Lost Legacy (A Zoe Chambers Mystery Book 2) (12 page)

“Good.” Pete gazed toward the door at the back of the barn and calculated how many steps it would take for him to make it there.

Seth must have guessed what he was thinking. “I’ll go tell him you wanna see him.”

“Thank you.”

As the young officer loped away, Pete surveyed the crime scene. The tractor and manure spreader. The ground next to the machinery, marred from the rescue effort, was dark with the victim’s blood.

“If the last few days are any indication, it isn’t safe to be a farmer in Vance Township.”

Pete turned to find Baronick wearing his usual smug grin. “You think?”

The young detective shrugged. “The first one looks more and more like a suicide. But this guy didn’t very well shoot himself off his tractor.”

“You think he was on the tractor when he was shot?”

“We’ll process the scene more thoroughly once we finish taking statements. But there appears to be blood and hair on the corner of that...” Baronick wrinkled his nose and nodded toward the machinery. “...that trailer thing that’s full of shit.”

Pete snorted. “You haven’t been around a farm much, have you?”

“As little as possible.”

“It’s called a manure spreader.”

“Oh. Right.”

Seth approached from the far end of the barn escorting a ramrod-straight man wearing one of the department’s disposable white jumpsuits. His dark hair and a mustache bore just a hint of gray. Only the deep lines and creases on his tanned face gave evidence of his age.

So this was Zoe’s stepdad. He carried a towel and was buffing his arms.

“Chief, this is Tom Jackson,” Seth said.

Pete offered his hand and then introduced Baronick while Seth excused himself to find another witness to question.

Pete eyed Jackson and knew the man was inspecting him right back. Tall—even a bit taller than Pete—and fit, Jackson was obviously no stranger to a gym. He might’ve had a couple of decades on Pete, but this was not a man he’d want to tangle with.

How much did Jackson know about him and Zoe? Then again, there wasn’t much to know.
Just friends
. Pete removed his notepad from his hip pocket. “Mr. Jackson, when did you arrive on the scene?”

“Must have been close to three-thirty. Patsy Greene—my daughter’s friend—called the house to say something had happened in the barn. Marvin—Mr. Kroll—had been hurt and needed help. I noticed the clock on the mantel read twenty-five after.” Jackson slung the towel around his neck. “I got out here as fast as I could.”

“Who else was here?”

“Just Marvin and Patsy.”

“Did you say you were in the house when Patsy Greene called you?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you notice anyone pulling in or out of the farm lane before she called?”

Jackson rubbed his forehead and winced. “To tell you the truth, I wasn’t paying attention. I only arrived yesterday, but already I’ve noticed boarders come and go around here all the time.”

“Did you hear anything? A gunshot? Maybe you thought it was a truck backfiring? Or fireworks?”

“No. Nothing.”

Pete scribbled
heard zilch
in his notebook. “How well do you know the victim?”

“Only met him yesterday. I helped him and Zoe—my daughter—unload a wagon full of hay.”

That answered Pete’s earlier question. Apparently, Jackson didn’t realize Pete knew who Zoe was. Just as well. “Did he mention anyone he might have had an argument with?”

“No.”

“Did he say anything to you while you were helping him?”

“He was unconscious when I got here, and he stayed that way the whole time. I wasn’t even sure he was alive until Zoe checked his pulse. Look, I really don’t know anything that could help you fellows. If you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to the house and get a proper shower.”

“Of course. Thank you for your time.” Pete handed him a business card. “If you think of anything else, give me a call.”

Jackson palmed the card and nodded.

Just then, another matter occurred to Pete. “You didn’t happen to know James Engle, did you?”

Jackson’s unwavering gaze locked onto Pete. “No, I didn’t.”

“All right. Thanks.”

After Tom Jackson walked away, Baronick turned to Pete. “Jackson. Any connection to that letter?”

“Yep. Husband of the recipient.”

“So either Engle never mailed the letter or the wife kept it a secret.”

“Or Tom Jackson is lying.”

Baronick gazed after the man with narrowed eyes. “Or that.” 

“I do know one thing. Jackson’s hiding something.”

The detective’s focus snapped back to Pete. “He answered all our questions without hesitation. There was no sign of evasion or nervousness. Why do you think he’s hiding anything?”

Pete shrugged.

“Oh. Your gut.”

That was as good a way to describe it as any. Something Jackson had said—or hadn’t said—gnawed at Pete. But he didn’t know what. Not yet.

Mrs. Kroll might have weighed ninety-five pounds if she were wearing a parka and snow boots. In her thin cotton house dress, the elderly woman felt like nothing more than bones in Zoe’s arms. However, she acted anything but frail as she pulled free of Zoe’s embrace.

“There’s no time for this.” Mrs. Kroll dabbed at her rheumy eyes with a tissue. “I have to call our son, Alexander. He’ll want to be here for his dad. And I need to get some of Marvin’s things to take to the hospital. His shaving kit. Pajamas. He hates those flimsy things they call gowns the hospital gives you.”

