Take Me Back (Paradise, Idaho Book 4)

by Rosalind James

  She hoped he got completely toasted on Friday nights and cut loose, because his expression was sadder than she’d bet anybody else here would be able to manage, and that kind of acting had to be stressful.

  “Henry Cavanaugh,” she said.

  “The Lemhi Room,” he answered.

  Hallie followed the direction of his gaze into a hushed chamber playing piped-in organ music. She found padded chairs set in rows, walls hung with heavy deep-blue curtains, and risers in the front boasting a huge mahogany casket covered by a giant spray of flowers that she’d bet money had either been sent by the lawyer, the bank, or Cavanaugh Development. Behind the casket stood a lectern with a chair beside it, where a man she didn’t know sat with his head bowed over a folder. This had to be the smallest room Schalk’s had—it couldn’t have held more than forty people at the most—but it wasn’t exactly standing room only.

  Everybody turned to look as she walked in, and she avoided eye contact, set up an invisible force shield around the gleaming casket—its lid blessedly closed—that held the man whose DNA she shared, and made a beeline for the only person here she truly wanted to see. Anthea Gray, her best friend since the seventh grade. Anthea sat in the next-to-back row wearing a black suit, her brown hair twisted into a neat coil, her entire appearance infinitely more appropriately funereal than Hallie’s.

  “Hi,” Hallie whispered, slipping into a chair beside Anthea and nodding past her friend at Bob Jenkins, the senior partner in Anthea’s firm—and Henry’s attorney.

  Anthea gave her a hug, then made a face and wiped her hands on Hallie’s wrinkled skirt, which made Hallie take a surreptitious slap at her arm.

  “Some people take the shower with their clothes off,” Anthea said. “It’s a concept.”

  “Long story. I was running late.”

  “Hey,” Anthea said, dropping her voice even further so Bob couldn’t hear, “we don’t care. We’re billing by the quarter hour. I’d bet you anything that Henry’s foremen are on the clock, too. You could be paying for just about everybody’s time here.”

  Hallie snorted, then turned it into a cough as heads turned. Her Uncle Dale gave her a little wave and a sorrowful smile from the front row, his wife, Faye, touched an eye with an actual white handkerchief, and the man up front stood, moved behind the lectern, cleared his throat, and said, “I think we’ll begin.”

  “Let ’er rip. Story hour,” Anthea muttered, and Hallie had to cough again.

  The guy did his best, Hallie supposed. Another job that couldn’t be easy. He recited Henry’s resume, making a big deal of the way he’d built his business up from a hardscrabble beginning, building spec houses down in Boise and living rough in each while he finished them during every waking hour outside his day job. Settling on Paradise for his empire and never wavering in his determination to succeed. Sinking all his capital into his first development project, powering equally hard through every setback and triumph, never altering his routine or changing his nature, even as he became one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in Paradise.

  “He was at heart a simple man,” the hired minister intoned. “Hard work was his mantra, and hunting was his passion.”

  “Not hardly,” Anthea said in Hallie’s ear. “Screwing people over was his passion.”

  “He didn’t suffer fools gladly,” the minister continued, “but he built his name by never settling for less than anyone’s best.”

  “If his name was ‘asshole.’” That was Anthea again, and Hallie dug her elbow into her friend’s side and hissed, “Stop.” Nothing could be less appropriate than getting the giggles at your own father’s funeral, and it felt way too close to happening. When she’d wanted to feel something, “hysteria” hadn’t been on her list.

  The service took less than fifteen minutes, and then the minister asked if anybody wanted to speak. There was a long pause, then Hallie’s Uncle Dale got up, walked to the lectern, and said, “My brother wasn’t a perfect man.” And it all started again.

  “He was my brother, and I’ll miss him,” Dale said at the end of it. His voice broke a little. Maybe it was true. Dale had worked beside his brother for forty years. What would he do now? Run the company, presumably, without Henry there telling him what an idiot he was every day. Not something Hallie would personally have missed, but then, people were nuts.

  Her thoughts were interrupted when Dale asked, “Hallie? Would you like to speak?”

