Uncertain Past

by Roz Denny Fox

  “Nonsense! I can’t believe Neva would disown her son.”

  “I’ve caught her mailing him an occasional letter. I haven’t contacted him. I can’t.”

  “Crossing a name off some stupid list doesn’t change the fact you’re brother and sister.”

  Josey dipped her chin in a guilty fashion. “Riley chooses not to be in our family.”

  Emmy didn’t know what to say. She realized Josey might have taken her silence for censure when she jumped up and tossed her crushed can in a trash receptacle. “I have to get back to work. I’m over my allotted break.”

  “So soon?” Emmy glanced at her watch. “At least give me your address and phone number. You know where I’m living. I’ll give you my cell number and I’ll have a home phone later this week.”

  “If you’re taking up with Riley again, it’s better you stay away from me.” Josey started walking off. “He’ll never forgive me.”

  “Wait.” Emmy scrambled off the bench. “We’re friends, Josey. No one tells me who I can and can’t see.”

  Josey didn’t slow down. If anything, she sped up. Emmy felt powerless to stop her. She stood there vacillating until a group of potters emerged from another building and entered the courtyard. They cast Emmy odd looks. She disposed of her empty soda can and left the nearly full box of doughnuts for them to deal with as they saw fit.

  The problem between Riley and his sister appeared to be one of pigheadedness on both sides. Emmy bought her flower pots and drove off, pondering what, if anything, she could do to help mend the rift. She, who’d give anything to have just one blood relative, couldn’t imagine cutting herself off from family for any reason. Riley was not an uncaring man. Emmy didn’t understand how he could deliberately keep Alanna from seeing her aunt and grandmother.

  She swung by the nursery, then drove straight to her place, where she dropped off the pots, potting soil and flats of geraniums and petunias. Her next stop was Riley’s office. She was hard-pressed to say why she found going there so difficult a task. Yet she paced in front of the building for a few minutes before she took a deep breath and climbed the stairs to a second-floor office that had his name and title etched in the door’s frosted glass.

  A gray-haired woman seated at the only desk in the room glanced up when Emmy shut the door too hard, making the panel rattle “Sorry,” she said meekly. “I guess I don’t know my own strength.”

  The woman smiled. “You’d be Emmy Monday.”

  It flustered Emmy to have Riley’s assistant identify her by name. “Um, yes. Is my being an outsider that obvious?”

  “The whole town’s abuzz about how you beat the champ yesterday at darts. You’re nothing like I expected. No muscles. I admit I watch too much TV, but I pictured Xena, queen of the women warriors.”

  Emmy blushed to the tips of her hair. “I don’t know whether to be flattered or not.”

  “Be flattered. And I know you phoned here asking questions about Riley’s fees. I knew I’d recognize your voice if I ever heard it again. He mentioned you two are old friends. Does he know the exact nature of the legal advice you’re after?”

  “Yes. Last night he told me to make an appointment. I’ve brought the diary he asked me to prepare. Once he looks it over, he’s going with me to see the sheriff.” Emmy pulled a folded paper from her purse. “This is everything I remember that happened at the time Fran Granger disappeared.”

  “I wasn’t referring to the criminal matter. Is Riley aware you want him to dig around in your past to search for your birth parents, Ms. Monday?”

  Riley charged out of his office in time to hear Marge’s question. He waited for Emmy to correct her. The longer the silence dragged on, the more unsure he became. He gave a short laugh. “I know Marge has a reputation for being infallible, Emmy, but it’s okay to tell her she’s wrong, that all I’m handling is your interview with Logan.”

  Emmy cleared her throat. “I need someone who can access the state’s legal records. I want to hire you to help me mount a background search.”

  “It’s out of the question,” he said. “I guess I didn’t make myself clear. I don’t believe in looking backwards. Today is all that’s important. Today, and the future. Forget the hell about any stupid search into the past, Emmy.”

  “I can’t.”

