by Lisa Jackson
Only when they were outside standing at the door of Rachelle’s car, did Melanie say anything. “Listen, Rachelle, I don’t know what you thought you’d accomplish by coming back here, but you’re only causing trouble. Whether you know it or not, lots of people are nervous—they don’t like the idea of their quiet little town being splashed all over the pages of national newspapers.”
Rachelle couldn’t help but smile. “You think I’m exploiting the citizens of Gold Creek?”
“Using them,” she replied. “To sell papers.”
“I just thought it would be an interesting series.”
“Oh, yeah, right. Like people in Chicago, or New York, or Washington, D.C., are going to give a rip about how this little town operates.” She shook her head and sighed. “Don’t give me any of that crap. I know better. You’re here because of Roy Fitzpatrick. That’s why you pushed your way past me to get to his dad, that’s why Jackson Moore decided to show up and that’s what’s turning this town inside out. It’s over, Rachelle, so forget it. A boy died. Period. End of story.”
“Is it?” Rachelle asked, studying the lines of Melanie’s pretty face.
“Absolutely. And if you don’t leave it alone, I’m afraid you might find yourself in big trouble.”
“You’re threatening me?” Rachelle laughed. “I can’t believe it. What do you, what does this town, have to hide?”
“Take my advice, Rachelle. Leave it alone.” She turned on her heel and half ran down along the path that led to the back door of the building.
Rachelle blew her bangs from her eyes and glanced up to the third floor. Her heart nearly stopped as she saw a flicker of movement at one of the windows. Thomas Fitzpatrick, his expression murderous, stared down at her.
So he’d witnessed her exchange with Melanie. So what? Though feeling as if he’d spied her doing something she shouldn’t have been, she waved to him and slid into the warm interior of her car. It was silly of her to take Melanie’s warning seriously, sillier still to be frightened of Thomas Fitzpatrick. From all accounts Fitzpatrick was a decent man, a philanthropist, for God’s sake. And he’d been more than civil during the interview.
So why did he, with a single look, cause her to grow cold inside? If only Jackson were still here, she thought, then jammed her key into the ignition. Jackson was long gone and she could handle everything herself. She didn’t need a man to lean on for God’s sake! But she couldn’t shake the cold dread that settled in her heart.
* * *
JACKSON LEANED OVER THE desk of the private investigator and glared at the weasel-eyed man. “You’re telling me that there’s nothing new you can dig up on the Fitzpatrick murder?”
The man, Virgil Timms, held up his palms, showing off yellow stains on his fingers from the cigarettes he smoked one after another. A Winston cigarette was burning unattended in the ashtray on the desk. “Nothing significant. But I’m still working on it.”
“I’m paying you a lot of money to find out the truth,” Jackson said, pacing to the window and staring through the streaked glass to the bustling streets below where pedestrians, bicyclists and motorists vied for room. Timms worked in Chinatown in San Francisco, and the pace of the city seemed frenetic compared with Gold Creek.
“Hey, I’m doin’ my best.”
Was he? Jackson wasn’t convinced. He’d hired Timms on the advice of his partner. Boothe and Timms had served together in Vietnam, and Timms had gained a reputation, though the man seemed shady to Jackson. Not that it mattered. The shadier, the better in this case. “Did Fitzpatrick get to you?”
“What’d’ya mean?”
Jackson walked back to the desk. His muscles were tight and a knot was forming between his shoulders. “I mean, did he pay you to quit nosing around?”
Timms had the decency to look offended. “Hey, you’re my client.”
“Fitzpatrick has a lot of money. He’s used to spreading it around to get what he wants.”
“I didn’t sell you out, man. Take a look.” He shoved a file across the desk. The manila folder was marked Moore/Fitzpatrick.
Jackson rifled quickly through the pages, reading small biographies on each of the suspects in the Fitzpatrick case, including his own. No wonder the police hauled him in. Of all the potential murderers of Roy Fitzpatrick, Jackson had been the only one with a reputation for brushes with the law—even though they’d been minor.
