She simply looked at him and then turned to Emily. “What happened to your head?” Tara asked, eyeing the bandage under her hair.
“It’s nothing. I whacked it pretty good, and they had to stitch it up. I’m okay.”
Zander wasn’t surprised Emily didn’t go into detail. Especially after Tara had just said everyone around her died.
He decided to outright question Tara. “Why did you visit Chet Carlson?”
Tara blanched. “That’s how you found me.” The whisper high and reedy.
“Why are you hiding?” Emily cut in sharply. “How could you go for twenty years without contacting us? Your family? I lost three members of my family within a week back then!” She waved her hands as she spoke, scaling another emotional peak.
Tara’s face crumpled. “I can’t talk about it.”
A theory percolated, and Zander studied the woman, wondering how to phrase his suspicion.
“Why?” Emily begged. “What is so horrible that you can’t tell us?” She pointed at Zander. “He’s an FBI agent, Tara. He can help with whatever it is.”
Zander wasn’t so sure about that, but Tara was listening, impulses warring on her face, the line of her back tense. She regarded him warily.
“I have a niece,” Emily said softly. “I never knew—Madison never knew. We missed her birth, her chubby baby cheeks, losing her first tooth . . .”
“She’s not yours.” Tara grew fierce. “That is my daughter, and I do everything I can to keep her safe. You are to tell no one that you saw me or her.”
A mama bear had replaced Tara on the sofa.
Emily snapped her mouth shut.
“What did you see that night, Tara?” Zander questioned.
“Nothing. I wasn’t there.” She didn’t ask which night.
Emily started to speak and stopped, pressing her lips into a thin line.
“I was at a friend’s. We were drinking. I don’t know anything about what happened to Dad. You already knew this.” She looked Emily in the eye.
“You didn’t answer Zander’s question about Carlson,” Emily said.
“What happened that night has haunted me all my life. I wanted to see that man’s face.”
“Do you believe he killed your father?” asked Zander.
“Of course,” she said quickly. “Even though he claims he didn’t do it.”
She’s lying.
“My life has been hell for twenty years,” Tara said. “First Dad’s murder and then Mom’s after I left. The only way I could put it out of my head was with booze. Now I have constant insomnia and can never relax.”
Zander exchanged a sharp look with Emily.
“Tara, Mom committed suicide.” Confusion laced Emily’s words.
Tara blinked several times. “No, she was murdered.”
Emily shook her head. “Where did you hear that? It was ruled suicide from the start.”
Her sister sat very still, focused intently on Emily, and a hesitant fear crept into her eyes. “You’re wrong.”
“I swear. It’s true.” Emily swallowed hard, shadows crossing her face.
Zander’s throat constricted as he watched the painful conversation.
“No.” Tara rose to her feet, her hands in fists. “You’re lying. The people who killed her are the same that killed Dad.”
“No. I know—”
“Who do you believe killed your father, Tara?” Zander jumped in. “A moment ago you said Chet Carlson did it. Now you just said people did it. Who was it?”
Her frantic gaze bounced between Emily and Zander. “Chet Carlson did it. I meant that he killed Mom too.”
She’s lying again.
“I need to lie down.” Tara turned to leave, and Emily leaped up, grabbing her arm and making her sister face her.
“I don’t know what’s happened to you, but it’s okay, Tara. I just want you back in my life, no matter what. I don’t care what you did.”
Zander went still. Emily believes Tara was involved.
“Go to hell.” Tara shook off Emily’s grip. “Remember what I said. You didn’t see me or Bella.” She strode out of the room.
“What is she hiding?” Emily asked.
Zander was hesitant to voice the theory that had festered in his thoughts since they’d left Beaverton. They were nearly back to the coast. “I think she believes someone else killed your father.”
Emily was silent.
“And she believes this same person killed your mother. Whether or not she is correct, she believes it’s true.”
