On Her Father's Grave (Rogue River Novella Book 1) (7 page)

Zane’s heart sank. She was in denial. And pain. “I’m sorry, Patsy—”

“I know you think I’m just grieving. And I am. But something is wrong about the whole incident.”

“Like what?” Curiosity flooded him. He’d heard Patsy had an odd gift . . . like knowing about incidents before they happened. Bill had sworn by her advice and had confided to Zane that Patsy had a way of adding two and two together to get six. And being correct.

Zane had chalked it up to a hyper-awareness and innate understanding of human nature that he’d felt from the woman. People who watched and listened often could see things that others missed. No one listened better than Patsy.

He tried to listen now.

“I’m not sure. I can’t put my finger on it.” Deep lines formed around her mouth in frustration.

Zane nodded. “I’ll look at Roy’s report again. And I’ll talk to the ME. Maybe we’re missing something.” He relaxed. Patsy was simply struggling with understanding something out of her control. Death messed with everyone’s head. Unpredictable, life-changing, and absolute.

There was nothing the ME could tell him that would restore Big Bill. But if Patsy needed some more answers, he’d get them for her.

She patted his hand like she’d done to Bruce during dinner. “Thank you, Zane.” Her face was less troubled, but she still looked unhappy.

Bruce stepped onto the deck, strains of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Down on the Corner” coming from the guitar in his hands. Patsy’s face lit up at the music, and Zane was struck by her intense beauty.
No wonder she was nearly a star
.

Patsy had “it.” That star quality that reality TV shows held contests to find. Her right leg bounced to the rhythm, and she quietly sang a harmony to the line that came from Bruce’s light tenor voice. Bruce grinned at his mom and continued to play, nodding at her to take over.

She sang louder and Zane got goose bumps. Music was the dessert course at the Taylors’. Several times in the past he’d heard the family break into song or pull out some of the dozens of instruments they played.

To a man who couldn’t carry a tune, but loved a live rock or country concert, it was heaven. Zane sat back, the dishes forgotten, and listened.

Debra’s three-year-old couldn’t sit still and started to leap and spin with a child’s beautiful lack of self-consciousness, driving the other two children to join. James stuck his head out the door, grinned, vanished, and then reappeared with a fiddle. Or was it a violin? Zane wasn’t sure there was a difference. James bumped hips with Carly’s daughter and began to play.

More voices picked up the melody inside and the rest of the adults spilled out onto the deck, Debra included. Debra’s eyes were red but she held James’s hand. Eric came out and sat next to Zane.

“This almost beats the cooking,” he said in a low voice to Zane.

“You sing?” Zane asked.

“Nah.”

“Me neither. Couldn’t carry a tune to save my life,” answered Zane. He followed Eric’s gaze to where Stevie and Carly leaned against the deck rail, singing behind Bruce.

Bruce wrapped up the song with a flourish on his guitar and everyone applauded.

“We’ve missed your alto,” Bruce said to Stevie. “Nice to hear it.”

“It’s a bit rusty. God, I’ve missed this.” Her smile was a mile wide.

She took Zane’s breath away. Beside him he felt rather than saw Eric tense at the sight of the pure-looking hometown girl. She belonged on the cover of some sort of country-living-healthy-music magazine.

“Well, now that you’re warmed up, do your namesake some justice,” Bruce said. The distinct melody of Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide” came from his fingers, and James picked up the haunting refrain.

Stevie started to sing, and Zane knew he was in trouble.

Stevie nodded good morning to Sheila as she headed through the small front office of the police station. Sheila was on the phone but fluttered her fingers at Stevie and rolled her eyes as she assured the caller.

“I
know
Jared’s driving you batty, hon, but refusing to find a job isn’t a reason we can send an officer over there.”

Thank goodness Stevie didn’t answer the phone. She wouldn’t have been as understanding.

Don’t waste my time. Someone with a real emergency might be calling.

She was more patient when she was out on a call. Some people simply needed someone to talk to. She’d refereed more domestic disputes than a marriage counselor. At first she’d felt that she should charge for her services, but she’d lost that cockiness when she got called back to the same home over and over. Clearly her message wasn’t getting through to certain couples. Or else they enjoyed a third-party witness.

She knocked on the chief’s slightly opened door and pushed.

