Читать книгу A Breath Away - Rita Herron - Страница 12

BY THE TIME VIOLET stumbled into the cabin on Tybee Island, she was drained and dizzy with fatigue. Still shell-shocked, she flipped on the overhead light and stared at the vinyl chair where her grandmother had nearly died. The horrible trembling began all over again, stirring pain deep in her soul. She had to gain control.

Or she would never be able to face the people back in Crow’s Landing.

The echo of Grady Monroe’s voice over the phone line seared through her like a hot poker. Had she heard condemnation in his tone? Did he think she’d known what her father had done? Rather, what her father had confessed to doing in that note?

No. Her grandmother didn’t believe her father was a killer, and she had never lied to Violet or led her wrong. Besides, even though her father had shut her out of his life, she sensed he wasn’t evil.

Would she be able to prove her father’s innocence if she returned to her hometown?

“Please, Violet, you have to go…. The hospital will transport me to the facility near there. Go on to Crow’s Landing.”

Knowing she needed sleep before she began the long drive to Tennessee, she heated a cup of Earl Grey tea and sipped it. She couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten, but the thought of food still repulsed her. After some sleep, she’d get her affairs in order and inform her employees at Strictly Southern that she’d be away for a few days.

Shadows claimed the earth-toned walls of the cabin as she crossed the den to her bedroom. The scent of her grandmother’s gardenia lotion sweetened the air, reminding Violet of her absence. The handmade quilt Grammy had stitched, using different fabric scraps from Violet’s childhood dresses, lay draped across her antique bed. Hugging the quilt to her as if she was hugging her grandmother, Violet crawled beneath the covers, praying the tea and quilt would finally warm her.

But as she closed her eyes, the image of Darlene’s frightened eyes flashed before her, the terrifying plea for help screeching through her head. Another twenty-year-old picture resurfaced with vivid clarity—of her father dragging her to their old station wagon, shoving her inside, then wheeling away from her as she pleaded with him to find Darlene.

Violet curled into a ball, hugging her arms around her middle. She had let Darlene down years ago; could she let her grandmother down now? But what if she discovered the confession was real?

Her father’s words echoed in her head: Nobody needs to know what goes on behind closed doors. Had he warned her to keep silent so Darlene wouldn’t be found in time to point the finger at him?

Had he shut Violet out of his life because of his guilt? Because he’d been afraid she might figure out he was a killer?

GRADY STOPPED BY his office to grab the files on his sister’s case, determined to review every inch of them. He had to figure out how the sheriff had missed the fact that Baker had killed Darlene.

First, though, he called Information and requested a listing of all the hospitals in the Savannah area. He tried the two major ones first. A nurse at St. Joseph’s informed him that Violet’s grandmother had been admitted and was listed in stable condition. Thank God.

Now he had to face his father.

Or was he jumping the gun? Giving his father the illusion the police had found Darlene’s murderer when, in fact, they might not have?

Confusion riddled Grady. He’d just been given the answer to the question that had tormented him his entire life—so why didn’t he take it at face value? Why was he having trouble believing the suicide note? Because it was too easy, too pat? Because he’d heard his father’s argument with Baker?

Or because finding Darlene’s killer has consumed you. You’ve lived for revenge. Without that, what will you do with the rest of your life?

You’ll still have the guilt….

Clenching his fingers around the steering wheel, he drove to the Monroe estate, his mind on overdrive. He’d never known his own mother, only his father’s second wife, Teresa. He’d wanted to please her and his father so badly.

But he’d failed.

The unkempt yard spoke volumes about his father’s downward spiral into depression. Maybe he should have confronted his dad years ago, forced him to discuss the details of Darlene’s death. But he’d been a son before he became a cop. The irresponsible teenager who hadn’t come home to watch Darlene that day. The boy who’d disappointed his father in the worst way and started the domino effect that had ruined their lives. Discussing details about Darlene’s disappearance had been impossible.

