3 Dime If I Know (13 page)

I shook my head. The things I knew about Rafe Golden dwindled daily.

Rafe. How would he feel if I mentioned Brenna’s death to him? Would he think I’d overstepped?

I walked some more, circling my desk, striding through the outer office, skirting the front door, and starting another loop. What to do?

Did Detective Britt Radcliff know about Rafe’s sister?

Brenna’s shooting would be on file. Britt was thorough. He would have found it. Which meant he had access to details I didn’t have.

Realizing my mouth was dry, I stopped at the fridge and grabbed a water bottle. The cold liquid hit the bottom of my clenched stomach and bounced.

Decisions.

Did I let Britt trample through Rafe’s past and reach the wrong conclusions?

One thing was certain. Worrying never solved anything.

I whirled, picked up my phone, and called Rafe at work. “We need to talk.”

Needing privacy, I stayed in my office while I waited for Rafe. If Charlie or Mama or the girls came home, they’d respect that I was over here working, even if it was a Sunday. I couldn’t sit still, so I grabbed a bottle of window cleaner and removed a coat of grime from my office windows.

I squirted the blue liquid, wiped it off, and squirted some more. A pleasing routine, most of the time. Today it didn’t slow the racing of my heart or the sick feeling in my gut.

Did I believe in Rafe?

I did.

But was that an automatic answer built of misguided loyalty?

Loyalty was important to me, but so was trust. Did Rafe trust me enough to tell me the whole story about Brenna? It bothered me that I couldn’t anticipate his reaction.

Outside the open windows, a familiar engine pulled up and stopped.

A car door shut.

I tossed my wet paper towels in the trash.
Time’s up. He’s here.
I opened the door for my boyfriend, and he strode in, his brows beetled.

“What’s wrong?” Rafe asked, taking my hand.

He leaned in to kiss me, and I gave him a quick buss on the lips and sidled over to pick up the obituary I printed out. “I found something.”

“And?”

I needed to explain my train of thought first. I let out a deep breath and set the page down. “I wonder if it has any bearing on Starr’s murder.”

His face clouded.

Before he spoke, I quickly laid the groundwork for talking about his sister. “Britt is using every tool at his disposal, every police report he can access to make his case against you.”

“So?”

“I found something online, which means he found it, too.”

“You’re talking in riddles. I didn’t kill Starr. There are no police reports in our brief past. It wasn’t like that at all.”

“I wasn’t talking about Starr.” I retreated, needing space between us. God, this was hard. I cleared my throat. “I was talking about an incident fifteen years ago.”

His tan face paled then burned bright. “Cleo—”

“I need to know,” I interrupted. “I promise to keep the information private, but I’m concerned about the case Britt is building against you. And I, oh dear.” I stopped to fan my face. “I noticed a gun was involved in this prior incident. I’m asking if there’s any reason to believe the police might draw the conclusion that you are connected with the prior event.”

“Damn it, Cleo. That was a long time ago.”

My heart went out to him. I softened my voice. “If there’s something in your past, in this incident about your sister or another incident that made it into police records, Britt will find it. I’m asking if any official record links you to another shooting.”

He turned from me, staring out the window I’d cleaned. He didn’t speak for the longest time. The silence ate at me, nibbling at my good intentions.

This was a huge turning point in our relationship, a point that needed an investment of trust from him to yield a fruitful dividend for our future.

“I loved my sister.”

I took a step closer, hoping his response meant we were no longer at odds. “Of course you did.”

“Brenna was full of life. She was into everything and everybody, like your Charla. I miss her. I was seventeen when she died.”

I stayed my hand before it touched him. He needed to get this out. “What happened?”

“Her death was an accident.”

“Was she playing with a gun?”

“Nothing like that.”

“What was it?”

“There was a rifle range on our property. We had guns, all of us, though they were locked in the cabinet downstairs.”

“I don’t understand.”

He turned to face me, his brown eyes dull with pain. “Goldens are outdoor people. We hunt. We fish. We ski. We boat. We golf. You name it, we do it. I know how to tango on a sailboat, to flush teal from a wetland, to carve a trail down a mountain of snow moguls. So did my sister. We had every opportunity.”

