Back Where She Belongs

chapter SEVEN



TARA DROVE HOME, shaken by what she’d seen at the crash site—the smashed and torn trees, the scattered car parts, the dried pool of blood, her poor sister’s shoe. Her throat still burned from bile, despite the soothing mints Dylan had given her. Her head throbbed and her eyes stung.

Think about Dylan.

Dylan was on her side. Thank God. The idea sent relief pouring through her like massage oil over sore muscles. There would be dinner tomorrow night, too. The thought gave her a little thrill.

What are you doing? Teasing yourself? Teasing him?

There was no point resurrecting the past, and they both knew it. She associated Dylan with suffocating in Wharton. She’d done all she could to escape. She wasn’t about to be dragged back. Dylan was helping her with the investigation. As a friend. Period.

Something he said stuck with her: Asking a question doesn’t make me your enemy. Was he right? Did she expect him to oppose her?

Probably. He was part of the town, after all. He’d chosen to manage it, for God’s sake. He loved the place she hated. Wharton was her enemy. All her training in accepting many viewpoints and interpretations didn’t seem to be able to overcome her feelings about this place and her past here.

At home, she climbed into a scalding bath in the whirlpool tub and thought about the case. Being in Wharton had dampened her instincts, but Dylan was wrong about the zebras. People were lying, hiding things and evading her questions. What she needed was solid evidence. Prickling neck hairs wouldn’t convince Dylan or the authorities.

Her only hope of success would be to treat the investigation like a job. She would gather data, ask questions and listen carefully to the answers, then analyze the results for clusters, divergence, patterns and repetitions. She would be neutral and professional.

She would do the same with Dylan. She sighed, ducking under the water, letting the bubbles roar in her ears.

The sexual attraction was a problem. But she was mature enough to handle that. There was that pesky feeling of being safe and cared about and understood.

You’re lonely. That’s all.

Busy with her career, Tara had set aside her social life. She’d handle that when she got back to Phoenix. Lonely people took rash actions, like jumping into bed with a memory.

Now she knew. Now she would be prepared. Whew.

She made a mental list of what she had to do: locate the Tesla, check her father’s phone for messages or calls that night, figure out a way to talk to his poker buddies, go to Vito’s to see if anyone saw or spoke with Faye that night.

When she pushed to the surface, her phone was buzzing. She got out of the tub, grabbed a towel and picked up the phone from the hamper lid. “Hello?”

“Harold McAlister, Tara. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, Dr. McAlister. I appreciate that. You’ve taken care of all of us over the years.” Even her father, now that she thought about it.

He assured her that Faye was getting the best of care and that her neurologist was top-notch. Tara thanked him, then eased into her real questions. “Faye was taking medicine for anxiety and depression.” She named the pills. “Could they have had any effect on her driving?”

The doctor was silent for a few seconds. “I’m not the prescribing physician, Tara. I couldn’t—”

“Hypothetically. How about that?”

More silence. “If used as prescribed, they shouldn’t interfere with normal activities, but there could be other factors—”

“Like if she’d been drinking?” Tara threw in. “You’re not supposed to mix those meds with alcohol, I know. It’s important to be sure she hadn’t been drinking that night. Don’t you agree?”

The doctor didn’t speak, so she rushed on. “You could look at her hospital chart, right, and check that?”

When he finally spoke, the words seemed to be dragged from him. “Even if I could arrange to see her records, I couldn’t discuss it with you because of—”

“Patient privacy laws. I know. But there are rumors that she was drunk, Dr. McAlister. I can’t let that stand.”

He blew out a breath. “I can’t help you. I’m sorry. The law is quite strict. However, a family as prominent as yours surely has endured gossip over the years. You know your sister. She is a smart, responsible woman. Trust what you know about her and ignore the rest. That’s my advice.”

Her heart sank. He’d say the same thing about her father’s chart, she knew, so she thanked him and hung up, no better off than before.

Tara dressed and made a few client calls. She’d asked her old boss to be her backup with current clients while she was in Wharton, so that would relieve some of the pressure, though she would have to scramble to make up for lost income when she returned. That was a worry for down the line.

Next, she needed to call the insurance agent. Her mother was napping so she couldn’t ask her for the name and number. Tara decided to look through her father’s files, since he handled all the bills anyway. Plus, his phone cord would likely be in his study.

