Текст книги "Crowned and Moldering"

Автор книги: Kate Carlisle

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

“Is he still living around here?”

“No. His family moved away that summer, but I still wonder about him.” And I continued to regret the small role I’d played in turning his world upside down.

*   *   *

An hour later, I left the house to meet my guys for dinner at the pub. Mac spotted me leaving the house and I invited him to join us. A good thing, because he helped make the atmosphere lighter than it would’ve been otherwise. He kept us entertained with stories of how he’d researched all sorts of scary stuff for his famous Jake Slater thrillers. Since Mac had been a Navy SEAL himself, he knew what it was like to be in a helicopter hovering a few hundred feet above the ocean and have to scramble down a rope to rescue a beautiful woman.

“Sadly, I never rescued a beautiful woman, but Jake Slater does it all the time,” he said.

We laughed, and I could tell that Sean was enjoying himself. That was all that mattered tonight. I wanted him to remember he had friends who cared about him and who didn’t want him to be alone and sad. After the waitress brought our orders, Wade invited Sean to stay with his family for a few days.

“Come on, you guys,” Sean said, smiling wryly. “I’ll be fine. I’m not going to flip out or anything.”

“Promise?” I said.

He chuckled. “Yeah.”

“Besides, you already flipped out a long time ago,” Billy joked.

“Very funny.”

To change the subject, Wade and Johnny pestered Mac to tell them more of his daring exploits.

As we dined on fish and chips and burgers, Mac spun a story about another group of Navy SEALs sneaking behind enemy lines somewhere in the Hindu Kush, the mountain range that formed the border between central Afghanistan and northern Pakistan. He had us laughing and shaking our heads at some of the tricks they pulled as they hiked toward their target. Then the story took a sudden dark turn as the men were set upon by knife-wielding Pashtun warriors. The SEALs fought back, but they’d been caught by surprise and it was touch and go for a while.

We were on the edges of our seats as Mac recounted the action.

I kept an eye on Sean as Mac spoke, because his emotions were so clearly reflected on his face. Laughter at first, then wide-eyed amazement, but as the tale turned more frightening, Sean appeared to check out. He looked dazed and no longer reacted to anything Mac was saying. His eyes glazed over and he stared at nothing in particular.

When Mac finished, I elbowed Sean lightly. “You okay, Sean?”

He jerked as if I’d woken him from a deep sleep.

“Oh, wow.” He blinked and shook his head. “Sorry. I zoned out there. Maybe I should go home.”

“No way,” I said. “You haven’t finished your dinner.”

“Yeah, I’m not ready to call it a night yet,” Wade said.

Sean took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Okay.”

“Sorry the story got a little violent there,” Mac said.

“Hey, no problem,” Sean said, rubbing his temple. “I was just . . . remembering stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?” Mac asked, not willing to let it go. Maybe it would help Sean to talk things through with Mac and the guys.

“Grim stuff,” Sean muttered. “Really ugly stuff my dad said when I got back from juvie. You know, after Lily left.” He sucked in another deep breath and his cheeks expanded as he exhaled slowly. He glanced around the table and then looked directly at me. “I think my father killed Lily.”

*   *   *

After dinner at the pub, Mac and I convinced Sean to telephone Eric. The chief needed to know that Sean thought his father had been capable of killing Lily. Even if there was no evidence to support it, Eric could use every possible piece of the puzzle to work with as he sought to solve this crime.

It wasn’t as though Sean was betraying his father. That ship had sailed a long time ago. The man was dead and gone. And maybe it was unfair of me to say so, but good riddance.

Mac and I followed Sean home and stayed with him for moral support while he talked to Eric on speakerphone. I was surprised to hear Sean sounding cool, calm, and clear as he pointed out his reasons for believing the worst about his father. Besides his father’s violent temper and history of abuse, Sean remembered something specific that his father had said after Lily disappeared.