“What happened to Brenna?”

“Her death was an accident.”

“I got that part.”

“We had a routine. On Saturday mornings, we kids went down to the range to practice target shooting. Hill and I arrived first that morning. Reggie came a few minutes later and said she couldn’t find Brenna. Reggie thought she was with us. After waiting a few more minutes, we decided to shoot without her. How I wish we’d done something else.”

The raw edge in his voice ate at my soul. “Rafe?”

He stared into the distance as if he was seeing the event play out on a big screen. “I shot first. Then Hill took a turn. Reggie went last.”

“Go on.”

“I can’t.” He hung his head. “It was terrible.”

“Please.”

He glared at me. “Brenna was behind the target, and we didn’t know until the maid’s husband found her later that day. We killed her. We killed our sister.”

He finished on a broken whisper that tore me apart. A low crooning sounded in my throat. I ached for all of them. The sister who was slain. The children that survived. Poor Rafe. How awful. How horribly, terribly awful.

I finally found my voice. “I’m sorry.”

“That was the worst day of my life. I can’t forget it, and neither can my family. My father threw out every gun in the house. My mother can’t look us in the eye to this day. Reggie blamed herself for not finding Brenna first. Hill and I should have gone to look for her; God, it was bad. It still is.”

What a horrible burden to bear. I reached for him, and he came into my arms, trembling. Tears welled in my eyes. Poor fellow. If I could have turned back the clock for him, I would have.

“I’m so sorry,” I mumbled into his golf shirt, knowing I was repeating myself, knowing words weren’t enough, knowing I’d reopened this terrible wound and made him relive this awful day.

He held on tighter. “I never wanted to hurt anyone, and especially not Brenna. She was the best and the brightest of us all. She made the best grades in school, had the most friends, and won her sporting events. She was our future.”

I felt for what he’d lost, but a sense of maternal justice wormed its way out instead. “Brenna may have been a superstar, but each of you kids was super in your own right. Your parents should have told you that over and over again.”

“Not all families are as wonderful as yours.”

Wonderful? We were controlled chaos at best, but love threaded through everything my family said and did. I didn’t see a close connection between Rafe and his siblings, nor did he claim to have one.

I retreated half a step, as if we were dance partners, and held his gaze. “I feel like a heel for dredging up this painful memory. I wish neither incident had ever happened, but we have to think like cops. Your sister and Starr were gunshot victims. Both were female. Both had personal ties to you.”

Rafe stabbed his fingers through his hair. “I don’t own a gun. Believe me, I don’t want to ever hold a gun again. Brenna’s death was a terrible accident, and I didn’t kill Starr. Don’t you believe me?”

“I believe Britt will use this incident in your past to show you’re proficient with guns. He might even say you have a history of violence. We have to be prepared for that.”

“There’s no connection between the two incidents. Why don’t you believe me?”

“I believe you. I do. But I know what we’re up against. Britt keeps moving toward a goal, and right now you’re in his sights. With his law enforcement connections, he has the inside track on information. The only way to beat him is to join forces and hopefully get ahead of him.” I shot him a sympathetic glance. “I know this isn’t easy, but we have to explore every possibility. Will the forensic team find your fingerprints or DNA at Starr’s place?”

He didn’t answer, and I thought for sure he’d bolt. First, he stared at the floor then he walked over to gaze out the window I’d cleaned. What was going through his head? He exhaled deeply and spoke in a monotone.

“I went to see Starr that night, but I wasn’t sleeping with her. I was helping her get her life back on track, but each month she had a new disaster, a new excuse why she couldn’t get a job.

Once I gave her money, she kept telling me how much she needed my help, how she couldn’t make it without me. I wanted her to be self-sufficient. She had such promise six years ago, but she quit trying to stand on her own two feet and felt like the world owed her.”

“I’ve known people like that,” I said, stepping toward him. “They aren’t easy to help.”

