by Nancy Bush
“Oh, God,” she whispered now, opening her eyes to the hospital room. Her heart was pounding, which set her head to pounding as well.
She suddenly wanted a shower. To clean up and be presentable. Sam had said he was going to be a while, so there was nothing stopping her from taking one right now . . . except the thought that someone could find her, naked and vulnerable.
Not in the light of day. Not with all this activity.
Sliding out of bed, she headed into the bathroom. It took a bit of effort to pull off the shoulder harness, but she managed, letting her right arm drop carefully before stripping out of her hospital gown, pulling back the shower curtain, and turning on the taps. Stepping beneath the spray, she had another memory, so vivid she almost slipped. She recalled Sam and her being entwined beneath cascading water, making love, laughing at the awkwardness, half drowning themselves as they grappled to bring each other nearer, her back pressed against the shower stall tiles.
Now she carefully put her head beneath the water, aware of the bandage on her temple. They’d given her instructions on taking it off and replacing it, but she also knew the injury was more an abrasion and bump rather than a laceration. The bump had been strong enough to knock her senseless, and drop out her memories, but, from every test the doctors had run, not enough to do permanent damage.
She ripped the bandage off again and let her hair fall down.
* * *
Bolles had taken Sam inside the Salchuk Police Department, which was little more than an anteroom attached to a garage with four bays, and through a counter-height swinging door where a female officer in her midthirties, black hair scraped back from her face into a bun, her uniform tight on her small frame, sat in front of a computer screen. Her name tag read Malkers, and she looked askance at Sam. “What have we got here?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” Sam answered, beating Bolles to the punch. “Maybe check with him. He’s the one who held me at gunpoint.”
Bolles sputtered, “Joe Ford’s office was broken into and trashed, and this guy was standing in the middle of the mess, so I brought him on down here to have a talk with the chief.”
“Pendergast isn’t in yet,” she said.
Sam explained, “This ‘guy’ is Sam Ford. Joe Ford’s brother. Joe lost his life in the boating accident the other day.”
“I know about it,” she said, her tone carefully neutral.
Bolles said quickly, “And we don’t know what went down out there on that boat. Could be anything. Chief’s talking to Sheriff Vandra about it all. That’s probably where he is now. I was patrolling, and I came around the corner and there he was”—he pointed to Sam—“and his truck’s running and he’s inside, and I can see the place is completely tossed.”
Malkers said, “The chief’s talking to the mayor about the development on Summit Ridge.”
Summit Ridge. Sam said, “My truck was running because I saw the door was wide open to my brother’s office. I thought someone was inside, so I just ran in.”
“To confront them?” she asked.
“Yeah, maybe. I’d been inside about five minutes when Officer Bolles showed up and held a gun on me. There was quite a bit of destruction inside. Before that I was at the Spindrift, having huevos rancheros. You can ask the waitress, the one in her twenties, if you want to check my story. I didn’t have time to do all that damage. Someone was looking for something, but it wasn’t me.”
“Save it for the chief,” Bolles snapped.
“I’ve got a lot of things to do today, so I’d like to make this quick. I’m picking up Joe’s widow at the hospital this morning.”
“The office door was open?” Malkers asked.
“Yes.”
Malkers’s eyes were on Bolles and Sam sensed her deep impatience with the other officer. “It could be a little while before the chief gets here.”
“I’ll contact him.” Bolles flushed, aware Malkers wasn’t buying any of his posturing. He whipped out a cell phone and placed a call, got nowhere, and clicked off in annoyance.
“Maybe I should wait in one of those,” Sam suggested, pointing to the other side of the counter where two white, plastic, visitors chairs were arranged against the wall. There was nowhere to sit on this side of the counter, apart from Malkers’s desk chair.
As if on cue a portly man strode into the Salchuk Police station at that moment wearing a uniform like Malkers and Bolles. He flicked a look toward Sam as he pushed open the swinging door to the inner office area. He fit the stereotypical image of a small-town lawman caricature to a T: thirty pounds overweight, stuffed with self-importance, swaggering like he owned the place. All he was missing was a cowboy hat and a toothpick in the corner of his mouth.
