Traffic was light. They crossed the street and made their way up the sidewalk to the Marshall Funeral Home.
“Did somebody die?” Harry asked.
It took a moment for Zoe to process his question. “Franklin Marshall, who owns the funeral home, also happens to be the county coroner.”
“And we need to talk to him to find out about your dad’s accident.”
Harry was staying on track today. Zoe smiled. “Right.”
As soon as they stepped into the front foyer, the old familiar dizziness struck. The ever-present fragrance of lilies and carnations mixed with a few roses choked her. A plaque near a doorway on their left indicated a name she didn’t know. She swallowed against the hard lump rising in her throat. God, she hated funeral homes.
Franklin’s assistant, a woman with a face like the full moon, approached them from the rear of the building. “Zoe. It’s so good to see you.”
“Hi, Paulette. Is Franklin available?”
“He’s in his office.” The woman smiled at Harry. “Is this business? We have a wonderful preplanning program.”
Zoe choked, sneaking a glance at Harry. “Not that kind of business. This is Harry Adams. Chief Adams’ dad.”
Paulette took his hand. “Lovely to meet you. I could give you a brochure about our services if you’re interested.”
Harry scowled at her. “No, thanks.”
Zoe bustled him down the hall before Franklin’s secretary could launch further into her sales pitch.
“Do I look like I’m ready to kick the bucket?” Harry whispered.
“Not at all. Business must be slow.”
“I can’t imagine why. People are dyin’ to get into places like this.”
Zoe snorted.
She found Franklin in his office, bent over an Early American desk. He straightened as they entered. “Zoe. I didn’t expect to see you here today.”
“I know. I was hoping you could answer a few questions for me if you aren’t too busy.”
“Certainly.” He pointed to the chairs across from him.
She nudged Harry, who was eyeing the three display caskets sitting in a darkened corner. “Huh? Oh.” He moved toward the chairs, letting Zoe sit first.
She introduced the two men. Before Franklin had a chance to launch into the same sales pitch as his secretary had, she asked, “Who was the county coroner before you took office?”
Franklin scowled. “Before me? Richard Perryman. Why?”
“Was he the coroner twenty-seven years ago?”
“Heavens, no. Twenty-seven years? What’s this all about?”
She looked down at her hands.
Harry cleared his throat. “We’re investigating her father’s death.”
“You’re— Excuse me, who are you again? Wait.” Franklin looked at Zoe. “Adams. As in Pete Adams?”
Zoe opened her mouth, but Harry beat her to it. “He’s my son.”
She touched his arm. “Harry’s helping me out today.”
“Oh.” Franklin’s gaze shifted to Harry and back to Zoe. “What about your father’s death?”
“I was hoping to talk to someone who worked the case. Maybe see a copy of the coroner’s report.”
“Is there a problem?”
A problem? “Not really. Well, maybe.” She took another breath before telling him about the letter James Engle had written to her mother.
As she spoke, Franklin leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of his chest. Once she finished her story, he sat in silence, chewing his lip.
“Interesting,” he said at last. “Unfortunately, you’re not going to be able to talk to the coroner from back then.”
“Why?” she demanded.
“Because Martin Dempsey, who was coroner at the time, died fifteen years ago.”
Zoe deflated. “Oh. But, what about his records? Can I get a copy of his report on the accident?”
Franklin gave a short laugh. “Anything older than ten years is in storage.”
“Where?”
“The basement of the courthouse. And if you recall, many of those old records were destroyed when the basement flooded during Hurricane Ivan.”
Zoe slumped back into her chair. Even Mother Nature was in on the conspiracy to keep her from finding the truth about her dad. She ran Franklin’s words through her brain again and grasped at the one word that had slipped by her the first time. “Many. You said ‘many’ of the records were destroyed. But not all.”
“Well, no. Not all. The rest are in musty old boxes covered in cobwebs.”
“How do I get to them?”
“Please tell me you’re kidding. Have you any idea what the courthouse basement is like?”
She’d been in the basement of the farmhouse plenty of times and figured the courthouse couldn’t be much different. “Yeah, I do. How do I get in?”
Franklin removed his wire-rimmed glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Look. If you’re so determined, I’ll have someone over there try to find the files.” He replaced his glasses and picked up a pen. “Give me the date and year.”
“How long will this take?”
“You know how it goes. A week. Maybe two.”
“No. I’ll do it myself.”
“They aren’t going to let you into the records room.”
“Why not? I’m a deputy coroner. Doesn’t that give me some official detective status?”
Franklin shot her a look. “You’re a paramedic who is also a part-time deputy coroner with minimal training in the investigative end of it. You can call time of death and you can collect evidence at a crime scene. That’s it.”
She glared back at him. “I know that. Work with me here, Franklin.”
“Why should I? You won’t even come in to assist me with an autopsy every now and then.”
True. She’d attended one, and the smell stuck in her nostrils for weeks.
“You know I plan to retire some day and I’d love to see you take my place.”
This was news to her. “What?”
