“The bus will be here in five minutes.” Clara patted the lump under the blankets.
“I don’t feel good,” Elizabeth said.
Clara sank onto the edge of the bed and pulled back the covers. Dark circles from a sleepless night bruised Elizabeth’s eyes. Red marks from the pillow creased her skin. Her cheeks were damp like she’d been crying.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Clara smoothed her fingers over Elizabeth’s hair and pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “You’re not running a fever.”
“My stomach hurts, that’s all.”
Elizabeth had never been the kind of kid who pretended to be sick to get out of school. She got along with her teachers and liked learning.
Clara tucked the blanket over her shoulders again and sat with her hand resting on Elizabeth’s back. “Is this about those girls who are being mean to you? That Kimmy girl and her friends?”
Elizabeth’s lower lip trembled. Her eyelashes fluttered closed. She burrowed herself deeper into the blankets. “Can’t I just not go this one time? June will tell me if I miss anything important.”
Elizabeth was a good student. Two months into classes and she was already on track to get straight A’s this semester. One day of skipped classes wouldn’t ruin her life. She was already playing catch-up with the classes she missed yesterday; what were a few more?
Clara patted her hip and rose from the bed. “Just today, okay? We’re not turning this into a habit.”
Elizabeth nodded and whispered, “I’ll go tomorrow, I promise. Thanks, Mom.”
Clara went to the window and flicked open the curtains. Golden light poured into the room. The sky was a brilliant blue, the road dry as if yesterday’s storm had never happened. She watched as the school bus rumbled past the house without stopping, then said, “How about I go get some doughnuts to cheer us up.”
* * *
The shops along Main Street were starting to open for the day. Nearly all of them were decorated for the season. The doorways and sidewalks were festive with hay bales, scarecrows, pumpkins, and other colorful gourds. Signs advertising Saturday’s Halloween festival hung from lampposts and in shop windows. There would be a bluegrass band, along with a costume contest and parade, hot apple cider, pumpkin carving, and a cookie decorating station, of which Clara, as of yesterday, was in charge.
Her mother had called in a panic, pleading with her to help. “Mary obviously can’t possibly, not now,” she’d said in a breathless rush, “not after,” but she didn’t finish, just rushed on, begging Clara, “Please, do this for me. The dough’s already made. All I need you to do is show up on Saturday to babysit. You know, make sure people are only decorating the cookies they purchase and keeping everything organized and clean. Please, Clara. Please. I don’t know who else to ask.”
Maybe it was the stress from Elizabeth’s fight at school, or the glass of wine she’d had with dinner, or the guilt she felt for not yet sending Mary any kind of condolences after Mary had been so kind to her and her family. Her yes had shocked Geana into silence. But yes, Clara had repeated, yes, she’d do it, if all she had to do was stand there and make sure everyone followed the rules, yes, she could handle that.
Crestwood would never be a premier tourist destination, but between the ferry terminal and the town’s proximity to the Canadian border, they got plenty of tourists happy to spend money on hotels, food, and souvenirs, especially during the holiday season. Halloween was the beginning. As soon as November rolled around, the Christmas decorations would go up, and downtown would really start to get busy.
Right now, though, there were only a handful of people dotting the sidewalks. Postal workers, delivery personnel, a couple of well-dressed suits swinging by Crumbles and Cakes for their morning coffee, only to find it closed. Mary must be taking a few days off to grieve. Too bad because the doughnuts at Corky’s weren’t as good as the ones Mary made, but they would do in a pinch.
Clara bought a dozen and started to cross the street to get to Marshall’s office building on the corner. She had every intention of popping in and dropping off a few doughnuts for him and the rest of the crew before heading home, but one step into the crosswalk, she stopped short.
Marshall was coming out of his office dressed in a suit and tie. His head was tipped back mid-laugh. He held the door open for someone, and it took Clara a second to recognize the woman as Brett Buchanan. Marshall walked her to a cute VW Beetle parked on the corner. He opened the driver’s door for her, closing it again after she climbed inside. Then he walked to where his car was parked a few feet away. Marshall drove off first, heading in the direction of the bay. Brett, in her Beetle, followed shortly after.
It was nothing, Clara told herself. It was business.
Marshall had been her husband for fifteen years, and she trusted him.
Yet her mind couldn’t help but trace back to another day twenty years ago when she trusted him as she did now. Another car, another girl, a betrayal—Marshall threading his fingers through golden hair as he leaned in for a kiss.
* * *
The student parking lot behind the high school wasn’t very big. Clara parked on the street and watched as groups of teens shuffled into the building for first period. She recognized a few faces—many of the kids had grown up with Elizabeth, sharing the same teachers and same classes since kindergarten.
Clara didn’t have any idea what Kimmy Darling looked like. She wouldn’t have been able to tell her apart from any of the other flouncy-haired, denim-wearing, jewelry-decorated girls walking into the high school but for a vanity license plate that spelled it out so clearly: DARLING.
The cherry red sports car with louvered back windows and a moonroof revved into the parking lot a few seconds before the bell rang. A girl with teased blond hair and flipped up bangs climbed out of the driver’s seat. Her make-up was too heavy, her jeans tight and ripped at the knees. Her black T-shirt hugged her curves and had some sort of writing on the front, but Clara was too far away to see what it was.
