Roadkill (Double Barrel Mysteries Book 1)

by Barbara Ellen Brink

  “Did she take you up on the offer?”

  “No. She said her mother left her the B&B, and I should leave my money to my son.”

  “You have a son?” Shelby dropped to her knees in front of her. “Why did Alice not tell us this?”

  Helen Seymour hunched into the confines of Blake’s large windbreaker looking like a lost little girl rather than an eighty-eight year old woman. “Because she doesn’t know. Clara wanted to keep her brother’s secret. She said it wasn’t hers to tell.”

  “That’s why she called you her stepmother.” Shelby felt the pieces slowly click together. She reached out and clasped Helen’s hand. “You’re Jack’s mother.”

  “What?” Blake stared at her like she’d lost her mind.

  “Clara took care of Jack. I couldn’t figure out why. I know she was kind and well-meaning, but that didn’t account for her persistence... even when he refused help. She wasn’t just caring for another human being down on his luck. She loved him.”

  “Of course she loved him,” Helen said. “He was her big brother. She looked up to him. He might have been ten years older, but he was her everything.”

  “You left him behind when you went to California,” Shelby said, urging her to continue the story.

  “Yes. I’d just turned twenty-one the month before, and I was already the mother of a five-year-old. Jack was a handful. Stubborn. Quick-tempered. Selfish. Exactly like me.”

  “How old was he when you moved back?”

  “Fifteen. Nearly a man. He didn’t want anything to do with me, and I didn’t blame him. I moved to Marquette for a few years, continued to write him letters, but he ignored them and me. When he was sixteen, he left home. The only one he kept in contact with was Clara. He wrote her letters and told her amazing stories of his adventures. None of them true, of course.”

  They were distracted when a man jogged past, down by the water, trying to keep up with his little daughter. She was probably between two and three years old, and full of energy. She wore a red denim coat and blue jeans, but her feet were bare, and she squealed when waves washed over her toes.

  Helen continued as though she didn’t notice the strangers. “When I heard he was drafted and sent to Vietnam, my heart nearly broke.” She covered her mouth with one hand, eyes welling with tears. “I thought he’d come back with one of those flags draped over his casket. Instead, he didn’t really come back at all.”

  Shelby moved beside the woman, pulling her into her arms. Even with Blake’s jacket around her, she shivered with chills. “We should get you in the truck where it’s warm.”

  Blake helped Helen into the front seat, then started the engine and turned the heater on full blast. Shelby climbed in the back, and leaned forward between the seats, eager to know more. There must be more. Like a word on the tip of her tongue, that is so close she can feel her lips move to pronounce the first letter, that’s how close this mystery seemed to being solved. One or two more pieces and the picture would be complete. She knew it.

  The woman leaned her head back, closed her eyes, and started singing in a quivering voice. It sounded like an old lullaby, although it wasn’t a familiar one to Shelby.

  “Helen,” Blake said, interrupting. He placed a hand on her arm to get her attention. “Are you all right?”

  He glanced back at Shelby, his eyes narrowed. She knew one word from her and they would take Helen back to the care center. She put a finger up. “One more minute,” she mouthed silently.

  “Helen, I know you loved Clara,” she said, her voice soft and placating. “She was the only connection between you and your son. And she shared things with you, things she didn’t even share with her own family. Are you sure she didn’t tell you something. Perhaps it was a secret, something dangerous that could possibly get her killed?”

  She shook her head, a small sound escaping her throat.

  “Please help us find her killer, so justice can be served.”

  Her eyes popped open, and she turned to glare at them as though they’d kidnapped her against her will. “Take me back. Now. I’m very tired.”

  Blake didn’t argue. He put the truck in gear, and backed out of the parking space. Shelby met his eyes in the rearview. Despite the fact that they were both disappointed by the final outcome of their visit, he was telling her that it wasn’t over yet. They’d learned that Jack’s mother was alive, and that Clara was his half-sister, but how could that knowledge help solve the hit-and-run? Someone, somewhere, knew how all the pieces connected. They had to find that person.

