Broken Places

by Sandra Parshall

  Lindsay halted, staring at the album, and a flush rose to her pale cheeks. “I don’t even know what that is.”

  “Your fingerprints are probably on every page. Did you think I wouldn’t realize who took it? I don’t know what sick and twisted reason you had for stealing a photo album, but I never doubted for a minute that you had it.”

  Lindsay tilted her head up to meet Rachel’s eyes with her own hard glare. “You’re crazy. You brought that here to plant it, didn’t you? You’re so determined to turn Tom against me, you’re so afraid he’s going to come back to me—”

  “I think you’re dangerous, but I’m not afraid of you,” Rachel said, trying to believe the lie.

  A sour little smile formed on Lindsay’s lips. “Well,” she said, “you should be. I haven’t figured out exactly what you’re hiding, but I know it’s something big, and I’ll uncover it sooner or later.”

  An involuntary shudder moved through Rachel and her throat closed up as if a hand gripped it. Leave. Just take the album and go.

  She was moving past Lindsay when Lindsay’s cell phone rang.

  “Get out of my room,” Lindsay said, at the same time pulling her phone from her pants pocket. Keeping her eyes on Rachel, not checking the display, she pressed a button to answer the call.

  Rachel was almost through the doorway when she heard Lindsay’s gasp. Pausing, she looked back.

  Lindsay, pale-faced and open-mouthed, seemed to have forgotten Rachel was there. “But—but how—” she stuttered. “I don’t—I can’t believe—”

  What on earth had happened? Another murder? Rachel went cold inside, waiting for Lindsay to say something that would tell her what was going on.

  Lindsay’s gaze jumped around the room but didn’t seem to focus on anything. Her breath sounded harsh and fast and she swayed on her feet as if she were about to faint. For a second Rachel’s instinct to help overcame her loathing for the woman, and she moved forward to steady Lindsay.

  Lindsay’s eyes widened as they locked on Rachel. “Get out! Get out of here!”

  She shoved Rachel toward the door. Rachel shook Lindsay off and stepped into the hall. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  “Get out!” Lindsay pointed down the hall. “Now!”

  Clutching the photo album, conscious of Lindsay watching, Rachel strode toward the stairs. She rounded the corner and, knowing she was out of sight, paused on the top stair. Lindsay’s door slammed shut.

  Rachel peeked around to make sure Lindsay was in her room, then she crept back into the hallway and tiptoed to the door. She had to find out what had shocked Lindsay so profoundly. Oh, God, she prayed silently, don’t let it be Tom. Please don’t let anything happen to Tom.

  On the other side of the door, Lindsay sounded agitated, frantic, her voice higher and louder than normal. “Where are you? I need to know where you are.”

  A pause.

  “No, I won’t,” Lindsay said. “I promise I won’t. Tell me where you are! I’ll come right away, I’ll bring everything you need.”

  Another brief silence.

  “Which McClure house? What are you talking—” Lindsay broke off, apparently interrupted by the caller. A moment later, she said, “Where Pauline McClure lived? But it’s all boarded up. How did—Never mind. I’m coming. I’ll get some things together and come right away.”

  Rachel jerked back from the door and hurried down the hall, going as fast as she could without making any noise. She shot down the stairs and out through the kitchen door. In the yard, she broke into a run. She didn’t feel safe from detection until she was behind the tool shed where she’d parked. Waiting beside her vehicle, she listened for the sounds of Lindsay’s departure.

  Five minutes went by. In her mind Rachel went over Lindsay’s half of the mysterious conversation again, searching for clues to its meaning. Something important had happened. Something that had knocked Lindsay for a loop, shattered her cool, disdainful self-assurance. Rachel still thought it was most likely that someone else had been murdered. But who? And who was Lindsay going to meet at the empty, closed-up house that Holly had inherited from her dead aunt?

  Rachel heard a car door slam, an engine revving, a squeal of tires. She waited a couple more minutes to give Lindsay a head start. As she climbed into her SUV to follow, one clear thought formed in her head: This is crazy. But she intended to find out what Lindsay was up to. Nobody else would do it. If she reported this situation to Tom, he would think, at worst, that Rachel had lost her mind. At best, he would think she was inventing things out of a jealous desire to make trouble for Lindsay.

