Читать книгу Redemption At Hawk's Landing - Rita Herron - Страница 12
ОглавлениеAn hour later Harrison met Honey on the porch. “I’d like to come back during the day and look around the property.”
Honey paled. “You think my father killed Chrissy and buried her here?”
Harrison shrugged. “I don’t know what to think, Honey. But considering you found one of her ribbons, it’s possible.”
Honey clenched her hands together. She couldn’t argue that point. “All right. Just let me know what time.”
“I will.” He studied her for another moment. He wanted to comfort her, but he had to do his job and it involved investigating her father. That was reality.
Just as reality meant that he had to talk to his family. Tonight.
For both their sakes, he hoped her father hadn’t buried Chrissy on the Grangers’ property.
He climbed into his SUV and cranked up the air as he drove toward the county lab. He dropped the ribbon off with instructions to send the results to his office ASAP.
Dark had set in as he drove through the entrance to Hawk’s Landing. His father had first been drawn to the land because of the birds of prey that flocked to the south end. He claimed it was a sign that this land was meant to belong to him and that he was meant to build a family ranch on the property. He had insisted they keep a section as a natural habitat and sanctuary for the birds.
When he was a kid and needed time alone, Harrison used to ride his horse out to the corner of the property and watch the hawks soar. After Chrissy’s disappearance, he’d found himself out there a lot.
His father had a huge wooden sign carved with the emblem of a hawk and had hung it over the gate to the ranch as a reminder of the birds.
Harrison checked his watch as he parked in the drive to his mother’s Georgian home. He was half an hour late. His mother wouldn’t be happy.
He wasn’t happy, either.
Memories of playing on the property drifted back—fishing in the creek out back with his brothers, building the tree house with his father, playing horseshoes and baseball in the backyard.
So long ago.
All those fun times had ended abruptly when Chrissy disappeared. The house hadn’t felt like a home but a tomb. The quiet had resounded with fear and grief. His mother had become a zombie. His father, angry all the time.
He’d shut down and his brothers had each retreated into their own rooms, silent and worried and alone.
Their vehicles were here now, though. When their father left, they’d formed an unspoken bond, knowing it was their job to take care of their mother. It hadn’t been easy, but they’d survived.
Surviving was a long way from being whole, though.
Flowers filled the beds in front of the house, the roses climbing the trellis on the side a reminder that his mother loved gardening. It had become her therapy and filled her time.
He walked up the stone path to the door, his nerves on edge as he buzzed the doorbell. He didn’t bother to wait for his mother to answer, though. He pushed open the door, slipped inside and removed his Stetson.
Voices sounded from the dining room, and he crossed the foyer, passed the living room and stepped into the dining room.
Lucas, Dexter and Brayden had gathered at the highboy, each with a drink in hand. Lucas had joined the FBI, Dexter had opened his own detective agency and Brayden was a lawyer.
He might need their help on the case. Maybe he could explain before he talked to their mother.
She bustled in a second later, her arms laden with food, and gave him a pointed look. “It’s about time you got here.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “it’s been a busy day.”
She set a plate of roast on the table, then mashed potatoes and gravy, and wiped her hands on her apron. “I guess it has. I heard you found Waylon Granger dead at the bluff.”
Surprise made him stiffen. He glanced at his brothers but they looked at him stoically.
“Where did you hear that?” he asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” his mother said. “I’m just glad that man is dead.”
* * *
THE QUESTIONS AND worry needling Honey made her feel restless and on edge. She stared at her father’s house with a knot in her stomach.
Even exhausted, there was no way she could sleep right now.
She dug into the cabinet, grabbed some garbage bags and dived into cleaning out the closets. She started in her room and made two piles—one for trash and the other for donations to the local church.
There were very few toys, except for a few stuffed animals and a couple of dolls, so she dusted them off and placed them in the donation bag. The clothes she’d worn as a teenager were plain but someone might be able to use the jeans and flannel shirts. Everything else was either ragged or so frayed that she put them in the trash.
She stripped the gingham bedspread and sheets, then the ratty curtains, and stuffed them into the donation bag. Washed, they could be reused. But if she did anything with this house, she would gut it and stage it with new things to make it look more appealing.
When her room was bare, she moved to her father’s room and did the same. His clothing was old and worn and reeked of smoke. Unable to salvage anything, she shoved everything into trash bags. Work boots, overalls, jeans, socks, underwear, shirts, belts—she didn’t bother to even look at them. No one would want the outdated, threadbare items.
The faded chenille bedspread was marked with cigarette burns and stains, as were his sheets. She rolled the items up and added them to the trash.