  Riley’s face closed. Spinning on his shiny Italian loafers, he headed into his office

  She blocked his retreat with a stiff arm. “Don’t confuse me with your former wife, Riley. I saw Josey today. She told me what happened.” Storming in after him, she slammed the door to his private office. “I have no desire to live in the past. I only want to know whose blood runs in my veins.”

  “What does it matter? You are who you are. A self-made woman.”

  “Who is that woman, Riley? Can you promise no evil lurks inside me?”

  He grabbed her and pulled her toward him. And fused their mouths on an anguished groan.

  She wanted to respond, but she didn’t. When he released her and warily stepped aside, she whispered brokenly. “Who were you kissing, Riley? The daughter of a lunatic? Of a drugged-out whore? It matters to me. And if you care anything about me, it should matter to you.”

  He said nothing, merely waved her away.

  “Fine. With or without your help, I intend to find Emerald Monday’s roots. That’s not even my real name, Riley.” With each step Emmy took in retreat, she prayed he would relent and stop her.

  He let her go into the reception area and leave the office. She didn’t look back until she was unlocking her pickup. She saw him staring down at her through the window, hands clasped behind his back as if he were afraid something would drive him to reach out to her. His face remained set in an unreadable mask. A stubborn, unreadable mask.

  Chapter Seven

  Emmy didn’t want to go directly home. She wasn’t up to dealing with Alanna, not while she was so upset with Riley. Especially not while her lips still burned from his last kiss. A puzzling kiss, to say the least. They had reached the same type of stalemate that existed between him and his sister. If Josey hadn’t been able to forge a truce with Riley in five years, how could Emmy ever hope to?

  She didn’t doubt that Riley was physically drawn to her. But a purely physical relationship was a long way from what Emmy wanted with him. It surprised her to find she still desired what they’d so briefly shared nineteen years ago. Sizzle and spark, but also a bond of friendship and respect. Minds that met on issues that counted. It was something she’d never found with anyone else. With no other man.

  Emmy wasn’t sure what possessed her to drive down the road past the spot where, according to Gwyn and Jed, archaeologist Tessa Lang had unearthed Fran’s bones. Riley consumed her thoughts. Suddenly she found herself parked in front of a dirt path roped off with yellow crime-scene tape.

  As she climbed dazedly from her pickup, she heard only the trill of mockingbirds and the whisper of wind through loblolly pines. There was nothing particularly spooky about the place. Off to her right, a gentle slope led to the lake. One of the wood duck habitats, she remembered. An inlet warmed by heavily foliaged oak and elm. White cranes swooped overhead, on their noisy way to feed at lily pads. On the lake, yellow cypress, grayed with webs of Spanish moss rose high above low-growing scrub brush, protecting the habitat along the bank from human intrusion.

  Emmy skirted the first police barrier and followed a line of tape strung between stakes, apparently leading to the burial site. In spite of fighting a gloomy chill, Emmy continued on doggedly. Perhaps seeing the place itself would provide a sense of why her foster mom might have come to this isolated location—or why she’d been brought here. There were no homes nearby. Most of the places Frannie had cleaned were summer places dotting the opposite shore. So why here? Why, why, why?

  Emmy wished she’d been gifted with clairvoyance. Or
more to the point, she wished she could turn back the clock and revise everything that had happened that fateful day. She tripped over a clod of dirt and realized she was walking in furrows—deep tire tracks made by a heavy machine. An earthmover? The tracks were intersected and crisscrossed with smaller tire marks and the waffle-prints of boots.

  Rounding a bend, Emmy let her steps slow. Spread out before her lay the actual dig. Equipment and tools were still strewn about, as if any day the archaeological crew would return to work. Tall clumps of native grasses were still flattened. Some had been bulldozed. Several gaping holes gouged the dark, loamy soil.

  Emmy’s stomach started to roll as she surveyed the depressions. Her discomfort probably came from knowing that one pit had contained Mom Fran’s skeletal remains. She covered her mouth to keep from gagging, but did it anyway.

  What had she hoped to prove by coming here?

