“This is Brian Willard.”
“Natasha’s father?”
“That’s right.” His deep southern drawl was laced with fatigue and she guessed a hangover. “I understand you took my daughter.”
“Excuse me?”
“She was at your place last night. I don’t appreciate you taking my girl like that.”
“Well then, Mr. Willard, I suggest you call the cops. Oh, wait. Are you calling from jail? If you are, then it should be easy to report me. And then we’ll see who ends up on the right side of this argument.”
“I’m out of jail, and I don’t know who the hell you are, but you ain’t getting away with stealing my kid. I’m calling the police.”
“Thank you for taking my suggestion.” Her white-knuckle grip on the phone radiated up her arm.
“Smartass . . .” was all she heard as she hung up on him.
What a loser. She’d not had a father, and there were plenty of times she’d yearned for one. But at least she didn’t have to deal with an ass like Mr. Willard.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Lucy
January 16, 2018
Lucy locked the front door seconds after she hung up with Brian Willard. She considered calling Hank, but she’d known him all of one day and didn’t want him thinking she couldn’t handle what appeared to be a drunken bully. She’d managed her share of drunks working in the Nashville bar scene.
She returned to the parlor, turned on the VCR again, and restarted the second video. She pulled one of the wingback chairs closer.
The image flickered back up on the screen. It was still amazingly good quality, given its age and the technology at the time. The older woman in the chair was positioned next to a bank of windows. The chair in the video was the same one Lucy sat in now, and it was placed almost in the exact spot it had been in thirty years ago.
She hit “Pause,” studied the room, and realized it hadn’t changed at all. Time marched on outside, but in Winter Cottage, it spun in place.
She watched Beth clip the microphone to the woman’s collar. Again, she hit “Pause,” wanting to really look at the woman who’d reached out of nowhere and brought her to this house. Hank and everyone in the town apparently had no idea why she had inherited the property, and she certainly was no closer to an answer herself. Maybe Mrs. Buchanan and Beth would drop her a clue if she watched.
She pressed “Play” again and watched as her mother fiddled with the microphone. She studied Mrs. Buchanan’s expression as she watched the young girl at work. The older woman wore an ivory broach and pearl earrings that luminesced from each ear. Absently, Mrs. B fussed with the broach. Lucy hit “Pause” and studied the songbird painted on the broach. She had copied Beth’s tattoo, which she could see now mirrored Mrs. B’s songbird.
Pressing “Play” again, she watched as the video continued. Beth’s jeans nipped in at her narrow waist, and a blousy pink T-shirt cut just above the high-waist jeans. The outfit could have made her an extra in The Breakfast Club or Pretty in Pink.
Lucy leaned forward in her chair, staring at her mother. Tears choked her throat, and she wanted so much to reach out to the young girl on the screen. She wondered what had happened that was so terrible that she would run a thousand miles away at such a young age.
“Damn, Beth, how did you find the courage?”
Leaning forward, she traced the outline of Beth’s face. Her mother had always been an upbeat woman, and the girl in this video had the same enthusiasm. The interviews had been done in May of 1988, right about the time Beth had gotten pregnant with Lucy.
Lucy settled back and watched Beth ask a question or two before Mrs. Buchanan began to talk about a young woman named Claire who had returned to the area in 1916. Mrs. B explained that Claire’s natural talent as a seamstress had won her the plum job of working in the Buchanan house for their young daughter, Victoria.
The old woman’s face was stoic and distant until she mentioned James “Jimmy” Latimer. His name softened her pert lips, and her dark eyes brightened with the luminescence of a young woman. Jimmy. The young merchant marine and hunting guide had lived near this cottage. Several times when Mrs. Buchanan spoke about Jimmy and Claire, she raised a wrinkled hand bent with arthritis to her cheek, gently touching it as if imagining Jimmy’s touch.
“Mrs. B was talking about herself. She was Claire,” Lucy murmured out loud.
