Disturbing the Dead

by Sandra Parshall

  Wasn’t that exactly what was happening? Here he was, letting questions about his dad’s past eat away at him. If his father had been involved with Pauline— If Mary Lee wasn’t Adam McClure’s daughter—

  Get on with it.

  He unlocked a window, shoved it up, let the cold, clean air sweep in.

  His former fiancée, Sheila, had stood in this spot when she told him she was not going to marry him. “I can’t live in this place. I’d go out of my mind.” Tom had watched her resistance grow as he drove her around the county, seen the dismay in her eyes when she examined the old farmhouse, but he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge what was happening. He’d been rattling on about knocking down a wall and turning his parents’ bedroom into a master suite when she stopped him and told him she wouldn’t marry him if he insisted on moving back to Mason County.

  Remembered hurt and anger rose in him again, but with them came a new emotion: relief. He realized now that he and Sheila were so different they would have been miserable together even if he’d stayed in Richmond.

  He smiled, thinking about Rachel Goddard, her gentleness, her warm, husky laugh, that amazing auburn hair that he itched to get his fingers into. For a while he’d been seeing an old girlfriend who now lived in Roanoke, but that had ended when Rachel moved to Mason County. She was the only one he wanted, and he would wait as long as it took for her to let him into her life.

  His smile faded as he turned away from the window. On his right, one of his mother’s beautiful quilts covered the bed in white, gold, and blue. The top of his mother’s maple dresser, on his left, was bare.

  He stepped across the room to his father’s highboy chest and swung the doors open to expose a shelf and four drawers. The drawers were empty. While Tom was hospitalized after the accident, his grandmother and aunts had removed all his parents’ clothes, except for his father’s uniforms, and given them to a charity.

  The shelf above the drawers held his parents’ keys, wallets, and watches. Tom’s grandmother had retrieved them from the hospital after the accident.

  He pocketed his father’s keys. One of them would open the steel box where his father had stashed his pistol every night when he came home. If John Bridger had hidden anything, it would be in that box.

  As Tom started to close the doors of the chest, his father’s wallet made him pause. His mother would never have dreamed of going through her husband’s wallet. His father could have kept anything in there without fear of her finding it.

  Tom had to call his left hand into service when he looked through the wallet, but he tried not to jostle his injured arm in its sling. The dry, stiff cowhide wallet made a faint creaking sound when he pulled it open. Inside he found only the usual things: driver’s license, credit and insurance cards, organ donor card.

  He fingered the donor card and his mind filled with the racket of the emergency room, the controlled panic, the flurry of motion and the squeak of rubber soles on the floor. A doctor leaning over him. I know this is a difficult time…need to act quickly… Will you sign? Will you give consent? In a daze, Tom had signed the forms, and organs had been taken from his parents and brother. Bits and pieces of his family lived on in the bodies of strangers.

  He shook off the memory and tossed the wallet back onto the shelf.

  He turned to leave the bedroom, go downstairs to the study and get that box open, but the bookcase in one corner caught his attention. The shelves held the mysteries his mother had devoured and the biographies his father had favored, but on the bottom were six slender high school annuals, three for each of his parents.

  He squatted, pulled out the yearbook with the latest date and dropped it onto the floor. Gretchen Lauter had said that Pauline attended Mason County’s only high school at the same time as his father. Flipping the pages, he searched for names, faces.

  He stopped on the pages that pictured his father and his mother, Anne McGrail. Both in the same grade. In their senior photos, they had hairstyles that must have been outdated already—hers flipped up on the ends and his only slightly longer than a crew cut. The late-sixties revolution might have raged around them, but Tom’s parents had never been hip.

  Farther on in the seniors section, he found a young, cocky Troy Shackleford. He’d looked like trouble even then. Shackleford had probably been in classes with both of Tom’s parents.

