Deadly Heritage

by Marissa Shrock

  “A break-in?” Detective Hawk asked.

  “Looks that way. Patio door’s glass was shattered. Beverly’s wallet is on the floor along with the rest of her purse’s contents. Credit cards are there but no cash. Not sure what else is missing yet.”

  Detective Hawk squinted at the house. “Does Clara have a military or law enforcement background?”

  “No. Self-defense instructor in Texas. Has a permit to carry a concealed weapon.”

  They tromped toward the house, and I turned to Earl. “We should go. There’s nothing else for us to do.”

  We got back in the Jeep as a silver Chevy truck stopped behind us, and Beverly’s son-in-law Jack Schultz hopped out.

  I opened the window as he passed. “Jack!”

  He turned back. “Georgia. What’re you doing here?” In spite of the freezing temperatures, he wore only a Wildcat Football hoodie—he was head coach at the high school. His gray buzz cut made him look like he belonged in the army, and word on the street was that he ran his team with military-like precision.

  “I was with my boyfriend Cal Perkins when we heard the sirens.” I clung to the steering wheel. “I’m so sorry. Your mother-in-law was a dear friend of mine.” Fresh tears pricked my eyes.

  “Mine too.” Earl leaned forward. “And I’m very sorry. She was a fine lady.”

  “I can’t believe it.” Jack rubbed the back of his thick neck. “Denise has been telling her mom for years that she needed to get a security system.” He lowered his voice. “We came to pick up Clara, but Denise is so upset that she isn’t exactly itching to get out and face her long-lost sister.” He glanced back at his truck.

  Had Denise and Jack gotten back together? Or had they just called a truce during this tragedy?

  The woman in the deputy’s car at the end of the driveway got out and picked her way toward us. “Jack?”

  The Jeep’s headlights illuminated her mascara-streaked face. Snowflakes accumulated on her artificial black hair that gave her a hardened look and aged her beyond her fifty-odd years. She crept toward her brother-in-law as if she were afraid of him.

  “Clara.” He opened his arms and buried her—and the dog—in a hug. “So good to see you again.”

  Miss Peacock strained toward me, and Clara stepped away from Jack to survey me. “Who are you?”

  “Georgia Winston. I live down the road.” I motioned over my shoulder. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Your mother meant a lot to me.”

  Understanding dawned in her expression. “Ray Winston’s daughter.” Her sweeping gaze and icy tone chilled my already freezing body while Miss Peacock whined.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I dropped my hands into my lap.

  “Nosy, just like that good-for-nothing father of yours.”

  I winced and pressed my hands together.

  “If Ray hadn’t snooped around Dad’s elevator that night, he wouldn’t have gotten himself killed.” She secured Miss Peacock under her arm, leaned into the Jeep, and shook her fist in my face. “The stress of Ray’s death put my dad in an early grave.”

  Whoa. That was the first I’d heard this version of the story, but I wasn’t about to argue with a self-defense instructor whose fist was close enough to do serious damage to my noggin.

  I leaned toward Earl and held up my hands in surrender. “Ma’am, I’m sorry I upset you. Earl and I will be on our way.”

  After crying myself to sleep—something I didn’t do often—I awoke with a start around four in the morning. Blinking my raw eyes, I padded into the living room, flicked the backyard spotlights on, and pushed the curtains aside. Guard-dog Gus’s snores drifted in from the laundry room where he slept on the bed in his crate.

  The snow continued to fall steadily, and judging from the fact that the fresh blanket was level with the step on my back porch, I’d say the eight-to-ten-inches predicted would end up being accurate. I dropped the curtain back in place and returned to my room.

  My gaze fell on the manila envelope sticking out of my purse on the chair in the corner. I grabbed the envelope and went back to my living room where I curled up in Daddy’s old leather recliner and spread Grandma Winston’s crocheted blanket over my feet.

  I shuffled through pictures of Daddy in high school—grainy photos of him in his football jersey. He’d always been proud that his team had won the state championship during his sophomore year. To this day, it was still the only state title our small high school could boast about.

