Sanctuary Lost WITSEC Town Series Book 1

by Lisa Phillips

  “Do you really speak Spanish?”

  Andra said, “I certainly do,” in the language she’d spoken from childhood all the way until she left the boarding school in Barcelona and got lost in the world.

  Pat smiled. “Will you teach me?”

  She switched back to English. “If you want.”

  Aaron picked up the crate. “All Aaron and Pat.” His eyes settled beyond her, over her shoulder.

  It was his way, and she’d never minded people who needed their world to be ordered and unchanging. She knew what it was like to suddenly find she was somewhere the rules made no sense. Even this life of peace that surpassed understanding probably made the least sense of all the versions of herself that she’d been. Metamorphosis. It was deep but she’d had plenty of time alone to think about it.

  Boot-steps stomped up the hill and the man came into view as he trod across the grass to her cabin.

  John. Great.

  “Dad!” Pat hugged the sheriff around the hips. “We delivered the mail and Andra gave us lemonade.”

  Andra pressed her lips together while Aaron crossed the clearing to the sheriff.

  “That’s awesome, Pat. But don’t you have an appointment at school?”

  “Ah, man.”

  Aaron gripped the crate. “Checks, no balances. Break okay. School. All in good time.”

  It sounded like Aaron had it figured out.

  John squeezed his son’s shoulder. “You boys get going and keep an eye on the clock okay?” He watched them go and then strode to Andra’s porch. The man was huge. At least a foot taller than her, with his hair shaved short on the sides and not much longer on top, revealing the square shape of his head. His shoulders were broad and his shirt and pants still had horizontal creases from being folded up in the packaging.

  “I don’t suppose you’re here for lemonade?”

  All trace of the pleasantness he showed his son was gone from his face. And why did that bother her? He thought she was a murderer.

  “I don’t put that much sugar in it but it’s not poisoned.”

  John folded his arms. “I’ll be speaking to Pat about coming to your cabin without checking with me first but that’s not why I’m here. I knew they had mail for you.”

  Andra sat on her steps, pulled her knees up and stared at the trees. “My door is open. Feel free to check but I can tell you now none of the knives in my kitchen are missing.”

  “You see, here’s the thing.” He cocked his head to the side. “Now I’m wondering how you could possibly know Betty Collins was killed with a knife?”

  Chapter 10

  She didn’t move. John stood still and watched for her to react. There was nothing about this woman that said, “Murderer.” But then, some people were bad underneath that veneer of sweetness and light and it was hard to tell what was below the surface.

  She held her gaze on the landscape. “Everyone was talking about it at church.”

  “You didn’t have a conversation with anyone except me.”

  “I overheard at least two different sets of people talking about how they saw Betty Collins before her body was removed. I drew my own conclusions.”

  “The body is on the plane now. I sent it off this morning.”

  Andra stood and brushed off the seat of her jeans. The sun had gone behind the clouds, casting her into dim light that seemed to mute the world around them. She turned and ducked inside. Was he supposed to leave? He looked out at the trees surrounding her clearing. There was almost no noise up here. It was weird.

  John grabbed the forgotten envelope from the porch step and followed her inside.

  On the left two rustic armchairs faced a wood stove. Beside that was a crammed bookcase, against the wall. A stack of four books was on the floor beside one of the armchairs and none of the titles were in English.

  The kitchen was to the right along with a small table and two chairs. In the center of the table sat a glass jar of dirt in which a plant with one big green leaf and not much else was growing. Beyond the living room was a single door he figured led to a bedroom and bathroom. In the far corner there was a fiddle on a stand beside a taller music stand with sheets of paper—music notes.

  Andra pulled a container from the fridge and dumped the contents into a skillet on the stovetop. She pulled out a jar a tub of sour cream and a package of tortillas.

  John set the envelope on the dining table. It was written to Andra Caleri with a USO address and the return address was Cartagena, España but didn’t have a name. Andra strode over, swiped the envelope off the table and took it to the stove. She set it on the window ledge beside another tiny potted plant.

  Guess that answers that question.

  They couldn’t talk about the case being as she was technically the lead suspect. And beyond her statement there wasn’t much that could be said between them during the course of his investigation. Still, John wanted to know…her.

  “So, what’s with the Spanish thing?”

  The ghost of a smile curled her lips. “I like it.”

  “I guess. I mean it’s not just a method of communication, even if it’s something you share with Olympia that creates a distance between you and everyone else. When you converse in Spanish you do it because you enjoy it as well as the privacy it gives you. It means something to you.”

  She shook her head, eyes on what looked like chicken that she stirred in the skillet. “How could you possibly know that?”

  He glanced at the books. “Plus every book you have is written in Spanish.”

  “I dream in Spanish, too.” Her voice was low, and he wasn’t sure she meant to say that out loud. From the looks of it, her dreams probably weren’t good.

  She pulled out two plates and made up three burritos, which she brought to the table. Andra set the plate of two on his side and pulled out her chair.

  Evidently, he was staying for lunch.

  “How do you know I haven’t eaten?”

  “Have you?”