  Helen was subdued when they walked her up to the gated house. She’d lost her teasing smile, and the twinkle that had been there when they first met. It could have been the thought of returning to her tiny breadbox of a room that made her lips pull down, but Shelby was pretty sure it was guilt. She knew something, and was afraid to tell them.

  Blake pushed the intercom, and Gayle’s cheerful voice greeted them from the sound box. “Welcome home, Helen,” she said and buzzed them in. Blake pulled open the door when it clicked.

  “I don’t want you to walk me to my room.” Helen stopped abruptly inside the door. She pulled off Blake’s police windbreaker and thrust it toward him. In a whisper, she said, “I know who you are. Clara told me what your father did all those years ago. He may have gotten away with it for this long, but the devil always gets her due. Jack found out the hard way when he came home from the war. She takes everything, and then your soul.” She shot a glance at Shelby. “Guard your soul.”

  The venom-tinged words were directed at Blake, but Shelby’s stomach knotted with dread. The woman was either completely bonkers, or she was playing a part again, trying to tell them something she was afraid to say outright.

  Blake let the door close between them. His jaw clenched, and he absently twisted the jacket in his hands.

  Shelby tugged him toward the Bronco. “Come on, babe. Walk it off.”

  “Yeah.” He blew a laugh threw his nose. “I didn’t see that coming. She hit me with a left hook out of nowhere.”

  “Want me to drive?” She knew he usually let Donny drive when they were on a case. He always said he did his best detective work in the passenger seat of his partner’s junker, accosted by the scent of stale coffee, cold pizza, and dirty socks. He could probably use some of that right now… minus the bad smells.

  He handed her the keys.

  “Would it help if I stopped at that donut shop and dusted you with powdered sugar?” she asked, pulling away from the curb.

  He already had his head back, and eyes closed. His grunt was indecisive, but she wanted to do what she could for his subconscious. She pulled up to the tiny shop and jumped out.

  Chapter Twenty

  With a bag of donuts and two cups of hot coffee, Shelby climbed back into the truck. Blake was either asleep, or doing a really good imitation of a man with no worries. His mouth was slightly open, and his breath came out slow and even.

  She set the bag on the dash, put the cups in the holders, and closed the door as quietly as possible. The plastic-coated windows sucked in and out with the pressure, and Blake turned his head, wide-awake.

  “Smells like Donny’s breakfast.”

  “Sorry, they didn’t have hotdogs, but I got you a cream-filled Bismarck.”

  He pulled the sack onto his lap and dug through it. “I think this switching places is already working.”

  “Really? How so?”

  Blake took a bite of donut and a sip of coffee, before responding. “Clara told Helen something about my father. Something so bad she was even frightened of me when she realized I was his son.”

  “I caught that. A bit over-dramatic even for 1950s Hollywood, don’t you think?” When he didn’t respond, she prodded, “So?”

  “People used to say I looked like my father. I hated it. Mrs. Davies loved to throw him at me anytime I didn’t conform to her little sixth grader mold. She’d say, ‘You’re just like your father. No wonder you’re failing history. K
eep it up, and you’ll end up working a dead end job and drinking yourself into an early grave.’”

  “That woman needs a lobotomy,” she said, and then immediately regretted it. “Sorry, I shouldn’t feed the negativity. I’m pretty sure she’ll pay for all the pain she’s caused someday, but dwelling on it won’t help us solve this case.”

  Shelby turned onto the highway and headed back toward Port Scuttlebutt. The afternoon sun was sinking fast, and shadows stretched long across the road. A raccoon darted out in front of her, stopped on the centerline as though playing chicken, and then sped off again, disappearing into the woods like a bandit.

  She put on her blinker, and passed a slow-moving trailer. “Helen also said the devil was female, and I got the feeling she thinks this she-devil runs the town.”

  “That could only be one person.”

  “Luanne?” She did a quick drumroll on the steering wheel.

