Lost Legacy (A Zoe Chambers Mystery Book 2) (25 page)

Zoe stood in the doorway to the barn, listening to the steady drizzle plinking into puddles where the gutters leaked. Inside, Pete and Nate, who’d had no luck finding the missing gun in her half of the farmhouse, searched the feed room. Next they planned to check each stall. After that, the hayloft, although no doubt Nate would be doing that on his own while Pete barked orders from the ground.

And then? Zoe eyed the still overflowing manure spreader. Certainly Tom wouldn’t have shoved it in there. Would he?

A sudden rush of anger toward the man who had raised her drove her out into the rain. She needed to walk—to cool down and clear her head—to have a good cry where Pete and Nate couldn’t see her.

How could Tom have done all this? The same man who’d carried her on his shoulders, who’d defended her against Kimberly’s self-serving demands, who’d called Zoe Sweet Pea.

She doubled over and choked. Had Tom killed her father, too? In all the hubbub over the letter in the toolbox and Mrs. Kroll’s revelations, Zoe had completely forgotten to ask Pete about his meeting with the DA. She sniffed hard, straightened, and lifted her face to the sky. Let the rain wash away the salty streaks. Or give her something besides her childish weeping to blame them on.

As she turned to head back to the barn, her phone vibrated in her pocket. She dug it out and checked the screen. Franklin Marshall. Crap. Carl Loomis’ autopsy.

“Where the heck have you been?” the coroner demanded.

“I’m so sorry, Franklin. But I found a piece of evidence and—”

“Never mind that. I’ve been trying to reach Pete Adams, but he must have his cell phone turned off. He wouldn’t happen to be there, would he?”

She jogged the last steps to the shelter of the barn. “Ah, yeah. He’s right here.”

“Put him on the line.”

Zoe crossed the indoor arena to the feed room where Pete and Nate were sifting through the contents of two barrels of grain. “Wouldn’t he have hidden the gun where it wouldn’t eventually be found?” she asked as she shoved the phone at Pete.

“Probably. Who is it?”

“Franklin. I missed the autopsy.”

“So he wants me to arrest you?” Pete took the phone.

“He didn’t say.”

Pete turned his back to her to take the call. Zoe studied the spilled grain, raising an annoyed eyebrow at Nate.

He shrugged. “You know what they say. Leave no oat unturned.”

Zoe bit back a smile in spite of herself. The crack of Pete’s crutch against a metal shelf jolted her back to reality.

He made an ungraceful pivot and handed her phone back to her. “Marshall says you missed an interesting autopsy.”

“Oh?”

“Carl Loomis didn’t die because of the fire or smoke inhalation. COD was blood loss.”

“From getting sucked into the power take-off?” Even as she asked the question, she suspected the answer would be
no
.

She was right. Pete shook his head. “Gunshot wound.”

Twenty-Five

After calling in a couple of Baronick’s county guys to assist Nate in the search for the gun, Pete commandeered Zoe to drive him back to the station. He’d never be able to keep her away anyhow. Not after she heard about Tom and Kimberly Jackson being transported there for questioning.

The storms had cleared out for the moment, and patches of blue peered through tatters in the blanket of dark clouds. Almost a dozen vehicles jammed the Vance Township Police Department’s parking lot. When Zoe wheeled her hulk of a truck off Dillard’s Main Street, she jammed on the brakes to keep from rear ending a news van. Pete reached for the dashboard as the seatbelt grabbed his shoulder.

“Sorry,” she said.

Pete scanned the lot. Baronick’s unmarked sedan filled Pete’s usual space. He also recognized Sylvia’s Escort. A pair of nondescript cars he hadn’t seen before were nosed against the front walk.

Three vans bearing local television station logos took up more than their fair share of the remaining parking spots. A handful of well-dressed reporters loitered by the station’s front door accompanied by a trio of jeans-clad videographers, their TV cameras hanging at their sides.

“Do you want me to drive you to the back entrance?” Zoe asked.

“No.” Pete pointed to the other side of the building—the half that housed all the other township offices. “Park over there.”

She eyed his foot. “You sure?”

He was getting damned sick of being the local invalid. He glared at her without answering.

Zoe shrugged and eased her Chevy into the lot at the opposite end of the building. She jumped out and was at the passenger door before Pete untangled his crutches. From the crease between her brow and the tightness of her lips, Pete knew she was teetering on the edge.

He stepped down and caught her wrist as she reached to slam the door. “Maybe you should go back home.”

She blinked. “My mom and Tom are in there.” She tipped a thumb toward the police station. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Pete leaned closer to her. He shifted his grip, intertwining his fingers with hers. He wanted to tell her he was sorry. That he would try to take it easy on her stepdad. That everything would be okay. But he wasn’t at all sure that everything would be all right for Zoe. He didn’t have the luxury of taking it easy on a suspect in a string of murders that went back forty-five years. Saying he was sorry seemed insufficient.

