“I’m a what, Ethan?”
“No offense, Peach,” Ethan said. “I just don’t think you’re the right woman for the job.”
A loud knock on the front door brought Morgan to her feet.
“Morgan?” Sheriff Stallard stood on the front porch, squinting through the dusty screen. Kamikaze moths dive-bombed the globed porch light beside her head.
“I didn't hear you drive up,” Morgan said.
“Deputy Nelson is in skulk mode tonight.” Sheriff Stallard nodded to the six-foot-four man standing behind her.
Deputy Nelson grinned. “Hey, Morgan.”
“Hey, Ron,” Morgan said. “Come on in.” Ron ducked his head under the doorframe. He hadn’t changed much since he and Sean had graduated high school together. He still had the same shock of straight blond hair falling into his brown puppy dog eyes and the same sigh inducing, hard won muscles straining at the sleeves of his deputy uniform.
“Is Sean here?” Ron asked. “The guys at Bad Moon Rising said Ethan drove him home.”
“He’s here,” Morgan said. “But he's passed out. He’s taking Harlan’s death pretty hard.”
“Then we'd better get him sobered up,” Sheriff Stallard said. “I'm going to have to take him down to the station, honey. I have a warrant for his arrest.”
Peach catapulted off the couch. “You what?”
“No!” Morgan cried. “I don’t understand. What are you arresting him for? He didn't drive drunk. Ethan brought him home.”
“Calm down,” Sheriff Stallard said. “And sit down. In fact, you’d all better sit down.”
“We’re not sitting down,” Ethan said. “Not until you tell us what’s going on.” He slid his arm around Morgan protectively.
The sheriff nodded. “As it turns out, your father’s death was a very nasty business.” She and Deputy Nelson exchanged looks. “Ethan, I know this will be a shock. But your father was stabbed on his left side. Repeatedly.”
Ethan stared at her. “What do you mean, stabbed? I didn't see any stab wounds.”
“Neither did the coroner. Not at first. Not with all the blood. Our department isn't used to handling things like this. The crime lab from Cherokee Bluff came over to help, and—”
“And you think Sean did it?” Morgan's mouth went dry. “That’s ridiculous. What evidence do you have?”
“Sean may have been the last person to see Harlan alive. A witness noticed his truck parked in the Spannagel's driveway, then saw Sean and Harlan walk down the path to the slaughterhouse.”
“Mrs. Cowden, right?” Morgan's voice cracked. “It was her, wasn’t it? One word from that nosy old crone, and you're out here arresting my brother for murder? Come on, Teresa.”
“Listen, Morgan,” the sheriff said. “You'd better be grateful Mrs. Cowden spends her days looking out her upstairs window because she's your alibi. If she places Sean at the scene of the crime, near the approximate time of death, then I have to question him.”
“Then question him here,” Morgan said.
The sheriff glanced at Ethan and hesitated. “There’s more. We found a knife smeared with blood in the slaughterhouse. A large pocket knife with the initials SRM and a four-leaf clover engraved on it. I'm pretty sure it belongs to Sean.”
“Sean Robert Maguire,” Peach whispered. “But you don't think—you can’t think—”
“Everybody knows that knife belongs to Sean,” Morgan said. “The 4-H Club presented it to him on Appreciation Day for donating part of the orchard for their mentoring program. The whole town saw them give it to him.”
“Then you see why I have to take him in,” Sheriff Stallard said. “It's classic probable cause. I have no choice.”
“Sean's not an idiot,” Morgan said. “If he stabbed Harlan with his own knife, a knife with his initials on it, he'd have the IQ of a wet sock.”
“You think I killed Harlan?”
Morgan spun around. “Sean!”
Sean stood in the doorway, clutching the empty waste can in front of him like a feedbag.
“I heard wha’ you said,” Sean said, slurring his words. “I was at Harlan's house, but I din’ hurt him.” His eyes tried to focus on Morgan's face. “I couldn't hurt him. I didn't.” He looked at Peach. “Wha’aryou doin’ here? I told you to leave me alone. Why are you here?” He turned to Morgan. “Why is she here?”