  Pauline had been a sophomore, two years younger than Tom’s father. Her picture jumped out at him as soon as he turned the page. Tom wanted to see a witch, her cunning and selfishness plain on her face, but instead he saw a beauty that made his breath catch in his throat. A fall of shining black hair, a heart-shaped face, long-lashed eyes, full lips that curved in an innocent smile. But nothing about her had been innocent. She knew the value of what nature had given her, and she didn’t sell it cheap. She’d set her sights on the richest man in the county, and she’d snagged him, despite an age difference of nearly twenty years.

  Had Tom’s father become part of her life as early as high school? Wouldn’t he have been attracted to her? Not only was she beautiful, she was Melungeon. Maybe some deep ethnic connection had drawn John Bridger to Pauline.

  But Tom had always heard that his parents never so much as dated anyone else. His father served in Vietnam, and his mother attended nursing school while she waited for him. Soon after John Bridger came home, they were married.

  When Mary Lee was born, John Bridger was already a father. Pauline had been married to Adam McClure for several years. Why hadn’t she produced a child earlier, to cement Adam’s ties to her?

  Tom summoned a mental picture of Mary Lee, sitting across from him in her living room a few days ago. He’d registered her lack of resemblance to the McClures. But she didn’t look like a Bridger either. She was all Turner.

  The school yearbook told him nothing he didn’t already know. Tom tossed it aside and went downstairs.

  His computer and printer sat on the big oak desk, but he hadn’t changed anything else in the room that had been his father’s study. With its walls covered in photos of family and friends, its deep easy chair, the room felt inviting and comfortable, and Tom understood why his father had retreated from the household hubbub to read in this quiet spot. Every time Tom came in here, he imagined he could smell his father’s English Leather aftershave.

  The metal box was where it had always been, on a closet shelf. Standing on a footstool he’d brought from the kitchen, Tom stared at the box, his throat tightening, and wondered if he really wanted to do this. What did he want to find? Nothing. He didn’t want to find anything that would tie his father to Pauline. Disgusted with his reluctance to face the very truth he was searching for, he slid the box forward on the shelf. He couldn’t lift anything this heavy with one arm. He maneuvered his left arm free, gritting his teeth against the pain, pulled the sling over his head and tossed it behind him.

  When he had the box out of the closet and on the desk, he found the right key and coaxed the old lock to click open. An odd mixture of relief and disappointment washed through him when he saw only his father’s pistol and holster inside the box. The gun was the property of the Sheriff’s Department. He ought to return it. He lifted out the pistol and holster. Then he spotted the envelopes in the bottom of the box.

  His heart kicked into a gallop. He set the gun and holster aside and scrabbled in the box, gathering all the envelopes, at least half a dozen.

  His hands shook as he opened them. Birthday cards. Christmas cards. The same signature on every one. With love, P. Tom suddenly imagined his mother finding these things, here in the house she’d shared with her husband, and his stomach clenched with fury. What the hell was wrong with his father, bringing his cheap affair into their home?

  How far did the cards go back? They hadn’t been mailed, the envelopes had no dates stamped on them. Each was addressed simply John Bridger. Someone had delivered them personally. Pauline’s housekeeper? Tom shuffled through them. Three birthday cards. Three Ch
ristmas cards. Mrs. Barker had been telling the truth about his father and Pauline toward the end of her life. That didn’t mean they’d been involved as far back as when Mary Lee was conceived.

  A last envelope, this one letter-sized, lay in the bottom of the box. Tom slid a folded sheet of blue note paper from the envelope and stared at it. Jesus Christ, was this a love letter from Pauline to his father?

  Feeling sick, he opened it.

  J—

  Ed has been following you, spying on you. I could strangle him! He’s threatening to tell Anne we’re having an affair. And he says he’s going to tell everybody the truth about ML. Dear God, I was out of my mind to confide in him! I don’t know if I can get through to him, but I’ve got to try. That silly wife of his was here, making accusations about Ed and me. She doesn’t know about ML, but I’m so afraid everything will come out in the open if I don’t get Ed calmed down, and ML and your wife are the ones who will be hurt.

  It breaks my heart to say this, but you have to stay away. We can’t risk him seeing you here again. I don’t know what he might do.

  I love you, my dearest friend.

  P.

