The Last Sister

by Elliot, Kendra

  She couldn’t believe he’d never cooked a pancake.

  Emily was quiet for a moment. “There’s some concern that I’m being targeted.”

  Madison remembered Emily’s white face at the community meeting. “Because of Nate Copeland’s death?”

  “And this shooting today. They could be wrong,” she added quickly. “It could have been random, or maybe Ava was their target.”

  “What did you see at Lindsay’s house that morning, Emily? Why is this happening?” Madison whispered as she stepped away from the grill and stoves, out of Isaac’s hearing.

  “I didn’t see anything that indicated who killed them.” Emily’s voice wavered, shocking Madison. Emily was the rock of the household—after Vina, of course. She never let a weakness show. “They’re being cautious. Can you talk to Ron?”

  “Yes, I’ll call him, but it’s raining, and the wind is horrible. I doubt he’ll want to repair the outside rail.”

  “I don’t care what he works on. I just want him at the house when our aunts are there.”

  “Is this my short stack?” Dory asked, grabbing the plate Isaac had just filled.

  “Yep.” Pride radiated from the teenager.

  “Was that Dory?” Emily asked.

  “Yes. I’ve got all three aunts working the floor. I’m covering the grill, but I’m giving Isaac some lessons.”

  “Where’s Leo?”

  “I sent him home before we even opened today. He had a sore throat and was barely functioning. The aunts were glad to pitch in.”

  “It takes all three of them to cover your job,” Emily stated.

  Was that a compliment?

  “They’re doing it well,” Madison said automatically, still off-balance from Emily’s observation. “When can you go home? Do you need a ride?”

  “I’m almost done, and I don’t need a ride. Agent Wells says he’ll drive me home.”

  “He must be relieved that his partner is okay,” Madison said. She liked Ava McLane—she was the type of woman Madison wanted to be.

  “You have no idea.”

  They ended the conversation, and Madison slid the phone into her apron pocket.

  Her sister could have died. A chill washed over her, and an old memory of terror rose from the marrow of her bones.

  “Your turn!” Madison shouted at ten-year-old Emily.

  Madison checked on her parents. They sat several yards away on a big rock that looked out over the ocean. The park was a favorite of the girls, but it took intense begging, chores, and promises to get their parents to bring them.

  It was a blue day at the coast. The ocean reflected the deep, vivid color of the sky. It was the first warm day of spring, and the three girls pretended it was summer, wearing shorts and sandals for the first time since last fall. Emily had started a cartwheel contest in a patch of green grass. Tara had turned her nose up at the game and wandered off with some girls from the high school. Madison had seen one of them flash a pack of cigarettes.

  Gross.

  Madison had completed four cartwheels without stopping, and Emily needed to beat that. Emily lifted her hands and flung herself into the first cartwheel. As she finished the fourth, her left foot landed wrong, and she slipped. Twisting, she lost her balance and staggered, trying not to fall. The ground caved away at Emily’s feet, and she vanished.

  Madison screamed and lunged to the edge on her stomach.

  They’d been playing a safe distance away from the edge. It was the same place they always played, but the rains had dug out part of the slope and left a false top.

  She saw Emily ten feet down, hugging the slope with her entire body as the ocean crashed into giant rocks a hundred feet below.

  Madison shuddered. Her father had carefully inched down the rough slope and rescued his daughter as his wife and Madison shrieked. Emily had nearly slid to her death.

  That sensation of utter helplessness as her sister clung to the earth returned like a slap in the face.

  The fence at the overlook had been ten yards behind them. Everyone hopped over the fence to get a closer view despite the warning signs.

  Her father had been a hero.

  Does that make up for his racist views? Could he have been both?

  Madison pulled herself out of the past and found Isaac watching her.

  “Is something wrong with Emily?”

  Madison had never seen his brown eyes so serious. Maybe it was because of the hairnet keeping his hair out of his eyes for once. He’d been thrilled when Madison offered him some cooking lessons, making her wonder why Leo had never bothered. The teen was like a son to him.

