Читать книгу Silver River Secrets - Linda Hope Lee - Страница 11

CHAPTER THREE

ON THE DRIVE to Restlawn Cemetery, Hugh’s unkind remark about her father rang in Lacey’s ears. But, like many of the townspeople, he believed that Rick Morgan had, in fact, shot Rory’s father, Al Dalton, Jr., in cold blood. Standing by her father hadn’t been easy for Lacey, since the murder had resulted in her mother’s death, too. Sometimes, she had her doubts, but, oh, she didn’t want to believe he could commit such a terrible crime.

If only she could find some proof of his innocence. But little chance of that, especially now that ten years had passed.

She reached the turnoff to Restlawn and followed a narrow, winding road to the iron gates marking the entrance. Spotting the tall oak tree that shaded her grandfather’s and her mother’s graves, she pulled to the side of the road and parked. Bucket of flowers in hand, she trudged over the freshly mowed grass, breathing in the pine-scented air and listening to the twittering birds. Cemeteries always seemed so peaceful, and Restlawn was no exception.

She stopped in front of the headstones, her grandfather’s on the left, her mother’s to the right. On her grandfather’s other side, an empty plot waited for Remy.

When Lacey knelt to place the flowers in the embedded vase on her mother’s grave, she saw that the holder already contained pansies. A glance at her grandfather’s vase revealed his, too, held the delicate blossoms. They were wilted, as though they’d been there for several days.

Who had brought the flowers? Gram used to visit, but not since she’d broken her hip and been confined to her wheelchair.

A sudden unease gripped Lacey, and she glanced over her shoulder. No one was nearby, and no other cars were on the road. Still, she had a creepy feeling someone was watching her.

Lacey turned back to the graves. She thought about removing the wilted flowers but then decided to leave them. Pouring fresh water from the bucket into the vases, she added a few of the flowers she’d brought to each of the embedded vases.

She ran her fingers over her grandfather’s engraved name on the marker, Jason Carl Whitfield, remembering him as a happy man who took pride in his work as a carpenter and who doted on his wife and daughter. Lacey’s mom was spoiled and self-centered, as might be expected of one who’d been the center of her parents’ universe.

On the whole, she’d been a good mother to Lacey, though. Lacey especially remembered the bedtime stories and poetry they shared.

Lacey touched her mother’s carved name, too, and then whispered a prayer for both of them. Grasping the bucket, she stood and, still uneasy, looked around again. Seeing no one, she turned her steps toward her father’s grave, which was some distance away.

I won’t have that murderer near my family! Gram had declared.

He wouldn’t be here at all but for Lacey’s insistence. When he died in prison, she arranged to have his remains returned to Silver River and had with her own money purchased the plot and the marker. She chose an especially pleasant spot, with a nearby fountain shaded by several maple trees. But unlike her grandfather and her mother, who’d both been mourned in public services, only Lacey—and the grave digger—were present to witness Richard Mark Morgan’s burial.

As she knelt to place flowers in the vase, she saw purple-and-white pansies, the same flowers that were in her grandfather’s and her mother’s vases. Apparently, the same person had visited all three graves. Who? Someone who believed in Rick’s innocence, as she did?

Lacey added her flowers to the vase, whispering, “I still believe in you, Dad. And maybe someone else does, too.”

Before leaving the cemetery, Lacey pulled into a viewpoint overlooking the town. From here she could see Main Street, busy as usual, with vehicles and pedestrians. Beyond the business district were blocks of homes, and then the river, sparkling in the sunlight.

Sadness filled her. Silver River was a pleasant and peaceful town. She’d been happy living here until that fateful day ten years ago. Now she lived in exile. Not that she didn’t like Boise. She did. And she liked her job with the historical society. But Boise could never replace Silver River and the happiness she had known here.

