who lugged a case of beer beneath each burly arm, followed. Sylvia and Harry joined the crowd in the kitchen, and the decibel level in the small house rose to a pitch akin to that of Heinz Field during a Steelers game.

  “Looks like the gang’s all here,” Sylvia shouted above the din. “Let’s eat.”

  Zoe grabbed a slice of pepperoni pizza, ducking out of the kitchen before the vultures swept in. Seth, Earl, and Yancy shouldered one another in an effort to pile their plates high. But when Sylvia cleared her throat, they sheepishly made room for her.

  Zoe set her plate on the table and slid into a chair. Only then did she notice Harry standing alone near the arched doorway to the living room, a vexed look on his face. Pete had spotted him, too, and crossed to his dad’s side. The limp was back.

  Pete whispered something to Harry, who shook his head. Then Pete took him by the elbow and led him into the other room.

  Something was definitely wrong. Zoe abandoned her pizza and followed them. Pete was easing his father onto the sofa.

  “What’s going on?”

  Pete glanced up. “Nothing. Go make sure everyone can find what they need.”

  Unaccustomed to being the recipient of Pete’s curt orders, she bristled. “The hungry hordes can take care of themselves. And don’t tell me nothing’s wrong.”

  Harry gazed up at her, the perplexed look still on his face. “Do I know you?”

  Zoe opened her mouth to remind him of her name, but realization hit her before she could speak. She turned to Pete and finally put a name to what she saw in his eyes.

  Anguish.

  She smiled. “Hi, Mr. Adams. I’m Zoe.”

  Harry brightened.
“Zoe. What a lovely name. Are you Pete’s girlfriend?”

  Heat singed her neck and crept to her cheeks. “Um, no—I—um—”

  “She’s just a friend, Pop,” Pete said, putting a serious chill on her embarrassed blush.

  Just a friend. Well, that is what she insisted she wanted. Wasn’t it?

  “That’s too bad.” Harry studied her with a raised eyebrow.

  Zoe had always feared Pete could read her mind. Now she suspected his father of having similar abilities. She lowered her gaze to her shoes.

  “Son, why aren’t you dating this girl? Look at her. She’s a knock-out.”

  The heat around Zoe’s neck burst into an inferno.

  “I know she is.” Pete cleared his throat. “Are you hungry? I’ll fix you a plate.”

  “I could go for a bite.”

  “I’ll be right back.” Pete caught Zoe’s arm and drew her toward the kitchen, but stopped short of the doorway. “Sorry about that,” he whispered.

  “About what?”

  In reply, he shot a glance over his shoulder at Harry.

  She wanted to tell Pete he had nothing to apologize for, with the possible exception of his too-quick denial of her role as his girlfriend. “Alzheimer’s?”

  “Yeah.”

  So that was why he wanted her to stay after everyone else left. He needed a friend to confide in. Maybe not a girlfriend, but the kind of friend who could provide comfort in trying times. She smiled. “Let’s get him something to eat.”

  Seven

  Pete stared at the pair of queens and pair of threes he held in his hand. Drawing one lousy card hadn’t helped him a bit. The TV blaring from the living room helped even less.

  Sylvia, Yancy, Earl, and Seth sat around the dining table. Zoe had offered to skip the game and keep Harry company.

  “You playing or what?” Yancy asked him. “It’ll cost you two bucks.”

  Pete studied the faces around him. Earl and Yancy had folded. Sylvia kept a steady eye on Pete. The woman had the best poker face of the bunch. Hard to tell what she was holding. Seth, on the other hand, broke out in a sweat every time he bluffed. Right now he was biting back a smile while fidgeting in his chair.