“When I told my dad that I wasn’t going to give up until I found Lily, he said, ‘Don’t bother. Where she’s gone, nobody will find her.’”

“Your father told you that?” Eric said, sounding shocked.

“Yeah. He was pretty drunk when he said it, and I demanded to know what he meant. But he brushed me off, just said, ‘She’s gone to hell.’”

Eric paused, and I figured he was writing it all down. “Did your father ever talk about the lighthouse mansion or say anything else about Lily’s disappearance?”

“I always had the feeling he knew something,” Sean said. “But no matter how many times I tried to bring up the subject, he refused to mention her name ever again.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Eric asked.

Sean winced and glanced at me and Mac as he spoke. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t remember until Mac was telling this story tonight about the Pashtun warriors fighting with knives.”

“Sounds interesting,” Eric murmured.

“Yeah, it was,” Sean said. “So, my father owned a really old Vietnamese knife with a sheath made from buffalo horn that he mounted on the wall like it was some kind of art piece. He said he stole it off a dead Vietcong soldier, but I didn’t know whether to believe him or not.” He shook his head in bewilderment. “Sometimes he would get drunk and take the knife and just hold it. Every so often he’d sharpen it and then run his thumb along the blade until he drew blood. He always said his days in Vietnam were the best of his life, which is pretty screwed up, if you ask me.”

“Some guys miss the camaraderie or the sense of purpose,” Eric explained briefly.

“I guess,” Sean said. “So, anyway, when Mac told the story, I remembered my dad and that knife. He was holding it, stroking it, when he said those words about Lily. I’d completely blocked that memory until tonight.”

*   *   *

The next day, Eric telephoned to tell me that the medical examiner had just called to verify that it was indeed Lily’s body—or, rather, her skeleton—that we’d found in Mac’s new home, thanks to dental X-rays received from Lily’s childhood dentist.

“That was fast work,” I said.

“That’s how I like things to move,” Eric said. “By the way, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this information to yourself. Even though Sean was fairly certain the body was Lily’s, we haven’t told him or his sister, Amy, the news yet, so I’d like to talk to them first before the whole town finds out.”

“I won’t say a word.”

I hadn’t slept well the night before and didn’t sleep well that night, either, thanks to visions of poor Lily being cooped up in the dumbwaiter all these years. And I still felt so bad for Sean, who had dedicated half his life to finding his sister, only to discover that she’d never even had the chance to leave town.

I woke up Wednesday morning feeling groggy and out of sorts. But when I remembered what day it was, I jumped out of bed, knowing I needed to be wide awake and perky, even if I had to fake it.

It was Career Day at my old high school and I would be talking to students about my job every hour from nine until three o’clock. I’d done it the past four years in a row and it was always fun. The kids were attentive and asked lots of great questions, and it always felt especially good to have some of the girls sign up for a summer job on my crew.

I just wished I were feeling a little more energetic. I’d spent the past two nights tossing and turning, continuing to relive that moment when Sean had told us that his father might have murdered his own daughter. Sean had looked so sad and I couldn’t blame him. Even though the man had been a cruel monster when he was alive, he had still been Sean’s father.

I shook off the memory and took a long shower, then poured myself two full cups of coffee to sip while I dried my hair, put on some makeup, and dressed in my usual attire of jeans, henley shirt, denim jacket, and work boots. After chowing down on my own homemade version of a breakfast burrito, I fed my furry kids and made sure their water was fresh before heading for my truck and driving to my alma mater.

Fifteen minutes later, pulling a small dolly that held my heavy-duty pink tool chest filled with all my pink tools, along with my laptop computer and briefcase, I walked into the main corridor of Lighthouse Cove High School. It was bizarre to smell the same smells, see the same colors and sights, hear the same sounds. But they weren’t really the same, were they? How could they be after fifteen years? What was definitely still the same, though, was that feeling I always got, that odd mix of nostalgia for the good old days and sheer relief that I didn’t have to repeat them.