  She set off toward Pauline McClure’s house, forcing herself to drive slowly so there would be no chance of Lindsay spotting her.

  Chapter Forty-two

  “We’re stealing your dog,” Darla Duncan called out when she saw Tom coming down the hall toward his office.

  “Uncle Tom!” Simon cried, and he launched himself at Tom. Billy Bob, liberated from Tom’s office, hustled after the boy, panting and drooling.

  Tom stooped to hug his nephew. “Don’t give Billy Bob any candy, okay?”

  “I won’t, I promise.” With a mischievous grin, Simon added, “But he might steal some from me.”

  Coming up behind him, Darla tousled her grandson’s black hair. “Well, I guess that means you can’t have any either.”

  Simon groaned and made a face.

  Suddenly remembering something Rachel had said the night before, Tom asked Darla, “Do you mind if I talk to Simon for a second?”

  A few months ago, she would have bristled at being excluded, but her easy agreement was a sign of how far they’d come in building a better relationship. “I’ll take Billy Bob out for a visit with the nearest tree before we get in the car.”

  Taking his nephew’s hand, Tom led him into the office. He lifted Simon to the desk and sat beside him. “Listen, champ, I want to ask you something. Promise you’ll tell me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

  Laughing, Simon nodded.

  Might as well be blunt about it, Tom thought. He’d get a more telling reaction that way. “Did Lindsay do something that upset you? I don’t mean just the last few days, but back when she was my girlfriend.”

  Simon’s cheerful expression had dropped away the second he heard Lindsay’s name, and it was replaced by fearful uncertainty. Rachel’s words had been in the back of Tom’s mind since the night before. Haven’t you ever wondered exactly why your nephew can’t stand being around Lindsay? Tom wasn’t blind—he knew Simon didn’t like her, and that was yet another reason why he’d broken off the relationship. But Rachel seemed to be implying that Lindsay had done something specific to turn Simon against her. He doubted Rachel knew anything about his nephew that he didn’t. But the look on Simon’s face now told Tom that he had, in fact, let something get past him. A hell of a detective you are, he thought.

  Simon squirmed, hunching his shoulders and staring at the floor.

  “Hey, now.” Tom squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “You know you can tell me anything, don’t you?”

  Simon swung a leg forward and back, banging his heel against the desk, and mumbled something Tom didn’t catch.

  “What’s that?”

  With obvious reluctance, Simon raised his eyes to meet Tom’s. “She said you’d be mad at me,” he whispered. “You’d say I was making it up, and you wouldn’t want to be my uncle anymore.”

  Jesus Christ. What would make Lindsay say such a thing to a little boy? “Hey, I’ll always be your uncle,” he told Simon. “You’re stuck with me. I love you, champ, and there’s nothing you could tell me that would make me mad at you. Nothing. Understand?”

  Simon hesitated, his gaze searching Tom’s face. “You sure?”

  “Never more sure of anything in my whole life,” Tom said. He pulled Simon into a hug. “Come on now. Whatever this is, I think it’s been bothering you a lot, and I want to help.”


  Simon buried his face against Tom’s shirt. “She told me I was in the way,” he said, his voice muffled. “She said you just wanted to spend time with her on the weekends, and I was always in the way and you didn’t really want me around. And I told her that wasn’t true, and she—she hit me. She slapped me.”

  For a minute Tom couldn’t speak. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it was nothing this outrageous. He hugged Simon closer and kissed the top of his head, forgetting for the moment that the boy thought he was too big to be kissed by anybody but his grandmother. Right now he was a very young child, baffled by the behavior of adults. “I wish—” Tom had to stop to clear his throat. “I sure wish you’d told me about that right after it happened, champ.”

  “I couldn’t!” Simon cried. He pulled back so he could look up at Tom. “She said she was real sorry, she didn’t mean to do it, but if I ever told you, ever, she’d say I was lying, and you’d believe her ’cause grownups always believe each other and not little kids.”

