When Shadows Fall (3 page)

Chapter
4

MEG FOREMAN ANSWERED
her phone on the first ring.

“Sam Owens, as I live and breathe. How the hell are you? How long’s it been, three years?”

“Too long, that’s for sure. I’m good, Meg. Working in D.C. now, running the new Forensic Pathology department at Georgetown.”

“You left Nashville? I can’t believe it. How’d you convince Simon to move?”

Sam stopped short. Meg didn’t know. The huge, oppressive weight of sorrow smashed her in the chest, taking her breath away. As she struggled for air, her mind scrambled to think how long it had been since she and Meg had talked—yes, it had been three years ago, at the annual conference for forensic pathologists.

Before.

She reached for the bottle of Purell in her purse without even thinking about it, poured out a huge dollop and started rubbing her hands together. The old words marched through her head, at once comforting and embarrassing.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. Simon, Matthew, Madeline.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Serves you right for sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong.

“Sam? Are you still there? Is everything all right?”

Sam stared at her hands, cleared her throat. “Meg, I’m sorry. I thought you knew. Simon passed away. With...with the twins. Two years ago. The flood, in Nashville—”

How she’d managed to get those words out, she didn’t know. It wasn’t something she generally discussed with people.
Hi, my name is Sam, and a random act of God made me a childless widow.

Meg reacted immediately, her voice overwhelmingly sad. “Oh, my God, Sam. I didn’t know. I am so sorry.”

“Of course you didn’t. Don’t apologize. How would you know? I haven’t exactly advertised it. Took me a while to accept it myself.”

“And have you accepted it? Are you coping? Sleeping, eating? Seeing a therapist?” It was the clinical voice of a doctor overlaid with the kindness of a friend. Sam blurted out the truth before she could think not to.

“It’s... Well, things aren’t okay, but they’re better. This isn’t something you ever get over, not really. Work helps. Moving away helped, too. There are no daily reminders anymore. And I’ve met someone. He keeps me going.”

There was an awkward silence, then Meg said, “That’s good, Sam. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Sam’s voice was stronger now. The past couldn’t be undone. It was something she’d only recently come to terms with.

“Here’s how you can help me, Meg. You can tell me if you’ve handled a case recently. Timothy Savage, out of Lynchburg. Obit said he died on Tuesday, but there wasn’t any indication how.”

Meg sounded relieved. For people who lived with death, day in and day out, medical examiners weren’t the best with handling grief. “The name’s not ringing a bell, he wasn’t one of mine this week. Let me look in our database.”

Sam heard her typing.

A few moments later, Meg said, “No, nothing here. It doesn’t look like we autopsied him.”

“You’re sure?”

“I am. Definitely. It must have been a natural death. You may have better luck with the funeral home who buried him.”

“Thanks, Meg. I appreciate it.”

“No problem. Listen, Sam—” She broke off, then said, “Will you be at the conference this year? We can have dinner. Or better yet, we can skip dinner and I can get you drunk.”

Sam smiled, remembering why she liked Meg Foreman. “I may. Let me look into it, and I’ll let you know.”

“Either way, you’re close to Richmond now. If you aren’t coming to the conference, let me come up there. We can have lunch, catch up.”

“I’d like that,” Sam said. She reeled off her new contact information and hung up, setting the phone softly in the cradle.

Jesus.

She stashed the Purell back in her bag, feeling guilty. It had been a while since she’d been caught off guard like that. It wasn’t like Simon and the twins were ever far from her mind—she’d fled Nashville to get away from the loneliness she felt, the strange dislocation of losing everything and still waking up every morning, air filling her lungs, even when she was sure she’d never take a breath again. Their memory was what held her back from Xander, from giving all of herself to him. He knew it, understood it deeply, more than anyone else in her life, but at some point, she had to let go and move on.

Yet every time she thought she was there, ready to take a step forward, something like this happened and shot her right back to the person she was for so long after they died—lost, and so very empty. Too empty even to cry.

She slapped her hand on the desk. She needed a drink. Or something. She knew herself well enough; she would be useless the rest of the day. And she hated herself for her weakness.

She packed up her Birkin bag and headed out. The house was only a ten-minute walk, ten minutes that would allow her to wrestle her demons back into their box. Maybe instead of pouring a Scotch, she’d go for a run with Xander and Thor, try to sweat the sorrow out of her. A healthier response. It showed her she wasn’t lost, not all the way.

