Disturbing the Dead

by Sandra Parshall

  “Thank you.” She forced a smile.

  He withdrew his hand and Rachel felt a ridiculous stab of loss.

  Determined to steer the conversation away from herself, she said, “Right now, my main concern is Holly. She has nightmares every night. I think she knows what happened to her mother and she’s dreaming about it. Maybe one of these nights she’ll trust me enough to tell me everything.”

  “I need to know what she remembers,” Tom said, “but I don’t want you going without sleep night after night to find out.”

  “You’re the one who really needs sleep, but you’re sitting here awake too.” Rachel examined his face more closely, saw the shadows under his eyes. “You look as if you haven’t slept since all this started.”

  “Ah, this case is driving me a little crazy.” He picked up his mug but set it down again without drinking. “I wish to God we’d never found those bones.”

  “Well, I have to admit both our lives would be easier right now if you hadn’t. But I don’t think Holly’s life would be better in the long run. And the killer would go free.”

  “Yeah, but…” Tom’s eyes had a bleak, faraway look. “It’s turned out be more…personal than I expected. I’ve found out some things—” He shook his head. “Never mind. It’s not important.”

  “If it’s keeping you awake at night, it’s important. Talking about it might help.”

  Tom rose abruptly and moved around checking the drapes, although they were as snugly drawn as they’d been ten minutes before. Don’t push him, Rachel told herself.

  He sat on the couch again and leaned forward with his hands clasped between his knees. “I don’t want to burden you with my problems.”

  Let it go. But instead of taking the opening he’d offered, she said, “Go ahead and burden me. I’m a masochist. If I weren’t, I wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.”

  He smiled at that, then jumped up again, grabbed the poker and reached behind the fireplace screen to jab at the oak logs. Billy Bob snorted and rolled over.

  Why hadn’t she left well enough alone? Something serious was preying on Tom’s mind, and she wasn’t sure she could handle the closeness that more revelations might bring.

  Tom hung the poker back on its hook and stared into the flames. “I always looked up to my father. I thought he was the best example of what a man should be. With his family and his work. It sounds trite, but I really did put him on a pedestal.”

  Oh no. Had he discovered that his father bungled the original investigation? Took a bribe, destroyed evidence? Rachel knew little about police work or about John Bridger, and she doubted she could say anything to make Tom feel better.

  He faced her. “I’ve found proof that my father was having an affair with Pauline McClure before she disappeared.”

  For a moment Rachel was too startled to speak. “Oh, Tom,” she finally managed. “My God.”

  “She was probably sleeping with other men too. It puts a hell of a different spin on everything.”

  “Do you think your father—”

  “Had something to do with her murder? No. But at this point, I don’t believe I really knew him, so how do I know what he was capable of?”

  Rachel moved to Tom’s side. “You’re feeling betrayed. But that doesn’t mean his whole life was an act.”

  Tom stuffed his fists in his pockets and shifted away. “So I’m supposed to forget about it?”

  “What your father meant to you, the role he played in your life, that hasn’t changed. This was between him and your mother. It doesn’t affect you.”

  “Yes, it does. I didn’t know about the affair till now, but it changed my whole life. The night of the accident— Earlier that day, Pauline was declared legally dead. She’d been missing for seven years. It was eating my father up, but I thought it was because he’d never solved the case. I got the brilliant idea that going out to the fish camp for dinner with the family might cheer him up. Me, home for a visit, my mom, my brother and his wife and Simon.”

  Tom paced in front of the fireplace, a powerful inner turmoil visible on his face. When he spoke again he seemed to be dragging the words out of himself against great resistance.

  “But all during dinner, my dad kept snapping at my mom. I’d never seen him treat her that way. I was afraid they’d get into an argument in public, so I insisted on leaving. The thunderstorm was blowing up, but I practically pushed them out the door to the van. I made them go out on the road in that storm.”

  “The accident wasn’t your fault. You hit some pooled water and lost control, didn’t you? It could happen to anybody.”

