by C. B. Clark
She showed him her license and reached in the glove compartment for the insurance papers. The small space was empty. She flipped her visor down. Nothing. Where the hell was her insurance?
“Ma’am?” The furrow between his thick brows deepened. One hand rested on the butt of the revolver on his hip. “Your insurance?”
She forced a laugh. “I don’t know where the papers are.”
He stared at her.
“I don’t. You see, this is a rental car. I was certain the rental car company gave me the insurance papers, but I can’t find them. I paid for insurance. Honest.”
“Wait here.”
She watched in the rearview mirror as he returned to his patrol car. He left the driver’s door open and spoke into his police radio.
The damn rental car company! Served her right for going with the cheapest one in town. She’d have a word with them when she returned to Seattle. They’d rented her a car with bald tires, no spare or a jack, and they hadn’t given her the insurance papers she’d paid for. She rubbed her aching temples. She should have left town when she’d planned. Why had she gone out to the old farm? It wasn’t as if Declan appreciated her offer of help.
“You need to follow me, ma’am.”
She jumped. She hadn’t heard the deputy return. “Follow you? Where? I’m on my way to Seattle.”
He shook his head. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere today. Leastwise, not Seattle.”
“But—”
“Follow me back to town.” His eyes narrowed. “And don’t try any funny business. Cooper’s Ridge may not be Seattle, but we sure as crikey know how to deal with criminals.”
She gulped. “Criminals? I’m not a criminal. I told you. This is all a misunderstanding. I have insurance. I paid for it. You can call the rental company. They’ll tell you.”
Her pleading didn’t faze him. “Follow me.” He turned and strode to his car, climbed in, and slammed the door.
She groaned. Just what she needed, returning to town escorted by a sheriff’s deputy’s car. The gossips would have a heyday. She started her engine, and with a sinking heart, followed the police car back to Cooper’s Ridge and away from Seattle. At least the siren wasn’t blaring.
Chapter 8
Declan rubbed the back of his aching neck. His eyes burned from the puffs of fine dust raised with each step. For the past two hours, he’d used a rusty pitchfork he found in the old barn and sifted through the straw scattered across the hard-packed, dirt floor. He’d climbed the rickety wooden ladder to the loft and ripped apart moldy hay bales covered with caked-on mounds of dried bat shit, careful not to dislodge any loose boards. One misstep risked a fifteen-foot plunge to the floor below. He’d even knelt on the filth-encrusted floor in the back corner of the cavernous barn and lifted each faded red brick in the six-foot high stack of old building material and checked beneath. Nothing.
He wiped the damp from his brow. He was a fool. The text message was a prank, someone’s idea of a sick joke. Whoever had written the text was having a good chuckle. He’d wasted the better part of a day searching…for what?
A gust of wind blew through the open barn door stirring the scattered piles of hay and raising swirls of dust. Over by the horse stall, beside the pile of bricks he’d just searched, something flickered in the breeze. He stepped closer, his heart starting to pound.
Crouching, he squinted into the gloom. A tattered scrap of cloth hung from a rusty nail that was embedded in an old, weathered board. How had he missed this? When he’d restacked the old bricks and moved them away from the wall, he must have bumped the horse stall and dislodged a loose board, exposing the small piece of cloth fluttering in the slight breeze.
He leaned closer studying the tattered rag, sucked in a sharp breath, and fell back on his butt. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the design on the cloth was seared onto his eyelids. Jumping to his feet, he ran to his truck and retrieved the pair of work gloves he kept in a toolbox in the backseat.
Back in the barn, his hands shook as he unhooked the rag from the nail. The cloth, no more than six-by-eight inches, was gold with vibrant splashes of green and teal blue dancing across the glossy surface. He’d never forget the colorful pattern. How could he when every word, every gesture, every second of the night was seared into his brain, every single bit of minutia locked-in.
