Sighs Matter (8 page)

She narrowed one eye on him. She was flattered, but suspicious. “You recognize me?”

“Like they say in the movies, I am your number one fan.” His eyes twinkled and he grinned. “I mean that in the nicest way possible, Miss Lancaster. Now, you gonna yammer all night or get in?”

In the time they’d been talking, clouds had moved in, darkening the sky considerably. She eyed the crest of the hill once more—what she could see of it in the waning light. Softly, she drawled, “I suppose I shall be forced to depend on the kindness of a stranger.”

Opening the door, she slid in, but sat very close to it, with her fingers on the handle.

Pulling back into the road, the driver said, “Where to?”

Sadie clutched her purse to her bosom and looked over at him. “About one mile past the crest of this hill, there is a mailbox on the left. I shall show you when we arrive.”

He nodded. “Name’s Corrigan. Flynn Corrigan.”

Flynn? As in Errol? Yes, the name certainly suited him.

“Mr. Corrigan,” she said with a polite nod.

“Call me Flynn. Your car break down or something?” he asked casually. “This doesn’t seem like the best place for a hike or evening constitutional.”

She thought of Mortie, the things he’d said, how angry and used he’d made her feel. He was a disgusting excuse for a human being, and besides, he was up to no good, she just knew it. She’d developed a feel for those kinds of things. After all, she’d appeared in seven crime dramas,
two
of them with Jimmy Cagney, by God.

“I was with someone,” she said. “But I decided to walk home.”

He arched a bushy brow. “Have a fight with your boyfriend, did you, Miss Lancaster?”

“Well, aren’t you the Nosy Parker.” She clutched her purse hard against her breasts.

He smiled over at her again, but remained silent.

They reached the crest of the hill, and he shifted gears, keeping the wagon at an even speed. It was close to dark now and Sadie was thankful he’d come along when he had. In her black pants and navy sweater, she would indeed have been invisible to cars on the narrow road.

Feeling a bit guilty at having snapped at him, she said, “You live on the Olympic Peninsula . . . Flynn?”

“No, I’m a stranger here, myself.”

She couldn’t help but grin at the old movie line.

“Just visiting for a while,” he added. “Fishing, mostly. I’m retiring in a couple of months, and I’m on the lookout for a decent place.”

“If a happy retirement is your goal, then Port Henry is your place.”

“Must say, I like the scenery.”

And couldn’t
that
be taken two ways, she mused. She liked this Flynn Corrigan. Oh, yes. She liked him a lot. Today might not turn out too badly after all.

His hands were on the steering wheel, but she couldn’t sneak a peek at his ring finger without being obvious, so she contented herself with gazing out the window, counting the number of stars that had winked on in the last few minutes.

“Lovely evening,” he said, taking another turn. “We getting close to your place?”

“Not far now,” she assured him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She was suddenly not all that anxious to be rid of Flynn Corrigan. It had been a long time since she’d been in the company of such an attractive fellow, and she rather enjoyed basking in the glow.

“This it?” he said, gesturing to the old-fashioned lamp post illuminating a large mailbox at the entrance to a long gravel drive.

“It is. You can let me out here, if you like.”

He flicked on the turn signal, then headed left into the driveway. “Wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of me to leave you up by that mailbox to make your way down to the house in the dark. I was raised better than that.”

As they rounded the barn, she saw Claire’s car next to hers in the double carport, but no sign of the pickup. In the yard sat a truck she didn’t recognize.

And Mortie’s effing Deville.

She must have made some kind of noise, because Flynn let the wagon roll to a stop, then turned to her. “Somebody you don’t want to see?”

She gave a little snort and a curt nod.

He gazed out at the shiny Cadillac, then over at her. “Maybe you’d like to thank me for the lift by inviting me in for coffee. Of course, a cold beer would be better.”

She locked gazes with him. Oh, my. He had such nice eyes. Like a winter sky reflected in chips of ice. And about as sharp, too. Very Paul Newman.

Shaking her head, she said, “I appreciate your giving me a ride, and I would very much like to invite you in. But the evening may turn a bit . . . uncomfortable.”

“The boyfriend.”

