On Her Father's Grave (Rogue River Novella Book 1) (5 page)

Zane was pretty certain she’d never fry an owl. He eyed the leg in his hand. It was way too big to belong to an owl. His cell phone buzzed and he dropped the leg back in the white bag. He wiped his fingers on his jeans before slipping his phone out of his back pocket. “Duncan.”

“Zane. It’s Hank.”

Zane mentally scrolled through the three Hanks he knew and figured it must be the deputy medical examiner with an update on Hunter Brandt. “Hank. What have you got for me?”

“I’m e-mailing a full report later this afternoon, but I’d thought you’d like to know some highlights.”

“I’m listening.”

“Hunter didn’t have a scratch on him. Some old bruises. Exactly what I’d expect for an active teenager. X-rays showed one old break on his fibula that coincides with a football injury his parents notified me about. All his organs looked healthy. No abnormalities anywhere.”

Zane stopped walking and stared straight ahead, listening intently. “Not a congenital heart issue?”

“Nope.”

“So what happened?”

“I’m looking into that,” Hank said with a sigh. “I’m sending some tissue and blood samples to the state lab. Something showed up when I ran the blood screen, but I don’t recognize it. He had a low blood alcohol. Only point zero three percent. But there’s some chemical compound in his blood that I don’t have the equipment to identify. Not pot, not coke, not heroin.”

“How long will it take them to analyze it?” Zane knew the Oregon State Police Lab was backed up.

“Dunno. I requested a rush on it, but that’s about as effective as asking the airlines to be careful with your luggage.”

“What’s your gut feeling on this?” Zane asked.

Hank was quiet for a second. “Well, young guys typically don’t die without something obvious. And there were no blows to the head. No enlarged heart. No alcohol poisoning. My best guess is that they’ll find a substance in his blood that slowed down his breathing until his brain and heart didn’t get the oxygen they needed. Or find a chemical that stopped his heart. Until I have that analysis back, I simply don’t know.”

“I’m going to move forward on the assumption he took something he shouldn’t have. There are prescription drugs that would do that, right? If he took too many?”

“Yes, some would.”

“Now the question is where did he get it and how? I’ll have to ask the parents what’s in their medicine cabinets and find out what friends’ homes he’s been in. He may have taken something from a friend’s parent.” Zane’s mind spun with a dozen different avenues to investigate. “Lord, I hope someone didn’t slip him something.”

“Damn it. You and me both. I don’t want to hear about one of our teens with a murder charge,” Hank replied.

Zane silently agreed. He ended the call with Hank, hoping that Hunter’s death wouldn’t mean the ruin of the life of another teen who’d thought he was simply sharing a high with the football star. And praying someone hadn’t maliciously given bad drugs to Hunter.

He did a quick sidestep as a woman shoved open the door to the hardware store and moved onto the sidewalk.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Zane . . . Chief. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

Faye O’Rourke smiled at him. Despite the overwhelming heat, Faye wore a cardigan over her buttoned-up blouse. Kenny joked that she’d worn one to bed every night with her husband before he died. The gray-haired, grandmotherly woman had a rainbow of colors and styles and was never seen without one.

He blinked as she called him Chief, but swiftly remembered that Faye was on the city council. She would have been part of the middle-of-the-night phone calls that had given him the job.

“Afternoon, Faye.”

She didn’t move from his path, determination on her soft face. Zane recognized that look. When Faye O’Rourke had something to tell you, she didn’t have patience for anyone else’s schedule. His stomach growled and he hoped she wouldn’t delay the rest of his lunch. “Bad goings-on last night. So sad about that boy.”

“Yes, the town is definitely in shock today.”

“What happened? Roy didn’t have much to tell last night.” She looked at him expectantly.

Fishing for gossip.

“I’m afraid I don’t have anything new.” Zane’s mind raced for a tidbit to throw her. “The medical examiner says Hunter wasn’t drunk, and we’re waiting on some reports to pinpoint the cause of death.” That should squash any fast-spreading rumors that Hunter had been drunk. When Faye stated something, it was taken as truth in Solitude.

