Family Skeletons (16 page)

She merely shrugged. He had enough mother-hen
protectiveness in him for a whole brood of baby chicks. But since he only had
one—her—she got it all. “It may be settled in a week,” she said as patiently as
she could. “I may be home in San Francisco in a week. I don’t know what a week
holds any more than you do.”

“But if it isn’t settled by then, will you—”

“We’ll talk about it then. Now please shut up.” She
smiled to soften the words. “Please. If you keep after me about it I’ll be
forced into giving you an outright no. Then I’ll be stuck with that, no matter
what, and that wouldn’t be good for either one of us. Right?”

His expression was both critical and irritated.
“I’ve never before met anyone with a sense of logic quite like yours.” Then,
exhaling loudly, he looked off at the parlor’s doorway and slipped the phone
into his pocket. “Maybe it will be settled by then. It should be. I’m surprised
it’s taken this long.”

“They must be double-checking. They want to be
sure.” She paused. “You know, it’s funny, but...”

When she didn’t finish, he looked at her curiously.
“What? What are you thinking?”

“Well, the longer it takes for them to identify the
skeleton seems to lessen the odds of it being Franklin. And I don’t know how I
feel about that. On one hand, it’d be closure for Roberta and for me. But at
the same time, I don’t want...well, it doesn’t feel good thinking that...” She
shook her head, giving up on clarifying the thought.

But he said, “I think I understand. You don’t want him
to have been murdered, but you do want his body found.”

“Yeah...well.” She stood abruptly. “Time for dinner.
And it’s a simple one. I hope you like hamburgers and potato salad.” She
figured he’d at least eat the hamburgers.

“What kind of potato salad?”

She gave him a quizzical look. “How many kinds are
there?”

“Homemade? Or did you buy it at the deli?”

“I made it.”

His face perked. “I think I’ll like it.”

For a short moment she watched him, thinking about
the pickles and onion and celery and eggs she’d chopped up and mixed with the
potatoes, and recalled that he hadn’t liked anything mixed with his breakfast
potatoes, but she made no comment.

* * *

Jonathan liked the salad; none was left for
tomorrow. Though Sunny didn’t exactly understand his food preferences, she was
learning them. She was almost finished with the dishes when she heard him
calling from the parlor.

“Sunny? Where’s the remote?”

Good question.
She squinted at
the wall. “I was sitting in the big chair in the corner. Check the cushions.
Maybe...”

“Is it too much to ask for you to just put it back
on—”

The phone rang.

Saved by the bell.

She heard his voice as he spoke on the phone, but
she couldn’t discern what the conversation was about. When he came to the
kitchen, she looked up. “Who was it?”

“Tom Fairly. He’ll be here in ten minutes.”

She literally didn’t breathe for the space of
several seconds. As she remained motionless, he took the towel from her and
finished drying the cutlery. She stepped back to give him room.

“Well,” she said. “We wanted to know, and I guess
we’re about to find out.”

Tom took longer than ten minutes, and the longer
Sunny waited, the more nervous she got. She got the broom and was sweeping the
hall, even though Jonathan had already done it once today, when Tom finally arrived.
His knock on the door made her jump, and the broom clattered to the floor.
Jonathan picked it up, stood it upright in the corner and then opened the door.
Sunny and the deputy sheriff stared at each other.

“It’s not good news,” she said. “No matter what it
is, there’s no way it can be good. So you might as well just spit it out.”

When he stepped forward to put his hands on her
shoulders, she guessed that her dread showed in her eyes. “We found him,
Sunny,” he said gently. “Without a doubt, that was Franklin in the cove.”

She was aware that the attention of both men rested
on her. She nodded once then looked at the stair rail just past Tom’s right
shoulder.

He was murdered. Someone killed him
.

“What took so long?” Jonathan asked. “His dental
record must have been the first thing you looked at.”

Tom nodded, and dropped his hands to his sides.
“You’re right. But the powers that be—I didn’t like it, but had no say in
it—said to keep a lid on it until the cause of death was also determined.
Beyond doubt.”

