Unveiling the Past

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

He looked at Sean. “Is that okay?”

  Sean swallowed a knot of sadness. “Yes. Just sign your name now.”

  “My Stony name or my Fred name?”

  “Your Fred name.”

  He put a few loops at the bottom of the page, then handed the notebook and pencil to Sean. He stood. “I need to go to work now. Thank you for the cup o’ joe.” He picked up the almost-empty coffee cup and walked out.

  Moments later, the officer who’d brought Dunsbrook stuck his head in the door. “Hey, Jones is out here and says he can go. Is that right?”

  Farber waved his hand. “We’re done with him.” The officer left, and Farber aimed a flabbergasted look at Sean. “Can you believe he lives by himself? I think before we take this all as fact”—he jabbed his finger on the penciled sentences—“we ought to double-check with his boss, see if we’ve been scammed.”

  “Let’s catch the officer, then, and get a ride to Dunsbrook’s workplace.”

  The manager of the body repair shop that employed Dunsbrook, a.k.a. Jones, as the janitor confirmed the man was considered intellectually impaired. “He’s slow, no doubt about it, but he gets along all right. He was left some money by his parents, and they assigned a lawyer to distribute those funds a little at a time. He rents a room, takes most of his meals at a little diner up the street, and lets the woman who owns the boardinghouse help him pay his bills. The guys who work here keep track of him and make sure nothing bad happens to him. He’s as harmless as they come. I couldn’t believe it when the police showed up and wanted to take him in. Did he do something bad?”

  Farber glanced at Sean, then answered. “No. He was a witness to something when he lived in Arkansas, and we needed to find out what he could remember about it.”

  The man shrugged. “That’s good to know. He told us he had a juvenile record, but we didn’t believe him—figured he was trying to make himself look tough. Glad it’s not true. Not sure I’d keep him around if he’d been involved in something illegal, even if he has been a good worker for me. I run a clean shop.”

  Sean clapped the man on the back. “You don’t need to worry. He’s trustworthy.”

  Farber trailed Sean to the edge of the sidewalk. He looked up at the cloudy sky and blew out a noisy breath. “I don’t know about you, but this all feels very anticlimactic. All that searching for a murderer, only to find a mentally disabled man hiding a secret.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Do you think he’ll sleep better now that he finally told somebody?”

  If Sean wasn’t mistaken, Farber actually cared. “I know I will.”

  Farber gave him a startled look. Then he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I reckon so.” He checked his watch. “Cap scheduled another red-eye flight, but I wonder if we could catch something earlier. Actually get home at a decent hour.”

  “I’m all for that.”

  “Me, too. Let’s go, Eagle.”

  Thirty-Five

  Fort Smith, Arkansas

  Meghan

  Meghan and Greg accompanied the court official who’d been assigned to deliver the subpoena for Wallingford’s financials. Meghan had asked Sheila to stay behind in the hotel, and to her relief, the younger woman hadn’t argued. Catching Wallingford at home, early in the morning, would save him the humiliation of being served at his workplace. She doubted he’d appreciate their consideration, though, and she wanted to spare Sheila any unpleasant exchanges.

  The winding brick driveway shaded by mature oaks and maples led to the Tudor-style house she, Greg, and Sheila had driven past earlier. She’d marveled then—it was four times the size of her and Sean’s cozy bungalow—and couldn’t resist releasing a low whistle today. Wallingford had established a comfortable life for himself. But was it funded by his salary, from an inheritance, or through thievery? They’d soon know for sure.

  The officer stepped up on the half circle–shaped tiled stoop and rang the doorbell. Several seconds later the door opened, revealing a middle-aged woman. Her welcoming smile faded when her gaze fell on the officer. “Is something wrong?”

  “Darryl Wallingford, please.”

  She gripped the edge of the door and looked over her shoulder. “Darryl?”

  Heavy footsteps pounded, and then Wallingford, wearing suit pants and a button-up shirt and tie, appeared in the doorway. He touched the woman’s elbow. “Go finish breakfast, honey. I’ll see what they need.” The woman scurried off, and he scowled past the officer to Meghan and Sean. “What’s this all about?”

