“When I said I was sorry, I meant it. I was young. Stupid. And mostly terrified about what my dad would say. Believe me, in my household anything but perfection was unacceptable.” Which, in retrospect, was pretty ludicrous, considering what Dad had done. “I made a huge mistake, and there’s no way I can go back and change it now. If I could, I would.” He wished he had the courage to touch her. He really wanted to touch her. “I mean that.”
She shifted her eyes and met his gaze, but her mouth remained fixed in a firm line.
“What about now?”
Her eyes sparked.
“Meghan’s a grown woman, successfully making her own way. You’re still young, still attractive.” He removed one hand from his pocket and braced it on the counter. She followed its progress with wary eyes, then kept her gaze fixed on it. “You could have years of marriage if you wanted it. Don’t you want it?”
Her gaze drifted from his hand to his face. She seemed expressionless, as if every bit of life had drained from her. He had a hard time not flinching, but he pressed hard against the thick slab of butcher block and refused to move.
“Again, I think you’re prying into subjects that aren’t your business, but I’ll answer. Because if I don’t, you’ll probably ask again, and I’d rather get this unpleasantness out of the way for good.” She angled her chin high and sealed him in place with an icy glare. “I’m content with my life as it is.”
Content…that word again.
“I’m independent. I don’t need anyone to take care of me.”
Yet she depended on her mother. Or so it seemed.
“Even so, I’m not opposed to marriage. If I fell in love again”—her cheeks flushed pinker than the chintz—“and if the man was a Christian, then I might consider getting married. But I’m not in the market for a husband.” She pointed at him. “So don’t even think about trying to make me wife number five.”
Ouch. He backed up a few inches. “Okay. And for the record, I don’t intend to go there.” Liar. If he could have Diane without Meghan, he’d be tempted to pursue her. Very tempted. All the reasons he’d liked her way back when were still in place but enhanced by a maturity even more attractive than Tawny’s youth. But she’d chosen someone else over him then. No sense in setting himself up for a repeat performance.
“Good. Now…” She held up the measuring tape. “Since you’re not doing anything, would you hold the end over there? And hold it tight this time.”
He saluted. “Yes, ma’am.”
They measured the entire kitchen backsplash area without speaking. As she recorded the last set of measurements, someone tapped on the doorjamb and hollered, “Anybody here?”
Kevin hurried around the corner. A man wearing tan dungarees, a blue shirt, a blue ball cap, and a well-stocked tool belt waited just inside the door. He had to be the plumber.
Kevin stuck out his hand. “Jim Connolly?”
The man shook his hand, and the tools in his belt clanked in accompaniment. “Yes, sir. You must be Kevin Harrison. Nice to meet you.”
“Thanks for coming.”
The fellow grinned. “Thanks for the job offer. I—” His attention shot to Kevin’s right. To Diane, who’d left the kitchen and was moving toward the first of the windows lining the wall. The man whipped off his cap. “Excuse me, ma’am. I didn’t know his wife was here.”
Diane offered a wry grin. “I’m not his wife. I’m the interior decorator.”
“Oh. Sorry, ma’am.”
Kevin gestured between the two. “Diane DeFord, meet Jim Connolly. I imagine you might encounter each other in the building a time or two before this project is done, so you might as well know each other’s names.”
Connolly bustled across the floor, his tools clanking, and held out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. DeFord.”
“Miss,” Diane and Kevin said at the same time.
Connolly sent a startled look between them. “Miss DeFord.”
Diane shook the plumber’s hand. “Please, call me Diane.”
“And call me Jim.” The brazen fellow smiled directly at Diane. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
Kevin cleared his throat. “Do you want to examine the lines in the kitchen or the bathroom first?”
Connolly turned, a discordant tune playing from his tool belt. “Seems to me we’ll be in Diane’s way if we stay in here, so let’s start with the bathroom.” He jerked his smile at Diane. “Unless you wanted to work in there now.”
She lifted her measuring tape to the window casing. “Go ahead. I’ll probably be out here for another half hour or so.”