  Chapter Twenty

  Holly poked her head out of the store’s dressing room. “You ready?”

  “Come on,” Rachel said, laughing. “Let me see.”

  Holly crept out. She straightened the hem of the pale blue sweater and picked a stray thread from the black slacks, then stood with her arms stiff at her sides and her face screwed up as if she expected the worst. “How do I look?”

  “Absolutely beautiful.”

  The compliment made Holly blush but didn’t erase her doubtful expression. She seemed to have no idea how pretty she was.

  “I’ll pay you back every penny,” she said for at least the tenth time. “I promise.”

  “I know that. You don’t have to keep telling me.”

  Holly wasn’t easy to do a favor for, and she wouldn’t accept gifts. Rachel had spent the better part of an hour persuading her to come into Mountainview and pick out some new clothes at All Dressed Up. Once there, they’d wrangled over how much Holly needed. They would leave with more than Holly thought was necessary and a lot less than Rachel wanted to buy. But the shopping expedition was a great success. Holly already looked more like a modern young woman and less like a waif from a hollow.

  “Let’s have lunch at the Mountaineer and celebrate,” Rachel said. “Wear what you have on. The clerk can take the tags off at the desk.”

  “What are we celebratin’?”

  “Your new job, of course.” Even as Rachel spoke, worry nagged at her. Tom had called last night and repeated a story about Rudy O’Dell spying on Holly with binoculars. Tom hadn’t sounded convinced that the story was true, since it came from Jack Watford, but he’d asked Rachel to keep an eye on Holly until the police caught O’Dell. Maybe they shouldn’t have come to town today. But surely they were safe in a moving vehicle and here on Main Street. Besides, O’Dell had more important things than Holly to think about—such as evading capture. She dismissed the thought of the fugitive. She and Holly were both going to enjoy this day.

  Holly retrieved her old shirt and jeans from the dressing room and pulled on her coat. The ratty brown garment looked about twenty years old, but after Holly had seen the prices of new coats, she’d refused to let Rachel buy one for her. Next time, Rachel hoped.

  The clerk snipped the tags off Holly’s sweater and slacks and handed her a big white bag filled with her other purchases. When Rachel finished the credit card transaction and turned to go, Holly was nowhere in sight.

  Rachel looked around. “Holly? Where are you?”

  Don’t let her wander off anywhere by herself. Tom’s warning echoed in Rachel’s head.

  “She stepped outside, hon,” the sixtyish clerk said.

  Rachel shoved the door open and felt a momentary relief when she spotted Holly in front of the hardware store next door. Then she registered the full scene. Holly was backed up against the store’s display window and two tall men loomed over her. One was her creepy drug-dealing cousin, Buddy.

  Rachel’s mouth went dry. She strode quickly toward them, braced for another skirmish with Buddy and determined to win this one.

  With the white shopping bag clutched to her chest like a shield, her head bowed and shoulders hunched, Holly seemed to be expecting a blow. Rachel came up beside her and threw the men a challenging look. “What’s going on here?”

  The two men were a lot alike—tall, handsome, dark-haired. The second, though, was middle-aged.

  “Well, hey there, Mary Mary,” Buddy drawled. His taunting grin and cold eyes told her he hadn’t forgotten a thing about their first encounter. “Didn’t I say I’d be seein’ you again real soon? I bet you—”

  The older man silenced him with a touch on the shoulder. Buddy’s grin collapsed like a popped balloon.

  “You must be Dr. Goddard,” the man drawled.

  His lips formed a slow smile that was enough like Buddy’s smirk to send a spasm of revulsion through Rachel. Father and son? Or uncle and nephew? Could this be—?

  “This is my daddy,” Holly mumbled.

  “Mr. Shackleford,” Rachel said, struggling to keep her voice even. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  Amusement crinkled his hooded dark eyes. “Call me Troy.” He leaned toward Rachel and she willed herself not to recoil, but she broke out in a sweat and she knew he could see it. In a confidential tone, Shackleford added, “Don’t believe everything folks tell you. I doubt I could live up to it all.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you can.” Watch it, watch it. Troy Shackleford was too dangerous to mess around with. She had to think about Holly now, not just herself.