“James?” She halted at the sight of her brother in Zane’s office.

He looked up from the cardboard box he’d been rooting through on the floor of Zane’s office. “Hey, Stevie. Do you know when Zane will be back?” James’s eyes were bloodshot, with large dark bags under them that could rival a Coach store. She wondered if he’d been up arguing with Debra. Possibly the brief reconciliation at the barbecue hadn’t lasted.

“Ah, no. I thought he’d be here by now.” It was nearly seven a.m.

“Have you seen Dad’s journals? There should be nearly five months of journals here somewhere. Mom said she wants them, and I can’t find them.” He stood and frowned as he scanned the office.

“You really shouldn’t be in here. This isn’t Dad’s space anymore.” Her voice cracked.

Sympathy filled his eyes. “I know. I waited a good twenty minutes, hoping Zane would show up. Finally I figured I’d look in the likely places. When it was slow next door at the office, I used to spend as much time in here as Dad.”

“Morning, folks.”

Stevie had felt the floor vibrate a moment before Zane spoke behind her.

“Looks like I’m late for work.”

She turned and gave him a smile as James hurried to explain why he was in the police chief’s office.

“Journals? Yes, your dad used to keep his yearly stack over here.” Zane strode to a closet and slid the door open. “Christ, what a mess. Guess this is something Roy hadn’t felt like tackling.”

Stevie looked over his shoulder and raised her brows. The shelves in the closet were packed with binders, folders, envelopes, boxes of all sizes, a cooler, a stuffed pig, and books.

“I’m sure Dad knew where everything was,” she muttered. “He didn’t seem like the most organized person, but he had a system. Too bad it made no sense to anyone but him.”

“I don’t see his journals,” James said, scanning the contents. “Maybe in one of these boxes.” He reached for a box, and Zane put a hand on his arm.

“Why don’t you let me take a look for them? I’ll try to get to it before lunch.” He held James’s gaze.

Her brother stared back, and Stevie felt the testosterone rise in the room.

“No problem,” said James, moving his arm out of Zane’s grasp. “Let me know so I can return them to Mom.”

He nodded at Stevie and left the office.

Silence hung heavy in the room as Stevie and Zane looked at each other.

“Did I offend him?” Zane asked.

“No, I think you surprised him. He’s used to getting his own way. But he knows he shouldn’t be snooping around in here. Even if it is for Dad’s stuff.”

Zane scratched at his neck, thinking. “I like your brother. But he was overstepping his bounds. Even as mayor and son.”

“I agree.” Had he expected her to take James’s side?

“I was going to ask you if you wanted some of the personal pictures in here.” Zane nodded at the wall behind her, and she turned to see a picture of Dad, Carly, and herself. “I kind of like them. I think they show a history of the office and the town. But they belonged to Bill, not Solitude.”

Stevie blinked at the picture and lifted it off the wall. Zane was correct that this one was personal. “You can keep the ones that are of him and coworkers. I’ll take the family pictures.”

“I was surprised Roy left them up. Maybe he didn’t want to change anything.”

Stevie nodded. “He was probably so used to looking at them, he didn’t see them anymore.”

Zane cocked his head and didn’t answer immediately, as if he was thinking carefully about her comment. “Yes, that happens, doesn’t it? Then something new shows up and that’s all you can see.”

Stevie felt a flush start on her neck. “Will you have time to look for those journals? Carly asked about them too.”

“Yes, I’ll get it done.” He didn’t move toward the closet and there was an empty silence again. “Thank your mother again for dinner. I always enjoy it.”

Stevie seized the topic change. “Have you eaten there often?”

Zane nodded. “Your dad invited me at least once a month for most of the five years I’ve lived here. I’ve always enjoyed your family. They’ve missed you.”

This time her flush filled her face, and she looked at the floor. “I know. I feel bad it’s been so long, and I’m glad I won’t miss Mom’s weekly family meals anymore. I’d forgotten how they felt.”

“It’s nice to have a big family,” Zane started. His desk phone rang. Stevie nodded at him as he moved toward the phone, and she slipped out the door.