And then she’d begin again, as she had done so many times before. Handling grief was almost like quitting smoking, or drinking. You do well for so long, then suddenly you slip, and indulge. And in the cold light of morning, you have to start counting the days all over again.

She stepped out into the glorious sunshine, trying to ignore the words that rolled through her mind in time with her steps. The words she used in succor, dampening the horror of her wounds.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four.

Chapter
5

XANDER HAD ALREADY
taken off with Thor for parts unknown when she arrived home.

Disappointed, Sam poured herself a finger of Laphroaig, added two ice cubes and went out onto the covered patio that edged the backyard. The previous owners of her town house had redone the place, removing any feature that could be mistaken for traditional and replacing it with modern to the extreme. Everything was sleek and stark, stainless steel, marble, glass—if she were in an unforgiving mood, impersonal—but it suited her new life. Outside, they’d landscaped with fervor as well, putting in a small Japanese garden, which bordered a lap pool with an automatic current, so they could swim in place and still get a workout. The pool was hidden from the neighbors with a large screen of bamboo, and concealed from the street by a tall wooden fence. The illusion of privacy in the heart of the city.

Suddenly hot, Sam set the Scotch on the edge of the pool, shimmied out of her clothes and slid naked into the water. The sweat and grime and craziness of the day washed clean, she set out at a languorous pace, breaststroking the length of the water. The endless current drove her crazy, so she rarely turned it on; it felt like she was expending so much effort, yet never really going anywhere. Xander loved it, put his head down and swam and swam.

Timothy Savage swam with her. A natural death; no autopsy needed. So why would the man write to Sam and ask her to investigate his murder?

The pool was out of the direct sunlight now, and she got chilled. She ducked her head under, swiped her hands along her face to get her hair slicked back then stepped dripping from the water.

She jumped when she saw Xander sitting by the edge of the pool. He’d snuck outside, silent as a cat.

“I like the view.”

Their eyes locked, and she gestured toward the water. “Are you interested in a swim?”

He shook his head and started toward her. She held her breath. The way that man moved, sinuous and graceful, the unconscious warrior in him always alert and ready, drove her wild. He had his shirt off after two steps, his shorts a heartbeat later, and then their skin touched and he put his mouth on hers. She was shocked by his warmth. He was hot, so hot, his skin overheated from his run, slightly sweaty and damp, and his mouth was hotter still, ravenous for her.

He was much bigger than she was; she could just reach her arms around his body. She pulled him closer, and closer still, until he picked her up as if she weighed no more than a leaf, and her legs wrapped around his waist. He went to his knees and bent her backward into the grass, and she wanted him, wanted him so badly. She didn’t care that people were walking down the street five feet away, on the other side of her fence. She wanted him now.

He knew it, but held back, his hand running the channel down from her throat, between her breasts, over her stomach and down between her legs. He stroked her, and it didn’t take long. He knew exactly what she liked, and had her at the edge within seconds. He kissed her again, long and sweet, and laughed quietly when she whispered, “Now, please. Oh, God, Xander. Now.”

Oblivion. She bit his shoulder to keep from crying out. He lost himself moments later, arms wrapped tight around her, a hand in her hair, shaking, tense in silence.

The grass was soft under her back, and the shouts and beeps of the Georgetown traffic became loud again. A mockingbird scolded them from the pear tree. Xander was giggling slightly, trying to hold it together. He always laughed after, some bottomless well of joy unleashed, and it made her laugh, too.

Sam put a finger across his lips and hushed him. “You cackle like that, everyone will know exactly what we’re doing back here.”

“I don’t care. Let’s do it again.” He reached for her just as Thor came bounding through the back door and launched himself into the pool. His splash drenched them both, and this time Xander couldn’t stop laughing. He grabbed Sam in his arms and rolled them both right into the pool.

* * *

It was dark when the message came.

They were in the kitchen, finishing off a light dinner—prosciutto and melon, fresh buffalo mozzarella, sweet basil torn from the small herb garden out back, a loaf of crusty bread. They might have had too much to drink; there was maybe an inch of wine left in the bottle. Thor was snoozing on his green plaid flannel bed. It was a normal night, a happy night.

The knock at the door made Thor leap to his feet and go tearing into the hall. He was too well disciplined to bark, but stood at attention, yellow eyes fixed on the door. Xander tensed. He didn’t like unscheduled visits.

“Don’t answer it.”