She collected all the soda cans, liquor bottles and other trash and carried it to the garbage can outside. The refrigerator reeked of soured milk and several containers of molded food. She cleaned everything out, including the condiments, which had probably been in the fridge for ages.
Thankfully she found a bottle of cleaner beneath the sink so she wiped out the refrigerator and counters, then scrubbed the Formica table.
The small bathroom came next. Shaving cream, used soap and other toiletries went into the trash, along with the nasty shower curtain. If she sold the place, the bathroom would be gutted, too.
But if she was going to stay here until her father’s murder was settled, she had to make the place livable. Even though the bathroom tiles and flooring were outdated, she scrubbed the toilet, sink, tub and walls until they smelled like cleaner.
Her shoulders and muscles ached as she piled the donation bags into her van. She pushed the garbage can to the curb for pickup, then piled the other trash bags beside it.
Tired but needing to get rid of the donation bags, she grabbed her purse and drove to town. She dropped the bags off first, then stopped by the discount store and stocked up on more cleaning supplies, a cheap shower curtain, sheets and a pillow for her bed. She added some scented candles to help alleviate the smoky smell, picked up a case of bottled water, coffee, cereal and milk for breakfast, then headed to the café for dinner.
An older couple had owned it when she lived here, but now it was named Cora’s Café so it had changed owners. Did her former friend Cora own it now?
She was surprised to see that the place had been renovated. It still sported a Western theme, but the oak tables looked new, as did the sky blue curtains. Bar stools jutted up to a counter for extra seating, and country music echoed through the room, a backdrop to the chatter and laughter. A chalkboard showcased a handwritten menu with the specials for the day.
Customers filled the booths and tables, evidenced by the number of cars outside. The scent of fried chicken and apple pie made her stomach growl.
A woman about her age with auburn hair in a pixie cut greeted her. “Honey, I heard you were back in town. I’m sorry about your father.”
She smiled, grateful to see her old friend “Hi, Cora. I was thinking about you today. So you own the café now?”
Cora handed her a menu. “I bought it a couple of years ago and did a makeover. Guess cooking for the family all those years paid off.”
“It looks good.”
“Thanks.” Cora blushed, and Honey smiled, grateful she seemed happy.
She noticed a booth to the far right and started toward it. Suddenly the room grew quiet, though, and an uneasy feeling prickled her spine.
She glanced around and noted several people looking at her.
She’d forgotten what it was like to live in a small town. Everyone knew everyone else. When a stranger visited, everyone knew that, too.
She offered them a tentative smile, but memories of being the hub of gossip made her want to run.
* * *
HARRISON GRITTED HIS teeth at the questioning looks from his brothers and his mother. Maybe he should have called and given them a heads-up.
“You didn’t think to tell us before everyone in town knew?” Dexter asked.
Harrison took a deep breath before he responded. “I came here as soon as I could. I don’t know how word leaked. It shouldn’t have.”
“Well, it did.” His mother pushed her bangs off her forehead with a smile. The fact that the hair found at the crime scene was short and brown didn’t escape him. His mother’s hair was short and brown.
Lucas lifted his drink glass in a gesture of offering. “Fix you one and then we’ll toast.”
“What are we toasting?” Harrison asked gruffly.
“That Waylon Granger is dead,” his mother said. “Tumbleweed is better off without him.”
Harrison’s patience was wearing thin. It had been a long damn day. “How can you say that, Mother? Granger was a crappy father, but we don’t have proof he did anything else.” Honey’s face flashed in his mind. She didn’t deserve any of this.
His mother patted his shoulder. “You always were the diplomat, Harrison. But we know, at least I know, that that damned man hurt our Chrissy.”
Harrison glanced at his brothers to see if they were in agreement. Lucas sipped his drink, his expression neutral. Dexter slipped an arm around their mother as if to offer support. Brayden poured himself another drink, then fixed Harrison one and offered it to him.
Harrison took it, struggling to think of a way to defuse the situation. And how to subtly ask his family when they’d last seen Granger.
He sipped the whiskey, grateful for the warmth sliding down his throat. “Do any of you have evidence to prove that Granger did something to our sister?”
“Not yet,” Lucas said.
Dexter cleared his throat. “I talked to Waylon’s neighbors but no one remembered seeing Chrissy that night. They couldn’t say he was at home all night, either.”
“When did you talk to them?” Harrison asked.
“As soon as I got my PI license. But three of the families who lived in that neighborhood had already moved.”
Brayden’s look turned dark. “Have you found anything to incriminate him?”
Harrison bit his tongue. He didn’t want to reveal what he’d found or learned; not yet. People would convict Granger—and he wanted the truth, not a vigilante situation.
But his family deserved answers.