Stepping into her father’s sanctuary, Tara caught her breath at the familiar scent—her father’s pungent aftershave and the hot-metal smell of the factory floor. It was like he’d just left the room.

She braced against the stomach punch of sadness, closing her eyes until it passed. When she opened them, she saw first the floor-to-ceiling shelves full of her father’s books on history, philosophy, science and technology.

She pictured the shelves in the sleek new condo she’d purchased five months ago. Her books were the one personal element. She had tons of nonfiction like her father, though she preferred biography, sociology and psychology to his hard science choices. Also, she liked fiction—especially stories of transformation and redemption.

Behind her father’s massive antique desk was an impressive shelf of ships in bottles. Faye had helped him build them, Tara remembered. As a little girl, Tara had memories of playing on the floor with LEGO while her father and Faye worked with tweezers and string and glue, talking softly, heads close.

Feeling left out, Tara had once tried to help, but she’d messed up the sails using too much glue and her father had snapped at her, sending her to her room.

Faye came later to console her. She promised their father would forgive Tara, though it would take time. When you love someone you forgive them, she’d said, as if it were as automatic as breathing. It was to Faye. Whatever capacity Tara did have for love had come from her sister.

Her father’s study was a man’s room, for sure, painted hunter green, dark wood everywhere, a wet bar, guns in a display case.

She went to sit in the leather chair, which squeaked in complaint. Like the desk, and the Tiffany lamp she clicked on, it had been passed down from his grandfather, who’d had it shipped from Ohio when he’d founded Wharton Electronics in 1950.

The new Mac computer looked incongruous, surrounded by so many antiques. Her grandfather’s fountain pen lay beside the sleek mouse.

On the wall to her left was a sepia-toned photo of the Wharton foundry in Ohio, the source of the family’s wealth. Beside it was a large oil portrait of three generations of Wharton men. Where were the women? In the background, of course, managing the households, hosting gatherings, leading charity drives, all in service to the powerful men they’d married.

Her mother had a college degree, though she’d never used it in the workplace. She’d met Abbott at the college bar where she worked to support herself at the state college. She’d come from a working-class family of seven children, which seemed to shame her, since she rarely spoke of them and never visited.

Tara couldn’t imagine living in a man’s shadow like her mother did, glorying in the role. Had her parents ever been in love? Maybe in the early years. Tara hoped so. A loveless marriage seemed so bleak. Would Tara ever marry? It seemed impossible at times. Marriage required faith and trust. The whole idea of love made her uneasy. She didn’t understand it. She might not be capable of it. That thought made her ache, like ice on a sensitive tooth.

There were two books on the desk—probably the last two books he’d read. The Selfish Gene, by Richard Dawkins, and a more scientific-looking book about genetics. Shifting them to one side, she noticed a photo under the glass that protected the desk’s surface. It was her favorite picture of her father. He and Sean Ryland grinned at each other over the Wharton assembly line, where they held up the jet engine part they’d built together. They looked so young, so excited, like the future before them would be forever bright.

It hadn’t turned out that way for Dylan’s father when his business failed. Had her father exploited him, paid too little for his company? She didn’t want to believe that. He’d bailed out a friend, risked money that could have gone down the drain. Besides, the feud was over, thanks to Dylan. No matter what Dylan might have done in the larger world, that was a remarkable feat. He’d healed a decade-long wound between two old friends. And he’d managed it before her father was killed.

Tara reached for the file drawer, where she expected to find insurance papers, then saw deep gouges around the lock. The drawer had been pried open. She pulled it open quickly. It was empty inside save for some loose paper clips, a restaurant receipt, a blank message slip and a business card for Randall Scott, ESQ. Where were the files? Had her mother taken them out? Why? Very odd.

Stymied, she checked the drawers for a Rolodex or datebook that might have the insurance agency information. She found nothing but unopened office supplies. She turned on the computer, but it was password protected.

Beneath the desk, she saw a phone charger plugged into a power strip. At least there was that. She attached the cord to her father’s flip phone and activated it.

On the screen was a text message from Faye the day of the accident.

Nothing changes. Let it go.

