Where Angels Rest (14 page)

“I guess I should’ve warned you we wouldn’t be alone.
Come on,” he said, inviting her through the garage. “I was just firing up the grill.”

“You’re grilling?” she asked. “It’s about ten degrees outside.”

He smiled—for the first time since she’d met him—and it about knocked Erin off her feet. “Wuss,” he said. “It’s almost forty.”

They passed through a garage that housed the sheriff’s Tahoe, a motorcycle, and a riding lawnmower, plus a bicycle with purple tassels hanging from the handles, a pair of Barbie roller blades, and two pairs of ice skates. A couple of sleds and a toboggan hung on the wall.

When they passed into the backyard, Erin actually gasped.

Deputy Vaega said, “Yeah. That’s what we all said when he built it. Ten months a year, no one ever goes inside the house.”

It was incredible, like something on the cover of
Better Homes and Gardens
. A massive, two-tiered deck, slate patio, and a built-in stone grill that would have made Bobby Flay green with envy.

The sheriff checked his flame, closed the lid, and turned to Erin. “You like chicken?”

“Sure. This is something.”

“My dad and I built it a few years ago, just before he died. It was a great house, but the kitchen and deck left a lot to be desired.”

“Not anymore,” Erin said, looking around. Deputy Vaega sipped a Corona with a wedge of lime inside. Something told her a lot of beers had been shared on this patio, a lot of stories, and—to the extent a town like Hopewell could have many crime-solving challenges—a lot of cases. She looked out into the backyard, where she could just
make out a tree house perched sixteen or eighteen feet up, with spiral staircase winding down a tree trunk.

“Did you build the tree house, too?”

His big shoulders lifted. “Hannah wanted one.”

“Hannah?”

“Come on,” he said, opening one of the French doors. “You might as well meet the crew.”

T
HE CREW WAS
on the floor in a great room, fighting with the dog over a big stuffed snake from one of those game booths at a fair.

“You’re not afraid she’s going to kill them?” Erin said, watching the dog.

“She’s a he,” he corrected.

“Deedee?”

“
D. D. Deputy Dog.
I found him at a drug raid over in Crawford County.” He bent closer. “The kids think he helped me catch the bad guys, so don’t blow it for them. The truth is the mutt almost got me killed.”

Erin smiled, felt the warmth of his fingers on her arm, and let him usher her past the ruckus and into a kitchen the size of her apartment. Butcher-block island, black granite countertops, oversized stainless steel appliances—the works.

A woman stood at the island, laying freshly washed asparagus out on a towel. She wore dreadlocks pulled back into a thick rubber band and a tie-dye shirt. A giant diamond winked from her left hand.

“Dana,” the sheriff said, lifting his voice over the noise in the family room, “that’s Hannah’s job.”

“Oh, shut up, Nick.” She laid paper towels over the vegetables and held out a hand to Erin. “I’m Dana, Quent’s wife. The babysitter, so you guys can get some work done.”

Erin felt a wave of hope: The sheriff hadn’t been blowing smoke. He was planning to work on Justin’s case tonight. She caught his eyes and saw the message there:
Told you.
Her cheeks prickled. A wave of gratitude swelled inside.

The dog raced into the kitchen with the snake in his mouth, the kids trailing after. The sheriff snagged the first child. “Dr. Sims, this is my daughter, Hannah.”

“Hi, Dr. Sims,” the girl said, putting on her manners. They lasted as long as it took for the other girl to poke her in the ribs, then Hannah whirled, slapped at her, and wiped her hair from her face. Erin wasn’t sure, but thought there was a pretty big scar on her forehead.

“Hi, Hannah,” Erin said.

“And the girl antagonizing Hannah is Marissa, and the boy pulling Marissa’s pigtails is her brother, Tyler.”

Dana yanked her son away from his sister, who was just lifting a foot to go for Tyler’s instep. The sheriff pointed a long finger at them. “You two, put on your coats and take this hound outside. Stay in the back where your dad can see you—no going to the pond. And you,” he said, turning to his daughter, “have asparagus to make.”

“Oh, yeah.” She turned to Erin, beaming. “I saw this recipe on the Food Network. Asparagus wrapped in phyllo. Do you know what asparagus is?”

“Do I know what it is?” she repeated.