“He’s definitely intoxicated,” the sheriff said. “Anything he says while he's under the influence is inadmissible. When he sobers up tomorrow, we'll read him his rights.”
“Screw that.” Sean stumbled into the room. “Aren't any of you listening to me?”
“You were in the slaughterhouse with Dad?” Ethan said. “Why?”
“I followed him home because he was sick. He was alive when I left him. I swear.” He fell forward. The waste can rolled across the floor and bounced off the side of the upright piano.
“Let's get him to the car,” Sheriff Stallard said.
“I'll get my purse,” Morgan said.
“There's no reason for you to come down tonight,” the sheriff said. “We're just gonna put him in a room and let him sleep it off. We won't question him until tomorrow.”
“When?” Morgan asked.
“Tomorrow, honey. As soon as he wakes up.”
“Before eight o’clock?”
“More like nine,” the sheriff said.
“I’ll be there at eight.”
Morgan collected Sean’s shoes from the bedroom and handed them to Deputy Nelson. Her eyes filled with tears as he and Sheriff Stallard helped Sean to the car. Sean slid into the backseat and collapsed in the corner. His head lolled to the side.
“They’re taking him away!” Peach wailed, sounding exactly like her daughter.
“Come on, Peach,” Ethan said wearily. “We can’t do anything about it tonight. I’ll drop you off at Bad Moon to get your car.”
Morgan caught his arm. “Look, I don't know what happened to your father. But I know Sean didn't have anything to do with it.”
Ethan nodded, his eyes full of pity. “I’m sure he didn’t.”
“He didn’t, Ethan.” She stared at him. “He didn’t. He didn’t! “
“I believe you.” He put his cool hands on either side of her face. “It’ll be okay, Morgana.”
“Morgana? You haven’t called me that in a long time. Not since we were twelve.”
“Morgana, half-sister to King Arthur. The most powerful enchantress in Avalon.”
She smiled. “Spoken like a true video game geek.”
“Well, you’ve always had me under a spell.” He tilted her head down and kissed her forehead. “Now, go. Get some rest.”
Morgan leaned against the porch railing while the two cars disappeared down the dark road. The cold night air coated her skin like a thin layer of frost. Fear pressed against her chest until it hurt to breathe. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t gather her wits. What mind she had left had turned to sludge. She paced the length of the huge wraparound porch, around and back again, until she wanted to scream.
She’d better hustle to move past the shock and get a grip on reality before her life came crashing down around her. There were decisions to be made, and she was the only one who could make them. Her step-grandmother was useless in a crisis. When disaster struck, Opal Maguire went to pieces, beautifully, and managed to snag the center of attention. She fluttered around like Aunt Pittypat, thumping her chest with a lavender hankie, pulling the blinds closed, knocking back crystal cordials of cream sherry until she fell asleep on the living room sofa. Opal coped by not coping. Then complained loudly how the chips fell.
With each lap around the porch, Morgan tried to shake some sense back into her brain. Sean was innocent. She knew that as well as she knew her own name. People loved Sean, admired him, wanted to be like him. He was sweet and kindhearted and good. And not just on the surface, like so many of the so-called God-fearing people who lived on the mountain. But in the deepest part of his soul whe
re it counted.
A gust of air lashed against her neck. A shiver swept across her shoulders, then down her spine to her toes. Someone walking over her grave, the old people called it.
The forgotten strings of the tiny white lights Sean had wrapped around the fence posts at Christmas twinkled softly, warmly, as if the people inside were standing by the fireplace, waiting for their holiday guests to arrive. Morgan walked to the end of the porch and yanked the electrical cord out of the socket, plunging the upper half of the driveway into darkness. As she stood, staring into the night, Opal’s ceramic wind chimes jangled over her head.