“Starr manipulated me.” He faced me, his expression grim. “She knew which buttons to push to worm money out of me. I let her. Once I invested in her future, I couldn’t pull the plug. I wanted her to turn her life around. Giving up on her would mean I’d failed. I’m embarassed to be such a patsy.”

“You were her welfare program?”

He managed a wry smile. “Something like that.”

“Any more surprises I should know about?”

“Those are my only two brushes with the law.”

Sneaky. He avoided my question. “We’ll get through this. Family and friends pull together in times of crisis.”

“You don’t know my family.”

“I know me.”

Monday morning arrived with sagging skies and rumbling thunder in the mountains. Even though I popped a decongestant and an analgesic, sinus pressure built in my head.

Crappy weather and a crappy mood.

Monday wasn’t my favorite day of the week by any stretch. It was the day the pile of bills loomed large, and prospects of income looked slim this time of year. As an accountant, the bulk of my business happened during tax season, from January through April.

Over the past two years, I’d picked up auditing work here and there, which had greatly helped my bottom line, but I needed a more stable income base. I glanced down at the request for an audit bid we’d received from the school board.

Mama leaned over my shoulder. “Look at that date. We can’t do it.”

“The March completion date isn’t optimal, but landing this client is a big deal.”

“Joe always declined all non-tax business during our busy season.”

“Daddy did fine by the company, but times have changed. Fewer people seek out an accountant. They do their taxes themselves these days. Our net income during tax season has declined each year. We need other income.”

“We can’t possibly manage a group this big.”

“First off, there’s no guarantee we’ll win the bid. Second, it will be a great opportunity. I’ve seen how the system works. Once we get our foot in the door with the county, they’ll send other work our way. We might draw more individual tax clients from there as well. We already know tax season is busy. If we get this work, we’ll schedule around it.”

“How? We’d need to hire another accountant.”

“Can’t do that. We have to tighten our belts.”

“Don’t you give me that speech. I can recite it chapter and verse after hearing it from your father all those years. Thank God, Bud isn’t so miserly with his money.”

I exhaled a sigh of relief at the chance to change the subject. “Speaking of Bud, how are the wedding plans coming?”

“Great. I’ll be a married woman in two weeks. All you have to do is show up.”

“I wish you’d let me help more. I could make food or help with the flowers.”

“Nope. Got it covered. Francine and Muriel are having the time of their lives with this. They hope to launch an event service if all goes well.”

“Good for them.” At the sound of a car engine, Mama and I both craned our necks over to the window. We both recognized the car. “Damn.”

Mama hurried to throw the door open with me trailing behind. “Look who’s here! My favorite detective. The one who threw me in the slammer not long back.”

Burly as a bear, Britt Radcliff marched in. He blushed and fumbled with the folder in his hand. “Sorry about that, Dee. I have to follow the evidence.” He glanced over at me. “You got a minute to speak privately?”

I drew in a cautious breath. The pressure in my sinuses increased. “Sure. Come on back to my office.”

I angled over to the seating area around a small table and gestured toward a chair. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

He nodded. “I could use a cup.”

“I’ll get it,” Mama volunteered.

Suspicion crept in my head. What was she doing?

Moments later, she returned with a tray of three steaming cups of coffee. She dealt them out and plopped down in a chair.

I gave her a pointed stare, the one that said I meant business. “Mama?”

“Whatever he has to say to you, he can say to me. We have no secrets in this family.”

I rubbed my pounding head. “You are the queen of secrets, so don’t give me that. Britt asked to speak with me privately. This doesn’t concern you.”

“I’m not leaving. No telling what he’s got in that folder of his, Mr. I’m-following-the-evidence. Who’s to say he doesn’t have a fast-food receipt that indicates we’re both serial killers? Nope. I’m staying right here because Sampsons stick together.”

I glanced at Britt. “Sorry. You know my mom. If you’d like to reschedule, I could meet you elsewhere in private.”

Britt’s steely gray gaze passed from me to Mama and back. Silence crackled in my ears like static on a radio. What was in that folder? I wanted to rip it out of his hands. But I also wanted him to pick it up and walk away. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good news.