Dinner last night had been good. She’d lied when she said she’d forgotten how it felt. That exact feeling had been part of the reason she’d packed up and left California. How long had it been since she’d sung with her siblings? They used to sing nonstop. Their mother had made them all learn an instrument or two, but Bruce was the natural. He’d never met an instrument he couldn’t play. Stevie could play the piano, but nothing else. And she could sing.

She loved to sing and knew she was good. She didn’t have an interest in a singing career, but she loved to entertain small groups. In LA she’d done karaoke with friends at the bars, but that was the extent of her need for the stage. To her it was a private gift, not one to force on the world. It was for her own pleasure.

Bruce played the guitar, James the fiddle, and Carly the piano. All of them had good singing voices, but Stevie and Bruce seemed to have received the most blessings in that area.

Stevie exhaled and sat at her desk in the patrol units’ room. Today was Memorial Day. There’d be a parade down the center of town in the afternoon and hopefully not too many wild drunks. So far there’d been no calls. Until Sheila had a call for her to respond to, she wasn’t certain what she should do. In LA she’d have had an area to patrol. In Solitude there was no point in wasting gas driving around the same dozen streets over and over. She knew there was more to be done on Hunter Brandt’s case, but first she needed a direction from Zane. She heard him set down the receiver on his desk phone. Was now a good time to ask? Footsteps told her he was coming her way.

His face was grim as he rounded the corner into the room.

“What happened?” she asked. He looked ready to hit something.

“That was Hank from the medical examiner’s. Guess what he spent part of last night doing?”

“I don’t think I want to know,” Stevie murmured, alarmed by the look on his face.

“Another teen died last night. This time in the city of Coos Bay at the coast.”

Stevie waited, dread creeping up her spine.

“Once again, no outward signs and no obvious reason why he died.”

“What was he doing?” she asked.

“He was home. Alone in his room. His mom stopped by his room to say good night and he didn’t respond. When she looked closer he was dead in his bed.”

“That’s horrible. What does Hank think happened?”

“He’s not certain, but once again he can’t identify a strange substance in this kid’s blood. He’s sending it to the same lab and asking them to compare it to Hunter Brandt’s.”

Stevie had read Hank’s preliminary report about the odd chemical found during Hunter Brandt’s autopsy. “What are these kids taking? Why can’t Hank tell what it is?”

“Good question. I think we need to talk to the teens around here some more. I hope to God there’s not some trendy drug floating around that we’re not aware of.”

Stevie bit her lip. “According to Roy, Solitude doesn’t have drugs. Or at least not a problem with them.”

“What?” Zane looked confused. “Roy said that? When?”

“The night of Hunter’s death.”

Zane snorted. “There’s enough pot grown around here to keep a commune of hippies happy for a decade. Maybe he doesn’t consider that a drug.”

“Any other drugs been turning up?”

“About what you’d expect. Maybe Roy didn’t consider it our problem because it’s not in the city limits, but there is meth use going on outside of town. A bit of coke too. I can think of three meth labs that have blown up since I’ve been here. Out-of-staters moving here to take advantage of the ruralness. They think they can do whatever they please on their property and no one will notice. They find a place that’s outside the city limits and assume the county sheriff won’t have the time or manpower to keep an eye on them. And they’re right. We’ve managed to keep it from coming into town or affecting our kids.”

“So there’s no one in charge?”

“In charge? You mean like making and distributing with a purpose?”

“Yes, we had networks of them all over LA.”

Zane sighed. “I bet you did. So far I haven’t seen any of that. The drug dealers up here don’t have much in the way of brains. They seem to just grow or cook it for personal use.”

“Stevie?” Sheila stuck her head in the room. The fiftysomething woman looked like she ate a single saltine for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She was sewing-needle thin and wore enough bright-yellow eye shadow to be mistaken for a school bus. “I’ve got a call for you. Mrs. Simmons says someone broke into her house overnight. She has a broken window this morning.”

Stevie took the slip of paper with Mrs. Simmons’s address on it. “She didn’t wake up?”

“Nope. Didn’t hear a thing. But she’s hard of hearing to start with. You’re gonna have to yell when you talk to her.”

“Anything missing? No one’s in her house?” Stevie asked.

Sheila smiled. “I’m gonna let you ask her those questions.”

Those should have been the first questions Sheila asked. Stevie narrowed her eyes at Sheila. “She’s that hard of hearing?”