by Patti Larsen
Fair enough. I’d heard what I needed to. Because, like it or not, like the kid or not, I’d seen the head wound that had killed Jack Nethersole. The narrow, bleeding line that had been his end according to Barry Clements? Pretty much the perfect size and shape of the shaft of a golf club.
Surely Tyler wouldn’t be so stupid as to kill his rival with his own equipment? Only one way to find out. Time to call Dr. Aberstock and see if he agreed with my assessment.
***
Chapter Twenty Two
Did Mom know about Dad’s offer to finally fill me in about Fiona Doyle? I had no idea, and decided to continue to keep her in the dark, if so, when I departed Petunia’s mid-morning with a vague excuse I’m positive made me look guilty of something but that my mother took at face value.
Daisy was riding high and waved and smiled at me as I exited, leaving my pug behind for the short walk to Dad’s office in the center of town. I could have taken her, except she’d been particularly adorable this morning and was passed out in the corner of the kitchen on her dog sofa—a gift from an adoring fan—snoring off her excessive breakfast bounty of begged goodies.
Mom could deal with her farts. I had other things on my mind.
When I walked through the glass door to the tinkle of the announcing bell attached, I was greeted by three male faces looking up from Dad’s desk at the far end of the long, narrow room. Toby’s absence meant nothing, though I know Crew was still frustrated Dad had poached his long-time receptionist for his own business. The string of young women and men who’d tried to fill her shoes was a bit dizzying, to be honest, though I hardly blamed my father for wanting the efficient and confident woman at his side.
I pointedly ignored the other investigator’s desk, knowing it was meant for me, and joined Dad, Dr. Aberstock and my darling fiancé where they huddled like a football coach and his two star players. None of them said anything, though Crew kissed my cheek and the doc shot me a grin as I pulled up a chair and joined them and their conversation in progress.
“Any indication what the murder weapon might have been?” So they were just getting started, and this was about Jack Nethersole. Crew held my hand a moment before letting me go, notebook on the table, pen beside it.
Dr. Aberstock shrugged. “Still waiting on forensics for the trace Barry uncovered,” he said, “but my guess is a narrow tube of some kind, definitely metal.”
“Like a six-iron?” I noted Crew’s raised eyebrow and filled them in on Tyler’s missing equipment.
Dad blew out a breath of air between pursed lips. “There’s no way the kid’s that stupid. Is he?”
“Maybe he’s playing dumb after a crime of passion,” Crew said. “Got rid of the evidence and is trying to pass it off as a theft. That would deflect suspicion, and give him reasonable doubt.”
I hadn’t thought of that. “I don’t know,” I said. “He seemed pretty innocent to me.” Right, because I’d been such an amazing judge of character in the past.
But Dad seemed to agree with me. “I’ve been lurking around the tournament,” he said. “That Tyler kid might be a great golfer, but he’s no criminal mastermind to think things through that clearly.”
Crew closed his notebook, tucking it into his uniform shirt breast pocket. “Thanks, doc,” he said, rising to go. Dr. Aberstock joined him.
“Wish I had more for you,” he said. “I’ll keep you posted.” He glanced at Dad, eyebrows raised, while Crew looked down at me with a faint but curious smile.
“You here for me?” His fingers caressed my cheek.
“No,” I said, trying to smile back but suddenly fluttery in my stomach as butterflies woke up and did the salsa against my ribs. “Just need to talk to Dad.”
Crew looked back and forth between us like he knew something was up but didn’t want to interfere, bless him. He finally bent and kissed me, brief and soft, on the cheek. “You know where I am if you need me,” he whispered before straightening, waving at Dad and the doc, and leaving in that long, ground-eating stride that made his butt look so good in those jeans.
Seriously, Fee. Get a grip already.
I turned back to find Dr. Aberstock smiling at me, that kindly expression that made him look like Santa Claus was moonlighting as the medical examiner and would break out the red suit any second now. “About time,” he said, nodding to Dad, before whistling his way out the door after my fiancé, leaving me alone with my father.
