by Ellen Parker
“And so far…?”
“It’s been good.” The contacts for Beth’s kennel business, including the foster families soon to take delivery on puppies, was especially helpful. The personal messages between her family and small circle of friends didn’t matter as much. “Expect it to last a couple more months. Minimum.”
“Good. My car needs some repairs.”
“Remember my banking advice.” He understood the sort of transaction which banks questioned. His payments to her for computer services were far too small to raise flags. His worries centered around her family, who might have reason to look at and question a bank statement. All it would take was one moment of forgetfulness and a deposit to the business instead of her personal account.
“No problem. I kept my checking account open in Appleton.”
“Good.” He slid out of the booth and pulled out his wallet. Laying a bill on the table, he spoke low. “Envelope’s in the entertainment section. Take time for a hamburger before you leave.”
* * *
“Heel.” Beth tugged Cruiser away from his investigation of a dandelion.
For an early lesson on the leash, the pup was doing fine. She stepped off with her left foot and watched the seven-week-old shepherd bounce along beside her. This one, and his littermates, were bound for foster homes in two weeks. She wanted to get a few of the basics practiced before they were split up and put around a new group of people.
She guided the puppy toward the bridge across the narrow, spring-fed stream which gave Big Cat Farm its name. On the other side stood the 1920s house, plus a few old sheds and ninety acres planted with sunflowers and popcorn.
“Next time, Cruiser. Next time I’ll introduce to you the bridge.” She glanced at the new, pale-gray shingles on the old house. It would take a miracle.
She made a wide turn, reminding herself it was only a dream to live in the old house again. Time moved on. Dreams vanished. By general agreement, the first of the cousins to marry would have the opportunity to live in the house built by their great-grandfather. Anita dated Sam. Carla kept her options open. And Beth—she had the better part of four years on her sentence.
Woof. Woof. Woof.
She turned to see what Dancer and Lottie found interesting enough to bark at. A new, dark-blue SUV rolled into the yard and halted beside Anita’s faded truck. She held back a sigh at the driver’s familiar profile.
“Okay, little guy. Time to go meet our guest. I’m using the term broadly in this case. Dancer. Lottie. No bark.”
At her command, the adult dogs ceased barking but kept their heads pointed toward the visiting vehicle and paced with their tails down. Correcting her charge every few steps to keep him on her left side, Beth advanced across the yard.
Kevin Morse, tall, dark-haired, and with the heavy build of a football player going soft stepped out of the luxury SUV. “Is it safe?”
“They’re good. Working security.” She continued walking until they were within arm’s reach and extended her hand. “Welcome, Kevin. This is unexpected. Why didn’t you call ahead?”
“Forgot to charge my phone last night.”
Liar. She kept her mouth in a straight, serious line. This was likely the first Sunday afternoon all summer that she was alone at the farm. She should have accepted the invitation to join Anita and Carla at the candle sale party. “Sheer luck I’m home.”
“I’m on my way back from Grandmother’s. Thought I’d stop by and see how the world was treating you.”
“Bit of a detour, isn’t it?”
His grandmother lived in the lake house outside of Templeton, fifteen miles from the freeway. Sensible people would get on the four-lane highway and stay on that route all the way home. In Kevin’s case, that meant Rockford, IL. Getting off and driving west on the old federal and state roads to Crystal Springs added at least a hundred miles to his route. Then again, Kevin had never been the most sensible of the Morse clan.
Beth picked up Cruiser and led the way toward a large temporary pen filled with five fast-moving puppies. The rest of his lesson would have to wait. Instead, he’d have a little playtime with his littermates while she practiced good manners with one of her least favorite people.
“Trip’s not bad in daylight. I do tend to miss the last turn in the dark. Need a light at that intersection.”
She laughed as she unsnapped the leash and added Cruiser to the pen. “With Valley Road? Not in this lifetime.”
“Really, Beth. How are you doing?”