* * *

RORY DROVE ALONG the highway connecting Silver River with Milton. Not that he was going all the way there. He’d turn around soon and head for Dalton Properties, where he worked most afternoons. He’d taken this long drive today to check out the overhaul he’d given the ’58 Dodge, one of his classic car acquisitions bought from a man in Fork City, who’d kept it hidden away in an old shed like buried treasure.

Rory tuned his ear to the engine, but his mind wandered to last night’s party and Lacey Morgan. They’d actually talked to each other. Their conversation had been awkward, but what did he expect?

Their encounter didn’t mean anything, though. Probably wouldn’t happen again.

Thinking of her reminded him that the turnoff to the old Whitfield farm was up ahead. The house still sat there, empty and in disrepair, a constant reminder of the tragedy. Usually, as he passed by, he gritted his teeth and stepped on the gas, eager to put the place behind him.

But today, as the turnoff approached, he found himself slowing down, and in the next moment swung the Dodge off the highway and onto the dirt road leading to the farm. He bumped along, jerking the wheel to avoid potholes and overgrowth pushing through the barbed wire bordering the road. Reaching the house, he put on the brake and gazed out the window at the two-story structure. Paint had peeled off the siding and holes dotted the roof. Ragged curtains hung in a few of the windows.

Memories flooded his mind: bringing Lacey home from school. Doing homework at the kitchen table while sampling her grandmother’s cookies. Hiking down to the river where they lazed in the sunshine or splashed around in inner tubes.

He stepped from the car and walked around to the back of the house. Beyond a stretch of overgrown grass and weeds sat a garage with the door off its hinges, a barn missing part of the roof, a couple of weathered sheds and a chicken coop. And farther yet, past a row of willow trees, a trail led to the river.

He looked up at the house’s second story, focusing on one of the windows. The window where Lacey’s father had stood when he pointed his shotgun at Rory’s father and pulled the trigger. Rory swung his gaze back around to the ground, picking out the spot where his father had died. He shuddered and felt sick to his stomach. He stood there, clenching and unclenching his fists, until he got a grip on himself. Then he marched back to his car, climbed in, slammed the door and drove off.

That house should not still be standing there, he thought, while rumbling back down the dirt road toward the highway. It should have been torn down long ago so that he didn’t have to look at it and be reminded of what had happened there. Ten years ago. Ten long years. High time he did something about that house.

* * *

BACK IN TOWN twenty minutes later, Rory parked in his reserved slot behind the Scott Building on Main Street. He sat there a moment, his mind spinning with his new plan.

A knock on the window interrupted his musings. He looked up to see Stuart MacKenzie, one of his grandfather’s employees.

Rory rolled down the window. “Hey, Stuart. Where are you off to?”

Stuart smoothed the lapels of his lightweight sports jacket. “The Cooper ranch. Old man Cooper is ready to talk business.”

Rory opened the door and stepped from the car. “Good for you. Hope you land the deal.”

Stuart grinned. “Thanks, buddy. But I’m not doing anything you can’t do—if you’d forget about your cars and tend to business here.” He nodded at the Dodge. “That is a great-looking car, though.”

Rory pocketed the keys and ran his hand along the car’s engine-warm hood. “Yeah, well, I guess restoring old cars does for me what owning land does for my grandfather. To each his own.”

“Ri-i-ght. Try telling that to A.J. When you gonna take your rightful place around here as the ‘heir apparent’?”

Rory shook his head. “Don’t hold your breath.”

Stuart laughed. “If I were a betting man, I’d bet on A.J. But I don’t want to get involved in your family feud. I’m not taking sides, either.”

Stuart headed for his car, and Rory entered the building. The smell of wax and varnish from the first floor’s furniture store drifted along the hallway. He took the back stairs to the second floor where the offices of Dalton Properties were located. His grandfather’s middle-aged administrative assistant, Sheila Cobb, sat at her desk.

“Morning, Sheila.”

“Glad you’re here, Rory. He’s been wondering.” She tipped her head toward the door to A.J.’s office just as it opened and his grandfather stepped out.