I’d felt this way the last time I was here for Career Day. The reality was that the school hadn’t changed a bit. But I had. At first I wondered if things looked smaller because I was taller. But no, I hadn’t grown an inch since graduation. Maybe I’d just gotten used to living in a bigger world.

The decibel level was earsplitting, with kids everywhere, talking as they gathered around open lockers or whispered in corners. They walked in pairs or in groups and there was a lot of laughter, a few shrieks, some high-pitched whining. Two boys ran through, dodging in and out and around the clusters in order to make it to a class before the bell rang.

Some kids were outfitted in colorful stripes and prints; some in severe, unrelieved black; some in camouflage. Most of them carried backpacks, like my friends and I used to. Watching them, I had so many mixed emotions. It was so normal and yet so foreign. It was another world.

I made it to the classroom where I’d be spending my day. I peeked through the door’s cloudy reinforced-glass window before walking into the room and setting my pink tool chest on the floor by the front desk. There was nobody else in the room yet, so I took a minute to glance around at the green blackboards in front and the wall of corkboard along the side, almost completely covered in flyers and photos and posters of upcoming events.

They no longer used individual desks in this room, but utilitarian rectangular tables designed to seat two students. These were arranged in three rows that curved around the front of the room. The curve gave it all a friendly touch, but the plastic chairs looked too small and too hard to be comfortable.

The classroom floor was made up of multicolored linoleum squares that I was certain hadn’t been updated in the more than ten years I’d been gone.

The windows would’ve been more cheerful if they hadn’t been covered in old, industrial-strength venetian blinds. I would ask to have them opened once the sun was no longer glaring down on this side of the building.

“Thank you for that scathing review, Ms. Hammer,” I muttered to myself. What was I expecting? The Ritz-Carlton? Ignoring the room’s decor, I pulled my bullet-point list of topics out of my purse and studied it for a few minutes, until the door opened and a woman wearing a dark orange blazer over black pants and a black-and-white-striped top walked in. She was about forty and wore her brown hair in a chic ponytail. Her brown eyes were bright and focused, and I would bet she didn’t miss much of anything in her classroom.

“You’re our Career Day speaker.” She set her briefcase down and reached out to shake my hand. “I’m Judy Cummings.”

“Shannon Hammer.”

“You’re the contractor,” she said, studying me. “What a fascinating job. And you’re so lucky, you’re allowed to hit things with hammers all day and get rid of all your frustrations, right? You must be very well adjusted.”

I laughed. “I can loan you a hammer, if you think it’ll help. For pounding nails, I mean.”

She laughed along with me. “Oh, believe me, I’m beyond help.”

As I positioned my laptop on Mrs. Cummings’s desk to use for my PowerPoint presentation a little later, the door flew open and a dozen noisy, laughing teenagers poured into the room at once. They stared openly at me as they made their way to their seats. Over the next two minutes, ten more kids walked in.

“Don’t let them see your fear,” Judy whispered.

I chuckled. “I carry a hammer, remember?”

The bell rang and we got started. I began the usual way, with the story of how I got started working in construction. After my mom died, my dad began bringing my sister and me to his construction sites because he didn’t want us being raised by babysitters. The guys on the crew took us under their wings, bought us pink hard hats, pink tools, and little pink tool belts of our very own with which to play and build fun stuff, like boxes and a doghouse and a wagon.

When I took over my father’s business five years ago after he suffered a mild heart attack, Dad bought me a celebratory gift of a rolling pink tool cabinet, along with a full set of pink Craftsman tools. They were just as well made and effective as regular tools, but since they were pink, the guys on my crew didn’t walk away with them.

The girls in class enjoyed that detail.

I talked about a few specific jobs and showed a cool PowerPoint slide show of the evolution of my friend Jane’s new bed-and-breakfast, which slowly changed from a rodent-infested nightmare to an elegant showcase. I told them that while it was hard work, there were both immediate and long-lasting rewards.

My talk was impressive, if I did say so myself.