  “No,” she blurted out, then added, “No, thank you.”

  Dale stood for another moment, irresolute, then moved away, and the minister stepped up again and put a merciful end to things. “There will be no graveside service,” he intoned, and Hallie thought, Good thing, too, because we would’ve been down to, what, five? Maybe it would have been healthy—more closure, and all that—but everything inside her shrank from the idea.

  “Well, that was awkward,” Anthea interrupted her thoughts to say, gathering her purse from the floor. “You, I mean.”

  “See, now, if it had been you,” Hallie retorted, “you’d have gone up there and said, ‘Why do you think I haven’t been home for five years?’”

  “Well, why not?” Anthea said with a shrug. “Everybody would’ve loved it except Dale. Given people something to talk about, anyway.”

  “I cannot believe you’re an attorney,” Hallie said. “You are the least tactful person I know. I’d think every client would fire you on day one.”

  “I think it and don’t say it, that’s how,” Anthea said. “Until I go home to Ben and let loose. When you do family law, trust me, snark is self-preservation.”

  Bob Jenkins was turning now, though, saying, “Hallie. It’s good to see you,” and she had to accept condolences she didn’t want. From Bob, from Aldon Cranfield, the president of the bank, then from two middle-aged men she didn’t know, one lean and one bulky, who introduced themselves as Henry’s foremen and made a beeline for the door immediately afterward. And from Uncle Dale and his wife, Faye.

  Eight mourners, counting her. If she’d gotten her mother to take the bet, Hallie would totally have won.

  Right now, though, Dale was pulling Hallie into a tight hug and saying, “It’s so good to see you. I can’t tell you,” and Hallie was doing her best to reciprocate.

  In fact, Uncle Dale had never been a huge part of her life, so she didn’t know why seeing her would be anything special. But then, she was the closest blood relation he had left, so maybe that counted. Maybe it should count to her, too. Her mother felt like family, of course. Anthea and her kids felt like family, and so did a couple of her friends in Seattle. The family she’d chosen.

  Faye did some air-kissing next, her cheek smooth and powdery against Hallie’s. She must be forty-five now, but she looked barely thirty-two, any wrinkles held firmly at bay.

  The twenty-year gap in age between husband and wife had never been more apparent, because if Faye hadn’t aged, Dale certainly had. He looked gaunt, almost haunted, and Faye tucked her arm protectively through his and asked Hallie, “Where are you staying, honey? We’d love to have you at the house.”

  “Oh,” Hallie said. “At Dad’s. At least, Bob said it was . . . that I could. It’s just for the night.”

  She should be having some emotions, especially now, with that huge gleaming mahogany casket taking up her peripheral vision despite all her attempts not to see it. Regret, anger, sadness. Something. Henry had been her father. Instead, all she’d felt since she’d heard the news was a sort of blank, hollow . . . space. Well, that and, once she’d set out today, the overwhelming urge to turn around again. The same way she felt right now, looking at Faye and Dale and reminding them that her father’s million-dollar-plus property belonged to her, seeing the look in their eyes when she did. A look that asked, “Where does the rest of the money go?” Awkward didn’t begin to cover it.

  Faye looked momentarily taken aback at Hallie’s refusal to stay with them. “Oh. I didn’t realize you’d be allowed . . . that you’d be in t
he house.” She glanced at her husband, got nothing but a shake of his head, and waved a manicured hand. “Never mind. Won’t you be scared and lonesome out there all by yourself, though? It’s so isolated up there, and with your dad—you know . . . Wouldn’t you rather come and be cozy with us?”

  Cozy didn’t quite describe her uncle’s house, at least the last time Hallie had been there. On the ridge a half mile from her dad’s, it wasn’t as big or as remote as the larger one to the east, but unless Faye had redecorated since Hallie had last been there, the whole place was terrifyingly white and cream. Hallie had sat down once with jam on her sleeve, and the living room had looked like a crime scene afterward.

  “If she gets scared, she’ll come stay with me,” Anthea said. She hadn’t left Hallie’s side, to her relief. “I already invited her.”