“If I were training you to take over for me, then you might possibly have the right to access all those old records.”
Zoe studied Franklin’s face. Was he saying what she thought he was saying? “How soon are you planning to retire?”
“Oh, not soon. But you never know. I’d rather know someone I trusted was ready to fill in for me at a moment’s notice.”
“Uh-huh. And when would this training begin?”
Franklin shrugged. “We could say it’s already begun. If anyone asked. Like the folks at the courthouse.”
He was saying what she thought he was saying. But her cell phone sang out I Fought the Law before she could respond. “Uh-oh, Harry. Pete’s looking for us.”
Harry had been dozing but snapped awake. “Tell him I had to use the men’s room.”
Zoe snickered. “Hey, Pete,” she said into the phone.
“Where the hell are you?”
“On our way. Um, your dad had to use the restroom.”
“Oh, God. You didn’t lose him, did you?”
“No. He’s right here with me. Are you still in the surgical waiting room?”
“I’m on my way down to the snack bar. Just wait for me there.”
“Oh.” Crap. “Okay.” She pressed end and said to Franklin, “We have to go.”
She rose and offered a hand to Harry, but he waved her off and stood up without any help.
As they headed for the door, Zoe paused and turned back. “Thanks, Franklin.”
“No problem.”
But he called out to her as she stepped into the hallway. “Oh, and Zoe?”
“Yes?”
“The next time I call yo
u to assist on an autopsy, I damn well expect you to be here. On time.”
Fifteen
Pete sat at one of the tables in the hospital snack bar, nursing a Styrofoam cup of coffee and fuming. Where the hell were Zoe and Pop? As if he didn’t know.
She’d dragged his father with her to talk to Franklin Marshall. Pete wished he’d never shown her that damned letter. But how was he to know she’d fixate on her interpretation of one line? One stupid sentence. Mrs. Jackson, your husband did not die in that car crash.
He sipped the steaming brew and shifted his focus back to the real case he had on his hands. Someone had shot one of the township residents he’d sworn to protect. And not just any resident. A nice old man who took care of his cancer-stricken wife. Some asshole had walked into the man’s own barn and shot him.
The same barn where Zoe spent most of her off duty time.
The same nice old man who shared a roof with Zoe.
She could easily have been there. Hell, if she hadn’t been helping him look for Harry, she probably would have been there.
The idea of Zoe facing a crazed idiot with a gun made the coffee in Pete’s stomach burn like battery acid. Granted it wouldn’t have been the first time. She’d stood toe to toe with a gunman just last winter in that very same barn. That time, she’d managed to take the shooter down on her own with Pete arriving in time to do nothing more than call for an ambulance and take the wounded killer into custody.
Pete didn’t want things to go that far ever again. He wanted whoever had shot Mr. Kroll in jail, and he wanted him there now.
Baronick had given Pete a rundown of what the county crime scene guys had found—damned little. No shell casings, so the guy had either policed his brass or used a revolver. They were running tests on the tissue and hair discovered on the manure spreader, but were fairly certain it belonged to Kroll. He’d apparently been shot while on his tractor, fell and struck his head on the way down.
Baronick had interviewed the wife upstairs in the surgical unit’s waiting room. She hadn’t given him anything useful. Her husband had no enemies, didn’t fight with anyone. Mrs. Kroll didn’t know of any new boarders and there hadn’t been anyone hanging around who shouldn’t have been. In fact, Mrs. Kroll had told the detectives, the only new faces she’d seen lately were Tom and Kimberly Jackson.
Pete’s brain segued from Zoe’s mother to Zoe’s ancestors. The Kroll shooting may be his only real case, but the old Miller homicide/suicide gnawed at him, too. Why hadn’t the gun been found? A man who was that overcome with remorse for shooting his brother wouldn’t bother to hide the weapon before hanging himself. Unless someone else had hidden it. Someone like another shooter.
Pete had asked Baronick to do some digging in the county evidence lock-up if he had any spare time. The young detective might be a pain in the ass, but he loved a good mystery. Pete knew from the spark in Baronick’s eyes that he’d make the time.
Pete shifted in the chair to reposition his throbbing foot, and his mind shifted to the other case with ties to Zoe and her mom. Gary Chambers. If James Engle hadn’t been suffering from dementia when he wrote that note, what exactly had he meant by those cryptic words?
Sipping his coffee, Pete opened his cell phone and scrolled through his address book before pressing send.
“Wayne,” he said when the detective answered. “While you’re on the trail of information on that Miller case, do me a favor. See if you can find anything about the vehicular homicide of Gary Chambers.” Pete gave Baronick the year.
“Twenty-seven years ago?”
“Nice to know you can do the math.”
“Gary Chambers. Isn’t that the name mentioned in the letter we found under James Engle’s couch?”
“Right again. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, so anything you find would be appreciated.”
“Got it. I’ll be in touch.”
Pete tucked the phone into his pocket as Zoe and his father appeared in the doorway. She gave him a guilty grin.
Pete held up a hand. “I don’t want to know.”