It was hard not to demand answers, to sit there and wait for Dad to uncoil from the murder and lean back in his chair, hands behind his head, eyes fixed on me in an unreadable expression. I hadn’t thought much about the fight between us, the last night before I’d left Reading to go to college and my subsequent decade of absence. I think a part of me had shunted that fight off into the corner, chose to forget about it, much as I had the death of Victor French. But as I sat there, waiting for Dad to decide to finally tell me what he knew, that night came rushing back and the words I’d said, the things I wished I could take back, flooded my heart with regret.
“Dad.” My voice cracked and I cleared my throat. “I never apologized—” Why did it seem so important all of a sudden I tell him I was sorry for
—How dare you try to rule my life? All I ever wanted was to be a cop, like you—
—Over my dead body!—
—You never trusted me or believed in me. I hate you! I wish you weren’t my father!—
Dad dropped his hands, face crumpling briefly. Was his brain linked to mine somehow? Was he reliving that night, too? Or were there other things weighing on his mind? Didn’t matter. Our grief matched pretty cleanly while we sat there in silence a moment, neither of us saying a word, just staring at each other like the next thing we did say could make or break us all over again.
I wasn’t eighteen anymore. And there was no way I would ever let anything come between me and my relationship with my dad again.
We didn’t get to talk about that, not when the door bells jingled and my attention was pulled at last from that horrible night back to the present. I turned and watched in surprise and then understanding as the new arrival joined us, sitting in the chair Dr. Aberstock had vacated, while the towering, suited bodyguard he’d brought with him stood at the door, assuring our privacy.
“All right then, John Fleming,” Malcolm said in his gruff voice, accent thick. “Tell the girl everything.”
Dad sighed. Nodded. And began while I struggled to just listen and not let my mind smother me in questions. I’d waited too long and this was far too important a reveal to interrupt.
“Fiona Doyle arrived in town like a breath of fresh air.” Dad’s deep, gravel voice sounded distant, sad. “She was a bright spark and connected with your mom instantly.” The flash of a smile, of old happiness long burned out. “And then, me. She was charming, sweet, kind, had a wicked sense of humor and that red hair that made her and Lucy seem like sisters.” Dad rocked back in his seat, staring at his hands. “Everyone in town loved her. I convinced Mom to give her a job at Petunia’s and the two became friends.”
“Everyone loved my wee Fee,” Malcolm said before falling silent, blinking moisture. Did he even know he’d spoken? Dad ignored him and went on while I remembered to breathe before I passed out.
“She kept her past to herself, didn’t tell us much about her background, not that we dug or anything. Though I was curious, being a deputy. All she said was she’d run off to find her own way after her family moved here from Ireland.” He glanced at Malcolm who gazed off into the distance, silent again. “Fiona lived with Mom for a time, then, through her, met Marie Patterson. I remember my mother being so angry with Marie for poaching Fee when she offered her a job at the mansion. Fee took it, and I didn’t blame her. Marie offered her a lot more than Mom was able to and, I think, Mom forgave Fee long before she let her friend off the hook.”
That confirmed Grandmother Iris and Marie Patterson had been good friends, though I’d known they had, at least, been part of the
same friend circle. Along with two criminals, no less. What did that say about Marie? And, quite honestly, about my grandmother?
Dad cleared his throat. “She changed once she went to work up the mountain. Became quiet, secretive, even. Lost her sparkle, if you know what I mean?” I thought of Daisy and nodded. “She was distant, even with Lucy. I thought something had happened to her but she wouldn’t tell me what.”
“If only you’d pushed.” Malcolm’s words didn’t match his tone. If anything, he sounded like he spoke from rote, words he’d said so many times he didn’t know what they meant anymore. Or, more likely, had attached more personal, blame-filled meaning to them. As if he was talking about himself, not Dad.