She wrapped her arms around a post and gazed up at the stars. She should tell Opal about Sean’s arrest before the Riverbirch grapevine reached Grace Church Village. She wasn’t sure Opal really cared all that much about her or Sean, but it was the right thing to do. But what would she say? How could she explain what she didn't understand herself?
Fresh tears welled up in her eyes. The world has gone batshit crazy. First Harlan dying, then Gage Kirkland showing up out of the blue, and now...this? Her brother getting arrested for a crime he could not have committed? She’d looked after Sean for most of his life, taught herself how keep the big, bad ugly world at bay for him. How was she going to pull it off this time?
Morgan had arrived on the planet four minutes ahead of Sean, but she’d always felt years older. It was natural she should look out for him. She’d been born the tough one, the skeptical one, the one with the acid tongue who could drive the school bullies away. Even while their parents were alive, Sean had needed her protection. His tender, trusting heart was a flashing neon sign to the sharks and misfits of the world, a magnet for every lowlife with a hard luck story and an outstretched hand. Her brother gave everyone the benefit of the doubt, and she would never understand how he could continue to see the good in people she wouldn't trust as far as she could throw a piano.
How could she help him now? This wasn’t as simple as reading Clyde Jenkins the Riot Act for throwing a Fourth of July sparkler at her brother. This was a murder charge. According to Sheriff Stallard, someone had deliberately killed Harlan Spannagel. But if Sean didn’t do it, then who had? And why were they trying to pin it on her brother?
She glanced up at the sky. “I have to stay strong,” she whispered. “No matter what happens, I cannot fall apart.”
The soft roar of a car engine droned in the distance. Across the road, twin headlight beams flashed the side of the Jenkins’ barn.
Morgan's heart picked up speed. She stood frozen, waiting. Would the car pass the entrance to the orchard or turn in at the gate? The sound drew closer, echoing off the side of the mountain until it burst into the open. A long black van turned into the driveway and cut its lights.
Her first instinct was to run for the front door and bathe herself in the brilliant rectangle of light spilling onto the porch.
Her second, more rational instinct was to slip into the shadows. Her left hand coiled around the cordless phone in her pocket. Her right hand picked up the garden trowel she'd left beside a concrete planter.
The van stopped a few feet from the utility pole.
The door opened. A man, shorter than Finch but taller than Mendoza, stepped out, unfolding his long legs one by one.
Chapter 4
“Stay where you are!” Morgan cried. “I have a weapon!”
Gage didn’t move. Beneath the mercury vapor lamp, his shadow stretched across the ground in front of him like a dark crack in the earth.
“Morgan.” His low baritone sounded distorted and gruff, as if his voice had pushed her name through the thick night air. “It’s Gage.”
“What are you doing here?”
He stepped forward and cupped his hand over his eyes to shield them from the glare. Beneath the light, all he could make out was her silhouette standing beside the porch swing. If her weapon of choice was a loaded gun, and it was pointed at him, he hoped she knew what she was doing.
“I asked you a question,” she said.
“I’m here to beg a favor.”
“Well, that’s easy. The answer is no.”
“Look,” he said. “I get that you don't want to see me. I understand. More than you know, probably. But I can’t change the past.”
“Neither can I. Go away.”
“I need—”
“I don’t care what you need. Get back in your big black car and drive toward the mountain. Or off the mountain. Your choice.”
“Not a good time to stop by, huh?”
A long, silent pause. “No, Gage, this isn’t a good time. This is a terrible time. The only thing that could make this time any worse was if I was covered head-to-toe with poison oak and had scarfed down the Fried Clam Special at Maxie’s Diner. I can’t talk to you right now. I can’t talk to anybody.”
He reached out his hand as if he were approaching a skittish colt and edged closer. “I know you’ve had a bad day, but please, hear me out.”
“A bad day? Are you serious?” She laughed harshly. “This just keeps getting better and better.”
“It’s about Jeremy. I’m here because of my son.”
Another long, interminable pause. She glanced at the stars, sighed, looked back down. Then she moved out of the shadows and stood beside the porch railing. “Oh, what the hell,” she said tiredly. “Come on up.”