At seventy, Alfred James Dalton was as fit and trim as he’d been in his younger years, thanks in part to heredity, but also to regular rounds of golf and visits to the local gym.

A.J. spread his feet apart and propped his hands on his hips. “About time you got here.”

Rory glanced at his wristwatch. “I know, I’m a little late, but with good reason—”

“Never mind. Sheila put some new proposals on your desk. Look ’em over, and then we’ll talk.”

“I’d just as soon talk now—about something else.”

A.J. raised his eyebrows. “Hmm, all right. I’ve got half an hour until my two o’clock arrives. Come on in.”

Once in his office, A.J. pointed to a straight chair. “Have a seat.”

Rory sat, while A.J. rounded his desk and sank into a black leather chair that always made Rory think of a throne. Unable to find a chair locally that suited him, A.J. had ordered this one over the internet. When it had arrived, the delivery guys had one heckuva time getting it up the narrow stairs. But they succeeded, and there it was, and A.J. fit into it as though it were made especially for him.

A.J. opened a file folder on his desk and idly rifled the papers inside. “So, what’s on your mind?” he said without looking up.

“I want to buy the Whitfield property.”

A.J. jerked to attention. “Yeah? You know I’ve tried for years to get Remy to sell, and she’s flatly refused. What makes you think you can change her mind?”

“I’m betting she needs the money, now that she’s living at Riverview. That place doesn’t come cheap.”

“Maybe Lacey is helping out.”

“Maybe. Still—”

A.J. rubbed his jaw. “Okay, let’s say you get her to sell. What do you see happening to the property?”

“First thing is tear down the house. It’s an eyesore, and I’m sick of it. Always reminding me—”

“You think tearing it down will erase your memory of what happened there?”

“It’ll go a long way to helping.”

A.J. closed the file folder and leaned forward. “And then what? A subdivision is what I see. Ought to be enough land for fifty or sixty houses.”

Rory shrugged. “Getting rid of the house is first and foremost. You hate the sight of that place as much as I do.”

“I’ll agree with that.”

His voice cracked, and his gaze strayed to the framed photo on his desk, a picture of him with his son, Alfred James Dalton Jr., better known as “Al Jr.” Their arms slung over each other’s shoulders, big grins on their faces, they stood in front of the Ross Building, one of their many projects.

“So, what do you think?” Rory asked.

“I need to know more. You plan to use Lacey to get to Remy? Heard you two were cozying up at Sophie and Hugh’s party.”

Rory clenched his jaw. “We weren’t ‘cozying up.’ We happened to find ourselves face-to-face and exchanged a few words, that’s all. As for using Lacey, ten years ago, you told me I couldn’t have anything more to do with her.”

“That was then. This is now. That property has sat there in a time warp, and I agree with you that enough is enough. You get it and you’ll have a big bonus.”

“All right—”

“Wait a minute. I’m not letting you completely off the hook.”

Rory narrowed his eyes. “What?”

A.J. pointed a forefinger. “I need you to take more responsibility around here. This business will be yours someday, and you need to know how to run it. Stuart knows more about our operation than you do.”

Rory shook his head. They’d had this discussion before, many times. “I’m giving as much here as I can. I have my own business to run—”

A.J.’s mouth turned down. “Oh, yes. Cars again. Collecting ’em isn’t enough. You have to tinker with them, too.”

Rory pushed to the edge of his chair. “If we’re done here—”

A.J. put out a staying hand. “Not quite. Don’t forget that I own that prime piece of property Dalton’s Auto Repair sits on.”

“So?”

“So Silver River could use another motel.”

“Go ahead and sell the property.” Rory made a dismissive wave. “I can always relocate.”

“You could if you had the money. But you don’t. It’s all tied up in cars.”

Rory pressed his lips together. “Okay, we are done here.” He stood and strode to the door.

“Keep in mind what I said.”

“I’m sure you’ll be reminding me again,” Rory said as he went out the door. And again, and again.