“You must be Mr. Ford,” he said, regarding Sam carefully. His voice was genial, but his expression said the jury was still out about Sam’s innocence or involvement.
“And you’re Chief Pendergast.”
“Well, that’s what they call me around here, but we’re kind of small potatoes, y’know, so chief? Chief of what?”
“Chief of the Salchuk Police Department,” Sam said.
He took a step back and looked Sam up and down, then shot a glance at Bolles, who was on one foot and then the other, practically panting to talk.
“I caught him breaking in to Joe’s office. I had to bring him in—”
“I did not break in,” Sam stated calmly.
“—because, well, there’s still a lot we don’t know about that boat accident.”
“Who’s sitting on his burgled office?” Pendergast asked.
“I told Cesar to go,” Bolles said. “But I caught this guy on-site, riffling through some papers. The place was trashed. So, I brought him here, so we—you—could talk to him.”
Pendergast turned to Sam. “Mr. Ford, you were with the Seaside Police Department, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you interviewed for a job with the Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department.”
“That’s right.”
“I spoke with Sheriff Vandra this morning and he vouched for you. Said you’re doing some investigating into your brother’s death yourself.”
Vandra knew? Sam was surprised. The sheriff had made it pretty clear he didn’t want any interference, so he’d half believed the man would throw him to the wolves if he learned Sam was investigating on his own. Stone must have told the sheriff what Sam intended, but Vandra appeared to have taken the news in stride. That was unexpected. “I don’t think Joe’s death was an accident,” Sam admitted. “I mean to find out what really happened.”
“You think his financial business is connected to his death.”
Stone had really sold him out, he thought. Except Sam hadn’t mentioned anything about Joe’s financial business to the detective. “Is that what the sheriff said?”
“Just stands to reason, far as I can see. Come on back to my office,” he invited, then added to Bolles, “Get back up to Joe Ford’s business office and make sure Cesar is there. You shouldn’t have left it unattended.”
“Well, what was I supposed to do with him?” Bolles asked, nodding at Sam.
When Pendergast didn’t respond, just headed down the hallway that led toward the garage bays, Bolles flung back the swinging door and marched out. Pendergast held an arm out toward the room he wanted Sam to walk into. Like Joe’s office, there were only two other rooms, the kitchen/break room and the bathroom, aside from this office and the reception area. A gray metal desk took up the office’s center and a picture of Haystack Rock in Cannon Beach was hung on the wall behind it. The desk was covered with papers in neat stacks positioned next to a PC desktop computer sporting another beach scene as its screen saver. Wires snaked out from the back of the computer to the wall.
“My office, but we all use it,” Pendergast said, dropping his hefty frame into the desk chair. He motioned Sam into another of the white plastic chairs that appeared to be the department’s only other furniture. “
Why don’t you tell me what you’re thinking about your brother.”
Sam glanced at the clock on the wall and debated. He didn’t want to say anything to Pendergast until he knew more. Maybe it was his imagination, but it felt like he was being purposely stalled. “I think someone killed my brother. I told the sheriff the same thing.”
“Hmmm. I understand your brother purchased several gallons of gasoline in a gas can before he went out on the boat.”
“Sheriff Vandra tell you that?”
“We work together pretty closely on this part of the coast. You folks up in Seaside take care of yourselves, but we monitor the whole coastline.”
“All the jurisdictions work together,” Sam pointed out carefully. He didn’t want to totally piss the guy off, but what the hell?
“Well, of course. We gotta uphold the law, don’t we?” When Sam didn’t answer, he asked, “Is that your plan, then? To join up with the Tillamook Sheriff’s Department?”
Sam didn’t immediately respond. He was processing the chief’s words, trying to understand the meaning behind the meaning. He didn’t like the whole tenor of this meeting. “I don’t know. Look, I didn’t break into my brother’s office.”
“Bolles thinks you did.”