“I don’t know how reliable she is,” Emily said. “I smelled alcohol on her, and she admitted she has a drinking problem. She’s a tightly wound person, and I don’t remember her being that way. Thank God she has Wendy to help care for Bella.”
“Her mother-in-law reminds me of a warden. I wasn’t surprised when she refused to let us speak to Tara again and then pushed us out the door.”
He watched Emily with his peripheral vision as he drove. She was thoughtful, quiet. Not her usual outspoken self. “You told me Tara was there the night your father died, but she told the police she wasn’t there.”
“Correct. I saw her there with another person.”
“Was your father already hanged when you saw Tara?”
Her shoulders quaked ever so briefly. “Yes.”
“And she repeated her story again today that she wasn’t there.” He paused, trying to frame his next question. “Is it possible your memory is wrong?”
Her lips worked, and she turned to look out the window. “I’ve asked myself that a million times over twenty years. Part of what kept me from telling the police what I saw was the thought that I was wrong and also that I didn’t want Tara in trouble. But even if my memory is wrong, there’s something Tara is hiding about Dad’s death.”
“Your mother committed suicide a few days after Tara left, right?”
“Yes. I’ve always wondered if Tara even knew that Mom had died.”
“Who handled your mother’s investigation?” asked Zander.
Emily faced straight ahead, her mouth in a frown. “I assume the Clatsop County sheriff. They were already working Dad’s murder. I’ve never asked.” She exhaled. “I didn’t want to ask,” she added softly.
Zander understood. Digging up the past was painful. He avoided it as much as possible.
Emily’s back stiffened. “The traffic lights are out.” They’d just turned onto the main road through Bartonville.
“Not surprised,” said Zander as he watched small branches and debris blow across the road. It’d been a windy drive all the way across the Coast Ranges, but once they’d neared Bartonville, he’d noticed that the tops of the fir trees waved in a frenzy. “At least the rain has stopped.” The gray clouds were high, not threatening to dump more water.
“The church’s power is out, and so is the post office’s,” Emily said as they passed through town. “Take me to the diner instead of the mansion. If anyone still has power, it’s the diner.”
“How come?”
“We didn’t ever spend money on cameras, but a decade ago Vina invested in an excellent power backup system. She said people will always need to eat, especially if they can’t cook in their own homes. The system has paid for itself a few times over.”
Zander turned into the parking lot and saw Emily was right. The lights were on in the diner, and the lot had more cars than he’d ever seen there. “I guess I’ll get a cup of coffee and sandwich to go,” he told her. “Hopefully they still have power at the county sheriff’s office.”
“It’s busy. The diner will need my help.”
“How are you feeling?” He scanned her from head to toe.
“Pretty darn good. I took more medication when we left Tara’s house.”
He was skeptical but didn’t argue.
He parked and followed her inside. Most of the seats were full as Thea and Vina worked the floor, scuttling from table to table. Dory was nowhere in sight. He didn’t see
many people eating, but everyone had coffee and appeared settled in to wait out the storm. The mood inside was chipper, the storm now a social event.
Emily pointed at the kitchen door. “Go tell Leo I said to make you something to go. I need to get to work.”
“Stick close to other people.”
She gave him a blank look that was immediately replaced with one of understanding—and apprehension. An abrupt nod followed, and she headed toward her office.
She already forgot that someone shot at her yesterday?
Zander crossed the floor and hesitantly pushed open the swinging door, feeling like an intruder.
From behind the grill, Leo spotted him immediately. “Hey, Zander,” said the bald cook.
“I dropped Emily off. She said you’d make me something to go?”
“You bet. A BLT okay?”
“Perfect.”
A sizzle sounded as Leo lay bacon on the flat top. Zander’s mouth watered.
“There’s some to-go cups next to the coffee maker,” Leo told him.
Zander grabbed a cup and poured a huge cup of coffee. He was pressing on the lid when Isaac touched his arm. He jerked, nearly spilling the cup. The teenager had approached as silently as a cat.