“Daddy said you didn’t know what a vegetable was. That you probably can’t name the four major food groups.”

Erin cocked a brow at the sheriff and held up a hand,
ticking each group off on her fingers. “Frozen, drive-through, take-out, and canned.”

Again, that rugged—surprising—smile. Something fluttered in Erin’s belly, but the sheriff only shook his head and pulled a couple of Ziploc baggies from the fridge. He disappeared out back.

“Get the salt and pepper, Aunt Dana,” Hannah said. Dana produced a pepper grinder and a small stone crock. “What else, chef?”

“Parmesan. In the fridge.”

“I’ll get it,” Erin said.

She went to the refrigerator, searched the shelves, the door, the drawers. The sheriff, having come back inside with the empty baggies, threw them away and came up behind her.

“What did she send you in here for?”

“Parmesan,” Erin whispered.

He reached past her shoulder, the cool, November air clinging to him with the scent of charcoal, and pulled out a blond wedge of cheese.

“Oh,” Erin said. “I thought it came in a green can.”

“Bite your tongue.” He handed her a long grater. “Here. Grate a pile and take it over there to the food Nazi.”

Erin couldn’t help but smile. Daughter, friends, dog. Casual dinner in a great house. It was what Erin might have thought she and David were going to have someday, but she’d been sadly mistaken about that.

She dragged her mind back. “Hannah really seems to know what she’s doing,” she said, watching her slice through layers of paper-thin dough.

“We cook together all the time. It was one of the things that helped get us through her mother’s death.”

Erin’s heart stumbled. She looked up at the sheriff. “I’m sorry. How long ago was that?”

“Seven years.” He cocked a brow. “You mean you haven’t Googled me yet?”

“I started to.” God. He’d raised his daughter alone most of her life. A seedling of compassion threatened to sprout. “I just didn’t get around to it yet.”

“Hmph,” he said, heading back out to the deck. “I think I’m insulted.”

Jack had a couple of brandies, then three, then four, but the truth was still there, haunting him. He staggered to Maggie’s room, tossed back the last gulp, and knocked.

Nothing.

He opened the door. She’d turned in early, her narrow form curved beneath the quilt and lashes in soft crescents on her cheeks. As beautiful now as she’d been twenty years ago, the spitting image of the twin she’d lost—twice. First, to the car accident that had left Claire a brutally scarred recluse. And then, a year later, to Claire’s suicide.

The guilt pressed down, and it surprised him. He thought he’d gotten over that. Not his fault, the suicide. He’d tried to be there for Claire but she wouldn’t have it. The accident was different, though: He’d been driving the car. And the problems since then, the ones that grew from the affairs he’d had over the years…
I knew about every one of them.

Jack closed the door, a stone in his chest. There was no choice now. Too many secrets, and because of Erin Sims, too many people now working to ferret those secrets out. He knew Sims. And he knew Nick Mann. They wouldn’t stop until every skeleton was unearthed.

God Almighty, Jack was sorry it had come to this.

He padded down the long flight of stairs to the second
level of the house. The rented rooms were all on the first and second floors—empty now, thanks to Sims—and at the head of the main stairwell leading downstairs to the foyer, a wide oak cabinet displayed his guns. For a man who was neither a hunter nor collector, it was an impressive parade of weapons. Ambience for a country inn—that’s all the collection had ever been.

Until now.

His chest grew tight as he walked through the wide hallway toward the gun cabinet. He’d never thought it could come to something like this. Not with Lauren McAllister all those years ago, or Sara Daniels, or… For a moment he hesitated, realizing there had been a dozen or more. Young women who craved the attentions of an older, well-established man who was still handsome and had plenty of money, who could indulge their need for cocaine and let them fly.

But he’d never meant for it to come to this.

There was no choice. The threads were going to unravel. The truth was going to come out. He couldn’t let that happen.

He approached the cabinet, a lump of granite forming in his throat. He reached out to open the glass door, stopped.

It was unlocked.

Jack frowned, and a second later something cold touched his neck. He turned, and in the split second it took to catch his breath, he realized everything he’d come to believe was wrong.

A second too late.

T
HE SHERIFF’S DEN
was modest by comparison to his kitchen, and after a sumptuous dinner, he folded into a chair behind his desk and pushed a couple of buttons on his computer. Erin and Deputy Vaega settled into two visitor’s chairs facing the desk, the dog flopping down between them.

