DEAD CERTAIN

by Carla Cassidy

  It wasn't so much a living room as a shrine to the man Riley presumed had been her husband. There were also photos of him and her together. In each of those her hair was long and her face held a bright, happy smile that made his heart ache for her loss.

  "I heard about your husband," he said, aware that she'd seen him looking at the photos. "I'm sorry."

  "Thank you." Her lips pressed tightly together, indicating to him that she intended to say nothing more on the subject.

  The kitchen was bright and airy, decorated in an apple motif and smelling faintly of cinnamon. Windows surrounded a round oak table on three sides, giving an open, airy feel to the room. She gestured him to a chair at the table while she opened a cabinet and began to prepare the coffee.

  "This is nice," he said. "How long have you been here?"

  "I moved in about six months ago. Do you take cream or sugar in your coffee?"

  "No, thanks. Black is fine." So, she'd moved in here after her husband had died. Probably escaping memories. A new burst of compassion for her swept through him. He'd lost his parents, and although it had been intensely painful, it couldn't compare to losing a spouse.

  As the kitchen filled with the scent of the fresh-brewed coffee, she pulled cups out of the cabinet and placed them on the table as Riley struggled to come up with some benign conversational topic.

  "It's sure warm for so early in the summer," he finally said.

  She shot him a quicksilver smile that lit up her features and nearly stole his breath, away. "When uncertain about making conversation the safe resort is always the weather."

  The smile was only there a moment, then gone, making him feel oddly bereft. "I was just making idle chatter," he replied.

  She grabbed the coffeepot and filled their cups. "I know. The ability to make small talk seems to have eluded me some time ago." She put the coffeepot away, then joined him at the table.

  He shrugged. "The ability to make small talk is vastly overrated. There's nothing wrong with moments of silence occasionally."

  "Sometimes, though, too much silence can almost send you over the edge."

  "True," he agreed, then took a sip of his coffee. He thought of what she'd said, about too much silence, and wondered how much she'd suffered in the past year since the death of her husband. He wondered if she had any idea how revealing her words had been, that she'd given him an intimate glimpse of her life.

  "Well, I guess it's time to get to work." She drew a deep breath, her gaze on the manila folder. He pulled his chair around to the same side of the table where she sat.

  "I have to warn you, some of this is kind of graphic," he said.

  "Riley, I'm a homicide cop. I've seen graphic plenty of times before."

  He opened the file and despite her last words, he heard her soft gasp as she saw the photo of his dead father on the floor next to a buttery tan recliner. Despite the fact that he'd believed himself mentally prepared to see the photo once again, the vision caused his breath to momentarily catch in the back of his throat.

  Dad. His head filled with images of his father at the same time his heart cried out in pain.

  He cleared his throat. "Apparently he was in his recliner when he was hit from behind with a blunt object. He fell forward and tumbled from the chair to the floor."

  "Was the weapon found?"

  "No."

  "No weapon was found at my parents' house, either." She turned the photo over and picked up the medical examiner's report.

  For the next half hour Riley sipped his coffee and watched as she read page after page of reports. He liked looking at her. Her features radiated so many things—strength, yet a soft vulnerability, determination mingling with a hint of stubbornness and an exquisite femininity he found captivating.

  Occasionally she would ask him questions, take in his replies, then go back to reading. It was obvious her entire focus was on the reports. That was fine with him. He was content to sit next to her and smell the sweet scent of her, feel the body heat that radiated from her and wonder what it would be like to taste her lips.

  It surprised him, that something about her had awakened a hunger that hadn't been present in him for a very long time. Something about her made him think about hot kisses and the sweet hollow between female breasts.

  Her hands fascinated him. They were slender, delicate and her fingernails were painted a pearly pink. He couldn't imagine them holding a gun. They seemed much more suited to stroking a brow … or holding a baby.

  He frowned, aware that his thoughts were definitely sexist. He'd seen her handle her gun the night she'd drawn it on him in the hospital parking lot. She'd been coolly efficient, as if the gun were a natural extension of her arm.

  "I've read all the notes about the people the police interviewed at the time of the incident. It sounds like your parents were very nice people," she said, and looked at him.

  "They were." He leaned back in his chair to get a bit of distance from her, aware that his thoughts of moments before still had half possession of his brain. "They were quiet people. They didn't have a wide circle of friends, but they didn't have any enemies, either. I think that's why it was so easy for the officials to assume it was a domestic dispute gone bad."

  "Despite the fact that nobody had ever seen signs of marital discord between your mother and father?"

  He smiled with a touch of bitterness. "You know what they say, nobody knows what goes on behind closed doors. I guess the cops were able to figure that just because a couple doesn't air their dirty laundry in public doesn't mean there isn't any dirty laundry."

  She closed the file, a frown creasing her brow. "In my parents' case it's just the opposite. The authorities don't have to speculate about dirty laundry behind closed doors."

  He leaned forward once again. "What do you mean?"

  She scooted back from the table and stood, as if uncomfortable with his nearness. She leaned against the cabinets, the frown still furrowing her forehead.