“Same as always. Keeping busy. Checking with the Illinois State Police every six months. Getting the same story. Nothing new in the investigation.” She sat at the picnic table and gestured him to join her.
A moment later, Dancer set her head on Beth’s lap, offering a ration of comfort for what might turn out to be a difficult conversation.
Kevin sat beside her, stretched out his legs, and crossed them at the ankles. “You’re still family.”
She rubbed her favorite breeding bitch on the neck and glanced at her visitor. Wearing a light-blue button-down shirt, dress slacks, and gleaming Oxfords, he contrasted with her faded T, worn jeans, and sneakers. And she was well aware the differences went deeper than clothing choices. Her shotgun wedding had meant that Beth was tolerated rather than welcomed into the Morse family—aside from Bruce and his grandmother. And she’d accepted it, never pushing for invitations. They were all happier the more she maintained her distance. Not that she could see where it made much difference now.
This, she thought, was where a gracious hostess offered a cold drink or some of the fresh brownies. But she wasn’t feeling gracious toward her husband’s older brother. She’d disliked him from their first introduction years ago. Still, he was her brother-in-law. Or was it former?
“I’m aware of my status,” she said carefully. “Your parents and I stay in contact. As time passes, we have less in common.”
“Need legal advice? Divorce is still an option.”
She gently pushed Dancer away and bought time by taking off her cap and unbinding her ponytail.
Dancer rested her chin on Keven’s thigh for an instant before his large hand swished her away.
Did he…? No, Dancer’s good reflexes had prevented any actual contact. But it was another little stone-in-the-shoe sort of irritation between her and her guest.
She promptly returned her thoughts to his question. Kevin would need to be the last lawyer on earth for her to seek his counsel. He was in it for the money. While he and Bruce had both attended law school, they’d viewed the profession with different attitudes and goals. Bruce, two months shy of graduation, had disappeared before committing to either of two job offers. Either the growing general practice in a small Wisconsin city or the staff position with an international corporation would have differed considerably from Kevin’s participation in a personal injury firm. Bruce had struggled with other decisions too. Personal choices only he could make. She’d lost countless hours of sleep trying to sketch out the different tracks their lives may have taken if…
If… the most difficult word in the English language.
If she hadn’t gotten pregnant.
If she hadn’t miscarried.
If lust had grown to love.
Too late now. Bruce was… well, not around to ask.
She looked at Kevin, ignoring his similarity to her husband’s dark hair and eyes the rich brown of maple syrup. “Nope. I’m good on the legal front.”
“The family would have been happier if you’d taken his name.”
Beth picked up a tennis ball from the box on the table and tossed it for the dogs. She and Bruce had discussed names before the small, hurried wedding. He’d claimed not to care one way or the other whether she kept the Cosgrove name. His concern was that the child be Morse on his or her birth certificate. “It wasn’t your decision to make. And for about the hundredth time, Cosgrove is a fine name.”
“You could end it with a divorce.”
She sighed.
Since the first anniversary of Bruce’s disappearance, his brother brought up the topic of a divorce. He’d even offered to pay all of the filing fees. “We’ve had this conversation before. It wouldn’t be fair. How would Bruce present his side of the story?”
“It would be legal. Enable you to marry again.”
“Marriage is not on the horizon.”
Stealing a glance at his profile, she wondered again what he would gain if she signed divorce papers. He wasn’t making the offer out of charity. Would a divorce give him a legal claim to the legacy? She’d read the papers included with the small stock portfolio twice in her life, and neither time with an understanding of all the legal fine print. Well, at least the documents were safe in a safe deposit box. In a place he should never think to look. After all, what business did he have with the regional bank headquartered in Eau Claire? And correspondence with the broker? That went to a post office box in Wagoner. Her cousins were aware of the box, but they disliked Kevin more than she did. It was safe. Waiting. An example of the Morse portion of her life.
“Grandmother wants you to visit.”