  “It was my fault, damn it!”

  Rachel stepped back, frightened by his anger.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to— Rachel, I’ll never get past it if I don’t accept the truth.”

  Her eyes filled with helpless tears at the sight of him in so much torment. “I understand that. Believe me, I understand it better than you can imagine.”

  He marched toward the window, stopped, turned and strode back. “But I’m not the only one to blame. That damned woman was messing with our family right up to the minute they died. Now I’m supposed to solve the bitch’s murder, get justice for her.”

  “You have to do your job. You won’t respect yourself if you don’t.”

  “My job,” he said with a scoffing laugh. “I had a real job in Richmond. In my first year as a detective, I had a better clearance rate than some of the veterans. Then the accident happened and I felt like I had to come back home. I took Simon’s parents away from him and I had to be here for him. And the other day when we found those bones, I thought I’d be able to do something for my dad too, I could wrap up this case for him. Now I find out he was a liar and a cheat and—”

  “Stop it!” Rachel grabbed Tom’s good arm and made him stand still and look at her. “Don’t let go of your good memories. They’re all you have left to hold on to. If you let them get buried under a lot of anger and pain, you’ll have nothing—”

  Her voice broke and she lurched away from him, a hand clapped over her mouth to stifle a sob. In trying to banish Tom’s demons, she’d let her own out of their cage. The image of her mother drenched in blood filled Rachel’s mind. Stop it, get hold of yourself. She swiped at the tears that flooded her cheeks.

  Tom stepped in front of her and drew her against him. She stiffened for a second, but she wanted him to hold her. It had been so long since anyone had held her.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I shouldn’t have dumped all this on you after the day you’ve had.”

  Her arms circled his body and tears leaked from her eyes and dampened the front of his shirt where she pressed her face. His strong hand stroked her back. Luke used to massage her back and shoulders when she was tense, work the knots out of her neck and leave her relaxed, calm. But Tom was not Luke. She pulled away from him.

  He took a handkerchief from his back pocket and gave it to her.

  “God, I’m a mess.” She dried her tears and blew her nose.

  “I think you’re wonderful,” Tom said. “Don’t you know that yet? Don’t keep shutting me out. I want to be part of your life.”

  He brushed hair off her damp face, kissed her forehead, her cheek. She tried to resist, but the touch of his lips was gentle and undemanding. She let him draw her closer, tilt her chin and kiss her.

  When his arms tightened a chill moved through her. She thought of Luke, waiting for her to come back to him, and she thought of the secrets she couldn’t share with Tom. She stepped back, wrapped her arms around her chest to warm herself, to hold herself together. “I’m sorry. It’s not you, Tom. I’m just not ready for this.”

  “I won’t force myself on you, Rachel. Just give me a chance.”

  She didn’t have an answer for him. All she could say was, “We both need sleep.”

  Before he could say anything else she ran out, back to the safe lone
liness of her bedroom.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Lila Barker might not be up this early on a Sunday morning, but Tom couldn’t wait any longer. He set off before dawn. Sooty clouds clotted the sky and as the sun came up drifting fog smudged the outlines of trees and hills. Tom could smell more snow in the air.

  Pauline’s former housekeeper lived on a dirt road in the far southeast corner of the county, an area that was mostly woods and weed-choked fields and rocky hills. Her white clapboard bungalow looked as old as the massive trees surrounding it.

  Tom pulled into the gravel driveway and parked his truck behind Mrs. Barker’s yellow Plymouth. She stood in the yard amid a forest of birdfeeders perched on poles and hanging from tree limbs. Fat-soled athletic shoes added another two inches to her already impressive height. The rest of her ensemble included purple sweat pants and a puffy red down jacket with a chickadee sitting on the right shoulder.