“Well, he’s wrong.”
Pendergast smiled. “He sometimes sees ghosts when it’s just fog, y’know.”
“In this case, it’s just fog,” Sam said. He glanced at the desk clock. If he didn’t get going soon, Jules was going to be waiting over an hour.
But Pendergast was in no mood to put a rush on things. “You know how long this police department has been here in Salchuk? As long as the town. It’s an institution. We’re not big, but we’ve been here from the get-go.”
“Mmm.” Sam gazed at him with polite interest. Really? This guy was giving him the touristy history tour when time was of the essence, when even now the burglar could be getting away, and Joe’s killer . . . if it is a murder. You’re not sure of that yet, despite what your gut says.
“Salchuk comes from the Chinook word salt chuck, which means sea, and so Salchuk is by the sea,” the chief rattled on, a bit of pride in his voice as he warmed to his topic. “We’ve become the cat’s meow, the belle of the ball, the place to be. We’re getting this influx of people, and there’s a lot of construction.”
Sam had enough of the small town information center rhetoric and abruptly changed the subject. “You were up at Summit Ridge.”
The chief’s brows raised in surprise, and then he said, “Ah. Malkers told you.”
“I have somewhere to be, and no one knew exactly when you’d get here.”
Pendergast looked about to argue, but thought better of it. “Okay, I won’t keep you. I don’t believe for a minute you broke into your brother’s office. But I’m going to assume you believe the thieves were after something specific. That this wasn’t a random hit.”
“That’s exactly what I think, given the timing.”
“And you think it has something to do with your brother’s death.”
“Yes.”
“A lot of people invested with Joe.”
“Yes,” Sam said patiently.
“The sheriff is leaning toward a different theory.”
“He thinks Joe set fire to the boat himself, and either was suicidal, or got caught up in his own trap.”
“Something like that.”
“There’s a big hole in that theory. Joe would never hurt his wife. And he wouldn’t hurt himself. If there was a financial problem, he would face it. Solve it. Make it right.”
“You sound pretty certain of yourself.” Pendergast picked up a paper clip and began unbending it. “And, despite you once being a cop, I wouldn’t say you were exactly impartial, you being Joe’s brother and all.”
“I’m going to find out what happened,” Sam told him flatly, and held the bigger man’s stare. “And now, if you have any more questions about the burglary, ask them. I’ll answer whatever I can. But I’m on a timetable.”
The chief wasn’t about to be pushed. The features in his broad face pulled together thoughtfully. “A lot of Salchuk people invested with your brother, and now they’re in this pickle, y’see. They want their money back. I’m going to make sure they get it.”
Your people, Sam thought. Pendergast was one of those guys who thought he owned the Salchuk residents. Maybe Joe’s decision to move here had offended him somehow.
The man’s next words pretty much confirmed Sam’s thoughts. “We don’t need any flimflam around here, if you know what I mean.”
“You think Joe was a financial flimflammer?” Sam asked coldly.
“Cardaman was. And the jury’s still out on the Hapstells.”
Sam’s cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and saw that it was Griff. “Am I free to go?” he asked.
Pendergast waved a hand at Sam, releasing him. “Just don’t go too far away,” he advised as Sam put the phone to his ear and walked out of the office, past Malkers, through the swinging door, and outside into coolish morning sunshine. “Hey, Griff,” he said. “I’ve got a favor to ask.”
“Yeah, man. We’ve been hearing rumors about Joe and Hapstell and Cardaman around here. Lots of questions.”
“That’s what I’m working on. I need your sister’s number.”
Griff choked out a laugh. “Really? Well, Sadie’s sure thinking about you. Whatever did you do to her, my man?”
“I need someone to stay at the house with Jules. She’s recovering. Broken collarbone, head injury . . . some trouble with memory. I don’t know if she’s safe. You told me that Sadie was between jobs.”
“Yeah, like you. Hmm . . . Well, Sadie’ll be disappointed, but she’ll probably do it.” He gave Sam the number. “So seriously, you really think Joe’s wife’s in danger?”