  The officer held out the folded subpoena. “You’re being served, Mr. Wallingford.”

  Wallingford opened the document, scanned it, then threw it at the officer’s feet. The veins in his temples bulged, and his face splotched red from his neck to his forehead. He shook his fist at Meghan and Greg. “You have no right!”

  The officer took a step that put him between Wallingford and the detectives. Tall, barrel-chested, with a shaved bald head, the officer made a great defensive block. He picked up the pages and pressed them into Wallingford’s hand. “The judge’s signature at the bottom of this document says they do. If you don’t hand everything over by eight o’clock tomorrow morning, you’ll be in contempt of court.”

  “Get off my property.” Wallingford hissed the command through clenched teeth.

  “You’ve been served.” The officer ushered Greg and Meghan toward the driveway, and the slam of Wallingford’s door reverberated in her ears. When they reached the curb, the man wished them well in the investigation and left.

  Greg turned a grim look on Meghan. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Wallingford ignores the subpoena and decides to skip town.”

  Meghan chewed the corner of her lip. If he had money squirreled away, he’d have the means to do so. “Maybe we should have asked the judge to make him forfeit his passport.”

  “Too late for that now.” Greg escorted her to his SUV, and they climbed in. He angled a thoughtful frown at Meghan. “We can’t actually go into the bank, thanks to the stay-away order, but we can follow Wallingford and see where he goes. If he heads for an airport or bus station, we’ll give the police department a holler. For now, let’s move the car farther up the block and wait.”

  In fewer than five minutes, the sleek jet-black Lincoln Continental registered to Darryl Wallingford backed out of the driveway and turned in the direction of the town.

  Meghan broke out in gooseflesh. “There he goes.”

  “And here we go.” Greg pulled away from the curb. They followed, keeping some distance between the vehicles. Meghan’s mouth was dry, and her pulse skittered. If Wallingford spotted them, he might be desperate enough to do harm. She found herself praying for protection as Greg’s SUV trailed behind the Lincoln.

  Wallingford turned onto North Sixth Street. Greg released a little huff. “He must be headed to the bank.”

  Meghan nodded. But he didn’t turn left on Garrison Avenue, which would have taken him there. He drove through the intersection and kept driving.

  Greg slapped the steering wheel. “Uh-oh.”

  “What?”

  “I think this street leads to Highway 255. He might be heading out of town.”

  Meghan pulled her cell phone from her pocket. “Should I make a 911 call?”

  “Not yet.” Greg set his lips in a stern line and narrowed his eyes. “Let’s wait and see.”

  Wallingford’s Lincoln turned onto South A Street, then pulled into the parking lot of a brown-brick building with a red tin roof. Greg followed him in, then barked a disbelieving laugh.

  Sunlight glared off the hood of the car and temporarily blinded Meghan. She leaned forward and squinted past the windshield. “What is it?”

  “He led us to the Sebastian County Sheriff’s Office.” Greg made a circle and pulled into a parking space at the far corner of the lot, then left his SUV idling. He pointed. “Look—he’s going
in.”

  Wallingford strode across the pavement, his head high and shoulders square. Meghan shook her head, torn between disgust and disbelief. “He seems pretty sure of himself, doesn’t he?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, he does.”

  A sapphire-blue Mercedes-Benz pulled into the parking area. Wallingford paused beside the glass double doors of the office, his hand on the right door’s silver handle, and seemed to observe the vehicle’s progress. Its driver parked next to Wallingford’s Lincoln, and none other than attorney Philip Johnske emerged from the car.

  Greg whistled through his teeth. “Hoo boy. They’re up to something.”

  Meghan nodded. “Probably trying to figure out a way to override the subpoena and run the two of us out of town on a rail.”

  “Good guess.” Greg put his car in drive. “If he’s with his attorney, I think we can safely assume he isn’t going to skip town. So how about we head back to the hotel, check on Sheila—”

  Meghan squelched a smile. Greg had grown fond of the young woman. He was a softy underneath.

  “—and maybe try to pick her brain a little more? I feel like there’s something we’re missing about Menke’s last days that’s critical, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “I’m good with following your instincts. Let’s go.”

