Lost Legacy (A Zoe Chambers Mystery Book 2) (30 page)

Zoe froze. Where to? Where would Wilford take Harry? His house? James’ farm? Somewhere else entirely? There were too many possibilities. “Just start back to Vance Township. I need to call Pete.” She’d hoped to have Harry safely back home without bothering Pete, but things had gone awry.

Patsy jammed the Tundra into reverse and screeched out of the space. Zoe reached in her pocket for her phone.

Nothing. Her mind raced back. She’d had the phone in her hand as they left the hospital. She’d tossed it on the seat of her truck as she climbed in. “Crap. I left my cell phone in my truck.”

“Use mine. It’s in the console.”

Zoe flipped open the lid of the center cubby. She dug through a jumble of power cords and pulled out Patsy’s phone. Except Patsy didn’t have Pete’s number on speed dial. Or in her address book. Zoe rubbed her forehead, trying to massage her memory into action. Was it...? Yes. She keyed in the number. Hoped it was right.

After one ring, her call went to voicemail. At least it was Pete’s voice on the recording, so the number was right. “Pete, it’s Zoe,” she said after the beep. “I have a problem...”

Pete sat alone in the conference room, staring at the white board.

Tom and Kimberly Jackson were once again on their way to the airport. Pete wished they’d have stuck around and smoothed things over with Zoe—if that were possible.

Ignoring his throbbing foot, Pete pushed up from his chair and made his way across the room to the board with one crutch. He thumbed the cap from the dry-erase marker and drew lines through both Jacksons’ names.

From his pocket, his phone chirped. He set down the marker and dug out the phone. The screen showed a number he didn’t recognize.

Someone pounded on the door, and it swung open before Pete had a chance to say anything. Warren Froats stormed in with Baronick right behind. Pete pressed the key to silence his phone and slipped it back in his pocket.

“Dammit, Pete, you could’ve just called and invited me to come in,” Froats said, hoisting a thumb at Baronick. “You didn’t have to send the goddamn Boy Scouts.”

“I wanted to make sure you got here,” Pete said.

Baronick snorted. “Yeah. Old codgers like you might forget where the police station is.”

Froats grumbled something and looked around. “First time I been in the station since you young punks moved it.”

Pete braced the one crutch in front of him, resting his crossed arms on it. “What do you think?”

Froats grunted. “Too fancy schmancy. Lacks the charm of the old digs.”

“At least the police department actually works cases now,” Baronick said. “Unlike in your day when you just went through the motions and spent most of your time keeping the bars in business.”

“Watch it, sonny. I’ll take Pete’s crutch there and break your leg to match his.” Froats nodded at Pete’s foot. “When are you gonna get that thing fixed up proper?”

“When I solve this case. I had a long chat with Tom Jackson.”

Froats pulled out a chair, sat down, and propped one work-booted foot, then the other on the table, crossing his ankles. “Jackson didn’t do it.”

“Do what?”

“Anything you were accusing him of.”

“And you know this how?”

“Because I’m an excellent judge of human nature.”

Baronick barked a laugh. “Which is why your history of solving murders is so good.”

“What murders?”

“Let’s start with Gary Chambers,” Pete said.

Froats waved a hand as if shooing a fly. “That was no murder. That was an accidental death. Drunk driver. You know that.”

Pete shut up Baronick with a look. He wanted the pleasure of this revelation for himself. “Except it wasn’t. We exhumed Chambers’ body this afternoon and Franklin Marshall performed an autopsy. The autopsy that should have been done twenty-seven years ago. On your watch.”

Froats’ cocky attitude faded.

“Marshall dug a .38 caliber slug out of the body.” Pete watched Froats as the words sank in. “It matches the one that killed Denver Miller forty-five years ago and Carl Loomis yesterday. Not to mention the one they dug out of Marvin Kroll.”

Froats’ summer-fishing-on-the-creek tan paled. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

Baronick huffed. “You said it. I didn’t.”