  “Ha ha. You should be the next David Letterman.”

  “That washed up old man?” She flashed him a toothy smile. “I’d rather be Shelby Gunner: Funniest woman in a Bronco!”

  He rested his head against the back of the seat again and closed his eyes. “This all comes back to Jack. He’s Clara’s brother. Somehow, he knew Mrs. Jones before the war – and if we can believe Helen’s crazy rant – she took something from him. Maybe that’s why he lost it, and started living on the streets.”

  “A lot of vets felt lost after Vietnam, babe.”

  “Jack also overheard two men plotting to kill his sister. Then after telling us his story, he breaks into the Jones’ house. They insist nothing was stolen, but Jack left the scene of the crime and went directly to Luanne’s, where he put something in his box for safe-keeping.”

  “Box? You didn’t tell me about a box.”

  “Luanne lets him store a small box of mementos at the café. Things he didn’t want destroyed out in the weather.”

  “Did you look through it?”

  “No. Luanne is like a Doberman guarding a bone.”

  She laughed. “I can imagine. She has a soft spot when it comes to Jack.”

  “She’s not the only one. I owe that man a lot. He was the only real father figure in my life when I was a boy. Other than Tucker’s dad, of course.”

  She reached out and clasped his hand. “I know, Gun. And you’re worried he did something bad. But what if he’s protecting someone else? He protected you and Tucker when you were kids. He’s protective of Luanne. And I think he probably hung out at the boathouse because he was watching out for his sister, not because he really needed a dry place to sleep.”

  “I knew there was something way off about the break-in. There had to be more to it than what Farley and his mother let on. I just couldn’t fathom what that would be.” He sat up straighter. “What if Jack was taking something back, something they couldn’t report?”

  “A blackmail photo perhaps?”

  <<>>

  When Shelby turned the Bronco into the driveway, they saw Alice and Tucker standing on the porch kissing. At the sound of their approach, they quickly pulled apart. Tucker pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket, and Alice ran a hand nervously through her hair, now loose around her shoulders.

  Blake and Shelby climbed out of the truck, smiling.

  “How was your visit?” Alice asked, color rising in her cheeks when Tucker wrapped a possessive arm around her.

  “Interesting. Join us inside, and we’ll tell you all about it.” Blake opened the door and stepped back, letting them enter first, then behind their backs he met Shelby’s grin, and winked.

  Alice said her father was watching television in his bedroom, so they would be able to talk freely. She invited them to go into the sitting room, and she would grab some coffee. Tucker made sure to save a spot for her on the couch beside him, while Blake and Shelby settled into twin upholstered Queen Anne chairs, a retro 1970s marble coffee table between them.

  “How’s your arm?” Tucker asked.

  Blake shrugged out of his jacket and hung it over the side of the chair. He pulled up his sleeve and inspected the bandage. “To tell you the truth, I haven’t thought about it all day.”

  “Doesn’t it hurt?”

  Shelby reached out and lightly pushed on his arm.

  He flinched. “Oww!

  “Of course it doesn’t,” she said. “It’s just a little flesh wound.”

  Tucker shook his head, trying not to laugh. “You two make marriage look so fun. Makes me want to join the club.”

  Alice walked in at that moment, a carafe of coffee and four mugs on a tray. She stared at Tucker like a deer in the headlights. He jumped up, took the tray before she dropped it, and set it carefully on the table between them.

  “Sit,” he said with a smile. “I’ll pour.”

  Blake accepted the steaming mug Tucker held out. He was a little worried about how to tell Alice that she had an uncle, who happened to be the man her father referred to as a bum. But he needn’t have worried. Shelby beat him to it.

  “Alice,” she said, leaning forward to reach for the cream. “We have good news and bad news. The good news is, you have an uncle. The bad news is, your Thanksgiving dinners may be a lot more volatile now.”

  “What?”

  “Jack is Helen’s son, your mom’s half-brother.”