“Not as of about an hour ago.”

With a tilt of his chin, he said, “Miss Sadie Lancaster, first lady of the silver screen, you owe me a beer, and I aim to collect.”

As Taylor and Claire ran for his truck, a station wagon she’d never seen before began making its way down the drive.

Over his shoulder, Taylor drawled, “Like I said, Grand Central. Stay put until we see who
this
is.”

As soon as the car stopped, the passenger door flew open, and Aunt Sadie stepped out. Her silky, shoulder-length hair—once blond but now an eye-catching silvery gray—slid over one eye, á la sultry screen siren Veronica Lake. Sadie raised her chin and glared across the yard at the gaping Mort.

“Well, aren’t you a parasite for sore eyes,” she snapped. “What are you doing here, you repugnant lump of snake entrails?”

Mortie rushed toward her, but before he could get far, the driver’s door opened and a man emerged. He was as tall as Taylor, rangy, and had a no-nonsense look about him that said he was accustomed to taking charge.

The mortician skidded to a halt, cutting worried glances between Sadie and the stranger.

“My God, are you all right, Aunt Sadie?” Claire said, moving to give the older woman a hug. Since she was nearly a head taller than Sadie, hugging her aunt always felt to Claire as though she were embracing a delicate bird. “Mort said there’d been some kind of trouble?”

“No trouble at all, my dear,” Sadie said wistfully, patting Claire’s cheek. “Besides, Mortie was just leaving.” Addressing the mortician, she said, “Good-bye, Mr. Chips!” She stepped away from Claire, raised her arm, and, with a theatrical wave of her hand, dismissed him.

Mort rubbed his chin with his short fingers, a look of anger in his eyes. “Well, by jingo, Sadie, I think we should talk about this.”

Sadie looked down her nose at him. “Sorry, Mortie. You
are
the weakest link.” She removed her engagement ring and handed it to him. “Good-bye.”

“But Sadie,” he whined. “Let me explain. We’ve been through so much together—”

“And most of it was your fault.”

“Sadie,” Mort pressed, his eyes gone big and pleading. “Remember what you said when I asked you to marry me? Remember how it was between us? We can have that again. Tell me I ain’t blown my chances with you, dear lady.”

Sadie looked wistful for a moment, then said softly, “Things change, Mortie. It’s best this way. We’ll always have our memories. We’ll always have . . . Spokane.”

He drew his mouth into a thin line across his face. “Well, if you won’t marry me, then at least go through with the endorsement, for pity’s sake. You need to reconsider—”

The stranger stepped forward and Mort clamped his jaw shut. “I believe I heard the lady ask you to leave,” he said. Though the words were softly spoken, there was an underlying steel to them that Mort would be a fool to ignore. He shot a glance at Taylor, then over to Claire, finally to Sadie. Obviously outnumbered and outgunned, Mort finally took the hint.

“Okay,” he barked, sweet pleading replaced in the blink of an eye by red-faced fury. “I’ll go. But you’re makin’ a mistake, Sadie Lancaster.” He shook his finger at her as he backed toward his car, nearly tripping over his own feet. “A
big
mistake.”

Muttering something under his breath, he opened the trunk and set a blue suitcase on the gravel. Then flinging himself into the Deville, he tore off up the driveway leaving a cloud of dust behind him, and a very bad feeling in the pit of Claire’s stomach.

When Mort had gone, the man who’d driven her aunt home said, “Guess I’ll take a rain check on that beer, ma’am.”

Before Sadie could make introductions or explanations, he slid behind the wheel of his car and was gone.

Staring after him, Claire sighed. “Who was that masked man?”

Taylor stepped forward, a quirky grin on his face. “I kind of expected him to say hi-ho Silver, away.”

Sadie scoffed. “You’re both too young to remember the Lone Ranger!”

“Not when you’ve got cable, ma’am.”

Sadie chuckled, then took a good, long look at Taylor. Smiling, she nudged Claire’s arm.

“Claire,” she all but purred. “Where are your manners? Who is this handsome young man?”

Before she could answer, Taylor extended his hand and said, “Taylor McKennitt, ma’am.”

“McKennitt? Like Claire’s friend Betsy?”