“Get back to me ASAP about those proposals,” A.J. called after him.

* * *

IN HIS OFFICE, Rory hung his jacket on the coatrack and paused to look out the adjacent window. Instead of facing the street, like his grandfather’s office, Rory’s office looked out on the back parking lot. He didn’t care. Not even the best view in the world could make him want to be there.

His gaze landed on his Dodge, and a smile touched his lips. That was one fine car. Then he saw A.J.’s shiny new BMW, and his mouth thinned. No, his grandfather would never understand or share his love of the classics.

He turned away and crossed the room to his desk. His office had no personal touches. No photos, no certificates on the wall, nothing to identify him as the occupant. He hadn’t put down roots here, and he never would.

A.J. knew how to play the guilt game, though, making him think he should be grateful for the opportunity to take his father’s place in the company. If his father were still alive, Rory had no doubt the situation would be different. His father had understood Rory’s need to work with his hands, to create something. He was proud of Rory’s talent and never passed up an opportunity to brag about him.

But Al Jr. wasn’t alive. He was dead. Shot in the back on that fateful day when he went to see Norella Morgan.

Guilt gave way to anger. Anger at Rick Morgan, the hothead who pulled the trigger. And yet at the time, he’d wanted to stand by Lacey. He’d loved her, and planned to marry her.

But that was all over now.

Now, what he wanted most of all was to get rid of that house. Somehow, he’d find a way. Pushing aside his troubled thoughts, he sank into his desk chair. For a moment he only stared at the file folder lying there. Then he took a deep breath, opened the file and began reading.

* * *

“I VISITED THE graves at Restlawn this morning,” Lacey told Gram while they enjoyed a cup of tea on her patio. The afternoon sun had cleared the mountains and shone brightly from a cloudless sky. A brisk breeze swayed the cottonwood trees lining the riverbank. Still, the air was hot, even in the patio’s shade.

Gram smiled. “That was nice of you, dear. I’ve missed going myself.”

“I took some of Sophie and Hugh’s pansies to put in the vases, but there were already pansies in them.”

“Really?”

Gram’s tone sounded more matter-of-fact than surprised.

“Yes. Do you know who could be responsible?”

Gram kept her gaze on her teacup. “Does it matter?”

“Yes, it does. You know something. Come on, tell me.” Lacey leaned forward.

“Well...maybe the person was Claire Roche. Hank and Lena Nellon’s daughter.”

“Of Nellon’s Hardware?”

Gram nodded.

“Why would she leave flowers?”

Gram bit her lower lip and looked off toward the mountains.

“Gram—”

Placing her teacup on the wrought-iron table, Gram folded her arms. “Oh, all right,” she said in a grudging tone. “She liked Rick. He was a frequent customer at the store when she worked there. She was separated from her husband, Clint, at the time.”

“But Dad wouldn’t—”

Gram set her jaw. “You don’t know what your father would do. He was a murderer, wasn’t he?”

Lacy flinched. Her first impulse was to fling back, “No, he wasn’t!” Instead, she took a deep breath and said calmly, “Why didn’t this come out at the trial?”

“Why should it have? Claire’s crush had nothing to do with Rick shooting Al Jr.”

“Is Claire still in town?”

“Oh, yes. She and Clint got back together.” Gram shook a finger at Lacey. “But don’t you go asking her about the flowers. What does it matter who put them on the graves? That doesn’t change the fact that your father was a murderer, and if it hadn’t been for his crime, your mother would be alive today.”

“No, Gram, he wasn’t a murderer.”

“Oh, you always say that. You have no proof.”

Yes, she needed proof. But how to obtain that was still a mystery.

And yet, as she washed and dried their teacups in the apartment’s kitchenette, she thought about what Gram had said about Claire having a crush on her father. Had he returned her affection? She’d always thought her father was devoted to her mother, but maybe that hadn’t been the case. Even so, did that make him a murderer?