My father just shrugged. “She finally called me one night, nervous, anxious. Asked to meet. I agreed, of course, though she begged me not to tell Lu and had me join her at a diner in Braxley.” Two towns over? Why? “She said she’d uncovered something that worried her. She didn’t know who to turn to, didn’t want to involve me. But she finally had to speak up.”
Dad halted abruptly, hands twisting in front of him. This time when Malcolm spoke all the blame was leveled at my father, his face registering anger, his focus on Dad.
“Tell the girl, John,” he said. “Tell her what you did and get it over with.”
Dear god, what had Dad done that could earn him so much vitriol from the man next to me?
My father sagged into his chair, rubbing at his tired face with both hands, before squaring those broad shoulders of his. He might have been in his sixties, but time hadn’t robbed my dad of any of his substantial presence. He still felt like a mountain to me, like part of the range surrounding us, immobile, powerful, the kind of permanent fixture a girl could always lean on. But in that moment I finally saw him as human, fallible, as the vast strength seemed to drain out of him, leaving him in a cloud of regret and sorrow I’d never seen before.
“I made a huge mistake that night,” he said. “One I’ll never forgive myself for.”
“Dad.” I leaned toward him, hating Malcolm for making my father feel this way, for forcing him to face what should just have been left alone. Everyone was right. Why was I doing this to Dad?
But my father just shook his head, the former sheriff of Reading, lifelong lawman reemerging from the hurt, meeting my eyes again with his determined expression flat and stern. The face I remembered from the night we fought, oddly, the same one I knew I’d generated with the hateful words I’d spoken.
“That night,” Dad said while Malcolm rocked slowly in his chair, “rather than tell Fiona to get out, I talked her into the worst I idea I’ve ever had, one that ended in tragedy.” He paused, inhaled, exhaled. “Despite her fear and her innocence, I convinced her to spying on the Pattersons for me.”
***
Chapter Twenty Three
Spying on the Pattersons? The concept wasn’t lost on me. After all, I’d wanted to do so myself. But why did Dad feel it was necessary all those years ago, enough he put an innocent young woman’s life in danger?
Because he had, it was clear from the look on his face. He blamed himself for her disappearance. No, my father hadn’t actually harmed her, but he might as well have, as far as he was concerned, as far as Malcolm was. And I now I had my answer as to why he never told me about Fiona Doyle. Of all things, my father’s honor was the most important part of him, and to have done something that ended in tragedy, something he could have prevented, something he actually encouraged and instigated… so many puzzle pieces clicked into place, including why it was he didn’t want me to be a cop.
Oh, Dad.
He went on as if I didn’t have enough to think about, my brain tugging me one way, my heart another as I smothered my need to process and sat there in silence, listening when Dad unfolded the rest of the story.
“I had my suspicions about the Patterson family,” he said, “not just from Fiona’s concerns, but carrying back to before I was a deputy.” He cleared his throat, voice monotone as if he were trying to hold back his emotions, keep it clinical. I wasn’t about to argue with him or make him dig through his feelings at that moment. Better to get all the facts, just the facts, and deal with the heartstring backlash later. Because Dad had clearly been battling them for years, hadn’t he? As new as this was to me, his whole life was steeped in the mistake he’d made.
I knew him well enough—or thought I did, I could only imagine how his career, his choices as a deputy, as sheriff, were altered and influenced by that one decision to entice Fiona Doyle to put herself at risk. Surely he hadn’t expected anything truly horrible to happen to her…
“There was far too much nepotism surrounding them and their cronies.” Dad shook his head, staring at his hands again while he turned his wedding ring over and over around his ring finger. Thinking about Mom? Or just a sign of stress? “I was simply looking for information about their influence over town council, a decision or two that felt off. Nothing truly criminal, at least I didn’t think so.” Dad’s face crumpled just for an instant. Only long enough for me to see just how deeply he’d been effected by Fiona’s loss. “I was pretty innocent, altruistic. A young fool with a hero complex who thought he could shake up the status quo without really considering what I was doing and who I was putting at risk.”
Malcolm muttered something under his breath but I missed it. The words, at least, if not the growling blame in his tone. I chose to ignore him for the moment, never looking away from Dad, willing him to go on.