The boys always enjoyed hearing about construction work in general, but I liked to think I won the girls over with the pink tools and the comment that pounding nails and hauling lumber was a great way to tone one’s upper arms. That line usually prompted one of the boys to shout out, “Show us your muscles.”

“Sign up for a summer job with my crew and you’ll see them every day.”

If all that wasn’t enough to sway them to give it a shot, I always added a line at the end that the money was good, too.

*   *   *

I’d given three hour-long presentations and still had a small group of teenagers surrounding me, asking more questions, when Judy announced, “We’ve got to close the classroom and get to the cafeteria, or you won’t have a chance to eat lunch.”

I smiled at the kids. “Okay, that’s it. But if you have any more questions, take one of my business cards and send me an e-mail.”

Most of them grabbed a card, and they slowly dispersed. Once they were out of sight, I let my shoulders sag.

“They suck the wind right out of you sometimes,” Judy said. “But I haven’t seen them so enthusiastic in weeks, so it’s all good.”

“Thanks.” I knelt down and returned my tools to their proper drawers in the tool chest, then slid my business cards into the pocket of my briefcase. “You’re going to lock the classroom, right?”

“Absolutely,” she assured me. “Your tools and laptop will be safe.”

“Thanks.” I stood and grabbed my purse. “Okay, I’m off.”

“Enjoy,” she said, walking me to the door. “I’ve got to run a quick errand, so I’ll meet you back here in about forty-five minutes.”

“It’s a deal.” I took off down the hall, headed for the cafeteria to grab a sandwich.

“Is it really Shannon Hammer?”

I whirled around to see who was talking. “Mr. Jones!”

“No, it’s Brad.”

We both laughed and I gave him a hug. How could I not? He was still the cutest teacher in school, even after all these years. “How are you?”

“I’m harried and hungry,” he said. “You?”

“About the same.”

“Come on, I’ll walk you to the cafeteria.”

Bradford Jones had been my absolute favorite teacher back in high school. I wasn’t alone; Mr. Jones was everyone’s favorite, and not just because he was by far the best-looking teacher on the faculty. He was also the nicest, most thoughtful man. All of my friends had huge crushes on him. He taught biology, and there was always a waiting list to get into his classes.

Nowadays the two of us were friendly because he and his wife, Denise, had hired my construction company to remodel their kitchen a few years ago. During the job, he insisted that I call him Brad, but I just couldn’t. Instead I continued to call him Mr. Jones, and we always had a good laugh about it.

“How’s Career Day going?” he asked.

“I love it. I always have a good time.”

“That’s a great attitude. I’ve got Dr. Kersey talking to my classes.”

“He’s my doctor,” I said as we walked toward the lunchroom.

“Denise’s, too. He’s a great doctor and a good guy, but his presentation is a little too intellectual for some of the kids.”

“They don’t seem to have that problem with me,” I said, and was pleased to hear him laugh again.

If I hadn’t been watching him, I wouldn’t have seen the minuscule change in his expression from cheer to dismay. At least, I thought that’s what I saw. A half second later, the unhappy look was gone and he wore a bland smile, and I wondered what had happened.

“Hi, Brad!”

Ugh. Now I knew what had changed Mr. Jones’s mood. It was Whitney Reid Gallagher, my oldest, worst enemy from high school. She and her posse of rich, snotty girls had taken great pleasure in tormenting me about my wild hair, my clothing, my construction-worker fingernails, and anything else they could harp on.

“What’s she doing here?” Whitney said, looking me up and down as her face wrinkled in disgust. It wasn’t a good look for her, even though I had to admit that Whitney was a very pretty woman. At least she had that one thing going for her. Two things, if you counted her luck at being married to Tommy.

I turned to Mr. Jones. “What’s she doing here?”

He refused to make eye contact and it sounded as if he was choking on a laugh.

“I happen to work here,” Whitney said.

Working? “I know you can’t be teaching,” I said. “So what’re you doing?”