  “She was in a car accident—she’s fine. A little banged up, but nothing broken.” An idea occurred to her. “Would you mind stopping by the mansion this evening? I have some odds and ends that need doing, and I’ll pay your usual wage.” I’ll figure out what those odds and ends are later.

  His eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?”

  She hesitated. “There’s been some extra focus on the family since Emily found Lindsay and Sean.”

  “What do you mean, ‘extra focus’?”

  “It’d be good to have some more people around the house for a bit. Keep an eye out for things.” Her reason was lame.

  Isaac studied her a little longer. “Yeah, I’ll come over.”

  Madison forced a smile. “Thank you.” She pointed. “You’ve got another order.”

  The way his face lit up warmed her inside. He grabbed the ticket and studied it carefully.

  Her conversation with Emily played in her head.

  What is Emily involved in?

  As he drove Emily home from the hospital, Zander mentally regrouped.

  He was down a partner. Ava would be in the hospital for at least a night or two as she recovered. He put his money on one night; as soon as she was coherent, he knew she’d argue to be released. Mason would have to talk some sense into her.

  Zander had left a very relieved fiancé at the hospital.

  “Her upper arm and shoulder are more metal than bone now,” Mason told him. “She already had four screws in that humerus from getting shot about a year ago.”

  Zander remembered.

  Sheriff Greer had interviewed Emily about the shooter and received the same story Zander had heard. The sheriff had confided to him that they couldn’t find any sign that someone had been along the road. Understandable with the pouring rain, but no one had seen another vehicle either. He was still looking and asking questions.

  Zander’s boss had agreed to send him another agent, but she wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow evening at the earliest. For now, Zander was on his own and needed to decide what to do next.

  Alice Penn. He wanted to interview Alice about when she had seen Cynthia Green’s body dumped in the woods. He was pessimistic about the results since Alice was flighty and the death had happened twenty years ago. But the Fitch murders were his priority. Cynthia Green—assuming her identity was confirmed—would have to wait.

  Billy Osburne. Still missing. Sheriff Greer had taken the lead on finding the man, but nothing concrete yet.

  Tim Jordon’s email with Sean Fitch’s purchases and calendar from his laptop had landed in Zander’s in-box an hour ago. He had studied them as he waited for Emily to be discharged.

  “Do you know a Simon Rhoads?” he asked Emily, breaking the silence in the vehicle.

  She turned toward him, and he continued to focus on the road, looking beyond the rapid movements of the windshield wipers. The interior of the vehicle was warm and comfortable, a contrast to the growing storm outside.

  “I do. He has a thing for Aunt Dory.”

  Zander’s lips quirked. “A thing?”

  “He’s asked her to marry him at least a dozen times, but she always says no. They’re good friends, but she doesn’t want to live with him. She likes the mansion and her ‘girls.’”

  “Are you considered one of her girls?”

  “Yep. She loves having her sister
s and the two of us around. In her mind it’s a nonstop slumber party. Why do you ask?”

  How much can I tell her?

  “I got Sean’s calendar. He had an appointment with Simon two days before his death.”

  “That makes sense. Simon is the unofficial town historian. As a history teacher, I’m not surprised Sean knew Simon.”

  “Unofficial?”

  “The city council pays for an office for his records and allots him a small budget. They can’t afford to pay a salary, but Simon doesn’t mind. He’d do it without the location and the budget. He’s a bit obsessed.”

  “Aren’t all historians obsessed? I found out Sean Fitch was writing a book. Maybe Simon helped him.”

  “I recall Lindsay mentioned Sean was writing a book.”

  “Where is Simon’s office?”

  “Downtown. It’s in a tiny house owned by the city.” She checked the time. “We’ll need to hurry. He won’t see anyone after three o’clock, and there are no exceptions.”

  “I’ll take you home first and then stop by.”

  “Do you have an appointment?” she asked.

  “I need one?” The question surprised him.