“Sorry.” Isaac stared at his shoes. His hair was windblown, and he wore a heavy coat. He smelled of the outdoors.
“It’s no problem. You just coming to work?” Zander asked, wondering what the quiet kid wanted.
“Returning. I already worked this morning. They called me back in since the power went out and half the town showed up. Happens every time.” He continued to stare at his shoes.
Zander waited but finally spoke. “Did you want to ask me something?”
Isaac finally made eye contact. “Are you still looking for Billy Osburne?”
Every cell in Zander’s body went on alert. “Absolutely. You’ve seen him?”
“Yeah. I think he’s staying with a girl.”
Zander controlled his impatience. “Can you be more specific?”
Isaac grimaced. “I swear I saw him in this girl’s car. She lives three houses down from us. Before I came to work just now, I walked over there to check, and he was outside clearing some branches out of her driveway.”
“That’s pretty cocky on his part.”
“It’s a long driveway, and this was right in front of the garage. All the houses there are set way back in the trees with a lot of space between them. You can’t see your neighbors. I didn’t get too close.”
“What if he saw you?”
“He didn’t.” Isaac was confident.
“How long ago was this?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“Here’s your BLT, Zander.” Leo slid over a white box.
“Thanks.” Zander grabbed the box and turned back to Isaac. “Why didn’t you call the police when you saw him?”
“I’m telling you.” Isaac flushed, and his gaze went back to his shoes.
“You didn’t know I’d be here.”
The teenager squirmed. “I didn’t want to talk to the police.”
Zander let it go. Whatever the kid’s reason for avoiding the police didn’t matter now. He tucked his sandwich box under an arm, picked up his coffee, and walked out of the kitchen, dialing the sheriff with one hand as he left.
31
Madison found Emily in the diner’s office. She’d seen her sister come in with Zander Wells and then head down the side hall.
She watched Emily dig through files for a moment from the doorway. A wide white bandage was visible on the side of her head, under her hair.
She could have died.
She’s the heart of our unusual family.
Madison had never appreciated the many things Emily did to keep all their lives on track. Until now. “Are you okay?”
Emily started, jerking her head up from her work. “I’m fine. It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. I talked to Janet at the hospital. Your injury could have been very serious.”
“You need to inform your nurse friend about HIPAA regulations.”
“I’m sure she knows.”
Emily humphed. “Everything running smoothly?”
“Yep. Vina and Thea are keeping everyone company and filling their coffee cups. Dory is on her way in. It sounds like three-quarters of the town doesn’t have power—including the mansion.”
“I figured. Seems like we’re always the first to lose it.”
“What’s that?” Madison pointed at a thick file on the office desk.
Emily’s face brightened. “Simon gave me that yesterday. He put together pictures and documents that relate to the Bartons.” She sat at the desk and flipped it open.
Curiosity and some glossy black-and-white photos drew Madison closer. The first photo was labeled Barton Lumber Mill in crooked writing across the bottom. She touched a familiar man in the image. “That’s our great-great-grandfather.” He stood with a dozen other men, looking rugged and proud as they posed. “This has to be in the early 1900s.”
“Yep. That’s George.”
Madison scanned the other men, wondering who they were and if some of their descendants still lived in Bartonville. Heck, maybe some were eating in the diner right that minute.
“I haven’t seen this picture before, have you?”
“No,” said Emily. “It’s not among any of the photos I’ve seen at the mansion.”
Madison flipped through a few more logging photos. George Barton leaning against a felled fir that had a trunk wider than he was tall. A log truck with the Barton name on the door and a single humongous log on its trailer.
“It’s all gone,” Madison said under her breath, feeling a small pang for the family business that she’d never known. At the end the mill had cut wood only for other companies, its own supply of lumber gone. The mill was sold in the 1980s, and the new owners shut it down, intending to use the property for something else that never came to fruition. Now it was a small, rusting ghost town of buildings. Madison quickly flipped through more black-and-white photos, stacking them neatly, wanting to see the color ones deeper in the file.