Zoe smiled, remembering Pete’s same complaint just hours ago.

Was it only hours?

While Mrs. Kroll bustled around the house, mumbling to herself and gathering her husband’s things, Kimberly stood in the middle of what the Kroll’s called the “parlor” and pressed her fingers to her lips. “Why isn’t Tom back yet?”

“Pete—Chief Adams needed to get his statement first.”

Kimberly dropped her hand to her side. “Statement? Certainly he doesn’t believe Tom had anything to do with this?”

“Everyone who was in the barn will give a witness statement. You never know who might have seen something. Maybe without even realizing it.”

“Oh.” The lack of furrows in Kimberly’s brow led Zoe to wonder if her mother may have an intimate knowledge of Botox.

“Mom, when Tom does get back, could the two of you drive Mrs. Kroll to the hospital and stay with her until her son arrives?”

Kimberly’s eyes held the scowl her forehead couldn’t produce. Definitely Botox. “The hospital? I don’t know...”

Somewhere in the house, a door slammed. “Hello?” Tom’s voice filtered through the walls. “Kimberly?”

Zoe brushed past her mother, through the parlor door. She crossed the old farmhouse’s wide center hall and opened the door into her office. “Tom?”

He stood in the middle of her living room, attired in one of those disposable jumpsuits the police handed out when clothing was collected as evidence. “Where’s your mother?”

“Here.” Kimberly breezed into the room and rushed to her husband. “What happened to your clothes? And what’s that on your face?”

He brushed a hand across his cheek, but still missed the smudge. “I got some of Marvin’s blood on me.” He kept his voice low.

“Blood?” Kimberly shrieked. “Are you hurt?”

Both Zoe and Tom shushed her.

“I’m fine,” Tom said in the same soft tone. “It’s Marvin’s blood. Not mine.”

“Marvin’s blood?” came Mrs. Kroll’s frail voice.

Zoe spun to find her landlady standing right behind her. If it were possible, she appeared even paler than before.

“How bad is he?”

Tom glanced at Zoe, and she caught the dilemma in his eyes. The truth wouldn’t do the old woman any good right now.

Zoe took Mrs. Kroll’s arm. “He was holding his own when I put him in the ambulance. Barry Dickson and Curtis Knox are two of the best paramedics I know. And Mr. Kroll’s a fighter, right, Mrs. Kroll?”

“You’re right about that,” Zoe’s landlady said. “He
is
a fighter.”

“Why don’t I help you get his stuff together?”

“No, dear. I’ll do it.” Mrs. Kroll patted Zoe’s hand and headed for the staircase in the center hallway.

Tom gave an audible sigh.

Zoe turned to him. “Can you and Mom drive her to the hospital?”

“Now?” He looked down at his temporary clothing.

Kimberly shook her head. “I don’t think we should. We don’t really know these people. Zoe, you should be the one to do it.”

For once, Zoe agreed with her mother. But Pete’s request loomed over her. “Chief Adams has a broken foot and asked me to drive him somewhere. I’d really appreciate it if you could do this for me.”

Tom shot her a puzzled look. “You know Chief Adams?”

“We’re friends.” The sensation of being in his arms earlier quickly faded into a more distant memory of a kiss. Savoring the sweetness of those memories, that word—
friends
—left a bitter taste on her tongue.

Tom appeared to process this tidbit. “Yeah. Let me grab a quick shower and put on some clean clothes.”

“But, Tom.” Kimberly’s voice sounded like a whiny teenager’s.

He patted her arm. “Zoe’s asked us to help her out. She wouldn’t do that unless she really needed us.” He kissed his wife’s cheek and headed for the back staircase.

Kimberly huffed. Then she turned to Zoe with a frown that even Botox couldn’t counter. “Sitting in a waiting room with a bunch of strangers is not what I had planned for my vacation.”

“None of us planned for this to happen,” Zoe snapped.

Kimberly acted as if she hadn’t heard. “I told Tom this would be a disaster. But he insisted we come here for a visit. These are your friends.
You
should be the one taking care of them.”

“
Tom
was the one who insisted you make the trip?” Then again, why should this surprise Zoe?

“You’re not hearing me. I don’t care to waste my time sitting in a hospital waiting room with people I don’t know.”

Zoe wanted to ask why her mother bothered spending time with
her
, since she clearly didn’t know her daughter either. Before Zoe could form the words, Kimberly wheeled and stomped after her husband.

Zoe shook her head. She didn’t have time to deal with Mommy Dearest today. Someone she cared for had been shot. In the same barn where she spent countless hours. The exact barn where she should have been giving riding lessons if Pete and Harry hadn’t taken her away from her routine.

It could have been her.

There wasn’t time to think about that either. She strode across the living room and slammed through the back door on her way to the barn. And Pete.