  “Listen to me,” Tom said. “I’m glad you told me. I believe you, because I know you’re honest and you don’t tell lies. You’re a real big, important part of my life, understand?”

  Tears glistened in Simon’s eyes, but he nodded.

  Tom smoothed the boy’s unruly hair. “You’re my best bud, right? Huh?”

  Simon gave Tom a tiny smile, the beginning of confidence returning to his face.

  “Hey, come on,” Tom said. “If you’re gonna grin, make it a real one. Do I have to tickle it out of you?”

  He tickled the boy’s ribs and at last Simon broke into a broad grin.

  ***

  A few minutes later, with Simon and Billy Bob in the car with Darla and headed for a nearby lake to feed and terrorize the ducks, Tom began printing out the last chapter of Meredith’s unfinished book. He had to act fast. If Ragsdale’s parents raised the money to get him out of jail, Tom would lose a big psychological advantage.

  He expected Ragsdale to refuse at first to read the manuscript pages. After he did, he probably wouldn’t admit they contained the truth about his sister’s death. Tom could hear him already: You wrote this yourself. You’re trying to trick me. I’m on to you. But Tom believed that if he kept up the pressure, Ragsdale would break sooner or later.

  While the pages printed, he took a closer look at the autopsy report on Meredith, another weapon he could use to break down Ragsdale’s defenses. Tom skipped to the medical examiner’s conclusion and read that first. Meredith had suffered both a gunshot wound and blunt trauma to the head, either of which could have killed her. The damage done by the fire made determination of the exact cause and time of death impossible, but her lungs were clear, which meant she had stopped breathing before the fire started. “Thank heaven for small mercies,” Tom muttered.

  He turned back to the first page of the report, which contained details about the general condition of the body as well as the degree of damage to skin, hair, skull. Her internal organs were intact and healthy. The joints of her fingers and knees showed early signs of degenerative arthritis. Her lumbar spine had been fused at L4-L5 with a bone transplant, indicative of a herniated disc.

  Tom frowned. A spinal fusion? That was major surgery with a long, painful recovery and rehab period. When did she have it done? No doctor in Mason County could have performed the surgery, which meant Meredith had gone elsewhere—for weeks, maybe months. Had this happened when he was working for the Richmond Police Department? That was a reasonable explanation. But Tom’s mother had delivered a stream of in-depth reports on the lives of Mason Countians, including the Taylors, during those years, and he didn’t recall her mentioning that Meredith had serious surgery. Maybe she’d told him and he’d tuned it out. It wouldn’t have seemed important to him at the time.

  Lindsay could fill him in. But he didn’t trust himself to be civil with Lindsay right now. Who else would know? Joanna McKendrick. She was the only person in Mason County who had remained close to Meredith through all the Taylors’ ups and downs over the decades.

  At this hour, Joanna would be out working on the farm. Tom pulled his personal notebook of phone numbers from a desk drawer and found Joanna’s cell number. When she answered she sounded winded and harried.

  “Hey, it’s Tom,” he said. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “Oh, no. It’s a wonderful time. I’m out at Hank Russell’s place. He’s taking these damn goats off my hands, but I had to deliver them. I’ll tell you, getting a bunch of stubborn goats onto a truck is not my idea of fun. But it’s gonna be a lot of fun to drive away and leave them behind.”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but look, I just had a quick question for you. Do you know whether Meredith ever had spine surgery?”

  Joanna was silent a moment before answering. “Spine surgery? What on earth makes you ask that?”

  “I can’t tell you right now, but I need to know. Did she ever have a spinal fusion?”

  “Good lord, no.”

  “You’re positive?” Tom’s mouth had gone dry.

  “Yeah, I’m positive. Do you have any idea what’s involved in the recovery from that kind of surgery?” Joanna said. “I mean, it just takes over your whole life. My brother had a herniated disc removed and his lower spine fused, and it was three months before—

  “So if Meredith had it done,” Tom broke in, “you would have known about it?”

