A Breath Away (4 page)

G
RADY GRITTED HIS TEETH
.
He'd never cared for Jed Baker. And when Violet had first left town, years ago, he'd halfway blamed her for Darlene's death. Hell, he'd been a stupid adolescent at the time, battling his own guilt. Using her as the scapegoat had been easy. She was the reason his sister had rushed across the hollow alone. She hadn't been able to tell them where to find Darlene.

But she had been only eight years old.

He stifled the sympathy he felt for her now. If her father had killed Darlene, then he deserved to die, although suicide wasn't nearly severe enough punishment. And if Violet and her grandmother had known her father was guilty and hadn't told…

But what if the coroner did find evidence of foul play? What if his own dad had learned that Baker killed Darlene, and had gone back to finish their fight?

No, that train of thought was too dangerous.

She was so quiet he wondered if she'd fainted. And how old was the grandmother now—eighty? Ninety? “Violet?”

“Y-yes,” she said in a choked voice. “How…how did you track us down here?”

“Lloyd Driver, the lawyer who handled your father's papers.”

“How…how did my father die?”

Her whispered words echoed all the usual queries he'd expected. The hows and whys, the unanswered questions. “He left a suicide note.”

“What? He killed himself?”

“I'm just telling you what I found. I'm having the note analyzed to make certain it's his handwriting.”

“What does the note say? Did he give a reason?”

The part he dreaded the most. Violet might love her father, but she'd also cared for Grady's sister. He'd never forgotten the day he, his dad and the sheriff had driven to her house to inquire about Darlene. He'd heard Violet's childish cries through the closed door. And the next day she'd been gone. Later, rumors spread that she was a spooky kid, that she claimed to hear voices in her head, that she might be schizophrenic.

“Tell me,” she said, her voice growing stronger. “I
want
to know. I have to know.”

He hesitated. “This can wait until you come back for the funeral. I assume you'll want to bury him here. Or…maybe not.”

“I…I don't know.” Uncertainty laced her voice. “Just tell me what the note said.”

He cleared his throat. “Violet—”

“Please, Grady.”

Her soft plea twisted his insides. She sounded so young and vulnerable. He pictured those big sky-blue eyes, the innocent little girl who used to tag along behind him with his sister. The scrawny kid Darlene had felt sorry for, because the other kids called her white trash.

What did she look like now? Was she still homely? Did she still think about Darlene? Did she realize today was the anniversary of Darlene's death?

He didn't care. He'd wanted revenge so long he wouldn't let himself.

“From the looks of things, he got drunk and threw himself off the ledge at Briar Ridge, but I'm waiting on an official autopsy report for cause of death. The note said he couldn't live with the guilt any longer.” Grady inhaled a calming breath, aware that he was dropping another bombshell, then forced himself to spit it out. “Violet, your father confessed to killing Darlene.”

* * *

A
HEARTBEAT OF SILENCE
stretched between them. “What?” Violet clutched the table edge. “Did you tell my grandmother this?”

“Yes. I'm sorry, she insisted.”

Violet sank into the chair. Her father was not a killer. He wouldn't have hurt Darlene. Not her best friend. Not the girl who'd defended her.

Bits and pieces of that horrible last day rushed back. Her father's fury when he realized she'd told the town about her connection to Darlene. The nervous way he'd stalked around the house, muttering under his breath that people would think she was a nutcase. That the devil had gotten her.

A shudder gripped her. What did she really know about her father? That he'd dragged her to the car that dark cold night without even kissing her goodbye. That he'd sent her away without a backward glance because he thought she was possessed. That he hadn't contacted her since. That he'd made her feel like some kind of freak.

That he hadn't told the Monroes where to find Darlene in time.

She swallowed to make her voice work, but before she could speak, her grandmother clutched her chest.

“Violet…”

Panic slammed into her. “Grammy, what's wrong?”

Her grandmother doubled over in the kitchen chair, gasping for air.

“Is she all right?” Grady yelled.

She was turning white. No, blue. “I have to call an ambulance!” Violet disconnected the phone and punched in 9-1-1, her heart racing.

“Jed didn't…do it,” her grandmother rasped. “Not a…k-killer.”

Her frail body jerked, then she slumped against Violet.

* * *

W
HAT THE HELL WAS
happening? Grady hit Redial, his pulse clamoring, but the phone rang over and over. Was Mrs. Baker okay? Had the news killed her?

He scrubbed a sweaty hand over his face and cursed. The scents of death and formaldehyde from the coroner's office came back to him, his sister's childlike face resurfacing. He'd never forget standing beside his father to identify her body. The image of Darlene's glassy eyes. The cuts and scrapes. Dirt and mud and weeds had clung to her pale skin, the signs of rigor mortis already setting in. Signs he hadn't understood at the time. Signs he'd recognized in other bodies since.

He and his father had waited all these years to learn the truth about Darlene's killer. But now to discover he'd been living in their own town, that Violet's father had murdered her. It was almost unbelievable….

But why had Baker killed himself now, twenty years later? It wasn't as if the case had been recently reopened. Unless the anniversary had finally driven Baker mad, as it threatened to do to Grady every year…

Uncertainty nagged at him again. At age thirteen, he hadn't known anything about the police investigation.

But he had read the files since. Hell, he'd memorized them. Tonight he would review them again and see how the police had missed that Baker was the killer. Just as soon as he told his father. A stream of sweat dribbled down his chin.

He hoped his dad didn't already know….