“I hate that it happened at my lake. I know we haven’t owned that piece of property in decades, but the lake does carry my family’s name. We still think of it as ours.” Worry lined her forehead.

Zane patted her shoulder. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Kids in this town belong to all of us. All my kids’ friends were like my second family. I looked out for them and still do. Anyone who hurts one of Solitude’s kids messes with all of us!”

This was a glimpse of her tough-mother side. During council meetings, Faye was outspoken on all issues that affected
her
town. Her late husband’s family had been kings during the logging era and had once owned 80 percent of the land in the area. Most of it had been sold to the state, but Faye still owned a dozen acres on the west end of town. Her goal was to redevelop the old hotel on the property and create a luxurious but rugged resort to bring more tourism to the area, touting the excellent fly-fishing and boating on the Rogue River.

If anyone could single-handedly resurrect the economy in Solitude it was Faye O’Rourke.

“Do they think it was drugs? I know some kids just don’t say no.” She blotted at her nose with a Kleenex she’d pulled out of her sleeve’s cuff. His grandmother had stored Kleenex in the same spot.

“Uhh . . . they just don’t know yet, Faye. I don’t think anyone wants to make any guesses. You know how stories can fly around town.”

“We’re all just concerned. We don’t want
our
kids exposed to anything dangerous.”

“I know exactly how you feel, Faye.”

“I might have to bring this up at the next council meeting if it looks like there’s a drug problem in our town,” she stated with righteous zeal.

“Well, let’s wait until we have some proof.” Was she unaware of all the marijuana grown around town? Zane knew several men grew pot on their rural properties or deeper in the forests where people didn’t wander. Usually it was for their own personal use, but when word spread that someone was selling, Bill Taylor had gone in with guns blazing. He’d explained to Zane that he didn’t mind when people grew a little to smoke in their own homes. But if someone was trying to make a profit or he caught them driving with bloodshot eyes and marijuana perfume, he came down hard. That’s where he drew the line.

Zane would have to decide if his line was in the same place. It would be almost impossible to control every patch of weed with his small department.

“Please keep me updated on the boy’s case,” said Faye. “I’m going to run a casserole over to his parents this evening.”

“That’s awfully kind of you, Faye. I need to get back to the station now.”

She nodded at him and stepped out of his path. Faye was always polite, but Zane had yet to feel that she’d accepted his presence in Solitude. Her smiles for the other police officers were much warmer, as if she knew their entire histories. Which she did. Maybe once Zane put in another decade or two she’d treat him like he belonged.

Zane hurried along and dug his half-eaten piece of fried chicken back out of the bag. It was no longer hot but it was still tasty and reminded him he had dinner plans at the Taylors’. Nell might make the best fried chicken, but Patsy Taylor’s barbecued pork would always hold the place of honor in his book. And home cooking was a delight for a single guy.

He eagerly looked forward to dinner. Patsy was known to invite whomever she bumped into during the day.
Does my enthusiasm have anything to do with getting to know more about Stevie
?

He put a firm hold on the thought. Stevie was his subordinate. Despite how much he enjoyed watching her, anything beyond a professional relationship was impossible . . .

Stevie loved her parents’ ranch. This was home. No matter where she was living, whether it was at school, in LA, or in her current tiny apartment, driving up to her parents’ house never failed to overwhelm her with a sense of belonging and peace.

Bill Taylor had bought the property when he and Patsy first married. She’d been a young bride, not even twenty when they’d moved into the tiny cabin. Bill had spent the next few decades building and expanding. The large log home was worthy of a magazine cover and the centerpiece of the property. The original cabin was now a guest cottage and graced the ten acres along with a huge warm barn for Patsy’s rescued and stray animals.

Stevie stepped inside the front door, and her mother gave her a big hug and kiss and immediately put her to work setting the table. Her mother was the happiest Stevie had seen her since Bill had died. She loved to cook for people and the more the better.

“How many people, Mom?” Stevie asked as she opened a cupboard and started counting out the good plates.