“Betsy’s married to my brother.”

Sadie’s eye widened. “Are you a policeman, too?”

“Yes, Miss Lancaster, but I’m on . . . vacation, so I’d appreciate if you’d keep it to yourself.”

“Aunt Sadie,” Claire said, taking the woman’s arm and escorting her to the porch steps. “I want to hear what happened between you and Mort. He hasn’t mistreated you, has he? Because if he has—”

Patting Claire’s hand, Sadie said, “No, no. Nothing like that. It’s just, well, something strange is going on with Mort, and I don’t like it.” Shaking her head, she said, “For one thing, he broke faith with me, out-and-out lied about his feelings for me just so I’d do an endorsement for his business!”

“Oh, Aunt Sadie. I’m so sorry. Are you okay with the breakup?”

Gazing up the darkened driveway, Sadie said grandly, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

Fraud
Sigmund’s felonious brother.

After a long night hanging around the crime lab in Seattle, catching a few Zs at home, then tackling the drive back up to Port Henry, Taylor walked through the door of the PHPD around noon on Sunday, in search of his brother.

Sam Winslow, mid-thirties, squared-jawed poster boy for stalwart law enforcement officers everywhere, leaned over the counter, his tanned face contorted in concentration as he worked the
New York Times
crossword.

As the door closed, Winslow raised his head and smiled. “Would you look at this. Two McKennitts in one day.” Anticipating Taylor’s question, he stabbed the air with his pen. “The other one’s in the green room. Hey, what’s a six-letter word for barb-tailed dragon? Begins with W.”

Taylor pushed through the swinging gate that separated the public area of the station from the police-business-only section. “Wyvern,” he said, spelling it out as he passed.

Sam penciled in the letters, then laughed. “It works. Hey, how’d you know that?”

Taylor shrugged. “Busted one once for starting a fire without a permit.”

As Sam’s deep laughter trickled off, Taylor walked past the three presently unoccupied desks, all of which sported computers, toppling stacks of file folders, and an array of coffee mugs. Wanted posters, information bulletins, and flyers for local events were tacked to the message board on the far wall. On a beige Formica side table sat a blackened glass coffeepot, its acrid contents having boiled away hours, maybe even centuries ago.

He passed through the doorway and into the green room—so named for the pastel mint paint somebody had mistakenly thought would look attractive. Soldier sat at a square oak table, his back to the wall, a bottle of water in one hand, a cell phone in the other.

As Taylor dropped into one of the empty chairs, Soldier covered the phone with his palm. “Go take a leak or something while I finish with this.”

Since Taylor didn’t feel nature’s call, he decided to stay put and simply stare out one of the two bay windows that allowed massive amounts of natural light into the room.

The Port Henry PD was a brick building that had begun life as a cannery. Built on Water Street about midway into town, it boasted views of both the docks and the busy downtown. Out across the bay, past Heyworth Island, mile-high clouds feathered over the blue horizon, while sailboats skimmed across the windswept surface of the water. On the nearly empty sidewalks, tourists casually made their way down the street looking for antiques and souvenirs, while hungry gulls hovered over the nearby shoreline like stringless puppets.

“But, honey,” Soldier cajoled as he shot Taylor a get-lost look. Taylor smirked and made himself more comfy.

“You look beautiful,” his brother insisted to the phone. “Well you don’t remind
me
of a Macy’s Thanksgiving balloon. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. No, your feet are just as cute as ever, and in no way resemble overgrown marshmallows. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. No, you don’t waddle like a duck and even if you did . . . Uh-huh. Uh-huh . . .”

Taylor bit down on his tongue and diverted his gaze to his fingernails. He felt his brother’s eyes on him, a silent warning he’d better keep his trap shut or suffer the consequences.

“Tell you what,” Soldier coaxed gently. “I’ll be home in about an hour. We can go out for a late lunch. I hear there’s a special at Ilsa’s. All you can eat sauerkraut and ice cream. God, no, not together . . . oh. Okay, yeah, together, I suppose, if that’s what you, uh, really want.”

She said something, and Soldier’s features softened. His blue eyes—so like Taylor’s own—gleamed with emotion as he spoke to his wife.