Jonathan’s brows drew together. “But that dent in
the skull...” But he must have realized the fruitlessness of questioning the
powers that be because dispassionately he finished. “And the cause of death is,
beyond doubt...”

“A heavy blow to the back of the head with a blunt
instrument.”

“Like a baseball bat.”

Tom’s head bobbed once in a decisive nod.

“And the one we found...”

“By all odds had killed somebody, but not Franklin.
We’ve got a body with a missing murder weapon, and we’ve got a murder weapon
with a missing body. But my guess is that we’ve only got one murderer.”

Chapter Eighteen

Tom wanted beer, but he settled for coffee.
“Officially, I’m still on duty until I walk out your door tonight. But thanks
anyway.”

Jonathan was a better host than Sunny was a hostess.
The identity of the skeleton wasn’t a surprise, yet it hit hard, and part of
her wanted to scamper away and hide. And medicate herself with an arsenal of
pills as had once been her custom?

  As he settled in the corner armchair—Cat had the bigger,
overstuffed one—Tom looked at his mug of coffee. “I have to ask you this,
Sunny,” he said, but went no further.

Because she was slow putting things together, she
just looked at him, wondering what she was missing and why he didn’t just go
ahead and say it. And then she got it. “Oh.” She looked down at her lap. “Where
was I seven years ago? What was going on with me?”

She laughed without humor, brought her hands up and
buried her face in her palms. “Oh, boy. Here we go.” Her voice was muffled.

And Mom. Where was she seven years ago?
Does anyone know where he or she was seven years ago? And what was happening in
their lives?

“I don’t envy you this, Tom,” Jonathan said. “This
is not going to be an easy job.”

“No, it’s not. Local, personal, and high profile.
But I’ll have help.” He paused, and his eyes grew distant. “And I expect to be
relieved of the responsibility anyway.”

Jonathan’s eyes narrowed, as if the other man’s
statement puzzled him, but he didn’t comment on it. “What about me?” he asked
after a short moment. “I also stood to gain at Franklin’s death, though I
didn’t know it at the time. Should I try to figure out where I was and what I
was doing?”

Tom shook his head. “That’s a long shot if I ever
saw one. The contents of the will weren’t yet disclosed. Your name didn’t even
come up until this year.”

“Are you looking at profit as a motive? It doesn’t
make sense if whoever killed him stood to gain by his death, and then left him
under the sand and berry bushes for seven years.”

“Exactly. That’s the part I don’t like.”

His attention returned to Sunny. “Okay, we’ve gotta
start somewhere. What can you tell me about your time and circumstances when
your father disappeared?”

“Okay.” She blew her breath out and stared at the
area rug and its faded pattern of purple and blue. The colors fit her mood. “I
was just out of rehab. Someone said he was up here, and then no one knew where
he was. There was some speculation about that, but no real alarm. I didn’t pay
much attention. I...didn’t care.”

“Who said he was up here?”

“I don’t know. A conversation between Roberta and
someone?” She frowned as she concentrated on memories, impressions, feelings.
She couldn’t recall who’d borne the news, whether it was Mavis or not, but
Sunny remembered speaking to her about the real estate profession around that
time. Had she been edgy? Distant? Nervous? That would’ve been close to the time
of her and Franklin’s encounter.

“Where were you, Tom?” she asked.

He gave her a sharp look and so did Jonathan. Then,
gaze steady, Tom relaxed. “Mavis told me she’d talked to you. That’s another
thing I like about you, Sunny. You don’t pull your punches.”

Jonathan’s gaze remained fixed on Sunny. He now
appeared annoyed as well as puzzled.

“That’s why I expect to be relieved,” Tom continued.
“Mavis and I will be joining you and Roberta on the list of suspects. Ol’
Franklin is affecting people’s lives as much in death as he did when alive. Is
there no limit to the man’s...” He rubbed his hand down his face without
completing the sentence.

Jonathan directed his attention from Sunny to Tom.
“You must have compared our prints to those on the bloody bat. Have you checked
any other prints?”