Pete recounted what they’d learned about Marvin and Bernice Kroll and Mae Engle. “Both Jackson and Kroll seem to think James Engle killed the Miller boys. And if Gary Chambers was asking a lot of questions about them before his death, it makes sense that James might have wanted to shut him up, too. That being the case, guilt combined with going off his depression meds could very well have driven James Engle to commit suicide.” He paused and looked at Baronick, a six-foot sentry stationed by the door. Then back at Froats. “The problem with that otherwise perfectly reasonable scenario is there’s no way James Engle shot Marvin Kroll or killed Carl Loomis.”

Froats wheezed. “If we’re going along with your theory, we could make a case that he had motive, though. He might’ve been afraid that Loomis was gonna talk after all these years.”

Baronick shifted from standing soldier straight to leaning back against the wall. “But Loomis had no memory of that night.”

“Engle could have been afraid Loomis might start remembering shit,” Froats said.

Baronick smirked. “Except Engle was already dead. And I don’t believe in ghosts.”

Pete stuck the crutch under his right arm and leaned hard on it as he stared at the white board. There was one name on the board that was only there once—in the column under James Engle’s homicide. Pete had become more and more convinced James’ hanging had indeed been the suicide it first appeared to be, so he hadn’t paid much attention to that list. He hobbled over to it, picked up the marker again and, using it as a pointer, pressed the cap to that one name. “What do we know about the brother? Wilford.”

Behind Pete, Froats and Baronick fell silent. Pete looked over his shoulder, raising a questioning eyebrow at his “team.”

Baronick shrugged. “From what I’ve seen of him, he’s too frail to be much of a threat to anyone.”

“It doesn’t take much strength to pull a trigger,” Pete said.

Froats rubbed the stubble on his chin. “As I recall, Wilford was always the quiet one. Had all the charm of a diamondback rattler. But he stayed out of trouble. And out of the spotlight.”

“What kind of relationship did he have with James?”

“They were tight.”

“Yet Wilford didn’t know James’ cancer was a ruse.”

Baronick came away from the wall. “And why the ruse in the first place?”

Pete nodded to Froats.

“Why claim to have cancer when he didn’t?” Froats appeared to contemplate the question. “How the hell should I know? But I will tell you this much. Now that I think about it, I always thought Wilford was the smart one and James was his puppet. Wilford stayed in the shadows. James did as he was told.”

A sickening thought started to form in Pete’s mind. “So James was afraid of his brother?”

“Maybe more than afraid.” Froats grunted. “Something else that’s odd, now that I’m thinking about it—”

“I sure wish you’d have thought about this stuff back at the time,” Baronick snapped.

Froats shot him a look. “As I was saying, something else that’s odd is the only time I remember Wilford being the one to step forward was the night of Gary Chambers’ accident.”

“Murder,” Baronick corrected.

Froats’ boots hit the floor with a thud and he came out of the chair, a finger pointed at the detective. “I’ve had enough of your insolence, you young punk. Just shut the hell up.”

Pete shifted to one foot and lifted the crutch like a bat. “Both of you, cut it out. I don’t need to be breaking up a fight in the middle of my station. Neither one of you are schoolboys. So stop acting like it.” He aimed the crutch at Froats. “Now. What about Wilford the night of Chambers’ crash?”

Froats glared at Pete for a moment, but finally answered. “The night of the crash, it was Wilford Engle who called it in to dispatch.”

Son of a bitch. Pete turned to Baronick. “Drive me out to Wilford Engle’s place.”

Baronick checked his watch. “Now? It’s kind of late, Pete.”

“I don’t give a damn if it’s two o’clock in the morning. Let’s go.”

Thirty

In spite of the long June days, by the time Zoe and Patsy pulled up in front of Wilford Engle’s house, the valley had fallen into sultry shadows. Heavy evening air, thick as a dripping sponge, hit Zoe in the face the moment she opened the Tundra’s passenger side door and stepped out.

“Is that his car?” Patsy tipped her head toward an old brown four-door sedan parked under a tree in the overgrown yard.

“Beats me.”

The place was dark except for a faint glow at the front door. Perhaps a light from the back of the house. Zoe wished she had her truck there. More specifically, she wished she had the tire iron she kept under her seat.

She picked her way through the weeds to the sedan—an Oldsmobile—and rested a hand on the hood. “It’s still warm. They’re here.”

Patsy shot an anxious glance toward her Tundra. “We should call the cops and wait out here.”