  There was even a program from the thirtieth anniversary reunion of the state championship. The Wildcat Springs History Museum had sponsored a dinner on homecoming weekend, and Daddy had served on the planning committee with Beverly, Earl Smith, Jack Schultz, Wanda Morris, Fiona Sylvan, and a few other people whose names I didn’t recognize. I slid the program back in the envelope and moved on to the pictures.

  I giggled at the faded snapshot of Daddy at prom—with Clara Alspaugh. But hadn’t he gone with Mom? They’d been high school sweethearts. I flipped it over and found the date written in faded blue ink. May 10, 1980. His junior year. Mom and Dad hadn’t starting dating until his senior year.

  Interesting.

  Clara’s hair was a natural brown, and her eyes held a spark of fun. A pink rose wrist corsage with a silver ribbon complemented her puffy-sleeved, teal dress. I’d seen pictures of Beverly in her younger years, and Clara looked a lot like her mother. What had made Clara want to run away from her hometown? And what had drawn her back?

  Her accusation still shocked me. I’d never had a single hint from Beverly that anyone in her family blamed Daddy’s situation for her husband Bill’s sudden death.

  With a sigh, I put the envelope on the end table and pulled my blanket to my chin. For years after Daddy’s murder, I’d searched for his killer and encountered one dead-end after another. Finally, God showed me that my quest was robbing me of joy and asked me to stop looking. Even though it’d been one of the hardest things I’d ever done, I quit. After I met Cal back in October, he promised to look at Daddy’s case with a fresh perspective, since he hadn’t been one of the original detectives on the investigation. But his workload had hindered his progress.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. Beverly’s family might never have answers about who murdered their loved one—and that was an experience I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

  Chapter Three

  “How’re you doing?” Cal asked later that morning.

  I put my phone on speaker and set it on the truck’s hood. I was bundled up in my blue Carhartt overalls and coat, attaching my snowplow to my truck in the pole barn that housed some of my tractors and farm equipment. The snow had stopped, and now it was time to start digging out.

  “Pretty shaken up,” I said. “I’ll be plowing out my friends to keep busy.”

  “I get it. I’m having a hard time with this too.”

  I bent over and attached the electrical cable, so I’d be able to maneuver the plow with the controller in my truck cab. “Do you really think this was a robbery gone wrong?”

  “Seems to be.” There was no mistaking the hint of doubt in his tone.

  I straightened. “Was anything missing?” My gray-striped cat jumped off the tool bench in the corner, padded across the concrete, and rubbed his head against my leg. I bent and stroked his head.

  “Denise confirmed Beverly stopped at the bank’s walk-up ATM and withdrew a thousand dollars in cash yesterday after they had brunch at Velda’s Café. Says it wasn’t that unusual for her mom to take out that much money at a time. Denise doesn’t think anything else is missing from the house.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “Beverly was killed over a thousand dollars?” Not that any amount would’ve been okay.

  “Possibly. It makes me sick too. The teens Earl Smith reported driving by could’ve seen her at the ATM earlier that day and thought they could get their hands on some easy drug money since she lives alone.”

  I chewed my lip, picked up my phone, and paced in front of my truck. “That mak
es sense. Clara isn’t a suspect, is she?”

  “All I can say is that the evidence supports the events she described.”

  I walked over to the barn door to peek out—no plows had cleared the road. “What if somebody was after Clara, and Beverly got in the way?” Goosebumps rose on my arms as I shut out the cold air.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Clara’s car was in the driveway, so they should’ve concluded Beverly wasn’t alone. If I were targeting a widow who lived by herself, I’d wait until she didn’t have a guest.”

  “Good point, but the person could’ve assumed it was Beverly’s car. Denise picked her mother up the day she withdrew the money. Besides, someone who needs a fix isn’t thinking rationally.”

  Tears flooded my eyes, and I dug a tissue from my pocket. “You’re probably right.” I dabbed my eyes. It was a good thing I hadn’t bothered with mascara.