“Is this mine?” he asked, his brows knitting as he began to digest some of the information.
“You paid for it. Hey—” Timms took a drag on his cigarette before crushing it in the ashtray already heaped with ashes and cigarette butts “—you still want me on the case?” He dumped the full ashtray into a wastebasket before lighting up again.
“I suppose,” Jackson agreed.
“Good. But let me clue you in on one thing. It’s not easy getting information out of that town. At the mention of the Fitzpatrick name, those people zip their lips like nobody’s business. And the police—forget them. It’s like the old man is some kind of god or somethin’.”
“Or something,” Jackson agreed dryly.
“He owns the whole damned town. Him and his relatives.”
“Garreth Monroe,” Jackson thought aloud. Brother-in-law to Thomas and a man who was just as greedy. He owned the place on the lake where Rachelle and he…
“Garreth Monroe III, mind you. Yep, unless you work for one of those two guys, you don’t have much of a chance in that town.”
“That, I already knew.”
Timms’s thin lips twisted into the semblance of a smile. “Well, there’s a lot you might not know in that folder—things people didn’t want me to find out. If I didn’t know better I’d swear Gold Creek should be named Peyton Place.” He laughed at his own joke and ended up in a coughing fit. “I gotta cut down,” he said, holding up his cigarette. “Now, listen, you want me to dig as deep as I can?”
“Deeper.”
“Even if you find out something you don’t want to know?”
The question jarred Jackson. His jaw slid to the side and he had to remind himself that Timms was on his side. “I don’t know what you’re insinuating, but as far as I’m concerned, I want you to turn that damned town upside down and shake it until all the secrets spill out. Got it?”
“If you’re sure.”
“Damn right, I’m sure.” Jackson grabbed the manila folder and tucked it under his arm. “I’ll call you when I get back from New York.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“MAYBE HE’S GONE FOR good,” Brian said, yanking off his tie and tossing it onto the back of the couch.
“I wouldn’t bet on it.” Thomas walked down the two steps to his son’s living room, a huge, spacious room decorated with stark white couches, white walls, white carpet and accented in red and black. The room reminded him of his daughter-in-law, who had overseen the decorating. Everything with Laura was black and white, no gray. “Jackson will come back to finish what he started.”
Brian threw open the French doors and stepped onto the veranda. “Why doesn’t he just crawl back under his rock in New York and leave us all the hell alone?” He leaned against the rail of the veranda and sighed heavily. Thomas noticed the beads of sweat that had collected on his son’s brow.
“He wants vindication.” Thomas stared over the grounds of Brian’s estate, past the tended grass and shrubbery to the forest that grew along the banks of Gold Creek. Leaning his elbows on the rail, he wished he didn’t have to ask the question that was foremost in his mind, a question that had nagged at him for years, but a question he’d managed to bury deep. Until Jackson Moore returned. “The night your brother died,” he said gently, “you can swear to me that no one but Jackson had words with him?”
Brian looked up sharply. “What is this? Are you asking me if I killed Roy?” A heartbeat passed and Brian trembled. “I don’t believe this. I friggin’ don’t believe this! You, my own father, can stand there and accuse me of murdering my own brother? B
ut why? To inherit this?” He motioned toward the house dismissively. “Do you honestly think I would have done it?”
“I haven’t accused you of anything,” his father said softly. “But it’ll happen. The police are bound to be involved again—Jackson’s already hired a private detective. He means business.”
“Brian? Brian, are you home?” Laura’s voice sang softly through the rooms and out the open door. Carrying his tie and a bag from a boutique in Coleville, she joined them on the porch. “This doesn’t belong on the couch,” she chided gently, lifting the tie and wiggling it. She caught her husband and father-in-law’s somber expressions. “Is something wrong?”
“Moore’s poking around.”
The tie dropped from her fingers to coil at her feet on the bricks. “What now?” she asked, setting her shopping bag near the door.