“But—”
“You didn’t lose Pop. That’s the main thing.” In fact, his old man looked almost—perky.
Harry nudged Zoe. “Do I still get something to eat? I’m starved.”
“Sure. What’ll you have?”
“A milkshake. Chocolate.”
Pete snorted. “That’s not exactly a healthy lunch.”
Zoe planted her fists on her hips and narrowed her eyes at him. “It’s still too early for lunch. This is...brunch.”
Harry nodded in fervent agreement. “Yeah.”
“Chocolate milkshakes for brunch?”
Zoe dropped her stance and leaned down to Pete’s ear. “At his age, if he wants a milkshake, I’m buying him a frigging milkshake.”
With that she headed for the counter, leaving Harry rocking back on his heels and wearing a smug smile.
“I like her, Pete.”
“I know, Pop.”
“You should marry her.”
Pete choked on his coffee.
Harry slid into the bench across from him. “I’m serious. She’s a real sweetheart. And pretty.”
Pete already knew that.
“And she treats me like a grownup instead of like a damned kid the way you and your sister do.”
A grownup who orders a chocolate milkshake for brunch. “So where were you two just now?” Pete asked, not expecting a coherent answer.
“Talking to a guy at some funeral home. About Zoe’s dad.”
Pete sat back in the seat. Son of a bitch. His old man remembered all that? And Zoe’s name. “What about her dad?”
But Harry’s eyes clouded over, the old confusion returning. “I—I don’t remember exactly. She’s trying to find him, I think.” He frowned. “You should help her. She’s a nice girl.”
“I know, Pop.”
The next few minutes passed in silence before Zoe returned with two large Styrofoam cups and two straws. She handed one of each to Harry, who eyed the container. “What’s this?”
“Your chocolate milkshake. I got myself one, too.”
“Oh, I love milkshakes. And chocolate’s my favorite. How did you know?”
She met Pete’s gaze. “Lucky guess.”
So much for the momentary return of Harry’s faculties. Zoe slid into the empty seat across from Pete and tore the paper wrapping from her straw.
“I have a few questions I need to ask you,” he said.
She pierced the flimsy plastic lid with the straw. “This sounds official.”
“It is.”
She blinked at him. “Oh. Okay.”
“Do you have any idea who might have wanted your landlord dead?”
“Not at all.” She took a long slow draw on the straw. Her cheeks sucked in from the force. “I wish I did.”
“You spend a fair amount of time with him in the barn, don’t you?”
She ran her tongue over her lips. “Sure. He can’t do much manual labor anymore. I do most of that. But he loves to drive his tractor. And his quad. He’s on one or the other all the time. Won’t let anyone else behind the wheel of either of them.”
“Has he had any arguments or disagreements with any of the boarders lately?”
“Nope. He gets along with everyone. He’s our adopted grandfather.”
“Do you have any new boarders?”
“How new? The last time we had stall space was back in March. A single mom and her preteen daughter brought in a small Appaloosa. They adore Mr. Kroll.”
“Okay. How about strangers? Has there been anyone hanging around that shouldn’t be? Or have any of your boarders brought friends around?”
“Nobody new. No strangers. Even the guy who d
elivers the feed is the same one we’ve had for years.”
Pete braced to tread on tenuous ground. “How about your mother and stepdad?”
Zoe paused mid sip. “You don’t think they had anything to do with this, do you?”
“Just covering all the bases. Do your stepdad and Mr. Kroll get along?”
“Yeah. Tom helped us with a load of hay, so Mr. Kroll loves him. And Tom did help save Mr. Kroll’s life yesterday.” She used the straw to stir her shake and gave a short laugh. “Poor Tom is having a lousy vacation. First he finds out his old friend has hung himself. Then we put him to work in the barn. And to top it off, there’s this shooting, and he has to play first responder.”
Pete struggled to maintain a calm façade. Keeping his voice level, he asked, “So your stepdad and James Engle were friends?”
“Um hum,” she said around the straw. She swallowed and smacked her lips.
Pete held her gaze, willing her to elaborate. She didn’t. Should he press it? Mention that Tom had apparently flat out lied to him about not knowing Engle?
No. Not yet. “What about your mother?”
Zoe snorted. “My mother doesn’t get along with anyone. And she doesn’t go anywhere near the barn. Ever. Trust me. If she were going to shoot anyone, they’d have to come to her because she couldn’t be bothered to go to them.”
Having dropped Pete and Harry off at the Vance Township Police Station and been freed of her escort duties, Zoe headed back to Brunswick behind the wheel of her own vehicle. Pete’s questions replayed in her mind. Specifically, one question.
“So your stepdad and James Engle were friends?”
Her big mouth had done it again. She had to go and blather on about Tom’s crappy vacation. And now she’d put him solidly on Pete’s radar.
She hadn’t mentioned Tom’s friendship with Engle earlier for one very big reason. She feared her stepfather knew a lot more about the murder/suicide of Vernie and Denver Miller than he was letting on.
2 Lost Legacy Page 14