  “I’ve been expecting you,” she said as Tom got out of his car. Cardinals, titmice, and blue jays fluttered around her on their way to and from the feeders. The chickadee flew off when Tom approached. “I awakened this morning feeling certain you would be along soon. I embarked a bit earlier than usual on my morning constitutional so that I would be back when you arrived.”

  Christ, not this mumbo-jumbo again. “Can we go inside and talk?”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Barker said. “I’ll answer your questions honestly and fully.”

  She led him up the steps to the front porch. “How are you?” she asked as she unlocked the door. “Is your arm healing?”

  “It’s a lot better, thanks.”

  She raised a skeptical eyebrow, as if she knew it hurt like hell.

  A kitchen timer began chirping as they stepped into her living room. The fragrance of something warm and sweet made Tom’s mouth water and reminded him that he hadn’t eaten breakfast.

  Mrs. Barker disappeared down a narrow hall, and in seconds the timer was silenced.

  Tom unzipped his jacket as he circled the living room. The furniture was old and mismatched, but wooden surfaces gleamed and a multicolored afghan of geometric design draped the couch. Bookshelves, crammed full, covered two walls from floor to ceiling. On one shelf, in front of the books, stood a row of framed photos, most of black people, but two featuring Pauline: a formal portrait with her husband and small daughter, and a casual outdoor shot of her with a teenage Mary Lee.

  With a start Tom realized that the two cat statuettes on another shelf were living animals, both solid black, sitting motionless and watching him.

  Mrs. Barker returned, sailing regally into the room despite her sweat shirt and pants. “Take off your coat and make yourself comfortable.” She’d already removed her jacket. “Will you share coffee and blueberry muffins with me?”

  “That sounds great, thanks.” Tom wrestled out of his jacket, trying not to show the pain it cost him, and dropped it onto a chair. “Is your husband at home?”

  “I don’t have a husband, Captain.” Mrs. Barker’s lips twitched with a tiny smile. “I’ve never been married.”

  “Then why—”

  “Do I call myself Mrs.?” Her smile broadened. “I’ve found that I am accorded greater respect if I use that title. In a community where people of color are looked down on, I have to engender respect in any way I can.”

  “Why do you stay here if you don’t feel comfortable?”

  “I didn’t say I’m uncomfortable. This is my home.”

  Tom considered the books on her shelves: biography, history, social and political commentary, many volumes on birds and other wildlife. “You’re an intelligent woman. You could have had a career, a better life.”

  Her smile turned indulgent. “I hope you’re not always this quick to reach conclusions about people. That doesn’t bode well for your work.”

  “I’m sorry. I—”

  “Don’t worry about me and my life. I’ve always done what I pleased, said yes or no to any offer of employment according to my own desires. Now I don’t work at all. I spend my time pursuing my passion—reading. On occasion I assist those who need answers about the future or about the people in their lives.”

  “You tell fortunes,” Tom said. That round table in the corner, with its lacy cloth, was probably where she sat for those sessions. He wondered if she used a crystal ball.

  “I give life readings, Captain. I know you’re a skeptic. You are allowed your beliefs. And I am allowed mine.” She gave a little laugh. “Incidentally, I’m not running a business without a license. I don’t charge a fee. If someone wants to leave a small cash gift, that’s entirely up to them.”

  “And I’m sure it always comes as a surprise to you.” Tom couldn’t help grinning any more than he could help liking this unusual woman.

  “Generosity never fails to surprise me,” she said. “I’ll make our coffee now.”

  Tom followed her to the kitchen and lingered in the doorway while she placed a kettle on a burner and spooned ground coffee into the cone on a glass pot. A pan of muffins sat cooling on the counter.

  He asked, “Who’s Mary Lee’s real father?”

  A tremor in Mrs. Barker’s wrist caused tiny brown granules to spill from the measuring spoon and scatter on the counter. She recovered quickly and finished her task before she faced Tom. “Adam McClure was Mary Lee’s father. If you’ll look at her birth certificate, I’m certain you’ll find verification of that fact.”