  “No.” He sat.

  Her lips twitched and they ate. John could smell the dirt in the pot on the table and the burrito was a spicy blend of tomato and peppers. “This is delicious.”

  “I lived in Barcelona. I went to an all-girls Catholic boarding school where the nuns ruled with wooden rulers and the math problems made your eyes hurt.”

  He smiled.

  “I left before the end of my final year, so technically I never graduated.” She lifted her chin as though challenging him to think less of her.

  “I’d guess your parents had something to say about that.”

  “I never really saw them but maybe three or four times after I was twelve. They travelled a lot. The Med. I think they had a place in New York.” She stared at her plate. “After I left school I didn’t see much of a reason to visit them. Not if they couldn’t be bothered to see me.”

  “Do you know where they are now?”

  She shrugged, neither confirming nor denying. “What’s the point? It isn’t like they want to know me.”

  He wanted to reach out but she was sitting back in her chair. He could offer his hand, but then there would be that awkward wait to see if she put hers in it.

  “Where did you go after you left school?”

  She lifted her gaze, her eyes dark with something he couldn’t begin to decipher.

  “I couldn’t imagine being alone at that age.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Why’d you leave?”

  She didn’t speak for a minute. “You really haven’t read my file?”

  John held her gaze. “I want to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. I’d planned to read all the files, but if I do that then I’m getting to know everyone through the lens of who they were and the things they’ve done. So maybe that wouldn’t be fair.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Eventually I’ll probably look some people up, just to save time.” He smiled. “It might be worth the benefit of the doubt in most cases. But I’ve been
a little preoccupied, what with the dead body and all.”

  She froze.

  “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. But I did mean to do some research. Now I’ll probably end up reading Betty Collins’ file first.”

  Her brow flickered, like she questioned whose he would have read first had it not been for Betty Collins’ death. The answer was hers, but she didn’t need to know that. “Anything you want to tell me about her?”

  She said nothing.

  “Your relationship with her?”

  Silence.

  “Why someone would accuse you of Betty’s murder?”

  **

  Andra pushed her plate away, her burrito half eaten. She’d shared more with John than anyone else since the U.S. attorney wanted to know what she knew—at least from her adult life. Why hadn’t he checked her file?

  At first she’d been sure he came to arrest her, waiting until the boys were gone so he didn’t put her in handcuffs in front of his son. If he’d read her file he probably wouldn’t even have made that consideration. She would already be in jail at the sheriff’s office.

  He was waiting for her to answer.

  Andra should probably tell him. Instead, she settled for answering no more than the question he had asked. “No, I have no idea why Harriet would say that.”

  No one knew, because if they did they wouldn’t leave her on her mountain, despite the stories of her running off visitors—which was ridiculous. It was only the one time and she’d been mostly nice to the skinny guy who bussed tables at the diner. She hadn’t even threatened him.

  “She mentioned an incident at the medical center. What happened there?”

  “That was two years ago.” Andra sighed. “She kept me waiting to see the doctor for two hours. I was mad.”

  “That’s understandable, when you’re sick and probably not feeling well.”

  “I’d broken my arm falling from one of the ridges up the hill. Nurse Harriet squeezed it, said she couldn’t feel anything and sent me to sit down.”

  Andra took the plates to the sink. Why did she tell him that? Now he was going to think she was just telling him all this…her parents, her arm…just to make him feel sorry for her. He probably thought she let him stay so she could persuade him she was actually the victim in all this. Betty Collins might be dead, but some people would try to save their own skin. If they were guilty or if they figured—given their pasts—a jury of their peers would not be kind.

  He moved from the edge of her vision until he was at the sink beside her. “I don’t know what to say.”

  She didn’t either. She wasn’t any good at this. Her past proved that at least. Andra’s life had been about dodging the law, while John brought justice. “La compasión triunfa en el juicio.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She smiled to the sink. “Mercy triumphs over judgment.”

  “Since when?” He shifted and she turned to him. “That makes no sense. Judgment is the truth. It’s the punishment appropriate to the crime. Mercy is only for the innocent. It can’t beat out judgment, that wouldn’t be right.”

  His face was incredulous.

  It made her lips twitch. “The law man has spoken.”

  They were doomed.

  “It just makes no sense, is all.”

  “I get that.” She smiled and took a step back. “But sometimes mercy is a whole lot more powerful than judgment. Think about WITSEC. Judgment would be right. But sometimes granting mercy gains more than judgment ever could.”

  “That’s a bargain.”

  “The best kind. Both sides win; both the one who grants mercy and the recipient.”

  John shook his head. “I get that. Mentally, I understand what you’re talking about.”

  “Perhaps you have to receive it in order to fully understand the implications. It’s not something I take lightly.”

  “You seem to have made peace with it.”

  “It’s been a long time.” She squeezed her fingers together in front of her. “Sometimes I think it’s more that mercy has made peace with me. If I beat myself up about it, what good would that do? Accepting it releases me to move on.”

  “I’m glad.”

  John didn’t seem like the kind of man who ever had to work through anything. He simply…was. Sure, there was likely some depth to him. Would he ever let her see it? And if he did, how could she resist wanting to know more?