“Hey, it’s okay. No, you’re not being overly emotional. Just a few more weeks to go. You’re doing great.”

That Soldier loved his wife, Taylor thought as he watched his brother, was like saying the Earth went around the sun, or that kittens were soft, or that rain on the roof was romantic. Common knowledge, no-brainers, givens. In fact, they were so in love, it came close to making Taylor sick. And might have if he wasn’t so happy for them. It almost hurt to watch them, sometimes, especially since his own marriage had been such a complete failure.

But the brother he’d admired and even idolized since they were kids had become a caring and devoted husband, and was about to become a terrific dad, just like their own had been. How cool was that. Life was coming full circle, like the seasons, and in the quiet moments of the night when he woke up in his bed alone, or when he stood in front of a fresh canvas trying to capture some universal truth in broad strokes or delicate patterns, he sometimes wished that circle included him. Maybe things would’ve been different. Maybe Paula would have settled down. Maybe if he’d given her a baby . . .

Soldier nodded and nodded and tried to end the call, but Betsy must’ve really been worked up.

“Okay, honey,” he soothed. “I’ll see you in an hour. Yeah. You know I do. Yes, I
do
.” He flicked a glance at Taylor, then turned his head away. Hunched over the phone, he murmured, “I love you, too. Take care of our baby.”

He folded the phone closed, set it on his desk, and stared daggers at Taylor.

“That was the most painful thing I have ever witnessed,” Taylor drawled. “I’d put you out of your misery, but I left my gun in the car.”

“Shut up,” Soldier grumbled. “She’s . . . hormonal, that’s all.” Rolling his eyes, he said, “You think PMS is bad? Pregnancy is like they have it for nine solid months.”

“My heart’s breakin’ for you, pal.” Taylor sighed. “Pretty wife, kid on the way. Life’s tough.”

Soldier beamed and leaned forward over the table, his eyes eager and shining. “We don’t know for sure, but Betsy thinks it’s a girl.” He rubbed his knuckles against his jaw. “Shit. I don’t know anything about little girls. What if I drop her or something? They’re so tiny when they’re born, you know?”

Taylor laughed. “Just nerves, Dad. You’re not going to drop her.”

Soldier nodded thoughtfully, then burst out, “And what about college? Do you think she’ll want to go to the UW, or maybe—”

“Jackson!” Taylor choked. “She won’t be born for almost a month. Cut the kid some slack. Let her slobber and burp for a while before you send her off to college.”

Soldier shook his head and relaxed back into his chair. “Sorry. I can handle a perp with a knife without breaking a sweat, but the thought of holding a baby, my baby . . .”

“Yeah,” Taylor said without looking at his brother. “I hear ya.”

He stood and walked toward the window that faced the sea. His hands on his hips, he said, “I met Mortimer yesterday, up close and personal.”

Soldier became suddenly alert. “How? Why?”

“I was there when they got back from their weekend trip. They’d had a fight and Sadie broke off their engagement. She thinks he’s doing something, but she doesn’t know what.” Running his fingers through his hair, he said, “For their own safety, I want to bring Claire and her aunt in on this sooner rather than later.”

Soldier opened the bottom drawer of the file cabinet behind him and pulled out a cellophane bag. From the mini fridge, he grabbed a plastic container of salsa. Tearing open the bag, he reached in, grabbed a large chip, scooped up about a quart of salsa, and stuffed the whole thing in his mouth. Cheeks bulging, he turned the open bag toward Taylor. “Chrp?”

Food. Great. He was starving. Reaching into the bag, Taylor grabbed a handful of triangular tortilla pieces.

Soldier swallowed, then took a swig of water. “We’ve only been on this case a couple of days. We still don’t know if Mortimer is the brains, or if he’s just a willing dupe.” Another chip, another glop.

“Having met him,” Taylor said, scooping salsa onto a chip the size of Arizona and bringing the dripping mess to his lips, “I vote for dupe.” Shoving the heavily laden chip into his mouth, he mumbled, “Wrr drn’t rven knrr ff arr whrstle-blwrr rs trlling thr trrth.”