  "Half the people in town can attest to the fact that my parents fought and fought often. They were loud and passionate fights, but never physical." She smiled, but it was a curious mix of pleasure and pain. "I think they were two people who were stimulated by the arguments. You know there are people like that."

  He nodded and found himself wondering what her relationship had been like with her husband. Had they been like her parents? Stimulating each other with fights so the makeup sessions would be more exciting and intense? Or had they been, more like his parents—quiet with their passion for each other, rarely exchanging words of conflict?

  It didn't really matter what kind of relationship she had shared with her husband. It was obvious from the photo display in the living room that their relationship had been a loving one.

  He shook his head in an attempt to focus on what she was saying and not on how lovely she looked.

  "I really appreciate you letting me see the files," she said. "I'm not sure that anything I read will help in my case, but it was kind of you to share it with me."

  He sensed a dismissal in her words and in the way she crossed her arms over her chest. "Actually, my reasons for letting you look at them were not altogether altruistic," he replied. "If the same perpetrator is responsible for your crime and mine, then perhaps in helping you to solve yours, I can find out who murdered my father and what happened to my mother."

  "Whatever the reasons, I appreciate it." She moved to the table and gathered up the papers. He knew it was a subtle action to get him on his way.

  He reluctantly got to his feet and wasn't surprised when she led him back through the living room and to the front door. He felt a sense of rising panic, knowing that unless something else happened he'd probably never see her again, never talk to her again.

  He told himself that he hardly knew her and had contacted her strictly as one victim seeking out another, as somebody hoping to find answers. But his interest in her had quickly outgrown that particular desire.

  "Thank you again,
Riley," she said at the door and offered him her hand.

  He took it, enjoying the feel of its delicate femininity against his harder, bigger hand. "Anything I can do, Savannah, anything at all, don't hesitate to call me." He knew he was holding her hand longer than necessary, but he was reluctant to give it up. "Even if you just need to talk, I'm only a phone call away."

  "Thank you." She pulled her hand away and there was nothing more for Riley to say, nothing more for him to do but leave.

  As he drove away from the apartment complex, thoughts of her filled his head. He thought again of the pictures he'd seen, the ones where she'd been smiling and there had been no darkness in her eyes, no hint of the profound sadness that darkened them now.

  Would she ever find that smile again? That bright, beautiful smile that lit her features from within? If she ever did, he hoped he'd be around to see it.

  * * *

  "What are you doing here?" Glen Cleberg greeted Savannah with a scowl as she walked into the brick building that housed the Cherokee Corners Police Department.

  "I work here," she replied.

  "I told you to take some time off," he replied.

  She set her purse on her desk. "Glen, it's been over a week. If I don't get back to work, I swear I'll go crazy. Don't make me go back home."

  Glen grabbed her arm and steered her into his private office. He pointed her to the chair in front of his desk as he pulled the door closed behind them.

  Savannah steeled herself for a war. She couldn't stand the endless days and nights anymore. She'd spent hours at the hospital watching her motionless father, and hours wandering the streets trying to think of what might have happened to her mother.

  "Glen, please don't send me home," she said again before he could say anything. "I need to get back to work. We've still got an open murder case to solve."

  He nodded. "The Maxwell case … I know." He frowned and rubbed his hand across his meaty jaw. "I can't have you mucking around in your parents' case." His frown deepened. "But, I'll be honest, Savannah, we do need you on the Maxwell thing. You have a better grasp of the case than anyone else working it."

  The case he spoke of was one Gregory Maxwell, found naked and dead in front of the public library. Savannah had been the first officer on the scene and had been assigned lead investigator. "Anything new on it since I've been out?"

  "Nothing." Glen released a puffy sigh of frustration. "And Maxwell was well liked, highly respected. Folks want to know who did such a terrible thing."

  "Then let me get back to work," she exclaimed.

  He hesitated a long moment and pulled his hand across his lower jaw once again. "Okay." He leaned across his desk and pointed a stubby finger at her. "But you keep your investigation skills focused on the Maxwell case. You don't bother the men working your parents' case. That's not a homicide, and we're keeping you apprised of the details you need to know."

  Which was nothing, she thought with a touch of bitterness. It had been eight days and there had been nothing new on the case. Her father was still in his coma and her mother was still missing and Jimmy, her sweet Jimmy was still dead.

  "Get out of here and solve the Maxwell case," Glen said. "But your brother is still on paid leave. I don't want him anywhere near the lab until the forensic work is complete on your case."

  She didn't waste time arguing with him, afraid that he might change his mind about her coming back to work. Instead she left his office and headed for her desk. She was greeted by fellow officers, most of whom had already given her their regrets over what had happened to her family.

  The Maxwell file was on her desk just where she'd left it the last time she'd been in the station. She picked it up and read through her notes, trying to get back into the case that had haunted her before her personal tragedy had struck.

  Greg Maxwell had been thirty-two years old at the time of his murder. He'd built a successful business selling and repairing computers and writing computer programs. He'd lived in a lovely home with an equally lovely wife, but somebody had stabbed him, then had undressed him, leaving him naked in the middle of the sidewalk as a final insult.