Actually, conversation in general had been practically nonexistent between the two men for ages. Any mention of Darlene had driven a deeper wedge between them.

Grady shut off the engine and waded through the overgrown grass to the front porch, wincing as the boards creaked and groaned. After his token knock, he opened the screen door. The faint scent of cigar smoke permeated the humid air, making him crave a cigarette. Inside, the dismal atmosphere magnified the emptiness of the house. Once this place had breathed with life, with Darlene’s incessant chatter, the scent of cinnamon bread Teresa had baked. The joy of a family.

“Dad?” He walked across the hardwood floor, listening for sounds of his father. A curtain fluttered in the evening breeze, the sound of crickets chirping outside reminding him of his lost childhood. Of nights when he and Darlene had raced barefoot across the backyard, catching fireflies in mayonnaise jars. Had streaked in front of the sprinkler on hot July afternoons.

He checked the den, then his father’s office, surprised he wasn’t slumped in front of the TV watching All in the Family reruns on cable. Something about Archie Bunker had appealed to Walt’s twisted sense of humor, when he’d had one.

Hot air surrounded Grady as he walked through the house. A scraping sound coming from somewhere near the kitchen broke the silence. He headed through the double wooden doors, then crossed the room and halted in the doorway to the garage. His father was sitting there—so still that for a brief moment Grady thought he might be dead. The low sound of a knife scraping against wood invaded the stale night air. Grady exhaled. His father was whittling again.

He spent hours carving, scraping away the edges of a raw piece of wood until he achieved the perfect smoothness he wanted. Back and forth, scraping and sawing, watching the splinters and dust fall. Once Grady had even watched him carve a chicken bone into an odd shape, then tell Darlene a story about his creation.

Grady had hated the sound of that carving.

He cleared his throat to alert his father of his presence, then descended the two stairs to the garage. His father’s face was craggy, his eyes fixed in concentration, his bourbon beside him.

Oddly, his dad was carving a baby lamb. Did it have some significance?

“Dad?”

As if his father had just realized he had company, his knife froze in midair. The gaze he swung to Grady was not inviting.

“We have to talk,” Grady said, ignoring the jab of pain his father’s reaction caused.

“Not tonight, Grady. Go away.”

Anger flared in his chest. “It’s important. It’s about Darlene’s murder.”

A vein throbbed high in his father’s forehead. “You realize what day it is?”

He nodded. “Of course. The anniversary of her death.”

Pain robbed Walt of all color.

“But it may also be the day we’ve discovered her killer.”

The knife fell to the cement floor with a clatter.

Grady scrubbed a sweaty hand over his chin. “Tonight I found Jed Baker’s body on the cliff out at Briar Ridge.” He studied his father for a reaction, but detected only the slightest twitch of his eyebrow. “Dad, he left a suicide note confessing to Darlene’s murder.”

IN THE EARLY DAWN, Violet awoke with a sense of dread, but also with purpose. She ran her fingers over the Best Friends necklace. She had to face the old demons to move on.

Quickly showering and dressing, she grabbed some coffee and phoned the hospital to check on her grandmother.

“She’s resting comfortably,” the nurse said. “We’ll be moving her to the assisted care facility in Tennessee later in the day.”

“Please tell her that I’ll visit as soon as possible.” The nurse assured her she would, so Violet hung up, then left a message with her store manager, telling her she’d be gone for a few days. She left her cell phone number in case they needed to reach her.

After tossing a few things in a suitcase, she headed to the car. It would take several hours to get to Crow’s Landing. She didn’t want to arrive at midnight. There were too many old memories she’d left behind, too many ghosts.

As she climbed in her car, the anguished cries of the young woman she believed to be Amber Collins seemed to float through the haze. The sound of the bone whistle followed, reminding her of the gruesome murder in her vision.

And now her father was dead, too.

Why was all this happening now? And why did she feel connected to each of these horrid things, but helpless to stop the chain of events from unfolding?