“We’re holding a boy named Calvin Lee for vandalizing your motel room,” Mann said without preamble. Erin guessed a gourmet meal had been preamble enough. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten anything that didn’t come in a bun or couldn’t be microwaved.

“Boy?” Erin asked. “Who is he? Why would he threaten me?”

Calvin Lee, it turned out, was the wraith she’d seen skulking around the second story at Hilltop House, a teenager who lived on the premises with his mother. Apparently, he’d taken issue with her accusations against Jack.

“We found red paint in his apartment; it looks like what was used in your room.”

“That sounds certain.”

“Not really. He did odd jobs around Hilltop House, and
had used it there. His lawyer will claim that’s why he took the paint into the apartment. I expect Judge Watkins to spring him in the morning.”

A shiver brushed over Erin’s skin. “What about the motel owner? Certainly he’s going to press charges.”

“Probably not.”

“What?”

“Calvin’s a cousin of his. And everyone knows he isn’t… Well, Calvin’s not quite all there.”

“All the more reason to lock him up.”

“He is locked up, damn it, and if I find out he’s guilty, he’ll stay that way. Meanwhile, though, I can’t imagine that chasing a troubled teenager through the court system will serve your purpose.”

“Will it get into the local newspaper?”

A muscle twitched in his cheek. “Yes.”

“Then it will serve my purpose.”

In the space of one heartbeat, Mann’s expression grew dark. “Don’t do that,” he said.

“Then lock up John Huggins before he runs away and changes his name again.” Erin came to the edge of her seat. “You have a murderer in this town, right under your nose. Why is that so hard for you to accept?”

The door flew open and Hannah bounded in, Marissa and Tyler right behind. “Aunt Dana’s making us go upstairs for bedtime stories. We’re reading
Grimm’s Fairy Tales
for school.”

Mann held out his arm and drew his daughter into a squeeze, planting a kiss on her head. Deputy Vaega hugged his own kids.

“Night, pumpkin,” Mann said, and watched them charge back into the hall. He turned that pale gaze on Erin. “That’s why,” he said.

Erin didn’t know what to say but it didn’t matter. The sheriff moved on, picking up a file. “Sara Daniels,” he said. “I only know the bare bones of her case. Tell me the rest.”

Erin took a deep breath. It was more interest than anyone had shown in a long time. “April twelfth, 2008. Sara was walking her dog in the park down the street from her house. She vanished. The dog was found wandering the park on its leash the next morning.”

“What makes you think Huggins had any connection to her?” Vaega asked.

“I talked to her mother.”

Mann came forward in his chair. “You what?”

“Sara’s mother told me that Sara had been in a bad place. Insecure, lonely, looking for love. Doing cocaine.” Erin looked at both Vaega and Mann. “And she’d started dating a married man, older. He lived somewhere not too far away, but not in her town. Sara was very secretive about him.”

“You could tell a similar story about any number of young women,” Mann said.

“Yes. But this young woman vanished. And the Hugginses moved shortly after, and changed their names.”

Vaega said, “Maybe she ran away. With the mystery lover.”

“No. She’s dead,” Erin said.

“How do you know?”

“Because John Huggins killed her. Just—”

“Like Lauren.” Mann glared at her.

“Sheriff, Sara Daniels
was
just like Lauren. She was the same girl.” Erin scooted forward on her seat. “Huggins has a type. He goes for young women on the edge, who are having trouble at school or at work, dabbling
with drugs and experimenting with their sexuality. Looking for love. They’re the type of women who would easily fall prey to an older man with a little money and a little charm, the type you have right here in Hopewell. You even introduced me to one this morning. Rebecca Engel.”

The sheriff’s spine stiffened, but the phone rang. He answered with a curt, “Mann.”

Erin watched him as he listened to the caller. He’d be a helluva poker player, except for that tiny nerve that twitched in his cheek. He said, “Jesus,” then tapped on the computer keyboard, watched the screen, and tapped a few keys more. “It’s right here. Okay, thanks.”

“Anything?” Vaega asked.

“Maybe,” he said, and got his printer spitting out pages.

Erin looked back and forth between the two of them and realized they had no intention of explaining anything.