She must have sensed it, though. For a moment, she rested her forehead against his shoulder.

He let the crutches clatter against the truck, cupped the back of her head with his free hand, and closed his eyes, breathing in her scent.

Zoe drew away, clearing her throat. “I need to get in there before Mom tears the place apart.”

Pete released Zoe and gathered his crutches. “Let me go first.”

A murmur ran through the news crew as someone apparently recognized the police chief even out of uniform and on crutches. The videographers swung their cameras to their shoulders, and the reporters snapped to attention, microphones at the ready.

Maybe Pete should have had Zoe drive them to the back entrance if only to shield her from fifteen minutes of unwanted fame. “Stay close,” he told her. “I’ll use a crutch as a battering ram if I need to.”

The reporters loomed toward them, tossing out questions so fast he couldn’t distinguish who’d asked what. Not that it mattered.

“Give me a half hour, and I’ll have a statement for you,” he said.

“Chief, is it true that you’ve arrested someone for the string of murders in the township?”

“Can you give us a name of the person you’re holding?”

“Do you think this is a serial killer targeting farmers?”

With Zoe clutching a handful of the back of Pete’s shirt, he ignored the news crews and hobbled to the door, parting the group of reporters who obviously sensed those crutches could
accidentally
come down on someone’s foot. Or whack a shin.

Inside the station, Nancy sat ashen-faced and wide-eyed behind the counter, pinching the phone receiver between her ear and shoulder, talking on one line while a second one started to ring. Officer Seth Metzger strode toward them from the back of the hallway. “I’m sorry, Chief. I didn’t know you were here or I’d have—”

“It’s all right. Where are Tom and Kimberly Jackson?”

Seth’s gaze jumped between Pete and Zoe. He swallowed hard. “Tom Jackson is in the interrogation room with Kevin standing guard.”

From behind Pete, Zoe let out a strangled breath.

“Mrs. Jackson,” Seth said, “is in the conference room with Detective Baronick.” The officer leaned closer to Pete and whispered, “I covered up the white board.”

Pete imagined Kimberly seeing her husband’s name in every column of that board and pitching the whole thing out the window—except there were no windows in the conference room. “Good move.”

“Sylvia and Mr. Adams are in your office.” Seth squirmed. “Sylvia mentioned having a dentist appointment—uh—soon.”

Pete leaned on one crutch and rubbed a spot on the side of his head where a pain was blooming. “Thanks, Seth.”

Zoe stepped between them and faced Pete. “I want to talk to my mother.”

He shook his head. “Not going to happen. You know that. At least not until I’ve talked to her first.”

“She’s more likely to talk to me.”

He huffed a laugh. “Really?”

“Well, she’ll yell. But she’ll talk. We have a long history of communicating that way.” Zoe folded her arms in front of her. “And she despises you.”

“Thanks.” He thought of Sylvia waiting in his office. “I have that effect on women. Look, I can’t have you doing anything to jeopardize this case—”

“Jeopardize? Pete, my mother may be self-centered, self-righteous, and stubborn with a capital S, but she’s not a killer. Trust me on this. She wouldn’t dirty her hands like that.”

Pete studied Zoe. Maybe Kimberly wouldn’t get her hands dirty, but perhaps she had someone else willing to do the scutwork for her. Tom, for example. “Let me do my job. Besides I need you to do something else for me.”

Zoe narrowed her eyes at him. “What?”

He tipped his head toward his office. “Relieve Sylvia from Harry duty. Please.”

Zoe held Pete’s gaze. There was something going on behind her baby blues. “All right,” she said after a moment. “But I want to talk to my mother as soon as you’ve finished questioning her.”

He held out a hand. “Deal.”

When she took it, the expression on her face was the same one she wore at their Saturday night poker games when she knew she had him beat.

Zoe kept her hand on the doorknob to Pete’s office. He disappeared into the interrogation room farther down the hall. Seth had vanished into the front office to help Nancy man the phones. Zoe took a breath, hoping to settle her thoughts. Tom was being questioned as a murder suspect. Her mom was in the conference room only a few feet away. The police were searching Zoe’s farm for a missing gun. The sweet old couple whose house she shared might somehow be mixed up in this whole mess. And yet rising to the surface of all the chaos in her life, was the memory of being in Pete’s arms even if only for a moment.

She shook her head. Stop it. Now was not the time for romantic fantasies. She blew out the breath and pushed into Pete’s office.

Sylvia looked up from her seat behind Pete’s desk, her face strained.

Harry must have been pacing and stopped. “Nadine? It’s about time. Can we go home now?”

Zoe glanced at Sylvia, who climbed to her feet. “He’s not having a good day.”

“Oh.” Zoe shifted back to Harry. “It’s me. Zoe. I’ll take you home in a little bit, okay?”

“Zoe?” His expression was reminiscent of a child lost in department store. He shook his head. “Nadine’s expecting me for dinner.” He turned and resumed pacing the small room.