“Not yet.” He hesitated. “It’s sticky. I agree with
you that the bloody bat ties in. I just don’t know how it ties in. But nothing
ties it to Franklin, other than that it was found in his attic. I don’t want to
force it, but I will be asking Roberta for her prints. And then she can at
least clear herself of the bat, same as Sunny did.”

Sunny asked, “May I talk to her first? I don’t want
the news about Franklin coming from anyone else.”

Fatigue lined the deputy sheriff’s face as he looked
at her. “Go see her tomorrow. I can wait that long, but no longer. Now that
I’ve finally been given the go-ahead, they’re gonna want me to move on it.”

He stood but didn’t seem in a hurry to leave. He
smiled wryly. “I give you fair warning. Next time I’m out here, I’ll want that
beer. And I’ll want to sit on the back porch and stare at the ocean. And I’ll
want to talk about something else besides Franklin Corday and bloody bats and
skeletons on the beach.”

After seeing Tom out, Jonathan returned to stand in
the doorway. He glared at Sunny. “Why are you so damned stingy with
information?”

She jerked her head up.
Did he just swear at you?

“Now I know how Ryan felt,” he said, words clipped.
“If I don’t know what’s going on—”

“Hey, wait a minute. I’ve been taking care of myself
for a long time and I don’t need—”

A sharp wave of his hand cut off her speech. “It’s
not just you that is dealing with this house and the people around here. If
you’re withholding information, I could get blind-sided, and that wouldn’t be
good for either one of us.”

Again she opened her mouth, and he held up the same
hand to silence her. “You bared your soul to me the other day regarding your
past, but evidently there’s a lot going on right now that you’re holding back
from me—deliberately or not. What did you mean when you asked Tom where he was
when Franklin was killed? And why is he being relieved from duty? And why would
he and Mavis make the list of suspects? And is there anything else I should
know that I don’t even know I don’t know?”

Cool it, Sunny. Maybe he’s got a point.
She settled
back, looked at the small kitten sleeping peacefully in the huge chair.
He’s
definitely got a point
.

Okay
. She breathed in, felt her brow
furrow as she gathered her thoughts. Then she clasped her hands in her lap,
gave Jonathan a direct look, drew in another breath and started talking. She
took her time, careful to leave nothing out as she reiterated Mavis’s
confession, Bev’s alleged involvement with Franklin, Matthew’s visit, and her
conversation with Langley Bowers. As she brought up each point, surprise
mounted at how much there was. No wonder Jonathan was on the pissed side.
Although that wouldn’t be the word he’d use. Or, maybe, considering the look on
his face, that was exactly the way he’d put it.

Halfway through her narration, appearing both
spellbound and irritated, he came all the way into the room and sat down. When
she finished, he looked more displeased than he had when she’d started. He said
dryly, “I guess I should be grateful I was in the same room with you when you
found the bat, or I wouldn’t have known about that either.”

She frowned, wondering how valid that comment was.

He asked, “Are you always this...”

“Damned stingy? I didn’t think I was. I never
thought about it.”

“You’re just used to taking care of yourself.”

“Well, yeah.”

Without breaking eye contact, he sat back. His
expression held exasperation that bordered on anger, but he wasn’t exactly
challenging her. She stared back, not backing down, but not challenging him
either.

“Promise me one thing,” he said, voice sounding
measured. “If that drunk ever shows up again and you’re on your own, instead of
relying upon an empty soda can to defend yourself with, will you please very
quickly put a locked door between yourself and him?”

That was too sensible for her to argue with. “Okay,”
she said guardedly.

“And if something else comes up, will you tell me
about it
when
it comes up?”

“Uh, all right.”

“And one more thing. If you want to go see your
mother tomorrow, I want to go with you. I’d like to meet her.”

Because he’d dropped the subject of her
secretiveness—which hadn’t been deliberate, but that was what it was—without
allowing it to become a contentious issue, Sunny felt disconcerted. He’d again
proven he was by far easier to get along with than she was.

“Sure,” she said a little sheepishly. “She wants to
meet you, too.”

* * *

“There,” Sunny said, pointing, and Jonathan slowed
the SUV to turn into the driveway of the gated community.