  He ran a hand through his hair, shifting so the light reflected off his badge. “I should get back to work. Thank you for your time.”

  She’d opened herself up and he was just going to say, “See ya?” Could she even ask for more, though? Likely not, when he was investigating a murder she may or may not have committed. Not considering when he was done, he would never speak to her again.

  “One more thing.”

  Andra waited.

  “What do you do for work?”

  “Work?”

  “Yes. Everyone in town has to earn a living.” He glanced around. “Your lifestyle doesn’t appear to require a significant amount of means, but you still probably work. I’m curious. Humor me.”

  Andra shrugged off the whole “trust fund” thing, since she got bored once in a while so she did actually have a job. Was she supposed to be offended her life didn’t look like much of anything in the opinion of Sheriff John Mason? He didn’t have to live up here. This was what she’d chosen, for her own reasons.

  “I prepare taxes.”

  “For everyone in town?”

  “Some of them at least. I’m busy from January to April, but the rest of the year I can kick back because I earned enough to sustain my insignificant lifestyle.”

  “Andra—”

  “You’re right. You should be getting back to work.”

  **

  John leaned back in his chair and ran his hands down his face while the phone in the office rang. That hadn’t gone well at all. Well, parts of it had been good. Like when Andra told him about her school and her family, and her accent had thickened. Despite the fact her parents essentially abandoned her, a smile still played on the edges of her lips when she spoke of them. Was there an old school friend she remembered? That could be who had written the letter to her.

  He liked that idea more than thinking on the animosity Harriet and the mayor both had for her. Olympia and Andra appeared to have a close relationship, though he hadn’t been able to understand what they were saying. The soft look on Andra’s face that said she welcomed Olympia’s mothering and the comfortable way they had with each other spoke loud enough.

  The phone rang again, so he turned to Dotty. “Are you going to get that?”

  One eyebrow rose. “That’s your satellite phone. I’m not authorized.”

  John straightened in his seat. “Right. Sorry.” She waved away his concern, and he pulled the satellite phone that was his radio off his belt. “Yeah, Mason.”

  There was a second of silence on the other end and then Grant huffed. “Nice to hear from you, too. I got your delivery.”

  “And the autopsy?”

  “Should be completed within the week. Soon as I have the results, you’ll be the first to know. I’ll send you hard copies.” Grant paused a beat. “Do you know how difficult it is to get the military to ignore a dead body? Let alone take my paperwork at face value without asking a million questions. Getting shot was more pleasurable than that experience.”

  John gritted his teeth. He had to let Grant get it out. There was no one else his brother could say something like that to. “I’m sure.”

  If he was base commander and the marshals wanted to transfer a body on his runway, they’d sure have to explain who it was and where it came from. Not to mention what they were doing with it.

  Grant said, “How is the investigation coming?”

  Palmer strode in a paper cup in one hand. John could have used a coffee.

  “No solid suspects, nothing conclusive as far as evidence. No witnesses yet, just the two guys wh
o found the body. I have more people to talk to but it’s hard since I’m still learning how things are done around here.”

  The murder couldn’t have come at a worse time. Well, for Betty Collins it probably would have been better if it hadn’t happened at all. But John would’ve liked at least a week or so to get the rhythm of this place and the people who lived here. As it was, he was going on gut instinct trying to figure out who was honest and who was stringing him along.

  He didn’t like it. And if it put his son in danger then heads were going to roll. He didn’t care the marshal’s service had offered these people his protection.

  “Murder weapon?”

  John lowered the phone and looked at Palmer. “Do we have the murder weapon?”

  The deputy shrugged and turned to his computer. “Nope.”

  Great. John’s stomach clenched. “It hasn’t been found, yet.” The last word he tacked on more as a wish than anything else. It didn’t matter how much he wanted it, that wasn’t going to happen. Going out and scouring every inch of town would up the odds but they might still never get their hands on it.

  “I want this wrapped up, Johnny.” Grant had slipped into big brother mode. “The congressional committee is breathing down my neck about the amount of money the tests on this evidence is going to cost. I want to be able to report back that the killer has been found. Tell me you have an idea of who it was.”

  “You know I can’t do that. I have nothing more than accusations and I won’t have a witch hunt when there’s no evidence to back it up. At least, nothing more than a grudge.”

  “Who is it? Who is the finger being pointed at?”

  John squeezed his free hand into a fist. “Andra Caleri.”

  Palmer jerked. An interesting reaction but not one John could follow up on just that moment. Grant reacted also, his voice muffled but John heard a few choice words. “I don’t believe that. Get to the bottom of this, Johnny.”

  “What don’t I know?”

  “Now I know you haven’t read her file.”

  “I will.” He would rather she told him.

  Andra had steered clear of that part of her life at lunch but he needed her to be honest with him. Okay, more honest than she already had been. He wanted to rule her out and he needed her help to do that. There was no way she killed Betty Collins. He just couldn’t see it, not with her beliefs dictating her actions now. Surely Christianity didn’t advocate murder.