“All right, then.” Connolly faced Kevin, thumbs hooked on the thick leather belt. “Lead the way, Mr. Harrison.”
Kevin headed for the hallway, and clinks and clanks followed him. Then Connolly called, “Holler if you need help with anything, Diane. I’d be glad to lend a hand.”
“Thank you, Jim.”
The smile in her voice set Kevin’s teeth on edge. He wasn’t too sure about this guy. He might need to hire a different plumber.
Fort Smith, Arkansas
Meghan
“Didn’t we answer these questions yesterday?”
Meghan smiled across the table at Darryl Wallingford and Michael Thames, focusing on Thames, who’d asked the question. “Yes, you did, but…well…”
Greg gave her a feigned look of disgust. “She accidentally deleted the file when trying to transfer it to her computer. New program…learning curve…”
She held out her hands in a gesture of helplessness, inwardly praying God would forgive them for fibbing. A lost file was the only excuse she and Greg could conjure that the bankers might accept as factual.
Wallingford harrumphed. “One would think a person in your occupation would have better computer skills.”
Meghan shrugged and offered another smile. “We appreciate your patience. Your input was so beneficial that we wanted to be sure we had every piece of information you so graciously gave us.”
Wallingford flicked a quick look at Sheila, who sat at the end of the long table, linked hands resting on the table’s edge, gaze never wavering from the face of the man she might have called Uncle Wally when she was a little girl. He slipped his finger under his collar and pulled. “Mike and I have other duties requiring our attention.” He started to rise. “If we’re finished here, I’d—”
“One more question.”
The man set his lips in a stern line and sank back into his chair. “Yes, Detective Dane?”
“Our investigation has led us to believe Anson Menke didn’t really take the money.”
Red climbed from Thames’s collar up his neck. “Of course he took the money. The judge said he took the money.”
Greg raised his eyebrows and aimed a sly smile at the pair of bankers. “Yes, a judge found him guilty based on testimonial, anecdotal, and analogical evidence, but remember the Arkansas Bureau of Investigation couldn’t find any direct evidence linking him to the theft. So the case was largely circumstantial.”
Thames scowled at Greg. “Then what do you think happened?”
“We’re actually leaning toward the probability that someone framed Anson and then murdered him to keep him from being able to tell the truth.”
Wallingford stared at Greg, almost expressionless, but Thames drew back and his jaw dropped. “Who would do something like that?”
“The person who stole the money, in all probability.” Greg shook his head. “Pretty sad situation, targeting a man with a sick wife and three young children. Whoever did it is as low as a person can go, in my opinion.”
Thames bolted out of his chair. “There is not a single person in the history of our bank’s employment roster who would deliberately set up a colleague, especially one with Anson’s difficult home situation, for prosecution. And mu
rder? Out of the question. So you need to take your investigation in another direction.”
“I agree with Michael.” Wallingford rose. “And as I said, we have other duties. I trust you will be able to find your way out.” The men left the room, and Thames slammed the door behind him.
Greg turned to Sheila. “What do you think? Was the gray-haired man your father’s friend, the one you called Uncle Wally?”
Sheila sighed and sank against her chair’s back. “Maybe. His voice seemed familiar. But he looks so…old. I always thought Daddy and Uncle Wally were the same age. I can’t imagine my dad looking so worn out and ancient.”
Meghan squeezed Sheila’s hand. “If Mr. Wallingford is our true thief, he might be a lot younger than he appears. Carrying a load of guilt has a way of aging a person.”
Sheila hung her head. “If one of those men really did set Daddy up, maybe even had him killed, I want to find out. I want to hold him accountable.” She lifted her face, and tears trembled on her lower lashes. “But if they’re innocent, I don’t want to falsely accuse them. Because just thinking that’s what happened to my dad really hurts. I wouldn’t want to hurt somebody else like that.”
Meghan’s affection toward the younger woman increased. “You have a good heart, Sheila, wanting to find the truth instead of seeking vengeance.”