OVER COFFEE the next morning, Grady was still stewing over his father’s reaction to Baker’s confession. Or his lack of a reaction.

He’d simply turned back to his whittling with a vengeance, as if he wasn’t surprised at all to learn Baker had killed Darlene. Or maybe he was, and he couldn’t deal with it.

Or maybe he’d known Baker had killed Darlene, and he’d finally exacted his own vengeance.

Grady didn’t want to contemplate that possibility, but the argument he’d overheard between Baker and his dad gnawed at him. Determined to get to the truth, he sent the suicide note to the lab to see if it was legitimate. He’d have to get something Baker had written to compare the handwriting.

Rubbing at his aching neck, he poured himself a third cup of coffee and sat down to study the files. First, he pulled up the report of the crime scene and read the details of Darlene’s murder. The photograph of her lying in the bottom of that well still tore him to shreds. Her face was deathly pale. Her wild, curly hair frizzed around her face in a tangled mop. Her clothes were covered in dried dirt and sticks and…bugs. Her shorts were tattered, the white cotton shirt ripped, her sneakers caked in mud. Forcing the anguish at bay with deep-breathing exercises, he zeroed in on the ligature marks on her neck. Would they match the size of Baker’s hands and fingers? He’d make sure the coroner checked it out. Criminology techniques had changed a lot in twenty years.

Next, he read through the reports chronicling the search party’s efforts to find Darlene. Locals had combed the woods behind his family’s house, the hollow between the Monroes’ and the shack Violet Baker had lived in, all the way to Briar Ridge, where Baker had just been found dead on the overhang. When his father was questioned, a meeting with a town council member had served as his alibi. Baker had an alibi, as well—he’d been supposedly working as a mechanic at a garage that had since closed. The owner, Whitey Simms, had confirmed his presence. But Whitey had passed away ten years ago, meaning Grady couldn’t question him now. Not much help there.

He scratched his chin in thought. Had Whitey lied for Baker? If so, why?

A statement from a local citizen, Eula Petro, drew his eye. “Little Violet Baker claimed she heard Darlene’s voice calling to her, crying for help. Told her daddy where to look for Darlene.”

Grady chewed the inside of his cheek. If Violet claimed to have heard voices telling her where his sister was, had they followed up on what she’d told them? Had she been wrong? Or had the statement been pure gossip?

Ruby Floyd, the woman’s older sister, had stated, “The child’s not quite right. Might be touched in the head.”

Had Violet suffered from a mental condition? Had she ever been treated?

He’d have to do more research to find out.

He read further.

“Search parties explored the northern area of Crow’s Landing, covering a fifty-mile radius surrounding the Monroe house, 231 Sycamore Drive. No results. Call from Jed Baker, 2:45 p.m., June 15th. Suggested search parties check Crow’s Landing Elementary. Baker claimed his daughter, Violet, and Darlene Monroe were playmates. Search party B immediately dispatched to the area, but turned up nothing. At approximately 10:45 p.m., June 15th, received another call from Baker. Suggested search parties check Shanty Annie’s, 913 Flatbelly Hollow. Specifically mentioned the well house. Search party dispatched.

“One hour later, located body of Darlene Monroe in bottom of well. Coroner and sheriff lowered into well to establish death, photograph the body, examine evidence. Body lifted from well at approximately midnight. Transported to coroner’s office for autopsy.

“Official cause of death: manual strangulation.

“Noon, June 16th: official press conference revealing the girl’s murder.”

His gut clenched. Had Violet told them to look in the well? Or had her father known where to find Darlene’s body because he’d murdered her and put her there? He might have suggested alternative places to search in an effort to divert the authorities from finding Darlene before he had a chance to strangle her….

Grady grabbed his keys and headed to Baker’s house. Killers often kept a token of their victims. Maybe he’d find something inside Baker’s place that would give him some answers. At least he could get a sample of Jed’s handwriting for the lab.