  That was easy. Since the day she’d read the news story, Emmy had felt unstrung. As though a portion of her life had stalled in her thirteenth year. The tangled, knotted threads all led back to Uncertain. What she needed in order to get on with her life was closure. It might be a pop-psychology commonplace; it was also a very real need.

  Confused by a scene she’d hoped would cleanly sever old ties, Emmy ducked under and stepped over low strips of yellow tape to head back to her pickup.

  A white Bronco, bearing a flashing light bar, wheeled off the main road and bounced and jounced over already deep tire ruts, headed in her direction. Emmy’s heart slammed violently in her chest. She jumped behind a tree.

  Almost before the vehicle came to a halt, the deputy who’d accompanied Sheriff Fielder to Emmy’s rented house sprang out. He might have tipped his hat courteously, but he eyed Emmy with distrust as she peered around the tree trunk.

  “Ma’am. Sheriff Fielder sent me to check on a tip he received that someone was trespassing on a marked crime scene.” The deputy used his hat to jab toward three spots. “There are signs posted out at the main road and all along this path. Plus, the tape itself says Keep Out Under Penalty of Law. I’m afraid I’ll have to take you in.”

  “Take me in?” Emmy faltered. “Why? I’ve done nothing. Touched nothing. Who phoned you? I haven’t seen another soul.” She gazed around and across the lake, feeling her skin crawl. Had someone spied on her?

  “The sheriff’s sources are confidential, ma’am. If you’d like to lock your vehicle, I’ll stick an official tag on it for safekeeping. You’ll be riding over to the jail with me.”

  “This is absurd. I’ve done nothing.” Emmy repeated a useless defense.

  The young deputy resettled the big, western-style hat on his head. He then hooked both thumbs over a wide, leather belt weighted down with the intimidating tools of his trade. Handcuffs, pistol, cell phone and pepper spray.

  Emmy licked her lips with a nervous tongue. In a rational moment that surfaced through another angry protest she was about to make, she decided to give it up and save her breath. Her interview with Logan Fielder was overdue. She’d blown her chance to have Riley’s help at the debriefing, but she was going to end this threat, nonetheless.

  Squaring her shoulders, she swept past the man whose name tag read Deputy Masters. “My pickup is already locked. I’m ready to go any time you are, Deputy.” She marched around the Bronco and reached for the front passenger door handle.

  “In the back, ma’am. Behind the screen. And I’ll take your purse just in case you’re carrying a weapon.”

  “Oh, good grief! I’m not even carrying a lipstick. My Louisiana driver’s license, a packet of tissues and a small amount of cash and my cell phone is all. But suit yourself,” she muttered, tossing him the handbag. However, if Emmy had thought her stomach was jumpy before, her nervousness increased once Masters closed her inside the Bronco like a common criminal. She felt even worse when she happened to notice that it was impossible to open the back doors from within the vehicle. Though she was innocent of any wrongdoing, she felt like a prisoner, already judged and convicted.

  Riley’s assistant tapped on the door to his private office. She poked her gray head inside without waiting for his invitation to enter.

  “What is it?” he asked shortly, glancing up with a scowl. He should have been preparing for an upcoming court case, in which he was scheduled to represent a local landowner against two scavengers caught logging the man’s stand of loblolly pine. The timber rustlers claimed they’d accidentally wandered onto his client’s acreage. It was true the accused had authorization to log a much smaller piece of property in the vicinity, but it was a stretch of the imagination to think they’d lost their way as badly as they alleged—right onto his client’s land.

  Riley wanted to win this case in the worst way. Heisting virgin timber from the land of absentee owners or from longtime residents who owned unconnected tracts had become an increasing problem over the last few years, due to a shortage of aged trees. So how come his mind hadn’t been on his case since Emmy’s midmorning visit? In fact, as Marge interrupted him, Riley discovered he’d once again been covering a legal pad with Emmy’s name and initials. He hastily tore off the page and thrust it into the desk drawer where he’d put his previous doodles.

  “Sorry to bother you, Riley,” Marge said as she walked toward him. “I received a call from Cheryl Ott at the jail. Kyle Masters just brought in your friend. Cheryl’s not sure of the charge. She thinks it’s a trespassing infraction. A technicality.”