Kimmy Darling tossed her hair, tugging on it to make it taller. She thrust her arms into a faded jean jacket, grabbed a hot pink backpack from her car, and trotted toward a group of similarly dressed girls. These girls crowded around their alpha, greeting her with air-kisses. Then, laughing like a pack of hyenas, they all walked into the school together.
Clara waited five more minutes before she walked across the parking lot with her keys gripped in her fist. It was the Kimmy Darlings of this world she couldn’t stand. The shining girls, who never had to struggle for a single damn thing in their lives, who took what they wanted without thinking who it might hurt. The Kimmy Darlings who never thought about anyone but themselves. Selfish, spoiled brats.
Adjusting her grip, Clara pressed her key against the hood of Kimmy’s car. The sharp metal teeth scratched effortlessly through the cherry red paint.
* * *
“Elizabeth! I’m home!” Clara’s voice echoed through the house. “And I have doughnuts!”
She set the box on the kitchen counter and went upstairs to check on her daughter, but Elizabeth’s room was empty. Her bed was made. Her desk tidied. Back downstairs, Clara called for Elizabeth again, but there was no answer. She wasn’t in the living room watching television, wasn’t in Marshall’s office playing with his typewriter, wasn’t in the backyard running drills. Her backpack, which she usually left by the front door, was missing.
For a moment, Clara stood in the kitchen with her hand clutched to her throat, unable to catch even the smallest breath of air. She was out of the house for less than an hour, but knew all too well that this was more than enough time for a life to implode. Inhaling deeply to keep her panic from spinning into a wild-eyed fury, she took a second to look around. That’s when she noticed the bright pink note stuck to the refrigerator.
Changed my mind—Elizabeth had written in fat, happy-looking, bubble letters—Went to school. See you after soccer practice. A wobbly heart w
as scrawled in place of her signature.
Clara crumpled the note and leaned her head against the refrigerator, letting the smooth metal cool her flushed skin.
Chapter 11
“I’m glad you finally decided to grace us with your presence, Your Highness,” Stan Harcourt said, interrupting the Tuesday morning briefing to make a point of Brett’s lateness.
Ten minutes, not even. Eight-and-a-half. They probably hadn’t even started talking about the Andress case yet. It should have been nothing. It would have been nothing if she’d been anybody else. Now everyone’s heads were turned to stare at her. She was dressed in her usual work outfit—dark slacks, a pastel blouse, and an oversized blazer—but she felt suddenly exposed with her hair coiling loose around her face and her lips tinted pink from gloss she hadn’t had time to wipe off.
She’d planned her morning to the minute. Wake up at five, go for a run, grab a coffee, meet the realtor at seven to talk about selling Pop’s cannery, finish the walk-through by seven-thirty, go home and make sure Amma was awake and dressed and fed, arrive at the precinct by eight with time to spare before roll call started at eight-thirty. But when she got back to the house after her run, the kitchen had been ransacked, and Amma was sitting on the tile floor with a whisk in one hand and a cheese grater in the other. She had forgotten what she was looking for, just knew she was looking for something and was frustrated at not finding it—whatever it was. It took almost forty-five minutes to get Amma calmed down again and another ten to put the kitchen back together. Which meant Brett was late to meet Marshall Trudeau. The walk-through took longer than expected too. Marshall insisted on seeing every square-inch of the warehouse and all its outbuildings so he could set a fair list price. By the time they were finished, it was almost eight-thirty. There was no time to put up her hair, wipe off the lip gloss, or even grab a coffee. She drove over the speed limit and was still late.
“I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”
The only empty chair was at the front of the room. Brett slid into it. Irving, who was presenting again, gave her a sharp nod before continuing, “As I was saying, we’re now investigating this case as a homicide. The victim was stabbed more than thirty times across his chest, neck, and abdomen. From the angle and placement of the wounds, we believe the attacker is right-handed. Additionally, since the victim was facing forward when the stabbing occurred, and given the level of rage indicated by the multiple stab wounds, we believe he may have known his attacker. There may have been some kind of personal relationship between the two, rather than a stranger-on-stranger attack.”
He reached for a plastic evidence bag on the table in front of him. “We conducted a second search at Deadman’s Point yesterday evening. Unfortunately, we didn’t find much. No weapon. If there was blood evidence, the storm washed it away. We did find a fabric scrap stuck in between the dock boards.” He held the evidence bag in the air. Inside was a thumbnail-sized shred of black cloth.
“It appears to match the clothing the deceased was wearing. We’re sending it to the lab for confirmation, but it seems likely Nathan Andress was on this dock at some point, perhaps dragged or rolled into the water. The techs are working on his car, but initially, there doesn’t appear to be enough blood to suggest he was inside or even near his vehicle when the stabbing occurred. They’re running fingerprints, but a likely scenario is Nathan drove himself to Deadman’s Point and met his attacker there. The stabbing might have taken place on or near the dock, and the attacker could have easily cleaned up whatever blood there was. We’re working under the assumption that Nathan Andress’ body was never meant to be found. And that our suspect did what he could to not leave behind evidence of his crimes. The rain certainly helped with that. I want as many officers as possible canvassing the area near Deadman’s Point, finding out if anyone heard or saw anything unusual Friday night.”