  “Vanessa and I aren’t finished digging.” He sighed. “I have to go. Hang in there. I’ll see you tonight.”

  The county plow trucks finally made it by my house, but it took some work pushing snow before I could escape my own driveway. It was after lunch when I headed to my best friend Ashley Choi’s bungalow across from Sycamore Park in Wildcat Springs.

  It didn’t take long to clear her short driveway, and when I finished, my petite friend came outside through her garage, bundled up as if she were about to hit the slopes in Aspen. Two dark braids peeked out from under her fuzzy lavender hat. She toted a shovel, which she waved at me.

  I put the truck in park and opened the window. “I don’t do sidewalks.”

  “I know.” She rolled her eyes. “Why don’t I live in Florida?”

  “Because you love your friends so much, and our town is quaint and charming.” Except for the part where people were murdered with stunning frequency.

  “How was your birthday, hon?” She was always calling people sweetie or hon in her Kentucky drawl.

  “Nice. Until Beverly Alspaugh was murdered.” Saying the words brought a lump to my throat, and my nose burned.

  “What?” Her jaw dropped. “How?”

  “Someone broke into her house and shot her.”

  “That’s awful.” She stabbed the shovel into the snow and held on. “Are you okay?” Her dark eyes were full of sympathy.

  “Mostly.” I stiffened.

  “Do you want to come in for some hot chocolate and talk about it?”

  “Not today.” I shook my head. “Another time. I need to keep moving. I haven’t been to Heather’s or Brandi’s yet.”

  “Okay.” Ashley wrapped her arms around her waist. “Does Cal have any leads?”

  “He and his new partner think Beverly interrupted a robbery.”

  “Oh, hon that’s like—”

  “I know.” I shook my head and looked away.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come in? I’d be happy to listen.”

  “Yeah. I’m sure.” I studied her. “Is something on your mind? Because normally you wave through the window when I’m pushing snow.”

  She opened her mouth but then snapped it shut. “It can wait.” She stood on her tiptoes and gripped the edge of the door with both hands, revealing her red snowflake mittens.

  “But you came out here to tell me, and I need something else to think about.” I smiled. “So out with it.”

  She bit her lip and looked away. “J.T. asked me out on a date.”

  I did a mental happy jig that my cousin had finally made a move. “And?”

  “I said I’d think about it.”

  “What’s to think about?” I stifled a groan and leaned back against the headrest. J.T. had been crushing on Ashley for months—though she didn’t know because I was sworn to secrecy. “You’d be great together.”

  “Maybe. But things have been crazy at work, and I’m not sure I’m ready for something that could get serious.”

  “I understand. But you sound like Brandi and me—before we started dating our guys.”

  “The Excuse Queens. Yeah, I know, hon.”

  Boy-crazy Ashley had recently told Brandi and me about her broken engagement—though we’d known her for going on three years, since she’d moved here from Louisville. In spite of going on a lot of dates, she was reluctant to trust a man enough to develop a serious relationship.

  “What’d he say when you told him you’d think about it?”

  “He said that was cool.”

  “Did he look upset?”

  “We were texting, but his texts didn’t seem like he was disappointed.”

  Because text message tone was so easy to decipher. I put a restraining order on my burgeoning eye roll.

  She tugged on her coat. “I don’t want to ruin my friendship with him. Do you know how awkward things would be at Bible study if we pursued this and it didn’t work out? One of us would have to drop out. The group could split.” She rested her forehead on her hands. “You’d have to pick his side over mine because you’re family.”

  I resisted the urge to bang my head against the steering wheel. “Just because you go out a few times doesn’t mean the relationship will end in disaster. You might both decide that being friends is best. You’re overthinking this.”

  “No. I’m thinking for the first time—when it comes to relationships.” She met my gaze, and there was no mistaking the turmoil in her eyes.

  I put my hand on top of her mitten. “Then I’ll pray that God shows you the right decision.”