  Riley half rose from his desk and automatically reached for the suit jacket he’d hung over the back of his chair. “So Logan’s really going to charge Jed Louis on some silly trumped up infraction? Get Dexter Thorndyke on the phone. Jed and Gwyn have probably contacted him, but tell him I’m available for any legwork he may need locally. And as usual, he and Jed are welcome to make use of the conference room here if they need it.”

  “Excuse me, I’m not talking about Jed. It’s Emmy Monday Kyle hauled in.”

  “What?” The word exploded from Riley’s lips. He paused with his jacket half on, pinioning his arms behind him.

  Marge looked worried. “Bart Jones is due here for an appointment in fifteen minutes. Shall I tell him you’re tied up with an emergency and try to reschedule him for later in the week? It’s Bart’s usual complaint about the Varner kids using his fence posts to practice calf-roping. I already tried telling him you wouldn’t bring a suit against Dale Varner. After all, Dale replaced Bart’s rickety old posts with spanking new ones, same as he’s always done.”

  Riley broke into her tale of the two old neighboring ranchers’ ongoing feud. “Has Emmy phoned here asking me to provide counsel?” His breath caught as he waited for Marge’s response, hoping to hear she’d asked for him—that Emmy wanted him. Ever since he’d acted like such an ass and let her storm out, Riley had been trying to come up with some workable way to make amends.

  Marge was shaking her head. “No one’s called but Cheryl.” She gave him a stern look. “Since when do you need an invitation to lend a hand to an old friend?”

  Having employed Marge for six years, Riley was well acquainted with every facet of her meddling. Sometimes he let her get away with it, and sometimes he didn’t. Never had he hedged as much as he did now.

  “Ah, hell,” he exclaimed without elaborating. Riley finished shrugging into his jacket, threw a fresh legal pad into his soft-sided briefcase and zipped it closed. Then he patted his pockets, checking to see if he had an adequate supply of pens.

  As he rounded his desk, Marge tried awfully hard not to look smug. She hid her satisfaction even as she stopped him long enough to fuss with straightening his collar. Marge assumed her most professional tone. “For whatever reason Logan dispatched Kyle to fetch her, he’ll undoubtedly get around to questioning Emmy about Fran Granger’s disappearance. Here. These are the notes Ms. Monday drew up, the ones she said you’d asked her
to compile. A diary of events the day Fran went missing, I think Emmy called them.” Marge shoved folded papers into a side compartment of Riley’s briefcase.

  He laughed and felt the tension leave his shoulders. “You know, Marge, Emmy might well toss me out of Logan’s office on my butt. Don’t nag, woman. I’m going. I probably owe her an apology for the way things ended this morning.”

  “No probably about it. You acted like a first-class jerk.”

  “Thank you very much for your unbiased analysis.” Riley stepped around his suddenly chagrined secretary to open the door. “Oh, I see you’ve suddenly remembered who signs your paycheck.”

  “I spend more hours at this office working for you than I do at home. The day comes when I can’t speak my mind, you won’t have to fire me, Riley. I’ll quit.”

  “You don’t even know Emmy Monday. Why champion her cause?”

  “Well . . . my cousin Laura had an illegitimate child. My aunt and uncle forced her to give the baby away without so much as seeing it, or knowing if she’d had a boy or a girl. Not all birth mothers walk off and never think of their babies again. Some, like poor Laura, feel terrible guilt and shame about giving up the baby. She suffered for years. My sister and I wish the child had searched for her before Laura flipped out and had to be committed for trying to steal someone else’s baby.”

  “I’m sorry about your cousin’s plight, Marge, but Emmy wasn’t given up for adoption. She was abandoned at Monday Trade Days. Thousands of people roam those stalls. She might have been picked up by a nutcase. Or a pervert. Whoever left her didn’t know or care. And Emmy was dead wrong to think I give a damn about who her parents might be. People should be valued for who they are, not how they came into the world.”