  “I’d have to sleep in a bunk bed,” Hallie said. She knew what Faye had meant: that Hallie would be uncomfortable, or worse, in the house where her father had died. But people died at home all the time. If nobody could live there afterward, half the houses in the world would be empty.

  She’d hold that thought.

  Anthea said, “Hey. You’d get the top bunk. Got Frozen sheets on there, too. You know you love Elsa.”

  Dale smiled. “You two girls. Always so perky.”

  Anthea just looked at him. “Well, not the exact word I’d have used, but OK.” She turned to Hallie. “About ready?”

  When the two of them were headed across the parking lot, Hallie asked, “How do you do that? I always hang around awkwardly and wait for somebody else to break up the party.”

  “Got to take up your own space in the world,” Anthea said. “I keep telling you. Stand your ground. Say good-bye first. Make the plans. Kiss the boy while he’s still thinking about how to make his move. Let them feel awkward, if somebody has to. But really, they’ll just be relieved that somebody’s made a decision. Come on,” she added. “I took the afternoon off. Let’s go have a drink. You look like you could use one.”

  Hallie sighed. “You just did it again.”

  “You bet,” Anthea said. “Watch and learn. Follow me, Princess Hallie. Daiquiris await.”

  “That’s just what I told my mom,” Hallie said in surprise. “Closure party. Except I said margaritas.”

  “See?” Anthea said. “You have great ideas. Next time, put it on out there. Announce it, and I’ll follow you. All it takes is guts.”

  SECRETS AND LIES

  The killer looked at the clock on the dash. Four o’clock. Henry’s body would be going into the ground right now, and taking all its secrets with it.

  It had been a nervous week. You could say that. Starting with the first part—waiting for the body to be discovered. Jumping at every phone call all evening and through all of that long, dragging next morning, expecting a knock on the door at any second, all the while trying desperately to disguise the fear. Trying to forget waking drenched in cold sweat from a dream of Henry standing up from the coffee table, blood streaming down a terrible, grinning face, and pointing an accusing finger at his killer. A dream that had come every night since, no matter how many times you repeated the words.

  You didn’t kill him. You didn’t do anything. You tried to do the Heimlich, and he slipped. He choked, and he fell.

  Maybe it would have been better to make it look like a burglary. That was the thought that had had the killer swinging out of bed that first night, after the dream. Maybe it would be better to go back to the house, break in, and trash the place. In gloves. The killer had made it all the way out of the bedroom before realizing how stupid the idea was and suffering another sickening stab of fear at coming so close to doing something that crazy.

  Why would somebody choke and fall right when they were being burglarized? That would be so much more suspicious. Plus, you’d have about ten minutes before the cops got there, if the alarm’s on. Stay cool. There’s nothing linking you to it.

  Hearing the news that the body had been discovered had been the biggest relief of the killer’s life, had caused some more sweaty palms and weak knees despite every pep talk. After that, though, the crime scene tape had gone up, and if the killer thought the first wait had been nerve-wracking—the hours and days that followed were worse. Going over and over the events of the evening, trying to see how anybody could draw a link, rehearsing the story just in case they did. He choked. You tried to save him. He fell. You saw he was dead, and you got scared and ran. There was no point in calling for help, because he was already dead.

  And what link could there be? The killer had never intended to do anything but talk to Henry. All right, to confront him, to make sure he wasn’t going to talk about . . . the thing. But nothing more than that. Not parking in Henry’s driveway hadn’t been for any evil purpose. It had just been to make sure Henry would let his visitor in. He’d been so unpredictable. Downright nasty, at times. That was the reason the killer had waited around the corner from the garage and then walked through the open door when Henry’s truck had rolled in. Just to talk, that was all.

  There had been nothing left behind. No clues. No fingerprints, because Henry had gone through every door first. Because Henry always went first, like he had the divine right.

  No. There could be nothing. No proof. Unless somebody had seen the car.

  That was the thought that had kept the killer’s palms sweaty, the thoughts circling and nagging and tormenting until the crime scene tape had come down and the funeral had been announced in the paper, together with the cause of death.