“If it’s any of your business, I coach the cheerleading squad twice a week.”

“Oh.” That actually made sense, since she’d been a cheerleader during our senior year. “That must be fun. Good for you.”

As usual, Whitney was overdressed for the job, in stilettos, skinny jeans, and a sleeveless pink-and-lime-green sequined top. If that wasn’t enough, she was carrying pom-poms in the school colors of navy and gold. Somehow it worked for her.

I glanced down at my own casual outfit and gave a mental shrug. What could I say? This was my daily uniform.

“You look great, by the way,” Brad said, grinning at me.

I beamed at him. “Thanks, Mr. Jones.” He had just earned my lifelong gratitude.

I watched Whitney seethe, and beamed even more.

Sadly, though, she wasn’t about to stomp away from the best-looking man in the building. And even though my stomach was starting to growl from hunger, I didn’t want to leave him alone with her.

“How are you, Brad?” Whitney asked, turning her back on me. “How’s Denise?”

“She’s fine. She’s working today.”

“She’s so dedicated to the nursery.”

“Yes, she is.”

“By the way, Brad,” Whitney said. “Did you hear they found human bones in the lighthouse mansion?”

“What?” He looked from me to Whitney. “Is that true?”

“It’s true,” she said, her head bobbing affirmatively. She looked inordinately proud of herself.

“That . . . that’s awful.”

Her eyes lit up. “I know. Shannon’s the one who found them. Again. Honestly, she spends so much time with dead bodies, she should have gone to work at a cemetery or something.”

Mr. Jones gave me another horrified glance.

I frowned at Whitney. Why was she talking about this in front of Mr. Jones? Anyone who knew him had to know about his weak stomach for that kind of thing. Back when I had been demolishing his kitchen, he refused to watch, for fear we might find something living behind the walls. And when I had tried to show him the petrified squirrel we discovered, he’d cringed and hurried from the house.

Besides that, Brad’s wife, Denise, had been Lily Brogan’s best friend in high school. I was afraid Brad might turn green if he heard the news about Lily from bigmouth Whitney.

“Tommy says it was the most gruesome thing he’s ever seen.” Whitney looked positively giddy. “And that’s not even the best part. You’ll never guess.”

“Whitney,” I said in warning.

She shot me an evil look but kept talking. “They found a MedicAlert bracelet, too.”

I knew what she was doing. She was showing off to Mr. Jones and the rest of the world, trying to prove that she knew more about what was found in the lighthouse mansion than I did. Because Tommy had obviously told her I was there.

“Whitney,” I said again.

“What?” she snapped.

“Tommy wouldn’t want you talking about a police case.”

She planted her hands on her hips. “How do you know what Tommy would or wouldn’t want?”

“Okay, let me rephrase that. Chief Jensen wouldn’t want you talking about it.”

Those must’ve been the magic words, because she immediately began to pout. “You think you know everything.”

“Not everything, but I do know that Chief Jensen swore us all to secrecy. So if something leaks out, I’ll be sure to let him know who was talking about it.”

“You’re a little snitch, you know that?”

“And you don’t know when to shut up.”

She glowered, and I knew what it meant to have someone shooting daggers at me. But I didn’t care. She shouldn’t have been talking about the bones.

Whitney tossed her hair back and turned, deliberately ignoring me as she grabbed Mr. Jones’s arm to get his attention. “Listen to this, Brad,” she murmured. “They think the bones were—”

His cell phone rang at that moment and he held up his hand to stop Whitney.

Saved by the bell, I thought.

“Hello?” Mr. Jones said, and smiled. “Hi, honey. Everything okay? What?” His smile disappeared and he shot me a look of pure fear. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Is Denise all right?” I asked. “Is she hurt?”

“The police just arrived at my house,” Mr. Jones whispered, his face turning paler by the second. He turned to Whitney. “They think the remains of the body they found in the lighthouse mansion were Lily Brogan’s.”