“Umm . . . there should be eleven,” her mother said after a quick count on her fingers. “Put three places at the kids’ table.” Patsy wore an old-fashioned apron over her gauzy yellow sundress, her curly hair left loose and flowing far down her back. She looked like a cross between a 1950s housewife and a flower child. Which described her to a T. A former bluegrass singer, Patsy had given up a possible career to marry her high school sweetheart, immerse herself in rural life, and raise four kids. She’d had two boys and two girls. James, Stevie, Carly, and Bruce.

Stevie carried the heavy stack of plates out to the long table on the deck. Summertime meant eating outside. The day’s heat had peaked and started to wane, and Stevie sucked in a breath of the sweet smell of the sunbaked grass hay. She closed her eyes and let the scent flow through her brain. That was a smell she’d missed in LA. Her two brothers manned the grills on the deck, each with a beer in his hand, arguing about whether the ribs had cooked long enough. Stevie spread out the plates and went to join them, grabbing a Diet Coke out of the bin of iced drinks.

Stevie sniffed at the ribs. “They need five more minutes,” she pronounced.

“No, the meat’s not soft enough yet,” answered Bruce. He brushed his shaggy hair out of his eyes, and Stevie bit back the need to tell him to get a haircut.

Bruce was the only Taylor kid living at home. From what Stevie could see, he spent most of his time playing video games in his room. He and his band had a practice area set up in the basement, but Stevie didn’t know how often they actually practiced. Bruce had their mother’s full support for his dream to make it in a rock band. Perhaps it was her mother’s way of living out the music dream she’d never pursued.

Stevie wished he’d go to college and study
something
. At least have a backup plan.

Granted, music was a difficult career track. One that took skill, hard work, and a lot of luck. Their oldest brother, James, had argued that Bruce should be pursuing a real career instead of simply waiting around for lightning to strike. Stevie suspected their father had agreed but kept his mouth shut in deference to Patsy. But now Stevie was happy that Bruce was living in the big house so their mother wasn’t alone. Carly and her daughter had moved into the small guesthouse on the property after her marriage had fallen apart, but Stevie liked that Patsy had someone directly underfoot to mother.

“Hey, Stevie,” James said with a big grin. “I’ve got a surprise for you.” He took a swig of beer, and Bruce elbowed him in the ribs.

“Knock it off,” whispered Bruce. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.” His brown eyes shot a concerned look her way, and Stevie froze mid-sip.

“What’s going on?” She glared at James, who’d suddenly developed a deep interest in the ribs.

An Irish setter came around the corner of the house and rushed up the stairs to the deck, toenails sliding on the wood as she tried to stop in front of Stevie. “Hey, Trina-girl.” Stevie bent to rub the setter’s ears.

Footsteps on the stairs made her look up.

There’s James’s surprise.

Eric Hearne stopped his climb, his gaze locked on her. He held a wet tennis ball gingerly with two fingers. Stevie sighed. Eric looked as good as ever. They’d dated for two years in high school, and she’d thought he was the love of her life. Separation for two months at different colleges had been too much for him, and he’d broken it off. He’d eventually married, but James had told her a few years back that he’d gotten divorced. She’d bumped into him a few times over the years, but they hadn’t done more than chat a bit. She glanced over her shoulder and saw her two brothers watching with speculative grins. She glared at them.

“Hi, Stephanie. Good to see you.” Eric flashed his quick grin.

No one called her by her given name except Eric. And a few of her schoolteachers who could never remember that she preferred Stevie. Her name had been a compromise between her parents. Her mother had wanted her to simply be Stevie after Stevie Nicks, but her father had felt it was too masculine and pushed for Stephanie. Patsy had agreed and then promptly called her Stevie.

“Hi, Eric. How’ve you been?” She gave Trina a last pat on the head as Eric approached. He was a good guy. As far as she’d seen and heard, he was a solid member of the community and had been kind to his ex-wife. He was simply a bit boring in her book. Dependable, but boring.

I could use a big dose of dependable in my life.

She took a harder look at him as he accepted the beer James offered. He’d always been close friends with James and clearly her brother felt he was worth keeping around. Some of her brothers’ friends had been useless deadweight that they’d sloughed off over the years. The guys they’d stood by were usually the good ones.

She mentally forgave James for inviting Eric. For all she knew, Eric had been attending her mother’s big dinner gatherings for the last ten years.