by Vella Day
Shit. Now he had to clean up the mess. He’d never met the maid, but he didn’t need her reporting to the police someone had broken in after the suicide.
With the Mag Light on, he stepped to the kitchen, careful to avoid anything breakable. After weighing his options, he chose the dustpan and broom over the electric sweeper and then dumped the shards in a trash bag. He’d take the pieces with him. God. He didn’t need this aggravation.
When he flashed the light on the pile of rubble, his heart sank. It was Rayne’s pottery. One of the few pieces she’d made. Damn it. If Derek ever questioned him, he’d have to say Rayne gave him the piece a few days before she died. He could only hope no one noticed her prize possession was no longer on the table.
Justin couldn’t worry about it right now. He had to make sure every piece was picked up. With the dining room light turned on, he scoured the room, making certain no pieces remained.
As an extra precaution, Justin lifted up one heel at a time and inspected the sneaker bottoms. Christ. He’d need tweezers to get out all the pieces, which meant he’d have to toss those puppies. His lousy luck, he’d just bought them.
Once convinced he’d removed all evidence of his being there, he tiptoed into the bedroom, praying he’d find the notebook he’d left behind in there.
A car door slammed outside. Jesus Christ. He’d forgotten to turn off the dining room light. God. What an idiot. Hoping the light from the room didn’t spill into the adjoining bedroom, he turned off his Mag Light and peeked from behind the curtains.
It was a squad car. Damn it. Had the neighbor called the cops? Fucking Mrs. Anton.
He had no choice but to get the hell out of there. He sprinted back through the dining room and out through the kitchen back door, remembering at the last second to grab the trash bag on the way out. His foot slipped on the grass, the blades thick with dew, but he quickly regained his balance. Forcing his feet to move, Justin raced back to his car.
3
Kelly crossed her legs on the sofa and held the phone in a death grip. “So when do you think you can get here, Mom?” She tried to sound matter-of-fact despite the fear and helplessness that strangled her.
Over the line, her mother sounded as though she’d been crying, tugging once again on Kelly’s heart. “I booked the... the redeye from San Diego to Tampa on Thursday. I’m praying I can sleep on the plane.”
Her voice wavered. Was she was having trouble breathing again? Kelly didn’t want to acknowledge the concern for her mom’s health until after she arrived, and they could talk about it.
“You can’t get here any earlier?” Kelly hated her tone came out as a whine.
“I wish I could, sweetheart, but this flight was the first one available. I’m wondering if I can even pack by then. I wasn’t able to do anything today. My legs are so weak.”
Her legs? If she lost her too...Don’t go there. “Well, bring enough clothes to stay at least a week.”
“A week? I can’t be away from the shop that long.” Her mom’s tone turned indignant.
Her mom and her flower shop. “You’ve got to stay until Stef is buried. I don’t know when the funeral will be.”
Kelly swallowed her anger. Her mother should have rushed to Florida to be with her only living child, to see to the arrangements for Stefanie’s funeral, and not act as though Stef’s death created a huge inconvenience.
“I did buy an open-ended ticket.”
Kelly let out an audible breath. “That’s great, Mom.” She didn’t want to keep her up longer than necessary. “I love you. I’ll see you in a few days.”
“I love you too, and don’t forget to eat. You’re too skinny.”
“I promise.”
Kelly hung up and dropped her head back against the sofa arm. Depression gripped her hard. Her mom sounded...well, old, and she was only sixty-four, too young to be this frail. Her mother kept repeating that children weren’t supposed to die before their parents, and Kelly agreed, though her father’s death when she was ten was just as unfair. But cancer never cared about age.
Maybe her mom acted indifferent to spare her the grief of having to console another distraught person. This time she’d give her mom the benefit of the doubt.
Kelly stretched out her legs and adjusted the three chenille pillows behind her head. The added comfort did little though to lessen her growing depression.
The reality of Stefanie’s death only now began to sink in. Had her sister been going ninety as the cops implied? If so, there had to have been a good reason.