“Don’t be silly.” Sam snapped a dish towel at him and went to answer the door.

The man on the step was gray. Gray hair, gray suit, gray skin, gray shoes. Probably gray eyes, but it was hard to tell in the dim light of the streetlamps. He was small, his eyes were even with Sam’s and his hands shook slightly, a distinct resting tremor Sam immediately identified with Parkinson’s disease.

Thor growled, deep in the back of his throat, and Sam instinctively took a step back.

The gray man didn’t move.

“Can I help you?”

“Dr. Owens? Dr. Samantha Owens?”

“Who’s asking?” Xander stepped next to Sam, one hand on Thor’s ruff, the other hidden out of sight, tucked behind his right thigh. Sam knew it held a SIG Sauer, the gun he kept stashed in the small drawer in the foyer desk.

The man was apparently used to causing alarm when he knocked on doors. He took one look at Xander and Thor, smiled and held out a white business card. “Rolph Benedict, with Benedict, Picker, Green and Thompson, out of Lynchburg. I represent the estate of Timothy Savage. Ah, you are familiar with his name, I see. Good. May I come in?”

A lawyer.

“It’s late, Mr. Benedict. You couldn’t have called ahead?”

The little man shook his head. “I apologize, sir. My cell phone died on the drive up. I would have been here earlier, but I took a wrong turn, managed to hit 66 going out of town instead of into the city.”

His tone didn’t sound very apologetic, but Sam shot a look at Xander, who sighed and made a show of putting the gun in the waistband of his jeans before he stepped away from the door. A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance.

“I suppose you better come in,” Sam said to Benedict. “Can I get you something to drink?”

Chapter
6

SAM FIXED BENEDICT
a cup of tea, served it to him at the dining room table. Allowing him to settle into one of the comfortable leather chairs in the living room felt too welcoming, too personal. This was a business call, and the lawyer didn’t seem to mind her treating it as such. The table was a round of thick glass surrounded by six Eames chairs in white ash. Beautiful, functional, comfortable enough.

Once settled, Benedict set out a pad, a Montblanc fountain pen and a document backed by blue paper. He took a sip of his tea, gave Sam a nod of thanks. Understanding the challenges of Parkinson’s, she’d given him the mug with the biggest circumference and handle, and hadn’t filled it all the way. He managed well, though soon enough he’d have trouble. Without aggressive treatment, resting tremors didn’t improve, only steadily worsened, and it was probably too late for him already. His age, the advance of the disease: he didn’t have much time left.

Xander was through with the niceties. “What’s this about, Mr. Benedict?”

“I’m not sure we’ve met, Mr....” He trailed off expectantly.

Xander cleared his throat. “Whitfield.”

“Ah. Mr. Whitfield. Thank you. Now. Mr. Savage hired my firm last week to prepare a trust to handle his estate.” He turned to Sam, eyes shrewd and assessing. “He named you as executor, Dr. Owens, and left you a respectable amount of money.”

“What? Me? Why? I don’t even know him.”

“Be that as it may, he insisted. He said you’d understand why, when the time came. I must admit, the situation is curious, but understandable. Many people wish to clear up loose ends before they, well, leave this life on their own terms.”

“Is that even legal, putting a stranger in charge of your estate?” Sam asked.

“It certainly is. And better a named stranger than a faceless government drone whose only interest is taking as much as possible for Uncle Sammy.” His lips moved into an approximation of a grin.

Sam felt a chill run down her spine. This dead stranger, this lawyer on the edge of the grave, this whole situation—it was too much. Xander picked up on her discomfort, reached a hand to her under the table. She squeezed it, then stood and murmured, “I’ll be right back. I need a sweater.”

Sam picked up her favorite cashmere pashmina from the living room couch and wrapped it around her shoulders. Feeling much less exposed, she marched back into the dining room in time to hear Xander say, “I think you need to explain yourself, Mr. Benedict, and quickly. Who exactly is Timothy Savage?”

Benedict ran a shaky finger along the rim of his mug. “You are aware, of course, of the circumstances surrounding Mr. Savage’s death?”

“Enlighten us.”

“Oh. You really don’t know.” Benedict’s voice took on a classic Southern ghoulishness, horror and delight coupled in a high-pitched whisper. He leaned forward as he said, “He killed himself. With a very nasty chemical agent he cooked up in his kitchen. Detergent suicide, is what they call it. Very big in Japan.”