“Let’s sit down and eat before dinner gets cold.” His mother ushered them to their usual chairs and for a few minutes, the discussion was put on hold as they served themselves from the platters of roast beef, potatoes and gravy and green beans.
Although Harrison wanted to gulp down his whiskey, he forced himself to eat instead. He still had work to do.
“How did Granger die?” Dexter asked as he forked up a bite of roast.
Harrison studied his family, searching for any sign that one of them already knew the truth. Emotions strained everyone’s faces, as if just mentioning Granger’s name stirred up the horrid memories of the night Chrissy disappeared.
His mother had been near hysterical when she and his father arrived home from their party and discovered Brayden and Chrissy weren’t home.
Harrison had felt sick to his stomach—it was his fault they’d sneaked out. His fault they’d been at the bluff because they’d followed him.
Brayden had raced in on his bike with his ankle swollen, ready to fuss at Chrissy for not sending help, then realized she hadn’t made it back to their house. Fear had ignited tempers, and a lot of screaming and yelling had ensued.
His parents had frantically called Chrissy’s best friends but both of them had been home in bed and hadn’t seen or talked to Chrissy.
His mother dropped her fork with a clatter. “What aren’t you telling us, Harrison?”
His brothers stopped chewing and stared at him as if they, too, realized there was more to the story. Damn.
Harrison took another swig of his whiskey. “Granger didn’t die of natural causes.”
“What?” His mother gasped.
His brothers gave him questioning looks. “What’s going on?” Dexter asked.
Harrison swallowed hard. “He was murdered.”
His mother clamped her teeth over her bottom lip, then lifted her glass of wine. “Well, he got what he deserved.”
Harrison agreed with her. But he still had to find out who killed the man. A silent prayer formed on his lips that his family had nothing to do with it.
* * *
HONEY SLIPPED INTO a booth, hoping to avoid attention. A teenager wearing tattered jeans and a denim shirt appeared, an order pad in her hands. Black square glasses framed a thin, pale face. A sadness radiated from the girl as if she had problems bigger than a teenager should.
Honey felt a kinship with her. At fifteen she’d worked at the Dairy Barn to make money so she could leave town. Did this girl have problems like she’d had? Did she have any family who cared about her?
Had Cora hired her because she wanted to help?
“What can I get you?”
Her name tag read Sonya. “A turkey sandwich and a bowl of that vegetable soup.”
“Sure. What do you want to drink?”
Wine would be nice but the diner didn’t serve it. “Just water. Oh, and a cup of coffee. Decaf, please.” She didn’t need caffeine to keep her awake tonight. It would be hard enough to sleep in her father’s house anyway.
The girl nodded then made her way to the counter and dropped off Honey’s order. She returned a minute later with the coffee and water.
Honey stirred sugar into her mug then sipped it, her gaze scanning the room. Two older couples sat having coffee and pie while a group of teens chowed on burgers and fries at a table near the door.
Three gray-haired women were huddled around a table beside her sipping tea.
“Did you hear that Waylon Granger died at the bluff?” the curly-haired woman with glasses said.
The other two women’s faces expressed surprise.
The thin lady in a blue knit pantsuit leaned over the table, eyes wide. “Really?”
The curly-haired woman clinked her spoon on her teacup. “He sure did. My grandson was up there and found him. Waylon fell over that ridge.”
The third lady clacked her teeth. “Wonder what he was doing up there?”
“Probably drunk,” the thin lady said.
“He was always drunk,” the curly-haired one whispered. “Such a sorry excuse for a man.”
The third lady pushed her pie plate away, the pie half-eaten. “You know the Hawks always thought he killed their little girl, Chrissy?”
Honey averted her face so she didn’t have to look at the women, but their voices reached her anyway.
“I heard that, too,” the curly-haired one said. “He did have a temper.”
“He sure did. I always felt sorry for that girl of his. No wonder she left town.”
“I thought she left because she was pregnant.”
“Could have been.”
Honey sank down in the booth, hoping no one recognized her.
“I figured the Hawks ran her off,” the woman continued. “I heard Ava saying that Granger’s girl was white trash.”
“If you ask me, Ava shouldn’t have been pointing a finger.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the night their little girl went missing, the Hawks were at a party for the mayor.” She paused dramatically. “Steven accused Ava of having an affair.”
The other women gasped. “What?”
“No.”
“They were talking about Chrissy, too. Made me think that she wasn’t Steven’s baby.”
“What did Ava say?”
“I don’t know. They left in a huff.”
Honey tensed. She despised gossip because she’d borne the brunt of it.
But what if the Hawks’ marriage hadn’t been perfect like everyone thought? What if Ava Hawk had had an affair?
What if Chrissy wasn’t Steven Hawk’s child?