She found herself rooting for young Claire, who’d returned home only to discover she didn’t really belong there anymore nor in the wealthy world of her employers. She was a woman moving between two separate worlds.
After nearly an hour of talking, Lucy watched Mrs. Buchanan draw in a deep breath and release it slowly. It was clear she had tired after only an hour but also that she had relished every moment of the retelling.
“This is enough for today,” Mrs. Buchanan said.
Beth was silent for a moment. “I’m kinda hooked, Mrs. B. I want to know what happened with Claire and Jimmy and Victoria.”
A sly smile tipped the edges of the woman’s lips, still pink with lipstick. “Then I suppose you’ll want to return,” she said. “I have more to share, but I don’t have the energy to give it the due it deserves. That will take some time and your help, Beth.”
“I can come back.” Beth moved into the screen again as she unclipped the microphone. This time she knelt by the chair. “I got to give you credit, Mrs. B. You have a great memory.”
“My husband said the same. Many times he wished I would forget, but I never did.”
“What did he want you to forget?”
She patted Beth’s hand. Her hand was wrinkled and pale, but the nails were neatly polished in a color that matched her lipstick. “Come and see me a week from Sunday.”
“I might have a date on Sunday evening.”
“Then we will meet in the afternoon. And when you dress for the evening, child, choose a darker color. The pink washes you out.”
Beth laughed. “I’ll see what I have in my closet. So it’s a date for Sunday afternoon. Say around two?”
“Make it one. I will have tea prepared for us.”
“I drink Tab, not tea.”
The old woman appeared to shudder. “We will have tea like proper ladies, Miss Jessup.”
Beth’s laugh rang clear as a church bell. “There’s nothing proper about me, Mrs. B.”
“I said the same about myself at your age, and look where I am now.”
The tape ended, returning to the black-and-white static. Lost in time, Lucy looked at the clock on the wall. It was after two and time to take a shower and clean up before she picked up Natasha. Remembering Mrs. B’s advice to Beth, she thought about the dark V-neck sweater in her bag.
Hank
Hank stopped by the funeral home and confirmed there wasn’t anything else required for Beth Kincaid’s funeral. She’d been lawfully cremated, and the cemetery was private property, so as long as Hank had a good shovel, he could take care of it himself.
Next, he stopped by the sheriff’s office and found Rick pacing, his jaw tight as he spoke on the phone. When he ended the call, he shoved out a breath. “We’re on our own with the possible crime scene. County asked us to collect the bones and whatever forensic evidence we can find and then to send it to the state lab.”
“Do you have what you need to excavate the site?”
“It’s just me, but I’m going to need an extra set of hands.”
“When do you want to do this?”
“First thing in the morning, and can you bring a ladder and rope?”
“For you, Rick, I’ll even bring coffee.”
Rick came around the desk. “What do you think of Lucy?”
“I have no idea. Right now, I think this is one big novelty to her.”
“Have you asked her about extending the lease agreement?”
“Not yet. I’m hoping to ask her tomorrow. Figured I’d give her the chance to see her mother buried properly.”
“A
nd if she says no like her mother?”
“I spoke to Beth Kincaid only once. I realize now she was much sicker than she let on and likely not really herself.”
“You said she lost her temper and hung up on you.”
Hank could still hear the woman’s tone shifting from hesitant to outright angry. “To her credit, she was calmer when she called back.”
“But she never told Lucy about the lease.”
“She didn’t tell Lucy anything. Lucy doesn’t even know who her father is.”
“But you do.”
Hank flexed his fingers. “Like I said, Beth was sick. She might have known what she was talking about when she told me, or she might not. She wasn’t making a lot of sense, and I’m not going to pass on information that could very well be wrong.”
“Either way, Lucy should know,” Rick said.
“I’ll tell her after the funeral.”
“Don’t wait too long.”
“I could give you the same advice.”
“What’s that mean?”