Benedict’s earlier words hit Sam then.
Left this life on his own terms.
“But Mr. Savage was—”

Xander put a hand on her knee and stopped her. “A suicide. And he retained you last week to draw up a will, and named Dr. Owens as executrix. May I ask, who is the beneficiary? Does he have an heir?”

Another gummy grin from the ghoul.

“There are several people named in the will, but he’s left the bulk of the estate to a Mr. Henry Matcliff.” He was silent for a moment. “Unfortunately, Mr. Matcliff is proving difficult to locate. We wanted to alert you to the situation, and locate the primary beneficiary before contacting the rest of the heirs. We were hoping you would know where he is.”

This was getting ridiculous, and Sam wasn’t in the mood. The letter this morning had upset her terribly, and now this? No. She wasn’t going to let this go on a moment longer.

“I’d never heard of Mr. Savage until this morning. And I have no idea who this Matcliff character is. I’m sorry, Mr. Benedict, but I respectfully decline the offer of handling Mr. Savage’s estate. I trust your practice will do right by him.” She stood, and Benedict stood also in reflex, a look of shock on his face.

“But Dr. Owens, you’re the only one Mr. Savage trusted to handle things for him.”

“I said no, and I meant it. It’s late. I believe it’s time for you to go.”

“But—”

Xander stood and took three steps toward the front door. Benedict gathered up his things and followed. Once in the foyer, he said, “There’s more. You need to know he’s asked for you to do an autopsy on his body.”

Sam felt another chill down her back despite the pashmina. “What?”

“I’m afraid he was very specific. He clearly thought all of this through. He wanted you to be involved, Dr. Owens. He’s begging for your help...from the grave.”

She shook her head. “Stop trying to manipulate me. I don’t want anything to do with this.”

Benedict nodded grimly. “I understand you don’t want the responsibility, and there will be forms you’ll need to sign, declining the executor role. I will have them drawn up and sent to you. If you’re absolutely sure, that is.”

“I’m sure. You can send them to my office. And next time, Mr. Benedict, please be sure to call first. I could have saved you a long trip today.”

He hesitated, hands shaking silently, then shrugged and said, “I can’t force you to do something you don’t want to do, Dr. Owens, though I hope, once the shock has passed, you’ll reconsider. Perhaps we can speak again in the morning.”

“Perhaps not.”

Undeterred, Benedict said, “In the meantime, there is one last detail. Mr. Savage wanted you to have this.”

He dug in his pocket and dropped a small silver key into her hand. “He said you’d know what to do with it.”

Sam tried to hand it back. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to be involved at all.”

Benedict ignored her, tipped a finger to his forehead in a goodbye salute then walked down the stairs and disappeared around the corner onto P Street.

* * *

Xander closed the door and watched Sam, clearly upset, stalk into the dining room and begin clearing the cups away. He didn’t like this, not one bit. For a stranger to seek her out was one thing, but to get her involved in a legal predicament, to write letters claiming she was in danger because he was contacting her and now this, leaving her holding the bag with his estate inside? If Timothy Savage weren’t already dead, Xander would have killed him himself.

He thought back to Savage’s letter. He said he’d compiled a list of people who could have murdered him. Who were these people? And why, if it was clearly a suicide, did Savage try to rope Sam into his world with the claim of murder?

There was something rotten in Denmark. Without a doubt.

The crash of broken china came from the kitchen. He hurried in to see Sam with a finger in her mouth, cursing under her breath.

“You okay?”

She shook her head. “Broke a cup and sliced my finger. It’s nothing, just an ouchy.”

She went pale as she said the words, and he knew it was a phrase she’d used with her kids. They slipped out, these motherly incantations, when she was highly upset, or drunk. This was the former—any pleasant tipsiness from the wine at dinner was long gone after the lawyer’s disconcerting visit.

“Let me see.” He went to her, pulled her into his arms. She was right; it was just a scratch, no worse than a paper cut. The bleeding had all but stopped. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the wound. “Better?”

Her shoulders began to shake. He thought there might be tears, but she was laughing quietly. She was back, pulled from the edge by his touch. She nodded.

“I’m fine. If you’d offered to kiss my boo-boo, I would have smacked your bum.”

“I might have enjoyed that. Seriously, are you okay?”

She kissed him, quick and hard, then pulled away and shut off the lights. She turned toward the stairs, let the wrap fall to the floor. “No, I’m not. Help me forget, Xander.”

And he did.