  * * *

  The moment Meghan opened the hotel room door, Sheila bounded up from the end of the bed, where she’d apparently been watching the postage stamp–sized television on the dresser. She met them in the narrow entryway. “How’d he take it?”

  Meghan released a mirthless chuckle. “Pretty much the way we expected he would.”

  Sheila’s face pinched into a grimace. “Mad as a wet hen, huh?”

  “Yep.” Greg gestured to the room. “Can you turn that noise box off? We need to talk to you.”

  Sheila grabbed the remote control and silenced the television. Greg pulled out the rickety desk chair and angled it toward the beds. Meghan sat on the end of her bed and gently tugged Sheila’s hand. She sank down, too, earning a discordant squawk from the mattress.

  Sheila’s gaze shifted from Greg to Meghan to Greg again. She held her hands outward. “Well? What is it?”

  Greg crossed his leg and cupped both hands over his upraised knee. “I need you to tell us about the last day you saw your dad. As much as you can recall, please share that with us.”

  Sheila stuck what was left of a pinkie nail between her teeth and bit down, her forehead scrunching. “Okay. Lemme think…”

  March 22, 2002

  Sheila

  “Sheila?”

  Sheila dropped the block she’d intended to put on the tower she and Brandon were building and got up from the floor. She crossed to Mom’s recliner. Mom’s eyes were closed, and her lips looked thin and white. Sheila touched her mother’s arm. What Daddy called a barely-touch to keep from hurting her. Sometimes even a tiny touch made Mom wince. “Whatcha want?”

  “Go look…see if Daddy’s car is coming.”

  She’d already watched for a really long time. She watched until the boys got cranky and Mom asked her to entertain them. That’s why they were building towers with blocks. But she’d check again because she wanted Daddy to come home as much as Mom did. Mom was hurting bad. She needed the special medicine Daddy kept in a locked box on the highest shelf of the bathroom cabinet. The kids weren’t supposed to touch that box—only Daddy.

  Sheila hurried to the window and pushed the curtain aside. She wished she could push the rain aside. She and Wayne had barely made it home from school before it started, and it was coming down in buckets, Daddy would say. Little wonder it sounded like a hundred soldiers were marching on the roof. She couldn’t even see the street for the rain. She chewed her thumbnail and stared at the gray curtain of water, willing Daddy’s car to pull into the driveway. He should have come home more than half an hour ago.

  She glanced over her shoulder. Mom held on to the recliner’s armrests the way Sheila held on to the bar of the Ferris wheel when it went to the top. Her stomach knotted, partly from hunger—it was past their suppertime—but mostly from worry. Mom needed the medicine now. Stupid rain. Daddy probably couldn’t see to drive and was stuck somewhere, waiting it out.

  Wayne swept his arm and knocked over his block tower. It fell into the tower she and Brandon were building, and those blocks scattered, too. Brandon sent up an angry wail. Sheila started to holler at Wayne, but Mom made an awful face, like a person made when they were trying hard not to cry. Yelling would only make Mom upset.

  Sheila hurried to Mom, stepping around blocks. She gave Brandon’s hair a quick ruffle and Wayne a sour scowl on the way by. She knelt beside Mom’s recliner. “It’s raining really hard, Mom. Probably too hard for Daddy to drive. I bet he won’t come home until the rain stops.”

  Mom moaned.

  Sheila stood and chewed her thumbnail, staring first at Mom’s face and then at the rain beyond the window.

  Wayne began to sing, “ ‘Rain, rain, go away, come again another day…’ ”

  The song wouldn’t make the rain stop. Daddy wouldn’t come, and Mom would go on hurting. Somebody had to do something. She jerked away from Mom’s chair, balling her hands into fists, and marched to the bathroom. She climbed up on the toilet seat and opened the cabinet door. There on the top shelf, beside extra boxes of Ivory soap and the bottle of shaving lotion the boys gave Daddy last Christmas, was the little locked box. Her heart pounded as hard as the rain on the roof, and her hands shook, but she grabbed the box and hopped down.