Twelve

Pain screamed up Pete’s leg with each rut in Carl Loomis’ red dog gravel lane. Heavy rains had carved tire tracks into trenches. Zoe drove half on, half off the side of the driveway, straddling the ditches. The ride was anything but smooth. Pete wondered how a car with low ground clearance would manage the half-mile long driveway without ripping out its undercarriage.

Freshly mown fields bordered the lane. Closer to the house, a woven-wire fence that had seen better days surrounded a cluster of squat, gnarly trees laden with small, green apples.

Zoe parked her truck behind a tractor and cut the engine. She leaned forward to look up at the blue sky marbled with billowing white and gray clouds. “He’s probably out cutting hay, you know.”

Pete gathered his crutches and opened the door. “Only one way to find out.”

The house was sided in red asbestos shingles, and the roof sagged in the middle. The grass surrounding it reached halfway to his knees.

“I wonder if he plans to bale his yard,” Pete mused out loud. 

The wood-framed screen door banged as Carl Loomis stepped out onto the porch. He looked from Zoe to Pete. “Can I help you folks?”

Pete hobbled toward the house on a path worn in the deep grass. “Mr. Loomis, I’m Police Chief Pete Adams. We met Friday over at the Engle farm.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” Loomis moved forward with an extended hand, which Pete accepted. “I didn’t recognize you without your uniform. Or with crutches. What happened?”

Pete grunted. “Injured in the line of duty. Mind if we sit down? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Loomis dug a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and tapped one out. “Is this gonna take long? I just finished up supper and was heading back to the field.”

“I’ll try to keep it brief.”

The farmer lit the cigarette and took a long drag. “Well, okay then.” He motioned toward a set of pitted medal chairs on the uneven porch.

Pete studied the one lone step. And no railing. A vision of tumbling backward, thrown by the damned crutches and nothing to grab onto, flashed through his mind.

Zoe was either observant or clairvoyant. “Let’s move a couple of chairs down here,” she said.

A minute later, Pete and Loomis sat facing each other, and Zoe perched on the step.

Pete opened his notebook and clicked his pen. “You were pretty convinced that James Engle committed suicide.”

Loomis fingered his cigarette. “Still am.”

“Why is that?”

“I told you before. He’s been threatening to pull his own plug for a while now.”

“Did he give you a reason?”

“Weren’t you listening the other day? The man was dying of cancer. He said he wanted to end it on
his
terms.”

Pete watched Loomis take another long drag and blow out a stream of smoke. “Lung cancer, wasn’t it?”

If the farmer caught the irony in Pete’s voice, he didn’t show it. “That’s right.”

“Who told you about his illness?”

Loomis paused. Frowned. “What d’ya mean?”

“I think it’s a pretty clear question, Mr. Loomis. Who told you James Engle had lung cancer?”

“Well...Jim did. Why?”

“When was that?”

Loomis knocked the ash from his cigarette. “I don’t know.”

“Was it a week ago? A month? Maybe six months or a year?”

“I think it was late winter. Maybe early spring.” Loomis took one more drag, then dropped the cigarette and ground it out with his boot. “What difference does it make when he told me?”

Pete leaned back in his chair and studied the farmer’s face. “Because the autopsy showed no signs of cancer.”

Loomis’ eyes widened, and his jaw went slack. “No cancer? Are you shittin’ me?”

Pete held the man’s gaze, but didn’t reply.

After a few moments, Loomis looked away. “Huh. Well ain’t that a kick in the head.”

“Any idea why Engle might lie about being sick?”

Loomis’ gaze snapped back to Pete’s. “Lie? You think Jim was lying about having cancer?”

“You don’t?”

“Hell, no. Look, Chief. The man was devastated. Absolutely devastated. If what you say is true, then he had a quack for a doctor.”

“You think he was misdiagnosed?”

“Damn right. That’s the only thing it could be. Old Wilford ought to sue that good for nothin’ sonofabitch for malpractice. Can you arrest him for murder? Because Jim wouldn’t be dead if he knew he wasn’t really sick.”

Pete closed his notebook and pushed up from the chair. Loomis could be right. He wouldn’t know until he had a chance to talk to Dr. Weinstein in the morning. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Loomis. We’ll let you get back to work now.”

The farmer stood and tapped another cigarette from the crumpled pack. “If there’s anything else you need, you just come on by.”

Pete thanked Loomis and left him standing there twiddling his unlit smoke.

Zoe caught up to Pete as he headed back to her truck. “So do you think he’s right?”

“About the doctor misdiagnosing Engle? I think Loomis thinks he’s right. And it’s as good a possibility as any. Makes more sense than faking an illness and then committing suicide over it.”

She opened the passenger side door for him. “Yeah.” But she didn’t sound convinced.

And while a misdiagnosis did offer a tidy answer to the question of why James Engle had claimed to have a terminal illness, Pete wasn’t convinced either.