He hadn’t forgotten a detail from the moment he’d driven up to Skye’s clapboard house in his rusty, old, pickup truck, to when she stepped out of the back room in all her prom finery. She’d found a vintage, designer scarf in a secondhand shop and wore it, twisted in an intricate knot around her slender throat. She made him touch the soft, silken fabric, and he remembered admiring the rich colors.
After the dance, before they’d headed out to the farm for the party, she changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, but kept the scarf wrapped around her neck. If he closed his eyes, he could see her fondling the delicate scarf, running her hands again and again over the silk as if making sure it was still around her neck.
He stared at the piece of silk in his hands. The lustrous colors and unique design were identical to the scarf Skye had worn. On shaky knees, he staggered out of the barn and examined the cloth in the afternoon light. His heart stuttered as he ran his gloved fingers over the ragged edges. It looked as if the remnant had been torn from a larger piece of fabric. Was it a part of Skye’s scarf? Was that possible?
He rubbed his forehead, trying to ease the tightening band of pressure. This couldn’t be from Skye’s scarf. Impossible. If this was a piece of her scarf and it had been in the barn all this time, the colors would have faded. Dust would have covered the fabric with a layer of dulling grime. Even hidden behind the old board, the cloth would have yellowed.
The investigators had searched the barn looking for clues to Skye’s murder. Why hadn’t they found the scrap of cloth in the course of their investigation? If this really was a section of Skye’s scarf, only one answer made sense—the person who’d texted him had left the cloth for him to find.
He turned the cloth over and froze. A faded, rust-colored smear marred the gold. Blood? The roiling in his gut left little doubt. A horrific scenario flashed through his mind—the murderer luring Skye away from the party on one pretext or another, attacking her, hitting her, again and again until she stopped fighting and lay still. Such a violent attack would have resulted in blood splattering her scarf.
The sheriff had to see this. The forensic specialists would be able to tell if the brownish smear was blood and confirm the scarf was Skye’s. DNA evidence might still be on the fabric and point a finger at the murderer.
One thing was for sure. Whoever had hidden the cloth in the barn was the murderer. No one else would have had access to Skye’s scarf. The killer had dragged her into the forest and covered her in dirt, but before he buried her, he’d taken a souvenir. He’d ripped off a piece of her scarf and kept it all these years.
But why bring it out of hiding now? Acid burned deep in his gut, and the pounding in his head ramped up. Of course. He’d been played. The killer wanted him to find Skye’s torn scarf. If Declan showed up at the Sheriff’s Office with a piece of Skye’s bloodied scarf, the sheriff would arrest him on the spot. He’d take it as proof Declan had murdered her. He wouldn’t believe an anonymous text had led Declan out here to find the scrap of cloth. The sheriff would toss him in a cell and throw away the key. He’d never get out this time. As far as the law was concerned, they’d have all the evidence they needed to get a conviction.
He didn’t have a choice. The scarf might contain evidence to help find the real killer. He had to turn it in to the authorities. He had to think of Skye. She deserved justice. But what if there wasn’t any DNA evidence on the scarf? Was he prepared to spend the rest of his life in jail?
His gut churned. He’d been tricked, all right…by a master. The bastard who’d texted him had played him like a bad tune, and Declan had been stupid enough to walk right into his trap. Now, what the hell was he going to do?
> A car drove into the clearing, coming to a stop beside his truck. Sheldon opened the door and stepped out, a grin on his angular face. “Hey, buddy, how’s it going?”
“What the hell are you doing here?” Even to Declan’s own ears, his voice sounded sharp. First Carrie Ann and now Sheldon. Did the whole damn town know he was coming out here?
“I thought you might want some company.”
“Who told you I was here?”
“Carrie Ann. I was driving around, and I saw her parked on the side of the road a ways back. She told me she saw you.” Sheldon’s gaze sharpened. “She was upset. I think she’d been crying.”
Declan flinched as if from a blow. He shouldn’t have been so hard on her, but seeing her opened old wounds. When he was around her, all he could think of was making her hurt as much as he hurt.
“What’s that you have?” Sheldon’s gaze fixed on the piece of fabric clutched in Declan’s hand.