  With the box cradled against her chest, she darted to Mom and Daddy’s bedroom. At the door, she paused. This room was supposed to be off limits to the kids unless they had permission to go in. But how else would she open the box? She’d seen the key in Daddy’s sock drawer when she helped Mom put laundry away. She had to go in.

  Her knees wobbling, she crossed to the dresser. She opened the drawer and pawed around, feeling like a thief. Her fingers found the little key, and she let out a sigh of relief.

  The key and the lock were really tiny, and her hands were shaking so bad she had trouble putting the key in the little slot. But she finally did it, and the lock clicked. She opened the box, grabbed the plastic bottle of pills, then raced for the kitchen. The childproof lid gave her some trouble, but she followed the directions and popped the cap loose. She filled a glass with water and carried it, along with one of the pills, to Mom.

  Mom didn’t raise a fuss when Sheila helped her sit up and swallow the pill. She didn’t even ask how Sheila got it, which told Sheila how bad Mom hurt. But Daddy would really scold her when he got home. He might even do more than scold. She’d broken two rules by getting the box and going into her parents’ room. But somebody had to take care of Mom. Daddy wasn’t there, so Sheila would do it.

  Present Day

  Meghan

  Sheila’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. She sniffed and rubbed her finger under her nose. “I made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for supper, and Mom had me put the boys to bed. I didn’t know until the next morning that she’d called the police and reported Daddy missing.” She hung her head. “Our lives sure changed after that.”

  Meghan put her arm around Sheila’s shoulders. “You should be proud of yourself for how you took such good care of your mom and your brothers. I bet your dad would be proud of you, too.”

  A smile quavered on Sheila’s lips. “I hope so.”

  Meghan gave Sheila a quick squeeze, then turned to Greg. Nothing in his expression indicated that anything from Sheila’s reflections held meaning. Meghan’s shoulders slumped. She’d been hoping his instincts were correct.

  He thumped his foot to the floor and gave the armrests a light smack with both palms. “Thanks for sharing that, Sheila. I guess now we’ll—”

  Meghan’s cell phone rang. She pulled
it from her pocket. She’d never seen the number before, but it had the Fort Smith area code. She accepted the call and put the phone to her ear. “Detective DeFord here.”

  “Yes. Ms. DeFord.” The stilted male voice sounded slightly familiar. “This is Attorney Johnske.”

  An image of the pompous lawyer formed in her mind’s eye. Meghan waved her hand and captured Greg’s attention. She pointed to the phone and replied, “Yes, Mr. Johnske, what can I do for you?”

  Greg jolted to his feet, his frame tense and angled slightly toward her, like a runner prepared for the starting pistol shot.

  “You can come to the Sebastian County Sheriff’s Office. I’m here with my client, and he’s ready to discuss his financial dealings.”

  Meghan grinned, waggling her eyebrows at Greg. “Thank you. We’ll be there as quickly as possible.” The call disconnected, and Meghan jabbed the phone in the air in a victory punch. “He’s ready to confess!”

  Sheila’s jaw dropped. “He is?”

  “Yep. His attorney says he’s ready to tell us about his financial dealings.”

  Greg settled back on his heels and made a little tsk sound. “Well…that might mean a confession, but it might mean an explanation.” He put his hand on Sheila’s shoulder. “And I doubt it means he’ll tell us anything about your dad.”

  Sheila sighed and hung her head. Meghan inwardly berated herself for jumping to conclusions. She knew better. She forced a cheerful tone. “But remember what I told you earlier—every piece of evidence is a step in the right direction.”

  Sheila gave a halfhearted shrug.

  Greg folded his arms over his chest and fixed Sheila with a thoughtful expression. “Sheila, Wallingford probably doesn’t expect you to be with us, and he might say you can’t come into the room, but if you’re up to it, I’d like you to go along.”

  Sheila’s head shot up. “You would?”

  Greg nodded. “Your presence makes him uncomfortable. We’ve already seen that. I’m pretty sure he and his lawyer have decided what portion of the truth he’ll divulge, but if he’s uncomfortable, he might slip up and tell us something incriminating.”