  “Well, of course I would’ve. Tom, what’s this about?”

  “I’ll tell you later. I’ll let you get back to the goats.”

  Tom dropped the receiver back into its cradle, then pulled his case notebook from the top desk drawer, his mind swirling with speculation and half-formed thoughts. Was it possible he’d been staring at the truth all along without seeing it? He needed answers, he had to finish this, set things right.

  He thumbed through the notebook for Ben Hern’s home number.

  Angie Hogencamp answered.

  “It’s Tom Bridger,” he said. “Let me talk to Hern.”

  “Do you have news about his mother?”

  “I need to ask him a question. Put him on, please.”

  “No. I won’t.”

  “What? Angie—”

  “I’m not going to let you badger him anymore.”

  “Put him on the line, Angie. I don’t have any time to waste.”

  “No!”

  But in the next second Tom heard the scuffling sound of the phone being removed from her hand. Then Hern said, “Hello? Who is this?”

  “Tom Bridger. I’ve got a question for you.”

  “What is it now?”

  “Has your mother ever had spine surgery? A spinal fusion?”

  The silence stretched out. Tom imagined realization washing over Hern in a hot wave, the same way it was hitting him. When Hern spoke again, his voice had gone flat. “Yes, she did. My mother had a spinal fusion. You’ve found her, haven’t you?”

  Chapter Forty-three

  Rachel pulled onto a dirt track through the woods a few hundred feet from the McClure property entrance. If passing motorists looked up the narrow path, they might see her vehicle, but she counted on most drivers keeping their eyes straight ahead.

  She grabbed her birdwatching binoculars from the glove compartment and climbed out. Like Ben’s property, the McClure place was secluded, the house set far back and screened from the road by trees and shrubs. She would have to get close enough to see what was going on around the house without exposing her presence to anyone who glanced toward the woods.

  She still believed the shocking news Lindsay received by phone might have been a report of another murder, and she wouldn’t be surprised to see deputies’ cars parked outside the house, uniformed men standing around while Dr. Gretchen Lauter, the medical examiner, bent over the body of—who? She would know soon enough.

  Stashing her sunglasses in her shirt pocket with her cell phone, she wondered why Lindsay had
been called to the scene of a murder. She had seemed stunned by the phone call, as if it concerned someone she cared about, but Tom wouldn’t want her on the scene if somebody she was close to had been killed. If it hadn’t been a report of another murder, what had shocked Lindsay so profoundly?

  Stop speculating and find out, Rachel told herself, irritated by her own circular thoughts. She waded into the undergrowth in the dense woods.

  After a refreshingly cool morning, the day had heated up, and a couple of minutes of fighting off clingy vines and sticky brambles left Rachel dripping with perspiration. The sweat attracted the inevitable gnats. She batted them away with one hand while shoving aside vegetation with the other.

  She could hardly believe she was doing this, and she wouldn’t want anyone to know she’d gone to such lengths to snoop on Lindsay. She cringed at the thought of Tom’s and Lindsay’s reactions if they discovered her lurking in the woods. But she was here now, so she might as well take a look and satisfy her curiosity. Then she had to get back to work. Her late afternoon schedule at the vet clinic was booked solid, and she’d already been gone longer than she’d planned.

  She glimpsed the house through the trees up ahead. Abandoning her battle with the gnats, she raised the binoculars. Vegetation blocked her view of the yard and the first floor of the house, and all she saw were the roof and the second story. She had to get closer.

  Letting the binoculars dangle from their strap around her neck, she used both hands to brush aside evergreen branches. When she was about a hundred feet from the edge of the woods, she raised the binoculars again.

  The driveway and the overgrown yard were empty. No cars, no people. The big brick house—the McClure mansion, most people called it—looked closed up tight, its windows covered with boards that had long ago weathered to a silver-gray.

  Odd. Rachel was positive she’d heard Lindsay correctly. Which McClure house? Where Pauline McClure lived? But it’s all boarded up. Never mind. I’m coming. Had Lindsay been here and gone already? Or had she parked her car behind the house?