Shit. He’d forgotten. “Something I found in the barn.”
“What is it?”
Declan heaved a breath. Might as well get this over with. Everyone was going to know once he showed the sheriff what he’d found. “I think it’s a piece of Skye’s scarf, the one she wore prom night.”
“What?” Sheldon’s eyes widened. “No way.”
He nodded.
“But how…?” Sheldon’s voice broke. He met Declan’s gaze. “Oh, man. This isn’t good, is it?”
“It gets worse.” He turned the cloth over and held it for Sheldon to see. “I think this is blood.”
Sheldon gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his thin throat. “Are you going to show this to the sheriff? You have to, don’t you? I mean, it’s evidence, right?”
Declan’s head throbbed.
“Oh, man. This won’t look good,” Sheldon continued. “You having a piece of Skye’s scarf after all these years. This is what Sheriff Atkins and Judge Winters have been waiting for.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Why did you come out here on your own? You should have brought that expensive P.I. you hired with you. At least he could have backed you up and say he saw you find the scarf in the barn.”
Declan glared, putting all his anger and frustration into the look, though Sheldon was only voicing aloud what he’d been thinking. He should never have come out here on his own. He should have asked Jamieson Caruthers to search the old farm with him, but Declan hadn’t really believed he’d find anything helpful, and he hadn’t wanted to waste the private investigator’s time on a fool’s errand. Now, who was the fool?
“Easy, man.” Sheldon patted the air. “I’m on your side, remember? I’m just telling you what the sheriff’s going to think.”
Declan sucked in a steadying breath. “Sorry.” He rubbed his aching eyes. “I’m just so fricking pissed. I was set up. Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to make damn sure I go to jail for a murder I didn’t commit.”
“You mean, you’re being framed? Come on. Who’d do that?”
“I don’t know, but I sure as hell intend to find out.”
Silence hung in the air. Even the wind had died.
“So what are you going to do?” Sheldon nodded at the scrap of fabric. “You could throw it away and pretend you never found it. No one would know. I sure wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“I can’t do that.” He held up the cloth. “This might help find Skye’s killer.”
“But it makes you look guilty as hell.”
Declan nodded, the movement increasing the jabbing pain in his head. “You’re right, but if there’s the slightest chance this will point at her killer, I have to turn it in.”
“I could give the scarf to the sheriff.” Sheldon bounced on his toes. “I could say I was out here looking around, and I found it. You’d be in the clear.”
A lump formed in Declan’s throat. He placed his hand on Sheldon’s bony shoulder. “You’re a good friend, but I can’t let you do that.”
Sheldon’s face flushed. “You helped me out in high school. I’d have been beaten to a pulp if you hadn’t stood up for me.” His blue eyes glistened with tears. “I owe you, man. I’d do anything for you.”
“I’ll see the sheriff gets this.” Declan’s voice was a hoarse croak. “But I won’t let him walk all over me again. I’m not a penniless kid anymore. I know my rights.”
“Okay, man. If you’re sure.” Sheldon paled and his eyes widened. “You know what this means, don’t you? The murderer was here…recently.” He shuddered and peered warily around the deserted homestead.
“Don’t worry, we’re alone. I checked.”
“Carrie Ann was here.”
“Yeah, she was.” Declan schooled his expression, hoping Sheldon wouldn’t guess how the mere mention of her name upset him.
“What did she want?”
“She wanted to return some stuff to me.”
“And she drove all the way out here to return something? What was it? It must have been important.”
“It wasn’t.”
“So why’d she come?”
Declan shook his head. That was the six million dollar question. “I don’t know.”
Chapter 9
Carrie Ann followed the deputy’s car back to town. The flashing red-and-blue lights attracted attention. A lot of attention. As they paraded down Front Street past all the main businesses in town, heads craned for a closer look at the car being led to the Sheriff’s Office.
The hope she wouldn’t be recognized faded when she glanced out her window. Three women stood on the sidewalk pointing at her and talking excitedly as she passed. One woman had her cell phone out and was speaking into it. Another held her phone in the air, filming.