Sylvia sidled around the desk. “I hope you’re here to take over for me. I have a dentist appointment in...” She checked her watch. “Good lord. In ten minutes. I’ll never make it.”

“Go.” Zoe shooed her toward the door. “I’ve got things covered here.”

Sylvia snagged her purse from edge of the desk. “Thanks.” She shot a glance at Harry then whispered to Zoe, “Good luck.” On her way out the door, she paused and added, “By the way, I’m so sorry about all this with your mom and Tommy.”

Zoe managed a weak smile.

Alone with Harry, she watched him prowl back and forth like an old lion trapped in a cage. He turned toward her and pulled up short. “Nadine? Get me out of here. I want to go home.”

Zoe longed to talk to her mother. Without Tom, without Pete, and without Wayne Baronick. Maybe then Kimberly would give her some straight answers. But right now Zoe faced a sad, lost old man. “Okay, Harry. I’ll take you back to Pete’s.”

“Pete? My boy Pete?” Harry looked around expectantly. “Is he here? I haven’t seen him in ages.”

The ache in her chest deepened. In spite of the flashes of clarity, this was what the future Harry—funny, charming, insightful Harry—faced. “He’s right down the hall. I need to get his house keys.” She caught her lip between her teeth. Did she dare leave Harry alone while she went in search of Pete? The senior Adams had proven he had a penchant for wandering off.

Harry placed a hand on his belly. “Maybe he has some food at his place. I’m starved.”

“I’m sure he does.” She pulled out her phone and glanced at the time. One o’clock. No wonder he was hungry. When she stopped agonizing over the madness of the morning, she realized she could use a bite to eat, too. And surely she and Harry weren’t alone. She thumbed through the numbers in her phone’s address book. “Harry, what would you say to a big slice of pizza?”

A smile cleared the fog that had covered his eyes. “I’d say hell-o, darlin’.”

She choked on a laugh and pressed the button for the new pizza joint down the street.

While the number rang through, Harry pointed a finger at her. “I know you. You’re not Nadine.”

“I’m not? Then who am I?”

Creases deepened in his cheeks. Creases that had probably been killer dimples at one time. “You’re Pete’s girlfriend.” 

A stoic Tom Jackson kept his arms crossed and both feet planted firmly on the floor as he stared at the far wall. Pete had excused Kevin, so it was just the two of them. And for all the interaction Jackson offered, Pete might as well have been alone.

He leaned back in his chair and swung his aching foot onto the table that separated the two men. “Do you want to hear what I think?”

Jackson’s dark gaze settled on Pete for a moment. “No. I’m not talking to anyone but my lawyer.”

“You don’t have to talk. Just listen.” Pete didn’t mention that he’d also be watching Jackson’s every move.

Zoe’s stepdad didn’t respond other than to turn his gaze back to the space over Pete’s shoulder.

Pete made a production of pulling his notebook and pen from his pocket. He retrieved a pair of reading glasses from another pocket and set them on his nose before deliberately thumbing back through the pages. “Let’s start at the beginning. The Miller brothers. I understand that you and James Engle were pretty tight up until that incident. You must have been about twenty at that time, right? And the alleged fight between the brothers was over a girl. Everyone thought it was Bernice Kroll. But it wasn’t her at all. The fight was over Mae Engle. Vernon Miller had gotten her pregnant.”

Jackson shot a startled glance at Pete, but recovered and went back to staring at the wall.

“Except,” Pete said, “it wasn’t Vernon who got James’ sister in trouble. It was James’ best friend. You.”

With Harry in tow, Zoe met the pizza delivery guy at the station’s front door and paid for the two large pies. The cost would be well worth it if extra cheese enticed some answers from her mother.

Zoe stopped at the front office, dealt a pair of paper plates to Nancy and Seth, and held open the lid of the top box so they could help themselves.

Harry ran his tongue over his lips as he watched. “That smells wonderful.”

Zoe smiled at him. “Come on. Let’s find a place to sit down.” She knew exactly where she intended to sit.

Juggling the boxes and the extra plates with one hand, she fumbled with the doorknob to the conference room, bumping the door open with her hip.

Inside, Kimberly sulked, her arms crossed, shoulders hunched, and wearing a look that would freeze molten lava.

Across the table from her, Wayne Baronick jumped to his feet. “Zoe? What are you—?”

She breezed into the room and thumped the boxes onto the table. “I knew you must be hungry. I brought lunch. Harry, have a seat.”

“Wait. I don’t think you’re supposed—” Baronick’s stuttering ceased when he sniffed the aroma wafting from the boxes. “What kind do you have?”

“One with extra pepperoni.” She cast a furtive glance at her mother. “And one with mushrooms and extra cheese.”

Either Kimberly wasn’t hungry, was angrier than even Zoe expected, or had changed her preference in pizza in the last ten years. Her fierce countenance never wavered.

Zoe set up Harry with two slices and left him happily devouring the first one while she collected two plates and waited for Baronick to stretch a long thread of mozzarella.