He named several officers, assigning them to the task, then looked at Brett. “Detective Buchanan interviewed Mary Andress again yesterday and also searched the deceased’s room. If you’ll update us about that, please?”
She rose from her chair and smoothed her hands down her blazer. Someone on the other side of the room whistled. Laughter rippled through the squad.
Irving silenced them with a glare, then he cleared his throat and adjusted his tie, which was decorated with a bald eagle against a navy blue background. “Go ahead, Brett.”
She filled them in on her interview with Mary and the threats from Danny Cyrus. “As for the search, I didn’t turn up much. There was a large amount of cash in a shoebox under his bed, about twenty-five-hundred dollars, along with a handgun that he purchased years ago, registered under his name. There were some pain pills in his dresser, but the prescription is his, and Mary confirmed he had an old injury that bothered him from time to time. Really, the most interesting things I found were three envelopes addressed to Nathan sent from a prisoner at the Oregon State Penitentiary.”
“Just the envelopes?” Irving asked.
“I looked for letters but didn’t find any,” she said. “And Mary had no idea where Nathan might have put them. She did say he was in contact with his cousin, with Archer French, so the letters were likely from him.”
“I don’t really see how that’s pertinent to this case,” he countered.
“I’m not sure either. Call it a gut feeling,” Brett said.
“I work my cases based on evidence, not feelings.”
“Of course, but—”
“So it looks like Danny Cyrus is our best lead right now,” he cut her off.
She sat back down as he passed out assignments. He sent one officer to follow up on Nathan’s financials, another to check Mary’s phone records, and another to interview friends and co-workers.
“Brett and I will go pick up Danny Cyrus,” Irving said. “Any questions? Good. Let’s get to work.”
The conference room grew loud as the other officers rose to leave.
Irving gathered his notes and gestured for Brett to follow him to his desk, where he tucked the folders in a filing cabinet and grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair.
“You ready?” he asked. “The sooner we get Danny in here, the better.”
“There’s something you should know before we go,” Brett said.
Irving arched his eyebrows.
In addition to the things mentioned during the briefing, Brett had also found her business card in Nathan’s room, propped against the dresser mirror. She’d given it to him at the bar, in case something jarred his memory about Archer and Margot, or anything about that summer.
“Nathan left me a message,” she said. “The day before he died. He wanted to meet up with me Friday night. He said he had something important to tell me about my sister’s case.”
A muscle in Irving’s jaw twitched. He adjusted his tie, slipped on his jacket, and walked toward the front door. Brett walked after him, matching his pace.
“We were supposed to meet at the Blue Whale Diner at eight-thirty,” she continued. “I waited for him until around nine-thirty and then went home. As far as I know, he never showed. But we should probably send someone over to interview the diner staff.”
He flicked her a furious glance, his nostrils flaring. “You think?”
“I wanted to tell you earlier,” she said. “I tried, but we’ve all been so busy working this case and—”
“Stop,” he interrupted her. “No excuses. This should have been the first thing you said to me on Saturday morning when we identified the body.”
They left the building and stepped into the parking lot. Sun glinted off windshields. The trees edging the lot burned bright with fall foliage. A string of geese stretched across the scrubbed-clean blue sky headed south.
“We didn’t know it was even a homicide until yesterday,” she said. “So technically, I haven’t done anything wrong.”
Irving stopped on the sidewalk and turned to face her. “You intervi
ewed Mary. You collected evidence.” He let out an exasperated sigh and shook his head. “I can’t have you on this case. You know that, right?”
“I can still help.”
“Absolutely not. Nathan Andress was Archer French’s cousin. You have history there. Even without that, you’ve just told me you had some kind of personal relationship with Nathan.”
Crestwood was a small enough town that not having some kind of personal relationship with the people whose cases they handled was a rare occurrence. Brett wanted to believe she was a good enough cop not to let it affect how she conducted an investigation.
“It wasn’t like that,” she argued. “And anyway, Mary told me your wife used to babysit Nathan, so by definition, you had a personal relationship with him, too.”
Irving held up his hand. “Nathan Andress had plans to meet up with you the night he was killed. Please tell me you can see how that is not the same as my wife babysitting him over two decades ago?” He pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling deeply, then lowered his hand to his side. His voice was stern when he said, “This investigation is going to be complicated enough without your bias playing into it.”
“I can be objective.”
Irving laughed and stepped off the sidewalk, moving toward a row of pool cars parked near the building’s front.
Brett continued to follow him. “The letters from French.”
“What about them?”
“I really do think they could be important. What if French told Nathan something about Margot’s death in those letters?”
“Or what if he was just lonely and wanted commissary money?” Irving reached the first car in the line and unlocked the door. “Look, Brett, I get that you’re trying to be helpful, but if you stay on this case, you’re going to end up doing more harm than good. Write up your interview with Mary, log whatever evidence you found in Nathan’s room, and then go find another case to work.”
On a Dark Tide Page 9