Kelly blinked away the horrific image of her sister’s car tumbling over the rail. When tears streamed down her cheeks and clogged her throat, she pressed her face into the soft pillow.
Kelly sat up. Ohmigod. Had some irate husband who’d been caught cheating on his wife and run her private investigator sister off the road? Surely, the cops would check the car to see if different colored paint scrapings appeared on the side.
After Stef’s accident with Michael, her sister had taken a vow to drive carefully, especially in the rain. No way she’d be driving ninety.
Unless she was being chased.
Too wired to sleep, Kelly wrapped her legs under her and turned on the eleven o’clock news, hoping to hear the police had found the person responsible for Stef’s accident. The box of cookies called to her once again, but even her favorite desert couldn’t convince her to eat.
When she turned the channel to the twenty-four hour a day news station, a picture of Rayne Anderson flashed on the screen. Puzzled, Kelly unfolded her legs, sat up and turned up the volume.
“Rayne Anderson, a prosecuting attorney for Wildman, Tedesco, and Anthony was found dead in her home this morning. A suicide is suspected,” the announcer said.
Rayne, dead? How could that be? Kelly grabbed a sofa pillow to her beating chest as her stomach threatened to heave. Sure she wasn’t a good friend of Rayne’s, but Stef was. And besides, she was Derek’s sister.
The newscaster skipped to another story, and Kelly muted the screen. Poor Rayne.
No. Poor Derek.
He must be out of him mind with grief. She wondered when he’d heard about his sister’s death. Was he handling his sadness in his usual stoic way, or had he softened over the years since she’d last seen him?
Despite their break-up when she headed off to college, a part of her would never stop loving him.
Early Monday morning Derek pulled in front of his dad’s stucco, one-story home. The drive took him close to an hour, whereas it normally took him under forty minutes. The closer to the house, the more his stomach churned, and the slower he drove. How was a man supposed to tell his dad his daughter killed herself? Derek would have to relive the devastation.
After he cut the engine, he sat in his truck with the windows down, almost oblivious to the sweat beading on his head. Interesting. He never noticed the faded exterior paint before. And the lawn? Jeez, Dad, get a lawn mover. The place needed a lot of TLC.
Now that he wouldn’t be building Rayne’s porch for her, he would help his dad touch up the paint and trim some of the bushes. Helping his father was the least he could do. Besides, the manual labor would take his mind off his rage and grief.
Derek stepped out of his truck just as his dad opened the front door. As Derek approached, he could see his dad’s shirt was buttoned wrong. Poor dad. He used to take such good care of his appearance.
“Micca? What are you doing here?” he said in a conversational tone.
Micca meant Chief in Seminole. The name never did seem to fit.
“Dad.”
“Shouldn’t you be working?” He flicked his hand as if to dismiss his own question. “Come in, come in. It’s too hot to be standing out in the sun, especially with your shaved head.”
Always the shaved head. “I guess I should have worn a hat.”
“Or grow your hair like a respectable person,” his dad mumbled in disgust. His long gray ponytail, neatly braided, whipped across his back
.
Derek didn’t respond to the barb as he wiped his brow with a clean handkerchief. Telling his father he wanted to fit into the white world and not look like a typical Indian never went over well. Nor would the discussion be appropriate today.
Inside, dad’s house was stuffy but cooler than the outside. Still, Derek couldn’t stop sweating. “Could I trouble you for a drink of water?”
“Sure. Sit down. I’ll get it.”
Stop procrastinating. Thinking of the painful news he brought, Derek’s throat almost closed. He pushed aside a pile of magazines and sat on the edge of the sofa, and then rested his elbows on his thighs. How should he begin?
When he spotted his favorite photo of Rayne smiling at a very young Billy, anger speared his gut. Her death wasn’t fair.
“Here.” His dad handed him the glass. “What brings you?”
“Did you catch the news last night?” Derek brought the glass to his lips, holding his breath.
“No. I came in late from the hunt and went right to bed. Why?”