Hank shook his head. “Megan?”
Rick’s jaw tightened. “Let’s call this a stalemate.”
“Sure.” The two parted, and Hank made his way to the Jessup family plot.
Samuel Jessup had been good about seeing to the family plot. He’d had the fence painted five years ago, and until he died, he’d kept the grass cut. However, since his death last year, the weeds had grown up. If Hank had had more time, he’d have called one of the boys from the high school to clean things up, but because the funeral was tomorrow, he’d decided to take care of it himself. Plus, he wanted it done right.
He pulled the Weed Eater from the back of his truck and spent the next hour trimming the tall grass and edging around the fifteen headstones laid in even rows. As he was wrapping up and putting the equipment in the back of his truck, his cell rang. It was one in the afternoon, and it was the high school.
“Hank Garrison.”
“Hank, this is Principal Daniels.”
“Everything all right with Natasha?”
“She’s fine. Haven’t heard a peep out of her. But her father came by looking for her. The vice principal chased him off, but he looks loaded for bear. I could call the police, but he’s not really broken a law, plus he’s my cousin’s boy. I don’t want to stir up family trouble unless I have to. Thought I’d give you a heads-up.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Daniels. I’ll pay him a visit.”
It took Hank less than twenty minutes to track down Brian Willard, who was staying at his buddy Zeke’s trailer. Hank parked in the graveled driveway littered with weeds and debris. A dog barked over the stench of garbage.
He banged on the trailer door. Inside, he heard the blare of a TV game show. He opened the door and found Brian napping in a worn recliner.
Brian Willard was a big man. He’d played high school football and in his day had been one of the stars on the team. He’d even managed a scholarship to Virginia Tech, and it had looked like he was on his way. Then a car accident his freshman year had sidelined him for half a season. Left to his own devices and self-pity, he’d started drinking. A DUI had gotten him kicked off the team and shipped back to Cape Hudson. It would be the first stop on his long road to totally screwed up.
It was still early in the afternoon, and judging by the beer cans littering the floor, Brian was at least ten beers into his latest drunk.
“What the hell do you want?” Brian didn’t bother to get out of the threadbare recliner or to turn off the television.
“I’m here about Natasha,” Hank said. “I got a call from the school. You came onto the property looking for her.”
“She’s my kid, and fathers keep up with their children.”
“Stay away from Natasha. She doesn’t need you meddling in her life.”
“Meddling? I’m her father.”
“An accident of biology.”
“Doesn’t matter how it happened, I am, and that’s all that counts.”
“If you go near that kid, the sheriff will see to it that your bail is revoked.”
“You can’t do that, you arrogant prick. She’s my kid.”
“I can.” Hank’s low voice was laced with controlled fury. “And I will. Stay away from the school and Natasha.”
“That kid belongs at home. There are chores for her to be doing at the house. It’s a damned pigsty. Clear she didn’t do a damn thing at the house while I was gone.”
“You were in jail.”
“She’s been hanging out at that Winter Cottage again. I told her before I left to stay the hell away. That house ain’t for her kind or mine.”
“Natasha is going to be staying at Winter Cottage for the next two weeks. The new occupant has agreed to keep her until you have your arraignment.”
Brian shook his head as he jabbed a finger at Hank and rose up out of the chair. “The hell she is. I already told that woman to stay the hell away from my kid.”
“You spoke to Miss Kincaid?”
“That her name? It don’t really matter, because she’s not going to want to have anything to do with Natasha after I get through with her.”
“What did you say to her?”
He sneered. “Told her to mind her own business.”
Hank took a step forward, putting him within a swing’s distance from Brian. “One call, and your bail is revoked. And it won’t be local but regional jail.”
Brian tried using his size to intimidate. He was still sober enough to throw a cheap shot, which at that point Hank almost welcomed.
Hank stood his ground, flexing his fingers.