“It’s a real possibility,” he said, and cut off any chance for further speculation or conversation with, “Thanks, man,” and clicked off. He jogged the few blocks to his truck, still where he’d left it at Joe’s office. As he climbed inside he threw a glance to the heavyset man who stood at the doorway of the building. Cesar, he presumed.
Remembering at the last minute to pick up some clothes for Jules, he aimed the Chevy north toward Fisher Canal, where he would stop before heading south again to Tillamook. He drove without paying too much attention to the speed limit and was almost to the canal when his cell phone, sitting in the cup holder, rang. He saw it was Stone, calling him back.
He picked up the phone and answered, and the detective said, “Stone, here. Returning your call.”
Sam didn’t waste time. “I just came from Salchuk where my brother’s office was broken into.” He quickly gave the detective a rundown of the break-in, Officer Bolles, and his meeting with Chief Pendergast. “There’s something going on there. Pendergast made a point of how many people in Salchuk invested with Joe. I get the feeling Bolles and Pendergast, and maybe the sheriff, too, want to say Joe killed himself. They want to get a quick resolution so they can get their money back. Something like that.”
The detective thought that over. “What are you planning to do?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Pick up Jules Ford from the hospital and think it all over. Joe didn’t kill himself.” He thought about telling Stone about meeting the Fishers, but he had nothing but impressions. “When I figure out what that is, I’ll call you back.”
“Keep me informed.”
“Yep.”
Keep me informed. Not the sheriff.
He’d barely clicked off when the phone rang again. He glanced at the screen. Didn’t recognize the number. Screw it, he thought, pushing the on button. This time he hit speaker so he was hands free. “Sam Ford,” he answered.
“Mr. Ford, this is James Fairbanks from the Fairbanks and Vincent Law Firm. First of all, let me say how sorry we are for the loss of your brother.” He paused for a second, then said, “Carlton Vincent and I are the executors for your brother’s estate and would lik
e you to come in to our firm to go over his will and the dispensation of his assets.”
Sam’s mouth went dry. “Ah, yes. You’re going to want his widow, Julia Ford, as well?”
“Yes, we’ve left messages on her phone.”
“If that number’s her cell phone, it’s unlikely she’s going to answer anytime soon as it’s missing, probably have to be replaced. She’s in the hospital, but being released today. For now, just use my number. I’ll get you one for her as soon as possible.”
“Thank you.” He sounded relieved. “Can we expect the two of you on Monday? Two o’clock?”
“I can make it, but I’m not sure about Jules yet. I’ll tell her,” he said, picturing what that meeting would be like if Jules truly had amnesia.
“Very good,” Fairbanks said.
Sam parked in Joe and Jules’s driveway and then let himself into the house with the key Tutti had given him. Still feeling a little weird about being in Joe’s home, he went into the kitchen, searching once more for the Cardaman note, but it was a fruitless task. No surprise there. Could the person who had ransacked Joe’s office have broken in here and snagged it? But then left the rest of the house untouched? He remembered the chaos that was the office and it seemed unlikely. Still . . . He headed into the master bedroom where he felt like a perverted thief as he searched through the drawers, pulling out skimpy pale pink panties and a nude underwire bra. Swallowing hard at the sight of the bra, he remembered a similar one, a pink scrap of lace and silk that he’d helped her out of, gaily tossing it across his first apartment bedroom where it had gotten hung up on the lamp. They’d both fallen into a fit of the giggles.
Stop it. Don’t go there.
He opened several more drawers but those held men’s clothes. Joe’s. He then turned to the closet where he found a pair of jeans Jules’s size, neatly folded on a shelf, and a sweatshirt that said, “By the Beautiful Sea.” He was walking out when he realized the sweatshirt wasn’t going to work. She wouldn’t be able to pull it over her head. So he returned to the closet and ended up with a royal blue blouse with silver buttons that she could slide her arm into easier. His eye caught sight of a pair of black flipflops and he grabbed them, too.