“Jackson talked to Dad, and your friend, Rachelle, has spoken with both of us.”
“I remember seeing Rachelle at your office,” she said stonily.
Brian licked his lips nervously. “Dad’s afraid they won’t give up until they find out the truth.”
“But the truth is that Jackson killed Roy…” she started, then let her sentence drift away.
“Jackson doesn’t think so,” Thomas said slowly. “And I don’t want any surprises. I came over to talk to you so that you could refresh my memory of that night.”
“It was so long ago—”
“I know. But let’s go over it again. If either of you know anyone who had anything to do with Roy’s death, I want to know about it and I want to know about it now!”
“We would’ve told you then,” Laura insisted, and her clear blue eyes met his. However, her hand shook and she had to slip it quickly into the pocket of her skirt. She blinked hard and glanced at Brian. “This is crazy.”
Thomas wasn’t about to be put off. “Let’s just get a few things straight. I know about the problems you’ve been covering up at the logging company. Profits are way down and, say what you will, I can’t believe it’s all because of the environmentalists or the union.”
“But—”
“I know you’ve been skimming,” he said bluntly to his son, and the pain in his heart ached all the more. He’d lost one boy and had found out that his other was a thief. His daughter, Toni, was already a hellion… .
Laura gasped. “No, that can’t be true.” Laura took a step toward her husband. “Brian—”
“Shut up, Laura.”
“But this is a lie—”
Brian’s face was flushed and the sweat on his forehead was drizzling down his chin. “I said, ‘shut up!’”
Brian swallowed hard and Laura looked positively stricken.
Thomas didn’t have time to worry about their emotions. “So now that we know where we all stand, let’s get down to it, shall we?”
“Dad, listen, I just needed a little extra cash for the house.”
Laura’s mouth dropped open.
“I know what you needed it for,” Thomas said tightly, his gaze cutting. Brian had a reputation. With the horses and with the women. No, he never should have trusted the boy to run the company. There were others who would have done better.
His son’s hand was on his sleeve. Tears glistened in Brian’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Forget it. Pull yourself together.”
“Does Mom—”
“Does she know?” Thomas shook his head. “It’s our little secret.” He glared pointedly at Laura. “Let’s make sure it stays that way, but, if you ever need money again, I suggest you come to me.”
“I will. Oh, God, you know I will,” Brian said, blinking rapidly in relief. Thomas felt sick that this spineless man was his only legitimate son. Then he felt a deep pang of guilt. If Brian had turned into a common, even stupid, thief, who could he blame but himself? Maybe if he hadn’t lavished so much attention on his firstborn…
“Brian…” Laura touched him gently on the arm, but he shook off her fingers, just as he’d shaken off anything he had had to do with her since the wedding day. That, too, was probably Thomas’s fault. He’d insisted that Brian marry Laura when he’d found out the girl was pregnant. He’d lost a bastard son by Roy, and he wasn’t about to lose any more of his grandchildren.
He clapped his son on the shoulder. “Buck up,” he said. “Now, you can help with this. Roy had lots of people who didn’t like him. Jackson Moore was only the most visible. Who were the others?”
“Mom wouldn’t approve of this,” Brian ventured.
“Your mother is never to know. This conversation is private,” Thomas said, and the glint in his eyes was enough to convince both Brian and Laura that he meant business. “I’ve spent most of my life protecting her and I won’t let you ruin everything. So let’s start with everyone who had a grudge against Roy and then tell me about Rachelle Tremont.” He turned his gaze on his daughter-in-law. “You knew her. You were friends, weren’t you?”
Laura shrugged. “I only knew her a little while.”
Thomas thought about his encounter with Rachelle. “She’s as bullheaded as Jackson, and you can’t tell me she isn’t back here because of him.” Irritated, he rested his hip against the rail and crossed his arms over his chest. “So tell me everything you know about her.”