Tara’s heart raced. Here was a clue. What had her father been doing that Faye wanted him to stop? Or had she been discouraged that he’d failed to make a change? She had no idea. Her father had not replied to the text. She checked his voice mail. There were no messages, new or old.

She really needed to check Faye’s phone. Where was it? In her office? She’d look when she went to Wharton on Wednesday. It might have fallen out in the car during the crash. When they located the car, she’d check.

First, she find the number of the insurance adjuster. She’d have to ask her mother when she woke up. Rachel had been sleeping a lot—drugging herself to escape her grief and worry about Faye. Tara would try to talk to her mother more, share the sadness somehow. That had to help, didn’t it?

“You into his liquor again?” Judith leaned against the doorjamb, her arms folded, a half smile on her face. “Stay away from the guns this time.”

Tara winced. Judith was referring to a party Tara had held when her parents were out of town. She’d been fourteen. Her friends had wasted two bottles of pricey brandy, ignorantly mixing it with Hawaiian Punch. The worst thing was that a guy had opened the gun cabinet and taken out her great-grandfather’s custom-made shotgun—her father’s prized possession, which he never used. The parts are irreplaceable, he’d told her once, when she asked why he never took it skeet shooting.

The guy hadn’t put it back and her father, upon returning, had found the gun lying around. He’d gone white with rage. She’d been scared he would hit her. She’d always been a little afraid of the man.

“No guns, I swear,” she said now. “And I haven’t touched the Pinch.” Judith leaned against the doorjamb. She rarely stood still long enough for a conversation. “If you want a drink, I’ll fix it for you.”

“No, thanks. What are you doing in here anyway?”

“Looking for the insurance agent’s number, but the files are missing. Looks like the drawer’s been pried open. You know how that happened?”

“Don’t look at me. I only dust and vacuum. This was your father’s kingdom. He might have mislaid the key and cracked it open himself. He was not patient with household objects. He snapped off the nozzle on the first espresso machine your mother bought.”

“It’s odd the files are gone.”

“He probably took them to the office. He never really worked here. Whenever I looked in, he was reading.”

Tara supposed that was possible, considering the unopened office supplies.

“Your mother asked Joseph to make all those calls—to the lawyer about the will and the insurance people. She was too shook up herself.”

Interesting. “Was Joseph in here? Would he have taken the files?”

“Don’t know. He came and got some clothes. It’s possible.”

She would ask him for the agent’s number and mention the files—see how he reacted. Maybe this was why he’d acted so fidgety. He’d nosed through the files. Why would he take them? To hide something he thought was there?

Judith started to leave.

“How do you think Mom is holding up?” Tara asked.

“She’s doing her best.”

“She seems so brittle.”

“It takes a lot out of her to put on a face for you.”

“Why would she do that?”

“She thinks she has to be strong for you.”

“She doesn’t. I’ll talk to her.”

“Don’t you dare say a word. Leave her her pride. She’d have my head if she knew I said anything.”

“I want to help. What can I do?”

“Then lend a hand on this big charity dinner she’s trying to set up. It’s a lot of work and she’s trying to do it all. Doesn’t want her friends to think she’s suffering.”

“I’ll do that. Great. Thanks for the tip.”

“I think she dreads Thursday at the lawyer’s.”

“Going over the will? Is she worried about money?”

“It’s not that. Your father’s a good provider. It’ll be real then. That he’s gone forever. That’s what I think anyway.”

“You’re a good friend to her,” Tara said, risking Judith’s displeasure over her mushy remark.

“When you run a person’s house, you have to be civil.” She sniffed.

“You mean a lot to my mother, Judith,” she said. “And I’m grateful to you for that. And for all you do for us.”

Judith had bought fruit and yogurt for Tara’s breakfast, even though she’d claimed that no decent person would call that a meal. She’d made Tara’s bed when she forgot. She’d even bought the jasmine incense Tara used to burn as a teenager to hide the smell of cigarettes.

“That’s just sickening,” Judith said. “You act like I’ve dying or about to quit. I’m not, so stop.”

“Sorry. Can’t help myself.”

“You never could. And it got you in a lot of hot water.”

She sighed. “I remember.”

Judith considered her for a moment. “For all the misery you caused, I have to say I wish my girl had some of your gumption.”