The night air, humid and cool at the same time, fueled his imagination. As he neared the house, he thought he could feel her heartbeat thrumming deep within his chest, pulling him toward her. But maybe it was his own heart flailing against his ribcage, hard enough to stall his breath, like something held captive inside him trying to break free.
He chided himself for not calling first. The last thing he wanted to do was scare her, or throw suspicion on himself. He was there to do a job. He shouldn't be hanging around her house at night while she was home. It was unprofessional and incompetent, and a gross conflict of interest. Something he’d never cared much about honoring before. But this time was different. This time he gave a damn.
He had solid reasons for saying yes to Tyson, but the cool impassivity he thought he could maintain long enough to satisfy his curiosity about Morgan had taken a dive. Right off the edge of the earth. One look at her and every screwed up fiber of his being knew that this time, if his heart stayed intact, it would be a bloody miracle.
“What about Jeremy? Is he all right?”
“He's fine.” Gage glanced at the trowel and chuckled softly. “Is that your weapon? What were you going to do, plant one on me?”
“I still might.” She set the trowel on the railing and crossed her arms over her chest, which every man who had ever tried to talk to an angry woman knew was Body Language 101 for Stay the hell away from me.
“Jeremy?” she prodded. “The reason you’re here?”
It was too late to turn back. Gage swallowed hard. “Those things Jeremy said about his mother's death, I...I feel like I need to explain. When Suzanne, my ex-wife, died, we’d been divorced for five years.”
“Please.” Morgan held up her hands. “You do not have to tell me this.”
“Yes, I do.” Gage stepped up on the porch, barely missing a basket of raggedy geraniums.
She looked at him then glanced at the geraniums. “Then you’d better sit down before you brain yourself.”
He sunk into the wicker armchair and tried to decide the best way to start. Why hadn’t he planned what he was going to say before he jumped in the car and tore over the mountain to Riverbirch? Why hadn’t he thought things through? He should know by now that spontaneity always got him into trouble.
He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. The words weren’t exactly pouring out. He took a deep breath and clasped his hands in front of him, like a preacher signaling for the congregation to bow their heads. Then he took another breath. “Jeremy lost his mother two months ago, and he's a mess right now. He keeps lashing out at me, hoping to make me hurt as much as he does. I'm sur
e you've figured that out. But I want you to know I did not kill his mother.”
“I didn’t think you did.”
“It was an accident. She pulled out of the driveway into the path of an oncoming car. There were extenuating circumstances which Jeremy blames me for. Actually, he blames me for all of it. But I did not—I could never—” He lifted his eyes and looked at her. “I don't want you to think badly of me.”
“That's why you came back here tonight? So I won't think badly of you?”
“Yes. I mean, no. I just—”
“Well, I do think badly of you. I'll always think badly of you.”
“You don't mean that.”
“Why not? I can think badly of you if I want to. Most girls have a guy in their past they wish they'd never met. You're mine. Of course, most girls don't get to experience the thrill of having the guy show up out of the blue twelve years later. With his kid. On the worst day of their lives.”
“If I'd known you were going to find a dead body today, I would have waited until tomorrow to show up.”
She leveled her gaze at him. “I can’t tell you how much better that makes me feel.”
“Morgan, please. I wish you could—” He stopped. It was no use. Nothing he said would ever change her mind about him. He had set their destiny in motion. She hated him. He had to accept that and let her go. He would never deserve a second chance with her, and that couldn’t have hurt more than a punch to his gut. Why did he care so much, after all this time, what she thought of him? Because seeing her again had awakened something deep inside he'd forgotten could even exist? Because the desire he'd felt for her the autumn he turned twenty-two was the elusive high he'd been chasing, and never come close to duplicating, with every woman who'd made a quick detour through his life?
“I could use a drink,” she said. “Do you want a beer?”
“Sure.”
“Then I'd like to hear more about Jeremy. He reminds me of a heartbroken kid I used to know.”
A Shadow on the Ground Page 6