* * *

V
IOLET CLUNG TO HER
grandmother's hand on the ambulance ride to the hospital, as the minutes stretched out. For several seconds back at the cottage, she'd thought her Grammy had died. Then she'd jerked slightly, breathing again as if she refused to give up the fight. As if she knew she couldn't leave this world, not yet. Her granddaughter needed her.

In fact, Violet should have been there to take the phone call. She could have broken the news more gently. She should have protected her, just as she should have protected Darlene.

Violet had tried so hard to atone for that day. She hadn't celebrated a birthday since. And now she might lose the only person who'd been a constant in her life.

The ambulance screeched up to the emergency room entrance. Paramedics jumped into action. A team of doctors and nurses met them at the door, shouting questions and her grandmother's vital signs as they wheeled her through the ER.

“Pulse sixty-five, weak and thready. Respiration thirty, shallow. BP eighty over fifty.”

“Dr. Rothchild, cardiology. How long was she out?”

“A couple of minutes.” The paramedic glanced at Violet for confirmation.

Violet nodded, running behind, her heart in her throat. The EMTs opened a set of double doors and wheeled her grandmother toward an exam room. One of the nurses threw out a hand and stopped Violet from entering, then pointed to a waiting area with a few stiff chairs and an ancient coffee machine in the corner. “You'll have to wait there, miss.”

Violet grabbed her arm. “Please let me know as soon as you find out something.”

The nurse offered a tight smile, her expression sympathetic. “I will. Why don't you get a cup of coffee or something. It might be a while.”

Violet's stomach was too knotted for her to drink or eat anything. Instead she paced the waiting room, her shoes clicking on the tiles, the conversation with Grady Monroe reverberating in her head.

Your father is dead. He left a suicide note. He confessed to murdering Darlene.

She didn't believe it. Why would he have killed Darlene?

Frustration gnawed at her—it was too late to ask him.

The finality of his death hit her, and a sob welled in her throat. Her father would never make that phone call she'd desperately wanted. Would never walk in the door and take her in his arms or beg her forgiveness for sending her away.

He'd never tell her he loved her.

At least when he was alive, she'd been able to hope that one day he'd reappear and admit the past twenty years had been a mistake. That he was sorry for shutting her out of his life.

Her knees buckled, and she collapsed on the tattered
vinyl sofa, the scents of antiseptic, and death washing over her. Her chest hurt from the pressure of holding back tears. Finally, she could fight them no longer. Sobs racked her as the hands of the wall clock ticked out the seconds, the minutes. Finally her sobs lessened, and anger replaced the pain. Violet stared at the gray walls, the stained coffee table overflowing with magazines. She was massaging her temples when she spotted the newspaper article on the missing Savannah woman.

When Darlene had been in danger, Violet had felt so connected to her. And today she'd thought a stranger's voice had whispered to her on her deathbed. If she had some crazy psychic ability, why hadn't she ever felt a connection to her own father? Why hadn't she known he was in danger or that he was contemplating suicide?

Had he sent her away because he was afraid she might figure out the truth—that he'd killed Darlene?

Violet dropped her head into her hands. The blood vessels in her temples seemed about to explode. She didn't really believe he'd killed her friend, did she?

“Miss Baker?”

She jerked her head up and swiped at her eyes. “Yes?”

“Your grandmother is resting now,” Dr. Rothchild said. “She had a mild stroke.”

“But she's alive?”

“Yes.”

Violet stood on wobbly legs. “Can I see her?”

“For just a moment. She's being moved to ICU.”

And her prognosis? She couldn't bring herself to ask.

The doctor jammed his hands in the pockets of his lab coat. “We can release her in a few days, but she'll
need lots of rest and physical therapy. You can follow me.”

Violet moved on autopilot as they walked to the ICU unit. Seconds later, she hesitated in the doorway, gathering the courage she feared might fail her.

Tubes and needles pierced various parts of her grandmother's thin body. The bleep of a heart monitor sounded over the murmur of nurses' voices and the clink of metal. Violet slowly inched her way to the hospital bed and lifted her grandmother's hand in her own. Her skin felt cold and clammy. She was so frail.

“Hang in there, Grammy,” Violet whispered. “You can't leave me, too.” Another tear slid down her cheek.

Her grandmother's eyes fluttered open. She tried to speak, but she'd lost her speech and mobility. Panicked looking, she waved a finger. Realizing she wanted something to write with, Violet dug a pen and paper from her purse.

Her grandmother struggled, but finally managed to write, “Take me home.”

“I will, Gram,” she said softly, “just as soon as the doctor releases you.”

“No.” She urged Violet closer, then scribbled, “Back to Crow's Landing, to see Neesie. Have to see my family one more time before I meet the master.”

Neesie was her grandmother's sister. They hadn't seen her since Grammy had stolen away with Violet that dark, cold night. “You're not dying, Grammy,” Violet said in a choked voice, “you're going to be okay.”

“Please,” she wrote, “prove your daddy didn't kill that little girl.”

Anguish tightened Violet's throat at the thought of returning to Crow's Landing. At the mere idea of see
ing her father's face again. Of burying him. She couldn't deny her grandmother's plea, though.

But how could she face the town now that everyone believed she was a murderer's daughter?

B
Y THE TIME
V
IOLET
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?

* * *

G
RADY 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.”

* * *

I
N 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 whis
tle 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?

* * *

O
VER 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.

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.

* * *

A
S
V
IOLET 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.