Derek twirled the glass in his hand, part to procrastinate, part to check for cleanliness. “I...ah...have some bad news.”
His dad sat in his favorite recliner, lit up a pipe, sucked on it several times to draw in the smoke, then exhaled. “You get fired or something?”
His father’s wish in life. “No, it’s about Rayne.”
Concern splashed across his face. “She sick? She looked real good when she stopped by on Saturday.” His face fell. “Is the baby okay?”
Coward. Tell him. Stalling as long as he could, Derek swiped a finger across the coffee table and picked up a wad of dust.
“What’s wrong?” His dad’s face went still.
“Dad...Rayne’s...dead. The police think she committed suicide.” There. He’d told him.
A good thirty seconds later, his dad spoke. “Dead? How could she be dead? I just saw her.” His jaw slackened and his eyes turned vacant.
“I can hardly believe she’s gone myself. Billy found her lying in the dining room yesterday morning. He’s still traumatized.”
His dad wet his lips. “How did she, ah, die?” His jaw clenched.
The horrible image of his sister lying on the floor nearly made Derek vomit. Pain came at him from all angles. “She shot herself.” No need to say where.
“With the gun you gave her?”
The angry accusation ripped him in half. The guilt already had rendered him near dead inside. “Yes.”
His father placed his pipe on the ashtray that was filled with cold ashes. His face relaxed, and his eyes turned glassy, almost as if he wasn’t even in his body. He said nothing more about the gun.
Derek almost wanted his dad to yell and tell him how irresponsible he’d been to lend Rayne a weapon. Yes, he’d made sure she’d received lessons, but the bottom line was Rayne was dead because be believed attorneys needed protection.
Derek’s knee bounced up and down as he studied his dad. His father’s normally healthy skin looked sallow—or had Derek been too busy to notice his father’s age before? He had to admit he’d been distracted lately.
With more patience than he thought he possessed, Derek said nothing more as he let his father absorb the news. Slowly his dad’s eyes narrowed, and a tear streaked down the old man’s cheek. Derek had never seen his father cry—not when his dad had broken his leg, and not when Derek’s mom had died.
His father cleared his throat. “There is a saying among our people. They are not dead who live in the hearts they leave behind. I know this to be true in my mind, but my heart cannot grasp its meaning.” His father picked up his pipe, took another puff, and blew the smoke toward the ceiling, or was it toward his gods.
“The ancestors were wise,” Derek said, waiting for his father to break down like he had only hours before.
“Did she tell you she was pregnant?” his father added, his voice distant.
“I found out yesterday. Justin stopped by last night and confirmed it. The guy was pretty shaken up.” Derek emptied his glass of water to clear the thickness from his throat.
“Hmm.”
What did that mean? “Dad, did Justin seem unhappy about Rayne’s pregnancy or something?” He leaned forward.
His father turned and seemed to examine his face almost as if he hadn’t seen his son before. “This was the first time I’d met her boyfriend, so I am not a good judge. He reminded me of a stone—smooth and impenetrable. You should ask Billy. He might know the man’s soul better than me.”
“I will.”
“They’d been together for half a year, you know, yet this was the first time I’d met him,” his Dad droned, his voice calm yet distant. “There was always a reason why he couldn’t join Rayne when she came over. Thought his excuses were kind of... what’s the word did Billy use? Fishy.”
The world was one big conspiracy to his dad. “Maybe Rayne didn’t want Justin to learn about her Indian heritage.” That’s what she’d told Derek.
His father’s gaze shot up. “Rayne was never ashamed about being half Seminole.” Finally a spark of life.
To you, maybe. “You’re probably right.” Why anger his dad?
The old man stared ahead again. Then, as if the reality struck, a giant sob erupted, and his dad dropped his head into his hands. His back and shoulders shook as cries of sorrow rent the air.
The two of them rarely hugged. It wasn’t done. Yet the pain emanating from his normally stoic dad forced Derek to act. He moved next to his father. His hands wanted to console and just hold him, but he hesitated.