“Ruthie?” Tara hadn’t known Judith’s daughter, since she was closer to Faye’s age than Tara’s.

“Yeah. She’s a great cook. She’s over at Ruby’s. Some friends asked her to go in on a food truck in Tucson. She’s got no money to invest. Her share would be as cook. She turned them down. Afraid to leave home.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I pushed her, but she won’t listen. I’m just a mom. What do I know?”

“It’s hard to see someone waste their talent. I know that.” In Wharton, it happened all the time. People shrank to fit the smallness of the place.

“When you go to Ruby’s, order her goat and nopalitos empanadas. You’ll see God.”

“Definitely. Thanks. I won’t be here for supper, by the way.” She was headed to Vito’s to ask about her sister.

“You sure? It’s fried chicken livers and twice-baked potatoes.”

Her stomach churned at the prospect. “Thanks anyway.”

“More for me,” she said with a sniff, then seemed to think better of her tone. “I’ll save you a plate.”

An hour later, after she’d talked to the manager, bartender and two waitresses at Vito’s, Tara looked over the menu, still nowhere. No one had noticed Faye, so she must have met her father in the parking lot or slipped upstairs unnoticed.

When the birthday song rang out from a nearby table, she looked over. There were balloons floating above a girl’s chair, a pile of gift bags beside her.

Tara smiled, remembering a birthday party she’d had here when she was young. You got a free entrée and dessert on your birthday.

When the song ended, a man stood. She recognized him as Jim Crowley, who owned the grocery store and was one of her father’s poker buddies.

He headed for the restrooms. Here was her chance to talk to him. She made her way to the hallway and pretended to talk on her cell phone until he stepped out. “Mr. Crowley?” she said breathlessly.

“Tara.” He went instantly on alert. “How are you?”

“I’m fine.” She shifted so she subtly blocked his path. “I was just wondering, since you were at the poker game with my father, was he acting, I don’t know, unusual in any way?”

“It was a regular poker night. That’s all I can tell you.” He looked past her into the dining room, clearly wanting to leave.

“Was he drinking? Did he seem upset?”

“Your father was himself. The game was the game. I’m sorry for your loss.” His mouth was a tight line, closed against her. Why was he so guarded? “I’m here for my niece’s birthday, so if you’ll excuse me.”

Then it dawned on her. “Bill Fallon called you, didn’t he?”

He paused, considered that, then leveled his gaze at her. “Bill Fallon does a good job for the citizens of this town. He doesn’t owe you one more word. Your father would not want you upsetting your mother with wild accusations.” Anger flared in his eyes. “But then I guess other people’s feelings don’t mean much to you, do they?” He meant the grocery store protest she’d organized over unfair wages and hours. She’d been inspired by a unit on labor unions in her history class and organized a march with picket signs.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have a family I care about.”

That stung. “I care about my family. I care that lies are being told about them. My father was your friend.”

“Yes, he was. And he would not want this. For once in your life, respect his wishes.” He walked past her.

She stood there, her cheeks hot, stinging as if he’d slapped her. This town. These people. So smug, so judgmental, so closed off, so infuriating.

She walked back to her table, aware that eyes followed her. When she glanced at Crowley’s table, Mrs. Crowley was glaring at her.

Perfect. Yeah, she’d interrupted a birthday celebration, which was impolite, perhaps, but there was no reason to be hateful.

For once in your life, respect his wishes. Did that mean her father had complained about her to his friends? The idea made her cheeks flame.

So blowing up at Bill Fallon had gotten her shut out of the entire poker group. He’d likely called all the guys to warn them she was on the warpath. Hell, the whole town would likely close rank on her. What if word got back to her mother?

It made her feel ill. Small towns. Small minds.

Except she should have known better. She should have controlled herself in the first place.

Talk to me before you come out swinging. She’d promised Dylan she would. Instead she’d confronted Jim Crowley at a birthday party.

She was dying to leave. Her appetite had fled, but she refused to give the gawkers the satisfaction of seeing her run. When the waiter arrived, she calmly ordered a glass of merlot and pasta marinara, her head high, her face serene.

Jim Crowley was wrong about one thing. Her father would want the truth. And she was going to get it. As long as she had Dylan on her side. She had to make sure he stayed there.