“Even her nervousness didn’t tip me off to the fact she was in serious danger.” I was right, he hadn’t known. Dad sighed deeply, releasing his grip on his wedding ring to grasp the arms of his chair firmly with both hands. “I assumed she was just nervous about losing her job or had done something she regretted.” He glanced at Malcolm, looking uncomfortable. “Or that she was ashamed of.”
The rumors about her having an affair with Marie Patterson’s husband… could they have been anchored in truth? The best rumors often were.
Malcolm didn’t say anything so Dad shrugged and went on.
“I saw an opportunity to make a difference here in Reading,” Dad said, “and I took it. I was frustrated, running into walls when it came to the Pattersons. I’d been a deputy long enough at that time I knew I wasn’t going to convince the sheriff to dig into any kind of shady dealings. Not when he was a Patterson himself.”
How interesting.
“You’ve always been too damned straight-laced for your own good, mate.” Malcolm finally spoke up, clear and angry, hands twitching in his lap, face a mask of hurt and fury long suppressed. “If you’d just acted yourself. Or let things be.” His lips twisted, throat working as if he wanted to shout, scream, only to collapse in on himself and sag forward. “Johnny boy, you should have just let things be.”
Dad nodded, sad, quiet while I fought off the tightness in my chest, the stinging in my eyes, knowing neither of them were here with me right now, that both of them were in the past, reliving that time all over again, burdening themselves with what ifs and could have beens, unable to release the old pain or move past it.
Without answers, that was. Seeing my dad’s pain made me even more determined to find out what happened to Fiona Doyle.
“Dad,” I said. Just that one word. It was enough to bring him back to me, to the droning emptiness of his voice unfolding the rest of the story.
“She agreed to help,” he said. “She didn’t give any details as to what she’d uncovered, only that it made her nervous enough to ask for me to meet her. Criminal dealings, something to do with the council. She’d overheard a conversation that frightened her, she said, but wouldn’t tell me what. Not without proof. By the time she told me what little she had to go on, she had half-convinced herself she was imagining things, making a mountain out of nothing. So it was easy then to convince her to keep her ears open, to see if she could find proof. Because by then she didn’t really seem to believe there was anything further to be afraid o
f.” Dad was back to playing with his wedding ring. “I guess I let her.” Scowled. “No, I did let her, more than that. I talked her into it and set her loose, with the promise that I’d protect her, keep her safe no matter what.” He looked old suddenly, on the verge of surprise and disbelief. “I was sure there was no reason to worry.”
My heart broke for him while Malcolm stirred in his seat, his anger returned.
“So you sent my daughter back into the lion’s den,” he snapped, “and let her do your dirty work. For what, John? For nothing.” He spit that last word like it was the vilest of crimes, the deepest of insults. “Nothing.”
Dad didn’t argue. “I didn’t hear from her again for several days,” he said, that dull tone increasing, as if my father buried himself in the monotone depths of empty just so he could get the words out. It had to be killing him, telling me all this. Had he ever even said any of it out loud before? Maybe to Malcolm. It certainly sounded like the pair of them had been having this argument for the duration of their relationship. “Then, late one night, she called me in a panic, terrified. She was cut off before she could tell me why, something about evidence she’d found, to do with Marie Patterson, something she was sure they were going to kill her for. And then, the line went dead.” He coughed softly, went on with big shoulders rounded forward, chin down, wedding ring circling and circling his finger. “I went to meet her where we’d promised to do so, our safe spot, the only place I could think of.” He glanced at me, gaze hesitant, as if he were expecting judgment, disappointment, horror. Instead, I gave him empathy. From the flinching around his eyes it wasn’t enough, not nearly. “The cabin.” His hunting and fishing cabin, right. It was on the same road as the Patterson mansion, way out in the middle of nowhere. “I got there as fast as I could, waited for hours, until dawn. But I think I knew from the moment we were cut off I’d never see Fiona Doyle again.”