His father raised his head and Derek knew his father needed him. He wrapped an arm around his father’s shoulder and drew more comfort than he probably gave.
His father nodded his head, a sign he appreciated the action. Now more in control, his dad sat up and wiped his arm across his face.
Derek retreated to the sofa, unsure of what more he could say to help lessen his grief. Instead Derek looked around. His dad’s rifle and a box of shells sat carelessly in the corner stacked next to his mud caked hunting boots. Though he couldn’t see into the kitchen, he bet the sink was stacked with dirty dishes. His father was failing. His daughter’s death would only aid in his decline, and Derek’s heart sunk into despair.
“Why don’t you call Tom, Dad?” Derek said, in as soothing a tone as possible. “Ask him to come over and stay with you.” His father’s best friend loved to straighten things up. “He’d be good company. Better than me.”
“You’re good company.”
“Thank you, but I need to find out who killed Rayne. Clues are freshest right after the murder.”
His dad’s gaze sharpened. “You said she committed suicide.”
“The police said her death was an apparent suicide. The forensics evidence hasn’t been processed. I don’t buy she killed herself, despite what I saw.”
The old man ran his hands down the length of his thighs. Back and forth. Back and forth. “Neither do I, neither do I.” His voice drifted off. “I told her not to become a prosecuting attorney,” he mumbled. “There were too many criminals out there. Bad ones. They want revenge. I told her, but she wouldn’t listen.”
Yeah, Derek had told her too. “Criminals are bad, Dad. Even if she’d been a defense attorney, she might have been targeted,” he said more to hear the argument for his own sake than to convince his father.
“She followed in your footsteps, you know. If she hadn’t, she’d be here today.”
Adrenaline flooded his system. “So now it’s my fault Rayne’s dead?” He didn’t wait for his father to respond. “Remember she started law school before I finished my degree. Your arrow isn’t flying straight.” Never has.
“If you’d come back to the tribe, Rayne would have too.”
Derek groaned. They’d been over this argument numerous times. Today, the cut ran deeper.
“Our people wouldn’t have harmed her,” his dad continued. “An Indian woman in the white world is never safe
.”
Half Indian, but he didn’t correct him. Derek didn’t know what else to say. His father was hurting, and Derek was at a loss on to how to soothe him.
“Will you call Tom? Please.”
His dad’s shoulders slumped. He nodded and picked up the phone. Once Tom agreed to come over, his dad stumbled into the bedroom and came back clutching a photo album. The book was from when he, Rayne, Mom, and Dad all lived in Tallahassee on the reservation. Happy times.
“Do you want me to take care of the funeral arrangements?” Derek asked.
“No. I will. Burying my daughter is the least I can do for her.”
Derek understood. A knock sounded on the door a few minutes later. “Must be Tom. I’ve got to go, Dad. Call me, will you?”
He looked up with red eyes, appearing much older than when he’d arrived. “Sure, Micca. I’ll call. But don’t you be a stranger either. We’ve only got each other now.”
“There’s Billy too.”
His father lips lifted a bit. “Yes, there’s Billy. He’s a good boy.”
Later that afternoon, Derek slumped down in his truck’s driver’s seat in the downtown parking garage fifty feet away from Justin’s Mercedes. Only because statistics showed those closest to the victim were often guilty, Derek felt obligated to speak with Justin’s boss—alone. He saw no need to upset Justin in case he had nothing to do with Rayne’s death.
His sister had spoken highly of her baby’s father. And she was usually a good judge of character. Her ability to read people was what made her a fine attorney.
At a quarter past five, Justin Bladen and several others poured out of the street level elevator. Close enough now, Derek put down the binoculars. Neatly groomed, Justin looked to be sharing a joke with one of his associates. He was a far cry from the agitated man Derek had seen last night.
Once Justin drove away, Derek took the same elevator up to the brokerage house. He’d called ahead and made an appointment to speak with Mr. Davis, Justin’s boss.
A small man, with steel gray hair, Mr. Davis was impeccably dressed, looking every bit like a big time financial advisor.