  The authorities had uncovered no financial problems, no secret vices and no marital discord in their investigation.

  She studied her notes of her interview with Virginia Maxwell, Greg's wife, but she found her thoughts wandering to Riley.

  Long after he'd left her apartment his clean male scent had lingered. Somehow the smell had brought back her grief and thoughts of all she had lost when Jimmy had died.

  After showing Riley to the door, she'd returned to the kitchen table and breathed the air that held his scent as she'd drunk yet another cup of coffee. She'd liked the way his hand had felt holding hers. His had been the hands of a working man—strong and competent and slightly rough.

  He'd been in her thoughts often in the days since she'd last seen him. She told herself her only interest in him was the fact that he'd been through what she was going through. He was living proof that not knowing the whereabouts of a loved one could be survived.

  But somewhere deep inside her, she knew it was more than that, that when he gazed at her with his oh-so-blue eyes, she became aware of herself as a woman, something she hadn't felt in a very long time.

  "Well, well. Look who is back."

  Savannah tensed slightly at the sound of the familiar voice. She looked up to see Officer Jason Sheller. Jason was the one man she worked with whom she didn't like. He was too handsome, too slick, too confident, and something about him had always made her skin crawl. Part of her aversion to the man came from the fact that he had tried to put the moves on her mere weeks after Jimmy's death.

  "What do you want, Jason?" she asked.

  "I see you're reading up on the Maxwell case. Anything new?"

  "Apparently not since I've been gone. I'm thinking about reinterviewing Virginia Maxwell. There's something here we've got to be missing."

  "She's staying at the Redbud," he said. She looked at him in surprise and he shrugged. "The local gossip update. She couldn't stand to stay in their house alone." One of his dark eyebrows quirked upward. "And the other local gossip has it that you were seen there one evening with a handsome stranger. What's the deal, Savannah, local guys aren't good enough for you? Haven't you heard I have a big gun?"

  "Go away, Jason," she said with disgust. "Don't you have a speeder to ticket or a doughnut to eat?"

  "Ha, very funny," he said, but to her relief he ambled away from her desk.

  She tried to focus once again on rereading the material in the Maxwell case file but realized she was too antsy to sit still. Instead she headed to the Redbud Bed and Breakfast to re-interview Virginia Maxwell.

  The interview yielded nothing new except the reminder that she'd found Virginia's response to her husband's murder rather odd and nothing during this interview had changed her impression.

  The pretty blond woman had cried at the appropriate times and had cursed the person responsible, but to Savannah none of it had rung quite true.

  As she drove back to the station she chided herself. Not all grief manifested itself in the same way for every person. Jimmy had loved her waist-length hair, and two days after his death, in a state of profound grief, she'd stunned her family and friends by cutting it all off.

  If Virginia Maxwell was dealing with her grief by shopping and getting manicures, then who was Savannah to judge her?

  She'd been back at the station for over an hour when the phone on her desk rang. She snatched it up. "Officer Tallfeather."

  "Savannah?"

  She hadn't realized before how pretty her name was, but coming from Riley, it sounded lovely. A crazy kind of pleasure swept through her. "Hi, Riley."

  "I'm glad you're back at work."

  "Me, too. I needed to get away from myself, if that makes sense."

  "It makes perfect sense," he replied. "The best thing you can do for yourself is to keep busy."

  It was good to hear his voice, t
o talk to somebody who had been through it all, somebody who understood. "The reason I'm calling," he continued, "is that you mentioned last time we talked how frustrated your brother is that they aren't letting him into your parents' home."

  "That's right." Clay's mood had gotten progressively worse with each passing day, and Savannah suspected he was spending too much time alone in his home and drinking.

  "This is probably an absolutely crazy idea."

  "What? What's a crazy idea?"

  "I know it hasn't been established that what happened to your parents and what happened to mine are linked."

  She released a sigh of frustration. "I spoke with Glen about your case just a little while ago, and he refused to even consider the possibility that they're linked. He said your case is closed and…" She hesitated a moment, unsure if she should continue with what else the chief had said.

  "And what?" A deep sigh filled the line. "I suppose he mentioned the speculation that my mother ran off with the local handyman."

  "Apparently Glen has access to some files you don't have and had looked up the case, and yes, that's exactly what he mentioned."

  Again another deep sigh. "My parents had befriended a man named John Barker who was learning disabled. He had no family and did odd jobs for people in Sycamore Ridge. About once a week or so my parents would hire him to do some little job and invite him to stay for dinner. Sometimes in the mornings John would stop by the house and have a cup of coffee with my mother. It was all very innocent, but some people tried to turn it into something ugly."

  "So, what happened to this John?"

  "Two days before the incident, my mom told me that John had gotten a job with a family in Oklahoma City and was very excited about it. He'd come by to tell my parents goodbye."

  "So, the handyman disappeared around the same time that your mother disappeared," Savannah said.

  "Yes, but I'm telling you there's no way in hell my mother killed my father, then ran off with John. I've never been more certain of anything in my life. I'm as certain about it as you are about your own mother's innocence."