  Shackleford stroked his chin and gazed down at Rachel through half-closed eyes. His large, strong hands bore scars across the knuckles that made her imagine barroom brawls and fights in parking lots. “How’s my little girl doin’ on the job?”

  “Great. I’m lucky to have her.” A gust of wind chilled Rachel’s face and neck and made her shiver.

  Shackleford reached out, caught the collar of her coat and tugged it up around her throat. She flinched, and Buddy laughed, a low, derisive snicker.

  “You’re cold,” Shackleford said. “You ought to get indoors.”

  “Let’s go,” Rachel said to Holly. If the girl bit down any harder on her lower lip she would draw blood.

  “Yeah, let’s go.” Holly edged away from her father and cousin and struck off down the sidewalk at a near-run.

  Rachel hurried after her. She prayed the two men would give up and go away, but she didn’t believe for a second they would.

  “Hey, hold on, Sugar,” Troy Shackleford called after Holly. With long strides he caught up to her. Grabbing her arm, he pulled her to a stop. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

  Despite the cold air, sweat beaded on Holly’s upper lip. “I’m busy,” she squeaked.

  Stay calm, Rachel told herself, trying to make her racing heart slow down. Across the street several men and women had stopped to watch them. Shackleford couldn’t get away with anything out here in plain view. Could he?

  “You got time to eat, don’t you, baby?” Shackleford smiled at Holly, but it was a coldly calculated expression with no affection in it. “Let’s drive on out to Rose’s place for a bite. She’s been missin’ you.”

  His grip on Holly’s arm tightened, and when the girl whimpered in pain Rachel couldn’t hold herself back anymore. “Let go of her,” she told Shackleford. “Right now.”

  Shackleford regarded Rachel with mock reproach. “Are you tryin’ to keep me away from my daughter? That’s not nice, Dr. Goddard.”

  All right, you son of a bitch, enough of this. She pawed through her shoulderbag and dredged out her cell phone. “Let go of Holly or I’ll call the police.”

  Shackleford laughed. “What are you gonna tell ’em I’m doin’? I’m invitin’ m
y daughter to have lunch with me, and you’re interferin’. You’re the one in the wrong.”

  “She doesn’t want to go anywhere with you.”

  Holly squirmed and tried to free her arm, but Shackleford held on. “I need to talk to you.” His voice lost its oily smoothness. “Now stop bein’ contrary and come on with me. We got things to straighten out.”

  He twisted Holly’s arm. The bag slid from her grasp and plopped onto the sidewalk. “No!” Holly cried. “I don’t want to!”

  “I’ll call the Sheriff’s Department,” Rachel said. “They’re right around the corner.” Thank God for speed dial. Even 911 might be more than her trembling fingers could manage.

  Buddy stepped forward and leaned his face into hers. “Stay out of this, bitch.”

  With an effort of will Rachel stood her ground and ignored Buddy. She said to Shackleford, “You’re trying to kidnap Holly off a public street in front of witnesses. Do you think the cops will be on your side?”

  He barked a laugh. “Girl, you’ve got a bad habit of stickin’ your pretty little nose where it don’t belong.”

  But he released Holly, and she backed away from him.

  “We’re leaving,” Rachel said. She bent to retrieve the shopping bag, but Buddy scooped it up and, grinning, held it beyond her grasp. An explosion of fury shook her and she needed every ounce of self-control to keep her voice down to a growl. “Give me the goddamned bag and get out of our way.”

  To her amazement, Shackleford said, “Let her have it, Bud.”

  “Aw, shit, Troy,” Buddy whined. When his uncle threw him a pointed look, he shoved the bag at Rachel. A sullen little boy, reprimanded and not liking it a bit.

  “Come on,” Rachel told Holly, “let’s go.”

  They’d walked twenty feet when Shackleford called out, “Hey, Rachel.”

  She froze for a second. Then she slowly looked back at him.

  He was grinning. “You be real careful now, you hear? You never know what might happen.”

  ***