Sheila offered a weak smile. “My folks wanted us kids to be kind. I’m just trying to think what Mom and Daddy would say if they were here.” She looked at Greg, her expression hopeful. “Did it help to have me here? Did you find out anything that will lead you to the truth?”
Greg grinned. “Absolutely. Don’t you agree, Meghan?”
She considered not only what the men had said but also how they’d behaved during the question-answer session. “Yep. Sheila’s presence made a difference.”
“And that means we deserve a reward.” He waggled his eyebrows. “How about banana splits?”
Sheila bit her pinkie nail. “Um…”
Greg added, “On me.”
A shy smile curved Sheila’s lips. She was so pretty when she smiled. “That sounds really good, Detective Dane.”
“Greg.” He winked, rising and reaching for his computer. “C’mon, you two. Banana splits, and then Meghan and I need to dig into some fellows’ financial records.”
Twenty-Three
Little Rock, Arkansas
Sean
“It’d be easier to find a needle in a haystack.”
Sean nodded in response to Farber’s growling comment. Four hours yesterday and almost eight hours today hunched over the desk, digging through juvenile records from 1979, the year the twins died, through 1986, when their older cousin would have aged out of the juvie system, had put a serious crick in his neck. He rubbed a particularly tender spot with one hand and tapped the Down key with the other. A dozen new names lined up on the screen.
“The problem is,” Farber groused, bouncing his fist on the edge of his desk, “we don’t know all the places where the family lived in the seventies and eighties. We know where Clark and Hilda Dunsbrook went from here, but who knows what other places they called home from the time they left Arkansas until they died. We could be searching the wrong states, totally wasting our time.” He banged his fist extra hard, then pressed it against his chin. His hand trembled. He thumped the desk some more.
Sean sat up straight and examined Farber. The man’s skin looked pasty. The odd color combined with his persistent tremor raised Sean’s concerns. “Farber, are you okay?”
“Yeah, why?” Thump, thump, thump.
Sean pointed to his pounding fist.
Farber jammed his fist against his chin again and twisted it, as if trying to pull out an imaginary beard. “I’m fine. Just peeved. We need to find this guy.” He lowered his hand and angled his scowl at the clock. “Almost five and nothin’ to show for a whole day’s work.” He hooked his hands behind his head and rocked his chair, glaring across the desks to Sean. “What’re you doing in the evenings with the little woman out of town?”
Sean shrugged. “Mostly trying to stay busy so I don’t think about it.”
“She call every night?”
She’d only been gone two nights. “So far.”
“Talk about the case over there?”
“Yeah.”
“Is it going good?”
“It’s still in the beginning stages, but yeah, I think it’s going okay for them.”
Farber grunted. “Good. Let ’em finish, get back here. Then we can swap out partners, put DeFord on this Dunsbrook case with you again, and set Dane and me on a new course.”
Sean would be perfectly fine with that setup. Farber was wound as tight as the bolts on a semi’s wheels, which put Sean on edge. He shrugged and searched for a noncommittal reply. “I guess we’ll see how it goes.”
Farber brought his chair to an abrupt halt and whammed his palms on the desk. “I’m hungry. Are you hungry? This is Thursday, right? Half-price chicken wings at Barney’s on Thursdays.”
Cap strolled toward their desks. “What’s that about chicken wings?”
Sean repeated what Farber had said. “I can’t say I’ve ever been to Barney’s. Have you, Cap?”
“I have. It’s definitely a hole-in-the-wall, but they do have good wings.” A frown pinched his forehead. “Lots of beer on tap, too.”
“Now, Cap, you gotta admit, ice-cold beer’s the best drink for tackling a basket of habanero wings.” Farber flung his arm in Sean’s direction. “Not even Beagle could argue with that.”
Sean chuckled. “I can’t argue, but neither can I concur.”
“Never had habanero wings?”
“Never had beer.”
Farber’s jaw dropped. “You’ve got to be kidding. How old are you?”
“Thirty-six.”