  “You better believe it. Simon is a stickler for routine. He may be obsessed with his records, but he’s also obsessed with procedure. You can’t do anything to alter his schedule—especially since you’re a stranger. It flusters him.”

  “Then why did you say we need to hurry to get there before his day is done?”

  She grinned. “He’ll make an exception for me. Anything or anybody that has to do with Aunt Dory gets special treatment.”

  Zander eyed the bandages that peeked through her long, dark hair. “How do you feel?”

  She considered. “In light of what’s happened, not too bad.”

  “Probably the pain pills.”

  “I admit I’m enjoying some pleasant side effects.” Her eyes danced.

  “Most people fall asleep.”

  “Not me. They’ve always given me some get-up-and-go. Which typically doesn’t help whatever injury I’ve had to take them for.” She felt her bandage. “I’m fine to go with you to Simon’s, if I take it easy and don’t stand for long.”

  “If I think you’re in pain or discomfort, we’re leaving.”

  She snorted. “Fine. But let me do the talking. You’ll know when it’s safe to speak up.”

  Safe?

  27

  As they went up the cracked walkway to the front door of the tiny home, Emily reminded Zander to let her lead the conversation. She’d known Simon Rhoads all her life, and he’d always been kind to her and her sisters, but he was definitely odd and sometimes struggled with outsiders in his personal space. Under everything he was good-hearted—and very excited about local history.

  She knocked.

  Her head started to throb, and she tightened the tie on her scrubs again to keep the baggy pants from falling to her feet. She was determined to see this through for Zander and the Fitches.

  The door opened a few inches, stopped by a chain, and a bespectacled gaze peered out. “Emily!” He closed the door, unhooked the chain, and yanked it open. His grin faltered as he spotted Zander behind her.

  “Hi, Simon,” Emily quickly said to pull his stare away from Zander. “I need your help with something. It just came up today, so I’m sorry I didn’t set up an appointment.” She schooled her features into a contrite look.

  Simon was shorter than Emily—most people were shorter than Emily—and consistently wore slacks that bagged at his ankles. His striped button-down collared shirt had yellowed and grown thin, and several holes had been worn through the collar. His hair was nearly solid gray, the same as his beard, and both needed the attention of a barber.

  She also felt he could use the help of an organized woman.

  Dory wouldn’t be much help. Her great-aunt wasn’t one for detail . . . but maybe that would make her the perfect match for Simon.

  Simon looked from her to Zander and back. “I’m always available for you, Emily.” He shot a look at Zander that emphasized the words weren’t for him.

  “I appreciate it.” She put a hand on Zander’s arm. “This is Zander Wells. He’s with the FBI and is investigating the murders of Sean and Lindsay.”

  Bushy brows narrowed as he scrutinized Zander. “You were at the meeting the other night,” he said.

  “I was.”

  Simon’s attention went back to Emily. “How is your aunt?” His gaze was full of hope.

  She didn’t need to ask which one. “Very good, thank you. You should come over for dinner soon.”

  His entire demeanor perked up. “Fabulous! I’ll take you up on that. Come in, come in.” He stepped back, waving them in. Emily silently exhaled; he’d accepted Zander’s presence.

  The city had bought the tiny house several decades ago after the owner died, intending to fix it up and sell it at a profit. But the city budget had virtually no money for repairs, and no buyer was ever interested. For years the poorly planned purchase had caused local tongues to wag. The grandson of the woman who’d died had been on the city council and had convinced the council to buy her house. One day he abruptly stepped down from his position and moved to Florida.

  The city never bought another piece of property.

  Simon Rhoads had finally come along and offered to do some basic repairs if they’d let him store his historical records there. The council acquiesced, and eventually Simon’s treasure trove of history earned a tiny permanent spot in the city budget. Now he was available by appointment two days a week.

  Emily knew those appointments were rarely filled.

  The scuffed wood floor creaked as Emily and Zander entered. The home smelled of old, brittle paper and leather. An ancient damask couch, a battered coffee table, and a faded rug desperately in need of a good vacuuming filled the living room. Filing cabinets lined every wall of the attached dining room, with file boxes stacked three deep on top of each one.