But Zoe
had
called the cops. One of them at least. Why hadn’t Pete called back? “You’re right. You stay out here and call 9-1-1. I’m going to check the house.” She started toward the front porch.

“I said
we
should wait,” Patsy called after her.

Zoe heard Patsy curse followed by the soft thud of her boots as she jogged to catch up.

The first step screeched the moment Zoe stepped on it. So much for the element of surprise. As if they’d had any chance of that, rolling up in that glow-in-the-dark white Tundra.

“What are we gonna do?” Patsy whispered.

Zoe climbed the rest of the steps and crossed the rickety porch. “I’m not sure.” Knock? Expect to be welcomed into Wilford’s home? Ask him flat out if he had Harry? Yeah, that would go over well.

“You’re not sure?”

Zoe peered in the screen door. The front room was in total darkness. As best she could tell, it was a living room. If someone lurked there, he was hidden in the shadows. A doorway opened to another room in the rear of the house. What appeared to be a single low-wattage bulb glowed from back there. She made out a vintage chrome and Formica table with mismatched chairs around it.

She wrapped her fingers around the doorknob and turned. It clicked open. “I’m going in. You stay here.”

“You can’t go in there.” Patsy sounded on the verge of a full-blown whispered panic attack.

“Look. Wilford’s what? Eighty years old? I think I can take him.”

“What if he’s got a gun?”

“What if he’s got Harry?”

Patsy let out a muted version of a frustrated scream. “If you go in there, I’m going with you.”

“Fine.”

Zoe gave the knob a tug. The wooden frame must have swollen and warped with age because it dragged. And scraped. Then opened with a screech. She shushed the door as if that might help. She stepped inside with Patsy right behind.

The air in the dark living room was stagnant and dank as a quagmire. How could anyone breathe in this place? It reeked of mold and rotted tobacco. She paused a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dark. Scanning the room, she spotted what appeared to be a large ceramic ashtray on an end table. She picked it up and hefted it. Heavy enough to make a dent in someone’s head, the ashtray also seemed to be the only good impromptu weapon within reach.

As she moved closer to the doorway at the back of the room, more of the kitchen came into view. The rest of the table. Another chair. And a pair of knees.

Someone was sitting at the table.

Zoe turned to Patsy with a finger to her lips. Wide-eyed, Patsy nodded. Zoe sidestepped so she could no longer see the man’s knees. And he wouldn’t see her if he happened to lean forward. She tiptoed closer. Prayed the floorboards of the old house wouldn’t squeak with her next step. Another step. And one more.

She sidled against the wall next to the doorway. All she had to do was poke her head around and see who was attached to the knees. If only the room had more air circulation, maybe she could breathe. She swallowed. Took a deep rancid breath. And leaned into the opening.

The knees were still there. She leaned further, sticking her head into the room.

Harry
.

His dazed eyes were fixed on the table in front of him. His hands folded in his lap.

Zoe took a final, quick look into the rest of the kitchen. Empty. She stepped through the door, bringing Patsy with her. “Harry? Are you all right?”

He looked up at her, no sign of recognition in his pale blue eyes. “I want to go home.”

Zoe let out a breath and went to him. She knelt at his side, setting the ashtray on the floor. “I know you do. I’m going to take you there.”

He smiled at her, but the same way she imagined he’d smile at a cab driver who’d made the same offer.

She took his hands and stood up. “Let’s go.”

A floorboard creaked. Without looking, she knew they had company. The voice behind her was raspy, but deadly. “Yes. Let’s.”

Zoe turned slowly. In the doorway she’d just crossed stood a man who looked as close to a walking cadaver as she ever hoped to see. His skin was so white, even in the low light she could see blue veins beneath it. But at the moment the most conspicuous part of Wilford Engle was the revolver in his hand.

The headlights of Baronick’s black unmarked vehicle revealed an empty driveway and a darkened house as they parked in front of Wilford Engle’s place. The flicker of distant heat lightning revealed Wilford’s sedan parked under a tree. Pete noticed a hint of light at the front door.

“It’s almost ten,” Froats said from the backseat. “He’s probably already in bed. Farmers are up with the chickens, you know.”

Baronick cut the ignition and shot a pained look at Pete. “Tell me again why we had to bring him along.”