  “Thanks.” She relaxed her death grip on my truck door. “And I’ll definitely be praying about the Beverly situation.”

  When I arrived at Brandi Hartfield’s brick split-level house in the Sycamore Hills subdivision, she already had her sidewalk shoveled, and she rushed out the front door with a foil-covered paper plate.

  I opened the window. “Are you enjoying your snow day?”

  Brandi taught eighth grade social studies at Wildcat Springs Junior High.

  “Always. Except now that we have e-learning, I have to grade the assignments my students are turning in. But it beats adding on days at the end of the year.” She thrust the plate at me. “Double chocolate cookies. Fresh from the oven.”

  “Yes!” I pumped my fist. I was always happy to accept cookies as payment—not that anything was necessary for me to help my friends. I slipped a cookie from under the foil and took a bite. The chocolate was still gooey. “This is so good.”

  “Thanks.” She adjusted the red sock cap that’d belonged to her late husband, and her expression turned serious. “I just read the prayer chain email about Beverly.” She grimaced. “It makes me sick. She was such a wonderful lady. You doing okay?”

  “Mostly.” I unlocked the door. “Hop in.”

  She picked her way to the passenger side, got in the truck, and while I carefully moved the snow to the right side of her driveway, I filled her in on everything that’d happened the night before—including Clara looking like she wanted to beat me senseless.

  Brandi’s motherly tendencies made it easy to confide in her. Plus, she was seven years older than me and had been through a difficult time when she’d lost her husband Brian in a car accident three years ago.

  “What does Cal think?” Brandi tugged off her sock cap and fluffed her flattened brown curls.

  I used the plow to backdrag some snow away from her garage door and then pushed the snow to the growing pile. “I’m not sure. Right now, they’re pursuing the robbery-gone-wrong angle. At least that’s what I got from our last conversation. He’s being careful what he says, and he obviously can’t share everything.”

  “Which drives you crazy.”

  “A little, but I understand.” I took my time removing the remaining snow from her garage and shoving it into the pile. When I finished and glanced back at her, a pained expression had settled on her face. “What’s wrong?”

  Brandi chewed her lip. “I haven’t told you this because I didn’t want to gossip, but now that Beverly’s been killed,
it might be relevant.”

  I put the truck in park. “What?” If Brandi was willing to spill, then it had to be important, because she hated gossip.

  “I stopped by the Wildcat Springs Museum last Wednesday afternoon to schedule a time to bring my history club students over to see the new exhibit about the high school’s athletic department.” She twisted her sock cap. “I overheard Beverly talking to someone back in the office, and she sounded upset.”

  “Who was she talking to?”

  “I couldn’t tell.”

  “What was she saying?”

  Brandi squinted. “Something like ‘I’m not sure you can keep this a secret much longer. I’ll keep my mouth shut, but you know how certain people in this town love to gossip.’”

  My mouth dropped. Brandi never passed along anything this juicy. “Did the other person say anything?”

  “No. I thought Beverly was on the phone until she said, ‘Wait. Don’t go!’ A door slammed. I ran outside to look down the alley at the side exit, but the dumpster blocked my view. By the time I got around it, whoever it was had vanished. I’m guessing the mystery person parked in the United Methodist lot and went out the church’s driveway. Since they left through the back, I wonder if it was another volunteer.”

  I stared at my best friend. “Brandi Renee Hartfield. I’m rubbing off on you.”

  She crossed her arms. “No. You’re not.”

  “If you say so. But I’m impressed with your fine detective work. Cal needs to hear about this.”

  “I know. I left a message for him as soon as I got the email about Beverly.”

  I tapped my thumb against the steering wheel. “When I’m done plowing for Heather, I’ll go see Wanda. Beverly might’ve confided in her about any conflicts between the volunteers, since she works there too.”

  Brandi raised her eyebrows. “Unless…”

  “What?”

  “What if Wanda’s the mystery person?”

  My eyes widened. “Seriously?” I didn’t like what Brandi was implying.