* * *
THE LAST PERSON RACHELLE expected to find camped out in her cottage was her sister. But Heather was waiting for her and the house had been picked up and cleaned. Heather was, and always had been, a compulsive neatnik.
With her five-year-old son, Adam, balanced on her lap, Heather swayed back and forth in the rocking chair near the fire. Adam’s head lolled against his mother’s shoulder and his eyes were closed.
Flames crackled over mossy logs and the scent of burning wood and clam chowder filled the rooms.
“Surprised?” Heather mouthed as Rachelle closed the door behind her. With one finger to her lips, she carried Adam into the spare bedroom.
“Shocked would be more like it,” Rachelle admitted, as Heather closed the door at the end of the hall and padded quickly into the kitchen. Rachelle slung her jacket over the back of a chair and ignored her sister’s pointed look of disapproval. They’d always been different, and Rachelle hadn’t discovered her sister’s need to keep a spotless house. Thank goodness!
Heather lifted the lid on the soup pot. The aroma of clams and spices escaped in a thick cloud of steam. Rachelle’s stomach grumbled.
“Hungry?” Heather asked.
“Famished.”
Heather grinned, showing off dimples. “Good.”
“So how long have you been here?”
“Just an hour,” Heather admitted with a chuckle.
“And in that time you washed the windows, scoured the sink, scrubbed the floors, changed the beds and had enough time left over to whip up a batch of chowder?”
Heather laughed. Her culinary talents left a lot to be desired. Rachelle often joked that her sister didn’t cook in order to keep her kitchen spotless. Aside from cleaning, Heather’s talents were limited to sculpting, painting and interior decorating. Her expertise, or lack of it, in the kitchen was an old family joke.
“Very funny,” Heather responded, her blue eyes twinkling. “Actually, I bought the soup at a little bistro near Fisherman’s Wharf.”
“Ahh. You had me worried for a while there.”
“And all this time, I thought I was the only one who worried.” Heather tossed a lock of honey-blond hair over her shoulders. “Mom called yesterday and she sounded really upset, so I let my assistant handle the gallery and I packed Adam up and here we are. But we’re not staying here. Mom wants us to camp out over at her place.” Heather tasted the soup and winced. “Too hot.”
Snagging an apple from the basket on the counter, Rachelle asked, “Is Mom still upset about the separation?”
“That’s a big part of it,” Heather hedged. She put the lid back on the soup kettle.
“But there’s more,” Rachelle guessed,
knowing her mother’s concerns about Jackson.
“Tons,” Heather admitted with a nervous little shrug.
“Meaning Jackson Moore and yours truly.”
“She mentioned you’d been seeing him.”
Rachelle polished her apple on the edge of her blouse. “We’ve run into each other a couple of times.”
“Oh.” Heather sat at the table, propped her chin in one hand and said, “Spill it, Rachelle. Jackson Moore didn’t travel over two thousand miles for no reason. Did he come back because you’re here?”
“No.”
Heather raised a skeptical brow, and Rachelle took a large bite of her apple. She’d never really dissected Jackson’s reasons for returning; he’d said he had come back to close an open door on his past, clear his reputation—and she’d believed him.
“It’s sure a coincidence that you and he are back here together.”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Rachelle snapped, her patience worn thin. “He’s back in New York right now.”
“Permanently?”
She lifted a shoulder.
“How long has he been gone?”
“A couple of days, I think,” she hedged, because it seemed like an eternity, though she hated to admit that fact to anyone, including herself. She frowned thoughtfully. “Everyone I’ve talked to in this town, and that includes Mom, seems to think that Jackson’s primary purpose in life is to make trouble for me. I just don’t think that’s the case. Sure, the first article in my series was catalyst for returning to Gold Creek, but that doesn’t mean anything—”
“Has he seen you?”
“Yes, but—”
“Once?” Heather asked with innocent guile.
“At least.”
“Twice? Three times? Four?”
“I haven’t kept count.”
Heather leaned back in her chair in order to survey her sister. “And what does David have to say about all this?”