  “You said you were going to be honest with me. I know Adam wasn’t her father. But I’m betting you know who was. Who is.”

  “I don’t know any such thing.” Her expression was complicated, mixing wariness, resistance, sadness. “Why are you doing this?”

  “I’m trying to solve Pauline’s murder. And maybe a second murder. The truth about Mary Lee’s real father might lead me to the killer.”

  “If you let people know the police don’t believe Adam was her father, you’ll give Robert McClure an opening to go after everything Mary Lee has. The man is merciless.”

  “Why do you care so much about Mary Lee? You don’t really know her, do you? She hasn’t lived in Mason County since she was twelve years old.”

  “Of course I know her. She came home from school for vacations and holidays. And we keep in touch.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “I’m not implying that we’re close friends, Captain. I receive Christmas cards from her, and—” Mrs. Barker hesitated, wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. “She provides me with a modest pension. In recognition of my years of service to her mother.”

  Mary Lee hadn’t struck Tom as the sort who would give a second thought to her mother’s former housekeeper. “Is that all she pays you for? Or is she paying you to keep quiet? Does she know she’s not Adam’s daughter?”

  Mrs. Barker opened a cabinet above the counter and removed a tin tray, cups, and small plates. Without looking at Tom, she said, “I can’t tell you what Mary Lee knows or doesn’t know.”

  “Is Ed McClure her father?”

  Mrs. Barker gave him a slant-eyed glance. “You’re implying that Pauline was unfaithful to her husband with his own brother quite early in their marriage.”

  “Not all that early. They were married, what, four or five years before Pauline had the baby? You were working for her then, weren’t you?”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Barker lifted the whistling kettle and doused the grounds in the pot’s cone. Coffee streamed into the pot and the rich aroma filled the kitchen. “I had no reason to believe she was ever unfaithful while her husband was alive.”

  “But Mary Lee isn’t Adam’s child.”

  Mrs. Barker plucked two muffins from their pan and placed them on the plates. “So you say.”

  Tom wanted to grab her and shake her, and he was horrified at how strong the urge was. He jammed his fists into his pockets. He’d allowed Shackleford to get under his skin the night before, he’d lost control and done som
ething he was ashamed of. Mrs. Barker was a woman, a damned infuriating one but a woman nevertheless, and he wouldn’t let himself touch her.

  He changed tack and asked the question that had brought him here. “Do you remember a fight between Ed McClure and my father?”

  She frowned. “A fistfight?”

  “Yes.” He tasted sourness in the back of his throat. “I heard you witnessed it.”

  A slow smile of understanding broke across her face. “Ah. And I can guess who told you. I’m afraid the report you heard was exaggerated. I never witnessed a fistfight. I did overhear a few angry words between those two gentlemen.”

  Tom felt absurdly relieved. Why had he accepted Shackleford’s word? But still, Ed and his father had argued—at Pauline’s house. “What did you hear?” He steeled himself for Mrs. Barker’s answer.

  “Pauline had asked her brother-in-law to stop visiting. He persisted, although she never admitted him to the house again. She called your father one day when Ed appeared and began banging on the door. Your father told him he was trespassing. Ed responded that he had a right to be there, because he cared about Pauline. Because he loved her.”

  “And what did my father say?”

  “He vowed to arrest Ed for trespassing if he ever set foot on Pauline’s property again. That was all I heard. I was in the house, and she had opened the front door. After she closed it and went out into the yard, I heard no more.”

  “When was all this in relation to Pauline’s disappearance?”

  “Several weeks earlier.” Mrs. Barker lifted the cone from the coffee pot and disposed of the paper filter in a trash can under the sink. Popping the lid onto the pot, she said, “Shall we go into the living room?”

  The two black cats dropped without a sound from the bookshelves and padded over to join them at the round table. The animals leapt onto the table and sat side by side, their green eyes fixed on Tom. He admired cats, but he found these two unnerving. Like their owner, they seemed to know secrets he couldn’t even guess at.