Beth blinked away surprise at the sudden change of topic. Two, maybe closer to three weeks ago, she’d received a cheerful note from the matriarch of the Morse family. “Is she ill?”
“Sharp as ever. She mentioned you several times in conversation last week.”
“I do owe her a letter. I’ll think about making arrangements to stop in.” She’d study the map and figure out the best time during the puppy deliveries to visit. At least two of the trips would be in that general direction. An hour or two with her best, perhaps only, ally within the Morse family would be welcome. “I understand she’s at the cabin year-round now. Did you help with the winterizing?”
“Not unless you count a new coat of paint in her bedroom.”
“It will be nice to see that house again. I always enjoyed watching sunrise on the dock.” An idyllic image of a cool August morning with a cup of coffee, Bruce beside her, and mist rising from the lake invaded her memory. “Was there a loon this year?” After the initial shock of hearing their call the first time, she’d grown fond of the birds.
“Didn’t hear any. But I do my fishing in the evening, not morning.”
She studied him as the silence between them lengthened. His face had changed a little, the worry lines at the corners of his eyes more noticeable. Did he have a conscience after all?
“Why do you blame me, Beth?”
“You were the last person to see him.” She pressed her lips and let the words building in her throat wither. Is he dead? Did you kill him?
Chapter Five
Jackson hid a smile as he read the Monday morning date from the single day calendar beside the large, plain wall clock. After signing his name and adding the time to the sign-in log, he skimmed over the previous entries to get a feel for the number of visitors at the River County Jail. As expected, several days fit on one form, a contrast to the urban area across the state.
The deputy at the desk asked the routine questions. “Any weapons? Contraband?”
Jackson set his keys and phone into a plastic bin. A moment later, he added the change from his pocket. “No. Nothing more hazardous than a pen.”
The deputy stepped forward and skimmed the metal detecting wand over Jackson from head to ankles and back up again. “Good to go. Second door on the left. We’ll bring your client in presently.”
“Thank you.”
He entered the sparse room and settled into an uncomfortable metal chair. While waiting to meet Mr. Joshua Clark, he removed a fresh legal pad and a thin manila file from his briefcase.
A middle-aged man in orange jail scrubs hesitated in the doorway. “Who…?”
“Step forward, Josh. You know the drill.” The deputy nudged the man forward and steered him toward the remaining chair.
“Jackson Dray. Your attorney.” He pushed a business card to the center of the table.
The deputy lifted his brows at Jackson as if inquiring of the need to chain the client to the available eyebolt.
Taking a second look at his client, Jackson shook his head. “We’re good.”
“If you need anything, I’ll be outside, within earshot.”
“I’ll let you know when we’re done.”
Jackson continued his visual inspection of his first criminal client in River County. Mr. Clark appeared to need a shave and time to sleep off too much liquid refreshment.
“Expected an older man.” Mr. Clark propped his arms on the table and looked at the world through red-rimmed eyes.
“Assault. Breaking and entry. Destruction of property. You have serious charges against you, Mr. Clark.”
“Call me Josh. Where’s the old lawyer? Mr. White.”
“Mr. White is not available.” Evidently his client didn’t read the local paper or he would know that Clarence White had retired, citing health reasons, at the beginning of the month. The paper had published a nice story, complete with a photo from the retirement party. “You called the firm and were assigned to me. Just for the record, you are not my first client. I’ve done this for a few years in another county.”
“Doctors and lawyers get younger all the time.” Josh draped half his body over the table. “You got any aspirin? My head aches fierce.”
“No medicine. You’ll need to ask the deputy. Later.” Jackson set aside the arrest report. “Tell me what happened. All of it. Starting about ten last night until you walked into this room a couple minutes ago.”
“Don’t remember it all.”
“Do your best. Where were you around ten last night?”
“Work. I remember that. Second shift at Double Goode. Clocked out and joined a couple friends for a brew at the Corner Bar.”
“Remember the names of these friends?”
Jackson jotted notes with his favorite mechanical pencil. He guided Josh through the events of the next several hours, prodding memories and getting clarification of local landmarks.