“Corday for Corday,” he told the security guard. The
man checked his list then waved them through. Conventional townhouses, close to
identical, lined the streets that the SUV coasted along at five miles per hour.

“She likes it here,” Sunny said, “but I couldn’t
stand it. Everything the same color, size, shape. Originality isn’t allowed.”

“It’s the speed bumps that get to me. We could walk
faster. My folks live in a community like this one. They like it, too.
Security, little maintenance. To each his own, as Ryan says.”

Roberta opened her front door before they got to it.
Her hair and attire were, as usual, immaculate. Rather than making her appear
older, the gray in her hair enhanced her natural light-brown color, and she’d
smoothed it back into a French roll. She wore a pants suit, in camel and gold,
and open-toed shoes with the high, blocked heel that Sunny hated, but on her
mother they looked good.

Sunny hugged her mom and got the wind squeezed out
of her in return. Roberta always made her feel like a little girl coming back
home again. Then her mother held her at arms’ length. “Something’s different
about you,” the older woman said with a small frown. “What is it?”

Sunny met her mother’s eyes straight on.
You
cannot tell, simply by looking at me, that I am engaged in a sexual affair.
That...is...not... possible.

Roberta wrapped her left arm around her daughter’s
shoulders and then extended her right hand to Jonathan. “And you’re Jonathan
Corday. Half-owner of Corday Cove, and the man who must be responsible for that
healthy glow in my daughter’s cheeks.”

Oh, gee whiz
.

Jonathan didn’t seem to know if he wanted to laugh,
be uncomfortable, or pretend to misunderstand. He settled for returning her
smile. “Hello, Mrs. Corday. I’m glad to meet you.”

“Roberta,” she corrected, then tilted her head.
“Tell me, Jonathan, have you ever wondered why the little short ones like her
like flats, and the tall ones like me prefer heels?” Her eyes were almost on a
level with his. Sunny now felt even more like a little kid.

“No, I can’t say I’ve ever given that much thought.”

“Well, come on in. We can talk about that and other
things as they come up.”

She motioned them toward the sofa. “I don’t know if
Sunny told you, but I’m not a drinker and neither do I like carbonated soda.
But I have nothing against caffeine. You’ve got your choice of hot coffee, iced
tea, or any kind of fruit juice I’ve got, and I’ve got quite a variety.”

“Iced tea with sugar would be good.”

“Sugar?”

“Mom, give him iced tea with sugar and be quiet,
please?”

Roberta grinned. “Someone sounds out of sorts.” She
glanced back at Jonathan. “I’ll dump a packet of artificial sweetener in your
glass. Will that do?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She exited the room in a brisk stride.

“Sometimes she comes on kind of strong,” Sunny
murmured. “Just humor her.”

Evidently there was nothing wrong with Roberta’s
hearing. Her voice rang out from the kitchen. “Somebody is definitely out of
sorts. I must’ve been right on target with that crack about a healthy glow.”

Out of deference to Jonathan, Sunny clamped her
mouth closed to keep the swear word from getting out. She put her elbow on the
arm of the couch, rested her chin on her fist and glared at the wall. Out of
consideration for herself, she refused to look at Jonathan because she
suspected that he and her mother already liked each other, but somehow that
circumstance seemed to come at her—Sunny’s—expense.

Roberta reappeared bearing a tray with the iced tea
and what looked like glasses of cranberry juice for herself and Sunny. She
served her guests, then sat in the armchair placed diagonally next to the sofa.
She was close enough to her daughter to touch her, and she did, briefly
covering her hand with hers.

Then she sat back, picked up her glass and sipped
from it. “The skeleton was Franklin’s, wasn’t it.” There was no question mark
in her voice. “That’s what you came to tell me.”

Instantly, Sunny’s pique disappeared. “Yes.”

“Well, it’s best to have an end to it.” Roberta’s
expression and voice were level. “It might have been worse if it hadn’t been
his.” She waited a beat, then asked, “How did he die?”

There was no easy way to say it. “There was a dent
in the back of the skull.”