  Accidental.

  Which was what it had been.

  Now, Henry was in the ground, and it was all over. Except for the reading of the will.

  Tomorrow.

  FAMILY TIME

  When Jim walked through the back door into his mother’s kitchen a few hours after seeing Hallie, his daughter, Mac, looked up from the paper and colored pencils spread around her on the table and said, “You’re late.”

  “Yep.” Jim went over and dropped a kiss on top of her shining dark head. Her French braid still looked great, he saw with satisfaction. “What’re you working on?”

  “World Geography homework. A map of the Middle East. Two maps, actually. Past and present. You wouldn’t believe how much the boundaries have changed in the past hundred years, Dad. It’s really interesting.”

  “Mm.” He’d believe it, actually. His boots had pounded a whole lot of desert sand among those shifting boundaries, going after one warlord or another. Which had only brought in another warlord to fill the power vacuum, but then, policy hadn’t been his job. “Where’s Grandma?”

  “Bunco night.” Mac began to slot her colored pencils neatly into their box. “I ate dinner already. Your shift was over at four. What happened?”

  She always knew. Mackenzie might only be eleven, but she kept a copy of his shift schedule in her notebook, and barely needed it. Mac’s brain was a filing cabinet all its own.

  “Wrapping up the paperwork on a case,” he said.

  “Was it that old guy who died?”

  “How do you know about that?”

  She sighed. “I read the news, Dad. It was online. Plus, kids were talking about it. They said it was a murder, like a mystery, because there was police tape around the house. I said there’s always police tape if they’re not sure how somebody died. That doesn’t make it a murder.”

  “Well, you were right. No mystery, and no murder. Just a guy who died.” He didn’t want to talk about Henry Cavanaugh. The man and his death stuck in his craw like a chicken bone. Or an ice cube. “Let’s go home. I’m hungry.”

  Before they could do it, though, his half brother, Cole, wandered into the kitchen. When he saw Jim, he stopped, pulled his earphones hastily out from under his shaggy blond hair, opened the refrigerator door, and bent to study the contents.

  “What are you listening to?” Jim asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Jim yanked the phone out of the back pocket of Cole’s
skinny jeans, and Cole whirled to face him. “You’re pirating again. We’ve had this talk too many times.” When Jim had found over two thousand songs on his brother’s computer that he hadn’t paid for, for example.

  “That’s bullshit,” Cole said, a faint flush appearing on his cheeks. “It was bullshit last time, and it’s bullshit now. And you’re not in charge of me.” He looked a little scared that he’d said it, and rushed on to say, “Anyway, art should be free.”

  Jim didn’t say anything. He just got still and looked at his brother until Cole dropped his gaze. Jim didn’t have a chance to continue, though, because Mac had somehow gotten between him and Cole with a hand on her hip, her dark eyes flashing. Looking exactly like her mom, just that tiny and fierce, and Jim’s heart both hurt and swelled to see it. Like always.

  “Don’t talk to him like that,” she told Cole. “Show some respect.”

  Cole said, “He’s not my dad. He’s just my half brother. And I’m your uncle. You show some respect.”

  Jim put a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “Hang on, partner,” he told her, and then said to Cole, keeping his voice even, “First, don’t use that language in front of Mac again. Got that?”

  Cole scowled, but he muttered, “Yeah.”

  “Second,” Jim said, “it’s illegal, it’s theft, and it’s wrong. If you like those bands so much, support them.”

  “I can’t afford it.”

  “Then don’t listen. I’d like a brand-new, tricked-out, crew-cab F-150, myself. Black. Got that sucker all picked out. I’d like a whole lot of things I don’t have. And I already said this, but I’m going to say it again. The one they’d come after would be Mom. You want that?” It was the last thing their mother needed, and it wasn’t going to happen. But helping to raise a resentful, fifteen-year-old half brother, Jim had long since found out, was a whole lot different than raising your own child. Especially when that fifteen-year-old could have been you seventeen years ago, lousy attitude and all, and you’d left home when he’d been all of two years old.