“Terrible racket at the door this morning. Indecent hour. Sheriff Patricia Bergstrom,” Josh growled the name. “She and a deputy stood on my doorstep. Not more than a few questions in, she slaps on the cuffs, brings me here. Heck of a way to wake up. Didn’t gather enough wits to ask for a lawyer until into the second cup of coffee.”
“What’s done is done. I’ll be requesting a bail hearing for later today. Is there anyone in particular I should contact? Do you have a relative who could help you make the payment?” He glanced at the arrest history of “drunk and disorderly” charges and one “destruction of federal property” when Josh had run over a mailbox. “It might be high.”
“Not gonna run. No place to run to. Own my house free and clear. That count?”
“I’ll look into it.”
Josh leaned back and adjusted his shoulder. “I’ll be straight with you, Mr. Lawyer. I ain’t gonna shed any tears over Mr. Marsh. He and I didn’t agree on much. Whole town knows it. But I didn’t beat him like they say. I got that alibi.”
“Yes, I’ve got it in my notes. Your coworkers, neighbors, and the bartender are on my list of people to interview.”
“The girl. Don’t forget her. Sweet little thing. Didn’t catch her name.”
“You talked with her?” Jackson glanced back at his notes. His client had mentioned she was getting gas at the place on the east side of town at the same time he’d stopped to put air in a low tire.
“Naw. Didn’t strike me as the proper place to approach.” Josh ran a hand over his unshaven jaw.
“We’ll find her. Anything else?” If she existed. He’d put Daryl on her trail while he sorted lies from fact in his client’s version of events.
Jackson slipped the folder and his notes into his briefcase. The rambling narrative indicated a strong possibility his client was guilty. That didn’t matter as much as the man being cooperative. He could present a defense for a guilty man. It always went better, of course, if the witnesses could be located and ag
reed with each other. But the first item of importance was to present enough facts and assurances for the judge to set reasonable bail. And most important of all—he wanted Mr. Marsh to survive his injuries.
* * *
Beth pointed at her throat and reached for her water bottle. “Can you give me five?”
“Take six. I’m feeling generous.” Daryl swapped two pieces of music on the organ stand and sent a small, uneven smile in her direction.
She held a mouthful of water for a beat before swallowing. Practicing a solo with a perfectionist was exhausting. Shaking her head, she turned and studied the altar and focal point cross of Springs Community Church. The sight was familiar, yet still new each time she entered the sanctuary.
A solo. At a funeral. In front of strangers. She glanced back at Daryl and admired the man’s power of persuasion. While she enjoyed singing in the choir, and had even volunteered to participate in the occasional piece for a trio, a solo was a different class of exposure. Had he caught her at a weak moment? Still recovering from Kevin’s visit?
She shrugged and advanced close enough to read the inscription on one of the ornate candlesticks. In memory of Benjamin J. Cosgrove. Great-Grandpa. Old Ben. Even though he’d died when her father was still in elementary school, the man continued to dominate family history conversations. A few of the elderly members of the community remembered him as a smart businessman, farmer, and carpenter. Others whispered about a still during Prohibition and how illegal money had built the new house. Old house now. It did have a new roof. And they’d installed new windows in all but the kitchen and dining room before the sunflowers failed and the lawsuit started. The remaining windows, new furnace, and other major repairs were on hold, waiting in line behind taxes, groceries, and gas.
“Anita and Sam will fix it up nice,” she whispered.
Memories of the year she’d lived in the house with her mother, brother, and grandfather drifted in. Her father had been ordered for a year of duty in a war zone when he decided his family should get to know his home community. For her, it had been a good year. A good place to attend fifth grade. She’d gotten to know Carla, Uncle Joe, and Aunt Connie. Grandpa, Young Ben, had told hundreds of stories about farming decades ago. Part of her, a section behind a locked door, longed to live in the house again—with a modern furnace this time.