Soldier stared at him. “We don’t even know if our whistle-blower is telling us the truth?”

Taylor nodded and crunched. “Tht’s whrt er sdd.”

“Well, if she was, then there’s a lot at stake. I agree. Talk to them. Maybe the aunt has seen something.” Then, “How do you think Claire’s going to feel when she finds out we’ve had the farm under surveillance?”

“Ptthd,” Taylor said past the chip in his mouth. He swallowed, then sucked a blob of salsa from his thumb. “But her being pissed at me has sort of become a tradition between us.”

Cellophane rustled noisily as Soldier crammed the bag into the drawer. “You talked to Bobby Aranca yet?”

Taylor nodded and turned back to the window. Out across the water, white sails bobbed and tipped in the wind like paper boats on a pond.

“Sadie’s truck offered up no viable evidence. Some dents. Scrapes of black paint. The lab’s analyzing it now. The officer on the scene made a few notes, but it was too dark for him to get much. By the time I got there yesterday, the turnout had been compromised.”

“You find anything at the farm?” Soldier scribbled away on a notepad.

“I checked the perimeter of the property. No tire tread, no shoe prints. He either beamed directly into the kitchen from the mother ship, or he obliterated his tracks. The only prints in the kitchen were Claire’s and Sadie’s.”

“You said you found a light-colored hair.”

Taylor nodded. “Not Claire’s. Not Sadie’s.”

Soldier rolled the water bottle between his palms. The thin plastic made a popping sound. “Since Mort was with Sadie, he couldn’t have run Claire off the road, but he could have hired it done.”

“Except for an apparent lack of motive, that’s got my vote. There’s a connection,” he said. “There’s gotta be.”

“What about Mort’s partner?”

“Could’ve been.” Taylor sighed. “If we only knew who the partner is and where they’re actually performing the harvesting. Maybe Sadie’s seen something. Any description, no matter how vague, will give us a hell of a lot more than we have now.”

Soldier nodded. “Go for it.” A moment later, he crossed his arms over his chest and sent a meaningful look toward Taylor. “Now that that’s taken care of, you want to tell me what’s bugging you?”

“I’ve told you all I know in terms of the ongoing investigation.”

Soldier flattened his mouth. “C’mon. Out with it.”

“This may come as a major shock, big brother,” Taylor said, “but I stopped telling you everything when I was ten.”

“And here I thought we had no secrets between us.”

“Yeah, well,” he muttered. “Okay. Actually, I do have a little . . . thing I wanted to discuss with you.”

“I don’t want to discuss your little thing.”

“You’re a frigging comedian,” Taylor said dryly. “You want to cut me some slack here, or what?” Then, thinking better of it, he said, “Ah, hell. It’s Claire. She’s having dinner tonight with some hotshot doctor.”

“Do you care?”

“No,” he scoffed. “Hell no. She’s way too stuffy for me. Pushy, arrogant . . .
always
has to have the last word . . .
always
has to be right.”

Soldier’s eyes narrowed as though he was trying to remember something. “Sounds vaguely familiar. I think I know somebody like that.”

Taylor’s mouth flattened as he glared at his brother.

Solider picked up his pen and clicked it. “So, you two really are finished, huh.”

Taylor remembered her hasty exit eight months ago, the unreturned phone calls. It hadn’t taken him long to figure he was getting the brush-off.

“Yeah, we’re finished,” he said to Soldier, and left it at that. “I want to run a background check on this Adam Thursby.” He scribbled the name on his brother’s notepad. “I think that’s how you spell it.”

Soldier looked at the paper. “I think ‘dickhead’ has two Ds.”

“Yuk, yuk. Just run it, will you?”

“Is this just because Claire’s having dinner with him?”

“Absolutely not,” Taylor scoffed. “That would be childish.” As he headed for the door, he said, “Anyway, she says he’s not her boyfriend. They’re just acquaintances. It’s just dinner. Everybody’s gotta eat.”

Soldier scribbled some more notes, then let his pen plop onto the desk. A slow grin spread over his face. “Well, she’s right about one thing.”

“What’s that?”

His smile widened. “Everybody’s gotta eat.”