The first color photo was a formal picture of the mansion. Emily sighed, and Madison understood. The mansion shone. It was a summer day, and the landscaping was immaculate. The paint perfect and the rails on the porch intact. Someone had set glasses and a large pitcher of lemonade on a table on the porch, waiting for the owners to sit and relax.
Madison placed it facedown on the viewed stack.
“Ohhh!” Emily picked up the next photo.
Four young women stood on the steps of the mansion, their arms hooked together, laughter on their faces. The simple dresses had wide knee-length skirts, the waists were tiny, and the women wore short white gloves. A holiday, perhaps Easter, judging by the daffodils and tulips.
Eagerly studying the faces, Madison recognized each of her great-aunts and her grandmother.
So young.
“She’s pregnant.” Emily indicated their grandmother.
Sure enough, one of the waists wasn’t that tiny. “Do you think she was pregnant with Mom or Uncle Rod?”
“This looks like the late 1950s. I’ll guess Uncle Rod.”
Madison held the photo closer, searching her grandmother’s face for a hint of herself but not finding it. Her grandmother had died when her mother was young. Madison had never known her.
“All girls,” Emily commented.
“The Barton curse,” Madison joked sadly. Male children had been few and far between in a century of the Barton line. Their ancestors typically had many girls and a single boy.
“Look at what’s on Grandmother’s wrist.” Emily pointed. “Do you remember that bracelet?”
Madison did. “The button bracelet. I didn’t realize it was that old.”
All three girls had played with the bracelet in the photo. It was wide, made of a diverse assortment of dozens of brass buttons with a few colored ones mixed in. “Grandmother
must have given it to Mom. Remember how we fought over who got to wear it?”
“I’d spend hours looking at each button.” A dreamy expression covered Emily’s face. “I really loved it.”
Madison had too. One more thing lost in the fire.
“All four of the sisters are so beautiful,” Emily said. “Why did only Grandmother marry?”
Madison didn’t know the answer. Each of her great-aunts had brushed off the question in the past. She moved on to the next photo and immediately spotted her father, a big grin on his face.
“Where is this?”
Emily studied the photo of seven men with their fishing gear in front of a small tavern. “Isn’t that the bead store now? But why is this picture in the Barton file? Dad was a Mills.”
“Uncle Rod is in it.” He stood next to their father, an arm slung around his neck.
“I didn’t recognize him.” Emily squinted. “Look . . . isn’t that Sheriff Greer?” She giggled. “And Harlan Trapp—with hair.”
“Simon Rhoads too.” They looked like a rowdy group, ready to cause havoc for some fish.
“I think we could use this picture to blackmail Harlan or the sheriff,” Madison said. “I don’t think this is the image they’re currently trying to project.” She sifted through two more pictures of the same group of men in juvenile muscle poses. “Idiots.”
Emily elbowed her, fighting back laughter. “They were young. And probably drunk.”
A photo of a couple on a lookout high above the ocean made her stop. “Mom and Dad,” she breathed. “I’ve never seen this one.” Their mother was in profile, looking up at her husband, bliss on her face as he laughed at the camera. This was the loving couple her aunts had always described to Madison and her sisters.
A sad, confused wife.
Anita’s sentence echoed in her mind. Aunt Dory had said something similar two days ago. The words didn’t describe the woman in the picture.
Did Anita and Dory not tell me the truth?
“That’s the spot I nearly died at. Jeez, I was a stupid kid,” Emily said.
“Yes, you were.”
“You could have just as easily gone over the edge.”
Her father’s pocket watch popped into Madison’s thoughts—the shooting had wiped it from her mind. She glanced at Emily, her nose close to the photo of their parents, a hungry look in her eyes. Now or never.
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