AS VIOLET DROVE INTO Crow’s Landing, a small shudder ran through her at the sight of the big, black metal crow atop the town sign. There was some legend about the bird, but she couldn’t recall the story.

Pines, dogwoods and maples lined the country roads, the trees thinning out as she entered the small town. Dust-coated signs that needed painting bore the same names as before, with the exception that the dime store had become the Dollar General, and the Cut & Curl was now Sally’s Salon. Did Sally Orion, the chubby blonde she’d known in third grade, own the shop? It didn’t matter. Violet hadn’t come back to renew old acquaintances, good or bad.

She’d come home to find out the truth.

Uneasiness curled inside her as she passed the sheriff’s office and jail. She had always avoided walking past the intimidating adobe-colored, concrete structure. Now it looked old and outdated, but still foreboding. Had Grady called from there when he’d delivered the news about her father? Had he already told the town? Would she see the news plastered all over the Crow’s Landing newspaper tomorrow?

The small square still looked the same, although oddly smaller, and some of the storefronts desperately needed a face-lift. Woody Butt’s gun shop was on the corner by the hardware store. A small bookstore had opened up, along with a place called the Fabric Hut, but the Redbud Café still stood in all its glory. Laney Longhorse’s stories had always fascinated Violet. Was Laney still running the diner?

In the center of the square, a small playground and park benches had been added, although a three-foot-tall statue of a black crow in the center spoiled the peaceful feeling. At least to Violet. What was it about the crows?

Across from the park, the old-fashioned soda shop on the corner remained a perfect diversion for a hot summer afternoon. She could almost smell the cinnamon sticks old Mr. Toots kept inside to hand out to children, and see the thick, old-fashioned root beer floats he decorated with whipping cream and cherries. RC Colas and Moon Pies, along with Nehi’s, homemade fudge and boiled peanuts, had been other local favorites. Unfortunately, Violet had never been able to afford the floats or fudge, not until Darlene had used her allowance money to buy both of them treats.

Suddenly Violet spotted the old street sign leading to her father’s house. Pine Needle Drive.

She’d thought she might have forgotten the way.

But the turn seemed natural, and she found herself leaving the safety of the town square and heading down the country road. She passed the run-down trailer park in the less cared for section of Crow’s Landing where rotting clapboard houses dotted the land, and overgrown weeds, battered bicycles and cars littered the front yards.

The road was bumpy and still unpaved. Although it was too late for kids to be outside playing, she could still picture the poor children who lived here—barefoot, with hand-me-down clothes two sizes too big hanging off their underfed bodies. She had been one of them. But not anymore, she reminded herself. She was strong, independent. She owned her own shop. She had a life ahead of her.

Her headlights flashed across the fronts of houses, and she grimaced, realizing things hadn’t changed at all on Pine Needle Drive. One out of three homes had a washing machine or threadbare sofa on the sagging front porch. The old water wells remained, a testament to the fact that some of the houses lacked indoor plumbing.

And then there was her father’s place, in much worse shape than she remembered. Overgrown bushes isolated it from the others. Two windowpanes in the front had been broken, the porch steps were missing boards, and some stray animal—most likely a mangy dog—had pawed the front door, scraping the dingy white paint. A cheap orange welcome mat graced the entrance, a mocking touch, while a caned-back chair that needed fixing was turned upside down in the corner. Three old cars that looked desperate for repairs sat to the side of the porch, weeds brushing at a rusty carburetor. Her father’s unfinished projects, obviously. As if death had claimed them just as it had him.

The woods beyond echoed with loneliness. But she could almost hear her and Darlene’s childhood laughter as they’d raced among the trees, building a playhouse in the pine straw.

Violet cut the engine and balled her hands into fists in her lap. Another, much newer car was parked sideways in the front drive—the sheriff’s car.

What was Grady Monroe doing at her father’s house?