“And you’ve never had a beer?”
Sean shook his head.
Farber burst out laughing. “I knew you were goody-goody, but are you for real? I’ve never met another man your age who hasn’t downed a beer or two. What a—”
Captain Ratzlaff held up his hand. “All right, Farber, enough. Sean’s drinking habits are his own choice.”
“He doesn’t have a drinking habit.” Farber started rocking again, grinning at Sean with a wicked gleam in his eye. “What do you drink instead? Coke? Lemonade? Shirley Temples?”
“Farber…”
“Okay, okay.” Farber raised his hands in surrender. Their tremble was evident.
What had the man imbibed, swallowed, or snorted? But when could he have taken anything? They’d been together pretty much the whole day, including during the lunch hour when they walked to the sandwich shop and placed take-out orders.
Farber slapped his hands on his knees and pushed himself upright. “I really would like an order of wings. Who’s in?”
The captain backed up. “Not me. My wife’s got a roast in the Crock-Pot. I’ll take that over habanero wings.”
Farber looked at Sean. “I know for a fact your wife doesn’t have a roast ready for you. So how about it, Beagle? Wanna get some wings?” He held up his fingers the way a Boy Scout pledged his honor. “No beer. Cokes instead.”
Sean glanced at Cap. Their boss had advised Sean to go easy on Farber, but did that mean going to a bar with him? Even though Farber was being friendlier than he’d ever been, Sean wanted to go home, eat a sandwich, and wait for Meghan’s call. “What about your wife, Farber? Isn’t she expecting you?”
Like a switch being flipped, Farber’s snarling attitude returned. “I don’t need you telling me what to do. You don’t want wings? Fine. Say so.” He grabbed his car keys from the corner of his desk and shot off, muttering.
Cap hurried to Sean and grabbed his elbow. “Go after him.”
Sean gave his boss a puzzled look.
&
nbsp; “If I could, I would, but Marla’s expecting me. I have to go home.”
Farber was poking the elevator button. Even from the distance of twenty feet, Sean heard his muffled oaths. The last thing he wanted to do was spend an evening eating hot wings with Tom Farber, but it seemed he didn’t have a choice. “All right, Cap. I’ll go.”
The relief flooding their captain’s face convinced Sean he’d made the right decision. He took off at a trot. The elevator doors slid open, and Farber entered the car.
Sean hollered, “Hold the door, Farber!”
Farber blocked the door with his hand.
Sean stepped in next to his scowling temporary partner and forced a smile. “Thanks. If it’s okay, wings sound pretty good after all. I’m coming with you.”
Farber stared at him for a few seconds, his eyes narrowed to slits, then shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
* * *
If the sauce on the wings didn’t kill him, breathing the cigarette smoke might. Farber had chosen to sit at the bar, and of course Sean sat with him. The men on either side of them chain smoked, and Sean nearly lost Farber in the thick cloud surrounding them. At least Farber kept his word about not drinking beer. Even though everyone else at the bar had an alcoholic beverage in front of them, he ordered soft drinks. And made a face every time he took a swig.
Sean made faces, too, but over the wings.
Farber jabbed Sean with his elbow and lifted another wing to his mouth. “Good, huh? Best wings in town.”
Sean took a sip of his soda. The burn in his mouth remained. “I think you’d get less heat from chewing on a white-hot coal.”
Farber laughed. “Aw, come on. Eat up. They’ll put hair on your chest.”
According to Meghan, Sean had enough hair on his chest. He pushed the rest of his basket aside and used a napkin to clean his fingers. “I’m done. Go ahead and finish mine if you want to.”
Farber ate another wing, glugged the remainder of his soda, and hollered for a refill. “Sparky’ll get you a box. Take ’em home with you. They’re good the next day, too.” He picked a chunk of meat from a wing and popped it into his mouth, then spoke around it. “Been thinking about Stony Dunsbrook, about the possibility that he did something to his cousins, and I think I have an idea of what could’ve happened.”
Unveiling the Past Page 18