  “That can’t be. She would have told me.” The coffee in her cup sloshed, and Tucker quickly took it from her hand, and set it back on the table. She gripped the edge of the couch cushion instead. “Helen’s lying.

  “No. She’s not,” Blake said. “You know it’s true.”

  Tucker tried to take her hand, but she yanked it away. “The truth is, ever since you two showed up, things have been volatile! Dad had a stroke, Jack collapsed on the beach, the boathouse was set on fire. For goodness sake, you were shot at! Doesn’t that tell you something?”

  They both looked at her, confused.

  “To be fair, things were a little crazy before they showed up,” Tucker reminded her, which earned him a look filled with daggers. He put up his hands in defense, and sat back.

  “You two are pot stirrers! That’s what you are. I should have left well enough alone. Gone bankrupt like everybody else, and hoped they’d let us keep the house.”

  “You don’t mean that,” Shelby said. “I know it hurts to find out your mother was keeping secrets from you, but as I understand it, she didn’t think it was her secret to reveal. For some reason, Jack didn’t want anyone to know who he was. Maybe he thought he would be a burden on her and your family.”

  Alice stared down at the cup of coffee on the table, now growing cold, and pressed her lips together.

  “Your mother didn’t lie to you, honey.” Oliver Booth had managed to sneak up on them without their notice. He wore a robe over sweat pants, and had a book in hand. He’d probably intended to relax in his easy chair. “She just chose not to tell you everything about her life. There’s a difference.”

  “Really? That’s your reasoning? I call that lies by omission.”

  He peered over his reading glasses at her. “Did you tell your mother everything you did when you were in high school? Or did you omit some things because you thought she didn’t need to know, or it would hurt her too much to know?”

  She shook her head, looking away.

  “I understand what you’re feeling. She didn’t tell me everything either. I wish she had. Maybe things would be different.”

  A tear slipped down her cheek, and she brushed it quickly away. Tucker reached out and she finally let him pull her close, melting into his arms with a sob.

  Blake looked at Shelby, and slanted his eyes toward the stairs. It was time for them to make their exit. They left the room, trailing after Mr. Booth who was doing a slow shuffle-slide thing in stocking feet. When they turned to start up the stairs, he waved for them to follow him.

  By the time he sat on the edge of his bed, he was breathing heavily. The television was on, but it was mostl
y static. An old-fashioned rabbit ear antenna, clipped on the back, had fallen down. “Shut that thing off, will ya?” he said, scooting up against his pillows.

  Blake did as he was asked, wondering what the old man wanted. Shelby was already making herself at home, picking up and looking at the pictures on the dresser. “Is this Clara?” she asked, lifting a small black and white photograph in a silver frame. A young woman stood on the deck of a boat, hair blowing in the breeze, her smile wide and sweet.

  “That’s my Clara. The girl I married. She was a trusting sort back then. She loved unconditionally. I destroyed that about her.” He slipped a hand under the blankets, and pulled out two leather bound books. “These are two of her journals. Each one contains a year of her life. She wrote something everyday, since she was a child. Even if it was just to say she was too sick to write.” He snorted a laugh, and held them toward Shelby.

  “You want us to read these?” She reached out to accept them as though they might bite. Smoothing her hand over a cover, she asked, “Are you sure Alice will be okay with this?”

  “Nope. I’m not sure. If you had read all my wife’s journals, like I did after she died, you’d know I’m totally clueless when it comes to women and how they think. But there are things in these books that you should know,” he said looking toward Blake, “things that may help to solve my wife’s murder, and things that need to come to light. There have been too many secrets in this house and in this port, for far too long.”

  When they continued to stand there, waiting expectantly, he yanked the covers up to his chest, and glared. “Can’t an old man get some privacy around here?”

  <<>>

  Upstairs, Blake went directly to the bed and collapsed on it. “Wake me up when it’s time to go home.”

  “Don’t you want to know what’s in these journals?” Shelby sat at the desk, and opened the top one. Clara had marked the title page with the year, 1965.

  The first entry began with the common malady of children everywhere and in every time–boredom.