Carrie Ann’s heart sank. Man, she hated small towns.
The deputy put on his cruiser’s blinker and turned down Edwards Street, but instead of stopping at the Sheriff’s Office, he drove past.
What the hell?
The cruiser continued down Edwards and turned onto Winters Road.
She tightened her grip on the steering wheel. She should have known.
The deputy swung onto her aunt’s driveway and stopped in front of the house.
She parked beside him, leaped out of her car, and marched toward the deputy’s vehicle. “What the hell is this? You told me you were taking me to the Sheriff’s Office.”
The deputy climbed out of the cruiser. He placed his hat on his head and stood watching her, a bland expression on his jowly face.
“What’s going on?” She could feel her blood pressure rising. “Why are we here?”
The door to the house opened, and Vivian stepped onto the porch.
“Here she is, Mrs. Winters.” The deputy gestured at Carrie Ann. “I brought her in like you asked.”
“Thanks, Beau.”
“Well, I reckon I don’t deserve too much credit. I was on a call to the old Rankin Farm out on Getty’s Road when I spotted her.”
“The Rankin Farm?” Vivian frowned. “What in Heaven’s name was she doing out there?”
“I don’t rightly know, but I aim to find out. I’m headin’ back out to the old farm as soon as I finish up here. Seems someone phoned in a report of suspicious activity.”
Vivian crossed the porch and faced Carrie Ann. “I’m glad you’re back. You left so abruptly, we didn’t get a chance to finish our business.”
Carrie Ann’s anger flared. “I’m not a kid anymore. You can’t do this. You don’t control me.” Spinning on her heel, she strode back to her car. She opened her door, but paused when the deputy called out.
“Er, ma’am, I’m afraid you’re not free to go.”
“What are you talking about? I’m not under arrest. I have every right to go wherever I want.”
He removed his hat and scratched his scalp. “You see, ma’am, there’re these little issues of you exceeding the speed limit and driving without insurance.” His fat lips stretched in a wide grin. “Both are serious offenses in this county. You ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
She opened her mouth to argue but gave up. He had her dead to rights. She had been speeding, and she couldn’t find the insurance papers for her car. “Okay, write me a ticket. I’ll pay the fine.”
He eyed her for a long, drawn-out minute. “I don’t know, ma’am, you were goin’ mighty fast.”
“Maybe we can make a deal, Beau,” Vivian cut in. “Write Carrie Ann a ticket for speeding. Make the fine a big one. I’ll guarantee she pays.”
Carrie Ann’s face burned. She didn’t need Vivian to deal with this. “Enough.” The word came out as a shout.
Vivian and the deputy stopped their negotiating and turned to stare at her.
She took a steadying breath. “Look, I’ll pay the fine. I’ll do whatever I have to, to get out of this damn town.” She glared at the deputy. “Tell me how much.”
His gaze shifted between Vivian and her.
“My aunt has nothing to do with this.” Her anger boiled over when he glanced once again at Vivian.
Vivian nodded.
“Okay, fine.” He reached into the open window of his cruiser, removed his ticket book and began writing on it. When he finished, he handed Carrie Ann the ticket.
She gaped at the amount and bit back a gasp. The fine was steep, probably way too much, but she didn’t dare argue. She’d pay the damn thing and leave. She climbed into her car, but before she could turn the keys in the ignition, Deputy Beau tapped on her window. She rolled down her window.
“Where you goin’?”
She fought the urge to yell. “To the Sheriff’s Office to pay the fine you just handed me.”
He shook his head. “No, you ain’t.”
She rubbed her pounding head. “Okay.” She spoke as if addressing a small child. “I sped. You gave me a speeding ticket, and now I’m going to pay the fine.” She pasted a smile on her face.
“You don’t have any insurance, lady.” This time he laughed. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
You ain’t goin’ nowhere. If he said those words one more time, she’d scream.
“You can’t drive this car until you get insurance.” He crossed his arms over his beefy chest. “It’s the law.”