  Standing out in the shabby office was a beautiful, wide cabinet with a dozen shallow drawers. A controversy in the city council had played out in the local paper as the city considered purchasing the expensive cabinet. Her aunt Vina had firmly pointed out that Simon Rhoads did Bartonville a valuable service, never asked for anything, and needed a proper place to store his vintage maps.

  Simon got his cabinet.

  “You two sit on the sofa. I’m sorry it’s a bit lumpy, but you know I take what I can get and appreciate it all. Beggars can’t be choosers.” He scurried around the coffee table and sat in a wooden chair. “What can I help you with?” he asked Emily, eagerly leaning forward. Simon always exuded energy; all her aunts except Dory found it exhausting.

  “I would like Agent Wells to explain it,” Emily said.

  The historian blinked and nodded reluctantly, reining in his enthusiasm.

  “Mr. Rhoads, did Sean Fitch have an appointment with you a week ago?”

  Simon cocked his head, his gaze curious. “He did.”

  “What was it for?”

  “Well now.” The historian pinched his bottom lip and averted his focus to the coffee table. “I’d say that’s confidential between Sean and me.”

  Zander started to reply, but Emily touched his thigh. “Sean was murdered, you know,” she said gently, willing Simon to look at her. “The FBI is tracing his last movements.”

  The man jerked upright. “Do you think I killed him?” One knee started to rapidly bounce.

  “Of course not,” Emily said.

  She felt Zander stiffen at Simon’s outburst but stayed quiet.

  “We’re hoping you can illuminate what he was doing in the days before he was killed.” Attempting to use gentle language, Emily felt as if she were balanced on a fence. The wrong words could make Simon lock down and refuse to help.

  He scowled, thinking hard, and then took a deep breath. “Sean and I spoke on the phone several times over the last month or two. His appointment was the first time
he’d come in, and it was a pleasure to speak with someone who has a deep knowledge of history. Most people are only interested in research for their family trees. Sean and I talked for three hours. Much longer than I had scheduled him for. He was a knowledgeable and intelligent man.”

  “What was Sean researching?” Zander asked.

  “Several things. Shanghaiing was one of his main interests. In this little corner of the state, we have a dark history of the practice and other crimes against people. Sean was fascinated. You know he was writing a book, right?” Simon jumped to his feet and darted to the file cabinets in the dining room behind the sofa. “There were so many interesting events in this often-ignored area of the US, it’s a pleasure when someone wants to discuss them. I was more than happy to show him what I had.” He sorted through a drawer and yanked out a thick file, his eyes lit with delight.

  Simon came alive as he talked about what he loved best.

  “There’s tons of information, but these are some of the items I scanned for him.” He paused and looked over at the two of them. “Scanning is the most wonderful invention. So much better than making paper copies.” He hummed under his breath as he went back to his file. “Makes my life so much easier. Email. Thumb drives. Wireless scanning. We live in an amazing world.”

  “I admit I don’t know much about shanghaiing,” Zander said. “Just what I’ve seen in movies, which I doubt is accurate.”

  “Astoria was Oregon’s shanghai capital,” Simon said. “In the late nineteenth century, ships from all over the world came to the port in Astoria. Timber and salmon were two of our biggest exports, and all these ships needed labor. Shanghaiing was called crimping at first. The ship’s captains would make contracts with crimps—another name for men who would provide the labor by whatever means possible. The crimps would sometimes use alcohol to trick men onto the boats, or force them at gunpoint. It didn’t matter who the victims were . . . loggers, farmers.” His eyes sparkled. “Astoria even had a female crimper. Her husband had drowned, and she needed to support herself, so she sold unsuspecting labor to the captains.”

  Emily and Zander moved to look over Simon’s shoulder.

  The historian tapped on a photo of a solemn older woman surrounded by family wearing early-1900s fashions. “She doesn’t look like a criminal, does she? New laws around the turn of the century finally made shanghaiing a federal crime, and it mostly disappeared.”