Brian set his beer can on the end table. He lowered, apparently ready to sit back down, when in one swift move, he whirled around, fist cocked, and fired.
Hank saw the punch coming and pivoted out of the way, so all he felt was the whoosh of air instead of bare knuckle.
He would never have thrown the first punch, no matter how tempting it was. Brian regained his footing, getting ready for a second strike. Hank thought about Natasha chatting and smiling, hoping it hid all the grief she had endured because of this guy.
Hank put his body weight behind the punch, connecting with the big man’s jaw. The bare-knuckle strike was on the money. Brian stumbled back and fell into his chair. His arms flailed, knocking his beer over, spilling nearly a full can.
Brian looked shocked. He was just stupid enough to attempt another strike.
“Don’t get up,” Hank said. “I’ll hurt you bad, and that won’t be my fault.”
“To hell with you.” He rubbed his jaw but stayed put.
“Drink your beer, do whatever it is you do, but stay clear of Natasha.”
“I could file assault charges against you.”
“Really? You’ll want to explain to the cops how you attacked first.”
“There’s no proof of that.”
“Who do you think the sheriff is likely to believe?”
“Fine, the kid ain’t worth the trouble,” Brian said. “But once I beat this latest charge and I get home for good, she’s not going to be staying at that damn house.”
“We’ll see.” The arraignment was two weeks off, and in that time he would figure out a more permanent custody arrangement.
As Hank left the trailer, he was still plagued with worries over gaining control of Winter Cottage’s lands, and his hand ached, but his mood felt a little lighter.
Lucy
When the school bell rang, Lucy and Dolly were in the yellow Jeep, parked by the main entrance. The buses had lined up behind her, and she was fairly certain she was illegally parked—a “no cars on the bus ramp” kind of thing. But because this was all new to her, she stayed put, ready to argue her position if anyone challenged her.
Her engine was running, the heater humming, and she’d found one country-western station out of Norfolk. The reception wasn’t great, but anytime a Keith Urban song played, the world just felt right. She closed her eyes and imagined herself walking down
Nashville’s Lower Broadway with her friends past the neon lights of the honky-tonks as the music trailed behind her. She’d been so wrapped up with Beth the last few months she’d not seen her friends, and she suddenly missed them. There was a lot she’d loved about her life in Nashville.
She reached for her cell and, realizing she had bars by the school, dialed her friend Raven’s number. They’d dated a few times, and she’d slipped him free drinks when he’d played guitar in the last bar where she’d worked. Raven, as his name implied, had thick shoulder-length hair and deep, dark eyes that implied an emotional openness that really didn’t exist. He was about no strings. No ties.
Raven picked up on the third ring. “Luceeee. Where are you, babe?”
“Eastern Shore of Virginia.”
He cleared his throat. “What the hell are you doing there?”
“You heard Beth died, right?”
“I did. Man, that was hard. I’m sorry I didn’t get by to see you.” He’d called once from Memphis right before Beth had slipped into a coma. He’d been a little drunk, but he’d tried to find the right words to make her feel better.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Just waking up. Played until 3:00 a.m. I’m in Tampa.” In the background, sheets rustled, a sliding glass door opened, and she imagined him stepping out onto a balcony that overlooked calm, tranquil waters.
“Is it warm there?”
“It’s eighty degrees and sunny. I might stay a few more weeks. You should join me.”
The offer was tempting and reminded her she’d not done anything for herself in a long time. “Can’t right now. Beth’s funeral is tomorrow.” Besides, I have a kid to pick up from school, a dog, and a creepy old house.
“Wow. That’s rough. I’d come up, but there’s no way I could be there in time.”
“It’s doable, if you start driving in the next couple of hours.”
“Babe, I can’t. I have a gig tonight.”
He was the backup guitarist in a country-western band that covered the major artists. He could have missed a night or two. “Right. I get it.”
“Don’t sound all pouty on me. You know I’d do anything for you.”
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